The Good Universe

Welcome, 2011!

2010-12-24T11:17:00.033-06:00

It's Christmas Eve and I realize it's time for me to write that year-end review I do and, overwhelmed, struggle to find where to start. 2010 has been a busy and interesting year for me, but as always I had such fun and am grateful for every experience.

I began the year in New York, helping out on the "Salt" reshoots over the holidays and through January. By February I was in Las Vegas, Nevada, with my sister and my dad, celebrating Kerry's 21st birthday and my quarter-century mark. I hit up Long Beach, California, for a superbowl party and watched the Saints WIN! I served my jury duty in my hometown, Santa Clarita, California, then returned to Gulf Shores, Alabama (via road trip, of course).

As spring washed up on our white sand beaches, I balanced 2 serving/bartending jobs while also writing freelance. During this time little sister and I still managed to find time to ride our bikes to the beach and go swimming, or do a little wakeboarding with the boys (thanks Todd and Craig!). We went to the annual Mullet Toss at the FloraBama, attended several concerts, and had some killer tans.

Then, the Deepwater Horizon oil spill reached our shores.

For all of those who live on the Gulf Coast and in the surrounding states, this was not simply a news story that came and went with new accusatory headlines. This meant utter, unstoppable disaster, the complete destruction of our economy, our environment...our home. As I have mentioned previously, I was quite involved in the prevention and recovery effort down here, first attending meetings with the mayor in preparation, then taking my hazmat course and exam so I could volunteer with the cleanup, then as a vigilante volunteer with my rebel family when volunteers were, after all, denied work due to liability, then as a wildlife observer aka turtle person, which finally allowed me to have a truly productive role that provided the fulfillment that comes with assisting the beach environment and its native and most fragile inhabitants. I was a ghost in these days, working from 9pm-7am, and still trying to juggle my other jobs, which, one by one, I eventually let go as the tourism trickled away. I'll give credit where credit is due, however, and I can honestly say I think BP did the best they could to help, given the circumstances (except for that issue with, you know, capping the leak). I did not file a claim, but other members of my family did and the financial compensation seemed fair. They granted the city a generous allowance for reparation efforts, which led to a tourism boost due to several concerts hosted by the city and some very generous musicians including Jimmy Buffett, Bon Jovi, and Brad Paisley. Cleanup efforts are ongoing in Gulf Shores even now, and I want to thank all my friends across the US and the world that showed and continue to show such great support of our very special situation here on the Gulf of Mexico.

As for me, as the sea turtle nesting season was winding down, I was offered a job with the special effects crew of the film "Battleship" to be released in 2012. I spent 10 weeks working very long hours in a small trailer as an office coordinator and assistant purchaser on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.
On my few off days I got to do a little exploration of this incredible island, from Waikiki beach where I resided, to Kualoa ranch, to Sunset Beach on the North shore where anyone reading this is welcome to buy me a house at any point in time. I somehow found time to get my advanced SCUBA certification (that's me flashing the peace sign at 110 feet below the surface of the Pacific!), do a little snorkeling, and learn how to paddle surf, for which I often sacrificed the skin on my knees, the wind in my lungs, and my pride. I stayed surrounded by turtles whether I was breathing through a regulator or paddling on the surface of the sea, which you can imagine made me endlessly happy. My mother and my sister also came out for a much-too-short visit, during which we drank painkillers on a catamaran, snorkeled with the turtles, attended a luau, and carefully worked on our tans by the pool(s). I really loved Hawaii, but my plans to stay there forever unfortunately did not work out. Still, I enjoyed searching for my Aloha and I think of that warm, clear water and its incredible secrets nearly every day, and I SCUBA dive through the lava tubes and wrecks, with the fish, the sharks, and the turtles, in my dreams.

Just after I arrived back in Gulf Shores, my mom left to attend to her mother, whose alzheimer's disease has reached the advanced stages, in Gravenhurst, her hometown in Canada. I quickly followed by car, and we got to enjoy a winter of the snowy and freezing variety. Justin, Jamie, and my nephew Landen (now walking all over the place!) flew in for an early Christmas celebration with my grandfather. I also got to meet all kinds of family I never knew I had: my great aunt and uncle and endless 2nd and 3rd cousins. I felt quite at home at their holiday party, and saw a lot of real evidence that I actually am related to these crazy canuks.

Now I am home for Christmas for the first time in 3 years, and couldn't be happier to spend time with my parents and my AWESOME siblings (though Alex wins the Sibling Of The Year award because he LIKES to play apples to apples with his sister). I've also gotten to reunite with some old friends, which has been a BLAST.

A few miscellaneous and exciting points from 2010:

I went skydiving. TWICE. Once with my mom and my BFF Britiney (who was on leave from Korea as she is now a combat medic in the army), and once with my mom, Kerry, Howard (who was on leave from Afghanistan), Alex, and Alex's girlfriend Bree. What an awesome feeling, the rapid free fall and then the graceful sinking. I think I might be a little addicted to that adrenaline rush.

The Hangout and the city of Gulf Shores hosted its first annual and largely successful Hangout Music Festival, which was held despite the oil on the beaches. It was really fun!

Mom, Kerry, and I attended the Sweet Potato Queens convention in Jackson, Mississippi, in March. Along with my Auntie Moonpie, we chose our swords and corsets over our tiaras and ball gowns. We took that city by storm. Keep an eye out for more pictures around March of 2011, as we have already made reservations to make a repeat performance of rum-sloshing and sword-fighting. You can't deny we're the cutest girl-pirates ever.

Kerry and I attended our first NFL game with our dad. WHO DAT! Our Saints won, of course, against the Seahawks. Watching an indoor game is pretty awesome, especially with the vibrant and ecstatic crowd that is the Saints fan collective. That same day, NASCAR's Jimmie Johnson won his FIFTH consecutive cup. Atta Boy!

On a serious note, throughout the year I have had been working on an important and very quiet project. In January, I began my application for the Peace Corps. I will elaborate on the application process later but for now I will sum it up to this: after a year, I have received my invitation. This is VERY BIG NEWS for me. I have been selected to work in the field of education in Malawi, Africa, from June 2011-September 2013.

Malawi is a teeny tiny country in the southeastern region of Africa, and the Peace Corps assists there in 3 main areas: education, health, and environmental conservation. I am rapidly learning about the country and the roles of volunteers; there are only a few things I can say with any certainty, however: No, I would not have electricity. No, I would not have running water. Yes, the spiders are huge and yes, I remember that I am dangerously arachnophobic. Yes, the full contract is 27 months long. YES, you'd definitely be able to come visit (because I know you were wondering about that). Yes, I would be learning a Malawian language and using it to immerse myself into a community. No, I would certainly not have a toilet. Yes, I am excited and very happy with the location and position Peace Corps has chosen for me, and I feel so fortunate to have been honored with an invitation. If and when I officially accept the invitation, I will post more information.

So, goodbye to 2010 and hello to 2011. One brilliant year out, another potentially amazing one in. Please know even as I wander around and go in and out of contact with my friends and family, I feel infinitely grateful for your support, your love, and the important role you play in my life. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all!

Our Little Beach Cleanup

2010-07-19T11:03:00.009-05:00

I hear a lot of feedback about the process of cleaning the beach (working at a bar opens me up to a lot of whining, complaining, and education), and most of the comments are far off from the truth. I don't know much about dealing with this oil spill...I'm just a math and science ignorant writer, bartending during the day and searching for turtles at night. But I'm out there working, so here is what I do and what I have learned:

First off, the oil on the beach is bad. It's really bad. And worst of all, most of it is hidden. The sun melts the oil during the day, sinking it below the sand. The sand is also caught by the wind and constantly buries new oil washing up. Want proof? Head down to any beach, 5, 10, 15, 25 feet from the wrack line, and start digging. You WILL find oil. 6, 8 inches below the beautiful white fluffy surface of our beach lie all of BP's lies in thick, orangey black streaks and patties. The sand will stick to your hands when you try to brush it off, and the waxy feeling will remain until you get to some good soap and water. I found this while digging for turtle eggs, and Mama T did too, as she did not lay in that spot after all.

I was working on the beach the night before last and the oil washing up was the worst I have seen. I say this for several reasons. 1. It was extremely plentiful, filling viscous pools and washing over our just-cleaned sand. 2. There were a variety of textures: chocolate mousse oil, thick mud oil, diluted rust colored oil, and thick brown foam. 3. For the first time, I witnessed oil and water seeping up from the ground. In a newly cleaned patch of sand, when an atv would cross over or I would make a footprint, the tainted water would fill the impression almost immediately. This is near the water line, where the sand below the surface is damp. 4. It seems the diluted oil is obviously so due to dispersants. The machines only pick up tar balls, aka weathered oil, and this oil cannot weather due to the chemicals breaking it down. This cannot be properly cleaned by hand either, and the sand is eventually discarded (if not simply buried by the wind and water).

We don't deal with this freshly washed up oil. Our machines sift tar balls out of dry or damp sand, and do so at a fair success level. The tar balls might be large...fist size, golf ball size, all the way down to nickel size, dime size, smaller. The tar balls are there even though they aren't always seen from a distance. Once they collect a full load of tar balls and trash, the hazardous material is collected and dumped in specially outfitted dumpsters.

For me, this system is a positive effort: our operators are local and care as ferociously about the beach as we do; the contract is through a local company, which helps our economy and is extremely important to me as a resident of this city and this state.

We work at night, from 9 PM-7 AM because it's cool enough that the tar is solidified rather than its softer daytime form. We run with 6 or 7 large sifting machines normally, which means 6 or 7 turtle team armed ATVs accompanying. We flank the machines, searching as we move for turtle tracks, turtle nests, or the mama turtles themselves. We have been finding each of these on a fairly regular basis. In the case that we find something, we shut down the entire operation, mark the tracks with wooden stakes and florescent tape, or, in the case of a turtle mother, watch excitedly and wait until she is finished nesting.

It is the most fulfilling job I have ever had.

Gulf-Atlantic Loggerhead Nest Relocation

2010-07-12T19:40:00.005-05:00

The Laguna Key Team of Share the Beach made history this afternoon--or, rather, our baby turtles did. B-1, our first Laguna Key nest of the season and the first turtle nest discovered on the Alabama coast this year, is in transport as I write.

This nest has had a rough start. Mama T nested a bit too close to the oiled water, and our careful and devoted team moved the 127 eggs against the dune for protection from weather, predators, and oil. After much political and scientific debate, the decision was made to begin transporting the Gulf loggerhead turtle nests to the Atlantic side of Florida, where they may have a fighting chance of survival. Today amidst a media circus (which including Jeff Corwin broadcasting with both MSNBC and Animal Planet) our team gently dug down into the nest, packed up the original sand, moved the sand from each egg, marked the shells, and carefully placed them one at a time in styrofoam coolers. Anytime we touch turtle eggs they are handled with extreme caution, as if we are holding nitroglycerin. We moved the coolers to a specially formatted FedEx truck and said our prayers and sang them a song and sent them on their way with tears in our eyes. It is very scary: will they survive the move? How will they hatch in a monitored lab? Will they be carefully and delicately handled? Will it hurt them to have a marker hole bored into their shells? And mostly, how will they handle a cold Atlantic jolt when Gulf loggerheads generally hatch into nearly 80 degree water? The life of a turtle hatchling is full of uncertainty and only a tiny fraction ever survive; these turtles at least will have a fighting chance.

Here is the educational and sentimental letter that was sent along with the nests, in addition to disposable cameras, chocolate turtles for the handlers, and a number of other goodies. It was written by Debbie Willis, or, as you'll see, the turtle hatchlings. It made me cry. A lot. You have to understand that it is very emotional for us. We find these nests, we care for them, we monitor their progress, watch and help them hatch and emerge from the nest, and bid them goodbye only as they hit the water and swim away with their furiously flipping tiny flippers. When we look at these eggs now, they are just one tiny aspect of the affected environment. All we can do is help on a small scale as the oil continues to pour into our Gulf. It is overwhelming to think on the large scale and when you do, it makes for an emotional and mental mini breakdown. But if we can save even one of those babies from our little nest, that's something.

Dear Mama T,

Hey Mama, so much has happened since you crawled ashore and left us alone on this Alabama beach. This real nice group of people found us. I think they call themselves the Laguna Key Team with Share the Beach. It was your tracks which led them to us. They said your crawl was 39 inches wide and 30 feet from the water. What they did next was look for "fluffed" sand in hopes of finding us. Digging can be real dangerous to us if they use a sharp object so they use the sides of their hands. Being careful is their goal.

You wouldn't believe how excited they were when they located your clutch! Did you know we were the first nest found on Alabama beaches this year? They all seemed so saddened because they needed to relocate us to even higher ground above the wrack line. It seems that something called the Deepwater Horizon oil spill has them very worried about us. We heard them say that we could die if oily water was allowed to enter our nest. Oh Mama, we don't want to perish after you labored so hard to put us here. We know you did everything you could to keep us from harm.

We were wondering about your health out there in the Gulf of Mexico, Mama. How are you surviving in that oil? What are you eating? Can you find clean water anywhere? We guess your instincts made you come here despite the oil, just to do what you were born to do. We love you.

We almost forgot to tell you this one and it is something big. These really nice kind people measured your nest including depth and circumference, and then dug one identical to yours. Then each one of us was picked up, one by one, never rolled, and placed into a bucket with the same sand you so lovingly laid us in. Wow, they put us in the new nest just like we were in the original nest! This group of "new parents" placed a grate over us and marked the center of the nest. The grate is supposed to keep out predators. We never did care for crabs, coyotes, or foxes. They think we taste good. Next they put up stakes with green ribbon to mark us so we look really special on the beach. We have an identification placard that lets visitors know we are protected and they can't mess with us or they will get in big trouble.

Mama, have you ever heard of the news media? They are everywhere--always asking questions. Your nest has been all over the news. We were on all the local channels, WKRG, WPMI, WALA, and some of the nationals. I think I heard NBC, CNBC, and ABC. Who would have ever thought when you left us here in the dark of the night that we would cause such a commotion?

Well Mom, the big day is today. We are being relocated to a place called Florida, Cape Canaveral, or something like that. Another group of people with Fish and Wildlife are going to work with our turtle tenders here in Gulf Shores to relocate all of your eggs to a place without that oil in the water. It's really sad for us; these turtle people have loved us so and guarded our nest with nothing but true love in their souls. I hear they have a great time nest sitting waiting for us to hatch and run to the water. They are saying the Gulf is not safe for us and we do not stand any chance for survival. Mom, that's true love. Well a FedEx truck, whatever that may be, is going to take us in our styrofoam crates to a place in Florida to hatch. We are scared -- everything from now on is unknown. We hope to see you in the Gulf Stream one day.

Poppa Mike and Momma's Sweet Voice

2010-07-06T18:07:00.000-05:00

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Resources

2010-06-29T17:24:00.002-05:00

Thanks to Debbie and Mike Willis, who are doing an inspiring job documenting turtle and oil related activity. Please check out their website and take a peak at the great videos and photos they have posted: http://www.turtle-hatching.com/

While I will (obviously) continue to share my personal experience with the oil and its effects, here is the site for official daily updates: http://www.thebeachfacts.com/

Go Lucy Go! Lucy Buffett, owner of Lulu's at Homeport Marina (my wonderful place of employment) and local celebrity in her own right, spent the afternoon with a crew from CBS on Sunday (they were GREAT, HAPPY customers and I loved serving them). She is working hard to keep a positive vibe around town, and it's doing a lot of good: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/06/28/earlyshow/main6626540.shtml

I finally found some resources for those of you looking to donate. Please research carefully and make sure you're donating to a program that will do good NOW! http://www1.networkforgood.org/gulf-coast-oil-spill I also saw a flyer from the Alabama Gulf Coast Zoo calling for dish soap, bleach, towels, etc, to aide the wildlife recovery process. If that floats your boat, give them a call and ask how you can help. FYI they are also asking for volunteers and donors to help make handmade hair boom! http://www.alabamagulfcoastzoo.org/

For those looking to volunteer, I know it has been more or less impossible so far. Check out these links and see if any developments have come about...I feel like we're getting closer as we find our stride in this clean up process. http://www.mnn.com/earth-matters/wilderness-resources/stories/army-of-volunteers-needed-for-gulf-oil-spill-cleanup

Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill, Day 71

2010-06-29T16:45:00.004-05:00

All we can do is continue working, and so we do. We are keeping an optimistic outlook here on Pleasure Island, but every day is riddled with uncertainty, high-running emotions, and a lot of work. I am struggling to record everything that is going on...heartbreaking is not a strong enough word to describe the feeling of loss and helplessness as your home is slowly consumed.

Things are chaotic down here. Those of us in the service industry are scrambling to prepare for the free Jimmy Buffett and Friends concert meant to boost our flailing economy. We are struggling to keep our guests happy while people fight over the limited tickets and as the tropical storm and the oil change the details. We are keeping our fingers crossed for the 4th of July celebrations down here, hoping for at least one last money-making hoo-rah before things get worse. We are trying, so hard, to keep an upbeat attitude, for our guests, for our families, for our own sanity, but it is very difficult as we know that even now, on Day 71, oil is still flowing into the Gulf at an alarming rate, and that there is no indication the leak will be capped any time soon.

Our dwindling tourists, excited about the impending concert and Independence Day activities, seek out alternate entertainment as they cannot swim, fish, boat, or float in the Gulf of Mexico. They walk the beach and clean tar off their kids' feet and hands at the end of the day, accidentally walk oil into the swimming pools, and go go-cart racing or miniature golfing at night. Thank goodness for our live music community. It really helps to have that here. Thank goodness for Jimmy Buffett, as condo rentals have skyrocketed and the restaurants are feeling a happy buzz, if only for a week or so.

The fishing industry has come to a screeching halt. Our seafood is not safe to consume, our waters are not safe to boat in. Fishermen, shrimpers, seafood distributors, charter captains, anyone with any experience in boating whatsoever is fighting for jobs to skim, to pull boom, to patrol for oil. BP is hiring and thankfully our governor finally mandated that Alabama workers must be Alabama residents, so SOME lucky people are finding jobs. They are also finding these jobs to be unforgiving; it is hot, hard work and employees are quickly dehydrated, overheated, and exhausted. The turn over for BP employees is big.

I myself am working nights on the beach, monitoring heavy sifting machines as they move down the beaches at one-two mph, shaking tar balls out of our once white, now reddish orange sand. My job is to make sure that the machines do not destroy turtles or any sign of turtle activity. I fell into this position thanks to my 8 years volunteer experience with the Share the Beach sea turtle conservation program. One light in this darkness: we are finding nests. Momma turtles are still laying their eggs. Last week we actually found two mothers in the midst of laying in two nights (one discovered by Matt Reynolds, one by my own Momma Sherry). Sadly, we will have to wait out the majority of the gestation period, then excavate the nests and relocate the eggs to the eastern shores of Florida, where the babies will have a fighting chance at avoiding our oil...as hatchlings imprint the beach they hatch at and return to that same place to nest when they reach maturity, we will be missing a generation down the road here in Gulf Shores and Orange Beach.

I am quite pleased with the clean up efforts, finally, here at home. Now that we have locals working, motivation and passion are evident in the crews. The only problems? We don't have enough people to cover the beach, and the oil keeps coming. Every day we clean the work is undone. However, we are all working round the clock to keep our beaches oil free.

Wildlife is changing behavior. Marine life has moved in close to shore as the oxygen has been depleted from the water. Sand crabs are chocolate-colored, no longer white. I've noted many unfamiliar birds, some of which cannot fly when threatened. The death toll for sea turtles, marine mammals, birds, and fish continues to climb.

It is very emotionally draining. We're tired and we're hurting, and we appreciate the well-wishes from the rest of the country and the world. As we continue to note, our communities down here can handle hurricanes, we can handle tornadoes and we can recover, together, from anything that nature throws at us. This oil is an entirely different animal. Although we are the blind leading the blind in this case, we continue to support each other, to seek solutions, to keep our chins up, to work hard to protect our beaches, our waters, our animals, our economy, our very way of life. We continue to believe that BP and the brilliant people of this world will find a solution to the leak and that, eventually, we will see a light at the end of the tunnel, and an end to this treacherous disaster.

Sharks!

2010-06-22T23:14:00.003-05:00

Sharks frenzying on bait fish at the water's edge in Gulf Shores, Alabama. I assume the sudden abundance of sharks in shallow water has to do with the dropped oxygen levels in the water due to the presence of oil, but I am not an expert and haven't found out yet for sure.

Updated Turtle Statistics

2010-06-22T23:11:00.000-05:00

NOAA's current totals:

A total of 527 sea turtles have been verified from April 30 to June 21 within the designated spill area from the Texas/Louisiana border to Apalachicola, Florida. Between Sunday, June 20, and Monday, June 21, 13 turtle strandings were verified (Ten dead in Mississippi, 2 dead in Alabama, and one dead in Louisiana). Ten live turtles were collected during offshore bird and turtle surveys by the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries. Two of those were visibly oiled. There are now 116 sea turtles in rehabilitation centers. These include 83 sea turtles captured as part of on-water survey and rescue operations, and 33 turtles that stranded alive. A total of 92 stranded or captured turtles have had visible evidence of external oil since verifications began on April 30. These include the 81 captured or collected turtles from on-water operations (75 live turtles, 3 collected dead and 3 found alive that died in rehabilitation), six live stranded turtles (two caught in oil skimming operations), and five dead stranded sea turtles. All others have not had visible evidence of external oil.

Of the 527 turtles verified from April 30 to June 21, a total of 396 stranded turtles were found dead, 41 stranded alive. Four of those subsequently died. Four live stranded turtles were released, and 33 live stranded turtles are being cared for at rehabilitation centers. Turtle strandings during this time period have been much higher in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and the Florida Panhandle than in previous years for this same time period. This may be due in part to increased detection and reporting, but this does not fully account for the increase.

The NOAA Ship Pisces reported a dead 25-foot sperm whale was located 150 miles due south of Pascagoula, Miss. and approximately 77 miles due south of the spill site last week. The whale was decomposed and heavily scavenged. Samples of skin and blubber have been taken and will be analyzed. Sperm whales are the only endangered resident cetacean in the Upper Gulf of Mexico.

From April 30 to June 21, 50 stranded dolphins have been verified in the designated spill area - no change from June 20. Of the total 50 stranded dolphins, 46 dolphins stranded dead, four dolphins stranded alive and two of those have subsequently died, one on the beach and the other euthanized. The other two include one in rehabilitation at Audubon Aquarium found Saturday and one freed from between two oil booms. Visible evidence of external oil was confirmed on three dolphins. However, we are unable at this time to determine whether two of the dolphins were externally oiled before or after death. Since April 30, the stranding rate for dolphins in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and the Florida Panhandle has been higher than the historic numbers for the same time period in previous years. In part, this may be due to increased detection and reporting and the lingering effects of an earlier observed spike in strandings for the winter of 2010.

A stranding is defined as a dead or debilitated animal that washes ashore or is found in the water. NOAA and its partners are analyzing the cause of death for the dead stranded and dead captured sea turtles and the stranded marine mammals.

Mom's Vigilante "Bite Me, BP" Clean Up Crew

2010-06-10T10:06:00.004-05:00

NOAA's Current Turtle Totals

2010-06-10T09:56:00.002-05:00

As published June 8 on NOAA's website:

A total of 322 sea turtles have been verified from April 30 to June 8 within the designated spill area (The designated spill area for sea turtles and marine mammals is from the Texas/Louisiana border to Apalachicola, Florida). Between Monday, June 7, and Tuesday, June 8, 7 turtle strandings were verified; all were dead (Four in Mississippi, two in Louisiana, and one in Alabama. One from Louisiana had visible external oil on it). Thirty heavily oiled sea turtles have been captured in the on-water turtle search and rescue operation by NOAA, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission and other partners working under the Unified Command. Twenty- five of those captured turtles are in rehabilitation at Audubon Aquarium in New Orleans, two turtles were collected dead and three captured alive subsequently died at the aquarium. A total of 37 stranded or captured turtles have had visible evidence of external oil. These include the 30 captured turtles from the on-water operation, four live stranded sea turtles (two caught in skimming operations) and three dead stranded sea turtles. All others have not had visible evidence of external oil.

Of the 322 turtles verified from April 30 to June 8, a total of 270 stranded turtles were found dead, 22 stranded alive. Three of those subsequently died. Three live stranded turtles have been released, including two that were found in Mississippi and released after rehabilitation in Ten Thousand Islands, Florida. There are 41 turtles in rehabilitation. Turtle strandings during this time period have been higher in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama than in previous years for this same time period. This may be due in part to increased detection and reporting, but this does not fully account for the increase.

From April 30 to June 8, 38 stranded dolphins have been verified in the designated spill area. Of this, 36 dolphins stranded dead and two stranded alive. One died on the beach and another that stranded in Florida was euthanized. So far, two of the 38 stranded dolphins had evidence of external oil. However, we are unable at this time to determine whether the animals were externally oiled before or after death. Since April 30, the stranding rate for dolphins in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama has been higher than the historic numbers for the same time period in previous years. In part, this may be due to increased detection and reporting and the lingering effects of an earlier observed spike in strandings for the winter of 2010. A stranding is defined as a dead or debilitated animal that washes ashore or is found in the water.

To Those Who Want To Help

2010-06-10T09:43:00.003-05:00

I have been trying to find more resources than what Deepwater Horizon Response is providing, but the Bon Secour Wildlife Refuge, the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration are all working under BP's umbrella. To volunteer or to report oil, please use the hotlines and websites below. Or show up at our house and we'll put you to work in a heartbeat!...as long as you don't mind the risk of arrest.

Volunteer Opportunities:
Deepwater Horizon Response Volunteer Hotline: 1-866-448-5816
http://www.servealabama.gov/2010/default.aspx
http://www.volunteerfloridadisaster.org/
http://www.volunteermississippi.org/1800Vol/OpenIndexAction.do
http://www.volunteerlouisiana.gov/

To Report Stranded (live or dead) Wildlife:
US Fish and Wildlife Service: 1-866-557-1401

Thanks Linda, for putting this situation into words

2010-06-10T09:32:00.000-05:00

Dear Family and Friends across This Great Nation,

As you know the Gulf Coast is experiencing the worst man made disaster in the history of oil drilling in our nation. Even though you may not live on the Gulf Coast you are aware of the seriousness of the situation. We need your help as citizens of this country. These are the issues and questions that we are facing daily with this oil spill. We question the response from government and question why the oil spill has not been stopped. We question why we feel that our hands are tied on the clean up. We question why there is not more local control. We question why regulations were not followed. Surely things could have been handled differently. To sit back and watch wild life die (Turtles, pelicans, birds, fish, crabs, etc.), pristine white beaches destroyed, lives ruined (fishing industry ruined for decades, real estate destroyed, tourism stopped) is beyond me. This oil spill is having an effect on the whole nation and the world.

What can you do as family and friends to assist? Flood the President, Senate, and Congress with calls, e-mails, and letters. Attached are two sample letters that you may use and send by US Mail or by e-mail to our President, your Congressman, and your Senators. One letter is for people who live in the Gulf Coast Area and one is for people who live outside the Gulf Coast Area. Or you can write your own letters. But please send letters. Here is the link to email the White House, http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact. Also, here is the link for congressman’s addresses www.house.gov (Go to the upper left hand corner to the box that says find your representative by zip code, then hit go—this should get you to your congressman’s information, usually this information is at the bottom of the home page). Here is the link to your senators, www.senate.gov (Go to this site and click on Senators, drop down to choose your State, and you can obtain their addresses).

This is the President’s address by US Postal Services:
President Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania AV. N.W.
Washington, DC. 20500

Below is our nine point message. Refer to attached letters for greater information about each point.

1. Public Announcement and Publication of Line of Command
2. Reorganize Homeland Security to ensure there is more local control after disaster incidents.
3. Intensive study of oil drilling especially deep water.
4. Intensive study of alterative energy sources
5. Establish relief drilling procedures and practices
6. Establish and implement required redundancy safety measures
7. Stricter and stronger enforcement of regulations
8. Encourage, inspire, and give funding support so more young people go into
Science, Technology, Engineering and Math (STEMS)
9. Lessons Learned

We are turtle volunteers and here is the message from our turtle captain. We want to assist with clean up but are being stopped. “First thing this morning, Nancy called to report a sort of oil on our 1st section. Since I was at the beach I went immediately out to confirm. Thousands upon thousands of what I will coin "tar paddies" were everywhere. These bits were readily evident as the tide coming in dumped them around the pass on the tide line. We called it in at 6:23 A.M. 4 hours later still no response as to a clean up crew. Using binoculars, eventually, I saw I guy to the west spin around a brief area far to the east on a gator (4-wheeler), apparently looking down for something. By this time the tide was higher and the tide pool covered the tide line and most of the tar paddies. An hour or 2 later I watched a guy ride by my house, stopping to talk to tourists. I saw 2 more gators with guys looking around the pass. I saw none of them pick up anything although they may have bags of it. As Share the Beach Turtle Volunteers we could lose our license if we touch oil. We will not risk that, Do not touch oiled trash. Do not touch oiled anything, we are here for turtles.”

As Kristen Campbell so eloquently writes in the June 5, 2010 Mobile Press-Register: “The best course, it seems, is to prepare for whatever danger or crisis may come while continuing to live your life. So it is that many along the Gulf Coast have spent time in recent weeks cleaning beaches and enjoying them. Many, no doubt, will continue to do so as long as they’re able. I think they’re wise. Though their deeds, they may remind us of a few truths, as well as help inspire those of us who may only be able to watch from afar.
Take action. Bad things happen. We can gnash our teeth, and lament all we like, but then we best do something to help those in need. Some may be able to care for families of the workers who died in the explosion, aid the wildlife affected by the spill, or support those who livelihoods have been negatively impacted in the aftermath of the accident. All of us no doubt may consider our own dependence on oil and contemplate ways in which we might alter our own everyday actions.
In the midst of life’s catastrophes, look around—up in into the sky, into the depths of the sea—and recognize the beauty and brilliance that still surrounds us. Then, work to preserve and strengthen those things, places, and people.
Recognize reality and dare to hope for a better future. When we’re in crisis mode, it can be easy to make the goal to recapture the past. What if we sought to imagine and create something better than what we have known?”

That is what we think we can do. Create something better for our future generations. We think working with our elected officials to get the nine point message across can do just that: Help us create a better future. Send the attached letters to our President, Senators and Congressman.

Please join the cause for a better future. We appreciate any help and assistance you may give us. Feel free to contact us with any questions.

Sincerely,
The turtle volunteers.

Please confirm receipt of this e-mail. Thank you!

Linda B. Spangrud
Tom Spangrud
Spangrud & Associates
9268 Lakeview Drive
Foley, AL. 36535
251-955-6039 (office)
815-978-5976 ( Linda's Cell)
815-978-5844 (Tom's Cell)
251-955-6039 (Fax-call first)

Viva Las Vegas!

2010-02-12T19:48:00.002-06:00

Since our birthdays are back to back, Kerry and I celebrated in Las Vegas this year. I can't believe my sister is 21!

New York, New York

2009-12-29T14:18:00.001-06:00

Times Square on Christmas Eve.

New York, New York

2009-12-29T14:13:00.002-06:00

The view from my dining room and home office on 6th Avenue.

New York, New York

2009-12-29T13:51:00.006-06:00

We have been working hard, but Dad and I finally got a chance to see some sights over the Christmas weekend. We took the last ferry out to Liberty Island on Christmas Eve and listened to all the different languages being thrown out into the freezing wind over the Hudson River. I have to admit that I've never given the Statue of Liberty much thought beyond her stunning role in "Ghostbusters II."

However, I was incredibly moved at the sight of her, and the thought of how much it would have meant to catch a glimpse of that torch and that crown after crossing a seemingly endless ocean to reach the free American shores.

New York, New York

2009-12-29T13:44:00.003-06:00

For those who haven't heard, I am spending a month in New York over the holidays, working on some reshoots for the film "Salt."

Natalie and Alvarro, friends I made in Spain last year, made their way through New York City at Christmas time, and we got to grab some lunch and take a walk through Central Park. It was wonderful to see them!

What are "Special Effects?"

2009-12-16T08:24:00.005-06:00

Explosions, among many, many other things.

Landen Michael Parks

2009-10-29T16:52:00.004-05:00

I am now a very proud and happy new Auntie! Congratulations to Justin and Jamie on their new little one, born October 28, 2009 at 3:11 PM, and Welcome to the sweet, beautiful, and healthy 7 lb. baby boy, Landen Michael Parks.

Boom!

2009-10-27T08:21:00.002-05:00

I am currently working as a production assistant for the special effects department on a Sony film. I am office help, essentially, purchasing all the necessary materials for explosions, breaking glass, burning cars, smoke, dust hits, bullet hits, car wrecks, and so on and so forth. Then, I get to watch it all come together. Boom! I am learning a lot about the creation of a film and am mostly enjoying the position despite the long hours and strange lifestyle.

A Brief Update

2009-10-26T08:35:00.005-05:00

On August 17, I wrote in my journal:

We had a whirlwind last phase in Alcala, dinner with Abbie and the crew, dinner with Nat and Alvy, packing, packing, souvenir shopping, cleaning, packing, sorting, packing, squeezing into Patri's car and heading to the airport. Our goodbyes mostly done and painless, I had so much more to worry over: luggage weight limits, customs, flight delays, and so on and so forth. When we joined the check-in line, an attendant with a characteristic North American accent asked us for our passports--weird! My bags were 23 and 22.5--right at the 23k limit (though only after days of agonizingly weighing, giving things away, weighing...). Craig's were at 24.5 and 25, but he had so thoroughly charmed the woman that she passed them through without a word.

When we got through security, through passport control, into the internationals terminal, and to our Air Canada gate, we were in a different world. We were surrounded by an English-Spanish mix, listening to English slang and Canadian/American accents. Children were sitting quietly (unheard of in Spain). The weirdness just continued. Kids were disciplined on the plane. People murmured quietly. Only the rare Spanish person occasionally shouted. When we landed in Canada and fought our way through baggage claim and into customs, I was overstimulated and tired, struggling to make English conversation with strangers and still using "gracias" and "hola" while speaking to anyone. Pretty strange thing to do in Canada, and a tough habit to break.

By the time we landed in Atlanta I was completely freaked out. People were saying "excuse me" and smiling instead of just shoving me out of the way. They were quiet on the train. Mom was there waiting for me, and I couldn't focus on what she was saying because suddenly I could understand EVERYTHING around me. I was hearing English conversation and snippets from every direction bombarded me, making it impossible to concentrate on just phrase. After a year of understanding nothing, my brain was honing in on a thousand different words that I KNEW. There were exclamations and televisions and signs and greetings and I just wanted a bathroom and some quiet.

We had a long drive ahead of us and I didn't know whether to talk or not, and when I did talk I was paranoid. Ordering a sandwich in English at Arbys and holding American money felt strange and unnatural. I tried to sleep in the car but being in a car after a year of train travel felt wrong. And then I was in Gulf Shores and talking to Mom until 3:30 AM (10:30 AM in Spain...26 hours without sleep) and then in bed jumpy and restless.

Jordan woke me up in the morning and another tornado of a day began. Jordo and baby sissy, American TV, the beach, the dogs, conversations, a million questions, a terrifying trip to Wal Mart, cooking, eating with my family, awkward with all social skills forgotten and exhaustion and over stimulation eating me up.

It's been a headachy transition. I'm relearning how to be friendly with strangers, how to concentrate on one conversation with other talk, radio, and television in the background. I'm relearning manners. I'm still better at talking to JackJack than to humans. I drove yesterday, scared all the while. I'm trying to adjust to humidity and hurricanes. I've delved into good fresh food--shrimp, asparagus, tomato, basil, cheese, chives, salmon, jalapenos, poached eggs, pita and hummus, pesto, orange juice, Mom's pancakes, fried potatoes, pecan tarts, and hot wings. I've taken bath after bath after bath. I'm trying to care again about how I look. I'm still over stimulated. I'm still tired. Awkward. Wired and lazy at once. But maybe everything will change quickly. I will begin forgetting it all. Now, I am home.

____________________________________________________________

No sooner than I got all this recorded in my notebook, I was called to Shreveport, Louisiana, to work as a special effects assistant. I left almost immediately, still suffering extreme culture shock, and started the job. Since then I have been moved to Baton Rouge where I am working and awaiting the birth of my tardy nephew (now 4 days past his due date).

I feel I still haven't had time to adjust to being back in the states. I have been jolted; torn from Spain and thrust into a new and different world. Perhaps it is better that way (mental processing is overrated, right?). Driving still feels a little strange and I often find myself well below the speed limit, witty banter is lost on me, and I still find it a little difficult to focus on one conversation if there is a lot going on around me. I find it frustrating when servers bring my food to me immediately, ask me again and again if I am doing okay, and drop the check on the table if I don't want an immediate refill, the complete opposite of what bothered me about restaurants in leisurely Spain. I am still flabbergasted by the portion size in restaurants and the idea of free refills of giant sodas. I take a long time to grocery shop; our selection of quick fix meals and fruit snacks and juices and even bottled water is incredible and overwhelming. I analyze what I say too much, and still have to actively resist correcting grammatical errors in conversation. Mostly I am very overwhelmed by the emphasis on fashion, brand names, manicures, jewelry, high price shoes, expensive hair cuts, and the incessant need for the most modern mobile phone (perhaps I'm especially exposed to this by working in the movie industry); I simply cannot afford the energy to spend so much time and effort on my appearance, and I simply cannot and will not pay $60 for t-shirts imported from impoverished foreign countries. I find much of our technology unnecessary after sufficiently living for a year with a computer and a pay-as-you-go cell phone.

I miss Spain. I MISS MY FRIENDS! I miss the Camino de Santiago and every single day I think about those steps, the land, the weather, the changes, the amazing people, the challenge, the routine.

I miss Alcala de Henares, with its festivals and pushy people and cold weather and majestic storks and very Spanish restaurants. I miss walking everywhere, I miss the train, I miss cafe con leche and champinones a la plancha. I miss the terraces and the dance clubs (yes, especially Gabanna). I miss taking and planning weekend trips, I miss the lazy "aluegos" and the lazy meals and the lazing in the park. I miss trying to speak Spanish and I am sickened that I have already forgotten all the language I had absorbed. I miss a few of my students and think of them often. I miss exploring. I miss the instant friendships formed when discovering someone else who speaks your language. I miss futbol.

I miss the scent of things. The feel of things. I miss the sensation of the foreign. I will carry Spain, the imprint it left on and in me, forever.

Photo Highlights from the Camino de Santiago

2009-09-11T16:03:00.008-05:00

For the complete album, please visit http://picasaweb.google.com/PhotosFromTheUniverse

Camino de Santiago: Daily Distances

2009-09-11T15:50:00.002-05:00

(In Kilometers)

St. Jean Pied du Port-Roncesvalles: 27
Roncesvalles-Larrasona: 26.9
Larrasona-Cizur Menor: 20.6
Cizur Menor-Puente la Reina: 18.8 (Absolute MOST difficult day)
Puente la Reina-Estella: 22
Estella-Los Arcos: 21.8
Los Arcos-Viana: 18.6
Viana-Najera: 38.4
Najera-Santo Domingo de Calzada: 21
Santo Domingo-Belorado: 22.9
Belorado-Atapuerca: 30.2
Atapuerca-Burgos: 21.4
Burgos-Hontanas: 30.6
Hontanas-Fromista: 34.4
Fromista-Carrion de los Condes: 19.3
Carrion-Terradillos de los Templarios: 26.2
Terradillos-El Burgo Ranero: 31.3
El Burgo Ranero-Leon: 39
Leon-San Martin del Camino: 26.1
San Martin-Astorga: 22.8
Astorga-Foncebadon: 26.3
Foncebadon-Ponferrada: 27.4
Ponferrada-Villafranca del Bierzo: 22.7
Villafranca-O Cebreiro: 30.5
O Cebreiro- Triacastela: 20.5
Triacastela-Sarria: 21.4
Sarria-Gonzar: 29.3
Gonzar-Melide: 31.9
Melide-Arca O Pino: 29.2
Arca O Pino-Santiago de Compostela: 20.3

Total: 778.8 KM

Santiago de Compostela-Negreira: 22
Negreira-Muxia (bus)
Muxia-Finisterre (1/2 1/2): 15

El Camino de Santiago de Compostela

2009-08-25T12:11:00.002-05:00

The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of Saint James, is an important traditional pilgrimage dating back to pre-Christian times. Throughout the Middle Ages it rose in popularity as one of the three pilgrimages leading to complete absolution of sin in Catholic tradition, along with routes to Rome and Jerusalem. (See my Article).

Nowadays people continue to make the trek from various locations across Europe to the cathedral of Santiago, which holds the supposed remains of Apostle James. People travel by foot, bicycle, horse, car, or even scooter, and stay in municipal albergues in common rooms generally crowded with bunk beds, or camp along the way.

The most common and perhaps most traditional route in the Camino Frances, beginning in St. Jean Pied du Port, France, and extending 780 kilometers to Santiago de Compostela. Many people choose to continue an additional three walking days to Finisterre, literally meaning “the end of the world,” on the Gallegan coast.

After four buses and a taxi, Craig and I arrived in St. Jean, a very small village where all the beds in all the hostels were full. They kindly allowed us to sleep on the floor of the community gymnasium. The next day we began our Camino, starting with what is known as the Most Challenging Day: a 3,500 meter climb up a 27 kilometer mountain path. They say this day is most difficult because it is, technically, the most physically trying. It is, however, in retrospect, one of the most exhilarating and fun days of the camino. Our muscles were fresh and our spirits were high as we climbed through the clouds, unable to see over 10 feet ahead of us, listening to the cowbells of the sheep hidden in the shroud of mist, marveling at the fog and fern filled gorges. The beauty and mystery distracted us from our burning muscles and exhaustion.

In my journal at the end of the first night, I wrote: We could see clearly only ten feet in front of us, and everything up to thirty feet appeared giant, mythical, daunting; several times we each had to check with the other to find out if we really were seeing a majestic profile of horse with colt, a looming tree, a sheer drop-off, or even a trail marker. Oftentimes we could hear the bells of a herd of sheep or cows, but never saw one. Then we turned a misty corner and found ourselves in the midst of a blurry herd of longhaired sheep, baaing and balancing on the edge of the cliff and spilling onto the trail.

It was a beautiful and unforgettable start to an incredible journey. We finished more tired than we had ever been, but proud! We were excited to have finished the Most Challenging Day and assumed it would be all downhill from there (literally).

No, the true difficulty begins later, when your joints and feet rebel against 30 K days, when your back begins aching from your rucksack, when the blisters set in, when the sunburn catches up to you, when the dorm-room snorers leave you sleepless, when your legs, exhausted, simply give out from beneath you.

They say the Camino de Santiago can be loosely split into three major stages: the physically challenging French-Spanish Pyrenees Mountains; the mentally challenging, unforgiving, flat, and seemingly endless meseta; and the jubilant last stretch through the Gallegan mountains.

The first stage, every step becomes so painful that you want to quit. No amount of rest breaks relieve your pounding, pounded feet and you can feel your bones spreading apart, your toe joints swelling, your tendons plucking and stretching as your tortured feet struggle to keep trudging. You feel every pebble on the dirt or asphalt paths. You pop your blisters every night but at the end of the next day they are quarter-sized again, tinted yellow from your iodine treatment. You throw away your laundry soap and extra pen, anything to pare down the weight in your pack.

You try everything: you buy a walking stick. You buy another. You try new insoles. Ace bandages, new anti-inflammatories, ibuprofen. Sanitary pads in your shoes! Threads through your blisters. Icing. Elevated feet. Vicks VapoRub massages. Foot soaks in cold rivers, knee braces, rosemary alcohol, Vaseline in your socks. Beer. Rest days. Stretching and more stretching.

And then one day you suddenly realize that at 25 K you’re still going strong, still feeling good. Your feet are fine, your blisters are tolerable, you ache a bit but can’t imagine it was ever enough to hinder you. You feel the muscles strong in your legs and, feel capable. You’ve passed through your first set of mountains and know that nothing can stop you now!

You set off into Burgos, one of the few major cities on the Camino Frances. You excitedly enter into the industrial center and you discover that following your quiet suffering in the peace of a natural rural setting, you are afraid of cars. Your senses and your brain are assaulted by construction, traffic, huge buildings, crowds of tourists, pollution, music, screaming kids, the smells of restaurants, barking dogs. You long for the woods.

Here you begin the next stage. You feel good, you feel healthy and prepared for the mentally challenging phase, happy and determined. Soon though, you realize that this is the most difficult task you’ve ever attempted. For days on end you watch the trail before you, extending forever through the tractor-dappled wheat fields during a dusty harvest. The scenery stays the same, as though you are simply on a treadmill. Everything is dust and brown, dry or paved, sun-baked and unfriendly. You watch the horizon, losing focus. You grow bored and grumpy. You try, but you cannot remember why you ever thought it was a good idea to WALK ACROSS SPAIN.

Talking (and complaining) with other pilgrims becomes vital to retain your sanity. You might even begin a makeshift book club with a small group of friends you met back on that first night, devoting your extra time to reading found, lost, stolen, bought, brought, traded, and shared random novels and discussing them just so you have something to talk about besides the frustration of the unchanging trail and the toll it's taking on your body and mind.

One day you find yourself brushing your teeth in your undies in the communal restroom and realize you have lost your modesty. You notice that no one has the energy to ogle you anyway. You become ravaged by insects and have allergic reactions to their bites, on your body, on your face. You realize you have established a simple yet satisfying routine: wake, walk, stop for coffee, walk, walk, stop when you reach your destination, shower, wash your clothes in the sink with a bar of soap, hang them to dry, read a chapter of your book, write in your journal, go to dinner, go to bed. You have made friends and it’s always a happy surprise to see them in the same village, though in this strange existence there's always a chance you are never going to see them again after THIS moment.

At this stage you lose your way. The flat, dusty trail leads you back to your own pains and aches and negativity every day. This phase will never end, and you know you will never reach Santiago. You HATE the walk, you HATE the food, you HATE looking at this same road AGAIN. You feel dirty, exhausted, lost, and angry.

Just as you finally admit defeat, you find yourself in Leon, where you rest a day, visit the cathedral, avoid the albergue for once so you can have one night’s real rest. You celebrate! You have finally reached the end of the second stage. You are so proud, and so relieved, so ready to move on.

In Galicia you are joined by and often sickened by the people walking only the last 1-200 K. They’re fresh and energetic, staying up and rising early (earlier even, than your own 5 AM wake up call). They don’t know how to pack in the dark or respect exhausted sleeping pilgrims. You stay restless and by now you are sick and tired of cold, communal showers shared with hacking and hairy men. You work to tune out singing Spaniards and the blasting mobile phones in the dorms and enroute.You’re offended by the loss of peace on the trail and the sudden competitive feel of *your* camino. Also by just too many men clad in nothing more than their undies.

Yet you have recovered your exhilaration. You are thrilled to be climbing and CONQUERING mountains and trekking through the green green green green forest! You’re excited by the scent of the decomposing undergrowth and healthy soil and moss, excited by the spongy ground beneath your now undeniably invincible feet. Your endorphins are on fire and you are surrounded by breathtaking scenery as you climb unforgiving hills and walk with cows and listen to the roosters crow and the plentiful springs run down the rock cliff faces. You love what you are doing. You love the country you’re in. You love and appreciate your body and realize how powerful it really is. How powerful YOU are.

One day you happen to catch your reflection in the rare free bathroom mirror in your sport bra and you are shocked at how you have changed. Your weight has redistributed itself across your frame so that your shape has been altered. Your face has thinned and your skin is dull beneath its thick layer of insect repellent and sunscreen and dust. You have a sock tan, a shorts tan, a t-shirt tan. Your shoulders are rubbed red from your rucksack straps. Your legs are covered in angry blackberry bramble scratches and mystery bruises, your knees are scabbed from slip-ups on rock faces. Your lips are chapped, your hair is ragged, you are speckled with bug bites and scars of bug bites and bug bites on top of bug bites. You discover heat rash and chafing you hadn’t felt earlier. You look permanently dirty. You look both strong and feeble at once.

You press forward. The signs that once mocked you by saying “Santiago: 790 K” now boast numbers in the 100s. In double digits. In the 20s. And then you’re there, and you push your way through the crowds of tourists and lie down in the plaza before the cathedral and stare up at the moldy-beautiful building you’ve been working toward for nearly 800 kilometers and you watch everyone snap their photos and you wait for your revelation.You are joyful. You are depressed. You are so happy to be finished. You are so disappointed to be done.

You hear someone say, “Now I understand what they say about it being all about the journey, not the destination.” You feel that. You feel everything.

You receive your compostela. You find a room and bathe without flip flops. 3 times. You see pilgrims you haven’t seen in a long while, and keep watch for those you hope to see but never run into again. You don’t tell anyone goodbye. You try Gallegan food and share stories over pimientos de padron and pulpo and Atlantic oysters and white wine.

You travel to the coast, to Finisterre, where people once believed the flat world ended. You stare out from the peninsula and find it hard to convince yourself the world is, indeed, round. You finally say goodbye to the people who have become friends, the friends who have shared something this sacred with you. You try not to cry although you’re exhausted and emotional and unsure of this life without the routine and conquest and power of the camino.

You head home after 35-some-odd days. You leave a part of yourself behind, there, in the Pyrenees, on the meseta, in the mist in the trees, and you take more with you.

9 Months

2009-06-29T18:28:00.003-05:00

When I began this blog I purposely withheld a lot of my opinions about Spanish people and their culture, knowing that in all likelihood my opinions would change over time. Now I have lived in Spain for 9 months. I have a much better perspective now that I have travelled and explored, and I can honestly say I have come to love this country and its inhabitants. However, this was not so in the early months of my adventure.

My initial impression of Spain was utter repulsion. The people are messy; they throw their McDonalds wrappers on the ground despite the trash cans on every corner, they noisily spit their sunflower seed shells as they walk, the men spit constantly, hawking and coughing, indoors and out. I have been spit on three times--twice by accident, I think, and once on purpose by a show-off teen. I've seen fathers teaching their children to pee on public buildings. I've seen a man cover one nostril and expel the contents of the other on the street. NOBODY cleans up after their dogs. The people seem rude. Those walking on the sidewalk do not budge to make way for anyone and I am often elbowed, pushed, shouldered out of the way and into a street full of incoming cars. The children know no respect and shove and scream. The men can be exceptionally crude and lewd to a lady walking alone. Cigarettes litter the streets and people smoke everywhere despite all the emphysema coughing. And forget covering the nose while sneezing! The people are loud. Conversations are shouting matches and everyone interrupts everyone else, speaking all at once and fighting for volume. They love the horns in their cars and use them dozens of times a day, sometimes for minutes at a time! They stare. They catcall. The weather is unpredictable and often depressing. The residents sometimes smell BAD.

When I first arrived the smells sickened me. The scent of body odor on the bus or the metro, the smell of sewage, the smell of frying pork fat, of dog poo baking on the sidewalk, of cigarettes and fried sardines...overwhelmed me. I never realized how clean and sterile the USA really is until I lived and breathed these scents.

I am used to all this now. I don't notice the cigarettes much, or the horns, or the volume, the sunflower seeds, the staring. I can tolerate the interrupting and the terribly behaved children and the catcalls. I've adjusted to the scents and now find it natural, real, proof that we are living (though I have never and will never learn to spit in the street).

I find myself in love with this country now. The land is beautiful, however unforgiving, the history is rich, the people love to laugh. The people enjoy, as they say.

I have met some incredible people. My student Alfonso taught me to pay attention to "the smell of the flowers burning in the sun." Rodrigo brought me special Spanish desserts to celebrate different holidays. Everyone is always eager to help, offering advice, informing me about Spain, making destination recommendations, lending me books, kindly critiquing my Spanish. I teach Sosa, a man from Nigeria who immigrated to Spain for a better life and to send money home to his family so that his siblings may get the education he never did (Craig and I are teaching him to read and write in English). I've taught business men, strong young female executives, teenagers, newly engaged couples, lawyers, pharmacists, biologists, university students, engineers, accountants, teachers, literature lovers, pilots; each one interested and engaged me, taught me something, modified my opinion of people in Spain, helped make my experience intriguing and special. And that is just my students...never mind my FRIENDS!!!

I find myself now armed with a better global perspective, more open, more calm. I have been living in a socialized nation and know firsthand how it works, and I can juxtapose it with my capitalist homeland to better formulate my beliefs and help find solutions for the future. I have witnessed the damage of this "crisis" in a different way, living in the country with the highest unemployment rate in the western world--nearly 18%. I can see the impact of the American media on kids and teens across an ocean.

When I was new in Spain I wasn't shocked by the fact that I was stereotyped as a stupid, McDonalds loving American, but I was offended by the perpetuation of these stereotypes by loud, stupid American tourists and drunken exchange students. I have learned to take pride in my nationality despite this in order to break these expectations. I feel that if I can break this stereotype in the mind of one person, I am making a difference.

I am homesick for Spain, and I have yet to leave.

Now I am saying goodbye to my students and embarking on a new journey. A lot of the goodbyes are casual, easy, but with a lot of my students I have spent a lot of one on one time. I know their childrens' names and what subjects the kids struggle with in school. I know what makes my students nervous about work and English, I know what allergies they have, what sports they practice on the weekends, their pet peeves. I know their religious beliefs and what they upbringing was like. I know whose brother is divorcing, whose boss is a jerk, whose child is in the hospital. I have spent nearly 100 hours alone with each of these students and we have become something like friends. I've had to say goodbye to my darling 13 year old private student over her tear-filled Coca-Cola, who finally passed an English exam after endless hours of assisted study.

But goodbye is necessary. This week, Craig and I will be travelling to Saint Jean Pied du Port, France. Here we will begin a 780 km hike on the Camino de Santiago Compostela, the way of Saint James, the ancient pilgrimage route. We will be walking an average of 30 km per day, carrying our clothes and sleeping bags on our backs, traversing the French/Spanish Pyrenees mountains, the plateau plains of Castilla y Leon, and the rainy rolling green hills of Galicia, among 780 km of other Spanish country side. http://www.caminodesantiago.me.uk/camino-frances/

I will be doing my best to occasionally find a computer to update!

Burgos, Spain

2009-06-29T17:50:00.007-05:00

Last weekend we travelled to Burgos, Spain, with our native Burgos friend Oscar. Normally when we travel we are on our own or accompanied by other ignorant tourists, so it was a lovely gift to have a local on our side. We were shown the best restaurants, told the best tapas to order, and made very funny friends.

The food is definitely worth mentioning. The best was a tapa called cojonudo...this isn't a name you want to throw around, as it actually means "to go in the nude." However, it is a slang word for, essentially, "AWESOME!" when describing food. And that is what this tapa was. They begin with a piece of bread and top it with a tiny, perfectly fried quail (or partridge?) egg. They decorate this with a red pepper slice, and add chorizo (or, if it is a cojonudA, they add morcillA). Really, this isn't my ideal dish. I have to admit that I internally cringed when Oscar brought it to the table, but...YUM!!! I learned to stop prejudging pretty quickly after the next tapa, tigre (tiger), which was a sort of pulverized mussel mixed with bechamel sauce, stuffed back into the shell and fried. It was so good I cleaned that mussel shell of every bit of fried pink mush clinging to it. YUM! Also worth mentioning is the morcilla itself (blood sausage) for which Burgos is famous for. I eat morcilla in tiny doses, but Craig ate every morcilla in sight! I also tried hard to eat a fois tapa with mango and burnt sugar, but while I desperately wanted to discover I loved it, liver just isn't my thing. Craig ate mine, of course.

Burgos was also special for me because it is part of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, of which I will discuss further later. We got to see many pilgrims headed toward the west of Spain, tired and dirty but extremely happy. Here are Craig and Oscar posed with the pilgrim statue in front of the cathedral. (I forgot to mention that Craig no longer has hair!)

The cathedral was amazing. Burgos' cathedral is the third largest in Spain (after Sevilla's and Toledo's) and is INCREDIBLE. It is of gothic design but allows in a lot of natural light, often bright with stained glass colors.

The best part about Burgos? It was chilly! I actually walked around in my winter coat. Native Burgos residents snickered at me, but they are used to -15 degree (C) winters, so I felt secure in my down feather warmth.

A Better View

2009-06-29T17:48:00.002-05:00

The Alcazar of Segovia, courtesy of Flickr.com (this shot is taken from the other side, and on a day with more light!)

Segovia, Spain

2009-06-29T17:09:00.006-05:00

What a MAGNIFICENT city!!! I am simply in love with this antiquated and welcoming place. Segovia is located in the Castilla y Leon region of Spain, north of Madrid. This means the weather is slightly cooler (helped by the cloud coverage the day of our visit)and is considered a northern city despite its close vicinity to Madrid. After an easy 2 hour bus trip, Craig and I walked up the main drag only to be stunned by the Roman aqueduct.

This FIRST CENTURY monument remains in immaculate condition. It was originally built to bring water from the closest river--over 18 km away! Honestly, (coming from a girl who has a difficult time grasping architecture)...it is a marvel! I wish my photos could do it justice, but it simply isn't possible.

Next we sat in the Plaza Mayor in front of the intricately designed cathedral, La Dama de las Catedrales Espanoles (The Dame of the Spanish Cathedrals).

Here we feasted on cochinillo, Segovia's specialty dish. Cochinillo can be translated to "roast suckling pig." It really is a fatty, milk-fed, very very young baby pig, roasted whole and cut with a plate before the guests to demonstrate the tender texture of the meat. I was served a leg (with a tiny hoof and hair on the skin!) and Craig, lucky boy, got the head. Eyes, ears, and brains included, no extra charge.

It was very delicious.

Next we made our way through the winding ancient streets to the Alcazar, or Palace, of Segovia. This extravagant castle has been an inspiration to artists across the world, including Walt Disney. The original architecture, including the bright blue spires, was of Arab design, though Alfonso VI's troops conquered it in the 11th century and transformed it from a fort to a holiday retreat for the kings to follow. We were able to tour the inside and found it to be rich with art, stained glass, and eccentric Moorish ceilings.

We stopped into an old restaurant for a postre Segoviana. We ordered leche frita on the recommendation of one of my students. This translates directly to "fried milk" and tastes like a sort of hot flan. They mix milk with flour, sugar, perhaps a little cinnamon, fry it, and flambe it with whiskey. YUM!

We ended the day with a drink and vinegar-soaked cucumbers on a terrace in front of the aqueduct, watching the artists paint the view and the tiny abuelas dance to traditional music performed by live musicians.

Cuenca, Spain

2009-06-22T03:30:00.005-05:00

Last week Craig and I took a day trip with our friends Sara and Jesus. Aside from remembering that I can no longer handle car rides after 9 months without spending any significant time in cars, the trip was flawless and my nausea was soon overcome. Cuenca is a really interesting and beautiful place. The historic city is positioned on a hilltop, providing some of the best views possible of the surrounding Castilla-La Mancha region. Castilla-La Mancha is best described as HOT. Beautiful, rich in agriculture, with rolling fields of wheat and windmills. And hot. Castilla-La Mancha means scar, or mark, and it was once considered a flaw in Spain's interesting landscape. But its arid climate and healthy soil makes it perfect for growing vegetables, and supplies most of Spain with homegrown products.

We walked the winding streets of Cuenca taking pictures and chatting about the surroundings. Looking down from a high point, you could see the winding green river with its sandy beach, peoples backyards with their perfect rows of tomato plants, onions, and grapevines, all irrigated by creeks.

We went for lunch in a small restaurant on a side street and we happily ate gazpacho, ensalada, an interesting seafood and rice stew with mussels, clams, shrimp, and tomato. We had brocheta de carne, or, in other words, beef on a stick and salad with artichoke hearts. Coffee.

After, we went to take a look at Cuenca's famous "Hanging Houses." These are houses built on the edge of the cliffs, with floating balconies actually extending out over the edge. At one time there were many of these houses, but only a few remain, housing a museum and a restaurant. We walked out on Saint Peter's bridge, which connected the two sides of a deep gorge, to get a better look.

While we were in Cuenca the thermometers read 40 degrees Celsius.

Tortilla de Patatas; the Spanish Omelet

2009-06-17T08:39:00.006-05:00

Recently my flatmate, Isabel (aka Isa pronounced EEsa)from Salamanca, Spain, was nice enough to teach me how to prepare an authentic Spanish Omelet. I remember when I was first introduced to tortilla, I was skeptical, as someone who is not an omelet fan at all. I should not have worried. Tortilla de patatas in undoubtedly the greatest gastronomical treasure I have come upon in Spain and I LOVE IT!!!!! Honestly while she was teaching me, Isa did most of the work...I was a little chicken about flipping over a pan of hot oil and egg. But I can proudly say I have made it on my own since then and it got an A+ from my Spanish friends.

Try it. It is delicious.

Ingredients for a Simple Spanish Omelet with Potato and Onion

* 4 Eggs, very well beaten
* 3 Medium-sized Golden Potatoes, peeled and sliced very thinly
* 1 Small Yellow Onion, finely diced
* 3-4 Large Pinches of Salt
* An Abundance of Quality Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil (about 1 cup)

Essential Tools

The size of the pan used for tortilla de patatas should match the ratio of ingredients should the cook choose to double the recipe. For this particular recipe, an 8 inch pan should produce an inch thick tortilla, though some variation is acceptable as different people have different preferences for thickness and texture. A colander or slotted spoon is also necessary, as well as a clean, large plate and a butter knife.

Spanish Tortilla de Patatas Preparation

1. Heat oil on high on stove top. When hot, lower the heat setting to medium. Fry potatoes and onions until potatoes are soft and golden, stirring occasionally to keep from sticking. If the potatoes seem to be cooking too fast and browning, immediately reduce heat.
2. Using a slotted spoon, remove potatoes and onions and discard oil, leaving a small amount in pan. Mix potatoes and onions with beaten eggs, add salt, and pour the mixture into the pan and spread it evenly. Cook on medium heat.
3. Using a butter knife, separate the edges of the tortilla from the pan occasionally, and shake from time to time to keep the omelette from sticking. When the outside edges of the tortilla seem solid, cover the pan with a plate (note: the plate should exceed the diameter of the pan!). Using extreme caution to avoid very hot ingredients, flip the pan while holding the plate in place. Once it is on the plate, slide the tortilla off the plate and back into the pan, raw side down.
4. Cooking time varies depending on preference. Some people prefer the tortilla done throughout, while others prefer a soft center. To be safe, both sides should be golden brown.
5. Flip the tortilla onto the plate once more and allow to cool slightly before serving. Cut into wedges or squares, and enjoy!

Generally, it is served as tapa. It is usually served cold, occasionally with a slice of jamon or drizzle of ali-oli sauce and a piece of bread.

Spring?

2009-06-17T08:17:00.002-05:00

In May the trees finally started to show fresh leaves, the plaza's rosebushes began to bud, and I finally FINALLY retired my winter coat, long after my friends in the states had been lounging on the beach. The idea of transitional seasons does not reach Madrid, however, and the one week of semi-Spring in Alcala de Henares launched into full force Summer the next week. The thermometer on the street hit 38 degrees the first week of June (that's 100 degrees for you Fahrenheit people), baby storks started popping up in giant nests everywhere (looking strikingly large next to their padres, but bright clean fluffy white), and my shoes started melting while I walked through the industrial center to the pharmaceutical company where I teach.

There is a Spanish saying that goes something like, "Don't pack away your coat until the 40th of June," meaning that the winter weather never completely disappears. But 90% of the time now it is HOT HOT HOT, blindingly sunny, pounding heat. Summer storms brew up quickly and hit hard with thunder and lightning like on the Gulf, then dry up in the powerful sun as if they had never been here. It's desert dry and my skin tightens immediately upon walking outside. The sun is so strong that I have new freckles despite numerous applications of sunscreen per day. This with no air conditioning in my apartment.

But really I am grateful. The winter here was 6 months long and much of it was sunless, so this is a refreshing change, especially knowing that by September it will be sliding back into cool. After 7 months of pants I was ready to wear a skirt!

Alcala is beautiful in the sunlight. The people are smiling, happy. Terraces are set up throughout the Plaza de Cervantes and on Calle Mayor, and residents lounge outside under large umbrellas with their tinto de veranos y tapas. As one of my students accidentally put it, "the scent of the flowers and plants burning in the sunshine" surrounds you (along with the occasional stab of hot sewage or dog poo baking on the sidewalk). The sun does not set until 10:30 during these warm nights and people are still eating and walking with their families, screaming children, and dogs at midnight all days of the week. Ice cream stands have appeared on every street corner, and there is nothing like seeing a 90 year old woman walk down the street with a soft serve vanilla cone.

Spanish Phrase of the Day

2009-05-11T03:25:00.002-05:00

"No Pasa Nada"

Literally meaning "Not Passing Anything," this phrase is used to mean "Don't Worry About It," or "Nothing Will Happen," generally in response to an apology, mix-up, or problem. Hakuna Matata, in other words.

"No Pasa Nada."

Valencia, Spain

2009-05-10T08:49:00.005-05:00

Recently, in utter desperation (to see the sun and the sea) we travelled with two friends, Swedish Sara, a fellow academy teacher, and American Melissa, an exchange student and Daphne, Alabama resident, to the third largest city in Spain, Valencia.

Every time Craig and I travel it rains, so when we arrived by bus we were not surprised to see dark clouds. We decided we were forced to skip the beach for the afternoon and instead wandered through the old and beautiful city center. Surprisingly the sun burned through the clouds and we basked in the sunlight at cafes talking talking talking and people watching.

The next day we woke up to blessed sunshine and headed to the beach! This shore reminded me of the Gulf of Mexico because the water is calm and clear, but the sand is much darker than Alabama's and there is a different feeling to it. We lotioned up, more than aware that our skin had not seen the sun in over SEVEN MONTHS as Spain's winter had been exceptionally long and cold. The water was too cold for swimming, but the temperature was just right for sunbathing, and the four of us read our various books, studied, slept.

In the afternoon when the wind kicked up and we got chilly we ordered paella at a beach side restaurant, as paella was born in and around Valencia and we could not leave without having it here. We also walked around the strangely designed museums of Valencia.

In the evening we bought frozen pizzas to cook in the hostel's large kitchen, only to discover that there was no oven. And so we found ourselves cooking pizzas on stove top and playing cards in the common room with new American friends. (stovetop pizza has the potential for great success and utter failure, just fyi).

The next day we checked out, hit the beach for just a short time, and headed home by bus. The weekend seemed so short! I have never lived in a city more than 1 hour away from the beach before, and residing here in Madrid is a little bit of a challenge for this reason, especially now that it is warm.

The weekend in Valencia was great. I enjoyed the beach, the food, the company, every bit about it.

French Adventure 3: Marseilles and the Journey Back to Spain

2009-05-10T08:05:00.006-05:00

We finally bid goodbye to Manosque (which, by the way, just so happened to be extremely close to where Craig had lived in Gap) and headed to Marseilles by bus on our own. We had planned on taking a train from Marseilles to Barcelona because the flight from Marseilles to Madrid had been too expensive. As it was a national holiday in Spain, however, it was impossible to find train tickets. So we had tickets for a 9 hour bus ride to Barcelona the next day, and we had one evening and one morning to spend in Marseilles.

Marseilles is beautiful in a haunting way. It is dirty and dangerous and, most of all, fishy, but the history of this oldest European port city is nearly tangible and makes the city feel, above all else, ALIVE. I truly enjoyed it and would love to go back when the sun is shining. Marseilles is sunny 300 days of the year, and we happened to be there during a heavy downpour.

In the evening we walked around the harbor and settled into a restaurant to enjoy the Marseille specialty dish, La Bouillabaise, which is a rock fish broth served with several kinds of fresh caught and cooked fish, cheese, croutons, and sauce.

The next morning, after another long, rain-soaked walk around the port, we caught our Barcelona bound bus, which we were assured would drop us at the Barcelona airport.

9 hours later we arrived not at the airport, but the train station. No problem! We took the last train of the night to the airport. By this time it was 11:30 PM and we had all the time in the world before our 5 am flight. We looked and looked, though, and there was no sign of our airline check-in counter! Finally we approached the info desk and with a hiss of air between her teeth the attendant informed us that our flight was actually departing from Girona, a city an hour and 45 minutes away, which operated under the "Barcelona" name. This was my luck now, as the Harrison luck had obviously faded away.

We took a bus to the Plaza de Espana then caught the metro to the bus station. We missed the last bus of the night to Girona by 5 minutes, and were informed that we would have to wait until the next bus departed at 3:15 AM, and that the trip would take 1 hour. We weighed the risk of only allowed 45 minutes to check in and get through security before our flight departed, and, since we had zero other options, settled into some chairs in the tiny, freezing bus station. We considered napping since we had to work the next morning, but it was truly impossible, between the snoring men and homeless people getting kicked out of the bathrooms.

We were so relieved to finally purchase our bus tickets and board and depart. I was anxious about the tight time squeeze but dozed off here and there, listening to the various languages fly through the bus. When we heard the thump and the bus abruptly pulled over, I was not alarmed. We knew a tire must have blown, and that it would probably only take 10 minutes, max, to change the tire. No problem, I told Craig, we can still make it.

However, the bus driver did not return. Interestingly, the French, the Americans, the Canadians, the Swedish, the English sat quietly in their seats whispering predictions, while the Spanish and the Portuguese stood, gawked, yelled, and prowled the aisle in impatience.

Perhaps 15 minutes later the bus driver stepped back onto the bus, and he backed us up 20 meters or so before leaving again, gazing under the bus. He walked the dark and busy highway, peering into bushes, walking, walking, searching. The digital clock in the front of the bus climbed to 4:30. 4:45, 4:50, 5:00, 5:15, and still we sat, finally understanding what had happened as the police arrived, stopped traffic, waved in the ambulance, let the medics get to work.

Another bus pulled in after a time and we were roughly instructed to get off this bus, board the new. No more information was provided to us. We were simply dropped at the airport, where passengers from all over Europe and the Americas hit the ground running to find their flights.

By the time we finally boarded a plane we could not keep our eyes open. We notified our director we would have to miss our morning classes and slept through the flight. We numbly walked through the airport, boarded the metro, boarded the train, and woke up just in time to catch the stop for Alcala de Henares. We arrived in the city hungry, exhausted, giggling, and relieved after a 28 hour trip.

French Adventure 2: Cassis and Aix-en-Provence

2009-05-10T07:19:00.008-05:00

Our time in France was expected to be cloudy and rainy, but we took our chances with travelling to Cassis for a picnic and a hike. And we got lucky! It was cool and windy, but with patches of sun that made the trip more than worthwhile.

Cassis is famous for its Calonques, fingers of land that extend into the Mediterranean and drop down into cliffs into the water. This was my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea and with the sunshine I was not disappointed. We lunched on the edge of a Calonque, enjoying Mathilde's rice salad in the wind, and we hiked for several hours, visiting each calonque, watching the sailboats and the climbers, enjoying the sun. Mathilde tells us that Cassis is the origin of the foundation of the Statue of Liberty, and these smooth white rocks were everywhere.

Later Alex and I scuttled out onto the rocks to put our toes in the Mediterranean. It was warm and the water looked SO inviting. Oh, but it was cold!! In the first instant it was refreshing, and then painfully freezing.

After concluding our natural adventure we meandered into the tiny fishing village, where we drank Perrier and ate French churros, gazing at a castle overlooking the sea.

The next day we headed to Aix-en-Provence. It was windy once again, cloudy, but with occasional and beautiful phases of sun. We visited a museum that compared the lives and art of Picasso and Cezanne, which was really interesting. And FREE! The exhibition was interactive and fun.

We walked the city center, observing the cathedrals and tiny streets. Aix, for me, though beautiful, was most special because of the atmosphere. Its population lounged on cafe terraces, catching up with friends, enjoying good coffee, relaxing, studying. The environment was peaceful, friendly, altogether calming.

We went to a creperia for lunch and once again ate our fill.

French Adventure 1: Manosque

2009-05-10T06:39:00.003-05:00

We travelled to the south of France for Semana Santa (Easter break). Here is my account of our journey:

As we hurried to finish packing and cleaning on Wednesday morning, the electricity went out in the apartment (this may or may not have been my fault, as I was blow drying my hair at the time). I am always EXTREMELY organized when I travel, but, as we could not access the flight information and I did have the confirmation numbers written down, I decided to THIS ONE TIME skip the paperwork. So, we boarded a train to Madrid, stepped onto the metro to the airport, and easily checked in with our airline with plenty of time to spare!

As a matter of fact we had amazing luck the entire way to Manosque. I finally got to experience Craig's famed "Harrison Luck!" The staff was terrific and the flight was good. We stepped off the plane and our luggage was the first to emerge. We stepped out of the airport and directly onto the correct bus to Aix-en-Provence. We stepped off the bus with just enough time to grab a panini and my first-ever Orangina before stepping onto the correct bus to Manosque, where my friend Alex and his lovely girlfriend Mathilde were there waiting for us. FLAWLESS.

Mathilde had invited us to stay with her family in the picturesque city that is Manosque. She and the rest of the Serre family were amazing! Their house was beautiful; the garden, with its flowers, herbs, and olive trees, overlooked the tiny medieval town. Mathilde's mother is a killer cook and her father was eager to introduce us to various French wines and cheeses. Luckily for us they spoke English!

Meals in this house were delightful. One night, for example, we had veal cutlets simmered with carrots and garden-grown thyme, served with potatoes baked in cream. This was followed by the salad, which was followed by the mmGOOD cheeses and homemade bread, which was followed by fruits and an apple tart with locally made ice cream. Delicious, and so much more because it was taken slowly, with good conversation, good wine, and good spirits! We stayed full the entire vacation.

For several days we ventured to various cities, but Manosque itself was very special. We took some time to tour the town, observing the great hand that is the symbol of the city, checking out the doors to the city, and exploring local cafes.

The last day we were there we were lucky enough to catch the open-air marketplace where every Wednesday and Saturday the local farmers and vendors gather to sell fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, cheeses, preserves, flowers, herbs, and honey. Craig and I purchased some home-grown, homemade raspberry jam, vegetable curry pate, and goat cheeses. Alex bought some sun-dried tomato paste which we included in the sprawling lunch Mathilde's mother prepared for us before our departure. It was great! Everything about Manosque was absolutely pleasant.

Valdepielagos y Sigüenza

2009-05-08T10:11:00.004-05:00

After hiking in Tejera Negra we headed to our friend Patricia's village.

It is important to remember that it was only one generation ago that people still lived in small communities far from a big city. The parents of my friends all grew up in these villages, venturing to Madrid or Barcelona or Sevilla only a few times a year. Until, of course, the Spanish economy boomed, and these people poured into the cities seeking employment, settling down to begin a family closer to "civilization." It was during this exodus of the villages that our city, Alcala, grew important to commuters, morphed into an industrial center, and began accumulating its current population of 204,000. Homes in the villages have become vacation destinations, where people go on holiday weekends to escape the traffic and relax.

When we arrived at the empty house in Valdepielagos, it was barely cool outside. Inside the house was a different story. Built in the 1800s, made primarily of stone, tile, and concrete, and with little insulation, the house was freezing! There was a fireplace, though, and it was here we cooked our dinner. Our friends surprised Craig with a belated birthday cake, of sorts, and we explored the wine bodega, which was an unfinished basement with dirt walls, lots of spider webs, and makeshift wine racks lining the walls.

The next morning we dined on the terrace, enjoying our toast (with baobob preserves) and coffee in the sunshine. The terrace was topped by still-bare grape vines and surrounded by naked flower beds, as Spring had not yet descended on Spain. It was clear it would be a beautiful, peaceful place to relax in May or June.

We ventured over to the crumbling church and sinking graveyard in the village. At night it would surely be a sinister place, as it was quiet and overgrown, the dead beneath the ground long-forgotten as evidenced by their sunken tombs and broken grave markers. It was hard to be forlorn in the daylight though, especially with the view behind us of rolling hills with fields ready for Spring planting.

Next we travelled to a more touristic village called Sigüenza, which means Stork in English (though there were no storks to be seen!). We visited the cathedral and the ancient castle which, in recent years, has become one of the famous Parador Hotels. It is a beautiful city.

We had a lunch of patatas bravas, alitas de pollo, ensalada ruso (a mayo based salad that I despise), and chorizo, and then enjoyed a coffee in front of the city's main plaza and the cathedral. Peaceful.

By this time, Craig and I were exhausted. We had been speaking and listening only to Spanish for two days straight, which is hard on the brain. We had had little sleep and had spent a great majority of the time car-sick, as we no longer travel by automobile and are no longer accustomed to taking on curvy roads from the backseat. It was a wonderful weekend, but we were more than pleased when the cars pulled back into Alcala de Henares.

Hiking in Tejera Negra

2009-05-06T03:57:00.003-05:00

We spent a weekend stomping around the countryside with a group of Spanish friends. It was a challenging weekend of speaking Spanish and feeling dirty, but it was also great fun. We got to see a different side of Spain, the side that lacks traffic and people and still embraces the old style of life.

Our first stop was the Parque Natural Hayedo de Tejera Negra. The park is very busy in the Autumn, when the trees light up in reds and oranges. We visited in the early Spring, when hikers must step around patches of lingering snow but can still enjoy the sunshine.

We picnicked (bocadillos and gazpacho) by the stream and then headed into the woods, hiking a 6 (?) kilometer loop through the trees.

Grr Arrgh

2009-05-06T03:48:00.003-05:00

I have a lot to write about...hiking adventures in the mountains of Madrid, French escapades, travel blunders, the Spanish coast...

I apologize for the recent lack of updates. My lap top charger is not working and so my computer is currently out of commission. I hope to have new blogs up soon, however, so stay tuned!

Granada, Spain: Güéjar Sierra

2009-03-27T12:54:00.009-05:00

One of Craig's students told us that we must visit a small town called Pinos Genil to eat his Second Favorite Rice in Spain. Another one of Craig's students is from a small village outside Granada, and she suggested we visit her hometown. She recommended a particular restaurant called Maitena after the River Maitena it is located on.

We studied the map carefully and, since the two villages were close together, decided to try to visit both in one afternoon.

After a truly wild wild goose chase across town to the bus station, back into the heart of Granada where we began, and from bus stop to bus stop speaking to strangers in our poor Spanish, we finally boarded a bus to Pinos Genil. As a matter of fact we double checked with both the lit display on the front of the bus and the driver himself that the bus was, indeed, making its final stop in Pinos Genil.

We wound around uphill, hugging the edges of cliffs overlooking amazing views of lakes and groves far below. The Sierra Nevada mountain loomed ahead, closer than we could have imagined, snow and cloud capped. The bus finally pulled into the village and stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief. 2nd Best Rice in Spain, here we come!

Only we found ourselves in Güéjar Sierra, which was the REAL final stop of this bus line. We had passed through Pinos Genil on our climb uphill! No great loss, however, as we decided to track down the recommended restaurant and eat lunch there. We had 3 hours before the bus returned (before a 3 hour gap with no transportation in or out).

We asked a very cheerful woman directions. She said the restaurant was great, and it was thataway. We walked thataway for a while and then double checked with another woman to make sure we were on the right track. Yup, continue thataway, she said, and we did. We walked thataway for a long time, until we noticed the village was behind us and we were in horse and goat country. We came across a little old man, who once again said, yup, thataway, just keep walking.

Well...perhaps 3 kilometers later, down a steep hill on foot, we finally spotted the restaurant below, baking in the blistering sun. We found a seat and immediately ordered water!

The food was wonderful, the views were great, and the atmosphere was unforgettable. We sat outdoors in the restaurant's gravel yard under the trees alongside the river. We stuffed ourselves full with chorizo, morcilla, potatoes fried with green peppers, sauteed chicken, seasoned sausage, pork chop, and fried egg. MMMM, a memorable meal!!!!!

After coffee I glanced at my watch and realized we only had 25 minutes to make it back UP the hill, into the village, and to the bus stop before we were stranded for an additional 3 hours. We quickly paid, of course forgetting to ask for an extra water, and began power walking, taking hiker's trails to shorten the distance when possible. We were walking quickly enough that we powered past a couple of huffing and puffing cyclists. Finally we broke into a run, emerging into the plaza just as the clock tower struck 3:00. We jumped on the leaving bus and were on our way (and feeling pretty proud of our uphill athletic abilities, might I add)!

We ultimately decided not to stop in Pinos Genil, for who can partake in Spain's Second Best Rice when you are full, hot, sweaty, and tired? It will have to wait for another day.

Granada, Spain: El Albaicín

2009-03-24T17:17:00.010-05:00

The Albaicín, or Albayzín, is historically the moorish quarter of Granada, though many of those refusing conversion to Christianity or not fast enough in escaping to North Africa under the reign of Los Reyes Catolicos (The Spanish Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella) were killed, and the remaining few were driven out by the middle of the 16th centery.

Still, the influence of North Africa is strong here, even alongside the blatant Catholic and Jewish symbolism. In the Albayzín the vendors sell Arabian pants and skirts, belly dancing costumes, pashimas, beads, and art. Tea rooms are countless and dozens seep smoke onto each street. Arabic restaurants are common, though everyone speaks Spanish. The most striking feature of the Albayzín, however, is the sheer beauty of the whitewashed houses contrasting the bright Spanish sky.

Outside the busy market area, the streets here are twisting, narrow, quiet, and seemingly endless. Most are reduced to walking paths squeezed between homes or crossing through the keyholes in the city walls to open into small plazas you will never find again. In one of these we stumbled across a small outbreak of spontaneous flamenco...each person that walked by, woman or man, child or adult, couldn't help but dance. Churches and restaurants are hidden between the tight apartments and the uphill treks are unforgiving, though very worth the view from St. Nicolas' Square and other surprise vistas along the way.

We explored this neighborhood for hours. For days. It is a maze that you don't mind losing yourself in!

Granada, Spain: The Alhambra

2009-03-24T11:58:00.007-05:00

We finished work at 9:30, packed quickly and ran to catch the last train out of Alcala. We waited in the cold bus station for quite some time, and our bus finally left Madrid at 1:30 am and headed south, to Andalucia, to Granada. Travelling at night has its obvious downfalls, but the positives are there too. Namely, you can add a full day to the holiday.

After a quick AM siesta, it was off to the Alhambra, the palace in the sky. The Alhambra (from the original name qa'lat al-Hamra meaning Red Fort in Arabic)is the best preserved medieval Arab palace in the world and has stood on its plateau overlooking Granada and the looming Sierra Nevada since the 11th century. The grounds are sprawling, and visitors make their way slowly through each castle, tower, and chamber and into the amazing gardens of the Generalife.

Craig recreated battles and patiently taught me the essentials of defending a major fort as we toured, stopping often to admire the incredible views and the shamelessly excessive art. Most walls were intricately carved, bright tile lined entire walls, and everywhere we turned there was running water, fountains, ponds, and baths. I could not stop taking photos, as the sheer beauty was overwhelming.

Mile Marker

2009-03-23T18:06:00.002-05:00

It's six months now that I've been living and working in Spain. I finally feel semi-assimilated, entitled to opinions about this culture, this language, these people, this nation. I finally feel that my observations are even somewhat valid.

I haven't recorded many of my observations here for fear that they would turn out to be mistaken. What I can and will record, however, are observations of myself.

At 4 months in I was still missing a lot of insignificant pieces of my American life--conveniences mostly, like a clothes dryer, or food, like Mom's baked beans or Justin's tacos. At 5 months I was knocked cold by the language barrier and the sheer discouragement that accompanies attempts of communication. Always I miss my family and my friends and wish I could unite these two worlds.

At 6 months I feel much more capable. I find myself surprisingly adjusted. No dryer, no problem. Food cravings have shifted...I know that if I cross town I can find peanut butter, and I have nearly forgotten the smell of barbeque; I know now that when I do return states-side I will, in fact, miss champinones a la plancha and patatas bravas. I have accepted that the grocery store shuts down at 2 and again at 8 and will not open on Sunday. I have come to terms with carrying those groceries across town and taking the bus every day. I hang my clothes outside without a second thought, and I am used to living with people who do not speak my language. I have come to understand the easy-does-it time schedule that the Spanish live by and although I cannot slow down my own walking pace or allow myself to linger, I don't mind it so much now when everyone is tardy...to class, to appointments, to meetings, to everything. I have realized exactly how gigantic a complainer I really am and am at least working to whine less.

Often now things simply are what they are. If the bus is stuck in traffic, worrying will not get it to move faster. This small tidbit of advice is so easy to give and accept but is so difficult to put into practice, especially for a natural worrier like me. Still, I am calmer, more confident that every problem has a solution. In fact, now travel is even more exciting because if we're on the wrong bus we are simply exploring! Along these same lines I am trying to learn to be less frustrated with myself, less harsh with my own self-criticism.

These changes, in my mind, are monumental. I continue to enjoy learning about and trying to better myself.

My language capacity has grown and I understand and speak much more Spanish. It has been 6 months and I feel I have learned so little, but in all reality I have learned more in these 6 months than I ever would have if I had studied in the states and so I believe I have made great progress. We have been learning unconventionally, studying in the few hours we have free of work, and overall I am embarrassed to speak because I know my skills are laughable. Pero bueno, poco a poco, si?

While I do believe the Spanish have their fair share of negative characteristics (sexism, spitting, and a crude habit of staring at foreigners are just a few from my long list), they are an amazing people deserving of their immense pride, and I continue to be impressed by their land and their lives. I enjoy taking part in and learning about this small portion of the world.

Homesickness effects me still, literal nausea that hits hard and fast. Missing special events is particularly difficult--Britney's wedding, Justin and Kerry's birthdays, the announcement of Jamie's pregnancy--I regret missing these moments. I feel that I have become anonymous, invisible to the world at times in an out-of-sight-out-of-mind manner, especially as the realization of my great insignificance grows. I constantly wish I could join these two lives of mine as to not be forgotten, as to prevent the neglect of those I love.

Still, I am truly enjoying myself here and am eager to continue learning. I am content with my journey.

Signs of Spring

2009-03-07T08:28:00.004-06:00

In a village outside Madrid. Note the blooming almond trees, the herd of sheep, and the melting mountain snow.

Everyone in the community of Madrid is ready for the winter to end. My students continue to tell me that they have not seen weather this dark, dreary, cold, snowy, and long-lasting in nearly 20 years.

I'm Going to be an Auntie!

2009-03-06T16:09:00.003-06:00

Congratulations to Justin and Jamie, who are expecting their first child in October! Our family is so delighted! This baby will be my first niece or nephew and the first daughter or son of this Parks generation.

A grand adventure is about to begin.
-- Winnie the Pooh

Parque de Templo de Debod and Parque del Retiro, Madrid

2009-03-06T14:02:00.010-06:00

The Egyptian Temple of Debod, dedicated to Isis and Amon and constructed in the 4th century, was given to the nation of Spain in 1970. Once it stood in the River Nile; now it proudly overlooks one of the most beautiful views in Madrid.

Pictured here is the temple itself, the fountain and pond it is positioned in, the view from the park, and the people surrounding the temple. The parks in Madrid are one of my favorite attractions. They provide an oasis from the busy-ness of the city and they are terrific for people watching. Madrileños go to their parques to let their children run, to read, to eat lunch, to relax, to sleep and listen to the street musicians, to absorb some sun in the cold winter or seek shade in the burning summer, to socialize. Any small square of grass might host a picnic or a quick nap. And trust me! Snoozing in the park when the sun is hot Spanish sun is shining is one of the greatest forms of relaxation in the universe.

We continued on to Parque Del Retiro, my favorite in Madrid, to listen to the random drum circles and watch the sunset and people. The parque is waking up after a hard winter, finally shaking the frost off the limbs of the trees and beginning to blossom here and there. Of course, there's more winter now, but for this one weekend we were all lured into believing it was May. It was the first time we had seen the sun in two months!

El Rastro, Madrid's Famous Flea Market

2009-03-06T10:33:00.011-06:00

El Rastro de Madrid is a favorite destination of both local madrileños and tourists, as evidenced by the thousands of people that browse the many stalls and open antique shops every Sunday morning. We paid a visit to the market recently, and will be back for more as soon as possible. It sounds like a simple swap meet, but for a foreigner it is a doorway into a mixed, exciting underground culture, not to mention a shopper's dream.

Since the 15th century, the El Rastro neighborhood has been viewed a commercial area, specifically famous for the trade of second hand items. Eventually a slaughterhouse was built here, resulting in a leather goods business. The main street of El Rastro is called Ribera de Curtidores, which means Riverbank of Leather Workers, and it is possible that the name El Rastro, or The Trail, stems from the residual trail of blood that was left as men hauled the meat carcasses through the streets from the slaughterhouse to the tannery.

By the time the slaughterhouse closed the area was known for its market and though the leather goods decreased, vendors of other goods appeared to fill the void. Now it is possible to shop for anything and everything in El Rastro, from paintings to house pets. We viewed t-shirts, antiques of war, funky dresses, second hand fur coats, potted cacti, used books, sports equipment, shoes, leather purses, jewelry, hand-sewn skirts, toys, paintings, souvenirs, knives, and an endless assortment of bric-a-brac.

Traditionally, in the afternoon shoppers step into the surrounding bars and restaurants to take a break with a cold caña (small beer) and a tapa, or small snack. This sustanence is usually taken standing, as the bars and restaurants can be just as busy as the streets outside the door.

Instead, we walked to a less busy area of town and ate lunch in a restaurant of Asturias food. This region of Spain is known, most famously, for its tradition of cider, which one must pour from high in the air to "make it taste better." Cider is poured quickly, about a centimeter in a glass at a time, and drank quickly, to preserve the flavor.

Full of food and exhausted by the market, we snoozed for a while in front of the palace before continuing our walking tour of the great city of Madrid.

The American Store

2009-02-14T13:46:00.004-06:00

Friend and Auburn alum Natalie and I made a trip to The American Store in Madrid yesterday, seeking Betty Crocker cake mixes, boxed macaroni and cheese, and, most importantly, Dr Pepper. I am currently happily sipping my most missed beverage (besides Lulu's frozen cadillac margarita with a granma floater and an extra slice of lime), smelling a devil's food cake slowly bake. YUM! Tastes like home!

SNOW!

2009-01-18T08:59:00.006-06:00

Residents of Alcalá de Henares tell me that the last time they saw snow stick to the ground in this town was 1996—and even then, the snowfall was minimal compared to what cumulated on January 9, 2009. Understandably, there were no snow plows within the city limits when the storm occurred. Real Life stopped; traffic jams made ten minute drives into 5 hour trips. The buses could not run. Even the trains suffered massive delays. People were forced to miss work or, far worse, were trapped at the office. Cars were abandoned in favor of walking through the powder. The storks flapped their wings with agitation in their snow-filled nests. And, most of all, in the historic city center, people were the happiest I have seen since my arrival in Alcalá. Children uncovered blooming pansies as they rolled snowman torsos in the Plaza de Cervantes. Couples walked closely together, laughing as their shoes slid over the frozen tile. Everybody was smiling.

Rome 5: Odds and Ends

2009-01-18T08:57:00.000-06:00

Rome 4: Underground

2009-01-17T11:48:00.005-06:00

We seemed to all have a little bit of a fascination with death. We spent a day learning about past burial customs, ancient beliefs, and the necessary architecture for efficient burial as we explored the Roman catacombs.

Ancient Roman tradition consisted of cremation for dead bodies of its residents. As Christianity emerged and burial became more and more popular, the government declared that burial would be permitted...outside of the city walls. Later, when Christianity was banned in Rome, these burial sites were conveniently already hidden underground outside the city, and the Romans did not realize the extent of the cavernous networks. However, these catacombs were not always exclusively Christian and also housed the bodies of Jewish or pagan dead.

We first visited the catacombs of San Sebastian. Our passionate guide explained that families were designated spots within the catacombs to bury their family members; the bodies were handed over to the keepers of the burial site, who carved out a niche in the wall (sometimes 4 or 5 one upon another), deposited the body, and sealed the space with a slab of marble or the like. These catacombs were easy to construct; the soil in the area was a soft clay that was easy to alter, but hardened into a cement-like rock state when exposed to the air.

Families could come visit their deceased members, lighting their way with small terracotta oil lamps that sat in small holes in the walls. The catacombs are very confusing, like a labyrinth of identical passage ways, narrow, but with very high ceilings. Now the grave markers are gone, as well as the bodies, but the niches in the walls remain, reminding visitors of what was once there. The coffin shaped holes are reflective in size of who was inside; the difference between the grave of a child and the grave of a man is very evident. Within the catacombs of San Sebastian, there are also three second century Roman family mausoleums, which were buried and preserved by the earth until excavators discovered it in more modern times. Even the fresco paintings of rose vines and the stucco ceilings are still visible, in addition to the many urns arranged inside.

According to tradition, families would celebrate their dead by lunching inside the catacombs. A small room closer to the surface of the earth was designated to their funeral banquets. The walls are scrawled with carved graffiti asking Saints Peter and Paul, who were believed to have been temporarily buried within these catacombs, to answer their various prayers.

Next we toured the San Callisto catacombs, which are larger and better preserved. Photography is prohibited in these sacred sights, so I've borrowed a photo from the generous internet:
Now the area is well-lit, but it is interesting to imagine it lit only by occasional flames.

Finally, we visited the Capuchin Church of the Immaculate Conception, where the crypt below offers a bone-chilling surprise: the skeletal remains of 4,000 ish monks arranged artistically for viewing. It was really amazing (and sure, a bit creepy). I expected it to smell pretty putrid, and I was surprised by the overall odor neutrality.

I've borrowed one more photo from the world wide web to give you an idea of the sight, but click this link as well to get more of an idea: http://www3.sympatico.ca/tapholov/pages/bones.html

Rome 3: Ancient Rome

2009-01-16T18:01:00.009-06:00

The afternoon we took our ancient ruins tour my bronchitis reached new heights, but I was able to wobble around with the rest of the tour group for four hours (sorry, once again, to those I spread my germies to). It was nice to be with a guide; the information she provided was useful and, more importantly, we got to skip the lines at the Coliseum!

It was late afternoon and the high walls blocked the sinking sun. Also, we happened to plan our visit during the rainy season. Thus, instead of the sun-baked, barren Coliseum skeleton I had always seen in photos, we were faced with a cool and solemn stadium, the dilapidated, once-hidden compartments beneath long-destroyed trap-doors alive with lush grass and thriving moss.

We learned a lot about the monstrosity before us. For example, the martyrdom of thousands of Christians taking place within the Coliseum walls…is believed by historians to have occurred elsewhere. Specifically, in Circus Maximus, where the chariot races were held. That’s not to say that there was not Christian martyring within the Coliseum; it was simply on a smaller scale than most people have been taught.

Later on in the trip we were able to visit the Pantheon, the Temple of All the Gods. The Pantheon is the longest-standing building in Rome; the current version was built in 126 AD. The architecture is quite impressive. Firstly, the Pantheon’s structure includes the world’s largest free-standing dome. Secondly, and amazingly, the source of sunlight and fresh air is a large, neat hole in the culmination of the dome; this is, incidentally, a convenient entrance for the occasional deluges of rain. To accommodate for the weather, the floor is bowed, allowing the rain water to flow to the edges of the interior in every direction and into the precisely placed drains. When the sun shines into the opening in the ceiling, it creates a twin circle of the hole onto the wall, and the position of this spot on the wall reflects the true journey of the sun. And finally, the height of the highest point of the dome is exactly the same as the width of the base.

Afterward, we spent the afternoon wandering through the remainder of the Roman ruins, traversing the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill. This area is home to many important temples and basilicas, including the Temple of Saturn ,
the Temple of Ceasar, and the Temple of Venus. I enjoyed learning about the Temple of Vesta, where the Vestal Virgins dedicated their lives to tending the Sacred Fire of Vesta, which burned without exception. It was believed that if the fire was ever extinguished, the Roman Empire would collapse.

Exploring Ancient Rome was very exciting! It is an amazing world.

Rome 2: Vatican City

2009-01-16T12:38:00.006-06:00

It was raining the day the Harrisons and I headed to the Vatican. We chose to see Saint Peter’s Basilica first and so waited in the long line of bright umbrellas which wound around the square.

Mass was taking place inside as we roamed through the vast corridors, marveling at the ornate décor and grand marble recreations of saints and past popes. Even on this wet day in winter, the building was extremely crowded and we tried to keep an eye on one another’s heads as we pushed through to catch a glimpse of the altar. I found the place very dark (of course there was no sunlight to shine in) and cold (as chilly weather is not kept outdoors by bare marble), but interesting, just the same. The basilica was reconstructed from 1506 to 1615 and the age is enough to awe a person standing within, never mind the chill-inducing echoes of intense history and mystery, or the guilty sort of beauty in every direction.

In 324 AD, Constantine ordered construction on this grand tribute to Saint Peter’s martyrdom. He chose this site because of its history: before having served as Nero’s Circus, the location had served as both a pagan and Christian burial ground. It was said that here, in this plot of land, Saint Peter had been buried. Modern excavations beneath Saint Peter’s began in 1939 and it took ten years for archeologists to sort through the mausoleums and shallow graves containing animal and human bones. It was in 1950 that Pope Pius XII declared that the saint’s remains had been discovered and that he (and the church) had no doubt that they were truly Saint Peter’s.

We worked our way underground into the clean and slick papal crypt, gawking at the intricate tombs of Popes long past. As usual I was tempted to reach out and caress the marble; I am always infatuated with how realistic the sculptors were able to make the ripples in fabric appear. Still, I know that these works are ruined by the curious fingers of on-lookers, so I kept my hands buried in my pockets.

The tomb of recently passed Pope John Paul II was surrounded by quite a crowd of quiet, thoughtful onlookers, some who silently knelt in prayer. I was quite pleased to see the humble simplicity of his tomb after viewing the gratuitous ornamentation of other papal tombs.

And, then, Saint Peter’s tomb. I stood pondering its meaning to me, the value of human bones, the science that lies beneath the art, wondering about the differences between rumor and legend and the power of the spoken word and written history. Craig leaned over to me and whispered, Think about it: the body in that tomb could belong to a man who walked alongside Jesus Christ. Yes, powerful.

We emerged again into the weather and were surprised to find the piazza brimming with people, the bright umbrellas from edge to edge. We heard Italian reverberating from loudspeakers over the square; this was the voice of Pope Benedict XVI, expressing his disapproval of the violence currently occurring in the Gaza Strip.

Thanks to an unexpected and all too stimulating journey we found ourselves on (which we all will forever look back on with fondness, rest assured) the Vatican museums had to wait until the next morning. There we were, in the mile-long line in the cold morning. I don’t know how long we waited but to put it simply, I hope to never be in Rome in the BUSY season.

Our guidebooks suggested allowing two hours to tour these extensive museums, but we could have easily spent the entire day inside. In fact, I could have spent over two hours in the Sistine Chapel alone. INCREDIBLE! I was filled with remorse at the signs prohibiting me to lie on the floor and gaze upward (of course I would have been trampled by the crowds of gawkers). I was glad that we had researched the symbolism of the ceiling before viewing it; we were able to understand some of the assorted depictions of the Old Testament and identify the people portrayed.

I continue to feel utter awe when it comes to the work of Michelangelo. The man was not simply an artist; he was a pioneer of style and method. When you look up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the reaching and pointing figures pull away from the plaster and push toward you. The three-dimensional aspect is dizziness-inducing. But your eye will not stay on the ceiling for long. Inevitably, you are drawn to the centerpiece of the great room—a powerful and frightening Jesus casting human souls into Hell, in The Last Judgement. Unfortunately, neither my words nor photographs can display the enchantment, awe, fear, and admiration these massive pieces instill (convenient, since I have none to offer! Photography is prohibited in the Sistine Chapel).

I had anticipated the cracked and pale paint shown in old photos of the Sistine Chapel, but the characters were vivid. Craig and I read that a recent clean-up of the ceiling revealed the products used in the long-past to remove dust and mold ranged from wine to bread and several other household items. Once these impurities were removed from the paint, Michelangelo’s chosen bright colors shone strongly again.

Unfortunately for Raphael and Boticelli, the remainder of the Sistine Chapel art seems a bit pale and even meaningless next to Michelangelo’s…in my humble opinion, that is.

The Vatican museums are truly treasure troves. From the famed double-spiral staircase to the Egyptian booty dating back to at least 1930 BC, there are amazing images at every turn. They’ve only had over 500 years to build their collections, you know.

Rome 1: The Hotel

2009-01-05T06:30:00.006-06:00

Craig’s parents were visiting for a portion of the holiday season and we planned to meet in Rome on the 27th. Craig and I trekked across the city with our rucksacks on, observing as Rome began to stir in the early morning. Craig’s dad, Bart Harrison, travels constantly for his job and so is a Hilton Diamond Club Rewards Member. Very lucky for us, his points carried over to Rome and he reserved rooms at the Waldorf Astoria, or Hotel Rome Cavalieri. This place is BEAUTIFUL. Craig and I boarded the shuttle at the raised-eyebrow surprise of the driver, who tentatively loaded our dirty rucksacks into the luggage compartment before sighing and driving us up the hill. And the looks of the staff at the front desk when we sauntered into the lobby? Truly priceless.

After several days of rooms with no heat, showers that poured onto the toilet and drained out the floor, and nursing a chest cold while sleeping on threadbare blankets and travel-sized pillows, I was in Heaven. There were SIX pillows on my bed, there was a clean bathtub with hot water, and slippers for my cold feet. Also, the staff frequently delivered chocolate before bed.

The best part was the view. We were at the very top of a hill and so we could see Rome in every direction. And when the fireworks began shooting on New Year’s Eve (we were all trying to sleep due to the next morning's "early" flight), we thought at first that Rome might be under attack.

Florence, Italy

2009-01-04T12:15:00.011-06:00

On December 23, Craig and I climbed into a cab at 4:30 am, boarded a plane at 6:45, arrived in Rome, Italy at 9ish, and took a train to the downtown station, where, in a matter of hours, we were on a fast train to Florence. I was fighting a sore throat and an earache so each time the train dove into a tunnel, the pressure built in my head and I was miserable. But these fast trains are amazing: the would-be 3 hour drive from Rome to Florence was only 1 ½ hours by train, and the scenery was amazing, all green fields and sheep and hillside homes.

We made our way to the tourist information office when we arrived in a rainy Florence, and the kind man we spoke to kindly reminded us that it was Christmas Eve, and that the next day, most of the city would be shut down (it’s amazing how egocentric we become when traveling). He gave us a list of closures and recommended we skip finding boarding and make our way to the museums that we would not be able to see later. So, we hurried across the city on foot, rucksacks strapped to our backs, and passed through security at the gallery of the Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze. We wandered the corridors, gazing at works by such artists as Botticelli (one of my personal favorites), Ghirlandaio, and, of course, Michelangelo.

I was talking excitedly (who would have ever guessed?) about Michelangelo’s sculptures of The Prisoners when we turned the corner. I was stunned into silence and gave The Prisoners hardly a second look as we gawked at the statue of David, illuminated by a skylight at the end of the corridor. There is nothing that can prepare you for seeing this statue. I’ve seen hundreds of pictures and still, I was shocked by the detail, the size, the sheer perfection. As I probably said to Craig ten times, I would not have been surprised in the least had David stretched out his mighty fingers, blinked, and stepped down off his pedestal to stomp off in search of Goliath. Michelangelo simply is one of the most brilliant and talented artists in human history.

The next morning, Christmas, we attended mass in Florence’s most famous cathedral (Duomo), Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. The service was in Italian. We followed the message as well as we could, but also felt captivated by the beauty of the architecture and, in particular, the artwork on the ceiling of the dome, which is a scene of The Last Judgement by Federigo Zuccaro. The next day, when the wind shooed the clouds out of Florence and the sun finally shone, we climbed the 414 stairs in narrow spirals to the top of the bell tower to gaze at the view below.

The next day we were up early to make it to the Uffizi Gallery, where I made it past all the tour groups to Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and Primavera!!! Among other favorite pieces, we saw Titian’s Venus de Urbino and Flora, Francesca’s The Duke and Duchess of Urbino, Michelangelo’s The Holy Family, Da Vinci’s incomplete Adoration of the Magi and his piece The Baptism of Christ, Raphael’s Madonna of the Goldfinch, and Caravaggio’s Medusa. We learned a lot. This was one place we went where the entrance fee was completely worth it!

We managed to do a lot in the three days we spent in Florence. In addition to these places and all the restaurants we ate at, we visited the Piazza della Signora, where we were able to see the original sculpture The Rape of the Sabine Women by Giamnologna, Perseus as he beheads Medusa by Cellini,
and Fontana de Nettuno, or Fountain of Neptune, by Ammannati.

We stopped by San Lorenzo, the Medici cathedral hosting the library staircase designed by Michelangelo, the tomb of Donatello, early writings of Dante and Boccacio, and Michelangelo’s The Tomb of Duke Nemours (which unfortunately was closed off to the public at the time).

We paid the overpriced admission fee for the Da Vinci exhibition at what we thought was the Bargello museum but what we later learned was actually pretty much a rented space called the Bigallo, hiding in the corner of the Bargello building. Woops.

We tried to visit the church of Santa Croce where Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli all lie buried (it was closed every day).

We walked most of the bridges, including Ponte Vecchio. We experienced the expected price rip-offs, including a bill for two coffees and a piece of average tiramisu for 17 euro. And finally, we returned to the train station, freezing and tired (and in my case, now coughing as my cold had moved to my chest), and boarded our train back to Rome.

Santa Claus Came to Town!!

2009-01-03T11:43:00.003-06:00

Papa Noel made his appearance at the childrens' classes in The British House this past December. Bet you can't guess who is behind that fluffy white beard!

Holy Toledo!

2009-01-03T11:13:00.009-06:00

We discovered where this saying stems from on a recent visit to Toledo, a small city outside Madrid.

My good friend Alex, who I met at UCR and is currently studying in the United Kingdom, dropped into Alcalá de Henares for a visit. The plan to travel to Toledo was hatched on a Friday night when a Spanish friend, Javier (I call him Javi, pronounced Obbie), offered to drive us there. Now, Craig and I have made an attempt nearly every single weekend to visit Toledo, but something has always gotten in the way, be it bad directions to the wrong bus station, or necessary catch-up time for work. So, when Javi made this offer I of course smiled and agreed, but had not even the slightest faith that it would happen. Imagine my surprise when I found myself piled into a Ford (of all cars) and whipping around the curves of the road on Sunday morning.

It was the first time Craig and I had been in a car in nearly three months, and it was pretty much the same except for the scarier, narrower roads. The ride up consisted of small talk, mostly about Toledo’s history and architecture.

Toledo is the only known city, according to the Spanish citizens I’ve talked to, in which Christians, Jews, and Muslims lived in peace for an extended period, especially under Arab rule. It is known as the most religious city in Spain, or the Holy Capital (Holy Toledo!). The city was once the capital of Spain and has passed through the armed hands of the Visigoths, the Romans, and the Moors. The city is known for its military force. It is famous for its ironwork; swords and daggers decorate the windows of the storefronts and museums of artillery and ancient weapons of torture are hidden throughout its narrow streets. The structure of the city itself is that of a fort; the streets are tight and twisting, spiraling and nearly identical, almost impossible to navigate even with a map. It is difficult to continue uphill for too long, and no street leads in a straight direction.

But, after parking near the bullring and working our way slowly upward on cobblestone roads, we reached the palace, or Alcázar. It is gigantic, wide and intimidating, stationed on the hilltop overlooking the river and the military academy. The palace has been transformed into a military museum and (one of the unfortunate things about Sunday daytrips) it was closed.

Toledo is also the second home (and death place) to El Greco, and once again, unfortunately, the museum that features his art was also closed! We were lucky though—the Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo’s doors were wide open to us (after we paid our seven euro each, of course) and we spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring its structure and art, gawking over certain pieces (some by El Greco, including The Disrobing of Christ) and sighing at the extravagance. I snapped two or three pictures before a loudspeaker message came on asking everyone to kindly put their cameras away, but the truth is that a camera could not give justice to this beauty and wealth. Alex and I stared up at a carved marble, stucco, bronze, and painted altar for some time, marveling at the exquisite detail and symbolism. Can you believe, he said, that this artwork is older than our country? It is a wonderful concept. Wikipedia tells me that the altar is called El Transparente and that it was constructed by Narciso Tomé from 1721-1732.

One note on the food: Javi took us to a small restaurant called La Abadia. We were led down the stairs into a cool cellar, which I can only imagine is Heaven in the summertime with its stone walls and chilly tile floors. The food is what I would call Chic Spanish, mixing traditional flavors and dishes and adding international style. Craig and I had watched a program about the Spanish food (Anthony Bourdain’s ‘No Reservations’ as a matter of fact) and the expert stated that the Spanish chefs are overtaking the French in innovation and taste. We, honestly, scoffed at this idea at the time, but after tasting the food at this restaurant I may stand corrected. We shared plates of pâté, cured duck, venison with pepper sauce, blood sausage egg rolls, jamón, smoked salmon salad; and finally, a platter of very rare steak, chorizo, blood sausage, ribs, and wine sausage. This girl doesn’t like to eat much meat, and I ate everything that day. I would like to inform you that I tried morcilla (blood sausage) again, twice in one meal, and that it really doesn’t taste bad. Actually, it tastes quite good, a little like barbequed beans with a chalky aftertaste. My psychological side still doesn’t allow me to love it, but I imagine if I didn’t know what it was I might nibble on it every so often. Anyway, the meal was fabulous. If all we had done was journey to Toledo for lunch and returned back home, it would have been worth it for the yummies.

And when you combine good eats with beautiful sights and good company? You can’t ask for much more. Alex, thanks for visiting. We enjoyed having you around!

Gastronomy 3: Sevilla

2008-12-17T16:23:00.008-06:00

One of our priorities while in Sevilla was to get a taste of the widely reputed Sevillan dishes. I can safely say I am tired of the Madrid pork (they sell every cut you could think of—whole pigs, even, hooves, brains, ears, chunks of skin, bacon, lomo, white strips of fat, every kind of chorizo imaginable—except for the classic American pork chop). I had been told that the vegetables were to be found in the south, that the seafood was killer. So I set about doing a little research.

Many of the drinks of choice are similar to those of Madrid’s: calimochi (red wine mixed with coca-cola), tinto de verano (“red wine of summer” or red wine mixed with sugar and lemon (or as most places do it now, red wine mixed with lemon Fanta)), sangria (red wine mixed with brandy, sugar, and various fruits), cerveza con límon (beer mixed with lemon Fanta), among a small assortment of beers and chilled red wine. The south of Spain, however, is also known for their sherry. They have several popular kinds. We stuck to ordering vino fino, a light, dry white sherry. Once we figured out what we liked, we specifically ordered Manzanilla, which was the driest in our opinion. I have nothing bad to say about these delicious beverages except occasionally one might find a brand that leans to the sweet side. Craig’s student’s, however, insisted that we were CRAZY to drink straight sherry and that it should, of course, be blended with Sprite. I’ve had enough of diluted wine, thankyouverymuch!!!

The first day, we missed lunch. When dinner time finally rolled around about 9:00, I was studying the tour guide’s guide to culinary treasures and was literally salivating at the pictures. The most appealing photo was that of a nice looking stew. Beef, I thought, I need beef!! Upon further reading I found it was ropo de toro, or bull’s tail. Being naïve and enormously hungry, I assumed this was a figurative label, a fun nickname in reference to the Spanish passion for bulls. Three large chunks of meat in sauce were set before us. The first bite was SPECTACULAR! It was similar to pot roast in taste and texture; the meat simply fell off the bone. The, er, pieces of spine, actually. I quickly realized that bull’s tail is not simply a superfluous title. Although I truly enjoyed it, I must admit that after some time of pulling the muscle off the vertebrae my back and my stomach began to hurt.

As an avid olive-lover, I have been searching for the perfect olive in this olive-populated country. As of yet, I have not discovered a single olive that I like. I must emphasize, before coming to Spain, I had never met an olive that I DIDN’T love. The olives (and pickles) here tend to be flavored with anchovies and something I cannot place that is meant to be barbeque flavor. I tried many more in Sevilla, but I sadly admit that the olive quest continues.

We sampled what Craig declared as the best napolitanas Spain has to offer at La Compana, the café we haunted each morning for cafés con leche. Craig is particularly infatuated with these sweet pastries. They are similar to the French “pain chocolate” and are essentially a croissant-like pastry rolled around or injected with chocolate sauce.

We refreshed our palates with a good old-fashioned Budweiser when we wandered by a welcome sign that read: SEC Championship Alabama vs. Florida! The Texas Lone Star Bar, so it was proclaimed, welcomed us with open arms and we chatted with Florida fans and watched Spaniards eat cheeseburgers the size of dinner plates. It is a strange feeling, sitting in the south of Spain in a pub at three in the morning, listening to a mixture of languages buzzing around you and watching, of all things, American college football. Despite the fun of it, it was a sad night for Alabamians!

After two days of goat-cheese-stuffed-mushroom tapas, pan con tomate, sole with belle femme sauce, patatas ali-oli, fresh-squeezed orange juice, good coffee and wine, the straw that broke the camel’s back proved to be Adobo Sevillana, which, the waiter told us, is fried fish. Indeed. The entire fish, specifically, bones, skin, etc, cut in chunks, tossed in meal and fried. This was actually quite delicious, but difficult to eat if you don’t want to swallow the entire skeletal system. Thus, I only partook in only a partial portion. This is what saved me, I believe, from the bout of food poisoning-ish flu Craig woke up with the next morning. The paella and sangria were skipped as we instead sipped 7-Up and made our way back to the bus station for a lunch of potato chips and dried nuts.

All in all we did not run into many vegetables and the pork was still #1 on the menu every time. But it was refreshing to snack on seafood that isn't fried calamari rings or the octopus that is so beloved in Madrid. I can't wait to return south and continue my gastronomical exploration!

Holiday in Sevilla

2008-12-15T16:59:00.006-06:00

Here in the Kingdom of Spain, December 8 was el Día de la Constitucíon, or Constitution Day, and December 10 was the celebration of the Inmaculada Concepción (the Feast of the Immaculate Conception). These two holidays are both special in their own right, and extraordinarily different. The contrasts are relatively obvious: namely, one is political and the other is religious.

Some form of the Day of the Constitution is celebrated in most countries across the globe. I believe this day holds special significance for each nation, depending on their history. In Spain, it seems to be particularly impacting due to their highly tumultuous history. In 1975 General Franco, the nation’s dictator, finally died. What followed was a difficult period of transition as his heir went about reforming the country. On December 8, 1978, the Spanish Constitution was finalized and approved.

A great population of Spanish citizens remembers the oppression of their dictatorship, and they truly value the constitution and all it stands for. I’m not so sure that’s the case in the rest of the nations in this world.

The Feast of the Immaculate Conception (reserved to honor the Virgin Mary’s sinless existence and the conception of Jesus Christ) is celebrated throughout many Catholic populations in the world. Besides Spain, it is celebrated in Argentina, Austria, Chile, Italy, Nicaragua, Paraguay, Peru, Portugal, Malta, and is recognized in many other nations.

But this blog is not intended to discuss the historical meaning and cultural impact of these holidays. It is meant to celebrate this fact: in the year 2008, these holidays straddled a Sunday, and I got a three day weekend.

Craig and I knew we wanted to take advantage of the break since we have had no time to travel thanks to our six-day-a-week schedule. Unfortunately this rigorous schedule left little time to plan our escape from Alcalá. This is how we ended up rushing to pack after class on Friday night, rushing to catch a train to Madrid, and rushing to board a bus to Sevilla.

Instead of sleeping like I should have been, I excitedly watched the thermometer at the head of the bus creep up from 5 degrees Celsius. Six degrees and six hours later, with plenty of time to catch the sunrise, we found ourselves walking along a foreign river, watching the youth emerge from bars and head home. Sevilla is beautiful. It is the Spain I have been missing! We allowed ourselves to act as tourists for the first time since arriving in this country, and it was fantastic. We waited in an hour long line to peruse the royal palace, sampled a few Sevillan specialties, took 230 photos, drank assorted types of sherry and freshly squeezed orange juice, ducked into the cathedral to gawk during mass, found a low-key flamenco show. Sevilla’s cardinal was in town to give mass and take part in the procession, so we got to see him close up and personally.

Unfortunately, it rained the entire weekend. Our feet stayed wet for days, and then Craig ended up sick with a stomach flu/food poisoning/some mysterious Sevillan tourist illness. But nothing could take away from the wonder of the weekend. It was AWESOME!

You think I'm kidding about taking 230 photos, don't you? I'm not. See my Picasa album for the goodies; the link is on the right.

More Weather Games

2008-12-01T14:26:00.002-06:00

I have no proof, I have no pictures; I have only wet laundry and chilled toes; it snowed today. It did not stick to the ground, of course, but it was genuine snow, falling from the sky. In Spain. In Autumn.

I AM being mocked!

Thanksgiving, Expat Style

2008-12-01T13:59:00.005-06:00

(Pictured here: Carlos, Isaac (our roommate), Ana, and Natalie.

(Pictured here: Blake, Lauren, and the Spanish Turkey.

As Thanksgiving is unfortunately not recognized as a work holiday in Spain, I had to work all day long on the 27th of November. So, we tackled a delayed dinner this weekend.

Craig and I discovered a store in Madrid called, no joke, "The American Store," where we were able to find (outrageously expensive) canned pumpkin pie filling and cranberry sauce (because, it just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a bowl of canned cranberry sauce that nobody touches). At the Corte Ingles, a large department and grocery store chain here in Spain, we were able to find 4 dusty, unripe little sweet potatoes, some salted pecans, and, lo and behold, tucked in amongst the sheep brains and cow tongues, a turkey!

After the initial shock of paying 70 euro for the bird (granted, it WAS 19 lbs) we were faced with a slew obstacles: missing ingredients, oven malfunctions, a shortage of dishes, too-old yeast, a kitchen too cold for the bread dough to rise, conversion issues, a broken refrigerator, no storage space, no roasting pans, dull knives. Poor Craig was sent to the store no less than four times as our tiny, freezing kitchen was transformed into a laboratory of Thanksgiving experimentation. I wanted to make my family's traditional cornbread and sausage stuffing, but what to do without Jimmy Dean and Jiffy? We had our pie filling, but how to make pie without pie pans? What to do when your oven reads only 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 instead of degrees? Our Southern friend Lauren and I worked most of the day in the kitchen, checking the not-so-successfully-rising bread dough, greasing pans with butter and our fingertips instead of non-stick cooking spray, inventing new twists on our American family recipes.

We ended up with a spectacular feast that any American would be happy to partake in, particularly an American missing a holiday exclusive to our country—or their Spanish friends that want to try to understand the appeal of turkey and stuffing. We had a lovely, juicy turkey thanks to Lauren and Blake, the closest version of Momma’s stuffing I could fix, mashed potatoes (hand-squished with a fork by Craig), mushroom gravy, sweet potato casserole, fruit salad, yeast rolls, green bean casserole (brought by our American friend Natalie), cranberry sauce straight out of the can, my (pretty darn impressive) pumpkin pies, brownies (again, brought by Natalie via posted brownie mix straight from the states), lemon and chocolate cake homemade by our Spanish friend, Ana, lots of wine from our Spanish guests, and sweet tea!

It tasted like home.

To help us celebrate, we tried to watch American football. Unfortunately, we could not get the Alabama/Auburn game on the internet. This was especially sad because we actually had a graduate from each school here in our Spanish apartment! We were able to watch a few other games, though, and the SEC spirit ran hot through the piso. We did track the AL/AUB game online, and we are very pleased with the results. Roll Tide!

Happy Belated Thanksgiving to all, from Spain!

Autumn in Alcala

2008-11-24T12:38:00.001-06:00

I’ve been here two months now, and it just so happens that these two months are two of the most meteorologically tumultuous and unpredictable of the year. The locals like to joke that there are only two seasons in Madrid: summer and winter. They’re not completely accurate however; there is indeed something of a transition period, a little like a menopausal sister season suffering from hot and cold flashes and a mean temper.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never lived anywhere that gets especially cold, but I cannot read this weather. It does not matter how frequently I check the reports or step out on the porch to gauge the temperature. I imagine that once we get settled into the cold winter, it will be a bit more regular. For now, however, it seems that if I wear boots and a scarf and a coat I will sweat on the way to the bus stop, but if I wear my coat over a t-shirt and heels, I will freeze. It seems that after I peer out my window in the mornings and note the women wearing tights and light jackets, they all run back inside and change into down coats and leather boots by the time I get down to the ground floor, simply to trick me into dressing inappropriately for the day.

The first week that Craig and I were here, it was very cold, perhaps 7 c in the evenings. Suddenly, the cold vanished and I wore tank tops around town; every day, we tried to enjoy the sun in case it slipped into hibernation. Since then, the temperature has risen and dropped several times and every time I think we’re easing into the cold, I am not entirely right.

Today, I dressed in slacks and a turtleneck, threw on a scarf and coat on my way out of my apartment. I was too warm as I rushed through town, power-walking to work, but when my classes ended and I reemerged, the wind had kicked up and it was bitterly cold. I thought, ah ha! At last, I have learned to anticipate! I made my way to a student’s home for a private lesson, and as we sat at the desk deciphering a family tree in English, I heard the rain begin. It was extraordinarily loud on the roof and when we finally pulled aside the curtains to look out the window, sure enough, marble sized hail was bouncing off the Spanish tile roof of the apartment complex across the street. All I could think was that all the laundry I washed yesterday, all my pants, my bed sheets, and my socks, were hanging on the line outside my apartment to dry, and that I was about to have to walk home in THAT with no umbrella.

Soon the ice reduced to rain, and when our time was up my student lent me a paragua, or umbrella. The moment I walked outside, however, as if Mother Nature noticed I was now carrying an umbrella, the rain ceased. The hems of my only clean and dry slacks were now dragging through muddy puddles as I stepped, but the sky cleared to an innocent periwinkle and arranged a sweet sunset in the distance. Clearly, I’m being mocked.

Parque del Retiro

2008-11-23T09:32:00.006-06:00

The parks here are mostly small, tucked in between apartment complexes or business, perhaps boasting a shoebox sized play area for children or a modest fountain. Most at least have trees and benches; picnicking or lounging in the shade is a favorite hobby of the Spanish when the weather is nice. Some parks are particularly beautiful or well-maintained, some are more frequented by residents than others. The novelty for us is not in the beauty of the parks however, but in the sheer numbers. They are everywhere.

There is one park to top them all, though: the renowned Parque del Retiro in Madrid. This reserved area is enormous; it would take many days to walk all the winding paths through the trees or note every statue or visit every tiny café. It is the epitome of a Spanish Sunday afternoon, with its sidewalk performers and vendors, fortune tellers, magicians, jugglers; stunning sculptures, fountains, impressive gardens, and the lake dotted with rowboats. There are crowds of people—families or couples or artists or photographers—perhaps reading in the grass beneath a tree, working to capture the beauty on film or canvas, or simply walking the pathways, snacking on sunflower seeds or sweet popcorn. This time of year, the children are bundled up in their hats and gloves, happily cruising in their strollers or running ahead of their parents.

In 1632 the park was created for the royal family; it was not opened to the public until 1868. It sparks quite a beautiful feeling to walk the same pathways that millions and millions have walked before. I can't wait to see it in Spring!

These Boots Were Made For Walking

2008-11-23T09:18:00.002-06:00

And it sure is a good thing. These Uggs are undoubtedly the most reliable shoes I have ever owned. They have seen the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. They have seen the snow of Lake Tahoe and the Wisconsin Dells. They have kept my chilly feet warm driving or flying cross country. They have walked the streets of San Francisco, of Los Angeles, of San Diego. They comforted my aching feet as I trained for my marathon. They’ve served as snow boots, rain boots, house shoes, walking shoes, hiking boots, fashion accessories, and have been through as much airport security as I have. They’ve lived in the California and Alabama, visited Canada, and now trekked through parts of Spain.

I walk a lot here. I walk to the academy; I walk across town to the grocery store and haul back groceries. I walk to the bus stop and the train station and the locations where I teach private lessons. I walk to lunch and dinner and walk miles through Madrid acting as a tourist. This is a walking city; unfortunately the red tile sidewalks, cobblestone streets, and cracked pathways often inhibit smooth travel—chinks in the grout trap heels, sloping curbs turn ankles and trip walkers, uneven surfaces force you to watch the ground as you step. To make it to the pharmaceutical company I work at, I hike across a dirt field and through the aging industrial center. Some days I can wear my trusty boots. Other times, my beat-up feet are clad in fake leather Payless shoes that look more professional for work, or more chic for restaurants. I fully intended to buy new, comfortable shoes when I arrived here, but there are several circumstances that stand in the way.

In the meantime, I continue to nurse what I have deemed “The Giant Blister that Would Not Die,” shown here. This is actually a blister atop a blister atop a blister, atop a blister. It does not pain me as much as one might imagine. I suffer more from the deep, bone-nerve-tendon foot pain I have been prone to for the past two years or so.

Unfortunately for me my Uggs have recently begun to show wear. Yes, they are a bit stained and scuffed on the outside, but, more importantly, the wool on the inside has slowly rubbed off. The fabric below that has worn holes. There are holes beneath my heels that go straight through the wool and the fabric AND the soft leather straight down to the rubber sole.

It doesn’t worry me too much. We have come this far together, and it will be a long time before I ever let them go.

Work

2008-11-17T14:23:00.001-06:00

I do apologize for the lack of updates. Although I planned on working in Spain, I failed to factor in how much of my time I would have to dedicate to the task!

I like my job very much. Craig and I are both employed by the British House, a private English language academy here in Alcalá de Henares, which offers classes to every age and every level of learner. Ours is the leading English school in the area and we teachers are subsequently contracted to a number of jobs. So, we may work at more than one location if requested. For example, I hold a certain amount of hours at the institution itself, but I also travel to a nearby pharmaceutical manufacturer to teach private lessons to its big-wig employees that require business English education and conversation practice. So, I teach advanced adults at the academy and intermediate to advanced adults at Bayer. Additionally, I work as a private tutor. Craig is currently balancing academy hours with travel to the Spanish branch of Johnson and Johnson!

The downside to this sort of schedule is that the day grows long very quickly. Some days, one might have a single class. The next day, the work day can extend from 10 am to 9:30 in the evening. We must be very flexible for our students, especially when so many people wish to study after work or on the weekend. We are currently working 6 days a week and it is exhausting.

On the other hand, it is a stimulating job; if I was not working as an English teacher I would know nothing about Spain. I teach directors of a large business, teenagers, university students, a pilot, business administrators, accountants, biologists, chemists, pharmacists, translators, fathers, manual laborers, school teachers…the variety makes teaching extraordinary work, as my most important daily task is to encourage my students to speak in foreign tongue. This means I learn their opinions on political issues; I learn their cultural and familial traditions; I learn expressions and social habits. I learn about Spanish laws and history and geography. I learn about people, which is the very mission I undertook when deciding to travel in the first place.

Gastronomy 2: Fiesta

2008-10-31T06:50:00.005-05:00

Craig and I were invited to a friend of a friend’s party and so, we actively attended a fiesta not knowing what to expect, where we did not know anybody, and, most importantly, could not speak the language. The small home was charming, with its grape arbor, bunches of raisins drying in the storage, a geranium-fringed tile porch, and the garden out back in autumn transition. It was on the outer edge of the city, and worked on a gasoline generator and non-potable water…but you would never know if someone didn’t warn you not to drink from the tap!

I was surprised when no one offered me a drink upon arrival. In the United States we use this as a social tool to take the awkward edge off party talk with strangers. Wine, for example, provides not only a conversation subject but also allows for brief pauses for thought as one swallows. But no one even gave a thought to drinks until the resident cook arrived and the food preparation began. Then, people began to break out the favorite cheap beer and mixers. A popular drink here is cerveza con límon, or beer with lemon Fanta. Most people were sipping on these and, although there were cases of liquor in the kitchen, those weren’t touched yet.

To me the most important and most interesting element of parties is and always will be the food. Unable to communicate without painful effort, I was especially drawn to the cooking, which requires no language. As with most cooking that takes place outdoors, the men were manning the ship, assembling a gigantic pan and propane burner set-up, dealing with the technical side of sticking cardboard beneath the stand to prevent wobbling. I was excited: I would be able to watch the preparation of and then sample the famous Spanish dish, homemade paella.

They heated oil in the pan and tossed in chicken pieces. I tried to count the bones; thigh chunk, ribs, wing joint. When it was mostly cooked they removed the chicken and replaced it with a mountain of very finely chopped onion and red and green bell pepper and sautéed them until the onion was translucent (just like my own momma always taught me). They added two jars of what I think was a very mild roasted tomato salsa. Slowly, the remaining ingredients were added: tightly closed clams, salt, strips of calamari, fish stock, green vegetable stock, ground saffron, three large sacks of rice, then ever so gently, langostinos, or prawns, their dark eyes glazed over, and one by one, mussels still in their wet shells.

In my experience thus far, it does not matter where in the world you are—men will always practice the same ritual while cooking outdoors. Be it a campfire, a propane stove, a barbeque, a pig in the ground, a turkey fryer, or a giant pot of jambalaya, the male chef will inevitably halt, assume a wide-legged stance, cross his arms, and stare into his meal for however long it takes for the satisfaction to set in. Craig and I came to the conclusion that this is genetically programmed into the male DNA, dating back to the dawn of humankind, when, in our hunter and gatherer societies, providing the tribe with food truly was a day’s work, or a week’s work, or more. Men truly fought for their meat and, as it slowly crackled over the first fires in our evolutionary history, they watched it with (hungry) satisfaction and pride.

In this case, we were all hypnotized by the bubbling concoction before us, by the smell of cooking food in the cold air, by the aesthetics of it, the yellow broth so bright against the dark black of the mussels, the warmth powerful in the weather. Our chef finally shook off his trance, realizing that more needed to be done. He lit a cigarette and distributed pages of newspaper to his onlookers and we each ceremoniously lay our sheet on top of the first, covering the pan to steam the contents. With the food covered, people wandered away, refilling their glasses, changing the music, making idle conversation. I found myself attracted to the baby in residence, the only other person besides Craig in linguistic isolation. Soon, plastic plates were handed out, loaves of crusty bread were set on various tables and finally—the newspaper was removed.

The dish was breathtaking. Bright yellow rice, seemingly decorated by the meats and shells, dressed with lemon slices. And the taste? Magnificent. What a beautiful balance between fluffy, tasty rice, and food you have to fight for—shrimp to peel, mussels and clams to pull from the shell, chicken meat to coax off the bone. I had to stop myself after two plates (though I felt like I could have eaten it all night long) and it left me with a content stomach and brightly dyed fingernails.

I give homemade paella five stars.

We caught a ride home with a man that had to put his baby to bed. We had been there five hours. “You’re going to miss the party,” our friend told us as we left, “It’s still early. La fiesta hasn’t started yet.”

Gastronomy 1: Restaurants

2008-10-17T09:08:00.003-05:00

On one of our first nights here, Abbie remarked that the Spanish worship the pig. I replied that, generally, if a culture worships an animal, they refrain from consuming its meat at every meal. She laughed with a Spanish friend and replied that the pig is so upheld because of its importance in the Spanish diet. Indeed. I quickly learned that pig (this is what it is referred to, rather than ‘pork’) is included in essentially every meal.

Here in Alcalá, people will drink their morning coffee or tea and eat lightly, perhaps a toast with tomato and jamón (thin-sliced cured ham). Lunch is the biggest meal; it is taken around 2:00 in the afternoon. In restaurants, the standard lunch is two courses, perhaps a rice or pasta dish followed by a meat plate: sliced lomo (back meat) and sauce, albondigas (ground pork meatballs) and sauce, or another combination of pork. This is generally accompanied by fried potatoes and bread, a drink, and a dessert or coffee. People then take their siesta and return to work at 5:00, so dinner time does not roll around until 9 at the earliest. Dinner is meant to be light, thus the tapas tradition, which promotes bar-hopping to sample a wide array of what I can most easily explain as snacks. Occasionally, one might find a tapa constructed from smoked salmon or fried egg or canned tuna, but generally speaking, at least in Alcalá, tapas consist of lomo, jamón, chorizo, thick sliced salami, or another accented word that indicates pig, on a hard roll or toasted piece of baguette, sometimes with a bit of cheese. Sometimes one might find an option for calamari or pan tumaca (toast with a tomato-garlic-olive oil spread). As a salad and vegetable lover, I have struggled with this diet plan.

The important thing to realize is that when a pig is slaughtered in Spain, the entirety, minus perhaps the skeleton, is consumed; the ears, the stomach lining, the skin, the hooves, the blood, EVERY body part, can be found on a menu in this nation. It is a matter of pride! My approach is to give every dish a chance once. At the insistence of a local, in fact, Craig and I recently sampled black pudding. For this dish, meat is ground into sausage and pushed into intestinal lining, then injected with the drained blood of the animal, cooked, sliced, and squished into a pudding that is eaten on bread. It is, according to both my mind and my tongue, a giant, dark, thick scab. Yummy! A friend noted that the restaurant we tried this dish at does not prepare it wonderfully and that if we did not like it, we should really try it again at a different place. Right.

Dessert is, generally, a lunchtime luxury. Think custard and cream based cake or a caramel pudding like flan. Late at night, though, the chocolate appears. To a night-life adventurer, there is nothing better than a gofre, a waffle smeared with whatever topping you could imagine: chocolate sauce, whipped cream, strawberry jam, caramel, whatever combination thereof. Or perhaps you might prefer a napolitana, a pastry similar to a croissant rolled around a thick chocolate sauce. Or simply a chocolate croissant, a croissant sliced down the center, filled with chocolate, heated, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Gofre shops are quite popular from, say, 3-5 am, when the night life is winding down on the weekends.

It’s a difficult schedule to adjust to. We, as Americans, are accustomed to small lunches and large dinners, for example. Here, Craig and I have had to learn to remember to eat lunch, to wait until 9:30 to head out for tapas, to expect a call at midnight or later to meet a friend, to expect everyone to show up much later than planned, to not question the ingredients of a dish set before us. I haven’t learned to love every cut of pork yet, to eat without peeling off strips of fat, to ignore dripping grease, to accept chunks of sausage as a meal. But I sure can appreciate and respect the whole consumption of a slaughtered animal, and I can understand the love and reliance on an animal that give itself up wholly to the nourishment of a nation.

The Cervantes Festival

2008-10-17T05:50:00.006-05:00

Since Alcalá de Henares is the birthplace of Cervantes (and thus, some claim, the true birthplace of Spanish culture) it is not surprising that he and his work are celebrated throughout the city. Everywhere, there are bronze or iron or wooden Don Quixote characters and his recreated home is open for visitors. Childrens’ parks and tourist shops are dedicated to the characters in this most-famous work. Cervantes’ recreated home is open for viewing. And, every year on his October 9 birthday, the town shuts down to celebrate him, his work, and the period he lived in. This year Cervantes Day fell on a Thursday; every business throughout the city shut down and the Medieval Festival was erected and opened in the early morning.

The festival is a market, a gastronomical adventure, and a chance for Alcalá dwellers to bugger off work and drink a cheap bottle of cider. It’s crowded and fantastic, somehow beautiful and wretched at once, addicting and frustrating, like any festival across the world. Because the festival blocked our main path to work and markets and cafes, and because Craig and I liked it, we walked through it at least twice a day, pushed and pulled by the crowd and lured by the merchandise, and by the time it closed on Sunday we knew the booths thoroughly and often visited our favorites to pine (and be reminded of the thin state of our wallets!). There were tented palm readers, acrobats, musicians, made-up men on stilts, fire blowers, dancers, bird trainers with their troops of decorated eagles, owls, and hawks. There were potters, wood carvers, bakers, candle makers, ironsmiths, soap makers. There were burro rides and petting zoos, face painting, and beggars. There were vendors of all goods: shallow baskets of spices, burlaps sacks of healing herbs and teas; great molding, pungent wheels of cheeses, ropes of garlic and linked chorizo hanging from the wooden eaves of the booths, cured pig thighs and fat slabs of pork, baskets of salted sardines and vats of olives;

freshly fried potato chips, roasted corn, endless tables of cakes and pastries, homemade ciders and wines, freshly baked breads, cardboard cones of roasted chestnuts, dried fruits, and candy; aloe vera plants and products, potted herbs, dried bunches of lavender; freshly cut and aromatic chunks of soap, handmade candles, hand-dipped incense, carved and dyed and perfumed wooden roses;

jewelry made of stone and clay and metal and leather and shell and watermelon seeds; gemstones, bows and arrows, knives, wineskins, leather shoes and bags, medieval clothing, belly dancing costumes; kids’ toys, drums, bird whistles, balloons shaped like Spider-man and panda bear; Cervantes t-shirts, plates, and cards. There were restaurant booths with beer, wine, and tapas (appetizers, usually small sandwiches or crudités, that accompany a drink), plates of fried pig back fat, grilled ribs and chorizo, and every other cut and preparation of pig you could ever desire.

There were pulporias with their great copper vats of pink liquid and tentacles—the octopus is boiled then chopped into pieces and served with a sprinkling of paprika. There were booths for mojitos and pina coladas, crepes of all kinds, Arabic tents serving sweetened Tunisian tea. There was the smell of cooking pork and smoke in the air, complimented by the candles, soaps, perfumes, herbs, and the occasional stab of sewage.

It was very interesting and enjoyable! I would be lying though, if I said that I was upset when the vendors broke down their booths and disappeared. After four days of crowds, of late night yelling in the street, the smell of cooked pig clinging to my clothing, and the children—with their relentless drums and bird whistles and bows and arrows—I was glad for some quiet.
more pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2124961&l=66f2e&id=6312129

Stork Sighting: Check!

2008-10-08T04:48:00.003-05:00

I spotted my storks! They are awe-inspiring, somewhat terrifying, large, LARGE birds. The residents of Alcala aren't particularly fond of them for the "garbage" they produce, and the city has built support platforms for the nests (which are large enough to fit at least me, I'm fairly certain) to keep them from crashing down into the streets. Well, I like them!

I am a Teacher!

2008-10-02T08:19:00.003-05:00

I taught my first class today at the British House. This particular class is very advanced. Today we discussed challenges in life: how births and deaths, weddings and divorces, illness or disease, living abroad, learning a new language, leaving for university, working stressful jobs, raising teenagers, etc, make us feel and how we deal with them emotionally. In Spanish, I can say, "Dos cafes con leche, por favor," and then ask for the check. Sometimes I think that's pretty gosh darn good. Today, one of my students said, while looking at a photo of a new mother in the hospital, "I think she is very glad because she is smiling. But also, the twins look like they may not be healthy, because they have tubes for oxygen. So maybe the mother is very scared that they will not live or they might be ill. And, she must also be feeling apprehensive about raising two children at the same time." How impressive! And yet, I feel that I was able to teach them some new vocabulary, etc. I also taught someone how to spell 'brief' properly! Not bad for my first hour and a half class!

Craig and I have both been assigned several hours a week by British House. They want Craig to teach the bulk of the advanced students since he has the technical side of the grammar down, and they want to eventually put me with children...which, although I'm not too excited about it, is the best way to utilize my own talents. I am actually also working as a private teacher for a 14 year old girl. I interviewed for the job this week, and I was hired to begin Monday. I am no longer scared of being able to find work, and I am much more confident about teaching. I think paying attention in class all my life is really paying off now!

This Place is Old, Man

2008-10-02T08:05:00.006-05:00

We live in a very good location: we are two streets away from the Plaza de Cervantes, which is more or less the center of the historical district and of the part of town that concerns us. We are a three minute walk from our employer's office and several of our classrooms. We are close to a convenient grocery store and not far at all from the supermarket, several cafes, a few parks, and the river. Luckily for us we can walk where ever we might need to go. This area of Alcala is one of UNESCO's World Heritage Sites. Many of the streets are still cobblestone and the sidewalks are chipped brick. This limits traffic and pedestrians are encouraged by the sights. We live essentially next door to the University, which is still functioning despite its reputation as one of the oldest in Europe. She is over 500 years old!! (Pretty impressive to me...my own university was built in 1917 and has yet to survive Roman conquest or civil war). We are also surrounded by massive footprints of Catholicism, gargantuan (working) convents, hermitages, and incredible cathedrals, including the one in the Plaza de Santos Ninos, built to honor children that were martyred for their families' beliefs in (according to what I was told) the 400s. On the rooftops of these aging buildings, especially those with towers overlooking the city, one can see the nests of storks. I am told I will be able to hear their bill clattering communication during mating season. I am determined to spot a stork and have not even come close in succeeding.

Alcala de Henares is the birth place of Cervantes, the Spanish writer who produced Don Quixote. Here, you can visit a recreation of the Cervantes home and the city celebrates this celebrity with vigor. Every place you go, you see Cervantes and Don Quixote, in bronze statues, on the coins, in the shop windows, and of course, in the Plaza de Cervantes, where Cervantes stands tall, overlooking the square, quill poised to record what he sees.

The View from the Kitchen Window

2008-10-02T07:27:00.005-05:00

Our apartment is quite nice for the price. We viewed several "pisos" and finally decided, rather than spend the 700 euros (plus 700 euro deposit) for privacy (and self-maintained cleanliness), we would rent space in a four bedroom, two bathroom apartment. We are in a very central location and have wireless internet (which we use nonstop), a TV (which we never use), and heat for the winter months. As you can see in this picture, we have a laundry room as well...or a strung wire outside the kitchen window. We are equipped with a washer (thank goodness) but do have to air dry our clothes, something that I couldn't have imagined I would mind. Of course, when I think of line-drying clothing or sheets or towels, I picture it like anyone else from my technological generation would...overlooking a soft field in a golden breeze and fresh, mountain air. Or something. As it is, we'll now wear our jeans 3 or 4 or 5 days without washing them, since when you hang them out the kitchen window they pick up every aroma (of trash, the neighbor's frying fish, the traffic smog, the mold from the shaded walls). We don't get any sunshine on our side of the building, so they take a day and a half to dry and are long crunchy boards when we pull them back in.

I make it out to be worse than it is, but please do believe me, things don't smell very good here.

But back to the apartment. We have a small kitchen with a fridge and a freezer, a tiny porch with a bit of sun and a view of the busy street and a square the children play in after siesta. We have a microwave and an oven that we can't figure out how to work.

Most importantly, we have good roommates. One, as I mentioned before, is from the United States. Blake is an English MFA student, so we have a lot in common with him, and with his girlfriend as well, who is also a Georgian. Blake is fluent in Spanish (when he is not speaking English with a strong southern accent) so he helps us to communicate with Jorge and Isaac. Jorge is a hermetic local and speaks no English (we don't see much of him), but Isaac is a student from Barcelona. He is learning English, so we practice our foreign languages on one another. We watched the futbol game with him the other night, then he watched the Georgia-Alabama football game with us. All in all, everyone is friendly but mostly busy and out of the apartment.

I'm very content living here. There are a lot of strange sounds to adjust to (and strange hairs in the bathroom) but it is SPAIN!

As Fate Would Have It...

2008-09-28T07:05:00.003-05:00

Of all the apartments and all the people in Spain, the place we ended up living happens to have an American roommate. Blake, it turns out, is from Georgia, a fact we established when we first met. We joked about trying to find the American football games at a bar but, since the Alabama Georgia game started at 2 AM our time and, well, it's Spain, I didn't give it too much thought. Who would have thought that last night I would be sitting on the couch in my Spanish apartment, watching pay per view computer feed of Alabama CREAMING Georgia? (For those of you who did not watch or do not know, Alabama is currently undefeated and has now beat one of the strongest, highly rated college teams). Woo! ROLL TIDE!!

Angel of Alcala

2008-09-27T17:42:00.004-05:00

Thank God for Abbie. She fetched us from the airport, put us up at her apartment for a few days, contacted her old boss on our behalf and got us jobs, served as a translator for us as we searched for our own place and purchased cell phones, showed us the basic geography of Alcala, introduced us to her favorite Spanish foods, and, most importantly, introduced us to several English speaking Spanish friends who are permanent residents of this city and will be here to offer advice as we go. Thanks to her, we now have a small network of contacts including the owner of a leasing agency and real estate company, a nurse, the head of a teaching agency, a bartender, a friend with a car, a homeowner in Barcelona, and several English teachers. Thanks to her, British House (an agency that contracts out teachers to businesses and academies in needs of English lessons) is finding us jobs, we have a few clients lined up for private lessons, we can find our apartment (and ask for directions if we get lost), we have signed a lease on a small room in an apartment (with a roommate from GEORGIA, USA!), we know how to make a basic dinner order, and we have phone numbers to distribute to potential clients. Muchas gracias to Abbie!

The Arrival

2008-09-27T17:28:00.002-05:00

What a beautiful bundle of stresses. Craig and I made it through security in Atlanta and through a two hour layover in Toronto, onto a very very hot plane and into the city of Madrid. We thankfully (and sweatily) stepped off the plane and, upon reaching the smoky baggage claim, found that one of Craig's bags was happily riding the carousel. We waited for the rest of our luggage to appear. And waited. Waited. WAITED. My tired mind struggled to remember what was in each bag. We could always buy more clothes, more books, wash our flight undies in a bathroom and hang them to dry. The longer we stood, watching bags pass by that looked like ours but were not, the more I turned to resignation. So I would not have my very soft pajamas or my plug adapters. If I could just get some sleep, I would survive. I could deal with it later. The fatigue from the flight was such that when the bags finally showed up, one by one, twenty or thirty minutes later than the first, there was no celebration.

Craig has a friend that has been living in Spain for a few years. She happened to be in Madrid and had planned on meeting us at the airport and helping us out for a few days before she headed back to the states. We gathered our luggage and hauled two suitcases each through customs, then…no Abbie. We searched the arrivals salo. No Abbie. We exchanged cash and made a payphone call, but Abbie’s phone was unreachable. We searched more. No Abbie. I, in my state of ultimate calm resignation, sat on my suitcase and filed my nails, my exhaustion allowing no worry, as Craig jogged through the crowds. Finally we decided to drag our suitcases along with us and simply walk the airport in hope that she was lost. It is a small airport, and we quickly found Abbie…at a separate arrivals salo.

It was onto the bus directly, surrounded by bags and people giving us dirty looks. And in a puff of dark exhaust, we left Madrid. We climbed off that bus and found ourselves in a construction site where, rather than walking across the street we were forced to tow our bags up one ramp…then another, then another. Then down, and up another and onto a second bus. We pushed our bags into the storage compartment of another, larger bus, and found seats on the way to Alcala. When we reached our stop, no more than twenty minutes later, Abbie crawled into the storage hold to retrieve our apparently slippity-slidey suitcases. My over stimulated and exhausted brain, wandered, once again, to the possibilities. What would I do now, if the bus pulled away with Abbie sprawled out on her belly in the belly of a bus? I vaguely thought that although I did not know how to explain to a driver what was going on, I could probably wave my arms and shout, which would be enough. Luckily, the driver was watching us in the mirror and waited patiently for us to close the doors and step away.

Abbie, all smiles, led us down narrow, seemingly endless streets, our luggage noisily clattering over the cobblestone behind us. Across town, up a flight of stairs, into, finally, a shower, a meal, and a bed.

This was our introduction to Spain.

Pushing Through the Last Minute Packing Rush

2008-09-22T11:21:00.004-05:00

At this moment I am still in the United States, preparing for the trip across the Atlantic. This is Monday; Craig and I depart from Atlanta tomorrow at 5:30 PM central time via Air Canada. We have a two hour layover in Toronto and will arrive in Madrid at 11:30 AM central European time. I will update soon after we reach our destination: Alcalá de Henares.