May In Córdoba

Just a quick entry here. I'm probably never going to get around to Málaga Part 2, and I should because it's a fantastic story, but for now I want to talk about Córdoba in May.

By the time May rolls around, the weather in Córdoba reaches a trifling 30º C which makes walking to and from work a sweaty ordeal. It's not very fun at all, but with the heat comes lots and lots of blooming flowers! So Córdoba has this tradition of the month long Feria which is divided into four parts, which is more or less one part per week.

First is the Cruces de Mayo, or the May Crosses, which is literally just an excuse for Spaniards to party. All around town their are crosses set up made out of flowers, and around them pop up these mobile bars where people hang out and eat the spring time Spanish delicacy -- snails! Here are some crosses now:






The magic of the mobile Spanish bar still astonishes me. I need to take a picture of one before I leave. They just pop up pretty much anywhere throughout the city and serve beer and appetizers.

Next on the agenda for Córdoba is the wine tasting festival, where vendors from all other southern Spain come to sell their wine! The problem is that for those of us who aren't used to southern Spanish wine it tastes mostly just like rubbing alcohol. Not tasty at all. Still, the Spaniards come out in their finest dress and they dance to and drink and eat Serrano Ham.

For the third week, Córdoba hosts the Concurso de los Patios, where people decorate their patios with a ton of flowers and then open it up for the public to see. And in case you're ever here to see them, do not get in the way of the little old Spanish ladies. They take their patio viewing very seriously, and will shove you out of the way even though you're about a foot taller than they are. They're vicious.

But here for your enjoyment are some patios!

Working in Spain

Before I write this next post about Málaga, I need to tell you about my day today. I feel this is indicative of working in Spain.

You arrive at work, having prepared everything you need over the weekend for your normal Monday routine, when your boss tells you that the entire week has changed, and now you need to create an entirely new lesson plan for kids you've never taught before. You don't know if they speak any English at all, but your only instruction is "Find a game where they'll speak English."

...Awesome. I now have 50 minutes to rewrite me entire lesson plan for brand new kids. STRESS. AGH.

So I surf around the web and can't find a single game that's easy enough for kids I've never taught before, so with no time left to search, I walk into my first class of the day, 5A.

I settle on total physical response, where you say "Stand up!" and the kids have to stand up. You do a bunch of silly actions, like sing and dance and cry and laugh, and get the kids moving around and laughing. It ended up working well enough, and then I split the kids up into teams and we played a little competition to see which team remembered the most words.

After that we play a little game called "Can You Repeat?" where you give the kids a topic, like colors, and then the first person says one color, the second person says the first color and their own, and then the third says the first, the second, and then their own color, and so on. Okay, this works out pretty well, so we do animals and colors, and it seems to go pretty well.

I still have 25 minutes left. Dang it. Okay, so I have everyone pull out a piece of paper, and they have to draw either actions or animals and write the English word underneath it. The problem is, I don't know where I'm going with this. I thought, well, maybe we'll play Bingo, but then I realize I don't have a word list. So they're drawing, and I'm trying to think on my feet until I land on the most obvious answer -- Pictionary!

So with 5A all of this goes over very well, and a little while later the teacher came up to me and let me know I did a great job, and that the kids all absolutely loved it. Hurray!

Time for 5B. 5B is a bit rowdier, they argued during the games, I had to take away points, but whatever, if you don't want to follow the rules or pay attention, we don't have to play any games. No big deal. Most of them have a decent amount of fun.

Then comes sixth grade. I could tell pretty much immediately that these kids were at that age where they were too cool to participate, but I mean, come one, when you've got this goofy guy standing up in front of class singing at the top of his lungs and dancing around, how could you not loosen up a little? We play pictionary and Can You Repeat and this other game Chain Words where you have to write words where the next word starts with the last letter of the last word (like elephant -> time -> eat -> toilet), and all of these are quick racing games, so the kids had a great time.

In the end as I was walking out and saying good bye, the kids gave me a standing ovation and shouted thank you, so I suppose that means job well done. Good to know, after 8 months on the job, I can not only think on my feet, but I can be successful at it, too!

Hurray!

Málaga Part 1: Castles and Cathedrals

For Semana Santa I decided to get out of Córdoba and go check out the coastal city of Málaga! I've been told it doesn't have the best beaches in Spain, but I wanted to check it out since pretty much everyone had been there. I'm glad I did, too, cuz it turned into an awesome day. For a proper introduction as done by some fancy-shmancy Spanish narrator, check out this vid:



I started off the trip bright and early, getting to the train station at 7:30 before the sun was even up. That means, you guessed it, I got to watch the sun rise over the plains of Spain. The plains really are beautiful, they seem like endless green fields of olive trees.

I arrived early in the morning, and the weather was cool, and I knew three things. First, that there was a castle on a hill. Second, that there was a huge cathedral to investigate. And third, there were beaches. Okay, so I've got my plan down. First: The castle.



Now, the Málaga castle, like most Spanish castles, is at the very top of a gigantic hill over looking the city, which you must hike up to the top of if you plan on feeling like you actually achieved something and deserved to be there. (On a side note, Germans think its hilarious when some skinny American is very carefully scaling the pathway in his sandals).



Now, this thing is beautiful. Old, full of history, and full of fountains. The Spanish do love their fountains and they'll put them any place they've got a spot for one. I don't mind, myself, since I do love a good fountain, too. Here are a few!







Now in actuality I pretty much had this entire place to myself for most of the morning. I mean, who else is going to be at this sight at 9 on a Wednesday morning? And let me tell you, having an entire castle all to yourself to wander around in is pretty fantastic, if you ask me. Not to mention you essentially get a complete panoramic view of the entire city from way up on that big hill you just hiked up!

So after spending a few hours there and dining at the cafe at the top of the castle (I had a Bocadillo a la Manchega, or a sandwich with a few slices of tomato, a big hunk of Manchega cheese, and olive oil. It was awesome) I decided to head on over to the Málaga Cathedral. Now, this Cathedral holds a special place in my heart for a few reasons. First, it's the most beautiful cathedral I've ever seen and -- dare I say it? -- I actually prefer it over Notre Dame in Paris. Now it's pretty much impossible to get a picture of the entire thing up close because it's surrounded by buildings, so here's one of the towers....



And here's one from up on top of the castle:



You'll notice I said towers, even though there only seems to be one. Well, apparently when the Malagueño Bishop had the money ear marked for the completion of the second tower, a little country known as America was fighting for its independence from Britain, so the Bishop took the money for the second tower, gave it to the US to help fight our war, and then just basically said "Towers? What do we need two for? We've already got one!" And so, the castle forever remains incomplete. It's pretty cool though, you can see the the spokes for where the tower was supposed to be.

In any case, as I get up to the cathedral I'm greeted by a sign that says "Today is not a tourist day, please do not enter the Cathedral" right in front of two open doors. Well, frankly, this is my only day in Málaga, and the doors are open, and figuring the WORST they could do is throw me out, I go in anyway.

Well it turns out there was some meeting with all the bishops from all over Spain that I just happened to walk in on, but seeing that there were a ton of tourists doing the exact same thing as me anyhow, I decided to wander around for a while.



This cathedral is lovely. No picture I have can do it's interior justice, as it just reaches up for the sky above you. I was so struck by how beautiful it was that it gave me shivers for at least the first thirty minutes I was there. Now, to give you some sort of scope as to how huge this church is, click on this picture here:



So I sat here for a little while, listening to some Spanish Bishop's sermon echo through the cathedral (which was actually really neat) and it was here that it dawned on me: places of worship always have the most beautiful architecture. Gaudy or not (c'mon, some of the Catholic cathedrals are awfully gaudy), they're still really something to behold.



So that was it for the first two sights, next comes the beach and the adventures with the Spanish Parachuter's Brigade!

Semana Santa

Wow, I'm actually really shocked that I haven't posted about Semana Santa, which was last month. That really shows you how much I'm paying attention (which isn't very much at all), but with only three weeks left of work, followed by quite a bit of time of traveling, I better update some more so you all know the little adventures I've gone on!

Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is Spain's week long Easter celebration where they parade floats, or tronos, around town. These things are all very old and very heavy. Here's an example of one now!


Each one is covered in flowers and supported by a group of men from each specific trono's church. They're followed around by members of the military and a band, and every so often they stop and some woman wails a song in a thick Spanish accent. The one above is from the city of Málaga, whose adventures I'll recount next, but here's one from Córdoba where I live:


Notice that there are a lot fewer guys holding up the trono. In the previous image you can see there are guys in front, under, and behind the thing, but in Córdoba they only have a group of guys under it. You could tell that it was a lot more difficult to carry the Córdoba ones around with such fewer guys. At one point later in the evening the trono stopped in front of me, and a few guys peaked their heads out from underneath and were, very much out of breath, asking for water. What's even more impressive, is that in Córdoba, even with fewer guys, after every time they take a break, they set themselves up, and before they start walking again they all jump, lifting the trono off the ground and into the air!

But don't worry, Jesus doesn't get all the fun! Mary's also involved in this whole thing, too. Hers was actually one of my favorites:


And here's another, one of Jesus making it's way past the Mezquita:


And of course, we can't forget the outfits that are very reminiscint of a violently racist group in our very own country. Thankfully in Spain it's all very religious and there's no racism attached, obviously, since they did choose these costumes first.


Also in Córdoba, the kids have this tradition of taking a small ball of aluminum foil, sticking it on a stick, and collecting wax from all the people escorting the trono around town, as you can see in this next picture. For a split second I thought about doing this too, but since all the kids participating were under the age of 10, I decided it might seem a little funny. Not to mention then I'd just have a big ball of wax, and how would I explain that to customs? In any case, I snapped a quick pic of two kids collecting some wax. One girl I saw later in the evening had one the size of a grapefruit. Talk about determination!


And, finally, one last trono passing through the Patio de Naranjas right in front of the Mezquita. It's this lovely area right in front of the mosque-cathedral that's filled with orange trees, so since it was early April while all this was going down, all the orange blossoms were in bloom and it smelled absolutely lovely.


So that's about it for Semana Santa. It was a nice week off from school, and even got to travel to Málaga, which I'll talk about in the next entry!

Things I Will Miss About Spain

Believe it or not, there are lots of things I'm going to miss about Spain.

Take, for example, my nutty neighbors. My window opens up into the Patio of the apartment building, which means 16 apartments all open up into the same common area. Then there's my neighbors.

The people who live on the first floor below and in front of us are an old married couple. The husband has the voice of an angel who smoked for 20 packs a day since the beginning of time. He coughs, making the oddest noises, that sort of sounds like AAAH WHOOOEEEEEE! He will then shout for his wife, the two of them repeating the same words over and over, but louder each time, since I'm sure neither of them can hear.

"Laura!"
"Qué?"
"...Laura!!!"
"Qué??"
"LAURA!!!!!"
"QUÉÉÉÉÉ!?!?!?"

This happens at least every other day.

Then there's the woman who lives below me and to the left. I'm assuming she's in her early 20s. This woman is undoubedtly the next up and coming Spanish Idol. She'll play ABBA or Britney and then dance around her room singing the words, then picks up her guitar and sings. It's wonderfully amusing in a non-cynical sort of way, I promise.

Then there's the footballers. I think they're all about 16 and they live in the apartment below me with their huge white dog. They, also, smoke at least 20 packs a day clearly in an attempt to achieve the same voice of the man who lives next to them.

Aaaah, Spain.

And Here Comes April!

Wow, these last few months have flown by fast.

A lot of you know that this whole trip hasn't exactly been the most glowingly positive experience of my life. It's been a very long, hard journey, but I'm glad to say that with the past few weeks I've really begun to enjoy Spain.

The other day I had lunch with my boss. Well, lunch isn't really the right word. More like a three hour food extravaganza/walking tour of Córdoba. We sat in the middle of a sea of umbrella covered tables in one of the oldest squares in Córdoba and drank Pepsi's while discussing world politics. We then moved on to one of the most traditional restaurants in Córdoba for a three course meal of salmorejo, bull tail, and flemenquín (it's like deep friend sausage... sort of) while listening to men practice their singing abilities for the Santa Semana processions later that evening. We topped it off with coffee and ice cream at a small café right across the street from some botanical gardens.

It was an awesome day, and with the weather warming up, I'm starting to enjoy my time here.

March Madness

Some days can be more tiring than others, and today was one of those days. I've been working on a bunch of different projects in school. There's teaching a group of kids a play for theatre we're going to perform in May, then there's constant delegations that come from all over the world to see our school that I have to prepare for, and then of course I've got my regular teaching in the morning in the afternoon. By the time I get home, it's unequivocally time for a siesta.

Apparently -- and I haven't gotten an answer to exactly why quite -- my school is especially important. We had the higher ups of the European Teacher's Union (or something along those lines) come a few weeks ago, and I got to meet a bunch of people from France who said they were very impressed with what we do as conversation auxiliaries and with the school in general.

Then there was last month when the Ministra de la Educación (a.k.a. the Secretary of Education) came to hang out and I got to teach in front of her. I was also put on TV here in Spain on a few different news channels!

But yet another group, from South Africa and South America is coming on Thursday, which means tomorrow I get to spend all day preparing my lesson for the kids for a subject I don't normally do, but hey, maybe I'll be on the news again.

And Spring has finally come around! ...Make that Summer. It's definitely Summer. I know the weather might tell you that it's in the 70s or 80s here, but that's a lie. It's actually, most definitely, in the 90s and for some reason the Spanish still find it appropriate to walk around in pants and sweaters over their collard shirts. I, on the other hand, will be going to work tomorrow in shorts and sandals, most likely making a spectacle of myself (the Spanish don't know what sandals are, and they think its funny whenever someone wears them).

In other news, my speaking skills have indeed gotten better. It's easy to imitate the Andalúz accent, you just drop off the final letter of every word, a lot like French. Just take a look at this example:

Sopató. This is the word that taught me that Spaniards actually speak in code. What they're actually saying is "Sopa para todos," and some how they manage to cut the amount of syllables in half. When my coworker Oscar taught me this, I told him he was a cheater and not actually speaking a real language.

I'm serious. Sometimes it reaches a point where all their saying is exhaled vowel noises.

Fine. I can imitate that. So I played a little experiment on my principal. Every day when I finished I'd walk up to here and ask "Necesitas algo más?" (Do you need anything else?) and a day at a time I'd start removing letters from my speech.

Necesita algo má?
Necesita alo má?
Ecesita alo má?
Ecesita ao má?

I said the last one in front of a Spanish-French translator who then immediately commented "Oh listen to how great his Andalúz accent is!"

Rumor has it the Madrileños (people from Madrid) pronounce every single letter. I can't wait to go visit.

Life Since New Year's

Life since Amsterdam has been a lot of things. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, sometimes peaceful, sometimes obnoxious, and most of it Spanish.

Except for, perhaps, the food. Now I don't know if I've discussed this before, but for the most part, the food in Spain leaves something to be desired. That's not to say it isn't good, as there's some good things here and there for you to find in fancy restaurants and hip cafes, but the fact of the matter is that if you haven't heard about Spanish food and if you don't know what it is... well, perhaps there's a reason for that.

Let's start with the good:

Paella. Rice, seafood, spices, veggies all mixed together in a pan that you share with whomever you're eating with. Paella is fantastic if made properly, and I've had lots of different varieties, one of which had black rice due to the squid ink that was squirted all over it (yes, it was actually reeeeally tasty). It's also cheap. I mean, it's basically rice and whatever you have in the fridge.

Salmorejo. Salmorejo is tasty... soup... bread dip... thing... made out of stale bread, tomatoes, water, and olive oil with an egg thrown in the middle. Yes, it's made out of stale bread, and yes it's actually quite tasty, but for something that's made out of bread that's been sitting in the pantry for a week, it's surprisingly expensive.

Kebab. Spain, of course, has a very high population of Arabic peoples, and with that comes a nice influence of their culture through their food, one of which being Kebab. Let me tell you, there is nothing more delicious than thin slices of chicken thrown into a pita and topped off with goat cheese, veggies, and sauce. I make it a point to have one from this little place I know just around the corner at least once a week, and have even become good friends with the owners!

Let's move on to what I consider the bad.

There's not a whole lot of bad food in Spain, as most of it falls into the "Oh, it's just different" category, but there is something in particular that's especially frightening. Something that haunts my sleep and to which I awake screaming in the middle of the night. It is something widely and abundantly available in Spain, and something I wish I never knew existed.

Let me introduce you to Serrano Ham.


Yes, it's a leg of ham that has been cured in some mysterious Spanish fashion. No, it is not wrapped in plastic, and yes, the pig's hoof, as you can see, is still attached to the end of it. I've recently learned that the color of the hoof can indicate both the quality and variety of serrano ham, a minute detail that only left me feeling even more disgusted by it.

Imagine, if you will, walking through your local grocery market in search of something delicious, such as fresh fruit.

...It's the stench that gets you first. You might not have come to the Serrano Ham Aisle, but you can definitely smell it. It's a sickly sweet, sickly sour smell that stings the nostrils and encourages any in it's aromatic path to hold their breath or to inhale shallowly. Then, it attacks your vision. Aisles of dozens if not hundreds of legs of ham hanging out in the open for all to see and smell. It's a foul festival of flesh that no one but you seems to fret themselves over.

"Oh it's delicious!" they claim.
"Try it, you'll love it!" they suggest.

And in the spirit of neighborliness you oblige them. You take a slice, and with a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead you taste it for the first time and come to one singular conclusion:

Ham should not taste sour.

But you smile, and you chew, and you make an ernest attempt at what sounds like a half hearted "Mmmm" wondering where you can spit this out without offending anyone. You resign yourself to the fact that you'll have to consume it entirely, but make an important, bolded, italicized, and underlined mental note that the next time you're offered this delicacy, you'll politely pass with the excuse that you just finished a rather large meal just a few minutes prior.

You might think I'm over exaggerating. That I'm making a hyperbole. You would be wrong.

Amsterdam, the world's most beautiful city

Of many possible reason, there is one specific reason why Amsterdam is, perhaps, the world's greatest city.

In the middle of December, with snow swirling through the streets, there's an outdoors flower market that stretches for several, several blocks. Yes, they are selling flowers and plants. Turns out Tulips from Amsterdam specifically need to be frozen over the winter, or they don't grow the following spring!


Well, there's that and then there's pofferties.

What are pofferties, you ask? Why, they're tiny, spherical silver dollar pancakes that are covered in real butter and about a pound of powdered sugar. Yes they are amazing, and yes, I ate them for breakfast every day that I was there.

...yes, I will be investing in a pofferties pan when I get back to the States. Here's a picture of pofferties lady, doing God's work.


Most of my days in Amsterdam were spent recovering from Paris and all of its evil. Why, just today I was watching a documentary where the narrator goes to Paris. Cue the romantic accordion music and beautiful shots of the Eiffel Tower. Don't be fooled, it's all lies.

Amsterdam, however, was amazing. In spite of Dutch being the weirdest language in the world with words like "Gemeenteraad" and "Leidseplein" and "Werkpleinen", everyone there also happens to speak English, so you don't have much of a problem when you're lost (and you will get lost) and trying to find your way around.

Sure there was the cold, and sure I had to wear adidas pants under my jeans, two pairs of socks, gloves, a scarf, a beanie, three shirts and two sweatshirts every time I went out, but the entire atmosphere in Amsterdam is frankly a whole lot friendlier than their bitter coffee drinking, cigarette smoking, wine drinking neighbors to the south west (at least, those of them in Paris). Not to mention this country also has actually functioning heaters that actually functionally HEAT the rooms their placed in, and not the faux heaters I've seen everywhere else so far.

So yes, all of this put together makes Amsterdam one sweet city. And New Year's was a total blast. The city organized a huge party in the main square of the city with lots of fireworks:


And let's not forget everyone in Europe was there. Spanish, Italian (who are drunk and loud), French (who are very pleasant outside of Paris), English, Irish, Scottish (wearing Kilts in the dead of winter), Russian (wearing full tiger coats, this one makes more sense), German (all of whom, I've decided, are at least 6 foot tall with blonde hair), and I'm sure many, many others.

Music poured through the streets as people danced their ways home and everyone -- EVERYONE -- was drunk.

Oddly enough, with all the things that go on in Amsterdam, with how so much is legal there, I've never felt more safe in another other city I've been in so far. I was never worried about walking down the streets at night or getting lost because, frankly, everyone was perfectly friendly and helpful.

So, yes, after so much stress and so much fighting to get anywhere, Amsterdam finally made it all worth it. It's a beautiful city, and one I definitely plan on going back to.

Paris, the Third

Now, having spent the previous night rolling around on a dirty French hotel floor and muttering delusional-ly to myself for several hours, I wake up the next morning feeling 100% perfectly fantastically never-been-better fine.

What.

All right. So I wake up, and after not really having much to eat over the past week or so, my stomach decides it wants one, and only one thing: McDonalds.

Yes, laugh if you will. Call me an ignorant stupid American if you must, but I'm not going to be 10.50 for some more chicken liver, okay? Thanks.

And you know, there's something very telling about France when, instead of a goofy looking clown with a big red smiley everywhere, in a Paris McDonalds they have pictures of poverty stricken children and revolutionaries.

"Well, that explains that," I say to myself.

The next few days were pretty normal. I met up with our totally awesome and rad friend KC and proceeded to wander through the Louvre and all of its insanity. We drank awesome hot cocoa and listened to some Chinese tourists try to converse with the French waiter... in English, then debated the legitimacy of the Mona Lisa and the Venus D. Milo as art. I remained skeptical and unconvinced.

I did, however, manage to stumble into a gallery in the very back of the top floor of the Louvre that had about a dozen paintings done by my favorite painter ever, so that was pretty fantastic.

But after one enough nights of vomiting in Paris, I had decided that that was enough for me. One Big Mac later, and I was ready to head on over to Amsterdam to see the windmills... among other things.

The Great Paris Debacle, Part Deux

So where we last left off my stomach was stubbornly against all things Paris, and after eating chicken liver, I couldn't particularly blame it. Since I was completely unable to consume anything alcohol related, and because I wanted to get my friends pretty trashed, I insisted that they drink while I photo-document the whole thing.

Now beer in Paris -- actually I take that back -- everything in Paris is about three times the price any sane normal person would expect it to be, meaning to spend a lot of time looking at the menus at restaurants and thinking to yourself "They're kidding, right?" So after passing on a bunch of the bars to get less than a regular sized can of beer for 7 euro, we stumbled into a grocery store where they have "Amsterdam Maximator" in a tall boy for 1.50.

Yep.

So they split a few, I snap a few pictures, and then we split up so they can go buy some more, and I can stop by the post office. Well the post office is closed, and now my two drunk friends are stumbling about Paris god knows where (See? This is why I do things like keep the keys to the hotel room.)

An hour or so later I realize I have a text on my phone. "Where are you?"

"Back the hotel. Where are you?" I respond, to which I receive...

"eigh twr"

I...what? Oh. Ooooh. They are very, very drunk.

I metro my way over to the Eiffel Tower, and wander around for a while before I give up on searching for them. Well, I'm sure they stumbled to a bar, they're both 23 and can take care of themselves, so I'm gonna climb up this here Tower and check things out.

The view, of course, was fantastic. Not to mention that the thing lights up a bright, brilliant blue at night and on the hour the entire thing sparkles bright white. It's really pretty awesome to see. I mean it's Paris, at night, and you're on the Eiffel Tower. What could possibly go wron--Oh, oh God. Oh God, no, no no no no no.

And thus I flee from the tower clutching my bum in a race against my stomach to get back to the hotel room. The flu has moved south. Thanks flu.

The next several hours were -- and I'm not exaggerating here -- probably some of the most painful of my life. The only way I can describe it is by the saying that it was like someone had taken razor wire, wrapped it around my intestines, and was PULLING as HARD as they POSSIBLY COULD. Had someone been there with me I probably would have found some way to get to the hospital, but considering I was on my own and the metros were going to close soon enough, I decided to stick it out through the night, writhing on the hotel floor and clutching my stomach, for the remainder of the night. If I felt just as bad in the morning, I would get to the hospital.

I drift in and out of sleep for the next few hours, usually it's broken up by me running to the bathroom and expelling things out of orifices I didn't even know I had, but at around 5 in the morning my phone goes off. Low and behold, its a text from my friend saying he's outside the hotel. I stagger down to let him in, but... wait. There were two. There were definitely two friends that I left to their own drunken devices in Paris.

"Nick's at the hospital" was the only explanation I got.

Are you kidding me? Well. All right. If he's in the hospital, my logic dictates to me, that means someone is looking after him. Its five in the morning, the metro doesn't open for another hour or so, so we'll get some sleep and if he's not here in the morning we'll go hunting for him.

Several hours later, Nick stumbles into the room.

Now, from what I understand, the last thing both of them remember is having consumed a total of 7 Amsterdam Maximators (11.6%) and walking towards the Eiffel Tower. One of them seems to remember vomiting into a trash can and "people not being very happy about it," but he said himself that that could've been anywhere. Who knows, he was drunk.

The other remembers being hauled into a police wagon where some French chick laughed at him for a while. He was thrown into a cell and cops woke him up around 4 to kick him out. The other was taken to the hospital because "he was too drunk" where he woke up in a bed, in a hall way that was lined with other drunken bums.

And that's how we spent Christmas.

Here I Come, Paris!

Man, it has been months since I've posted in this thing! Logging on today I realized that the last entry is dated December 18th, which means I haven't even written anything about my trip to Paris and Amsterdam. So, of course, that sounds like a fantastic place to begin where I left off.

Well, December 22nd I'm schedule to travel to Sevilla by train, and then hop on over to the airport to fly into Paris. The flight's only about two hours, so I was pleased by the thought of not having a miserable traveling day of death of chaos.

Little did I know...

Cut to several days before I head out of Córdoba. I'm teaching my cute little five years olds and we're all sitting down to do some worksheet. One of them, Paula, is sitting next to me while she colors, and asks me a question to clarify exactly what she should be coloring in the first place. Up until now I was very excited about the steps I had taken to remain healthy. Up until now was the first time I had been feeling solidly healthy since I arrived in Spain in the first place. But up until now, I had not had little five, germ filled five year olds cough directly all over me.

Thanks Paula.

That Saturday I spent the day in bed shivering. You know that shivering where you're laying under about 30 of your heaviest blankets, freezing your bum off even though your brain seems to acknowledge that something is warm, but it surely isn't you? Yeah, that's about how I spent the two days before I had to leave for Paris. But thank God it was just the shivers and a bit of a head flu and it hadn't migrated down to my stomach. If only I had been so lucky.

I wake up on Monday, travel day, feeling fantastic. HA! All those antibiotics I had been diligently been taking must have worked and I felt peachy-keen amazing. A quick shower, some breakfast, gather up all my stuff, and off I go, ready to see Paris!

All is going well, I make it to the airport safely, manage my way through security (although for some reason they viewed my face wash and shaving cream a threat to the airplane. Not my shaving razor, mind you, just my shaving cream), and sit down to wait for my flight with a bit of coffee and a book. That's when I hear it. The grumbling. The grumbling of an angry organ deep inside your body that is severely displeased and wants to make sure you know it, and organ that, no matter how much you beg, plead, and pray, will feel free to expel its contents whenever it deems necessary.

This, of course, is pretty inconvenient when you've got a window seat and you're waiting for take off and "MA'AM YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM AHORA!"

So the flu had migrated, and my hopes of a chaos free day of traveling were dashed away with my wind.

Of course, the very pleasant frenchman and his girlfriend didn't fault me, and after the third time of disturbing them I gathered my things and found my way to an aisle seat. Of course by then my stomach had settled down.

Cue arrival in Paris. The Bonjours, the Faire les Bisses, and even an occasional Beret. My life would have been complete if right there and then someone had been playing the accordion.

Yet, nonetheless, I had arrived and had not died in the process. Bryan 1. Paris 0. Stomach 10.

Thankfully my friends had already found their way to the hotel without a hitch, and I met them there and promptly ordered that we go find a restaurant and drink delicious wine while discussing poetry, politics, and the social implications of Sarcozy's cabinet. Or, you know, instead we just talked about how wacky Europeans are and how, frankly, they don't make any sense. In any case I had an... interesting meal of chicken liver paired with a tasty white wine in a restaurant where all the tables were draped in -- I kid you not -- red and white checkered table cloths, and then the lot of us returned to the hotel for a well deserved sleep.

The next morning I felt fantastic, well enough for a good walk around the city. Looking back on it we managed to cover and awesome amount of distance. We headed straight for Invalides (a hospital built for soldiers that contains Napolean's tomb) , The Eiffel Tower, the Arc, the Louvre, and a couple places, before deciding it was time for a nap. This is how the next few days were spent, idly wandering around the city checking out the sites and grumbling about how the ridiculous cost of beer was preventing us from drinking as much as we wanted.

Not that yours truly would have considering it would be just a few hours before the monster inside of me decided to erupt in an angry, fiery fury...

But I'll save that for the next entry!