Went to the beach today :)

¡Viva España!

I can't believe what luck I've been having! Spain beat Germany?! Amazing!

Tonight was one of those nights where you consider yourself the luckiest person on the face of the earth. Scott and I left from Joanic, our metro stop, at about 7:40 to meet up with Laura at school. We picked up Laura, and headed off to Las Ramblas to get Valentina and get to a bar ASAP to pick up the game. After finding Valentina (have you ever spoken to a girl from Italy who picked up an Irish accent on a cell phone?!), we headed to the closest bar. We were S.O.L. Every single bar with a TV was packed. What were we thinking?! Showing up to the biggest game Spain has ever seen about 10 minutes before the start... come on.

We wound our way through the streets trying to find ANY bar with a TV visible. Laura was asking all shop keepers for directions but everywhere we went was full. We found a bar hidden away in an alcove but on our way in, three blonde boys looked at us and shook their heads "no". "No room?" I said. "Nah," he answered, "and it's about 50 degrees." Shit, I thought while sweating through my shirt 50 degrees is fantastic. It took me a minute to realize he had a New Zealand accent and was speaking in terms of Celsius, which would make it well over 100 F. He looked nice enough, "We're looking for a bar," I said, "wanna join?" "Sure thing!" they answered.

After speaking during our hunt, we realized they didn't speak a lick of Spanish. Upon realizing they were with 4 Spanish teachers they reacted as if they found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. "Yea," said Laura, "you hit the jackpot kids".

We wound our way through a million streets until we stumbled upon the tiniest bar with just the right amount of space left in front of the TV before it hit capacity. We jammed ourselves in the doorway, ordered our beers, and were watching within the first 15 minutes. There were no seats but we were just as content to stand in the heat. One of the New Zealanders, Edward, kept asking me for "soccer" terms in Spanish. Such as, "Come on!" and "Let's go!" I taught him "¡Venga!", the most common term for "Come on man!" and he repeated it incessantly through out the first half. "Venga! venga! venga!" was always in my ear. But I had to laugh because all the locals were getting a kick out of it. I taught him "¡Vamos!" for the second half but just as quickly grew tired of that.

We were all having a great time. They ate up Valentina and her Irish-Italian accent. Edward would frequently tease her "What was it like growing up in Ireland?" and Valentina would instantly burst into a laugh. We were enjoying ourselves but always conscious of the looming game. Germany was chosen to win and we were nervous. Even throughout the "¡Vengas!" and the laughs these initiated, we were all a little on edge... until the goal. When the goal came the bar erupted. People were hugging, high-fiving; the street was as loud as a stadium - and all was well within the country.

The game ended and we exited the bar to find ourselves at the Irish bar in town - Flaghertys. There were still a few Germany stragglers but, for the most part, it was Spanish fans and we had a seat among them. At our table sat 2 Americans, 3 New Zealanders (Kiwis), an Italian and a Canadian... and we all sat in harmony talking about our previous and current travels and the funny anecdotes we picked up among them. Our most controversial, yet hilarious, conversation was when I accidently said the word "bathing suit". I knew this name wasn't widely accepted throughout the world but I never thought it would create the rise out of the Kiwis that it did. They were doubled over in laughter. "Bathing suit!?", said Damien, "What the hell is a bathing suit!" Turns out, Kiwis call them "toggs" or "boardies". In turn, we laughed at them for such STUPID names for a bathing suit. This lead to the discussion of sandals vs. flip-flops (which they call thongs) and I had to open their eyes to the fact if they asked me to see my "thongs", I would immediately refer to underwear and become offended. This led to the conversation of the "awkward turkey" in the room and I put that video up on facebook.... it was a moment that made us all universal.

Eventually, the 12 am metro closure became a reality and we started walking with our Kiwis to the metro. That's when we stumbled upon some of the celebrations (see video) that were unlike any others I've ever seen before. It was like the Puerto Rican day parade on steroids. People on each others shoulders, half naked, chanting through the streets; while the apartments up above threw buckets of water on the celebration. It was unreal. Spain had never gone this far in the World Cup and they were so proud. We were in the middle of it all but knew we had a deadline approaching.

Scott and I took the Kiwis to the metro and let them sneak through the turn tables on our pass. The Kiwis were hippies and had no place to stay, let alone any money to spend on a metro. We separated at our stops with a few high fives, kisses on the cheeks and memories to last a life time. It was one of those moments when you realized just exactly why you took yourself out of your element to travel to a foreign country... and why it was so important to do exactly that.

¡Holy Sh!t!

I'm anxiously waiting for 7:30 to roll around so Scott, Valentina, Laura and I can head to the bar to watch the game. I have an hour to wait and I can't shower because the cleaning lady is working on the bathroom so I thought I'd share the highlight of the day... when everyone got pooped on.

It's another flawless day in Barcelona. 90 degrees and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. After the four hours in class, we all decided to head to Plaza Catalunya and eat lunch outside. We stopped at the local market, bought some lunch and headed out to spend the next hour and 1/2 in the sun. Plaza Catalunya is known for its excessive amount of pigeons and today was no exception. "Please take a picture of me feeding the pigeons!" I begged Scott. He was hesitant, "They freak me out."

"After lunch?!" I continued.

"Fine."

Valentina, Laura, Scott, Siobhan and I sat on a bench and had lunch. When it was time to go back I reminded Scott of our agreement, "You promised!"

Reluctantly, he took my newly purchased camera and stood apart from the swarm as I threw crackers at the animals. Valentina and Laura stood with him, amazed at how easily I was entertained. "Okay!" Scott said, "That's enough, it's getting gross." He was right. They were flying up and around us and it was straight out of a Hitchcock film. "Fiiiine..." Scott and I haven't seen each other in quite some time, but it's amazing how we always fall back into the routine of an almost father-daughter relationship.

I was watching the birds, walking toward Scott and the girls when I heard it. I immediately went into a panic. The scream sounded as if a mother had lost her baby, or a woman's purse was just snatched. It took me a second to register that "woman's" scream came from Scott, and as soon as my eyes found him, they watched as my camera flew into the air, hit the stone ground and bounced along the surface twice. I looked back to Scott, horrified as to why he would throw my camera. He was waving his hand around as if it were on fire! Laura was spinning in circles trying to see if "it" was on her back. "Did it get me? I think it's on my back!" Valentina was laughing while trying to stop Laura to see her back. "Yea, it got you," Valentina said in her Italian accent.

"What happened?!" I asked, but before Scott answered, I saw it. Scott's hand was covered in bird poop. "You got POOPED ON?!" I was laughing so hard I barely got it out. "Me too..." said Laura. Valentina was furiously rubbing a towelette on the back of Laura's shirt. (see picture) "Oh no!" I said, while checking myself to make sure I wasn't hit. Just about as Valentina had fixed Laura, she put her hand down to her purse and directly into a spot of poop that hit her purse, "OH GOD!, it hit me too!" I was laughing so hard while watching Scott angrily pour water all over his hands I didn't even have time to digest Valentina's poor luck.

I was doubled over from laughter which just pissed Scott off more, "YOU were the only one who wanted to see the birds and you are the only one who didn't get pooped on!" Between laughs I said, "I'm not laughing at that! I'm laughing at your scream! It was like a little girl!" Valentina burst into laughter. Oddly enough, her Italian accent has a hint of an Irish brogue. Laughing, she added, "I didn't realize it was you screaming!," which in turned fueled my fit of laughter.

I was laughing so hard Scott threatened to touch me with his poop-hand if I didn't stop. In fact, he chased me up the school steps with his out-stretched poop-hand. It didn't help, it just made me laugh harder. We were all laughing, but they all assured me that Karma was coming for me.

We're off to the game now - I hope you all keep your fingers crossed for Spain. We're going to this Irish place called Flagherty's. Valentina has a love for all things Irish. Her face lit up when we mentioned it. Hopefully Karma won't come at the bar... I'd hate to get pooped on by a drunk Irishman...

¿A qué hora cierra el metro?

After school today, we took a trip through Spain's gothic quarters. (See picture) It's exactly what you expect Spain to look like. Small, winding streets with only foot traffic (with the exception of the crazed locals on mopeds searching for a shortcut). There were so many amazing shops I was almost glad I left my Amex at the apartment. Some of the buildings were from the roman empire, others built in the 14th century, others the 16th. It was charming and interesting all at the same time. By the end of the trip, we had been walking for an hour and a half and my feet were not well equipped in my sandals. I was getting pretty tired.

We returned to our apartments and I rested up, determined to keep my promise to Scott that we'd venture out tonight. We decided to head to Barceloneta, the "boardwalk" of Barcelona. We were leaving around 10 and I had a few minutes to hang out with Lita and Ana (a pompous 17 year old Polish girl living here too) to watch the Uruguay vs. Nederlands game. Ana is horrifically irritating to be around. She always makes snide remarks about Americans and Lita always rolls her eyes because Ana is being so rude. She can't help it though.... she's Polish, and we all know they aren't that bright.

Scott and I got down to Barceloneta through the metro and had some sangria by the beach. It was a gorgeous night and we were really enjoying ourselves. That is, until we realized the metros stop at 12 am and it was 11:45. We sure as hell weren't walking so we asked for the check. The check came on Spanish time (about 8 minutes later) and we had 7 minutes to get to the subway stop. Not nearly enough. We saw a bunch of Spaniards sprinting and we made the snap judgement they must be sprinting toward the metro... and we were right! We flew passed people taking strolls, laughing all the way to the subway, knowing we were cutting it close. We got to the station at 11:58. I grabbed my metro card, shoved it in the turntable and took off running through the station. It was 100 degrees and we were dying. We ran down the steps (of course every station has about a million) and down a tunnel then down a few more steps. That's when we heard it. The hiss of a subway train having just stopped at the station. We took off in a full sprint, we could see the train now. Down a few more stairs, through the platform, just in time to.... touch the doors as the closed. Damn it. Were we really walking?! All the way back?! It would be like from the battery up to Hell's Kitchen. No way. We stood there looking at each other for a second, contemplating what we should do. A taxi maybe? We decided to stick it out and see if MAYBE, just maybe, one more would come. 8 minutes later our waiting paid off... and we laughed, sweaty and tired, as we got on the subway and rode it all the way home.

Last night was a little taste of Barcelona but I am anxiously waiting for tonight... when Spain plays Germany in the World Cup. I know Spain's chances aren't exactly phenomenal but I have faith; and what's more, I'm in Spain and I have a reason to celebrate :)

Dedicated to my brother, Joey...

I have to write this with my older brother in mind, because he apparently knows me better than I know myself.

Last week, Joey and I met over beers and burgers in order to send me off in the proper, American way. We got to talking about how I really planned to spend my time over here in Barcelona. This was my most commonly fielded question in the weeks proceeding departure... I already have a few degrees so people were curious just how I'd be spending the upcoming weeks. I told him I signed up for a few classes on various linguistic, cultural and pedagogical concepts but that I had zero intentions of actually "trying" in these classes. What was the point? They don't count toward another degree nor do they offer financial gratification so it really didn't matter what I do.

He looked at me and smiled. "You'll try," he said, "You won't be able to not try." He was referring to my role in our family. The good student. Joey was never a good student, but is an upstanding son. He rarely bent the rules, talks back, or makes waves. I am the exact opposite. A loose cannon with outstanding grades. Ying and yang.

"No," I shook my head, "Really. There's no point. This time, I'm going to enjoy myself."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning, Scott and I met outside my apartment at 8am. I had a restless night of sleep. With jet lag, the time change, and 9834754 degree weather, I was up every 4 hours. I even heard Lita come back from going out dancing at 3:30am. Scott and I took the metro from my apartment down toward school. We were 30 minutes early for class (typical Scott) so we took our time with café con leche before class. We got to class at 9 and received our schedule. Class from 9-1:00 every morning, break until 2:30, class from 2:30-5:30 every night.

Joder.

This class is centered on methodology and pedagogy of second language acquisition. It is about as fun as it sounds. Our teacher, Geni, (pronounced Hen-y) is contradicting yet has some good ideas. Besides Scott and I, there are 3 other people in the class. One is from Canada, another from Ireland and the third, Valentina, is from Italy. Valentina is great. Scott and i hung out with her after class today and she seems very sweet.

Anyway, the whole reason why this is dedicated to my brother is because as tempted as I was to sleep past my alarm, and even more tempted to stay in the park we found during lunch (see picture), I returned to class and diligently took notes, listened carefully and participated with gusto. I have pages of notes from only today. So much for not trying.

I greatly underestimated the investment these classes would take. Upon hour 6 of class, Scott and I were both doing the falling-asleep-in-our-seats-head-bob. My back hurt, I was grumpy, class was horrifically boring, it was 100 degrees; I could go on and on but the reality of it all is that I am in Barcelona, and 7 hours of class was nothing a walk through Las Ramblas and a drink with Scott and Valentina didn't fix.

When I got home, Lita asked me to help her carry some old furniture down the stairs. I am completely convinced the 4'11", 90 lbs Spaniard was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the giant American girl to move this furniture... but that's neither here nor there. I like her, she's fun, and she makes amazing food. And what's better than that?

Aye - ¡que pobrecita!

Joder.

Exhaustion nearly made me sick in Valencia. We waited for our flight in an impeccably clean airport. True to Barcelona tradition, our gate was full of people dressed to impress. I immediately felt inferior. Scott and I were so tired we were basically communicating in grunts at this time; peppered with a few, "I'm sooo tired." We got lazy quickly and our Spanish turned into Spanglish and finally English.

Being on Spanish time is taking some getting used to. For example, for a 10:55 flight we started boarding at 10:49. Scott and I joked that the plane would be the size of a private jet, possibly with two prop engines. We weren't far off. As soon as I sat down, I passed out. We got to Barcelona and I was instantly relieved. Almost there...

False.

I promise I am not exaggerating when I say that from Valencia, we took a plane, a bus, a train, a subway and then walked a to our apartments. And, of course, it was 987927343 degrees. The bus took us to a train station. Apparently one train comes every couple hours because we were so packed on this train my nose is permanently damaged from the BO and I was sure I'd be pick-pocketed clean. I took all my euro and my month-metro pass out of my purse and stuffed them in my bra. It seemed like a great idea at the time... but so do most ideas. There was luggage everywhere, and people sitting, standing, breathing everywhere near us. At this point, we had been up for 26 hours straight and we were becoming delirious.

We got off and had to switch to the metro. I have a 25 lbs backpack on and a 55 lb suitcase behind me. Scott has two suitcases. We were faced with several sets of stairs and we walked into the metro. At first, we found the fact that there were no escalators comical. Scott and I have never had the best of luck. Pretty soon, the comedy wore off and we were downright dreading the rest of the trip. Up a flight, down a flight, up two flights, onto a metro, get off the metro, up a flight, down a flight, connect to the next metro. By the end I was dragging my suitcase down the stairs, hitting every single step with a giant BANG. Believe me, this earned me some awesome looks from the locals. When my suitcase got stuck in the turn-table at the next stop, I contemplated giving up leaving it... until some local guy grabbed it with both hands and tossed it over for me. I gave him a sheepish smile. What a tourist. We got to the last stop, La Sagrada Familia, and we were almost home free...

As we walked toward the exit, we could see there was a flight of stairs, going UP, just around the corner. Maybe about 15 steps in total. "Joder," I said to Scott. (The most local way of cursing the steps). He laughed in disbelief. As we rounded the corner, we both stopped short. It wasn't just 15 steps. It was 15 steps to a landing... that lead to about another 25 steps. I looked at Scott and burst into a fit of laughter. All I could say was "No way. Nooo way." He laid into the steps with force but I took a different approach. We were going on 29 hours without sleep now and I had had it. I tried to drag my suitcase up but this was obviously expending the most energy. So I had to lift the suitcase, one step at a time, up all 40 steps. About half way through Scott already reached the top and I was giggling like a crazy person. I looked up, realized I was never going to make it, and stood there laughing and crying all at the same time - very crazy. That's when some local woman came up behind me and said, "Ay! Que pobrecita!" (Oh you poor little thing!) Grabbed my suitcase, and brought it up the stairs. She probably thought I was a psycho because I was crying while thanking her HAHA! Even retelling the story makes me laugh. Scott and I got to our apartments, met everyone we're living with and literally passed out.

It's 10pm here and the woman in my apartment, Lita, is stepping out the door to go dancing. She's a character. I just woke up for a 4 hour nap to field a phone call from Scott who is desperately trying to find an adapter to fit his computer. Tragic. I'm going to give the sleeping another go - we have an early class in the morning. Hopefully tomorrow we'll be able to enjoy this beautiful city. A hellish trip here certainly won't ruin the next month! Besitos!

Man Purses? I'll go with it...

After a relatively easy flight from JFK, Scott and I find ourselves twiddling our thumbs here in the Valencia Airport. We have a 4 hour lay-over... for a 40 minute flight. Oof.

Our exhaustion has put us in an even sillier mood than usual; and the people watching becomes hilarious. We haven't been in Spain in a few years, but the memories come rushing back as we look at the bad hair, worse clothes and the newest addition to horrific fashion choices... the male purse. Yes. All the men here are wearing purses. At first I thought it was a fluke; two separate men wearing very feminine bags across their shoulders. But as the time ticked passed, we realized it was the NORM. We have been keeping count. 8 so far. I have money on the fact that Scott will return with one...