When I chose Spain for my study abroad experience, I chose it to for the language barrier. I wanted to challenge myself and learn a new language. My goal, however ambitious, is to be able to say I am bilingual by December. Last week was the first time I actually started moving towards that goal.
I signed up for a program here at Universitat Autonoma Barcelona, called Program Tandem. Basically, it is a program that sets you up with other students who want to learn a different language. For half of the time, you speak in Spanish; the other half, in English.
I had my first meeting with my intercambio last Thursday. His name is David and he is from Mexico (the irony of learning Spanish from someone not from Spain is not lost on me). But Barcelona is extremely diverse, and it's actually better that he is not a native Catalan, because quite frankly Catalan is a language I did not expect to be so different from Spanish.
Anyways, I met him at Plaza Catalunya and we went to a place for coffee (which I drank, despite my feelings about coffee...but I didn't want to be rude since I had heard previously that Spanish guys always pay for girls when they go out, dating or not. This fact proved to be true). He also gave me the double cheek kisses upon meeting me. He asked if in the States we did one or two, since in Mexico apparently it is only one and in Spain they do both. I told him in the States we like our personal space.
I think talking with David might be one of the most enriching experiences I have while I am abroad. He didn't know what Massachusetts was, or Boston, which was more surprising. Most Europeans know California, New York City, and Boston for the Yankee history. Some have heard of Texas. In fact, one Spaniard thought that was where I was from. There's a sure sign of someone who has never heard a southern accent!
Anyways, meeting with him was a huge step for me. In America, never, ever, ever would I have met a strange guy in the middle of a city at a metro stop to get coffee. But being abroad is all about saying yes to things that scare you.
I said yes to this, and I met a really cool person who helped me out a lot with my Spanish in just a couple of hours-but I ended up learning a lot more than some new words. Things I learned from David:
1. I still don't really like coffee.
2. I have a very thick American accent.
3. The equivalent of the name "Matthew", Mateo, is an ugly name that no one uses in Mexico unless you are essentially a hillbilly and country bumpkin. HA!
4. They only do one kiss on the cheek in Mexico.
5. It is going to take years before I am okay with virtual strangers entering my personal space.
6. Apparently not every country ships their kids off to college at 18. In Spain and Mexico, you don't move out until you get married.
And most importantly, not everyone knows what Massachusetts is.
Something to consider.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
La Mercè: Correfoc
You would think with all the numerous Spanish classes I would figure out what "correfoc" meant before I was actually there. Wrong. It was only when I was on the side of the street watching devils dance and twirl torches with sparks, people running and screaming in every direction, that it occurred to me. "Corre", en español, means "run." Foc, although not Spanish, is clearly Catalan for "fire".
Therefore, fire run.
And that is indeed what it was. The Correfoc is a tradition which dates back to Medieval times, where people would run through the streets with fire and purge the bad spirits one day a year. It lives on in Barcelona during this festival, which, if I haven't mentioned it yet, is one of the biggest celebrations the city puts on.
This massive parade begins at one end of a long street towards the beach, with a structure that (quite appropriately) is called "Hell's Gate." Gruesome creatures, drummers with red and black face paint, and dozens of people dressed as devils emerged from the Satanic arch, wielding torches and sparklers that spun wildly, singeing and burning anyone in range. As the Correfoc sizzled it's way down the street, the city looked like it was on fire, with smoke and red hues rising from the crowd. The metros moving underground shook the pavement and in the distance you could hear laughter and screams, as well as loud pops from the firecrackers going off. When the great beasts ran out of steam, they would pause and be re-lit, and then the helicopter fireworks would twirl once again. Most intelligent people were wearing long pants, scarves, hats, goggles and boots; my friends and I, on the other hand, brought light cardigans to cover up with in case the sparks happened to get us.
Well, didn't we look like fools.
I ended up putting on my large pink sunglasses and wrapping my sweater around my hair to avoid potential baldness. Also, mental note, sandals are a bad idea if you are going to run in the Correfoc. I have a small burn on my foot that I am proud to say happened dancing in fire on the streets of Barcelona.
The whole tradition of Correfoc was simply unique and so unreal that it is impossible to wrap my head around it. I am so grateful for the amazing opportunity I was given to experience Barcelona in this way. Oddly enough, it feels wrong to say I am experiencing Spain. Barcelona is a culture in itself.
I can't get over how much fun I had dancing in the streets with demons, to music that spoke no language, with devil drums pounding and sparks tingling at my feet. Sometimes being burned is worth it.
Therefore, fire run.
And that is indeed what it was. The Correfoc is a tradition which dates back to Medieval times, where people would run through the streets with fire and purge the bad spirits one day a year. It lives on in Barcelona during this festival, which, if I haven't mentioned it yet, is one of the biggest celebrations the city puts on.
This massive parade begins at one end of a long street towards the beach, with a structure that (quite appropriately) is called "Hell's Gate." Gruesome creatures, drummers with red and black face paint, and dozens of people dressed as devils emerged from the Satanic arch, wielding torches and sparklers that spun wildly, singeing and burning anyone in range. As the Correfoc sizzled it's way down the street, the city looked like it was on fire, with smoke and red hues rising from the crowd. The metros moving underground shook the pavement and in the distance you could hear laughter and screams, as well as loud pops from the firecrackers going off. When the great beasts ran out of steam, they would pause and be re-lit, and then the helicopter fireworks would twirl once again. Most intelligent people were wearing long pants, scarves, hats, goggles and boots; my friends and I, on the other hand, brought light cardigans to cover up with in case the sparks happened to get us.
Well, didn't we look like fools.
I ended up putting on my large pink sunglasses and wrapping my sweater around my hair to avoid potential baldness. Also, mental note, sandals are a bad idea if you are going to run in the Correfoc. I have a small burn on my foot that I am proud to say happened dancing in fire on the streets of Barcelona.
The whole tradition of Correfoc was simply unique and so unreal that it is impossible to wrap my head around it. I am so grateful for the amazing opportunity I was given to experience Barcelona in this way. Oddly enough, it feels wrong to say I am experiencing Spain. Barcelona is a culture in itself.
I can't get over how much fun I had dancing in the streets with demons, to music that spoke no language, with devil drums pounding and sparks tingling at my feet. Sometimes being burned is worth it.
A backstage view of the devils and beasts getting ready beforehand!
Hell's Gate
All that light and smoke in the distance? That would be the Correfoc on it's way.
And it's getting closer...
It's here!
The drummers often paused to play in a circle.
Running for our lives!
Monday, September 24, 2012
La Mercè: La Sardana
La Sardana is the traditional Catalan folk dance that is quite talked up here in the city; simply a "must see"!
We went to witness the grand production in front of the Barcelona Cathedral by Plaza Sant Jaume, where many of the events of La Mercè were taking place. We were expecting extravagant costumes and exciting music; you don't do it in Barcelona if you don't do it big. Sardana, however, seems to be the exception. The orchestra started to play and suddenly a group of elderly locals joined hands and began dancing in a circle. This video below is about as intense as it got. Apparently, Sardana is a dying art of the previous generations here in Catalonia. My favorite part was the dance shoes they wore!
We went to witness the grand production in front of the Barcelona Cathedral by Plaza Sant Jaume, where many of the events of La Mercè were taking place. We were expecting extravagant costumes and exciting music; you don't do it in Barcelona if you don't do it big. Sardana, however, seems to be the exception. The orchestra started to play and suddenly a group of elderly locals joined hands and began dancing in a circle. This video below is about as intense as it got. Apparently, Sardana is a dying art of the previous generations here in Catalonia. My favorite part was the dance shoes they wore!
La Mercè: Opening Ceremonies
Every year in Barcelona, this weekend is one of celebration for the Catalan people. La Mercè is a holiday to recognize the feast day of Our Lady of Mercy, an important saint in Catalonia. (Yes, I totally have a Wikipedia window open on my computer right now.) I had no idea what to expect for the festival, but I had heard from numerous people that this was a weekend that must be spent in Barcelona. They were so right.
The final famous aspect of festivals in Barcelona are castells, or human towers. We have been told repeatedly that these are a spectacle we simply had to see. At the opening night, we were a little disappointed, because we were stuck behind hundreds of people and couldn't really get a good view. (All of these pictures were literally taken by holding my camera way above my head and hoping for the best. Hence the quality.) One thing we had been sort of excited about the whole time was that we were brushing shoulders with a whole group of people dressed all in white with red bands around their stomachs, some of the little kids wearing helmets that said BARCELONA on them in clear letters. We knew they were probably a human tower team.
We noticed they had a little diagram they seemed to be studying. "That's odd," we thought, "Shouldn't they have planned this out a littler earlier than right now?"
Suddenly, they all clustered together. We were ushered by guards who appeared out of no where to take a few steps back. A human tower was erupting right next to us! I managed to snap a picture in all the chaos:
The excitement didn't stop with that. All of those animals, gegants, and traditional dancers starting parading through the crowd and we were pushed even farther to the side. But that didn't mean we weren't up close. This picture was taken without zoom:
See the firecrackers in his mouth? A dragon came by next, and his lovely sparklers exploded right in front of us. I faced two of my childhood fears at La Mercè: loud noises and scary costumes.
After the parade ended, I thought the pomp and circumstance was over. Wrong. Fireworks started shooting off of the roof of the building next to us. We were thrilled at first, until little shards of firework pieces started hitting us in the face and getting stuck in our eyes. We were all tearing up as we watched the colors shatter over the night sky in Barcelona.
The festivities on Friday night were really the first time I got a taste of the intense tradition here. The opening celebration of La Mercè consisted of gegants, castells, music, dancing, and fireworks. Plaza Sant Jaume was overwhelmed with people of all ages, all surrounding a wide stage flanked by a larger one where the orchestra was seated.
As the band played music, enormous animal figures were brought to the stage one at a time and traditional dances were performed. These included dragons, a lion, a horse, un toro (a bull), and some sort of bird. A partridge maybe? Anyways, here they all are, most with firecrackers in their mouth which exploded unexpectedly.
Another main feature of Catalan celebrations are gegants, enormous paper mache human figurines that, in my opinion, were quite terrifying. Besides being quite impressive on sight, these figures also did traditional dances-impressive in it's own right because they are held up by one very strong person. Ironically, despite my lifelong fear of costumes and characters, the King and Queen's performance was my favorite part of the ceremony. They were paraded out onto the stage and did a dance together, dipping and stepping in tune with the music. You could tell they were having a conversation with each other through the movements. What this means, I am not entirely sure, but I do know they represent the royals from when Catalonia was an independent kingdom.
We noticed they had a little diagram they seemed to be studying. "That's odd," we thought, "Shouldn't they have planned this out a littler earlier than right now?"
Suddenly, they all clustered together. We were ushered by guards who appeared out of no where to take a few steps back. A human tower was erupting right next to us! I managed to snap a picture in all the chaos:
And here it is in completion (the top 3 levels, anyway. They put little kids up there):
See the firecrackers in his mouth? A dragon came by next, and his lovely sparklers exploded right in front of us. I faced two of my childhood fears at La Mercè: loud noises and scary costumes.
After the parade ended, I thought the pomp and circumstance was over. Wrong. Fireworks started shooting off of the roof of the building next to us. We were thrilled at first, until little shards of firework pieces started hitting us in the face and getting stuck in our eyes. We were all tearing up as we watched the colors shatter over the night sky in Barcelona.
Sitges
This little town is about 45 minutes outside of Barcelona. It is one of the hidden jewels that tourists don't know about; a lot of Catalan people come here when they want to spend a day in the sun. There are gorgeous beaches and lot of local color. I've been twice so far; once with my program and once with my friends to relax. It actually reminds me a lot of Venice, with tiny, colorful alleyways, plentiful flower boxes, and few cars once you get away from the main road. It is also great place to go shopping and find good food; I found delicious chocolate truffle ice cream at a little shop along one of the small streets. You can really get a taste for the quieter side of Spanish life while walking around Sitges.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Montserrat
I went to Montserrat, or serrated mountain, on a day trip with my program. It lies about an hour away from Barcelona and is a popular place to go for some peace and quiet, as well to enjoy nature. An old monastery is there where about 20 or so boys go to school and study to be monks.
The ride up the mountain was breathtaking.
I am finding that even though art, architecture, and man-made structures fascinate me, natural beauty is still what brings me a quietness to my core. A lot of the other people in my group were complaining about the "hike" we did for about 20 minutes up a cobblestone path, but I spent the whole time planning how I would get back there and climb the whole thing.
Sidenote: One of the most impressive things about Spanish women is that they go everywhere in heels. Our guide did this walk in a pair of cute sandals with a wedge. As for me, I rocked the ASICS and a backpack.
Unfortunately, I did not find as much solitude and serenity at Montserrat as I would have liked. A meditation that took place earlier that morning had recently ended and the mountain was filled with flocks of people dressed in white and catching up with friends. Along with that (and this will forever boggle my mind) people were smoking everywhere. Who goes to nature to smoke? I guess the anti-tobacco campaign is really an American thing.
But Montserrat was beautiful; definitely one of my favorite places I have been so far. It's a very interesting piece of land because certain parts of the mountain have different climates. In some areas, it was dry rock with sparse vegetation. Others were lush with green trees.
The story goes that a small statue of the Virgin Mary was found in a cave there, and now it is stored in the chapel and is a great symbol for the people. The entire atmosphere of Montserrat was very spiritual and, although Catholicism is clearly an important practice, there was also a definite attention paid to being one with the earth. It was a bit chaotic, with bikers, hikers, tourists, and oh, an enormous group of American study abroad students. Lesson learned: If you ever want to make a place peaceful, don't tell Americans about it.
The ride up the mountain was breathtaking.
I am finding that even though art, architecture, and man-made structures fascinate me, natural beauty is still what brings me a quietness to my core. A lot of the other people in my group were complaining about the "hike" we did for about 20 minutes up a cobblestone path, but I spent the whole time planning how I would get back there and climb the whole thing.
Sidenote: One of the most impressive things about Spanish women is that they go everywhere in heels. Our guide did this walk in a pair of cute sandals with a wedge. As for me, I rocked the ASICS and a backpack.
Unfortunately, I did not find as much solitude and serenity at Montserrat as I would have liked. A meditation that took place earlier that morning had recently ended and the mountain was filled with flocks of people dressed in white and catching up with friends. Along with that (and this will forever boggle my mind) people were smoking everywhere. Who goes to nature to smoke? I guess the anti-tobacco campaign is really an American thing.
But Montserrat was beautiful; definitely one of my favorite places I have been so far. It's a very interesting piece of land because certain parts of the mountain have different climates. In some areas, it was dry rock with sparse vegetation. Others were lush with green trees.
The story goes that a small statue of the Virgin Mary was found in a cave there, and now it is stored in the chapel and is a great symbol for the people. The entire atmosphere of Montserrat was very spiritual and, although Catholicism is clearly an important practice, there was also a definite attention paid to being one with the earth. It was a bit chaotic, with bikers, hikers, tourists, and oh, an enormous group of American study abroad students. Lesson learned: If you ever want to make a place peaceful, don't tell Americans about it.
Friday, September 21, 2012
¡Ladrones!
Robbers!
Or, more accurately, carteristas. Pickpockets.
This story is about a week overdue, but it is worth telling. Last Friday, I began my first real weekend in Barcelona; the previous had been in Italy and the one before that doesn't count because I was moving in. A.k.a, I was far too busy getting lost and catching up on sleep to do anything really exciting. But by the third week, I was ready to actually do some of the things people come to this city for. One of them is the Magic Fountain of Montjuic.
Here is a picture of it before the catastrophe:
When people come up to you voicing that question, it is often a pickpocket trick to get you to open your bag and either drop something or be distracted. I looked down and my purse (which, by the way, was across my shoulder and in front of me laying against my stomach) was open, clasp undone and wallet missing. I started to panic and my next decision was probably not the wisest one I have ever made. I asked Kelsey who she thought the pickpocket was and she pointed to a man in a red shirt talking to some other people.
Now, let us pause for a moment and consider my options:
1. Accept that I was out 30 euro and needed to cancel a couple of cards.
2. Call the police.
3. Storm up to the supposed robber to get my wallet back.
Naturally, I went with the insane choice. I approached the man and told him someone took my wallet. What I was expecting him to do, I'm really not sure. Hand it back to me? Apologize? Break out a knife and stab me? Really, the possibilities of the way that moment could have gone are endless. But the way the road turned was not at all the route I expected.
The man in the red shirt stopped what he was doing and motioned for me to follow him. He must have seen the fear on my face because he flashed a badge and said, "Policia! I'm police!"
My American upbringing has taught me that anyone who flashes a badge is a liar. So there I was, being led into a criminal's brilliant (and so far, quite successful) trap. I followed him down the bridge a bit and saw a line of dirty, grungy, quite irritated people against the wall. Words were exchanged and suddenly a loud slap broke the air as one of them received a blow on the cheek. That's not how police do it in America, was all I could think. Someone took a massive leap down and into the street, escaping or chasing, I still don't know.
I do know, that within a few seconds my wallet was back in my hands and the man in the red shirt was asking for ID and if I could come with him. This was the point where I probably should have realized he was real policia; I had my wallet back, so logically there was nothing to lure me into a bigger, scarier trap.
But I wasn't actually thinking in terms of logic. I followed him for a reason that will probably terrify my parents; I trusted him. As soon as we were out of the chaos of the bridge, I felt safe walking next to my friend in the red shirt. He had kind eyes and I knew he would take care of us. My friends were behind me, asking if I thought this was legit, and I shrugged, unsure of how to explain that I knew he was police and we were going to be fine. He realized we were hesitating and stopped to talk to me. He told that I could come with him to the station and fill out a report, in which case the Romanian robbers would go to jail, or I was free to go.
You get one guess what I did.
(Our friends spoke the truth! The place was filled with police- in the yellow jackets sitting at the bar!)
And so, as I said, going up to the man in the red shirt to demand my wallet back ended up bringing me down a road I did not expect to take. Tenía mucha suerte. I was very lucky.
Or, more accurately, carteristas. Pickpockets.
This story is about a week overdue, but it is worth telling. Last Friday, I began my first real weekend in Barcelona; the previous had been in Italy and the one before that doesn't count because I was moving in. A.k.a, I was far too busy getting lost and catching up on sleep to do anything really exciting. But by the third week, I was ready to actually do some of the things people come to this city for. One of them is the Magic Fountain of Montjuic.
Here is a picture of it before the catastrophe:
Pretty, right? Kind of like the water shows at Disney World, with music and the colors changing and everything over the top. The best view is from two bridges overlooking the spectacle at Plaza Espanya,which is where we were.
So I took this picture, changed my camera to movie mode, turned around to yell at my friend Amber for talking while I was recording, and then a few seconds later my other friend, Kelsey, tells us all to check our bags, because someone just asked her if she was missing anything.When people come up to you voicing that question, it is often a pickpocket trick to get you to open your bag and either drop something or be distracted. I looked down and my purse (which, by the way, was across my shoulder and in front of me laying against my stomach) was open, clasp undone and wallet missing. I started to panic and my next decision was probably not the wisest one I have ever made. I asked Kelsey who she thought the pickpocket was and she pointed to a man in a red shirt talking to some other people.
Now, let us pause for a moment and consider my options:
1. Accept that I was out 30 euro and needed to cancel a couple of cards.
2. Call the police.
3. Storm up to the supposed robber to get my wallet back.
Naturally, I went with the insane choice. I approached the man and told him someone took my wallet. What I was expecting him to do, I'm really not sure. Hand it back to me? Apologize? Break out a knife and stab me? Really, the possibilities of the way that moment could have gone are endless. But the way the road turned was not at all the route I expected.
The man in the red shirt stopped what he was doing and motioned for me to follow him. He must have seen the fear on my face because he flashed a badge and said, "Policia! I'm police!"
My American upbringing has taught me that anyone who flashes a badge is a liar. So there I was, being led into a criminal's brilliant (and so far, quite successful) trap. I followed him down the bridge a bit and saw a line of dirty, grungy, quite irritated people against the wall. Words were exchanged and suddenly a loud slap broke the air as one of them received a blow on the cheek. That's not how police do it in America, was all I could think. Someone took a massive leap down and into the street, escaping or chasing, I still don't know.
I do know, that within a few seconds my wallet was back in my hands and the man in the red shirt was asking for ID and if I could come with him. This was the point where I probably should have realized he was real policia; I had my wallet back, so logically there was nothing to lure me into a bigger, scarier trap.
But I wasn't actually thinking in terms of logic. I followed him for a reason that will probably terrify my parents; I trusted him. As soon as we were out of the chaos of the bridge, I felt safe walking next to my friend in the red shirt. He had kind eyes and I knew he would take care of us. My friends were behind me, asking if I thought this was legit, and I shrugged, unsure of how to explain that I knew he was police and we were going to be fine. He realized we were hesitating and stopped to talk to me. He told that I could come with him to the station and fill out a report, in which case the Romanian robbers would go to jail, or I was free to go.
You get one guess what I did.
There I am, first time in foreign police station filling out my very own foreign police papers! They were all in Catalan, which I was desperately trying to translate, so my friend got me some copies in English. He and another undercover cop were seriously two of the nicest people I have yet to meet in Europe. They did all the work, explaining each part and even writing my name and information down for me. I have copies of all of it, which the policeman (my hero!) handed to me with a grin, "Here-souvenirs from Barcelona!"
Oddly enough, my favorite moment of the entire night was when we were walking out and Kelsey asked them for recommendations for a good restaurant nearby. We were all quite hungry after the commotion. As they thought about it, I specified a bit-"¡No hay ladrones! Where there aren't any robbers!" They all laughed and I was so pleased with myself because I had a used a vocabulary word I wrote on a flashcard in high school. Señor Provost would be thrilled.
After my clever little joke, the police sent us to restaurant they said was cheap and very safe, police always go there.
And so, as I said, going up to the man in the red shirt to demand my wallet back ended up bringing me down a road I did not expect to take. Tenía mucha suerte. I was very lucky.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Dear Mom,
I bought this chicken today and now I have no idea what to do with it.
We don't have an oven and we only have 3 saucepans to cook with. I bought rice to make chicken and rice but what else do you put on the chicken to make it taste good?
Sincerely,
I Should Have Learned to Cook Before I Came to Spain and Lived by Myself
Sincerely,
I Should Have Learned to Cook Before I Came to Spain and Lived by Myself
A seagull just walked on the roof outside my window
On that note, it is worth mentioning that this past weekend I went swimming in the Mediterranean for the first time! It was the perfect temperature and the current wasn't that bad, although it did get deep pretty fast. So warm compared to the Atlantic Ocean!
Although I do miss New England. I have to say, this warm weather here is killing me, especially when I have to descend into the hell fire that is the metros. I am keeping my room at about 60 degrees (thank goodness for the AC) and at night I happily sleep with two blankets. One of my friends here doing a home stay is also from New England, and last week it was supposed to be 62 degrees one night. Her host mom asked if she wanted an extra comforter.
I guess I really am on the other side of the world.
Although I do miss New England. I have to say, this warm weather here is killing me, especially when I have to descend into the hell fire that is the metros. I am keeping my room at about 60 degrees (thank goodness for the AC) and at night I happily sleep with two blankets. One of my friends here doing a home stay is also from New England, and last week it was supposed to be 62 degrees one night. Her host mom asked if she wanted an extra comforter.
I guess I really am on the other side of the world.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
The Mask Man
Here we go everyone! Yet another post about Venice. Sick of hearing about Italia yet?
Anyways, now I am going to talk about one of the most famous souvenirs you can find there-Venetian masks.
I did want to bother when we actually got to the city on the water, when I saw how beautiful some of them were, but my pragmatic self (I know she doesn't come out too often, but for some reason I heard her voice regarding this) told me it was irrational and it would break in my backpack. Instead, I took some illegal photographs of them (there were signs everywhere saying NO FOTOS).
I don't feel too bad about it though, because I am about to give credit to the artist who did these particular masterpieces. All of the pictures you see above are from one store in particular, a little hidden one not quite in the touristy section. These were the most beautiful masks I saw the whole time I was in Italy. You can probably guess which one I would give an arm and a leg for. Hint: it's my favorite color and has an enormous feather.
This store was really tiny and literally overwhelmed with masks, hanging from every possible surface and each one perfectly unique. There was a man sitting behind a wide counter surrounded by paper mache molds and painting a mask. We complimented him on how beautiful his work was, and then one of my friends asked him how long he had been making them. He looked confused and asked, "¿Hablas español?"
Sidenote: This completely thrilled me, because it meant I got to use my Spanish and also because I had not experienced culture shock until I got to Italy. Once I stepped off the train, I realized everything was in Italian. Not a surprise, but I hadn't realized how comfortable I was in Spain, even with my minimal Spanish learning. By the end of the Italy trip, I was so excited to get back to a Spanish speaking country!
I responded and asked him how many years he had been making the masks. He continued painting and said, "Hace veintiseis años." For 26 years. He paused, searching for the words, and then shrugged. "Es mi vida." It's my life.
This mask man, talented and quiet, is hidden on one of the side streets of Venezia, painting and sparkling right along with the glitter he puts on the masks. When he said, "It's my life," I realized there was a story there. I wish I had bought a mask from him. I wish I had stayed and talked to him longer. But more than that, I wish I had pulled out a notebook and written down what he had to say, because I am sure it was beautiful. Since I can't do that, this will have to suffice.
Lost to the world, attached to a violin
My favorite day in Italy may have been Tuscany, but my favorite night was in Venice. We had spent the day island-hopping and the city truly was beautiful in the sunlight; so colorful and peaceful. The two islands we spent most of our time on were Murano and Burano; Murano is famous for it's glass-making, and Burano for lace. Both were charming and enjoyable. Although I must admit, by the time we were eating pizza and pasta that night, I was so sick of both foods. It was delicious, but four days straight...my body was tired.
We took the water bus back to the main island to walk around and experience Venice anoche-by night. We were joking that it only took 5 days in Barcelona for us to be ruined-there is certainly nothing like the nightlife in Barcelona.
But I loved the night in Venice for a different reason. We went to the Basilica di San Marco, and it was stunning, especially since we had yet to see it. Such detailed, intricate architecture, overwhelming and all-encompassing. I could not stop taking pictures, but every picture I took made me sad-the beauty simply was not captured in my hands the way I wanted it to be.
Eventually, we sat down to enjoy the music of a professional violinist and band playing. We were probably the youngest people there-most were older couples or life-long friends, sitting together, having a drink, bathed in yellow light and enjoying the soft, quiet evening filled with music. Normally, I lose patience listening to a song without words. I constantly want to be thinking, moving, active and impatient. Forward motion is in my nature, as is impulsiveness.
I should stop and listen more often. As I watched the violinist play, his hands moving and sweat on his forehead, I noticed how perfectly his violin fit in the crook of his neck. The song came to a crescendo and his entire body seemed to let go. He smiled, his fingers moving quick and the rest of him dancing, flowing, existing in the music. It was so sudden and honest. He looked like he didn't have an audience, but he did not look like he was alone. I realized he never was, not if he had his violin.
And then it happened to me.
I reached in my bag, so glad to feel my journal, stiff and secure, in my backpack. Of course, I had a pen. He started to play my favorite song, Beauty and the Beast. It started coming to me, the way it always does, unbidden and sudden, often at the worst times, when I can't get to a piece of paper and a pen. We are both artists; we just have different instruments. He does not play the violin. He is the violin. I do not write. I am a writer.
So, under the stars in Venice, listening to my favorite song, surrounded by beauty, I got to write and find it within. I grew, a little bit, as an artist that night, growing with the music and with the violinist who I swear looked at me and knew I understood. What a gift for me. I don't even know if what I wrote in my journal, or the poetry I wrote, was any good.
Does it matter? No.
I got to experiment, play, express, and enjoy what I love in a place I have always dreamed of going to. There is nothing more magical than creating, regardless of if anyone else ever experiences it. I experienced it, and that is all God meant for me in Venice.
All writers feel peace with a pen. But how many can say they have felt it to their favorite song, in a city of their dreams, spontaneously?
I can say that.
We took the water bus back to the main island to walk around and experience Venice anoche-by night. We were joking that it only took 5 days in Barcelona for us to be ruined-there is certainly nothing like the nightlife in Barcelona.
But I loved the night in Venice for a different reason. We went to the Basilica di San Marco, and it was stunning, especially since we had yet to see it. Such detailed, intricate architecture, overwhelming and all-encompassing. I could not stop taking pictures, but every picture I took made me sad-the beauty simply was not captured in my hands the way I wanted it to be.
Eventually, we sat down to enjoy the music of a professional violinist and band playing. We were probably the youngest people there-most were older couples or life-long friends, sitting together, having a drink, bathed in yellow light and enjoying the soft, quiet evening filled with music. Normally, I lose patience listening to a song without words. I constantly want to be thinking, moving, active and impatient. Forward motion is in my nature, as is impulsiveness.
I should stop and listen more often. As I watched the violinist play, his hands moving and sweat on his forehead, I noticed how perfectly his violin fit in the crook of his neck. The song came to a crescendo and his entire body seemed to let go. He smiled, his fingers moving quick and the rest of him dancing, flowing, existing in the music. It was so sudden and honest. He looked like he didn't have an audience, but he did not look like he was alone. I realized he never was, not if he had his violin.
And then it happened to me.
I reached in my bag, so glad to feel my journal, stiff and secure, in my backpack. Of course, I had a pen. He started to play my favorite song, Beauty and the Beast. It started coming to me, the way it always does, unbidden and sudden, often at the worst times, when I can't get to a piece of paper and a pen. We are both artists; we just have different instruments. He does not play the violin. He is the violin. I do not write. I am a writer.
So, under the stars in Venice, listening to my favorite song, surrounded by beauty, I got to write and find it within. I grew, a little bit, as an artist that night, growing with the music and with the violinist who I swear looked at me and knew I understood. What a gift for me. I don't even know if what I wrote in my journal, or the poetry I wrote, was any good.
Does it matter? No.
I got to experiment, play, express, and enjoy what I love in a place I have always dreamed of going to. There is nothing more magical than creating, regardless of if anyone else ever experiences it. I experienced it, and that is all God meant for me in Venice.
All writers feel peace with a pen. But how many can say they have felt it to their favorite song, in a city of their dreams, spontaneously?
I can say that.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Let's get artsy.
Esther took this picture of me. Quite frankly, I love it. It offers a more accurate explanation of Tuscany than I can form with words. This is why I am passionate about visual art, as well as the written word; it is often quieter and less distracting than a sentence can be.
Where ever I go, I always miss the trees.
And now, for my favorite part of Italy: Tuscany.
As the days go by, I am getting used to living in a city. Cars aren't beeping at me as much and I have less of a fear to cross the street. Every corner doesn't look the same anymore, although it is still weird that I can walk to the supermarket before class and buy a single apple because I can just stop by on the way home, too. I am even getting used to the cigarette smoke-there are no designated smoking areas in Europe. The entire air is a designated smoking area. Smoke has been blown into my face more than once since I first arrived in London. I am not a fan. But I do have to say, that is the only thing I dislike about Europe so far. That and paying for public toilets.
Do I have a point? Yes. I didn't realize how much I missed wide open spaces, pure oxygen and green scenery until we arrived in Tuscany. We booked our tour and they provided a van to the vineyards for us. The ride up was breathtaking, and every mile away from the city was a mile my whole body relaxed a little. My entire self rejoiced when we pulled up to the little house on the hill and my feet hit dirt. There were skinny little dogs running around everywhere, and horses were tied up to a rickety wooden fence-the horses we were about to ride. The entire experience didn't feel like a tourist excursion at all. The house was so charming, rustic and real. It looked like someone really lived there (they probably did), waking up every morning to the sun over the vineyards and throwing open the window. There was a dark wooden beam ceiling, scratched paint on the walls, bright tablecloths, and massive paintings, wild and imperfect, of horses. I was craving some natural peace, I realized as I looked out the window over the vista.
I was given "Banji," a deep brown horse who did not like me one bit. Every time we walked by trees, he walked so he was free and clear and I was smacked in the face with branches. He also ate everything and fell asleep before we left. Typical. Despite that, horseback riding through Tuscany vineyards was one of the most amazing things I have done in my lifetime. The landscape rolled out around me, and soft, flourishing trees extended as far as the eye could see. A little Border collie mix trotted faithfully alongside our little party (only five of us!) and the grapes on the vine looked really fat and purple. All you could hear were horse's hooves and leather saddles creaking. Patches of light brown and green crisscrossed over the hills, man-made patterns that complemented God's beauty. It was bright and sunny, but not too hot, as we moved in and out of the shade. All I did was lean back in the saddle and pretend I was never leaving the hills of Tuscany.
As the days go by, I am getting used to living in a city. Cars aren't beeping at me as much and I have less of a fear to cross the street. Every corner doesn't look the same anymore, although it is still weird that I can walk to the supermarket before class and buy a single apple because I can just stop by on the way home, too. I am even getting used to the cigarette smoke-there are no designated smoking areas in Europe. The entire air is a designated smoking area. Smoke has been blown into my face more than once since I first arrived in London. I am not a fan. But I do have to say, that is the only thing I dislike about Europe so far. That and paying for public toilets.
Do I have a point? Yes. I didn't realize how much I missed wide open spaces, pure oxygen and green scenery until we arrived in Tuscany. We booked our tour and they provided a van to the vineyards for us. The ride up was breathtaking, and every mile away from the city was a mile my whole body relaxed a little. My entire self rejoiced when we pulled up to the little house on the hill and my feet hit dirt. There were skinny little dogs running around everywhere, and horses were tied up to a rickety wooden fence-the horses we were about to ride. The entire experience didn't feel like a tourist excursion at all. The house was so charming, rustic and real. It looked like someone really lived there (they probably did), waking up every morning to the sun over the vineyards and throwing open the window. There was a dark wooden beam ceiling, scratched paint on the walls, bright tablecloths, and massive paintings, wild and imperfect, of horses. I was craving some natural peace, I realized as I looked out the window over the vista.
I was given "Banji," a deep brown horse who did not like me one bit. Every time we walked by trees, he walked so he was free and clear and I was smacked in the face with branches. He also ate everything and fell asleep before we left. Typical. Despite that, horseback riding through Tuscany vineyards was one of the most amazing things I have done in my lifetime. The landscape rolled out around me, and soft, flourishing trees extended as far as the eye could see. A little Border collie mix trotted faithfully alongside our little party (only five of us!) and the grapes on the vine looked really fat and purple. All you could hear were horse's hooves and leather saddles creaking. Patches of light brown and green crisscrossed over the hills, man-made patterns that complemented God's beauty. It was bright and sunny, but not too hot, as we moved in and out of the shade. All I did was lean back in the saddle and pretend I was never leaving the hills of Tuscany.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Ciao Bella!
Hello, beautiful chorused through the air as we made our way through the street market in Florence, or Firenze. The vendors were pouncing on us, speaking English before we even opened our mouths. One of them told me that something like 60% of their customers are American. We spent a while getting irritated that people could tell where we were from right away, but after pondering, we realized that we were quite the mixed little group. A blonde, an African American, a Korean, and a brunette, all traveling together. Hmmm. What country could they be from? And with sneakers and backpacks? Definitely not American.
However, shopping was amusing. The other girls all got pretty good deals on Italian leather, but I mainly enjoying haggling with the vendors and seeing how low I could get them to drop the price. They were all flirting and claimed they were dropping it just for me, and oh I was in college? They understood, they understood. Their prices were for college students! One said he would give me a discount if I smiled. Charming. Remind me again why I want to give you any of my money?
My favorite part of Florence was the statues and the architecture. Here I am in front of David, and also by a fountain (I am unsure of the name):
However, shopping was amusing. The other girls all got pretty good deals on Italian leather, but I mainly enjoying haggling with the vendors and seeing how low I could get them to drop the price. They were all flirting and claimed they were dropping it just for me, and oh I was in college? They understood, they understood. Their prices were for college students! One said he would give me a discount if I smiled. Charming. Remind me again why I want to give you any of my money?
My favorite part of Florence was the statues and the architecture. Here I am in front of David, and also by a fountain (I am unsure of the name):
Planes, Trains, Pigeons and Cockroaches
You should have seen our faces when we landed in Italy. We were giggly and joyful American girls, exhausted from our first week of classes and ready for 5-day trip. The plan was to get to the station and wait it out since we got in around 1 a.m., and our train was around 6:30 a.m.
Needless to say, the enthusiasm died rapidly as soon as we finished obsessively taking pictures of the beautiful train station and realized the McDonald's across the street was closed. And the man at the train station wouldn't let us in and told us, "This is not a hotel."
Hello, cold hard floor. Thus, we were homeless for roughly 6 hours.
There were quite a few obstacles. We found a lovely place by the door and settled down, all of us still in a pretty good mood. But then the pigeon happened. Amber and I were peacefully sitting with our backpacks when we heard a plop...right in between us on the floor. That bird had to have been aiming. You would have thought a bomb dropped. All four of us screeched and grabbed our things like we had realized we were sitting in poison. Now, for the challenge of finding a pigeon-less home for the evening. We did find one, but a very creepy man with a cigarette kept moving closer to us. Our home moved once again, this time to a place with our friend the cockroach. At this point, there wasn't much to be done except stand with our stuff and contemplate how terrible life would be as a hobo.
Eventually, we did fall asleep, all hugging our backpacks and wishing the stupid train man would let us in. Luckily, there were about 25 other people spending the night outside the doors, as well, so we didn't feel as scared as we probably should have.
But our problems weren't over yet. Our ticket wouldn't work, and we quickly discovered that Italians are not so friendly and actually quite brusque and loud. We also couldn't find bathrooms for several hours, despite following signs in circles, and when we did find them they were first gated off and then when they did open we realized you had to pay 50 cents. That is one of the dumbest things I have discovered about Europe so far-paying to use the public bathroom. Really?
Our train finally came...I say "finally" as if we were waiting for years, when in reality it was only about 6 hours.
Now, you are probably thinking, "It's good that Alex spent a night in a train station. She has been a spoiled American for far too long."
I should be thinking, "Wow, I am so blessed and lucky to not have to sleep on the streets every night."
But what am I thinking? "I hate pigeons. I hate creepy men. I hate cockroaches. I am never sleeping in a train station again."
I guess I was kind of put in my place. Kind of.
Needless to say, the enthusiasm died rapidly as soon as we finished obsessively taking pictures of the beautiful train station and realized the McDonald's across the street was closed. And the man at the train station wouldn't let us in and told us, "This is not a hotel."
Hello, cold hard floor. Thus, we were homeless for roughly 6 hours.
There were quite a few obstacles. We found a lovely place by the door and settled down, all of us still in a pretty good mood. But then the pigeon happened. Amber and I were peacefully sitting with our backpacks when we heard a plop...right in between us on the floor. That bird had to have been aiming. You would have thought a bomb dropped. All four of us screeched and grabbed our things like we had realized we were sitting in poison. Now, for the challenge of finding a pigeon-less home for the evening. We did find one, but a very creepy man with a cigarette kept moving closer to us. Our home moved once again, this time to a place with our friend the cockroach. At this point, there wasn't much to be done except stand with our stuff and contemplate how terrible life would be as a hobo.
Eventually, we did fall asleep, all hugging our backpacks and wishing the stupid train man would let us in. Luckily, there were about 25 other people spending the night outside the doors, as well, so we didn't feel as scared as we probably should have.
But our problems weren't over yet. Our ticket wouldn't work, and we quickly discovered that Italians are not so friendly and actually quite brusque and loud. We also couldn't find bathrooms for several hours, despite following signs in circles, and when we did find them they were first gated off and then when they did open we realized you had to pay 50 cents. That is one of the dumbest things I have discovered about Europe so far-paying to use the public bathroom. Really?
Our train finally came...I say "finally" as if we were waiting for years, when in reality it was only about 6 hours.
Now, you are probably thinking, "It's good that Alex spent a night in a train station. She has been a spoiled American for far too long."
I should be thinking, "Wow, I am so blessed and lucky to not have to sleep on the streets every night."
But what am I thinking? "I hate pigeons. I hate creepy men. I hate cockroaches. I am never sleeping in a train station again."
I guess I was kind of put in my place. Kind of.
Tongue-tied
I am happily sitting on the San Pau campus, eating my apple for lunch and reading my Mediterranean Politics homework (you have no idea how hard it is to actually do homework right now) and this sweet little old man with a newspaper came up to me. He asked if he could sit next to me, speaking rapidly in Spanish and complaining about how his other bench was in the sun. The only way I knew how to respond was to smile and say, "Hace calor," or, "It's hot." This prompted him to begin another rapid speech about forgetting his hat...I think.
Either way, I had no idea what to say to that so I simply smiled. Smiling seems to be one message that gets across to people, no matter what language you speak.
Either way, I had no idea what to say to that so I simply smiled. Smiling seems to be one message that gets across to people, no matter what language you speak.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Post About Italian Food: The Sequel. (someone here has a problem...)
Italians eat their bread with olive oil and salt. Not my favorite way to do it, but it always tasted good.
An Italian salad. Two types of cheese, ham, corn, tuna, olives, tomatoes...clearly I avoided the latter two items, but it was delicious nonetheless.
Dumplings. I didn't order these, but I got to try them off a friend's plate. They were really tiny and she got about 20 of them for her meal. They were actually quite heavy and I was only able to eat four of the little guys...shameful.
Obviously, I choose canole.
Oddly enough, this random place with a really good pizza and soda deal ended up being my favorite pizza; it was formaggi, or four cheese, and I couldn't get enough.
AGH HOW DO I CHOOSE?!
Gotta end it with the gelato. This particular flavor was my favorite (after experimenting with several others). It is amarena, or cherry, but it was really creamy and light.
Post About Italian Food
My first gelato in Florence! Doesn't it look glorious?
The best ravioli I have ever tasted at a restaurant a few blocks from our hostel, called Il Portale.
This dessert was so cool. They brought it to you and then set it on fire, and when the flames went out it reminded me of a thicker, more caramel-flavored version of creme brulee.
Saturday morning breakfast. This croissant had chocolate pudding in it. I didn't drink the latte; that was my friend Esther's. But I thought it was so cute and little I needed to take a picture.
Our Tuscan style lunch. We tried wine made right there at the winery (my favorite was Don Tomasso, the expensive one to the right) and had pasta, salad and something made with barley.
This spaghetti was also amazing, eaten a few blocks from the (fake) statue of David. The real one was inside a museum and you had to pay to see...we were satisfied with the pretend him.
Basically a donut. Chocolate filled, again.
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