London called so I ran into a red phone booth and answered

FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER BREAK IN LONDON

Yes, people, London-town is as cool as they say. They really do wear those funny hats and there are red telephone stands on every corner. However, they are lacking in trash cans because of terrorist attack attempts and that was the brightest solution they came up with. Take out the trashcans. Of course.

We all had a week off here in Spain so I decided the most economically friendly decision and most fun would be to spend a week in London with my darling twin sister, Karpoo. No one told me London meant selling your spleen and any other not totally necessary body part in order to afford to stay there and survive. Or just sell your soul to the devil. One of those will for sure get you money.

So as I’m trying to comprehend why anyone would pay 15 pounds or euros or dollars for a bottle of water I come to the conclusion that I am in love with this city. It’s sooo like in the movies. Once again, I am an Olsen twin. But bigger. And better (ohh, merde, there’s that French in me).

Katherine, a friend of mine who’s in the Spain group with me, is traveling with me to visit her friend who is also in the London Program. We get on the plane and are immediately surrounded by beautiful English people. Really, I think we misunderstood the fact that they spoke English for them being beautiful because we were so culturally deprived. But whatever, in our drunken-lack-of-english-language stupor, they were beautiful human beings.

Because there was no assigned seating I hopped right to the Emergency exit. Hell yeah, leg room! And then I read the instructions. Wait, did they really say the lives of the people on this plane were in my hands or was this some horrible English to English-American translation? Screw it, I have leg room so that means the people are safer. No one wants to see an angry tall cramped claustrophobic Swedish/Norwegian/Irish girl with no leg room on a plane with nowhere to go.

We get to England and have to take a train into London. I naturally manage to mess this up, even while being somewhat fluent in the English language and we get on the wrong train. No, it was amazingly going in the RIGHT direction but we bought tickets for the normal train not the express train. When the not-so-friendly woman comes to take our tickets she explains to us in her monotone english brogue accent that we must pay 7 more pounds. Just 7 more pounds, you say? Not bad at all. Wait.. do that math. That’s must be at least 65 more US dollars. And so begins our trip to London.

We get to London, hop on the metro (it sounds easier than it is. Actually, no, it’s that easy I’m just that directionally challenged) and get off at a stop that was in fact a few stops farther then where we should have been. But because it cost about 4 pounds (aka 78 dollars) each time you got on the metro we decided to test our luck walking. We ask two very friendly policemen outside of the metro station where Karlyn's fancy ass neighborhood is. They politely point us in the right direction. Two blocks later (or maybe 3 steps) we are lost again. We must have looked it because this nice American (we learned quickly that nice and English bloke usually doesn’t go hand in hand) asked if we needed help. We quickly told him we were lost and were looking for this address. I was close to telling him 42Wallaby Way, because I, like many others have been brainwashed by Disney. But, I quickly corrected myself and told him the right address. He whipped out his iphone, plugged in the address, and graciously pointed us in the right direction. After getting lost about 6 more times we finally found their flat. And no one was there. Exaughsted and sober we decided to pop a squat and wait. While I waited I began to feel (and smell) like a homeless person so I thought it was appropriate to write “HOMELESS + SISTERLESS. DIRECT ME 2 NEAREST CIDER, PLZ” Turn some of the letters backwards and you have true homeless art. No one even flinched.

                Finally, one of Karlyn’s roommate’s stepped out and let us in. We went down to her flat and immediately jumped in the shower. That’s how smelly I was. No shame. Quick hello’s and a quicker “please point me in the direction of your shower.” They were quick to show me.  A little toooo quick, maybe.

                So after a couple hours in their flat I’m like wtf mate, where’s Karlyn. Turns out she’s a workaholic (I know, whattt?) and decided to pick up 16 or 65 hours at her internship, I can’t remember which one. She contacts her friends and tells them to tell me to metro to her work and meet her there. Me. Claire. Metro to you. In London. She has obviously forgotten who her sister is.  Close my eyes and spin me around a few times outside my house and I couldn’t point you to where I live. It turns out the London metro system was made for me. They have lights and huge signs for the stops and everything. I get to her place of work which happens to be in the hood and wait for a few (45) minutes. When I finally see her coming around the corner I keep thinking “I can’t believe I’m about to cry. I’m going to give her the biggest hug ever!” I forgot that she is her mothers daughter. She awkwardly comes towards me and extends her hand. Is she really about to shake my hand, I think to myself, or is this some kind of british hug? Nope. Handshake. Thanks mom, you’ve taught us well. It turns out, she too wanted to give me a hug but wasn’t sure if I wanted to give her a hug. Phew, thank god that awkward moment was over. We hugged, exchanged presents (aka I gave her presents. I know I know you got me a present, too, calm down) and then walked the 3.5 miles to her work place. Super cool place, free wine, Russian rappers, bikini dancers (those last two go together), and nice peeps. Couldn’t be a cooler internship. At that point I was tre jelous of her situation in el Londres. Then I remembered you pay 54 dollars for water.

                Because Katherine and I were technically not allowed to stay in their flat we got a hostel for the first two nights. I say first two nights because we said fuck it after that and decided that if we got caught staying in the flat, paying the 100 pound (36,000 dollar) fine was totally worth it. The hostel was more like a coed prison. It was in a tri-bunk bed formation with a depressing blue curtain that almost went all the way around so that you were almost hidden from the 40 year olds who still stayed in hostels. When you checked in the “clerk” gave you a “clean” set of sheets and a flimsly blanket to use. BUT, there was free breakfast! Toast and peanut butter. Oh, how I missed peanut butter. And free eye candy, mainly French eye candy, therefore they were probably more interested in their own toenails than my raggedy ass at 8 in the morning. Oh yeah, we woke up at 8 in the morning every morning because if the French people didn’t wake us up with their complaining about what I assume is the economy or their surroundings, the cold would wake us up. We’d saunter down the stairs, grab some toast, and then hustle back to the flat where we would pee and take a shower because there was no way we were going to get some type of horrible disease by sharing the bathroom with people who didn’t even believe in wiping after number two (the French. There were no BOODAYS in the hostel and I’m pretty sure ‘shake-and-dry’ doesn’t work in this case).

                On Wednesday Katherine and I decide that we should go on a true English bus tour. We purchase the tickets online and at 10 am make our way to the meeting point. We hopped on the double decker bus and of course go straight to the second level. It was probably one of my favorite parts of London. First of all, the tour was in English and in a funny accent. Usually, my tours are in a funny accent but I have no idea what’s going on so this was ten times cooler. It was 2 hours long and we got to SIT. Once again, another first for my experience with tours. I learned a lot of interesting things about London such as killing people was a really fun past time and it’s culturally ok to grab a beer when you first wake up. The important things, people. After this it was nap time because we had forgotten how tiring it was to sit on a bus for two hours listening to information being thrown at you in a language you understood therefore was much harder to tune out.

                Instead of a nap, however, we met Karlyn at her school and joined her group on an excursion to Princess Diana’s fountain. Did I mention that it rains a lot in London? Karlyn only mentioned that it sprinkles so I would like to be considerate enough to let you know now that it rains, and no, you probably should not wear your overpriced uncomfortable flats in that monsoon. Karlyn’s directionally challenged group (I am not the minority anymore) decided to take us to the farthest possible metro stop and have us walk the whole way. Once we got to the fountain, drenched and quite tired, we realized that something was amiss. There was no water in the fountain. It was turned off. I’m guessing because of economic reasons, or because it was freezing, or because they knew a group of college students was coming in the monsoon to see it and they wanted to teach them a lesson. Howevah, we did get to see a beautiful sunset over the bigger lake while trekking the 6 miles to the fountain. It was quite nice and I (actually, Karlyn) snapped some cool shots of the lighting which you will never see because I am behind the times when it comes to uploading pictures on facebook.

                Next stop: the land of the “I just got out of prison and miss that fun environment so I’m going to open a shop here because it’s close enough” or how the British like to call it; Camden. The most fun place in the world. You get of the metro stop and are surrounded by bright lights, tattooed children, the smell of hash, and “cheap” clothes n’ stuff. By cheap I mean you could get a shirt for, like, 4 pounds which I’m pretty sure adds up to 35 dollars. But enough about my amazing calculating skills, we were in Camden and I was in love! I decided that this was where I wanted to work. So I knew I had to go to prison first. Because I was only in London for a couple more days I realized that none of the above options would work and I would have to stick to shopping which I have to say I am quite skilled at. I ended up getting a bag and another bag and then called it a day. Best. Place. Ever.

                Somewhere in between Monday and Saturday Joe came to visit. So here we are, Joe Karlyn, Max, and I and the only person we were missing was Molly! Yes, even Max was there. Little Max with the curly hair whose cheeks you just wanted to slap pinch. Except this time he was a lot taller! Joe and Max, I might add, have grown into fine young lads and I would like to credit that to my stick throwing abilities as well as my friendly threats. You are quite welcome, world.

                Did I mention that we saw Justin Beiber? Yes, the Beibs. We were at the Guy Fox bonfire thing where they celebrate the day where this Guy who was a Fox didn’t actually commit an act of terrorism. If we had a party in the US for every time that didn’t happen… Anyhoo, I let the Brits enjoy their day. As I’m getting slightly charred by this humungous bonfire I feel karlyn tap me on the back and whisper “I think that’s the Beibs…” It was. So, of course, I yell “JUSTIN! What are YOU doing here!?” Because we are such good friends and I was kind of hurt that he didn’t bother to text me or anything. He walked away with a bunch of 12 year olds following but I’m assuming he didn’t hear me because if he did he would have been so happy to see me and I would have immediately asked for an apology for the lack of text. Whatever. I Got a picture with the back of his head as proof that we were both there and he didn’t bother to get in contact. Will be emailing it to him shortly.

After the beibs-fire there was an excellent fireworks show. Imagine fireworks being shot in the sky in time with music. And the music has everything to do with fire and fireworks (except the bastards didn’t play Katy Perry). It was awesomeeeee! After this we all went to church (aka bars), prayed a bit (cursed a lot because we were lost) and drank some holy wine (holy cider). I’d call the trip a success!

Pardon my French but merde que c'était amusant

It's been quite a while since I've written on this handy piece of machinery, aka my computer, aka my blog and I think I'm going to skip a bunch of stuff and go straight to Paris, France. Doesn't everyone?

Let me just say, packing for Paris was by far the most difficult in terms of life-decisions I've had to make yet. However, I made due. Mainly because I went shopping. duhh.

So here we are in France. First stop: Notre Damnerz. (yes, they spell it with a silent 'erz' because they are classy). It was tre amaing and yes, so like the disney movie. I like to pretend that I speak french. It's easy when your roomate has a french name like "Ghiz" (sounds like jizz) that even she can make classy just by making it sound French. No one questions it. Unless they are drunk. Or go to JMU. Anyhoo, Ghiz, who I will from now on call Baguette for legal reasons, and I would frequently walk home alone from parties back to our dorm Freshman year. To keep people at bay, we would speak french to each other. I'm not sure why we thought that would work but so far so good. She taught me how to say "i'm going to kill you, bitch" in French which sounds somthing like "jew vah te too eyyy formage baguette bourgouizee" and then she would answer in perfect French with nothing I understood. I was officially fluent. Even though we probably just should have yelled that in English I'm pretty sure people got the gist. So here I am in France, knowing better than to yell such profanities in the street (and I was sober when we got there). So instead, I decided to look French. You all know excatly what I'm talking about. nose in the air, three strides ahead of everyone, and of course looking down at people (easier for me considering the height. I got it from my momma; the height, too).

So here I am saying "bonjour" in a perfect french accent and people are assuming I'm French. And then they rightfully assume I'm not because I have no idea what the fuck they're saying. But because I have that look like I'm better than them they let it pass and hand me the chocolate I've been eagerly pointing too (that, my friends, is the same in every language).

Fast forward to the Louvre. Correct sir, it does not sound like it is spelled. It is something us more intelligent folk like to call "we do the same shit in English but don't even realize it until we try to teach 12 year olds our own language which we have not yet mastered." However, the one thing us Americans have managed to do better than the French is hygiene. That is not a lie. They smell. Bad. But, because "everyone (only the French) likes their own brand" we all got along fine and secretely sprayed them with perfume when they weren't looking. So, back to the louvrezexx.  It was awesome. Tre cool. I tasted some blues (it's called synesthesia, but only the French would know that) and looked thoughtfully at some Picasso's then I left and went in search of wine and chocolate. It turns out that no Eurpoean country will every fail you in any of these two catagories. The wine is always good, cheap, and legal, and so is the chocolate. (But don't tell some random guy on the street you want 'chocolate' because he's probably a drug dealer and will sell you some laced hash).

We later went to a church, who's name I'm going to say is Mon cheree tet chat baguette, and it had the most beautiful stained glass i've ever seen. It was called something along the lines of "room of glass" because the only structure that wasn't glass was what was holding it up. Pretty amazing. I vaguely remember getting yelled at to be quiet because apparently when you're American and quiet that's still too loud. So i put on my french face and told them to eat their poop in frenchish-englishish-murmur. (that didn't really happen, mom. Only because I knew you would have whooped my butt in a very french manner meaning you would stop cooking for a few months and sleep in till 2 in the afternoon).

While in France I was able to meet up with Karpoop! (Or Kar-merde, if we're trying to be politically correct). It was nice to know that we could manage to find no clubs and or bars even in Paris but we could still enjoy watching the Eiffel Tower light up 2 to 3 times. The Tower would light up starting 10 pm for 10 minutes every hour on the hour. Considering we managed to see it three times in a row shows how far we didn't get from it. But each time was more amazing then the next because shazam, Karlyn and I were reunited in Paris. It was like an Olsen twins movie minus the movie and then add 60 pounds and 2 feet each.

Because I kept pretending I was French and therefore speaking french-ish I think it actually improved more than my Spanish has improved in Spain (that's pretty hard though, considering it's perfect. OOOPS still in my France-attitude. Re-do. My Spanish sucks. Phew, back to the American attitude). But really, I fell in love with Paris; the food (wine), the people (wine), the culture (wine) and the wine (boys). I've decided I'm going to learn French fluently and be able to say "you all are cheese eating surrender monkeys and I love you for it."

Textbooks aren't for everyone

The one thing I'm truly glad I did / am doing while in Spain is teaching the ninos at the colegio. I know I complain about it daily but that's mainly because the 15 minute walk is too much for my lazy ass.

I teach English to 6 different classes. Okay, not on my own. I help a class with a professor, Ana Maria. The students are terrofied of her and I was too, at first. However, after a few times volunteering together with some little kids (more on that experience, later) and a few coffee and ice cream outings we've seem to get along quite well and I really like her a lot. She cares about the students and she really does want them to learn. She just tends to teach in an old fashioned style. but that's what Im here for!

Each week (every day but Thursday and the weekends) I go to the Catholic school where I try and convince these 12-14 year olds that they are, in fact, capable of learning English and yes, they are quite intelligent. It's amazing how many of them don't believe that. I go back to the sala de profesores where I get three or four students at a time and we talk about what they are learning that week. So, starting a couple weeks ago, after we discuss what we did that past week (to work on past tense and create a relaxed atmoshpere as well as kill some time because studying can be b-o-r-i-n-g) I ask them what they think they are the best at when it comes to English. Is it future tense? Sometimes. Talking about food? Most of the time. Asking for my facebook name? All the time. And no, I do not release that cherished information.

I've noticed that in this school in Spain and I believe the same goes in many other schools around the world, the kids are not only not chastised for not drawing a perfect face or tree but they are actually put down and scolded for drawing outside the lines and not following every direction.
I myself, have experienced the same punishment when in 6th grade I spent hours working on a "how-to-survive-in-the-wild" kit (with the help of my mom, who also spent many hours working on it. Thanks, mom!) and failed, miserably. I was so proud of this project because I thought no one else would do the same thing I did and the teacher would be SO impressed that I took the project into my own hands that she would not only give me an A, but she would tell the class that they should all try and be more like me and think outside the box. These day dreams almost never came true for me, to my dismay. I ended up getting a D on the project (which was failing at Kenmore Middle School if you were a white middle class girl). I was so furious (and still am) that I had received that grade. She told me that I followed only two of the 10 rules given for this project and one of those was putting your name on it. I only got that one because my mom reminded me to do it at the last minute. A lot of times after I've done poorly on an exam or project, even to this day, I will feel like its the end of the world. After a quick phone call to my dad, who tells me I wont even remember it in 2 weeks, I usually feel much better. And he's right. Most of the time I do forget about failing an international relations exam or a stat's project. But, at the age of 12 when grades were your only priority (and sleeping) I knew this was something I wouldn't forget. And that teacher who's name I cant remember because it obviously is as important to me as the rubric for that project, can kiss my butt because I've managed to still do well even when I forget to put my name on a few things!

anyhow, enough about my past. All I'm saying is I feel it's my responsibility to not let that happen to these kids. If it weren't for my dad who convinced me that I had done the project right, it was the teacher who was too brainwashed too see that, I would have grudgingly conformed to how the system wanted their shit done. When you are 12 and believe that everything the teacher says is law you take what they say to heart. So when they are called stupid because their desks aren't perfectly straight or when they are yelled at for not memorizing every single tense and irregular they believe it really is THEIR fault. So, once we've finished talking about our day and what we are good at when it comes to English and what we can work on I inform them that they are very bright students. After I say this, their faces almost always look a little confused and worried. And then I hear the words I hate "we're not smart. We're stupid." They've gotten a lot better at their response recently and I can see them becoming more confident when they speak English with me. But there are times when they have that look in their eyes like they don't fully believe me when I say they're smart. They may not be the best at English but that doesn't mean they aren't smart and as I explain this to them each day their English gets progressively better and their attitudes seem to shift for the better as well. I'm not saying that students should be spoiled or things should be sugar coated but they should be told the truth, even if the truth happens to be a positive thing. No, you are not stupid if your desk isn't straight. Yes, you probably shouldn't throw rocks at your friend Timmy and for that you will get detention, but you are not stupid. Just a little annoying and maybe we should check out that family situation at home.

Half of the things that I've pursued in my life I did because someone told me I could. Even if I couldn't (which I figured out on my own and decided it wasn't for me so I quite. Unless my mom didn't let me then the whole thing just suckeddd *ahem. track and field*) just knowing that someone thought I could made me want to prove it to myself. Not only should the students not be chastised for messing up their adjectives but when they are doing something correctly, this should be pointed out and maybe with a thumbs up or a smiley face on the page (no pats on the backs anymore because that could be construed as abuse).

Anyhoo, that is my rant of the day. That is not to say the teacher's are not fantastic at these schools. They usually are. Ana Maria for instance is one of those teacher's that I would have sucked up to in middle school because she really cares about her students and I sure as hell wouldn't want to get on her bad side. She wants the students to learn and she cares about what they are doing inside and outside of schools. There should be more teachers like this but with more of an open mind on how students learn. Textbooks aren't for everyone.

Andalucia

Thursday, the 13th

This morning we woke up at 6:30 to be at the bus stop at 7. We would get to the hotel at 2:30 making it about a 7 and a half hour bus ride. With small seats. And tall people (me). Resulting in crooked necks and attitudes (me. and everyone). BUT we got there! Even with our crazy ass bus driver playing his tailgating while texting game. This game is fun if you pretend you're on a roller coaster because people don't die on roller coasters. Usually.

After eating our lunch that our mom made us (aka bocadillo de jamon the size of a baguette. Literally, she gave us each a baguette) we continued on with the trip. However, because NewMom wasn't there to chastise us with those kind, judging eyes we deduced that we did not, in fact, have to finish our baguette sandwiches! So, naturally, I did. And then I got a food coma. It just felt right.

At 4:30 we went to visit the beautiful Capilla Real in Granada. It's a huge cathedral with stained glass and lots of semi-attractive Jesus' hanging on the walls (I know, I'm going straight to hell. This has already been confirmed with multiple members in our group). We got to go underground and see where the King and Queen were buried. It's always a treat to walk into a small, tight space where you almost always hit your head because you were blessed with big-people-genes to see where the bones of where the king and queen lay. I couldn't have felt queesier and more intrigued. I've been having a problem lately where every ancient, historic place we go I have to touch something I shouldn't. Luckily, the coffins were too far to touch but the sculptures were not so lucky. I knowwww. I'm going to hell. Might as well make it worth while.

Then, at 7:15, we went to see a Flamenco show while eating dinner. I've never been so horrified and amused in my life. These women (and men who could easily be confused as women) were so serious when they danced that it reminded me of when I would get in trouble for throwing blocks at Karlyn in elementary school except my teachers usually weren't dancing. sometimes yes, but I think that was Mr. Meagan and I'm pretty sure he was a drinker. We ate until we couldn't eat anymore and then we ate some more (surprised?) Afterwards, we took a tour of the Jewish community in Granada where our tour guide spoke english and was convinced that we were going to get lost which "frankly, is not his fault, so pay attention." It was probably the most entertaining tour we've had. Im guessing because it wasn't given by Jesus whose tours would make you want to sit through a church sermon instead that was in Chinese and you had to stand the whole time. On flaming coals.

Friday, the 14th

Friday, we visited la Alhambra. It's this huge palace/ fortress that could take 4 hours to tour it. We used all 4 hours. Jesus gave the tour. And no, I was not able to find a Chinese church with burning coals instead of seats so I had to suck it up and go on the tour. I attempted to escape a few times but because this occurs a lot and because they're not as stupid as they seem they have positioned the other professor, Tkac, in the very back of the group so if anyone looks like they're going to run he will be able to stop them. I've been asked multiple times "why are you always the last in the group?" I think he's stopped believing my courtious, "oh, merely because I am quite tall and I shan't disrupt the view of the others" because, well, I'm not courteous. And he has already caught me trying to escape about 16 times. At first it was funny to him. Now I think he wishes he was allowed to use threats and maybe a weapon to convince me and others that running away is so second grade and aren't we all on 16 different prescriptions of adderall that we should be able to listen to Jesus talk for 4 hours straight? You'd think so, but some things are just too hard to cure with legal cocaine. The Alhambra was probably my favorite place because it was so beautiful and I was easily distracted by the light, colors, and different structures. Even not being able to escape wasn't so painful because I could stare at a flower for 20 minutes and tune everyone out.

Four hours later we hopped on the bus and made our way to Cordoba.

We visited the Mosque which was beautifully built with round structures and coloring that made it look like you were standing under huge candy canes. Soooo cool!! It was huge and once you walked father to the center you learned that, oh howdy, there's a church in the middle of this mosque! The christians were nice enough to not destroy the entiiiire mosque just the middle. They did this to show the strength that they had and that they were also kind hearted souls and when they were not destroying villages and cultures in the name of god, they were destroying the center of mosques but keeping the outside. Good ol' Catholics. Always putting themselves second. After they put themselves first.

Afterwards, we went to a restaurant called Rafaela where they tried to kill us by putting a pound of salt in each of our dishes of rice. It wasn't the best Italian I had but it was a nice break from eating everything on your plate and giving back a half-full dish. Take that, NewMom!

Saturday, the 15th

On Saturday, we made our way onto Sevilla.

First, we went to the Royales Alcazales de Sevilla which was a Royal Palace that was originally a Moorish fort. They kepy much of the same architecture which was very beautiful and thoughtfully designed. This was my second favorite tour because it was short and we got free time to explore. There was a labarinto (maze) that you could walk through. The joke was on me and Kelsey because being the tallest in our little group we could see over the semi-tall hedges and still couldn't find the exit. After a few bouts of claustrophobia, we broke through one of the sides into freedom. Freeeedoooommmm! We walked around some more and played with Peacocks. Real, live, peacocks the size of your fat cat. They were so beautiful and intimidating that I was tempted to grab one and run away with it. Doesn't make much sense but I think I was pretty exaughsted at this point in the trip.

We then went to another Cathedral. 'Nuff said.

After that we had dinner in the hotel. I ate about 16 things of bread and was thankful that I wasn't hit by the flu that was going around and making everyone throw up (no, it wasn't alcohol poisoning to the surprise of our professors. We aren't THAT predictable).

Sunday, the 16th

Sunday was our last day on this wonderfully exaughsting trip through Southern Spain. Did I mention it was in the high 80's low 90's the entire time? Just perfect temperature.

On this day we went to Merida and visited the Roman ruins of the ampitheatres (where they send the lions out to eat the slaves or prisoners) and the theatre (where they would put on plays where the actors dressed as slaves would pretend to get eaten by lions). We learned that these were a very important part of the culture because if the people weren't entertained they would get rauwdy and then the government would have to kill them. Obviously. What other solution is there? So naturally, they would put on plays and shows of people pretending to get killed or really getting killed because this was the Jersey Shore of the Roman times.

This weekend the majority of the group went to Portugal and it was amazing!

we left Salamanca at 3:30 and it was a 6 hour drive to Lisbon. However, in Spain there's a law that says that every 4 hours the bus driver needs to take a 45 minute break. This can be split up throughout the 4 hours. I guess that's the only law they have or care about because they drive like they have no laws and i guess theres nothing wrong with texting while driving a bus full of college students across a country's boarders. Veryyyy interesting. Asi es la vida.

My favorite part of the trip was going to a Castle that cost 4 euros. it was amazing! you can literally go anywhere you want in and around the castle and it would take all day to do so. We walked throughout the green section of the castle tour and had to cross a pond to get to the other side into a cave. the pond was about 4 feet deep and the stones were just a little bigger than my feet. It led into this dark cave where you had to take pictures to see where you were going and then it entered into a cove that had a a circular staircase made of stone. so cool!

The other nights were very relaxing. A few of us would go out, have a glass of wine, then a bottle, meet gay french guys, pick the nose on huge portraits, and so on.

Things I've learned while in Spain

1. Siesta is not an option, it is the law
2. I am still tall 3,600 miles away from home
3. You eat lunch at 2 pm, and you eat it all. All 3 dishes that could each fead a small African village

1. They say that culture shock comes in every shape and size. Mine came every few days at 3 pm when I had just finished a lunch that could put a fat man in a coma and I decided that I wanted to abuse my body some more by buying some excellent 1 Euro chocolate. As I'm walking from street to street looking for any store that might be open I realized that these people just don't like to work! Also, I'm pretty sure the government decided that there were better ways to get out of an economic crisis than working 8 full hours a day. I've slowly come to the conclusion that Siesta is a good thing, and that if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. (Okay, that's a lie, I've been practicing siesta since I was in high school and decided that napping was more important than reading for Mr. Babichenko's AP World History class because he didn't deserve my attention in class let alone at home and frankly, I was still growing and really freaking tired). So, I've managed to overcome my need for post-excessive food indulging and just take a nap! But seriously, people literally every major and minor shop in a 15 mile radius of Salamanca is closed. I think the hospital even takes a siesta but no one bats an eye because it's just what is.

2. You fellow readers may not be surprised that a 6.2 girl is STILL tall a continent away but it always comes as a slight surprise to me when I go to Europe and I'm not surrounded by tall men throwing chocolate and flowers in my direction. (Apparently that shit happens here). However, the difference I've noticed is that while I have not shrunk on my 8 hour flight over here, I am highly respected for the fact that my mom had some giant genes she wanted to throw my way. It's like when the Spanish rode on their huge horses and massacred the Aztec people (thank you, Latin American Civ), and while the Aztecs were getting slaughtered they decided that these huge horse-people were really Gods. I'm not saying thats exactly what I'm experiencing but it's pretty similar and totally cool. No, I am not massacring anyone but I did get approached by a midget who proclaimed his love to me in a club called Midevo (He was literally a midget, under 4 feet. or 1 meter or whatever they say here). I decided to let him live.

3. Lunch is eaten at 2 instead of 12:30 and it is almost always the size of a thanksgiving feast. And you have to eat it all. Not only do these people take siesta seriously (aka not working), they also take their lunch seriously. My new mom begins cooking lunch around 6 in the morning which I know because my room is right next to the kitchen window which is always open. This is not me complaining. I actually like incorporating the smells of the food we're going to eat and her clanking dishes together into my dreams. Once the whole family is seated at the table NewMom takes the liberty to serve us our first dish, which is usually a delicious thick creamy soup. The bowls are the size of our heads and it's filled to the bring. She then serves our NewDad, Ricardo and herself about a third of what she served us. We eat the whole thing and politely insist that we literally could not eat another bit because we might explode and we move onto the second dish. Here's the thing about meal time: It's all an acting game. This is what I learned in our intensivo that we had the first 2 week here. When you are offered food and you said "oh, no gracias" just like your mother taught you, they take that as "yes please, I'd love some more thank you for asking." I didn't learn till later that you had to throw in about 16 different phrases, man including "I can't eat anymore, seriously, you're going to kill me." Which apparently is the polite way of saying "seriously, NewMom, I'm worried that you might be trying to get rid of me with death by food."

The second dish is the meat portion. It's either pieces of chicken, steak, or lamb and it is almost always fried. And then covered in oil. And for both the first and second dish you must eat a big size of baguette because "it just isn't the same when you don't dip the bread in the fat/oil" They're right, it isn't the same. Even though I feel like I might just have a heart attack after the meal it really does make a different with that sleeve of bread that you also managed to stuff in your tummy. After the second dish comes the dessert.

By dessert I mean FRUIT! You might be saying to yourself, "well that's not too bad at all. Fruit's good for you!" Everything in moderation, my friends. The Spanish don't believe in moderation. They believe in Siesta and feeding you until you die. Most days we get melon. Melon the size of the elephant man's head. And yes, you eat it all.

With all of this said, I must confess that if she wasn't stuffing this wonderful food down my throat I would probably be doing it to myself, anyway. The food is just too amazing to decline. And if you do, the cook aka NewMom may no longer find a reason to live.

Don't fret, there is more to come.

really... TWICE!?

As I'm leaving the colegio where I help teach English, the professor who I help out asks me a favor: she wants to know if I want to get ice cream with her and then volunteer with little kids who's parents are unable to take care of them because of jobs/ or they are possibly in jail. The spanish are notorious for phrasing such invites in a way where it is IMPOSSIBLE to say no. Not that I didn't want to go, but I was wondering if there would be an oppurtunity in the conversation to say "ah, shoot,I have to visit my aunt in the hospital." Thankfully that wasn't an option because my poor aunt would be all alone at the hospital while I was eating ice cream at Plaza Mayor.

We go to the house where the ninos are staying and there are about 9 girls between the ages of 7 and 9. They were adorable and extremely excited to be talking with an American who they kept calling English. We played with them for about a half an hour and then took them back to the building where their parents picked them up. Remember that place where I almost got saved? Well, if not, then you can get the whole replay by scrolling to the next couple of entries. So this is the EXACT same place where I almost got saved. Not just the same building, the same APARTMENT. The same rooms, same chapel, same sinner (me).

You know that look you get from the priest when you only go to church on Easter and Christmas? He acts like he's happy to see you but really he's looking into your souless eyes wondering if there was really any chance in saving you. All answers point to no. This was the look I was getting from Isabel number 3 (apparently there are 4. There are only so many names from the Bible you can get without coming off as a hooker, slut, or murderer (ahem, Magdalen.. minus the murder. WE THINK). I happened to ignore a few of the emails saying they were meeting to feast on tuesdays and would like me to join. Now, I'm pretty sure they got the idea that I wasn't Catholic, or religious (ohmigawd say it isn't so), and I am still not sure if the Catholics practice cannibalism or not. A feast could mean anyhting. Anything.

Anyhoo, I don't think awkard is even the correct word to describe this situation. It was just. so. what. uh. yeahhh. so. EXACTLY. So there I am, repeating those words over and over in my head trying not to burst out laughing for fear of embaressing myself any more. I tell her how great her place is and how I should probably get back to my host mom because we eat at 9 and like to pray for 10-15 minutes before hand and god forbid if i'm late. Yeahhhh, soo.

Nonetheless, I will be doing this volunteering with the children situation every Friday I'm here because it actually was a lot of fun and I miss babysitting kids that age! (The kids I teach here are in 6th grade so 11/12 years old. Still fun but they're a bit smarter so I can't get away with not knowing much Spanish).

PS- I hit up the pasteleria twice today. Yeeeee!