Word Cloud

I've been pretty absent from this blog lately, focusing on finishing up my final year at UCSC and working, but I recently came across a word cloud generator and plugged in the blog URL to see what came up. I kind of like it, it seems pretty reflective of my time abroad:

Although I don't believe in God.

 

How can I be expected to properly express myself when my vocabulary is so small a thing and the world so large and full of nuanced experiences? Here always comes the start—the outpour that does not know if there is too much or too little, if we are too similar or all alike, if there is more or less to be done, if I am doing anything right or everything wrong. I am tired, tiresome, my skin feels heavy and old, despite my sometimes role as that sort of semi-wandering embodiment of innocence. God bless the drugs, and God bless your father growing marijuana in his vast French fields. God bless the white-eyed German boy walking down the highway in his underwear with his thumb out. What have we done? Picked up a bit of trash, at least. God bless that docile compliance to the flow of life that rises up with the first rays of sun when our jaws are still working and our pale shadows are still jumping all across the sand. The margin for error is as slippery a place as my heels are full of sea urchin spores, but there is something to be said for these transition spaces and the strange, wonderful people that inhabit them, thumbing through memories in their little wooden homes. Home is where your questions come unraveled. Home is where you test out your new skin and hope.

Azul

Este es mi primer intento de escribir algo creativo en Español; ironicamente, es dirigida a alguien que no habla Español... Espero que no sea completamente ininteligible.

 

¿Donde esta mi taza azul, mi pájaro azul, mi alma azul?

¿Donde están mis dedos, azules, en la blancura del invierno?

¿Donde están esos ojos fríos, tan azul como el mar tumultuoso y indeciso, los ojos que me miran directamente en el azul de mi alma incierta?

Dos meses largos y ardiendo, dos meses de naranja y rojo, dos meses oliendo de la acera caliente, de sudor y agua tibio, dos meses lánguidos y húmedos…

Y vuelvo a ti.

Y vuelvo a la verde tranquilidad de los árboles.

Y vuelvo a la frescura del aire pacifico, de las nubes San Franciscanos.

Y vuelvo al azul de tus ojos, al azul.

Heave

jangle of anxiety

nameless knot, a’tangle

sudden thirst for the drastic

bared skin and ink, needles, hard rocks, pounding muscles, heaving flesh, yellow bruises, rushing wind, taut vocal chords strumming, hollow echoes, spraying dirt

and here within the dull bluish light

you drone—

foe, fiend, friend

the bland blabbing nonsense, lesbian

interpretations, you reduce inspiration to

some groveling textual paste

sludge to be sorted, reeking dead words

to stack

and separate

and sterilize;

outside the sunshine glimmers in absolute liquid intangibility

outside, beauty is a thing as varied and monstrous and fluctuating as

pungent and sweat-beaded

clawed up and stinging,

scuffed and scarred arching back,

as some pock-marked tooth-sweet neck

            raspberry red, hot with surging blood,

loud and discordant as

jagged breath through swollen, wet lips—

nothing is pure and simple

nothing is clean and true—

life is only worthwhile as some sticky

            half-guilty, heavy-lidded ecstasy

something to be eaten up and ravished

to throw yourself upon

with naked, shameful abandon

to grasp at with greedy fingernails

            hungry, groping limbs

shadows running slantwise all across the bared,  imperfect flesh

traversing goosebumps and pink scabs

            with trembling fingertips

nerves exposed like the dirty rafters in some split-open squat

wide open

and submerged in wet adrenaline

ferocious, determined chance

absolute surrender—

I hope to not live in the stillness of black and white lines and

immense, immaculate care

but to spend myself in some exhausted heave

to drop dead in a morbid tangle of sweet sickly memories

splayed out, vulnerable as birth

and all mixed up in the reverberating echoes

of a million ecstatic, frenzied souls

each intensely devoted to the vibration of their own shadowy selves

intensely devoted to the exploration of their inky abundance

            boundaries

and the limits of this strange, rippling sea

            of possibility and pleasure

            of dark and velvety aching

            of celestial, stinging uncertainty

Solipsism and Interconnectivity

I.

I’m trying to say that nothing feels real. Moments come and go and fade away. Memories seem like dreams, I can almost see myself in them, like a different person. Sometimes reality even seems implausible, sometimes while sitting, looking, talking, I feel the world tilt back away from me, glaze over like a dream. I’m never quite certain if I’m awake.

I’m trying to say that I feel sometimes incredibly disconnected from all that is around me, as if I’m floating through life without touching it. People sometimes seem impossibly distant, impossibly different creatures. I don’t understand the things they do, or why we all behave in this kind of shadowy secret way, as if we don’t have innards. I wonder why it’s not okay to show more. I feel like words are often inadequate for expression—thoughts are so much more than words, they are multi-dimensional experiences that mix up bodily feelings, senses of all types, goals, dreams, hopes, conjectures, memories… And I’m often frustrated by my inability to access the experience of others, and by my inability to share myself, my experience, my thoughts, my inner world, with others. Misunderstanding is a human condition. When a series of events produces a reaction within me, I want it to be touched and held and seen and understood and validated by others. That rarely happens. This makes me feel dismissive. This makes me feel achy and uncomfortable in my own skin.

There is some comfort, but also horror in the idea of solipsism. I am the only thing, just one long thought process blossoming into a complicated, colorful word within which I’ve built a place for a concept of self. Sometimes time feels jumpy, like I’m being plopped down into different settings and manipulated into interacting with varied, imaginative stimuli, just to produce feeling, to test the limits of the imagination, the boundaries of the big, sustained thought process which is the only thing, ever.

Sometimes I feel that way, but more often I guess I feel like we are isolated little units, blundering into each other with no hope of communication. Not only is language inadequate, it’s incredibly personal. A word is a only a symbol, attached to which are a series of experiences, and these will never, ever match up. Maybe this isn’t solipsism in a pure sense, but I think it relates to Gorgias’ idea that even if something exists, and even if something could be known about it, knowledge can’t be communicated to others.

II.

Despite all of this, though, communication does occur, at least to some to immeasurable degree. We can relate symptoms of physical pain, for example, and diagnose illness. We can meet for lunch at 2 ‘o clock. We can even listen to the same haunted notes and cry. And sometimes, quite often, despite the fact that we try so hard to present an outer idea of self and conceal our inner world, the inner world leaks out, and we study each others actions, personalities, histories, and come up with sometimes accurate conclusions. How?

All this makes me feel the opposite of alone; it makes me feel intrinsically connected to everything. It makes me feel as if we are not individual selves but fleshy pieces of a huge, breathing organism, something universal and communicative. Perhaps words are inadequate, but we seem to be communicating through out pores and veins, through our irises and our nerves.

These are the things I’m trying to say. These are the sensations I’m trying to convey. The words are inadequate, but I hope I am transmitting something.

Disclaimer of sorts: I know pretty much nothing about solipsism or Gorgias. These are just thoughts that I had brewing in me today, after watching Solipsist and reading a very small bit about the idea of solipsism. They are also probably influenced by reading excerpts of Emerson's essays on Nature.

Morocco: Desert Tour Day Two

 

We wake up early for a bleary eyed breakfast—oily crepes with butter and jam, bread, coffee, and tea. Then back to the van, back on the road. Keith is running behind so we pull the van away from him, pretending to take off, giggling. The hostel’s proprietor seems more concerned than he does.

Our first stop is along a tall cliff, to snap photos of the huge bulbous rocks that are supposed to resemble monkey thumbs. “I can see something, but it’s not a monkey’s thumb, “ Joe comments.  “Looks more like troll dick,” Mom adds helpfully. The rocks are incredibly phallic, it’s true.

We’re on the road for a good while, twisting and winding through the insane streets as the sun begins to creep up and send shadows along the roads. Our next stop is at the deep Dades Gorge. It’s freezing but beautiful, We keep running into the same groups of tourists and are unable to escape an American family with their horrible blond little girls that keep yelling, “Get me in the photo!” every time they see a camera. Moroccan children follow us with little woven grass trinkets, trying to stick them on our clothing, especially Mom. They tell Mohamed that they need money to buy a soccer ball, but he says they told him the same things last week. “Always the same story.”

I feel similarly when lunch rolls around and we encounter the same menus in French—Moroccan salad, omelets, tagines. I order a salad and a vegetable tagine. After lunch we stop at a fossil shop, where we are shown trilobites and squid captured in stone thousands of years ago when the desert was a sea. We watch them lifting, grinding, polishing huge slabs of rock, and still the workers stop and smile flirtatiously. Then we are taken into a big gallery with huge polished tabletops, necklaces, sinks, business card holders, all made of fossilized stones that can be shipped to our home countries.

Then it’s back to road, where I attempt to study half-heartedly. Our next stop is for water, then scarves. We drive through a gate to the scarf shop, and men come and greet us with leathery hand shakes and jagged smiles. The shop is beautiful, covered floor to ceiling with rugs, scarves and djellabas, the ankle length robes with pointed hoods that are so prevalent. The prices are good, and everyone digs through the big piles of cloth in every color imaginable. The shop keepers wrap Mom’s head in a lovely turquoise cloth and joke with her, “How many camels?” They wrap the men’s heads, too. We leave with three scarves. Everyone seems to have found something—Keith even scores a black djellaba. On our way out, a boy around my age smiles at us and rushes ahead of us and stops us in the doorway, saying, “Sorry, excuse me, look.” He points out a big sword hanging on the wall. His face is proud. He stands by the door, beneath a big goat skull, and waves as we drive away.  In the car we practice wrapping our heads as the men showed us. Tomás masters it quickly, and leaves his turban for the rest of the ride.

When we arrive at the dunes, we are given a few moments to leave our belongings in a hotel room, just taking with us our cameras, extra layers of clothing, and water. Across the street from the hotel, we can see the camels (dromedaries, to be exact—they only have one hump) lined up, lying down. As we approach an unexpected hum of nervousness build in my stomach at the prospect of riding these strange creatures.

There is an older Berber man, Omar, and another boy, my age, Mubarak, to help us onto the dromedaries and guide us. The camels are ornery and smelly and generally hilarious, tied tail to snout in a row. They protest and bellow as we mount them, one by one. Mine is named Baksheesh, the guide tells me. Tomás is riding Jimi Hendrix, who seems to be the grumpiest and keeps foaming at the mouth. They walk in big awkward strides across the dunes, led by Mubarak, who walks ahead of us in long straight-backed strides. Every now and then he glances back at us to make sure we’re alright or shouts out, “Hold on!” when the animals are on the verge of ascending or descending a particularly steep dune. The sun slinks down behind us and we stop to take photos as the dunes turn to a deep, burning red, and the sky ripples into a myriad of yellow, orange, green and finally a dusky blue. The rhythm of Baksheesh’s careful, long-legged steps is almost meditative, despite the ache that begins to set into my thighs and lower back. Slowly, crystal clear stars begin to appear overhead.  The desert is absolutely silent save for the plodding steps and our fragmented conversation. Three or four camels ahead burn a tiny orange ember, the scent of tobacco wafts through the air from Mubarak’s cigarette. About two hours later, in near complete darkness punctuated only by the sparkle of the persistent stars, we arrive at a clump of shadows that is to be our camp for the night. Mubarak coaxes the camels back onto their knees and they bellow and moan, again. He steadies us as they lurch down in two heaving motions. 

The camp is comprised of two or three rings of tents surrounding an empty fire pit, illuminated by one bare bulb that we later learn is powered by a little solar panel. We shake hands with the enthusiastic young Berber, Yousef, and Farrah, a woman from Mauritius who made the desert trek on her own. The men build a fire and we vacillate between multilingual conversation—French, Spanish, English, Berber—and contemplative silence. Eventually Mubarak reappears, announcing dinner, and we enter the dining tent, illuminated also with a bare bulb and a few candles. Farrah’s place has been set in a dark corner of the tent, and the boys tell her, “You Berber.” We insist she come and eat with us.

We start off with a tasty rice and tomato vegetable dish, something I hadn’t come across yet. Bread is plentiful, of course. Mubarak and Yousef take turns checking in on us. “Everything good?” they ask. Joe tries to tell Mubarak that it’s the best meal he’s had in Morocco but his English isn’t up to the challenge and he stares at Joe with dark, confused eyes. Joe finally makes that universal smacking gesture for delicious and he gets it. Next they bring us two tagines, one only with vegetables, one with chicken. It’s sizzling hot. We follow it up with big juicy oranges. After our plates have been cleared away we gather back around the fire and the boys bring out drums and play for us, pounding out fast rhythms and calling out in playful broken voices, encouraging us to clap. Yousef pulls our chairs away from the fire and dances, pulling at the edges of his robe in a goofy bent over camel dance. “Baila! Baila!” he calls to us. They yell out, “Aiy, aiyaiyeee!” Yousef keeps telling me, “Estás durmida!” Mubarak hands his drum over to Tomás, and Mom plays for a while, too.

Conversation and song blend together in an easygoing flow of sound and gesture. Yousef tells us riddles—“What is born with two horns, lives with none and dies with two horns?” He asks us twice, English and Spanish, and when we can’t figure it out he says, “Es algo natural,” and makes a gesture with his hands. “La luna?” I guess. Yes. We ask him, “Why is six afraid of seven?” He loves it.

It’s getting later, and Keith has already slipped off to bed, not feeling well. Mirjam and Florian follow shortly after. The boys tell us the moon is coming up and that the fire will obscure our view, so they lead us away from the tents. We climb a steep dune in the absolute dark and shiver and stare as the moon creeps up, a big luminous half-orb, outshining the clusters of stars smeared all across the black sky. I want to lay on my back, but the sand is freezing. Mubarak sees me shivering and offers to wrap my head in a turban with my scarf. He brushs my hair away and winds it carefully around, covering my mouth. It’s much warmer. When we descend he offers me a hand he later comments, “Becomes like the foot of a camel,” rough and calloused as a hoof. We return to huddle around the first, but this time Mom and Farrah drop off to sleep. The fire is dying down, and the men scoop up coals and toss them between their bare hands to keep warm. Even Joe and Tomás catch them for a moment. Omar tells us of cold desert nights when they’d spread our the remaining coals and place their mattresses over them for heat. We share heavy woolen blankets that smell faintly of the dromedaries. We stay up for hours that way, exchanging broken sentences around the warm ashes.

Highlights from a Thanksgiving in Spain

Explaining a turducken, that look of simultaneous amazed confusion and understanding; ah, this is why Americans are so fat.

The question, "What do American people do in Thanksgiving? What do they eat? Same than films?"

Deciding to make apple crisp, opening a brand new flour package and discovering bugs living in it.

Running extremely late, feeling like a jerk, arriving to find everyone is a panicked whirlwind in the kitchen and running even later.

Dinner that was scheduled for 9pm occurring at 11pm.

Tortilla de patatas as a Thanksgiving dish.

Spanish people trying a sweet potato dish for the first time.

Spanish people failing to properly grasp the concept of Thanksgiving gluttony; consequently eating more than all the boys.

Explaining appropriate and inappropriate uses of the word "swallow."

Being asked if American people always invite a homeless person over for Thanksgiving, also due to movies.

Hilarious impressions of American "bros" or "gangsters." Imagine: "What's up, bro! Oh fuck yeah, my man!" etc with a (impressively diminished) Spanish accent.

Spanish kids attempting to steal Leah's red solo cups because they are the cups from American Pie, the ultimate party cup. Spanish kids examining and admiring said solo cups.

Hilarious impressions of French accents in order to achieve "sexiness."

Laughing so hard I wanted to die.

Things wrapping up at 3:30am; getting shit from Spaniards for not going to the discoteca afterwards.

Love Is

Someone recently read my blog Love is Not and asked me what I thought love is. I told them that I would think about it "when I have time" and then half way through my Spanish Lit class, only a few hours later, as the unfocused drone of my mumbling professor began to invade my soul, the question came back to me, and I wrote this in the back of my notebook:

Love is more than a light bulb moment—it’s a slow flood of heat from toes upward. It’s a backward black hole blinded dive; love is a decision, a mixing up and sorting out of self, a process. Love is negotiating skin and soul, a chemistry, all the feathers of a drooping phoenix, a thing that lives and breathes, goes up in flames, and is reborn inside you as naked and vulnerable as an egg. Love is made of steely bird bones. Love is an inconvenient tumor, the most beautiful disease. It’s holding hands and growing up, words, warm blankets and low light. Love is learning, reading flesh and eyes, a kind of literature, history, psychology, it’s manual labor. Love is a place to cry, an open wound, a puzzle piece, an ocean. It’s an accumulation of little things that stack up in your bones and hold you up, weigh you down, peek out of your pores. Love is dissolving voluntarily, a jelly soft shudder through your stupid, incomplete soul, a contract, a pathway, a box overflowing with dirt and twigs, rusted nails and bits of cotton, cardboard, glue, wood and temptation. Love is a child’s toy, something made with care, it’s a thing that’s not been practiced, drawn, planned; love is an accident as startling as the Earth. Love is gray clay and warm hands. Love is a dirty habit, groggy contentment and messy hair, the taste of sweat, an unraveling.

Granada: the beginning.

Granada;

sweet like soggy piononos,

rolled up like all those softish syllables,

wound within my mouth, the cinnamon of them coming out of yours.

Granada;

the smells of pungent urine, the sticky cobblestones

broken shoes and inflamed graffiti.

Granada;

the white houses of the Albayzín stacked up the Sacramonte,

the flowers spilling from their open eyes,

shifty hands, strumming hands,

the smell of onion on my hands, olive oil

tart on the tongue, and soft still.

Granada;

that self-sure stride across the busy street,

tapas always coming, the little forks, the sharing,

sweet tinto de verano making soft the wettish midday heat,

on your forehead, the back of your neck.

Granada;

the festival feeling in the stomach pit, always coming,

emptiness of days gaping over the school calendar,

the tense planning,

and the hugeness of possibility, spread out across the European map,

the anywhere-urge between my ribs, flighty,

the love for this place is far from sedentary.

Granada;

fountains, fountains,

colored lights at night, summer weddings and

their impossible wardrobes—those big stilt shoes,

somehow straight, skinny ankles,

the fireworks, just behind the corner

of some brick building or another.

Granada;

the cathedrals, their ugly history,

the gold, the crumbling statues,

the paradoxes of time and place,

and all our stupid textbook warnings in the wind,

Marias smoking María, the words we learn

in black lit bars, in and out of us like the beer.

Granada;

another melting pot,

an orchestra of accents,

over bocadillos, over café con leche,

over tomato puree, paella, watery chicken soup,

over anything two pm or ten o’clock,

those endless lunches, dinners,

and him laughing at me for potatoes in the morning,

eating up America,

which they say is a pinkish sauce and hamburgers,

which they say is a tendency to say so, to say nice nothings,

which they say is a lack of proficiency with the map,

which they say is a lightness of hair, a presence on TV, which makes me wonder,

how many Americas there are.

Granada;

the never spicy stomach ache,

the maze of grocery store dilemmas, pricey plastic,

the smell of fresh bread and a woman who puts your fruit into a bag,

ham and ham and fish,

Granada;

midnight kitten footsteps,

and their kind of fear,

their kind of smallness in the women, too.

Granada;

the broken-pixel TV screen,

the tiny curve I discovered in my leg,

hookahs and leather in the crowded shops, the teterías,

double kisses on the cheeks, that hope,

with each new face,

all the questions, spilling out,

the burly buses, full, the uphill hike, the fliers,

your name on a list, peeing behind a dumpster, a wall, a bush,

that newfound feeling of happy surprise

when there’s paper in the toilet stall,

the unexpected gratitude for punctuality,

and simultaneously the dwindling sense of its importance,

post-ten o’clock beer at stores where

you swear you aren’t being racist, it’s just called that,

the graph paper notebooks, always,

that question, ni pescado? following the near unheard of claim,

vegetariana.

Granada;

always surreal, always walking,

dogs in the alleys, scabby with hanging teats,

rarely leashed, and their shit on every street,

the strange little exercise stations at random in the plazas,

the plazas, benches full, the sleeping homeless,

the botellons and that incredible brand of legality,

catcalls, bronze,

the postcards and to-do lists, the photocopies,

flimsy prescriptions, sandals,

Granada;

a certain clean laundry scent,

the clothing hanging outdoors,

a million shitty red cell phones and that annoying song,

the Spanish affected versions of:

chaser, awkward, spoon—

ensuing laughter,

drinking games, hand gestures,

frustration in my chest, and

up and down days,

the language laying stubborn on my tongue,

sleepy Spanglish, blisters,

exhaustion on the happy days,

exhaustion on the impossible days,

exhaustion after walking, after drinking,

after being out till eight am, after an early-morning trip,

exhaustion after listening, after telling.

exhaustion always,

and that double-sided incredulity;

it’s already been over a month,

it’s only been just over a month.

Fuck Yeah, Finals!

Hellz yeah, we're done with ILP! After a rather stressful scrambling kind of week, today we had our final exams for the Intensive Language Program and all in all I'm feeling pretty swell.

Our first exam with the exact same thing as the "placement" test we took at the beginning, which was kind of weird and unsettling. The prof just read this weird text about the magic and responsibility of youth and we had to write a summary of it. What makes me a little nervous is that we had to list any experiences we've had in Spanish speaking countries, so I'm a little worried that he's going to be harder on those of us that have already studied abroad... But I understood it all and think I did a fine job summarizing, so....whatever.

After that was a grammar worksheet, which was really short. He didn't even really make us use any weird-crazy verb tenses (or I did it wrong) so I felt alright about it, but I also get nervous when something seems easy because I worry that I'm missing something. I always find some way to worry, huh?

After that we had a huge break because the Reading prof just had us email him a response paper thing about the texts we've read in class. So I used to time to write some notes for my Lit exam (which was open note) and to review my History notes. For History we just had to write an essay about whatever interested us most; I wrote about the Reyes Catolicos and the "reconquista" of Granada, which interestingly ended in a pact that kept the Alhambra from being destroyed and let the Muslim people stay and live under the Catholic rule. I also wrote about Franco and the shift to democracy after his death, which was miraculously achieved without a war.

For Lit, it was pretty much that same deal; chose one of the readings we've had for class and write an essay about it. But for this one we were allowed to use notes and even computers. I think a lot of people wrote theirs ahead of time and just transcribed but I stuck to notes. I wrote about the section of Quixote we'd read, and how the dialogue between Quixote and these merchant dudes represented conflicting ideologies, and how Cervantes mitigated his own social commentaries by delivering them through a character that is generally perceived as insane. It may be a strange thing to say, but it actually felt really nice to write a paper. I secretly love academia, I guess. I feels really strange to have such a limited vocabulary, though. I'm used to being fairly articulate, and I think I have a nicely sized store of words that is continually growing, so it's weird to have to express my arguments using a pretty stunted baby-sized vocab. I'm sure it'll improve with time, though.

This is a photograph of the chalkboard during our Lit prof's lecture. I know it's really small but I highly recommend you click on it so that you can see that it is absolute illegible insanity. He's REALLY passionate and nice, and pretty interesting, but also super scattered and nutty. I'm taking TWO classes with this guy, too. I must be insane, too.

After exams I packed a bit; I'm thinking of taking my big suitcase of clothing over to my piso today (after the heat of siesta, of course) and then tomorrow bringing over the remaining clothing, my toiletries, my computer, a few books and maybe the last roll of toilet paper in my bathroom. It hadn't occurred to me until today that I'm going to have to start buying things like toilet paper for myself now and (GASP) there's no Costco to help me out. Sometimes its the most mundane things that really strike you. Anyway, that's the idea, but I'm not 100% convinced that I'm okay with being that idiot rolling a huge suitcase through town. I couuuuld just take eeeeverything over in a taxi tomorrow but that also seems like a pain. I hate taxis; I find them awkward. It must be me that's awkward. I'm pretty excited and terrified of meeting my compañeros de piso, but even if they suck I'm determined to have an awesome weekend, because it's the only time we have between closes. Basically it's a three day summer vacation. Much fun is required.

There's a "farewell cocktail" event tomorrow at a restaurant, which should be fun. It's a little sad moving away from all these lovely Californians. I know a lot of us will probably grow apart, but I have made some really wonderful friends that I'll definitely keep in touch with.

Rad Clothes, Readings and Religion

So many things, so little time! How do I express all the ups and downs of the past few days in this little space? It's impossible. I hope everyone gets the opportunity to have an experience like this; these words do so little justice to the days I'm spending in Granada. And it's hard to remember, but this is only the beginning!

Since my last update, Chelo took us to visit the Cartuja campus, which is where many of us will be taking classes. It's up a dauntingly steep hill, so I foresee perhaps taking the bus up and then walking back down. The hill has it's advantage though; the view is beautiful. That same day, we began our ridiculously confusing quest to choose classes. Words cannot express my frustration, but things are starting to become clearer now.

On another excursion day, we took a gander at what used to be an Arabic bathhouse. We got in for free, because Chelo told the man we were English; apparently we would have been charged for being Americans. The United States can be such a plague sometimes. The bathhouse was nice; there was a dingy green pond that wasn't particularly exciting, but the structure behind it was this cavern-like building made of stone with wonderful little star cutouts in the ceiling.

Afterwards we went to another colegio mayor where there were (surprise!) more nice views. The Alhambra seems like it's everywhere.

On the way back we ended up running into a few other sites of incomprehensible historical significance. It's so strange to be so thoroughly saturated in history that really incredible places are overlooked because they are so common.

After all the walking, thirst took hold of us, so we stopped in at a bar for some soda or tinto de verano. Felix had an appointment to look at a piso, which we were all going to tag along for, but on the way we discovered an adorable little vintage shop, and decided to stay behind to look around instead. I didn't buy anything, but I was super excited to come across it! I'll definitely be returning for a cozy sweater or two this winter.

On the way home we ran into two more thrift stores, as well! Heavenly. I bought a pair of sandals, finally succumbing to the Spanish heat. I know everyone is going to think I'm a hypocrite for this next photo, but really, how else can I show the sandals off? So shush!

Last night, according to a little schedule dealio I picked up in a cafe, there was a poetry reading in a little bar called La Tertulia. It was a reading of Borges and Machado, which happened to be timed perfectly, since we were scheduled to read Machado for our Literature class this Monday! So, a rather large group of us found our way to La Tertulia's big red door, where we found an artsy cafe/bar that was surprisingly empty. As we ordered drinks, an older man in a red and white striped button down warned us that there was going to be a poetry reading in a moment, but when we told him we'd come to see it, he seemed very pleased. He asked us where we were from and how we'd heard of his little bar, and was all around extremely sweet.

The reading itself was great. Two older men discussed and read poems written by Borges, Machado and themselves. One of them was a bit harder to understand than the other, but most of it came through and it was a pleasure to listen to. There was little intermission, during which time one of the readers had a CD to give away; the owner chose a number between one and twenty-two (or something strangely specific like that) and had us count off until someone guessed correctly. By chance, Laurel, who seemed a bit confused as to what was going on, was the third person to count, and after some explanation guessed fifteen and won the CD!

The reading continued, ending with a few songs from one of the poets (whose CD Laurel had won.) Afterwards, Laurel thanked him and we told him how much we enjoyed the reading. He was so sweet! He told us how much he appreciated seeing young people seek out poetry and thanked us for coming. He even signed Laurel's CD case, although there was some confusion as to how to spell her name. Ultimately, we all loved La Tertulia, and are hoping to come back soon (perhaps to take a gander at "Versions of Bob Dylan" which is performed every Monday...) I couldn't help but smile the whole way home; it was such a sweet place and having found an adorable vintage shop and a welcoming artsy bar in one day made me feel so content and at home. I'm really beginning to discover the Granada I want to be in.

Even the bathroom was awesome! This was spray painted on one of the walls.

When we returned to the resedencia, a group of people were headed for the bars, so we tagged along. The large number of people made decision-making nearly impossible, though, so one of the other girls, Leah, and I broke off and went to La Marisma (the vaguely scummy bar with cheap beer and sunflower seeds mentioned in this blog, as you may recall) to have a few beers and maybe try our hand at chatting with locals. It was actually quite nice to sit down and talk one on one, and eventually we did end up chatting with a few Engineering majors that were kind of goofy but pretty nice. One of them complimented my Spanish, so that was nice, but once the bar closed we left them to their own devices.

This morning was a tough one, but I managed to get some breakfast before our Academic Orientation, which was extremely helpful. I felt a lot better after Inma (the program coordinator) laid things out for us in a really clear and concise way.

Despite my sleepiness, I didn't manage a siesta after lunch, because, of course, it's Friday and Casey got to take a look at the next little pocket on his countdown calendar!

Little espresso candies! Case is such a caffeine addict, I thought he'd appreciate the caffeinated deliciousness. And they really are quite delicious; I had to sample one or two before putting the calendar together.

After our chat, I was scheduled to visit one of the big Cathedrals in a guided tour. I think my appreciation of it may have been tempered by my lack of sleep, but it was beautiful to look at. Disturbing but beautiful. Our guide, this adorable, well-dressed young history professor, told us a lot about the gory history of the Cathedral, where the Reyes Católicos, Fernando and Isabel are actually entombed. Creepy! The Cathedral is apparently built on top of the site of an old Muslim Mezquita, which was destroyed to punish the remaining Muslim population after they revolted against the Catholic governance. Basically a big, golden, Catholic "fuck you." There's even this huge gnarly wall where one of the saints is depicted literally stomping an opponent to death with a horse, whilst saints and the Virgin Mary look on with approval. Not the best picture but here it is:

All the violent discomfort aside, I did love the ceiling. It's this dusty blue colored huge home with golden stars painted on. This has officially been added to my "dream home" vision.

The organ was also impressive.

Anyhoo, the Cathedral visit was followed by a lot more walking and historical information, most of which kind of sailed in and out of my mind... Now I'm officially REALLY TIRED and need to take a power nap before playing drinking games and heading to a club in the Albayzín!

A Momentary Melancholy

I feel the blue-sky honeymoon shrinking away beneath the heavy Summer clouds; a winter chill creeps prematurely into my bones, into my homesick heart. The quaint streets become foreboding as stress and uncertainty pile up on the sleepy arc of my spine. The slick cobblestones feel heavy and strange.

I wonder if this caffeine heartbeat and timid smile will be enough to prop up my toothpick bones against the sudden influx of impassive faces, eyes as green and silent as cats'. I am enveloped in uncertain skin each night and sleep to the rhythm of my own questions; they echo down the tiled hallways as shape-shifting Spanglish invades my dreams with it's awkward, imbalanced gait.

Amor y el Albayzín

I'm in love with Granada. Sleepy, achy, contented love.

Last night I went out with a huge group of EAP kids for one of our classmate's birthdays. It was ladies night, so we all got in for free and even got a free drink. I have no idea what it was but it tasted like strawberries and was pretty delicious. It was a fun night; I finally got to speak to a few locals, and I didn't get home until somewhere around 4:30am. Needless to say, class this morning was brutal.

After lunch I got to Skype with Casey for a moment before he went to school. We had decided that he'd get his little calendar gifts on Fridays, but since he's going to be out of town this weekend he opened it today. Check it out:

It's a little worry doll! Not the most masculine gift, but I thought it was cute. I also got to see Mishka again. I feel like she's already bigger.

After our brief chitchat I took a siesta, and then met up with the ENTIRE group for a trip to the Albayzín. It was a little bit ridiculous how many of us there where, but the actual trip was so amazing that I'm afraid to try and describe it. We walked along these winding cobblestone roads past all these old white houses with flowers pouring down from little balconies. There were big rain clouds gathering in the sky and the sun was beginning to sink down behind them, and everything looked old and wonderful. Along the way we'd stop and take pictures of the Alhambra. Eventually we came upon a plaza with a beautiful view of the Alhambra and the whole city, where a group of musicians were playing. I really want to take Casey to see it. I took photos, but only with my Instax camera, and since I don't have a scanner I can't upload them! I wish I'd brought my iPhone, but I'm sure I'll be back soon. The whole area had such a good vibe, I absolutely loved it. I wish I could live there, but everyone says that it's dangerous and that there are a lot of gypsies and thieves. We took a different route to get back to the resedencia and ended up passing back through the area with all the tea houses that I loved so much when Chelo took us, which made the whole area that much more appealing.

I'm actually beginning to make progress with my search for a house; tomorrow I'm going to look at a few places. Neither of them are particularly thrilling from what I can see so far, but it's a start. I had one really weird, pushy offer from a man that wanted me to teach his daughter English. Not only was he weird and pushy but the house was really far from the campus where I'll be studying, and I'm not interested in living with a family. I emailed him back denying the offer but he sent me two more messages and then CALLED ME (which was annoying because I don't have very many minutes!) and sent me another message after we hung up. LOCO.

In other news my Spanish is getting better and is stealing all my brain space. Yesterday I caught myself beginning to say, "I already have hunger." I hope this is a good sign.

Anyway, I feel like a dead person and I have to get up for an Orientation talk about personal safety, traveling, housing, insurance and classes so I'm going to do something sedentary like watch a movie and then crash hard.

A demonstration of how I feel.