Marrakech, Morocco

Editor’s note: Written on the Ryanair return flight from Morocco, November 30, 2008.

It was my goal to write the remainder of my Morocco stories in my journal on the two hour flight back. Then I realized I left my journal at our amazing riad, so I tried to sleep. But the obnoxiously loud Catalans in front of me won’t allow that either, so I’ve found some blank space on the back of Mohamed’s map and will do what my heart will not allow me to live without after such a great trip – write. My stomach is still churning with the feast of last night while the loads of bread and “sehmen” (a wonderful flat, squarish tortilla-like thing) waits its turn. After being praised by Mohamed, our guesthouse manager, for my bargaining skills, I think I can say I absolutely love Morocco. I was cursed at by little boys, street performers and followed by a scarf vendors but somehow I didn’t really let it get to me. The culture is very distinct and different, but full of flavor and authenticity. I bought so much I could hardly fit it in my bag and have no idea how my flight back to the U.S. is going to look. I am absolutely in love with the style of plates, pillows and rugs and wish I could have bought the entire city.

We took an excursion to the Ourika Valley, an area at the base of the Atlas mountains, a ridge that separates Marrakech from the Sahara desert. We stopped and did the tourist things like photos in costumes and pose in front of dangerously unguarded cliffs. We rode awhile with in our white van with the word “tourist” written on it in French and Arabic, as if were weren’t blatantly obvious enough with our cameras and nice clothing. We traveled until we were about an hour and half outside the city, where flat, dusty asphalt roads give way to hardly paved, winding pathways around vertical ascents and little girls wear veils and walk through mud to school.

Our last night here proved to be amazing. We did the traditional Arab bath, right alongside naked, bathing Moroccan women. Yes, it gave the term “community bath” and entirely new meaning.

So there were naked down to our underwear. We were assigned an old stout Moroccan woman with skin as dark as leather and a fine veil of dark hairs above her upper lip. She led us into an open tiled room that echoed with the splash of steaming water and French and Arabic conversations. To the right were a couple of Moroccan women sitting on mats and scooping from buckets of water to rinse their hair. We were lucky enough to have small stools to sit on as our naked Moroccan filled and refilled our personal buckets from spigots that protruded out of the cracked plaster walls. In a garbled mix of French and English she handed us globs of a Moroccan soap that smelled like cheap shoes and looked like silly puddy made from snot. After we’d finished the stuff we were rewarded with buckets of hot water tossed onto our soapy bodies completely without warning. But the next part was definitely the best – the exfoliation. I basically felt like a horse getting bathed for the first time. The Moroccan attacked my arms with a glove slightly less gritty that a nail file and scrubbed until the first couple layers of my dead skin rolled into brown clumps which were later washed away by bowlfuls of water. None of us could believe how incredibly dirty were, but considering we’d climbed up and down a part of the Atlas Mountains things weren’t too bad. Afterwards, we each got a handful of some kind of Moroccan mud slopped on our heads, which we were then motioned to rub in. The Moroccan then attacked us with something that looked like a cat brush, raking if through our cakey, tangled hair. Afterwards, was more bucketfuls of water poured over our heads, which resulted in the mud trickling into places where mud does not belong. As I’m sitting here on this flight, I’m still picking it out of my ears!

The whole thing was something I wouldn’t trade for the world. I only wish I had more time to explore the land of the glorious culture. Oh yes, and did I mention this is the only kind of bath they ever get?

Paris for the Cheapies... Like Me

A budget-conscious visit to Paris might sound like an oxymoron. For the young traveler with ambitions larger than his or her wallet, there are endless creative ways to save.

The number one stop for culture lovers in Paris is the Louvre, the treasure chest of the art world situated in the heart of the city. The palace-turned-culture-storehouse is the largest and most visited museum in the world, with more than 8.3 million visitors last year. The Louvre was once a medieval palace and the crown seat of 700 year's worth of French royalty. It now houses 35,000 works of art including Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa to Egyptian sarcophagi to Venus de Milo. Visit on the first Sunday of the month for free and pocket the regular $16.50 ticket price.

Cut the Eiffel Tower admission price in half and hike the stairs to the second floor, 277 feet above the Paris skyline. The cost is about $4 versus a typical $10 elevator ride. Tourists won't have to do all 1,664 steps since climbing to the very top is prohibited, but be prepared to be out of breath from the view and the exercise.

Enter into the most visited Parisian landmark, Notre Dame, for free. The church, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, teems with milling tourists by day and transforms into a courtyard of wine drinkers and guitar players beneath its stone carvings of the Virgin and Jesus in heaven by night. If ascending the towers is an absolute must, pack some identification with your birthday on it to get the reduced rate of about $6.10.

Don't overpay in tourist trap souvenir stores. The streets of Paris are teeming with street peddlers ready to haggle down their prices. Name a price and stick to it. Most of these guys come armed with goodie bags full of Eiffel Tower key chains five for $1.50, Pashmina scarves for $5 and jewelry gift sets for less than $10. Visit the nearest supermarket for some $6 bottles of French wine or chocolate that easily survive a plane ride home.

Avoid paying the average $15 Parisian daily special by heading to a corner crepe stand. Watching crepe-makers morph the batter into buttery pancake-like triangular wraps is entertainment in itself. A ham and cheese crepe with a chocolate banana combo for dessert can come out to less than $7.

Most museums will slash prices for you and thrifty opportunities await despite Paris's posh image of costly living. Even in Paris, ways around excessive spending are endless for the frugal and young.

Published in University Star, November 19, 2008, Volume 98, No. 36

Roma, Italia

Roma, Italia was a facinating city that was well worth the 70 EUR extra taxi fare my roommate and I had to shell out for missing our bus to the airport. I got to meet up with an old friend of mine from high school that I haven't seen in years, saw the Colesseum, St. Peter's Square, the Pantheon and ate many pizzas. We treked the city for three days, posing in front of ancient pagan temple ruins and trying to make our selves understood by old Italian waiters who didn't speak English. November is actually a quite beautiful time of year to visit if the weather is merciful. You skip the incredible mad tourist rush and lines of summer peak season and can enjoy six hour tours of the city without boiling to death under the Mediterreanan sun. Typically things were a bit cheaper than in Barcelona, so that was a bit of break for my exhausted wallet.

Girona, Spain

Internationals and the U.S. Election

The U.S. bites their political fingernails just days before the election, while internationals have mixed views about its significance but a clear choice of a candidate. One thing’s for certain: if the world could weigh on next week’s election, Sen. Obama would receive some serious global support.

According to a recent Gallup Poll surveying 3.2 billon citizens of 73 different countries 24 percent of internationals prefer Obama in contrast to 7 percent who prefer McCain.

Some of the strongest support comes from Europeans whom, if given a stake in the election, would ensure a landslide Obama victory.

“If I could vote I would vote for Obama because for me he represents the change not only of the national direction but international,” said Alberto Arévalo, an international lawyer living in Barcelona. “Normally from experience we’ve learned not to trust presidents, but with Obama I’m sure there will be change.”

More than 60 percent of Europeans believe a new U.S. president will have an impact on their nation and Obama is the favorite with 65 percent of the population preferring him.

The European leg of Obama’s world tour can be credited for the spread of “Obamamania” across the pond. His Berlin speech led to the German press dubbing him the “The New Kennedy” and one Frankfurt editorial screaming the headline “Lincoln, Kennedy, Obama.”

However, the international view of the election is a patchwork of opinions. A whopping 69 percent of world-citizens didn’t state a presidential preference and typically don’t believe the election makes a difference in their country.

“First of all it’s not my country,” said Sienae Kim, an interior design student from Seoul. “It’s not happening in my country and secondly I don’t really know about the political things and third I don’t believe what they’re saying.”

U.S. political attitudes in South Korea have gaping generational differences. The “386-generation,” known for anti-American sentiment and Korean nationalism, are stark contrasts of their war-era parents. Still, Obama fans represent a significant portion of the country. Kim says if made to choose she would pick Obama because she believes McCain equals Bush.

“When you’re disappointed with something you look forward to a new person,” she said.

Others believe the election has proved to be more of a media sensation than anything else.

“It’s kind of horrible how much we do know about the American system,” said Wendi Smallwood, a Canadian English teacher. “We should know more about our own country,” Smallwood said she purposely tries to avoid reading U.S. news but believes Obama would prove a better president.

“It seems like he’s a bit more concerned with education and medical insurance rather than going and bombing the world,” she said. “Obama seems more willing to be a team player in the international community rather than a vigilante.”

Published in University Star, October 29, 2008, Volume 98, No. 27

Museum of the Strange and Deranged Salvador Dali

Visit the Salvador Dalí Theater-Museum in Figueres, Spain to view the world’s largest piece of surrealist art.

The museum, designed by Dalí, has a touch of all the oddness and abnormality that is prevalent in his work. Here, some of the Figueres native’s finest pieces, as well as full-room pieces created explicitly for the museum, are on permanent display. The Dalí museum holds it all from recreating the sex-appeal of May West in an exhibit made of giant lips, eyes, and blond hair to ceiling paintings of melting watches and elephants. The building was completed in 1974 atop the rubble of the original Figueres Theater, which was destroyed during the Spanish Civil War.

“Some of his stuff was kind of disturbing but it was good,” said Krystle Yague, an international student visiting the museum. “He was brilliant.”

Dalí is most known for his surrealist paintings. Pictures of melting clocks and semi-human figures blurred into objects are typical, but realism and cubism works can be found here as well.

“I feel like he took the weirdest stuff he could find and put it together, but it made sense. It turned into art,” Yague said.

Dalí’s surrealist work was partly inspired by a method he developed all of his own — the paranoid critical method. The method is the way of perceiving reality an artist uses to find different ways to view the world, such as his painting Metamorphosis of Narcissus. The artwork seems to be of two bony hands with eggs perched on the fingertips emerging from a pool of water, but it the figure of a thin Narcissus with a sulking head appears on the left.

Dalí’s artwork was not restricted to the canvas. He designed jewelry, crafted sculptures and painted the entire ceiling of the Palace of the Wind, an ambient parlor on the second floor. The ceiling is resonant of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, with immaculate detail and surreal religious allusions. The work portrays a barefoot Dalí and wife Gala in a near-embrace above a cloud of angelic figures. A scene of the Apocalypse, where melting clocks and broken wheels cascade over crowds of confused figures, borders one end of the ceiling while a scene of the two entering paradise contrast the other.

Dalí’s most concrete inspiration was by far his wife with whom he was madly in love and includes in his works. However, they lived several miles apart and Gala had many lovers.

The Spanish crown bestowed the title of Marquis to the Dali before his death, a title written on his crypt in the belly of the museum where the artist rests beneath his life works.

Published in University Star, October 22, 2008, Volume 98, No. 24

Barcelona's Vanity Fair

The Rambla is a tree-lined historical avenue three-quarters of a mile long that pulsates through the center of Barcelona.

It’s a seemingly endless parade of flower stalls, cafés and street performers where one can buy anything from Russian hamsters to dancing Simpson figures. The street dissects two of the city’s oldest areas: Barcelona’s aesthetic Gothic Quarter on the east and the slum-turned ethnic enclave, the Raval, on the west.

The Rambla derives its name from the Arabic word “ramla” meaning sandy ground. However, the people-infested street makes up for its lack of actual sand with colorful displays of Barcelonan culture. It is by far one of the top attractions in the city.

The Rambla is so large it is divided into six sections, each named after a close-by building or landmark. The Rambla de les Flors, for instance, was the only place in 19th century Barcelona where fresh flowers were sold and the Rambla dels Estudis was named after a nearby mid-15th century university building that no longer exists.

Today the street maintains most of its quaint charm. The avenue pulsates during the daytime with the murmur of European languages, the incessant blaring of mopeds and the guttural chants of gipsy beggars. Roosters crow from animal stalls, waiters serve sangria to patio clients and human statues dressed as everything from soccer players to the Grim Reaper line the walkway. However, the Rambla loses a bit of its charm at night as artists and flower vendors give way to the rendezvous of drug dealers and ladies of the night. According to the Barcelona Reporter, 20 percent of prostitution in the city occurs in the Raval, which borders the southern half of the passage. Still, the area is often teeming with late-night partygoers enjoying the Barcelona nightlife until daybreak.

Towards the northernmost end of the Rambla is the Plaza Catalunya, a nerve center of the city. Halfway down the avenue is the Boqueria, a huge farmers market selling everything from dried figs to squid tentacles. Here there are more tourists than actual grocery shoppers, but the color and smells of the place are enough to veer anyone from a Rambla stroll.

A walk to the end of the avenue leads to the Port Vell, the original harbor of the city constructed in medieval times when Barcelona dominated the Mediterranean trade scene. A 197-foot Columbus monument signals the end of the Rambla journey with a giant figure of Christopher Columbus pointing across the Mediterranean toward the New World.

The Rambla is dotted with crude drinking fountains looking like old-fashioned water spigots. The fountains aren’t the least bit drinker-friendly, yet like all things on the Rambla, even these have their charm. According to folklore, whoever drinks from them is destined to return.

Published in University Star, October 15, 2008, Volume 98, No. 21

Sagrada Familia - Gaudi on Nature and the New Testament

A visit to the Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, Catalonian architect Antoni Gaudí’s lifework, is like a lesson in geometry, nature and the New Testament.

The temple is one of the most visited attractions in Barcelona and received 2.4 million visitors in 2005, the same year it was proclaimed a World Heritage Site by United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization.

Barcelona is Gaudí’s art palette for his most monumental designs, but the Sagrada Família is by far the beauty mark of the city’s architecture scene. The Catalonian architect spent the majority of his sickly childhood observing the silent rules of nature. A rulebook, “which is always open and which we should make an effort to read, is that of nature,” Guadi said. Patterns drawn from shell formations, flowers and gastropods, are in constant play in each and every one of his works.

The Sagrada Família consumed Gaudí’s life until his death in 1926. The temple, which began in 1882, is still under construction and slated for completion in the next 30 years, according to the Construction Board of La Sagrada Família Foundation.

The exterior of the temple is like a sculpture storybook of the Bible, with depictions of Christ’s birth, childhood and crucifixion. The western entrance, known as the Passion Façade, greets the gawking tourist with tortuous scenes of Christ’s crucifixion. The scene includes sharp, angular interpretations of Gaudi’s original designs by atheist sculptor, Josep Maria Subirachs. To the left of the crucifixion is a scene of the Last Supper followed by a depiction of the Garden of Gethsemane. In both sides, a blocky sculpture of Gaudí sits, taking notes over the Biblical scenes.

The Nativity Façade on the east depicts the birth of Christ, Mary and Joseph’s flight to Egypt and scenes of Jesus’ childhood. Overhead, 18 looming medieval-looking towers represent the 12 disciples, four apostles, the Virgin and Christ himself.

Hexagonal pillars inside create vaulting ceilings Gaudí designed to resemble a canopy-like forest ceiling. Unfortunately, besides the ceiling and stained glass windows, the inside of the church is more of a lesson in scaffolding than Gaudí. Tarps, plaster molds and machinery fill the belly of the temple like animals in Noah’s Ark.

The natural spirit of earthen elements is drafted into everything from the vaulted ceilings to spiraling staircases that resemble snail shells. Fruit sculptures plastered with colorful mosaic tiles are perched atop temple towers to represent the fruit of the Holy Spirit. However, the sides of the facades, littered with sculptures of snakes and lizards, illustrate how close evil still lurks.

The work is far from finished, with progress sketchy because of the structure’s questionable foundation. Nonetheless, the temple is to remain one of the most beautiful symbols of Christianity in Barcelona.

-Published 10/1/08

Street Party - Barcelona

It’s the time of year in Barcelona where you can find a clown on every corner and some kind of musician, acrobat or magic show literally everyday. La Mercè, a weeklong celebration commemorating Mare del Deu de la Mercè (Barcelona’s patron saint), is the weeklong street party of 1.6 million Catalonians who call it home and thousands of who come to visit.

The Plaça de Catalunya is one of the nerve centers of the city. The Mercè scene really comes alive in the evening and night, when the nocturnal Spanish festivities are in full swing. Be sure to watch your pockets and purses. The human traffic can be as bad as New York City rush hour but exhibitions are well worth it. Saturday’s shows consisted of Uruguayan cumbia bands, African drum ensembles and acrobatic theatre each taking place in a circle of white tents, each promoting some kind of charitable organization from Amnesty International to Catalonians with muscular dystrophy.

Saturday brought one of the most notable exhibitions of Catalonian culture, the castells, a human castle-building exhibition dating back to the eighteenth century. The feat traditionally happens only a few times a year and is a must-see for the Mercè tourist. It involves a troupe of trained civilians climbing on top each other’s shoulders and heads to form different structures. A set of burly men making up the base and children as young as 5 years old top off the structure which can get as high as nine people.

Stay for a bit longer in the city’s barrio gótico (Gothic Quarter) and you might just get sprayed by firework-spewing devils and dragons during the correfoc (fire dance) where “devils” draped in black and red capes armed with sparkler-spewing pitchforks and firecrackers parade the streets. These demons don’t fear the gawking tourist in their way and spray anything in their path. Long-sleeved shirts and protective glasses are advised. If you fear fire consider watching from a distance.

If your night’s not over yet consider heading to the picturesque Castell de Montjüic, a castle built in 1640 on a looming hill just above the port of Barcelona, one of the most important ports in the Mediterranean. The location, once used to hold prisoners of the Franco era, was the scene of big bands and carnival rides from morning till nearly midnight. If you need a break take in the scenic overlook of the city atop the castle walls.

Sunday’s celebration comes to a close with a bang above Barceloneta beach –literally. Nearly a half-hour’s worth of fireworks shoot off with the back drop of the Mediterranean Sea while tourists and locals gather to watch.

The Mercè celebration ends on Wednesday, when the Spanish observe a city-wide holiday so this party is far from over.

God Just Outside My Door

At any time of day God’s not too far away for me, especially considering the 600 year-old Gothic building sitting literally right outside my door. The Iglesia de Pi is a “small” Spanish cathedral built in 1398 in what used to be the center of Barcelona, the Gothic Quarter. The building is a somber, sacred place smack in the middle of the constant Barcelona tourist chaos. Stepping into the chapel is like stepping into another level of enlightenment. Like you’re stepping into a religious center of 14th century Spain.
Most used the cathedral to fill their travel albums with pictures of the antiquity of Barcelona, but a there were a few who used the church for what it was what it was intended. Faithful Spaniards, circled the altars, drew imaginary crosses over their bodies and mumbled prayers to each one of the saints as they lit candles to honor them. I’m not Catholic, but I felt the same homage they paid.
Outside was the incessant roar of touristy mobs and a beggar jingling change in a used Starbucks cup and chanting “hola” to everyone who passed. A few other of his beggar friends sat outside asking for alms in front of the church without shame.
Inside the silence was like warm honey save for the obnoxious cameras of tourists. The walls were lined with 12 altars for saints I’d never even heard of with 18 stained-glass windows with more colors than a rainbow.
The altars were locked behind iron bars making the idols look more unreachable than ever. Not just anybody could touch them, or even light a candle in their shrines. The saints appeared as glorified as God himself. Some with mini-golden temples and cherub posies with them. Many had their own aura of candles glowing red, green or blue.
There is an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmed when you’re in this place. Like seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time, or realizing just how minute we are in the scheme of life. It was like a constant feast for the eyes; a column here, a mosaic of stained glass there, the paganistic- looking altars of dead saints. The faint smell of burning wax circled the room like second-hand smoke.
For the first time since I’d been in Barça I felt absolute peace. Something that the saturation of my senses could not bring. Something that traveling miles to live in another world would never bring. A peace you only get when you step away from the tired quick-fix prescriptions for peace. Finally, I’d found it… and then I fell asleep on the pew where I was sitting.

Absorbing the Shock

Anyone who’s traveled internationally has experienced it. Feeling like you’re the only one that speaks your language wears your clothes or looks like you. Since my journey here spans across months, there are a few different stages I am prepared to handle. Scarcely into my first week of Barcelona life and I’m already able to arrange my thoughts as some form of culture shock or other and brace for what’s ahead.

Culture shock strikes people in many different ways and forms but there are four distinctive phases we all go through. The first stage, wonderlust, begins the moment you breathe in the air of your new country. Much like children with new toys, you want to spend every moment exploring every crevice and function of the place you are to call “home.” Throw in a heavy dose of jet lag and this makes for very exhausting first week, trust me. Guadi, tapas and Gothic churches had me salivating to see more of this amazing place called Spain. I was intrigued by the curious lisp of the Spanish and linguistic enchantment of Catalan, Barcelona’s official language and couldn’t blink an eye.

After exchanging my dollars for depressing amounts of Euros and using my garbled Español to make my way around town I foresaw another stage of culture shock looming on the horizon- frustration. Here’s the toughest part about being abroad I tell you. You begin to compare things as they were back home, which can make you depressed or even angry and leave you tallying the days until your return flight. It can be aggravating to get used to a culture that lives with nearly zero personal space. Everyday is an adjustment from hearing your neighbor’s toilet flush, to smelling their paella cooking and watching their underwear flop around on the clothesline – for some it can be a daunting process.

In time, or with a changing of worldviews, you can gradually accept this as your way of life. In the few month’s I’m abroad I know I will never refer to myself as a Spaniard, but I know that my accent will change, my eating and sleeping habits will accommodate the nocturnal Spanish life, passive European-paced lifestyle and scrumptious Mediterranean cooking.

I love it such that in the final stage of culture shock, returning home probably will come by surprise. In the absence of all I’ve come to accept as real-life I’ll suddenly back in the American rat-race of fast-food, diesel trucks and Wal-Marts, most of which probably won’t fill the absence of the love affair I’m forming with this country.

In the end, I know that to experience everything a culture has to offer one must learn to leave their cultural baggage at home. One must realize that just because something is different doesn’t mean it’s not normal; it’s just not normal for you. There’s no magic prescription to cure culture shock, but like any adventure it must be lived and appreciated for everything it brings, the laughs, the jeers and ultimately, new pathways of thought.

- Published in Texas State University Star 9/17/08

Sitges Beaches - empty the stresses and fill the senses

My travels today brought me to a beach in a small touristy beach town called Sitges, where old men wear Speedos and young women swim topless. Food peddlers and immigrants trying to make a euro off incessant tourism flock to the beaches like seagulls to stale bread.

Back home I know the last thing people want to see is more water, but here I am basking in the sun and listening to the lull of the Mediterranean while my fellow Houstonians retreat from fire-ant infested sewage.

Gay men gather on the shoreline like washed up starfish, but all is the better because there’s less of a reason to be worried about weird Europeans trying to be flirtatious.

My roommate has choosen to go topless (a feat I have yet the courage to attempt) and bounce around in the salty waves. The water is frigid at first and reminds me much of the spring-fed San Marcos river.

Strangely, here there are no seagulls so the only sounds are the singing of the ocean, the sing-song conversations of the Spaniards and the soft hawking of immigrants. The calm here is much what you’d find elsewhere in España – a relaxed, quiet space to empty your stresses and flood the senses.

My mind continues to revert back to our conversation with Anna last night. In case I haven’t explained (which I’m sure I haven’t yet), Anna is our host mom, a short, curly-haired, delicate artist of a woman who creates and sells lamp fixtures out of her store called Fingerprints. Her face is a crisscross of very gentle laugh lines surrounded by a bush of brownish gray poodle-like curls. Her eyes are the color of black coffee but light up with every smile, kiss and laugh. She has a smile like the sun, laughs with every breath and sees the beauty of everything in life. But back to the discussion. We conversed in Spanish for nearly three hours about the existence of God, evil and destiny. I didn’t agree with too much that was said, but continued to nod my head and grin to show that I understood.

Intermixed with the philosophy Anna exposed some of the innermost levels of her thinking. She mentioned much of an artists life is “sola,” always trying to be different. But that still made me think that in some way, everything is an art and life is nothing but a canvas.

The Tapa Mystery Explained (no it doesn't mean "lid")

So, for all of you Texicans who don’t know what a Spanish tapa is you don’t understand you are missing experiencing one of the greatest things about being Spanish/of Spanish decent.

Tapas are small but flavor-packed Spanish mini-meals usually eaten between main meals to power the Spaniard through the day and nocturnal lifestyle. Even just three of them can be enough to constitute a fourth meal. This is acceptable, since the Spanish are known for their mini-meal mania. Breakfast is a mini-meal, followed by fruit mini-meals and tapa sittings until lunch around 2 p.m. or dinner at 10 p.m.

Tapas come in as many shapes and sizes as their literal meaning – lids. All come with a tiny slice of baguette-style bread at the bottom of a tiny tower of food kept together by a tiny wooden stake. Included you’ll find anything from freshly-sliced tomatoes, chunks of swiss cheese, bacon, shrimp or even pineapple served cold and always fresh.

While they might be very nice to behold atop a counter or behind a display glass, on your plate the pretty little thing can very quickly become a mess. Without the wooden pick to hold it in place the food heap slips or squishes off the bread and waits for you to retrieve it with a finger or bread crust. But Tapas are much like Reeses, there’s no wrong way to eat them.

Airport Goodbyes

Saying goodbye to my parents was like stretching blood vessels out of my heart. I could feel the snap, pull and breakage of the life lines, of saying goodbye to the two people who have sustained and supported me for the past 21 years.

I left with an emotion as raw as a punctured vein, all the while knowing I was doing the right thing. But was I ready? No, not at all. But I will see them in three months.

Here I am, waiting; listening to the pitter-patter of carry-on luggage wheels as they carry tiny capsules of people’s lives into the bellies of aircraft that will carry them to all corners of the earth.

I saw a girl at the top of the escalators, just before the boarding gate with a face crinkled into a hundred tiny wrinkles. Tears flooded her face and soaked into the plush ears of a giant stuffed bear she clutched with a grip of death. In her left hand she pinched a checkered handkerchief used intermittently with the bear to wipe away snot and tears. I felt a throb in the middle of my chest that told me I was that exact little girl, just ten years older. I was that same little girl inside, standing at the top of the escalator wiping away sad, hot tears.

- Written Sept. 9, 2008 at IAH waiting to board BA194 for Barcelona Spain

Texican vs. Why Don't You Know Spanish?

When people ask I usually tell them I speak it. I pronounce my last name with strong "o's" and and flip of my tongue for the "r" but no matter how many novellas I can watch and understand or how many Juanes songs I know the words to, nothing can replace the fact that my speaking Spanish speaking ability is hugely defective.
I've spent the last few days pouring over Spanish textbooks, grammar books and dictionaries in a frantic effort to perfect a language that my grandparents speak, my parents speak and is often the code for telling secrets around non-speakers. Kitchen language is what I sometimes call it because it's the language that splurts out of our Texican mouths at almost any family dinner, birthday or holiday with lots of eating involved. Even though the language holds a dear place in my heart, unfortunately it only has a small place in my brain.
Growing up biculturally has distinct advantages, but growing up monolingual when typical Americans expect someone with my last name to speak Spanish can be a difficult burden. Hispanics who expect all Hispanics to speak Spanish, can often deliver the worst verbal blows to our cultural self-esteem. "Why don't you speak Spanish?" "Didn't your parents ever teach you?" "Aren't your parents from Mexico?" "You're not a real Mexican if you don't know Spanish." "You don't have an identity without a language."
To all of you Hispanic who have heard these arguments time and time again, I feel for your annoyance. I'm usually armed with any number of responses: first, no, my parents aren't from Mexico (in fact you'd have to go back three generations for any record of border crossing); secondly, my parents rarely speak to me in Spanish; and third I've tried to learn the language.
I think more so what those Hispanics fear is not your language ability, but your acculturation. They feel that if you're not with them, well then you must be against them trying to acculturate the entire Hispanic-American population with your limited Spanish proficiency and it's a shame that you are the way you are. What they fail to understand is that cultural identity takes on so many different shapes, sounds and colors, especially from a Tejano perspective. It's made up of a dense tapestry of shared experiences, history and location. Take a lot of Mexico, mix in some ranchero/cowboy, Indian and throw in a handful of Americanisms and the official Spanglish language and you've got Tejano culture - a sweet fusion of experiences.
While my Spanish impairments might hinder me from getting a job, I'm at no risk of an impaired identity. Would it be fair to say a mute person is less American because they can't speak? Where I do agree that language is a significant part of one's identity, I believe that one's knowledge of cultural traditions, history and shared experiences make up a greater part of that identity. When you don't have those, only then are you at risk of losing yourself.

Answering the Why Question

Most people are wondering if I'm ready. Most people question if I'll get homesick. But the looming question on everybody's minds is why? Why Spain and why for so long?
First off, I've dreamed of going to Spain since I first learned that I had Spanish blood in my ancestry. I used to write reports about Spain and even tried Spanish cooking when I was 10.
I have a very biased opinion that Spanish is God's language, but unfortunately for me, I grew up on a strange dialect of Tex-Mex Spanglish. So, I'm taking this trip abroad to immerse myself in a very natural second language.
Perhaps more than anything though I hope that this trip abroad will help me to learn more about myself. Studying abroad is as much a study of academics as it is of oneself. Even the smallest journey is like a crash course on learning how to react in different situations, in different languages in under different cultural constraints. There's something to be said about removing yourself from everything you've ever known to be familiar and landing splat into the unknown. After living in Washington D.C., traveling to New York, Mexico and New Zealand it's almost become like a addiction - like a frenzy to see, hear and taste even the tiniest corner of the globe. I've been bitten by the travel bug and the reactions are hard to shake.
I pity the person who's never had the desire to move past the smallest levels of familiarity to explore something unknown. I pity the person who's never so much as ventured into the pages of a travel magazine or wanted to expand their mind to anything beyond typical Americanisms. Our world is constantly shrinking becoming more and more connected. In seconds we can connect to India, London and Zaire all the same time using nothing but our fingertips. To have an edge in any job market you almost have to have familiarity with different worldviews.
I believe this experience is the opportunity of lifetime, the kind of adventure that everyone wishes they had when they look back on their college lives. I've got no kids, financial troubles or mortgages to pay. My family has long since delivered me into God's hands and let me make my decisions as the wind carries me. So my answer to the why question is that it's now, right now, because if not now, then who knows when?