No matter what you are

It's almost impressive how awful I am at this, right?  I'm working on the post of all posts and I promise to have it up in the next 24 hours--consider your faith in me the collateral.  

Monday morning wake up knowing that you’ve got to go to school.

Now a month into the semester, I think it’s an appropriate time to discuss my classes at some length.  Phonetics is probably my favorite.  The professor, though he is rather young, has a very dry and sarcastic demeanor in the classroom, and is very entertaining because of it.  In fact, on the first day of class, he told us that he didn’t understand why anyone would take phonetics and that if everyone fell asleep at least once, he would consider the semester a success.  He then asked us to take turns around the room with introductions…name, university, major, and the reason we were taking a phonetics course.  Most people joked that they needed to improve their pronunciation in order to find Spanish girlfriends, others lied and said they enjoyed it, and a few admitted they were taking the course because it was required.  When it was my turn to speak, I, in inadequate Spanish, tried to explain that I had taken a phonetics course (taught in English) last semester and it was incredibly boring (which it was), and I was hoping that phonetics in Spanish would be just as intolerable.  Of course I was kidding, because I legitimately enjoy linguistics/phonetics…but that moment marked the beginning of the end in my realization that sarcasm wouldn’t function the same way here in Spain.  The class has actually been very helpful, though.  We’ve learned all of the organs of speech and articulation.  The professor has taken great care to note the differences between the English pronunciation and the Spanish pronunciation of certain sounds.  For example, in English, the <d> is articulated on the alveolar ridge (the roof of your mouth, just behind the front teeth)…in Spanish, the <d> is articulated by touching your tongue to the back of the front teeth.  The <v> in English is articulated between the top teeth and bottom lip.  The Spanish <v> is completely bilabial, like a <b>.  Understanding these differences not only helps in pronunciation, but also in language perception and listening comprehension.  He jokes that he speaks like a robot, but I know that the class appreciates that he speaks slowly and articulately so we can understand him.  He also enjoys poking a bit of fun at the way English-speaking students try to pronounce certain words in Spanish.  Most of the time his impressions are fairly accurate, but every now and then, he tries to pronounce something as if he were a native English speaker, and gets it wrong.  All of this adds to the charm and dynamism of the class.  I think that most people in the program would admit that phonetics is their preferred class, as well.  One of my favorite moments was when he told a joke about being in Nicaragua and having an American running toward him frantically yelling, “a gorilla is coming!”  Now, because we pronounce <guerilla> and <gorilla> the same, the punch line of his joke was that he wasn’t sure if he should expect a militant farmer wielding a rifle, or a large, angry monkey.  In Spanish, this confusion would never be an issue because they pronounce every vowel separately in both gue-ri-lla and go-ri-la.  The ‘l’ and ‘ll’ (pronounced as a ‘y’) also help to differentiate the words.  Needless to say, it was funny.  Gorila/Guerilla.  I would heed the warning, regardless, and run as quickly as possible from both!

My next class is History of the Spanish Language.  A few of the other students in the class have started referring to it as the History of Magic because the concepts are fairly difficult, and we’re covering a lot of material rather quickly.  But, I very much enjoy it.  The professor is a brilliant woman who tends to be very opinionated, but is so confident in what she says that when she asserts that Spanish is the greatest language in the world, I’m tempted to believe her.  In this class we are learning a comprehensive combination of classic Latin, the foundations of the romance languages, the early history of Spain, as well as a bit about the traditional culture that influences the Spanish language as it is spoken today—all very interesting stuff.  I think am one of the few students who actually enjoy her class.  Our first test is going to be rough. 

Advanced Grammar is okay.  The teacher is very sweet and seems as though she has dealt with exchange students before because she is extremely patient with us and with our mistakes.  I'm sure that this class is a necessary evil and will be the first to admit that I absolutely need a refresher on the subjunctive, perfect tenses, etc.  The thing I dislike is that we’re using the same vocabulary that has been drilled into my head in the Spanish classes I've taken for the past three years.  I’m convinced that I learn more from classes where I have to apply Spanish grammar to concepts outside of the specific lexicon that accompanies learning Spanish grammar. 

My Cervantes/Quijote class is great.  The professor is very engaging, and doesn’t have much trouble maintaining the attention of his students…and those of you in the class understand why.  He outlines and contextualizes things in a way that reveals Cervantes’ profound social commentary hidden* in the pages we clumsily read through to prepare for class each day.  I have yet to read Don Quijote in English, but the word on the street is that it’s very tedious.  Imagine reading it when you have to look up every third word on the page—outright grueling, I tell you.  It doesn’t help either that much of the text is footnoted with explanations of antiquated words or concepts that may not be readily understood by proficient Spanish-speakers.  I have to look up explanations of words that are explanations of still more complicated words.  Like I said, great.  The homework isn’t the best time of my life, but I do enjoy the class.  As much as I hate to admit this…I had realized, but had never put a lot of thought into the fact that there are entire worlds of literature thriving beyond the sphere that is produced and published in the English language.  Understanding and appreciating English Literature is respectable, to be sure, but it is only a portion of what the great minds of the world have contributed to the field of letters and to scholarship.  Granted, many foreign novels have been translated into English, but something incredibly important is stripped when writing is taken out of the author’s original and intended locution and converted into another language.  If nothing else, this consideration has further inspired me to master this blasted language so I can access the Spanish literature and poetry and scholarship that awaits. 

*I use the word hidden because I certainly couldn’t find it…but this is also probably due, in large part, to the fact that I am not fluent in Spanish.  Ask Bill Murray—sometimes things get lost in translation.

All in all, I’m not sure what would provoke a professor to want to teach foreign students.  Perhaps it’s a sort of challenge for them…or maybe they are being punished by their departments or lost a bet.  I can’t imagine that it’s for the money.  Whatever the reason, I am grateful that they decided to do so, if only for this semester. 

It's the time of the sea-son when love runs high

Here are a few photos I took during our day at the Oceanogràfic en la Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias.    ¡Disfrute!

When you're smiling the whole world smiles with you

Consider listening to this song while you read about some of my funnier moments:

1) In Valencia, you have a to hail a bus at a bus stop the same way you hail a cab anywhere.  When I was first figuring out the bus system, I had waited for ten minutes for a particular bus and as it was approaching, I stood, card in hand, preparing to board because the bus driver had acknowledged me from about ten yards away.  In the next instant, he breached the non-verbal contract we made with our eye contact and, after sort of easing over as if he would stop, decided to speed away.  What a prankster.  I had no idea how to react to the situation, so I laughed and waited another 15 minutes for the next bus. 

2) One of the first days in my phonetics class, our professor had a list of songs in English whose lyrics at certain points, sounded like something else in Spanish—mostly inappropriate things, curse words, etc.  The one that I found most amusing, though, was the theme song from the Lion King.  And after a minute or so, part of the sort of chant they sing sounds like a phrase that, in spanish, means doing an unmentionable something to or with one’s sister-in-law.  The class loved it. 

3) My favorite way to communicate with new acquaintances is with sarcasm.  I think it is one of the quickest ways to gauge another person’s sense of humor.  And sharing a sense of humor is one of the simplest ways to find and establish common ground.  It wouldn’t matter if I were actually fluent in Spanish, though…my sarcasm DOES NOT TRANSLATE.  So saying things in jest gets me nowhere.   It’s twofold funny because I think it’s amusing when people don’t get my attempted jokes and I also get a kick out of the expressions on their faces when they simply don’t understand.  I imagine that it’s the same expression I have on my face when someone speaks too quickly…or I just don’t understand what they’re trying to tell me—which is also quite humorous.  It makes for some very entertaining social scenarios.  

4) Another, more recent story from the bus:  it was a busy time of the day for public transportation and I was crammed to one side of the aisle.  Unfortunately, I had to stand very close to a girl sitting in a stroller who hated me a lot and kept kicking me.  At one point she pushed my legs with both of her grubby little hands.  She couldn’t have been more than two years old.  She was shooting some vicious glares at me, though, and again, I couldn’t help but laugh.  

I've always laughed at myself a lot...but in Spain, I laugh for different reasons and there is always something new to find humor in.  

May you stay forever young

Our first week here, there were also two teenaged Italian girls staying in the apartment.  Isabella and Fabiola were great!  They reminded me very much of any teenaged girl at home.  They teased each other, were impatient with each other at times, and sang Lady Gaga, Tina Turner, and Queen at the top of their lungs.  They impressed me much more than the average teenager does, though.  The reason they were in Valencia in the first place was to study Spanish.  They are both in a program in their ‘high school’ through which they are learning French, English, and German.  At the dinner table, they related their frustrations with learning foreign languages and the differences between Italian and Romano—the languages they speak at home.  We talked about music and movies and the world.  They would confer with each other in Italian, Erin and I would confer with each other in English, and then we would meet in the middle with Spanish—such an interesting way to share a meal and a conversation.  Before they left, they made Pasta Carbonara, a “typical Italian dish,” they asserted.  Of course, it was spectacular, and they were so proud that we enjoyed it.  One particular moment that will forever be impressed in my mind happened while we were visiting one evening, and someone misheard what another had said and we found ourselves on the subject of homosexuality.  We started discussing the various words used in different languages and the legal issues in our respective countries.  Fabiola went on to explain that as far as she was concerned, the government had no control whatsoever over who a person loved.  “Ring or no ring,” she explained, “so long as two people are in love, the rest doesn’t matter.”  It was so beautifully put, and hearing it from a seventeen year old made it all the better.  Having an enlightened conversation in a foreign language was a new and exhilarating experience for me.  

It isn’t likely that I’ll see either of them again, but I appreciate that I was able to meet them and I wish them both the best in everything.

It's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left

There is a fine line between complaining and venting.  So, to make myself perfectly clear, I am not complaining, only venting.  I’m grateful for difficulties here.  I am learning from them.  And more things are difficult than not.  With that, I will explain a little about the things that cause me some anxiety day to day.  First of all, the concept of personal space is something that most Spaniards don’t understand.  This applies in practically every social setting, from the dance floor, to the elevator, to walking down the sidewalk.  It’s not considered awkward or uncomfortable for someone to stand so close you can hear his or her pulse—only a slight exaggeration there.  I typically require more personal space than your average American…so this has taken some getting used to.  This goes for the very Spanish two kisses as well.  I’m good at introductions.  I have a great handshake, do the eye-contact thing, and present myself confidently, with a smile, the whole bit.  It is a tough habit to break upon meeting someone for the first time…offering my right hand, my arm’s length the measure of personal space I prefer to maintain.  All of that is nonsense here.  They give kisses to each cheek whether you’re ready and willing or not.  They’re also much better at strolling.  I foot it at a professional mall-walker’s pace and am a very claustrophobic pedestrian.  So, when people are moving slowly in front of me, I get anxious.  I’m trying to get better at maintaining a leisurely pace.  I’m also working on my neurosis about personal space.  I’ll keep you posted on my progress.  Ha!  My second anxiety is salt—and the fact that they don’t use it.  They don’t cook with it and it isn’t normally set on the table with our meals.  Anyone who knows me well knows that I add salt, and, more specifically, garlic salt to almost everything I eat.  Until this week, the lack of salt in the food here was an issue.  Not to worry, my friends—the problem has been resolved.  It’s incredible how my day, week, semester has been improved by a 79-cent bottle of garlic salt from Mercadona.  (A bit of a spin on retail therapy, I should think!)  

All things in stride.

Society, you're a crazy breed

Now I’m going to take a moment to describe my living arrangements as well as what I’m learning about the sociability here.  I live in an apartment building that is one of four in a complex surrounding a gated courtyard, complete with fountain.  The apartment is on the tenth floor and is very small, but tidy.  I should also add that the elevators are possessed.  There are four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living/dining room, and a closet-sized laundry/storage room.  Putting the explanation into words seems to give it too much credit.  It really is a very small living space.  This rings especially true for me because we are only allowed in three of the nine rooms.  Erin and I share a space that is big enough for two twin-sized beds and a desk with no chair.  It’s very cozy, and we’ve both had to adjust a bit to sharing a room as well as sharing a closet.  The floor is entirely linoleum, and without much insulation, the apartment gets very chilly—even with 60 degree weather outside.  The walls are also very thin, so we hear the neighbors when they are cooking dinner, jamming out to MIA’s “Paper Planes,” and remodeling their bathroom (or building an arc or whatever they’re doing over there).  All I know is that they are loud.  We also live close to a school, so we hear the announcements and the orchestra music they play during what I assume is recess time.  I really enjoy their recess time.

One cultural difference that is very much the opposite of that in the United States is the perception or function of the home as a space.  In the US, people are not only allowed, but they are welcomed into each other’s homes.  A house or apartment or “home” is a social place where people gather.  Here, that is not the case.  Here, home is a very private and intimate space where only family and maybe, maaayyyybeee closest friends are welcome.  And it is certainly not a place to be social.  People go out to be social, which is a little frustrating when being out typically costs money.  They are social in cafes, restaurants, and parks—anywhere outside of the home.  It is strange being unable to invite a friend or friends over for dinner or to do homework or to watch a movie.  I’m sure the situation would change a bit if it had my own place and I wasn’t a guest in someone else’s home.  Still, it is a very different and very interesting type of sociability...  

Sing for your supper, and you'll get breakfast

Breakfast—desayuno.  I’m realizing that through this blog, for the sake of explanation, I am sharing much more information than I would otherwise divulge—information that only those closest to me actually know.  ¡Que escandaloso!  One of these unimportant details is that I don’t particularly care for sweet foods.  I don’t mind the occasional piece of cheesecake or pumpkin-spice cookie, and I do like fruit, but I definitely prefer the savory to the sweet.  That being said, I don’t like breakfast foods like toast, cereal, pastries, jelly, etc.  Here, breakfast every morning consists of a pastry, four or five cardboard-flavored digestive cookies, two pieces of toast, my choice of strawberry or peach jam, instant coffee, and a carafe of boiled milk.  Mmmmmm.  Mmm.  The first two weeks were tolerable, but I can’t tell you what I would do for some scrambled eggs and a cup of brewed coffee for breakfast.  Unspeakable things.  Otherwise the meals are good.  Some are better than others, of course.

Lunch—comida.  Dinner—cena.  As I mentioned before, we eat lunch around two o’clock.  It usually consists of a salad, the main dish, which varies, and a piece of fruit.  Again, comida is the biggest meal of the day, so the main dish is usually a hearty soup, some combination of vegetables and meat (chicken, turkey, or fish), or Spanish tortilla (which is sort of a potato egg omelet, and is delicious).  A few days ago, she prepared a meal that made me smile a bit, because it was Moscow, Idaho in an entrée.  Moscow, the lentil capital of the universe, and Idaho, esteemed for its potatoes—the dish was a lentil and potato soup and I loved it.  Cena is basically the same, with slightly smaller portions.  Instead of salad, we have a small cup of noodle soup and we get chocolate pudding for dessert. 

I expected rice to be a staple of every meal, but have found that potatoes are the preferred side dish.  She makes French fries every other day, I think.  I haven’t figured out if this is a typical menu, or if she makes them because she thinks Americans really like fries.  Maybe, probably, it's both.  Everything is prepared in olive oil, which I appreciate.  One of the stranger dishes she makes consists of one fried egg, sunny side up, two pieces of bacon, a scoop of white rice, and a portion of very bland marinara sauce.  The first time we had it, I ate each item separately and wasn’t impressed.  I figured out, though, that all mixed together, it is actually quite tasty!  She makes paella on Sundays.  My roommate went to some fancy restaurant to try the “best paella in Valencia” and she said it tasted just like Isabel’s.  I guess we’re lucky in that regard.  [Maybe I'll remember to take some photos of the food and post them.]

We can work it out

Several have requested that I post more photos.  I have tried no less than 14 times to upload photos on Facebook and am resorting to posting them here only to keep from reacting in a way I might later regret (destroying something, cursing, lashing out in a generally offensive way) if Mark Zuckerberg's brainchild refuses to function one more time.  

Our first weekend in Valencia, we did a group scavenger hunt of sorts to become better acquainted with the city.  Here are a few of the moments I captured:

New slang when you notice the...

In my first days in Valencia, my primary concern was figuring out where to find and purchase the necessities I was forced to hastily remove from my suitcase before my departure.  I didn’t mention before that walking into the airport in Boise, my bag weighed 63 pounds—13 pounds heavier than permitted by the airline.  When I asked about the fee for the additional weight, the stolid representative retorted, “$200.”  I laughed.  He did not.  And all humor was lost as I stepped out of the line so my mom and I could figure out how to remove 13 pounds of what I had thought I would absolutely need in Spain.  I had to get rid of a great jacket, add a few more layers to what I was already wearing, cram about seven extra pounds into my backpack, and send some preferred toiletry items back to Fruitland. 

Anyway, finding those necessities was a chore.  I can be slightly particular when it comes to selecting the products I use.  Soap is not just soap, as strange as that may sound, and I didn’t want to waste my money on something I wouldn’t use.  At the supermarket, I had to pick out shampoo, facial cleanser, toner, etc. using a method that was partly a process of elimination and mostly a blind guess.  Which brings me to a point I have yet to mention:  paying with the Euro takes some adjustment (and this has very little to do with exchange rate).  As far as I knew, only board game money was super colorful and no one outside a Laundromat took change/coins seriously.  As Spain is largely a cash economy, and the units of their currency are a little different, the learning curve in this regard is rather steep.

The first week was busy with student orientation, school, schedules, socializing, settling in, and trying to stave off the still-lingering fatigue of jetlag.  I decided in my orientation that because I wasn’t committed to any particular course (all of my credits will transfer back as Spanish electives), I could attend several of the classes offered and pick my favorite four.  This selection process was slightly more informed as I chose my courses based not on the content or syllabus, but rather on the demeanor and presentation of the instructors.  It wasn’t difficult to discern the professors whose Spanish I couldn’t understand from those who spoke articulately and slowly enough for me to keep up.  In the end, I opted for Advanced Grammar, Phonetics, History of the Spanish Language, and Cervantes and Quijote, a literature class.  (Specifics about these courses in posts to follow.)

One of the most difficult transitions was to the Spanish schedule.  For those who are unfamiliar, things function within a much more liberal timeframe here.  People are rarely…and by that I actually mean NOT punctual, which is perfect for me.  I’m always late in the United States.  And always almost on time here.  ¡Es increíble!  Breakfast happens whenever I wake up.  Then class.  Comida, which is like lunch, but is actually the largest meal of the day, takes place around 2:30.  During this time, practically every business that doesn’t serve food and/or drinks closes until 4:00, 4:30, 5:00, or whenever they feel like reopening their doors.  This break in the afternoon is the origin of the sort of lore of the siesta, but so far as I can tell, it’s more a time to sit and thoroughly enjoy a meal, probably with friends, and decompress before returning to the daily grind.  I think it keeps people sane.  I’m sure some people nap during this time.  I know I have—and this is yet another cultural tidbit for which I find myself particularly well suited.  After comida, most businesses stay open until maybe 7:00 or so, depending on the type.  After 7:00, the city starts to stir as the evening commences.  People are out having drinks, shopping, going to shows, games, eating dinner.  My ‘host mom,’ Isabel, makes dinner, or cena, around 8:00 every night, but this is not the norm.  Most eat dinner after 9:00.  On the weekends, it’s even later.  The nightlife is wild.  Some places are open until 3:00 or so in the morning; others don’t close until 7:00 a.m.  A few of the finer establishments (discotecas) open their doors at 12:00 or 1:00.  Like I said, one of the more difficult, however lively, transitions. 

I’m still not caught up with this damned thing.  But, here’s what you can look forward to:

Thoughts on food and drink,

The City of Valencia and all it has to offer,

The beach,

An aching brain…and, most recently,

Barcelona!

Until next time.  Hasta luego.

Welcome together, right now, over me

Valencia, Spain

I like to think that I am a self-assured and capable individual.  (And by all means, correct me if I’m wrong.)  Imagine my frustration, though, as our bus slid into the city of Valencia and I was suddenly confronted with serious doubts about my ability to do, well, anything.  I felt physically polarized as the pit in my stomach dropped to the floor while my mind soared with anticipation.  I don’t suppose everyone experiences the same reaction, but my arrival in Spain, and, more importantly, in Valencia, was the moment I had been working toward, academically, psychologically, and even emotionally for a quite some time.  That sense of accomplishment was met by a new sense of overwhelmed uncertainty about how I would fare in an uncomfortable language and unfamiliar culture. 

We took a very short tour through the city where we were introduced to some of the attractions that were to become commonplace structures in our day-to-day lives—el río, la Ciudad de Las Artes y las Ciencas, el centro, etc.  We met our host-families at the Mestalla, a large fútbol stadium next to the University of Valencia.  As the bus slowed to a stop, the enormous sign on the side of the stadium displaying faces of Valencia Club de Fútbol enthusiasts and a phrase, which (translated into English) read, “You Are Valencia” should have comforted me a bit.  While I recognize rabid fans when I see them, and the message was a very welcoming one...I was still nervous.  Isabel Castillo, our “host-mother,” greeted my roommate, Erin Edwards, and I with kisses to each cheek and a look of exasperation as she realized how much luggage we had in tow.  She has hosted students for eight years, and I would be interested to know how our mountain of luggage ranks in comparison to prior students.  From there, we crammed our bags into her especially small (by American and European standards) vehicle and drove to our new home.  We then drug our luggage through a courtyard, into an elevator, up ten stories, and into a small but tidy and charming apartment.  

Welcome to Valencia, Alexis.  This is your home for the next four months.  Here goes nothing…eh?

Toledon't speak

Toledo, Spain

We spent a single day in Toledo.  When we arrived, it was too foggy to take the panoramic tour of the city, so they jostled our schedules a bit and we were whisked into the labyrinth city of Toledo for a walking tour.  My tour guide was a very enigmatic and charming man whose purpose, he told us, was to “prove that Toledo is the most beautiful city in the world.”  Having never seen most of the striking cities of the world, I had no true basis for comparison, however he convinced me that Toledo likely holds a place on that list.  We were guided through monasteries, cathedrals, and a synagogue where the influences of Muslim, Jewish, and Christian culture converged to form a multicultural city that is truly elegant.  Outside one of the Cathedrals, I ran into my dear friend, Ben Birch, a fellow University of Idaho student.  We exclaimed at the chances of our actually finding one another in Spain and decided we needed to meet up again at some point during the semester.  Shortly thereafter, walking into one of the side-street shops, I happened upon two more friends from Idaho, Lizzy Smith and Keelcy Perez.  We were able to exchange a few words, take a photo, and then continued on our separate ways.  What an incredible happenstance not only for four students from the same University to be in the same small city in Spain, but also for them to connect.  The world works in mysterious ways…isn’t that how it goes?  Anyhow, Toledo is almost completely encircled by a river that serves as a natural moat, which protected the city from invasion centuries ago.  I’d like to one day live somewhere with a moat—I will get started on my research tomorrow. 

Good Madriddance

Royal Palace, Madrid

To sum up my time in Madrid—it fulfilled every romanticized, preconceived notion I held of Spain, and of Europe, for that matter.  I saw couples walking arm in arm and kissing on the street corners.  I watched a man spin and dip his significant other as they danced down the sidewalk.   Musicians with accordions, violins, and guitars provided a soundtrack as we carefully navigated the city.  We made it to the Royal Palace as the sun was setting.  It was all very enchanting, really.  Everywhere we ate, the wine was cheaper than the water.  I tried jamón ibérico, sangria, paella, and a spinach pasta dish that was worth every dollar, conversion rate included.  On the second day, we visited the Museo del Prado, home to works by Goya, el Greco, and Velazquez, and the Museo Reina Sofía, where I admired original artwork by Picasso and Salvador Dalí.  I wasn’t able to enjoy the nightlife in Madrid because I was stuck in the hotel finishing applications for graduate school, but several other students went out and had nothing but rave reviews to report of the five-story discoteca they found.  (Did you notice what I did just there?  Rave reviews…discoteca. Eh?!)  Anyway…

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

We spent a decent amount of time in the Plaza Mayor and it provided more entertainment than a free ticket to the circus—a very lively place, indeed.  In addition to the other tourists and brave/tolerant locals traipsing through, we saw a Minnie Mouse, two men dressed as Spider Man (who, upon spotting each other, seemed bristled enough I was sure they'd battle), a Spongebob, and a few other side-show acts that were very strange.  There was a three-headed, face-painted, screaming thing, a pom-pom goat terror that clapped it’s beak as passersby, and a man with a wand that made giant bubbles that would burst iridescent soapy liquid all over the nearest victims.  These are now the monsters that haunt my dreams—particularly the pom-pom goat.  Fortunately, we were able to enjoy a flamenco show and a live band—all within a one-black radius.  If I know nothing else about Madrid, it is that I will be back to see it again, and soon.

A very good place to start

Getting from the United States to Spain was an adventure in and of itself.  You'll find the full explanation below, but for the sake of those who would rather skim this post, I have decided to give you the key points, first:

Minor panic attack,

Pressurized air-induced coma,

Semi-emergency landing,

108 degrees, 

Spain.

If you want to know the details, read on.  If not, skip the following paragraph.

Boise to Denver, Denver to New York, and New York to Madrid…or that was the plan.  The flight from Denver to New York was delayed and we pulled up to the gate ten minutes before my connecting flight was supposed to leave.  Fortunately, that flight was also delayed, and I was able to regain my composure after the minor panic attack amongst disinterested, mostly Spanish-speaking passengers.  The girl who sat next to me on the flight didn't speak English, but it didn't matter because she was in a pressurized-air induced coma, I think, and slept all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.  I’m guessing it wasn’t her first flight to Madrid.  About an hour before we were supposed to land in Madrid, the pilot interrupted my in-flight movie to tell us that there was extremely low visibility above Madrid and the queue to land was over an hour long.  The best part was that we didn’t have enough fuel to circle Madrid for that long, so we had to make a semi-emergency stop in Zaragoza.  Unfortunately, I was sitting next to the window on the eastward-facing side of the plane.  Why is that an important detail?  Well, I can assure you that the heat of the fresh morning sun scorching through both panes of plastic window made it no less than 108 degrees in my seat.  If there is a higher being, he (or she) was checking out our situation in the same way your snotty little brother used to examine a hill of ants through a magnifying glass, hoping a bit mischievously that one of them might catch on fire.  We sat on the tarmac for two and a half hours while we waited for permission to wait for permission to wait...or something.  Over 24 hours from the time I left Boise, we made it to Madrid.  I was certainly glad to finally be in Spain.

By the time we landed in Madrid, I had missed both windows of time in which the staff from ISA was supposed to find us in the airport.  Luckily, another girl from the program was on the same flight, so we were able to find a taxi (white car with red stripe, or the answer is no), split the fare, and find the Hotel Nacional.  

And now for a somewhat concentrated description of the the hotel rooms:  they were interesting—as most things I’ve found here are.  There were two twin sized beds, each with separate sets of linens and blankets, but they were pushed together to form a king-sized sleeping zone of sorts for my roommate, Jenny (from Colorado), and I.  The bathroom had a toilet as well as a bidet (which is best explained by this video).  The flusher, a very technical term, I know, is not on the left front side of the toilet, as it is on most of the toilets I was familiar with.  Instead, it’s on top and in either push or pull form.  No alarm clock, no any type of clock.  There was only half of a door on the shower, so water was splashed absolutely everywhere.  I don't know if Spaniards are maybe more absorbent and thereby get less water on the floor when they shower?  And, of course, the outlets are different.  I felt a bit slow figuring out my converter/adapter set and blew the fuse within the first 30 minutes.  It cost me ten Euros to connect to the internet and $41 each for two phone calls (yes, I paid $82) one in which I did nothing more than leave a voicemail.  

So from here on out, I'm going to write a bit about my itinerary and a few fun facts until this blog is up to date.  I also plan on including a section in each about general things I’ve noticed and was not previously warned of.  Things like:

The paper is bigger (longer than ours)…and so too are folders and other complimentary items.

The bike lane is part of the sidewalk, not the road.  Cuidado!  

More on Madrid and Toledo tomorrow.

Let's start at the very beginning...

To introduce myself and this blog, my name is Alexis and I am studying Spanish at the University of Valencia in Valencia, Spain for the next four months.  I had every intention of creating this blog prior to my departure, updating it daily, and keeping a few captive readers entertained with mostly brief explanations of how I effectively make a fool of myself each day in a new language, city, and culture.  While I didn't accomplish those things--and now, frankly, have a lot of catching up to do--here I am to write a bit about what I’ve been up to and what I think of it all for family, friends, and very bored acquaintances to read…or not read—no me importa.

I should also note that this is the first time I've EVER created or had the desire to maintain a blog so consider this site under construction until further notice.  I've also never been great at keeping a journal or diary.  But, I figure, why not add one more item to the list of things I am currently trying and/or struggling to learn?  Finally, to give credit where credit is due, the title of this blog (which is also subject to change) comes from a song by Josh Ritter...but in Spanish.  Considering the various dimensions of the changes I am experiencing, I thought it was clever/appropriate.