Friday, August 31, 2012

10 Things I Miss About Europe

You knew it was coming.

I had been putting off a real conclusion to this blog. With the conclusion of this blog is the cessation of an adventure that doesn't deserve to be confined to a manageable read. Only the 73 other travelers that joined me will understand what I mean by that, but I'll do my best to try to echo what it feels like looking back on this trip.

I'd need nothing short and nothing limited to something to the effect of A Tale of Three Cities to really get my point across. But Travels of Tara will be my start.

Being in America, even in New York, considered the greatest city in the entire world [with merit], was a hard pill to swallow. I vowed that I wouldn't let my exploratory, energetic, and eager manor that I strengthened overseas go to waste here, but it is still hard. Though there is so much diversity and so many opportunities, there are just some things that America will never be as keen on as Europe.

*Heath Ledger Joker Voice* and here. we. go.

10. The Euro
My avid readers may find this ironic. Way back in the baguette days, I made my position on the currency exchange very clear.

the euro sh*ts on the dollar
I am now retracting it.

I came to see the logic in using a coin for 1 and 2 euro denominations.  "un euro? toma." It's like meter money; chump change. Just take it. We all know that when we have bills, it is a much harder stab on our American money hungry hearts to see it go. Why not make it easier and just make it a coin? Especially when just one of those round metal trinkets can be traded in for a beer.

And the bills? Euro Euro Bills. A 5 is smaller than a 20 is smaller than a 50. Brilliant. So even when I'm 10 euro beers in, I can still find the 5 for the cab driver.


9. The Language Barrier 
Initially, one would not see this as something that one would lament. But oh, do I ever. I miss being in a cafe of Parisians and, knowing full well what they are saying is negative, being able to zone out when I want to or be able to fight back via facial expressions.

They can pretend all day but they can't deny those stars and stripes are fabulous
In Italy, a friend once made mention of how everything sounds so urgent with their inflection. A simple invite turns into an imperative shriek. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO THE MOOOVIES WITH ME!!!!" How much more likely I am to agree! Everything is like a beautiful song and dance because you can make it out to be that way.

 I miss the way that, however annoying the neighboring conversation may be in volume, the context completely evaded me. In America, when the woman pretending to be 22 when she's clearly 49 is guffawing over mimosas about how much of a headache she has from her wild night, I'm only aggravated at her efforts of stupidity. If she were talking in French, I could just laugh at her wanna-be walk-of-shame ensemble and not have to want to rip my ears off, Van Gogh style. 

Ignorance truly is bliss.


8. Foreign Children
Much like I feel about Miss Middle Age, hearing loud children beg for cookies or to go potty gets old fast in English. But in Italian it's ADORABLE. Especially when you point it out to your American friend and the kid looks at you like you're from outer space. 
I now understand why Angelina is an adopt-a-holic. 


7. Pistachio Flavor
America: home of the free samples, land of the artificial preservatives. All of our junk food from Famous Amos to Skittles are culinary corruptions. They have a longer list of ingredients than Gene Simmons has of partners and they leave you wanting more due to their affordability and abundance of options.

Let's be real, how many times have you fought over the only red Starburst in the pack?

But in Italy, their shiny star of snacks is the pistachio. Who would have thought? This expensive little California-grown nut can be transformed into a frothy green frozen treat. Gelato, McFlurries, you name it.

You order it. You enjoy it.


6. Exotic Chips
Pistachio not exotic enough for you? Dislike the salty but sweet taste? Good thing it's basically only available in Italy. Every country, however, has their own regionally distinct flavored chips. 

The first bag I shoved my gluttonous little hand into was in Paris. Saveur Bolognaise. The bag depicts a garlic clove, a tomato, and a red sweet pepper. The bag holds a blast of unstoppable goodness. 
If that's not necessarily exotic, never fear. Also featured in France is what we liked to call the Turkey Dinner chips. It was nothing short of all the flavor and, by the time you finished the whole bag, an eighteenth of the nutrition.

But the meat packing didn't end there. The first day in Spain I was privy to their hot commodity: jamón. They found a way to harvest all the delectibility of slaughtered pig into a crisp potato chip in a purple bag. 


5. Siesta
What goes up must come down. 

After running around every city looking for the best and the cheapest eats, picking apart every brushstroke in paintings, nothing was better than curling up in our shaggy dorms and knocking out. 

Before class, during class, indiscriminate. 

The way my trip was set up, I had the grace of the angels land me in Spain during the last leg of the trip which mean from 2-5, the entire city of Sevilla closed up shop, went home, and slept. Large Scale Nap time. That is the way every country should be (but never will.) 

America is so worried with staying open 24 hours for convenience. We have everything open on holidays. We are a country of working and providing while they are a country of living. So their economy is falling apart... America is so hung up on money that staying awake to spend it is more of a burden than an enjoyment.
 
4. Everything Is Art
La Sagrada Familia is art as well as a perpetual work in progress.
Bridges built by kings. Museums created from palaces and prisons. Fountains!

Whatever you walk on is the product of a world renowned artist. And it's all in the open for you to touch, photograph, swim in [illegally], or vandalize. But no one does. 

It is so part of their culture to accept and respect Bernini sculptures that spew water. What we consider to be done "behind closed doors" is done on stage. Guys in tight sparkly pants stab bulls to death as people watch and cheer and secretly hope the bull's horn gets a stab. Weekly church goings are at cathedrals comparable to museums. Driving through what armies marched under is simply how you get to the store. 

But it is still so much more appreciated than any of our graffiti or hipster styles.
 
 3. Public Transportation
No time to get a good glimpse of the Paris subway trains.
Here, the announcement "please stand clear of the closing door" suggests that everyone on the platform make up their mind on whether or not they'd like to partake in the current train trip within about 20 seconds, because then the train is taking off.

In Paris, whatever it is they say over the loud speaker directly translates to "you better have all your limbs through that door because we have to be at the next stop within five seconds." And they mean it. 

I've seen backpacks lost and pickpockets succeed because, once those doors are closed, the holy grail could be on the other side and the conductors wouldn't care.  


2. Defined Culture
I have a theory that these colors are meant to
depict the tainted, sinful ways of the human soul
to remind the Pope's entourage to stay in line. 

America is all about improvements, even if that means fixing what's not broken. Though we come no where near having as much cultural background to sit on as the rest of Europe with it's ancient wars and kingdoms, if you walk outside you see nothing but the 20th century. Our nostalgia is confined to our minds and not physically preserved. 

There, they don't care that the Vatican guards look like clowns. Even with their loud pride-esque ensembles they are notorious.

Spain doesn't care that America stole their religious garb and turned it into the icon of racial hate crimes. They still hold their same processions and pay homage to the same beliefs they have always stood on. 

Venice is well aware that it's going to sink into the water and join Atlantis. But they still continue to live in this waterlogged houses and commute on their boats because that is what they are used to and far be it from the laws of nature to tell them otherwise.  



1. Being American 
You never need a special occasion to represent America.
Everyone at one point in their life wants recognition. Even though we strive to fit in, we crave attention and the way to get it is to stand out. Standing out in Europe was absolutely NO PROBLEM WHATSOEVER. As much as I still felt at home and still felt like an expert on their kings and their artists, I never hesitated to represent. 

I wasn't too shy to speak aloud among the dead silence of the Paris trains.

I wasn't going to simply let some guy sit in my overnight train seat that I paid for just because he wants to pretend he doesn't speak a lick of English.  

I became that girl who was constantly saying "Will you take a picture of me?" "Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?" "Oh I have to take a picture of this bird on this sign that I can't read."

a little taste of home
I came home with an American flag scarf that I bought in Florence... come on. 

I guess it's good to be home. But only because absence makes the heart grow fonder.


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

La Fin de Semana y del Viaje...

Surrounding all the chaos of finishing classes, packing for home, and enjoying every moment I could in Spain before I departed, I completely neglected to highlight the final weekend of my trip.

Destination: Lagos, Portugal.

We went as a group, obviously. FUN FACT: DTW doesn't do anything if we're not all doing it together. All 75 of us.

In all honesty, it was only 60. So, give or take. We signed up with a excursion planner who transported us, housed us, and provided entertainment. 190 euros. DONE.


It was only about three hours outside of Seville. It's like driving to Atlantic City, but much prettier and no drinking or gambling age limit. So IDEAL. And though I love speaking Spanish to locals and improving my vocab, Portugal (who, keep up now, speak Portuguese) are much more English accommodating.

Most likely abandoned by other sea-legless sailor.
First thing they told us that we would be offered an opportunity to go on an Unlimited Sangria boat cruise.

I obviously stopped listening after they said "unlimited sangria" and threw my 25 euro at the guy.

I joyously pranced to the boat, got on like I was a fisherman, had two cups of sangria before some tattooed man strapped a life vest on me.

"You're going to the caves."

OH AM I?

Relatively happy I did. We got on one of those little motor life boats and they hopped through the waves towards the tall sandy, jagged cliffs. And then inside of them.

The insides weren't necessarily "inside." They were just enclosed by walls, but no ceiling. Apparently, the fishermen would have names for all of the different 'rooms' that mocked houses. I can totally relate to their homesickness. Not for home per say, but rather, for land.

As we bounced through the waves on the way back, I noticed myself clenching my teeth even harder as I kept reminding myself it was all mental.

For the rest of this cruise, I neglected the unlimited sangria and sat with my head between my legs, along with my twin who was also feeling the g-force of the waves.

We got back to shore and everyone was singing and dancing on the bus as I sat and prayed that I'd be able to eat something and keep it down.

BUT THAT WAS THE WORST OF IT.

Tara want a burger.
The best of it? Nah Nah Bah.

Nah Nah Bah is this little restaurant that we would have never stumbled upon had we not signed up for our entire trip with the travel guides that we did. And what made this little hole in the wall so fabulous? The World Renowned Toucan Burger.

Yes, you heard me. Voted in the Top Ten World's Best Burger on the meal menu accompanied by either beer or sangria. What could be better? A succulent burger drenched in it's own secret Nah Nah Sauce, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and pineapple.

After finishing this burger, you're almost too full to get drunk.

Challenge Accepted.

When the sun rose again, I was ready to go. First stop of the day: the top of the cliffs in which we boated to. Much more comfortable of a situation for me. And so beautiful.

I like to live on the edge. I like the view from above.
Flip-flops were perhaps not the best decision. We climbed a cliff, dismounted a hill, and waded through algae crusted banks.

Personally, I liked it better at the top.

Looking down on those damn boats.

It was one thing to see cliffs. It was another thing to go to World's End.

That's right my Pirate wannabe scallywags. I went to the World's End. Portugal, for those of you with little or no geographical knowledge, is the most western point in Europe. That leaves us the opportunity to get to the furthermost west of the country... the longest we had to travel.

As in, we had to take transportation. That was new for us.

the end of the world. the end of the trip.
We arrived at the spot. Sagres. The reason that stupid Portuguese thought the world was flat; looking out the eyes sees nothing but horizon. I don't blame them for living in their fantasy. It was beautiful. Perfect timing for my camera to die. But not enough to keep the DTW fam from memorializing every moment we had together.

It was our last weekend, and as the sun set behind the edge of the earth, we realized our time would soon be venturing out across the open sea to the land of the of-age Native Americans. Some French, some Italian, maybe a little too many spanish Speakers, and every other ethnicity east of us.

 *tear tear*

Or in some of our cases...

*tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tea tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear tear *
My dear [completely sober] friend Alan

ENOUGH OF THAT.

We had our last night to tend to. In a place called Bill's Garage that we had to weave in and out of alleys to discover.

But world travelers and night hawks that we are, we surely did.

In the morning, we strapped into our weather inappopriate beach attire and went to the beach. Some decided to play frisbee, others soccer. However I along with my bridge-jumping partner and thrill seeker Sebastian, took to the water to play polar bear.

The only two to submerge into the freezing water.

YOPO. [You Only Portugal Once] And we certainly did Portugal well.

And then returned to Sevilla for LA SEMANA DE FINAL.

Monday, May 7, 2012

La Feria

As much as we have loved to party in all the other countries we've been to, Spain has proven to us it loves to party the most.

Last week was the famous Feria de Abril, literally April Fair. It is a week long celebration of life and Spanish culture. It's a fair on CRACK. Rides, foods, tents with their own personal parties, and most importantly of all WAFFLES. Known in Spain as 'gofres', the waffles is a delectable play on the belgium treat smothered in chocolate or strawberry or whipped cream to your heart's desire and is the heaviest drug to which you can get addicted.

I refuse rehab. My addiction is so bad that one morning, I woke up in a cold sweat and drug the most willing human being from bed to accompany me to the fair (which doesn't close until 6AM) to get a waffle.

Best decision of my life.

This isn't just a creepy carnival fair with clowns and dunk tanks like we do in the states. This is a serious celebration. So much so that you don't even wear jeans when you attend; all of the girls, toddlers to twice divorced women wear full on flamenco dresses.

"But how do they ride the rides?" I also asked myself this question. But somehow, they get their tight mermaid-stlye dresses over the leg separator and lift off. No clue...

Los getting loco on the Inverter.
However, I must agree that if I were in that dress there wouldn't be venturing on the rides either.
My favorite: the Inverter!

Basically, there are four rows of four seats in a circular formation at the end of a pendulum. It starts swinging back and forth until eventually, you guessed it, you're completely inverted. And then there's that moment where your seat just buckles and starts swinging and your clavicle gets bruised.

It's AWESOME.

This ride, as well as the lamest haunted house I've ever enjoyed being in, a pirate ship cage, and a bouncing kangaroo ride, were all offering club music to wait in line to.

It is literally just a massive party. And it's awesome.

And it is now on my bucket list to come back in the most fabulous flamenco dress the world has ever seen and ride the Inverter.

The week ended with a 4th of July worthy fireworks show on Sunday night. Made me wanna bring the whole festival to us in July.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Toro, Toro

Men in tight pants is not a sports tradition distinct to American baseball. And man, am I glad about that.

Yesterday, I saw my first bull fight in the bullfighting capital of the country.

Originally, I had no pretense as to what these were and what exactly the angle they were to take.

They don't race. They're not up against criminals. They are dangerous as Hell. So they just wave a flowy cape around?

BASICALLY.

The whole idea is that a family in Spain raises the bull as its own. A pet, in a sense... and sends it to be slaughtered in the ring for honor.

In Italian-American tradition, or at least in my house, we would say "Saus-eege is own." Meaning, alright Spain, do your thing, but I will never sell my dog for honor.


For the past few days there had been one resounding question among the dorm: "What do we wear to the bullfight?" So naturally, we staked it out the arena for the congregation of spectators. They were all dresses as if they were going to church. That's when we realized this is not bullshit. (lol?)

So the day came upon us, we all got fancied in dresses and blazers and khakis and whatnot to appear to blend in as much as possible before we spoke.

I was surprised at the ease in which we waltzed in. We showed our ticket only at the gate we were to go through to get to our seat section and that was it.

When the show started, there was a relatively modest procession of the matadors followed by the caballeros yielding lances in the stadium. The matadors took respective post behind blockades around the outside of the ring and the bull was released.

GAME TIME.

The matadors would pop out from behind their little doors with a cape that was not red, but pink on side and yellow on the other. My brilliant drummer of a friend suggested that they may taunt them with the pink and then turn it to yellow to blend with the sand/confuse them.

Spot on.

The whole point of the round was to see if the bull would fight and kick and ram its horns. If it did not, as the second bull did not, the crowd clapped a continuous tri-beat applause. At this point, they released cows into the arena and the matadors backed off. The point of the other nonviolent heifers was to have the bull herd together with the rest and be ushered out of the arena.

Brilliant.

So after that bull was not up to par, and the family was most likely put to shame and sent to Puerto Rico, they brought out the one with the real fight in him. This bull was HUGE and had a lot of fight.

El toro quiso pelear!

After the crowd gets a little excited to see the matador(s) dance with the bull and their capes, out comes the caballero with his lance. No worries, the horse has armor on. The job of this horse rider is to spear the bull, kind of provoke him and simultaneously impair him.

After the bull is bleeding and finished taking its anger out on the poor caballo, the matador come out with fancy little colored spears.

Then it's all up to the matador to perform. We got lucky enough to see EL PRIMER MATADOR DEL MUNDO in his pink pants of glittering wonder. He had green and red spears; I am assuming he may or not be of Mexican decent. He is certainly not Italian... I've forced myself to have a mental block on all things Non-Hispanic.

So there he was, face to face with the bull, dancing with his spears in the air, awaiting the charge. The bull obliged, and most certainly regretted it shortly after.

Número uno con sus panalones rosadas.
The whole point of the spears, which by the end of the fight total in 6, two at a time, along the spine of the bull. And even after all of the six spears/hooks are strategically and artfully inserted into the bull, it is still kicking...literally. BEHOLD another bull-related expression!

At the point, the bull is exhausted. It has been impaled and hooked and still taunted into running around. Now, the matador takes out the red cape and you know it's about to get real. With the red cape comes a long sword.

Not a little hook or spear or lance; a sword. The bull knows it, but doesn't give up. The matador even grabs the bull by its horns to get it to keep fighting. And the bull, with its infinite stubbornness, does.

We watched this happen to six bulls. But this third bull (second if you don't count Mr. Docile) was one for the books. When that red cape comes out and you know it's a wrap, the bull is stabbed in the head with the sword until dead. This bull went down so dramatically that I regret not having enough camera memory to have videoed it.

His legs collapsed underneath him, he swung his head into the air, spewing blood from his nose, and laid down.

*Que Spanish music of defeat*

*Que ceremonious chariot*

The horses are again employed, much less dangerously this time. They hook the bull up and drag it from the arena as, in this specific fight, other ground keepers come out and shovel up the blood and rake the sand.

...and the next bull is released.

I have to admit, the first bull I saw stabbed and fall onto its little knees kind of struck a chord with me. Then I thought about hamburgers and got over it and was able to enjoy the rest of the show. It really gives you an idea as to what it was like to watch gladiator games, though we knew who would most likely win.

Also have to admit, there were points in which we were rooting for the bull to win.

Next stop: Running with the bulls!

Sunday, April 22, 2012

I, Amsterdam

So it was spring break; 10 days off with no plans. All it took was a light kebab lunch for us to decide: we gotta go to Amsterdam.

So we booked it. After a few days of trekking to Spanish beaches and lying along Sevillan rivers, we took two buses, a plane, a train, another bus, and a tram and ended up in the general area of our Amsterdam hostel.

Que my very erroneous belief that I can figure out words in any language through phonics: "Could you tell me where [Court Leeds-ed-war-strat] is?"

"LOL oh Korte Leidsedwarsstraat, of course."

Not to mention our hostel was called "Leidseplein" and we were referring to it as "Led Zeppelin."

At least Dutch people are so nice. There's not time to be mean in their language because words just have too many random assortments of letters that there's no breath to fight with. Or the fact that their whole culture is based around sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We got off the plane with a group of 4 men with choppy haircuts and black studded jackets, walked through the red light district to indulge in a space brownie.

Basically.

So after getting that out of our system, we figured we should get some sort of idea as to what we would spend the next three days doing without burning a hole in our pockets on absolutely nothing [of sustainability.]

Luckily, I stumbled upon the Amsterdam key which provided us access into over 100 attractions, museum, and offers in the city in addition to a 48 hour tram pass.

FIRST STOP: VAN GOGH.

The man I wanted to see ever since I had taken art in Paris, where I had been face to face with some of the absolute most legendary faces of art. But an entire Van Gogh museum? Nothing like that in Paris with all that David running around.

Like I said, Van Gogh. What a guy. He did, after all, cut off his ear for his lover, who may or may not have been a man and art partner, Gaugin. Just sayin', when you live and paint together, sparks fly. And I support. The reason his museum is in Amsterdam is perhaps due to the liberal nature of the city and the controversy surrounding both artists and their mental states, sexual orientations, and methods of art.

Personally, I love it. Van Gogh was one to push the envelope with his style of painting during the realist movement. Instead of portraying things as they are, he chose to portray things through evoking feelings.

Only illegal to take photos if you use the flash (or get caught.)
My favorite painting, Skull Smoking A Cigarette, wasn't supposed to be an anti smoking campaign, but rather a way for him to express the death of artistic freedom through taking formal lessons, as he did not.

BRILLIANT.

Much more famous and recently seen by my own two eyes in Paris (I get around A LOT), is The Bedroom. The bed is outrageously too large in his attempt to accentuate the importance of sleep. Even though I find it ugly ass Hell, I can give him props for trying and his reasoning for it. I'm a fan, Van Gogh.

And that was just the first stop!

We also went to the zoo, several other photography galleries, got a free singing pen from the Heineken store, saw the oldest church in the Netherlands (which was filled with creepy Illuminati like art), and deemed ourselves Amsterdam.

It looked so good I forgot to take a picture before it was half consumed.
In the event in which I make a travel guide for Amsterdam, I would put the Van Gogh museum first and Burger Bar second. Burger Bar exactly what it seems like it would be: place where very hungry young people can go and indulge in the most delectable of handheld foods on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.

If I were a dude, I'd skip the hooker and go right for the explosion of pleasure provided by Burger Bar.

I am so serious.

space brownie.
The first time we went, I got the single burger with cheese, avocado, jalapeños. It is absolutely phenomenal, and was definitely our go-to spot before we discovered Wok to Walk and then had to leave. Had I been there more than four days, I would definitely have gained my weight in Burger Bar concoctions.

The only other food I could recommend would be Baba's space brownies. Good price and very unsuspecting taste. Oh, and you have to be at least 18 to eat it.

So besides the food, the hookers, and the art, the city is beautiful. It is situated in its own coordinates shared with several canals and bridges.

I love bridges.

They don't quite provide the same splendor as the Brooklyn Bridge or the Verrazano, but it's still cute.
bike racks on bike racks on bike racks

For those of you who have been conscious of origins, our city, New York, was formerly New Amsterdam. I can somewhat see the resemblance. The big difference is the fact that everyone in OG Amsterdam is white, Dutch, and speaks English. Their public transportation is much faster, too. Perhaps because it runs above ground. I don't mean above head, but on street level, right along with the cars. I truly questioned the safety of this, but it works so efficiently that it doesn't even matter.

The other major staple of Old Amsterdam citizenship is bike riding. They love bike riding so much (and avoid cars as much as possible since the tram hogs the road), that they have bike garages in place of parking garages.

And coffeeshops.

Such a happy go lucky place! So easy to navigate as well. When we were looking for Burger Bar our second time with our handy dandy blinking tourist badge (aka- map), a nice man gave us directions by sending us down the street, a left, and into the square that has in the center of is what can only be described as a "giant dildo."

Gotta love the Dutch.


Monday, April 9, 2012

Top Ten Gelatz

Yes, I know I'm in Spain now. But if there's one thing I miss about Italy, especially on days under a sizzling Sevillan sun, is gelato. Sweet, creamy, multi-flavored gelatz topped in a crunchy waffle cone.

I'm drooling (or just sweating...)

So, while in Italy, I took careful notes on all of my gelato excursions and came up with what I consider the best. You may want to study this very carefully if you ever venture to Italy.
I pledge my allegiance to Gelato.

1. Biscottino
Oddly enough, it’s not quite gelato. The sign always says “Gelato non gelato,” but two gelatos in a sentence means gelato to me. It’s a lot creamier than the actual gelato, pretty much like a heavy whipped cream. What makes it really delectable is the little crunchy cookies in it. It is oreo ice cream, Italian style. So therefore, better.

2. Walnut
Sounds a little strange, but I swear it is a pleasant surprise. It is the same color of walnuts, kind of helps support the idea of minimal artificial flavoring. Since it’s cold and creamy, I’m not going to say it tastes like a walnut, but I think the reason I like it so much is because it reminds me of when I used to get cinnamon bun batter ice cream (before they discontinued it </3) at Cold Stone and put walnuts in it.

Pit stop in Venice for Pistachio.
3. Pistachio
All I think of in my head when I request this is my Dad screaming through the phone to request this when I go to Rita’s. Rita’s doesn’t always have it, however. Italy does. It is their staple flavor, so much so that McDonald’s has a Pistachio McFlurry. Walnut isn’t quite a walnut but Pistachio is most positively a pistachio. I didn’t think it was possible, but they made a frozen creamy treat salty to perfection. The tiny little grains of ground pistachio aren’t even bothersome. The rich green color is just as natural as the Sicilian taste of the expensive ass nuts. It is my official go-to flavor.

4. Settevelli
This is a magical concoction paying homage to a cake like dessert of the same name. It is a rich dark chocolatey base with what tasted like a sort of whipped cream, but not quite marshmallow, swirl. Definitely my go-to flavor when I needed a quick chocolate fix.

5. Cannoli Cream
Hello? Need I say more?

6. Cinnamon
I actually got this on accident, but what a beautiful disaster it was! So the girl’s like “wanna try this gross rice cherry flavor?” So I was like, YEAH. And I hated it. So I asked for pistachio then a sample of cinnamon, so she just slopped it on my cone. My nerves immediately shot through my face. I thought it was going to be the first gelato cone I would throw out. One lick, however, and I was in love. THIS is where ColdStone modeled my favorite ice cream flavor after: Cinnamon Bun Batter. I don’t know if Turkey Hill has a version of this, but I am surely going to die without it in the States.

7. Cookies
This delicacy is a rarity; so much so that the only place I’ve found it was the infamous “Old Bridge” right near the Vatican. Appropriate; this is a God of gelatos. Not quite chocolate chip and still not chocolate chip cookie dough, but it’s my favorite part of a cookie making experience: the dough. Straight, delectable, buttery floury frothy dough. In gelato form, which I’m assuming means no raw eggs. Acceptable NOW?
King of Gelato. Old Bridge <3

8. Ricotta and Pistachio
Also only experienced thus far at Old Bridge, this doesn’t leave much the imagination. I already explained the way pistachio is a blend of chunks and salt to make an oddly sweet desert. Now stir it up with some delicious ricotta that I was under the impression only the South Beach Diet noted as a scrumptious treat, and you have yet another Holy Relic of desserts.

9. Cappuccino
My favorite ice cream in the states is coffee, but for some reason I was never truly enticed into choosing coffee gelato. Perhaps because the name is just not Italian enough. Cappuccino certainly steps up to the plate. It doesn't quite have the coffee bite like the self named flavor. It's much more creamy, directly simulating the experience of drinking the foamy coffee concoction with triple the calories.

10. Tiramisu
The Italian dessert that, if not made right, will get you drunk in a quite unenjoyable way isn't just at our favorite 24-hour bakery. In gelatz form, it is not layered, but rather a fully combined experience. When you lick into it, you can certianly be fooled into thinking that it actually has a cake like consistency. And no fork needed.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Felices Pascuas

Even without weekly scheduled group excursions to mass, I was able to get myself up this morning in time to attend mass for Easter Sunday.

Mom, how proud are you?

Even though it wasn't Notre Dame, I knew that I wouldn't regret doing so. The cathedral that we decided to trek into the city center to chill with God in was Alcazar Cathedral. This is the elusive cathedral I spoke of earlier. It's the one that holds Christopher Colombus and whatnot.

Just a tiny corner of what is the massive cathedral.
We did think, by the way it sits on a plot of land equivalent to what looks like three city blocks, that it was the biggest cathedral in Europe. Unfortunately, we were wrong. It is actually the third largest; the first being St. Peter's Basilica in Rome (check...) and a cathedral in London whose name escapes me. This, however is the largest gothic cathedral in the world.

NO BIG DEAL.

We were walking into the city center from what I explained to you all (vosotros) as our suburbia haven and saw an amazingly low number of people outside. Those who were were all decked out in either adidas or wearing their one shoulder backpack to the front.

AKA: American tourists.

Inside of Alcazar, not to be confused with Alcatraz.
Santa Domingo in Spain is not a time to enjoy the sun, which had peaked out today for the first time in weeks to celebrate JC's ascension I guess. It is a time for church and siesta. The entire city is shut down.

Naturally, our first fear was that we would get to the cathedral and find the entire population of Seville inside, since it was only 9:30 and there was no sign of native life. We got lucky. We got there, and though it was swarming with tourists and the mass had literally just begun, we were able to explain to the high security team that we actually wanted to pass through their gated area to attend the mass.

We were seated in an awkward area off to the right of the elaborate floral decor alter in wooden fold chairs. The smell of the waving ball and chain filled with incense brought me back to my early Catholic school girl days when we used to cover our noses for dear life. I guess the fact that it was in Spain made me appreciate it a little more.

The mass was such an elaborate show that we saw
all the side stage action.
The Spanish mass especially made me appreciative of the holiday and chillin' in the house of the Father. Though it was long, I like the challenge of piecing together the lisps into comprehensive spanish.

What really struck a chord of familiarity, being in a gothic church, was the music. Remember me describing the Halloween-esque music of Notre Dame? Well, this wasn't quite as creepy, and the alter boys didn't emerge from the depth of a pit of punishment, but when they played Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, I truly felt like I was in a vampire movie (one in which they don't sparkle.)

Considering the sun that had taken a vacation from us until this moment, it didn't feel like I was doomed to the inner circles of Hell for all eternity. Leaving church made me feel good about myself, and even better about my friends who all also agreed to wake up early to pay homage to our religious practices in the most important Catholic city behind the Vatican itself.
Soaking in some sun and sangria; the Spanish way.

That didn't change the fact that we were starving and the whole city was shut down to celebrate the finale of holy week. After walking for a good half an hour we stumbled across a little outdoor cafe who must be either in the red or run by heathens that would feed us. Not my favorite paella de tapas, but it did the trick.

I think God is finally as appreciative of us as we are of Him, that's the only reason I can think of that he finally provided us with a beautiful day.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

La Isla Tranquilla

Spain is in a league of its own when it comes to European tourist cities.

Paris was more saturated in history and art than the Chip Shop is saturated in fat. It took no attempt at all to learn; I simply walked not even out of the building, but out of my room and shot back in time with what the signs on the door warned us to be "old Parisian staircase."

Rome was much more full of its own solid culture of the oldest civilization that somehow echoed through time and was maintained in artifacts, culture, and customs. Hearing the Italian was a little bit more familiar than the snotty French, but still not quite comprehensive to my native English mind.

Now here I am in Spain, the country who doesn't take lessons from the others and does its own thing.

This program was originally supposed to take us to Salamanca, but changed to Seville due to it being more urbanized for us little city students. Even though I know the feeling of being secluded from any type of urban setting and requiring modes of transportation to interact with other humans, I'm not used to it during my school time months.

It's not nearly as bad as my shaded house in the hills, as we can walk down the block for restaurants, bars, and markets, but the real action is a 40 minute walk.

THE HORROR.

I supposed we would be able to live without the 3 minute distance between the nearest department store like we had in Paris and Rome, but didn't realize how truly quiet of a setting we were capable of living in as a group.

All of our basic conveniences are very close by which is a convenience, except between the hours of 2 and 5.

Perhaps you've heard of something called Siesta? Basically, it's nap time. All the stores, restaurants, gelaterias, farmacias, and even the cervecerias close their doors and have lunch and a nap.

Oh you smoke and just finished your pack of cigarettes? Well you get a chance to dabble with the cold turkey method because you're not getting a drag until everyone wakes up.

Oh your brand new flip flops ripped and you're walking on one foot? Well you're going to waltz the Walk of Shame like no other broad after Halloween, because you're gonna do it with no quick fixes available with a quick debit purchase.

Or maybe you just need something to eat, or your sweet tooth is begging you for some churros and chocolate? Not until after dinner, which isn't until 9 o'clock anyway.

I didn't understand their late dinner until I got here, and went out to the club. You see, in New York, we would always be ready by about 10 or 11, be out by 12, stay there until anywhere between 2-3:30 depending on who had too much to drink, and go home.

In Spain, they eat because they need to have the food in their stomach close enough to when they start drinking, which is at least 2 hours after we even finish pre-gaming. Most clubs are free before 1AM because no self-respecting siestaing Spaniard would even dare hailing a cab to the club until 2AM.

Spain is so chill, it's unbelievable. I don't chill like "dude I been drunk for days, spain is so chill."

I mean you walk outside, and the traffic, even with all the stop lights, is a maximum of 5 cars. They sleep in the middle of the day and give you tapas for 2 euro. The bike lanes, which run directly roads, are possibly the most serious aspects of Spain; if you're walking on the bike lane, approaching simply ding the bell and you step aside onto the designated sidewalk.

I'm telling you, neanderthals.

What I could probably appreciate the most is tapas. Since Spain was announced on my itinerary, all Dad said was "you havta get tapas." And I finally have and understand why.

A bowl of paella, plate of calamari, and a chicken selection: 2 euro each; 6 euro lunch.

Absolutely delicious.

The sunshine? Yeah, that's been on spring break too I guess. But otherwise, the palm trees and calm winds are everything to reckon with.

Y yo hablo español todos los dias.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Domingo de Ramos

pensé que Roma era reliosa….

Seville takes it to a whole different level.

Today was (and still is for you American based Americans) Palm Sunday. After a long day of siesta and getting rained on I walked down the hall of our family complex and ran into one person who simply said, “we’re going to church.” It has been a few weeks since I’ve partaken in a nice little sit down with the Man Upstairs, so I jumped into as conservative a dress as I own and joined in the march to the city center.

pretty elaborate for a no name church.
The city was mobbed with people of literally every age in there absolute best attire. All the guys, from the tiny tots to the abuelos were in full suits and the girls were dressed in the most modest form of club attire.

Easter in Seville is a fiesta like no other.

Without knowing exactly which church we would be attending mass, we followed the crowds of people, though they seemed to be going in every direction imaginable.

Maybe the massive cathedral there will have mass was our mindset. This particular cathedral was so large that the general consensus was that it was most likely the largest in Europe. We have still yet to confirm that, however what is confirmed is that the actual body of Christopher Colombus is here. That’s pretty monumental in itself.

What they didn’t have, however, was mass.

So we continued on, hoping to find at least a church to say a little prayer in to (partially) earn a beer that we were planning on having afterward.

Joe modeling his Palm Sunday attire and palm.
We got lucky in finding a church that was holding mass within the next ten minutes. We entered to discover that the group of 11 of us made up the majority of the congregation. That was fine. The mass was obviously still in Spanish. It is helping me get much better at it, so I have no complaints.

We sat through the shortest Palm Sunday mass in history and collected our palms that are more like little olive branches than the palms I’m used to folding into little crosses.

At the conclusion we exited to find the city had erupted into a full party. It can best be compared with New York’s Halloween parade, or the Rockefeller tree lighting. It was a big deal.

Having been warned beforehand, we avoided the shock of seeing the traditional tall pointed and face covering robes that Americans can identify as racial hate groups. Not in Spain, everyone. This is a very sacred tradition rooted in medieval ritual. Even the little Spaniards wear them and were part of the parade into which we were thrown directly into.

And this is only Palm Sunday….

The Klan has NO originality...
From what I collected from the mass, the priest was very intent on emphasizing that being in Seville during Easter is a very fortunate occurrence. No other city in the world embraces the religiosity of the season like Sevilla.

I’m interested to see what other types of messages God is trying to extend to me by bringing me to this continent that loves Him more than I could have ever learned from Bibles and theology class.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Jumping Right In

So we have departed from Rome, and although I already miss it dearly and it’s been less than a week, I can’t knock the sunshine in Spain.

And of course my ever-developing Spanish.

We actually live in a hostel that is unaffiliated with the school…need I say more?

I digress.

So far, everything my dearest señor had ever taught me is a proven fact. Everything from the lisp that all Spaniards speak in to the vosotros form and they, in fact, do not hold up signs that say, “conjugate this verb!” You just have to know how.

We are relatively separated from the real life of the city, which is a new idea to us. We have the bare necessities nearby; ie- supermercado, bars, American diner.

The first weekend here, I experiences all of the above and even took an excursion outside of the lively Sevilla.

Sharon, Sebastian, and me: bridge conquerers.
We drove a long time to some bridge in some town.

Sounds promising right?

Alright, so we signed up to participate in a bungee jumping excursion.

I didn’t really watch the entire hooking up process. All I knew was that we were to sit into a leg harness that and those little mountain climber clips were attached until you were ready to plummet.

NERVIOSA.
I watched two people go first. Actually, I watched two people get strapped in and one climb back over the railing in fear. Very inspiring. So naturally I volunteered to go next.

It was me and go ol’ Sebastian, which was intimidating considering I knew if he went there was no way I was backing out. I got strapped into the harness and the first wave of immense fear hit me as I climbed over the railing. I wasn’t hooked in, this was not the time to trip. Had I tripped, I probably would have at least broke my arms, therefore I wouldn’t be able to type.

Comforted yet Mom?

So there I was, standing on the railing of a bridge letting Spanish speaking men tell me I’m going to be okay as my hands tremble relentlessly.

All I kept reminding myself of was the jump I did into the state park which will not be named due the illegal nature of our presence where I jumped into the water after having to get pep talked into doing it. This was worse.

I heard the countdown begin, looked over at Sebastian, and as soon as the countdown finished, even mid-freak out speech, I pushed off the bridge.

Once we got into the raft I asked my jumping counterpart what he thought and he said “I thought I was dying.”

THE JUMP.
Accurate.

The fall isn’t long, but it was long enough for me to see my 20 years flash before my eyes as my stomach came up through my throat.

And then I felt the tug of the stop.

After that is the swing which gives a slightly smaller drop, but nonetheless stomach turning.

This was one of those moments that you feel young and alive (as someone else screamed as the jumped from the ledge.)

It was an absolutely incredible experience. And it took place in Spain. Adrenaline at its finest.

in our life boat.
From some points of view, this can be seen as completely uncharacteristic of me. But if nothing else, this entire trip is an excuse to do things uncharacteristic because that's part of finding out who you are and doing it in the best way possible: jumping off bridges.

I mounted the bridge and screamed ESTAMOS VIVIENDO. I don't think there was a better way to put it in any language. I had to jump because had I stood on the ledge and climbed back over, it'd be a missed opportunity.

And I'd have to sit in the Puss Circle with those (and by those I mean one person) who were strapped in and stepped back from the ledge.

In all honesty, I want to go back and do it again. But maybe I'll just settle for sky diving next.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Pizza, Lava, and Eroticism

These are a few of my favorite things! All can obviously be found in Italy.

Italy has so much to offer that traveling during this module only includes different cities in Italy. It's THAT good.

So we hopped on TrenItalia (marketing plug) last Friday and headed to Naples. No sleeping necessary (aside from my hangover) for three hours on a sunlit train. Very pleasant. We had basically one intention there and that was to have the Mother of all Pizzas. Ever.

Unlike one of my travel companion's very ill thought out plan to eat 5 salami sandwiches on the train before we got there, I prepared myself in every way possible to taste what pizza was meant to taste like.

We arrived in front of the famed L'antica Pizzeria da Michele where Julia Roberts ate what was probably the first carb of her life while starring in Eat, Pray, Love before the crowd even started to congregate. Somehow they did manage to fit our own personal crowd of 16.

There are three sizes of pizza: Normal, Medium, and Maxi.
First bite of Heaven.



Go big or go home, right? Needless to say… I got the maxi. When in Rome, or Naples.

It was absolutely delicious and though it was hard to stuff it all in my stomach, I did it. I don’t regret a single bite.

Outside of the doors, slicing through the crowd of people, lay before us the beautiful and romantic Naples. Less historic, making it much more lively, we took in every little piece of architecture and culture of this pizza-inventing, original-colonized city. From the tall project buildings to the spiderweb-esque bullet punctures on the windows, it was hard not to fall in love.
Everything I dreamed of... (?)

…the pizza was worth it.

Thank goodness it was never our intention to spend the night there or I may not have been writing this post.

The trains in Naples and surrounding areas work a little differently than all other trains I have ever taken. Depending on where you begin and where you intend on ending determines the amount you pay for your train ticket. I guess it’s intercity rather than interborough, so it makes sense.

We conveniently were able to get to Sorrento for 4 euro and the longest trainride since Venice. About an hour of people-watching and hoping the scenery would get better than our first image of the Almafi Coast.
Sorrento on a cloudy day is still beautiful.
And by scenery I meant the natural layout of the city, not the boys who blatantly wore girls pants and had 80s style, side shaven-frontal floppy hairstyles. I found it very strange that it was literally a very unique style that seemed to en vogue for the Napolitano boys, and no other boys in all of Italy.

When I finished dissecting the mops on the heads of these boys I got to look out the window and discover the landscape had turned from overly-urbanized Naples to hilly Sorrento with steep peaks over calm waters. It was absolutely beautiful.

The city (town?) itself was adorable. It looked as if it was built by Walt Disney; cutely narrow streets, shops galore, and just an all around peacefully fattening feel.

Not to mention Sorrento is famed for being the inventors of the strong, fruity, Italian liquor Limoncello. Perhaps the whole reason for the city being so lush and beautiful was to keep their lemon growth at its peak. Head sized lemons are not something one can simply grow in infertile and polluted soil.

View from Vesuvius.
We went from life and growth in one town to death and destruction in the next. You guessed it: Pompeii. What’s a little Italian historical excursion without some sort of dead civilization? Before we could see the dead itself, we saw the monster responsible.

And what a monster it was! After taking a trolley up the winding Vesuvian streets, which my theatrical friend described very cleverly yet falsely as a homage to the mythological serpent of Pompeii, we got to the top. And by top I mean, the highest point they would take us before we had to walk.

You don’t know how out of shape you are until you attempt to climb a Volcano. All the while, there was a tiny part of me just begging for it to erupt to put me out of my misery.

By the time I reached the top, I had whined to so many people that I made new friends and I had felt every single bite of pizza I had taken within the last 4 weeks.

So worth it though; even atop a Volcano, you couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of everything we overlooked.
Pompeii with the quiet monster behind her.

Even the dead civilization.

This civilization, Pompeii of course, is always publicized as the poor innocent city that naively situated themselves at the foot of a Volcano and fell victim to its fury.

Well, I have my own theory. What isn’t publicized much until you get there is the fact that they were crazy nymphomaniacs. All over the walls are elaborately painted frescos of the Italian version of the Kama Sutra.

In my theory, possibly shared with the radical Catholics of the world, that they were probably soiled with unexpected pregnancies and STDs so God was just like, ya know what guys, enough.

enter Mt. Vesuvius


Perhaps this was me in my last life.
The main topic of conversation was: What the hell would you do if you saw that mountain explode in Volcanic ash and molten rock? After weighing the possibilities of attempting to create an imaginary sled, maxing out a lifetime of adrenaline sprinting away, and hiding as deep underground as one could possibly dig before it hit, we all decided we would just lay down and let it happen.

And now we have an excavated city of ruins and frescos and pottery and clay people in positions of terror. And eroticism.

A trip that covered at least three of the deadly sins: lust, gluttony, and vanity.