Closure

It has been many months since I have ventured to this once beloved blog, but I have been meaning to spruce it up and make it into a memorable and readable archive since last summer. With the amount of work, travel, and computer problems I encountered during my last month in Spain, I unfortunately had to abandon the blog. For that reason, my tales end so abruptly in the middle of my spring break adventures, whose stories would have been completed had I written them in a timely fashion in April instead of putting them off for two months. Regardless, and even without my posts about Paris, Brussels, St. Petersburg, and London, this blog serves as a detailed account of the (almost) year I spent living in Spain and traveling Europe. ¡Hasta luego*!

*see you later

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