Lisbon & Stick Shift Failures

Most European cars are manual, a fact that drastically narrowed the number of potential drivers. Two people, victims rather, were then left. Two out of the total five that would take turns behind the wheel on our coast to coast road trip from Valencia to Lisbon, Portugal.

We left Valencia at midnight, five girls squeezing into a tiny five seat Ibiza. Leg room, a luxury, was nonexistent due to the rapid accumulation of excess luggage and enough plastic shopping bags filled with food to last us a week. Regardless, we were off to Portugal, driving through the Spanish countryside along the mountain edges and endless grass plains. While the radio blasted Spoon and Kid Cudi off our hastily burnt CD’s, the three of us in the back dozed in and out of a light sleep until we reached Lisbon in the early morning hours. The two drivers in the front managed to stay awake, assuring that the three lazy fools in the back made it to Portugal without a scratch.

I’ve never seen graffiti like that of Lisbon.  Train stations, highway walls, apartment doors, traffic lights, everything is covered with spray paint, most of it worthy of looking at. The narrow one way streets that circle around the center of the city are filled with yellow, pale blue and purple buildings that mirror the river. We found our hostel hidden on the third floor of a money exchange agency tucked neatly within a young and busy inner city neighborhood. Greeted by beautiful Portuguese boys, I knew we made a good choice from the get-go.

That night I went on my first pub crawl around Barrio Alto. Led by the men who ran the hostel and a local tour guide, we saw what the Lisbon nightlife was all about. The streets were filled with people, all talking and drinking while moving from one bar to another. With it being legal to drink alcohol in public, so long as it’s not in a glass or bottle, the majority of the fun was outdoors. The guy who ran the pub crawl succeeded not only in coercing all five of us to dance with a sweaty Argentinean DJ named “The Matador” but also to take blackmail worthy photos with him. If I ever go missing, find those pictures. Aside from that minor setback, Lisbon proved to be worthy of the 12 hour drive.

At this point in our semester abroad we’re all accustomed to speaking Castilian. While in Portugal it was strange to revert back to English. I learned that despite the proximity of the two countries and the similarities between the two languages, most Portuguese people do not speak Spanish. (And vice versa) I’d find myself throwing in Spanish words and getting a few annoyed or perplexed looks back. Lesson learned Portugal.

Knowing that visiting another country isn’t entirely about going out at night; we decided to take a trolley ride to the nearby city of Belem. Packed like sardines in the trolley, I found myself in one giant man’s armpit. Nearby passengers laughed at my predicament as my friends snapped pictures. According to most tour books, Belem is known for a certain amazing pastry, a cathedral, a monument to Magellan, and apparently a McDonalds because it seemed that everyone and their mother was waiting in line at that particular fast food restaurant. We did it all pretty quickly because all of these attractions were within a one mile radius. I excitedly ran past the Magellan statue overlooking the water to shimmy down a slope against which slammed the waves of what I thought was the Atlantic Ocean. Much to my dismay it was merely lovely river. I got a geography reality check and a look at the outer Lisbon city side all in one day.

The two following days were filled with more tourist attractions, less pub crawls, and more shopping. We left at noon on Sunday with more than we came with. The ride back to Spain flew by with all of us being awake, laughing at the absurd things that had happened the past three days. We stopped twice, the second time at a rest area near Madrid. That’s when the two drivers decided that the three of us who had been sitting in the back for the past seven hours would each take a turn learning to drive the car. I don’t know if they we’re bored or they just wanted to laugh at us. The latter seems more accurate.

The first girl evened out of the clutch and the gas on her first attempt, perfectly executing what is said to be the hardest part in learning how to drive a manual car. She circled around the rest area and came to a gradual stop. What a prodigy. My other friend went next, at first succeeding and then stalling a few times. I went last, with Spanish truck drivers clapping and cheering as I stalled over fifteen times, traveling a total of ten feet in ten minutes. Needless to say I did not drive the rest of the way home.

If we could  do it all again, I would go back in a heartbeat, especially if we could avoid paying for gas and tolls. Not going to happen. Although the most common method of travel around Europe is to take a quick flight, I recommend a road trip. If not for the money saving then for the driving lessons, outstandingly cheesy music, and laughs.

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Valencia: pyromania central

Valencia is home to “Las Fallas”, one of the most popular and outrageous week long festivals in Europe. Fallas, always held in mid-March, is seven round-the-clock days of street partying in honor of Saint Joseph (San Jose here) and the beginning of spring. Each neighborhood of Valencia builds a “falla”, a gigantic papier-mâché sculpture soaring up to 15 meters tall. On the last night of Las Fallas, every single “falla” in the city is lit on fire at the same time.

That’s not all. To build up the anticipation and excitement of Las Fallas, there is a “mascleta” held every single day at 1:30 pm in the government center. People in suits leave their works, crack open a beer, and go outside to the center plaza to enjoy five whole minutes of deafening fireworks and explosions. Once the echoing has left your ears, the singing starts. “Oh Valencia, en Fallas….” I’ve never seen such a massive group of people come together, everyday at the same exact time, just to take in a bit of ruckus and then go back to his or her prior engagements.

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The Hike to Cristo

My chance to return to the mountain came quicker than I thought it would. A friend of the group, Sam, who studied in Oviedo last semester, offered to take the UMass crew tothe very top.  There, stands a giant statue of Jesus Christ. Every day on my walk to school, I see the small figure looking down at me. So, when I learned about the excursion, I jumped at the opportunity.

We all met in front of the university early Saturday morning. Sam, a small blond haired girl from Ireland, led us up the same pathway Taylor took us on a few days earlier. The sun shown again and I found myself in only a t-shirt after a few minutes. What a perfect day for a hike, I thought.

Within an hour we traveled past all I saw on my first journey into the mountains. We encountered some of the Romanesque churches of Oviedo,and stopped for mini photo shoots.  Santa María del Naranco (the first church we saw), built in 848, is a two story building used as a royal chamber known as the “aula regia.” It is where the court of King Ramiro I held royal councils. The church features triple arched windows and stone carved columns illustrating plant motifs, which is typical of the Romanesque style.

A few minutes up from Santa María is San Miguel de Lillo. Ramiro I built the church in the 9^th century as a royal chapel. It is famous for its animal and geometric motifs. These churches are said to be two of three most interesting historic monuments in Asturias.

As we continued to climb higher, I enjoyed the view of the growing city behind us. We reached a paved road that would take us to Cristo. We walked for about another hour before the statue became visible. The last stretch before we reached the top was a steep hill. I sighed as I watched my friends climb with ease. I mentally kicked myself for not working out as I began the ascent.

Santa María del Naranco

Ten painful minutes later I stopped.

I was at the top. I made it.

I felt overwhelmed as I stared as the massive replication of Cristo. He was huge! The high altitude proved to be more than chilling, and as my hair whisked in all directions, I knew we wouldn’t be staying long. I took in the view, gave myself a quick pat on the back for all the physical activity I managed to complete, and then got a picture with Him.

We headed back down to lower ground not long after for a quick lunch. It felt good to sit down and eat after three hours of straight walking. After we replenished ourselves, we began the trip to town. The excitement from seeing Cristo slowly drained from my body and exhaustion set it. By the time Taylor and I reached home, it was close to 5 p.m. We ate lunch in silence, too tired to talk. As I laid down for a much needed nap, I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of the other great adventures that would come.

San Miguel de Lillo

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The Climb

Today, for the first time in what seems like months, I felt the sun on my face. The sky was bright blue, with not a cloud in sight. In a place where rain is almost always in the forecast, I couldn’t help but feel ecstatic. My friends and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful day by doing a little exploring.

My roommate Taylor, who is an avid runner, found a trail that led into the mountains of Asturias. She bragged about the breath taking view of the city, and I insisted we travel the path today so I could experience the sight for myself.

As we neared what I can only describe as a very large hill, I knew I was in trouble. No estoy en forma (I’m not in shape), so the thought of any type of strenuous activity made me reconsider my previous desire to see the city from great heights. I knew that I couldn’t turn back; so I put on a smile and began the hike with my three companions.

View from the hike

We were unable to locate a paved pathway, so instead of taking the time to find it, we figured walking through the muddied grass would suffice. The terrain soon transformed into long tangles of weeds and branches covered in thorns. “Guys, I’m not liking this,” I said from the back of the pack. “We’ll be fine,” insisted Taylor as she continued upward, pushing her way through the mess. A native saw us struggling and said something while pointing to our right. “I think he’s talking to us,” said Aline.

“I think he said there’s another path we can take to get to the road,” I said.

“I’ll look!” said Taylor as she slid slightly down the hill and meandered to our right.

“Yeah, guys, there’s a small path over here that’s completely clear,” she said.

The three of us followed Taylor’s lead and within minutes we were standing on pavement. I turned around to capture my surroundings and found the city staring back at me. Green fields, roaming animals and mountains covered in snow accompanied the hundreds of buildings of Oviedo. Taylor was right. The view was amazing.

After we took a minute to catch our breath and take some photos we followed the road further up the hill. We encountered sheep grazing in fields of grass, stray cats sleeping atop what appeared to be an abandoned shack, and even a horse and its foal. This is how I always imagined Spain. Houses of all colors lined the streets and the bells from the necks of wandering sheep could be heard as we continued up the road. The further we went, the more beautiful Oviedo became.

We stopped above a group of sheep lazily eating grass and took in the city one last time before we began our descent. I felt slightly disappointed to head back to reality, where rolling mountains and farms animals all seem so far away. But as I walked down the pathway, the sun warming by body, I knew I’d be back.

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It’s raining in Ireland and all is right with the world.

It’s raining in Ireland and all is right with the world.

Usually the consequence of an all-too-true stereotype about the country, this recent bout of showers is a welcome departure of the ice, sleet, floods and locusts (just kidding) that have had the city of Cork under siege as of late. From the moment I got off the plane at Cork Airport, it was pretty apparent that the weather was far from the norm. For most of January, talking about the weather with the Irish usually resulted in a “oh, this isn’t what the weather’s usually like.”

The first week I was in the country, temperatures dropped below freezing for the first time in years and the city of Cork actually saw snow. Flurries of the white stuff are pretty rare for the Irish, who are much more accustomed to its liquid-based cousin. In fact, one of my roommates had only seen pictures of himself when it had snowed when he was only five.

Once the glee of making snowballs had passed, it quickly became apparent that, like the people, the government was equally unaccustomed to the cold. While it didn’t take long for the snow to pass from the roads, the ice on the sidewalks remained stubborn. So stubborn, in fact, that the walkways around the city quickly turned into impromptu luge tracks.

The cold, though, was the worst of the weather issues that have hit the country, particularly Cork in recent months. November floodings, stemming from what the Irish Times called an “apocalyptic deluge,’ ravaged much of the city, including the UCC campus. These rains were the worst the country’s seen in some time, as opposed to the long, cool soakings it usually receives.

In addition to shutting down the city entirely for days, the floods left incredible water damage that many businesses and building in the city are just putting behind them.

Get Up and Grow, a head shop right down the street from the UCC campus, remained half closed for more than a month as it recovered from the floods. The two-floor shopped remained open upstairs, with an attic-like room that can only fit a handful of customers handling all of the business. In the meantime, the first floor remained stripped and barren as the entire floor had to be renovated.

Down past the other side of campus, the Mardyke Recreation Center, UCC’s version of the Recreation Center, remained closed until last week. It’s funny; no matter which country I go to school in, I have to wait over a month to go to the gym.

While the main campus was spared from any major damage due to its location high above the river, many academic buildings were wrecked, leaving many departments scrambling to dry ground just to stay open. The international students office, for one, was forced to cram into a corner of the registrar’s office for almost a month as both domestic and international students engulfed the already undersized room.

Today, most of the city is back up and running, although you’ll witness for than a few stray sandbags lying around downtown. It’s strange, though, the River Lee (the same river that runs through the city and flooded the place months ago) still rises to alarming levels near apartment building almost daily due to tides and an upriver damn.

On second thought, it should probably stop raining.

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Rain, Rugby, Rest

For as long as I can remember I have never enjoyed watching or playing sports. So when my friends suggested that we go to a rugby game, I was surprised to hear myself agreeing.  After a long Friday night out on calle mon, I woke up Saturday at 10 a.m. to meet my friends for the Oviedo versus Barcelona game.

Brock, a student from Missouri who practices with the team, volunteered to lead the group to “el campo de rugby” in the city of Naranco.  A light drizzle began as the six of us departed for the game, a 45 minute walk from campus. Because my three euro umbrella broke the night before, I was forced to share with Taylor. We huddled under the black material as we walked through the streets of Oviedo, trying to stay dry.

Rugby game in action

After what felt like hours later, we reached the field. Unfortunately it was at this moment that the clouds opened up and it started to downpour.  It took us another 10 minutes to arrive at the stadium, which lacked any type of shield from the rain. Hilary and Becca, who were without umbrella’s stood shivering on the stands. I moved closer to Taylor and angled myself as best as I could to avoid being pelted by water.

I watched as the players, undistinguishable due to their mud stained uniforms, jumped, ran, and tackled each other for the ball. I have never seen a rugby game before, so I was completely lost. “Wow, that looks like it must hurt,” I thought to myself as multiple players piled on top of someone who held the ball.

About a week beforehand I met a few of the players while out a bar. They attempted to explain to me the rules of the game, but I was at a loss. “So what do you call it when you get a goal?” I asked.

“A try,” one of the Australian players said while rolling his eyes.

“Oh. That’s cool.” What position do you play? Are you the one that gets thrown in the air” I continued, hoping he’d appreciate my knowledge of one of the positions.

“No. I’m the one that scores,” he said, clearly annoyed.

“Ohhh OK. Sounds exciting,” I said, while distancing myself from the arrogant and self absorbed player.

Sign on the field

As I stood in the wet stands, rain drops gliding off the umbrella and hitting my sleeve, I wondered if the guy I talked to was out there. And if so, I wasn’t impressed. Although entertaining, the game seemed to lack a sense of organization, and it was hard for me to tell if the men out there were really good at what they were doing.  I guess they had to be because Oviedo beat Barcelona, nine to three.

By the end of the game we were all starving and cold so Brock suggested we go under the stadium to eat some of the complimentary food they served after the game. We filed down the steps and into a small cement room. A tiny make-shift grill sat on a table where a man fried pieces of ham and what looked to be hot dogs. Beside him stood a woman cutting small pieces of bread to eat with the meat. Condiments where brought out and placed on a table with soda and beer. Within a few minutes Becca and I walked over to the table to make a sandwich. The ham seemed a little dry and the coca cola I drank tasted a tad off, but I couldn’t complain. I devoured the sandwich and went up for seconds.

Somewhere in between finishing my meal and talking with my friends, I noticed all the rugby players were suddenly in the room. They were wet and dirty but astonishingly attractive. We talked with them for awhile, but our sleep deprived bodies soon got the best of us, and we found ourselves saying goodbye. Thankfully the rain stopped and the sun shone, which made for a pleasant walk home.

Taylor and I reached our apartment around four and after a quick lunch we immediately retired to our rooms for a nap. It had been a long day.

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Epic Fail Party of Four?

As my friends and I hopped onto the Picadilly Line at around 6:15pm, headed for Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3, and 5, I knew we were cutting it close. Even though London is one of the biggest cities in Europe, it’s not nearly as fast-paced as most U.S. cities. So it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise to us when our train showed up at Heathrow about 10 minutes before our 7:50pm flight was about to take off. We still ran, suitcases packed for Paris in tow, to the check-in desk. But of course there was no way we were going to get through any of the lines in time. Silly Americans. Granted we’re all amateurs at international travel. Still, we should have given ourselves time.

It just goes to show that after a month of being in the U.K., we’re still not totally adjusted. The last time I was at Heathrow, I was quite peeved because my flight had to wait over an hour to retrieve our luggage because of “severe” weather conditions. It was snowing, which doesn’t happen often in London, but it wasn’t even accumulating. Still, it was enough to make every flight that had just landed in Heathrow wait a ridiculously long time. When we finally did get our luggage, our airport shuttle was also a bit delayed. Go figure. To top it off, when we finally got to our flat, I turned on the BBC to find that every five minutes or so, they would go back to reporting on how badly the weather was affecting commuters. I couldn’t resist laughing.

My flat is situated right in the middle of the Farringdon area, which is known for being trendy, with interesting shops, pubs, and nightlife to choose from. In a place like that, I don’t feel one bit like a tourist.

In a way, coming to England feels like starting at a new college all over again, at least from a social perspective. I’m in an apartment building full of students that are all in the same program, going through the same feeling of displacement and excitement, which of course means we are all becoming fast friends. I have four roommates in the apartment: two from the University of Pittsburgh, one from the University of Minnesota, and another fellow UMass student. There are also a bunch of students here from SUNY Buffalo, and a scattered few from other schools.

Of course, with our first weekend quickly approaching and the semester not officially in gear, we decided to check all of the “trendiness” that the Farringdon area supposedly had to offer. We quickly decided which pubs were our favorites, and designated the Farringdon Grille as the best place to go for good late-night food. It was all fun from then on, at least until Monday rolled around…

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Siesta Super-Fan

I am a huge fan of siestas, better known as naps. My mom, past roommates, and teachers can all vouch for that. If I had to choose my three favorite activities they would go as follows: watching Jeopardy, doing crossword puzzles, and napping. Those three particular selections may not make me seem like a barrel of fun, but you would be surprised. Regardless, being the big “napper” that I am, Spain is undoubtedly the perfect study-abroad spot for me.

Monday through Friday, rain or shine, everything in Valencia closes from 2 p.m. until 5 p.m. I’m talking shops, many stores, businesses, you name it. At first I thought that it was pretty inconvenient, right?  Wrong. The strange timing is precisely what makes “the siesta” the most incredible daily occurrence ever. It’s as if the people of Spain are encouraging me to nap regularly. Needless to say, I’m not fighting the system.

A few people have told me I may have a thyroid problem because of how much I nap. Others have asked me if I’m on a daily drowsy medicine. I appreciate the concern but, no. I don’t take sedatives and my doctor said I’m good to go. I’m merely embracing a long-held Spanish tradition.

A few weeks ago in my Spanish culture class the teacher opened the floor up to random questions. I asked her about the siesta and the following are the basic facts that I got out of her response.

The Spanish climate is typically warm, especially in the southernmost areas. (Of course, right now cities like Madrid are inundated with snow.) Siestas originally began so that the Spanish field workers could escape the brutal heat during the hottest hours of the day. Although, yes, agriculture is still a major component of the lifestyle here, it’s not what has kept the siesta alive for all these years.

The most likely reasons: when we would typically eat lunch, Spanish people sit down to a decently sized meal that more resembles our dinner and will usually last for a longer period of time. The second reason, Spaniards go out much later than Americans, and, in turn, stay out much later. Taking time out of the day to go home, eat for a while, then take an afternoon nap is essential to stay in step with the Spanish day.

Over the years the siesta has slowly been fading away, with more and more businesses staying open during the afternoon hours. Walking around Valencia during the afternoon, I’ll see a few coffee shops open and a grocery store or two. Other than that, it’s decently quiet. Imagine what it would be like if everything in Amherst closed from 2 p.m. until 5 p.m. everyday.

What I presumed would be a problematic three hours is now my favorite part of the day. It took a while to realize that, yes; the banks will close everyday at 2 no matter how many times I try to swipe my card to get in. Other than that, I love having all my classes in the morning and then being totally free in the afternoon. If it weren’t for the siesta I wouldn’t be able adjust to how late Spaniards stay up. 

It’s really stressful, as you can imagine, having to keep up with this rigorous sleeping schedule.

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Spanish Cuisine: Hot Dogs?

Living with a host family has many great benefits, one of them being that you’re given three meals a day. My host mother is a wonderful cook. Over the course of the past month we’ve enjoyed many typical Spanish dishes such as paella, jamon cocinado, and potato tortilla. Our “senora” makes it a point to incorporate protein, fruit and vegetables into every plate.

Before coming here I was pretty closed-minded about food. It was difficult for me to try something new and I’d always revert back to the old standbys. Here, in Spain, I’ve branched out and I’m finding that there’s a lot more out there than buffalo wings and tuna sandwiches. Most Spanish dishes are made with a few key ingredients like onions, potatoes, and eggs. Eggs are a major part of the typical Spanish meal. Ever since I was young, I could never stomach an egg by itself. Never in my life has this been an issue for me…until now.

Here in Valencia I’m living with a wonderful host mother from Argentina. She’s great. She laughs at my lame Spanish jokes and serves us wine with every dinner. She prepares us three meals a day and usually these meals are well balanced and delicious. But whether it’s for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, there’s usually an egg or two present on the plate. I would always push the egg aside and eat around it, sometimes feeling that this was rude of me. Not only did this mean that a good amount of eggs were going to waste due to my distaste, but also my senora might have begun to think that her eggs were poorly made. Rather than ignoring the eggs that lurked on many a dish of mine, I made the tragic mistake of telling my host mother that I really just don’t enjoy eating eggs. That’s when it all began.

Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely enjoy a hot dog. Whether it’s at a Sox game or at a barbeque over the summer, hot dogs are great. This situation is something altogether different. On every plate where there would usually be eggs, I now find hot dogs. Not just one hot dog, but rather three or four. There is never a bun or ketchup or mustard present. It’s just the boiled hot dogs, lined neatly on a side dish.  For breakfast yesterday I was given four hot dogs. I’m guessing these hot dogs are meant to replace the nutritional value I’m losing by not consuming the lovely eggs. Two nights ago, for dinner, I had three hot dogs mixed into my lentil soup. Three days ago, for lunch, I was given four hot dogs with my macaroni. Regardless, I’ve started counting. Just this week alone I’ve been given a total of 18 hot dogs while my housemates sat down to eat eggs and cereal.

I don’t want to come off as ungrateful, because I’m not. The intentions behind the hot dogs are entirely good but the effects of the hot dogs, having now become a major part of my daily diet, are taking a toll on me physically and mentally. Not only do I now have to join a Spanish gym, but I also have to scheme up some way of telling this wonderful host mother that I dislike hot dogs as well. I can only imagine what they will be replaced with.

This is not meant to deter potential study abroad students from living with a host family. It’s merely a warning. Voice your likes and dislikes upon arrival as to avoid any awkward situations that may arise. I didn’t see this coming, I doubt I could have. Luckily, I feel comfortable enough to tell my host mother that the hot dogs just really aren’t working out for me and my diet.

It’s all a part of the process, assimilating into a new culture. There are going to be ups and downs, awkward situations and comfortable ones. But after being here for a month, I feel at home.  It’s alright if I have to eat a few more hot dogs than expected.

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Surviving

I woke Monday morning feeling as though I contracted the flu. I hate missing classes, so I decided to go, with hope that I would feel better as the day went on. I was wrong. When I arrived home from class, I went straight to bed without lunch. A few hours later, when I still couldn’t move from bed, I knew things could only get worse.

The next morning, due to the worst stomach cramps I have ever experienced, I didn’t make it to class. This went on until Thursday morning, when my “madre” (mother) insisted that I go to the doctor. I reluctantly agreed and we headed to Quintana Street, about a half hour walk from the house.

San Salvador Cathedral

As my madre led me around the city, I couldn’t help but admire the beautiful buildings that surrounded me. We passed the San Salvador Cathedral and a small market area where vendors sold items such as socks, slippers, t-shirts, even food for reduced rates. I told myself that when I felt better I would go back.

After what seemed like hours of walking we reached the clinic on Quintana Street. My madre asked the receptionist if any doctors spoke English, and to my surprise, one did. Not long after arriving the doctor called us in. Unfortunately, his English was worse than my Spanish, so I knew if I wanted him to understand anything; I would have to speak in Spanish.

Or at least try to.

I described my symptoms (terrible cramps, fatigue, others that I’m sure you don’t want to know,) while he nodded his head, attempting to understand me. He then brought me to an examining table, and after he poked around and listened to my stomach, he told me he thought I had a gastrointestinal problem. This usually occurs from ones diet. Without getting into the dirty details, it basically meant that I needed to stick to a strict diet that consisted of mostly bread and rice. All the while I suffered through severe stomach pains during the day and into the night.

I felt determined later in the week to go out, despite the throbbing that continued to sporadically torment me. I walked up calle mon with my friends and watched as they drank beer in the plaza del sol-an open area where groups of drunken party-goers guzzle alcohol in between bar hopping. I tried to join in their banter, but it wasn’t long before my stomach began to feel worse and I headed home, disappointed that my second weekend in Oviedo turned out to be a letdown.

Thankfully, by the end of the weekend my stomach settled down, and I began to eat normal food again. This time when I went to bed on Sunday I was reluctant that I would make it to class on Monday. However, when my alarm jolted me from my slumber that following morning, I rose from bed feeling almost back to new. Gracias a Dios (thank god), I thought as I got ready and headed to class.

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