te dejo madrid

Almost one year ago to the day I arrived in Madrid, filled with hope but having no idea what to expect. I will never forget that first day, which in many ways was also my favorite day. I may not have done anything exciting, or even interesting, like I would on my travels later in the year, but there is no feeling in the world comparable to falling in love, and that is exactly what happened; I was thrown head over heels for Madrid.

That first day--which feels like a lifetime ago--I went to Parque del Retiro with four others (Richie, Angelica, Julie, and Eric), who at the time were barely even acquaintances. We wandered, explored, napped, and together soaked in the fascination of this nascent adventure we had begun. I remember discussing how everything felt so surreal, as if we would all wake up and find ourselves back in our beds in California.

I still love coming to this park, a little oasis tucked away in this massive city I call home. I return often for the scenery, to people watch, to exercise (not as often...), and above all for the nostalgic memories of those first hours in Spain. It seemed fitting to come and spend my last day here as well, although the circumstances aren't exactly the same. Today I am not jetlagged and the sun isn't beating quite as hot as those beginning sweltering days. Today I am alone. The first day I was filled with anxiety and excitement, but today I am oddly serene. One thing that has not changed is that deceiving feeling of surrealism. A year ago I couldn't believe I was actually in Spain; now, even though my bags are packed and most of my friends have left, it doesn't feel like I'm leaving tomorrow. I've grown accustomed to the the thought of the end being so far away, and now that it's just around the corner I can't believe it. And I don't think I will believe it until finally land and realize everything is in English again. Or I go to pay for some meal in the airport and pull dollar bills out of my wallet instead of those colorful euros.

I don't mean to give the impression that I was happy to leave America and I'm disappointed to return, because this isn't true. When I left California, I knew I was coming back, and that my family, friends, and home would all still be there upon my return. It's much easier to say, "Until next time" as opposed to, "Goodbye." Even though I'm sure I'll come back to Madrid some time in my life--there is no way I couldn't--I don't know if I'll be able to live here again, and even if I did it would be impossible to repeat the experience of this year with the same people.

In my first post, I wrote that one of my main goals for the year was to say yes to everything and be open to all opportunities. Without the constrains of responsibilities (no job, minimum effort in school, etc.) it was easy to take full advantage of my year. The only people with this much freedom are usually toddlers or retirees, so I feel lucky to have a year dedicated solely to growth, unhindered by any outside nuisances. A year abroad will foster development in any human being, so much so that in my case I feel like a new person. I know I've grown over this year in ways that are too subtle to be named but also too numerous to be insignificant.

One thing I have for sure learned, however, is to live in the present. At this moment, I need to enjoy what I have right here, right now, sitting in the park. The sunshine and warm breeze, groups of friends enjoying picnics with wine, dogs wrestling on the lawn, couples necking in rowboats on the pond. Tomorrow it will be my present no longer, but I will always cherish this memory, along with all my memories from this year, as important parts of my past without letting them encumber my future. Thank you again, Madrid, for everything, but most of all for being my home away from home. I already cannot wait to see you again, so until next time y hasta luego. 

May the road rise up to meet you

There were two countries I'd been especially looking forward to visiting more than any other: Ireland and Italy. I'm really not sure why I'm so enamored by them, although I am sure it's no coincidence that these two countries are precisely the two I have roots in. I'm pretty far removed from both places and I don't feel a strong cultural connection to either one, but I was still hoping for some kind of "click" upon arrival, an immediate and inherited sensation of belonging. It's very cliché and even ridiculous, as if the spirits of my ancestors would fill me with some satisfaction as I step on their soil, but that was my dream.

As I stepped off the plane and inhaled that first breath of emerald air in Dublin, there was no "click," but I still had a strong feeling I was really going to enjoy Ireland regardless. The only plan I had was to fly into Dublin and then eight days later fly out of Cork in the south; everything in-between was still uncharted territory. My old roommate flew in to travel this still-embryonic trip with me, and our reunion called for a traditional Irish celebration in a pub. On the Camino I did through northern Spain I met a recently-married couple from Dublin, and we arranged to meet up with them to see the city with native Dubliners. That famous Irish hospitality really showed as they took us on our own personal pub crawl with friends, and I can't remember a moment when there wasn't a drink in my hand. The first time someone in the group asked me, "What are you drinking?" I thought it was just curiosity. But after several times of being asked and then magically receiving another pint, I quickly learned that the question was really a less loquacious version of "I've got next round, what should I get you." Meeting people like Clare and Jared is one of the most invaluable parts of traveling, and I hope I can provide them an equally great night when they make it out to California.

Future home? 

I'm always mentally rating the cities I visit based on livability, and Dublin definitely scored a place in the top 3 European cities along with Madrid and Lisbon (I guess I'm attracted to countries in crisis?). The environment of the city seemed constantly jovial despite the rain, and the genuine kindness of the locals gave no hint of economic problems. It was bittersweet to leave because three days just didn't seem enough, but the unanimous praise I had been hearing for the scenery on the west coast gave me something to look forward to.

The next destination was Galway, one of the biggest cities in Ireland but still pretty small by any other standards. This included a day trip to the Cliffs of Moher, which I appreciated not only because they are breathtakingly gorgeous, but also because they were familiar to me from the sixth Harry Potter movie (think of Harry and Dumbledore in the sea about to enter the cave with Voldemort's horcrux). The landscape in the entire country is all idyllic; from Dublin to Cork, every square centimeter is just as green as you would imagine--even in the middle of July--and grazing sheep between dry stone fences only added to the picturesque quality.


Through my travels this year, I've finally discovered the secret to a perfect trip: bicycles. Renting a bike has always resulted in fantastic days, and riding the bucolic roads from Cork to Blarney was no exception. After excessive bus trips, it was nice to actually be outside in the landscape instead of just seeing it through a window. We were even lucky enough to have sunshine and blue skies instead of rain, like a little farewell gift from Ireland to send us off.

Orgullo 2012

I was hoping that my last full weekend in Madrid would be something special, and luckily I got way more than I could have bargained for. Not only was the entire city saturated with rainbows for the annual Pride Festival, but Spain also won the Euro Cup--the first team to do so two consecutive times. It was practically six straight days of non-stop partying and festivities, as everyone in the city had reason to celebrate something.

Even though I've heard all year that the Pride Festival in Madrid is an especially great one, the only one I had to compare it with was SF Pride, which is also known worldwide as one of the best (it is San Francisco after all...). But Madrid did not disappoint; the entire Chueca barrio--the Castro equivalent in Madrid--was blocked off to traffic to make room for the music stages and thousands of people flooding the streets. At night, DJs played their eclectic music sets as the massive crowds drank freely outside as the cops idly sat by, which is unheard of during any other time.

All the events culminated to the big parade on Saturday, where the main street and very center of Madrid was closed off. I have no idea how many people were actually there, but I do know I have never seen Gran Via filled with so many bodies before. As an observer, the parade wasn't spectacular. I don't think I can even really judge the quality since the number of people clogging the streets prevented the procession from moving. Being the high need for stimulation individuals that we are, my friends and I quickly ditched the fanfare and jumped right into the parade itself. Marching down Gran Via donned in costumes and cheering loudly with a group of lesbian mothers was definitely one of the highlights of my year. Pride is, and should be, a universal event open to anyone, and I felt that especially in Madrid. Everyone was excited for Pride, whether they're gay or straight, and that camaraderie is the real spirit of the weekend.

By Sunday my body was desperately in need of a full day of rest, but the Euro Cup final forced it through one more night of celebration, and it was definitely a celebration to remember. I've often whined about not studying abroad one year earlier, so I could have been here when Spain won the World Cup, but Euro Cup has now given me some solace. The stages in Chueca that hosted DJs and dance parties only 24 hours earlier were now affixed with giant screens to play the game live for anyone to come see, and I was lucky enough to see my first sporting event that was hosted by a drag queen. Any pity for Italy quickly dissipated when the game ended and the city erupted into absolute madness. One of the coolest parts to see was how proud everyone felt to be Spanish. It's pretty rare to see a Spain flag hanging in a window or any other patriotic act, but after that victory, everyone was proud to be Spanish. Even those of us who aren't. 

It was a Pride filled weekend I will never forget. 

CHAMPIONS!!!!

ningún camino es largo con buena compañía

If one year ago someone told me that I would one day walk the holiest pilgrimage in Catholicism, I would have said they were crazy. But last week, I somehow found myself filling my backpack with clothes, water, and a sleeping bag, preparing to embark on the Camino de Santiago. The final destination of the Camino is Santiago de Compostela in the northwest region of Galicia, where the bones of St. James the Apostle are buried. The journey can begin wherever you want to, but there are several established paths, the most famous--el Camino Frances--beginning right at the French-Spanish border and continuing along northern Spain to Santiago; it takes just about a month to complete. As cool as it would have been to do the entire stretch, I unfortunately didn’t have the time to do it.

Amanda, Bernabé, and myself started in Ponferrada, a city that sits about three-quarters into the Camino Frances, or about a week away from Santiago by foot. Many pilgrims obviously walk for the Christian aspect, but my reasons weren’t quite so religious. The reason I even thought to do this trip was because my friend Amanda had mentioned it a few times, and I thought walking together would be a great way to spend time with her before we head our separate ways at the end of the summer. Our friend Bernabé came along also. I didn’t know him too well before the Camino, so I got to make a new friend as well. Another reason was that I had barely seen any parts of Spain north of Madrid, so actually walking through it, not just bussing to the major cities, would be the best way to really see it. And then of course there was the whole “this-is-something-really-difficult-and-I-want-to-do-it” mentality that was a driving force as well.

After an inadequate weekend trip to País Vasco, the three of us departed Bilbao on a seven hour train ride to Ponferrada. We only had 5 full days to complete a walk that should take 7-8, so we began that evening. The inns for pilgrims have a special name, albergues, and usually cost only €5 to spend the night. All pilgrims have a special little “passport” that gets stamped at each albergue to show in Santiago you’ve walked at least the 100km minimum.

The first two days were passed eating wild cherries, trying not to vomit from eating said cherries, and lot of walking, walking, walking. Initially the landscape was mostly agricultural, a sea of orchards and vineyards. The towns we traversed were unlike anything I’ve ever seen, too small to even be called pueblos. Many of them were only one block long and nothing more. The dilapidated stone houses and eerily empty streets gave the feelings that these were cities abandoned decades ago, but the few signs of life (cooped up chickens, recently tended vegetable gardens, an open bar) proved the contrary. But every time we did cross paths with someone, they always gave the conventional “¡buen camino!” to encourage us along the way.

The third day started with a 10k climb through the mountains where we crossed the border of Castilla y León into Galicia. Despite the difficult ascent and progressive rain, the inconsistency of hiking through forest kept us riveted. The entire time I felt like I was journeying through Middle Earth from Lord of the Rings. Not only is this leg the supposed hardest part of the Camino, it’s also the day we walked the most, almost 50km. My legs were shaking by the end, and I had no idea just walking could cause so much pain.

Day 4 drew us out of the forest and into the most quintessential spring time landscape you could imagine: the sun and bright blue sky over an endless view of meadows. The hills rolled like the restless ocean, a moving sea of green with bright yellow and violet flowers exploding at every turn. Walking during the spring was the perfect time to do it, and I can’t imagine it being any more beautiful than it was. The next day we finally met some other people on the Camino and walked with them (an Irish couple and a Spanish couple, which was so appropriate since the Spain-Ireland game was later that night). It was nice having more company and meeting some fellow pilgrims, though unfortunately we couldn’t walk with them to the end. Friday we were still 64km away from Santiago, and the train ticket home was for Saturday morning. Bad planning on my part forced us to take a bus the last leg of the Camino, but we still walked over the 100km limit (141km to be exact).

Champions!

It was kind of a bummer to not walk into the city as I had expected, but it was a great Camino nevertheless, and I still rewarded myself with a plate of Galician octopus upon arrival despite the cheating. It would be great to come back one day and walk the entire thing from St. Jean in France, but honestly if I had an entire month of free time and could choose to do anything, I don’t know if I would re-do something I’ve already partially done, especially since we already walked through the best parts (according to others we met). But still, it would be a great experience to do it all, and 30 days of non-stop walking would really be a challenge. It’s all about having the right travel companions, however, so anyone who wants to join, just let me know. 

the beginning of the end

Summer has finally arrived, which means laying out in the park, guilt-free siestas, and partying like the Spaniards do every night of the week. It’s also the home-stretch of this study abroad year, and some friends have already left Spain to return home. Saying goodbye to those who have left or are leaving soon stirs up a mixture of emotions: grief that I will no longer see someone I’ve grown so close to, nostalgia of all the memories we have made this past year, sympathy for the person who isn’t able to stay in Spain for the summer, and dread as I selfishly picture myself in their same position in a few short months.

This last feeling has really made me think about this year, and all of the things that have made my time in Spain so extraordinary. Madrid has been incredible to me, and I never want to forget the special parts that I will miss the most:

• Greeting everyone, stranger or friend, with a kiss on each cheek
• Eating churros dipped in rich chocolate for breakfast and having no one judge you
• Learning something new in Spanish every day
• Taking a weekend trip to another country for the same price as a bus ride from SLO to San Francisco
• Boxes of wine for 75 cents (perfect for making sangria)
• The protests, and how politically active the population is (especially youth)
• One euro sandwiches and jarras of beer from Cien Montaditos every Wednesday
• KEBAB
• How much cleaner euros feel than dollars
• That leaving a tip for service in a restaurant is never necessary 
• Going to sports bars on game nights and cheering for Real Madrid
• Having three hour meals where sitting and socializing is more important than whatever you need to do afterward
• Never being forced to choose what beer I want, because the only choice is Mahou
• Being surrounded by people from all over the world
• Being able to walk around Chueca (or anywhere in Madrid, really) and feel completely comfortable
• Botellons in the streets and meeting new people
• The history, and seeing buildings that are older than the USA
• Normal roundabouts in the street decorated with enormous arches and fountains
• Seeing it’s 10pm but there’s still light out
• No one is glued to their cellphones, because it’s too expensive to use them
• Buying one euro beers on the street at night
• At least one holiday every three weeks, if not more

Obviously, what I’ll miss most is the people I’ve met this year and the lifelong friends I’ve made, especially my IP family. I can’t imagine this year without this group of gangbangers, and even though it’s sad as we begin to depart, I’m already looking forward to seeing them again in California. 

Now I really feel like a transient

Here I begin 78 days without a home. With all of the traveling I have planned, there was really no reason to pay an entire month's rent when I would be there so rarely, especially when I have such generous friends who let me stay with them. So now begins two and a half months of bumming on sofas, living out of a suitcase, and endless adventure.

It was pretty bittersweet to leave my apartment, since I lived in an incredible neighborhood and close to everything. While my living situation definitely was not the best I could have had, it was also far from the worst, and I learned a lot throughout the year. Most importantly, I will never again live with my landlord. There were too many rules and too much hypocrisy, and an all-student flat would have been far more enjoyable. Every morning I would wake up to him singing opera music outside my bedroom, and just lie there in bed thinking to myself, why do I live here? But, he is a very cultured man, and I definitely learned a lot about Spain and Spanish culture living with him. Plus, whenever I come back to Madrid, I know I'll always have a place to stay.

Also, some of my favorite people in Madrid are people I met in that house, such as roommates I already have plans to visit, and I hope some day will come to California to visit me.

A large part of the summer I won't even be in Madrid, since I fully intend to take advantage of the cheapness to travel within Europe. The whole month of July I'll be gone, and then I'll get to spend those last couple weeks in the city that is truly my home.

Itinerary for the best summer of my life:

• Pais Vasco and Galicia
• Paris
• Rome
• Porto
• Ireland
• Milan and Venice
• Vienna
• Prague
• Copenhagen
• Amsterdam
• Berlin
• Canary Islands

Seeing them all listed like that makes it that much more real. I can already tell this summer is going to rush by while I hopelessly try to hold it back and draw it out as long as possible. I would usually say that attempting to delay the inevitable is pathetic, but in this case, YOSAO. 

¡Olé!

I've eaten plenty of jamón and went to a flamenco show, so the one major Spanish tradition I had left to experience was a bullfight. Despite the ethical problems and animal cruelty, I knew I had to see at least one during my year here, and I'll admit I was excited to go. Bullfighting here in Spain can be pretty controversial, since there are a lot of people who don't agree with it (it's even outlawed completely in the Canary Islands and Cataluña). I had always thought of it as a dying sport, but the almost packed stadium corrected that misconception.

The Plaza de Toros is an impressive building that really stands out against the many apartment complexes that surround it. There are always a group of six people, los toreros, who fight the bull: three assistants, two on horseback, and then the one who gives the final blow. Typically they'll go through six bulls in one afternoon, which seems to me like a lot to watch (I made it through three). The three assistants rile the bull up by basically teasing it, while the toreros on the horses stab it with these long spears. So at this point, the only creatures being hurt are the bull and the horses who have to bear his wrath. Then, the assistants take turns putting hooks into the bull's back, just to prepare him for the final part.

Honestly, it's not easy watching the poor bull get impaled by hooks, but what made it worst was the first bull didn't even want to be there. He seemed afraid of the toreros, and instead of fighting back with them was just trying to get away from their unprovoked attacks. That especially made it seem cruel, and by the time the final man came out, I was ready for him to just end the bull's suffering. Once that final sword is plunged through the back--and through the heart if it's done right--the bull just shrinks away while the torero continues to taunt it, like an annoying opponent who wins and then has to rub it in your face. If they have to kill it, can't they at least let these beautiful animals die with a little dignity?

Pre-gore

After the first show, it was obvious the bull was very unevenly matched. The torero's job is definitely dangerous, since they are literally inches away from this charging monster, but they can also cowardly run behind walls to get away. After the first show I was feeling more sympathetic toward the bull and was rooting for him, until he actually fought back. Watching the bulls suffer and bleed is difficult, but so is witnessing another human being thrown over the animal's horns and then trampled under his massive body. It was scary to watch, but he was apparently unscathed enough to get back up and continue the fight.

Before going, I was pro-bullfights. They may be barbaric, but it's a part of Spanish life that I can appreciate as cultural, since it really is considered an art more than anything by those who do it. Now I'm not sure how I feel about them. The bull dying wasn't even what really upset me, since I knew beforehand about that. But the humiliation of the bull that's involved and the prolonged torment is what I don't like, and I wish it could be more of a fair fight as if between two rivals. Whatever I feel, I don't see it going away completely any time soon. 

It's Istanbul, Not Constantinople

April was not a good blog month. Between traveling, lots of visitors, and getting the flu, there was just no time to sit and reflect about everything going on around me. It makes me sad, because this blog is really important to me, and the next few months are only going to be more hectic. I'm going to start with the most recent activities in my life and work back (hopefully quickly), as I don't want to forget any of it.

Our beautiful, springtime "death march"

To escape the spring showers of Madrid, Amanda, Kimiko, and myself made use of another one of the many Spanish holidays for a week-long excursion to Istanbul, the cultural and economic center of Turkey, and the only major city in the world to sit on two continents. But before arriving, we were able to make use of a 10 hour layover in Munich and experience a little bit of Germany. At the moment, Germany's economy is supporting the rest of Europe, and it's interesting that in my short time in just one city I could see how efficient everyone was. Just in the way their airport security works or how the metro is laid out, I got the impression that Germans are really on top of it. Of course, we didn't have time to see much in one day, but we were able to visit Dachau, the first concentration camp built by the Nazis. We traversed the same 4km path where SS Guards would march the new arrivals from the train to the camp gates--although I can't imagine it looking so green and floral 75 years ago. Dachau itself was haunting, but you really had
to stop and put yourself in the mind of a terrified, confused, powerless, even hopeful prisoner to fully grasp the gravity of such a heinous place.

Hagia Sofia, an ancient Byzantine cathedral turned
mosque by the Ottomans

After the most exciting layover of my life, we finally arrived late that night in Istanbul. I am definitely cursed when it comes to airport arrivals, and here we ended up missing the last train of the metro we had planned to take, so we were forced to figure out shuttle and taxi services while trying to make sure we weren't being ripped off (which we were). The next day, and every day in the city after, had the most perfect weather you could imagine: warm, bright, and sunny, but still cool enough to wear the required long pants and sleeves to enter the mosques without getting heat stroke. And there are plenty of mosques to see. Looking over the city skyline, you can see minarets popping out between almost every other building. In a predominantly Muslim city of over 13 million people, I guess a lot are necessary. We were able to see three of the most famous ones, one that is a museum now (Hagia Sofia) and two that still function as places of worship (Sultanahmet and Süleymaniye). All of them were incredible buildings, and there's no way words or pictures can do them justice. 


We had to do the touristy things, like visiting palaces, eating Turkish delight, and a bus tour of the city, which was all very nice (except the Turkish delight). The May Day demonstrations were definitely different from protests I've seen in Madrid. Here, you went through a metal detector and police search just to enter the main city square where speeches were being made. I hardly even notice police officers in Madrid during marches, but it was impossible to miss the fully-equipped riot police stationed at every corner, ready to enter a scene in a moment's notice. A four lira (less than 2€) ferry ride carried us to the nearby Prince Islands in the Sea of Marmara, where automobiles are prohibited and everyone gets around by foot, bike, or horse and carriage. We opted for the bikes, expecting a pleasant ride along the water but actually discovering uninterrupted hills that seemed to defy physics by always going up and never going down--the struggle definitely had me worried about returning to triathlons next fall. We were able to rest on our own little private beach though, which definitely made it worth all the trouble. 

Prince Islands Beach

Desperate for another beach day after living in a landlocked city for so long, we crossed the river over to Asia and took an hour and half bus ride to a beach town called Şile on the Black Sea. It reminded me a lot of Half Moon Bay in some ways: beach houses on the hills overlooking the water, quaint downtown area, and completely overcast. The sun had left us back in Istanbul, so we walked along the water instead of actually swimming in it. 


After visiting Morocco, it was nice to get another perspective of a Muslim country by visiting such a completely different location. In Istanbul, many women didn't cover their hair, we saw couples holding hands and kissing along the river (even a gay couple), and alcohol was readily available in almost any grocery or convenience store. Marrakech was almost the opposite in these regards, the same way most smaller towns in any part of the world are usually more conservative than a cosmopolitan city. Although in my opinion, Marrakech was cheaper and had better food. 

Flying out just at daybreak and watching the sun as its rays stretched over the sea to rouse the earth, I felt a pang of jealousy for the people below who are able to wake up every morning in this other world. I looked back once more at the smoggy city, and saw, as our new Turkish friend would say, Istanbul getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller. 

O Valencia!

The main falla of 2012

Las Fallas are an event that is impossible to describe in words; imagine a month long festival that revolves around fireworks, firecrackers, bonfires, and any other type of flammable insanity you can think of. The festivities culminate on March 19th, the Feast Day of St. Joseph, when the entire community of Valencia gathers in the streets to party all day and night and then burn down these massive floats that permeate the city. I don't think "floats" really does the fallas justice, since they're more like building-size pieces of art. I honestly couldn't imagine building one of these things only to ultimately watch it get torched to the ground in a matter of seconds (unless I got to be the one to light it).

The festival is such a big event in Spain that getting a hostel to stay in is pretty much impossible, so we took a bus there just for the day--leaving Madrid 9:00am Monday morning, and returning the next day after twenty-three hours of debauchery. We could already see the smoke and hear the firecrackers as we drove in at 2:00pm, with the Mediterranean Sea right at our side. The bus dropped us off in front of the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias, this visually mind-blowing complex of museums, an aquarium, a planetarium, an opera house, and more right in the middle of the city. It would have been awesome to go inside, but considering our limited amount of time we wanted to head right into downtown to find the fallas.

Arriving in the city center, we began to see fallas appearing on practically every street corner. I have no idea how many days they had already been sitting there, since they definitely obstruct traffic throughout the entire city. These monuments litter the streets, and usually have some kind of satirical message constructed in the design. It also felt like a Fourth of July celebration; they're were people setting off fireworks all over the place, and little kids lighting firecrackers right on the sidewalk (my brother Connor would have loved it all).

The night ended up being great, thanks to the company of old friends and new friends. There was wild dancing on every street--which led to a massive tear through my pants and only added to the craziness--while fireworks continued for hours. At midnight, we were able to watch the burning of the nearest falla, which was quickly incinerated into an ashy frame. Probably the most ridiculous part of the night was how all of that fire set off some kind of celestial sprinkler system, and it started pouring the minute all of the festivities ended. Unfortunately, we were a good thirty minute walk away from the bus stop, so everyone had a very wet bus ride back to Madrid.

Before...

...after. 

Spring Semester

New semester, new classes. The best thing about school this semester is definitely the schedule: Monday and Tuesday packed with classes, and then practically a five-day weekend every week starting on Wednesday (minus one movie class on Thursday evenings). My "American" classes are Syntax, a course on Cervantes, and then a Spanish cinema class. I'm really enjoying them all so far and like all of the professors.

One of my "Spanish" classes is Contemporary History. I do like it, but it's really hard to stay focused in that class. It starts at 8:30 in the morning, and the teacher just sits in her desk and talks at us for ninety minutes. It's interesting, and I can understand her well when I pay attention. However, it's very easy to drift off for a minute, and then after that it's pretty much over. But as long as I'm sitting next to someone with a computer to peek at, I can usually find my place again. Like a lot of Spanish classes, the entire grade for the class depends on the final exam, so it requires very little work during the semester and then a lot of pressure on that one test. Unfortunately, I just discovered all of the mandatory "lab" days we have for the class are scheduled during my other classes, so there's a good chance I'm going to fail this class anyway for lack of attendance. This is a problem I still need to resolve.

My last class brings up a whole new load of problems I have with our program. I was bent on taking a class in the College of Psychology (which we aren't allowed to do), and I wasn't going to let lack of resolve be the reason I wasn't able to. I talked to the professors of the classes I wanted, the registrar's office at the university here in Madrid, and even an advisor back at Cal Poly to make sure all of my bases were covered. Everyone said okay, and I just needed my program to give me permission. Well, the directors we have here in Spain both said no, it's not possible (even though in the program brochure we received before arriving it explicitly says that it is possible). So, I wrote to the main office in Long Beach. The email exchange was so outrageously frustrating I couldn't even believe it. I received emails about irrelevant topics, then I was ignored, and then I was told I was prohibited from contacting them again. I don't understand why these people work for a university if they aren't willing to deal with students.

I didn't come to Spain to not take a single psychology course. One of the main reasons to study abroad is after all to learn about your own field of study from another cultural perspective. So, even though for my fifth class I am technically enrolled in a philosophy course, I'm taking it credit/no credit; I haven't attended once, so I'm intentionally failing it and won't receive the credit. Instead, I travel every Monday and Tuesday to a farther campus where the Psychology School is located, where I have a Psychology of Language course. I love what I'm learning there, and it's probably my favorite class. I'm not technically in the class and I won't receive a grade for it at the end, but I still participate in all of the work we have like a regular student. It's pretty sad that I have to fail one class in order to have another that I enjoy, but IP has done me enough academic damage this year. They will not keep fucking with my education.

I just summed up about two months of constant problems in two paragraphs. I could easily write an entire blog, if not a short novel, on the grief they have caused me, and I probably will. But, the director of the entire CSU Study Abroad program is going to be in Madrid in a couple of weeks and asked to meet with me. I honestly can't wait, and I do feel reassured to be able to talk with him one-on-one. I just hope the positive feelings remain after the meeting as well. Vamos a ver.