Spain
¡Hola! ¿Qué tal?
This photo on the left I took in Seville. It is the central part of a triptych which praises and pays homage to the patron saint of Navigation. Her guiding hand and spirit is what brought great wealth to the country of Spain (through the explorations and new trade routes made possible by people such as Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci—both seen in the painting bowing with clasped hands).
This saint seemed to have been watching over our group as well as we crossed the Atlantic and wove our way through the beautiful Spanish cities and country sides. My travels were smooth sailing on land and lead me to a variety of cultural sights and sounds which I won’t soon forget.
Upon arrival in Cádiz, my ship emptied and unleashed 750+ students upon the sleepy port city. I spent the morning of our first day wandering through the never ending alleyways and passing through the dramatic plazas that would crop up every few blocks or so.
My neck would strain to see the tops of cathedrals, my skin would tingle with the warm sun keeping me company on my tour, my ears would rejoice to the sound of numerous street performers, my mouth would water at the sights and smells and tastes of the Spanish cuisine and my feet would sweat and bring the smell of a high school gym locker wherever I walked (it’s the only real problem with my Chaco sandals).
The directionless, awe-inspired stumbling eventually lead me to the cathedral in the center of the town. My friends and I paid the 4 euro to climb the winding ramp to the top of the bell tower and from this vantage point I was greeted with a full panoramic view of the ocean, the edificios blancos, and the tops of the breathtaking Cádiz. I snapped about a thousand photos before making our way back down (I will be happy to show them to you when I return).
From the cathedral we discovered a central market with fresh fruit and sea food (as you may see in my short video below this entry), a nice cafe for lunch, and a Huelga in process (For Wesley: ¿Qué significa huelga?).
Before we boarded the train we decided to split up to purchase a few travel items (snacks, a hat, some odor-eaters for my feet). As we separated and turned around to work our way back through busy streets, we were met with what seemed like the beginning of the film Vanilla Sky.
Siesta Time was in full effect! No one was out. All shops were closed. The perceptible hum of travellers and locals alike which had floated through the streets just minutes ago had all but evaporated. So I had to board the train hatless and with stinky feet afterall.
Our train ride involved a stop over in a small town called Dos Hermanas. Apparently the Siesta is strictly enforced all throughout the country for as we walked into the strangely tranquil Ghost town the squeak of my sandals on the cobble stone was audible (and made for an eery entrance). The atmosphere kept 
us all speaking in a whisper.
As we sat for a café con leche, the clock struck 5 in town. After a few minutes a car passed. Then a person walked by. After a little bit more time, more semi-groggy Spaniards passed on mopeds and windows began to open. By the time it was 5:30 and we were heading back to our train, shops had reopened their doors and the whole sleepy town had awoken.
That night we arrived in Granada. We found our hostel (which had been ranked one of the best by various sources) kept hidden behind a series of Téterias (tea shops) and hookah bars (we were in the Moroccan quarters).
Now if you haven’t travelled in hostels before, they can be a real crap shoot. I have paid very little at some places and have felt very well accommodated (5th paragraph down) where as others have been high priced and didn’t really deliver. But what’s great about travelling is that the worse situations make for the best stories. Let me tell you about this hostel:
Upon arrival we were met by a multi-lingual receptionist (5 languages I think?) from Belgium who encouraged us to hang out and visit the bar with our free drink vouchers before she checked us in. We were all hungry but decided to put our things down to rest for a minute. While waiting to be checked in we sat down on some of the couches in the lobby. One of my fellow travellers hopped up after a few minutes due to having ants all over her legs.
I wandered the grounds and found the standard set of travellers conversing over various topics such as “the revolution” and the best places to eat in Bangkok and how to evade capture while smuggling plants out of Argentina (all with the Spanish guitar being strummed in the background by a long haired greasy man). Normal banter for these types of places.
After a half hour or so I went to seek out the receptionist and found that she was drinking and talking to that very same guitar player. I asked her in Spanish if we could
check in soon and she hopped up as if she had completely forgotten about us (which I suppose she had).
That night after returning from dinner we split up to our various bunk-bedded rooms. The lights didn’t work in our bathroom and the door to the toilet was locked (which I later found out was because someone had passed out inside of the room and locked themselves in).
I laid down to a relatively quiet room, but the hostel life didn’t let that go on for too long. In the middle of the night I was awoken a few times by such incidents as: a man shouting vehemently at his brother on his cell phone out of our window; a slew of over imbibed backpackers slipping into our room audibly attempting to find their beds; and a British woman on the bed above me whose sleeping sounded like an idling motocross bike. I didn’t sleep that well.
The next morning as I stumbled downstairs to find the bathroom, all I wanted was a cup of coffee. I grabbed the freshley brewed pot, poured a healthy serving, stirred in 2 spoonfuls of sugar and took a generous slurp. Another problem with hostels is that they occasionally don’t mark all of their jars. My coffee wasn’t the sweet eye opener I was hoping for but rather a true taste of the Atlantic in all its saltiness (why would they put out a salt jar next to the coffee pot?).
But I laughed! And savored it! And loved it! Because that’s a story! And that’s the beauty of new places and people (and tastes).
This blog is really too long already. If you’ve gotten this far I commend you. I’ll close (really before even talking about what I did) by saying that life is good. Spain was a great opening port and a reminder of how great it is to be that foreigner in a new land. My Spanish (or Castellano) got me around, sure, but the sense of wonderment which accompanies each new city or culture or view makes one feel so human and small and humbled. An education unto itself.
I saw the Alhambra. I spent two days in Seville. I ate Tortilla Española, Gazpacho, and a host of other Tapas. I got a tan at the beach and swam in the Atlantic and spoke in Spanish whenver I got the chance. Not a bad way to spend the summer.
Thanks for reading. If you have any specific questions send me an email. Otherwise, I will write again soon.
All the best,
Casey
PS Despite the differences in geography, culture, language, and all of the other things that made us Americans and them Europeans, there was still more than one time when we connected on a deeper level. While walking into a club one night “Don’t stop till you get enough” was playing on the loud speaker. I shook my head and spoke “Que Triste” to the bartender and he nodded solemnly in agreement. R.I.P. Michael.
