Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Keeping up-to-date on Lebanon
Another article on elections (June 7) and what they could mean, if you're interested, while waiting for my PARIS post
How The Chandelier City Took Me By Surprise
Catherine from Quebec, my incredible (not only because she speaks French) weekend-Paris-trip companion, told me France is the top tourist destination in the world (a surprise! Italy? French Polynesia?), and that its capital would of course be the top in France. We went for five days during a long weekend, when extra-Parisian French flooded the city for vacation. Due to this expected crowd, plus my own aversion to extreme luxury, I honestly went to Paris because
1. I wanted to hang out with my cool Quebec friend
2. It is a reasonably easy trip from northern Spain
3. Certain French-speaking LMU friends would slap me if I didn't go (on their behalf)
4. I'm just plain in love with travel and curious in general.
I thought Paris would be interesting, fun for crazily-excited Catherine, and downright A.O.K.
NOT SO.
The combination of traveling with company (something new for overly independent Heather), the sheer ease of traveling in a city built on tourism, and the good luck of witnessing precious moments in the already luxurious Paris all combined to make this my favorite trip outside Donostia (nothing can beat SanSe. nothing.).
First of all, the Eiffel Tower is ugly. Don´t deny it. Big and impressive, certainly, but brown, and webbed, and awkward like that one hair you just can´t comb down. But it was transformed as night. I remember crossing a bridge on the River Seine when it appeared above some marble buildings in front of us, defying the blue of the sky with gold lights. We highfived, feeling very touristy, and went to relax at a patch of grass near its base, talking about God and fair trade and men. Then it began to sparkle. I didn't know they'd made it into a light show, so I let out a gasp when all the hundreds of lights started blinking. Then came the cool part. The choir. From our place on the grasp near one of the legs of the tower, we heard sweet harmonies drifting from the center. The singing was obviously a huge choir of men and women, and I was so attracted to the noise that we made our way to the center to see what was happening. A group from a Protestant church near by had gathered to praise God simply by singing under the Eiffel Tower at night. Their songs included Awesome God and How Great Thou Art, but in French. I made Catherine laugh when I started singing along. And, of course, I stared up at the tower from its underbelly, imagining the structure itself was singing. Surreal.
Something that made even the most mediocre moments special was Catherine's constant pauses for camera shots. Her attention to detail made me look at everything more closely, and thus made the trip more enjoyable.
Not that I needed to see the small details to enjoy it. Most thing
s were quite obvious. The Louvre, for instance. I've never enjoyed museums, least of all of art. But this was ridiculous. The Mona Lisa sits mounted in a special glass frame on its own huge wall springing out of the middle of a side room. She is the queen of the art world, and although on first glance she may not be anything special, the circumstances make her, as I heard a British guy explaining to his wife, "the most iconic painting of our time." Catherine and I stared at her for a few minutes, then decided it was time to see the other 30,000 works the Napoleonic-castle-turned-art-museum features. I suddenly came to love art. Specifically Renaissance paintings, and a new French portraiter whose name I can't remember, but whose paintings stick out to me because they all contained redheads. We spent 8 hours in the Louvre, missing Saint-Chappelle and the Conciergerie to see more art. Oh, did I mention we got in FREE to see these priceless masterpieces with out Deusto student IDs?
Catherine and I stayed for free 15 minutes outside Paris in the relaxed train town Chatou, with her warm-hearted Uncle Benoit, who gave us baguette for breakfast every morning, and showed us all the shows he's working on as an actor, choreographer, and specialist in body language. The overall attitude I experienced towards estadounidenses (Americans) was like a fuzzy intrigue...I was a cute zoo animal to them, and though I got the feeling they looked down on my lack of French and sneaker wearing, they still got wide-eyed and smiley when I told them where I was from.
We wandered through Notre Dame, the namesake cathedral of one of my favorite US universities, highlighted by stained glass windows and gargoyles. We got lost in a hallway, the Hall of Mirrors in the palace of Versailles, which we paid 25 euro to see (never again), and th
en figured out we might have used our student IDs like at the Louvre. Versailles also boasts the Domain of Marie Antoinette, a quaint collection of cottages, vineyards, and windmills all surrounding the queen's retreat house in the center. Very cute despite the fact that it was raining and we were without paraguas. The greenery made Catherine continually sigh for Quebec.
I "did it" at the Moulin Rouge
Benoit and his girlfriend Sarah also took us on a tour of Montmarte, the famous artist's corner of Paris, where portrait painters line the square and capture your face on canvas for a reasonable price. At the foot of this "Mont" is the "red light district," which we HAD to see, for one sight: the Moulin Rouge. There was a vent in front of the famous windmill letting out the wind from the metro; if you stood on the vent in front of the windmill it made a perfect "windy" picture. I also took another VERY important video there. Self-explanatory. When I finished the phrase, a French woman passed with a very polite, "No, merci." Made the embarassment totally worth it.
Out with a Bang
We ended our trip on a Monday night at the Arc d' Triumph. I did feel a little teary-eyed leaving it, and Paris, forever. It was more than the end of an amazing time. This being my last major trip for the semester (until mom comes, of course), I knew it signified the end of the Indiana Jones era, and the beginning of the goodbye-transition era, which is never easy. It was, however, fitting that our last site was the Arc. We went out with triumph...with victory...and I feel the same way about Spain. However sad, I am triumphant
! What a great word.
the pang of sadness at the arc: leaving spain, but victorious!
1. I wanted to hang out with my cool Quebec friend
2. It is a reasonably easy trip from northern Spain
3. Certain French-speaking LMU friends would slap me if I didn't go (on their behalf)
4. I'm just plain in love with travel and curious in general.
I thought Paris would be interesting, fun for crazily-excited Catherine, and downright A.O.K.
NOT SO.
The combination of traveling with company (something new for overly independent Heather), the sheer ease of traveling in a city built on tourism, and the good luck of witnessing precious moments in the already luxurious Paris all combined to make this my favorite trip outside Donostia (nothing can beat SanSe. nothing.).
First of all, the Eiffel Tower is ugly. Don´t deny it. Big and impressive, certainly, but brown, and webbed, and awkward like that one hair you just can´t comb down. But it was transformed as night. I remember crossing a bridge on the River Seine when it appeared above some marble buildings in front of us, defying the blue of the sky with gold lights. We highfived, feeling very touristy, and went to relax at a patch of grass near its base, talking about God and fair trade and men. Then it began to sparkle. I didn't know they'd made it into a light show, so I let out a gasp when all the hundreds of lights started blinking. Then came the cool part. The choir. From our place on the grasp near one of the legs of the tower, we heard sweet harmonies drifting from the center. The singing was obviously a huge choir of men and women, and I was so attracted to the noise that we made our way to the center to see what was happening. A group from a Protestant church near by had gathered to praise God simply by singing under the Eiffel Tower at night. Their songs included Awesome God and How Great Thou Art, but in French. I made Catherine laugh when I started singing along. And, of course, I stared up at the tower from its underbelly, imagining the structure itself was singing. Surreal.
Something that made even the most mediocre moments special was Catherine's constant pauses for camera shots. Her attention to detail made me look at everything more closely, and thus made the trip more enjoyable.
Not that I needed to see the small details to enjoy it. Most thing
s were quite obvious. The Louvre, for instance. I've never enjoyed museums, least of all of art. But this was ridiculous. The Mona Lisa sits mounted in a special glass frame on its own huge wall springing out of the middle of a side room. She is the queen of the art world, and although on first glance she may not be anything special, the circumstances make her, as I heard a British guy explaining to his wife, "the most iconic painting of our time." Catherine and I stared at her for a few minutes, then decided it was time to see the other 30,000 works the Napoleonic-castle-turned-art-museum features. I suddenly came to love art. Specifically Renaissance paintings, and a new French portraiter whose name I can't remember, but whose paintings stick out to me because they all contained redheads. We spent 8 hours in the Louvre, missing Saint-Chappelle and the Conciergerie to see more art. Oh, did I mention we got in FREE to see these priceless masterpieces with out Deusto student IDs?Catherine and I stayed for free 15 minutes outside Paris in the relaxed train town Chatou, with her warm-hearted Uncle Benoit, who gave us baguette for breakfast every morning, and showed us all the shows he's working on as an actor, choreographer, and specialist in body language. The overall attitude I experienced towards estadounidenses (Americans) was like a fuzzy intrigue...I was a cute zoo animal to them, and though I got the feeling they looked down on my lack of French and sneaker wearing, they still got wide-eyed and smiley when I told them where I was from.
We wandered through Notre Dame, the namesake cathedral of one of my favorite US universities, highlighted by stained glass windows and gargoyles. We got lost in a hallway, the Hall of Mirrors in the palace of Versailles, which we paid 25 euro to see (never again), and th
en figured out we might have used our student IDs like at the Louvre. Versailles also boasts the Domain of Marie Antoinette, a quaint collection of cottages, vineyards, and windmills all surrounding the queen's retreat house in the center. Very cute despite the fact that it was raining and we were without paraguas. The greenery made Catherine continually sigh for Quebec.I "did it" at the Moulin Rouge
Benoit and his girlfriend Sarah also took us on a tour of Montmarte, the famous artist's corner of Paris, where portrait painters line the square and capture your face on canvas for a reasonable price. At the foot of this "Mont" is the "red light district," which we HAD to see, for one sight: the Moulin Rouge. There was a vent in front of the famous windmill letting out the wind from the metro; if you stood on the vent in front of the windmill it made a perfect "windy" picture. I also took another VERY important video there. Self-explanatory. When I finished the phrase, a French woman passed with a very polite, "No, merci." Made the embarassment totally worth it.
Out with a Bang
We ended our trip on a Monday night at the Arc d' Triumph. I did feel a little teary-eyed leaving it, and Paris, forever. It was more than the end of an amazing time. This being my last major trip for the semester (until mom comes, of course), I knew it signified the end of the Indiana Jones era, and the beginning of the goodbye-transition era, which is never easy. It was, however, fitting that our last site was the Arc. We went out with triumph...with victory...and I feel the same way about Spain. However sad, I am triumphant
! What a great word.the pang of sadness at the arc: leaving spain, but victorious!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
June: Important Month for Lebanon
This article made me a little uneasy (but also intrigued) about my timing for a Lebanon trip. Hezbollah was declared a terrorist organization by the US, and the party could win the June 7 "free" elections in Lebanon.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Catching a Pick-Pocketer: the Other Side of Iberia
Let's see, it began in the usual manner, the wide-eyed strawberry blonde with the all-too-professional backpack waiting at a bus station. But even from there I was having a great time. There were about 200 people crowding on the bus to the center of Lisbon from the airport on the bus. I was next to a blue-eyed Irish couple, who kept me entertained with their accents. I hadn't heard nuthin yet. Emerging from the bus onto Rua Augusta, I heard a symphony of the strangest language (next to Euskera) I have witnessed yet. It sounds like an eastern-European-French mixed with raw vivacity. Called Portuguese. And no, knowing Spanish did NOT help me understand it spoken. Some other things I witnessed in Lisbon:
Cascais is basically Hawaii plus European history. Viny cobblestone mansions speckle the rocky shore. Lagoons spring out of harbors. Rich tourists take off their sneakers.
From there I headed north to Porto, the land of Father Rui, the Portuguese Jesuit I befriended at LMU, one of the sweetest souls on Earth, I'm convinced. It was he who convinced me to venture north from Lisbon to his hometown, where I met his most incredible family. They were out of a story book. The kind-eyed, whiny father Afonso, whose inner smile lit up the room; the busy housewife Deolinda, who kept her husband in line, the 86-year-old step-grandma with three teeth who ate m
ore than her weight for dinner. They showed me the room where I could have stayed had I elected their house instead of a hostel. It was paradise. They fed me a four-course meal, then a cinammon cake for dessert, and sent me on home with a plethora of kisses and a bag of more food. "Don't forget to eat all of it," Rui translated for me, "or you'll get cranky."
I felt a pang of sadness driving away from them, even though we only interacted for five hours. Portuguese hospitality at its finest. I found it in other places: the cab drivers, who speak perfect English, the passersby who offer to take your picture whil you're fiddling with your camera, the kind old women who tell you to put your map away because they'd be delighted to take you "there" themselves.
I am in love with Portugal. Some more high/lowlights:
The amazing tram ride down from Castelo Sao Jorge. We spent 5 minutes in a packed tram with about 30 retired French tourists, slightly drunk, who sang all the way down, and took pictures of the cool Americans. One old man kept yelling "MADEMOISELLE" and "MERCI" out the window at strangers passing by for no reason at all. Another got angry at the conductor for making me pay the entry fee. "GRATIS!" he kept yelling. The driver wasn't amused.
One of my FAVORITE stories to tell: I almost got pick-pocketed after the 10-hour return trip to Madrid from Porto. I noticed a tall Hispanic man and his tall son approaching me from either side at the ticket machine for the metro. One of them asked me if this was how you get to the airport, and I kindly answered yes, then back away from them, asking for space. They apologized and let me alone for awhile, but as soon as I started taking out change for the machine, they approached again. Annoyed, and convinced they were harmless, I was sticking money into the machine when I felt movement in my purse. I looked down, and saw the father's sleeve covering his hand as it rummaged through the outer pocket. Here's the fun part. There were only dirty tissues in the outer pocket. I keep all my valuables in a money belt underneath my shirt. Nonetheless, I slapped his hand (more reflex than punishment...perhaps a bad decision in the end) and remember giving him the most venemous stare I could contain. "PERDON, POR FAVOR," I announced loudly. I could see his shame in his face, and he and his son quickly left the area. Nothing I had was stolen. Clever ploy, asking for help in getting to the airport.
Up next: Thursday night bus to PARIS.
- A plethora of pregnant women. I had heard the portuguese like to...have children.
- hills. Lisbon is built on seven, providing glorious views of the river from the castles atop each of them.
- Many 20-something fit businessmen in suits and ties. Thank you, God. The difference from the Basques? More of them were walking around with smiles.
- I met the funnest Philadelphia native ever. Her name's M
aria, and she's taking a 3-month tour of Europe. Check out her blog! She's a riot! I miss her accent and ecstatic voice. - Belem, the quaint suburb featuring the beautiful Torre, pure white jumping out from the storm-blue sea. The view was something wicked.
Cascais is basically Hawaii plus European history. Viny cobblestone mansions speckle the rocky shore. Lagoons spring out of harbors. Rich tourists take off their sneakers.
From there I headed north to Porto, the land of Father Rui, the Portuguese Jesuit I befriended at LMU, one of the sweetest souls on Earth, I'm convinced. It was he who convinced me to venture north from Lisbon to his hometown, where I met his most incredible family. They were out of a story book. The kind-eyed, whiny father Afonso, whose inner smile lit up the room; the busy housewife Deolinda, who kept her husband in line, the 86-year-old step-grandma with three teeth who ate m
ore than her weight for dinner. They showed me the room where I could have stayed had I elected their house instead of a hostel. It was paradise. They fed me a four-course meal, then a cinammon cake for dessert, and sent me on home with a plethora of kisses and a bag of more food. "Don't forget to eat all of it," Rui translated for me, "or you'll get cranky."I felt a pang of sadness driving away from them, even though we only interacted for five hours. Portuguese hospitality at its finest. I found it in other places: the cab drivers, who speak perfect English, the passersby who offer to take your picture whil you're fiddling with your camera, the kind old women who tell you to put your map away because they'd be delighted to take you "there" themselves.
I am in love with Portugal. Some more high/lowlights:
The amazing tram ride down from Castelo Sao Jorge. We spent 5 minutes in a packed tram with about 30 retired French tourists, slightly drunk, who sang all the way down, and took pictures of the cool Americans. One old man kept yelling "MADEMOISELLE" and "MERCI" out the window at strangers passing by for no reason at all. Another got angry at the conductor for making me pay the entry fee. "GRATIS!" he kept yelling. The driver wasn't amused.
One of my FAVORITE stories to tell: I almost got pick-pocketed after the 10-hour return trip to Madrid from Porto. I noticed a tall Hispanic man and his tall son approaching me from either side at the ticket machine for the metro. One of them asked me if this was how you get to the airport, and I kindly answered yes, then back away from them, asking for space. They apologized and let me alone for awhile, but as soon as I started taking out change for the machine, they approached again. Annoyed, and convinced they were harmless, I was sticking money into the machine when I felt movement in my purse. I looked down, and saw the father's sleeve covering his hand as it rummaged through the outer pocket. Here's the fun part. There were only dirty tissues in the outer pocket. I keep all my valuables in a money belt underneath my shirt. Nonetheless, I slapped his hand (more reflex than punishment...perhaps a bad decision in the end) and remember giving him the most venemous stare I could contain. "PERDON, POR FAVOR," I announced loudly. I could see his shame in his face, and he and his son quickly left the area. Nothing I had was stolen. Clever ploy, asking for help in getting to the airport.
Up next: Thursday night bus to PARIS.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Some Whims and Bragging
It's 2:57 in the morning on a spooky, grey Monday in SanSe. I went to bed at 6am last night and 7am two nights before that, so my body is pretty fed up with me trying to sleep right now. But I have a feeling this sleeplessness is due to more than habit; the following rockets are blasting off in my brain of late:
- My mom is coming to Spain June 7-18, and we are going to have a fairy-tale-filled week, literally. Check out the CASTLE we're spending one night in, called Parador de Olite. I am looking forward to re-connecting with my SoCal roots while she's here; I literally haven't seen anyone from home for 5 months, and it will be an excellent rejuvenation for blasting off to Lebanon.
- Speaking of Lebanon, my complicated itinerary means that I won't arrive in Beirut until 3:30am on the 21st of June. Not my favorite time to arrive in a completely new city in the Middle East, but I'll take it. On the way there, I have a 12-hour layover in Budapest, the capital of Hungary.
- I've been thinking (REALLY?), and I've decided study abroad, or, rather, being away from "home" for extended periods of time, by nature holds the highest highs and the lowest lows of life. Like falling in love. It is, really. You are enamored and entranced and never want to leave, you are thrown off a bus with your mega-backpack, you are stuck in tear-zone wanting to just lie on the Ventura beach with your dog and an ice cream, you are two months from the end and already planning your return trip. This roller-coaster six months has given me serious heartache, but how fantastic that I wouldn't trade it for anything.
- Speaking of return trip: Molly, the best bud in LA, has decided she and I are going to live together in Europe after graduation from LMU in May 2010. Unfortunately, she is more stubborn than I am, and I am just as impractical as she is, so after the mere suggestion, I am already planning for this idea. Ways to make it happen so far: teaching English in southern Italy while she works as a flight attendant, taking Arabic language/culture classes in Granada in southern Spain while she teaches Latin, electronic journalism from a remote Greek island...okay, someone stop me. NO. DON'T! Why shouldn't it be possible? Look what we've done so far!
- Things I miss (excluding people): sunsets on the bluff, hearing American English from someone other than my closest friends/family, the LAIR (school cafeteria) of all things, Penguin's frozen yogurt, flip-flops and pajamas to class
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Videos from Semana Santa
In hopes of pointlessly trying to capture some of the magical movement in the South of Spain, I've uploaded here my favorite videos. They are nothing compared to the real thing, but something compared to nothing, for sure. :)
I can't figure out how to change the direction of videos on my computer (help, anyone?), so for now, enjoy the insane speed of flamenco tapping sideways. This video was taken in a small, dark, one-room tavern in Malaga, Spain, called Kelipe/Kalipe Flamenco. The dancer was la jefa: the director of the tavern. She is accompanied by her husband drumming (right side of the video/outside the frame), another dancer (left side), and a drummer (you see him easily).
This is a Madonna float passing our street corner. If you can see them, take a look at the bearers' faces, which tell all. 100 to carry a float this side, 200 to carry the largest ones. I also love the sway of the gold as it lifts off from the pavement...delicate but firm.
We bought tickets to a bullfight for 60 centavos (.6 euro). It worked because I had found this view of a bull ring from the mountain in Malaga, and was whistfully watching the bull ring thinking, "wouldn't it be cool if there was a bull fight today; to be able to see this from afar." And then I realized there was a bullfight that day. So this is the view from a moorish building in Malaga, where we paid the entrance fee to see the bullfight. I explain what's going on in the video.
I can't figure out how to change the direction of videos on my computer (help, anyone?), so for now, enjoy the insane speed of flamenco tapping sideways. This video was taken in a small, dark, one-room tavern in Malaga, Spain, called Kelipe/Kalipe Flamenco. The dancer was la jefa: the director of the tavern. She is accompanied by her husband drumming (right side of the video/outside the frame), another dancer (left side), and a drummer (you see him easily).
This is a Madonna float passing our street corner. If you can see them, take a look at the bearers' faces, which tell all. 100 to carry a float this side, 200 to carry the largest ones. I also love the sway of the gold as it lifts off from the pavement...delicate but firm.
We bought tickets to a bullfight for 60 centavos (.6 euro). It worked because I had found this view of a bull ring from the mountain in Malaga, and was whistfully watching the bull ring thinking, "wouldn't it be cool if there was a bull fight today; to be able to see this from afar." And then I realized there was a bullfight that day. So this is the view from a moorish building in Malaga, where we paid the entrance fee to see the bullfight. I explain what's going on in the video.
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