Lesson 11: How to fit in in Spain

Last week was Sara's Birthday and I wanted to surprise her with a new haircut. I was skeptical to get one at first, I don't know the Spanish hair cutting terminology and I had seen enough people walking around to question hairdresser's abilities. Don't get me wrong, most have perfectly "normal" haircuts, but then others I question if they look in a mirror before leaving the house.


However, my hair was just as bad, if not worse. I looked like the 5th member of the Beatles and I knew Sara wouldn't care how it looked as long as it was cut. Plus, I was only delaying the inevitable. I couldn't last a whole year without a haircut. So I marched to a nearby shop and made an appointment.


I used to think that those people had terrible haircuts because they had no style (remember the pink-haired ladies). I now know that it's not the person’s fault, but the hair dresser's.

My first sign for concern came when the hair dresser started backwards. She began by cutting my hair with what I call “alligator scissors,” the ones that help layer your hair. And then she proceeded to the back of my hair where she got a buzzer and shaved off most of the side of my head before I could even sputter out “parate” (stop). Then she would go and trim up with normal scissors. The whole time I was sitting there in utter shock hoping that there was a method to her madness.

And she must have been ADD because she never finished with one instrument before jumping to another one. She would shave the sideburns, then trim the top of my head, then run over the back with a buzzer. Meanwhile, every couple of minutes she would stop and go talk to someone or grab something, and each time I looked in the mirror and thought, this is what a few people on the streets look like. Like they have half-finished haircuts. The hair dresser is just going to walk off and say, "That’s it. You're done," and I'm going to have to leave with one of those Spanish haircut. I decided then and there I was going to make sure she does it how I want and I wouldn’t leave until then.

I think she knew how bad it looked though and thought that if she kept cutting that somehow it would eventually get better. At one point the haircut was actually salvageable. I mean it still looked like it was cut with a blunt machete and it was way too short, but I could work with it, and after a couple weeks it would be fine. Except there were a couple of these long hairs sticking out of the side of my head. So I asked her if she could cut off those little hairs.

She then grabbed the buzzer and shaved the side of my head down another size so that I looked like Frankenstein. When I saw her coming back for more I literally pulled my head away from her to try and escape, but the damage had been done. She had to go back and shave the rest of my head more just to cut those four little hairs and then trim up more on top so that I didn’t look like a German MP. Now I just look like a terrorist, with part mullet, part crew cut. At least now I'll fit in.

Lesson 10: You can't compare apples to apples that look like oranges.

Last night I went to my first soccer -excuse me, football- game ever, at least since I last played when I was 12. It was loud. It was exciting. And it also included, arguably, the best player and team in the world.

If you haven’t discovered from my other posts, Bilbao is proud of everything Bilbao, especially their football team. In fact, Athletic Club Bilbao only has players from the Basque Country. While that could make them less competitive they have more chemistry than teams with twice as much talent. However, they had their work cut out for them as they were competing against FC Barcelona, the reining Champions League winner (best club team in Europe), and their standout Lionel Messi (FIFA Player of the Year two years ago).

Before the game, people traditionally hang out on La Calle Poza (left), just outside the stadium, for some European tailgating, which includes drinking heavily in the streets and chanting team fight songs. The stadium itself is also full of tradition. Built in 1913, San Mames is the oldest built stadium in Spain. Though it only holds 40,000 people, they know how to make some noise.

We had some pretty good tickets. We entered next to the President’s box, where all the owners of the teams and celebrities sit together. So they couldn’t have been too terrible of seats. But that didn’t stop us from jumping a railing to find something a bit closer to the field. We settled for a nice spot on the steps of the 10th row, inline with the front of the Box (right).

The first half wasn’t too special, besides Messi getting kicked to the face and bleeding. Both teams had a couple of chances to put it in the net, but neither capitalized. The game had gone on like most sports games I’ve been to. Everyone snuck in food and alcohol. I even saw an old lady with a flask, and an old man with a bota. The most peculiar was that everyone brought the same snack for halftime. Once halftime hit, people reached into purses and bags and began pulling out large aluminum-wrapped bars, which contained giant sandwiches (left). I even got one, with pork and peppers.

The second half was a bit more exciting. Barcelona scored less than ten min after the half, but Athletic responded just a few minutes later to equalize it. Then mayhem ensued. One of the Mames Mad Men jumped on the field waving an Athletic flag and was chased around for several seconds before finally being tackled into the goal. Though I was far away, I got most of it on video. I also got great shots of Thierry Henry (right) who was warming up right in front of our place on the stairs. This was his first game back since the infamous Hand-Ball, and when he finally walked on the field he was greeted with some “Boos.”

The game finished tied, which may as well have been a win for Athletic. Afterward I got pictures with a couple players from the team including the team captain, Etxeberria (left), then went back to join the people on the streets in celebration. It was an amazing experience live, but it’s hard to compare a football game in San Mames to, lets say, a football game in DKR. Some things that are consistent are that the people love their teams, the atmosphere is overpowering in both venues, and of course, how much fans cuss at the referees. Rather than that, it's too much trouble trying to compare football to football. Like apples and oranges, they are both good on their own.

Observation 3: Bilbao's individuality will touch your sole

After taking heed to my own warning to watch my step (so not to walk  into dog dung) i realized a peculiar thing, all the sidewalks have unique patterned-tiles. I asked Sara's Dad about these tiles and he told me that they could only be found in Bilbao and the surrounding area. This didn't surprise me one bit, after all this is Bilbao, a city that prides itself on doing things different from everyone else. I would compare Bilbao's love for itself somewhere along the same line as College Station's. However, that's about the only thing they have in common as College Station is about a tenth the size and its most prestigious building is the Bush Presidential Library.

The tile is about 1'x1' and broken into four identical sections. Each section resemble a flower sitting on a grid. There's a circle in the middle of each square with four more circles protruding from the center one at 90 degree angles. Lines shoot out of each of these circles towar- OK this is too complicated to explain, let me just show you.

There are you happy now? You made me steal a tile from the City of Bilbao just because you couldn't use your imagination and visualize it on your own. I could have been caught, and then who knows what they would have done to a foreign kid stealing from them, probably just throw me in jail. And Lord knows I couldn't make it in prison.

Sure I could have just taken a picture of the sidewalk instead of taking a tile off a stack next to some workers who were reconstructing a sidewalk and then stuff it into my backpack and then hike around all day with it between jobs making my back hurt for three days. Sure I could have, but I decided to risk my life for you and this blog, that's how dedicated I am.

Wine and dine

Do you know how wine is made? which grapes are the best to use? how the grapes ferment? how long the wine is bottled and why?  Who really cares? What matters is how the wine tastes, which Sara and I got to experience straight out of a cement fermentation block at a bodega in La Rioja.

La Rioja, also known as The Wine Country, begins just two hours south of Bilbao and is full of vineyards and bodegas (wineries). A month ago, Sara and I decided to go down there to have a peaceful, relaxing weekend. Instead we were greeted by one of the biggest party streets and found some of the most amazing churches in all of Spain.

We started in Logroño, the capital of La Rioja. After stepping off the bus we knew we were going to have a good time. The sidewalks were made from red tiles with grape shapes. There we made a pact to have a glass of wine at every place we stop at and to take a picture to remember each one. However, we weren't there very long, only to change buses to get to the little town of Laguardia, nestled between mountains and valleys and surrounded by vineyards.

The entire town of Laguardia is situated within its walls, which were once used to protect the town. The views are beautiful outside the walls, but all the appeal is found inside. Like other old sections of towns, the streets are narrow and the walls high to keep the town cool in the summer. There isn't even enough room for cars to fit down the streets, which is part of the reason they are not allowed inside the town walls. The other reason is because the entire town sits on a comb of caves, and too much weight would make the caves and town collapse.

The caves, however, have become natural cellars for Laguardia's wine. There are several bodegas found within the walls that store their wine in the dark, damp caves. When we first arrived to the town we made our way to one of these bodegas to learn more about the process, as well as get a few samples out of it. When we entered the bodega (Fabulista) we were immediately hit with the smell of the grapes fermenting right in front of us. The smell is nauseating and sucks the oxygen out of your breath and replaces it with an intoxicating vapor.

Once the tour began they led us down into the caves and cellars. Although the tour was incredibly informative, Sara and I were more preoccupied with taking photos and sampling the wines. Of the more than 20 people on the tour, we were by far the youngest. The others, mostly seniors, kept making jokes about how we were going to get drunk. Little did they know that we were already half-way there after our stop in Logroño earlier...

After we left the bodega, we joined the locals and headed to the bars for more wine tastings and pre-dinner pinchos. This included my first try of fried pig snout, which is much tastier than it sounds (as long as you don't notice the hair that is still attached). We ended up making it an early night and headed back to the hostel/restaurant for dinner and some much needed rest after the long day of traveling.

The next day we got up early to explore Laguardia in the daylight. For such a small town, it was really bustling. Part of the reason so many people were there, was to walk inside La Inglesia de Santa Maria de los Reyes. From the outside the church doesn't look like anything of significance, but inside its doors is one of the best preserved Spanish porticos (doorway). Built in the 14th century, it is over 600 years old, chiseled completely from stone. It was also painted twice, once after it was built and again in the 17th century. The stonework and painting is spectacular for its size. It is about 30 feet tall with exquisite carvings of Mary, scenes from her life, and the 12 Apostles (each one standing over five feet tall).

The inside of the church is just as spectacular. It was used as a fortress when the town was attacked so it has very few windows and therefor very little light. However, the light that does pour in reflects off a giant 24 karat gold alter piece, leaving the cavernous interior in a golden glow, and leaving me wondering if they would notice a piece of the corner missing...

After exploring the church we headed back to Logroño where we had reservations for the night, but not before stopping in another bodega on the way out. This bodega had a tour in English and we got to sip wine straight out of the giant cement blocks that it was fermenting in. We thought it was one of the best wines we had tried the whole trip.

Back in Logroño, our hostel was located perfectly in the Casco Antiguo (old part). It was one block away from the gorgeous cathedral and a block away from the famous Calle Laurel (Laurel Street). The best way to describe Calle Laurel is to picture 6th Street in Austin in the middle of Nappa Valley. The street is no more than a couple of blocks, but there are easily 50 bars on the one street alone. Unlike 6th St., where bars have multiple stories and rooms and can take up a whole block, these bars only have... well, a bar. That's why most people are out in the street enjoying a glass of wine and a pincho. It's the ultimate Bar Hopper's paradise.

Speaking of pinchos, each bar has its own "specialty" pincho that is posted on the door or can be found in a bar guide located throughout the street. We tried a different specialty and glass of wine at every bar we stopped at. We tried grilled octopus with milk and honey, fried sheep neck, several different sandwiches of hams and strong cheeses, but our favorite was the grilled shrimp and pineapple.

Unfortunately, most places in Spain are closed on Sunday, so we weren't able to do much our last day, except eat and drink of course. We walked around the city and walked into a couple of churches (I witnessed my first Spanish Baptism), but we missed an opportunity to explore caves or check out Dinosaur tracks because they were too far from the city center. If you ever go to La Rioja and save some room after the eating and drinking, take a few minutes to check those things out while you're digesting.

As for La Rioja, I was pleasantly surprised. The food was cheap but delicious, the wine flowed through the streets, the sights were spectacular, and the people only cared about enjoying life. How could they not? La Rioja was the perfect weekend expedition.

Lesson 9: 500g = ~1.1 lbs

I have never been much of a cook. I really never needed to be. With Chef Mom at home, dinner was always expected. Even in college, when I lived on my own, I rarely, if ever, cooked anything seriously. For two years I lived on dorm food, the other two years I mostly ate freezer food, fast food, and sandwiches. Or I went home to raid the fridge or mooched off my roommates (Thanks guys, you know who you are). So here are three reasons why waiting til Spain to learn how to cook was a bad idea:

1) Most of the food, brands, and packaging are different. So even if it does exist, I wouldn't know what it looked like or where to find it. For instance, my first culture shock was that milk is stored at room temperature on the shelf, not refrigerated. It was even more difficult to figure out which was whole milk and which was skim. Since I don't think I like either (and I never remember which is which), I just go with the one in between, semi-.

2) All instructions are in Spanish. The only thing I understand is numbers. So i guess that 5 means cook 5 min. This could explain why a lot of my food has tasted under cooked.

3) I don't know what measurements equate to. How should I know how much 500g is or 500mL? I don't even know how much 8oz is.

Which brings me to my story: Stephen's First Time Making Spaghetti.

After being criticized by Sara and her Father about my lack of cooking skills (repeatedly), I decided I would prove them wrong. (1st Mistake. See footnotes.) I thought pasta would be the easiest meal to accomplish and I had already bought the ingredients. I had a 500g bag of Spaghetti noodles, a 500g package of ground beef, and tomato sauce.

I decided to get the meat started first and began cooking it. No problem. I even added some pepper and spices, 'cause I'm that good. I then started with the noodles. I got the pot boiling, added some salt and pepper and then poured in the package of spaghetti.(2) 8 minutes later the noodles were ready, so I grabbed the single jar of tomato sauce and poured it on top of the noodles(3) and began stirring in a large bowl. I was curious why the noodles weren't really taking any of the orange sauce color and decided I hadn't bought enough sauce. So I stole some from my roommate (4) and used it as well, even though it was a different brand.(5)

After adding all the tomato sauce I could find in the house, I continued by pouring the pan of meat in to the noodles.(6) I stirred again, and felt fairly confident about my concoction. However, the spaghetti failed the taste test. Of course I had to make a point(7) to Sara and her Dad, so I scarfed down noodles and meat bits until I was full, which still didn't make a dent in the bowl. If I calculated right, I made about 2.5 lbs worth of terrible spaghetti and ate about a quarter of it.

I of course learned my lesson, and since then have made some great improvements. I cook spaghetti about once a week and the package now lasts me around a month.

1. Being competitive outside of sports has always gotten me in trouble. Just ask me about the story of how I fell through a window...

2. Yes, the entire 500g package of spaghetti. If that doesn't surprise you, than you are either a monster or one twinkie away from cardiac arrest.

3. Suppose to cook the sauce on the side first, preferably with the meat.

4. The problem with stealing other people's food is that you tell yourself you're going to replace it, but you never actually remember to do so.

5. Don't mix brands. Especially when one is some orange concentrated goo that looks like the leftovers of some nuclear experiment.

6. Forgot to drain the grease first, although it probably helped for this situation.

7. O dear, pride takes over again. Some people never learn...

Lesson 8: Don't say "yes" to everything the maid says

One of the benefits of my apartment is that we have a maid. Unfortunately she seems to come at the most inconvenient times, during my siestas. Last week I arrived from a long morning of training, and in desperate need of a nap, to find the maid had beat me home. My bed was stripped so I couldn't sleep, so I stole some extra covers from the closet and made it myself. After an hour of fighting to sleep against the vacuum outside my room, I finally gave up.

When I left my room the maid greeted me and was asking me something about making the bed. I tried to tell her not to worry and that I had already made the bed, but she didn't seem convinced with my answer. She kept walking into my room and pointing at the bed and asking, (what I thought was) "Do you want me to make the bed?" I could only repeat myself so many times and I had to leave to go back to work, so I stopped arguing and just answered OK to everything she said. When I arrived back home from work I found a cute surprise. My sheets had been changed, again. Only this time they were replaced with a more feminine cover.

 

 Yes, those are the least heterosexual cows which say SEDUCTION and ATTRACTION and are covered in hearts. Lesson learned. Don't say yes to everything the maid says, but more importantly, dont piss her off- she knows where I sleep.

Lesson 7: Keep your keys on you

In Spain, front doors lock automatically. So you always need to check to make sure you have your keys on you before you leave. Apparently that goes the same for casa rural rooms (See: Not your typical wedding weekend), as my roommate found out on my behalf. You wouldn't have thought they would lock automatically just by looking at them, they were large wooden doors that must have been on loan from a nearby castle, but late Saturday night I found myself trying to break into one (sans battering ram).

After arriving back from Disco Escandalo (Scandalous) in Mejorada, everyone but Sara and I went to bed. I told my roommate (Sara´s Cousin´s boyfriend) to leave the door open so that I could get in later. He didn´t realize that the door literally needed to be open, and after an hour of talking, I returned to my room to find the door shut and locked. I, of course, didn´t have the key on me, so I began knocking quietly. My door was the last door at the end of an expansive hall with high ceilings and six rooms of these heavy wooden doors. It was after 4 am in the middle of nowhere, so the slightest tap sounded like a dictionary being dropped from a 10 foot ledge onto the stone floor. However, it only reverberated around the halls, he couldn't hear anything inside.

I stopped knocking, the last thing I needed was all of Sara's family to wake up to find the two of us standing in the dark hall in the middle of the night. So I suggested we go outside and tap on my room window, because his bed was closest to it and it wouldn't make as much noise. We slipped out into the back where it would have been pitch black if not for the moon and millions of stars. It was cold and quiet and we had almost made it to my window when we heard a giant dog barking nearby. Sara reminded me that the owners told us they had two mastiffs on the property that were there to keep strangers away. Sara was worried that they weren't locked up, and as positive as I was that they were, I didn't want to be proven wrong. So we high-tailed it back to the safety of the house.

Inside, we decided the only way to get inside was with the spare key from behind the Romanians' desk. I was apprehensive at first, and was even debating sleeping on the small couch in the den, but I didn't think finding me passed out on a sofa would make the best impression, at least not the first weekend. Unfortunately the desk was in the lobby, just in front of the Romanians' room. So if we made too much noise we could wake them up, and who knows what they would do to two people snooping around their desk where all the keys and money are kept. I had my thoughts but I kept them to myself.

We checked all the drawers and boxes around the desk and proceeded to hunt through their dresser behind the desk. I found a set of keys in the cupboard of the dresser and ran down the hall to see if they would finally grant me access to my room. They did. We were able to go to bed without waking up Sara's family, or being killed by giant dogs or crazy Romanians.

Not your typical wedding weekend

Between stalking people with purple hair (See Obs 2), castle climbing, and an exploding toilet, I didn't have the most traditional wedding weekend. It didn't start on the right foot either when I realized, once I was out in the cold and dark of the Talavera train station, that my jacket hadn't made the full trip and was flying off to some other Spanish city. The wedding was going to be held at Sara's Uncle's house in the remote town of Mejorada. However, we headed to Segurilla, the next town over, where our hotel was located. It wasn't really a hotel but a grand 12-room mansion, ran by a Romanian couple in the middle of nowhere, called a casa rural.

I didn't realize how rural it was until I asked to use their iron for my shirt for the wedding. They led me- ok us, Sara and her Mom as well (I have seen horror movies before and I wasn't about to die alone.)- down to the basement where we were greeted with a "professional" ironing machine, cerca 1972. Before throwing my shirt under the iron I asked her to demonstrate first. She snatched a napkin, put it unde the iron, and without even pressing down all the way, the napkin turned from a silvery white to a charred brown. I decided my shirt was just fine the way it was and scampered back upstairs.

Back upstairs we were getting hungry. It was almost 10p and we were still waiting for the rest of the family to arrive, so we decided to make our way into town for some dinner. It was surprising that in a town that small, with only one restaurant, how no one seemed to really know where that one restaurant was. We received different directions from three or four people along the way before we finally found it. We ate well, but before we had paid the bill, Sara's Uncle busted in, grabbed us and took us outside where I was bombarded by 20 members of Sara's family. We all left for a pub in the city before finally calling it a night (See Lesson 6).

The next day was the wedding, which was not your traditional wdding, because both the bride and groom were getting remarried. It was held in the living room of Sara's Uncle's house, and instead of white, the bride wore a glamorous green gown. Of course after the (five minute) ceremony we ate like at a traditional wedding. We toasted between mouthfuls of various pintxos, jamon, lemon sorbet, steak, and cake. After digesting, we went for a hike around the ranch, played games with the kids, and later took over a sketchy bar, where I did my best James Brown impression. We also got free drinks at the bar, including kalimotxo (coke and red wine) served in giant glass boots.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Sara and I stayed up talking in the lobby. When we finally went to bed I found the door to my room was locked. Sara and I eventually broke in around 4:30a (Lesson to come). After breakfast Sunday morning we all drove over to the Medieval town of Oropesa for the day, where we went castle climbing. Afterwards we went for another stroll around the ranch at sunset, where of couse I sprained my ankle and had to hobble the last couple km back to the house in the dark. That wasn't even the worst part. Sara's family is full of doctors, so of course when they got word that I had been hurt they all rushed over to examine me. Eventually I was propped up in the kitchen with a bag of ice rubberbanded to my foot and 8 people looking over me.

Later that night, back at the casa rural, our toilet exploded around 2a. I still have no idea why. We were sitting in our room and all of a sudden we heard a gush of water which we thought was the shower. When we went to check it out we realized it was the toilet and it was starting to flood. I didn't want to call the Romanians- I was afraid they would terrorize us for breaking it- so we just turned off the water, put down a few towels, and went back to bed.

Overall it was a great weekend. Sara's family is incredibly nice and genuine and were always trying to communicate with me in one language or another. The food was amazing, as always. We drank lots, we danced, we made fools of ourselves- I guess it was your typical wedding weekend.

Lesson 6: Make your own decisions... in bars

After just meeting Sara's Mom's side of the family for the first time, I was swept up and taken to a bar in Talavera to have a celebratory drink. Everyone was asking me what I wanted to order but I had no idea. It was a tough decision. This drink order would be the first impression that her family would have of me, so I couldn't mess it up. If I went with a familiar beer, it would probably be American and they'd think I'm some patriotic American who only drinks American beers. If I picked one of the hundred off the wall I might choose a bad beer, or worst, a beer that associates me with something bad.

My safest bet was to ask the barman for his favorite drink. He obviously knows more about beers than myself, and that was how I commonly ordered back in the States. -Spain is different. While everyone else was given pint glasses, I was handed an hour glass-shaped glass with a wooden handle. I had never seen anything like it in my life! Of course, the entire family is watching me at this point, judging me with their eyes. "Oh, he's the American who thinks he's better than everyone and orders the most expensive beer in the bar." -Grand. I tried to sneak behind a column to hide my goblet and my embarrassment. Both showed noticeably.

Observation 2: Dye in style

(First, let me apologize for the delay in posts. For those who don't know, I was just given a new job so now I work about 40 hrs in 4 days. The good news is, I have more money to go on more trips. So, I'm sorry for those of you who kept checking for updates, but I won't keep you waiting any longer.)

Apparently there's a new trend spreading through Spain, old ladies with bright hair. Every where I go, I am bound to see at least one person along the way with red, pink or purple hair. And I'm not talking about a dye job gone bad, I'm talking about hair so bright you could see it with your eyes close. Lady Gaga's got nothing on these girls.

I would understand if a few misguided, rebel teens and twenties wanted to spice up their life, but we're talking 50, 60, and 70 year-old ladies here. Think about how embarrassing it would be if you were in their family and they died. "We were going to have an open-casket ceremony, but the pastor wouldn't allow it." Honestly, they should be fined for disturbing the peace.

So please, ladies, if you're reading this... leave the hair dying to drag queens and pop singers.

Observation 1: Cristiano is Portugese, right?

I was walking past the newsstand the other day when I noticed 25 Cristiano Ronaldo's staring back at me. Holy crap! This guy is on the cover of every magazine! And I don't just mean the sports ones... He's on the cover of Boats and Fish, Home & Garden, and Exercises for Senior Citizens. Ronaldo is a narcissist and I'm sure even he is sick of seeing his own face.

Yo andaba pasado un kiosko de periodicos el otro dia cuando vi 25 Cristiano Ronaldo's mirando fijamente a mi. Dios mio! Este hombre esta en la portada de todas revistas! Y no los deportes solamente... El esta en la portada de Barcos y peces, Hogar y Jardin, y Ejercisios para La Tercera Edad. Ronaldo es narciso y seguro que este harto de ver la cara suya.

Lesson 5: Watch your step

Wherever I go I pay special attention to where I step. Not because the pavement is lined in special tiles only found in the Basque Country, or because there are many hills and uneven sidewalks. No, because you must always be cognizant of dog crap.

There are dogs EVERYWHERE. Everyone seems to own a dog or two (I even witnessed a dog walking another dog- I swear to you I did.) and takes them just about everywhere: to the bank, the shops, even to restaurants. Dogs are free to wander the city and many aren't even accompanied with a leash. So of course it is no surprise for me to tell you that there are a few casualties.

You can always find a dog "mine." Don't get me wrong, the streets are cleaned multiple times a day, but you have to be on the look out. The one time you turn your head may be your last... Though people will try to tell you it's good luck. Bull (dog) shit. They just want you to feel better about having just ruined your shoes... again. (Un)Luckily for me, I've stayed clear of them, but we all know it's only a matter of time.

A Holiday in Spain- San Sebastian

This past weekend I celebrated my 23rd Birthday with Sara. As a gift, Sara had created a video with several of my friends and family on it wishing me a Happy Birthday. This being my first birthday away from home, it was a great reminder of all the people who care for me but couldn't be with me to celebrate. Thanks to all of you who contributed and those of you who tried but had technical difficulties (And thanks for not killing Sara who probably nagged you repeatedly until you either gave her a film or broke down and cried from harassment.).
 
Sara also had made reservations for us that night at the Guggenheim. It was very special, not only because it was such a nice restaurant, but mainly because that is the building that brought me to Bilbao. Of course, all good restaurants are rated on a "plate to portion" scale. The larger the plates and the smaller the portions, the better the restaurant... this was a really good restaurant.

Although the food was excellent, the staff was a bit suspicious. First off, our waiter wore leather gloves and would watch us from behind a screen. Second, our sommelier would talk just soft enough that you couldn't hear a single word he said. If you bat an eye, the noise would drown him out. Lastly, the room was decorated with red blotches everywhere. My only conclusion, our waiter was an assassin, the sommelier was whispering secret mission assignments for us, and the splotches were the blood stains of those that did not comply. You can bet I made sure to keep my fork on the left side of the plate and my napkin on my lap.


After dinner we ordered chocolate with coffee ice cream and peach slices soaked in red wine and vanilla for dessert. Sara had brought candles to stick in them so I could blow them out like a traditional birthday cake, but this was anything but traditional. Like everything else, the portions were minute; the chocolate I ordered was a small slab about 1"x2"x1". However, that didn't stop Sara's determination to stick 23 candles into it. We got to 17 before the chocolate began to fall apart. The candles were so close together that we only had to light a couple before they started lighting themselves. After a few seconds all that was in front of me was a giant ball of fire engulfing my chocolate. On the other side of the room, the assassin was watching us carefully to make sure we didn't burn the whole building down. Overall, the meal was a success: it tasted great, we didn't set off the smoke alarms, and we didn't become another victim for the decor.

The next day we grabbed a bus and headed to San Sebastian to spend the rest of the weekend. San Sebastian is known for its beauty, its beaches, and its pintxos, and we got plenty of each. We spent the first day waking around San Sebastian and its beaches and taking lots of pictures. San Sebastian is a very small town that encompasses a crescent-shaped beach, with a large island in the middle of its bay. It reminded us a lot of Santa Monica, with its outdoor restaurants, beautiful beaches, and hundreds of tiny little dogs. Apparently dogs are a status symbol and the smaller they are, the more posh they make you. (AKA Paris Hilton syndrome)

As the sun started to go down, we made our way to the top of a mountain on the west side of the beach. There, on the top of the mountain, you can find one of the scariest carnival parks ever. Not only are all the rides circa 1884, but they wind around the edge of the mountain so that it feels like you are going to topple over the side into the ocean below. Of course I valued my life a little too much to risk it on a few thrills. So we just sat and watched the sunset while listening to the screams from the riders nearby. Afterward, we headed back to our hostel to change and then went to Parte Vieja for some world-famous pintxos. Our favorite place was Bar Egosari with their squid, red pepper, and bacon skewered and grilled to perfection. We were planning to go to a discotech afterward, but when we got there we found out they had a few requirements to get in: you couldn't be a guy, an american, and poor. I, unfortunately, fulfilled all of them.

The next day we woke up early, got some breakfast in a restaurant overlooking the beach, and then headed to Peine del Viento (The Wind's Comb), a collection of iron sculptures in the rocks, designed by local artist Eduardo Txillida. Afterward, we followed the beach to the other side of the town and ate lunch in the Puerto de Donostia (harbor), where I had some of the best calamari I have ever eaten. Then we went to the aquarium where we spent at least 30 min in one spot taking pictures of sharks over and over and over again.

We were trying to get certain poses but something would always ruin the shot: someone would move (Sara), the light would reflect badly, kids would be in the way, sharks wouldn't stay put... the basic problems of shooting giant fish in an underwater tank. However, we quickly discovered their swimming patterns and knew when they would swim to/over us so that we could position ourselves to take a picture. Of course they didn't always turn out great and we would have to wait for the sharks to circle the tank again to take another shot, so we hope you like this one, and if not... KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF!

After the aquarium, we headed to the bus station to travel back to our respective cities, bringing a FANTASTIC birthday weekend to an end.

O yeah- and as you can probably tell, I now have a camera! So expect more photos in future posts.

Lesson 4: Bring translation guide to every meal

Sara's family has been a huge help in my transition process. They have translated papers, talked to officials for me, and introduced me to new Spanish/Basque cuisine. Sara's Dad still tries to take me to lunch every week to make sure I am eating a "proper" meal. He even calls me from time to time to ask me what I had eaten that day. Honestly though, I think he just uses lunch as an excuse to check on me and knows I'm a sucker for a free meal... You know the old saying: "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer."

Last week he took me to lunch to a place near my flat. Now from previous experiences, I have picked up on what most food items are. I know the meats, I know the vegetables, but the different kinds of seafood are hard to remember, and there are a lot of names for things that are in Basque that don't translate the same in Spanish.

When I opened up the menu there were a lot of things that I understood, but didn't like to eat. And of course I could take the safe route and go for the steak or the veal, but I am trying to open myself to new and interesting things. So I asked Sara's Dad about one of the dishes I didn't know, txipirones en su tinta. He said it was a kind of fish and that that particular plate was a specialty of the restaurant and the Basque country. I also saw it came with txangurro (crab). So I ordered it, and so did he.

However, I was not prepared for what I received. The waitress placed in front of me a plate covered in a thick black sauce with a side of mashed potatoes. I knew it, he was trying to poison me! Under the oil-looking sauce was something that was familiar to me from other plates, squid and tentacles. Squid is usually delicious here, and its normally grilled with some sweet sauce, but this looked like they accidentally sliced open the squid's ink sack and just left it on the plate.

I must have had a sour look on my face, because Sara's Dad asked me if I wanted to get something different. Me being a proud American, denied the request. The first bite actually wasn't that bad. The taste is indescribable but it is very thick, and as I ate more and more I could feel the ink lining the walls of my stomach. I decided to eat some of the mashed potatoes to help me. Surprise, they weren't mashed potatoes, they were the crab sorbet'd with some other white stuff.

About half way through I pushed the plate away. He asked me if I wanted a different plate, but I said no. I knew anything I ate would have the taste from that black sauce. My tongue and lips had already turned black from eating it. He said, "Fine, if you don't let me order you something new, you have to eat the whole thing." Again, my pride got the best of me. I didn't even argue, I just wanted to get it over with, so I scarfed down the rest.

Overall, am I glad I ordered it? yes. Would I order it again? no. But it's always a good idea to try new things, I mean, how many people can say they've eaten squid ink? Then again, how many people would like to say they have?

Lesson 3: Don't sleep on the ground, Part B

After a long morning of running around town getting my papers in order, and a four hour Spanish class (where I am bombarded with Spanish non-stop), I was worn out and badly in need of a siesta. But Sara was in town and I wanted to go meet up with her and her Mom for lunch first.

When I got out of class Sara was just going to the dentist for an appointment in Las Arenas (town near Sara's house), so I decided I would head that way and meet her there. When I arrived, Sara was still busy so I decided I should find a place to sit and rest. At the time there was a Folk Festival going on. Tents with vendors lined the plaza and in the middle there was a large tent which was going to host a concert later that evening. I suppose the tents were out because it was raining a little bit.

On the other side of the plaza there were kids running around and parents enjoying lunch and coffee. I decided this was a prime spot to doze off for a bit. I looked for a bench but all of them were wet from the rain, so I laid down beneath an overhang where a few kids were playing soccer. I knew it would only be a few more minutes before Sara would be done and calling me.

A few minutes later I was awoken, not by my phone ringing, but by two women tapping me. I just laid there, looking up, trying to adjust my eyes to see the two women. They were about 35 and 40 and yelling at me in Spanish. I started looking around and realized that the sun had come out and that I was alone beneath the overhang.

I tried telling the two women that I was OK and was just sleeping. They knew I wasn't Spanish but they still kept asking me questions simultaneously which made it very difficult to understand either one of them. So I solicited that I was waiting for my girlfriend who was seeing the dentist. They asked for her name, I said Sara. Then they asked for my name and I said Stephen. Then one woman pulled out the phone and started calling someone... "Hola, Policia..."

I jumped up and started screaming "NO, NO, no policia. I am not a drug addict, I am not homeless, I am fine. I am just tired." The one woman on the phone wasn't listening but the other seemed to understand. She asked if I was okay, and again I repeated that I was fine, only tired. She relayed the information to the other woman who hung up the phone and then walked away. Apparently they were worried about me and thought I might be sick and needed medical attention (everyone is freaking out about the swine flu).

I told her again I was just tired and waiting for my girlfriend, and then thanked her for her concern. She left and went over to a huddled group of worried mothers and probably explained the situation to them. A minute later, I saw one of my roommates pass by the women. I called him over to see what he was doing there. I had forgotten that he worked in the town and, at the time, was currently on break. I told him the story that had just happened and pointed over at the women standing across the plaza.

The women seemed relieved and surprised. Relieved that I actually knew someone in town. Surprised that my girlfriend was actually a boy.

Lesson 3: Don't sleep on the ground, Part A

Visiting another country is difficult. In most cases you are greeted with a different language and a different culture. The major difference between visiting another country and moving to one, is that you're also greeted with lots of paperwork.

When I arrived to Bilbao I wanted to get a phone so that I could talk to people in Spain and the States. So I get a phone, but apparently you can't get a phone service here without a bank account. So I went to the bank and asked for an account, and they told me that I can't get an account without a special number saying that I live here (which I am not suppose to have because I am only a "student"). I needed to go to this tax place and there I could apply for this special number. So the next day I go to the tax place, where a lady tells me that even though I am a student, she will give me a number (I still, to this day, have no idea what the hell this number is for), but I won't be able to pick it up for one week.

A week later I go back to the tax people to get THE NUMBER so that I can finally have a bank account and phone. I arrive to the tax people and give them the receipt from my last visit and ask for my number. They tell me NO, I am a student and can't get a number. I explain to them that, "I was here last week and have the paper, so someone must have signed off on it last week that it was OK." Of course in Spanish that sounded more like, "I have paper. I here last week. It is good. Give me number." She says no, I have to go to the police/passport place.

So I went to the passport place and of course I get stuck in the line of the person who hates their job and doesn't care who knows it. She had her forehead and elbows resting on the desk with her hands wrapped behind her head. I sit down and pass all of my paperwork to her. She checks it all off and then realizes that I have not filled out one of the forms. SHIT!

The form is not only in Spanish but it is in abbreviated Spanish. I don't have a clue what I am suppose to be filling out. I guess on what and where I am suppose to be writing things down, then I saw there was a section for an address. I had only lived in my apartment for a week and a half and had no idea what street I lived on. So I called my trusty girlfriend to help me out.

Sara is not exactly a morning person, and at 9:30 she was still in a slight coma. I asked her for my street name, all the while the Spanish lady in front of me is yelling at me telling me that if I don't have a street she can't process my visa, and is waving my papers in the air. I didn't know this at the time, but my street name is 18 letters long, 18!! So when Sara started spitting out letters at me I thought she was in some sort of dyslexic trance. L-E-H-E-N-D-A-K-... I am trying to write this all down, meanwhile crazy lady behind the desk is now throwing my papers in the air.

Suddenly the passport lady understands something and starts asking me more questions about where I live. So I have Zombie Sara in my ear still giving me letters, Crazy Spaniard asking me for my street number, I just want to kill two birds with one stone and hurl the phone at the lady. She finishes up, makes me sign something, takes my fingerprint, hands me a receipt, tells me that something needs to happen in 30 days (what, I don't know), and then kicks me out of the office.

So after a week of getting paperwork and meeting with people, I only have a tiny slip to show for it. I am tired, frustrated, and currently having the worst day of my life, and it's not even 10 yet...

Lesson 2: There's no such thing as a "Lost and Found"

Sara's mom had bought us tickets to a bull fight for the day after we arrived in Bilbao. The bullfight was the ceremonial end to Aste Nagusia, also known as Semana Grande. It's a week long party in the streets of Bilbao that brings in people from all over the world. However, a bullfight is more than a show, its a dance of death. This gruesome yet reverent tradition is a large part of Spain's heritage, but it is even more prestigious to be invited to fight in Bilbao.

A fight has several processions. The first is just an opportunity for the crowd to judge the ferocity of the bull as it runs around the ring attacking fluttering capes. The second part is my least favorite part. The bull is forced to attack a man on a protected, blinded horse. The man stabs the bull twice in order to weaken him.

After the horses have left the ring, comes, in my opinion, the most athletically challenging portion of the fight. The bullfighter, or his assistant, must impale the bull by running and jumping around the horns while stabbing it in the back with two hand-held spears. This dangerous attempt is repeated three times, but don't think that the fighters aren't fearful. One fighter ran away from the bull and jumped out of the ring, followed by laughs and chants of course...

Next is the more recognized portion of the fight, the dance. When the bullfighter and bull twist and turn around a cape and a sword. This procession can last a while and depending on the strength of the bull, can be very frightening or very boring. A couple of fighters were injured during this portion, one by his own sword, the other got his arm too close to one of the bull's horns. Once the bull has been sufficiently worn down it is stabbed with the fighter's sword and then killed.

Bilbao is a proud Basque city and not every fighter receives a reward for their duty. The reward of course is either an ear or the tail of the bull after it has been killed. It is a great honor to receive a reward from the ring in Bilbao and is a token of your status as a great fighter. If the crowd believes the fighter deserves a reward they pull out a white handkerchief and wave it in the air. If the President of the Ring agrees he too will pull out his handkerchief and drape it along the banister in front of him. Out of three fighters and six fights, only one reward was given out, an ear to the final fighter.

Of course I took many pictures throughout the fight as evidence. However those pictures could not be uploaded on the computer, because I no longer have that camera. I had forgotten that it was under my seat, and by the time I had remembered (two minutes later) the camera was already gone. I had lost my camera within 24 hours of arriving in Bilbao. There is a strict policy in Spain: Finders, keepers; Losers, weepers.



La madre de Sara nos compro billetes a una corrida de toros para el dia despues de llegar en Bilbao. La corrida de toros era el fin ceremonia de Aste Nagusia . Es una semana de fiestas en las calles de Bilbao que se trae gente de todo el mundo. Sin embargo, una corrida de toros es mas que un espectaculo, es un baile de muerto. Esa 'tradicion dantesca y reverente es un gran parte de la herencia de Espana, pero es mas prestigioso se invita para luchar en Bilbao.

Bilbao es una ciudad orgullosa de Euskadi y no todos toreros reciben una recompensa para su servicio. Claro que si, la recompensa es una ereja o una cola del toro despues de matarlo. Es un gran honor a recibir una recompensa de la plaza de toros de Bilbao y es un vale de su posicion como un torero magnifico.

Si el publico crea que el torero se merece une recompensa ellos agitan panuelos blancos. Si El Presidente de la Plaza acceda, el colocara un panuelo blanco sobre el pasamanos esta enfrente de El. De cada tres toreros y seis luchas, se da solo una recompensa, una ereja al torero ultimo.

Claro, saque muchas fotos durante la corrida de toros como evidencia. Pero, estas fotos no estan aqui porque no tengo mi camara nada mas. Me la olvido que estuvo debajo de mi sillo, por el tiemp cuando me recuerdo (dos minutos luego), ya la camara no estuvo alli. En las primeras 24 horas que estaba en Bilbao, habia perdido mi camara. Hay una poliza estricta aqui: Buscadores, guardadores; Perdidores, lloradores.

Lesson 1: If you're going to buy the cheapest flight across the world, be prepared for what they serve you.

23/8/2009, 5:40 am

I just spent my first night in Europe. I don't know why I was only able to sleep five hours. After my recent travel experience I was assuming I would fall into a temporary coma.

Our flight out of NYC was suppose to leave at 6pm. However, at 5pm thunderstorms decided to blow in stranding us on the ground, but in the plane, for an extra two hours. We were skeptical of the flight long before the rain came. The airline was Jet Airways, a relatively new airline based out of India. While some might question a $350 ticket from the US to Europe, we embraced the idea of risking our lives for a few hundred dollars.

We were pleasantly surprised by the flight, it was not bad at all. We had personal TVs that let us choose from a variety of movies, games, TV shows and music. While half the listings were Indian, it still made for a nice entertainment collection. We also had pillows and blankets waiting for us at our seats.

I would say the most uncomfortable experience of that flight was the food. Like the flight attendants, it was Indian and kind of harsh. While it did not taste too bad, its effects on the passengers were evident by the long lines waiting for the toilets only moments after the meal. I enjoyed a stomach ache for the rest of the trip that prohibited me from getting any sleep on a seven hour flight.

When we finally landed in Brussels, we were an hour and a half late and had less than 30 minutes to catch our connecting flight to Madrid. We immediately began to run down the hall with four carry-ons, three strapped to my neck. Our first hurdle came when we had to stop and show our passports at customs. It took 15 minutes to get a stamp, and then we rushed down two more hallways before reaching the security check point.

Of course with our plane leaving in under 10 minutes, one of our bags has to be searched. Afterward we strap back up and make a mad dash for the gate. When we arrive the door is shut but the plane is still at the gate. We checked in and got on the plane and within a minute of sitting down the plane started to leave

We were out of breath and sweating profusely and couldn't believe that we had just RAN
through that airport and made the flight. Unfortunately our luggage couldn't keep up. They are still in Brussels, I think... So after another two hour flight, a purse full of orange juice, realization that our bags had not made it to Madrid, and a four hour bus ride to Bilbao, here I am, wide awake at 5 in the morning. I hate Indian food.



He pasado mi primera noche en europa. No se la razon, pero he podido dormir cinco horas solamente. Despues mi experiencia de viajes reciente, pense que caiga en coma temporal.

Nuestro vuelo de Nueva York suponia salir a las 6. Sin embargo, a las 5 una tormenta llego que nos mantuvo en la tierra por dos horas mas. La compania aerea era Jet Airways, una comania aerea nueva de India. Unas personas tienen miedo de un billete de avion que cuenta $350 de EEUU a Europa, pero abrazamos la idea para ahorrar cientos de dolares.

Estuvimos sorpresa sobra el vuelo. Cada persona tuvo una television personal con peliculas, video juegos, programas televisivos y musica. Mientras miedo de la lista estaba indio, la era buen entretenimiento. Recibimos una almohada y una manya en nuestras localidades tambien.

La comida era la menor comodo de el vuelto. Como las azafatas, la era indio y me sento mal. Aunque la sabio bien, los efectos de la comida en los pasajeros eran evidentes por las lineas largas de gente esperaba por los servicios despues de comer. Disfrute de un dolor de estomago para la duracion del viaje que me prohibio de dormir en un vuelto de siete horas.

Cuando llegamos en Brussels, llegamos tarde por una hora y media y tenemos menos de 30 minutos para coger el vuelto proximo a Madrid. Nosotoros empezamos a correr inmediatamente por el vestibulo con cuatro bosas de viaje, hay tres alrededor de mi cuello. Nuestra primera valla vino cuando tuvimos que parar mostrar nuestros pasaportes. Lo toco 15 minutos para recibir un sello, luego corrimos por dos vestibulos mas antes de alcanzar seguridad.

Claro, hay 10 minutos hasta nuesto vuelto sale y una bolsa tuvo que estar busqueda. Nos vestimos las bolsas y seguimos a correr a la puerta de embarque. Cuando llegamos, la puerta estuvo cerrado pero el avion esta alli todavia. Facturamos y nos subimos en el avion y un minuto despues de sentarnos, el avion salio.

Estabamos sin aliento y sudabamos mucho y no pudimos creer que hemos CORRIDO por esto aeropuerto y nos hemos subido en el avion. Desafortunadamente nuestras maletas pudieron coger el vuelto. Todavia estan en Brussels, yo pienso... Entonces, despues un otro vuelto de dos horas, un bolso lleno de zumo de naranja, averiguamos que nuestras maletas no estan en madrid y una vuelta de cuatro horas por autobus a Bilbao, estoy aqui, me despierto son las 5 por la manana. Me odia comida india.

Who is writing this thing?

Ever since High School I had a desire to travel to Spain. I think it came from my Spanish classes. Not necessarily because of all the wonderful stories my teacher told or the fascinating rituals we learned about in our books. Actually, one of the main reasons I wanted to go was to speak Spanish better than my friend. Also, there is the feeling of being able to talk about someone behind their back, literally, and they not know it. That's why I learned the alphabet in sign language when I was in 7th grade, that and so I could cheat on tests with friends across the room.

So I decided the only way I would ever be fluent in a language is if I actually went to a place where I would be forced to learn Spanish all the time. Of course Mexico was always a possibility since I lived mere hours from the border, but then again, who really wants to go to Mexico (outside of the middle of March)? So I settled on Spain, where in Spain did not mean much to me at the time.

When I went to college I was certain I would travel abroad, but my opportunities came and went. After i had missed my last chance during college I told my family, I am going to Spain when I graduate. I was tired of finding excuses not to go, so I decided I wouldn 't even look for a job my senior year of college. I had also picked the place I wanted to go. A large shipping town called Bilbao.

For those who don't know, Bilbao is actually the 6th largest city in Spain. It is situated on the Northern coast just west of the French border. And while it might not be on many people's radar, it has one of the finest modern architectural buildings in the world, the Guggenheim Museum, which was designed by one of my favorite architects, Frank Gehry. So I had a reason to go, I had a destination, and then I met Sara.

I was a member of a student organization that was created with one of my good friends, Paul. The club was all about meeting international exchange students and helping them to adapt to the University and the States. In other words, we just partied with students from all over the world. Sara was one of these students.

People never believe in fate until they are stuck in a situation and can't explain how they got there. This wasn't fate, it was amazing and wonderful coincidence. I first saw Sara at a party and knew she was one of the international students. I approached her and started the conversation like I did with everyone else... "Where are you from?" - "Spain" - "O' cool, I've always wanted to go to Spain." (duh, who hasn't?) - "Yeah, where in Spain do you want to go?" - "Bilbao." - "I'm from Bilbao!" ...and the rest, you can say, is history.

Sara and her family helped me get a job and an apartment, and now I am living in the city I could only dream of living in, in love with the girl I could only dream of being with.

What is this blog for?

My name is Stephen. I am an American learning how to live in Spain.

For the next year I will be adding posts on my experiences in Spain. A diary to share with the world. I hope the site is updated frequently and you are able to waste some time learning about all the ways I have failed at being Spanish -- If it's boring and stupid, go ahead and waste your time on youtube. Look, I already linked it for you. That's how nice I am.

Hope you hear from me soon...















Me llamo Stephen. Soy un americano que estoy aprendiendo como a vivir en Espana.

Por un ano anadire correos sobre mi experiencias en Espana. Un diario para compartir con el mundo. Espero que actualize con frequencia eso sito y tu puedes malgastar tiempo por aprendiendo todas las maneras que yo falle ser Espanol -- Si eso es aburrido y estupido, va a youtube y malgasta tu tiempo alli. Mira, ya lo conecte para ti. Como simpatico.

Espero que me oigas pronto.