Courting a Spanish woman takes skill. I am not entirely sure what those requisite skills may be, but this column is intended to outline the landscape of senoritas and to designate possible skill sets to court tu amor. I do not claim to be an authority of any sorts on women (I have never maintained a relationship longer than six months), or Spanish culture (I only spent four weeks there); but, every male I talked to before leaving for Spain seemed very interested in my prospects abroad. They were just prospects. Now, it would be much simpler for me to just say, “Nope. I didn’t score,” but did anyone believe I would give such a simple answer?
I would have a very difficult time believing anyone who tells me that their town, their state, or their school has “the best women,” unless they are specifically referring to Granada, Spain. When General Johnson of Chairman of the Board wrote “Carolina Girls,” we shouldn’t have been so naïve as to conclude that he was traveled enough to know which girls are the “best in the world.” People-watching in Granada was full of surprises because every day I would see a new senorita that was more enchanting than anyone I had ever seen. Pursuing one of these senoritas was like any great scavenger hunt, every step led to a new tip and a better reward. Here is the road map that I have gathered:
The Threshold Issues
1) The first and most obvious hurdle to clear is the language barrier. Nothing is more futile than trying to converse with a woman who doesn’t speak your language. Anyone who suggest differently is probably named Tom Brady, so none of this would apply anyways. Skill set needed: Proficiency in Castillian linguistics.
2) The next thing to understand about senoritas is that they know they are amazingly attractive. So, not only are the women intimidating, they know they are. I have found the most fortified of women to be those that are fit and know it. Skill set needed: Confidence.
3) Despite them knowing that they are so gorgeous, I do not find senoritas to act promiscuously (this ain’t Mexico boys). In fact, senoritas are quite reserved; even the ones at discotequas. And this distinguishes them from other girls. Do not confused that statement to mean that every girl that isn’t Spanish acts inappropriately (b/c senoritas do dress provocatively) or even sleazy (and they seemed worse about public displays of affection); just understand that senoritas are conservative flirts. All that information is necessary to understand the ultimate point: Senoritas care about their reputations, and they don’t want to lose their title as most intriguing. Skill set needed: Patience and a little dusting of the shoulders.
4) As a consequence of their cohesive effort to maintain their status and respectability, senoritas rarely drink in excess. I don’t recall observing a single person of the opposite sex ever to be as drunk as me, or even drunk at all. I mean, these girls will probably have a soft liquor or wine drink once or twice, but never to the state of inebriation. And because the women never drank much, the men dare never to speak to them if they have over-consumed. Without taking an Adamist or Evest side, one can easily see the cycle here: Girls don’t binge drink, so guys don’t drink in order to improve their chances. Now, I will readily concede the inverse to be plausible, that Spanish men don’t drink, so the women don’t either in order to improve their chances. Either way it is a big faux pas in Europe to talk to anyone outside of your circle if you are binge drinking. Skill set needed: Moderation.
5) The Spanish culture is very formalistic. Males and females greet one another with kisses on the cheeks instead of hugs- even the teenagers and married friends do this. But visiting American students aren’t a part of that culture, and posers never get anywhere with the ladies. I can’t just go around kissing everyone and speaking in the usted-form and expect a senorita to be receptive. Again, it is very much frowned upon to just walk up to someone you don’t know and strike up a conversation. Spaniards are friendly, but they refrain from small talk with strangers. Thus, in order for someone in my situation to have a chance, they would need to be introduced formally by someone she knows. Skill set needed: A full range of friends.
Through the Door Issues
6) Spanish men were notoriously rude towards women and practiced heavy discrimination against them under the Franco-regime (which ended in the ‘70s). Because their male-oriented culture has only begun to thaw, all Spanish women remain skeptical about male behavior, and even more so towards men who are aggressive. Skill set needed: The Touch.
7) Casual dating is still practiced, and consequently senoritas are usually accompanied by a male to the bars and clubs. Remember your parents’ and grandparents’ stories about how they dated someone new every weekend? That is what Spain is like. Casual dating is something altogether different than today’s American practice of boyfriends and girlfriends entering mini-marriages. That is a whole subject into itself, so I will not digress. Skill set needed: Luck or 1.21 gigahertz.
Closing the Door
8) If one were able to pass all these aforementioned threshold issues and was interested in romantically pursuing a senorita, then your chances would improve as you transcend the American stereotypes. Broadly, I had difficulty with these two situations:
a) I am American, and it’s painfully clear the first moment I opened my mouth. So, for me, I have great difficulty overcoming #1- the language barrier. Second, senoritas think Americans are ethnocentric. One particular interest of mine, Sara, told me that she is weary of American boys because she heard that we think Spanish women are just as promiscuous as Mexicans. I don’t know which dude down the line f’ed that one up for me, but that was a shitty move on his part.
b) More decisively, I am not Spanish. This may not matter to someone who is a Neapolitan, but I tend to find that women are hesitant to cross that line for the first time (for lack of a phile-word for the trans-ethnically interested…let’s go with Neapolitan). Now, there were a few senoritas that thought I was Italian, which one would assume would improve my chances. Wrong. Spaniards think Italians are dirty. Skill set needed: Open-mindedness.
9) Other than that, you the only skill set you need is…Game
“Coffee is for closer,”
- Hunter Reid
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Quick update
Readers,
I apologize for not updating the blog with new material in two weeks. My absence has nothing to do with being short on material, but instead with my hectic schedule. I had to prepare and complete an exam, celebrate it's passing, travel from Granada to The Hague, Netherlands, and then to acquaint myself with the Dutch culture. We had four field trips planned for our first five days in The Hague, and I have been very short on time and sleep. Notably, we observed a hearing for one of Milosevic's henchman at the International Crimes Tribunal for the fomer Yugoslav Republic (ICTY), and direct examination of a witness in the trial against Charles Taylor at the Special Court for Sierra Leone being held at the ICJ (its comparable to the European Union's supreme court). If you have no clue what I am talking about, take ten minutes and google "ICTY" and "Charles Taylor" separately- you won't be disappointed.
I hope you have enjoyed this experiment thus far. Feel free to give me some feedback or request certain topics for me to discuss/research.
- Hunter
I apologize for not updating the blog with new material in two weeks. My absence has nothing to do with being short on material, but instead with my hectic schedule. I had to prepare and complete an exam, celebrate it's passing, travel from Granada to The Hague, Netherlands, and then to acquaint myself with the Dutch culture. We had four field trips planned for our first five days in The Hague, and I have been very short on time and sleep. Notably, we observed a hearing for one of Milosevic's henchman at the International Crimes Tribunal for the fomer Yugoslav Republic (ICTY), and direct examination of a witness in the trial against Charles Taylor at the Special Court for Sierra Leone being held at the ICJ (its comparable to the European Union's supreme court). If you have no clue what I am talking about, take ten minutes and google "ICTY" and "Charles Taylor" separately- you won't be disappointed.
I hope you have enjoyed this experiment thus far. Feel free to give me some feedback or request certain topics for me to discuss/research.
- Hunter
Monday, June 30, 2008
Spanish by association
This past Thursday (June 26) was a day that I will remember for a long time. It is memorable to me because it was the first time that I felt accepted into the Spanish culture. Through life I have found that when you share an experience with someone it tends to gravitate you towards that/those individual(s) whether you expected to, or even wanted to. Suppose you are sitting in line at the DMV and the radio is playing, "Beast of Burden," by the Rolling Stones. Then, some grimy dude next to you says, "The Stones rock, but they really haven't produced anything legitimate since 1979." Instantly, you are going to like this person because both of you like the Rolling Stones and both of you have the same feelings the about their music post-1979. This is a shared experience; and this is what happened to me on Thursday.
After classes that day, one of the local students invited my roommates and I to play some pick-up soccer with his friends. Without hesitation we agreed and met some other students at the University's designated courts (which we later found out to be made of concrete). Despite not having played soccer in ages, we jumped into the game. And despite the fact that we got outpaced and out-schooled in every facet of the game, we had a great time. I mean, when else would a group of non-soccer American boys get a chance to play Spaniards in their favorite past time in the city streets? I guess they enjoyed our company too because they invited us over to their mate's flat to watch the Spain v. Russia semifinal match.
After showering, we hustled over to his neighborhood, only stopping for some liters of Alhambra beer. Their mate, Hicham (pronounced "E-hem," except you say the "ch" with a hocking sound), had obviously prepared his flat for the occasion as the futons were arranged in stadium-fashion with a spare mattress lying on the floor for overflow guests. The lights had been cut off (I guess that is a preference for optimal-viewing conditions) and Spain's national flag hung in every direction. Several other patriots had shirts removed and wore flags around their necks like a Superman cape. The room was packed and the apartment didn't have air conditioner. A small contingent of girlfriends stood near the opened window smoking cigarettes, giggling and yelling "guapo!" (handsome) every time superstars Fernando Torres and Sergio Ramos touched the ball. Five minutes into the game someone sticks his hand out for my beer. Quickly, I learn that every drink and every pack of sunflower seeds in the room is community. Twenty minutes into the game and I am sweating in the dark, stale air. I am not alone, everyone is perspiring.
Halftime comes and the score is tied 0-0. As people move out to catch some cool air I notice that this group's dynamic is similar to every other gathering for a sporting event that I have been to: The Host is constantly moving things around to make sure he is accommodating, Short-Buff guy keeps punching people, Too-Tall guy claps awkwardly, Boyfriend guy is always checking on his girlfriend, one guy is constantly starting obscene chants, one guy thinks Russia is getting every call and another thinks Spain keeps blowing every chance.
The second half begins and the room is, again, unbearably hot. Someone has removed an ice cube from the pitcher of Sangria and starts passing it around. Ten minutes from now that ice cube will hit me in the head and the rest of the pitcher of Sangria will splash against the wall because Spain will score the game's first goal. Pandemonium. Everyone finally relaxes. Then, Spain scores again. The screaming reaches a crescendo and somehow I come out of the scrum of excitement with a Spanish flag across my shoulders. Now we are feeling good about ourselves (notice how the "I" as changed to a "we." I guess I feel like I was a part of it all). The group is chanting non-stop throughout the half. It felt like being at a high school basketball game where the student-section cheers from start to finish. Every time a Spaniard player touches the ball the group lets out an "oooooooooh!" until the next one gets a touch. Spain ices the game with a third goal. Unreal.
We march out of the flat in a Congo line and spill into the streets. Cheers come from every direction. I don't ask any questions, I just follow the crowd. Every car horn is blaring. People dump buckets of water on us from apartments above. No one cares; Spain has just defeated Russia 3-0 and is heading for the EuroCup Finals! We end up at some intersection in town where approximately 2,000 other college students have gathered to celebrate the victory. Any car that dares drive through the crowd will be doused. Hooligans jump on the hoods of cars and ride through the crowd like its a parade float. A beer truck mistakenly turns down the street and everyone mobs it (no one steals beer or anything like that, just banging on the sides). This last for about fifteen minutes until someone breaks into a chant: "A la fuente, ole! A la fuente, ole! A la fuente, ole! a la fuente, aaa ole!!!" I guess this was a command because everyone tears into the northeastern direction and starts marching. It was a command: "To the Fountain!"
Spain hasn't won anything yet, nor have its' citizen had any reason to celebrate in over 44 years; yet instinctively the whole town of Granada knows to meet at one of 20 fountains in town. We arrive and the mob is already in the thousands. The police are present, but their job isn't to stop the celebration or to provide security, they just block off the street- its almost as if they are promoting the mob scene. Spaniards begin to invade the fountain and have crawled up onto every layer. There is an unspoken contest to get to the tip-top and do something outrageous to please the crowd. Three people are naked, one is air-humping the statue. The chanting hasn't stopped since halftime and at this point the game has been over for an hour. Fireworks started coming out of nowhere. One guy is holding the damn thing in his hands as a buddy ignites them. Another guy shows up with a 20-yard rope of M-80s. I have never been "in the trenches," but it must feel similar to this. The insanity of celebration must stop at some point. It doesn't. Dain swears that the police will disperse the crowd with plastic bullets and I suspect that he wants to be hit with one.
It is now midnight, a full two hours since the game's conclusion and the Granadans are still going wild. Dain and I force ourselves to leave and find a Kebab stand. After three full weeks in Granada we understand that this is going to be a celebration that runs deep into the night.
As anyone could figure out, this Spanish team was destined to win the EuroCup. The following Sunday night Spain soared past Germany 1-0 and ended their 44-year championship drought from claiming victors of any international competition. But it was my experiences on Thursday night that were special to me. There is no proper comparison, but seeing that I am discussing shared experiences, I will analogize it to the 2004 Red-Sox beating the NY Yankees in the ALCS- that series victory was the crowning moment for the RedSox- the Cardinals never challenged them in the World Series. For Spain, and for me, watching the national team defeat Russia to advance to the finals was awesome. To have had the opportunity to share that moment with the locals from Granada, and for them to have treated us like we were in their fraternity, was unforgettable.
Dain and I did a re-run of Hicham place for the championship game, celebrating at the fountain, fireworks, et cetera. But, we largely abstained from getting too involved in the championship celebration. It just wasn't our place to impose. I could only wish there was something comparable in the US that would give us a sense of national pride and unity. Even so, for one evening in June of 2008 we were adopted as Spaniards and we were glad to be apart of it all.
Hacemos los campeones!
(We are the champions!)
- Tomas de Granada
(note: Soccer is a derivative of the word association).
Sunday, June 29, 2008
...to the other
(Editor's note: This is Part II of the story "From one end of the world to the other").
Legend has it that Hercules stood with one foot on Gibraltar (Europe) and one foot on Abyla (Africa) and pushed the two rocks apart in order to open up the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic. Hercules must have been impressed with the African side because legend also has it that he resided in what is now known as Tangier, Morocco. Obviously, I felt the needed to investigate this piece of mythology.
From Gibraltar we (Ice Station Zebra, plus 15 others from the study abroad program) took a 20 minutes bus ride to the neighboring port city of Algeciras, where we boarded a ferry that would take us to Tangier, Morocco. Although the separation between Europe and Northern Africa is less than 10 km. these two continents are vastly different. That statement is troubling to me because upon reflection I have found it quite difficult to explain their differences. Perhaps this is because I cannot point out many tangible differences- both southern Spain and northern Africa have a Mediterranean look, similar city layouts and building designs. But, the intangible differences- the smell of spice mixed with the stench of sweaty towns, the attitude of people who are willing to barter for anything, and the shift from Spanish to Arabic influences- all lead the first time visitor to feel like you are in another world. Admittedly, I had some predispositions towards Africa so I was ripe for believing I would enter a new realm of man's existence. I think that I was most surprised not to find a single black-skinned person, but people who looked like they worked at the Pita House in Greenville, SC.
We checked into our hotel room and passed out for three hours from the exhaustion of travel, hiking up the Rock of Gibraltar, and warding off its monkeys. When we woke up and made it to the lobby everyone in the group had already left for dinner. A man that hangs around the hotel offered to take us an authentic Moroccan dinner and we obliged him by jumping into his van (Mom, we weren't being naive, he was a quasi-hotel employee). We ended up at a family-styled restaurant in a neighborhood called "Kazbah." We were led upstairs to a large community table with little stools for seats. There was a four-piece band in the corner playing a zanituar, tamborine, bongos and a violin-like instrument. For dinner we were served community dishes of Chick pea soup, assorted fresh veggies, chicken and carrots over couscous, and arabic tea. Half way through the meal we asked our waiter, "How come we are the only people using our utensils?" He explained in broken English that in Morocco it is customary to eat with your hands. Then, we demonstrated the proper hand-shoveling techniques by sticking his fingers right into our food (okay Mom, now we were being naive). Somewhere in the back of my mind I could here the screams of a thousand Cotillion mothers as I grabbed some couscous with my fingers and pushed it into my mouth.
The next morning Ice Station Zebra broke from the rest of the group, who decided to follow the hotel-guided tour of the city. The thing that we most wanted to do was to go hiking into the Rif Mountains on camel-back, but that required a two day journey and we only had one Saturday. Instead, Will used his Spanish to hire a free-lance cab driver (as the driver explains it, he isn't aligned with the taxi cab industry) to give us a tour of the region. Unfortunately for Dain and I we would never understand a single word our tour guide spoke in his broken Spanish, except for those moments when Will would point things out to us. We traveled throughout the city as he pointed things, like a Saudi Arabian prince's summer mansion or an historical mosque. Soon we were outside of the city and began the slow journey along the Atlantic Coast to the old village of Assylah. Along the way, we stopped at a series of caves beneath a fishing village were it is believed that Hercules once lived. Whether or not the famous Grecian made this is home, it was neat to go spelunking and feel like you were in the presence of greatness. I bet Magnus von Magnussen didn't live in a cave! Above the surface the aroma of freshly grilled fish was too overwhelming for us to pass on. I guess Will felt ultra-inspired by Hercules' layer because he ripped his shirt off and proceeded to scarf down his serving. After looking around and noticing that he was three times the size of any other fisherman, it seemed as if the villagers looked at him as though he was familiar.
(Dining on a typical Herculean meal)
Immediately past Hercules' home, we drove around a 90 square kilometer expansion of beach and ocean front property. This area had been purchased by a developer, who was building some 15 different resort-towns. There were tractors and cranes and bricks everywhere. The developer's crew were carrying out his plans to cultivate this area into a booming tourist/resort area for the neuve riche. Looking at all of the construction amidst the beautiful palms and crystal clear Atlantic I felt like I was having an very uninspiring dream- the scenery was gorgeous and my imagination was whirling with thoughts of vacationing in style, yet I felt guilty for wanting to visit here again because I know that progress will destroy this piece of Earth's majesty.
(Inside Hurcules' den looking out into the Atlantic. Notice if you reversed this image, the light entering the cave would create a sketch of Africa's continent).
Soon we would reach Assylah, a town that is divided into two squares, one for the old village of Greek-styled whitewashed homes and another for modernity. A long forgotten fortress separated them from each other. Unfortunately for Dain and I, we didn't understand enough of the broken Spanish spoken by our cab driver/today's tour guide. But with or without an explanation, you could get a decent understanding of this coastal town just by roaming the streets. On the way back we convinced the driver to let us out on the beaches for an hour's swim. He obliged and we took turns jumping into the Atlantic's strong African currents while families sprawled out around us and the occasional camel that would stroll by.
(Front door of a typical home in the village of Assylah)
There isn't really anything extraordinary that happened from the time we arrived back at our hotel in Tangier until we reached Spain's Iberian peninsula on Sunday midday. However, something struck me as being very peculiar when we finally made it back to Granada. When I walked into my hostal I was overwhelmed by the satisfaction of feeling like it was "good to be back home" again. Except, I am not home. In fact, I am as far from home as one could be. It's funny how quickly you can adapt to your surroundings, and how relative the word "home," can be sometimes.
Signing off, from one end of the world to another.
Hunter Reid
Legend has it that Hercules stood with one foot on Gibraltar (Europe) and one foot on Abyla (Africa) and pushed the two rocks apart in order to open up the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic. Hercules must have been impressed with the African side because legend also has it that he resided in what is now known as Tangier, Morocco. Obviously, I felt the needed to investigate this piece of mythology.
From Gibraltar we (Ice Station Zebra, plus 15 others from the study abroad program) took a 20 minutes bus ride to the neighboring port city of Algeciras, where we boarded a ferry that would take us to Tangier, Morocco. Although the separation between Europe and Northern Africa is less than 10 km. these two continents are vastly different. That statement is troubling to me because upon reflection I have found it quite difficult to explain their differences. Perhaps this is because I cannot point out many tangible differences- both southern Spain and northern Africa have a Mediterranean look, similar city layouts and building designs. But, the intangible differences- the smell of spice mixed with the stench of sweaty towns, the attitude of people who are willing to barter for anything, and the shift from Spanish to Arabic influences- all lead the first time visitor to feel like you are in another world. Admittedly, I had some predispositions towards Africa so I was ripe for believing I would enter a new realm of man's existence. I think that I was most surprised not to find a single black-skinned person, but people who looked like they worked at the Pita House in Greenville, SC.
We checked into our hotel room and passed out for three hours from the exhaustion of travel, hiking up the Rock of Gibraltar, and warding off its monkeys. When we woke up and made it to the lobby everyone in the group had already left for dinner. A man that hangs around the hotel offered to take us an authentic Moroccan dinner and we obliged him by jumping into his van (Mom, we weren't being naive, he was a quasi-hotel employee). We ended up at a family-styled restaurant in a neighborhood called "Kazbah." We were led upstairs to a large community table with little stools for seats. There was a four-piece band in the corner playing a zanituar, tamborine, bongos and a violin-like instrument. For dinner we were served community dishes of Chick pea soup, assorted fresh veggies, chicken and carrots over couscous, and arabic tea. Half way through the meal we asked our waiter, "How come we are the only people using our utensils?" He explained in broken English that in Morocco it is customary to eat with your hands. Then, we demonstrated the proper hand-shoveling techniques by sticking his fingers right into our food (okay Mom, now we were being naive). Somewhere in the back of my mind I could here the screams of a thousand Cotillion mothers as I grabbed some couscous with my fingers and pushed it into my mouth.
The next morning Ice Station Zebra broke from the rest of the group, who decided to follow the hotel-guided tour of the city. The thing that we most wanted to do was to go hiking into the Rif Mountains on camel-back, but that required a two day journey and we only had one Saturday. Instead, Will used his Spanish to hire a free-lance cab driver (as the driver explains it, he isn't aligned with the taxi cab industry) to give us a tour of the region. Unfortunately for Dain and I we would never understand a single word our tour guide spoke in his broken Spanish, except for those moments when Will would point things out to us. We traveled throughout the city as he pointed things, like a Saudi Arabian prince's summer mansion or an historical mosque. Soon we were outside of the city and began the slow journey along the Atlantic Coast to the old village of Assylah. Along the way, we stopped at a series of caves beneath a fishing village were it is believed that Hercules once lived. Whether or not the famous Grecian made this is home, it was neat to go spelunking and feel like you were in the presence of greatness. I bet Magnus von Magnussen didn't live in a cave! Above the surface the aroma of freshly grilled fish was too overwhelming for us to pass on. I guess Will felt ultra-inspired by Hercules' layer because he ripped his shirt off and proceeded to scarf down his serving. After looking around and noticing that he was three times the size of any other fisherman, it seemed as if the villagers looked at him as though he was familiar.
(Dining on a typical Herculean meal)
Immediately past Hercules' home, we drove around a 90 square kilometer expansion of beach and ocean front property. This area had been purchased by a developer, who was building some 15 different resort-towns. There were tractors and cranes and bricks everywhere. The developer's crew were carrying out his plans to cultivate this area into a booming tourist/resort area for the neuve riche. Looking at all of the construction amidst the beautiful palms and crystal clear Atlantic I felt like I was having an very uninspiring dream- the scenery was gorgeous and my imagination was whirling with thoughts of vacationing in style, yet I felt guilty for wanting to visit here again because I know that progress will destroy this piece of Earth's majesty.
(Inside Hurcules' den looking out into the Atlantic. Notice if you reversed this image, the light entering the cave would create a sketch of Africa's continent).
Soon we would reach Assylah, a town that is divided into two squares, one for the old village of Greek-styled whitewashed homes and another for modernity. A long forgotten fortress separated them from each other. Unfortunately for Dain and I, we didn't understand enough of the broken Spanish spoken by our cab driver/today's tour guide. But with or without an explanation, you could get a decent understanding of this coastal town just by roaming the streets. On the way back we convinced the driver to let us out on the beaches for an hour's swim. He obliged and we took turns jumping into the Atlantic's strong African currents while families sprawled out around us and the occasional camel that would stroll by.
(Front door of a typical home in the village of Assylah)
There isn't really anything extraordinary that happened from the time we arrived back at our hotel in Tangier until we reached Spain's Iberian peninsula on Sunday midday. However, something struck me as being very peculiar when we finally made it back to Granada. When I walked into my hostal I was overwhelmed by the satisfaction of feeling like it was "good to be back home" again. Except, I am not home. In fact, I am as far from home as one could be. It's funny how quickly you can adapt to your surroundings, and how relative the word "home," can be sometimes.
Signing off, from one end of the world to another.
Hunter Reid
Friday, June 27, 2008
From one end of the world...
(Editor's note: This is Part One of a story I have entitled "From one end of the world to another.")
Have you ever wondered why the United Kingdom is so filthy rich? There are probably several explanations and among those reasons is Gibraltar. Gibraltar is a town-country (similar to Vatican City) that neighbors Spain's Iberian peninsula. This port is the gateway to the Mediterranean Sea from the Atlantic, and serves as a military garrison for the crown. The whole thing is about 2.5 square miles, and the average piece of real estate goes for $2M (JR, Mom, you picked the wrong area to be an agent). The whole thing is bizarre; "senor" becomes "mate," tapas become fish & chips, pounds are preferred over euros, judges and barristers still wear powdered whigs, and the steering wheel is all of the sudden on the right-hand side.
(From the top of The Rock looking down. To the left you can see a glimpse of Africa, and on the right are Spanish mountains. The barges at bay are in the Atlantic, waiting to get into the Mediterranean.)
And how come you feel like you have heard of this place that was once thought to be the end of the world? Because of the Rock of Gibraltar. I'm sure that most of you have seen images of the "world's most famous rock" in a Prudential commercial; however, many of you may not have realized that The Rock is inhabited by hundreds of cinnamon-colored, tail-less monkeys (macaques). To add to all the weirdom of Gibraltar, if you happen to explore the uppermost points of the rock you must do so while fighting off brilliant miniature apes. The view from the top is spectacular in that you can see both Spain and Africa, as well as the convergence of the Mediterranean Sea with the Atlantic Ocean at the Strait of Gibraltar (above).
(The Rock and insurance are both too expensive)
Back to the monkeys. I mentioned these creatures are brilliant because I witnessed one unzip someone's bookbag, take out a pack of gummi bears, open the cellophane wrapper with his fingers, and then proceed to pop them in his mouth one-by-one, just like a lounge lizard eating peanuts. Later, I watched a pack of these fur-balls sit on a brick wall and wait for taxis to roll by. When a car would pass a monkey would leap onto the passenger's sideview mirror and ride down the mountain for 200 yards, then he would jump off onto the brick wall again. They all waited for each other, then commenced their business of trekking down the mountain. Legend has it that the monkeys traveled from Africa to Gibraltar through underwater caves and tunnels (this could actually be true b/c no one has explored the depths of Gibraltar's caves, and the cave thing make sense because there is a cathedral, known as St. Michael's, built into the rock). No one is sure how long the monkeys have been there, nor how long the Redcoats will maintain this port, but as the saying goes, "When the apes leave, so will the Brits."
(In case you were wondering, it is illegal to feed the monkeys. But, the monkeys have free reign to prey off unwitting humans. Right before this film was recorded a German boy had just left the cafeteria with a big smile on his face and a huge ice cream cone in his hand. Out of nowhere a monkey flies onto his shoulder, takes the cone and keeps the treat intact while he receives several lashes from the German boy's mother. The boy leaves in tears and the monkey dominates his dessert.)
(Editor's note 2: England doesn't own Gibraltar; England is a part of the U.K., and Gibraltar is a constituent member to the U.K.)
Have you ever wondered why the United Kingdom is so filthy rich? There are probably several explanations and among those reasons is Gibraltar. Gibraltar is a town-country (similar to Vatican City) that neighbors Spain's Iberian peninsula. This port is the gateway to the Mediterranean Sea from the Atlantic, and serves as a military garrison for the crown. The whole thing is about 2.5 square miles, and the average piece of real estate goes for $2M (JR, Mom, you picked the wrong area to be an agent). The whole thing is bizarre; "senor" becomes "mate," tapas become fish & chips, pounds are preferred over euros, judges and barristers still wear powdered whigs, and the steering wheel is all of the sudden on the right-hand side.
(From the top of The Rock looking down. To the left you can see a glimpse of Africa, and on the right are Spanish mountains. The barges at bay are in the Atlantic, waiting to get into the Mediterranean.)
And how come you feel like you have heard of this place that was once thought to be the end of the world? Because of the Rock of Gibraltar. I'm sure that most of you have seen images of the "world's most famous rock" in a Prudential commercial; however, many of you may not have realized that The Rock is inhabited by hundreds of cinnamon-colored, tail-less monkeys (macaques). To add to all the weirdom of Gibraltar, if you happen to explore the uppermost points of the rock you must do so while fighting off brilliant miniature apes. The view from the top is spectacular in that you can see both Spain and Africa, as well as the convergence of the Mediterranean Sea with the Atlantic Ocean at the Strait of Gibraltar (above).
(The Rock and insurance are both too expensive)
Back to the monkeys. I mentioned these creatures are brilliant because I witnessed one unzip someone's bookbag, take out a pack of gummi bears, open the cellophane wrapper with his fingers, and then proceed to pop them in his mouth one-by-one, just like a lounge lizard eating peanuts. Later, I watched a pack of these fur-balls sit on a brick wall and wait for taxis to roll by. When a car would pass a monkey would leap onto the passenger's sideview mirror and ride down the mountain for 200 yards, then he would jump off onto the brick wall again. They all waited for each other, then commenced their business of trekking down the mountain. Legend has it that the monkeys traveled from Africa to Gibraltar through underwater caves and tunnels (this could actually be true b/c no one has explored the depths of Gibraltar's caves, and the cave thing make sense because there is a cathedral, known as St. Michael's, built into the rock). No one is sure how long the monkeys have been there, nor how long the Redcoats will maintain this port, but as the saying goes, "When the apes leave, so will the Brits."
(In case you were wondering, it is illegal to feed the monkeys. But, the monkeys have free reign to prey off unwitting humans. Right before this film was recorded a German boy had just left the cafeteria with a big smile on his face and a huge ice cream cone in his hand. Out of nowhere a monkey flies onto his shoulder, takes the cone and keeps the treat intact while he receives several lashes from the German boy's mother. The boy leaves in tears and the monkey dominates his dessert.)
(Editor's note 2: England doesn't own Gibraltar; England is a part of the U.K., and Gibraltar is a constituent member to the U.K.)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
When in Sevilla...act like a Sevillan
For our first weekend trip we decided to visit Sevilla. Sevilla is an ancient port city in the Andalusia region of southern Spain and resembles Barcelona in two respects, a) the architecture is very Gothic; and b) its unnecessarily hot- like Columbia, SC. The major attraction is the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See, which is third largest Christian cathedral in the world (behind St. Peter's in Vatican City and St. Paul's in London), and claims to hold the remains of Christopher Columbus. What I found to be most interesting about St. Mary's is that the church was built on top of an existing Muslim mosque, and several areas are exposed so that you can see where the original concrete framework of the mosque stops and where the cathedral's masonry begins. Also, while we were inside the cathedral, a Spanish soap opera star was being married in one of the cathedral's 40 chapels (I told you it was big). This is important to the story because we ended up following the paparazzi and befriend some of the matrimonial guests, who in turn invited us up to their 4-star hotel's rooftop-swimming pool located directly across the street from the cathedral.
(Here is a view of the hotel pool from the cathedral's tower about two hours before we got up there).
The sensation of jumping into a swimming pool on a hot summer's day is refreshing. Hanging out poolside in Sevilla with rich Spaniards is unparalleled. We didn't fit in at all, but we soaked up every moment like we were meant to be there. And we certainly didn't fit in when we had to strip down to our boxers to let our shorts dry (didn't exactly plan for the occasion).
(This is Will, Dain and I in the pool. We were pretty much giggling like teenage girls all afternoon.)
After drying off we headed across the street to a local pub to catch the Spain v. Sweden futbol match. Everyone in the bar was standing shoulder-to-shoulder and most people had either red and yellow face paint or they had Spain's flag draped across their back shoulders like a Superman cape. The game was tied 1-1 at half-time and every minute of the second half felt like a cliffhanger. You know that outburst that everyone makes when watching your favorite college football team recovers a fumble in the fourth quarter? It felt like that every single time someone from Spain had the ball inside Swedish territory. Spain ended up scoring a goal with 55 seconds left in Stoppage Time and this sent everyone into a frenzy. There was high-fives, bear hugs, and beer slinging everywhere. For a brief moment everyone was Spanish. You don't need to speak Spanish in order to scream "Gooooal!!!" at the top of your lungs. Okay, I'm no poet, or sportswriter, so I won't attempt to put anymore words into this story. Instead, watch this video. I love technology. (Caution: my film work wasn't steady so it will seem like Blair Witch Project. Or is it Cloverfield these days?).
To end the night we went back to our hostal for some complimentary wine (generous huh?), and then celebratory drinks with the Spainards. The rest evening was filled with classic hooliganism as anyone could guess. We didn't exactly feel our best on Sunday morning, but for one afternoon Dain, Will and I felt like Sevillans.
(Here is a view of the hotel pool from the cathedral's tower about two hours before we got up there).
The sensation of jumping into a swimming pool on a hot summer's day is refreshing. Hanging out poolside in Sevilla with rich Spaniards is unparalleled. We didn't fit in at all, but we soaked up every moment like we were meant to be there. And we certainly didn't fit in when we had to strip down to our boxers to let our shorts dry (didn't exactly plan for the occasion).
(This is Will, Dain and I in the pool. We were pretty much giggling like teenage girls all afternoon.)
After drying off we headed across the street to a local pub to catch the Spain v. Sweden futbol match. Everyone in the bar was standing shoulder-to-shoulder and most people had either red and yellow face paint or they had Spain's flag draped across their back shoulders like a Superman cape. The game was tied 1-1 at half-time and every minute of the second half felt like a cliffhanger. You know that outburst that everyone makes when watching your favorite college football team recovers a fumble in the fourth quarter? It felt like that every single time someone from Spain had the ball inside Swedish territory. Spain ended up scoring a goal with 55 seconds left in Stoppage Time and this sent everyone into a frenzy. There was high-fives, bear hugs, and beer slinging everywhere. For a brief moment everyone was Spanish. You don't need to speak Spanish in order to scream "Gooooal!!!" at the top of your lungs. Okay, I'm no poet, or sportswriter, so I won't attempt to put anymore words into this story. Instead, watch this video. I love technology. (Caution: my film work wasn't steady so it will seem like Blair Witch Project. Or is it Cloverfield these days?).
To end the night we went back to our hostal for some complimentary wine (generous huh?), and then celebratory drinks with the Spainards. The rest evening was filled with classic hooliganism as anyone could guess. We didn't exactly feel our best on Sunday morning, but for one afternoon Dain, Will and I felt like Sevillans.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
ICE STATION: ZEBRA
When I signed up for this trip I didn't know anyone else going. This meant that my living situation, particularly my assigned roommates, would be pot-luck. Being an eternal optimist, I was never too concerned with this reality, but the anticipation of living with strangers can be daunting (see, MTV's The Real World). As luck would have it, I arrived to find that a first-year student from CSOL, Dain Reardon, was here and that we were assigned to a room together with some guy named William Waring from Mercer. Turns out that Will went to Rhodes College with Douglas Rushton, Hamp Markel, and Laura Caroline Johnson, and that one night Patrick was at a late night party and ended up giving Will a US History lesson. Small world.
Our room is not big, and none of us are small guys. To illustrate, I am the third biggest guy on the trip, but the smallest in our room. Dan played football at University of Colorado, and Will thinks he is a body builder. Actually, not only does he resemble my sophomore year roommate, Steve Notery, but they act a lot alike. Our room is smaller than most hotel/motels, and we just so happened to have been assigned the room with a leaky ceiling (caused by the unit above). Dan was here first and got the double bed, I got the cot and Will has the fold-out couch. The running joke among us is that our landlord might as well throw some Granada snakes in here just to make things interesting. Quickly, we have become fast friends and we all share a common interest in blasting our Air Conditioner to full-speed in an effort to combat the sultry weather. In this vein, we decided to name our room, "Ice Station: Zebra." Anyone who has lived in Charleston for a summer would understand the luxury of A-C, and the overwhelming sensation of walking into an ice cold room on a hot day.
Time for a siesta,
Hunter
Our room is not big, and none of us are small guys. To illustrate, I am the third biggest guy on the trip, but the smallest in our room. Dan played football at University of Colorado, and Will thinks he is a body builder. Actually, not only does he resemble my sophomore year roommate, Steve Notery, but they act a lot alike. Our room is smaller than most hotel/motels, and we just so happened to have been assigned the room with a leaky ceiling (caused by the unit above). Dan was here first and got the double bed, I got the cot and Will has the fold-out couch. The running joke among us is that our landlord might as well throw some Granada snakes in here just to make things interesting. Quickly, we have become fast friends and we all share a common interest in blasting our Air Conditioner to full-speed in an effort to combat the sultry weather. In this vein, we decided to name our room, "Ice Station: Zebra." Anyone who has lived in Charleston for a summer would understand the luxury of A-C, and the overwhelming sensation of walking into an ice cold room on a hot day.
Time for a siesta,
Hunter
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