Ketchup (catch up)

Howdy, it's been awhile. I haven't been extraordinarily busy since we last chatted, but here's what you've missed.
This weekend we went to Almería, a sleepy little puebla Southeast of Granada on the Mediterranean coast. We stayed in a fairly touristy hotel, but it was only about a 10 minute walk from the beach. I think the resounding winner of the whole weekend was the hotel dinner buffet. It was mostly seafood and it was all freshly caught, there was also an open bar so we enjoyed a nice bottle of red wine with our surf n' turf.
The beach was mostly gravel. By day, I skittered around from shade to shade and agonized over every moment I was in the intense sun, like a cockroach longing for the security found underneath the refrigerator.
The highlight of the trip was really when the sun went down. A big group of us brought drinks to the beach. The moonlight lit up the entire night, I don't think I'd ever seen it so bright. Mix that with the tranquil Mediterranean and good company and you have the makings of a great evening.
The general consensus was that the trip to the beach was just what the doctor ordered. We also all agreed that the last thing we really needed, with our extremely light class load (if you can even call our classes classes) and the once-in-a-lifetime experience of being set loose in Spain for 3.5 months, was a weekend getaway.
The other noteworthy tidbit from my week was, once again, open mic night. I think it's come full circle from me putting myself out there, to being a comfort activity that I look forward to every week. And I'm not sure that's a good thing. It's most certainly an American bar, although the owners are Irish. Open mic night may have run it's course (plus I'm running out of songs!)
I'll confess that I'm contemplating retirement not because I've reached a plateau of self-realization, but rather, I want to quit while I'm ahead. About 15 minutes before I took the stage, a friendly Canadian came up to me and said he really enjoyed my rendition of "Long Black Veil," that I had played last week. He was a burly fellow and he'd been living in Granada for about a year. I didn't catch his name, but he really made my night. I'm happy to take encouragement/praise from any stranger regardless of tone or credibility. But this guy seemed sincere AND he was quite talented himself. He took the stage for 3-4 songs and did a bang up job.
Tonight, I'm debating going to Granada 10, a discoteca in my neck-of-the-woods. Wednesday is ladies night and it's usually an absolute spectacle. Last week there were male dancers, one of whom had a rat tail down to his lower back. There are also group dancing activities led by the most flamboyantly fabulous MC I've ever seen. This time I promise pictures.

Saludos,

Erik 

Open Mic Night: Round Two

I went to open mic night again at Hannigan’s yesterday. I was standing at the bar, ordering, when Andres, my English friend came up to me. We greeted one another and I told him I was just there to take in the music, and not to play. He gave me a sly look, and when my beer arrived, he pointed at it and said, “Right then, I’ll just let you lubricate yourself and we’ll chat later.” Well, later came and I told Andres I’d take the stage for a song. I only did it because I was seriously jonesing and I needed my guitar fix. But also, a lot of my friends where there and Andres, that “cheeky little twit,” proposed the idea of me playing when we were all together. So I played Long Black Veil, an American folk song of unknown origins. And in this unbiased observer’s opinion, I rocked it. My voice was cooperating and that guitar was made for folk. It was a great night, all in all. Only, there was a point when all the girls wanted to hear about Maren. Don’t get me wrong, I could sing her praises ‘till the cows come home, and I did. But talking about all the things that make her so great, really made me miss her. But, I cheered myself up and even accompanied Andres on the bongos while he played a simple little reggae song. Then I took the stage again as the night was winding down and a good time was had by all. But I can’t help feeling that weasely little Brit is just using me for my quasi-talent…

Pictures!

Credit: Sally Stadelman @ facebook.com

Credit: María Neufeld @ facebook.com

Música Gratis

September 12

¡Que genial este Sábado!

Sebí made a delicious dinner of tortellini in a creamy red sauce and grilled chicken breast on the side; it was fantastic. Then John and I had a couple drinks before going our separate ways. I decided to meet up with my buddy Brett and check out the Delecuentes concert. It was a free show at a park down by the river. So we split a cab and we were dropped off at this unbelievably gaudy carnival that fed into the lot where the concert was held. We sipped our beer and people watched at the carnival and made our way into the venue.

            It was amazing; the opening band was a surprisingly good funk ensemble with an American front man. They played Sly and the Family Stone, Rick James and even a bit of Little Richard I think. It was good music, but almost as importantly, it reminded me of home and just made me feel good (when does funk not make you feel fine, honestly?). Los Delecuentes were nothing too special, but it was cool to see all the Spaniards get behind their favorite band. They come from Cadiz and, apparently, they are gaining momentum throughout the whole country. But Granada, being so close to home for those boys, has always been good to them. It’s great seeing a band whose affection for their fans is genuine, and I guess that’s all you can ask from a show.

Botellón

September 11

Friday was a blast. Some friends and I attended the Botellón in downtown Granada. Essentially, Granada’s youth gathers in a large park and they bring their own drinks and chat/enjoy the open air before going to their favorite bar or discoteca. An interesting tidbit: the myths about Spanish class and moderation with regards to alcohol are a complete myth, at least in Granada. There was malt liquor, boxed wine and cheap vodka chased with cola as far as the eye could see. It was very interesting to observe, however. My friend and I spoke with a group of Spaniards for about 15 minutes. The topic? Pau Gasol’s pervasive supremacy throughout our planet. He really is one of my favorite athletes. He is objectively kind, he plans to finish medical school after his career, and he is just plain graceful on the basketball court. But the mania these guys had for Pau bordered on worship. Well, I should really say “bordered,” at one point, the guy standing next to me claimed he was God.

            Back to the story, we left the Botellón around 3 a.m. because the girls were getting tired. After we walked them home John (my roommate) and I stopped in a bar to use the aseos. When I came out of the bathroom, John was talking and laughing with the bartender. It took me a second to recognize the bartender, but I almost fell over when I made the connection. It was Marco, a gentleman with whom John had engaged in a serious political debate about Iran’s ideal role in the Middle East. To add a little more context; John can hardly speak in complete sentences in the present tense, the discussion took place at 5 a.m., the venue? A 24 hour Chawarma establishment. John was also cripplingly drunk at the time. I was not, so I was the one mediating the discussion, translating for John as best I could (and leaving out the less enlightened comments that really had no grounding in fact). Despite this near international disaster, Marco greeted us both warmly. And, although the employees were packing up and wiping down tables, Marco poured us both a delicious dessert shot whose name escapes me. He walked us to the door and told us to come back any time we wanted.

            I think that’s just a fun little anecdote and the circumstances were mostly chance, but it made feel like I’m fitting in more and more in this city and this culture.  

Un Saludo,

Erik

Open Mic Night!

September 8

            I had quite the Tuesday night yesterday. I agreed to meet Jon and some of his friends from his nivel (level) for drinks and tapas after my 8 o’clock class. I’m getting much better at pushing through the initial awkwardness of ham-handed introductions and in 10 minutes we were chatting and regaling one another with our new experiences and exchanging stories about our respective homes. We picked up some bocadillos for dinner and the conversation and drinks started flowing naturally. After dinner, I informed the group that we could watch the Spain Argentina match at a cozy pub I had discovered over the weekend. Unfortunately, when we arrived at Hanegan’s, Argentina was up 2-0 in the 25^th minute. It was a terrible game and the Spaniards completely rolled over. But that didn’t kill the mood, for it was open mic night! I was shooting the breeze with an English ex-pat named Adrian, who was running the whole ordeal, when I made the mistake of mentioning how I longed to get my hands on a guitar. “Tonight’s the night you’ve been waiting for mate,” he informed me, and after another pint or so I took the stage. I played “Lie in our Graves” by the Dave Matthews Band and I’m happy to report I was not booed off stage. Surely, the beer influenced my decision, but I was still as nervous as I always am before I play in front of anyone besides a mirror. I think that song was a manifestation of my willingness to put myself out there and try new things while abroad. That’s the thing I’d most like to take back to the states with me. Afterwards, John congratulated me and bought me a pint; my new friends were also very supportive. The whole production really made me feel at home, something I haven’t necessarily missed, but a quality that has been absent since my arrival. All in all, it was a great night and it even numbed the pangs I’ve been feeling for Maren (girlfriend). I’ll have to come up with a set list for open mic night next Tuesday!

Until next time,

Erik

Alhambra

            We took a guided tour of the Alhambra, an ancient royal city perched atop all of Granada. It has been occupied by the Romans, Iberians, Moors, and Christians. But it is the Moorish influence that endures and the Muslim architecture that makes it a cultural heritage site. Most people think mosque when they think Alhambra, but it was really an entire city. It’s primary function was as a royal citadel, for the Moorish rulers of Granada were kings and had to defend their land fiercely. There are throne rooms, reflecting pools, gardens, palaces, mosques and harem apartments throughout the compound. I learned all of this from our brilliant tour guide Ignacio. Here are pictures.

Alhambra entrance

The Alhambra from the Albaicín (the Muslim quarter of Granada)

catching my breath at an ancient defense post

Class

September 3

            I haven’t really touched on classes yet. We all have to test in to 1 of 8 levels of competency for our “language intensive course” that lasts for four weeks. I’m in level 6. Our teacher is great, her name is Soledad or Sole. The first hour of our four-hour class was dedicated to sexual vocabulary and swear words. We were all giggling at first, but that vocab really is an integral part of Spanish life (and life in general as Sole would argue). It’s great brushing up on the details of grammar and sentence construction (something that was completely lacking in Drake’s language program). But the cultural aspects are just as useful. For instance, we were working on our commands and we had to “prohibit” sole from doing something. I told her not to smoke: bad idea. She launched into a tirade about how smoking is good for your body, mind and soul. It was very tongue-in-cheek, but it still made me realize that the Spanish don’t pour millions of dollars into antismoking campaigns and, therefore, tobacco companies don’t pour millions of dollars into lobbying here. Their warnings are more in your face, but it made me wonder if just talking about smoking (for or against) plays into Big Tobacco’s hand. That’s my philosophical quandary for the day.

Hasta luego,

Erik

First Impressions

September 2

It’s hasn’t been two days, but I’m beginning to believe that you truly do discover quite a bit about yourself studying in a foreign country. My friends always told me that they really “found themselves,” or “became a whole different person,” on their semester abroad. I often snickered to myself and maintained that those comments were as pretentious as they were stupid. I would still make that claim, but after a few days around Granada I make the claim without the cynicism and sarcasm. It’s very early, but I have a funny feeling I’m going to gain a whole boatload of insight into how I respond to adversity, how I derive value from my relationships, and a lot more. For better or for worse, I think I’ll get a broader and more accurate picture on those topics and a whole host of others.

Quick side note: the entry about my first day in Granada was written a few days after the fact. After reading it, I think it has a weird 3^rd person omniscient quality, which is totally lame. But I was getting over the whole “woe is me” phase and I was too profoundly whiny and depressed to start the arduous task of spewing out my thoughts, so deal with it.

Adios,

Erik

Arrival

August 31

The flight from England and the first day in Granada were an absolute whirlwind. We left the hotel at 3:45am and I was exhausted from the lack of sleep (among other things). We stepped out of the bus in the sweltering heat (I was to find out later that the heat was not sweltering at all, only slightly sweltering for the citizens of Granada). We all nervously milled about waiting for our host mothers to scoop us up. We looked like children at a bus stop on the first day of school and that was exactly how I felt.

My host mother’s name is Sebí, she’s a tiny nurturing little Spaniard originally from Cadíz. As I was looking like death warmed over, she was eager to help. She offered to wheel my suitcase for a while, a suitcase that easily outweighed her and was almost as tall as she was. When she felt the weight, she laughed and gave it right back.

Upon arrival at Casa de Sebí, she started force-feeding me a heaping bowl of spaghetti. I couldn’t help but make the connection between the thick, orange meaty sauce and what was churning about in my own stomach. That though accompanied by the true nausea I was feeling allowed me but a handful of bites. Sebí seemed disappointed that I didn’t eat Spaghetti Mountain. Not just disappointed, disappointed in me, as though the content of my character was directly related to the capacity of my stomach. In any case, she let me shower and take a nap. Up until this point I thought I was doing quite well. England was a blast, somehow I remained with my group with my belongings intact and I even held my own in a Spanish conversation with a real live Spaniard. But when I laid down for my nap it all hit me. I had no friends, I barely spoke the language, I wasn’t hungry, I missed my girlfriend, and above all I was sweating profusely. I wasn’t sweating because I had played an intense game of ultimate Frisbee or because I had finished desodding a lawn; I was lying down in a bed. It was this thought, the idea that I was going to be an inarticulate, lonely, sweaty mess for four months that brought on the tears. I whimpered in the fetal position for about 15 minutes and fell asleep. And I mean asleep asleep, not a cozy little cat nap, I’m talking multiple REM cycles. I woke up somewhat refreshed and somewhat more secure. I was still worried the worst was yet to come as far as homesickness goes. I was just going to have to wait and see.

Hasta luego,

Erik

London

August 29

England was exactly how I left it and I couldn’t be happier. I woke up when we were an hour away from London, still groggy and in need of yet more sleep. But I couldn’t ignore the view. Even at 35,000 feet, it was stunning. We flew in over the Scottish Highlands, the first thing I saw was ancient tangle of rocky islands, then onto the jagged coast that eventually gave way into the gentle rolling hills of the Scottish countryside. It made me happy to see the small quiet farms, and not just the farms themselves, but the shapes. The farms aren’t massive thoughtless squares imposed on the earth; every single farm was unique and the view looked like a collection of puzzle pieces trying to get along.

Whatever quaint and sleepy impressions I received on the plane were shattered when we arrived in London. The hustle and bustle of life in such a big city was exhilarating. Three of us arrived at the airport together, Nick, Brett and myself. All Minnesota boys ready to take on Europe. We were delirious with fatigue and jetlag, but we stopped into the local pub for a pint anyway and shot the breeze with locals while trying to master the intricacies of cricket; we failed.
Once our group caught up on sleep and adjusted to the daily schedule, we got the condensed tour of London. We encountered Buckingham, Parliament, Covent Gardens: the works, check it out.

obligatory Big Ben shot or, rather, the bell tower that houses Big Ben

Me with a Lion of Trafalgar Square

Westminster

My favorite part of the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park

 


I’d seen these sights before, but it certainly doesn’t cheapen all the history and character, just like it never gets old watching Spring spring.

Cheers,

Erik

Introducing...

Hello, I’m Erik. I’m twenty-one and I attend Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa. But if you’re reading this, chances are you already knew that, so I won’t waste too much wind on my life story. This journal’s primary purpose is to document my travels studying abroad in Granada for the semester so that, one day, my cynical and decrepit mind can look back on this experience and snicker at my unbridled enthusiasm. Its auxiliary purpose is to assure my loved ones back home that I continue to live (both in the biological AND philosophical sense).