Eurotrip within a Eurotrip

After Porto, and the disappointment of unsuccessfully stalking Nate Berkus, I flew to Barcelona to meet up with my friend and fellow Yalie, Jen Ong, for a weeklong Eurotrip to Barcelona and Rome. HOLLA. Considering that neither of us had a functioning phone, I'm rather impressed with the fact that we managed to find each-other. Nothing like a glorious reunion at the Barcelona Airport Bagage Claim.

Gaudi!

From there we managed to navigate ourselves to the city center and find an apartment belonging to a man named Esteban. Not nearly as sketchy as it sounds, I promise. Barcelona is obscenely expensive in August, even when you just stay in the most basic of hostels so we booked the spare bedroom in Esteban's apartment. Sound even sketchier now? There's a site called airbnb (definitely check it out if you're travelling on the cheap and can't find good hostels) where people can post spare rooms, tents, couches, etc. and then they list the price and are reviewed by previous travelers. It's like the ebay of short-term room rentals. Anyway, Esteban was right in the middle of Barcelona, got great reviews, and only charged 10 euro a night. Sold. Seriously, minimal sketchiness.

Esteban and his girlfriend were adorable. They set us up in a cute little side room, gave us purple and green towels (clearly, they could tell Barney is my fave), and provided us with free McDonald's maps that not only told us the exact location of every single McDonald's in the city, but also labeled the most important monuments and metro lines. Turns out, Esteban's apartment is only a five minute walk from La Sagrada Familia.

Totally irrelevant photo...didn't even buy the candy...
but isn't it beautiful?!

Having arrived around midnight we decided to call it a night and explore the next day. And explore we did. We literally spent the entire day walking throughout the city, stumbling upon random Gaudi buildings, and eventually discovering that Barcelona has many, many beaches. Just kidding...I may not know much, but I swear I actually knew that Barcelona was on the coast. Give me some credit.

Clearly our day was super strenuous so we decided to hit up a beachside bar that featured a beautifully creepy combination of oversized Buddha statues, waiters that offered massages, and a wall of enormous couches where a whole slew of overly-tanned Spaniards were lounging and drinking. Clearly this place was too fancy and expensive for us so we decided to go in and get some drinks with the rest of the debt-laden customers. But we're smart cookies so we had the cheapest drinks possible, enjoyed the couches and the absurdness of the entire place, and then wandered off to real bar — the closest Irish pub.

Thank goodness we did because there we met Wilfred, a middle-aged bearded sailor from Belgium who is currently staying in Barcelona while he fixes up his boat for a two year sailing trip around the world. Wilfred was a hilarious character. Firstly, he was actually a sailor. I realized that I've never met a sailor before, but he pretty much exactly matched the image that I've always had of a sailor — bearded, corpulent, and a bit of a charming old drunk. Wilfred is incredibly well travelled; seriously, this man has made his way around the world. I can't even explain the extent of it except for the fact that when he asked Jen where she was from she replied, "Pleasanton, California" and he immediately responded, "Oh, just east of San Francisco, right?" WOAH. Okay, I've been living in California my entire life and I don't even know Pleasanton. Impressed.

Anyway, we were chatting away with Wilfred and some German couple at the bar and we realized that Wilfred seemed to sort of dominate this pub. When I asked him "do you come here often?" he replied "every day at 7." Ahahaha I died. Love my unabashed alcoholics. Clearly Wilfred was tight with the Irish owner who proceeded to bring us a plate of free food and a free round —okay, okay, four free rounds— of Jaegar Bombs.
When the first round was brought out, we both turned to Wilfred:
Us: "Jaegar Bombs? Really?"
Wilfred: "Americans turning down free alcohol?"
Us: "Good point."

Selfie at the Colosseum, 70-80AD

Now, people always seem a little shocked when I say I'm travelling by myself. The conversation usually turns to something along the lines of..."don't you think that's just a little bit dangerous?" Okay, hold up, has no one ever heard of girl power and brass knuckles? 21st century people. Seriously, I understand the concern, but I can safely say that it is far more dangerous to travel with friends. Would I be chatting and taking jaegar bombs with a large sailing Belgian stranger named Wilfred and eating his Irish friend's plate of mysterious free food if I were all by myself?? Nope. Why? Cuz that's just stupid. DUH. See what I did there? You're stupider when you're with other smart people. It's just the damdest thing.

Trevi Fountain, 1762

Anyway, Wilfred turned out to be a good enough guy, we explored Barcelona, had a great time, and then hopped on a ridiculously early flight to Rome. There's really not much to say about it. I mean, it's Rome. It's gorgeous. The city is absurd and I really can't even believe how jam-packed it is with millennia-old monuments.

We ate way too much gelato and pizza and waiters kept giving us free wine. I most definitely have heart palpitations from all the espresso. I ordered "due cappuccini" whenever the opportunity presented itself, and here's why: 1) I had recently re-watched "Eat, Pray, Love" and Sofi —Elizabeth's Swedish friend in Rome (stick with me here)— first enters the movie in some chaotic Roman cafe ordering "due cappuccini" for both of them, 2) it briefly made me sound like I spoke italian, 3) one coffee just isn't enough, 4) I would still pay four times as much at Starbucks so it's totally justified.

That's pretty much all I'll say about Rome. It's stunning, but I don't particularly care for the Italians so I like to keep my praises to a minimum. 'MERICA.

At the Vatican and no lightening in sight

Good thing we happened to stumble upon the Pantheon!
118-125 AD

Back to Clothed Civilization

I'm behind again! Hopefully this is the first of a slew of posts catching you up since I left the nudist lodge. I'm currently in Berlin for the week, but I'll get to that a couple of posts down the road!

Jumping back into it —

Where to go from a nudist lodge? Drinking. Duh. I packed up my stuff (a little reluctantly, I might add; I quite enjoyed the relaxed nudist lifestyle), and hopped the train for Porto, home of Port wine (re: a socially acceptable form of sipping 40 proof dranks at lunch time). The train was comfortable and smooth, and I generally enjoyed the entire trip except for the last third when a young couple (early 20s maybe) got on the train and just started making out...I mean like really going for it. You know how there's that form of over-the-top-adorable-handholding-sweet-puppy-love-displays-of-affection that make you want to kill yourself for being alone? Ya, that was not this. This was the sort of obnoxious grossness that just makes you want to kill them. Can I get an amen? Oh you know it.

Porto & River Duoro

Anyway, I tried to look the other way, but then Celine Dion's "Alone" came on shuffle and I got ever more frustrated. I should really delete some of that stuff off my ipod...but a girl is loyal to her first concert. Is it weird that my 14 year-old self was obsessed with Celine? Don't answer that.

Finally, we rolled up into Porto and I swear to goodness...it is so intensely BEAUTIFUL. What is up with all of these gorgeous cities on rivers? Oh fresh food, water, and ease of farming...? Ya okay, I guess that would make sense if you're originally intended as an outpost of the Roman Empire.

River and port-carrying boats!

The train arrived into the city around 9pm and I was looking to catch some shut-eye pronto, so I skipped any explorations for the evening and just went directly to the hostel. First, I was impressed by the river and then I was impressed by the hostel. This is one of those hostels that you can tell someone really anal designed and thank goodness for that. Each bunk has its own CURTAINS (woah), power sockets, reading light, shelf by the foot of the bed for whatever little knick-knacks. Additionally, there's a fully equipped restaurant/kitchen area with BOOTHS (I feel like I'm at a pancake house), AND there's an outdoor terrace with HANGING CHAIRS.

So I essentially passed out in my 15 euro per night heaven and woke up the next morning to my unlimited coffee breakfast. In choosing a location to sit amongst the pancake house booths, I chose a spot next to the most Bohemian looking girl I could find, just to make sure things stayed interesting. And indeed they did. I quickly got to talking to this faux-Bohemian girl (you know the type) who very proudly declared that she was from Venice Beach, California and then seemed shocked when I knew what she was talking about...gurrrrllll California is a big 'ol state, it ain't that shocking to run into a few Californians along the way.

Anyway, she was going on and on about how beautiful the beach is at home and said that when she was growing up, she used to go down to the beach, sit down, and look out into the distance and wonder what was on the other side. Poetic, really.

Venice Beach Girl: "I'm so glad I finally get to find out."
Me: "Too bad you crossed the Atlantic."
VB Girl: "What?"
Me: "I mean, you still don't know what's on the other side." [filtered: "although, I have a funny feeling that it might be Asia."]
VB Girl: "No wait, part of Portugal is on the Pacific."
Me: "Nah, sorry girl, we're most definitely on the Atlantic."
VB Girl: "Ahaha that's kinda funny."

Ferreira Port Cellars — founded 1751.
My glasses are the empty ones
in the front right corner (DUHR)

Oh child. What are you doing with yourself. I may not have known where Estonia is up until last week, but I usually keep track of which ocean I'm crossing when I travel...It was a beautiful start to the day.

Quinta do Noval — founded 1715

To continue with the beautiful day, I took myself on a couple of port tastings. The first place I went to didn't have an English tour until later in the day so I joined the Spanish tour. I thought, "oh the Spanish are fun, this will be great!" The tour was fine enough but I was vastly disappointed when NONE of the Spanish people finished their port; they took the "tasting" part seriously and actually just tasted it and then left the rest. And I know that it wasn't because they disliked the port because I saw half of them buying bottles of it in the storefront afterward. I seriously hope I never reach a point in my life where I feel too classy to finish my free alcohol.

The next day I was walking through Porto and stumbled upon the Lello Bookstore, which I vaguely remembered was famous for some reason unknown to me so I went inside. As I walked in I saw a beautiful, familiar face. It was NATE BERKUS. Now, you may not know who Nate Berkus is, and I really only know him because he is one of Oprah's little prodigies, and I like to keep track of them in the event of moments like these where I might schmooze with those who can lead me to her. Here's how I picture it going down:

Oprah fans will instantly recognize the backdrop.
Look at that face!

Nate Berkus to Oprah: "Oh hey, Ops, meet my new BFF Lexi, she's unemployed."

Oprah to me: "Any friend of Nate's is a friend of mine! Would you like to be my personal assistant? Unfortunately, the starting pay is only $500/hour with full benefits and a free car."

See how great that would be? Anyway, I ran across Nate as he was heading to the check out line in an absurdly posh suit (his show is called "Nate by Design" so basically he's paid to look pretty at all times), and then some woman came out of nowhere, said something slightly aggressive to him, and he put the book down and they left. What book was he going to buy? "Ines d'orey porto interior." Typical. I creeped a picture of it. 

Oprah's prodigy
wanted this book

Then, I gave it about 15 seconds (didn't want to be too obvious that I was absolutely following him), and headed out the door after him. But, DAMN, that boy must walk fast. He was nowhere in sight. As I was sulking down the street, I came across a flicker of hope — a store by the same name as the book he wanted to buy. Could he possibly be inside? NOPE. That would be too easy. Hopes of tracking down Oprah have been delayed but not destroyed. While I definitely botched this opportunity, I'm convinced that there will be others. So, I have taken this as a "learning moment" — the next time I see a link to Oprah, I will aggressively harass them from the get-go. No covert stalking attempts, just blatantly aggressive schmoozing/stalking.

Storefront
with no Nate inside. 

Ain't no tan lines here: Baring it all in Southern Portugal

During the first week of my trip, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to accomplish in my six months of travel. Number three on my list (as I look back at my journal to reference...be glad I don't put more of that stuff in my blog) was verbatim: "be happy naked [...] two weeks at a nudist lodge should give you a bangin' tan." Now, sometimes even in the privacy of my own journal that I know no one will ever snoop on (Mom...), I like to tease myself...cuz let's be real, I could have been naked every single day since my birth, and I would never achieve a "bangin' tan." It's genetically impossible (Mom...).

Two weeks in the lovely fishing village
Ferragudo, Portugal. 

Anyway, the bigger point is "be happy naked" — that I can work on. Let's be serious though, we all live in this world and we're all raised to feel a little uncomfortable naked. Not really sure how that happens because I know for damn sure I was one of those modern hippy kids that isn't allowed to smoke weed with the 'rents but is still told she's perfect in every imaginable way and that all of life's possibilities are within my reach — really quite overwhelming now that I think about it #firstworldproblems. Regardless, even those of us who were fortunate enough to be raised knowing we are perfect little imperfections feel uncomfortable with ourselves physically in one way or another. 

Get naked!
Front entrance of La Quinta da Horta

That annoys me. I decided that the best way to feel comfortable naked is to practice (in a non-disease spreading sort of way). Sometime in early April I wrote to the good people at La Quinta da Horta, a nudist lodge in the Algarve of Southern Portugal. They were looking for helpers and I was looking for nudity. Never a more perfect match. I would be joining "Ted and Hun, the Buns" (tagline for literally every e-mail exchange) in mid-July. 

We arranged to have Ted pick me up at the bus station on the night that I arrived. I had no idea what to expect....would I find an unusually tan, naked British man expecting me to strip down for a quick car ride? Would he be the creepy type that owns a nudist lodge but isn't actually a nudist? What did he expect? Was I supposed to be the hippy type? (I wore a purple bandana in my hair just in case...I have a real firm grasp on the definition of "hippy," believe you me....)

I jumped in the car and the very tanned, yet very clothed British Ted began telling me about the Estonian yoga group that would be arriving the next day. Apparently this Estonian group hosts their annual yoga retreat at La Quinta da Horta every year and rents out the entire place. My first thought: what the hell is Estonia? I thought it was a type of yoga. Nope, it's a country. A COUNTRY. Geography champ, right here. 

And we finally found Estonia.

After discovering that Estonia is indeed a country (a very small country...think 1.3 million people, which is apparently exactly the same population as San Diego...WOAH dream big), the next thought was: what are these random 20 Estonians doing (a) in Portugal, (b) participating in yoga, (c) participating in a yoga retreat at a nudist lodge in Portugal. Ted's response, "I swear to you, all Estonians are mad." 

Within five minutes of meeting Ted (who was now confirmed to be a nudist himself), he started on a mini-rant about the Estonians and the fact that he was going to have to cook "vegetarian poppycock for these damn yogis." Apparently, Ted doesn't believe in such "alternative crap." I almost died of happiness. I mean... you're a nudist, bro. How much more "alternative" does it get? I knew we were gonna have a great time; love those snarky Brits, especially the irrational, naked kind.

Nudist pool at La Quinta.

Then, we arrived at the lodge and I was getting all settled in to my own little personal cottage, I asked Ted for the wifi password: "barebums." YES, nudists with a sense of humor. Needless to say, I giggled inappropriately and then proceeded to check my e-mail. 

The next morning I got myself all geared up for my first day of "work." I headed down to the kitchen fully clothed to help Ted prepare the vegetarian breakfast and found him clothed as well and then saw a bunch of Estonians running around also clothed. Welp, glad I didn't get naked....if being communally naked is a little awkward, being the only one naked is very awkward. 

One of the various nude sketches around La Quinta 

Apparently most of the Estonians are not naturists, they are just Eastern European vegetarian yogis. Glad we cleared that one up early on. Occasionally, I looked up from my breakfast nook and would see a few of them running around naked and then heading off to the pool, but for the most part, they remained fairly clothed. Ted, however, did not. Many of our kitchen sessions (I was essentially his sous-chef and dishwasher that first week) consisted of him pointing to various vegetables and things for me to chop, mince, slice, and other various orders that I just always interpreted as "cut however you like," and he would do so completely naked as he fried up one vegetable after the other. It took me a little while to get used to, but our conversations proceeded as normal (fake it till you make it) and I became very well practiced at looking people directly in the eyes when speaking to them. 

A week later, the Estonians had finally moved out and it was time to clean out their rooms in preparation of the arrival of some true naturists. Throughout the whole previous week, naked Ted and I had spent many hours in the kitchen preparing the Estonians' veggie diet in the exact "cleansing" manner requested by their leader. One crucial aspect of their retreat was not only to practice yoga and meditation, but to remain on a cleansing diet (think ginger, beet, and carrot bake). I was thoroughly impressed at their diligence UNTIL the week was up and I went to go clean out their rooms. I have never seen so many empty beer cans in my life...and if you've ever seen Yale during "reading period" (HA) then you know that this was an impressive amount of beer. A little buzz to enhance meditation?  Clearly.

Beach at Lagos, Portugal 15 miles from Ferragudo

Eventually I finished all of the "rubbish runs" and it was high time to get naked. All the cool kids were doin' it...plus, I had spent the majority of my week down at the beach and had worked up some pretty horrendous tan lines that needed tending. So I grabbed a grocery-brand beer out of the fridge (those damn nudists can be pretty stingy people), popped it open, stripped down, and walked out to one of the many loungers for a bit of a naked nap in the sun. After a couple of hours of dozing in and out, Ted walked up to me (also naked) and began discussing the plans for the next day's cleaning schedule. I was so used to seeing him naked at this point that I didn't even really think about the fact that I was naked as well. Needless to say, the transition to full-blown nudity went much more smoothly than I anticipated. Looking back, I wish that someone had taken a picture of one of these full-blown naked conversations between myself and the man who was essentially my boss, but even the most classless of nudists know that it's poor form to snap photos.

A few days later, a new workawayer —Anna— arrived from Italy. Anna is not your typical workawayer. For one thing, she is probably in her late 40s (workawayers tend to be quite young) and she actually has a real job. Why she came to La Quinta to work is beyond me, but it really doesn't matter because she provided some hilarious moments during my short time with her. I'll just share my favorite:

Everything at La Quinta is a little "wild"

Now that I had become accustomed to my daily routine (fix breakfast for the nudists, clean up after the nudists, take out the trash produced by the nudists, stop by lunchtime, get naked myself, and go pretend like I'm capable of tanning), I really did not care that my favorite naked tanning spot was right next to Anna's cottage...it was still my naked spot. Thankfully, she didn't care either as she quickly stripped down herself. One afternoon, however, I was woken up from a tanning/napping session to Anna's broken English: "Lexi! No, no your tit is too red," and before I even knew what was happening, she was spraying me with sunscreen. LITERALLY SPRAYING MY BODY. Oh, Italians. If this would have happened two months ago I would have most likely experienced a life-altering anxiety attack, but what was amazing about this moment —aside from the obvious— was that I had no reaction except for gratitude. I do not want to burn, especially not there. So thanks for lookin' out, Anna.

For all intents and purposes, I think my moment with Anna may have been a breakthrough. I mean, a woman that I would still consider a stranger just sprayed my naked body with sunscreen. May we all have a little nudity in our lives, and hopefully, a little Anna. Thanks to the wild naturists and the encouraging sunshine of Southern Portugal. Mission accomplished and on to the next adventure. 

Bye-bye Granada, Hello Madrid. Bye-bye Madrid, Hello Portugal.

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

Sadly, after two and a half weeks of working at Itinere Hostel (highly recommended!) in Granada, the time came to pack up my overstuffed REI backpack and hit the road again for a new adventure. However, I couldn't leave Spain without experiencing Madrid — and I couldn't really get to Portugal without flying through Madrid anyway so it all worked out!

The bus got into Madrid around 7pm and I proudly navigated the metro system directly to my hostel without issue. Then, in search of a bite to eat, I followed one interesting street after another, letting my curiosity get the better of me until I was completely and utterly lost...I'm not even sure I was in Madrid at one point. One full month of travel and this was the first time I had to flag down a taxi. Despite my 7 euro mistake, I made one of the best discoveries of my life to date.

Dunkbucks!

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that my coffee consumption is a little out of hand. I will most certainly have heart palpitations by the time I'm 30; no amount of meditation will undo the damage already done. But I really don't care and that is certainly not the point. The point is that I found a two-storey Starbucks in Madrid located right next to AND beneath a THREE-STOREY Dunkin Donuts.

I just didn't know what to do. My dual-loyalty instincts wanted me to buy coffee from both and then befriend all of the Americans that were surely sipping their over-sized coffees inside. But it was already night-time and I didn't sleep very well the night before so I restrained myself and vowed to return the next day. To be sure that I wasn't just hallucinating, I frantically started taking pictures. All the Spanish people started looking around trying to see what all the fuss was about... Justin Bieber? Tom Cruise? Oprah?!? Nope...my two favorite coffee shops all up in each other's business. Oprah would have been pretty great though. (*NOTE: Again, Oprah, if you ever read this, I love you and I would like to be employed by you in pretty much whatever capacity you see fit.)

Shortly after this dizzying Dunkbucks (Dunkin-Starbucks...obvi) discovery, I got lost, found a very sweet cab driver who dropped me off dangerously close to my hostel door, and proceeded to pass out in one of the best hostel beds I've ever experienced.

The next morning I got up early to just completely nerd out and spend the entire day at the Prado Museum and the Reina Sofia. Essentially, I spent my whole day looking at paintings by Picasso, Dalí, Goya, and El Greco and pretended to be artistically inclined. Occasionally I picked a painting to stare at, threw in a little twist of the head and a nodded in a pensive fashion, and basically looked like an artistic GENIUS...especially in my mesh shorts and flip-flops. Let's be real though, I took one week of Art History and then dropped it like it was hot (#seniorspringproblems).

Royal Palace, Madrid

After a strenuous day of cultural enrichment, I ventured back over to my beloved Dunkbucks and faced the heart-wrenching task of choosing between the two. As I stood there slightly panicked and weighing my options, a young couple walked out of Dunkin' and a faint sound of country music snuck out with them. I died of happiness. "Small Town USA" playing in big town Spain...now that's what I call exporting culture.


Now I know for some of you, the sweet sounds of Nashville would have swayed you toward the Starbucks, but I do love me some country so I settled in for a few hours of coffee drinking, people watching, and journaling.

Definitely gave them a euro...
have no idea how they did this!

My trip to Madrid was a quick one — just three nights and then I had to venture off to the Madrid Airport (again, successfully navigated the metro) to experience my first European budget airline flight with RyanAir. Along my travels I've run into people with some horror stories about RyanAir: exorbitant charges for bags that are overweight, charging you to print out your boarding pass if you lose it, not stamping your boarding pass and then rejecting you at the security line, etc. So to continue with the nerdy nature of my Madrid trip, I showed up to the airport THREE hours early. Of course, my bag was the perfect weight, I had absolutely no problems, and I walked directly through security. So I had three hours to kill and drink some overpriced coffee and eat an overpriced sandwich. While these inflated airport prices would normally have thrown me into a bit of a hissy fit, I've had some amazing luck recently finding money in the most random of places so I don't feel as bad having to pay the inflated prices.


I found 3 euro in the SINK at my hostel in Madrid when I came back after an afternoon cafe jaunt. Then, the very next day, in the Madrid Airport, I found 4 euro in the bins for the security line. It's the little things in life. 


Anyway, the plane in Madrid arrived late. So we boarded late. And then the Spanish military (I know, I know...they actually have one of those...) was performing some flight operation so all flights were delayed. And then, when we finally arrived at the Faro Airport, the bus from the airport to the city center was late. When it finally arrived, it was packed full. So then I caught a taxi with a bunch of other frustrated travelers. Just when I was sure that I would miss the last bus from Faro to Portimao (where I was being picked up by the nudist resort owner), the bus from Faro to Portimao was also late so it all worked out. OH I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE PORTUGAL.

Long story, but now I'm at the nudist lodge, which we shall turn to in the next posting. Good thing I'm all caught up because tomorrow begins my first two days off of work here in Portugal and I'm heading into Lagos for a night out...the Portuguese haven for dancing on bars and lighting shots on fire. 

Las Alpujarras: Off-road hiking & aggressive crickets

So it seems I'm about ten days behind in my blogging....that's alright though, just a sign of having a good time and cleaning too many toilets! Anyway, I started this post last week so I'm just gonna let it flow as I started it (aka when I say "this past weekend" I really mean June 30th - July 1st....forgive me) and I'll hopefully catch you up to speed with another post or two in the coming days.

This past weekend, I decided to take a vacation from my vacation, so I sat down and actually did a bit of research on where I might go. The fifteen minutes of Google searching reminded me not to go to grad school any time soon.

First night in Capileira.

I decided that since I had three days off from my toilet cleaning job, I would hop a bus for a casual weekend trip to Las Alpujarras in the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains. The area is dotted with teeny tiny little picturesque villages and I chose Capileira, which is one of the highest in the region. Population: 559. 

What's incredible about the area is that there are three traditional all-white (talking architecture here) villages that you can hike between: Capileira, Bubión, and Pampaneira. I'm pretty sure that the people who created the trails between the three had my sort of humor because there would be a very clear trailhead and then half a mile later the trail would split into three places with no marking whatsoever. Naturally, I always chose the wrong one and ended up on someone's private property, their wild dogs would come sprinting toward me inducing a moment of terror and regret, only to be greeted with a sniff and then quickly rejected. 

Off-road hiking in Las Alpujarras

Other than these relatively isolated incidences of poodle-induced terror, I didn't have much problem with the whole "propiedad privada" thing. Except for the fact that I'm pretty convinced that crickets wildly reproduce in the summer-time because the second I stepped off the trailhead —rather, the second the trailhead straight-up disappeared— there were crickets everywhere. Literally in all the places. Every step I took, there were 6 or 7 crickets that would hop up out of nowhere. I'm not gonna lie, I died a little on the inside. I don't particularly care for bugs. I mean, who does really? Except for those adorable nerdy little kids with glasses who collect them in a jar only to study them and then grow up to be wildly handsome geniuses. You know who you are.

Anyway, it was kind of gross, and I'm pretty sure I accidentally killed 15 or 20 crickets. And I'm a bit of a pacifist so for a while there I was feeling pretty bad about myself. However, after a couple of miles of jaunting through cricket-infested territory, one very rude cricket jumped a little too high...and landed IN MY SHIRT. Yes, there was a cricket in my shirt. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. I almost ripped off my whole shirt out of sheer horror but that would have given the cricket too much satisfaction. After that, I didn't care about killing the crickets. One rude cricket and my pacifism flew out the window. I'm pretty sure that's how wars start. One damn rude cricket....

Apartments in Bubión

Aside from the whole cricket jumping incident, my stay in Las Alpujarras was lovely. Two solid days filled with hiking, sitting by the pool, and chatting with old men about Spain's Eurocup domination. Since the weekend I was in Alpujarras was the weekend of the Eurocup final, the owners of the lodge that I was staying at turned their outdoor patio/garden into a raging outdoor sports bar— as raging as one can possibly get in a town of 559 people. Had I not been surrounded by wildly out of control small-town Spaniards, I probably would have felt almost sort of bad for Italy and their horrifying 4-0 dismal performance. BUT, when in Spain do as the Spanish do... show up late to meetings, eat dinner at 11pm, and NEVER feel bad for the Italians. 

Cultural Enlightenment & Learning the True Meaning of 42°C

The other day, I decided to dive head first into the cultural wonders of Granada by going to see my first Spanish movie. Well, I went to go see my first American movie in a Spanish theater...one step at a time here. 


Here's how this enriching cultural experience began: I looked out my window and saw a sign flashing 17:45/42°C. Struggling to do a bit of math, I realized that it was 5:45pm and I hadn't done a damn thing with my day. I ignored the 42°C part because only Google can tell me what that means. Big mistake. 42°C means "do not go outside." For those of us who ignore the norms of the rest of the world, 42°C is 107°F. Good thing I regularly apply my 100spf rain or shine. I have very delicate skin. 

Upon walking out the front door, I realized that the weather gods of Granada were NOT looking to play around. For a brief second I though about walking back up to my room, but alas, it's up five flights of stairs so I thought better. Thankfully, fours years of living on the 4th and 5th floors throughout college —room draw loser— prepared me well for these sorts of predicaments:
"Oh you left your room for lecture without your laptop? Ya, you're just not going to take notes today....well if you're not going to take notes, what's the point of going to class? Good point, Lexi, let's go see what terrible movies we can go watch today."


So I headed for the movies. After a pleasantly short walk to the theater (because I also don't know how to convert kilometers to miles), I entered a Spanish mall, took a hard look at the lovely casino directly inside the front entrance of the shopping center, then looked back at the movie theater and employed the very small amount of self-discipline I have left, and vowed to lose all my euro on Spanish slots another day. 


I walked up to the ticket office and the only thing playing was "Sombras Tenebrosas," the Spanish dubbed version of yet another Johnny Depp - Tim Burton collaboration (really...what's going on with those two? EIGHT movies together...??). Personally, I prefer Johnny with dreads (re: Pirates of the Caribbean), but it was the only thing playing and nothing is better on a hot day than sitting in a cool, dark theater and watching Johnny Depp dubbed in Spanish, amiright??

Brilliant choice because when I walked into the theater, they were jammin' to the great American classic, Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (also, twitter tells me she's engaged? what is this madness). Following the ever-pressing needs of my freakishly small bladder, I danced my way up the stairs to use "los servicios" and what a blessed day it was to be among the small bladder population, because it bought me enough time to hear the next song — the best of Britney circa 2004 — "Toxic." Perhaps no other combination of songs could make me quite so happy to be an American.

View of the Alhambra from afar 

All-in-all, my whole American/Spanish movie going experience was quite enlightening, and although I could have easily been satisfied with my cultural experiences in Spain at that point, we all know that I'm an over-achiever.


So, in the time since I've last blogged (although tempted to just sit in dark casinos and play Spanish slots), I've visited the Alhambra (about seven centuries worth of culture right there!) and seen my first Spanish Flamenco show. 

Detailing on the walls
at the Alhambra

For those of you who have never heard of the Alhambra (other than Alhambra Water....apparently not related...), it's the tourist destination in Granada. It's basically the main reason why people go to the city. It's a huge Moorish palace and fortress that was built in the mid-14th century by Arab rulers and then taken over by Christian rulers after the Reconquista. Fast-forward over five hundred years and you have a UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting lush gardens, exquisitely preserved stonework, and flowing water and fountains through all parts of the sprawling fortress.

Now, I'm always a little reluctant to go stand in line and pay money to see those supposedly "must-see" monuments. Like the Louvre... a whole week in Paris and never went. What's there to see anyway? The Mona Lisa? My God you guys, that painting is tiny. I guess I'm just generally a bad tourist. I'd probably go to India and end up eating Chinese food.

Generalife at the Alhambra

So, naturally, part of me was a little reluctant to go to the Alhambra, but the woman at my hostel in Algeciras was very insistent that I go. In fact, I think she may have threatened me at one point. I'm not sure. She kept trying to practice her English with me, but she really didn't speak any English at all, so maybe it was a mistake when she said, "I come kill you if you no go to Alhambra"...?

She was a little scary though, so I dragged myself to the world-famous Alhambra; it was fabulous. I highly recommend it. In fact, if you come to Granada and don't go I may just have to pretend that I don't speak English and threaten you a little bit.

View of the Alhambra
from the outdoor Flamenco show

As if I hadn't culturally enriched myself enough already —like I said, huge over-achiever— the owners of the hostel that I'm currently working at organized an outing to a local Flamenco show. And because I have the easiest job in the world, they had my shift covered so that I could attend as well. So after a strenuous day of not working, I was relieved from my 3 hour shift and headed over to the Flamenco show with a bunch of Brazilian, Polish, and Argentine tourists. The show consisted of a 10-year-old singer, a 14-year-old flamenco dancer, a 17-year-old guitarist, and a 65-year-old poet.


The show was actually incredibly inspiring. The kids were all ridiculous talents, but my favorite part was the older gentleman's performance of some poetry by the Granada-born writer, Federico Garcia Lorca. Firstly, I actually kind of, almost understood it in its semi-entirety, which was awesome. Secondly, even when I didn't understand, all the Spanish people around me were LOL-ing hardcore, so I know he was funny. And, thirdly, his flamboyancy reminded me of home. Overall, he couldn't have been more perfect.

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.