Weekend in Ibiza and Seville!

In our third week, a group of 7 of us decided to take a long weekend to Ibiza. However, the flights back were unbelievably expensive, especially for Ryanair. We found quite a cheaper route going through Seville, but it meant we would only spend one night in Ibiza and three nights in Seville. It seemed unfortunate, but after one night Ibiza, we weren't sure if we could handle anymore.

We arrived on Thursday evening around 7pm, and took a taxi to our hotel, and driving through the city, it didn't look like what you'd think the party capital of the world would look like (oh yeah, did I mention that Ibiza is the party capital of the world? It is. I'm serious, go google it! I'll wait here....did you see?!). It mostly looked like what I think a small town in Greece would look like. Did you ever see that remake of mama mia with Meryl Streep? Yeah, like that. But I have a habit of misjudging people and places when o first encounter them.

First we ate as cheaply as we could, then it was immediately back to the hotel to get ready for the night. We were headed to a show with some big name DJs such as headliner Paul Van Dyke, Deadmau5, ***, and some other people I'd never heard of. I admit, it didn't sound like my scene. Certainly not the kind of music I'd be interested in if it weren't for the rest of the group.

Before going to our concert, we headed to a bar called Deja Vu, owned by a friend of one of the members of our group. Here we were greeted with a free shot (weak, very weak, but free) and a pitcher of sangria (not free). The owner encouraged us to drink more because "one drink at amnesia is 20€." Twenty WHAT NOW?? Yes I heard correctly, 20€ for a drink. One. Just one. We politely declined the offer of cheaper drinks because we were 7 headed to a party of 6500 or more, and our biggest priority was to stick together.

After midnight we hailed a cab (which are in incredibly low supply in Ibiza for whatever reason) and headed off to Amnesia. And let me say, my friend was right when he called it "Malibu with British people." Never have I heard so much English in Spain and not a single American accent to be heard except my own.

Well, how can I describe Cream Ibiza? It could easily fall into the top three of my most fun nights I've ever had (and the number one most expensive), and I only hesitate to say it was my most fun night because I can't immediately recall all my nights and don't wish to be over zealous. It was loud and crowded and hot and there were too many colored lights shining directly in your eyes, and dancing, lots of dancing. All of the things I usually hate, but I was with a good crowd and everyone, all 6500 of them, seemed to be in a good mood.

Unfortunately headliner Paul Van what's-his-name couldn't be there because of some extreme sickness, but I wouldn't have known if no one had said anything. You'd think they'd refund some of our 50€ we paid to get into the stupid show, but like I said, it was definitely the most expensive night of my life. I never found out how much the drinks really were, never having ordered one or asking the bartender out of curiosity, but our group of 7 spent well over 100€ on water alone. A bottle of .35L (or 11.6 fluid ounces, 5.3 oz short of the standard American size bottle. Really tiny, in other words) cost 8€, and if you wanted a glass with ice, 10€. With a roughly 25% premium with the exchange rate, that meant $10 for less than a bottle of water. But demand was inelastic. There was no escaping the need for water. It was so packed and so hot, an even hotter with all the dancing, and when you do it for 8 hours like the spaniards do, you can easily blow 24€ on water (like I did) and think it a reasonable purchase.

So yes, for 8 hours we partied. I think we left the show at a little after 7am, got back to the hotel at a little before 8. We settled in for a short nap, needing to check out before 12. We spent the afternoon at the pool before going to catch our flight to Seville around 7.

Which brings me to...

Travel tip #2:
When booking a hotel, know that you can go with the cheaper option, but they'll mostly be farther from anything worth being close to. You might shy away from a more expensive hotel because of the price, but if you book the cheaper one, you'll end up paying the difference in travel to and from the city center, and it'll take much more of your time. Anyway the point is, if you're booking a hotel in Seville, make sure your hotel is IN Seville.

The 35€ cab drive into the city certainly put a damper on the weekend's activities. Of course, the first night we stayed in the pueblo where we were staying outside the city, called Solúcar. We stopped in a random cheap restaurant, and stumbled upon a live show. I mean, it wasn't much, just 4 adorable little Spanish girls who were average singers, but still cool. We then went back to the hotel and slept for what felt like the first time in a long time.

We didn't get an early start the next day, but we went into the city, had lunch, and walked around. We went back to the hotel when the heat became unbearable (over 100F) and readied ourselves for a night out. It took a while to get anywhere, but first we tried what we'd heard was a really exclusive club frequented by celebrities and sexy fútbol players alike. I didn't have high hopes, but I did recognize how freaking cool it would be to meet a famous and good looking soccer player. Alas, we were turned away at the door. Then we headed to someplace nearby that had a fairly large crowd outside it, but apparently this place was high end. Or they must be with a 40€ entrance fee. Instead we went to a place called Plaza Europa, that was just as lively but for 10€ and a complimentary drink. Again I never found out the real cost of a drink, but 350mL of water was 3€. It's equally ridiculous to buy less than a full bottle of water for $4, but after Ibiza, 3€ seemed quite cheap.

This time we made it back to the hotel before the sun came up. It felt somehow early when we hailed a cab to take us back at 6 in the morning, but we didn't get up until about 3pm anyway. Please don't judge me dear readers, I know just as well as you it feels stupid to spend half your say sleeping and the other half sitting by the hotel pool, but it was expensive an time consuming to get to the city. I find solace in the fact that I'm headed back to Seville in just about a week. I SWEAR, this time I will definitely take advantage of being in in Seville.

There isn't much to be said about the rest of my weekend. Sunday afternoon, what we were awake for, was spent by the pool. We stayed in for the night. We spent our Monday afternoon by the pool as well, before heading off to catch our flight back to Valencia.

As for my final thought, Ibiza was really great, but who could possibly spend more than a couple nights there? You'd go broke by the third day. As for Seville, I don't think I can give a fair assessment, having only really been in the city for an afternoon. Once I go back, I'll let you know. Deal?

Weekend in Barcelona!

Saludos, avid readers! I hope the start of the week finds you well. After an extremely lazy weekend, I have an extremely lax week of classes. No marketing today or tomorrow, and no Spanish on Wednesday or Thursday. It's just as well. I need to be resting for what I'm sure will be a demanding weekend in Ibiza, which I'm told is the "party capitol of the world" (I know-I'm scared too). While there, we'll be going to a show called amnesia so if that's not foreshadowing, then I don't know what is.

For my parents' piece of mind, I will note that most of the weekend will be spent in the historic and culturally rich city of Seville. So that's good...

Anyway, onto Barcelona. On the 1st of this month, we pulled ourselves out of bed to catch a 6:45 train to barca. It went by reasonably fast, and we arrived around 10am. After dropping our stuff at our super nice hotel (right in the middle of the financial district, also known as the most expensive part of the city, though I would argue las ramblas was), we walked the city a bit with our tour guide Rota. I waited too long to write about this and now I'm having a hard time remembering exactly the order in which we saw things, so I'm just going to write about them as I remember them.

First we saw the Catedral de Barcelona, though I'd seen it before, still quite impressive to see. This time, however, I got to go all the way to the top, which has one of the best views of the city. Something that also has "one of the best views of the city" (there are a lot of good views here in Europe, I've noticed) is the Parque Guell, which again, I had been to once before, though this time around I learned a bit more. Apparently, this character Antoni Gaudi, an architect in the last century or so (okay so I didn't learn THAT much) started this project with the goal of creating a neighborhood of luxury homes. However, there were no buyers and in the end, only two of his homes were sold. They're still there today, and serve as part of the park. The park itself is situated at the top of the most gigantic hill, and I climbed to the very top. Like, hundreds of stairs to the top. You can see all the way out to the sea from there. We met a couple of south africans there who told us, to quote them directly, that you can't swim in the ocean in Barcelona, "because it's full of shit." Apparently there's a lot of pollution, something I wish I'd known when I jumped happily and willingly into the water a year ago. No wonder everyone was staying on the sand.

That night we had libre, or free of preplanned activities, which of course meant us Americans went out. Not much to be said here, in the interest of future employment and all.

The next day, we got an early start, much earlier than I would have preferred, though it was worth it because I got to see some things I hadn't seen before. Namely the casas of Gaudi. That man can turn anyone into an admirer of architecture.

He loved nature and tried his best to allow it to influence all facets of his work. It's because of this, I'm guessing, that he hated straight lines and you'd have a hard time trying to find them. One of the casas was an apartment building, and we actually got to walk through one of them. And it was HUGE! Each apartment (which are currently inhabited by, like, real people) takes up an entire floor and is about the size of 10 of my measly apartment. The other house we went to was built for one guy, one really rich guy with the means to commission Antoni Gaudi to design and build not only the house itself, but also all the furniture inside. I really like what he did with the windows inside. He loved natural light (I love I also share) and really did his research when it came to designing the size, placement, and colors of all the windows.

The next day we went to la sagrada familia, my personal favorite. Again, something I'd visited before, but because it continues still today to be under construction, there were some new things to see. This was sort of the flagship work for Gaudi, and by sort of I mean entirely. Apparently he worked on nothing else in the last twelve years of his life, but continues to dictate what's to be done with the building from beyond the grave, having left plans behind.

Anyway, this post isn't very detailed because I've already been to Barcelona and I already wrote about it. More later about the time I've spent here in Valencia.

"El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una pagina"

I'm Back!!!

Well folks, It's that time again. Remember when I said about halfway through my previous Spain trip that I was already making plans to return? Well just take my word on it, because I can't source the exact post and even I don't want to go back and read my whole blog.

So yes! The word on the street is true-I made it back to espana. Two weeks ago. I'm SORRY! I didn't mean to wait so long, it's just that all I've got is this silly little iPod and it's a pain and a half to type on. Anyway, let's hear the story, shall we? I will say this in preface: This will, as will soon become evident, be a "what-NOT-to-do" story. Please learn from my mistakes. (Yes, mistakeS, plural.)

A 45 minute connecting flight (20 minutes shorter than anticipated) boded well for my trip, and I felt confident that everything would go smoothly, even after I failed to find the envelope of over 200 euros I hid from everyone, including myself. I had plenty of time to find my next flight in the gigantic maze that is the Washington Dulles airport, and I even found it without getting lost! I had time to go to an overpriced airport store and buy one of those dorky neck pillows and some $20 earbuds.

Even though they suspended boarding halfway through because of an issue with the air conditioning, we ended up leaving on time and landed a little early. The flight wasn't bad. It was with and airline called Aer Lingus, which if any of you have flown before, you know it's about as comfortable as sitting in a chair for 8 hours breathing the same air as the surrounding 100 strangers can possibly be. I really didn't get much sleep, despite my recent neck pillow purchase. Which is too bad, because I'd been planning on ditching it at the Madrid airport when I landed.

So when I did land, I have to admit, I was a little terrified. For the record, 3100 miles is now the farthest I've ever traveled alone. But right then I was navigating my way through signs written in Spanish directing me to Baggage claim, or reclamo de equipaje, for the curious, where I would meet three of my new friends, with whom I would take a train to Valencia. I found my luggage with no problem, although everyone was shocked at how little I packed. It's become a point of pride for me, being an immaculately efficient packer. We've closed out week two, and I still have yet to re-wear anything from my amazingly 13.5 pound duffle. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I packed a bookbag and a duffle bag that weighed in a 13.5 pounds. One of the boys, who had a duffle bag similar in size to mine, as well as a roller luggage thing and a backpack, was made fun of because he "packed more than a girl." He simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well, we are going to be here for a month." And I laughed because I'm actually going to be here two months.

Anyway, after realizing that my debit card wasn't working, on which I will rant in the next paragraph or so, we decided to forgo the bus that takes you directly to the train station, because it was about 8am, and it didn't come until 10am. We told ourselves we could just as easily, and for cheaper, get the the station via metro. Ah, we were naive back then. It was a simpler time. Before we were aware of all the more complicated metro systems in the world. So basically what I'm saying is that it took forever and 4 or 5 transfers to finally get there. We arrived a little before the next train left, and unfortunately that meant that it was greatly more expensive, somewhere in the region of 80 euros. Understandably, we went with the next train that left at 2, which was 39 euros. But this meant that 1, we had 4 hours in which to not really do anything, and 2, that our host families wouldn't know when we were meant to arrive at the airport. Allow me to explain...because we bought our tickets so last minute, we weren't able to tell our host families when we would be arriving, so we were going to try and get there around the same time or before our roommates arrived, who had told the families when to come and pick them up. Unfortunately for me, mine got there at about 3, an hour before I did.

More on that later, because we had some time to waste in madrid. We walked around, ate, then went to a park. I don't know what it was called, but it was HUGE. After a visit to a really picture esque garden, we headed back to the train station. It was here, in my uncomfortable chair, waiting to board, that I began to feel the effects of not having slept for about 24 hours. I was getting anxious to get to my new home. However, relief was no where in sight even when we arrived at the Valencia train station, because we were fully aware that we still had much of our journey in front of us.

We took a taxi to the Valencia airport, and after a quick scan of the arrivals area, we realized our professor was no longer there. We sat down, tired, lost, trying to figure out where it was we went wrong.

Eventually, a fast talking Spanish angel (I can't be sure, but I think she was an angel) came up to us and asked if we were american students looking for Dr. Scribner. Which was lucky, because that's exactly what we were.

She hailed us all a cab and sent us on our way. We had a list of names and addresses, and I was the first to be dropped off. I took a quick look at where I was going, thanked the cab driver, and went to the front door.

It was then I decided to give up on life. There was a panel of buttons and a set of instructions as to which ones to press in order to be connected to which apartment. However, these instructions were asking for information that I did not have. Why couldn't it be as simple as knocking on the door and asking for Teresa from puerta tres? Someone left through the front door and I managed to sneak inside, where I asked the front desk clerk in my most pathetic voice for help.

Sympathetic as he was, there wasn't much he could do to help me without more information, but god bless him, did he try. He typed a search into his database for all the Teresas who lived in a number 3, and for all the unfortunate coincidences in the world, would you believe that there were eleven? ELEVEN!! I told him that if only I had Internet access, I could look up where exactly I needed to be (after repeatedly assuring him that there was someone expecting me and I wasn't your regular trespasser). Unfortunately, there was no such Internet access, so I asked him, half joking, if it would be ridiculous if he called all the Teresas in the apartment complex to see if he could find the one who I was supposed to be staying with. Of course, he said yes.

So, I sat down so I could at least be out of the way for all the people who did know where they were going. I did know this: this Teresa, whoever and wherever she was, had been told I was on my way. So the best I could hope for was that if I didn't show up, she would eventually come looking for me.

But then I was struck by a horrible thought: What if I was in the wrong place? All I did was give an address to a taxi driver, and now I'm just to trust that he took me to the right place? I mean, maybe not out of maliciousness, but certainly cab drivers get it wrong sometimes? If I was at the wrong apartments, Teresa may come looking for me, but she wouldn't find me. How would she? How would anyone find me again?? Tears flooded my eyes as this panic struck me, and I swallowed that lump that forms in your throat and told myself, knowing I was lying, that everything would be okay.

But really how could it? With no money (remember how my debit card wasn't working?), no phone, no Internet, I began coping with the idea that I'd be sleeping in the streets that night. I heard the clerk making phone calls and asking in Spanish if the person in the other line was expecting an American student. Every time he'd say, "Bueno, gracias," and hang up. Then he'd dial another number and do it all again. The tears started back up, and I feared they might win against my crumbling resolve.

And then, miraculously, a woman walked into the room saying something in quickly spoken Spanish, but her sentence was interrupted halfway through when she looked over and found what she was looking for: a sad, infinitely lost looking American sitting in the corner laden with bags and bloodshot eyes. And angels descended and sang me the song of unlikely joy.

Teresa and I were united.

Younger than my first host mom, and much more vibrant, Teresa talks a mile a minute and is really energetic. She lives in a really cool apartment with an awesome terrace that overlooks the giant swimmable fountain, the pool, and all the racquetball, basketball, tennis courts (though admittedly the spaniards installed two soccer goals and the basketball baskets are left ignored). My own Valencian paradise. My roommate was lounging outside when I came in, and it sounds like what I had hoped would happen is what happened, but I got lucky, so in the spirit of this travel blog, I give you this:

Travel Tip #1
Prepare yourself as much as you can. If you bank with Suntrust, don't trust them to remember that you're leaving the country. Bring money with you. Don't rely on the Internet to give you all the info you need to get where you're going. If you're too cheap to print it out, for the love of god, write it down.

Anyway, that's it for now. I'll update later about our recent trip to Barcelona.

"El mundo es un libro, y ellos que no viajan leen solo una pagina."

Last Week in Santander

So today I decided to take a siesta for the first time in a long time because I was struck with a horrible thought: Today is just about the last day that I will be able to do so. Without it being weird, that is. I suppose this is arguable, being that the standard American college student's sleep schedule is much like that of all of Spain: go to bed after midnight, wake up at 7, go to class/be productive, then take a nap in the afternoon. It's brilliant, I think. College students have the right idea. Let's impose this on the rest of the country.

So yes, this weekend was satisfying, which is the best I can hope for, as it is my last one. I got to see most, if not all, of my ERASMUS friends, which were the ones I was most concerned about seeing. It's the most uncomfortable goodbye, because that's exactly what it is: a goodbye. There's almost absolute certainty that you won't ever see the person again. There's no "see you later" about it. The Portuguese guys, as they've been come to be known, threw all us Americans a going away party at their house uptown, which was really sweet. And if you're confused about why we're having a going away party right now, while we still have a couple weeks left in Europe (actually 2 as of tomorrow), it's because tomorrow will be our last night. We've had several of these "last nights" here in Santander (for example, last weekend, we never hesitated to tell everyone who would listen that it was our last weekend. And tomorrow night, there is talk of going out for our "last night," but then most of us will still be here on Friday the 29th, which is our real last night, because we leave for Madrid the next day, and from Madrid, it's home), and I think it's because we all just want an excuse to party harder than we've ever partied before.

Anyway, it was a successful weekend. After losing my camera on Thursday night, I succeeded in losing nothing else. Oh, Spain. All I've ever done is love you unconditionally and you just take, take, take. I've lost two sets of keys, two cell phones, an iPod, a camera, and probably some dignity as well. Okay just kidding about that last one.

So one more thing before I go home and start to pack and give up halfway through and instead cry myself to sleep...I was walking here to the library to study for my last exam tomorrow when I heard some really obnoxious drumming. I walked a little further on and I saw my first Semana Santa procession! Now, for those of you who don't know, Semana Santa means "holy week," and a Semana Santa procession is kind of like a parade, only creepy. Men cloaked in large white cloths with their faces covered in the cone-shaped hoods walked to the slow, ominous drumming of teenage boys walking behind them. Then came some pre-teen looking girls carrying banners and looking like they hated their lives. After the girls with banners, there was a giant "float," if you will. It was a giant wooden table covered in red flowers on the top with a symbolic Jesus standing on top, complete with crown of thorns and look of misery on his face, he was carrying a proportionally sized crucifix on his shoulder. The statue was even made to look like he was being weighed down under the burden of this giant cross; a detail I think few would think to include. Bringing up the rear were 4 or 5 young boys, also cloaked in white, but the terrified looks on their faces were on display, as they were not forced to wear the creepy cone-shaped hoods with the tiny eye slits. Why make a religious procession so unsettling? I'll never know. I can only imagine what would happen if the Catholic Church tried to pull something like this in North Carolina.


Speaking of North Carolina! I hope you all are doing well and my heart goes out to everyone who lost homes or even family. You guys made international news. I watched it on the Spanish news with my host family. That was just about the most frightening thing, let me tell you; hearing about natural disasters in your home state and not knowing whether your family and friends are okay. Glad to hear you all are, though. I count myself lucky.

Until next time, everyone!

"El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una página."

Last word, Kodak digital camera gifted to me for Christmas by Brian Stewart, dies at the age of 4 months.

Today we mourn the loss of the digital camera belonging to a Sherri Christine Dill, 19.

The camera, a Kodak 8 megapixel Easy-Share with 5x optical aspheric lens, died this past Thursday night, April 14th, 2011, in its temporary home of Santander, Spain.

The cause is believed to be theft, but is as of yet, unknown.

In its four month career, this accomplished and celebrated Kodak documented several amazing places and many a night out on the town, reccounting many stories that none would believe actually occured had there not been photos. This camera's lens had seen the likes of Santander, Bilbao, Salamanca, Santillana del Mar, Las Cuevas de Altamira (kind of), Barcelona, Dublin, and Paris. It also had plans to travel to Los Picos, El Soplao, San Vicente, Rome, Pisa, Florence, Venice, and Madrid, and even was going to return to its original home of North Carolina. However, due to Thursday's tragedy, these dreams will, unfortunately, not be realized.

This particular Kodak will be remembered fondly, for its ability to capture the moment at the most spontaneous beck and call, and for its unique attention to the most minute detail.

"My Kodak did any beautiful scene justice," Said previous owner, Sherri Dill last Friday morning. "All my friends were really jealous when they looked at my pictures on FaceBook."

Kodak Easy-Share was manufactured in Japan and made its way to a Staples store in North Carolina, USA in the year 2010. It was purchased by Brian Stewart and then made its way to the intended owner, Sherri Dill, on Christmas Day, December 25th, 2010. The camera earned its own 5 albums on Dill's FaceBook, including over 750 photos. Dill admits to missing the camera dearly, saying that none will be able to fully replace it.

Memorial arrangements have not yet been released.

Just because I haven't been in Santander in a month, I'm going to dedicate a whole entry to this weekend.

This past weekend was the 2nd to last one that I will spend in Santander. Because of this, I rationalized going out on Thursday night, in spite of having class at 9am on Friday morning.

I met up with a friend at the Chupiteria to start the night. We drank tequila to pass the time, and I couldn't help but feel that roles were reversed, as we drank tequila while waiting for the men to get ready and meet us there. We took 3 shots each and then left to go find the guys because they were taking too long. When we met up with them, we all headed over to a place called Rio De La Pila, which is a street that I walk everyday to go to school. It's really close to my apartment, and I had been there once before to hang out with a friend, but had never been there late at night or on the weekend. By the way, Thursday night counts as the weekend here. Anyway, it was a shock because the place was PACKED. Just about every young Spanish person and ERASMUS student was there. Usually people get their drinks and go outside to socialize. I learned this fairly late in the game (as it was my second to last weekend, as I mentioned before), but all the kids go to Rio De La Pila to hang out early in the night (and I use "early" as a relative term, because early here is anywhere from midnight to 2am) and then move toward my side of town, where all the heavy drinking and/or dancing goes on. That's just a coincidence, by the way...Anyway, that was fun because I got to see a lot of my ERASMUS friends as well as some of my American friends. We bar hopped the night away, and I got home around 5am, and even made it to class the next day.

One thing that was particularly striking to me, and what originally inspired me to write a blog about this weekend was something a friend said to me. As my friends and I were walking the street heading to Rio De La Pila, we ran into another friend of ours who is from Mexico. We stopped to talk to him and he asked me, "¿Adónde van?" Now, this deserves both a bit of context and a tiny grammar lesson. If you speak Spanish or at least know how to conjugate verbs, you can skip the grammar lesson. I took 7 classes over the course of about 5 and a half years in the states learning Spanish. Because Mexico is the closest Spanish speaking country, the American public schools teach you what's called Latin American Spanish, which makes sense. If you're to run into a Spanish speaker, they probably come from a Latin American country. It's really not all that different from Spanish Spanish, but there are notable differences, as I've come to realize. In Spanish (in general), they maintain the difference between a friend and a person of seniority or respect, and conjugate the verbs differently. I'm sure you all know this, especially knowing that "¿Cómo estás?" means "how are you?" when talking to a friend, and "¿Cómo está?" means "how are you?" when talking to an elder. You is "tú" and the formal you is "usted." Now, more to my point, if you're talking to a group of friends, it would be multiple tús, right? That's what we call vosotros. If you're talking to more than one person of respect, you call that "ustedes," because it's just more than one "usted," make sense? But in Latin America, they don't make this distinction. When they're talking to multiple people, no matter if they're friends or professors or what-have-you, they refer to them as "ustedes." However, it must be noted that the conjugation for "ustedes" also functions as "ellos," which means "they." This may sound confusing, but it's easy to understand within context. If you say "Van a Rio De La Pila," this can mean "you all go to Rio De La Pila," OR it can mean "They go to Rio De La Rila," depending on what you want to say. I learned for five years to use ustedes. I never ever EVER used "vosotros." It just isn't done in Latin America. Even my professor for Advanced Spanish Grammar said that he was unable to use vosotros without taking a second to think about it first. And yet, when my Mexican friend looked at me with a group of friends and asked, "¿Adónde van?" I actually looked around and said, "Who?" What's striking is how quickly I fell into Spanish Spanish, and I didn't even realize it. After five years of studying Latin American Spanish, I forgot it in two months. I had expected to hear "¿Adónde váis?" which is the "vosotros" form.

Okay, sorry if that was boring. Just had to get that out.

Side note- The last bar we went to, a place called "Indian," gave me a heart shaped lollipop with my rum and coke!! I love Spain.

Friday night was a little crazier. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was just like every other night. Pre-gaming with the Americans, then separating and bar hopping with our respective ERASMUS friends. Nothing particularly memorable. And if there was and I'm not exactly remembering it at the moment, I will edit this later on.

A lot of my wilder stories came from Saturday, which is truely saying something. I chose not to drink, which was SUCH a good idea. I'm glad I was fully there for all of the insanity. (Side note-I found out the cheapest and easiest way to get hammered, if you're interested. Simply tell all your friends that you're not drinking. I did this and I think about 7 of my friends offered to buy me drinks) We started out at the Chupiteria, doing the usual, which, if you haven't gathered by now, is drinking obscene amounts, because they're 1€ per shot, which is the cheapest you'll find just about anywhere in the world. Qué mala idea, ¿no?

There is another group of Americans from Oregon studying here for a "term." I assume this is kind of like a tri-mester or something, because I didn't care enough to ask when I was actually talking to an Oregonian. Anyway, put all of us Americans in a room together (a room that happens to sell cheap liquor) and what should we do? Take body shots, of course. The Spaniards acted as though they'd seen nothing like it. After terrorizing the poor place, we walked over to Tempo, where the ERASMUS used to hang out. None of us had been there for a long time, and it felt like kinda like home. No, that's a lie. It felt like the beginning of my time in Spain when we all used to go there. I got to see a lot of ERASMUS students that I hadn't seen in weeks while I've been busy jet-setting all around Europe.

A group of us decided to do some bar hopping like always. I had a wonderful time and the night ended at about 4:45. One of my more tamer nights, but let me tell you about the rest of us. Without naming names, of course. By the end of the night, one girl had lost her keys, several had had horrible falls, two guys had gotten in two different fights, and one guy had had the policía called on him. Oh, and I hear that about 3 or 4 never actually made it home. Americans. Can't live with them, can't live...well, let's just leave it at that.

So I can't really ask what I thought about Santander, like I usually ask myself at the end of my entries. I'm sure I've bored you all with my talk about how much I love this city anyway, because every time I go somewhere else, I compare it to Santander. I really only wrote this blog so I could put into writing my thoughts on all of a sudden knowing vosotros.

This is going to end now due to poor planning. Until next time, vosotros :)

"El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una página."

Viaje a París

Paris was amazing. I really wasn't that excited to go, because I'd already been. I'm not entirely opposed to revisiting beautiful cities, so I went with my friends to Paris, because I think that would be more fun than going to a new place by myself. We had a wildly successful weekend. It was just five of us girls, and we got to see everything we wanted to see. I like traveling with just five or less people, because any more than that and you start to get pulled in a lot of different directions. It's easier to agree and get things done with fewer people.

The first night we got there was Thursday, and we didn't actually get to the hostel until after 10pm, so we just went to bed. But not before getting lost about 100 times. (Travel Tip #15: Before you visit another city, make sure you know where it is you're staying, or at the very least, make sure you have the stupid address.) We only knew the street name where our hostel was located, which happens to have a name that's very similar to another street that's on the other side of the city. Guess which one our taxi driver took us to?

I'll wait.

If you guessed, "the wrong one," you're correct! We walked around, really confused, until we came upon a metro station and stopped to look at a map. I can only imagine what a mess we looked like, because a really nice man with an english accent came up and asked us if we needed help. We told him where we needed to go and he gave us really clear instructions on which train to take, what stop to get off at, and where to go once we did. It was something of a god send, really. We thanked him and he laughed a laugh that says, "crazy americans..."

We got off the metro at the spot he told us to get off at and started walking. He told us to go to the end of the street, and there will be a graveyard on the left, and we turn right at that street and our hostel will be on the left. We walked and walked but began to doubt ourselves when the road kept going and never ended. We stopped to ask an asian girl smoking a cigarette outside a restaurant if she might know where we needed to go. Her directions were crass; she was telling us to go back the way we came and take the metro to some other place. We instead decided to go to a place with internet one street over. We looked up the address and asked the guy working there for directions. He helped us out, but was a little vague. We continued up the street and realized that somehow, we still didn't know where we needed to go. We stopped a couple that was walking along the same street, and luckily they spoke a little bit of english. When the woman realized we wanted directions, she pulled, wouldn't you know it? a GPS out of her purse. Another god send, for sure. She typed in the address and told us to continue the way we'd been going the whole time. Because, you know, the 4th time is the charm.

Finally we made it to the end of the street (which really wasn't that far down; I don't know why we were questioning ouselves) and instead of turning right as we'd been told, we turned left. I don't know why, please don't ask. We continued left and started to get excited to check into the hostel and go to sleep after a long day of traveling and confusion. The address was 2 Square Coulaincourt. We walked and watched the numbers above the doors start in the teens and go down as our anticipation went up. 8, 6, 4; ours was next. Then 2. A big black 2 above a big black door that looked nothing like a hostel. Feeling frustrated, we frantically searched for a street sign (which are extremely elusive here in Europe). Turns out we were on Rue Coulaincourt, not Square Coulaincourt. Why does anyone ever think it's a good idea to recycle street names within the same vicinity? Anyway, an Italian man came up to us (again because we must have looked very sad and lost), and asked us if we spoke Italian, because he wanted to help us. We said no, but he did speak some Spanish, and I was never so relieved to be able to speak Spanish. He told us basically that we should have turned right instead of left. We learned quickly that if there is a choice of ways to go, we will definitely pick the wrong one. Anyway, we finally found our "Square Coulaincourt," which turned out to be the tiniest square I've ever seen. We checked into our hostel and went to bed immediately.

I hope you all learn from my mistakes.

Friday, we went to see the Museum of Orsay, which is an art museum. I liked the photography exhibits, but I'm not all that into impressionism. To each his own . Then we went to see Notre Dame, which was wayyy more crowded than is comfortable, but I am big on cathedrals so I'm always willing to see them. Even ones that I've already seen before. After that we ate lunch and headed toward Champs Elysses, which is pronounced not at all the way it's spelled. In French there are so many crazy pronunciation rules that I can't remember. Basically the French just throw in a bunch of Qs and Xs and Zs and Js and then just arbitrarily choose not to pronounce some Ss and Ns and Ys and vowels, so in the end, nothing is pronounced the way it's spelled. But yeah, Champs Elysses is kind of like the Rodeo drive of Paris. I found a Starbucks and couldn't resist. I know it's kind of American, but I'm addicted to caffeine, okay? And drinking coffee and walking down Champs Elysses in France on a cloudy day? Okay, I thought it was cool. So at the end of the road is the Arc de Triomphe (Which literally means, as I understand it, "Arch of Triumph." Look at me, speaking french and what not), and it's in the middle of a GIANT round about. They do that so you'd have to play some serious Frogger in order to get across and realistically, it's impossible to do so without dying. This way, you have to take the underground tunnel, where they can charge you for a ticket. It wasn't worth it to us because we can always admire it from afar.

On the street corner, there was a small crowd gathered around 4 hot frenchmen dancing, which I suppose is a popular passtime for the young and poor. They find an open place in a high traffic area, set up a speaker, and just dance. Something you don't see everyday.

Then we made our way to the Eiffel Tower (Tour Eiffel in French). The girls were thinking about not going up because there was a long line, but the sun had poked its little head out from behind the clouds, and there really wouldn't be a better time to go up. AND it's really surprisingly cheaper than you'd think. It was 8€ (with the student discount) to go all the way to the top and 5.50€ to go to the second floor. We went all the way to the top and it was amazing, just as I remembered it. It kind of felt like deja vu, because even though I remembered being there before, it still felt kind of unreal.

After coming back down, we made our way back to the hostel, stopping at a small convenience store along the way to buy champagne. I'm not exactly sure why; it just felt right. We spent the night in the hostel and gossiped.

Saturday, we started our day off going to Versailles. The line was forever long, but it was worth it. It was really strange to be in all these monumental places AGAIN. It's like reading a really good book for a second time, because you catch a bunch of new things that you didn't see before. My favorite part was the Hall of Mirrors, as is everyone's I think. Actually, I loved the whole place. Louis XIV was such an arrogant douche. Who demands a bust of himself above EVERY fireplace? Who thinks that EVERY room requires a larger-than-life-size portrait of himself? Who lines his halls with statues of important people, and not only includes himself, but makes his statue the biggest one?? Louis XIV, that's who.

After Versaille, which took the better part of the afternoon, we were starving, but poor. We went to get Kebabs, which I'm sure I've mentioned before, but I really don't remember. The cookout of the European world? Maybe? America is missing out. Add that to the list of things I need to bring back to the states. Kebabs are heaven in pita bread. Anyway, after that, we went to Sacre Coeur, another really famous church in Paris. It's on top of this GIANT hill, which I climbed all the way up last time. But our hostel was located about 3/4 of the way up the hill already, so I didn't have to do much climbing this time around. I got all the joys of the amazing view without any of the panting and sweating and burning thigh muscles. There's also this really busy square outside where artists come to paint the scenery. It's really cool to watch them at work. How poetic is that? Painting in the square outside Sacre Couer.

Though it was beautiful, it was a little bit more touristy than Notre Dame. I mean, don't they think that maybe, just maybe, a GIFT SHOP in a CHURCH kind of robs it of its original beauty, or is that just my opinion? We did get to see the procession of the nuns to the sanctuary. And then they sung! It was really cool. How many people do you know who have heard the nuns sing in the Sacre Coeur? Then we went outside, and wouldn't you know it? More shirtless sexy French men dancing! I couldn't really see, because I am short and there was a large crowd, but I could hear them. And what do you know, hearing dancing is not as exciting as seeing it. Some people shifted and I snuck into the gap before anyone else could and watched them/appreciated their physical perfection before asking myself, "What do the nuns think about this?"

After that, we slowly made our way away from the crowded area of town, meandering through the streets and looking for the Moulin Rouge. Finally, we found it (lucky our hostel was close to a lot of cool stuff). It was cool to see it in person, but disappointing that a show cost 92€, or about $130. I just did not have that kind of money, as I'd only brought 275€ with me, and the hostel alone cost 120€. So yeah, we stood in the street and fantasized about all the scantily clad french sex goddesses inside, took pictures with the windmill, and left. We went back to the store we'd gone to the previous night, and bought more cheap wine. The funny thing is, we're all so used to buying boxed (shameful...) wine at 98 céntimos, that buying a 3.50€ bottle felt downright classy. All the while, the store owner was shaking his head and laughing, probably thinking, "crazy americans." If I had a nickel...

Then we went back to the hostel and had girl talk. The wine ran out remarkably fast, and we decided to go out for more, because, what else can you do? On our way back to the hostel, bottles in hand, we decided on an impulse to stop and get sushi at a place down the street. Candace and I went back to the hostel to get money and put the wine down while the others went in to order. We came back and ordered a metric shit ton of sushi, paid for it, and left.

When we got back to the hostel, the food lasted about five or six minutes. Then we drank more wine, talked more girl talk, and listened to old school 90s/early 2000s pop music. No better way to spend the night.

Sunday I woke up with a horrible wine headache. But I popped a couple advil, ate a croissant and I was golden. The only thing left on our To Do list was to go see the Louvre. (Travel Tip#16: If you go to Paris, make sure you leave at the very least a whole day for the Louvre. You'll need it. The line is insanely long, and the museum is insanely big.) (Aside...When did the United States decide that the "Louvre" was a monosyllabic name? Did we just forget about that R or something?) We were reserving it for Sunday because it's free on Sundays, but that also means gigantic-est line of my entire life. It wound all the way around the pyramid, along the front building, through the following square, and out and down the street behind the entire museum. It took us nearly 2 hours to finally get inside, but it was, of course, worth it ("worth it" in spanish="vale la pena"). Since there were five of us, we knew that we were going to get separated, so we set aside a time and a place to meet up. Info desk at 3. I looked at Victory and Aphrodite and Mona lisa, and I was making my way to the Egyptian exhibit when I realized it was 2:45. I made it to the information desk just in time. I met with my friends; two of us had already eaten, so the other three of us went to eat lunch. I know that a 3 o'clock lunch sounds really late, but that's actually right on time for us Españolas. After that we dispersed for more art appreciation. I went to see more of the Egyptian stuff, because I didn't get through it all before meeting the rest of the group. It was definitely my favorite part, mostly because it's really unlike anything I've ever seen before. I mean, I've seen it in a lot of shit movies like The Mummy, but to see the real thing was infinitely cooler. Their paintings were shit, but their sculptures were increíble. I'm amazed at the things they were able to do, and on such a wide range of scales. How did they sculpt such detailed artwork on such a small piece of material? Also, I would walk around and admire the bah relief works and the hyrogliphs, but then I thought about something I'd never really thought about before. I thought about the person who made it. I know it sounds like something you would intuitively consider, but when seeing a work in a temperature controlled glass box, it's easy to separate it from its creator. I wonder what he would think if he knew that what he was making would someday, thousands of years later, make it it into a museum where thousands of people would look at it every day, and probably never think a second thought about it.

I've been thinking about this a lot recently. I'm no artist, but I have drawn and painted and sculpted before. I mean, my pieces were absolute garbage, but I still know the time and effort and even emotion that you put into your artwork. In the end, you've put a little bit of yourself into it. So I can't imagine what it's like to make a giant life size sculpture of someone out of marble, like those that line the halls of Versailles and the outside walls of the Louvre. Who were these people? What did they do to deserve a statue of themselves in such a place of respect? How much of himself did the artist put into a particular work? And we just walk right past them. Food for thought.

The museum was closed at six, so I went to meet everyone out front. After we left, we found a random bakery because we felt like the French thing to do was to eat macaroons. Even though they're just about everywhere in the world. Anyway, they were delicious, and after that we went to wander around the city. We'd eaten fairly cheaply over the course of our french weekend, and a few of the girls really wanted an authentic French dinner, at an actual restaurant. An "authentic" French dinner usually consists of 4 or 5 courses. You have a starter and a wine, then your main course, then some kind of cheese and bread, then a dessert or liquor. I've heard that they're not big into entertainment, so what do they do for fun? you might be asking yourself. They go out to eat. For hours. And hours. And I loved every second of it. AND I ate snail!! It tasted good, but I just couldn't get over the fact that I had...a SNAIL in my mouth. At first, I was totally opposed to trying it, but I asked myself how often I'm able to try escargot in Paris. Yes, I liked the taste, but I just couldn't help but be reminded of the snails I've seen sticking to the inside walls of the tunel puerto chico, which is dirtier than a truckstop restroom, and think "one of those is in my mouth right now." But I ate it, and that's the important thing. I also tried foie gras, or duck liver. It was a little funky, but again, I tried it. It was somehow a little easier to stomach because it wasn't as recognizable as the escargot, which still had their shells. That felt so wrong. Pulling a little innocent snail right out of his home just so I can eat him. Poor little guy never had a chance.

So yes, we arrived at the restaurant at about 7:30 and left close to 10:30, like true Parisians. Then we made our way over to the Eiffel Tower, because the only thing I really wanted to do on the whole trip was to go up in the Eiffel Tower at night to see the whole city lit up from above. And we got there at 11:18. Guess what time they stopped selling tickets. If you guessed 11, you're right. Oh well. Disappointing, but I'm trying to be a good sport about everything. If there's anything I don't get to do, I just tell myself that it's a reason to come back. I still got to see the Eiffel Tower itself lit up at night, which is something I hadn't seen before. I also got some good pictures, which can be seen on facebook.

We went to the hostel and took a shot of Sake, which we had left over from the night before when we got sushi, and went to bed.

Monday was a really, really long day. We checked out of the hostel at about 9:30, walked to the metro, took the metro to the bus station, took the (hour long) bus to the airport, then hopped on a plane to Madrid, waited in Madrid, then took a (30 minute-talk about "hopper flight"-) flight back to Santander, took another bus from the airport to the bus station, then walked home. I got home and talked to my señora for about 5 minutes about my trip and told her I was going to take a late siesta before eating dinner, but I ended up never waking up. I woke up at 1:30ish, and just set my alarm for the morning and went back to sleep. She laughed at me this morning because she knew I had grand plans of showering and unpacking and studying, when I really just fell asleep. But I think I had reason enough to be tired.

Definitely a good weekend. Probably my favorite viaje out of all of them.

Time for my final thought. What did I think of Paris (this time around)? I was pleasantly surprised. I didn't try to keep it a secret that I wasn't all that excited about going, but I had a really good time. The city is absolutely gorgeous. It's very romantic somehow. Everything is infinitely more poetic in Paris. Even though the touristy aspects would annoy me, I think that if I had chosen to persue French instead of Spanish, I would have loved to study for three months in Paris. I'm glad Paris didn't turn out like I thought it would. I'm sorry, Paris; I don't know why I doubted you. I'll see you soon hopefully.
 
 
Over and out.
"El mundo es un libro y ellos que no viajan leen solo una página."