Post about Tapas in Granada

One of the coolest (and most famous) things about Granada is the free tapas. Go to a bar, buy a drink, and they bring you tapas. Some places let you choose. Others, it is a surprise. Basically, I paid 2 euro for most of my meals in Granada!

(Excluding the chocolate con churros. That is not something you get for free. But oh, so worth it.)

Post about Tapas in Seville

We did a "tapas tour" in Seville. Three tapas bars and more tapas (appetizers) than we could handle! Excuse the fact that I am unsure of what they were called. But who cares about names when they tasted that good?

The eager hands!

Waiting to dig in. The red and white plate at the bottom was my favorite. 

I believe it was some sort of fish.

Cheese fries. Delicious, but don't stand up to America.

This was called the Tower...of something I don't remember. 

But the important thing is all the cheese.

Some sort of hummus. 

Wish I knew what this one was called too...

Paella, salad, and tortilla española.

My new favorite thing: tinto de verano! (summer wine)

Streets, Smells, and a Sense of Humor

What do I remember the most about Granada?

The smells. The rain. The streets.

The smells.

When we first got off the bus and headed to our hostel (which, oddly enough, we found without getting horribly lost), we walked up a side street lined with vendors and various stores selling foreign goods, like lamps from Morocco and Arabic tea. The air hung with the thick scent of incense floating over leather. I will always associate that musky, deep smell with the streets of Granada. 

       Especially since later that day, we relaxed with an evening of traditional Arabic baths. The atmosphere of an Arabic bath is one of complete immersion and relaxation. You seriously have to be a crazy person not to be relaxed in that environment.

       The air in the bathhouse was heavy with incense and the deep notes of the oil used for massages. We sipped Moorish tea and sucked on sweet candy, the heat from the baths and humidity of the room sinking into our bodies, every sensation alert. It was such a blessing to be able to unwind from the busy days of traveling; for the first time in weeks my mind was clear. I don't even like tea. Or incense, for that matter.

But in Granada, those things made sense. 

The rain and the streets.

The reason we even felt the need for Arabic baths was because our entire first afternoon in Granada was spent wandering in torrential downpours. We spent hours lost in the Albacin neighborhood, desperately asking anyone we could find for help. If they were a local, all they told us was "¡Arriba!" (up) or "¡Abajo!" (down), depending on our current location. 

        The Albacin is a quite hilly area, and our sole reason for being up there in the first place was to get a view of the Alhambra at the Mirador de San Nicolas. We only ran into problems when we tried to get back down by way of the Paseo de los Tristes, or the Walk of the Sad. Esther and I were not communicating well and both asking how to get to different places...it is a miracle we made it out at all. In our desperation, we asked some other tourists (who happened to be from other places in Spain) if we could follow them out. All went well until they stopped to ask for directions too, and then all of us were lost together. That just goes to show you how confusing this neighborhood was. Even the native Spanish speakers were lost, never mind two American girls who have terrible inner GPS's.

But we did, in fact, escape from the maze that was the Albacin and made our way down Paseo de los Tristes. I do not need to explain my joy at having found our destination. 

This photo says it all:

Yup. There I am, beyond thrilled to have found this very pretty street, even in the rain. One thing I have learned from study abroad is the most important thing to take with you when traveling is a sense of humor.

P.S.: That's the Alhambra behind me! A beautiful palace and fortress, the most visited site in all of Spain. 

P.P.S: If you look closely at this picture, you can see that the pockets of my jeans are much lighter than the rest of my pants. That's because my sweatshirt was covering them during the rain. Ha! I was soaked!

Dejé mi corazón en Seville

I left my heart in Seville.

From the moment I breathed in the fresh southern Spain air, I knew part of me was at home. The whole entire trip I just kept saying, "Indiana Jones lives here! Can't you just picture him leaping from roof to roof and popping out of random street corners?"

It is amazing the difference between Barcelona and Seville. The architecture there is so gritty and down-to-earth; much more of an Islamic influence and the entire city felt older. Wiser. Slower. The phrase to live by in Seville is mañana, mañana. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
You don't have to dress up to go out and have a drink. I went out for tapas and wine wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and didn't even stand out. In Barcelona, that is unheard of.
Speaking of that, I finally discovered a wine I absolutely adore. It is called tinto de verano (summer wine); or, basically, carbonated lemonade (Fanta or something) and red wine. Truly delicious, and also a typical southern Spain thing.
Let's not forget the orange trees. They line nearly every street in Seville. I don't think I had ever actually seen an orange outside of a grocery store until this trip. Legend has it that one of the old kings, who married a woman from Granada, planted all those orange trees for the white blossoms. One year his queen wanted to return to her home because she missed the snow. He refused to let her leave, but loved her so much he said he would bring the snow to her. Well, it is always hot in Seville. The king planted the orange trees so when they bloomed and the petals fell, it would look like soft snow falling to the ground.

And so, I fell head over heels for Seville. The first few hours were admittedly hard for me. My heart broke a little because I desperately wished I had chosen to study there instead of Barcelona. This sparked much inner turbulence and frustration with myself. Every city I have visited, I have loved more than Barcelona.

Then I started considering that idea. Is my love-hate relationship with Barcelona a sign that I dislike Barcelona, or is it part of human nature to always 

want what they cannot have?

On one of my tours here in Barcelona, our guide told us that Barcelona is the third most visited city in the world. Not in Spain; not in Europe. The world. That is no small fact. And I live here. That is no small fact either. But the tragedy of living in a beautiful place is sometimes you forget to recognize the beauty.

If I had a whirlwind 48 hours in Barcelona, as I have had with all of the other places I have visited, would I fall in love? The truth is I will never know for sure. But I do know that although Barcelona enchants me during the day, at night the pace here is too fast for me. There are only so many times I can go dress up to a club before I get bored and irritated. Sangria is actually not all that thrilling. The pickpockets make everywhere dangerous. In Seville, I could safely put my purse down on the chair next to me. After 2 and a half months in Barcelona, not holding on to my things every second was exciting.
Basically, I am not the type of girl who parties on the weekends. Or during the week, for that matter, as many people do in Barcelona. This culture is so active and loud and constant. I am an old woman at heart. I much prefer peace and quiet and, well, blogging. I get excited about things like orange trees and gardens and journals.

And so there you have the things that I dislike about Barcelona; to sum it all up, basically, the pace of life. But I have only discovered this because I live here. It is because of my time here that I have realized what is really important to me; the little things you find in the quiet. If I did live in Seville, maybe I wouldn't appreciate the little things as much.

 If I only had 48 hours, my city would be a wild, exciting, modern fantasy that would no doubt capture my heart and leave me saying, "I wish I studied abroad in Barcelona."

I did leave my heart in Seville. I also left a piece of myself in Venice and in Paris, and a large part of my soul in the Pyrenees mountains.
When I fly back to the States in a few weeks and plant my feet back on reality, I am going to have a huge gap where mi vida en Barcelona used to be.
You are thinking, "Alex, stop it. You are being depressing."
Not really. When I think about going home, I know I will be sad for a while.
But the greater joy, and the greater thing to be thankful for here, is the fact that I can even say,
"I had a life in Barcelona."

I love living in Europe because

I get to do things like wake up in the morning, get on a plane, and fly somewhere amazing for the weekend. On a regular basis.
Last weekend, the Pyrenees mountains.
Tomorrow, Sevilla.
Saturday, Granada.
In two weeks, Switzerland.

It is so cool living in a place where having the travel bug isn't an itch that makes you restless; it makes you active. But the thing about the travel bug is, once you have it, you will never be cured.  Every place you go opens up your mind a little bit more, and your vision expands to want to fit the entire horizon, not only of the city you are standing in but of the one beyond as well. Each city I have explored here has just made me want to visit another one, to repeat that experience of discovering something new over and over again.
That is the magic of Europe, I think.
Riding on that high of leaving with nothing but a backpack and a camera and a passport, and coming back with something new, souvenir or not.
I come back to Barcelona a little bit different every time I leave.
What will change me this weekend?

From Vall de Boí

I have fallen in love with solitude, old stone churches, cow bells. Fog over mountain peaks. The vista changing with the wind. Clear cold air, colder water flowing from a rocky spring. You can see where it sprung in the cracked face of the mountain before you.

Coming to Vall de Boí, another piece of myself clicked into place, the piece that loves quiet and natural splendor and old mountain villages with nothing but church bells and cow bells and little grocery stores with sugar bread wrapped in brown paper, twisted at the ends to keep the sweetness in.

For the Sake of Comparison

You guys may be wondering how the ol' cooking for myself thing is going. It's going fine, actually. I eat a lot of the same stuff but who cares. I am surviving and each week learning a little more about the mercadona I shop at. I thought it might be fun to do a post about some things that we have back home, so you can see what they look like here in Spain!

Copos: Flakes! More accurately, cereal. Just like Special K. They do, in fact, have Special K here, but it was is way more expensive. I'm pretty sure the one I buy is the store brand.

Patatas fritas: Potato chips! Need I say more? 

Muesli: No idea what this means. They are granola bars that I discovered and have been a lifesaver for trips/long days of class/when I am in a hurry. Constantly in my purse! 

Ketchup: I still get amused by things that say "American Style" on them. 

Milka: Not positive on this, but I think you can get this brand of chocolate in the States. If so, I will be hunting it down. This photo is actually just a wrapper cleverly placed to look full (thanks for that talent, Mom!). I don't know what could possibly have happened to the actual chocolate...

I bought these a few weeks ago at a Tabacs store, which is a random drugstore you see on every corner here. We headed there before the movies one Friday afternoon. I also bought a Snickers, as you can see. The Snickers tasted normal. These Skittles tasted as weird as the package looks! No one does processed sugar like in the States.

Icebarcelona

Just because this was so cool! (Pun intended).

Tarragona

One of my favorite things to do is travel to the smaller cities surrounding Barcelona, such as Sitges and Arenys del Mar. It is always a nice break from the insanity of a big city. This weekend, I went to Tarragona, which is a little over an hour away. What is special about Tarragona, you ask?

This ancient Roman amphitheater is what's special! I love this picture because of the setting. This enormous piece of history is nestled among modern buildings and normal streets. This was taken from a bridge overlooking the entire thing. It was a truly breathtaking view because just a few hundred yards from this amphitheater lies the Mediterranean Sea. 

After viewing the ruins, we headed off for a hike. Unfortunately, the trail map was only in Catalan; in Barcelona there is nearly always a Spanish translation. Needless to say, we were confused and walked in circles for a while before we actually found the trail. Turns out it was along the cliffs.

It was so worth it!
Hiking the cliffs of the Mediterranean was incredible. While we were sitting down and enjoying the view, it occurred to us that while we were having an experience as incredible as that, everyone we knew back home was most likely at work or in class. It is quite surreal to put your life in perspective like that. Sometimes all it takes is something blue and beautiful to make you really think.

The Big Event of 1992

Once upon a time in 1992, I was born. Barcelona decided to build this in my honor:

Just kidding. They actually built it for a little thing called the Olympics. 

Breaking my Brain

Well, I certainly have faced a lot of fears living abroad for a semester. To name a few: traveling without Mom and Dad, cooking chicken, getting lost in Barcelona (and other cities), taking public transportation, etc. But I didn't really feel overwhelmed with it all until this past weekend, when I went to El Campamento.

This was a weekend-long retreat with GBU, a group across Catalonia that brings students together for Bible studies. Every Tuesday night, I sit and eat unhealthy snacks with a bunch of friends and we speak in Spanish about Jesus. I have met people from Germany, the Netherlands, other places in the States, England, Australia, Czech Republic, and from Spain. But the majority of this group are international students.
       For the weekend retreat, this was not the case. There were about 60 students in total, 6 of us being international and  only 4 (myself included) not being fluent in Spanish. I had mentally prepared myself for a weekend of total immersion, but no amount of mental pep-talks will satisfy how overwhelming 50 Spanish/Catalan college students in one room will be. The noise was deafening. The games were never-ending. Even if I was fluent, I don't think I could have gotten a word in edgewise.

It was really my first complete cultural experience with other people my age. I learned some games that are typically played at meal times, all loud and involving pounding on the tables and embarrassing each other. I discovered how beautiful Christian songs are when sung in Spanish. I listened to three lectures about Jesus Christ. I understood three lectures about Jesus Christ. 

No matter what language, people have faith. Love. Understanding. And if there is one thing I learned about Spanish people this weekend, it is that they are welcoming. I have noticed it throughout my weeks in Barcelona, but it really rang true when I entered a room full of dozens of people who had never met me before and weren't even from the same country. They were all super friendly and sweet, trying to speak English if I looked confused and speaking slower if I asked them to. At one point, people from different regions stood up in turn so everyone could get acquainted with where people were from. I stood up in the internationals group. I looked to my right and there was a guy holding up a sign in English, that said: "We <3 you." That was an awesome moment.

Despite moments like that, there were certainly many moments at El Campamento where I felt lost. In fact, of all the places I've been, I felt the most homesick after a weekend  of being surrounded by constant Spanish. I stuttered and paused and struggled through pretty much every moment. My mind was itching the whole time; it can be equated to that feeling you get when you forgot something, and you can feel it there; not touching down, simply hovering.
I would hear a sentence and my brain needed to say it in English before I could move on to the next phrase, but of course I had missed it because I was too busy translating the previous one. Learning a language is essentially breaking a barrier in your mind and forcing the muscles to twist in the opposite direction.
My brain broke at El Campamento.
In the last seminar, the presenters played a song in English. I was overjoyed with the 3-minute rest from translating.

Leading up to this weekend, I was nervous. But I kept telling myself, puedo hacerlo. I can do it. That is a phrase that has kept me going for much of study abroad. I came to Spain for the challenge. Going to El Campamento was one of the most exhausting, enriching, educational experiences I have yet to have in Europe. When I finally flopped on my bed on Sunday night, I had the biggest headache and desperately needed to shower (I was too lazy the whole weekend).

But then in Spanish class on Monday, it was easier. When I went to Bible study on Tuesday, I could keep up even with the people who were speaking fast. It all seemed easy in comparison to El Campamento.
Walking around Barcelona, I don't feel so different. I never was, if you get down to the core of it, but now if someone asks me, "¿Hablas español?" I feel confident saying "Yes," instead of, "Yes, a little."

I am nowhere near fluent. That would take years. But my brain has broken, and each step from now on will be a little bit easier because yo se que puedo hacerlo.
I know that I can do it.

Barcelona Anniversary

Today marks the two month anniversary of my arrival in Spain. On September 1, I flew in from London, starry-eyed from Buckingham Palace and baggy-eyed from jet lag. One week later, I was in Tuscany riding horses through an Italian vineyard.

Two months later, I can say I feel like a different person. I realized it this week, doing something completely mundane and random. I needed to go buy sweaters (apparently it does get cold in the Mediterranean. Who knew!), so I Googled the location of Primark (equivalent of Marshall's or Burlington Coat Factory) and hopped on the metro. As I grabbed a seat and plugged in my headphones, it hit me. This was normal. Riding the metro was normal. Beyond that, riding the metro by myself was normal. 
This is all coming from the girl who, a few months ago, couldn't figure out how to get to the Boston Aquarium without a desperate phone call to her father.
I know it seems like a small thing-riding the metro. But what became so significant in that moment was that I hadn't thought about doing it. It was simply routine. Living in Barcelona had ceased being foreign and started being familiar.

I take the metro to class on Mondays and Wednesdays; get on the red line, change at La Sagrera, get on the blue and stop at San Pau Dos de Maig. Walk three blocks and there's campus.
 On Tuesdays, I go to the supermarket and get my groceries for the week. I walk back from class at 7:30 each night and seeing the towers of the Sagrada Familia against the sky is not something I notice anymore. Thursday nights are get-yourself-a-treat night; it's okay to splurge on dinner. Weekends are constantly in motion; you never know where you will find me, in Barcelona or elsewhere.
I remember a few weeks ago I was talking to one of my friends here and I was telling her how I always feel bad when people stop me on the street and ask for directions, because I never know what to say, it's not like I live here or anything. She laughed and said, "Well, you do live here." I remember being surprised at that statement, that my brain had instantly snapped to, "No, but I don't really. I'm just staying here for a while."

Well folks, it has been a while. Two months. And exactly two days ago, on October 29, was the first time I felt like I lived in Barcelona. All because I had to go buy sweaters.

Riding the metro is certainly not a pleasant experience. In fact, I usually tune out and listen to my iPod, ignoring everything around me and leaning casually on the side of the car. But if I stop to look around, that's what everyone else is doing, too.

I wish you could see me now
I wish I could show you how
I'm not who I was 
-Brandon Heath, I'm Not Who I Was