A Cátalan Christmas Story

    Naturally, quirky 'ole Catalunya does Christmas in a slightly different way. Instead of a jolly old Santa Claus, the Catalans have the interesting tradition of the "Caga Tio" which brings Catalan children their Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. I'll start by breaking down the translation of "caga tio," The word "caga" comes from the word "cagar" which translates to none other than the verb, "to shit." Cagar does not translate to "defecate," "poo," or anything relatively PG, but directly to our favorite, four-letter cuss word, "shit." "Tio" translates to uncle, and is also used as slang to say "man," similar to our "dude." Once you pack the two words together, "caga tio" translates to "shit man." "Shit Man," believe it or not, is the Catalan Santa Claus.
   At this point, you might be wondering things like, "why would they defile Santa Claus in such a way?" or "Why the fixation on human feces?" or "did I translate his name wrong, or was Santa Claus's name lost in the murky waters of toilet translation? I too had similar questions, until I saw with my very own eyes and personally experienced what exactly it's like to be a Catalan child on Christmas eve.
   Normally, Santa Claus would just trespass through our chimeney, steal some food, leave behind some presents in our giant socks or under the indoor tree, and use his enslaved mutated red nosed reindeer to make a quick escape.
   Here in Barcelona, however, children have to put in some work to get their presents. Surprisingly, Caga Tio is not actually a man. In fact, he is more closely related to the likes of Pinnochio, because Caga Tio is actually a quite handsomely decorated tree branch.

   On December 8th, the night of the feast of the Immaculate Conception, families being to feed the  Caga Tio leftovers from each night of the 12 days of Christmas. Caga Tio digests these leftovers into presents. So, the presents are located inside Caga Tio, somewhere in his colon I believe, and the children must beat the presents out of him. Yes, the children must literally "beat the shit" (read: "presents") out of this constipated Yule Log.

Here I am, beating the shit out of a small log while
my roommates sing. The presents are underneath the blanket.

You sing a song while beating him, and it goes like this;

"Caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. caga tió!" Which translates from Catalan to; "Shit man, Shit turron (delicious pastry), Hazlenuts and Cottage Cheese, If you don't shit well, I will hit you with a stick. Shit man."    Personally,with lyrical genius like that, I think that could be a hit single given the right producer. Also, I am fighting really hard to plug the bubbling volcano of poop jokes in my head. Even "bubbling volcano" becomes a horrible metaphor to use right now.

   Well, my Caga Tio must have eaten an interesting meal beforehand, because I managed to beat out a bottle of Catalan Liquer, a hat matching that of my Caga Tio, and a nativity scene character.
The liquer was a ratafia-licorice type alcohol, the hat went nicely with my complexion, but upon closer examination, the nativity character appeared to be defecating as well.

   This is when I started to become confused, better yet, I didn't really know what to think -- my thoughts became rather constipated to say the least.

   Apparently, the story goes that this pooping pastor, or "Caganer" (translates to "shitter,") drank a bit too much egg nog, and then proceeded to go leave poopy-presents on all of the nativity scenes in his pueblo. There are several stories that are rumored to be the 'true' one, and the only true fact is that this tradition began about 200 years ago in the 17th or 18th century. Usually, the Caganer gets tucked away in a corner, or hidden somewhere in the nativity scene for the children to find. Surprisingly, and provocatively enough, the Caganer supposedly symbolizes equality of all people, in the idea that even a drunk mess is still a person, just like baby Jesus. Regardless of race, class, gender, or economic status, the Caganer teaches the often overlooked and valuable lesson, that everyone poops. Basically, we're all human, drunkards and Jesus alike, and Catalans make a point of trying to teach the lesson of equality to their children in the often commercialized, materialistic economic-disparit-highlighting holiday that Christmas has become in today's society. By placing our pooping pal in the biblical idealism of a nativity scene, the Caganer brings a healthy toilet bowl full of humility and realism to the holiday.
    I'm not too 'into' the holiday season, or very religious for that matter, but last time I checked, pooping men were probably the last thing you would see at the birth of baby Jesus. Then again, maybe that's why they needed all of that Frankincense and Mir. Either that, or maybe it's just a huge load of crap ( I was saving, or better yet, holding that one for a while).

I snuck a picture of Caganer and Caga Tio bonding over their
mutual love of everything bowel movement related.

My roommates and I at dinner before Caga Tio showed up.
 What a party pooper ! (hur hur hur) 

 Palabra del Dia: La Navidad - Christmas
Caga Tio es un parte gracioso de La Navidad Catalan. Shit Man is a funny part of the Catalan Christmas.

Rivalries

Walking into a crowded bar in Madrid wearing a Barcelona jersey is like jumping into a shark tank with a cinderblock tied to your waste; it’s just not smart. In fact, there are few things dumber, or more pompously arrogant than wearing the colors of a rival team (borderline gang) into enemy territory. 

This is exactly what I did on one of my nights in Madrid. I wore my Barcelona home jersey into a rowdy bar in the heart of Madrid on a Friday night at the request of my Cataluñan friends.

The Madrid-Barcelona rivalry is well-known. Like many rivalries, the never-ending, symbolic battle between the two teams represents much more than just a competitive rivalry, it’s a politically feuled struggle between two warring factions, the historic monarchy of Madrid and the Spanish empire against the rebellious underdog Catalonia, and their desired autonomy and sovereignty.

In Barcelona, if you even remotely mention a slight criticism of FCB, you will never hear the end of it.

One night, while watching an FCB game with Julian, my Catálan friend, I made the mistake of asking if Barcelona had any weaknesses, because according to him, they had none. Just as he began to answer, the other team scored, and before I knew it, Julian would not watch any FCB games with me for two weeks, out of fear that I was bad luck, and a traitor for assuming that FCB had weaknesses.

Another night, I was watching a game with a group of American friends and one made the mistake of wearing a shirt with a cartoon-ized picture of Ronaldo, the notoriously arrogant, high scoring Portuguese star of Real Madrid, playing fútbol with Homer Simpson. Upon standing up from his seat, a man noticed his shirt, and immediately after calling attention to it, it was as if a group of sharks smelled blood in the water. My friend was the injured baby seal, in a frenzy of patriotic Cataluñan sharks.

To the people of Cataluña and Barcelona, fútbol is more than a sport—it’s a politically and historically significant symbol that represents the culture crushing years of Franco’s dictatorship and historic oppression of Cataluña by the Spanish government. It’s a very passionate subject to say the very least.

Surprisingly, upon walking into that Madrileño bar with my Barcelona ‘blau-grana,’ nothing happened. I didn’t get lynched, incite a riot, or get in any physical fights (a few heated debates, but nothing out of the norm). Honestly, I was kind of disappointed at how little the people seemed to care about what originally seemed to be a massive rivalry worth dying over. It just wasn´t a very big deal in Madrid.

Rivalries, I realized, are always much different in the eyes of the underdog. For the people of Cataluña, the FCB –Real Madrid rivalry represents a modern day war, where players are soldiers that fight with goals and slide tackles instead of guns and bombs. For them it’s a message to Spain, and the rest of the world, that Cataluña isn’t just a part of Spain, but it’s own respective country.

For Madrid and Madridleños, FCB and Cataluña is just another defiant colony, squirming resistantly underneath the colonial fist of the Spanish empire. Madrid loves their fútbol, I got yelled at enough to know not to wear my FCB jersey there again, and the glares from across the room made me want to return home, but by the end of the night, I was friends with nearly everyone in the bar. Madrid, on average, began to seem like a friendlier place in general.

Opression is subjective. Opression, from the view of the oppressor, is insignificant. Opression, from the view of the oppressed however, is incredibly significant. The rivalry between FCB and Real Madrid exemplifies this perfectly, and when it comes down to it, seeing just one perspective will never tell the entire story.

Upon explaining the rivalry from the perspective of Barcelona and asking what fútbol meant to Barcelona, Julian, with a fire in his eyes that I had never seen before, told me that, “Spain can take our land, and our language, but they can never take our fútbol.” 

After asking the same question to one of my new Spanish friends in Madrid, he replied with, “Well, I love Real Madrid, but more importantly, want another beer?”

Personally, I rather just watch a Sharks game.

Palabra del día: Rivalridad - Rivalry

En Madrid, la rivalridad fue muy debíl. In Madrid, the rivalry was very weak.

Dia del Puente

   Tuesday and Thursday this week were holidays. Tuesday was "Día de la Constitución," and Thursday was "Día de la Inmaculada." I was in Madrid until Monday, I didn´t get back to Barcelona until around noon, and the majority of my classes had already been canceled because of the holidays, so I ended up not going to class on Monday. Since Tuesday and Thursday were both holidays, Wednesday became what the Spanish call "Día del Puente," or "Bridge Day." "Bridge Day" bridges the gap between holidays like this, so Wednesday, by default, becomes a holiday as well. Since the three middle days of the week were therefore all holidays, the entire week became a holiday. Thus, no one was at school or work this week, and I had to reschedule my English lessons as well.
   Let´s pause a moment to really think about this. Spain is a part of 'P.I.I.G.S.' (Portugal, Ireland, Italy, Greece, and Spain) which are the countries that have floundering economies, barely staying afloat, and dragging down the entire E.U.. Widespread protesting, strikes, and riots have broken out because of the economic situation, unemployment, and rampant inflation in these countries.Obviously, people aren´t very happy. In Spain, a staggering average of 21.3% of the workforce is unemployed, with unemployment rapidly increasing, and with some areas, like southern Spain, much worse than others. The people here in Barcelona call it a 'crisis,' and while at first I thought the crisis they referred to was FCB's two game losing streak, statistical evidence like the rising unemployment rate points toa slightly more severe crisis in the economy. The people demand increased social welfare programs, unemployment insurance, and at the same time limits to education fees and limits to hikes in taxes.These demands make sense, kind of.
   I hate taxes, work, and school just as much as your typical Spaniard, but once you take into account the magic of siesta, and holidays turned entire weeks of vacation, it´s hard to feel bad, or even think of a solution for the economic crisis Spain. A friend of mine recently talked to an English protestor in Madrid, impersonating a typical Spanish protestor, he announced that he would "gladly work from the hours of around 8-12, but needed a four hour break for lunch and a nap, and if he felt like it, might come back to work another few hours after his nap." While his demands were sarcastic, they were also soberingly honest, give or take a few hours. Siestas, the apparent lack of structured work hours, and  random holidays sprinkled throughout the work week make it very difficult to empathize with Spain when countries like Germany are forced to spend billions of euros bailing them out. If one were to comment on how the siesta and random holidays might possibly be, oh, i don´t know, a root cause of the economic crisis in Spain, they would be lambasted and ostracized for critizing cultural activities like mid-day naps and  Tuesday holidays.It might be considered racist to ask the question that, "If your city, or country, shuts down for a few hours every day, or a few days every month, how do you expect to create revenue generating jobs, or dig yourself out of an economic recession?" I would continue my rant, but I´ll be honest, it made me pretty tired, and now I need a nap.

Palabra del día: Perezoso - Lazy
No puedo terminar el proyecto hoy porque tengo que dormir en la tarde, y hay un dia de puente en el miercoles, pero no soy perezoso. I can´t finish the project today because I have to sleep in the afternoon and there is a bridge day on Wednesday, but I am not lazy.

5 Things in Madrid, España

           The Maury Povich show was a 90´s tabloid talk show, and public access channels play re-runs during the day time back in my home town.  Every so often, amid topics of teenage pregnancy, makeovers, phobias, and disfiguring illnesses, they had a rather poignant episode about a paternity dispute where a young mother tries to find her baby’s biological father. The mother tells her story, which is always rather depressing, about how the father impregnated her with a one night stand, or ran away with another woman, with absolutely nothing, not even a kiss good bye. The proposed father comes on stage, ushered in by ‘boos’ from the crowd, and the bouncers ritually hold back the mother from mauling the dad. After some heated debate, death threats, an ocean of bleeped out words, in addition to general sassiness from the audience, they finally reveal the results of the paternity test. Sometimes, it turns out that the dead beat dad is not the father at all. The mother is incredibly surprised, because she turns out to be just as promiscuous as the father. The look on the young mother’s face when Maury announces that the dad is in fact, “not the father” reeks of betrayal, shock, and blatant “dumbounded-ness,” if that is even a word. I´m pretty sure that´s not a real word, but no one can deny that this is 90´s daytime television at it’s absolute peak.

Well, long story short, when I told my Cataluñan friends that I was going to Madrid for the weekend, it was if Maury had just read them the paternity test results, and I was in fact not their baby’s daddy all along. I have never in my life seen faces with such twisted accusations of betrayal, shock, and surprise, among others. My friend simultaneously dropped his fork and jaw to the floor while eating lunch when I told him the news. My roommate stiffened and froze and warned me about the dangers awaiting me in Madrid when I dropped the proverbial ´bomb´on her. I’m also pretty sure someone might have given me some sort of strike on my Visa for being a ‘traitor’ back at that damn Visa office.

Cataluña and Madrid are rivals in everything from fútbol to the historically seeded political battle for Cataluñan autonomy and subjugation of the Catálan culture. Until now, I had only seen it from the side of Barcelona, the passionate and somewhat zealous heart and capital of Cataluña. Cataluña has always been the underdog to Spain, and professors and students at my university made an annoyingly firm stance at teaching and speaking in Catalan. Don’t forget that FCB isn´t just a fútbol club, but a militia that fights for Cataluña with goals instead of guns. Upon leaving for Madrid, I thought that this zealous brand of patriotism, was (dare I say it) a bit over the top, to be completely honest. After all, I came to Spain to learn Spanish, and frankly Barcelona seemed like a more interesting version of Madrid with better weather (i.e. Mediterranean beach). It turns out that Spanish is a whole lot different than Catálan, and the cultures have their differences as well. Madrid’s  royal majesty helped unfold a whole other chapter of the story that I hadn´t learned about in Barcelona, helping to explain the story of Cataluña that has been muddled (and a slight challenge) through letters like “Ç” and outspoken fútbol fans. My trip to Madrid helped clear some of the muck in the murky waters of the Cataluña-Spain debate, but until I get into the guts and glory of the Cataluña and Spain debate, my 5 things from Madrid are just shameless pleasures from the Spanish culture, like tapas and the royal legacy of Spain.

1) Tapas

Before coming to Madrid, I was told stories, bordering fables, of Tapas piles so high that you couldn't even reach the top in a multi-pitch, Everest-like ascent.  Naturally, with tapas edging out Penelope Cruz in my favorite things about Spain, my one goal in Madrid became to find and conquer this so called ‘montón’ of tapas. With the help of a few friends and some ambition, I did exactly that.

This is a bad picture from the first restaurant, "El Tigre." I wasn't concerned about taking pictures, or the deer head on the wall for that matter, I had tapas to take care of. After that, We were all nice and squished together making new friends in a fine establishment named ´Respiro,´ while enjoying the fine Spanish art and delicacy of tapas.

2) Art

           I like to explain Madrid by telling people that Paris is to France as Madrid is to Spain. Besides being capitals of their respective countries, Madrid and Paris also epitomize their respective cultures. Long before America´s reign at the top of the ladder, British supremacy during the Industrial Revolution, Napolean and the glory of the French renaissance, Spain enjoyed a few centuries as the most powerful country in the world with it´s vast overseas empire, Armadas, and the Inquisition. The Spanish royal family, and it´s respective culture therefore led to a rich and prominent collection of art and cultural history, which one can see in Madrid at museums like El Prado and Reina Sofia. Some paintings, like Velasquez's "Las meninas"(considered by many to be the best painting, ever) shows insight into life into what it might be like to live in one of the most powerful familes to have ever lived, while others show the horrors of civil war, like Picasso's "La Guernica," or Goya's "The Third of May, 1808." Overall, for me, these two museums were the highlights of my trip to Madrid, with Goya´s haunting and thought provoking ´black paintings´ being a cherry on top of my weekend in Madrid.

3) Parque Retiro

   Madrid, like most big cities in Europe, is a huge metropolitan hub that never siestas, or even sleeps for that matter. Unlike silent suburban blocks in America and empty parks, people actually use the parks and public spaces in Europe. Musicians, children, and the elderly all escape from cramped apartment living and spread out in sprawling parks and plazas.

   Parque Retiro is the go-to choice for Madrid parks, and it was easy to see why. Not only did this parque have a ´Harry Potter-esque´ section called ‘El Bosque de Buen Recuerdo´(Forest of good memory) but a man-made lake filled with row boats, in addition to a ´crystal palace,´ complete with black swans. Besides feeling like I was in a set from "The chronicles of Narnia," It was impossible to take bad pictures at this place, and there was a tranquility in the air that I hadn´t felt since Cadiz.

4) Toledo

“Holy Toledo!” I said shamelessly, upon stepping out of the bus onto some of the world´s oldest cobblestone streets, on our excursion to what is considered to be the world's most well-preserved, midevil city, Toledo. I ended up saying “Holy Toledo,” among other explicatives, about 12 to 13 times that day, mostly in reference to the swords I saw in gift shop windows next to full suits of armor. Back in the day, Toledo was the capital of Spain and point of embarkment for guys like Don Quixote, while Madrid was just beginning as a small humble military barracks protecting Toledo. Now, their main export is swords and armor. Personally, I think it's an improvement.

5) Temple Debod

Just when you think you've seen everything that Madrid has to offer, you stumble upon an ancient Egyptian temple, that overlooks a nantional park. Temple Debod everyone, a round of applause.

My first Spanish tortilla (pretty much a fancy omelette)

   Overall, Madrid was great because it gave me an opportunity to reassess why I came to Spain in the first place – to learn Spanish, and immerse myself in Spanish culture. My friends in Madrid are living and learning everything Spanish, with their nightly tapas, royal plazas, palaces and sprawling parks, except one thing. An unfortunate, and rather neglected side of Spanish culture are the centuries of oppression and subjugation of other cultures, like the Aztecs in the Americas, and the Cataluñans here in Barcelona. It’s hard to see something like oppression until you see it from the top, where it originated, and the bottom, where it happens. I saw it every day in Barcelona from the bottom, with subtle flags of protest hanging from balconies, road signs in catálan, and FCB. Now, I finally got the chance to see if from the top, with Madrid’s austere sense of nobility and monarchical control of Spain, and the world. Very few people get the opportunity to learn and live about a colonial empire, or dictatorship from the subjugated minority, and well, here I am, doing just that in the ´party capital´of Barcelona. It´s not just a year long vacation anymore, it´s a chance to learn about a side Spain than I had ever originally intended, and I welcome the challenge.

Word of the Day: (It's about time I change this to Palabra del día)

Palabra del día:Aprender - To learn
Aprendí como cocinar Tortilla Española. I learned how to make Spanish Tortilla.

Día de acción de Gracias

   Yesterday was my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, or as they say in spanish,  "Día de acción de Gracias." That's quite the mouth-full considering all you really need is a hefty appetite and the word "thanks" to celebrate this uniquely American day of feasting. Aside from being thankful, it's the one day of the year where it's socially acceptable to stuff as much food into yourself as physically possible in a glutton-filled attempt at being appreciative for the 'good' in your life. Call it hypocritical, but the leftovers, sweet potatoes, the awkward family silences, and the football (I should say"American" football) make this day the best day of the year. It's one of the few uniquely American holidays that we can celebrate together, regardless of religious affiliation, and I love every second of it.
   This year however, was my first time not being able to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family, and instead, my friends and I ate a dual-turkey dinner coordinated through our program. That's right, at my table of about nine people, we ate an excessive two whole turkeys, accompanied by an olympic-sized swimming pool's worth of wine. What we lacked in pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, and normal mashed potatoes, we made up for in our mutual realizations of how much we missed home. I guess you could say we ate our feelings in turkey. Come to think of it, that's exactly what we did.
   Thanksgiving, this year, was a reality check. Our dinner last night made me realize 1) how long a year really is, 2) How much I really love 'Murica, 3) I'm growing up, and 4) Don't let a vegetarian carve a turkey, it's just not a good idea for anyone. None of these realizations sat too comfortably at first, but I'm starting to get used to the idea that Barcelona will begin to feel more like home than Davis, and the people and places that I used to call home will change, and feel foreign to me upon my return. But that's the reason why I did this in the first place, for this amount of time, to flip everything I know and take for granted on it's head, in order to become cultured or grow up or 'enhance' my university education or something stupid like that.

Word of the Day: Thanks - Gracias
Gracias a todos para esta oportunidad. Thanks to everyone for this opportunity.

5 things about Amsterdam, The Netherlands

   Now that the smokey haze of my trip to Amsterdam has finally begun to settle, I can start to digest the events that took place in my four days and three nights in that dutch-themed amusement park of a city. There should be a warning that Amsterdam is actually a schizophrenic combination of two Dr.Jekyll/Mr.Hyde-esque places. During the day, Amsterdam is a quaint and pristine city, situated about a maze of canals, bordered by crooked town houses and filled with notoriously friendly Dutch people smiling and biking around. When seeing the city for the first time during the day, one can easily see how Amsterdam churned out and inspired artists like Rembrandt and the legendary Van Gogh. Amsterdam in day light is the type of place you would bring your grandmother too, or go to meet your girlfriend's parents for the first time. Alot of the midwest was settled by Dutch immigrants, and you can see the humble, friendly, pastry-filled roots of Dutch culture in Amsterdam. But then the sun sets.
   As the sun goes down, the city of Amsterdam transforms into a buffet of debauchery, with enough neon light and tourist traps to make the Las Vegas strip look like an elementary school playground. Rick Steves describes Amsterdam as a 'hedonist's delight,' and certain areas in Amsterdam are exactly that - with everything from pancakes of every flavor to prostitutes of every ethnicity. Somewhere in one of those alley ways you might be able to find whatever is left of my dignity next to the remnants of one of my pancake dinners.  Luckily I could make up for my lack of dignity by absolving myself of my sins at our hostel.
   Our hostel was a Christian hostel (read ‘mission’) tucked away on an alley way in the heart of the red light district, two doors down from a Thai massage parlor. Happy endings aside, we only stayed at our sanctuary long enough to get the bare minimum amount of sleep to function the next day, in order to avoid being exorcised by the somewhat over-zealous staff of volunteers. Other than pictures of Jesus on the walls and proverbs in our room scorning us with shame every time we came home late at night, eyes bloodshot, smelling like combinations of sin only possible in Amsterdam, the place wasn’t horrible, and it provided a good home base to retreat back to when it became unbearably cold outside. In all honesty, I'm surprised that I didn’t get smited right there in that hostel or burst into flames at some random point during the night.
   Both of Amsterdam's personalities, day and night, mix traditional dutch culture (clogs, pastries, blonde people) with 'relaxed' laws and a vegas-style night life for a fascinating, eclectic, and truly unique city. I could go on for a while about all of the schizophrenic qualities of Amsterdam, but I'll skip my rant and serve you a hot dish of 5 things about Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

1. Canals
   The canals in Amsterdam help make the city what it is - in addition to inspiring artists, the maze-like layout of the canals makes places like the Red light district really easy to get lost in. This can be really fun, for a few hours, until you realize that you've been wandering in circles and stopping in the same coffee shop for directions for over two hours. During the day, watching the light reflect off of the canals gives a sudden sense of clarity and understanding to the impressionist movement, but at night, the canals provide the perfect setting for tourist traps and creepy old men.

We took a canal cruise through the outer canals which turned out to be a 'lover's' cruise. It was lovely.

2. Coffee shops & Cannabis
   Amsterdam is well-known for it's 'coffee shops' that sell marijuana in some sort of ambiguous gray area of Dutch drug laws. Being a college student in California, I'd like to think that I know a thing or two when it comes to marijuana. Well, I 'learned' a whole lot in Amsterdam. But before you judge me, understand that I really enjoy a good ole cup o' joe. I am talking about coffee, nothing else right now. It turns out that it is kind of difficult to find a place that just sells a good cup of coffee. Regardless, the Dutch treat Marijuana like coffee. Dutch people and tourists alike head to their local coffee shops in the morning to drink a quick cup of coffee and smoke a joint or two and hang out for a while. Coming to Amsterdam, I expected to see shops filled with rasta-inspired, Bob Marley impersonators with joints the size of a baby's leg, with smoke billowing out of coffee shop windows reminiscent of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." To my shock, there was a huge shortage of Spicoli, and instead, it was very much as what a friend of mine described as a 'giant living room.'

The Bulldog, the world's first Coffeeshop

   When I first walked through the winding, canal-lined streets of Amsterdam, I was rather unimpressed. Upon first impression, it was just a giant theme park for adults, with the same deliciously guilt-ridden food, gimmicky shops, and a red light district instead of rides. Once you mixed in the whole 'Dutch theme' it just seemed raunchy, to be completely honest.
   But a little bit later, after drinking some 'coffee' and testing some of Amsterdam's finest, the city is absolutely incredible. The 'raunchiness' of Amsterdam went up in smoke and disappeared instantly. Neon, it turns out, is a really interesting color. Luckily I didn't realize at the time that the neon attracts tourists like mosquitos to a porch light, but that neon took me to some interesting places. You can walk for what seems like hours (which might actually turn out to be only a few minutes) in a maze of beautiful canals, get lost and never see the same thing twice. After wandering long enough, you eventually get a little hungry, which brings me to the next 'thing.'

3. Food
   The theme park I frequented as a child had great funnel cake. My parents and I would always share one after riding a roller coaster and soak in every trans-fatty, disgustingly sweet calorie. Dutch food brought the theme park of my food to a whole new, incomprehensible level, throwing away any of my previous notions of sweet, savory, and everything in between. The food, or what might be more aptly described as 'munchies,' was worth every guilt-ridden calorie. Everything I ate, for some odd reason, disappeared in a matter of seconds as if it were a freshly prepared Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of rural Ethiopia. My delicious dutch pastries disappeared more quickly than a set of 22 inch rims on a broken down Cadillac in south central Los Angeles. I ate my pancakes faster than a Kardashian wedding. I ate quickly to say the least, but I digress. One of my personal favorite food sources was "Febo's," and here's why.

  The neon lights, dutch phrase, and playful exclamation point draws you in, ( Go ahead and try to pronounce that without giggling). "Oh, this might be good, fast and cheap at least," you tell yourself, and then right there in front of you, a whole wall-vending machine stocked with deep fried goodness, for only a single euro, or maybe two if it's a deluxe burger. Thank you Holland, for this incredible invention, I will tell the people of my homeland stories of your human triumph. This easily beats the Eiffel tower in my humble opinion. I don't want to tell you how often I ate here, but if this were in Greece, I would have single-handedly saved their economy with how many little rice and bean filled croquets I bought.
   In addition to this gift of a restaurant, every other store in Amsterdam is a restaurant or food stand serving what appears to be the most delicious food you've ever seen. Some honorary mentions are pancakes, Argentinean steak, Vlaamse fries, and sweet, warm, powder-coated, jelly filled pastries. If I remember correctly, one blueberry turnover tasted like a reassuring pat on the back. Some of the food I ate in those few, chilly days in the Netherlands tasted like the closest I'll ever get to nirvana.

4. Anne Frank's Annex
   On a much more somber and sobering note, we decided to take a break from all of the sin and debauchery to do the responsible thing, and pay our respects to Anne Frank and her family.
  I've learned about the holocaust and the persecution of Jews in World War 2 quite a few times now, but the poignant story of Anne Frank always seems to evoke a very strong and tangible sense of emotion for me. The sheer numbers of the holocaust make it difficult to connect with individual stories and the ramifications for families, but Anne Frank's diary provides that connection, and window into nazi-occupied Europe. Anne Frank's story, unlike many other holocaust memoirs, offers an innocent and poignant perspective to the holocaust that ultimately summarizes the prolonged death of a thirteen year old Jewish girl and her family in hiding. For two years between 1942 and 1944 Anne hid in the annex of this apartment with seven other people, in a room not much bigger than the one I sit in right now. Out of the eight people that hid in the annex, only Otto, Anne's father, survived.

The entrance to the aparment that hid Anne Frank's annex

It's easy to forget stories and events like the Holocaust when you're in a place like Amsterdam, but it's important that we don't. While this story can leave the most positive individuals depressed, Anne Frank's unrelenting hope is something that should be admired, not mourned.

5. The library

   The staff at our hostel recommended the library on their list of things to go see. Personally, the library seemed like the absolute last place I would want to go in a city like Amsterdam, but it actually turned out be some pretty good advice. Located on the outskirts of the city on a canal, the Amsterdam library, or "Bibliotheek" is Europe's biggest library, and it provided a great place to rest and reflect on our adventure through Amsterdam. Besides having some of the most comfortable chairs I've ever had the honor of sitting in, the interior looked like the inside of the U.S.S. enterprise, adorned in white plastic and chrome from roof to floor. We stayed in the children's section, with the comfy chairs, bean bags, and Dutch picture books, which are surprisingly hilarious when trying to read them out loud.

 

   Amsterdam was more of an adventure than a trip, and these 5 things barely begin to summarize everything we did in our short weekend there. I think Amsterdam is the exact opposite of Paris, in the sense that it is everything but refined and classy, and instead like a giant living room, stocked with everything you could possibly want, besides Family Guy. Instead of refined and gourmet, the food is quick, dripping in grease, and just as, if not more delicious, and instead of sparkling monuments and history, Amsterdam has weed and hookers. And while it might be sad to see that Dutch culture in Amsterdam has been exploited into a theme for this theme park of a city, it is a sight to see none the less, and a really, really fun one at that. Overall, Amsterdam was just an unabashedly, inhibition-free, hands-down, good time.

Word of the Day: Fumar - To smoke
No fumé nada en Amsterdam. I did not smoke anything in Amsterdam.

5 Things about Teaching English

   Struggling to find a way to finance my weekends in Paris and nights in Barcelona, I was lucky enough to find a job teaching English to children ages 7 to 12. Teaching was never my first choice job, in fact, ever since teaching swim lessons, teaching anything to small kids with the attention span of a fruit fly has been relatively low on my list of job choices. However, money is money, and now that I'm a little older and have a little bit more patience, I decided to try again. It turns out, that teaching English here in Barcelona was one of the best decisions I've ever made, and I've learned a lot about myself, language acquisition, catalan culture, and teaching. Come to think of it, I've even been begrudgingly forced to grow up a little bit for teaching. Don't worry, just a little bit. Here is a list of the things that I have realized after teaching English to Spanish kids for the last month.

1. English is really difficult.
I consider myself to be pretty good at English. One might even go as far as to say that I'm proficient, maybe even decent at the language. After all, I've been using it every day for the last 20 years. Until looking at the language from an outside perspective, I did not realize how many random apostrophes, ambiguous verb tenses and weird little quirks we have in our language. In fact, I sadly realized how little I know about the language.

2. You have to grow up a little bit in order to teach.
Apparently, there is this thing in the real world called 'being or looking presentable' or 'looking professional. ' I have to interact with kids, and more importantly, I have to interact with their parents. So, I faced the harsh realization that you need to do these strange things like shave regularly, wear collared shirts, and not get to places late, but 'on time' or even 'early.' The whole concept of being early still confuses me a bit, I think this is what they might mean by culture shock.

3. You have to be prepared.
I realized that teachers, well, at least the good ones, know their stuff. They have lesson plans and activities and books and all sorts of stuff that they prepare in advance for their students. This means you can't roll out of bed, show up hungover and expect to teach two back to back hour long lessons. I've heard that this is actually extremely difficult, and the kids will see right through an unprepared teacher. If you are one of the fortunate few teachers that can teach under those conditions, well, good for you, you're a horrible role model.

4. The Kids
One of my kids legitimately looks forward to his lessons, his parents told me so. He pays attention, does his homework, and might even be smarter than me. He keeps me on my toes to say the least, and honestly, I love it. Over the last month, I've watched him go from struggling over English words like a fresh marine recruit struggling to climb over an obstacle wall at boot camp to Captain America plowing his way through every English word on the page like it's D-Day. It's pretty cool to think that I've taught him that, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. Even though teaching still might not be my dream job, I now understand why teachers teach, and how that one student can make a world of difference on a bad day.

5. The Culture
Teaching English here in Spain has given me the unique opportunity to get close with the families. Not only are they helping me with my Spanish, but I'm also starting to pick up Catalán, and learn about Spanish and Catalán culture. In fact, I watched a James Bond movie in Catalan the other night. Other than that, I get to see the child's perspective of the Spanish academic system. All of my students ( I have 7 total) are currently learning four languages at once. The typical list consists of Spanish (Castellano), Catalán, French, and English. By the time they're out of high school, they are fluent in Castellano and Catalán, and very close, if not fluent in French and English as well. When I was seven years old, I would wear my underwear on the outside of my pants and tie a towel around my neck and then go jump off the couch. At seven years old, I was very seriously working on becoming Batman. In high school I learned some Spanish, and I'm still working on the whole English thing. These kids are working on becoming miniature diplomats and translators. Just think about all the people those extra languages open the kids up to at an early age! I think that's one of the many reasons that today's Europe, on average, is much more socially liberal and progressive than America. They're exposed to more cultures and societies from the time that they are very young, and they grow up with a less isolated, more global view of the world, while we watch "Jersey Shore" and watch rap stars show us their bedazzled jacuzzis in their cribs.



Overall, teaching gives me a profound new respect for teachers, and it's helping me transition to the real world, whether I like it or not. As much as I don't like shaving, I have discovered that I look awfully handsome in collared shirts, and when you get to a place early, you have time to do grown up things like read newspapers, drink expressos and nap.

Is it still considered 'grown - up' if I eat the sugar cubes separately and pretend like I didn't get any sugar?

Word of the Day: Enseñar - To teach
Enseño niños el ingles y en la realidad, es un poco divertido. I teach kids English and in reality, it's kind of fun.

The Eiffel Tower

   I didn't forget to mention the Eiffel Tower in 5 things, I really just didn't have the space to say everything that I wanted to say. I figured I would save this tourist attraction for last, since it was probably the most touristy and uninteresting thing that I did. 
   When I got off the bus (it took me into Paris proper from the Beauvais airport), I went to go meet my tour guide and gracious host, Rob at his university, which was conveniently only a few blocks away from the Eiffel tower. While waiting for him to finish work, I went to check out Paris's iconic statement to the world, and what used to be the world's tallest structure until the Empire State building took it's title.
  Now, the Eiffel tower is on the shorter side of the world's tallest structures, with the Burj in Dubai literally towering over the Eiffel tower, but it is still incredible to say the least. Once you add the fact that it was built in 1891, and see it for yourself, you can't help but be slightly impressed. 

Naturally, I wanted to go up to the top. Isn't that the point of a tower anyway? But there was a massive line for the elevator that wrapped around the tower and might have ended somewhere in the Sein river a few blocks away. 

After waiting in lines for my Visa, planes, and museums, I said "no," and looked for another option. I decided to pay a little bit less and avoid the line by taking the stairs. Little did I know that I was about to embark upon the Parisian version of quad-burning mayhem and a marathon-like test of cardiovascular endurance. So, I plugged in my headphones and played the following song. 

Needless to say, with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger," blasting into my ear drums, the first 347 steps to the first observation level went relatively quickly. Out of breath, I got to look at the poor bastards waiting in that never-ending, soul-destroying line. So, like a Parisian, I second-hand smoked a few cigarettes, relaxed, and people-watched before making my way from base camp into the more difficult level, observation deck two, where few dare to go.

   No song could prepare me for the next set of stairs. While 347 stairs separate the earth from the first observation deck, 674 steps separate the first observation deck from the second. So, with my quads threatening to give out, and my calves wishing I waited in line, I took off my jacket and started the ascent.

   Somewhere around stair 230-240, the air began to thin, and the altitude started to make me see things. This is a picture of Andres, my sherpa and guide up the tower. I'm still not sure why he kept running away when I tried to ask him for oxygen, isn't that his job?

   In my time here in Europe, I've seen some pretty alright views. This was one of them. Because it was so alright, I decided to stay at the second observation deck. And by decide, I mean that any more stairs would have made me go into cardiac arrest. But, I realized that I might never get the chance to come back to this tower of leg-muscle-inferno, so I got in line to go to the top. Luckily, there was only an elevator to the very top, no more stairs.

   After waiting in line for 15 minutes, I realized that I was in the line for the 'down' elevator. All that work, nearly flushed down the drain. Like I said, the altitude, lack of oxygen, and onset cardiac arrest was doing funny things to my brain. So, I stumbled over to the right elevator, and payed my 5 euro to summit this steel beast.

It's really tall. And upon looking out at the city of Paris, from the top of the eiffel tower, I had yet another epiphany. This song, "Midnight City" by M83 came on, and well, it set the mood for the epiphany.

   Now, there were about 50 people at the top of the Eiffel tower when I got there. Out of those 50 people, I heard somewhere in between 10-15 different languages. Growing up, and in Spain, the most I have ever heard at one time was three, maybe four, which included Spanish, Chinese, English, and maybe Farsi, usually at a Panda Express or Costco. But at the top of that tower, I was awestruck and simply dumbfounded at the amount of languages that I heard, and that these were people from all over the world that had come to see the same tower that I had seen in movies and learned about as a child. Have you ever heard a Portuguese man tell his 9 year old son what the Sein river is? Have you ever seen a Russian couple take a picture for a Korean family without having to say any words? Well, on the top of that tower, I saw just that. It made me realize that this incredible French creation, was something that everyone and anyone could appreciate. You don't need words, or language to appreciate it, just eyes and an open mind. It wasn't just a French creation for French people, but a human creation, for humanity. And even though we fight, disagree, compete and threaten to blow each-other up, we are still human at the very least. On top of that tower, I saw my fellow humans appreciating humanity, and dammit, that was beautiful. There was no competition at the top, no bomb threats as far as I knew, and no racism, or shred of 'cultural superiority.' It was simply a handful of people, from a bunch of different backgrounds, appreciating something form a different culture, thousands of miles away from their respective homes. Like a child upon completing their first macaroni necklace, France says, "Hey guys, look what I made," and we said admiringly, "good job France, good job." This mutual appreciation for culture and people has drifted away in recent years, with the global economic recession, nuclear weapons, war, and ethnic tension among other things sucking the life and enjoyment out of the world. Call me an optimist, or naive, but I'd like to think that it's not too late to bring back this cultural appreciation.  After all, I went from hating the very thought of crepes to slightly enjoying the funny little french pancake in a few hours, so how hard could it be?


Word of the Day: Torre - Tower
El Torre Eiffel tiene una gran vista de Paris. The Eiffel tower has a great view of Paris.

5 things in Paris, France

   Now, before I humbly try and take on the wonderful city of Paris in this blog, I have an important disclaimer; I had only eaten a crepe once before coming to Paris, and frankly, I was rather unimpressed and let down. I concluded that, in reality, a crepe was basically a glorified, poorly-cooked, skinny pancake. Similarly, before Paris, and being the poor college student that I am, I usually avoided food that took over 10 minutes to make and eat,  needed more than one utensil to bridge the gap between plate and mouth, and if I couldn't eat it with my hands or if it wasn't wrapped in a tortilla, well, I would steer clear of that food. Sure, I'd spend a little extra money every once in a while on a sushi buffet, or a good $7 burrito, or go crazy at Trader Joe's and buy some fancy hummus, but my philosophy has pretty much always been, "if the food goes to the same place in the end, why spend the extra time or money?"

   In general, this philosophy kind of applied to my whole life. I've always stressed functionality and practicality over things like style and effort. When it came to quality versus quantity, I usually went for quantity. I wear sweats and flip-flops to class, and I while I know my hair looks great, and is the envy of many, I usually only went to super-cuts to get a hair cut. Now you all know my secret.

   Well, my weekend in Paris slapped my un-refined, simple, California, burrito-boy ways upside the head, and began to replace them with the sophistication, refinement, and appreciation for fine French cuisine and Paris lifestyle that only the Parisian way can teach. So, without further a due, here are my 5 things about Paris, France.

1. French Cuisine

  I love eating wierd food and food in general. In Cádiz I ate a live shrimp. One time on a fishing trip my cousin's grandpa ate a bate fish. Sometimes, my mom even buys 2% milk! Needless to say, I think my love of weird foods and appreciation for gastronomic exploration runs in the family. So, for my trip to Paris, I wanted to dive in head first into legendary French cuisine, and try everything from escargot to beef tar-tar, which I did. French cuisine, in fact, deserves an entry on it's own.

   I'm a big fan of Anthony Bourdain's show, "No Reservations." I've always watched it for the travel aspect of it, and before Paris, I kind of ignored the food side because I figured he went to really expensive restaurants that would cost me a month's rent for an entrée. Well, my friend and guide to Paris, Rob, had me watch the episode about Paris, one of the first episodes of the show. In this episode, Bourdain goes to Paris, and visits a simple, seemingly non-desrcript restaurant called 'Robert et Louise.' To say the least, Bourdain says that this place is incredible, and to my surprise, Rob told me that this restaurant was literally only a few blocks away from his apartment. So we went, and dear god, did I have the meal of a lifetime. 

Sweet, savory, mouth-watering blood-sausage on some bread. I have no words.

Escargot. It was my first time trying it, and it really only tastes like garlic and butter. It's good, and I recommend trying it, but it's not all it's cracked up to be. Just a buttery, garlic, warm slug. Like the one you ate as a toddler in your mom's garden, but warmer, and more refined, and about 8 euros more expensive.

And then they came out with this open-flame-roasted-hunk-of-Anthony-Bourdain recommended meat for my friend and I to split. Over the next 20 minutes, my life would never be the same. It did everything from falling off the bone, melting in my mouth, and changing my life. Again, I have no words. 

This meal, well, it changed my life. 

   From gourmet chocolate to gourmet cheese, from the finest wines to the sweetest cognacs, from escargot to caviar, from filet mignon to beef tar-tar, France literally invented fine dining and modern cuisine as we know it today. Add in a few hundred cigarettes, and you'll quickly realize that France, and French culture shaped the world and what we know today as 'high society.' France invented everything from the appetizer to the croissant, and France's few hundred years at the top of the European cultural ladder helped develop everything from fashion to philosophy. From Voltaire to Louis Vuitton, France set the standard for refinement and sophistication, and Parisians epitomize this. Hot pockets and bagel bites, cereal and potstickers will never satisfy me like they used to. Thanks Paris, you've turned my life in a new direction.

2. Shakespeare and Company

   After World War 1, people were confused. Disillusioned and trying to find a new home, a lot of American ex-pats settled in Europe, because they didn't want to go back to the states. Thus, a lot of people ended up in Paris, with the bohemian Parisian lifestyle being a refreshing change and a point of refuge from the death and destruction of the war. 

   This is the original Shakespeare and Company, a bookstore that offered room and board to aspiring writers who worked there. It is also credited by some to be the birthplace of modern literature, because it was a meeting place for the likes of Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and James Joyce to name a few. In fact, the first owner, Sylvia Beach, published Joyce's legendary work, Ulysses. Later on, the store became a meeting place and foundation for the 'beat generation,' with writers like Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs meeting there. So I went in, looked around, wished I was as cool as the hipsters who hung out and worked there, and then I bought Dharma Bums, by Jack Kerouac, which a friend had recommended to me earlier, as my souvenier. 

3. The Catacombs

   Deep underneath Paris, in a former quarry, lie the 'Catacombes de Paris', which house the bones of approximately 6,000,000 people. In the late 18th century, Paris's growing population and outbreaks like the plague caused Parisian cemeteries to fill up and overflow, forcing Parisians to move their dead into the empty quarries in what would have probably caused a lot of upheaval from the Catholic church and religious turmoil. After descending a few hundred stairs into what seem to be the pits of hell, you are greeted by a sign that says, "Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la Mort," which translates to, "Stop, this is the empire of death." If that wasn't creepy enough, the air transforms into a musty, cold, stench, and the ground becomes moist. Rats scurry past your feet and you begin to realize that you are walking into an ossuary, or a giant vault of death. Sounds like the stuff nightmares are made of.

There were literally just rows and rows of bones and skulls. In some areas they made designs out of the bones.

They were real. Don't touch them.

   In retrospect, walking deep underground into a claustrophobic death chamber, and one of the world's most haunted places might have not been the happiest place to go, but without a doubt, it was definitely one of the coolest things I've seen. If I had gotten trapped in there, well, that just would not have been ok.

4. The Louvre and Orsay museums.

Paris is filled with art. Two of the best art museums are the Orsay and the Louvre. We had to squeeze our visits to both museums in one day, and you can't take cameras into the Orsay. But in the Orsay, I saw the impressionist genius of Monet, some Manet, and "Portrait of an Artist," by the legendary Vincent Van Gogh, to name a few. I pretended to know alot more. The Louvre was huge. It's housed in a palace about half the size of my university campus back home. We got lost in the Egypt exhibit, strolled through Roman and Greek sculptures, and saw the Mona Lisa among others. It's small and guarded by a bunch of glass. There is always a crowd in front of it. Sorry Da Vinci, but I was unimpressed. Luckily your Illuminati code and contributions to humanity were more interesting.

5. Wine & Cheese at the Luxembourg Gardens
    On Saturday, we decided to live like a parisian by drinking wine trying some fancy cheese at the luxembourg palace and gardens. It was absolutely delightful.

   Overall, I learned that Parisians really know how to live and enjoy themselves, and I got to take a huge bite of the Parisian lifestyle. From fashion to food, they pretty much have it covered, or at least a gourmet version of it. I had a delicious time, 10/10, and a food coma but for some reason I feel like I'm forgetting to mention something. Maybe I'll remember it later.

Word of the Day: Comida - food
Cuando estaba en Paris, aprendí a apreciar comida de la primera calidad. When I was in Paris, I learned to appreciate food of the finest quality.