Holidays: La Vuelta

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.