Monday, June 25, 2012

La vida tranquila: Granada, Spain



Life is pretty easy here in Granada. I'm working at a small hostel in the city center— and by "working," I mean 3 hours a day, 6 days a week for food and housing...let's be real, it will probably be a while until I have a big girl job. *NOTE: spontaneous offers of employment are always welcome.*


view from my balcony!
Some days I take the morning shift (cleaning) and other days I take the evening shift (reception). I must brag that I am exceptionally good at both tasks. Let me tell you, I can scrub a mean toilet. And, after an entire lifetime of my mother trying to teach me about "hospital corners" (seriously though....we don't even live in a hospital), I make beds like a true champion. While I am basically a human Swiffer, I also rock reception. In fact, after only two short days here, I worked my first solo-shift for check-in. The owners could probably tell that I was born to sit at a desk with my boxed sangria, facebook, text, mumble along to incomprehensible Spanish pop music, and then actually act quite charming on the rare chance that someone actually happens to walk through the front door. 

The people who own this hostel are a young, adorable brother and sister pair. Their father is Japanese and their mother is Spanish, but they were both born and raised in Spain, so I have encountered the interesting predicament of learning how to say their Japanese names — Sayano and Takashi — with a Spanish accent. So here's how I've chosen to resolve the issue:
"¡Hola, Lexi! Buenos días." - Takashi
"¡Hola, guapo! ¿Qué tal?" - Me
Just kidding...I'm rarely that forward so early in the morning. 


Anyway, the two siblings had a "welcome" dinner prepared when I arrived on the 21st and we all spent the evening drinking, eating, and chatting (¡pero, claro, en español!). They're incredibly laid back and want to make sure that they're "helpers" have ample time off to relax and explore. That attitude— combined with the fact that this is a fairly quiet hostel— gives me a great deal of down time so I've been spending the last few days exploring the city.

One of my great discoveries thus far in Granada is that whenever you order a drink here, the bartender brings you a FREE plate of tapas. The first time it happened, I was so incredibly confused; this sort of stuff never happens at Denny's. A cheery Spanish waiter came over, handed me my beer, and a little plate of food.  He saw the confusion on my face —probably not my cutest look— and just said "albondigas" — meatballs. As if that cleared things up. 

Turns out, this is just the way cafes work in Granada. Of all the major cities in Spain, Granada is one of the least touristy, so in order to compete for business, the restaurants keep customers coming back for the tapas because the drinks are pretty much the same wherever you go. So say it's 90°F outside (which it usually is) and all you want is to go sit in the shade and order an ice cold beer (which you will), you can go sit at pretty much any cafe and order a round of their local beer and then... let's be honest... order another one and just sit for a couple hours and people watch. Use the two beers and two little plates of food as your lunch, and you walk away having spent 3-4 euro on a couple hours of pure bliss. 

After one such dirt-cheap-drinking-and-eating-and-people-watching-cafe-extravaganza, I realized that I was being pathetically lazy, so I decided to walk up to Sacromonte. Sacromonte is one of the six barrios that make up the district of Albaicín, which is a traditional moorish part of the city (looks a lot like Morocco!). It's located at the northeast edge of the city, and people have lived in cave-dwellings there since the 16th century when the Muslim and Jewish populations of Granada were kicked out of their homes. That area is now an important site for Gitano (Spanish gypsy) culture. All-in-all, it's a pretty interesting part of the city, but the famous abbey (simply called la abadía) in Sacromonte is at the top of a veeeerrrryyyy long hill, the length of which I was unaware due to my lack of research. 

So I was an hour into walking up this hill in 90°F heat and stuffed with tapas, and literally no one was in sight —clearly everyone else had done their research and knew about this stupid hill — when all of the sudden I hear some distinctly American voices coming up behind me. I was so excited. People to walk with, maybe they're from California, maybe they know how long this damn hill is, maybe they're a bunch of quitters and wanna just turn around and go back down the hill and get more tapas with me...my mind is going wild with the possibilities. So I turn around to look back at where my new best friends are and they're riding up the hill on segways. Yes, segways. They are taking a SEGWAY tour of one of the most important areas of the Spanish reconquest. Damn Americans. Next thing I know, they've zipped right by me, not a drop of sweat to be seen on their faces, just oh so very pleased with their choice of transportation. 


the segway-ing americans
passing me on their way back down the hill

I ended up playing this very bizarre game of "walking-sweaty-girl vs. segway-luxury" tag with these people all the way up and all the way down the very long hill to the Abbey of Sacromonte. Every now and again they'd pass me and then I'd pass them when they stopped to do something culturally enriching, and then they'd pass me, and then I'd pass them after taking a short-cut on a footpath. I'm pretty convinced they were messing with me. They didn't just pass me once and then out of sight, out of mind, they kept rubbing it in my face. Next time, I'm finding out how to get myself a segway. And I will proceed to rub it in the face of whoever else is stupid enough to walk the hill to the Abbey of Sacromonte.


the abbey at the top of the very very long hill
...look a little like every other old building you've ever seen in your life?
(hint: the answer is "yes")
Anyway, I finally made it to the top of the hill and there was actually nothing to see. If only this were the sort of thing that would encourage me to do a little more research.   


Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Fés, Morocco




Let me establish this from the beginning just so there’s no confusion: I do not like Morocco. Is it harsh and unnecessary to generalize about an entire country based on four days in one city? Yes. It’s like if someone didn’t like San Francisco and then decided that they don’t like America. But that person would just be crazy because who doesn’t like San Francisco? Anyway, sometimes you just have to give yourself permission to be harsh and unnecessary, and I'm certainly not going to sugarcoat my feelings about Morocco. Now, I say this at the beginning because there might be a few moments when I say something nice about Morocco and I don’t want you to be confused: I don’t like it. 
Before I dive in to the top three things that I hate about Morocco, I just need to explain one very interesting phenomenon: the Moroccans (or at least those who live in Fés) are very touchy-feely people. Never between men and women, but within their own sex. When I first arrived in Fés, I saw two men outside of a market with one casually sitting on top of the other. Mind you, it is 90° outside and the last thing you want is extra body heat. This caught my attention, but I didn't think much of it until I saw nearly all the men touching each-other: holding hands, arm around the shoulder, grabbing a forearm... for a second I almost fell in love with Fés. I thought I had stumbled upon the West Hollywood of Morocco. Sadly, it's not. They just happen to be very physically affectionate people. 

After a momentary glimmer of loving Fés, it all went down the shitter:
Firstly, today I was almost hit by a donkey. Normally, I would think that's hilarious. If not fatal, getting hit by a donkey in NYC, Chicago, or Los Angeles would be hilarious. But a donkey collision in Fés, Morocco is just not funny, probably because it's actually a very real possibility. Three different people were yelling some variation of "watch out!" in various languages but none of them were English or Spanish and people tend to yell a lot in the Fés medina, so I really didn't think anything was happening. Then I looked up and there was a donkey coming right for my face

 colorful taxi in the medina
When I first arrived in the medina, I noticed a ridiculous number of packmules being tugged around by their masters. One young Moroccan man pointed, "The taxis of the medina," and proceeded to laugh. DEADLY TAXIS. But then again, all taxis in Fés are pretty deadly...no real rules of traffic. There aren't even seat-belts. I know it sounds silly to make a big deal out of seat-belts, but I've seen one too many episodes of Grey's Anatomy not to wear a seatbelt, especially when travelling through a sea of cars seemingly unrestricted by typical traffic laws, such as driving within your own lane.

Alright so my first problem with Fés was the possibility of a fatal donkey accident. Another (very frequent) problem was the “marriage” question. Now, for the women out there, we all have encountered certain situations or cultures where the "marriage" question is a huge focal point. For some of you, this may even be Grandma's house or your parents' friends, or a recent trip to Italy, but Morocco enforces the marriage question more than I've ever experienced in my life. Everywhere I went, if I talked to someone for more than 45 seconds, they asked me if I was married. The correct answer was obviously “yes” because God forbid you say no.

One particular conversation comes to mind that sums up the majority of my interactions with men throughout my time there (and now that I think about it, I had zero interactions with Moroccan women). One young guy claiming to be a student began to follow and guide me at the same time (much like Oskaar had done in Tanger). He started pointing in different directions and asking me questions and as much as I insisted on being left alone, we were suddenly walking down the street together. Not two minutes later we began talking about my imaginary American husband. 
“So your husband let you travel by yourself to Morocco?” he asked.
CALM DOWN, Lexi, calm down, “Yes, my husband is a revolutionary thinker.”  

Later that night, a man working at my hostel ("Funky Fés Hostel...indeed...very funky) took me to get some food at one of their Riads (nicer, homey hotels). This man, while not a nomad like my other Spanish-speaking Moroccan frenemy, spoke better Spanish than English so our conversation took place nearly entirely in Spanish. At this point I had spoken more Spanish in Morocco than in Spain. He too promptly asked me if I was married. 
“Yes, I’m married.” 
“Ahh to an American?”
“Yes to an American. Everyone seems to ask that question here. Why?”
“In Morocco we have 4 wives, so we are always looking.”
 Well dinner just got awkward.
After much talk of my imaginary, progressive-thinking, American husband, I was ready to go back to Spain. But, of course, why make it easy? When in a foreign country where you don’t speak either of the official languages, everything is haggled, and women are always accompanied by men, one should always get off at the wrong train stop. 

Views of the sometimes not-too-lovely countryside
on the train from Fés to Tanger
I got off at the wrong stop in Tanger (the port town with connections to Spain). After verbally abusing myself for few seconds, I realized I had only gotten off one stop early and would easily be able to hop a cab to the port. BUT, this was a very small train station and I really had to use the bathroom. So I walked into bathroom and quickly discovered that it was a hole in the ground. Literally a hole with markings for where to place your feet to assume the sorority squat. When in Morocco...And, of course, this was no free squatting room. 75 cents to pee in a hole. 

My last interaction in Morocco — while incredibly frustrating — in some ways could not have been more perfect. My hostel for the night was based in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain and so I figured I’d take the ferry from Tanger to Algeciras. Little did I know that there are TWO ports in Tanger...the “new” port and the “old” port. I arrived at the “old” port 10 minutes before the ferry was to leave. In an attempt to quickly buy a ticket, a young man informed me that the boats to Algeciras were 40 km away. Well, damn. Another man rushed up and launched into helping me and verbally assaulting me at the same time (a talent I found common to nearly all of the Moroccan men who insisted on helping me in one way or another throughout my time there):

Fés, "Tanneries"
 UNESCO World Heritage site
“Why the f*$k you take a bus 40km to New port just to catch ferry?! Take one to Tarifa and then bus 15km to Algeciras” (now, normally, I like to do a bit of paraphrasing, but this is actually verbatim his opening line).
“Oh I can take a bus when I get to Tarifa?”
“Yes, come, give me passport.”
So I booked a ticket to Tarifa and as I was leaving, he pointed to the Yankees hat attached to the side of my bag (re: my sister’s hat. Sorry, sis). 
“That little boy over there likes your hat.”
“Oh ya? Yankees fan?”
“Why don’t you give it to him? For souvenir?”
“Hell no he can’t have my hat!” (I figured he started with the cursing, so I was probably in the clear on this one). Mind you, this “boy” he was referring to was probably in his late 20s. 

Then, as I began to walk off, he said, “hey, how about a little tip for me??” — for his service-minded attitude. So I handed him the change in my bag, which was probably the equivalent of $1.00 and he threw a hissy fit. Walk away, Peacock, walk away.
So I sprinted (the hiking backpack version of a sprint) to the ferry. If I had to stay in Morocco for three more hours, I was pretty sure I was going to end up in a Moroccan prison, and I would probably have to tip someone as they arrested me. I made it on the boat...last person admitted. Right near the entrance was a bar. GOD BLESS SPAIN. Now, here comes complaint #3 about Morocco: you can't find a beer ANYWHERE. I am told that there is alcohol in Fés, but it is kept hidden because it is technically not allowed in the medina. So, if you want to get a beer you have to pay way to much money and take your chances on some random man’s roof. Not really a great idea. So I had been beer-less for a solid four days in a blazing hot country full of stressful hagglers and hustlers. If I didn’t love Spain before, I’m a huge fan now. 



Monday, June 18, 2012

Holy Africa

Walking off the ferry from Tarifa and arriving in Tangier, I suddenly realized I've never been to a developing country. I also realized that I speak neither Arabic nor French. And that I'm travelling with an overly-stuffed hiker's backpack that screams "American." Anddddd that I am a distinctly non-Moroccan, 21-year-old female travelling by myself. Nice.

After this ill-timed discovery, I decided that I would act confident, self-assured, and much more like a professional/badass/nomadic traveller, so I walked directly to the medina in Tangier pretending I had been there a dozen times before. After a half mile walk propelled by a false sense of brimming self-confidence, I ran into a man named Oscar (Oskaar??) who had this strange gift of leading me and following me at the same time.

Oskaar was very chatty -- "Welcome. Where are you from? Thank you for coming to Morocco. Ahhh California! Mick Jagger lived here in the medina." His casual switch from California to Mick fascinated me. I believe at some point he also referred to me as "European" so I think Oskaar might have been a little geographically-challenged, but my sleep-deprived, slightly nervous self determined that those who do not know where they are going make the best tour guides. That's some WILDLY advanced philosophy right there if you didn't follow.

On what was now an apparently "guided" tour of the medina, Oskaar continually stopped at any building with a date on it, to re-emphasize the ancient quality of his town. After the third or fourth stop at yet another very old doorway, I turned to ask Oskaar:
"Yo, Oskaar!" (Heavily paraphrasing), "how much you chargin' me for this tour right now."
With a smile, "I just do it to keep the people happy."
WOW....this is gonna cost me a pretty penny, I can already tell. American SUCKER written all over my REI backpack. 

Now I just surrender and hope that the very favorable exchange rate balances out some of my stupidity.  But then, Oskaar makes a sharp turn into some clothing shop:
"OH HELL NO, OSKAAR" (Again, heavily paraphrasing,) "I'm not buying so much as a ribbon."
"Oh no. No, not to buy! This man live with the Saharan nomads. He teach you."  
"Well that makes sense. Okay." 
And, just like that, I was suckered. 

So this travelling nomad (Who knew there was such a thing as Moroccan nomads...? Not this girl.) was super friendly. "Welcome to Morocco, welcome to Morocco. You from California! Speak Spanish?" I am absolutely not paraphrasing on this one, his direct thought process was California --> Spanish. 
From then on, the conversation continued in Spanish. This brought up another fun fact about Morocco. Apparently areas of the Western Sahara speak Spanish as their primary language because they were a province of Spain from the late '50s to the mid-'70s. Missed that little historical detail throughout the course of my many Spanish and African history classes.

Somehow, after a cup of tea, casual Spanish/Moroccan chats, and some sort of prayer, the only way I felt comfortable leaving without being assaulted was by buying something, or rather, "participating," as my Spanish-Moroccan frenemy liked to call it. So I picked out what I thought was the cheapest item: a scarf.

Here begins my crash course in haggling. I asked the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much the scarf costs: "240 dirham" (24 euro or 30-ish dollars). Mind you, my budget for the whole trip in Morocco (including all my transportation) is 1,000 dirham. Trying to figure out how I could get out of buying this damn scarf, I figured the "I'm-going-to-offer-such-a-low-price-that-you're-offended-and-kick-me-out" strategy was my best bet. So I offered 50 dirham. He was not at all offended, which told me it was probably worth 30. In the end I ended buying it for 90 dirham, looking at it more as the price of my ticket out of there more than anything else. There goes 10% of my budget on a scarf probably made in China for a trip that will average 80°F.

As I left the shop, Oskaar insisted on walking me to the taxis. At this point, I'm not too pleased with Oskaar. He had led me astray in his guarantee that I "no have to buy"....so I'm just barely putting up with him because he's leaving me no other option. So we get to the bottom of the medina and I grab a taxi (establishing the price to the train station up front —quick learner!), and kinda-sorta rudely (he totally deserved it) shove my change into Oskaar's hand as I hop inside. Much to my surprise, Oskaar hops in with me and starts throwing a hissy fit over the 75 cents I had given him. After a small argument, I hand him $5 dollars and he leaves. Welcome to Morocco. 

Let's recount my mistakes for a second:
1) Meeting Oskaar.
2) Allowing Oskaar to follow/lead me.
3) Walking into the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store with Oskaar.
4) Drinking tea and chatting in the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store.
5) Asking the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much something cost.
6) Buying anything at all.
7) Leaving with Oskaar.
8) Handing Oskaar 75 cents.
9) Handing Oskaar $5.

In store for tomorrow:
Apparently Fez has ~9,000 streets so I'm giving myself the entire day to get lost and wander back to my hostel. I've heard the "tanneries" are amazing...whatever that means. All I know is that camel heads hang in meat shops and I want pictures. 

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Tarifa!

I caught the bus from Sevilla this afternoon for a four hour ride down to Tarifa, a small town on the southern tip of Spain. Tarifa is known amongst the kite-surfing community as one of the best spots in the world. There is constant wind and, I am told, perfect waves for kitesurfing. For those of us who do not kite surf, Tarifa is still a fantastic little town. To put it in California terms, it sort of like a bizarre cross between Malibu and Santa Cruz — beautiful, pristine beaches with a touch of crazy. BUT, Tarifa also stretches along the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and it is perfectly socially acceptable to drink whilst naked whenever it strikes your fancy. Or you just happen to lose your bathing suit. 

The hostel that I stayed at in Tarifa was lovely. It's called "Melting Pot Hostel," which is adorable except for the fact that I'm pretty sure that I only saw a bunch of (primarily American) white people. What really made the experience, however, was the manager. His name is Uday and he's a young Moroccan hipster. He was sporting large square black glasses, a buttoned-down pink, white, and blue striped shirt, and board shorts. He is perfect. I really did try to sneak a picture, but I didn't sleep too well in Sevilla and my fine-tuned creeper skills weren't exactly in top form. Nevertheless, if anyone ever goes to Tarifa (which you should), then look him up. When it hit around 11pm in the hostel he busted out his guitar and started playing a very African-hipster version of "I shot the sheriff." I considered not leaving, but Morocco calls.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Day 1: Sevilla, España


One of the ways that I am able to travel for the next six months — you know, other than the support of an extremely generous, loving family — is that for the majority of my time I will be working at hostels, lodges, farms, and random family homes for food and housing. So when you think to yourself, how did white white white non-Portuguese speaking Lexi getting a job at a nudist lodge in Portugal? Yep, work-exchange. Brilliant.

For anyone who's interested in travelling, saving some money, and having some very bizarre experiences, I highly recommend checking it out — www.workaway.info. The site basically allows you to search people from all over the world that are looking for helpers for 3-4 hours/day in exchange for food and housing.

There's a few things that are pretty great about this:
1) It's free...duh
2) It forces me to slow down and stay in places for (generally) 2-3 weeks at any given time. The slower pace allows me to really get to know a place, meet more people, and not feel like such a hobo — all wonderful perks. This is also really the key to blurring that line between just being a tourist and being a traveller...or at least that's what I tell myself.
3) You can find really bizarre jobs that don't exist in real life. For example, there was a Spanish paraglider who was looking for someone to drive his truck throughout Europe as he did a paragliding version of the quintessential Eurotrip. AND, along the way, he'd teach you how to paraglide. If only I knew how to drive a stick...

While I'm very excited about starting my first hostel job in Granada next week, I figured that if I dove directly into a 2-3 week job without doing any exploring of other areas first, then I might get a little stir-crazy. So I'm spending the week exploring Sevilla, Tarifa, and Morocco.

Alright, so let's get to it: Day 1, Sevilla, España.
The river I didn't know existed...
I spent the majority of my day walking around the city just exploring. One of the amazing perks of travelling without doing a single bit of research is that everything you come across is a brand-new discovery. For example, I discovered that Sevilla is on a RIVER. I was just walking around town and happened upon this gorgeous, huge river. Go figure. Granted, as a Spanish and history major (and just generally as a human being), I should have absolutely known this but I didn't, and finding the river was much more exciting.

After a big 'ol learning day, I landed myself in a truly authentic Spanish cafe called Starbucks. It was filled nearly exclusively with American students. Sometimes a Spanish coffee consisting of a single shot of espresso is just not enough. Actually, it is rarely enough and thus we flock to the one place where we know we can get a large iced coffee, no questions asked. Either way, being able to quickly strike up a conversation with 5 new faces in the span of half an hour is definitely a reassuring start to a long solo journey when my primary concern is loneliness. Lesson learned, when you just really want to talk to someone in English, find the closest Starbucks. 











Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Let the Adventure Begin!


Welcome to my blog!

I've never made one of these before and since I will be travelling for the next six months doing a bit of adventuring, I figured there's no better time to start than right now.

Over the last few years, I've come to love solo-travel, not because I like being alone, but because it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. This twinge of discomfort pushes me to trust my own competence, practice a certain balance between decisiveness and flexibility, and learn to ask for help when truly necessary.

The first time I did a solo-adventure, I travelled by way of tent and bicycle up the west coast of Ireland and over to the UK, Netherlands, Belgium, and France. That trip — although shorter (1 month) — certainly introduced me to the ups and downs of solo-travel. While I thoroughly enjoyed the unique experience of that journey, loneliness set in pretty quickly. This time around, I'm travelling for a much longer period and aiming for a much more social experience. I've chosen to forgo camping for hosteling and work exchange programs, which will allow me to meet lots of different people along the way.

The locations and the specific things that I will do on this trip are —for the most part— up in the air. I do know, however, that I will be in Spain for the better part of the coming month and Portugal for a few weeks after that. Everything through August and September is in yet-to-be-determined locations in Europe, and everything from October through December is in yet-to-be-determined areas of Latin America. I like to think that my plans are left wide open because I'm meant to meet idly wealthy people with nothing better to do than take me out to 5-star meals and shower me with offers of employment. No, wait, that's not right...I mean, I keep my plans flexible so I can meet dynamic, passionate people who will inspire me to follow my true path (whatever that may be). But let's be honest, either would be fantastic.

Whichever way the wind blows, please stick with me during my journey and I promise to keep you updated and send pictures and stories whenever possible (as long as there's something interesting to report). Fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately) for you, this blog, my diary, and my budding Pulitzer novel are my primary thinking spaces during this journey, but I'll try to keep those contents separate...cuz let's be serious...you don't even want to know what goes down in that diary. 

A couple of highlights to look forward to: working reception at a naked lodge on the southern coast of Portugal (gettin that tan on), sheep-herding in the Austrian Alps, and learning to surf in Central America! Let's get started...