A truly Classic weekend in Dublin

Now gather 'round children, it's time to hear about my first trip outside the Iberian Peninsula. Yes, you heard right...I finally ventured outside of Spain and its Canada-esque counterpart Portugal and set a course for *dramatic drumroll* Dublin.

Well, I was excited anyway.

While I'd sworn after my last two trips to never again spend a night in Madrid's airport, I did realize Thursday morning that I would get to do the next best thing on this little adventure. Having a 10:40 flight doesn't seem too bad at first, but throw in the bus ride to Madrid, the long metro ride to get to the airport, and security, I got the pleasure of setting my alarm for 5:30 a.m. Friday morning. Add in the fact that I had to write a paper that Thursday night to be turned in before I left and it was basically even with spending the night in the airport. All that complaining aside, I will certainly take three hours in a warm, comfortable double bed to five hours on a cold airport tile floor any day. Besides, I was going to Dublin, so how could I really complain?

The journey to the airport was uneventful as usual, though different in that this time I was only traveling with two other people (my friends Maeve and Stephanie) instead of the group of nine or ten I've usually rolled with. Naturally, we got through security and to our gate with a good two hours 'til boarding...yay for planning ahead. We grabbed some food and contemplated what it would be like to be in an English-speaking country.

We arrived and, well, we were confused. It literally took all I had to not walk up to the window to get my passport checked and not say "Hola." Thoroughly shaken, we hopped a bus to University College Dublin where I would be part of an epic reunion. Yeah, I forgot to mention this earlier...the purpose of coming to Dublin this weekend was to do a bit of a belated birthday celebration for my friend Kristin who's studying there. This would involve me, TJ, Charlie, and Emily gathering in Dublin from our respective study abroad sites (Spain, London, and Rome). Yeah, we were excited.

After an hour on the bus we stepped off and I was immediately greeted with two huge hugs from Kristin and Emily (she'd gotten in the night before). After hurried introductions to Maeve and Steph, we headed to Kristin's apartment to drop off our stuff and then went off to kill some time before TJ and Charlie arrived at 5. The first thing we did was to spend 13 Euro apiece on weekend bus passes. This was the first in a series of purchases during which I realized that Spain's relative inexpensiveness is the exception rather than the rule in Europe. Oh well.

Next, we visited UCD's campus where I ran into a bunch of Notre Dame people I didn't know (but who all knew Sean Kickham, for some reason). From there, we did something I'd been meaning to do for a long time...we found an Irish music store. I've kind of had a thing for the stuff since getting to ND, and even more so since a weekend I spent listening to an excellent Irishman sing for two straight nights in a Pittsburgh pub managed by John Kearney. Needless to say, I was happy. I dunno if I was happy enough to justify spending 40 Euro on a total of 8 CDs, but damn it, I didn't care. What can I say? I'm a music whore.

After that and a brief stop for coffee we returned to UCD and met Charlie and TJ at the bus stop. There was lots of hugging, some tears were shed, and I think someone might have briefly fainted, though I could be wrong. Regardless, we were finally reunited and also incredibly hungry, so TJ and Charlie dropped their stuff and we went to find some grub. This search involved us going into and out of two or three authentic pubs before finally settling on an actual restaurant (damn kitchens closing at 7...).

I'll pause here because I'd like to explain to you good people a little goal I'd set for myself before going to Dublin. First of all, for those of you who know me, I really enjoy a good beer. Not as much as some people, to be sure, but I've got my taste. Anyway, when you think of Ireland, you think of beer, and when you think of Irish beer, you think of the glorious measurement of liquid volume that is the pint. From what I'd heard from people who'd studied in Dublin as well as TJ and Charlie in London, pint glasses, apart from being an excellent vessel to hold beer and a fantastic souvenir, are incredibly easy to steal. Yes, it's going where you think it is. My goal on this trip was to steal what I called the Grand Slam of Irish pint glasses: Guinness, Harp, Smithwick's, and Murphy's. I knew I'd be going to the Guinness factory, so that was basically taken care of. My targets were picked, and I was basically prepared (Kristin had promised to have a big purse at all times). Now I think the stage is adequately set...back to the story.

After we were seated at the restaurant, we were asked (as per usual) for our drink orders. I went with a Smithwick's this time, figuring I'd save the Harp for a true pub. Luckily, they had it on tap. When the glass arrived, I could barely contain my glee. Oh yeah, the beer was pretty good too, as was the meal. I'd apologize for foregoing the traditional Shepherd's Pie for a burger, but the thing was just too damn good to merit it. Plus, you folks know how I feel about apologizing. As we got up to leave, my fingers started twitching a little. I felt a twang of guilt...this was a (relatively) classy restaurant, not a dive pub. Luckily, I had the gang there to snap me out of my moralistic ways. Kristin slipped the glass deftly into her purse and we were outta there.

I'll pause (again) to explain another subplot, though one much more interesting this time, I promise. About a week before this trip, I'd been randomly friend-requested by Kristin's older sister Sarah. Turned out she had set up a rather elaborate surprise involving VIP access to a really cool club in Dublin. Our job as the visiting crew was to get Kristin out of the apartment for an hour or so so people could set up. I'd been getting texts throughout dinner I'd had to discreetly respond to (thank you, T9) updating the other group on our status. Luckily, we'd delayed Kristin more like two hours, so we got back to UCD's campus having given them plenty of time to prepare.

I'll admit I was the last one into the room...the lights were already on and "SURPRISE!" had already been shouted, but I'm pretty sure Kristin was quite happy with how everything went down. There was cake, there was cider, there were a lot of people, general merriment was shared by all. Half an hour later (we had to get ready, Kristin had to get over the genuine shock of what had happened) we all left the apartment for this legendary club Sarah had set up for us.

We clearly got there a bit early, because it wasn't quite filled up yet, so we took advantage of our fantastic VIP tables and started the night off with a celebratory beverage. Sadly, they had no pints of Harp or Murphy's available, so I settled for something less filling. We all sat around, got to know each other a little better, took a bunch of pictures (especially the five of us) and for a while it looked like we rhythm-less gentlemen might be in the clear. Then it happened...the inevitable moment where one of the girls in the party decides to scream some variation of "Dance floor, NOW!" This was immediately followed by lots of prodding and pulling on the shirts of the guys, especially TJ, Charlie, and myself (we were a little too late to the pre-gaming). This culminated at one point in Ashley, a dear friend of mine, trying to convince a stone cold sober TJ that he should really get out there. This is one of those immovable-object-unstoppable-force situations. Quite fun to witness, I assure you. Eventually, though, even TJ was guilted out there for a few songs and, while it was fun, I was just too exhausted from the travel day to keep it up too long.

After my requisite three songs were up, I returned to the VIP table to find random people sitting there fooling with Kristin's camera. Emily, who was with me, was not pleased. Eventually they left, but not before insisting on snapping a picture with all of us. Emily was still not pleased (see Kristin's pictures). The rest of the night was kind of a blur (again, I was tired) and at one point I almost fell asleep on the table. Kristin, bless her soul, saw me and decided that she, too, was tired enough to roll out.

The ride home was fun, especially the part when Emily spilled some food in the cab, a spill the cab driver discovered as we got out. He sped off with a rather disgusted look on his face. Emily remained unconcerned. I remained tired, though not tired enough to avoid the still massive amount of chocolate cake left over from earlier. So rich. So decadent. So perfect to fall asleep to...even on the floor of Kristin's apartment under a fleece tiger blanket.

The original plan for the following day was to wake up at 9. If you've been reading this blog at all, you know how I felt about THAT plan. Yeah, I rolled into the kitchen about 10:15. Good thing my friends love me too much to leave me. I downed some cereal (in cold milk, for the first time in a long time), showered, and left with the group. Kristin first led us on a small tour of Dublin's main drag, which included the obligatory stop in Carroll's, Ireland's chain of touristy shops full of great Irish chotchkies (don't know what that means? Get a Yiddish-English dictionary). It's kind of sad, but Ireland (or at least Dublin) has really capitalized on the whole St. Patrick's Day mentality of the US by making outrageous amounts of gifts in all shades of green. I walked out of the place with two 3'x5' flags (one of Ireland, one of Dublin county) and another shot glass for my collection.

Slightly poorer after our various purchases, we set out on a journey of epic proportions. Our goal: the Guinness factory. Seven stories of greatness. More importantly, though, it had Guinness pint glasses. Eyes on the prize as always, I was mentally prepared to lift at least one, possibly more, as were TJ and Charlie. Emily, for some unexplained reason, doubted we could pull it off. Silly, silly Emily.

The tour itself was mediocre at best. I mean, learning a bit about the brewing process was cool. Hearing historical tidbits about Arthur Guinness's general badassery was cooler. Take, for example, that when he signed the lease on the property on which the factory now rests, he agreed to pay 45 pounds a year...for 9,000 years. Yeah, that's foresight for ya. And the factory still pays those 45 pounds of rent. I felt the need to pay homage to such a genius. Still, all told, it wasn't really worth the 8 Euro. Before the gravity bar at the top anyway.

The rest of the factory aside, this place was pretty cool. It's a 360-degree view of Dublin with free pints of Guinness all around. And oh how glorious the Guinness tastes when it comes from the source. For the second time that weekend, tears were nearly shed. It was beautiful. I think what shocked me most, though, was that people would just take three sips and return their glasses to the bar. This is Guinness! From the factory! It's like liquid gold! For shame, random tourists.

The theft of glasses, of course, went off without a hitch (take that, Emily!). Of course, it helped that we had our half-empty bags from Carroll's on our hips that made it an easy final-sip-into-the-bag motion. I was rather impressed with how smooth it all went (that's what she said). I was happier, though, when I started to notice people just leaving empty glasses sitting around. I can't explain what happened next...all I know is I blacked out and ten minutes later I woke up outside with four empty pint glasses hidden in my bag. I can only assume I paid full price for them. Oh well. Two glasses down, two to go.

After leaving the factory, we spent another hour or so wandering rather aimlessly around Dublin and then went to a train station to take the half-hour ride to Howthe, a small fishing village outside Dublin. This would be our opportunity to snap a few nice pictures. Almost immediately after getting off the train, we met a pretty cool dog that ended up following us for a good hour as we did a brief tour of the coastline of Howthe, taking what pictures we could before the sun went down. We soon affectionately nicknamed him Bennett after our friend Chris. It had something to do with a few characteristics they shared...I don't remember exactly which ones, but I think it ended up being a bit of a jab at Bennett. If you're reading this, sorry bud. All in good fun.

Once we were satisfied with our pictures (i.e. we were too hungry to keep going) we walked back toward the train station to see if we could rustle up a little grub. We compared prices and eventually settled on a place called The Bloody Stream (appetizing, no?) where I got some authentic fish 'n' chips. In case you're wondering, no, they didn't serve Harp or Murphy's. Disheartened, I ordered a glass of water. When we finished dinner, we bit Howthe farewell and caught the train back to downtown Dublin.

After the train ride, we stumbled on the statue of Molly Malone (a.k.a. "the tart with the cart") immortalized in a famous Irish drinking song of the same name. We then decided that, despite being tired, we (read: I) wanted to give finding Harp one more try. We picked a pub that, unfortunately, had neither of my remaining glasses, so I figured I'd try Kilkenny. It was fine, but it tasted of failure more than anything else. While we were in this pub, something happened outside that I thought was a phenomenon reserved for the lake-affected climate of South Bend. I wouldn't call it snowing, nor would I call it raining, nor hailing. I think the best word I can come up with is "precipitating." It looked like snow, felt like rain, and landed as slush. I dunno, it was weird, but if nothing else it made for a fun walk to the bus stop.

We passed the rest of the night without much incident; the trip to Howthe and a day of walking around had really tired us out, and we wanted to wake up in time to grab some breakfast before heading to the airport for our 2 p.m. flight, so we hit the hay relatively early. The next morning, we did indeed go to a place that served an authentic Irish breakfast, but I just wasn't in the mood for some reason, so I wussed out and went with a smaller version (sans blood sausage, sadly). With that, Maeve, Steph, and I said our goodbyes and got on our bus to the airport. I found out later that once we'd gone the rest of the crew grabbed another pint in a pub where they served...you guessed it...Harp. *facepalm*

Our flight back was our first experience with RyanAir, including a nice little mini freak-out when we realized they really DO check the size of your bags when you get on. Luckily, our flight attendant was distracted at the gate with a guy who was trying to slam his bag into the container, so we slipped by without incident. The flight was uneventful, but the trumpet track they played at the end was a nice capper to the weekend. I got home in time for dinner and looked forward to a week of midterms.

I'll leave that off for now and include the midterm week in my update of my first weekend in Toledo, which should come fairly quickly after this one. 'til then, peace out.

Griff

Viviendo el sueño en Barcelona

Alright, folks, I'm finally over my sickness, I went to Dublin (you'll get that story soon, don't worry) and I just took the last of my five midterms, meaning now, at long last, I can update all of you on my crazy weekend in Barcelona a few weeks ago. Here goes nothin...

The weekend started (as had the previous one) spending a Thursday night in Terminal 4 of Madrid's Barajas Airport. Once again, I was lucky to get about two hours of sleep, but I didn't care; I was going to be spending Carnaval, Europe's biggest party, in Barcelona, a city famous for its nightlife. What could go wrong? Oh how little I knew...

When we finally got there, we realized that the glorious weather we'd heard about...wasn't. We soon found out that we'd chosen literally the coldest weekend Barcelona had had in years to travel there. Yay us. Still, we did what we always do as soon as we get somewhere...we found our hostel. My body told me to nap, but 1) we couldn't get into our rather small room just yet and 2) my friend Paul said something about going to find his uncle who was living here, so I decided I'd tag along with him instead. Man, am I glad I did. Turns out Paul's Uncle Joe is The Man...literally. He moved to Barcelona from Philly a few years back so his daughter, Paul's cousin, could go to an international high school there. He now alternates between being a kick-ass dentist in the States and livin the dream on one of the more recognized plazas in Barcelona. Not a bad life, eh?

Probably the best thing Tío José, as we soon began calling him, offered us was a knowledge of the who's who and the what's what of Barcelona. The first thing he did was tell us about a fantastic four-hour bike tour that left from the plaza immediately outside his door. We caught the next round, which left about a half hour later, and had quite a great time with our guide, a monotonously hilarious South African named JJ. He took us to just about all the big time touristy spots in Barcelona. We saw the Plaza de Toros, the Cathedral of Barcelona, and, of course, the Sagrada Familia, a massive church designed by Gaudí that's been in the works for over 100 years. It was cool to think about how much work was going into it, and the fact that there were all these huge churches that had been built hundreds of years ago and now here was one being built as we watched. I dunno though...one side kinda looks like a little kid just kinda drizzled wet sand onto it, dontcha think?

After our fifteen-minute photo break at Sagrada Familia, we finally got to go to a beach, something we'd been joking about doing since we went to Lisbon a few weekends back. It was...about a nice as a beach can get in about 45-degree weather with wind whipping up in stiff gusts every couple of seconds. Still, we munched on some bocadillos and enjoyed what warmth could be had, then hopped on the bikes and rode home.

We said our goodbyes to JJ (it had been quite the four hours) and went back up to Uncle Joe's apartment for round two of his advice on where to go. He told us about what was supposed to be a pretty cool castle/fortress on top of a hill that overlooked most of the city. Having recently become a guy who likes his great views (and snapping obnoxious amounts of pictures of them) I was interested. He stressed to us that "sunlight is precious" and that if we wanted to see this next landmark we'd have to move. I found this kind of funny because, as he was walking us to the metro station to start our journey, he insisted we take two quick detours to see some cool things Barcelona had to offer. Definitely worth it, but just a tad ironic, I thought.

He first brought us to Placa de Sant Felip Neri (if that looks weird it's because it's in Catalán, an old language still spoken in Barcelona that's one of the many symbols of how much they dislike being associated with Spain). At first it seemed like a small plaza that was in a bit of disrepair, but Paul's uncle explained that the holes in the walls were from bullets from Franco's firing squads. Apparently, Franco wanted to squash any memory of the cultural heritage of Cataluñia, the region of northeastern Spain of which Barcelona is the capital. As the story goes, if you were caught speaking Catalán in the city of Barcelona, Franco's guards would take you to this plaza to be shot. Yeah...suddenly those holes in the wall became a lot more powerful. There's also a kind of beautiful irony in the fact that there's now an entrance to a pre-school in that very same plaza. Hats off to Barca on that one.

We snapped a few pictures and then took another quick ten minute stop, this time in a sweet covered outdoor market. The whole thing was really cool and authentic-feeling and Uncle Joe, continuing his campaign for greatest host ever, bought us some really good fruit smoothies. He Finally, though, we had to catch the metro...sunlight was fading and we had a castle to see.

We got off the metro and found out, much to our dismay, that the badass gondola ride up to the top of the hill was closed for repairs, so we would have to take a bus up instead. Lame, huh? Even lamer, the bus didn't even take us all the way to the top (or so we thought as we were told to get off at one point while other people stayed on). We were accosted by a cab driver offering to drive us up the hill, and after deciding to walk we debated not going at all (we were all INCREDIBLY tired at this point) but after much wailing and grinding of teeth we trudged slowly up the hill. Our spirits were lifted by a fantastically random discovery...two huge metal slides just off the road up the hill. Naturally, we took a ten minute stop-off and had our first-grade fun. Reenergized, we finally made it to the top of the hill and found the castle. To be honest, the views were cool, but I'm not totally sure this was better than the nap we could've been taking at the hostel. Oh well, live and learn, I suppose.

Completely worn out, we finally got back to our hostel and rested up a bit, then headed back to Uncle Joe's. He'd promised to take us on what he called a "pub crawl of the best dive bars in Barcelona." He hadn't steered us wrong yet, so we were all pretty excited to go. We first stopped at his apartment where he'd set out for us a great sampling of cheeses and jamón ibérico (they do ham different here...it's kind of a delicacy) as well as a few glasses of cava, the Spanish version of champagne. It was, I'll admit, quite a step up from the André I'm used to, to say the least. Finally full-ish, we were ready to start the pub crawl.

First we went to a place that was apparently known for its mojitos. I'm not sure what made it so good, but Paul's uncle told us it was because Carlos, the bartender, added quite a bit of love into the process. Whatever was in it, it was great. Once we'd sipped those down, it was on to the next spot, involving one of the sketchiest journeys to a bar I've ever been on. We literally walked up to a shady building in the corner of a huge plaza and rang up (like in an apartment complex) to this bar. We waited, and waited, and finally were buzzed in. As we walked up the creepy old staircase I'm sure we were all wondering where in the hell Uncle Joe was taking us. We finally arrived at the door to a place called Pipa Club.

As soon as we walked in I was overcome with an urge to take pictures. This place was basically a converted apartment, with a bar in one room, a pool room in the back, walls lined with cases of tobacco pipes and old bottles, and my favorite part, a tiny room packed with people in front of a small make-shift stage. Providing the soundtrack for the evening was a trio of musicians; the first was a tall lanky guy standing with a content intensity as his fingers walked up and down the neck of his upright bass, the second was a dude probably on some kind of drug just rockin out on his guitar, and third was the star, a rather small woman who looked vaguely like Selma Hayek (though that could've been the mojito talking) and whose voice was as smooth as...well, it was smooth. After watching for a moment or two (and, of course, snapping a ton of pictures) we snuck back and enjoyed a nice game of pool. Having been assigned photographer for the evening, I was going on something of a photo frenzy and loving it. Sadly, though, we eventually had to leave this place too.

The coup d'grace of Uncle Joe's dive-bar crawl was an old, run down place right near our hostel called Bar Marsella. Allegedly, while he spent his famous period in Spain, Hemingway used to spend his nights here in the corner, combining several mind-numbing drugs and writing away. That's what Uncle Joe told us, anyway. Whether it was true or not, I'm stickin' to it. G'head, prove me wrong.

Whoa, sorry for flyin off the handle like that. Back to the story. This place was incredibly important for us because we would finally get to try that elusive European delicacy known as Absinthe. For all the build-up (thanks, Eurotrip) it wasn't hallucinogenic in the least, but it was probably one of the cooler drinks to prepare for. First, you dip a sugar cube in the Absinthe, then scoop it out and lay it on a small fork over the glass. You then light the sugar cube on fire (yeah...it's potent stuff) and let it drip into the glass. It's also recommended you water the stuff down a bit, and rest assured we did. I didn't want any green fairies popping up over my shoulder. The best way to describe the flavor is to say it's like a tangy black licorice. I usually don't like black licorice, but I figured it was part of the European experience, so what the hell, right?

Then came the surprise of the evening. We were all sitting in the corner of the bar, generally enjoying the smokey, loud atmosphere and yelling to be heard over the clanging of glasses and chatter of the other patrons, when out of the corner of my eye I see the flash of blonde hair and a gap tooth I know all too well. Yes, friends, Kyle Nieman himself had entered the bar. I'd heard from Michael that he was in Barcelona too with some kids from the London program, but I figured it would be a one-in-a-million shot if we ran into each other as there was no chance I was gonna drop however many Euros it costs to call a London phone. But sure enough, he walked in and the three Glee Clubbers were immediately united. After about ten minutes of quick catch up, hugs, and mutual complaining about the glaring hole the lack of singing had left in our lives abroad, Niems did his duty and tried the forbidden drink and we headed off to the final bar of the evening. I felt bad for Paul's uncle at this point...he hadn't signed up to drag 25 ND kids around. Still, he was in good spirits.

We finally arrived at our last stop, a classic dive bar where Michael, Kyle, and I just basically sat around and shot the breeze. Unfortunately, most of the people in my traveling group aren't fans of when Michael and I sing. I say unfortunately for their sakes, because the three of us were together and damn it, we were singing. I'm not sure how it sounded to everyone else in the bar, but to me it was the best rendition of "Tonight" I've ever heard. Good times.

Michael and I left the bar after about an hour and a half and had an experience I never really believed would happen while I was in Europe. It started with a guy asking us in Spanish if we had any cigarettes. We told him no and kept walking, but he ran to catch up with us and asked me if I liked dancing. I was confused, and at that point he hooked his left leg around my right and shoved his hand into my front pocket, obviously trying to pickpocket me (he had a buddy trying the same thing on Michael at the same time). Luckily I realized what was going on and yanked his hand rather forcefully out of my pocket and shoved him away, yelling at him in Spanish to get the...well, to leave. A little shaken but proud that I'd handled myself, we walked rather warily the rest of the way back to our hostel.

As was the custom, a few of the more dedicated travelers got up to see some sites around 9:30 the following morning, while I, using the excuse of mental exhaustion from the pickpocket attempt, slept until 12:30. Yeah, I'm lazy and proud of it. My fellow late risers and I headed out in search of food and found, after some price comparison, a fairly decent place that served paella and a drink for 8 Euro. Full and relatively back to normal, we met up with the rest of the group and we decided that now, on the eve of what we thought was going to be an epic Carnaval celebration, we should probably think about getting costumes. We found two costume shops, and after some thought and experimentation, I decided to drop a few Euros on an odd assortment: a plastic fireman's hat, an adhesive mustache, a pair of sunglasses, and a red feather boa. Yeah...I was kind of going for a Village People thing, I guess. Anyway, my friend Connor found a nun costume (he planned on making it a pregnant nun costume...a popular choice for Carnaval) and the other guys got some wigs and decided they'd just be women. While they went to find some dresses, I went back to the hostel to rest up and eat something.

Slowly but surely over the next few hours, we all got back, ate, showered (quickly, as this hostel seemed to ignore the idea of warm water being good for business), and got into our costumes. The girls had decided to go in flashy togas (very classy, I assure you), and Michael, the only guy who had a costume before we left Toledo, went as a female police officer. Oh yeah, we were quite the crew. At one point Kyle showed up and we just sat around for a bit before heading out into what was a maaaaajor disappointment. We decided to start the night at the same bar we'd finished at Friday, and we were sad to find that practically no one was dressed up. Clearly all the fun people had gone to Cadiz (the capital of Spanish Carnaval) instead. Way to go us.

After about two hours in the bar, things took a turn. I realized around 1:30 that, while I 1) was in a bar and 2) had had a drink or two, two things that should have kept me quite toasty, I was shivering uncontrollably. I took this as something of a bad sign and immediately left the bar and booked it to the hostel, where I spent the next ten hours shivering in my bed despite wearing my jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jacket and being under a fleece blanket. Yeah...not fun.

And neither was waking up the next day, which involved about nine hours of travel between leaving the hostel at 11 and getting back to my house in Toledo at 8. Yeah, that combination of bus to the airport, sleeping at the gate for three hours, an hour-long flight, an hour on the metro, and 45 minutes on the bus home were by far the worst I've had as I spent them alternating between shivering from what I'm guessing was a 102-degree fever and trying to sleep.

When I finally stumbled into my house in Toledo, I immediately passed out on my bed and woke up once or twice during the night, but essentially slept for 14 hours until 10 the next morning, at which point I woke up and told my host mom that I would not be going to school that day. As a policy, when that call comes in from a host family the school has to call a doctor, so I got my first ever house call (I'd have been excited if not for how I felt). From what I could understand, he prescribed some fever reducers and told me to stick to liquids until dinner that night, when I would be allowed basically rice and potatoes. Appetizing, no?

I spent the next two days basically in bed, not eating much and bouncing between feeling like crap and feeling okay. I watched a lot of Entourage and talked to some people from home, but all in all it was more boring than anything else. On the plus side, I got to miss handing in two papers due on Tuesday, so I s'pose that was nice. I finally did return to classes Wednesday and Thursday, and by Friday I was (luckily) feeling good enough to head to Dublin.

This is where I'll leave you for now, as you've got plenty to read (and I'm too lazy to get to Dublin until another time). So, until next time, enjoy whatever it is that you're doing.

Ciao,

Griff

'splainin some things

Howdy folks,

Sorry about the delay on that Lisbon post. I literally sat around my hostel's lounge for an hour a day over the weekend trying to hook up to the WiFi network, but my computer just refused to do so. Hopefully you enjoy the post.

Second, it may take me a little bit before I can post about Barcelona...I got REALLY sick there for a while and, while I'm fine, I'm just too lazy to recount what was an otherwise awesome weekend. So bear with me...I'm sure you'll all be fine going a few days without hearing of my adventures.

Ta luego,

Griff

Lisboa

So yeah, it’s Friday morning, 3 A.M. local time, and I’m sitting here in the terminal at Madrid’s Barajas International Airport describing to you, my beloved and loyal readers, the comings and goings of last weekend, which I spent in lovely Lisbon, Portugal.

Now at about this point in the post I would beg forgiveness from all of you for making you wait this long for the post I’m sure you’ve been craving since Tuesday, but this week’s different; I had three papers due between Monday and Wednesday and spent one of those nights avoiding work so I could plan what’s lookin like a fun Holy Week with TJ. And yes, I could’ve spent Wednesday night in writing, but after all that writing I needed a beer. Sorry guys, I’m human.

Right, now that that’s outta the way, we can begin. Last weekend’s trip to Lisbon started, funnily enough, right where I am now. Yup, that’s right; this is my SECOND week in a row spending a night in Barajas. It’s not too bad, but let’s just say I’m looking forward to my 10:40 flight to Dublin next weekend.

Our fantastic journey to Barajas, though, is worth recounting, so I’m gonna backtrack a little. Michael, Kirsten, Caroline, and I met at the Toledo bus station to catch the 10:30 bus to Madrid (the last one they offer). While we waited for our bus, Kirsten realized that she wouldn’t be able to bring her bottle of Bióre face wash on the plane and was literally about to throw it away when Michael was inspired. The two of them disappeared for a minute behind a pillar, but not before – and I kid you not – Kirsten kissed her Bióre bottle. Just…awesome. When they returned empty handed, Michael was wearing an oddly triumphant grin and said he’d found a great hiding spot. I should note at this moment that Caroline and I, after commenting on how long it took them to run their little errand, decided that “hiding the Bióre” should be the newest euphemism for “what the kids are calling it these days.” Yes, we are indeed hilarious. The bus ride to Madrid passed without much incident – it was mainly Michael restating his optimism that we would, indeed, find the Bióre upon our return Sunday night – and we arrived at Barajas about an hour later.

After six hours in the airport (sleeping in some of the weirdest contortionist positions I’ve ever seen) we hopped our Vueling Airlines flight to Portugal. I, having only slept about an hour in the airport, might’ve passed out before my butt hit the seat, and woke up as we hit the ground in my first European country outside of Spain. Despite having to use my passport (and much to the dismay of a few of our group) we didn’t get our passports stamped. Despite that pitfall, we walked outside and realized that, at 9 a.m., it was probably about 60°F. God, I love Portugal.

We hopped a bus from the airport (I again passed out soon into the 45-minute ride) and finally arrived in the heart of Lisbon. It may’ve been the sleep deprivation, but what we saw when we got off the bus was a pretty damn beautiful scene. Part of it was the comedy of seeing 30-foot high representations of the Beatles in their Sgt. Pepper’s garb, but I was really happy about taking this trip. After a few minutes of walking we found our hostel and I found one more reason to love Lisbon. This place had a really sweet sitting room, a happy hour special of a pint of beer for 2 Euro, four spankin’ new iMacs with web access, a do-it-yourself kitchen, and ridiculously spacious rooms. Oh yeah, it was also 14 Euro a night. If you’re ever in Lisbon…find the Yes!Lisbon Hostel. The only complaint we had was the guy who literally never left the place that we could tell. I soon affectionately nicknamed Creeper McRapey. Sounds a bit harsh, but trust me, he was that kinda guy.

Since we couldn’t check in yet (and thus couldn’t nap yet) we dropped our bags and headed out to find the one thing on everyone’s mind: coffee. Thankfully, not a block away, was a pastry shop with coffee for one Euro. Have I mentioned how much I love the fact that Europe seems built for travel by college students? As we left, we had a rather odd experience that would be repeated about a dozen times throughout the weekend. While walking, maybe fifty feet ahead of us we saw a rather creepy old man (had to be at least 60) suddenly glance our way and move toward us. When we passed him, we heard what we thought was Portuguese, but ended up just being “Marijuana? Hashish?” Yeah…the 60-year-old dude offered us weed. And the eleven other people who offered me were all over 55. Guess that’s what you do when you retire in Lisbon.

Reenergized by the rush of caffeine and thoroughly creeped out by the drug offer, we walked around the bay for a while and snapped a few pictures. It was odd (and I say this with two corroborating Californians) but the combination of the bay and the hills made this place look creepily like San Francisco. They even had an imitation Golden Gate Bridge. Sadly, the bay wasn’t much to look at, so after a few minutes we were on the move again.

We ran into some BC kids (the first of another odd trend…running into students from our rival schools) and they told us about a lift they’d just ridden that offered a great lookout point to see all over the city. It was free…if you had kept your bus ticket from the airport. I, unfortunately, hadn’t, so stayed behind with my friends Michael and Rob while the rest of the group went up. While at first we felt a bit lame, we soon realized just how much cooler things were on the ground. About a block away from this lift we found a bakery offering probably the equivalent of a loaf and a half of bread for 75 Eurocents. And this wasn’t just your everyday loaf of Wonderbread…the stuff was unbelievably good. We split two loaves among the three of us and were thoroughly satisfied.

Once the rest of the group rejoined us, we went back to check into our hostel, then headed to a part of the city called Belén where there were some monuments, parks and, you guessed it, churches! While Belén was cool, the journey to get there was pretty amazing in its own rite. It involved hopping an old-world tramcar (again, San Francisco, anyone?), stopping at a park to snap some more pictures, asking a local for directions, getting lost again, asking someone ELSE for directions, wandering, finding, of all people, a Swedish couple who got us going the in right direction, having half the group go back to the hostel to sleep, and finally getting on the right bus (with the help of a Portuguese woman who spoke Spanish). Yeah, quite a trip.

I sat down on the bus and immediately fell asleep (sensing a pattern?). When I woke up, my group told me that we were, indeed, in Belén. We passed through the obligatory huge church, snapped pictures, went through the adjoining cloister, snapped pictures, went to a park with some cool fountains, snapped pictures, and were about to leave when someone brought up some kind of pastry that Belén was famous for. Not only that, we stumbled randomly upon THE place to get this pastry. I can’t really describe what it was, sort of like a sweet quiche but with a fluffier filling, but it was definitely worth the 90 Eurocents. Our stomachs full-ish, we hopped our bus back to the hostel and took a nap.

Finally back on my sleep schedule and once again hungry, I left with a few people to find a supermarket to grab food before everything closed. After skimming a little, Michael and I found some 2-Euro semi-frozen pizza and chips, both of which turned out to be fantastic. We finished our dinner just in time for happy hour and, of course, each had a pint. After some great conversation downstairs on a host of topics I can’t even begin to talk about among the present company of readers ([cough]…family…[cough]) the guys decided (minus Michael, who was still tired) decided to go out to find a bar. We walked around for a bit and eventually found what had to be the only Irish pub in Lisbon. And were talking fairly Irish here…I’m pretty sure everyone in the place was Irish and they had some great Irish folk music going on (for those who have been there, think Mullaney’s Harp and Fiddle…but in Lisbon). Two beers and several excellent Irish folk songs later, we decided we were all sufficiently tired and headed back to the hostel.

Another great thing about this place I forgot to mention before was that for 3 Euro they’ll make you a 12-inch pizza at literally any time of day or night. Being fairly well off and thus very hungry, the four of us split two and were in hog heaven…until I decided to get butterfingers and drop a slice on my fairly nice pink button down. Instinct took over (though I’m not sure how good it was) and I immediately ran the stain under cold water and through the shirt in the washing machine. Sadly, it didn’t come out, and the shirt is ruined. On the plus side, I got a chance to hop on Skype and talk to a few people from home, as well as to see my mom’s comment on my last post…glorious. Though I was a it disappointed about the shirt, I was generally content and hit the hay.

In the morning, as has become the custom among the group, the dedicated tourists woke up early and found a flea market that was supposed to be pretty fun. I, of course, was more excited about pondering the backs of my eyelids, and thus can neither confirm nor deny the rumors of this flea market being any fun. Sorry, still human.

When we’d all finally stirred and the shoppers returned (to their credit, empty-handed) we headed to the train station to take a half-hour ride to the little town of Sintra. As with everything, the proposition of getting nine of us on the train got way more complicated than it should’ve. I’m not really sure what went down…something involving a ticket with seven rides on it that could only be used once…but what I DO know is that we finally got on a train and passed the time doing what all Notre Dame students do during long trips on public transportation; we had a healthy academic debate on a wide range of topics, from the goal of education to the merits of GPA. Yeah…we’re dorks.

We finally arrived in Sintra and decided we were hungry. A few people went to the Chinese restaurant across the street from the station to grab massive spring rolls, but even those weren’t enough, so we began our search for authentic Portuguese food. We found a pretty cool restaurant a few blocks away that offered what we were looking for (and at a reasonable price, of course) so we sat down and enjoyed a fantastic meal. I’m not sure what I had, but I know it was good. I also know that they put bread in front of us that somehow cost some money, but, having learned in this past month of my love affair with European bread, I really didn’t care. Our bellies once again full, we left the restaurant and caught a bus up to the top of a small mountain at the edge of town, looking to see some kind of tourist-trap castle.

After the bus ride (no, I didn’t sleep this time) Michael had one of those funny small-world moments when he ran into a friend he’s known since kindergarten and is apparently studying in Madrid through the University of Michigan (rival school number two). Photos were taken, hugs were given, merriment was shared by all. Sadly, that merriment was soon washed away when we found out that, after the four-Euro bus ride it would cost 8 more Euro to enter the castle. Naturally, a debate about the meanings and merits of sunk-cost ensued and, though Michael made some points, all of us except Rob decided to screw it and go in. Thankfully, the place was definitely worth it.

It’s hard to describe this castle, but if I had to I’d say it kind of reminded me of a kid’s dream tree-house/fort/castle thing, but built out of multi-tonal Lego blocks. Yeah…it was somethin’ else. We walked around the outside, snapped some pictures, including this one which was taken by some girls I met from USC (number three, for those keeping track at home) and then walked around the inside, where, unfortunately, we couldn’t snap pictures. Yeah, I was upset too. All told, we had a great time, and decided it was definitely worth the 8 Euro we’d spent.

Eventually, though, our time in the awesome fort castle thing came to an end and we headed back down the mountain and trained back to Lisbon just in time to grab more 2-Euro pizzas from the market. Soooooo good.

Over dinner we discussed our options for the night. We could go to a Fado (think I have that right) bar which is kind of the Portuguese version of flamenco, but that would cost us 15 Euro. Gotta love the economics of college kids traveling in Europe…price > culture. Instead, we decided to go to Barrio Alto, apparently the happenin spot for young people in Lisbon. We did, of course, take advantage of happy hour once more before heading out.

Once we got the Barrio Alto, we basically found it to be one huge party in the streets with drinks provided by the bars that stretched for about a mile. I’m not quite sure how, but Michael managed to find the place with pints for 2 Euro. God, I love that guy. We sipped slowly, taking in the cultural insanity that was this mass of people. Unfortunately, or Portuguese wasn’t exactly up to snuff with our Spanish, so we had to resort to people watching rather than interacting with the locals. Still, a fun time was had by all, and we headed back to the hostel to sleep.

In the morning, we finally rolled out of bed just in time to catch 11 o’clock mass in Portuguese. Yeah…I got like two words of it. I do distinctly remember, though, hearing something involving the word “difficult.” I was rather proud of myself. I’m easily amused.

After mass, we did our last touristy thing of the trip and visited another castle/park thing. It was cool…nothing too special, but it was free, so we were obviously in. We got some good pictures, had fun with the cannons that lined the courtyard, and stopped into a souvenir store where I started my international shot glass collection. Unoriginal, I know, but damn it, I’m in college. Let me have my fun.

Back in the heart of Lisbon on what was a rather dreary day, we caved to our American instincts and tracked down a place that ended up having a pretty decent burger for just under 3 Euro. In Lisbon of all places…go figure. We bummed around the hostel for a while after that (finally got a picture of Creeper McRapey…the shot of the trip if I may say) and got on the bus back to the airport.

When we finally boarded our 6:45 flight at 7:15, we all simultaneously commented on the fact that it was oddly comforting to hear Spanish again, but we were also a bit agitated at being so late. Our pilot told us that someone on the previous flight had refused to deplane for some reason and that, while the pilot clearly had some pretty nasty things he could’ve said about the guy, he politely refrained and in a few minutes we were off.

We finally got back to the bus station at 11 p.m. Madrid time and caught the last indirect bus to Toledo. The anticipation built as we reached the station…Michael was optimistic that he would find Kirsten’s beloved Bióre and save the day. Kirsten remained unconvinced, but happily discovered that the hiding spot had, indeed, done the trick. With that happy ending to an admittedly long weekend, we split off to go to our separate homes. As I passed O’Brien’s, our favorite bar, I thought for a split second of going in and catching some of the Super Bowl, but decided the four-page paper I had due in my 20^th Century Lit. class was more important. Good thing too…I worked through the night (with a two hour nap in the middle) and finally finished the damn thing at 10 a.m. It was odd…it felt like home.

This week was one of very little sleep for me, and yet, here I am, now at 4:15 a.m. finishing this thing I’ll post as soon as I find Internet in Barcelona. This weekend will apparently be amazing…it’s the Spanish celebration of Carnaval (their equivalent of Mardi Gras, except it lasts a week and involves insane costumes). While we won’t be in the capital of Spanish Carnival – a small city near the southern coast called Cádiz – I’ve heard good things about Barcelona, so we’ll see.

Right, I think that’s everything. Hopefully you enjoyed yourselves. I think I’m going to try to grab a few Z’s before our flight in three hours. Wish me luck!

Ta Luego,

Griff

Sevilla Part 2

Hey again, y'all. Slept til noon, putzed around 'til 4 local time, and here I am. Still haven't started the paper I have due Monday (I'm thinking at this point it might be hardwired in me to be unable to write before midnight the morning the paper is due), so naturally I figured I'd blog. I mean, you all are on the edge of your seats after last night's grand adventure, right?

Right?

Guys?

C'mon, guys, wake up, it wasn't THAT bad.

Well, I mean, at least the pictures were kinda cool, right? Guys?

But I digress.

We woke up around noon on Saturday despite having not gotten too crazy the night before. What can I say? A college kid in a hostel in Sevilla, Spain is still a college kid. After showering, we rolled out and headed toward the Alcazar, a huge castle/fortress with amazing gardens inside. We had heard about it from our guide and that it wasn't to be missed. Unfortunately it cost 7.50 Euro for non-students and as I didn't have any sort of proof I wasn't a student (or so I thought) I decided to pass and go off exploring on my own. After all, my camera battery had been out for the entirety of Friday, so I had a lot of pictures to catch up on.

I spent the majority of the afternoon trying to remember where we'd gone on the tour, and ended up finding some pretty cool spots, including this backroad very close to the skull plaque commemorating Susona (see yesterday's post). Yeah, I like to creep on locals. What about it?

I'll be honest, I'm not usually one to go off exploring on my own (mainly because I'm too lazy to come up with things to keep myself busy) but I felt strangely comfortable just walking around Sevilla by myself. I went back to the Plaza de Espana again, took tons and tons of pictures, walked through the university we found again, took pictures, went through the gardens, took pictures...you get the idea. More than anything, it was very odd for me to feel like after only a few hours I was pretty comfortable with how to get around the city (this area of it anyway). Mom, just wait, I've got quite a tour for you when we go back.

While wandering on my own was calming and really fun, it also made me REALLY hungry, so I went back to the same cafe I hit up Friday, grabbed a bocadillo. Ham and cheese, double toasted, and a Coke. Almost felt like home.

After lunch, I met up again with a few people and we headed to a local museum that had a free exhibit on piracy in the Americas during the 16th and 17th centuries. While very static (it was a lot of reading and a few pictures/documents) I actually learned quite a bit about piracy. Now if only I could find away to apply it...

We took a short break and, after dodging a few gypsies, decided we were finally ready to go to the famed Catedral (no, it's not misspelled...it's in Spanish). Just to give you an idea of this place...it used to be a humongous mosque when the Moors ruled Spain. When the Spanish finally reconquered Sevilla and decided they wanted to build a church, they loved the Moorish architecture so much they kept most of it (you can see a lot of the influence in the lower two-

thirds of the tower). When they finally finished building the thing - 150 years after starting - they had what would become the third largest Christian church in the world, behind only St. Peter's Basilica in Rome and St. Pauls' Cathedral in London. So yeah...place is pretty damn big.

As we walked in to pay admission, I again realized I had no form of student ID and resigned myself to paying the full price. Luckily, the nice lady asked to see my passport, then, with a smile, pointed to my STUDENT visa. Yeah, I'm an idiot. Gotta love the Spanish for being willing instructing us stupid Americans.

Like the Plaza, this place is incredibly hard to describe, even with pictures. I mean, just trying to comprehend the fact that it took 150 years to build was beyond me. The detail, the intricacy of everything still amazes me nearly a week later. I took some pictures, naturally, and then we decided to climb the tower to get a great view of the city. And what a view it was. I dunno how far away you could see, but I gotta guess at least a couple dozen miles.

Unfortunately, it didn't look like we were gonna be able to capture any of these vistas with our smiling faces in front of them. Something about the cameras focused on the light behind us and shadowed our faces out. Fear not, dear readers...I came to the rescue. After fooling around a bit...SUCCESS!!

New profile pic? Thinking about it.

We stuck around the tower a bit longer before finally taking the long journey back down to the ground floor. Interesting side note, the climb is made way easier by the fact that you use not stairs, but ramps. According to our guide from Friday's tour, this was originally because the Moors had to go up to the top of the tower several times a day for the Muslim Call to Prayer, and rather than get tired decided they wanted to be able to ride their horses up to the top. Talk about laziness fostering ingenuity, eh?

My friends and I spent a few minutes more admiring the beauty of the inside of this incredible Cathedral before leaving. I should add that I, with the help of my good friend and fellow Glee Clubber Michael, powered through a hushed version of Biebl's Ave Maria. It wasn't fantastic, but damn it, we were inspired.

Outside the Catedral, I once again separated myself from the group because I wanted to abuse the sunset setting on my camera at the Plaza and they wanted ice cream. Damn Americans, lemme tell ya.

Turns out this visit to the Plaza was just as amazing as before (go figure, right?). Took some pictures, breathed it all in, then decided (it being 8 PM) it would be a good idea to head home. Keep in mind, now, that this is me...the one who knows diddly about getting around anywhere. I'm proud to tell you that using only my internal compass I stumbled upon our hostel not twenty minutes after leaving the Plaza. I believe a brief booya is in order. BOOYA.

I got back to find half the group resting up for a night out. We debated a bit, considered going to a flamenco club, but finally decided we would take advantage of the hostel's pub crawl. Ten Euro for four shots, two bars, and two clubs? Yes, I think so. Turned out we met up with Amy, Amanda, and Brittany (the girls we met on the tour on Friday) as their hostel was participating in the Crawl too. Fun stuff.

Not a lot of interesting stuff happened that night, so I'll summarize. Drinks at these bars/clubs were obscenely expensive, so while I enjoyed the free shots of caramel vodka, I wasn't anywhere near plastered (something I'm fine with). We danced, we drank, we walked, we met Australians and Brits. Fun times were had by all. But it got to be 4:30 and I was just beat, so we rolled out. The next morning we got to the bus station and hopped aboard our 1 PM bus back to Madrid. And I'll be damned if the thing wasn't just as comfortable as it was when I was dog tired at 1 AM. Yay for Socibus.

This concludes my Sevilla adventure. Sorry for wrapping it up so quickly...I'm just realizing I'm incredibly long winded sometimes. Hopefully that doesn't bug you guys too much. Now, for the random updates of the week.

This week has been kind of eye-opening in that I have actually begun to work. I have three papers of four pages apiece due in the front half of next week and I haven't even begun to think about them yet. Did I mention I leave for Lisbon in the morning? Did I also mention that Sunday at midnight we'll likely be at a pub watching the Super Bowl? God, I hate my procrastinating nature. Damn you, TJ.

Speaking of TJ, some of you may have heard...he and I are gonna travel buddies for Holy Week. I'll be flying into London that Tuesday, hanging for a few days, then we're taking a whirlwind tour of Germany (Berlin to Munich to Frankfurt in four days). The best part of the whole thing: we'll only be paying for ONE night in a hostel. Gotta love overnight trains and guys who don't care about sleeping, am I right?

I think that's all to report for now. Hopefully I'll have lots more to tell about Lisbon!

Adios for now,

Griff

Sevilla Part 1

I really don't update this often enough, do I? I'd say sorry but, well, you get the idea.

So here I am, hat-in-hand, ready to tell you about my amazing weekend in Sevilla. This place is truly one of the more beautiful cities I have ever visited. It's at the same time delectably quaint and replete (yay for online thesauri!) with overpowering beauty. Perhaps the best part of the whole trip was the solace I took in the fact that I'll be coming back in April when my mom visits me. But enough gushing...I've got stories to show and pictures to tell.

Strike that.

Reverse it.

Thank you.

This whole weekend excursion started with quite the fun experience...my first time riding an overnight bus. We left Madrid at 1 a.m. for the six hour journey to Sevilla. The bus we had...well...to put it in terms many of you should be able to understand, as soon as I sat down, I (all 6'5" of me) knew I would be 100% comfortable for the duration of the trip. Yeah...Glee Club tours will never be the same after a round trip on this bad boy. Yet despite the almost obnoxious amount of leg room, I could still only manage my usual pattern of twenty minute naps. Go figure.

When we finally did arrive, we were all tired and, surprisingly, rather cold. I mean, you all know I'm not one to complain *cough* but we were told it was going to be in the 70s down here and here we all were freezing our butts off walking from the bus station to our hostel, which was God-knows-where. Granted, it was 7 a.m. and the sun still hadn't risen, but whatever.

After standing there shivering while the boldest among us asked locals for directions, we were finally on our way to the hostel. At one of the multiple stops at which the boldest among us against asked locals for directions, a moment of comedy came to pass that was (albiet admittedly enhanced by the fact that I'd just been attempting to sleep in fits and starts on a bus for six hours) pretty damn funny. We were all standing on a street corner when John, one of the guys in our group, suddenly exclaims, "LOOK! FREE ORANGES!" Tired, hungry, and confused, we all looked wildly around to find the sign he was seeing. After frantically searching and finding nothing, we all understood what he'd been talking about as we saw him reach up and grab an orange hanging from one of the many trees close by.

I'm not sure how the thing tasted (I'll be the first to admit I'm a fairly picky eater) but amid the tears, spitting, and groans of the six people who DID try it, I think the best description I heard was that it tasted "kinda like a cold Sour Patch kid." Yeah...this was gonna be a good trip.

We finally arrived at our hostel around 9, only to be told that we wouldn't be able to check in 'til after breakfast. Luckily, breakfast had just been served and, perhaps even luckilier (yeah, I did it) we were allowed to partake. Naturally, we ate almost all of the food, leaving a few precious crumbs for the actual guests. Yay America.

After dropping our crap in our rooms, the really good world travelers went off to see some sights. I, being lame and still very tired, took a refreshing two hour nap and then went off with the lesser-trained tourists of the group. We're a proud bunch, if nothing else.

We walked along the main drag for a while, found a good cafe for some sandwiches, then started slowly stumbling upon some of the most beautiful landmarks I've seen in Spain. First, we found a set of gardens that were breathtaking even with half of the foliage dead and bare. The name escapes me (there were a lot of gardens, trust me) but I promise by April I'll know what they're called.

After walking through the heretofore anonymous gardens and oohing and ahhing at the sun-drenched glory of it all, we stumbled upon one of the several universities in Sevilla. I'm not sure if this is the one that our dear friends from Saint Mary's attend, but if it is, all I can say is that I'm incredibly jealous. It was built into what looked like a combination of a church and a castle (we found out later it had originally been commissioned by one king or another to house all of Sevilla's tobacco processing) and had a fantastic open-air stone courtyard in the middle that I'd kill to walk through on my way to class. Oh, to be a girl...

Aaaaanyway, we finally left the crazy cool church/castle/university thingy and set a course for one of Sevilla's most famous tourist spots, the Plaza de Espana. It was at this moment that I truly fell in love with this city. It's an incredible combination of Islamic ceramic work, traditional Spanish influence, and, of course, a little sprinkling of our friends the Romans. I honestly can't describe how amazing this place was. As you can see, I've posted some pictures, but even they don't totally do it justice. I'll put it this way...I ended up going there five separate times during our two-plus days in Sevilla, and I still can't wait to go back.

To explain the photos a bit, each one of the little ceramic pictures you see running around the arc of the Plaza is dedicated to one of fifty cities in Spain. Unfortunately, the one for Toledo was undergoing some retouching, so pictures were a no-go this time, but we still got some good shots by Cadiz and Barcelona. The best part about these displays, though, is that they're separated by benches that are perfect for naps in the sun. While I would've been happy to oblige, we had to move if we wanted to get back to the hostel in time for our free walking tour at 4.

The tour, while a bit tiring, was surprisingly informative and fun (I say surprisingly because, well, it was free). We spent two plus hours being guided around Sevilla by a guide who was originally from Austria but spoke German, English, and Spanish. Sadly, for the part of me who wanted to practice my Spanish, the tour was in English. Ah well, perhaps next time.

We ended up revisiting a few of the places we had already been to that day (the Plaza, the University, the gardens) but we also got to see the outside of the Cathedral (more on that later) and we also found some fun little gems among the city streets. One such tidbit was the story of a young woman named Susona, a young Jewish girl living in Sevilla at some point a long time ago (clearly I wasn't paying THAT much attention on the tour). The legend goes that Susona was in love with a soldier in the king's army, which was a bit of a problem as her father and brother were helping to head up a revolt against the king in the Jewish neighborhoods of Sevilla. Panicked, Susona told her beau, who told his superior officer. Long story short, the king was upset, and about 2,000 Spanish Jews, including Susona's father and brother, were killed.

Shortly thereafter, Susona converted to Christianity so she could lock herself away in a convent. After she died, her will ordered that her head be hung from the window of her old house as a reminder to everyone else of the importance of loyalty to one's family. It remained there for a time (until it was no longer acceptable to have a skull hanging in the open air, I'd imagine) until whoever was in charge later on had it removed. It was replaced by this tile which marks its spot and this brief explanation which commemorates Susona and the tragedy of the neighborhood.

Cool stuff, huh?

Our tri-lingual guide (whose name escapes me, if you can't already tell) also told us about the city symbol of Sevilla (say that five times fast), pictured here. I won't go into the story behind this one (Wikipedia, people, c'mon) but basically, a king's son rebelled against him and the whole country rejected him, except for Sevilla. The 8-ish figure in the middle represents a special kind of knot called a madeja in Andaluz, the native language of Andalucia, the region in southern Spain where Sevilla is today. So, when you combine madeja with the NO and DO it becomes nomadejado, which sounds a lot like "no me ha dejado" Spanish for "you haven't left me." Thus, the rejected king made this symbol his tribute to Sevilla for their loyalty to him. You see it literally everywhere, even, as you can see, on manhole covers.

On the tour, I also made some friends with a few fellow Americans, Amanda, Amy, and Brittany (hope I spelled that one right). They're also studying in Spain and were staying in one of the other hostels participating in the tour. As with the Cathedral, more from these characters later.

After the tour, we did what all hungry but poor college kid tourists do...we went to the supermarket to buy cheap supplies to make our own dinner. I dunno what it is, but there's just something so much more delicious about ham and cheese sandwiches with great chips and a Coke (which may or may not have included some rum) when it costs 5 Euro.

After dinner, we all started the ever adventurous process of getting ready to go out. Two hours later, it was midnight and we were finally ready to roll. Unfortunately, we didn't know where, exactly, we were rolling to, and thus spent an hour walking around trying to find a fun place to spend our evening (much to the chagrin of the ladies in high heels). After all that fun time walking around, one of the girls in the group felt tired and I, being the gentleman that I am (being dead tired helped, too) offered to walk her back to the hostel. It was fun trying to find our way, but we eventually did get back and crashed.

As with Madrid, I feel I've given you hungry masses enough for the moment (read: I'm tired and it's 3 a.m. here) so I'll hold off on the rest of this weekend 'til tomorrow. I promise I'll post it before I leave for this weekend's destination...Lisbon! Well, no, I don't promise as a matter of policy. I'll try real REAL hard though, okay? Good, glad we agree.

Ciao,

Griff