back to the america

We´re not back in the states yet, but we´re on our way. Before getting there, a little recap. From Tangier we made a straight shot to Granada, our last stop in Spain. After encountering a lot of grumpy people unrealistically concerned about personal space on both the bus to Granada and the city bus to our hotel, we landed at a clean, new guesthouse inside of an apartment building.

The city of Granada is dominated by a fortress/palace structure called the Alhambra, the current buldings of which date back to the 14th century Islamic rule, but which has been the site of such structures since before the Romans. While the city itself is fairly interesting to roam around, this is the jewel that you are really supposed to see. As it turns out, this jewel is unimaginably sought after, and it took me three days to acquire tickets to get in, which in the end involved arriving an hour and a half before the 8am opening time, and then waiting in various lines and having 30 minutes of alotted time with which to view the most impressive palace seciton. I won´t say that the Alhambra is worth all the hype (I can´t imagine anything that could be worth so much hype, other than Jesus performing in Madison Square Garden with the Beatles as his backup band and Michael Jackson as the opener), but it was pretty impressive. The fortess walls and towers are pretty standard, but the palaces are really something to see. Nearly every surface is covered in impossibly intricate geometric carving, tiling, or plaster work. Many of these designs incorporate poetry written in stylized Arabic that blends perfectly in with the work of art as a whole. The cool, calm structure of the buildings only adds a sense of tranquility, with open patios dominated by fountains, palm trees, etc. In the end, I was on slightly grudgingly happy that I went.

We basically had a lot of down time in Granada; aside from waiting to get into the Alhambra, we lounged a few days so as not to rush ourselves and try to squeeze in another city. It also helped that I was suffering from a cold. Granada is not as picturesque as the other Spanish cities we visited, but it is still pleasant for finding a sunny plaza in which to enjoy beers and light, oily food in full sun. Perhaps my favorite venture in the city was when I climbed out of the city walls into the surrounding hillsides. I was happy just to be amongst the scrappy trees and flinty soil, looking up into the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, but on the way back into town I stumbled upon a little folded valley that was home to a settlement of people living in cave houses built right into the hillside. These varied in class from having patios, doors and chimneys to basically being burnt out holes in the gulley wall. Once I returned to the city proper, I discovered that there were actually a number of more "legitimate" cave structures housing restaurants, bars, even a museum, but I preferred the scrappy hillside hovels much more.

We finally got out of Granada on a night bus to Lisbon, Portugal. I imagined it would be difficult to tell the difference between Spain and Portugal, but I was very wrong. Aside from being linguistically disadvantaged here, we have seen many other differences. The
city of Lisbon is beautiful in ways the Spanish cities are not. The buildings have an older, more weathered texture to them, and most are covered in the most attractive tiling. Colorful patterns dance and swarm over at least 45% percent of the building facades. Red tile roofs are much more common, and the contrast of bright and drab makes the whole place look like a photo gallery. We have spent our days in classic T&T style, just roaming up the hills, down the hills, around the next corner, down that little street with all the grafitti, etc. On our first day I encountered the biggest, saltiest dish of assorted vegetable and pork products I have ever been challenged with in my life. I never leave an empty plate, but despite the deliciousness of this "typical Portuguese" food, I must have left at least a third on the table. The restauntuer seemed pleased that I couldn´t conquer his meal. Aside from that, we´ve been stocking up on last minute gifts, souvenirs and bottles of cheap red wine before making our reentry.

So ends our 19 months outside of the empire. Am I anxious about returning to the United States? Of course. Coming across big crowds of American tourists in Spain and hearing that chatter, that cadence of speach has been a little jarring. Am I excited to return home? OF COURSE. There are too many people, places and things that I miss too much in my home country to make me too apprenhensive. So, america, here we come!

lost the kasbah

From the southern tip of Spain, you can clearly see Africa across the Strait of Gibraltar. I knew that these two landmasses were very close at this point, but I had no idea how close. When I say you can see the African continent, I don´t mean as some misty far away hovering point on the horizon, I mean right across the way, like I can see the cities, I could probably swim there if I needed to. I didn´t swim to Morocco, but we did take the fast ferry from Tarifa to Tangier. It just seemed like it would be a crime not to go there when we were so close.

I want to make it clear from the beginning that I am writing specifically about the city of Tangier, and not the country of Morocco as a whole. We definitely did not do the country justice by only going to Tangier. I think this is probably similar to visiting Tijuana and saying you´ve been to Mexico, but we just didn´t have the time to go down to Marrakesh, which is supposed to be the best city. That being said, we had an interesting, if exhausting time in Tangier.

I really don´t want to be entirely negative about Tangier (and CERTAINLY not Morocco in general), but I must start out by saying that this city is sketchy and exhausting, more than almost any place I´ve ever been. Our taxi driver immediately ripped us off severely, when he could have just told us that our hotel was directly outside the ferry terminal. A guy in some way affiliated with our hotel began following us around as our "guide", despite our repeated and continuing declinations of his services, and then began to demand money from us. This actually happened a couple of times. People all over the streets try to sell you hash, and there are small packs of glue-huffing fiends lurking in all the piles of rubble and perched along the lookout points.

All this aside, Tangier is at the least a very interesting place, and as much as substantially pleasant and enjoyable. About 85% of the women wear head scarves, and maybe 60% wear this kind of sack dress article of clothing. Occasionally, you will see a young woman in a head scarf with tight fitting clothes and high heels. The old men tend to wander around in these neutral tone Jediesque robes with pointed hoods. A plurality of languages are spoken, with Arabic by far the most predominant. French is second, and apparently the official second language. Most people, however, spoke to us in Spanish, though they would usually switch to English if they heard us speaking English to each other. Of course, not everyone is out to bother you, and we met an incredibly nice man at his cafe up on the hill. He has nine children, but assured is it not difficult, because "whenever people come to my house, they bring me lots of fruit."

The city clambers up a small but steep hillside from the ocean, and to get to the action from our hotel we had to charge right up. The streets are all over the place, and most of the buildings are at least mildly shabby. Abandoned piles of rubble intermittently dot the blocks. In the northeastern corner of town is a big sprawling area that fits in with the conception of old-town Morocco. Winding, narrow streets, alleys and walkways tie themselves up in a maze of impossible knots. This complexity is mimicked in the intricate geometric patterns carved into wooden doorways and placed into tiles and mosaics. Bright colors contrast against drab walls, and many of the doors are shaped like spades.

This old town area is divided into two parts, with the Medina, the larger, holding a huge, sprawling market. We certainly got lost in there, but we became even more hopelessly lost trying to find the smaller section, the world famous Kasbah. I dragged Taylor up and down steep hills, around corners, up the stairs, down the stairs, mis-following signs, directions and maps before we finally found this old fortress. It was a lot like the Medina, except minus the market. It was good for wandering, and we finally came across the Kasbah Museum, which gave some interesting history of the city. Because of its unique location, this city has been subjected to one invasion after another basically since the time of the Romans. I think you can sense this history in the confluence of cultures and tough attitude of the people.

Next time, we´ll be sure to make it to Marrakesh, the Atlas mountains and the desert. There´s just never enough time to do everything you need to do in every place. We left Morocco with a good taste of the culture, and a desire to get out of the border towns and into the heart of the land.

hovering jesus and mary

For every time you celebrate the King of Thailand´s 80th birthday in Bangkok, or join 1 million Spaniards to watch some big sculptures burn down to the pavement, it´s good to make it to a small town for some important holiday. It is was this logic (as well as the lack of accomodation anywhere else) that brought us to Conil de la Frontera for the culmination of Semana Santa (Holy Week). We left Valencia on the 4am bus, and after a series of switches, layovers and long rides, we arrived at this sleepy beach town on the Atlantic coast at about 7:30 in the evening.

The town saunters up from the sea on a low rise, and is comprised of the classic boxy white mediterranean houses aligned at clashing angles. You can have a great time exploring the spiderweb network of passages that are the city, and the orientation along a hill makes it difficult to get lost (though we still managed it once). Though necessarily a tourist town, it is charming, and you could really see the local small town flavor in the Semana Santa celebrations.

Part of the reason for our whole expedition to Spain at this time was to witness the legendary Semana Santa festivities of the Andalucia region. These festivities are the classic processions that you can imagine in your mind, with enormous platforms carrying highly decorated Virgins and Jesus (not sure of the proper way to pluralize ¨Jesus¨) being lugged throughout the whole town. This is exactly what we found in Conil. Almost by accident, we stumbled upon the starting point of the procession both on Thursday night and Friday afternoon. On Thursday night around 11pm, what seemed to be some sort of Jesus and Mary warehouse opened its doors as bulky teens in freshly pressed robes with severely gelled hair nervously prepared to carry the platforms or march in the band. The crowd pressed around, and literally had to be pushed back by the bulk and momentum of the lunging Virgin. Mary came out, covered by a canopy held up by intricate metal banisters, being swayed in time by her team of porters. There was a lot of ceremony, with starting and stopping, setting down and lifting, the swaying left and right, and of course plenty of clapping as each of these tricky maneuvers was successfully accomplished. As Mary wheeled around the corner, Jesus was brought into the staging ground, ready to make his big appearance. Unfortunately, this move coincided with a light spitting of rain that was enough to dampen four or five hairs on my head and cancel the whole procession. Jesus was immediately moved to back from wherever he came from, and Mary was swayed back into the Holy garage behind him. Our senses still being cranked up six notches beyond full volume from the five days of partying, crowds, explosions and burning towers in Valencia, this whole spectacle left us feeling a little disappointed. Fortunately, a bakery caught fire on the walk back to hotel room and offered momentary excitement.

Friday´s procession turned out to be much more worthwhile. By sheer dumb luck, we stumbled up to the town church just as people were beginning to amass for the spectacle. This time, the late afternoon sun streaked across the sky, and the day´s showers had already rained themselves out. After a moderate wait, Jesus came charging out of the church, again having to physically press the crowd back, and scaring Taylor desperately that his structure was going to come toppling down onto us. The Jesus float stopped for a couple of songs to be sung, and then was followed by a band of drums and horns playing the most interesting music; mournful, slow melodies with distinct middle eastern tones and phrasing. The music was probably the most impressive piece of the whole celebration for me. Anyway, after the band came a train of ladies in black, folowed by many dudes in black and purple robes with pointy hats and full faced masks (if you´re thinking this looks like a KKK getup, you´re absolutely right, but I want to try my best to make the point that the similarities are in costume only). Next, the Virgin came out on her own platform, followed by a similar chain of events. The whole thing took about an hour to pass by, but I was convinced they could have cut it down to no more than 18 minutes. This suspicion was confirmed when, after wandering the town and using the internet for a couple of hours, the procession happened to pass us again. I´m still thinking about that music.

As it turned out, time constraints and logistics dictated that we would leave Conil before the actual full Easter Day events, and we ended up spending Easter enroute to and in Morroco.

(Author´s note: though this post is very much in need of photo documentation I will have to add them later from an internet connection that will allow me to. Thank you for your patience.)

Fallas, 2008

Fallas means ¨failures¨in Spanish, but in Valencia, a seaside city on Spain´s northern Mediterrean coast, fallas are huge 30-40 ft cartoonlike sculptures and the reason for a serious citywide party. 2008 was the first year in 190 that the Fallas coincided with Semana Santa (Easter week), arguably Spain´s largest national holiday. The coincidence of these two holidays made Valencia the epicenter of Spring Break madness in Spain. An estimated 1 million domestic tourists flocked to Fallas this year. The drive from Madrid, normally 3 hours, took 7.

We learned about Fallas from our friend Laura. Laura is a planner by nature, a doer, a mama bear type. We first met her on a beat-up, long distance bus in Laos, and were immediately charmed by her go-get-em attitude and warm smile. When we told her we were planning to visit Spain, she invited us not only to stay at her family´s home in Madrid, but also along for the weekend trip she and her 11 single, female friends had planned. Our 3 days exploring the neighborhoods, museums and cafes of downtown Madrid were awesome and nights feasting with her parents were even better, but the real highlight was Fallas.

After a beastly, reddish drive from Madrid to Valencia, we settled into the small apartment Laura had rented and waited for the rest of the crew arrive. Admittedly Travis and I initially felt out of place when the dozen girlfriends rolled in, wheeling mini suitcases and carrying hairdryers and makeup kits. Pre-dinner primping took so long we didn´t eat dinner until 12:30 that first night, late even by Spanish standards. The girls, who initially seemed high maintenance, proved to be really sweet; and once they blew out the water heater by showering twice a day (once before breakast and once before hitting the bars), the primping time was greatly reduced as was Travis and my anxiety.

Valencia is a gorgeous city. It´s historic architecture is more intact than Barcelona or Madrid´s, so it feels more authentic. It lies at the mouth of a dry river. Where the river once ran through the city, a long, pretty park runs instead. The streets are narrow and windy, buildings don´t reach more than 4 stories, and the cafes and restaurants with outdoor patios spill over the sidewalks and into the streets. All this loveliness is pretty typical of Spanish cities. What makes Valenica so unique are the fallas themselves.

Like I said, they´re huge and look very cartoonlike, in that Asian comic-book style. Most fallas have one big structure, like woman´s bust or full body surrounded by human-size figures in comical poses. People in different neighborhoods raise money, design, and have a falla built in their barrio every year. It´s a matter of pride to contribute to your neighborhood´s falla, and every neighborhood tries to outdo the others. The fallas are displayed for a week, and every night there are parties in the street that grow in magnitude and volume until at the end of the week winners are chosen, and at midnight all the fallas are burnt to ground. Though I can post photos to show what the fallas and the burning look like, it´s impossible to get a real sense of what Fallas 2008 was like without the audio component. In addition to typical crowd sounds- laughing, shouting, shuffling, music blaring, street vendors shouting (and making bizarre whistling sounds), imagine explosions all day long. Explosions of all sorts from poppers to petardos to firecrackers, weaponry to fireworks were fired from morning (Spaniard morning starts late, thankfully, at about 11) into well beyond midnight. At 2 pm all weeklong, an especially loud rocket show was put on in Valencia´s central plaza, the magnitude of the show increased every day, and lasted for about 15 minutes. On the last day we squeezed really close to the front of demostration. The sound was so loud and the smoke so thick and brown I felt I was in a bomb raid. My ears hurt for the next 4 hours.

We watched stayed in Valencia to watch the burning, then went to bus station where Laura headed South to Almeria for week of a scuba diving lessons, and Travis and I began a 16-hour journey to Conil de la Frontera. At the station we met some Moroccan dudes who told us algebraic riddles that I tried (but usually failed) to solve.

barcelona - don´t you dare call it spain

In the U.S., there has been a media frenzy over the upcoming November elections since what seems like a was a small child. When we landed in Barcelona on Tuesday night, there few to no visible signs of the Spanish presidential election on Sunday. We soon discovered that this was because Barcelonians only grudgingly consider themselves part of the greater political unit that is Spain. While their Basque neighbors to the north get all the hype for their separtist movement, the people of Barcelona have a similar sentiment of distance from the language, culture and governmental structure coming out of Madrid. I knew that people spoke Catalan, not Spanish, as their first language, but I had assumed this was just a Spanish dialect. Not so. It is supposedly a mix of Spanish, Italian and French, which made me think it would be mildly intelligible to me, but in reality, not really. Everyone can and will speak to you in Spanish, but it is not what you hear on the streets, and most of the signs are written in Catalan.

We stayed in Barcelona with Taylor´s friend Kathy in her bright, spacious, hardwood floor apartment that is perched atop six flights of winding worn marble stairs. It was comforting not only to have a place to stay, but to have somebody to show us around. Kathy and her boyfriend Felipe have a whole little group of friends who are almost exclusively immigrants to Barcelona. They are all native Spanish speakers, but still kind of outsiders in Barcelona because they do not speak Catalan fluently. We had a very enjoyable time partaking in luxuries from the western world, including fresh bread, specialty cheeses, the saltiest, fattiest, most delicious ham, strong coffee, cheap red wine and of course plenty of fragrant green herbs.

The city itself is charming and picturesque, its streets lined with apartment buildings from the early twentieth century. Their facades roll and twist and curve in intricate wrought iron balconies and carved stone. The people are well dressed, cool, mostly young and good looking. The vibe in the city is laid back and comfortable, not a fast paced metropolis. We saw many of the important sites of the city, including the most famous pieces of Gaudi architecture and the Picasso and Miro museums. While these cultural items were all very impressive, they all kind of left me a little disappointed, and craving a little more understanding and context. Perhaps my favorite activity in the city was wandering around in the slanting late afternoon light with a head full of thc and just taking in the sights, sounds and atmosphere.

The oldest part of the city was mostly destroyed during the civil war, and the characteristic narrow, winding, crazy little European streets work their way through reconstructed or restored old structures. Apparently, when Felipe arrived about 8 years ago, this area was a haven for anarchists, junkies, people on that margin of society. Now, as seems to be what is happening in every western city, the affluent folks have decided that this former wasteland is to be their new playground, and the anarchists and junkies have been replaced by slick little restaurants, bars and clothing stores. This is not necessarily to say that all of the anarchists have moved on, or that it isn´t still fun to wander around the twisting, gnarled old streets. What is interesting about this gentrification is that the whole development seems to be aimed almost exclusively at tourists, and the language you hear most on the streets in this part of town is neither Catalan nor Spanish, but English. It was heartening, however, to find what appeared to be some sort of anarchist occupied structure a little on the northern sloping edge of town near the Parc Guell. The whole building and adjacent stairs were covered in revolutionary grafitti, including one that read TERRORIST TOURIST.

I could have stayed put for years in the comfort of Barcelona, but after about six days, it was time for Taylor and I to catch the bus south to Madrid.

on hold

As Taylor already described our situation so eloquently, I'll keep this brief. As the situation stands, we will probably not engage in any traveling, fanny packing, snacking, fun, or really anything other than work for the next two months. I assure you that teaching 45 hours a week in classrooms so packed with students that you have to turn on the air conditioner despite the sub-zero outdoor temperatures is every bit as awesome as it sounds, it just doesn't make for great blogging material. We may put up an update here and there, but for the most part, these fanny packers will by offline until our early March departure for Semana Santa in southern Spain. See you then!

back in Korea

We're home now. Sorry I got lazy about blogging towards the end of the trip. All I can say is that Thailand was GREAT! Meeting up with Hana and Jake, and then Amanda and Sean was fantastic! I love Bangkok, and would like to live there some time. It is so vibrant and fun. Lonely beach on Koh Chang was relaxing and gorgeous- clearer water than I've ever seen, but a little boring because there were no waves. Who ever heard of a beach without waves? weird, but great for kayaking and snorkeling.
It is wonderful to be back in Korea. After months of hot, sweaty, tropical climates, breathing in the cold winter air outside of Incheon airport was shocking and invigorating. Walking around Daejeon, on streets I know, seeing places I recognize, signs I can read, and best of all, familiar faces is a huge treat. Checking out super high maintenance, beautiful Korean femmes send text messages or slurp boiling hot soups in their elegant winter coats, stockings, heels and flawless makeup is another fun treat, as is slurping my own hot kimchi chigae and mushroom porridge, and making ridiculous Christmas Eve toasts to "Bill Brasky" until 3am with friends. Oh it feels good be home!
Korea is not at all like China or Southeast Asia- and here are two immediate examples of why. After taking a bus from Incheon to Daejeon, Travis and I flagged down a taxi, hopped in, gave him directions to our apartment, he took us there, and we paid the amount on the meter. Simple as that. How is this different from taking a taxi or tuktuk anywhere else we traveled? No haggling over prices- all the taxis have meters and the drivers do not rip you off, even if you are foreign. Second example. Within 10 hours of being in Daejeon I lost my wallet. I don't know how. I didn't lose ANYTHING in 4 months of traveling, but in 10 hours back at home I lost my wallet, right after withdrawing $100 from the ATM. Travis and I searched everywhere. We went to the restaurants we ate at- nothing; searched our hagwon and apartment- nothing. That night, the police called our boss. Someone found my wallet on the street and turned it. All the money and my credit cards were intact. Pretty great, right? How can you not love this country!! Man, it's good to be back.