Tangier, Morocco, Africa

This morning, we all woke up extra early, because today is the day we go to Africa!

I was really excited about this, as you might imagine, since the closest I’d been before was “Morocco” in Epcot – and here I was going to the real thing!

Because we only had one day (and had to cross the ocean by ferry) we were going to the port city of Tangier, rather than the inner, landlocked cities of Marrakesh or Casablanca (although I would love to return and see them.)

We took a tour bus to the southernmost tip of Spain, then boarded the fast ferry to Morocco, Africa. I ran into Eliana on board and it was lucky I did, because she happened to be carrying the Argentinean version of Dramamine in her purse. The fast ferry rode like a tricked-out wave runner. It was so bouncy that people who tried to walk – or even stand – kept falling down, and the brave souls who managed to get to the bar to order a drink ended up spilling/wearing more than consuming.

My first glimpses of Morocco were of a sprawling, white-dotted city along a backdrop of mountains.

It didn’t start getting crazy until we set foot on African soil. First, we had a bus tour and then we were dropped off near the casbah for a walking tour. We were immediately surrounded by robed men towing roped camels, offering camel rides for 1E. I rode the first camel on purpose, then was basically forced to ride the second because the camelmaster (is that a word?) decided I was the wife of one of my schoolmates and insisted that I ride with my husband. (???)

Next, the guide walked us through the casbah and basically debunked nearly everything I’d ever heard about the Moroccan/Arab/Muslim culture. First of all, there has been women’s sufferage for years. There are women leaders in every aspect of government, which is more than we can say about the US. (For women, minorities *or* religions. Basically, you have to be a white male Christian if you want to get anywhere in our government.)

The long robes she was wearing are traditional garb, but not obligatory – we saw a few locals in jeans and t-shirts, and all of the kids had on tank tops and shorts. Similarly, there are no buildings or places where women are not allowed to go, just places that they typically choose not to enter, due to tradition and culture. (If you think this explanation sounds like propaganda, consider the different demographics between, say, front-row spectators at a wrestling match and participants at a tupperware party. it’s not a matter of which gender is or isn’t *allowed* to go, so much as chooses not to based on our culture.) And believe me, Moroccan culture is way different from ours.

We rounded the next corner and were immediately approached by a snake charmer, whose partners played music while he pulled a long, writhing snake out of a basket and wrapped it around my neck. Yes, my neck. (I’m lucky it didn’t bite me – that would have been three continents in less than two months.) He let the snake wind itself around other people, too, and we all tossed some coins into his basket (not the same one that housed the snake, that would have been mean.)

The architecture in Morocco is really neat. I love the unique arches, the stone roads, the painted tiles. We ate lunch in a picturesque Arabian restaurant, complete with a salon of musicians, playing for change. The appetizer was a shishkebob of unknown meat origin (not for Alison and I, who got salads instead). Main course was couscous and veggies (my favorite) followed by green tea, which is boiled in a giant pot and servered to everyone at once, at the end of the meal. Unfortunately, we were all embarrassed when one of my classmates started demanding hers as soon as she sat down. “But I’ll pay for it! I want it now!” I felt like kicking her under the table. (Settle down, Veruca.) In case you’re wondering, despite her repeated demands, they did not bring it to her until it was ready, and everybody got a cup at the same time.

Next we had a tour of a Moroccan carpet factory, in which the sales people there did a hard hustle to get us to buy carpets. Several peple in the group caved. One classmate haggled them down about 50 bucks in price, but another forgot that Morocco is a bargain culture and bought hers for the 100E without any haggling.

Following the carpet factory, we were swept into a spice store, where our Moroccan “spice presentation and demonstration” was another thinly veiled sales pitch, this time for cooking spices, herbal remedies, makeup (ie, kohl eyeliner, etc). I got the kohl because I thought it was neat, and some eucalyptus leaves for when I get the inevitable cold. Some people had bags crammed full of goodies, which wouldn’t have been hard to do. The jars of spices filled the shelves that lined all the walls of the store from floor to ceiling.

Finally, we were let loose in the marketplace, which would have been panic-inducing had I been the claustrophobic (or crowd-ophobic) sort. The streets are high and narrow, and packed with all manner of Moroccans – mostly men – practicing an in-your-face style of high pressure salesmanship. The would walk backwards to be nose-to-nose with you, giving a constant sales patter. “10 Euro! 10 Euro! You want it! 10 Euro! 8 Pounds! 12 Dollars!” If you made eye contact or, worse, went so far as to respond in any way (if only to say no thanks), they stuck to you like glue until they could convince you that your life’s dream was an African drum set (Paula), various jewelry (Leila), an African cap (Bryan), or a possibly stolan Moroccan rug (Darius, who waited him out from 100E all the way down to 30E before he caved and bought it.)

So what did I buy from the street hustlers oops I mean vendors? A t-shirt for my brother Rob, who requested a souvenir from an unusual place. Believe me – this was definitely an unusual place! Their currency (dirham) is not even international – it’s no good anywhere except in Morocco itself, which is why they’re so eager to take any other kind of currency you might have on you.

Tags: animals, food, lost in translation, music & concerts, shopping

Torremolinos, Spain

This morning I woke up bright and early to do a little more studying, since today is the final exam. I felt fairly confident with it (and ended up getting a 90, which gave me a 91 in the course.) I also gave my oral presentation on Gibraltar beforehand.

I am getting pretty excited about going to Madrid, not just because of missing city life (I can’t say Madrid never sleeps, but I can say it only naps a bit from 3-6pm and then is wide awake all night long) but also because the Madrid dormitory has an actual washer and dryer.

Here, we’ve been washing our clothes in the sink and hanging them out to dry. At least, *I’ve* been washing them in the sink. My roommate has been talking about doing hers in the bidet, but whether she did, I’ll never know.

One thing to keep in mind about the cercanías (trains) from our hotel to get to Málaga, is that they are completely unlike the El (if you are from the Chicago area.) For example, whether you are trying to get on or off, the doors do not automatically open. You must press the “abrir” button, or you’ll be stuck on the other side. (Yes, this lesson was learned the hard way.)

Tonight Alison and I went out by ourselves. First, we went to a horse show called Ritmo a Caballo, featuring choreographed movement by riders in old, traditional Spanish outfits.

Aside from the hot, stuffy, no-air-circulating, crowded building, the show was really neat, excpet for one fact. Did I mention the hot, stuffy, no-air-circulating crowdedness? No, it’s not for me that I’m complaining (although I wasn’t loving it, either.) It’s for the horses. Halfway through the show, they were clearly panting and sweating, and a couple even had that white froth stuff on their backs (you can tell I have zero knowledge about horses because I don’t even know the word for this). So, my enjoyment of the show was greatly tempered by my concern for the treatment and well-being of the animals.

After the show, we went for dinner and a flamenco show at Feria del Sur. (Call me hypociritcal if you must, but I don’t mind if *people* get sweaty – they’re getting paid, and besides, they’re choosing to do so.) When we arrived, we each got a flower to wear (Alison tucked hers behind one ear, and I threaded mine through a button hole on my shirt) and a pre-dinner tapa, which was an extremely tasty tortilla (Spanish omelette.)

The tables were laden with wine, champagne, and sangria (oh, and water, how could I forget?) and since we were starving, we instantly tore into the bread on the table, which were tiny loaves individually wrapped in airtight plastic bags. (We also each took one to go.)

The main dish was paella (pronounced “pi-A-ya”). When the chefs had finished cooking, two servers brought a massive silver platter of paella out on stage to present for the approval of the guests, which was neat. Everyone cheered, the servers returned to the kitchen, and in a few minutes emerged with hot plates for everyone. (Ali and I got vegi versions, which were excellent.)

Right about the time dinner was served, the flamenco show began, and it was awesome! I *so* want to be a flamenco dancer. They say it takes a minimum of two years non-stop study in Andaluía to even learn the moves, and I can believe it. It looks powerful, beautiful, and fun.

Tags: animals, food, music & concerts, wine

Puerto Banus, Spain & Ronda, Spain

If you’ll recall, today is the day that instead of going to class, I am going to visit Ronda, home of Spain’s oldest bullring. (FYI: “Ro” like “row your boat”, not like “rah”.) When I arrived in Ronda, I met a girl (from my same excursion, though not from my hotel) named Eliana. She is from Argentina and was visiting a friend who had a summer house here in the Málaga area. Eliana is really nice and we hit it off right away. Apparently, we became fast friends a little too quickly, because the next thing we know, our tour guide is gone and the group disappeared right along with him.

We picked up a couple maps at the tourist information office and ended up making our own sightseeing tour, trying to follow the route the guide had indicated, but never quite catching up with him. What we *did* find was an absolutely breathtaking panoramic view of the area.

Ronda is an old city, perched atop a nest of mountains, overlooking an incredibly deep but beautiful gorge. An ancient Roman bridge snakes up the mountainside, made of stone blocks over a row of repeating arches. Old and new buildings balance on the edge of the gorge, and the people line the perimeter, enjoying the view of the bridge, the rocks, the cathedral, the mountains…

We came across the Plaza de Toros just in time to see the tour group! Unfortumately,they were scattering because it was the last guided stop before free time, but luckily the guilde was still there and we did not have to pay for admission. The bullring was massive. I could just imagine the thousands of spectators crowding each level, hundreds of years ago.

After this, Eliana and I stopped for lunch and I ordered a vegi pizza. Spanish vegi pizza is nothing like American vegi pizza. First of all, you don’t pick what goes on it. You don’t even get to know in advance. Secondly, what does come on it is different at each restaurant and always appears a bit random. For example, the most abundant vegi on this particular pizza was corn. You heard me. Corn.

Naturally, we couldn’t find the bus stop when it was time to pile back in, but at least this time we were not alone. We had met up with half a dozen or so travellers from England, who were also very lost, and took turns asking us if we knew where we were going. Finally, I said I’d ask someone, walked up to the nearest local, and asked him if he knew where the tourist buses typically picked up. Sure, he said, and gave some easy directions.

The British woman turned to me and said, “I didn’t know you were from Spain!” “I’m not,” I answered. Her eyes got round and she exclaimed, “But you speak Spanish so *well*!” (Apparently my English is a little sketchy, however.)

So we get back on the bus, which makes a stop at Puerto Banus on the way back. Eliana tells me that Puerto Banus is a famous, rich Spanish port, with an impressive array of yachts and a large statue that appears in lots of Spanish movies. We walked along the port, saw lots of yachts, several fish and even a ray before it was time to head back to our hotels.

Back at the hotel, I was just in time for dinner and the nightly entertainment. As usual, it was Mario, the hotel singer who sings to karaoke CDs (without the lyric screen) and plays along on an electric keyboard, although one time he stopped to answer his cell phone mid-song and the music mysteriously kept playing. He “plays” a short set, but he plays the set three times a night, and you can bank on hearing Shakira, Every Step You Take, Pretty Woman (which he mumbles through since he doesn’t know the words except to the chorus) and this undulating, bouncy yodel tune, to which he yodels his name (”Mario-hee, Mario-hoo”, etc.) At first, we believed he invented that particular ditty himself, but we were to later learn that it is in fact a real song.

Tags: animals, cathedrals, lost, lost in translation, music & concerts, road trip

Benalmádena, Spain & Fuengirola, Spain

This morning, I got up, ate breakfast, went to class, and after class, I went to the front desk to buy a ticket to Ronda for tomorrow. Technically, I’m supposed to be in class, but the professor gave Ula and I permission to do something cultural instead. She’s going to Gibraltar, and I wanted to go to Cadiz (the oldest city in Europe) but due to various extenuating circumstances, I settled on Ronda instead.

I bought tomorrow’s ticket, then headed for the train. For some reason, the train was packed with people, so I had to stand. The guy next to me instantly began chattering animatedly in what appeared to be gibberish. At some point, he realized I had no idea what he was saying, and asked (this time in Spanish), “You mean you’re not Arabic?” Mark it on the calendar! This is a new one for me. I’ve been mistaken for Mexican, Puerto Rican, Native American, Costa Rican, Indian (free gulab jamun out of that one), and basically anywhere in South America, but never in my life have I been mistaken for Arabic. Once I was able to explain that no, I wasn’t from Morocco, but actually from the United States (which he had never heard of, by the way), he promptly asked if I would like to be his girlfriend.

I politely declined, using my existing boyfriend as my main argument. In his somewhat broken Spanish (with a thick Arabian accent to boot – I was saying “What?” after every sentence) he asked if this boyfriend was actually here with me. No, I answered reluctantly, he’s back in my country, but he is still my boyfriend. That’s OK, he agreed cheerfully, I’ll just be your *Spain* boyfriend.

This completely threw me for a few minutes until I realized the the harem-and-many-wives mentality apparently also applied to tourist girlfriends. I feigned sudden deafness and tried to back away as best I could in a crowded train car. I had a few moments of fear when he continued to argue the point and I discovered we were getting off at the same stop. I managed to give him the slip in the train station, however, and breathed a sigh of relief to still only have one boyfriend.

In Fuengirola, I made my way to the sea and bought a one-way cruise ticket to Benalmadena for 7E. On board I took a bunch of pictures, ate a deelicious ice cream cone, and happened to notice the woman seated across from me suddenly decide to sun bathe topless. I think I see at least one pair of breasts every day. If not on live persons, then on advertisements. Here, nudity isn’t anything to be self-conscious about. People are no more scandalized when they see a nipple (when breastfeeding, for example) than they would be to see an ankle or a knee. Here, your body is just your body.

I got off the boat in Benalmáadena amid a sea of yachts. I walked along the port, which was filled with people, shops, and cafes. I found the aquarium and went directly inside. They gave me the student discount (4.50E) even though I didn’t have my card on me.

The aquarium was small but nice, with a variety of fish organized in logical sections (Amazonian, etc). The tanks were very clear and brightly lit. This was great for my photos, but I don’t know if it is good for the fish. (Anyone know?) I saw a few fish that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before, which was neat. One was colorful and shaped like a needle and about as thick as a small crochet hook. (I didn’t get the name of it.)

After the aquarium, I made my way to Tivoli World, which was more complicated than I anticipated. There is only one train stop for Benalmadena / Arroyo de Miel, but that train stop is apparently over 6 km from the port – a bit of a hike. I ended up walking maybe a kilometer, waiting fruitlessly for a bus (several stopped, but they were all heading elsewhere) and ended up taking a cab. As it turned out, the taxi driver wasn’t going to Tivoli World (then why did he pick me up?!) but bizarrely enough, he dropped me off (free of charge) at another taxi, who would be going there. The new taxi cost me 5E, but since I had no idea where I was going, I figure it’s 5E well spent. The train stop ended up being maybe half a kilometer or so from the park, so it was really easy to get home afterwards.

(I had heard of Tivoli because I saw ads for it on the train. I will admit, it was a good month later before I learned what and why it was. But I’ll get to that when that day comes.)

It only cost 4.50E to get in to Tivoli World. The rides (and there were a lot more than I anticipated) operated on the ticket principle. One ticket (or one “tivoli”) was 1E, but armbands for unlimited rides were only 10E. There was a Jurassic area with a giant dinosaur and an American Old West section, which was kind of funny (and for some reason called the “Far West” instead of the “Old West”.) There were fountains everywhere and go karts, bumper cars, and even bumper boats. There were haunted houses, a different Ferris wheel in almost every section, and a wild-mouse style roller coaster. Fearless as I am, the piercing shriek of its brakes on every turn prevented even me from trying it.

I ate dinner in the china section, but without question, my favorite quarter was the Andalusian (southern Spain) area. There was a flamenco show, which was fabulous. The dancers were great and the costumes were amazing. When the show ended, I stopped by a churrería who served me some hot, fresh churros and a cup of steamy hot chocolate for only 2.50E.

Tags: animals, lost in translation, music & concerts, theme parks

Fuengirola, Spain & la Costa del Sol

Today, I wake up, eat breakfast, then take the train to Fuengirola. I had seen brochures for the Fuengirola Zoo, saying that they did not believe in bars or cages, and tried their best to recreate animals’ natural environment. This sounded great to me, so I decided to check it out. I’m glad I did! Although small, it was labyrinthic and very pretty, and I even got to see a few animals I’d never heard of, and a few more way closer than I’ve ever previously been. After the zoo, I took the train back to the hotel just in time for the group’s Costa del Sol tour of the southern coast of Spain.

We drove through small pueblos, touristy beaches, posh LA-style shopping strips (Armani stores, Versace stores, etc) and super-rich beach mansion areas. We took walking tours in the downtowns of some of these places, and it was amazing to see the old churches, the ancient castles, the opulent mosques, the fountains, the statues – and these aren’t ordinary fountains and statues! In one park, everything was created by Salvador Dalí. In another, the fountain was a mosaic, and in most, the benches are made with painted tiles.

After the tour, I returned to the hotel to study a couple of hours for class the next day. Because this first class is only two weeks, every night we have to read 2-3 chapters. At midnight, Sebastián showed me a little bar on the beach. I only stayed out for two hours because I had class the next day, but I could have stayed and talked with him for hours. I was finally having a meaningful conversation in Spanish, and for the first time since my arrival, I became acutely aware of the inadequacies in my vocabulary. We talked about the Bush presidency, the lack of compulsory foreign language/culture education in the United States, and the correlated general geographical ignorance of our nation (myself included – a blank map pop quiz makes me break out in a cold sweat), the cost of living versus typical wages in different regions of Spain, the cultural norms and typical dress of people in Morocco (where Sebastián had spent 3 months traveling), the many countries that invaded Spain over the last couple millennia, the surfing waves in Peru as compared to Ecuador (this one I was doing mostly listening) and how Miami is definitely inferior to Tampa. I was hoping to make friends in Spain – and finally I found the first one!

A few things I don’t know if I mentioned but don’t want to forget to say: The bathroom in the hotel has a bidet. I don’t think I’d ever seen one before (and I have not so much as touched it as of yet) but I should at least turn it on, just to see what happens.

Also, prices. How much do things cost? Well, it depends. Some things are very expensive. The cheapest one day car rental, for example, is 45 euros, which is like 53 USD. I had wanted to go to Cadiz, but it’s 3 hours away, and at 45E plus gas… not this trip.

Similarly, the Internet is pay-per-use, ranging from 1E per 10 minutes at my hotel to 1E per hour at the local, rarely-open, Internet cafe.

On the other hand, if you want something to drink, it’s probably just a euro in any vending machine. Bottled water? Diet Coke with lemon? Cadbury candy bar? Cigarettes? Beer? It’s all in the vending machines.

In the grocery stores, drinks are even cheaper. I got the equivalent of three gallons of water for 2E, and a box of sangria for 59 cents. (I don’t know what’s more ghetto – that I bought sangria for 59 cents or that it came in a box.) I took it to dinner at the hotel and shared it with my classmates. (We’d been taking turns and I was up. No expense was spared.)

Speaking of boxes of drink, I bought some Apple Juice boxes at El Corte Ingles – but if I had wanted to, I could have gotten wine instead. That’s right, you can get wine or sangria in Hi-C sized mini boxes, some with plastic bendy-straw. (See? That 59 cent box of sangria is starting to sound pretty high-class, isn’t it.)

And there’s no drinking age in Spain. Children often share a glass of wine with dinner. (I guess you could pack a wine box in their lunch pail too, if you really wanted to.) Some places enforce an alcohol *buying* age of 18, but even that isn’t standard. However, there’s really no issues with alocoholism. Because of the lack of drinking age and the idea of responsible one-glass-only drinking taught from childhood, there’s no rebellious underage drinking, no raucous frat parties or hazing, and no drunken karaoke bars. (Except in tourist areas. Americans can’t help themselves.)

So, kids have to find some other way to rebel, and near as I can figure, it’s all in the hair. Teenagers and twenty-somethings have all the hair colors in the rainbow, and many look as though they trim their hair with a lawn mower. (I’ve even seen a few lost souls with Rainbow-Brite colored mullets – and these were *women*!) The little kids, thankfully, are normal-looking and very cute.

Tags: animals, castles & palaces, cathedrals, fashion, food, travel tips, wine

Málaga, Spain

Yet another gorgeous day! Unfortunately, a school day, since the professor had agreed to switch Friday’s lesson for today. After class, I hit the train station and went straight to Málaga. My first item of business was to hit the tapas festival. I bought 3 tickets for 1.80 Euros each. The first tapas I got was hummus and falafel.

What’s that, you say? But that’s Mediterranean food, not Spanish food! Ah, my friend, I once thought the same as you. However, the southern coast of Spain is on the Mediterranean. You can often see the Rock of Gibraltar from the beach, and on clear days, you can see the mountains of Africa. I saw them myself, just the peaks peeking through the clouds, and was amazed by how close it was. Not only this, but Spain was ruled by varying Mediterranean groups for centuries, so today quite a bit of the culture and architecture remains.

The hummus was awesome, and the falafel not only tasted better than any I get in the US, but also looked much more appealing. (It was more of a golden color than the typical dark brown color that Pita’s serves.) The second tapa I got was a pizza funghi (aka mushroom). So far I had been eschewing pizza because it seemed so American and I wanted to do European things in Europe. But I saw the Spaniards wolfing down the pizza, and I had an epiphany: Pizza is from Italy, and wouldn’t you know, Italy just happens to be in Europe! So, having thus justified my pizza craving, I was pleased when I got a slice of fresh, baked-to-order, mozzarella and mushroom pizza.

The third and last tapa I bought was a Blanco Y Negro from an heladería. (In other words, a Black & White from an ice cream tent.) Let me tell you, the US better wake up and start serving these babies! (Or at least Starbucks ought to think about it.) A Blanco & Negro is a glass half-filled with iced coffee (but without the ice) and topped with cappuccino ice cream. Like a root beer float, but with a coffee theme. Delicious! (There are also other varieties, such as with vanilla ice cream, topped with whipped cream. Mmm…)

After this, I wandered around Málaga, following a walking map that turned out to be really awful. Half the time, the alleged museums/buildings on the map completely didn’t exist – at least not in the area shown on the map – and the other half of the time, the facades were under restoration, so I could only see part. Nonetheless, I had a great time watching all the people and looking at all the architecture and the graffiti. Graffiti? you ask. Before you conjure images of ghetto alleys or city subways, let me say that the graffiti here is really, really, really good. It’s an art form. Oh sure, you’ll see a few bits of amateur art (witness the Disney scene, attached) but the majority is really well done, if of bizarre themes.

So there I am, on a graffiti walking tour of downtown Málaga. I run into a vendor selling Spanish-language Harlequin suspense novels and I bought it because I can’t not buy books. I head back to the hotel for dinner and find out that the group plans to go out dancing tonight. I borrow an outfit from Paula (I only brought my throwaway clothes, and she brought something like 3 massive suitcases packed with the cutest possible outfits) and we all head downstairs around midnight to call a cab. The older guy at the front desk says to forget calling a cab – it’s midnight on a Saturday. Better luck walking down to the taxi stand.

But, the younger guy at the front desk (later to be identified as Sebastián) says he gets off work now and would be glad to drop us off. So, four of the girls pile into the back seat, leaving me up front because my Spanish is the most fluent. Sebastián drops us off in downtown Torremolinos, although he warns us that Torremolinos is not only the San Francisco of Spain, but actually the gay Mecca of this part of Europe. Or, should I say, he warns *me*, since all of this is in Spanish. I decide to keep this information to myself – after all, we’ve arrived, and none of us were looking for Spanish dates anyway.

As it turns out, we had a great time. The atmosphere was friendly and fun, and we didn’t have to worry about scrubby drunks hitting on us. That is to say, none of the ladies of us did. When the other half of the group joined us later, Bryan for the first time in his life had the experience of random men repeatedly pinching his rear. (We women found this turn of events much funnier than he did.)

Tags: books, festivals & fiestas, food, travel tips

Rock of Gibraltar, UK

I woke up bright and early, about 6am, and went downstairs for a quick breakfast before waiting outside for the bus. Today I was going to the rock of Gibraltar! I packed my camera, my batteries, some water, some crackers, my passport… what I *should* have packed was a coat. The bus driver had the A/C cranked higher than a Florida movie theater.

When we crossed the bridge into Gibraltar, both the Spanish and the British customs agents checked my passport (if you can call briefly glancing to see if I was indeed holding something vaguely passport-shaped actually “checking”) and I had the disappointment of once again not getting my passport stamped. It hasn’t been stamped since Costa Rica, and here I’ve been in and out of France, in and out of Spain, in and out of Gibraltar, and back into Spain, and – nothing.

OK, enough venting. So, we get to Gibraltar and I board a smaller tour bus because I booked a guided tour. The rock of Gibraltar is not just a rock – it’s huge, like a mountain. There’s the British naval base and a runway for a small airport, and military tunnels within the rock as well as natural caves, which I got to explore. There are also monkeys.

Lots and lots of monkeys – hundreds of them. As we were leaving the bus, I was in the back, so I was one of the last to leave, and a monkey must have snuck in by the feet of the departing passengers, because he suddenly leapt from the floor to the seat of a woman who had left her bag on the seat. He rummaged inside, filched a banana and a sandwich, then dashed out of the bus and up the side of the rock to eat his prize. Hilarious!

As we were leaving the caves, another woman bought an ice cream bar. She was walking away from the stand when a monkey reached down from a tree, snatched the bar from her hand, quickly unwrapped the plastic, and started eating the ice cream bar. I started creacking up when she yelled at the monkey, “Hey! It cost me a pound fifty, that!” (Which is about $3 US. Crafty monkey.)

I also saw some sort of US satellites, old mosques, lots of shops and cafes, and a baby monkey. I caught sight of him crouched on the side of the road. He was so cute! I knelt down and inched closer in order to take his photograph. I was just thinking how funny it was that he would let me get so close when he suddenly sprang up and latched himself around my head, his legs wrapped around my neck and his little hands gripped the rim of my visor. Oh. My. God. This has to be the single most funniest thing that has ever happened to me! (In case you are wondering, monkeys are feather-light, very soft, very smart, and very playful. Oh – and very tricksy.)

So, I get back from Gibraltar and decide to charge up my batteries. Naturally my converter doesn’t fit in the wall – I need an extender plug. I try two supermakets and the Kodak store – nothing. Discouraged, I walk back to the hotel. Something possesses me to ask at a roadside souvenir stand – whaddya know, they have tons of them for 1 euro each. I rush back to the room with my prize, plug in my expensive 15-minute charger, and promptly zap it, the stink of fried electronics thick in the air. Oops. Luckily I brought my crappy 12-hour charger along as backup, but why couldn’t I have zapped that one instead? I flip the switch on the converter to low power and plug in the 12-hour charger. Oh well, better than nothing.

I later found out that today, the professor’s wife and her mother were hit by a car. They are bruised and sore, but otherwise fine. They were crossing the street and a car was pulling out from behind another car and didn’t see them. (It’s an epidemic of car accidents!) The good thing is that Spain as social medicine, so they were treated quickly, and for free.

Tags: animals, cathedrals, healthcare, road trip

Málaga, Spain

So, today I wake up, eat breakfast, have class – life as usual. For me, anyway. I later found out that my classmate Paula went to the Internet cafe, read a disturbing email, left and crossed the street without looking, and promptly got hit by a car. She was shaken up, but otherwise fine. Luckily, the car had been coming from a stop sign and was able to stop without injuring her – it only managed to knock her bag from her hands.

Instead of going to the Internet Cafe right after class myself, I took the train to Málaga. Finally, I was going to get to explore the Alcazaba! it was incredible. The towers, the tall, skinny walkways atop the castle walls with nothing to prevent me from tumbling to my death except my own sense of balance – amazing. My imagination ran wild, imagining what it would have been like to live here, an Arabian prince with an incredible view of the city, the sea and the mountains… or a servant, defending the castle, running along the narrow walkways hundreds of feet high, trying to run wile balancing a vat of boiling oil ready to be thrown at the invading armies below…

After the Alcazaba, I wandered around and happened to come across the customs-immigration building, which happened to house a modern art exhibition by a greek artist. Entrance was free, so I went in to check it out. i don’t pretend to understand modern art (neither the abstract paintings nor the indecipherable statues) but it was interesting to look at nonetheless. The security officer at the entrance struck up a conversation with me when I was about halfway through the exhibition and told me all about the changes being made in order to prepare Málaga to be the European Capital of Culture 2016, and how a new customs-immigration building was being built and this one expanded and how any building of history or importance with any kind of exhibit room was being turned into partial museums, such as this building, to house travelling exhibitions and the like.

As I walked back toward the train station, I noticed two things. One, I was starving. Two, on the walk/don’t walk signs at the traffic lights, instead of ¨WALK¨, there’s an image in green of a man walking.

As for my stomach, I stopped into a sidewalk cafe. The only thing on the menu (a cardboard sign with pictures) that seemed vegetarian was a potato omelette. I figured what the hey, and decided to order it. BTW, when waiters, receptionists and the like, greet you, they say “Dígame”. This does not me, “Hello, ma’am. How may I help you?” or even “What would you like?” No, “dígame” simply means “Tell me.” So, I said I wanted the potato omelette and he said they were all out, did I want something else? And I said, well, I’m a vegetarian, and he said, oh, do you want a Spanish omelette, then? There’s no meat. So I said sure, sounds great. So that’s how I ended up in an alley café, ordering items not on the menu. I’m glad I did – it was yummy and totally hit the spot.

Tonight was La Noche de San Juan, the shortest day of the year. This is a festival celebrated throughout Spain. Fireworks go off around 11:30pm, and all evening the people light bonfires along the beach and roast sardines. Then, when the clock strikes midnight, they walk to the shore. The legend is, if the waves come and lap at your toes and you make a wish, the wish will come true.

I had a great time letting the Mediterranean Sea wash over my bare feet and making wishes underneath a huge full moon. (I did not, however, eat any roasted sardines.)

Tags: castles & palaces, festivals & fiestas, food, museums

Málaga, Spain

This morning, we had class from 9-1:30 instead of 8:30-1, having talked the professor into giving us an extra half hour of sleep, since the hotel’s patio entertainment lasts from 8 or 9 until midnight every night, and the noise reverberates around each room, making it completely impossible to a) study or b) sleep. (Also, for the first time in my life, I heard Spanish yodeling. It is indescribable, and the hotel dj/singer does that number at least once every evening.)

After class, Ula left before me to catch the train, while I packed a backpack with the essentials (bottle of water, Purell, camera, fistful of batteries) and headed out. Yesterday, while I was messing around with the doctor and my swollen hands, the rest of the group went to check out the Picasso museum and had a great time, so I couldn’t wait to go see it.

When I got to the train station, Ula wasn’t there, so I assumed she’d made the previous train. (Local trains come every half hour.)

In Málaga, I stopped at an information booth and picked up a map and made my way towards the Picasso museum. It took me nearly two hours to get there because I passed so many interesting side streets, buildings, churches, statues, fountains and parks along the way, and of course I had to explore (and take photographs!) of everything.

I ended up hungry and on Calle Larios, which is amazing and massive and completely puts Rodeo Drive to shame. In between all the shops were various cafes, bars and bakeries, all with outdoor seating at little round tables with umprellas for the sun. I saw a menu on an empty table at one cafe and wandered up to have a look. I was just reaching out for the menu when the person at the next table suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. I about jumped out of my skin until I realized – it was Ula! We laughed about the coincidence of running into each other in as big a city as Málaga, and I decided to go ahead and eat there, since she was sitting there anyway.

I ordered a cafe con leche and a veggie sandwich. The coffee was great, but imagine my surprise when the veggie sandwich showed up with a big slab of ham on it! The waiter was surprised that I was surprised (don’t all veggie sandwiches come with ham?) but amiably agreed to make me a new one. After lunch, Ula left to walk around, and I finally made it to the Picasso museum.

The ticket was 50% off with a student ID (4 euros) and cameras had to be checked. The buidling itself was very cool looking, square in shape with a center courtyard featuring a pretty garden. There were tons of his works, ranging from when Picasso was a teenager to near his time of death. There were drawings and paintings and sketches and mixed media and lithographs… I have seen lots of pictures in books of his cubist works and it was surprising to see what a photorealistic portrait he was capable of making. It was also very interesting to see his studies (sketches) that he used to practice and experiment with before making his more famous works, like Guernica (which was not there, but is in Madrid, so I intend to see it then.)

I bought a little something at the gift shop and then left to wander around Málaga some more. Unlike Costa Rica, all the streets in Málaga are named. As a matter of fact, even 3 foot wide alleys have names, and all of these “streets” appear on the maps just like highways, making me more thankful than ever that I’m on foot and not trying to drive. (I’ll just turn left here at the… hallway?)

I saw a vendor selling post cards and decided to have a look, when I caught sight of someone standing on the other side of the post card rack looking at souvenirs. It was Ula! “You again!” I exclaimed and she jumped, then we both laughed, but in a way, we were kind of weirded out, since we were now nowhere near the cafe or the Picasso museum and managed to run into each other yet again.

I bought a few postcards and then headed off again. I found the tourist bureau and picked up a few brochures. I walked by the Alcazaba, an amazing, sprawling spread of an ancient fortress and castle, complete with towers and high, narrow windows. it looked like it came straight out of Arabian Nights. I couldn’t wait to explore it, but it was nearing dinner time, so I figured I better take the train back to La Colina since dinner is only served from 7:30-9:30 and here it was 8 already and I had a 30 minute train ride ahead of me, followed by a 20 minute hike back to the hotel. I headed to the Renfe and through the turnstile, and who should I run into amidst the crush of people waiting for the train? You guessed it – Ula! What are the freaking chances??

That night after dinner, I hopped onto the hotel’s worthless Internet kiosk. It charges one euro per 10 minutes, which may or may not sound like much, but it gets real expensive real fast (especially considering the exchange rate.) Not only this, but there is no place to plug in a USB device, it has no CD burner, and it erases all new files every time you log off anyway.

I did find another Internet cafe nearby that charges 7 euros for 5 hours to use their PCs, which do have USB ports and on which I can save files and install programs. The problem is, to use my laptop would cost an additional 10 euros and they are closed for siesta from 1 til 4:30, and are open in the evenings only from 4:30-8:30, weekdays only. But, this at least gives me an option.

Tags: castles & palaces, cathedrals, food, museums, music & concerts, shopping, technology

Torremolinos, Spain & Playamar, Spain

I woke up to a stinging pain in my hands. That’s right, plural. In my sleep, I was stung in not one but *both* hands by some unknown creature/insect. Naturally, by the time I got out of the shower, the bites had seemingly disappeared because both my hands swelled up like cantaloupes with bratwurst-shaed fingers poking out. (déjà vu, times two.)

As usual, everyone who caught sight of me was quite horrified (and it’s safe to say I was a twee dismayed myself) and despite the bags of ice, by the time class ended at 1:30pm, the swelling was moving up my wrists and the fingers on my left hand were turning an alarming reddish-purple.

It seemed the Benadryl-Claritin cocktail I took before breakfast wasn’t going to do the trick.

I ended up going to the emergency center, wich is not quite a hospital and not quite a walk-in clinic, but a bit of both, because Spain has free healthcare for its citizens.

I was about 5th in line, but I saw the doctor within half an hour. (Faster than any US emergency room I’ve ever been in! Amazing!) She gave me a shot of (I think) cortisone in my rear end and a prescription for (I think) some sort of antihistamine. Getting the prescription filled was easy – I didn’t even have to show ID or fill out any paperwork. Even at the hospital, all I had to do was flash my photo ID, not that they Xeroxed it or anything.

So, if I had to have such a thing happen, at least it was really easy to get medical care. If someone from Spain comes to America and gets an allergic reaction and expects immediate, free medical attention… well, good luck with that one.

So far I’m still Frankensteinian and very sore, but hopefully the swelling will start to decrease very quickly.

Next, I went to the local travel agency and tried to reserve my remaining train tickets. They said I couldn’t purchase international train tickets in Playamar (where we were) but that I could in downtown Torremolinos and that the bus would come to this corner any second. I waited outside for the bus for over half an hour and the bus never showed. So, when a local pulled over to offer me a ride, I gratefully accepted, and it took less than 10 minutes to get there.

Downtown Torremolinos was a disappointment. I realized I’d been there before (yesterday, on The Long Walk) so I don’t mean in that sense, but because *their* travel agency said no, I could only purchase such tickets in Málaga. Well, I just tried Málaga yesterday, so I know better than that. Guess I’ll just have to wait until Madrid.

One thing that’s been surprising me requires a bit of back story. The fact is, I only packed the ugliest, most ill-fitting dregs of my closet (items I planned on giving to Goodwill anyway) just in case my luggage was lost and also because I planned on throwing/giving junk clothes away rather than dealing with a bunch of laundry. Also, I left my curling iron, makeup, etc, all at home, because why bother lugging it all around? So, I’m sporting a look that’s very early midwestern hobo (or worse).

Nonetheless, guys are honking and slowing down, blowing kisses at me and yelling “¡Guapa!” every five minutes. Weird.

Then again, as I mentioned, Spain is very clothing-optional and we *are* on the beach… maybe here it really doesn’t matter what you wear, because they figure if you go to the beach you’ll take it all off anyway. Not me, but you should see the people here – anybody who *is* wearing a swimsuit is either sporting a Speedo or a bikini, no matter how young/fat/old they are. Same with the regular outfits – these really old women have their canes and their halter tops, it’s wild.

Tags: healthcare, lost in translation