Road to Morocco

Cape Spartel, Where the Mediterranean and Atlantic meet

Salam Alaikum. . .Alaikum Salam

“ Salam Alaikum . People if please.”

Meet Abdel, our Morrocan tour guide who is hilarious without trying. He stands up in the front of the bus, his gigantic mirrored sunglasses covering half his face, except for his mouth, where the left side of his mustache twitches slightly. “People just please, excuse me, I-love-your-attention . . .but-I-love-you-too.” His English spits out at a rapid cadence, “People-can’t-believe-I-am-your-tour-guide-but-everyone-says-I-look-like-very important-like-somebody. Who? You wonder” With broadway flair he rips off his Sunglasses and poses a quick profile shot, twitching his mustache again. “Michael Douglas please.” He shoves his sunglasses on, “And you call me Michael because I love you please.” This was the best trip ever.

Starting from the beggining. . .straight from Ryan’s arrival in Granada on April 24^th, he took a taxi to catch a 7 hour bus and ferry ride to Morroco, which earns him the right of claiming to set foot on the tierra of three different continents. . . in one day.) We got in the first town, Tetuan. Morocco, before visiting was a blank slate, which I mentally painted bible-esque scenes, typical Arabian markets, and, of course, desert. When we arrived in Tetuan, it was far from anything I imagine—lets just say nobody had to tell me not to eat the street vendor food. We started in the old town medina, a genuine, narrow old market that was strong smelling of sewage and fish. Michael Douglas’ first words of caution on packing were, “don’t bring please flip flops,” and as we dodged the sewage gutter in the middle of the streets, I can see why. The girls in front of us are all wearing summer halter dresses and flip flops, and by the end of our market walk 4 nicely tanned calves are crusted with streams of. . . whatever smelled rank. We were greeted at the hotel with Moroccan mint tea and Arabian snacks, and finished off the night with chatting and hanging out with other students from the program.

Chilling in the Medina in Tetuan

In the time it took to take this, 5 more chickens were
thrown on the stack. Kebabs anyone?

The next day we went to Tanger (1 hour bus), passing by the president’s lush estate and rugged coastline where the Atlantic and Medditerranean meet. We also rode on the camel in the Sahara. . . which actually ended up being an abandoned parking lot with sand and very sickly looking camels (one of which bucked a student off. . .maybe time to retire that one). The market there was fun, and everything, everything in Morroco was remarkably cheap. Other highlights were visiting a “magic” carpet shop, getting henna tatoos, getting offered hashish multiple times, and enjoying couscous with chicken.

Donkey, the safe alternative.

The third day we went to Chefchaouen , everyone’s favorite by far, a dated mountain village where almost every door and house is painted blue. Ryan and I abandoned shopping in the hordes of Moroccan tourist shops and spent the afternoon on a balcony overlooking the quaint town nestled in the mountains, and taking in the beauty of the very non-desert of Northern Morocco.

Chefchaouen

Shokran!

There's no place like Roma!

View from Villa Borghese

Thoughts on Rome. . .

Fulvio. . .Our Roman host, Fulvio, was by far one of the best parts of the trip. Animated and super easy going (handed us the keys to his house on day one) Fulvio was all smiles (thought “Joe Reed” a million times). He introduced us to the best tiramisu hideout in Rome, showed us how to make pasta the right (aka Italian) way, and drive in Rome’s mess of traffic to Italian electronica. And if we were lucky, he’d break into one of his hilarious Roman history lessons, abbreviating Rome’s history with anectdotes, rattling off random trivia. He’s had a lot of interesting experiences too. Next week he goes to Mali to continue the installation of wells driven by an organization he started with three friends. Good luck Fulvio and see you in the US!

Eric, Fulvio, Me

Fulvio, whipping up a traditional Sicilian almond milk

His house, our couch. . . part of Rome’s mid 1900’s fascist architecture, a project lead by Mussolini aimed to give free housing to people who worked in the government.

The Sistine Chapel. . .I wish I could have taken my camera inside the chapel. Not to take a picture of the chapel itself, but the hundreds of mesmerized faces you meet stepping under this moving work of art, depicting the story of salvation. (You get the feeling that many have long-awaited the opportunity, almost like the Mecca for renaissance art lovers. It also probably had to do with the chapel being premised with 50 signs saying “SISTINE CHAPEL THIS WAY” and an hour walk through the museum.) The way Michelangelo masterfully encompasses everything from the birth to the judgement of humankind made it a more of a spiritual experience than any other piece of artwork that I’ve encountered on this trip, and despite the confidence and grandeur of his artwork, Michelangelo had his own bouts with spiritual doubt (Fulvio called him the Britney Spears of his time. . .thats a thought). This, and taking into consideration the unforgiving and time-sensitive nature of frescos, and the fact that sand with a low pH ruined his first attempt ( having to redo half the chapel), and Michelangelo strikes pretty high on my list.

The Catacombs


Roman Forum

Up next, Morroco. . .

Un Brazo!

Joy

Ponte Guapa, Barcelona.

Barcelona, modern and bustling with activity was a fun change from the slower and more traditional Medditeranean lifestyle of Andalusia (the way it is developed reminded me more of the US than anywhere else I've visited in spain). Barcelona is a city in the autonomy of Catalunya, a region so notably different from the rest of Spain that it fights to be recognized as a completely separate country. Their language, Catalunyan, is another major factor that distinguishes this region, and although somewhat similar to Castillian Spanish, is remarkably difficult (for me) to understand! Cataluynan pride was very evident here. . .

Toss your belongings in the middle of the circle,
and join the "Sardana", where everyone gathers
every Sunday at 12:00 to DANCE!

Catalunyan (but-not-Catalunyan) Pride

Confession. Before Spain, Gaudi could have been Greco could have been Goya. My art knowledge, along with my ability to cross stitch was long lost after homeschool. But after the visit to Barcelona, I'm addicted to Gaudi. His art work evokes a surreal, fairytale like feeling, stepping into a different world where structure and style push limits: buildings melt like ice cream, hallways look more like caverns, and rooftops undulate against the clouds. Gaudi's artwork is ostentatious, and its seems like it should almost be illegal against the background of the standard classical architecture of the 1800s.

"My client is in no hurry,"
-Gaudi on building La Sagrada Familia. . .for God

Rooftop of la Pedrera (" the quarry")

Gaudi's nature-inspired work:

Railing, Carob


Tunnel, Waves. . .



. . . And of course, like many great artists, mushrooms.

Of Course.

Highlights of the trip were jumping into Sardana, the traditional Catalunyan pride dance that takes place in the square every Sunday, free tapas at Irati, and spending the last night with a group of Greek Erasmus students .

As they say it in Barca, Adeiu!

Switzerland!!

Wow. I couldn’t say which I enjoyed more:
Switzerland or couchsurfing in itself. . .

Basel, (Couch #1, David and Ana)

The first night I stayed with David and Anna, a twenties-something couple from Basel. David works package delivery by bike through the city, and Anna works at a downtown bar. They were very my favorites out of the whole trip and were superfun to hang out with—we did a bike tour, a meal with a beautiful view of the city, and my favorite of all: a lazy Saturday lounging with them and their friends by the Rhine. The laid back attitude in Switzerland was a nice change of pace. The Swiss government seems to accommodate this “laid back” spirit in that it change happens very slowly, and requires a lot of work and compromise. But everyone’s content with it this way, and view this kind of stability as more suited to the Swiss people. Then again, take Apenzell, where stability is taken to the extreme, not permitting women to vote until 1991. . . that was an interesting town.

Basel's ferries, attached to a cable, are powered by nothing but the wind and the current. For a franc, you can take it across the river, and explore Basel's old Town. (Above, Manuel, David, and Ana by the Rhine)







Zurich (Couch # 2, Jasmin)

In Zurich I stayed with Jasmin, a student working toward her pHD. Her current project is working to treat arsenic in Romanian groundwater. Zurich isn’t exactly as stunning as the Swiss countryside but it was nice to have a bigger city in the mix.

View from Zurich's Grossmunster

Lucerne (Couch #3, Natalie)

In Lucerne I met Natalie a journalist who writes for the weekly arts/music/theater section and spends her spare time rock climbing, doing yoga, amnesty international, and a million other things. In the course of two days, we visited Lucerne’s old town, went tobogganing on an 8 km ski run on the alps, ate in the best Thai restaurant I’ve been to and, believe it or not drove to a retirement home. . . .which happens to overlook part of the alps.

Natalie and the Smartcar!

Switzerland finished with a train trip through the Alps, and a visit to Alexis ( an old friend from back home) in the international school in Lugano, a very Italian town in the southernmost parts.

Lugano

Goodbye Switzerland, hello midterms. . .

The Rain in Spain. . .finally happens.

Hike # 2

Its raining outside right now, great news for Spain, since the lack of water has been top on Spain’s list ( right up with unemployment) of national concerns. It was less than a decade ago that drought had stressed Granada’s water supply, forcing the government to cut off water after 10 PM nightly. Things have changed since then, but house rules are still pretty stingy when it comes to using water. Anyways, the rain is well-received here. . . to say that it drives everyone back inside, and brings me here, home in Edificio Brasilia.

Two weeks ago Jamie and I, and two other guys from our group, met up and took the bus up to the Sierra Nevadas for our 16 kilometer trekking trip with the University of Granada. We filed out of the bus, and I realized my mistake. I looked around. It was like walking into a Patagonia ad. Shock light staffs (high tech walking sticks), Bulging brand name backpacks, stuffed with various uneccesary hiking survival essentials, not to mention a dozen or so GPS units out. These were the kind of people I avoided, the kind that would walk up to me and talk equipment asking with a loaded tone, “So, what’s your view on carbon stays?”

My eyes finally rested on our group, who seemed to be in the same, expressionless state as I was. Graham, still on a hangover from the night before, blinked at the provided map, “What does it mean ‘duration 6.45 hours? I thought this was like a two hour thing.” Rick was punching the projected distance into the distance converter of his phone. “Sixteen kilometers, ten miles. . . that’s not so bad,” he offered weakly, “hey does anyone have water? I forgot.” Jamie and I looked at each other, then our tennis shoes, which had immediately called attention from the guide, who remarked to the whole group the necessity of hiking boots. This was going to be a long hike.

Optimistic

Another surprise was that even though this was a University sports program, the majority of hikers, the University faculty, were over twice my age, and probably twice as fit. On the bright side, it’s a lot easier to climb up a 1,280 meter summit when the person in front of you is a sprightly eighty-year-old bounding over boulders. It brings a strange new motivation.

Anyways it turned out to be surprisingly marvelous hike. We did a break for lunch, and instead of powerbars, energy drink and sandwiches. . . we were surrounded by wine. everywhere. In the most literal of terms, it was a fiesta in the middle of the Sierra Nevada wilderness. . I watched speechless as riojan wine and artisan chorizo sausage with a paring knife was passed around for community consumption, and when they finally broke out the chocolate for dessert, I began to wonder why I never had brought this approach to hiking in the past. Next week we’re bagging the powergel and Luna bars, and stopping by Mercadona to feast like the Spaniards. Rioja, anyone?

My favorite part of the hike was talking for a few hours with Lenette ,NATO interpreter who just came back from working with the US relief in Kosovo. Spanish has amplified, not only allowing conversation with the Spaniards here, but has been a link enabling conversation with people from other countries like Germany, Belgium, Morroco, and Bosnia, to name a few. It was funny to encounter, when we visited France, people who spoke French and Spanish, but not English, and realize that we could still communicate without needing English.

Beyond the excursion this weekend, I’ve spent some time making trip arrangements for Semana Santa to visit Alexis, who is currently in school in the beautiful town of Lugano, Switzerland. I’m starting in Basel, and departing in the south, in Milan, couchsurfing on the way down.

Je ne parle pas francais!

“STOP! In the name of love, before you break my heart,” “L. Is for the way you look at me. O is for the only one I see.—“I keep on falling in love with you,” “And I’m free, free falling.” “I’m free. To do what I want—“

It 4 o’ clock AM. And we are sitting outside of the airport in Sevilla, playing the song game.

Earlier, at 2, Sevilla Airport was the venue of a dance competition in the middle of the taxi lane. 3 o’clock, an hour running back and forth doing hurdles over construction barriers that separate the drop off lanes. Closing time was 12 o’clock, and Sevilla Airport has been transported into the quintessential playground. Suddenly, a car is seen across the pick-up lane in the fog, and we all scramble back to the bench where our baggage is. We sit quietly, as if it were normal to be loitering on a bench outside of a closed airport at 4:15 AM. Our flight isn’t until seven in the morning and we are stranded outside of the airport. We bundle close on a bench until the car appears out of the fog. It was a security guard, who, probably amused, suggests to us that it be warmer to stay in the outside elevator until the airport opened.

Tired but grateful, we finally arrived in Paris Orly Airport, and the apartment, discovered by my friend Andrea, was amazing. After corresponding with the friendly and helpful owner , we ended up getting this jewel in the heart of Paris for 20 euro a night per person. I definitely recommend it. (http://www.parisholidayapts.com/apartments/louvre.html)

Ther French were, in my opinion, more friendly than most Andalusians I’ve met. . And for a country with a reputation for being anti-US, there was a suprising amount of interest in the elections. My favorite question repeatedly asked by taxi-cab drivers and market clerks was “Hee-layr-eee or Ooobama?” . From the vendor at the market who treated us to free gourmet cheese, the friendly student who offered to escort us from the Louvre to Centre Pompidou, to the Edith–Piaf-remniscent-singer who serenaded my café table, the Parisians were very engaging.

Some of the trip highlights:

Louvre—We navigated our whole trip through the streets of Paris and didn’t get lost once. I did, however, get lost in the Louvre. The art was absolutely stunning, although the Mona Lisa was a little disappointing. A giant wall dwarfs Da Vinci’s masterpiece, the size of the mirror on my bathroom cabinet. Overall, though the Louvre was unforgettable, and even better free every first Sunday of the month.

Sacré-Cœur

Montmartre was the artists district, the ideal plaza filled with open cafes and eager easels, as artists grab your arm and try to sweet talk you into shelling out money for a portrait. A part from swarming tourists, the plaza was absolutely charming. It centers around the beautiful basilica Sacre Couer, and the day we went happened to be a holiday celebrating the Christ. Hundreds of Schoolchildren filled the steps, and on the signal of the basilica’s bells, released balloons, filling the sky with an array of bright colors. We walked inside the church and listened as they sang traditional songs, waving yellow scarves back and forth in celebration. The steps in front of Sacre Couer were filled with more people spilling out onto the plaza from which one can see the whole city. A local cover band was playing Beatles classics, and the whole group began to sway and sing the words to Lean on Me.

We passed Moulin Rouge, and bought some fresh tomatoes, basil and garlic. I made Dad’s classic tomato basil sauce with pasta, complemented with bread, cheese, and wine given to us as a gift by the apartment owner. To finish the night off, we walked down the beautifully lit Champs Elysee to the arch de Triumph, the second largest arc in existence.

One of my favorite French neighborhoods, near Place du Tertre

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday followed, with: Musee d’Orsay, Centre Pompidou, I’le St. Louis, Luxembourg Gardens, the Opera, I’le le Cite, mass at Notre Dame, Saint Chapelle, the Eiffel Tower, and some side trips.

Au Renoir!

"Le Moulin de la Gallete,"

La Alhambra. . . oh wow.

Haven't had as much time lately to write so I'm posting pictures instead. The Alhambra was absolutely stunning. Here are some of my favorites. . .

The Grand Hall of the Ambassadors: where the sultan received his foreign visitors. Also where Isabel received Columbus before his voyage.

“only Allah is victorious”

This Arabic symbol, looking like a W with the nose on the left side, can be found over 9,000 times scrawled on the walls of the palace.

Court of the Myrtles. . . it was like a paradise.

“On such heavenly nights I would sit for hours at my window inhaling the sweetness of the garden and musing on the checkered fortunes of those whose history was dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around.”

“The Alhambra by Moonlight”

-Washington Irving.

Hall of the Abencerrajes, Where the father of Boabdil legendarily decapitated all of Boabdil’s sons to deny them rights to the throne, stacking their heads in a pile in the center of the room. Touching.

The intricacy of this was breathtaking.


Forget the 30 minute time limit--we decided we'd just stay here forever:)