Trick or Treat!

Even though I didn't dress up, I did get to celebrate Halloween today. Because the holiday is associated with the English language, all of the English classes at Mar Bella go all out — and I was invited to attend. All week, the third through sixth grade classes had been learning songs in English, which they performed for the younger kids. The words were mildly inaudible, but the masks were adorable. The older kids then went trick or treating to all the younger classrooms and sang the "Trick or Treat" song, which I had taught them on Wednesday. Per the teachers' suggestion, we changed "If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear" to "I'll put red ants in your hair." I'm not sure how much better that is, but ok!

Most of the kids go home between 1 and 3 to eat lunch, and so I am usually not at Mar Bella during those hours. Today I got to stay and eat with the teachers though, and I have to say, their cafeteria lunch trumps anything I ever saw at FA. We had lovely fresh grilled fish, a wide assortment of vegetables and potatoes, and there were at least three other things I was just to overwhelmed to try.

After lunch was the day's actual main event: the Castanyada.

The Castanyada is a Catalan holiday, celebrated on the same day as Halloween, and centered around castanyers, or chestnuts. I'm still a little fuzzy on the symbolic reasons as to why chestnuts are eaten, but the holiday is extremely festive, and involves a lot of singing and dancing.

The sixth graders dressed up as the gypsies who sell chestnuts on the streets. (I pulled out my best face painting skills to make wrinkles and mustaches.) The preschoolers performed a dance in the gym and were then given folded pieces of newspaper, containing roasted chestnuts. One of the teachers overheard me saying I had never had a chestnut before, and taught me how to properly crack and eat one. Good thing — all of the little kids then decided my nails were perfect for peeling open their treats.

After the youngest and oldest kids had their song and dance time, the entire school congregated on the playground for more dancing and chestnut eating. The first grade class — who have fully attached themselves to me — pulled me into their circle and we all danced to the Catalan castanyer songs. It was unbelievably fun, and the kids got so into it. At the end they got a little Peter Pan-esque on me — three of the first graders refused to let go of my leg and begged me to come home and be their mothers. I promised I would be back on Monday.

How many CASB students does it take to work a printer?

Answer: Unclear - we haven´t fully gotten there yet.

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I´ve determined that a large amount of the reading I have not done while here is simply because I cannot figure out how to print the documents.

Early on, we all encountered some minor traumas trying to print at UPF or UAB. First we were told we needed to apply for printing cards. Then we had to put money on them. Then we had to find the computers that permit printing. Moral of the story: I have yet to encounter a CASB kid who has successfully printed anything at any of the universities.

The solution to the problem - within the CASB office are four computers hooked up to two printers. So every Monday and Wednesday, during the ten minute pausa in the middle of Guerra Civil, we all race to the office. We discovered early on that we needed to bring our own printer paper. After having my mom bring me a pack from home, we also discovered that they use a different size here. (This resulted in Paige and I Wikiped-ing "paper size" for a good 10 minutes while we tried to reformat the printer.)

So now we have the right paper size. The dilemna is that we STILL cannot figure out which printers are linked to which computers, and how to get our boarding passes and hostel confirmations onto the right queues. (Conveniently the printers have the same name.) Generally, we all just put paper in, hit print, and wait for the chaos to ensue.

This morning, I ambitiously set off for CASB on my way to UAB, hoping to print the readings for Contemporary Political Institutions. Armed with a packet of paper, 45 minutes, and serious determination. Finally I got the computer/printer hook going and I started manually doing double-sided printing (the pages were flying everywhere). A couple pages in, the ink ran out. So I switched computers and switched printers. And then the paper jammed. And then the ink on that printer malfunctioned. And then I had to go to UAB.

I´m going to read the first 9 pages very thoroughly, because that may be as far as I get.

"Comida, Artes, Salidas en Barcelona"

As one of my Spanish extracurriculars, I´ve been working on CASB´s "Agenda Cultural" with some of my fellow Consortium-ers. All of the students in the program are encouraged to go out and find cool cultural events in Barcelona and its environs, and if they are willing to write a little blurb about what they´ve seen and done, they can be reimbursed for their adventures. A group of us have been compiling the write ups and today, the first edition of Comida, Artes, Salidas en Barcelona will be unveiled. (Tonight we have a tapas session to all get together and talk about how things are going, since it´s just about the halfway point. (eek!))

As a sneak preview though, check out the blog we made to accompany the newsletter. The actual publication will only be printed a couple times, but we´re going to try to update the site as regularly as possible.

You know, I'm just Sarah Palin

Today I had my second day at Mar Bella. This time I was working with a fifth grade class, who were giving presentations about the different animal groups. I watched to try and get a sense of where they were skill-wise. It was funny - seemingly hard words like "oviparous" they had no trouble pronouncing because the Catalan cognate sounds so similar. On the other hand, the ea sound in "breathe" or "dead" is nearly impossible for them.

After class I was talking to Ángels and the vice principal. In Catalan, the vice principal asked me what I was studying. I answered (in Spanish), political science. "Emmy for President!" she said, adding (in Catalan), "You would be better than that dumb woman from Alaska."

I'm glad some concepts translate.

Marvelous Monday Morning at Mar Bella

Today I (finally) started working in Col-legio Mar Bella (also known as Mar Bella Elementary School). After a brief transportation snafu (I didn´t really know what bus stop to get off at and overshot - good thing I walk fast), I arrived at 9, just as all the kids and their parents were lining up outside the school gates. Some things are exactly the same - all the little kids had Hello Kitty, Disney and FC Barcelona backpacks, the sixth graders had those annyoing wheely backpacks, with which they were running over everyone´s feet.

I walked inside and found Ángels and Ángels, the two English instructors at the school. They introduced me to a couple key people, including the vice principal. She asked me questions in Catalan, I responded in Castellano, and was told I could only speak English while in the classroom. Oy vey.

First I worked with a class of first graders. Within the last few years, Halloween has become an actual holiday in Spain (for totally commercial reasons), but prior to that, it´s always been celebrated in English classes. The class was learning different vocabulary, like "witch" and "spider," and making little booklets to help them along. I sat down with a boy named Guillem, who showed me his coloring and started spèaking in Catalan. "Guillem," a nearby little girl said (also in Catalan), "Ángels SAID she only speaks English." (Obviously they believed that and I was pretty good at pretending I had no idea what was going on.) "I know that," Guillem responded, "but I´m going to teach her."

My favorite part about six year olds though: every little girl came and hugged my legs at the end of the hour.

Next I headed to a very rambunctious third grade class, where we practiced the song they´ll be singing at the Halloween party on Friday. They were getting antsy though - at 11 am they have "breakfast" (sandwiches brought from home) and play extremely physical fútbol on the playground.

Between classes, I had a chance to sit down with the two Ángels and talk about future classes. I´m really glad this program actually allows me to help coordinate what I do. When I worked in a bilingual classroom in Providence, I showed up, stood there and did what I was told. I felt like I was helping - but only to a degree. Here, I get to actually influence what we do during the hours I´m in the classroom.

To finish off my morning I went to a classroom of sixth graders. They were shyer about speaking at first, but by the end, had warmed up to me. All they wanted to know (once they found out where I´m from) is whether I had ever seen any famous people. I named a couple of my more obscure celeb sightings, but what they really wanted to know is whether I have ever seen the Jonas Brothers.

It was actually a challenge to NOT speak any Spanish, especially with everyone around me rattling away in a combination of Catalan and Castellano. I had to think really hard about what to say before I started speaking in English. One of the Ángels said she felt more self-conscious speaking English to the class with me there, and I understand the feeling. Right now I´m in the UPF library about to walk into my social theory class, where I am mildly terrified of raising my hand because I don´t even know what´s going to come out. But if I can teach a bunch of elementary school kids how to speak English, maybe Guillem and his friends can teach me to speak Catalan too. Maybe.

PS(A)

This week I am only five hours ahead of the east coast. Daylight savings - go figure.

Food for Thought

Last night, after returning from our day of Spanish touring, about 10 of us decided to embark on an even more Spanish quest: a dinner of homemade tapas. It´s remarkable what you can create with a baby-sized kitcken, a Mercadona spree and eager CASB chefs. We had tortilla española (a french fry omelette, basically), chicken croquettes, pa amb tomaquet (Catalan speciality; calling it bruschetta would be an insult), pimientos de padron (pan-fried green peppers), sauteed mushrooms and patatas bravas (potatoes + spicy sauce = yum). It took a lot of olive oil - and a lot of love - and was delicious.

Today though, we were on a different bent. All week, Paige and I have been bemoaning the lack of free refills (and fountain soda for that matter) in Spain. We wanted a diner. What we really wanted was Meeting Street, but we were willing to settle.

This week marked the second dip of the choque cultural chart. The initial plummet came from a frustration with Spanish disorganization and the difficulties of navigating a foreign system. I think I´m totally past that - and actually starting to get to the point, remarkably, where I can understand Spanish without trying too hard. This piece of the evolucion emocional came more from the missing-home angle.

And so four of us caved, and went to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner. Ok, we were touristy, and we overpaid for our burgers, but they were delicious, and we just smiled at the waitress as she judgingly asked if we wanted another refill. Yes please.

Going Goth

Throughout the semester, we continue to have group activities, etc. all centered around one theme - Spanish art. The first installment of the proseminario was Roman art - hence the trip to the Pyrenees. Over the course of the last week, we explored chapter 2: Gothic Art.


On Wednesday we checked out the Museu Maritim, where we looked at boats from centuries past. Especially of note were the maps - it was funny to look at these beautiful, ancient maps and see a country other than the US occupying the central focus.

On Friday we took another walking tour of the city, sticking to the oldest part of Barcelona, which is known as the barrio gotico (Gothic neighborhood). I apologize for the lack of visuals, and recommend Wikipedia-ing "Santa Maria del Mar" or "El Seu."

Saturday we boarded another CASBús for a day trip around the area. First stop was the Monasterio de Santa Creus in Tarragona, a beautifully maintained building with pretty grounds and gardens.

Then we headed to Montblanc, another nearby city which has still maintained its outer walls, centuries later. After some brief exploring, we sat down for a serious lunch, which turned out to be the main activity of the day (unsurprisingly). We had given our orders on the bus ride at 9 am, so we´d been thinking about food the whole time anyway. It did not disappoint.

After lunch we explored more of the town before reboarding the bus and headed back to Barcelona.

I was going to make pictures in Paint to accompany my travel tales, but perhaps I´ll just hold off for now on the accompanying images.

Color by Numbers

I was waiting to write about a number of things because I wanted the accompanying images, but with my computer's unexpected "vacation" upon us, a little imagination is required...

1. Last Friday, we finally met with the teachers who we'll be working with in the Barcelona elementary schools. (Remember that? Yeah, we almost forgot about it too.) I have been assigned to a school called Mar Bella, which is in the Poble Nou district — a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood near the Olympic Village. (According to the director of the school's English program, the parents are working class but the kids grow up to be professionals.) While in the classrooms, we have to pretend we speak absolutely no Spanish — it's our job to get the kids to speak in English and really practice. I'll be working with first, third and sixth graders. My first day is Monday — my schedule made it hard to find times to go, but luckily Juanjo's "Guerra Civil" class is optional on Mondays (seriously), so I'll be kicking it with the kiddies instead.

2. On Tuesday night, I went to my first fútbol game. FC Barcelona — more religion than team — was playing a team we had never heard of (Russia's Rubin Kazan), but it was a championship game and there were decent seats available, so we went for it. We dressed up, painted our faces, and cheered loudly with the best of the Catalan fans. Barça lost (2-1) and there were some shocking cultural differences, but it was awesome.

3. At long last, I am an official UAB student. Given that I have been here for two months, that statement may seem confusing. Well, in fact, I am only matriculated as of this week. It seems no one was in that big of a rush. The good news? I now have access to the course websites and can pretend to an even greater degree that I know what's happening. The bad news? All those readings we thought didn't exist? We found them.

4. I personally thought that the rain in Spain only fell on the plain, but for the last few days, Barcelona has really been evoking Providence. Here's hoping it's only temporary. That being said, it's definitely fall now. The summer dresses are going under the bed and the sweaters are making their first appearances.

We're approaching the halfway point of CASB, which I cannot believe. October can't possibly be almost over, can it?

This WOULD happen to me.

Anyone who knows me well is aware of my computer and its... trials, so it was only a matter of time before something traumatic happened here. This morning, the feisty little guy would not turn on, and so I let him take a time out for the day.

After much trial and error (thank you ChazinSweden), it was determined that there was a problem I could not fix myself. The closest Apple store to me is in Munich, which really made me miss the dysfunctional haven that is Providence Place. I was able to locate an Authorized Apple Service Provider though, and for the next 10 days, that´s where my baby will be vacationing.

NOTE: For everyone who has always questioned why my computer is such a disaster scene - NEW REVELATION - it´s not my fault.

Bilb-wow (Ok, that was too easy)

This weekend, Dana and I made like native Spaniards and took a whirlwind weekend trip to the Basque Country city of Bilbao.

Leaving once again on a 7 am flight (I'm getting good at the 4:30 am wake-up), we arrived in Bilbao less than an hour later, a little cold (ah, the northern coast) and very confused (the airport mysteriously lacks an arrivals hall).

We made it downtown quickly, and I was shocked by what we found. I'd heard that Bilbao, prior to the building of the Guggenheim, was gritty and industrial — the Pittsburgh of Spain (or as I choose to think of it, the Providence). What we found was a beautifully charming city, filled with old buildings, cafes and wide avenues (and a shockingly efficient public

transportation system).

After taking a needed nap in our pensión, we set off in search of el Mercado de la Ribera, the largest covered market in Europe. Though the fruits and vegetables area (my favorite) was a little sparse, there were full floors devoted each to meats and fish. (Dad — this was your kind of market)

We spent most of the day just exploring the casco viejo — the old city — and its seven original streets. We also checked out the Museu de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Museum).

Going from one anarchist state to another, I was expected Spanish to be the secondary language. But unlike Catalan, which I can pretend to understand, Basque (or Euskal, to natives) is in a league of its own. (Seriously, it has no known origin)

Though I heard few people actually speaking it, all signs favored the local dialect (with Spanish and English beneath it, thankfully).

As an example, thank you is translated as eskerrik asko. ok....

We spent the evening embracing the local culture: pintxos.

Like the rest of Spain, the Basque Country takes their food seriously (to the point of obsession). Up north though, they have their own spin on tapas — pintxos — which consist of anything and everything stabbed with a toothpick and stuck to a piece of bread. The typical weekend activity is to hop from one bar to another, have a glass of wine and a pintxo or two at each one. Highlights from our tour of the old city's Plaza Nueva included ensalada de mariscos (seafood salad), alcachofa (artichoke), pimiento con bacalo (red pepper stuffed with cod), various fresh grilled vegetables and cheeses, some sort of meat crepe, and a few things I couldn't quite identify. It's in these settings that I am extremely happy to be (more or less) a fearless eater. (I didn't take this photo, but it gives a pretty good demonstration of the deliciousness that is a pintxos bar.)

On Sunday, we took in the Big Kahuna, Bilbao's claim to fame, The Guggenheim. I've seen tons of pictures, but I don't think I was prepared for just how crazy of a building Frank Gehry's masterpiece is.

My favorite part may have been the 70-foot puppy made entirely of flowers, who greeted you as you entered.

I was shocked that the museum contained Impressionist masters — I was expecting only the truly bizarre. Then we got to the first floor, where we found video art and an enormous room filled with steel mazes. So I cannot profess to have understood even close to everything, but it was by far the coolest building I have ever been inside.

After spending a good chunk of the day at the museum, we found ourselves wandering and discovered that the entire city of Bilbao shuts down on Sundays. We had checked out of our hostel, it was cold, and we weren't leaving till 10:30 pm. What to do? Go to the movies! We saw Lo Que Funciona (Whatever Works), a Woody Allen movie about a New Yorker played by Larry David dubbed in Spanish. I was more impressed with the Spanish audiences' ability to grasp the humor than my ability to translate the language.

We managed to entertain ourselves until 10:30 pm, when we boarded our overnight bus back to Barcelona. It wasn't as restless as I was expecting, though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't getting very sleepy right about now.

Daily Dose of Drama

It's been a while since I wrote about any sort of transportation-related debacle, and I have in fact gotten pretty good at maneuvering my way through Barcelona's three interconnected subway lines. This story is not intended to showcase my own difficulties, but rather to illustrate Spain at its best.

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Using our best spur-of-the-moment planning skills, my friend Dana and I decided to go to Bilbao for the weekend. We're going to navigate our way through yet another anarchist state and gain the ability to pretentiously say we've been to the Guggenheim.

A component of our perfectly orchestrated plan is an overnight bus back to Barcelona on Sunday night. Using the company's website, we picked out the bus that fit exactly what we wanted and tried to buy tickets. It was sold out. We found another that would world equally as well; it had one seat left. Obviously that doesn't work either. Starting over, we told the website search engine we needed a bus reservation for two people. The bus we wanted popped back up — and now it had five seats available. We refreshed and there were seven. We were confused.

We have the fortunate luck of living across the street from Estación Nord, the main bus terminal, so we ran over there. It was about 9 pm, so only two windows were open and there was a line spilling into the hallway. Dana got on line while I checked out the ticket machine. Much to my surprise, there were now 20 seats available on the bus, and the machine was all set to sell me a ticket. Pleased with how flawlessly I'd executed the situation, I stuck my credit card in. Unreadable. Minor glitch, but this is a problem I've had in Spain, so I wasn't surprised. I had enough cash on me so I put a 20 euro bill in. Here's where my issues began. The machine didn't register having received the money, nor would it return my money. For a few minutes, Dana and I just stood there and pushed buttons, not entirely sure what to do next.

I walked to the front of the line. One clerk waved me away; the other told me he couldn't help me. Dana got back on line, figuring she could buy tickets and ask for help in a more orderly way, while I stood guard over the machine and tried to stick various pieces of paper into the money slot.

Two security guards walked past and I stopped them, now slightly agitated and yelling in Spanish. One took my key from me and starting poking the money slot; the other walked over to the desk, came back, and informed me that the clerk knew nothing and did not have a key to the machine. Unable to offer me any other answers, they walked away.

While they had been attempting to help me, a middle-aged Spanish woman looking to buy tickets of her own had come over to ask them a question. After the security guards left me, she walked over and asked what had happened (I was now violently pushed the "return money" button). Outraged, she grabbed my arm and told me to come with her as she stormed to the front of the line and began yelling at the clerk on my behalf. Not surprisingly, he didn't respond this time either. She brought me back to my machine, told me stay put, and set off on a mission. (At this point, Dana is still on line and has only been cut by three or so people with emergency ticket needs)

My new friend came back with another bus company representative in tow. While my machine and I stood there, she began yelling at him for me. Finally, he turned to me and told me to follow him to another counter. He handed my a form to report my incident and said if I came back the next day, I could try and reclaim my money. Dana, tickets in hand, came over to help me as we tried to explain what had happened in comprehensible Spanish. Here's a translation of what we came up with:

"I put 20 euro in the machine and it took it. It wouldn't tell me it had it, nor would it return it. As a result, I don't have money or a ticket."

Dana wanted me to add, "ALSA has robbed me," but I refrained.

This morning, promptly at 9 am, I returned as I was told to. I went up to the counter with my copy of the form and presented it to another clerk, who I had to explain my saga to. "The machine has your money?" he asked me. "Si" "Well then why did you fill out a form?" "Because I want my money back." (long pause) "And they told me to yesterday." He looked at me for a minute. "But why did you fill out a form? Now we have to involve another department." I wasn't really sure what to say to that, plus he walked away with my form in hand. Picking up the copy I had left in the office yesterday, he proceeded to the shredder and inserted both. I never really had much proof of the whole incident and now he was destroying the closest thing I had. Ok...

He walked back over, opened the cash register, handed me a 20 and closed the window. And my friends, that is how we do business en España.

Ciao, Bella! (or how we ate our way through Italy)

This weekend's fabulous trip had three main components that I think summarize it best: art, Jesus and food.

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We landed in Pisa early Friday morning, having departed the

Residencia before 5 a.m. We took the train into the city, made our way to the Tower, and took the requisite photos in which we tried to make it fall down.

The climb seemed a little treacherous, so we opted to explore the enormous cathedral instead. Though it is in fact a real city, there wasn't much else going on in Pisa, so we took the train to Florence.

After checking into our hostel, we had the full three-course lunch we have become accustomed to at a local restaurant. We quickly discovered that we might have some language issues, but managed to get by with butchered Spanish, and a little Catalan for good measure. (When that failed, I did a lot of pointing and gesturing) Our very friendly waitress introduced us to what quickly became a group favorite — ribollita — which is a Florentine bread and cabbage soup (infinitely better than that description makes it sounds).

We spent the rest of Friday exploring Florence and getting our bearings, before falling asleep at 10:15 p.m.

We got up early on Saturday and got in line to see the Uffizi Gallery, which was enormous — a lot of Renaissance and a lot of religion. In the afternoon we went to the Accademia to see Michaelangelo's David. He, too, was enormous.

Feeling museum-ed out, we partook in another important piece of Italian culture: gelato.

On Sunday we took the bus to the incredibly beautiful town of Siena. Our first stop was Nannini, a famous old bakery, to sample panaforte — a Sienese speciality, which tastes like a more interesting fruit cake. Not my favorite baked good ever, but it was a cultural experience.

After the bakery we headed to Il Campo, the shell-shaped center of the city and home to the Palazzo Pubblico.

We spent a long time exploring the Palazzo, which is covered in murals and frescoes — literally, every spare inch of wall has something painted on it. The most noteworthy of the paintings, which Paige had actually studied and told us about ahead of time, is in the Room of Nine, where the Sienese government used to receive citizens. The full-wall painting depicts good government and how it affects the town, and the converse effects of a bad, tyrannical government.

We explored Siena for the whole afternoon before heading back to Florence for dinner and more walking. The Italians eat their meals late, but not quite like the Spanish schedule we're on. The advantage of being the last people to finish dinner though: desserts complements of the house. After we left the restaurant we could hear American classic rock music resonating from the area surrounding the Palazzo Vecchio. We happened upon Ken Mercer and his nightly outdoor concert, so we sat and listened for a while.

On Monday morning we got up and climbed the cupola of the Duomo — all 463 steps of it (Paige counted just to be sure). The view of all the red roof tops was incredible.

After navigating and bargaining our way through the markets of San Lorenz, we headed back to the Pisa airport to return to Barcelona.

All in all, it was a fabulous trip. And now, a special shout out to my Let's Go! Europe book — I may look like a tool every time I pull you out in public (and cause embarrassment to my travel companions), but you have never let me down.

Good lord it's early

7 am flight bound for Florence ... see you on Monday!

The last week: Reader's Digest version

STOCKHOLM

I returned late Sunday night from my sojourn to the land of ABBA, Pippi Longstocking and H&M, leaving behind the rain and impending darkness, and re-embracing sunshine and catcalling.

Stockholm could not have been any more different from Barcelona. The people are quiet and polite; gender equality is prized quite highly; dinner time is at 6 pm; the society is trustworthy and trusting of humanity (unattended belongings are left alone, shockingly); and despite all my whining about Catalan, I really could not understand what was happening in Sweden. Also, there is a lot of blonde hair.

I landed on Friday afternoon and took the speedy and environmentally-friendly (apparently their claim to fame) Arlanda Express train to the center of the city. I was surprised by how rural the area outside Stockholm was. Chaz lives in a suburb of the city called Sundbyberg (don't ask me to pronounce it).

We spent most of the weekend walking around the city, which is unbelievably beautiful. Actually a collection of islands, Stockholm looks exactly as I would have pictured it — beautifully preserved old buildings lining boat-filled harbors, with charming bridges and cafes all around.

To brave the cold, we stopped frequently to fika, which means "coffee and something more." The something more can be anything from sexual tension to a full blown meal, though we opted for the local treat, kanelbullar, which taste like the love child of a cinnamon bun and babka. Sunday was coincidentally National Kanelbullar Day, so we celebrated extra hard with possibly the largest pastries I have ever seen.

On Sunday we also ventured to the highest point in the city to take in the spectacular views. It wasn't that clear out, but it was still pretty impressive. See video footage here (scroll all the way to the bottom).

MOMMY!

In a step up from the typical Parent's Weekend, my mom is visiting Barcelona this week. Though I have actually had to go to class during the day, we've gotten in some serious walking and tapas adventures as I show off my new city. Who knows, maybe we'll get a guest appearance on the blog...

UAB, you complete me.

So two tumultuous weeks later, I have a functioning class schedule. Shocking, I know, but true. Here's the final verdict:

• La Guerra Civil y Memoria Historica. Taught by Juanjo and filled with only CASB students, the class is prone to extreme digression, also known as "The World According to Juanjo." We are slowly starting to understand the causes of the civil war though, even if it requires a little Wikipedia on the side.
• Teoria Social. My only UPF class and my first entré into any kind of social theory. On the first day, the professor said, "I'm warning you now — the readings are going to be hard..." he paused, "because they are in English." Discussing them in Spanish alongside my Catalan classmates really throws what I thought was my English fluency for a loop. The material is interesting and the professor is comprehensible, so I don't think I could ask for anything more.
• Relaciones Internacionales. The exact same class as the one that shares its title at Brown, only this way, I get the European's perspective. The professor loves exchange students, PowerPoints and current events. All in all, a win.
• Instituciones Políticas Contemporáneas. My final exam may be taken via email in February, but otherwise, this is the perfect fourth class. Fits my comparative politics requirement, it's in Spanish, the professor is comprehensible, and the other students not at all scary (because they're freshmen). I'm definitely the only international student in the class though, which is somewhat of a novelty. The other day, the professor was recounting various democratic revolutions throughout history and told the story of the United States', though it was with a very different point of view than the version I've been taught my whole life. At the end, he said (in Spanish), "So that's the American revolution, though we have an americana here and she might tell you otherwise." The entire class dissolved into whispers and starting looking around. "¿Americana? ¿Donde?" The girl next to me figured it out quickly. "¿Tu? You are the American?"

Yes, yes I am.

Up next.

We have Monday off from school (Columbus Day perhaps?) and never have Friday classes, so Matt, Paige and I are skipping over to Florence for the weekend. It's a really hard life.

Oh what a week it has been.

So I have probably blogged more times this week than the rest of the semester thus far, and I have taken you on my full emotional roller coaster ride. But as this morning's graph and cautious optimism demonstrates, we are on the upswing.

UAB Day #2 was marked by a series of highs and lows:

High: Returned to Relaciones Internacionales. This time it was the professor, who was infinitely nicer than the TA. At the end of class, he asked all of the international students to raise their hands, and he asked us all where we were from. He then instructed the rest of the class to be kind to us, help us navigate the university, and if we get stuck, photocopy their notes for us. He also decided it was totally fine for us to peace out in December and just take our own version of the final. WIN. And bonus time: we have short papers every few weeks and it's our option — we can hand them in in Catalan, Spanish, OR.... English!

Low: My friends at Brown will say this one is my fault. I tend to extend my shopping period for longer than necessary because I just keep deciding to try out new classes "for fun." (Note: It's not usually that fun). This one was Analisis de conflictas internacionales y culturales. Supposedly in Spanish, but the Powerpoint was in Catalan. The teacher was apparently speaking castellano, but I'm not convinced. At one point — unable to follow along — I wrote "SHE MAY AS WELL BE SPEAKING CATALAN. WTF." in my notebook (in all cap letters), which elicited laughter from the German girls on my right (who concurred). So that class was a fail.

High: Returned to the Spanish-speaking section of Contemporary Political Institutions. The girl on my left commented on how it was cool that we had the same pen; I proceeded to read her notes over her shoulder for the duration of class. It's less that I have issues understanding, and more that spelling is a struggle.

Low: At the end of class, I went up to the professor and tried to explain (en español) that I'm only here until December, and would very much appreciate being able to take the final then. A native Brit, he switched to English upon hearing my accent. "I don't know," he said. "I need to think about it." Ok great. Let me know. Anytime.

So I survived a week of shopping. We'll take it from here. Tomorrow morning I'm leaving on a jet plane to visit Chaz in Sweden (actually the title of his blog, but Chaz is in Sweden, and I am going to visit him). I'm so excited to see a new part of Europe — even if it meant I had to go under my bed and find my quasi-winter clothing today. Now I'll concentrate all my thoughts on Swedish meatballs and Ikea and disregard UAB until next week. Sounds like a good plan to me.

Choque Cultural

When we first arrived in Barcelona, each of us were given CASB agenda books, filled with calendars, important contact numbers and tips, and a strangely technical graph. The red squiggle line depicted the evolución emocional of "culture shock" — something we had been warned about during study abroad orientation at Brown. Paige and I found the chart so hilarious we copied it and taped it to our wall for easy reference.

As we spent our first few weeks traipsing around Barcelona, taking in the local culture, food, sights, etc., it was hard to imagine how we could ever hit the low point on the graph. What in Spain could possibly stress us out that much, or make us that homesick? We're practically on vacation!

Well, this week I have probably heard 15 different people reference their "choque." The dip has come. Spain's inefficiencies are nothing new to us — we've been laughing about them for weeks. But the frustrating nature of trying to organize a schedule when no one speaks your language — not even the one you supposedly are here to study — is a lot more stressful than I anticipated it could be. Here the attitude is, "Don't worry, it'll all work out," and I'm a trying, trying, TRYING to be open to whatever comes my way, but... it's a bit choqu-ing.

The good news is that after this, emotions evolve back upward. So my schedule is not exactly what I was hoping for? I'll adapt. So the students in my Spanish-taught lecture class are allowed to ask questions in Catalan? I'll calmly wait until the professor answers, and try and be ok with the fact that I will definitely not understand everything that happens around me.

I'm about to set out for Day 2 at UAB. I'm not expecting miracles, but maybe this episode will feature fewer ups and downs.