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.