i am the foreign guy

Part of my reason for coming here in the first place was to put myself in a situation where I would be out of my comfort zone. Up ‘til now I had never lived outside of wonderful, near-perfect Massachusetts with this past year being the first year I was more than twenty minutes from a close relative. Even here I’ve been surrounded by familiarity, mostly due to the fact that just about all my friends are American. I speak a lot of (too much) English and have hot dogs or tacos for dinner.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be the foreign guy. No. That’s not true. I’ve never wondered what its like to be the foreign guy. I’ve always just been glad I’m not the foreign guy because the foreign guy is always weird. Also, people treat the foreign guy in one of three ways: 1) The foreign guy is weird, let’s make fun of him 2) The foreign guy is different, let’s ignore him 3) The foreign guy is interesting let’s see what that’s about.
I rearranged my rigorous schedule of nothing so I could go skiing with my flat mate Fran for a week. Fran is a professor and teaches people how to be gym teachers. He is also working on his PhD in said subject area. He also gave me a bike for Christmas (Dia de Reyes, actually). If you want give someone that Christmas morning little kid feeling again I highly recommend a bike, a red one if possible. It really is the most exciting present you can get. I haven’t been so excited about a gift since the I was ten and came downstairs to find a bike next to the tree. I think I was clapping I was so happy.
Saturday at midnight we left Sevilla on a bus loaded with four other friends of the Fran and forty or so of his students. The students are not much younger than I am, 20-23 yrs old, but here it’s common to live with your parents until after 30. So most of them were dropped off by their parents, who hug and kiss them goodbye and wave to the bus, which makes them seem about 17. My goal was to make one Spanish friend on the trip. I may have succeeded. On the other maybe people just gave me their email addresses to be nice and plan on ignoring my grammatically adorable electronic advances. It remains to be seen.
We changed drivers in Madrid and headed on, stopping for lunch in Catalunya. We reached Andorra after 17 hours on the road. We headed right to the mountain to rent equipment before heading to the hotel about half an hour away to eat and crash out. Skiing in the morning.
Andorra was definitely not on my list of places I want to see in Europe. It is a oddity, a landlocked country (principality) in the Pyrenees between Spain and France. The official language is Catalan. There are no sales taxes so Spanish, French, British and German tourists flock to ski and buy cigarettes and electronics. It’s like making North Conway, NH it’s own country. The city we stayed is is called Vella it’s more or less the hub. It’s all hotels and stores. Everything closes at 8. There are a handful of bars. We went to Corinthians, a pub with beer coolers from which you serve yourself and pay by the bottle later, and Borsa, a club where the dinks change price on stock market-esque screens depending on the demand. Cute. Overall a very quiet night time scene.
Grandvilaria, the mountain, is made up of five peaks. It is also connected to another mountain, so if you buy another lift ticket you can pass back and forth between nine or so. A one day pass is around 40€. Trails are divided, in increasing order of difficulty, into green, blue, red and black. About 75% of the trails were open. There was cover and some ice on the trails. It was total spring skiing in New England. The temperature got up to 50+ degrees in the afternoon.
I had the only decent sandwich, by my standards, that I haven’t made myself at a roadside cafe in Catalunya. Sandwiches in Andalucia are one ingredient (jamon or cheese) on a roll. I mean this was no Deli, but meat and cheese and some sort of spread on fresh baked bread was pretty awesome. I had seconds.

@ home

10 days at home

life in spain is so easy but i still felt lazy – probly cause theres video games
plenty of time to relax and see who i should have seen...even thought i saw rory

you have to either always act like its the last time you are going to see everyone or never act like it. if you start getting fancy and acting that way sometimes, people get confused and offended

3 days in boston
i love you

3 days in nyc
i love you

thanks given

Remember the first time you crossed the street without your mom, or read a book, or cleaned yourself after using the toilet? You’re a big kid now, that’s for sure. That’s how I felt this weekend after hosting Thanksgiving in my apartment. I mean it wasn’t just like home. Buying pre-cooked chickens from the supermercado isn’t quite the same as roasting a turkey all day, but what are you supposed to do if you don’t have an oven? Most people had to eat standing up and no one was related, but there was still a little bit of drama. And although there were no corn or cranberry products available, last minute improvisations of stuffing and sweet potatoes sealed the deal and made it feel a little like that most American of holidays.

We had representatives of three European countries present to witness the American celebration of the coming together of the native American peoples and the European newcomers for a beautiful dinner. Those were the happy times, before the resettlements, smallpox blankets, alcoholism and casinos, and that’s what we taught our European friends. When some members of our party donned paper headbands with feathers in the back, it was with utmost reverence to our Wampanoag brothers, who saved our ancestors from starvation 400 years ago. Even on the way to bar afterward, the Spaniards in the streets seemed to understand our show of gratitude as they whooped like the Chippewa themselves at our coming.

francia - fetes des lumieres

My first excursion into another country came on the puente of the Immaculada, a four-day weekend. I went to visit Manuela who is studying is Aix-en-Provence, not far from Marseilles in southern France. It was the first time I had been on a flight that was not either leaving or returning to my home in the states. It was a little bit of a strange sensation. It really made Sevilla seem even more like my new, albeit temporary home base. It was also, since Japan, the first time I had been somewhere where I am completely incapable of interacting with anyone, having zero language skills. It’s frustrating and makes me want to learn at least basic French. Maybe next year.

I had rented a car through a website called easyterra.com. They gave me a confirmation number. It was a good thing Manuela met me at the airport. Easyterra is not a car-rental company but some sort of middleman company. We had to go from company to company at the airport and eventually got our Twingo from Europcar. It was about 25 euro/day including unlimited kilometers but not petrol. Unfortunately, I forgot my driver’s license so we had to rent it under her name, which cost us a bundle in extra insurance because she is under twenty-five. She is probably the only girl I would trust to drive around Europe in a stick-shift. Of course I had to have a go at it later, I couldn’t miss a chance to dive a tiny French car in France and watch the speedometer go up to 150.

I guess they call Aix a mini Paris because of the high fashion and fine dining and such that is found in such a tiny city. I’ve never been to Paris. Aix was nice though. Fancy and pretty expensive compared to Andalucía. I was introduced to vin chaud a hot wine spiced with cinnamon, clove and lemon and sometimes with brandy, which is sold on the street in the Christmas market. Our dinner was a local specialty of mussels and fries. They were the best mussels I’ve ever had, so tender, not rubbery like mussels often can be. The waitress gave us a complimentary apertif and dessert licor because she knew Manuela. I hadn’t slept, but we went out to IPN, where’s Mauela’s roommate’s Moroccan boyfriend got us to skip the line because he is totally on the scene in Aix. They had Mighty Boosh on mute on the tv. They didn’t have a liquor license, just beer wine and Martini, which is not martini and tastes kind of like franette. Most of the crowd is really drunk international students and everyone dances to basically American music. Girls can earn free drinks by dancing on the pole on the bar. Great.

On Friday we went to Arles to see the amphitheatre. There really wasn’t much else going on there. The amphitheatre was really cool and they had restored one section of it to what it would have looked like 2000 yrs ago. The best part was getting to Arles and not taking the main highway, seeing the countryside and chateaus from the road.

Saturday was the real deal. We drove three hours on the main toll road to Lyon, the second biggest city in France. (It cost about 20 euro each way to use the road.) 8 December is the culmination of their biggest festival Fetes del Lumieres or something close to that, the festival of lights. These are not Christmas lights. Many of the displays are designed and realized by artists and are really cool and different. They are all over the city. The lights are illuminated from 6pm to 1am. That is definitely not enough time to see everything. You can get a free tourist guide to the festival exhibits in English which includes a map of where the pieces are found in the city and suggested walking routes depending on your time and priorities.

The traffic getting into the city was pretty insane, but when you are used to Boston it’s not a big deal. We accidentally did a lap around the main square which was a bad idea. We found parking in a garage for around 10 euro and headed back toward the displays we had passed. The Rhone river divides the city like the Guadalquivir here in Sevilla. There were displays on the banks of both forks of the river and merchants selling vin chaud for 1.50-2.50 euro. There are barges along one of the banks that are actually huge bars that open up later at night. I used the shadiest bathroom I have ever gone to. I didn’t think I would make it back. We tried to enter the main square but it was just too crazy so we headed accross the second branch of the river toward the oldest part of the city. The cathedral on the hill overlooking the city was backlit and looked like a castle. We caught the end of the vigil mass and some sort of ritual burning of stuff with torches and whatnot outside. We ate Chinese food and proceeded to the main square around 1230, which was now pretty deserted. The French do not party like the Spanish. Through the use of French cell phones We were able to meet up with the Aussie I had met in Madrid for a couple glasses of wine at the apartment of one of his French friends. We headed back to Aix around where I slept for an hour and headed back to the airport.

After a couple of days in France I have concluded: French people really do wear berets, but not in such numbers to make it ridiculous. French people are always walking around with baguettes wrapped in a single sheet of paper that doesn’t even cover the bread. The wine is good. France is way more expensive than Spain. French girls are beautiful. French is a crazy language. There is no way you can read French and pronounce it, there are always at least 3 superfluous letters at the end of the word. French people are not jerks, everyone we asked for help was really helpful, you just have to speak basic French.

sam brown is the only real friend i have

There’s just something special about meeting one of your closest friends in a European capital. It all feels inherently wackier and like anything can happen. You know it was typical Sandwich from the beginning.

I never asked Sam what time he was arriving in Madrid. I took the three o’clock bus from Sevilla, which would put me in around nine. While I was at the one rest stop the bus makes (a la Fung Wah) Sam called me from a payphone. He had neglected to bring the piece of paper on which he had written the address of the hostel. I actually knew the Metro stop, but nothing more, as I had stowed my Spain travel guide beneath the bus. So Sam had some fun walking in circles using what he remembered from high school to find the hostel (Mad Hostel 17 euro dorms) we had booked for Thursday and Friday night. The hostel has a good location near enough to Plaza Mayor, Sol, and the museums. I found Sam wearing a fun hat in the hostel room where we met a Scot and an Aussie who will both figure in later. We went out to eat some typical (albeit overpriced) Spanish dishes for the newcomer.

After a breakfast of bread, cheese and juice boxes among bums in a small park, we showed our versatility by going to an art museum. We went to the Reina Sofía, Madrid’s modern art museum, basically just to see Picasso’s Guernica. It’s awesome. I think worth the price of admission (6/3 euro for students) by itself. There are many works by Dalí and Miró. I fell asleep watching the Buñuel follow-up to El Perro Andaluz which in addition to intentionally making no sense, was in French, a language which to me makes less sense than slicin’ up eyeballs.

After a kebap lunch, where the Egyptian employee was intent on convincing us that not all his countrymen live in the desert and ride around on camels, we made it to the Prado, the renascence partner of the RS where we saw works of Goya, Velasquez and El Greco. Also really cool, and even cooler because, at least on Fridays, I don’t really know the rules, its free starting at 6pm. You just have to wait in a serious line but it moves. The security guards were the first of many to be confused by Sam’s antique Polaroid camera.

We headed out that night with our Scottish roommate and a Canadian. The biggest discovery for me was that you can basically drink for free until around 2am. There are promoters all over the streets offering you free drinks or at least drink deals, which is great because otherwise Madrid gets pretty expensive. Finished the night with another kebap and a discussion of tomorrow’s football match with an older Spanish gentleman. We were getting psyched.

For Saturday night, Sam had gotten tickets to the Spain-Sweden Euro Cup qualifier match. If either team one they would clinch a spot in the tournament. The game started at 10pm. We cooked lunch in the hostel. We found out that Sam had signed up for and solicited a time change for an airport shuttle for which he had not shown up because we misunderstood the date. We didn’t get our key deposits back because we checked out an hour late. There was not room at the hostel for the night. We decided to stow out bags in the bus station and get it later. Looking at the city map, a local asked us where we wanted to go and told us specifically to take a certain bus because it was faster than the Metro. We decided to ignore him (what does he know) and walk. Distances on maps are deceptive. It was far and one of the wheels on Sam’s suitcase was broken so we had to carry it because it was wearing a hold in the suitcase to drag it. At Mendez Álvaro, the bus station I bought a 1am bus ticket. The luggage storage was not lockers, but a man supervising a room, which closed at 1130 pm. No good. On the map, there is a luggage storage symbol at Nuevos Ministerios, the Mero stop from which you catch the line to the airport. Don’t believe it, it’s a total lie. There is not luggage storage there. There was a couple of years ago, but they redid the station and no longer. We headed out to the airport where Sam put his bag in a locker. At this point it was at least 600 and we were beginning to lose our minds and an appropriate discussion ensued about how great our friends are because we don’t plan anything, then fuck everything up and just laugh, which is exactly what was happening. Becky would have been annoyed. I had accepted that I would be carrying my backpack all night so whatever. We won a brief battle with a vending machine, which lightened our spirits ostensibly. After introducing Sam to the Corte Inglés, we bought ourselves scarves and a Spanish flag to cover my backpack and headed to the stadium, where we assumed we would be loved.

The crowd outside was awesome. They thought it was hilarious that there were Americans at the game. They love Freddy Adu. One guy was particularly fascinated by Sam’s camera. You’d think he was an aborigine. There were riot police on foot and horseback everywhere keeping the Spanish and Swedish separate. There were separate entrances, stairs, seating sections, bathrooms, and refreshment stands so the two sides never had to mix. The Swedes were restricted to an upper deck sections, where they made an admirable amount of noise, and were enclosed by a huge net to prevent their throwing objects on to the heads of unsuspecting Spaniards below. For this same reason, stadium security removed my Nalgene bottle from my person. We later heard a story of an Italian soccer match where someone had managed to sneak a Vespa into the stadium and threw it off the top deck and killed someone. Red Sox Yankees is apparently nothing. No one is dead from that one. Spain had never lost at home and they kept up their streak winning 3-1 even though Torres was sidelined with an injury.

We decided it would be a good idea to party all night. We got a lot of wishy-washy answers when we asked people where to party. We were on the point of giving up, having been turned away from the red carpet clubs much to the mirth of the bouncers, when we stumbled upon a small bar called Babelia which was full to its capacity of about 25. Sam’s hat was a huge hit with the ladies, who all wanted to wear it and dance with him to the 90’s alternative rock hits being pumped out by the dj. By the end the bartenders were giving us free drinks and encouraging us to continue on to the next spot when they closed at 5. Sam got in a cab at this point and I took the train back to the bus station. I don’t think we said goodbye. It would have been awkward anyway.

Next week it’s Brussels