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.

Holidays: Paraíso

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

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

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

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

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

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?
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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.