Final de Trajecta, Plaça d'Espanya.

As I reached Plaça d'Espanya by way of Calle Olms, I began to realize how tired I was. It wasn't just because it was seven in the morning and that I was at the end of my long walk to the bus station from a seemingly endless night in Gomila, it was a sort of weariness that a year of walking up the same hill brings. Calle Olms was my route home from school. Its not a very sharp incline, and some might not even notice it all, but for those who know the street as well as I do, it seems like an eternal upward struggle. But despite the weight of my eyelids and the dragging of my feet, I was wide awake; I was coming to the end of my road in Mallorca.

When I finally reached Plaça d'Espanya, I felt like a mountain climber reaching the summit. Except I wasn't out of breath, and there was no spectacular view over the endless landscape. Instead, there was weather worn old man bumming cigarettes and a drunk peeing in a bush. Not the kind of summit one wants to arrive at, but nonetheless, I felt triumphant. The morning sun was steadily rising over the old train station, yet it was still too low in the sky to light up the whole Plaça. I took a seat on one of the benches and pulled out a cigarette.

As I sat there staring at the new day, I began realizing the importance of the Plaça. Whether it was coming home from school or waiting for a friend or having a drink or going out for the night; everything started or ended in Plaça d'Espanya. Essentially, its the bus terminal of Mallorca and almost every bus line has a stop there. I catch the 221 to Palmanyola at least once a day and I always get off at the last stop, Plaça d'Espanya.

Smoking my cigarette, I began thinking about everything that had happened in the last week, month, and year. Lately, I've been pulling a lot of late nights out with friends (believe me, this is not the first time I've come home in the the bus at seven-thirty in the morning.) Trips to Aranal, San Juan, Maritimo, Gomila... the list goes on and on. But they're not the first things that come to mind when I think about my year, my real list goes more like: The barbecue, Esporles, making real friends, Dharma, beaten up, English classes, Mallorquinas, Sa Cova, sailing, swimming, missing the bus, waiting, Mahou, Sa Pobla, Kebabs, sleeping in Catalan class, Duna, Padre de Familia, the Spanish guitar, San Sebastian, goats, Vineyards, Thanksgiving, riding around on a motorcycle, laughing, Bruce Springsteen, Vodafone, taking a leak on everything, the endless sea all around me, the mountains I have climbed, and above all else: Plaça d'Espanya .

I flicked my cigarette and stared at the avenue. There were some people waiting for the bus, others stopped in their cars at the light. Some were riding bicycles, others were walking. Perhaps on their way to work, or maybe to the beach. The streets were coming to life in front of me. And as I sat their, I felt old. A long year too short. I know the timing of the traffic light. I know the bus schedules and all their destinations, even if I've never been there. I know how much a cup of coffee costs in all the bars in the Plaça. I know you can smoke in the tobacco store there, even though it's prohibited. I know that when to cross the street, without even looking at the light.

As the sun rose higher, more people began passing by. Heads down. IPods on. Chatting on their cell phones. All with a purpose. All with destinations ahead of them. I had reached mine. All beginings have an end, at least in Arestotolic philisophy. A year abroad is a cruel thing. It throws you blind into a new world far from your own and forces you to use all of your survival and adaptation skills just to get by. So me can't handle it, and many go home along the way, beaten by the forces that be. Yet there is a worse fate for those who last til the end. The seperation. I have come to love Mallorca as my home, and my host-family as a mom, dad, and brother. Now I have to return to my old world and leave everything that I built behind.

As I crossed the street to the bus station, I whispered my goodbyes to the statue of Jaume on his steed and the pigeons that call him home. Here I was, at the end of the line, the final de trajecta. Plaça d'Espanya.

In the merry, merry month of May

In the words of Alice Cooper: "Schools out for the summer!"
My school year came to an anticlimactic end in the early days of May. Here, there are no celebrations, no prom, and no graduation. My class still has their Selectividad (comparable to SAT) ahead of them, and no one has been in the mood to go out and celebrate the end of a long year. I am proud of myself for surviving a year in a Malorquin school, where the classes weren't taught in either of the two languages I speak fluently. Fortunately, I don't have to worry about taking the test, as I have already graduated from Paul IV in the U.S., and I can start my summer early (but alone).

Personally, I don't like the Spanish educational system. It teaches nothing of practical information, such as essay writing or public speaking. There is no homework, hardly any projects, and the grade all comes down to the exams, and with only three exams a trimester, its not very difficult to fail a subject. My good friend Alberto, who sat next to me in Math and Geology, is twenty years old. He's brighter then the majority of the class, but he's not a very good test taker; he chokes sometimes on exams, no matter how much time he put in studying for it. So, his punishment is to repeat a year. But repeating a year is not uncommon in Spain, at least half of my class has repeated a year at one point or another on the road to university. In a class of 30 people, 6 most certainly will repeat, the other 24 are uncertain.

So naturally, there are no fiestas; no celebrations of any sort. In fact, its the opposite: I can't find anyone to hang out with, they're all locked away studying. So here I am, on one of the beautiful islands in the world, without anyone to go to the beach with. I find myself doing more and more things by myself. I was given an old rusty bicycle, and within two days I fixed and repainted everything, on the third day I rode across the island. Again, by myself.

For a few weeks, I taught English to the younger classes at my school. I essentially took over the work of the English department, and I found myself teaching four or five classes a day. And I didn't see a dime from it. Yet, I found it fun. There really is nothing more satisfying then the eyes of mesmerized children as they hang on your every word.

When I'm not teaching or biking or sleeping, I'm in Sa Cova. Patricia, the owner, has become a dear friend of mine. We talk about everything; America, Ecuador, the economy, food, sports, and whatever else might cross our minds. I spend so much time there (almost 3 hours a day) that I know all the regulars (as I am one). There's Antonio, the elderly gentleman who comes in and drinks his wine with me; and Paco, the construction worker who always talks about how wonderful life is in Andalucia; and the Guardia Civil couple who always come in for beer and cigarettes when they're not giving out tickets. The best part of it all is that I drink for free. After I translated the Menu to English, Patricia is always giving me food and refilling my glass. I'm living my Hemingway fantasy.

And now for a little Español, as I have a test tomorrow at the Escuela de Idiomas and I need to practice my writing a little. Have fun translating!

Durante el fin de semana pasado, fui con María Angeles a ver su familia en Valladolid. Salimos desde Palma el viernes (pasado) por la tarde. Llegamos a Madrid y yo fui directamente a un bar por un bocadillo de calamares. Después del sandwich tan bueno y una caña muy fría, cogimos el bus a Valladolid. ¡¡Joder!!. ¡¡Qué viaje mas largo!!. Era el bus de los pueblos de la España profunda e iba mas lento que el caballo del malo, por los pueblitos de Castilla y León. Llegamos sobre las nueve a Valladolid con la boca seca, (el aire de Valladolid está mucho mas seco que el de Madrid y aun mas que el de Mallorca, donde podrías beber el aire que respiras). Otra vez fuimos directamente al bar y allí encontramos a la familia (por supuesto la familia de Mª Angeles estaba en el bar). Un tercio y dos horas después, fui a casa de Javier, mi "tío", donde pasé la semanita aquella de Nochevieja, subí al tercer piso, y a la cama.

Al día siguiente, fui con Javier y sus dos hijos (Jorge y Marcos) al campeonato de Europa de balonmano; Valladolid contra Alemania. Desde luego ganó Valladolid, pero vaya por Dios que calor hacía. Esa noche, salí con Olaya, mi "prima", y su novio, Roberto. Fuimos a unos bares, pero me extrañó muchisimo que hubiera tanta gente mayor. En un bar, estoy seguro que yo era la única persona con menos de 30 años. Pero bueno, mas fácil ligar. Después, encontramos a Luis, otro "primo" mio, y sus amigos (¡Ay que peligro!) y se fueron Olaya y Roberto. Fuimos a otros bares. Tías buenas, tías buenas, tías buenas. Tiré la caña a unas, pero no tuve mucha suerte, pero echo la culpa a un amigo de Luis que estaba matando mi flo (y los de los demas). Es difícil tener 18 y pasar por los clubes con gente tan mayor (y calva). Volví a casa tarde, ¿o lo sería pronto...?)

Domingo, madrugué. Yo tenía que ir con la familia a una exhibición de Kung Fu, acompañada con Paella. (¿Kung-Fu-Paella?). La paella estaba malisima, y el Kung Fu iba sin cerveza. ¡Que vida mas dura! Eché una siesta debajo de un pino (el quinto), mirando a los campos eternos de España. Era un momento muy español. Esa noche, fui al apartamento de Olaya para tocar la guitarra con Roberto, que toca la guitarra mejor que nadie.

Lunes, comí con con MªAngeles, una de sus 1023390482320 hermanas, y la abuela. Comimos muy bien. Después, Marie Angeles y yo nos despedimos de la familia y fuimos a la estación de tren. Allí, cogimos el Ave, que va a 300 Km/hora, a Madrid. Que tren mas chulo! Ahora entiendo por qué Obama quiere poner uno en EEUU. Nos recogió Ignacio, y fuimos a su casa en Canillejas. Después de un rato allí, fuimos todos, incluyendo a Sonia e Irene a Barajas. Dos horas después llegamos a Mallorca. Uep! Com m'agrada estar a la meva illa!

I hope that wasn't to dificult for all of you, I just needed to practice!

Family Vacation (April showers bring May flowers)

Yes, I have been getting lazy. The sun is shining, the grass is green, and our pool is open for swimming. A lot has happened in the month of April, well more then a lot, "a lot-a lot."

The most important, life changing event to occur in Abril would naturally be the arrival of my biological parents for a week. Now a days, I find its necessary to express which family is which; my familia natural, my exchange family, mi familia de aqui, mi familia de alli. If I don't, people get confused.

Daddy, Mommy, and Sisa arrived at the Palma airport on the 10th of April, and to be quite honest, I was very "chill" about the whole situation. Excited, absolutely, but I didn't break down in tears the moment I saw them; my host mother on the other hand almost had a heart attack. With my beard and all, I wasn't sure that my parents would recognize me, but then again, I must have been the only curly, blond haired kid waiting at the exit. My sister, as usual, was dressed like an American; stylish, but comfortable. I kept reminding her that she wore the only pair of Uggs that I had in all of Spain. Mom was the first to run up and smother me in kisses (my father, as usual, was responsible for picking up the luggage from baggage claim), followed quickly by sister. She seemed shorter to me, I guess I've gotten taller. My father wore his Italian hat, and fit in a lot better then girls. My host family was there waiting with me for them to arrive, and there, under the Salida/Exit sign, my two worlds collided; Old world - New world, Old life - New life, Gambardello - Marzoa.

The day was hectic from then on out. We went first to a bar next to the apartment that we rented for the week, La Bodega de La Ramblas. Cañas y Pinchos, beers and tapas. My mother and I occupied ourselves by translating what my host family was saying into English, so that my dad and sister could understand. My host family, including Miguel, practiced what little English they know, and with the combined effort, no one was left in the dark wondering what the hell is going on.

The first thing that I noticed, is that my real parents belong in Europe. Cultured and astute, my parents don't fit in at all living five minutes from a Wal Mart. This was the first time I'd ever seen them in Europe, and I had no idea that my whole life before Spain was an "out of the ordinary" lifestyle for my parents. (Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, you know it's time to get out of America).

The second thing that I noticed is that my parents here and my parents there are incredibly similar. I don't mean physically, as my host father here looks a bit like Ron Jeremy and my mom is undeniably blond, I mean the way they act. Their personality traits are almost identical. Even though there is a language gap between my host father and real father, they both laughed and made similar jokes together as they puffed away on their cigarettes. My mothers in turn jabbered on about motherly philosophy, children, and beauty products. It was a strange sight to see them both together, chatting vividly, in that smokey bar.

Later that night, we went to Palmanyola for dinner. My host family put together a Spanish feast, with all the trimmings. Jamon Serrano, Pamboli, and cheeses from all over Spain. Not to mention, red wine. That's another thing my parents have in common, when it comes to the subject of red wine, both pairs drink it like fishes.

The following day was spent passing along through Palma with my real family. We walked all over and saw most of the major sites. We made plans to go to mass at the Cathedral the following day (Easter) with the King (Juan Carlos) who attends the Easter mass in Mallorca. As my sister and mother ran in and out of shops, Dad and I talked about our European philosophies.

Easter we went out looking for a place to eat, somewhere special. We found this restaurant in a back ally that I walk almost every day (I never even knew it existed). The restaurant specialized in authentic Castilla - Leones cooking, and we enjoyed exquisite lamb and pork imported from said region. Our wine however, was Mallorquin.

Monday was a beach day. The weather looked otherwise, but with my families we made the trek along the southern coast to Cala Mondrago, the beach that my host family took me to my first week in Mallorca. Naturally, we stopped in a few towns along the way for cañas and comida. When we finally got to Mondrago, the weather was much better, but the water was still ice cold. Miguel, Sisa, and hiked up a cliff and then boldly jumped into the freezing water. The fact that there were no Germans in the water should have hinted that it was too cold to swim, but German intuition has never stopped Americans. On the way home, we went to the top of a mountain in the center of the island. From there, one can see all of Mallorca, coast to coast to coast to coast.

The next few days were spent idling around Palma. It didn't matter what we were doing, I was just happy to be with my family. We frequented the Bodega, but also befriended owner of Sa Cova, another local bar. To this day, Patricia, the owner, asks about my family every time I go in, which is about three times a day.

On our last day in Mallorca, we went to Castillo Belever, and what a beautiful day to go. We went inside, which is something I haven't done yet, and we took some magnificent photos. On the way back, we caught the bus from Plaça Gomila, where I got the crap beaten out of. Its not nearly so frightening in the daylight.

The last night there, we went out to eat with my host family at a very nice restaurant, Sa Farinera. We ate and drank substantially and didn't end up leaving the restaurant until sometime past one in the morning. There, my families said there goodbyes to each other and once again my world was split in two.

We caught an early flight to Barcelona and got to the Marriott hotel at about eleven. A cat nap was decided on, but we were out sightseeing by one. We went to Parque Güell and La Ramblas. We saw all of the most important tourist attractions in town, as well as a walk through some quiet neighborhoods. I did however arrive the opinion that Barcelona is a dirty, ugly city. It tries to portray itself as an Artsy community, but the truth is that they're all a bunch of hippies, bumming cigarettes. My father and I came to the conclusion that 30 percent of the general public was high or drunk. We still enjoyed ourselves, but all of us agreed that Palma was much better.

The following morning I took them to the airport. We said our goodbyes once again, but this time it was easier. Now, there are only two months left, not a whole year like last time. Even though the Spaniards laughed at me, my mom and I continued waving at each other until the last possible moment. Once again, I was alone. My brief glimpse at my old life was over, it was time to go back to being a Spaniard again. Or maybe back to being an American? What the hell am I?

A War of Words

This economic crisis is beginning to take a tole on people's mental health.

The events this week in Mallorca have marked a major conflict in the ongoing war-of-languages between Spanish (Castellano) and Catalan (Catalá). For those who don't know, the two languages have similar Latin routes, and the grammatical structure is almost identical; however, a native Spanish speaker will still have a lot of trouble understanding Catalan. It should also be noted that the Catalan speakers from Catalonia (Catalunya) find it almost impossible to understand Mallorqui, which is the dialect of Catalan spoken in Mallorca; its like speaking with a potato in one's mouth.
During the reign of Franco (1939-1976), the widely despised ex-dictator of Spain, the other languages of Spain were widely (and violently) suppressed. For a country so small in relation to the US, there is a plethora of languages and dialects. Catalan/Valenciano, Euskera, Gallego, and Aronés are the co-official languages of Spain, and the autonomous governments use their respective language almost exclusively; this includes Mallorca and Les Illes Balears, where Catalan is the official language of the law (including their constitution). Since the death of Franco, the languages have all seen a rebirth of sorts. The most successful comeback of them all (judging by % of people speaking the language) would be Catalan.
Catalan is spoken in Catlalunya, Communidad Valenciano, and Les Illes Balears in Spain, but also spoken in Andorra (where it is the official language), Southern France, and Sardinia (Italy). In Catalunya and Les Illes Balears, the majority of schools and classes (including mine) are taught in Catalan. Street signs, advertisements, fliers, and laws are all written in Catalan. In Mallorca at least, speaking Catalan is a requirement for any government or teaching profession. My host mother, for example, was a biology major and has a degree in the field; however, when she moved to Mallorca from Valladolid, she couldn't even find a job as a teacher because she lacked the Catalan language in her résumé.
This ties us to the turbulent events of this week. El Govern de Les Illes Balears passed a law this week stating that all doctors and medical staff need to be fluent in Catalan. Many doctors are being examined and questioned on their Catalan language skills before being asked any questions about their skills as a medical personnel. This, naturally, has created a huge uproar on the island, and there have been a number of strikes called.
This law isn't just downright intolerant, its ridiculously stupid. Sa UIB, which is the university here, does not even have a medical program, and thus the majority of doctors and specialists practicing in Mallorca are from the Peninsula and most don't speak a word of Catalan. The government of Les Illes Balears claim that they are trying to preserve their "endangered" language, but the reality is that they are just being passive aggressive.

Hopefully all of these strikes and protests will be a wake up call to the Catalan speakers of Mallorca. Its one thing to preserve a language, but they need to find other ways, such as the liberal arts, to do so. Interfering in the health profession is going way to far, and speaking frankly, irresponsible.
They need to remember that SPANISH is the language of SPAIN.

This is what Catalan sounds like: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVP5gAKF1pM

Why did you throw a clock out to the window?

Fortunately, after my brief run in with violence, my life has gone back to normal; well as normal as it could possibly be in Spain.

My stay here is coming to an end. This seems like a rather bizarre comment to make before I even reach the seven month mark, but this is how I see it. I have one and a half weeks of school until Spring Break, when my family comes to visit. After my ten day vacation, I will have less then three weeks until my school year comes to an end, which is no time at all. Then my summer begins. A month and a half of God-knows-what; I suppose some well deserved fun under the Spanish sun will do.

But that's not the only reason why time seems to be flying by: I have adjusted myself to the my own schedule. After the fight, there really isn't too much that surprises me, or catches me off guard. School is school, homework is homework. My language skills have reached a point where I understand about everything, and hence I can communicate about things much more important and much less basic. This has naturally lead to the development of some real friends, not just people listening to my stories of the U.S. and making small talk, but people who really know me.

I have fallen in with a group of really great people via my friend Alberto. He is one of the guitaristas in a band called Dharma, and I have been going out with them almost every Friday night for about 2 months now. Not to mention, I've started going to their band practices to sing. We meet up in the basement of a warehouse, normally every Thursday and Saturday. Its just incredible how easy it is to lose track of time in that concrete dungeon. We all get along really well, and just last week, the other Guitarista, Andrés, and I were talking about renting an apartment together next year in Madrid.

Time flies when you're having fun.

But its not just fun that is propelling my time, its also my lack of down time. My schedule has been pretty packed lately. School, and homework is normal, but now I have Catalan classes three nights a week. In going to these night classes, which are as far from my house as humanly possible on this island, I have officially become the cowboy of Mallorquin mass transit. I sort of herd the buses and trains together, and then use them as necessary. Bus. Train. Train. Bus. I ride the bus between Palmanyola and Palma almost fifteen times a week, I know the bus drivers by name, and as of yesterday, I even sleep in the bus station.

To everyone who understands: There is a countdown to San Lucas.

The final straw...

Its a shame that I have to write about this topic in a blog...

Last Friday night, while out with my friends, a group of kids about my age approached me and began calling me a Puta Aleman, and Aleman de Mierda (Essentially "fucking German"). I informed one of them that I was in fact American, and that he in fact, was an idiot.

Within a split second, this punk and his 6 friends began beating the hell out of me. Within about 20 seconds, I was on the ground, bleeding profusely, but they continued with blows to my head. My friends tried to keep them off me, but we were outnumbered, and I took (as the doctor informed me later) about 30 punches to the head.

Fortunately, my friends got me out of there, none of them got hit, I didn't lose consciousness, and I didn't lose any teeth. Unfortunately, I got the shit beaten out of me.

But for what one may ask?

I'm a blond American and I stick out like a sore thumb.
Now, I'd like to think that I've been generally tolerant with the Mallorquin's dislike for foreigners, and sometimes I can see their point. But when it escalates to violence at this level, to unprovoked attacks, I lose all my patience. I am the victim of a Hate Crime.
My friends supported me until I could walk, and Iris gave me a tissue to wipe the blood from my face. Within an hour or so, I was in bed at Tyler's house. I hardly slept a wink.

Despite how awful this is, I am not coming home early.

This is before the swelling, the black eye got blacker as well...

Tales from Shortist Month

When Christopher Columbus sailed across the Atlantic, he did not fall off the face of the earth. I on the other hand merely traveled around this part of Europe, and for the entire month of February, I fell off the face of the informatic earth. Less phone calls to the United States, less time on Facebook (I say that like it's a bad thing), and above all else, not one single blog for 30 days. My excuse: Rebirth as a European Jet-setter.
Out of the four Fridays in February, three were spent traveling across different landscapes of southern Europe. Unfortunately, those same three were all spent with Ryanair: the Mcdonalds of the Airline Industries.

Friday the 13th - Tornem a Catalunya

I woke up early Friday morning to catch my plane to Barcelona for the AFS Midway Orientation (which is in no way related to the Battle of Midway). Tyler and I, having flown this route several times, are quite used to the grueling 28 minute flight from Palma to Barcelona. How can a 28 minute flight be so bad, you may ask? Lets just say that Ryanair is the one responsible for making it rain on your picnic.
Like usual, Tyler and I were the first ones there; and like usual, we had to find a way to kill about two hours. The last time I passed through Barcelona, I had almost eight hours to explore that part of the city alone, and with this back-of-my-hand knowledge we made the best of our short time.
At eleven, we were reunited with the AFS gang. Some lost weight, some gained weight, all were happy to see each other. My heart broke when the Catalunya Express arrived without Tommy, as he has migrated south to Alicante for the winter (You were dearly missed Tomrade). Normally we would begin our trudge to the Hostel, but on this orientation, we were going someplace new. The volunteers steered us like cattle to platform 9, and there, we caught the train to Nuria.
Within a few hours we arrived in the very cold Vall de Nuria, which is located in the Pyranees right next to the France - Spain, no wait, France - Catalunya border. From there we took a slow mountain train to our final destination at about 2000 meters above sea level.
Nuria is a ski lodge, and all of us forgot our skis. Truly the tragedy of the year. Instead we all bundled up near the Fooseball table to swap tales of adventure in Spain. Some were having troubles, some had switched families, but most had enjoyed their first half of their time here.
It really is hard to believe that the halfway point is behind me. It just feels like yesterday that I arrived in Zurich, with 10 months still ahead of me. Its truly incredible how the time is flying, and all of the volunteers told us that the first 5 months are always the longest. It won't be long now until I'm back in San Lucas, chomping away on a burrito. I surprise myself every time I look in the mirror; I have changed both physically and mentally. My Spanish is gets exponentially better every day, and my accento extranjero (foreign accent) is almost completely gone.
We spent the weekend playing games, eating, and just walking around in the snow.
On Sunday, we returned to Barcelona. We were back in the city with plenty of time to spare before the flight, but we ended up almost missing the plane anyway. I might be from New York, but I am ALWAYS running in Barcelona.

Friday the 20th - Italia, Mama Mia!

Everyone warned me about the thieves in Italy, so naturally I prepared myself for the worst. Ironically, I was robbed in Girona, hours before I ever set foot on Italian soil. The loot they made off with? My Spanish homework.
I left my house in Palmanyola at seven in the morning, and I didn't set foot in my cousins house in Padova until 8 at night. Truly an exhausting day of travel, made worse by the anti-Christ, Ryanair. To say that I was enthralled to see my cousin, aunt, and uncle, would be an understatement.
Andy, my cousin, and I went out almost every night with different people. We went to see a movie one night, which I didn't find too difficult to translate from Italian (Spanish and Italian aren't too different). Afterwards, we went back to his friends house to play my first game of Halo in about 6 months. I still won. Another night we went out to a bar with a girl friend of his, who fortunately spoke English. One night we went to see a Soccer match between Internazionale and Manchester United. The game wasn't too bad, and the company was even better.
The highlight of my week there was our trip to Venice for Carnival. Venice, not only a gem in itself, is in its prime for Carnival. It was like nothing I had ever seen before; no cars, no buses, only boats and narrow streets. Everyone was dressed up in beautiful costumes and masks; I wore an Uncle Sam hat.
My uncle Bart, a true American, surprised me with his refusal to follow some Italian customs. For the first time in Europe, I ate a light lunch at noon and Dinner at 7:30. Not to mention, about half of the food he cooked was as American as Apple Pie, especially the apple pie. Sometimes, things such as an old dinner time can instill an unimaginable feeling of nostalgia .
Italy, while only an hour in plane from Spain, is a completely different world; different customs, foods, and languages. But when one really thinks about it, how is it any different from Catalunya or Pais Vasco? As an American, nothing is more surprising then the difference in language and culture within such small distances. Italy is really no much further from Mallorca then New Jersey is from Georgia, yet we speak the same language in America, and generally follow the same lifestyle. In the distance between Palma and Padova, there is a plethora of different languages and customs.
As an American with Italian decent (Gambardello), it was special to see the country of my ancestors. Also, as an expatriate, it was wonderful to talk to another (My uncle Bart) about all the problems in Italy, Europe, and observations of America that can only be made from the outside.
I spent exactly one week in Italy, and as I stated before, Friday was my day of travel. I caught the 8 AM train to Burgamo, a two hour ride, to catch my plane to Madrid. As we took off, I saw the Alps to the north, still covered in snow. I whispered to myself, "Ciao, Italia", which was then repeated by the two Italians at my side.

Friday the 27th - Numero 5 a Canillejas (Bienvenidos a Madrid)

I arrived in Madrid to a very excited Maria waiting for me at the Arrivals gate. We took the long subway route to Canillejas, which is the neighborhood in Madrid where Ignacio, Marie Angele's brother, lives and also where I would be staying for the next four days.
That night, Maria and I went to meet up with some of her school friends for a little Botellon near the Universities. Overall we had a great time, and I came to the conclusion that normal Spaniards (those from the Peninsula) are generally more open and friendly then Mallorquins. At about four in the morning, we decided it was a good time to head home, and I prepared myself for the long walk between Moncloa and Plaza España. Along the way, I was stopped by tourists and Spaniards alike, asking where the best Discos were, or where so-and-so street was. I was stunned! This may not sound like much at all, but the idea of me appearing to "fit in" is astounding. In Mallorca, I am, and always will be, just a tourist to the locals; but in Madrid, with my Spanish being as good as it is, I can actually pass as a local!
Saturday and Sunday, I ended up sujetando las velas (third wheeling) with Maria and her new boyfriend. It wasn't terrible, and we at least went to a Starbucks. Talk about optimism.
Monday morning I had a meeting at Saint Louis University (Madrid Campus), a school which I am currently interested in attending. They have already given me some scholarship money, and expressed that they want me to be a full time student at their school. Classes in English, in Spain; a real dream come true. All in all, the meeting went well, and right afterwards I caught my plane back to Mallorca.
As we approached the island in the air, I felt this strange comfort; a warm aura coming from the island. I had been gone from my house in Calle Claveles for quite a while.
It was good to be home.