Tell Me Cuando

Late-Night Lockout

2006-07-08T22:23:28Z

After trying to get home for two hours after the San Juan festivities on Friday night (the city of Alicante owns about 5 taxis), I approach the door of my apartment in exhausted relief. As I turn the lock, I hear the dog, Luna, go crazy as she always does when anyone enters the house. Terrified that my late night return is going to wake the family, I quickly shut and latch the door behind me, and run to quiet Luna. I hear heavy rhythmic breathing in the living room, where my host brothers have been sleeping on the couch lately, and figure that they haven’t been disturbed by a couple yelps. Yay, I think, and mentally pat myself on the back for good, quick damage control.

What happens afterwards proves that all is back in balance in my world, and that I DO NOT deserve any back-patting.

After stumbling through the darkness to my room and collapsing onto my bed (at last!), I hear the dog bark again...and again...continuously for about ten minutes. The phone rings incessantly (and the doorbell, too, I later learn). It is as if the house has come to life with the world’s most annoying sounds. I lay in bed, fists clenched, cursing my luck.

Zoya’s thought process at 4am:
-Why is the stupid dog barking?
Nightmare.
-Isn’t the family bothered?
Maybe they let her bark them off. Sort of like facing her fears, you know.
-Who calls anyone at 4 in the morning?
Nocturnal Spaniards.
-Is it possible that nobody but me is home?
Shut up and quit asking logical questions...neeeeeeed sleeeeeeeeep.

I don’t remember how long I lay there before passing out, but the following morning, Kelly (my roommate who apparently wasn’t sleeping in the bed next to mine) wakes me up and mentions that she spent the night with the family IN THEIR CAR because I had latched them out of their house. They had gone to the esplanade to enjoy the festivities where she had run into them.

They tried calling (I never answer the phone for fear that a native Spanish speaker is on the other line), and buzzing (I thought it was the phone) and ended up at the house of Luis’s mother, my host-granny, but ran out of there because she had a gentleman caller. So they slept in their tiny European car, where Luis Sr. and Jr. snored the night away.
"The windows were all steamed up by morning; I could barely breathe," Kelly said.
At around 8am, Luis borrowed a ladder from the landlord and the family broke into their own second-floor home from the living room window.

Looking back, there were so many signals, so many opportunities to fight my innate stupidity. But this is what I do, and the events of last night are a strange comfort that all is again right with the world. I messed up big time--give me a few more weeks and I’ll shock and awe again.

Everyone took a long siesta yesterday afternoon--even Corin, my mama, who is wonder woman and I swear, never sleeps. Last night, I was out watching the bonfires with Kelly and her boyfriend Anthony, when he turned to her and asked:

Has your family Zoya-proofed the door for tonight?

Late-Night Lockout remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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El Monte de Mierda

2006-07-08T21:57:02Z

Last night, Kelly and I were secretly watching Season 3 of The Golden Girls in our room in English. After catching us and making us switch it to dubbed Spanish, our host mom left us in homesick misery.

I’m done with Alicante.
I’m done with the polluted Postiguet Beach, with its cigarette butts and trash-littered sands.
I’m done with the Puerto and its discotecs that play bad music much of the night.
I’m done with the esplanade’s overpriced restaurants and annoying street vendors and shadeless marble benches that burn my legs when I sit down.
I’m so done with the creepy men that haunt me night and day (as early as 8:30 am on the bus ride to school).
I’m done with the pervading smell of sewer gas and feces that hits me at unexpected moments throughout the day, beginning with the second I exit my apartment building in the morning.
I’m done with being scared for my life and well-being at night—several people I know have gotten robbed or assaulted for no apparent reason.
After seeing Granada, Barcelona and Rome, I don’t understand how Alicante is a tourist destination—it certainly isn’t cultural tourism. I haven’t seen a single museum in this town. My friends and I were running in the direction of an indoor shopping center during a sandstorm last week, and the smell of poop—everywhere and nowhere—almost knocked us out as we realized that we were climbing a hill of manure. If I could build a monument of Alicante to burn in the hogueras this week, it would be a hill of manure, a monte de mierda.

Since writing this entry, I have found a really great pizzeria nestled in a back alley between the esplanade and bars, and it has made my final week in Alicante much happier. I’ve also had some sleep.

El Monte de Mierda remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Women of Saint John

2006-07-08T21:49:39Z

It turns out that the bonfires of San Juan have nothing to do with Catholicism or a man named John. Every year, during the week of the summer solstice, Alicantinos celebrate this pagan holiday by having each barrio (neighborhood) construct an enormous effigy—most of them are of fairy-like women with long, wispy features and Barbie-like proportions—and on the final night of the festival, all of them are burnt in the hogueras (bonfires).

When the Christians conquered Spain, they preserved the pagan party factor (as is apparent in the weeklong boozing, fireworks, dancing and general revelry) but since the holiday happened to fall on the day of St. John, the name was changed.

I asked one of my professors why all the monuments primarily feature gorgeous women. “Because men construct them and they’re living out their fantasies in cement and papier-mâché,” she replied with a smirk.

Last night, we were watching coverage of the festival on the news during dinner—the entire ayuntamiento (city hall) building was covered in rose netting for the flower parade. My host dad had explained to Kelly and me earlier this week that the ubiquitous monuments aren’t simply pretty structures, but for those who understand the imagery and symbolism, they actually represent political and social grievances of the Spanish people. Some issues of concern are the desire of the Catalunya province to secede, ETA and the Basque country and more locally, Alicante’s loss of business and status to Valencia, a nearby city.

So I turned to him and re-asked my question about the women effigies. I wanted to know why women were the face of these evils, why they (we?) get incinerated in order to purge the Alicantinos’ world.

Me: Porque todos los monumentos son mujeres? No he visto a ningun hombre. (Why are all the monuments of women? I haven’t seen a single man.)

Luis: Porque las mujeres son malas (because women are bad), he replied with a smirk.

I wish somebody would just answer my question.

The Women of Saint John remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I Came, I Saw

2006-06-26T08:06:28Z

I haven´t written in awhile but I´ve been travelling, you see, to Barcelona and then Rome with a couple friends. I know this is supposed to be a travel log--an action-packed chronicle of where I went and what I saw, but the time I spent in both cities was so profound independent of any monuments or museums that I visited. Coming back to Alicante, especially after Rome, was heartbreaking. I can´t quite relieve these experiences yet without writing until my arm falls off. So I´d rather share the illustrated version with you in person...how ´bout it?

I Came, I Saw remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Sunburned and Sick

2006-06-07T08:01:50Z

Yesterday, I woke up and couldn´t swallow. I explained to my host mother that my throat was swollen and she made me a warm pea soup for dinner last night. I also drank three glasses of sangria before dinner--it tastes dangerously like juice--and it opened up the throat a bit, even though it killed a few neurons in the process, and was a great excuse to catch up on summer gossip among the group that I´m travelling with.
Lizarran is a tapas bar that my friends and I frequent (like three times a week) and we have a favorite server, an Argentinian, who always takes really good care of us, and brings us shots of apple chupito as a thank-you for our generous American tips (Spaniards tip hardly, if at all). The sangria at Lizarran is out of this world: it has dimension and tastes like red wine plus lemonade plus sugar plus sparkling water and it comes in a botella, which is like those glass bottles in which milk used to be delivered.
The goal yesterday was to climb the side of the mountain to the castle overlooking the beach after getting "rehydrated" but we made it as far as the Esplanade. The sun was so hot and we all had a serious case of the back sweats. I am the world´s biggest lightweight and was teetering back and forth on solid ground--mountain-climbing just didn´t seem like a wise plan. Instead, we went to the beach to people-watch and take pictures of our shadows in the sand.

Sunburned and Sick remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Granada

2006-06-06T08:27:22Z

I wandered the city with my friend Emily, who studied there as an undergraduate seven years ago. She says that nothing has changed and I believe her. Granada has an eternally mystical quality--it´s cobblestone streets, alabaster facades, castles, carmens and perfectly manicured gardens are remnants of an earlier time and walking the narrow streets of the Albayzin (a historically Muslim quarter during the 13th century located across the Darro River from the Alhambra), I felt like a different person. The Albayzin is one of the few barrios in the world where Jews and Muslims did and (I believe) still do coexist peacefully. After Granada was finally conquered for the Christian crown by Isabella and Ferdinand in 1492, riots began as more Catholics infiltrated the Albayzin and the rulers mandated religious conversions, public displays of faith and had forced pig-eating fests in the central plazas. The Treaty of Granada showed tolerance towards Muslims but many Jews during that time fled to Argentina and other parts of S. America. Others remained hidden in the hills of the Albayzin, and they live there still today. Despite the competing Moorish and Andalucian influences on architecture, despite the ubiquitous Bohemians (gypsies) who tried to force rosemary on us for outrageous prices, and despite its unquestionable status as one of the greatest touristic sites in Western Europe, I found Granada to be "true Spanish."
In English, granada means "pomegranate" and it is the sign of the city. In many cathedrals that I have visited, the shield of the 5 Christian kingdoms of Spain has a pomegranate fruit at the bottom, representing the final Moorish stronghold to fall to the Christian kings.
La Alhambra is a Moorish palace and fortress that overlooks the city, and on Saturday, we entered the gates of the old city to view what was once Granada proper. It reminded me a lot of India, because of the architecture. The gardens surrounding the palace were probably the best part: orange and pomegranate groves, thousands of roses and hibiscus shrubs, honeysuckle and thousands of other plants that I could not begin to name (Mom, you would´ve loved it!)
On Saturday night, I returned to the Albayzin for a gypsy flamenco show. Gypsies, or gitanos in Spanish, live in the caves of the Sierra Nevada mountains of Granada. Many of them dance flamenco for money, but they don´t have the distinctive looks that I was expecting. Almost 150 of us were cramped into a small room with a stage and served drinks while watching the show. The opening act was three women, with a singer and guitarist. Later, the main act--a man and woman--came out to dance, and were accompanied in addition by a flutist. The music was beautiful but it definitely had Islamic influences; the singing style reminded me of the wailing sound of Muslim prayer. I loved it and had my first Spanish sangria that night--delicious. On Sunday, we drove to Guadix, a small pueblo in the Sierra Nevadas, and got to see the cave home of a kindly lady named Maria. She sells pottery and ice cream in her "front yard," which is basically the street, quite the entrepreneur! It was a dead town, but it was Sunday and everything in Spain is closed. The lookout points were breathtaking, I got a picture of a little girl on her way to her communion and a random motorcyclist made kissy faces at me at the stoplight. All in a day´s work...

Granada remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Reality Shows

2006-05-30T08:31:03Z

The soundtrack to my family life in Spain is the drone of the television. I´ve seen snippets of dubbed American movies--one was on Saturday where Richard Gere was a knight or something and the guy who did his voice sounded like Jean Claude Van Damme-- and shows like Family Guy (whose humor is definitely compromised in translation), Law and Order (which I don´t even watch in English), and my mama´s favorite: Supervivientes (Survivor).
I guess the appeal and turnoff of reality shows is the drama. In Spain, even newscasters are ridiculously animated. They make a car accident sound like an extra-marital affair. So the genre of reality shows is almost unbearable (or fabulous, depending on your taste).
Supervivientes is broadcasted during dinnertime, and her face visibly lights up to the sound of the theme song. Before I ever saw an episode, she tried to explain it to me: 15 people, perform challenges, live on an island. She excitedly relayed the details of several episodes: eating ants, staring into balls of fire. These were the pieces of sentences that I could catch as she rattled on about her favorite show. Then, I saw my first episode...
Supervivientes works a little bit like American Idol here. It is broadcasted two times a week, once on the island where they show the people attempting each challenge. The following day, the show is broadcasted from Madrid, where the tacky host brings in family members and others into the studio, and asks them to comment on the previous day´s show, and then the loser is voted off before a live studio audience.
Yesterday, my mama´s favorite female performed pretty poorly. Let´s just say that I´m not looking forward to dinner tonight.

Reality Shows remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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La Comida

2006-05-29T08:01:24Z

For those who know me, even a little bit, this entry has been a long time coming. Living in a coastal town on the Meditteranean, I find the cuisine pretty standard as far as that goes: various types of fish, seafood, rice and tropical fruits. But this is no Red Lobster.
The meat is often mixed into some sort of salad doused in olive oil. Here, the dessert of choice is flavored yogurt (strawberry Petit Suisse is my new love). The leche fria (cold milk) is more lukewarm than anything and pumped with preservatives. It sits in a box on grocery store shelves until opened. But I dont mind its temperature, am actually getting used to it, and am pretty sure I´m the only one on this trip who feels this way. "Pop" is nowhere to be found here in Alicante, the cheese is soft and gooey, and Zuma (juice) comes in all kinds of yummy tropical flavors. Today, my mama packed me zumo de pina, my favorite!
Here, Chinese restaurants all have the same name (restaurante chino) and aren´t not worth their prices. So far I´ve found one Indian restaurant that doesn´t look to have a single vegetarian entree (so weird!). And the tapas bars are everywhere.
Tapas: a variety of meats, cheeses and/or vegetables, either fried, grilled or prepared cold, and served on slices of baguette, to be accompanied with wine or cerveza. For example, yesterday I went out for tapas with a friend and had a plate of three tapas with white wine. One was a fried spinach croqueta on a slice of zuchhini. The other was a vegetarian pate´ of cucumber, tomato, olive oil and goat cheese atop baguette. I don´t remember the last one. Two old jovial men at the bar bought me two tapas and unfortunately, both had hunks of bacon on them so they sat on my plate, uneaten.
But Spanish food isn´t nearly the nightmare that I was fearing. It will be hard going back to Iowa. That said, I miss Indian food like burning! My mama here in Alicante seems not have discovered the wonders of salt, let alone pepper, garlic, cardamom and cilantro.

La Comida remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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El Mercadillo

2006-05-26T08:09:03Z

Yesterday, a bunch of us went to the open market near the bull-fighting rink, and it reminded me a lot of India. From my journal:
The market crawls with people--a slow, sauntering Spanish crawl. It´s a one-stop shop: grocery store meets deli meets mall. Next to a stall selling sunglasses is another selling kalamata olives; it´s an interesting, convenient juxtaposition of products, different from what is found in the States, although we are perhaps moving in the same direction, with establishments like Wal Mart Supercenters (the difference is, these markets do not thrive on exploitation and elimination).
Here, the vendors are more laid back than those in the US. They aren´t in my face while I windowshop, unlike the freaks at The Gap at North Grand Mall. In fact, I practically had to flag one down to get any attention. I wanted to buy a kilo of oranges.
Of all of the various products, shoes seem to be the most common stall item. Perhaps it is because they are relatively easy to transport? The produce enjoys seasonal rotation; when my host mother and I talked about the availability of fruits and veggies here relative to the US, she was shocked to hear that I can eat grapes (among other things) year-round in Iowa.
Bargaining is the name of the game here. I dare not open my mouth for fear of being discovered a foreigner. But I´ve made a good purchase.
The oranges are sun-warmed and sticky and explode juice in my mouth.

El Mercadillo remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Bad

2006-05-26T07:57:41Z

I love Spain. I really do. I love that shopkeepers don´t harass me when I merely want to windowshop. I love that people assume that I´m a native Spaniard and when I flub up their language, they don´t deride me. I love the nocturnal culture (to which I´m still becoming accustomed) and the smell of paella but I draw the line at--

1) MULLETS. They´re like a nightmare that I live day and night. I wonder if they never left Europe, or if (worse) they are making a fashion comeback. If the latter, than I should prepare myself for at least another year of them, when I get back to the States and all of the guys there finally catch up. Some days, I have violent urges to chop off every mane that I see with a sharp pair of scissors. Another violent urge: kicking a pigeon. They´re so damn arrogant.

2) Pint-size toilets and elevators. I had been warned in advance, but they´re claustrophobic nonetheless.

3) Seeing Burger Kings, McDonalds, KFC, and Starbucks everywhere in Madrid. Que triste! Along the same lines, there are several (bad) tv shows in the states that have been dubbed into Spanish. Kelly and I are subjected to them during every meal. Our family watches TV all day, every day.

Surprisingly, my vegetarianism has gone over quite well here. I get a variety of vegetables, fruit bread, cheese and milk here, and quite balanced meals. In fact, the produce is much more varied and fresh here, which I like.

The Bad remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Being White in Spain

2006-05-25T08:02:22Z

My roommate, Kelly, is awesome. She´s an Ames-Higher now majoring in Biology and if you ask her why she´s here, she probably won´t give you a convincing answer but it´s a sweet deal for me because I get to listen to her speak Spanish

Since her name is Kelly and she´s a blonde, my host family immediately assumes her the quintessential all-American. On our second day, at the dinner table, Luis (nuestro papa) noticed her bare wrist and said: It must not be a custom to wear watches in America, huh?
Kelly: No...well...err
Luis: Why don´t they wear them? In Spain everyone wears them.
Kelly: Well, I have a cell phone that tells the time and there are a lot of easily visible clocks in the States that the public can consult.
Luis: Here too, but we still wear watches.
And so it went--this exploration into the American psyche through Kelly´s strange habits. Come se dice " Kelly is just a weirdo" en Espanol?

Yesterday, after an afternoon at the beach, I came back with my skin a little tanner and she with freckles all over her face and arms. Pones la crema? our mother asked. Kelly triumphantly produced the bottle of SPF 45 from her knapsack and Corin smiled in relief. At dinner last night, Luis, the purveyor of tactless questions, asks:

"Why are Iowans so white?"

Being White in Spain remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Bus Ride to Alicante

2006-05-25T07:46:26Z

Heading south from Madrid, the Spanish countryside is patchwork green and brown. Short, shrub-like trees and olive groves speckle the land, and unlike in Iowa, the passerby is never subjected to the smell of animal feces. I guess the thing that struck me immediately about Spanish "farms" (orchards?) is that they surround the village center. Every few miles, there is a cluster of homes, with the cathedral or church standing prominently in the middle. And all of the pastures lead away from the homes... In Iowa, the land is visibly private rather than communal, owned by one farmer who lives in one house and has no neighboring houses as far as the eye can see.

As a former West Virginian, I didn´t realize how much I missed seeing mountains; it has been nearly five years since I´ve been back. Here, the topography is haphazard and beautiful. Atop several cliffs are medieval castles, abandoned I guess. And I counted three marble statues of Mary randomly on the side of the road (sure beats roadkill).

Alicante is in a very dry part of Spain, and they´ve been experiencing a drought for a couple years now. But the beaches bring humidity and some cool breezes, so at the end of May, I couldn´t dream of better weather. Yesterday, Kelly (my roommate) and I wandered down to the Esplanade and had some pizza and tiramisu (not very Spanish, and therefore quite good) in an outdoor cafe. We then wandered over to the beach, where I saw two pickpockets successfully steal 2 people´s backpacks. It was insane! This afternoon, I am going to go to the open fruit market near the Plaze de los Toros (bull fighting stadium) and have been warned by my host parents to hold tight to my bag, and plan to do just that.

The Bus Ride to Alicante remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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El Bufon

2006-05-22T12:14:50Z

In the Prado Museum (El Museo Prado), one of Spain´s greatest treasures, I had the chance to see several paintings by El Greco, Goya and Velasquez--of kings and queens, nativity scenes and portraits of random people both wealthy and vain enough to commission self-portraits. It was surreal to see, full-on, these works of art after reading about them ages ago in an intermediate Spanish class. But there was one by Velasquez that didn´t make my textbook in high school.
Velasquez was a royal painter commissioned by the king to paint pictures of the family and court. He did a series of them on the court jesters (bufones) and my tour guide, Susana, prefaced the painting by saying: ¨This is the twin brother of someone I think you all know quite well...¨¨ I turn towards the picture, and it´s GW Bush staring me in the face, furrowed brow and all!
Susana: ¨Who can tell me who this is? Dont worry-the Prado is not wire-tapped.¨
The group: nervous giggles
Susana: Es el presidente de su pais, no? Es mi presidente tambien. Es el presidente del mundo! (it´s your president, isn´t it? Well, he´s my president now, too. He´s the president of the world!)
My first encounter with US haters? Well, I survived and laughed my heart out.
El Bufon aka GW Bush--hey, I didn´t say it. It was Velasquez.

El Bufon remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Night Before

2006-05-18T05:45:30Z

passport-check
ticket-check
camera-check
clean underwear-check
now if only i could get some sleep...only 16 more hours until my flight to madrid!

The Night Before remains copyright of the author zoybean, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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