'i open at the close'

It's Sunday morning now, and I'm writing from the restaurant/bar area of a hostel in Rome called The Yellow. So maybe this post doesn't deserve so dramatic a title, but as I approach my last twenty-four hours in Europe, it feels right. Even more so, I feel like the quote captures the irony of my having visited an immense Roman aqueduct on my third day in Europe with my program's excursion to Segovia, and two days ago, while in Naples en route to Rome, Johnny and I took a tour of Napoli Sotteraneo, the Naples underground, which concluded with the ruins beneath the city of a Roman aqueduct. But maybe this is just one of those things that's only particularly interesting for me...

Anyway, since it's been awhile since I last wrote I thought I should take advantage of this little bit of down time I've got to catch you up with the adventures I've had and the people I've met over the past few days.

As I mentioned before, our last full day on Capri started off early with a hike up to Castella Barbarossa (I've since had several discussions over the proper spelling of this wonderful viewpoint, and have come to no conclusions). On the hike, we met some fellow English speakers in Ben and Emma, a couple from London, maybe about ten years my senior. Ben is the son of Tom, who lives on the island and is a good friend of my aunt and uncle, and he works in advertising - creating and explaining more effective ways for companies that are trying to modernize their appearances with sites like Twitter. Emma, though, I think had the coolest back-story. She's half Sri Lankan and so after the tsunami about six or seven years ago, she went there to volunteer. But the thing is, Emma is an artist (she describes herself as having tried to force herself to love the sciences, but it just didn't work) and she ended up setting up her own charity, face painting and teaching face painting in an orphanage down there. About two years ago, she moved back to England with Ben where she works a conglomeration of jobs ranging from stage make-up, to body-painting for Halloween costumes, teaching sewing to in-mates as a part of their parole... Truly, an incredible and interesting person to speak with, and so it was with Ben and Emma that we hiked up from La Pietra to the quaint chiesa la cetrella and then up to the ruins of Monte Solaro, free-spirited, chill and in love with the island. The Cetrella was calm and soothing, and apparently the location where the husband of my cousin Jane (Johnny's older sister) proposed to her. We chatted a bit and shared a small coffee with the amici di cetrella, the group of old men working to restore and maintain the church and its lands. Monte Solaro, on the other hand was bustling with tourists, and amidst our deep and worldly conversations, the four of us enjoyed picking out the American and English tour groups from our high and lofty posts as friends of the locals.

On Friday, we packed up and said goodbye to Capri, setting out for Naples. Johnny's parents accompanied us (thanks again for helping with the luggage!) for the boat ride over, a quick spot of lunch at a cafe we found inside a galleria across the way from the archaeology museum. I'm not the hugest of history buffs so unfortunately I don't think I can do justice to an explanation of the archaeology museum beyond describing it with adjectives: huge and breathtaking and exquisite and incredible, mostly because everything was so old and so beyond the scope of my understanding for how each artifact might have been created or preserved. From there we directionally wandered to the Piazza San Gaetano, from which runs a narrow and picturesque street where they make and sell figurines for nativity scenes (and soccer players, musicians and political figures - I suppose that nowadays, for some, these figures are more important than their religious counterparts but to each his own). Before descending to our subterranean tour, we said our goodbyes (and maybe shed a few tears) to my aunt and uncle as they headed back to the island. For dinner, and the original reason for our stop in Naples, we met up with Johnny's cousin Bruno, a math professor, and his wife Ale, from Mexico and proficient in many languages. As with Ben and Emma, our conversations with Bruno and Ale were most interesting as we took the time to learn more about each of them. Even if I hadn't known Bruno to be related to my aunt's family, after our dinner their I would've guessed it - the generosity and hospitality were out of this world.

Hmm, well writing this has taken a bit more time than I thought it would - I suppose I'll save my tales of Rome for a later time. As for now, I'm off to wake Johnny up and then head out to sightsee.

buona giornata!

Much to my delight, Bianca, my aunt's mother who grew up in Anacapri, has been doling out anecdotal history and Italian lessons to me as conversation runs its course. As we ambled back from dinner last night, she explained to me the difference between buona sera and buona serata as well as buon giorno and buona giornata. Essentially, the first two both mean good evening while the latter signify good morning or good day. Adding the suffix -ata, which in the case of good day also changes the gender of the word, adds a more complete meaning to its subject as it allows one to essentially say 'I hope you've had a good evening so far and that the rest of it passes well for you, too'. So since it is about 9a here and Johnny and I have already completed our first hike of the day, to y'all I say buona giornata!


We left Villa la Pietra at about ten till six this morning to meet up with the same folks that had walked us to il Faro earlier in the week to walk up the worn stone steps to Castello Barbarossa. I'd like to put the disclaimer in now that most of what I'll say in this post is what I was able to glean from the schpiel our guides Annarita and Giovanni gave us in Italian at the top of the castle (bearing in mind that I have only been exposed to this language for the past seven days or so and am largely resting on my knowledge of Latin roots and the Spanish language to try to understand).


This castle was built, I believe, was constructed in the 10th century and though it is named for the red-bearded Turkish pirate who didn't construct but rather helped in the destruction of the structure. It is situated on top of the grounds of Axel Munthe's Villa San Michele, but it belongs to the island. They only let people up into it on Thursdays (so anyone planning a trip to Capri, take note) and only with a guide. Other than that, it is now used largely as a point to study birds and their migratory patterns. Some advocate that this castle, from which you can spy Sorrento, Naples, Ischia and Procida, though smaller was much more strategically placed than the Villa Jovis. In its glory days, it was mostly used as a point of fortification rather than a castle for luxury, but it was destroyed in the 15th century during one of the many skirmishes between the Christians and the Ottomans. Apparently (and this is where I think my translation is most hazy), it was also during this time that the divide between Anacapri and Capri became more pronounced as the ensuing battles wreaked havoc not only on the Castello Barbarossa but also on many of the connecting buildings, roads and general structures between the upper and lower parts of the island. That being said, getting up and seeing this historic site so early this morning might be one of my favorite parts of my time here - so serene and with such a view that I had fun picking out the various places in Capri and Anacapri that I've visited in the past week.


Hopefully I'll be back to write you some more later today, my last full day in Capri - on tap we've got a hike to Monte Solaro by way of the chiesa Cetrella today before we head out for a night in Naples tomorrow and the following two in Rome. It is so hard to believe that my European adventure for the summer is coming to a close, but I can't describe how fortunate I feel to be finishing it off in the presence of such wonderful and caring family.

'sono kel-si. questo e stella'

This has become my mantra of sorts when I walk around Anacapri on my own. I try to take Stella, my aunt and uncle's yellow lab, with me whenever I go out and about the town because everyone seems to know her and then they associate me more readily with my aunt and her mother, who are both well-known and loved throughout the town.

As for Johnny and I, our days on Capri have reached a pattern of sorts, which is ironic only because each day we do something new and see something different. Well, at least new and different for me. Having returned here for at least part of most of his summers, Johnny is full of ideas and island pride - even though his reddish blonde hair prevents him from ever blending in entirely. Whenever we meet tourists or other English speakers, my behavior differs so drastically from the way it did in Spain where I was so prepared to chat and be outgoing. Instead I here defer to Johnny and allow him to impart his wisdom upon any wayward travelers we may encounter.

Most of our time is filled with walking, though I suppose you could more aptly call it hiking, exploring, wandering or adventruing. The history of the island stretches back to the times of the Roman rule with the gardens of Augustus Caesar and the ruins of the Villa Jovis, which was the emperor Tiberius's palace. I am, in fact, writing these very words by hand (to be later transcribed to this blog) from my perch at the top of Villa Jovis. Johnny naps casually beside me as we take a rest from our wanderings. We hiked this morning from Capri up to the Villa Lysis, also known, though less popularly, as the Villa Farsen. This building carries an interesting history and a well-maintained structure, both of which commemorate the wealthy Signore Farsen, a Parisian of Swedish descent who at twenty-three built this villa in the wilderness and overlooking the clarity of the ocean. His reputation, both on the island and in Paris, was largely marred by his affinity for teenage boys and his tendency to recreate old Greek and Roman statues, as well as pagan rituals. Farsen passed away in the 'Chinese Room' in his basement from an overdose of opium and cocaine at the ripe old age of forty-three. Today, the building houses an exhibit to honor the 20th anniversary of the death of Russian ballerina, choreographer, writer, composer, conductor and general artist Nueyearev (probably misspelled). The focus on the perfection of the male figure reminds of Farsen's original motifs. As we walked through the three stories of the villa, I counted five full bathrooms and a spa in the basement - all for the house of one man. He must have needed to visit the little boy's room often.

From there, we continued up a more wooded and nature-y trail up here to the ruins of Villa Jovis. Honestly, thanks to our Spanish art and culture/history class with Duke in Spain this summer, the very concept of ruins was fixed sourly in my memory. We devoted hours, both in class and on homework, to analyzing the depiction of ruins in essays, poems and paintings from the past four centuries. To call the task a little dense would be the understatement of my time abroad. But these ruins are cool. And they're breathtaking in such a way that I would imagine, if I harbored more artistic talents, that they would pluck the strings of inspiration to make one want to create something either just because of or to immortalize said ruins. Well, Johnny's up and wants to walk now - will have more thoughts for you in a bit. ~1:30pm.

3:35pm~ Now at Bagni di Piccola Marina (I'm still not sure I understand when or why the Italians precede nouns with adjectives and when the reverse is more appropriate), or the beach at the island's little marina. Again, my cousin lays napping beside me, and so again I seize upon the repose from walking and talking to put pen to paper. We have, in the past two hours, hiked back down to Capri centro for a pot of gelato at supposedly the best gelateria  of the island. They change their flavors on a daily basis (and we should know as we've not missed a chance to sample two flavors at a time on each of the past three days - so far I've tried Bignolata w/Nociatella, Angurria w/Fragola, and Liquizardi w/Cioccolata) and their waffle cones are made fresh on the spot as you order. We then continued down the winding and relatively recently restored Via Krupp to arrive here at the beach.

To recap, yesterday's main event was a long and comparatively luxurious walk along the Pizza Lungo, which took us from the elephantine Arco Naturale, past la Grotta Matermaria, and up to il Porto di Tragara. There, a kind New York lawyer who's been returning annually to that very spot for the past twenty-five years took our photo and assured us that if we sampled the linguine di fontanelina and white sangria, it'd be the best meal we eat in a year. And so, that is exactly what we did before returning home to Villa la Pietra to enjoy the sunset with wine, family and hearty conversation before dinner. It has been an interesting observation, that as travels take on more of a vacation-y feel, suddenly the daily schedule revolves around when and where we will obtain our next meal. In fact, as we chat with tourists along our walks, Johnny's instinctive follow-up question to "how long are you here for?" is "where are you planning on taking your next meal?", which he quickly follows-up with about four or five strong suggestions.

As we walk, Johnny and I have more or less adopted an unspoken formation of habit with him roughly three yards or so in front of me. It is not so much a difference in pace that dictates this order but more of a necessity. Johnny doesn't like to walk in straight lines, but instead his path slithers slightly as his flip-flops smack the stones. He carries on with conversation, side observations and anecdotes over his shoulder to me. With roads often narrower than some LF sidewalks, it's just easier for me to trail slightly. This also affords me the chance to observe more closely as we amble and I puzzle to myself over the words from a sign we've just past or the treks of the little gecko-like lizards that run rampant here. I like to fancy them the squirrels, more or less, of Capri.

into the depths of mordor! ... sort of

Ok, so maybe I'm a huge nerd, but the theme of the day for me has been Lord of the Rings. To a point. It's been a day of hiking and adventuring into the Caprescian Island wilderness.

Since arriving here in Capri, my cousin Johnny has been full of grand plans and adventurous ideas. Each day over breakfast, we've talked ambitiously over an average of three big events per day (keep in mind, that today marks only my fourth day (third morning) here). And generally, we've accomplished about one and a half. Yesterday, we accompanied my aunt Diana (Johnny's mother) and Stella to the market to purchase fresh produce from the stands and il vagabundo, the man who sells olives and mozzarella among other goods from the back of a chilled truck at the entrance of the market. The walk there took about fifteen or twenty minutes along the busier thoroughfare of the lovely city/town of Anacapri, meaning 'upper Capri.' We then prepared sandwiches for our afternoon trek down the Phoenician Steps and through the local neighborhoods to the rocky beach most favored by the locals at il Bagni Tiberio (I should ask, now, that you please excuse or at least ignore any poor translations or misspelled Italian words - I'm still fairly Spanish minded and I'm afraid the phonetics between the two languages differ slightly). Our evening yesterday was then capped off by a homemade dinner up here at the Villa la Pietra as my uncle made use of the abundance of apricots on the property to make a most delicious pork marinade before we headed out to the Villa San Michele for a mezzo-soprano and piano-forte concert. The Villa San Michele looks simple and welcoming from the exterior with its whitewashed walls and calmly creeping vines. It sits at the end of the most populous and pedestrian street in the down-town area of Anacapri, marking the end of civilization before you begin the descent along those same Phoenician steps, and it was erected as a personal palace of sorts for the Swedish doctor/philosopher/lover of the arts Axel Munthe. As I learned on our guided walk to il Faro this morning, almost every large and/or notable building on the island is somehow connected back to Mr. Munthe, and as such the island has seen in the past hundred years or so a remarkable influx of Swedish tourists. Now, his Villa is a museum and a sanctuary for artists, mostly Swedish, who feel so inspired, as Axel Munthe did, to convey the island's influence on their talents and their works.

This morning's adventures began with a mild hike from the middle of town to il Faro, the lighthouse. It was set up and guided by students working and studying at la casarossa, an aptly named red house that is home to a plethora of scattered artwork of the island. In listening to our guides rattle off in Italian, I think it's safe to say that I picked up the meaning of maybe every fifth word or so. By the time I could recognize that I understood a word, so many more had passed that I had lost my vague picture of the story being painted for us. Fortunately, one of our guides, Giovanni, spoke excellent English and offered Johnny, myself, and Gabrielle, a delightful German lady with again, impeccable English, a run-down of the most essential facts of each stop-and-schpiel we made. From our point at the peak with the lighthouse, we probably should have grabbed a food, but with snacks in our bags, sunscreen on our necks and water in our bottles, we decided to make the voyage along the coast up the Sendiero di Fortini, a hike up and down the mountainous terrain, sometimes dipping closer to the water and other times winding up to crazy heights. To stay on the path, we followed not tour guides but small red painted dots on assorted boulders and trees, the lines of the more freshly cut steps into the terrain as compared to having to find mountainous footholds, and Johnny's own memory. The trip was not without a couple of mini-adventures. As you might be able to guess from the word fortini, it was a walk connecting the now ruinous but once grand and functional forts that protected the coast. We would pause in the shade of each one, pretend to be firing cannons out the vistas and take a couple of silly cousin pictures before continuing on our way. The hike took us roughly four and a half hours (and we might have gotten slightly lost in the wilder back paths between properties and the path we wanted) before dropping us conveniently at our intended destination of the Grotta Azurra, the blue grotto. We waited about an hour or so until the tour boats had left and the water had calmed down before stripping down to our swim suits and plunging into the water after the natives. Grabbing firmly onto a chain suspended through (but not perpendicular to) the entrance, we pulled ourselves into the calm of the cave. It is rumored (though perhaps only by my cousin) that the man who made it a famous tourist spot became so enamored with the cave not only because of its eerie blue light, a reflection of the sunlight off of the clear white sand at such tremendous depths, but because, in an attempt to keep him out, locals told him the grotto was haunted. As we dried off, me sitting in the sun and Johnny resting his sunburned Scandinavian back in the shade, witnessed a true local tradition as boys, roughly around my age but maybe slightly younger, commenced a ritual of fun in jumping and flipping off of the side of the cliff and into the water at the mouth of the grotto. I was tempted to join in the fun (and Johnny did!) but fatigue and too much common sense unfortunately got the better of me today. Perhaps next time, if I can make it down there again before I leave, I'll make those boys show me how it's done.

transition

In the hecticness that was my last half week in Spain, I oscillated constantly between feeling upset at my inability to find the time to write and frustrated that there were not more hours in the day for me simply to enjoy the city of Madrid. If I were smart, I probably would have written on the plane – in fact I think I spent the first twenty minutes of my flight from Madrid to Naples serenely thinking about the words I wanted to use to describe the past few days. Instead, I watched the sea pass beneath me and made friends with the two twenty-something’s sitting in my row. I spoke in Spanish and they attempted to answer me in English. An observation that I don’t think I’ve yet made known to you is a refute of the convention I’ve often heard in the US that everybody everywhere else speaks English. While this is largely true of the folks that deal directly with tourists, and while yes, it is also true that (at least in the various Spanish cities I’ve visited) your average Spaniard knows more individual English words than the inverse of that situation, the ability to effectively and comprehensively combine phrases is somewhat lacking. It’s more like everyone has completed at least the mandatory middle school level of the language and then say they speak it. My plane mate was slightly better – he spent two months one summer studying English, of all places, at the good old U of I. Now he and his friend (whose innate fear of flying provided me and my somewhat-English-speaking friend un monton of entertainment) work in investment consulting and he has dreams of one day returning to the student lifestyle to pursue a higher degree in economics. He did, however, make a point of acknowledging that for the time being it would be foolish of him to leave a relatively high-paying and stable job. Of the young people I’ve met and had such chance conversations with, I will admit that he is indeed the first I’ve met with the kind of job that most of us Blue Devils would consider not only normal but practically guaranteed after graduation.

Our finals for the program ended up taking the form of two comprehensive essays, a blessing which, if one managed time correctly, afforded us the opportunity to enjoy extensively the culture of the Spanish botellón. In the first couple of weeks of the program, nos disfrutamos de bar-hopping, taking full advantage of our “of-age” status, but much more Spanish is the botellón. Grab a bottle of something, maybe a deck of cards, a few empty water bottles and a group of friends. Toss the smaller items in a bag and head out to your nearest park or plaza. Find enough space where you can all caber, be it sitting or standing. Open bottle and enjoy loudly and happily, preferably in Spanish. As we reached the end of our program, our studies and our budgets, the simple botellón was a great way to enjoy each others’ company and the cool night air while also happening upon others our age. Many were students but many were also ni-ni’s, which I think I’ve previously defined but just in case I haven’t, for your reference is short for ni estudia, ni trabaja meaning “neither studies nor works” (or works very minimally in a job far below his or her abilities). The same held true for the friends I made playing pick-up. When asked previously about how I saw la crisis manifested in Spain, I’d answered that I experienced it more as a conversation topic than as an event to be witnessed. However, in meeting these well-to-do and vacationing young men, I realize how much more humbled were the ones I had previously met.

Anyway, to return to the botellón, the cops would walk around our favorite haunting, Plaza de España. At first, I’d thought they were ticketing, but as I observed more closely, mingling is a better word for their actions. They would joke with the regulars they recognized, charlar with some of the sketchier types, and politely smile and nod as they walked by our louder American group. I think, through casually interacting with everyone they were more just making sure that nobody had over-stepped their own limits.

I would love to fill you in as well about our last group excursion to Córdoba because it was by far my favorite of the many cities we visited (Madrid’s home-like feel aside, of course). As it is, I have lots of pictures from there and so I think I’ll save those stories and memories until their visual partners can chance to accompany them (aka I’m being lazy). We officially finished out the Duke in Spain program with a group dinner at a restaurant within walking distance from our university, followed by a night of innocent dancing to Argentine music at Club Orange. The use of random English words to make titles and names appear more exotic continues to fascinate me as much, if not more than, the Communist influenced overuse of the word “red” in their Chinese counterparts. And so it happens that I returned home around 3:30 (having pre-packed, of course), slept until 5:30 before waking, showering and sadly despidiéndome de mis anfitriones to head to the airport. I now sit (or I did as I wrote this by hand about nine hours ago) at the dining room table of Villa la Pietra. The start of my second grand adventure of the summer hath commenced.

Oh my goodness, there are too many thoughts traversing through my mind that I almost feel as if words will never be able to capture everything. But I’ll try. I’ll try to navigate the observations of the new experience, the constant nagging to compare this form of European life with what I have so far witnessed this summer, the desire to try to understand this language but feeling utterly lost (and grateful of the family members who do speak Italian)… After two days here, I think I’m kind of getting a feel for at least understanding things, but I have no confidence to try to say anything. In fact, the first phrase, in any language, that pops into my head when asked anything in Italian is, funnily enough, wo bu zhi dao, which is not even a response in any romance language. It’s Chinese for “I don’t know”, and one of my younger brother’s favorite phrases.

Back to attempting to describe… This. Is. Island. Life. … and I am so blessed and fortunate that I get to spend these ten days on the gorgeous island of Capri, not from the vista of a hotel room but the luxury of this simple and home-like villa. It is a house that has been in the family of my mom’s sister-in-law for as long as anyone can remember. Now she and my uncle (both retired) come every summer with her parents to live the simpler, carefree life and keep up the grounds. This year, they even brought Stella, their three year-old yellow lab who is loved by all of the locals (we’re even allowed to bring her to Il Ristaurante Barbarossa, the pizza place where we’ve eaten and watched the Eurocopa semifinals the past two nights!) and whose walking needs often dictate the course of the days events. Not that my time in Madrid would ever, by any previously existing standards of mine, be considered stressful, but “without stress” seems the most accurate way to describe life here on Capri. The biggest dilemmas we’ve had to face have been which fresh fruit to eat for breakfast and deciding which of the gorgeous ocean views to see first/next. My flight from Madrid left at 9a yesterday and arrived in Naples at about 11:40a, where not a soul asked to see my passport before I passed beneath the “customs” sign to find the grinning, exhausted and (surprisingly) mustached face of my cousin Johnny. He peered at me over a handmade sign: “Kugina (kousin)”. We took one of the most daring (but somehow also very calming after the crazy atmosphere of the Neopolitan baggage claim)taxi rides to the port, where we would ferry over to “The Island” with a bunch of day tourists. My aunt keeps commenting on her, not quite disdain but, pity for these daytime tourists that only get but a brief flavor of all the island has to offer. Before I crashed for a three and a half hour long riposa, my aunt and her mother served us lunch: bread, pomodores, fresh apricots and lentils (separate but both fresh), homegrown lettuce, the obligatory olive oil and balsamic vinegar, prosciutto, ham and salami. My aunt and uncle, who have been following this blog perhaps as my most avid readers, made a point to say that I was in no way required to eat any of the foods that did not please me. My aunt gestured to the tomatoes as this was mentioned. It was only then that I realized I have indeed come, not necessarily to enjoy, but to accept tomatoes as a part of my daily diet. My host family wasn’t exactly conscious of the balanced food group pyramid that I’ve grown up with and the abundance of fresh produce here has commenced now three feeding frenzies on my part. Though I loved Ángeles’s cooking, simple fruit and veggies are a welcome change from excessive oil, potatoes and pork. So then, post-naptime, my uncle took me to my first official Island View from the property of the Villa San Michele (pronounced, as I learned in my first Italian lesson from my aunt’s mother, as mee-keh-leh) before we headed to the aforementioned Ristaurante Barbarossa to watch Spain defeat Portugal in penalties while I enjoyed my first real Italian pizza. ¡Viva la Roja!

After a lazy and fruit-filled breakfast this morning, my aunt and Stella showed me the View from il migliara (the –gl- combination pronounced like the –ll- in million) and the Philosopher’s Park. But now, (or at least it was when I first wrote this by hand) it’s time for lunch! (Actually, I’m bedward bound now – buona note!)

top 15 things that single me out as an american in spain

I've been meaning to write this simple post for awhile, and now that I've just returned to my homestay from my final class of the program (eek! time is FLYING) I figured that now is as good a time as any to offer up my observations.

1. SHOES. I don't quite know how to characterize the shoes that the Spanish people wear, but to me this is the easiest way to distinguish Americans (and a few select other nationalities) from the Spaniards. When I walk around Duke, or Lake Forest, there are about twenty or so big brands that you pretty much can't avoid. If you spot a group of girls, however flawless their Spanish may seem, sporting Sperry's, Rainbow's, Toms, Reefs, or any non-Nike, Adidas or Puma sport shoe, their American identity is instantly revealed. On top of this, branding, as far as clothing goes, has seemed to me much less apparent here.
2. HEADPHONES, or lack thereof. To be a joven out and about on your own and not tune the world out in favor of the familiar tones of your iPod is unheard of. Maybe this is true in the hearts of the more populous US cities as well, but it has stuck out to me here the effort to which people will go to ignore their surroundings.
3. COUPLES, NOT. The fact that I will travel by Metro or walk with a group of guys here and not be clinging onto one of them seems out of the norm here. I wandered around the barrio Salamanca with one of the guys in my program yesterday, and as I looked around, it seemed we were being stared at for the odd fact that we walked with a friendly amount of space between us.
4. LARGE GROUPS. Well, this one is kind of obvious. We travel in large groups, find ourselves frustrated at our inability to speak in Spanish as quickly as our thoughts are formed in English (and at the variation in our levels of Spanish proficiency) and so digress to converse in English. This trend is especially prevalent if ever we attempt to eat in public, as was the case on our overnight trips to Salamanca and Asturias. Generally, I'm relegated to sit at the end of the table nearest the kitchen/waiter to clean up any of the awkward linguistic messes our group so often tends to create.
5. SUNDRESSES, and bright colored clothing in general are staples in my summer wardrobe. Although   on my brief shopping (more like perusing, to be honest) excursions dresses and bright colors abound, as I people watch on the Metro on the way to and from school, as well as in other general public places, it seems that grays and neutral colors predominate, along with pants. And all of the pants here taper at the ankle. Bright colors however, do manifest themselves in some places - particularly these skinny pants.
6. MI MOBIL or in English, my cell phone, here is a small and cheap pay-as-you-go-phone. Spain has not evaded the smartphone craze, especially amongst the younger generations. I will, however, note that Apple does not nearly have as much of a hold here over smartphone owners as it does in the states.
7. WANDERINGS. When I walk around, whether in a group, on an excursion or on my own, I still marvel at the architecture around me and the enormous and old buildings and monuments close enough to touch. Marcos joked the first weekend when we were in Segovia that I was going to get lost from our group because I wasn't paying attention to where we were going, but rather the ornate ironwork of the balconies and street lamps. I just can't help but marvel at the fact that so many of the buildings that people rush by in their hurry to arrive at their destinations here are indeed older than the entire established country of the United States of America.
8. DIVERSITY in our group. Not only am I multi-racial, but our program of forty contains many nationalities. To see a large group of students walking down the streets of Madrid with such an array of ethnicities seems fairly atypical.
9. MENU. When sitting down para tomar algo, as I did in the Plaza Mayor yesterday when I met up with one of my former high school Spanish teachers and his wife (originally from Madrid, so they were in town to visit her parents before heading off to Salamanca for a summer course), menus are not automatically offered. If you have to ask for one in order to decide what you want, it's generally a sign that you're not familiar with the afternoon culture of a quick coffee or beer (the juxtaposition of which, I'm still having trouble getting over).
10. WATER BOTTLES. Seem to be a particularly American thing to carry around. At Duke I think you tend to see more students than not toting around a Nalgene, or other reusable water container. That's just not the case here, which further peaks my curiosity as the food has struck me as particularly salty and salient.
11. EL FUTBOL. While everyone here cheers for la seleccion, upon listening in on the conversations of women around me while watching the games, it's become more and more clear to me that it's much more of a celebrity topic for many of them. They know the faces and the names and the lifestories of all of the major players, but few other women or girls could tell you much about the strategy of the sport or the tendencies of the team. Well, maybe that's just the way that I happen to stick out, but it's an observation nonetheless.
12. METRO MAP. Despite the fact that I'm now very comfortable bajando y subiendo the Metro, I still insist on bringing my tattered Metro map with me everywhere I go. It generally makes an appearance about once every other day now, just to be sure that I know where I'm going.
13. ATHLETICISM is just not a word I would use to describe most of the girls my age here. It seems as though up until about age 12 or so, girls are just as active as the boys, but after that priorities must change, as they marginally seem to in the US as well. Especially when shopping or perusing the stores, I've noticed that girls and their clothing here don't have much wiggle room for muscled bodies - it's just not the way that most here are proportioned - clothes, especially pants, seem to be tailored based on bone structure ranging from super petite to big-boned.
14. SNACKS also don't exist here. Well, it's not that you can't buy them, but it's more or less frowned upon to eat in public. It took me a little while to catch onto this unwritten custom as I would snack on an apple or a banana I'd brought with me while waiting for the Metro after class. Haha, the stares were almost as piercing as the hunger that the fruit intended to satisfy.
15. SMOKING. I don't do it. Period. And even in my voice you can hear a distinction because it is not something I've grown up with. To be honest, this is one of those things that I think will forever single me out as an American because despite my desire to assimilate into the culture here, my resolve not to smoke remains unwavering.

Asturias

This past weekend featured the long-awaited program trip to Asturias, the northernmost region in Spain and homeland of our program director and professor, Marcos. I call it long-awaited because in every single one of his classes up until this point, Marcos had somehow managed to bring it up in lecture. To describe the land in a single word, Asturias was gorgeous. The five/six hour bus ride from Madrid, I can only compare with the scenery of driving through the Rocky Mountains in Colorado as my family used to frequent when I was younger. No offense intended towards the American mountain ranges, but even this comparison does not begin to do justice to the landscape. The mountains were enormous and dynamic, colored by a plethora of shades of bluish gray, carpets of dainty yellow flowers and trees on trees on trees. It is, I think, the mountain range in which I would picture the old Scandinavian folk stories of trolls and such. What is more, this mountain range is essentially coastal. Talk about a way to make yourself feel small and insignificant in the face of the world at large. We stayed Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in the city of Oviedo, which our professors had described as bourgeois. While I do to some degree with the use of that adjective, in our night-time excursions of bar-hopping and the general group-style wandering that accompanies a night out with lack of a fixed destination, the parts that weren't particularly high class all carried a unified feeling of punk. Thursday's trip up to Oviedo featured a couple of stops at sea-side shanties and pueblos perched atop cliffs with breathtaking views. The juxtaposition of the farmland, mountainous terrain and sea-breeze struck me as slightly contradictory but at the same time transcendental - or maybe I'm just applying the trains of thought from today's class lecture on surrealism. Friday, though cool in temperature, was definitely the highlight of the trip as we bused about two and a half hours higher into the mountains from our urban stay in Oviedo to the isolated pueblo of Someido to hike and ride mules up the mountainside. Again, the views were incredible and this experience further gave us a chance to see the campesino side of Spain that is so easily lost when one's focus remains on the urban epicenters and major cities. On Saturday, the weather featured what I'm told is a very typical Asturian forecast: about 60 F and rainy, and it was through this weather that we trudged up and down the streets of Oviedo in a walking tour of the cities landmarks and historical features. Of course, as with all of our excursions thus far, the cathedral was the main focus of this paseo, and possibly its most interesting feature (aside from the fact that it offered us warmth and shelter from the elements) is the fact that it is a gothic-styled cathedral but only has one tower instead of two because money fell short in the middle of construction and the city has never bothered to add a second tower. We also braved the rain out into the country-side to see a 9th century chapel, which to be honest would have been a whole lot more interesting if we hadn't been so cold and wet. Sunday, our departure day, we paid a brief visit to the port-town of Gijon to continue to marvel at the sea, as well as learn a bit about the rivalry between Gijon and Oviedo, see las termas romanas (preserved ruins of a Roman bath) among other tourist sites, and grab a group lunch at a sea-side restaurant before heading back to Madrid. To this moment, our experiences with the bus remain fixed in my memory. To be honest, our driver was quite terrible, a fact reinforced by the fact that Marcos would switch from Spanish to English (something he NEVER does for us) to gossip slightly about him. Apparently, we got lost slightly on our way to Oviedo. When heading up to Someido, the driver realized, after about 80% of the trip there had been completed, that our vehicle exceeded the limits for the winding mountain roads and we had to wait about half an hour for cars from Someido to come find and ferry us up about 4-6 at a time. It was quite an adventure, though one that I'm sure my mother wouldn't quite have appreciated, and I find it a miracle that no one found themselves carsick. Within the city of Oviedo, which for the record has wider streets than any of the antiquated cities we've visited thus far, our driver was incapable of making 90 degree turns on the first try. Thank goodness the windows were tinted, because I'm pretty sure that my embarrassment at blocking the entirety of an intersection for about 10 minutes as he tried to turn us around was evident in my facial expressions. To cap things off, on the way back we were pulled over by the police. I have no idea why, as I'd been sitting in the back of the bus playing hours of the game "Contact" in a mix of perfect Spanglish with some of my classmates, but they had us detained on the side of the road for about half an hour. Our trip home ended up taking about 8 hours overall, but at least again, as with every event of this trip, it resulted in a safe and exciting adventure to remember.

my host mom called me fat (or a collection of self-reflections)

Technically, she used the word gordita as a term of endearment, but it still made my stomach flip. (Kind of like that time my mom called my brother a little shit for figuring out his Christmas present early... kind of...). Apparently, none of the girls she's hosted in the past have eaten as, erm, well as I do. It's not that hard, really, I just tend to finish whatever she puts on my plate - I figure it's common courtesy and a simple way of becoming more accustomed to the culture by assimilating into family life. And I've been running and playing a lot of pick-up so clearly I'm not sedentary, and really I shouldn't have any need to justify myself. Nevertheless, when Angeles pinched my bum and said 'oi! gordita!' while I was helping her a bit with getting our dinner plates ready, I couldn't help but do a double take. I think it'd be a bit dramatic to say that this simple encounter sent me spiraling, but it has caused me to think, a lot, and especially about who I am as a person, who I believe myself to be and who others perceive me as. Haha maybe that's a little deep, but bear with me. I should first clarify that I've had a lot of time to think since I've been here. I actually wouldn't say that I have much more down time here than I do at Duke, but it's more that I don't have a dozen pressing things to do during my tiempo libre and so it's given me the opportunity to reflect a bit. About since spring of my senior year of high school, I've kind of been fascinated with the idea of how we define ourselves (for a final project, I had to create a metaphor for my definition of 'the self' and the idea has just kind of stuck since arriving at college and essentially recreating my life). So I guess here are some rambling thoughts that this trip has thus far produced for me.

1. I'm an enigma, racially. I honestly don't really know how to talk about race or ethnicity in the most politically correct terms, so I guess I'll just explain how I feel. It seems to me that wherever I go, especially outside of touristy areas and in more places where I actually interact with real madrilenos, I'm stared at. It's not just the oh-look-at-the-obnoxious-american-tourists stares that we attract when travelling in large groups (especially on the Metro), nor is it a particularly uncomfortable and lustful stare of forward foreign men. I don't know that I can adequately describe it, but it's kind of like people glance at me, as everyone glances at everyone else in public settings just long enough to register that there's a person sitting across from you and assess that this person means no danger, and then they glance again, and then they stare and their heads cock to the side ever so slightly. They hear me speak in Spanish to my clearly American classmates and only grow more confused - my accent is not like theirs. De donde es? Inevitably they ask, interestingly enough using the formal form of es instead of the more informal eres as I should deserve due to my age. De los estado unidos. Estoy aqui estudiando para un curso corto del verano. I reply. O, es que no me parece americana. Bueno, que disfrute de la ciudad y que tenga un buen dia. End of conversation. This quick exchange has occurred at least a dozen times with the most random of strangers (all amicable, I assure you), but what I can't figure out is why? Have no fear, it's not particularly put me in a position to question my self-image, but I'm intrigued and I guess to some degree wondering if this is something I will forever face as I grow older and immerse myself more in the world. Again, it's not particularly molestante, but it is a little off-putting and kind of makes me throw up a guard. I've always been proud to be half-Asian, and still am, I only wonder why it is that now, of all times in my life, it feels so much more defining.
2. I am privileged, greatly. Thanks to modern technology, I've been able to keep close in contact with a lot of my friends (in addition to my family, of course, though I'm sure they wish I'd call home more often...). Studying abroad and partaking in 'civic engagement' via the Gates family founded DukeEngage program have culturally evolved to the point where they are not merely great opportunities but rights of passage. And so I find myself fluctuating back and forth between basking in awe at the fact that I've been afforded this amazing experience, and fighting down pangs of jealousy as I hear of the adventures of my friends in random countries or obscure corners of the US doing things that are actually helping people. My goal for the summer was to find a way to cement my fluidity in the Spanish language, and I think that by the end of the program, it will have been accomplished. However, the longer I stay here, the more I sense a nagging feeling in my gut to go out and do something better. One of my greatest regrets to date is that I've never actually done any kind of a service project before. Maybe it's lofty and very first-world of me to say that, but it's true. I don't believe in doing random service for the sake of ticking off hours on a chart or for thoughtlessly passing time to waste, rather I've always said that I think service is something that deserves the heart and soul. It's something you should throw yourself into. But I am a hypocrite as I talk so loftily of an experience I've never had. In all honesty, I almost feel as if God is trying to tell me "You're ready. I've given you gifts and talents and skills and privilege, now figure out how to use them, all of them, to contribute to my Creation." So maybe that's a little intense, but it's true. I had actually written out and submitted an application for a DukeEngage program this summer, but unfortunately it was cancelled for administrative reasons. I think this has been the summer to travel, to safely learn more about myself and about the cultured world so that later on (next summer perhaps?) I can find something that strikes me close enough to home to spark my passions and somehow give back to the world. I want to do more than just work at a desk or party my summer away. I want to make an impact. Please, I ask you do not take anything I have said here to mean that I am at all ungrateful of anything. It is imperative that as you read this you understand that I am so incredibly blessed by this opportunity (and should probably do a better job of showing that to the people who have made it possible). Perhaps the best way to word this is to say that this trip, as opposed to having given closure to any life goals, has so far proved to whet my appetite for more. So far it has been a time, not necessarily of asserting my independence but of understanding what it means to be independent in a way that even while living on my own at Duke I'd never be able to simulate. The trip has taught me how to walk through the world in a way that respects those around me, but also strives to better understand their ways of life. After having gotten to know a bunch of the guys while playing pick-up, as well as a number of other ni-ni's (short for ni trabajar, ni estudiar, so 'neither works nor studies' - aka unemployed jovenes between the ages of 16 and 30) while out and about with our group at night, I've learned to appreciate anew my education. While at Duke, it's easy to complain about this, whine about that or lament the work-load, but so much more important, so much more precious are the purpose it gives us along with the opportunity to figure ourselves out. For now, though, I remind myself to enjoy the moment and the open doors of adventuras cotidianas as I continue to see what this country has in store for me.
3. I'm not an athlete, technically. But sport is so much more than that. In high school, I could never find the words to explain my sport or my love for it. It's something that ties my family together, and it is a vehicle through which I've been able to make friends and meet people. Not to go too far into it, but there's a lot you can read about a person in the way he or she plays. From how much she focuses on technique, to how well he predicts the play, to her awareness of her teammates, to his preference for one foot over the other, and with the ironic help of the language barrier itself as I'm forced to focus more on people than on words, I'm starting to understand how to unveil a persons personality through his or her body language. The sport also gives me an opportunity to express myself without words and without conscious thought - it makes me focus on something other than my thoughts and leaves them to sort themselves out. Over the past two years or so, it has also served as a reference point of sorts for me as my own approach to the sport has radically transformed. The competition used to be my be-all-end-all, without it, I was restless and I didn't know what to do. And then I was the girl who wanted to walk-on, the girl who was always playing with the boys, the quiet and reserved and almost brooding one on the club team. And then I came to know myself by my adamant rejection of the sport and all things associated with it as I immersed myself, almost to the point of drowning, in school work and extracurriculars and things I didn't actually care about to distract myself from the fact that I could no longer play the way I used to. Now, now I think I've finally come to terms with myself and soccer in accepting that it pertains not only to me, but to the world and that as long as I respect it in all of its forms, it will continue to serve me as an avenue for coming to know and understand the cultures and people around me.
4. I'm a nerd, completely. Many on the program have been complaining - of the content of the courses, of their organization, of our tourist trips, of the old people on the bus, of a wasted night when they can't find a good club. Though my family may negate it, I don't particularly consider myself the complaining type, at least not now. Maybe it's because of this, or more likely it is because I am inherently a nerd and enjoy learning in all of its forms, but I feel like I'm about the only person legitimately enjoying the classes here. I suppose it could also have something to do with the fact that the courses are so distinct from the math-y ones I've grown accustomed to during my first two years in Pratt. Nonetheless, I feel like I'm learning something and that, however inutil it may seem now, I'm sure that it will have some use later in life. Ok, so maybe I'm never going to need to prove that I know the correlation of the subjects and styles of Goya's work with Spanish history, but at the least I can say that I have a better understanding of how to look for clues to history within not only the content but the minute details and the artistic process of a work. Or that could just be bullshit, but it's bullshit I find interesting. I only wish I didn't feel like one of the only ones who is actually reading every page of every book we are assigned. I suppose some things never change.
5. I'm not fat. And hopefully, I never will be. Better said, I'd like to try to strive to always be proud and make the most of the space on earth that I am privileged enough to call my own.

...yesterday's list continued...

Picking back up with #6 - pick-up - which is fitting, I think, considering that soccer, as always, has returned to surround and impregnate my vida cotidiana. After my first week here, I found a futsal court across the river and about a block away, and since then I've been going, about once or twice a week, to play. I guess you could say that I've been making more friends - since arriving at Duke the sport has most impacted me not as a means to stay fit but as an introduction to some of my best friends (Larson, I'm looking at you!). It was about 6p on a Sunday the first time that I showed up there - an hour that I've since learned is dedicated to the kids. I went with my Turkish friend from class (who, I should mention, has since been banned from the court because he doesn't know how to control his temper when he plays....oops....) and we joined the youths. Mostly boys, but a couple girls in whom I could see much of my younger self, swarmed the court - the little ones versus the slightly more mature but also more arrogant adolescents. Regardless of the age playing, the rules of this court are the same: 4 field players + a keeper on each side, games to 2 goals, king of the court-style. But there's also a level of hierarchy I've not experienced while playing pick-up in the US. There is, I'm beginning to realize, a subtle distinction between the regulars here and the guys that just drop in from time to time and the newbies like me. With the end of each individual game, the winning team reserves the right to swap players as they like. Do something to have pissed them off, and even though you won you may be kicked off the team in favor of someone on the bench that they've met previously. The first three or four times I ventured out to the court, it was a constant battle of proving myself. By the kids I was quickly accepted, by the adolescents quickly rejected until they found themselves three goals down in a slightly longer game when there was no one on the bench waiting to play. Anyone roughly over the age of 35 seems to have no problem with letting me have a shot to prove myself, but I have to be vocal about it. By far the most difficult age group to break into has been my own (roughly anyone between the ages of 16 and 25 takes a lot of convincing). I'd like to brag for a moment now that I was invited to join a winning team within the first 30 seconds of my arrival at the court today. It was, quite possibly, the ultimate sign of respect. While playing with the kids that first day, I had the opportunity to speak with one of their fathers who was more or less making sure that no fights broke out and that the boys made sure to include both  the girls and the younger players. He had two kids their, a son of 11 years and a daughter of 8, and he explained to me that they came from a slightly better part of town, but that they come, every Sunday afternoon, to this park to play because it is a court that attracts a high level of talent, an immensely diverse range of players and the court is in good shape. On this court, I've met, among others, 3 venazolanos, a cubano who's about 16 and STILL doesn't trust me, a couple brasilenos who are quickly recognizable by their tendency to move the play from the cement to the air, a Moroccan 19 year-old named Ruben (with a particularly gutterally rolled 'r' at the front of his name) who is ALWAYS at the court - he seems to be more or less the older brother of everyone there, everybody knows him by name, all of the kids always run up and give him huge hugs, and he's on speaking terms with this one homeless guy (at least I assume he's homeless, but I probably shouldn't judge by appearance). Though I've never had and probably never will have a direct conversation with him, this homeless guy is one of my favorite parts of this court. He likes to watch, generally from the back left corner and outside the court's bars, and cheer on his favorites. After my first day their, he'd christened me 'la jugadosa' and every time I'm there, he shouts amicably at the men on the court that they should give me a chance, that they can't just put me on a team but should pass to me too, that they should watch the way I run because they might learn something, that they shouldn't underestimate me when defending because they'll be embarrassed regardless. Generally I head over to the court after I've finished my homework for the day and games are already underway; I always stay until the games break-up, and as we all leave the court, joking and reminiscing about various plays, this homeless guy thanks us all for letting him watch and for not asking him to leave before he does, in fact go his own way.

everyday is an adventure

You might think that reaching a point of some semblance of a daily rhythm would slow things down a bit, make life seem more calm. My experiences this week have proven quite the contrary. Most likely, I think this has to do with the fact that while yes, a routine of daily life in terms of meals and classes and homework has been established, each day continues to bring new experiences and therefore new adventures. If you haven't caught my drift by this point in my trip, I've more or less been developing this idea of a quintessential adventure, I suppose you could call it. My emotions have roller-coastered a bit since arriving here - I keep going back and forth between basking in the fact that I'm privileged enough to be on this trip to Spain and a nagging desire to push the limits of my new found European freedom further and travel more. But then I come back to realize that any weekend of travel is a weekend away from Madrid, a city that I have so come to love for all of its parts and of which I still have so much more to explore. I think I've finally come to the conclusion (at least temporarily) for my definition of an adventure, a new take on life, perhaps (or at least a better articulated one). Every day is an adventure waiting to happen. It doesn't matter what you do or where you go, who you're with or or without, as long as you make the most of it. As long as you go out with the intention of pushing your boundaries a little bit further, in some direction or other, and forge an exploration. I suppose that is to say that the only way not to have an adventure a day would be to hide, either in doors or behind the shelter of a monotonous routine.

And so as I've been out adventuring and whatnot over the past week, the time to dedicate to updating this blog has fallen by the wayside a bit. Although I wish I could do each of these events the justice of their own posts, I suppose a list will in this case have to suffice as tomorrow morning's class will find my group of five presenting about our most recent novel "Agosto, octubre" by Andres Barba and I should probably get some sleep tonight, though I feel as though I could stay and write for hours.

1. "Seis puntos sobre Emma" - While we're here, the Duke in Spain program administration has subscribed us to Madrid Cultura y Arte, a sort of pop-culture and special events advertisement group. We get weekly emails with random events around the city and have a little card (that honestly isn't often all that useful) that can get us discounts at very select places. While most of the events aren't conveniently timed with respect to our program, Monday night they discounted a new movie Seis puntos sobre Emma about a blind woman who wants a baby but doesn't think she knows how to love someone. It was a refreshing breath of optimistic air to contrast nicely with our class that is actually concentrated about the theme of violence in Spanish arts and history. On the other hand, I think I might actually have liked it in English too. If you're ever randomly looking for a somewhat chick-flicky spanish movie, I'd recommend it.
2. Paella, Gazpacho y Rosquillas - so ironically this one also directly relates to that card/discount thing...last Sunday (yes, that was the day that we got back from Barcelona if you're angling for exact chronology, in which case I apologize that this list is out of order) we took a cooking class! While the size of the class (15) prohibited from quite as much hands-on work in the class, I'm coming home with recipes for all three dishes and a mental picture of how things are supposed to look along each step of the way. That being said, I still think my Angeles makes better paella and gazpacho - over the next couple weeks I think I'm going to have to ask for a private cooking lesson of my own. (Then again, there was that one waiter we met at a desserts cafe a couple weeks ago who gave us his number and offered private cooking lessons. Yeah, no, I don't think we're going to hit that one up....).
3. Toledo - our excursion for the week. We went on Friday and spent literally all day in this gorgeous old city. It was one of my favorite sites from my summer 2010 trip and I was even more excited this time around to have the opportunity to learn even more. For such a small and now largely dead (save for tourism and a bit of artisan work) city, it is SO rich in history. In addition to its title as a former capitol of Spain, Toledo is one of the sites that has, at various points in its history, served as a pivotal religious location for each Islam, Judaism and Catholicism. We visited a TINY mosque that was converted into a church and is now largely just used as a tourist attraction, the local cathedral (a staple on each of our excursions), and the synagogue which also features a large amount of Christian indoctrination and is again now a point of tourism. We were also afforded the opportunity to get lost amongst the towering sand-colored walls and cobble-stone streets - a very fairy-tale like experience if I do say so. Picture the kingdom/castle town in "Tangled" to a tee. The day before our excursion (Thursday) had been the festival of Corpus Christi, so the already breath-taking architecture was still decked out with flags, lanterns, flowers and garlands of all colors.
4. Class movies - in the violence class, they're, well, violent. We've watched La Caza, which was about a bunch of war vets who go on a hunting trip and end up murdering each other as they're over taken by memories and frustrations, as well as Las Vacas, which took place from the end of the 3a Guerra Carlista to the beginning of La Guerra Civil. In the other class, more a more artistic way of looking at the past, we've watched not one, not two, but now THREE movies about Goya, each one more confusing than the last. Ah well, at least I can say that if not for these classes, I'd never have seen these, um, moving films.
5. Spanish TV - Emilio likes to watch TV a lot. He says its his window to the world since walking gives him pain. He spends a large chunk of the day, generally after lunch, flipping back and forth between the news channels. I asked him the other day where he stands on political issues (not that I fully comprehend them myself as politics, no matter how hard I try to focus on and understand them, never cease to fly at least a yard over my head) and he responded, most curiously, that in his position in life holding a specific and/or obstinate stance on any issue doesn't do him any good or bad. He prefers to try to understand as much as he can about all sides of each issue rather than form much of an opinion on anything, which for Caitlin and I has proved quite useful and informative. I think he also really likes talking about this stuff and feeling like he's teaching us about the world. He has so much to say and we're all ears. Emilio also appreciates most other forms of television entertainment - around dinner time I like to sit with him and watch anything and everything from game shows to sitcoms (moment of bragging - it's so exciting to have reached the point where I feel like I can genuinely understand the humor!) to soccer games (including a few women's pro games) to old westerns (he really likes Clint Eastwood) to the Simpsons and Scooby Doo. Watching American programs dubbed in Spanish is one of the oddest things I think I've ever seen. I've yet to get over watching Sarah Jessica Parker parade around NYC in bright pink pants at warp speed (they alter the speed of the image so that the events match up better with the translated words) and rambling in a very distinctly and high pitched Spanish voice.
6. Pick-up -  at some point, I promise I will write a full post about this, but suffice it to say that I've resorted back to my old habits, my most easy means of making friends. In El parque de Atenas, which is across the river and about a block away, I've been playing pick-up ball in a futsal court. I've played with all ages and made all sorts of friends. Although I've never spoken to him directly, I've even won over the respect of an apparently homeless man with a thick gray beard (I assume he lives in or somewhere near the park) who calls me Jugadosa, essentially meaning "the girl who plays ball", and yells at the men on the court to let me play, and then to remember to pass to me.
7. Eurocopa 2012 - 'nuff said.
8. La Carrera Solidaria de Santander - so Caitlin and I ran a 10k this morning. I'll elaborate more on that and the following four adventures tomorrow. For now, I'm beat.
9. A trilingual experience
10. El Rastro part 2
11. Cafe Delic
12. Anita

making friends

I'm growing up. Or at least that's the way it feels. I returned to my homestay from our trip to Barcelona about an hour ago and all I can say is that I feel like I'm growing up. To be honest, I think that this most largely has to do with the fact that this is the first trip of any sort that I've taken (granted, it was a trip within a trip... but still) and been completely and 100% responsible for myself and every decision in the process. I successfully managed to stay within the 400 euro budget I set for myself (including train tickets, lodging for three nights, food, outings and general touristy expenses - I think I overestimated how much I'd spend on food and travel but underestimated the costs of going out while there - good to know for future trip planning). We stayed at Hostal Mambo Tango near the Metro stop Paral-lel and it was incredible. Nothing was fancy, not much was included in the price, and yet I would never have wanted to have stayed there in any other way because it gave me the opportunity to meet, however briefly, so many people. Young travelers through Europe seem to carry themselves with a certain down-to-earth air. Everyone is independent, working their way through their excursions on their own agendas, and yet because of this very independence it makes us all more open. It is unofficially acknowledged that we come from different walks of life, but because none particularly want to be alone however independent we may be, we end up making friends.

Mambo Tango was a youth hostal that's part of a chain of hostals in Barcelona called Sant Jordi, and the age of most travelers ranged between 17 and 26. From our program, we took up four of the thirty-five beds the hostal offered. Incidentally, there were a total of SIX Duke students/alums there (including ourselves). And so I introduce to you the first of the friends I've made.


THE DUKIES
1 - Taylor and Kemal - Both Duke students in our program. Taylor I've known since freshman year through activity in the Duke Catholic Center. Kemal is a year younger than us, Turkish and VERY proud of it, and studying Civil Engineering at Duke. The two of them, Caitlin and I planned our weekend away to Barcelona together.

2 - Ryan - Not actually a participant of Duke in Spain 2012, but Kemal's roommate for the coming year at Duke and doing some sort of alternative immersion program in Madrid as well. He tagged along for this weekend away with us.

3 - Christine - Ok, so this coincidence is actually really cool. Taylor, Kemal, Caitlin and I occupied 4 of 9 beds in the first floor room of the hostal, Christine was also allocated to our room. She graduated from Duke undergrad in 2008 as a pre-med BME, just finished up med school at UPenn and was on the end of her month and a half long trip back-packing through Spain before returning to Durham for residency. I had the opportunity to chat with her quite a bit - who knew I'd actually end up getting applicable life-plan advice from the common room of our hostal?

4 - Brandt, Ian, Sean, Madison, Leasly and Elizabeth - These guys comprised the other group of six from our program that stayed in an apartment right on La Rambla. Brandt is a rising sophomore from Pittsburgh. Ian is my year and was actually in the same six person Spanish class as Caitlin and I fall of our freshman year. Sean is also my year and from New York - he's working on walking onto the Duke LAX team. Madison I actually introduced in my first post - she's from Indiana and plays club soccer with me. Leasly (pronounced Leslie) is a rising sophomore from Los Angeles and in our program in Madrid she and Elizabeth are roommates.

MORE HOSTAL FRIENDS
1 - So I feel bad because I can't actually remember this kid's name, but he's definitely near the top of my list of most interesting people I've ever met. He's half Kenyan and half Indian, but grew up and still lives in England. He's about a year younger than me and at the end of his gap year before starting university in the fall. He spent the first ten of the past twelve months working to save up enough money to backpack through Europe on his own for 45 days and Barcelona was the end of his journey. He'll be studying chemistry when he starts school in the fall, and we talked a lot about the similarities and differences between American and English school systems. He was also in our nine-bed room.

2 - Mateo - A 25 year-old Electrical and Computer Engineer from Mexico who's first words to me were something along the lines of "Before you start talking to me, you should know that I'm a huge nerd". He specializes in plasma and some of the more material science type applications of electrical engineering, and it was actually kind of refreshing to talk engineering and tech with someone (yes I realize I'm professing my own nerdy status here). I've been more or less enjoying my courses here, but talking with Mateo reminded me just how much I do enjoy engineering and science, and I'll confess I kind of covet and could easily see myself living his kind of lifestyle about six years from now if I ultimately decide not to pursue medicine. Talking with Mateo was also particularly fun because his level of English about matched my proficiency in Spanish and so conversations flowed in and out of the two languages easily and almost imperceptibly. The hostal organized a bar crawl in conjunction with a couple of the other Sant Jordi hostals in the middle of Barcelona last night where they paid for our cover and guided us to a couple of places in a less touristy part of the city. While there I introduced Mateo to Long Island Iced Tea, a drink that so fascinated him that I honestly don't know how to describe his excitement about the drink that tasted not quite like iced tea, not quite like lemonade and not at all like alcohol. I thought a few of my Duke friends (you know who you are) might appreciate that little anecdote.

3 - Andrew and crew - Andrew was a year or so out of college and lives in NYC. He majored in English and now works for a company that essentially expedites and sorts out calls to complain about police. I jumped into the conversation where he was explaining his job a little late, so I'm not sure I can actually do justice to how interesting his work sounded, but it seems like he answers, records and sorts calls and complaints to determine whether or not and which kind of authorities should be alerted about them. He was in Barcelona following up a trip to Israel to visit family with his sister and her boyfriend, who were also in Barcelona with him and thus comprised the rest of his 'crew'. They were highly entertaining - the sister was super chill and seemed to walk around in a constant state of embarrassment because her brother and boyfriend had this kind of goof-ball-tag-team relationship that I found highly entertaining. They went on the bar crawl with us and suffice it to say that Andrew and his sister's boyfriend were the reason the middle of the bar became a dance floor. Come to think of it, the middle of the Metro became a music-less dance floor thanks to them as well.

4 - Piotr - Piotr / Pedro / Peter / Peeta was from Poland. Literally, he just up and decided to come to Barcelona to learn Spanish. He's staying at the hostal for three weeks while he takes a course there. Haha, I wish him the best of luck with this endeavor. He had shoulder-length (to be frank, slightly greasy) blonde hair that he pulled back in a ponytail with a neon orange scrunchy while we were out.

5 - Thomas - Originally from Cleveland, now lives in Boston, but went to college in France and China. He lives a kind of mod-podge-ish lifestyle. Maybe well-rounded is a better way to describe it. He studied economics in school and now teaches and tutors college kids in it, in addition to working part time for a small start-up and as a consultant for another small fashion company. He looked like Johnny Depp sans makeup, tattoos and piercings, and honestly his mannerisms and the way he carried himself continued to remind me of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

6 - Daniel - From Portugal but went to school in Madrid. Daniel was absolutely awesome. He worked the evening shift of the front desk of the hostal and was our guide for the bar crawl. He was just super friendly, cooked us lentils for 2 euro a piece our second night there. My conversations with Daniel also flowed in and out of languages, and he was particularly entertained that, thanks to my awesome Brasilian friends, I could understand him more or less when he muttered to himself in Portuguese. Daniel was also like a fountain of knowledge for doing particularly unique stuff around the city - he was the one that had suggested we rent bikes for a couple of hours to get around cheaply and easily, he directed us to the Gracia neighborhood where Caitlin and I wandered for a few hours and honestly which might have been my favorite part of the city, and overall literally just made our stay at the hostal the incredible experience that it was by serving as a catalyst for creating a feel of community amongst the guests.

¡barcelona!

So I don´t have a ton of time to write at the moment, but since I´ve got WIFI (in Spain pronounced wee-fee, I still giggle everytime I hear it) I thought I´d give a quick update. As suggested by the title of this post, I´m in Barcelona! Classes with our program are Monday-Thursday, and most weekends we go on a day trip on Friday. This weekend, however, we´ve been granted a full four-day weekend so about twenty or so of us from the program decided to take advantage of the time to take a trip to Barcelona. I was a little bit hesitant at first to book this trip seeing as there are so many parts of Spain I´ve not yet had been able to experience and I visited Barcelona while on a school trip in the summer of 2010, but so far I couldn´t be happier with my decision to come here. We researched extensively to figure out how we wanted to travel, where we wanted to stay and to get a rough idea of where we might want to eat and what we might want to see while we´re here. I´ve tried to write myself a budget, or at least to give myself an idea of just how much money I´d be spending this weekend. It makes me feel oh so mature, haha. After class yesterday we booked it to take the Metro straight into the train station in Madrid from which we took a highly discounted trip on the AVE (Spain´s super high-speed train) straight to Barcelona in about a two and a half hour long trip. We spent our time taking a break from practicing our Spanish and playing an extensive number of card games (who knew the Turks had a version of BS that requires even more cunning and deceit than our American version). Five of us booked a very highly rated and well recommended Hostal that´s just out of the center of all of the commotion of Barcelona, while others from our program are staying closer to La Rambla (aka the aforementioned center of all the commotion). We thoroughly enjoyed a dinner of seafood and paella last night and a relaxing morning at the beach today. This has been my first experience with European beaches, thus the whole topless trend took a little getting used to. Caitlin and I chose not to participate in this aspect of the culture, though I would definitely say I´m impressed with the confidence level of all of the women on the beach. People have no shame, and, as far as I can tell, they love their bodies and aren´t at all afraid to show them off. Along those lines, PDA and social conduct seems much more liberal in Spain than in the US, but maybe I´m just slightly prudish... Regardless, in both Barcelona and Madrid, if there´s a couple within two blocks of you, they´re immediately going to show off just how much they, um, care for, each other. Anyway, we then went to the Mercat Saint Josef, a slightly touristy but still very awesome market, for a light lunch of fruit and freshmade pasta before heading out to rent bikes (6 euro for 2 hours) to see some more of the city. If any of you ever venture out to Barcelona (or Madrid for that matter), I highly advise taking a bike tour of the city. It´s a lot more bike friendly than any city I´ve visited and you can just cover so much ground quickly and inexpensively. We toured through a few parks, saw some great architecture and monuments, keeping the cathedral, La Sagrada Familia, which is still under construction as a combination of modern and gothic styles, as our final destination. We then enjoyed a casual cafe in the Gracia neighborhood before heading back. More updates on the adventures of the weekend later!

¡esperanza - hijo de p***!

** disclaimer - started writing this on Friday evening, but didn't have a chance to finish it until now **

To call today a full day would just about be the understatement of this trip. There's so much I'd like to tell you about, but I think I'm going to have to focus on what is most prevalent in my mind at the moment. Well, that sounds a little grave, which it really isn't at all - just a lot to absorb. Tonight was el final de la Copa del Rey, or the championship of the top tier Spanish professional soccer league (La Liga). My homestay is actually extremely close to El Estadio Manzanares, home of Atletico Madrid and host stadium for tonight's game. Unfortunately, the cheapest tickets for this game lay somewhere around 600 euro so attending the game was out of the question, but instead Caitlin and I had the opportunity to watch the game as I've never seen a soccer game before. About half a kilometer along the river from our homestay and in the opposite direction of the stadium was situated an ENORMOUS tent of wide red and white stripes. What should it be but la carpa de los aficionados de Athletic Bilbao. We've been running along the river most days this week, which had given us a chance to witness the construction of the tent. What is more, while watching the news with Emilio earlier this week, we heard that this tent would house 150,000 L of cerveza amongst other refreshments and food.

We went to check things out about two hours before kick-off and already could barely walk through along the paseo that is normally so spacious and quaint. Caitlin's convinced me to run with her a bit since we've been here and the paseo is about 7,60 km long in total. We live at the 2,70 mark and all along the way there are various riverside cafe's and restaurants, ingenious wood and rope playgrounds that remind me of low-ropes courses and lots of architecturally fascinating bridges that cross the river at various parts. To say that the place was packed would be to say that we have to wait in line for tickets to the Duke-UNC game. Everywhere I turned and as far as the eye could see were aficionados clad in the red and white stripes or green accents of Athletic Bilbao. Hands down it was the most incredible way to watch a game of soccer that I have experienced (and believe me, I've seen a remarkable number of partidos). People pushed back and forth as they tried to move throughout the crowd, but mostly they were respectful, everyone giving a knowing and apologetic or forgiving glance as they brushed into people. Even the drunk ones were nice about it!

But the presence of so many supporters of Bilbao had a greater significance - it was more or less a political step, a subtle way of showing up the Spanish government. Bilbao is located in El Pais Vasco, in English known as the Basque country. In recent years, what with the economic crisis and everything, this region has been talking of seceding and asserting itself as its own country to try to shed some of the pressures of Spain's collective debt. By so many flooding the streets of Madrid, Spain's gubernatorial capitol, for a game that they were pretty much guaranteed to lose the Bilbao fans of all ages and walks of life quietly demonstrated their presence. What is more, the Basques have their own language, the only sub-dialect spoken in Spain that doesn't really sound like what we normally think of as Spanish (Castellano, the language most popularly spoken in Spain) called Euskera. It was interesting, as we talked a bit with some chicos about our age that so ingrained in them was this more or less peaceful rebellion against Madrid that though they could speak and understand Castellano just fine, they elected to reply to us in broken English mixed with Euskera. We had a couple of kind of funny experiences with this language barrier, to be honest. One guy (25 would be a low estimate for his age, I think) told me he was in love with me and gave his number but not his name, at which point Caitlin and I decided to pretend to catch sight of a friend in the crowd and politely excused ourselves to find 'our friend'. Towards the end of the game we were having a rather broken and cyclic conversation with a couple of boys closer to our age (I'd say they were between 19-22). They kept saying something along the lines of "While you are in Spain, be careful of the Spanish boys. Basque boys are the good ones. Good Basque boys." I'm not entirely sure what they were trying to achieve with this, but we could share a good laugh and they taught us a bunch of the cheers for Athletic Bilbao, which unfortunately have two many maldicciones for me to want to write them out. Suffice it to say that the title of this post was the tamest of these cheers.

las fotos de alcalá de henares

Our excursion of the weekend was to Alcalá de Henares yesterday. Historical significance? It was the first ever 'campus town', complete with its own traditions of embarrassing students who flunk, its own prison for suspensions and courtyards upon courtyards of  gorgeous flowers and buildings. I think if I attended a university like that I'd never get any studying done because I'd always be staring at everything around me. At least Duke's got a couple of eye sores (read: Gross Chem) to keep me from always walking around in awe!

algunas fotos

I've given you a lot of words lately and while I still haven't quite found the time to finish my account of our time in Salamanca, I figured I'd at least let you see the pictures!

Pretty much every Spanish city has a Plaza Mayor, where people gather for to eat, socialize, play some pick-up, protest, etc. This is Salamanca's. Fun fact from our tour - there are small bas relief head-shot portraits of each of the rulers of Spain that adorn each of the square columns at about eye level.

On the walls of the Universidad Salamanca you can see many variations of this symbol painted next to a name and a year. The symbols are comprised of the letters from the word VICTOR and upon reaching a certain degree of education at this university, you're privileged with the ability to commemorate yourself with your in this way.

So I've become mildly obsessed with the ceilings in each of the palaces and cathedrals we've visited (though I've done a poor job of documenting this). Cathedrals take hundreds of years to construct and over time, the  architectural traditions and tendencies change. By looking at the ceiling, you can tell roughly when things were finished based on the style of the arches. Unfortunately, I don't remember what all of the different types we heard about were, but I can tell you that (and this is especially true in the palaces where you can see architectural influences from various cultures, most prominently the Arab culture) there's also a bit of symbolism in the way the ceiling arches do or do not connect. The Romans made everything arc in a perfect circle and the arcs generally all met at a point as if to pay tribute to the one all powerful God. Though also monotheistic, the Arab way of paying tribute to this idea (not shown in either of the photos below) was to have all of the arcs convene in a polygon as if to say He comes from everywhere and connects everything.

This was a view from inside the courtyard of the University. The surrounding walls were filled with those victor symbols.

Outside the Cathedral, one of the facades was recently restored and when it was done, they hid an astronaut in the sculptures.

This was in the palace. Apparently before a big exam or thesis defense or something of the sort, a student would sit where you can see Carmen Ana, and the surrounding benches would be filled with his professors. As he studied, they would give him advice and whatnot to aid in his preparation. Behind her, you can see a wall that exemplifies the strong presence of Arab decorations in the palace.

On the base of a tomb in the Alcazar, the fortified palace I've been referring to, you can see a lion, a dog and a rabbit. Throughout the building, these three animals were featured many times, respectively symbolizing la vigilancia, la fieldad y la inteligencia.

This is one of la fachadas about which Carmen Ana could spend hours explaining. Impressive, isn't it?

On a column on the facade of one of the university entrances, there is a frog on top of a skull. It is said that the student who finds this frog on his own will have better luck with his studies. Symbolically, the frog is supposed to have something to do with education being able to purge the mind of sinful thought as it makes us wiser to the ways of the world.

In high school, we read the book Lazarillo de Tormes that has a lot of cultural and historical significance for Spain as it was one of the first novellas picarescas, meaning it was one of the first that didn't try to idealize or idolize life but rather laugh at it from the point of view of an orphaned rascal. This photo is a view of the Cathedral in Salamanca from the bridge that adorns a few of the scenes from this story.

While walking along the bridge, we made a friend. Apparently it's relatively normal to walk an eight year-old albino ferret by leash and harness in Salamanca.

Las casa de las conchas, also known as the 'house of the shells', is another big monument in Salamanca.