A few observations

1) Small Spanish children, in addition to all being incredibly cute, seem much more eloquent than their same-aged US counterparts. I considered that it might be my own bias from Spanish being harder for me than English, but decided that it was a real phenomenon. My hypothesis so far is that Spanish parents use much less baby-talk than we do (while still being very affectionate).

2) I've heard a fair number of people in the program talk excitedly about how much better their Spanish is going to get this year--all in English. In fact, few of us speak Spanish outside of the classroom. While it's likely that once we get to our actual cities of study, the amount of Spanish spoken will go up, I'm still left wondering: do they think it will happen by osmosis? We're here NOW. Like, this is Spain, this is the place where you wanted to come to practice your Spanish. (But Sonia, you speak English too, what gives?) My excuse is that I'm already confident in my Spanish. While it's not perfect, I can say whatever I want, whenever I want, to anyone I want, and once I'm not surrounded by other Americans, I'll be comfortable falling into a Spanish-speaking routine.

3) In this program, we have a wide range of Spanish-speaking levels, from those who can barely string a few words together to a couple native speakers who are more comfortable with Spanish than English. When I hear some of the people speaking Spanish or see their level of comprehension, I wonder how they'll survive. Spanish university is still real university: professors talk quickly, papers are graded stringently. As they said in the orientation, they're not going to be sympathetic that you're a charismatic Californian who doesn't speak the language very well. Imagining myself at that level and being asked to do university-level work sounds absolutely horrifying, and I can't help but wonder why some people made this choice. Of course, this is compounded by observation 2, as many of the weakest speakers are the shyest about their speech. That said, I wish them the best of luck and hope that I'm merely being cynical. This has to happen every year, and I'm sure almost everyone does decently.

4) I've now had two dreams in Spanish :)

5) To my ear, the most distinct aspects of the Andalusian accent are the pronunciation of "ch" as "sh" and the elimination of the final consonant. So, "Hay muchos pasteles" would be "Hay musho pasteleh." (Or maybe "pahteleh." I can't figure out the internal S right now.) I find the "sh" sneaking its way into my own diction, although I've only had one instance of the Spain-wide lisp.

continent-hopping, beach towns, camels

aka, the long, crazy story of last weekend.

Our excursion on Friday was to Tarifa, the city at the southernmost point of Spain, and the ruins of Baelo Claudia, an ancient Roman city. Tarifa was a fantastic town. As a surfing hotspot, the main street was remarkably reminiscent of Santa Cruz or Santa Barbara, but combined with the interspersed historic buildings and narrow, alley-like streets that create the magic of classic European cities. During the day, it was pleasant and sleepy, but when we returned in the evening, it transformed. The streets were filled with good-humored people going to tapa and cocktail bars, restaurants, musicians…just delightful. We had a couple of drinks, but as three other guys and I had quite the plan for the next day, we had to turn in.

Backing up: after visiting Tarifa during the day, the “cultural excursion” (ok, field trip) continued to the ruins, which were fantastic, then to the beach alongside. Three guys had booked a hostel in Tarifa with plans to go to Morocco the next day. For no particular reason, I had brought my passport with me, and spur of the moment, I decided I wanted to go too. I got the go-ahead to crash on their floor for the night, and just like that, I was about to check another continent off my list.

We got to the port at 9 in the morning, bought a ticket package that included the ferry ride, a tour, and lunch, got our passports stamped and got on the ferry. At the port in Tangier, we met up with our 8-person group, and Ahmed, our tour guide.

“Ah, San Francisco, do you know the beat poets?” Ahmed asked excitedly upon finding out where I was from.

“Yeah, I do,” I answered.

“You don’t know who they are,” he said, apparently under the impression that I was trying to appease his madness.

“Really, I do!”

“Who are they?”

“Allen Ginsberg, uh, Jack Kerouac…” I trailed off, trying to remember others.

Ahmed was very excited. “And William Burroughs! All of them came to Morocco in the 1950s, I spent a lot of time with them,” he told us in his curious accent that had at least French, Arabic, and British influences. I was awed.

“And on our right, you are about to see where we’ll eat lunch,” Ahmed said excitedly as we began the first part of the tour: a drive through the newer part of Tangier. As we turned a corner, none other than the Golden Arches came into view. “Burgers! Fries! Eh?” We all looked at one another with raised eyebrows and feigned enthusiasm. “I’m kidding,” Ahmed continued. “We’ll eat traditional Moroccan food.” What a joker.

“One euro to ride them, free to take pictures,” we were told, as we made our first stop. We pulled over on the side of the road where an elderly Moroccan man was leading two camels down a stretch of dirt, each with an excited tourist perched on top. Daniel was the first one of our group to ride the camels, and he had a lovely trek down and back along the path. With some trepidation, I stepped up to ride next, alongside Ari, another one of our group. As Ari tried to get on, the camel jerked sideways and Ari quickly stepped off. “Glad I have this one,” I thought. Yet we successfully mounted the kneeling camels, grabbed onto the handles, and were off. I’d ridden a horse before and been fine, but stirrups make an incredible difference. This was scary as hell. I squeezed the camel with all my inner-thigh strength and made it to the end of the stretch. The elderly man turned the camels around and we were headed back. However, I’d spoken too soon about choosing the right camel. In the middle of the path, the camel kneeled down and rolled over on its side with a thud, crushing my foot and pinning my leg underneath its body. I screamed out of pain and fear. I don’t remember it being more than a few seconds, but apparently it was about a whole minute of yelling and camel-pinning before the man got the camel standing again. I clutched my toes, convinced they were broken. The van driver jumped out with some cream that he rubbed on the scrapes on my ankle and knee and wiggled all my toes, which was excruciating, not to mention idiotic. “Nothing’s broken,” he said. I wasn’t convinced, but as the adrenaline wore off, I realized that the pain was tolerable and calmed down.

I hobbled back to the van, realizing that if I walked on the inside of my foot and didn’t put any pressure on or bend my last three toes, I could stay mobile. At our next stop in front of the market, we stopped in a pharmacy and Ahmed procured ibuprofen and Tylenol with codeine to ease the pain and swelling. All three of the guys told me emphatically that if I wanted to go back then or at any point during the day, it would be no problem. As I could move my body in a forward direction, albeit slowly, without putting my foot in additional pain, I decided to continue.

Our next stop was the market. Besides freshness, a major difference between European markets with vendors occupying individual stalls and conventional grocery stores is that meat vendors tend to be less euphemistic. The first time I saw entire plucked chickens on a meat counter in Florence, I was fascinated and disgusted and took loads of pictures. That was tame compared to the Moroccan market. One vendor was enthusiastically hacking at a camel’s head, while a pile of fur-covered, freshly chopped legs lay in an inelegant pile in the corner. Another displayed a row of glassy-eyed goat heads. Yet the mountains of exotic-smelling spices, fresh fruits and vegetables, and gigantic bins of glistening olives presented a far more appetizing scene. The fish market was a huge, chaotic room packed with fish and seafood of all shapes, sizes, and colors, so fresh that the smell wasn’t bothersome.

After the market, we walked through the Medina, the old part of the city, which was similar to the historic district of any European city: sleepy, narrow, labyrinthine streets lined with tall buildings coated by crumbling layers of white paint, a few scattered stores, and the occasional Moroccan man or pair of hijab-sporting women. We walked until we reached the restaurant for lunch, which was an elegant building covered with brightly painted tile mosaics on the inside and outside. Lunch, which was included in the tour, consisted of fresh-baked bread, a tomato-based vegetable soup, beef kebabs with spicy sauce, and couscous topped with an incredible chicken-vegetable curry. For desert, we had tea cookies and sweetened whole-leaf mint tea. Although this meal would have been wonderful at any point, it was particularly appreciated after a couple weeks of the repetitive, plain Spanish food at the residencia.

 “It’s siesta time! Of course, we have siesta here too!” Ahmed announced as he led us through the hallways of a nearby building until we reached a room filled with brightly colored rugs. We all sat on benches around the edge as two men began unrolling carpets until they had covered the majority of the empty cement room with the tapestries. Meanwhile, they gave us a brief talk, informing us that their carpets were hand-sewn, dyed with all-natural dyes, were lovely on the floor or on the wall, and came in different colors. We all braced ourselves for the sales pitch, but after a few minutes of talking, the man concluded with: “Thank you for listening to my presentation. You may look around now.” Indeed, the strange situation, the absence of a sales pitch, and the abrupt awkwardness of the ending left us looking around at one another confused and amused. Yet we walked around examining the rugs, whose intricate patterns were truly beautiful. When I have 1100 euros to spend on a carpet, I know where I’m traveling.

The next stop was at “an authentic Berber pharmacy.” We walked inside and jars of spices, bags filled with plants and jars of creams lined every wall, yet the presence of another tour group getting a presentation led us to question the authenticity of that particular pharmacy. Our presenter described an assortment of their products including cooking spices, perfumes, essential oils, makeup, and healing ointments. Whenever he presented a new cream or perfume, he dabbed some on each of our hands so that by the end, the three guys and I all smelled of a delightful combination of roses, vanilla, menthol, musk, orange blossom, and others.

“Ok, now the buying,” he told us, and put a plastic bag in each of our hands. “Who wants a bag of garam masala? 2 euros. Very good for fish. Ok, no one? Three, two, one, ok.” He put it down. “Who wants this arnica cream? Very good for muscle pain. Ok, no one? Three, two, one, ok.” And on he continued, running through the entire list of products once more. One woman bought chapstick.

Before I describe the last stop at a jewelry store, I should explain the street vendors. They’re not like street vendors anywhere else I’ve visited. They follow you down the streets, shoving their jewelry/drums/toy camels/wallets/geodes in your face, haggling with you even as you repeatedly and emphatically inform them that you’re not at all interested. “Very good deal. 5 euro. 4 euro. 2 for 5. 2 euro. Ok, what price do you need to buy it?” (“None. I have one wallet. I don’t want two.” And what the hell am I going to do with a toy camel?) Luckily, if you ignore them, they’ll usually go away. While annoying, it’s not unsafe.

Now, back to the jewelry store. I wasn’t too interested: the style of jewelry over there is a bit heavy for my tastes; besides, this was all really expensive. The shopkeeper saw Ari pick up and examine a necklace and went to talk to him. “Very nice, very nice. This is 120 euro,” he told Ari, who quickly put the necklace down. The shopkeeper began to bargain with Ari. After some time, during which Ari tried to explain very politely that he’s a damn college student and isn’t going to spend 120 euro on a dumb necklace with a rock in it on a whim (highly editorialized), our tour guide came over and said something to the shopkeeper in Arabic. (I got the impression that the stores we visited on our tours weren’t supposed to pressure us into buying anything.) The man backed off, but returned soon enough, asking Ari for an offer. I was frustrated on Ari’s behalf. “Three euro,” I said from off to the side. The shopkeeper turned to look at me.

“How’s your foot?” he asked.

“Uh, it’s ok,” I answered, puzzled.

“It won’t be ok if you keep saying things like three euro. This is real silver and gemstones,” he said angrily.

“Man, I was just joking, it’s obvious that he’s not gonna buy it, so I was saying maybe if it was 3 euro he would…” I said, trying to explain myself. They take their bargaining seriously over there. Another street vendor got offended when Reid (our third UC-er) spoke to him in Spanish. “Do you speak to your mother and father in Spanish? Come on, talk to me in English, in your mother tongue,” he told him. I consider pressuring someone to buy your product for a good ten minutes a lot ruder than making a joke out about that situation (much less speaking Spanish) but hey, that’s the culture. If I want, I can leave.

Which I did, a short while later, just after hearing the Call to Prayer broadcasted on speakers installed throughout the city. When we made it back to the shore of Tarifa, we all shared a similar, interesting sensation of homecoming. Seeing signs in Spanish and hearing families speak the language on the street were very comforting: although we’ve only been there for two weeks, it’s starting to become the norm. Despite my camel-flattened foot, I returned to Cadiz feeling more balanced and grounded than I have since arriving.

FOOD

Well, now I know at least one person reads this (hi, love you tons, see you in Madrid ((guess who?) ((((definitely not Joel))) so I guess I should keep posting. No, actually, I'm slowly working on a long entry about my adventures last weekend, and I don't want to summarize anything.

For now, I’ve essentially captured my daily routine (class, beach, argue with hobos) so I can focus blog entries on slightly more interesting stuff. Of course, I have to start with food. They feed us during the week at the residencia, so I don’t buy a lot of food, but here goes: my favorite food-related finds.

First, things whose price makes me very happy:

1.     Jamon Serrano/Iberico, aka prosciutto. Unlike in the states, prices by weight are comparable to any other deli-sliced sandwich meat. Score.

2.     Said prosciutto wrapped around fresh mozzarella.

3.     Olives.

4.     Delicious fresh fruit at markets. Best peaches I’ve ever had.

5.     2-liter cartons of real fruit juice in boxes with no added sugar.

Other awesome eats and drinks:

1.     Los Cien Montaditos, a sandwich place on the corner of our block that has huge 1 euro beers and 1 euro mini-sandwiches--100 combinations, as the name suggests, ranging from cream cheese+shrimp+eel to hot dog to taco.

2.     Gummy stores on every block. They’re like the Starbucks of this city.

3.     Mojito sorbet at the supposed best heladeria in Cadiz.

6.     A real strawberry mojito! Legal drinking for the win.

7.     Una clara (or radler, or shandy): beer mixed with lemonade.

8.     Sangria, but duh.

(Does this list make my ass look fat?)

As for food I miss, there’s really only one: spice. No spice for the Spanish. Fortunately, I was aware of the situation and brought along a small bottle of Dave’s, a hot sauce made with capsaicin extract, potent enough for a single drop to spice up an entire bowl of food. EDIT: Since the time of writing, I foolishly left said hot sauce on the windowsill. It transitioned from tasty condiment to incubator, and now I truly lack capsaicin :(

classes, castles, sherry, crazy people

Wednesday evening, we had a flamenco class. It wasn't as fun as I'd imagined. While fun to watch, flamenco is a traditional dance with certain steps, so classes are all about learning the proper steps and hand motions rather than being able to get creative and dance fluidly.

On Thursday, we had our first day of classes. The first two hours are language and the second two are culture (more like history). I underestimated how draining it would be to take 4 hours of classes with a half hour break in between. Luckily the profs are both pretty cool. The first class was mostly introductions, but in language, we started asking assorted questions and ended up getting a bit of Spanish Politics 101. There are two parties, the PP (Partido Popular, right-wing) and the PSOE (Partido Socialista Obrera Espan~ol, socialist/left wing). Right now the PSOE is in control, but they're being blamed for the current economic crisis. As a sidenote, the king is a figurehead who pisses a lot of people off because even in the midst of economic crisis, taxes pay for things like his yachts and his family's clothes. He has the power to step in when he wants to and has made a few important political decisions, such as the relegalization of all the political parties after dictator Francisco Franco's death in 1975. So he is heralded as having brought democracy back to Spain.

After class, I spent the siesta on the beach. While the water isn't tropically warm, it's a very pleasant temperature. That evening, we went to play beach soccer (that is I sat and watched) and took a second dip in the ocean. Life's hard, right? ;)

On Fridays we have cultural field trips, and yesterday's was to an Islamic castle in the nearby city of Jerez. A history professor from the University of Cordoba came with us and taught us a bit about its history. Afterward, we went to the neighboring bodega de jerez, or sherry winery. So sherry is named after the city, where the liquor originated. After some more beach time came Harry Potter en espan~ol! Apparently in the bigger cities, you can find movies dubbed or subbed, but in the small towns, all you get are dubs. It was surprisingly not that distracting: it was funny at first and I cracked up with every pronunciation of Snape as "e-snayp-e," but the voice actors were all well matched to the originals. After that, I went out for my first real Spanish party night, first to the bars, then to a smaller club-bar. It was tons of fun, but I don't think I'll be doing that very often, even with the siesta. Didn't feel so hot today.

When I finally went out today, I ran into my friend Jen at the cathedral talking with her intercambio, a Spanish woman around 30. I began to talk to both of them and shortly after that a hobo came up to us and started yelling at Jen in both Spanish and English to go back to Japan and asked why her people made bombs and did nothing but obsess over technology (She's Korean, as it happens.) I got incredibly mad on Jen's behalf and told the woman to fuck off. After a while, after ripping on gays and lesbians, then asking why Clint Eastwood, president of California, doesn't like gays and lesbians, she finally went away for a bit. (And much more, all just as absurd.) Jen's intercambio got kind of annoyed with me for saying anything to her, and told me that you shouldn't argue with crazy people and that I shouldn't have said anything. She was absolutely right. Alas, my emotions got the best of me.

On a random note, it gets dark at like 10 here. It's 9 now and completely light. Pretty great.

first couple days

Today, after our placement test for the language program, we had an intercambio (exchange) with Spanish students who'd studied English. A group of us had a great conversation with a couple of the students, and we exchanged contact information so that we'll be able to go out together soon. Prosciutto is amazing. Sherry, not so much.

While most everyone else has been to the bars either once or twice, I've just been too jetlagged and tired to feel like drinking. Yeah, yeah, I'm lame. Problem is that Spaniards go out around midnight at the earliest, then stay out 'till the wee hours of the morning. I can't handle that alongside anything remotely important to do. Maybe that will change once I'm used to sleeping a few hours at night and a few hours during siesta. So last night, the group who was too tired for bars-part-2 and I went to a casual cafe-bar, had a glass of wine, and ended up having a sweet bonding session including inappropriate conversations, being spat at by bottomless 12-year-old girls on a balcony while attempting to give a drunk Moroccan man directions in French to somewhere we couldn't decipher, and silly games like 10 fingers. Given the results of that game, I apparently need 'da boss' (alternatively 'la jefa') tattooed on my knuckles. So, uh, don't mess. And maybe if it's henna.

I posted a couple of pictures of the city on Facebook. Adding pictures one at a time here is not worth it so I'll just keep posting them there.

that was ridiculous

but I'm here. And I've eaten and slept. I'd say I lost my bag, but that makes it sound like another case of Sonia absentmindedness and it wasn't. (Backpack crammed into the back of a luggage compartment of a crowded bus. Couldn't fit big bag, couldn't get backpack out, had to ask a girl on the bus to grab it for me at the train station until I took next bus. She couldn't find it, bus left.) But after some intense sleuthing (including waiting 2 hours for siesta to be over so the information counter would re-open) I was happily reunited with my bag. Crisis averted.

Cadiz is a beach town on the southwest coast of Spain.

From the peak that juts down to Morocco, look up and left along the coast. It's the oldest city in Western Europe and what I've seen so far is unreasonably beautiful.

The University of Cadiz is the site for the first month of my program. It's a self-selecting language program just for all us UC students whose Spanish no es very bueno and who have to write bueno-er essays to be graded by Spanish profs in not too long. I actually thought I had to enroll because of my class level in Spanish. Turns out that wasn't true but now I get to bum around in a beach town for a while, and practice never hurts.

ready, steady...

Wake up, wake up, wake up, it's the first of the month...of JULY! 10 days. Pack, clean, plan. Stress. Freak out. Take a deep breath and promise myself I'll be zen throughout this big transition.