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

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: 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

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

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

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

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

It's Wine Country

Tumbling out of the car, I stepped into a stream of sunshine, still cool due to it being morning. Around me stood brown brick buildings, old, collecting sunshine. It smelled fresh, like spring. Having been subjected to rain and wind for the previous two weeks, I welcomed the sun and the vitamin D. I was in Ollauri, a small Spanish town in La Rioja, Spain's wine region, known for the 16th century bodega* Conde de los Andes.

Although I am no wine connoisseur, and will never be one of those people who knowledgeably swirls her Merlot in a thick-stemmed red wine glass while postulating pretentiously on the hints of rich flavor my taste buds pick up, I find wineries to be rather interesting. I have always been of the opinion that there is something rustic and homely about wineries. They have their own stories, their own traditions, their own flavors. The wine business is an entire culture, and a rather popular one, at that. Furthermore, I find the amount of work and effort that goes into producing wine unbelievable. It seems to me a continuous task. Considering wine has to age for a generous amount of time, imagine how much wine is produced daily to keep shelves full worldwide!

Walking through the stone cellar of Conde de los Andes, I saw bottles of wine, covered in a gentle web of white mold, that have been aging since 1918. 1918. These bottles barely missed WWI and have lived through WWII, the Cold War, and the invention of the internet. Even if I did have 300E that I wanted to invest in a bottle of red, I doubt that I could ever bring myself to open it. A 92 year-old bottle of wine is more an antique than a beverage.

I was still somewhat mulling over the concept of an almost centennial bottle of wine when I arrived in Elciego, a small Basque town that houses Marques de Riscal, a bodega designed by giant, twisted, metal sheet aficionado, architect Frank Gehry.

The incredibly modern design of the winery stands out immensely amidst the constant brown tradition of Elciego. It is rather stunning.

But that's what Spain is, the perfect mix of the old and the new.

*winery

Taking Bromance to a Whole New Level

The tremendously prestigious and reliable source that is Urban Dictionary defines the term bromance as the complicated love and affection shared by two straight men. I was definitely familiar with the term before coming to Spain, but I cannot claim having actually experienced any bromance with my own eyes. However, that is probably due to the fact that I have very few straight guy friends, none of whom really know each other well enough to merit bromance.

Therefore, I was rather shocked--and confused--when I began noticing the relationships shared by the guys in my dorm, and probably in all of Spain. Despite the entertainment value of this Spanish bromance, it is actually incredibly refreshing to see males show their heterosexual affection for each other, without chest bumping and trying to one-up each other in physical activity. In Spain, guys not only slap each other on the back, but also hug. A lot. At clubs, they dance with each other, jokingly, yet fearlessly. They adore taking hundreds of pictures together, on any occasion, and always have their arms around each other in said pictures. Kissy faces are not a rarity either.

One of my friends, upon observing Spanish bromance, once commented, "Spain is one big gay bar!" That may be partially true, considering the straight guys here are generously more physical than in the United States. It is also definitely more difficult to spot the actual gay guys here. I'm friends with several boys whose orientations I still have not yet figured out (help is appreciated). Nevertheless, does it really matter? I have come to the conclusion that it does not. Boys will be boys.

Today I Met a French girl, a Czech, and a German

My two-month vacation came to an end today, sadly, with the start of spring semester. This morning, I got up at 7am to attend an actual university class. Despite my reluctance to start working again, I was rather excited--and a little nervous--about the classes I had chosen. Fortunately, I ended the school day content with 75% of my choices and without a shred of extranjera* anxiety left inside of me.

Grammar and Morphology of Spanish-Despite my huge excitement about this class, I was reluctant to go to it first thing this morning because it had apparently begun last week--without my knowledge--and I didn't want any embarrassing discrepancies. Nevertheless, I told myself I was being ridiculous, sucked it up, and went to class. I am glad I got over my compulsions because the course matter is fascinating and the professor does not appear daunting, and he slightly resembles Robert Deniro. Most importantly, I understand every single word he says, even though I have never studied linguistics in Spanish. I was very pleasantly surprised by my own comprehension abilities today.

Pragmatics and Semantics of Spanish-My morphology-induced high transferred over to this class, which I had right after morphology with the same professor. I have to say, if I had not just had class with this professor, I would have assumed he was not going to show up to teach because he waltzed in ten minutes after class was scheduled to start and announced to us that he had needed a break and had gone to have a coffee. I want a coffee too, sir, but así es la vida.** Punctuality does not really exist in Spain.

Literature and Journalism-I like literature. I want to learn more about journalism. This frontier logic convinced me that this would be an interesting class to take. I was wrong. As soon as the professor started talking, I felt intimidated, inadequate, and at a huge disadvantage for not being a native Spanish speaker. My elation from earlier today slowly evaporated. All the other students, although equally unhappy about all the work assigned (20 page assignment due in a little over a month?!), seemed to be on the same page as the 1980s coiffed professor. Midway through the hour, I had already decided that I would not be returning to this horrific class.

Audiovisual Narrative-After the horror of literature and journalism, screenwriting was refreshing and a relief. The professor is young and seems very friendly and understanding. She introduced me to the entire class, which was not as embarrassing as it sounds because everyone here seems to like Americans. The course basically consists of watching and analyzing movies and working in groups on our own scripts and short films. I did not even have the chance to worry about being the reject and not finding a group because the punk kids sitting in front of me immediately took me under their wing, so to speak. I daresay I'm rather excited about this class.

*foreigner

**such is life

Everything Is Topsy Turvy, Upside Down

Pushing past all the drunk Spaniards in Twenty, the most popular student nightclub in pint-sized Burgos, I noticed an odd assortment of X-Men characters, cowboys, and Robin Hoods getting their groove on to Eurotrash music (stereotypes do start somewhere), sparsely interjected with Black Eyed Peas or Lady Gaga. Or Red Hot Chili Peppers. Still a newcomer to Burgos, it took me a few moments to realize that this huge, poorly soundtracked costume fest was due to Carnaval, a week-long celebration that involves a variety of parades and other outdoor events and, of course, costumes.

The weekend progressed with more costumes: members of Kiss, matadors, bull runners, 80s aerobics instructors, Jokers, and soldiers. During the daylight hours, little kids ran all over the center of Burgos dressed as little Zoros, princesses, firemen, Supermen, and SpongeBob Squarepants (there is nothing cuter than a three-foot tall yellow box bobbing down a medieval bridge on red stockinged feet). Being a lazy college student with incredibly important things to do, such as hang out on Facebook all day, I cannot admit to having participated in many of the events, but I did venture out on Sunday evening to experience more than just tales of the--apparently--famous Burgos Carnaval.

Despite the biting cold, I managed to catch part of a jubilant procession heading down El Paseo de Espolón, lead by a colorful entertainer on stilts. I expected him at any moment to burst out into "Topsy Turvy" from Hunchback of Notre Dame because, well, he looked just like the jester, except that he was not animated.

Let's compare:

Following the procession, and a quick coffee, I witnessed the appearance of Lo monstre*, the mythical Burgos dragon in search of public affection and some comestibles. The dragon and his followers stopped in front of El Arco de Santa María, where the dragon rose up into the air, spread his wings, and blew smoke out of his pulleyed jaws.

The mechanical aspect of the presentation was rather fascinating, actually, but I do have to admit that the Spaniards possess a plethora of odd customs, such as burying sardines. No joke. ¡Viva Carnaval!**

*the monster

**long live the carnival

School, Drink, Party, Learn Some Basque

There is a first time for everything. Since I am no longer a stranger to alcohol-induced blasphemy (who needs bars when you can drink in front of medieval ecclesiastical sights?), last night seemed an appropriate time to get another first out of the way. Going out at two in the morning, heavily tinged with the fizzy combination of Esmirnoff and Kas (read: Smirnoff and lemon Fanta), is very much standard practice here in Burgos, especially now that Carnaval has begun. I went to sleep at 6:30am, Eurotrash techno still ringing in my ears. The sun here doesn't rise until after seven, so at least it still felt like night.

I Love Burgos in the Winter

I am well aware of the fact that a considerable amount of time has passed since my last entry of note, but in my defense I have been rather busy dealing with the multitude of little annoying things that accompany settling into a new place, especially if said new place is in a different country on a different continent. Fortunately, I have several hours of free time to write right now while the crazy Spanish snow storm rages outside. Tomorrow, I have to go deal with my bus card, which mysteriously doesn't work. Dealing with municipal problems in Spain is synonymous with a generous helping of twisted bureaucracy and awful customer service. But I digress.

For the past week, I've seen pretty much all of Burgos and experienced a huge dose of Spanish culture, which is--at least to me--stronger here than in Madrid. I am happy to report that I enjoy Burgos immensely, which is a relief because although I thought it was pretty when I first visited in November, I was not thrilled by its size and feared I would be bored studying here for five months. Thankfully, at least at the moment, I no longer feel that way. I get along superbly with the other two girls from Boston University and all three of us are highly entertained by the raucous Spaniards on our floor who constantly yell obscenities at each other while pounding on doors and attempt to pepper their castellano* with heavily accented English phrases. I can't complain; they pay for my colimochos.**

Residence life aside, I see Burgos in a completely different way than I did that one day in November. It is a small town, but it does not lack life. Bars and cafés are always full and there are always people dando una vuelta.*** There is a reason I always mention bars, cafés, and strolls when I write about Spain; it is not a trend, it is Spanish life. La vida española**** centers around social life in a way that is wonderfully refreshing from the constant rush of the American people. People actually enjoy life here. I mean, if I had spent my entire life in a town with an enormous gothic cathedral (Spain's third largest), 30 cent bus fare, and one Euro champagne, I'd enjoy life too. And I do.

*typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke

**Castillian Spanish

***going for a walk

****Spanish life

From Criminal in Frankfurt to Celebrity in Madrid

Walking through O'Hare security and down the long corridor to concourse C, fueled by the frothy cappuccino I had hastily finished sipping a few minutes earlier, I expected the next 13 hours to pass slowly, quietly, and uneventfully, interrupted only by the flight attendants' required safety spiel and the mile-high gastronomic question, "chicken or fish?" I was right, the next 13 hours did creep by slowly and more or less quietly. I was probably the only passenger on the half empty plane awake, despite having two entire seats to my five foot self. Blame the coffee. However, the trip was not entirely uneventful, which I suppose gives me something to write about.

Walking out of the airplane into the Frankfurt airport, I was happy to stretch my legs and look at something besides the back of the seat in front of me, considering I had been sitting and staring for the past eight hours. As I traversed the terminal, I realized that switching planes would not be as simple as walking from one gate to another. I had to go through passport control (no problem) and security (ew). At security, as I unloaded my items into various gray bins, the German security guy told me I would not have to take my shoes off. As I walked through, the buckles on my boots set off the alarm and another member of the security personnel pulled me aside for a full body scan, which included taking off my shoes and putting them through the scanner. I did not realize I had buckles on my boots until I was putting them back on, so the body scan process made me rather nervous. Fortunately, I was soon released and I continued on my way, enjoying the spoken German around me.

Fast forward two more tired and restless hours. Getting off the plane in Madrid's Barajas Airport, I felt like I was coming back from another long weekend on a Monday morning. Unfortunately, all those Monday mornings in terminal 1 included getting lost in search of the metro, and this time, although not a Monday, it was no different. Joder*. After wandering a little bit, I asked twice for directions to the necessary baggage claim. Following said directions, I somehow ended up on the other side of arrivals--the side that comes after the baggage claim. Fortunately, getting back inside to get my luggage was not difficult considering I had somehow managed to miss the baggage claim all together. It goes without saying that there was no passport control.

Meanwhile, sandwiched between meeting the director of the program and getting the luggage, we were approached by a journalist working for TeleMadrid, a Spanish channel, who was looking for American students to film for a feature on, I am guessing, American students studying in Madrid. Although tired and haggard looking, the three of us Burgos girls gave brief interviews to the periodista**, who staged a chance encounter with us. I have absolutely no idea where this video will surface, but if I happen to find it online, I will not keep it hidden. I am slowly making my way through all Spanish media, since I've been published in a Spanish magazine and there is now a video of me floating somewhere in Spanish television cyberspace.

*fuck

**journalist