Spanish Encounters in Valencia

Ann Arbor, Mich. — I arrived in the U.S. more than a week ago, but it feels like longer. Coming home was, in a way, just what I needed and, in another way, less shocking that I had expected.

There’s an idea of reverse culture shock where a traveler’s experience reentering their home culture is more shocking than the one they visited. I do see the differences between American and Spanish lifestyles — though I think the most shocking is hearing English all around me — but sleeping in my own bed and driving down the same roads makes Spain feel like months ago and home feel like it hasn’t changed.

Home has changed obviously (the lack of snow should be the first clue) but this homecoming was more comforting than any semester away thus far.

I miss Spain, but it’s good to be back in Michigan. Upon departure, I told everyone I would stay away as long as possible, but the truth is, after five months abroad I was ready to come home.

Some say study abroad will change your life; others consider it an excuse to party overseas. Either way it gave me an opportunity to grow and experience a world outside of the United States.

Of course, I’m concerned my Spanish will suffer when I’m not speaking, reading and hearing it every day and I’m still not fluent, but it’s a process and my proficiency helped me snag a summer job in Chicago so I’m excited to continue learning.

If I can give any advice on future study abroad participants, it’s this: Do your research. Pick a place for your interest in its program and the country. Be open and be spontaneous and even if you find yourself not fitting into the culture, the experience is less about living somewhere that becomes what you’re used to and more about experiencing what you’re not.

Find one you can’t stop thinking about because no day passed when I didn’t think: I’m in Spain.

Barcelona, I’m back, and this time it’s different.

This time there’s no calendar date mix up and no missed concert fiasco. This time there’s no 10:30 a.m. check-out from a hostel on the far side of town and no wandering aimlessly sleep-deprived and hungover around a city that deserves more attention. This time I’m traveling with my parents. I’m sleeping in a hotel that’s still on the far side of town, but check out is at noon, the hotel has free breakfast and I have four days to explore instead of less than 24 hours.

Traveling with my parents is undoubtedly different than traveling with other students. In a way, I’m sort of playing travel guide. I lived in Valencia and I’ve visited Barcelona and Madrid twice before. Even though we’re visiting places I’ve already seen, marvels like Spanish architect’s church, La Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona, and the Royal Palace in Madrid amaze me each time and I have no qualms with seeing them again.

Additionally, my parents know a couple words in Spanish, but otherwise depend on me to translate, order food and ask all travel-related questions. My parents met my host family and I took a stab at simultaneous conversation and translation. It is not easy. I’ll tip my hat to all the translators when I’m not accidentally speaking to my parents in Spanish and my host family in English.

Three days ago, I said adios to my host family and to Valencia, the city that had become my second home for four months. Because I’m living out of a suitcase (or two), it still hasn’t sunk in that I’m leaving Spain indefinitely in four days. It still really hasn’t set in that I left Valencia and until I’m back on U.S. soil, I’m trying not to think about how this will affect me when it’s all over.

Preparing for finals is difficult in Spain. I’m without a 24-hour library, midnight screams and the collective stress of 40,000-plus students. Instead, I’m surrounded by the best weather I could ask for, a beach within minutes and a culture that exudes relaxation.

I really just want to drink sangria in the park — staying inside is nearly impossible.

Schoolwork aside though, my Semana Santa proved to be one of the most interesting travel experiences thus far.

First, I went to Prague with Charlotte. We had planned to go to Amsterdam, or Italy, or Portugal. But if I’ve learned anything from making travel plans, nothing is in stone until tickets are purchased and we eventually bought two to Prague.

Prague is considered the most westernized city in Eastern Europe so I’m eager to see other parts of Eastern Europe because Prague was different than any other European city I’ve visited. It was beautiful and mysterious and fascinating.

We had a guidebook, but no set plans aside from our shared interest in exploration. So we toured the Prague Castle, unsuccessfully searched for the John Lennon graffiti wall and instead stumbled upon an underground exhibit of the history of mining in Prague. The last part was more eerie than educational.

Another thing about Prague: They use the Czech crown, which translated to about 18 crowns to every dollar. Dropping 200 crowns a meal felt sweet until I realized it’s only about $10.

I can’t leave Prague without mentioning the bone church. Charlotte and I bought train tickets to where we hoped was the right destination — a little town called Kutna Hora — and ended up at an exhibit of bones of more than 40,000 people. So replace the plague victims with the stressed-out MSU students and you get the idea.

The small church welcomed visitors with a chandelier made of bones, a family crest made of bones, light fixtures made of bones and if that’s not enough bones — each corner had a floor-to-ceiling display of human bones. To say it was bone chilling would be cliché, but true in every way possible.

I stopped in Valencia for a day before jet-setting to London to stay with my friend, Alice.

My first reaction: English language.

After four months or hearing Spanish, or German, French or Czech, hearing English everywhere felt foreign. I could communicate without stumbling over complicated Spanish constructions or the most basic Czech words.

My friend Alice let me stay with her and 20 other study abroad students in a flat that’s about as clean as a frat house, but it’s across the street from Hyde Park and was free so I didn’t complain.

Instead, I walked around the park and it smelled like freshly cut grass and spring flowers. I saw Buckingham Palace, other British stuff like that and ate fish and chips. I went to Portobello Market, bought a funky dress and soaked up more history at the Imperial War Museum.

I went to the London Tower, but didn’t want to pay 17 pounds to get in so I just took pictures of the outside and watched a demonstration in ancient weaponry.

After a walk across the London Bridge, I got to the Globe Theater just in time to get a free tour of the place in celebration of Shakespeare’s birthday. I walked around inside, wishing I had read more Shakespeare or had more patience for crowds of tourists.

I read two lines from a Sonnet on camera as part of the theater’s attempt to break the world record to number of sonnets read in one day (though my guess is they’re probably just trying to break their own previous record). Then I went to the Tate Modern where I enjoyed some of the art, tried to understand more of it and thought the rest was just pretentious.

After a week of trains, planes and cross-cultural interactions, coming back to Valencia felt like coming back home.

Valencia, Spain — Spring Break por fin!

I only have about one month left in Spain and Thursday marked the beginning of Semana Santa, or the Spain’s version of spring break. The country is filled with processions and celebrations for the days surrounding Easter, but I won’t be around for most of it. But before my upcoming adventures, I spent a weekend in Paris and in France I realized just how far I’ve come since my days as a vegetarian.

On my first night in Paris I ate beef-carrot stew and I ate a good amount because I was hungry and well, it turns out there’s still a part of me that is in fact vegetarian. So instead of sampling French cuisine like an amateur epicurean, I experienced it sporadically, if at all.

But food aside – even though I did eat a crepe, strawberry and caramel-salted butter macaroons and French onion soup – my weekend stint in Paris was worth it.

I spent much-needed time with a good friend from home, Emilie, saw the Eiffel Tower (much smaller than I thought, though when compared to the the skyscrapers of New York, duh) and walked around the Louvre. We ate ice cream on St. Louis Island, gazed in awe at Notre Dame Cathedral and drank espresso in a café in the River Seine. We went to a creperie in Montmartre, the sight of one of my favorite movies, Amelie, and spent Sunday afternoon buying produce at the Market at the Bastille for Emilie’s host mom.

Paris is the City of Love and the City of Lights and easily a city I could fall in love with more if I spoke French. It’s a beautiful language and if I wasn’t currently working so hard at my Spanish fluency, I’d start French lessons immediately.

But for now I’ll put French and Spanish on hold for Czech because in a couple hours I board a plane to Prague where the Charles Bridge and a chapel decorated with human bones awaits – yes, you read that correctly, a chapel decorated with human bones.

And if that isn’t reason enough to go, now I can finally see the city described so beautifully in Milan Kundera’s book, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

OK, so maybe the bone-chapel trumps everything else.

Nashledanou! Au revoir! Adios! Goodbye!

_Valencia, Spain —_Did I mention Valencia is on the Mediterranean coast?

Its nearness to the sea causes unpleasant scents of sewage, but Valencia has a beach, and a big beautiful one at that – and it’s only a 20-minute Metro ride from my apartment.

Before my visit to this sandy spectacle, I had only seen the Mediterranean Sea in Albufera, an expansive nature preserve outside the city. That is by no means a negative observation. The beach there was tranquil, freighters idled in the bay and it reminded me of the Great Lakes.

Valencia’s beach is exactly what you imagine when you think of Spanish beaches: white sand, sparkling Mediterranean and topless sunbathers. When I visited it was far too chilly to swim, or even really lay out, but there were some brave kids who bit the bullet and swam, naked.

I’ve only been to Valencia’s beach once, but believe me, now that I’ve discovered this gem, that won’t be the last time. My Valencian family tells me the water won’t be warm enough for swimming until June, but they’ve never swum in Lake Michigan – I’ll be taking a dip before this trip is over.

But before I return, I’m spending the weekend in Paris, which still baffles me. Oh, just a weekend in Paris, no big deal. I don’t know any French so it’ll be like Germany all over again in terms of the language barrier, but with crepes and cheese and of course many other enchanting marvels – adieu.

Dear Barcelona,

You have surprised and disappointed me. I spent less than 24 hours in your wacky wonderland of Gaudi, Las Ramblas and Picasso and only slept three hours in one of your hip hostels in a less than hip part of town.

I am mostly disappointed with your main club, Razzmatazz, and its ability to confuse concertgoers by printing the incorrect date on prepaid tickets to Girl Talk.

MySpace.com said 1 a.m. Saturday, Ticketmaster.com said 1 a.m. Saturday and the ticket I picked up in Valencia said 1 a.m. Saturday.

That means 1 a.m. Saturday, right?

Not quite.

We — Charlotte, Katie and myself — started walking to Razzmatazz but, like most experiences in Spain, we got lost. So, Barcelona, we put our trust in one of your fine taxistas, arrived two minutes later and got in line only to find we had forgotten our IDs.

Assuming it would be faster, we trusted another taxista who then gave us an unsolicited scenic drive throughout the city, but was kind enough to wait while we retrieved proof we’re older than 14.

Nearly €30 later, we were back in line and disappointed once again when the bouncer informed us Girl Talk would be here tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night? That cannot be right.

Our tickets read 1 a.m. Saturday.

Apparently Razzmatazz has the power to change calendar dates and when they say 1 a.m. Saturday they do not mean the wee hours of Saturday morning like every other calendar we follow, Razzmatazz considers 1 a.m. Saturday all of Saturday night (that last part is a direct quote, translated of course). So really Razzmatazz, you mean 1 a.m. Sunday.

We were pissed and a bit tipsy after some sangria and complained well enough in Spanish for them to let us in for free, which really meant letting us in at the cost of missing Girl Talk and this is where you surprised us Barcelona.

Razzmatazz is the coolest club I’ve ever seen. There were five interconnecting rooms of different themes with rooftop passageways between them. We danced our pants off to techno remixes and everything but rap and made the most of our night without Girl Talk.

We left just as the morning joggers hit your pavement and the birds began their sunrise serenade. Checkout hit us at 10:30 so we explored on three hours of sleep, saw a French man dressed as a female nurse, spotted a Mammoth, napped in one of your parks and tried to soak in the best of Picasso. We walked through your winding boutique-filled streets and avoided all but one of your delicious pastry shops to try a basil-coffee cookie.

We watched a Michael Jackson impersonator get into a fight with a crazy lady in wild yellow pants and a wilder dye job after she tried to steal his cash.

We made it to your pier as the sun began to set and wound up at the train station with enough time to get yelled at by a guard because sitting on the floor gives the station a “mala imagen,” or bad image.

But it’s OK Barcelona we can still be friends. After all, this wasn’t my first visit and I’ll be back in May and explore your other wonders with my parents. But please, do something about Razzmatazz. It’s just too cool for calendars and I know we weren’t the only ones upset by this mixup.

Valencia, Spain – The round-the-clock booms have stopped.

The crowds of the drunken and disorderly have gone home, or left town.

The streets are cleared of empty bottles, discarded food packaging, remnants of mini-firecrackers and — most of the all — the smell of urine.

The smoke has cleared and the lights that once decorated nearly every street have vanished. The restaurants have packed up their overflow of paella and the marching bands having put away their instruments. The falleras and falleros have hung up their traditional dress.

The street intersections are open to car traffic and the day after Fallas looks like any other day in Valencia. No one would know the city spent a week of ongoing chaos complete with daily firecracker shows and nightly fireworks spectacles.

Sleeping really wasn’t an option and my ears are still ringing from all the petardos, or mini-firecrackers.

The only evidence of the 300-some papier-mâché floats is found in pictures and memories.

The festival has traditional origins as a celebration of Saint Joseph, or the saint of carpenters, but to some modern interpretations, Fallas also marks the beginning of spring.

The word fallas refers to the 10-feet to nine-story tall floats that sit in almost every neighborhood throughout the city. Artists spend all year constructing them, most of which have a satirical spin on prominent Spanish figures, current issues and world leaders.

I found one with President Barack Obama in boxing gloves cheering after having knocked out George Bush in the ring. Some political messages weren’t so obvious and as the signs were in Valenciano, I could only guess.

Every day at 2 p.m., pyrotechnics hosted a firecracker demonstration in the town center where the firecrackers were used as instruments and the entire show was an art form in noisemakers. There wasn’t exactly anything to see, but every day the town center swelled with people and the shows were loud enough to hear throughout the city.

Processions of traditionally dressed falleras and falleros from infancy to old age paraded through the streets carrying flowers to the giant flower-made virgin that was appropriately placed in the Plaza of the Virgin. This made a usual 20-minute walk well over an hour, but no one was in a hurry to get anywhere, ever. Most walked around aimlessly, stopping occasionally to watch the parade, stepping aside to avoid firecrackers and generally in awe of everything.

It was a complete free for all that ended in flames, literally.

On the last night every falla burned to the ground as part of tradition. The painted papier- mâché masterpieces are now only ashes and the city is peaceful once again.

Some say everything happens for a reason, and as cliché as it sounds, my weekend in Madrid reaffirmed that statement.

Take the journey to Madrid: I almost went to Palma Mallorca this weekend, but decided at the last minute to join a group headed west to Madrid and Segovia. No destination change, no Madrid.

Then take the subway station: I wouldn’t say the kiosk ate my credit card, but rather held it between its teeth like a dog with a chew toy.

One friend, Katie, looked for help and just as the machine gave up the fight, Katie told us our train left from a different station. No credit card struggle, no train station change.

So we asked customer service to confirm and he walked us to the kiosk, pushed the buttons and guided us to the platform — because, when in doubt, play the doe-eyed foreigner. So we jumped on the train to Chamartín, but there were at least four Chamrtín stops and we got off at the wrong one. At this point we had three minutes before noon, our departure time. We caught the next one and read Segovia, five minutes, on the marquee and couldn’t believe the miracle. No customer service, no correct platform.

We got on the train and relaxed after running around train stations in the way I’ve only seen in movies. We enjoyed the real Spanish countryside after more than a month in the city until the conductor asked for our tickets. He smiled, chuckled even, and told us we were on the wrong train. We bought tickets for the 30-minute commute to Segovia, and we were on the scenic route — a ride just more than two hours. But, no slow train to Segovia, no day trip to Segovia.

We walked all over Segovia — down its winding cobblestone streets, past the Roman Aqueducts and Segovia’s gothic cathedral all the way to Cinderella’s castle, or Alcázar. As the sunset, we retraced our steps to the train station and arrived with enough time to rest before our departure. Then a police officer informed us there were no trains to
Madrid and I panicked — what happened in Madrid?

We jumped in the nearest taxi and headed to the other train station in Segovia with just 20 minutes to spare. No police officer, no train back to Madrid.

We made it to Madrid and opted out of exploring El Escorial, one of Spain’s royal sites and home to the remains of every Spanish king, in the few hours before our train to Valencia. Instead we spent Sunday afternoon at El Prado Museum where I finally saw “The Garden of Earthly Delights” and several other paintings I’ve only seen in
textbooks.

I learned of this particular painting senior year of high school and have waited years to see it in person. I stood in front of it long enough to catch an explanation from a tour guide and I could have stayed longer. No El Escorial cancellation, no Garden of Earthly
Delights.

So our planning wasn’t perfect and our blood pressure probably increased from the stress, but my weekend in Madrid made me realize that it doesn’t matter how much one might plan, everything won’t always run smoothly. We’re amateur travelers and every adventure is a
chance to learn. Lesson from Madrid: Be prepared to run.

Valencia, Spain – Midterms finally ended Thursday and I don’t think I’ve been more drained from an exam week. Maybe it’s the steep decline in caffeine. I have a cup of coffee each morning and the occasional café con leche in the afternoon, but that’s nowhere near the daily four-cup pot I became accustomed to last semester.

It could be the lack of caffeine, but I’m going to blame it on the Spanish. It’s still draining to speak second language all the time, but I can tell I’m improving. I can understand everything in class and most conversations, but not the sports announcer at Valencia’s fútbol stadium. Though I don’t think anyone can understand them over the cheering, or sighing, or the pockets of fans with various marching band instruments that only heightened excitement at my first professional soccer game.

I should mention I’ve never really been a sports fan. Freshman year I had MSU football season tickets, but four hours in the sun/rain/snow/sleet isn’t exactly my cup of tea. And I rowed in high school — that doesn’t exactly count as a spectator sport. However, after a long day of three back-to-back Spanish classes, I thought cheering for my temporary home’s team sounded like thperfect way to wind down.

The length was the first thing I realized about fútbol — the games are 90 minutes long and aside from a brief intermission, they generally run by the clock. So arriving a half-hour late was my first mistake. My friend and I scrambled up around the stadium and eventually found our seats by half time. Not many people attended the game, but if you could only hear the crowd and not see it, you would’ve expected many more fans.

This particular game marked Valencia’s last chance at moving up in the Union of European Football Associations (UEFA) Cup and let’s just say the 2-2 finish didn’t end well for diehard Valencia fans. Valencia won’t be moving on and I won’t be discussing this with my two host brothers.

Despite my lack of knowledge or somewhat indifference to sports, I got into it. I stood up, cheered and yelled “goooooooool” when Valencia scored. I sighed when other team scored and I even yelled at some undeserving yellow cards.

So who knows, maybe I’ll make it to another game before my semester’s up. But now, it’s off to fast-paced Madrid and the Roman aqueducts of Segovia for the weekend and I’m not even sure if we have a hostel booked yet. But hey, it’s Spain, tranquila.

Valencia, Spain – This weekend I turned 21. For Americans, it’s one of the most celebrated birthdays of our lives. In Europe — where the legal drinking age seems more like a formality than a law — the big 2-1 is about as big as 20 or 22, or any other age after 18.

That is not to say I didn’t celebrate. My Valencian family gave me a Spanish style flouncy, white shirt I can’t wait to wear once it’s a little warmer. They sang “Feliz Cumpleaños” and Angél, my 6-year-old host brother, helped me blow out the candles.

Though by the time it stuck midnight I was already in a bar, drink in hand. There was no countdown, no ID checking, no “I’m finally free!” moment. But there was a botellón — or an “urban tailgate party” as my Advanced Conversation professor likes to call it.

These “parties” happen most Thursdays in Valencia, but I’d like to remember this one as the biggest, loudest birthday party I’ve ever had. To call them a tailgate party is somewhat misleading because when I think of tailgating, I’m reminded of football Saturdays and the MSU college scene I miss. I didn’t really know what to expect but the subwoofers blaring from the countless cars hinted to me it would be big.

And big it was. This form of BYOB, pre-díscoteca nightlife consists of several hundred students mingling outside, listening to music and avoiding the steep prices of the alcohol found in bars — all while the police turn a blind eye.

Once the clubs do open their doors and the air gets too chilly to rationalize partying outside, the place becomes a ghost town. The streets are as silent as city streets can be and neatly gathered trash sits in seemingly strategically placed piles only to be swept up by the city in the morning.

But my birthday celebration didn’t end there. This weekend marked Carnaval, a crazy countrywide festival filled with parades, music and costumes galore. Some friends and I heard a small wine village an hour outside of Valencia had a festival worth seeing, so we packed our bags and headed to Requena.

The village description was correct and the tiny town did host quite a parade at 7 p.m. But after we walked to the end of it, we turned around and only the leftover confetti signaled any sign of a fiesta.

By 9 p.m. the town was more of a ghost town than Valencia post-botellón and we almost forgot we were in Spain. Although because we are in Spain, we managed to find some bars filled with ballerinas, NBA stars and vampires.

So even though I’ll never have the novelty of my first legal drink, I still had a memorable 21st birthday, Spanish style.