Today was an early, but very early day. The earliest I have had in a really long time. Apart from having to get up so early to travel it has been years since I got up at six to get my day going. In a certain way it was really nice. In another way, it was like trying to drag 2 ton rocks with my pinky toe across sand. My brain was working in slow motion, and I had to get dressed in warm clothes, eat breakfast, and take care of my morning breath all before I could even really open my eyes properly. Then, the part that probably makes at least a couple of you cringe is that I had to get onto the bike I used yesterday and trek the same hideous hills into town. Lucky I have such a good motivator in my life. Helena is a tennis coach and is used to bullying little kids into running long distances through the Swiss forests. Well, I was probably worse than any one of those little kids, but her very kind bullying did in fact get us to the train station on time to buy my eight day pass (which paid for itself in just today’s travels), and then get us on to the train itself.
We had to make a train change, and then another to get up the mountain. We were on our way to Toblerone Mountain, more commonly known as Matterhorn. If any of you have heard of the chocolate that is called Toblerone, they are formed in pyramid shapes, made with the shape of this mountain in mind.
It was cloudy up there, so the view was a bit limited, but we wandered around with the hundreds of other tourists taking pictures anyway. A few turned out decent, so when I can put the pictures on my computer I will attach them to this blog. There was a really chilly wind and so not to much time passed before we decided to go in and soak up the warm in a cafeteria they have on top of the mountain, along with some other shops where you can buy various Swiss trinkets, as well as the watches and knives that are so famous.
We went into the cafeteria and a sweet old lady and her maybe-daughter had just finished eating, so they gave us their table. Random acts of kindness are so wonderful. We sat down and opened up our “snack pack.” Helena had put various bread things into a Tupperware, including some slices of my beloved rock bread. We munched on that and waited around a couple hours hoping the clouds would go away so we could see Matterhorn.
With time and luck it started to come out. We went immediately outside, making sure a sweet old couple got our table first, and waited around. For ten whole seconds we got a clear view of the mountain, which I managed not to catch on camera. Oh well, life is better seen through our own eyes.
We caught the next train down the mountain and spent a bit of time in the town, had a coffee and headed back. While were still in that town though, we picked up a few ingredients from the supermarket. Making dinner when we got home was our plan.
Argentine food was the cuisine. Attempting to mimic the delicious things we ate while on our exchange, Sopa Paraguaya was on the menu as well as Chipa, Empanadas Criollas (spiced ground beef) and Empanadas of Ham and Cheese. For dessert we would be whipping together the very simple Chocotorta. This is a cake make of milk dipped chocolate cookie layers with a cream and dulce de leche filling separating them. Everything turned out edible and more! It was such a delicious meal, and fairly simple to make as well. I am very proud of our success.
The heavy and delightful Argentine meal was greatly enjoyed by all, and the following day was going to be Helena’s tennis tournament. I don’t know anything about tennis at all, so I watched very passively and periodically would start reading my book…do not get angry tennis fans. I am not opposed to learning about it when I get home, if you are so inclined to teach me.
After one of Helena’s games, her friend Salome came to get me at the match and show me around Bern. It was a perfect day. Maybe it was even too hot. I did get a sunburn, and now, my face looks a bit like my electric stove’s burner right before it gets to cooking temperature.
Salome took me to the Bear Garden, where there are bears kept on a large hillside for passerbys to stare at. There was a huge confusion as my understanding of Swiss German is non-existent and her English, although really good, sometimes is a tad hard to understand because of her strong accent. It took us near ten minutes to figure out the animal she was talking about. First, I thought she was saying beer garden. She said many people liked to go there because there were many beers. I assumed it was a park people got together in to drink. Then she was talking about how the beers can bathe there, and I realized, beers do not bathe. So, I was on to thinking she was talking about birds, and birdbaths. Like, a birdwatcher park. When I asked her if Swiss people really like to bird watch she said she guessed so. I wanted to know if they tended to use binoculars or just go to this park, and she said that the birds were so close no one needed them. That didn’t really sound like a bird watching park and I had the suspicion she did not want to say bird. I acted out what a bird was. That helped, because in that moment, we were finally able to figure out that what she wanted to say, was in fact, BEAR. Ah…the miscommunication learning languages can bring.
We also went to the famous Rose Garden of Bern, which was a treat. If I were here for more time, I would absolutely go there to hang out on a blanket all day and picnic with friends. There were hundreds of types of roses, and the whole park smelled of them.
We also went to the very top of Münster. That is the cathedral of Bern, and the highest tower goes 100m in the air, from what I heard. She and I were doing quite a bit of huffing and puffing to get to the top of those baggillion stairs. Once there, we got to see an incredible view of the entire city. The breathtaking Aare River was a turquoise color. Mississippi River, step your game up.
A coffee later, I headed home with her first on a train, then a bus. My plan was to rest and then try to convince Helena to go out for drinks with me. Solome and I had wandered through a craft fair, and I saw a bag that will never leave my mind. I stopped and asked the price just out of curiosity, knowing that it would be too expensive. It was a handcrafted leather side bag with a very large piece of pure turquoise for decoration attached to the front. It is the most beautiful bag I have ever seen in my life. The guy working there spoke Swiss German, however, he looked like he might have Central or South American. Out of curiosity I asked where he was from, and he told me Ecuador. I was intrigued because my brother will go to study there next year. I was planning on forcing him into an apprenticeship with the man I came to find out was named Favio. He was nice, and his friend in the booth next to him wandered over and it came out he was from Costa Rica.
They invited my friends and me out to a drink and some international/latin music clubs. We planned on going out that night after they had packed up their booths. In the end, Helena had to stay in to study, but I went. I biked and bus rode on my own to the center to meet up with them. I mention this only because this time I navigated without a single glitch. Go me.
They took me to this club that is fairly famous here because the police aren’t allowed to go in. I don’t understand clubs and bars and social clubs that can break laws here in Switzerland because they are independent of the government somehow. You can smoke weed in one part of this bar, there are great concerts there, and there are ALL types of people there. Usually, the drug dealers and doers are out in front. Don’t be worried though because once you are past them, everyone else looks significantly less threatening. This place used to be a stable for horses, but now is covered in graffiti ranging from beautiful artwork to “FUCK POLICE!”
Speaking of drugs, I found out last night that the drug addicts of the city have special houses where they can go and get their fix. The government pays for this. Sometimes it happens in hospitals even. The guy that informed me of this, a Swiss man who was also out with us, said the government’s idea is that it is better to have them off the streets and using sanitary needles so AIDS does not spread.
This morning we got up early again, and Helena, her boyfriend Andreas and I went to a place called Stockhorn. Andu drove us and then we took a cable car up to the top of this mountain and had the best buffet breakfast of my life looking out the windows that gave us a panoramic view of the Alps in that area. After eating far too much, we hiked about an hour and a half to get down the mountain again. I was exhausted, so this late afternoon, I have just been lazing around the house.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Guns, Dirty Looks, and Switzerland
The adventures continue…I am now in Bern, Switzerland. Getting here was a trial, but I made it. If you know me, getting lost is something that I do very well, and finding my way somewhere without a glitch is not.
I got on the plane from Barcelona without any problem. Then, I was arriving in Zurich before I even knew it. I had been up since five thirty a.m. and was exhausted, but I knew I only had a small bit of the trip left. All I had to do was follow the masses to the train station, which is attached to the airport. This was not too difficult, and I managed not to get lost. When I got there I saw the ticket machines, and thought I could manage. I saw the word “Welcome” on the main screen, so I figured they would help out a little-ole-tourist like me by having English as well as Swiss German. This was not the case. A few minutes later I gave up and wandered over to the surprisingly short ticket line. I didn’t have to wait a full minute before I was getting helped. The orderliness and efficiency of the Swiss is something I greatly appreciate.
I was helped by the distant, but helpful, Swiss man behind the bulletproof glass window. I bought my ticket and to my surprise it turned out to be only eight dollars. I was dumbfounded and kept on rambling in a friendly way to Mr. Straightface about how I thought that it was going to be closer to 50 dollars. Man was I pumped! Switzerland wasn’t going to turn out to be as expensive as I thought.
I wandered in a wide-eyed way down to the track that I needed to be on to catch the next train, and as I was standing there I was trying to soak up my surroundings. My eyes passed over many beautiful people (the Swiss, in my opinion, are incredibly good looking folks), they passed over the pastel grey concrete platform, the salmon pink ticket in my hand, the train destinations, the ticket in my hand, the train destinations, the ticket in my hand…
Blanch.
I was going to Zurich main station. Why was I going there? Why had I asked for that ticket? What the heck…eight dollars down the drain. I needed to go to Bern. A fair bit of bumbling around followed which I will not describe because it was neither fun nor funny. What I will say is that the “less than one minute line” had turned into a “more than 15 minute line,” and now my credit card wouldn’t even work in the ticket machine (I got help from a nice Swiss girl to push the right buttons). I decided just to go to the main station and get the right ticket there.
I got on the train, which was very full already and wiggled my way through the aisles looking for a seat that was open. By open I mean not containing a person or a bag. People were not inclined to move there stuff out of the seat next to them so I could have a place to sit, so I wandered down, and down, and down and then finally, I saw a spot across from two little old ladies. My backpack weighs about 7 tons because it was the only piece of luggage I was allowed to take for free on the airline I took, and so it contains about half of my wardrobe rolled in to tiny little balls, my laptop, and all the various electronic nonsense that I need for my various trinkets. I was really eager to get this monstrous bag off of my back, so I plopped down heavily into the seat and smiled a big smile at them to be friendly. I was not expecting the reaction I got. Let me tell you what “stank-face” is just in case you don’t know.
Stank-face: noun
1. A frown that involves raising the upper lip in a way that suggests a bad smell is present in the air
2. A look of disgust common to people of bad humor, usually executed in a way that makes the receivers of this look very aware of their shortcomings
So, I got a full powered stank-face from each of these ladies. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong exactly, but later I came to find out the social custom is to ask to sit down. I was now a social reject.
Socially rejected, unable to speak a lick of the language, tired and smelly I finally arrived at the main station. I got off the train, tried one of those machines again to no avail and hopped in the line to get my ticket from a real person.
Speaking of the high cost of travel, I had been wrong to get excited about the 8 dollar trip. I bought my ticket for Bern, which turned out to be almost 70 US dollars. The city bus turns out to be five dollars each ride. I want to SEE Switzerland since I made it all the way here, but if a 1.5 hour train ride costs that, I won’t be taking any day trips. Helena and her mother helped me find an 8 day tourist pass which is a very good deal. For just a bit less than 300 dollars I can travel free on almost any form of transportation here in Switzerland for eight days straight. I will get that tomorrow and also wave goodbye to my social life for the next year, and become a slave to my credit card bill as so many other Americans are.
I got to Bern and ran into Helena as she was walking down the other side of the walkway in the train station. I snuck up on her and we hugged for years. Teary eyed smiles and a billion happy exclamations later we finally made it upstairs to the open air where her sister was waiting with the car. I cannot explain to you how much those two laughed at me for the small amount of stuff I had with me. They could not wrap their heads around how I was going to travel with that one tiny backpack for three weeks straight.
We were driving to their house, which is right outside of Bern, and I was checking out what the houses looked like. They are so wonderful. Nothing like the houses from the US or Spain, obviously, they have a ton of windows, are usually built up on hills and they have wonderfully lush gardens. We got to her place and the cobbled staircase to get up to her house was literally so long that my cheeks were all pink and I was panting, but it was like walking through a green hallway of plant life. Something you might read about in a fairy tale. The house itself is my dream house. Almost one entire wall of the house is just windows. There is so much open space and light. The architecture is like nothing I have ever seen before. The only way I can describe it is, refreshing.
That night we had tea and chatted and then it was time for bed because Helena had an exam the next day and I was exhausted from my travels. The next day was a very relaxed one. We got up and had a leisurely breakfast, Swiss style. Lots of different types of granola were set out with yogurt. Espresso. Fruit. Jam. Then, there was this bread. An entire loaf is about the size of your spread hand, but it is so dense that it probably weighs about a pound. It has entire nuts in it, and I fell in LOVE. Sorry Ricardo, but it looks like you are going to have to compete for my affections with a loaf of bread.
I spent the day lazing around and conjuring the rest of the last blog that I put up and later that evening Helena’s sister, Sabina, came home and invited me to go to a dinner with her and her friends. Afterwards, Helena came to find me (she had the exam and then had to teach tennis) and she took me to the bar where she works as a bar tender. There I met her boyfriend and some of his friends. After a while there we wandered on to a disco. It was very nice, and also VERY empty compared to the Spanish discos. I was extremely lucky and was treated to my drinks all night long by various people, but I don’t even want to think how much I would have had to spend otherwise. To give all of you an idea, a shot in Granada costs a euro usually, which is about the same as one franc. Here, a shot costs between 7 and 9 francs. A drink costs about 12 francs in the clubs, as opposed to the 6 that it costs in Granada.
We caught the moonlighter home, a bus that runs super late so the drunk clubbers can make it home safe and sound. There are so many options here for the people who have been drinking. There is never a reason to drive drunk. Ah, the US could learn a few things from the European folks.
An interesting thing about many places here, for example the airport and the clubs, is that they have a smoking room. It is a glass room where people go to smoke. I assume it is really well ventilated because it does not get cloudy with smoke inside as far as I could tell. I was talking to one of the friends of Helena and he told me that he is part of a special “smokers club.” What this means is that he pays ten francs a year to this club which is based in one of the Swiss “states,” and this way, when he visits that state he can smoke in any of the bars or clubs. He does not have to go outside or into the smokers’ room. All he has to do is flash this club ID if anyone asks about his smoking and he is then allowed. There are more than 110,000 members now, he told me.
This same guy also informed me that every Swiss household has a gun, basically. It is compulsory for Swiss men to go to the army for three months after they graduate their “high school.” After this training, they receive a gun, which they can bring home. The problem is that almost all of the murders committed here, are done using one of the army issued guns. There are many people trying to get them all recollected, however, the problem is that these guns were never documented and so no one has any idea how many there are out there or who owns one for that matter.
Today, we woke up late and had breakfast. It was mostly a lazy day for me once again, but Helena and I did make it into town. We rode bikes in, and let me tell you, my body was protesting every single one of those hills we had to go up. I thought my heart was going to burst. No wonder everyone in Switzerland has a super bod. Their cardio workouts last all day long.
I should be asleep now because tomorrow at six am we will get up to buy my train pass and head over to the mountain that the Toblerone chocolates are modeled after.
I got on the plane from Barcelona without any problem. Then, I was arriving in Zurich before I even knew it. I had been up since five thirty a.m. and was exhausted, but I knew I only had a small bit of the trip left. All I had to do was follow the masses to the train station, which is attached to the airport. This was not too difficult, and I managed not to get lost. When I got there I saw the ticket machines, and thought I could manage. I saw the word “Welcome” on the main screen, so I figured they would help out a little-ole-tourist like me by having English as well as Swiss German. This was not the case. A few minutes later I gave up and wandered over to the surprisingly short ticket line. I didn’t have to wait a full minute before I was getting helped. The orderliness and efficiency of the Swiss is something I greatly appreciate.
I was helped by the distant, but helpful, Swiss man behind the bulletproof glass window. I bought my ticket and to my surprise it turned out to be only eight dollars. I was dumbfounded and kept on rambling in a friendly way to Mr. Straightface about how I thought that it was going to be closer to 50 dollars. Man was I pumped! Switzerland wasn’t going to turn out to be as expensive as I thought.
I wandered in a wide-eyed way down to the track that I needed to be on to catch the next train, and as I was standing there I was trying to soak up my surroundings. My eyes passed over many beautiful people (the Swiss, in my opinion, are incredibly good looking folks), they passed over the pastel grey concrete platform, the salmon pink ticket in my hand, the train destinations, the ticket in my hand, the train destinations, the ticket in my hand…
Blanch.
I was going to Zurich main station. Why was I going there? Why had I asked for that ticket? What the heck…eight dollars down the drain. I needed to go to Bern. A fair bit of bumbling around followed which I will not describe because it was neither fun nor funny. What I will say is that the “less than one minute line” had turned into a “more than 15 minute line,” and now my credit card wouldn’t even work in the ticket machine (I got help from a nice Swiss girl to push the right buttons). I decided just to go to the main station and get the right ticket there.
I got on the train, which was very full already and wiggled my way through the aisles looking for a seat that was open. By open I mean not containing a person or a bag. People were not inclined to move there stuff out of the seat next to them so I could have a place to sit, so I wandered down, and down, and down and then finally, I saw a spot across from two little old ladies. My backpack weighs about 7 tons because it was the only piece of luggage I was allowed to take for free on the airline I took, and so it contains about half of my wardrobe rolled in to tiny little balls, my laptop, and all the various electronic nonsense that I need for my various trinkets. I was really eager to get this monstrous bag off of my back, so I plopped down heavily into the seat and smiled a big smile at them to be friendly. I was not expecting the reaction I got. Let me tell you what “stank-face” is just in case you don’t know.
Stank-face: noun
1. A frown that involves raising the upper lip in a way that suggests a bad smell is present in the air
2. A look of disgust common to people of bad humor, usually executed in a way that makes the receivers of this look very aware of their shortcomings
So, I got a full powered stank-face from each of these ladies. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong exactly, but later I came to find out the social custom is to ask to sit down. I was now a social reject.
Socially rejected, unable to speak a lick of the language, tired and smelly I finally arrived at the main station. I got off the train, tried one of those machines again to no avail and hopped in the line to get my ticket from a real person.
Speaking of the high cost of travel, I had been wrong to get excited about the 8 dollar trip. I bought my ticket for Bern, which turned out to be almost 70 US dollars. The city bus turns out to be five dollars each ride. I want to SEE Switzerland since I made it all the way here, but if a 1.5 hour train ride costs that, I won’t be taking any day trips. Helena and her mother helped me find an 8 day tourist pass which is a very good deal. For just a bit less than 300 dollars I can travel free on almost any form of transportation here in Switzerland for eight days straight. I will get that tomorrow and also wave goodbye to my social life for the next year, and become a slave to my credit card bill as so many other Americans are.
I got to Bern and ran into Helena as she was walking down the other side of the walkway in the train station. I snuck up on her and we hugged for years. Teary eyed smiles and a billion happy exclamations later we finally made it upstairs to the open air where her sister was waiting with the car. I cannot explain to you how much those two laughed at me for the small amount of stuff I had with me. They could not wrap their heads around how I was going to travel with that one tiny backpack for three weeks straight.
We were driving to their house, which is right outside of Bern, and I was checking out what the houses looked like. They are so wonderful. Nothing like the houses from the US or Spain, obviously, they have a ton of windows, are usually built up on hills and they have wonderfully lush gardens. We got to her place and the cobbled staircase to get up to her house was literally so long that my cheeks were all pink and I was panting, but it was like walking through a green hallway of plant life. Something you might read about in a fairy tale. The house itself is my dream house. Almost one entire wall of the house is just windows. There is so much open space and light. The architecture is like nothing I have ever seen before. The only way I can describe it is, refreshing.
That night we had tea and chatted and then it was time for bed because Helena had an exam the next day and I was exhausted from my travels. The next day was a very relaxed one. We got up and had a leisurely breakfast, Swiss style. Lots of different types of granola were set out with yogurt. Espresso. Fruit. Jam. Then, there was this bread. An entire loaf is about the size of your spread hand, but it is so dense that it probably weighs about a pound. It has entire nuts in it, and I fell in LOVE. Sorry Ricardo, but it looks like you are going to have to compete for my affections with a loaf of bread.
I spent the day lazing around and conjuring the rest of the last blog that I put up and later that evening Helena’s sister, Sabina, came home and invited me to go to a dinner with her and her friends. Afterwards, Helena came to find me (she had the exam and then had to teach tennis) and she took me to the bar where she works as a bar tender. There I met her boyfriend and some of his friends. After a while there we wandered on to a disco. It was very nice, and also VERY empty compared to the Spanish discos. I was extremely lucky and was treated to my drinks all night long by various people, but I don’t even want to think how much I would have had to spend otherwise. To give all of you an idea, a shot in Granada costs a euro usually, which is about the same as one franc. Here, a shot costs between 7 and 9 francs. A drink costs about 12 francs in the clubs, as opposed to the 6 that it costs in Granada.
We caught the moonlighter home, a bus that runs super late so the drunk clubbers can make it home safe and sound. There are so many options here for the people who have been drinking. There is never a reason to drive drunk. Ah, the US could learn a few things from the European folks.
An interesting thing about many places here, for example the airport and the clubs, is that they have a smoking room. It is a glass room where people go to smoke. I assume it is really well ventilated because it does not get cloudy with smoke inside as far as I could tell. I was talking to one of the friends of Helena and he told me that he is part of a special “smokers club.” What this means is that he pays ten francs a year to this club which is based in one of the Swiss “states,” and this way, when he visits that state he can smoke in any of the bars or clubs. He does not have to go outside or into the smokers’ room. All he has to do is flash this club ID if anyone asks about his smoking and he is then allowed. There are more than 110,000 members now, he told me.
This same guy also informed me that every Swiss household has a gun, basically. It is compulsory for Swiss men to go to the army for three months after they graduate their “high school.” After this training, they receive a gun, which they can bring home. The problem is that almost all of the murders committed here, are done using one of the army issued guns. There are many people trying to get them all recollected, however, the problem is that these guns were never documented and so no one has any idea how many there are out there or who owns one for that matter.
Today, we woke up late and had breakfast. It was mostly a lazy day for me once again, but Helena and I did make it into town. We rode bikes in, and let me tell you, my body was protesting every single one of those hills we had to go up. I thought my heart was going to burst. No wonder everyone in Switzerland has a super bod. Their cardio workouts last all day long.
I should be asleep now because tomorrow at six am we will get up to buy my train pass and head over to the mountain that the Toblerone chocolates are modeled after.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Marcos and the Mad Dog
So, a while back a new friend and I decided to take a trip up into the gypsy hills of Sacromonte. This friend is named Marcos, is Chilean, and the way we met is also a story. One, I believe I have not recorded yet, so I will start there.
Paula and I took a trip to Malaga, one of the biggest cities in the south several weekends ago. It was at one time the coolest trip and the most horrible I have taken here yet. This could be classified as the coolest trip thusfar because Marcos and Mehdi (his Moroccan best friend) started talking to us at the bus stop and invited us to the Alcazaba which is the Malaga version of the Alhambra. Very interesting conversations ensued, as well as very interesting food trying. Mehdi suggested we try eating raw almonds off of a tree...which I did...which I regretted. He knew so much about plants it was incredible. As for other cool things that happened, Paula and I had done no planning so we had to "hostel hunt," which turned out very well in the end. We found a beach front one for $25 dollars a night. There, we met two guys, one of whom was from Madison, Wisconsin and actually goes to Lacrosse. Imagine that! All the way across the world and we bumped into some fellow midwesterners. We also got to eat some GREAT Italian food. As for the next day, it was a perfect beach day. All greatness, but then, I was groped. A crazy gypsy man grabbed me in plain sight, on a main street, in front of a restaurant. It was scary, and horrible, and I screamed and swore at him, but he ran away. Anyway, overall it was mostly a wicked great trip. And that is how I met two of my favorite people in Spain. Marcos and Mehdi, Mehdi and Marcos.
So, to get back to the story that this blog is named for. One day, Marcos invited me to explore the hills where he and friends like to go and look out on the Alhambra and the city. What I didn't understand was to get to this lookout we would have to traipse through the gypsy neighborhoods that are known for being, well, dangerous. Tourists are told not to ever bring anything valuable, never go at night, and women especially should not walk there alone. This neighborhood isn't normal though. The houses are man-made caves that have been carved into the hills. From what I hear, there is a man whose job it is to carve these out, and it costs about $1500 euros or $2200 dollars. I did not feel any danger whatsoever on our way up because Mehdi and Marcos happen to be friends of some of the gypsies around there. I met a few, and the stereotype that gypsies have extremely raspy voices turns out to be 100% true.
We spent several hours soaking up the honey and lemon sun, the graham cracker crust Alhambra, and the bittersweet greens of all the surrounding trees and brush. Once the sun started to set though, we realized it was probably a good idea to head down the mountainside though because we had no flashlight, and the idea of streetlamps in a place like that is laughable. Unfortunately, it was too late. It not only had gotten dark, but all the gypsies had gone inside, locked up, and put their guard dogs out. Let me tell you, I am not scared of dogs, but that night I almost died of a heart attack. They were not happy when we would walk by the front of their cave.
I was hyperventilating after getting barked and lunged at various times, but the worst was yet to come. My heart dropped when I saw the large German Shepherd up ahead. The cliff dropped off this point though so we couldn't step further away as we so badly wanted to. His growls were terrifying. He showed his teeth and started lunging and half circling around us. I wasn't sure if it was a bluff or not, but I remembered that you should never run from a dog so I took deep breaths, power walked and tried to act as if I was not scared. It didn't work. I was about to break down in tears when Marcos fronted with the dog and told me to go. I didn't want to leave him there but I had no idea what to do if the dog attacked. I went up ahead and a few seconds later I heard him running up behind me. At that point we must have been out of the dog's territory because he did not follow. We half ran down the rest of the mountain and when we made it to the bottom I was shaking and felt sick from the intense amount of adrenaline that had been coursing through my body. This is probably the most terrified I have ever been in my life. All I could think of was how it would feel to get attacked by a dog, and how I would never be able to get it off. Anyway, at least it makes for a great story in the future. Although, I will never feel relaxed around german shepherds again.
Paula and I took a trip to Malaga, one of the biggest cities in the south several weekends ago. It was at one time the coolest trip and the most horrible I have taken here yet. This could be classified as the coolest trip thusfar because Marcos and Mehdi (his Moroccan best friend) started talking to us at the bus stop and invited us to the Alcazaba which is the Malaga version of the Alhambra. Very interesting conversations ensued, as well as very interesting food trying. Mehdi suggested we try eating raw almonds off of a tree...which I did...which I regretted. He knew so much about plants it was incredible. As for other cool things that happened, Paula and I had done no planning so we had to "hostel hunt," which turned out very well in the end. We found a beach front one for $25 dollars a night. There, we met two guys, one of whom was from Madison, Wisconsin and actually goes to Lacrosse. Imagine that! All the way across the world and we bumped into some fellow midwesterners. We also got to eat some GREAT Italian food. As for the next day, it was a perfect beach day. All greatness, but then, I was groped. A crazy gypsy man grabbed me in plain sight, on a main street, in front of a restaurant. It was scary, and horrible, and I screamed and swore at him, but he ran away. Anyway, overall it was mostly a wicked great trip. And that is how I met two of my favorite people in Spain. Marcos and Mehdi, Mehdi and Marcos.
So, to get back to the story that this blog is named for. One day, Marcos invited me to explore the hills where he and friends like to go and look out on the Alhambra and the city. What I didn't understand was to get to this lookout we would have to traipse through the gypsy neighborhoods that are known for being, well, dangerous. Tourists are told not to ever bring anything valuable, never go at night, and women especially should not walk there alone. This neighborhood isn't normal though. The houses are man-made caves that have been carved into the hills. From what I hear, there is a man whose job it is to carve these out, and it costs about $1500 euros or $2200 dollars. I did not feel any danger whatsoever on our way up because Mehdi and Marcos happen to be friends of some of the gypsies around there. I met a few, and the stereotype that gypsies have extremely raspy voices turns out to be 100% true.
We spent several hours soaking up the honey and lemon sun, the graham cracker crust Alhambra, and the bittersweet greens of all the surrounding trees and brush. Once the sun started to set though, we realized it was probably a good idea to head down the mountainside though because we had no flashlight, and the idea of streetlamps in a place like that is laughable. Unfortunately, it was too late. It not only had gotten dark, but all the gypsies had gone inside, locked up, and put their guard dogs out. Let me tell you, I am not scared of dogs, but that night I almost died of a heart attack. They were not happy when we would walk by the front of their cave.
I was hyperventilating after getting barked and lunged at various times, but the worst was yet to come. My heart dropped when I saw the large German Shepherd up ahead. The cliff dropped off this point though so we couldn't step further away as we so badly wanted to. His growls were terrifying. He showed his teeth and started lunging and half circling around us. I wasn't sure if it was a bluff or not, but I remembered that you should never run from a dog so I took deep breaths, power walked and tried to act as if I was not scared. It didn't work. I was about to break down in tears when Marcos fronted with the dog and told me to go. I didn't want to leave him there but I had no idea what to do if the dog attacked. I went up ahead and a few seconds later I heard him running up behind me. At that point we must have been out of the dog's territory because he did not follow. We half ran down the rest of the mountain and when we made it to the bottom I was shaking and felt sick from the intense amount of adrenaline that had been coursing through my body. This is probably the most terrified I have ever been in my life. All I could think of was how it would feel to get attacked by a dog, and how I would never be able to get it off. Anyway, at least it makes for a great story in the future. Although, I will never feel relaxed around german shepherds again.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Corrida de Toros
Originally, I was not going to see a bull fight. Animal cruelty and whatnot trumped the fact that it is a supremely Spanish tradition. Then, a friend of mine named Katie suggested we go. Vitty and Paula had left for the weekend to go to Ibiza, so in an effort to drown my bitterness, I changed my mind and decided to go.
After classes the next day we hopped on bus number 33 over to the Plaza de Toros where they were selling tickets. I asked for "the cheapest ones, please," and the ticket salesman kindly obliged. Cheap means seats in the sun. Cheaper, means seats in the sun about three miles from the action. Equatable to buying major league baseball tickets, I suppose. Except instead of a game that sometimes feels like life or death, it actually IS a game of life or death. Always ending in someone's death in fact.
Now, to explain the process of this strange ceremonious entertainment. There are always six bulls, and can be as many as 3 torreros, which are the "bull fighters." In the case of three, as there were at this bull fight, each man fights two bulls. If there is only one though, he has to kill all six bulls on his own. Well, not on his own exactly.
Each bull fighter has his own team. Towel boys, mini knife men, big knife men, long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached men, man on armored horse, cape waver guys. Sometimes, if he is a particularly daring bull fighter though he kicks the long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached men off his team, and does that part himself. This part of the bull fight involves him enticing the bull in to charging him and jumping into the air to plunge the banderilleros (long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached), two at a time, into the nerves of the bulls spinal cord.
All of various stabs taken at the bull are aimed for the spinal cord. This is done to weaken it. Before any of the banderilleros are inserted though, they play with the bull, drawing its attention to various parts of the ring using capes. One side is hot pink, and the other yellow. Before the bull is weakened too much from various puncture wounds, it is actually surprisingly fast, as well as extremely dangerous. For that reason, the measly humans have wooden barriers to scurry behind once the bull starts charging them.
This goes on for a while, then the man on his armored horse comes out and is allowed one good, hearty, stab between the bulls shoulders. This is the most crippling blow for the bull (besides the death blow, of course) and makes the physical competition more equal between man and beast. Sometimes if this blow goes wrong, it can make it impossible for the bull to stand up. Usually, if the bull falls to the ground twice after that they will bring in a group of lady cows to lure him out and he gets to go live in a pasture for the rest of his life. These bulls weren't so lucky.
After this stab I believe came the banderilleros. Then, the Torrero plays with the woozy beast. The idea is to be as close to the bull as possible when he charges. This is the showmanship part. The torrero could be compared to a ballerina. His posture is exquisite. Posing with squared shoulders, in lunges, tiptoeing towards the bull, making pelvic thrusts on occasion, and when he gets really confident he will even turn his back on the bull after a charge.
Eventually, assuming the torrero wasn't fatally stabbed by the bulls horns, the bull will be fatally stabbed by a sword. Well, really, the sword incapacitates the bull and as the torrero looks out at the crowd waving, one of his team members comes up with a small knife and severs some necessary something in the back of the bulls cranium. Sometimes once doesn't work though. So it is done again. And again...as the life twitches right out of the bull. The audience knows he is dead when his legs stretch out stick strait.
Then come the prizes. If the audience feels the torrero has done a good job he gets the bull's ear, sometimes two. A great job deserves the tail. The decision ultimately is left up to the President of the bull ring who waves a handkerchief to signal what he thinks the torrero should get.
Then, the hero, icon, sex symbol makes his way around the ring while audience members throw things such as hats, flowers, even canteens. Everything but the flowers do get tossed back up to their owners, though in the past I don't believe that was the case.
------------------------------------------
I found this tradition extremely interesting, although repulsive. I am no crazed animal rights activist or anything, but it seemed to me to be a very primitive display of human power. Yes, it is clear that brains can often beat brawn. Though, stabbing an animal repeatedly while people look on and cheer just doesn't seem very brainy to me.
After classes the next day we hopped on bus number 33 over to the Plaza de Toros where they were selling tickets. I asked for "the cheapest ones, please," and the ticket salesman kindly obliged. Cheap means seats in the sun. Cheaper, means seats in the sun about three miles from the action. Equatable to buying major league baseball tickets, I suppose. Except instead of a game that sometimes feels like life or death, it actually IS a game of life or death. Always ending in someone's death in fact.
Now, to explain the process of this strange ceremonious entertainment. There are always six bulls, and can be as many as 3 torreros, which are the "bull fighters." In the case of three, as there were at this bull fight, each man fights two bulls. If there is only one though, he has to kill all six bulls on his own. Well, not on his own exactly.
Each bull fighter has his own team. Towel boys, mini knife men, big knife men, long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached men, man on armored horse, cape waver guys. Sometimes, if he is a particularly daring bull fighter though he kicks the long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached men off his team, and does that part himself. This part of the bull fight involves him enticing the bull in to charging him and jumping into the air to plunge the banderilleros (long-arrow-with-ribbon-attached), two at a time, into the nerves of the bulls spinal cord.
All of various stabs taken at the bull are aimed for the spinal cord. This is done to weaken it. Before any of the banderilleros are inserted though, they play with the bull, drawing its attention to various parts of the ring using capes. One side is hot pink, and the other yellow. Before the bull is weakened too much from various puncture wounds, it is actually surprisingly fast, as well as extremely dangerous. For that reason, the measly humans have wooden barriers to scurry behind once the bull starts charging them.
This goes on for a while, then the man on his armored horse comes out and is allowed one good, hearty, stab between the bulls shoulders. This is the most crippling blow for the bull (besides the death blow, of course) and makes the physical competition more equal between man and beast. Sometimes if this blow goes wrong, it can make it impossible for the bull to stand up. Usually, if the bull falls to the ground twice after that they will bring in a group of lady cows to lure him out and he gets to go live in a pasture for the rest of his life. These bulls weren't so lucky.
After this stab I believe came the banderilleros. Then, the Torrero plays with the woozy beast. The idea is to be as close to the bull as possible when he charges. This is the showmanship part. The torrero could be compared to a ballerina. His posture is exquisite. Posing with squared shoulders, in lunges, tiptoeing towards the bull, making pelvic thrusts on occasion, and when he gets really confident he will even turn his back on the bull after a charge.
Eventually, assuming the torrero wasn't fatally stabbed by the bulls horns, the bull will be fatally stabbed by a sword. Well, really, the sword incapacitates the bull and as the torrero looks out at the crowd waving, one of his team members comes up with a small knife and severs some necessary something in the back of the bulls cranium. Sometimes once doesn't work though. So it is done again. And again...as the life twitches right out of the bull. The audience knows he is dead when his legs stretch out stick strait.
Then come the prizes. If the audience feels the torrero has done a good job he gets the bull's ear, sometimes two. A great job deserves the tail. The decision ultimately is left up to the President of the bull ring who waves a handkerchief to signal what he thinks the torrero should get.
Then, the hero, icon, sex symbol makes his way around the ring while audience members throw things such as hats, flowers, even canteens. Everything but the flowers do get tossed back up to their owners, though in the past I don't believe that was the case.
------------------------------------------
I found this tradition extremely interesting, although repulsive. I am no crazed animal rights activist or anything, but it seemed to me to be a very primitive display of human power. Yes, it is clear that brains can often beat brawn. Though, stabbing an animal repeatedly while people look on and cheer just doesn't seem very brainy to me.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Salsa Class
So, despite the fact that every Spanish man I have met so far claims he cannot dance, I managed to find a bunch of places where there are free salsa nights. Today Paula, Vitty and I wandered around the corner from their soon-to-be-new-apartment (they are moving out of the family homestay, which turned out to be an enormous rip off). There, we timidly entered a bar called Merengue, which we had been to before, but that had been stuffed to bursting (sarcastically speaking). This time there were more people, the youngest being mid forties. I quickly threw myself into the looooooonnnnnggggg line of middle aged women who were busting out their best latin dance moves. The professor was leading them in a previously practiced choreography that I tried, without success, to pick up. Vitty and Paula sat on the bench that first bit and smiled uncomfortably as their strangely large, blonde friend was knocking elbows with the local salsa biddies. As usual, we were stared at. There is no social rule here that one cannot outright stare at someone. It has literally happened that an entire restaurant turned to stare at our group as we walked in. I have gotten very good at staring, without ever really seeing anything. If I don't "space out stare" I tend to turn extremely red. But so red that sometimes my eyes even tear up. Not attractive.
Soon the instructor wandered off behind the bar and it was free dance time. Vit and Pau got up and we busted a move on the dance floor. The old men could not keep their toupets from flipping up. The old women could not control the ridiculous flapping of the tassels on their too-short salsa dresses. What it comes down to is that it turns out we are the BEST latin dancers in Spain.
BAM.
Soon the instructor wandered off behind the bar and it was free dance time. Vit and Pau got up and we busted a move on the dance floor. The old men could not keep their toupets from flipping up. The old women could not control the ridiculous flapping of the tassels on their too-short salsa dresses. What it comes down to is that it turns out we are the BEST latin dancers in Spain.
BAM.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Father's day in Spain
Saturday here was father’s day. Enqui, my roommate, asked me if I would like to go have lunch with her whole family, and of course I jumped at the opportunity. She has taken me under her wing, and there are no words to describe how wonderful it is to have this woman in my life. She is so good to me.
The lunch was incredible in all senses. We went to this restaurant up the “Sierra Nevada Highway” which seemed very fancy. I got to meet everyone little by little, as I rode up with her father, mother, brother, and sister-in-law. They were all very sweet, and her dad I had a ball chatting about western films…or really he talked and I listened because I have never seen one. That is something they know way more about here in Spain than we do in the US, our own westerns. A bunch of them were filmed very near by here.
There were probably about 20 of us around the table. The food took so long to come. That is something one should definitely expect when in Spain. Do not ever be in a rush to do anything because it will most likely take about 4 times longer than expected. We were eating lunch for 6 hours, for example. Although, I have to give the post office credit. The other day when I went I was in and out in less than 5 minutes.
The lunch was incredible in all senses. We went to this restaurant up the “Sierra Nevada Highway” which seemed very fancy. I got to meet everyone little by little, as I rode up with her father, mother, brother, and sister-in-law. They were all very sweet, and her dad I had a ball chatting about western films…or really he talked and I listened because I have never seen one. That is something they know way more about here in Spain than we do in the US, our own westerns. A bunch of them were filmed very near by here.
There were probably about 20 of us around the table. The food took so long to come. That is something one should definitely expect when in Spain. Do not ever be in a rush to do anything because it will most likely take about 4 times longer than expected. We were eating lunch for 6 hours, for example. Although, I have to give the post office credit. The other day when I went I was in and out in less than 5 minutes.
let's celebrate spring and throw a HUGE party.
I am suffering greatly. The internet has been out all day, and so I am currently writing this as a word document. Internet has taken over my life completely. I am “plugged in.”
Sorry for the lack of writing lately. I am making a promise to myself to put up at least three blogs a week now.
This weekend was the Granada “Spring Party.” Party, as thought of by most US Americans would be between 10 and, at the very maximum, 100 people. Rather than try to build effect, because I don’t really think I need to, I will just tell you that at this party, there were around 30,000 people.
It was held in an area that has been permanently designated the only place one can legally drink in the street in Granada. About ten years ago it was not against the law to drink where you pleased here, but because of the thousands of youngsters that would flood public places on weekends, and the extreme mess they would cause, and the enormous amount of ruckus…well, quite obviously someone complained and got a law enforced. Now, in this place called the Botellodramo, people get together to drink, laugh, listen to music, enjoy the outdoors, but without being a menace to the entire city.
Friday, around one p.m. some people started showing up…though not me. Paula, Vitty and I went around six with our backpack of supplies. Drinks, snacks, toilet paper, and jackets for when it got cold. Toilet paper, for the record, should never be taken for granted readers. When in Spain or South America, I have found that you are lucky to find a place with toilet paper. Some bathrooms don’t even offer the luxury of a toilet seat. The longer you put off going to the bathroom, the more intense your workout.
When we got there we spent a good amount of time wandering around looking for some classmates of Paula. When we found them, we were proudly informed that they had in fact managed to bring a table along so we could play beer pong. They were teaching some Spaniards the art of putting a high arc on their ping-pong ball. Globalization at its best!
We soon realized we had to go to the bathroom. Now, here’s an equation for all of you:
30,000 people + 3 full bladders = _________ desperation
Extreme desperation is the answer folks. Especially after spending almost a half hour wading through all of the people just to find out that every public bathroom around is locked. But you can’t lock a bike trail authorities! And that is where everyone who wasn’t just dropping trou amidst the crowd went. This is obviously very rude, but for some reason in Spain portapotties don’t exist. At least this kind of non-sensical contraption has not made an appearance at this party yet.
Then, there was the garbage. Literally, hundreds or maybe thousands of pounds of garbage were left on the ground. And the fights. Lots of them. Never stopped by any police. I can’t imagine anything like this would ever be able to happen in the US.
This Spring Party was mind boggling and, I had a ton of fun. As gross as it was in certain ways, it was so great to be surrounded by thousands of people having a good time. In the future I would just make sure to stay on the outskirts of the crowd, that’s all.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSTvHmtjVx8
IF u are interested in getting an idea of the amount of garbage there was.
Blessing: Making memories.
Sorry for the lack of writing lately. I am making a promise to myself to put up at least three blogs a week now.
This weekend was the Granada “Spring Party.” Party, as thought of by most US Americans would be between 10 and, at the very maximum, 100 people. Rather than try to build effect, because I don’t really think I need to, I will just tell you that at this party, there were around 30,000 people.
It was held in an area that has been permanently designated the only place one can legally drink in the street in Granada. About ten years ago it was not against the law to drink where you pleased here, but because of the thousands of youngsters that would flood public places on weekends, and the extreme mess they would cause, and the enormous amount of ruckus…well, quite obviously someone complained and got a law enforced. Now, in this place called the Botellodramo, people get together to drink, laugh, listen to music, enjoy the outdoors, but without being a menace to the entire city.
Friday, around one p.m. some people started showing up…though not me. Paula, Vitty and I went around six with our backpack of supplies. Drinks, snacks, toilet paper, and jackets for when it got cold. Toilet paper, for the record, should never be taken for granted readers. When in Spain or South America, I have found that you are lucky to find a place with toilet paper. Some bathrooms don’t even offer the luxury of a toilet seat. The longer you put off going to the bathroom, the more intense your workout.
When we got there we spent a good amount of time wandering around looking for some classmates of Paula. When we found them, we were proudly informed that they had in fact managed to bring a table along so we could play beer pong. They were teaching some Spaniards the art of putting a high arc on their ping-pong ball. Globalization at its best!
We soon realized we had to go to the bathroom. Now, here’s an equation for all of you:
30,000 people + 3 full bladders = _________ desperation
Extreme desperation is the answer folks. Especially after spending almost a half hour wading through all of the people just to find out that every public bathroom around is locked. But you can’t lock a bike trail authorities! And that is where everyone who wasn’t just dropping trou amidst the crowd went. This is obviously very rude, but for some reason in Spain portapotties don’t exist. At least this kind of non-sensical contraption has not made an appearance at this party yet.
Then, there was the garbage. Literally, hundreds or maybe thousands of pounds of garbage were left on the ground. And the fights. Lots of them. Never stopped by any police. I can’t imagine anything like this would ever be able to happen in the US.
This Spring Party was mind boggling and, I had a ton of fun. As gross as it was in certain ways, it was so great to be surrounded by thousands of people having a good time. In the future I would just make sure to stay on the outskirts of the crowd, that’s all.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSTvHmtjVx8
IF u are interested in getting an idea of the amount of garbage there was.
Blessing: Making memories.
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