The “lolerature” blog is great in and of itself, but combining the Ramayana with the Lady Gaga, while probably blasphemous, was pretty funny.
(via lolerature)
This tells me I should become Muslim… interesting.
Dude. Inaccurate. I can fully attest that Jews LOVE hummus. In fact, I am convinced the mutual love of hummus and falafel by both Jews and Muslims will solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (Supporting evidence: the conference scene from Brüno, “West Bank Story”)
P-Lo family photo, Andy Warhol-style, courtesy of Alex.
(From top left)
Row 1: Arantxa (Manila, Philippines), Flora (Sao Paulo, Brazil), Jane (North Carolina), Bob (Boston), Eefje (Netherlands)
Row 2: Victoria (Oslo, Norway), Alex (Missouri), Garland (North Carolina), Stacy (Missouri), Mantas (sorry dude — no idea)
Row 3: Gabe (Montreal, Canada), Devon (Calgary, Canada), Gabriel (Mainz, Germany), Marta (Barcelona, Spain), Me (Missouri)
Row 4: Hayley (Bay Area), Kate (Missouri), Jonathan (Hannover, Germany), Jakob (Mainz, Germany), Estefania (Quito, Ecuador)
Row 5: Pit (Mainz, Germany), Yuan (UK), AD (Manila, Philippines), Andrea (Minnesota), Marco (Padova, Italy)
Row 6: Chris (London, UK), Lucie (Hannover, Germany), Mike (Birmingham, UK), John (Dallas), Leslie (Missouri)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
As I write this, what will probably be the last entry of my Spain blog (save a few assorted pictures from the south, maybe), I am sitting in a coffee shop in Terminal 1 of Barajas Airport, waiting for another 4 ½ hours or so for my flight to Frankfurt.
My last hours in Pamplona were spent pretty fittingly. Alex met me for one last Doner kebab, we had a photo shoot on the Encierro statue, went to the Australian bar for a bit. She and John, fresh from his graduation dinner and on his way to celebrate, walked me to the bus station and saw me off. It was nice to have the company and I managed to get on the bus with my composure intact.
I’d be lying if I said this experience made me a completely different person. There are those people who claim they studied abroad and it totally changed their life. I’d say, in all sincerity, I’m pretty much the same Lindsay I was when I left in February, with maybe a few tweaks for the better. I’ve become better at adapting. I’ve become a bit more self-assured and self-aware, although it probably took a while. I part my hair differently.
But the greatest thing I learned, a vital key to both journalism and life in general (although, in my case, the two intersect pretty heavily) came from just being in Pamplona, to living and traveling well outside my comfort zone. I learned that the cliché rings true: meeting people is easy.
The best part was meeting so many different people from all over the world. I’d go to a party or a botellón or a Frisbee match and look around and see faces and hear voices from all over the world, different accents and languages and nuances. Germany, Italy, Canada. North Carolina, California, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, West Virginia. Dallas. Boston. England, Norway. The Philippines. Ecuador, Argentina, Uruguay. South Korea, Taiwan. Brazil. Minnesota. Bilbao, Barcelona. Galicia.
And it was fascinating, learning so much about each person, watching everyone’s stories intersect and connect. Learning something from each of them. The semi-professional footballer. The model. The couple who, in their thirties, decided to learn Spanish together and conquer new lands. The frat guy-turned-torero for a day (no really, this happened). The photographers, perpetually embattled in the Canon-versus-Nikon debate, which I guess is totally universal after all. There was Mody, my CouchSurfing friend and interview subject from Iraq, who ended up hosting an Iraq War veteran and military attorney during San Fermines last year in an interesting ideological clash. Ian, from my flight to Dublin, who lived near the Giant’s Causeway and was trying to memorize “Ice Ice Baby” on the plane. Joseph, the American I met in Sevilla, who had just spent seven weeks backpacking through a pristine strip of African wilderness, waking up to hippos outside his tent. I met a woman in Granada who decided she hated her job, took four months of unpaid leave to travel around Europe while she still could. While overseas, the firm she worked for all but shut down. Maybe that bit from Fight Club about how when you’ve lost everything you’re free to do anything isn’t all that off. There were my roommates in the sleeper car from Milan to Barcelona, all of us from different continents, whose backstories I have written about here before. The gay couple I met in Le Marais in Paris who gave me a pep talk about falling in love in Europe. The guys in London who I convinced I was Spanish and bought us drinks as they professed their love for Arsenal. So many names and faces and stories that weren’t there before, now intersecting and stacking in the back of my mind. James, the Australian I met in Venice and could have talked with all night about music. Andrew, from Canada, in Venice. Art and Stefan, from Russia, in Venice. Frannie and Sarah, from the U.S., in Venice. Alexi and Thibault, from Nantes, in Dublin. Fabio, from Peru, in Rome. Chris, Lindsay and Bree, from Australia, in Barcelona. Madzia, from Poland, in Barcelona. Sean, from Scotland, in Barcelona. Everyone, everyone I met in Pamplona, whether or not the odds are particularly great that I will ever see them again.
I had an incredible, absolutely incredible run in Europe. From wandering the Monet gardens at Giverny to watching the smouldering remains of the ninots in Valencia to Barça’s treble to the lazy days in the Ciudadela with my favorite people, it all seems so amazing, even looking back on it. I had to pinch myself at times — this all still feels like it was a five-and-a-half month dream. And due to the transience of most of these people in our lives, of this place as how it is, it really is dreamlike. It could very well not have existed to anyone but us, at this place and time. And so it remains, “our” Pamplona, with our kalimotxo spot in the Ciudadela and our Ultimate Frisbee games tearing up the grass and our voices slurring all sorts of songs, from the Italian National Anthem to Weezer, in the early hours of the morning. As millions descend upon Pamplona over the next week for San Fermines, I feel conflicted knowing they will never know “our” Pamplona, only the Pamplona of Hemingway and Frommer’s guidebooks, the Pamplona that is all bulls and red handkerchiefs and drunken mayhem. While I am thrilled for those who get to see it, I am grateful that we had the opportunity to take this place of legend and make our own stories out of it.
Hasta luego, Pamplona. It’s been real.
Sevilla: The Last Hurrah
I’ve gotten to the point where I refuse to refer to it as “Seville.” “Sevilla” just sounds better, a more fitting name for such an incredibly beautiful city. “Seville” just doesn’t sound quite right.
In Sevilla, we met up with the rest of our Missouri group. We stayed just off the waterfront in Triana, which made for a really beautiful walk to the center of town. Palm trees, antiquated buildings, the whole shebang.
Sightseeing wasn’t the central focus of the trip, but we made sure to see the important things. We went to the Alcázar in the heat, walked through the beautiful gardens and the palace resembling, in many ways, the Alhambra.
We sampled the nightlife along c/Betis and the waterfront that night, ending up at a bar populated by newly-arrived exchange students. I found it funny that we didn’t talk to the other Americans at all, but instead opted to talk to the locals (except the creepy ones.)
We got up early the next day and went to the Catedral, where that mighty conquistador Cristobal Colón is (allegedly) buried. The cathedral was beautiful, but it was the walk up the Torre de la Giralda that was the highlight. Even after the 35-odd ramps to the top, the view of Sevilla was worth it. (Fun Fact: La Giralda has ramps instead of stairs so the Moors could ride horses up and down the tower.)
After the Catedral, we opted for a lazy afternoon to stay out of the heat. I spent a few hours reading in a hammock and reflecting on the past five months before falling asleep. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it all ending.
That night, we went to this small tapas place in the Plaza de Cristo de Burgos that Kate’s friend recommended. Her friend was spot on—these were easily the best tapas I’d had the whole trip. We had this excellent chicken in an almond sauce, fried eggplant with honey and aged goat cheese. Everything was well prepared and the place just the right amount of dive-y.
Afterwards, we went to La Carbonería, a local venue where flamenco artists perform for free, without costumes or pageantry (the vocalist sported a polo shirt and jeans), just the music. Even without the fancy-dress of the flamenco show we’d seen in Pamplona a while back, their passion for the music and virtuosity were quite clear. The dancer was incredible, the guitarist spot-on. I sat, drinking my tinto de verano and getting lost in it, realizing this was all coming to an end.
I’m happy that on my last real night to go out in Spain, I did things that were distinctly Spanish, going out for tapas and watching local flamenco. Drinking tinto de verano with the members of my cuadrilla (The Spanish refer to cliques/circles of friends/groups as cuadrillas, a term for a military squad. This seems about right.). We met a group of one-time Erasmus students, from Germany, Sweden and France, who had studied in Sevilla five or six years back but still meet annually for reunions. It gave me hope that someday, I might come back here after all. At least they don’t have that pesky ocean to deal with.
Málaga: Fuimos a la playa
Málaga is one of the few Spanish cities we’ve been to that I could actually see myself living in one day. It’s still touristy, as most of Andalucía is pretty touristy with the beaches and tapas and the Sierra Nevada, and it’s a popular tourist destination for many Eastern Europeans, but Málaga is not nearly as Americanized as much of Spain, probably because Málaga is a big industrial center and relies less on tourism than other cities in the region. I don’t think I heard English at all outside the hostel, which is unusual for us.
I really liked the beach culture of Málaga. On Sundays, everyone — young, old, families, seniors, college-age, all standings and occupations and lifestyles — all head to La Malagueta to take in the sun and sea. It was nice to have a trip that was not about sightseeing or trying to cram everything in in two or three days (see: Barcelona) but just about relaxing on the beach and doing little else. The weather was beautiful, the water refreshing and I really liked the pace at which we went. We even got some shopping in (Málaga’s RENFE station has a mall inside with an H&M, Zara and other big-name stores) and explored the city centre at night. We found what might be the best mojito in Spain (at the Café con Libros in the Plaza de la Merced) — a dark mojito made with brown sugar that was perfect and had a few great tapas at the amusingly named El Pimpi — a touristy, bodega-style place with a courtyard and ceramic tiling and wine casks lining the walls. Their salmorejo (kind of like a gazpacho with bacon, egg and onion bits) was probably my favorite.
After a few lazy days, it was on to Sevilla and the Last Hurrah.
Granada: We kind of kicked it in the Chillout Tent
There’s a saying about how there is no greater tragedy to be blind in Granada. This is pretty accurate.
After not sleeping at all the night before, Leslie and I boarded a red-eye to Sevilla and I rolled in and out of consciousness on the bus to Granada. Our hostel was an Asian-themed guesthouse in the heart of the Albaicín, the Moroccan district and home to the city’s large hippie subculture. There were hammocks and a “chillout tent” (part of the reason we stayed there, taking it as a sign from the song of the same name by The Hold Steady) and the staff was (all attractive and ambiguously European and) very friendly, albeit a bit disorganized. One of the staff members, “Gallego,” made us (great) seafood paella and we had a communal dinner with the other travelers. We made friends with a woman who had decided to take four months of paid leave at a job she hated to backpack around Europe, another American who had studied near us in San Sebastián and knew a lot of the same Northern Spain differences and customs (kalimotxo!).
We stayed at the hostel for a bit, wandered around Calle Elvira at the base of the Albaicín, got free tapas and went to a Moroccan hookah bar, which was just one of those things you apparently have to do in Granada. On the way home, wandering the winding, too-quiet streets of the Albaicín, we stumbled upon a spontaneous flamenco guitar/vocal performance. It was quite neat.
The next day, we had gelato for breakfast (breakfast. of. champions.), explored a few shops and went to the Alhambra, which is everything everyone has ever said it would be. For those still confused as to what the Alhambra is, it’s the last structure the Moors made before being kicked out of Spain. It’s part palace, part fortress, with incredible, intricate wall patterns and incredible gardens and a fantastic view of the city and the Sierra Nevada. Pictures to follow.
After the Alhambra, we boarded a bus to Málaga for the next stop on the tour.
The Home Stretch, Part 3: Waving from Such Great Heights
To recap my final week and a half or so in Pamplona…
I passed all my classes, including my not-particularly-exchange-student-friendly literature class. I suppose this is important. A bit.
I went to San Sebastián again and am still completely enamored with that city. One of my favorites that we visited, hands down, and one of the few that, while still pretty touristy and a resort town to a degree, I would totally move to if I could afford it.
I climbed a mountain in the Pyrenees. It was one of the single most exhausting things I’ve done since coming to Europe, but the view was so, so worth it.
I made five-layer dip. Twice. The Frisbee team approved.
OMG WTF AMERICA BEAT SPAIN IN FOOTBALL. As much as I love Barça, maybe this is proof that Carles Puyol is a tad bit overhyped. A bit.
I made a new friend from Galicia. His name is Álvaro and he’s kind of a cool dude. We made a pact to meet up for the 2016 Olympics if they’re in Madrid or Chicago. Hopefully, will be able to do so.
We had my going-away botellón Wednesday night. Under a building overhang by Parque Yamaguchi, in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. And most of the Erasmus/Intercambio group still showed up. I have the best friends ever.
I didn’t sleep Thursday. I went to Singular to say goodbye to everyone instead, to dance like an idiot one last time (and we heard DMX, so of course this happened). It’s probably good that we had a plane to catch and something to look forward to, or I would have been a little less composed doing the whole “goodbye” thing.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Last Installment of European Club Banger of the Week: “Show Me Love” (2008 Mix) by Michael Mind
