She's a Darling, She's a Demon, She's a Lamb

It's a busy week, between attempting to study for my two midterms and planning for my upcoming trip to Madrid (3 DAYS!) and the arrival of my family (5 DAYS!). Until this semester, I never knew how much time and effort is involved in planning a trip. But it's an exciting process and the results are worth it, so I'm not complaining.

Anyway, without further ado, I present more of my reflections about Spain...

Stereotypes: We are all told that it's bad to stereotype, but the truth is, stereotypes usually come from some kernel of truth and can be useful in painting a broad, though generalized, picture of a country. Let's explore some common stereotypes about Spain to distinguish the myths from the reality.

• Spanish men are very forward: Yes. Piropos are whistles, hisses, and catcalls ranging from “guapa” ("good-looking") to "que culo!” ("what a nice ass!") that men make towards women. They are an accepted part of the culture, and while they're basically harmless, I find them awkward and annoying. Also, if you’re a foreign girl and a Spanish guy strikes up a conversation with you, you can bet he’ll ask if you have a boyfriend within the first ten minutes. Not that it matters much, since saying “yes” will not deter him.
• Spanish men are very short: Yes. Several times a day I pass men on the street who actually make me feel tall. This is great for my body image.
• Spaniards are lazy: Kind of. I think people think of Spaniards as lazy because of their famous “siesta,” but I actually don’t think it’s that common to siesta nowadays, at least not in the winter. But it is true that they don’t work as much as Americans. Everything shuts down from 2 to 4 PM daily for lunch (the big meal of the day) and on Sundays. Women get 4 months off after having a child. Some employers give 2 weeks off to employees after they get married. And that’s on top of the standard 1 month of vacation time they receive each year. My friend said her senora’s son-in-law came over for lunch one day and was complaining about how long and tiring his workday was. Just how long was his strenuous workday? 6:30 AM to 2:30 PM. And no, he wasn’t going back to work in the evening. It’s no wonder Spain’s economy is in the dumps- they never work!
• Spaniards are very fashionable: Kind of. True, I have yet to see a Spaniard on the street in sweatpants or flip-flops and the vast majority always look very put together (think nice jeans, leather boots, leather jackets, scarves). But I suspect this is a first-world metropolitan thing and the same is probably true of most New Yorkers. Maybe Spain has fewer slobs, but I don’t think they are so far ahead of the U.S. in terms of style that a visiting American has to stress over his/her wardrobe, as I was made to believe before I arrived. The exception is children: Spanish children are always dressed to the nines. In fact, they look more like dolls than human beings who run and play and spill grape juice on themselves.
• Spaniards smoke a lot: Yes. Men, women, professors, the homeless, senior citizens, kids who look like they’re thirteen- no discrimination here! I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve found the perfect bench on which to eat my lunch in a sunny spot of a patio in the university, sat down, and no less than three bites into my bocadillo, someone plops himself on the other side of the bench and lights a cigarette. Now there's a perfect way to ruin someone's lunch break.
  
• Spaniards drink a lot: To be honest, I haven’t gone out enough to judge this, but from what little I’ve seen and heard, I’m inclined to say it’s true. Since liquor licenses are not needed, every grocery store sells alcohol, and Cruzcampo, the national beer, is the cheapest (alcoholic or non-alcoholic) drink available. Likewise, almost all cafeterías (cafes) also double as cervecerías (bars), and these cafeterías/cervecerías can be found on every street corner. You can just as easily find people sipping a beer seated outside one of these operations at breakfast time as you can in mid-afternoon. And then there’s the infamous botellón, the Spanish version of pre-gaming that takes place in plazas and parks before college-aged Spaniards hit the bars and discotecas (clubs).
• Spanish cuisine has a lot of olive oil: Yes, that would be an understatement. I know olive oil is supposed to be good for you, but do they not have the saying, “All things in moderation” in Spanish? Literally every dish, from a simple salad to a plate of rice with meat, is swimming in a nice, thick layer of olive oil. I even have a friend whose senora pours olive oil on her oranges! Come on, people- I know it's hard to hear over the din of your boasting about the benefits of a Mediterranean diet, but I think I hear your arteries whimpering in the background as they die a slow and painful death.
  
• Spaniards love ham: Yes. Jamon iberico (Iberian ham) is prominently featured on the menu at every restaurant, along with a million other varieties of ham. In most restaurants and bars, you can find entire legs of ham hanging from the ceiling, waiting to be sold. There is a chain of grocery stores called "El Jamon." In Aracena, we even saw a sign for a Museo de Jamon (Museum of Ham). (Sadly, we didn't have time to go.)
• Spaniards are dark, like Latin Americans: No. The physical make-up of the Spanish population seems pretty similar to that of the Caucasian American population. At first, this surprised me greatly, but then I remembered that Spaniards are Caucasians, being Europeans. Skin tones vary greatly, and while blondes are not as common as brunettes, they do exist. (Caveat: It is very possible that the blondes are dyed, and red-heads are few and far between.) On several occasions, I've been walking behind someone and was convinced that she was an American based on her looks, until she speaks and it becomes clear she's a Spaniard.
• It's always sunny and warm in southern Spain: No. I know this year was an outlier (see my earlier post about "The rain in Spain") but even in general, Andalucia experiences seasons, and anybody who comes to Sevilla in January with sunscreen instead of an umbrella will be in for a surprise. However, I've noticed that when it's not rainy, the sun's usually beaming and the sky is unnaturally blue and cloudless. There aren't too many in-between days.
  
• Spain is the land of bullfights: Not really. While there is still a core group of bullfighting aficionados who buy season tickets and fawn over toreros (bullfighters), they are mostly middle-aged and elderly people and do not represent the majority of the Spanish population. I have yet to meet a person under the age of 30 who likes bullfighting. There are political debates over whether bullfighting should be outlawed altogether, with one side arguing that it is animal cruelty and the other maintaining that it's an important cultural tradition.
  

Questions: Just some things I've wondered based on my observations of daily life in Sevilla.

• Why does milk not need to be refrigerated and expire so late (months after it is purchased)?
• Why do clothes expand in the wash?
• Why are most cologne commercials in English, when everything else on TV is in Spanish?
• Why are stop signs in English, when all other street signs are in Spanish?
  
• How many millions of Euros would the Spanish health care system save if Spaniards washed their hands after using the restroom, quit smoking, and ate a little less olive oil?
• Why are commercial breaks longer (6 minutes seems to be standard) and less frequent (once in a 30-minute program) than in the US? (I would think that the advertising industry would have figured out the most efficient length/spacing of commercial breaks by now. Or are different strategies more effective with different populations?)
  

Visual Curiosities: Things in Sevilla that I have chuckled and rolled my eyes at, captured on camera so you can too.

Cannibalism is popular in Spain. (Or, "The hilarious results of shoddy translation.")

Who's brilliant idea was it to build streets so narrow that pedestrians have to flatten themselves against buildings as vehicles attempt to squeeze by? This would never work in the US, since our cars are bigger and our people are fatter and always in a hurry.

I'm really curious why all stop signs in Spain are in English, considering not many Spaniards are fluent in English and all other road signs are in Spanish. My friend has a theory that the US manufactured too many back in the 50's so we sold our extras to Spain for cheap.

"Help, I'm lost!" "Okay, where are you?" "I'm at the corner of Madrid and Madrid." "What the...?! Okay, forget it, you're screwed." *Bursts into tears*

Beware of children and toasters!

Alright, folks- that's all for today! Have any questions about Spain or stereotypes you've heard that you'd like me to address? Leave me a comment and I'd be happy to answer!

Whooah, We're Halfway There

In the past week, I have started on my annual flip-flop tan (okay, and the awkward glasses one), met and interacted with Spaniards sans awkwardness, worked up the courage to tell my senora that I don't want two courses plus bread at dinner every night, eaten at an Indian restaurant, read some excellent Roald Dahl short stories in Spanish, and tried to hold back laughter as my senora sang along, "Se-pa, se-pa," to the song "Sex Bomb" that was playing on TV. In short, life is good.

Today is the 2-month anniversary of my arrival in Spain, which means half my time here is up. I feel like I've been here for much longer than 2 months, but when I think about it in terms of half a semester, it feels like less. (Maybe that's a reflection of how minimal the role of schoolwork is in my life here? Haha...) Since my life here is relatively void of academics and other serious concerns, I've had plenty of time to reflect and thus have accumulated a sizable collection of reflections- enough for two blog posts, in fact. In honor of today being the midpoint of my study abroad time, I'll go with the "glass half-full/glass half-empty" theme for this post and share the things that enchant me and annoy me most about life in Spain.

The glass is half-full (or "Things I Love About Life in Spain"):

• Walking a lot, as long as it’s not raining
• Feeling metropolitan as I walk through the city
• Feeling independent as I make and execute travel plans
• Feeling accomplished when I understand short stories in Spanish, or anything in Spanish for that matter (newspaper articles, TV shows, ads on TV, signs posted in public places)
• The romantic glow of the city on a warm night
• Waking up and being confused for a second about why my senora left the light in the living room on all night, then realizing it’s just sunlight streaming through the window
• The smell of incense mixed with something indescribable (probably alcoholic) outside a particular tapas bar I pass on my way to class
• The “Que Queso” ad on TV
• My senora’s cocido, pasta, and lentil soup
• Eating two pieces of fruit a day. I’m sure that immediately upon my return to the States, I will go on a junk food binge, but eventually I would like to reinstate this fruit thing as a lifelong habit.
• Watching the news everyday during meals. Another habit I should continue in the States, although probably not during meals.
• Weekly Skype sessions with my family
• Long facebook and e-mail messages to/from friends from home
• Having a lot of “me” time / not being surrounded by my peers 24/7 like in college. (As much as I love them, I have realized I enjoy periods of solitude.)
• Having a few lovely and diverse friends to enjoy outings with, and especially one who makes me laugh/keeps me sane/I can vent to. (I believe that having a friend with this combination of traits is essential no matter where you are.)
• Having a surplus of free time to fill with strolling through parks, reading and writing for pleasure, visiting museums, getting lost in my thoughts, etc.

It depends on whether you're pouring or drinking (or "Bittersweet Aspects of Life in Spain"):

• Feeling financially responsible, but also feeling poor when I realize how expensive little things that I always took for granted are, especially when I mentally multiply by 1.5 to convert to dollars.
• The complete and utter lack of drama in my life. No social tension or losing sleep over exams is great for my peace of mind and blood pressure, but I admit, I miss the adrenaline rush involved with those things a little.
• The fact that people here probably think I’m an idiot. I know it sounds like an obviously negative thing, but it means I have nothing to lose, reputation-wise. If I ask a stupid question or do something socially awkward, anyone who notices will probably just blame it on the fact that I’m a foreigner and brush it off. It’s actually quite liberating.
• Having absolutely no incentive to look good. Also liberating on a daily basis, but I do enjoy the occasional college formal or Indian party that involves going all out in the looks department. One of these days I will have to get all fancied up and parade around El Centro as though I’m going somewhere important just to satisfy my craving.
• The Internet. I love that it connects me to the people I love (see above section) and more importantly to TextsFromLastNight (kidding!), but it is definitely a curse in that whenever I have access to it, I invariably waste vast amounts of time surfing the net. Every time I’m online, there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head saying, “You’re only in Spain for a precious 4 months; why are you wasting it on the Internet?” And yet, it’s like an addiction. I think part of the reason it’s so hard for me to do anything else when I have an Internet connection is because I didn’t have Internet in my homestay for the first few weeks, so when I first started getting some intermittent connection, I was ecstatic and spent every possible minute online. Now I have Internet fairly consistently, but unfortunately that hoarding attitude has stuck.

The glass is half-empty (or "Things I Hate About Life in Spain"):

• Having no control over what, when, or how much I eat. Don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate everything my senora does for me and I’m sure people who have to cook for themselves on a daily basis will think I’m an ungrateful brat for saying this, but sometimes conforming to the meal habits of another person and another culture can be a pain. I hate having three square meals a day instead of being able to skip meals at whim or just walk into the kitchen and snack whenever I want. I hate that she doesn’t ask whether I like the food, and when I do compliment the dishes I particularly like, I get no reaction. I hate eating dinner at 9:30 PM. I hate the rice-in-meat-broth dish my senora occasionally gives me, because a) if it’s not Asian food, I don’t like rice in it, and b) when I say I don’t eat meat, that includes meat broth.
• Being a guest for four months. I know I’m supposed to feel like this is my home and my senora’s constantly telling me that I should feel comfortable here and call her “mamá,” but the fact of the matter is that this is her home, not mine. It can't be home, since I simply don’t feel comfortable buying a tub of ice cream and storing it in the freezer. I never turn the volume on my iTunes above 12% or sing out loud. I make my bed only out of fear that if I don’t, she will. I’m conscious about how long I spend in the shower, the order in which I eat my food, how much laundry I go through in a week, when I get up from the dinner table.
• Speaking English with my fellow study-abroad students. Very few make an effort to speak Spanish, and it’s hard for me to keep up a conversation in Spanish when the other person responds in English. Seriously people, if I wanted to practice my English I would have stayed at Penn State.
• Not having any Spanish friends. Unfortunately, the only Spaniards who seem interested in meeting American women are men with romantic intentions. Since I don’t have classes with Spaniards nor any other established means of interacting with them, it’s very difficult to meet non-sketchy ones. Like all students in my study abroad program, I was assigned an intercambio, which is a student from the University of Seville who is interested in befriending an American and practicing English. The first intercambio I was assigned never responded to my e-mails, so I requested a second one, who responded once but cut communication after that. I guess I just radiate repulsive vibes. At this point, I am so desperate for a Spanish friend that I’m considering sitting on a park bench with a giant sign on my forehead that reads, “American student seeking Spanish friend. You don’t have to be interesting or funny or even particularly nice; just speak Spanish and don’t hit on me!”

Well, regardless of whether the glass is half-full or half-empty, making this list has served as a looking glass for me and hopefully as a magnifying glass into my life for my distant readers.

Coming soon: Myth-busting, eye-rolling, and full-out ranting in regards to Spanish culture!

People of the World, Spice Up Your Life // Granada, Tierra Soñada Por Mi

This weekend I can finally catch up on blogging, as it is the first in three weekends that I am not traveling. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm ready for a break! (Wait, did I just say I'm ready for a break from fun? Oh no, I'm sounding like my mother- someone smack me!) In the span of a week, I was in four cities, three countries, and two continents. My previous blogpost described my Moroccan adventure; in this one, I will recount my travels to Gilbraltar and Granada which took place last weekend. Both of these trips were included as part of my study abroad program, so they included information sessions/guided tours and less stress.

Gibraltar

It was a three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Gibraltar. Well, to the border between Spain and Gibraltar, to be precise. The car traffic into and out of Gibraltar is horrendous (as was mentioned in the information session we attended, a 2-hour backup on the main street that connects Gibraltar with the neighboring Spanish town of La Linea is common) so the bus dropped us off on the Spanish side of the border and we walked across. I didn't think it was possible, but customs in Gibraltar was even more lax than in Morocco: we simply flashed out passports at officials and nobody even pretended to scan our bags. (I was slightly disappointed that they didn't stamp our passports, as I'm going for the most-decked-out-passport award.) Then, to get to the main town, we had to cross the runway of the most pathetic little airport I've ever seen (I think they only have flights to London and Madrid), which sounds cool since not many people can say they've walked across a functioning runway, but is actually incredibly inconvenient since all car and pedestrian traffic has to stop and wait for 15 minutes every time a plane is taking off or landing. Whose brilliant idea was that?


After finally entering Gibraltar, we headed to the Chamber of Commerce where a man gave us a presentation about the history and economy of Gibraltar- in English, and that too with a British accent! (Thank goodness for that, because the entry process was so casual I barely felt like I was in another country!) We learned that Gibraltar is only about 6.5 square kilometers big, has 28,000 inhabitants, and has no natural resources. It has been British property since 1713, although Spain still claims Gibraltar belongs to it. I think Spain should just give up, since 99% of Gibraltarians want Gibraltar to remain a part of the UK.

After the info session, we had about two hours of free time to explore the 6.5 square kilometer chunk of the UK. No, I didn't see the famous apes (we didn't have enough time to go to the top of the Rock) and no, I couldn't see Africa (it was an overcast day), but it was my first time in the UK and I wasn't about to leave without doing several classic touristy things.

I actually had to wait a while to find an empty one of these cute red phone booths. Who knew people actually use them to make phone calls and not just to snap photos in?

Fish and chips! (Not for me, being a vegetarian of course, but that didn't stop me from getting a picture while my friends ate it. They informed me that it was everything they had dreamed it would be.)

It's a little hard to see in this picture, but the red writing on that stand says "Chicken Tikka Rolls." I think curry, and chicken tikka in particular, is runner-up for the UK's National Dish.

Cute little street signs! They look crazy, but after two months in Spain where no such signs exist, I was very grateful for them.

There was a little free glass-blowing museum where we got to watch people make vases and marvel at pretty little glass things we couldn't afford.

As we learned in the info session, there is a decent Indian population in Gibraltar, and from the looks of it, they own 95% of the shops there.

I lied: Technically I did see one Gibraltarian ape. He must have escaped from the top of the Rock and was just monkeying around the town part.

In case it wasn't obvious from the geography, this sign indicates that you can't go anywhere but Spain from Gibraltar by land.

Granada

Early the next morning, we set off for Granada, which is also a 3-hour bus ride from Sevilla. Granada is a city located at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains in Andalucia. It is famous for the Alhambra, which is a giant palace/fortress built by the Muslim kings in the 14th century. The Muslims invaded and ruled this part of Spain (Andalucia, then "Al-Andalus") from 711 to 1492 A.D. During that time, the capital of Al-Andalus was moved from Cordoba to Sevilla and finally to Granada before the Catholic kings reconquered the land in 1492. As legacies of Muslim rule, Cordoba has its Mesquita (mosque) and Sevilla has its Alcazar, but both of these were partially destroyed and reconstructed by the Catholic kings when they regained control of Andalucia. The Alhambra is unique in that it is the only major testament to the Muslim rule in Spain that is still in its original form today.

And yet, having lived for the past six weeks in homestays where we are forced to shower in under 10 minutes, eat whatever food our senoras make, and live solitary lives in which we cannot invite friends over to hang out (I know, it's a rough life), many of us might have been looking forward to the hotel we'd be staying at in Granada more than the Alhambra.

Our hotel room! So ecstatic that our program fee paid for this.

Lunch at the hotel buffet! My first paella ever + my first french fries in 2 months + my first melted cheese in 2 months = heavenly.

Immediately after lunch we got a tour of the famous Alhambra.

Posing in one of many rooms in the Alhambra with my travel buddies and roommates for the night. Note the colored tiles and Arabic script (verses from the Koran, most likely), both of which are typical of Arabic architecture.

These intricate designs look like carved marble but are in fact molded plaster. It was a shortcut the Muslims used to achieve the same amazing effect.

View of the town that lies in the valley below from the Alhambra

Central patio in the Alhambra, where visiting ambassadors and other important figures would wait before the king received them in the room straight ahead


This sign says, "Washington Irvin wrote in these rooms his Tales of the Alhambra in the year 1829." A couple rooms in the Alhambra are set up as an exhibit dedicated to the American author.

The gardens of the Alhambra are equally elaborate and fascinating.

After the Alhambra, we walked the short distance to the Generalife, a somewhat smaller (but still huge) palace also constructed in the 14th century by the Muslim kings. I believe it was used as the summer palace/estate of the kings. Pennsylvanians have beach houses in Jersey; the Muslim kings had the Generalife.

Water is a prominent motif in the Generalife, since it was not only visually appealing but also refreshing in the hot Andalucian climate.

I just can't get enough of these intricately designed arches!

Just as we were about to leave the Generalife, a bunch of people arrived with flags and banners and started a protest! It turns out there was an important summit going on in Granada that very weekend and the people of a region called Sahara were protesting for freedom from Morocco. Zapatero, the president of Spain, was even there, but unfortunately I didn't get to see him.


After the tours of the Alhambra and Generalife, we were treated to hot tea and sweets in an Arabic-style teashop. Well, the teashop was going for an Arabic theme, but I caught the song "Nimbooda" from "Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam" playing! Tsk-tsk. The tea was okay (not sweet or flavorful enough for my liking) but the sweets were delicious, probably because they reminded me a lot of Indian sweets. I swear one was a మడత కాజ. Mmm... my mouth is watering just thinking about it.

After tea, we wandered into several nearly-identical little touristy shops that sold tapestries, lamps, table runners, pillow covers, teapots, and a million other decorative items. Like the tea shop, everything seemed to be going for the Arabic theme (since its Arabic history is Granada's big claim-to-fame), but in fact looked very Indian.

Tell me these aren't salwar tops.

I began to suspect that all these lovely trinkets with a South Asian flavor were actually imported from India. And...

I was right!

After realizing that I could get all of these gorgeous goodies for a tenth of the cost in India, I left the shops and decided to check out Granada's Museum of Contemporary Art with Laura. Now, I admit I'm not the most profound person around when it comes to interpreting art, but I think I'm fairly open-minded and easy to please. I've never been to an art museum that I didn't at least mildly enjoy... and this museum was no exception. However, my enjoyment there came in the form of witty retorts and hearty laughter rather than awe and admiration. All of the exhibits in the museum were videos. Many were of moving colored shapes and blobs. Few had sound. One was of a solemn-looking man painting his face and torso white, then pink, then green.

This is a silent video of a man painting the walls and floor of a small room, first red, then orange, then yellow, and so on until he gets to purple. This is my friend Laura with her "This is art?" face.

Following our free time in Granada, we returned to the hotel for dinner (where I ate my first banana in 2 months! oh the little pleasures I miss...) and retired to our room for the night.

The next morning, we had a brief tour of the Albaicin area, which is the best-preserved neighborhood in Granada from the days when it was ruled by Muslims. There you can get arguably the best view of the Alhambra and the Generalife.

View of the Alhambra from the Mirador de San Miguel

View of the Generalife from the Mirador de San Miguel

Our last stop in Granada was the Capilla Real, a cathedral where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel are buried, which makes sense because their big accomplishment was reconquering Andalucia from the Muslims, and Granada was the last capital of the Muslims in Spain.

The royal crown on display in the Capilla Real. I still have a hard time comprehending the fact that kings used to wear this same hunk of metal that I was a mere few inches from.

After the Capilla Real, we headed back to the hotel for one last glorious buffet lunch, hopped on the bus, and returned to Sevilla. Between British accents, Muslim palaces, Catholic kings, and signs of India everywhere, it was a wonderful, action-packed weekend.

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PS- I have been informed that some of my readers were not aware that they can comment directly on my blog posts, so I'd like to make everyone aware of that. To comment, simply click on the hyperlink that says "# comments" just below this, scroll down, and you should see a box that says, "Post a comment." In the "Comment as" tab, select "Name/URL" and you will be able to type your name (a URL is not needed). All comments are welcome and appreciated!

My Independence Day

I know it sounds impossible to feel nostalgic about something that only ended ten hours ago and lasted less than three days, but looking through the photos I just uploaded to my computer, that’s approximately how I feel about my Morocco trip. I haven’t yet checked to see if my souvenirs survived the journey back, there’s probably still sand from the beach of Tanger stuck to my feet, and it might even be too early to say for sure that I didn’t get sick from the trip, but I am so eager to write about it that I couldn’t wait. I could easily write pages and pages about the weekend, but so as not to bore my readers, I will attempt to at least keep this post organized, if not concise.

Not-so-Great Expectations

First, it is important to put this trip into context, contexts being the price we paid and our expectations. Most American students who visit Morocco from Spain go through one of two companies which charge something like 200 euros for an all-inclusive 3 days/2 nights package deal. My friend Laura, an expert Googler, found a company called Amarruecos that offered a round-trip ferry between Tarifa and Tanger and 2 nights in a hotel in Tanger for only 60 euros. At that price, I was expecting to be shipped over in crates and housed in a dingy cell without beds or hot water in a shady part of town at best. At worst, there was always the possibility that Amarruecos didn’t exist and the whole thing was a scam. It didn't include guided tours, but that was fine since we weren't keen on riding camels or going to nice restaurants anyway. We wanted to explore the city ourselves, for whatever it was worth.

About a week ago, while researching in preparation for the trip, I stumbled upon this website, which pretty much had me convinced that I would not make it out without being pickpocketed, molested, or talked into buying an outrageously priced rug. On top of that, a friend told me her brother had been assaulted while visiting Morocco. All of a sudden, the idea of two girls alone in Tanger for two days seemed incredibly stupid. In general, I expected Morocco to be very similar to India, probably because it’s the only third-world country I was familiar with, but my parents don't even trust me to go to India alone, and at least there I speak the language and fit in somewhat. And here I was headed to Morocco.

Anyway, Amarruecos had been paid, bus tickets had been purchased, and there was nothing to do but take precautions to stay as safe as possible. Based on what I had read and heard, I had decided to abide by the following rules:

1. Never trust anything or anyone (not even children or old ladies)
   
2. Dress extra conservatively
3. Eat only hot food and drink only bottled water
4. Don't take pictures of any Moroccans
5. Don't accept any services from anyone, even if they seem to be free
   
6. Wear my personal safety alarm at all times
7. Keep all important documents and money in Laura's money belt
   

The only reassuring advice I received before the trip was that Spanish would get us by in Tanger, so we nixed our original plan of learning a few phrases in French and Arabic and set off, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

I’m on a Boat

I’ve never been on a luxury cruise ship, but that’s what the boat felt like to me. There were bars where you could buy all kinds of food and drinks, a staircase that was like a modern, mini version of the one in Titanic (hey, I’m allowed to imagine!), and far more large comfy seats than people on board. Of course, the seats didn’t matter because Laura and I spent most of the 35 minute ride on the deck, where I felt less seasick and enjoyed a lovely view of the ocean. And of course, since it was my first time on a ship in the ocean, I had to do the Titanic pose. The last picture below is our first glimpse of Tanger, and coincidentally, Africa!

Adventure to the Hotel

As our boat pulled into the port of Tanger, Laura warned me to prepare myself for throngs of people peddling their services to us. I conjured up an image of the arrivals gate at the Hyderabad airport and braced myself. Instead, we were confronted by exactly one robed man who tried to convince us that we needed a guide to show us around town. When we ignored him and kept walking, much to our surprise, he didn’t follow us! As we continued through the port, we only encountered a handful of such people, none of whom pestered us to the point where we were forced to buy their services to end the annoyance.

Once we got out of the port and into the city, we pulled out our maps, which, since we’re cheap, were a couple pages printed from Google Maps and Google Images. We immediately knew we were in trouble because a) there were no street signs to be seen anywhere, and b) the majority of the people we tried asking for help did not speak English or Spanish. Everyone we asked for help along the way told us to take a taxi because it was far away, but we knew better than to trust Moroccans who just wanted our money. So for two hours we wandered around central Tanger, counting streets that branched off from plazas and asking people for help in Spanish or English and often getting responses in French or Arabic. Finally, we got to where our Google Maps print-out indicated that Hotel Tarik should have been. And in its place, we found a small restaurant. I almost cried. Laura was hungry. My back killed from the stuffed backpack I was lugging around. After a few more minutes of frustration and confusion, wondering if it was possible for us to be at the wrong place (Had we taken a wrong turn? But there couldn’t be another plaza in Tanger with a Shell, a CMH, and a Gare… could there?) and one more try asking a group of trustworthy-looking women for help, we finally gave up our valiant quest and took the advice we had been receiving all along to take a taxi. For a terrifying moment while we tried to flag down a taxi, Laura asked me what our backup plan was if Hotel Tarik didn’t exist. I had a vision of the whole trip going down the drain and never traveling again, assuming I managed to make it out of Morocco alive. When a taxi pulled up and the driver recognized the name and street of the hotel, I almost cried tears of joy. In fifteen minutes, we were at a grand-looking hotel quite a distance from the part of town we had spent two hours wandering around. Hotel Tarik existed, but nowhere near where Google Maps had indicated. When we opened the door to our room, not only did we breathe a sign of relief, but our jaws dropped at how nice the room was. Arabic-style tiles? Check. Namaz mats? Check. View of the ocean? Check.

Moral of the story: Moroccans are more trustworthy than Google Maps. Sometimes advice meant to help you can hurt you, and sometimes advice can be 100% wrong.

The Unexpected

Because Laura and I did not want to be out after dark, we slept early and woke up early to take advantage of the daylight hours. We were told that breakfast in the hotel began at 7 AM, so when we went down for breakfast around 7:30 AM on Saturday, we were surprised that not only were we the only ones there, but the waiters were still in the process of setting up food. But we were hungry and eager to start our day, so we simply rolled our eyes at non-Americans’ laziness (a generalization based on Spain and Morocco, I should qualify), sat down and chowed down.

Then we set off for the day with our handful of maps with tourist destinations marked. We thought the Museum de la Kasbah was supposed to open at 9, but when we found it, the sign on the door said it opens at 10. So we wandered around the area, onto cliffs that overlooked the ocean, through steeply inclined alleys and what looked like slums. We marveled at how few people were out and about although it was mid-morning.While we wandered, a few children hassled us to go a different way or buy something, but we followed advice Laura had learned through her excellent Googling skills: to pretend you don't understand them and fire away at them (and carry on conversations with each other) in Gibberish. Initially I started talking to them in Telugu, but Laura was having so much fun with a very Chinese-sounding dialect of Gibberish that I quickly converted. We found children to be our most persistent hasslers (and impressively, many spoke several languages), but the Gibberish tactic turned our experiences with them into lots of fun.

When we returned to the museum around 10, the door was still closed and pounding on the door produced no response, so we wandered even more, this time towards the wealthier part of town, where we saw the French consulate, several mosques, St. Andrews church, a couple palaces, and a Muslim cemetery. Around 11 we returned to the museum and knocked again. A man opened the door, but when we tried to enter, he informed us that the museum was closed because it was a holiday- the birth of the prophet. What ensued was a morning spent finding and taking photos outside of museums that we would have gone to if they weren’t closed, going to hospitals that we assumed were tourist attractions because they were marked on our tourist maps but not being allowed to enter, and trying to ask French-speaking guards stationed outside of palaces if we were allowed to enter but being laughed at. All in all, it was a great time, and I realized that I don’t need museums or tourist attractions to entertain me in a new city- after all, everything there was new and exciting to me, and I got to explore the ordinary sites central to the lives of ordinary citizens of Tanger.

We spent the bulk of the afternoon in the medina (market), falling in love with jewelry and teapots and knock-off Louis Vuitton goods and being repulsed by meat markets and fruit stalls swarming with bees.

Then we walked to the beach, where we were the only females in sight. We watched dozens of soccer (fútbol) games being played. We collected shells. We dipped our feet in the Mediterranean, careful not to roll up our pant legs too high and show too much skin. I had the simple realization that beaches everywhere are essentially the same- the way the waves roll up and recede, the way the sand feels when you dig your toes in, the way the buildings along the shoreline look.

On Sunday morning, we showed up for breakfast around 7:50 AM, and again found that the waiters were still setting up the food. Except this time, we were told to wait ten minutes, that breakfast would open at 7:00. We tried to explain with some gestures and shoddy Spanish that it was already 7:50 but started getting suspicious. We wandered to the reception desk to check the time and confirm that we weren’t going crazy, only to find that we were- it was 6:50! Apparently there is a one-hour time difference between Spain and Morocco which we were not aware of. Suddenly, the late set-up at breakfast, the late emergence of people on the streets, and the late sunrise and sunset made sense!

Lesson learned: Look up important things like local holidays and time changes, not just testimonials about how scary a country is, before traveling.

Haggling in the Medina

I had seen my aunts do it in India and always looked on in awe, but I never thought I could do it or would be doing it at such a young age. To make a long story short, by the end of the day, my achievements included getting a 70 dirham teapot down to 55 dirhams, an 80 dirham scarf down to 50 dirhams, and a 180 dirham necklace down to 90 dirhams. I got things for half as much as they would have cost in the US and a third as much as they would have cost in Spain. I made friends with some shop owners and enemies with others all in the name of business. It was glorious.

Food

A few days before our trip, Laura and I bought jars of peanut butter and jelly and a loaf of bread because a) we’re cheap and didn’t want to eat out all the time, b) we didn’t trust the food in Morocco to not make us sick, and c) we were really craving PB&J after almost two months without it. So our first meal in Morocco, after the two-hour adventure finding out hotel, was good old PB&J sandwiches. In spite of the peanut butter being sub-par (considering the label was almost entirely in Chinese, it shouldn’t have been a surprise), it was a gourmet dinner to us.

Breakfast at the hotel was very carbalicious- a bunch of bread and croissant-like things, plus orange juice and coffee. Fortunately, we walked for approximately 17 hours total during the trip (no exaggeration), so I didn’t feel too guilty eating all those carbs.

On Saturday night, Laura and I went out for dinner. We were worried we wouldn’t be able to afford much because we were down to 88 dirhams between the two of us, which is around 8 euros. In fact, we were able to share a sizable portion of vegetable couscous and soup at a decent restaurant for 50 dH. Afterwards, we concluded that tapas are the biggest rip-off ever.

With our leftover money, we were able to enjoy some more typical Moroccan food on Sunday: mint tea, harira soup, and “crepes,” which were certainly not crepes considering they looked and tasted like parathas coated with honey and butter, but they were 6 dirhams and delicious, so we weren’t complaining.

All in all, it was a very satisfying trip that far exceeded my expectations in terms of safety, comfort, the city's charm, and the people's friendliness. Yes, it was my first time in a Muslim country or in Africa. But it was also a chance for me to prove many things to myself and to my family, some of which I wasn't even fully convinced of until I put them to the test: that I am brave enough to step outside my comfort zone, responsible enough to plan a trip, low-maintenance enough to pack all my necessities for a weekend into one backpack, and smart enough to travel safely. Standing on the deck of the ship as it sailed away from Morocco, I realized that I am the same girl who was not allowed to go to a mall without adult supervision four years ago and who hadn't been on a plane without her parents two months ago. This weekend, I set foot on a new continent, thoroughly familiarized myself with part of a new city, bargained with taxi drivers who don't speak a language I know, and fended off pestering Moroccan children in Gibberish, all with an awesome travel buddy by my side. They say the repressed kids are the ones who go crazy in college; well, maybe traveling is my own form of rebellion.