Foto del dia!

Egyptian momument in downtown Madrid

GUERNICA

The sun baked streets of Barcelona had lured my professor in so, in a move only fit for a true Suffolk professor, he cancelled class. So today, I decided to culturally educate myself and went to the Renia Sophia Museum that sits, a little out of place in all of it's modern glory, just across the tree lined street from the famed Prado.

The museum, much bigger than I imagine, was a web of modern glass structures that seamlessly meshed into the old stone facade. I spent awhile wandering around, looking at the different installations and collections. It was an interesting mix of old school and modern art. I then spent a much longer while circling around the different floors, gladly taking the glass elevator to see elevated views of the city, to find Picasso's famous war protesting painting, The Guernica. For such a famous painting, it was hidden far in the depths of the museum.

I eventually found it, though, by following the sound of the dull murmur that emitted from the people who had better luck finding it than I. It was a shock to come around a nondescript corner after thirty minutes of lapping the building and be face to face with this gigantic black and white painting that seemed to scream at you.

It was the only painting in the stark white room, and dozens of onlookers were crammed together looking at it, and studying it, almost anticipating movement, it seemed like.

Two security guards sat on each side of the painting, dwarfed by the canvas and looking wholly unenthused. However, I thought it must be an interesting job. To be able, to actually have to observe the reactions of the hoards of people upon seeing this monstrous, emotional, world famous painting for the first time.

It's a very interesting painting, it's messy and busy and one can't help but become completely immersed in it. A common theme in the Renia Sophia apparently is that everything is bigger than you anticipate. The huge painting in all of its black and white glory took up the entire wall of the room.

The Renia Sophia is a great place to get lost in, and to get out of the midday Spanish heat

Foto Del Dia!

Our tour guide told us this was the tallest building in Europe, "until the damn French built a taller one a year later." He was a little resentful.

Foto Del Dia

Europeans: big on airshafts, not so big on dryers.

Foto Del Dia

Spainards have better paint

Livin': Madrid

Not too much going on this week. I've been going to class (I know there's a reason why I'm here...) and exploring the ever expanding city. This weekend will be a local exploration event. I'm planning on going to the Renia Sophia to see the Guernica and eating lots of tapas.

Madrid is supposed to have something around "300 cloudless days." However, that leaves 65 cloudy, rainy, cool days of the year. Well, there are only about 59 left for this year. My bright, flowery summer dresses lay folded (in piles) and forgotten in my closet (on my floor), and I have had to buy a couple of sweaters (it was torture). The sidewalks have doubled in size, as the normal sprawling tables and chairs filled with chattering maderilanos (do theses people ever go to work?) have been piled up and the bars and cafes are overflowing with people and smoke.

Hopefully my last week will be filled with sunshine and flowers and carefree frolics through the parque retiro.

Photo Del Dia

Church in Old Madrid

Marrakesh Express

Just arrived safely back in Madrid from my whirlwind tour of Marrakesh, with the taste of saffron and fear still lingering in my mouth.

Morocco is equal parts dirty, smelly, exciting, amazing and terrifying. The entire city smells like curry and exhaust, and everything is viewed through a haze of dust and a crowd of burka-clad women.

Not exactly Gorillas in the Mist.

The trip got off to a bumpy start, we were missing a roommate, and quickly realized that we had no idea where we were, what to do or how to communicate. Luckily, more people speak English in Morocco than in America.

"To the medina, 20 durham." we said to a "cab" driver in a rickety yellow car. "20 durham, for all you? No 40 durham. 40 durham."
One of my favorite parts were those cab rides. Apparently rules do not apply to anyone in Morocco. The drives include flying down flat roads and unbelievable speeds, swerving from lane to lane and dodging the hordes of people on bicycles and entire families on a single moped.

We got to the Medina and began our exploration.

The Medina is a cornucopia of small dark alleys snaking off in hundreds of different directions.
Each stall is busting with jewelry, clothes, teapots, bags, boxes, anything you could ever dream of.
You enter the Medina with no idea what is happening, it sucks you in and all of a sudden the trail of breadcrumbs you had left behind have been devoured by a stray cat, and you find yourself holding multiple bags of goods. You exit the Medina hours later, covered in a layer of dust and feeling like you haven't seen sunlight in an eternity.

Shopping in the Mednia is a rewarding experience, you have to avoid the hoards of people yelling at you in different languages until you acknowledge one. Once you find something you like, its a tactical game of cat and mouse to get the price to what you want. I haggled my way through Marrakesh and came out victorious on the other side.

In the depths of the Medina, something strange happened. I was walking through the dim maze, and I was struck with this odd sense of familiarity, something I was not expecting to feel in Africa.
I found myself walking past the small stalls thinking, "Hey, wait a second, that rug looks...and that mirror over there, I swear I've seen that before. Oh, and those necklaces! They're huge! And that box...and that plate!...Are all the furnishings in my entire house from the medina!?"
Morocco felt like home, because it looked like home.

The last evening, we had a huge, traditional Moroccan Feast. We wandered around the main square looking for a place that was authentic enough. We were reeled in by a Moroccan on the street, "Follow me," he said, "My family restaurant, very good, very good." So, against our better judgement, we followed him up a dark, winding staircase and were elated when we came to the top to find a beautiful, bustling circus tent like restaurant, instead of a bathtub full of ice and three empty jars labeled "Kidneys".

The aromatic meal consisted upon course after course of grilled veg tables, traditional soup (delicious HARIRA!) and vegetable cous cos tangine. It was topped off by a giant plate of fruits and sweet mint tea. It was exactly the traditional meal we were looking for.

Morocco: very cool.

How Much Can Kath Take: Northern Africa Edition

While Tom is gearing up to frolic up a mountain, and Matt is living in a basement in one of the most dangerous citys in America, I am getting ready to go Marrakesh, very early tomorrow morning.
I am excited, as it should be a very interesting couple of days.
And it could be worse, I could be floating in the middle of the ocean.
I will report back if I am able to find my way out of the medina.

Foto Del Dia: Tapas

My roommate and I went to some tapas bars on our last night in Barcelona.

Named the best chocolate cake IN THE WORLD in 2005. It deserved it.

Fancy Tapas.

Foto Del Dia

Infront of the Prado

Dangerous Summer

"Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death." -Ernest Hemingway

After hoping off the plane from Barcelona, it was straight Plaza de Toro to watch the controversial and centuries old Spanish tradition- The Bullfight.

Thousands of Madridleonos crammed into the huge, concrete benched area to watch six bulls be slaughtered.

Running a little late, we arrived at the beginning of the third fight which was deemed by everyone we talked to as "the most gruesome," ending in not the ordinary bull collapsing on the side of the arena with about 6 colorful swords sticking out of his back. Instead, we were treated to about three minutes of the bull spewing blood from its mouth as the bullfighter got off his horse and taunted it.

Being a traditional bullfight, the main fighter was on horse. One of the most interesting aspects of the fight was the camaraderie of bullfighter and horse, they moved as one, and if one of them were to make a mistake, they both ran the risk of a horn through the abdomen.

I had just finished "The Sun Also Rises" by Hemingway, which is focused on bullfighting. As I read the book, I though that Hemingway was romanticizing the sport, but at the fight I realized he was not. It really is an intricate art that is bathed in ritual, gruesome beauty and fear.

While watching animals get slaughtered may never be my favorite pastime, it was intense, and very interesting to watch.

Picture Del Dia (until I learn how to say picture in spanish)

All systems go with my camera, I can finally put my pictures onto the computer.
I now present Photo Del Dia.

My road!

Barcelona!

Our room in Barcelona

Inside the markets off of Las Ramblas

A little gaudy.

Down a winding labyrinth of streets called the Barri Gotic quarter of Barcelona, my roommate and I eventually stumbled upon our unmarked hotel.

The woman took us to our room. The hotel had no front desk, and we were instructed to pay in cash. We had to take our backpacks off in order for the three of us to fit into the small, rickety elevator. My roommate and I decided that after we got back to Madrid, with everything we came with (the ominous words of a friend telling us "everyone gets robbed in Barcelona" ringing in our ears) this would be fun to talk about.

View from our room

We got to our room, and the woman pulled out a map of the city and kindly highlighted the best and worst places to go. Port Olympico for beaches, "don't go here," she mumbled scribbling out a portion, "Unless you want drugs and hookers, then you want there." I did a quick check to make sure that wasn't, in fact, the very place we were. It wasn't quite, but close.

The floor was made from battered, once bright Mediterranean tiles. It contrasted with the wooden beamed ceiling, and thick glass and wooden door that led to a small balcony that looked over the mysterious, sleepy part of town.

The next day we took the required pilgrimage to La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's masterpiece. In the end, it is a large empty room that you pay an obscene amount of euros to watch construction workers whistle at you. To the workers, it is a never ending "Bring your tourist to work day"

After, we trampled down to Las Ramblas, the Fanuiel Hall of Barcelona, where Irish Pubs are replaced by bird vendors ans hobos are replaced by elaborate street performers.

The real magic of Barcelona lays off Las Ramblas, down a narrow maze of cobbled streets where an array of artists, designers and vendors set up shop. It's the kind of place that you'll only see once in a life time, mostly because you'll never be able to figure out how to get back there.

Dictators, paella and bad drivers are the only things Barcelona and Madrid share.

Madrid is a bustling country capital, the people only speak spanish, and cater to no one. It is steeping in rich, authentic Spanish culture and tradition.

Barcelona is a window- a very pretty window- back to western civilization. The horizon on the beach is littered with glimmering cruise ships, the menus are in english and spanish, and the people are there only to cater to you. Both citys are great, but for very different reasons.

Long Weekend!

Happy Corpus Cristi!
I am heading to Barcelona for the long weekend, flying in tonight with my roommate and a few others. Will report back, I'm excited because I've only heard wonderful things about the city.

I am currently in my kitchen. There is a cleaning lady in my room and men working right outside the window. It's amazing how you can literally travel half way across the world and find a place that feels just like home.

Things That Surprise Me About Madrid: Volume I

1. No one here speaks english. I guess this shouldn´t be surprising seeing as I am in EUROPE. However, being an American, I assumed everyone should know it. The outcome of my six years spent doodling in the margins of my papers during spanish class resulted in me not picking up that much of the language. I only really know "¡Si Se Puede" (Thanks, Obama) however, seeing as that may result in more trouble than good, I have become very good at nodding my head politley and pointing. I do think that, being immersed in the language, I´ll pick up some of it quickly, like a toddler. I should be fluent in three years. But, I am becomming very good at saying "Uno cafe solo," which brings me to my next point.

2. The coffee. Smallest cups ever. You can barely hold them. However, they contain a caffiene content that puts a Venti Red Eye to shame. They also don't seem to wake me up, just shake violently for a few hours.I have been experimenting with cafes all over the city, where people do spend all of their time, drinking coffee and smoking like characters in Mad Men. They come in and out of the cafes with lighted cigarettes, flicking the ash on the floor (throwing your trash on the floor is apparently a sign that you liked the place...?) and drinking these comically small cups of coffee while yelling across the room at their compadres. Lively bunch.

3.Etiquitte. One is not supposed to yawn in public or eat or drink whilst walking through the streets. This is proving to be a problem for me as I am always tired and hungry and wandering through the streets.

4. The drivers. They will hit you. They will hit you and you will go flying through the blue skys of the city and land in a heap at the foot of the Don Quiote statue. No matter how small the roads are (and some of them are SMALL) they carreen down the streets and through crowded sqaures, only stopping sometimes when the light turns red. Moreover, most of the sidewalks are the same level as the streets, only divided by some dopey metal poles every few yards. When an angry Maderilino gets impaitent on the street, pedestrains beware. They fly down the sidewalks barely dodging barking dogs and angry (but impecably dressed) natives. I wouldnt put it past them to fly through the open doors of the big stores along Gran Via if it was a shortcut.

The Eagle Has landed

What do you mean they don't have starbucks?

Arrived safely amidst the hustle and bustle of Madrid last Monday morning.

Met my roommates, who were all on the same flight as I, and took a shuttle to school then to our apartment.

Upon arriving to our narrow, cobbled road, the housing director turned back to us.

"Gather your things now," she said, words skewed with a thick Spanish accent, "We´re going to block the streets. The Madrilenos don´t like that." Shaking her head ominously.

She wasn´t kidding. As the bus driver ripped our suitcases out from underneath the bus, we stood huddled on the narrow sidewalks, dodging mopeds that flew around us, disregarding the pedestrians and grimmaced at the blaring horns.

It was 4 am American time. Good morning.

After trudging up the steep hill toward our apartment like a bunch of lost torists, we happily found out that we would be livining on the first floor. No need to carry up my luggage one flowerly top at a time.

That evening we had Tapas with the group in a breezy downstairs resturant. They brought out plate after plate of tiny amounts of food. Starting with a potatoe and egg tortilla, cheese, fried cheese with chicken, and roasted red peppers and tuna. We were told to eat it all, because we don´t want to offend mother in the kitchen.

The next day, we were treated to a walking tour of historical Madrid which was quite interesting. We saw a grand palace that the royal family is too ashamed to live in due to the sheer decadence of it:

Plaza Mayor which is essentially the Fanuiel Hall of Madrid and ended at Sol the "Time Square" of Spain, only with better arcitecture and less flashing lights.

Due to technical difficulties, this blog will be picture free until further notice. I will try to upload some! Correction: I am stealing my roommates pictures at the moment.