Who says you can't go home?

The airline, actually. My original ticket brought me home on the 1st of June, but that was A. too soon to pack up and move out and B. not a good day to go home if I wanted to finish my Spanish class and take the final exams (oral and written). That lead me to change the date of my ticket to July 6th. But soon as June arrived, so did the thought, 'I want to go home'. Nothing was wrong, nothing happened, I do not have any particularly pressing business at home but for the first time I can remember in Spain: Round 5, I simply want to go home. You might be thinking one of the following:

1. That's nice.
2. Perfect timing because you are coming home soon.
3. You've been in a foreign country for 9 months, it makes sense. There's no need to explain.

I will explain anyway, even though you might be thinking #3. Things have changed a bit in the past week: my job here is done, Clarisse went home, Megan went home, my Spanish class is over (except for the tests) and the sun has switched to the rotisserie lamp setting. If I wasn't bored before, I certainly am now. All this free time gives me more time to think about how I miss my car, having money, Dairy Queen, popcorn/caramel corn from St.Paul/Minneapolis, the ability to say exactly what I want to say and just plain feeling like myself. I feel younger here because I have fewer responsibilities and because I lose a lot of my personality without the ability to make sarcastic comments. I'm taken back to a time when I was younger and sweeter and spoke in simpler sentences (and thus wasn't as hilarious). Also, without someone to talk to it is harder to be yourself or to act normal when talking. Although I spoke English in class, it's not the same type of English I use in the US. And when speaking Spanish I concentrate on trying to make coherent sentences that give the general gist of what I am trying to convey. Some days I just hope that what I am saying IS Spanish. I'm looking forward to going home and having more grammatically sophisticated conversations. And maybe even ones that include slang. I'll be able to say things like 'check it', 'shut the front door' and 'for shizzle'.

Thus, I came to the conclusion that I needed to change my ticket again. I convinced myself that my Spanish isn't at a high enough level to pass the oral exam, so I might as well go home. Besides, an oral exam on the 1st of July when the class ends on June 8th is a large span of time. You've gotta want or need that grade/half a certificate in level B2 to stay that long. I don't, so going home early just made sense.

Unfortunately, many people want to travel to the US in June, so it's hard to switch your ticket, unless, of course you want to fly first class. I would love to fly first class but I would not love to pay for it. As a result I will remain here in Spain for a bit longer. (My remaining roommate doesn't like goodbyes so he said he wasn't going to say it; he was just going to act like the day I left was any other day and that I would be home when he got home. I said told him that since that was the case I wasn't going to tell him when I was leaving, maybe that will make it easier on everyone. And that's why I am not writing the date in this blog...at least for now. So don't ask me.)

And so I am here in Spain biding my time, drinking my wine until the big day rolls around. And then the search for a job commences.

As a side note, I actually enjoyed being on hold with TAP airlines when I was making these changes. I loved the song and the sound of Portuguese. I was almost disappointed each time the agent picked up. I highly recommend calling them and waiting on hold for a few minutes when you have some free time.

Here was the most exciting part of my week thus far. I saw a bright light out my window at about 12 AM that I had never seen before. Turns out it was the moon:

There is a lunar eclipse tonight. Don't bother looking for it yourself. It's not visible in the US. Aren't I lucky that I'm not home yet?

Missy says, I'm going away to Spain when I get my money saved...I'm gonna start tomorrow...

You may or may not know the history of my relationship with Spain. To get a full picture, I think I need to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start): 8th grade, South Park Middle School, 13 years old.

As you can probably tell, I'm actually 14 in this picture.

I was finally an 8th grader and therefore finally able to take Spanish as an elective course. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about Spanish and so, when we were learning to conjugate verbs, I was annoyed that we weren't learning the 'vosotros' form.
      -"Señorita Hansen, why aren't we learning the vosotros form?"
      -"Because they only use it in Spain and you'll probably never go to Spain."
      -"Why is it in the book then?"
      -"Just so you are aware that it exists."
      -"Well, I'm going to Spain, so I think we should learn it."
      -"Well, if you know the other verb forms you'll easily pick it up when you're there."

Challenge accepted, lady. I'll learn the verb forms you deem worthy for Spanish class and then I'll go to Spain and tell you how easy it is to pick up the last one. Then we'll see if you or the book is right about what we need to learn in Spanish class. (Honestly though, I heard the same story from all of my Spanish teachers: You don't need to know it. You'll never go to Spain.)

I sure did prove them wrong. I took 4 years of Spanish class and then headed off to 'vosotrosland'. In the summer of 1998, I took a two-week trip to Spain with Nacel Open Door. I have no idea how I heard about this organization or the program. Nor do I remember the application process. But I know I went.

You might think that taking a trip like this seems normal, given my fascination with the Spanish language, but you know me (at least I think that is why you are reading this) and my personality did not match that of the stereotypical high school exchange student. You wouldn't have used words like 'flexible', 'laid-back', 'open' or 'social' to describe me, so the fact that I went and that I went without knowing anyone else in the program is quite astonishing. But despite these truths I really, really wanted to go. I was so interested in Spanish that I was able to forget (if only temporarily) that I was petrified to leave my comfort zone.

During the first week of this excursion, I lived with a family in Barcelona. I remember opening my suitcase in my room at their house and discovering that my Bath and Body Works spray bottle perfume had exploded during the journey. Everything I brought was drenched with this scent. When I smell that perfume now, it takes me right back to Barcelona. Anyway, the family had a son, Ricardo, who was about my age and showed me around the city. The most embarrassing part of my time in Barcelona was when I went out with Ricardo and his friends. He introduced me to them and I had no idea how to do the 'dos besos' greetings. For some reason I thought you actually kissed the person on the cheek. After his friend turned completely red, I figured I'd made a mistake. I also remember that my bedroom was at the end of the hall and that I had a hard time adjusting to the 7 hour time difference. I can still hear the host mother's heels clicking down the marble floor, stopping when they reached my room and hearing her voice calling, 'Meliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssa- levántate' (my name was really drawn out and sweet and the 'get up' part was more demanding).

The second week of the trip the Americans reunited and spent the week traveling to Madrid, Cordoba, Sevilla and Toledo (I think, I'd have to look at the pictures to be sure). As much as I wanted to go and as lucky as I was to be there, I made myself miserable. I wanted to go home the entire time. In fact, I still remember one of the other students telling me, "I will never forget how much you wanted to go home." Why I wanted to go home, I don't know. It certainly wasn't that I was bored or that I didn't make friends with the other students on the trip. In fact, we all got along and we kept in touch for a little while after the trip (as best we could in the pre-Facebook days of our youth). The problem was that I was having fun, but was constantly telling myself that I wanted to go home. While taking a photo of the Alhambra I was thinking 'I want to go home.' While touring the 16th century cathedral of Sevilla, I was thinking, 'When do I get to go home?' While drinking wine at 16 years old I was thinking, 'How many days do I have left here?' I was doing and seeing all these amazing things, but during all of it a broken record (you remember what records are, right?) in my head was playing, 'home, home, home'. I had no idea how to shut it off.

Fast forward to 2001, when I was planning my study abroad experience. I was going abroad for several reasons (here they are, in no particular order):

1. As a Spanish major you have two options: study abroad for one semester or, as a less desirable alternative (in the eyes of the Department of Spanish and Portuguese), take all of your classes in Spanish one semester. I chose option A because the student loan rates were so low that I thought I'd barely notice the extra 10-15 grand added to the my student loan bill.
2. I thought it would be a good way to learn Spanish (maybe even the Vosotros form!)
3. I wanted a second chance. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go abroad without the 'home' soundtrack playing in my head.

And so I packed my bags and was off to Spain a second time, once again without a friend to use as a security blanket and still lacking most of the stereotypical traits of a study abroad candidate.

But it didn't matter. I ended up with an incredibly caring and welcoming host family as well as an amazing, hilarious, fun roommate and traveling companions/friends. I have never in my life laughed as much as I did during that three month period in Spain (thanks to Anna, Meaghan and Kelly. Those ladies are hilarious, especially when we are all together.). We had a TON of fun, but I most of the time I wasn't relaxed. The broken record played continuously in my head during all of the fun and traveling, 'Minnesota, Minnesota, Minnesota...' I counted down the days until I would be back in Minnesota, freezing my butt off. (I didn't (freeze my butt off) in Spain because Anna and I had a heater in our room and down comforters on our beds. Kelly and Meaghan- remind me again what you had to keep warm when you slept on your bunk bed...). My friends, being the good friends that they are, only heckled me about my nervousness/anxiety a tiny bit and only took a few photos as evidence/fodder for future heckling (There's the famous Nerja 'rolling suitcase on the beach story,' which unfortunately I cannot retell because (as a coping mechanism) I've blocked most of it from my memory. I fear the others have not.)

2001 Sevilla, Spain with Miguel Angel ('the Mig') and Loli.

And when I returned to Minnesota in the middle of the freezing cold winter and I told my Spain tales to others (when I 'Spained a yarn', if you will), I neglected to include that I was nervous and anxious the whole time I was there. I also conveniently forgot to mention how relieved I was when January finally rolled around and I got to go home. Don't get me wrong, I had fun, I was glad that I went and I was proud of myself for going outside of my comfort zone. However, like so much of my life, I yearned for more. I reflected on this trip as having gone to the pool and just dipped my toes into the water. I wanted to go to the pool, do a cannonball into the water and start swimming (you know how I love to swim. Jennifer will tell you about how I used to be on a swim team).

The third time I set foot on Spanish soil, was in 2002. I took a week-long summer trip (with Renée) to visit my host family. The first six days were relaxing. I set a personal record for the tannest I've ever been. The downside of the trip (besides increasing my risk of skin cancer), was that I was mugged (at knifepoint) on one of the last days we were there. We subsequently spent some quality time at the Spanish police station. We chatted with two multi-tasking officers who simultaneously asked questions, listened to our story and filled out a police report while smoking a cigarette. Unfortunately their hard work was in vain because my purse was never recovered. Apparently it was the first violent crime to have ever occurred in this beach town. (I was honored, really.) I didn't blame Spain. After all, things like that happen everywhere and I knew we could have made better decisions. However, after that I wasn't in a big hurry to get back.

And so time passed. I spent two more years in college and following graduation I spent three years working a temporary job in the morning M-F. In addition, I spent every weekend and some evenings working at the Nicollet Island Inn. Then, in 2006 (not 2005, Shunter) I got a job at CaringBridge (and continued to work weekends at the Nic). CaringBridge was (is) a fantastic organization with fantastic people, who also happen to be the majority of the readers of this blog. (Get back to work you guys. Seriously. A website doesn't run itself...). I was working during this time, but not necessarily living.

And Spain kept calling me. (Which was annoying because I was supposed to be answering phone calls from people who had questions about the website.) I ignored the call for awhile, but at one point, a particularly stressful period at CB, I took inventory of my life. I'd worked at the same restaurant for 10 years, I'd spent four years giving thousands of people help with their password and telling them how to enter a website name (NO SPACES), my friends were all getting married and having babies and I was about to turn 30. And when I thought about the future I had a panic attack. I saw myself working two jobs, hanging out with my married friends when I could and taking a yearly week-long vacation. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that except that I knew that there was something else I wanted to do before I lived that life; something on my bucket list that kept getting pushed further and further towards the bottom. Something that I simply could not remove without actually doing it.

This life ambition stemmed from an e-mail I received in 2004 from the U of MN Department of Spanish and Portuguese. It encouraged recent graduates to apply for a 'paid' Teaching English Abroad program in Spain. I wanted to do it. I knew I wanted to do it. And so I kept the e-mail in a safe place: my inbox. And I stared at it for 5 years. Every time I checked my UMN mail- it was there waiting for me. But I always had an excuse not to apply: I need to save more money, I need to get more work experience, I need to learn Spanish (no really, my Spanish was not up to par for a Spanish major), I'm too old, etc. After five years I finally realized that no combination or quantity of excuses could outweigh the simple fact that my heart was telling me to go.

Before I made any final decisions, I took one more trip to Spain in September of 2009. I went with Rachel, who, ironically, started Spanish class in 8th grade at South Park Middle School the very same day I did. We had different teachers, but I'm sure she didn't learn the vosotros form either. Anyway, in Spain we visited my host family in Castilleja de la Cuesta, a town just outside Sevilla and then toured Sevilla, Granada and Nerja. It gave me the opportunity to fill in the last few pages of the travel journal I had kept back in 2001 and to realize that I really needed to take a good, hard, thorough look at my inbox.

After five years of staring at the e-mail, I made a move. I went to the website to apply, but it wouldn't work. I kept getting an error message saying that the page was insecure and if I entered it I should promptly bend over, put my head between my legs and kiss my ass goodbye. Some people might take that as a sign that it just wasn't meant to be. But at this point, I was determined. If the door was closed, I'd look for a window, but I was getting OUT. The open window turned out to be a study abroad organization I'd heard about when I was in Spain in 2001: CIEE. The program almost the same, except that rather than being assigned to any part of Spain, you would only be assigned to Andalucía (southern Spain). Also, they charged a fee for their orientation and assistance upon arrival abroad. But if I wanted to go, it was what I needed to do.

It was an arduous application process that included several trips to the doctor (for vaccinations and a physical), 6 passport photos (I went to three different Walgreens so I wouldn't look suspicious), background checks and fingerprints at the St. Paul and Minneapolis jails and two overnight trips to Chicago (please read that carefully). With my 'to-do' list full of check marks, I quit my jobs, packed my bags and headed back to Spain by myself (again). I went in search of the ability to relax a little and to learn to speak Spanish (including the vosotros form).

Even before I left my 'relaxing a little' goal wasn't going well. A short while after I getting my school placement information, I e-mailed the school twice (once in English and once in what I wanted to be Spanish) asking about where to live and freaking out about whether or not there was a place for me to run there. Rafa and Manolo both responded to my e-mails. Manolo told me that one of the teachers was looking for two roommates to share a three-bedroom piso. He said the French language assistant was probably going to live there, so that left one room open for me. Somehow I got said teacher's e-mail and e-mailed him what I'm sure was an anxious, poorly written (in Spanish) e-mail. I cringe at the thought of what I said or how I came off in that e-mail. (As a matter of fact, if you still have those e-mails, José, I won't be mad if you delete them.) As of 'press time' for this entry, I haven't been able to go back and re-read any of the e-mails I sent at that time. Partly because I don't want to know how bad my Spanish was (not that it has improved all that much, but still...) and partly because I'm sure I sounded like an anxious, uptight, running-crazy American. And the truth hurts (especially in written form). I also haven't been able to reread my first blog entries. I cringe at the thought of some of the things I wrote and I have a strong desire to delete the entries entirely. But for now, I will leave them.

Anyway, back to the point: as usual, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. I thought maybe I'd gotten so lucky on my first two (major) trips to Spain that surely something about this trip would go terribly wrong. Nope. This (school) year was absolutely perfect. Here's why: Alcalá has an incredible trail system for running (which is of the utmost importance for me, as you know). Next, if I had hand-picked the people I had to work with at school and live with in Alcalá I would have picked the same people. I could not find better roommates/friends than Clarisse and José. They are not only clean and responsible, they are also a hoot. (Por cierto compañeros de piso míos- This is not 'goodbye'. I will see you both again. It might be in Spain, it might be in Martinique, it might be in the US, or it might be in Canada, but mark my words, we will all see each other again. And I will speak Spanish. And you will be amazed.)

Clarisse

Manolo, José and Raúl.

I could also not find better co-auxiliares and good friends than Megan and Shaelyn. They can always make me laugh and best of all- they are Midwestern girls (so there's a good chance I will see them again, back in the states)! I could not find more genuine, kind, amusing teachers and staff than those at the school in Alcalá. I wish that I could put into words what an incredible bunch of people they are. They were always there if we (the auxiliares) needed anything: help, advice, an explanation about Spanish culture, etc. I regret that both my English and my Spanish are too poor to say what I really want to say. I only hope they can tell by my actions and the few emotions that I showed that I had an incredible, superb, extraordinary year in Alcalá and it was the people that made it so incredible.

I could not find better students than the ones here in Alcalá (well, maybe a few...). In general, they are  extremely motivated, as well as being humorous, creative and, most of the time, attentive when I was 'teaching'. This school year plain and simply cannot be topped. I'm not sure what I did right in life that got to spend eight months with such awesome people and in such a good location (maybe I was a saint in a past life), but I'm so, so thankful that I did. (Corny? Yes. But true? Indeed.)


(Put on your clam diggers and get out your shovels, people, this is about to get deep). On the outside, traveling to Spain was (and still is) about setting out to do something and finishing it. I said I wanted to learn to speak Spanish and I'll be damned if I stop until I do. It's the same mentality I have for running: I said I was going to run this half marathon and though it may be 90 degrees, my foot may be bleeding, I'm limping, I'm thirsty, and I feel sick, I WILL NOT STOP until I cross the finish line (unless my shoe is untied; safety first). I will finish what I started.

My subconscious, however, knew that wanting to go to Spain was about more than just having an interest in Spanish and definitely about more than proving teachers wrong (although under certain circumstances that would be all the motivation I would need). The reasons I wanted to be in Spain, whether I knew it or not, are and always have been: to see things from a different perspective (to realize that all the little things I worried about back at home were silly and insignificant, the world is too huge to focus on those things), to challenge myself (go outside my comfort zone and grow and learn) and to find myself/gain the confidence I've always lacked. And it's much harder than I thought it would be. The problem for me is that Spanish (or any foreign language) is everything I love and hate all rolled into one; it's something that has a pattern and a definite answer but it is also something that, in order to be really good at it you need to:
A.) talk-to use it---A LOT.
B.) you need to make a lot of mistakes and
C.) you need to not be afraid to make a fool of yourself.

These are all of my greatest fears: talking, making mistakes and making a fool of myself. Unfortunately, if I can't overcome these fears, I can't finish what I set out to do, I can't change/grow and can't I do what I've been wanting to do since 8th grade.

Too bad I figured this out so late (or maybe I just accepted it so late) and it is what I am struggling with now.  Is it too late to jump in the water? Because I just realized that I can swim...

Punta Umbrella

Since there was neither English class nor Spanish class during Semana Santa (and then some), I talked myself in to taking a trip. Unfortunately things like hotel rooms have to be booked in advance, especially during a holiday week. And by 'in advance' I mean that their booking must precede the release of the weather forecast for the days of travel, so at least 10 days prior to departure. That means that I had already booked the hotel when the weather people announced that as far as they could tell the rain was going to start on Saturday and possibly end at some time in the future, but not in the 10 days following that Saturday. I hoped they were wrong. (They weren't.)

I took a bus to Huelva and from there another bus to Punta Umbría. It was about an hour from Sevilla to Huelva and another half hour to Punta Umbria.

The hotel was basically across the street from the bus station in Punta Umbría, which was very convenient. After I checked in I tried to walk around the 'downtown' area, but it started to rain, so I didn't get far. That was pretty much how it went the entire three days that I was there. And the Internet didn't work for me, so I had to hang out the window to get the signal from the second floor's server.

My hotel is in the background.

The hotel room, AKA where I spent my beach vacation.

I didn't do anything really, but here is what I saw through the rain:

The Town Hall

A clever store name

La ría.

This area is a garden, not a 'shitter' for dogs. (I'm not a
professional translator, but you get the idea.)

A snail on the rainy sidewalk.

The last day I was there it was sunny, but really windy. I went and sat at the beach for awhile anyway, just to say that I was there.

For those of you that can't make it to the beach:

Happy birthday, Mom!

Holy (Week) Moly Rocky!

Semana Santa (aka Holy Week) goes from Palm Sunday (el Domingo de Ramos) to Easter Sunday (but there aren't really processions on Easter, unless you are in Sevilla). I don't know a whole lot about it (read: don't blame me if something I post here is completely wrong), but what I do know is that Andalucía, and Sevilla in particular, is the master of the Semana Santa spectacular.

Chairs set up for the processions in Sevilla.

Each day during Holy Week there are processions through the city. However, if it is raining, like it was this year, they call them off. It rained every single day except for Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday (as I remember). It is a big deal to call them off because people practice all year for this one week.

As far as I can tell, when they do happen, the processions consist of:

Nazarenos (which used to be only men, but apparently now women are allowed, sometimes. Not sure on the rules and regulations):

Nazarenos on Palm Sunday in Alcalá.

The red capirote means it's a different brotherhood
than the other (black) one above.

Alcalá. The capirotes are not conducive to talking.
Which is good because the Nazarenos are not supposed to.

Costaleros:

Getting their heads ready to carry the 'float'.

Getting their backs ready to carry the float.
It apparently requires you to take off your pants.

Carrying the 'float' (Alcalá).

Penitentes:

Bands:

El paso del Cristo (which depict different scenes from the Bible):

And El paso de palio (Mary):

The processions start and end at church. They leave at maybe 4 PM, make their way through the city and return to the church around midnight. Some are longer, some are shorter. Some start earlier, some start later. There are no set rules.

I believe that there are different brotherhoods, different 'floats' and different bands every day. You get one day to strut your stuff on the streets of Andalucía (or wherever you might be).

These videos are not in slow-motion. The processions take forever. You need to put on your Patience Pants when you watch them. The crowds are also a factor. If you, like me, do not like crowds you may not enjoy watching the processions from the sidewalks. You can always watch them on TV or listen to them on the radio (I heard the bus driver listening to them one day. I was curious about what they talk about for hours, but I assumed it was much like what MLB announcers talk about for hours.)

Here's a video of the Paso del Cristo leaving the church in Sevilla on Saturday. Remember that it is moving by means of a group of men underneath it. I can't imagine how difficult it is to navigate this through the streets of the city, especially at the corners. And, the costaleros have a special way of walking so that it looks like the figure on the float is walking too.

And because every holiday needs it's own special food, here is Semana Santa's:

Torrijas are made with bread, milk, eggs, honey, sugar, cinnamon and olive oil.

Needless to say there was no school this week and the stores and banks were closed basically from Wednesday through Sunday. It would have been a great time to take a trip, but unfortunately for all of us, it rained on our parade.

The tale of (Anna's last) two cities...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. I suppose you have already read that tale of two cities. Or at least the Cliffnotes version of it.

The tale of Anna's last two cities takes place Alcalá and Sevilla. On Monday morning I opted to skip Spanish class because I hadn't done the homework and I didn't want to be harassed by the teacher for not doing it. Besides, Anna was in town and it was better not to leave her all alone in Alcalá all morning. That afternoon we started our first tour: Sevilla.

This tour consisted of visits to the Catedral/Giralda (again), the Plaza de España, Torre del Oro, Parque María Luisa and Plaza Alfalfa. In the plaza we drank sangría and people-watched:

Then we went to dinner, where Anna had goat cheese with fruit and I had cod with onions and oranges and we shared a pitcher white wine sangría. After dinner we booked it back to the bus stop and back to Alcalá where we made cookies (and ate a ton of them), drank wine (from Sevilla- Espartinas, in fact) and talked. We also discovered that the time it takes to climb the stairs up to our piso is equal to the time it takes to get there via the elevator.

My iPod takes terrible photos.

We saved the Tour de Alcalá for the last day (Tuesday). I took Anna to the dragon bridge, the castle, and the mall.

Los Alcores Mall in Alcalá.

As if that weren't enough, she even got to go to school with me again. On the way there we stopped and arranged for a taxi to swing by the piso at 5 AM the next morning to take her to the airport. At school, Anna observed/participated in two of my conversation classes (a fourth year and a first year). She did quite well. She just has to work on getting a British accent.

After class we had a drink/tapas and watched the Semana Santa practice procession. Ever since Thursday night on the way to the Mexican restaurant, when we saw some costaleros practicing for the big week, Anna had been hoping to see more Semana Santa action. This was her big chance. Clarisse and José joined us as well. Afterwards, (for the last supper) Anna, José and I went to another tapas restaurant and had wine, mayo with potatoes and veggies (its real name is ensalada rusa, I know), goat cheese with jam and bread with a sauce that I thought was solmorejo, but I'm not really sure.

Bed time didn't come until about 1 AM, which made 5 AM all that much earlier. I helped Anna carry her suitcases down to the taxi that awaited her and we said our goodbyes. I stood and watched as the taxi drove away.

Saying goodbye to all my visitors has been hard, but I've managed to keep it together. I don't know if it was because Anna was the last visitor or because it was 5 AM or because I'd been drinking more than usual, but as I turned to go back up to the piso, I started to cry.

Highs 8-11€ (TF: Part III)

After an hour long train ride we arrived in Santiago de Compostela. We were without a map, but not without a plan (and vague directions from the Internet). We took the main road up the hill, past a busy plaza and into what we imagined was 'downtown' (judging by the ratio of people to cars). There, we stared at the directions, looked up at the street signs, looked back down at the directions, went around the 'block' and decided we didn't know where to go next. We thought we could try to follow the helpful signs for tourists. They are color-coordinated based on the type of attraction you are looking for. In the case of the tourist office you want to look for a yellow sign with an 'i' and an arrow pointing, presumably, towards the tourist office. The arrows are less than helpful though. They are really just saying 'the tourist office is over there somewhere- in that general direction- more or less'. 'You'll know it when you see it, if you don't see it you went the wrong way.' So it wasn't a surprise that we couldn't find it. You know what that means- time to play the Directions in Spanish comprehension game! I asked a waiter at a nearby restaurant how to get to the tourist office. I passed the that test with flying colors but failed the Spanish culture test. Of course the tourist office would be closed at 2:30 PM. What was I thinking? We were standing in front of the office contemplating our next move when up walks a woman who takes out some keys and starts to unlock the office. It seemed like she worked there and just coming back to pick up something she had forgotten. I didn't ask her why she was there, but I did ask her how to get to the hostel. She said, 'Just a second, I'll be right back.' She went inside the office for a few minutes and returned with a beautiful city map with our hostel and the tourist office highlighted and circled. She told us the office opened again at 4:30 if we needed any help finding other things to do in the city. We thanked her profusely. Before we got away she asked if we could tell her where we were from, for the office's statistics. We told her, wiped the fairy dust off of our shoes and went on our way.

We made it as far as the Plaza de Cervantes, but from there couldn't tell which of the eight adjacent roads was the one we needed to take. We examined the map, turned it upside down to match where we were facing and still couldn't find the road we were looking for. Then, a woman came up to us and asked us (in Spanish) if we needed help. I hesitantly said that we did. Why was I hesitant? What is weird about a person offering to help someone who is standing in the middle of a plaza with a map? Spaniards don't offer help, that's the problem. If you want help, you need to ask for it. They are more than willing to help you, but you have to initiate the conversation. I showed her the street we were looking for and she walked us there. I made sure to keep a few steps behind her because I thought it weird that she was physically taking us to the correct street. Once we got there she said the hostel was just down the road a bit. And she was right. I guess I was just being paranoid.

The hostel was also a bar/restaurant so we entered the restaurant with our suitcases and checked in at the bar. It was 3 PM so the restaurant was busy and they didn't have time to do the whole check-in process. They took us across the street to the hotel part of the business and escorted us upstairs to our room (hostel = no elevator). They left us with the keys and told us to stop by the bar again later to sign some things and officially check-in. We dropped our stuff off in the room and headed out to find lunch and do some site-seeing. First stop: lunch. We stopped at a restaurant in a quiet area near the market. Since it was later in the day, we were the only ones eating. We opted for the menú, consisting of three courses plus bread, dessert and a drink for 11€.

I ordered red wine and Anna ordered white wine. They brought us a bottle each and told us to serve ourselves.

The bread and 'drink'.

First courses: Sopa Gallega and Ensalada.

Merluza (Anna got the breaded chicken and fries- not shown, you've seen it before)

Dessert for me was the juiciest orange I've ever eaten. Anna opted for the chocolate pudding. The after-dinner drink was the rest of the wine.

I made Anna finish the last of my red wine bottle.

It was around this time (after three courses, bread, and wine) that Anna looked at me and with a straight face asked, 'So, what are we going to do for dinner?' I couldn't stop laughing. It might have been the wine. When Anna finished her last glass (shown) we started walking. Soon, we found ourselves in the Plaza de Cervantes again. And who should we run into but the good samaritan giving directions to lost tourists. She helped those people and continued pacing around the plaza in search of her next victim, I mean the next person in need. We took some pictures to document the situation and then walked past her. I told her thanks again and that we found our hostel. She seemed confused, but I assume she just helps so many people every day that she doesn't remember everyone.

 By this time we had to use the restroom. In order to do so, we decided to stop and buy ice cream. A pack of teenagers came in as we were trying to order and use the bathroom so we had to wait to do both. Then we headed back out to the streets of Santiago de Compostela.

We weren't really in the site-seeing mood though. So we stopped and had another glass of wine.

Then we tried to go shopping, but didn't really find anything. We eventually walked to this park and sat for a little bit, along with these nice caballeros:

We took pictures, sat and ate peanuts, and watched the runners do laps around the park.

And then a bird pooped on Anna:

Anna pointed out the bird poop in her hair.
She used hand sanitizer to get it out.

When we tired of the excitement in the park, we walked back to the main tourist area (which was actually just on the other side of the street from the park).

It looked like a crowd of people in real life. The
picture doesn't do it justice.

Unsure of what to do next, we found another cute looking restaurant and had another glass of wine (that came with tapas) and dessert. (We also took the opportunity to use the bathroom, hence why Anna is not in this photo.)

After that we called it a night and went back to the hostel. We watched TV for a little bit and then Anna turned in about an hour before I did. With the noise from the street, the bar across the street and the toilet that ran all night, neither of us got much sleep. That, and the fact that for some reason there was a crib in our room and it was very much in my way. Each time I got up to go to the bathroom (and/ or tried to get the toilet to stop running) I tripped over the crib and caused ruckus.

At some point we both fell asleep though and when I woke up and looked at my iPod (it's not an iPhone) it was 11 AM. I woke Anna up with the following announcement: 'It's 11 AM, we have one hour to get ready before check out. Ready- GO' She jumped out of bed and into the shower.

We checked out in time, but left our bags at the front desk while we enjoyed our last few hours in Santiago de Compostela.  We hadn't yet officially visited the cathedral of the city and it was imperative that we did so. The cathedral is the biggest attraction in the city. It is supposedly where St. James is buried, and is the destination for the 'Way of St. James' pilgrimage route. You might recall seeing photos of seashells in the sidewalk in my other blog entries (if you read Bilbao and Santander). Well, those markers lead the way to this cathedral.

We even went inside the cathedral, but there was a church service (it being Sunday and all), so we didn't stay long.

We tried to find other interesting sites, but gave up after a half hour and just started walking.
We stopped for lunch:

Ensalada Rusa aka mayo with some potatoes and veggies.

Anna's entree- chicken with a red pepper on top.

Merluza again.

Dessert

For the record, I tried to order tea, but they didn't have the kind I wanted (the only kind I drink). I had to settle for red wine.

After lunch we started walking again. Eventually we made it back to the park we were at the day before. We sat on a bench in the sun and waited until a good time to go pick up our bags again.

Anna and I in the park with the cathedral in the background.

When the time was right, we picked up our bags at the hostel and made the journey back down to the train station. We made it with about 15 minutes to spare. Our train, however, was late. And to make matters worse, it stopped on the tracks for an extended period three separate times. We were a little nervous about making our flight. Had our luck run out?

The train finally arrived in La Coruña, but unfortunately we didn't know exactly where the airport bus stop was. I thought I knew, but I wasn't 100% sure. We tried to stop at the information desk in the train station and ask where it was, but there was another person in front of us and she wasn't going anywhere. Time was of the essence (the airport bus comes only once per hour on Sundays). We either got to the bus stop without error or we took a taxi. I told Anna I was pretty sure I knew where it was. I led the way. I do not think (although I didn't ask her) that I adequately convinced Anna that I knew where I was going, but she followed me anyway. That's what you call a faithful friend. Whether by luck or by travel savviness, we got there on the first try. And there were even a few other people waiting, which was a good sign. A minute or two after we arrived I looked at Anna and said, 'I wonder when it's coming.' 'It's here,' she said. And I turned around to see the bus pulling up to the stop. Now do you believe in the Transportation Fairy?

The rest of the trip you've heard before: plane to Sevilla, bus to the city, bus to Alcalá and your feet to your front door.

It was then Sunday night and Anna had just two full days left in Spain. What better places to spend them than Sevilla and Alcalá? (It's a rhetorical question, please don't email me your 'better places'.)