As expected, the trenhotel from Lisbon to Madrid was both cramped and oddly entertaining. SB and I arrived at the train station in our Mercedes cab half an hour early, so we sat at the Telepizza (the only restaurant or café around) and worked on our computers in sweltering heat while we waited. We could see where our train would pull in, and about ten minutes before we were to depart I got a bit concerned that the train appeared to not yet be there and wondered whether it had been delayed. I handed SB her ticket as we gathered up our luggage and left the Telepizza, and upon approaching the platform we realized the train had actually stopped quite a ways back but that everyone was boarding. As our car was at the very end of the train, we had to drag our luggage for several minutes until we reached the compartment and boarded.
“What bed are you?” I asked my sister.
“I don’t know,” she answered.
I rolled my eyes. “Look at your ticket,” I said.
“You have my ticket,” she said.
I have this instinct where I start panicking as soon as a situation looks like it might merit said panic. “No, I handed it to you in the pizza place. Are you sure you don’t have it?” We were in the door of the train and people were starting to line up behind us. When SB shook her head and started trying to explain, I shoved my bag into our compartment and yelled at her to get on the train and look for the ticket as I started a sprint back to the Telepizza.
“Four minutes!” a train conductor called cheerfully at me as I blazed past.
I had two things on my side for this sprint: I had chosen to wear my Pumas that night instead of flip-flops and I had been training for a half-marathon. The train really was quite far away from the beginning of the platform – probably about a fifth of a mile – and when I neared Telepizza and considered slowing down for entrance to the restaurant I thought about the train pulling away without me. I would be stranded in Lisbon without my passport, ID, money, clothes – I pushed people to the side and bounded to our table, where SB had absent-mindedly put down her ticket while trying to get all of her luggage together. Even in my crazed state I was surprised it was still there, but I lunged across the table and spun back into a sprint to our train, ticket balled up in one hand and phone clutched to my chest with the other. The train conductor smiled at me as I passed him and I wished “Chariots of Fire” were playing.
As soon as I stepped into the compartment, dripping with sweat and holding the ticket aloft victoriously, the train lurched to a start. Three minutes later I was still wiping myself down and reveling in my awesomeness when a conductor came by to take our tickets. “What would have happened if I didn’t have mine?” SB asked, wide-eyed.
“They would have kicked you off,” I joked.
“In the middle of nowhere?” she wondered, aghast.
I looked out the window to find we were at Lisbon’s second-largest international train station and blinked at her before opening my computer to upload my pictures.
Our bunkmates were interesting. One was a pretty Asian girl who knew very little English and looked more uncomfortable when we tried to communicate with her than when we left her alone. This made me a little sad because she seemed cool – once we had all settled down she pulled a beer out of her bag and sat back on her bed reading a guidebook in Chinese and drinking.
In what must have been an attempt to make up for the Asian girl’s lack of speaking, our other bunkmate, a newlywed Australian woman who was half Portuguese and half East-Timorese, told us her entire life story. We even learned how much she weighed and how much weight she lost before her maid of honor (and best friend for 17 years) and she had a falling-out and the maid of honor decided not to be in the wedding. Then we learned how much she gained back and how she planned to lose it again. This was only a small portion of her life into which we were privileged to have insight.
At last we reached Madrid. Upon arriving at our hotel we were thrilled to discover that we could go ahead and check in to our room, which meant showers before exploring the city. As we had traipsed around Lisbon the day before in the heat and then been rather warm in our pods on the trenhotel, we really were in dire need of showers. Refreshed, we headed to the nearest café to look over the various maps we’d been given and figure out how to reach “Old Madrid.”
While delayed due to his plane’s altercation with a large bird, our father actually spent an afternoon in Madrid about two months ago, and before I left for the old country he gave it to me. He also gave me a notebook with his notes on the entire fiasco. My sister and I had read the notebook the night before at a restaurant in Lisbon and laughed so loudly at his descriptions that the waiters thought something was wrong; at the café we unfolded his map and were delighted to find that he had actually seen all the major sites of Old Madrid and helpfully circled each one and drawn an arrow between them. In fact, he had created a perfect itinerary for us. We finished our coffee and smoothies and headed out.
Madrid turned out to be quite temperate in spite of what everyone told us – I suppose because it is already the end of August and so really the heat of the summer has already passed. We hit all the major tourist sites and collapsed exhausted in a Mexican restaurant before a quick siesta, then headed back out to see the Reina Sofia. Neither of us is much for modern art, but we wanted to see the Picassos and Dalis there, and we ended up walking around the museum for more than two hours before our next food stop at the oldest restaurant in the world.
Though we had trouble finding it, El Sobrino del Botín turned out to be everything we hoped. It was a bit expensive, but luckily due to our late Mexican lunch we weren’t too hungry and ended up splitting the suckling pig (the restaurant’s specialty). The inside was old-timey and charming, the menus had the history of the place, the waiters were kind and attentive, and there was even a Mariachi band that tried to play “Waka-Waka” when we requested it (yes, we were those people).
The weird thing about Madrid is that you walk to these historic buildings and look at them and take pictures of them, but they seem less beautiful than they would be anywhere else because all the buildings in Madrid are historic and beautiful. Even the farmacias and cinemas and our hotel are in intricately carved stone buildings. It kind of makes being a tourist more difficult.
Today we ran through Parque del Retiro and are about to go to the Prado, which everyone tells us is the Louvre of Spain. If this is the case we’re going to need more than just today, but as we only have tomorrow left we will just have to be efficient art observers. Hopefully the coffee from the McCafé, Europe’s answer to McDonald’s (we are here because of the free McWifi and free McRestrooms), will aid us in our endeavors.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Drive My Car
One of the first things I noticed about Portugal is that all the taxicabs are Mercedes. In general the cars here are much nicer – and bigger – than I’ve seen in other major European cities. In the three days we’ve been here in Lisbon we’ve even seen Range Rovers and both BMW and Porches SUVs. Maybe this is just a drastic change from Vermont, but I don’t remember these types of cars in Paris or Florence or Valencia.
I’ve been trying to reconcile Portugal with the stereotypes I learned at Portuguese camp, but so far not many fit. The Portuguese are supposed to be a depressed people who wear lots of black and only listen to sad, slow songs, and even if their team is in the semi-finals of the World Cup they’ll not get excited because they know in their hearts they’ll just lose. This is what I learned as the stereotype. I haven’t noticed people wearing much black, they listen to a lot of techno (at least the cab drivers and shop owners do), and I really don’t know their views on the country soccer team. But they drive nice cars and the waiters are mean.
SB and I were at a restaurant the other day and the waiter stood impatiently by the table while we looked over the menu. “How’s the swordfish?” SB asked.
He grimaced. “Okay,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, what’s good here? What would you recommend?”
He shrugged. “The swordfish, I guess,” he said.
We looked at each other across the table and SB raised her eyebrows. She confirmed later that her thoughts mirrored mine: If the swordfish is the best thing on the menu and it’s only okay, should we go to a different restaurant?
That’s just the way most of the waiters are here, though. It’s honestly what I expected when I first visited Barcelona in 2003 – I figured if a waiter is not tipped he has no incentive to be nice. Pleasantly, I’ve found throughout Spain, France, Italy, and Scotland that the waiters were friendly and helpful on the whole. However, this is certainly not the norm in Portugal, where a snarl is more likely than a smile from your local garçon.
Today we lunched close to the Castelo at a café in the shade on a steep hill. Inevitably we take too long to decide on our food for even the friendliest Portuguese waiter, and today he stood beside our table tapping our pen until we sent him away – four times. Despite him we had a wonderful midday meal and got to watch the tourists with enough leg muscle to make their way up the hill to the Castle as we ate.
Afterward we took a boat tour around the coast of the city and saw all the sites we’d already seen – but from the water. Though not informative it was relaxing and entirely breathtaking to see the monument and tower across the Tagas, and with our free cokes and waters and our student tickets we felt we were getting a great deal. SB got to talking with the woman at the bar for a while and ended up with an extra coke, so she sat awkwardly with it as we tried to decide to which tourist we should offer it. I wanted to try the pregnant woman first, but then an argument ensued over whether pregnant women could have caffeine. As I do not study science I deferred to SB, who said they cannot, and we offered the coke to a different woman sitting close to us. She shook her head but pointed to the pregnant woman, who eagerly stretched out her arm for the beverage. This, of course, does not resolve our debate, as European women no doubt do lots of things while pregnant that Americans find abominable.
Tonight begins my second (and last?) journey by overnight train. We arrive at Madrid a little after 9am tomorrow and will start the museum section of our great sisterly European adventure. It promises to be less exciting to write about (WOW, the Picasso was just really really cool to see in person and descriptions or photographs just don’t do it justice!). Até logo...
I’ve been trying to reconcile Portugal with the stereotypes I learned at Portuguese camp, but so far not many fit. The Portuguese are supposed to be a depressed people who wear lots of black and only listen to sad, slow songs, and even if their team is in the semi-finals of the World Cup they’ll not get excited because they know in their hearts they’ll just lose. This is what I learned as the stereotype. I haven’t noticed people wearing much black, they listen to a lot of techno (at least the cab drivers and shop owners do), and I really don’t know their views on the country soccer team. But they drive nice cars and the waiters are mean.
SB and I were at a restaurant the other day and the waiter stood impatiently by the table while we looked over the menu. “How’s the swordfish?” SB asked.
He grimaced. “Okay,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, what’s good here? What would you recommend?”
He shrugged. “The swordfish, I guess,” he said.
We looked at each other across the table and SB raised her eyebrows. She confirmed later that her thoughts mirrored mine: If the swordfish is the best thing on the menu and it’s only okay, should we go to a different restaurant?
That’s just the way most of the waiters are here, though. It’s honestly what I expected when I first visited Barcelona in 2003 – I figured if a waiter is not tipped he has no incentive to be nice. Pleasantly, I’ve found throughout Spain, France, Italy, and Scotland that the waiters were friendly and helpful on the whole. However, this is certainly not the norm in Portugal, where a snarl is more likely than a smile from your local garçon.
Today we lunched close to the Castelo at a café in the shade on a steep hill. Inevitably we take too long to decide on our food for even the friendliest Portuguese waiter, and today he stood beside our table tapping our pen until we sent him away – four times. Despite him we had a wonderful midday meal and got to watch the tourists with enough leg muscle to make their way up the hill to the Castle as we ate.
Afterward we took a boat tour around the coast of the city and saw all the sites we’d already seen – but from the water. Though not informative it was relaxing and entirely breathtaking to see the monument and tower across the Tagas, and with our free cokes and waters and our student tickets we felt we were getting a great deal. SB got to talking with the woman at the bar for a while and ended up with an extra coke, so she sat awkwardly with it as we tried to decide to which tourist we should offer it. I wanted to try the pregnant woman first, but then an argument ensued over whether pregnant women could have caffeine. As I do not study science I deferred to SB, who said they cannot, and we offered the coke to a different woman sitting close to us. She shook her head but pointed to the pregnant woman, who eagerly stretched out her arm for the beverage. This, of course, does not resolve our debate, as European women no doubt do lots of things while pregnant that Americans find abominable.
Tonight begins my second (and last?) journey by overnight train. We arrive at Madrid a little after 9am tomorrow and will start the museum section of our great sisterly European adventure. It promises to be less exciting to write about (WOW, the Picasso was just really really cool to see in person and descriptions or photographs just don’t do it justice!). Até logo...
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Indochina
Today we caught the 15 tram to Belém, home to pasteis de nata. After spending all morning walking along the coast and taking pictures until our camera batteries died (again wearing our Pumas), we made our way into the actual town of Belém and tasted pasteis de nata from the shop reputed to have created them. The lady at the counter sprinkled them with cinnamon and powdered sugar before handing them to us.
It’s difficult for me to describe how amazing they were. SB kept saying, “They melt on your tongue. They melt on your tongue!”
After pastries we toured the old monastery in the town, which is absolutely breathtaking. Apparently it’s a demonstration of the height of the period of discoveries, which I guess makes sense because it dwarfs everything else in the town except the monument of the discoveries. The tower of Belém is also pretty cool, especially since it was just built as a fortress and only has a prison in the basement as an afterthought. For some reason I was under the impression that towers were exclusively prisons, but this one has intricately decorated quarters inside.
We returned to Lisbon around 4, exhausted from walking all day in the sun, and chose a refreshing siesta over a strong cup of coffee. Next on the agenda was the famous Café Brasileira in the Chiado district, and then a quick stop back by our favorite café (not because of the food or atmosphere, but because they have free Wifi. Actually, the password is hilarious – it’s “Indochina”. I actually cracked up when the woman at the counter gave it to me and she thought I needed her to repeat it because I didn’t understand) to do a bit of work before supper.
Throughout all of this I have been unpleasantly sneezing and sniffling, much to the dismay of anyone around me. I try to tell them it is not my fault and that SB gave me the plague, but usually they turn away and leave as quickly as possible. This really has worked out well for us, since most people here smoke and this makes them move away from us.
Tomorrow: the castle!
It’s difficult for me to describe how amazing they were. SB kept saying, “They melt on your tongue. They melt on your tongue!”
After pastries we toured the old monastery in the town, which is absolutely breathtaking. Apparently it’s a demonstration of the height of the period of discoveries, which I guess makes sense because it dwarfs everything else in the town except the monument of the discoveries. The tower of Belém is also pretty cool, especially since it was just built as a fortress and only has a prison in the basement as an afterthought. For some reason I was under the impression that towers were exclusively prisons, but this one has intricately decorated quarters inside.
We returned to Lisbon around 4, exhausted from walking all day in the sun, and chose a refreshing siesta over a strong cup of coffee. Next on the agenda was the famous Café Brasileira in the Chiado district, and then a quick stop back by our favorite café (not because of the food or atmosphere, but because they have free Wifi. Actually, the password is hilarious – it’s “Indochina”. I actually cracked up when the woman at the counter gave it to me and she thought I needed her to repeat it because I didn’t understand) to do a bit of work before supper.
Throughout all of this I have been unpleasantly sneezing and sniffling, much to the dismay of anyone around me. I try to tell them it is not my fault and that SB gave me the plague, but usually they turn away and leave as quickly as possible. This really has worked out well for us, since most people here smoke and this makes them move away from us.
Tomorrow: the castle!
Filhas da Puma
Until my trip from Madrid to Lisbon I had never ridden on an overnight train, or Trenhotel (as they dubbed them in Spain). I would profess to never ride another but I already have my trip back to Madrid booked, and SB’s said I’m going to be on the top bunk this time. I can only hope our two other turistas señoras are as nice next time.
We ended up with a mother and daughter from Portugal who kindly helped us cram SB’s two months worth of luggage into our tiny compartment, and then stayed relatively silent (as did we) for most of the trip. I can’t imagine being a large man – or even a normal-sized man – on one of those bunk beds. They were barely big enough for me. I spent a few hours trying to format a document for work and pining for the internet, then got too hot from resting my warm laptop on top of the covers and just lay in bed pining for the internet (the internet would indubitably have made the heat worthwhile). I also watched the sun rise over what was probably western Spain.
When we woke up we learned that our train had been delayed a little over an hour, so we went to drink coffee and tea in the cafeteria car. I brought my computer and we both pined for the internet, especially as I particularly wanted to respond to an email from my boss. SB struck up a conversation with an English cowboy type who informed us that “stray animal problems” were the reason for the delay. SB thought it was a squirrel or something, but he shook his head solemnly and intoned, “Cattle.”
I kind of thought we would have felt it if the train had hit a COW, but I just stared forlornly at my wireless status symbol and tried to soothe myself and my computer.
Eventually we did reach Lisbon, which must be the city with the steepest hills in the world. We were too early to check in to the hotel so we left our bags and went on a search for new walking shoes for SB, who only had every other pair of shoes invented in her bag (including running shoes which apparently are uncomfortable to walk in). After several stores disappointed us with their lack of Pumas (the only type of shoe that makes hills comfortable for walking, obviously), we wandered into a sports shoe store and SB chose a pair of white sneakers with red stripes. I wanted her to get black ones with white stripes, so she and I would match, or at least white ones with sparkly pink stripes so she would sparkle (and be pink), but she ignored me and got the ones with red. I hoped at least everyone would notice that we were both wearing Pumas, but as of this evening I had no such luck.
We strolled through the main streets and prazas in our Pumas fielding catcalls, which was certainly a result of our awesome sneakers matched with skirts. Upon taking in the cameras strapped to our wrists and my blond hair it was pretty obvious that we were hardcore American tourists, so the catcalls probably had more to do with men who wanted green cards than our shoes, but we pranced along anyway.
Until lunch we wandered around Lisbon’s main streets, hitting most of the main monuments and historical plazas in Bairro Baixa, including an accidental arrival at the coast and a stroll down Rua Augusta (we took lots of pictures beside the sign). We were determined to have lunch at Casa do Alentejo, a lavishly decorated Moorish home converted into a restaurant/historical site, so we spent about half an hour getting lost until we finally asked a waiter for another restaurant for his help. He stared at us like we were idiots and pointed across the street. Though I had asked him how to find the restaurant in Portuguese, he answered in English, making me feel even more like the American tourist I am.
Alentejo was worth it, though. We feasted for 15 Euros each on a three-course meal with wine, olives, and bread, surrounded by the intricately tiled interior of Casa do Alentejo, and left quite satisfied with our persistence.
We checked into the hotel and showered, and I changed into something a little less American – my Obama shirt. That evening we happened upon a Fado show in Chiado (called “Fado in Chiado”) that was tucked away on a side street in a theater far too large for the audience. I worried that the performance would be a bit sub-par in consideration of how few people turned up, but SB and I wanted to experience traditional Portuguese music, and Fado is about as traditional as Portuguese music gets, so we sat in the front and prepared ourselves for the possibility of fifty minutes of bad music. As it turned out, our worries were entirely unfounded – the four performers were amazing and the music was beautiful. At one point the male cantor asked if there were any Americans in the audience, and I proudly jumped up and down while SB shrunk further into her seat beside me.
We topped the night off with sopa de caldo verde and bachalhau com netas, traditional Portuguese food, before heading back up to the Chiado area for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. We finally fell into bed, exhausted, after formulating plans to head to Belém the next day.
We ended up with a mother and daughter from Portugal who kindly helped us cram SB’s two months worth of luggage into our tiny compartment, and then stayed relatively silent (as did we) for most of the trip. I can’t imagine being a large man – or even a normal-sized man – on one of those bunk beds. They were barely big enough for me. I spent a few hours trying to format a document for work and pining for the internet, then got too hot from resting my warm laptop on top of the covers and just lay in bed pining for the internet (the internet would indubitably have made the heat worthwhile). I also watched the sun rise over what was probably western Spain.
When we woke up we learned that our train had been delayed a little over an hour, so we went to drink coffee and tea in the cafeteria car. I brought my computer and we both pined for the internet, especially as I particularly wanted to respond to an email from my boss. SB struck up a conversation with an English cowboy type who informed us that “stray animal problems” were the reason for the delay. SB thought it was a squirrel or something, but he shook his head solemnly and intoned, “Cattle.”
I kind of thought we would have felt it if the train had hit a COW, but I just stared forlornly at my wireless status symbol and tried to soothe myself and my computer.
Eventually we did reach Lisbon, which must be the city with the steepest hills in the world. We were too early to check in to the hotel so we left our bags and went on a search for new walking shoes for SB, who only had every other pair of shoes invented in her bag (including running shoes which apparently are uncomfortable to walk in). After several stores disappointed us with their lack of Pumas (the only type of shoe that makes hills comfortable for walking, obviously), we wandered into a sports shoe store and SB chose a pair of white sneakers with red stripes. I wanted her to get black ones with white stripes, so she and I would match, or at least white ones with sparkly pink stripes so she would sparkle (and be pink), but she ignored me and got the ones with red. I hoped at least everyone would notice that we were both wearing Pumas, but as of this evening I had no such luck.
We strolled through the main streets and prazas in our Pumas fielding catcalls, which was certainly a result of our awesome sneakers matched with skirts. Upon taking in the cameras strapped to our wrists and my blond hair it was pretty obvious that we were hardcore American tourists, so the catcalls probably had more to do with men who wanted green cards than our shoes, but we pranced along anyway.
Until lunch we wandered around Lisbon’s main streets, hitting most of the main monuments and historical plazas in Bairro Baixa, including an accidental arrival at the coast and a stroll down Rua Augusta (we took lots of pictures beside the sign). We were determined to have lunch at Casa do Alentejo, a lavishly decorated Moorish home converted into a restaurant/historical site, so we spent about half an hour getting lost until we finally asked a waiter for another restaurant for his help. He stared at us like we were idiots and pointed across the street. Though I had asked him how to find the restaurant in Portuguese, he answered in English, making me feel even more like the American tourist I am.
Alentejo was worth it, though. We feasted for 15 Euros each on a three-course meal with wine, olives, and bread, surrounded by the intricately tiled interior of Casa do Alentejo, and left quite satisfied with our persistence.
We checked into the hotel and showered, and I changed into something a little less American – my Obama shirt. That evening we happened upon a Fado show in Chiado (called “Fado in Chiado”) that was tucked away on a side street in a theater far too large for the audience. I worried that the performance would be a bit sub-par in consideration of how few people turned up, but SB and I wanted to experience traditional Portuguese music, and Fado is about as traditional as Portuguese music gets, so we sat in the front and prepared ourselves for the possibility of fifty minutes of bad music. As it turned out, our worries were entirely unfounded – the four performers were amazing and the music was beautiful. At one point the male cantor asked if there were any Americans in the audience, and I proudly jumped up and down while SB shrunk further into her seat beside me.
We topped the night off with sopa de caldo verde and bachalhau com netas, traditional Portuguese food, before heading back up to the Chiado area for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. We finally fell into bed, exhausted, after formulating plans to head to Belém the next day.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Lend Me Your Hand
Last night we planned to have drinks with SB’s friend MD and her sister, CD. MD and SB have been close friends during their months in Valencia and were emotional about our departure to Lisbon. We agreed to meet after supper for goodbyes.
My sister and I spent the afternoon recovering from La Tomatina in the Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, a beautiful section of Valencia. It takes up a good portion of the river – did I mention that they drained the river a long time ago because it was flooding the city, and then decided to turn the riverbed into a park? – and was designed by a modern architect. The buildings are pristine whites surrounded by light blue reflecting pools and long bridges or terraces. To relax we walked around the shaded half and sipped tiny lemon slushies before retreating to the bar, located in the center of the white buildings and marked by white tables and chairs, and drank claras (half beer, half lemon Fanta).
CB sent us a message while we were at the bar to inform us that he had crazy stories about his time at the Tomatina, so we told him where we planned to eat supper and he joined us shortly before we met up with MD and CD. The five of us stood in the Plaza de la Reina while CB described his experience watching men try to climb to the top of a greased pole to retrieve a pig, which is actually how La Tomatina begins – no one can throw tomatoes until the pig is off the pole. When he started giving us a demonstration of how the men were trying to climb the pole, including his attempt to show us how one man tried to vertically leapfrog another on the pole, MD turned to us and asked, “How do you know this guy again?”
“He started talking to us at a tapas bar,” SB answered offhandedly.
MD laughed, but I nodded. “No, really,” I affirmed. She blinked and laughed again.
On Sunday night my sister and I were eating tapas at La Taberna de la Reina – actually, we were studying the tapas at La Taberna de la Reina and sipping white wine – when a guy beside us at the counter leaned over and said, “You take the tapas that you want, and then you leave the toothpicks on the plate and they count them when you’re done so they know how much to charge you.”
SB affected a surprised look and said, “Oh, that’s helpful!”
Since she’d been in Valencia for two months at that point, I was pretty sure she already knew how tapas worked. Having read the signs on the bar and menus, I, too, knew how tapas worked. I turned my back on the strange tapas informer, as I am of the opinion that people must earn my interest or respect in order to deserve my time, but SB eagerly asked, “Where are you from?”
I guess she missed hearing English.
“Canada,” he answered, and I knew we were in for trouble.
He introduced himself as CB and led us to ST, an Asian doctor in Australia who he met on the train to Valencia. “And now I’m sleeping on his floor Tuesday and Wednesday nights!” CB announced. ST laughed nervously.
Though I was wary of our new friends at first, I soon came to find them wildly entertaining – as did MD and CD after a few minutes. In fact, last night CB walked with SB and me to our cab, one sister on each arm, singing duets of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone”.
We had an early night and planned to rise early for a quick final tour of the historic parts of the city I had not yet examined in detail. I dragged myself out of bed to run on the treadmill in the gym, which is cool enough to run in until about 8am on a cloudy day, and only came close to falling off once when I ran faster than the pace I’d set and ended up nearly impaling myself on the front handlebar. We made it around the Silk Exchange and the Central Market and ended up at the Cathedral, which boasts the Holy Grail.
This surprised me, as I had never been told that the Holy Grail was a) discovered or b) located in Valencia. However, we were intrigued enough to pay for an audio tour (unfortunately we forgot to get someone to take a picture of us looking ubertouristy) and walk around the inside of the Cathedral trying to avoid the other tourists staring at the ceiling and wandering in tune to their own audio guides.
The grail itself was a bit boring, but boy did we find something better: the Cathedral also houses the preserved arm of a saint. It’s behind bars and glass, which seems reasonable because I could picture myself trying to steal a saint’s preserved arm, and if I would do it you can bet others would too. When I first saw it I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!” loudly enough for several people to glare at me (this means they heard me over their audio guides, too, which does mean I may have been over-exclaiming a bit). I couldn’t help but wonder where the rest of him was. I know he was a martyr, but I don’t think he was dismembered, and if they had the arm preserved why not the rest of him? Why just the arm? Did he do something special with the arm? The audio guide was wildly lacking in information on this topic. They spent seventeen minutes talking about the two different pulpits and fewer than four on the SEVERED ARM OF A SAINT. Who made that decision?
Eventually we left the Cathedral and embarked on our embarking errands – returning Black Beauty, packing, laundry, etc – before jumping on the tram to the train station and catching our train to Madrid. Now begins Epic European Journey of the Sisters 2010 Part II: Portugal.
My sister and I spent the afternoon recovering from La Tomatina in the Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, a beautiful section of Valencia. It takes up a good portion of the river – did I mention that they drained the river a long time ago because it was flooding the city, and then decided to turn the riverbed into a park? – and was designed by a modern architect. The buildings are pristine whites surrounded by light blue reflecting pools and long bridges or terraces. To relax we walked around the shaded half and sipped tiny lemon slushies before retreating to the bar, located in the center of the white buildings and marked by white tables and chairs, and drank claras (half beer, half lemon Fanta).
CB sent us a message while we were at the bar to inform us that he had crazy stories about his time at the Tomatina, so we told him where we planned to eat supper and he joined us shortly before we met up with MD and CD. The five of us stood in the Plaza de la Reina while CB described his experience watching men try to climb to the top of a greased pole to retrieve a pig, which is actually how La Tomatina begins – no one can throw tomatoes until the pig is off the pole. When he started giving us a demonstration of how the men were trying to climb the pole, including his attempt to show us how one man tried to vertically leapfrog another on the pole, MD turned to us and asked, “How do you know this guy again?”
“He started talking to us at a tapas bar,” SB answered offhandedly.
MD laughed, but I nodded. “No, really,” I affirmed. She blinked and laughed again.
On Sunday night my sister and I were eating tapas at La Taberna de la Reina – actually, we were studying the tapas at La Taberna de la Reina and sipping white wine – when a guy beside us at the counter leaned over and said, “You take the tapas that you want, and then you leave the toothpicks on the plate and they count them when you’re done so they know how much to charge you.”
SB affected a surprised look and said, “Oh, that’s helpful!”
Since she’d been in Valencia for two months at that point, I was pretty sure she already knew how tapas worked. Having read the signs on the bar and menus, I, too, knew how tapas worked. I turned my back on the strange tapas informer, as I am of the opinion that people must earn my interest or respect in order to deserve my time, but SB eagerly asked, “Where are you from?”
I guess she missed hearing English.
“Canada,” he answered, and I knew we were in for trouble.
He introduced himself as CB and led us to ST, an Asian doctor in Australia who he met on the train to Valencia. “And now I’m sleeping on his floor Tuesday and Wednesday nights!” CB announced. ST laughed nervously.
Though I was wary of our new friends at first, I soon came to find them wildly entertaining – as did MD and CD after a few minutes. In fact, last night CB walked with SB and me to our cab, one sister on each arm, singing duets of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone”.
We had an early night and planned to rise early for a quick final tour of the historic parts of the city I had not yet examined in detail. I dragged myself out of bed to run on the treadmill in the gym, which is cool enough to run in until about 8am on a cloudy day, and only came close to falling off once when I ran faster than the pace I’d set and ended up nearly impaling myself on the front handlebar. We made it around the Silk Exchange and the Central Market and ended up at the Cathedral, which boasts the Holy Grail.
This surprised me, as I had never been told that the Holy Grail was a) discovered or b) located in Valencia. However, we were intrigued enough to pay for an audio tour (unfortunately we forgot to get someone to take a picture of us looking ubertouristy) and walk around the inside of the Cathedral trying to avoid the other tourists staring at the ceiling and wandering in tune to their own audio guides.
The grail itself was a bit boring, but boy did we find something better: the Cathedral also houses the preserved arm of a saint. It’s behind bars and glass, which seems reasonable because I could picture myself trying to steal a saint’s preserved arm, and if I would do it you can bet others would too. When I first saw it I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!” loudly enough for several people to glare at me (this means they heard me over their audio guides, too, which does mean I may have been over-exclaiming a bit). I couldn’t help but wonder where the rest of him was. I know he was a martyr, but I don’t think he was dismembered, and if they had the arm preserved why not the rest of him? Why just the arm? Did he do something special with the arm? The audio guide was wildly lacking in information on this topic. They spent seventeen minutes talking about the two different pulpits and fewer than four on the SEVERED ARM OF A SAINT. Who made that decision?
Eventually we left the Cathedral and embarked on our embarking errands – returning Black Beauty, packing, laundry, etc – before jumping on the tram to the train station and catching our train to Madrid. Now begins Epic European Journey of the Sisters 2010 Part II: Portugal.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
La Tomatina
I survived La Tomatina.
La Tomatina is an annual festival held in the small town of Buñol a little outside of Valencia. During La Tomatina, which draws thousands of international tourists each each year, people crowd the tiny, windy streets of the town to hurl tomatoes at each other. It sounds less disgusting than it actually is.
I agreed to go about a month ago, thinking it would be kind of fun – we would throw a few tomatoes, watch other people throw tomatoes, no big deal. When I arrived in Valencia, however, and my sister informed me that we needed to buy cheap clothes we could throw away after the festival, I started to re-think my enthusiasm. “Why do we need to throw them away?” I asked.
“I hear the tomato juice never comes out. Oh, and we need goggles, because the acid burns your eyes.”
“Are you sure we want to go to this?”
“Have you seen the pictures online?” she asked hesitantly.
“No.” I opened my computer to Google them and she quickly shut it.
“Don’t,” she responded, and smiled. “I’ve been preparing for weeks now. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun!”
So yesterday we purchased ugly matching red-and-white striped dresses with badges that read “World Baby” (what does that even mean?), orange canvas shoes, and bright blue goggles for a total of about 12 Euros each, and this morning we woke up at 6:30 to get on an early bus to Buñol. I kept the fear at bay by laughing when someone told me to duck when the tomato fight began because some people don’t crush the tomatoes at the beginning and being hit by a full tomato can leave a big bruise. When someone else started talking about how the acid is good for your skin even though it stings, especially when you have to wait in the hot August sun for an hour before taking your turn in the public shower, I spotted another pair of girls in matching dresses and suggested to my sister that we take pictures with them.
At last we reached Buñol. The hours leading up to La Tomatina in Buñol are what I imagine a Spanish Jimmy Buffett concert would be like – the streets are full of drunk crazy people barely dressed in strange costumes (some guys had swords, which I still don’t understand). All along the sidewalks the people of Buñol set up stands selling sandwiches, sausages, paella, sangria, beer, and more goggles, and American popular music blares from hundreds of cars, radios, and open windows. SB and I brought 25 Euros between the two of us and within the first few minutes we spent five on a liter of sangria, which we later agreed was not necessarily the most prudent purchase but which went a long way to prepare me for the events to follow.
We met up with some Spanish friends who had spent the night partying in Buñol and they led us as close to the center of the fight as we could physically push ourselves. For about an hour we stood crushed by hundreds of other people as residents of the buildings next to us emptied buckets of water onto us from the windows above. A few people got sick and had to be carried out. Once or twice I was crushed so tightly by others that I couldn’t breathe in all the way, and every so often one of the guys behind me had to lift me up a little to make sure I didn’t get trampled. The men of Buñol rode past us on the tomato trucks and people began rushing to the center to get in the middle of La Tomatina.
I got hit by a few tomatoes and watched as one girl was taken away by medics after a tomato struck her straight in the eye (my goggles were firmly in place). Several other people were taken away by medics, too, who were barely distinguishable from the mass of tomato-covered bodies except by their whistles, which they blew incessantly as they pushed their way out of the crowds.
Eventually the tomatoes ran out and someone sounded a horn that signified the food fight was over. We were drenched and lucky enough to only be partially covered in tomato goop, so instead of waiting in line for the public showers we followed our Spanish friends to the river and jumped in.
Buñol is one of the most beautiful Spanish towns I have ever seen, and I wish I had been in a position to have a camera on me while I was there. From the river we could see the cliffs and the outer parts of the town walls climbing up and down them, and flowers spotted what otherwise might have been mistaken for a desert. All this was in extreme contrast to the rowdy group in the river, composed mostly of guys who delighted in trying to dunk or splash water on the rubia, or blonde girl (me).
When we emerged from the refreshingly cool river we scraped off our cheap dresses and shoes, both of which had shrunk significantly in the tomato juice and water, and pulled on shorts and t-shirts over our 3 Euro bikinis before trashing the dresses and shoes. Upon our return to Valencia we bought a doner kebap with all the toppings and ate it on our slow walk home in the blazing sun before showering and passing out.
Was it worth it? Yes. If you have never been and you have the chance, you should go to La Tomatina. But next time, I’m going to go for the party the night before and watch the crazy masses press themselves together to bathe in tomatoes. Then I’m going to take the train back to Valencia. And when I need acid to help my skin, I think I’ll try a spa.
La Tomatina is an annual festival held in the small town of Buñol a little outside of Valencia. During La Tomatina, which draws thousands of international tourists each each year, people crowd the tiny, windy streets of the town to hurl tomatoes at each other. It sounds less disgusting than it actually is.
I agreed to go about a month ago, thinking it would be kind of fun – we would throw a few tomatoes, watch other people throw tomatoes, no big deal. When I arrived in Valencia, however, and my sister informed me that we needed to buy cheap clothes we could throw away after the festival, I started to re-think my enthusiasm. “Why do we need to throw them away?” I asked.
“I hear the tomato juice never comes out. Oh, and we need goggles, because the acid burns your eyes.”
“Are you sure we want to go to this?”
“Have you seen the pictures online?” she asked hesitantly.
“No.” I opened my computer to Google them and she quickly shut it.
“Don’t,” she responded, and smiled. “I’ve been preparing for weeks now. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun!”
So yesterday we purchased ugly matching red-and-white striped dresses with badges that read “World Baby” (what does that even mean?), orange canvas shoes, and bright blue goggles for a total of about 12 Euros each, and this morning we woke up at 6:30 to get on an early bus to Buñol. I kept the fear at bay by laughing when someone told me to duck when the tomato fight began because some people don’t crush the tomatoes at the beginning and being hit by a full tomato can leave a big bruise. When someone else started talking about how the acid is good for your skin even though it stings, especially when you have to wait in the hot August sun for an hour before taking your turn in the public shower, I spotted another pair of girls in matching dresses and suggested to my sister that we take pictures with them.
At last we reached Buñol. The hours leading up to La Tomatina in Buñol are what I imagine a Spanish Jimmy Buffett concert would be like – the streets are full of drunk crazy people barely dressed in strange costumes (some guys had swords, which I still don’t understand). All along the sidewalks the people of Buñol set up stands selling sandwiches, sausages, paella, sangria, beer, and more goggles, and American popular music blares from hundreds of cars, radios, and open windows. SB and I brought 25 Euros between the two of us and within the first few minutes we spent five on a liter of sangria, which we later agreed was not necessarily the most prudent purchase but which went a long way to prepare me for the events to follow.
We met up with some Spanish friends who had spent the night partying in Buñol and they led us as close to the center of the fight as we could physically push ourselves. For about an hour we stood crushed by hundreds of other people as residents of the buildings next to us emptied buckets of water onto us from the windows above. A few people got sick and had to be carried out. Once or twice I was crushed so tightly by others that I couldn’t breathe in all the way, and every so often one of the guys behind me had to lift me up a little to make sure I didn’t get trampled. The men of Buñol rode past us on the tomato trucks and people began rushing to the center to get in the middle of La Tomatina.
I got hit by a few tomatoes and watched as one girl was taken away by medics after a tomato struck her straight in the eye (my goggles were firmly in place). Several other people were taken away by medics, too, who were barely distinguishable from the mass of tomato-covered bodies except by their whistles, which they blew incessantly as they pushed their way out of the crowds.
Eventually the tomatoes ran out and someone sounded a horn that signified the food fight was over. We were drenched and lucky enough to only be partially covered in tomato goop, so instead of waiting in line for the public showers we followed our Spanish friends to the river and jumped in.
Buñol is one of the most beautiful Spanish towns I have ever seen, and I wish I had been in a position to have a camera on me while I was there. From the river we could see the cliffs and the outer parts of the town walls climbing up and down them, and flowers spotted what otherwise might have been mistaken for a desert. All this was in extreme contrast to the rowdy group in the river, composed mostly of guys who delighted in trying to dunk or splash water on the rubia, or blonde girl (me).
When we emerged from the refreshingly cool river we scraped off our cheap dresses and shoes, both of which had shrunk significantly in the tomato juice and water, and pulled on shorts and t-shirts over our 3 Euro bikinis before trashing the dresses and shoes. Upon our return to Valencia we bought a doner kebap with all the toppings and ate it on our slow walk home in the blazing sun before showering and passing out.
Was it worth it? Yes. If you have never been and you have the chance, you should go to La Tomatina. But next time, I’m going to go for the party the night before and watch the crazy masses press themselves together to bathe in tomatoes. Then I’m going to take the train back to Valencia. And when I need acid to help my skin, I think I’ll try a spa.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Vanquished in Valencia
After three days spent traveling, eating paella and Spanish tortilla, and drinking sangria (it’s cheaper than water!), I told my sister we were going to get ourselves together and go for a run.
“But what about the beach?” she worried.
I figured the beach would still be there after we ran and that we could visit it then. She looked unconvinced. At last, when I had made it clear that I intended to run at least six miles today, we got on our bikes and she started leading me to the river.
The first thing I did when I woke up Sunday in Valencia was rent a bike. SB bought hers, a baby blue one named Sandra Dee, from a flea market, but afterward she learned that selling bikes at the flea market is actually illegal as said bikes are usually stolen. We thought it would be better for me to acquire a legal mode of transportation, so I met her at MegaBike in the Plaza de Aragon. The man working there presented me with a large black bike. At first I laughed because I thought he was making a clever and heretofore original joke about my height (or lack thereof), but quickly I realized he actually intended me to ride it. To prove to him that the bike was demasiado grande I hopped on and took a spin around the block.
The best thing about my rented bike is that when I sit on it I’m about twice as tall as I am in real life. The second best thing is that it has a big black basket on the front. The third best thing is that I don’t have to swing my leg over the seat to get on. The bad part is that the brakes are on the pedals and I keep forgetting that and come close to crashing into cars several times a day.
I want to name her “Black Beauty”, but so far no one else has liked it.
As we wheeled Black Beauty and Sandra Dee out of the garage, my sister reminded me, “It’s really hot outside today.” I laughed because I ran outside while at home in Augusta, were it was so hot and humid that before even doing anything my knees started sweating. Incidentally, though I actually did not realize that knees sweat until last week, mine have demonstrated their ability to do so multiple times in the past few days.
When the garage door opened we were blasted by a nuclear wind that almost blew me over. “We could turn around and forget this,” my sister suggested hopefully.
I thought about it but held strong. “We’ll feel better once we run,” I told her, and mounted Black Beauty. I was pretty sure even my hair was sweating, but I firmly believed that running was a good idea.
We started biking to the river. The first segment is in the sun. After about a mile SB said, “Last chance to pull over and just have a drink instead!”
I shook my head. If only I’d known the extent of my foolish pursuit then.
Once she realized running really was my plan, my sister switched tactics and began telling me how biking was good exercise and that I should just be glad we’d been doing that. “I’m going to run today,” I reiterated.
“Fine,” she finally said. “You run and I’ll try not to pass out.”
I laughed because I did not know she was serious.
After running a little under two miles I got cold. This is not a good sign when you know it’s hot outside. Then my vision blurred a little. I stopped right before I started seeing black spots. “I thought you were kidding about passing out,” I groaned to my sister.
“Not really,” she said.
I’ve been running between six and ten miles all summer, so once I got my vision back I was determined to run again. I got about another mile in before an Asian man stopped me and suggested I take a break because I looked pale. That was more embarrassing than having to walk before I completed two miles.
In the end I had to admit that my sister was right and we should not have tried to run. The only gratifying moment was during our bike ride back when we learned it was 42C – almost 108 Fahrenheit.
For the rest of the evening I made sure to tell everyone I had gone running when it was 42. Since no one with us was American, they were all very impressed.
“But what about the beach?” she worried.
I figured the beach would still be there after we ran and that we could visit it then. She looked unconvinced. At last, when I had made it clear that I intended to run at least six miles today, we got on our bikes and she started leading me to the river.
The first thing I did when I woke up Sunday in Valencia was rent a bike. SB bought hers, a baby blue one named Sandra Dee, from a flea market, but afterward she learned that selling bikes at the flea market is actually illegal as said bikes are usually stolen. We thought it would be better for me to acquire a legal mode of transportation, so I met her at MegaBike in the Plaza de Aragon. The man working there presented me with a large black bike. At first I laughed because I thought he was making a clever and heretofore original joke about my height (or lack thereof), but quickly I realized he actually intended me to ride it. To prove to him that the bike was demasiado grande I hopped on and took a spin around the block.
The best thing about my rented bike is that when I sit on it I’m about twice as tall as I am in real life. The second best thing is that it has a big black basket on the front. The third best thing is that I don’t have to swing my leg over the seat to get on. The bad part is that the brakes are on the pedals and I keep forgetting that and come close to crashing into cars several times a day.
I want to name her “Black Beauty”, but so far no one else has liked it.
As we wheeled Black Beauty and Sandra Dee out of the garage, my sister reminded me, “It’s really hot outside today.” I laughed because I ran outside while at home in Augusta, were it was so hot and humid that before even doing anything my knees started sweating. Incidentally, though I actually did not realize that knees sweat until last week, mine have demonstrated their ability to do so multiple times in the past few days.
When the garage door opened we were blasted by a nuclear wind that almost blew me over. “We could turn around and forget this,” my sister suggested hopefully.
I thought about it but held strong. “We’ll feel better once we run,” I told her, and mounted Black Beauty. I was pretty sure even my hair was sweating, but I firmly believed that running was a good idea.
We started biking to the river. The first segment is in the sun. After about a mile SB said, “Last chance to pull over and just have a drink instead!”
I shook my head. If only I’d known the extent of my foolish pursuit then.
Once she realized running really was my plan, my sister switched tactics and began telling me how biking was good exercise and that I should just be glad we’d been doing that. “I’m going to run today,” I reiterated.
“Fine,” she finally said. “You run and I’ll try not to pass out.”
I laughed because I did not know she was serious.
After running a little under two miles I got cold. This is not a good sign when you know it’s hot outside. Then my vision blurred a little. I stopped right before I started seeing black spots. “I thought you were kidding about passing out,” I groaned to my sister.
“Not really,” she said.
I’ve been running between six and ten miles all summer, so once I got my vision back I was determined to run again. I got about another mile in before an Asian man stopped me and suggested I take a break because I looked pale. That was more embarrassing than having to walk before I completed two miles.
In the end I had to admit that my sister was right and we should not have tried to run. The only gratifying moment was during our bike ride back when we learned it was 42C – almost 108 Fahrenheit.
For the rest of the evening I made sure to tell everyone I had gone running when it was 42. Since no one with us was American, they were all very impressed.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
On Spending Two Months Lost in Translation
In the week since I left Middlebury’s Portuguese Language School (or “Portuguese Camp”, as we liked to call it), people have asked me two questions:
1. “Are you, like, totally fluent in Portuguese now?”; and
2. “So don’t you, like, start law school in, like, two days or something?”
My acquaintances say “like” a lot.
It can be tough to follow my life (a solid euphemism for stalking) when I am not blogging. I considered blogging in Portuguese, but I decided that it would not vale a pena because most of the people I know do not, in fact, read Portuguese. Besides, when I was considering writing in Portuguese, everyone else in Portuguese Camp was preparing to go to Middlebury’s only bar. In the end it was a relatively easy decision.
Let me begin the recounting of my adventures over the past two months by answering the only two questions anyone’s asking. No, I am not totally fluent in Portuguese now. I do speak, read, understand, and write it significantly better, and it’s probable that a native speaker could communicate with me. When I’m in a posh coffee shop that thinks it’s totally mod to play Brazilian samba I understand the words (and sometimes accidentally write people emails in Portuguese). But I do not sound like I’m straight off the boat from Brazil*.
And I decided to defer law school for a year or so. I’m applying to grad school. I would go into details on this decision but I think it would make my friends in law school sad about their lives, which they kind of already are, so I’ll just leave it at that.
Frequently during my two months in Portuguese Camp I thought, someone should write a story about this. – Or a movie, or even a soap opera – perhaps a soap opera would be best. But how do you write about what gets lost in translation in one language? How can you possibly convey the trials and triumphs of speaking in a language that is NOT English while writing in English? As of today I still have no answer to this problem. In English, Portuguese Camp was somewhat dull. The town of Middlebury has basically one bar and the school has another. There were fifty of us, and we lived in two dorms and ate in the same small room of the same cafeteria every day**. We had class from 9am until 12:40pm, then lunch at 1:30 and sports all afternoon. After supper (7:30-8:30) we did homework for a little while and then went to one of the two bars.
You’d be surprised at how much more difficult – and how funny – life is when you cannot speak your native language, even to try to get definitions. If you’re in the cafeteria and wonder whether they will be bringing out more spoons, for example, but you find you can’t remember the word for “spoon”, you spend five minutes trying to play charades with someone until they say “colher” and by then your ice cream has melted and you have to throw it out and start over. And don’t even try to ask directions – it’s faster to wander until you find your way. Then when you arrive thirty minutes late you can try to figure out how to say, “I got lost!” – and remember you need to conjugate for the past tense.
We spent a lot of time playing sports or music, even those who weren’t that talented in either area. For example, I played tennis, where I displayed my talents for swinging myself in a circle while trying to hit the ball. I also played various percussion instruments in a band for reasons unknown, as percussion is really one of the few musical areas I’d never previously attempted.
On the last day, when we could speak English, everyone burst into hysterics at my every word. Apparently no one thought that a girl from Georgia would say “y’all” and “supper” or have any sort of Southern accent. This struck me as a serious oversight by my new friends, and I told them such, which made them laugh louder. “What’d y’all think I would sound like?” I wondered, but they were gasping for air and unable to respond.
I guess after two months of being constantly lost in translation I had glorified English. I’ll rephrase: I’ve spent my life glorifying English, the language, without any instances of significant disappointment; now I was glorifying communication in English. It seems I remembered people understanding me when I spoke English. This, in fact, has rarely been the case, which I admitted to myself only recently during this past week. This is especially true when I quote Heller or Vonnegut to gas station attendants.
During my drive home – yes, I drove to and from Vermont – I had a particularly interesting run-in with a gas station attendant. To put the event in perspective, I drove six hours on Friday (to New York City), slept six hours, drove seven hours on Saturday (to DC – usually it’s only four hours, but I’m popular with traffic), slept two hours, and then began driving at about 4am on Sunday. By 6am I was pulling over for coffee (I drank two trinta lattes from Starbucks – they added trinta while I was away!). By 7am I was falling asleep. Yes, after two trinta lattes. Actually, by 7am I had needed to pee for thirty minutes, but was worried that said need was the only reason I was still awake, and by 7am I no longer had a choice.
I pulled over at a gas station in rural Virginia and, as I feared, almost fell asleep standing up at the register after relieving myself. I stared at the gas station lady, thinking, “If I don’t do something fast I’m just going to sleep on this floor, and that’s dirty.” And there on the counter I saw it, a thing of late-night commercials on crappy channels: 5-hour energy.
Intrigued, I took a bottle and began reading. The first thing that caught my eye was the warning: Do not drink more than two bottles per day***. “Two bottles equals ten hours, but one only equals five, and I have to drive seven more,” I mused. “How many energy bottles do I need?”
“I’m not selling you more than one,” the gas station lady said warily.
I tried to make my eyes focus so I could glare at her, but in the end I just paid and ambled outside.
I’m going to say it now: 5-hour energy is both disgusting and effective. If you’re drowsy at work like the people on the commercials, it is NOT worth it. I almost threw up because it tasted so bad. (Instead a dunked the empty bottle into the trash can outside the gas station and cheered.) However, if you are falling asleep in rural Virginia with seven hours left to drive and you want to know what it feels like to think your skin is on fire, 5-hour energy is the way to go. It’s probably best that gas station lady did not sell me two, because I imagine that after the second my face would have melted off. As it was I think I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish for five hours straight, which is particularly impressive since I only own six of their songs.
The next time I stopped for gas I quoted Vonnegut to the attendant. I was singing “Hold My Hand” and she bubbled, “I love Hootie and the Blowfish, too!”
“Welcome to my granfalloon,” I responded.
She laughed, which I’ve noticed is something people do a lot when they don’t understand what’s going on.
Now I’m in Spain, and it’s refreshing to pretend that people don’t understand me because I speak Spanish poorly.
*Fascinatingly, Brazil is the only country that speaks Portuguese that would not require a boat (or, in these modern times, plane) trip to the United States. As I am no longer in the United States it is unclear whether the metaphor applies, particularly since a boat from Brazil would most likely arrive in Portugal rather than Spain.
**Well, this is mostly true. We discovered about a month in that another cafeteria had better food. We were required to eat with the program for lunch and supper, but by the last week most of us were eating breakfast at the better cafeteria. They usually had bacon.
***After the second bottle they recommend that you switch directly to Crystal Meth or Speed, depending on your income. Cocaine is discouraged as one really needs to snort excessive amounts to attain the same energy level as 5-hour energy.
1. “Are you, like, totally fluent in Portuguese now?”; and
2. “So don’t you, like, start law school in, like, two days or something?”
My acquaintances say “like” a lot.
It can be tough to follow my life (a solid euphemism for stalking) when I am not blogging. I considered blogging in Portuguese, but I decided that it would not vale a pena because most of the people I know do not, in fact, read Portuguese. Besides, when I was considering writing in Portuguese, everyone else in Portuguese Camp was preparing to go to Middlebury’s only bar. In the end it was a relatively easy decision.
Let me begin the recounting of my adventures over the past two months by answering the only two questions anyone’s asking. No, I am not totally fluent in Portuguese now. I do speak, read, understand, and write it significantly better, and it’s probable that a native speaker could communicate with me. When I’m in a posh coffee shop that thinks it’s totally mod to play Brazilian samba I understand the words (and sometimes accidentally write people emails in Portuguese). But I do not sound like I’m straight off the boat from Brazil*.
And I decided to defer law school for a year or so. I’m applying to grad school. I would go into details on this decision but I think it would make my friends in law school sad about their lives, which they kind of already are, so I’ll just leave it at that.
Frequently during my two months in Portuguese Camp I thought, someone should write a story about this. – Or a movie, or even a soap opera – perhaps a soap opera would be best. But how do you write about what gets lost in translation in one language? How can you possibly convey the trials and triumphs of speaking in a language that is NOT English while writing in English? As of today I still have no answer to this problem. In English, Portuguese Camp was somewhat dull. The town of Middlebury has basically one bar and the school has another. There were fifty of us, and we lived in two dorms and ate in the same small room of the same cafeteria every day**. We had class from 9am until 12:40pm, then lunch at 1:30 and sports all afternoon. After supper (7:30-8:30) we did homework for a little while and then went to one of the two bars.
You’d be surprised at how much more difficult – and how funny – life is when you cannot speak your native language, even to try to get definitions. If you’re in the cafeteria and wonder whether they will be bringing out more spoons, for example, but you find you can’t remember the word for “spoon”, you spend five minutes trying to play charades with someone until they say “colher” and by then your ice cream has melted and you have to throw it out and start over. And don’t even try to ask directions – it’s faster to wander until you find your way. Then when you arrive thirty minutes late you can try to figure out how to say, “I got lost!” – and remember you need to conjugate for the past tense.
We spent a lot of time playing sports or music, even those who weren’t that talented in either area. For example, I played tennis, where I displayed my talents for swinging myself in a circle while trying to hit the ball. I also played various percussion instruments in a band for reasons unknown, as percussion is really one of the few musical areas I’d never previously attempted.
On the last day, when we could speak English, everyone burst into hysterics at my every word. Apparently no one thought that a girl from Georgia would say “y’all” and “supper” or have any sort of Southern accent. This struck me as a serious oversight by my new friends, and I told them such, which made them laugh louder. “What’d y’all think I would sound like?” I wondered, but they were gasping for air and unable to respond.
I guess after two months of being constantly lost in translation I had glorified English. I’ll rephrase: I’ve spent my life glorifying English, the language, without any instances of significant disappointment; now I was glorifying communication in English. It seems I remembered people understanding me when I spoke English. This, in fact, has rarely been the case, which I admitted to myself only recently during this past week. This is especially true when I quote Heller or Vonnegut to gas station attendants.
During my drive home – yes, I drove to and from Vermont – I had a particularly interesting run-in with a gas station attendant. To put the event in perspective, I drove six hours on Friday (to New York City), slept six hours, drove seven hours on Saturday (to DC – usually it’s only four hours, but I’m popular with traffic), slept two hours, and then began driving at about 4am on Sunday. By 6am I was pulling over for coffee (I drank two trinta lattes from Starbucks – they added trinta while I was away!). By 7am I was falling asleep. Yes, after two trinta lattes. Actually, by 7am I had needed to pee for thirty minutes, but was worried that said need was the only reason I was still awake, and by 7am I no longer had a choice.
I pulled over at a gas station in rural Virginia and, as I feared, almost fell asleep standing up at the register after relieving myself. I stared at the gas station lady, thinking, “If I don’t do something fast I’m just going to sleep on this floor, and that’s dirty.” And there on the counter I saw it, a thing of late-night commercials on crappy channels: 5-hour energy.
Intrigued, I took a bottle and began reading. The first thing that caught my eye was the warning: Do not drink more than two bottles per day***. “Two bottles equals ten hours, but one only equals five, and I have to drive seven more,” I mused. “How many energy bottles do I need?”
“I’m not selling you more than one,” the gas station lady said warily.
I tried to make my eyes focus so I could glare at her, but in the end I just paid and ambled outside.
I’m going to say it now: 5-hour energy is both disgusting and effective. If you’re drowsy at work like the people on the commercials, it is NOT worth it. I almost threw up because it tasted so bad. (Instead a dunked the empty bottle into the trash can outside the gas station and cheered.) However, if you are falling asleep in rural Virginia with seven hours left to drive and you want to know what it feels like to think your skin is on fire, 5-hour energy is the way to go. It’s probably best that gas station lady did not sell me two, because I imagine that after the second my face would have melted off. As it was I think I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish for five hours straight, which is particularly impressive since I only own six of their songs.
The next time I stopped for gas I quoted Vonnegut to the attendant. I was singing “Hold My Hand” and she bubbled, “I love Hootie and the Blowfish, too!”
“Welcome to my granfalloon,” I responded.
She laughed, which I’ve noticed is something people do a lot when they don’t understand what’s going on.
Now I’m in Spain, and it’s refreshing to pretend that people don’t understand me because I speak Spanish poorly.
*Fascinatingly, Brazil is the only country that speaks Portuguese that would not require a boat (or, in these modern times, plane) trip to the United States. As I am no longer in the United States it is unclear whether the metaphor applies, particularly since a boat from Brazil would most likely arrive in Portugal rather than Spain.
**Well, this is mostly true. We discovered about a month in that another cafeteria had better food. We were required to eat with the program for lunch and supper, but by the last week most of us were eating breakfast at the better cafeteria. They usually had bacon.
***After the second bottle they recommend that you switch directly to Crystal Meth or Speed, depending on your income. Cocaine is discouraged as one really needs to snort excessive amounts to attain the same energy level as 5-hour energy.
The Trains in Spain
Yesterday, after a 2-month hiatus from English and traveling abroad, I hopped on Atlanta’s MARTA and dragged a hastily packed carry-on to the airport. My mother likes to remind me that I always believe I will have more time than I actually do and that I plan too many activities. I have to disagree. 4.5 days in Georgia was plenty of time to unpack from Middlebury, pack for this trip, pack for DC (oh yeah, because I will have fewer than 24 hours upon returning from Spain and Portugal before heading to the farm for Labor Day and then straight to my newest tenancy in our nation’s capitol), have meals with several non-family members (this I actually accomplished by reminding said members that “doing coffee” was cooler than lunch or supper), working part-time from afar for my new job, beginning the annual fall check-up rotation (ears and eyes, but that’s another story), studying for the GRE (that just didn’t happen until I got on the plane), and – HAHA, I almost forgot – PLANNING this trip.
Luckily my sister reminded me to plan the trip on Tuesday. In fact, I began this journey with a healthy lucky streak. I arrived at the airport two hours early, as mandated by TSA, got through security in 15 minutes, changed my dollars to Euros, and relaxed in the Delta Sky Club with a gin and tonic and yogurt covered pretzels* until the front desk calmly called my name over the appropriately gentle and non-crackly speakers**. I happily approached and gratefully thanked the desk agent upon learning that the gate agents hoped to speak with me, and I then descended easily in a clean and well-functioning elevator. Things were looking up.
At the gate I waited in line for a few minutes, which dampened my mood considerably as I really do not enjoy waiting at airport gates. There are always sick people and children with sticky fingers who smell like graham crackers and ride in minivans just dying to invade my personal space, which happens to require a roughly 5-foot radius. I also believe I should not be made to wait in lines generally, whether or not sick people/children are there, but that may be a less reasonable demand in an airport (or life).
The attractive transsexual gate agent took my passport and ticket and shook her (formerly his) head, saying, “I have some bad news for you.”
I had prepared for this for 23 hours, because when I checked in online I noticed a little red advisory noting that the flight was oversold and they would appreciate volunteers to take later flights. I am not the type of person who volunteers to take later flights, so I mostly ignored this advisory, filing it away in the back of my brain as “something that might go wrong”. I stared at my transsexual gate agent, trying to decide whether I could volunteer to change flights quickly enough to get the extra money before she told me I had been bumped to a later flight, but I got distracted by her incredibly long eyebrows. Suddenly she smiled. “We’re overbooked, so I’m going to have to upgrade you.”
All I could think to say was, “That isn’t bad news.”
You probably realized by now that my English, spoken and written, severely deteriorated with two months of disuse.
I sipped champagne and a glass of Riesling with my truffle and portabella ravioli while attempting to watch the beginning of “Date Night” (maybe it’d be good if you’re really drunk?), then gleefully drifted to sleep for several hours before a little GRE study session.
Unfortunately at this point my luck ran out. My plane landed in Spain almost half an hour late, causing me to miss the 11am train from Madrid to Valencia by three minutes. I think if I’d thought ahead and changed into a sports bra and shorts I might have made it, but my time was compromised by numerous flights of stairs unaccompanied by elevators or escalators, and my carry-on happens to be of the rolling variety. Next time I will consider investing in a me-sized backpack, which I think will make running up and down stairs quicker if not easier.
Oh, well, what the hell. Yossarian never dealt with this type of public transportation.
It is funny how persnickety the Spanish seem when I accidentally slip in Portuguese words. I found a cozy café in the train station and asked, “Cuanto cuesta para sentir-me?”
“Que?”
“Para sentir-me,” – I was trying to ask how much it cost to sit at the café, since it’s been my experience in Europe that frequently you have to pay to sit. I gestured toward the seating area. “Cuanto cuesta?”
“Sentar-se,” the man at the counter corrected me.
Okay – I get that it’s a different word if you change one letter. But if I worked at a coffee shop and some foreign kid walked up to me and asked how much it cost to set, I would not wonder whether he wanted to put tablecloths and utensils on my tables or simply sit at one of them.
Turns out it was free anyway, so I ordered a café con leche while they snickered at me. I wanted to be snooty and not leave a tip, but since no one leaves tips for a 1 Euro coffee in Spain I don’t think they got the slight.
*One of the awesomest snacks ever
**The Sky Club is why I travel
Luckily my sister reminded me to plan the trip on Tuesday. In fact, I began this journey with a healthy lucky streak. I arrived at the airport two hours early, as mandated by TSA, got through security in 15 minutes, changed my dollars to Euros, and relaxed in the Delta Sky Club with a gin and tonic and yogurt covered pretzels* until the front desk calmly called my name over the appropriately gentle and non-crackly speakers**. I happily approached and gratefully thanked the desk agent upon learning that the gate agents hoped to speak with me, and I then descended easily in a clean and well-functioning elevator. Things were looking up.
At the gate I waited in line for a few minutes, which dampened my mood considerably as I really do not enjoy waiting at airport gates. There are always sick people and children with sticky fingers who smell like graham crackers and ride in minivans just dying to invade my personal space, which happens to require a roughly 5-foot radius. I also believe I should not be made to wait in lines generally, whether or not sick people/children are there, but that may be a less reasonable demand in an airport (or life).
The attractive transsexual gate agent took my passport and ticket and shook her (formerly his) head, saying, “I have some bad news for you.”
I had prepared for this for 23 hours, because when I checked in online I noticed a little red advisory noting that the flight was oversold and they would appreciate volunteers to take later flights. I am not the type of person who volunteers to take later flights, so I mostly ignored this advisory, filing it away in the back of my brain as “something that might go wrong”. I stared at my transsexual gate agent, trying to decide whether I could volunteer to change flights quickly enough to get the extra money before she told me I had been bumped to a later flight, but I got distracted by her incredibly long eyebrows. Suddenly she smiled. “We’re overbooked, so I’m going to have to upgrade you.”
All I could think to say was, “That isn’t bad news.”
You probably realized by now that my English, spoken and written, severely deteriorated with two months of disuse.
I sipped champagne and a glass of Riesling with my truffle and portabella ravioli while attempting to watch the beginning of “Date Night” (maybe it’d be good if you’re really drunk?), then gleefully drifted to sleep for several hours before a little GRE study session.
Unfortunately at this point my luck ran out. My plane landed in Spain almost half an hour late, causing me to miss the 11am train from Madrid to Valencia by three minutes. I think if I’d thought ahead and changed into a sports bra and shorts I might have made it, but my time was compromised by numerous flights of stairs unaccompanied by elevators or escalators, and my carry-on happens to be of the rolling variety. Next time I will consider investing in a me-sized backpack, which I think will make running up and down stairs quicker if not easier.
Oh, well, what the hell. Yossarian never dealt with this type of public transportation.
It is funny how persnickety the Spanish seem when I accidentally slip in Portuguese words. I found a cozy café in the train station and asked, “Cuanto cuesta para sentir-me?”
“Que?”
“Para sentir-me,” – I was trying to ask how much it cost to sit at the café, since it’s been my experience in Europe that frequently you have to pay to sit. I gestured toward the seating area. “Cuanto cuesta?”
“Sentar-se,” the man at the counter corrected me.
Okay – I get that it’s a different word if you change one letter. But if I worked at a coffee shop and some foreign kid walked up to me and asked how much it cost to set, I would not wonder whether he wanted to put tablecloths and utensils on my tables or simply sit at one of them.
Turns out it was free anyway, so I ordered a café con leche while they snickered at me. I wanted to be snooty and not leave a tip, but since no one leaves tips for a 1 Euro coffee in Spain I don’t think they got the slight.
*One of the awesomest snacks ever
**The Sky Club is why I travel
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