Stopover in Toledo (Excursion to Madrid pt. II)

Our first night of the excursion was spent in the town of Toledo, just south of Madrid. Like most cities in Spain, Toledo is old. Really old. Thought to be populated since the 7th century BC, it rose to fame particularly during the Reconquista (the period of constant war in which the Christians "reconquered" Spain from the Moors) for its guilds. By the 17th century, Toledo steel and swords came to be considered the best in all of Europe. I was excited to check out the sword shops during the few hours we had there that evening. I have to admit that I was disappointed, however. It's been a long time since Toledo has been making actual swords, and it shows in the sheer amount of cheesy crap that fills just about every "sword" shop there. For one, nearly all of the swords that are now sold in Toledo aren't made in Toledo, but rather in Madrid or, worse, China. Not only that, but these swords aren't actually forged any more, but rather are stamped pieces of steel (despite what any of the shop owners will tell you). And most of the swords are gimmicky movie replicas (Lord of the Rings swords are everywhere). We did manage, however, to find a shop that had a basement with real, forged, handmade swords. The cheapest one we saw was around 350 euros, which is about 300 euros more than I'm willing to spend on a sword. It was still cool to see, though.

Regardless of the gimmicky souvenirs that one can find there, Toledo really is a neat city. Its narrow, winding, cobbled stone streets makes the city feel its age. Sevilla is a wonderful place, but you definitely feel like you're in a big city. Toledo, which is much smaller than Sevilla, has kept that medieval charm.

But enough with streets and swords, what we were interested in was its famous dessert: marzipan. Behold:

I don't remember what this particular piece of heaven was called, but it was, well, heavenly. Marzipan, cream, and cake. Phenomenally good. Marzipan is basically sugar and almonds, made into a paste and then cooked to harden. We ended up going back to this shop four times that evening.

The next morning I woke up early for another unique-to-Toledo experience: the Mozarabic Mass. During the Moorish reign, the Christians residing in Toledo that didn't convert to Islam were allowed to continue holding Mass. Because they were isolated from the broader Christian community, their particular rite evolved distinctly to the rest of the world. The result was the Mozarabic Rite (Mozarab is the word for a Christian who lived under Moorish rule), which is preserved today in Toledo. Toledo, as it were, is the only place in the world with the permission of Rome to practice this Mass. The Mass was conducted in Latin, with long pauses for chanting, which was provided by a choir that I would imagine only does this liturgy. A fascinating experience. Afterward, we were free to explore the Cathedral of Toledo, which is stunning:

Unfortunately, we didn't get very long to wander around, as we were already late for the only group sight of the city: El Greco's painting The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, which was painted for, and still located in, a small church nearby.

Naturally, we weren't allowed to take pictures inside. But the painting itself was absolutely magnificent. There are times when you see a painting on posters and books, then see the real thing and are disappointed. Seeing this painting, which I first studied in high school, was the exact opposite experience.

While an impressive painting in pictures, the real thing is breathtaking. The colors are remarkably vivid, as if they were painted yesterday. There's something else about El Greco's style that I find intriguing, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Anyway, the Count of Orgaz, who is depicted in the painting being laid into his tomb, was Don Gonzalo Ruíz, a wealthy and very pious native of Toledo. According to legend, his piety was such that when he died, Sts. Stephen and Augustine came down from heaven to bury him with their own hands (they are the two figures dressed in gold at the bottom). The bottom of the painting, which has a darker tone than the top, is set in the mortal world; the top, the celestial. Although you can't see it in the picture above, El Greco actually depicts the man's soul being ushered into heaven, at the apex of the triangle formed in the middle of the painting. Books have been written on this sort of thing, so I won't delve any deeper. But it doesn't matter. One doesn't need to know the story or the analysis of this painting to recognize its brilliance.

All too soon, it was time to leave Toledo. There were a lot of things to see this excursion and although I could've spent several days in that city alone, we had to be moving on.

An aside: Spanish WiFi

Pictured: Spain's Technology Minister

Before I continue with the excursion, I’d like to comment briefly on one of my grievances with my second country. Free WiFi is almost remarkably difficult to find in Spain. Luckily, I have it at my host house, but if I want to go somewhere to do homework (I find it easier to concentrate in cafes) that requires internet, I’m in for an adventure. That’s because almost no place has WiFi. There are two main coffee chains here that are guaranteed to have it, however: Starbucks and a local chain called Café de Indias. But the internet at these places comes with a major catch; the code they give you when you make a purchase is only good for forty five minutes of internet. This is where I have a problem, on three main grounds:

First, this is a country, nay, a continent that is famous for not hurrying you once you sit down at a table in a restaurant. In the US, the waiters largely rely on tips for their living. Thus, lingering at restaurants after a meal without continuing to buy stuff is really looked down upon. Indeed, it’s not uncommon for a waiter to request that people leave if they’re taking up too much time at a table on a busy night. In Europe, however, I can go into a restaurant on the busiest night of the week, get a table, order nothing but a café con leche and sit there as long as I damn well please, without the waiter so much as giving me a second glance. Because here, once you sit down at a table, it’s yours for as long as you want it. The waiters here make decent salaries, and tips are not expected, so it makes no difference whatsoever to them how many tables they serve per night. The reason I bring this up is because I can already hear the responses I’ll get: “But Joe, if they didn’t limit the time, people would just sit there all day!” What difference does it make to them? Is my taking up a table to use internet (after making a purchase, of course) any different from a financial standpoint than taking up a table to read the paper/people watch/chat with friends/do nothing at all? Of course it isn’t.

 Second, it’s not like they’re paying for internet by the minute. These aren’t long-distance phone calls we’re talking about here. Nor do they have a finite amount of internet. They don’t have an “internet cistern” in the back to collect internet when it rains kilobits. The internet isn’t going to run out. Nor does it cost more for more people to use. It’s greed, pure and simple.

Third, WiFi is not a new technology. It’s been around for years, which in technology time makes it an old, old innovation. For those of you rolling your eyes and reminiscing about a simpler time before there was internet and making a sarcastic comment about how unfortunate it is that I have to go without WiFi, consider first that I rely on the internet to research and turn in many of my assignments for class, as well as to keep in touch with family and friends back home. So there is a legitimate reason why I need it. Further, I think it’s a legitimate complaint to not have WiFi available at all times, wherever I am, for however long I need it, because this it’s the year 2011, people! Those who think I need to be less dependent on modern luxuries, would you think differently if I was complaining that all the restaurants and cafes here were un-air conditioned? Or required you to bring your own coffee cup, because they still hadn’t gotten around to adopting absurdly sophisticated technology of disposable cups? At some point, it’s reasonable to expect a certain level of available technology. I’m not asking for 4G connectability in the middle of the ocean. I’m asking (reasonably, I think) for a readily-providable customer accommodation in a developed, western country.

It seems fitting that at the end of this rant, I’ve discovered that my log-in information that they gave me at the register no longer works. I didn’t use forty-five minutes of internet. I used it as sparingly as one might use the last remnants of their heating oil in the dead of winter (which, as mentioned above, seems to be the Spaniards’ attitude toward internet anyway), getting on for five minutes then logging off for long stretches. I know I didn’t misunderstand the forty-five minute limit to mean that I could use as much internet as I wanted for forty-five minutes from the moment they generated that particular log in, either, because I was still able to get on an hour after they gave me the code. No, what seems to happen is that they put an arbitrary expiration time on the code (two hours, maybe) because internet kept in reserves goes rancid? Because they have to maintain the validity of the log-in information by burning large amounts of fossil fuel? Because their system can only keep up with three randomly-generated, time-sensitive codes at a time? To spite capitalists? Hell if I know their reasoning.

Ignored alarms, medieval castles, and Golden Age literature (Excursion to Madrid pt. I)

It was hard to believe that our last excursion as a group was already upon me. But such was the case on the morning of March 15th. Because of the drive we had ahead of us, we were told to be at the bus station at 6:30 in the morning-- sharp. We'd left behind late students on previous trips, so I wanted to make sure I got there on time. Because of a late night the day before, I decided to put off packing until the morning of. Factoring in the time it takes for me to pack, and that it takes roughly fifteen minutes to get to the train station (where we get on the bus) from where I live, I set my alarm for 5:30AM. More than enough time. Until I slept through my alarm. Well, sort of. I actually turned it off and went back to sleep without realizing it. When I woke up for the second time, I felt around my night stand for my cell phone (which I use as an alarm). When I didn't feel it there, I felt the beginnings of nervousness seeping through my veins. The only reason it's not there, I thought to myself, is because I've already woken up once and turned it off. If that's the case, then it should be somewhere here in bed with me, I continued. When I felt the shape of my phone underneath my pillow, I knew that I was in trouble. Knowing that I wasn't going to like what I was going to see, I looked at the time.

6:13AM

Keeping in mind the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the station, and that I wasn't even packed, I knew that this was about as close to being completely screwed as I could get. I jumped out of bed, threw everything that I could think of into my duffel bag, pulled on a pair of shoes (wearing the same socks I wore the day before and which I had slept in) and ran out the door. For the first tenth of a mile or so I did a sort of trail run maneuver, jogging along with my duffel bag and backpack pulling at my neck and shoulders. I quickly realized, however, that there were two main problems with this strategy. Number one, I'm not in good enough shape to jog the distance to the train station with that much stuff on me. Number two, even if I could somehow keep up a jogging pace for the entire way, I still wouldn't get there in time. I waved down the first taxi I saw and told him, "estación Santa Justa, pronto." The stars aligned and I got there just in time. My relief at making the bus was short lived, however; just as I sat down into my seat, I realized that I had forgotten something. I hadn't packed any socks. I was left with only the one-day-old pair that I was wearing. For a five day trip. Joy.

We were joined on this trip by a large number of family members. Because this is the longest excursion of the semester and it coincides with spring break in the United States, this has traditionally been the trip to take family and friends on. There are forty four students total here, along with three directors of the center, and three graduate teaching students. However, on that morning we set off with ninety-three people divided between two buses. Although my parents couldn't join us that week (they came a few weeks later, which will be a blog series in and of itself), it was still fun to hang out with everyone else's family. The more the merrier, but I have to say that the extra people, all of whom were on vacation (as opposed to the regular group who are here to study) made it feel like we were in one of those tacky, ubiquitous tour groups. 

I've never been one for tour groups. For me, so much of the experience of traveling is experiencing a different culture. You can't experience a different culture if you create your own microcosm of Americans within a foreign country, which is essentially what a tour group is. It's a nucleus of people like you that's carefully carried from place to place to see selected sights, eat food that's almost always designed to not offend our American tastes, you take a some pictures with some living statues and are escorted to the airport. Indeed, one can spend weeks in a country without ever really experiencing anything. Of course, this is all just one guy's opinion. Millions of people every year (not just Americans; in Spain most of the tourists come from the UK) choose this path, and they enjoy their time. And that's fine-- it's much better than not traveling at all. It's just not for me.

Our first stop in this trip was at a castle called Calatrava La Nueva, a templar castle and monastery dating from the 13th century. Situated atop a steep hill, it offered fantastic views of the Castilla-La Mancha countryside.

View from an archery hole in one of the turrets.

The castle was designed to be completely self-contained. This would've been important because no matter how well fortified, by land and walls, a defense you have, you're completely helpless if your enemy cuts off your food/water supply. To that end, this fortification, which was in use until the 19th century, contained stables for cattle, a granary, and a well. Fortunately for the knights who lived here, the castle was never besieged.


After forty-five minutes of wandering around, everyone boarded the bus again to continue our drive north. Our next stop was the small town of Almagro, famous for Golden Age theater and pickled eggplant. The Siglo de Oro, or Golden Age of Spanish literature began in 1492 with the publication of the first book dedicated to the Spanish language, a grammar handbook by Antonio de Nebrija, and ended with the death of the last great writer of the period, Pedro Calderón de la Barca, in 1681. 

(Author's note: For those who don't care for a mini-lecture about Spanish literature, feel free to skip ahead to the paragraph after the monologue)

Works from this period dominate the canon of literature studied by Spanish students. Don Quijote, Miguel de Cervantes' world-changing novel (the first and greatest modern novel, it is said) is the best-known work written during the Siglo de Oro, but Luis de Gongora, Francisco de Quevedo, Lope de Vega, and, already mentioned, Pedro Calderón de la Barca are also included among the literary giants of the era. The last one, Barca, is perhaps most famous for his play La vida es sueño, or "Life is a dream," which contains one of the most well-known monologues in all of Spanish theater. The play centers around Segismundo, a Polish prince who has been locked away in a tower for his entire life by his father, the king, due to a prophesy made before his birth that the new prince would someday overthrow the king. His imprisonment is the king's way of trying to escape fate (a popular theme in the day). The prince is not entirely alone, however; he has been educated over the years by a tutor who doubles as his jailer. One day, the king decides to do a little experiment in order to test the prophecy that his son would be a tyrant; he has Segismundo drugged and, in his induced sleep, has him carried to the royal palace and dressed as a king, with instructions to all persons present to treat him as if he had always been the king. His reasoning here is that he can always re-drug Segismundo and take him back to the tower and make him think that he dreamed the whole thing. When Segismundo wakes up, he is furious at realizing he has spent his entire life locked away instead of gaining his rightful inheritance. He takes his anger out on anyone who so much looks at him the wrong way-- in short, he acts like the tyrant the king feared he would become. True to the plan, he is redrugged and wakes up in shackles, as if nothing had ever changed. Naturally, this spurs some pretty hefty mental conflict. Was it all a dream? Could've been. But it felt so real. I think everyone who has ever had a dream that they swore was real could empathize. Segismundo's existential confusion is seen in his famous monologue, where he says that life itself is nothing but a dream. Kings are kings because that is what they dream. Likewise, beggars are only dreaming that they are poor. Segismundo concludes that he dreamt that he was a king, and now he's dreaming he's back in his tower:

I dream that I am here

of these imprisonments charged,

and I dreamed that in another state

happier I saw myself.

What is life? A frenzy.

What is life? An illusion,

A shadow, a fiction,

And the greatest profit is small;

For all of life is a dream,

And dreams, are nothing but dreams.

Which takes us right back to Almagro. One of the city's main attractions, as I mentioned above, is its Golden Age theater.

The main stage

This outdoor theater would've been the center of good times back in the day. Plays would run around four or five hours, including interruptions by the rowdy crowd that would've been standing around in the area directly in front of the stage (as opposed to the seated areas in the two balconies and around the ground floor). They'd usually do double features, meaning a full day of dramatic fun!

To conclude our visit, and to give us all an idea of what kind of stuff those riotous crowds would've been hearing, Dr. Scarborough, my literature professor, gave us a rousing interpretation of none other than the famous La vida es sueño monologue that I discussed above. 

After the visit to the theater, we had an hour or so longer in the town to wander about and eat lunch before the last leg of driving for the day. As any of you who have read my previous posts know, I'm a big fan of eating. So naturally, I went to the first bar I saw to get some of their famous berenjenas (eggplant). The damn things were so messy, though, that I wasn't able to use my camera to take a picture of it. Enter stock picture:

 
They're stuffed with other vegetables, mainly tomato, and are served with a skewer of bamboo through them to keep them together. I know, I know, they really don't look like eggplants. I'm guessing that they're baby eggplants (hence the need to pickle them). They're quite good, tasting (I know this will come as a shock) like pickled vegetables-- more like okra than pickled cucumbers, though. For those of you wondering, yes. I do get paid by the word.


After my meal of pickled eggplant, I wandered around the impressive town square, stopping in its various shops to admire the hand-sewn lace which is a traditional craft of the area. Before long, we were back on the bus, headed to our final destination for the day: Toledo. But that will have to wait for my next post...

You know I don't speak Portuguese.

Our second-to-last excursion of the semester was to Lisbon, Portugal. As usual, we met at the Sevilla Santa Justa train station bright and early to board the bus for the four-odd hour long trip across the border. Unfortunately for me, I've never been able to sleep on buses, airplanes, trains, etc. But there's a bright side to everything. In this particular case, I was awake to see the beautiful changes as we moved further and further out of Sevilla. The landscape surrounding Sevilla is charming in its own way-- semi-arid hills covered with olive trees, small towns and farms here and there, occasionally an old abandoned castle. Decidedly Spanish. But as we got closer to Portugal, the dry landscape got more green and more hilly. I would include a picture, but it was fairly cold that morning and, consequently, the windows on the bus were foggy for most of the time in Spain. They did clear up in time to see the border crossing into Portugal.

On the left is Spain, on the right, Portugal.

Not long after getting into the country, we stopped to eat/relax at (where else?) a truck stop. The highways here are dotted with them, all of the same company whose name I don't remember. Variety in food during long-range road travel is not one of Europe's strong points (Italy is the same way, so I'm going to judge the rest of the continent accordingly). The food is expensive and plain, and the worst coffee I've had since I've been here was at one such stop on the way to Granada. The immediate difference here, though, was that everyone spoke Portuguese.

Now, Portuguese and Spanish are very similar on paper. After learning a few key joining words, anyone who can read Spanish can make sense of Portuguese. But the accent, ah, there's the rub. Portugal Portuguese (as opposed to Brazilian Portuguese) pronounces all intra-word "s"s with a heavy, almost Eastern European-sounding "zh". For example, the word for house in Portuguese and Spanish is casa. In Spanish, you would pronounce it just the way it looks: CAH-sah. In Portuguese, it's CAH-zha. This is a small difference, but when one considers how many words have "s"s in the middle or end of them, it begins to mount. This, as well as a few other, more minor differences in pronunciation makes it sound like a mix between French and Russian (as one of my friends put it), and makes it all but unintelligible jibberish to me, even though I can understand Spanish just fine. Luckily, I had learned the most important vocabulary before the trip-- how to say cafe con leche (cafe con leite, for those wondering).

Anyway, a few hours after leaving the truckstop, we found ourselves in Lisbon. Lisbon, even at first glance, is much more colorful and topographically-varied than Sevilla. Pastel colors predominate, and the city is similar as far as hilliness to Austin. I instantly took a liking to the place. Immediately after checking into the hotel, we set off for our only required side trips of the excursion: to a Jeronomite monastery and to an old tower fortification on the Tagus River, which runs through Lisbon. The monastery was built in the 15th century, had Gothic architecture, is the home to the tomb of Vasco da Gama, etc. etc. If you'd like, you can check out the Wikipedia article about it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosteiro_dos_jerónimos . But I'd like to talk about a small revelation I had here.

If you read the article, you know that this place is visually and historically incredible. My reaction upon seeing it?

"Meh. Seen better."

The second this thought crossed my mind, it gave me pause. I've seen better? I thought to myself. Who the hell do I think I am? This is more impressive than any building the vast, vast majority of people will ever see. And I'm indifferent? Living in Spain, seeing spectacular architecture and history day-in and day-out numbs the senses. It skews one's perspective. But the realization of this absurd indifference made me think about just how lucky I am, and I'd like to take a paragraph or two here to reflect on it.

As far as I know, I'm the only one on either side of the family (which is extensive) to have the opportunity to study abroad for a semester in Europe. My mom, the valedictorian of a prestigious private school in Houston (which my grandparents made huge sacrifices for her to attend-- my grandparents' selflessness when it comes to their children and grandchildren could easily take up books to fully recount), never got the opportunity. My dad never got to travel much at all in the United States, much less Europe, until he married my mom. I'm not more intelligent than my dad. I certainly don't make the grades my mom did. And yet, here I am, just over halfway through a semester in Sevilla. I don't deserve this opportunity. But luckily for me, the hard work and generosity of others has made it possible for me to be here. I would be remiss if I didn't publicly thank those involved.

First and foremost, my parents have been absurdly generous throughout my entire college career, and especially so during my study abroad experience. They paid for my plane ticket to and from Sevilla, and made up the difference in fees that my scholarships didn't cover. My parents have never been rich. We've always been right smack in the middle of middle class. But they've worked hard all their lives and have made innumerable sacrifices to provide for me and my brother. I won the parent lottery, in the words of Randy Pausch. Beyond my parents, my paternal grandmother and maternal grandparents have also given generously to help me realize this opportunity. Without their help, this trip would likely have been impossible. I couldn't possibly thank my family enough.

I also need to acknowledge the generosity shown to me by Texas Tech. Through merit scholarships alone, I was able to pay for the vast majority of expenses associated with the program, which are fairly steep. One of the reasons I chose Texas Tech was the low tuition and the generous number of scholarships available. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't have made this trip without the enthusiastic support of study abroad provided by my university. But scholarships aren't won by individual people. I'd like to publicly thank those who wrote letters of recommendation for me-- Drs. Marjean Purinton and Gary Bell. They took the time out of their busy schedules to recommend me for the money that is now financing this trip. In addition, Don Harragan, president emeritus of Texas Tech, funded the Honors College Study Abroad Scholarship, which helped immensely with the cost of this semester.

For all of the above reasons, I am absurdly lucky to be here seeing the things I'm seeing. And I don't take it for granted. So, to those mentioned above who helped make this experience possible, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Back to discussing said experience.

After seeing the evening's sights, we headed back to the hotel. A few friends and I decided to make a trip to the grocery store to get snacks and food for the next few days. In addition to the usual sandwich supplies, we bought a gallon of ice cream, some "green wine" (not green at all, as it turns out-- more like a sparkling white wine), and a nice bottle of porto. I had never tried port, and figured that if there was ever a time to give it a shot, it was in Portugal. I wasn't disappointed. Sweet, oaky, strong. Paired horribly with the ice cream. But delicious nonetheless. And what a difference a day can make! The next night, we finished the bottle. The twenty-four-odd hours spent oxidizing took the bite off the alcohol (it's a fortified wine and has an alcohol content of around 20%) and enriched the oakiness. Fantastic.

The next morning I took a bus to the other side of the river to the statue of Cristo Rei, which is a miniature of the Cristo Redentor in Brazil. Perched on a cliff high above the city, it offers incredible panoramic views.

You may notice that the bridge in the picture looks awfully similar to the Golden Gate in San Francisco. No coincidence there; the same company that built the Golden Gate built this one. Lisbon's isn't as large as San Francisco's, but is still beautiful. Between the miniature Cristo Redentor and the miniature Golden Gate, many of us started to think that the people of Lisbon just wait for the rest of the world to do cool stuff then put smaller replicas in their own city. At any rate, it was a great view (once I got over my persistent fear of heights) certainly a worthwhile side trip. On the way back to the hotel, the bus made stops at an art museum and at Lisbon's world-famous aquarium. I opted for the aquarium.

The Lisbon Oceanarium, as I have just said, is world-famous and houses an incredible diversity of animals. Its most well-known attraction is its 180,000 cubic foot main tank, which contains approximately 100 different species of marine life. Besides the tank, they had extensive exhibits of a variety of non-water bound animals, such as PENGUINS! And they were so close you could reach out and touch them!

And there were otters. That they were feeding by throwing bits of fish onto their bellies. Unimaginable cuteness.

I really enjoyed the aquarium. It was pricey-- fourteen euro if I remember correctly-- but worth it. Afterward, I headed back to the hotel to meet up with some friends for dinner. We went to a cheap churrascaria nearby. It definitely wasn't Fogo de Chao, but it also only cost about fifteen bucks for all you can eat meat. No, it wasn't top quality. But it was meat. And a lot of it. Can't pass it up.

The next day I had planned on taking a trip with a bunch of people from the group to the nearby town of Sintra, which apparently had a really cool castle and offered great views of Lisbon. However, plans often change. Sometimes for worse, other times for better. Still other times for fantastic. I was sitting at the breakfast buffet at the hotel with a friend of mine, Nate Covarrubias, chatting as always. He mentioned that he was waiting for a phone call from someone else regarding a trip to Fatima. I knew before the trip that Fatima was near Lisbon, but I also knew that it was too far to take a trip on my own and that no group trips had been planned. He also mentioned that someone else that had previously planned on taking the trip had decided not to go. I asked if there was any chance that I could take his place. Five minutes later, I was in a taxi and on my way. Turns out that the director of the center had organized a trip for the three people who had wanted to go and hired a taxi, writing it off as an educational expense. I was thrillled.

For those who don't know the story of Fatima, here's a brief introduction. On May 13, 1917, three children were tending sheep when they reportedly saw a woman "brighter than the sun, shedding rays of light clearer and stronger than a crystal ball filled with the most sparkling water and pierced by the burning rays of the sun"-- the Virgin Mary. She appeared again on the thirteenth day of the following two months in the same spot, and again on August 19th. These apparitions immediately became famous, and a large crowd (30,000-100,000 in size, depending on the source) gathered to witness a miracle that had been prophesied-- what became known as The Miracle of the Sun. One of the more famous aspects of the apparitions at Fatima were the three secrets supposedly bequeathed to the children by the Virgin Mary. The first two were visions of hell and admonitions to prayer. The third was kept secret until 2000-- it predicted the assassination of a pope, which was widely regarded as coming to fruition in the assassination attempt of Pope John Paul II on, interestingly, May 13th 1981 which is, of course the anniversary of the first apparition. John Paul II believed that Our Lady saved his life that day-- he later placed the bullet that struck him into the crown of the statue of Mary at the site of the apparitions-- and continued a special bond with Fatima until he died.

We chose an excellent time to visit Fatima. More correctly, we were lucky enough to get to make a trip to Fatima when we did. There was hardly anyone there (relatively speaking-- there were a few hundred people there, but the place is built to accommodate hundreds of thousands). A small, open-air altar marks the spot of the apparitions.

Behind the bishop saying mass is the statue of Our Lady wearing the crown that contains the bullet that struck Pope John Paul II. The people pictured are members of the Portuguese army.

Fatima is an incredible place. A quiet, holy place-- quite unlike so many Marian sites that have been overrun with souvenir stands and other cheesy shops. For those interested, more pictures of my time there can be found in my album, which can be accessed here (the Fatima pictures are in the last half). It's an incredible place that really can't be captured in words.

Once we got back to Lisbon (an hour and a half drive from Fatima), a group of us set out once again, this time to wonder the streets of downtown. Walking around on cobblestone streets seems to me to nurture the soul. Even better when enjoyed with others.

Our time in Lisbon was far too short. I could've easily spent a few weeks there and around Portugal. But I was able to cram quite a bit into the time that I had, and, on the bright side, it leaves more to be explored on my next trip.

On the difficulty of securing an internship

You might get the impression from my previous posts that all I’m doing in Spain is eating and traveling. While those are my most enjoyable endeavors, I’m also enrolled in the last twelve hours of coursework required for my Spanish degree. Now, my college friends might point out that twelve hours is hardly a heavy load, and they’d be right. But no matter how little, any time spent in the classroom feels like it drags on forever because, well, I’m in Spain and I’d rather be leisurely sipping a café con leche and reading a book. Luckily, that’s exactly what one of my classes, an independent study in literature, entails. Instead of having lectures, my professor and I choose works for me to read, set deadlines, and meet periodically to discuss them. Thus, while my friends here in Sevilla have class from 9-12 each morning (two classes back-to-back), I have lecture from 9-10:20 (a course called Spanish life and culture) and I’m finished with my classroom time for the day. After the first class, I go to my favorite bar to have breakfast and read.

                 

Now, before we go any further, I need to explain the difference between a bar in the United States and the typical bar in Spain. While there certainly are American-style, only-for-drinking-at-night bars here in Sevilla, the majority are quiet, family-run cafes that specialize in breakfast and tapas. Imagine if Starbucks also sold alcohol and you’d be on the right track.

                 

Anyway, I go to a particular bar, Café d’Arthe, which is right around the corner from the school. It has the best, cheapest breakfast and café con leche and the friendliest workers in the city. It offers the perfect atmosphere for reading. It’s the best classroom I’ve ever had at Tech.

                 

Alas, not all of my classes are so leisurely. I’m taking four classes this semester. The semester here is broken into two halves, which would ordinarily mean that I would take two classes for the first half and two for the second. I finished with one of my classes last half and am now taking another half-semester course. The other two classes span the regular semester: my independent literature course that I mentioned above, and a class called “The internship in Spanish.” The point of this class, as the name suggests, is to secure and internship with a local business and work 70 hours total over the course of the semester, with various side assignments (such as writing an essay over a labor issue in Spain).

                 

So, in January when classes started, I started looking into options. Luckily, the Center keeps logs of the places where previous students have worked and have them filed according to category (social work, restaurants, gyms, etc.). One of the suggestions from the professor was to work at one of the local nursing homes, which, she said, had been a really good experience for previous students. The idea of sitting around chatting with old people, many of whom lived through not only the Franco era, but the Civil War itself, sounded charming. I got the information for a nearby Church-run nursing home and, a few weeks later, stopped by and asked for the director. After waiting for a short time, two nuns, one old, the other older, came in to greet me. I introduced myself as a student from the university and told them that I was interested in doing an internship with them, as students had done in the past. To my dismay, however, they told me that they had decided not to take on any students for this semester. They were very sweet and had a good reason for doing so—they said that many of the people at this particular nursing home were in a far too-advanced state to be able to hold any meaningful conversation, which would mean that any students interning there would have only minimal opportunities to improve their language skills. Fair enough, I thought, and I thanked them for their time and left.

                

 Despite this setback, I really wasn’t concerned about the situation. I figured there were plenty of other opportunities to work in nursing homes. There weren’t. That particular home was the only one on file, so I had to figure something else out. Unlike most of the other people in the class, I’m not a business or business-related major. So I wasn’t all that interested in getting a desk job here in Sevilla. After reviewing my remaining options, I found a promising opportunity at the offices of an association for developmental disorders. They’d taken students before, and I figured it would be a great place to practice my Spanish while doing medically-related and meaningful work. I stopped by that very same day—we’re now in the third week of January—to talk with the director about an internship. She wasn’t there, but the office secretary was very friendly and let me know that she’d be in later that week and, if I wanted, I could leave a resume and contact information to be passed on. I wrote a brief letter describing what I was looking for and jotted down a resume. The secretary told me that I’d probably hear something by week’s end. This was on a Monday.

                 

The following Tuesday (that is, a week and a day after I first dropped by), after not having heard anything, I returned to the office to again try to talk with the director. She wasn’t there, but the secretary told me that she would be in on Thursday. I returned on Thursday to an empty office. The following week I returned, to be told that the director would certainly be there the next week and, if I would like, the secretary would set up a time specifically for me in the director’s schedule. I came back the next week ten minutes before my scheduled meeting. After waiting there for two hours, the secretary called the director to ask her where she was. The director, she told me, had something else that had come up and wouldn’t be able to meet with me today. I thanked them for their time, told them I’d be in touch, and left.

                 

Beginning to feel the pressure—it was now February and I was the only one that hadn’t started working yet—I asked around for other options. One of the associate directors at the Center told me that there was another nursing home close by that a student had worked at the year before but, for some reason, hadn’t been documented in the log of previous businesses (hence my not knowing about it). Encouraged, I went by there that very same day. Only to be told that the director wasn’t there, but, if I would like, I could return the next day to meet with him. Being a “director” must be the best job in all of Spain. From what I can tell, it basically means that you never, ever have to come to work. Quickly seeing where this was headed, I thanked them and left with no intentions of coming back. I didn’t have another month to waste waiting for a meeting with someone who may or may not actually exist.

                 

Now beginning to get nervous, I returned to the Center to ask if they had any other ideas. “How do you feel about working in a restaurant?” they asked me. I sighed. My first and only experience in the food service industry, a three month stint at Sonic in high school, had left me prematurely jaded. But I was out of options. However, when they told me that Café d’Arthe, at which I had become a regular, positively loved having students and were somewhat disappointed that none had applied, my disappointment turned to excitement. Spaniards spend half their lives in bars (remember, think coffee shop rather than Moe’s), they say. They’re sort of like the roadside diners in the country, or the barbershops in Harlem. Bars are where Spaniards go to shoot the breeze with their neighbors and friends. They’re the social hubs of the country.

                 

The owners of the bar, whom I had gotten to know over the previous month, were happy to have me joining them. I learned to make coffee and pour beer and that was that. If only I had gone to them first, I would’ve saved nearly a month and a half of walking around the city for canceled meetings with non-existent “directors”.

                

 In addition to satisfying the requirements for the course, working at the bar is a lot of fun. There are two owners, Eva and Jairo, and another employee named Mauricio. Eva is from Columbia, Jairo, her husband, is from Venezuela, and Mauricio, Uruguay. Nicest people you’d ever met. And so generous, too. In addition to getting most of my breakfasts for free these days, Eva and Jairo will encourage me to have a second breakfast or, if I go too long without my treasured café con leche, Jairo will tell me to make one for myself, in the same imperative manner in which a father might tell his kid to go mow the lawn. What can I say? They simply insist on giving me free coffee. And of course I don’t want to offend them, so I do as they say and make myself another delicious, creamy, rich, steaming cup of deliciousness. It’s tough work, but someone’s gotta do it.

Catching up: Granada and Adventures with Columbus

I do apologize to you, my precious few readers, for not having updated this blog for a few weeks. A few things contributed to this. First, I've been more busy as of late than I was at the beginning of the semester. Second, I haven't taken any big trips a-la-Barcelona since, well, Barcelona. Third, I'm historically remarkably lazy when it comes to documenting things. From my first planner in middle school to this travelogue, I tend to drag my feet quite a bit before I muster up enough discipline to write out anything. So, again, I apologize. Spain is still wonderful, and I'm still having a great time and doing fine.

A few weeks ago, we made our first multi-day excursion of the semester to Granada. Granada, as with many cities we've visited up to this point, was a very important city in the context of the Arab rule in Spain from 711-1492. Granada was the last Muslim stronghold to fall to the Christian Reconquista, or Reconquest, of the peninsula. Indeed, it was only after the fall of Granada that Spain as we know it today was properly unified. Thus, granadinos (people from Granada) like to say that their city is the birthplace of Spain.

I was really looking forward to going to Granada, in large part because of a particular poster that used to hang in the classroom at Cypress Falls High School where I took Spanish IV and V. It featured the ornate Alhambra, the sultan's residence, with gorgeous greenery and flowers. Its caption read, "Dale limosna, mujer, que no hay nada en la vida como la pena de ser ciego en Granada." , which translates to, "Give alms, woman; for there is nothing in life like the pain of being blind in Granada." This is a popular dicho that is actually featured several places in the city. The context is an exhortation to passersby to be generous to the ubiquitous beggars, especially those who are blind, because they bear the terrible pain of not being able to see the beauty that surrounds them.


Arguably Granada's most famous attraction is the architecturally spectacular Alhambra palace. It was built in the 14th century as the house and main offices of the ruling emir, a medieval White House, if you will. It is perhaps the most stunning example of Moorish architecture in all of Spain, which really is saying quite a bit. Tragically, my camera ran out of batteries before we got there, so I'll have to rely on some stock pictures.

The incredibly intricate patterns shown in the picture above are literally everywhere in the sprawling palace. People come to the Alhambra and take thousands of pictures essentially showing the same thing. In this sense, the Alhambra is almost like a man-made, Moorish Grand Canyon. When people go to the Grand Canyon in Arizona, they have a tendency to be overwhelmed by the views surrounding them. And rightly so. The unfortunate thing for the people who have to sit through their slideshows is that they take pictures at every turn, all of which look rather similar. Same with the Alhambra. Take any single room from it and put it in a museum in the US or, really, anywhere in the world, and it would be a huge attraction, all passing by would be stunned. Multiply that by hundreds, and you start to get a sense of what walking around the Alhambra is like. It's a bit numbing, actually, which really is a shame. "Oh," you begin to think, "another cavernous room covered in the most incredibly detailed and beautiful molding that I've ever seen. What time's lunch?"

The one thing that disappointed me about the Alhambra, and Granada in general, was that the beautiful plants and flowers that I had seen a few years ago in my classroom weren't there: it's winter, and nothing's really blossoming. Which was unfortunate. But, on the bright side, it gives me a reason to take another trip to Spain in the future.

After our visit to the Alhambra, we went to our hotel to check in and rest. Earlier, some of the staff was talking about organizing a trip to one of Granada's famous cuevas (caves) to see flamenco, which is by many accounts some of the best in Spain. I jumped at the chance. And I have to say, it was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen.

It was a very intimate setting, a small room with a wooden floor in the middle surrounded by chairs one row deep. We got a drink with the price of admission, so I sipped on a glass of house red wine while we waited for the dancing to start. We had maybe a dozen students, plus a few faculty and staff. I got to sit next to my literature professor, Dr. Connie Scarborough, and her husband Chuck.

After maybe ten minutes of waiting, two men, one carrying a guitar, came and sat down across the floor from me. A few moments later, three women, two young and one old, wearing colorful, form-fitting flamenco dresses, took their seats next to the man without a guitar, who turned out to be the singer. What followed was a thing of beauty. The guitarist began to play, the singer began to sing and clap, and the three women began to clap and stomp their feet in rhythm. Then, one of the women stood up from her chair and took her place in the middle of the floor. I recorded a brief snippet of it. It's not the best quality, nor is it the most representative bit of the performance. But you can at least get an idea of how the dancing and clapping and stomping and singing worked.

In this performance, I was reminded a lot of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band in New Orleans. Like them, these flamenco artists perform in an intimate setting, practicing an art that relies as much on technical prowess as it does the performer's ability to "feel" the music, the soul of it, if you will, and which is filled with controlled improvisation. And like the famous New Orleans jazz band, these performers were so completely in sync with what the others were doing that it was as if they shared the same heart, lungs, hands, and brain. There weren't five individuals, but rather a single entity comprised of five bodies, all intimately connected with each other. It was moving in the deepest sense of the word. Music, when done at such a level, has a way of communicating the unsayable, the emotions that would be impossible to convey any other way.

Yes, the place was touristy. Yes, they probably do this show every night. But that's the point. They do this every night. And yet, every single night, when they get into their groove, they put their entire heart and soul into their performance. It's as if they were alone in the middle of the floor, without an audience, without lights, just them and the music. And it's truly a thing of beauty.

When I got back from my flamencan adventures, I was greeted by piping hot, freshly made bread that my hotel roommates had bought. Spanish bread is magnificent. Crispy crust, angelically dense, soft inside. And cheap, too. Each of the loaves pictured below, which were made to order, cost 75 cents.

The next day in Granada was left completely open. Some wandered around the city, others spent the day in the gorgeous Sierra Nevada mountains that overlook the city. I decided to take a few side trips with Dr. Scarborough, her husband, and some of the staff from the center. Our first stop was the summer home of Federico Garcia Lorca, whom I talked about in my Cordoba post, which has been converted into a museum. Huerta San Vicente, as it's known, is a really neat place. All of the furniture is original, and it also houses original letters, manuscripts, and other memorabilia from the poet. Unfortunately, we couldn't take pictures OR touch anything, the latter I promptly broke upon entering Lorca's room. How could I not put a hand on the desk where my favorite poet wrote some of his classic work? Sure, it got me a light reprimand from the tour guide. Whatever. I don't live in Granada. They can get over it.

Anyway, the rest of the day was spent walking around and touring churches, which are spectacular, but which also make for poor blogging material. For those who are interested, I'll post the pictures on facebook.

Our next excursion, the following weekend, was a Columbus-filled road trip which covered the place from where he set sail for the new world as well as the monastery where he convinced Queen Isabel's confessor, who later convinced the queen, that his journey around the world was a good idea.

Pictured above is the place from where Columbus set sail. The structure in the middle of the picture is a well; the last thing to be loaded onto the ships was fresh water. Now I can already hear the sarcastic comments. How did Columbus set sail on dry land? Back in the day, the water actually came right up to the well. Now, the water line is almost a mile away. But rest assured, this was the actual well where they filled the ships, which would've been anchored a short distance away.

After seeing the authentic sights, we went to the docks where they have full-size replicas of the three ships Columbus took on his voyage. I didn't really take any pictures, for two reasons. Number one, it was really cheesy. Complete with mannequins and recorded sounds of the sea. Number two, I've already seen them. No, really. There were two sets of replicas made. One is here in Spain, and the other... Is located in none other than Corpus Christi, Texas. So that was a bit of a letdown. The take home point there is that the ships were really quite small, and had a lot of people on them. Not worth the camera battery.

After a day of exploring, we stopped at a beach on the way back to Sevilla. The Atlantic was cold that day, but that didn't stop me and a handful of other guys from jumping in in our boxers. Maybe not something I would do in America. But this is Europe. No one would have batted an eyelash even had we gone in stark naked. A wonderful finish to a so-so excursion.

More soon.

Weekend in Barcelona, Part III

The next morning, our second and last, we set out to finish off the itinerary set for us by the guy at my hostel. The first stop on our list was the Museu Picasso (which also proved to be the most difficult building in all of Barcelona to find; it was tucked away in a non-descript building in a non-descript neighborhood not really near anything). All of Picasso's biggest works, the hostel worker told me, are in New York, Paris, and Malaga (a city on the southern coast of Spain where Picasso was born). But the Museu Picasso in Barcelona was for me made almost more interesting because of the fact that it housed so many lesser-known works, including many he made as a child and teenager. And, at six euro, it was one of the cheaper museums we've been to. Unfortunately, photography of any kind was prohibited. So I only got a few shots while the guards weren't looking.

The above picture is one of his studies on Velazquez's Las Meninas, his masterpiece and one of the most important paintings in Western art history. We'll see the original Velazquez in the Prado museum in Madrid a bit later on. The painting has inspired countless studies by many famous artists. Along with Picasso, Dali, Goya, and Bacon, among others, have painted their own takes/responses to the painting.

The original

But more about Velazquez and Spanish art in another post. One of the things that struck me about the museum was just how good of an artist Picasso was even as a young man. One of the most important paintings in the collection is his First Communion which he entered into an art contest at the ripe age of fifteen.

Doesn't look like what you think of as Picasso, does it? Kind of makes me feel like even more of an underachiever when I look back at what I did when I was fifteen. Or, for that matter, what I'm doing as a twenty-year old. Ah well, that's why he's Picasso and I'm not.

After the Picasso Museum, we made for a lesser-renowned, but nonetheless exciting museum: The Chocolate Museum (Museu de la Xocolata), where the entry tickets are delicious bars of dark chocolate.

The museum was filled with chocolate sculptures of various things, ranging in subject from Don Quixote to SpongeBob (Bob Esponja to the Spaniards). But really, the highlight of the visit was the chocolate that we got to consume. After our round through the exhibits, munching on our tickets the whole way, was concluded with a cup of xocolata. No, not the hot "chocolate"-flavored stuff you drink during the winter. Actual melted dark chocolate in a cup.

 No matter what kind of day, week, month, year, decade, or century you may be having, a single cup of this stuff will make you view it all in a dreamy, golden light. I firmly believe that melted dark chocolate cure not only cancer and depression, but every malady known to man. And it will make an incurable optimist of even the most cynical among us. While I was seriously tempted to make camp at the Museu de la Xocolata and never return to Sevilla, living out my days engorging myself on wonderful, divine chocolate, we pressed on.

Next up was the stadium where the Barcelona soccer team plays. Futbol Club Barcelona, is, I'm told, the best team in Spain and one of the very best in the world. They play in the enormous Camp Nou, which at a capacity of nearly a hundred thousand is one of the largest soccer stadiums in the world (for those of you keeping track, however, it has about ten thousand fewer seats than the University of Michigan football stadium). There weren't any games while we were in town, which was somewhat unfortunate. Even though I have no interest whatsoever in soccer, going to a soccer match is one of the cultural experiences in which I feel like I need to take part while I'm here. Luckily, Real Madrid, which I'm told is also one of the premier soccer teams in the world, will be playing during our excursion to Madrid.

The Spanish obsession with soccer is something I really don't think I'll ever understand. It really is a religion-- more so, one could argue after looking at the church attendance statistics of Spain. I'm not even arguing that it's not fun to play. When you don't have the equipment to play football, baseball, or ultimate frisbee, soccer does fine in a pinch. But it's just not any fun to watch on TV. I love baseball and played it for most of my childhood. But I'll be the first to say that it's no fun to listen to on the radio. Really, I'm not that big a fan of watching it on TV, either. Soccer seems to be infinitely worse than baseball to watch. And yet, pass by any bar with a TV and you're likely to see a partido, or at least a recap of a partido from the day or week before. Despite not understanding the national obsession with such a boring sport, I have figured out why the US will never be as good as, well, just about any other country in the world. For one, our best athletes do other sports like football, baseball, and basketball. But -- and this is the bit that I've learned while over here -- one of the biggest impediments to the US getting to the level of Spain is that Spaniards start perfecting the game when they're young. We saw the practice session of a team of kids who couldn't have been more than about four years old. And, as far as I can tell, every kid in Spain plays soccer. And they continue doing so until they're too old to walk. Every field in the city of Seville is reserved from now until the end of the year with local teams wanting to get playing time in. But I digress. Here's Camp Nou, home of FC Barcelona.

After seeing the stadium, which is on the outskirts of town, we headed back to the center of the city to a street called La Rambla, one of the most well-known areas of Barcelona. It's a pedestrian mall linking the Gothic Quarters and El Raval, an ethnically Chinese neighborhood. Among many other things, La Rambla is home to Mercat de la Boqueria, a public market where you can find nearly every type of fresh meat, fruit, and vegetable known to man.

A really cool place, a lot like the Mercado de San Miguel that I talked about in one of my first posts. We got some delicious fresh-squeezed juice for a euro. Between the fresh juice and Jack LaLanne's death, I'm really thinking about buying one of those Jack LaLanne Juicers when I get back to the States. The world seems to be screaming at me that that's the correct action to take. We'll see.

After the market, I split from the group with the intent of going to see one of the Gaudi buildings. However, the eighteen euro entrance fee threw a wrench into those plans. So, I had a fantastic meal (which is chronicled in my facebook pictures for those who are interested) and headed back to another Gaudi structure, the Sagrada Familia, for mass. The church was consecrated last November by Pope Benedict XVI, and mass is now regularly held there. Due to the state of construction, masses are not held in the main nave, but rather, in the crypt below the church, which is gorgeous in its simplicity.

The main altar of the crypt

I mentioned in my first post about Barcelona how the Sagrada Familia is a remarkably spiritually-moving place. The crypt is no different. It's just one of those places that stirs the senses. The beautiful space was augmented by a visiting choir. Their simple Catalan harmonies filled the small space wonderfully. Despite not understanding a word (it was a Catalan service), it was one of the most moving masses I've ever attended.

The crypt's most famous tomb is that of Antoni Gaudi himself, who died in 1926 when the church was about 15% completed. He knew that he would never see it finished, as he expected construction to last several hundred years. But he was never fazed, saying famously that "[his] client is not in a hurry."

After mass, I looked around the crypt for a short while then headed back to the subway once again to go to one final sight: the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc.

The fountains at Montjuïc were the original dancing fountains, and supposedly the inspiration for the fountains at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. According to an email that another person in our group had, the fountain performances took place at 7:30, 8:00, 8:30, and 9:00PM. Since mass ended just before 8:30, I was in a bit of a rush to make my way there. While I was switching rails, I happened to run into a bunch of people from our group who were also planning on going to the fountains. When we finally got there, we were met by almost everyone else who was in Barcelona from Tech, just by chance. Go figure. Anyway, the fountains' last show turned out to be 8:30, so we didn't get to see them. We were rewarded by a fantastic view of the city, however, which we used for one final group picture in Barcelona.

A fantastic trip, and one that I won't soon forget.