Catania, Catania! Who wants to come to Catania? Anybody, anybody? With a reputation as Sicily's crime capital (actually it is in competition with Palermo for such esteem), a town that is as shady as elm trees and people who are as sketchy as a college art student's portfolio on exam day, this was my latest stop on the itinerary. Want to stay at a hostel that is near the Duomo that has a bar, an underground restaurant, Internet, and is near a famous fish market and some Roman ruins? So did I! But when I showed up, it turned out that I was supposed to stay in the other building of the hostel, which, at the end of an alleyway, was slightly farther away from the Duomo, had no bar, had no underground restaurant, had no Internet, and was certainly near no famous fish market and some Roman ruins. It did have more mosquitoes than the Amazon and Kenya combined, though, a TV (with crappy channels that stopped working on the second day), and air conditioning (which was unnecessary). And no other tourists to be found. Hooray (can't you see the enthusiasm erupting?). It was especially exciting that this happened as soon as I arrived, considering the fact that when I had left Siracusa, I had passed by the bus station at 2:49pm to find out about bus times, found out there was a bus at 3pm, so I hustled back to the hostel, paid the bill, and made it back to the bus station with 2 minutes to spare. Needless to say, welcome to Catania.
When I got to Catania and all of this happened, I was simply exhausted, and since I knew the city wasn't seeping with activity (or at least I guessed as much), I decided to take a nap and that touring could wait. An hour later, I took to the streets. I visited the Piazza del Duomo and the Cattedrale di Sant'Agata to start off. And in the piazza, there is the Fontana dell'Elefante, the Elephant Fountain, a lava fountain which was made in 1736 by Giovanni Battista Vaccarini. When he constructed the elephant, however, apparently he had carved the elephant without visible testicles, an attribute that Catanian men perceived to be an attack on their virility, so they not so kindly requested that the situation be rectified (hahah). I couldn't see the changes.
Since I arrived to Catania on an Italian holiday (April 25 is Italian Liberation Day, as that is when fascism ended), that meant everything was closed. I was still able to walk the pedestrian streets and see where the stores were (even though they were closed) and see lots of people who were also in the streets. Thus, I feel that I am justified in my conclusion that lots of the people are not (ok, don't *seem like*) the kind of people you want to have a gelato with. I ended up trying another Sicilian staple called the arancino, basically fried rice balls filled with lots of things. Though they can be made with a variety of ingredients, mine had ragù (meat sauce), mozzarrella, and I'm not sure what else. It wasn't the lightest of snacks, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Later on, when I went back into exile, I found the lemons in my bag that I had gotten from the old guy in Siracusa. In a place where I knew nobody, where I actively tried to meet people (by staying in what's supposed to be a pretty good hostel), and the city is shut down for Italian holidays and the locals seem sketchy, what's a girl to do? I brought the lemons into the kitchen (yes, the new hostel actually had a kitchen) and physically made lemonade. And it was good!
When I woke up on a beautiful Saturday morning, I thought, ''Okay, it's a whole new day. I'm going to Mount Etna, so everything will be okay (because, just like you have to go through El Calafate to get to those darn glaciers, you really have to go through Catania to get to Etna).'' But of course, when it rains, it pours. We were 8 people on our 4x4 tour. At first it was fine. When we were going to pick up some of the people, there were two American girls who were studying abroad in Florence and had started studying Italian there a couple of months ago. There were also two Italians from Rome. And we were on our way to pick up a family of three who had come from Palermo. During this ride, it was amusing because I was translating from Italian to Italian, from the study abroad girls to the Romans and back, because they were using their limited vocabulary to communicate to the Romans, and the Romans were just drawing a blank on their English that day. Oh well, good practice for me! Then we picked up the family, the father of whom was molto annoying. He kept saying to the tourguide that he thought the tour would be a passeggiata (a leisurely stroll), because he wanted to show Etna to his young son (maybe 11 or so), and he and his wife are 50-somethings, so would there be lots of difficulty involved? And the tourguide said well, yeah -- medium difficulty. And it went back and forth (oh and by the way, since those people were last to be picked up, that guy got inside the jeep instead of in the back, thus forcing me to have the middle seat...this was not turning out to be a good morning) before we got out of the car for our first photo op, thus putting an end to the conversation (thank Dio). After a few quick photo op stops, we were going to start a one-and-a-half hour hike to go to Bove Valley, a valley that is supposed to give spectacular views (of course), but because it started to rain, our tourguide decided to reverse the two items on our itinerary. So, first, we went into this grotto, where it was pitch black and we were walking on lava for about 300m or so with low-level flashlights and low-level ceilings (and broken helmets). After we got out, the rain had stopped, so since there was a snack built into the excursion, we had a break for focaccia and juice box (yep, that's right -- I paid to go on a tour where a juice box was included, but no, I was not aware of the juicebox-ness beforehand...lucky for me, I had my trusty ''you never know'' snacks and water in my bag). And after the snack break (during which it was thundering), it was no longer raining. Turned out, the rain was just a gateway. It's not, when it rains, it pours. Rather, when it precipitates, it ''blizzards'' -- nope, not kidding. The snow was a combination of snow *and* hail, so we went back to the tourist center to reevaluate our plan (still on Etna). I went in and got a hot chocolate, which turned out to be a cup of chocolate which was, simply, heated to a temperature warmer than that of ''room.'' Honestly, it tasted like hot chocolate pudding (which isn't bad, but when it's snowing/hailing outside, and you see a sign for hot chocolate, you crave hot chocolate). When life hands you a cup of hot chocolate pudding....We ended up going on a 10-minute hike to see this other crater and never got to do the real hike. Bummer. We found out, too, that Etna had some actual activity two days earlier. Interesting. Snow on Etna in April, though, not so common. Guess we'll have to mount Etna another time.
Upon our arrival back in Catania, I decided to continue my tour of the city, since Sunday everything would be closed simply because it was Sunday. I started by going to the Roman Theater, where, having learned my lesson in Agrigento, when they asked me what I studied, I replied ''italiano...e storia dell'arte!'' Excited that I included art history in there, I took my 1€ discount (hey, a discount's a discount) and made my way inside the site, where I was greeted by a sign that said: ''Forbidden to take photos.'' First of all, no one is going to forbid me from taking photos for something that I paid to get in to see (unless it is a real museum or some performance or something extra special). Second, this place was outside -- no one is going to forbid me from taking photos of things that are *outside.* Third, rule of thumb: even when these signs exist, you always get at least one photo, because if they kick you out for taking a photo, at least you will have gotten one. Nevertheless, I took my photos, and I took them proudly. The Odeon (not the movie theater) was also located at this site, so I went up the steps at the Roman Theater and found my way there. Once I finished at these ruins (which were surprisingly in tact, except for the fact that a 1669 Mount Etna eruption left the marble of both of these theaters covered in lava), I walked to the Roman Amphitheater not very far away. This place had no entry fee (finally!), and it was even possible to walk through the tunnels that gladiators used to enter the arena. On my way to this site, I passed by this other no-name temple (well, it has a name, and it's Tempio di Sant'Euplio, but I wasn't looking for it), so really, I'm knocking things off my list that were never even there to begin with. Following my trip through a Roman time capsule, I walked along the pedestrian street, stopping for another Sicilian specialty. This time, it was a brioche. I know what you're thinking: that's not Sicilian, that's French. Oh, but wait. So, you know ice cream sandwiches? Peter (England, my friend in Palermo) and I were discussing this the other day. We concluded that this is a topic that must have gotten lost in translation. Perhaps Italians (sorry, Sicilians) understood it as ''sandwiches of ice cream'' (it would be panini di gelato, though I've never heard this term) and decided to bring the tradition to their own hometown. Well, they've certainly made it their own. What they do is, they take a brioche, cut it in half, and -- are you ready for this? Get a pen, and write this down, it gets complicated... -- put gelato in the middle. Yes, seriously. It really is a gelato...sandwich. It's not really that bad, either. I could do without the bread, though. Of course, then it would just be gelato. Anyway, now I know. When life hands you a gelato sandwich...
After my gelato sandwich, I went to the Castello Ursino, thinking that I haven't seen a castle in awhile, so why not fill the quota? But, it turned out that I tricked myself, because it happened to be a museum housed in a castle, and we all know (or we all know now) how much I lovvvvvvve museums. Fortunately, that, too, was free (for students and others alike). Later, I walked through the Pescheria, an old fish market where they now also sell fruit and hanging chickens (almost enough to turn a newfound meat-eater into a vegetarian). I bought blood oranges.
At night, I was talking to the guy who was working in the hostel, an Argentine trying to get Italian citizenship (his mother's Sicilian). In the course of our conversation, I found out that the one item I had left for Sunday morning, the Bellini Gardens, was closed for renovations. Go figure -- gardens that spread over 70,000 square meters and would thus give me something to do on a day where everything else was closed, were also closed. How do you like that? (I don't.) And then on Sunday morning, at breakfast, there were no plastic spoons left with which to make hot chocolate (not hot chocolate pudding), so I had to use a plastic fork instead (my idea, since the girl working at the hostel just relayed the information that, well, there were no spoons left). When life hands you a plastic fork...
After I took the bus to the airport, it was a little after lunchtime, so I found a café in the airport and got myself a sandwich and fresh squeezed orange juice (which, in Catania, is red, because they use blood oranges -- still equally delicious). However, because my luck was still flying high, there was no empty table at which to sit, so the guy behind the counter told me I could just stay at the counter and eat there. When I was finished, I said to him, ''There's no way I could sample that pastry there, is there?'' pointing to the almond pastry that had a per-unit price. For once, the gods were with me. When life hands you a free almond pastry...!
But, of course, with a trip that went the way this one did, you can't end on the almond pastry note, so when the extreeeeeeemely friendly ticket agent slapped me with a 109€ fee for excess baggage (damn the cheap airlines that have luggage limits of practically nothing), I was none too pleased. (By the way, 109€ would be about $170 at today's rate.) To make an unnecessarily long story significantly shorter, I got away with paying them 13€ (about $20).
Needless to say (but clearly I'll say it anyway), by the time it was time to go, I can't say I was disappointed that my time in Catania was over. I went, I saw, and that's that. And then it was time to get the cazzo out of there. There's only so much lemonade you can make in one weekend.
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Syracuse, Sicily: The fruits of my labor
When you think of ''Syracuse,'' maybe the first thing that comes to mind is an NCAA basketball team. Perhaps it's a city in upstate New York (well, it *is* a city in upstate New York; I just don't know if that's what comes to mind or not). Right now, I write to you from a town in southern Sicily called Siracusa, or Syracuse (in English). I got here yesterday, and though I've been including the days and dates in my entries, right now I honestly couldn't tell you either................................(30-second pause to go check). Ok, so yesterday was Thursday, April 24, and I arrived in the early afternoon. I figured that after I dropped off my things at my hostel, I would have a leisurely afternoon among some tourist sites and then save the rest for today, but as we all know, what you expect to happen is never what actually happens.
The woman working at the hostel suggested that I visit the Archaeological Park, which has, quite simply, lots of ancient stuff. It has a Greek theater dating back to 475 BC (undergoing construction -- but still viewable -- on April 24, 2008) and a Roman theater, from the 2nd century AD. It also has something called Paradise Quarry, a small stretch of land at the base of some cliffs where one can find lots of fruit trees of the lemon and orange variety. In addition, there are two large artificial caves cut into the walls, called Orecchio di Dionigi (Ear of Dionysius) and Grotta dei Cordari (Ropemaker's Cave). The park also features the largest altar in the world, Ara di Ierone II. As I was walking around Paradise Quarry, I walked by a whole bunch of flowers that gave off the most delightful scent (and you'll know this is true because I never use the word ''delightful''). I leaned forward to smell the flowers from closer in, and this old guy who works for the park was passing by and said that it wasn't *those* flowers that gave off the scent on the path. Rather, it was some flowers behind that tree. He then started telling me some history about the park and then how his job is to make sure tourists don't climb the fruit trees that line the the walkways (at this moment, he actually started to scold one tourist for climbing a tree for a photo) or hop the fence to be amidst all the trees. He then asked me if I wanted a lemon from the tree. Uhh, what? Sure! So, he opened the gate to the ''forbidden to tourists'' area, and I followed him to the fruit trees. (Don't fear for my safety -- I could have kicked his ass if it had come to it. He didn't strike me as the Mr. Miyagi type.) Next, he picked two lemons from the tree and gave them to me and told me to put them in my bag. This was totally weird -- a) normally I work alone and b) if I have an accomplice, it's never an employee of the House! The oranges, unfortunately, weren't edible because they were too bitter. Too bad. So we continued walking among the lemon and orange groves, and he asked me if I had ever tried a certain kind of fruit. Not knowing what the English translation of said fruit was (I can't remember the name now), and not recognizing the fruit, I said no, so he picked the fruit off the tree, ate one (to show me it was edible), and then gave me one to try. It was delish! So he gave me a whole bunch more, told me to put some in my pocket, and that ended my impromptu tour of the fruit trees in the middle of the Greek and Roman ruins. Originally, I had planned to check out the Archaeological Park on Friday, but because the woman at the hostel suggested I go in the afternoon, I decided, ''Why not?'' and went to check it out. You never know what the afternoon holds.
From the park, I took the local bus down to Ortigia, the island where the Greeks landed, using it as their port of entry for their attack on the mainland. Since I didn't have a bus ticket (in Italy and Sicily, you need to buy tickets at designated shops), I got on the bus and decided it was worth it to selectively demonstrate to the bus driver that I wasn't from around here, so I asked him, ''How much is a ticket?'' He said, I needed to have it already, and I said, I thought I could get it on the bus (oh so sneaky of me). Since there was traffic and he needed to get a move on, the doors closed, and he started going, so I found myself a seat. Really, it doesn't matter to him -- it just matters if the official guy comes on the bus at any point to do a ticket check, and if you don't have a ticket, you get fined. Lucky for me, it turned out fine! I rode the bus all the way to Ortigia (not that far, but it was a long ride in traffic) without any problem. Cost? 0 dollars. But remember -- everything is more expensive since the dollar sucks now. So the conversion in euros? 0 euros! Sometimes risk-taking just works out.
When I got to Ortigia, I walked around the island for much of the evening, starting with the fenced-in ruins of the Tempio di Apollo, dating from 575 BC. I walked down to the Fonte Aretusa, a kind of disappointing pond (when you're expecting a fountain) right by Porta Grande (the sea). There's some mythology to how the landmark came about, but it seems to me that the if the siracusani wanted this pond to be a landmark, they had to come up with something to make it seem more interesting, because right now it's just a big pond with some swans and some plants in it. After the Fonte, I meandered through the charming little streets up toward the 18th-century Duomo. The door was open, so (naturally) I went in, but the whole place was dark. Not pitch black -- dark enough that I knew the cathedral was closing soon, but light enough that I could still get an idea of what was there. I was the only one in there, though, for a few minutes, before a couple of other visitors came in. For those few minutes, however, it was a little creepy -- it reminded me a little bit of when I visited the wax museum three years ago in Barcelona and was the only person there for the duration of my visit. (Never again!) Anyway, after checking out the cathedral, I walked around in Ortigia a bit more before sitting at an outdoor cafe for a little. Eventually, I made my way back to the hostel, where the woman from the hostel didn't want to eat alone, so invited me to eat with her. Granted, I had just eaten, but when in Sicily...besides, she had brought food from home. This meant homemade Sicilian sandwiches and pizza (yes, she brought both). Too bad she didn't make cannolis and gelato. Ah well. Beggars can't be choosers.
Now that I've seemingly done what there is to do in Siracusa, it's time to head north for Catania.
'til the next time,
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com/
The woman working at the hostel suggested that I visit the Archaeological Park, which has, quite simply, lots of ancient stuff. It has a Greek theater dating back to 475 BC (undergoing construction -- but still viewable -- on April 24, 2008) and a Roman theater, from the 2nd century AD. It also has something called Paradise Quarry, a small stretch of land at the base of some cliffs where one can find lots of fruit trees of the lemon and orange variety. In addition, there are two large artificial caves cut into the walls, called Orecchio di Dionigi (Ear of Dionysius) and Grotta dei Cordari (Ropemaker's Cave). The park also features the largest altar in the world, Ara di Ierone II. As I was walking around Paradise Quarry, I walked by a whole bunch of flowers that gave off the most delightful scent (and you'll know this is true because I never use the word ''delightful''). I leaned forward to smell the flowers from closer in, and this old guy who works for the park was passing by and said that it wasn't *those* flowers that gave off the scent on the path. Rather, it was some flowers behind that tree. He then started telling me some history about the park and then how his job is to make sure tourists don't climb the fruit trees that line the the walkways (at this moment, he actually started to scold one tourist for climbing a tree for a photo) or hop the fence to be amidst all the trees. He then asked me if I wanted a lemon from the tree. Uhh, what? Sure! So, he opened the gate to the ''forbidden to tourists'' area, and I followed him to the fruit trees. (Don't fear for my safety -- I could have kicked his ass if it had come to it. He didn't strike me as the Mr. Miyagi type.) Next, he picked two lemons from the tree and gave them to me and told me to put them in my bag. This was totally weird -- a) normally I work alone and b) if I have an accomplice, it's never an employee of the House! The oranges, unfortunately, weren't edible because they were too bitter. Too bad. So we continued walking among the lemon and orange groves, and he asked me if I had ever tried a certain kind of fruit. Not knowing what the English translation of said fruit was (I can't remember the name now), and not recognizing the fruit, I said no, so he picked the fruit off the tree, ate one (to show me it was edible), and then gave me one to try. It was delish! So he gave me a whole bunch more, told me to put some in my pocket, and that ended my impromptu tour of the fruit trees in the middle of the Greek and Roman ruins. Originally, I had planned to check out the Archaeological Park on Friday, but because the woman at the hostel suggested I go in the afternoon, I decided, ''Why not?'' and went to check it out. You never know what the afternoon holds.
From the park, I took the local bus down to Ortigia, the island where the Greeks landed, using it as their port of entry for their attack on the mainland. Since I didn't have a bus ticket (in Italy and Sicily, you need to buy tickets at designated shops), I got on the bus and decided it was worth it to selectively demonstrate to the bus driver that I wasn't from around here, so I asked him, ''How much is a ticket?'' He said, I needed to have it already, and I said, I thought I could get it on the bus (oh so sneaky of me). Since there was traffic and he needed to get a move on, the doors closed, and he started going, so I found myself a seat. Really, it doesn't matter to him -- it just matters if the official guy comes on the bus at any point to do a ticket check, and if you don't have a ticket, you get fined. Lucky for me, it turned out fine! I rode the bus all the way to Ortigia (not that far, but it was a long ride in traffic) without any problem. Cost? 0 dollars. But remember -- everything is more expensive since the dollar sucks now. So the conversion in euros? 0 euros! Sometimes risk-taking just works out.
When I got to Ortigia, I walked around the island for much of the evening, starting with the fenced-in ruins of the Tempio di Apollo, dating from 575 BC. I walked down to the Fonte Aretusa, a kind of disappointing pond (when you're expecting a fountain) right by Porta Grande (the sea). There's some mythology to how the landmark came about, but it seems to me that the if the siracusani wanted this pond to be a landmark, they had to come up with something to make it seem more interesting, because right now it's just a big pond with some swans and some plants in it. After the Fonte, I meandered through the charming little streets up toward the 18th-century Duomo. The door was open, so (naturally) I went in, but the whole place was dark. Not pitch black -- dark enough that I knew the cathedral was closing soon, but light enough that I could still get an idea of what was there. I was the only one in there, though, for a few minutes, before a couple of other visitors came in. For those few minutes, however, it was a little creepy -- it reminded me a little bit of when I visited the wax museum three years ago in Barcelona and was the only person there for the duration of my visit. (Never again!) Anyway, after checking out the cathedral, I walked around in Ortigia a bit more before sitting at an outdoor cafe for a little. Eventually, I made my way back to the hostel, where the woman from the hostel didn't want to eat alone, so invited me to eat with her. Granted, I had just eaten, but when in Sicily...besides, she had brought food from home. This meant homemade Sicilian sandwiches and pizza (yes, she brought both). Too bad she didn't make cannolis and gelato. Ah well. Beggars can't be choosers.
Now that I've seemingly done what there is to do in Siracusa, it's time to head north for Catania.
'til the next time,
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com/
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Palermo, Sicily, (not) Italy: A taste-a of-a Sicily-a
The night I arrived in Palermo (Monday, April 21), the roommate of my friend Peter asked me, ''So, what do you want to see when you're in Palermo -- markets, theaters, the mafia?'' Not wanting to answer with an, ''I dunno, whatever Palermo has to offer,'' I decided to answer his question with a question. ''Ooh, do you know someone in the mafia?'' I asked. ''I mean, I don't know if I would want to see the mafia, but...'' He went on to tell me that there is a guy he sees from time to time, always dressed elegantly, walking around certain streets. He can't be sure if the guy is part of the mafia, but it was clear that he wanted to believe it. (Of course, this roommate is Swiss, so he's a foreigner just like I am.)
My living accommodations in Palermo were in an apartment much like the one featured in the movie ''L'Auberge espagnole'' -- that is, there was one roommate from Switzerland, three from German-speaking places, and one from England (that one is Peter, whom I met in Salvador). Then Switzerland's girlfriend is from Sicily, and she speaks rapid-fire Italian, so that was good practice when we all hung out in the kitchen that first night. When we were talking about the mafia, she explained to me the concept of pizzo. For example, you want to open up a business and you need to turn on the water. A guy from the mafia comes around and says you need to pay x-amount of money to the mafia every month in order to turn on the water (or do whatever you need to get done). This is not a request. If you don't do this, your business will likely get burned down, and that's just common knowledge. A guy opened up a business and maybe thought they were kidding or something, I don't know, so he didn't pay the pizzo. The mafia, as a warning, put asphalt on the doors so the shop had to stay closed all morning. You don't pay the pizzo guy (not to be confused with the pizza guy), you've got trouble on your hands.
Tuesday, Peter showed me around Palermo. First, we went by the Teatro Politeama, a theater finished in 1891. Then, we continued along our way to Teatro Massimo, the theater where the opera scene in ''The Godfather Part III'' was filmed. Next up on the invented tour of the day? Quattro Canti and La Fontana Pretoria (The Fountain of Shame) -- a piazza with sculptures and a fountain. According to legend (''legend'' being my guidebook), ''the statue-bedecked fountain was given its name by irate churchgoers who didn't like staring at mythological monsters and nude figures as they left Chiesa di San Giuseppe dei Teatini (1612) across the street. An even more shameful story explains its inappropriate size -- the Fountain of Shame was not intended for the small piazza. In the early 16th century, a rich Florentine commissioned the fountain for his villa, sending a son to the Carrara marble quarries to ensure its safe delivery. The son, in need of quick cash, sold the fountain to the Palermo senate and shipped it to Sicily.'' Afterwards, we headed toward the Ballarò Market, a historic market where the Saracens got their groceries in the 11th century and the Normans found their Price Club in the 12th century. And, since no tour can be complete without checking out the town's cathedral, we stopped by Palermo's Cathedral, which dates back to the 13th century, even though it has been renovated numerous times since then. After this whirlwind of walking around Palermo, we headed toward the beach. Palermo isn't known for its beaches (or if it is, it isn't known for the one we went to), but after all the time we spent walking the city, it was good to take a break and relax. At night, for dinner, we tried a Sicilian specialty: pasta con le sarde (pasta with sardines and fennel), and it was surprisingly tasty. It wasn't until the following morning, however, that I remembered my sardine friend from the Amazon that jumped into the motorboat next to me. Sorry, little guy. You were a fine feller.
Since I felt like I had seen Palermo on Tuesday, I decided that Wednesday would be a day-trip kind of day. I thus resolved to go to Agrigento, a town in the south of Sicily. Although there are a few items listed in the guidebook as places to see, it is clear that only one of those entries is the reason why anyone makes the trip to Agrigento, and that is to go to the Valle dei Templi or, Valley of the Temples. There are five temples that sit on a ridge (not a valley) that have withstood lots of precipitation, yadayadayada -- but obviously not entirely, or some of them wouldn't be in ruins. They are the: Tempio di Ercole (Hercules), Tempio della Concordia, Tempio di Giunone (Juno), Tempio di Giove Olimpico (Jupiter), and what's left of the Tempio di Catore e Polluce (Castor and Pollux). When I bought my student ticket to get into the grounds, the ticket girl, trying to be smart with me, looked at my student card and responded to me in English (I had been speaking with her in Italian), ''What do you study?'' I said, ''Italiano.'' She laughed, and then got serious, and said, ''Oh, well, the discount is only for people who study art history, architecture, archaeology, or things like that,'' followed by a little smirk. So, in clear ''two can play this game'' fashion, I responded (in Italian), ''Well, yeah. It's a combination program. In order to study art history, you have to study Italian. She said, okay, okay, and gave me the discount. (Now, for those of you who are thinking, shame on me, it wasn't a total lie. Since the captions of these temples are only written in Italian, and they are arty things, it turns out that I *did* have to study Italian in order to understand the captions.) And then after all of this nonsense, she said if I wanted a map of the grounds, I had to pay her 1€. It wasn't just a special price for me, though -- everyone had that price. I looked at the map, which was weak anyway (and had more colored pictures than actual ''map'' content) and left, map-less, though resourceful I was, it turned out I had my own map in my guidebook - hooray! The temples were neat -- a lot of walking around, and I knew I was in a historical place because there were lots of schoolkids on field trips in my presence. After I finished at the temples, I hopped the local bus back to town with the intention of checking out the other two items in my guidebook. Both churches. Both closed (because everything in the middle of the day is always closed). So, by the time I got back to the train station, I had a half hour to wait before my train back to Palermo. What are you going to do when you have time to kill? Eat a cannoli! Next time, I won't use that as my ''killing time'' activity -- rather, I'll make that its own activity! Mmmmm. I got back to Palermo late afternoon, and then at night, Peter and I had a pizza dinner, where we tried out a sfincione, Sicilian pizza. I think pizza in Italy is just generally good. You can't go wrong.
Like people in the Basque region in Spain will say they are from the Basque country and not from Spain, people from Sicily will say they are from Sicily before they will say they come from Italy (at least, when in Sicily). This probably has to do with the fact that Sicily is an autonomous region of Italy (compounded with pride, I'm sure). In fact, it used to be a country, but it is no longer. Personally, I didn't witness any direct animosity between Sicilians and Italians (I'm sure there are plenty of jokes, though). The only personal experience I encountered during my time in Palermo was when Switzerland's girlfriend said (in response to my question of where she comes from in Sicily), ''From a small town in the south of Italy. No! Sicily! Sicily!'' And I responded, ''Italy, really?'' And she said, ''No, no!'' In general, this girl is (self-proclaimed) very different from the typical Sicilian, but even in how she responded to a slip of the tongue, it was interesting to see the reaction.
Anyway, after a few days getting to know the sights, sounds, and foods of Palermo, I decided it was time to head east and see what else awaits in Sicily. Next stop? Siracusa.
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
My living accommodations in Palermo were in an apartment much like the one featured in the movie ''L'Auberge espagnole'' -- that is, there was one roommate from Switzerland, three from German-speaking places, and one from England (that one is Peter, whom I met in Salvador). Then Switzerland's girlfriend is from Sicily, and she speaks rapid-fire Italian, so that was good practice when we all hung out in the kitchen that first night. When we were talking about the mafia, she explained to me the concept of pizzo. For example, you want to open up a business and you need to turn on the water. A guy from the mafia comes around and says you need to pay x-amount of money to the mafia every month in order to turn on the water (or do whatever you need to get done). This is not a request. If you don't do this, your business will likely get burned down, and that's just common knowledge. A guy opened up a business and maybe thought they were kidding or something, I don't know, so he didn't pay the pizzo. The mafia, as a warning, put asphalt on the doors so the shop had to stay closed all morning. You don't pay the pizzo guy (not to be confused with the pizza guy), you've got trouble on your hands.
Tuesday, Peter showed me around Palermo. First, we went by the Teatro Politeama, a theater finished in 1891. Then, we continued along our way to Teatro Massimo, the theater where the opera scene in ''The Godfather Part III'' was filmed. Next up on the invented tour of the day? Quattro Canti and La Fontana Pretoria (The Fountain of Shame) -- a piazza with sculptures and a fountain. According to legend (''legend'' being my guidebook), ''the statue-bedecked fountain was given its name by irate churchgoers who didn't like staring at mythological monsters and nude figures as they left Chiesa di San Giuseppe dei Teatini (1612) across the street. An even more shameful story explains its inappropriate size -- the Fountain of Shame was not intended for the small piazza. In the early 16th century, a rich Florentine commissioned the fountain for his villa, sending a son to the Carrara marble quarries to ensure its safe delivery. The son, in need of quick cash, sold the fountain to the Palermo senate and shipped it to Sicily.'' Afterwards, we headed toward the Ballarò Market, a historic market where the Saracens got their groceries in the 11th century and the Normans found their Price Club in the 12th century. And, since no tour can be complete without checking out the town's cathedral, we stopped by Palermo's Cathedral, which dates back to the 13th century, even though it has been renovated numerous times since then. After this whirlwind of walking around Palermo, we headed toward the beach. Palermo isn't known for its beaches (or if it is, it isn't known for the one we went to), but after all the time we spent walking the city, it was good to take a break and relax. At night, for dinner, we tried a Sicilian specialty: pasta con le sarde (pasta with sardines and fennel), and it was surprisingly tasty. It wasn't until the following morning, however, that I remembered my sardine friend from the Amazon that jumped into the motorboat next to me. Sorry, little guy. You were a fine feller.
Since I felt like I had seen Palermo on Tuesday, I decided that Wednesday would be a day-trip kind of day. I thus resolved to go to Agrigento, a town in the south of Sicily. Although there are a few items listed in the guidebook as places to see, it is clear that only one of those entries is the reason why anyone makes the trip to Agrigento, and that is to go to the Valle dei Templi or, Valley of the Temples. There are five temples that sit on a ridge (not a valley) that have withstood lots of precipitation, yadayadayada -- but obviously not entirely, or some of them wouldn't be in ruins. They are the: Tempio di Ercole (Hercules), Tempio della Concordia, Tempio di Giunone (Juno), Tempio di Giove Olimpico (Jupiter), and what's left of the Tempio di Catore e Polluce (Castor and Pollux). When I bought my student ticket to get into the grounds, the ticket girl, trying to be smart with me, looked at my student card and responded to me in English (I had been speaking with her in Italian), ''What do you study?'' I said, ''Italiano.'' She laughed, and then got serious, and said, ''Oh, well, the discount is only for people who study art history, architecture, archaeology, or things like that,'' followed by a little smirk. So, in clear ''two can play this game'' fashion, I responded (in Italian), ''Well, yeah. It's a combination program. In order to study art history, you have to study Italian. She said, okay, okay, and gave me the discount. (Now, for those of you who are thinking, shame on me, it wasn't a total lie. Since the captions of these temples are only written in Italian, and they are arty things, it turns out that I *did* have to study Italian in order to understand the captions.) And then after all of this nonsense, she said if I wanted a map of the grounds, I had to pay her 1€. It wasn't just a special price for me, though -- everyone had that price. I looked at the map, which was weak anyway (and had more colored pictures than actual ''map'' content) and left, map-less, though resourceful I was, it turned out I had my own map in my guidebook - hooray! The temples were neat -- a lot of walking around, and I knew I was in a historical place because there were lots of schoolkids on field trips in my presence. After I finished at the temples, I hopped the local bus back to town with the intention of checking out the other two items in my guidebook. Both churches. Both closed (because everything in the middle of the day is always closed). So, by the time I got back to the train station, I had a half hour to wait before my train back to Palermo. What are you going to do when you have time to kill? Eat a cannoli! Next time, I won't use that as my ''killing time'' activity -- rather, I'll make that its own activity! Mmmmm. I got back to Palermo late afternoon, and then at night, Peter and I had a pizza dinner, where we tried out a sfincione, Sicilian pizza. I think pizza in Italy is just generally good. You can't go wrong.
Like people in the Basque region in Spain will say they are from the Basque country and not from Spain, people from Sicily will say they are from Sicily before they will say they come from Italy (at least, when in Sicily). This probably has to do with the fact that Sicily is an autonomous region of Italy (compounded with pride, I'm sure). In fact, it used to be a country, but it is no longer. Personally, I didn't witness any direct animosity between Sicilians and Italians (I'm sure there are plenty of jokes, though). The only personal experience I encountered during my time in Palermo was when Switzerland's girlfriend said (in response to my question of where she comes from in Sicily), ''From a small town in the south of Italy. No! Sicily! Sicily!'' And I responded, ''Italy, really?'' And she said, ''No, no!'' In general, this girl is (self-proclaimed) very different from the typical Sicilian, but even in how she responded to a slip of the tongue, it was interesting to see the reaction.
Anyway, after a few days getting to know the sights, sounds, and foods of Palermo, I decided it was time to head east and see what else awaits in Sicily. Next stop? Siracusa.
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Rome, Italy: This Boot was Made for Walkin´
My passport is my travel buddy. It accompanies me on all my travels. It has to. Thus, you can understand why I was disappointed in the Italian system when I arrived in Rome on Thursday, April 17, to an absent immigrations department and, thus, no one to give the clickclick stamp in the passport, thus signifying that I made it safe and sound one step further in the superviaje. Does this mean people think I am still in Spain? Do I not exist in Italy? Will I get stopped at a border because those italiani decided that a cappuccino break was in order? Makes me wonder, where the hell am I?
I like Rome. Rome is, after all, the Eternal City (whatever). But I like Rome because I like Rome, and not because tourbooks say you should. I like Rome because you could be walking down the street and you'll see the Colosseum and then you'll keep walking and you'll see a gelateria. And then if you continue even further, there's a grocery store, that may or may not be there two years from now. There is the old mixed with the new -- the old is really old; it only gets older and doesn't go anywhere, and the new is ever-changing; things get torn down and rebuilt all the time. And all of these places coexist in a peaceful harmony such that the guy dressed in a costume straight out of ''Gladiator'' at the Trevi Fountain could give you directions to the Zara down the street.
I spent some of my time retracing old steps and visiting touristic sites I like: the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, Piazza di Spagna, Piazza Venezia, Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Navona, etc. When I spent two months in Rome three years ago, I got to know these sites pretty well and have some favorites. Thus, this time around, I decided to go to the places I like the best and that require no entrance fees!
I also tried to make the most of my time with my Italian friends. One night, I went to the university area (called San Lorenzo) with my friend Alessio and a few of his friends. Before we headed home, they introduced me to the zozzone (''the big dirty'' ... get your minds out of the gutter!). Apparently, this tradition involves food trucks placed at random places around the city (some ''better'' than others) and they serve *huge* sandwiches that could be hamburgers, hot dogs, etc. with any number of toppings (think Starbucks for meat lovers). Another night, I went out with my friend Manu and a bunch of her friends, as one of her friend's families owns a pizzeria (the pizzas cascade deliciously over the already huge plates!). The pizzeria is actually attached to the family's house ... imagine! The beauty of going out with a whole bunch of Italian speakers is that, even though sometimes they want to practice English with me, they take me to these local joints that I never would have found on my own, where everyone is rattling off Italian in these wonderful accents from all over the country. And when I was walking home after visiting my friend at work (at a café) the other night, I passed Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Navona, and the Pantheon. They might be tourist sites, but I didn't stop to do the tourist thing. Hell, I was just on my way home. One of the weird things about the old being fully integrated with the new. You pass this stuff on the way home, and it's just normal. Oh yeah, that's the Pantheon -- eh, whatever. It might as well be bread crumbs to serve as personal landmarks to show you the way.
One of my Rome days, I even took a trip a little further than I imagined. And this was a trip that my passport buddy did not make with me. I crossed into Kenyan territory. Without a passport. No border control, no customs, no nothing. One of my friends from home, his mom is the Kenyan embassador to Italy, and they have an apartment in Rome. So, technically, once you set foot in the apartment, you are on Kenyan turf. That means that from the time I left my apartment to the time I arrived in this apartment overlooking an Italian piazza, I walked to Kenya! And from the terrace of this apartment in Kenya, we sat people-watching, looking at Italians and other foreigners below. I gotta say, the trip to Kenya? Not so tough!
So, having spent a solid several days in Rome, I decided to head south to Sicily for a bit -- see what there is to offer, see if everyone is really named Tony, etc.
More from below the boot (errr, yeah...),
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
I like Rome. Rome is, after all, the Eternal City (whatever). But I like Rome because I like Rome, and not because tourbooks say you should. I like Rome because you could be walking down the street and you'll see the Colosseum and then you'll keep walking and you'll see a gelateria. And then if you continue even further, there's a grocery store, that may or may not be there two years from now. There is the old mixed with the new -- the old is really old; it only gets older and doesn't go anywhere, and the new is ever-changing; things get torn down and rebuilt all the time. And all of these places coexist in a peaceful harmony such that the guy dressed in a costume straight out of ''Gladiator'' at the Trevi Fountain could give you directions to the Zara down the street.
I spent some of my time retracing old steps and visiting touristic sites I like: the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, Piazza di Spagna, Piazza Venezia, Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Navona, etc. When I spent two months in Rome three years ago, I got to know these sites pretty well and have some favorites. Thus, this time around, I decided to go to the places I like the best and that require no entrance fees!
I also tried to make the most of my time with my Italian friends. One night, I went to the university area (called San Lorenzo) with my friend Alessio and a few of his friends. Before we headed home, they introduced me to the zozzone (''the big dirty'' ... get your minds out of the gutter!). Apparently, this tradition involves food trucks placed at random places around the city (some ''better'' than others) and they serve *huge* sandwiches that could be hamburgers, hot dogs, etc. with any number of toppings (think Starbucks for meat lovers). Another night, I went out with my friend Manu and a bunch of her friends, as one of her friend's families owns a pizzeria (the pizzas cascade deliciously over the already huge plates!). The pizzeria is actually attached to the family's house ... imagine! The beauty of going out with a whole bunch of Italian speakers is that, even though sometimes they want to practice English with me, they take me to these local joints that I never would have found on my own, where everyone is rattling off Italian in these wonderful accents from all over the country. And when I was walking home after visiting my friend at work (at a café) the other night, I passed Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Navona, and the Pantheon. They might be tourist sites, but I didn't stop to do the tourist thing. Hell, I was just on my way home. One of the weird things about the old being fully integrated with the new. You pass this stuff on the way home, and it's just normal. Oh yeah, that's the Pantheon -- eh, whatever. It might as well be bread crumbs to serve as personal landmarks to show you the way.
One of my Rome days, I even took a trip a little further than I imagined. And this was a trip that my passport buddy did not make with me. I crossed into Kenyan territory. Without a passport. No border control, no customs, no nothing. One of my friends from home, his mom is the Kenyan embassador to Italy, and they have an apartment in Rome. So, technically, once you set foot in the apartment, you are on Kenyan turf. That means that from the time I left my apartment to the time I arrived in this apartment overlooking an Italian piazza, I walked to Kenya! And from the terrace of this apartment in Kenya, we sat people-watching, looking at Italians and other foreigners below. I gotta say, the trip to Kenya? Not so tough!
So, having spent a solid several days in Rome, I decided to head south to Sicily for a bit -- see what there is to offer, see if everyone is really named Tony, etc.
More from below the boot (errr, yeah...),
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Barcelona, Spain: Pero, tú, ¿quién eres?
Whether I´ve been to a particular place before or not, in taking one trip, I always learn how to better the next one. In this particular segment, I had been to Barcelona before, so when I arrived on Saturday, April 12, it wasn´t with the tourist plan in mind. Rather, I came to visit friends, retrace old stomping grounds, and just hang out for a few days in a city I enjoy.
The place I called home during my stay in Barcelona this time around was the apartment of my friend Jaime, one of my friends from my program in Salvador. He lives in an apartment by the beach, a beach I frequented when I lived in Barcelona two and a half years ago. Since I already knew the tourist sites in Barcelona, I got to know his neighborhood (Barceloneta) through the eyes of a local. We also hit the beach one day, and though it wasn´t quite the weather of Bahia (or the beach of Bahia, for that matter...so far, I haven´t found a beach that is), it was still the beach. Unfortunately, Jaime skipped town and went on vacation with his friend on Monday. Fortunately, he didn´t kick me out of the apartment, and I got to stay there for the remainder of my time in Barcelona! A beachfront apartment in Barcelona? Sometimes, things work out just fine.
When I lived in Barcelona, one aspect of Catalonian culture that surprised me was how closed it was, compared with, say, Andalusian culture. Example A: You smile at the random person on the metro, and nothing. It´s like you´re staring at one of those cardboard cutouts of people with the eyes cut out that you see at a fairground. Anyway, in the interest of learning from previous travel experiences, I decided to take a different course of action this time around: I turned my former metro experiences into a game. I decided, every time I take the train, I´m going to see if I can get those darn Catalonians to smile. The results? Not so hot. The problem is that they look every which way except at people. It´s hard to land eye contact, and it became funnier when they didn´t smile, which then became inspiration for me to try harder. There was the rare ``smiler,´´ but it made me wonder if the person came from Catalonia or from another part of Spain altogether (Barcelona is an infusion of cultures, both from within Spain and outside Spain). And once, I got a girl to smile but then she looked around really quickly and stopped. An interesting cultural exercise, to say the least (especially compared with the bus in Salvador, Brazil, where people take part in your conversations, when you didn´t even know they were listening).
Tuesday, I went back to my old job to say hello and see how everything was going. When I lived in Barcelona, I taught Spanish to immigrants at Ekumene, a center that offers free classes in Spanish conversation/reading/writing, general culture, Catalan, etc. I worked as a substitute teacher, so though I was there often, I didn´t always have the same group of students, and I didn´t always teach the same subject. And sometimes, I just happened to be there and a teacher would be absent, so I would step in and teach a class, a good test to make sure the adrenaline was still working (but not the same feeling as, ``you stop running and we crash´´). Anyway, I dropped by, and the director buzzed me in, and she made me take a seat while she helped a few students. Since it seemed like she didn´t recognize me, when it was my turn, I identified myself, and she said that she thought it was me, but just in case it wasn´t, she didn´t want to greet me and then be really wrong. I ended up talking to her for awhile, and in the course of our conversation, two of the Catalan students (adults) came to the office and said that their teacher didn´t show up. I didn´t know what class they were from, so I asked Ana María (the director). She said, hold on a minute, and left the office for a few minutes. When she came back, she said, ``okay, the castellano (Spanish) teacher is going to teach the Catalan class, and you are going to teach the castellano class.´´ I said, wait, wait -- what´s going on? She explained that the Catalan teacher wasn´t there, and since I don´t speak Catalan (maybe I shouldn´t have dropped my Catalan class), well, I was going to teach the other class. I said okay (I didn´t have a choice in the matter anyway) and that I guess that made sense -- when I started teaching there, it basically happened this way, and then she said, and this is how it continues! So, I went there to say hello, thinking I´d be there for a half hour or so, and I ended up teaching for about 45 minutes. After class, I went back to the office, to resume our conversation, and she started telling me about the students in one of my old classes. Only one of them is still in contact with her, and it happened to be a good student who was fun in class. She told me where she worked, and I ended up going to visit her.
The girl knew someone was going to visit her (Ana María had called her to see what her hours were), but she didn´t know who. It was a fun surprise and good to catch up with her. (It was strange seeing my former student speak perfect Spanish and even use the F-word in everyday conversation. It just makes me so proud! (I didn´t teach it to her.)) She works at a shoe store in the mall, because she doesn´t have the necessary citizenship papers to be able to work as a nurse (she has her degree). Unfortunately for her and her two colleagues, it was a beautiful day outside, so there weren´t many people in the mall. They hadn´t sold a single thing all day, so any time someone came into the shoe store, they were trying to make a sale. I ended up staying at the store for three hours, catching up with Sanaa, and there were even two customers who required the use of an English translator (i.e., me). It turns out that I´m not cut out to sell shoes -- all that effort and nothing. I asked Sanaa if she still talks to anyone from our class and she said the only one she still sees from time to time is this woman named Helena. (The ages in that class ranged from 16 to maybe mid 40s. Sanaa is 20; Helena I think was late 30s, early 40s.) Sanaa said, though, that it is always Helena who recognizes Sanaa. See, even though both of them are from Morocco, Sanaa is very liberal in her style of dress. You wouldn´t necessarily be able to guess by looking at her that she´s Moroccan. Helena, on the other hand, used to wear a hijab. Since I left, however, Helena changed her wardrobe style and now goes all out and wears a burqa. (And it isn´t a question of being recently married, because she was married when she was my student.) So, whenever they run into each other on the street, Sanaa never recognizes Helena, and it is always Helena who says to Sanaa, ``Sanaa!´´ to which Sanaa responds, ``pero, tú, ¿quién eres?´´ since Helena´s eyes are the only part of her visible to the outside world. Here are two people from the same country, albeit different generations (but that hardly matters), and Sanaa is asking Helena, ``but who are *you*?´´ Sanaa was relating the story to me like any old story, and I didn´t even start thinking about it until later, but it just goes to show that cultural diversity exists even within the same culture.
Even though I didn´t *have* to do any touristy things, I still did a few of them at a leisurely pace. I walked along La Rambla, a 1.2km-long pedestrian street that has various shops, stalls, sidewalk shows, etc. I also took a walk around La Boqueria, a market that sells fruits, meat, fish, and other things you would expect to find in that kind of market. It was just a ``no pressure´´ kind of pace, no guidebook in hand. Another day, I revisited Passeig de Gràcia, a shopping avenue with lots of Gaudí architecture, and Park Güell, one of my favorite parks ever. I also spent time catching up with some of my friends who still live in Barcelona. For instance, I went out with one of my old roommates, Paulo, who hails from Portugal, and his Portuguese girlfriend. Paulo has also studied English, so since I wanted to practice Portuguese, and he wanted to practice English, we ended up going back and forth between languages: Spanish, Portuguese, English, lather, rinse, repeat. He even said my Portuguese accent was Bahian. Hooray! (Come to think of it, I hope that was a good thing...)
So, now that I´ve checked up on my Portuguese, and after a month and a half in Spanish-speaking territory, my Spanish is doing fine, it´s time to go eat some pizza and pasta (and maybe eat some words?) and see if that can bring my Italian back.
hasta la pasta,
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
The place I called home during my stay in Barcelona this time around was the apartment of my friend Jaime, one of my friends from my program in Salvador. He lives in an apartment by the beach, a beach I frequented when I lived in Barcelona two and a half years ago. Since I already knew the tourist sites in Barcelona, I got to know his neighborhood (Barceloneta) through the eyes of a local. We also hit the beach one day, and though it wasn´t quite the weather of Bahia (or the beach of Bahia, for that matter...so far, I haven´t found a beach that is), it was still the beach. Unfortunately, Jaime skipped town and went on vacation with his friend on Monday. Fortunately, he didn´t kick me out of the apartment, and I got to stay there for the remainder of my time in Barcelona! A beachfront apartment in Barcelona? Sometimes, things work out just fine.
When I lived in Barcelona, one aspect of Catalonian culture that surprised me was how closed it was, compared with, say, Andalusian culture. Example A: You smile at the random person on the metro, and nothing. It´s like you´re staring at one of those cardboard cutouts of people with the eyes cut out that you see at a fairground. Anyway, in the interest of learning from previous travel experiences, I decided to take a different course of action this time around: I turned my former metro experiences into a game. I decided, every time I take the train, I´m going to see if I can get those darn Catalonians to smile. The results? Not so hot. The problem is that they look every which way except at people. It´s hard to land eye contact, and it became funnier when they didn´t smile, which then became inspiration for me to try harder. There was the rare ``smiler,´´ but it made me wonder if the person came from Catalonia or from another part of Spain altogether (Barcelona is an infusion of cultures, both from within Spain and outside Spain). And once, I got a girl to smile but then she looked around really quickly and stopped. An interesting cultural exercise, to say the least (especially compared with the bus in Salvador, Brazil, where people take part in your conversations, when you didn´t even know they were listening).
Tuesday, I went back to my old job to say hello and see how everything was going. When I lived in Barcelona, I taught Spanish to immigrants at Ekumene, a center that offers free classes in Spanish conversation/reading/writing, general culture, Catalan, etc. I worked as a substitute teacher, so though I was there often, I didn´t always have the same group of students, and I didn´t always teach the same subject. And sometimes, I just happened to be there and a teacher would be absent, so I would step in and teach a class, a good test to make sure the adrenaline was still working (but not the same feeling as, ``you stop running and we crash´´). Anyway, I dropped by, and the director buzzed me in, and she made me take a seat while she helped a few students. Since it seemed like she didn´t recognize me, when it was my turn, I identified myself, and she said that she thought it was me, but just in case it wasn´t, she didn´t want to greet me and then be really wrong. I ended up talking to her for awhile, and in the course of our conversation, two of the Catalan students (adults) came to the office and said that their teacher didn´t show up. I didn´t know what class they were from, so I asked Ana María (the director). She said, hold on a minute, and left the office for a few minutes. When she came back, she said, ``okay, the castellano (Spanish) teacher is going to teach the Catalan class, and you are going to teach the castellano class.´´ I said, wait, wait -- what´s going on? She explained that the Catalan teacher wasn´t there, and since I don´t speak Catalan (maybe I shouldn´t have dropped my Catalan class), well, I was going to teach the other class. I said okay (I didn´t have a choice in the matter anyway) and that I guess that made sense -- when I started teaching there, it basically happened this way, and then she said, and this is how it continues! So, I went there to say hello, thinking I´d be there for a half hour or so, and I ended up teaching for about 45 minutes. After class, I went back to the office, to resume our conversation, and she started telling me about the students in one of my old classes. Only one of them is still in contact with her, and it happened to be a good student who was fun in class. She told me where she worked, and I ended up going to visit her.
The girl knew someone was going to visit her (Ana María had called her to see what her hours were), but she didn´t know who. It was a fun surprise and good to catch up with her. (It was strange seeing my former student speak perfect Spanish and even use the F-word in everyday conversation. It just makes me so proud! (I didn´t teach it to her.)) She works at a shoe store in the mall, because she doesn´t have the necessary citizenship papers to be able to work as a nurse (she has her degree). Unfortunately for her and her two colleagues, it was a beautiful day outside, so there weren´t many people in the mall. They hadn´t sold a single thing all day, so any time someone came into the shoe store, they were trying to make a sale. I ended up staying at the store for three hours, catching up with Sanaa, and there were even two customers who required the use of an English translator (i.e., me). It turns out that I´m not cut out to sell shoes -- all that effort and nothing. I asked Sanaa if she still talks to anyone from our class and she said the only one she still sees from time to time is this woman named Helena. (The ages in that class ranged from 16 to maybe mid 40s. Sanaa is 20; Helena I think was late 30s, early 40s.) Sanaa said, though, that it is always Helena who recognizes Sanaa. See, even though both of them are from Morocco, Sanaa is very liberal in her style of dress. You wouldn´t necessarily be able to guess by looking at her that she´s Moroccan. Helena, on the other hand, used to wear a hijab. Since I left, however, Helena changed her wardrobe style and now goes all out and wears a burqa. (And it isn´t a question of being recently married, because she was married when she was my student.) So, whenever they run into each other on the street, Sanaa never recognizes Helena, and it is always Helena who says to Sanaa, ``Sanaa!´´ to which Sanaa responds, ``pero, tú, ¿quién eres?´´ since Helena´s eyes are the only part of her visible to the outside world. Here are two people from the same country, albeit different generations (but that hardly matters), and Sanaa is asking Helena, ``but who are *you*?´´ Sanaa was relating the story to me like any old story, and I didn´t even start thinking about it until later, but it just goes to show that cultural diversity exists even within the same culture.
Even though I didn´t *have* to do any touristy things, I still did a few of them at a leisurely pace. I walked along La Rambla, a 1.2km-long pedestrian street that has various shops, stalls, sidewalk shows, etc. I also took a walk around La Boqueria, a market that sells fruits, meat, fish, and other things you would expect to find in that kind of market. It was just a ``no pressure´´ kind of pace, no guidebook in hand. Another day, I revisited Passeig de Gràcia, a shopping avenue with lots of Gaudí architecture, and Park Güell, one of my favorite parks ever. I also spent time catching up with some of my friends who still live in Barcelona. For instance, I went out with one of my old roommates, Paulo, who hails from Portugal, and his Portuguese girlfriend. Paulo has also studied English, so since I wanted to practice Portuguese, and he wanted to practice English, we ended up going back and forth between languages: Spanish, Portuguese, English, lather, rinse, repeat. He even said my Portuguese accent was Bahian. Hooray! (Come to think of it, I hope that was a good thing...)
So, now that I´ve checked up on my Portuguese, and after a month and a half in Spanish-speaking territory, my Spanish is doing fine, it´s time to go eat some pizza and pasta (and maybe eat some words?) and see if that can bring my Italian back.
hasta la pasta,
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Monday, April 14, 2008
Seville, Spain: The Show Must Go On...That is, if the show doesn´t wash (or wash me) away first
I left dreary Málaga on Tuesday, April 6 for rainy and windy Sevilla. I had already bought my ticket before I saw the news reports broadcasting the 80-90 km/hr winds and the equally heavy (however equal it would need to be to equal that) rains coming down on Sevilla. Normally, this would just suck. But when you have planned a trip to a city for a particular couple of days specifically because of a festival, namely the Feria de Abril (also known as the Feria de Sevilla) and it turns out to be precipitating all kinds of things, ``ferious´´ it is not. It sucks and blows, all at the same time. (You may now take a moment to ponder the logistics.)
Tuesday? Rain. Wednesday? More of the same, but fortunately it let up enough at nighttime for me to take advantage of Feria with Ángela, one of my friends from my old soccer team. (For those who are unaware, I spent five months living in Seville during my junior year in college, during which time I found and joined a soccer team. I´ve since kept in touch with a few of the girls.) I met up with Ángela and some of her friends, and she successfully introduced me to Feria (olé!). In part, Feria consists of lots of tents (called casetas), some public, but most private. In these casetas, there is music, a bar, dancing, hanging out, etc. It´s free to get in everywhere, but in order to get into the private ones, you have to know someone. Otherwise, you are relegated to the public ones. Fortunately, Ángela had friends who belonged to a private one, so after hanging out outside for awhile, we all went there and stayed there for a good portion of the night/morning. By the time we called Feria a ``morning,´´ the rain had picked up again, and, I realized how perfect it would have been to have my big Amazon boots with me for that small timeslot (go figure).
The good part about going back to cities that you have already gotten to know ``touristically´´ is that you can just do whatever you want and there´s no pressure to see anything. I walked along the pedestrian streets I liked (Sierpes, Tetuan, etc.), and walked around town in general, noting several changes. For one, lots of roads are now blocked off to traffic in favor of the recent tram system. Status of change? Goood. Another change? Lots of Starbucks. Status of change? ``Vómito.´´ (I hate Starbucks in foreign countries.) But since the weather was generally bad, I didn´t have to make do with subpar pictures of the impressive Cathedral, for instance, since I already have pictures of the Cathedral with a not-a-cloud-in-the-sky background.
Feria is a time of year when lots of sevillanos either all leave town because they don´t like the festival, or they all come back to celebrate it. It was both fortunate and unfortunate for me, because of the people I know who still live in Sevilla or its outskirts, it was about half and half. I thus tried to make the most of it and see all the people who were around. I got to see the family I lived with when I studied abroad, for example, who now live full-time in their country house. Luckily, they had come into town for Feria, so I was able to spend an afternoon with them and see some flamenco dresses up close, since my former host sisters get dressed up for Feria. I also got some free meals (ah, the life of a backpacker) at the café I used to frequent, as a few of my old friends still work there. Even when I tried to leave a tip, they wouldn´t accept it. That made my pineapple ice cream (which was served in a pineapple) even better!
Friday I hit Feria again, this time with Estrella, another soccer friend, and some people she knew. And in true Feria fashion, we didn´t go home until the morning hours. Maybe it sounds like Carnaval from the way I´m describing it, but the rhythm is different, the concentration of people is different, and really, it´s not that similar at all other than it´s one big fiesta. We met at Feria during the day, so we saw lots of families, horse-drawn carriages, and games and stuff that start to disappear by the time nighttime rolls around. Luckily, one of Estrella´s friends had gotten an invite to a caseta, so we all got to check it out. They had actually just gotten the invite earlier that day, so it was perfect timing.There were a few people I didn´t get to see this trip to Sevilla, which is too bad, but everyone is rarely in the same place at the same time, so having done the best I could in the few days I had, it was time to move on.
Saturday, April 12, I left Sevilla for Barcelona (and, of course, it was a beautiful day outside). When I got to the airport, naturally, I got to the security checkpoint, and a security guard said, ``Can you come with me?´´ Frantically, I thought, ``Uh-oh, do I have fruit? Being a newfound meat eater, did I smuggle asado? What am I in trouble for?´´ The guy took me behind a cubicle and said, ``Are you familiar with the liquid regulations?´´ I said, ``No...´´ And he proceeded to ask me where I was from. I said America, and he said, ``Oh, then this is going to be a lot easier. You know you can´t take liquids of more than 3 oz. past security.´´ And I said, ``oh, ok.´´ And then he opened my bag and pulled out this 1.5 liter bottle of Aquarius (a Gatorade-like drink that I love so dearly) that I had stowed away for safe-keeping. (Note: In South America, no one cared about bringing liquids on airplanes, so I didn´t think twice that I had bottles of liquids with me. In fact, one time in Brazil, they asked me if I had anything in my pockets, and I said, just my cell phone and a bottle of water, and they said, no, that´s fine, no big deal.) Anyway, he said, what do you want to do? (I had maybe drank three sips of the bottle already.) I said, ``Well, I´m not going to waste it...´´ And then he said, ``We see everything on the monitor here. Do you have any other liquids with you over 3 oz.?´´ And knowing full well what my inventory was, I said, ``Yes...´´ and I pulled out a 500ml bottle of water. At this point, I opened the top of my Aquarius, took a deep breath, and just started chugging. During this whole spectacle (and it was, indeed, a spectacle -- keep in mind, it was a big bottle), he asked me, ``So, where in America are you from?´´ I paused, looked at him (think, ``Are you for real?´´), and said, ``Washington,´´ and picked up where I left off. He then said that his niece or daughter or someone (I forget) lived in Virginia and that he wants to go visit but that it´s so expensive, etc. etc. At this point, I finished the Aquarius, slammed the bottle down on the table, and said, ``Just out of curiosity, do people usually do this
Thank the heavens the forecast for Barcelona has nothing to do with water!
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Málaga, Spain: Little House and the Mary
Sundays are always a good day to travel. Things are closed and there´s never anything to do anyway, so why not spend the day on the train(s)? I spent Sunday, April 6 en route from Salamanca to Málaga, with a bit of a stopover in Madrid. Apparently, the guy who issued me my ticket thought that Tuesday, May 6 would be a good day to travel from Madrid to Málaga as, in the haste of purchasing my ticket (his haste, not mine), he pushed the button for May 6 instead of April 6. Strange, considering two minutes earlier, he had issued me a ticket for April 6 from Salamanca to Madrid. The error in ticketing was only discovered when I was aboard the train en route to Málaga, and funnily enough, I was the only one who noticed it. See, in Spain, they assign you to certain seats, and so when someone came to tell me that I was sitting in her seat, I showed her my ticket (not knowing that it wasn´t for the right day) and we both saw that we had tickets for the same seat. Her boyfriend had a ticket for the seat next to her and immediately went to someone who worked on the train to ask for help (when there´s a discrepancy, go ask an adult, I guess), and in the meantime, I thought, ``hmm, this can´t be right..let´s check the date,´´ at which point, I noticed, ``holy mierda, it´s my ticket that´s wrong! They better not kick me off the train.´´ By the time the train woman came back with the boyfriend, I covered up the date and she took my ticket and said to the two confused English-speakers that it looked like they double-booked the seats again, but since it probably wasn´t going to be a full train (I asked), that we´d have to wait for the supervisor (gosh, why did that guy have to ask? Why couldn´t we just wait for it to become an issue?). In the meantime, the train departed (hooray! What were they going to do, kick me off a moving train? Well, never assume anything, I suppose...), and when the supervisor came around, he, too, said that they double-booked the seats. Then he added not to worry, that we could all stay where we were because no one was booked for those seats for the duration of the trip. Faaantastic -- crisis resolved! The weird thing about that is that before I realized the error in ticketing, my ticket passed through the hands of several ``official´´ agents -- the guy who issued me my ticket, the security agent, the woman who ripped my ticket to grant me entry onto the train platform, the train woman, and the supervisor. All these people, and no one noticed that it said 06MAY on the ticket. Had it been March, I could see that it would be easy to miss, but, uh, well, it was APR. Oh well, lucky for me.
When I arrived in Málaga, I walked the red carpet just as I left the platforms in the train station. Seriously. Apparently, it is the week of the 11th Annual Festival de Málaga -- a film festival for Spanish films that are going to come out within the next year -- and there was a red carpet laid out with movie billboards lining the walkways and whatnot. Welcome to the birthplace of Anthony Flags...I mean, Antonio Banderas. Right, we´re in Málaga, where everything sounds better in Spanish.
I soon found my way to the place I would call home for the next couple of days, and it actually did feel like home...maybe because it was my friend´s house. Remember Manolo, one of the malagueños I met in Ushuaia? He kindly offered up his one-bedroom house to me and volunteered to go live with his girlfriend for the two days I was in town. After I got settled in, Manolo, Bea (his girlfriend) and I drove to the center of town, where they showed me around a bit. We saw the Plaza de Toros (the bullring) from the outside, walked along the Paseo del Parque (one of Málaga´s only green spots), saw the Cathedral (again, from the outside), and walked along some pedestrian streets that during the day are busy with shoppers, but during the film festival were lined with camerapeople interviewing actors, regular people enjoying the good weather, etc. (The one or two actors we saw, I unfortunately didn´t recognize. So much for all those college classes of Spanish film.) We also met up with Joaquin (the famous Bingo winner from Ushuaia) and the four of us went to a café for a 7pm snack.
Monday, since my friends had to work, I took it upon myself to explore Málaga. I hopped the bus to the center of town and got out near where I had walked with Manolo and Bea on Sunday. Then, where I saw a big hill with windy walkways, I climbed it (clearly). After all, what better way to start a Monday morning than a steep climb (no stairs) in flip-flops? When I got to the top, it turned out that I made it to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, an Arab lighthouse that was built in a Phoenician castle. Walking around the grounds, I had a great view of the city made even clearer by the zoom on my camera (who said that?). Even a hang-glider wouldn´t have given me any better views than that. (And fortunately, the student discount came through for me here, too.) After I left this castle, I made my way toward the center of town, where there were some ruins of a Roman theater. One of Málaga´s most notable landmarks, the Alcazaba (which allows for closer views of the Roman theaters (but not too much closer since I stuck my camera through the fence)), was, of course, closed because it was Monday (some things are closed on Sundays; others, on Mondays. This one happened to be the only thing in Málaga that was closed on Monday.) I thus went back to the Cathedral and this time ventured inside (it was too late by the time we got there on Sunday). Not bad, but I´m not down with an entrance fee to see Mary. And then I was back meandering along the streets -- something much more to my liking. After lunch and walking the pedestrian streets a bit, the middle of the afternoon brought some heavy rains, so I hopped the bus and went back home.
At night, I hung out with Manolo and Bea again, and then Tuesday morning, it was back to the train station, with a ticket in hand for Sevilla (with the correct date -- I checked). I didn´t get to the beach in Málaga (not enough time and the weather didn´t really allow for it, anyway), but that´s ok -- I´ll get to the beach soon. In the meantime, heavy rains and winds of up to 80/90 km/hr await in Sevilla.
I hope my umbrella is strong enough!
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
When I arrived in Málaga, I walked the red carpet just as I left the platforms in the train station. Seriously. Apparently, it is the week of the 11th Annual Festival de Málaga -- a film festival for Spanish films that are going to come out within the next year -- and there was a red carpet laid out with movie billboards lining the walkways and whatnot. Welcome to the birthplace of Anthony Flags...I mean, Antonio Banderas. Right, we´re in Málaga, where everything sounds better in Spanish.
I soon found my way to the place I would call home for the next couple of days, and it actually did feel like home...maybe because it was my friend´s house. Remember Manolo, one of the malagueños I met in Ushuaia? He kindly offered up his one-bedroom house to me and volunteered to go live with his girlfriend for the two days I was in town. After I got settled in, Manolo, Bea (his girlfriend) and I drove to the center of town, where they showed me around a bit. We saw the Plaza de Toros (the bullring) from the outside, walked along the Paseo del Parque (one of Málaga´s only green spots), saw the Cathedral (again, from the outside), and walked along some pedestrian streets that during the day are busy with shoppers, but during the film festival were lined with camerapeople interviewing actors, regular people enjoying the good weather, etc. (The one or two actors we saw, I unfortunately didn´t recognize. So much for all those college classes of Spanish film.) We also met up with Joaquin (the famous Bingo winner from Ushuaia) and the four of us went to a café for a 7pm snack.
Monday, since my friends had to work, I took it upon myself to explore Málaga. I hopped the bus to the center of town and got out near where I had walked with Manolo and Bea on Sunday. Then, where I saw a big hill with windy walkways, I climbed it (clearly). After all, what better way to start a Monday morning than a steep climb (no stairs) in flip-flops? When I got to the top, it turned out that I made it to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, an Arab lighthouse that was built in a Phoenician castle. Walking around the grounds, I had a great view of the city made even clearer by the zoom on my camera (who said that?). Even a hang-glider wouldn´t have given me any better views than that. (And fortunately, the student discount came through for me here, too.) After I left this castle, I made my way toward the center of town, where there were some ruins of a Roman theater. One of Málaga´s most notable landmarks, the Alcazaba (which allows for closer views of the Roman theaters (but not too much closer since I stuck my camera through the fence)), was, of course, closed because it was Monday (some things are closed on Sundays; others, on Mondays. This one happened to be the only thing in Málaga that was closed on Monday.) I thus went back to the Cathedral and this time ventured inside (it was too late by the time we got there on Sunday). Not bad, but I´m not down with an entrance fee to see Mary. And then I was back meandering along the streets -- something much more to my liking. After lunch and walking the pedestrian streets a bit, the middle of the afternoon brought some heavy rains, so I hopped the bus and went back home.
At night, I hung out with Manolo and Bea again, and then Tuesday morning, it was back to the train station, with a ticket in hand for Sevilla (with the correct date -- I checked). I didn´t get to the beach in Málaga (not enough time and the weather didn´t really allow for it, anyway), but that´s ok -- I´ll get to the beach soon. In the meantime, heavy rains and winds of up to 80/90 km/hr await in Sevilla.
I hope my umbrella is strong enough!
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Salamanca, Spain: It´s all a study of people, now let me in for free!
When I arrived in Salamanca on April 4, I was greeted by a taxi driver who not only gave me a good map of town, but also dropped me off at my hotel by driving down a pedestrian street. (``There aren´t *that* many people,´´ he said.) Salamanca was looking good.
My first stop after settling into the hotel was lunch in Plaza Mayor , considered one of the most beautiful plazas in Spain. It´s pretty picturesque, I´ll give it that. Not only that, but the people-watching is prime there. After I finished lunch (about 4pm), I decided to set out and start my tour of the city. My meandering first took me to Plazuela de las Úrsulas, a little plaza with a statue of Miguel de Unamuno, a Spanish literary guy who worked in a whole bunch of genres. The streets in this area are small and windy, so I wandered a bit before I hit the next ``major´´ destination (these little spots hardly seem to qualify as major since they are so quaint, but whatever): Casa de las Conchas (House of Shells). Although the building now serves as a public library, like everything else in Spain there is, indeed, much more history entrenched in it. Way back when, somewhere in the 15th century, the owner of the house created the house either to honor the famous pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela (pilgrims traditionally wore shells along their journey) or to honor his wife, whose family shield was decorated with scallops. (There are many sandstone shells attached to the front of the building.) The inside of the building wasn´t so interesting, as it´s just a library now.
Across from the Casa de las Conchas is La Clerecía, also called La Universidad Pontificia. This building (founded in 1611) is unaffiliated with the real University of Salamanca (established in 1218), and since you couldn´t explore it on your own, I decided to forego the tour and be content with my imagination, stemming from the pictures I got from the outside.
Next up? The Catedral Nueva . I figured, since it took 220 years to build the darn thing (1513-1733), I might as well take a few minutes to check it out. It was pretty impressive (both from the outside and the inside), and in the Capilla del Santisimo Sacramento inside the cathedral, there was a martyr´s chopped off hand/arm in glass casing. Kind of neat, in a weird way. Not the kind of thing *I* would put in a glass casing, but once I realized what it was, I will admit, I did think, ``ew....neat.´´
I didn´t think it was necessary to pay an entrance fee to see the Catedral Vieja after that (the newer cathedral was free), so I left the cathedral area and continued on my way, eventually ending up at the Puente Romano, a 2000-year-old Roman bridge that was used frequently during the Roman occupation of Spain. One side of the bridge is marked by a headless granite bull called the Toro Ibérico (not very photogenic), who apparently became famous in the 16th century picaresque novel Lazarillo de Tormes.
After walking across the bridge and back, I went in search of the Universidad de Salamanca. My taxi driver told me that the city would be dead if it weren´t for the university students, as that is who makes up the population of Salamanca. Now that I have personal experience in the city, it seems to me that the city is made up of, as he said, the students, and another group of people: those who were around when the university was established (1218). And maybe a few age groups in between. When I did my personal tour of the university, I found that many of the rooms are named after scholars -- Fray Luis de León, Miguel de Unamuno, etc. I also went into the library, but you can´t go in too far because the doorway is encased in glass or something. Still, you could see the layout of one of Europe´s oldest libraries, and I found out (from a woman who was giving a private tour to this other girl) that there is this big door in the library (she pointed out which one) behind which there is a big vault with rare copies of books, and that door is only opened when famous people or ``somebodies´´ want to see what´s behind the door. I bet it´s the Spanish copies of Harry Potter.
When I left the university, I ended up going to a museum by accident because I thought that´s where this one fresco was that I wanted to see. It was the Museum of Salamanca. As the conversations usually go, I went in and said, ``Student.´´ They said, ``Are you studying in Salamanca?´´ I said, ``Yes, now I am.´´ (The parenthetical comment in my head was, ``Well, I am studying the people, the food, the rhythm, etc.´´) So he asked for my student ID, which I promptly handed over and free entry, there I go! Too bad for me, though, the fresco wasn´t there. S´ok, though, because I just whooshed through the museum and I was out just like that...and no guilt in not staying longer because, hey -- it was free! I then turned the corner and found the Museo de la Universidad, the real museum where the Cielo de Salamanca (said fresco) is housed (and that was free entry anyway). The (reconstructed) Cielo de Salamanca was a 15th century fresco painted on the ceiling by Fernando Gallego. I walked around some more of the sidestreets around Plaza Mayor before calling it a day on the touring front.
Saturday, I decided to take a different approach to checking out Salamanca. I thought that since I already did what I wanted to do in terms of ``touring´´ the city, I was going to pick a sidestreet leading out of Plaza Mayor (there are many) that I hadn´t gone on yet and just see where I ended up. So, after not much thought, I selected my sidestreet and followed it until the walk-sign said walk, so I walked. Then there was a light, so I turned...etc. etc. etc., and what do you know? I ended up at a pedestrian street (read: shopping street)! This was horrible news because I am in the land of the €euro€ but great news because I successfully navigated my way to pedestrian streets (which I so dearly love) without a map or asking anyone when I had no set destination in mind. And besides, since I had no agenda, it was a good surprise to arrive somewhere where there were lots of things to do, even if it was just looking (and most of it was). I followed that street to the end, where, strangely enough, I ended up at Plaza Mayor, on a different street from the one I started on. I guess, when in Salamanca, all roads lead to Plaza Mayor.
Since it was another one of those days (but not one of ``those´´ days) where there was not a cloud in the sky, I picked up lunch and sat outside in Plaza Mayor, people-watching, as there was no better activity to do at that hour. Where else could you see a group of guys walk by where one was dressed in a bull costume and they all staged a bullfight? Or perhaps you were in the mood to see a group of guys walk by, one clad in a small red dress, high heels and clutching a red handbag. Nope, this is prime-time entertainment. Price? Nothing. Exchange rate? Doesn´t matter.
After walking around town a little bit more, I ended up deciding that Plaza Mayor was just the place to be, so I found my way back there (not a difficult task) and stayed there the better part of the afternoon/evening, accomplishing many things: people-watching, siesta-ing (it´s true -- and it was incredibly comfortable), eating, sitting, etc. Sometimes the best way to get to know a place is to not go anywhere at all.
Tomorrow, I leave Castilla y León, the province within which lies Salamanca, and head for Andalucía, specifically for the city of Málaga. It´s been a long time since I´ve been near the beach, so I figured it was time to change that!
Slowly but surely (yeahyeah, ``don´t call me Shirley´´), beach-weather is coming back. Brazil? Brazil weather, are you here?
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
My first stop after settling into the hotel was lunch in Plaza Mayor , considered one of the most beautiful plazas in Spain. It´s pretty picturesque, I´ll give it that. Not only that, but the people-watching is prime there. After I finished lunch (about 4pm), I decided to set out and start my tour of the city. My meandering first took me to Plazuela de las Úrsulas, a little plaza with a statue of Miguel de Unamuno, a Spanish literary guy who worked in a whole bunch of genres. The streets in this area are small and windy, so I wandered a bit before I hit the next ``major´´ destination (these little spots hardly seem to qualify as major since they are so quaint, but whatever): Casa de las Conchas (House of Shells). Although the building now serves as a public library, like everything else in Spain there is, indeed, much more history entrenched in it. Way back when, somewhere in the 15th century, the owner of the house created the house either to honor the famous pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela (pilgrims traditionally wore shells along their journey) or to honor his wife, whose family shield was decorated with scallops. (There are many sandstone shells attached to the front of the building.) The inside of the building wasn´t so interesting, as it´s just a library now.
Across from the Casa de las Conchas is La Clerecía, also called La Universidad Pontificia. This building (founded in 1611) is unaffiliated with the real University of Salamanca (established in 1218), and since you couldn´t explore it on your own, I decided to forego the tour and be content with my imagination, stemming from the pictures I got from the outside.
Next up? The Catedral Nueva . I figured, since it took 220 years to build the darn thing (1513-1733), I might as well take a few minutes to check it out. It was pretty impressive (both from the outside and the inside), and in the Capilla del Santisimo Sacramento inside the cathedral, there was a martyr´s chopped off hand/arm in glass casing. Kind of neat, in a weird way. Not the kind of thing *I* would put in a glass casing, but once I realized what it was, I will admit, I did think, ``ew....neat.´´
I didn´t think it was necessary to pay an entrance fee to see the Catedral Vieja after that (the newer cathedral was free), so I left the cathedral area and continued on my way, eventually ending up at the Puente Romano, a 2000-year-old Roman bridge that was used frequently during the Roman occupation of Spain. One side of the bridge is marked by a headless granite bull called the Toro Ibérico (not very photogenic), who apparently became famous in the 16th century picaresque novel Lazarillo de Tormes.
After walking across the bridge and back, I went in search of the Universidad de Salamanca. My taxi driver told me that the city would be dead if it weren´t for the university students, as that is who makes up the population of Salamanca. Now that I have personal experience in the city, it seems to me that the city is made up of, as he said, the students, and another group of people: those who were around when the university was established (1218). And maybe a few age groups in between. When I did my personal tour of the university, I found that many of the rooms are named after scholars -- Fray Luis de León, Miguel de Unamuno, etc. I also went into the library, but you can´t go in too far because the doorway is encased in glass or something. Still, you could see the layout of one of Europe´s oldest libraries, and I found out (from a woman who was giving a private tour to this other girl) that there is this big door in the library (she pointed out which one) behind which there is a big vault with rare copies of books, and that door is only opened when famous people or ``somebodies´´ want to see what´s behind the door. I bet it´s the Spanish copies of Harry Potter.
When I left the university, I ended up going to a museum by accident because I thought that´s where this one fresco was that I wanted to see. It was the Museum of Salamanca. As the conversations usually go, I went in and said, ``Student.´´ They said, ``Are you studying in Salamanca?´´ I said, ``Yes, now I am.´´ (The parenthetical comment in my head was, ``Well, I am studying the people, the food, the rhythm, etc.´´) So he asked for my student ID, which I promptly handed over
Saturday, I decided to take a different approach to checking out Salamanca. I thought that since I already did what I wanted to do in terms of ``touring´´ the city, I was going to pick a sidestreet leading out of Plaza Mayor (there are many) that I hadn´t gone on yet and just see where I ended up. So, after not much thought, I selected my sidestreet and followed it until the walk-sign said walk, so I walked. Then there was a light, so I turned...etc. etc. etc., and what do you know? I ended up at a pedestrian street (read: shopping street)! This was horrible news because I am in the land of the €euro€ but great news because I successfully navigated my way to pedestrian streets (which I so dearly love) without a map or asking anyone when I had no set destination in mind. And besides, since I had no agenda, it was a good surprise to arrive somewhere where there were lots of things to do, even if it was just looking (and most of it was). I followed that street to the end, where, strangely enough, I ended up at Plaza Mayor, on a different street from the one I started on. I guess, when in Salamanca, all roads lead to Plaza Mayor.
Since it was another one of those days (but not one of ``those´´ days) where there was not a cloud in the sky, I picked up lunch and sat outside in Plaza Mayor, people-watching, as there was no better activity to do at that hour. Where else could you see a group of guys walk by where one was dressed in a bull costume and they all staged a bullfight? Or perhaps you were in the mood to see a group of guys walk by, one clad in a small red dress, high heels and clutching a red handbag. Nope, this is prime-time entertainment. Price? Nothing. Exchange rate? Doesn´t matter.
After walking around town a little bit more, I ended up deciding that Plaza Mayor was just the place to be, so I found my way back there (not a difficult task) and stayed there the better part of the afternoon/evening, accomplishing many things: people-watching, siesta-ing (it´s true -- and it was incredibly comfortable), eating, sitting, etc. Sometimes the best way to get to know a place is to not go anywhere at all.
Tomorrow, I leave Castilla y León, the province within which lies Salamanca, and head for Andalucía, specifically for the city of Málaga. It´s been a long time since I´ve been near the beach, so I figured it was time to change that!
Slowly but surely (yeahyeah, ``don´t call me Shirley´´), beach-weather is coming back. Brazil? Brazil weather, are you here?
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Madrid, Spain: ole?
The flight from Argentina was supposed to leave 28 hours after its scheduled departure. Nearly 30 hours later it finally took off. Fortunately, I had a bulkhead seat with no one next to me, and I was able to sleep for 7+ hours of the 11+ hours of the flight (this after my half hour nap in the airport). All these time changes and season changes make me unable to tell time anymore. I finally arrived in Madrid one and a half days late, still on April 1. It felt like my luggage was going to arrive on April 2, because, well, someone's luggage has to be near the end of the baggage claim belt, but fortunately, everything worked out. No more Aerolineas! (That is, unless I earned enough frequent flier kilometers to get a free flight somewhere...)
Since I have been to Madrid before, I didn't feel the need to play tourist and do any excursions, leaving really early in the day and getting back around dinnertime or later. So, I was able to take advantage of the little(r) time I had to see the friends I have in Madrid and take it easy. I stayed with my friend Rachel, whom I met several years ago in Sevilla when we both studied abroad there, and though she had to work during the day, we are good at catching up in short time spans, as that is what we have been doing for years. I also hung out with Maria, another of my friends I know from Sevilla who now lives in Madrid (she is from a town called Zafra, in a province called Extremadura). Last time I came to Madrid, she wasn't in town, so it was the first time I'd seen her in four and a half years. Also hung out with some of Rach's friends, including Carlos (a Spanish friend of hers whom I have met on a few occasions), Estrella (her Spanish roommate) and a couple of her friends, and Gerard (an American friend of hers who has spent time living in Paris and who recently met his Spanish half-sister for the first time). (We actually stopped by to pick something up from the half-sister, a flamenco teacher who danced with Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate ; she was giving a class when we stopped by, so we watched for a few minutes and then walked away feeling a little less confident in our flamenco know-how.)
All in all, a pretty low-key couple of days in Madrid. I'm glad to be back in the swing of civilization and away from Aerolineas, but I do miss the Bahian pace of life.
Tomorrow, I'm going to check out Salamanca, which is a new place for me. We'll see how it works out.
ole?
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com/
Since I have been to Madrid before, I didn't feel the need to play tourist and do any excursions, leaving really early in the day and getting back around dinnertime or later. So, I was able to take advantage of the little(r) time I had to see the friends I have in Madrid and take it easy. I stayed with my friend Rachel, whom I met several years ago in Sevilla when we both studied abroad there, and though she had to work during the day, we are good at catching up in short time spans, as that is what we have been doing for years. I also hung out with Maria, another of my friends I know from Sevilla who now lives in Madrid (she is from a town called Zafra, in a province called Extremadura). Last time I came to Madrid, she wasn't in town, so it was the first time I'd seen her in four and a half years. Also hung out with some of Rach's friends, including Carlos (a Spanish friend of hers whom I have met on a few occasions), Estrella (her Spanish roommate) and a couple of her friends, and Gerard (an American friend of hers who has spent time living in Paris and who recently met his Spanish half-sister for the first time). (We actually stopped by to pick something up from the half-sister, a flamenco teacher who danced with Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate ; she was giving a class when we stopped by, so we watched for a few minutes and then walked away feeling a little less confident in our flamenco know-how.)
All in all, a pretty low-key couple of days in Madrid. I'm glad to be back in the swing of civilization and away from Aerolineas, but I do miss the Bahian pace of life.
Tomorrow, I'm going to check out Salamanca, which is a new place for me. We'll see how it works out.
ole?
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com/
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