Nonetheless, we got there mere seconds before her mom exited customs, so it was perfect timing. We piled her luggage into the car and drove to Heidelburg.

Heidelburg is beautiful, even though it was blanketed with thick fog until around lunchtime and never quite warmed up.

We headed straight to Heidelburg castle, and hiked to the top of the hill maybe 20 minutes before the gates were to open at 8 am. We took a few photos and gazed down across the countryscape until we could enter the castle grounds. Once inside, we went to ticketing and purchased the 10:15 walking tour (the first one in English) and went to do all the non-tour-guided free things.

As it turns out, however, nothing is open until 10. Not the apothecary, the cafes, the gift shops… nothing but the ticket booths. How weird is that?

With nothing else to do but wander around, we set to that task immediately and had a great time exploring the exterior castle grounds and gardens. We were also able to enter the winery (there’s always a winery! love it!) and see the massive wine barrel.

By massive, I mean *massive*. (Photo attached.) This wine barrel has held the Guiness World Record for *centuries*, as the largest vat to ever contain wine. There are staircases to get to the top of it, and over the barrel is a wooden dance floor. That’s right, you heard me–a wine barrel big enough to hoist a dance floor. As we later learned on the tour, the king would have the barrel filled with wine–any wine. Red, white, whatever. As long as it was wine, it was good enough to drink.

The tour was fun, although like many tours, seemed to linger in the least interesting rooms and zoom through the most interesting ones. (Either that, or I have truly bizarre taste in history and decorations.) Nobody really knows exactly how old the castle is. All we know for certain is that the first written record of its existence dates back to the year 800. (Not 1800–just 800. Wow!) As with most castles, it has been remodeled and added onto numerous times over the years. It also suffered destruction by fire twice in the same century. Part of the damaged area was reconstructed in the early to mid 1900s, but other parts will probably remain ruins for the foreseeable future. The combination of old and new made an intriguing experience.

After touring the town of Heidelburg, we headed back to Miesenbach to get ready for tonight’s Hispanic Heritage Banquet at the Officers’ Club on the Rammstein Air Base. Food included salad, tortillas with veggies (or meat), beans & rice, and cheesecake. Not sure that cheesecake is particularly Hispanic, but it was darn tasty.

The entertainment included speakers and dancers, the latter of which I absolutely loved. There was music and dancing representative of many of the Spanish-speaking countries, and even a group of African dancers, from which a lot of Carribbean music and dancing is based. I also got to see Brazilian Capoeira for the first time (live, anyway) which was cool. Capoeira is a style of dancing invented by the slaves in an effort to express themselves while in search of freedom. It combines acrobatics with dance and a coordinated sort of kick boxing.

Of course, the big joke is that I flew to Germany from Spain in order to see flamenco!

Have you seen (or participated in) any cultural dance performances? Let me know all about it!

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!

The first thing I noted when I landed at the train station was that I had to pay to use the bathroom. (I would soon learn that outside of Spain, this is actually the norm. Carry change.)

The area around the train station is a little sketchy, and at first I thought I had made a Bad Mistake. Everything seemed dirty and trashy, with lots of graffiti and bums, some of which were sleeping in actual broken cardboard boxes.

However, as I kept walking, the neighborhoods kept improving. The walk was very pretty, with the river/port to my left and the city to my right. I passed a US Coast Guard pirate ship thing – no idea what that was about.

The woman on the train had told me to never start out speaking Spanish to the Portuguese. She said that they have some sort of inferiority complex with the Spaniards and if they meet someone from Spain, they will assume that person is going to snub them or insult them, so the Portuguese are likely to put on their attitude first, kind of as a defense mechanism.

So, she said to first ask if they speak English, and when they say no, *then* ask about Spanish. So, that’s what I did, and everywhere I went I spoke Spanish – but as the “second choice”.

So I’m in the center of town, which is a square with the river to one side and a statue in the center. It’s called the Praça do Comércio, “praça” being Portuguese for “plaza”. (Very frequently “r” was where I expected “l” and “ç” where I expected “z”. “Ç” is not even a letter in Spanish.)

I go to get on the trolley and the lady says “two”, which I took to mean two Euros so I forked over a 5, and she just gave me some loose change in return. Apparently, she was asking if I were paying for two *people*, and by smiling and nodding, I inadvertently bought the way of the guy behind me. So, if you don’t speak the language, don’t smile. Or nod. Very expensive habit.

The trolley was a crazy trolley (much like the crazy taxi, if you’re familiar with arcade games) and if I hadn’t held on with both hands, I wouldn’t still be here now. (Why don’t we have opposable toes?)

The first thing I did (once I got off the trolley and kissed the ground beneath my feet) was to visit the Monasterio de Geronimo. It happened to be free on Sunday, which was cool, and it was the 500th anniversary, which was even cooler. Apparently, people were allowed to touch all over everything and use flash photography, neither of which I felt was cool, so I abstained from both, keeping my hands and flashbulbs to myself.

I loved how gothic it was – it was the most gothicky monastery I’d ever been in, and it is awesome. (Not that I’d been in any monasteries prior to this trip – the most goth you’ll find in the US is Marilyn Manson.)

Next, I ate at the Pastéis de Belém. Mmm. I don’t know why I’m not still there, getting fatter and fatter. Run, don’t walk, to the nearest airport, fly to Lisbon, go to the original 1800’s blue-tiled Pastéis de Belém restaurant, order yourself a cappuccino and as many pastéis as the table can hold. This is now officially my favorite food in, I think, the world, and I am discovering it across the freaking globe. (Can I open a Tampa franchise??) I started with two and when the people next to me at their first and asked for a carryout box, I just ordered some more. (As my pal Ashley would say, “Get it in me!”)

The café Pastéis de Belém looks small, but don’t be fooled. It is secretly massive, and has lots of rooms that you go through one to get to another, so you’re never really sure how many there are.

Random people keep thinking I’m speaking Portuguese when I’m forced to mumble some Portspañol. I’m doing a lot of vague smiling, then wandering away when it seems opportune.

I went into the Coach Museum (or carriages, depending on how you look at it), which was celebrating its 100th year. It was wild to see all the golden, ornate coaches and imagine being carted about town secreted inside one. On my way out of the museum, I passed a vending machine – a KitKat machine! Be still my heart! Nothing but varieties of Kit Kat bars! Who knew there *were* varieties of Kit Kat bars?!

I ducked into a gift shop to scope out the shot glass selection for my collection, and on the counter I see this very sketchy iced-tea jug with something other than iced tea inside. It has a hand-made sign taped to it: “Ginja. Com chocolate: 1€”. Thanks to the book I borrowed from Danielle, I knew that ginja was (quoting here) “Portuguese firewater”. I had no idea about the chocolate, but hey, you only live once, right? So I slid my euro across the counter and the lady pours me a shot of ginja into a chocolate cup. And when I say chocolate cup, I mean a teacup – with handle and all – made completely of chocolate! It was an alcochocoholic’s *dream*. (And yes, before I went back to Madrid, I had another one. How could I not?)

The next place I went to was the Porto de Lisboa, which had a fabulous view of the boats and the bridge. Next, I went to the Monumento des Descobertas, or Discoveries monument, where my English/Spanish ploy completely fell apart. No English, no Spanish, no French – she spoke German. I managed to stumble through a “Would you please take my photo here?” in my broken German, which punctured my self-confidence a bit and I stopped talking for a while. (German?? I should have studied more!)

An interesting quick about Lisbon is that the roadside vendors have all the indulgences – everything from ice cream to hard liquor. (I didn’t have either one, because as you’ll recall I was quite stuffed with pasteis and ginja at this point.) I saw a lot of free public roadside parking, although I also saw a guy running a hustle where he flagged cars into (free) open spots for tips/money.

Next, I went to the tower of Belém, which was very cool. It had a dungeon with bars, and barred “windows” in the ground floor above which I imagine you could drop in prisoners or food or snakes or whatever to the dungeon below. I climbed the skinny, winding staircase to the top of the tower and was rewarded with an awesome panorama of Lisbon.

I saw the giant cross on the hill known as the Cristo Rei (I assume “Christ the King”) and I learned that Portugal is roughly the size of Indiana.

I walked through the Museu de Marinha (Maritime Museum) which had every manner of model ship and maritime relic, and was therefore probably a much more complete museum than really necessary for my taste. (That’ll teach me to go into Maritime museums. Everything’s all maritime-y.)

Next I hoofed it 4 miles to El Corte Ingles, forgetting it would be closed because it was Sunday. I’m glad I walked it, though, because I passed all sorts of cool views, and a street filled with vendors and sidewalk artists. The Corte had an open movie theater, so I flashed my student ID and got to see War of the Worlds on the cheap. Before the movie (which was in English) there was a preview for the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which was in Portuguese, so I didn’t understand a single word. I’ll be glad to see that one back home.

After the movie, I caught a taxi back to the Santa Apolonia railway station. Europe is big on roundabouts – most are two to four lanes wide. If you’re not a roundabout fan, don’t rent a car – take the metro or a taxi.

After some bread and OJ in the cafeteria, I headed outside to pile into the bus for a Madrid city tour. Madrid proper is home to 3 million people, and “greater” Madrid tacks on another two million. (So Dad – you were right.)

Spain is the second country in number of movie theatres and tickets sold in ratio with population – that’s right, second only to the U.S. Gran Via is just such a street, lined with theaters. Spanish movies were dubbed for the first time when Franco’s regime first came into power, since he censored any movies/books/etc that portrayed any ideas/statements/concepts he didn’t agree with or want the general public to be aware of. And after so many years of Franco’s dictatorship, the Spanish are simply used to hearing movies in their own language, and it wouldn’t make much sense for them to switch to subtitles at this point, since they’ve already got a working system in place. Actors and acresses with compelling performances and voices who match the original artist always portray that part. In other words, the person who speaks Kevin Bacon’s lines is the person whose voice most resembles his, and this person is the only person who ever speaks his parts, so that the voice always matches the person and never varies from movie to movie. It’s actually a prety neat system, and what was borne out of censorship has now evolved into tradition, and a kind of quasi-Hollywood of Spanish voice actors.

The tour took us by much of Madrid, including the Cibeles statue (the greek goddess of fertility), which is the symbol for the city and which was so loved that in the civil war (which, if you didn’t know, just ended in 1939) the townspeople covered the monument under a gigantic pile of trash. This way, it didn’t look like anything much, and the pilots overhead wouldn’t see it and bomb it.

There used to be five walls around the city of Madrid. Bits still remain, and the Alcalá Gate still stands in its entirety. Only the king could enter through the center, largest door, the nobility through the medium-sized middle doors, and the pedestrians through the smallest, furthest two. (Nowadays, we all enter via rail, tarmac, or superhighway. The times, how they change.)

The San Manuela / San Bonita church is extremely beautiful and free to marry in (for Catholics only, though.) For this reason, it is booked solid for at least two years in advance at all times. In fact, Madrileñas are known to book a date in the church first, and find a husband second!

The Salamanca Quarter is outside the city walls. The rich lived here because in the old days, the city proper was overcrowded, noisy, and smelly. This was partly because in early times, the shout of “Agua va!” preceded slop from a chamber pot being chucked out an open window into the street. (Thank heavens for modern plumbing!) Since the Salamanca Quarter was outside the city, it was new, and actually built using wide avenues and city planning.

Madrid’s Plaza de Toros is the most famous bullring in the world. (Not the oldest bullring – that’s the one I visited in Ronda.) It’s called “Las Ventas” and its fame is because this is where novilleros (uncertified bullfighters) try to pass examinations in order to become Toreros. (Officially, the highest level of bullfighter.)

While a person is a novillero, (”person” because women are bullfighters, too,) they only fight bulls who are less than four years old. Once they become a torero, however, the bulls are always more than four years old. Even novilleros in South America have to come here to Las Ventas in order to certify. It is *the* place and the only place, which is what makes it so famous. In front there’s a statue of Antonio Bienvenida, a famous torero who was (ironically) gored to death by an ordinary milk cow one day when he was walking down the street. (He was thrown and the fall snapped his neck.) Another statue is of a young fighter who was pinned when a bull stepped on his foot and gored him in the heart. That took place here, at Las Ventas.

In case you’re wondering, “matador” is another word for Torero – one you’ve probably heard more often, although in Spain, “Torero” is the real term – for “real” fighters, anyway. “Espada” is another slang term sometimes used. Espada means “sword” or “blade” and refers to the sticks the bulls get pricked with at the beginning of each fight. If the fight is a good fight, the Toreros proudly exit through the front door, to the paparazzi and a crowd of adoring fans. If the fight is a bad fight (meaning that the Torero took too long, causing the bull unnecessary suffering, OR that the bull did not fight back and basically tried to avoid the situation) the Torero slinks out the back door and goes home.

Bullfights have been around since Roman times. And, in case you’re wondering, the Romans did occupy Spain. In fact, that’s why Spaniards speak Spanish instead of Iberian or Arabic or German (all of whom previously occupied Spain). The Romans came and implemented their law structure, architecture, and language, all of which stayed in place until the infamous Ferdinand and Isabella got together, uniting Spain, making Spanish (technically ‘castellano” – to them, Spanish is a nationality, not a language) the official language. They also financed Columbus, expelled all the Jews because they decided Catholicism was they way to go and religious tolerance was overrated, oh, and started the Inquisition. (They were very busy people, as you can see.)

Back to the regularly programmed show. Slow clapping at a bullfight means that the bull is a bad bull (ie deformed, sick, not fighting back, etc) and when this happens, sometimes the bull is sent back and a replacement bull brought out. Toreros do kill the bulls, and they are supposed to take care of it as quickly as possible so that the bull does not suffer. The consider the toro (bull) to be extremely noble, and dying with honor. In fact, the bull can win the fight if he injures (or kills) the Torero. (Unfortunately for the bull, this just buys him about a week, until he’s called upon to fight another Torero.) Dead toros are sent to butcher shops because they are eaten. Lucky us, “Raba de Toros” and “Criadillas” are at their height at the moment, since bullfighting is in season. I won’t tell you what this means unless you ask – and may I say, if you are the queasy sort, you might not want to ask.

The picador (peek a door) is a guy atop a heavily padded horse and armed with a lance. His job is to pierce the bull’s skin with his lance if he needs the bull to a) become angry or b) lose blood to become weaker (which I think is cheating). Sunday nights are the “real” fights with the real Toreros and adult bulls. Other nights have fights with novilleros called novilladas (novice fights) which the tour guide recommended skipping, since they are some much bloodier because the fighters are still learning.

Although bullfighting is considered to be an “art form” in Spain, only 52% of the people love it and the other 48% hate it. It’s a huge culture/tradition versus Animal Rights controversy, even between the Spanish themselves. The stadium seats 23,000 people, and no longer sells out the crowds.

One particularly morbid tradition has to do with scoring the fights. If the fight is a good fight, the Torero “gets” to keep one of the bull’s ears. (Yes, the actual ear.) If it is a great fight, he gets both. If the fight is truly exceptional, he gets both ears *and* the tail. At the end of the season, the Toreros count up their prizes in order to see who won the most, and is therefore the best Torero in the world.

Recently, a torero was riding in an elevator, and when the doors opened, he was rushed by so many women screaming for autographs that the elevator cord snapped and they all fell several stories, and he broke both his legs. The headline in the newspaper the next day was “Women More Dangerous Than Bulls.”

A different kind of stadium is the soccer stadium where the Real Madrid play. (BTW, in Spanish, “real” means “royal”.) They have won the championship league nine times and fill the 100,000-seater stadium to capacity. Madrid actually has three different soccer teams, each with its own stadium. (Talk about your crosstown rivalry!) The Real Madrid stadium is an open air stadium with central heating, if you can believe that. In the winter, warm air circulates under the seats and a series of underground pipes pump hot water under the field to melt the snow. These people are *serious* about their soccer.

Castellana Avenue seperates the city from North to South, and near here is where you’ll find the leaning towers of Madrid. Yes, plural. These are the KIO towers and mark the northernmost point of the city. They were begun by a Kuwaiti firm that went bankrupt and were recently completed by three companies who picked up the ball (and the bill) and who are subsequently arguing over what the buildings show now be called.

Madrid is 2100 feet over sea level, which makes it the highest capital in Europe. (Not the highest city, but the highest capital.)

Architecture-wise, Spain is known for the mudéjar style (pron. moo DAY har). It is only found in Spain, and is due to the Arabic influence. Mudéjar is very pretty, and characterized by ceramics, bricks, and the horseshoe arch.

Back in the day (ie, before motorcars and assembly lines) Madrid was famous for having the purest air. European princesses from all over would journey here to give birth, just for this reason. In France, the saying was that Madrid’s air is “pure as champagne”.

Madrid is also the second greenest city in the world, runner up to (bizarrely enough) Tokyo. There are trees everywhere and a plethora of parks and gardens. Many of the trees are sycamores and chestnut rees, but the funniest is the madroño tree, whose fruit ferments into alcohol extremely quickly, and you can get drunk just by eating it. In fact, bears and other animals eat the madroño fruit that has fallen to the ground and then start stumbling and fall over when they try to walk away. (The fruit looks similar to a strawberry but tastes more sugary.) There’s a statue in the Puerta del Sol of a bear reaching for the fruit on a madroño tree. You’ll see this image all over, actually: on taxis, on manhole covers, etc. The madrileños don’t eat the fruit as is, typically, but instead use it as a liquer.

The Picasso tower is the highest building in Madrid, measuring in at 45 stories. For this reason, Madrid technically doesn’t have any sky scrapers, since all the buildings are less than 50 stories high. (You were right, Rob. I was wrong.)

One of the tall-but-not-a-skyscrapers recently burned down because a woman was working late at night, left her lit cigarette on her desk when she got up to get something from another room, and the next thing you know, the whole place is on fire. (Hardly anyone was there and no one got hurt, bt the entire thing is totalled, and there’s huge cranes knocking down the wreckage and cleaning the area.)

When Franco was still in power, he built Nuevos Ministerios and renamed all the streets in Madrid after himself and his cronies. He also commissioned 30 statues of himself and erected them all around the city. Although 10% of the population still supports Franco’s dictatorial ideas, all the statues have been removed since his death.

I also learned that the lake I discovered in Retiro Park the other day is sometimes used to recreate battles, and that the amphitheatre can be rented out for private bullfights. Retiro Park is over 220 acres, and used to be private property used only by royalty.

Madrid is also home to the Atocha train station, where on March 11 of last year, terrorists bombed and killed civilians. The station was immediately visited by so many people bringing flowers and candles that it quickly became impossible to get into the station (even on foot) for two months, until the government erected El Bosque de los Ausentes in Retiro Park as a monument to the victims.

Trivia: Madrid has all major US fast food chains except for one. Can you guess what it is? (Answer at bottom.)

Madrid has tons of great museums. Most famous, El Prado has 15,000 paintings and stands on what used to be a meadow with cows and donkeys in Retiro Park. The Thyssen museum was the second largest private art collection in the world until the owner died seven years ago and the government bought it.

Random Fact: Shakespeare, arguably the most important English writer, and Cervantes, the most important Spanish writer, both died the same day – April 23, 1616.

Madrid has an average of 1.1 children per family and a 10% unemployment rate. It ranks 59 out of the top 200 best places to live worldwide. (Bern, Switzerland was #1 and Moscow was #200.)

Stranger than fiction: In Madrid, pickpocketing is not a crime, because there is no weopan or force involved. At worst, you face one night in the comisería.

Economics: The average salary in Spain is 2000E per month, and you get double pay in December and July. Medicine is socialized and college only costs the 300E application fee. Condos, on the other hand, require a 24000E down payment. For this reason, most Spaniards don’t leave home until they get married.

One of the many highlights of the Madrid city tour was coming across a sangria fountain in a gift shop. What is a sangria fountain, you ask? Picture a water dispenser – filled with sangria! If the US has problems with employees hanging around the water cooler too much as is, imagine if it were filled with sangria! (Well, not so filled by the time *we* left there…)

Since it is the fourth of July (you forgot, didn’t you), the crew wanted to do something American, so we headed out for the Hard Rock Cafe. (You have to admit – that’s very American.) On the way to the metro, I came across a couple promo passes to War of the Worlds for the following night. The metro ride was entertaining, as there was a guy who kept coming over, playing his violin in our faces. (I guess that’s supposed to generate tips.)

The Hard Rock Cafe had a long queue, so we put our names in and walked down the street to an outdoor cafe. We drank sangria and listened to the live piano music for a little while before heading back to the Hard Rock, where I ordered the very un-spanish Vegetable Pesto Pasta. There was a (male) waiter dressed up in a skirt with fake breasts and a blond wig, prancing around saying, “I’m an American girl, vale? I no speak English, vale?” Hilarious. (And lovely to know that’s the impression we give.)

After this, the others went home but Alison and I dropped into the Campus bar across from the dorm, since they were having a 4th of July party (free shots for Americans, but good luck getting to the bar) where we ran into Bryan K, Paula, Lindsay, Isabel, et al. I only stayed long enough to say hi and happy fourth, then walked across the street to the dorm to hit the hay.

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Trivia Answer: Spain has no Taco Bell. (go figure)

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.

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.

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.

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.)