Rechtenbach/Gleiszellen Germany & Wissembourg France

Today while Erin was at work, I hijacked her computer, installed a few programs, and spent the day working myself. But, when she got home, we packed up and shipped out on adventure. First, we headed to Schweigen-Rechtenbach. If you’re wondering if the town name is hyphenated because of a recent marriage, the answer is… sort of. Apparently, in this part of Germany, areas are called the hyphenated combination of the two closest (neighboring) towns. I guess this would be the equivalent of saying Tampa-Clearwater, South Bend-Mishawaka, Santa Monica-Los Angeles, etc. I’m just not sure why the towns can’t be independent.

So anyway, we first hung out in Rechtenbach, where there’s a winery (weintor) and pretty scenery. We gave ourselves a self-tour of the winery and climbed up to the top of a tall tower for the view. While we were up there, an older man climbed up the stairs and said something to us in German. Erin didn’t have any clue what he was saying, and since I have pretty much a 50-word vocabulary (plus the numbers so I can count change) I had no idea what was going on, either. He shook a set of keys on a pink keyring at Erin. Figuring someone had dropped them, Erin checked her purse, showed him that she had her keys safe and sound, and said “No” a few times. That had little to no effect because, as it turned out, he was the caretaker trying to lock up the tower without trapping us inside. (Ohhhh.)

After we realized our mistake (with much good-natured laughing on the caretaker’s part, too) Erin and I descended the stairs and decided to snack on some flammkuchen. And wine. (It’s a winery! You can’t not have wine in a winery!) Erin tried to explain flammkuchen to me prior to me laying eyes on it, but like any food item, it’s difficult to explain. I’ll do my best. Imagine the concept of pizza. (Easy, right?) Not pizza itself–but the idea of an open-face breadish susbstance covered with toppings. The breadish thing is thin like a tortilla, but not that flimsy, although not cracker-crisp either. The style we got was Vegetarianisch (I probably killed the spelling on that) which meant it had red peppers, sliced pepperoncini-type peppers, chunks of fresh cheese (not sure what kind), and a bit of garlic for spice. (No pizza sauce, because it’s not pizza. It’s flammkuchen.) I thought it would be small, but it came on a large, rectangluar wooden oven paddle. (They’re baked in flame ovens. I know there’s a better word than “flame oven” but I can’t think of it right now.)

Once we were done eating, we got back in the car and crossed the border into France, where we were detained by seventeen armed guards, three tanks, and a helicopter. Actually… Open EU borders means open EU borders, and if there hadn’t been a sign, I would’ve had no idea we crossed into another country. There were no guards, no checkpoint, no nothing. Easy peasy.

We cruised around looking for Wissembourg for a while, and although we did find it, there wasn’t much going on since the main strip was under construction and the detour pretty much detoured us around the whole town. So we came back across the border in search of Gleiszellen-Gleishorbach, where a wine fest was going on.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t seem to find G-G (as I’m calling it, since I’m a lazy typist) so we drove around looking for someone to whom we could ask directions. Erin says, “We need to find someone who speaks English.” To which I said, “Or French. If they speak French, we can get directions, too.” She made no return comment. (Bear with me and you’ll see the significance in a moment.) We head up a residential hill and see a man with a water hose in his yard. Erin pulls over as I roll down my window.

[pardon the spelling below because I speak it better than I can write it.]

“Sil vous plait,” I call out. “Ou est le festival du vin?”

He puts down the water hose. “Bitte?”

Since I’m a moron, I fail to catch the significance of that single word. So, I rephrase. “Je cherche le festival du vin. Est-ce que vous connais ou ca est?”

He makes a crazy face and starts spouting off gibberish. (Or it could’ve been German. I really need to study up.) He then motions over his wife, who cuts across the lawn to join the conversation. (If you can call it that.)

Once again, I launch into another version of “Do you have any idea where we can find the wine festival?” and both of them chatter back in German.

Erin says, “Forget it.” We wave our thanks and take off.

“I can’t believe they don’t speak French,” I say, semi-outraged.

“Yeah,” Erin agrees. “We’re less than 2 minutes from the border.”

I start looking around the neighborhood more closely and my jaw drops. “Hey,” I say. “This is crazy. Even the *signs* around here are in German!”

At this point, Erin stops the car, levels me with a look, and says, “Erica. We’re *in* Germany.”

Ohhh.

I had completely forgotten. No wonder the Germans spoke to me in… well… German.

And that, my friends, is what happens when you combine ADD with open borders. Absolutely no clue what country you might be in or what language you ought to be speaking at any given moment.

So, we drive around the next corner or two and come across two younger (twenty-something) guys with bikes. Erin says, “Ask *them* for directions.”

But now I’m feeling so idiotic that I can’t fathom forcing my French onto another German. She convinces me that the younger inhabitants are multilingual and that we should give it a shot.

We roll up and I ask if they know where the wine fest is. To which they crack up laughing (luckily not at my French-in-Germany) and respond, “Il-y-a beaucoup des festivals du vin.” (There’s a gazillion wine fests.)

Oh. So they ask me which one in particular we’re looking for, and of course I don’t know. I throw out G-G’s town name, and they happen to know which one I mean and give us directions.

Finally, we arrive at G-G where the wine fest is hopping. We park in a field with the other cars and buses and saunter up the streets, decorated with strands of hanging lights and lots of flowers. Clusters of local food and wine vendors line the streets, and the jovial crowd bustles inbetween.

By jovial, I mean *jovial*. The band struck up a tune and everyone starting singing and swaying to various German drinking songs, and even in the winding streets where the music could no longer be heard, groups of people spontaneously burst into drinking songs and chants and whole tables would sway together and join in the song. At times, it was so loud Erin and I couldn’t even talk. The great thing was that everybody was in the spirit, and there was absolutely no censoriousness. If older people passed by a table of rowdy youngsters swinging and swaying, they just grinned and raised their glasses.

Erin and I tried two different wines apiece. Her first one was OK, but a little warm for white wine. My first one was bubbly, kind of like a would-be asti but not quite. (That’s an awesome description, isn’t it? I should totally get a job writing wine labels.) My second wine was bizarre, but surprisingly delicious. It was apple flavored (which makes sense, since apples are in season and orchards are everywhere. Vendors fill the walk-platz with their bags and baskets of fresh apples.) The second wine came in a souvenir glass, which I could return to the tent for my deposit back, or choose to keep. (Naturally, I’m taking that baby home.) The glass is neat–it has a picture of the local vinyard/winery where my wine came from, and the year that the wine was first produced.

Have you visited any wineries or wine/beerfests? I want to hear all about it!

Tags: festivals & fiestas, food, lost in translation, wine

Gooooood Morning, Madrid!

OK, so technically I didn’t sleep. It’s a good morning anyway!

I went to El Corte Ingles about a hundred times, mostly because it just has everything. And at the Metro stop where I am (Sol) there’s 3, count ‘em, 3 Cortes Ingleses. One has a main floor, 7 upper floors, and 2 basements. That’s the one that has the post office (I mailed a post card) the supermercado (I bought some cheese and melocoton juice) and the travel agency (I got an adaptor for my laptop ’cause I have no clue what happened to the last one.) Not the converter thing–my laptop has its own. Just the do-hickey that changes the plug from flat-prong to round-prong. And I had a devil of a time describing it, because I totally don’t know the word for “prong”. So I picked up a European plug, pointed to the round metal prongs, and said (en espanol, of course) What do you call these here thingamabobbers? And the cashier blinked, squinted, shrugged, and said, “I don’t know.” So I said, “I don’t know either, but mine are flat and I need an adapter to make them round.” And he said ohhhhhh and gave me the right thing. So I’m fine now.

At the other Corte I bought a AA battery charger, because the last two times I brought a US one, I fried them on accident. Figured I might as well suck it up and get a European one so I don’t have to worry about it. The 3rd Corte is a massive bookstore, which I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to go inside, since the last time I did, Bri and I ended up paying exorbitant “your suitcase is too heavy–what the hell do you have in there?” fees at the Charles de Gaulle (Paris) Airport.

None of these trips happened at the same time, of course, so the sales force got to see me return again and again and again. That’s all right. They’ll probably see me tomorrow too.

Today I hiked down the road that my hotel is on until the road ended (2.5 mi) and back. That was fun, but I realized belatedly that my hiking shoes are all ripped up on the inside (how does that happen?) and now the backs of my heels are threatening to get blisters. No matter! Blisters or no blisters, a-hiking I will go. El Corte Ingles has a parafarmacia stocked with bandaids, so I’ll be just fine. (Toldja they’d see me tomorrow.)

I also wasted some time going to Atocha at about 7pm. This was stupid of me and I should’ve known better. I was thinking, “Oh, I’ll reserve my train tickets in advance like a good girl” when I should’ve been thinking, “Everyone’s out of work by now, bet the train station is *crazy town*.” You have no idea how packed that place gets. Especially since I’ve stood in that monstrous line before. Well, I got there and took a number from the paper number distributor dealy, and I got A410. I waited for 15 excruciating minutes while they helped A198, A199, A200 and A201. I was still 209 numbers away. At 3 minutes per person (which is *fast*), that would be something like 10 hours to wait. So I left. I’ll try tomorrow. I’m a little disappointed, because my initial plan was to get to El Museo Del Prado first thing in the a.m. and now it looks like I’ll be trucking over to Atocha instead. Oh well. As long as they can beat a 10 hour wait, who am I to complain. =)

Plaza Mayor is the same as I remembered–pretty, and somehow both busy and relaxed at the same time. However, the place where I got my SIM card last time was no longer there. (I wandered around every side street for an hour or two before I finally conceded its disappearance.) I was forced to go to the FNAC and switch my plan from Avena to Movistar. (pronounced “movie star”.) But at least now I can call the US even if I don’t have an Internet connection, so that’s a good thing. (And with an internet connection, Skype is a good thing!)

Now I’m sleepy, but I’m trying to stay up until at least 10 so I can keep a decent schedule, and maybe wake up without my alarm clock.

Tags: hiking, lost in translation, shopping, technology, trains

Madrid, Spain

What is this, terrorist season? Today the ETA had apparently attempted – and failed – to bomb the Italian Embassy in Barcelona for some reason. I know they want their independence from Spain, but what does Italy have to do with it? The world is getting a little too bomb-happy. Since when is mass murder and civilian deaths the only answer to disagreements?

In the morning I had class and in the afternoon I worked, but in the evening I managed to break away for a spot of fun. A whole mess of us (Ashley, Danielle, Kristin, Alison, Isabel and I) went to the vegetarian restaurant for dinner, then prowled Plaza Mayor in search of good deals. The cops must have been by earlier, however, because there weren’t too many vendors out, but there were all manner of clowns, gypsies, actors, mimes, and even a pickpocket. How do I know? Because she tried to pick-pocket me. I was walking along, following my friends, when I got the eerie feeling someone was following right behind me. I turned to my right and caught her just as she was slipping her hand in my purse. (which, I’ll admit, was not the securest sort, as it was more of an open bag type purse, with no zipper or latch.) Nonetheless, I was so shocked that I couldn’t even make a sound. She was shocked too – that I caught her in the act – and she snatched back her hand and took off. It was crazy. The freakiest part was that she looked like just anybody – maybe late twenties, early thirties, stylish blond hair, preppy outfit.

I have not since taken that particular non-latching purse anywhere. (Get me once, shame on you. Get me twice, shame on me.)

Also, I want to give a big up to the metro system and their campaign “Ni un día sin poesía” when means, “Not even a day without poetry” (and, in Spanish, it rhymes.) There is at least one poem with accompanying color illustration on the wall in every metro car. I rarely saw the same poem twice, and that was only on the 6 Circular, which I take practically four times a day. Although subway windows are typically scratched up with graffiti (strange stuff, too – “Jamón”, “Agua” and “Leche” were popular, as if Madrid runs amok with food gangs, or grocery store wars) but the poems were always in pristine condition. I never once saw one marked up or torn in any way.

Tags: lost in translation, travel tips

Málaga, Spain to Madrid, Spain

This morning, we packed up all our stuff and taxi’d to the train station to head to Madrid. I bought my own ticket (technically, I put it on my Eurail pass) so I was in first class. They brought by little glasses and a bottle of some sort of alcohol and asked me if I wanted any. First class = free, so I said sure, why not. It looked a little like bubble-less champagne. I took a healthy swig and almost died. (Clearly: not champagne.) That’s the last time I sample unknown alcoholic beverages on trains. I think it was straight alcohol, with a touch of artificial coloring just to throw tourists off track.

I had another little adventure when trying to go to the WC (WC = Water Closet = bathroom). I tried to swing open the door, but it was apparently a non-swinging door. I tried to pull it open and it didn’t budge. I tried to push it open more forcefully and nearly smacked into it. Finally (much to the amusement of the passengers watching this spectacle) I tilted the handle diagonally and the door magically slid open all by itself. (And closes automatically, too, so don’t stand there too long wondering at the marvels of technology.)

I also got to watch Shark’s Tale (in Spanish) on the train. It was a cute movie, but since it was dubbed, much of its humor got lost in translation. For example, the “rastafari” accents and the “italian mafia” accents just don’t have the same effect when spoken in Spanish.

So, we get to Madrid and taxi to the dorm, where a few more of Forspro’s truth-stretching shenanigans come to light. (If you’ll remember, the first part of the trip was allegedly in Málaga, but was actually an hour away.) The dorm isn’t actually *on* the University, but it is on the same street. And it’s actually in a “colegio”, which may *look* like “college” but is actually the Spanish word for high school. (The students are gone for the summer, which is how Forspro could rent out the rooms.) The school, however, is run by nuns. That’s right, instead of a university campus, my summer courses are actually being held in convent/housing for girls. (All of this might have been good to know ahead of time. There were several people who said they felt especially uncomfortable, since their religion – Jewish, etc – did not jibe with the Catholic surroundings.)

It turned out to be OK, but at first was a bit of a surprise. Especially since the rooms Kristin and I were first given were extra sketchy. They were old, to say the least. My tiles were cracked, and there were no toilets in the bathroom. (A shower, though.) The rest of the Málaga girls were on a different floor, and each of their rooms came with toilets and Internet hookup. I about died. After a bit of arm twisting, we were able to switch rooms and I hear we were lucky – other people later tried to switch and were not allowed.

Eating hours were posted: Breakfast from 8-9, Lunch from 1:30-2:45, and Supper from 8:30-9:45. The washers and dryer (that’s right, 2 washers and 1 dryer for the whole dorm. And each one is 1.80E per use.) were right next to the pool, which, humorously enough, also closed for siesta from 3-6 every day. (???)

We put our stuff away in our rooms and headed to El Corte Ingles, where I made an excellent purchase: an oscillating fan for 20E. (Oh yeah – the rooms and classrooms have no a/c.)

If it sounds like I’m bitching.. well, I probably am, but I got used to it, and it really wasn’t all bad. I especially liked having my own room (having never previously had college roomates), and the Internet hookups were truly a stroke of good luck.

Tags: lost in translation, technology, travel tips, wine

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

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

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

Málaga, Spain & Torremolinos, Spain

My first views of Spain were of deserts and mountains. Málaga is a city on the coast, with desert, mountains, and beach. We are in a hotel (Hotel Parasol) in Torremolinos, on the beach, just outside of Málaga.

Class began today, and the first adventure was the textbook. Apparently, the professor had told Elvira (the coordinator) that we should buy our books ahead of time and bring them with us. She, however, did not tell us the names of them, and said we should just get them when we got to Málaga. Naturally, they did not have them in Málaga. So, we had to make Xerox copies of the entire textbook. This is not only unwieldy, but also super-costly, so we only made two copies and are sharing them between us, which is a hassle, but what do you do.

Before I forget, let me tell you about the elevators in the hotel. Yes! Actual elevators! But before you get too excited, let me clarify. These elevators are phone booth sized, and go in order of which button was pressed first, not in numeric/spatial order. So, if you are on floor one and call the elevator and before you press floor three, someone on floor 10 calls the elevator, guess where you’re going. Yep, from 1 to 10 to 3. (And if he pressed 8, he goes from 10 to 3 to 8.) And so on.

I ended up rooming with Ula, and we got up around 7:15 this morning and headed downstairs for breakfast at 8 before class at 8:30. Unfortunately, the 8:00 breakfast didn’t start until around 8:15 (I guess we’re on Spanish time) and we were worried about being late to class. The professor rolled in to the classroom a good 10 minutes after we did (he’s from Spain, so I guess he’s *really* on Spanish time) so it wasn’t a problem after all.

After class, Ula and I took the cercanías (local metro-style train) to downtown Málaga so I could reserve my train seats for my post-semester travels. As Murphy prophesized, this did not go down as planned.

First of all, I was transferred from cashier to cashier until someone could help at all. Next, they said they could only reserve tickets to/from Spain, so only 3 out of 20 tickets were reserved. Next, the fee for those 3 reservations was $170. Yikes! Finally, after all this, they don’t take credit cards, so I had to dash to the ATM in order to complete the transaction.

After this adventure, we went and got ice cream and cappucinos at an outdoor cafe. Ordering the cappucino was a little bizarre, because the waitress asked, “With or without milk?” Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought a cappucino was an espresso with milk. So if I got it *without* milk, it wouldn’t be a cappucino anymore, it would be an espresso, right? Maybe it’s different here. In any case, I smiled and said, “With, please” and dug into my ice cream, which may very well be the best ice cream I’ve had in my life. I ordered caramel, and it actually came with lots of tiny cubes of real caramel embedded in caramel ice cream! (Not the goopy processed “carmel-flavored syrup” in your average US cone.) Way yum.

After this nutritious and delicious lunch, we wandered around downtown for a bit, then got on the return train. At one stop, a woman got on with her daughter, intending to go to downtown Málaga. I told her that she had gotten on the wrong train, as this one was heading *away* from Málaga. She thanked me profusely and got off at the next stop. It wasn’t until the following stop when we realized that *our* stop was the one where the woman had gotten on, and we missed it because we were being helpful. So, we got off at the *next* stop, only to find out that the return train had just passed, and it would be another half hour until the next one. We decided to hoof it back, which turned out to be an exceptionally bad idea. Our plan was to walk to the beach and follow the coast back to the hotel, but none of the twisty residential streets seemed to lead to the beach, and anyone we asked for directions just said, “Wow! You’re really far away!”

An hour and a half later, (yes, we should have just waited for the next train), we finally catch sight of our hotel, just in time for the last 10 minutes of dinner. I had gazpacho for the first time (cold veggie soup) which turned out to be pretty good!

After dinner, Ula and I went to the beach, where I waded in the water of the Meditteranean Sea and saw lots of breasts. (Yes, breasts.) Spain is apparenttly very clothing-optional, because when we were at the outdoor cafe tables, the woman next to us spontaneously began to breastfeed her baby. As for the hotel pool, all I’ll say is that I saw a man with an extremely sunburned rear end.

Tags: food, lost, lost in translation, trains, travel tips

Paris, France to Málaga, Spain

Here I am on the last flight of this seemingly never-ending day. I am dead tired and my head is vaguely pounding. On the flight from JFK to CDG (Paris, Charles de Gaulle) I had an aisle seat in the center, so unfortunately I did not get to look out the window at Paris getting closer. However, I have a window seat on this flight, so I´ll get to watch Paris disappear and Málaga appear!

The CDG airport does not have food once you are through security for international flights. Eat first, or have plenty of coin Euros for the vending machines. I went through customs (who, disappointingly, did not stamp my passport neither arriving nor leaving), disdainfully passed by a McDonalds, went through security, and headed to my gate.

On the previous plane, at first I sat on the wrong side of the aisle. (I make mistakes at least once a year.) I blame it on the soporific effects of Dramamine and lack of sleep. I sat next to two youngish black women from France. I turned to the one next to me and asked (in French), “So, where in France are you from?”

She blinked and responded (in French), “I´m sorry, I don´t speak English. Could you ask me again in French?”

Well! This was a serious blow to my French self-confidence, let me tell you. What I *wanted* to do was fall into the bottomless pit I was hoping would appear any moment to swallow me whole. But since that failed to hapen (and since she´d asked so nicely) I tried again, this time enunciating as clearly as I could. “Where. In France. Do you. Live?”

This time, she smiled and answered, “Oh! In Paris.”

I returned the smile, told her it was my first visit, and retreated to my proper seat, resolving not to poison the air any more with my apparently incomprehensible French accent.

Tired as I was, I couldn’t seem to fall asleep. That´s when I started ordering the wine. (Come on! Free alcohol is one of the joys of an eight hour international flight, and besides, it comes with every snack/meal just like Diet Coke.)

After I was halfway throught the second bottle (There´s only one serving in each bottle. Really.) I was totally knocked out for a good hour or two. I kept waking up because they kept showing up to feed us. First, a snack (pretzels and wine) then dinner (there was no vegetarian option because the school forgot to forward the information, but they did come back around to give me another bread roll).

This morning (aka midnight EST) they fed us breakfast – some kind of pastry, peach yogurt (Dannon la créme), coffee and OJ. (No wine for me, although the guy in the row in front of me got a Budweiser, breakfast of champions.)

Tags: airplanes, airports, lost in translation, wine