| May 17 | May 18 |
| May 19 | May 20 |
| May 21 | May 22 |
| May 23 | May 24 |
| May 25 | May 26 |
| May 27 |
The first day of these trips is always the hardest. I was proud that I didn't drive myself crazy when, after 2 months of holding on to my "International Student of the World" ID, I lost it in the 2 hours I spent packing. I've been home now for a month and STILL have not seen the card. Thankfully, I had been on this trip before, so I knew that the ISIC card was just a way for Millersville to get another $22 tacked on to the cost of the trip.
I dropped my car off at the 'rents, picked up some last minute items at Rite Aid, and hitched a ride with my sister to the school. A few cell phone calls and I was able to find the place where the van was going to pick up the students traveling from Millersville.
With that -- the trip began.
I used my new purple luggage, a rolling suitcase that saved me SO much neck strain toward the end of the trip (and offered ample space for bringing back wine, absinthe, and olive oil). The suitcase was a 25" model (mid-size). My clothing for the 10 days took up exactly 2" of that space. The rest was bubble wrap for the bottles I was bringing back. Still, I took a lot of grief from people who had traveled with me before and were always surprised at how little I packed. My thriftiness wouldn't show until the last day, when everyone else was lugging overweight bags and mine was about 30 pounds.
At the airport, we had to wait for the rest of our party and the US professor and his wife who were traveling abroad with us. The prof would be teaching a class on international law. Two days before, he'd sent us a packet of 50 pages to read for his class. Great, I thought. Another professor who doesn't understand the time demands of the working student.
Apparently that wasn't the only thing that he didn't understand. The first thing I noticed about him was his "NO WAR!" pin on his blazer. Regardless of your views on the war, the pin was NOT something that someone traveling abroad should wear. First, Spain's an ally in the war on terrorism, so it's an affront to their war supporters. Second, it pegs you as an American, which can mean "easy target for mugging."
Not surprisingly, I found out later in the trip that the professor and Mary Anne (his wife) hadn't done much traveling. They'd been to a lot of cool places -- India, Russia -- but they hadn't been out of the country in like 10 years!
We tried to get our plane tickets, but there was a security risk on our plane. Some people had been told that someone on our flight had a name that matched a terrorist's name on the list and so everyone had to be checked. Others had been told that it was someone in our PARTY who had a name that matched the terrorist list. Everyone around me was panicking. Images of 9/11 briefly smacked my brain, but I figured that the likelihood that something like that would happen again was slim, especially with an international flight. I also figured that if anything WAS going to happen, everyone on the plane would try and stop it.
After 20 minutes of terror and visual checks by the airline staff, we were permitted to check our bags and move through to security. It turns out that the security risk was my roommate, Elizabeth. Since she's National Guard, she's flagged "military" and has trouble getting out of the country.
We checked through security. Jen was stopped and had to be hand-wanded. We found out later that she had a security tag stuck in her shirt from the store she bought it from. It had been de-activated, but the metal in the tag was setting off the hand wand. The security guard asked Jen if she had metal breast implants. "Um, if I did, don't you think they'd be BIGGER?"
After that rigamarole, a group of us decided to unwind at Cafe Azul or whatever it's called in the airport. I bought an overpriced beer and bruschetta. Mel and Elizabeth also had food. Jen, her mom, Sherry, and her mom had wine. I figured I'd rather eat on the ground than have the pasta that's served at 30,000 feet. It's been the same meal every year, and it really hasn't improved much.
Halfway through the flight, while you were resting snuggly in your bed, I encountered horrible turbulance. Apparently there was hail as well, but I was using my new noise-reducing headphones, so I didn't hear that.
The noise-reducing headphones did nothing for the constant shaking, though.
Suddenly I felt hot and sweaty, then cold and drool-y. I was window seat. I couldn't open my mouth to ask to be let out. Even if I did, I didn't think I'd be getting to the bathroom in time. Thankfully, there was a barf bag at my seat (I've been on flights where they've been used and not replaced). I quietly threw up everything on my stomach.
A few hours later, we landed. In line for security, Mel asked me what "surname" was. I joked that it meant "do you have a boy's name," and that he should put "yes." Then I told him that it really meant "last name." Mel looked relieved, because he had guessed right and put "Carwile" instead of "Mel" there. However, for the rest of the trip, I would joke "First Name: Mel, Last Name: Yes." It broke up the ribbing that I gave him for being from Kentucky.
While waiting for my luggage, I found some Tums from a previous trip and took a few to calm my stomach. Then I steeled myself for the bus ride.
Turns out that, in a cost-saving measure, instead of the full-sized bus that we usually drove for five hours to our destination, we had a small bus, with really bad shocks. Thankfully, I had very little on my stomach for most of the trip. It also had very little room for luggage, so the first part of the trip, I had my suitcase in the foot space in front of me and Donna's husband in the seat in front of me trying to recline his seat, which would pinch my legs between his seat and my suitcase.
About an hour into the ride, we stopped at Area 103 for some food. I had half of a tortilla bocadillo (which is a huge sandwich -- I'd forgotten the huge portions) and a small beer. I figured that the carbonation would help settle my stomach, and I'm not much for soda.
The bus driver also had a sandwich and a small beer, much to the shock of Mary Anne.
"I can't believe he's DRINKING on the job!" she exclaimed to me. She had come over because she learned that I spoke Spanish.
"Well, it's the culture, and they're really small beers," I explained. Again, I wondered how these people could be qualified to teach anything international when they didn't understand the culture. The beers were probably 6 oz. My stomach was not handling the bocadillo well, so I wasn't in the mood for lengthy conversation.
"Well, I hear that you speak Spanish. Can you tell me what this says?" she asked, pointing to something on her bill.
I didn't know the phrase exactly, but it looked like something that would have been a daily special. "Did you take one of the sandwiches that was on the counter?" I asked.
"Well, the waiter came around with a plate of something and I asked for one because they looked good," she replied.
"Then that's what you're being charged for."
I turned around before she could see me rolling my eyes. I have NEVER been cheated in Spain. In fact, in my travels, I've never been cheated anywhere that has a cash register. It pissed me off that her natural inclination was to assume that she was being cheated.
It also pissed me off that while we were waiting for everyone to settle up their bills, Mary Anne saw a stray dog trying to get into the restaurant and said (looking for agreement), "Should we let him inside?"
I had to look away because it was WAY to early in our relationship to give her the "are you a moron?" look. Before we had left for Spain, Donna (our trip translator) had given us instructions to look and imitate. There were no dogs in the restaurant; ergo, there SHOULDN'T be any dogs in the restaurant. DUH! I've never seen Spaniards react well to strays in the restaurants (in San Sebastian there's a problem with wandering dogs).
Perhaps worse than the bus ride was the fact that the bus driver had one CD that he played for the entire 5 hour journey -- Brian Adams' Greatest Hits. Between that and our translator complaining to the bus driver that he was taking the slowest way possible to San Sebastian (which is 5 hours away from Madrid!!!), it was a long bus ride.
However, we got to Hotel Monte Igueldo in one piece. And Elizabeth and I got an outside facing room, so we had a great view of El Rio Misterioso and La Concha.
Around 5:30 PM, Mel, Elizabeth, Cindy, and I headed into San Sebastian via the funicular. The plan was to meet some of the other group members (including Jen, who was busy unpacking) for dinner at my favorite paella place, then catch the funicular back to the hotel.
The funicular drops off on one side of the beach, about a quarter mile from town. We took a slow stroll across the beach (the water was cold), and got to the paella place. It was closed for dinner, only open for lunch.
So we wandered. It was actually too early for dinner in Spain, so we would have to eat tapas (appetizers). We stopped at one of the many outdoor cafes near the beach, filled plates with tapas, ordered beer, and ate. We watched for the rest of the group -- no one came. Finally, at 7 PM, I hurried everyone back toward the funicular because Cindy was a slow walker and we wanted to make the last trip up the mountain.
Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on high tide.
I thought that there was only one high and one low tide a day. I didn't realize that there's two -- one during the day and one at night. Not only that, but the night tides are much stronger than the daytime ones.
So as we moseyed across the beach, I noticed that our initial route was flooded by the tide AND the closest staircase to get off the beach was getting close to flooded as well. I also saw the other group (finally) had come down into town. I let them know that the paella place was closed, but there was a tapas bar with English-speaking waitress right off of the square.
Once I got back to our group, we continued along the beach. We all pulled our shoes off, hitched up our pant legs, and tried to cross the wet sand while the water was receding. Cindy needed a picture, and since Mel was behind her (he was wearing sneakers, so he had a lot more than us to do to take his shoes off), he voluntarily stood in the crashing waves while she snapped photos.
Even with the preventive measures, my pants were soaked up to my butt. So the quarter mile back to the funicular was a bit uncomfortable. I was very grateful for the hot shower and my ability to easily fall asleep.
My biggest disappointment with San Sebastian happened on our last full day there.
The cheese that I was looking forward to (a soft goat cheese that's AWESOME on hard rolls) at breakfast was not offered this time around. I ended up eating ham and bread at every breakfast, occasionally varying with runny scrambled eggs.
During the tour of the city, I learned some interesting trivia about a shot glass I bought last year. It says "Te quiero un huevo" (literally: "I love you an egg"). I thought it was some sort of slang for "It's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk." However, I found out that it is a slang expression, but it's a tease about San Sebastian and its love of eggs. I didn't notice it until this time out, but EVERY dish has some sort of egg component.
After a tour of the city, it was finally time to have lunch at my favorite paella place! I got the paella with squid ink. Thankfully the restaurant had English translations on the menu because I was the only person who spoke Spanish and gigantic meals became more and more of a hassle throughout the trip as people became more dependent on me to translate menus for them. Spaniards don't tend to go out for meals in huge gaggles, so just accommodating us was often trying to a waiter's patience. Add in the fact that only one person at the table speaks the language and I think most times the waiter was ready to kick us out of the restaurant.
After paella, I needed to separate from the group. While everyone else went into one store, I searched out a tobacco shop to buy stamps. I purchased mine without incident. Mel followed me, and also got stamps. Then EVERYONE wanted stamps, so I had to translate for 10 people.
By the end, I was grumbling that I hated EVERYONE. I needed to be alone.
Elizabeth and I told Mel that we'd catch up with him later for dinner plans, and we went back to our room to take naps and write postcards.
On our way back across the beach, Elizabeth asked me, "Is that man naked?"
I turned to see a young, suntanned bum jogging away from me. "Yes, he is. I imagine that's quite uncomfortable. He was pretty hot, though!"
Elizabeth looked like she were ready to throw up in her own mouth. "Um, Bridget, that man was like 60 years old."
"Are you sure? His butt looked about 20."
"It doesn't matter how much running you do," she told me sagely. "It doesn't change your face."
As we walked further down the beach, Elizabeth mused, "I wonder where he keeps his house keys?"
Around 8:30 PM, Mel, Elizabeth, and I took a taxi to the downtown. Being the Spanish speaker, I was in charge of giving directions.
"Um. . .carousel?"
"Que?"
"Los caballos que. . .en circulo," I said in broken Spanish, making the finger motions of a carousel going around in a circle. "Belle epoque?" (the name of the carousel)
The taxi driver looked frustrated, but he started to drive. I could tell he had no idea where he was going to drop us off, though.
"El ayudamiento?" I offered, giving the Spanish name of the Town Hall.
"Ah, si," he confirmed.
Elizabeth tapped my shoulder. "Look at his sticker," she giggled.
I looked. It was a red "No" sticker. I thought it was something official that all cab drivers had to have. Then I looked again. It was a "No Farting" sticker. We poked Mel and all three of us cracked up.
Downtown, we had no idea where we were going to eat. Thankfully, San Sebastian is the culinary capital of the world, with the highest number of Michelin super-starred restaurants (you can tell how often I judge where I'm going to eat by how many Michelin stars it has). We wandered around and found a tapas bar where I had eaten the previous year. There was a restaurant downstairs that didn't seem too pricey.
We weren't going to a cider house this year (where I got my awesome rare meat the first Spain trip), so I tried to get my fix at this restaurant. For the life of me, I can't remember the name, but if you're going to San Sebastian be sure to wear a flower in your hair take me with you -- I'll show you the place.
The restaurant had a pigeon dish on the menu, which I joked that Mel should get. In Germany, he had been pooped on by a pigeon while our group waited for a train. At the time, everyone had told him it was good luck. "The good luck," he always commented wryly, "was that the person saying it's 'good luck' didn't get pooped on."
Mel ended up getting a veal dish. I got steak (which I wasn't entirely happy with when it came out -- San Sebastian is more of a seafood area; Pamplona does better beef -- I realize that now). Elizabeth got fish, I believe. We split a bottle of wine. I ended up having to drink most of it because Elizabeth isn't much of a drinker and Mel tries to keep himself moderate. I forced Mel to drink another full glass of wine with me because my body simply could not handle THAT MUCH LIQUID!
Then -- it was time for dessert.
The menu had English translations, which get you by, but are in no means really accurate to what someone would say in English. For example, one of the desserts was cannoli. However, in the menu, it was described as "tubes of hot, steamy cream." Which, of course, conjures up a different type of picture.
None of us chose the "hot tubes." However, that's pretty much all that I remember about dessert. I know it was good, and everyone had something that was tasty.
The taxi stand was a few blocks up, so we got in a cab, and headed back to Monte Igueldo. When we got back, we all headed to Elizabeth and my room to split some cheap sangria that Elizabeth and I had purchased during a jaunt about town. We were talking and laughing. Elizabeth and Mel were making fun of me and the way I eat ("down the hatch!"). I thought we were being a little loud, but when the phone rang from the desk with a complaint, I was a little surprised. Especially when Elizabeth did recon and found that the room that was complaining about us was far from where our room was. Not to mention that we knew Cindy was right next door and would have had no qualms about knocking on our door and telling us to shut up if we truly were being loud.
So, we finished our drinks and said our good-nights.
Saturday was our first of two trips to France. Both to ritzy, touristy places that sell overpriced wares to tourists.
Biarritz was my favorite.
Donna studied French and Spanish in school, and had done a student exchange to France when she was younger, so she wanted to spend as much time there as possible. When the bus driver suggested that he pick us up at 5 PM, she begged for 7 PM. He agreed.
Brian Adams blaring, we headed across the border to Biarritz.
First order of business was separating myself from the gaggle. Everyone wanted to find the department store and the lace shop and something else in Biarritz. I walk fast; they walk slow. I was tired of being asked where things were (since I had been to Biarritz one time before, which is one time more than anyone else), so while everyone was waiting at a stop light, I said I was going to check what was up ahead.
I ended up getting lost from the whole group. Not exactly my plan, but the quiet was refreshing.
I wandered through an open-air market and a farmer's market as I tried to find everyone. I was alone 10 minutes into the trip with seven hours stretching in front of me, in a place that I had ideally only wanted to stay long enough for a cafe au lait. I wanted a little company.
About an hour later, I saw one or two people, then the whole group. They had all stopped at the department store (which was about a block from where I had separated from the group). We met outside. Some people had wanted to continue shopping; three people (and me) wanted to eat. So with my small group, I headed out to find a place where we could get french fries (Jodi, one of my classmates, wanted them).
We found a place that sold mussels, because Donna exclaimed that one HAD to try the mussels in France. Elizabeth and I had beer-brewed mussels. They came in a huge cistern. She ate hers slowly and daintily. I. . .didn't. I shelled mussels with the best of them. Elizabeth marveled (ok, she was more aghast) at how quickly I ate. For the rest of the trip, whenever we sat together for a meal, her first comment to me was, "Down the hatch!" The comment was usually followed by Mel's jab, "Do you even CHEW that food?"
After lunch, Rebecca and Jodi went to the beach and Elizabeth and I wandered through town. I bought a Basque cake (another recommendation by Donna). It was 13-euro and was supposed to be a gift to share with the fam when I got home. However, it never made it home. After the rest of the day's events, I ended up snacking on it. Sometimes a girl needs chocolate. A big 13-euro chocolate brownie.
We ended up finding the rest of the group in one of the bars. Mel was wearing an oversized green and white hat and drinking an oversized beer. Everyone in the bar was singing along to soccer fight songs.
The entire town of Biarritz was preparing for the Heineken Cup, where the town team had made it to the finals. Biarritz is a small town in France, so the fact that its team (which was not made up of professional rugby players, but apparently guys who in the off-season do regular jobs in Biarritz) made it to the finals was amazing. Everyone was excited. And celebrating. And wearing these hats.
Mel explained, "We sat down and I asked the waiter about the hat. He said I could just have one. Then he took our drink order. I asked for a beer. He asked if I wanted 'small, medium, or manly.' So I HAD to pick manly!"
So Elizabeth and I joined the group in the celebration. The bar we were in became more and more crowded as 2 PM approached -- the time for the big game.
Cindy asked our waiter, who spoke English, who was playing in the game. The waiter pointed to his chest, "Us!" and rolled his eyes to Mel.
"So who's playing?" she asked Mel.
"I don't know, but the look he gave me told me that I would be an idiot if I didn't know."
We waited for the start of the game. Turns out that Biarritz was playing against Munster, Ireland, which I assume is a super-awesome rugby team. I can only give the 100% female assessment -- they were really hot. But so was the Biarritz team. And to play rugby, you have to be really hot, because you end up in a lot of really compromising positions since for reasons unknown, most plays involve sticking one's hands very close to the nether regions of one's teammates.
Most of our table was getting a bit of a buzz, so I could see that this could turn into a "situation." We were seated in the very center of the bar, prime seats for the big screen TV, and had absolutely 0 vested interest in the outcome of the game. The majority of the people had 0 interest in the game at all, as was evidenced by Cindy's comment when the bar turned off the music and turned up the TV, "Mel, tell them to turn the music back on. I liked it better when the music was on."
Unfortunately for Cindy, there were about 200 people crowded in this bar who were more interested in the GAME. And who were drunk. And would probably have cudgeled us with our own appendages if we did anything that disrupted watching the rugby game. I motioned to Mel, who was downing his second "manly" beer. "We should find a quieter bar and give these seats up to people who actually want to watch the game. At a replay or break, let's make our move." He agreed. We communicated the plan to the rest of the table.
So we watched the game. Biarritz got close to scoring and everyone cheered. Then, at an opportune time, we left the bar.
Outside, Jen was hit on by a couple of drunk Frenchmen who were fluent in English. She brushed them off, so they hit on Stef and Christy, who gave the men fake names, then brushed them off. Finally, they hit on me. "I have to go," I explained.
"We have to stay," one Frenchman lamented flirtaciously.
"Good luck to your team."
We found another bar that was quieter where we loaded up on beers, wine and tapas. After a couple more hours, we moved to a third bar close to our pick-up point where we could wait out the rest of the day until it was time to return to Spain.
The game ended. Biarritz lost. The town quickly disbursed from the bars to return to life as normal. Mel, probably ten sheets to the wind at this point, decided to buy everyone in our group shots (which is, of course, the international sign for "ten sheets to the wind").
He walked up to the bar, which was about 2 feet from our tables. "Can I get shots?" he asked.
The bartender looked at him quizzically.
"Alcohol. . .Small glasses. . .Shots," Mel tried to explain. I don't even know how to say "shots" in Spanish.
Finally the bartender nodded like he understood. "What kind?" he asked.
"Your favorite. I would like to buy you one, too," Mel said.
So the bartender poured us all small snifter glasses of schnapps. It just hit me that "schnapps" was probably what he thought that Mel was saying.
"This is the biggest shot I've ever had," Mel told me.
"I don't think they do shots here," I explained.
After our "shots," I rounded up the troops to head back to the bus pick-up spot. We waited at the spot for about ten minutes. . .then twenty. No bus. No driver.
Finally, we saw our bus circling around. But it didn't arrive at the pick-up spot. About five minutes later, the bus driver came down the road, on foot, to tell us (ok, me, since he didn't speak English) that he couldn't park at the pick-up spot and had to park up on the street. I herded everyone on to the bus.
"Todos estan aqui?" the driver asked me. ("Everyone here?")
Everyone on the bus (in hindsight, asking the drunk bus for any information was probably a bad idea) said that we were only missing Donna (our translator) and her husband. Dr. Galante, our professor, had driven in separately with our Spanish prof, Alberto. The Professor and Mary Anne were on the bus, sitting in the seats next to the driver. The Professor, in his pigeon Spanish (basically, the guy would add "muy" to anything I said), tried to talk to the bus driver to tell him that we were missing Donna and her husband. I shot him the "shut up" look, then turned to the bus driver, talking over The Professor's "umm. . .we're missing-o dos people-os. Muy."
In Spanish, I said we were waiting for the short, dark-haired woman and her spouse. The bus driver informed me that he saw her get in a car with Alberto.
"Are you sure?"
"I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Ok - todos estan aqui. Vamos!"
We were a few blocks out when we realized that Rebecca and Jodi (the women Elizabeth and I had lunch with) were NOT on the bus and definitely had NOT hitched a ride with Alberto.
"No estan todos! No estan todos!" I screamed, running up to the bus driver. I explained in broken Spanish that we were missing the woman and her daughter and needed to return. The driver nodded, and turned around. He parked the bus so I could run to the pick-up spot to see if Rebecca and Jodi were there.
I ran down the hill and found not just Rebecca and Jodi, but Dr. Galante, Donna, and her husband.
"You're lucky we remembered that we forgot Rebecca and Jodi," I told the group. "The bus driver said he saw you three driving home with Alberto."
"Alberto has a 2-seater," Donna said. "I don't know why he would have thought he saw three of us get in Alberto's car."
I rushed ahead to get back on the bus. The driver had made it clear to me that he could only park on the street for a few minutes.
"We were missing 5 people," I laughed to the bus driver when I got back, pointing to the group ambling up the hill. "Thanks for returning."
I sat back in my seat, steeling myself for the ride home. I felt someone sit down next to me. It was The Professor, sans Mary Anne.
"I'm glad you were here," The Professor told me. "I was having a little trouble handling that myself."
I just stared at him like he was retarded. I was buzzed, he wasn't my favorite person in the world, and he was making it sound like HE had to save the day. Actually, that's a misstatement. I think he probably DID think that he was the only one who could have stopped the bus, while everyone else on the bus (still 10-sheets to the wind) knew that I was Rebecca and Jodi's only hope because -- shocker -- I actually SPEAK SPANISH.
I think I did say "thank you," but I also made it clear that I just needed to rest on the way back to San Sebastian.
"So how was your day?" Donna asked everyone. "Did you have enough time in the city?"
"We spent the last five hours drinking," I told her. "We had way too much time in the city."
Halfway through the trip home, the idle chitchat was broken by Mel screaming, "No War!" from the back of the bus (a reference to The Professor's pin). The entire bus fell silent. I think there was some nervous laughter, then people started talking again.
Back in San Sebastian, most of the drinking crew wandered down to a nearby restaurant. Elizabeth and I turned in for the night. We flipped on the TV to unwind until our jet-lagged bodies realized that it was time to sleep. We ended up catching the EuroVision Song Contest, the annual contest where every country in Europe (and Israel) competed for the prize of Best Song on the Continent. Abba's "Waterloo" was a 1970s EuroVision Song Contest winner. The show was in English, and dubbed in French. We watched entries from about 14 countries, including the winner, Finland. The group from Finland was dressed like Gwar and sang a song in English called "Rock and Roll Hallelujah." Each country can sing a song in whatever language it would like. Most did songs in English; although some did songs in their native language, or did at least a portion of the song in their native language. At the conclusion of the songs, each country is able to vote for another country's song as the winner.
Here's a good explanation of the contest, from an American expat who lives in Sweden.
Personally, I think watching ESC was a great time. Elizabeth and I laughed hard at some of the WORST songs on the planet (which is what ESC is known for). My fave of the worst was England's entry, which was called "Teenage Life," but sung by 35+ year old adults. It was (seriously) a lament about needing more time for recess and enjoying school with friends. Sung by middle-aged folk. Other songs, which also were bad, followed the formula "sing a crappy song, but make sure the singer is a scantily clad, leggy woman who can really shake her groove thing." Unfortunately for those countries, MOST viewers were not fooled by the eye candy.
On Sunday we went back to France, this time to a different tourist destination: San Jean de Luz. This was also our last day at the Hotel Monte Igueldo. After spending the day in France, we'd be driving down to Pamplona and staying at Hotel Iriguibel. The hotel was located outside of Pamplona, in a small town called Huarte.
We were given strict instructions to be in the lobby at 10 AM to check out and head to France. However, we had been given strict instructions to be down at the lobby at 10:00 on Friday to tour around San Sebastian, and that tour ended up being late. So when 9:59 rolled around and Donna's husband was angrily looking for Mel because he was late, it was a little weird.
I offered to go up to Mel's room and see where he was at in his packing. He was on time, but going by the hotel TV clock, which was five minutes slow.
During the bus packing process, we realized that the bus was too small for everyone's luggage, especially since half of the people either had an additional bag packed in a suitcase to carry souvenirs or were planning to buy a cheap bag to put their clothes in so they could stuff a suitcase full of souvenirs.
Eventually everyone and their belongings got on the bus and we made our way to San Jean de Luz.
"Should we stay until 7 PM again?" Donna asked, hopefully.
"Honestly, I'd like to leave around 5 PM. We ended up running out of things to do yesterday by 3 and spent the rest of the day drinking," I told her.
Apparently I didn't even need to offer explanation. The bus driver wanted to leave San Jean de Luz by 4:30 PM to get on the road to Pamplona (about 2 hours from San Sebastian). Donna was able to negotiate an additional half hour, and hinted that if we wanted to stay longer, we should just not arrive at the bus pick-up point on time. The Professor and Mary Anne seemed to latch on to this idea. I sincerely hoped that no one would take that route. I would feel bad leaving people behind, but I think I could have done it in good conscience.
The day in San Jean de Luz was even more boring than the day in Biarritz. I think it was fun for most people, but the town is a beach town, and for those of us who burn at the THOUGHT of a sunny day, it wasn't a great place to hang out all day. Unlike the rest of the group, I couldn't just relax on the beach. In fact, as Elizabeth and I walked past the beach, I had to stop in a shop to buy sunscreen. From being out in Biarritz the day before, I'd gotten quite a bit of sun and had burned pretty much right down to the internal organs.
We did some shopping, had lunch (dessert crepes and french fries), and then wandered around with the large group. The girls in the group wanted to stay on the beach. I couldn't, so I wandered around trying to find some shade. I ended up in the town square, sitting under a gazebo, watching people wander by, and watching an artist paint a seascape entirely in blue paint.
I sat by myself for about an hour, through the strongest sun, then headed back to the beach.
Everyone was still there, chilling out. We wandered around, shopping a little more, and eventually ending up at the gazebo in the town square. Mel fell asleep, and children played in the gazebo around him. He looked very comfortable, and to be honest, I wanted to sleep, too, when I was at the gazebo earlier. However, if I had slept when I was there by myself, I would have a) looked like a homeless person and b) probably have gotten robbed.
We chatted, Jodi introduced us to doner kebaps (a Turkish gyro -- I declined because I wasn't feeling well), and we waited for 5 PM to arrive.
Finally we got on the road to Pamplona.
Dr. Galante offered to take us into Pamplona and show us the bus stops. I agreed to go along. However, just like with the initial tour of San Sebastian, the set time to meet kept getting pushed back. Finally, I was so hungry that I just said I was going to the mall to find something, and if the only thing open was McDonald's, then that was what I'd be eating (Donna's husband had made a big deal about people eating American food while over here--it bordered on annoying how much he harped on how people shouldn't eat at the chain restaurants. I didn't want to eat at the chains, but by the same token, I had eaten a crepe and french fries the whole day. . .I was hungry.) A group of us went to the mall to find some food.
There were some places serving pinxtos (appetizers). Being tired, hungry, and not in the mood to speak a lot of Spanish, I went to the counter, pointed to some pinxtos, asked for a beer, and settled at a table to eat.
We were given strict instructions to meet in the lobby of the hotel at 9 AM to walk over to class. 9 AM came and went, and Dr. Galante didn't show up. I was grumpy, so after 15 minutes, I grabbed a map, asked if anyone wanted to come with me, and ultimately headed out alone to the new campus of Foro Europeo.
I stopped at a grocery store to pick up some snacks for class, and saw the rest of the group passing in front of the store like a row of ducks, following Dr. Galante.
I followed along. Admittedly, if I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have found Foro. However, anyone who knows me and read the phrase "I grabbed a map" probably figured that one out.
There had been some shake up at the school over the past year, so the familiar (and handsome) faces that I was used to being taught by had been replaced by not familiar (but still mostly handsome) faces. Our first professor was Iker, although we didn't find that out for the first twenty minutes of class. Iker wanted to find out all about us, so he didn't fill us in on a lot of details about himself (one of his questions that we had to answer was "what do you want to know about me?"). When one of my classmates, in an effort to be friendly, attempted to use his name, only to realize that she didn't remember it, she said, "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name."
"No, you haven't," he replied. "I didn't give it to you."
Her question that she wanted to know about him was "What is your name?" My question was "Where did you learn English?" (I fought very hard the urge to ask "Are you single?") Iker spoke with an English accent and dropped the F-bomb a lot. He had learned English while working in England.
On break, I bumped into Dr. Galante, who told me that we were going to ditch class in the afternoon (woo!) to go on a walking tour of Pamplona that would culminate in a tour of the Pamplona bull ring (double woo!). I had never seen the bull ring before, so this was exciting news.
Unfortunately, it was also confusing news. I thought we were leaving from the hotel to go on the tour at 2 PM. Elizabeth and I were the first ones back to the hotel after class, so we thought we had a little time to decompress and change.
When we sauntered up to the lobby 5 minutes early, we were greeted by Mel telling us that we needed to hurry up. Apparently we were supposed to be downtown at 2 PM and we had to hurry to get to the bus.
And, as we passed the bus stop, we found out that THAT wasn't the story EITHER. We had lunch at 2 PM, followed by a bus ride into Pamplona to take the tour.
Unfortunately, in the miscommunication, we lost two members of our group -- Rebecca and Jodi. They ended up catching the bus into Pamplona at 2 PM, then waiting at the bullring for 3 hours. Unfortunately, when that portion of the tour came around, our group was gathered at the other end of the bullring, so we never saw them.
But. . .I have lunch stories to tell, so I need to back up the bus.
We wandered through Huarte to some sort of cafeteria. There we had a choice of 2 huge portioned courses (I had paella and squid in its own ink, which I couldn't finish because I was stuffed with the paella), followed by dessert. The waitress who was offering us food asked Donna something quickly in Spanish. She smiled sneakily and said "Yes, put some down on the table and we'll see if people will try it."
She didn't want to tell us what it is. Why? Because the dish turned out to be lamb liver and intestines.
It smelled like chicken -- and I think there was some chicken broth to it (although Donna insisted that it was ALL INTESTINES AND LIVER). When it was set in front of us, we all knew it was liver and something else. I offered to try a little on behalf of my section of the table. Mel and Elizabeth also gamely took a piece of liver. I ended up getting a piece of bone.
No one else ate any of it (including, I believe, Donna and her husband). A few days later we would get a lecture on how Spaniards don't waste food. However, I feel if Donna truly believed that food wasting was a faux pas, she wouldn't have treated us like 2-year-olds and would have asked if anyone would like to have a plate of liver and intestines. But she's a firm believer that no matter how old someone is, if that person isn't Donna or her husband, the person is probably not going to want to explore the culinary culture of an area, and would instead prefer to find the nearest McDonald's.
ANYWAY. . .
After lunch, we hurried back to the bus stop to get to Pamplona. Apparently we were late, but the only person who had any vague semblance of the schedule was Dr. Galante.
We wandered around Pamplona for a few hours listening to Foro's tourism students giving talks on the historic aspects of Pamplona in Spanish. Donna parked herself next to the speakers to translate into English for the non-Spanish speakers in the group (basically, the majority of my group). Since we were taking a tour with other European students (French and Germans who were trying to learn Spanish), the translations were distracting, and I think they cast our group in a bad light (although it wasn't our fault -- Spanish is not a requisite to go on the trip; otherwise I don't think anyone would go except for me!).
During the tour where we saw the start of the Running of the Bulls, Elizabeth pointed out my hair twin -- a tall German guy with spikey hair. "I got a picture of you and him," she told me and showed me the picture on her digital camera. Hair Twin and I had the exact same expression on our face, and the same style in our hair.
I don't know if Hair Twin knew exactly what the whispers were about, but I think he interpreted it as "she likes me." For the rest of the tour, he wasn't just my Hair Twin, he was my shadow, which made it nice for the people taking pictures of the two of us, but embarrassing for me.
The tour culminated in a bullfighting simulation at the Pamplona bull ring. My Flickr site has tons of great pictures (and not so great ones) from the demonstration.
The funniest part of the demonstration came at the end, as our group was standing outside the bullring at the bathrooms. My friend Cindy asked me, "What happens to the bull if it survives the bullfight?" We had learned that there was a possibility that the bull would survive the fight; a possibility that was a disgrace for the pro-bullfighter.
I turned my head toward the butchering station directly behind us. "He gets killed back there when he gets out of the ring," I said matter-of-factly. "For the bull, there's only one outcome -- death. For the human, it's 50-50."
At the conclusion of the tour, Mel, Elizabeth, and I headed into downtown Pamplona. Mel and I were anxious to see if our waiter from the first trip -- Juan Luis -- was still working at Cafe Iruna. And, if it were dinnertime, we were anxious to get some of the 11-euro three-course dinner. No one else wanted to join us; they were heading back to the mall for dinner and shopping.
At Cafe Iruna, Mel and I started with the traditional picture of someone with the grandma who holds the menu. No one in the restaurant was eating dinner, so we figured we'd just load up on tapas (aka pinxtos aka appetizers).
A waiter came to our table and asked in French if I spoke French. Elizabeth and Mel had to translate for me.
"No," I said.
"What languages do you speak?" he asked in Spanish. Mel and Elizabeth had to translate for me.
"Spanish and English," I responded. (but apparently neither very well)
The waiter got frustrated trying to communicate with us and called to another waiter. "You take this table," he said.
The three of us looked at each other. The other waiter looked pissed. We weren't sure if we'd get served.
After about ten minutes, the other waiter came over to our table. I ordered a bottle of wine (rosado), a plate of ham, and a plate of calamari.
Ten minutes after that (while we were waiting for our food), the first waiter came back to our table. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Our food has been ordered," I explained in rough Spanish. "It's at the bar."
The first waiter looked a little surprised that the second waiter had taken him seriously. Waiters in Spain don't work for tips, they work for commissions. So this waiter just gave up a table. Granted, it was only a twenty euro table, but at pinxto time no one's really eating a lot.
Our food came and we ate, drank, and chatted. Halfway through the meal, an Asian guy came in with a film crew. It was clear that he was doing some sort of travel show for the younger crowd (like teens, mid-twenties, not kids). He made a big show of ordering pinxtos, eating ham (Pamplona's famous for it), and interviewing a bartender. Then, after about five minutes, the crew broke for mealtime and cigarettes.
The three of us joked that we should go up to the Asian guy and act like his biggest fans, like we watch his show all the time. Mel and Elizabeth kept commenting about how he looked like the drummer for some band, and they should ask if the band were going to be touring again. I think it would be funnier if I remembered the name of the band, since we saw the guy outside after we finished eating and they kept saying "Look -- it's that guy from [the name of the band that I can't remember.]"
We decided to head back, since it was almost 8 PM, and see if we could hit the mall for a little bit. For reasons unknown, I was put in charge of finding the bus stop.
I took us to a circle of stops above the hotel where Mel and I had stayed on our first Spain trip. I read the back of a bus stand, saw the Bus 4 schedule, and assumed that we were at the Bus 4 stop. I completely ignored the fact that the interior of the bus stand had two stops marked -- the Bus 3 and the Bus 10. I also forced Mel and Elizabeth to ignore the fact that the Bus 4 kept stopping about every 6 minutes on the other side of the traffic circle.
Two Spaniards were waiting with us in the bus stand. After about 20 minutes of waiting, I finally asked them in Spanish if we were at the stop for Bus 4.
They snickered at each other. One told me, slowly and in the "you're a retard" voice, "No. Es EL TRES Y EL DIEZ" (using hand motions to indicate 3 and 10).
I ignored the tone and asked where the 4 picked up. The guys motioned across the street.
I realized that I should have just asked which bus went to Huarte. As soon as I said the actual BUS I was looking for (and after they saw that we were standing at the stop forever), they knew I was a bus moron.
And Mel and Elizabeth would not let me live the tone down.
Mel gleefully would drawl "Is this the CUATRO?" and then snicker as he replied to himself (and motioned), "No, es el TRAAAYYYYYssss y el DEEEE-AYYYYzzzz."
I had to listen to that the whole way back to Huarte (once we dashed across the circle to pick up the correct bus). Unfortunately, our bus didn't pick up right away, and neither did the two guys' bus who gave us directions, so they got to snicker at me along with Mel and Elizabeth for six minutes until the 4H came to save me.
Tuesday had a few noteable events.
First, we had a morning site visit to Comansa, a crane building company located in Huarte. In my rush to get ready, I forgot to wear the close-toed shoes that I had brought with me specifically for this visit, and instead put on the sandals that I wore the rest of my time in Spain. Most of the other ladies had forgotten to wear close-toed shoes.
However, we were in Spain, where common sense, rather than litigation, rules. After listening to a presentation on the company, we did a visit to the site floor.
"Since we're only going to be going through the plant for 45 minutes, we didn't think it would be worth it for everyone to get into all of the protective gear that our workers wear. Please don't look into any of the welding, and just be careful for any metal pieces on the ground if you have open-toed shoes."
And, with that warning, we went into the plant to see the new automation in crane-making.
The plant was loud. Even though the plant had provided a translator (a cute blonde woman) and Donna was also doing translation, it was difficult to hear. Which, of course, meant opportunity for me.
After Mel had asked, in a serious voice, what was going on "over there," tricking me into looking into the welding, I decided to get back at him.
"What's that?" he would ask.
I would listen to the Spanish (the plant manager didn't speak a lot of English; rather, he was self-conscious of his English-speaking), then translate for Mel. It didn't matter what the guy was talking about -- usually how the automation process had increased productivity XX% or why a certain process couldn't be automated -- my translation was always the same, "He said you can look into the welding."
True, it was a crude attempt to trick Mel into looking into the welding, but I was hoping generations of Kentucky inbreeding would work to my advantage (kidding!).
The visit ended with gifts, including a ruler with a level, a tape measure (unfortunately in metric), and a lighter that had two settings -- high and flame thrower -- and no safety.
After the visit, we headed back to class where we met our second professor, Alberto. He was a jovial guy who had studied English in England, so our accents were a little difficult for him. He's a great guy, but his lectures were. . .lectures. . .that would drone for the hours he had allotted.
So we come to lunch. We headed down to the Txoko Bar (which should probably be pronounced "To-ko" in Basque, but we ended up calling the "Taco Bar"). The Taco Bar was the site of the crappiest food I've ever had in Spain. However, since it was included in the price of our trip, I dutifully went there for the three days that we had lunch there, each time leaving a little more ill than the last.
The Taco Bar had good food -- I saw other people eating it. But for our group, the cooks only had certain food that could accommodate us. Today it was a choice of hamburger (which in Spain is a ground ham patty, not beef), chicken, ham, or fish. I was at the end of the choosing and, due to a shortage in the kitchen, ended up letting Mel have the last hamburger and taking the chicken.
My chicken was circular chunks that were primarily thin bones. Apparently chicken necks. There was also a lettuce salad and french fries. I mooched a hamburger off of Mel and had a semblance of lunch. Thus began my luck of always choosing the thing that completely sucked on the menu. Today's good food was the ham.
After lunch, we had to head back to the school for class with The Professor.
I spent the majority of the class staring at the Comansa crane outside the window. A construction crew was building a new apartment building next to the school.
However, there were some highlights to share.
Everyone was curious about The Professor's background, specifically what drew him to wearing the 60s-era "No War" pin.
"I was drafted in the Vietnam War," The Professor said. After a pause, he added, "Thankfully, stateside."
Ok -- so seeing action overseas wasn't the "No War" motivation.
Later in class, when we were discussing a case from his packet about a man being detained and beaten in Saudi Arabia, he added, "My son is currently in Iraq." After a pause, he added, "As a contractor."
So the guy just wears the pin to be a prick. His son makes a lot of money specifically because of war!
He called on me a lot because I had BS-ed earlier in our journey about how I was ready for his class. Truth was, I hadn't read anything for his class until about 10 seconds before he would call on me. Thankfully, I have perfected the "academically pensive" face. The "let me consider this (while I hastily look through the case study to find SOMETHING that I can comment on)" face.
Finally, class was over.
We headed to the mall for some shopping, dinner, and KARAOKE!
Yes, my friends found one of the only karaoke bars in Spain -- an American themed place in the mall called My Way.
Dinner for me was doner kebap from the shop in the mall, since I hadn't been able to have one in France. As I watched the Bollywood production on the television and moved slowly through the line, I pondered the bigger questions: Would Turkey ever get to join the European Union? and. . . Is that man using a cast saw to chop meat off that huge leg for my doner kebap?
After dinner, we moved to My Way.
Karaoke started at a Spanish 11 PM (aka 11:30-ish).
The Spanish really aren't into karaoke. Our group was the majority of people in the bar, and as we sang songs through the evening (or for the hour that the moms on the trip would allow us to stay out, since Dr. Galante had threatened "sending you home and you pay your own airfare" if we broke 12:30 AM curfew) the Spaniards completely disregarded us. Perhaps its because we only sang in English, because the Spanish guys who were also singing karaoke (in English) seemed to enjoy our performances.
The karaoke in Spain was interesting because the songs that were in the catalog were not normal karaoke songs. There were a plethora of English language songs, but no standards like "I Will Survive" or "I Love Rock 'n Roll." The only Neil Diamond song in the catalog was "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," which, while it's a great song, it's not really one I can sing on stage.
So I started picking obscure hits: "Sexbomb" by Tom Jones; "Poison" by Alice Cooper. I wasn't drunk, but I was being fueled by drunk people who were insisting that I could sing, that I was a great singer, and that I should get up and sing again. So I kept getting up to do solos.
Then I mixed it up with some duets, which I did with Jen: "Oops! I did it again" and "Bye Bye Bye."
"Oops" isn't a word common in the Spanish language. When you make a mistake, you say "permiso" or "lo siento." So the bartender laughed at our selection and kept saying "Oops!" to the other bartender.
I expected the song to be campy, but when I saw that the karaoke words were being flashed below the VIDEO, I knew I had to go all out. Beyond campy. I shimmeyed. I shook. I did the hand motions. Everyone in our group cracked up. The two Spaniards in the back laughed. The couples in the front viewed us with semi-disgust that we were interrupting their faux American experience with a TRUE AMERICAN EXPERIENCE.
ROCK 'N ROLL!
The bartenders appreciated us, and were sad to see us go when we had to leave.
I was sad to see us leave, too, because I was trying to work up the courage to sing a Marta Sanchez song -- in Spanish.
Today after class, the class was going to Castle Olite. I'd already been there before, was exhausted, and didn't feel like another trip that would result in a half day of carsickness, so I asked to be excused from the trip.
Dr. Galante agreed.
After class, I made arrangements with Mel and Elizabeth to meet the group in Pamplona for dinner after the tour of Olite. We agreed to meet at 6:30 in the Plaza de Castillos, and then have dinner at Cafe Iruna.
I went back to the room and slept for a few hours, then headed into town. I had about an hour to kill, so I went into Mango, a store that was also one of our case studies for class. It's a women's clothing store that was started in Barcelona.
I looked through the clothing. Everything looked very cool, but I knew that most things would NOT look as cool once I left Europe. Styles are very different between the two areas. Still, I picked out a few work outfits and tried them on. The pants didn't come up past my knees.
Wah.
As if shopping in the States weren't bad enough, the ultimate "bad shopping trip" is in Europe. I hated going back out to the store and needing to get the bigger size, then the next bigger size, then the next bigger size. When I got to the equivalent of XXXXXXL, I realized that European cut was not made for my Eastern European hips, which is surprising because I thought that if any country in the world would be able to accommodate hips and butts, it would be a Latin nation. But wherever the Hispanic booty comes from, it's not from Spain.
Finally I just bought a purse, since they fit any body type. And one of my work friends had commented that my purse should always match my outfit. I figured I'd cut my losses, get a pink purse that wouldn't match anything, and not get hounded about my fashion faux pas anymore.
I found out later in the week that European cuts are also difficult for some Europeans to wear -- specifically the Basques (of pinxto fame). They're much more barrel-chested than the typical Spaniard. In American standards, our Basque prof wasn't large at all (definition of large being "walls wouldn't need to be cut out of his house to remove his body if he died"). He was husky, but he had a football build. However, for European style clothing, I was "big" and he was probably "morbidly obese."
After finding the purse, I rushed down the street to Plaza de Castillos to wait around for the rest of the group.
Turned out that I had perfect timing. I had just gotten near our meeting spot when I saw Mel, Elizabeth, and the rest of the group walking toward me. They were with a Foro student from Colombia who had apparently been on the Olite tour with them. The student pointed us in the direction of "the" bar in Pamplona. Like most things there, I could get there again, but cannot for the life of me remember what the name of the bar was (I think it was Don Luis). The student helped us make reservations for 10 for dinner.
As Mel peered into the bar, he remembered back to our first Spain trip. "This is the pot bar!" he told me. Apparently during one of the nights, his group had found this bar. They were drinking, and other people (Spaniards) were smoking weed at the bar. So the bar had definitely been in existence when we were there last; we just weren't privy to the popular watering hole until two years later.
Dinner reservations were toward 8 PM, which meant we had time to kill (about an hour).
Some people stayed at the dinner bar to eat pinxtos. A small group of us wandered a few blocks over to O'Connors (I think that's the name), an Irish pub in Pamplona.
The interesting vignette about O'Connors is that on the way to the bar, Christy had asked me how you would say, "What's on draft?" in a bar when asking for beer. I explained that in Spanish bars, there usually is only one tap -- I'd never seen multiple taps, so you just ask for "draft" (cana), which is usually San Miguel, or you ask for a specific beer, which is usually Heinekein. When we stepped into O'Connors, the first thing I noticed was four taps. Ay caramba!
The first Spanish that is learned on any of these trips is the type of drink you like to get. So I didn't have to do too much translation in the bar. I helped Jodi order a Bacardi drink, then Mel and I ordered beers. Then we ordered more beers, since they had Irish beers and hiefeweisen, which was the German beer type that I liked best.
We ran into Christina, our former-professor-now-school-director Alberto's assistant. She offered to take us out on Friday afternoon to look at the shops in Pamplona. Mel put himself in charge of conversation with her because she is beautiful and he has a girlfriend -- he needed something innocuous to talk to her about, but still bask in her glow.
"Where'd you get your boots?" he asked. Then we both had to explain that our friend Jen had a shoe-crush on them and wanted to get a pair, if she could find some.
She said that she'd show us the shop in Pamplona where she got them, and then took a laundry list of other items we were looking for.
"Jewelry," Mel said.
"Goo-ler-eee," she tried to repeat, smiling.
"I think in Spanish it's joyeria," I explained to her. Mel was also explaining it ("rings, necklaces", but sometimes his southern accent was difficult to understand).
"I like this word," she said, "but it is very difficult to pronounce."
"Sounds like the same problem I have with chhhh. . .chisto. . .the thing we're doing tomorrow after class," I sympathized.
"Chistorrada?"
"Si, yes. The chistorrada."
We agreed to meet at the chistorrada and firm up plans for Friday's shopping tour of Pamplona.
I kept watch on the time and moseyed everyone back to Don Luis for our reservation.
At dinner I heard about how the castle and wine museum had gone. Apparently at the wine museum, they didn't taste any wine, but were given candies that stimulated the various taste areas of the tongue. Four people were called up to try different candies. They didn't realize at the time that they were going to have a candy that was either sweet, sour, salty, or bitter. They thought they were going to have a candy that was strawberry (pink), lemon (yellow), pineapple/coconut (white), or pear (green). On count, they put the candies in their mouths, and the rest of the class laughed at them. Apparently everyone was given candies, and Mel got Jen in trouble by tricking her into eating hers ahead of time. The tour guide was not amused.
I ended up with a big handful of the candies (which is how I got to figure out which was which. . .but more on that in tomorrow's entry) as a present from the trip from Mel and Elizabeth.
Dinner ended around 10:15 pm. The night bus started running at 11 pm, so we headed to the day bus stop. On the way, Mel pulled the group over to the stop where he, Elizabeth, and I had waited a few days before and told the "tres y diez" story. I encouraged them to hurry up because the bus comes every six minutes.
Except it didn't come.
We waited for 20 minutes, and I kept noticing that one bus was just parked at the stops.
"Wouldn't it be weird if we got here during the transition time from day shift to night shift, and no busses run during this time?" I laughed.
It wasn't funny. It was true.
Day bus stops running at 10 pm. Night bus starts running at 11 pm. But - we had to find a night bus stop that would take us back to Huarte. The stop we were at wasn't one of the night stops. However, there were several other stops there to check out.
We were near Hotel Yoldi, which is where we stayed the first year in Spain, so Mel and Cindy went inside to ask if the hotel night person knew where the N5 bus stop was. He didn't, but he suggested going up to the Plaza del Toros (the bull arena) because there were a lot of bus stop stands there.
So I started people up toward Plaza del Toros. Except there was construction, so we couldn't go directly, which made people nervous, and loud, and annoying.
The thing with traveling in a foreign country, especially when you're walking through the Red Light District, is that if you don't know where you're going, you SHUT UP and keep moving until you find somewhere to get your bearings. The best way to blend in is to not talk, not scream, and certainly not shout out MY NAME, followed by "you don't know where you're going and we're lost and we want to take a taxi."
Finally, I stopped in the middle of the street and gathered the troops.
"Look. I'm going to Plaza de Toros. If you want a taxi, go back to the Hotel Yoldi and ask the night manager to call one for you. If you want to go to the bus, then shut up and follow me."
Disagreement ensued. The group didn't think we should split up. They didn't think a taxi would be that expensive split even ways. blah blah blah
"Who wants to take a taxi?" I asked.
Tons of mes and hand-raises.
"Then walk back to Hotel Yoldi and request them."
With that, I turned around and started walking toward the Plaza de Toros for the bus.
Like a troop of ducklings, everyone followed me. "Fine, we'll go try to find the bus. But if we can't find it, then we'll go and get a taxi?"
What pissed me off was that I KNOW WHERE THE PLAZA DE TOROS is. However, with the construction, when I tried to go the direct way, I ended up having to turn down side streets and take us a more indirect way. I just said, "Fine" and kept walking.
As soon as I was able to get around the construction, we were at the Plaza de Toros. A bus was parked at one of the stands. I stood at the door and asked where the N5 stop was.
As I was getting down from the bus, Mel came up to me (he'd been bringing up the rear of the group). "Ask him where the bus stop is."
"I already did."
Within a few minutes, the N5 came. We got our seats. I was anxious to get back to the hotel and away from all of the stress of this adventure.
My friend Jen tried to joke with me, "You got us lost."
I snapped at her, because it was the n-millionth time over the course of the trip where someone had said that to me. I never put myself in charge of directions. I HAVE no sense of direction. However, everyone feels compelled to follow me, then complain if I don't get them there the most direct way. (I did later apologize).
Sherry's mom called out to me that I had to tell everyone when to get off of the bus. I told her that she needed to ask someone else to do it, that I was not in charge of the group, or the trip. I said that I'd been yelled at enough for one evening, and was taking no further responsibility on the trip.
Here's the deal: I'd never taken the N5 before. I had heard that it let out at the mall, which was about a block from our hotel, but I didn't want to relay that information and be wrong. We were on a bus that ended in Huarte, and my plan was to either get off at the mall, if that were a stop (turns out that it was), or ride until the end of the line, and figure things out from there. However, the fact that I'd never done something, that I didn't speak a particular language (Basque, French as two examples), or that I'd never been to a particular town never deterred people from thinking that I should know EVERYTHING. Because I just seem like I do know everything. And I do know most things ;-) Just not layouts of towns I've never been to, or conversational French or Basque, or the answers to sports questions in Trivial Pursuit.
Anyway, long story longer, we ended up at the mall, which everyone recognized, and walked back to the hotel. We were in before curfew (which made the moms happy), and I was officially free of the group (which made me happy). And. . .the next day was the chistorrada, which I was really excited about!
Thursday was the day I had been waiting for the whole trip: chistorrada.
A chistorrada is the Spanish equivalent of a barbeque. The Spanish don't have a word for barbeque, and the language isn't really flexible for creating words (like English and German are). So, to describe the concept of barbeque, you end up with a word that kind of translates to "sausage place" or "sausage fest." However, food-wise, you end with something that is SO MUCH BETTER than American barbeque, my stomach is crying just thinking about it.
First, chistorrada is all about pork products. No burgers or dogs at this BBQ; instead, you start with fresh pig innards and keep working your way out of the pig. So the first thing smoked up was bacon, served with fresh bread. Then ribs. Then pork chops. Two guys were manning big open air barbeque grills (a stone oven with grates on top), and as the food was done, they'd put it on a table, then everyone would swarm.
However, the chistorrada wasn't until 5:30 PM.
Before that, we had to go back to our final meal at the Taco Bar.
Over the three days that we had to eat at the Taco Bar, the amount of people who went slowly dwindled because the food did not agree with anyone. However, because I'm a cheapskate, I always went back. So five of us went to the Taco Bar. I was at the head of the table, so I got to do the translating of the three single words written on a paper that we could choose from. I only remember the word "fish" was on there because that's what I had, figuring that it would be the trout that was served the other day that was good.
Ha ha HA.
Elizabeth and I ended up getting what we've called "fish doughnuts": a fish stick type fish, breaded and baked in the shape of a nut (the nut-and-bolt type nut): kind of hexagon-like with a hole in the middle.
I started eating it and was feeling ill. Elizabeth at a little more than me (I think she managed to choke down a whole doughnut and I only could do about a half). She ended up really ill by 5:30. I wasn't fairing too much better. I think my excitement for the chistorrada allowed me to wait to get sick until the next day (more about that tomorrow).
After lunch, we went back to school for afternoon class, then to the chistorrada.
It turned out that all of the exchange students who were attending Foro were invited to the chistorrada, including my hair twin. We were encouraged to mingle, and since everyone was giggling about this guy and his hair, I went up to him and asked if I could get a picture with him because our hair looked the same. I explained to him that my friends had been giggling about our matching hairstyles since we first saw him on Monday.
Everyone in my group was aghast that I would make a fool of myself like that (Hair Twin declined the pic that day, by the way, because he was wearing a hat and had hat hair). Maybe I'll feel embarrassed if I run into him again.
I made small talk with Hair Twin and his friends -- how long have they been in Spain, what are they studying, do they have jobs outside of going to school, etc etc etc. FINALLY, the first installment of food was done. I politely excused myself from conversation to get some bacon. The guys were young, here for a month, looking for clubs, and, it seemed, looking for some vacation "action". . .not really my speed, so conversation wasn't going anywhere anyway.
I moved back to my running crew: Mel, Jen, and Elizabeth, to see how things were going. Elizabeth wasn't doing well. She couldn't eat anything at the chistorrada and ended up going back to our room.
Mel and I were in meat heaven as the chistorrada continued. Plates and plates of ribs, plates and plates of pork chops. I ate as much as I could, because I knew that the rest of the trip I would probably not have any better food than this. Plus, for the past three days I'd been unable to eat a lot because the Taco Bar food left me ill.
Around 7 PM, a group of us wandered back to the hotel with plans to meet up at 7:30 to go shopping at the mall.
I stopped in to see how Elizabeth was doing -- the answer, not well. She wanted to go shopping as well, but was not in the mood to do it that evening. She asked if I could see if there were some sort of stomach-settling medication that I could get at the mall. I promised I would look, asked if she needed anything else right now, promised to go to the mall with her on Friday, and then headed out to meet up with the rest of the group.
Jen had said there were some cute jeans for just 20-euro (about $25 US). So we went out in search of them. I didn't find THOSE, but I did find a cool pair of linen-blend pants (on sale) and a funny shirt that said "Did I mention my fabulous brown hair?" The other interesting thing I discovered about Spanish clothing during our excursion is that the inseams are around 35". Jen, who is extra-tall, was in heaven. She bought up pair after pair of pants because up until this trip she's had to let the hems out of her pants to try to get them to a reasonable length. I didn't understand because I'm about the height of the average Spanish woman, and I had to hem my linen pants before I could wear them. Even with high-heeled boots (the style in Europe, along with the mullet), the pants were too long.
Mel and I separated from the rest of the crew so we could get Elizabeth her medication. We looked in the grocery store, and didn't come up with anything. We found a pharmacy-type store, and I asked at the counter (nothing is out front in Spanish CVS-type stores) if anything were available for stomach problems. The woman went to the back of the shop and came out with an antacid-type product. So, I took it.
Mel and I headed back to the hotel to call it a night (Mel wasn't that into shopping, and I didn't feel right being out for a while when Elizabeth could use the meds that I had).
After giving Elizabeth the meds, I grabbed a bottle of wine that wasn't going to fit in my suitcase and headed down to Mel's room. We talked for a bit, watched VH1 (Mel had never seen Hogan Knows Best. The episode was the one where Hulk secretly puts a GPS system in his daughter's car for her to go on her first date; I think that is exactly how Mel would be if he had a daughter).
We finished the bottle and then I headed up to bed.
Friday we had one class, then free time until 9 PM, when we were going to share a meal as a class in downtown Pamplona at La Dulce Vita.
Christina came into our classroom to discuss our shopping tour. "We meet at 5:30?" We agreed.
After class, Elizabeth, Mel, and I went shopping at the mall. The mall was also one of the only places to eat in Huarte (aside from the Taco Bar). We had some lunch, did some grocery shopping for snacks for the trip home, and then wandered around the shops.
The whole group met Christina at the Plaza de Castillos in Pamplona. Hair Twin had also come along, so he and I kibitzed for a bit.
"So, what are you doing after shopping?" he asked me.
"We have a dinner at La Dulce Vita. Then we're hoping to go to karaoke."
"I think you should come out to the clubs. We can share a cab home."
There was something about how he said "we can share a cab home" that made me feel like that wasn't the only thing he wanted to share with me. So I smiled politely and said, "I'm really excited about karaoke."
We wandered around and eventually ended up at the mall. I thanked Christina for taking time out of her schedule to take us around and said that we could do the mall on our own and then go to our dinner. She smiled and we said our goodbyes.
As I turned to tell the group the plan, Hair Twin took over.
"Well, you see," Hair Twin told the group, "it is better if you just go through the mall on your own. There are many shops, and it is very boring if we all have to wait for each other." (all having to wait for each other was what we had to do for the previous 2 hours as we wandered through along the shops)
Hair Twin wanted to spend some time alone with Christina. The two walked back to Christina's car together.
After wandering around the mall, Mel, Elizabeth, and I went upstairs to have coffee. I needed to sit down.
About quarter to nine, everyone met at the statue outside of the mall. I directed everyone to the restaurant.
The food at the restaurant was amazing. Alberto ordered four different kinds of salads for us to try as appetizers. I picked the entree that he recommended. And we ended with dessert. Which made me VERY full. We had been told during Thursday evening's lesson that Spaniards looked down on people leaving food on their plates. I was trying not to be rude during the meal.
During dinner, I was seated next to Alberto and Mel and across from The Professor. Mary Anne had twisted her ankle during some road trip that she and The Professor had taken earlier that day, so she didn't come to the restaurant for dinner.
Which meant that The Professor needed someone to talk to. And that someone. . .was me.
I forget what the topic of conversation was, but it ended up with The Professor saying, "And that's when you met Mel" in one of those and-she-lived-happily-ever-after voices.
"Um, Mel and I aren't dating."
"I just assumed by the way you related to each other (read: made fun of each other about stupid stuff) that you were dating."
"We're both in relationships, but with other people. That makes it easier for me to kill him in good conscience if he does something to piss me off."
After the meal, Alberto ordered shots of "a digestive" called Paxtran. It's an after-dinner shot that tastes like Robitussin. Again, because of the culture, I felt I had to drink the shot placed in front of me.
We settled up, and then headed to the My Way bar for what I thought would be another night of karaoke.
However, on Friday nights, My Way had a live band. We walked in to the band singing "Sweet Home Alabama," except with all of the political lyrics cut out (ie "Watergate does not bother me, does your conscience bother you?"). So most of the song was like this:
I heard Neil Young sing about it.
SWEET HOME ALABAMA! Where the skies are so blue. . .
Once again, we added our American flavor to "Sweet Home Alabama" and the CCR tunes that the group belted out.
I drank a ron con limon (rum and lemonade) because Alberto had extra money from the dinner and had insisted that we use it to buy first round of drinks. This time cheapness, not fear of being culturally offensive, drove me to cram even more into my stomach.
About an hour later, I made my excuse to go back to the hotel. And when I got there, I puked. Several times. I was just too full.
Finally I was able to get to sleep.
The first day in Pamplona, we were toured past El Museo de Navarra. It's a four-story museum that cost a euro to enter (if you're a student, 2 euro if you're an average joe). Each story held a different era of art, ranging from prehistoric to modern. It also has the largest Goya section in all of Europe. Or maybe just the largest Goya PAINTING, since I only saw one Goya. It was a large portrait of this aristocrat who was painted in a more modern style for the time. According to the write-up on the portrait, he was supposed to appear both regal and approachable. Instead, as I commented to Elizabeth and Christy, who went to the museum with me, he looked like he should be saying, "Who has two thumbs and is responsible for Spain's Golden Age? This guy!"
At the bottom of the museum (the prehistoric floor), we ran into a guy who wanted someone to share the museum experience with. Unfortunately, he picked Elizabeth, and began randomly chatting with her.
"Bridget!" she called frantically, motioning me over.
And that's how I got stuck chatting with the Spanish guy who just wanted someone to talk to. I'm as much for trivia as the next person, but after last night's dinner and drinking, I hadn't eaten for about 12 hours, was finally getting hungry, and this guy was standing between me and the paella place at Plaza de Castillo.
Finally, I politely broke away from him, and the group of us headed to the Plaza for lunch.
In the Plaza we had REAL paella. Not that the paella in San Sebastian wasn't good, but it was franchise paella -- frozen stuff that allowed you to have ten choices instead of one. The restaurant I introduced the girls to that afternoon was true paella, where you just order "paella" and have to wait 45 minutes for the paella of the day to be served to you.
We took the bus back to the hotel and relaxed the rest of the day.
Elizabeth and I caught up with Mel around dinner time. We decided to have our last dinner at the mall (the tapas there were good; as were the doner kebaps), and finish my last bottle of wine since we'd have to pack that night and leave before the buttcrack o' dawn the next morning.
I went down to Mel's with a bottle of wine and some glasses (Elizabeth needed to finish something up and would be down a bit later).
He had on VH1 while he was packing. It's the only English station on the entire TV, so everyone was watching it when they needed to hear our mother tongue.
VH1 was doing a marathon of <i>The 70s House</i>. I had never heard of it or seen it (I don't know why that surprises me -- I haven't had cable in two years), but it was FUNNY!
The premise: X-number of teens (I think it was like 10 and the average age was 18 -- none were older than 20, but I think there was one girl who was like 16) have to live in a house and ONLY use products/clothing/phrases from the 70s. To make the show MORE interesting, at random times during the day, <i>The Hustle</i> would blare through the house intercom and you would HAVE TO GET UP AND DANCE. At the end of each episode, the teens were evaluated on how well they "stuck to the soul of the 70s" and the two who did the worst had to do some sort of 70s-type challenge. The loser was eliminated.
Mel and I were born in the 70s, but I don't think either of us remembers it that well. Still, we did much better with the show than the actual contestants (which I guess was the point). On certain episodes, the contestants were given history quizzes. One question: What war was America engaged in during the 1970s? Answer: Vietnam. One contestant answered "The Gulf War." There were other questions about movies, music, and politics. . .the most embarrassing answers were read during the evaluation segment.
Throughout the marathon, Mel and I kept saying "Jive Turkey." That would have been the only slang I would have used if I had been on the show.
The marathon cut off at the final three, so I have no idea who won the show.
Travel day!
We ended up with a bigger bus (which still made me carsick. . .I think it had 2 extra seats in it) because during our travel from San Sebastian to Pamplona, we realized that with the packing that most people expected to do (buy extra bags for carry-on; pull out unused bags to fill with gifts), we wouldn't be able to fit everything in the bus. The luggage was packed. Everything fit. And we were off.
We had two bus drivers that day. The first one had a mix of pop tunes (including Shakira) that he listened to. After he got off the bus at our rest stop, we were stuck with Brian Adams again.
The plane ride was uneventful for me, because I didn't eat anything. I slept the whole way, refused every snack (because even LOOKING at food on the plane made me nauseous), and arrived home hungry, but with all the original contents of my stomach. Donna, our translator, was not so lucky. We hit the same bad turbulance on the way back to the States, and she had started getting a cold while in Spain, so the ride was tortuous for her.
I got through customs without incident.
We had a bit of a mix-up with the transportation back to the college and ended up having to wait for almost an hour due to a miscommunication (our driver was waiting outside of the arrivals area; when we called the dispatch center, they couldn't get in touch with him because their drivers don't carry cell phones; finally, the driver came up to arrivals to look for us).
But finally, we were on the road. And within three hours I was able to have my first real meal of the day (aside from some breakfast cookies before the bus ride to the airport at 5 AM).