We’re going to kick this party off with more words of wisdom from Bill Bryson. I read this on the bus back home Saturday evening, and it couldn’t have been a more fitting passage for the series of events that took place this weekend. Backpacking through Europe at the time, he had originally planned on traveling throughout central Europe and slowly making his way to Rome. And then, one day, he decided not to:
“Well, I’m sorry. I had intended to reach Rome as you would expect me to, in a logical, systematic way. But after nearly a month beneath the endlessly damp skies of northern Europe, I longed for sunshine. It was as simple as that. So it was with only the odd wrenching spasm of guilt that I abandoned my planned itinerary, caught an airplane, and bounded with a single leap across fifteen hundred miles of Europe. Traveling is more fun – hell, life is more fun – if you can treat it as a series of impulses.”
Amen, Bill.
This weekend, I explored the coast of northern Spain in the good company of four friends. We didn’t have an itinerary – arriving and leaving when we pleased, making decisions based on whims, and ending up on the wrong bus to Oviedo (NOT Santander) at the end of our first day. More on this subject later. Our first destination was Llanes, a coastal city about three hours west of Bilbao. Llanes is known for its amazing shoreline. The few beaches in this area are quite small, because most of the coastline is comprised of cliffs that drop straight down to the ocean below. This is quite common for northern Spain, but what’s so special about Llanes is the nature of the rock that makes up these cliffs. In this region, the cliffs are perforated my hundreds and hundreds of small holes, so that when the waves crash against them, the water enters the cliff walls from every direction. After the waves retreat, the cliff spits out a hundred little waterfalls that churn back into the ocean. If you get really lucky, you could see a bufón, which is when the water enters the rock, has nowhere to go, and spits out the top of the cliff like a geyser. We just saw some baby ones, but the entire coastline was mesmerizing. I’ve never seen water look so busy!
After an amazing, enormous, and CHEAP lunch (the trifecta), we ended up hiking at a leisurely pace down the coastline of the tiny neighboring of Cue. We made our way down the rolling green hills that sat above the cliffs, sharing the countryside with nobody but ourselves and the every-so-often sheep or cow. We explored downtown a bit, grabbed some food and headed toward our 9 PM bus to Santander – but not before squeezing in a moonlight tour of an empty, beautiful beach nestled in a tiny cove. Fully completing our day in Llanes, we headed to the bus stop.
With a closed ticket counter and broken ticket machine, we learned we had to buy our tickets on board the bus when it came. Waiting in the cool night air and ready for a nap along the way, we were all quite eager to hop on board. We bought our tickets from a disgruntled, unfriendly driver who shuffled us into the bus and took off. I said a mental goodbye to Llanes as we pulled away and drove off into the dark. We headed back west to Santander, a larger coastal city just an hour outside of Bilbao. Or so we thought. Ten minutes into the ride, my casual conversation with my bus-neighbor taught us that, in truth, we got on the wrong bus – we had taken the line from Santander…to Oviedo. Where the hell is Oviedo?!
At this moment occurred my absolute favorite part of the trip. After five initial seconds of panic, we all looked around at one another, shrugged, and laughed (and realized that passengers-turned-spectators were having a good laugh as well). We went onward into the night to Oviedo, a city we knew nothing about, except that we’d be there in an hour and ten minutes. We didn’t know where we were going to sleep (don’t worry, we found a place), whether this town was actually inhabited by people, or what we were going to do on the five hour bus ride home on Saturday night. But we went. And it was great.
As it turns out, Oviedo is actually really lovely. Nestled an hour from the coast in the middle of northern Spain, Oviedo is the capital of Asturias (two autonomous communities over from País Vasco). The next day was spent exploring its old quarter, cathedral, Sunday market, and a lovely park complete with peacocks for spectators – all in the perfect sunshine that graced the coast of Spain for (almost) the whole weekend. On Saturday evening, we set back for Bilbao, fully content with our adventure but ready for a good night’s sleep.
What a refreshing feeling it was for such a huge wrench in our plans to make absolutely no difference at all. It’s got me thinking a bit, and it’s made me wonder whether we’re happier people with itineraries or not. They certainly offer some order in your life, which can be comforting or sometimes downright necessary – but I found it quite refreshing to suddenly be without any restraint at all. We were completely free to roam and see what we pleased.
Isn’t that the reason we travel in the first place? Is the feeling of freedom we extract from exploring really that separated from the sense of awe that we get when we take in the sight of expansive cliffs, massive oceans, or a beautiful culture that's different from ours? In both cases, I think we all have an innate desire to seek the unknown. We yearn to travel, to learn, to meet new people, to try new foods. Comfort is good, but I think we were designed to shake it up every once in a while too. And for that, I am grateful.
I hope you all keep on finding your own ways to keep on shaking, too.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tribute to Carnaval
CARNAVAL:
Wikipedia says: a festive season which occurs immediately before Lent; the main events of which are usually during February.
Brittany says: 2-3 weeks when you can walk down the street in the costume of your choice and expect no social reprimand. You can also expect other perks like random performances throughout the city, kiddie rides set up in Casco Viejo, your host mom making amazing “tostadas” reserved especially for this holiday (think French toast, but before dipping your bread in egg, you soak it in a mixture of cream, sugar, cinnamon and a splash of brandy. YUM.), an AWESOME parade, and an all-out fiesta throughout España.
My first encounter with Carnaval was during my walk home in Deusto, a section of Bilbao that my neighborhood is in. Upon exiting a coffee shop, I was almost ran over by a 40 year-old chicken-man pushing his daughter (dressed in full clown attire) in a stroller. Ummm…what just happened? And so commenced Carnavale. Or so I thought.
As it turned out, Deusto just likes to get the party started early. The REAL Carnaval wasn’t until the following weekend, but Deusto was filled with music, festivities, and lots of costumes for the whole weekend. Then the real thing came. It’s hard to explain, but Carnaval is a lot like Halloween in that nobody’s really quite sure what they’re celebrating and they all dress up. I wasn’t going to splurge on a costume, but after several fervent urges from my host sister, I picked up some cheap necessities (black mask and hat + black dress from home + boots + fake gun = instant bandit/Zorroish character/we never really decided exactly what I was) and headed out on the town.
Let’s see if I can describe this properly. I arrived to Casco Viejo to find the old cobblestone streets teeming with costumed Spaniards. There were several notable differences between the United States Halloween:
1.) Age. Old and young are celebrating together late into the night. And the older ones aren’t just the creepy old people either (which I just learned the Spanish slang term for – “Viejo verde!”)
2.) Modesty. Girls don’t pull a Karen (Mean Girls. If you didn’t already laugh, click the name. K thanks) but are fully clothed. A refreshing distinction.
3.) Frickin’ weird costumes! I saw an obscene amount of chickens, Mario characters, about a dozen Buzz Lightyears, an airplane, and a lot of giant renditions of popular candy bars.
4.) Endurance. This thing is literally dragged on for two weeks, to the point where you don’t bat an eye when you see a crowd of 40-year-old women dressed as purple birds out to coffee on Tuesday evening. What a wonderful country.
On Saturday night, the main night of Carnaval, I danced the night away and had a blast. I even ended up on a stage once, right next to a crowd of unfriendly girls dressed as traffic cones. That should illustrate the randomness of Carnaval for you! But alas, there is more.
The following evening was one of the most peculiar occurrences: El Entierro de la Sardina. Direct translation: Funeral of the Sardine. What it really means: Funeral of the Sardine. Yep, that’s right. The entire city gets together for a fake funeral of a nonexistent fish, complete with “real” monks and an opera singer to properly mourn the passing of this little marine animal. It’s supposed to symbolize the “death” of Carnaval until the coming year, and the object varies depending on the region of Spain. Because Bilbao is so close to the sea, they use a fish. For example, Burgos (a province over) holds the funeral for a mosquito. So strange!
At the end of the funeral, they set fire to a giant paper-mache sardine, complete with little fireworks, and proceed to grill hundreds of whole sardines for the spectators. For the first and last time in my life, I ate a freshly roasted WHOLE fish. Worried about the bones? So was I. But don’t worry, after decapitating my sardine (by the instruction of Irati – this was not her first time), I extracted the entire spine and dug in. Not the ideal cuisine, but how can you NOT participate in something like that?
I can’t decide if I was more amazed at my ability to accomplish the task, or at the ease with which the 5- and 6-year-olds around me were doing the same. Apparently, this is pretty normal eating in the port city of Bilbao. That was the moment I realized that my two American friends and I were drawing quite the crowd of spectators ourselves. People thought it was pretty funny how much we were struggling and squirming at the prospect of eating a freshly cooked sardine.
And thus ended Carnaval. Not.
Just like Deusto, another area of Bilbao decided one weekend wasn’t enough – and the festivities resumed in Al Gorta the following weekend. The weather was much better and so even MORE people were in the streets – this little corner of Spain was literally overtaken by crazy costumed people, and I happily joined the crowd. Besides almost getting killed on the metro because of the throngs of people trying to squeeze into train cars (worse than Washington DC on the 4th of July, no joke!), the night was a success.
The third Sunday since my initial exposure, I finally laid Carnaval to rest. Bilbao followed in suit, and everyone I encountered on the street Monday was dressed, once again, in normal attire. The kiddie rides stuck around for a few more days, as if to wean the city off the vacation it had just taken from normal life. I'm not one to ride those things, but for whatever reason I appreciated their prolonged presence. Same with the churro stands.
Ah, how I love cultural immersion.
Wikipedia says: a festive season which occurs immediately before Lent; the main events of which are usually during February.
Brittany says: 2-3 weeks when you can walk down the street in the costume of your choice and expect no social reprimand. You can also expect other perks like random performances throughout the city, kiddie rides set up in Casco Viejo, your host mom making amazing “tostadas” reserved especially for this holiday (think French toast, but before dipping your bread in egg, you soak it in a mixture of cream, sugar, cinnamon and a splash of brandy. YUM.), an AWESOME parade, and an all-out fiesta throughout España.
My first encounter with Carnaval was during my walk home in Deusto, a section of Bilbao that my neighborhood is in. Upon exiting a coffee shop, I was almost ran over by a 40 year-old chicken-man pushing his daughter (dressed in full clown attire) in a stroller. Ummm…what just happened? And so commenced Carnavale. Or so I thought.
As it turned out, Deusto just likes to get the party started early. The REAL Carnaval wasn’t until the following weekend, but Deusto was filled with music, festivities, and lots of costumes for the whole weekend. Then the real thing came. It’s hard to explain, but Carnaval is a lot like Halloween in that nobody’s really quite sure what they’re celebrating and they all dress up. I wasn’t going to splurge on a costume, but after several fervent urges from my host sister, I picked up some cheap necessities (black mask and hat + black dress from home + boots + fake gun = instant bandit/Zorroish character/we never really decided exactly what I was) and headed out on the town.
Let’s see if I can describe this properly. I arrived to Casco Viejo to find the old cobblestone streets teeming with costumed Spaniards. There were several notable differences between the United States Halloween:
1.) Age. Old and young are celebrating together late into the night. And the older ones aren’t just the creepy old people either (which I just learned the Spanish slang term for – “Viejo verde!”)
2.) Modesty. Girls don’t pull a Karen (Mean Girls. If you didn’t already laugh, click the name. K thanks) but are fully clothed. A refreshing distinction.
3.) Frickin’ weird costumes! I saw an obscene amount of chickens, Mario characters, about a dozen Buzz Lightyears, an airplane, and a lot of giant renditions of popular candy bars.
4.) Endurance. This thing is literally dragged on for two weeks, to the point where you don’t bat an eye when you see a crowd of 40-year-old women dressed as purple birds out to coffee on Tuesday evening. What a wonderful country.
On Saturday night, the main night of Carnaval, I danced the night away and had a blast. I even ended up on a stage once, right next to a crowd of unfriendly girls dressed as traffic cones. That should illustrate the randomness of Carnaval for you! But alas, there is more.
The following evening was one of the most peculiar occurrences: El Entierro de la Sardina. Direct translation: Funeral of the Sardine. What it really means: Funeral of the Sardine. Yep, that’s right. The entire city gets together for a fake funeral of a nonexistent fish, complete with “real” monks and an opera singer to properly mourn the passing of this little marine animal. It’s supposed to symbolize the “death” of Carnaval until the coming year, and the object varies depending on the region of Spain. Because Bilbao is so close to the sea, they use a fish. For example, Burgos (a province over) holds the funeral for a mosquito. So strange!
At the end of the funeral, they set fire to a giant paper-mache sardine, complete with little fireworks, and proceed to grill hundreds of whole sardines for the spectators. For the first and last time in my life, I ate a freshly roasted WHOLE fish. Worried about the bones? So was I. But don’t worry, after decapitating my sardine (by the instruction of Irati – this was not her first time), I extracted the entire spine and dug in. Not the ideal cuisine, but how can you NOT participate in something like that?
I can’t decide if I was more amazed at my ability to accomplish the task, or at the ease with which the 5- and 6-year-olds around me were doing the same. Apparently, this is pretty normal eating in the port city of Bilbao. That was the moment I realized that my two American friends and I were drawing quite the crowd of spectators ourselves. People thought it was pretty funny how much we were struggling and squirming at the prospect of eating a freshly cooked sardine.
And thus ended Carnaval. Not.
Just like Deusto, another area of Bilbao decided one weekend wasn’t enough – and the festivities resumed in Al Gorta the following weekend. The weather was much better and so even MORE people were in the streets – this little corner of Spain was literally overtaken by crazy costumed people, and I happily joined the crowd. Besides almost getting killed on the metro because of the throngs of people trying to squeeze into train cars (worse than Washington DC on the 4th of July, no joke!), the night was a success.
The third Sunday since my initial exposure, I finally laid Carnaval to rest. Bilbao followed in suit, and everyone I encountered on the street Monday was dressed, once again, in normal attire. The kiddie rides stuck around for a few more days, as if to wean the city off the vacation it had just taken from normal life. I'm not one to ride those things, but for whatever reason I appreciated their prolonged presence. Same with the churro stands.
Ah, how I love cultural immersion.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Runner's High. Literally. In the mountains.
I'm going to be straight-up honest with you. The following post will be completely devoted to the love affair I had with my run yesterday.
It has been unseasonably cold this last week or so, and the last thing I wanted to do was drag myself out of my freezing room to go move my body around in the even colder street below. Grooossssss. On days like these, my runs usually start with a big, long sigh. You know it well - it's the "heeeere we go" sigh. The same one your dad makes when he gets your tuition bill, for all you college kiddos.
The day before, I discovered an entirely new path above our high-in-the-sky neighborhood (SIDE STORY: remember that one post where I ranted a little about Arangoiti and about how it must mean big-ass hill in Euskera? Well guess what. I found out that, in all seriousness, Arangoiti is Euskera for "neighborhood on a mountain." Awesome.) Basically, if you keep on trekking up the hill, there's a road that runs along the top of the ridge. I didn't get too far on it, so it was time to explore more.
About a mile down the road, I recognized a familiar silhouette making its way toward me. Here I am, in the middle of this mountain road with minimal traffic, and my host dad is making toward me in the morning fog. Whaaaat?! (By the way, Jose Luis is a badass. Seriously. The other day he was telling me about the time he almost died in the mountains. His climbing partner was knocked unconscious, and Jose Luis had to find a way to climb up to the ledge - he had fallen and was hanging 40 meters below by a 9mm-thick rope. Bad. Ass.)
Aaanyway, we stopped and chatted in the street for a while. He was on a morning walk (of several miles) and started spewing out directions to where I could find a great place to run. I can handle directions, but directions in Spanish - not so easy. And these weren't your average "turn left at the next light" directions. Oooh no. Lots of things like "second fork in the road" and "800 meters past the first bridge you see" and "look for a small restaurant on the right" and "do the hokie pokie and turn yourself about"...things of that nature. My head was spinning a little. I needed a map!
I should also mention that before any of this, he lectured me about what side of the street was safer to run on. He also loves to fish, was big on running, and isn't very good with computers. Yes, dad. You two would get along very well.
So Jose Luis sent me on my way as I set out on a mission to prove to my host father that I am not an incompetent American. I made my way through the countryside praying that I didn't get lost in the mountains of Bilbao, warming up little by little as I continued on - and then suddenly, I was there.
Jose Luis wasn't kidding. This place was awesome. It was a kind of forest preserve, with acres and acres of paths winding throughout the mountainside. All the cars and buildings melted away behind me, and all the sudden I really felt like I was in the mountains and not in a city. I didn't realize just how much altitude I had racked up in the 4 miles it took me to find this place - it was snowing here. Surrounded by hills carved with trails, giant pine trees and bundled hikers who crossed my path, I felt like I was a million miles away from Bilbao.
But there it was in the distance, itty-bitty and far in the distance, as though I was looking at a tiny model of a city through a snowglobe. The only hint of civilization was the muted sound of the highway far, far below. I just stood and admired where I was, panting visible exhalations in the chilly air. I ran hard, felt great, found the damn place, and now I was completely enthralled by my surroundings. THIS is why I run.
I didn't want to turn around, but had to keep in mind that I was only at the halfway point. It made it a little easy to turn back because I couldn't wait to tell my host dad that I found it - definite bonding points. On the way home, as I made my way back onto the main road, I broke the golden rule of not smiling and proceeded to freak out all the passersby that I encountered. Sorry guys, I thought. Today you will have to deal with my American tendency to display how content I am.
It was an event worthy of breaking the social norm.
ps. Dad, rest assured. I don't really think you're that bad at computers.
It has been unseasonably cold this last week or so, and the last thing I wanted to do was drag myself out of my freezing room to go move my body around in the even colder street below. Grooossssss. On days like these, my runs usually start with a big, long sigh. You know it well - it's the "heeeere we go" sigh. The same one your dad makes when he gets your tuition bill, for all you college kiddos.
The day before, I discovered an entirely new path above our high-in-the-sky neighborhood (SIDE STORY: remember that one post where I ranted a little about Arangoiti and about how it must mean big-ass hill in Euskera? Well guess what. I found out that, in all seriousness, Arangoiti is Euskera for "neighborhood on a mountain." Awesome.) Basically, if you keep on trekking up the hill, there's a road that runs along the top of the ridge. I didn't get too far on it, so it was time to explore more.
About a mile down the road, I recognized a familiar silhouette making its way toward me. Here I am, in the middle of this mountain road with minimal traffic, and my host dad is making toward me in the morning fog. Whaaaat?! (By the way, Jose Luis is a badass. Seriously. The other day he was telling me about the time he almost died in the mountains. His climbing partner was knocked unconscious, and Jose Luis had to find a way to climb up to the ledge - he had fallen and was hanging 40 meters below by a 9mm-thick rope. Bad. Ass.)
Aaanyway, we stopped and chatted in the street for a while. He was on a morning walk (of several miles) and started spewing out directions to where I could find a great place to run. I can handle directions, but directions in Spanish - not so easy. And these weren't your average "turn left at the next light" directions. Oooh no. Lots of things like "second fork in the road" and "800 meters past the first bridge you see" and "look for a small restaurant on the right" and "do the hokie pokie and turn yourself about"...things of that nature. My head was spinning a little. I needed a map!
I should also mention that before any of this, he lectured me about what side of the street was safer to run on. He also loves to fish, was big on running, and isn't very good with computers. Yes, dad. You two would get along very well.
So Jose Luis sent me on my way as I set out on a mission to prove to my host father that I am not an incompetent American. I made my way through the countryside praying that I didn't get lost in the mountains of Bilbao, warming up little by little as I continued on - and then suddenly, I was there.
Jose Luis wasn't kidding. This place was awesome. It was a kind of forest preserve, with acres and acres of paths winding throughout the mountainside. All the cars and buildings melted away behind me, and all the sudden I really felt like I was in the mountains and not in a city. I didn't realize just how much altitude I had racked up in the 4 miles it took me to find this place - it was snowing here. Surrounded by hills carved with trails, giant pine trees and bundled hikers who crossed my path, I felt like I was a million miles away from Bilbao.
But there it was in the distance, itty-bitty and far in the distance, as though I was looking at a tiny model of a city through a snowglobe. The only hint of civilization was the muted sound of the highway far, far below. I just stood and admired where I was, panting visible exhalations in the chilly air. I ran hard, felt great, found the damn place, and now I was completely enthralled by my surroundings. THIS is why I run.
I didn't want to turn around, but had to keep in mind that I was only at the halfway point. It made it a little easy to turn back because I couldn't wait to tell my host dad that I found it - definite bonding points. On the way home, as I made my way back onto the main road, I broke the golden rule of not smiling and proceeded to freak out all the passersby that I encountered. Sorry guys, I thought. Today you will have to deal with my American tendency to display how content I am.
It was an event worthy of breaking the social norm.
ps. Dad, rest assured. I don't really think you're that bad at computers.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Más o menos
Quick grammar lesson for all you non-speakers:
Más = more.
Menos = less.
Ya with me? Goooood. Now what good is a lesson without some practical applications?
En España, hay menos________ que en los Estados Unidos:
1. Water fountains.
Very scarce. If you're going to a public building - library, shopping center, the university - you'd better not be thirsty. Or, you'd better be really comfortable with sticking your head under the faucet in the bathroom (guilty).
2. Snacking.
The meals are huge, but nobody really eats between them. I'm pretty sure my host mom looks down on it (I've caught her reprimanding my host sister a couple of times) so I may or may not have some popcorn hidden in my closet. Don't tell Conchi.
3. Dog leashes.
Non-existent. People just walk around everywhere with their dogs at their side...but it doesn't seem to be a problem. Sometimes they'll roam kind of far away from their owner, which gives my little American body a bit of a heart attack - but nobody seems to worry about it. They eventually come back.
4. Prisa (hurry).
The Spanish take their time. To demonstrate this, I have two stories for you:
One day, Conchi was walking to the supermarket, and asked if I wanted to join. As we were walking, she began to talk about something very important to her (she was VERY concerned that another student in the program wasn't getting enough food from her host mom. HA.) Anyway, we were literally in the middle of the sidewalk, 100 meters away from the supermarket. Aaaand she stopped, looked right at me, and finished her story. We continued to stand right there and talk for another ten minutes. Destinations simply aren't pressing. You get there when you get there...and if you get somewhere early, be prepared to wait for everyone else. (I LIKE this place!)
Story number two. The other day, I stumbled across a sweet thrift store (to which I will return several times). There, I encountered a book entitled "Guía del típico norte americano." Guide to the Typical North American. Let me tell you, reading about every typical American stereotype in a book that is seriously trying to engage in scholarly social science is HILARIOUS. And I quote (and will translate): Igual que el conejo blanco de Alicia, los norteamericanos van por ahí como en trance, preocupados por qué hora es. Translation: Like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, Americans walk around as though in a trance, always worried about what time it is. Hahah...they also go on to say that rich and important people are an exception to the rule, and do not care if they arrive late. Stay tuned - I'm sure there will be more to come in later posts from this excellent source of knowledge.
5. Diet Mountain Dew. And by "menos," I mean zero.
Don't wanna talk about it.
En España, hay más _____ que en los EEUU:
1. Jamón (ham).
Lots and lots of ham - it´s extremely integrated into the Spanish diet. One a pizza restaurant´s menu, I once noticed that ham is listed as a ´vegetarian´ item. Hmmm.
2. PDA!
Wow, can people here make out. On park benches, the metro, waiting for the crosswalk light to change, while tying their shoes...you name it. I used to be embarrassed just seeing people make out, but after a while, you get used to it. Now, I find myself making casual comments to my walking companions such as ´Wow, there was definitely some biting going on over there.´ No big deal.
3. Energy conservation.
There is never an unoccupied room with a light on, there is no such thing as a long hot shower, and EVERYONE walks or uses public transportation. It's always freezing in my house because the heat is very regulated - I always have to keep my bedroom door closed to trap in the heat from my little electric heater. Even escalators are designed to conserve energy, as they automatically slow down until someone steps on. Well done, Europe.
4. Political tension.
People here do NOT talk about politics. And not in the sense of don't-talk-about-it-on-your-first-date. I mean, nobody knows what party ANYONE else votes for. My professor Ana told me that she knows the party affiliation of three living people: her sister, her husband, and her mother. AND, she didn't have a political conversation with her husband (then boyfriend) until they'd dated for over three years! It's so interesting, because our customs (my mind flashes to election time: sign-ridden front yards, bumper stickers, Facebook groups, and on and on...) are just as foreign and crazy to Ana as the taboo nature of party affiliation in Spain is to us.
5. Culture clash.
Every European city I've seen is in a constant battle/balance between ancient and new, and I absolutely love it. There's a certain beauty about modern installations existing in harmony with ancient cathedrals; something so intriguing about seeing a Subway housed in a building that's older than my own country. Love it.
Más = more.
Menos = less.
Ya with me? Goooood. Now what good is a lesson without some practical applications?
En España, hay menos________ que en los Estados Unidos:
1. Water fountains.
Very scarce. If you're going to a public building - library, shopping center, the university - you'd better not be thirsty. Or, you'd better be really comfortable with sticking your head under the faucet in the bathroom (guilty).
2. Snacking.
The meals are huge, but nobody really eats between them. I'm pretty sure my host mom looks down on it (I've caught her reprimanding my host sister a couple of times) so I may or may not have some popcorn hidden in my closet. Don't tell Conchi.
3. Dog leashes.
Non-existent. People just walk around everywhere with their dogs at their side...but it doesn't seem to be a problem. Sometimes they'll roam kind of far away from their owner, which gives my little American body a bit of a heart attack - but nobody seems to worry about it. They eventually come back.
4. Prisa (hurry).
The Spanish take their time. To demonstrate this, I have two stories for you:
One day, Conchi was walking to the supermarket, and asked if I wanted to join. As we were walking, she began to talk about something very important to her (she was VERY concerned that another student in the program wasn't getting enough food from her host mom. HA.) Anyway, we were literally in the middle of the sidewalk, 100 meters away from the supermarket. Aaaand she stopped, looked right at me, and finished her story. We continued to stand right there and talk for another ten minutes. Destinations simply aren't pressing. You get there when you get there...and if you get somewhere early, be prepared to wait for everyone else. (I LIKE this place!)
Story number two. The other day, I stumbled across a sweet thrift store (to which I will return several times). There, I encountered a book entitled "Guía del típico norte americano." Guide to the Typical North American. Let me tell you, reading about every typical American stereotype in a book that is seriously trying to engage in scholarly social science is HILARIOUS. And I quote (and will translate): Igual que el conejo blanco de Alicia, los norteamericanos van por ahí como en trance, preocupados por qué hora es. Translation: Like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, Americans walk around as though in a trance, always worried about what time it is. Hahah...they also go on to say that rich and important people are an exception to the rule, and do not care if they arrive late. Stay tuned - I'm sure there will be more to come in later posts from this excellent source of knowledge.
5. Diet Mountain Dew. And by "menos," I mean zero.
Don't wanna talk about it.
En España, hay más _____ que en los EEUU:
1. Jamón (ham).
Lots and lots of ham - it´s extremely integrated into the Spanish diet. One a pizza restaurant´s menu, I once noticed that ham is listed as a ´vegetarian´ item. Hmmm.
2. PDA!
Wow, can people here make out. On park benches, the metro, waiting for the crosswalk light to change, while tying their shoes...you name it. I used to be embarrassed just seeing people make out, but after a while, you get used to it. Now, I find myself making casual comments to my walking companions such as ´Wow, there was definitely some biting going on over there.´ No big deal.
3. Energy conservation.
There is never an unoccupied room with a light on, there is no such thing as a long hot shower, and EVERYONE walks or uses public transportation. It's always freezing in my house because the heat is very regulated - I always have to keep my bedroom door closed to trap in the heat from my little electric heater. Even escalators are designed to conserve energy, as they automatically slow down until someone steps on. Well done, Europe.
4. Political tension.
People here do NOT talk about politics. And not in the sense of don't-talk-about-it-on-your-first-date. I mean, nobody knows what party ANYONE else votes for. My professor Ana told me that she knows the party affiliation of three living people: her sister, her husband, and her mother. AND, she didn't have a political conversation with her husband (then boyfriend) until they'd dated for over three years! It's so interesting, because our customs (my mind flashes to election time: sign-ridden front yards, bumper stickers, Facebook groups, and on and on...) are just as foreign and crazy to Ana as the taboo nature of party affiliation in Spain is to us.
5. Culture clash.
Every European city I've seen is in a constant battle/balance between ancient and new, and I absolutely love it. There's a certain beauty about modern installations existing in harmony with ancient cathedrals; something so intriguing about seeing a Subway housed in a building that's older than my own country. Love it.
Monday, February 8, 2010
History Lesson.
Alas, Monday again. But what a fun weekend! On Friday, the whole program (about 80 students or so) took a field trip to the south of France. The town we visited, Bayonne, is just a short bus ride away! It was surprising how easy it was to pass over the border...I didn´t even know we were in France until our professor announced it to the bus! Once you´re inside the European Union, passing between countries is a piece of cake. It was like passing into Wisconsin on the highway.
Bayonne was great...a very small, picturesque town along a river. It was the kind of thing you´d see on a blank-on-the-inside Hallmark card. Quaint shops, colorful window shutters, people sitting outside cafes. AND AWESOME FOOD. Bayonne is famous for its chocolate, and the French in general are renowned for their naughty baked goods. We took full advantage and I fell in love with a small tart with some kind of whipped cream concoction and fresh raspberries. I'm considering making the two-hour trip just to eat another. The rest of the day was spent exploring and enjoying the PERFECT weather. The second town we went to was actually in Spain, but we could wave to France across the itty-bitty port that sat between the two countries. It was a great day!
The core of the second town is still surrounded my its ancient defensive city wall.
The next morning, I had an unexpectedly long breakfast with my host parents. Breakfast is never a big event in Spain (the other day, I thought to myself how much I had eaten for breakfast. And then I realized I'd consumed 5 toasted crackers with jam.) but we ended up getting into a really long (and great) conversation about the years before the death of Francisco Franco.
Stop right there - gotta give you a little background before I proceed. If you didn't know, Spain's democracy is still a figurative teenager. Until his death in 1975, Spain was under a right-wing authoritarian regime, with Franco as its leader. Long story short, the guy was nuts. His government, which aimed to "preserve the Spanish culture," targeted any lifestyle that wasn't traditional, conservative, and Catholic.
And if you weren't? There was a good change you would end up in jail - if you were lucky. At the time of his reign, Franco had institutionalized torture, used the death penalty liberally, made forced labor prisons (think concentration camp) and censored everything. I asked my host parents about life during Franco's reign, and whether they felt affected by it...wow, what a life they have lived. Here are some highlights.
Censorship. Everything was censored - you couldn't buy the majority of popular books, movies, or toys in Spain. My mom told me that when she and Jose Luis were dating, they used to drive to France to go to the movies! A lot of people also went to France to buy books, and would sneak them back over the border, hidden in their cars. Strange to think that the same towns I went on a field trip to the day before may have been a Spanish booklover's safe haven just a few decades ago.
The Church. Franco basically insisted that all of Spain's citizens were devout Catholics. Any non-religious holiday was removed from the calendar, or it was changed to a day that honored a saint. This is interesting - it was obligatory that EVERY boy that was born be named José; and EVERY girl be named María. Maybe Franco thought that if everyone was named after Jesus's parents, they'd be better at...life? (My name means "from Britain"...I wonder what that's gonna do for me.) Since it would be every mother's nightmare to have a jillion little José's and María's running around, most of the children had a middle name that they went by. For example, my host mom's name is Conchi, short for "Conception" (real cute). Buuut, her REAL name is María Concepción. And my host dad is José Luis. Essentially, this entire generation has the same first name because of Franco.
Getting in trouble. I asked Jose Luis if either of them had friends that went to jail for protesting. I almost dropped my jelly spoon when he told me this story.
Short answer: Yes. They had tons. It was incredibly normal to hear that someone else went to jail. The story that ensued quickly taught me that it takes much less than actively protesting to run into trouble: what started out as a normal drive to work for my host dad ended with him being detained by the police, urinated on, and forced to lay on the ground for five hours. What happened, you ask? Did he attack someone? Rob a blind old woman? Kick a baby? No. Au contraire, he stopped his car at a crosswalk and let pedestrians pass. CLEARLY, his beckoning wave for the group to pass in front of him, and their returned wave of gratitude was a secret password. Thank goodness the police were there to intervene on Jose Luis's secret plans...perhaps to smuggle some copies of "The Little Engine That Could" from southern France, heaven forbid.
The end. The day Franco died, Conchi said that she'd never seen so many bottles of champagne in her life. All morning and all day, people were outside celebrating, calling their friends and loved ones, and finding more and more wine to pop open - all while holding their breath and fixing their eyes on Madrid. Sure, Franco had died, but the future of Spain was still a mystery, and the government was incredibly unstable. The days that ensued were probably some of the most nerve-wracking of all.
It's crazy the things you can learn about someone over a cup of coffee and some crackers (and REALLY GOOD JAM, by the way). Every day here, I am surrounded by an entire generation of people that grew up knowing nothing but the oppression of a dictatorship, living now in one of the most powerful democracies in the world. What a life! It just goes to show that the culture of a country goes beyond cold stone cathedral walls, the strokes of paint that craft masterpieces, or the ingredients of tortilla española (though all are appreciated, especially the latter). Culture, at its best, is buried deep under the skin and behind the eyes of people that live life a little differently than you do. Culture is people.
I'll take that over a museum any day.
Bayonne was great...a very small, picturesque town along a river. It was the kind of thing you´d see on a blank-on-the-inside Hallmark card. Quaint shops, colorful window shutters, people sitting outside cafes. AND AWESOME FOOD. Bayonne is famous for its chocolate, and the French in general are renowned for their naughty baked goods. We took full advantage and I fell in love with a small tart with some kind of whipped cream concoction and fresh raspberries. I'm considering making the two-hour trip just to eat another. The rest of the day was spent exploring and enjoying the PERFECT weather. The second town we went to was actually in Spain, but we could wave to France across the itty-bitty port that sat between the two countries. It was a great day!
The core of the second town is still surrounded my its ancient defensive city wall.The next morning, I had an unexpectedly long breakfast with my host parents. Breakfast is never a big event in Spain (the other day, I thought to myself how much I had eaten for breakfast. And then I realized I'd consumed 5 toasted crackers with jam.) but we ended up getting into a really long (and great) conversation about the years before the death of Francisco Franco.
Stop right there - gotta give you a little background before I proceed. If you didn't know, Spain's democracy is still a figurative teenager. Until his death in 1975, Spain was under a right-wing authoritarian regime, with Franco as its leader. Long story short, the guy was nuts. His government, which aimed to "preserve the Spanish culture," targeted any lifestyle that wasn't traditional, conservative, and Catholic.
And if you weren't? There was a good change you would end up in jail - if you were lucky. At the time of his reign, Franco had institutionalized torture, used the death penalty liberally, made forced labor prisons (think concentration camp) and censored everything. I asked my host parents about life during Franco's reign, and whether they felt affected by it...wow, what a life they have lived. Here are some highlights.
Censorship. Everything was censored - you couldn't buy the majority of popular books, movies, or toys in Spain. My mom told me that when she and Jose Luis were dating, they used to drive to France to go to the movies! A lot of people also went to France to buy books, and would sneak them back over the border, hidden in their cars. Strange to think that the same towns I went on a field trip to the day before may have been a Spanish booklover's safe haven just a few decades ago.
The Church. Franco basically insisted that all of Spain's citizens were devout Catholics. Any non-religious holiday was removed from the calendar, or it was changed to a day that honored a saint. This is interesting - it was obligatory that EVERY boy that was born be named José; and EVERY girl be named María. Maybe Franco thought that if everyone was named after Jesus's parents, they'd be better at...life? (My name means "from Britain"...I wonder what that's gonna do for me.) Since it would be every mother's nightmare to have a jillion little José's and María's running around, most of the children had a middle name that they went by. For example, my host mom's name is Conchi, short for "Conception" (real cute). Buuut, her REAL name is María Concepción. And my host dad is José Luis. Essentially, this entire generation has the same first name because of Franco.
Getting in trouble. I asked Jose Luis if either of them had friends that went to jail for protesting. I almost dropped my jelly spoon when he told me this story.
Short answer: Yes. They had tons. It was incredibly normal to hear that someone else went to jail. The story that ensued quickly taught me that it takes much less than actively protesting to run into trouble: what started out as a normal drive to work for my host dad ended with him being detained by the police, urinated on, and forced to lay on the ground for five hours. What happened, you ask? Did he attack someone? Rob a blind old woman? Kick a baby? No. Au contraire, he stopped his car at a crosswalk and let pedestrians pass. CLEARLY, his beckoning wave for the group to pass in front of him, and their returned wave of gratitude was a secret password. Thank goodness the police were there to intervene on Jose Luis's secret plans...perhaps to smuggle some copies of "The Little Engine That Could" from southern France, heaven forbid.
The end. The day Franco died, Conchi said that she'd never seen so many bottles of champagne in her life. All morning and all day, people were outside celebrating, calling their friends and loved ones, and finding more and more wine to pop open - all while holding their breath and fixing their eyes on Madrid. Sure, Franco had died, but the future of Spain was still a mystery, and the government was incredibly unstable. The days that ensued were probably some of the most nerve-wracking of all.
It's crazy the things you can learn about someone over a cup of coffee and some crackers (and REALLY GOOD JAM, by the way). Every day here, I am surrounded by an entire generation of people that grew up knowing nothing but the oppression of a dictatorship, living now in one of the most powerful democracies in the world. What a life! It just goes to show that the culture of a country goes beyond cold stone cathedral walls, the strokes of paint that craft masterpieces, or the ingredients of tortilla española (though all are appreciated, especially the latter). Culture, at its best, is buried deep under the skin and behind the eyes of people that live life a little differently than you do. Culture is people.
I'll take that over a museum any day.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Adventures in Baaarçe
I´m baaaaack...
Thanks to Saint Thomas (always knew he was a good guy) and his self-named holiday, we had a 4-day weekend and I took full advantage...I took a flight out to Barcelona on Wednesday night and didn´t come back until Monday morning! I should first admit to my travel naivete...I had expressed worry about not having enough to do in Barcelona to fill four whole days.
Yeah. That was dumb.
Barcelona is a great city! There was tons to do and see...I could literally write pages and pages. But, alas...I won't. Here are a few things worth reading:
1. Running in a new city is by far one of the best things in the world. It combines exploring, tourist-ing, and the love of my life (that'd be running, not to be confused with Jon McLaughlin) all in one. What's more, the distance feels like nothing because you spend the entire time taking in the sights - in my case, the old cathedrals, the beyond lavish Sagrada Familia, playa (beach) Barceloneta on the Mediterranean Sea, and some of the most beautiful architecture I've ever seen.
I once had a conversation with a professor about running while abroad. He told me, "You don't really live in a place until you've run there." I couldn't agree more. When you run somewhere, you integrate something routine about your life with something completely new. It creates a sense of familiarity.
2. My favorite place by far was La Rambla, the kilometer-ish-long (look at me, using the metric system!) pedestrian street filled with...everything. Street performers, scummy food joints and five-star restaurants, shops that spill over into the side streets, and my personal favorite - the street vendors. La Rambla has more than your average postcards and cracker jacks. We're talking about flowers, hamsters, clothes, goldfish, roosters, books (I even spotted some erotic photography books??), and your staple of tacky tourist souvenirs. To quote another in this post, a Spanish poet once said, "La Rambla is the only street in the world that I wish would never end." Well said, man. There is always something to look at. My fascination never ceased.
3. As great as La Rambla is, it´s also pickpocketing capital of the world. They aren't kidding when they tell you to watch your wallet. Thankfully, I'm still going strong in the personal possession retention department (much to my own surprise, and anyone who knows me)...but I know FOUR students that went to Barcelona this weekend who got their wallet or purse taken. Maybe I shouldn't have ditched mom's money belt after all.
4. La Boqueteria is THE COOLEST PLACE EVER. It's a GIANT open market in La Rambla that sells literally any food you can possibly imagine. It's world renowned and indisputably one of the best markets in all Europe - it's probably the same square footage of about 2 football fields! It's packed with vendors selling anything from fresh-squeezed juice (my personal favorite was strawberry-coconut. Oh. My. Lord.) to stingray, cactus fruit, dozens of chili varieties, hand crafted chocolate roses, and some animal's head at a meat stand that definitely still had its eyeballs. Gross. I think I learned more fruits, vegetables, spices and meats there than I did in my childhood! What's more, the vibrant colors and personalities in this crowded marketplace are any photographer's haven. For that matter, it's really a haven for anyone that appreciates beauty or the simple relations we form in our daily lives. Here, shopping for your groceries is social and enjoyable. Nobody is rushed, people stop to enjoy a tapa on the outskirts of the market or drink a fresh juice and continue on their way, and every vendor seems to be smiling and patient. Every time I left, I couldn't help but be in a good mood. Then again, it could have just been the strawberry-coconut juice. It was THAT good.
5. Hostels are great (not to mention CHEAP! 15 bucks a night!). The first one I stayed with was really shady - it smelled weird and there was no way I would leave the room without locking my bags up - but at the same time, it was one of the most interesting places I´ve ever been. On the first night, we wandered up to the kitchen around 10 or 11, and encountered people from all corners of the world...listening to music, drinking a beer, playing cards. Everyone was so interested with everyone else´s origins, why they were in Barcelona, what they did for work. My group quickly befriended a few guys travelling from Mexico (we bonded over our North American origins) and got into some interesting conversations about the differences between Latin American Spanish and Castellano (Spain Spanish). Small world...I didn´t see them after that (I switched to another hostel to meet up with some kids from U of I), and then randomly ran into them on my way to a supermarket to get dinner on my last night! The hostel I stayed at the rest of my time was a little cleaner and safer, complete with a wonderful staff, doors that actually lock, and a teeny-tiny free breakfast. It´s fun to share a living space with young people from all over the world, just as excited about travelling as you are. Not to mention, my own travel companions were the best company I could ask for!
6. Flaming shot consumed from a straw (from a safe distance, surely). Not something I plan on doing again, but definitely worth being able to make that claim about my life.
7. As amazing as Barcelona was, one of the best (and unexpected) parts for me was coming home...for several reasons. At the beginning of the weekend, I found myself a tiny bit jealous of the students that got to study in this city all semester long. There is so much to do and see! But as time went on, I began to miss things about Bilbao, and I started to realize the difference that Barcelona´s status as a big tourist city makes. Anyone that realizes you´re American speaks to you in English, and Spanish customs don´t shine through as brightly when the entire city is really an international melting pot. The more I enjoyed Barcelona, the more I also grew to appreciate Bilbao´s down-to-earth reality, its Basque pride, serene mountains, and my ability to integrate myself into it.
The best part? As my plane pulled in early Monday morning, I re-lived the arrival I had made just 3 short weeks ago. Then, I was in an entirely new city, weary with travel and scared to death. I was stunned when I realized, peering out my window at the familiar Bilbao airport, that I was...relieved. Relieved to finally be...home(??) after a long weekend. I was excited to see my host family and couldn´t wait to sleep in my own bed. Until that moment on the plane, it hadn´t hit me that Bilbao was finally starting to feel like home.
What a great way to start a Monday.
:)
Thanks to Saint Thomas (always knew he was a good guy) and his self-named holiday, we had a 4-day weekend and I took full advantage...I took a flight out to Barcelona on Wednesday night and didn´t come back until Monday morning! I should first admit to my travel naivete...I had expressed worry about not having enough to do in Barcelona to fill four whole days.
Yeah. That was dumb.
Barcelona is a great city! There was tons to do and see...I could literally write pages and pages. But, alas...I won't. Here are a few things worth reading:
1. Running in a new city is by far one of the best things in the world. It combines exploring, tourist-ing, and the love of my life (that'd be running, not to be confused with Jon McLaughlin) all in one. What's more, the distance feels like nothing because you spend the entire time taking in the sights - in my case, the old cathedrals, the beyond lavish Sagrada Familia, playa (beach) Barceloneta on the Mediterranean Sea, and some of the most beautiful architecture I've ever seen.
I once had a conversation with a professor about running while abroad. He told me, "You don't really live in a place until you've run there." I couldn't agree more. When you run somewhere, you integrate something routine about your life with something completely new. It creates a sense of familiarity.
2. My favorite place by far was La Rambla, the kilometer-ish-long (look at me, using the metric system!) pedestrian street filled with...everything. Street performers, scummy food joints and five-star restaurants, shops that spill over into the side streets, and my personal favorite - the street vendors. La Rambla has more than your average postcards and cracker jacks. We're talking about flowers, hamsters, clothes, goldfish, roosters, books (I even spotted some erotic photography books??), and your staple of tacky tourist souvenirs. To quote another in this post, a Spanish poet once said, "La Rambla is the only street in the world that I wish would never end." Well said, man. There is always something to look at. My fascination never ceased.
3. As great as La Rambla is, it´s also pickpocketing capital of the world. They aren't kidding when they tell you to watch your wallet. Thankfully, I'm still going strong in the personal possession retention department (much to my own surprise, and anyone who knows me)...but I know FOUR students that went to Barcelona this weekend who got their wallet or purse taken. Maybe I shouldn't have ditched mom's money belt after all.
4. La Boqueteria is THE COOLEST PLACE EVER. It's a GIANT open market in La Rambla that sells literally any food you can possibly imagine. It's world renowned and indisputably one of the best markets in all Europe - it's probably the same square footage of about 2 football fields! It's packed with vendors selling anything from fresh-squeezed juice (my personal favorite was strawberry-coconut. Oh. My. Lord.) to stingray, cactus fruit, dozens of chili varieties, hand crafted chocolate roses, and some animal's head at a meat stand that definitely still had its eyeballs. Gross. I think I learned more fruits, vegetables, spices and meats there than I did in my childhood! What's more, the vibrant colors and personalities in this crowded marketplace are any photographer's haven. For that matter, it's really a haven for anyone that appreciates beauty or the simple relations we form in our daily lives. Here, shopping for your groceries is social and enjoyable. Nobody is rushed, people stop to enjoy a tapa on the outskirts of the market or drink a fresh juice and continue on their way, and every vendor seems to be smiling and patient. Every time I left, I couldn't help but be in a good mood. Then again, it could have just been the strawberry-coconut juice. It was THAT good.
5. Hostels are great (not to mention CHEAP! 15 bucks a night!). The first one I stayed with was really shady - it smelled weird and there was no way I would leave the room without locking my bags up - but at the same time, it was one of the most interesting places I´ve ever been. On the first night, we wandered up to the kitchen around 10 or 11, and encountered people from all corners of the world...listening to music, drinking a beer, playing cards. Everyone was so interested with everyone else´s origins, why they were in Barcelona, what they did for work. My group quickly befriended a few guys travelling from Mexico (we bonded over our North American origins) and got into some interesting conversations about the differences between Latin American Spanish and Castellano (Spain Spanish). Small world...I didn´t see them after that (I switched to another hostel to meet up with some kids from U of I), and then randomly ran into them on my way to a supermarket to get dinner on my last night! The hostel I stayed at the rest of my time was a little cleaner and safer, complete with a wonderful staff, doors that actually lock, and a teeny-tiny free breakfast. It´s fun to share a living space with young people from all over the world, just as excited about travelling as you are. Not to mention, my own travel companions were the best company I could ask for!
6. Flaming shot consumed from a straw (from a safe distance, surely). Not something I plan on doing again, but definitely worth being able to make that claim about my life.
7. As amazing as Barcelona was, one of the best (and unexpected) parts for me was coming home...for several reasons. At the beginning of the weekend, I found myself a tiny bit jealous of the students that got to study in this city all semester long. There is so much to do and see! But as time went on, I began to miss things about Bilbao, and I started to realize the difference that Barcelona´s status as a big tourist city makes. Anyone that realizes you´re American speaks to you in English, and Spanish customs don´t shine through as brightly when the entire city is really an international melting pot. The more I enjoyed Barcelona, the more I also grew to appreciate Bilbao´s down-to-earth reality, its Basque pride, serene mountains, and my ability to integrate myself into it.
The best part? As my plane pulled in early Monday morning, I re-lived the arrival I had made just 3 short weeks ago. Then, I was in an entirely new city, weary with travel and scared to death. I was stunned when I realized, peering out my window at the familiar Bilbao airport, that I was...relieved. Relieved to finally be...home(??) after a long weekend. I was excited to see my host family and couldn´t wait to sleep in my own bed. Until that moment on the plane, it hadn´t hit me that Bilbao was finally starting to feel like home.
What a great way to start a Monday.
:)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Venturing out of Bilbao
This weekend was filled with lots of traveling!
On Friday, my host family took a little daytime excursion to their casita (small home) in Escalera de los Montones - a small town in Burgos, which is the province over from Vizkaya (where Bilbao is). It was only an hour drive, so we left after breakfast and arrived around 11. Their house is essentially at the base of a bunch of mountains, and the view is breathtaking. Upon arriving, we stopped along the winding, narrow road on the mountain's edge (eek!) and hiked up some stairs to a fantastic lookout point. I took way too many pictures to be socially acceptable, but I couldn't help it. What is it about the mountains that captivate us without failure, whether its the first time we've seen them or the thousandth?
After returning back to the house, we continued to walk all around the village of Espinosas. It's very small and quaint - I think we walked the entire perimeter during our hour-long stroll. It's an incredibly rural area, but there are ancient buildings scattered all throughout the town (again, too many pictures). Some are crumbling, some are quite lavish - most were from the 15th century but some dated back to the 11th!! I thought it was pretty neat, but didn't really stop to consider just how ancient these buildings were until much later. It wasn't until the car ride home when it suddenly dawned on me that the buildings of which I casually snapped pictures are literally some of the oldest standing structures I've ever seen in my life - there simply isn't ANYthing that old in our teen-aged country. Weird to think about. The US is so young!
The nicest part about the entire trip, aside from the beauty of the mountains, was the little things about small towns that I haven't encountered in a while. Without the hint of a sound from a single car, plane, or television in the house next door, I experienced silence like I haven't been able to for quite some time. It was a nice refreshment from the traffic and bustling in Bilbao (though clearly I love Bilbao) and in some ways was like a little taste of home, though the terrain certainly beats the flat redundancy of Illinois! :)
Next up...San Sebastian.
On Saturday, some classmates and I took the bus to San Sebastian, another Basque capital (different province) about an hour and a half away. Every bit of sunshine that we had on Friday was sucked from the sky, and all day it was nothing but clouds and spitting drizzle. Didn't matter a bit - San Sebastian is absolutely gorgeous, rain or shine. We spent all day wandering around, enjoying the antique, charming city (and its food!) just as much as the beautiful natural landscape. I had my first Spanish tapa, which is a small, appetizer-sized meal portion. Here, every bar is full of tapas platters. People just grab a plate, take what they want, and pay when they're done enjoying their samplings with a glass of wine or coffee. Yum!
The fixture of San Sebastian is La Concha, a concave beach nestled between Mount Ulia to the east and Mount Andarra to the west. There is a switchback trail up Mt. Ulia, and from the top, we had an amazing view of the entire city and beaches. There's also an old castle up there that we had some fun exploring! Although the weather was terrible, it was kind of nice to enjoy the city with few tourists around. That being said, I'm definitely returning in the spring when the sky is blue and the water is warm!
Still waiting for my camera cord to arrive, but here's what google image search had to say about San Sebastian...
On Friday, my host family took a little daytime excursion to their casita (small home) in Escalera de los Montones - a small town in Burgos, which is the province over from Vizkaya (where Bilbao is). It was only an hour drive, so we left after breakfast and arrived around 11. Their house is essentially at the base of a bunch of mountains, and the view is breathtaking. Upon arriving, we stopped along the winding, narrow road on the mountain's edge (eek!) and hiked up some stairs to a fantastic lookout point. I took way too many pictures to be socially acceptable, but I couldn't help it. What is it about the mountains that captivate us without failure, whether its the first time we've seen them or the thousandth?
After returning back to the house, we continued to walk all around the village of Espinosas. It's very small and quaint - I think we walked the entire perimeter during our hour-long stroll. It's an incredibly rural area, but there are ancient buildings scattered all throughout the town (again, too many pictures). Some are crumbling, some are quite lavish - most were from the 15th century but some dated back to the 11th!! I thought it was pretty neat, but didn't really stop to consider just how ancient these buildings were until much later. It wasn't until the car ride home when it suddenly dawned on me that the buildings of which I casually snapped pictures are literally some of the oldest standing structures I've ever seen in my life - there simply isn't ANYthing that old in our teen-aged country. Weird to think about. The US is so young!
The nicest part about the entire trip, aside from the beauty of the mountains, was the little things about small towns that I haven't encountered in a while. Without the hint of a sound from a single car, plane, or television in the house next door, I experienced silence like I haven't been able to for quite some time. It was a nice refreshment from the traffic and bustling in Bilbao (though clearly I love Bilbao) and in some ways was like a little taste of home, though the terrain certainly beats the flat redundancy of Illinois! :)
Next up...San Sebastian.
On Saturday, some classmates and I took the bus to San Sebastian, another Basque capital (different province) about an hour and a half away. Every bit of sunshine that we had on Friday was sucked from the sky, and all day it was nothing but clouds and spitting drizzle. Didn't matter a bit - San Sebastian is absolutely gorgeous, rain or shine. We spent all day wandering around, enjoying the antique, charming city (and its food!) just as much as the beautiful natural landscape. I had my first Spanish tapa, which is a small, appetizer-sized meal portion. Here, every bar is full of tapas platters. People just grab a plate, take what they want, and pay when they're done enjoying their samplings with a glass of wine or coffee. Yum!
The fixture of San Sebastian is La Concha, a concave beach nestled between Mount Ulia to the east and Mount Andarra to the west. There is a switchback trail up Mt. Ulia, and from the top, we had an amazing view of the entire city and beaches. There's also an old castle up there that we had some fun exploring! Although the weather was terrible, it was kind of nice to enjoy the city with few tourists around. That being said, I'm definitely returning in the spring when the sky is blue and the water is warm!
Still waiting for my camera cord to arrive, but here's what google image search had to say about San Sebastian...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
