Andalucía: Part 2 Skiing.

I am worried about getting sunburned, not falling, and not losing anyone.

I am not in ski school, but my sister is, I graduated last year. I am eight now, I know how to ski. I have on my beanie, my goggles, and my scarf. I unknowingly follow my Dad down a black diamond with moguls. Slowly and steadily, zigzagging across the mountain, watching for professional skiers flying by. 

He breaks the news at the bottom; I just went down a black diamond.

We step off the bus in Granada at about six-thirty with one thing in mind, what’s for dinner? After a quick check in/bag drop off/freshen up, we meet up in the lobby. A large group heads to a Chinese restaurant, so a friend and I follow. We walk into thirty or so of our fellow Americans sitting at tables, the only people in the entire place. Noticing there was only one waiter and after a glance at the menu, we dip.

We were in Granada, the place is known for its tapas. 

Tapas are like appetizers, most of the time you have to pay extra for them, but in Granada, they come free with a drink. I wanted to return to a restaurant where I had eaten at least three meals  last time I was here, two euros for a drink and a huge tapa. The restaurant is closed. No worries, we find another. We walk in and see four fellow students, we eat with them. It was excellent.

It is raining when we get up, still dark, and raining. 

The taxi ride is quick, and drops us off at the familiar bus station. The place I had spent an extra two hours at last year when we missed our eight a.m. bus to the Sierra Nevadas.

I sit down on the bus, excited; yet tired. I pass out.

I wake to sunlight, and snow. The rain had transformed as the bus climbed the winding mountain road. It was light out, but not sunny. I had never been in weather like this that I can remember. It was like I was inside a cloud; it was the closest thing I have ever been to a whiteout.

Men are standing there with bags full of scarfs, beanies, and gloves. I brush by them ignoring their offers for ‘very good prices’ and make my way to the rental station. I need skis, poles, and boots. It takes a while but before I know it I am doing the awkward sit/fall onto the chair lift. I am on, the people that are with me are on, and we are going skiing.

I am worried about getting sunburned, not falling, and not losing anyone.

The falling snow is thick and the fog is intense. The snow whips and bites at my face as I make my way down the hill. The flash of a refresher that I had last year has worn off. I have skied once since I was eight, and my rustiness is clear. Going is not a problem, I just turn the French fries downhill and gravity does the rest. Now the whole stopping ordeal is where it gets a little tricky. Pizza just isn’t cutting it on these slopes.

I surprisingly manage to maintain my composer the first couple of runs, although inside I have a running dialogue of words that wouldn’t be spoken at the dinner table.

I explore the mountain. The confidence grows and takes me to the summit. The wind up there is unbelievably strong and frigid; any inch of skin exposed numbs and burns instantly. The clouds pass over the mountain at the altitude I am standing, I am in the clouds. They are not as soft as I pictured. I am in a group of five; we start our way down and soon become engulfed in the whiteness. I can see the four other skiers and about twenty feet around me; it is as though I am skiing into a vast ocean of white.

It is like being in a strangely manipulated darkness.

La blancura infinitiva.

Lunch is in an interesting cafeteria half way up the mountain. After the layers upon layers are removed the faces are revealed. The faces of the others on the mountain, all reddened with some degree of wind/cold burn. A blend of languages surrounds me. I hear French, Spanish, American English, English English, and an array of other tongues and dialects I am unable to readily identify. Everyone is waddling around, doing the awkward ski boot stomp. Children are everywhere; many are the age I was when I used to ski.

I eat a healthy portion of pizza and an orange.

It is not as awkward getting on the ski lift after lunch. I head directly to the summit; on the ride up I can see patches of blue breaking through the whiteness. Stopping is getting easier, I start going faster. On the last ride down I perform a professional wipeout, a yard sale to say the least.

At the speed I was traveling, there wasn’t much I could do when I hit an unusual icy patch followed by deep powder. I started falling and decided to go for it, I tucked and rolled. Now that would be an alright suggestion if I wasn’t wearing two five and a half feet long metal skis complete with two poles attached to my wrist. I feel my skis come over me and then there is an explosion of sound and snow. I slide to a gentle stop in a fit of laughter. I have one pole, no skis, and no glasses. One ski is under me, the other about ten yards up the hill. Once I redress, I head to the bottom of the mountain looking like a snowman.

It’s not until later do I realize my watch is gone. Maybe someone else will find the red/orange ironman watch that found me this summer.

The summer working at the pool, taking care of kids, playing king of the hill on the giant floating ring, worried about getting sunburned, not falling, and not losing anyone.

I wasn’t set on skiing two days in a row, but the sheer childish delight I felt the first day, and the must appreciated pressure from my friends brought me back to the bus station for the eight am bus.

Due to wind issues, the top part of the mountain was closed, and the entire mountain was covered in ice. It was a good bit harder to ski, but the refresher I had the day before help tremendously. A group found a section of the mountain that wasn’t technically a slope, but a powdery downward drop equipped with rocks. We took turns attempting to ski down it. There were a few good wipeouts, and a snowboard that escaped down the mountain as though a ghost was riding it.

It was awesome. 

We returned to Granada, dead tired, stinking, and hungry. 

The hostel allowed us to take showers even though we didn’t pay for the night. I met some University of Virginia folk who are also studying in Valencia; they let us borrow their shampoo. I met the same people under the Fallas lights in Calle de Cuba last night. 

Small world.

So I agree, I am a little behind on my blogging, after Andalucía there was Fallas workshop, Bioparc, and of course Spring Break. That was an adventure on its own. Barcelona, Munich, Berlin, Brussels, Amsterdam, oh me oh my.

And now, Fallas is starting, today is the first day actually. Mascletás, fireworks, paella, bullfights, absolute insanity, I can’t wait. Today is the bullfight. We will see how many of these Americans can last the whole thing.

Chao!

Andalucía Part 1

I enjoy riddles.

They make you analyze every detail, they make you think, strategize. Sometimes they make your head hurt.

I tell riddles.

These riddles are not your average: what gets wetter the more it dries? These riddles are different, more complex. There is not a single word answer to any of them. They are called lateral thinking puzzles, if you must put a technical name to them.

I tell riddles to pass the time. I tell riddles to entertain. More importantly I tell riddles because I enjoy witnessing the power and complexity of the brain, watching peoples’ train of thought. The way this ‘lateral thinking puzzle’ goes is: I tell the riddle, it is usually short, and the others must ask yes or no questions until they get to the solution. Most of the answers are a bit far-fetched, a bit out there, they take time to get to, and they take a hell of a good thinker. They require patience, intuition, and time. These riddles work well while traveling, especially when groups are thinking collectively and feeding off each other.

These riddles helped kill time on our seven-hour bus ride from Valencia to Cordoba. That and The Shawshank Redemption. I hadn’t watched that movie in its entirety before. I also didn’t realize how much I actually like the movie. Our bus was silent. People got shushed for talking. Everyone was enthralled.

We stopped for lunch on the way. The mass of students piled into the closest café/rest stop/your average place that sells coffee, wine, beer, bocadillos, and a small arrangement of tapas, whatever you wanna call it. I, along with a select few, went down to the next restaurant and had a quick, quiet lunch.

Basic pork and queso sandwich and an orange Fanta. It does the trick.

We get back on the bus and promptly finish the movie.

We arrive in Cordoba and see the amazing mosque that was converted into a cathedral. Our tour guide was Lola, I remember her from last year. Hola Lola. She didn’t remember me. She gave the same tour, told the same jokes, calling people in our group by the same stereotypical American names to get us moving along. I wonder how many times she has given the exact same tour, with that exact same excited voice, and that exact same smile, answering the exact same questions, watching people take the exact same photos.

I take some halfhearted photos. I already have these photos.

Part of my job now is to take photos of the students, candid photos to be exact. My camera is shitty for still shots though, so I resort to short video clips of the students. They call me creepy so I try to be extra creepy. I have some hidden gems that people do not know about. Its pretty creepy.

We corral the students and load back on the bus. Another part of my job is to count heads. Sounds easy enough, but when you have thirty loud Americans that don’t sit still, some of them asking you questions, others trying to mess you up my shouting out numbers, it can be harder than it sounds. I get off. I am missing two; the other bus is missing three. We lost people. Oh well, they will just meet us in Sevilla.

We get to Sevilla at night. Due to the location of our hotel, we have to walk for five minutes to get there.

Sixty Americans, the majority of whom have rolling suitcases, making a five minute treck on cobblestone. It must of sounded as if a herd of waterbuffalo were approaching. Spanish waterbuffalo, in the middle of Sevilla. Ok I guess bulls would be more reasonable. A herd of bulls, slowly rolling their suitcases over cobblestone, tired and hungry.

We got checked in, quickly freshened up, and headed out into Sevilla. I like Sevilla. I have been there for less than twenty-four hours, twice pero me gusta.

We head to find a chino.

That is a small shop they have all over Spain. They aren’t technically called chinos but that is what the locals call them. Because they are run by Asians. The political correctness is lacking, but people understand.

We head to find a small store that sells almost anything that is usually run by a family or someone of Asian decent. We get kinda lost in the narrow, winding streets of Sevilla. When we are about to turn around we pass two girls, catching one word of their conversation, “Yeah.” I spin around and say “Hey!” A buddy cuts the crap and yells “Hey Americans!” They turn around immediately. It was shocking how efficient those two words were.

They guide us to the closest chino.

We head back to get Tapas.

I eat at the same resaurant I ate at last time I was in Sevilla. The menu is promising, we prepare to order an array of tapas, including bull tail. They don’t have half of what we want. Some places are like that, most places aren’t. We get the basics, it was good. We move onto another restaurant, a surprisingly affordable and delicious Italian place.

We head back to the awesome hotel.

I join a group that heard about a flamenco place. We get lost, but finally find it. A friend yells “this is it!” and pulls the door open. All I can see is ten+ old Spanish men staring back at us. It is close to dead silent in the place. They weren’t mean, they didn’t tell us to leave, but it was clear. We wouldn’t have belonged, we would have been to loud, we would have dropped glasses, we would have been misunderstood.

We find the rest of the students and party with them. It was two peoples birthday.

In the morning we do the Plaza de España, where a portion of Star Wars was filmed. The newer group of three films. More importantly, it was a place where Natalie Portman had walked.

Next we do the Palace, or moreso the Royal Gardens. There is grass, trees, flowers. There is a man who takes his job very seriously. We are told the rules like we are fifth graders in a china shop. I think that is the expression.

There is a pond, with a fountain, and about fifty fish. Koi if I had to guess. I feed them some of the slightly stale crust of a sandwich in my pocket I did not take from the hotel breakfast. It turns into a feeding frenzy. A few monsters make an appearance from the depths.

We head back to the center of Sevilla and do the Cathedral. The tower is last; it doesn’t have steps but a smooth spiral ramp. This is because each winter when it freezes over, members of the royal family sled down it. Also because they ride horses up it, due the height of the tower.

They didn’t let me ride a horse up it.

People wanted to race. Pace yourself I said. No one listened, I won. I felt the affects of the birthday shots from the night before. The way down was easier, but I forgot my sled.

I was hungry. We went to a small restaurant. It wasn’t good.

I like Sevilla. I do not like this restaurant in Sevilla.

I like alioli. I do not like this alioli.

I ordered patatas bravas. Simple fried potatoes with a garlic mayo sauce. I received a glob of their attempt at alioli. With a few fried potatoes in it. Seventy five percent mayo. Mmm.

I ordered ham and cheese stuffed pork. I still don’t quite know what I received. I ordered bread. I don’t know the technical definition for bread, but that was pushing it.

I reluctantly paid and left. I got a beer, it helped.

Then we departed for Granada. That is a whole new story. I like Granada too. I like skiing more. I drank a beer on the ski lift. It was icy slush before I could finish it. I had never felt temperatures that cold before.

 It was great.

I am finishing a seven and a half hour shift at the front desk. I had the same shift yesterday. I can’t complain. I push two buttons. I answer the phone of mothers back in the states who think I am Spanish and try to speak Spanish to me. I speak English after a while. I mess with the fellow students. I am a pain.

It is a miniscule price to pay to be back.

The Adventure

I had heard stories. Great ones.

I had kicked myself for not going last time. I made sure not to make the same mistake again. I tried to convince people. Ten of them stepped up, others had excuses: tired, sick, heard rumors that it was going to be boring, that it wasn’t worth it. They made the same mistake I did.

The Segorbe flaming bull run was incredible. Thanks to my fellow Valencianos back home, I had a general idea of what to think, where to go, what to do, what not to do, but honestly I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I was told when I got there to walk uphill. I was told to not fall down while being chased by the flaming bull. I was told to kill the time before the morning train in a nightclub called Eden. I was told that some of the locals wouldn’t want us there.  I was told to befriend a family that lives in the streets where the bull ran.

The advice was golden.

 We got there, walked uphill, loaded up on snacks and drinks in the supermarket. Then we had a few hours to kill. So we walked around the small town, took pictures, found a restaurant, watched a soccer game. Just regular ole Segorbianos.

Kinda.

I had patatas bravas. They were good. I love alioli and you should too. Specially with patatas bravas. Or with chicken, on sandwiches, in pasta,  by the spoonful.

I digress.

We scope out the bull run. It is a loop of barricaded streets through the center of the city. There are main barricades that are about twenty feet high and made of wood.  There are smaller barricades at the entrances to people’s homes, or the apartment style buildings that are all over the old European cities. The buildings sometimes have restaurants or stores on the first floor and apartments above. Well not the first floor, the ground floor. The first floor is the second floor. The ground floor is floor zero. It’s complicated.

I digress.

There is a ringing of a bell. Actually sounds like a group of bells being rung. The crowd starts running; I dip behind the closest barrier I can find. I see smoke, then fire, then a huge brown bull blazes by me. I could have touched it. Might have been singed by the flaming horns, but I could have touched it. Spaniards are taunting it, whistling at it, throwing rocks at it, trying to keep it active. As if flaming horns aren’t enough.

The Americans that are with me are loving it. One has a ‘go-pro’ on, a small camera that attaches to his chest.

The locals somehow figure out we don’t belong.

 One tells me I can’t stand behind his barricade. He points to a rickety fence as though he wants me to sit on top of it. It didn’t look like it could withstand my weight, never mind a five hundred pound flaming charging animal. I play dumb. I stay behind the barricade and begin talking to a woman and her boy. She asks me where I live, how long I am here, if I have ever seen anything like this before. I ask her about the bull, about other festivals, what to do until our nine o’clock train in the morning.

 It is a blur of Spanish, flaming bulls, running, laughing.

The flames are out. They are trying to get the bull into the back of a truck. The bull is being a bit grumpy. I can’t understand why.

They bring out other bulls to help lead it into the truck. A man approaches with an electric prod. If that is what it is called, a stick with a taser on the end. The bull finally gives in; the woman tells me he is heading back up into the mountains until next year. She says he is treated well and respected.

What a life.

We make our way to a bar, then to Eden. I wouldn't quite describe it as Eden, but it was fun. The local kids were nice. They loved my beanie, not going to lie; I thought one of them was going to steal it. We drink, we dance, we have six hours to kill. We leave about 6am, and walk to the train station. At first I am not cold, and get some sleep, but an hour and a half of sitting on cold concrete in forty degree weather gets the best of me. I have to move. I wander through the town at dawn. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun rise.

 I stumble into a busy coffee shop. Twenty men stare at me. I can’t imagine what I look like after staying up the whole night, running through the streets, drinking wondrous amounts in a club, then sleeping on cold concrete. I sit down and manage to mumble a barely audible café con leche por favor. I get a small pastry as well and zone everything out. The coffee warms me and gets me out of my daze.

All of the sudden everything is quiet. I turn around, everyone is gone. It is time for work; the men are laborers, most likely construction workers. It is me and the bartender, whom I have a feeling doesn’t like me. We exchange a few words and he disappears into the back. I get up to leave and say Chao he answers with hasta luego.

Hasta luego. I will never see that man again.

 Well I guess that is what I thought about the study center, the chino guy, the man who kneels and prays while begging next to the Cathedral, the fat gypsy lady who hands out rosemary, the short scary ancient lady with patchy hair who begs near Wok to Wok, the gray haired woman who walks two little white dogs, the cheese man in the Central Market, the Pan de Queso guy, the Consum cashiers, Lola from the tour of the cathedral in Cordoba, the hippies who sell pieces and small trinkets in Reina, the guys that wear twenty hats and never sells any, the old man with a turban who is very insistent that you buying a rose for the beautiful girls, the poop smears, the Torres, the fountain, the smooth tiles, the black pillars, Valencia.

The Appreciation

It has been three weeks, well technically three weeks and a day since I set foot in Valencia.

Today I played fútbol, or at least I tried. The small amount of skill that I gained last spring, and then lost back home, is slowly returning. Now the ball goes in the general area that I kick it, instead of backwards. The legs are getting back into Valencia shape, with the help of Wednesday’s hour of soccer, the ease of running through the riverbed, and the forced mile or two walks each day.

Walking

Here it is just a part of life. Cars are a luxury. People walk everywhere. Some of the walkers are so old that it is nearly impossible to hold their pace. These ancient Valencianos link arms and block the path as though forcing us to slow down. Slow down and appreciate the city, the weather, the people. To appreciate where we are and how we got here. To enjoy.

Valencia

Valencia is beautiful. Valencia has history. History that is extremely difficult to comprehend, very challenging  to grasp with our American-soaked minds. Each smooth tile on the ground, each brick of the torres, each artifact in the small museum of the center, has an unimaginable story. The feet that have stepped on the tiles, the callused hands that laid the bricks, the lips that have touched the bowls.

The torres

The steps are large and require and awkward stride to find rhythm while climbing. “Can you imagine how many people have died on these?” At first I thought it was a joke about the steepness and danger of the steps, but then realized it was a comment on the history. The history of the torres. The countless archers that climbed the steps, beginning their shifts, just to put bread on the table. The armies that have rushed the steps, fighting for their beliefs, for their families, just to put bread on the table. The researchers, tour guides, repair crews that have scaled the steps, just to..

Bread

Yesterday I bought my first baguette. Not my first baguette ever, but since the return. A simple uncut, slightly stale, skinny loaf of bread that I got from the central market. I have been eating it dipped it in olive oil, balsamic, and black pepper. The addiction to balsamic is returning, day by day. The bread was called pan de pueblo. Bread of the town. Bread of the people. Bread of Valencianos.

Valencianos

I was working the front desk with a coworker. He speaks very little English but can always be found with a smile on his face and a pleasant greeting. He mentions that he is going to run out and get lunch, and about five minutes later comes back eating a small croissant and holding a small bag of what can only be described as large croutons. Immediately he offers me one, which I accept without hesitation. It was good. It had a surprising moistness and flavor that one wouldn’t expect at first glance. But the thing is, that is his lunch: a small bag of large croutons, a small croissant, and a coffee from the study center. Most likely cost him a euro-fifty, and he his happy. He doesn’t need to spend at least seven euros on lunch. I can’t imagine what he would be able to get with a packet of cheques. I am sure he wouldn’t gorge on the massive amounts of food that we do. We have been trained though. “Finish your plate. Do you want seconds? Would you like to supersize that? All you can eat. Bottomless. Free refills.” We would drive to the grocery stores and park in the nearest possible spot and use drive-thrus in order to exert zero effort to stuff our faces. There are not obese people in Valencia. Well I am sure there might be a few, but I compared to what I have seen walking around Tallahassee and Orlando, there are none. People are constantly moving.

Movement

In the central market, around the city, and in the riverbed the movement is clear. While in the riverbed, I see men and women old enough in the US to be in nursing or retirement homes running at a pace that it seems like they could keep indefinitely. It is visible by their technique and calf muscles that they have been running for a very long time. Their daily runs are a part of their routine, a part of their life. They must know others who run in the park. That is why they stare. I try to fit in, but I don’t. I run in shorts, my cool Valencian soccer shorts, everyone else wears long pants. I wear a long sleeve white t-shirt to fight the initial chill, everyone else wears dark colors. I run on the line of the bike path, no one else runs on the line of the bike path. They can tell. They stare. What do they think? Who is this American running in our park? Are they offended? Are they interested? I make an effort to catch every gaze they give me. I know they are staring. I want them to know that I know. I stare back.

Staring

“It’s rude to stare.” Valencianos missed that chapter of the book. But how can you blame them, if there was a large group of loud and out of place Spaniards walking through the middle of FSU, we would stare also. I tend to think they are staring at me and my good looks. I could be wrong. They could be staring at out bright colors, our strange hairstyles, our clothes, our loud American accents. They could be staring at the girls, some dressed in clothes that Spanish girls wouldn’t even wear in the peak of Summer.

Weather

Valencianos are cold. They look at me as though I belong in the loony bin when I wear shorts or sandals. It is not that cold. It is between 65-50 during the day. But Valencianos are cold. They wear layers, they wear scarfs, they blast the heat, they complain about the cold. They stare if you wear short sleeves, no jacket, no scarf. Again, it could just be my hunky American complexion..

Americans

They are continuing to adapt. The transformation is happening. They still talk too loud, block the path, drop their drinks, trip over small pillars, always want ketchup, can’t find la Plaza de Ayuntamiento, and don’t fully appreciate Valencia. But they are changing, they are trying, they are beginning to appreciate. Some have easily slipped into the folds of Valencian life, hitting up the central market multiple times a week, playing soccer in the river bed, finding new restaurants, discovering favorite restaurants, getting to know the chino guy, the pan de queso  guy, the para llevar guy, the guy who sells beer in Plaza de la Virgen, the Pappardella waiters, the Finnegans bartenders, club promoters, the staff. Some have mastered the routes to Wok to Wok, the Central Market, Corte Ingles, Gulliver, Pomadora, Negrito. All have perfected the routes to la Plaze de la Virgen, Finnegans, Consum, Pan de queso. They have begun to appreciate the riverbed, the Torres, the study center, Valencia.

The phrases are coming.

Una café con leche por favor.

Una cerveza por favor.

La cuenta por favor.

Hasta luego.

Gracias.

Chao.

We have seen the City of Arts and Sciences and experienced the Requena wine tour. Next week is Andalucía: Cordoba, Sevilla, y Granada. This weekend is Segorbe, a type of running with the bulls. But these bulls have their horns on fire, almost as though flares are attached. 

This will be interesting..

Hope nobody gets hit like last time. 

The Adaptation

I close my eyes and feel the rush of emotion. Extreme excitement. The feeling that is almost too much to bare. The feeling that I have pushed back and tried not to think about since I received the phone call. The feeling that comes when people get me talking about next semester.
I am going back.
I picture the Torres, la Plaza  de la Virgen, la Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, and the study center. I envision my old room, my old apartment, my old bathroom. I see the staff but not the students, instead a mass of strange people, new people. I don't want to but I have to, We are not there anymore. They will be there. I have to be ready for what is to come.
Again, I try to push back the thoughts and emotions. I need to get some sleep, I leave in the morning.

I sit in an empty row in the Chicago airport. Thirty minutes until boarding. I have my water, book, and boarding pass. I look around and see Americans, most of them about my age. Spaniards are sprinkled amongst them looking annoyed. They are loud. They are laughing, talking, and shouting. They are taking pictures. They are excited.
On my last flight I sat next to two of them. They giggled, took pictures, and talked loudly. They asked questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes was unmistakable. They were excited.
I board the plane with the mix of study abroad students embarking on the adventure of the lifetime, along with Spaniards returning home. I was exactly in these American's shoes a year ago. Was I that loud? Was I that obvious? Was I that excited?
How many of them are scared? Nervous about this big new world without their parents and closest friends to hold their hands. What do they expect? I wouldn't know what to say if I was asked that a year ago. Nothing would have prepared me for a semester in Valencia no matter how many people explained the insides and out of it.
I sit down next to three of them. They giggle, take pictures, and talk loudly. They ask questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes is unmistakable. They are excited.

I am at the top of the Torres looking over the beautiful city. There are five of us, two of which are program assistants. They were still sleeping. They were meant to be here. It is 2PM.
They partied like Americans. I partied like an American. The pre-gaming starting at six or even earlier. Leaving the center at 1AM after being told to be quieter multiple times by the night staff, I take them to Radio City. It is big enough to handle them. They are loud. They yell orders of their favorite drink, they drop glasses, they are misunderstood. They are eyed by Spaniards.
Talking, drinking, noise.
We are sitting in Ghecko. They are talking to each other, making small steps towards the strong friendships that will form. They are judging each other whether they want to or not. They are assuming they don't like each other. They are assuming they do like each other.
Dancing, drinking, noise.
The stories flow through the center. He woke up where? She threw up on who? Are the Kabobs good? The center comes alive about 5PM. Where do I eat? Pan de Queso. What do I get? Bola de espinacas. What is it? Delicioso. Where do I get ____? Chino. What is the plan for tonight? No sé exactamente. 


Many were smart. The seven hour pre-game turned into a three hour pre-game. Even so, the next night was worse. They hated the night front desk staff whom I felt bad for. It is damn near impossible to tame a pack of fifty or more highly intoxicated American college students. Apartment six became a club. Spaniards in the street were invited up. The front desk staff had to escort them out of the lobby, not with ease.

The place was a wreck, apartments were damaged and dirty. An accidental hole in the red leather. These are our couches, this is our home. The hole couldn't have said it better. Something had to be done. The alcohol had to go. The ban was placed.

They will learn. It was only the third night.

They were excited.

The Adaptation was beginning.

The plethora of items in the Chino were realized. The walk to Consum was memorized. The phrase la Cuenta por favor was vocalized. Los Torres were recognized.

The independent and adventurous explored the city. They took in the smells, the sights, the names. La Plaza de la Virgen became a place with a fountain and a cathedral, not just a complicated phrase spoken too fast for comfort. Cheque stickers were located, with a promise to return to the restaurants another day. A promise that may be soon forgotten when favorites are discovered.
El Mercado Central was revealed, with the jaw-dropping sights and smells. La Plaza de la Reina became the place where 100 Mondatidos, Finnegans and MacDonalds are located.
The rooftop, skybox, and Moroccan Happy Hour were founded. 
A daily pattern was slowly forming. 


The Adaptation was beginning. 


My Adaptation was beginning. 


I got the names down sooner than I thought. It was easy, I was one of them. I cheated off of Facebook, the study center's list of names accompanied by pictures of faces, and by asking other students. 
My fading cognitive map of Valencia began to clear with the side streets and alleys becoming more familiar. The culture of Valencia was a refreshing blast to my dulled, re-Americanized mind. 
My re-Americanized mind that left my full wallet in my back pocket. 
The mind that carried my entire wallet out with me late at night. 
That trusted turning my back to a man in the street. 
That was punished sufficiently for its ignorance. 
That will have to borrow from Ignacio and his center until the credit cards can be replaced. The mind that reminded me that I was one of them. Although I may look at them with critical eyes, and laugh at their blind actions, I am just as guilty. 


I promised that I would do better. 
I walked across town to the police station. A place I had never been to before. I found the Biblioteca de Valencia that I will be spending time at weekly. I only had to check the map once, but did so discreetly. No one knew I was lost. 
I front pocketed my wallet, the small wallet I should have been carrying. The wallet that Santa thoughtfully got me. 
I took the bus to El Corte Inglés. I flagged it down as it approached. I ignored the seats. I kept my balance. I scanned the crowd of old people. I didn't miss my stop. I spoke Spanish with a man in the store. I walked home without trouble. 
The walk was inspiring. I carried a mental dialogue in Spanish. I made a promise to meet more Valencianos. To speak more Spanish. To not let this semester slip by. 


I played fútbol. Or at least tried. 


It was undeniable. 
They were Adapting.
I was Adapting.

The Return

Walking out of the airport, Valencia greeted me with a breeze of 70 degree fresh air. Before I knew it I was muttering the all too familiar phrase, Los torres de serranos por favor. As I sat in the taxi I formed a list of the three most important things on my mind:

 A shower, a siesta, and a cafe con leche.

The journey from Orlando to Chicago to Madrid and then finally Valencia had been long and tiresome, but none of that, including missing my connecting flight to Valencia and sitting behind two young kids who felt as tired and irritated as I did, without the ability to mask their emotions, and comprehend the complexities of airplane etiquette, could damper my spirits.

Feeling the affects of a combination of sleep deprivation, hunger, and dehydration, I truly felt as though I was dreaming during the taxi ride. A dream I have dreamt many times before, of seeing the Torres once again, of ringing that unforgettable buzzer and the sound of the unmistakable click. A small step through the wooden door hidden in the frame of the grand entrance brought me into the center.
The FSU Valencia study center.
The building I had said goodbye to seven months prior.
The building that I had sworn to visit, when someday in my future, I had enough time and money to return.
The building that had started to fade from my memory.
My old home.

The rush of emotions were overshadowed by distractions. Greeting the staff, my old family. Meeting new staff members and early student arrivals, the beginnings of my new family. Luggage had to be dealt with. New students had to exchange money, find their hostels, and store their bags.

A blur of movement, nodding, Spanish.

I was sitting in the room. Not my room. A room of two friends. Why was I in their room? Where were they? Why can't I have my old room? This room sucks. Who has my room? Why bunk beds? Which bathroom? Who is my roommate? Which desk? Which closet? Why?

I left the room, left the apartment. No decisions made. I didn't want that room. Was this a joke? That isn't my apartment. I live in the strange downstairs of Top Shelf with the bathroom too small to turn around, the mini fridge blocking the only sensible entrance, and the balcony with a perfect view of the Torres. I go up a steeper, extra flight of stairs to go down a dangerous, spiraling flight of tile stairs. That is where my room is.

In the elevator it hit me. This isn't about you. You didn't pay for this. You don't get to choose. You are an employee. Your placement in the center is not of comfort, but of strategy. Your room is very accessible, your old room isn't. This is your room. You are in Valencia. You are back.

Adapt.

I am sitting on a tiny stool. The affects of long travels and jet lag on my shoulders. The menu is different yet very familiar. It was not Wednesday. Why was I in here?
I give my name with my order, or at least the version of my name I give in situations like this. Keep it short and simple Fred. She looks confused, "Fren?" Sí. It was close enough. I should have used a funny name like We used to. Barbara Streisand. George Washington. Mike Hunt.

New students join the table. They see on the menu the same strange combination of words that I saw a year ago. The search for familiar words like pollo, queso, y salsa are hindered by the discovery of words like  chorrizo, ternera, jamón Iberica, y cordero. The semester long game of Montadito testing begins. Like an assortment of chocolates without the cheat sheet.

I stop by my chino. I want to say hi to my chino guy. It is not him. Who is this? He barely mumbles an audible hasta luego, which sounds like twaygo. 


The familiar battling the unfamiliar.

Adapt.

I join Cati to the airport. I have to be mature. I have to set an alarm. I have to be ready, on time.

Cafe con leche saves the day.


I have to greet students. They don't know me. They are jet lagged. They need a shower, siesta, and a cafe con leche, I know. They are worried about their lost luggage, contacting their parents, trying to act natural in this strange place. Some are openly excited, all are tired.

The attempt at learning names begins, which soon becomes a blur of Megans, Eriks, Thomas's. That can wait, the names will come. We will be family.

Seven hours in the Valencia airport. I was starting to feel like Victor Navorski.

Cati and I return with the last group just in time for Ignacio's introduction meeting. I look around. Students are nodding off, some half listening. They are tired.
The walk to dinner is basic, Virgen, Reina, y Ayuntamiento. It is simple. Three plazas. Now everyone knows.
No they don't. They are tired. They talk loudly. They block the path. They walk too slow. They get stuck behind Walkers. They step into streets blindly. They trip over small black pillars. They wear colors that are too bright. They don't notice the Chino. Finnegans goes unseen. The plazas mean nothing. The cathedral is just a big building. Virgen has a smooth ground. The center of Ayuntamiento has a Christmas tree, no explosions, no Falla.

We were the same. I was the same. How do I tell them? Don't be so American. You need to be Valencianos.

It was only the first night.

They will Adapt.
I will Adapt.