Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Thoughts Before I Leave...

My bus leaves Córdoba at 1am. I arrive at Madrid Barajas Airport at 6:35 am, and my flight takes off at 9:35 am. Then, we catch a connecting flight in Milan, and once we're in Budapest, it begins. I've packed and organized and scheduled and all the things you're supposed to do before a trip, but for some reason, I'm still uneasy. The end of Spring Break marks the middle of my program, meaning come April 5th, I have about a month and a half left here. I knew it would go by quickly; it would have been naive of me to think otherwise. But for some reason, I still can't believe it. And the thing that scares me most is that once I'm back home, it could very well feel like I'd never been here at all...

I suppose that's how traveling always goes though. You leave, you live, you go home. The memories live on, but like everything, they dull with time, and after awhile, they become the life you once lived and no longer live.

After Spring Break, I have to worry about housing for senior year. I register for classes April 12th, and once I leave Spain, I'm officially a senior.

I'm trying my hardest to live in the present right now, but for some reason, it's been difficult this past week. I've had so much on my mind that I really haven't been sleeping well. But I think this break will do me some good because once I come back, I have to put my nose to the grindstone as the semester and my junior year wind down...

Oh, and I have to start looking at Grad schools...did I mention that?
I don't think my life is ever going to slow down from here on out. But I guess I can either live with it, take what comes and enjoy the ride OR I can fight it and make myself miserable.
...I think we all know which one I'm going to choose (or what any sane person would choose for that matter).

I'm excited to go home--don't get me wrong. But I also know that once I do, it's time to grow up--

Monday, March 22, 2010

Sevilla and Other Things

We took a group trip to Sevilla this past weekend. I've posted some pictures below, and I'll let them stand on their own. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say about Sevilla: I just think the pictures can speak for themselves. I want to go back in May once it’s warmer.

La Plaza de España

El Guadalquivir

Por la noche

In other news, my Spring Break starts on Thursday. I’m going to Budapest, Vienna, Prague and Berlin with 5 of my friends, and we won’t return to Córdoba until next Saturday, just in time for the Easter celebrations.

Also, I wore a white button-up today. And for lunch, we had this soupy thing with curry in it. You do the math.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Poema 20

Today in my tutorial session, we read the following poem by Pablo Neruda. I was hesitant to post the English translation because it is SO painfully gorgeous in Spanish, but I went ahead and did it anyway since, well, most of you don't speak Spanish. HOWEVER, the Spanish isn't that difficult, so I encourage all to read the Spanish version first.

Poema 20

PUEDO escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: " La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.
Pablo Neruda

Poem 20

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, "The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Pablo Neruda

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

"María, la noche y el día"

The text on the wall reads,
“María, la noche y el día”
“María, the night and the day”

I have class every Tuesday at 8:30 in the morning. The night before, I set my alarm for 7 knowing that I won’t get out of bed until 7:30. It’s always cold when I finally do; I don’t get a lot of sunlight in my room, so it’s constantly cool. Then, I wash my face and brush my teeth. After that’s done, I go to the kitchen for some cornflakes. I eat in my room on Tuesdays since no one in my house is awake at that hour. I listen to my Family Business Playlist (which features Kanye, Common, Usher, Trey Songz, etc.) while I eat, and after I finish, I get dressed. Then, I check my emails and log on to Facebook (obviously), and at about 8:20, I leave for class.

I take the same way to school that I always take. It may sound monotonous, but I don’t mind. I’m not really awake that early in the morning since I usually haven’t spoken a word to anyone at that point. So, I just let my body go through the motions inscribed in its muscle memory. If I don’t, I’d never get to where I need to be.

I usually arrive at la Facultad around 8:27. I take my seat in the 4th row in Aula XIII, and here, the waiting game begins. The professor is always late. And since the professor is always late, the majority of the class is also always late. I feel kind of lame arriving on time, but for some reason, I can’t force myself to walk in at 8:35 like everyone else. I was always told that you’re on time if you’re early, and if you’re on time you’re late. I guess it stuck with me.

I suppose one reason why professors are always late here is the class schedule. They schedule classes back to back--8:30-10:30, 10:30-12:30, etc.-- so they don’t factor in the time it takes to pass from one class to another. Therefore, class doesn’t REALLY start at 10:30. But 8:30 is the first class of the day, so I’m still a little confused as to why my professor is always late. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining. 10 minutes less of a 2-hour class is a significant amount. Actually, it’s an extremely significant amount, especially when you have that 2-hour class and a second 2-hour class directly after (both of which are in Spanish).

My professor for Latin American Literature (Literatura Hispanoamericana) is a very poetic man. He’s also a very plump man who holds all of his weight in his very round stomach. And he always, always, always reeks of cigarettes. He reminds me of an old mouse, or maybe an old rat. But not a beady-eyed rat. A rat with a very long, very wise nose whose eyes are hidden behind Harry Potter-esque glasses.

He’s very expressive with his face and his hands, and honestly, I have never encountered any professor who is better at “the pause”. As a matter of fact, he has perfected “the pause”. Let me explain. He’ll begin a sentence but won’t finish it. He usually cuts off right at the point where he is to deliver the “big picture point”, or the point that we are all waiting to write down in our notebooks. But instead of immediately continuing, he’ll pause, look around the room, and then finally, after about 20 seconds, he’ll blurt out the rest of the sentence in rapid, muffled Spanish, grinning with self-satisfaction. I think it’s a way to keep our attention, but I also think he just likes being a little dramatic.

I do appreciate, however, the way he lectures. He doesn’t just talk at us. I wish I could share with you some of what he says, but a) I can’t remember word for word b) it would be in Spanish and c) if I tried to recreate a piece of a lecture, I’d probably ruin it or the translation wouldn’t sound as poetic. Spanish phrases don’t usually translate into English with the same feeling and meaning. They usually translate into really simplistic English phrases, but when you say them in Spanish, they aren’t simple at all. My professor is really good at proving that every Tuesday and Thursday. He’s a very captivating man.

My professor for Medieval Spanish Literature, however, isn’t quite as captivating. She’s a very nice woman who has been increasingly accommodating and understanding. But when I look at her, she kind of reminds me of a circus clown. Again, let me explain. I think that if she just learns how to apply her make-up correctly, I wouldn’t be having these thoughts. She wears extremely heavy, pewter eye shadow on her eyelids, along with heavy mascara and eyeliner (I’m guessing a pencil). In the crease where your eyelid meets right under your eyebrow, she then applies a line of even darker (if that’s possible) pewter eye shadow. Finally, she finishes her look by applying a very heavy layer of light silver eye shadow right under her eyebrows all the way down to the crease of dark pewter. Essentially, it looks like her eyes are a bit sunken due to the stark contrast of dark and light. However, she wears glasses, so the glasses detract slightly from her make-up faux pas.

Unfortunately, her lecture style isn’t any more attractive. She sits at her desk in the front of the classroom, and for two hours, she talks. She doesn’t get up, she doesn’t shift in her chair, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t breathe. She clearly knows what she’s talking about; you can tell from the very insightful things she says. But she just talks. And hands out photocopies. And talks. It’s a very tiresome 2-hours, I’m afraid, and by the end I am exhausted FOR her. She must need to drink copious amounts of water before and after class because let me tell you, her mouth moves a mile a minute. Sometimes she speaks so fast that the words smush together, and I lose her completely. But again, she’s a very nice woman.

The text on the desk sits within a poorly drawn heart.
It reads,
“Paqui y Antonio. Together forever.”
It’s very peculiar that it’s written in English…

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Arabic Baths (Los baños árabes)

Last Thursday, my three friends and I finally made it to the Arabic Baths. For those of you who don't know, the baths consist of three rooms: the cold room, the warm room and the hot room. In the cold room, you'll find the cold bath, in the warm room, the warm bath, and, in the hot room, (yes) you will most certainly find the hot bath.

To better blood circulation, you are supposed to begin in the warm pool. You can sit there for as long as you want, getting used to the water and the smells of the bath, drinking tea and leaning your head back against the marble floors. Then, you move on to the hot bath... which is really, really...really hot. You're only supposed to stay here for 5 minutes, and honestly, after three minutes, my head was spinning. Then, you move back to the warm bath, which after the hot bath feels 10 degrees cooler (at least) than it felt when you first when in. Then, on to the cold bath... Unfortunately, I don't ACTUALLY know how cold the cold bath is because, well, I wussed out. I put my hand in, it went rigid from how cold it was, and that was it for me. No cold bath for Samantha. I could hear my friends shrieking a little as they dipped into the cold water...and I was very glad that I had opted out.

So back to the warm pool I went, waiting for my number to be called by a massage therapist. (Massages are optional. You can just take a bath, or you can have a bath with tea, or you can watch a show and have lunch...there are a lot of options to say the least.) When we went last week, there were four massage therapists working. And of course, one was a young, hunky Spanish man. Awesome. We were all placing our bets on who would get him, and I assured my friends that with my luck, it would most certainly be me. And was. So off I went to get my massage from the hunky Spaniard. He kept telling me to relax, and I really did try. But it's kind of hard to relax when you think your massage therapist is cute, he's using orange massage oil on you, you're pretty sure he's MAYBE only two years older than you are, you have a boyfriend, and oh yeah, he's massaging your bum.

Anyway. It was all very relaxing for the most part, and I can't wait to go back. I'll post the link below so you can see pictures and what not. If it doesn't post in English, I apologize. Just click on the little British flag right above the text, and it will switch to English.

Saturday, March 13, 2010


Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre

If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

A Moment with the "Padres"

I just finished having family lunch, and I thought I would share a portion of our conversation.

My roommate was telling our "padres" how she felt about her older brother's present girlfriend. According to her, the girlfriend is "fea", or ugly. I, however, tried to play devil's advocate by saying it isn't that she's ugly; it's just that her brother is more attractive than the girlfriend. Our padres responded with, "OOOOOOHH sí sí sí!", understanding exactly what I was talking about. They then went on to say that that's usually how it works. Either a very attractive man dates a less attractive woman, or a very attractive woman dates a less attractive man: in fact, it's very rare that you see two people of equal, physical caliber dating one another. My roommate then asked, "Well, what about you guys?" And my madre...well, she said (in Spanish), "Well, it's obvious! I'm clearly more attractive than he is!" To which my padre responded, "Well, of course you are!" My roommate and I could not. stop. laughing. My madre then continued to say, "Oh what? You thought I was going to be humble? No! I am clearly more attractive (guapa)! What? You don't think so?!?" And with that, we had to praise her beauty.

Just thought I would share. Haha.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


It was raining in Córdoba when our bus pulled into the station. I’ll be honest: the bus ride was painful. I had a headache (for reasons that will not be stated here, although I’m pretty sure we all know them…), I was exhausted (also pretty self-explanatory, I think) and my eyes itched (some guy completely disregarded the No Smoking signs and decided to light up every 30 minutes, resulting in a smoky two and a half hour bus-ride). Anyway, my friends and I parted ways at the station, and I decided to take the long way home.

Málaga was good to us, as some of you might know from my Facebook status (the correct pronunciation being “state-us” …long story short, I was educated this weekend by a few “Bad News Brits”. Apparently, American English is the bastardized version of English English, so therefore, “state-us” is correct while “stat-us” remains without a father…but there will be a little bit more about them later because well, they’re kind of a big part of the story.)

Our hostel was noisy when we arrived. The Brits were drinking (at 2:30 in the afternoon), and my friends and I should have known from our arrival that this weekend was going to be eventful. Anyway, we put our bags in the room and decided to go out. It wasn’t that sunny outside, but it was sunny enough, so we walked down the beach. Even though the weather wasn’t ideal, you could tell that when it was sunny and warm, Málaga was somewhere you definitely needed to be. I posted some pictures below, and due to my own personal censorship rules, these will be the only posted pictures of the trip. (It’s better this way; trust me.)

After our walk, we went grocery shopping, went back to the hostel and started making dinner. And that is when we met Freddy (he’s kind of a big deal)…and Harry…and Tom…and Kevin…and Emmett. We all ended up going out to a club that night (minus Tom and Kevin for suspicious reasons [ha.]), and as hinted at previously, we had a great time. Lots of laughing, dancing, drinking, and naturally, mocking of each other’s pronunciation and accents.

The night ended in the early morning, and the later within that morning, we woke up and decided to go do “cultural things” (without the boys because they were…busy.) It was raining (shocker), so we ended up at the Picasso Museum, which, of course, was everything I had hoped for and more. Frantisek Kupka was the temporary exhibition, and I have to say, I really enjoyed his work. The pieces were varied, and some of them were reminiscent of Picasso, Kandinsky, Hopper and Wayne Thiebaud. After that, we just kind of wandered, running into a Cathedral, some ruins, a Roman theater, a castle and a park all before we made it to the bus stop.

And what did we do that night? Well, let’s just say it was a bit like the first. Again, lots of drinking, dancing, laughing, and naturally, mocking of each other’s pronunciation and accents (not necessarily in that order). It was weird to think that we had only met the Brits 24 hours before, but we genuinely enjoyed their company. They aren’t like American boys; that’s for sure. More serious in some ways and less serious in others. Definitely friendlier and more open to “chatting” (drunkenly or not). (But in Spain, it’s an equal playing field.) We ended up going to bed later (or earlier, depending on your perspective) than the first night, so all in all, I’d say I got about 10 hours of sleep this entire weekend.

But it was worth it, and I’d do it again if I could. We left today, and I’ll say it: we were a little sad. We liked our new friends and Málaga and the good vibes. But Córdoba and la Universidad awaited our return. So onto the bus we went, and on the bus we remained until Córdoba. And as I walked home, I couldn’t help but think that it could very well have all been a dream. It’s funny how people can move in and out of your life so quickly like that. You can be enjoying somebody’s company and becoming friends on some weird, accelerated level one day, and the next, you’re leaving, probably never to see them again, hoping only the best for them though because that’s what everyone deserves…the best. Well anyway, that’s my little spiel about Málaga. I’d go back, but without the “Bad News Brits”, who knows if it will ever be able to live up to the first trip.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Warning: Approach with Caution.

As I write this post, I want to state that the issues I am about to bring up are extremely controversial, and if you do not have an open-mind, I suggest you do not read it because honestly, it will upset the close-minded. (And I use the term "close-minded" although I contemplated using the term "feeble-minded" because I am trying to address this situation from an unbias position, although it will be difficult. Also, I do not want to stoop to any level that is below both my intelligence and integrity as an educated young person in a society that claims freedom of speech, a freedom that has come to be defined by negative speech rather than positive speech. {Doesn't saying "I love you" have just as much/if not more power than saying "I hate you"?})

I cannot focus on my homework. I cannot think about anything else right now except I am feeling. And honestly, I do not even know how to begin this post. I could just come right out and yell and scream and curse and degrade a person who I do not even know and, due to certain statements and actions, do not wish to know. Or, I could try and rationalize what this is all about; I could try to understand where all of this hatred comes from; I could try to deduce what all of this says about the United States in its present state.

...I think that is what I am going to do, and so, I am going to post this website for you to glance over before you continue reading this post. (Please take the time to at least read the first paragraph; it is essential to understanding my "anger", for lack of a better word. Maybe "thoughts" is the word I should use instead...)!/notes/deen-muhammad/black-students-white-schools-the-killing-fields/370058935476

My friend (who shall remain anonymous) received this link only a few moments ago from an individual (who we both know) with the message, "Just wanted to give you some insight." (This individual will also remain anonymous, although I will state that my friend is Caucasian/White and the individual is African American/Black.) Now, I consider myself an extremely open-minded, rational individual when it comes to the discussion of social issues in our world. However, both the website and the comment really, really...really bothered me.

I would like to begin by saying that my friend is one of the most genuine people I have ever met. My friend is kind, generous, loving, caring, extremely bright and would never do anything to purposefully insult, embarrass, degrade or hurt another human being. So for this individual to send my friend such a link suggesting that she lacks "insight" is something I find extremely insulting (as does my friend). Furthermore, the individual's distribution of such a link to my friend suggests in some backhanded way that the individual is taking out her frustration with the Caucasian community on my friend in an attempt to point the figure at "her and her racist kind".

This, however, was not the first incident in which my friend has been singled out by this individual. While my friend does not see herself as Caucasian and the individual as Black, but rather sees the person behind the skin, the individual consistently points out that the main difference between my friend and the individual is one of race: one is White and the other is Black, and due to this intrinsic difference, the individual wakes up every morning feeling "different", while my friend leads a life of "White privilege." (Note: Everything in quotes is something that was said by the individual.)

Now, I understand that everyone is entitled to his or her opinion on race and racism in the United States. I, like the individual, am also well-versed in concepts such as racism, White privilege, discrimination, equality, etc. However, I feel as though such issues and such attacks should not be made on a person unless it is a) provoked, b) between two people who have developed a relationship in which such issues can be discussed with a mutual respect for conflicting opinions or c) the situation calls for such a discussion. I do not understand why this conversation occurred between my friend and this individual the first day of their meeting or why the individual felt it necessary to send my friend this link tonight at random.

I guess what I am trying to say is this. We all know our country's history with racism, and we all know that racism remains a very prevalent and glaring issue within our country still. However, racism is not a racially exclusive term. Racism affects every race, whether Black, Latino, Asian and (arguably) Caucasian. Furthermore, discrimination is not politically, economically or socially exclusive. Discrimination affects every ethnicity, whether Jamaican, Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, Indonesian, Chinese, etc., every social class (even the wealthy), and every person who makes his or her politic status known. In this way, I think that personal victimization is something we should wholeheartedly take into consideration as something we shouldn't do.

Is it fair to say that the Blacks faced a worse racism or persecution than the Jews did during the Holocaust? Is it fair to say that racial issues in the United States are more "racial" than racial conflict was in Uganda or is in South Africa? Is it fair to take our own personal stories of discrimination, persecution, abuse, degradation and pain and say to a neighbor who has also dealt with pain, "No, you don't understand. What I went through was worse, and because of that, you have to feel bad for me and recognize that I am stronger and better than you"? Is it fair to downplay others' tragedies in order to make oneself feel bigger, stronger, or more confident? I feel like the answer to all of these is no. It is absolutely not fair.

I want to apologize for posting on such a heavy issue. And I also want to reiterate that this is all just my opinion, and you in no way, shape or form need to agree with me. In fact, I encourage criticism and different points of view. I am just so tired of the finger-pointing, the name-calling, the choosing-sides. Aren't we adults? Don't we have educations, whether academic, social or otherwise? Don't we want to unite as a country to fix ourselves? So then why do we do this? Why do we say, "No. It's YOUR fault." Well, guess what? If we finally come to understanding of "whose fault it is", is the situation going to be fixed? If we place the blame on the white people for the racism in our country, is racism going to go away over night? If we place the blame on the republicans or President Obama for our current political and economic situation, is everyone going to have a job in the morning? Will everyone be able to afford healthcare? The answer is no. And we all know it is no.

So when do we all start holding ourselves accountable? When do we look in the mirrors and say, "This is just as much my fault as it is my neighbors." And at what point do we realize that facebook notes, blog posts, newspaper articles and any other examples of freedom of speech that speak against Caucasians and their "racist ways" is racism in and of itself? I lost a friend at 5 years old to racism. I went to her house, and she told me we couldn't be friends because I was white. Is that not racism?
If it isn't, then I really don't know what is.

P.S. I know certain individuals do not think that such websites should attract attention and spark conversation because they are a waste of time as they are products of "ignorance", but I just want to say this. Ignoring sites and statements and articles like these and NOT talking about the underlying issues is one of the main reasons why racism still exists in our country today. Ignoring it doesn't make it go away: it gives it power.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Bacalao Embryos

Tonight, we had Bacalao embryos for dinner. For those of you who don't know, Bacalao is a fish commonly eaten here. And tonight, I ate its unborn babies...which apparently, are extremely expensive (40 euros).

But don't worry! According to my host father, it's very high in protein.

And then after stating that fun fact, Spain scored a second goal in the game against France, which compelled him to exclaim,"Oh! Otro gol! En su casa! En su casa! Jajaja!"
Translation: "Oh! Another goal! In their house! In their house! Hahaha!"

That is all.

Wet Feet

This morning, I woke up to sunshine with a few scattered clouds. And before I put on my outfit for the day, I thought I would do the "smart" thing and check the weather. 16.7 degrees with Light Rain. Light Rain. Light...Rain.
Let's examine the definition of "Light" in this case, shall we?

1. of small amount, force, intensity, etc.
2. easy to endure, deal with, or perform; not difficult or burdensome.

Light Rain.

I don't think Córdoba understands the phrase "Light Rain". At this moment, my shoes are soaked through. I had to wipe my feet off with a towel once I got in the house. And at some point on my walk home, I just stopped caring about stepping in puddles. Actually, my feet were warmer in the puddles than they were out of the puddles.
Light Rain.

Light Rain.

"Light" Rain.

As I'm writing this, I'm listening to the rain fall outside and, excuse my vulgarity, it sounds like someone is drunkenly peeing against my window. Not the nice, tinkling peeing that takes place right before bed, or even the "I held my pee for an hour before I found a toilet" peeing. No. Luckily for me (sarcasm), I'm talking the "I had 5 beers, 3 tequila shots, some water in hopes that I won't be hung over in the morning, and just for kicks, I thought I'd hold my pee until I made it home" peeing. That's what I'm dealing with right now, and that's what I've been dealing with since I landed in Spain.

I went into class with the sun, and I came out with the drunken pee rain. Honestly, the rain in Spain most definitely does not fall mainly on the plain: it falls mainly everywhere.

It needs to stop. I'm tired of the rain. I'm tired of umbrellas. And I am most certainly tired of WET FEET.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Travel Schedule

This post will serve as a mini-calendar to let everyone know where I will be in the world throughout the next 3 months. I will update it if plans change.

March 5-7: Málaga
March 19-20: Sevilla
March 26-April 3: Budapest, Vienna, Prague, Berlin
April 9-10: Granada
April 22-26: Italy (Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan)
April 30-May 2: Portugal