Spring Break: Could This City Possibly Have Any More Cathedrals? Part II

I enjoyed Caen very much, but my experience would have been different had I stayed in a hostel instead of doing couch surfing. I believe that interacting with locals is the best thing you can do while traveling. You learn more about the town and the life of someone who is not from your country. In my case, I also learned that I was more capable of communicating in French than I had suspected--sort of.

I stayed with two girls my age in their apartment, which was conveniently located in the center of town. I fell in love with the apartment right away; it was artsy with a bohemian flare. There was always jazz music playing softly in the background. Only one of the girls was an art student, but it was obvious that both had a propensity for art and music. With me in the apartment, it made three. I fell asleep with the cheerful ditties of Django Reinhardt playing in my head.

My last evening in Caen, one of the girls took me to a party at her friend's apartment nearby. Although Lucille spoke very little English and I very little French--both of us understanding more of the foreign language than we could actually speak--we managed to communicate fairly well. I thank Spanish and the one semester of French I took sophomore year of college. The party turned out to be a bit of a concert. Lucille told me that her friend often had bands over to perform. What a lifestyle. For a few moments, I was envious. One of the bands was American. Hearing the American accent among all the French around me was odd; the only American accent I was accustomed to was my own voice inside my head. Nevertheless, despite my general dislike of the American accent, I welcomed it that night. I had been alone, computerless, and phoneless for the last few days. Hearing the familiar flat vowels brought me comfort. All in some grungy artist's flat in Caen.

I was sent off to Paris the next morning after a breakfast of fresh croissants and a chocolate beignet*. Rolling my suitcase down the street populated with people who had come out of Easter hibernation, I thought, I will miss this place.

*donut

Spring Break: Could This City Possibly Have Any More Cathedrals? Part I

Caen, Lower Normandy, France, a city I had never heard of it until I began making my spring break plans. Sometimes it is worth visiting a city that does not make an appearance on the Top Ten Cities You Should Visit Before You Die list. After all, the obscure corners of the world are the ones we remember most. Not that Caen is anywhere near obscure. Walking out of the train station, I was unnaturally happy to see the tram, or any public transportation, for that matter. Two days in Bayeux had made me hungry for city life.


I spent my single full day in Caen walking through the old streets, exploring the castle, and constantly running into cathedrals and churches--not literally. Caen is a purely medieval town, with the occasional H&M or McDonald's. A massive castle wall surrounds the hill that rises slightly above the city. The paths and various levels of the wall provide a slew of beautiful city views. Within the castle walls is a complex of museums and gardens. I visited the Museum of Normandy but largely remained outside, climbing the castle walls and gulping in the city, which, despite the day's gray weather, really was a sight for sore eyes (and a sight for eyes that were eager to see anything but Bayeux).




After my leisurely tour around William the Conqueror's stately castle property, I ventured towards the women's abbey, orientating myself by following the abbey's gothic towers. I found myself traversing narrow, cobblestone streets lined with gray-brown stone buildings with white shutters.

Not to sound boring, but after I got to the women's abbey and took some pictures, I headed to the other side of town to see the Hôtel de Ville and the men's abbey. On the way, I ran into some more cathedrals, resting nonchalantly on huge city blocks. Coming from Spain, I am accustomed to one cathedral and maybe a monastery or two in every small city. Caen is apparently a different story:

Spring Break: D-Day Part IV

Seven and a half hours is a long time, especially when you are alone in a tiny town on Easter Sunday. Stepping out of the van after the D-Day tour, I tried to tell myself that I would somehow find a way to pass the next seven and a half hours before my train to Caen swept me off the Bayeux platform and took me 18 minutes south. As much as I tried, I only managed to make it through four hours, and I combed through every square inch of Bayeux.

Hungry after the tour due to lack of breakfast that morning, I sat down in a café and ordered a café au lait* in my best French accent. Attempting to not look pathetic and lonely, I pulled out of my purse the only reading material I had with me: a booklet on Bayeux tourism. Unfortunately, I had left my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover in my suitcase. After a mere 30 minutes, I had drank all my coffee, eaten the accompanying sugar cubes, and read through the booklet multiple times. Uneagerly, I ventured outside.

I did have an itinerary for the day. I just wasn't sure if it would occupy seven and a half hours. I was headed for the British War Cemetery, which was located next door to the Battle of Normandy Museum that I had visited the previous day. I decided to take my time walking and chose a completely roundabout route that took me around the very borders of Bayeux. On the way, I saw a quaint little plaza,

a random church,

and a park/square, which turned out to be called Place Charles de Gaulle.


Finally, and at the same time too early, I got to the British War Cemetery. In the bright April sunshine, the grass shone a vivid, juicy green. White marble tombstones dotted the field in perfect rows. Like the American cemetery, the British cemetery exuded a feeling of peace and tranquility as well as the unmistakeable hint of sadness.


I made it until about 4pm, at which time I realized that I had absolutely nothing left to see in Bayeux. Collecting my luggage from the hotel, I walked to the train station, where I spent three hours in the waiting room watching movies on my iPod and reading. So much for seeing France.

*coffee with milk

Like a Kid in a Candy Store

You cannot get more Spanish than Burgos. Small, conservative, and vastly populated with fur stoled señoras*, Burgos is Spain, its lack of bullfighting arenas made up for by dozens of locales that serve mouthwatering chorizo**. However, there is no such thing as perfect; typical Spanish brings with it la hora de comer***, which is actually more like three hours during which most stores are closed so food is not easy to come by (bars and restaurants excluded). Ironic, no? For certain American college students who are always hungry and cannot possibly dar unas vueltas**** without a tasty, and cheap, snack, la hora de comer is a disagreeable chunk of time.

Candy stores populate Burgos, but they all draw down their garage doors and metal gates come 2pm. Except one. Located right in the bustling center of Burgos, the nameless candy store always has its glass door open, even on Sundays, which is practically unheard of in Spain. In the tiny shop stand stacked plastic bins filled with every candy and novelty snack food imaginable: gummy candy, sour candy, sugary candy, chocolate candy, chocolate and yogurt covered nuts and strawberries, dried fruit, toasted nuts, and fried corn kernels. Bags of various popcorn, chips, and fried pork rinds line the wall. There is fresh ice cream and a refrigerator full of refreshing soft drinks, such as the very popular Kas, a Spanish version of Fanta. And I cannot forget the Hello Kitty Cheetos, a favorite of my pierced and tattooed amigo***** Juan Carlos.

My name is Sima Kalmens, I am 21 years old, and I still eat gummy worms and peach hearts.

*old Spanish ladies
**sausage
***the "hour" of rest which lasts from 2pm-5pm, also known as siesta
****to take walks
*****friend

I'm Still Here

I suspected that with the surge of spring break posts a few weeks ago, the trend would continue and I would not only finish all spring break stories quickly but also be able to write life updates in a timely fashion. Unfortunately, I have been ridiculously busy lately and free time has become a bit of a luxury. With the end of the semester come papers and projects from all possible directions. Needless to say, I am slightly buried with my assignments. On Wednesday, I have a morphology paper due about the suffix -al. On Thursday, I have a pragmatics paper due analyzing an announcement. The same Thursday I am due to turn in my script and short film for screenwriting, on which my group and I have been working tirelessly for the last two weekends. Morphology and pragmatics will both require hours of studying for the final exams and I need to write my thesis paper about French influence in the Spanish language for my two-credit research course with BU. I am definitely never going to get a Ph.D if I lack the motivation to write 15 measly pages.

On a brighter note, I am now officially a Russian citizen. I was beginning to lose hope about my Russian passport being completed in time for me to go to Russia--for the first time in eight years--before leaving Spain, but the gods seem to have been on my side on this one. After a week in St. Petersburg, I have my last final exam and then a brief trip to London. I sincerely hope that no volcanoes will deter my trip this time. I am unhappy enough to return to the United States; two failed trips to London will not aid my emotional well being. Needless to say, I have a rather busy month ahead of me.

Holy Hangover

Due to the amount of work left to do for my screenwriting project before its rapidly approaching due date, I spent the majority of the weekend at my group's apartment working on the script. Subsequently, and because the apartment is located about 40 minutes away by foot from my dorm, I was barely in the dorm and spent three consecutive nights sleeping on my friends' super comfortable mattress in the living room. However, this is not the focus of my story, but merely a prelude.

Sunday afternoon, after a particularly raucous Saturday night, I went on a brief excursion to the neighboring pueblo* of San Pedro de Cardeña. Never heard of it? Don't worry, it's not a big name. San Pedro de Cardeña lies amidst the gentle rolling hills of Castilla y León. It houses a beautiful monastery of the Order of the Cistercians where the remains of El Cid's daughters are buried. El Cid Campeador was a Castillian nobleman and military leader in the 1000s. He is the national hero of Spain as well as the subject of one of the most famous works of Spanish literature.


Trying to ignore my very light headache and bear the cold of the stone-walled chapels, I followed the monk around the monastery with the rest of the tour group, learning about history and listening to a live--albeit brief--Gregorian chant. Now that's one way to get rid of a hangover.

*town

Welcome to Patillas, Where the Players Play

Photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings cover every inch of the wood-molded walls, some pictures overlapping, some pictures beginning to curl at the corners. The old light fixtures produce a yellowy brown interior, aged but cozy. The air is thick with loud conversation and cigarette smoke--mostly Winstons and Lucky Strikes. The crowd is a heterogenous mixture of young students, long-haired rocker types, and middle-aged regulars. But age here is nothing more than a physical facade, a mere number. Everyone is talking to each other while downing 1E beers and Chupa Chups.

Old acoustic guitars of different shapes and sizes create an unusual border at the top of the wall. Below, a man sits at a wooden table strumming a guitar. The woman next to him leads the entire bar in Spanish songs with her unprofessional yet low and beautiful voice. Everyone sings, claps, cheers, and continues conversations all at once. Beer bottles empty and ash trays fill at a surprising rate. This is the famous Patillas, a tiny--yet popular--garrito* on a completely normal street in Burgos, far away from the fancy clubs and bars of Las Llanas. Patillas is teepeecal Espahnis (typical Spanish), as my friends here proudly say.

I did not expect to end up in Patillas this particular evening, but I am glad that I did because the authentic Spanish lifestyle only rears its head with spontaneity. I was spending Thursday afternoon, the dawn of my weekend, with some friends. Nobody was horribly keen on going out so we consented on a lazy afternoon/evening of colimochos.** However, while discussing the difference between American and Spanish bars, my friend Juan Carlos got the idea into his head that the American girls must experience Patillas. So at the tender hour of 1am, we went.

And experience Patillas we did. Patillas is the kind of place where it is unclear which people know each other and which do not. Over a bottle of Mahou, everybody is your best friend, which is why, upon our exit from the bar, our barely sane party of five was an eccentric party of seven pushing the envelope of sanity. It isn't that we were drunk, we weren't. Rather, we had made the acquaintance of quite a character of a woman. Tiny and somewhere in her 40s or 50s, Blanca was a chain smoking, beer guzzling ballet teacher with the raspy voice of a transvestite lounge singer. She thought everything was muy interesante,*** especially Chicago and Boston, neither of which she had ever visited. I contemplated telling her I was actually from Russia, home of the Bolshoi Ballet, but I opted against it. Chicago and Boston were interesante enough. After a short while, I had difficulty understanding what she was saying, but as long as I laughed, nodded, and said si**** repeatedly, all was golden. Muy interesante.

*kitschy bar
**typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke
***very interesting
****yes

Spring Break: D-Day Part III

As previously mentioned, the reason I came to Normandy was to see the D-Day beaches. I refused to leave Normandy without seeing them and told myself I would do whatever it would take to get to the darned beaches. In general, getting to the northern coast of France, where the five beaches are located, is very simple from Bayeux. However, that pretty little fact applies to people with motor vehicles. Not willing to pay tens of euros for a tour, as comprehensive as they are, I thought I would just take a taxi the six miles to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. At the last minute, while perusing the Bayeux tourism website, I found a D-Day tour for 30E, a sum I was willing to pay. The three and a half hour tour would take me to Pointe du Hoc, Omaha Beach, and the American War Cemetery.

Pointe du Hoc-On a cliff hanging over the English Channel, Pointe du Hoc was a German post during the war. This was the only spot along the coast protected by the Germans. On the morning of June 6, 1944, the allied troops took the unsuspecting Nazi bastards by surprise. Almost sixty six years later, the German bunkers are still there. Dark gray stone, some of it crumbling a little. Dirty stone floors, cold and hard. Artillery holes sparsely scattered throughout the bunker walls. The grassy field leading up to the cliff, once smooth, is now a series of giant bomb and shell craters--a result of the attack. The gray morning and cold April wind cover the cliff in a somber blanket, like the grainy, black and white photographs of Pointe du Hoc in 1944 that our tour guide shows us. Looking at the frothy waves of the English Channel slapping the rocks, I try to imagine the bunkers and fields filled with soldiers, fighting and yelling. Somehow, I can almost see it. History does not leave the cliff.


Omaha Beach-Located on the seaside village of Vierville-sur-Mer and surrounded by bluffs, Omaha Beach was one of the two American beaches during the invasion, the other being Utah Beach. The pale beige sand stretches five miles, the soldiers' footprints long gone. Pieces of floating harbor, makeshift structures built to facilitate the unloading of supplies, peak out of the water. Several bunkers stand eroding on the perimeter of the beach, chunks of stone gouged out with artillery. The tide is fairly low. The vast, empty beach makes me sad. I cannot seem to separate myself from the chilling feeling that I am somewhere else in time, somewhere that is not quite 1944 but not 2010, either. Is this what history does?


American War Cemetery-The cemetery, erected in Colleville-sur-Mer, overlooks Omaha Beach below. The pristine green lawn stretches far into the distance, spotless white gravestones neatly aligned in rows. The beautiful cemetery gives off an unmistakeable feeling of peace, rest, and tranquility. The countless rows of marble gravestones are visual proof of how many men lost their lives during the war, and these are just the Americans.


P.S.-The tour was worth all 30E.

Spring Break: D-Day Part II

Staring at the cloudburst in utter disbelief, I considered my options. I could, a) idly wait an unspecified amount of time for the rain to stop or, b) employ my scarf as a meager head covering and hurry towards the hotel as fast as my short legs could carry me. I chose the latter. As I neared the center, the rain started falling harder and I decided on a whim to go see the Bayeux Tapestry, an activity I had been saving for the following day.

The Bayeux Tapestry is an almost 265-foot tapestry (surprise!) that depicts the story of William the Conqueror and his conquest of Normandy. The tapestry is almost as old as the tale it tells, dating back to the 11th century. The tapestry was mounted behind a glass wall and photographs were prohibited, but the good people of YouTube have provided me with a video panorama :


Apart from a slight drizzle, it had stopped raining when I left the museum and I began to once again enjoy my day, no longer in a hurry to return to the hotel. Sauntering down the puddle stained streets of Bayeux, I admired once again its medieval charm and style. The post-rain gloom added a touch of authenticity, in a way.




I explored some of the busier side streets, observing French shopkeepers and teenagers, before making the executive decision to purchase some food at at the supermarket that was thankfully opened on a Saturday evening before Easter and finally return to the hotel. Intending for my edible loot to last until my arrival in Caen, I bought a bushel of grapes, two apples, Lay's barbecue potato chips (the store did not carry salt and vinegar flavor), and Prince chocolate and white chocolate sandwich cookies, which would end up being my main source of food the next day because I could not afford actual meals.

I expected to enjoy a very long and quiet evening in the hotel room with the television, my assortment of books and movies on my iPod, and the safe knowledge that despite not having a computer, I could still be reached on my cell phone because incoming calls are free. It was not until after my conversation with my parents ended mid-sentence that I realized that the luxury of incoming calls only applied in Spain. I was now officially isolated from the rest of the world, with only D.H. Lawrence, French-dubbed Simpsons, and potato chips to keep me company and fend off my once again impending panic.

Spring Break: D-Day Part I

On the morning of Saturday, April 3, I arrived in Bayeux, Normandy, which is located in the north of France, several miles south of the English Channel. Although I had left behind a cold, rainy Paris, the train pulled into a warm and sunny Bayeux. Thank goodness. Making my way around all the cars in the parking lot, I headed towards the town center, my suitcase rolling jubilantly behind me. I made it to the center without a single issue, using the cathedral as a landmark. Unfortunately, I had some difficulty finding my hotel. Bayeux is not a big town--2.75 square miles--so I embarrassingly circled the same areas three or four times in search of the hotel before finally finding it tucked away on the quiet rue des Bouchers.

The real fun began when I decided to quickly check my e-mail before exploring Bayeux. My computer chose that exact moment to cease working; I was alone in a tiny town and I had very little credit left on my cell phone because all the stores in Spain had been closed the previous couple of days because of the Easter holidays and I had not been able to add money to my account. Panic took absolutely no time at all to instill its unfriendly self in me. Call me materialistic, but this was a bigger problem than going a few days without Facebook. I had quite a bit of work to do and it was all lost somewhere in hardware purgatory. I had also depended on the internet as my main mode of communication since calling from France was rather expensive. If there was ever a time when the word fuck was appropriate, this was it. Despite my calamity, I went to explore Bayeux, consoling myself with the fact that the following night I would be in Caen with my couch surfing hosts and I could use their internet.

Bayeux is a charming little town, medieval and historical. It played an important role in the days of William the Conqueror, almost a millennium ago, and it was the first town in France to be liberated after the June 6, 1944 invasion. The main street is lined with stone buildings--stores, ice cream shops, and restaurants. Due to its proximity to the five D-Day beaches, Bayeux receives quite a lot of tourists. The little town was abuzz with a variety of nationalities the weekend I was there, including some very obvious Americans ("Lisa! LISA! Do you want ketchup on your fries? Lisa!").


I began my sight seeing with the Bayeux cathedral, another Gothic church, yet impressive all the same. I admired the stained glass and the ornate chapels and descended to the catacombs, cool and dark stone lit up by the thin streams of light from upstairs.

After the cathedral, I took a quick lunch break of chicken kebab. Enjoying the warm sun and feeling considerably better about the laptop situation, I then headed towards the Battle of Normandy Museum. I had been waiting eagerly to go to this museum since finding out about its existence. The museum is meticulously filled with quotes, biographies, photos, videos, artifacts, and recreations. A novice World War II junky, I was satisfied. However, my newly found good mood did not last long because during the two hours I was in the museum, the weather had drastically changed. It was pouring rain and I, fooled by the midday sun, had left my umbrella in my hotel room.

Spring Break: Arrivals

Shortly after the crack of dawn on April 1, I groggily rolled out of bed after one hour of REM-less sleep, threw some remaining toiletries into my suitcase, and ran out the door to catch my 7:30am bus to Madrid. Although accustomed to the almost three hour ride, I was happy to immediately fall asleep and not wake up until the bus was rolling through the outskirts of Madrid. As I sleepily stirred in my seat, my Murcia-bound friend Ana said to me, "Good morning." "Buenos días,*" I replied, fluffing my matted hair. We got off the bus, retrieved our luggage from the bus's gaping belly, and sat down for a coffee before heading our separate ways: me to the Salamanca neighborhood and Ana to Pinar Chamartín to catch her train to Murcia.

It being the very beginning of April, good weather was still fairly scarce, so I was thrilled that Madrid was sunny and warm. I spent the day in El Retiro, stopping in Thyssen-Bornemisza for a couple of hours to see the Monet exhibit as well as some Hopper, Kandinsky, and 16th century Flemish art. My night ended early due to my lack of sleep the previous night. Paris tomorrow, I thought excitedly as I fell asleep. My francophone adventure was about to begin.

After a delicious lunch of falafel with a friend in Puerta del Sol the next day, I headed to Barajas Airport, all my thoughts centered on one: that Ryan Air won't make me check my bag for an extra 35E. Upon getting my boarding pass stamped, getting through security while balancing two bins, my shoes, and my suitcase, and walking ten miles to my boarding gate, I decided to attempt to repack my suitcase in hopes of eliminating as many lumps as possible and fitting the suitcase into the carry-on luggage size checker, thus avoiding the possibility of having to check my bag and paying 35E. After several tries, I had the brilliant idea of stuffing as many bulky items as would fit into my coat pockets. My plan succeeded and I basked in my own genius the entire flight to Beauvais, concocting appropriate Facebook stati regarding the matter, my suitcase resting safely in the luggage bin above my head.

Paris Beauvais Airport is tiny. I walked out of the gate practically right into the shuttle bus to Paris, eliminating all my worries about getting lost and not finding the shuttle. Phew. The bus arrived at Port Maillot in Paris a touch before 9pm. Port Maillot is completely on the opposite side of the city from where I needed to be, the Latin Quarter, so I had a good 40 minutes of metro surfing ahead of me. Finally, after almost losing my right arm to the malicious metro doors in Port Maillot, transferring lines, and getting slightly lost upon getting off at Censier-Daubenton (lost enough to have to employ my very best je cherche rue Larrey** with a couple who turned out to not be French), I made it to my mom's friend's apartment, memories of staying there nine years ago rapidly coming back to me. After two metros, a plane, a bus, and two more metros, I was finally in Paris.

*good morning
**I'm looking for Larrey Street

Sevillian Civilians Part III

Lesson of the day: cheat the system by joining a group tour. You may also learn something. Arriving at the Alcazar, I was greeted by a line of tourists that seemed to stretch for miles towards I don't know where. The line seemed to be longer than the two lines that are permanently, and randomly, etched in my memory. The first line, which I had the pleasure of standing in for a good hour or so in the scorching, dry St. Petersburg summer sun, was for the observation deck on the St. Isaac's Cathedral. The second line, and I have no idea why this has made a comfortable and permanent home in my memory, was in some park in Russia where I waited 45 minutes in a line surrounded by chatty Russian ladies to use the bathroom. But I digress.

Fortunately, my experience with this particular line did not last long since my program director quickly ushered me and the other two girls into the hands of a tour guide with whom we only waited ten minutes to enter the mudejar* palace. Walking into the Alcazar was like walking into a smaller version of the Alhambra.

Look familiar? Tiled walls, herradura** arches, stone carvings, immaculate gardens. Having spent almost ten hours at the Alhambra back in October, I felt very much at home walking through the splendid rooms of the Alcazar.

main patio:





stucco etching and tiles

gardens:





*Arab design applied to Christian architecture
**horseshoe

Time Heals All Wounds

With the weather getting warmer and the sun working longer hours, I have been spending a considerable more time outside. Walking 30 minutes to the center is no longer a miserable task; instead of digging my gloved hands into my pockets for some extra warmth, I look at the dandelions and daisies and think of sundresses and ice cream (and then I go purchase said sundresses and ice cream). Subsequently, I think of Boston during its first days of good weather. The esplanade, the BU Beach, the Commons.

A few days ago, I was taking my time walking back to campus from the center because all of Burgos was ablaze with the mid-spring sun and everything was gorgeous. I swallowed fresh air peppered with the sight of the frothing river and colorful houses. Spain is beautiful, I told myself, as though the two previous months of rain had made me believe otherwise. I love Spain, but I seldom stop and tell myself that I physically am in Spain. I avoid that existential confrontation because acknowledging that I am in Spain pushes my overly sentimental heart down a road I do not want to traverse. I don't want to acknowledge the fact that I will leave Spain, and fairly soon, too.

I am perfectly adept to living in different cities. I started at the tender age of four, so why should I stop now? I cannot imagine spending my entire life, especially the last three years, in one place. Nevertheless, the necessity of leaving and bidding farewell to people does not get any easier for me. The thought of it depresses me and my last few days in any place are filled with a certain heaviness that never ceases to end in a catastrophic sobfest that I cannot control. I fall in love with people and places so easily that I later have to pay the price. Dwelling on these facts as I walked back to the dorm, I tried to force myself to accept my slightly nomadic ways as mere parts of life, which alleviated some of the melancholy that I had inflicted upon myself. But these things take time.

Sevillian Civilians Part II

Leaning back in the thick, wicker terrace chair, letting my tired bones and muscles relax from the morning journey from Madrid and afternoon sightseeing, I breathed in the still, warm air. Despite it being overcast and every moment on the brink of rain, it felt like summer, a wonderful feeling in the middle of March, especially since Burgos was still cold, rainy, and required a winter coat. After indulging my senses for a few moments, I directed my attention to the matter at hand: lunch. Being part of a group of six people, I agreed that tapas would indeed be the easiest solution to ordering. Minutes later, our jolly Andalucian waiter brought out plates of olives, fried fish, calamari, gazpacho, paella, and cheese. Dribbling drops of fresh lemon onto some fried bacalao*, I wanted to stay in Seville forever.

Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.

The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.

*cod
**nougat
***excuse me

untitled

I am aware that my Seville post is long past due, considering I was there almost two weeks ago. However, I have been rather busy with school work lately and have not had ample time to devote to the blog. Hopefully, within the next week, you will be able to read not only about Seville but also about my forthcoming adventures in Normandy.

Sevillian Civilians Part I

Stepping off the AVE train in Seville's Santa Justa station, I half expected all my six year-old memories of Seville to suddenly rush back to me. Unfortunately, my life is not one of those movies where the protagonist suddenly has flashbacks that come flooding back in intermittent bursts, triggered by some object, event, or location. I really could not remember my Sevillian August, as much as I tried. Fortunately, I now have new memories of Seville that will suffice just as well in describing the toast of Andalucia.

The second order of the day--the hotel being the first--was the cathedral. Seville is home to the largest cathedral in Spain. I have seen tons of cathedrals by now so the size did not quite phase me, but, as usual, the spectacle of the cathedral itself did not fail to impress. The Gothic facade stretches its flying buttress arms in all directions, as if it were stretching and unfolding for a yawn. The small, Spanish houses that surround the cathedral cower in its mightiness, which casts giant shadows on the plazas around it. Am I making the cathedral sound too much like Godzilla?

Although the Seville cathedral is traditionally Gothic, like the rest of the cathedrals in Spain, it also possesses strong elements of Arab influence due to Andalucia's Moorish past. The Giralda, done in the popular mudejar* style, stands erect on the perimeter of the courtyard, which is filled with orange trees, a typical Arabic design aspect. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of the oranges. The top of the Giralda offers beautiful views of Seville as well as of the cathedral itself. However, to experience these prized views, you have to be willing to climb. Stupidly, I briefly entertained the hope of there being an elevator before beginning my climb, but sadly, elevators do not complete the mudejar style. Fortunately, the journey up to the cima** of the Giralda is one via ramps, not stairs. Thank goodness, a compromise.

Up next, an evening sprint through Seville. Stay tuned.

*Arabic style applied to Christian architecture

**top

Madridalicious

Coming back to Madrid was like seeing an old friend again. Stepping out of the Sevilla metro, I was warmly greeted by Puerta del Sol, which quickly hugged me with its familiar sights before I slipped into Hotel Regina, my suitcase disappearing through the sliding doors behind me. My mind somersaulted to September, when I first walked into Hotel Regina, sweaty and jetlagged with more luggage than I could manage. It was delightful to be back, this time more collected, temperate, and with one light suitcase. It is at random moments like these that I selfishly feel incredibly sophisticated. I don't apologize. Have you seen Hotel Regina?

After dropping off my maletas*, I went on a brief tour of Old Madrid with the rest of the Burgos group, if three people even merits the word group. Walking down the street I fondly refer to as The Club Promoters' Lair, although it is harmless in the daytime, we arrived at the Palacio Real just in time to see a royal procession. Although I had been previously elucidated to the fact that there was state business going on in the palace that weekend, I had not expected to see men dressed in traditional guard garb on horses, wielding rifles. There was a marching band, and as we sauntered over to the other side of the palace, we observed, to our great surprise, an 18th century horse-drawn carriage, with footmen looking like they had just walked off the Amadeus set.

Unfortunately, this is the best picture I managed to take. Can you see the men's wigs? You know the old saying: come to Madrid, see some 18th century foot soldiers.

After the guards marched out, there was not much left to see, considering the palace was closed to the public due to state business, so we began making our way to lunch via Calle Mayor, Plaza Mayor, Calle de los Cuchilleros, and Calle de Atocha. We dined in an Arabic restaurant, because Bourbons+Arabs=Spanish history (pretty much), and we had just done the Bourbon portion. Despite the disagreeable waitress, the food was delicious. I ordered eggplant stuffed with feta, obviously for the cheese, and rape (RA-peh),** which came with a dollop of mashed potatoes and a lime garnish. Estoy harta de pescado,*** but yum.

The rest of my time in Madrid was spent in the Prado, Parque Retiro, Chocolatería San Gines, the Mercado de San Miguel, and the Rastro. And I saw Confetti Goat Man! It was good to be back.

*suitcases

**monkfish

***I'm sick of fish

Castilian Coffee Culture According to an American

I've been absent from the rush of American life for so long that I am sure that upon my return, seeing numerous coffee cups floating down the street in the hands of their eager owners will be an unusual sight, as much as I myself enjoy a pedestrian java. That said, I also very much enjoy taking my coffee slowly in a dark, wooden bar, listening to the clanking of silverware around me while savoring the mildly sweet taste of milk fat mixed with bitter roast. Grande skinny vanilla latté? Not in Spain, thanks.

I believe I have made it perfectly clear by now that Spaniards like to take their sweet time. Therefore, sitting down to tomar un café* is more than a mere afternoon caffeine fix; it is a hefty time commitment. Coffee in Spain is to be consumed slowly, usually with a newspaper or the company of several friends. Coffee conversation trickles considerably past the first depressing glimpse of the bottom of the coffee cup. Needless to say, coffee to go is not a popular concept, especially not in traditional Burgos, where you get odd looks from the very people selling you the coffee to go. Even in Madrid, where Starbuckses abound, the only people walking with coffee are businessmen. The rest of the population elects to stay inside the stores, slowly sipping away its day.

Mini coffee glossary:

café con leche-coffee with milk

solo-espresso without milk

cortado-espresso with a splash of milk

café bonbón-espresso with condensed milk

*have a coffee

Here Comes the Sun

In honor of the beautiful, cloudless, sunny day Burgos is having:

untitled

It's great when your body decides to treat you to yet another cold about a week after you got rid of the first one.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

The long arm of colorless gravel path lined with bare trees reaches through the rolling Spanish countryside, disappearing into infinity. Sparse shacks, now empty, appear every 100 meters or so. The vast fields alternate from spring green to dry and brown. It seems that without the blue skies and early spring sun, the view would be rather dull, gray, and depressing. Lady Luck is on our side today, I think as I walk down the path, kicking stones in front of me. Nevertheless, I wish winter would pack its bags. The scraggly trees could use a little greenery.

This is the Camino de Santiago, the millennium-old route that spans through the north of Spain. Beginning at the traveler's doorstep--or somewhere near the French Pyrenees--and ending in Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, the Camino de Santiago was, and continues to be, a spiritual journey for the peregrinos* who traverse it year-round. During the Middle Ages, religion was the only thing that the peregrinos had in common, but it united them to build churches and cathedrals along the route. The Camino de Santiago is responsible for the population and industrialization of northern Spain.

Although I am not an official peregrino, I can feel the importance and the power of the Camino de Santiago, mixed with the chilly air. I can see the determination and concentration on the faces of the other travelers I see on the road. Entering a tiny, dusty town, I feel the jolt of accomplishment. As I wonder how it must feel for those who have been walking for days and weeks, I tell myself, I'm coming back.

*pilgrims