this keeps happening to me...

Alarm goes off at 6h50. Immediately press snooze.

5 minutes later, it goes off again. Snooze.

Pattern cyclique.

7h15 now. Coffee’s on the stove, don’t remember how it got there.

Hot and hurried shower. Hastily habillé.

Coffee’s ready, bubbling, steamy.

Timid tongue, small sips: still too hot.

Acidic orange, juice beads strung together at the corners of my

mouth, toast-and-jam crunch.

Empty inbox, ten degrees Celsius and sunny, so early that

friends from home are online.

Conversations of clicks and taps, then

Goodnight! - Good day!

7h45: backpack back-packed, straight-shot four-block walk.

Matin smokefog greeting at the IEP entrée. “Bienvenue!”

Flyer dodge, paper pick-up, climbing stairs two by two.

I’m early.

Today’s news stained with ink-smeared thumbprints.

….Waiting, waiting…Speculation.

8h30: still no prof. Proof?

Departing by threes and twos ‘til we’re one: me.

No class, no word.

Typical.

On a completely unrelated note, some pictures of the kinds of alien clouds I was talking about in my last post (as requested by Ashley):

españa part 4: 300 days of sun? yeah right.

I’m sorry, Spain: I’ve been remiss. I blame the weather.

Spring is here and the manpris are out. Which means I spend my hours outside along the berges reading and people- and cloud-watching rather than inside blogging. Seriously though, the clouds lately are so mesmerizing. They glow with afternoon sunlight like they’ve swallowed some kind of radioactive poison and make me feel like I’m trapped inside of a painting.

But it’s pouring now. I can hardly hear my music over the thunder rumble and heavy patter of rain against my kitchen window.

So let’s talk about Valencia:

I rolled into Balenthia (as the Spaniards pronounce it) at night and the only thing motivating me to get off of the most comfortable train I’ve ever been on (thank you, Euromed) was the prospect of seeing Liz after months of failed European réunions. Seeing a face from home on this side of the pond is always so refreshing and has a way of shrinking the world, even if temporarily. In a nutshell, my visit to Valencia consisted of the two of us café-hopping, laughing, sharing stories about our experiences abroad, and marveling at the fact that we never met each other until first year at UVA despite the horde of common acquaintances we have in Charlottesville.

(Hey, Liz!)

For those of you unsatisfied with this brevity, here are some details:

- As we left the train station and headed by foot to my hostel, I immediately had the impression that Valencia is the Spanish version of Lyon. To name a few similarities: they’re big but not overwhelmingly so (in fact, both cities are the third largest of their respective countries); while their populations are at once old and young, they’re mostly dominated by college-aged students; architecturally speaking, traditional and modern blend together as one, although there are distinctively historic barrios (the Spanish word for quartiers) that are separate from their contemporary counterparts; both cities orient themselves around nature (Lyon its rivers, Valencia its rio turned orange-tree-scattered parque) and a linear series of plaças; and both are completely different (although equally as beautiful) at night than they are during the day.

(follow the redbrick road)

(part of the ciudad de las artes y las ciencias)

- Food: People eat late in Spain. As in restaurants are still packed at midnight. Which is why we were lucky, considering it was the peak hour of 11:00pm, to find a table for two at some great, side-street taberna (tavern) upon my arrival. Highlights from this dining experience include my introduction into the world of tapas and our awesome waitress whose enthusiastic, wide-smiled, belly-rubbing gestures convinced us to order the mystery-meat dish pictured below. She was also kind enough to punctuate our meal with free glasses of mistela, a kind of traditional post-dinner fortified wine (correct me if I’m wrong). Also memorable was Friday’s authentic paella lunch. Whether from pre-siesta exhaustion or some other inexplicable reason, Liz and I had a bad case of the giggles. We therefore found it particularly difficult to suppress our laughter among my futile attempts to remove a snail from its shell, a discussion of dishes that shouldn’t be eaten on a first date (paella is definitely one of them), an alarmingly high number of miserable-looking mother-father-daughter threesomes, and a restaurant-wide struggle to eat what looked like rock-hard pieces of piña (pineapple).

(mmm, goat cheese and mystery meat)

- Thursday night, we headed to the apartment of some of Liz’s amigos for a night of conversation and music. Red wine, Spanish, the orange incandescence of scalding metal: all of these kept me in a heightened state of vertigo. I was at once detached and present. I listened as seemingly accentless words poured like a steady flow of water from Liz’s mouth (seriously, Liz, yo’ español is impressive), understanding some of them, but mostly floating somewhere just beyond the walls, observing the scene as if through some distorted bubble.

(l'auberge espagnole)

As much as I hated the idea of leaving Spain, I was forced to hop aboard my train Saturday afternoon after drinking one last freshly squeezed zumo de naranja (orange juice) and saying goodbye to Liz. My train led me to Barcelona, where I met up with Denis, a Frenchman I’d found on covoiturage.fr (a legitimate carpooling website where you can find rides in people’s cars for nearly half the cost of other forms of transportation), who was to drive me the 7.5 hours back to Lyon (oops, I may have left this detail out when talking to you about my plans, Mom and Dad). After throwing my bags into Denis’ radioless ’93 Mercedes-Benz, he and I set off. The time passed remarkably quickly; night fell and the headlights came on somewhere among the Pyrenées Mountains, and we spent most of the time talking, comparing and contrasting the two countries (Denis had lived in Spain for three years and was in the process of moving back to France) among other things. We stopped at a typical side-of-the-highway service station to grab a couple of sandwiches and cafés for dinner, and entered the familiar territory of Lyon just after midnight. Denis dropped me off just in front of my apartment, where I plopped immediately into bed and fell asleep to the dizzied slideshow of Spain running on repeat in my head.

And for some reason I never thought that nearly a month and a half later I’d still be writing about it. ¡Adios at last, y’all!

another market meal

It's Sunday, which means another delicious post-marché midi:

(couscous, poivron vert, oignon, et saucisse de toulouse

sautés avec huile d'olive, sucre, sel, et herbes de provence)

("homemade" pita chips baked with olive oil and thyme)

(bon appétit!)

You're right, Dad : I do have a food fixation. But can you blame me?

isn't this what adults do?

Here’s a recap of my morning:

Woke up naturally at 9:00 (what?! on a Saturday?!) and had breakfast with Paul (toasted baguette topped with olive oil and coarse salt à l’espagnole) before he set off to Paris for the night and Nantes for the week. (Which means I’m alone until next Saturday – visitors are welcome.)

Went for a short run along the berges (third time this week!) and headed to the market for a pastry and some fresh cheese.

Showered and then took my time over a cup of coffee while reading articles from Le Figaro and Courier International and listening to the smooth rhythms of Ratatat playing on repeat in the background (thanks to Sarah for the sweet recommendation).

There’s a cool breeze coming in through the open window. It’s raining but it’s warm. I think I’ll spend the afternoon au cinéma.

Is this what they call "growing up"?

españa part 3: mundo mediterráneo

Brain’s off. Sitting in the Brasserie du Midi hoping that the caffeine from my grand café will kick in soon so I can continue relaying my Spanish adventures to you guys. My fatigue (a definite symptom of oversleeping and not the opposite) is making it hard for me to tune out all of this French, so I apologize in advance for the inevitable broken English.

Barcelona Day 2: ¡Vámanos!

Having learned my lesson the previous day, I woke up Wednesday morning with the rest of Spain around 9:30. I casually took a shower, savored a delicious orange for breakfast, and checked out before throwing my duffle into the luggage closet and heading in the direction of Parque Güell, Gaudí’s magnificent park made famous – at least for me – by Cédric Klapish’s hilarious French comedy L’Auberge Espagnole.

Walking to the metro station, I relished in a brief moment of blue skies before descending into the city’s underworld. Of course when I resurfaced several minutes later at Vallcarca, a metro stop on the other side of the city, I was surrounded by nothing but (surprise!) rain and grey skies. Ignoring the bad weather, I looked in vain for signs I hoped would lead me to the park (signs that the guy at the front desk of the hostel assured me existed), but finding nothing of the sort and knowing that the Parque Güell was supposed to give me an incredible panoramic view of the city, I made an “educated” guess and picked a hill to climb. Makes sense, right?

Wrong.

I proceeded to get lost for over an hour, hiking up an increasingly steep hill that led me not to the Parque Güell, but to the Parc Turó del Putxet, some other, lesser-known green space several kilometers (hardly an exaggeration) from my intended destination. You may be saying to yourselves, “You idiot, why didn’t you turn around when you realized you were in the wrong place?” To be completely honest, I made this realization long after it was too late to turn back. In fact, even when I entered the illustrious “Parque” (probably one of the most popular tourist attractions in all of Barcelona) and saw absolutely no one, I was certain I’d somehow just discovered some secret side entrance known only to locals. Entertaining a whole host of these kinds of justifications (perhaps it’s the weather? or maybe it’s still too early for these people? is the park closed to the public today so that they can shoot another sequel to L’Auberge espagnole?), I climbed and I climbed. I followed a series of signs sporting pictures of cameras along narrow, winding paths, and happened, every now and then, upon the occasional runner or Barcelonan dog-walker. It wasn’t until I reached the summit, sweaty and out of breath, that I stubbornly admitted to myself I was lost, at which point I proceeded to descend the hill, realizing only when I got to the bottom that the park’s exit was, indeed, back at the top. What a way to start the morning!

(if nothing else, I got this amazing view of Barcelona with the Sagrada Familia in the distance)

Miraculously, I was able to find my way back to the metro station, where, with a bit of luck, I discovered the most pathetic excuse for a “sign” I’ve ever seen and headed in the direction of the real Parque Güell. Looking back on the experience, I’m not sure I truly appreciated this part of the city. Disheartened by my camera’s inability to cooperate with the cloudy weather, slightly discouraged by the events of the morning, and momentarily sick of being alone in a city of millions, I enjoyed the park’s splendor, but only superficially. Along with the hordes of tourists, I flocked to the colorful, mosaic-filled serpentine walls to get my share of photos of the city below me and the two gingerbread-house structures framing the park’s entrance. I waited there timidly, hoping to find a friendly-faced English-speaker to take my picture, but quickly gave up, and decided, instead, to leave the park and head back to the metro. (Rest assured that the next time I go to Barcelona, it’s going to be sunny, and with nothing but my camera and a book, I’m going to devote an entire day to exploring and appreciating every aspect of this whimsical park.)

(Parque Güell)

(Parque Güell)

My negative attitude changed the second I walked out of the Sagrada Familia station twenty minutes later. This has got to be the most perfectly placed metro exit in the history of the world (L.’s words, but I completely agree). You walk out and immediately run into Gaudí’s world-famous cathedral, which, even 100+ years later, is still under construction. This thing is incredible. The product of true genius and unparalleled imagination, it’s one of those buildings you have to see in person before you can even begin to understand it. Like a dripping sandcastle, it towers far above any other edifice in the city and is so profoundly elaborate that you could stand in front of it a thousand times and still discover some previously unseen detail. Like so many of Gaudí’s pieces, neither words nor pictures can do it justice. And if the Sagrada Familia sighting itself wasn’t reason enough to raise my spirits, it came – at last! – with BRILLIANTLY BLUE SKIES.

(Gaudi's Sagrada Familia)

For the rest of the afternoon, I was unable to wipe the smile off of my face. After eating a lunch of tortilla española (traditional “Spanish omelet,” an odd concoction of eggs and – more than anything else – potatoes) right next to the catédral, I walked a couple of miles (miles? what are these?) down some vast avenue until I literally ran into the Mediterranean. The skies above me still an astonishing shade of azul (blue) and home to nothing but a few wispy clouds, I basked in the refreshing Mediterranean sun, the misty breeze making my skin sticky with sand and salt. Removing my shoes and socks and wading in the chilly February water, I walked along the Spanish coast until I found a comfortable spot among the rocks. There, I ate a succulently juicy orange, washed my hands in the blue water, and begrudgingly counted the short hours-then-minutes until I had to rush to my hostel, pick up my bag, and head to the Estació de Sants to catch my six o’ clock train to Valencia.

(tortilla epañola up on a sandwich)

(walking down Marina on my way to the playa)

(¡muchos barcos!)

("Hey mom!")

(city and sea and the arco iris)