O'everything

I swear I do things in Madrid. A few weeks ago, Natalie and I went to a Camila concert at a club called La Riviera. Camila is a Mexican band that Natalie and I are shamelessly obsessed with alongside, apparently, thousands of other people in Madrid. The concert was standing room only and I can definitely mark the experience as one of the most cultural I´ve had in Spain. At one point, the lead singer asked (in Spanish; they are a legit Mexican band) who in the audience is from Spain, Mexico, Venezuela, etc. I would be lying if I said I didn´t expect him to say the States too; being abroad has made me feel like America actually is the center of the universe. Alas, he never did, and Natalie and I truly felt out of our element, but in the best way. You would think a real “Spanish” experience is easy to come by in Spain, but with so many connections to American family, friends and media, it is common to become engrossed in the ´ol red, white and blue and, at times, forget to experience the place where you really are.

CAMILAAAA pretending to be Spanish with a REAL MADRID fútbol jersey

In terms of general abroad experiences, especially those that take place in Junior year, they are awesome for multiple reasons. Here are a few:

1.     Living in another country for 4+ months (9 and ½ in my case) can test you socially/academically/culturally/etc.

2.     You still can look forward to final year of playing before scary grown-up times

3.     About 35% of BU Juniors go abroad at least one semester

a.     Ability to visit your friends in their respective countries

b.     It´s rare to feel like you are “missing out” on things happening back home because your friends are probably abroad too.

4.     Ahem… drinking age.

5.     I will not go overboard and put the 6 following ones I am thinking of right now.

Let’s focus on 3a. I have already had the pleasure of visiting and staying with friends studying abroad in Paris, London, Barcelona and most recently, Dublin.

My friends, Madelyn and Julia, who are very conveniently friends and suitemates, are studying in the homey capital of Ireland and generously invited Natalie and I to visit them. Dublin is Boston across the Atlantic in so many ways. There is the obvious: it is full of white, Irish people, but also, the city is full of historical pubs (Faneuil Hall), there is a beautiful park (Boston Gardens), a Guinness Brewery (Sam Adams Brewery), it is next to the ocean (Atlantic), and it is similar in size. A major difference: the Irish accent is MUCH more attractive and common than the Boston accent.

Natalie and I found a direct cheap flight via the most horrible airline ever, RYANAIR, and semi-successfully followed the directions Madelyn and Julia gave us to reach University College Dublin (UCD), where they live in an apartment-style-dorm with 4 other people.

We hung out at their apartment that night and the differences in our abroad experiences were immediately apparent. The Dublin program certainly has its faults, but I envy their living situation. They live in a dorm with students from Ireland, which makes it easy for them to make friends with natives. Of course, I love living with a family and living this way creates an immediate connection with the city and the castellano language, but I have absolutely no Spanish friends. Yes, I have numbers belonging to Spanish people in my cell phone, but friendships that begin in clubs and bars last about as long as a plate of jamón ibérico in a room full of hungry Madrileños (re: not long). I love BU as much as the next admissions tour-guide, but they certainly do not make it easy for us to make Spanish friends.

 Unfortunate fact: Spanish people don´t have that unsatiating desire, like English-speakers do, to group together hundreds of 20-year-olds in one building on a college campus. Therefore, we, in Madrid, don´t have the dorm option. From the outside, at least, the Dublin program has got a perfect thing going… but I digress.

The next morning, Natalie and I woke up at 7AM to catch our Wild Wicklow Tour bus because we are grandmothers and the tour turned out to be AMAZING. Natalie and I were the quintessential young-people whom the 20-something (30-something?) tour-guide used to playfully tease throughout the tour and we got to see some of the beautiful, green, country-side of Ireland. Fun fact: although Braveheart takes place in Scotland, we saw a lot of its filming locations in Wicklow, Ireland. I forget to yell out “they may take our lives, but they will never take our freedom!” when I first got off the tour bus. Sad. 

Our lovely tour-guide turning our coffees into Irish-coffees... sort of.

Heterosexuals at the "P.S. I love you" bridge. 

DERRY!

BABIES.

This = New Hampshire. Homesick times

That night Madelyn, Julia, and our new friend, Christine, took us for a night on the town to a bunch of clubs, the names of which escape me. We ran into about 5 stag parties (bachelor parties) and a bunch of people that were just all-around awesome. One highlight: when a police officer asked me if I had been drinking (because, I will admit, I was acting silly) I proudly said “Yes I have! Is that alright?” Words cannot express how much I love being able to legally drink. People don´t emphasize how awesome it really is. 

Some biddies at a club in Dublin

The next day, Natalie and I took a VERY long walk to Trinity Church, overpaid to see the book of Kells (12 euro and no student discount), passed through Christ´s Church, then reached the Guinness factory where I saw none other than Rob Mahoney, a BU friend studying abroad in Dublin who I had met the previous summer working at Admissions. Are you getting used to these chance encounters? Me too. Are they getting less exciting? Nope.

Trinity College

Cool floor of Christ's Church 

I found Rob!

After attempting and failing to drink a disgusting pint of Guinness, Natalie and I met up with Mad and Julia, Natalie´s sorority sister, her sorority´s friend and boyfriend and had a lovely time in some of their favorite pubs in the city.

Take note: Fish and chips in Dublin > Fish and chips in London.

Temple Bar, the neighborhood in Dublin that contains Temple Bar. Confused?

Better option: Rhode Island, neither a Road nor an island, discuss

Madelyn and I

Nom nom nom fish and chips

We had eggs for breakfast the next morning (BEST TREAT EVER! Spanish people have a piece of bread or crackers EVERY DAY for breakfast) and said a quick see-you-in-September to Madelyn and Julia before jetting back to Madrid.

Although Dublin wasn´t my favorite city, every person I met was incredibly warm and friendly. In addition, having automatic hosts makes any travel experience better. Oh, and most men there are very good looking. That helps. Even though my overly-Irish name didn´t get me any free drinks, I was ecstatic to feel so at ease in the land of my ancestors. 

Basque Country: The sort-of-Spain region

The Basque country. Ever heard of it? Don´t feel bad. How about ETA? The separatist terrorist group from the north of Spain (AKA the Basque region)? Unfortunately, this is the first thing a lot people they think of when they head to Basque country, even though only about 5% of the country has even the desire for the region to become an autonomous country, and far less that contribute to the ETA´s vandalistic and violent tactics, not to mention that these events are very rare anyway. Clearly, you should throw away any preconceived notions you have about Northern Spain (as if you had any, unless you studied abroad in Spain) and adopt all my thoughts and conclusions on everything Basque.

Natalie, Allie and I arrived to Bilbao airport (with our 45 euro return flight! WIN) and immediately took a bus to go to San Sebastian, a popular beachfront city an hour from Bilbao. I had never heard of San Sebastian until a year previous, when my friend, Justin, studied abroad there. You know the feeling when you first find out about something, and after that you continually hear about it? Yeah. That happened.  Everyone in Spain has been telling me for months “Hay que ir a San Sebastian.” One very important thing I have learned while being my own travel agent is: if everyone talks about a site or a city, it truly is worth visiting and NO, you are not hip/special/a trailblazer/etc. if you avoid the touristy places; you are simply missing out on something awesome. I digress.

On the drive from Bilbao to San Sebastian

Basically any spaniard will agree the food in Northern Spain is the best in the country. In a country where cooking and eating are a way of life, this region best exemplifies the importance of spending a night over a good set of tapas (which they call pinxtos), friends, and a glass of wine.

“San Sebastian is food town” -Anthony Bourdain

If the god of food doesn´t convince you, maybe the pictures will.

Fried Calamari

Mushroom Risotto. Deliciousness can't really be explained in words.

Roasted goat-cheese with fig compote. One of the best things I have ever eaten

Roasted beef cheek. SO GOOD.

Carmelized onion, sun dried tomato and brie on a sesame tostada

Delicious thick clam stew of sorts 

Ham, shrimp, anchovies, peppers manchego cheese, etc.

Tomatoes, shrimp, baby eels, etc.

Oh right, dessert.

We broke up the eating with a funicular ride to the top of Mount Urgull, enjoying sand between our toes, and a hike up the Jesus statue in old town. In all honesty, eating is the most important thing to do in this town, so we quickly went back to that.

On top of Mont Urgull

Natalie being offensive.

Natalie and Allie on La Concha beach

San Sebastian. Kind of beautiful

At night we met up with another girl from our program, Deidre, who happened to be in San Sebastian as well. We gossiped for hours then met some Germans and talked about more legitimate things. The alcohol killed any filter Natalie and I may have had originally and we started talking to two of the Germans about that topic nobody will let go. Yup, that whole thing Hitler thing. One of their grandfathers was in the SS during WWII and the other´s wasn´t old enough to serve, so he was an active member of the Hitler Youth. Having these uncomfortable conversations with people almost directly connected to the history reminded me that I do, in fact, like studying political science. Also, although  technically could have had this conversation in America, it reminded me how grateful I am for having the option of going abroad for a year. 

People are serious about the whole eating/socializing thing here

Natalie, Allie and Deidre with the famous Cidra of San Sebastian

The next day we decided we should eat some more… and we did. We broke up the eating with a trip to the aquarium and a nap on the beach.

The old town of San Sebastian

Octopus that they let you touch!

Aquarium of San Sebastian

We took the bus to Bilbao that night (and I DIDN´T throw my ticket in the locked trash just before getting on the bus this time! Not that I didn't do that two days before…), and our settled into our hostel that was deceptively far from the only area of interest in Bilbao, the Guggenheim. Fail. Nonetheless, I made Natalie and Allie walk to the museum the next day because I am an evil dictator/felt like we should all do a little more walking than usual since we had just eaten a lifetime’s worth of food the past two days.

The museum (more so the outside than the outside) was AMAZING and there was a free audio-guide! Always exciting. After getting in a big dose of culture, we walked to the old-town to get some delicious, cheap seafood.

The "heart" of the Guggenheim in Bilbao

Yes, this IS real.

I hate to knock Bilbao, but… the Guggenheim is all it has going for it (keep in mind that the Guggenheim is SOOOO COOL). It’s a fairly ugly city and the insane amount of yearly rainfall does not make for favourable touring conditions. That, mixed with our previous days in San Sebastian gave Bilbao quote an unfair disadvantage in my judgement. It is certainly worth a side trip, but nothing more. All in all, I was so happy to visit an area of Spain I had heard about so much and it definitely met all my high expectations. 

The Home-stay post

I moved to a different home-stay on Tuesday. You may or may not know this is a pretty big deal when it comes to abroad-stuff. If you want the gory details, read the following epic and enjoy 10-15 minutes of procrastination.

Valencianos... pyromaniacs

Every year in March, a festival called Las Fallas (pronounced lahs fah-yahs), takes place in Valencia, Spain. The festival lasts one week and is the culmination of an entire year of construction by Valencianos, young and old.  What is a Falla? Falla means fire in valenciano (yes, yet ANOTHER form of the language). During the fallas festival, ninots (translated as puppets or dolls) are burned. The ninots are basically your typical parade float, minus the typical part. The ninots are funny, political and intricate, among other adjectives. During the week, there are daily parades bringing the structures to dfferent areas of the city and fireworks displays every night. While all of this is happening, kids (well, mostly kids) are lighting off fireworks of all sizes in the streets. The week is punctuated with sounds of snap, crackle, and pop at least every 30 seconds. The last night of the festival, all of the ninots are burned in an exciting (and very hot) spectacle. If you have heard of San Fermin (the festival in Pamplona with the running of the Bulls), this is comparable.

Big ninot

Pretty much all of them are this inappropriate

I never expected to attend any of the events, because Natalie’s family was visiting on Las Fallas weekend and I felt bad going without her, but constantly seeing signs that promoted day trips there costing 25 euro made it difficult to contain myself.

And here is why Spain pisses me off.

I tried for at least a week to get tickets. Registering online didn’t work so I emailed the main guy for help and they sent me to Caixabanco, which is a bank-type-place where you can do a transfer and get a ticket for an event (re: a really inefficient system very typical of Spain) The machine didn’t work. Unfortunately the bank is only open about 3 hours a day (an only four days a week) and when normal people work and go to class, so I couldn’t go inside for help either. I decided to try to go with a different group, la UAM (my university) Erasmus (European for Study Abroad) network. I emailed them a couple days before and asked to save a spot because their one-hour-a-day open office hours did not match up well with my schedule. When I finally could go to the office, they told me tickets were sold out. I then received an official looking email from the original company telling me what bus I was on. I sent them an email back saying I hadn’t paid, but I would like to be on the bus. They emailed back apologizing for the error and told me that I, in fact, do NOT have a seat. I sent back a very angry email saying I am entitled to a spot, since I have been trying to work with this company for at least a week. They finally obliged. Mind you, all these exchanges (via email and in person) occur in Spanish, and while I can speak this language, it is blaringly obvious I am not fluent, so trying to express myself perfectly causes extra duress.  When I went to the meeting point, the Metro stop of Universidad Complutense, I found LITERALLY at least 60 buses. It took 45 minutes to find mine, the whole time worrying it would have left already. No worries. This is Spain. The bus left an hour late.

I arrived to Valencia after a 4 hour bus ride at 2PM and met Deidre and Adrian, two people from my program and we did a little touring, finding ninots in every corner of the city. Then, we took a nap in preparation for the night’s festivities- completely necessary considering I had to leave at 6AM and had no hostel.

Women making bañuelos (pumpkin donuts) from scratch

We found a kitty

Cross-dressing disney princesses

Obama, Chávez, etc. make an appearance

We woke up, snuck into a hostel, socialized a bit, managed to see some of the final parade, and set off the fireworks that Deidre and I bought for a euro. We found AMAZING gelato to eat for dinner, then I saw a grilled vegetable sandwich (THERE IS BARELY SUCH A THING AS A GRILLED VEGETABLE IN SPAIN), died of happiness, started to eat it, then died of happiness again. I am so very deprived of healthy food. Then, we accidentally found a perfect spot to see a small and a large collection of ninots burn. We didn’t want to give up the spot, so we stayed there for literally 4 hours. I had my vinto tinto to keep me warm, so all was well.

Burning of the small ninots

The little falla burned on time (re: 20 minutes after the scheduled time), but the large unfortunately was 2 hours late. The waiting was totally worth it though. This festival could turn anyone into a pyromaniac/arsonist. It wouldn’t be Spanish unless something went awry. So, after all the fireworks next to the large ninot went off and the ninot has burned burned, a cleaner kicked the fireworks boxes into the last of the flames. It turned out not all the fireworks were finished going off and they started to rocket left and right into the crowds. Shockingly, no one was hurt, but it didn’t change how the terror I felt at seeing a legitimate firework (we are not talking sparklers and roman candles here) zoom into a crowd.

Now Imagine these going into a crowd...

SO tired at this point. Time: 2AM

Falla burnin falla burnin. Theme some of the night

After the flames died down, Deidre snuck me into her hostel, but her German roommates were sleeping and the kitchen was closed (YES it closed even on the last night of the festival) so we hung out in Starbucks until it closed at 4AM. I made Deidre go to sleep because I felt keeping her awake for so long already and I walked around the city for 2 hours, trying to not get killed. I didn’t! Yay!

Of course the bus arrived a half hour late and, by that time, I was very cold and unhappy. My extreme fatigue aided in the best bus-sleep I have ever experienced. When I arrived back to Madrid at 10AM, I was due to hang out with my friend (and summer roommate) Sam, who was visiting from London. I was incredibly tired but feigned energetic-tour-guide-Shelagh, which I do pretty well if I do say so myself. I was so excited to see Sam and meet her friends that as the day went on, I stopped faking it and enjoyed showing off my city, reminding myself that I actually do love it. Sam unfortunately had to leave that night, so we said our said good-byes on the metro, assuring each other it would only be four months until we reunite again in Boston.

Casual protest near Atocha

Introducing the magic of Magnum to more Americans

Sam and I in some quintessential-looking Madridleña streets