Tyler's Travels

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

2010-06-19T15:22:00.010+02:00

Well folks, this is my last week in Oviedo, Spain. It's been quite the adventure these past 9 months. I have met loads of people, traveled nearly every corner of this country, and lived it to the utmost. And so, I wanted to write a sort of overall impression: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I cannot always be sure if what I see is typical of Oviedo, of Asturias, of Spain, or of all of Europe, but I will try to be as fair and balanced as possible with my judgments. I will also (eventually) translate this post into Spanish so everyone can benefit from my estimations.

THE GOOD, THE BAD

The Spanish are extremely tolerant and I find this so refreshing. After growing up in puritanical Utah, it is such a relief to live in a place where others don't impose their morals on your life. The Spanish are extremely in tune with the idea of "live and let live". Topics like alcohol, sex, and swearing are all treated very pragmatically here. Their understanding is that these are all personal choices and everyone is happiest if we all keep our ideologies to ourselves. As a result, there is much less abuse and excess in these regards. I can only think of one occasion off the top of my head that I've seen someone physically incapacitated from drinking too much. Since alcohol is not some forbidden, sinful object, people understand how to handle it in moderation. The idea of binging yourself blind when you turn 21 is a bit absurd to someone who's had wine with dinner all his or her life. In Asturias you can buy beer and cider at 16, and if you're with your family, there's no real age limit.

Of course, we all draw the line of what is tolerable differently. I am a bit appalled when I see 15-year-olds drinking and smoking in the park in broad daylight. The other day a 10-year-old boy on the street asked me to buy him cigarettes. These are both things I can never imagine happening at home.

My absolute least favorite thing about Spain is their tolerance for smoking. Ok, smoking in bars is fair enough, but every single restaurant, café, and coffee shop? There's no escape! I thought I was moving to modern Europe not the 1950's. People smoke in their own houses, with the windows closed even. Have they not heard of second hand smoke? Do they not mind their walls and furniture turning yellow and smelling like manure? As recently as 15 years ago people still smoked at the office and in university lectures. After checking some statistics online, it seems that as much as 30% of people over 16 in Spain smoke, compared to about 20% in the US and UK (over 18). With a mere 12% of the population smoking in Utah, you can imagine my shock. If you ever want to eat out or get a drink or coffee in Spain, you have to resign yourself to the fact that you will smell like an ashtray for the rest of the day. I have to take a shower after a night out because the smell of my own hair makes me sick. I know, I am less tolerant to smoke than most people due to my sensitive nose, but I can unequivocally say that tobacco is the worst part of Spain. I can't wait to go back to a nice smelling country, and think I may not return to Spain until they join the modern world in this regard.

Despite my grumbling, I have to just suck it up, because one key aspect of the Spanish lifestyle is that life happens outside the home. The Spanish truly know how to live well. People of all ages delight in taking a stroll around the park, chatting with friends for hours, and eating out. There are an incredible number of cafés, full of people taking their time to enjoy a coffee, eat a little snack, read the paper, catch up with the neighborhood gossip. Fast food and ordering things to-go are very unpopular; why rush? Going out is always an option on a dry night, and Spaniards are not shy to dance. I've spent many a happy evening drifting from locale to locale. You can stop in and dance some salsa, move on to a rock-and-roll kind of bar, get a glass of wine, go hear a Celtic band, and get your hip-hop on, all within the size of one or two Salt Lake City blocks. This leisurely attitude is institutionalized, and the entire country gets a solid month of vacation, usually August.

There are a few obvious drawbacks to this laid-back and fun-loving temperament. Spain has an unemployment rate of over 20%. Having loads of vacation and few work hours is great until you're the one who would really like to get something done. I once had to wait one whole hour to mail a package because there was only one person working at the post office on a weekday morning. It took me two hours to buy a cell phone for heaven's sake! If I set about to write down all the times I have been majorly screwed over by Spain's notorious disorganization and inefficiency, it would fill a small novel. The story I'll be telling my grandkids happened just last Monday. It was the final exam for my grammar class, the last of my exams and the end of my undergraduate career. On this most momentous day, I kid you not, the professor showed up one whole HOUR late to the exam. The university had told her the wrong time. She apologized profusely and assured us it was not the first time this had happened . . . truly the icing on the cake of a malfunctional year.

These experiences lead me to think it's maybe not a complete mystery that they have such crippling unemployment. I mean, the same people running the postal service and this high-ranking university are in charge of economic policy! I'm not saying all Spanish people are lazy or inept, but everyone in a position of power seems to be.

I don't mean to knock the University of Oviedo either. My professors were all extremely knowledgeable and dedicated. I learned a fair amount and one of my professors in particular was truly inspirational. Nevertheless, I am now quite certain I would never want to do my post-graduate work in Spain. I really appreciate the University of Utah and American education now. Here it's all just lecture. You show up to class (or not) and listen to the professor for 45 minutes (or a half hour if they arrive late as the aforementioned inspiration regularly did). Students aren't expected to contribute anything. Instead, they frantically write down every word the professor says. Those with the best notes copy them for their classmates, they study these novellas for days on end, then take one gigantic test. I often have ideas I'd like to share, but then remember the American girl who is rumored to have been kicked out of class for interrupting the lecturer, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

On a very different topic, Spanish food is delicious. I have nothing but good things to say. Everything is produced locally, naturally. Would you believe that at the McDonald's here they use Asturian beef? It's all much more healthy and ecological, a great model for a more sustainable future. My griping is confined to the following: too much fried food, not enough herbs/spices, not enough fruits and vegetables. Overall though, Spanish food is incredible. Even simple boring things like tortilla and croquetas are surprisingly delicious. My personal favorite is the fish and seafood. I know words for things I couldn't begin to name or describe in English. It's all quality and relatively affordable. As a matter of course I've also become a bit of a wine connoisseur; I really enjoy a good albariño or ribera del duero.

Another wonderful thing about Spain that I've had the pleasure of experiencing is the great cultural diversity that is to be found in different parts of the peninsula. When I visited Sevilla I was amazed how different everything was from Oviedo. The people look much more Mediterranean, they speak very differently, the food is different, and the climate is the exact opposite of Asturias: hot and dry. Then if you travel to Cataluña, the culture is quite different again, with nearly everyone speaking Catalán, a sort of intermediate language between Spanish and French (they say both gracias and merci!). And as I explained in an earlier post, the Basque country is probably the most unique of all, descended from the early pre-Roman, pre-Celtic people of Europe. Really, every village and city has slightly different language and food in Spain. Traveling just a few hours you can feel like you're somewhere new and foreign.

There is great diversity in the original cultures of the peninsula. But more and more there is greater cultural diversity due to immigration. I read once that Asturias has one of the highest percentages of immigrants in all of Spain, and it shows. When I've traveled to other parts of Spain it surprised me how few Chinese Bazaars there are, how few West Africans or Latin Americans I see compared to Oviedo. Sadly, Spain has not done a very good job of integrating these immigrants into mainstream society. Chinese people own restaurants or bazaars or sell flowers. That's it. Africans work as garbagemen or sell CDs. That's it. Latinos are more integrated because they already speak the language, but still hold marginal jobs. This is not substantially different than the U.S., bit it is more extreme. America has had a much longer history of immigration and thus it's not odd that a person of Asian decent should be a lawyer or one of African decent a CEO. In Spain this would be quite the anomaly.

Also, I hate to say it, but racism is much more acceptable in Spain than in America. As I mentioned in the last post, Europe is generally thought to be more classist and America more racist. Sadly, Spain is both classist and racist. People will casually say things like "Chinese are ugly" or "Africans are dangerous." There was even an advertisement on TV for a shampoo that promised you hair "as straight and smooth as an Asian's". When I suggested this was, at best, ethnically insensitive, no one seemed to see why. When I asked what they would think of a shampoo that made your hair "curly as an African's" they laughed aloud and said "who would want African hair??" My host family very good-naturedly suggested I dress up as a Black person for Carnaval. Ever heard of "blackface"? Ringing a bell? The most heart-breaking, though, was a woman's remark when she saw a cute little South American Indian baby on TV. She looked at it woefully and said, "Poor thing. How is anyone going to love something so ugly." The most discriminated group is definitely the Roma people, commonly called gypsies. "They steal". "They cheat". "They lie". "They are dirty". No Spaniard would even bat a lash at these statements. And maybe they often are true, but I nonetheless am not OK with automatically judging a person's character just because s/he has "coffee with milk"-colored skin.

I hope in this post I don't appear like I'm bitter and jaded. Of course, no place is perfect, and Spain has some very serious issues on its hands. But I don't for one second regret coming here. Spain is an extremely diverse and beautiful country, and the Spanish are a generous and good-spirited people, always willing to lend a hand and have a good time. I hope I will be able to visit often in the future. If all my friends and I could meet in Oviedo every summer for a reunion I'd be eternally happy. And I hope the people I've met might be willing to visit me back in the USA as well. Wherever I am, you're all welcome!

Oh, and before I forget:

THE UGLY

Belén Esteban. #1 Muppet in Spain. *Shudder*

Next week I start my train journey to Barcelona, France, Amsterdam, Berlin, and London, so stay tuned for much more travel logs!

¡Ay, qué pijería!

2010-06-06T17:31:00.010+02:00

OK, so I really should be studying for my Spanish Grammar exam tomorrow. Buuuuuut, I thought I'd pump out another post real quick. Nothing as overwhelming and long-winded as last week's, don't worry. There's a certain topic which has been gnawing at me for ages now, and I think if I write it down then maybe my internal monologues might stop, or at least lighten up. The topic is social class.

Sometime last year I met a girl from San Francisco who grew up in England, and we got talking about the differences between the U.S. and Europe, specifically the U.K. Her opinion was that the U.K. has many fewer racial tensions and inequalities than the United States. She, who is half African- and half European-American, felt like her appearance was much less of an issue when she lived in England (London I believe) than when she later moved back to the U.S. On the contrary, she suggested that in the U.K. there were instead many more prejudices and inequalities with regard to social class. This is an idea I've heard many times in the past. So, now that I have a bit of personal experience, is the Old World really more classist than the New World?

The answer is, yes, I'm afraid it really is. I have heard the most outrageous things since I've lived here. Elitist beliefs seem to be ingrained in society and the most reasonable people will say incredibly prejudiced things without a second thought. There are entire vocabularies for class-related ideas that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around.

My first exposure to this was back in October. I met this Spaniard who had the most peculiar obsession with pijos. He explained to me how they say things like "¡qué fuerte!" and "o sea" all the time, that they dress in brand name clothing and buy the most expensive of everything. I had no idea what a pijo was, so I turned to my trusty dictionary and got "posh" as the definition. This hardly helped. I slowly began to realize, the more I heard this term, that not only were pijo and posh not part of my vocabulary, they weren't part of my world view either.

What this guy was talking about, complaining about, judging and stereotyping, was the upper class of Spanish society. I will always remember when I introduced him to my friend Victor and he quickly said, "oh, we've met." He then proceeded to heckle Victor because the type of shoes he wore and his button-up Dockers shirt marked him as a complete pijo and thus deserving prejudice and public mockery. When I met Victor I never once considered how much money his parents make or what neighborhood he might live in or what his clothing budget might be. He was just a nice guy willing to show me around Oviedo as my officially appointed tour guide. And having gotten to know him quite well, it sounds like his neighborhood is anything but the height of fashion, and his clothing style hardly means he buys toilet paper from El Corte Inglés.

Many more examples come from my time spent with the British. It seems nearly every aspect of British life has a class dimension to it. "Oh that tea is alright, but it's for builders [construction workers]. This one is more in our market." Vacationing in Spain is considered very "common" (as in something commoners do; they still think of commoners). Anyone with any class will prefer to visit France or Italy. Every single Briton in Oviedo knows which of their countrymen is the poshest, and are able to determine this instantly based upon accent. I've even heard my friend Moo referred to as simply "that really posh girl." Crazier still, this seems to successfully remind people of who she is! I swear, it's like as soon as someone says they're from Oxford they're assumed to own a yacht, and as soon as they say their from Coventry, they're assumed to own a switchblade.

Sometimes there are completely different vocabulary even. In America, the final course of a meal is always called "dessert". Not in Britain. If you call it "dessert" you are being posh, and if you call it "pudding" you are being common. The thing you use to wipe your mouth in America is just a napkin. In Britain this is the posh term, with commoner people calling it a "serviette".

I honestly can't think of anything similar to this occurring in the U.S. Granted, more educated people do speak quite differently than less educated people, but it's nowhere near as extreme. Having met quite a few British people, it's amazing that even though they are all university students, some will forever be considered lower than others, based on nothing but their accent. I asked them about this, and they've said it's a tricky subject, because it doesn't just come down to money. You can have lots of money and still be common. You can have quite a humble income and be posh. The fact is, there exists a social divide in Europe which is unparalleled in America.

When I met a friend's parents a while back, I was really caught off guard when she referred to me as "a rather posh American." At the time I didn't say anything; she meant it as the utmost compliment. I didn't even know what to think. Since then I have been pondering what she said. In what way am I posh? She had said this because, in their eyes, I speak much better than most Americans. Most British people secretly (or less than secretly) abhor how Americans speak, making minor exceptions for newscasters, old movies . . . and apparently me.

I suppose to a certain extent this is true. A friend once told me how having a more posh accent has gotten her out of trouble before. When she had a run-in with the police, she merely had to assure them nothing is wrong in her most proper voice and they went on their way. I haven't had any experience quite like this, but I do recall one occasion back in high school. We were at a debate tournament and went up against a team from a rougher part of town. In their opening argument they said things like "They was", "She don't" and "They don't have nowhere to go." We easily beat them, and afterward my teammates remarked, "How do they expect to win if they speak like that?" The sad truth is, my partner and I spoke standard "correct" English, and there was no way they could beat that. It's quite unfair when you think about it. They only speak that way because their parents do. I only speak this way because my parents do. I'd like to say it's because I was the most dedicated pupil in Mr. Hawk's Second Grade grammar class, but the truth is I got it for free. It is an advantage I have over others and I didn't have to do anything to earn it.

Nonetheless, I do not think this makes me "posh". The more I think about the term, the more indignant and defensive I get. They were calling me upper-class, saying I am different, special, elite. This does not sit well with me, and I don't think it would sit well with many Americans. There's something deep-seated in our culture which causes us to decry and deny anything snobbish. If you look at political advertisements, you can see there is a great value placed in being "just a regular joe" with a job and a mortgage, someone who barbecues with the neighbors and belongs to the PTA. It's very bad form to appear "pretentious" or "snooty".

When I was maybe 11 years old I asked my dad, "Dad, are we rich?" To this day I will never forget how upset this made him. He gave me quite the lecture, about how we are very lucky, our family lives quite comfortably, but that in no way are we different or better than anyone else because of our possessions or interests or friends. He stressed that we may have things others don't, but this is only because of hard work and sacrifice. My parents have always been sure to remind us that when I was born we lived in a tiny one-bedroom house with bars on the windows, in a humble neighborhood of Albuquerque, NM. Thrift has always been important; my mom and aunt love to brag how little they spent on any given item.

Categories like "working class", "lower middle class", "upper middle class", "posh", and "common" are all convenient ways of describing how respectable a job someone has, or how long she went to school, or whether he knows which fork to use and how to eat soup. But we must keep in mind that these are nothing more than silly labels. Class, just like Race, is a concept created by human beings. It is a product of our own small-minded worldview, not a reflection of any fundamental world order.

When I lived with my host family, Kike exclaimed once, "¡Ay, qué pijería!". Someone on the television had done something exceedingly pijo, such as dressing a child in a Versace suit. I still don't know how I'd translate the word pijería. Some things, like paella, just don't exist in America.

The Americans' Burden

2010-05-30T19:01:00.008+02:00

As many of you will have noticed, the majority of my blog posts over the past months have been little more than photos and brief narratives, lacking in analysis and personal involvement. So, in the four weeks I have left in Spain, I plan on dishing out some meaningful blogging!

Nearly seven months ago I alluded to American stereotypes in my writing. A close reader will notice that I never did flesh out this topic. Today I'd like to pick up the sensitive issue of stereotypes and preconceptions and share how I've come to understand it over these past months.

Every group of people that is somewhat well known and judged as constituting a whole in some way will be assigned certain stereotypes by other such groups. These preconceived notions are almost never created out of nothing; they have some kernel of truth to them. And while the more politically correct individual will be quick to discount all stereotypes as evil, I think they can serve a useful purpose. It's silly to assume your Italian and German roommates might have the same approach to cleaning and organization, for example. The trick is knowing to what extent you can apply a stereotype. You needn't be surprised that a particular Frenchman bathes daily, for example. There are always exceptions and some stereotypes are better founded than others.

Since I've lived here I have become very familiar with what Europeans assume about each other, as well as what they assume about us Americans. I will never forget, it must have been the first week I lived in Oviedo; I was at a party (read: botellón) and was speaking with a Spaniard who proceeded to ask me the most pointed and startling questions. "So, if you're American, why aren't you fat?"; "How many guns do you own, anyway?"; "Does everyone in your family have their own iPod, cell phone, computer, and car??".

There's nothing novel about these stereotypes, though it sure is shocking to be confronted point blank like that. Sadly, one-third of American adults are considered overweight. This is an issue our nation must deal with, but remember there are plenty of slim Americans as well! I am not an anomaly in that regard. In fact, after checking some quick statistics from the CDC (Centers for Disease Control), Utah is one of the slimmest states with 22% of the population having a body mass index (BMI) of 30 or greater, (Spain is 17%, Mississippi 33%). Additional info from this website places us as second in best overall health too!

Secondly, yeah, owning guns is one of our basic rights, but this also varies greatly state to state and person to person. I'm not into guns myself and have never owned even a BB gun, but I did reflect on this issue recently when someone exclaimed to me, "Man, your country would sure be hard to conquer if every man, woman, and child were armed! If we were invaded here we'd have a hard time protecting ourselves." It was interesting hearing this conclusion come from a European. But then again, the US has infinitely more gun crimes than unarmed countries like Canada, and it is reassuring that if I stumble into the wrong neighborhood here, I don't have to worry about being shot to death (just knifed...). It's a topic of much debate and few Americans interpret "the right to bear arms" the same way. I personally don't think possession of an AK-47 is covered under our basic rights, but then I'm quite the radical.

The third question, however, caught me most unprepared. Because, to be frank, the stereotype of American materialism could not be more true. I bought an iPhone the summer before coming here, and though it is a luxury in the US, I knew dozens of people who had one. I have not seen one solitary iPhone since I left. Every time I get it out to send a text or check the time I feel their eyes on me, whispering "you consumer whore!" I wouldn't want any other phone, but I hate to stand out so. And it gets worse.

In my family there pretty much is a 1:1 ratio of cars to drivers. Over the past 5 years my family have probably bought more than ten iPods between us. My sister has never known a world without a computer and internet at her disposal. The fact is we are a very rich nation; I never realized how spoiled we are until coming to Europe. Here people use things until they break, whereas my friends back home are all excited to ditch their perfectly functional phones for the latest model as soon as possible. In the future when I start to think "I need...", I will take a step back and consider, do I really need that? Do I need it now? Do I need it new?

Then again, it just occurred to me that, as the current financial crisis has shown us, the world economy pretty much depends on Americans' unfailing consumerism . . .

These three seem to be some of the most common American stereotypes I encounter. Another great one is that we Americans are all reactionary, fundamentalist cowboys. This does seem to have more than just a "kernel" of truth to it. Consider: the conservative party of Spain, the Partido Popular, has beliefs very similar to the Democratic Party of the United States (the left-wing party being called the Socialist Workers' Party); and according to the World Values Survey, only 67% of Spaniards (45% of Britons and 40% of French) EVER attend church, compared to 84% of Americans. And as for being cowboys, well that's right up there with the beret-wearing French and the lederhosen-wearing Germans. What is true, however, is that we are much more individualistic than most nations. A certain distrust in government comes naturally.

And finally, the most offensive stereotype for me: that Americans are "uncultured". I particularly hate this one because, what does "uncultured" even mean? It's one of those words which can be applied to an enormous range of negative qualities.

1) Unfashionable

Ok, fair enough. I'd say, yes, Europeans do dress better in general. But I have seen plenty of Spaniards, Italians, British, dressed exactly the same as we do in the US, e.g. jeans, t-shirt, sneakers. My theory is that the difference is more Urban-Rural than European-American. On both continents city-dwellers care more about their appearance than country-folk. Fewer Americans live in cities than Europeans do so the differences naturally follow, but no one doubts the fashion supremacy of places like New York City.

2) "Unrefined" cuisine

There is a great misunderstanding about what constitutes American food. I've heard many Americans asked about our cuisine and the only food they can think of is hamburgers. The problem is that, first of all, America is far too large and diverse to pin down a single shared cuisine. It's like asking what does American music sound like. And like music, the rest of the world has copied so much from us and vice versa, that it's impossible to draw the line.

Secondly, we are a nation of immigrants, so we tend to refer to foods as though they were all ethnic, when really they are much more American than we realize. For example, fajitas are a uniquely American food, invented in the Southwest and now available all over Europe. Egg Foo Young, fortune cookies, and General Tso's chicken are all unknown in China. They, like California rolls, were created in American restaurants for American tastes. I thought it is very interesting, when I went to a Mexican restaurant in London and a Chinese restaurant in Oviedo, both of these were extremely Americanized to me. Or, I suppose they were Europeanized, in which case it is apparent that America and Europe resemble each other much more than either resembles Mexico or China.

As a final word, I insist you not judge American food until you've been to America. And please don't judge us by our fast food. Comparing McDonald's to a summer barbecue or Taco Bell to a real taco is like comparing that nasty premade supermarket tortilla to the real thing. You have to compare the best with the best, or the worst with the worst. And I assure you, my family's cooking (and hopefully someday mine) is some of the best around. Come visit and see!

3) Ignorant to other cultures and languages.

This has some truth to it, unfortunately. In many ways we are the center of the world; you couldn't escape American music, media, merchandise, politics or current events if you tried. Plus, most Europeans cannot imagine the unique geographic situation of the US. Nowhere else on earth can you travel thousands of miles and still be in contact with the same largely monolingual culture. It's like an island. Most people speak only English because English is all that matters for their lives. If you're Hungarian, for example, you have a few million people to speak your language with. Within a few hours travel you're in a country with a completely different language and culture: German, Italian, Romanian, Slovakian, Croatian. Unless you never leave Hungary (the size of Maryland) you will learn about these cultures, and learn (at least) English, the language they all have in common. Nothing similar to this occurs within the entire 9 million square kilometers of the U.S.

As immigration and globalization increase, I'm certain we will see more interaction with different cultures in the US. Americans might even be willing to listen to songs that aren't in English! And watch movies with subtitles! Heck, I'm here learning Spanish with this very thing in mind; I can't experience everything I want knowing only English.

~~~

Having confronted these and many other stereotypes over the past months has really caused me to re-examine what the United States of America is and what it is to be an American. I have never been a particularly patriotic person, and I remember during my tumultuous teen years I held many outlandish ideas, such as "America has no culture!" or "I am from nowhere and belong to nothing!". These are all quite common things for a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant in the US to think. When you grow up in a world in which everything is contrasted against this, you have a hard time seeing those things which make up your own culture. Culture itself is presented as all those things different from the majority. White is the non-ethnicity; Male is the non-gender; English is the non-language (And how the White English speaking males in power speak is "no accent"). This kind of worldview was, naturally, a mere product of my own ignorance. Towards the end of high school and in college I began to understand what things make up my culture. Only living outside of it, though, have I finally gotten a clear picture of the U.S. and American-ness.

American exceptionalism is a belief that has quite a lot of currency in the U.S. It has its opponents, but I think for the most part this is something we are all raised to believe. This is exactly the kind of self-serving belief I rebelled so strongly against in my earlier adolescence. However, writing from the nation of Spain, I must say I cannot deny the unique history and status of my homeland.

I hate the inherent arrogance of this analogy, but it has proven itself to be true time and again: America is like a celebrity. Some love it, some hate it, but everyone has heard of it, and everyone has an opinion. American news is global news. A lot of times I've been caught off guard by how much people here know about my country. They all study the states and capitals, they know all about our current economic and healthcare reforms, they know about the Republicans and Democrats. I mean, is there anyone on earth who doesn't know who Barack Obama is? There are two channels on regular cable devoted solely to Hollywood movies, and most people get MTV. It's quite challenging for an American to step into this society, where everyone already knows so much about you. I've studied plenty about Spain and tried to learn as much as possible, but the average person still knows much more about my nation. As celebrities exhibit, it is a bit hard to keep your head on straight. I really value humility, and make an extra effort not to be an arrogant, boorish yankee, but I find it impossible not to feel proud.

One of the most noticeable symbols of this is seen in the Eurovision song contest, which I watched last night. After narrowing the competitors down to 25, each nation sings one song, usually as flamboyantly as humanly possible (these people would put glitter on sequins . . .). The vast majority sing in English. After the performance, each country reports the number of points it awards to the competitors. They can report in either English or French. After close inspection, it appeared that the only nation to report in French was . . . France. More shocking still though, only two of the nations reporting in English did so in an English accent. The remaining twenty-two nations reported in what was very obviously their attempt at American English. They naturally had their native language accent, but it was abundantly apparent they weren't trying to sound British. The official language of the Eurovision song contest by popular support is . . . American! I personally think this is beyond bizarre. They really should speak British English, it's downright unneighbourly. It is also quite flattering, though. I feel a sort of patriotic blushing coming on . . .

We are pretty exceptional. And as such I think we have a certain burden not felt by other nations. Let's not forget who has the tiresome job of policing the entire world now . . . . But we also have certain responsibilities we mustn't take lightly. I hope with this and successive administrations we will see a greater emphasis placed on international cooperation and intervention in human rights issues. We've spent so much time and money bombing third-world countries over the past 9 years--I'm no expert in foreign policy, but I should think there are less heavy-handed ways of ensuring peace and stability around the world. And you know, maybe in the future all these developed and soon-to-be-developed nations will take a bigger share of the responsibility.

Anyway, I hope all these rantings congeal in some way to give you an idea of how the experiences of living far from home have altered how I see that home and my place in it. Keep tuned for more meaningful blogging!

Special Guests!

2010-05-23T14:04:00.019+02:00

Yes, it has been over a month now since I wrote anything. Once again, I have been far too busy. and lazy. But now my classes are over and I have no more excuses.

That's right, my classes have ended. And not just for the year. Last Wednesday I had the last class of my entire undergraduate career. The professor made sure to go out with a bang, lecturing on how to use quotation marks while I doodled in my notebook. After 45 mind-numbing minutes, I picked up my bag, said my goodbyes, and walked out of the classroom. FOREVER.

Well, I suppose that is a bit melodramatic. I still have four exams, and besides, I'm quite certain I will be heading to grad school within the next two years, so in my mind it's really more the beginning of a very long summer break. Fifteen months of summer if all goes according to plan. You see, I'm currently applying for jobs teaching English in Taiwan, the tropical island nation also known as the Republic of China. I would most likely work there for the length of an academic year. So with a Utah summer on either end of that experience, I'm looking at a very warm future! I'll be sure to keep you updated as this venture unfolds.

But now, without further ado, I proudly present the photo journal of May 2010.

Mom and Dad came to visit me! Here we are in front of the Roman bridge in Cangas de Onis

Mom and Dad in front of the church at Covadonga

The lakes of Covadonga

We spent one night in a small town near Llanes at a beachfront hotel.

The coast of Northern Spain

One of many beautiful beaches on our extensive beach tour

haha

Lastres vista

Lastres harbor

pre-Romanesque church in Oviedo

View from Mt. Naranco of Oviedo (and Jaime and Mom)

Statue of Christ on top of Mt. Naranco

Gijón

La Laboral Arts center and part of the University campus

View from that tower of La Laboral

One afternoon we went on a hike near the village of Proaza

We also managed a day-trip to León

Overall, it was a great week. It was a priceless experience to show my parents what my life over the past 9 months has been like. They met my friends, my roommate, saw the university campus, tried the local cuisine, and really experienced this part of the world as I know it. Now whenever I reminisce about this year, I've got someone who can corroborate, temper, and share my judgments and memories with.

Somos Peregrinos

2010-04-18T15:16:00.004+02:00

Now, the post you've all been waiting for!

This Easter, my friends Cecilia, Dave, and I decided we would attempt the Camino de Santiago, or St. James' Way. While many at home will not have heard of the Camino, within Europe and Catholicism it is known as one of the most important religious pilgrimages, right behind Jerusalem and Rome. It has been traveled for more than a thousand years, attracting pilgrims from all over Europe since the remains of St. James were discovered in Galicia in the 8th century. The myth is that James, the brother of John, was martyred in Jerusalem and his body shipped to the Iberian Peninsula, where he had preached earlier in life. A storm struck off the coast of Galicia (known as A Costa da Morte or "The Coast of Death") and the boat sank, losing James' body to the sea. Shortly thereafter, however, his body washed up on shore, undamaged and covered in shells. To this day, the shell is the symbol of the Camino de Santiago. Anyone who makes a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Apostle, attends Mass in the Cathedral and confesses his sins is given a plenary indulgence by the Catholic church, a Get-Out-of-Purgatory-Free card, so to speak.

Today the Camino is very highly traveled, attracting tens of thousands of pilgrims from around the world, for the above reason, and for more personal and secular reasons as well.

Which brings me to our pilgrimage. We would be attempting the Camino on the most famous and well-developed route, which passes through León, south of Asturias. From there it is some 300 odd kilometers (~200 miles) to Santiago. We would have Easter break to complete it. I had spoken with the parents of my students, 13- and 14-year-old Ali and Patri, about how I would be attempting the Camino, and to my great surprise and gratitude they offered to lend me a bike. And so I would be using a primary-colored bike fondly dubbed "Beef" after I misread one of its (his, actually) decals.

Thursday March 25, Oviedo-León

So, Thursday afternoon we put our bikes on the train, and 1 1/2 hours later arrived in the city of León. There we sampled some of the local food, such as morcilla. Morcilla is one of those things you should eat and never ask what it's made of. It is very delicious; kind of a spicier, classier sloppy joe spread on toast . . . that happens to be made of blood and rice. The greatest thing about León is the extensive practice of tapas. In every locale, if you order a drink, you get a snack alongside, be it chips, tortilla, jamón, or morcilla.

After sampling the tapeo leonés a bit, we turned in for the night. We stayed in a monastery, complete with nuns, a vegetable garden, and a chapel. That evening before our trek, we attended a special pilgrims' service to bless our journey. I understood everything the pious old Spanish nun was saying. She was very adamant on one point, that we are not on vacation, we are pilgrims, and pilgrims of luxury as compared to the Middle Ages when people regularly died attempting the journey. The basic message was: you will suffer. If you aren't suffering then you aren't doing it right. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, AMEN.

Accommodation

Over the next week, that stern nun would appear in our minds as we climbed mountains, as we rode through rainstorms, as we bruised, cut, strained and abused our bodies. I may not have quite the same views and beliefs as her, but we can agree, this was not a relaxing vacation we were embarking on. This was a physical and psychological challenge unmatched by anything in my previous experience. We got in our bunk beds and tried to sleep as much as possible before the morning, restless with anticipation.

Friday March 26, León-Astorga. ~50 km (~30 mi)

Attempted pictures with the León cathedral before beginning

And they're off! Keeping an eye out for shells and yellow arrows, we followed the Camino out of León. When considering which route to take, one benefit we saw with León was that it is much flatter and drier than if we'd gone from Oviedo. Well, naturally, the first day of our journey, it rained quite heavily, during most of the rolling hills we came across. It was when the wind began to blow, though, that I really became discouraged. With that cold, invisible force against me, it was hard not to imagine God himself pushing me backward. The landscape didn't help the mood either; grey, sparse, bleak, industrial.

That first day was almost certainly the hardest for me. I very quickly realized how completely unprepared I was. All the training we did was a total joke. I hadn't brought warm enough clothes, and I felt the bike was already failing me. I probably should have also brought my inhaler; that might've been smart.

The discouraging start did get better, though. As we neared Astorga the landscape became much more wooded and green, and we got away from the main highway and onto secluded dirt paths. It looked very much like the dirt roads I used to bike growing up in the valley. After climbing the last hill before our destination, we were greeted by some Catalonian hippies and their snack shack called La Casa de los Dioses. There they offered us some of their all-organic fair-trade environmentally-friendly fruit, nuts and bizcocho cake.

hippie shack

6k from Astorga, Cathedral in the center background

Feeling renewed, we made it the next 6k to Astorga and dropped our things at the next pilgrim's hostel. We got there early enough to be able to enjoy the sights, such as the Gaudí Palace, and the Cathedral. It is a very pretty little medieval city, built on a hill. Apparently it was at one time the capital of Asturias. I'm guessing it's famous for chocolate as well, because every other shop was a bombonería.

Gaudi Palace

Holy Week (Semana Santa) is well advertised in Spain

Saturday March 27, Astorga-Villafranca del Bierzo ~80 km (~50 mi)

I awoke the second day quite sore, and not terribly motivated, but I got on the bike and followed Dave and Cecilia out of town. After Astorga the terrain starts to get interesting. As you can see in this graph, there is a 700 meter (2,300 feet) rise in elevation after Astorga, up to Cruz de Ferro.

At this point each of our different strengths (or amount of strength) became evident. Dave blasted ahead happy as can be, and Cecilia was a good distance ahead of me too. It is very discouraging being left behind, but each person really has to take these kinds of challenges at their own pace. We got so far apart, though, that we lost Dave for a bit, as he'd gone way ahead, waited, missed us, gone back to look .... Eventually we all powered up to the "roof" of the Camino, Cruz de Ferro. As its name suggests, it is a large iron cross. Pilgrims carry stones up this mountain, and then throw them at the foot of the cross as a symbol of casting off their sins.

From here it was a bit downhill to Manjarín, which is little more than a shack which sells touristic kitsch. Supposedly they also have something to do with the Knights Templar ...

From there it was 1,000 glorious meters of descent (3,300 feet), giving our legs a deserved rest and putting our brakes to the test. It was incredible to see what a difference the altitude made. At Manjarín I touched snow and it looked like late winter still. As we neared Ponferrada everything became more and more green, and the fruit trees began to blossom.

descending

In Ponferrada we stopped for an hour or two to eat lunch and look around. Ponferrada is most famous for its castle, which looks just exactly how you imagine a European castle should look, with a moat, turrets, flags, a drawbridge, etc.

Moat-side lunch

After also indulging ourselves at this posh bakery next to the castle, we continued on yet another leg. This was one of my favorite stages that we did. We rode along quiet country roads, passing gardens, lettuce patches, tractors, vineyards, and quaint little one-chapel villages. If you've ever seen Triplets of Belleville, you can imagine my sheer joy when I cycled past an old woman with one leg shorter than the other (and thus one shoe taller than the other) and a man with a bulbous wine-o nose. If you haven't seen the movie I suggest it. It's likely the best French cartoon you will ever see. During most of the journey I imagined myself as the main character, who cycles constantly throughout the movie and has absurdly large leg muscles.

Cycling in the Bierzo region of León

That night we stayed in Villafranca and had a hearty dinner for just 5 euros as part of the hostel's amenities. We met some other bikers there who we would end up seeing every single night from then on, almost to a creepy extent.

The day was the most ambitious we attempted. Not only did we cycle 50 miles, but up and down a bona fide mountain! I am still not sure how I did that. It is truly amazing what you can make your body do with the right encouragement.

Sunday March 28, Villafranca-Somas ~60 km (38 mi)

And so, with that mountain behind, we set out the next day to conquer another. We had been warned numerous times what a trial this stage is. This time we would have to climb 900 meters (3,000 feet), at times as steep as a 20% grade! Yesterday seemed flat in comparison.

seriously steep! Cecilia and I walked about 2k of it. (Dave cycled it all).

Back into winter

At long last we reached the village of O Cebreiro, and took our first steps into Galicia! The change was instantly apparent. There was Celtic music playing, pulpo a la gallega (octopus) on the menu, and the people had a noticeable accent, like Italian almost.

Some people do the Camino on horseback!

We had a good lunch of pulpo, fries and tortilla, then once again began the descent. It wasn't as much of an instant reward this time, we had to go up a few more hills, but once the downhill began, it was lots of fun. With the road wide open for miles, we zoomed down without a care in the world. We must have been going 30 mph at least (48km/h). Once again, we entered spring, and the typical green of Galicia.

Spent the night in Samos, a lovely town along the river. From here on the number of pilgrims increased noticeably and we were no longer able to stay in the free hostels, which give preference to walkers. But having a real shower and not being surrounded at night by 20 old men snoring was a welcome change.

springtime

Monastery on the river

Monday March 29, Samos-Ventas de Narón

We had a good morning, even though our good weather had run out, it wasn't terrible. From here on the terrain was an endless series of green rolling hills and small streams. We decided not to ride on the highway. Even though it is faster, it is also extremely boring and demoralizing. We rode on the highways a couple times and the Camino quickly becomes a tedious grind, constantly being passed by lunatic drivers. Instead we went on dirt trails, and I really felt like I was mountain biking--bouncing over rocks, both my brakes fully engaged, through mud and streams.

We had lunch in Portomarín, which is a really pretty town on a large river. After lunch though the weather went from unpleasant to atrocious. We stopped in the town of Ventas, soaked to the bone, and tried to find lodging. To my utter despair, they informed us that all of the hostels and inns in this village and the next were full. This was the first extreme low point for me. When Dave suggested cycling 10 more kilometers to a larger town, Palas de Rei, I about cried. Thanks to the kindness of one of the innkeepers, we were able to get a spot on the floor, and even snag a couple beds when pilgrims didn't show up for their reservation. To sum up the day, I kept a little log in my phone. It was simple: Rain. Can't get warm. Can't get dry.

Tuesday March 30, Ventas-Arzúa ~45 km (28 mi)

Well, I did eventually get warm and dry, and we started out the next day in better spirits. We decided to take it easy from here on. Though we could have conceivably gone all the way to Santiago, I was having fun seeing the little villages and not feeling rushed. It rained a little bit, on and off, not enough to really bother me, but enough to keep the trails plenty muddy. There were moments when you had to shift into low gear and power through the mud, it was so deep and sticky. Even through terrain like this we were still blasting past the walkers.

I found my attitude towards the pedestrians had changed significantly over the trip. At the beginning it was nice to just see other people, and we'd greet them with "¡Buen camino!" Now though they were an annoyance more than anything else, walking six abreast at a snail's pace, oblivious to the world around them. I instead had to greet them with "¡Cuidado!" (Look out!), nearly colliding with numerous pilgrims who jumped like startled deer in front of us.

We leisurely rolled into Arzúa, and proceeded to make this ugly little town all the grimier. As we dismounted and took a look at each other, we saw how comically filthy we all were. What with mud covering me front and back and drenched in sweat, I'd venture to say this was the dirtiest I have ever been.

After showering ourselves and all of our muddy clothing, and mopping up the trail of dirt we'd left behind, we sought out the best comfort a tired traveler can find--loads of calorie dense food. I neglected to mention before, but this was a part of the trip I particularly enjoyed. After cycling for six hours and burning thousands and thousands of calories, it became tradition each day to eat obscenely large meals. If you've ever been traveling and wished you could have sampled more food, I'd suggest you cycle 30 miles between meals; it's incredible how much you can eat. I have never eaten so many Menú del Día in my life--full three-course meals with soups, meat, seafood, bread, drinks and dessert. Spanish food is not terribly rich in fruits and vegetables, however, which we found quite necessary to supplement before long...

Wednesday March 31, Arzúa-Santiago de Compostela. 38 km (24 mi)

The final leg! Santiago was within reach now. Even so, I inexplicably found this day the most psychologically challenging of the journey. Everything was wearing out. My knee was aching from days of exercise, my bike was in a pitiful state, and I was mentally exhausted of pushing myself around the next bend, over the next hill. I was close to despair at times. We got to Monte de Gozo, and I saw, finally finally, I had climbed the last hill.

We had a quick pick-me-up, snapped a few photos, and made our descent into the city.

SUCCESS! We made it to our hostel.

Look at poor Beef.

Triumphant smile

It turns out the average tourist is a horrid photographer. This is the best we could get of all three of us. My eyes might be closed and the top of the cathedral cut off, but here it is, proof of our achievement!

The next morning, as sure proof of his insanity, Dave got back on his bike and began to do the Camino in reverse back to León. Cecilia and I were having nothing of that however, and we proceeded to celebrate our accomplishment in true Galician style. We unabashedly sampled all the seafood, jamón, croquettes, cakes, cookies, tapas and wine we could get our hands on. We took the bus to A Coruña for a few days to continue this celebration on the coast. There we rested and relaxed, went shopping, went to the beach, sampled the best octopus in the world, and devoured tarta de Santiago in bed. It was amazing, and well-deserved. I really enjoyed A Coruña, it may have the worst weather in all of Spain, with rain every hour on the hour, but is extremely beautiful, with a great nightlife and cuisine, beach, port, and gorgeous architecture. One of my favorite cities in Spain, for sure.

Big ole anchor

Eating icecream at the Torre de Hercules, the oldest functioning Roman lighthouse in the world. or something.

Octopus, the theme of the trip.

A Coruña has beautiful and ornate glass covered buildings.

As luck would have it we stumbled upon a procession of sorts on Good Friday

Widows of solitude, I think these ladies are called.

One of these things is not like the other . . . Don't worry, she's not a klan member, the Spanish did the pointy hat thing first. Still totally freaks me out.

Then we returned to Santiago for Sunday Mass. It was nice. There is an enormous censer (or incensorio) which they swing across the entire length of the transept. You can kind of see it here.

incense

Here is a better picture of us and the Cathedral.

Posing with Jesus and St. James: terribly tasteless, and potentially blasphemous, but . . . priceless.

Reliquary of the Cathedral. Each of those shelves has a little box with a piece of the true cross, or the shroud, or tooth of a saint, etc.

The Cathedral from a nearby park.

After 11 challenging, inspiring, extraordinary days, it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and bade farewell to Santiago and Galicia. In retrospect, I would have done many things differently. I would have trained better, used a higher quality bike, and dressed more for the weather. But I wouldn't give up the experience for the world. Cycling is the absolute best way to tour. I am now familiar with so many parts of Spain, seen villages and mountains and vineyards at a human pace, met new people, and forged friendships I will never forget. What's more, the sense of physical and spiritual accomplishment I now have is something I'll keep with me all my life.
Pilgrimage: Check.

Basques & Biking

2010-03-14T19:09:00.009+01:00

Oh dear, I have just been far too busy doing fun things to keep you all updated! It's almost overwhelming, every day I don't write something in this blog it's more I have to squeeze into the next.

Last weekend I visited Bilbao. Thanks to the wonders of Couchsurfing, I had instant friends, free accommodation, and the most generous and knowledgeable tour guides one could ask for.

I went up to the top of the mountain in a funicular with the Ukrainian couchsurfer, Liliya, who was staying with the same host as me. We then decided to walk down the mountain to the city.

The Guggenheim Museum, by Frank Gehry

The museum entrance, with the giant puppy made of flowers.

As you can see, the museum is one of the lovelier sides of Bilbao (hence all the photos). Most of the city is very industrial . . .

Bilbao has extremely narrow streets, and much smaller plazas than other cities. Here's the best pic of the cathedral I could get, as I just couldn't get any farther away.

The river is quite lovely. On the right is the town hall. I stayed just behind there, but a few hundred feet up in the steep hills. There was even a moving sidewalk to help you climb the hill!

On Sunday, I decided to get out of the city. I had met Txabi on Friday at the couchsurfing social, and he offered to show me around his part of the Basque Country. I gladly took him up on it, and along with his girlfriend, Ester, we managed to see loads of Vizcaya. Here is San Juan de Gaztelugatxe, a small chapel built out on a little island. It was SO cold. I'll have to return someday in summer.

The town of Bermeo. Here I ate some delicious pintxos (elaborate little snacks) and the most incredible fried calamari I have EVER tasted.

Mundaka, said to have some of the best surfing in Europe.

He also took me to the town of Guernica, made famous by Picasso's painting, itself a response to the Blitzkrieg "testing" the Nazis performed on the small town during World War II. This is a recreation, the original painting (of that same size!) is in the Reina Sofia museum in Madrid.

Guernica is also important among Basque people as a sort of cultural capital. The president of the region is sworn in there, under the Gernikako Arbola, a tree symbolizing the Basque country.

At the end of this great tour, Txabi took me back to his parents' house for Sunday lunch. His last name, Gaztelu, means castle and, as you can see in that small curvy mirror, he lives in front of a castle!

Spending the day with Txabi and Ester, I really learned a lot about Basque people and culture. Similar to Cataluña, there is a fair amount of anti-Spanish sentiment. As you are maybe aware, the terrorist group ETA is from Basque country and continues to murder in the name of Basque independence. I saw quite a bit of graffiti saying "Viva ETA". Of course, this kind of extremism is deplorable and unjustified, but now that I know some Basques, their history and language a bit, I can see where they're coming from.

I was amazed as I sat at Sunday lunch with the Gaztelus that, only a few hours from home, I truly felt the sensation of being in different country. Everyone around the table was speaking Basque, which if you've never heard, you need only listen to this narrative to understand how unique a language it is. The food was different from anything I've eaten in Asturias, Salamanca, Madrid, or Barcelona (I can't really describe it, but it was all tasty. I tried snail for the first time!). Talking with other Spaniards, they all act like, "What's the big deal? Basque country is just like any other part of Spain," but I'd wager they've never had Sunday lunch with a real Basque family like I did.

I don't intend to understand Spanish politics, but the concerns Txabi's family mentioned seem reasonable. Now that a Spanish political party is in power in the Basque country, they worry that less money will go to preserving and encouraging their language. And it frustrates them that people from other parts of Spain move to the Basque country and make no attempt to learn Basque or understand their culture.

Did you know that . . . ?

Jai-alai comes from the Basques? Every city there has a jai-alai court, and it's almost as popular as fútbol (which is saying something.) Here's an adorable early 90's documentary on it haha.
Boise, Idaho, has the largest Basque population in the United States? Every year they have a Basque festival and the president of the Basque country flies out to participate.
The Basque language and people are the last descendants of prehistoric cultures in Europe? They were there before the Germanic tribes, before the Romans, even before the Celts.
Some of the most common Hispanic surnames are Basque? Names like Echevarria, Mendoza, Bolívar, Ortiz and Ibarra are of Basque origin. The Spanish word for "left", izquierda, is also from Basque.

Aside from strong political beliefs, the Basques I met were very generous and very into food, insisting I try such and such pintxo and happily picking up the tab. At dinner they were lighthearted, laughing and joking as their dad explained to them how easy it is to make lasagna, when he was actually describing some completely unrelated ham dish. Basques also have one of the highest qualities of life in Spain, and seemed very well traveled. Ester was eager to speak with me about Utah, saying what a big fan of water skiing she is after visiting Utah three times as part of a language exchange program. She talked about Jordanelle Reservoir and the beautiful lakes in the mountains, and still keeps in touch with her host-family (and all 7 host-siblings) in Salt Lake.

In the end I was sad to leave. Couchsurfing is such an amazing community of travelers and above all else, completely restores my faith in humanity. I have met nothing but great people so far. I can only hope someday the people I've met will visit me in the U.S. so I can repay their generosity and make their travels incredible too.

~~~

This week it was back to reality, my days even more filled up as I have now begun training in earnest (aka for realzz). I am officially, seriously, doing the Camino de Santiago ("Way of St. James"). After the Holy Land and Rome, it is one of the most important (Catholic) pilgrimages. Its terminus is the town of Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, the northwestern corner of the country, just above Portugal. There are routes all across Spain and from every corner of Europe. The truly hard-core (and/or devout) start from the French border and make the 800 km (500 mile) journey on foot. or knees. While I am not so zealous or ambitious, I still have a fair challenge ahead of me. My friends Dave and Cecilia and I have decided we will tackle the Camino on bicycle, starting from the city of León. From there it is a measly 350 km (220 miles).

My reason for doing the pilgrimage is mostly for the personal challenge of it. I really haven't done anything physically challenging since Boy Scouts, and probably never done anything quite this ambitious. We have a whole week of vacation during Holy Week, before Easter. Counting weekends that is at least 10 days off of school, so I was racking my brain trying to figure out what to do, where to go. It's a long holiday, but everyone warned me against traveling then, as it'd be expensive, crowded, and impossible to find a room. When Cecilia told me about her plan, it was perfect. Travel is free (I'll mostly be borrowing the gear), and the inns along the Camino let pilgrims pay whatever they like. Even more importantly, the sights and experiences will be unforgettable. We'll start in León which, in the dry central plateau, offers a more typical Don Quixote kind of scenery. Then it's over the mountains into green Galicia, which is supposed to be quaint villages, rolling green hills, and a few quirky characters strewn along the way as well.

Last Wednesday we went on a ride in the Quirós Valley, 25 minutes south of Oviedo. The region and its villages are so breathtaking. As we rode the bike path, along the river, among the trees, inside mountain tunnels, I couldn't help wondering why on earth I had never been here before. I can't believe I have lived here for 5 months and had no idea such a place existed. I kid you not, it is just as beautiful as any of the canyon trails in the Wasatch mountains back home.

Proaza, where we began.

Peñas juntas

Entragu, where we ended.

Yes, it is less pristine than Utah, as there are people living all along the way (and things like power-lines as a result), but it has its own charm as well; such as the local people, seemingly frozen in time. There was a man tilling his garden who could have been from 1880 or something. He wore typical Asturian clogs, called madreñes, and had a weathered face and grisly demeanor. I didn't have my camera with me, but I don't know that I would have had the nerve to take a photo anyway.

(All of these photos are taken from a google search)

Asturias is so lovely. Now that winter is over, I will be making many more trips out of the city to appreciate the countryside. Yesterday Cecilia and I went on another training ride, from here in Oviedo to the coast of Gijón, 28 km (17 miles). We probably couldn't have picked a worst day to go, honestly. About halfway there we were slammed with the most hideous rainstorm I've seen in a while. Zooming down the side roads, wearing nothing but thermal underwear and a waterproof jacket, the rain blinding my eyes, I began to doubt the wisdom of our training and the pilgrimage plan in general. We camped out in a bus shelter for a spell and poured the water out of our shoes. After eating a little turrón and laughing at our bad luck, the worst of it passed and I felt much more positive. The last leg flew by and we soon arrived in Gijón, very disheveled, but alive and kicking. It really wasn't that hard of a ride, and the sense of accomplishment was very gratifying. I can only imagine how I'll feel when we pull into Santiago! I'm going to invest in some more waterproof and quick drying gear, but then I think the 50 km a day we had planned will be no sweat.

I am really excited for the Camino. Wish me luck in the coming weeks that all continues according to plan. Santiago or bust!

Fajitas y fútbol

2010-02-28T14:24:00.017+01:00

This weekend marks my fifth month living in Oviedo. I don't want to speak too soon and jinx myself, but all signs indicate the end of winter is near. It was as warm as 75˚F (24˚C ) yesterday, and some of the flowering trees have begun to blossom. I was informed that when it becomes unseasonably warm all of a sudden, it usually means rain is coming. I had to laugh a little at this observation--I mean, the sun rising in the east means it's going to rain here. Nonetheless there is a definite change in the weather lately. All week it has been clear and sunny in the mornings, the air near room temperature. Last night they predicted winds of up to 150 km/hr (90 miles/hr)!! I don't think they were quite that strong, but a tree near campus did get snapped in half by the force. I think I wisely chose to stay in and watch movies.

I also finally learned how to make a traditional tortilla española last night. I had tried a few weeks ago and I must say it was likely the most demoralizing culinary experience of my life. It's a fairly simple dish, a large omelette made of (at the very least) fried potato and egg. My first attempt, however, was a total flop. The potato was hard, it was burned in the middle, runny on the outside, and fell to pieces when I flipped it. I was very eager to have a Spaniard teach me the ropes. After paying close attention and making note of all the mistakes I made last time, I will soon take on the challenge again! Stay tuned...

These kinds of culinary escapades have certainly been a regular occurrence since moving into my new apartment. One great thing about living with a family is that I learned some simple Spanish dishes which are both tasty and economical, such as a seafood scramble or calamari. Whenever I get a hankering for more familiar fare, though, it inevitably involves a bit of adventure. Some of the most basic ingredients I took for granted in America are either unavailable or quite expensive here. The most hilarious example of this is Hershey's chocolate syrup, sold alongside French pâté and Italian caviar in the gourmet shop of El Corte Inglés for at least three times its American value. What's more, even when I find what appears to be an identical product, it always seems to taste just a little different somehow. My most vexing problem has definitely been spices. Spaniards use only parsley and garlic in most dishes, occasionally risking a little oregano or thyme. Since moving in I have more than tripled the variety of herbs and spices in the kitchen (who can live without basil or pepper??), and for Valentine's Day my loving mother further helped supplies with some spice packets, marinades, and season salt.

The other day I shared the joy of steak fajitas with Spain. They turned out extremely delicious. I found Mexican tortillas and salsa at Carrefour, which is like Wal-Mart except French (and thus much classier haha). I even made guacamole. Besides the lack of sour cream in this country, it was an authentic Southwest American dinner. Other expe- riments have been met with varying success. Shepherd's pie was good, but the ground beef tastes slightly different, and I really would've liked real cheddar. Spaghetti was a bit odd, as meatballs here come drenched in the most peculiar of sauces, and I was not about to spend $8 for the teeny wedge of Parmesan I found. I have also tried quiche, noodle soup, vegetable curry, lemon chicken, and rice pudding. Next up, chili, hummus, stir fry, and fish tacos!

I decided I am really into food, and as a result, cooking. I have my yummy successes and my cold-runny failures, but I'm always excited to try something new. I guess it's not exactly typical for a man to be able to cook, especially in this country. This may be because men live with their mother until their thirties, but my roommate lives on his own and at 28 the most elaborate thing he has ever made is a sandwich. Every time I cook he exclaims, "¡Cocinas guay, tío!" ("You cook awesome, dude!"). I happily share my food with him, and in return he regularly brings home assorted baked goods from this charming village he is always talking about.

Five months I've lived here now. I finished up my exams, and another semester has now begun. Right as I was getting to know people, they've gone and left. I'm very glad I chose to study the whole year here. One semester is nothing! I can't believe how fast it's blown by. Luckily, some of the best friends I made over the past months are sticking around, and I look forward to spending time with my more and more select buddies.

Today the English girls invited me to watch a soccer match with them. I don't know if you've heard, but Europe is very into soccer. I decided it was about time I experience this phenomenon. Oviedo's team was playing against their number one rival, Sporting of neighboring Gijón. I wasn't even aware Oviedo had a stadium, but look at this place!

Queremos esta victoria

"We want this victory"

If you know much about me, you know I'm not the biggest sports fan. The most important, most televised, most exorbitant sporting event in the United States, the Super Bowl, completely slipped my mind until a full day afterward. Realizing my oversight, I promptly opened up my computer to catch up on all the highlights of "Super Bowl Commercials 2010."

So maybe I don't fully understand the draw of sport, but at the match today I ended up getting quite into it and having a lot of fun. The stands kept filling with people and as the game progressed, the spectators got more and more involved.

Stacey, Me, Moo. Those seats didn't stay empty for long.

When Oviedo scored its first goal, someone on the upper balcony actually lit a flare! To give you an idea how soccer games usually go, Moo remarked, "I'm glad you got to see someone actually make a goal." This would prove to be an (unusually?) exciting match.

On the front row behind the goalpost sat the typical soccer hooligans. They had a drum and flags and all dressed in blue; in many ways similar to the Utes' student section at a home game. They were vulgar and rambunctious enough, but would need cheerleaders, a marching band, warpaint, and about three times as many people to really hold a candle.

Shortly after Oviedo's first goal, Gijón scored one as well. They remained at a draw until the very last seconds of the game, when Gijón made some kind of foul, allowing Oviedo to make a penalty kick. With the clock at zero, Oviedo scored the winning goal and the place went insane. Everyone jumping and screaming, multiple flares were lit, and the hooligans rushed onto the field. They did a comical about-face when the S.W.A.T. team in full riot gear appeared, and resigned themselves to hollering in the stands like everyone else.

It was cool to finally see what all the to-do is about. Fútbol is definitely a major cultural phenomenon here. There were whole families in the stands, enjoying watching the home team beat the cross-town rival. People of all ages joined in cheering for Oviedo, and maligning Gijón (I heard a 9-year-old yell "¡¡Gijón, hijo puta!!").

What a fun weekend! and month. and year ^__^

¡CARNAVAL!

2010-02-22T23:56:00.001+01:00

Carnaval is something a little bit foreign to us Americans. When I hear the word I think of Rio de Janeiro and wild samba and women wearing more feathers than clothing. This is only the most well known Carnaval celebration. In Spain every city, town, and village pretty much has some sort of festivity or another. In some places it lasts as long as a month! Here in Asturias it is a week long, with each of the three largest cities, Avilés, Gijón, and Oviedo, each hosting a celebration on a different day.

Carnaval is a mostly Catholic celebration taking place right before the period of Lent (Cuaresma in Spanish) when people are to fast and repent during the 40 days leading up to Easter. It is a time when all the rules of good behavior are suspended and excess is allowed. It also marks the end of winter and welcomes in the spring (first blossoms on the trees sighted today, 23 February!). Everybody dresses up in disguises and there are parades and everyone is more festive. As far as the U.S. is concerned, Louisiana, being a former French colony and thus Catholic, is the only place I know of that has this sort of celebration. Here in Asturias there's nothing as raucous or debaucherous as Mardi Gras, but it's the same inspiration.

The party began Saturday in Avilés. After weeks of flip-flopping, I finally made up my mind to dress as a died-in-the-wool rootin' tootin' cowboy. Ever the procrastinator, I began my costume search Friday afternoon. Seeing as how I grew up in a pretty rural part of Utah, I personally know cowboys. They were my fellow classmates for most of my life and even had their own clique (or gang even) in high school. So I have a pretty good idea what I would need to wear to look as authentic as possible. As cruel fate would have it, accoutrements such as a belt buckle, cowboy boots, and a hat, ever so essential to the cowboy look, are completely unavailable here. In Utah I could find a warehouse of cowboy paraphernalia at bargain-basement prices in less time than it takes my Spanish friends to translate my exceedingly verbose blog. Here in Spain, though, cowboys are little more than a rumor. After scouring some discount retail stores, every Chinese Bazaar within 10 minutes of my house (and that's well over 10 stores, each full of all the crap you never wanted in the world) and the thrift store, I began to realize that boots and buckles were not so easy to come by.

A bit defeated, I picked up a plastic gun and holster at Yi Wan Long Bazar, and resigned myself to the pre-packaged, Spaghetti Western-style, costume shop cowboy hat. I made the belt buckle out of a tacky metal picture frame from the Chinese bazaar, and ultimately gave up on the boots. For the remainder I had only to look in my closet, which did make me think, "So, do I already dress like a cowboy?..."

It definitely wasn't what I had hoped for in a costume. A cowboy without cowboy boots? It's a contradiction in terms. All in all it was a pretty second-rate result, but such is a procrastinator's life. But, then again, while other people may have had better cowboy costumes, none of them could talk like a cowboy or sing "Down in the Valley" or line dance, so I added my own authenticity.

The bus ride to Avilés was a very interesting 30 minutes.

This looks like snow, but it is in fact FOAM. The main draw of Avilés is that in the afternoon the firefighters shoot foam from hoses at the hordes of people in rain gear. Even children participate, and the foam can get up to 3 ft (1 m) high! Sadly, we only got there in time to see the aftermath, but as you can see, there is still a good 6 inches in some places.

This photo was taken around midnight, which is still quite early in Spain so there were adorable children running around. I saw entire families dressed as bears, clowns, birds, Indians, Mexicans . . .

There was a large stage with music blasting, but it was pretty unremarkable in itself. There was this lady dancing on stage and I thought, how nice they got some local girl to dance, she's not bad. Come to find out it's the lead singer of DJ Sammy (don't worry if you haven't heard of them . . .)

My friend Rabea and I.

It was really fun to be in a new city, out on the town with my friends. It was pretty cold, high 30's (~3˚C), but luckily my costume was in itself quite warm with the coat, hat, bandanna and gloves.

After we'd gotten our fill of Avilés we stopped at one of the many Turkish Kebap restaurants and ate a "midnight" snack of the most delicious dürüm I have ever tasted. They're the closest thing to burritos I can find here (that is available at the wee hours anyway). Fat and happy, we grabbed the bus back to Oviedo and fell asleep.

If that weren't enough excitement, the following Monday was fiesta in Gijón. I decided to just reuse the costume, since it would be new to the people in Gijón, at least. With a veritable herd of friends in tow, we departed Oviedo once again.

The people I spent much of the night with.

My friend Paula (lion) watches as her sister María pours cider (sidra). This is a very Asturian sight, I'm glad I finally got a picture! It is always poured from way up high (even indoors in restaurants, leading to rather sticky floors here...), which helps mix it or something, and you drink just a little bit, very quickly, then throw out the dregs. It's pretty tasty, but the most appealing thing is really the uniqueness of the whole process.

Some San Fermines (running of the bulls) and their botellón. They dressed a shopping cart up as a bull as well!

Legos

Jaime being a bit mad.

Here's a video of the plaza, with some very Spanish sights.

This bar is like a cave.

Priceless photo; From left, new friend Hiroto, Jaime, and me.

Cecilia (right) and her friend, now in a less cave-like locale.
Hiroto makes an awesome Japanese photo face.

Jaime, María, and Eimear; resting our weary legs. This was followed by a most delicious Kebap (noticing a pattern?). After spreading the wonders of the "Second-Wind Dance", which Sadie taught me back in Salt Lake, we were ready for more.

We don't take too kindly ta yer folk 'round here.

After this though we were truly exhausted, so headed back to the bus station. To our great grief, we learned that there would not be any buses back to Oviedo until 6:45 am!! As temperatures plunged, we searched desperately for someplace to wait out the next two hours. There were no cafés or even normal bars open at such hours, at least none nearby, so we were forced to huddle together like hobos on the hard concrete floor in front of the parked buses. To pass the time I sang patriotic songs and cowboy tunes with my English friends Moo and Jenny, which I'll admit must have looked quite insane, but, desperate times . . .

Gijón was a great time, all told. I loved everyone's costumes and all the fun places we went. I'd say it was even more fun than Avilés. The complete and total lack of organization, on the other hand, was anything but fun. I have this image, of a board meeting at ALSA, the bus company. They thought, "I've got it! We'll hire a mogollón of extra buses to bring the hundreds (thousands?) of people to Gijón!" then closed the books and went to take a siesta and/or drink some sidra... Maybe they thought we'd all want to stay til dawn? I mean, granted, it was Monday night, but it was also carnaval for goodness sake. It's just unfortunate that such a great Spanish celebration had to be tainted with the oh-so typical mess that is administration here. Oh well, you take the good with the bad and such is life.

The next day, in Gijón was another important part of the carnaval festivities: the Burial of the Sardine. This woman dresses up as a sardine and parties around town Monday, then Tuesday they ceremonially "bury" her at the beach, and señoras cry their eyes out.

And then it's the end of Carnaval. I, of course, was not about to get on another ALSA bus so quick, so I missed out. But it's an interesting bit of folklore.

What a minute? Did he say the end of Carnaval? Why yes, technically that should mark the beginning of Lent and giving up things that keep you from God et cetera. However, as a sure sign of the secular nature of this part of the world, Oviedo throws it's raucous Carnaval bash the first Saturday of Lent.

This fact inspired me to mix up my costume this time and be a sort of multi-denominational goodie goodie. It's mostly open to interpretation, I must admit (and very last minute).

Wicked part in the dead center of my hair? check. (Once again I already had most things, making me wonder about myself a little...)

Doing the make-up. Aren't his cuts frighteningly realistic?

Some of the gang ^__^

Now this next photo is extremely freaky, but also hilarious so I had to include it.

...

... wait

...

...

¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! haha

Here you can see the mass of humanity,

in every corner,

in every direction.

Yeah, that's a girl Waldo painting a boy Waldo's lips.
It's Carnaval! Everything goes.

After getting seriously lost in a sea of people, I found some other friends.

After a while things did start to quiet down.

Until all that was left were a few especially die-hard revelers and lots of trash.

In short, it was an appropriately festive week and a half, and great to finally experience a sort of "typical Spanish holiday." And now I am definitely ready for a bit of the cuaresma spirit, I must say.

Until next time.

Study? Ski.

2010-02-07T22:30:00.007+01:00

Tomorrow and Tuesday I have exams, meaning right now I should be studying. I took my first test Friday, on Sociolinguistics, and it was extremely easy. I don't want to get too comfortable or over-confident, but I really don't think I need to study too much. I really can't understand it, all the Spanish students are studying all day everyday. I must just have really easy courses. Also, I'm sure less is expected in general of foreign students.

I really just wish I could go back to class tomorrow. School starts Thursday. Thursdays, when I have one class. Then the next week is Carnaval, so I probably won't have class Monday or Tuesday. I'm starting to wonder when anyone actually learns anything here. It is great for exchange students, though, plenty of time to travel and almost no homework to worry about. I only wish I had had the money over these three weeks, I would've liked to have gone to the south of Spain or Galicia. Plenty of British people I know just went back home! How I envy them...

It hasn't been a complete waste of time for me, mind. A while back I went skiing for the first time this year, and for the first time in Europe. Granted, Spain can't hold a candle to the Alps, and Asturias is a joke even compared to Spain's other ranges, the Pyrenees or Sierra Nevada (the original ones). Still, it was great to get out on the slopes, and to see a new part of Asturias.

After being seriously stood up at my first attempt at a skiing outing (alone in the rain at 7 in the morning, not fun), my friend Cecilia invited me to go with her, her flatmate Dave and his girlfriend Pernille. After an hour's drive south of Oviedo in Dave's bass-ackwards British vehicle, through some charming villages, we arrived at San Isidro Estación Invernal. Temperature: 1 degree Celsius (35 F). Base Altitude: 1,500 m (5,000 ft).

Up here there was a decent amount of snow, though I was certainly worried on the drive up; it was still green and bare of snow until about 15 minutes before we arrived. As you can see, shrubs are still visible. It was a nice view from the top (2,100 m/6,900 ft).

It was definitely a new experience for me. There was a disgusting amount of people at the bottom chairlift, which was giving me all kinds of anxiety. I have never seen so many people at a ski resort. Just all standing around the lodge and lift area, chatting, waiting, showing off their fancy one-piece skisuits. It's boggling to think a world class ski resort like Snowbasin or Snowbird doesn't have to deal with this kind of crowding, and poky little San Isidro does.

Once I got up on the mountain, though, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. For the most part I had room to maneuver. I was a bit amused and a bit perturbed to learn they blast cheesy elevator music from each lift tower. I guess this is very common in Europe, but I would have preferred a little more serenity.

The snow itself was also not as bad as I had (realistically) prepared myself for. It was like skiing in April, only this was January. I asked Dave about the powder situation in Europe, and he informed me that "powder isn't very big here." Powder's not big?? I still don't quite understand. When snow falls, it is powder, right? And then time or men in big machines make it not powder. I guess he means that everything is just cut runs, groomed for safety reasons or popular demand.

I learned a lot of things talking with these three. We got on really well. Cecilia and Dave are from England, and study English literature at Leeds University. Pernille is from Denmark and studies medicine. I, of course, couldn't help bringing up my own Danish and English ancestry more than a few times. Suffice it to say they are all well aware of Utah's immigrant history by now.

I also learned some new terminology, in both English and Spanish. Both "run" and "slope" are referred to as "piste" by the English (which sounds a bit too much like "pissed" for my taste, thank you), the Spanish equivalent being "pista." A ski pass is "forfait." The poma lift is very popular here, and goes by more or less the same name.

It ended up being a really enjoyable way to spend the day. Dave and I took turns teaching Cecilia to ski, and by closing time she was past the snowplow turn and starting on the Stim Christie. I got in some good turns as well.

We went again the next day and it was less than pleasant. It was a complete blizzard! I had to learn the Spanish word, ventisca, just to describe to people how bad it was. I really missed Utah that day. There was zero visibility and the snow had become choppy ice. I ate it hard when this madman cut me off and I hit a vicious patch of congealed slush. This in turn led to my explaining what a "yard sale" is . . .

Still, San Isidro wasn't all bad. It was a very comfortable temperature the one day, and the lodge had a liberal selection of après-ski refreshments the next . . . Also, it cost me a measly 30 Euros for a day pass and equipment rental. To make things even better, my student's dad lent me a coat, gloves, goggles, and snow pants. All in all it was very affordable, and a lot of fun, even when mother nature was uncoöperative.

If nothing else it's good to have the experience under my belt. I realized this was only my second time skiing outside of Utah (the other being New Mexico). This being only the first of many hopeful skiing adventures, I cannot yet comment on whether we Utahns do, in fact, have the greatest snow on earth. But I'm tempted to believe it. What I know for sure is that we are blessed with an amazing natural resource and I am definitely going to miss it, wherever life takes me.

Movin' on up

2010-02-03T14:57:00.002+01:00

Hello Everyone!

I am writing you from my new desk in my new bedroom in my new apartment. I just moved in today and am enjoying pondering the possibilities of blank walls, a new neighborhood, and more spare money in my pocket. It wasn't the easiest decision, but I think it was the right one.

I really enjoyed living with Kike (my host family, whatever) while I did. I would definitely suggest staying there to others. It was a very comfortable, spacious place to live, with plenty to eat, internet, etc. And most importantly, Kike really helped me to get acquainted with Oviedo and Spain, how to get around, where things were, what to do. I still have the map he gave me my first day here, which I can remember consulting every time I left the house. Having guaranteed interaction in Spanish was also priceless. Aside from Skype calls, for the first month or so I don't know that I spoke a word of English. And it shows. I learned the basic survival language frantically fast. I think I probably had the best homestay of anyone, honestly. I could come home whenever I wanted, sleep as long as I wanted, and skip a meal if I wanted, as long as I gave fair warning, it was no problem.

Nonetheless, once you've lived alone, it is so difficult to go back to a family-like situation. Despite all the benefits and good intentions, I just felt like I was an adolescent there. Living by someone else's rules, no matter how reasonable, is exhausting! You wouldn't believe the number of little guidelines I was compelled to comply with, about cleanliness and order and organization. I mean, I'm a very fastidious person, but I felt like I had a checklist of things I had to do upon leaving or entering any and every room of the house. Despite my best intentions I just couldn't do all of them, which made me feel slovenly and irresponsible. At times it was suffocating!

The last straw came when Kike announced he would be raising my rent to 600 euros a month. Now, I get varying opinions on whether this is reasonable or not. Consider, ~$83o for rent, bills, and food, for one college student, in one bedroom, in a less-than-central location. I decided it was too much. Moreover, with the end of my scholarship money imminent, finances were becoming a serious concern. I still need a plane ticket home for goodness sake!

So here I am,

C/ Luis Braille 3, 4i
33011, Oviedo, Spain

As with anything it has its benefits and drawbacks. It's quite a bit smaller than my previous home, and I will really miss the view from my bedroom window. But it has all the things I need in a clean, cozy space, literally 2 minutes from class. And at less than half what I paid before, I had to take it.

Also on my mind was the realization that this is not only an amazing study abroad experience, it is also my last year of college. I want to live the student lifestyle to the maximum possible. This invariably means living with people your age, doing what you want when you want, being a bit irresponsible, and still somehow passing all exams. I reckon living here I'll feel less like a teenager and more like the Senior in college I am.

I now live with a guy named Diego. He's in his later twenties, born and raised here in Oviedo. He has quite a few things in common with my former roommate, and best of friends, Adaline. He is into photography and vinyl records, so I'm hoping he's somewhat as cool a person as she. He is employed at some photography store and has loads of books and magazines on the subject. He is also into Kendo, a Japanese martial art involving sword fighting. Other than that I'm still getting to know the guy, but he seems nice and down-to-earth.

PHOTO EVIDENCE

My new bedroom, where I am currently writing this. No ocean views or anything, but I get the Viajar ("travel") channel so I'll survive.

The living room (with aforementioned records and photo publications)

The kitchen (dishwasher! And this mysterious device which is a microwave, convection-, and regular oven combined.)

And maybe best of all, I finally have someplace to put my extensive magnet collection ^_^.

So, now I've been in Spain for 4 months, traveled to the largest cities and the teeniest pueblos, and lived in or visited various homes. Thus, I kind of thought it'd be interesting to compare how people live in the USA to how they live in Spain.

For many of you this might seem extremely inane, but this is one area where the U.S. differs greatly from Spain, and I thinks it's just a fascinating reflection of cultures. In the U.S., almost everyone lives in a neighborhood like this:

Of course, this is a bit of an extreme example (most streets do have sidewalks). Lots of people live a more urban or a more rural life, but still the vast majority of Americans live in a suburb not unlike this, 1-2 stories with a little yard, two-car garage, and a mortgage. It's very quiet, very spacious, very safe. And in my opinion very very boring.

This is a picture taken just around the corner from where I live now. Many people have the impression that everyone in Europe lives in breathtaking 18th Century architectural gems. This is very much not the case.

As you can see, most buildings are from the last half-century. I actually looked at one apartment in the historic part of town and though it had a beautiful façade, it was falling apart inside. Though it pained me, I chose beautiful on the inside (the more you know...)

So how do the Spanish live? Well the buildings all have at least five stories, most people (in northern Spain) don't even have a balcony, much less a yard, and if you happen to own a car you're parking it at least a few blocks away. It's not always quiet, we're crammed in like sardines, and I have to remember to close the blinds because my neighbor, 10 yards away, could very easily spy on me. And does.

Most people look out their windows at brick, concrete, and clothes drying. The blue thing is like an umbrella for the clothes, since they would sure take a long time to dry getting rained on every day.

It's maybe not the most romantic view of Europe, but it's not so bad. I love that anything I want or need to do in my daily life is no more than a 15 minute walk away. I can go to school, the gym, the supermarket, the mall, the park, bars, and all my friends' houses much more quickly and easily than I could at home even when I had a car. And it's still very safe. Somehow there are no homeless people, and crime (property or violent) is lower than even little Salt Lake.

It's also really interesting when you compare these two lifestyles with that of England. While England is, obviously, still very European, you can kind of see how the American mindset descends from the British. In England most people live in houses. They might be subdivided, squished together, with little or no yard (perhaps why they call the yard a "garden"...), but they're still houses. A greater percentage of Londoners likely live in houses than do Asturians. It's just a matter of priorities, I guess.

One more side note to this side note, when I was looking for pictures of American suburbs I found this one. Only, when I looked at the website, I saw that this picture was actually taken in China. This freaks me out a little bit. What is this world coming to??

In summary, my new home is indeed pretty sweet. I think I'm gonna go make me some lunch and practice my Spanish food cooking skills so I can impress you all when I get back.

ttfn!

Holidays: La Vuelta

2010-01-28T21:18:00.006+01:00

Oh dear, this is taking me forever to pump out. It's not like I have much of an excuse either, I do almost nothing all day. Why is it that when I'm extremely bored I am extremely unproductive? Only when I've got loads of deadlines and projects hanging over me do I actually do anything with myself. Right now we're in the exam period at school, theoretically meaning we had one week off, then two weeks of testing. Well, I only have three exams which are entirely optional, the first of which is the 5th of February. Basically, I flew all the way back to Spain to sit on my hands for three weeks . . .

And it weren't no stroll in the park getting back here neither!

I left the beautiful state of Hawai'i on Friday, January 15, about two weeks ago now. First was a 5 hour flight to Los Angeles. It wasn't terribly restful but otherwise can't complain. I got in at around 5 am, dead tired. In an extremely classy move, I grabbed the airplane blanket and stretched myself out on a bench in the most deserted-looking corner of LAX, put in earphones and passed out to the soothing sounds of Kings of Convenience.

About three hours later I groggily pulled myself up into a sitting position, and slipped on my glasses. What had once been an empty terminal was now full of perky orange-clad football fans. I quickly ascertained that they were from Texas, and was momentarily quite captivated listening to them speak in very amusing accents about this uniquely American sport. The novelty (or re-novelty??) quickly wore off however, and I wandered off down the terminal.

I sat down at a pay-computer and pondered how I would pass the next 10 hours. Upon checking my e-mail, however, my question was quickly answered. The day before I had contacted Ashley, a good friend of Brian's I met on our trip to the Spanish and Taiwanese consulates last summer. To my great surprise, Ashley wrote that she was not only free, but would be happy to pick me up at the airport so I could get away for a few hours.

So, within the next hour I was in her car, driving up the 405. You can't imagine the joy and gratitude I felt to get away from the airport. We went first to this humongous mall in West Hollywood or Santa Monica (not sure really) and watched Avatar, in 3-D. Even though I was quite tired, it was exciting and intriguing enough to keep awake the entire three some-odd hours.

When that cinematic experience was over, she asked what I'd like to do next. I exclaimed without hesitation: "MEXICAN FOOD!!". If there's one thing I've realized in Spain, it's that I love Mexican food more than just about anything. Yes, I know, this sounds like madness, but the truth is, Spanish food is absolutely nothing like Mexican food. No guacamole, no enchiladas, they don't have frijoles or salsa, and nothing is spicy. You also have to keep in mind that Asturias is much farther from Mexico than even Alaska is; no Mexicans=no Mexican food.

So, we found a trendy cantina nearby and I gorged myself on chips and salsa, enchiladas a la Oaxacana and horchata. It was even better than I remembered.

After a drive around Santa Monica, Ashley dropped me back off at the airport, and soon enough I departed for London. Crossing the entire continent and the Atlantic Ocean took more than 10 hours, but thankfully I slept quite well.

Once landed at Heathrow, I hopped on the Tube to yet another hostel. As my luck would have it, the stop nearest the hostel was closed, but after a lesson in the London bus system I arrived alright. It was a cozy place, very much to my liking. Staying in the other beds in my room were two Swiss French girls and a French guy. I had no idea what timezone I was in and felt I could sleep at any moment, but they were very friendly, we got to talking and eventually decided to venture out into the cold and grab some dinner.

Now I am not a prejudiced person, but I must say going to dinner with a horde of French people is just about the least enjoyable way one could spend an hour of one's life. I mean, granted, I may have pushed Indian food, even when one woman expressed a dislike for spice, but there is absolutely no excuse for grown adults to act the way these people did. They complained about anything and everything. They refused to order rice or naan bread with their dishes and when the waiter insisted, they acted as if he were trying to swindle them. Then, when a bowl of sauce appeared (as ordered), they bitched that it was too spicy and impossible to eat! When asked if the meal was to her liking, one woman gave a blunt "NO" and pushed her plate away, looking a bit sick. ¡¡¡I loved the food for God's sake!!!

So much for French people being cultured. Sad to say, this experience has not improved my opinion of that particular nationality. Though, to be honest, this could be a lesson for any of us: it's fine if you love your own culture, but if you aren't able to appreciate the new and different things that make up other cultures, please just stay home. The world thanks you.

The next morning I got up early and began the journey to Stansted airport. I calculated in my head numerous times how long it would take to get from the hostel to Victoria couch station, from there to the airport, and left a sizable buffer to be safe. When I arrived at Victoria, I checked the timetable of the coach and saw, to my horror, that I had just missed a coach, and the next one wouldn't arrive at Stansted until 11:50, ten minutes before my flight was to leave. I had not accounted for how incredibly far (beyond freakin Egypt!) the airport is. In a panic I asked the woman what, if anything, I could do. In that moment, I had never been happier that I speak the English language. She had a thick accent of some type I think I last heard in Disney's 101 Dalmations, but I nonetheless understood that I would have to take the Underground to something called "Tautnum Hill", then take an overground train to the airport.

I darted for the underground station, my heavy duffel jostling wildly from side to side and my absurdly long green scarf trying its best to trip me up. When I looked at the map for the Underground line I had entered I saw "Tottenham Hale" and prayed to God that this was what the woman had referred to. I exited there and saw a train platform adjacent--so far so good. My prayers were further answered as I heard the loudspeaker announce a train to Stansted arriving in three minutes. One machine wouldn't accept my money, but the other finally did and I boarded the train without a second to spare.

As the train pulled in at the airport I burst out the doors and sprinted up the escalator, taking three steps at a time. As I skidded into the Easyjet Airlines Check-in counter it was 11:22, exactly two minutes after check-in closed. The agents let me check my bag with only a little fuss and I dashed through security to the gate.

Huffing and puffing I strode onto the plane. There, sat all in a row, were five or six of my British friends from school. I plopped down behind them, and let the sense of absolute relief wash over me. I think my heart didn't stop racing until I was well over the Bay of Biscay.

First sight of Spain

I landed in Spain, rode to Oviedo, walked to my house, jumped in my bed--what an adventure. You'll have to excuse me if I've been a complete recluse and homebody for the past weeks, there is just no place like home. Even if it's kind of a pretend home.

Holidays: Paraíso

2010-01-23T20:32:00.010+01:00

So, I had just an amazing time in Hawai'i. It would take me thousands of words to explain all of it. Instead here are the best pictures.

All the family, together at last.

Hallmark card pose

I spent the majority of the time doing all the fun beach things I missed so badly.

View from our condo

Momma and Dad. On a boat! About to see some whales...

The best photo anyone got! Also saw two Humpback whales breaching at the same time and a ginormous pod of dolphins!

Caroline and Hannah snorkeling at Molokini Crater

Molokini Crater

A picture I would have taken there if my camera were waterproof...

Actually taken at the aquarium next to the port

Stingrays! and sharks

The Road to Hana. So gorgeous

My sister and I. I jumped off that waterfall in the background too

It's a rock, that looks like a thumb.

Hiking in the jungle. Would you believe Hawai'i is home to a very dangerous breed of polar bear? I saw it on TV so it has to be true, right?

Then after an amazing week or so with the family, I had a few days on O'ahu to myself. Surfing at Waikiki beach? check.

There were some really nice girls at the hostel I stayed at. We traveled around quite a bit. Here we are traveling 1.5 hours ...

To PolynesiaLand!!!! AKA the Polynesian Cultural Center, where they show you how different islanders live (or used to, in some cases.)

Samoan Dance. Look a little hip-hop to anyone else?

My friend Sumner met up with me for a great hike. What a view (pay no attention to that goofy guy in the checked shirt >.<)

The rest of the time was spent relaxing at some of O'ahu's beautiful beaches. This is Kailua Beach.

Waimea beach. My last sunset in Hawai'i.

Holidays: El Viaje

2010-01-17T20:29:00.008+01:00

Happy New Year everyone!

I've got weeks and weeks of travels and adventures to update you all on. We'll see how much I can squeeze in.

I packed my duffel full of shorts, t-shirts, flip-flops and swimming suits, and realized I will be spending two days in London, and one in Canada. So I unpacked everything and tried to figure out the best combination of clothing for three weeks of travel, through three shockingly different climates, that would fit in one carry-on, based on four airlines' standards. I eventually just threw a bit of everything together, stuffed in some turrón, a little contraband jamón ibérico and perilously oversized hygiene gels/liquids, and flew out the door. Wearing a good five pounds of clothes and carrying at least 25 more in hand, I schlepped across town to the bus station. The bus arrived at the airport in plenty of time and I boarded my 3:00 flight to London without a hitch (Border control: zero, Contraband: 1).

It was a quick flight and after a nap I heard the captain announce our approach to the London area. He regretted to inform us, however, that we would not be stopping here as all airports in the south of England were closed owing to the immense threat of snow and ice. Instead we, and all other London-bound flights, would have to land in Manchester, some 200 miles (320 km) to the north. Once safely on the ground, we waited more than 2 hours aboard the plane for them to sort out all the redirected flights and the baggage and the accommodation, etc. We eventually did get off the aircraft and boarded a bus to return us to Stansted Airport.

At 10:00 p.m., following another stomach-rumbling hour of waiting, the bus departed. So much for cocktails and shopping in London, I thought. At 2 a.m. I arrived at Stansted Airport, boarded another bus, and at 3:00 was in Victoria Station, London. By this time I had used up the measly 2€ that remained on my SIM card and could only pray I'd be able to figure out the rest of the way using just the address. I finally wrangled a cabbie who knew the address and from there it was a brief, if costly, drive to Beth's friend Sara's house in Streatham . Once inside I collapsed on the couch.

The next day was bitingly cold, but we kept warm shopping at this enormous and trendy "mahl". "I feel like you have to say it like that with an American accent because it's the closest thing to an American mall in London," Sara told me. There I bought some socks from Uniqlo which I love so much and before long it was time for Beth and Sara to catch their train to Wales and for me to check in at my hostel.

On Wednesday, the 23rd of December, I boarded my AirCanada flight to Honolulu via Calgary (Border control: zero, Contraband: 2). It was easily the lushest airplane I've ever been on. Every seat had plenty of leg room and a personal movie player in the headrest opposite. They gave us a full meal, drinks every hour, ice cream, and a hot pie (like a HotPocket but less trashy) before landing.

After 9 hours in the air, we landed in Calgary a mere 2 hours later that day. In Calgary I got to experience Canada's stern Passport Control personnel. I was quickly singled out and banished to the office of Immigration. Now you know as well as I that I had zero intention of immigrating to Canada in the dead of winter. Nonetheless, I suppose they found my story a bit suspicious: A 22-year-old American flying from Europe with a preposterously heavy carry-on, says he's got a 24-hour layover and can he please go into town where he has no hotel reservation to speak of--a bit sketchy, I'll admit. Once I got a chance speak with the immigration officer, though, I explained that I will be couchsurfing, yes that is staying on a stranger's couch, yes I am quite comfortable doing so, and no I will not be secretly starting a new life in Alberta. She let me through.

I took a cab into the city and met up with my pre-arranged couchsurfing host Mark just as dusk fell (4:00 p.m.). He was an extremely generous host, giving me a little food to eat, letting me use his computer, and taking me out for a chill night on the town. Given that it was right before Christmas, it was more active than I'd thought, and we went to some hip and VERY Canadian locales This one tavern was like a ski lodge, with wagon-wheel chandeliers and various plasma screen televisions broadcasting looped video of a crackling fireplace (the best was when, every few minutes, a hand would appear and stir the fire haha). I met a few of Mark's friends and we had a lovely time conversing and telling jokes. The only thing I disliked about the evening was the ferocious cold; -25˚ Celsius (-15˚ Fahrenheit) with a bitter wind.

Next morning, Christmas Eve, Mark kindly drove me to the airport and I said goodbye to my first couchsurfing host. This stunning example of hospitality and the richness of a bilingual, bicultural nation left me with only good things to say about Canada.

I could not have been more excited to move to a warmer climate, however; on the road again. Interestingly, in Canada you go through U.S. Customs and such before leaving the country, on the way to the U.S. terminal. The U.S. security was easily the most thorough I went through and, sadly, my 3.5-ounce (100 ml) face wash had to take one for the team; the bootleg jamón lived on (Border control: 1, Contraband: 3).

After another 7 or so hours in the air, I finally finally touched down in tropical Hawai'i. Even though it may not be the most prototypical image of the United States, I was back in my country, mi patria. My final flight of the voyage took me from Honolulu to the island of Maui, where my family were all waiting for me with a big ol' box of Chinese food leftovers. While I inhaled the kung pao chicken I told them about my trials and tribulations over 4 days of travel, 11 time zones, and over 8,000 miles (13,000 km). I told them about Spain, about my life there, we caught up on all the goings-on in the family, what my brother Kyle's been up to, my sister Hannah, mom, dad, grandma, aunt, uncle, cousins, cousins-once-removed (or whatever the hell cousins' children are called, I can never remember) . . . whew!

We drove back to our condo, where I promptly stowed my contraband ham in in the fridge, ate myself sick on chips and hummus then passed out on the murphy bed. Paradise.

22 Years

2009-12-13T20:13:00.000+01:00

Well, today marks another year of my life. A lot has happened this past year. Monday the 14th marks one year since my dear friend Heather died. I had never before experienced such loss and despair. It's always hard to lose a loved one, but all the more difficult when it happens without warning or explanation, to someone in the prime of her life. Back home my friends have organized a little ceremony, dedicating a little memorial of pictures and a plaque in the Linguistics Department at the University, where we all met and became so close. Part of the memorial is a webpage with an epitaph for Heather in all of the languages we know. I helped write the Spanish version.

If there's one thing such great loss has taught me, it's the value of the people in my life. I will never again take for granted my friends and family. Nothing else matters more than them and I cherish them today and everyday, knowing tomorrow I might not get the chance.

~~

This year has also brought a lot of joy. I had some amazing times: visited every city on the west coast with the best of friends, threw parties for Chinese New Year, Cinco de Mayo, and every other occasion you can name, and of course have the amazing opportunity of living in Spain and learning every day more of the language I love.

With regards to more recent fun, last weekend I visited Madrid.

Metropolis Building

Puerta de Alcalá

Puerta del Sol. With my friend David, who goes by "Monky".

Illuminated at Night

We stayed with Monky's friends Javi and Patri (above).

It is a a really lovely city. There are tons of beautiful buildings and it was all lit up for Christmas making it especially lovely (though some streets had a rather odd modernist take on Christmas lights...). It was really just nice being in a big city. Oviedo is fairly small, and I had serious Cabin Fever. Madrid was just what the doctor ordered. Like all big cities, it has a very large immigrant population. This is so refreshing. I really enjoy being surrounded by diverse people and languages, choosing between Thai or Moroccan for dinner, passing by street performers juggling fire and playing the Djembe (African drum) on our way to the Prado fine art museum.

This is a poster in the metro. It's just so very illustrative I had to snap a picture. Bolivians residing in Madrid are encouraged to vote for Evo Morales. And it's very easy to do so, as they simply have to go to this metro to cast their vote. Bolivians can vote from Spain! This is just crazy to me. Needless to say there are a LOT of Latin Americans in Madrid.

And also, there were all the downsides of big cities. It was EXTREMELY crowded. It took five minutes at times to walk one measly block there were so many tourists and elderly people sauntering about. And when it started raining and all said people opened their umbrellas, it was outright chaos; impossible to move.

And it was very expensive. A drink in a discoteca can easily cost you 15 euros. THAT'S OVER 20 DOLLARS!!! We found cheap places to eat, but it was quite common to see 50 euro dinner platter "specials" to share.

It was a fun trip. But it's good to be home. I guess Oviedo does feel a bit more like home now. Nonetheless, I am EXTREMELY excited for Christmas. My family has given me the incredible present of a plane ticket to be with them. In Hawaii. I feel so fortunate, I just can't believe I will actually get to see my mom and dad, Kyle, and Hannah. Plus, I'll get to be with my cousins, aunt and uncle, grandma, the whole lot! Some of whom I haven't seen in probably three or four years. It is truly the best Christmas and/or birthday present I could ever ask for. ^_______^ (Asian-style smiling face, for those not familiar)

EZ Bake Thanksgiving

2009-11-30T00:30:00.003+01:00

Well, it has certainly been a while, hasn't it? Last Sunday I sat down at my laptop, opened up a new post, and then realized I had nothing to say. So I left it. Now, however, it's one week later and I have LOADS to tell.

This week there was a film festival in the nearby town of Gijón. I went to two movies. Two very . . . interesting French movies. Being more "art" movies, they naturally had little to no plot or character development. Instead they both just sort of displayed events, created an impression. My impression was one of great discomfort. I consider myself quite liberal and open minded, but watching adolescents lick each other's faces and obese men cavorting in the buff would make anyone squirm. It was definitely an experience. We went out afterward, and it was refreshing to be in a different city, with different people and places.

The rest of the week I set myself to the daunting task of creating Thanksgiving. From scratch. I know it seems excessive, plenty of Americans abroad are content to eat poultry, watch football online, and call it a day. Not me. I was determined to recreate this most important holiday down to the smallest detail. Because to me it is very important. It's a uniquely American holiday (ok, and Canadian...). No frills, just food and family. I love it.

First and most importantly, I had to find a turkey. My friend Jaime, sharing in my enthusiasm for the occasion, agreed to help me obtain all the ingredients. With my mom's recipes in hand, we headed to the hipermercado. Within about three minutes we had found a turkey. A whole, fresh turkey. I was so excited I bought it on the spot. Thirteen pounds (6 kg) of bird was mine for the low low price of 26 € ($38).

Overexcited, wrapped up in the situation-- there are many ways to describe this state. When I compared my turkey to my oven, I knew that I had not thought this through. Ovens here are at least half the size of those in the U.S. From this moment the obstacles just kept growing. I had a falling out with my host family, and they said I would not be allowed to have Thanksgiving there. So we moved it to Jaime's house. Suddenly the oven at home was enormous, a luxury as we now had only a toaster oven to work with. To make matters worse, our internet went out, making it all the more difficult to ask mom for advice.

In order to fit the enormous turkey in our EZ bake oven, I first had to debone it. Yes, that's right, I painstakingly shaved all the raw meat off the bone. Let's just suffice to to say I never want to be a butcher in my life. After carving up the bird, we had no problem fitting a breast and drumstick in the toaster oven. With some careful planning and three straight hours of cooking we also somehow managed to make mashed potatoes, stuffing, vegetables, and gravy all come out reasonably hot.

It doesn't look right, but it tasted great. And I think that's what matters.

¡Qué rico!

Oh, and I forgot, I also made a pumpkin pie. From scratch. I actually took a pumpkin, and turned it into pie!

before

after

It all came out extremely delicious. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it tasted pretty much spot on. But really, let's not lose sight of the true meaning of Thanksgiving. My goal with all of this was just to recreate as best I could the feeling of being all gathered together, enjoying each other's company and eating WAY too much food. Even though I couldn't be with my family, be served copious amounts of food with minimal effort, this Thanksgiving had a different kind of value. Going to all the effort, preparing days in advance, and sharing my culture with others, made it a very unique and memorable day.

Jaime (Spaniard), Me (American)

Eimear (Irish), Iván (Spaniard)

And pie for desert! mmmmmmmm

Til next time!

School Hasn't Gotten in the Way of My Education

2009-11-15T18:13:00.010+01:00

This week has been just chock full of wonderful conversations. I feel like that's about all I did, really. As it turns out, my four classes are a very light load. And now that my intensive Spanish class has ended, I have a good deal more free time than I expected; more than I have ever had in college. What better way to spend my time than in conversation, right?

Conversation of all different types: in English with my teeny-bopper students, in Spanish with German/French/Hungarian/Polish/Italian classmates, in English with some wonderful British and Irish friends, and, of course, in Spanish with Spaniards! whew. This latter type is especially valuable, and henceforth will be getting an added boost thanks to my participation in a language "Tándem"--basically, we switch languages for mutual benefit. For all the hours I spend in class, I learn more Spanish in 15 minutes of conversation with a patient Spaniard than any amount of lecture could impart. Thankfully, as far as patience is concerned, my host family and tándem are saints.

It's all the little things involved in everyday conversation that have always eluded me: "well," "you know," "if only," "you're kidding!" "wow," and "you can say that again", to name a few. The words that take the least amount of thought and energy in English are a constant struggle here. I liken my current stage of language ability to a robot. I can express most any thought, idea, or question I'd care to, and people get the idea, but it's nearly always the most inelegant, unnatural, and mechanical kind of Spanish (cue R2-D2 noises and/or corny robotic dance moves).

Although I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never speak native-like, every day I pick up more and more of those little things that make a language human. "O sea," "pero bueno," "¿a que sí?" and "a lo mejor" are my latest gems, FYI. It is also some consolation that at least I'm not the worst off. My fellow Americans: you have a reputation for completely sucking at languages. Please sort it, pronto, so I don't have to go through life being "the exception to the rule" in this area as well. (¡Much more on Americans' reputations coming soon!)

~~~

Today, as most Sundays are and should be, has been a very tranquil, restful day. I did go to a cultural festival of sorts a few hours ago. I believe it was called "Amagüestu."

It was held on Calle Gascona, "The Boulevard of Cider." And there was plenty of Cider to go around. There were free cups of the sweet (a.k.a. not alcoholic) kind which I really enjoyed.

They were even making the cider on the spot, there in the street. Here are two adorable children mashing up apples.

This is their supposed (grand?)father pressing the apples into juice!

There were also chestnuts, roasting over an open fire. They were quite tasty, but after like 5 I was handing 'em out to old men like they were Necco wafers.

Finally, my personal favorite, Hello Kitty and Spongebob Squarepants enjoying the lilting melodies of a bagpipe band. in Spain. How great is this photo??

Until next week. Stay classy, assorted online readers.

Eu não falo português!!! U__U

2009-11-08T15:15:00.013+01:00

It may not look like much, but that little purple line is almost a whole day of travel on a bus. For me it was even longer; two days on the way there as I stayed one night in Salamanca, and two days on the way back as I was majorly screwed over by the Portuguese people.

But first, Salamanca. It's a fantastic city. It is positively swarming with students and foreigners, a welcome change from Oviedo which can, at times, feel like one enormous retirement home. Salamanca is very lively. I believe someone told me it has the most bars per capita in all of Spain. And it seemed as though all of this life is built inside absolutely ancient buildings. Everything in the extensive medieval quarter is made from the same stone, which seems to glow when the sun hits it.

Sadly, I got there too late to take many good pictures of this phenomenon, but you can sort of see in this photo how the top of this building is glowing in the sun.

Here's the Plaza Mayor at night. It would be lovelier without those shacks, but they were selling used and rare books so I guess they can stay.

Here's the "new" cathedral (14th Cent. I think?)

After some brief sightseeing and an even briefer night out, it was off to Portugal. A word of advice to future travelers: don't even consider visiting the place unless you know a little Portuguese and/or Spanish. If anyone in Portugal speaks English, they are pretty damn well hidden. When I first decided to visit my friend Bethan, I didn't think much of the fact that she lives in small-town Portugal. I thought, Portuguese seems fairly similar to Spanish, I can even read it with some effort, why worry? The week before my trip I had researched some basic phrases, brushed up on major differences from Spanish, and felt quite confident I could survive in Portugal. From the first instant I heard the language though, I knew I had deceived myself.

Despite being able to read it, I couldn't understand a word! I wasn't even sure what language I was hearing at first. Two years ago, when I was living with my French friend Yvan, he asked me if Portuguese is somehow related to Russian or Polish. I just laughed in his face. Who could possibly think that? When I stepped off the bus, I understood instantly what Yvan was talking about. I heard, not the bouncy, lively language of samba and "The Girl from Ipanema", but a mouthful of consonants that could only be called semi-Slavic. For all you linguists out there (amateur or otherwise), I will gladly go into the details further down.

So, the instant I stepped foot in the country, I felt for the first time the fear, confusion, and frustration of not understanding anyone, and no one understanding me. To make matters worse, my phone was out of money, and I had no way of making any calls during the entire vacation. Somehow, after only a few wrong turns and dead ends, I made it to Bethan's house. From there I could rest easy, with the help of her Portuguese friends.

We had a lovely time. It was Welcome Week for the freshmen at the university, so there were numerous performances by local and international bands, DJs, and lots of dancing.

After the party, we tried the food at various street vendors. We had to pass on the hotdogs, though, since their being called cachorro (Spanish for "puppy") is less than appetizing.
Finally, we made it home just in time to watch a gorgeous sunrise.

Sadly, they do not celebrate Halloween in Spain or Portugal, so I did not get to dress up as anything this year. Though, if you look very closely at Bethan and me, you'll see small yellow produce stickers her Madeiran roommate stuck on us. Thus, I like to say I was a very old, very blackened banana for Halloween. "Eu sou uma banana da Madeira!"

I also saw some of the sites of the area, of course.

The church in Covilhã

My vacation was during All Saints Day, which is like Memorial Day in the U.S. This is a cemetery in Portugal, overflowing with chrysanthemums; a benediction was playing over loud speaker in the background.

This is inside the cathedral in Guarda. Those little lights in the corner are meant to be prayer candles. Only, they've modernized the idea, so that now you only have to drop in some coins and the little flame-shaped bulbs light up. My ten cents got me four candles!

Sadly, my prayers for safe and hassle-free travel were not answered. It was Monday, and I was in Guarda waiting for the 1:00 bus back to Spain. As the time of departure got closer, I began to get more and more anxious. First of all, nowhere at the bus station does it say when or where particular buses will come. They just appear, at whatever time they please, and are announced over loudspeaker in very fast, garbled Portuguese. There are no speakers in the waiting room, only outside in the cold. And the people in charge do not wear any kind of uniform. Thus, I had to continuously run up to each bus that arrived and ask if it was going to Salamanca. Every time a bus came, I ran to meet it, or tried to ask people if they knew anything about my bus. As 1:00 came and went I became frantic and asked everyone remotely official looking. Every time it was a different story:

"Ask the man in blue. He knows." So I would.
"Oh it's late," man in blue said. So I waited. Maybe the bus that says Spain is mine?
"No this bus doesn't go to Salamanca." So I waited.
"No the one for Salamanca will be here in 5 or 10 minutes." So I waited.

Of course, this was all in Portuguese, so who knows what they were actually saying. Some words have very different meanings in Portuguese, as I mentioned about the hotdog. In Spain atrasado means "late", or "behind schedule". In Portugal it means "I don't have a clue what the hell I'm saying but I would really like for you to wait in the cold for three more hours."

So that's what I did. Every time a bus came I would have an instant of hope, followed by a half-hour of despair, constantly led to believe that it would be there soon. Finally, after nearly four hours of this run-around, I found someone in charge who spoke a little Spanish. To my overwhelming anguish, he informed me that my bus had indeed come around it's assigned time, but in an act of incomprehensible incompetence, they had sold more tickets than there were seats. So the bus that said Spain was mine. My wouldn't it have been grand if someone on the bus to Spain spoke Spanish, or had a clue in general. Could have saved me the great pleasure of interrogating middle-aged women all day in the cold. I received no compensation for their error, aside from booking me a replacement ticket--for the following day. Exhausted and defeated, I trekked back to Beth's to await the next round of Portuguese pandemonium.

I eventually did make it home. Thank God. But let's suffice it to say that I have no plans on returning to Portugal in the near future. It was so great seeing Beth, so nice to have a real friend again and speak my language with her, but Portugal itself was a major, major disappointment. Even if I spoke the language, this would have happened to me. What they pass off as infrastructure is just a joke!

******LINGUISTIC NERD WARNING**************
As I said above, the language was also nothing like I had expected. I had imagined a country full of cute and bouncy sounds like in Manu Chao's song Homens. Unfortunately, European Portuguese is very different from the Brazilian type. I found a good comparison looking at newscasts.

First, from Portugal: Bom Dia Portugal. The ad at the beginning depicts especially well, I think, the language. Three things make it sound Slavic to me. First, the abundance of dark (or velar) [l]. Second, it seems they don't pronounce [o] or [e] in a lot of environments, so there are a lot of consonant clusters not normally heard in Romance languages. Third, [s] is very often [sh].

Now, from Brazil: Jornal do Globo. I think it's instantly apparent how different they are. The intonation is much more dramatic here. I guess [l] is pretty similar, but is vocalized in coda position. The s isn't pronounced [sh].

The moral of this story is, they're really different. Much more different than British and American English or Peninsular and American Spanish. (For those wanting a much more in-depth explanation, check out this site.) I also think I can understand the Brazilian type better. For those of you who speak Spanish, what do you think?
**************************************************

That's all I'll bore you with for now. I learned a lot on this trip. A lot about myself and for better or worse, a lot about life. While I was waiting at that bus station for hours on end I wanted nothing more than to go home. But then I realized, where is home? Is Spain my home? As much as I like it, it's not home. Is Salt Lake my home? It used to be, but by the time I get back there all my friends will probably have moved on and it will be a different place. I know I always have my parents' house to go to, but I feel like I'm a visitor there too. At the moment, I have no home. That's kind of a tough realization.

But even if it's not home, I'm very glad to be back in Spain. It's so nice being in a country whose language I speak. I'm still nowhere near fluent, but this trip has provided a good contrast with which to measure how much Spanish I do know.

One Month-iversary!

2009-10-25T15:02:00.003+01:00

El tiempo vuela. I learned the other day that they say "time flies" in Spanish as well. I guess we both feel the sense of surprise at how quickly the days and hours seem to pass us by. Exactly one month ago today I landed in Oviedo, all my life packed into two overstuffed suitcases. It's boggling to imagine all that has happened since. And, all that hasn't.

After a month, I feel relatively settled in here. It's so nice to have a sense of structure and predictability to my life again. Thinking back, it was unbelievable stressful and exhausting not knowing even the simplest things, like when to eat, when to sleep, etc. The Spanish schedule is very different. After class I have lunch, around 3. Dinner is unbelievably late here, at least 10 pm. More than once we've dined as late as midnight, even! You can imagine, this takes some getting used to. But once I fill in the day with school, teaching English, studying, reading, and throw in a little snacking (which has the very fancy name of merienda), it isn't so bad.

And about the food. Unlike many a homesick Brit, I really enjoy the food here. There's good and bad, of course. I just refuse to eat my cornflakes in microwaved milk, I prefer no duck to duck à la tiny bone shards, and knowing that callos means cow stomach, I plan on politely refusing that particular delicacy from now on. Nonetheless, I have probably never tasted such delicious fish, olive oil, or yogurt. And how on earth does a tortilla española, which contains just eggs, potato, and onion, taste so darn good?? Once they added in some roasted bell pepper, I was hooked. Also, last week I tasted 5J (aka 5 star) Jamón Ibérico. It's like 5 bucks for one paper thin slice!

What I have yet to figure out, however, is the University. I can get to my classes, and understand the lectures fine, but the system as a whole is just very perplexing. For some mysterious reason, I must give every professor a card with all my personal information and picture. I honestly can't say how many people in this country now have a wallet-sized photo of me. Most of them different pictures too. And the process of registering in classes is a Grade A bureaucratic mess. I have to get signatures from everyone and their dog, sign in duplicate, stamp, countersign, seal it in my own blood, and turn it in between the hours of 10 and 1 Monday through Thursday. Suffice it to say, one month later, I'm still not registered. Which I'd really like to be, so I can get a student card (which requires another separate photo p.s.), so I can check out books and go to the gym. Is that so much to ask?

Another peculiarity is the very laid-back approach they have towards the actual education. The professors are on average 15 minutes tardy to class, resulting in the very skewompus situation of us waiting for them. What's more, some have already canceled as many as three classes! And the Spanish students always seem to know when not to show up; the other exchange students and I are left waiting until we deduce that we've somehow missed the memo.

Don't get me wrong, though. I love the fact that skipping two days of class will have zero impact on my final grade. Well, maybe not zero, but minimal. And in compensation for their sluggish bureaucracy, they're extremely willing to forgive and forget due dates or deadlines. I still have a few things to figure out, like books and tests, but overall I'm adjusting.

After a month, I've also gotten much more settled in socially. I have a few budding friendships, and keep myself entertained with the plethora of social opportunities available in Spain. The other exchange students, being in the same position as me, are exceptionally friendly and outgoing, and we even went kayaking together this past Saturday. I've got some really nice Spanish friends I see now and again as well. I don't expect I'll ever find the quality or quantity of great friends I had in Utah, but the people I've met are thus far very "good eggs," so to speak.

Until next week! Or, no, next week I'll be in Portugal! First time being in a country whose language I don't speak (not counting Texas haha)--wish me luck.

Oviedo Overview

2009-10-18T19:10:00.001+02:00

With uncharacteristic punctuality, I present the third installment of my blog!! And, as promised, I have prepared a small introduction of my new home. (To those of you who live here, I'm sorry if I misrepresent it in any way; I'll do my best.)

I live in Oviedo, the capital of the Principality of Asturias. It has a population of like 221,000 within 70 square miles (186 km2). Yeah, these numbers don't mean much to me either. Everyone asks how it compares to Salt Lake, but it's really hard to say. In many ways it's more urban here. Most buildings have at least 6 floors, and they're all squished together; something completely lacking in Salt Lake. At the same time, there are only like 3 Chinese restaurants here, and no Japanese food to speak of (send sushi care packages! please!!). The city is 93% Spanish, with Latin Americans (mostly Ecuadorians), Africans, and Roma (gypsies) making up the remaining 6.99%. So, it seems little old SLC (~65% white) is more diverse than Oviedo.

I'd like you to conjure in your mind everything stereotypically Spanish--flamenco, bullfights, paella, dry heat, sunny days, windmills . . . Now forget all of that because I haven't seen any of it. The north of Spain is pretty much like a Spanish speaking Ireland or Oregon; very green, thanks to the copious amounts of rain. It would appear that the rain in Spain does not, in fact, stay mainly on the plain, but rather, on the northern coast. Which can be dreary, no doubt. But after living in a quasi-desert for 17 years, it is a welcome change.

I also like how very temperate it is here. The highs this week are in the mid 60's (16˚ C), fairly comfortable. Each week I can feel it getting a little bit more chilly, but even in the dead of winter it's not expected to drop below freezing. January in Oviedo sounds like October in Utah--it'll maybe snow a few times, but it definitely won't last.

As with all of Europe, Oviedo is also much more accessible and well connected. I can only imagine how imprisoned exchange students in Utah must feel. Here I can walk to all my daily commitments in 15-20 minutes. Beyond that there's a bus or train to almost everywhere. A half-hour north and I'm at the ocean-- beaches, craggy cliffs, fishing villages, seafood. A half-hour in the other direction and I'm in the mountains, skiing even. In four hours and for forty euros I can be in a bustling metropolis, Madrid (7 million people). It would take at least three times as much time and money to get to anywhere remotely metropolitan from SLC. It's all on a different scale I guess.

Another nice characteristic of Oviedo is how clean it is. One of the first things I learned was that it is the cleanest city in all of Spain, and it shows. That is, during the day anyway. On Saturday night unbelievable mountains of trash, beer bottles, plastic bags, cups, cigarette butts and urine fill the streets. It all magically disappears by morning, however, washed clean by a fleet of water guns.

Now that you have some idea of the demographics and such, here's some photos of the place!

The Cathedral of Oviedo. Constructed in various stages from the 8th to the 16th century. It is the highest point in the city, visible from pretty much everywhere. It's unique because most gothic cathedrals have two campaniles (tower thingies) but they ran out of money for the second. Strangely (to me anyway), this area is also the center of nightlife.

The commercial area. This statue is called "Maternidad" or something but everyone calls it "la gorda", for obvious reasons. The building in the back, "La Jirafa", is the tallest building in Oviedo (but lower than the cathedral, which is on a hill). Every time we pass it, people tell me Fernando Alonso lives there. He's apparently a very famous Formula 1 racer I've never heard of. Next to that is the Teatro Campoamor, which hosts the Prince of Asturias awards.

There's also a lovely park in the middle of town called Campo San Francisco. I like to go there when I get sick of the smells, noise, and insane drivers of the city.

Oviedo has lots and lots of statues. Here is one of Woody Allen. Woody was awarded the Prince of Asturias Premio de las Artes in 2002, and he liked the city so much, he decided to come back and make a movie. So they made a statue for him! Sadly, some juvenile delinquent has made off with his glasses.

So that's my overview of Oviedo. It's not the most cosmopolitan place, and nothing can beat the Wasatch Mountains for majestic backyard beauty, but I like it.

Asturias--Paraíso Natural

2009-10-10T23:04:00.000+02:00

I checked a calendar today, and was surprised to discover how little time I've actually been here. I suppose time moves at a snail's pace when your communication does. I have been here about two weeks now and I'm amazed at how much more I've already learned of the language--countless new vocabulary, how to write a polite e-mail, the whole vosotros thing . . . . At the same time, I feel like I have had a proper conversation maybe twice. Most times it's like my language is cold cold molasses oozing it's way out, and making a big ol' mess in the process.

I've also gotten pretty good at filling in the gaps. Spaniards talk RIDICULOUSLY fast. I maybe only really hear half of the words. But, you just have to push through and figure it out, because you can only say "¿qué? ¿cómo? ¿perdón?" so many times without completely losing everyone's patience. Of course, there are plenty of times I miss a key word and totally lampoon myself (last week I was waiting for a train to the beach when a kind old man approached me rattling on about something or another. After nodding dumbly and saying "sí, sí" a lot, I somehow ended up with a free train ticket to parts unknown. I suppose worse things could have happened).

~~~

I keep thinking I need to do an elaborate post about the city I live in now. Days where it is both sunny and I have my camera with my are exceedingly rare however, especially considering I live in a very similar climate to the Pacific Northwest. Although it's prettier with sun, I'll just have to bite the bullet and show you all the cloudy truth.

~~~

I have had quite a few opportunities to explore the region, thanks to a few generous people with cars. The first days I was here, I stayed with my host-family's sister, Yoli. She took me to the major port city Gijón and other lovely coast areas. (Note the sunny, clear day)

Today I was able to explore Asturias even more. The University has a program called a-Duo, which pairs you up with a local to help you get settled in an everything. Usually he or she just finds you an apartment and holds your hand in registering, but Víctor and I got along well so we've been hanging out a little bit. His friend (nicknamed "Monky") has a car, so today we did a big touristy tour of Asturias.

First, we drove about an hour to Cangas de Onís. As with everything in Europe, there is a mountain of history about everything. I guess it was the first capital of Spain, in the middle ages. Which is really just saying it was the capital of Asturias, because everything south of here was owned by Muslims. So there's tons of history with King Pelayo, the first king, who the current king is actually related to.

Here's a Roman bridge. From the 2nd or 3rd century (but reconstructed more recently). That cross beneath it appears on the Asturian flag.

Next we went further up into the mountains to Covadonga. This is where the Prince of Spain is crowned, in a beautiful church atop a hill, surrounded by wooded mountains. We had quite a time parking the car. That is something I think I never want to try here. We drove in and out of numerous garage-sized areas overflowing with double-parked Renaults, to no avail. Finally, we created a spot on the shoulder of a steep (45˚!) hill, only to be rear-ended by a geriatric Barcelonian in a comically huge BMW. Turns out he overshot the turn of the aforementioned hill and, in trying to right himself, put the car in 'drive' instead of 'reverse' . . . .

So after that fiasco, and being now reparked, we continued. Here is the church -->. Some very rich people were getting married at the time, with traditional bagpipes playing and everything. They are all about bagpipes in northern Spain.

Nearby the church is a cave which opens into a large alcove containing the shrine to the Virgin of Covadonga. (To the right of Víctor and I in this photo is the entrance; no photography allowed.)

Below the shrine is a small fountain. Legend has it that if you drink from all seven of the spouts, you'll get married within one year. Despite my better judgment, I decided to risk my bachelorhood on this superstitious fountain.

Only afterward, however, did I see this informative little sign. It basically reads "No promise this water is sanitary." Turns out I was taking a different risk than I had thought! If I get giardia I damnwell better get someone to care for me in sickness and in health as well.

After Covadonga, we took the winding narrow highway to the coast. One place we stopped along the coast is called Lastres. It's a quaint little village perched precariously on a cliff above the sea.

It's a really idyllic place, with narrow cobbled streets winding up the steep steep hills. In many places it's just stairs between the houses, and yet somehow people still get their cars in--insanity I tell you.

So, that's that. I'm slowly but surely checking off my must-see sights. Ever since I saw this video on youtube months ago I've wanted to personally experience all I can of this region. It really is a natural paradise, with mountains, sandy beaches, cliffs, lakes, and everywhere green green green! Even better, Spaniards can't go more than a few weeks without having some kind of holiday involving 3- or 4-day weekends. Now, what to do Monday . . .

Moving across the sea

2009-10-01T13:30:00.000+02:00

Dear world/friends/self:

I have decided that the easiest way to share my travels is to put all the pictures and text I want together on a blog. And so, after much deliberation I have decided to write the very cleverly titled "Tyler's Travels". I expect, just like my personal journal and correspondences, that I will forget to write anything for long stretches of time. When I do get around to it though, I will let people know via facebook or something.

~~~

Soooooooo, yes. I live in Oviedo, Spain! Very exciting. After a week of quasi-homelessness I have a place to rest my head again. It wasn't easy though. After 18 hours of travel I decided I would try and see all of Barcelona in a day and a half, and daggummit I sure came close. The coolest three things I saw were:

The Sagrada Familia,

the beach in Sitges,

and the Castellers. It happened to be this huge festival called La Mercè while I was there, and one thing they do is have a competition to build towers of people, called Castellers. I believe one group built a tower 7 levels high, with a group of men at the bottom and a small child at the top.

Barcelona is definitely a very cool city. But honestly, I was SO ready to move on. I even arrived at the airport 3 hours early just so I could get on my way. I was tired of the noise and the fear of getting pick-pocketed and tired of Catalán. Catalán is the regional language of Barcelona, and while it is a nice language, I really came to Spain for Spanish, and I was getting tired of strangers asking me directions in a language I don't know.

Oviedo is a dream--just Spanish all the time, every one. It's just assumed everyone speaks it, whether you're Chinese or African or pale as a ghost. In fact, I find anyone 30 years and above knows little more than "hello, how are you."

Now I'm all moved in and comfortable with my familia. Here's a street view of my home--you can also zoom out to see where I'm situated.

Here's my bedroom.

Here's a (zoomed in) view from my window. That little white thing on the mountain is a statue of Christ.

I have explored the town center a few times, but haven't taken any pictures really. There's lots of cool stuff though. I'm about a ten minute walk from school, and a 15 minute walk from the center, which has a lovely cathedral and TONS of bars and shops. The drink of choice in Asturias is sidra, apple cider. It is always served by pouring it from high up into the glass in small amounts and drinking it really fast. I personally am not a huge fan. It tastes fine, but you finish a bottle in like 2 minutes (cuz you always share). It's kind of rushed drinking and everyone warns me of the dangers of sidra.

Anyway, that's all for now. I will next get some pictures of the city and my university.

Hasta luego!