A selection of thoughts, some about Spain and some not, in no particular order:
Why is it that so many of the public restrooms in Spain don't have toilet seats? For the life of me I can't think of a logical explanation. Surely they aren't getting stolen...
Teaching is really hard. I have a great respect for the people who can do it well and a new-found appreciation of the caliber of teaching I have received my entire life. It's been a pleasure.
I really really wish I'd never quit playing soccer. Such a great game. I'll always love baseball the most, but there's something about soccer--whether it's the elegance, the huge, green, screen-capturing field, or its ubiquity here--that I adore.
On the other hand, I miss American sports. Yes, I can still follow everything here as closely as I ever could, but it's different when you're the only one interested. I miss being surrounding by that interest. Sports are the single greatest conversation piece of all time, at least for males--I miss having that connection, even though I do know enough about soccer to carry on a conversation.
I am continually astonished by my apartment's ability to be colder than the street outside; it's not an experience I ever want to repeat without the aid of A/C.
I'm considerably more outgoing when I'm traveling or abroad; I would never talk to an American just because they're American at home.
How does anyone anywhere find smoking enjoyable?
Travelers/backpackers have got to be one of the most amiable and decent groups of people in world.
If you ever go to Istanbul, stay in Tulip Guesthouse. The staff there were the absolute best I've ever come across anywhere and everything else was top notch as well. A great place.
What, exactly, is the lure of "going out" at night? This one's been bothering me for some time. Maybe it's because I don't like to dance (that probably is why), but I really cannot stand nightclubs. Anywhere where you have to overpay for drinks and have difficulty moving more than eight inches doesn't really strike the right chords with me.
Alright, gotta go. Big soccer game tonight: Barcelona v. Arsenal in the Champions League quarterfinals.
One other note: pictures are now, finally, posted. Go to http://picasaweb.google.com/home?hl=es&tab=wq
choose an album, and enjoy.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
When in Huelva
Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my long absence from this, my own blog. To tell you the truth, I just haven't felt like writing. Also, life hasn't been that exciting here; I go to school, I come home, do one of the several flavors of nothing I have access to, and then start the cycle over again. To encapsulate my last post-now life, I've been bored and confused and uncertain.
Partly it's my fault. I've been feeling depressed lately, and I've let the depression get the better of me and keep me from doing things. This can't happen. Huelva isn't the most exciting place in the world, but there are still things to do--go to the gym, go to a soccer game (which I did do yesterday, actually; Recreativo Huelva sucks, but it was a fun time), explore places I haven't been--and I just haven't been doing them. An adage that I like is, "only boring people get bored." This is not wholly true--adages rarely are--but it does highlight an important principle; namely, that we are in control of what we do each day. Bill Watterson comments on the same principle in Calvin and Hobbes: Calvin is outside looking for something "weird" and, upon finding nothing, heads into the house to get Hobbes and bursts back out the front door, saying, "If there's no weirdness around, we'll just have to make some!" That should be my viewpoint. It goes back, as do so many things, to attitude; change that and I change my boredom.
I'm also worried about next year. I have no idea what I'll do. I could do this program again; returning auxiliares get location preference, so I could go where I want. But I'm sick of being separated from my friends and loved ones back home, even though this job really is an awesome opportunity. I could go to Korea, which is like this program but I'd work more (in my current view, a good thing) and actually lead classes. It also pays really well and has great benefits, and I need some money so I can go to grad school. But Korea has all the same downsides of Spain plus some more; I'd be there longer, it's farther away, I don't know the culture or the language at all. I could also go find a job in the US, maybe even in Grand Rapids. But one of my friends, who has recently moved across the country for grad school, said something which resonated with me. He had a choice between Northwestern and Cal-Berkeley and chose Cal. I asked him why and he listed a few reasons, like Cal being slightly better for the field he was entering. But mostly, he said, "(I) don't want to be the type of person that can't leave home." I don't want to be that person either. I didn't get a chance to go away for college, so this is my chance. One year doesn't seem to me like enough, either; I need more time away. But at the same time, I miss my friends and girlfriend and the familiarity of the place I've grown up with.
What makes this urgent is that I have to start thinking about this now. That's the thing about the future; it never takes as long as you'd think to become the present. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bid adieu to the café Viva la Chocolate, my favorite rumination spot in Huelva, which is closing due to issues with the landlord (if anyone's counting, this is the second café which has played a formative role in my life that is closing due to landlord issues--R.I.P. Four Friends) and which I will miss far more than I think they know. I'll try to write more frequently in the future.
Partly it's my fault. I've been feeling depressed lately, and I've let the depression get the better of me and keep me from doing things. This can't happen. Huelva isn't the most exciting place in the world, but there are still things to do--go to the gym, go to a soccer game (which I did do yesterday, actually; Recreativo Huelva sucks, but it was a fun time), explore places I haven't been--and I just haven't been doing them. An adage that I like is, "only boring people get bored." This is not wholly true--adages rarely are--but it does highlight an important principle; namely, that we are in control of what we do each day. Bill Watterson comments on the same principle in Calvin and Hobbes: Calvin is outside looking for something "weird" and, upon finding nothing, heads into the house to get Hobbes and bursts back out the front door, saying, "If there's no weirdness around, we'll just have to make some!" That should be my viewpoint. It goes back, as do so many things, to attitude; change that and I change my boredom.
I'm also worried about next year. I have no idea what I'll do. I could do this program again; returning auxiliares get location preference, so I could go where I want. But I'm sick of being separated from my friends and loved ones back home, even though this job really is an awesome opportunity. I could go to Korea, which is like this program but I'd work more (in my current view, a good thing) and actually lead classes. It also pays really well and has great benefits, and I need some money so I can go to grad school. But Korea has all the same downsides of Spain plus some more; I'd be there longer, it's farther away, I don't know the culture or the language at all. I could also go find a job in the US, maybe even in Grand Rapids. But one of my friends, who has recently moved across the country for grad school, said something which resonated with me. He had a choice between Northwestern and Cal-Berkeley and chose Cal. I asked him why and he listed a few reasons, like Cal being slightly better for the field he was entering. But mostly, he said, "(I) don't want to be the type of person that can't leave home." I don't want to be that person either. I didn't get a chance to go away for college, so this is my chance. One year doesn't seem to me like enough, either; I need more time away. But at the same time, I miss my friends and girlfriend and the familiarity of the place I've grown up with.
What makes this urgent is that I have to start thinking about this now. That's the thing about the future; it never takes as long as you'd think to become the present. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bid adieu to the café Viva la Chocolate, my favorite rumination spot in Huelva, which is closing due to issues with the landlord (if anyone's counting, this is the second café which has played a formative role in my life that is closing due to landlord issues--R.I.P. Four Friends) and which I will miss far more than I think they know. I'll try to write more frequently in the future.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Mistakes were made
I'm going to stop the recap of Switzerland there, because frankly we didn't do much the rest of the time and I'm starting to get way too behind on my updates, for which I apologize. In brief, the last day we took a train from Basel (where we had gone the day before) to Strasbourg, France, which was unbeknownst to us the Christmas Capital of the European Union. As such, there were festive decorations and tons of Christmas lights lacing the city, which also held France's tallest cathedral. The cathedral was spectacular; my second favorite of all time (after the Kolner Dom in Cologne, Germany) and we had a good time wandering around the city, but I must now jump to more immediate matters. For the next few posts I will be going in reverse chronological order.
The 24 hour clock. It is used by many European countries, including Spain (though notably, as we shall see in a moment, not by the UK), and by the United States military, but other than my time spent living in Spain I have never lived in world run by army time. As such, when I first arrived to Spain in October, I set my newly acquired phone to 12 hour time for purposes of familiarity. It was a costly decision.
But I get ahead of myself. This weekend marked the one year anniversary for me and my girlfriend, and as she was (is) in Spain, I thought it would be fun to go to London to see Les Miserables, which is on it's 25th Anniversary tour. We left at 22:15 (10:15) Thursday night from Seville and got to London very late. The next day consisted of doing some basic touristy things which I had failed to get to in my other visit to London; notably, seeing Westminster Abbey and walking around the Houses of Parliament. Both were amazing; Westminster in particular was like having one foot in Britain's present and one in its long, rich past. Seeing the actual tomb and effigy of Elizabeth I and the place where the likes of Geoffrey Chaucer and Issac Newton are buried was overwhelming.
The next day was Les Mis day. We saw the Tower of London in the morning and then headed off to the play at night. It was stunning; I know the music so well that sometimes I forgot how much actually seeing the performance enhances the music, but it really does. In our show the unsung heroes were the lighting and effects people: some of the scenes were pure perfection thanks to the understated brilliance of the techies. Among the actors, all were good (obviously; it's a London West End production), but the older characters really stole the show: Valjean, Javert, and the Thenardiérs, although Enjolras was also excellent. Seeing Les Mis in London has been a dream of mine since first seeing it in high school and I was glad for the chance to see it and to give the same chance to Elaine, who loves the play but had only ever seen her high school perform it. A great evening, all in all.
We had been pretty busy for two days, so we decided that Sunday was more of a down day; a day to relax before returning to Spain. We went to church in the morning at the smaller church next to Westminster and then headed to Baker Street, home of the fictional but legendary Sherlock Holmes. All that remained then was to head back to our nearby hostel and collect our bags for the Tube ride to London Heathrow. We left the hostel at 4, giving ourselves an hour on the train and two hours in the airport before our 7:15 flight.
About halfway through the ride, at 4:45, as I stood idly by the doors looking out the window, it occurred to me that I hadn't looked at the tickets in a while. I unzipped my bag and got out the tickets, double-checking our departure time. Sure enough, the tickets (for the Spanish budget airline Vueling) showed a salida with the following numbers in the following order: 7:15. Only problem was, there was a 1 before that first 7. That made the departure time 5:15, better known as in a half-hour.
At the next station, I hurtled out of the train car and called for a taxi, but the second we got in I knew there was no chance. It was a 20 minute drive to Heathrow from where we were. But we hung tight until we got to the airport, when I bolted out the side of the car and did some youtube-level free running through the airport to the Vueling desk. Too late. The plane was leaving the gate as I got to the desk. We had no chance.
It is amazing how seemingly insignificant decisions have such a dramatic effect on life. If I set my phone on 24 hour time, we make that flight. If the UK uses 24 hour time, we make that flight. If I check the tickets that morning, we make that flight. Even if I check the tickets when we were leaving the hostel to get on the train, we probably make that flight (there is a significantly faster train that also goes to Gatwick). If we book a non-Spanish airline, we make that flight.
But we missed the flight. I have missed a plane once before, but the circumstances this time were completely different. To begin with, I was not near where I was living (as I was with the other), so I was faced with the costly and unavoidable decision of buying another ticket for the following day. I was also not alone this time; I was travelling with my girlfriend, who was taking an extremely intensive daily class that was about to start its last week and for all she knew, she had to be there or she would fail the class. I also had school the next day. And London is far more expensive than Valencia.
So followed several hours at the Heathrow airport internet terminal, trying to find some way to get back to Spain in the relatively near future for less than a small fortune. We eventually found a flight from London Gatwick--the second London airport--to Málaga for an amount I could swallow. The flight left at 6:30 the next morning. We took a coach to Gatwick and after a night's very deep but incredibly short sleep, boarded our flight to Málaga, from which we took another coach to Sevilla, where Elaine went home (her teacher, thank goodness, was merciful, as were mine) and I took yet another coach to Huelva and finally, after an exhausting 25 hours of traveling, got home around 5:00. Which is to say, 17:00.
Given all the circumstances, things turned out okay. Nothing except my bank account suffered any lasting damage and we still enjoyed our time in London. Little things caused my mistake, but little things also got us through the ordeal: cookies and ice cream from Aunt Millie's, kind taxi drivers and Spanish airport officials, and a hitchless travel day the next day kept us sane and even happy, which is more than I could have asked.
Traveling. I know, right?
The 24 hour clock. It is used by many European countries, including Spain (though notably, as we shall see in a moment, not by the UK), and by the United States military, but other than my time spent living in Spain I have never lived in world run by army time. As such, when I first arrived to Spain in October, I set my newly acquired phone to 12 hour time for purposes of familiarity. It was a costly decision.
But I get ahead of myself. This weekend marked the one year anniversary for me and my girlfriend, and as she was (is) in Spain, I thought it would be fun to go to London to see Les Miserables, which is on it's 25th Anniversary tour. We left at 22:15 (10:15) Thursday night from Seville and got to London very late. The next day consisted of doing some basic touristy things which I had failed to get to in my other visit to London; notably, seeing Westminster Abbey and walking around the Houses of Parliament. Both were amazing; Westminster in particular was like having one foot in Britain's present and one in its long, rich past. Seeing the actual tomb and effigy of Elizabeth I and the place where the likes of Geoffrey Chaucer and Issac Newton are buried was overwhelming.
The next day was Les Mis day. We saw the Tower of London in the morning and then headed off to the play at night. It was stunning; I know the music so well that sometimes I forgot how much actually seeing the performance enhances the music, but it really does. In our show the unsung heroes were the lighting and effects people: some of the scenes were pure perfection thanks to the understated brilliance of the techies. Among the actors, all were good (obviously; it's a London West End production), but the older characters really stole the show: Valjean, Javert, and the Thenardiérs, although Enjolras was also excellent. Seeing Les Mis in London has been a dream of mine since first seeing it in high school and I was glad for the chance to see it and to give the same chance to Elaine, who loves the play but had only ever seen her high school perform it. A great evening, all in all.
We had been pretty busy for two days, so we decided that Sunday was more of a down day; a day to relax before returning to Spain. We went to church in the morning at the smaller church next to Westminster and then headed to Baker Street, home of the fictional but legendary Sherlock Holmes. All that remained then was to head back to our nearby hostel and collect our bags for the Tube ride to London Heathrow. We left the hostel at 4, giving ourselves an hour on the train and two hours in the airport before our 7:15 flight.
About halfway through the ride, at 4:45, as I stood idly by the doors looking out the window, it occurred to me that I hadn't looked at the tickets in a while. I unzipped my bag and got out the tickets, double-checking our departure time. Sure enough, the tickets (for the Spanish budget airline Vueling) showed a salida with the following numbers in the following order: 7:15. Only problem was, there was a 1 before that first 7. That made the departure time 5:15, better known as in a half-hour.
At the next station, I hurtled out of the train car and called for a taxi, but the second we got in I knew there was no chance. It was a 20 minute drive to Heathrow from where we were. But we hung tight until we got to the airport, when I bolted out the side of the car and did some youtube-level free running through the airport to the Vueling desk. Too late. The plane was leaving the gate as I got to the desk. We had no chance.
It is amazing how seemingly insignificant decisions have such a dramatic effect on life. If I set my phone on 24 hour time, we make that flight. If the UK uses 24 hour time, we make that flight. If I check the tickets that morning, we make that flight. Even if I check the tickets when we were leaving the hostel to get on the train, we probably make that flight (there is a significantly faster train that also goes to Gatwick). If we book a non-Spanish airline, we make that flight.
But we missed the flight. I have missed a plane once before, but the circumstances this time were completely different. To begin with, I was not near where I was living (as I was with the other), so I was faced with the costly and unavoidable decision of buying another ticket for the following day. I was also not alone this time; I was travelling with my girlfriend, who was taking an extremely intensive daily class that was about to start its last week and for all she knew, she had to be there or she would fail the class. I also had school the next day. And London is far more expensive than Valencia.
So followed several hours at the Heathrow airport internet terminal, trying to find some way to get back to Spain in the relatively near future for less than a small fortune. We eventually found a flight from London Gatwick--the second London airport--to Málaga for an amount I could swallow. The flight left at 6:30 the next morning. We took a coach to Gatwick and after a night's very deep but incredibly short sleep, boarded our flight to Málaga, from which we took another coach to Sevilla, where Elaine went home (her teacher, thank goodness, was merciful, as were mine) and I took yet another coach to Huelva and finally, after an exhausting 25 hours of traveling, got home around 5:00. Which is to say, 17:00.
Given all the circumstances, things turned out okay. Nothing except my bank account suffered any lasting damage and we still enjoyed our time in London. Little things caused my mistake, but little things also got us through the ordeal: cookies and ice cream from Aunt Millie's, kind taxi drivers and Spanish airport officials, and a hitchless travel day the next day kept us sane and even happy, which is more than I could have asked.
Traveling. I know, right?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Skiing in Switzerland
The following day, Tuesday, dawned... warm. Everyone had been covered in snow the first day we were in Interlaken, but over the next 48 hours the temperatures climbed and the snow melted until there were only scattered patches of snow. But we were told that there was still snow up on the mountain and were damned if the weather was going to stop us from skiing. Clutching our skis and wearing our boots, gloves, coats, snow pants, and goggles (all rented), we stumped over to the train station. We were going skiing by train. What an authentic experience. It quickly became less authentic when the twenty or so Asian tourists on board our train car wanted their picture taken with the two real life skiers, but still. The atmosphere endured.
The train dropped us off at the foot of a cable car, which hoisted us to the top of what I now believe to be Mannlichen (with an umlaut over the "a"). Unfortunately all of the pictures of that day are Becca's camera, so I cannot share any right now, but eventually I hope to be able to, mainly because my prose can only be so descriptive. Suffice to say that it was phenomenal--arguably the most naturally beautiful place I've ever been, and I've been to Glacier National Park, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Galápagos Islands.
(Did that sound arrogant?)
Anyway, yeah; it was pretty. But we weren't there just to marvel at the ridiculous scenery--we were there to do the skiing equivalent of shred the mountain.
But here's the thing; the mountain didn't want to be shredded. It saw the two Americans coming into town and fortified itself with a topsheet of ice that glazed the hill like a caramelizer. Those of you familiar with skiing in warmer temperatures are no doubt familiar with this phenomenon; when snow becomes sleet and ice and greatly increases the degree of difficulty. I've been skiing many times in my life, and this was absolutely the worst snow I've ever skied on. There was nothing for the skis to cut into, so turning and stopping became processes instead of events. I'm a pretty good skier--not great, but I can hold my own (to quote Tom Cruise)--and these hills, 2s, 3s and 4s out of a possible 5, were giving me all I could handle. On more than one occasion I had the thought, "Geez, if I don't this exactly right, I could die." I wasn't taking undue risks, you understand, wasn't trying to bomb any of the hills (which surely would have resulted in death), just trying to weave my way down the mountain at a sufficiently timely yet safe pace.
This isn't to say I didn't enjoy myself; I had the time of my life. Living in Michigan doesn't make for the most difficult skiing and it was nice to be challenged again on the slopes. The vistas were breathtaking and neither of us really cared that the skiing itself wasn't ideal; we were in the Alps, that was what counted. I checked off two of my oldest bucket list items--ski in the Alps and ride a gondola for skiing purposes--in one day. Except for the hour and a half in the middle of the day when I lost my wallet, I had a marvelous time. Even the wallet turned out better than I possibly could have hoped; we went down to where I thought it might have fallen out and it was there. How often does that happen? There were never any lines at the lifts, the restaurant at the top was not more expensive than the rest of the country, and when we got tired we rode the gondola all the way down to the town of Grindelwald and back to the top. It took an hour. It was a great day.
The train dropped us off at the foot of a cable car, which hoisted us to the top of what I now believe to be Mannlichen (with an umlaut over the "a"). Unfortunately all of the pictures of that day are Becca's camera, so I cannot share any right now, but eventually I hope to be able to, mainly because my prose can only be so descriptive. Suffice to say that it was phenomenal--arguably the most naturally beautiful place I've ever been, and I've been to Glacier National Park, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Galápagos Islands.
(Did that sound arrogant?)
Anyway, yeah; it was pretty. But we weren't there just to marvel at the ridiculous scenery--we were there to do the skiing equivalent of shred the mountain.
But here's the thing; the mountain didn't want to be shredded. It saw the two Americans coming into town and fortified itself with a topsheet of ice that glazed the hill like a caramelizer. Those of you familiar with skiing in warmer temperatures are no doubt familiar with this phenomenon; when snow becomes sleet and ice and greatly increases the degree of difficulty. I've been skiing many times in my life, and this was absolutely the worst snow I've ever skied on. There was nothing for the skis to cut into, so turning and stopping became processes instead of events. I'm a pretty good skier--not great, but I can hold my own (to quote Tom Cruise)--and these hills, 2s, 3s and 4s out of a possible 5, were giving me all I could handle. On more than one occasion I had the thought, "Geez, if I don't this exactly right, I could die." I wasn't taking undue risks, you understand, wasn't trying to bomb any of the hills (which surely would have resulted in death), just trying to weave my way down the mountain at a sufficiently timely yet safe pace.
This isn't to say I didn't enjoy myself; I had the time of my life. Living in Michigan doesn't make for the most difficult skiing and it was nice to be challenged again on the slopes. The vistas were breathtaking and neither of us really cared that the skiing itself wasn't ideal; we were in the Alps, that was what counted. I checked off two of my oldest bucket list items--ski in the Alps and ride a gondola for skiing purposes--in one day. Except for the hour and a half in the middle of the day when I lost my wallet, I had a marvelous time. Even the wallet turned out better than I possibly could have hoped; we went down to where I thought it might have fallen out and it was there. How often does that happen? There were never any lines at the lifts, the restaurant at the top was not more expensive than the rest of the country, and when we got tired we rode the gondola all the way down to the town of Grindelwald and back to the top. It took an hour. It was a great day.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Once more to the breach
How do you know you need to start blogging again? When your girlfriend, who has been been blogging about her now 10 day-old Spanish experience, has almost as many posts as you do.
My sources tell me that when we left our intrepid heroes they had just finished jetting down an Alpine slope at 9:00 PM. That fearful task finished, we headed back to our hostel where, if memory serves, we spent the entire evening watching movies in the hostel's movie lounge. It was great hostel.
(See, this is why you shouldn't wait so long to write blog entries; you forget the exact details, which of course can provide a springing-off point for discussions on other matters. Don't do what I do)
Skiing was on our agenda in the near future, but we had decided to wait another day to ski on the North American-based assumption that going mid-week would lessen the crowds. More on this later. Monday therefore became the day that we would see Lucerne, the picturesque Swiss city next to Lake Lucerne and nestled in among a ring of mountains. Though not particularly significant for anything much, it looked pretty in pictures and had a really old wooden covered bridge (a lot older than Ada's). We booked the tickets.
Continuing what would be a vacation-long trend, the weather sucked; it was misting and 40 degrees the whole time we were in Lucerne; Becca and I joked, not un-seriously, that it was the worst possible weather for walking around a city. The rain couldn't altogether destroy Lucerne's undeniable charm, however; it is indeed a very pretty city, with big, old, Victorian-looking buildings lining the river which divides the city and a quaint old city with murals covering the walls of plazas. At the top of the hill which slanted up away from the river was the old city wall, and climbing up to them provided a great view of the city. I love looking out over European cities; the humanity is so much more evident. You can see all the rooftops of the buildings where there are clotheslines or deck chairs or old furniture or some combination of totally different stuff. It's like a tiny, tiny window into the city that you don't see from the H&M discount rack or the overpriced restaurant booth.
After ascending to the wall, we descended down to the banks of the river and I stared down through the crystal-clear water while Becca let her inner artist talk her into taking pictures of swans. The water in Switzerland is unbelievably clear. When we were up in the mountains a few days before there were water fountains, outside in the street, feeding directly from the mountain streams. Great country? I say so.
But even great countries have Christmas markets, which is where we ended up next. That's actually not fair; I have a certain fondness for Christmas markets, mostly because I like happy things and Christmas is a happy time filled with happy souvenirs. In keeping with the season, I bought two small hand-carved wooden angels which had slipped past the Swiss embargo on reasonably priced items, and we headed back in the direction of the old city to eat dinner and then board our train back to Interlaken. We wanted to get back early enough to get a good night's sleep; it's not every day that you get to fulfill a life-long dream, and the Alps weren't going to ski themselves.
My sources tell me that when we left our intrepid heroes they had just finished jetting down an Alpine slope at 9:00 PM. That fearful task finished, we headed back to our hostel where, if memory serves, we spent the entire evening watching movies in the hostel's movie lounge. It was great hostel.
(See, this is why you shouldn't wait so long to write blog entries; you forget the exact details, which of course can provide a springing-off point for discussions on other matters. Don't do what I do)
Skiing was on our agenda in the near future, but we had decided to wait another day to ski on the North American-based assumption that going mid-week would lessen the crowds. More on this later. Monday therefore became the day that we would see Lucerne, the picturesque Swiss city next to Lake Lucerne and nestled in among a ring of mountains. Though not particularly significant for anything much, it looked pretty in pictures and had a really old wooden covered bridge (a lot older than Ada's). We booked the tickets.
Continuing what would be a vacation-long trend, the weather sucked; it was misting and 40 degrees the whole time we were in Lucerne; Becca and I joked, not un-seriously, that it was the worst possible weather for walking around a city. The rain couldn't altogether destroy Lucerne's undeniable charm, however; it is indeed a very pretty city, with big, old, Victorian-looking buildings lining the river which divides the city and a quaint old city with murals covering the walls of plazas. At the top of the hill which slanted up away from the river was the old city wall, and climbing up to them provided a great view of the city. I love looking out over European cities; the humanity is so much more evident. You can see all the rooftops of the buildings where there are clotheslines or deck chairs or old furniture or some combination of totally different stuff. It's like a tiny, tiny window into the city that you don't see from the H&M discount rack or the overpriced restaurant booth.
After ascending to the wall, we descended down to the banks of the river and I stared down through the crystal-clear water while Becca let her inner artist talk her into taking pictures of swans. The water in Switzerland is unbelievably clear. When we were up in the mountains a few days before there were water fountains, outside in the street, feeding directly from the mountain streams. Great country? I say so.
But even great countries have Christmas markets, which is where we ended up next. That's actually not fair; I have a certain fondness for Christmas markets, mostly because I like happy things and Christmas is a happy time filled with happy souvenirs. In keeping with the season, I bought two small hand-carved wooden angels which had slipped past the Swiss embargo on reasonably priced items, and we headed back in the direction of the old city to eat dinner and then board our train back to Interlaken. We wanted to get back early enough to get a good night's sleep; it's not every day that you get to fulfill a life-long dream, and the Alps weren't going to ski themselves.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Swiss Recap
Well, I'm back, to Huelva and to the blog. Sorry for the long hiatus, but more than that I'm sorry for the sappy, smarmy previous post. Hallmark on Line 1.
Anyway, Switzerland rocked. I had a great time, although there was plenty of factors conspiring against my enjoyment of the country and my activities. Firstly, and by far most unpleasantly, I arrived in Basel on Thursday with the beginnings of a crippling stomach flu, probably the worst bout I've ever had. I'm usually pretty resistant to things affecting the stomach, but this one found a weakness (I think it was a small thermal exhaust port, just below the main port) and boy, oh boy did it exploit it. I spent the night shivering and sweating in alternating vigorous sequences, punctuated by frequent visits to the bathroom, which mercifully was both right next door and out of the room where everyone was sleeping.
I awoke having purged every conceivable substance from every part of my digestive system but still sick; indeed, even sicker than the day before. The stomach problems were marginally better--though probably because I ingested things far more carefully than the day before--but I felt miserable. I must have been running a pretty legit fever, because I was absolutely freezing, despite knowing that the hostel was warm and being dressed in several layers. I had absolutely no strength to do anything except sit and try to keep warm and conserve energy for the five minute walk to the train station to meet my friend, who was getting in later that day. It turned out to be more like an hour wait, as I sat in a cafe feeling like I was about to keel over and tried in vain to keep warm. I can only imagine how I looked when Becca first saw me. She says not well, which I'm guessing is something of an understatement. I know I felt like the walking dead, though I'll have to watch Shaun of the Dead again to tell you whether I looked like it too.
Fortunately, the arrival of Becca helped matters, as my health was improving due to the passage of time and medication I purchased at the Basel Bahnhof health center (which, incidentally, is indicated by a green cross, which I found ironic in the homeland of the Red Cross). Becca helped too, as she served both as a distraction from my symptoms and a provider of some comfort (she brought me soup and a Powerade, which counted for comfort food in my state). By the time our train departed for Interlaken, I was feeling better, though still not well. But I had at last reached the on-ramp to the road to recovery and had someone to talk to now, so overall the world was a much better place than had seemed possible 24 hours previous.
We got to Interlaken at night, walked to our hostel (Backpackers Villa Sonnehof--highly recommended) and basically just crashed for the night. It was quite a sight in the morning, therefore, to wake up to a snow-covered vista of mountains and trees and blue sky--Alpine in the truest sense of the term. That first day, Saturday, was mostly spent just wandering the town of Interlaken and the neighboring one of Unterseen, soaking in the sights and, in my case, enjoying be able to be outside and do things again. Because it was the weekend, the Christmas market was set up in Interlaken's main section. It was a very good Christmas market, the kind that makes you appreciate the holidays rather than wrinkle your nose at them. The market was rife with Christmas and Swiss things--Nativity wood carvings, Swiss chocolate, Swiss Army knives, clothing, etc--but also a great deal else, notably a lot of food and drinks. "Market" isn't really the right word; it was for like a festival. There were people everywhere eating, drinking, and just generally enjoying being in such a beautiful country during such an eventful time of year. I myself, still not close to recovered from my stomach bug, couldn't help but indulge in a waffle covered in Apfelmus (applesauce. It makes sense if you think about it) and mushrooms grilled and wrapped in bacon, not exactly the simple flavors and proteins that my recovering system probably wanted. I don't regret it, though; both, particularly the waffle, were excellent.
For Sunday, we signed up to go night sledding, which is exactly what it sounds like. Well, not exactly, because when most of us think of sledding we think of a moderately sized, wide slope that goes straight from top to bottom. The Swiss version of sledding is more hearty: winding down a course in the mountains with no steering apparatus other than our own weight and our feet. And it was night, and the course was not lighted. Our instructor told us the following: "There are no lights on the course--that's why it's called night sledding. But you can see a contrast between darker and lighter. The light is the course. The dark is trees and ledges. Steer away from the dark." And with those sage words ringing in our ears, we pushed off down the mountain. Weaving around hairpin turns and trying to avoid the drop-offs, I couldn't help but wonder how Calvin had the capacity to have all those deep conversations with Hobbes while careening down hills on his toboggan. But then again, his rides usually ended prematurely. I preferred to stay in one piece, even if it was at the expense of wisdom. Besides, I'd already flaunted that by signing up.
So, like characters out of a Marie McSwigan novel, we raced downhill on our plastic chariots, pile-ups and traffic jams common. I actually turned out to be pretty good at it (I would be good at night sledding; such a universally applicable skill, that is), so I was able to avoid most of the pile-ups and build up speed. Moose, our guide, stopped us right before the end to tell us that the last bit was really steep but emptied out into a road, so we had to stop quickly at the bottom (honestly, how quickly would that be made illegal in the US? One week?). After jetting down the hill and avoiding the the mass of people coming up behind, Becca and I took some pictures with some Australians we'd met during the evening to commemorate the night sledding experience and then headed off for cheese fondue and free beer at the mountain restaurant.
This is probably as good a segue as I can find for talking about Australians. You see, they deserve a segue. I love Australians; in all the traveling I've done, mainly in Europe but also in other places, I have never met an Australian I didn't like. They have been without exception affable, outgoing, laid-back, funny, and generally pleasant to be around. These Australians were no different--I just enjoy being in their company. We met an Australian couple in our hostel in Madrid that was really nice and another couple when I was traveling during Spring Break last year that let us use their train passes. I'm sure there are Australians whose company I would not enjoy--one Kenneth Alfred Ham comes to mind--but I haven't met them. And I've been to Australia. So Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
Oh, and as the cherry on top: the two Australians we met were Ellie and Libby. Libby's last name is Hogan, which makes her the niece of Paul Hogan, who is according to Wikipedia, "an Australian actor, comedian, film producer, and screen writer best known for his acting role as Crocodile Dundee." That's right; Crocodile Dundee is her uncle. This is real life, people. You can't make this stuff up. Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
On that note, we will conclude chapter one of My Adventures in Switzerland. Read the next one to find out about my encounter with Roger Federer's wife.
(Is he joking?)
Anyway, Switzerland rocked. I had a great time, although there was plenty of factors conspiring against my enjoyment of the country and my activities. Firstly, and by far most unpleasantly, I arrived in Basel on Thursday with the beginnings of a crippling stomach flu, probably the worst bout I've ever had. I'm usually pretty resistant to things affecting the stomach, but this one found a weakness (I think it was a small thermal exhaust port, just below the main port) and boy, oh boy did it exploit it. I spent the night shivering and sweating in alternating vigorous sequences, punctuated by frequent visits to the bathroom, which mercifully was both right next door and out of the room where everyone was sleeping.
I awoke having purged every conceivable substance from every part of my digestive system but still sick; indeed, even sicker than the day before. The stomach problems were marginally better--though probably because I ingested things far more carefully than the day before--but I felt miserable. I must have been running a pretty legit fever, because I was absolutely freezing, despite knowing that the hostel was warm and being dressed in several layers. I had absolutely no strength to do anything except sit and try to keep warm and conserve energy for the five minute walk to the train station to meet my friend, who was getting in later that day. It turned out to be more like an hour wait, as I sat in a cafe feeling like I was about to keel over and tried in vain to keep warm. I can only imagine how I looked when Becca first saw me. She says not well, which I'm guessing is something of an understatement. I know I felt like the walking dead, though I'll have to watch Shaun of the Dead again to tell you whether I looked like it too.
Fortunately, the arrival of Becca helped matters, as my health was improving due to the passage of time and medication I purchased at the Basel Bahnhof health center (which, incidentally, is indicated by a green cross, which I found ironic in the homeland of the Red Cross). Becca helped too, as she served both as a distraction from my symptoms and a provider of some comfort (she brought me soup and a Powerade, which counted for comfort food in my state). By the time our train departed for Interlaken, I was feeling better, though still not well. But I had at last reached the on-ramp to the road to recovery and had someone to talk to now, so overall the world was a much better place than had seemed possible 24 hours previous.
We got to Interlaken at night, walked to our hostel (Backpackers Villa Sonnehof--highly recommended) and basically just crashed for the night. It was quite a sight in the morning, therefore, to wake up to a snow-covered vista of mountains and trees and blue sky--Alpine in the truest sense of the term. That first day, Saturday, was mostly spent just wandering the town of Interlaken and the neighboring one of Unterseen, soaking in the sights and, in my case, enjoying be able to be outside and do things again. Because it was the weekend, the Christmas market was set up in Interlaken's main section. It was a very good Christmas market, the kind that makes you appreciate the holidays rather than wrinkle your nose at them. The market was rife with Christmas and Swiss things--Nativity wood carvings, Swiss chocolate, Swiss Army knives, clothing, etc--but also a great deal else, notably a lot of food and drinks. "Market" isn't really the right word; it was for like a festival. There were people everywhere eating, drinking, and just generally enjoying being in such a beautiful country during such an eventful time of year. I myself, still not close to recovered from my stomach bug, couldn't help but indulge in a waffle covered in Apfelmus (applesauce. It makes sense if you think about it) and mushrooms grilled and wrapped in bacon, not exactly the simple flavors and proteins that my recovering system probably wanted. I don't regret it, though; both, particularly the waffle, were excellent.
For Sunday, we signed up to go night sledding, which is exactly what it sounds like. Well, not exactly, because when most of us think of sledding we think of a moderately sized, wide slope that goes straight from top to bottom. The Swiss version of sledding is more hearty: winding down a course in the mountains with no steering apparatus other than our own weight and our feet. And it was night, and the course was not lighted. Our instructor told us the following: "There are no lights on the course--that's why it's called night sledding. But you can see a contrast between darker and lighter. The light is the course. The dark is trees and ledges. Steer away from the dark." And with those sage words ringing in our ears, we pushed off down the mountain. Weaving around hairpin turns and trying to avoid the drop-offs, I couldn't help but wonder how Calvin had the capacity to have all those deep conversations with Hobbes while careening down hills on his toboggan. But then again, his rides usually ended prematurely. I preferred to stay in one piece, even if it was at the expense of wisdom. Besides, I'd already flaunted that by signing up.
So, like characters out of a Marie McSwigan novel, we raced downhill on our plastic chariots, pile-ups and traffic jams common. I actually turned out to be pretty good at it (I would be good at night sledding; such a universally applicable skill, that is), so I was able to avoid most of the pile-ups and build up speed. Moose, our guide, stopped us right before the end to tell us that the last bit was really steep but emptied out into a road, so we had to stop quickly at the bottom (honestly, how quickly would that be made illegal in the US? One week?). After jetting down the hill and avoiding the the mass of people coming up behind, Becca and I took some pictures with some Australians we'd met during the evening to commemorate the night sledding experience and then headed off for cheese fondue and free beer at the mountain restaurant.
This is probably as good a segue as I can find for talking about Australians. You see, they deserve a segue. I love Australians; in all the traveling I've done, mainly in Europe but also in other places, I have never met an Australian I didn't like. They have been without exception affable, outgoing, laid-back, funny, and generally pleasant to be around. These Australians were no different--I just enjoy being in their company. We met an Australian couple in our hostel in Madrid that was really nice and another couple when I was traveling during Spring Break last year that let us use their train passes. I'm sure there are Australians whose company I would not enjoy--one Kenneth Alfred Ham comes to mind--but I haven't met them. And I've been to Australia. So Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
Oh, and as the cherry on top: the two Australians we met were Ellie and Libby. Libby's last name is Hogan, which makes her the niece of Paul Hogan, who is according to Wikipedia, "an Australian actor, comedian, film producer, and screen writer best known for his acting role as Crocodile Dundee." That's right; Crocodile Dundee is her uncle. This is real life, people. You can't make this stuff up. Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
On that note, we will conclude chapter one of My Adventures in Switzerland. Read the next one to find out about my encounter with Roger Federer's wife.
(Is he joking?)
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Attitude
Today was my last day in Huelva until Sunday the 12th. Suffice it to say I'm glad to be getting away. Typically the day that one leaves for a vacation is a good day--particularly for me, who loves traveling--but I was not so lucky. In school a miscommunication over when I am leaving for Christmas Break led to a teacher reaming me out, in Spanish, in front of a second grade class. I felt terrible--I had no intention of leaving before school ended unless I got the okay from the teachers, and they said it was okay. Or at least I thought they did. Apparently this teacher thought that I meant I would be leaving on Friday the 24th rather than Friday the 17th. She accused me of showing "total lack of respect." That really got things off on a good foot. I then found out that I wouldn't get paid by the school until mid-December and possibly later, which means that I'll have to spend dollars instead of euros in Switzerland (not a country, as you may know, known for it's bargain basement pricing). Then I got home to find out that the package sent from home containing my ski clothing hadn't arrived, which meant I would have to spend more of those American dollars (which are mercifully doing well against the European currencies at the moment) on renting everything from snow pants to a hat to gloves along with skis and boots. Then, as the cherry on top, I missed my bus to Sevilla.
I am not a person who loses it easily, and I've definitely been closer at other times in my life than I was then--even other times in the past few months. But watching the 4:00 bus pull out of its platform while I stood and clutched the ticket, unsure of which bus was mine, did not do wonders for my already fragile emotional state at that moment. I went back to the ticket window and asked the woman there if she could exchange my ticket for 5:00 (thank goodness for frequent departures). She could not, but told me to go talk to the bus station manager. I couldn't find him. I came back and just wanted to buy another ticket, but she told me that all he had to do was sign it and re-gave me directions to his office. I couldn't find him again. I found a bench, too ashamed to go back to the ticket window, and just sat, feeling sorry for myself about my crappy day.
You know, because that's so healthy. My US cell phone has a banner which I have set to say "Attitude" so every time I open my phone (my Spanish one, alas, does not have a banner) I'm reminded of the quote by Charles Swindoll, who I recently (read: 30 seconds ago) learned was an American clergyman and writer. The quote goes like this: "The more I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important that the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change the past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I respond to it."
Anyone who knows me well knows me that I'm a sucker for quotes. This may be my favorite quote ever. It's so eternally applicable, whether the Tigers just lost in a particularly heart-breaking manner, Ryan Air just inflexible-d you out of a trip to Rome, your boss is being unfair... or you're sulking on a paint fume-enveloped bench in the Huelva bus station.
I don't know what exactly triggered it, but I thought of that quote as I sat there in my poison cloud. Feeling sorry for yourself gets you nowhere. I know; I've seen me do it. A minute later I stood up to have another look for the station manager. Lo and behold, the door was right in front of me (in my defense, it was perfectly camouflaged with the wall). The manager wasn't there, so I went back to the ticket booth and talked to the woman again, who gave me an exasperated but genuine smile as she stamped my ticket for the 4:00, making it valid for the 5:00. Then I had a piece of apple tart in the bus station cafeteria. The world always looks better after desert.
So here I sit, in my friends' piso in Sevilla, about to turn in for my early flight tomorrow. I'm once again excited for Switzerland. I just hope RyanAir doesn't lose my suitcase.
I am not a person who loses it easily, and I've definitely been closer at other times in my life than I was then--even other times in the past few months. But watching the 4:00 bus pull out of its platform while I stood and clutched the ticket, unsure of which bus was mine, did not do wonders for my already fragile emotional state at that moment. I went back to the ticket window and asked the woman there if she could exchange my ticket for 5:00 (thank goodness for frequent departures). She could not, but told me to go talk to the bus station manager. I couldn't find him. I came back and just wanted to buy another ticket, but she told me that all he had to do was sign it and re-gave me directions to his office. I couldn't find him again. I found a bench, too ashamed to go back to the ticket window, and just sat, feeling sorry for myself about my crappy day.
You know, because that's so healthy. My US cell phone has a banner which I have set to say "Attitude" so every time I open my phone (my Spanish one, alas, does not have a banner) I'm reminded of the quote by Charles Swindoll, who I recently (read: 30 seconds ago) learned was an American clergyman and writer. The quote goes like this: "The more I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important that the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change the past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I respond to it."
Anyone who knows me well knows me that I'm a sucker for quotes. This may be my favorite quote ever. It's so eternally applicable, whether the Tigers just lost in a particularly heart-breaking manner, Ryan Air just inflexible-d you out of a trip to Rome, your boss is being unfair... or you're sulking on a paint fume-enveloped bench in the Huelva bus station.
I don't know what exactly triggered it, but I thought of that quote as I sat there in my poison cloud. Feeling sorry for yourself gets you nowhere. I know; I've seen me do it. A minute later I stood up to have another look for the station manager. Lo and behold, the door was right in front of me (in my defense, it was perfectly camouflaged with the wall). The manager wasn't there, so I went back to the ticket booth and talked to the woman again, who gave me an exasperated but genuine smile as she stamped my ticket for the 4:00, making it valid for the 5:00. Then I had a piece of apple tart in the bus station cafeteria. The world always looks better after desert.
So here I sit, in my friends' piso in Sevilla, about to turn in for my early flight tomorrow. I'm once again excited for Switzerland. I just hope RyanAir doesn't lose my suitcase.
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