One of the hardest parts about living in Granada is that there aren't a whole lot of places to run in the city. What's more, I don't feel entirely comfortable running in the streets or the park by myself ( I also am horrible with directions). Tim, being the gentleman that he is, meets me before class in the morning to run, even though he lives on the other side of the city. There's a beautiful park a couple blocks away from my house called El Parque de Federico Garcia Lorca (a famous Spanish poet whose summer house was located in the park and is now a museum). The park is enclosed by high walls, and has dirt paths that go around the perimeter of the park. It's full of tall, Dr. Seuss-like trees, fountains, and touchy-feely high school sweethearts who sprawl out on the grass (it's actually a little awkward to run past them). There are usually lots of runners in the park, but almost all men. I don't understand this! If there are female runners, they never wear shorts, even though it's really hot here. As much as I want to blend in here, I absolutely, positively cannot bring myself to run in pants when it is hot- it's inhumane! Even though I get some odd stares, I'm sticking to my guns on this one.
The other day, Tim took me on a killer run that he discovered the day before. In Granada we are already at a high altitude because we're next to the Sierra Navada mountain range. But we upped the ante and "upped" a monster hill that was about a mile long and steep the whole way. At the top, I was coughing up who knows what from my burning lungs. It was a good workout. I also recently joined a gym that's about a five minute walk from my house. It's called "Gimnasio Palandium" and is tiny, but suffiecient. Sadly, I haven't had the chance to go because I've been sick with a cold and sinus infection. I'm going to the doctor today to get some antibiotics, so hopefully I'll be up and running again soon.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
where in the house is Carmen San Die--- i mean Gonzales
I love chatting with Carmen. She only speaks Spanish, and has that trademark Granada accent that is charming and incredibly frustrating at the same time. In Granada, people swallow the end of words, so instead of saying "Como estas?" you would say "Como esta?" And that's just the beginning... people talk so fast here, AND have a lisp.. it's a challenge to communicate sometimes! Luckily I've been able to understand Carmen for the most part, and we've had some great conversations sitting at the dining room table. She's hosted students for 13 years now (only girls) so she is very patient with me as I stumble along through conjugations and hand motions and visits to my Spanish-English dictionary (what would I do without it?) I'll watch the celebrity gossip shows with her (Spanish equivalent to Entertainment Tonight), and we'll chat about our favorite movie stars and musicians. Carmen has quite an eclectic taste in music: she loves Whitney Houston, Frank Sinatra, and Bob Marley. But most of all, she loves opera- she even took a trip to New York a few years back and went to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway.
We've had some deep discussions too. One morning I was reading my Spanish Bible at breakfast, and she asked me if I was Catholic. I told her that I am evangelical Christian, and she said she is technically Catholic but thinks the Church is very corrupt so she doesn't ever attend mass. We discussed religion for a while, but it was hard with my limited vocabulary. Even so, it was awesome to openly discuss issues of faith with Carmen. She said she believes all religions are basically the same: they are all paths that lead to the same God in the end. Politely, I told her that I disagree. She persisted: "Yes, they have differences, but they all believe in the same God". I shook my head "no": "sorry, I disagree." The phone rang, and as she answered her call I went back to reading my Bible. "You like reading that, don't you?" she said with a smile. This time, I shook my head "yes".
We've had some deep discussions too. One morning I was reading my Spanish Bible at breakfast, and she asked me if I was Catholic. I told her that I am evangelical Christian, and she said she is technically Catholic but thinks the Church is very corrupt so she doesn't ever attend mass. We discussed religion for a while, but it was hard with my limited vocabulary. Even so, it was awesome to openly discuss issues of faith with Carmen. She said she believes all religions are basically the same: they are all paths that lead to the same God in the end. Politely, I told her that I disagree. She persisted: "Yes, they have differences, but they all believe in the same God". I shook my head "no": "sorry, I disagree." The phone rang, and as she answered her call I went back to reading my Bible. "You like reading that, don't you?" she said with a smile. This time, I shook my head "yes".
Can you say "fried baby eel?"
The Spanish eating schedule is an enigma to me. Everyone knows that you're starving after a whole night of not eating, and need to rev up your engine with a hearty breakfast, right? Well in Spain, most people only eat a piece of toast and a cup of coffee to hold them over until 2 PM, when everyone goes home from school or work to eat the biggest meal of the day with their family. I'm somewhat of a rebel, if you will, because my host mom lets me pour my own cereal in the morning, which I take full advantage of. I'm like a little squirrel storing my food away for the long winter (aka 6 hours of fasting). We have this crazy-good chocolate cereal filled with actual chocolate, and delicious granola with dried fruit in it. Who knew eating dessert for breakfast could be so satisfying? At 2:30 we eat lunch; my host mom's an excellent cook, but she also must think we are squirrels hoarding food for the frosty winter, because she gives us gigantic portions. The other night she made us chicken lasagna AND bread AND giant baked potatoes AND apples... I don't like wasting food, but it's way too much! We try to tell her, but she always just tells us to eat more! I like most of the things she makes: lots of soups, delicious melon, pizza, tortilla espanol (potato, egg, and onion). But Spaniards eat a lot of fried food, which doesn't sit well with me. The other day Carmen brought out fried baby eel- you could actually see the little black eyes. Her and Paco said it was a delicacy, so of course I had to be polite and try it. As a rule, I usually don't eat anything with eyes- it was a big step for me :) Dinner (which isn't quite as big) is usually 9:30 PM, but it makes sense because most people go out with their friends around 10 or 10:30 PM to bars or the park or wherever.
On a Friday night, Tim and I decided to go for a walk around 11 PM. We went to a plaza which turns into the high school hang-out zone after dark. It was so much fun people watching, although I kind-of felt like I was spying. Wherever you are in the world, high schoolers are high schoolers. It was amusing to watch the girls dressed in their heels and short skirts greet the boys, and stand there in a circle with their friends. Tim and I suspected that it must be the their designated meeting place before heading to a discoteca (dance club) or bar (the drinking age is 16 here). The night before, we had taken a walk around midnight and sat down on a bench in a different plaza. There was literally a gang of about 25 cats sauntering around the plaza- it was crazy! Even crazier was the fact that there were still PEOPLE in the plaza... and kids playing on the playground! It's a different world here...
Another night we went out to Mexican food with a group from our program- the only thing missing was Mexicans (all the waiters and cooks were Spanish!) Maybe that's why it was so expensive. There was a group of Spaniards our age in the restaurant, who were saying behind our backs "F-ing tourists!" in Spanish.... I really don't know why some Spaniards hate Americans so much. We weren't being noisy or obnoxious, we were simply eating dinner. Sometimes it's hard to feel welcome in Granada, but it just gives me more motivation to learn Spanish, since I don't want to be viewed as an ignorant, monolingual tourist. But since I'm blonde, I'm always going to stick out here no matter what. It's odd to go from being the majority in Southern California where everyone is blonde, to being the minority in Spain. So far, though, it hasn't given me too much trouble.
On a Friday night, Tim and I decided to go for a walk around 11 PM. We went to a plaza which turns into the high school hang-out zone after dark. It was so much fun people watching, although I kind-of felt like I was spying. Wherever you are in the world, high schoolers are high schoolers. It was amusing to watch the girls dressed in their heels and short skirts greet the boys, and stand there in a circle with their friends. Tim and I suspected that it must be the their designated meeting place before heading to a discoteca (dance club) or bar (the drinking age is 16 here). The night before, we had taken a walk around midnight and sat down on a bench in a different plaza. There was literally a gang of about 25 cats sauntering around the plaza- it was crazy! Even crazier was the fact that there were still PEOPLE in the plaza... and kids playing on the playground! It's a different world here...
Another night we went out to Mexican food with a group from our program- the only thing missing was Mexicans (all the waiters and cooks were Spanish!) Maybe that's why it was so expensive. There was a group of Spaniards our age in the restaurant, who were saying behind our backs "F-ing tourists!" in Spanish.... I really don't know why some Spaniards hate Americans so much. We weren't being noisy or obnoxious, we were simply eating dinner. Sometimes it's hard to feel welcome in Granada, but it just gives me more motivation to learn Spanish, since I don't want to be viewed as an ignorant, monolingual tourist. But since I'm blonde, I'm always going to stick out here no matter what. It's odd to go from being the majority in Southern California where everyone is blonde, to being the minority in Spain. So far, though, it hasn't given me too much trouble.
my (very Spanish) apartment
I live up on the seventh floor in an apartment building close to downtown. Down below is a very dangerous neighborhood: there's an ice cream shop on the corner with the most incredible hazelnut gelato, a croissaint shop across the street that smells of fresh baguettes and chocolate filled pastries, and a cafe around the corner with cafe con creme (coffee with cream), chocolate con churros, and WIFI (where I'm sitting right now). I practically live in Cafe Colon in the morning, because both my roommates have morning classes while mine are from 4-8 PM. I always order my morning coffee for a euro, and sit in the same seat by the window. The owner must know me as that-blonde-girl-with-the-tiny-bladder, but in my defense, i drink coffee everyday (and lots of water). Unfortunately, the cafe is also a bar, which means people can suck on their cancer sticks and send nasty smoke my direction- i promise I'm not bitter, just concerned for their health! I always order in Spanish, but since the owner lived in Florida for 15 years, he ALWAYS answers me in English- so much for immersing myself in the culture :) With that said, I have to restrain myself daily from buying coffee AND ice cream AND a chocolate filled croissant- because believe me, I would.
But back to my house: it sits at the end of the hall, and has a huge living room with full-length windows looking down on the street below. We sit on couches instead of chairs when we eat, and there's a giant flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. The living room/dining room is furnished with antique furniture, old photographs, posters of Prague and New York (Carmen's favorite places), and ancient paintings. An old camera sits on the shelf next to photo albums and musty books, and even though the room has big windows, it still has that dark, dignified feel to it. Down the hall is Carmen and Paco's room and bathroom, and a small kitchen that has an adjacent laundry room. Further down the hall (close to the front door) is Rachel's room, our bathroom, and me and Hannah's room. When you enter our room, you first have to walk through a tiny, dark hallway. We have two twin beds, a window that opens up to the laundry room ( don't worry, it's bright), and closets on the far wall. It's kind of fun because I can hear Carmen humming to herself every time she does laundry. There's a clothesline right outside, that looks like one of those Tibetan prayer flags when it's full. Every time Carmen hands me my clothes through the window into my room, it reminds me of a drive-through fast food joint... I'm thinking of calling it McLaundry (sorry, bad joke) Our room is pretty dark most of the time, since the lights are rather weak and we are in the back of the house. But it's not that bad- it's kind-of like a little cave: very private and cozy, with paintings, posters, and mirrors smothering the walls.
I don't want to drag this on, but i do want to say that the shower is the oddest part of the house. It's like one of those stand-up boxes magicians use to make people disappear- you literally can't move it's so small. I just hope I don't ever get stuck in there :) The other day I broke the wall attachment for the spigot, so now it's like one of those nursing home showers where you just have the sprayer to hold above your head. Actually, I take that back. I don't think nursing home shower water is quite as cold as ours... it definitely wakes you up in the morning! Did I mention that I also broke the the string attached to our overhead light in the bedroom? Yeah, I haven't had very good luck with household appliances on this trip. Luckily Carmen likes me, or feels sorry for me, or a little bit of both.
But back to my house: it sits at the end of the hall, and has a huge living room with full-length windows looking down on the street below. We sit on couches instead of chairs when we eat, and there's a giant flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. The living room/dining room is furnished with antique furniture, old photographs, posters of Prague and New York (Carmen's favorite places), and ancient paintings. An old camera sits on the shelf next to photo albums and musty books, and even though the room has big windows, it still has that dark, dignified feel to it. Down the hall is Carmen and Paco's room and bathroom, and a small kitchen that has an adjacent laundry room. Further down the hall (close to the front door) is Rachel's room, our bathroom, and me and Hannah's room. When you enter our room, you first have to walk through a tiny, dark hallway. We have two twin beds, a window that opens up to the laundry room ( don't worry, it's bright), and closets on the far wall. It's kind of fun because I can hear Carmen humming to herself every time she does laundry. There's a clothesline right outside, that looks like one of those Tibetan prayer flags when it's full. Every time Carmen hands me my clothes through the window into my room, it reminds me of a drive-through fast food joint... I'm thinking of calling it McLaundry (sorry, bad joke) Our room is pretty dark most of the time, since the lights are rather weak and we are in the back of the house. But it's not that bad- it's kind-of like a little cave: very private and cozy, with paintings, posters, and mirrors smothering the walls.
I don't want to drag this on, but i do want to say that the shower is the oddest part of the house. It's like one of those stand-up boxes magicians use to make people disappear- you literally can't move it's so small. I just hope I don't ever get stuck in there :) The other day I broke the wall attachment for the spigot, so now it's like one of those nursing home showers where you just have the sprayer to hold above your head. Actually, I take that back. I don't think nursing home shower water is quite as cold as ours... it definitely wakes you up in the morning! Did I mention that I also broke the the string attached to our overhead light in the bedroom? Yeah, I haven't had very good luck with household appliances on this trip. Luckily Carmen likes me, or feels sorry for me, or a little bit of both.
Granada y mi familia espanola
September 9th
On August 30th, Tim and I arrived in Granada around 10:30 PM after a long afternoon of travel via the ferry and the bus. We got really, really lucky because we literally had to run off the ferry in Malaga, flag down a taxi, and run onto the bus that left five minutes later for Malaga... we were so relieved we made it!! After taking a taxi to the Hotel Carmen in Granada, I met my roommate Hannah when I accidentally woke her up upon entering our hotel room. Poor Hannah had to travel the entire day with a col/flu- i felt so bad for her! The next morning I went downstairs to the breakfast buffet and met my other roommate, Rachel. I am so blessed to have awesome roommates. Hannah (who I share a room with) is also a junior in college, is a linguistics major, and goes to school at UT Knoxville. Hannah is an avid rock climber and lacrosse player, and we have a LOT of fun together. Rachel just graduated from high school in Chicago, and is here for the whole year. She is quite the fashionista, and also wants to major in journalism. Rachel's boyfriend is also studying in Granada- what are the odds?
After breakfast and a little walking tour of Granada, we went back to the hotel and met our host mothers. My host mother's name is Carmen, and what better way to describe her than SPANISH. I don't think I could imagine a more Spanish woman. She is rather short, with long, dark hair she always wears pulled back. She usually wears long house dresses an a black apron when she cooks, that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. Her ancestors are all from Spain, and her dad was actually a soccer player on the world famous soccer team, Real Madrid! But it gets better... even though soccer is practically in her blood, Carmen prefers to watch bullfighting- yes, bullfighting!! And, like all good Spanish mothers, she adores her son- and i don't use the word "adore" lightly. Carmen and Paco (her husband, who I will describe in a minute) have four children, but only one son. The entire refrigirator is covered in pictures of their son, who lives in Mallorca and is an accomplished seafood chef. She always, always talks about him, but rarely about her daughters- it's pretty funny! Carmen and Paco have been married for 40 years, and they call each other "mi nia" and "mi nino" (my girl and my boy). Probably back when they started calling each other that, they WERE kids!
Paco is a very amusing older man: every morning around 8 AM he puts on the same baby blue gym shorts that he wears over his pot belly and his red workout shirt and goes to the gym to swim. When he comes home, his sits in his chair in the living room with his shirt off and watches TV. Carmen told us that about 10 years ago, Paco had a head injury, and has some memory loss. He seems a little aloof, but he's very sweet. One day last week, Carmen and Paco's daughters came over with their children. One of the daughters (whose husband also came) has a six year old son, and the other daughter has a two year old daughter and a four year old son. I'll just say that I think Spanish children are absolutely adorable!! In contrast to American children, Spanish parents dress their kids up in cute little dresses and collared shirts (a little impractical but it melts your heart). Carmen brought out some candy and gifts for the kids, and then put on Mulan in Spanish. I tried to follow the conversation, but oh my gosh! Her daughters talked a mile a minute and it sounded like a different language. Defeated, I slumped back on the couch and attempted to watch Mulan with the kids. But every five minutes, Paco would randomly break out in some Spanish folk song about having to painstakingly chose between three pretty girls in Granada in his robust, deep voice. The funny thing was, no one seemed to pay any attention to him, they just kept talking! Not even his granddaughter, Aurora, who he kept trying to lure over: "Aurora, dame besos!" (Give me kisses! ). Both her and her brother were more interested in the handheld Gameboy that Grandma had taken down from the highest shelf for them to play with. I felt kind-of bad for Paco, but he didn't seem to mind; he just kept on singing and I loved every minute of it.
On August 30th, Tim and I arrived in Granada around 10:30 PM after a long afternoon of travel via the ferry and the bus. We got really, really lucky because we literally had to run off the ferry in Malaga, flag down a taxi, and run onto the bus that left five minutes later for Malaga... we were so relieved we made it!! After taking a taxi to the Hotel Carmen in Granada, I met my roommate Hannah when I accidentally woke her up upon entering our hotel room. Poor Hannah had to travel the entire day with a col/flu- i felt so bad for her! The next morning I went downstairs to the breakfast buffet and met my other roommate, Rachel. I am so blessed to have awesome roommates. Hannah (who I share a room with) is also a junior in college, is a linguistics major, and goes to school at UT Knoxville. Hannah is an avid rock climber and lacrosse player, and we have a LOT of fun together. Rachel just graduated from high school in Chicago, and is here for the whole year. She is quite the fashionista, and also wants to major in journalism. Rachel's boyfriend is also studying in Granada- what are the odds?
After breakfast and a little walking tour of Granada, we went back to the hotel and met our host mothers. My host mother's name is Carmen, and what better way to describe her than SPANISH. I don't think I could imagine a more Spanish woman. She is rather short, with long, dark hair she always wears pulled back. She usually wears long house dresses an a black apron when she cooks, that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. Her ancestors are all from Spain, and her dad was actually a soccer player on the world famous soccer team, Real Madrid! But it gets better... even though soccer is practically in her blood, Carmen prefers to watch bullfighting- yes, bullfighting!! And, like all good Spanish mothers, she adores her son- and i don't use the word "adore" lightly. Carmen and Paco (her husband, who I will describe in a minute) have four children, but only one son. The entire refrigirator is covered in pictures of their son, who lives in Mallorca and is an accomplished seafood chef. She always, always talks about him, but rarely about her daughters- it's pretty funny! Carmen and Paco have been married for 40 years, and they call each other "mi nia" and "mi nino" (my girl and my boy). Probably back when they started calling each other that, they WERE kids!
Paco is a very amusing older man: every morning around 8 AM he puts on the same baby blue gym shorts that he wears over his pot belly and his red workout shirt and goes to the gym to swim. When he comes home, his sits in his chair in the living room with his shirt off and watches TV. Carmen told us that about 10 years ago, Paco had a head injury, and has some memory loss. He seems a little aloof, but he's very sweet. One day last week, Carmen and Paco's daughters came over with their children. One of the daughters (whose husband also came) has a six year old son, and the other daughter has a two year old daughter and a four year old son. I'll just say that I think Spanish children are absolutely adorable!! In contrast to American children, Spanish parents dress their kids up in cute little dresses and collared shirts (a little impractical but it melts your heart). Carmen brought out some candy and gifts for the kids, and then put on Mulan in Spanish. I tried to follow the conversation, but oh my gosh! Her daughters talked a mile a minute and it sounded like a different language. Defeated, I slumped back on the couch and attempted to watch Mulan with the kids. But every five minutes, Paco would randomly break out in some Spanish folk song about having to painstakingly chose between three pretty girls in Granada in his robust, deep voice. The funny thing was, no one seemed to pay any attention to him, they just kept talking! Not even his granddaughter, Aurora, who he kept trying to lure over: "Aurora, dame besos!" (Give me kisses! ). Both her and her brother were more interested in the handheld Gameboy that Grandma had taken down from the highest shelf for them to play with. I felt kind-of bad for Paco, but he didn't seem to mind; he just kept on singing and I loved every minute of it.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Bright lights, small city
Later that night, we went downtown to where the Melilla fair was just beginning. Although the actual carnival part of the fair was not open yet, there was a free show set up, so we went to check out the Argentinian concert/dance performance. We pulled up white plastic chairs near the back, behind the sound both where a curly-haired young woman in a white flowing sundress and white sandals stood on a chair with a video camera- I recognized her from the ferry. The show was so much fun- there were pulsing drums and upbeat Argentinian music that was hard not to tap your feet to. In parts, the Argentinian dance crew were traditional outfits and for the more contemporary, artistic numbers they were a bit more scantily clad :) I loved sitting there, surrounded by Spanish people, rocking to the smooth melodies and strong, clear voices that sang out into the crowd.
Like Paris, Melilla really comes alive at night. The next night, there was a fireworks show down by the water- EVERYONE was out, even little kids despite the fact that it was 10 PM. It was the closest I've ever been to a huge fireworks show. Some literally felt as if they were going to shoot down and shower me with neon rain-- luckily that didn't happen :) But some fireworks flew up and sparkled mid-air, then shot down into the sea below, snaking their way under the glimmering surface of the water. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely deafening at the same time!
But the best night of the fair came when we headed to the carnival, which goes for a week and often lasts all night. There were the most impressive lights set up like arches and intricately designed into unique patterns that stretched around the perimeter of the carnival. There were tons of rides, many of which were for little kids. There were food stands, little vendors, and carnival games boasting fluffy stuffed animals and cheesy prizes. But the best part of the fair wasn't the set-up or the lights, or even the rides: it was the people. In Spain, people actually dress up to go to the fair- including the little kids. Almost every little girl we saw under the age of about 8 was dressed in the most adorable bright little flamenco outfits with matching heeled shoes of the same color. Their shiny hair was slicked back into buns, and their faces were painted with makeup- it was kind-of odd, but also very precious. Even better, many little boys were also wearing traditional flamenco outfits- black pants and white little vests- it was soooo cute!! I loved watching the little kids go around and around on the rides, looking so dignified and proud in their fancy attire. Many of the adults also dressed up, and some moms wore matching dresses with their daughters. If people weren't wearing traditional flamenco outfits, they were at least semi-dressed up with heels or a nice shirt. I don't think I've ever enjoyed people watching as much as I did that night! It was so much fun to stroll around the fair and take it all in- just to be a part of the excitement and joy that permeated the air. We also had some delicious chocolate con churros- the perfect way to end the night. The next day, Tim and I would be leaving for Granada-- I didn't want to go! Sometimes I feel that a little piece of my heart is in that city, as cheesy as that may sound. But I love it there- it's truly an incredible place.
Like Paris, Melilla really comes alive at night. The next night, there was a fireworks show down by the water- EVERYONE was out, even little kids despite the fact that it was 10 PM. It was the closest I've ever been to a huge fireworks show. Some literally felt as if they were going to shoot down and shower me with neon rain-- luckily that didn't happen :) But some fireworks flew up and sparkled mid-air, then shot down into the sea below, snaking their way under the glimmering surface of the water. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely deafening at the same time!
But the best night of the fair came when we headed to the carnival, which goes for a week and often lasts all night. There were the most impressive lights set up like arches and intricately designed into unique patterns that stretched around the perimeter of the carnival. There were tons of rides, many of which were for little kids. There were food stands, little vendors, and carnival games boasting fluffy stuffed animals and cheesy prizes. But the best part of the fair wasn't the set-up or the lights, or even the rides: it was the people. In Spain, people actually dress up to go to the fair- including the little kids. Almost every little girl we saw under the age of about 8 was dressed in the most adorable bright little flamenco outfits with matching heeled shoes of the same color. Their shiny hair was slicked back into buns, and their faces were painted with makeup- it was kind-of odd, but also very precious. Even better, many little boys were also wearing traditional flamenco outfits- black pants and white little vests- it was soooo cute!! I loved watching the little kids go around and around on the rides, looking so dignified and proud in their fancy attire. Many of the adults also dressed up, and some moms wore matching dresses with their daughters. If people weren't wearing traditional flamenco outfits, they were at least semi-dressed up with heels or a nice shirt. I don't think I've ever enjoyed people watching as much as I did that night! It was so much fun to stroll around the fair and take it all in- just to be a part of the excitement and joy that permeated the air. We also had some delicious chocolate con churros- the perfect way to end the night. The next day, Tim and I would be leaving for Granada-- I didn't want to go! Sometimes I feel that a little piece of my heart is in that city, as cheesy as that may sound. But I love it there- it's truly an incredible place.
North Africa
August 25th
Today we took the ferry across the Mediterranean sea from Malaga, Spain to Melilla, North Africa. Melilla is a Spanish city (colony) that sits right next to Morocco on the coast of North Africa. Tim and I went to go visit our family friends, a couple who have lived in Melilla for many, many years. The ferry ride was very long (seven and a half hours to be exact!) I was able to sleep a little, but I couldn't do much else since I started getting seasick. The ferry was HUGE- there were lots of rooms with seating, as well as a cafeteria, an outside deck with a pool, and a bar with couches and chairs. We went over to the bar to watch Harry Potter in Spanish, but gave up after a group of Moroccan men talked their heads off so loudly in Arabic right in front of the TV that it was impossible to hear the movie. I did feel kind-of bad, though, because Tim and I had some ice cream in front of everyone, while half of the people on the boat were Muslim. Why does that even matter, you might wonder? Well, because a week before was the start of Ramadan (fasting during the daylight hours) for all Muslims. So eating in front of people who are fasting the entire day isn't exactly a nice thing to do. In my defense, I had completely forgotten it was Ramadan. But luckily, there were also Spanish people on the boat, many who were not Muslim and do not fast.
We arrived in Melilla around 8:30 PM, and were greeted by our friends, who live in a flat near downtown, and that night we had some delicious spaghetti that reminded me of home and my mom especially, who is a very good cook! The next day, we spent time exploring the city, and helped put a back on a couch- there was a lot of sanding, varnishing, sawing, and nailing involved. Although it was hard work, Tim and I welcomed the change of pace. After traveling around for two weeks, actually WORKING gave us some purpose and direction, which was definitely good for us. We had lunch at the house with the (grown) daughter and husband of our friends, who have the cutest little baby boy! He had just learned to walk, so he teetered around the living room, picking up random objects and smiling with the cutest little jack-o'lantern grin I have ever seen :) That evening we all went for a walk around the city... down to the beach, the marina, the plazas. It was around dusk, and was absolutely beautiful.
Melilla is a unique city.The population is very diverse, even though it's pretty small place. It's also a place of striking contrast: About half of the population is Muslim (Morroccan), while the rest of the population is mostly Spanish. There are Jewish and a Hindu neighborhoods, and a large group of Catholics. It's amazing to me that, for the most part, Melilla is a peaceful place. If you go out for a walk, you will see many Muslim women with their bodies and heads covered, Moroccan men with their dark skin and glinting brown eyes, Spanish women who wear tight jeans, sandals, and colorful tank tops, as well as Spanish men with light features wearing t-shirts. It is so fascinating! I loved seeing Spanish and Muslim women stand next to each other in line, living their normal, but so very different lives side by side. Young and old, conservative and liberal, deeply religious and agnostic. The contrast between the women in particular struck me with such intensity- I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because I empathize greatly with all women, since (of course) I am one as well.
Muslim women fast just as their husbands and older children do, but instead of fasting for a month during Ramadan, those between puberty and menopause must make up for the fasts they miss during their time of menstruation. so they must fast for even more time than the men. Also, most Muslim women spend the whole day in the kitchen during Ramadan, preparing food for their children during the day, and for the rest of their families for the night- usually a huge feast. This year, Ramadan is in August, a horrible time to be stuck in the kitchen and fasting, since you cannot even drink water when you fast. A Muslim woman must submit to her husband; her life is very different than the Spanish woman who might live next door.
The Spanish woman in Melilla wears what she pleases. Although many older Spanish women dress rather conservatively, many younger generations wear jeans or shorts, and tank tops during the summer when it's hot. They do not fast, and aren't subject to the many rules and patriarchal customs of Muslim women. It must be hard for Muslim young women to see their Spanish friends from school grow up alongside them with much more freedom. I know that Muslim women want to adhere to their religious beliefs, but that doesn't mean it would be easy. I guess I just can't imagine what it must be like to grow up as a Muslim young woman... to have to cover up my body and sacrifice so much of the freedom that I take for granted daily.
August 26th
We went into Morocco the next morning, and decided to fast to better understand what it is like to participate in Ramadan. It was hot and sticky, but I wore long pants and covered my shoulders out of respect (and also not to get stared at). We first headed up to the hills across the border to see some monkeys that a man keeps in a yard, where visitors can watch them jump on top of their cars and crawl around. When we got there, the place was barren. Apparently, many African immigrants trying to get into Melilla illegally eat the wild monkeys in the hills while they are hiding out and waiting to cross the border. We didn't know if this is what happened, but it wouldn't be surprising. We stopped at a brand new store called Marjane, which is basically a Moroccan Walmart with everything you can imagine- it was pretty cool! It is the first one of its kind in the city of Nador. Next, we drove to a small town to visit one of their friends at his house. There was a little family-run store next to the house, where a little girl stood barefoot outside in a fancy ballgown laced with dirt, staring at us as we went inside to greet their friends. The women of the house were covered, but they were so warm to us. We sat in their living room, bordered with intricately embroidered couches and pillows and tiled walls.
After a little while, we headed to the beach. It was almost completely empty, since people do not go swimming during Ramadan because the water will get into their pores. The shopping area nearby looked like a ghost town, even though it was supposedly a new, touristy area of the city. The ocean was like bath water, and was clean and clear. We sat next to the ocean, and Tim and I made a sand castle and threw a frisbee around. I would through it into the water and he would try to dive while it was in mid-air and catch it (it sounds cooler than it actually was, though!) In a couple hours, we piled into the car once more and drove through the countryside to the "souk", or outdoor market in Nador. Everywhere, people were selling things: fried bread, little bracelets and keychains, spices, fruit, pirated DVDs... parts of it were like a huge flea market, with endless rooms and stalls chock-full of STUFF. We went down into the food market, where stalls of spices and dried fruit, meat, fish and vegetables stand pressed up against each other in the dark shadows of the humid halls with only a tiny pathway to walk. We got some dried figs and dates, as well as some green olives for when we would break the fast later that day. In the heat, it was hard to walk very fast with little to know energy. Everyone looked lethargic, hungry, and slightly grumpy. We trudged along through the market, constantly being stopped by little kids who smelled of urine begging for money, as well as old men with squinty eyes and furrowed brows, holding out their shaking hands in hope of some spare change. Although I had been there once before, it broke my heart. The suffering there is not simply found in the crisis of economic hardship and poverty... it's there in people's eyes, in the empty stomachs and hidden, long dark hair. It's found in the pleading voices and dirty toes of little children who follow you like stray dogs in the street.
As we headed back to the car to return to Melilla, I felt the pain of my own stomach grumbling and complaining. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, and closed my eyes in attempt to dispel some of the dizziness that fitfully held my thoughts in a jumbled, clouded state. My throat was dry from lack of water, and my eyes burned in the dry sun. I hated wearing long pants and a long shirt in the heat- it was ridiculous! But at the same time, I was in no place to complain. I felt a deeper understanding for Moroccan women, as well as a deeper sense of gratitude for my own life circumstances. The word freedom is so ambiguous- what does it even mean to be free? In the US, we get to say what we want, have barbecues in our backyard, and shoot off fireworks in celebration. But the celebration of freedom is found in other, simpler ways too: in the feeling of bare legs and shoulders stretched out under the sun at the beach, in the healthy, "organic" food we can eat everyday, in women's rights and soapy, warm bathtubs prepared for little kids and nursing homes for the elderly. In air-conditioned shopping malls, street cleaners, regular trips to the dentist and after school activities. We often equate freedom with fairness, with our "rights". But our freedoms are more than that-- they are tremendous gifts some people would give anything for. Coming across the border, the patrol man looked at Tim's passport and mine, then handed them back and said, jokingly: "America, taking over the world!" I forced a laugh, but a part of me cringed at those words... I don't want to just be a taker, but also a giver.
Today we took the ferry across the Mediterranean sea from Malaga, Spain to Melilla, North Africa. Melilla is a Spanish city (colony) that sits right next to Morocco on the coast of North Africa. Tim and I went to go visit our family friends, a couple who have lived in Melilla for many, many years. The ferry ride was very long (seven and a half hours to be exact!) I was able to sleep a little, but I couldn't do much else since I started getting seasick. The ferry was HUGE- there were lots of rooms with seating, as well as a cafeteria, an outside deck with a pool, and a bar with couches and chairs. We went over to the bar to watch Harry Potter in Spanish, but gave up after a group of Moroccan men talked their heads off so loudly in Arabic right in front of the TV that it was impossible to hear the movie. I did feel kind-of bad, though, because Tim and I had some ice cream in front of everyone, while half of the people on the boat were Muslim. Why does that even matter, you might wonder? Well, because a week before was the start of Ramadan (fasting during the daylight hours) for all Muslims. So eating in front of people who are fasting the entire day isn't exactly a nice thing to do. In my defense, I had completely forgotten it was Ramadan. But luckily, there were also Spanish people on the boat, many who were not Muslim and do not fast.
We arrived in Melilla around 8:30 PM, and were greeted by our friends, who live in a flat near downtown, and that night we had some delicious spaghetti that reminded me of home and my mom especially, who is a very good cook! The next day, we spent time exploring the city, and helped put a back on a couch- there was a lot of sanding, varnishing, sawing, and nailing involved. Although it was hard work, Tim and I welcomed the change of pace. After traveling around for two weeks, actually WORKING gave us some purpose and direction, which was definitely good for us. We had lunch at the house with the (grown) daughter and husband of our friends, who have the cutest little baby boy! He had just learned to walk, so he teetered around the living room, picking up random objects and smiling with the cutest little jack-o'lantern grin I have ever seen :) That evening we all went for a walk around the city... down to the beach, the marina, the plazas. It was around dusk, and was absolutely beautiful.
Melilla is a unique city.The population is very diverse, even though it's pretty small place. It's also a place of striking contrast: About half of the population is Muslim (Morroccan), while the rest of the population is mostly Spanish. There are Jewish and a Hindu neighborhoods, and a large group of Catholics. It's amazing to me that, for the most part, Melilla is a peaceful place. If you go out for a walk, you will see many Muslim women with their bodies and heads covered, Moroccan men with their dark skin and glinting brown eyes, Spanish women who wear tight jeans, sandals, and colorful tank tops, as well as Spanish men with light features wearing t-shirts. It is so fascinating! I loved seeing Spanish and Muslim women stand next to each other in line, living their normal, but so very different lives side by side. Young and old, conservative and liberal, deeply religious and agnostic. The contrast between the women in particular struck me with such intensity- I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because I empathize greatly with all women, since (of course) I am one as well.
Muslim women fast just as their husbands and older children do, but instead of fasting for a month during Ramadan, those between puberty and menopause must make up for the fasts they miss during their time of menstruation. so they must fast for even more time than the men. Also, most Muslim women spend the whole day in the kitchen during Ramadan, preparing food for their children during the day, and for the rest of their families for the night- usually a huge feast. This year, Ramadan is in August, a horrible time to be stuck in the kitchen and fasting, since you cannot even drink water when you fast. A Muslim woman must submit to her husband; her life is very different than the Spanish woman who might live next door.
The Spanish woman in Melilla wears what she pleases. Although many older Spanish women dress rather conservatively, many younger generations wear jeans or shorts, and tank tops during the summer when it's hot. They do not fast, and aren't subject to the many rules and patriarchal customs of Muslim women. It must be hard for Muslim young women to see their Spanish friends from school grow up alongside them with much more freedom. I know that Muslim women want to adhere to their religious beliefs, but that doesn't mean it would be easy. I guess I just can't imagine what it must be like to grow up as a Muslim young woman... to have to cover up my body and sacrifice so much of the freedom that I take for granted daily.
August 26th
We went into Morocco the next morning, and decided to fast to better understand what it is like to participate in Ramadan. It was hot and sticky, but I wore long pants and covered my shoulders out of respect (and also not to get stared at). We first headed up to the hills across the border to see some monkeys that a man keeps in a yard, where visitors can watch them jump on top of their cars and crawl around. When we got there, the place was barren. Apparently, many African immigrants trying to get into Melilla illegally eat the wild monkeys in the hills while they are hiding out and waiting to cross the border. We didn't know if this is what happened, but it wouldn't be surprising. We stopped at a brand new store called Marjane, which is basically a Moroccan Walmart with everything you can imagine- it was pretty cool! It is the first one of its kind in the city of Nador. Next, we drove to a small town to visit one of their friends at his house. There was a little family-run store next to the house, where a little girl stood barefoot outside in a fancy ballgown laced with dirt, staring at us as we went inside to greet their friends. The women of the house were covered, but they were so warm to us. We sat in their living room, bordered with intricately embroidered couches and pillows and tiled walls.
After a little while, we headed to the beach. It was almost completely empty, since people do not go swimming during Ramadan because the water will get into their pores. The shopping area nearby looked like a ghost town, even though it was supposedly a new, touristy area of the city. The ocean was like bath water, and was clean and clear. We sat next to the ocean, and Tim and I made a sand castle and threw a frisbee around. I would through it into the water and he would try to dive while it was in mid-air and catch it (it sounds cooler than it actually was, though!) In a couple hours, we piled into the car once more and drove through the countryside to the "souk", or outdoor market in Nador. Everywhere, people were selling things: fried bread, little bracelets and keychains, spices, fruit, pirated DVDs... parts of it were like a huge flea market, with endless rooms and stalls chock-full of STUFF. We went down into the food market, where stalls of spices and dried fruit, meat, fish and vegetables stand pressed up against each other in the dark shadows of the humid halls with only a tiny pathway to walk. We got some dried figs and dates, as well as some green olives for when we would break the fast later that day. In the heat, it was hard to walk very fast with little to know energy. Everyone looked lethargic, hungry, and slightly grumpy. We trudged along through the market, constantly being stopped by little kids who smelled of urine begging for money, as well as old men with squinty eyes and furrowed brows, holding out their shaking hands in hope of some spare change. Although I had been there once before, it broke my heart. The suffering there is not simply found in the crisis of economic hardship and poverty... it's there in people's eyes, in the empty stomachs and hidden, long dark hair. It's found in the pleading voices and dirty toes of little children who follow you like stray dogs in the street.
As we headed back to the car to return to Melilla, I felt the pain of my own stomach grumbling and complaining. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, and closed my eyes in attempt to dispel some of the dizziness that fitfully held my thoughts in a jumbled, clouded state. My throat was dry from lack of water, and my eyes burned in the dry sun. I hated wearing long pants and a long shirt in the heat- it was ridiculous! But at the same time, I was in no place to complain. I felt a deeper understanding for Moroccan women, as well as a deeper sense of gratitude for my own life circumstances. The word freedom is so ambiguous- what does it even mean to be free? In the US, we get to say what we want, have barbecues in our backyard, and shoot off fireworks in celebration. But the celebration of freedom is found in other, simpler ways too: in the feeling of bare legs and shoulders stretched out under the sun at the beach, in the healthy, "organic" food we can eat everyday, in women's rights and soapy, warm bathtubs prepared for little kids and nursing homes for the elderly. In air-conditioned shopping malls, street cleaners, regular trips to the dentist and after school activities. We often equate freedom with fairness, with our "rights". But our freedoms are more than that-- they are tremendous gifts some people would give anything for. Coming across the border, the patrol man looked at Tim's passport and mine, then handed them back and said, jokingly: "America, taking over the world!" I forced a laugh, but a part of me cringed at those words... I don't want to just be a taker, but also a giver.
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