Fez: Part II
We woke up early Saturday morning and had a traditional Arabic breakfast in the Riad. I’m not quite sure what it all was, but the cafe au lait was excellent and the pancakey breads with jam were delicious.
Most people in Fez are unbelievably kind, and sometimes it’s hard to believe and trust that people are actually that nice. After breakfast, we wanted to go to our previously reserved Riad to see if we still had a place to stay that night or if we needed to look elsewhere. We had no map and no idea where the other Riad was, so when we asked for directions from the French-speaking receptionist, the owner of the Riad (the one who only spoke Berber) offered to take us. Thank goodness he did, because we never would have found it on our own.
It was about a 30 minute walk from the first Riad and we got our first glimpse into daily life in the Medina on the way. We walked through the heart of the Medina to get to Riad Al Pacha and I have never felt so much like an outsider—not even in China. China was foreign, but still very tourist-accessible. Before coming to Fez, I had done minimal research online about the city and knew one word in Arabic—shukran (thank you). This word, though, seemed to get us a long way. We walked through the food market where local women were buying fresh meat (and I mean REALLY fresh—there were live chickens being sold!), fresh fruit, and fresh vegetables. There were olives of every kind, tropical fruits, fresh flowers, spices, and tea. The women, just as at the rest stop, showed no skin other than their faces and some women were even wearing burkas. After walking through the food market, we walked down small streets and alleyways filled with shop after shop selling handicrafts (about 90% of people from Fez earn money by making and selling things like rugs, pottery, and leather goods). We saw very few women in the streets once we left the food market. There were Arabic men asking people if they wanted a tour of the city, and impoverished children playing games in the dirt. As we walked, I felt as if all eyes were on us because we were women travelers. It was uncomfortable at first, but I never really felt unsafe. The man who walked us to our Riad always made sure we were behind him. He didn’t know where the Riad was either, but kept asking for directions along the way until we found it.
We finally arrived at our Riad and were greeted by the owner. We said “shukran” (“thank you” in Arabic) to the man who brought us there and tried to give him a small tip, but he kindly refused and went on his way. The owner of the new Riad spoke several languages, but we mostly spoke in Spanish. When we asked him about our room, he said he gave it away that he would figure something out for us. He offered us fresh mint tea (Morocco’s national drink) on the terrace overlooking the city, gave us a map, and told us to come back that evening to figure out where we would be staying. So we headed out to explore the Medina for the day.
Cerena and I began the day without a tour guide to explore a bit. We started at the Bab Bou Jeloud gate—one of the 14 entrances into the Medina and worked our way through the winding streets soaking in every detail. There was an equal mix of locals and tourists alike. There are only two main streets in the Old City, and hundreds of “cajellones.” The streets in the Medina are small and narrow, like the streets in most Old City’s around the world. There is one often unknown detail, though, that makes the streets in Fez seem much narrower than they actually are: donkey taxis. There are both “big” donkey taxis and “small” donkey taxis. As you walk down the streets of the Medina, you will constantly here Arab men shouting, “Ballacks!” (I’m sure that the spelling is incorrect, but that is what the word sounds like) which means “Look out!” in Arabic. Clearly the streets were not designed to fit both donkey taxis and people because Cerena and I got nudged by a few donkeys more than once!
Along the main streets, there are color-coded signs on the sides of shops and buildings throughout the Medina directing you to the most important sights and monuments in Fez. We made our way down the Talaâ Kebira through the food market and into the handicraft shops. We followed the signs to our first historical sight—the Bou Inania Medersa. When you arrive at a monument in Fez, it’s always difficult to figure out how to actually get in and if you are even allowed to enter. They are always behind closed doors and the entrances are often down small alleyways off the main streets. The signs are all in Arabic (who can read Arabic?!), and there is no information for tourists. Arabic men stand in front of the entrance of each monument collecting entrance fees, which are very inexpensive. The entire process intimidated me because I had to ask questions in a language I don’t actually speak to Arabic men who probably didn’t understand me anyway. The Medersa was gorgeous, though, and worth the embarrassment of trying to ask questions in French about how much it cost to enter. A medersa is sort of like a giant courtyard designed in typical Arabic architecture—detailed wooden doors and Barroque-style walls. It looked like the Alhambra, as did several other buildings in Fez.
After leaving the Medersa, we ran into Hassan for the third time that morning (the Medina is extremely small), and we finally agreed to let him be our tour guide for the morning. He was convincing and persistent! He first took us to the tanneries, where locals turn animal skin into leather. This was both amazing and disgusting to witness. Because we were with a local, they allowed us to walk around the tanneries and take pictures (one of the advantages of having a guide). There was sheep skin everywhere, and several tools being used to make, soften, and dye the leather. The locals take so much pride in this business. There is a small hill you can climb to get a better look at the tanneries also. From above, you can see all of the different “pilas” (stone baths) filled with different colored water to dye the leather. All of the colors are natural dye, made from flowers, leaves, and spices. Yellow leather is the most expensive because the color is made from Saffron. Hassan then walked us through an antique furniture market selling old, quality pieces of traditional Arabic furniture where people from all over Morocco come to shop. We hiked up a different hill for a great view of the Medina and all of the tanneries.
Coming back down the hill, we walked through some of the smaller streets in the Medina and Hassan pointed out important facts, symbols, and buildings. Everything looked like the Alhambra to me, from the key-hole shaped doors and windows to the blue (the color of Fez) and green (the color of Morocco)-tiled fountains. We walked past an old wooden door with a symbol representing the Hand of Fátima, which means good luck and protection of eyesight (this is my kind of door!).
Eventually we reached a gorgeous building a little smaller than a Riad. Inside were thousands of beautiful African rugs, for which Fez is well-known. We went up to the rooftop terrace where there was a small room. Inside the small room, women were weaving the rugs, which can take anywhere from 3-6 years to make. The amount of tedious work that goes into making each rug is astounding. We were lucky enough to be able to try weaving a few threads alongside the experts. It was embarrassing how bad I was at weaving a thread—making rugs is much harder than it looks! We went back downstairs and were given a tour of the factory and information about the different knots, qualities, and styles of each rug. The Berber rugs look almost indigenous, typified by angular shapes and earthy colors. The Jewish-style rugs have a classic design, like Persian rugs. One day, I will return to Fez when I have money and a house of my own to buy one of these rugs. They are absolutely gorgeous.
Near the rug factory is the Kairaouine Mosque—the largest mosque in all of Africa. Only Muslims are allowed to enter mosques, but you can peer in through the open entrance and see the amazing architecture resembling the Alhambra. We stood there for a few minutes just observing. Muslims entering removed their shoes at the entrance. As they entered, people were talking, praying, doing as they pleased. It was like a different world inside the mosque hidden from foreigners—very secretive and very exclusive. In front of the mosque there was a man selling Fez hats and saying in a very unenthusiastic voice, “Fez. Fez. Fez…” It was strange to see something so touristy in front of such an important cultural sight.
Wanting to explore on our own for the rest of the day, Cerena and I said goodbye to our tour guide Hassan and went to lunch at the Restaurant Kazbah Fez (near the Bab Bou Jeloud gate). We ate on the rooftop terrace and had a fantastic Arabic meal of Tajine avec legumes et poullet served on a traditional ceramic plate. All meals in Fez are served with this delicious flat bread. Food in Fez is very inexpensive also—each item on the menu costs about 40 or 50 dirham ($4 or $5).
After lunch, we walked around outside of the Medina for a bit trying to find the Batha Museum, which was closed. Life outside the Medina is completely different. All of the streets are paved, there are cars, big buildings, and things you would see in any other city. Still, it felt completely different. There were men everywhere and as we walked past them, many of the men would make inappropriate and sometimes demeaning comments in English. One hilarious comment we will never forget, though, was an Arabic man who said to us, “Hello my flowers” in a deep, Barry Manilow voice.
We stopped for a soda and traditional Arabic dessert at a small restaurant in the Medina before ending our day doing one of my all-time favorite things to do while traveling where it is cultural—bargaining! When someone told me that it was kosher and actually cultural to bargain in Fez, I was so excited. Bargaining in Morocco is exactly like bargaining in China—it is an important part of the culture and is actually considered extremely rude not to bargain. Before walking into a street shop in Morocco, make sure you actually want to buy something in that particular shop first. You do have the option of leaving the shop with nothing, but once you walk in, the shop owners make it very difficult for you to leave without buying something! The two things I really wanted from Fez were scarves and a painting. We went to a shop selling scarves and I bargained a little for two scarves (it always takes me a while to getting into the “bargaining mode” because it feels so unnatural).
Then we walking down the street a little further and reached a painting shop. I hadn’t bought a painting yet this year, but I had to get one somewhere to add to my local street artist painting collection from my travels. Why not Morocco? This artist’s paintings were incredible, and they reminded me of my Mexico painting. They depicted typical scenes of Fez in brilliant colors. I bargained in Spanish for almost an hour and walked away with a stunning painting of a typical street in Fez for 540 dirham less than the original asking price. It took me a little less than 5 minutes to choose the painting I wanted—it was the first painting I noticed when I walked into the shop and I fell immediately in love with it. Then the bargaining started. I asked the artist how much the painting cost and he said, “I can sell it to you for 860 dirham (about $86)—very good price.” His starting price was a little higher than I was expecting, so I knew I would have to be creative and strategic in getting him to lower the price to what I could afford to pay (which was about 300 dirham). Just like in China, bargaining in Fez is all about acting. You have to smile a lot, be very charming, and make a personal connection with the shop owner. I started off by telling him that I was an American, but that I lived in Granada. That was the connection—Granada has a strong connection to Arabic people and culture, so as soon as I said I lived in Granada, he said, “You’re like family! I’ll make you a good price.” Then I played the sympathy card, explaining that I was a teacher, had no money, and was leaving Fez tomorrow. I showed him the amount of money in my wallet and told him that I had a total of 800 dirham for the rest of the trip. I described in detail how I planned to spend every cent. I had to pay 400 dirham for the Riad that night, and had to leave enough money for dinner that night and lunch the next day. That left me with 300 dirham. His response was simple and logical: “You don’t need money for food and hotel! I invite you to my house tonight. You will meet my sister and my mother, and they will give you good Arabic food and wine for dinner!” Every time he came back to this argument, I just had to laugh and explain that I could really only afford to pay 300 dirham for the painting. 45 minutes later, he agreed to sell it to me for the price I wanted. He hugged us goodbye and said, “Remember to come back and visit next time you’re in Fez!”
Cerena and I had another amazing Moroccan meal at Panorama Bouanania for dinner. We ordered brochettes (shishkebabs), fries, and bread. We made it back to the Riad Al Pacha before dark (a must when traveling in Fez with only women) and the owner told us that we wouldn’t be able to stay there that night because all of the rooms were full. He said that he knew of an inexpensive hotel just outside the Medina that he would take us too, and if there was no space there then he would let us stay in his home for the night. He drove us to the hotel and luckily there was a room available—only 300 dirham for the two of us! The owner of the Riad, who had helped us so much that day, wouldn’t even let us tip him. The hotel seemed to be in the middle of all the action. There isn’t much nightlife in Fez, but it was a Saturday night and there was a Barcelona game on. People in Fez are big Barça fans for some reason, and we would hear huge cheers from inside our room every time Barça scored a goal. We were also woken up by the 5:00am prayer on Sunday morning (Muslims pray 5 times a day). You can hear the prayers over the loudspeakers echoing throughout the city.
We woke up Sunday morning and saw two of the sights we didn’t get to see the day before. First we went to the Batha Museum. This museum, set inside a Moroccan palace, houses collections of typical Arabic dress, jewelry, pottery, carpets, iron, and wood from past centuries. We then took a taxi to the base of the hill leading up to the Tombeaux des Mérinides to see some ancient ruins and an amazing view of the city. We decided to walk back down into the medina instead of taking a taxi just to get a feel for life outside of the Medina. There were government buildings, beautiful parks, people picnicking, families enjoying the day together. Even though we felt a little uncomfortable being the only tourists, I am so glad we decided to walk and see a little bit of daily life in the New City.
We went back to the Medina to do some last minute “window shopping.” Our window shopping turned into us leaving with about 300 dirham worth of ceramics each. We bought everything from one shop and the owner kept hugging us and calling us “family” because we were from Granada. We also stopped by Café Clock—a great café in the Medina catered toward tourists with an amazing rooftop terrace—for a smoothie (woohoo!) and some Arabic “tapas.” We had couscous for lunch (we couldn’t leave Fez without having couscous!) and went back to the hotel to grab our bags and head the airport. The drive to the airport was bittersweet. We were sad to be leaving Fez because there was still so much that we didn’t get a chance to see, but when we landed in Madrid we were happy to be “home.” Shukran, Fes, for giving us one of the most amazing and adventurous weekends of our lives. We will never forget these two days and cannot wait to come back someday.
5.09.2010
5.07.2010
“Eso sí que es” (S.O.C.K.S)
Fez: Part I
“It is what it is.” This describes Fez, in a nutshell. When most people think of Morocco, they think of a country plagued by poverty and far too foreign or dangerous to ever travel to themselves, especially for women. Although this may all be true, Fez is an incredible city that offers a unique look into the Muslim culture—a culture that is strikingly different than that of America yet is oddly similar in more ways than one might think. When traveling to Morocco, all you have to do is adopt the “S.O.C.K.S.” attitude and you will end up loving it all.
Cerena and I opted for the 55 minute flight to Madrid (rather than the 5 hour bus ride) early Friday morning and spent the day in Madrid doing as the Madrileños do—drinking coffee, walking around the Plaza Mayor, eating bocadillos, and shopping. It’s so nice having lived in a city long enough to know your way around! Our flight to Fez left around 4:30 that evening. What should have been a 1 ½ flight ended up being 3 ½ hours and us landing in the wrong city. About a half hour before we were supposed to land in Fez, the pilot announced that we would not be able to land because of severe thunder storms and that we were being diverted to Casablanca. Going through immigration control in Casablanca was one of the scariest customs experiences of my life! The guard checking our passports was intimidating and just plain mean. He was asking us for papers and information that no one on our flight had, and he almost didn’t let us through! All of this because we are American’s. However, I left the airport with a Moroccan stamp in my passport—mission accomplished (and only 3 more pages to fill before my passport expires in 2013).
Walking through the Casablanca airport gave me the same feeling I had walking through the Shanghai airport in China 2 ½ years earlier—that intriguing, anxious, helpless feeling you get when traveling to a place so foreign. You don’t speak the language(s), you can’t read the signs, and you can’t “blend in” despite your strongest efforts. We exchanged our money (We felt rich! The exchange rate is about 10 dirham to the dollar) and then went to buy 2 bottles of water and a snack. It was then, sadly, that I realized I had pretty much lost my ability to speak the little French I learned in college. Madame Marachi would have been so disappointed!
After waiting (without information) for almost 2 hours, Cerena and I finally got on the last bus to Fez with about 10 other Spanish people. What we were told would be a 2 hour bus ride was actually 4. The entire bus ride, though, all of the Spanish people kept saying, “No pasa nada. Ya no espero nada de hoy—¡es una aventura! Y ahora podemos decir que hemos estado en Casablanca” (“It’s okay. I’m not expecting anything else today—it’s an adventure! And now we can say that we’ve been to Casablanca”). Being the American that I am (although I’m becoming more and more Spanish everyday), I was frustrated with the entire situation and angry with the airline for not giving us any information. Then I thought, “Why? Being frustrated isn’t going to help the situation in any way whatsoever.” Thus the “Eso sí que es” and “ya está” (another Spanish expression meaning “and that’s that”) state of mind.
We couldn’t see much on the bus ride, but not being able to read any of the billboards or having any idea where we were was a trip, and exactly how I remember feeling on our bus ride from Shanghai airport to the center of town. The bus drivers in Morocco are exactly like the bus drivers in China also—¡LOCOS! The driver was talking on his cell phone in an angry tone almost the entire drive, making illegal u-turns in the middle of the freeway, speeding, and may or may not have had a beer at the rest stop (beer and coke bottles look extremely similar in Morocco). The rest stop was fascinating. It was your typical roadside gas station with a mini-restaurant, but the atmosphere was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The restaurant served Arabic fast-food and the menu was all in Arabic (How are tourists supposed to order food?!). There were hardly any women, and the women that we did see wore head scarves and showed no skin other than their faces. It was the first time since we had landed in Casablanca that I really felt like we were in Morocco.
We finally made it to Fez around midnight and were dropped off in the middle of the New City without a clue as to where we were. We got a petit taxi with another Spanish couple to the Medina (the Old City) where both of our Riads (old Moroccan palaces that have been turned into hotels) were. We showed the taxi driver the addresses of our Riad and agreed to pay 100 Dirham for the 4 of us (it should have only cost about 20 or 30 dirham). At this point, we didn’t care that he was overcharging us—we just wanted to arrive at our Riads safely. He dropped us off in the Medina, told us that all of the Riads were “just around the corner”, and tried to charge us even more than the price we had agreed to earlier. I am SO relieved that we were with the other Spanish couple because the husband took charge of the situation—something I never would have done by myself in Fez.
A young Arabic man (who seemed to speak a little bit of every language) came to the rescue. He got rid of the taxi driver for us and said he would take us to our Riads (this is common in Fez—there are locals who wait for tourists to arrive and offer to show you where your Riad is/be your tour guide in exchange for a small tip). Neither of our Riads, apparently, was anywhere near where the taxi had dropped us off. We had to make quick decisions that night (which I am terrible at!) in order to find a safe place to stay that night. Hassan (the Arabic man) said that he didn’t want to take us to the Riad we had reserved because it wasn’t safe to walk around that area at night, especially for women. He knew of a good Riad around the corner where we could stay for the night. The Riad he took us to was beautiful, with typical Arabic architecture and fountains reminiscent of the Alhambra. The owner spoke only Berber, so Hassan translated for us. He also offered to be our tour guide the next day, to which we responded, “We’ll think about it.” We thanked him and said goodbye. We had a safe place to stay for the night and finally went to bed around 2am. Tomorrow was a new day.
“It is what it is.” This describes Fez, in a nutshell. When most people think of Morocco, they think of a country plagued by poverty and far too foreign or dangerous to ever travel to themselves, especially for women. Although this may all be true, Fez is an incredible city that offers a unique look into the Muslim culture—a culture that is strikingly different than that of America yet is oddly similar in more ways than one might think. When traveling to Morocco, all you have to do is adopt the “S.O.C.K.S.” attitude and you will end up loving it all.
Cerena and I opted for the 55 minute flight to Madrid (rather than the 5 hour bus ride) early Friday morning and spent the day in Madrid doing as the Madrileños do—drinking coffee, walking around the Plaza Mayor, eating bocadillos, and shopping. It’s so nice having lived in a city long enough to know your way around! Our flight to Fez left around 4:30 that evening. What should have been a 1 ½ flight ended up being 3 ½ hours and us landing in the wrong city. About a half hour before we were supposed to land in Fez, the pilot announced that we would not be able to land because of severe thunder storms and that we were being diverted to Casablanca. Going through immigration control in Casablanca was one of the scariest customs experiences of my life! The guard checking our passports was intimidating and just plain mean. He was asking us for papers and information that no one on our flight had, and he almost didn’t let us through! All of this because we are American’s. However, I left the airport with a Moroccan stamp in my passport—mission accomplished (and only 3 more pages to fill before my passport expires in 2013).
Walking through the Casablanca airport gave me the same feeling I had walking through the Shanghai airport in China 2 ½ years earlier—that intriguing, anxious, helpless feeling you get when traveling to a place so foreign. You don’t speak the language(s), you can’t read the signs, and you can’t “blend in” despite your strongest efforts. We exchanged our money (We felt rich! The exchange rate is about 10 dirham to the dollar) and then went to buy 2 bottles of water and a snack. It was then, sadly, that I realized I had pretty much lost my ability to speak the little French I learned in college. Madame Marachi would have been so disappointed!
After waiting (without information) for almost 2 hours, Cerena and I finally got on the last bus to Fez with about 10 other Spanish people. What we were told would be a 2 hour bus ride was actually 4. The entire bus ride, though, all of the Spanish people kept saying, “No pasa nada. Ya no espero nada de hoy—¡es una aventura! Y ahora podemos decir que hemos estado en Casablanca” (“It’s okay. I’m not expecting anything else today—it’s an adventure! And now we can say that we’ve been to Casablanca”). Being the American that I am (although I’m becoming more and more Spanish everyday), I was frustrated with the entire situation and angry with the airline for not giving us any information. Then I thought, “Why? Being frustrated isn’t going to help the situation in any way whatsoever.” Thus the “Eso sí que es” and “ya está” (another Spanish expression meaning “and that’s that”) state of mind.
We couldn’t see much on the bus ride, but not being able to read any of the billboards or having any idea where we were was a trip, and exactly how I remember feeling on our bus ride from Shanghai airport to the center of town. The bus drivers in Morocco are exactly like the bus drivers in China also—¡LOCOS! The driver was talking on his cell phone in an angry tone almost the entire drive, making illegal u-turns in the middle of the freeway, speeding, and may or may not have had a beer at the rest stop (beer and coke bottles look extremely similar in Morocco). The rest stop was fascinating. It was your typical roadside gas station with a mini-restaurant, but the atmosphere was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The restaurant served Arabic fast-food and the menu was all in Arabic (How are tourists supposed to order food?!). There were hardly any women, and the women that we did see wore head scarves and showed no skin other than their faces. It was the first time since we had landed in Casablanca that I really felt like we were in Morocco.
We finally made it to Fez around midnight and were dropped off in the middle of the New City without a clue as to where we were. We got a petit taxi with another Spanish couple to the Medina (the Old City) where both of our Riads (old Moroccan palaces that have been turned into hotels) were. We showed the taxi driver the addresses of our Riad and agreed to pay 100 Dirham for the 4 of us (it should have only cost about 20 or 30 dirham). At this point, we didn’t care that he was overcharging us—we just wanted to arrive at our Riads safely. He dropped us off in the Medina, told us that all of the Riads were “just around the corner”, and tried to charge us even more than the price we had agreed to earlier. I am SO relieved that we were with the other Spanish couple because the husband took charge of the situation—something I never would have done by myself in Fez.
A young Arabic man (who seemed to speak a little bit of every language) came to the rescue. He got rid of the taxi driver for us and said he would take us to our Riads (this is common in Fez—there are locals who wait for tourists to arrive and offer to show you where your Riad is/be your tour guide in exchange for a small tip). Neither of our Riads, apparently, was anywhere near where the taxi had dropped us off. We had to make quick decisions that night (which I am terrible at!) in order to find a safe place to stay that night. Hassan (the Arabic man) said that he didn’t want to take us to the Riad we had reserved because it wasn’t safe to walk around that area at night, especially for women. He knew of a good Riad around the corner where we could stay for the night. The Riad he took us to was beautiful, with typical Arabic architecture and fountains reminiscent of the Alhambra. The owner spoke only Berber, so Hassan translated for us. He also offered to be our tour guide the next day, to which we responded, “We’ll think about it.” We thanked him and said goodbye. We had a safe place to stay for the night and finally went to bed around 2am. Tomorrow was a new day.
1.10.2010
¡Vienen los Reyes! ¡Vienen los Reyes! (Salamanca)
After a long flight back from the States, I went straight from the Madrid airport to the Estación de Chamartín to meet Cerena and go to Salamanca. We took Spain’s version of Italy’s IC train and arrived in Salamanca about 3 hours later.
We stayed at the Hostal Revolutum—a hotel that is in the process of being converted into a hostal. For 23 euros/night, we had a private room with 2 beds, private bathroom, heat, a t.v., towels and sheets included, maid service, and a small balcony. Oh, and did I mention that it was about 20 feet from the Plaza Mayor? This was definitely still a hotel. We got a map, marked the streets with all the places Inés told me about, and headed out in the rain.
First, we went to my favorite place in all of Salamanca and possibly in all of Spain—the Plaza Mayor. Although there is a Plaza Mayor in the majority of cities in Spain (central and Northern), the one in Salamanca is exceptionally special not only in its architecture but also in its atmosphere. There are people everywhere all the time—talking, playing, eating churros, drinking café, and just enjoying every aspect of life. If you ever feel like you want to “be in the moment,” go spend a few hours (or even a few minutes will do it) in Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor.
After people watching for a bit, we went to the Bar Cervantes (in the Pl. Mayor) for some sangria and pinchos (the name for “tapas” in Salamanca). Then we explored a much more local part of the city where we went for more tapas at some places Inés recommended. We got back to our hostal around 11:00, watched “Callejeros, Viajeros,” and went to sleep in preparation for a busy next day.
Our morning of day 2 in Salamanca was relaxed. We slept in and went to a café in the Plaza Mayor for some café con leche and a napolitana (it was great having Spanish breakfast again!) Then we walked to the Puente Romano.
One of the things I love about Salamanca in how old everything feels. I love that every street In the centro is cobblestone and that there is something beautiful and historical on every corner. The Puente Romano is over 2000 years old and although it’s no the most elegant bridge I’ve ever seen, it’s just feels cool (for lack of a better word) to set foot on something that old.
Then we visited the cathedrals of Salamanca. There are 2—the Catedral Vieja and the Catedral nueva. The Catedral Nueva is enormous and a little dark inside, as gothic cathedrals always are. The Catedral Vieja, however, is as its name describes—old, and very beautiful. The altar is made up of a series of paintings portraying various biblical scenes surrounded by gold. The outside of the cathedral is impressive. The doors are excessively big and wooden, and the façade is an old tone in a Tuscan-brown color. There is one other very unique aspect of Salamanca’s Cathedral—there is an astronaut carved out of stone among the hundreds of other religious figures.
After our visit to the cathedrals and our search for the astronaut, we went to see the Casa de Conchas—a house built by a prestigious Salamanca family in the 1500’s decorated with shells all over the exterior walls. It reminds of the Dalí museum in Figueres outside Barcelona (which is decorated with loaves of bread).
As per what is no seemingly my Salamanca tradition, we went to the Chinese restaurant in the centro for lunch. (The “tradition” started when I went to Spain for my first time as a college sophomore and didn’t know how to find good Spanish food).
Before going back to our hostal for a little while, we went to a pasterlería in the Plaza Mayor to buy our first (and hopefully not our last!) roscón de Reyes for Día de los Reyes Magos. A roscón is a mix between sweet break and cake with fuity-gummy candy and sugar on top. They are shaped in a circle or an oval and there is a figurine hidden inside. The roscón is traditionally only eaten on the 5th and 6th of January for Día de los Reyes. So, we stood in line for 40 minutes waiting to get our roscón while we watched mothers and grandmothers buy their own roscones for their families. We watched one woman pick up her pre-order 3 kilo roscón (6.5 lbs.)! We went back to our hostal and dove into our first roscón (after taking a few pictures with and of it of course).
Around 4:30 we headed back out into the cold to visit our last monument/historical sight of the trip—la Universidad de Salamanca, one of the oldest universities in Europe. There are 2 buildings you can visit—the old library and old classrooms (many of which are still used for conferences and lectures today). The university is gorgeous—it feels like a castle. Walking through the place where famous people like Cervantes studied makes you feel like yuou want to spend the rest of your life learning and studying. Salamanca is a student-centered city much like Granada and everything in the city seems to somehow relate back to the university and its students.
We started to walk back through the Plaza Mayor around 6:30, but stopped about 200 yards away in a chocolatería called Valor (a Spanish chocolate company like See’s or Godiva in the U.S.). It was packed full of families and older people—always a good way of finding good places to eat or have coffee!) We walked inside and squeezed our way through all of the people into a tiny open space at the bar. We ordered “una taza de chocolate caliente a lo suizo con fideos” (translated on the menu as: “A cup of hot chocolate with whip cream and noodles”)—“fideos” means noodles and sprinkles in Spanish). I can safely say that this was the best cup of hot chocolate I have ever had. There was hardly any milk in it and it tasted more like a cup of hot chocolate syrup with a thick, almost mouse-like cream on top. I would go back to Salamanca just to have a cup of that “hot chocolate” again.
We walked through the Plaza Mayor and they were still setting up for the parade, so we did some shopping (window only) before going back to the Plaza Mayor around 7:15. When we got there it was packed! People had been standing out in the Plaza since 6 in order to find a good spot to watch the Reyes parade. The parade started at 8:30 and it was ridiculously random and so much fun to watch. It was like a combination of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, Halloween, a Christmas pagent, and 4th of July all rolled into one event. There were Alice and Wonderland characters, pirates, fireworks, elves, floats, and of course, the three kings. Near the end of the parade, the 3 kings came out on the main balcony on the 2nd level of the Plaza Mayor to speak to the town. Their speech was about how happy they were to be returning to Salamanca, “the most beautiful city in the world.” They then talked about the future and told the kids to keep being good and listening to their parents and grandparents. They talked about the magic of Día de los Reyes and told the kids why it was so magical. The reason they gave for why this day was so magical was that it brought family together to celebrate their faith and be thankful for their love, for nothing is more magical than this.
After the parade we went to our last and our best tapas bar, went back to the hostal, packed, and fell asleep watching the news, which was all about the festivities we had just witnessed in the Salamanca and the ones we hadn’t in all other parts of Spain. It was a great trip and the perfect way to re-acclimate myself to Spanish life. Adiós Salamanca, y hasta pronto.
We stayed at the Hostal Revolutum—a hotel that is in the process of being converted into a hostal. For 23 euros/night, we had a private room with 2 beds, private bathroom, heat, a t.v., towels and sheets included, maid service, and a small balcony. Oh, and did I mention that it was about 20 feet from the Plaza Mayor? This was definitely still a hotel. We got a map, marked the streets with all the places Inés told me about, and headed out in the rain.
First, we went to my favorite place in all of Salamanca and possibly in all of Spain—the Plaza Mayor. Although there is a Plaza Mayor in the majority of cities in Spain (central and Northern), the one in Salamanca is exceptionally special not only in its architecture but also in its atmosphere. There are people everywhere all the time—talking, playing, eating churros, drinking café, and just enjoying every aspect of life. If you ever feel like you want to “be in the moment,” go spend a few hours (or even a few minutes will do it) in Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor.
After people watching for a bit, we went to the Bar Cervantes (in the Pl. Mayor) for some sangria and pinchos (the name for “tapas” in Salamanca). Then we explored a much more local part of the city where we went for more tapas at some places Inés recommended. We got back to our hostal around 11:00, watched “Callejeros, Viajeros,” and went to sleep in preparation for a busy next day.
Our morning of day 2 in Salamanca was relaxed. We slept in and went to a café in the Plaza Mayor for some café con leche and a napolitana (it was great having Spanish breakfast again!) Then we walked to the Puente Romano.
One of the things I love about Salamanca in how old everything feels. I love that every street In the centro is cobblestone and that there is something beautiful and historical on every corner. The Puente Romano is over 2000 years old and although it’s no the most elegant bridge I’ve ever seen, it’s just feels cool (for lack of a better word) to set foot on something that old.
Then we visited the cathedrals of Salamanca. There are 2—the Catedral Vieja and the Catedral nueva. The Catedral Nueva is enormous and a little dark inside, as gothic cathedrals always are. The Catedral Vieja, however, is as its name describes—old, and very beautiful. The altar is made up of a series of paintings portraying various biblical scenes surrounded by gold. The outside of the cathedral is impressive. The doors are excessively big and wooden, and the façade is an old tone in a Tuscan-brown color. There is one other very unique aspect of Salamanca’s Cathedral—there is an astronaut carved out of stone among the hundreds of other religious figures.
After our visit to the cathedrals and our search for the astronaut, we went to see the Casa de Conchas—a house built by a prestigious Salamanca family in the 1500’s decorated with shells all over the exterior walls. It reminds of the Dalí museum in Figueres outside Barcelona (which is decorated with loaves of bread).
As per what is no seemingly my Salamanca tradition, we went to the Chinese restaurant in the centro for lunch. (The “tradition” started when I went to Spain for my first time as a college sophomore and didn’t know how to find good Spanish food).
Before going back to our hostal for a little while, we went to a pasterlería in the Plaza Mayor to buy our first (and hopefully not our last!) roscón de Reyes for Día de los Reyes Magos. A roscón is a mix between sweet break and cake with fuity-gummy candy and sugar on top. They are shaped in a circle or an oval and there is a figurine hidden inside. The roscón is traditionally only eaten on the 5th and 6th of January for Día de los Reyes. So, we stood in line for 40 minutes waiting to get our roscón while we watched mothers and grandmothers buy their own roscones for their families. We watched one woman pick up her pre-order 3 kilo roscón (6.5 lbs.)! We went back to our hostal and dove into our first roscón (after taking a few pictures with and of it of course).
Around 4:30 we headed back out into the cold to visit our last monument/historical sight of the trip—la Universidad de Salamanca, one of the oldest universities in Europe. There are 2 buildings you can visit—the old library and old classrooms (many of which are still used for conferences and lectures today). The university is gorgeous—it feels like a castle. Walking through the place where famous people like Cervantes studied makes you feel like yuou want to spend the rest of your life learning and studying. Salamanca is a student-centered city much like Granada and everything in the city seems to somehow relate back to the university and its students.
We started to walk back through the Plaza Mayor around 6:30, but stopped about 200 yards away in a chocolatería called Valor (a Spanish chocolate company like See’s or Godiva in the U.S.). It was packed full of families and older people—always a good way of finding good places to eat or have coffee!) We walked inside and squeezed our way through all of the people into a tiny open space at the bar. We ordered “una taza de chocolate caliente a lo suizo con fideos” (translated on the menu as: “A cup of hot chocolate with whip cream and noodles”)—“fideos” means noodles and sprinkles in Spanish). I can safely say that this was the best cup of hot chocolate I have ever had. There was hardly any milk in it and it tasted more like a cup of hot chocolate syrup with a thick, almost mouse-like cream on top. I would go back to Salamanca just to have a cup of that “hot chocolate” again.
We walked through the Plaza Mayor and they were still setting up for the parade, so we did some shopping (window only) before going back to the Plaza Mayor around 7:15. When we got there it was packed! People had been standing out in the Plaza since 6 in order to find a good spot to watch the Reyes parade. The parade started at 8:30 and it was ridiculously random and so much fun to watch. It was like a combination of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, Halloween, a Christmas pagent, and 4th of July all rolled into one event. There were Alice and Wonderland characters, pirates, fireworks, elves, floats, and of course, the three kings. Near the end of the parade, the 3 kings came out on the main balcony on the 2nd level of the Plaza Mayor to speak to the town. Their speech was about how happy they were to be returning to Salamanca, “the most beautiful city in the world.” They then talked about the future and told the kids to keep being good and listening to their parents and grandparents. They talked about the magic of Día de los Reyes and told the kids why it was so magical. The reason they gave for why this day was so magical was that it brought family together to celebrate their faith and be thankful for their love, for nothing is more magical than this.
After the parade we went to our last and our best tapas bar, went back to the hostal, packed, and fell asleep watching the news, which was all about the festivities we had just witnessed in the Salamanca and the ones we hadn’t in all other parts of Spain. It was a great trip and the perfect way to re-acclimate myself to Spanish life. Adiós Salamanca, y hasta pronto.
12.18.2009
"Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!"
I love Christmas time—it’s just my favorite time of the year. The world really does change at Christmas. Everything is brighter and happier…magical. The last few days have been truly exceptional here in Granada for reasons all having to do with Christmas.
I started getting in the Christmas mode about a month ago which I started listening to Christmas carols. I haven’t stopped since and I still can’t get enough of them. I love the joy and meaning in Christmas carols. There is a Christmas carol to describe every single feeling that I feel and thought that I think during the Christmas season—“There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays”/”I’ll Be Home for Christmas” for when I think about coming home for Christmas; “Jingle Bell Rock” for when I’m in the decorating mood; “The Christmas Song” for when I want to curl up by the fireplace on Christmas Eve at home; “Jingle Bells”/”We Wish You a Merry Christmas” for when I’m thinking about how adorable my Spanish students are and how they love to sing these two songs; “Let it Snow” for when the weather turns cold and it does actually snow; “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” for when I want to reminisce about the year Katie and I started listening to Christmas music the day after Halloween senior year of college; “Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when I’m remembering all of those who can’t be with us on Christmas; and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” when I think about how magical Christmas really is.
Monday, though, is when I truly started to feel the joy of Christmas. Simply put in the words of Adrian, one of my 4 year olds, Monday “was the best day ever!” Well Adri, I am in complete and total agreement—it definitely was one of the best days ever. Now, I know what you’re all thinking—“Kelly says every day is the ‘best day ever’, just like every city she visits is her ‘favorite city ever’!” Yesterday was special though, because I received one of the greatest presents I could ask for—snow. I really do love snow! Maybe this is because I’ve lived in California (i.e. without snow) my entire life, or maybe it’s because I associate snow with Christmas despite the fact that I’ve never actually seen it snow on Christmas. I can’t explain why I love snow so much, but when it snows, I feel like I’m witnessing a beautiful and miraculous moment.
I was in the middle of explaining the tradition of leaving milk and cookies for Santa to my 3rd graders when it started to snow and (I know this is cliché, but it’s true!) I lit up like a kid in a candy store. All weekend long I had been a little sad about missing the snow at St. Mary’s last weekend and hoping and praying that it would snow here, not really believing it would. (I guess this is God’s way of saying, “Don’t doubt my ability to answer your prayers!”). I couldn’t believe it was snowing! I ran downstairs to grab my camera and went outside in the 2°C weather. I spent the next hour in the snow enjoying my “present,” taking pictures, making a mini snowman, and just smiling, absolutely in awe of what I was seeing.
Monday was also one of those inspiring teaching days when your students remind you of why you became a teacher in the first place. We have been doing Christmas activities all week at school and my students are having so much fun! I started Monday in my 3rd grade science class and we spent the class talking about American Christmas traditions and looking at some of my Christmas pictures from years past. Then I went to my 5 year old classroom and taught them “Jingle Bells.” Then I spent some time with my 5th graders and I taught them how to make paper snowflakes. They were extremely creative—snowflake earrings and snowflake Santa beards, were just two of the many ideas my students had! My first graders were learning a rap about winter clothes and we made up a hilarious dance to go with the song. My favorite Christmas project, though, was making stockings with my 2nd graders. I asked the students to bring the necessary materials (red and white felt, and cotton balls and sequence for decorating) and even my normally unenthusiastic German student brought everything! I’ve never seen my students so excited—they had tons of fun making and decorating their stockings!
After school on Monday was the lighting ceremony of all of the Christmas lights and decorations throughout the city. Granada is so festive at Christmas time—it makes me feel like I’m at home. When I show people pictures of my house at Christmas time to my Spanish friends and colleagues, they can’t believe how much we decorate our house of Christmas, especially since more people don’t decorate at all for Christmas here. I realize that not everyone decorates as much as we do for Christmas, but I love that we (well, this year my mom, dad, and Jeff) decorate as much as we do. It’s tradition, and I’m always proud and excited to show people our house at Christmas time. Granada feels like this to me. There are Christmas lights and decorations on almost every street in Granada and there are amazing and elaborate “Belenes” (Nativity scenes) in every major plaza. Everytime I walk outside, it just feels Christmassy.
I will be leaving Granada Christmas and heading home for California Christmas in less than 72 hours. Last night, Cerena and I made Christmas cookies (without measuring cups!), and homemade frosting. Then we went out for what were likely our last tapas this year. Tonight, Cerena’s roommates’ are having a Christmas party—the last Spanish Christmas hurrah before we all part our separate ways for the holidays. It’s a potluck, which in Spanish is called, “Fiesta de traje” (‘traje’ in Spanish means ‘I brought,’ and they call it this because when everyone arrives, they all say the same thing: ‘Traje…’ y ‘Traje…’). I’m excited for tonight, but not quite prepared to leave Granada yet, even if it is only for a week and a half. I will be packing all day tomorrow, the I am heading to Madrid on Sunday. I leave for the airport Monday morning!
More updates to come from my adventures in Rome, Madrid (2 months ago!), my weekend in the Sierra Nevada, and my weekend in a country house celebrating a Spanish friend’s 30th birthday! Happy holidays everyone—I hope you are all enjoying the Christmas season!
I started getting in the Christmas mode about a month ago which I started listening to Christmas carols. I haven’t stopped since and I still can’t get enough of them. I love the joy and meaning in Christmas carols. There is a Christmas carol to describe every single feeling that I feel and thought that I think during the Christmas season—“There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays”/”I’ll Be Home for Christmas” for when I think about coming home for Christmas; “Jingle Bell Rock” for when I’m in the decorating mood; “The Christmas Song” for when I want to curl up by the fireplace on Christmas Eve at home; “Jingle Bells”/”We Wish You a Merry Christmas” for when I’m thinking about how adorable my Spanish students are and how they love to sing these two songs; “Let it Snow” for when the weather turns cold and it does actually snow; “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” for when I want to reminisce about the year Katie and I started listening to Christmas music the day after Halloween senior year of college; “Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when I’m remembering all of those who can’t be with us on Christmas; and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” when I think about how magical Christmas really is.
Monday, though, is when I truly started to feel the joy of Christmas. Simply put in the words of Adrian, one of my 4 year olds, Monday “was the best day ever!” Well Adri, I am in complete and total agreement—it definitely was one of the best days ever. Now, I know what you’re all thinking—“Kelly says every day is the ‘best day ever’, just like every city she visits is her ‘favorite city ever’!” Yesterday was special though, because I received one of the greatest presents I could ask for—snow. I really do love snow! Maybe this is because I’ve lived in California (i.e. without snow) my entire life, or maybe it’s because I associate snow with Christmas despite the fact that I’ve never actually seen it snow on Christmas. I can’t explain why I love snow so much, but when it snows, I feel like I’m witnessing a beautiful and miraculous moment.
I was in the middle of explaining the tradition of leaving milk and cookies for Santa to my 3rd graders when it started to snow and (I know this is cliché, but it’s true!) I lit up like a kid in a candy store. All weekend long I had been a little sad about missing the snow at St. Mary’s last weekend and hoping and praying that it would snow here, not really believing it would. (I guess this is God’s way of saying, “Don’t doubt my ability to answer your prayers!”). I couldn’t believe it was snowing! I ran downstairs to grab my camera and went outside in the 2°C weather. I spent the next hour in the snow enjoying my “present,” taking pictures, making a mini snowman, and just smiling, absolutely in awe of what I was seeing.
Monday was also one of those inspiring teaching days when your students remind you of why you became a teacher in the first place. We have been doing Christmas activities all week at school and my students are having so much fun! I started Monday in my 3rd grade science class and we spent the class talking about American Christmas traditions and looking at some of my Christmas pictures from years past. Then I went to my 5 year old classroom and taught them “Jingle Bells.” Then I spent some time with my 5th graders and I taught them how to make paper snowflakes. They were extremely creative—snowflake earrings and snowflake Santa beards, were just two of the many ideas my students had! My first graders were learning a rap about winter clothes and we made up a hilarious dance to go with the song. My favorite Christmas project, though, was making stockings with my 2nd graders. I asked the students to bring the necessary materials (red and white felt, and cotton balls and sequence for decorating) and even my normally unenthusiastic German student brought everything! I’ve never seen my students so excited—they had tons of fun making and decorating their stockings!
After school on Monday was the lighting ceremony of all of the Christmas lights and decorations throughout the city. Granada is so festive at Christmas time—it makes me feel like I’m at home. When I show people pictures of my house at Christmas time to my Spanish friends and colleagues, they can’t believe how much we decorate our house of Christmas, especially since more people don’t decorate at all for Christmas here. I realize that not everyone decorates as much as we do for Christmas, but I love that we (well, this year my mom, dad, and Jeff) decorate as much as we do. It’s tradition, and I’m always proud and excited to show people our house at Christmas time. Granada feels like this to me. There are Christmas lights and decorations on almost every street in Granada and there are amazing and elaborate “Belenes” (Nativity scenes) in every major plaza. Everytime I walk outside, it just feels Christmassy.
I will be leaving Granada Christmas and heading home for California Christmas in less than 72 hours. Last night, Cerena and I made Christmas cookies (without measuring cups!), and homemade frosting. Then we went out for what were likely our last tapas this year. Tonight, Cerena’s roommates’ are having a Christmas party—the last Spanish Christmas hurrah before we all part our separate ways for the holidays. It’s a potluck, which in Spanish is called, “Fiesta de traje” (‘traje’ in Spanish means ‘I brought,’ and they call it this because when everyone arrives, they all say the same thing: ‘Traje…’ y ‘Traje…’). I’m excited for tonight, but not quite prepared to leave Granada yet, even if it is only for a week and a half. I will be packing all day tomorrow, the I am heading to Madrid on Sunday. I leave for the airport Monday morning!
More updates to come from my adventures in Rome, Madrid (2 months ago!), my weekend in the Sierra Nevada, and my weekend in a country house celebrating a Spanish friend’s 30th birthday! Happy holidays everyone—I hope you are all enjoying the Christmas season!
11.28.2009
Thanksgiving Adventures in Spain
Well, Thanksgiving dinner was a success! The pies were cooked all the way through, the mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes were creamy and sweet, the stuffing tasted like real stuffing, and the turkey looked and tasted like Thanksgiving turkey. Now, this may not seem like much, as I’m sure that all of you had similar food this weekend that was as good (and probably better) than our Thanksgiving dinner here in Spain. But for three “guiris” who had never made Thanksgiving dinner before, last night’s day after Thanksgiving dinner was nothing short of a miracle. Let me explain.
This weekend, just like every other year, my entire family went to Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving Day at Grandma’s, cut down the Christmas tree on Friday morning, had Thanksgiving dinner (again) at the other Grandparent’s Friday night, and are probably decorating the house and the tree for Christmas as I write this. Most of my friends are home in San Jose with their families, visiting each other, and celebrating the weekend full of family traditions. The last time I missed Thanksgiving was 3 years ago when I was studying in Madrid. I don’t really get homesick, but every once in a while I get “people sick,” if there is such a thing. Thanksgiving weekend is my favorite weekend of the year, and this year, just as three years ago, I missed my family more than usual. As much as I missed my family this weekend, every other day in Spain thus far has been incredible, special and unforgettable, as was this weekend. Instead of spending the weekend thinking about not being home for Thanksgiving, I had my own version of Thanksgiving here in Spain.
For Thanksgiving (or rather, they day after Thanksgiving), two of my good American friends, Cerena and Suzanne, and I put on a huge Thanksgiving dinner for all of our Spanish “familia.” We sent out a tuenti (like Facebook, but in Spain) and e-mail invite to all of our Spanish friends and roommates a few weeks ago inviting everyone for a day-after Thanksgiving feast that would start on Friday night at 10:00pm at Suzanne’s house. I’m always excited about Thanksgiving weekend, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited about the actual Thanksgiving dinner in my life. Granted none of us had ever cooked a turkey (or any other part) of Thanksgiving dinner before last night, we were ecstatic to cook for and celebrate the holiday with our Spanish friends. As for the many challenges and adventures involved in cooking Thanksgiving dinner for 17 people in Spain, well, that’s what made Thanksgiving dinner 2009 so memorable.
We started cooking everything yesterday around noon, but the preparation started much earlier. Thursday evening, Suzanne, Cerena and I went shopping for all (almost) of the necessary Thanksgiving ingredients minus the turkey and the fruits/veggies. We went to Mercadona to get the food and to the Chinese store to buy a turkey pan and a casserole for the stuffing. I came home that night, cooked dinner, skyped with my family, and then made chocolate chip cookie dough at midnight while listening to Christmas music. It was just like baking at home around the holidays (except for the fact that I mixed the dough with a spoon instead of a hand mixer, and the fact that the brown sugar isn’t packed and that there is no real baking soda). I woke up Friday morning, baked the cookies, and then went out to buy all of the fruits and vegetables from Paco. I bought celery (rare here), apples for the pies, and various fruits (normal fruit, like bananas, oranges, and plums, and Spanish fruit, like Sharoni and Chirimoya). I went to Suzanne’s around noon with two bags full of food and a cutting board, mixing bowl, and good chopping knives.
We started with the desserts, because according to my mom and the New York Times Thanksgiving “Timing is Everything” article, it’s best to get the desserts out of the way. We made two apple pies from scratch without using shortening in the crust. Suzanne and Cerena did most of the work on the pies while I ran out to buy fresh oregano, thyme, sage, and rosemary for the turkey at a medicinal herbs mercado. When I came back, the dough was chilling in the freezer, the apples were sliced, and we were ready to prepare the turkey. Oh the turkey. Let me start by saying that whole turkeys in Spain are hard to find, and that four days ago, we didn’t even know where to find one. Let me also say that when you buy a “whole” turkey in Spain, you get the whole turkey—head, wings, and feathers included. Needless to say, Cerena found a very expensive turkey at a carnicería by her house and it was indeed the whole turkey. It was heavy (9.6kg=21 pounds) and barely fit in the sink.
I had the turkey recipe/instructions, so I volunteered to prepare the turkey. Never again will I ever volunteer for this job. It was disgusting! I felt like I was back in high school biology class dissecting strange animals. I had no idea that the head was still attached the turkey until we took it out of the bag. I said that I would clean the turkey out, but I did not sign up for cutting a turkeys head off! None of us “guiris” had the guts to do it, so Suzanne’s roommate Inma did it for us, which apparently didn’t gross her out at all. She came into the kitchen, took the knife, and sawed the head off at the bottom of the neck.
Then it was time for cleaning the cavities out. I had no idea which cavity was which, or even what a “cavity” was, or what exactly was supposed to be coming out of the turkey. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I closed my eyes, stuck my hand in where Inma cut the head off and started pulling out a whole bunch of squishy stuff that I’m sure were organs, but was too afraid to look. It was the most disgusting thing I’ve even done in my life, and I hope that I never have to do it again. After pulling out everything of both cavities that I thought was supposed to come out (I didn’t know if I was pulling out meat or insides!), I put a chopped onion mixed with fresh herbs in one cavity and an apple in the other. There were still some issues with the turkey, though, like parts of the Spanish turkey that are definitely not part of American Thanksgiving turkeys, like feathers. Why were there feathers still on the turkey?! We looked up online what to do if there were still feathers on the turkey, and everything said that we needed to blowtorch the feathers off the turkey before putting it in the oven, but we didn’t have one, so we just left them on (they were small). The esophagus was also still attached (we think), and everything online said that this part of the turkey, even though it would be difficult to detach, shouldn’t be there. But I couldn’t cut through the bone, so we also left that attached. I rubbed down the turkey with olive oil, sprinkled herbs, salt and pepper everywhere, stuck the turkey neck in a pot of boiling water with onions and garlic on the stove, and then washed my hands for about 10 minutes. We put the turkey in Fernando’s (Suzanne’s neighbor) oven an hour later than planned and were sure it was going to not taste like turkey or catch on fire like in “The Santa Clause.”
We then started making everything else. Cerena and Suzanne worked on rolling the pie crusts and filling while I started preparing the stuffing ingredients. We pretty much took over the kitchen at noon, so Inma went to Fernando’s to make lunch around 4:00 and made lunch for us also. She is so sweet! We took a 20 minute lunch break and then went back to cooking. I baked the stale bread while I sautéed the onions, mushrooms, celery, parsley, and herbs for the stuffing. We then starting peeling potatoes—7 pounds of potatoes to be exact with no potato peeler. We made a quick trip to the store to get more butter, flour, sugar, and some vanilla ice cream while we waited for things to cook. We checked on the turkey at the 3 hours mark and were a little worried about the color—it was still white and people were coming in 2 and a half hours! We rubbed some more oil on it just because, put it back in the oven, and turned up the temperature. At least the turkey smelled good! We came back, cleaned up a little, made the stuffing, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes, and then tried to prepare ourselves for the busiest part involved in making Thanksgiving dinner—the last hour.
It was insane. We needed to bake the stuffing, mash the enormous amount of mash potatoes by hand, figure out when the turkey was done, make the gravy, carve the turkey, and welcome all 17 people to our Thanksgiving party all at the same time. We got dressed into our “pretty” clothes and started the “last hour” Thanksgiving dinner process by baking the stuffing and making the mashed potatoes. While Suzanne mashed the mashed potatoes, Cerena and I were running back and forth between Suzanne’s and Fernando’s trying to figure out if the turkey was actually done. We had taken off the foil about 40 minutes earlier so it would cook faster, and checked it around 9:45 or so. It looked done, but how were we supposed to know?? It smelled like Thanksgiving at home, but I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like! Like my Dad told me to do, I stuck a long kebab stick through the middle of the turkey to see if the liquid that came out was clear, but no liquid came out. What did that mean?! I called my Dad while 5 Spaniards watched me freak out over the turkey being done or not. None of them knew how to tell either though. All I knew was that the gravy depended on the drippings from the turkey, and that if the turkey wasn’t cooked enough or was over cooked, there would be no gravy, and that Thanksgiving dinner isn’t really Thanksgiving dinner without turkey and gravy! Apparently the turkey was absolutely done according to my dad, so we pulled it out of the oven and transferred it to the cutting boards.
Then I brought the turkey pan from Fernando’s to Suzanne’s and made the gravy with my mom’s directions in hand. I skimmed the fat off of the top (I think!), scraped the burnt stuff out of the bottom of the pan, and mixed around the liquid while Cerena sprinkled bits of flour into the pan. When it was a good consistency, we put it into the liquid the turkey neck had been boiling in all day after taking out the neck, added some more flour and stirred for about 20 minutes. While Suzanne stirred the gravy, Cerena and I went to go carve the turkey. This has always been my Dad’s job on Thanksgiving. I usually stand next to him to snack on pieces of my favorite part of the turkey (the dark meat) before the turkey gets to the table, but I never actually pay attention to how he carved the turkey. We started with the legs and I was SO happy when we pulled apart the legs that the meat looked both cooked and moist. Like a said, a miracle. We carved the whole turkey in no particular order and with no elegance whatsoever. We mostly used our hands because it was slippery and too hard to use dull knives. Everyone arrived while we carved the turkey and Suzanne was taking plates of turkey to the table while we finished carving because people were starving! I guess that was our fault—we were running about 45 minutes late.
When we finished carving the turkey, all of the other food was on the table and people were sitting down and ready to eat. When Suzanne, Cerena and I were done making sure everyone had everything they needed, we walked into the living room full of our Spanish friends applauding us for all of the food we had cooked. We said a quick “blessing,” which included Tercio and Paco giving thanks for food, for beer and the actual holiday of Thanksgiving without which we would not have made all of this food and have this dinner. We spent the next 4 hours eating and talking and having one of the best if not the best Thanksgiving dinner ever. I don’t like to boast, but I am extremely proud to say that all of the food tasted amazing and just as good as Thanksgiving dinner in the U.S. I am also happy to report that everyone, even Alberto—the pickiest eater of our Spanish friends—loved the food.
I still cannot believe that we made Thanksgiving dinner for 17 people in Spain, and it was “¡buenísimo! There were a lot of things that could have been disastrous, like the turkey, or the fact that we were running way behind schedule, or that the oven we were using to cook everything but the turkey didn’t have any numbers on the dial so we never knew what temperature the oven was, or that all of the measurements from our recipes were in cups, teaspoons and pound (not liters, “cucharaditas,” and kilos), or that fact that we had to light the stove and the oven ever time we used it but ran out of matches, or that the we only had a total of 3 pots, 2 frying pans, and one casserole to cook with and a tiny kitchen to cook in.
Luckily and thankfully, we have the best families ever in the U.S. and the best friends ever in Spain. My mom patiently skyped with me for hours before yesterday explaining each recipe to me in detail, and whenever we had a question or didn’t know what we were doing while cooking yesterday, all I had to do was call my mom or dad and they had a solution. Years of watching Grandma and Mom cook Thanksgiving dinner also prepared me for last night. It’s a good thing Thanksgiving is such an important and coveted tradition in the U.S.!
Our Spanish friends were also amazing and so supportive throughout the day. Originally we thought we were going to have downtime while we were waiting for things to cook so we could eat lunch and rest a little, but we were cooking non-stop for 10 ½ hours. Inma, Alberto (Suzanne’s roommates), Fernando and David kept checking in on us to see how we were doing, making us lunch, offering to make trips to the store if we needed anything or forgot anything, and saying encouraging things like “¡Ánimo!” when we had to do things that we had no idea how to do, like clean the turkey. And Fernando saved us by letting us use his oven to cook the turkey in, because we definitely needed the extra oven space and an oven where we could set the temperature we needed!
All in all, Thanksgiving dinner was fantastic, and I have more to be thankful this year than ever. Of course I missed my family this weekend, but I could not have been happier yesterday cooking Thanksgiving dinner for our friends, listening to Christmas music, spending a night with so many great people, and doing all of this in Spain—a place that will always be a “home” for me.
This weekend, just like every other year, my entire family went to Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving Day at Grandma’s, cut down the Christmas tree on Friday morning, had Thanksgiving dinner (again) at the other Grandparent’s Friday night, and are probably decorating the house and the tree for Christmas as I write this. Most of my friends are home in San Jose with their families, visiting each other, and celebrating the weekend full of family traditions. The last time I missed Thanksgiving was 3 years ago when I was studying in Madrid. I don’t really get homesick, but every once in a while I get “people sick,” if there is such a thing. Thanksgiving weekend is my favorite weekend of the year, and this year, just as three years ago, I missed my family more than usual. As much as I missed my family this weekend, every other day in Spain thus far has been incredible, special and unforgettable, as was this weekend. Instead of spending the weekend thinking about not being home for Thanksgiving, I had my own version of Thanksgiving here in Spain.
For Thanksgiving (or rather, they day after Thanksgiving), two of my good American friends, Cerena and Suzanne, and I put on a huge Thanksgiving dinner for all of our Spanish “familia.” We sent out a tuenti (like Facebook, but in Spain) and e-mail invite to all of our Spanish friends and roommates a few weeks ago inviting everyone for a day-after Thanksgiving feast that would start on Friday night at 10:00pm at Suzanne’s house. I’m always excited about Thanksgiving weekend, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited about the actual Thanksgiving dinner in my life. Granted none of us had ever cooked a turkey (or any other part) of Thanksgiving dinner before last night, we were ecstatic to cook for and celebrate the holiday with our Spanish friends. As for the many challenges and adventures involved in cooking Thanksgiving dinner for 17 people in Spain, well, that’s what made Thanksgiving dinner 2009 so memorable.
We started cooking everything yesterday around noon, but the preparation started much earlier. Thursday evening, Suzanne, Cerena and I went shopping for all (almost) of the necessary Thanksgiving ingredients minus the turkey and the fruits/veggies. We went to Mercadona to get the food and to the Chinese store to buy a turkey pan and a casserole for the stuffing. I came home that night, cooked dinner, skyped with my family, and then made chocolate chip cookie dough at midnight while listening to Christmas music. It was just like baking at home around the holidays (except for the fact that I mixed the dough with a spoon instead of a hand mixer, and the fact that the brown sugar isn’t packed and that there is no real baking soda). I woke up Friday morning, baked the cookies, and then went out to buy all of the fruits and vegetables from Paco. I bought celery (rare here), apples for the pies, and various fruits (normal fruit, like bananas, oranges, and plums, and Spanish fruit, like Sharoni and Chirimoya). I went to Suzanne’s around noon with two bags full of food and a cutting board, mixing bowl, and good chopping knives.
We started with the desserts, because according to my mom and the New York Times Thanksgiving “Timing is Everything” article, it’s best to get the desserts out of the way. We made two apple pies from scratch without using shortening in the crust. Suzanne and Cerena did most of the work on the pies while I ran out to buy fresh oregano, thyme, sage, and rosemary for the turkey at a medicinal herbs mercado. When I came back, the dough was chilling in the freezer, the apples were sliced, and we were ready to prepare the turkey. Oh the turkey. Let me start by saying that whole turkeys in Spain are hard to find, and that four days ago, we didn’t even know where to find one. Let me also say that when you buy a “whole” turkey in Spain, you get the whole turkey—head, wings, and feathers included. Needless to say, Cerena found a very expensive turkey at a carnicería by her house and it was indeed the whole turkey. It was heavy (9.6kg=21 pounds) and barely fit in the sink.
I had the turkey recipe/instructions, so I volunteered to prepare the turkey. Never again will I ever volunteer for this job. It was disgusting! I felt like I was back in high school biology class dissecting strange animals. I had no idea that the head was still attached the turkey until we took it out of the bag. I said that I would clean the turkey out, but I did not sign up for cutting a turkeys head off! None of us “guiris” had the guts to do it, so Suzanne’s roommate Inma did it for us, which apparently didn’t gross her out at all. She came into the kitchen, took the knife, and sawed the head off at the bottom of the neck.
Then it was time for cleaning the cavities out. I had no idea which cavity was which, or even what a “cavity” was, or what exactly was supposed to be coming out of the turkey. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I closed my eyes, stuck my hand in where Inma cut the head off and started pulling out a whole bunch of squishy stuff that I’m sure were organs, but was too afraid to look. It was the most disgusting thing I’ve even done in my life, and I hope that I never have to do it again. After pulling out everything of both cavities that I thought was supposed to come out (I didn’t know if I was pulling out meat or insides!), I put a chopped onion mixed with fresh herbs in one cavity and an apple in the other. There were still some issues with the turkey, though, like parts of the Spanish turkey that are definitely not part of American Thanksgiving turkeys, like feathers. Why were there feathers still on the turkey?! We looked up online what to do if there were still feathers on the turkey, and everything said that we needed to blowtorch the feathers off the turkey before putting it in the oven, but we didn’t have one, so we just left them on (they were small). The esophagus was also still attached (we think), and everything online said that this part of the turkey, even though it would be difficult to detach, shouldn’t be there. But I couldn’t cut through the bone, so we also left that attached. I rubbed down the turkey with olive oil, sprinkled herbs, salt and pepper everywhere, stuck the turkey neck in a pot of boiling water with onions and garlic on the stove, and then washed my hands for about 10 minutes. We put the turkey in Fernando’s (Suzanne’s neighbor) oven an hour later than planned and were sure it was going to not taste like turkey or catch on fire like in “The Santa Clause.”
We then started making everything else. Cerena and Suzanne worked on rolling the pie crusts and filling while I started preparing the stuffing ingredients. We pretty much took over the kitchen at noon, so Inma went to Fernando’s to make lunch around 4:00 and made lunch for us also. She is so sweet! We took a 20 minute lunch break and then went back to cooking. I baked the stale bread while I sautéed the onions, mushrooms, celery, parsley, and herbs for the stuffing. We then starting peeling potatoes—7 pounds of potatoes to be exact with no potato peeler. We made a quick trip to the store to get more butter, flour, sugar, and some vanilla ice cream while we waited for things to cook. We checked on the turkey at the 3 hours mark and were a little worried about the color—it was still white and people were coming in 2 and a half hours! We rubbed some more oil on it just because, put it back in the oven, and turned up the temperature. At least the turkey smelled good! We came back, cleaned up a little, made the stuffing, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes, and then tried to prepare ourselves for the busiest part involved in making Thanksgiving dinner—the last hour.
It was insane. We needed to bake the stuffing, mash the enormous amount of mash potatoes by hand, figure out when the turkey was done, make the gravy, carve the turkey, and welcome all 17 people to our Thanksgiving party all at the same time. We got dressed into our “pretty” clothes and started the “last hour” Thanksgiving dinner process by baking the stuffing and making the mashed potatoes. While Suzanne mashed the mashed potatoes, Cerena and I were running back and forth between Suzanne’s and Fernando’s trying to figure out if the turkey was actually done. We had taken off the foil about 40 minutes earlier so it would cook faster, and checked it around 9:45 or so. It looked done, but how were we supposed to know?? It smelled like Thanksgiving at home, but I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like! Like my Dad told me to do, I stuck a long kebab stick through the middle of the turkey to see if the liquid that came out was clear, but no liquid came out. What did that mean?! I called my Dad while 5 Spaniards watched me freak out over the turkey being done or not. None of them knew how to tell either though. All I knew was that the gravy depended on the drippings from the turkey, and that if the turkey wasn’t cooked enough or was over cooked, there would be no gravy, and that Thanksgiving dinner isn’t really Thanksgiving dinner without turkey and gravy! Apparently the turkey was absolutely done according to my dad, so we pulled it out of the oven and transferred it to the cutting boards.
Then I brought the turkey pan from Fernando’s to Suzanne’s and made the gravy with my mom’s directions in hand. I skimmed the fat off of the top (I think!), scraped the burnt stuff out of the bottom of the pan, and mixed around the liquid while Cerena sprinkled bits of flour into the pan. When it was a good consistency, we put it into the liquid the turkey neck had been boiling in all day after taking out the neck, added some more flour and stirred for about 20 minutes. While Suzanne stirred the gravy, Cerena and I went to go carve the turkey. This has always been my Dad’s job on Thanksgiving. I usually stand next to him to snack on pieces of my favorite part of the turkey (the dark meat) before the turkey gets to the table, but I never actually pay attention to how he carved the turkey. We started with the legs and I was SO happy when we pulled apart the legs that the meat looked both cooked and moist. Like a said, a miracle. We carved the whole turkey in no particular order and with no elegance whatsoever. We mostly used our hands because it was slippery and too hard to use dull knives. Everyone arrived while we carved the turkey and Suzanne was taking plates of turkey to the table while we finished carving because people were starving! I guess that was our fault—we were running about 45 minutes late.
When we finished carving the turkey, all of the other food was on the table and people were sitting down and ready to eat. When Suzanne, Cerena and I were done making sure everyone had everything they needed, we walked into the living room full of our Spanish friends applauding us for all of the food we had cooked. We said a quick “blessing,” which included Tercio and Paco giving thanks for food, for beer and the actual holiday of Thanksgiving without which we would not have made all of this food and have this dinner. We spent the next 4 hours eating and talking and having one of the best if not the best Thanksgiving dinner ever. I don’t like to boast, but I am extremely proud to say that all of the food tasted amazing and just as good as Thanksgiving dinner in the U.S. I am also happy to report that everyone, even Alberto—the pickiest eater of our Spanish friends—loved the food.
I still cannot believe that we made Thanksgiving dinner for 17 people in Spain, and it was “¡buenísimo! There were a lot of things that could have been disastrous, like the turkey, or the fact that we were running way behind schedule, or that the oven we were using to cook everything but the turkey didn’t have any numbers on the dial so we never knew what temperature the oven was, or that all of the measurements from our recipes were in cups, teaspoons and pound (not liters, “cucharaditas,” and kilos), or that fact that we had to light the stove and the oven ever time we used it but ran out of matches, or that the we only had a total of 3 pots, 2 frying pans, and one casserole to cook with and a tiny kitchen to cook in.
Luckily and thankfully, we have the best families ever in the U.S. and the best friends ever in Spain. My mom patiently skyped with me for hours before yesterday explaining each recipe to me in detail, and whenever we had a question or didn’t know what we were doing while cooking yesterday, all I had to do was call my mom or dad and they had a solution. Years of watching Grandma and Mom cook Thanksgiving dinner also prepared me for last night. It’s a good thing Thanksgiving is such an important and coveted tradition in the U.S.!
Our Spanish friends were also amazing and so supportive throughout the day. Originally we thought we were going to have downtime while we were waiting for things to cook so we could eat lunch and rest a little, but we were cooking non-stop for 10 ½ hours. Inma, Alberto (Suzanne’s roommates), Fernando and David kept checking in on us to see how we were doing, making us lunch, offering to make trips to the store if we needed anything or forgot anything, and saying encouraging things like “¡Ánimo!” when we had to do things that we had no idea how to do, like clean the turkey. And Fernando saved us by letting us use his oven to cook the turkey in, because we definitely needed the extra oven space and an oven where we could set the temperature we needed!
All in all, Thanksgiving dinner was fantastic, and I have more to be thankful this year than ever. Of course I missed my family this weekend, but I could not have been happier yesterday cooking Thanksgiving dinner for our friends, listening to Christmas music, spending a night with so many great people, and doing all of this in Spain—a place that will always be a “home” for me.
11.15.2009
C.E.I.P. Federico García Lorca
I know I haven’t been the most reliable blogger, but I promise I have a good excuse—life, and more specifically, life in Spain. The last six weeks have been crazy, fun, and altogether unforgettable. They have included a visit from my parents, a weekend getaway to Madrid, Halloween festivities, an overnight backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada mountains, the beginning of the Christmas season (in Spain) and the simple pleasures of everyday life at my school in Dilar and here in Granada. I won’t write about everything in one entry because it would likely end up being long enough to publish as a book. Instead I will write a few different entries about the highlights of what has been my life for the past month and a half, starting with my school.
After a fantastic day at school on Friday, I realized that I haven’t really written much (or at all) about my school, my students, and what exactly it is that I am doing here in Granada. The school I am teaching at is located in a town (referred to as a “village” by everyone here) called Dilar about 12 kilometers outside of Granada. Although it is only 12 km away from my apartment and should take me 20 minutes to get there, it takes me an hour and a half (sometimes more) to get to school every day. I walk for 20 minutes to get to my bus station, take the “out of town” green bus into Dilar, and walk for another 20 minutes to get to my school at the top of the hill. But I don’t mind the commute at all because I am in love with my school and with my students.
I teach at C.E.I. P. Federico Garcia Lorca, a public elementary school that is on its way to becoming a bilingual school. There a few reasons why I love this school in particular—the school itself is very small (the entire school is one building) and the classes are also extremely small (ranging from 8-20 kids). Also, there is only one class per grade (the students are ages 3-12). There is a sense of community at the school like one that I have only ever experienced at Mitty, which is pretty amazing for a public elementary school in a town of 1000 people. Everyone at the school knows each other—students are good friends with each other, teachers are friends outside of school, and parents and teachers are commonly good family friends.
My official “title” at the school is “language and culture assistant” (auxiliar de conversación), but I do a little bit of everything. I work with every grade for about an hour each week and I teach 3 different subjects in total. I help teach basic English during psicomotricidad (motor skills) to the kids in Infantil (the 3, 4 and 5 year-olds). We learn things like colors, numbers, opposites, animals, etc. I help teach science in English to the 1st-4th graders, which I find to be the most challenging subject for me to teach. (Let’s be honest here—I studied LANGUAGES for a reason). My 1st and 2nd graders have been learning about body parts, food, eating healthy, and taking care of their bodies over the past few weeks, while my 3rd and 4th graders are learning about more complicated things like the respiratory system and the circulatory system—very difficult concepts to explain in English when the students don’t fully understand them in Spanish! And finally, I teach art to my 5th and 6th graders, which is SO much fun despite my complete and total lack of artistic ability.
People keep asking me what my favorite grade is, and I keep responding, “I can’t pick!” I honestly can’t choose a favorite because I love each grade, and all for different reasons. Each class has something unique about them, as does each student. Aside from teaching what I consider to be a very small amount of English to my students, I have learned so much more from them.
My 3 year olds are adorable. They still can’t speak in complete sentences in Spanish yet, don’t know the alphabet, can barely (some can’t) count to 10. Yet I am teaching them a few basic English words, and they are like sponges when they are interested. They pick up everything I teach them more quickly than any other age group.
My 4 year olds are my most curious students. They are always asking me how to say things in English and surprisingly remember a lot of what I teach them randomly and informally. I guess I would consider them one of my favorite classes simply because I do spend the most time with them. I can’t be around them and not smile. Every day when I walk into the classroom, they run up to me and give me a huge hug. I play a lot of games with my 4 year olds in psicomotricidad (“Simon Says,” musical chairs, English chocolate, etc.) After psicomotricidad, we go back to the classroom and the kids are supposed to draw what they did. The other day, Ibai (the blond boy in all of the pictures!) decided to draw me instead of what we did in psicomotricidad. When the “seño” (short for “señorita”—the teacher) asked Ibai why he drew me, he said, “¡Porque la quiero mucho a Kelly!” (Because I love Kelly!) Last Friday, one of my 4 year olds (Candela) had her last day at school. She is moving to Sevilla and we are all so sad. We had a goodbye party for her and made her a photo album full of pictures from the two years she was at the school. I am attached to this class in a way that I am not yet connected with the other classes.
I just recently started working with the 5 year-olds, and they are also adorable. By this age, most of them know how to behave in school (even though they are only 5 and still do have their “kid” moments, which I love about them), and have already learned a little bit of English. My 5 year-olds are a little less interested in the actual learning of English words, but are very much interested in American culture.
My 1st graders are great students, but can be a little wild sometimes, which is understandable considering the style of teaching in Spain. When students reach 1st grade here in Spain, they are expected to be serious students. The style of teaching changes from interactive to lecture-based and I have never seen such a serious 1st grade classroom environment. I don’t agree with it, but that’s how the school chooses to operate, so I find my own ways to bring fun and interaction into the classroom.
I also feel a strong connection to my 2nd grade students, and I don’t know why exactly. There are only 8 students in my 2nd grade class and most of them are very interested in learning English. There are two bilingual (Spanish/French) in the class, and English comes much more easily to these two students than it does to the others. However, all of the 2nd graders are enthusiastic about learning English and always volunteer to participate. They are so proud when they learn a new word or say a complete sentence correctly. Before starting the science lesson for the day, we practice the days of the week, the months of the year, the seasons, and the weather, and they all want to lead the class when we do this!
My 3rd and 4th graders are my most challenging classes because of the challenging material they are required to learn. I spend most of my time reading about science concepts from the book in these classes, and then explaining the text through gestures and drawings.
My 5th and 6th graders are fantastic. They are closer to the age I am used to teaching (although coaching swimming definitely prepared me for teaching the younger kids!), and I get to teach art. I don’t know too much about art, but I do know a lot about Spanish art and I love planning arts and crafts projects. I especially love working with my 6th graders. They are eager to learn English, and I can do so much with them because they are older and already know the basics in English. On Halloween, we carved pumpkins in my 6th grade art class. Now, carving pumpkins is not an easy task when you’ve never even seen the inside of a pumpkin before. I brought in a sample pumpkin that I carved and showed them how to draw the typical pumpkin face (with triangle eyes/nose and mouth). After sketching out the face on the pumpkin, I had them draw the top. Then I went around and carved out the top of everyone’s pumpkin—which was hard work, by the way, with only one knife and several types of gords that were not all as easy to carve as a regular orange pumpkin! As the students started taking off the tops of the pumpkins, their faces were priceless, and even more so when I told them that they had to clean out the guts of the pumpkin with their hands! For the next 20 minutes or so, the only words coming out of my students’ mouths were, “¡Qué asco! ¡Qué asco!” (This is disgusting!!!) When the students had extracted all of the guts, I went around and carved the faces they drew. One of my 6th grade boys was obsessed with my pumpkin and was sad that his pumpkin didn’t look like mine. He asked me if he could pay me 3 euros to carve a pumpkin that looked like mine and then bring it to him the next day. Hilarious! And such a typical middle school comment! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group of middle school students have so much fun in the classroom before. I feel so comfortable around my 6th graders and feel more confident teaching this age-group than teaching any other age-group.
When I first started teaching at my school in Dilar, I wasn’t sure I was going to like it. The teaching approach in Spain is so completely different than in the U.S., and it is almost completely opposite of what I spent all of last year learning about being a successful teacher. However, I think I’ve finally figured out how to bring what I know and what I’ve learned about teaching into each class here in Spain, and have fallen in love with my school and with my students. Teaching in the colegio in Dilar reminds of why I decided to become a teacher when I entered St. Mary’s my freshman year 5 and a half years ago. It also makes me wish I could teach Spanish in elementary, middle, and high school in the U.S. because I love working with every grade so much!
After a fantastic day at school on Friday, I realized that I haven’t really written much (or at all) about my school, my students, and what exactly it is that I am doing here in Granada. The school I am teaching at is located in a town (referred to as a “village” by everyone here) called Dilar about 12 kilometers outside of Granada. Although it is only 12 km away from my apartment and should take me 20 minutes to get there, it takes me an hour and a half (sometimes more) to get to school every day. I walk for 20 minutes to get to my bus station, take the “out of town” green bus into Dilar, and walk for another 20 minutes to get to my school at the top of the hill. But I don’t mind the commute at all because I am in love with my school and with my students.
I teach at C.E.I. P. Federico Garcia Lorca, a public elementary school that is on its way to becoming a bilingual school. There a few reasons why I love this school in particular—the school itself is very small (the entire school is one building) and the classes are also extremely small (ranging from 8-20 kids). Also, there is only one class per grade (the students are ages 3-12). There is a sense of community at the school like one that I have only ever experienced at Mitty, which is pretty amazing for a public elementary school in a town of 1000 people. Everyone at the school knows each other—students are good friends with each other, teachers are friends outside of school, and parents and teachers are commonly good family friends.
My official “title” at the school is “language and culture assistant” (auxiliar de conversación), but I do a little bit of everything. I work with every grade for about an hour each week and I teach 3 different subjects in total. I help teach basic English during psicomotricidad (motor skills) to the kids in Infantil (the 3, 4 and 5 year-olds). We learn things like colors, numbers, opposites, animals, etc. I help teach science in English to the 1st-4th graders, which I find to be the most challenging subject for me to teach. (Let’s be honest here—I studied LANGUAGES for a reason). My 1st and 2nd graders have been learning about body parts, food, eating healthy, and taking care of their bodies over the past few weeks, while my 3rd and 4th graders are learning about more complicated things like the respiratory system and the circulatory system—very difficult concepts to explain in English when the students don’t fully understand them in Spanish! And finally, I teach art to my 5th and 6th graders, which is SO much fun despite my complete and total lack of artistic ability.
People keep asking me what my favorite grade is, and I keep responding, “I can’t pick!” I honestly can’t choose a favorite because I love each grade, and all for different reasons. Each class has something unique about them, as does each student. Aside from teaching what I consider to be a very small amount of English to my students, I have learned so much more from them.
My 3 year olds are adorable. They still can’t speak in complete sentences in Spanish yet, don’t know the alphabet, can barely (some can’t) count to 10. Yet I am teaching them a few basic English words, and they are like sponges when they are interested. They pick up everything I teach them more quickly than any other age group.
My 4 year olds are my most curious students. They are always asking me how to say things in English and surprisingly remember a lot of what I teach them randomly and informally. I guess I would consider them one of my favorite classes simply because I do spend the most time with them. I can’t be around them and not smile. Every day when I walk into the classroom, they run up to me and give me a huge hug. I play a lot of games with my 4 year olds in psicomotricidad (“Simon Says,” musical chairs, English chocolate, etc.) After psicomotricidad, we go back to the classroom and the kids are supposed to draw what they did. The other day, Ibai (the blond boy in all of the pictures!) decided to draw me instead of what we did in psicomotricidad. When the “seño” (short for “señorita”—the teacher) asked Ibai why he drew me, he said, “¡Porque la quiero mucho a Kelly!” (Because I love Kelly!) Last Friday, one of my 4 year olds (Candela) had her last day at school. She is moving to Sevilla and we are all so sad. We had a goodbye party for her and made her a photo album full of pictures from the two years she was at the school. I am attached to this class in a way that I am not yet connected with the other classes.
I just recently started working with the 5 year-olds, and they are also adorable. By this age, most of them know how to behave in school (even though they are only 5 and still do have their “kid” moments, which I love about them), and have already learned a little bit of English. My 5 year-olds are a little less interested in the actual learning of English words, but are very much interested in American culture.
My 1st graders are great students, but can be a little wild sometimes, which is understandable considering the style of teaching in Spain. When students reach 1st grade here in Spain, they are expected to be serious students. The style of teaching changes from interactive to lecture-based and I have never seen such a serious 1st grade classroom environment. I don’t agree with it, but that’s how the school chooses to operate, so I find my own ways to bring fun and interaction into the classroom.
I also feel a strong connection to my 2nd grade students, and I don’t know why exactly. There are only 8 students in my 2nd grade class and most of them are very interested in learning English. There are two bilingual (Spanish/French) in the class, and English comes much more easily to these two students than it does to the others. However, all of the 2nd graders are enthusiastic about learning English and always volunteer to participate. They are so proud when they learn a new word or say a complete sentence correctly. Before starting the science lesson for the day, we practice the days of the week, the months of the year, the seasons, and the weather, and they all want to lead the class when we do this!
My 3rd and 4th graders are my most challenging classes because of the challenging material they are required to learn. I spend most of my time reading about science concepts from the book in these classes, and then explaining the text through gestures and drawings.
My 5th and 6th graders are fantastic. They are closer to the age I am used to teaching (although coaching swimming definitely prepared me for teaching the younger kids!), and I get to teach art. I don’t know too much about art, but I do know a lot about Spanish art and I love planning arts and crafts projects. I especially love working with my 6th graders. They are eager to learn English, and I can do so much with them because they are older and already know the basics in English. On Halloween, we carved pumpkins in my 6th grade art class. Now, carving pumpkins is not an easy task when you’ve never even seen the inside of a pumpkin before. I brought in a sample pumpkin that I carved and showed them how to draw the typical pumpkin face (with triangle eyes/nose and mouth). After sketching out the face on the pumpkin, I had them draw the top. Then I went around and carved out the top of everyone’s pumpkin—which was hard work, by the way, with only one knife and several types of gords that were not all as easy to carve as a regular orange pumpkin! As the students started taking off the tops of the pumpkins, their faces were priceless, and even more so when I told them that they had to clean out the guts of the pumpkin with their hands! For the next 20 minutes or so, the only words coming out of my students’ mouths were, “¡Qué asco! ¡Qué asco!” (This is disgusting!!!) When the students had extracted all of the guts, I went around and carved the faces they drew. One of my 6th grade boys was obsessed with my pumpkin and was sad that his pumpkin didn’t look like mine. He asked me if he could pay me 3 euros to carve a pumpkin that looked like mine and then bring it to him the next day. Hilarious! And such a typical middle school comment! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group of middle school students have so much fun in the classroom before. I feel so comfortable around my 6th graders and feel more confident teaching this age-group than teaching any other age-group.
When I first started teaching at my school in Dilar, I wasn’t sure I was going to like it. The teaching approach in Spain is so completely different than in the U.S., and it is almost completely opposite of what I spent all of last year learning about being a successful teacher. However, I think I’ve finally figured out how to bring what I know and what I’ve learned about teaching into each class here in Spain, and have fallen in love with my school and with my students. Teaching in the colegio in Dilar reminds of why I decided to become a teacher when I entered St. Mary’s my freshman year 5 and a half years ago. It also makes me wish I could teach Spanish in elementary, middle, and high school in the U.S. because I love working with every grade so much!
10.18.2009
"Es Culpa de La Felicidad"
(Adventures from my 2nd weekend in Granada...)
My second weekend in Granada and I’m already completely adjusted to the Spanish way of life. I’m not sure what to think about this. My friends from home think it's crazy how quickly I've adjusted and "changed", and my friends here in Spain think that this is normal. All I know is that I have had more fun in the last two weeks than I possibly ever have in my entire life.
Last night I met Cerena, Suzanne, Suzanne’s roommate Inma and some of Inma’s friends from out of town for tapas at a place called La Bodega. Inma is almost 30 years old, but seems like she is my age. I love being around Inma and her friends because they are Spanish—locals—and there is nothing like being with locals. Inma’s friends are all around her age, some a little older and some a little younger, but as I said, they seem much younger.
Locals know everything about the city and bring you to the most amazing places where there are other locals. We speak Spanish 100% of the time we spend with them and not just any Spanish—español Andaluz (Andalucían Spanish). We talk about languages and accents and why Spanish people are so embarrassed to speak English even though most of the time their English is better than our Spanish.
La Bodega is a small restaurant located just off C/ Recogidas on C/ Jardines. The place specializing in typical comida Gallega (Northern Spanish food), but they have a little bit of everything. The atmosphere of La Bodega is warm—welcoming. It is both fun and classy at the same time. There are families, older people, and younger people (all Spaniards) who frequent this incredible establishment.
The place was packed full of people from the time we arrived at 9:30 to the time we left at 1:00am. The waiters were running around like crazy trying to serve everyone. Cerena and I got there before everyone else, so we started out with some tinto de verano (my drink of choice in the South of Spain) and our tapa came shortly after—albóndigas con papitas y pan. We also decided to order a media ración of croquetas—a tapa that I miss from Madrid. We then ordered a ración of Bacalao (cod fish) because my roommate Paz said that we had to try it. Both raciones were some of the best tapas I’ve had in Granada thus far.
When Suzanne, Inma and 3 of her friends from out of town arrived, we ordered a “cerdo”—a bottle of white wine served in a frozen jar shaped like a pig. When you pour the wine, it comes out of the pig’s mouth. Spain is so weird. We also order a ración of pulpo (octopus) and it was delicious. We spent part of the time talking about traveling and cultures and Spanish from Andalucía with each other. Suzanne, Cerena and I spent the other part of the night trying to figure out what in the world Inma and her friends were saying to each other when they were talking only with each other. The accent in Andalucía (and especially in Granada) is seemly impossible to understand after being here for only a week!
After La Bodega, we finished our night out at a bar called Marisma—a pretty famous bar here in Granada, especially considering they don't serve tapas. Instead, they have sunflower seeds. Spain is so weird. Who would ever think to serve sunflower seeds in a bar? According to Inma, though, this is normal. I tried to tell Inma that sunflower seeds are associated with baseball in the U.S., but she didn’t understand.
Cerena and I were tired and ready to go home. However, when we tried to explain this to Inma, she said, “No vais a casa ahora. ¿Qué tenéis que hacer mañana? Es domingo. No tenéis que hacer nada. Entonces vais a venir a casa pa’ tomar una copa, ¿vale?” (You’re not going home right now! What do you have to do tomorrow? It’s Sunday…You don’t have to do anything. So you’re going to come up for a drink, ok?).
It wasn’t even a question. This is what Inma said to me several times that night and several times since that night whenever I tell her that I’m sleepy or that I’m going home. Inma (as I’m discovering most Spaniards are) is just so logical (in the Spanish sense of the word) and “in the moment”—the complete opposite of the American idea of logic. Needless to say, we ended up coming up to their apartment, talking, playing cherades, and then sleeping over. When I asked her who she blames when she’s tired, she told me, “Es culpa de la felicidad.” This is an expression used often in Spain that literally translates to: “It’s happiness’s fault.”
.....................................................................................
Es mi segundo fin de semana en Granada y ya estoy acostumbrada al estilo de vida español. No sé pensar de esto. Mis amigos de EE.UU. no pueden creer que he acostumbrado tan rapido y que he "cambiado" tanto, y mis amigos españoles piensan que todo esto es normal. Solo sé que me he divertido más en las últimas dos semanas que jamás me he divertido en mi vida entera.
Anoche quedé con Cerena, Suzanne, Inma, y algunos amigos de Inma para tapas a un restaurante que se llama La Bodega. Inma tiene casi 30 años, pero parece la misma edad que yo. Me encanta pasar tiempo con Inma y sus amigos porque son españoles, y no hay nada como estar con los españoles en España. Los amigos de Inma tienen más o menos la misma edad que ella—algunos son mayores y algunos menores. Pero como he dicho, ellos parecen más joven que son.
Los que viven en España saben todo de la ciudad y te enseñan los sitios más chulos donde están otros españoles. Hablamos en español cien por ciento del tiempo que pasamos con ellos y no hablamos simplemente Castellano sino español Andaluz (el español de Andalucía). Hablamos de los idiomas y los acentos, y por qué la gente en España tiene tanta vergüenza de hablar el inglés aunque la mayoría del tiempo su inglés es mejor que nuestro español.
La Bodega es un restaurant pequeño situado cerca de C/ Recogidas en la C/ Jardines. El restaurante especializa en la comida Gallega (comida del Norte de España), pero tienen un poco de todo. El ambiente de La Bodega es cómodo. Es divertido y clásico a la vez. Hay familias, personas viejas y personas menores (todos son españoles) que van aquí durante el día y por la noche.
El sitio estaba llena de gente desde cuando llegamos a las 21.30h. Los camareros estaban corriendo por todas partes intentando de servir a todos. Cerena y yo llegábamos temprano. Entonces pedimos un tinto de verano (mi bebida preferida en el Sur de España) y un tapa de albóndigas. También pedimos una media ración de croquetas—una tapa que extraño de Madrid. Luego pedimos madia ración de Bacalao a la Bodega—un plato que Paz me dijo que tenía que probar. Las dos raciones estaban algunas de las mejores tapas que he comido en Granada hasta ahora.
Cuando llegaron Suzanne, Inma, y sus amigos, pedimos un “cerdo”—una botella de vino que se sirve en una jarra muy fría en la forma de un cerdo. Cuando echas el vino, sale de la boca del cerdo. Me encanta España. También pedimos una ración de pulpo y estaba deliciosa. Pasamos media de la noche hablando de viajar y las culturas y el español Andaluz entre nosotros. Suzanne, Cerena y yo pasamos la otra parte de la noche intentando de entender la conversación entre Inma y sus amigos cuando estaban hablamos entre ellos mismos. ¡El acento Andaluz (y especialmente en Granada) parece casi imposible de entender después de estar aquí por tan solo una semana!
Acabamos nuestra noche de salir a un lugar que se llama Marisma—un bar bastante famosa en Granada aunque no pone tapa. En lugar de tapas, tiene pipas. España es muy extraño. ¿Quién pensaría en servir pipas en un bar? Según Inma esto es normal. Intenté decirle a inma que las pipas se asocian con el béisbol en los EE.UU., pero no entendía.
Cerena y yo estábamos cansadas y preparadas a irnos a casa. Pero cuando tratamos de explicar esto a Inma, ella nos dijo, “No vais a casa ahora. ¿Qué tenéis que hacer mañana? Es domingo. No tenéis que hacer nada. Entonces vais a venir a casa pa’ tomar una copa, ¿vale?”
Aún no fue pregunta. Inma me dijo esas mismas palabras varias veces esa noche y varias veces desde aquella noche cuando yo le digo que tengo sueño o que quiero irme a casa. Inma (como estoy descubriendo son la mayoría de los españoles) es lógica (en el sentido de la palabra epsañol) y siempre está “en el momento”—el puro opuesto de la idea de lógico de los Americanos. No necesito decir que nos quedábamos al piso de Inma y Suzanne, hablando y jugando cherades, y al final dormimos allí. Cuando le pregunté a Inma a quién tiene la culpa cuando ella está cansada, me dijo, “Es culpa de la felicidad.”
My second weekend in Granada and I’m already completely adjusted to the Spanish way of life. I’m not sure what to think about this. My friends from home think it's crazy how quickly I've adjusted and "changed", and my friends here in Spain think that this is normal. All I know is that I have had more fun in the last two weeks than I possibly ever have in my entire life.
Last night I met Cerena, Suzanne, Suzanne’s roommate Inma and some of Inma’s friends from out of town for tapas at a place called La Bodega. Inma is almost 30 years old, but seems like she is my age. I love being around Inma and her friends because they are Spanish—locals—and there is nothing like being with locals. Inma’s friends are all around her age, some a little older and some a little younger, but as I said, they seem much younger.
Locals know everything about the city and bring you to the most amazing places where there are other locals. We speak Spanish 100% of the time we spend with them and not just any Spanish—español Andaluz (Andalucían Spanish). We talk about languages and accents and why Spanish people are so embarrassed to speak English even though most of the time their English is better than our Spanish.
La Bodega is a small restaurant located just off C/ Recogidas on C/ Jardines. The place specializing in typical comida Gallega (Northern Spanish food), but they have a little bit of everything. The atmosphere of La Bodega is warm—welcoming. It is both fun and classy at the same time. There are families, older people, and younger people (all Spaniards) who frequent this incredible establishment.
The place was packed full of people from the time we arrived at 9:30 to the time we left at 1:00am. The waiters were running around like crazy trying to serve everyone. Cerena and I got there before everyone else, so we started out with some tinto de verano (my drink of choice in the South of Spain) and our tapa came shortly after—albóndigas con papitas y pan. We also decided to order a media ración of croquetas—a tapa that I miss from Madrid. We then ordered a ración of Bacalao (cod fish) because my roommate Paz said that we had to try it. Both raciones were some of the best tapas I’ve had in Granada thus far.
When Suzanne, Inma and 3 of her friends from out of town arrived, we ordered a “cerdo”—a bottle of white wine served in a frozen jar shaped like a pig. When you pour the wine, it comes out of the pig’s mouth. Spain is so weird. We also order a ración of pulpo (octopus) and it was delicious. We spent part of the time talking about traveling and cultures and Spanish from Andalucía with each other. Suzanne, Cerena and I spent the other part of the night trying to figure out what in the world Inma and her friends were saying to each other when they were talking only with each other. The accent in Andalucía (and especially in Granada) is seemly impossible to understand after being here for only a week!
After La Bodega, we finished our night out at a bar called Marisma—a pretty famous bar here in Granada, especially considering they don't serve tapas. Instead, they have sunflower seeds. Spain is so weird. Who would ever think to serve sunflower seeds in a bar? According to Inma, though, this is normal. I tried to tell Inma that sunflower seeds are associated with baseball in the U.S., but she didn’t understand.
Cerena and I were tired and ready to go home. However, when we tried to explain this to Inma, she said, “No vais a casa ahora. ¿Qué tenéis que hacer mañana? Es domingo. No tenéis que hacer nada. Entonces vais a venir a casa pa’ tomar una copa, ¿vale?” (You’re not going home right now! What do you have to do tomorrow? It’s Sunday…You don’t have to do anything. So you’re going to come up for a drink, ok?).
It wasn’t even a question. This is what Inma said to me several times that night and several times since that night whenever I tell her that I’m sleepy or that I’m going home. Inma (as I’m discovering most Spaniards are) is just so logical (in the Spanish sense of the word) and “in the moment”—the complete opposite of the American idea of logic. Needless to say, we ended up coming up to their apartment, talking, playing cherades, and then sleeping over. When I asked her who she blames when she’s tired, she told me, “Es culpa de la felicidad.” This is an expression used often in Spain that literally translates to: “It’s happiness’s fault.”
.....................................................................................
Es mi segundo fin de semana en Granada y ya estoy acostumbrada al estilo de vida español. No sé pensar de esto. Mis amigos de EE.UU. no pueden creer que he acostumbrado tan rapido y que he "cambiado" tanto, y mis amigos españoles piensan que todo esto es normal. Solo sé que me he divertido más en las últimas dos semanas que jamás me he divertido en mi vida entera.
Anoche quedé con Cerena, Suzanne, Inma, y algunos amigos de Inma para tapas a un restaurante que se llama La Bodega. Inma tiene casi 30 años, pero parece la misma edad que yo. Me encanta pasar tiempo con Inma y sus amigos porque son españoles, y no hay nada como estar con los españoles en España. Los amigos de Inma tienen más o menos la misma edad que ella—algunos son mayores y algunos menores. Pero como he dicho, ellos parecen más joven que son.
Los que viven en España saben todo de la ciudad y te enseñan los sitios más chulos donde están otros españoles. Hablamos en español cien por ciento del tiempo que pasamos con ellos y no hablamos simplemente Castellano sino español Andaluz (el español de Andalucía). Hablamos de los idiomas y los acentos, y por qué la gente en España tiene tanta vergüenza de hablar el inglés aunque la mayoría del tiempo su inglés es mejor que nuestro español.
La Bodega es un restaurant pequeño situado cerca de C/ Recogidas en la C/ Jardines. El restaurante especializa en la comida Gallega (comida del Norte de España), pero tienen un poco de todo. El ambiente de La Bodega es cómodo. Es divertido y clásico a la vez. Hay familias, personas viejas y personas menores (todos son españoles) que van aquí durante el día y por la noche.
El sitio estaba llena de gente desde cuando llegamos a las 21.30h. Los camareros estaban corriendo por todas partes intentando de servir a todos. Cerena y yo llegábamos temprano. Entonces pedimos un tinto de verano (mi bebida preferida en el Sur de España) y un tapa de albóndigas. También pedimos una media ración de croquetas—una tapa que extraño de Madrid. Luego pedimos madia ración de Bacalao a la Bodega—un plato que Paz me dijo que tenía que probar. Las dos raciones estaban algunas de las mejores tapas que he comido en Granada hasta ahora.
Cuando llegaron Suzanne, Inma, y sus amigos, pedimos un “cerdo”—una botella de vino que se sirve en una jarra muy fría en la forma de un cerdo. Cuando echas el vino, sale de la boca del cerdo. Me encanta España. También pedimos una ración de pulpo y estaba deliciosa. Pasamos media de la noche hablando de viajar y las culturas y el español Andaluz entre nosotros. Suzanne, Cerena y yo pasamos la otra parte de la noche intentando de entender la conversación entre Inma y sus amigos cuando estaban hablamos entre ellos mismos. ¡El acento Andaluz (y especialmente en Granada) parece casi imposible de entender después de estar aquí por tan solo una semana!
Acabamos nuestra noche de salir a un lugar que se llama Marisma—un bar bastante famosa en Granada aunque no pone tapa. En lugar de tapas, tiene pipas. España es muy extraño. ¿Quién pensaría en servir pipas en un bar? Según Inma esto es normal. Intenté decirle a inma que las pipas se asocian con el béisbol en los EE.UU., pero no entendía.
Cerena y yo estábamos cansadas y preparadas a irnos a casa. Pero cuando tratamos de explicar esto a Inma, ella nos dijo, “No vais a casa ahora. ¿Qué tenéis que hacer mañana? Es domingo. No tenéis que hacer nada. Entonces vais a venir a casa pa’ tomar una copa, ¿vale?”
Aún no fue pregunta. Inma me dijo esas mismas palabras varias veces esa noche y varias veces desde aquella noche cuando yo le digo que tengo sueño o que quiero irme a casa. Inma (como estoy descubriendo son la mayoría de los españoles) es lógica (en el sentido de la palabra epsañol) y siempre está “en el momento”—el puro opuesto de la idea de lógico de los Americanos. No necesito decir que nos quedábamos al piso de Inma y Suzanne, hablando y jugando cherades, y al final dormimos allí. Cuando le pregunté a Inma a quién tiene la culpa cuando ella está cansada, me dijo, “Es culpa de la felicidad.”
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About Me
- Kel
- I am 28 years old and learning to live my life with the daily struggles of mental illness. My illnesses are a significant part of my life, but they are not all that I am. I am a teacher, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend, too. I'm starting this blog to chronicle my passions, goals, challenges and victories. I want to remind myself that I have come through many seemingly impossible situations, and I will continue to fights for the experiences like the ones I write about in this blog.