Much Ado About Spain

Como si fuera un sueño...

2008-09-09T09:06:00.004+02:00

July 15th. Yes, our friends have superior photography skills...

I don't know who, if anyone, still checks this, but I figured I could give the little bugger some closure (especially on the eve of a term paper being due, ahem)...

So. July 15th turned out to be infinitely more grand than I spent months imagining it would be. The second the plane wheels thudded on the LAX runway, there was no sign of a disappearing act for the nutty grin that had plastered itself on my face. I'm sure the airport maintenance lady thought I was completely off my rocker when I excitedly asked her where the nearest bathroom was and practically sprint-skipped in the direction she pointed. The next thing I knew, familiar chums were popping out from under towels in the back seats of Mrs. Olson's beast of a car chattering nonstop nonsense, and before I could even catch my breath, old times slipped in as if I had never left.

I've been back for about a month and a half now, and I'm still working it out in my head slowly, very slowly that Spain wasn't just a figment of my oft unruly mental capacities. Although many of my previously study-abroaded friends cited difficult transitions, I have been exceedingly blessed with a readjustment smoother than premium Chinese silk on the black (pun intended) market. Absurd but such is my glorious life. Oh, 'tis SO good to be home.

Here are some thoughts regarding life in the States:

FOOD. Mexican food is delicious. So is pretty much everything else edible here. American coffee is rather lacking though; I do miss me some cafe con leche.

FAMILY. I get to see them more than just once every 11 months. That's certainly a perk if I ever saw one.

NIGHTLIFE. So far San Diego gets a boo hiss, but being 21 does help a tad.

SOCIAL LIFE. I have been reunited with my friends, and boy, are they the best ever! ...who am I kidding? It's just nice to have any friends again. (But they really are great.)

LANGUAGE. Woah. I can ask for help slash explain something and be understood on the first try. Weird. (P.S. For those considering abroad study, Barcelona is not the place to learn Spanish...)

ACADEMIA. I'm back at UCSD and for the first time in my life, I declare that I love Geisel. (I just caused at least eight people fall over in shock just now. My apologies.) And I'm a senior?! When did this happen?

TRANSPORTATION. Poop on gas and its exorbitant prices that make me woozy every time I step near a car. I take back all the flak I gave the metro...

PERSONAL SPACE. It exists! And there's lots of it. Mmmmm. I can finally sweat in peace.

And finally, NO CATCALLING. I can run, I can jump, I can even puke all over the place and for the most part, people will not obscenely throw snide remarks and just leave me be. I'm back to being invisible and it's amazing.

THIS IS INDEED THE LAND OF HEAVEN.

Runnin' In The Rain

2008-07-12T22:20:00.009+02:00

¿Cómo se dice SOGGY?!?!

Unfortunately, my internet access has been extremely spotty these days, so I have not been able to write as proliferately as my latest adventures should warrant. So until I catch up, here is a quickie while I'm at Ry's flat mooching her wireless.

HOSTIA. Despite the fact that it was 34 degrees Celsius this morning, IT IS CURRENTLY POURING IN BARCELONA. Like cats and dogs pouring. Or really, tigers and wolves pouring. Ahhhh.

We stepped out of the metro station and it was thundering and lighting and LLOVIENDO. My Rainbows promptly caused me to slip and completely eat it four times within the first two minutes much to the amusement of many bystanders. I quickly shucked the suckers off, and then Ryan and I proceeded to dash the 15 minute route to her apartment, bags and bags of Brava sauce in tow. I was barefoot, drenched to the core, and could not see a thing. And not just because I lost a contact along the way...FOOF. We finally arrived at our blessedly dry destination, that is, until I tracked water throughout her entire piso. Ehhh. I am now wearing her clothes, soaking through those as well, and praying for a cease fire long enough to afford me a dry journey back to my penitentiary cell (I'm staying at a semi-janky hostel in room 666 for the next few nights...).

We're keeping it classy over here by the Sagrada Familia too. Since we obviously aren't about to go out for dinner as planned, we scrounged up an old box of Mac n' Cheese and a can of ravioli. And we're getting in our last truly Spanish Tinto de Verano with our ever classic 40 centimo boxed wine...drinking out of plastic cups because all her glasses are molding in the sink. With episodes of Season 3 of The Office playing (amazing!) on top of it all, I pretty much couldn't ask more out of life....

Hey, at least it's never boring here, right?

[Click for a more accurate view??]

I KNOW you miss this face.
Don't you worry your little heads.
I'll be home in less than three days!!!!!!!!!

¡Olé España!

2008-06-30T13:34:00.003+02:00

YEAHHHH! Spain won the EuroCup 2008 last night and the country is going NUTS. I'm currently living in an apartment on Las Ramblas (in the very heart of Barcelona) with my family and people outside were going absolutely wild. I wish I could attach a clip of the video footage my dad got from our balcony. It was like the night Bautista fled Cuba...Las Ramblas was packed with celebrating fans wearing yellow and red, ecstatically waving Spanish flags, haphazardly throwing firecrackers into the crowd, and chanting "¡Olé" over and over. Cars were honking non-stop, drunk guys were climbing the light posts, and the streets were victorious chaos until the wee hours of the morning. Haha. So fun.

In other notes, Sisi, DON'T LEAVE MEEEEEEE. Ahhhhhhh. She touches down tomorrow in LAX at 10:25PM.
BE THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

¿Podéis creer que ya ha terminado un año entero? Ayyyyyyyy.

Amo-te Portugal

2008-06-21T23:25:00.005+02:00

La Boca do Inferno in Cascais, Portugal

I am completely and utterly enamored with Portugal. Still.

It actually makes me not want to go home, and I daresay if I don't end up in Latin America some day, I will live in Portugal (I even have my house picked out already). Yeap. Anyway. Our Sunday Night Dinner crew (coincidentally we all go to UCSD) took a little jaunt of a trip to Lisboa, Portugal. It was muito muito bem.

We four explored Lisbon, which has been described as the San Francisco of Europe and did indeed have similar such ingredients as a "Golden Gate Bridge," squished buildings on hilly cobblestone terrain, and rickety ol' trolley cars.

We also took several daytrips to nearby cities surrounding Lisboa, the first of which was Sintra. After an adventurous train ride and a lunch of authentic Portuguese food, we spent the majority of our time at the Quinta de Regaleira. What exactly it was, I still don't particularly know, but there were caves and unfinished wells and foliage galore to forage through and what a jolly time we had mongering about. The afternoon was rounded out with a sampling of tasty queijada and travesseiro pastries.

The next stop in our daytripping series was mainly just a beach on the way to our subsequent real destination, though Carcavelos proved beautiful in its own right. Not to mention adorable as it seemed to be National Portuguese Toddler Fieldtrip to the Beach Day. Awwww. There were little chum chums in matching hats holding hands all along the shore. Portugal, keepin' it cute.

Cascais, an old fisherman's wharf, followed, where we immediately scarfed down some roadside bocadillos and then hiked to the ominous Boca do Inferno, otherwise known as the Mouth of Hell. Dun dun dun. Aside from attempting the competitive sport of rock climbing in a skirt and sandals though, the Boca do Inferno really posed no grave prowess except in beauty, I suppose. It was quite a view; waves of turquoise blue hues crashing up against the majestic cliffs of Portugal. Mmm. We seceded the precarious perching with a few hours of wandering about the old town, sniffing around in the fishermen's nets, perusing craft fairs, and downing generous portions of refreshing gelato.
Eventually, we found ourselves in Belem, the town of DELICIOUS custard tarts and a quality collection of modern art. Alighting from the train, we immediately made our way towards a famous bakery for fresh hot Pasteis de Belem that came with packets of powdered sugar and cinnamon. Ohmygosh. YUM. Call me a fatty (after all we have indeed become chubs again), but they were delightful. Then it was to the cultural center with an up and coming exhibition of everything from Picasso to Andy Warhol. Mostly over my head stuff, but great fun. I still occasionally wish I had majored in art.Beijos e high fives para Portgual.

Weekender

2008-06-05T03:32:00.001+02:00

This is us on the beach in Mallorca, which Si is supposed to blog about sometime...ahem.

Oh joy to the world. After four, that's right, count 'em, four months, my laptop has finally been returned to me in fully functioning form. Shocking. On my ventures to re-familiarize myself with the old chum, I re-discovered a few unpublished blog entries wasting away and figured I should post them before they become obsolete. Aqui tienes one of several squished together.

Weekends...what's not to love about them? (Besides the dreaded Monday mornings that always come afterwards.) Here are few things I've been up to these past few fines de semana:

+PLATJA. Capital letters because I basically spend as much time here as possible. I already detailed a bit about the perils of beaching it here, but otherwise, it has been wonderful soaking in the sunshine to the tune of the lapping Mediterranean waves. And finally adding some semblance of color to my translucent skin hasn't been too shabby either. Albino-ism be gone.

+Mercat del Encants. Flea market madness. This place is legit. Not exactly classy souvenir worthy as I had hoped (unless all of you want used rolls of deodorant, whole porcelain bidets, or rusted hatchets, probably none of which are even from Spain), but jammed packed with deliciously authentic hustle and bustle. All the things you wouldn't ever think to buy plus more.

+RCD Espanyol 1, Zaragoza 1. I was under the impression I was going to a real FC Barça futbol game, but alas, it was only RCD Espanyol. I should have known Barça tickets don't come free (even UNICEF can't spot me). Regardless, Ellie hooked me up with a ticket and we went with three of her German friends, who were all amazed that I managed to stay entertained for the entirety of the game without consuming any alcohol. Ellie nearly fell asleep and the guys kept complaining about how bored they were. Laaame. I thought it was fun! I would like to go to a Barça game before I leave though. Also, who's down to go to a billion Padres games this summer? Yeahhhh.

+Picnics and the Magic Fountain of Monjüic. About a 20-minute walk from our flat are a few majestic fountains where weekly spectaculars take place complete with music and lights as well as the typical street vendors hawking their wares to susceptible tourists (really, who wants to buy glow stick necklaces anywhere besides Disneyland and raves?). Scams aside, the shows are the real deal. We have taken to packing picnic dinners and stretching out on the lawn to catch the last few Friday nights rounds. The musical selection is perhaps the most breathtaking ranging the gamut of ditties such as Party Like It's 1999 and Love Shack, cheesy American love ballads from the 90's, the over-played Titanic theme song, Star Wars battle tunes, and of course, the epic Viva Barcelona anthem (not to be confused with the official national anthem, although so amazing, it should be declared as such) to seal off the night in all its operatic glory.

Eh, more to come assured. In the meantime, I'm starting to freak out just a little bit over the fact that I'm coming home very soon...ahh!

A Day In The Life

2008-05-29T02:44:00.011+02:00

7:35-7:38PM =
The guy sitting one chair away from me stands up, unbuckles his belt, takes off his pants, gets up on his chair, waves pants over his head like a lasso, puts pants back on, delicately hops off the chair, sits back down, and carries on typing as if we were actually in the computer lab. Huh.

9:20-9:50PM =
An unusually well-groomed man seated directly across from me on the train blatantly picks (and by that I mean, digs all the way to his brain) his nose for the ENTIRE thirty minute ride. How much you got up there, man?! Ew.

10:00PM =
A scraggler on the metro approaches and asks me to marry him. I give him the WTF look without actually looking at him and turn up the volume on my iPod. He proposes we run away to ______ (I didn't actually hear what country it was he said) and live the good life. My lack of enthusiasm over described proclamation of "love" is verdict enough and he eventually wanders away. Better luck next time, buddy.

11:05PM =
I finally arrive at home to find the used, neon pink cat scratching post my French flatmate received as a recent birthday present has resurfaced in the living room. That and the Santa suit the other flatmate picked up off the street. Germs anyone? Anyone?

I kid you not, this was my Tuesday night.

Eu Faço Um Muito Bom: Porto Part 3

2008-05-17T16:19:00.004+02:00

On our walk back to the hostel from the Atlantic Ocean...

Man. I really need to finish with Portugal and move on with life. It is holding up all the other blog entries I want to share, so here goes...last but not least, part three!

Considering we didn't get to bed until 5AM, we naturally slept in and took it easy on our last day in Porto. Our agenda was simple: beach and food. That was all we really cared about.

After a quick stop at a neighborhood bakery (only 70 centimos for a gigantic ham and cheese bread thing, what!), we took the city bus to the highly anticipated praia. A very jiggly ride that lasted only 20 minutes and then BEHOLD, the mighty Atlantic Ocean. It has definitely been a few years since I've seen that thing, and what do you know, it was beauteous! We walked along the shore and climbed out onto some rocky crags where I totally got doused by an enormous wave because I was too busy setting my iPod to Seu Jorge. Haha, typical. It was glorious though, even despite being in jeans, two long sleeve shirts, a scarf, and socks and shoes with the sun beating forcefully down (all the weather reports predicted torrential rain the entire weekend!). So sweaty, but glorious.

We dined at a classy cafe on the beachfront (see below pictures). I tried a typical Porto Portuguese dish called the Francesinha practically everyone had recommended to us. Literally translated to "Little French Girl," there was absolutely nothing "little" about it. Chorizo, a few types of ham, and steak in between two slices of bread that were smothered in cheese and then doused in a tomato-ey sauce. I unfortunately boasted to Jackie that I would eat it all, then did so, and consequently couldn't move for a good few hours. Man. There was far too much packed into that deceivingly compact entree...

The second significant part of our day (after the numerous requisite naps and hammock lounging sessions, of course) was a return to the Guarany Cafe for another show. We had heard something vague about world beats and Latin-tinged stuff and immediately decided we needed to get in on that action. As it turns out, a musical group straight from Cuba (!!!) was performing that night and we were lucky enough to be seated right in the front. Yesssss. Ohmygooooodness. I was freaking out. What a fantastic time.

The music was amazing, all salsa-y and such, but the beats were painfully contagious and catchy though. Half of me was basically in heaven and I could not for the life of me wipe the silly grin off my face. The other half of me nearly wanted to cry out of nostalgia for Sunday Hot Monkey Love Cafe salsa nights with the crew. Not that any of us were professionally spectacular (well, besides Neo, but what isn't he good at?), but we had ourselves some good times. Watching all the couples whirling and twirling and salsa stepping was both beautiful and such a tease. The lead singer kept looking over and chuckling at my hardly contained excitement, occasionally motioning me out onto the small corner of a dancing floor. No way, man. Aas much as I tout my non-Asianess, in this area, I am still very much so; awkward, stiff, and uncoordinated. Heh.

I remember one night at Yee Yi's house, it was one of the usual crazy, fun family reunions I so love. My mom and aunts tried to get Amanda and I to learn some dances, but I was too embarrassed to take it seriously. What a shame. I'm pretty sure I spent about 80% of my childhoos being embarrassed about...everything. I think perhaps tha may be why I have so little shame about many things these days (not dancing though clearly; my failed childhood experience in Reston, Virginia in that purple wedgie-perpetuating leotard scarred me for life). But I digress...

What a great night (in Porto) it was and an incredible way to end a perfect trip. Now I'm eighty hundred times more excited to take Portuguese next quarter, the classes for which I am already registered!, and well, long story long, I loved Portugal and am ecstatically looking forward to my return next month (this time to Lisboa). Eu mal posso esperar!

Day 3:

Oh baby.

When You Kiss Me, I Lift: Porto Part 2

2008-05-12T11:29:00.003+02:00

Wandering our way to Rio Douro

It has been awhile since the trip now, but there is more to be said about Porto. Here is another installment on the spectacular Portuguese extravaganzas.

Wine Tasting
Because Porto is the world's premier producer of Port wine (duh), we obviously had to try some. We crossed the Rio Douro that runs through the city and went wine tasting Croft Winery. White and red wines (Croft Fine Tawny and Croft Reserva) were sampled. Ehhh. Unfortunately, Port wine is a little too sweet to garner me as a fan, but the wine tasting was fun. What a ridiculous life I have.

Pub Crawwwwl
Last night's pub crawl, apparently the first ever of its kind in Porto, was pretty sweet and quite the unique way to experience a city. Helena, the gf of the Italian guy who cooked us a feast the first night, took us to different clubs and bars all around Porto, and was essentially the local "in" everyone wishes for as a foreigner in a new city.

We started out at Guarany to see a Fado, traditional Portuguese folk music, show. Not to coddle its style but to put it into some frame of reference--Spain:Flamenco::Portugal:Fado. The lady who performed spoke a million languages with an impeccable accent (I want to be her!) and sang beautifully; I definitely had chills within the first few seconds.

Casa do Livro was our second stop, an antique bookstore turned sleek and chic jazz bar. It certainly trumps Jamboree by eight hundred million trillion. A front-row seat to the jazz performance (I was so close that with three steps, I could have touched all the musicians), magical music, and basically everything I could wish for in a perfect night...needless to say, I was freaking out. :)

Next up was Bad Habits, a renovated house with rooms converted into art exhibitions, smokers' social, concert show rooms, a discotheque, and other variously themed lounges. It was super boho artsy and I felt really out of place. Hah.

Stop number four was a small, dark, trendy bar with screamo music pumping, stage 4 lung cancer levels of smoke saturating the air, and lurking creepers galore. We didn't stay very long at that locale...

We spent the next hour at a local hole-in-the-wall, whose only merits were the fried chicken pastries that tasted like ham sui gok's. Tasty. Our group sat around discussing American politics (oh, the joys of pretending I am more well-informed than I really am...) and the best places to buy joints in Porto. So there's that.

Four AM eventually brought us to Bar Pinguim, where Helena used to work. Super cute and classy with black and white photographs everywhere, poetry all over the walls, and chalkable tables like the ones at Earl's Place. Helena ordered us platters of bean-looking things covered in garlic and chili to be strategically squeezed in the mouth, and a ceramic boat that was lit on fire to roast typical Portuguese chorizo eaten with fresh baguettes hot out of the oven. I felt so...authentically Portuguese.

Day 2:

I am blessedddddd.

Pee is for Portugal: Porto Part 1

2008-05-07T19:19:00.002+02:00

I have the best life ever.

I just spent the long weekend in Porto, a small city in the north of Portugal, and it was arguably my favorite location of all my travels this year. There is far too much to be said regarding this trip to limit myself to one entry, far too much. Consequently, one may look forward to several installments in the forthcoming days. Most of the riveting commentary will likely be compilations of thoughts and scribbles straight from my journal. Occasionally censored and grammatically altered. Take that as you will...

I have found it. My favorite place in all of Europe: Portugal.

There isn't anything particularly spectacular persay about this country, but there are just so many little somethings about it that have caused me to fall in love. For one, our hostel is freaking bomb and I'm pretty sure we're cheating someone for the price we are paying. (Oporto Poets Hostel for any interested souls headed that direction.) It is immaculately clean and mod and classy and economical and comes with everything! And the lady at the front desk is hilarious. The streets and building facades are beautiful; bright splashes of color and tile and cobblestone illuminate the city. The weather is perfect. Food is cheap. People are genuinely friendly (minus the requisite creepers but that hardly fazes me these days). Ahhhhhhh.

And if this alone says anything...a few hours ago, I was just lounging out in the garden in a hammock strung up on two lemon trees, staring up at the blue sky with the sun smiling back down, munching on a crisp green apple, Seu Jorge on my iPod eventually lulling me to sweet sleep. Not only is hammocking one of my ultimate favorite pastimes, the serenely spent afternoon has been a much-needed rest after a week far too hectic for all of its two days. Mmmm.

It's so beautiful here! I know I seem to use the same adjectives to describe every trip I've gone on, every place I've been to, but they hold such different meanings each time. Venice beautiful was romantic and luminescent. Paris beautiful was classy and cultured. Switzerland beautiful was pristine and idyllic. Portugal beautiful is rustic and real, unpretentious and homey. I wish I had chosen to study abroad here...

Day 1:

And I BROUGHT MY PASSPORT THIS TIME!!!

Congratulations to me! :)

And the Nakies Come Out To Play...

2008-04-27T10:09:00.000+02:00

I'm so behind on blog entries these days...but I'm lazy and have a lot of homework and lack the inspiration to write. Blog entries just have to come, you know? And when they don't, they don't.

Anyway. A few weekends ago, Si and I went to visit an old friend Jackie, whom I had not seen since high school graduation (has it really been that long already?), in Madrid. More to come regarding that trip, but for now I will say this: if Barcelona didn't have the beach, I would be depressed for my life for not having chosen to study in Madrid. I loved it there! It was beautiful, clean, classy, and there were no creepers (you know, this trend of being shocked in the absence of sickos is quite sad...). They also had a fantastic sandwich shop called 100 Montaditos, in which the menu consists of 100 different varieties of bocadillos to chose from. You simply check off the ones you want, state the quantity, and bon apetit to you for only 1.10euro a sandwich! Man, I'd be such a chub if I lived there.

But back to the beach...Barcelona has been having absolutely amazing weather as of late. Granted, sporadic rainy days abound, but the 70-degree temperatures have me giddily gadding about with glee and forgiving the occasional drops. The golden rays, cerulean blue skies, and in-between-class-sprawling on the grass have been so worth it. Call me superficial but my disposition seems irrevocably linked to sunshine and warmth, so when it's beautiful out, I'm exponentially happier.

Taking advantage of such ideal conditions, I have officially adopted the beach as my weekend home away from home. At said abode, usually Sitges or sometimes Castelldefels when the train decides it actually wants to stop there, I revel in the fine sand and crisp Mediterranean salt air, catch up on sweet slumber, and attempt to make the most of those blissful moments with the tricky task of employing only four senses.

FOUR senses, you ask? Well, you see, beaches here are very, um, free. Back in Cadiz, when we first discovered the Spanish penchant for toplessness, it shocked our cheeks red (hint: redness not caused by sun exposure). These days, I employ my greatest disciplines to overcome my tendency towards continued surprise. I try to tell myself that bodies are natural or something.......but then things like running into a naked coworker happen and like a frightened turtle, I snap back into my shell of OMG, for the last time, keep your eyes SHUT, Lo! mode. (IT WAS SOOOOO AWKWARD!!!) And so continues the four senses beach experience. Another reason why San Diego calls to me. We were created with five senses and I intend on using them all to their fullest extent.

79 days and counting, baby.

La Diada de Sant Jordi

2008-04-23T18:50:00.000+02:00

This is what I just researched about today:

"Barcelona's best day? Easy. April 23rd, Saint George's Day, La Diada de Sant Jordi, Barcelona's Valentine's day. A day when kissometer readings go off the charts, a day so sweet and playful, so goofy and romantic, that 6 million Catalans go giddy from dawn to dusk. Patron Saint of Catalonia, international knight-errant Saint George allegedly slew a dragon about to devour a beautiful princess in the south of Barcelona. From the dragon's blood sprouted a rosebush, from which the hero plucked the prettiest for the princess.

Hence the traditional Rose Festival celebrated in Barcelona since the Middle Ages to honor chivalry and romantic love, a day for men and mice alike to give their true loves roses. In 1923, the lovers' fest merged with International Book Day to mark the anniversary of the all but simultaneous April 23, 1616 deaths of Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare. Over four million roses and half a million books are sold in Catalonia on Sant Jordi's Day, men giving their inamoratas roses and the ladies giving books in return."

To get to the metro station, I cross the street by a small school. Earlier this morning as I waited for the light to turn green, I saw a little boy proudly hand his mother a bouquet of roses and recite a poem. She cried. :)

It's beautiful in Barcelona this April 23, 2008. The skies are clear and bright blue, the sun is out, the temperature is an absolutely fantastic 15ºC, and rose petals litter the streets with flashes of vibrant color everywhere. Flower vendors and make-shifts shops stand nearly every ten steps, everyone was clutching roses on the train, and people all around generally seem to be in high spirits. I got a flower from the President (UNICEF), AND Si and I get dinner cooked for us tonight.

Happy Barcelona Valentine's Day!

International Affairs

2008-04-21T11:22:00.000+02:00

No, we would not like to go rollerskating with you...
(and no, those aren't the guys we live with, thank goodness)

For those who have seen the movie L'Auberge Espagnol about the French guy who studies abroad in Barcelona, Spain...that is a pretty accurate glimpse of my life this year. The dirty, messy flat packed with crazy international students, the coffee table constantly cluttered with beer bottles galore and hash ashes scattered around, loud euro trash music perpetually blasting in the living room, the boys who unendingly pass their time sitting on the couch watching tv all day, bathtub surprises, hazy adventures around the city into the early hours of the morning...oh man. Ridiculous.

A few weeks ago, we had a huge apartment dinner. The six of us each invited a friend, bringing the grand total to twelve people crammed around our dining table. I cooked 7 pounds of ground beef for burritos and made more chismol than I thought was possible. The French guys, Nico and Jon, baked a dish resembling potatoes au gratin on steroids. (It is supposedly a delicacy the mountainous peoples in Basque country eat during the wintertime justo antes de "hibernation," and judging by the caloric content of said entree, it should definitely only be consumed about once a year, if not once in a lifetime.) Tinto de verano, red wine, and beer were flowing like it was the Land of Alcohol and Honey. For dessert, we had ice cream and self-rolled hash cigs (don't worry, I just stuck to the helado de vainilla), and then everyone headed out to the neighborhood boho bar down the street for a live concert.

I've been spending quite a bit of time with Ellie, our German flatmate (who is coincidentally half-Chinese). Sitges and Castelldefels beach adventures and window shopping abound on the weekends. We occasionally cook and dine together, and sometimes after dinner, we spend a few hours Google Earthing our houses and looking up pictures of Offenburg, Germany and La Jolla. Mostly, I'm just feeding her propaganda on why she NEEDS to come to California to visit. She can't get over the fact that we really go to a school next to the beach and almost all of our friends surf and wear sandals year 'round. Heehee. Oh, California...

This past weekend, we had fried calamari for dinner and then went out to the infamous Chupitos Bar. They have an entire board of unique shots for 1.80 euros each, and it is quite the scene. Some of the available shots include the Harry Potter, which involves the bartender executing some sort of pyrotechnic magic trick before one downs the shot; the Boy Scout, where on the counter is lit a fire, over which you roast a marshmallow that you then dip in the shot and drink; the Orgasm consisting of a head massage with Neo's favorite spider-looking head scratchers; and the Mata Osos, which was definitely a bear killer. Other drinks in large pitchers are also available...

More to adventures to be documented shortly.

I just have to say...

2008-04-17T11:11:00.000+02:00

...watching Vantage Point at 2 in the morning in the dark of our room while in Spain was probably not our best idea. Wow.

Update hopefully coming soon!

En Los Tiempos de Primavera

2008-04-07T22:41:00.000+02:00

Springtime in Parc Ciutadella

Until a few weeks ago, Si and I spent a few months floundering about in a deep pit of homesickness; smothered by its uninspirational depression and cursed by its unreliquishing grip. But the seasonal transition to delightful spring and the emergence of the sun these days have come to our rescue and brought about a reinvigorated joy of being in Spain...just as the countdown begins, ironically enough.

Yes, it's official. There are exactly 100 days until my glorious return to California. I left the Golden State on July 15th and shall be reappearing on the fated day of July 15th. [Sidenote: Sierra is coming home two weeks earlier on July 1st, so I expect to hear stories about her extravagant reception crew and welcoming party complete with balloons, banners, sparkles, and In-N-Out burgers. I'm not kidding (and consequently, neither is she).]

One whole entire complete year. The initial first moment will be interesting. In January, I had rather intense dreams about it every single night for two weeks straight. Una noche, I even dreamed Concon was at the airport with the rest of my entire extended family... Anyway, I digress. Si and I have run through every scenario possible, but what really matters presently is that there are still 100 days left and if we've learned anything...a lot can happen in that time. Jajaja. Así que, por el momento, we will be relishing the remaining months in Spain, finalizing a few more exciting trips, hosting visitors galore, and as always, engaging in our general ridiculousness. ¡Olé!

Here is a glimpse of my new favorite place in Barcelona:

We were like those who dreamed...

S-P-O-I-L-E-D en Alemania

2008-04-05T09:57:00.000+02:00

SNOW in Konigstuhl

I was supposed to write this eight hundred years ago, but not having a computer these days complicates things just a bit. Anyway, currently back at the daily grind, but I was recently (I know, 800 years is SUCH a short span of time) in Frankfurt being spoiled out of my brains and it was wonderful. Among many glorious things, here is a brief sampling of my adventures in Germ-town. I:

...had my own room with a big bed in a bomb seventh-story apartment with a riverside view.

...visited a castle where I saw falling snow for the first time in ages.

...sampled (this verb being a major understatement) schnitzel, various kinds of worschts, authentic apple streusel, German beer, gluewine, and a myriad of other tasty German dishes and pastries, the names of which I cannot for the life of me remember.

...ate real steak for the first time in over eight months (if you know my family, you should probably be wondering how I made it that long; I am also perplexed).

[Okay, I admit it. I spent about 90% of the trip just eating. Yay.]

...hacked my hair off again.

...spent time with Auntie Suzy for the first time in eight years.

...pretty much had the best week of my life. :)

The pictures do the trip more justice than this cheap entry:
Germany 1
Germany 2
Germany 3

Mil gracias a Tia Suzy for her hospitality, thoughtfulness, and generosity.

I had an amazing time.

Sunburnt in Switzerland

2008-03-20T06:06:00.000+01:00

Taking over Europe one park bench at a time.

Rrrrrrandom blurbs about the land of chocolate, cheese, and fountains...

Close call. I almost didn't make it. Despite the fact that I've been traveling rather frequently since I was literally five months old, I somehow managed to neglect packing my passport. I know, I know, I AM AN IDIOT. I know. Of course, I didn't realize my error until I actually stepped foot in the airport, at which point, I had to book it back to my flat by cab to grab the pesky item and speed back to the El Prat just in time. Whew. [I can picture my mom shaking her head at me right now. Teehee. *sheepish grin*] On the flip side, I do know now that it takes exactly 12 minutes to get from my apartment to the airport by car...and that's including extra minutes for driving on various sidewalks as the cab driver felt so inclined to do.

View from the top. The vista of the Alps from the plane when I was flying over Switzerland was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Actually, the scenery in general was quite idyllic and stunning. Man. Wish you coulda been there.

Cloudy with a chance of aloe vera? All last week, I kept reading weather reports predicting snow and torrential rain in Zürich, so I was prepared to brave the elements and fully expected to freeze my buns off. Learning from my winter break travels, I packed about 800 layers. And what do you know...the weather was sporadically pretty nice. Yay. I think I actually spent more time being sweaty than cold. In fact, I got slightly sunburned on Friday when Jess and I fell asleep in a park. Huh?!?!

Tweed coats and Burberry. Switzerland is generally old, rich people. But everyone there was so nice. On our second day after grabbing a kaffee creme at Sprüngli Cafe, a very dignified and classy old lady sitting next to me helped me put my coat on (I had so many layers on, I could hardly move...) before kindly patting my leg and wishing me a good day. Then on our boat cruise around Lake Zürich yesterday, I sat across from the sweetest old lady ever, who would occasionally smile at me and make some sort of thoughtful commentary. I, both because she spoke inaudibly softly and completely in German, didn't understand a single word. Nonetheless, she squeezed my hand and told me to "stay warm" before she disembarked from the boat. It's amazing what can be communicated beyond verbal language.

Rolex. Timeless. I don't know about the rest of Switzerland, but in Zürich, the entire world is immaculately dressed, I, consequently, looked like a ratty ragamuffin straight off the streets of Spain. And Jess made me go in the Louis Vuitton store with her. Ugh. Anyways. The shopping, especially on Bahnhofstrasse (comparable to Champs Elysees in Paris) was seriously FOOOOOOF. We window-shopped a few Chanel bodysuits, $500 chocolate truffle eggs, a few Rolexes...*commercial break* My mom thought she lost her Rolex, but then a plumber magically fished it out of the toilet when we were having flushing problems. My dad took it to a shop to get it cleaned, and despite having sat in the loo for a few years, it still works and runs like magic!

Old McDonald. We took a trip to Baden, an old town outside of Zürich, and went to order some typical Swiss sausages at a street-side stand for lunch. After looking at the menu and coming to terms with the fact that I had NO IDEA what anything meant, I just pointed at two wursts on the grill and ventured to ask the difference between the two. The lady responded, "That one is, umm...*SNORT SNORT SNORT* and the larger one is *MOOOOOO.*" "Umm, okay, I guess I'll have the...mooo." That was pretty entertaining. The lady in line behind me was cackling away, doubled over in laughter. *Haha*

Spic and span. Switzerland is SO clean. Wow wOw woW. The free WC's in public parks were eighty times cleaner than the bathroom in my Barcelona flat, if that says anything. They even have dispensers with "toilet seat cleaner" gel in the stalls at Zürich Airport. On the other hand, I could smell Spain before I could even see that I had returned...

Comfort and joy. I think part of the reason why I loved Switzerland so much was because I felt like a human again. I didn't have to be psychotically vigilant about my bag or pessimistically cynical 24/7. People didn't blatantly stare at me like my life is entirely their business. Guys didn't devour me alive with their eyes. No one catcalled, said inappropriate things, or made any sort of disgusting noise when I walked by. I was free to comfortably enjoy myself and it was such a nice luxury.

Love. So. I really, really, really liked Switzerland. It was absolutely beautiful and I was truly enchanted by the country. 'Tis a crying shame I didn't study abroad there instead (I guess, the fact that they don't speak Spanish is kind of a bugger), but I am already planning to return when I am old and retired and can afford (maybe? hah...) to leisurely vacation there.

Mmmm. Switzerland, I'll be back yet.

Pictures:

Switzerland 1

Switzerland 2

Babysitting. Voted #1 most effective contraceptive.

2008-03-08T09:58:00.000+01:00

This is Laia. Isn't she a cute little chum chum?

Angelic facades...pshhhh. Adorable chub on the outside, total monster otherwise. Still an only child as of yet, she really knows how to work the system. We are talking Pablo Picasso status when it comes to the art of throwing tantrums. MAN.

Anyway, every Friday, I get paid 15 bucks to "teach English" to this three-year-old for an hour. Much of the time I spend at the house is necessarily spent saying "no" or "we don't throw things, okay?" or "please don't hit me." No wonder she just scowls when her parents ask her if she likes it when I come over. Haha.

Today, after a surprisingly cooperative and productive five minutes (I brought stickers...), her mom came into the room to check on us and asked, "Laia, what have you learned?" I proudly waited for her to show off the immense knowledge I had just imparted on her. But instead of rattling off "One, two, thra-fee (we're still working on this)" or "A, B, C," she stands up and screams "CACA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The little devil. I did NOT teach her that, thankyouverymuch.

I need Geoffrey to come charm her into submission. Brotherrrr!!

So homesick it hurts.

"Wet paint. DO NOT TOUCH."

2008-03-05T00:21:00.000+01:00

I exited my linguistics class with my new Canadian friend Keith, discussing Spain's penchant for racial stereotypes and general disregard for political correctness. As our professor wrapped up the class, he proceded to ask, pointedly looking at Keith and me, if he was speaking Spanish too quickly. Professor Alcoba turned to me, "I bet you understand perfectly because San Diego is 85% Mexican immigrants." Then he looked at Keith, who is black, and tangented, "Say, do you play basketball?" My turn again, "Lorena, is everyone in San Diego as serious as you or is that just because you're Chinese?" Ummm? (On the very first day of class, he asked me if Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was not my absolute, all-time favorite movie.) Mmhm.

As we chuckled over the awkwardness of being North American (much less black and Asian) and in Spain, the scene we suddenly encountered couldn't have affirmed it more. A huge mob had gathered in the hallways, people were squished in every crevice with nowhere to move or go. I attempted to shove my way through the crowd to the nearest door, only to come upon a guy dressed in a white body suit and a grey cloth wrapped around his head with only his eyes visible, standing guard holding a wooden board. My first instinct was something along the lines of a fresh paint job and that I should just try the next door. Discovery of that guy's twin posted at the next outlet led to finally noticing a plethora of Catalans dressed identically, blocking all doors and even elevators. Paint job, school hijacking...pshhh, same thing.

I was pushing people out of my way and navigating the stretch of hallway while listening to a voicemail from Sierra. She apparently was outside of the building, trying to get in to go to class. Meanwhile, I was trapped inside unable to get out. Finally, I just went up to one of the white-clad creatures and demanded to know how I was to go about exiting the building. He rattled off a slew of instructions in Catalan at lightning speed. I didn't understand anything he had said. But he refused to repeat anything in Castellano for me; typical Catalan pride. Eventually, I just took advantage of being small and the occurrence of a little scuffle at a door to slip out. Whew. That was fun.

I still don't know what was going on in there. Some strike about being Catalan or something. Nothing really new. Just last Tuesday, I got to school, prepared for a full day of classes. Half an hour into waiting around for our professor and the rest of the class to arrive, some kind soul deigned to pop in and tell us clueless foreign students that due to a demonstration assembly, all classes in the building had been cancelled for the afternoon. That was that. And today, as my linguistics class filed out after my professor's demure display of his knowledge of North American 'culture,' the Spanish students in our class informed us that there is to be a HUGE manifestación on Thursday, strongly advising us not to come to school. There are going to be crazy picket line armies of mullets that will block any students from alighting from the metro, much less entering the campus. Sweet. Four-day weekend for me.

And that's school for ya. Just another day at the good ol' UA of B...

A taste of home...(but not enough:).

2008-03-01T07:29:00.000+01:00

A small picture update of Jessie-face, who is studying abroad in Leon this semester, and her visit to Barcelona last weekend. Come back soon!

Love, Actually.

2008-02-27T21:27:00.000+01:00

Erasmus is the predominant study abroad program here in Europe. Pretty much everyone I know who isn't from Barcelona or California is an Erasmus exchange student. Yesterday in my Indigenous Societies class, we learned the program was founded not on academic principles, but primarily established for networking purposes. Per my professor, it is simply about the politics of getting foreign students to "mingle, fall in love, and go live in each other's countries." Huh. (The correlation between fraternizing college students and indigenous societies, you ask? None. There are four people in the class; we tangent a lot.)

On the flip side, several people on separate occasions have remarked how "different" Si and I are compared to the other foreign students they have previously come into contact with. It shocks them when we say we are studying abroad...and find that we actually study (I know, I know, you are all equally surprised). Our pastor's wife keeps telling us that everyone else is usually entirely consumed with traveling and partying, school being the absolute last thing on their minds, if at all. Who would have guessed?

Hands down, UCSD is a million times more rigorous than our university here, but last semester was nonetheless challenging in its own right. Yet somehow, perhaps it was all the effort we actually concerted for once in our lives, we managed to not only pass all our classes (inlcuding the ones given in languages we neither speak nor understand...), but also come out with some pretty decent grades. I say it's time for a few trips; only two and a half weeks until Spring Break!

**To give a glimpse of the vibrant academic environment that exists at the Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona: Si's classmate found Steven Colbert's I Am America (and so can you!) book as a legitimate resource in the history section of our humanities library. Ehh.

Qué Bruta.

2008-02-13T00:54:00.000+01:00

'Tis me spacing out as usual on the metro,
which is different from the train, but it'll do for now.

I think about all the reality television shows out there that somehow, despite being downright stupid, pointless, and oftentimes crass even, still garner a significant audience and hence income, and wonder why there aren't cameras following Si and I 24/7. Granted, that would probably be my absolute worst nightmare (and Si's dream come true), but we could supply some money entertainment.

I wasn't kidding when I said my life is ridiculous right now. I told you, February is CRAZY. And this country has it out to get me. Take this morning, for example. The first four hours of my day essentially epitomize what the last few weeks have been like. Somebody pray for peace and calm waters. And perhaps some good sense too. PORFA.

I have neither the time nor energy to detail why I was back at the Iberia Airlines Office this morning for the second time in less than 24 hours (it takes me about 30 minutes to get there, so no, it's not just to hang out and chill), but I was there yet again.

Important side note: I'M COMING HOME!!! Albeit in five months...but I'M COMING HOME nonetheless! Assuming horse stampedes and all such fairytale nonsense are just for boys, 7:00PM on July 15th is going to be the happiest moment of my life. Dah, I can't even wait.

Anyways. After finally, officially booking my return flight to LAX, I went to Plaça Catalunya to catch a train to school; a different station than my usual but after nearly seven months in Spain, I figured I could handle it.

I take it all back. Maybe I was too excited about the thought of being back in the States. Or too depressed the airline lady made me book my flight a whole three days later than I wanted (one day later is already significantly devastating). But I managed to board the S5 train, when my two only options should have been S2 or S55. The whole time I was thinking "Well, this is just so pleasant. An uncrowded train, I can put my feet up, no large men sitting next to me taking up the entire armrest...in fact, there's no one at all on this entire side of the train! I could even do a jig or two." Wait...I glanced behind to see a smattering of people seated in the other half of the train car. Whew. I proceded to consume my private picnic of a sandwich and let my randomly set iPod lull me into a world of all the forgotten music I don't think to listen to anymore these days.

I glanced out the window to admire the scenic countryside, and smiled at the crisp green of the grass and foliage. But there was someting unsettlingly fresh about the nature that was whipping by outside, something too new and inspiring. A sign boasting the station name "Mirasol" flashed by...WAIT. Hold the phone. I've never seen or heard of Mirasol. WHERE WAS I WHAT WAS I DOING WHAT THE HECK WAS GOING ON?! WAS I DREAMING?

I finally realized my initial mistake way back at Catalunya and simply resolved to get off at the next station and take the right train back. Too bad the train wouldn't stop. It kept zipping through all these extra dark deserted tunnels and a thought passed through my head considering the possibility that this train was at the end of its line and was consequently taking the day off. Frack. What now.

Finally, the train stopped in a station and I joyously lunged at the door and pushed the green "obrir" button. Nothing. I pushed it again. Nothing. Several more times. Nothing. Okay, so that door wasn't working. I tried the next one. No movement. Next door, nada. I started getting a little panicked. I mean, I was on an entire train entirely by myself, and not only that, I was now trapped. Sweet.

I embarrassedly peered out through the window at all the people seated on the benches waiting for other trains. They just stared blankly at me, and I kept pushing buttons. Obrir obrir obrir already! Finally, a white-haired public transportation uniformed man entered through the driver's "cockpit," came into the train car via secret door, and gave me a look that branded me idiot for life.

"What are you doing here? This train ended in Sant Cugat (that was five stops back, thank you, hahaha). Where are you going?" I sheepishly told him I was just trying to get to the Autonoma as he unlocked the sliding doors (yes, he had to personally UNLOCK the train's sliding doors, eek!) for me and instructed me in the tone of a parent talking down to their three-year-old and in a decible loud enough for the entire train station to hear that I was to stand on THAT side of the waiting area, wait for THAT numbered train, get off at THAT station, and then take another train to THAT school. The volume was probably so everyone could keep an eye on the poor girl who clearly didn't know what she was doing. (I swear, I do...ahem).

Yeah, well, the story doesn't end there. But I'm sure I've squandered your attention span in its entirety already, so we'll just say that I had a few more outrageous (and I don't exaggerate when I use this adjective) scrapes and it ultimately took me over two hours to get to school (as opposed to the normal una hora), where I arrived to discover the meeting I was late for had been rescheduled for March.

Sigh. And all this before noon.

February Faithful

2008-02-10T10:05:00.000+01:00

I can always count on February. To be a little crazy, that is. As seems to be the case every year around this time, life has been slightly ridiculous to say the least. As of late, I've mostly been plagued with infinite never-ending illnesses, a dead laptop, and a variety of dilemmas, all of which I have responded to a fault with despondent homesickness and longing just for the passage of time. But without fail, in the midst of the whirlwind, 2003 creeps back to me. Casi no puedo creer que ya ha sido cinco anos. Every year, I think I'll write a fresh new blog about it, but as I replay certain images, certain memories over in my head, I realize I still have not fully learned or grasped the basics. So here it is, the repost. Mostly a reminder to yo misma as I preoccupy myself with dwelling more in what is to come rather than the all-important here and now.

James Cottrell. July 22, 1987-February 23, 2003

I can't believe it's been [five] years. There is so much I want to write, so many stories I want to tell. But here's the thing...

You know, there's always this cliched hype about "never letting a moment pass you by and living each day to the fullest." It reminds me of the CEC trend where Carpe Diem showed up everywhere--xangas, AIM, etc. for awhile. But honestly, how many of us truly adhered to that mantra in those "every moments," and are to this day striving to keep that ingrained in our mind, not just marked in colored font in our profiles?

I remember one particular Friday in November 2002. I was standing in the hallway right outside of my mom's classroom along with my brother and James, as Mrs. Cottrell and my mom wrapped up their conversation about the next day's lesson plans as usual. Then in addition to the typical parting goodbyes, my mom gave James a hug, as he was scheduled to go into surgery for his pacemaker that weekend. I stood there awkwardly, not sure if I was supposed to follow suit or what. Then somewhere in that limbo of unease and sharp discomfiture, my moment passed. I didn't give him a hug.

And then...I never saw James again.

In the time between November and February, James went through dire surgery complication after complication. His life hung by the thinnest thread for three months--one minute he was going strong on his pacemaker, the next instant he was being frantically hooked back up to the machine. I sat at the hospital countless nights, prohibited from seeing him, staring hard at the sterile hospital surroundings, watching the hearts of his parents being wrenched out within them, wondering how much hurt a human was capable of withstanding. But nothing could change what God was about to ordain, not a mother's love, not the many fervent prayers, not even having Uncle Frank Ing as one of his doctors.

The morning after James died was like that of a movie in its most depressing scene. Except it was actual, tangible reality as I watched the dark clouds roll in, spreading a heavy, mournful covering across the sky as I silently rode in the car. The fat drops that splattered against the car windshield mocked the wet beads threatening to spill from my own eyes. My mom and I went to take breakfast to the Cottrells before heading to school. Their house was as desolate as the somber sky. The windows were shut and no light touched a surface save what daylight snuck in when we opened the door. Shades of black, gray, and sadness were all one could see inside. It was agonizing to see Mr. Cottell sobbing yet still able to find the grace to be hospitable as he ushered us in. It was excrutiating to hear Mrs. Cottrell wailing in deepest sorrow from within her room.

Sadly, it takes moments like these to drive us to realize how truly short our time is here on earth, especially for those who have the vastness of eternity stretching before them. It's those memories of a missed hug seared in our minds--incidents that occur over a span of mere seconds that remain etched in our memories for a lifetime.

And let's face it, kids, no one's perfect. Humanly, we can't possibly live each little, every single moment of our lives to the fullest, but we can pray for passion. A passion that would drive us to madly seek after God. A journey of pursuit that would then result in an overflow of our hearts. An overflow of such love for God that we wouldn't want to spend our time any other way, than fruitfully for Him. An overflow that would engender boldness and courage, impelling us to grasp so tightly onto those "every moments" so as never to leave room for a "what if," "if only," or "would have been," and squeeze out any potential regret.

I pray ardently for your hearts and mine, and may God always be glorified.

Celebrity Sightings

2008-02-07T22:11:00.000+01:00

None other than the legendary Zorro himself sat across from me on the train ride to school this morning. Granted, he didn't have the requisite face mask on, but he was wearing black spandex tights (yes, you read that correctly), black leather boots, the epic billowy button-up white collared shirt, and his dark shoulder-length hair was appropriately slicked back with about ten pounds of bear grease. Fortunately for me (in this case only), staring is a completely acceptable facet of Spanish culture because I couldn't stop blatantly looking and taking note of all the uncanny similarities. I'm sure it was Zorro. I mean, who else honestly dresses like that these days?

Anyway, I don't know what was playing on his iPod, but he insisted on tapping obnoxiously on the window with annoyingly no rhythmic sequence for the entire thirty plus minute train ride. I quickly got over being starstruck and seriously contemplated punching him in the face, but I was afraid he might whip out his cape and sword and consequently slash me to piecezzz. Ideally, I would like to make it out of this country alive, even though "Killed by Zorro in Spain" could make for a good story. Oh well. Maybe next time we'll have a window tapping duel and fight it out to the death. "Zorro Defeated By Amazing American Abroad" could make for a pretty decent headline too. Talk about legendary.

Because I Can.

2008-02-02T03:14:00.000+01:00

I don't know where I'm headed with this blog entry. Maybe delightfully nowhere in particular. Just once this week, I'd like to write something that doesn't answer the prompt, doesn't transition smoothly, is insensibly devoid of sense, and most of all, independent of a menacing grade...All the people who told us studying abroad was academically easy and usually meant a boost to the GPA should be tarred-and-feathered for being downright misleading. Talk about spurring unrealistic expectations.

People in La Jolla start riots when finals creep near 35%. On Tuesday, I took a final with four questions, each one worth about 20% of my final class grade. Three hours, eight pages of writing, information that was mostly over my head...mm, that hurt a little. Yesterday, I slogged through another written exam worth a "mere" 50%, and next Friday, I'm slated to take one that counts for a whopping 100%. Good thing this one is for a class I have literally a 1% chance of passing. Congratulations, Spain, I'm going to fail my first class ever in YOUR country! Monumental, I know, but try not to let it get to your head-I really can't afford any more F's.

After an academically intense week, I thought I'd take a day-long sabbatical before diving back into studying and wondering how I'm going to write a 15-page paper describing what I do at UNICEF (I am an intern = I do nothing). Together with my new Eduardo Galeano book, a freshly charged iPod, and some chocolate hazelnut gelato, I ventured to a crumbling cement jetty overlooking the Mediterranean down by Barceloneta. I sat and stared and read and (no word that rhymes with "stared" and contextually fits has come to me yet) for the duration of the afternoon. It was freezing but glorious.

Once all these beastly finals and papers are done with, I want to get back into concentrated leisure reading. (I welcome all recommendations of noteworthy gems.) It's been almost six months and I am still nowhere near finishing El Amor En Los Tiempos de Colera. The Spanish is killing me. Someday when I'm old and retired, I hope to recreate my childhood; live in the library and spend all my time voraciously devouring books.

Our flatmates have all moved out and returned home with the ending of the semester. Si and I are a little sad about it; Inyaki, Andres, Frank, and Pete were all good fellows and they will be missed. In their stead have followed: Yorith (I actually have no idea how his name is really spelled), Nico, and Jean. So much for the girls we were hoping for. Nico and Jean speak French and Basque, and one speaks a little English and no Spanish, and the other speaks a little Spanish and no English. Needless to say, communicating has been slightly confusing. But they bought a brand-new frying pan so they win 2387908347 points for that. I'm pretty sure I've never seen something so beautiful. I cooked with it and NOTHING stuck, not one single crumb. Amazing.

I did a load of white laundry earlier this week. My clothes came out BRIGHT PINK. There was nothing even remotely colored mingling with them in the washer. I washed them again with bleach and they came out...grey pink. I now have four shirts and countless pairs of calzones all colored the same shade of dusty rose. Oh, diversity. And honestly, of all colors, PINK?!?!

Jelly Belly's are a challenge. Mixed in with the few tasty flavors are many lurking beans of death. Sometimes the colors are too similar and I unwittingly chomp down on cantaloupe instead of tangerine, or cinnamon instead of cherry, or puke instead of lime. Rats. I think I just ate a San Diego jelly. Not that it looks at all like a Barçe bean...

Who knew a year would be so long?

I miss home.

Adventures of the B.L.G.

2008-01-29T03:34:00.000+01:00

That's Beautiful Lips Girl to you.

There must have been a lot of people praying for me last week. Just saying that I'm pretty amazed I managed to make it back to Spain alive.

WHAT.A.TRIP.

I returned from Fes, Morocco (where I was unfortunately labeled the B.L.G. by a loiterer outside of our hostel; call me that and die) on Saturday evening after five days and four nights, and I would say 90% of the trip was the scariest, stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. For the sake of my mother's heart, I shant reproduce all that went down (it was sketchy to the furthest extreme), but here are a few nuggets along with highlights of the day that turned the entire trip, and maybe even my life, around.

From the minute we arrived at the Barcelona Girona airport and took note of the demographics of the check-in line, we should have known we were in for it. Both long lines consisted exclusively of Moroccan men with the exception of five women, all besmocked in heavy, full-body black veils that left only their eyes uncovered. My friend Elise and I glanced at each other wide-eyed in nervousness and sheepishly attempted to ignore the fact that we really had NO idea what we were doing.

We had only booked a hotel for our first night, intending to scout out something cheaper once we arrived in Fes. The hostel we eventually found for about 7 euros a night was, well, only worth about 7 euros, if not less. It was actually so putrid that Wednesday to Saturday, I only showered once and pooped twice (both on Wednesday morning). My foremost thoughts every morning as I awoke was "How long can a person go without pooing before dying?" Great way to start off the day, I know. I was sure I caught about 80 diseases and infections from that living environment, and the prospects of imminent death by internal turmoil was a constant psychological plague as well.

But bathroom unease and all other shadiness aside, Morocco turned out to be somewhat of a positive venture after all. Though Thursday brought the scariest (no joke) moments of my life, Friday turned the spectrum on its head. We got to take cooking classes with a Moroccan chef and I can honestly say it was one of the most incredible things I have ever experienced.

Lahcen, a friendly, humble chef from the south of Morocco, met us at our hotel in the morning and proceeded to take us to the souk, an open-air marketplace of fruits, vegetables, meat, and a wide array of other edible delicacies. He led us around, taught us how to pick the freshest produce, and gave us small cultural lessons along the way. We stocked up on a plethora of goods, including a chicken which I killed!!!!!, before taxi-ing it to a renovated palace from the 14th century.

There we were served Moroccan mint tea and pastries on the rooftop terrace grandly overlooking the old medina of Fes before diving headlong into kitchen duties. We then spent the following few hours chopping, dicing, peeling, sauteeing, wrapping, stirring...you name it, learning the ways of Moroccan cuisine. Together with Lahcen and two other ladies (the sweetest women you will ever meet), we crafted a delectable spread of chicken tagine, candied artichoke hearts with oranges and preserved lemons, cheese and olive briouwates, and an apple cream pastilla; seriously a feast fit for kings.

We partook of the fruits of our collective labor in the fancy palace on a fancy tablecloth and fancy plates. My taste buds all died and went to heaven the food was so delicious. Wow. (For all that Morocco was not, I will say the gastronomy was consistently amazing.) AND there was a clean bathroom, so I knew I could thoroughly enjoy my meal. Ahem.

After the delicious repas, Elise and I set to work mopping the floor, washing the dishes, and scrubbing the table covers soaking in bleach, unthinkingly shocking the kitchen crew beyond words. It was no big deal, if anything, merely the natural thing to do, but Lahcen and the two Fatimas were stunned. We were immediately afforded access into the inner sanctum of acceptance, where Lahcen promptly offered us permanent jobs and the Fatimas invited us to their "family" meal, which apparently has never happened to any guest in the year and a half history of cooking classes.

We crowded around a heaping tray of cous cous and vegetables, the traditional dish for lunch on Fridays (Muslim day of prayer, equivalent to our Sundays) squatting on small straw stools on the kitchen floor and dug in. Language barriers presented no obstacle as we all joked and laughed and ate until the point of bursting. The tight-knit family environment was so heart-warming and certainly did its work in transforming the trip. We went from swearing never to return to the continent to figuring out when we could logically go back for an extended stay.

Man. It was incredible and this blog entry does it no justice. I mean, I wrote 15 pages front and back in my journal throughout the entire trip, so...yeah. If you remember and are still interested when I come back to California, I will let you read all about this eventful African adventure. Until then though, I still have five and a half months left on this side of the world, and more immediately, finals and papers to slog through these next few weeks. Studying and productivity currently beckon, entonces so long for now.

More photos:
Morocco 1
Morocco 2

Isaic Imagination

2008-01-19T12:41:00.000+01:00

"All day long I have held out my hands to an obstinate people who walk in ways not good, pursuing their own imaginations."-Isaiah 65:2.

"Behold, I will create new heavens and a new earth.
The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever in what I will create,
for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight and its people a joy.
I will rejoice over Jerusalem and take delight in my people;
the sound of weeping and of crying will be heard in it no more.
Never again will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days,
or an old man who does not live out his years,
he who dies at a hundred will be thought a mere youth;
he who fails to reach a hundred will be considered accursed.
They will build houses and dwell in them;
they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit.
No longer will they build houses and others live in them;
or plant and others eat.
For as the days of a tree, so will be the days of my people;
my chosen ones will long enjoy the works of their hands.
They will not toil in vain or bear children doomed to misfortune,
for they will be a people blessed by the Lord,
they and their descendants with them.
Before they call, I will answer;
while they are still speaking, I will hear.
The wolf and the lamb will feed together,
and the lion will eat straw like the ox,
but dust will be the serpent's food.
They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain.'
says the Lord."
-Isaiah 65:17-25

I really love the end of this book and its messages of hope and holy justice. There is such poetry and promise in God's assurances, and it's the beauty of the prospects not simply the eloquent phrasing that evokes such a sense of joy. A sense of calm that trivializes all the passing things in life and magnifies the significance of eternity to its proper infinity. Suddenly the stresses of daily life melt temporarily away and I feel the warm caress of a Father who makes life truly worth living. Gone are the insecurities, the fears, the uncertainties. In their stead is a peace that transcends the understanding of a mere soul. A mere, insignificant, unworthy soul somehow graced with the freedom and promise of a glorious forever. Mmm. Thank you, Jesus.

ONESIES, Twosies, Threesies...Four!

2008-01-14T09:38:00.000+01:00

I think the picture speaks for itself...

Hello, Goodbye, and Merry New Year's

2008-01-09T09:18:00.000+01:00

The shoreline of Sitges.

With heavy hearts, we bid adieu to our last beloved visitor Sunday evening. Sigh. Parting is such sweet sorrow, except minus the "sweet." This was one of the best Christmas breaks ever. The time spent with some of my closest friends has resurfaced all my yearnings for San Diego and the sharp transition back to the reality that is daily life has found me longing for home all over again. But seeing as I still have a whole six months left before my fateful return, I shant allow myself to get too carried away in a thought process that I will most likely regret when I am back in San Diego. As such, [insert abrupt subject change].

Pardon my tactlessness, but it has been too long a day to preoccupy myself with smooth transitions. Forging on, I believe a few big thank yous are in order:

Grace E. Lee. Watching all your ridiculous YouTube and Facebook videos online these days always evoke the same thought: how did I get to live with such a celebrity last year? What am I? A big deal or something? (Clearly not, seeing as I [accidentally] gave Grace moldy yams for Christmas last year. Oops...) Thank you and your cohort Garrett so much for the incredible care package. The card, the notes, the jokes, the koala loofah, the stickers, the can of chili, Mac n' Cheese, the Jelly Belly's and travel-size dispenser, the chocolates...I can't even list everything, but YOU ARE THE MOST AMAZING KOREAN POSER WE KNOW. Put your stunna shades on and give yourself 37 million Gold Stars. Also, Happy Belated 21st Birthday, Gracers! We're sad we couldn't be there for the cereal extravaganza but we hope it was amazing!

Our ERC "Freshmen." (Sorry, you'll always be dear little freshmen to us.) Gracie, Carla, Jess, Alicia, Meg, Pau, and Jon, I almost cried digging through your treasure trove and reading all your letters, which are now all hung up around our room. Thank you thank you thank you for your incredible thoughtfulness, heartfelt words, drawings, and edible goodies galore (which we may or may not have already eaten most of our way through...ahem). You have been ceaseless blessings from the very minute we met each of you and while we miss your little faces terribly, we trust that God is doing some astounding things in your respective lives and ministries (I clearly speak for both Sierra and myself). We're praying for all of you and can't wait until our next Skype rendezvous!

P.S. Sierra also says she can't WAIT to grow her boyfriend.

Benedict and Neo-san. Where do I even begin? First of all, thanks for braving the horse stampedes to bring some good ol' American Christmas joy to this foreign side of the world. I don't think I would have made it through this year without going home during Christmas and definitely would not have been able to come back to Spain had I gone home for the holidays, so in a nice long run-on sentence that I hope makes some semblance of sense, thank you for coming. Secondly, thanks also for lugging our beasts of baggage all the way here. Minus a few particular articles of clothing, ahem, it was happiness in a bag. Clearly, I can't include everything we're grateful to you kids for here, but among many, many things, thanks for the ridiculous adventures, the delicious food, the copious laughs, and the great company. Definite good times for the history books. Hurrah.

P.S. Neo, get well soon! Ben, you too! Sierra as well. And...me also. Congratulations on winning aggregate immunity? Between the four of us, we now have the disease spectrum entirely covered. Woopee.

Kelby. I think anyone who brings us onesie pajamas that fit uncannily well is automatically counted among the top three superstars of friends (just wait for the pictures, folks). Your timely arrival also lulled us out of post-Christmas depression and provided the long-awaited balance of girl-time we've been highly anticipating all year. It was sheer joy seeing you after such a long absence and celebrating New Year's with your white coat and lack of grape eating abilities. Thanks for also being a middle (wo)man bringer of presents and such delights. For you and your truffles and your Fig Newtons and your impeccable taste in sleepwear (and your priceless friendship and your Trader Joe's chocolates and your forgiving our sleeping way too much and...), we are eternally grateful.

P.S. Please don't study abroad again next fall! :)

Sam Yee, Say Yee, Cristina, and Stephanie. You cannot imagine the realms of joy that were reached today when I found your caja in my mailbox after a particularly rough day. I felt like a miner that struck ultimate gold in '49 as the bags of Cheez-its came spilling out of the box. And the riches didn't stop there! Gracias for always thinking of me so generously; you surely brightened my day...and provided dinner. Also, your adorable pictures are on my wall and your letters shall be saved in my journal to be read over and over and over again. Hope you can all come visit soon!

Parentals. Our beloved parents, thank you for packing our enormous bags of home essentials and...non-essentials. Si and I are both pretty sad we didn't get to come home this break, but thanks for sending us all varieties of San Diegan treasures and for financing our frolics about the European continent. We are indebted to you and infinitely appreciative for a million more reasons than one. Can't wait until you comeeeeeee.

And to everyone else who contributed to our weight gain over the past month, thank you! Seriously. I haven't eaten this much in the last six months combined. Foof. And I'm pretty ecstatic about how stocked our cupboards still are. Yessss. The upcoming weeks of finals are going to be appropriately snack-a-licious! Speaking of finals, I'm about to be sucked into a vortex of death. Here is so long and goodbye should we never meet again...

A small smattering of pictures from our week with Kelby:

Hope your Christmases and New Year's were just swell!
I miss you all oh-so-much!!!

What the hell are those? Cantelopes.

2008-01-02T04:05:00.000+01:00

wow. Wow. WOW. New Year's in Barcelona was quite the New Year's. (I wish I could post pictures, but someone neglected to bring their uploading dock for their camera.....)

Kelby, Sierra, and I tromped down to Placa Catalunya with the Sunday Night Dinner crew, armed with our red underwear, green grapes, and bottle of Cava. It was a little anti-climactic as we somehow missed the countdown. Damn. We attempted to cram the grapes down our throats (only to find distracting seeds to our dismay). Then between the three of us, we chugged a whole bottle of champagne in ten minutes. That was....fun. Eh.

People were spraying champagne everywhere, throwing bottles into the middle of the street (Kelby chucked ours and it simply bounced but we blame it on the quickly approaching cops), chanting a variety of ditties, growling New Year's greetings, and causing all varieties of ruckus about town. It was quite the scene.

We ambled down a packed Las Ramblas, wandering like mice in a maze with no cheese at the end (credit goes to Kelby for that stunning analogy). To our delight, our favorite gelato place was open! What better way to start off a year than with gelato? Ice cream was followed by a wait in a ridiculously long line to use a nasty bathroom in Burger King (it wasn't nearly as disgusting as the public toilette I was forced to use in Paris--gak).

I have never seen such an inordinately high concentration of plastered people in one place. Even after being in Spain for almost six months, I was astounded. Walking back towards the metro station was almost like playing Jetman, except instead of pillars, cow pies, or blood platelets, it was more like avoid the Creepies. A dangerous game considering my extreme inherent competitiveness and the vulgar creepiness of the Creepers. Fortunately, a brisk walking pace and Kelby's knife eventually got us back home relatively unscathed. Foof.

Apparently, another New Year's tradition in Spain is to welcome the sunrise with churros con chocolate. Much to Kelby's chagrin, we welcomed not only the sunrise but also a good portion of the day with sweet sleep. Heh. Partaking in such custom shall have to wait another 365 days, I suppose. Now I'm just rambling. 'Tis enough. I need to get back to journaling. I have a lot to process, or so they tell me.

One last note, I feel I am expected to give my two cents about our previous traveling adventures, but as Ben said, there is just too much to tell. His riveting account shall have to suffice for the time being, though I may add non-sequitur thoughts and off-handed remarks as the days pass. No promises, but we'll see. In any case, it was a jolly old time and I have now uploaded all the pictures Ben, Neo, and Sierra took during the trip. Have at 'em: http://picasaweb.google.com/lauren.leticia.hui

Now this is Kelby writing, who while not as eloquent as Lauren, has some things to say as well. First, New Year's eve was fantastic, despite the creepers. (For the record, I won the game "avoid the gropers" because of my excellent evasive tactics.) It was a long journey to get to Spain, but well worth it!

I stepped in dog poop not too long ago and Lauren and Sierra are unaware that I have no doubt brought some into the apartment because I was not able to properly get it off my shoe. I think they are tired of my questions about Barcelona. It's a lovely city, alive with the sound of music. Techno music, that is.

We watched "Atonement" today. Si is in love with James. Lauren is in love with the chocolate delights I brought her. I am in love with cafe con leche, which, after years of name dropping in Spanish classes, I was finally able to taste. Churros con chocolate remain elusive.

Lauren writes really small in her journal. I had forgotten because of our time apart, but the young man sitting next to us at the cafe earlier reminded us.

Ben and Neo - I resent the fact that you wore Lauren and Sierra out - they are both fighting coughs and I BLAME YOU BOTH for gallivanting around Europe with them. You have left me with nothing but hollow shells of my friends. FALSE. They are just as vibrant as ever and I love them.

Personally, the little bits of different languages I know are horribly jumbled in my head now. Por ejemplo: "mish aiza mayya, pero quiero asiir por favor. shokran." or "espanoli muy mal, asifa." These make perfect sense in my poor mind.

I am so excited for our adventures to come. Who knows what the future holds. Que sera sera, verdad? Personally, I see a strapping young Spaniard in the future for Sierra.

Por Lo and Si think I am writing something worthwhile, but I don't think this has been worth reading. So if you have gotten this far, I am sorry for wasting your time. Go on with your day. You may not be with us in Barthelona, but that doesn't mean you can't have a jolly good time of your own. Go outside! Run around a little! Make the most of your time and spend it with the people you care about. Above all, love. All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.

And remember: "The past is history and the future a mystery. But now is a gift. That's why it's called the present" (So well put by my Lufthansa stewardess)

I'm.... really full.

2007-12-28T22:35:00.000+01:00

Air action in front of the Notre Dame

There's just simply too much to tell. Too much. So I'm going to let the bumbling idiot next to me attempt to capture the essence of the last few weeks in one simple post... Here he is:

HIiiiIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!! This is BENKO, reporting live, from Barcelona. It's been quite the journey so far, with twists and turns rivaling Lombard street. Let's recap from the beginning.

Thursday night of Finals week, Neo and I try to leave the warm heart of San Diego (La Jolla) and journey to the treacherous port known as LAX. Leaving many crying friends, we drove up during the late night, arriving at Neo's house to a pair of flapping penguins, welcoming us for a longer stay than we had anticipated. 3 pieces of sushi and half a box of chocolates later, we had fallen asleep, in preparation for long plane flights and deep butt imprints in our seats ahead. Planning on an 8am departure from the house to catch our 11am flight, we woke up abruptly to my phone alarm. 8 am it was already... not to be distraught, we took nice long warm showers, and even stopped for breakfast close to King's bakery. Once at the airport, things took a turn for the worse.

HORSES WERE EVERYWHERE! I don't have words to describe the horrors unfolding in front of us at the airport, but I was... frankly terrified. Determined not to let this natural disaster derail our plans to visit our friends, we braved the clouds of dust and the flurry of hooves to reach the ticket counter. Unfortunately, we were unable to check-in bags for our flight, and were booked on another flight the next day. Neo and I paused for a moment to pray for those that had been mauled by the horses, and also to make a quick suggestion to God to keep horses out of airports. The rest of that day was filled with all sorts of interesting pizazz that you can ask us about later, but mostly fashioning ourselves some cow/horse prods to use in case of emergency the next day.

Eventually we got to Spain. Could've been by plane... could've been by canoe. We don't remember much of it. When we did get there, we had to immediately re-prepare for the bull ride to Rome. I'm not sure why Spaniards enjoy such unorthodox methods of transportation... but they do... they really do. Our bull shepherding guides dropped us off somewhere near Termini train station, and we were then at the mercy of the cobblestones of Rome.

And cobblestones there were. Everywhere. That's pretty much all we saw in Rome was cobblestones. And some large pillars here and there. Pfft. Rome. Whatever. Oh yeah, we also went to Vatican City... a few things of interest there, like St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Museum, the Pope... and some chapel painted with tons of naked people. Real cheeky. Beautiful cheeks though. We have a few pictures here and there, feel free to check Facebook, if you know us through such venues, or I'll be leaving a few links at the bottom. I know you're all dying to know what we ate, so let me tell you, the lasagna is to die for. Literally. Lauren killed about three people fighting for our pasta and cheese dishes. Note to self: don't fight Lauren for anything. Stampeding horses were scary, Lauren... a-whole-nother level. Anyhow, pizza and calzone were also quite yummers. Better than home for sure... we even cooked a meal at our hostel. Traveling by hostel is excellent, for those of you interested in following our trailblazing steps. Our original hostel was overbooked so we ended up being transfered to Gulliver's House, a little hostel with three bedrooms, and carwash style showers. Every morning we had to get up, sit down on the moving walkway, and put ourselves in neutral. Then we'd go through the various cycles of their crazy showers. Distressing, yes, but effective. I might have lost a little skin in the process, but I did smell nice. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are wrong. Our first full budget traveling experience in Rome was quite enlightening, after getting lost many times and walking countless miles, we ended up in Venice by sheer chance...

Venice (or Venezia) was quite a transition from Rome. The constantly bustling streets of Rome had a certain grand aura to it. Venice had me at hello. Swept me off my feet right into bed. Or that's what they told me, after our first night wandering San Marcos square, and paying the paltry price of nine euros for gourmet microwaved vittles, I managed to conk out and snore the night away. Well, the night, my friends, and apparently our neighbors. Oops. Truthfully though, Venice was perhaps my favorite stop out of our three cities. The maze of canals in addition to the charming and rustic facades of the various homes and churches lining the footpaths just begs the visitor to get lost. We tried our best to get lost amongst the bridges and narrow alleyways, and enjoyed every second of it. From the fish market just steps away from our Hostel, the 50 cent tra-ghetto gondola rides, to the seriously infinite churches in Venice, we roamed and roamed for an entire day. And roamed. and roamed. Echo.... echo.... anyhow. The food in Venice leaves much to be desired, but we made up for it with Gelato. 1 Euro gelato is absolutely divine. Once again, pictures and Sierra will tell the story much better than I, so to facebook you shall go. We had an extremely short stint in Venice, but we managed to hit up the majority of what we wanted to see. We proceeded to rent a gondola, and rowed ourselves to the airport, and caught our discount flight to Paris.

A quick note on Ryan-air. I have yet to figure out who this "Ryan" is, but we thought we saw him on our first flight. He had an absolutely stunning purple, black, white and beige striped sweater on, and clapped with an unmatchable enthusiasm upon landing. As entertaining as "Ryan" was, the damn safety instructions painted on the backs of the seats are only entertaining for the first 30 minutes. And thirty minutes is stretching it. So my advice to you, if you want to buy cheap(.01 euros + tax and fees) Ryanair tickets, and pay the extra 30 euros worth of bus fees to get you from the random airports to the hearts of the big cities... bring some reading material. Or some scotch tape and blank paper. ANYTHING.

Anyhow, Paris. Fantastic city. They've got the Eiffel Tower, Quasimodo, and baguettes aplenty. Snooty French accents and art to last a lifetime. By the time we arrived in Paris, everything had shut down for the night, even the Eiffel Tower had gone to sleep. Luckily for us, it was about -7 degrees C, so we were unable to feel any of our extremities by the time we reached our hostel. AND when we attempted to access our room... there was stuff in our beds. So we were moved to a swanky private room complete with its own shower. Nice eh? The following day, we met up with a certain Petier, and had a brief history lesson on the city of Paris, from the Notre Dame to the Grand Palais. Of course, we had chosen to get lost before hand, so by the time the tour was done, we had totaled 6 full hours of walking. And then we chose to walk some more. Only because Sierra insisted on going into every store on the Champs Elysees. Oi. And then we went to some art museum, Louvre, or something like that. Saw this famous gal named Lisa, and a few other drawings. It was pretty neato. To cap our night, we headed up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and watched Sierra prance around, giddy with glee, every time the tower started to "SPARKLE". Would not be the last time either. Oh, and we got lost trying to find our hostel again. Yippee! Our next two days were filled with crepes, more visits to the Eiffel Tower, hanging out at the Musee d'Orsay, and a kickass visit to the Palais Versailles. The gardens of Versailles are absolutely beautiful at sunset. They're beautiful at anytime of year. They're just beautiful. The ponds and fountains were all frozen over, and there were even swans in one of the fountains. Couples holding hands, little kids running through the pathways, and statues hiding in cloth bags from the elements made for quite the experience. And.... yeah. I am going back in the fall, for whoever wishes to join in my escapades. Finally, we had an exquisite dinner at a little restaurant in Paris, a nice four course meal with just amazing everything, including mashed potatoes that could stretch almost a meter. That's right, the metric system.

Anywho, we're prepping to leave Barcelona, which has also been exhilarating. Late night clubbing, inappropriately used plurals, and excessive eating have become staples of the Barcelona lifestyle. And not so much walking. Iiiiiiiiiiii recommend coming and visiting! and if not, the girls also welcome shipments of cheez-its. This is BENKO, signing out. You stay classy, world.

Pictures:
Sierra's: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2205021&l=36147&id=3317843
Rome: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2204690&l=1c713&id=3317843
Vatican: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2204705&l=73538&id=3317843
Rome/Venice: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2204710&l=43e1d&id=3317843
Venice: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2204715&l=36a00&id=3317843
Paris: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2204985&l=e8d35&id=3317843
More paris: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2205006&l=28f66&id=3317843
Versailles: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2205011&l=34579&id=3317843
Eiffel Tower: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2205014&l=71522&id=3317843
More Eiffel: http://ucsd.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2205015&l=bd33b&id=3317843

Metro morning rants cont.

2007-12-12T19:20:00.000+01:00

Judging by the repulsive scents that never cease to waft around on metros, I'm pretty sure personal hygiene is something merely pondered at as an enigma by the Spanish. Maybe people in the United States don't shower either and I just never noticed because we all drive in our own separate cars and if someone in your car smells because they haven't bathed, that's your problem for being friends with them. I don't know.

On mornings such as these, when I have gotten about one hour of sleep (UCSD, I am trudging through muck right alongside of you) and have eaten only a tomato for breakfast (yes, one whole plain tomato; don't judge me, grocery shopping isn't happening until Saturday), finding the metro inordinately crowded does not put me in the best of moods (okay, fine, I'm never a morning person as it is) and stinkers are the LAST people with whom I would like to surround myself. This middle-aged man leaned down earlier and full-on yawned obnoxiously in. my. face. Um, WACATELAS. If I hadn't been immobilized for a solid five minutes due to the immediate deterioration of air quality, I would have socked him in the eye for not having brushed his teeth since he was born (I guess a punch in the mouth would have been more appropriate, but no way was I going near that thing again). OMG. POR FAVOR. Didn't your mother ever teach you to at least cover your mouth? Ugh.

Also, things I can't wait to regain when I come home: personal space. Apparently, there is no concept of such thing here either. I'm not sure how many times I've almost thrown a fit of harta hysteria because I can't get anywhere without at least 37 creepy old men touching me. Or when people absolutely insist on cramming onto the metro when it is already unfathomably packed, making you want to jump out a window.

I need some coffee.

Things that make me exceedingly happy though: cute giggly chubby little chum chums running around the office. !!!!! Ahhhh, I miss babies. I'm sad all my cousins are growing up. (How is it that I work at UNICEF and never come into contact with children? Real ones, I mean.)

Anyways. This is a dumb entry, I know, but I'm trying to pass time more quickly at work via multi-tasking. If there wasn't anything going down this weekend and I still had to go to school next week, I'm not sure I'd make it to the end of today even. C'mon, you know when there are blog entries almost everyday, things are extra ridiculous. BUT. Only three and a half days until California and Oregon land in Spain! 'Nuff said.

On being 20 in The Office

2007-12-10T23:06:00.000+01:00

President: ¿Has probado este tipo de cava, Lorena?
(while pouring me a glass at 11AM)
Me: No.
President: ¿No?!?! ¿Cuantos años tienes?
Me: 20.
President: Ufffff!! Anda anda...tres copas más para ti.

Andrés: Cuando cumplen 20, todos los jovenes estadounidenses aprendan a patinar, ¿no? [In this case, patinar = rollerblading.]
Me: ............What in the world?! No.
Andrés: Pero lo oí en una película y creía que era verdad.
Me: Ehhhh...

Nati: ¿Estás casada, Lorena?
Me: .............!!! NO. Sólo tengo 20 años.
Nati: Ahhh! PerFECTO. Mi hijo tiene 28.
Me: .............
Nati: Ya estás de edad, reina. Debo presentarte a mi Xavi! Seguramente le gustaras.
Me: -_-

I'm getting academic credit for this.

Because I Can't Possibly Do Work Right Now...

2007-12-10T01:06:00.000+01:00

Three things on this blustery Sunday afternoon:

1. We officially love living in Sants.
2. We officially are in possession of the scarves.
3. We officially are less than a week away.

THE COUNTDOWN HAS BEGUN.

Gallivanting About Girona

2007-12-08T22:14:00.000+01:00

"Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting, and autumn a mosaic of them all."-Stanley Horowitz

Thursday was yet another holiday in Barcelona meaning a delicious four-day weekend providing ample time for the continuation of the daytrip series! I went on a small viaje with Katie and Ryan to Girona, a lovely town a little over an hour outside of Barcelona. It has warmed up significantly over here (notice I have no jacket, scarf, or socks...amazing!) and autumn was in its full beautiful display; it reminded me of fall on the East Coast. Anyway, my study break is coming to a sharp close, so I shall let the pictures speak for themselves.

And so it is.

Ohmymama, it's December!

2007-12-03T07:57:00.000+01:00

Don't mind the IKEA barcode tag attached to the flowers...

I feel death lurking menacingly about, headed straight for me in these upcoming two weeks. I shake my fist at you, school! But I suppose for the glorious freedom that awaits in 12 days, I deserve to suffer a little. Before I face the dreaded doom though, a small measure of procrastination is in order. Here is a selection of rambles about life in Barce. Yupiiii.

Saturday, Sierra and I took a quick trip to IKEA. Not because we particularly needed anything, but to, well, look at the Christmas displays and decorum. Teehee. Actually, the holiday spirit is pretty apparent all over Barcelona, especially in the evening with elaborate light arrangements strung up around the city. My dinky camera doesn't do them justice, but night walks about town have been just delightful.

The past two weeks have warmed up slightly, but my my my is it chilly over here. My San Diegan snobbery absolutely glows through my now translucent skin tones and has me humbly shivering. There was a week when I would run home from work or school, put on every shirt I owned, and burrow in my bed under the covers for the rest of the night.

This afternoon I had to go over to a friend's apartment to work on a group project. Good thing she lives in the heart of exactly where everyone tells us NOT to go. Oh, Raval. YOU ARE STRAIGHT UP GHETTO. I was actually a tad bit scared. But I'm alive and we did eat some bomb Indian food.

Lastly, I'd just like to note that our landlords came to our apartment for, uh, a small chat and among the many statements delivered, one beyond emphatically mandated we smoke our 'Maria' inside the apartment ONLY. Take that as you will. [I'd also like to note that I use "we" and "our" verrrrrry loosely here.]

Lunch date on a work day.

Mojitos and a Sunday night dinner.

Now for some adventures in "Hair Follicle Park."

Frolicking among the follicles. Say that ten times fast.Slightly levitating like a delicate fairy. Ha. Album cover for the new hit I'm a pathological liar. Ahem, SIERRA.I was forced to be the man for the day."Seductful?"Burying her favorite puppy I think I killed.Embarrassing things Sierra makes me do in public parks.Flying squirrel!
Check out the beast on my head. Out of control.She's albino.Thank God I am not pale.
Okay, pale with blonde hair and blue eyes.
I for sure would have gotten jumped tonight. Praying for the Lee's back at home...

The Year-Long Sleepover

2007-11-30T07:33:00.000+01:00

About that...

If there were two pictures that expressly epitomized Sierra and my relationship, these would be it: (feel free to click and enlarge)

It's funny that Sierra and I have technically known each other since the sixth grade (probably funnier had we pictures to prove it). While we were never mortal enemies, we somehow weren't friends either. Looking back and reflecting on all of our quirky commonalities, past and present, we stand amazed that it took us eight years to finally discover the kindred spirits in us (yes, we quote Anne of Green Gables, among many other novels devoured during childhood, shamelessly; sometimes we even quiz each other...). After high school, us small town hicks continued crossing paths as we both ended up rather unwilling at UCSD (coincidentally, we both wanted to go to DC). Our lives were seemingly intertwined and bound by a thread of inevitability; Eleanor Roosevelt College-->InterVarsity Fellowship-->IV ERC Freshman Bible Study...heck, even our dorm buildings were right next to each other.

This blog entry would equal the length of a full set of encyclopedias were I to list even a selection of all we have shared since then. But in short (well, sort of), a flurry of divine providence and spring quarter extravaganzas freshman year catalyzed the plethora of events that compose our history, which continues as we speak. People thought we were inseparable last year, we may as well have been physically attached at the hip, serving some amazing freshmen on IV Dorm Team with 21 other incredible Bible Study leaders, living in the most frequently visited second-year apartment (I recall hardly going to anyone else's apartment because everyone was always over at ours! Who could blame them...), essentially joint-owning Frankers, attending church and well, pretty much everything else together every week...clearly, our audiences and fan clubs didn't realize how much more lay ahead though.

Since then, we have left America in our dust (the sparkly glitter stuff is Sierra's) and trekked across few a states and an ocean. Together, of course. [Our decisions to come here were certainly made separately and individually though. Don't worry, we're not psychotically co-dependent.] And here we are, half-way around the world, reveling in a myriad of adventures, and sharing memories of lifetime durability. Not only are we in Spain together, we actually share a room and it has been like a ridiculous five month-long sleepover.

Granted, we definitely had to face and work through some serious muck the first month we moved into our apartment. But as we have discovered, the imperfections and struggles have resulted in the priceless refinement and strengthening our friendship. Sorry, if your stomach is churning at the sappiness, but it has really been such a blessing to have a soul sister here to share in both the joys and trials (haha, at first, I put "travails," then looked it up to make sure; "the pains of childbirth." Yeah, nope, not using that word...) of Spain.

Cheers to what has been, what continues to be, and all that still lies ahead!

Well, this is just RELLLLL great.

Estar en la edad del pavo*

2007-11-25T08:42:00.000+01:00

Sierra likes white meat.

Me: ¿Día de Gracias? ¡Fue anoche! El 22 de noviembre.
Jordi: ¿QUE?!?!?!?! No puede ser. Es en diciembre.
Me: ¿DÍA DE GRACIAS? Hombre, es en noviembre.
Jordi: No no no. Estoy hablando del día en que coméis pavo.
Me: Ehhhh...SÍ es en noviembre. Te digo que fue ayer y no tiene nada que ver con Navidad.
Jordi: (pause) Guau. No lo sabía. Creía que era parte de las celebraciones navideñas.

Jaja. Despite the general lack of information and interest with respect to Thanksgiving festivities here (I supposed Spain is excused considering Día de Gracias is a holiday rather exclusive to the United States after all), we managed to still carry out a few traditions. Our study abroad program put on a dinner for us at Hotel Espanya, complete with real American Thanksgiving food. There was a large turkey for about every four or five people (lucky me, I was sitting with two vegetarians), mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, veggies (though drenched in olive oil; there had to be Spanish tinges somewhere), and even cranberry sauce. Also included was unlimited wine (therefore it was so cheap even I, the inexperienced wine degenerate, could tell), water (this is actually a big deal), cava bubbly, as well as apple pie and ice cream to finish off the delectable night.

Staying true to our American roots and also realizing this could be our only opportunity at real meat all year, WE STUFFED OUR FACES. I'm quite certain my stomach no longer possesses the stretching capacity it did as, say, in the summer, but it definitely got some exercise Thursday night (and I'm not talking sit-ups).

Unfortunately, in these parts, dinner occurs at 9 o'clock at night, meaning dessert wasn't served until about 11:40. Oh yeah, the metro closes at midnight. For those of us too poor for taxis, with no friends with cars, and too far to walk, we had no other option. Si and I scarfed down the pie and ice cream, gulped the cava, and bolted. Every few seconds, we'd pick up the pace and jog a bit down Las Ramblas. But with such overly full stomachs, it hurt. Nonetheless, the minutes were flying by and we were still not on the metro. The clock struck 11:58 and thus commenced our full sprint down the hallway of the Catalunya metro station, in our dresses and bulky winter jackets and as of yet, undigested dinner. I haven't moved that fast since Chris Westling sprung his hamster on me. We scrambled up the stairs and reached the platform just in time.

To see the last metro drive away, that is.

I guess it was about time. We were due for a frenetic extravaganza anyway. We sat down dejectedly, sweaty, red in the face, and fearful of turkey resurrections. With no Plan B, Sierra convinced me to wait it out, hoping for one last last metro finishing its line. Sure enough, 30 minutes later, a glorious train pulled up and took us swiftly to Placa de Sants. Needless to say, we were thankful for more reasons than one that night. Foof.

Bendecidas.
Y agradecidas somos.

*A new phrase I just learned: "to be at an awkward age."

MESSED.

2007-11-22T04:12:00.000+01:00

I was riding the metro home from work today. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary--I was bundled up in a cozy winter coat and scarf, Phil Wickam serenading me with the acoustic guitar that I miss oh-so-much, the pre-recorded metro man regularly announcing the next stop over the intercom.

Then two women, one about my age, the other significantly older, got on, and the minute they boarded, they zeroed in on a girl with Down Syndrome seated a few feet from where I was standing. They remained by the doors but proceeded to put on a shameful display of distasteful gestures, finger signals, and things of such nature, with ignorant, ugly jeers oozing from their mouths all the while. They continued their leering, provoking the girl into response, which only spurred them further on. The older woman pulled out a bag of rubber bands and the two women began shooting them in the direction of the now distraught and agitated girl. Absolutely indignant and burning with anger, I 'casually' walked over to the girl and planted myself in front of her, as if the handle bar I presently clutched was the only available grip on the whole metro, my body just 'coincidentally' shielding her. The volley of rubber bands did not cease, but I simply kept my back to the women and turned up the volume on my iPod, their verbal insults increasing but bouncing right off, just like the bands.

The girl got off at the next stop, and the two women the stop after her (thank you, God, I would not have known what to do had they attempted to pursue her). I only had a few more stops myself, but wow, I was M-A-D. Humanity sucks so bad sometimes.

And I think it is the complacency of everyone else on the metro that made me the most angry. It wasn't rush hour-packed, but there was a decent amount of people; all the seats were filled and many were standing. And yet NO. ONE. DID. ANYTHING. They all just sat around nonchalantly, acting as if the outrageous display was normal or even acceptable. Most averted their eyes and attempted to pretend as if nothing was going on. Some were so bold as to blatantly stare and drink in the whole situation like it was a thirst-quenching liquid, and still remain passively seated. How in your heart can you simply watch injustice and allow it to continue? It's not even like we're talking about martyrdom or starting a revolution here!

I fumed the whole walk home. Sightings report that smoke may have been seen coming out of my ears. Jesus, forgive me for the unjust bitterness I harbor against those who incite and perpetuate evil, for the place of judgment belongs only to You (not to say that we cannot hate injustice itself because God certainly does). But I pray that You would shake us out of our complacency and give us a boldness to follow our heart's calling to speak up for those who don't have a voice, those who don't have the strength to stand up, and those who continue to be beat down. Make us a channel of your light and salve.

I want to see your justice heal and bring hope to this broken world.

The blog of Ryan Cristina Alcaraz Gallagher

2007-11-19T01:00:00.000+01:00

And we'll have ourselves a jolly good time...

Ryan's [early] birthday at La Rosa Negra:

B-day round 2:
Haircutting adventures:

Una noche on the town:

Dinosaurs and...a late Saturday night:
And, of course, the requisite Photo Booth fun:Yeeeehaw.

The essence of a heartsong

2007-11-15T08:58:00.000+01:00

I have become uncannily skilled as of late at working myself up into all sorts of frenzies that range the gamut of life. Small bits of discontent sneakily creep in, and before I can take them back, the evil seeds blow up into adrenalinic freak out sessions. Yesterday mid-lecture I slipped into the premature stages of hyperventilation as my mind grasped the reality that I may actually fail my linguistics class this semester (thank you, Catalan--arg). Then one thing leads to another to another to another with my loony line of logic zigzagging me all over the world of worrisome worries and withering thoughts, and soon enough, I'm whirling haphazardly at warp speed. A myriad of factors jerk me around in a dizzy dance, which is never pretty because, trust me, I'm Asian, I CAN'T dance.

Vaguely put, there have been so many different things going on in my life these past months. Life...just never stops. I've been telling people that God has been rocking my world in every aspect here in Spain. I mean that in its absolute entirety. Invariably blessed, but also quickly unsettling and overwhelming perhaps begin to scratch the surface. I've spent the last few days trying to write this blog entry, still not sure where I'm headed. Diarrheaing out thoughts, deleting whole paragraphs, rewording, reworking...taking a break, only to come back with an even more unresolved jumble of thoughts. I guess I'm trying too hard to say too much about too much, the biggest problem being that I haven't even completely processed out the "much" for myself yet.

Sierra and I recently started a Bible Study, setting aside weekly time to dig deep into Ecclesiastes together. It has been one of the most refreshing and life-giving experiences. Mmm. The penetrating relevancy of God's Word continues to astound me even after so many thousands of years and despite the marked differences in backgrounds, circumstances, times, you name it. But I semi-digress.

One of the main themes that continues to reappear is the irrevocable linkage of existence and contentment, as well as their most basic, foundational significance. We really think that starting with Adam and Eve, God created us with the original intent just to BE. To delight in Him, to relish His presence, to worship Him by simply enjoying all that He is. In the midst of that effortless worship (well, with the fall of man, we have made such worship everything but effortless), God gifts an all-enveloping contentment that pours deep satisfaction in every crevice of life. And in turn, everything--people, events, circumstances, relationships, dreams--falls naturally into its divinely appointed place.

So this is the direction I want to be headed: "...for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength."-Philippians 4:11-13.

And ultimately, who else but God would put it best? I realize it all comes down to this: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."-Philippians 4:6-7.

Tengo tanto que aprender...

Mojito Jigs, Asparagus Farms, and Agile Bats

2007-11-09T08:54:00.000+01:00

Just look at our faces. No, really.

Cold weather and winter are a comin'.
A picture update of our holiday frolics about town.

Crepes in a cozy cafe.
Good food. Jolly workers. Amazing music.
Plus Bible Study and tear-inducing jigs.
A new favorite.

La Boqueria de Sant Josep.

The famous Spanish ham legs.Sheep heads, anyone?Conejito...Sierra's meat of choice.Our classic stroll down Las Ramblas.

Good ol' Sants. OUR territory.

Of course.

"Okay, I haven't plucked my eyebrows in eight years...
but I need them for WARMTH."

Castelldefels and Roundabout Travels

2007-11-03T21:44:00.000+01:00

If nothing else, two things we love about Spain: dias festivos and puente. Practically every other day here is a holiday and the reasons run the gamut of life, literally; two weeks ago it was National Day of Being Spanish. The best part is that if it happens to fall on a Tuesday or Thursday, well, Monday or Friday respectively are automatically considered holidays too. It's fabulous. This week, we had no class on Thursday and thus were given leave of work for Friday as well. Taking advantage of such, we continued our day tripping series.

After running a quick errand and being persecuted for my inability to argue well enough in Spanish, we took the metro from Diagonal to Sants Estacio. Only to be told (of course, not until after we swiped our passes and wandered for a bit) that the train was out of service for the next few weeks and we must take the metro instead to Placa Espanya. There we took a bus to the Viladecans train station, where the train was apparently not working either. Got on another bus to Gava. Hopped on the train to Castelldefells and discovered that was still not the right station for the beach. Waited for the next train, got back on yet again, and finally alighted at Platja de Castelldefels to arrive at long last a la playa. We truly have the art of resourceful wandering down to a tee.

Quiet beach town. Few people. Serene scenery. Gentle sun rays. Temperate weather. A blanket. Naps in the sand. Cheese and tomato sandwiches from home. Ice cold Fanta de naranja. Classic novels. Bibles. Journals. iPods. And all the time in the world.

Que rrrrrrico.

I don't think I shall ever be able to live far from the coast.

On heartache and goosebumps

2007-10-27T07:45:00.000+02:00

"And right there, your heart shatters and cries a million tears for the injustices of this world."

Four adults sat in a circle, each clutching either an arm or a leg of the child in the center, naked, not yet of walking age, stretched out on the dirt floor. A fifth party held a thin, primitive metal stick, crudely sharpened at one end with which they proceeded to mercilessly scrape the baby's bare chest, carving designs and symbols unintelligible to my incredulous eyes held captive to the screen. Blood everywhere. The pained screams of the infant reflectively echoed the ones my quickly clapped hand kept from escaping from my own mouth. Despite the grainy quality of the footage, the images wove an ensnaring web of freezing repugnance that bound me restrictively from looking away, from too easily clicking the exit button. This continued for century- long minutes. I sat in stunned silence in the aftermath of the video. Then I frantically ran to the bathroom for fear my horror was about to manifest itself in vomit form. I hovered over the porcelain sink and warily glanced at my surroundings. How could it be that I was existing so comfortably in the very same world as that child victim of 'traditional' mutilation?

I returned to my desk and with a deep breath inserted the next CDROM. This time it was a video about Leedah, an eleven-year-old girl from Cambodia left home alone to take care of her two younger brothers and carry the duty of all other chores, while still attempting to attend school. Then a documentary of an illegal immigrant's risk-riddled journey from Honduras to the Arizona-Mexico border in a last resort's endeavor to feed his dying mother and eight famished children. Then the "stereotypical" images of languid bloated babies and swarming flies in an African country--your pick; effects of the indiscriminately ravaging HIV/AIDS epidemic. Then an eerie account of a young girl whose impoverished desperation unsightingly lured her into the brutally miserable bondage of prostitution. Then the story of...I glanced at the preliminary stack of CDs. After seven hours, I had barely made a dent in all I was to categorize. My heart trembled at the prospects of what still lay ahead and you can be sure the goosebumps never left me.

The Amazon River divide never seemed so indubitably wide as when I was sitting in the UNICEF office today, staring hollowly at the computer screen. Those who have seen Motorcycle Diaries will know what I'm talking about. Separating the north from south, east from west, ill from healthy, developed from developing.

Maybe at the surface level, it's just the Hollywood glamorized adventures of Che Guevara. But I want that life in real. I want to live for swimming across. With the shitty asthmatic lungs, the mysteriously unknown creatures lurking about, the pitch black blinding obscurity of night; to laugh in the face of murky, lurid uncertainty and all those who say it can't be done. I want to live for bridging the gap. And actually do it.

"Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter--
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer,
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

'If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talks,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you always
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."
--Isaiah 58: 6-12

This is the fast that I have chosen.
This is what I want to live for and this is what I want to be about.

Sitges or Leeches?

2007-10-22T03:55:00.000+02:00

After planning countless trips and having none pan out, we finally made it somewhere! Not without a great deal of difficulty, of course, as has become typical of any endeavors on our parts. The unreliable train system in Barcelona made for a complicatedly lengthy voyage to Sitges, supposedly only about a 30-45 minute ride (it took us 3 hours), but it was well worth all the confusion and extra waiting.

Now that we are working girls in addition to diligent students Monday-Friday, we have learned to truly appreciate our weekends. And Saturday was certainly spent the right way: relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. Sitges was BEAUTIFUL. It's a ritzy beach town of breath-taking scenery and great ambiance. No hoards of obnoxious tourists, the sea water was actually clear, and the weather just happened to be absolutely perfect. Peaceful naps on the rock pier with iPods soothingly playing, leisurely walks along the boardwalk, delicious gelato on the beach steps, coffee and journaling time at a cafe, little extravaganza frolicks here and there, and a constant sense of awe at all the gorgeous surroundings--the mansions, the old churches, the fancy restaurants, the quaint streets--kept us more than sufficiently occupied. Not to mention, refreshed. Definitely a place we will be frequenting in the coming months.

Mmmm, enjoy...

Satisfaction and utter contentment.

Study Hard and Play...Safe?

2007-10-19T02:20:00.000+02:00

There's nothing like going to a school that truly cares. When we first visited the campus for orientation, we were given free, decent quality backpacks. Pretty sweet. During the first few weeks of school, we were also bestowed with "trapper keepers" and class catalogues. Not bad. But today was definitely the winner. An eager group of be-mulleted students were enthusiastically handing out bright yellow plastic bags emblazoned with the words "Welcome Pack" in English. A particularly dred-locked guy thrust one at me as I exited the train.

Free stuff? Sure, why not.

I had some time to kill before class, so I sat down to see what awaited me in the bag of, um, goodies...

First up, Red Bull and a Kellogg's granola bar. Nice.
Food and drink always work for me.
Next, a strange jar of "ensaladilla," apparently some sort of sandwich spread of tuna, olives, carrots, hard boiled eggs, mayonnaise, and 'guisantes,' which I'm assuming are peas.
Although, it concerns me that the word 'guisante' is so dangerously close to 'gusano,' and after opening the bottle, I wouldn't be surprised if it were a typo. What makes the below picture even better: the brown stuff was spongy to the touch. Take that as you will.Then after reviewing a brochure for a Mexican bar (featuring "aguacate gratis!") and a foldable cell phone holder from Banco Sabadell, I pulled out a 'Cristal Gel' pen. Oooo. Just in case I try to fit some homework in between all the tacos and chatting. Or something. Also included: a lighter so I can actually facilitate needs every time a guy asks me for a light (uh, not) and a card for something rather scandalous (no sarcasm there).At this point, I assumed I had emptied the treasure trove,
but just as I thought the fun had ended, out came this:A pamphlet offering a chance to win a vacation to the Caribbean accompanied by none other than...a four-pack of condoms. Huh.

Now I can officially reassure my parents. Oh, don't worry, Mami, we're all just here in Spain studying a little and...ehh, staying "safe."

...

Uhhhhh....

But I'm from San Diego...

2007-10-17T23:18:00.000+02:00

I woke up at 7 this morning and was quietly scuttling around the room getting ready for work when my ear caught wind of ominous liquidous sounds coming from outside the window. I peeked around the curtain to discover to my absolute dismay that despite it being perfectly sunny yesterday, it was presently POURING rain. Booo.

I guess it wouldn't be so bad if I actually owned an umbrella. Or any articles of weather-appropriate clothing. The only shoes I brought, or that I own, for that matter, that are remotely rain-worthy are my Converses [give me a break, I'm Californian and I go to UCSD. I don't ever wear anything besides Rainbows year 'round (which in a further sidenote are currently sitting in a hidden compartment under my bed, complete in an irrevocable state of death from an ugly rotting sequence caused by the last storm I got caught in. Moody Spanish weather, how I loathe you...)]. No mind the "minor details" that cloth soaks up water and I can't pull them off with my dress clothes for work. Yesssz (that's right, I just used a "z").

Needless to say, it was an adventure getting to work this morning. Woot woot. Shrouded in my winter coat that was 37 degrees too warm, huddled feebly under the hood, I scurried (as quickly as I could without actually slipping and dying) to the metro station, trudging through puddles and mud in my open-toed, high heeled dress shoes. Then I loaded myself onto the metro that was packed like a cattle car of epic morning rush hour proportions and fought for a handle to hold onto. I also had to search for a free spot of space to focus my eyes so as not to be constantly accidentally making awkward eye contact with every stranger on the train. Slim pickings. I settled for staring at my reflection in the window, studying the mountainous bags under my eyes. Where did those come from? I then also noted that I forgot to do something about my hair, as it was in the same bed-smushed shape as when I rolled over to turn off my alarm and got out of bed and changed and brushed my teeth and made breakfast and left the piso and...

Before I could dwell on the state of my bed head any longer, the metro started, causing me to nearly kill eight people and incite an impressive domino reaction of the survivors in a failed attempt to battle sideways motion in my heels. Verguenza China en mi cabeza, as Sierra would say. Those next six stops never seemed so long. At least I managed to get off on the right stop though today (um, so, I wasn't paying attention on Monday and...).

Also. Normal people usually shave time off their commutes the more familiar they become with their routes. I, on the other hand, belong to my own idiot population that manages to progressively ADD more time, as I keep getting more lost walking to the office with each passing day. What?!? I don't know. I do know that today was possibly the worst day to add an extra forty minutes of wandering. Contrary to popular thought, slogging is actually not a preferred pastime of mine. Where is Geoffrey, aka: my personal GPS, when I need him?

It's now 2 in the afternoon and there is still this rank, damp smell emanating from the ends of my soggy pants that I dragged around the flooded sidewalks this morning. Even heels can't solve my height and shopping-for-but-never-finding-pants-the-right-length predicament. Oh, genetics. Why did you forsake me? Breaking news: I also just went to the kitchen to procure myself some caffeine and completely FELL ON MY FACE, after blissfully floating in and disregarding the huge dip in the wooden floor planks, crashing to the ground for all to hear. So much for not flopping all over the office. Shall I ever outgrow this klutziness? (That was rhetorical, thank you.)

Ahhh, nothing like a normal day in the life of Llorena (Catalan and not pronounced Yor-en-ah).

As you can see, the gloom and doom has fortunately NOT dampened my sense of humor, sharp wit, and biting sarcasm. Hahaha. ... Who do I think I am? (Thank you, Grace Lee, for that wonderful line.) No, I'm not bitter at all. I just thoroughly enjoy concocting dripping accounts of my generally dry mornings as I sit at work awaiting my next project and my pants to reach a state of Southern California goodness. All puns intended.

In the meantime, stay classy San Diego and relish your stupid sunshine. :)

Love,
Your favorite pasty face

Jazz, please.

2007-10-15T01:15:00.000+02:00

After last weekend's clubbing fiasco (I seriously almost flew back home to San Diego), I was sure I was 99% idiot to even dare to venture out again. Fortunately, idiocy in this case proved to be a good strain of crazy. Sierra and I spent our Saturday night reveling in an absolutely incredible Latin Jazz concert at the Jamboree club in Placa Reial. I feel like such a moldy for enjoying it so thoroughly as the crowd was visibly much, much older, but no matter--I can honestly say it was the best weekend night I've had in Barcelona. Highlights of the evening: 1) Good, clean, classy entertainment in a small, intimate venue. The solos and musical genius were awe-striking. 2) There was not one single drop of alcohol involved. 3) We didn't have to wait for the metro to reopen at 5AM and get home after the crack of dawn. 4) We even ate! (Hey, eating is truly a significant event here.) 5) All for the total expense of just ten euros. Mmhm. That is how we do. I'm so taking my dad when he comes. And winter break? Get ready, guys, we're going.

Ohhh yes.

Que Sea Madura

2007-10-12T05:38:00.000+02:00

Port Vell at night.

Carrer de Rossello. Carrer Bailen. Carrer de Roger de Flor. Diagonal? But I'm looking for Mallorca.

I stood on the corner of the intersection precariously perched in heels I haven't touched in months, dressed in my most professional outfit (well, as professional as one suitcase affords), trying not to look too lost despite the fact that ninety percent of the time I have absolutely no sense of direction. To my great relief I spot the glorious blue banners fluttering across the street. Emblazoned on the building wall are six of the best letters in the alphabet: UNICEF.

"El Presidente todavia no ha llegado," so I sit for a few minutes drinking in every detail of the small office. Before long, an old, portly Spanish man enters the room speaking in...Mandarin? "Ni hao, ni hao! Ni shi mei guo ren hai shi zhong guo ren a? Wo shi Victor." [Hello, hello. Are you American or Chinese? I'm Victor.] Shoot. Why didn't I pay more attention in Chinese School? I managed to mutter a few words in response despite being caught utterly off guard. Victor said a few words in Cantonese to which I could respond a bit better, and then finally he started in in Espanol throwing some English into the mix. Whew.

Premature relief. "Parlez vous francais?"
[Do you speak French?]

"Uh...uh...oui, mais, uh, je seulement peux parler un peu."
[Uh, yes, but I can only speak a little.]

"Ah, tres bien. I Catala?"
[Ah, very good. And Catalan?]

"Oh. Uhhhh, mes a menys pero menys que mes..."
[Oh. Uh, mas o menos, pero menos que mas.]

Fortunately, the interview was more than just me mumbling, bumbling, fumbling my way through six languages. We spent about an hour conversing about Victor's background and some of the work he's done (he's the President of UNICEF Spain and was also a Representative General for the UN in China for two years), what exactly the UNICEF office in Barcelona does (more advocacy, publicity, fundraising based work that enables other worldwide offices to carry out the hands-on humanitarian field work), and my main interests (street children, orphanage reform, Latin America), among other things. I could hardly believe it, it was so unreal.

Fast forward through the rest of the logistical stuff my supervisor-to-be Maria, who is incredibly nice, took me through. I wanted to lope around on the metro and hug every person I saw the whole way home. But none of that childishness.

God has definitely brought me to Spain to GROW UP.

Starting next week, I'll be working at UNICEF Monday, Wednesday, Friday, about 25 hours a week with possible occasional weekend projects. I'm stoked out of my mind, but this internship also means I have to dress up (the President estaba vestido in a full on suit!) everyday and be professional at all times. Less traveling and minimal sleeping in. No goofing off or being immature, and especially, as Ben so kindly pointed out, no secret games of office Literati or falling out of chairs. Puchica.

Internship aside, the classes I attend on Tuesdays and Thursdays are chock full of 24-25 year olds who have finished their Bachelor degrees, have worked for a few years, are incredibly well-informed, and are now working on their Master's. Como se dice INTIMIDATING? And this whole managing my own finances, cooking all my meals, and being a million miles from home in a country that has completely rocked me out of my sheltered world in every way has proved to be a whole new ballgame. Oh, fleeting youth...

I can only hope I don't come back 21 going on 50. Broma, solo broma. I'm being dramatic. I still don't even earn my keep, so I can't be that cool. But God has been teaching me a lot nonetheless. Spain is CRAZY, if there is one word to describe it. Sometimes I feel like such a hormonal girl with my ever-changing opinions regarding this country and studying abroad for a year; one day feeling like I could never return home in a million billion years, the following day wanting to jump on the next plane back to San Diego. One day feeling like I'm confidently breaking out on my own independent self, the next day I'm running back and crying to my mama.

All I can say at this point is...
1. Praise God for He is GOOD.
2. Praise God that He is in control of my life.
3. Praise God for how intentionally He works.
4. Keep looking at our pictures so you'll still recognize me when I get back next year. :)

Old, old pictures from the Museu de Xocolata that I never put up.I cut three inches off of Sierra's hair!
In her sleep. Kidding.
Just call me the next Michelle Wan.

Psalm 37: 3-7

Oh, life...

2007-09-28T22:10:00.000+02:00

I suppose it's nigh time for an update...

La Mercè 2007: The Festival of Barcelona. Every year, around the 24th September, Barcelona bids farewell to summer with city-wide celebrations. Basically, it's a FAT party that lasts four days with over 600 events and extravaganzas. Um, good times?

+Friday night, we hit the opening ceremonies at Placa Sant Jaume with a parade of sorts complete with giant people, mystical creatures, pyrotechnics, and un GRAN multitud. Then in our failed attempt to find a particular jazz concert, we stumbled upon a glorious stage playing Latin music. ::cue the resounding trumpets of sheer happiness:: I almost cried it was so beautiful. When couples of all ages filled the open space in front of the stage, whirling and twirling and salsa-ing as if it were as simple as breathing, I practically died. So hot. [I miss our Sunday night salsa crew!]

We also walked through a packed out plaza of hippies drinking, smoking (we all know what...), and listening to reggae--it was so stereotypical, it was surreal. I busted out a few more dance moves--elbows, octupi, Irish jigs, etc.--as we passed by a stage of "world music" and one of something reminiscent of Irish folk jigging music. We didn't even know what language they were singing in, but joined the crowd, jumped around for a few minutes, and then moved on. Quite fun. We spent another hour or so ambling down Las Ramblas, observing all the other late-night/early morning festivities. I think Barcelona gives New York City a serious run for its money as the "City That Never Sleeps."

+Saturday night. We partied hard. Too hard. I don't want to talk about it. The end.

+Sunday night. We had our requisite Sunday night dinner, in which we go to a different friend's apartment each week, cook dinner, and watch movies. We made a comfort meal of grilled cheese (I will say that Spain is not particularly conducive to such meals. It was ridiculously difficult to grill two simple slices of white toast with cheddar cheese in the middle...) and champagne. Er, yeah. Watched a bit of the Rebelde novela, with Ryan carefully commentating everything to us on the side, and then headed out to see some more concerts (which went until 5 in the morning every day of the festival!) and a fair, complete with junk food stands and outrageous rides. We went down to the Forum, and while I don't even know the names of any of the bands we saw, we did reprise some of the jigging action from Friday night. That's fast becoming a specialty pastime.

Gins and Joes. My first visitors! Uncle Ed, Auntie Ruby, Uncle Marcon, and Auntie Susan were in Barcelona for two days before their Mediterranean cruise, so Sierra and I got to spend all Monday with them, developing our tour-guiding skills (still very much developing, I must say, but I have a collection of useful mental notes going now. Which means YOU should come visit.). We explored La Sagrada Familia, Parc Guell, La Pedrera, as well as much of Avinguda Diagonal in a discouraging attempt to find somewhere, anywhere! to eat (Monday was a holiday, posing some serious problems). We ultimately waited life out in the hotel room, as Auntie Ruby caught me up on CEC happenings and showed us how a bidet works, then dined at the Expo Hotel Restaurant. Visitors are nice, not only did they come bearing gifts from home, they treated us to a real meal (such a rarity these days). Gracias por todo! [I somehow managed to come away with no pictures with them. Poop.]

Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona. Tuesday was the fateful first day of real class. School here is...different. And days are LONG; Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm at school from 9AM to 8PM plus the two and a half to three hours round-trip it takes to get to and from school. While things haven't been terrible, I've certainly had more passing moments this week of "What am I DOING here?! I just want to go home..." than in all our time in Spain put together. Not necessarily in a homesick way, but more in a wishing for familiarity way. But then, how much more do you learn when outside of your comfort zone, right? We'll see how this year goes.

I'm currently taking three classes. One Spanish grammar class that is so ridiculous, it's painful. I'm in the process of dropping it for another linguistics class, despite the fact that it could mean an easy A. I just don't think writing personals advertising for a boyfriend, concocting riddles about trees, and discussing present tense conjugations in Spanish is worth my time. I'm also enrolled in "Latin America: International Relations, Politics, and Development." Hella scary professor, who is insistent about teaching the class in Catalan. Great. (Did I mention I don't actually speak Catalan?) Our written exam of a final at the end of the semester in February is worth a whopping 75% of my grade. The other 25% is based on a oral presentation in which I must teach the class on a topic of the teacher's choice for an hour and a half. What have I gotten myself into?! My other class: "Economic Crisis and Perspective in Latin America" seems slightly more promising in terms of survival. My professor is pretty chill and I basically want to be best friends with him. Haha. Unfortunately, both of my major classes only have about 7-8 people, making it exceedingly challenging for me to hide. UCSD has taught me more about blending into a lecture of 300 than seriously participating in a small section. I need to get over my chicken-ness. Stat.

Enough talking. Here's the good stuff...pictures!

A good friend put it like this:
"Such interesting things happen when you go abroad."
I'm not sure I can add much else to that...

Tenim piso

2007-09-16T06:39:00.000+02:00

God is good.

AHHHHHHH. The day has finally come! We have officially moved into what shall be our home until next July. Words cannot even begin to express how delightedly happy we are. It is so good to be settled permanently, especially in such a nice place. We're a bit pooped to detail our day and living situation in excited words, but may these pictures appease you for now.

The front door (the open one) that took
us five million years to unlock and open...

La cocina The living room.Hallway of rooms:
(we are two of six people who live here)Our ROOM!!!One of the banys.Teeheehee...The view from the balcony
(to which our room affords private access)
By the way, did you see all that blank wall space? Send us photographs! Of San Diego, of life, of your faces!
Help us make home, HOME.

Our address:
CENTRO DE ESTUDIOS UNIVERSIDAD DE CALIFORNIA
Facultat de Lletres--Edifici B--Campus UAB
Despatx B11/180
08193 Bellaterra (Cerdanyola del Valles), BARCELONA, SPAIN

And if you send a package, you must write "SIN VALOR COMERCIAL" to avoid being charged taxes.

YAYAYAYAYAYAY! :)

Hodge Podge Hooliganaeity

2007-09-15T00:26:00.000+02:00

Blurbs on life...

+September 11th in Spain. We got two days off from school this week because September 11th is Dia Nacional de Catalunya. You would drop dead in slumber if I attempted to explain the history of Catalunya and the significance of this particular holiday, but what a day it was. Sierra, our friend Shirley from UCSD, her roommate Margaret, and I went off in search of a certain palace open only a few times are year per suggestion of my culture teacher. A wild goose chase never actually led us to El Fossar de les Moreres, BUT we did get caught in an intense youth demonstration/riot in Placa de Santa Maria. The place was packed out with people sporting signs emblazoned with political slogans, exuberantly waving Catalunya flags, bellowing independence songs, chanting cheers in unison, and handing out pamphlets declaring Catalan as the official and only language of Catalunya. Not exactly a crowd I would willingly choose to fight my way through, but inevitability forced us into the mush pot of bodies and body odor. UGH. Certainly a cultural experience...demonstrating alongside adamant Catalan advocates in their never-ending quest for the successful succession of Catalunya. I mean, I don't think La Jolla affords such, uh, exciting privileges.

+Wo zai MEI GUO lai de. I recently learned in my conversation class that Chinese are the worst viewed group in Spain right now. Great. I definitely felt the stigma in Cadiz, but I thought it was simply a small-town thing, and was rather relieved to see many more Asians upon my arrival in metropolitan Barcelona. Yet despite the misleading facade of a larger population and copious Chinese restaurants all over the city, being Asian is seemingly worse here in Barcelona. On several occasions, I've had to ask random people on the street for directions, and more than one person has taken to look at the ground and mumble something about their inability to speak Chinese while attempting to make a quick getaway. Um, I was speaking in SPANISH, thank you. Then when we were stuck in the youth demonstration mob, the lady behind me kept pushing me. I thought it was because everyone was supremely crowded and unavoidably squished together. I turned around for the twentieth time to make sure I wasn't being pick-pocketed, and she snapped, "You stupid Chinese. Go back to your country. You don't belong here. This is Catalunya, we don't accept your kind." If I wasn't afraid of the whole Catalan crowd turning on me, I might have punched her in the face. Talk about mal rollo.

+Ee ele peh. In happier, more pleasant news though, WE ARE FINISHED! We took three finals (the culture one was like a mellow revisit to our nightmarish MMW days--oiy!) this morning to cap off our four-week Intensive Language Program (ILP). Hurrah. No longer shall we be having six consecutive hours of class a day. We are celebrating tonight with wine and...packing. No, seriously, we are THAT excited about packing. The next entry shall detail the reasons for our elation. But before I clock out to commence the celebratory activities, I'd like to give a quick shout out to IKEA for saving our lives. And our parents' wallets. 1) IKEA brought us back from the brink of starvation with their bargain meal of a Swedish hot dog, drink, and ice cream for only 2 euros. 2) After a depressingly fruitless search in town for blankets (twin-size comforters were about 200 euros at all stores!), IKEA blessed us with fluffy down blankets for a steal of 15 euros! Oh, United States of IKEA, we pledge our eternal allegiance to you.

Now for some picture catch-up:

The walk home from the metro station
and outside Colegio Mayor Sant Jordi.

Platja de Barceloneta

University of Barcelona
"Cocktail Acid," Twix, and an apple for dinner...
Weekends bring special treats.
Cafe Zurich in Placa Catalunya
Arc de Triomf, Barcelona-style
Os echamos de menos.

A Good Day Indeed

2007-09-11T08:44:00.000+02:00

By the Beard of Zeus. We. Are. HAPPY!!

A few weeks back, my friend Irene, who studied abroad in Barcelona last year, referred me to El Lokal. Excitedly, Sierra and I wrote down the directions from the website, and three Sundays ago, embarked on our first Spanish quest to attend church. Failure #1. We got off at the Clot metro stop, and basically trudged around in circles to no avail. We talked to nearly every person who passed us, were directed to about 23987098234 different Catholic services, and finally plopped on a bench in sweaty resignation before just heading back to the dorms. It was so depressing.

Last week, we tried again, this time thinking we were about to foil the system for good. Irene's Spanish friend Maria was to meet us at the metro station and personally escort us to the church. We confidently walked to the station, rode the metro to Clot, and prominently stood right outside the stop. And stood. And stood. And stood...We had set our hearts so firmly on the sure fact that this WAS the week, so failure #2 definitely tested us. We despondently attempted to search every corner and street of the city again, only to succeed in seriously irritating each other. We spent the rest of the afternoon separated by a cold wall of tension. Heh. ::insert a sheepish chuckle::

Yesterday morning rolled around, and though we still held the highest hopes of getting to church, our expectations were significantly lower. Repeat the process of breakfast, metro, Clot stop. We fought disappointment and discouragement as minutes continued to pass while we waited on the sidewalk of Clot Street. Then in a sudden excited flurry, we met the friendly Maria and were taken right to door of El Lokal.

Great Knights of Columbus. What a glorious moment that was. In fact, I'm pretty sure there was a chorus of angels operatically singing sweet melodies, heralding our arrival and entrance into the church. From the moment we stepped inside, Sierra and I couldn't stop smiling. It was so refreshing just to be in a church building. It was pretty small (the congregation was about 50 people) and the sermon was rather short, but, ah, after two months of depending solely on our once-a-week sessions of praying together and our own quiet times (which were nonetheless the best they have ever been), it was so good to be fed and to worship in such a setting. Mmmm. It was a beautiful day.

We were definitely in better moods this week. Taking advantage of such states, we busted out the Photo Booth and put our exemplary facial contorting talents to work. Simply put: we are amazing.

Thank you, Jesus.

Antoni Gaudi: Genio, Parte Dos

2007-09-07T04:16:00.000+02:00

Your two favorite people in the world. 'Nuff said.

Update continued...

LA SAGRADA FAMILIA
[The Bible on a church.]
PARC GUELL
[My favorite place in Barcelona so far.]
Good times.

Antoni Gaudi: Genio, Parte Uno

2007-09-06T08:23:00.000+02:00

On the rooftop of La Pedrera.

I am seriously lagging on these updates. Em sap greu. Here is part one of a picture update of our first "educational excursion" in Barcelona (last last Friday).

LA PEDRERA