Confronting History

Yesterday our program toured the Alhambra.  There is so very much to say about this great place that rises on one of Granada's three hills.  I'm not sure what I have to say even does it credit, but I will attempt to do so.  When I title this post "confronting history", I feel as though I did just that.  There is so much history in that place, it is though it is alive, as though the ghosts of the moorish ghosts still walk through the military sections, waiting for the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella to attack, as though the moorish kings lounge in their gardens, listening to music and reading poetry.  It is alive.

I am in Spain, specifically Granada, studying the influences of Islam in Spain and Europe, so the Alhambra was fascinating to me.  You start in the military section, and as you go through, you see the arab gardens and the palaces of the arab kings and suddenly, it is a palace of European kings and queens.  It feels terribly disjointed.  Comparing the section of the Arab Alhambra to the European Alhambra, the Arab Alhambra is built with much more detail, its walls with carved with perfected detail, with entire ceilings covered in muquarnas, fountains leading into other fountains, and magnificent gardens.

(the wall off to the left is the one I mention)

But I really confronted history in the first part of the tour, in the military section.  Our spanish professor, Aurelio (at later time I will give a profile of Aurelio. He deserves a decent description) explained the military sector of the alhambra as a small city, with living quarter, food, water, dungeons.  The explanation went on.  It was the wall off to the left that was difficult for me to think about.  Aurelio explained that in the reign of Franco, the military dictator of in the 20th century, people were lined up and executed along the wall.  And thats when I came face to face with history.  Maybe it was because I had read so much about the Spanish Civil War and the reign of Franco, and I could envision exactly what Aurelio meant in my mind.  Maybe because it was such a stark and brutal past, but regardless, I suddenly had to confront that it was real.  It had happen.  And it happened directly in front of me.

It struck me then that I had grown up in a privileged, safe world.  The world for the most part isn't safe, and in that moment, I just stared at the wall and let myself face that fact.

little bits of courage

So you may ask, what do these rather awkward stories have to do with courage?  Well...When your bedroom is the only place in your "home" you feel comfortable, that means that there is an element of anxiety to leave it.  I realized the other day that it in fact took courage to leave the room.  So I left bedroom door open.  More than that, I didn't return to my room after dinner.  I brought my laptop to the sitting room where my host mother and brother sat and we, host mother, brother, roommate, and I chatted until midnight.  That was when my host mother began to believe I could speak spanish.  And that was when the apartment began to feel a little more like home.

Churro con chocolate

Before Spain I had never eaten churros con chocolate.  They are quite good, and I expect to eat them again sometime soon.  However, before I can truly continue this story, I need to take you back to orientation.

Veronica, our program director is very frank and takes no prisoners when she says things.  One piece of advice was as follows.  "Some people on the streets may invite  you for chocolate.  It isn't chocolate.  It is hasheesh.  You can go just don't tell me.  Churros con chocolate is actually chocolate and is fine."  And I made a mental note that I wanted churros, and not a chocolate bar.

Later in the week my roommate had a craving for chocolate, and I had never tried churros.  Our mistake was telling our host mother that we were going out for chocolate, instead of chocolate and churros.  We dug our hole deeper when we said that it was one of those night when you just needed it.  I should have noticed something when all she said was 'Vale' (O.K.) and look at her son, who smirk and looked down at his laptop.

Churros are one of God's gift to creation.  So we all are clear.

The next day it hit me what exactly we said to our host mother and I rushed from class to tell Marissa.  We could hardly wait for lunch to get home and clear up the mess.  Once there, however, I felt so self-conscious, I didn't know how to begin.  I felt terrible.  What does this woman think of me?  She really is a stranger, taking me into her home.  Have I greatly offended her?  Can I fix it?  All these thought whizzed through my head, and I sat and ate lunch in silence.  So did everyone else.

Finally Marissa couldn't stand it.  "¡Amelia probó su primeros churro anoche!"  (Amelia tried her first churros last night!)

Our host mother glanced up and a look of relief crossed her face.  "Ah...Churros!"

She seemed very happy about churros and proceeded to tell us the best places in the city for them.  Our host brother shook his head and left the table.

My New Family.

I live in a decent sized apartment on the river with the mother, her youngest son (who, if I ballpark it, is 27ish), and my roommate, Marissa.  Plus the two Italian girls who are here another week.  Then the three older brothers come in and out every so often but they are married and live elsewhere.  It took us till Wednesday to figure out our host brother's name was Tony.

We have interesting interactions with Tony.  The first night Marissa made the mistake of asking him which fútbol team he preferred, Madrid or Barcelona.  He raised his eye brows and answered Granada, pro supuesto.  (Granada, of course).  Then she started talking about tennis and Rafa Nadal.  Tony had no interest in tennis and Rafa Nadal.  We can't tell if he is teasing us or not.  Then I accidentally took his water glass at dinner and he had to go back to the kitchen to get a new one.  At breakfast Marissa needed help with the toaster.  I scared him by accidentally flashing my flashlight phone app in his eyes when we both arrived home at the same time at night.  The list goes on.

For the first half of the week my host mother was convinced that I did not speak Spanish and spoke only to Marissa.  To be fair, this really is my fault.  When we arrived, I was tired and nervous, and barely spoke.  When I did, I stumbled over simple words.  It looked like I spoke no Spanish!  Within days I was ready to speak Spanish and no one would speak to me. Instead, my host mother would speak to my roommate and ask her to translate.  Eventually the whole thing got figured out but even now, her older sons come in, hear me speak Spanish and turn to their mother in surprise and says "she actually speaks Spanish?!"

Yes.  Yes I do...I've been studying it a while.

catching up!

trying frozen yogurt at llaollao

So I haven't been nearly as good as a blogger I should with catching you up on what happened after I met my roommate and the other girls at the bus, but I can tell you that we arrived just fine in Granada.  A little tired, a little hungry, a little sore, but there!  We arrived at our hotel without incident and found a tapas bar...octopus is a very interesting food when served on top of french fries.  Also, it glows red when seven girls' cameras' flash.  If you ever wanted to know.  And then Sunday rolled around.  Our program director, Veronica, announced our roommates and sent us off with our host mothers.  Off Marissa and I went to our new home.

Things that have happened in the following week:

sign of my new school

We moved into our home in the apartment along the river (beautiful by the way)
We  met our host brother
Had to convince our host mother that I do in fact speak spanish
Visited the Alhambra
Started 3 hour a day Spanish classes
Had to fix a colloquialism error in which telling our mother we were going out for chocolate meant going for hasheesh when WE meant chocolate as in chocolate and churros
Basically adjusting to the Spanish culture in general...

river near my apartment at night

Turned Around.

Notice a theme yet?  With me and transportation?  It doesn't end well...So I had a five hour bus ride to Granada a head of me, plus a taxi ride from the bus station to the hotel.  Imagine everything that could possibly go wrong, given my luck.  A lot.  Because I was to nervous from the outcome of the previous days, I decided to start the morning out slightly differently.  I started out reading through the Gospel of John, which I had started earlier in the summer, and then journaled for a while.  I didn't instantaneously cured of anxiety, but I certainly felt but than I had on the previous two mornings and it was one of many small steps towards better days.

We first dropped my brother off at the train station in Madrid.  It took half an hour because our wonderful, generous hosts walk him directly to the correct platform so the train could take him directly to the airport.  He's now in Germany being a cool kid. Like he is.  Next it was my turn and off to the bus station we went!  I bought my 2 pm Granada bound ticket with no problem, and found the waiting area and had a good hour and a half to let my anxiety stew.  And stew it did!

1:30 rolled around and I gathered up my big suit case, my little suitcase, my carry on, my purse and myself, and off I strode in the direction of the elevator, faking more confidence than I felt.  As sketchy as the elevators looked, I'd given up on the escalators and was thinking long on how to return with less baggage than I came.  The funny thing about the bus ticket is it doesn't tell you which bus exactly to leave from, instead it will give a group.  Mine, for example said buses 22-26.  But not all buses in 22-26 were headed for Granada.  Just thats where it was parked.  If only one bus at 22-26 was leaving at 2, then there would be no problem.  There were two.

Uh-oh.

Then along came a miracle.  I saw a group of girls around my age, all with equally obnoxious amounts of luggage and popping prints of Vera Bradley carry-ons.  To be perfectly honest, I was intimidated of them.  Extremely so.  They all seemed to know each other really well and where they were going and here I was, probably less showered than I would like to be, terrified to travel, and wishing for all the world that my mother was here to travel with me.  But they knew where they were going.  And were probably english.  Then again, some of them randomly slipped into Spanish.  Really good Spanish.

It was getting closer and closer to two, and the Granada bound bus, wherever it was, was getting closer and closer to leaving.  My stomach twisted into tighter and tighter knots.  My palms sweated.  I looked wildly around for answers and found no immediate ones.  None but the group of girls.  Then most of them  walked down toward the 26 bus, all except one, who stayed behind for some reason.  She was the one with the Vera Bradley carry-on.  I made up my mind and walked up to her.

"Do you know where the Granada bus is?"

She paused and then asked.  "Yes.  Are you with the group from Central?"

I could feel the tension and anxiety physically leave my body, and my knees weakened a little in relief from finding other students who know what they were doing.  "Yes!  And I can't tell you how happy I am I found you!"

Little did either of us know how lucky we were to have found each and already bonded, seeing as we would spend a whole semester bonding in a totally unique way.  See, as we found the next morning, we were roommates.

The Story of How I Got Lost on a Bus.

Madrid is a lovely place.  I highly recommend it.  Here are some tips if you do travel there.

1) Have enough euros with you FIRST.

2) Know the street names of where you are going.

3) Know exact directions about your bus stop.

and (possibly most important)

4) Listen to your brother, he has a better sense of direction than you do, even if he is younger and you feel responsible.

We got to Madrid.  On a bus!  Whoo-Hoo!  We even got on the Metro (and changed Metros, can you imagine?).  It was much easier with only a purse instead two suitcases and a carry-on.  We even got to the stop where the Prado Museum is...but we couldn't find it for a while.  Turns out we didn't walk nearly far enough.  That turned out to be fine; the day was beautiful and the area was amazing.  Musicians played and nothing could be finer.  Eventually we spotted the Prado and a Starbucks on the way, so we grabbed something to drink and made our way to the museum.

The Prado is amazing, we spent several hours, walking its entire span, admiring it Spanish paintings.  Perhaps it is cliche, but I was very excited to see Las Meninas  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_Meninas), a painting I'd read about, seen classmates present on, but never seen in reality until that moment.   It made being in Spain so very real.  I was finally accomplishing a dream five years in the making.

About four in the afternoon, footsore and perhaps a bit jet lagged, we made our way back towards the bus station.  We got on the bus.  Getting off was the problem.  See...we got off several stops too early...resulting in being stranded by a highway at the entrance of town in a Madrid suburb...

I panicked, thinking the bus wasn't actually going into town at all and was going to continue going down the highway, so I (dragging my unconvinced brother with me) hopped off the bus.  At this point, our hosts proceeded to not answer home or cell phones.  We were tired.  We were hungry.  We had little money because we hadn't found an ATM yet.  And worst of all, we were stranded.  So I did what any freaking out teenager does.  Call Mom.  (And what can Mom do from the US?  nothing.  Its just calming).  Eventually one of our hosts answered their phones and crisis was averted, but never had I felt more ashamed and scared than sitting at that dusty bus stop in Las Matas, telling Mom that I had gotten my brother stranded, with little money, next to a highway.  IN SPAIN.  Thank goodness I can speak Spanish.  Not that he could.

Regardless...we managed to pull through, yet again!  And I came to the decision that I hated buses.

And they said public transportation was easy...

Once on the plane, we flew to Paris without much difficulty or sleep.  My brother watched IronMan 3 and I watched Great Gatsby.  Naturally.  I was thankful for the multi-hour connection because we had to walk across the airport to change terminals, which was no small feat.  I started to regret taking two suitcases, but not nearly so much as I would in a matter of hours.  In less than an hour, however, my brother and I made it through security and to our gate.  I enjoyed a strong cup of tea and made myself comfortable by the gate, pleased with the thought that soon I would be in Spain.  Well...it was once landed in Spain our traveling troubles returned.

I called the friends we planned on staying with so they could give us directions on how to get to their house.  There was a metro and the airport, and then a train to the stop Las Matas.  Simple enough, right?  NO!  FALSE!  We ended up at a major train station, going up and down escalators (for future reference, suitcases and escalators don't mix.  Possibly life threatening.) searching for the correct platform, and trying my hardest to understand the small train map that should tell how to reach Las Matas.  There may or may not have been tears involved.  I felt a duty to get my brother to our friends safely.  Instead, I think he was just frustrated with me.  So I was only more disappointed in myself and therefor even more anxious in my ability to travel properly.  Evenly, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to talk to some kind woman at information who told me was platform and what time.  And hour later, we arrived at the right station...and exited on the wrong side.  Our host found us anyway!

Needless to say...I was properly terrified of traveling back to Madrid the next day to visit...it meant navigating the bus and metro system, both of which I had been assured were perfectly self explanatory. Even so, at this point, my traveling confidence was in shambles.

Smiling and the Kindness of Strangers

My journey to Spain was supposed to begin on Tuesday last week, on the 3rd, with an overnight flight from Montreal to Madrid, with a connection in Amsterdam.  I was ore nervous than I admitted to myself, but I was traveling with my younger brother, and I wanted to be in charged and be able to take care of him (although, lets face it.  Anyone who knows my brother know he takes care of me more of the time).  It was a strange, rushed good bye to my parents, and smooth walk through security and to our gate.  We were there several hours early.  I should have know it was altogether too easy...And it was, as I discovered after our flight was first delayed multiple times, then canceled.

The entire crowd of 200 or so people rushed at the two captions and half dozen or so flight attendants demanding to know why we weren't in the air, what had happened, and why we couldn't fly anyway.  No one seemed to have any consideration for the KLM air staff, or the other passengers.  Each passenger cared for one person and one person only: him or herself.  It was mayhem.  And yet everyone at the airport and the hotel has been so kind to us, and I thanked them for their kindness.  They really tried to help in an impossible situation that night.  Who knew the airplane would break down?  The poor pilate came down to the gate to mingle...he looked awful and everyone gave him so much grief.  My brother and I thanked him for his call on not letting us fly, and he gave us the biggest smile.  In a crowd of noisy, angry people, two american students thanking him for making a safety call proved to be unexpected. 

It took hours, wading through the crowds of people, eating for luggage and then the hotel line and finally for the bus to the hotel.  Once at the hotel, it was another while of waiting to check in, and then to be seated for dinner.  And at dinner, the food took forever, but it wasn't the waist staff's fault, it was the kitchen's.  Also, the kitchen didn't know they had to feed 250 extra people until the last minute, and didn't have the staff and it was a bit of a nightmare.  I talked to the manager at the front desk as I asked about the shuttle before going back to my room at 2 in the morning, and it was clear he'd had a lot of complaints all night, and he was so nice.  The hotel manger was also amazingly kind in the morning and all the airport attendants in the afternoon; They remembered us from from the previous night.   While the problems with the plane disposed me to anxiety for the next flight (which, consequently, was also canceled several hours), it also showed me the value of kindness in desperate situations. 

Classroom Thoughts

They say that real courage is facing your fear, especially when you are terrified.  I wrote this post on a sheet of notebook paper, and saved it, so not to forget these thoughts.  These seem the best thoughts to introduce you to my adventure, and then to introduce you to my last few days.

I can't tell if this classroom is stiflingly hot or not.  Twenty-five of us are packed in here, squished into these semi-comfortable green desk chairs, facing our director.  The room isn't too large, but it isn't the overwhelming amounts of people that makes the room feel crowded, nor the heat that makes it feel stuffy.

It is the energy and the emotions that we all carry.  Excitement, tension, and even disappoint too.  Anxiety can be good and bad.  We don't really know what will happen over the course of the semester. How can we?  As for me, I sit watching a film preparing us for our short visit to Morocco, and feel somewhat conflicted. I love the students here.  I love the streets, walking to school along the river.  All the different kinds of people.  The school campus.  The city itself.  But I still have this pit of fear in my stomach.  And I think that I would have felt less anxious about this semester in general if things hadn't gone so terribly wrong from the beginning.  And fear isn't something that is like me at all.

So now is the time to explain why I am so afraid and how I am becoming brave.

Brave

Growing up, my mom always said that I was brave and strong and true.  I repeated this phrase to myself over and over and over to myself, willing myself to believe it, and still, it to me until now to see that really, my mother was right all along.  Welcome to the story of my adventures to Granada, and all the adventures to come