Just another manic Monday // Sur le Pont d'Avignon

Hilariously bad. A debacle. Miserable. Ridiculous. These are just a few of the ways that the first half of mine and Laura's Feria trip have been described. Again, so many memories and so much to tell. But first, some background info is necessary...

Plans

We had booked the flight to Barcelona on Ryanair about a month ago. We chose to fly in on Monday morning and fly out on Sunday morning because those were the cheapest flights within our time frame, but we knew 6 days in Barcelona would be too much, so we wanted to take a side-trip. For weeks, we figured we'd take a 2 day side-trip to either Valencia or Zaragoza (the 3rd and 5th biggest cities in Spain, respectively). But less than two weeks before take-off when we sat down to figure out logistics and finalize plans, we were torn: Valencia is bigger, on the coast, and known for paella, but Zaragoza was significantly cheaper to get to and has some major art museums. And that's when I threw out a crazy idea: why not go to France? The southernmost part of France is actually closer to Barcelona than Valencia and Zaragoza are, and that way I could see another country. (I admit, I was being selfish; Laura was going to hit Paris after the semester ends anyway.) So just for the fun of it, we searched the Eurolines website for buses to cities in southern France and found them afforable. And that's when things started spiraling out of control. Instead of sticking with southernmost France (like Perpignan or Toulouse), Laura suggested we go to Avignon because it was recommended in her Rick Steves' "Best of Europe" guidebook. I was all for it, but seeing that it would be a 7-hour bus ride, I suggested taking an overnight bus, thereby saving us precious sightseeing hours and money on lodging. She agreed and also suggested a side-trip from Avignon to the nearby town of Arles for a day, since her guidebook recommended both and said a day in each would suffice. And that's how our tame intranational vacation turned into an international adventure.

Expectations

RyanAir
It was the first time this semester that we'd be flying to our destination. As a budget airlines, I was never expecting first class service from Ryanair, but after hearing stories from several classmates who had flown on Ryanair before, I was downright terrified. I had heard horror stories about everything from being charged for bringing too much luggage to being mislead about check-in procedures and almost not being allowed to board the plane. Laura had done a quick Google search on complaints about Ryanair (don't ask me why) and the results were appalling. The previous week my mom had even told me that she had heard on the news that Ryanair would soon start charging passengers to use the bathrooms on flights; I almost invested in adult diapers. As a result of all these great reviews, we were expecting to be greeted by punches in the face and shipped to Barcelona in a flying cardboard box with homeless people as our flight attendants. All we hoped for was to get there alive, and we triple-checked everything from the weight of our backpacks to the instructions for checking in, knowing that Ryanair would take any opportunity to screw us over.

Eurolines
As Laura said, the webmaster of this pathetic excuse for a company deserves a prize. It's actually a brilliant business model because the website, one of the best European websites I've seen, makes you believe it's a quality company that you needn't think twice about choosing for your travel needs. Selecting travel dates and destinations and viewing travel costs were very straightforward, and after triple-checking that everything looked right, we bought the tickets. Well, actually Laura's laptop wasn't working, so I bought my ticket first, then she tried to buy the her ticket on my laptop. But when she tried to buy her ticket, the bus timings we had decided on weren't available. She sent the company an e-mail explaining the problem but to this day has not received a response. So she did the next best thing and bought tickets to and from Avignon with timings as close to mine as possible. However, this arrangement meant we would be separated for a few hours each time, waiting for each other in bus terminals. Also, poor Laura's timings on the return trip from Avignon to Barcelona had her leaving Avignon around 7 PM and arriving in Barcelona around 2:30 AM. Not exactly the kind of overnight timing we were aiming for. But we optimistically believed this would be a minor road bump on the way to enjoying a pleasant French town.

Barcelona
I had both high hopes for and extreme suspicion of Barcelona. Everyone I had talked to who had visited both Madrid and Barcelona said they liked Barcelona better, and considering I liked Madrid quite a bit, I was eager to see what Barcelona had in store. And obviously my hopes were high from the start since Barcelona has beaches. Yet in terms of safety, my expectations were about as low as for Morocco. Smart, sensible people I know were robbed in Barcelona, and Laura's guidebook claimed it was probably the place you're most likely to get pickpocketed in all of Europe. As in Morocco, we armed ourselves with Laura's money belt and my personal safety alarm and prayed for the best.

And so it begins...

The day started with Laura knocking on my door at 4:20 AM and me panicking at the realization that I had overslept my 3:45 alarm. We were planning to leave the apartment at 4:45, and being my paranoid (and slow) self, I had planned to shower, eat breakfast, and do a last-minute check of my packed backpack in an hour. I somehow did all of the above in record time, and we set off into the dark around 5 AM.

When we reached the Prado bus station, we realized that we had no idea exactly where the bus that would take us to the airport would come. The schedule listed the bus station as the location, but the bus station was closed, and there were dozens of little road-side bus stops in its vicinity. There were supposed to be buses every 15 minutes and we were hoping to catch the 5:15 bus, but 5:15 came and went. We desperately paced up and down the street outside the station, unable to find a stop for the airport bus. We couldn't call anyone for help because it was 5 AM and the only people we saw were men who were probably stumbling home drunk. I had a vision of having to take an overpriced taxi to the airport in order to avoid being late and screwed over by Ryanair. Finally we asked a bus driver who pointed us in the right direction- on a street that intersects the one the bus station is on. We caught the 5:30 bus just in time, arriving at a fairly deserted Sevilla airport before 6 and leaving us half an hour to kill before the check-in gate for our flight even opened. It was the first of many chunks of time we had to kill over the course of the next six days.

To our surprise, Ryanair was the smoothest part of our travels. Yes, it was pretty ghetto: our ticket was the piece of paper we had printed out when we booked the flight (we were never issued a real boarding pass), security didn't care about the 3-1-1 liquids rule (Laura got through with a zip-lock bag of liquids plus a full bottle of sunscreen), and the people who checked our tickets and passports at the beginning were the same people who checked them again at the gate where we boarded the plane. (We half expected them to run on the plane after us to be our flight attendants, but alas, that wasn't the case.) But the plane looked like your standard plane, the flight attendants were very pleasant (something we especially appreciated after three months in a country with a weak concept of customer service), and the most annoying part of the flight was that there were constant announcements on the PA system advertising food and perfumes. Very doable.

Upon arrival in the tiny, new Reus airport, we caught a bus to Barcelona. (Ryanair doesn't fly to Barcelona itself but to Reus, a small town 100 km from Barcelona whose sole purpose, as far as I can tell, is so budget airlines can get you close to Barcelona cheaply.) We bought round-trip tickets for this bus, since we'd need to take a bus back to Reus for our flight out on Sunday. The "ticket," like all the ones I've seen for buses in Spain, was a dinky receipt smaller than a playing card, so for the rest of the trip, I was paranoid about accidentally losing or ripping it up. Tip: if you ever visit Spain, bring a receipt printer and save money by printing your own own "bus tickets."

Finally in sunny Barcelona by noon, we decided to make our first day "museum day" and made our way from the bus station towards the Maritime Museum. First impressions from the streets of Barcelona: distances in Barcelona are much farther than they look on maps (whereas the opposite is true is Sevilla and even Madrid); Catalan (the regional language of Catalunya, the autonomous community in which Barcelona is located) is like an ungodly mix between Spanish and French; frankfurts and bikinis (types of sandwiches I'd never seen before) are sold everywhere; the dogs are uglier; the fashions and hairstyles are wackier; images of topless women abound; the population is ethnically diverse (although that may be inflated by tourists). An interesting city, to say the least, and completely unlike any other I've seen.

The Maritime Museum was under renovation so we could only go in certain parts, but it was worthwhile nonetheless. We learned about Barcelona's development as an important port city and the development of submarines.

I would make an excellent deep-sea diver, no?

Barcelona is full of eccentric, overpriced museums that we weren't interested in going to but wanted to see from the outside, so that's what we did next. In addition to the pictures below, there was supposedly a shoe museum with a giant shoe in front that we were never able to find.

The entrance to the Picasso Museum. I was disappointed, and I think Picasso would have been too.

Outside the Chocolate Museum. Also not that exciting, but...

We went inside the Chocolate Museum and pretended to be interested in buying tickets in order to get a look around the lobby. I snuck this picture of a sculpture of a chocolate horse-drawn carriage. Mmm... made me miss Food Network.

That's right, Museum of Erotica. Described in Laura's guidebook as "your typical European sex museum." Very helpful, since I know exactly what those are like.

After our museum tour, we were tired and wanted to hit the beach. But halfway through our trek there, we felt so exhausted that we saw a grassy patch where people were sprawled and collapsed there. With a couple guys singing and playing guitar nearby, it was a great power-nap.

When we woke up, the skies looked menacing so we nixed the beach plan and wandered to a nearby park to make our favorite travel food of all time: PB&J. Just as we were finishing up, the rain came down. Having nowhere to go, we huddled in the entryway of a municipal sports center and waited for the rain to stop. Note to self: for future travels, look up the locations and hours of public libraries so you have non-sketchy shelter in times of need.

By then it was around 8 PM and we decided to check out Port Vell, a modern waterfront harbor built for the 1992 Olympics held in Barcelona. A very contemporary looking wavy walkway called Rambla del Mar connects La Rambla (the most famous street in Barcelona, always bustling with tourists as well as locals) with Port Vell, and it's a great place to sit by the water (especially for those of us too lazy to make it to the beach). With vast amounts of time on our hands, we decided to check out the Maremagnum mall in Port Vell. What ensued was an hour in Claire's, reliving our cringe-worthy middle school fashion fads.

View of part of the coast from the Rambla del Mar. That building in the back is the World Trade Center.

Being grossly touristy, we snapped pictures in the Maremagnum mall as though we'd never seen anything like it before.

While the mall was fun, there is only so long one can spend in Claire's and H&M without buying anything, so we left around 9 PM. My bus to Avignon wasn't scheduled to leave until 11:45 PM, but it was getting dark and there was nothing open but bars and restaurants, so we decided to get dinner. We found a nice little pizza joint on La Rambla, where I had a delicious slice of goat cheese, walnut, and honey pizza. Beat that.

My dinner. Who said vegetarians can't be adventurous?

Despite our best attempts to dawdle, we left the restaurant around 10 PM and headed to the bus station. Earlier when we had arrived in Barcelona, we saw long lines outside the "International Departures" window at the bus station. Unsure whether the lines were to buy or confirm tickets, we asked someone and were informed that the lines were for people trying to buy tickets. Apparently people were waiting in lines for hours to get bus tickets northwards because their flights had been canceled due to the volcanic ash cloud. Feeling relieved that we had bought our tickets in advance, we arrived at the bus station with plenty of time to spare. The only thing we had to worry about (or so we thought) was trying to get Laura on my bus at 11:45. (Hers was scheduled to depart at 1:50 AM from the bus station on the other side of the city.) We debated whether it would be better to ask upfront about changing her bus or to just try to get on. As luck would have it, this was the first bus all semester that actually checked your reservation and exchanged your print-out confirmation for a "real" ticket. But none of this would matter for a couple hours.

Here begins the rant: First, while most bus stations are large buildings with indoor waiting areas and large covered areas with lanes for buses, Eurolines in Barcelona essentially operates out of a glorified trailer. There were three workers there and lines inched along. The international departure gate was closed at night. When we arrived and showed our tickets, instead of being directed to a line to check-in, we were told to hover in a general area outside with some French people until someone told us otherwise. 11:45 came and went. Laura and I started panicking, as we had no idea what we'd do for the night if the bus didn't show up. We started stress eating, making PB&J sandwiches right there in the sketchiest bus station on the planet. I grew hysterical from the combination of stress and sleep deprivation and laughed at everything, which turned out to be a positive coping mechanism since it prevented us from crying. I thought to myself that my parents would never have let me undertake this kind of travel plan if they knew the nitty-gritty of it. (I can write this now because it's over and I'm alive, of course.)

I took pictures in the bus station to get my mind off the stress of the situation, and because I figured that one day, we would laugh instead of cringe at these memories.

Around 12:30 AM our bus finally showed up, and I was allowed on along with the others, mostly French people. Laura was still in the station trying to convince the staff to let her on the bus. I peered out the window nervously, desperately wanting to sleep but waiting to see if Laura could get on. The French people around me talked and laughed, and I learned something new: when a large group of people near you are talking in a language you don't understand and laughing, you assume they're laughing at you and it's very intimidating. Close to 1 AM, a French man turned to me and asked what was going on with my friend. When I tried to explain, he replied, "We understand your situation but it's very selfish to hold up the whole bus when the rest of us waited in line for hours to get a ticket." Feeling the hatred of a dozen French, I tried to explain that I understood and was sorry and didn't think the delay was just because of us. Sure enough, around 1:30, Laura got on (after having been directed several different ways), but we didn't pull out of the station till almost 2 because of some issue with the bus driver. I was asleep before we left Barcelona, curled up across two seats as Laura made every effort to catch some z's across the aisle.

Little town, it's a quiet village

When I woke up, the sun had just risen and we rolling past the golden fields of southern France. Despite being slightly out of it, I thought the countryside with its occasional splotches of brown-shingled houses was undeniably beautiful. Because we had left Barcelona so late, we reached Avignon around 9 AM when the town was mostly awake instead of at a sleepy 7 AM as expected. We went first to the tourist office to pick up some maps and a "Passion Pass" that would give us discounts at tourist sights around the city. Then we stopped by our hostel, where we found out that the check-in time was noon. Until then, we decided to go cross one thing off our to-do list and headed towards the Tower of Philip the Fair. First impressions of Avignon: buildings are all beige/tan; there are lots of fancy clothing boutiques and shoe stores; all pharmacies advertise alternative medicine such as homeopathy; the word "snack" is used liberally; crepes are not as ubiquitous as I had hoped; people carrying baguettes really are everywhere; flowers are everywhere; the French don't deserve their stereotypes as rude snobs.

The way I will remember French streets: beige buildings with the only color, if any, being pale shutters; a sliver of clear blue sky above; and a pair of lovers in the corner.

After crossing the tiny town of Avignon to the tinier town of Villeneuve-les-Avignon across the river, we arrived at the Tower of Philip the Fair, which was built in 1307 to protect access to the Saint Benezet Bridge and has the narrowest spiral staircase I have ever seen. There we had our first of many awkward attempts to communicate in a mixture of French (our knowledge consisting of "bonjour," "merci," and the numbers 1 through 10) and pantomime. For a somewhat touristy town, we were surprised how few people spoke English or Spanish. (Laura told me I said, "Hablas Espanol?" in my sleep that night, which I thought was hilarious.) It was a shame we didn't know how to say "sorry" in French so we couldn't even apologize for our obnoxious failed attempts to communicate.

The Tower of Philip the Fair

Me up on the tower

After the tower, we set off in search of breakfast. We almost passed up a cute little bakery because it looked too expensive for our poor college student budgets, but we took a chance, peeked in, and fell in love. I got a pastry called a brioche and coffee. Fun fact: the French tend to use sugar cubes instead of spoons of granulated sugar!

The adorable little bakery where we had breakfast. (WARNING: The rest of this post makes excessive use of the words "cute" and "adorable.")

Immediately after breakfast, we checked into our hostel. Although it was a 4-person room, we had lucked out and got the room to ourselves. While I ran straight to the showers, Laura hit the bed. The shower was a unique experience involving scalding hot water that lasts for 30-seconds before you have to push the button again. Just after I finished showering, the fire alarm went off. Laura and I grumbled to each other about these nuisances, but deep down we were thankful to have showers and beds to sleep in that night. Poor Laura has trouble falling asleep in general (half her luggage on any given trip usually consists of gadgets to help her fall asleep) and especially on buses. We make an interesting pair: the insomniac and the narcoleptic. We've debated at length who has it worse and have come to the conclusion that both are curses from hell.

While Laura tried to continue napping, I went outside to take advantage of the beautiful day. It was in the high 70s and sunny without a cloud in sight. As I sat by the river, I decided I was probably some kind of photosynthetic organism in my past life because my well-being depends so much on sunlight.

Lounging on a bench outside our hostel, taking in the river, the bridge, and the perfect weather.

After Laura woke up, we went on a walking tour of the city. As we wandered, still cranky, sleep-deprived, and sick of buses, we decided to skip the trip to Arles and just spend both days in Avignon. This was a terrific decision as half the day was gone and there was still plenty to see and do.

Large and on the right: the Palace of the Popes. Smaller and on the left: the Avignon Cathedral. Both to be discussed later.

A cardinal's residence with a fancy Baroque facade built in 1619 and located directly across from the Palace of the Popes. At this time, southern France was primarily Protestant but Avignon was a Catholic stronghold.

View of the Pont d'Avignon from the Parc des Rochers des Doms (Avignon's park)

From the park, we went to the Saint Benezet Bridge (Le Pont Saint Benezet, also known at the Pont d'Avignon). Admission to the bridge included an audio-guide, which told the sad story of the bridge that had collapsed in parts over several centuries until a strong flood in 1668 put it out of use. Built during the 12th century, the bridge was important as it was the only one crossing the Rhone in the Middle Ages and contains chapels dedicated to Saint Benezet and Saint Nicholas. Today, only 4 of the original 22 arches are intact, and the bridge is more famous for the eponymous song than for its religious or historical significance. Next to the bridge, there was a little museum dedicated to the Pont d'Avignon song, full of panels describing the history of the song (it used to be a "pillow song," meaning a song played on a couple's wedding night) and sound clips of singers from over the years singing it. Thanks to this exhibition, I recognized the song from my piano-playing years and can guarantee it will be stuck in my head for years to come.

On the Pont d'Avignon

You better believe I rocked out on the Pont d'Avignon!

After the bridge, we continued through other parts of town, seeing a historic waterwheel, a trendy street called Rue des Teinturiers, and a bookstore so cute I half expected Belle from Beauty and the Beast to pop out. Around nightfall, we rewarded ourselves for our long (and in Laura's case, sleep deprived) day by eating ice cream and chatting on the banks of the Rhone River before turning in early for the night.

Instead of a scoop or two from an ice cream shop, being the economical people we are, we split a liter of coffee ice cream from a grocery store. That's right, a liter. Hey, four times the monthly recommended intake of ice cream for half the price; how could we pass it up?

Ev'ry day, like the one before

Starting the day with yet another nutritional PB&J breakfast, we checked out of the hostel and headed to the Palace of the Popes. For about a century beginning in 1309, Avignon served as the Catholic papacy's "home away from Rome" because of chaos in Rome. Construction of the palace began in 1335 under Pope Benedict XII on the site of the old bishop's palace of Avignon. (Notice a trend of important things being built on the former sites of other important things?) Under the next few popes, the palace was expanded and fortified and the interior was decorated with frescoes, tapestries, paintings, and sculptures. The popes departed Avignon to return to Rome in 1377, but this sparked the Papal Schism, in which antipopes lived there until 1403. (I love the concept of antipopes- it reminds me of antimatter except I can actually wrap my head around it!) With admission to the Palace of the Popes, we were given audioguides that provided very detailed (almost too detailed) explanations of the 20-plus rooms and the popes who occupied the palace.

In one of the many rooms of the palace

A model of the palace in one stage of its evolution

View of the plaza below from atop the palace

After over two hours meandering through the palace, we headed to the cathedral next door. After seeing so many enormous Spanish cathedrals with excessive amounts of gold leaf, this one was a nice change.

In the quaint Cathedral of Avignon. I'm standing at the back, so you can see how small (relatively speaking) it is.

After we were done walking through the cathedral, it was past noon and we were famished. We set off in search of a nice place where we could indulge in typical French food and found just what we were looking for: a tiny restaurant across from a shop called "La P'tite Boutique" with outdoor seating and a petite French waitress who said "voila" when she brought our food. (I had no idea that was an actual term in the French language and found it charming, much like when a man said "excusez-moi" to get by us in a souvenir shop that morning.) I discovered that the word for "vegetarian" must be pretty similar in French because it was easily understood, and I ordered quiche and crepes, both of which were heavenly.

Laura seated outside the adorable little restaurant where we ate a highly French lunch

Super happy with my spinach-and-cheese quiche

After lunch, we searched for Avignon's synagogue. For future travelers to Avignon (or for myself, because I can definitely see myself going back): the signs pointing to the synagogue are completely misleading. At a five-way intersection very close to the synagogue, there is a sign clearly pointing you down the wrong street. In any case, after going in circles a few times, we finally arrived at the synagogue. We were greeted by a very friendly English-speaking rabbi who handed us a pamphlet about the synagogue and the history of Jews in France. Avignon's Jews were nicknamed "the Pope's Jews" because the Pope offered them protection when they were expelled from France. There is also a plaque next to the Torah listing the Jews deported from Avignon to Auschwitz in 1942. This synagogue was founded in the 13th century but was completely rebuilt in the mid-19th century in a neoclassical Greek-temple style by a non-Jewish architect. As a result, it looks more like what I would expect of a Congress building than a synagogue, but I loved it.

Inside the synagogue

While trying to take a stealth picture of the rabbi, making it look like I was taking a picture of Laura instead, the kind rabbi offered to take a picture of both of us. This is it. What a generous fellow.

We had covered every touristy thing there was to see in Avignon, so we spent the last few hours of the sunny day in the park.

Adorable tricycles designed to look like horse-drawn carriages that children can rent and ride around the park. If I were a child in Avignon, I'd want to do this at least once a day.

Lounging in the park

Around 5 PM, we headed to the bus station, stopping for one last French pastry on the way and dreading going back to the land of olive oil and bocadillos. At the station, while Laura used quite possibly the most horrendous bathroom in all of Europe (a true honor, considering how many contenders there are), I tried to explain our bus ticket situation to the lady at the counter. She had trouble understanding me, but a kind French Canadian man happened to overhear the exchange and translated. The lady said we couldn't switch tickets, but we decided to try getting on the bus anyway, since this time there was no process of checking in to receive an actual ticket. When the bus arrived (fifteen minutes before it was supposed to depart- what a concept!) I waved my print-out in the driver's direction and got on! Although the timing wasn't ideal (it would have been better if Laura could have gotten on my later bus, but we didn't want to take a chance that might result in her being stuck in Avignon), we were ecstatic to have gotten on the same bus. Just when we had settled down from our excitement, a lady came on the bus checking people's tickets. Talk about false hope. She saw my ticket and instantly told me to get off the bus. I asked if I could go on this bus instead since I had paid the same price for my ticket, but she said all the seats were filled (which Laura later told me was a lie). I quickly handed my iPod to Laura (who needed it to attempt to fall asleep, since hers was almost out of charge) and yelled that I'd meet her at the Sants bus station in Barcelona as I got off the bus.

Alone in Avignon, I did what I do best: walked. I had about three hours to kill and I was afraid that if I sat somewhere, I'd fall asleep. So I walked across Avignon and crossed the river to Villeneuve-les-Avignon in search of a couple sights on the tourist map that we hadn't gotten to see. I found them (closed of course), applauded myself on my map-reading skills, snapped some pictures of their exteriors, and wandered back to Avignon.

My last glimpse of the Pont d'Avignon

Around 9:30, I was back near the bus station. I knew that the bus would pick us up from the roadside rather than the bus station because the station was closed at night, but I wasn't exactly sure where. After trying to ask a few people in the nearby train station who only spoke French, I wandered back outside to find a bunch of people with suitcases sitting on a curb. I asked a man there, "Habla Espanol?." He shook his head but asked me, "Barcelona?." I nodded, he nodded, and sure enough, around 10:30 my bus showed up. Once again, I was out before you could say "voila." We had spent two idyllic days in a picture-perfect French town, and if it weren't for the photographs, I might have thought it was a dream.

There is a castle on a cloud

After ten days of travel spanning three countries and four different languages, I'm back- ten shades darker, worldly-wiser (humor me), and a bit worn out. In the past ten days, I've spent over 30 hours on buses, been in the air and underground, up hills and on beaches. I've had several minor heart attacks and breathed at least as many sighs of relief. I've seen palaces and castles and explosions of color so fantastic you would think they could only exist in movies. I've seen too many sunrises and sunsets, slept too little, laughed too much, showered too little, and still somehow not repelled my trusty travel buddy.

There's so much to recount from the past ten days, but, in the wise words of the Sound of Music, "let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start..." That takes us back to Friday April 16, when my interest group left for Portugal. As mentioned in an earlier post, each student in my study abroad program got to choose an interest group with a specific topic and corresponding activities and trips. Mine was called "Spain and it's Neighbors," and it's highlight was a 3-day trip to Spain's neighbor to the west, Portugal. The ride to Lisbon was nearly 7 hours (with a few rest stops on the way), which was a bit disappointing since it meant we really only had a day and a half to spend in Portugal. But as always, I happily slept the ride away.

Upon arrival in Lisbon, we checked into our (very fancy, I might add) hotel. While others wasted no time in straightening their hair and applying makeup, Laura and I set out to explore the city. (Traveling has taught me how easy it is to forget how crappy I look when I'm marveling at magnificent sights. After all, I can't match up to the beauty of Sintra or the charm of Avignon no matter how hard I try, so why bother?) Thanks to Laura's excellent research beforehand, we had a destination in mind: the Eduardo VII Park. On the way, we marveled at the cute Easter-egg-colored buildings lining the wide streets: periwinkle alongside sea green, pale yellow next to lavender. The park itself was empty (because it was an overcast day) and more stark than parks in Sevilla and Madrid, but when we had finally climbed to the end of it (Lisbon and the surrounding region is very hilly) we enjoyed an excellent view.

In Eduardo VII Park. From foreground to background: me looking fabulous, the neatly shaped greenery of the park, the Marques de Pombal Square, more of the city, and the ocean.

Our first organized activity of the day with the interest group was a lecture about the evolution of the European Union at the Universidad Nova. I learned that the European Union has 27 member states and 23 official languages, that the members of NATO have veto power while the members of the EU do not, and that I still have trouble staying awake during lectures. Uh-oh. However, by frantically taking notes, I was able to keep myself awake and actually engaged enough to enjoy the lecture.

The building at the Universidad Nova where we listened to the lecture. We all scoffed at how blah it is, but I guess we're spoiled since we have classes in Sevilla in a beautiful tobacco factory built in the 18th century. I can't wait to see how lackluster the classroom buildings in Philly will seem next year.

After the lecture, we received a tour of central Lisboa from a young lady who, like the lecturer at the university, spoke excellent English, to my surprise. (Perhaps because Portuguese is spoken by less people in the world than Spanish, the Portuguese are forced to learn English, while Spaniards can kind of get away with not knowing English.) Most of it was a blur of colorful architecture, steep hills, and streets and plazas that reminded me vaguely of Madrid, so instead of blabbing on about stuff I don't remember too well, I'll leave you with some pictures I took on the tour:

A pretty elevator built by a student of Alexandre Gustav Eiffel (Eiffel tower, ring a bell?) in the early 1900s for rich people who didn't want to walk up the hill to Barrio Alto (which literally translates to "High Neighborhood").

Overhead view of one of Lisbon's main plazas. (It's obviously quite important and yet I've already forgotten the name; seeing too many cool/important sights in too short a time does that to you.)

An example of Lisbon's vibrancy

They even have cute little brightly-colored trolleys!

Following the tour, the rest of the night was ours to do as we pleased. A couple friends and I decided to set out in search of the beach, but we were halted by two things: heavy rains, and the fact that the sandy beaches we were seeking were not in the vicinity we were in. Seeking shelter from the rain, we ducked into restaurants for snacks, where we epically failed at communicating with the waiters but made liberal use of the one Portuguese word we had picked up, "obrigada," meaning "thank you." Then we found a seaside bar where some people got drinks and sat outside, mere yards from the coast, to chat and relax. It was the next best thing to the sandy beaches we had been hoping for. Finally, we headed back towards the center of the city in search of a place to eat dinner. We peered into several restaurants and deemed them all too expensive for our poor college student budgets. In one, we were undeniably obnoxious. First we entered and headed straight to the bathrooms in the basement. Then we stood in the entryway for a while loudly contemplating the menu and debating whether it was affordable. In this time I'm pretty sure a man tried to sell me marijuana, as he was waving something that looked like a chocolate bar in my direction and making smoking gestures with his other hand. When we had finally decided to eat on the terrace of that restaurant and were seated, we discovered that the terrace prices were much higher than the indoor ones, so as soon as the waiter turned his back on us, someone suggested staying at that restaurant and moving indoors. I reminded them that, after the scene we had made, I wouldn't be surprised if the waiter spit in our food, so we ran away. After this great spectacle, we finally found a casual, affordable restaurant where I ordered some exotic-looking dessert called "manc assado" after the waiter tried to explain to me that it's made of apple. (First verbally, and when that failed, he went back to the kitchen and got an apple to show me.) Based on its appearance, I was expecting some kind of apple custard with a dough-based covering, but when I tasted it I realized the whole thing was just a roasted apple: the brown covering was the apple peel and the inside was the cooked apple! Which, in retrospect, should not have been so surprising since "manc assado" sounds a lot like "manzana asada" which means "roast apple" in Spanish. An interesting dessert and lesson in linguistics for sure.

The "manc assado"

The next morning, after stuffing ourselves at the hotel's gourmet breakfast buffet (kiwi! papaya! pastries! mini jars of jam!) we set off for Sintra, a suburb of Lisboa, by bus. When I had read the itinerary for this trip a few days ago and seen that we were taking a side trip to Sintra, I was annoyed because I considered it a waste of time to go to another city when we barely had 1.5 days in Portugal. I had never heard of Sintra (though that's not a problem in itself) and I'm a big believer in seeing one place thoroughly rather than rushing through a bunch. If only I had known... Sintra has a population smaller than Penn State, natural beauty, and my favorite palace in the world thus far. Called the Palacio Nacional da Pena, it is nestled up on a hill overlooking the town of Sintra and is considered one of the best examples of 19th century European Romanticism. In the centuries before it was made into a palace, it was the site of a small monastery, but in 1755 the Great Lisbon Earthquake reduced most of it to ruins. In the mid-1800s, King Ferninand II acquired the monastery and surrounding lands and commissioned a well-traveled German architect named Eschwege to turn it into a summer palace for the Portuguese royal family. The king and his queen intervened on some decorative matters, such as insisting on the inclusion of Medieval and Islamic elements. As a result, the palace has an almost unrealistic mixture of styles drawn from various eras and nations. The effect is indescribable and the pictures don't fully do it justice, but they're the best I can do.

We also got to go inside the palace, which was furnished the way it would have been when the palace was in use as the royal family's summer residence. In comparison with the royal palace of Madrid, there were far fewer rooms and they were tiny, but I found them refreshingly intimate, and they were certainly decorated lavishly enough that you couldn't forget that it was a royal palace. The dining room seated 18 rather than 80; instead of a porcelain room, there was a paper mache room (in which all the decorative items were made of paper mache); and we were allowed in the kitchen and bathroom, which made it more "real" to me.

After a very roller coaster-ish bus ride down the hill where the palace is located (think a regular bus on very narrow, steep streets, filled with college students sitting and others, like myself, standing) our next stop was the Belem Tower. The Belem Tower was built in 1515 as a fortress to guard the entrance to Lisbon's harbor. It was built in the Manueline style, a phrase we heard often throughout the weekend that refers to early-1500's architecture in Portugal (named after King Manuel I whose reign coincided with the development of the style). Famously, its exterior includes a sculpture of a rhinoceros that is considered to be the first sculpture of a rhino in Western European art. It is based on a rhinoceros brought to Lisbon from India in 1513.

The Belem Tower

In one of the lookouts of the tower

View from atop the tower. Note the bridge in the distance, which looks strikingly similar to the Golden Gate Bridge. Between the bridge and the hilliness, Lisbon could be San Francisco's twin.

Our next stop was the Jeronimos Monastery, also located in the Belem district of Lisbon. Also built in the Manueline style on the site of a hermitage (where Vasco da Gama spent the night in prayer before departing for India in 1497), the monastery was built in the early 1500s and was funded by riches from the Portuguese colonies in Africa and India. The exterior is white and ornately carved, and the interior looks a lot like your typical Gothic cathedral. The outstanding part, in my opinion, was vast, 2-story square cloister with intricate arches and a very green central courtyard and fountain in the middle. (The other highlight in the monastery for me: Hearing someone shout, "We are!," the first half of Penn State's slogan. Shouting back "Penn State!" like a good Nittany Lion, I turned around to meet two PSU sophomores studying abroad in Salamanca this semester. They had recognized me as a Penn Stater by my beloved PSU sweatshirt, and it turned out that I had actually met one through my friend Kristina freshman year. What are the odds!)

In the central courtyard of the beautiful cloister

A fountain in the cloister with a statue of a lion in the center. Obviously the artist had never seen a lion before.

Finally we were taken to the Pasteleria de Belem (Bakery of Belem). This was another item on the itinerary I had rolled my eyes at, although I wasn't complaining because it involved eating. Again, I was in for a surprise. While the front of the bakery was unassuming, the second we set foot inside it became clear that this was no run-of-the-mill sweet shop. The line of people waiting to purchase pastries was literally out the door. There were vast seating areas behind which were even more seating areas, all filled to capacity with people partaking in an afternoon snack. I learned that this pasteleria sells 10,000 of their famous "pasteles de Belem" per day on weekdays and 20,000 on weekends. Although we were supposed to have a reservation, something went wrong and the bakery said they didn't have a reservation for us. After seeing all the hype, I was afraid we weren't going to get to try the famous sweets, but after a 20-minute wait, we were finally seated and served. The creamy little pastries exceeded my very high expectations, and I can't wait to look up the recipe to try my hand at them. (Although the exact recipe for "pasteles de Belem" used by the Pasteleria de Belem is a well-guarded secret, lots of other places make their own version, called "pasteles de nata," which are supposedly slightly inferior.)

The famous "pastel de Belem"

After the delicious snack break, we were free for the evening. This time we started with souvenir shopping, an integral part of every trip. I was surprised to discover that the majority of the shops we went into were run by South Asian-looking, Hindi-speaking men. As a result, I was tempted to haggle prices, but restrained myself. Afterwards, we got pizza and hung out in a hotel room. We watched the Simpsons, VH1, and Saturday Night Live, and even though I have never seen them in the U.S. and I wish I hadn't seen Lady Gaga's "Telephone" music video, it felt good to watch American TV and indulge in some good old girl talk with new friends from all over the U.S.. Around 1 AM, I peaced out to pass out in my room.

On Sunday morning, after another satisfying hotel breakfast (from which most of us stole piles of food for lunch; I guarantee every hotel that CIEE students stay at hates us) we left Portugal for Sevilla. The ride back was filled with unpleasantness, from a kid sitting across from me throwing up (he had a little too much fun the previous night) to rumors that flights all over Europe were being canceled due to the volcanic activity in Iceland. Everyone was panicking because we had the week off for Feria and most people had plans to travel. As Laura and I were scheduled to fly to Barcelona the next morning, the first thing we did when we got back to Sevilla was check the Ryanair website to see if our flight was canceled. And... it looked like it was. On the "live flight tracker," our flight number read, "canceled due to volcanic activity." It'll suffice to say there were lots of expletives uttered. Not only were we not going to get to visit Barcelona and Avignon, which we'd been anticipating for weeks, but we were probably going to lose a significant chunk of money from the plane and bus tickets and hostels we'd already paid for.

But wait, I thought you said ten days of travel, three countries, etc.?

In the midst of panicking, holding back tears, and trying to figure out where to begin with canceling reservations, I received a Skype message from my dad informing me that it looked like my flight was still on. Confused, I sent him the link showing it was canceled, and he responded with a different link from Ryanair showing a list of canceled flights which did not include ours. After much head-scratching, we figured out why there was a discrepancy: the airports in northern Spain had been closed until Sunday evening, so the flight that we had found on the "live flight tracker" was the same flight on that day (Sunday). Monday's flight (ours) was indeed on! Ramya and Laura: 1; Volcano: 0.

Breathing the first of many sighs of relief, I began frantically doing last-minute research for the trip, clearing photos from Portugal from my camera to make room for new ones in Barcelona and Avignon, and packing, which was a challenge because this time we had strict size and weight limits. Ryanair has unbelievably cheap flights (ours was 20 euros round-trip) but the catch is that you have to pay more (usually more than the ticket itself) to take anything more than one piece of carry-on luggage approximately the dimensions of my backpack weighing 10 kg. I consider it a testament to my growth this semester that I was able to meet these requirements, cramming in not only all the clothing I'd need for a week, but also a towel (since we were staying at youth hostels that didn't provide them), a pair of flip-flops, an umbrella, peanut butter, and jelly. That's right, be impressed.

By the time I was done packing and Skyping with my family (who tried to convince me that maybe it wasn't a good idea to go to Barcelona in case volcanic activity made it difficult to come back and caused me to miss classes- ha!), it was nearly 2 AM. (This semester, the only times I have ever stayed up past 1 AM have been on nights before trips. It is a strange and glorious thing.) In order to catch our early morning flight to Barcelona, I had planned to wake up at 3:45 AM, so I immediately hit the sack for a good night's nap.

We are family, I got all my sisters with me

Boy, does time fly! At the start of the semester and during the dreadful month of rain, the end of the semester seemed like eons away. But ever since I started traveling, beginning with the trip to Morocco at the end of February, time has steadily picked up the pace and now it's got an unstoppable momentum. The semester will end in one month and I'm now simultaneously trying to plan a trip to Barcelona next week, my last two weekends in Sevilla, and my trip to India after the semester ends. On top of all this, there are still tales of travels past to be recounted, photographs to be uploaded to facebook, letters to be written. I don't say this to complain (after all, this is the easiest semester of "school" I can remember since I left Bridle Path and the majority of the "work" I do consists of planning my own entertainment), but merely to explain my tardiness in blogging to my readers. I have discovered that when I'm doing the most interesting things is when a blog post is most called for and simultaneously when I have the least time to blog. This is what I like to call the central paradox of blogging.

Okay, enough dilly-dallying. Now to the task at hand: relating the adventures of the Punati family in Andalucia.

Wednesday: Typical tourists in Sevilla

I didn’t stay in the hostel with my family in Sevilla because my parents waited too long to finalize their travel plans- so long that, as I scoured the pages of hostelworld.com in late February, I actually feared they wouldn't find lodging at all and would be homeless for the duration of their vacation. Advice: If you’re visiting Spain during Semana Santa, book everything in advance. Months in advance. Years, if you can. Fortunately, they found a 3-person room in a hostel in the barrio Nervion. As such, the plan was that I would sleep at my senora's house and meet up with my family at their hostel every morning to start the day. It was a 45-minute walk from my senora’s apartment to their hotel, but remember, I like walking, and I didn’t want to make them wander through the maze that is Sevilla to arrive at a more central meeting point.

So on Wednesday morning, I arrived at 10 o’clock sharp to find my sister still in bed and my parents still in pajamas and distressed. Apparently one of their suitcases which has a number lock that had never been used decided to spontaneously lock itself the previous night with many of their necessary belongings inside. Having discovered this around midnight, my dad called my handy uncle (standard protocol whenever anyone in my family has a problem with technology) who suggested trying all 1000 possible number combinations- a mere 333 each. They had stayed up late into the night doing exactly that with no luck. So my dad, figuring it must be stuck due to a problem with the locking mechanism, had asked the lady at the reception desk for tools to break the suitcase open. The lady had said she would send her husband up to look at it. By the time I arrived, nobody had yet come to help, so I went down to the reception desk to clarify that they had understood the problem and to ask to borrow tools in Spanish. When I explained the problem, the lady laughed- apparently between my dad’s description in English and charades (box-like motions?) she had thought the bed was broken! Ramya’s Spanish to the rescue! (Fact: I have never felt more useful and proud of my Spanish skills as I did during the week I was with my family. Surrounded by native Spaniards, I usually feel like my Spanish is pathetically inadequate, but spending a week in Spain with my family whose Spanish vocabulary consists of “hola” was a great boost for my self-esteem.) She lent us some tools with which my dad was able to pry open the lock without breaking the suitcase, and thus began our day.

After the great suitcase debacle, we started the day at the Cathedral of Sevilla, the number one tourist attraction in the city. Built on the site of a mosque (remember, Sevilla was the second capital of Al-Andalus, the Muslim kingdom in Spain) after the reconquest, the Cathedral’s claims to fame include being the third largest church in Europe by area, the largest church in Europe by volume, the largest Gothic building in Europe, and the resting place of Christopher Columbus. And you’ll never hear about the Cathedral of Sevilla without a mention of the Giralda, the minaret of the original mosque that was converted into a bell tower. Since I pass this landmark on my way to class every day, it's easy to forget its historical significance and architectural splendor, so it was nice to refresh my memory and marvel at it while acting as my family’s personal tour guide. Also, despite living here for over two months, it was my first time climbing up the 34 quarter-turns of steep ramps to the top of the Giralda. Not only was it the perfect workout for the Punati family vacation, A.K.A. fitness bootcamp, but the view at the top was enough to make us forget about our aching thighs.

Here you can clearly see the contrast in architectural styles between the Moorish (Muslim) Giralda on the right and the Gothic Cathedral on the left.

Up in the bell tower

The courtyard of orange trees in the Cathedral, as seen from the Giralda

Tell me that isn't the cutest little Spanish plaza you've ever seen.

See that circular thing around the middle and slightly off to the right? That's Sevilla's Plaza de Toros (bullfighting stadium). Not as imposing as Madrid's, but I thought the bird's eye view of the city was cool.

After grabbing a quick lunch of bocadillos (sub-par, but it’s the classic Spanish lunch and I figured my family could suffer through one bocadillo lunch if I can do it three times a week) we headed to the other must-see locale in Sevilla: the Real Alcázar. Another reflection of the Muslim history and Catholic reconquest of Al-Andalus, the Alcázar was a Muslim palace that was almost completely destroyed and rebuilt in an almost identical style by the Catholic king Pedro I. He reinvented the wheel so well that the Alcázar even has verses from the Koran in Arabic on the walls. I wonder if the Catholic kings that kicked the Muslims out with such vigor knew that the lovely "decorative tiles" which with they adorned their palace read, “There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is his prophet." Full of horseshoe arches, colorful tiles, intricate plasterwork, and patios with reflecting pools, the Alcazar looks strikingly similar to Granada's Alhambra, the palace that was constructed by Muslim kings in the 14th century and still stands in its original form today. While the Alcazar of Sevilla may not be original, with the exception of little images of castles and lions scattered here and there, I think it's pretty darn close. Again, I led our family through the numerous rooms, explaining bits of information I had retained from my two previous guided visits there and reviving a sense of awe and appreciation for the city in which I live. After hitting the major rooms and patios, we wandered through the gardens of the Alcázar, which are equally if not more elaborate than the interior, to settle down and bask in the Andalucian sun.

My family occupied by various things (probably the food that we were about to snack on) in the gardens of the Alcázar

Around 6 PM, we finally meandered out of the Alcázar in search of a Moroccan restaurant for dinner. But everywhere we turned, we ran into Semana Santa processions. This would be a good time for an explanation of Semana Santa as it’s celebrated in Sevilla. Semana Santa (Holy Week) is the week leading up to Easter and for many Sevillanos, the only week they are religious, as the festival comes with a lot of pomp that is undeniably appealing. Each church in the city has hermandades, religious brotherhoods, that organize the processions. At the heart of the processions are pasos, elaborate floats depicting the Virgin Mary or Jesus in various stages of the crucifixion. The pasos are ornately decorated with flowers, fabric, and candles and the statues themselves are gold or silver-plated. Each paso weighs about 4,000 pounds is carried by about 40 costaleros, or men who carry the pasos. Being a costalero is back-breaking work- sometimes literally, as a few men have died doing it. Accompanying the pasos are nazarenos, people who wear robes with pointy hoods colored according to the hermandad to which they belong. (Yes, it looks like KKK garb, and as an American, it takes some mental effort to not have a negative reaction to them and remind yourself that they are unrelated.) The nazarenos carry long candles and sometimes walk barefoot as a sign of penitance (although there's a joke that the people who are apparently most repentant during Semana Santa are the women parading around in stiletto heels). Also involved are bands (think marching bands) and penitentes who carry wooden crosses and wear the same robes as the nazarenos but without the pointed hood. On each night of Semana Santa, a couple hermandades make the slow procession from their respective churches to the Cathedral while crowds pack the streets to look on. Instead of the solemn ambience you might expect of a occasion honoring Christ’s death, the atmosphere is surprisingly festive. People dress up as if they were going to a party; stands with flashing neon signs selling cotton candy and other goodies pop up everywhere; penitentes give out candy to children and drip wax onto their wax balls; children add to their wax balls every year and compete to see who has the biggest; business booms at bars as bystanders sip beers and even penitentes stop in for refreshments on breaks. We even caught some band members smoking cigarettes when they had rests in the music, in true Spanish fashion. Oh, Spain... you have a real knack for taking any occasion and turning it into an excuse to work less and party more.

A paso of a sculpted scene from the life of Christ. (Photo taken on a "cultural visit" to a church sponsored by my program the week before Semana Santa.)

A paso making its way towards the Puente de San Telmo on Friday night

On the left: a stand selling cotton candy. On the right: a paso of Christ on the cross.

Nazarenos

Our view of candle-bearing nazarenos from inside Levies

After running into Semana Santa processions that clogged the streets even after re-routing several times, we gave up on Moroccan food and decided to dine at Levies, a great low-key restaurant close to my study center. We sampled a variety of tapas from gazpacho (cold tomato soup) to garbanzos con espinaca (chick peas in a spinach gravy), and for the first time, my family ate Spanish food that they actually enjoyed.

To finish off our day of classic touristy things to do in Sevilla, we went to a Flamenco show at the Casa de la Memoria. Although we were in the back row (of three) of the audience, it was an intimate setting and we were able to stand for a better view, which gave me a better appreciation of the intricate, rapid footwork of a Flamenco dancer. The movements of their feet are so fast and rhythmic that they almost seem mechanical rather than biological.

The Flamenco performers

Thursday: Day trip to Cordoba

Thursday started with us catching the first bus to Córdoba at 7:30 AM. My family had wanted to do one day-trip from Sevilla and I had recommended Córdoba, as it is a reasonable 2-hour bus ride from Sevilla and has the architectural structure that probably left the biggest impression on me out of everything I’ve seen in Spain: the Mesquita-Catedral (Mosque-Cathedral). Not only is it visually stunning with its candy-cane arches, conglomeration of architectural styles, and mind-blowing proportions, but it is also a building that tells a story if there ever was one. Initially built in 600 A.D. as a Christian Visigothic church, it was bought and remodeled into a mosque in 784 shortly after Cordoba became the first capital of Al-Andalus. The mosque went through several phases of construction and renovation, initially utilizing materials from the old Roman temple and later using newly crafted pieces and styles, as evidenced by the transition from mismatched columns to uniform columns and architectural shortcuts. In 1236, Cordoba was recaptured from the Muslim army by the Catholic King Fernando III and the mosque was reconverted into a Christian church. Various architects continued to add to it until the late 18th century. I had never considered myself a big history buff before, but it's hard not to be when I visit places this cool and full of history nearly every weekend.

Mi madre with the intricately carved choir seats in the Mesquita-Catedral. Each of these rich wooden seats depicts a unique scene or character from the bible.

After the Mesquita, we headed to the Synagogue of Cordoba- one of three old synagogues remaining in Spain, the other two being in Toledo. It's tiny, worthy of only a 15-minute visit, but worthy of a visit nonetheless.

Since our quest for Moroccan food had been unsuccessful the previous night, when we stumbled upon a Moroccan restaurant called Hammam, we entered eagerly. It was our first fancy sit-down meal, the kind that involves cloth napkins and free bread while you wait for your food. Tired of all the walking and the cold, we were relieved to finally sit down and talk in a quiet atmosphere, catching up on two months of family news, school and work frustrations, and of course Desi gossip. The food was delicious and we even topped it off with some traditional Moroccan tea and sweets. Everyone was satisfied and happy- until we got the bill, which had an extra 6 euro charge. When I asked what it was for, our kind waiter said “the bread.” What br- WHAT?! You mean that basket of toasted pita and olives you placed on the table at the beginning? Ridiculous. It’s one thing to be fancy-shmancy and overpriced, but it’s another thing to be deceptive about ripping people off.

Mi padre and hermanita with the delicious Moroccan lunch. How is it possible that Morocco and Spain are so close but none of Morocco's knowledge about cuisine and spices rubbed off on Spain?

We left the restaurant with a figurative bad taste in our mouths and wandered around the adorable streets of Cordoba until it was time to take the bus back to Sevilla. Back in sunny Sevilla, we did even more wandering until dinnertime rolled around.

Wanting to give my family another taste of good Spanish tapas, I lead them in the direction of Taberna Coloniales, a place we went during orientation that I loved. Worn map in hand, I confidently led the way… only to run into Semana Santa processions everywhere we turned. But this time we had no time constraints (like the Flamenco show the previous night which we had bought tickets to in advance) so we toughed it out. We squeezed through crowds of people in Plaza de Alfalfa, darted in front of candle-bearing nazarenos on Calle Luchana, and snaked in between tables of people dining outside restaurants in Plaza Santa María la Blanca. We said “perdon” dozens of times and invaded hundreds of personal bubbles. Distances that looked so close on the map suddenly felt like miles. Semana Santa had turned the maze that is central Sevilla into an obstacle course within a maze. Finally, after over half an hour of this uncomfortable journey, we saw a clearing ahead in the direction we were headed and breathed a sigh of relief. The hard part was over and all that was left to do was cut through Plaza del Salvador… or so we thought. As it turned out, the Iglesia del Salvador is the second biggest church in Sevilla (after the Cathedral), and this was the night the paso of Mary was scheduled to make its journey from the Iglesia to the Catedral. Had I known this, I would have given up as soon as I saw the plaza. Instead, I figured, “We’re so close and we’ve already made it through a couple packed plazas; one more should be doable.” The difference was, the crowd in this plaza wasn't going anywhere- they were waiting for the paso to exit the church and more people were packing in. At one point, a man who saw us struggling to get through said, “It’s going to be difficult to get through here; better to drink a beer and watch.” Unfortunately, we didn't heed the advice. When we saw people in front of us pushing their way through in the direction we wanted to go, we tried to follow in the (non-existent) path they cleared. When we saw people pushing through in the opposite direction, we tried to occupy the (non-existent) spot they had vacated. About halfway through the plaza, it became clear that we would be stuck there until the crowd dispersed, although we had no clue when that would be. It wasn’t a matter of courteousness or people’s reluctance to make way- there simply was no room to budge. At one point I was literally shaking, and not because it was cold. At another point I had to look to the sky and take several deep breaths, all the while wishing I knew some calming meditation techniques to reassure myself that I would make it out alive. Shortly thereafter I contemplated faking a medical emergency to escape, although I doubt that would have helped since there was no way another person, much less an ambulance, could have gotten through the crowd. I was gripping my dad's shirt and my sister's hand, close to tears for having put my mother through her worst nightmare. As the paso began to exit the church door, the crowd fell silent- an impressive feat for hundreds of Spaniards. With all the brainpower that I could muster, I willed the paso to inch along ("get a move on, darn costaleros carrying 40,000 pounds on your backs!") until, what felt like an eternity later, the paso had finally reached the edge of the plaza and began to exit via a branching street. The crowd began to clear a bit and move in the direction of the paso, and that's when regular breathing patterns resumed. We turned to each other and just breathed. And that’s the story of how we accidentally got trapped in a location that some Sevillanos prize and others (the sane ones) avoid at all costs on Thursday of Semana Santa.

The only picture I took in the crowds, although this was not taken in Plaza del Salvador (the people aren't packed densely enough).

The paso of the Virgin Mary that we watched exit the Iglesia del Salvador. (This photo was obviously not taken during the event, when taking photos was the last thing on my mind, but rather during the "cultural visit" to the church the previous week.)

I’m sure you’re wondering whether we made it to Taberna Coloniales after all that. Well, after surviving Plaza del Salvador, the rest of the route really was a piece of cake- moving with the masses and empty streets. I found the place, along with a sign outside saying it was closed for dinner all week due to Semana Santa. In the end, we ate at a great little Middle Eastern place called Aladdin near my parents’ hotel.

Friday: Peace at last

Friday was my family's last full day in Sevilla, and it was a glorious one. It was free of luggage malfunctions, rip-offs, throngs of people, and other occurrences that lend themselves to juicy stories. Which is fortunate, since this blog post is already unbearably long.

We spent the morning strolling through the picturesque Parque de Maria Luisa and the Plaza de Espana, taking in the sights and sounds and sun. We met up with my friend Laura for lunch at a restaurant across from the Universidad de Sevilla on Calle San Fernando. The weather was fantastic and we ate at a table outside, perfect for tanning (well, more like blackening in our case and burning in Laura's case) and people-watching.

My whole family was basically resisting the urge to take pictures like this every second we spent in Sevilla.

After lunch, the five of us trekked across the Puente de San Telmo to meet my senora and check out my home away from home. On the way, we stopped at a little stand selling fresh coconut, beans, and wrinkly brown things that look like peanuts. Intrigued, we asked what they were. The lady said, "Chufas." We still didn't know what they were, but thought, "What the heck, let's try them." After buying a cup, we stood around like idiots for a few minutes before asking the lady how we were supposed to eat them. Though I'm positive she was laughing at us in her head, she politely informed us that you pop the whole thing in your mouth. We were surprised to find they taste just like coconut. Upon further investigation, I found out that a "chufa" is called a tiger nut or earth almond in English. (Credit: www.wordreference.com, A.K.A. my Spanish Bible and survival guide for the semester.) Interesting, useless fact of the day? Check.

We showed up at my senora's apartment at 4 PM on the dot, exactly when I told her we'd stop by. I was anticipating awkwardness since my senora doesn't know a word of English and my family's vocabulary had only improved to include words like "la cuenta" and "los servicios" since they had arrived in Spain. Instead of sparse conversation and awkward silences, my senora was even more talkative and affectionate than usual. She greeted us all with besos (kisses on the cheeks) and I was very glad I had coached my family for this (to your left, then your right). After a quick photo shoot of the happy family with the loving caretaker, she proceeded to eagerly show my family around the tiny apartment, pointing out photos of her children and grandchildren. She talked about the importance of caring for foreign students and making them feel comfortable in a new country, about loving me, about my mother's youthful appearance. She spoke at lightning speed and didn't seem to care that they didn't understand her. I tried to translate but couldn't keep up since she wasn't pausing for it, but it didn't matter because her warm nature and love for what she does transcended language barriers. My family mostly just smiled, with my mom uttering "gracias" a few times, but hopefully their appreciation for her shone through too. They told me later that they thought my senora looks like my childhood babysitter, whom I used to call "Mummy," which I think is an appropriate comparison both in terms of appearance and quality care-taking.

My familia real with my madre española.

From my senora's apartment, we parted ways with Laura and headed to the nearby Parque de los Principes for more relaxation in the sun. We had covered everything I had wanted to do with my family in Sevilla- with one exception: the Chocolatería Virgen de Lújan. Despite having had churros twice in Madrid, there was no way I was letting my family leave Spain without eating at my favorite churros place. (Yes, it's the only one I've been to in Sevilla, but I see no reason to go anywhere else.) My family agreed that the churros here were superior to those in Madrid, although they were weak and couldn’t finish two orders of churros con chocolate. As a result, I took on more than my fair share of the grueling task. Yum.

On the bus ride from the chocolatería back to their hotel, we had the privilege of seeing a live show for free! About halfway to the hotel, the bus driver got out at one of the stops and the bus was stopped for an unusually long time. A woman and a man behind us started a ruckus, shouting about how ridiculous it was that they had to wait so long and the fact that there was no driver on the bus. A man who I gathered was in some position of importance in the transportation department came on board and tried to explain that there was some problem because the driver who was supposed to be working that shift hadn’t showed up, so the other drivers were actually doing them a favor. Despite his attempts to explain and apologize for the delay, the commotion only intensified, with louder yelling, wild gestures, faces turning red, people standing nearby moving away or getting off the bus, the whole shebang. Even as a new driver got on the bus and we finally drove away, the woman would not stop screaming about how for every one person who speaks up, 300 people stay silent and other infuriated nonsense. When she and the man got off the bus a couple stops later, they continued to walk in the direction the bus was headed, allowing for name-calling matches between them and the bus driver whenever we stopped. I didn’t understand everything, but it’ll suffice to say that it was the first time I got to hear some nasty Spanish words live and in context- a real-world learning experience!

Back at my parents' hotel, we savored our last few hours together resting our legs and reflecting on the past week. Along with blisters on their feet and panic attacks, I had given my family a good taste of Spain, from the blandest cuisine to the best desserts and from pleasant parks to packed plazas. Despite having spent the majority of the time complaining about things that annoyed them about Spain (the fact that Spaniards wash their streets obsessively but don't provide proper facilities to wipe your butt or wash your hands in public bathrooms, the European cost of everything given that the quality of bathrooms and service in public places are on par with India, the ubiquitous smoking), when I challenged them to list aspects they liked, they were able to come up with a sizable list (the coffee, the abundance of open spaces such as parks and plazas, the general cleanliness of streets, the friendliness of the people, the fact that people are well-dressed, the fact that they probably lost weight over the course of the week). After one final exchange of goods (they had brought me stuff I had been craving from the U.S. such as Oreos and peanut butter and I sent a suitcase back with them to lighten my load on my journey to India) and a dozen final reminders to be safe and take care of myself, we said goodbye.

As I walked back to my senora's house under a row of orange trees, I felt a strange mix of nostalgia and independence. It was the same path I had taken the past two nights, but it felt like I was walking from one world into another- from life with my family to study abroad. Spring break #1 was officially over, and freshly aware of what I was missing out on, I missed my family, my friends, and my home more than ever.