Happy Holi!

I finally got to do it. I finally got to play Holi.

For those of you who don’t know, Holi is the Hindu festival of colors and it is an absolute party. Ever since I knew I was coming to India, it was the thing I was most excited about. And it’s pretty clear why.

First of all, you don’t “celebrate” Holi; you “play” Holi. I think that phrasing says a lot– it’s definitely not a sit-down, family dinner thing. To play Holi, people smear color all over each other, have water fights, and dance. Color runs everywhere. There were even a few points in the day when I couldn’t open my eyes because I was surround by a thick cloud of pink, or blue, or green, etc.

For the first half of the day, I went over to my director’s house to play Holi with the people in her family and neighbors. When I was invited, I thought that would mean *at most* thirty people but the total was more like a few hundred.  The venue was packed with people and there was even a full water tanker truck, a DJ, and reporters. I’ve been to some wild block parties but all that was something else.

By the time I left, I was drenched head to toe in the rainbow. Afterwards we did our best to clean ourselves up. I say “our best” because the dye in those powders really clings on to you. My neck stayed somewhat blue for two whole days and the outfit I wore will probably never recover (R.I.P.). Was I warned about that? Yes. Did I prepare enough for that? No. Still, the fun of being out in the thick of things was absolutely worth it.

Photo Credits to the Lovely Esme

My First Cricket Match

In the first week of classes, the University of Aberdeen hosted a refresher’s fair aimed at introducing new students to its large number of clubs and societies. I went to the fair and signed up to be notified about when most of these groups met. Fast forward one month, and I am bowling my first over in a university cricket match.

Having played baseball my whole life, I had never actually played a game of cricket before. I still don’t understand the rules, and yet, this past weekend I had an absolute blast playing in my first ever game. I have messed around playing cricket with my friends at home before; however, we have never played by the actual rules or used proper form for bowling or batting. Here, I have learned a lot from the players and the coach on proper form, and I am getting much better (though I am still pretty terrible).

I have even earned myself a nickname: baseball player. This nickname can be used as a compliment or an insult. When I accidentally bend my elbow while bowling (and throw more like a baseball pitch), I get called “baseball player” as an insult (though typically it is sarcastic). When someone decides to bowl it in full toss (without bouncing) against me, and I swing as if I am holding a baseball bat, I get called “baseball player” as a compliment.

My first game was filled with extremes. I hit a six (basically a home-run) and then I immediately popped up for an out on the next bowl (which is way worse than popping out in baseball). I bowled an out (basically a strikeout) and then a wide (basically a walk). I was probably one of the worst players on the field, but I had a lot of fun. The guys on the team have been incredibly welcoming to me, and they could not be any more supportive. The other players are always willing to help instruct me on how to improve my form or to explain instructions that the coach gives using non-cricket terms that I can understand.

I am really appreciative to the players on the team for how kind they have been to me. Several of them are some of the best friends that I have made since being here. I am also really appreciative for the opportunity that studying abroad has given me to learn something that I would otherwise have never gotten involved in. I can’t wait to learn more about the sport and to spend more time with the team over the course of the semester.

Traveling by Train

Trains have surpassed cars on my mental list “Favorite Modes of Transportation”.  Don’t get me wrong, I miss driving already and nothing beats scream-singing “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind with maximum volume.  But traveling by train opens the door to copious new possibilities.  The convenient public transportation in Prague quickly became something I appreciate and now this whole national train system has me completely won over.

A couple of friends and I bought last minute tickets to Kutná Hora, a little Czech city about an hour outside of Prague.  We were able to go for about 6 hours since none of us had Thursday classes and we quickly decided we are in favor of returning.  One of the most notable sites is Sedlec Ossuary commonly referred to as “The Bone Church”.  I knew some of its history prior to the visit including the fact that the bones of over 40,000 people are located there.

The eerily beautiful arrangements left me in greater awe than I had anticipated.  Hearing about a church that is decorate with human bones sounds kind of creepy, maybe a bit intriguing, and surely this is accurate.However, it was the brilliant artistry that turned up unexpectedly.  Each methodical placement drew me in and left me wondering about the story connected to each individual whose physical remnants were used to create such a masterpiece.

The splendor continued at St. Barbara’s Cathedral which flaunts large flying buttresses and vibrant stained glass.  The church demands attention as its striking enormity transcends the entire town.  I could have stood there for hours gazing up at the colors that filtered through the windows.  Each angle allowed the light to cascade through differently.  Be skeptical if you wish, but the church photos you see remain unedited.  We walked down the street to find more picturesque spots.  Each café had something valuable to offer such as pancakes or vinyl records.  With too much left unexplored, I plan on buying the $7.50 round trip ticket again.

 

 

 

 

The Castle & The Palace

When I was a little girl, my dad would wrap me up after my bath in a lovely pink towel dress. Then, he would spin me around and call me a princess and of course, I insisted on keeping my gown on as long as possible before putting on my pajamas that night. On the car ride to Nizwa (another interior city) today, I felt the familiar excitement of playing princess as great fort walls loomed ahead of us. I’ve gotten this feeling twice since arriving in Oman. Once at the Sultan’s palace in Muscat, and today at Jabreen castle just outside of Nizwa.

The Palace

Palace Gardens
Palace Gardens
The Palace

Click on images to view!

The Sultan’s palace is located in the center of Muscat and while I didn’t enter the rooms, I did walk with as much poise as possible down the marble sidewalks and up to the palace gates to take a picture. His Majesty Sultan Qaboos would just three days later meet with Egyptian President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi after a parade of horses and uniformed men marched up to this same spot.

Group in front of the palace gates. Left to right – Ben, David, Danny and Me (Hope College) and Jessica (Northwestern College)

The walls of the palace are brightly colored and a garden wraps around the building. Everything surrounding its walls is glistening and clean. Magenta flowers cascade down the outer fences in beautiful batches. Around the back, the palace looks out on a crystal harbor. For centuries, Portuguese ships would import and export goods to Oman in the same place.

Cascading flowers

As we looked around and watched the windows of the palace, I wondered what it would be like to live in such an enclosed structure. What would it be like to clean the palace or be a guest of the Sultan? As we walked away, the great gold crest of the Sultan beamed from its spot of the gates, and my skirt twitched in the wind. I twirled around as I walked through archways and posed for the camera feeling like a princess.

 The Castle

Today, we journeyed out to Nizwa and toured a different regal structure; Jabreen Castle. Built around 1680 AD, and home to Imam Bil’arab bin Sultan Al Ya’rubi this castle held many diplomatic visitors and was heavily armed in its prime. Passageway upon passageway wrap their way around the interior and just when I thought I had seen it all, another staircase would appear and take me to a brand new place.

The thick walls have been redone to mimic the structure of the castle in the past. As a result, there were many windows without rails and arches that I had to be careful not to bump my head on. I found the kitchen and the bath, the Iman’s personal quarters as well as his grave, and the tiny spots that armed guards would hide in if case intruders were threatening the castle. There was even a system of rooms devoted solely to date storage in case of siege.

On the top of the castle, there was an old mosque and at one point, a school for studying Islam. Peering across the horizon I saw great mountains, palm tree farms, and several camels roaming in the sand. When I looked down, a chaotic collection of people were going about their tours and taking pictures as they walked from their buses to the castle door.

Old school wall
View from inside castle third floor
Top of the castle
Cannon ready for battle in one of the towers

Back inside, I walked through a hallway and found the men’s and women’s jail to be tight black holes in the walls. There was even a spot for the Imam’s horse to stay on the second floor! When I reached the courtyard in the center of the castle, I spun around and spread my arms out wide. I’m not sure this would be my ideal home as a princess, but with all the places to hide and wiggle through, it would make an incredible place to be a little girl ready for adventure.

The Imam’s courtroom. In the far right corner, a portion of the floor dips below and is just big enough to hold a solider in case defense is needed.
Date storage in the cellar of the castle
Courtyard balcony second floor. The door leads to a dining room for guests.

Click on images to view!

What’s Freiburg like?

After 2 months of waiting at home, I finally got to Freiburg this week. Since then, I’ve been exploring the city every chance I get. In this post, I’ll do my best to give some context for my later posts.

Freiburg is down in the southwest corner of Germany, in the Black Forest. From here, it’s fast and easy to take a train or bus to Switzerland (Basel or Lucerne) or France (Strasbourg). If you look out at the horizon around the city, there’s short, tree covered mountains in every direction: the Black Forest.

The altstadt (historic district) is dominated by the Freiburger Münster. When I got lost on my first day, I re-oriented myself by looking for its tall spire and heading towards it.

The Freiburger Münster. The trucks parked in front of it are there for the farmer’s market that assembles in the square around the church almost every day of the week.

Across from the Munster is the old Kaufhaus, which is something like a commerce building.

 

The Kaufhaus. On the end, you can see a crest with a two-headed eagle, which is the sign of the Habsburgs. This ruling family once controlled Freiburg, and the crest is on many of the historic buildings. The statues in front of the building are of kings.

On the main street, Kaiser Strasse, there’s many stores and restaurants. It’s a pedestrian zone, which means that cars and bikes aren’t allowed to drive in that area of the city. The S-Bahn (street cars/trams) still run through, so you have to still be careful crossing the street.

All of the streets in the altstadt are cobblestone and have bächle in them, which makes this part of the city even more perilous to walk- you have to watch your step as well as the traffic. Bächle comes from the German word for “small brook”, and refers to the unique little channels of water that run through the streets of Freiburg. These were once used for fire fighting, irrigation, and drinking water.

A bächle in Freiburg’s historic district. According to local legend, if you fall into a bächle, that means you’re destined to marry someone from Freiburg. Right now, there’s no water running through the bächle because it’s winter. Once it warms up, though, there will be water.

Two large gates mark two of the entrances to the altstadt. There used to be more, but the centuries and the Second World War have destroyed the others. The two that remain, Martinstor (St. Martin’s Gate) and Schwabentor (Swabian Gate), have been adapted to the modern world. They were raised so that the S-Bahn could run under them, and Martinstor has a McDonald’s under it.

St. Martin’s Gate. You can also see some of the many bikes that populate Freiburg’s streets. You have to be quite careful around here, because bikers are everywhere and ride very quickly.
St. Martin’s Gate has had a McDonald’s sign on it for decades now, but it still looks absolutely anachronistic. You can also see the S-Bahn tracks running under the arches.
Swabian Gate, named after a nearby region of Germany, looks quite similar to St. Martin’s Gate, but it has a painting of St. George and the slain dragon on it. This painting was actually only done in 1903.

 

 

On the back of the Swabian Gate, there’s a mural depicting a local legend. The story goes that a rich, arrogant Swabian came to Freiburg with barrels of gold, because he has decided that he fancied to buy the city. However, when he opened his barrels, there was nothing in them except rocks, because his wife, who didn’t support his plan, had replaced all the gold with stones behind his back. Freiburg is in Baden, which is the next kingdom over from Swabia- hence the unflattering story, which shows the Swabians as arrogant and foolish.

Another integral part of the city is the Freiburg University. It was founded in 1457, and today has over 25,000 students. On the front of it’s main building, in gold letters, is the motto “Die Wahrheit wird euch frei machen” (The truth will set you free), from the Gospel of John. The historic buildings of the university are all in red stone, as are the old churches. The library, however, is quite modern and mostly glass.

The red stone of an older university building gives way to the bright glass of the library.
The Freiburg University library building. At the bottom of the photo, you can see the Old Synagogue Memorial pool. It’s empty right now, because it’s winter, but in the summer it’s a shallow pool of water in the shape of the foundation of the old synagogue. The Nazis destroyed the synagogue during their reign.

I don’t live in the altstadt, but the IES Freiburg offices and classrooms are here, so I’ve spent most of my time in this area. It’s a great area, with lots of stores, cafes, restaurants, and historic sites. The buildings are much more colorful than in America, which you can see in the photos. There’s lots of yellows, blues, reds, greens, and whites.

Avoiding Appropriation

Coming to India I knew there was a certain Eat, Pray, Love aesthetic I wanted to avoid. You know, whether it’s Vanessa Hudgens with her bejeweled bhindi, or the ‘intellectual’ trying to “find themselves” with south eastern philosophies, or all the white girls on Pinterest showcasing their ‘modern’ takes on henna—cultural appropriation is tacky. More than that, it can be hurtful. Back home, one of my good friends, Falguni*, likened the appropriation of her Indian culture to “pillaging a village and then putting cheap knock offs of their sacred items on the shelf above your fireplace”. That, to me, served as a pretty clear message that I needed to stay in my lane.

When I got to India, however, I noticed that the line between appropriation and appreciation looks different than it does at home. This was specifically true of henna. In the States, the general rule of thumb is that it simply isn’t for white people. To show my respect and avoid “pillaging a village”, I never had it done. But here, a lot of Indian folk have gone out of their way to encourage me to try it by setting up henna lessons for me and taking me to henna artists.

This was honestly very confusing.

1) I didn’t want to be culturally appropriative and a white-girl-in-henna is one of the classic symbols of that in the States.

2) I didn’t want to be disrespectful and outright refuse to participate when someone offers a part of their culture to me.

It’s a question I think everyone (especially white students) should ask when they are abroad: what does it mean to participate and what does it mean to appropriate in your host culture?  There won’t be a concrete answer; everyone will have a different opinion on what is okay and what isn’t. But asking that question (and asking that question continuously) puts you in a mindset of learning instead of just consuming.

That said, because it was openly and enthusiastically offered to me, I did end up getting some henna and participating in the henna lessons. From these experiences, I learned that there is a difference between the traditional Indian and Arabic styles of henna; I learned which styles are typically used for different holidays and events; and I learned about the reported health benefits of henna. Still, because I know it does not belong to me, I won’t try to boast my new henna knowledge at home by doing it for others or even decorating my own body.

Now,  I don’t want to make it sound like I’ve somehow figured out how to easily navigate the line between appreciation and appropriation. It is messy and something that always needs to be questioned. Not just for this one-case instance of henna, but of so many things here, at home, and everywhere else I go.

 

 

 

*Name changed on request. S/O to her, this gal is the greatest.

 

 

 

 

Running with the Bulls

Last week was “El Carnaval” in Spain. Traditionally, this time was designated for the people to, well, purge themselves before Lent. Carnival doesn’t have the same religious implications as it once did, but that doesn’t stop the party. For about a week (sometimes more), people eat, drink, and are merry in celebrations all around the world! Last week I had the distinct privilege to travel to a local pueblo near Salamanca called Ciudad Rodrigo. In this small corner of Spain there is a Carnival celebration unlike any other in the world; they run the bulls. As I’ve heard, this is not a common practice to do during Carnival, in fact, this may be the only city in the world that incorporates the running of the bulls into their Carnival. Either way, being a romantic myself, and always having idealized bullfighting as it has been described in works of literature (Hemingway, etc), I had to see it for myself- to run it for myself. I wanted to stare in the face of death – of a 2,500 lb horned beast – and, with the grace of a great bullfighter of old, at the very last moment, to slip past the animal, with adrenaline potent in the blood and sweat running cold down the neck.

Let me disclaim: I did not run with the bulls. I didn’t ever really consider it. We had been told (this was NOT an IES sanctioned event) by IES and many others: “People die every year, don’t run with the bulls, these people are trained professionals, this is not a game.” They were right. But that can’t stop me from dreaming, right?

Anyways, determined not to run, I set myself up in perfect position to watch the running. The narrow streets of cobblestone were fenced in, and me, perched high on top of a section of fence that allowed me a clear double-view of a bended section of road. Then, we heard it. Three rings of the church bells. People started to clear the streets at a leisure pace. Three more rings of the bell. Then three more. It’s starting, I thought. Why are people still just walking in the streets? Just then, the town’s church bells began to holler frantically, as if signalling a foreign invader; and they were doing just that. The wild beasts were coming. The streets literally shook as a tangible electricity passed through the crowd. The streets were empty before you could blink – save for a few, seemingly fearless, young men. These men weren’t drunk, they weren’t scared, and they didn’t seem distant and preoccupied. If ever there was a group of people alive, awake, in the precise moment with which they were presented, the bull runners certainly were it. They were electrified, vigilant, intently watching the road before them, feeling the very tremors of the cobblestone under their feet. And then they came. There we were, all together in one place: six bulls running for their lives, a handful of young men running for theirs, and thousands of onlookers holding their breath. The bulls charged onward trying to harm any man who stood in their way. Their horns, impossibly sharp, thrashing past at a break neck pace. It was hard, if not downright impossible, to watch. After an intense fifteen-second swirl of adrenaline and excitement, the bulls had all passed, and the crowd audibly exhaled.

Luckily, this year, nobody was injured. I imagine that the bull-goring specialist doctors that were there were relieved to be unneeded. However, their job was far from over. These bulls would continue to run twice a day for the next several days, to and from La Plaza de los Toros. On this particular day, I followed the bulls to their destination in the plaza, a small sand arena where, for 10 euro, you can sit and watch La Corrida, the actual bullfight. I decided I had to see it. Although controversial, I will tell you that my reservations about bullfighting were mostly resolved after watching a bullfight in person. Think what you will about the event (I certainly have my own opinions on it), the absolute artistry of these small town bullfighters nearly blew me off my seat. Their grace, their style, their showmanship, all eternally referencing, in a way, a respect for that great animal. I stayed for hours watching four bullfights and La Capea (where the people are allowed in the ring with the wild bulls) and truly enjoyed every moment.

This experience was undoubtedly my favorite so far of being in Spain. The cultural value of seeing, with my own eyes, a real running of the bulls was priceless. This will be one of the memories that I recall with extreme fondness that will have characterized my time here in Spain.

 

My view from on top of the fence lining the street shortly before the bulls came running through.
La Plaza de Toros, Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain
An amateur bullfighter tests his luck
View from on top of a hill of the city. The festival includes carnival rides, games, street food, parades, music, and bulls.

 

Dressing up in costumes is… required. As you can see, we chose the “farm animal” theme, although it is much more common for “groups” of friends to dress up as the same exact thing – to better identify themselves, I’m sure. I am depicted on the bottom row dressed appropriately as a bull.

 

Mud, Glorious Mud

Today, the classroom was a mudpit. And a most pretty mudpit, at that. We spent the better part of the day hiking through a mangrove forest occupying the brackish swamp where the freshwater Tempisque river meets the salty Colorado gulf.

We took our first quiz of the semester whilst sitting in a semicircle on fallen trees in a glistening mud lake. I tried to keep the thick, dark silt from smearing on my paper as I hastily scribbled down everything I knew about mangrove conservation, and was partially successful. I wonder if cleanliness will have any bearing on my grade?

Aside from their aesthetic appeal (who doesn’t love a giant combination jungle gym and mudpit?), mangrove forests are incredibly important sources of shoreline protection. Their positions along the coasts allow them to serve as living barriers between tropical storms and inhabited land, both as windbreaks and flood shields. Shoreline erosion, too, is curbed by their snarled masses of roots, which function as a living subterranean net. They also provide a unique habitat for crabs and fish, and, by extension, a tasty hunting ground for raccoons and coatis.

On the way in, we did some crocodile-spotting along the river! There were several American crocodiles (Crocodylus acutus) floating lazily along with the current or sunbathing on the sandy bank. I never thought the day would come that I’d share my classroom with these fellas, yet here we are. They’re a smidgen too distant to spot in this photo, but I wasn’t about to get a close-up—no matter how broadly they smiled for me.

We also saw plenty of friendlier fauna, such as…

Crabs! The mangrove forest was swarming with them. Though I wanted to gawk at our surroundings, I tried to keep my eyes on my feet lest I crush someone’s dear crabby wife or child. We mostly saw fiddler crabs, various members of the Uca genus, recognizable by that single dominant claw which the males use to battle each other for the attention of the ladies. Mangrove crabs are as important as the trees; their burrowing helps to mix oxygen into the anoxic soil, thereby aiding decomposition, and they also function as tiny lawnmowers by munching on seeds and seedlings.


These slightly terrifying things clawing their way up from the mud are called pneumatophores, and are essentially the lungs of the mangrove trees. These specialized roots have lenticels, pores that function as a point of gas exchange between the tree and the atmosphere at low tides. The silty mangrove mud is too fine for atmospheric gasses to penetrate, so plant life has to get creative.


Stilt roots help the trees stay upright in the mangrove mud, as well as provide another point of gas exchange. It’s hard to tell from this photo (I wasn’t eager to pull out my phone for very long in a giant sludge lake, so the pics are what they are), but those roots arc well above my head. As we walked deeper into the mangrove, the roots overlapped to form thick, muddy webs for us to crawl in and around. It was a bit like trying to squeeze through a laser maze, but infinitely more filthy and slippery. In a word, heaven.

México Mágico

 

Hello everyone,

Mexico is an amazing country to study abroad in. One of my favorite parts of being here is the opportunity to venture out into other parts of Mexico. The culture is so rich and diverse and traveling is not very expensive. Although it seems impossible to see all of Mexico during this semester, UPAEP does a great job of giving us a chance to see some breathtaking areas. With the university, international student can attend trips to various “Pueblos Mágicos” with the international leaders as guides.

“Los Pueblos Mágicos” (The Magic Towns) was originally a federal campaign to attract more tourist to recognize Mexico for its diverse landscapes and communities among each of its 31 states. 15 years later the people who live in these “pueblos” have continued to value them for their individual history, traditions, and cuisine.  Here are some of the destinations I have been to so far:

  • Toluca, Estado de Mexico: Where we are able to visit the Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary in the forest.

 

  • Tepoztlan, Morelos: A traditional town where there are more Aztec relics pertaining to the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl.

 

 

 

 

Pyramid of the Sun
  • Teotihuacan, Estado de Mexico: To walk through the pre-hispanic ruins named Teotihuacan (Birthplace of the Gods) of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, the Pyramid of the Moon, and the Pyramid of the Sun.

 

Un Intento Hacia la Orientación: An Attempt at Orientation

Castellano:

Estas últimas semanas han sido de las más desorientates de mi vida y eso que tuvimos que venir con una semana de anticipación para la orientación.

Recuerdo como fue mi descenso del avión aquí en Madrid. Fue una experiencia tanto inolvidable como abrumadora. Primero me bajé del avión a un aeropuerto muy típico, pasé aduana sin problema: solo le dije al de migración que venía para estudiar y luego recogí mis maletas y pelé gallo. Venía con una maletota, otra maleta más chiquita y mi mochila atascada de cosas. 

La ultima foto antes de salir de México. The last picture before leaving Mexico.

Mi primer reto fue encontrar de donde salía el metro del aeropuerto. Después de preguntarle a un montón de gente local, que ninguno ayudo mucho, llegué con un guardia del aeropuerto que me guió hacia la parada del metro. Después de lidiar con la maquina de boletos de metro por fin me subí.

Luego empezaron la miradas. Toda la gente se me quedaba viendo porque iba bien cargado e iba en el metro. A mí me había contado una tía que viaja muy a menudo a Madrid que el metro era muy seguro y que no tenía nada que ver con el de la Ciudad de México. Por afuera yo me quería ver lo más calmado y tranquilo que pudiera, pero por dentro me estaba mordiendo la uñas. Cada vez que se me quedaba viendo cualquier persona apretaba un poco más mis maletas. No quería que me fueran a robar en mi primer día en Madrid. Mi temor nacía de ver este nuevo mundo a través de tinieblas; no tenía ni la menor idea de donde estaba parado y mucho menos de como era le gente aquí en Madrid. Esa incertidumbre que el ser humano a veces vive puede ser de lo más atormentador. En muchas maneras estaba como cuando un venado se atraviesa la carretera y no sabe que hacer antes de ser arrollado por un coche. Estaba de rodillas ante el mundo, completamente en sus manos.

Ese sentimiento de incertidumbre y miedo lo vive cualquier persona que esta en un país que no conoce. Pero esto lo saben muy bien los organizadores de IES. Así es que eso fue lo primero que repasamos cuando tuvimos la orientación del programa. Repasamos las normas culturales en España y como se comparan a las de los EEUU. También tuvimos una charla con la embajada Estadounidense y vaya que sí aprendí muchas cosas. Pero es que no hay número de explicaciones y recomendaciones que te preparan para Madrid. Nadie te prepara para la hermosura de las calles estrechas, el Palacio Real, Las Ventas, las catedrales y toda otra divinidad de esta ciudad.

¡Nevó en Madrid por primera vez desde el 2011!

Otra cosa para la cual no te preparan en la orientación es para le gente española. Hay que decirlo como es: la gente española es la más acogedora de europa, pero no tiene nada que ver con lo que somos los latinos. Yo recuerdo que muchos compañeros americanos me contaban que los españoles eran muy buena gente y esto es cierto desde un punto de vista. Pero la tortilla siempre tiene dos lados. Cuando hablé con mi primo Irwin, me dió un punto de vista mexicano; me dijo que eran secos, que sí te ayudaban si les preguntas pero igual hasta allí. Ahora que ya llevo tiempo aquí y lo estoy viviendo en carne propia les doy mi punto de vista. Los españoles no se esmeran en platicar y desenvolverse tanto como los latinos, pero todo esto no significa que sean payasos, sino que lo llevan empreñado en su cultura. Si no lo sabían, España tuvo un guerra civil justo antes de el comienzo de la segunda guerra mundial. En esta guerra pelearon el partido Nacionalista de Francisco Franco junto con Mussolini y Hitler contra los comunistas, anarquistas, socialistas y la Unión Soviética. Fue una guerra muy sangrienta que duro casi tres años. El resultado fue que España quedó con un dictador encargado del país desde 1939 hasta 1975 al morir Franco. Las consecuencias de esa dictadura permanecen hasta hoy en la manera en que se trata la gente y en muchos aspectos de la vida cotidiana. Un régimen totalitario como el de Franco marca y evoluciona a cualquier país. La gente es reflejo de su país y vice-versa. La verdad es que la gente aún esta sacudida y aún siente los efectos de esa dictadura tan pesada para el pueblo. Éste es el hecho que yo creo que más ha transformado a la gente contemporánea de este país tan bello. En cuanto a la percepción que tenemos los latinos de España y su gente, sea buena o mala, siempre hay que recordar que muchas de nuestras costumbres, manías y, más que nada, nuestra lengua proviene de España. Por lo tanto estamos más que enlazados, aunque a algunos no les gusten los españoles. 

Bueno, ya para no hacer esta publicación tan larga solo los dejo con esta anécdota. Cuando llegué a mi nueva casa de los siguientes meses, no tenía ni idea de donde estábamos situados en la ciudad. Pero al final de cuentas, después de tirar rostro por la calles, ya varias veces me fui dando cuenta que era un barrio muy bueno en donde vive mucha gente ya mayor. Entonces le pregunté a mi Señora con la que estoy viviendo que qué había para hacer por nuestros rumbos. Me dijo varias cosas pero lo que me quedó plasmado fue que vivimos a cinco minutos de Las Ventas. ¡A cinco minutos de Las Ventas! A cinco minutos de la plaza de toros más famosa del mundo, que además de ser la más famosa, es de las más bellas. Es una plaza que combina tanto influencias arquitectónicas Españolas como influencias Musulmanas . Yo la tenía que ver con mis propios ojos y les juro que fue más bella de lo que pensé. Desde ahorita ya sé que esa plaza es la construcción arquitectónica que más me va a gustar en Madrid. Es que dentro de esa plaza se vive un espectáculo único, con un ambiente repleto de fervor y adrenalina. La verdad es que no me aguanto las ganas que lleguen abril y mayo para ver y sentir mi primera corrida de toros. ¡Es un evento que siempre he querido vivir y que bueno que mi primera vez será en la plaza más famosa del mundo!

 

English:

These last couple of weeks have been the most disorientating ones in my life, and we did have to come early to be “orientated.”

I still remember my descent into Madrid. It was both unforgettable and overwhelming. First, I got off the plane to be greeted with a very typical airport. I passed immigration without breaking a sweat. All I said was that I was here to study; I picked up my bags and headed out of there. I had traveled with a very large suitcase, a smaller one, and my backpack was full to the brim.

My first challenge was to find where the metro stop was located within the airport. After asking a bunch of locals, none of which were very helpful I finally arrived with an airport security guard who guided me towards the metro. After fighting with the ticket machine I was finally aboard the metro.

Then the staring began. Everyone kept looking at me, because I had so much luggage on the metro. My aunt who travels regularly to Madrid told me that the metro in the city was very safe, a far cry from the one in Mexico City. On the outside I wanted to look as calm and secure as possible, but on the inside I was biting my nails to the nub. Anytime someone stared at me I clenched on to my suitcases with a firmer grip. I didn’t want to get robbed on my first day in Madrid. My fear was grounded in looking at this new world through the darkness, I had no idea where I was standing and even less of an idea of what these people’s intentions were. I was a deer in the headlights. I was at the mercy of the world, in their hands.

That uncertainty and fear is what anyone experiences when they are in a country they don’t know well. However, the organizers at IES know this all too well. During orientation the feeling of uncertainty was the first thing that we went over. We went over culture norms in Spain and how they compare to the U.S. We also had a talk with the American embassy, and I did learn a lot. But, there is no explanation or tips that prepare you for Madrid. Nobody prepares you for the beauty of the small streets, the Palacio Real, Las Ventas, the cathedrals and all other beauty within this city.

It snowed in Madrid for the first time since 2011!

Another thing that they don’t prepare you for during orientation is for the Spanish people. The truth is that the Spanish are the most open and helpful people in Europe, but nowhere near as much as Latinos. I remember that a bunch of American classmates told me that the Spanish were very nice, and this is true from one point of view. But there are always two sides to any story. When I asked my cousin Irwin, he gave me his Mexican point of view. He told me that they were very distant, and that they did help you if you asked, but nothing beyond that. Now that I have spent a bit of time here and I have lived it first hand I will provide my opinion. The Spanish aren’t very good at opening up and taking to new people like Latinos are, but that doesn’t mean they’re snobby; it is just something ingrained within their culture. If you didn’t know, Spain suffered through a Civil War right before WWII. In this war the Nationalist party of Francisco Franco fought alongside Mussolini and Hitler against the communists, anarchists, socialists, and the Soviet Union. It was a very bloody war that lasted almost three years. The final result was that Spain was left with a dictator in charge of the country from 1939 until 1975 when Franco died. The consequences of this dictatorship remain evident till this day in the way people treat each other and in several aspects of Spanish quotidian life. A totalitarian regime like Franco’s affects and evolves any country. People are a reflection of their country and vice-versa. The truth is that people remain shaken and still feel the effects from such a harsh regime. I think this is the event that has most transformed the contemporaries of this wonderful country. In regards to the perception that Latinos have of Spain and its people, whether it be good or bad, we always have to remember that a lot of our customs, mannerisms, and most importantly, our language, derive from Spain. For this reason we are more than connected, whether you like it or not, with Spain.

In an effort to not make this post too long I will leave y’all with an anecdote. When I first arrived to my new home for the next couple of months I had no idea where in the city I was. However, after walking through the streets a few times I realized that my neighborhood was very good and that there were a lot of older people living within it. So then I asked my host mom for recommendations in the area. She told me there were a lot of the things, but what stuck the most with me was that we lived five minutes from Las Ventas. Five minutes from Las Ventas! Five minutes from the most famous bull ring in the world, that, besides that, is one of the most beautiful. It is an architectural feat that combines both Spanish and Muslim influences. I had to see it with my own two eyes, and it was more jaw-dropping than I thought it would be. As of now I know that it is the site that I will most like in Madrid. The thing is that within its walls you live a unique spectacle, engulfed in an excited and adrenaline-filled atmosphere. I cannot wait until April and May so I can see and live my first bull fight. It’s an event that I have always wanted to live and it is awesome that my first time will be in the most famous bull ring in the world!