Mixed Up Files

Last weeks in paradise.

So i have less than a week and a half left in Spain. I can’t say too much that isn’t cliched or overdone emotionally, so I won’t say much.

I’ve been feeling this overly dramatic constant sensation of limbo—of being incredibly giddy and happy to go home and see all the people and things I love in America, but also incredibly sad and inexplicably moved about leaving this place, the people and things I love here.

To say it went too fast is not only an understatement but also belittles the journey in yet another cliche. 

I also don’t want to make it out to be this perfect experience, because it wasn’t. It was easily one of the hardest I will ever have, living in a non-english speaking country. But I had a gut feeling I wanted to improve my spanish and I’m so glad I followed my gut because I rarely do. 

Also, perfect is boring. Crazy people feel nervous in perfect situations. Every time I meet a perfectly polished, groomed, dressed, spoken person, I suddenly feel like I’m speaking gibberish, wearing a shirt three sizes too small and hair that has never looked more greasy. But I’m straying from topic.

In this semester my life has become teased with contradictions:

It wasn’t enough time, but at the same time it was the perfect amount.

I didn’t feel like I improved my spanish enough, but at the same time I am so proud of myself for where I’ve come in my level.

I could’ve gotten to know people here more, but at the same time feel they know me in a way that some people never could.

I love so much about Spain, but hate other parts more than most things in my life.

I have just lived so much in this semester that I don’t think I will be able to process it all until very later on, preferably this summer with all of the people I love dearest back at the US, over a giant glass of Spanish wine.

Ugh, I will MISS the wine.

How I always feel after brunch

whatshouldwecallme:

When people walk really slow in front of me

whatshouldwecallme:

HHOW I FEEL EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY.

Things I did this weekend

1) Got drunk at a program-run wine tasting with two of my three professors.

2) Ate chocolate and red wine at the same time—nearly died of excitement.

3) Recovered, went to a club called “Gabana.” Woke up the next morning flabbergasted that it was only Friday.

4) Finally went on my first “Treat yo’ self” day with algunos de mis amigos in Madrid. Spent 30 Euros. Treating was had by all.

5) Followed the cutest ginger in Madrid to try and get my friend to talk to him until he realized we were following him and things got real sketchy dateline style.

6) Finally took out my american money from my wallet

7) Realized that my wallet fit a lot more things without the 3 extra pounds of american coins

8) Went to an outdoor courtyard in La Garena with bars/the same 4 staple tapa places as Alcalá.

9) Realized that no spanish person dances but instead does what only can be described as the “sway bob.”

10) Found a painting of a British officer in a bar called Mumbasa that looked exactly like my dad, mainly because he had brown hair and a mustache.

11) Met the oldest DJ in the world. Tried to ask him to play “Nos encontramos amor” de Rihanna but was scared away when his computer lit up his face and I got flashbacks from that time I went to Phantom of the Opera in 5th grade.

12) Finally went to el rastro mercado in La Latina and got followed by a man in a neon kaftan that makes the same high pitched alien noise as when you turned those plastic tubes you got for selling lots of books at the book drive that had a thing in the middle**. No better way to describe it, except maybe terrifying.

**Apparently they’re called “groan tubes:”

When I’m looking for my phone

whatshouldwecallme:

YOU GUYS, IT’S REALLY LOST THIS TIME

So this weekend I went to Portugal…

….It could have been planned better.

The problem was that all of us kind of forgot we were going until thursday night or so, and by the time friday at 4 am rolled around, I realized that about all the planning I had done was repack my bag from Valencia and pray to Allah that one of my traveling companions remembered my boarding pass (she did). Other than that, I didn’t have the slightest clue what we were doing, where my friend’s apartment was in which we were staying, or even exactly how we were getting to the airport that morning. I did know that at some hypothetical point in time we should go to Sintra (which we did, actually, on Saturday) because lots of people on my program who had gone to Lisbon earlier told me it was unmissable. 

I guess what I was naively hoping was that one of my other 6 companions would have their shit more together than I did. I was mostly wrong.

We ended up having quite a lovely and fulfilling time there. We saw a lot (we stumbled on a lot) and traveled through a lot of the southern part of the country. I haven’t put up pictures in a while I realize, so I’ll let them explain the picturesque, mystical country that is Portugal.

I despise journaling because I think it’s a bit self indulgent (says the girl who blogs on Tumblr), but I truly wish I would have journalled (verb?) about this weekend because of the mountain of hilariously ridiculous moments that ensued during this whirlwind weekend—yay alliterations! Here are a few highlights, in my favorite form of recapping that is the list form:

1) Getting into the airport and watching the local news and thinking it was the news from Russia/Hogwarts (trying to be subtle, but, basically Portuguese sounds like a mixture of Russian/Parcel tongue, not spanish. at all.)

2) Arriving in Lisbon at 8 am and getting at my friend’s apartment at 1 pm.

3) Accidently encountering the most famous pastry shop in Belén, Lisbon; subsequently devouring a creamilicous pastry that was approximately 1 euro. GOD EATING IN LISBON WAS CHEAP.

4) Getting followed by a gang of stray dogs that I swear could strategize our demise; subsequently making fun of my six-foot-two lanky gentleman friend for being outwardly and irrationally afraid of dogs.

5) The view on the way to Cascais (pronounced Cashsssscaishshhshsh); the view of Pheethu missing the view on the way to Cascais because they are physically unable to stay awake on trains.

6) Walking in on a service in a restaurant-turned-mosque in Sintra.

7) Breaking into and getting kicked out of a palace in Sintra; having only a photo of my partner-in-crime’s butt to show for the feat.

8) Watching Portugal’s transportation department singlehandedly render me penniless.

9) Realizing on the last day that there was a 4 euro weekend transportation pass.

10) Sleeping in the Lisbon airport in a restaurant succinctly titled “Spoon” next to a man whose only possessions were blue jeans and a remarkably warm and well hidden cat.

And, finally, a few photos:

When you trip over something, but when you look behind you there’s nothing there

whatshouldwecallme:

Catalunyan musings (douchy title)

Recent travelings to the infamous Catalunya (Barcelona and Valencia) have given me a new perspective on nationalism. Madrid (in the Castillan region) has such a distinct character from Valencia and especially Barcelona that its hard for me not to deem them separate countries altogether. Perhaps that is a bit of an extreme declaration, but I have been warned even more about the Basque Country (where apparently in some cases parents do not teach there kids Spanish—the national language—but instead only Basque and perhaps English), that the people desire independence and indeed have it in almost all respects but governmentally.

Granted, I do not know much about the incentives of each Spanish region, but what I have gathered from both my classes and my experience in Catalunya is that and underlying tension, a push and pull from regional pride to nationalist acceptance, permeates the culture within Spain.

For certain it puzzles, as it’s true characteristics are hard to grasp (probably because they have been imbedded in the cultural identity far before Franco and instilled further during and post-Franco), but nothing can be more certain than its tangibility, of its existence.

“Soy de Valencia, es mi tierra,” explains my Art History teacher before we depart for our excursion. But I cannot help but wonder how la tierra in Valencia differs any from the soil in Madrid. Then I go, then I understand.

It’s not that the people are particularly different, its more the atmosphere, the conception of what life in Barcelona or Valencia might be like versus my life here in Madrid/Alcalá that differs.

Maybe it will be even more apparent when I go to San Sebastian in May or when I go to Granada in April with mis padres. Whatever it is, this mysterious Spanish “something,” it’s keeping me intrigued.