Dear esteemed readers,
Conversation is like being punched in the stomach by a really small person who hasn't worked out in years, hasn't eaten for days, is being lightly restrained, and doesn't really want to punch you that badly(if he was punching you in the head and not the stomach). It makes you a tiny bit tired.
In the State's this has no real effect. Conversations last for 30 minutes to two hours on the long end. In Spain though, it seems like common practice to talk for a loooong time. My host family for example will hang out and watch TV, chatting on and off, from the time I get home (2:00) to the time I go to sleep (10:00) with 4-5 day-per-week consistency.
It isn't something that we're forced to consider too often, but after about four hours of unbroken conversation, we get really, really tired. Throw in a foreign language requirement, and then talk for six hours instead, and living in Spain suddenly becomes a drastically new experience.
The verdict is pending on whether or not this is a good thing. At the least I won't often be the one awkwardly twiddling my fingers and making some half-truth about homework after an hour of chatting when I get back to the states.
Wishing you an emotionally and mentally relaxed afternoon/ evening depending on location and time of reading,
Tim
P.S. Homework - Go talk to someone for five hours.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A money making project
Dear friend so distinguished as to stumble this way,
I'm facing a plight that an absurd number of liberal arts students share.
For most of my life I have wanted to see if writing could work as a professional activity. Unfortunately the economy is sub-par and I am hardly alone. People seem to love the concept of being a writer, it is borderline cool to say at cocktail parties, it indulges fantasies of leaving a lasting monument on the world, and it appeals to the inner voice in all of us, telling us that we ought to be doing something with ourselves. American culture (and probably others, I'll have to see) holds a thinker in high regard, and that kind of self esteem is a non-monetary wage that attracts tons of people, including me, to writing. It doesn't hurt that it is also more fun that most other work.
But how to make writing pay? There are millions of people who want to be paid to write, many in countries where wage rates are much lower, and there are thousands on thousands of Americans who have written more than us college students and aspiring writers. My strategy in the face of this is just try, and hope it works.
I have the luxury to do this because I am still in the protective womb of collegiate academics. Studying in Spain I have slightly more free time than at Whitman, my home school, and so I will try this writing thing now, and if it fails, the fallout will at least be minimal.
Given my awe inspiring professional credentials(No paid work in writing), I am starting with freelance copy writing and content writing since both of those things are accessible. The basic idea is that everything on the internet has been written by someone, and most of the commercial site content was written by a professional writer. There is a big market for this, and a place for someone who is not particularly initiated in the industry already.
It does look like there are a few things that help out a prospective web writer a lot though. Basic knowledge of all the blogging tools, ability to write SEO (Search engine optimized, or google cheating) articles, and enough HTML familiarity to set up pages and layout all are huge pluses.
When I get time away from this fantastic country, I will be working on these things. Hopefully it works out! If you are in a similar place to me in terms of goals, I'd love to talk and share observations.
Enjoy the lovely weekend day,
Tim
I'm facing a plight that an absurd number of liberal arts students share.
For most of my life I have wanted to see if writing could work as a professional activity. Unfortunately the economy is sub-par and I am hardly alone. People seem to love the concept of being a writer, it is borderline cool to say at cocktail parties, it indulges fantasies of leaving a lasting monument on the world, and it appeals to the inner voice in all of us, telling us that we ought to be doing something with ourselves. American culture (and probably others, I'll have to see) holds a thinker in high regard, and that kind of self esteem is a non-monetary wage that attracts tons of people, including me, to writing. It doesn't hurt that it is also more fun that most other work.
But how to make writing pay? There are millions of people who want to be paid to write, many in countries where wage rates are much lower, and there are thousands on thousands of Americans who have written more than us college students and aspiring writers. My strategy in the face of this is just try, and hope it works.
I have the luxury to do this because I am still in the protective womb of collegiate academics. Studying in Spain I have slightly more free time than at Whitman, my home school, and so I will try this writing thing now, and if it fails, the fallout will at least be minimal.
Given my awe inspiring professional credentials(No paid work in writing), I am starting with freelance copy writing and content writing since both of those things are accessible. The basic idea is that everything on the internet has been written by someone, and most of the commercial site content was written by a professional writer. There is a big market for this, and a place for someone who is not particularly initiated in the industry already.
It does look like there are a few things that help out a prospective web writer a lot though. Basic knowledge of all the blogging tools, ability to write SEO (Search engine optimized, or google cheating) articles, and enough HTML familiarity to set up pages and layout all are huge pluses.
When I get time away from this fantastic country, I will be working on these things. Hopefully it works out! If you are in a similar place to me in terms of goals, I'd love to talk and share observations.
Enjoy the lovely weekend day,
Tim
Friday, January 28, 2011
Five quirks of the Spanish movie experience
Yesterday I went to see my first movie in a Spanish theater, and today I had the good fortune to see another. I'd like to share the experience as best I can. Most small things are the same as in the States, the theaters are similarly constructed and furnished for example, but other aspects of the theater are interestingly different. Here are the five I found most striking.
1.Snacks
You can bring food into the theater. This is a small thing, I know, but how great is it in terms of what it shows about customer perception. In the states, where we can't bring our own food, the message is loud and clear. The theater wishes to profit, and you are there as a vessel for that. You will go where you are supposed to, when you are supposed to, and if you happen to want food, you will pay through the teeth for it, and hopefully popcorn or candy is what you wanted at the end of your monetary root canal. Of course the theaters want to profit here as well, but I feel like a customer and not a meat-cow o be herded in one door and out another, lighter by a handful of dollars.
Sure you can bring your own food in, and very few theaters are going to affectively call you on it, but it's just not the same. If you wanted, you could bring dinner here. Who doesn't want to feast on a tasty burger, salad, or other goody of their own selection while they watch?
2. Voice acting.
For the most part, subtitles don't seem to be the vessel of choice despite as many as half of all titles being originally in English. The movies are dubbed over entirely in Spanish. I know this should be pretty intuitive, but I'm including it because of some of the situations it brings up. For some American actors, Spaniards have not heard their voice, and so go through life thinking that George Clooney sounds like a husky Spaniard. It's also fairly enjoyable when a voice is poorly cast. For big movies, like Mas Alla que La Vida, the casting is good, but in some the miss is just awesome. When we were in the hotel, bored and getting ready for another afternoon lecture, a kung-fu movie was on. Several of the short, Asian actors were voice acted by deep, gravely, baritone dopplegangers, and the result was jilting.
3.Touch culture
Cultural norms on body contact strongly effect understanding of a movie. One scene, seemingly meant to show romantic tension, was crowned by the female character shyly planting a quick smooch on the protagonists cheek. This would have a strongly romantic implication to an American audience, but here people say hello and goodbye with two kisses, one on each cheek. The greeting is very common and completely casual, so a big cheek snog has no real meaning here. There are hundreds of other small things like that, especially with regards to body language, so the meaning of many scenes changes with a Spanish audience.
4.Empty Theaters
You are essentially alone. The movie I saw first had three other groups in it, and the movie today had literally two customers aside from me and two friends. This seems a product of the recession Spain is currently in the grips of (which I am told is significantly worse than that in the states). Sitting alone in the dark and not even being able to wonder if people are bothered when you laugh is odd. There's almost a connection between you and the other four people there, and you have to wonder how much loss the cinema takes from electricity outrunning ticket revenue. Hopefully business picks up soon!
5.Gender Standards
Gender/dating culture is very different. For American films being watched in Spain this doesn't really come across, but I had the good fortune to watch a Spanish dating comedy (not in theaters) and oh boy was it different. Let's just say that for a culture that finds shorts to be exceptionally gaudy on women, there was a surprising amount of nudity (enough to put any American movie into a retirement home of relative pictorial conservatism).
Anyways, I have highly enjoyed the cinema going experience thus far and look forwards to trying it more when opportunity presents.
In the interests of disclosure I wrote this yesterday but couldn't post due to wireless constraints.
Best,
Tim
1.Snacks
You can bring food into the theater. This is a small thing, I know, but how great is it in terms of what it shows about customer perception. In the states, where we can't bring our own food, the message is loud and clear. The theater wishes to profit, and you are there as a vessel for that. You will go where you are supposed to, when you are supposed to, and if you happen to want food, you will pay through the teeth for it, and hopefully popcorn or candy is what you wanted at the end of your monetary root canal. Of course the theaters want to profit here as well, but I feel like a customer and not a meat-cow o be herded in one door and out another, lighter by a handful of dollars.
Sure you can bring your own food in, and very few theaters are going to affectively call you on it, but it's just not the same. If you wanted, you could bring dinner here. Who doesn't want to feast on a tasty burger, salad, or other goody of their own selection while they watch?
2. Voice acting.
For the most part, subtitles don't seem to be the vessel of choice despite as many as half of all titles being originally in English. The movies are dubbed over entirely in Spanish. I know this should be pretty intuitive, but I'm including it because of some of the situations it brings up. For some American actors, Spaniards have not heard their voice, and so go through life thinking that George Clooney sounds like a husky Spaniard. It's also fairly enjoyable when a voice is poorly cast. For big movies, like Mas Alla que La Vida, the casting is good, but in some the miss is just awesome. When we were in the hotel, bored and getting ready for another afternoon lecture, a kung-fu movie was on. Several of the short, Asian actors were voice acted by deep, gravely, baritone dopplegangers, and the result was jilting.
3.Touch culture
Cultural norms on body contact strongly effect understanding of a movie. One scene, seemingly meant to show romantic tension, was crowned by the female character shyly planting a quick smooch on the protagonists cheek. This would have a strongly romantic implication to an American audience, but here people say hello and goodbye with two kisses, one on each cheek. The greeting is very common and completely casual, so a big cheek snog has no real meaning here. There are hundreds of other small things like that, especially with regards to body language, so the meaning of many scenes changes with a Spanish audience.
4.Empty Theaters
You are essentially alone. The movie I saw first had three other groups in it, and the movie today had literally two customers aside from me and two friends. This seems a product of the recession Spain is currently in the grips of (which I am told is significantly worse than that in the states). Sitting alone in the dark and not even being able to wonder if people are bothered when you laugh is odd. There's almost a connection between you and the other four people there, and you have to wonder how much loss the cinema takes from electricity outrunning ticket revenue. Hopefully business picks up soon!
5.Gender Standards
Gender/dating culture is very different. For American films being watched in Spain this doesn't really come across, but I had the good fortune to watch a Spanish dating comedy (not in theaters) and oh boy was it different. Let's just say that for a culture that finds shorts to be exceptionally gaudy on women, there was a surprising amount of nudity (enough to put any American movie into a retirement home of relative pictorial conservatism).
Anyways, I have highly enjoyed the cinema going experience thus far and look forwards to trying it more when opportunity presents.
In the interests of disclosure I wrote this yesterday but couldn't post due to wireless constraints.
Best,
Tim
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The little nemesis
The doom of my Spanish existence follows me nightly, plaguing my dreams, haunting the shadows, lurking somewhere below me, somewhere I can never quite see. When I turn my head, all I hear is his lingering laughter, and am left wondering, why, why, why has this dark scourge of shadows untold found me as its mark. It was an ill omen when I first caught the discordant melody of his presence during those gone-by hours, guided only by moonlight and protected only by a frail sheet of warmth. For not a night since has the demon left me unscathed. Perhaps my imagination has conjured it in whole, and nothing lurks beyond the edges of thought, perhaps I ought to close my eyes and gain sweet sleep, and yet, each time, again the banshee wail renews, and again my sleep is slain.
But lo, what is this? A sprout of an idea? An inkling of the truth? These cries be not like inhuman hunger, but those of a baby? A niño lives beneath my floor!
More specifically as my house-mother tells me, a niño of 14 months by the name of George. George, who I imagine is quite adorable but as of yet have not gotten the chance to meet has become something of a thorn. The last few nights, around 2-4 with dice-like consistency, his thunderous cries for food, warmth, or something else that his poor parents have to rush to discern burst forth with all the force of a pair of scissors cutting paper (which is to say just about enough force to get the job done).
I'd love to do something about it, but there really is not much to be said. It's not like you can go up to a child and ask him to stop crying, and the family is obviously doing what they can because his wails keep them up as well. I've tried using two pairs of nested earplugs to no effect (Yes it's possible), and for now I plan on just sleeping on the couch.
I'll take it as a good thing that the most immediately troubling thing in my life is a one-year-old.
But lo, what is this? A sprout of an idea? An inkling of the truth? These cries be not like inhuman hunger, but those of a baby? A niño lives beneath my floor!
More specifically as my house-mother tells me, a niño of 14 months by the name of George. George, who I imagine is quite adorable but as of yet have not gotten the chance to meet has become something of a thorn. The last few nights, around 2-4 with dice-like consistency, his thunderous cries for food, warmth, or something else that his poor parents have to rush to discern burst forth with all the force of a pair of scissors cutting paper (which is to say just about enough force to get the job done).
I'd love to do something about it, but there really is not much to be said. It's not like you can go up to a child and ask him to stop crying, and the family is obviously doing what they can because his wails keep them up as well. I've tried using two pairs of nested earplugs to no effect (Yes it's possible), and for now I plan on just sleeping on the couch.
I'll take it as a good thing that the most immediately troubling thing in my life is a one-year-old.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
A short life (lesson?)
Dear assembled computer sitters who may or may not be putting themselves in an ideal situation for long term success,
As you may have guessed I am looking forwards to being rambling and preachy in the following letter. Please do benefit from my blithe radiance; what is a young college male if not an arbiter of truth and worldliness?
Disclaimed: we may continue.
We all go through life with some set of rules that govern our direction, and by recently changing one of mine ended up in Spain. I would like to think that this could be useful to others.
The original rule was a fairly emphatic "do what you're good at". This led me to join the Whitman debate team, and experience success there. Partially through my efforts and skill, and to a larger extent due to the fantastic coaching staff at Whitman, I was able to compete at a high level, and with contributions from me Whitman won the national school title in parliamentary debate. (This is not actually the primary focus of the activity, but in my eyes and others quite an achievement nonetheless.)
When the last season ended we were a very young squad, obviously having done well and still returning all of our top teams. Instead of continuing in the activity I quit, and in hindsight did so to great profit.
Why? The activity took to much of my time, and the main redemptive draw was only victory. It distracted from academics, from developing writing skills, from maintaining healthily varied interpersonal relationships, from sleep, and many other things. That's not to say that it destroyed them, but it made normal function difficult to accomplish.
At the time the activity did seem worth it. Who doesn't like to win? A part of all of us is just a cookie-monster for that kind of external validation, and I was having me a decent omnomnom.
Here's the catch though, the trade is not between being successful at one thing and not being so at any other. Given enough time, energy, and confidence most people can do a fantastic job at many things. For me, I had replaced potential success in many other areas of life with debate success. Debate is fairly limited in scope, and there are many other things that I would enjoy more, and benefit more from. One of them for example, might be learning conversational Spanish.
At one point I would not have realized this potential. When you are in the glow of positive feedback, it is very easy to stay there and continue enjoying whatever kind of validation source is streaming its scrumptious goodness in your direction. What I was able to realize is that despite seeming to be a very positive experience, debate was far from the best, or even a respectably highly situated undertaking for me.
I quit and went to Spain. My rule changed from "Do what you are good at" to "Do what is best for you". Maybe this is an obvious one for you guys to see, but for me it definitely wasn't, since winning/being successful/seizing the heck out of one particular day does not necessarily equate to an ideal, or even good situation. I think that by being able to assess priorities and differentiate good from ideal, we can enjoy much more fulfilled lives.
That's my two cents at least.
Thanks for reading, and go consider breaking your routine mold if you think you're stuck. Considering it doesn't hurt, and the smallest changes can be surprisingly positive.
-Tim
As you may have guessed I am looking forwards to being rambling and preachy in the following letter. Please do benefit from my blithe radiance; what is a young college male if not an arbiter of truth and worldliness?
Disclaimed: we may continue.
We all go through life with some set of rules that govern our direction, and by recently changing one of mine ended up in Spain. I would like to think that this could be useful to others.
The original rule was a fairly emphatic "do what you're good at". This led me to join the Whitman debate team, and experience success there. Partially through my efforts and skill, and to a larger extent due to the fantastic coaching staff at Whitman, I was able to compete at a high level, and with contributions from me Whitman won the national school title in parliamentary debate. (This is not actually the primary focus of the activity, but in my eyes and others quite an achievement nonetheless.)
When the last season ended we were a very young squad, obviously having done well and still returning all of our top teams. Instead of continuing in the activity I quit, and in hindsight did so to great profit.
Why? The activity took to much of my time, and the main redemptive draw was only victory. It distracted from academics, from developing writing skills, from maintaining healthily varied interpersonal relationships, from sleep, and many other things. That's not to say that it destroyed them, but it made normal function difficult to accomplish.
At the time the activity did seem worth it. Who doesn't like to win? A part of all of us is just a cookie-monster for that kind of external validation, and I was having me a decent omnomnom.
Here's the catch though, the trade is not between being successful at one thing and not being so at any other. Given enough time, energy, and confidence most people can do a fantastic job at many things. For me, I had replaced potential success in many other areas of life with debate success. Debate is fairly limited in scope, and there are many other things that I would enjoy more, and benefit more from. One of them for example, might be learning conversational Spanish.
At one point I would not have realized this potential. When you are in the glow of positive feedback, it is very easy to stay there and continue enjoying whatever kind of validation source is streaming its scrumptious goodness in your direction. What I was able to realize is that despite seeming to be a very positive experience, debate was far from the best, or even a respectably highly situated undertaking for me.
I quit and went to Spain. My rule changed from "Do what you are good at" to "Do what is best for you". Maybe this is an obvious one for you guys to see, but for me it definitely wasn't, since winning/being successful/seizing the heck out of one particular day does not necessarily equate to an ideal, or even good situation. I think that by being able to assess priorities and differentiate good from ideal, we can enjoy much more fulfilled lives.
That's my two cents at least.
Thanks for reading, and go consider breaking your routine mold if you think you're stuck. Considering it doesn't hurt, and the smallest changes can be surprisingly positive.
-Tim
Friday, January 21, 2011
Hello
Hello friends, family, fellow students and maybe random people on the internet,
I write to you from Spain. I would like for you to know what it is like here, and I would like for me to remember what it was like once I am gone. The format of this will be free style letters - they are easy and I am strapped for time. The main focus will be Spanish culture, and the ever self indulgent me, me and also me.
I've been here in Spain, more specifically Alicante, for nearly a week now and have almost honestly had no time to write. Today I will attempt to catch up on events in a more or less stream of consciousness fashion.
I first got on a plane to depart for Spain on the tired and slow morning of January 13th. I have what I am told is actually a somewhat common form of motion sickness in which I get about as sleepy as a mid-winter bear, and so I passed out after about 20 minutes and woke up in O'Hare. There I transferred to an Iberia flight (with some fear, the internets told me that the airline was deserving of a lofty 2.5/10 rating) and traveled Spainward. Something striking was that immediately on entering the Iberia plain, my prior veil of English culture immediately disintegrated. The crew spoke Spanish, the announcements were in Spanish, the passengers were mostly Spanish and spoke a language I'm sure you can guess. I did not speak Spanish. (Well at least)
I snoozed another nine-ish hours across the Atlantic, waking up for a mid-flight meal of cheese and unidentifiable vegetable stuff that was nonetheless good in a mushy-salty sort of way. Looking out the window was still one of the most breathtaking sights I have yet witnessed on the trip. It was a cloudy night and the moon was obscured over the ocean by wispy cloud layers, but it was so pure and bright that it cut through them and cast long lances of light across the water below. I didn't take a picture.
I arrived in Madrid the next morning and met up with a number of students going to the same city but a different program. We hung out in the Airport for a while, and eventually after a surprisingly light examination in security continued on to Alicante, my destination.
Alicante is an interesting place. If you google image search it, you will probably have an image in your head thereafter much like that of a Floridian resort town. It's colder than that but warmer than Seattle. I'll talk more about the city later, but for brevity I will omit an account now.
I planned on arriving two days before my scholastic program started in order to explore the city a bit and get over my deep fear of talking to Spaniards. It's scary to potentially express yourself incorrectly. To this end I booked a hostel with good ratings by the base of La Castilla de Santa Barbara (There's a fat castle in the middle of my city, how cool is that?) On arriving, I awkwardly conversed with the
attendant who spoke about as much English as I Spanish, and proceeded upstairs.
The place, Hostel de Sal, was only 26 euros a night and definitely too cool for me. They played music of a woman more or less musically screaming over the sound of violins, and their bare concrete walls were complemented by modern mesh and art. In the states it should have been about $80. The beds and accommodations were quite nice and there was a bar downstairs. The desk attendant informed me that the place was in the process of converting to a botique hotel, and that there would be celebrations. I took this in the sense that Americans take this, as in cheese and maybe a few cocktails, which was a humorously incorrect interpretation.
That night I went to bed after exploring Alicante by foot for many hours, and around 11 heard noises downstairs in the bar. By about 2 it was a raging party, and kept going until around 6. Evidently the Spanish like to stay out late, and their social environment is quite different than the American night scene. There is little to no music, and everyone talks, very, very loudly. I didn't actually mind that much since I was still excited to be in a new place, so I went downstairs and wandered around a bit and got a beer. (Drinking age is something like 18 here, so my 21st will be fairly anticlimactic)
The next night there was a similar party, but this time I donned my earplugs and popped some of my faithful traveling companion, Benadryl, since I would meet all the other Americans in my program the next day.
I packed up my luggage and slogged over to another hotel across the city, which was this time way too classy for me instead of way too cool. I felt super awkward in dirty jeans and a hoody as I walked past about seven Spaniards in suits and over a perfectly polished floor into a tasteful room of couches and checkered carpet to meet my program coordinator. Surprisingly I was able to understand her rapid Spanish... She spoke with illustrative hand gestures and a very clear tone. This would actually be something of a trend, I don't know when it happened, but some time since getting on the Iberia plain I suddenly started understanding Spanish. Lucksack right?
The program ran us through a bunch of orientation exercises, and put me up in a room with two interesting and all-considered pretty sweet dudes, Joe and Andrew. We spent a lot of time in a glisteningly clean meeting room with some candy and water in it listening to lectures that might have been considered obnoxiously persistent if there was not so much stupidly relevant information in them.
After two days of orientation, we grouped up in our great big hotel and were escorted nervously one by one to meet our host families. My host mother came to get me, and our initial conversation was uncomfortably halting. I adjusted to her Spanish and she to mine (which probably sounds something like the equivalent of a lawnmower's droning and an introductory ESL class for Chinese 5-year olds would to English speakers to her) after a seemingly long and jarring taxi ride. At my new home, which I will discuss later, but for now's purposes is freaking awesome, I met my host dad. They asked that I call them Mama and Papa, which I did and do going with the theme of accepting new things here.
We started classes not too long after, and as I write this I am still taking part in an intensive course intended to catch us all up to speaking speed. I still cannot write Spanish for my life, but it seems that I am doing well enough with the oral component which is a saving grace. Who needs to write good anyways?
A few days ago we hiked up to the Castilla after class. It is situated above a small mountain, and is about as cool as the male-embryo-transplant-stem-cell-baby (that's a thing right?) of Batman and Morgan Freeman would be. I hope to hike to its peak again and provide a more detailed account, but for now I will leave you with a few pictures of my time there.
Stay safe, stay healthy, and keeping reading my blog or I will know and be slightly insulted,
Tim
From (1)
From (2)
From (3)
Ghetto Photocredit:
(1)http://www.spain.info/es/conoce/monumentos/alicante/castillo_de_santa_barbara.html
(2)http://www.google.es/imgres?imgurl=http://sientealicante.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Castillo-de-Santa-B%C3%A1rbara.jpg&imgrefurl=http://sientealicante.com/castillo-de-santa-barbara/&usg=__hPLVP4xZV-NCD94qs0U1ocPr3DA=&h=466&w=700&sz=66&hl=es&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=6HV7nRyAThHAeM:&tbnh=145&tbnw=206&ei=td85TaX3EcG28QPbmqCvCA&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dla%2Bcastilla%2Bde%2Bsanta%2Bbarbara%26um%3D1%26hl%3Des%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D615%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=343&vpy=88&dur=46&hovh=183&hovw=275&tx=128&ty=67&oei=td85TaX3EcG28QPbmqCvCA&esq=1&page=1&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0
(3)Mary Beth Fernandez.
I write to you from Spain. I would like for you to know what it is like here, and I would like for me to remember what it was like once I am gone. The format of this will be free style letters - they are easy and I am strapped for time. The main focus will be Spanish culture, and the ever self indulgent me, me and also me.
I've been here in Spain, more specifically Alicante, for nearly a week now and have almost honestly had no time to write. Today I will attempt to catch up on events in a more or less stream of consciousness fashion.
I first got on a plane to depart for Spain on the tired and slow morning of January 13th. I have what I am told is actually a somewhat common form of motion sickness in which I get about as sleepy as a mid-winter bear, and so I passed out after about 20 minutes and woke up in O'Hare. There I transferred to an Iberia flight (with some fear, the internets told me that the airline was deserving of a lofty 2.5/10 rating) and traveled Spainward. Something striking was that immediately on entering the Iberia plain, my prior veil of English culture immediately disintegrated. The crew spoke Spanish, the announcements were in Spanish, the passengers were mostly Spanish and spoke a language I'm sure you can guess. I did not speak Spanish. (Well at least)
I snoozed another nine-ish hours across the Atlantic, waking up for a mid-flight meal of cheese and unidentifiable vegetable stuff that was nonetheless good in a mushy-salty sort of way. Looking out the window was still one of the most breathtaking sights I have yet witnessed on the trip. It was a cloudy night and the moon was obscured over the ocean by wispy cloud layers, but it was so pure and bright that it cut through them and cast long lances of light across the water below. I didn't take a picture.
I arrived in Madrid the next morning and met up with a number of students going to the same city but a different program. We hung out in the Airport for a while, and eventually after a surprisingly light examination in security continued on to Alicante, my destination.
Alicante is an interesting place. If you google image search it, you will probably have an image in your head thereafter much like that of a Floridian resort town. It's colder than that but warmer than Seattle. I'll talk more about the city later, but for brevity I will omit an account now.
I planned on arriving two days before my scholastic program started in order to explore the city a bit and get over my deep fear of talking to Spaniards. It's scary to potentially express yourself incorrectly. To this end I booked a hostel with good ratings by the base of La Castilla de Santa Barbara (There's a fat castle in the middle of my city, how cool is that?) On arriving, I awkwardly conversed with the
attendant who spoke about as much English as I Spanish, and proceeded upstairs.
The place, Hostel de Sal, was only 26 euros a night and definitely too cool for me. They played music of a woman more or less musically screaming over the sound of violins, and their bare concrete walls were complemented by modern mesh and art. In the states it should have been about $80. The beds and accommodations were quite nice and there was a bar downstairs. The desk attendant informed me that the place was in the process of converting to a botique hotel, and that there would be celebrations. I took this in the sense that Americans take this, as in cheese and maybe a few cocktails, which was a humorously incorrect interpretation.
That night I went to bed after exploring Alicante by foot for many hours, and around 11 heard noises downstairs in the bar. By about 2 it was a raging party, and kept going until around 6. Evidently the Spanish like to stay out late, and their social environment is quite different than the American night scene. There is little to no music, and everyone talks, very, very loudly. I didn't actually mind that much since I was still excited to be in a new place, so I went downstairs and wandered around a bit and got a beer. (Drinking age is something like 18 here, so my 21st will be fairly anticlimactic)
The next night there was a similar party, but this time I donned my earplugs and popped some of my faithful traveling companion, Benadryl, since I would meet all the other Americans in my program the next day.
I packed up my luggage and slogged over to another hotel across the city, which was this time way too classy for me instead of way too cool. I felt super awkward in dirty jeans and a hoody as I walked past about seven Spaniards in suits and over a perfectly polished floor into a tasteful room of couches and checkered carpet to meet my program coordinator. Surprisingly I was able to understand her rapid Spanish... She spoke with illustrative hand gestures and a very clear tone. This would actually be something of a trend, I don't know when it happened, but some time since getting on the Iberia plain I suddenly started understanding Spanish. Lucksack right?
The program ran us through a bunch of orientation exercises, and put me up in a room with two interesting and all-considered pretty sweet dudes, Joe and Andrew. We spent a lot of time in a glisteningly clean meeting room with some candy and water in it listening to lectures that might have been considered obnoxiously persistent if there was not so much stupidly relevant information in them.
After two days of orientation, we grouped up in our great big hotel and were escorted nervously one by one to meet our host families. My host mother came to get me, and our initial conversation was uncomfortably halting. I adjusted to her Spanish and she to mine (which probably sounds something like the equivalent of a lawnmower's droning and an introductory ESL class for Chinese 5-year olds would to English speakers to her) after a seemingly long and jarring taxi ride. At my new home, which I will discuss later, but for now's purposes is freaking awesome, I met my host dad. They asked that I call them Mama and Papa, which I did and do going with the theme of accepting new things here.
We started classes not too long after, and as I write this I am still taking part in an intensive course intended to catch us all up to speaking speed. I still cannot write Spanish for my life, but it seems that I am doing well enough with the oral component which is a saving grace. Who needs to write good anyways?
A few days ago we hiked up to the Castilla after class. It is situated above a small mountain, and is about as cool as the male-embryo-transplant-stem-cell-baby (that's a thing right?) of Batman and Morgan Freeman would be. I hope to hike to its peak again and provide a more detailed account, but for now I will leave you with a few pictures of my time there.
Stay safe, stay healthy, and keeping reading my blog or I will know and be slightly insulted,
Tim
From (1)
From (2)
From (3)
Ghetto Photocredit:
(1)http://www.spain.info/es/conoce/monumentos/alicante/castillo_de_santa_barbara.html
(2)http://www.google.es/imgres?imgurl=http://sientealicante.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Castillo-de-Santa-B%C3%A1rbara.jpg&imgrefurl=http://sientealicante.com/castillo-de-santa-barbara/&usg=__hPLVP4xZV-NCD94qs0U1ocPr3DA=&h=466&w=700&sz=66&hl=es&start=0&zoom=1&tbnid=6HV7nRyAThHAeM:&tbnh=145&tbnw=206&ei=td85TaX3EcG28QPbmqCvCA&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dla%2Bcastilla%2Bde%2Bsanta%2Bbarbara%26um%3D1%26hl%3Des%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D615%26tbs%3Disch:1&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=343&vpy=88&dur=46&hovh=183&hovw=275&tx=128&ty=67&oei=td85TaX3EcG28QPbmqCvCA&esq=1&page=1&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0
(3)Mary Beth Fernandez.
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