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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:

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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

Spring Break, It's (Not Quite, but Sort Of, Kind Of, Almost) Here!

After many an hour spent on Ryan Air, Easy Jet, eDreams, Hostel World, Hostel Bookers, Couch Surfing, and some French train website whose name I still don't remember but I don't really care because it was way easier to use than the Swiss train website I had to deal with in November, I am happy to finally announce my epic spring break plans. Behold!

April 2: After the obligatory 2 hour 45 minute bus ride to Madrid, I will be flying to Paris via Ryan Air, where I will undoubtedly get lost in the airport and miss the overpriced Ryan Air shuttle that will take me to the center. All in the name of cheap flights.

April 3: Fortunately, I know my way around the Paris metro fairly well, so I do not anticipate any problems getting to Gard St. Lazare, the train station which will house the shining beacon of hope that is the train that will finally take me to Bayeux, Normandy. Quite honestly, I had never heard of Bayeux until I started researching World War II museums and memorials in Normandy, but thankfully, Bayeux seems historically dense enough for me to not get bored being there alone for two days.

April 4: In the evening, I will be taking a train to Caen, where I will be couch surfing for two nights. I do not know much about Caen except that there are things to do there. As long as I am in Normandy, I am happy.

April 6: I am quite excited to go to Paris again, although I was just there in November. Fortunately, I did not do all the touristy things in the fall, so I will have plenty to do, as well as see a good friend from Boston University! I am considering going on a bicycle tour of Monet's gardens, which are actually back in Normandy. Still.

April 9: My original plans to go to Italy were unfortunately cancelled, so instead I am going to Brussels, where I will also be couch surfing. I am excited to eat Belgian waffles, chocolate, and fries, which are apparently a Belgian staple. I have a lot to research about Brussels.

April 11: After eight entire days in Francophone countries, I will return to my beloved Spain, hopefully intact, until the next weekend, when I go to London.

How to Eat Typical Spanish

When the time comes for gastronomical pastimes in Spain, the typical American may feel inadequate. Unless you are going to McDonald's, Spanish restaurants require a bit of time to get used to. More often than not, the restaurant you enter will be a relatively small space with a bar, plates of pinchos*, and a healthy sized crowd mulling over its day with a cup of coffee or a caña.** And copious amounts of cigarettes. The atmosphere is lovely and the coffee is delicious, but those luxuries arrive--in true Spanish fashion--a bit later.

Walking into a restaurant, unless it is extremely crowded, you will be greeted by the hombre*** behind the bar, who will expect you to immediately place your order. I am convinced that Spaniards possess intrinsic mechanisms that allow them to not only know which tapas**** the restaurant will carry before they even walk through the door, but to see through the mayonnaise mess and know what's what. There is no menu. Granted, most restaurants carry the same tapas, more or less, but is no one interested in looking before ordering, in case there is a variant or two?

Considering I do not possess said mechanism, I always feel an incredible amount of pressure trying to decide what I want. The man behind the bar stares at me, not knowing what to do with himself because I have broken protocol and not ordered immediately. Unfortunately, the pressure I feel is negatively correlated with my ability to speak Spanish; by the time I finally decide that I want that thing with the stuff inside and this other thing with the mayonnaise and meat substance, my adjectives don't agree with my nouns in gender and basic words escape my mind.

A few suggestions, brought to you by five months of experience:

1. If you are not a picky eater, select anything you want. The food is usually good.

2. Tortilla española***** is a safe choice and always available.

3. Give yourself the gift of time by ordering a drink first.

4. Endure the staring and remind yourself that these people would probably have issues at some American eatery.

*tapas

**draft beer

***man

****small portions of food

*****thick omelet with potatoes

The College Diet

American college diet: sandwiches, brownies, beer

Burgos college diet: kebab, chocolate, colimochos*

*typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke

Donostia Es la Ostia*

I love to travel, that is no secret, but the more places I visit, the harder it is to pick a favorite. Obviously, some places stand out more than others, but in general, every location has something of its own to offer. However, last weekend's trip to San Sebastian, capital of the Guipúzcoa province in the Basque Country, slightly improved my inability to choose a favorite destination--at least in Spain. Having heard a ton of praise from all directions regarding San Sebastian, Donostia in Basque, and how I must visit, I arrived in San Sebastian expecting the best. And I got the best, if not more.

San Sebastian sits comfortably on the northern coast of Spain, a mere hour or so from the French border. The stunning blue waters of the Cantabrian Sea lap over the city's pristine beaches and the air always smells of the mild sea breeze, a scent unheard of (unsmelled of?) in Burgos. Surfers traverse the city in their wet suits and flip flops, casually carrying their surfboards as if they were school books. Nobody but me looks twice.

Away from the beach, the heart of the city is decidedly European. Walking down the gorgeous Paseo del Urumea, on the bank of the Urumea River, I was very strongly reminded of Paris. Then St. Petersburg. Then Paris again. There is something wonderfully familiar about the sight of a wide river lined with decorated European buildings. It feels like home.

Despite the spectacular ambiance of the city, what I enjoyed most was the authentic Spanish experience. On Sunday night, my friends and I took the advice of one of the hostel employees and went to dinner at a small restaurant nearby, which supposedly served amazing paella. Sitting at the table, sipping tinto** and half-watching the owners make our paella out of scratch with seafood they probably went to the ocean to catch the moment we ordered (it was that fresh), I noticed a woman sitting at the bar, chatting with the owners. She was too blonde to be Spanish and her face yielded the soft features of an Eastern European. Bastante*** soon I discovered that she was, in fact, Russian. We chatted and it turned out that she used to be a figure skating coach for Disney On Ice, and she had lived all over the world. She spoke Russian, English, and Italian, but very little Spanish. She was acquainted with the owner of the restaurant because his wife, the owner of the hostel I was staying at, was Russian too. Olga, a busty, middle-aged blonde strolled into her husband's bar soon after and chatted with the four of us in her thick Russian accent, while her husband served us fresh steamed mussels, the best paella I have ever eaten, and Spanish olives.

He kept us entertained during dinner by creeping up behind us and startling us and treated us to a one-hour dessert of political discussion. Now that's the Spanish experience.

*Donostia is the shit

**red wine

***rather

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Don't you just loathe post-vacation depression?

P.S.-Tales of the magnificent Basque Country to come soon.