There are some things that grow on you, others that don’t. When I was little, I hated eating raw broccoli-I used to spit it out in my napkin, hide it under the table, and sneak off to the trash can after dinner when I thought my dad wasn’t looking. I still loathe the bitter, dry taste of raw broccoli in my mouth, but I also try to force it down every so often in the name of calcium. With that said, there are some things in life that only grow sweeter with time.
As a girl, I also strongly disliked going on walks without a destination. To me, the idea of spending all that time and energy to walk in a circle, or a straight line, or whatever shape aimless walks seem to make, was as pointless to me as driving somewhere and turning back around immediately after arriving at the destination. Naturally, I hated hiking as well, which was infinitely more boring due to the predictable green and brown scenery.
Thankfully, I grew up and grew out of my narrow-minded views on the art of walking. Little by little, I learned to appreciate my ability to wander. When I was fourteen, I was stranded in bed for a week after a car accident that damaged my upper back. It was the first time I ever experienced immobility, and it opened my eyes to what it’s like to be trapped: I wanted nothing more than to simply go outside and move.
I thought I had learned my lesson, but four years later I developed a stress fracture in my hip from running too much and was confined to crutches for two months. It was one of the hardest experiences of my life, but I sure did appreciate walking after two months of going without. In fact, I loved walking so much I would find excuses to go on walks. Soon after I was off my crutches, I walked forty minutes to the beach and forty minutes back twice in one day.
At this point in my life, I didn’t think I could become any more of a walking aficionado. But then I met my boyfriend, Tim, and I soon realized that I was mistaken. In my mind, five fingers in mine equals walking to the fifth power- it is exponentially better than taking a stroll solo. We’ve had many amazing walks together over the past year and a half: we’ve sauntered through Sunday morning Mexican flea markets in LA, strolled along the beach in San Diego, ambled along the star-lit roads of Bend, Oregon, and marched through the rainy residential streets of Portland.
When I first arrived in Granada to study, I was so very lost- literally. Both of my parents are directionally challenged, so it’s no surprise that it wasn’t until the third grade I finally had the whole “left hand”, “right hand” thing down. With that said, my anxiety to venture out and explore the city on my own was, in my opinion, very valid.
Soon after I arrived, month-long language preparatory classes began. Tim walked me home from class everyday, even though he lived on the opposite end of the city, about a thirty-minute walk each way. One of the first times we walked to my house together, he stopped in the middle of a plaza about a mile from my house and told me to direct us home. I turned to him with a smile, but soon realized he wasn’t kidding. “It’s for your own good,” he told me.
Initially, I was a little mad at him. Tim knew I was horrible with directions, and that I still hadn’t oriented myself with the city. Nevertheless, I started walking to the left, down a narrow street painted with shadows. “Is this the right way?”, I sighed sarcastically. Everywhere around us, people were hustling home from work, or picking up their kids from school. It seemed like the whole world was out, itching to make it home. And I was right in the middle of it. The arches of my feet ached, my back hurt from carrying my bookbag, and I suddenly I felt overwhelmed from the crowds of people that enclosed me.
Somehow, I managed to find my way home. I admit, Tim had to help me a little, but nevertheless I made it back safely. After that experience, something changed. Little by little, I learned my way around the city. I began to wander the infinite collection of alleys without reserve, and begged Tim to go on walks with me in the old Muslim neighborhood, The Albaicin- a maze of whitewashed homes and walled gardens nestled in the hills next to the Alhambra (an ancient Moorish castle).
In my mind, every unknown neighborhood was transformed from its previous form of an eerie breeding ground of danger to an infinite playground. I would saunter past store windows to peek inside at whatever treasures were held inside: sewing shops with an antique dollhouse in the window, tiny clothing stores with handmade dresses and local artwork, and warm bakeries with mouth-watering pastries displayed in glass cases.
A few days ago, Tim and I decided to wander through the Albaicin’s shopping district, filled with Moroccan teahouses and street vendors selling colorful quilts, lanterns, and leather slippers. We climbed up the steep, cobblestoned alleys and soaked in the warm afternoon sun, stopping at whatever shop or wall of graffiti caught our attention. As daylight began to fade, we sat on an ancient wall in the Albaicin and watched the sun’s shadows stain the Cathedral in the distance. We walked home in the dark, stopping at a park along the way with a lighted fountain and past a gang of stray cats who scattered when we passed by.
We walked for about four hours that afternoon, up and down the streets of Granada. We had no place to be, no reason to hurry. All around us, people were rushing to get home, as usual. But when I looked closer, I realized that many people weren’t in a hurry: cute old couples strode side-by-side with groceries in hand, hippies with dreadlocks were out for a walk with their dogs, and young fathers and mothers proudly pushed strollers with the newest member of their family nestled inside.
In Spanish, the word for “walk” is paseo. Recently, I came across a travel book of Spain on the bookshelf in my bedroom. It explained that, in Spain, a paseo is more than a normal walk. In essence, it is a walk with no destination- a ramble. Every weekend, you see hundreds of Spaniards out for their weekly (or daily) paseo with friends and family, even though all the stores are closed on Sundays.
After living in Spain for two months, I now have a new definition of walks. I think “paseo” is so much more fitting. You “walk” to the store, to the school, to a destination. You “dar un paseo” around the city with someone you love, aimlessly wander, let the sea of people on the street wash you up in the rhythm of shuffling feet. I really believe that there is no better way to see the world than to walk everywhere and soak up each neighborhood you enter.
Today, why not go for a paseo? Take in the sights, the smells, the sounds- the good and the bad. People watch. Walk. Stop and pet random people’s dogs. Walk. Wander through corner shop without anything in your pockets. Walk. Watch a sunset. Walk until your legs are heavy and your feet feel like they are going to fall off. There really is nothing sweeter. And finally, when it’s all said and done, add the word “paseo” to your vocabulary. Let’s start a paseo revolution ☺
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Girls become lovers, who turn into Mothers
Everyday, I become feel like Granada becomes more and more like home. I’ve grown to love the little things everyday that characterize my life here. I’ve memorized the ring-tone of my host mom Carmen’s cell phone, who is more chatty than a high school girl when a friend or one of her grown children is on the other end of the line. I’ve also grown accustomed to the little sounds of the house: the three cranks the front door lock makes every time I enter or leave, the eighth floor neighbors directly above us who move their furniture every evening around 11 PM like clockwork. There’s also very distinct smells in the house, some better than others. For example after someone takes a shower, the water drips out onto the floor, and the steam mixes with bathroom smells to create a quite rejuvenating sauna in the sense that the smell definitely wakes you up. But I do love the smell of Carmen’s cooking, but not for the reason you might expect.
To be honest, I don’t really enjoy her cooking all that much. She does make some mean salmon soaked in garlic sauce, lentil soup, and fruit salad with olive oil and honey dressing. But I’m not in love with many traditional Spanish staples like fried baby sardines, chorizo bocadillos, and tomato salad. With that said, I am always drawn to the kitchen when the scent of olive oil wafts into my room. I stand in the doorway while Carmen cooks in her shiny orange dress and black apron that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. What I love most about being in the kitchen is how Carmen’s maternal love becomes most evident when she’s cooking. Although that might sound odd, it is just one of those things that fills you with a warm feeling. I often ask Carmen if she needs any help, and she’ll point to the napkins on the top shelf, and tell me to get the water jug out of the fridge. She takes care of the rest.
And this is what makes me feel most at home in Spain: the love of a mother. I miss my own mom everyday. But living in a home adds a new dimension to my experience here, which is something very unlike my two years living in the dorms far away from home. Here, I am constantly reminded of my mom through the care and concern Carmen demonstrates towards me. But more importantly, I am reminded what selfless love looks like.
Sure, Carmen gets paid for hosting students, but it is not simply her actions that demonstrate love but her attitude behind it. I love being greeted with a smile when I come home, and laughing at Spanish television shows with her, and seeing my laundry sitting on my bed when after school, folded with care. It is nice being cared for, being loved. And these are all ways my own mom expresses her love for me when I am home. I miss sitting with her down in the basement at night watching TV together, going on neighborhood walks with our dog Tucker (though he’s really only her dog), and driving in the car with her to run errands singing Bette Midler songs.
My mom is a determined woman: she will never, ever let me forget how much she loves me. The past two years when I was away at college, she would sent me at least one letter or card in the mail with comic strips and articles she’d cut out from The Oregonian, Bible verses, stickers, and reddish-orange leaves from the fall that I miss while I'm gone at school. It makes me feel connected to home even when I am a thousand miles away. And then there are always the little notes she writes me in her slightly messy cursive handwriting that took me about 16 years to decipher: “Remember to take your vitamins,” “Good luck on your race this weekend,” and my favorite one of all time, “I love you.”
As I prepare to live in an apartment with friends next semester, it is becoming more and more evident to me how much hard work goes into taking care of a home, being on your own. I’m a little nervous for that next phase in my life. Although I have experience living in the dorms, it is not quite the same as living independently when you have an intercom system in your shoebox room that alerts you it’s quiet time or that there’s paperwork to fill out down in the office.
No, living out in the world is the real deal, and real fears come along with it. Sometimes I’m worried I won’t be able to make it- that I will not have the capacity to balance running and school and my social life as well as housekeeping and cooking. And that’s when I think about Carmen and my mom. Both of these strong women have been such great examples in my life; they are great homemakers, but they are also very selfless people. My mother’s love has shaped me into the person I am today, she’s taught me how to take care of myself through how she’s cared for me. In the same way, I learn new things from Carmen everyday about the world, and life lessons, and what it means to love your children.
About a month ago, I arrived home from school, walked down the hall, and shouted “Hola!” to Carmen who was somewhere in the house. I turned the corner to find her in the kitchen making French fries and chicken. She turned around from the stove, smiled at me, and in her thick Andalucian accent said, “Hola, Mi hija!” (Hello, my daughter!). Instantly, I felt my heart fill with joy, because I knew that was Carmen’s way of saying she loved me. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly get any fuller, Carmen led me into the hallway and pointed to a thick envelope on the table with my name on it, written in the beautiful, loopy handwriting of my mother.
To be honest, I don’t really enjoy her cooking all that much. She does make some mean salmon soaked in garlic sauce, lentil soup, and fruit salad with olive oil and honey dressing. But I’m not in love with many traditional Spanish staples like fried baby sardines, chorizo bocadillos, and tomato salad. With that said, I am always drawn to the kitchen when the scent of olive oil wafts into my room. I stand in the doorway while Carmen cooks in her shiny orange dress and black apron that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. What I love most about being in the kitchen is how Carmen’s maternal love becomes most evident when she’s cooking. Although that might sound odd, it is just one of those things that fills you with a warm feeling. I often ask Carmen if she needs any help, and she’ll point to the napkins on the top shelf, and tell me to get the water jug out of the fridge. She takes care of the rest.
And this is what makes me feel most at home in Spain: the love of a mother. I miss my own mom everyday. But living in a home adds a new dimension to my experience here, which is something very unlike my two years living in the dorms far away from home. Here, I am constantly reminded of my mom through the care and concern Carmen demonstrates towards me. But more importantly, I am reminded what selfless love looks like.
Sure, Carmen gets paid for hosting students, but it is not simply her actions that demonstrate love but her attitude behind it. I love being greeted with a smile when I come home, and laughing at Spanish television shows with her, and seeing my laundry sitting on my bed when after school, folded with care. It is nice being cared for, being loved. And these are all ways my own mom expresses her love for me when I am home. I miss sitting with her down in the basement at night watching TV together, going on neighborhood walks with our dog Tucker (though he’s really only her dog), and driving in the car with her to run errands singing Bette Midler songs.
My mom is a determined woman: she will never, ever let me forget how much she loves me. The past two years when I was away at college, she would sent me at least one letter or card in the mail with comic strips and articles she’d cut out from The Oregonian, Bible verses, stickers, and reddish-orange leaves from the fall that I miss while I'm gone at school. It makes me feel connected to home even when I am a thousand miles away. And then there are always the little notes she writes me in her slightly messy cursive handwriting that took me about 16 years to decipher: “Remember to take your vitamins,” “Good luck on your race this weekend,” and my favorite one of all time, “I love you.”
As I prepare to live in an apartment with friends next semester, it is becoming more and more evident to me how much hard work goes into taking care of a home, being on your own. I’m a little nervous for that next phase in my life. Although I have experience living in the dorms, it is not quite the same as living independently when you have an intercom system in your shoebox room that alerts you it’s quiet time or that there’s paperwork to fill out down in the office.
No, living out in the world is the real deal, and real fears come along with it. Sometimes I’m worried I won’t be able to make it- that I will not have the capacity to balance running and school and my social life as well as housekeeping and cooking. And that’s when I think about Carmen and my mom. Both of these strong women have been such great examples in my life; they are great homemakers, but they are also very selfless people. My mother’s love has shaped me into the person I am today, she’s taught me how to take care of myself through how she’s cared for me. In the same way, I learn new things from Carmen everyday about the world, and life lessons, and what it means to love your children.
About a month ago, I arrived home from school, walked down the hall, and shouted “Hola!” to Carmen who was somewhere in the house. I turned the corner to find her in the kitchen making French fries and chicken. She turned around from the stove, smiled at me, and in her thick Andalucian accent said, “Hola, Mi hija!” (Hello, my daughter!). Instantly, I felt my heart fill with joy, because I knew that was Carmen’s way of saying she loved me. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly get any fuller, Carmen led me into the hallway and pointed to a thick envelope on the table with my name on it, written in the beautiful, loopy handwriting of my mother.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Black and White
I packed mostly black and white clothes in preparation for my semester in Granada, Spain with the intent of having a more versatile, practical wardrobe. To my delight, I arrived in Granada to find narrow, cobble-stoned streets swarming with chic European women clad in black strappy heels and crisp, white blouses.
But fitting in here in Spain isn´t quite as simple as black and white: my blonde hair screams "outsider" almost as much as tourists sporting white Nike tennis shoes and colorful backpacks. But my appearance isn´t the only thing that sets me apart here: some of my beliefs are like night and day in comparison to those of my European classmates.
Last week, my language class broke into a heated discussion about gender roles and the differences among males and females. Many European cultures are traditionally¨"machismo", which means boys are raised to become¨"strong" men who believe crying is a sign of weakness and that cooking and cleaning is a woman´s job only.
It was no surprise, then, when a Greek young man in my class said he would never get a girlfriend if he acted sensitive and emotional. I couldn´t help but challenge his belief, so I asked him in Spanish: "Do Greek girls no like men who are sensitive and honest?¨" Well, I asked for it, and he gave it right back to me with a sneer: "Would you rather date a guy who´s emotional and weak, or one who´s strong?"
His words felt like a whip, and my cheeks started to burn out of embarrassment. But something else happened- right then and there I felt my desire to be a European girl slip out of my fingers like wet soap. "I think it´s about balance," I said, as my voice rose and my speech became more rapid: "Why do you have to choose between the two?" My Greek amigo shot me a nasty look and rolled his eyes, but this time it didn´t shake me. This time, standing up for what I believed trumped my better judgement to remain silent out of cultural sensitivity.
I feel strongly that the connection between heart and mind, emotion and intellect, is a vital aspect of being human- male and female. In a black and white world, women might only be sensitive and men might only be strong. But since our brains are grey matter, we can have a mix of both and it doesn´t make us any less male or any less female.
That day, I walked out of class with a little extra bounce in my step. And the next morning, as I scoured my closet in search of something to wear, I decided against my favorite monochrome outfit and reached for a red and blue sweater instead. And just for good measure, I wrapped a grey scarf around my neck before heading out the door.
But fitting in here in Spain isn´t quite as simple as black and white: my blonde hair screams "outsider" almost as much as tourists sporting white Nike tennis shoes and colorful backpacks. But my appearance isn´t the only thing that sets me apart here: some of my beliefs are like night and day in comparison to those of my European classmates.
Last week, my language class broke into a heated discussion about gender roles and the differences among males and females. Many European cultures are traditionally¨"machismo", which means boys are raised to become¨"strong" men who believe crying is a sign of weakness and that cooking and cleaning is a woman´s job only.
It was no surprise, then, when a Greek young man in my class said he would never get a girlfriend if he acted sensitive and emotional. I couldn´t help but challenge his belief, so I asked him in Spanish: "Do Greek girls no like men who are sensitive and honest?¨" Well, I asked for it, and he gave it right back to me with a sneer: "Would you rather date a guy who´s emotional and weak, or one who´s strong?"
His words felt like a whip, and my cheeks started to burn out of embarrassment. But something else happened- right then and there I felt my desire to be a European girl slip out of my fingers like wet soap. "I think it´s about balance," I said, as my voice rose and my speech became more rapid: "Why do you have to choose between the two?" My Greek amigo shot me a nasty look and rolled his eyes, but this time it didn´t shake me. This time, standing up for what I believed trumped my better judgement to remain silent out of cultural sensitivity.
I feel strongly that the connection between heart and mind, emotion and intellect, is a vital aspect of being human- male and female. In a black and white world, women might only be sensitive and men might only be strong. But since our brains are grey matter, we can have a mix of both and it doesn´t make us any less male or any less female.
That day, I walked out of class with a little extra bounce in my step. And the next morning, as I scoured my closet in search of something to wear, I decided against my favorite monochrome outfit and reached for a red and blue sweater instead. And just for good measure, I wrapped a grey scarf around my neck before heading out the door.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Almuneca (a day at the beach)
On Saturday, I went with about 12 other students from my program to the beach, which is only an hour away by bus. We left in the morning and spent the day at a beautiful beach with little island-cliffs to our left and mountains to our right. The best part was that we rented reclining chairs with cushions on them under these cute little umbrellas that look like those hats Asian people in the rice fields wear (that's really the only way to describe them). Anyways, I got to take a nap in the shade, and swim around in the refreshing water while getting to know some of the people in my program. So far, I like everyone: it's funny because Tim and I are the only ones from the West Coast. Most people are either from Chicago or Wisconsin or New York. It's so entertaining to listen to their accents- i just love it! And I love teasing them about it :) But they dish it right back at me, and claim that Tim and I have "West Coast accents" (whatever that means!) It was so much fun relaxing at the beach with new friends. And I can proudly say that I did NOT get burned after my horrible experience in France.
Tim was a riot: he brought our hot pink raft that the French man gave us in Nice, and he wore his little blue goggles from Italy. Needless to say, he was the subject of lots of teasing within our group. Tim is the master of flips and cliff jumping, and that day he earned two new nicknames: Shawn Johnson (like the gymnast) and Spider Monkey. He did me proud :) Sadly, he got a pretty bad sunburn, and his host mom laughed at him when he got home. The other day I met his host mom- she is a riot! In the kitchen she has pictures of her grown daughter on the wall, so I was asking her about them. All of a sudden, she goes, "Don't look at those pictures, look at these beautiful ones!" and points to her refrigirator, which is covered in photos of her three CATS! It's hilarious, she's obsessed with them! Apprarantly the refrigirator is the place where Spaniards display their most prized photographs :)
Tim was a riot: he brought our hot pink raft that the French man gave us in Nice, and he wore his little blue goggles from Italy. Needless to say, he was the subject of lots of teasing within our group. Tim is the master of flips and cliff jumping, and that day he earned two new nicknames: Shawn Johnson (like the gymnast) and Spider Monkey. He did me proud :) Sadly, he got a pretty bad sunburn, and his host mom laughed at him when he got home. The other day I met his host mom- she is a riot! In the kitchen she has pictures of her grown daughter on the wall, so I was asking her about them. All of a sudden, she goes, "Don't look at those pictures, look at these beautiful ones!" and points to her refrigirator, which is covered in photos of her three CATS! It's hilarious, she's obsessed with them! Apprarantly the refrigirator is the place where Spaniards display their most prized photographs :)
Running Urban Style
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.
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.
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.
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