La Boqueria y Las Basilicas - A Feast for the Senses

Tapas, tapas and mas tapas! Boquerones- vinegar marinated anchovies. Padrones- a mild roasted green pepper. Patatas Bravas- glorified french fries, cubed and served with mayonnaise and paprika sauce. Serrano ham - served by the plateful and sliced off a proudly displayed hanging pig leg (which are found everywhere and smell AWFUL). Having made friends with the tennis coach, fluent in Spanish and who's father is from Spain, sampling Barcelona's cuisine has been a cinch. Everyone I have dined with has been an adventurous eater and we have made efforts to order as many different dishes as we could. Different but edible. I haven't tried tripe, rubbery stomach lining, as I saw it being sold at La Boqueria and I don't think I could stomach the stomach- no pun intended. La Boqueria is the large public market located a few blocks off Las Ramblas, a tree-lined pedestrian street swarming with tourists, souvenir stands and street performers. The vendors at La Boqueria sell everything from intestines, testicles and whole skinned rabbits to lamb heads and plastic boxes of brains. There are brightly colored crates full of every fruit imaginable and dried peppers that could kill your tongue with one taste. I bought fresh cuttlefish and coconut meat and desperately wish I was able to smuggle food home in my carry-on.

In addition to my appetite, Barcelona has also been feeding my soul. Though I am not devoutly religious, I have visited several colossal cathedrals and giant basilicas. Built of thick grey stone and cold to the touch, entering each of these holy places has brought warmth to my heart. The gargantuan columns and impressive stained glass windows are humbling. The grandeur invokes reflection. The basilica of Santa Maria del Mar, one of the several churches I entered today, was rife with serenity. Built from 1329 to 1384, it is the only remaining example of pure Catalan Gothic architecture. It was a place of worship for medieval shipwrights and merchants. How many merchants offered praise within these walls only to be eventually lost at sea? Being saved from the rain, I sat on the wooden pews and silently prayed for loved ones. I felt sublime. Unsure about the exact way to pray, I pictured each of your faces. Underneath the towering buttresses, I emanated feelings of positivity and wishes for your happiness and health. I wish you were here so I could further share my meals and my musings. I am off to Rome tomorrow. Spain has been a feast for my senses.

Montjuic

The past few days have been full of rain. My lack of waterproof shoes has thrown a bit of a wrench into my routine and my feet are not extremely happy. As if the six plus mile walk each day wasn't enough, I now must deal with wet socks. It is the type of weather that is perfect for napping. If I was in San Diego I would probably spend the afternoon cuddled up on the couch catching up on HBO series and sleep. However, I am not in San Diego I am in Spain, and as I stated before, I will sleep when I die.

While the storm was still brewing over the Mediterranean I went to explore Montjuic. The magician and tennis coach asked if I wouldn't mind the company and the three of us journeyed up the nearby mountain. Montjuic is a mystical place with many gardens, a magic fountain and a castle. The route up typically includes an air tram, similar to what you would find in a zoo, which is included with your metro ride. Unfortunately, due to the wind and impending rain we were forced to travel up by bus. The ride was very short and the road up to the castle was thick with pink poppies. A grey haze shrouded Montjuic, adding to it's mystery. Mist hung heavy over Barcelona and bright green parrots and white winged ravens sang from the trees, as if welcoming the weather. As a Game of Thrones fan, I couldn't help but imagine the royal rituals, ancient alliances and betrayals that must have happened here. Peering from the watch towers and behind the cannons I pictured knights defending this stone fortress. I wondered how many battles there had been and how much blood had been shed. The castle's stunning views of the city and sea left us speechless and we silently walked the rocky terrace grounds, soaking it all in.

The Montjuic expedition ended yesterday with an evening Magic Fountain show. It is similar to what you would find at the Bellagio in Las Vegas but the backdrop is Palau Nacional, a giant Italian-style building dating back to the twenties. A Canadian who will soon get her Masters in curatorial studies moved into my room at Sant Jordi and joined us for the light/music/water spectacular. With a similar vernacular and friendly attitude, her and I hit it off immediately. She is traveling for a month and a half and recently toured the lava rock fields, waterfalls and glaciers of Iceland. She will be in Paris at the same time as me and we hope to meet up one night for dinner. Fifteen minutes into sky high water streams and a terrible 80's music soundtrack, our Sant Jordi crew left the fountain for a typical tapas dinner, passing an old bullfighting arena along the way. Having not eaten since our beer and cuttlefish breakfast in La Boqueria, we feasted on bread, ham and pickled fish. A cheers to travels of the past and the future.

Sant Jordi

I'm writing from the red bean bag chairs that litter the floor of my second hostel. I wanted to extend the stay in my first hostel, Casa Gracia, knowing that it would be a while before I had a private bathroom again, but they were booked so I made a reservation at nearby Sant Jordi Gracia. Sant Jordi hostel is named after el Dia de Sant Jordi, which was Tuesday. It is a holiday honoring the death of Saint George, Barcelona's patron saint. As if I didn't miss my boyfriend to begin with, Sant Jordi's day is celebrated by an exchange of gifts between lovers. Men give their ladies red roses and women buy their men books. The streets were scattered with stands selling roses and paperbacks. Everyone who was anyone carried a flower around all day. I bought a pair of red hand-crotched rose earrings to not feel left out.

At Sant Jordi, I am staying in a room with three bunk beds. The bathroom the entire floor shares is clean and the people who work here are friendly. I'm sharing my room with a magician from Miami, his best friend the tennis coach and an Australian doctor. She is a kidney specialist and the same age as me. After I spent my day walking the Barceloneta boardwalk and sticking my toes in the Mediterranean, my roommates and went out to dinner at a place I had read about in a travel guide. Over octopus and salmon tartare we talked about where our travels had taken us and where they were going. The boys have just come from Feria de Sevilla in Seville. A crazy week long Andalusian festival complete with bullfighters and flamenco dresses. The doctor, Crystal, will be on a ten month journey; going everywhere from Barcelona to Nice and Switzerland to Croatia. Her trip to Florence over laps mine for two days and we plan to meet and have dinner together. We'll be able to reconvene and chat about our solo vacations. While I've enjoying sight seeing alone, with only my camera, it is nice to be able to talk with other people and share an experience. After a surprisingly inexpensive yet delicious dinner we headed to our hostels sister hostel, a Sant Jordi in a different neighborhood. What this hostel lacked in space it made up for in liveliness. I took welcoming shots of bad rum and met a Moroccan girl who lives in France as well as a guy from New Orleans. Here I am, halfway across the world, reminiscing of old college hangouts. The hostel had organized a pub crawl and we headed to a cramped bar where most of the 2 Euro shots were lit on fire. It was pyrotechnics mixed with alcohol and I loved it. The mob of over 20 hostelers moved to nearby club, Jamboree, and we danced the night away. I met more lone female travelers and we all made a toast to our bravery. I have not yet felt alone. So far, strangers have only been friends that I haven't met yet.

Home of the Free

After a day straight out of Lonely Planet, I took my time starting the evening. I ventured into the common area around 22:00 and my friends, the lovely dutch girls, were no where to be found. I forgot to mention that they joined me for the free hostel breakfast this morning. It consisted of coffee, toast, several meats, cheeses and condiments for the bread, as well as nutella, jam, yogurt and muesli-- which is like granola. Spain serves a lovely tomato puree with their meals. This would have been delicious smeared on my toasted ham and cheese however I put a dollop on my yogurt only to realize that what looked like fresh strawberry jam was actually tomato. It is 2:56 in the morning. I am not up to talk about my breakfast experience. Instead, I wanted to share what happened this evening.

So as I said, I did not see anyone I knew downstairs so I ventured several blocks down the street to Placa del Sol where there are several bars/restaurants in a square, situated between several small cross streets. I choose a table at a little cafe, El Sol de Nit, nearest to a group of local Barcelonians jamming on three guitars, a bongo drum, a tambourine, a giant cardboard tube, and one girl was using her large silver ring to clang against her glass beer bottle. I had an awesome cheap meal of hummus and handmade squash ravioli with a truffle crema while listening to the makeshift band on the plaza bench next to me. After several glasses of liquid courage, I paid my bill and purchased two cans of beer from the Indian man selling them from a six-pack on the corner. I joined the band! I quickly became the tambourine player and, despite not knowing any of the words to the songs they were playing, oohhh'd and ahhhh'd my way to back up singer. It was completely surreal. What better, or more authentic, of an experience than to be singing and dancing with the locals! As they do in America, La Policia had to show up to ruin the time and disperse the crowd.

Upon returning back to the hostel, I stopped in the lobby to use the wifi and unwind from my epic jam sesh. What I encountered is why I must write about it now, while it is still fresh in my mind. From the bean bag I was lying on I overhead a young chinese boy speaking to an Isreali man. Ahhh the beauty of a hostel! Their conversation sounded interesting, so I listened. The Chinese boy talked about how he had met the first Chinese noble peace prize winner, who had come to his University for a lecture, and how it was very brave of the writer to vocalize against decisions made by the Chinese government. The Israeli man was a semi-celebrity in Israel, having competed on their version of Top Chef and coming in fifth place. My ears perked up about his passion for cooking and in a matter of minutes I too was in the conversation sharing recipes and photos of my culinary expertise. The Israeli man was a lawyer and business consultant and he looked like a bald Ali G. He shared that he was a soldier in the 2006 Lebanese war and operated a tank. He showed us, on his iPad, a picture of two tanks. The first one was on fire and the one behind it had chains on the front and smoke billowing from the protuding heavy machinery, indicating that it had clearly just fired at the enemy. He was the driver of the second tank and his friend was dying in the first one. He said everyone between the ages of 19-21 in Israel wanted to participate in the war. His friend was killed.

Somehow the conversation of war turned into a polite interrogation as to why I was in Europe. I explained my employment situation and my lifelong desire to travel. The Chinese boy did not understand. He said that at my age, because I am super old and all, I should know what I want to do and have moved a level up in my job-- or that I should be married with children. He said that it was bad to be in an exploratory state of indecision. He said that he was told that by the age of 30 all these life decisions should set and being worked on. At the same time, literally the same time, the Isreali and I asked, "Who says?" This is the difference between a country being free or not. America is a free country ( please don't give me any shit about the current gun laws being discussed-- in the grand scheme of things, we are still a free country). China tells there people how many kids to have for god sakes. The Israeli and I both agreed that when we are extremely old we want to be able to look in the mirror and give ourselves a thumbs up rather than regret not fulfilling the dreams of our youth. I take my freedom for granted. I live in a country where I am encouraged to follow my heart and accomplish my dreams. I do what I want! I am American. I am free.

An Experience Beyond Words

I cannot describe today. My senses were completely overwhelmed. It was an experience beyond the reach of my vocabulary. If I had to leave tomorrow, I could still say that I had the best vacation I could have imagined. That is to say in the current conditions.There is a certain someone that I really wish was here. Anyhow, pictures will tell my day. My words will not do it justice.

Hola Espana

I have arrived safely! Extremely tired but safe. Nothing has been stolen yet and there have been no tears. I have doubted my inner compass but I have not yet gotten lost. I forgot that banks close at 2pm, or 14:00 rather, but I took Euros out of an ATM. So far, so good!

The weeks leading up to today were full of doubts. It only takes one friend to tell you that 'you're crazy' to make you question your decisions. I convinced everyone, and myself, that I was brave enough to do it.. but I will admit that I had second thoughts regarding my ability to journey across the world to places I haven't been before, not understanding the language or having a trusted companion.However, it no longer matters what I thought leading up to my arrival. The reality of the situation is that I am here!

I flew over the patchwork quilt of Holland's farms and landed at Schiphol Airport. With only 45 minutes until my next flight, I skated through the gates to customs, smiling at everyone, everything and nothing. It was grey and hazy in Amsterdam and I found a small garden terrace where I quickly popped outside and breathed the air. With the country in my lungs, I could now say I was in Amsterdam. On the short flight, I sat next to two dutch businessmen who highlighted my ignorance of geography by asking me if I knew which city is the capital of Holland. I got the answer right (it's Amsterdam of course!) but was extremely unconfident. I was only in another country for an hour and already I was getting set up to look like a stupid American! I need to learn language AND geography. Two hours until my destination. At least I know what the capital of Spain is.

Despite not having any Euros, I got a train ticket and found my way from El Prat (the airport) to the city Barcelona. The train was like any other that you would find on the LIRR, the Long Island Railroad that I took to NYC growing up. It was dirty, covered in graffiti and people were asking for money. The graffiti was in Spanish of course and the beggars came in the form of an accordion player and a woman trying to sell you souvenir lighters with a slip of paper recounting a sob story about how her husband left her. I kept my backpack clenched between my knees and my purse against my chest and avoided eye contact as the travel guides instructed. I found the hostel without any problem and even saw a famous Gaudi building while en route! I checked in at 3, I'm sorry - 15:00, and had a wonderful day treking to Gaudi's Parc Guell and exploring the streets along the way. It's fantastic not having a schedule!! Curious about the church steeple peeking out behind a building two blocks down an alley way? Why not go check it out! I don't have to tell any one I am going left or right- I just go!

The hostel upgraded my room from a 6 bedroom to a 3 bedroom with a private bathroom. My bed is next to a terrace over looking the calle. It's rather luxurious for $25 a night and if ever in Barcelona, I highly recommend it. I'm sharing the room with an English woman, Jo, who has lived in Australia for the past 10 years and an Italian girl, Marta, who speaks absolutely no English or Spanish. For 6 Euros, I attended the hostel's Tapas night. Over sangria and a plate of fried finger foods I made friends with four dutch girls who invited me to go out with them. Over hostel made cocktails, they taught me some dutch and we chatted about silly differences between our native lands. In dutch, dank u means thank you and when they need an ATM they say they "have to go pin" . We met two stupid Canadians who claimed they'd never even heard of Holland and this made me feel much better about not being sure of it's capital. The girls and I went and drank beers for 1 euro at Ryan's, a nearby Irish pub. I met two American's who are studying abroad and they invited me to an "American Party" at the same bar on Thursday. I spent the evening speaking Spanish and meeting new people. It was only the tip of the iceberg but it was perfect.

Time flies when you're .... flying

The flight is freezing! At -62 degrees celsius outside it is of no wonder why, but still, I am huddled underneath this thin airplane blanket wishing that I had asked for another cup of whiskey when I had the chance. Of course my television screen doesn't work so I've spent several of the past seven hours listening to Beats Antique and doing crossword puzzles on my iPhone. I could only sleep for one. My body knows it's 9pm in California. The sun is about to rise in Amsterdam and, despite the cold, my window shutter is open and I'm hoping to get a glimpse of the ascending morning. I can smell eggs being microwaved. Even though dinner time felt like lunch time, apparently it is almost breakfast time. A new day is about to begin. Where I am, Sunday has become yesterday. Where I came from, Sunday is still today.

Au Revior America

I am in a Boeing 747 with our country beneath me and my adventure ahead. Attempting to get a head start on acclimating my ears to new sounds I eavesdrop on the conversations around me. I try desperately to understand the Spanish being spoken a row behind. Something about a woman and not wanting to be a "wing-man". He said, "wing-man" in English, so I'm not really understanding much. There is Dutch being spoken in front of me and the passenger to my left is headed to Mumbai. I have quickly become a minority. We are still technically in America, albeit at 10058 meters above the ground, and yet I can already notice how foreign my surroundings have become. I'm flying over Utah and we have already converted to the metric system!

I have encountered a little turbulence so far; metaphorically speaking. Nothing too major but they gave me the wrong boarding pass in the airport. A mistake that I didn't think could be made. When I first checked-in with the airlines they issued me a ticket stating that my seat was requested but not yet assigned. While this normally wouldn't bother me, I had spent a good twenty minutes yesterday deciding whether or not I wanted a window seat facing the north or the south. Not only could I have a window seat but I could choose which side of the plane I would sit on! When taking a ten hour flight, these kinds of decisions are of the utmost important. If given the choice, of course I wanted comfort with a view! To find that my selection of a north facing window seat was unconfirmed worried me. Would I find myself in the middle of a row with nothing to rest my head on and no window to gaze out of? At the gate, I went to the desk to politely inquire as to why my seat selection was not honored. Without any explanation, the woman behind the counter issued me a south-facing window seat to Amsterdam as well as the boarding pass for my flight to Barcelona- or so I thought it was my boarding pass. It wasn't until they were about to board the plane that I realized the second ticket I was holding was to Toulouse, France! I am not supposed to be in France for another two weeks. I was given someone else's boarding pass! I thought things like that only happened in Home Alone:2. The mistake was quickly fixed but of course the voyage had to start with a hiccup.

It's been smooth sailing , or flying rather, since then. The view out the south-side window is beautiful. America's topography is amazing. Summits and ridges melt into flatness and I can see where water that no longer flows carved out crevices in the land. The ground has changed from giant boulders rippled with orange and pink to peaks dusted with snow. The red rocks and painted desert of Utah have quickly become Wyoming. What would be a several hour drive on land is only fifteen minutes at 965 km/hr. I am high enough to see the shadows created by the clouds. Massive mountains are merely bumps in the landscape below. Up at this altitude, the whiskey is surprisingly free and the selection of inflight movies includes Django: Unchained. My plastic glass of Dewar's has clogs and bicycles etched along the rim. The Holland Herald, the magazine in the seat pocket in front of me, boasts an article about "one of the world's most beautiful cities-- Barcelona". I am excited. My sabbatical has begun. Au revior America!

I Come Bearing Gifts!

My signature wine cork magnets as a "Thank You" for every place I stay!

Sleepless in San Diego

My trip is rapidly approaching! I'm in the final countdown. (Insert famous keyboard riff here)

I just googled "The Final Countdown", a song you often hear in sports arenas or movie montages, and ironically, it was recorded by a band named Europe and was released the year I was born! Crazy coincidence or is this voyage really meant to be? Moreover, the lyrics were inspired by David Bowie's hit "Space Oddity." How different is Major Tom's launch into the unknown from my journey  to a foreign land? It was written in the stars!

I am mildly delirious-- I haven't been able to get a good night's sleep this whole week. I lay in bed and find myself counting sheep in french. I mentally pack and unpack my backpack, deciding whether or not I really need that fourth dress and how many pairs of socks I should bring. I check off to-do lists of what else I need and create ones of what I must see-- only to forget my invisible itinerary in the morning. It's making me anxious, and literally keeps me up at night, trying to imagine the sheer magnitude of the antiquities that I am about to see. La Sagrada Familia Chapel. The Roman Colosseum. Le Duomo. Ponte Vecchio.  Michelangelo's David. The Rialto Bridge. The Eiffel Tower!! My high school government teacher once told the class, "You sleep when you die. Life is for living." Good words of advice for Seniors on our last day of school. They have always stuck with me.  

On Saturday, I leave sunny San Diego for Los Angeles and then next stop, Europe. A hop, skip and a jump, as well as a twelve hour flight over the pond, and I will arrive in Spain. My upcoming three weeks will be full of memories "of a lifetime". As we know, this phrase makes me uncomfortable, but there is validity to this statement. I feel that as we age, we knit together the fabric our experiences to create a quilt of life. Threads of our years interlace into textiles and each square is woven together to leave us with a covering of deep satisfaction. A blanket teeming with love and bliss. So warm that we may snuggle underneath knowing that we led a successful and fulfilling life. Only then, are we ready for some rest. 

The Trip of a Lifetime

It certainly will be epic. Samantha's Excellent Adventure. I am traveling to three countries -- five, possibly six, cities-- in three weeks. I will experience several diverse cultures and attempt to speak three different languages. I will take seven separate flights and two beautiful train rides. I will sleep in eleven unfamiliar beds, in seven foreign hostels and the homes of four strangers. I hope to meet countless friends and make infinite memories. It will be an incredible expedition... but the trip of a lifetime?

It very well may be. It is most definitely the most exciting thing I have planned in my life so far. But the ramifications of calling it a "trip of a lifetime" are unnerving. You grow up thinking that the best is yet to come..... will this be the best? Have I already reached a point in my life, a climax, where nothing will rival what I am about to do? Am I already checking boxes off my "bucket list"? I am about to embark one of the most exciting things that I will ever do ---will I ever see this utopia again?

Unlike my initial outlook, "of a lifetime" doesn't denote singularity. It doesn't mean that this is my one chance to do everything I've always wanted to do. The phrase means that my life will be changed beyond the actual journey. Who I am and how I appreciate the world will forever be altered. Traveling is not a passive experience. My trip of a lifetime will come as much from inside as it does from my surroundings. Inspired to rethink my preconceptions, I will be forced to reconsider my understanding about what it means to truly live. I will be enriched and enlightened and will return home with a breadth of souvenirs within my soul.

I am going away is so that I may come back with new eyes. 
The imprint of each country will be more profound than the stamp on my passport.
The reflections of my experience will last a lifetime.

Shoes ARE NOT made for walking

Unlike the lyrics of the popular Nancy Sinatra song, boots, and most shoes in general for that matter, are NOT made for walking.

Imagine my dismay when I realized that despite owning a closet FULL of shoes in different styles and colors, I did not have a single pair that I would like to wear for a day full of walking. I own sneakers of course, but I refuse to look like your typical fanny-pack touting American tourist sporting chunky cross trainers with jeans. I just won't do it! I need to maintain some sort of style despite being dressed in the same wrinkled and Febreeze-sprayed outfits that I carry around in my backpack for the month. Comfortable AND stylish. Apparently, this is just too much to ask. You would think that an item designed for the feet would aid in the activity that feet do most; walk. However, the majority of shoes are designed primarily as an article of decoration. A conduit for fashion. The human foot contains more bones than any other part of the body and yet we adorn it with bows and straps and sky-high stiletto heels.

My hunt for a solid pair of travel shoes has been frustrating. I am searching for a set of cute and comfortable sandals and a pair of practical ankle boots to protect my feet from potential rain, cold, etc. April showers bring May flowers and wet feet. My criteria is as follows: relatively inexpensive, well-made, light and versatile- so that I may wear either pair with every ensemble. I will be walking several miles each day so comfort is of the utmost importance. Nothing is worse than blistered toes at the Pantheon or sore arches at the Arc de Triomphe. This footwear finding expedition has led me from websites, to department stores and back to websites. I simply cannot find the perfect shoe!

My sandal search: The "comfort" tab on shoe websites leads me to pages full of Aerosoles, Crocs and Fit Flops. I wouldn't be caught dead in any of these styles. I associate Aerosoles with the crooked toes found at a bingo night or an Assisted Living Facility. Crocs should only be worn in the kitchen with checkered pants and an apron. No excuses or exceptions to this rule. Fit Flops are for frumpy fifty-something year olds trying get their groove back. My apologies to those who wear them, but there is something about the chunky footbed and curved angles of Orthopedic shoes that I find highly unattractive. The design of "comfortable" footwear is in defiant contrast to what is considered to be stylish. Nothing says sexy like a shock-absorbent heel. These shoes will never be found strapped around my 10 little piggies. Call me a brat but I want comfort AND style.

The boot pursuit was equally difficult. A pair built to withstand all elements usually look they belong in the Artic or a sci-fi film. They simply aren't wearable. The patent leather or rubber material and faux fur trim certainly wouldn't match any of my flowery spring dresses.  A weatherproof/wearable hybrid was hard to come by and, when found, were definitely not in my price range. I cannot justify spending the same amount of money I allotted for five nights in Rome on two leather shoes! The reviews on cheaper shoes plainly stated, "Cute but would not walk around in." Why would you waste money on a shoe that you don't want to walk in? 

I'm already living out of a bag and sleeping on bunk beds. Perhaps I can be 100% hippy and go barefoot....

Ugh. I may be picky. I may be cheap. I am definitely shoe-less.

Can You Speak The Language?

Spanish? Italian?  French?

Unfortunately, no. I cannot speak any of these languages fluently. Though Multilingualism is the skill I am most envious of, unless you consider SMS or emoticons other languages, I am only fluent in my native tongue. English. Flat and boring English. I wish I could speak a more musical language like French or Italian. A Romance language. Or even Spanish. The ability to understand and communicate in Spanish would be quite useful living in Southern California. Practical and alluring. Learning another language would be like taking on a whole different identity. I would be able to chit-chat with millions more people. I could express myself with an entirely brand new vocabulary. If I was bilingual, my brain would have to categorize everything with two words. Computer. Computadora. Me. Yo. Even the act of speaking would be different. I could purse my lips and punch out my vowels. Or roll my r's and linger on l's. Ahhh to speak another language! If only I had always been this enthusiastic...

I had instruction in Spanish all throughout high school and took some classes in college, yet at best, my proficiency can be described as basic. I'm convinced my lack of prowess is mostly the result of poor teaching. My hypochondriac of a high school teacher taught us more about her neurotic phobias than conversational Spanish. I recall that bathtubs made her sea sick; I do not remember verb conjugations. While her highly vocalized anxiety may have subconsciously been the reason why I went on to receive my undergraduate degree in Psychology, it had little to no affect on my grasp of the spanish language. In college the shortcomings lied in the discipline department-- in terms of both my college professor and myself. My professor was definitely a better instructor than the Senora in high school, but he was unable to get a rowdy classroom of college freshman to participate. Without our cooperation, we never memorized the material. The class syllabus clearly stated that we were required to speak ONLY in Spanish during class, yet this rarely happened. We spoke Spanglish. Also, having given us one of the textbooks that included all the answers in the back of the book, even the homework he assigned was easily bypassed. The entire class hastily copied the assignment answers at our desks before the bell. We all got 100's and learned very little. My participation that semester mostly consisted of desktop siestas which, in my defense, at least added to culture of the classroom. I was making it a little more "Spanish"! And don't get the wrong impression of me. I was a scholarly student, just also very resourceful. This class was an easy A, so I slept through it to conserve my energy for more grueling courses like Macrobiology. It was my first year of college. At times, I was getting so drunk I could barely speak English! There was no way I was mastering a foreign language.

Now I  have matured greatly and would love to learn, but no longer have the means. The days of College classes are long gone and Rosetta Stone is too expensive. You can find my current language teachers in the kitchen of a restaurant I occasionally waitress at. The prep cook answers my constant "Como se dice ____ ?" and the fryer guy teaches me phrases that I can only hope mean what they tell me he means. I practice. I repeat the words over and over again and write them down phonetically on the back of old, cut-up menus. I do everything from firing the next course to ordering my lunch in spanish. The head chef speaks Italian and French. He tutors me in foreign proverbs and different ways to say "Cheers!" But, alas, I have not learned enough.  The slips of paper always find their way in the garbage and the phrases find their way out of my memory. I can confidently ask for a blackened chicken salad or identify every food in the walk-in fridge,  but am still far from fluent.

As I have been thinking a lot about this weakness of mine, I've decided two things. First thing is that once I get an income, I am investing in Michel Thomas audiobooks. Or perhaps I should order them now seeing that I have no job other than to plan my trip....more on that later I am sure. Secondly, and most importantly, is that I am well-spoken in the universal langauge. Kindness. A smile. I can communicate with my heart before a mispronounced word ever leaves my lips---silent conversations of congeniality. A cordial gaze and benevolent nod can act as my introduction. I will not be different from the people I meet---I just won't understand most of the words coming out of the their mouth. Friend, amigo, mon amie; the concept has no country lines. Humanity, as well as humor, transcends all cultures. My happiness is infectious and my giggling, contagious. I imagine I'll share several good laughs while I stumble with my "Traveler's Phrase Book",  butchering the accents and not comprehending the response. I think the people in other countries will appreciate the effort I put into attempting to talk with them. I can feel at home knowing that even in a foreign land, politeness goes a long way. Hopefully it's true what they say-- a smile is worth a thousand words. That will bump my vocabulary up to one thousand and sixty and I will get by. I am fluent in friendliness. 

Enthusiastically Optimistic

I Ameri-CAN