Revisiting: Portugal

map credit: travelandtweet.com

Where: Portugal (Lagos)

When: late October – early November, 2011

How (transport): One eternally long and nauseating bus ride to and from Seville, Spain to Lagos (5 hours) via Damas bus company.

Duration: Long weekend

Accommodations: http://www.lagosmar.com/- an inexpensive, basic hotel.

Language: Portuguese, although in the city of Lagos – English is the most common language.

Currency: Euro

Sunday morning in Lagos

Tourist facts Not sure how we passed up the chance to stay at The Rising Cock hostel with it’s reputation as “best party hostel in the world,” but you live and learn. This beach town has a significant draw for backpackers and tourists, so it can be a mixed bag when you’re out at night. For the history buffs, the city walls surrounding the old quarter date back to the 16th century. In addition to several churches in town, most guidebooks point to the ‘Slave Market’ from the 15th century, where slaves brought back from the discovery voyages were sold.

Links I recommend during trip planning
http://www.lagos.me.uk/ for their helpful hints on eating in Lagos for 5 euros or less.

My absolutes Eat a cataplana. Try Sagres beer. Find a native Portugese man/woman (just to prove they’re there). Befriend a surfing Kiwi. Walk around the old quarter for a good view of the city walls. Swim in the ocean, which frames the city to the south. People watch at the 400+ berth marina, where the fisherman are showing off.

View to the Atlantic

What I saw Lagos is a much smaller town than I expected, and as a result, is very walkable. Truly beautiful architecture circles the old quarter with many whitewashed homes and windowsills full of flowers. As a destination, it is very tourist-based with a heavy influence of Kiwis, Aussies and Brits. If you’re there for the surf, you probably won’t mind so much. I suspect that during the high season, you may find prices rising to match. At the time we visited, we were 2 of maybe 6 people in our whole hotel.

What I did
http://www.surf-experience.com – In truth, I didn’t do this. Matt did this. But he loved it! Given the weather and the waves, we set up shop at Praia do Zavial.

Matt post surf

What I ate arguably the best meal of my life at Casinha do Petisco in Lagos. Chowing down with our new Kiwi friends we ordered four entrees and the table could barely hold the bounty. Fish, pork, the famous cataplana. With good wine and good company, I am hard pressed to beat this meal. This may also be due in part to the jolly chef who set things on fire for us, repeatedly.

A thumbs up to Don Toro, a steak house where we were surprised by a filling autumn meal (pumpkin soup, steak, potatoes). Although it ran up against my desire to eat local cuisine, it was exactly what we needed on a rainy night. Coincidentally, this was also one location where we were not harassed when reviewing the menu (one of my pet peeves).

Our fiery chef

If (when) I return I will return when the weather is a bit warmer, and THEN (and only then) will I attempt to surf.

Sorry I missed the sunshine! Not sorry I missed the crowds. 

Thanks to Annalise and Mark for brilliant company, lessons on cricket and lots of accented English comparisons. We can’t wait to visit you in Auckland! Toby and David for giving us (ok, just Matt) a hell of a surf experience. Additional kudos to David for sending us into a back alley for an epic meal we would never have found otherwise.

New friends

If you want to read the original post: http://thisblonde.wordpress.com/2010/11/01/lagos-points-west

[guest blog] From North to South

This guest blog is brought to you by Natalie of crumbcastle. We met via CouchSurfing in 2010 and became fast friends over food, art and language. As the old ladies of the auxiliares hoard (then 27), we spent a lot of time in observation of our compatriots and our adopted country. Natalie’s first assignment was in Northern Spain: Vigo, Galicia. Her second assignment led her to my own backyard: Andalucía (Aracena, Huelva). Below she shares her thoughts, and original artwork.

Yes, last year was a bit of a disaster. I wouldn’t trade it out for the world, but … it was A BIT of a disaster.

My first year abroad as an auxiliar de conversación had high hopes I would be living in a corner of Spain unknown to most travelers, a place with a rich culinary tradition; I would be learning Spanish, exchanging cultures, gaining a new skill set as an English teacher; I could buy manchego and chorizo in an old supermarket.

cheese with your English?

Galicia did live up to most of these things, but two factors effected them tremendously.

1: my job. Crippling disorganization, miscommunication ran rampant; I anticipated cultural exchange, they preferred to keep things strictly British.

I was once told to talk about Pancake Day… “What is that?”
I asked to show the kids Schoolhouse Rock. “What is that??” (request denied).

Of a staff of about 10, I still think some of them had no idea that my home was an ocean and a continent away. When a girl moves abroad for the first time, a surrogate sense of family really does wonders for her transition. Bless ‘em, I was the first auxiliar they’d ever had; I couldn’t be mad at them, but I could be bummed.

2: the weather. Sorry. I’m a sundress and sandals girl. Winter is “sweater weather”; rain coats, fashionably ironic; sunglasses, a mandatory part of my waitress uniform. I had never gone weeks or months without seeing a bright blue sky and Galicia soon taught me just how much that sky can effect my countenance. I was pretty grey and bleak until the sun finally came out .. two weeks before I left.

If rose-colored glasses make people think everything around them is fabulous, my pair of steely blue ones – no matter how I tried to tear them off – were casting serious shadows over my idea of cultural exchange in Spain.

not so rose-colored glasses

Luckily, in an attempt to turn grey-blue into rose-violet, I enrolled in a Spanish class at the Official Language School in Vigo. These schools are throughout Spain for inspired adults to learn a language.

We were inspired; our teacher, an inspiration. She vetoed the usual plague of flash cards and drills. Instead, she carefully directed what felt like a hilarious, addictive forum for us foreigners to go stumble around Spanish. Somewhere amid the laughter and after-school beers, I learned Spanish and found Spain.

caña? so que es?

… All well and good until the grim morning reminder of my day job. The reason I was in Spain. To renew my job for a second year would mean subjecting myself to another year of students who had no desire to learn any English beyond “toilet please.”

Yes, the possibility was powerful repulsive. At least it was only a POSSIBILITY – I could technically get placed anywhere…

Out of pure, morbid curiosity, I reapplied.

—

You know how sometimes your brain files a memory of a conversation under “Kind of Interesting, Soon to Forget” only later to realize it should have been filed under “Totally Creepy and Foreboding”?

One regular escape from Vigo, I happened to be on the same bus to Porto as my Spanish teacher; we got to talking about my “future plans.” This particular topic has the curious effect of turning my brain into a buoyant cloud, no matter how much I’m sure I could use the advice.

A month later, I had in my hands a teaching placement in an official language school in Andalucía. My teacher’s brief, freakishly relevant advice came crashing back: If you get placed in a language school, don’t even hesitate, just go.

The thing is, it’s really hard to ignore advice once it takes on that creepy forebodingness.

I finished off the year, spent the summer in California .. in search of a job .. in denial .. The hideous .. heart. beat.

By September, the morbid curiosity and creepy foreboding had me boarding a plane back to the scene of the crime.

—

It’s now April. I feel very confident I have stumbled upon a new scientific proof: If plain old curiosity kills, then morbid curiosity must create a nullifying double jeopardy where everyone walks away intact – life, cat and all.

curiosidad del gato

Truth be told, I blame it all on that most Spanish of mystery spirits: duende. I wouldn’t have been lured back at all if I hadn’t caught a glimpse in Galicia of the duende that attracted me to Spain in the first place. That spry little gnome-spirit led me on her chorizo-laden trail, then slacked off .. just so slightly out of reach …

But it’s not every day a duende clues you in like that – Who would I be to give up looking after only eight measly months? I wouldn’t be Uncle Jesse, that’s who.

Turns out I just had to look to the South to find mine – to Andalucía. To Aracena.

Here, I work with people who invite my weird California slang and pumpkin pie recipes. My students, too, are just as eager to learn and share, and I’m fortunate to call them my friends. Best of all, I get to pass on the wisdom of my Spanish teacher: it’s now my turn to lead the random forum of language-learners, to show the fun in speaking and stumbling around English together.

Call me drunk on ham and Andalu hospitality, but I actually love my job.

As for the rain? Well, I can count on two hands the number of days it’s rained in Aracena. This unusual dry spell is the talk of the pueblo. I would celebrate my great weather karma, except that this rural agriculture community I adore needs the rain for ham .. business.

Today, it finally came. I’m looking out onto a grey, dank sky, remembering my time in rainy Vigo – how different it was, how different I am. I put on the boots I bought there last year and head out, glad – READY – for the splash underfoot. Bring on the rain, Spain! This year, I came armed with wool socks. And I learned where my duende lives.

city mouse, country mouse

Once upon a time …

… in the land of Aesop’s fables the story of these two rodent relatives was created. The posh city mouse comes to visit his country cousin, and teases him about his simple life. The city mouse invites his cousin to his home in the big city to show him how life is bigger, better, brighter in comparison. Over dinner they run into a problem with the neighbors (dogs) and they have to hide to save their lives. The moral of the story is revealed when the country cousin goes home to his country comforts, declaring he would rather live a simple life than live in fear.

Terrible portrayal of the city! What – is the mouse living in Camden? There have been many variations on the story since it was first created. I always thought the story had to do with two people leading separate lives differently but happily. The moral of my version: One size does not fit all.

Well I’m the city mouse. Now masquerading as the country mouse, I set up shop in a one bedroom apartment in a small Midwestern town and I am slowly fading away, far from city comforts. I do have my fair share of noisy neighbors .. although they aren’t dogs, they act like them.

I am plagued by cravings. I crave noise and people and twenty-four hour stores. Mom and pop restaurants, my favorite coffee shop and the people. Where did all the people go?

My students give me the eyebrow of disbelief when I tell them that I am an expert on culture shock. It’s not that they question my authority on the subject. What they don’t believe is that I gave up another year in Europe for some work experience in the cornfields. There are days when I don’t believe it either.

Moving to the Midwest is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It beats moving to Europe, going to college, taking the GMAT (twice). It is isolated and flat, empty and quiet. I have to drive over an hour to go somewhere like Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, Barnes & Noble. While we do not close for siesta, we are closed on Sundays for religion and rest and inconvenience.

photo courtesy of anormallife-amyemilia.blogspot.com

There are things I do like: the cheap rent, the absence of a highway speed limit. I’ve never been somewhere where I can see for miles and miles over the same terrain. Perched on a mountaintop, sure. Standing in a field, never. The sun rises and sets in the most brilliant colors that blow out the landscape for endless minutes. As a result of this unobstructed view, a sunset can consume you. Literally swallow you and pull down the day with a gulp, and you with it.

I see things in photographs, eyelids like shutters. Red barn and a silo – click. Single naked tree – click. Long empty roads – click. When I see the skyline of Chicago, I could weep. My eyes aren’t open wide enough to catch the lights, the colors, the people. As though I need to stock up on the stimulus before I head back to the stillness. The train ride home is the longest, with the city receding behind me as we move along the tracks.

Being the country mouse has its own luxuries. Uninterrupted cooking and a kitchen to myself. No need to roll up the yoga mat or turn down the stereo. Do laundry at weird hours, walk around in my underwear. Plenty of time to write, read and reflect. I am an only child after all, solitude is important to me.

But .. wow.

How Facebook changed the face of Study Abroad

At the risk of sounding like an old biddy, “Back in my day.. (2004) there was no internet.” That’s a lie of course. The world wide web had the globe in its silky grasp, but had yet to slip into every home. I left for Spain without a laptop and went to live in a flat with no internet connection. Not even the whirring, beeping cacophony of dial-up.

I don’t remember this being a life-altering detail at the time. The computer lab at the Center for Modern Language was the size of a bedroom, with three old dinosaur PCs. The hard plastic chairs in front of them were consistently full with a rotation of students, basking in the monitor’s blue glow. I settled for a nearby Internet cafe for my online needs -  which back then were 75% uploading photos and the other 25% sending emails.

Yes, emails. No status updates or tweets or instagram photos of my every waking minute overseas. Just long awaited hellos to friends and family, and the sending of photos to share my travels.

Last year when I visited with my former Resident Director she told me, over a plate of churros, that every host family now had wifi. This blew me away. Every house? What a terrible idea! It reportedly stemmed from a significant list of parents who demanded that their children be awarded the necessity (not the luxury) of connectivity at home. No more walks down to the Internet cafe, and you can forget going online at school. Sit in your señora’s flat with your earbuds in, chattering away on Skype from your bedroom. Almost like you’d never been gone at all.

And you haven’t.

courtesy of gadgetsteria.com

If you spend the majority of your time overseas plugged into your American life, you are missing out. On everything.

Picture yourself a giant: standing tall, straddling the Atlantic. One foot is cushioned in the US – with news of home, drama from school, TV shows and local sports crawling up your leg. Your other foot is perched carefully on the Rock of Gibraltar, scaring away the tourists, not speaking the language and slowly crushing the immersion out of your study abroad experience.

We teach our students about culture shock. Up with the honeymoon stage – joy and bliss abound. Down with the rejection stage – depression and homesickness lie in wait. Then you adjust, adapt, and re-enter. When do you think students are inclined to log on the most? Think of it as a budding relationship. You will gush to your friends about the new and wonderful in fits and starts – you are so consumed by your love that you hardly have the time. Then when it starts to fade, your friends hear countless sad tales and horror stories, so that they soon echo your sentiments: “its awful” .. “how terrible” .. “you must hate it.”

Do you? I didn’t. But living abroad last year there were times when it was just easier to crack the open the mac and Gchat with my mom, or Facebook my best friend about my woes. No longer was it about getting news from home, but a lifeline. I’m in crisis – hang on to me, via this internet connection. Instead of seeking support from those around you in times of need, it is so much easier to reach back to where you came from, and the comforts of home.

Social media is not the downfall of study abroad. If you know me at all, you know its one of my major platforms. I will tweet, post and blog to my heart’s content in an effort to share study abroad with anyone that cares to listen.

Social media is not the downfall of study abroad, but it has changed the way we do things. For the better? Perhaps. But the next big challenge is in the balance – teaching students to be socially responsible with their media (and fiscally, if they tend toward that $700 iPhone bill).

So put your phone down, and close your mac. My blog will be here when you get back. So will your parents, and your cousin’s new house, and your friend’s engagement ring. Disconnect yourself for a while, and you’ll see just what you’re missing.

The awkward self portrait

Scenario. You find yourself in front of something memorable, and you want a photo. But you’re alone with your camera and what could be a crowd of hundreds (see: Eiffel Tower) or a crowd of two (see: side street in old town Prague). The question is .. can you drum up the courage to ask someone to take your photo or do you suck it up and say cheese for a self-portrait?

photo credit: Matthew Turtell

I travel solo pretty frequently. I’m ultra independent, I know what I want, and I prefer not to have anyone in my way. Coffee at 8 pm? Yes. Three gelato stops? You got it. Sit in the same seat at this café for two hours? Don’t mind if I do. But you know what’s hard when traveling solo? Photos of self.

this time, with the peace sign

I saw an outstanding self portrait a few weeks ago in Chicago. Morgan and I were people watching at the Bean and this highly comical Jersey Shore look alike was posing .. and posing .. and posing in the reflection of the sculpture with his iphone. Glasses on, glasses off, pouty face, smile, peace sign. I was SO engrossed in his decisions that I literally stopped to watch… and snapped his picture. I can only assume he was traveling alone, and was without a picture taker (or a real camera).

Asking someone to take a photo is probably one of the most universal gestures in the world, next to the peace sign, the middle finger and the thumbs up (in that order? who can say). You hold up the camera in question, gesture forward like you’re going to offer it to someone, and gesture back at yourself. The answer is usually “yes, yes, yes, photo” with copious nodding of the head. See? Everyone speaks English.

Travel is full of awkward moments.

The end goal is to laugh at them, and yourself .. eventually.

I shoot with a Nikon D-60. It wasn’t cheap. This is part of the reason I am sometimes hesitant to hand off my camera to others. It’s also proven to be a social experiment. I seem to gravitate towards fellow Nikon users, although this is certainly not always a) an option, b) a sign of a good photographer. Check out this awful photo taken of me on Charles Bridge in Prague, Czech Republic.

what exactly is she photographing?

I took a photo for a pair of women, and thought it would be a good time to ask for the return favor. The minute she started angling and pacing with my camera I thought that it was headed for the cobblestones or that this picture was going to suck. Check out the guy next to me, even he knows it’s going to suck!

Thankfully, the next woman took the request far more seriously, and shot what I wanted. And she even took the courtesy second photo, for the win.

oh look, scenery!

I have been known to walk up to people with their arms awkwardly extended in front of themselves, just to relieve them of their predicament. I could have made a business out of this on the Triana bridge in Sevilla, sabes? Countless people in strange positions, trying to execute a photo from arm’s length away, and simultaneously not fall into the Guadalqivir.

Has someone done that for you? Pay it forward, please. I can only take so much.