Malaga (times two)

I love Malaga. And I think that might be a vast understatement. It kind of reminds me of the place where I studied abroad in Spain - Alicante. Both places are near the coast. Both places house large cities. Both have bustling night lives (or as the Lonely Planet book describes it "a healthy nightlife"). Both hold centros that are full of Blancos, H&Ms, ice cream stores, and tasty restaurants. My two most recent trips in Spain have been to visit my good friend Julie who lives in Malaga. Each time I go, the two bus, one taxi, and 3 hour train ride away from Antilla has been work every minute and every euro of it. December was my first trip to Malaga - Joanna and I went to visit Julie and explore the city there. My second trip was a solo adventure, and I went to see Julie for her 25th birthday last weekend!

Besides all of the fun and lightheartedness, Malaga also contains some history - it is the birth place of the artist Picasso. A huge castle rests at the very top of Malaga too. During my first visit there, Joanna, Julie, and I climbed up to the top of the castle and enjoyed the amazing view of all of Malaga. The climb was pretty grueling - but Joanna reminded us that we were getting "free exercise." :) So after 30 plus minutes of climbing, three bottles of Aquafina, and several "picture stops" later, we arrived at the top. And it was breath taking. :) Once at the top, we explored some more, walked around admiring the old architecture and taking an insane number of pictures. One of my favorite things about Spain in December is the fact that it was still warm enough for roses to bloom there (which we saw some at the top of the castle). Now it's January, almost February, and the roses are gone. But they were beautiful.

The second time in Malaga we also walked around the city and Julie and Amanda (Amanda is one of Julie's good friends and also one of her roommates) showed me the beach at Malaga. Glancing at the dark ground, I commented about how the sand is different. "The sand is crap," the girls told me. "The beaches are man-made here." Although the beaches are man-made and the sand is different, they are still gorgeous. You look out to the Mediterranean Sea, and mountains rest behind it, turn to the other side, and large buildings stand in the city of Malaga, and you turn again, and there are red and blue colored playgrounds with small Spanish children and little dogs running around on patches of bright green grass. It's a nice mixture of everything there - some city, some beach, some people, and even some mountains in the distance.

Besides exploring Malaga during the day, we also explored it by night (I'm sure you saw that one coming). :) The night life there is amazing and buzzing with energy and an incredible number young people...especially guys. :) The first time we went out (in December), we had drinks at an Irish pub (An Irish pub in Spain? Why, yes there are quite a few of them.) and then enjoyed the night dancing with our new Spanish friends at a discoteca that was kind of like an old building - wooden banisters, a large stairway, and no real dance floor made for an interesting feel to the place. It kind of reminded me of a museum for some reason.

The second time going out in Malaga (in January) was for Julie's birthday. That was my reason for going to Malaga -- to help her celebrate her 25th in style! A large group of her friends came over to the apartment, and we had Long Islands, ate chocolate ice cream cake (delicious), and served our duty as American cultural ambassadors by teaching the Spanish an American drinking game.

We then made the 30 minute walk to the centro, through the cold and wet puddles left over from the rain earlier in the day, and we tried out a couple of different places. Sadly there were not as many people out that night - we think it was due to the weather. Regardless, it was still fun. We met a few different groups of guys - one group of guys who claimed to be our age but looked like they were roughly 15 years old and a second group of guys in which one of them claimed that all of his friends with him were gay. I, naively assuming this man would only tell the truth, was absurdly excited to meet a pack of gay Spanish men. I smiled largely and ran up to one of them and started dancing. He excitedly danced with me, and soon we began talking. He actually spoke a bit of English with a heavy Spanish accent. "So.." I started, "you are all boyfriends?" I asked him in English. With a startled look on his face he grabbed my hand and shouted "No! I like girls!"

Gracias, Malaga, for reminding me that I am officially back in my nightlife living, mis-communicating, meeting new guys, exploring new cities life of Spain. :)

Carne, por favor!

An article in the SpainAir in flight magazine told me that eating meals hefty in protein for breakfast and lunch and meals heavy on carbs. for dinner help to re-set your internal clock and therefore help with reducing jetlag. Hm. I thought. I wonder if that works? It seems as though everyone has their own "theory" as to what will help reduce jetlag. I still haven't found one that really works for me, so why not give this one a try?

The next day, after checking in to my hotel in the centro of Sevilla, I wander into the street searching for some protein-rich food for lunch. Glancing up and down the two lane street, I notice that, not to my surprise, most of the stores and cafes are closed. Today is Sunday. The entire world of Spain closes on Sunday. Spaniards do not like to work, especially on Sundays. So finding food will be interesting.

After stopping into a couple of places that were not serving food, I stumble across one cafe that does happen to be serving food. The woman there is very friendly and is speaking very quickly to me. Or maybe it sounds quicker because I haven't heard Spanish in several weeks since I've been home? I order a Coca Cola Light (the Diet Coke of Espana), and look at the menu. Hmmm. Protein, protein.

Placing my Coca Cola on the table, the waitress proceeds to tell me that the full menu is not available right now (because it's Sunday and they don't want to have to cook too much, claro - clearly). She starts talking to me about what she can offer -- she mentions croquettes. Croquettes! I love croquettes! They are kind of like hushpuppies filled with warm cheese and ham -- delicious!

I'll have some of those, please! I tell her.

But where is my protein? I doubt that the tiny specks of ham in the croquettes will suffice for re-setting my internal clock.

Carne! Carne means meat in Spanish. The waitress describes some meat that they are serving today -- it is delicious! she tells me. She says that the other people in the cafe are eating it right now - it is so rich, so good! Wow, I think. This must be some meat. She is speaking very quickly, telling me about the meat. All I can really understand is that (a) The food is meat. and (b) The food has something to do with "cola." Cola means "line" in Spanish. Like, you wait in a "cola" (you wait in line). Maybe she means it's a line, like a stack, of meat? I've had something like that here in Spain before, and it was amazing.

Ok, I tell her. I would like that too!

I wait, sipping my Cola, reading my book, lifting my head occasionally to people watch.

The croquettes come - familiar and delicious and satisfying. And then, the mystery carne cola meat comes. It smells kind of like a pot roast that your mom has been cooking for hours -- fresh, warm, seasoned. Ok...this smells good at least! I look at it. It is not a stack of meat like I expected, rather it is several different pieces of round shaped pieces of brown meat in a small bowl.

Hm.

I notice that in the middle of each piece of meat there is a bone.
Brown. Round shaped. With a bone in the middle.
Don't think about what you are eating, Brittany....just eat it. You know the rule abroad! You can't think about what you are eating....and you have to be fair and give the food at least three full bites.

Fork and knife in hand, I dive in. Placing the meat in my mouth, it feels chewy and soft. Squishy almost. Chewing, chewing. Hints of ham and bacon being to come alive in my mouth, but it's not quite ham, and it's definitely not bacon. Ok....it's not bad, but it's not great.

Bite two....the texture is horrible. Way way way too squishy. What am I eating?
What if this is what I think it might be.
What if this is what I have heard is a popular dish here in Spain.

Oh my goodness.
This is bull's tail.

Don't think, Brittany...you don't know that! Take at least one more bite! Bite three....and I'm done. Putting down my fork and knife, I surrender to the carne. The mystery meat wins. I do not like it.

As I pay for my food, I glance at my check. It reads "Cola de toro." Oh dear, I think. Toro means bull....

Returning to my hotel, I whip open my laptop and google the meaning of "cola" in English....And just for your information folks, "cola" does indeed mean line in Spanish, but it also means tail. :)

A nun, a homeless woman, and me

I'm waiting with a nun - yes, an actual habit wearing, cute, tiny, black-and-white outfit donning real-life nun - and a woman who I can't figure out if she is homeless or just carrying all of her things in several plastic bags. I glance up at the blue and white Taxi sign. Ok...I'm in the right place....so where are all the taxis? I just arrived at Plaza de Armas (one of the bus stations) in Sevilla, and I am now on my way to my hotel. I would take a bus to the hotel, but my hotel is close to the airport which also happens to be very far aways from the bus station. So I had just planned to take a taxi. I have a lot of bags and I want to rest in my hotel before I have to get up tomorrow morning at 3am for my sinfully early flight home to the US for the holidays.

So I thought that taking a problem would not be a problem. There are normally at least ten taxis just waiting outside of the bus station to take people to wherever they want to go. This is really strange. I look at my watch - it's 5pm. Maybe 5pm is rush hour in Sevilla too? That must be where all of the taxis are....they are all busy picking up other people who need them. Or maybe the taxis are getting caught in ridiculous city traffic. Ok...I'll wait 20 more minutes. It's only been 10 minutes so far, I should be patient. I am in Spain, I remind myself, they are much more laid back about everything. Let's just wait a little bit longer.

So I wait. It's cloudy. And cold. And windy. Still the nun, me, and the homeless/heavy traveler woman. I start looking at all the cars in the street - surely this is rush hour. The traffic seems really heavy - that must be where all the taxis are. Or maybe everyone had to go to the airport like me and all the taxis in Sevilla are busy taking eager passengers to the airport (which is a solid 30+ minute drive away from the bus station). That's it. That's where the taxis are.

Five more minutes pass, and then a white van rides into the taxi lane. A taxi! I think. I am beyond thrilled. The nun hobbles to her black suitcase. I look more closely at the taxi and realize that it isn't a taxi at all - it's a van with three nuns sitting inside of it. It's like a nun mobile. A nun driving, a nun in the shotgun, and a nun in the back. They are here to pick up the other nun. Maybe I could ask them for a ride? I think. They are nuns...maybe they would go all good Samaritan on me and be gracious...I mean, that's what Jesus would do.

The nun climbs into the van after greeting her fellow sisters with holy kisses, and then they ride off. Ok....I look. Just me, the taxi sign, and the homeless/heavy traveler woman who has now left her things on the sidewalk and is begging people for cigarettes. She didn't even ask me for one - she probably figures that I would be smoking a cig right now if I had one.

Great. Where have all the taxis gone?

Maybe I'll just call my taxi number. I do have a taxi number in my cell phone - I came prepared. So I call....and it rings...and rings....and rings....that's odd, I think. I'll try again in a few minutes.

I look into the streets - maybe I could just leave the taxi waiting area and hail my own cab from the street. But the thing is, I still don't see any taxis in the street. Where are they?

Suddenly, as though the heavens opened up and sent a little slice of Jesus down, I see a white van with the taxi emblem on the side. He begins to ride by. I eagerly smile and approach the car as I exclaim "Si!" I need a taxi! The man slows the van, stares at me, raises a tan, wrinkled finger and waves it back and forth as he mouths "No, no, no!" No, no, no? Oh...ok? Maybe he only wants to take someone with a lot of things since he has a big van. That seems kind of fair.

Now in retrospect I have concluded that I am either overly optimistic or extremely good at rationalizing ANYTHING.

Another van rolls up and out comes a man in a bright yellow top and dirty jeans. He too decides the join the wait for the taxis. About ten minutes later, he strikes up a conversation with me. He speaks quickly in fairly thick Andalucian Spanish until I explain to him that I am not a fluent Spanish speaker. The usual conversation begins. I am living in Spain. No, I am not studying. I am teaching. Yes, English. Yes, I have blonde hair. No, I am not German (not all blondes are from Germany). Do I have a boyfriend?

I need a fake engagement ring.

Twenty minutes later, a man walks up to my new construction man friend and myself. We begin asking about the taxis -- where are all of them? The man goes on to explain that there is a taxi "huelga" today. Huelga? What does that mean? I ask. Construction man cannot really explain it to me, but he says it means that we need to take the bus to other main bus station in Sevilla to see if there are taxis there. I'm not sure what other options I have -- I have to get to my hotel, and there are NO taxis....so construction man graciously pays for my bus ride to the next station. I am extremely thankful for construction man's grace and kindness, but I do question his motives for his kindness since he was constantly trying to hold my hand, and let's just say that the "dos besos" was very awkward.

Did I mention that it is raining now? Three suitcases, an hour wait, and no umbrella, we get off of the bus and walk to the next bus station. Still no taxis -- the woman explains that there are no taxis in all of Sevilla today. Why - I still don't really understand. It's not a holiday - so why wouldn't they be working? How can they just do that? People need taxis!

We show the woman at the bus station my hotel address, and she kindly explains which buses I need to take to get there - 2 more buses. Construction man offers for me to stay with him for the night and just get up "very early" in the morning to go to the airport. "I have an extra room. Or you can stay in my room."
"No, thank you!" I smile. I explain that I REALLY need to get to my hotel. Tonight.
I thank him several more times, and then we awkwardly say goodbye as he tried to kiss me and I stare at the ground and grab my bags to leave as quickly as possible.

Ok....only two more buses, and I'll be at the hotel. I can do this!
Bus number one -- the bus driver was, again, very kind. I explained where I needed to go, and he told me if I sat at the front of the bus that he would tell me when to get off for my next stop.

And we make it to the next stop. Ok...just one more bus! Bus 55. Thanking the bus driver, and feeling extremely grateful for the kindness and helpfulness of the Sevillians, I hobble off the bus with my large bags. Pushing the wet, matted hair from my eyes, I find a friendly looking Spanish woman. I ask her where the stop for Bus 55 is -- I tell her my hotel is near the airport. The woman's brown eyes met mine and she laughs heartily as she tells me that I am wrong, my hotel is very close to where we are right now. I don't really believe her, but she did tell me that the bus stop was on the other side of the plaza. Pulling my suitcases through the puddles, I make my way to the other side to find about four more bus stops. But I don't see one that says it is for Bus 55. I ask a couple of Spaniards where the stop for this bus is -- this is the bus that the woman at the bus station told me to took, so it definitely should be correct.

It doesn't exist, they say. That bus line doesn't exist.

Ok. At this point, I am exhausted, freezing, wet, and very lost. I have no idea where I am in Sevilla, and I feel like I'm on the verge of tears. But I have a choice, I can cry and get upset, or I can take a deep breath and keep going. I WILL get to my hotel - yes, it is taking me a lot longer to get there than I had hoped, and yes, this is an exhausting situation, but I WILL get there. It will be ok.

Taking a deep breath, I show them the address of my hotel and ask them if they know which bus would be best for me to take. They direct me to another bus stop nearby. I stumble to the next stop. I check with a woman there to make sure I am at the right stop - the last thing I need right now is to get on the wrong bus. She says this is the right bus - she also said that I might need to take another bus after this one so that I won't have to walk in the rain. Extremely thankful is how I feel.

As we board the bus, a man sees me struggling with my luggage and helps me heave it up. He also explained that he overhead me talking about the hotel I needed to go to - he said he would talk to the bus driver to let him know where I needed to go and to have the driver tell me when I needed to get off of the bus.

Thankful, extraordinarily, thankful.

I get off of that bus and onto my last one (I pray it is the last one, anyway!). I tell this driver where I need to go, and he said I am on the right bus. As we are driving, the man sitting across from me points out my hotel. He explains where I will need to get off and cross the street to get to my hotel.

What kindness.

And finally, 3 hours, 4 buses, 3 drenched suitcases, and the kindness of countless Spaniards later, I arrive at the Sevilla Congresos Hotel. And it is there at the front desk, as I stand with my soggy socks, matted hair, and slick,wet luggage, that the woman at the front desk explains to me that the taxi drivers were having something today - something where they do not drive as an expression of the fact that they want more money.

A strike - a huelga.

So, lessons learned:

-Never leave your house without your umbrella.
-Don't be afraid to ask for help for it is often the kindness of those strangers that will save you.
-Pack lightly, because you never know how far, or on how many buses, you may have to lug those bags.
-Oh...and make sure you learn the word "strike" before you travel to a country that does not speak your native tongue. :)