The Times They Are a Changin

This will be my last entry of 2008, as I will be away from a computer until the 3rd.

This year was a year of change. It´s beginning and ending could not be any more of a contrast. It began with me clocking in 20 or more hours a week at Fat Jacks, while dealing with an incomprehensible amount of problems at home and school. In the span of a year, I lost and regained my family´s trust; changed from a boy to a man; and died to be reborn from the ashes. I am sitting here at the family laptop, looking out the window at the sprawling mountains of Mallorca and its gorgeous blue sky. I could not be any farther away from that BBQ inferno; both figuratively and literally. For the first time in my life, I have realized my potential (better late then never) and with it I have gone through a metamorphosis of sorts. Super Andreas.

But Super Andreas does not have the power to avoid loneliness. These past few weeks have been almost torturous. Homesickness has finally taken a hold, as well as anxiety. I have applications to do, people to call, gifts to buy (or make) and all the while keep a happy, Christmas persona. To make things even worse, I went on a "date" last night that couldn´t have possibly ended worse. All of these things combined have lead to a lack of sleep and some medication.

For the first time in my life, I am not looking forward to Christmas. The whole day will be spent in transit to Salamanca and there will be no normal holiday cheer. I didn´t even realize it was Christmas eve until I looked at the calender. The traditions are different from the US, and I don´t pick up on the gathering holiday spirit. No box of decorations to take down, no Christmas tree, no reruns of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas on TV. Christmas will come and go, and I wont even notice it.

The only thing I am looking forward to is the New Year. I need to start it right, and happy. It will officially represent the changed me. 2009 Andreas will be so much better then the outdated, 2008 version. I promise.
I wish you all Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. All of you are in my heart and I hope you all start the New Year right.
Bones Festes

Death in the Time of Catalan

This entry is not so much about my life in Spain, but about life in general.

A girl in my grade died last week. I didn´t know her. Not even her name for that matter. Cancer. Only 17. Naturally, my school was devastated by the loss. Crying. Weeping. Sobbing. Biology was like a wake; Philosophy a burial. Whenever I thought the grief had subsided, one girl or another would break down hysterically. The morbid feeling was contagious and I even found myself feeling sad.

The funeral was last Wednesday, but I didn´t go only for the sole reason that I had nothing good enough to wear. I did however say a prayer that night for her family and friends. As I lay in bed, I pondered what her funeral must have been like. Glorious I imagined, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The priest I pictured too, giving his sermon in Catalan. Her grieving friends expressing their condolences, in Catalan. The well deserved obituary, broken by wailing, in Catalan.

Its strange to picture a funeral in Catalan; almost comical. The language drives me crazy, but for others, the words are sacred. Mort (dead) is just another word to translate. Just another hassle. No real significance to me. But to all who loved her, it means something more; one lost laugh, one lost smile. In my mind, her successes were described to a room full of mourners, in Catalan. I understand the language a bit, but not nearly good enough to understand a whole life story. The words fall on my deaf ears. Her story, to me, unknown. I don´t even know her name.

How many life stories will I never hear? How many people will come and go without my faintest knowledge? Her path and mine crossed at IES Ramon Llull, and yet I will never know who she was. I mean really was. Have you looked at the newspaper today? How many dead in a "blast that rocked Baghdad"? I will never learn their names, only a passing number. I know its impossible to retain this much information, but a life is still a life.

Then I imagined that it was me in her casket. Andreas Gambardello, edad 18, se morrió en Palma de Mallorca este viernes por la tarde... I imagined my sermon and obituary in English, but everything else was the same as hers. Glorious, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The girl, or how I imagine her, was sitting in the front row. My class was there too. Teachers and all. And they were all grieving, in Catalan. Yet, my life story fell on their deaf ears. Dead. Just another word to them. Something to translate. A hassle. My life to them would be a mixture of sounds, and nothing more. They would never understand it completely. My story would be forgotten.

I have been living here for three months now, but I wouldn´t really call any of the people I hang out with "true friends". I don´t think they would take a bullet for me, and I can´t say I would do the same for them. The only place in the world that my death would be really felt is Haddon Heights. A little obituary in the Retrospect. A little funeral in a little church. An immense amount of sorrow, but spread only amongst the few people I know. The knowledge of my death would be essentially limited to the English speakers of Camden County.

No one will grieve for me in Catalan.

The Holiday Season

Well, my last entry turned out to be the big blog for the week, and then some. I´ve been so busy with school work (9 tests in two weeks) that I havn´t been able to update. Sorry to have kept you waiting.

Maddening is one of a few adverbs that come to mind when thinking about this time of year. The Holiday Season, or living hell as many call it, begins for me the day after my birthday (two weeks ago). Coincidentally, the Ajuntament de Palma (local gov´t) felt the same as me, and put the Christmas lights up all over Palma that day. And yes, I said Christmas lights. In Spain, the Catholic Church (and only the Catholic Church) is funded in part by the government, and hence Christmas lights (not Hanukkah) can be placed around town in public locations. Now sure, the lights don´t scream Christianity, they are after all just generic lights, but the humongous posters of the Three Wise Men on camels with Som Nadalenc ("We are Christmas" in Catalan) accompanied by the government crest, does.

But this is aside from the point. It doesn't matter what religious symbols are plastered all over town, or how many Nativity Scenes one can fit in a shop window; Jesus has left this holiday. Again going back to the hypocritical Spaniards; they point fingers at the US and say that we are overly materialistic and that we don´t know how to have a real Christmas. Excuse me? Here, Christmas sales and commercials started in October, which is early even on US standards. Traditionally, Black Friday kicks off our shopping season, but by the day after Thanksgiving, the Spaniards have had a month head-start.

Its also funny to see how companies here benefit from the economic crisis. Precios de Crisis! Rebajos Crisis! Estamos en Crisis, Precios Pequenos! The combination of these and the Christmas posters is enough to make one lose their mind. And the way people spend here, one would think the "Crisis" is about as real as Santa Clause.

As for details on my birthday: I went out with some friends from school, partied a little, but overall nothing too exciting. Don´t get me wrong though, everything was spectacular. I got a new pair of Chucks from my real parents, and more importantly my Lego magazine. My family here got me an Amaral CD, which I have fallen in love with.

More importantly, I cooked Thanksgiving dinner all by myself (practically). (I called my dad for advice the night before, and Marie Angeles helped me set the oven, but other then that it was all me) I don´t mean to toot my horn, but I cooked a mean turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. I also insisted that we eat at 6 in the evening, like normal Americans. They begrudgingly obliged.

Milk

There are a few things that I have come to miss here: family, friends, and milk. Nothing has had more of a physical impact then the latter. Well sure, theres milk, but in all honesty, its not worthy of the name. Usually it tastes sour or powdery, and my family always keeps it warm. Ever since I was a child, milk has been the number one component of my diet. But I don´t live the gallon-a-day lifestyle alone, its a family affair. Few families in the world (I imagine) can boast more arguements over "who drank the last of the milk" then mine. While a lack of milk may not be a big deal in many households, in mine, its "grounds for divorce". Needless to say, when I came to Spain, the sudden void of good milk in my life was comparable to heroin withdraws.

But have no fear, I´ve found my methadone. Just the other day, my host mother bought this milk that didn´t taste too diffirent from good ´ol Wawa 2%. At my first sip, I was propelled into a boderline psychodelic euphoria. It just tasted so damn good. Now, we have used up all the Aunt Jemimas Pancake Mix that I brought, but I actually managed to find mix here. Its imported from America, so you know its good. With the delicious milk, I can finally make real pancakes.

And just in time for my birthday.

I really love the package; it screams AMERICA! The flag, lady liberty, and the greatest colors in the world. If you wouldn´t buy this the moment you saw it, you´re probably a facist.

Also note: this is not my big blog for the week, I have a few more in the making.

Blondie

It´s Fall now and all the Germans have returned (receeded) to their country. This leaves me as one of maybe fifty blondes on Mallorca. I am an on an island in two seas. The Mediterranean and Mediterraneans. Its not uncommon for me to go through an entire day without seeing a single blonde head of hair (except in the mirror). Everyone, and I mean everyone, has dark hair. Moreno. Out of those fifty or so blondes, I am most likely the only American. Thus my reputation has formed.

Complete strangers will come up to me in the streets of Palma (a moderate sized city) and begin explaining how they have heard all about me. Now, this is a little strange considering that they have never even seen me before, and that on a discription alone, could identify me. Rubio/ rizado/ Americano. Blonde/Curly/American. I have an amazing feeling of individualism almost bordering on narcisim.

Just the other day, I was talking to Elena, my almost host sister. (She is my host parents daughter, but is in Pittsburgh with AFS for the year) She informed me that friends of hers saw me going into a bar in an obscure part of town. Its true, I went to the bar she desribed, but the fact that people who I´ve never met were confident enough to asses my appearence and draw the conclusion that I was indeed Andreas, the American exchange student, is absolutely astounding.

In the U.S., we are so used to a mix of people. Not just simply black and white, but Italian, German, North African, Mexican, Cuban, Irish, Chinese, Danish, English, Korean, Indian, Sierra Leonian (?) Pakistani, French, Vietnamese, Turkish, Japanese, and Spanish (just to name a few). That is what it means to be American. Here, to be Spanish, you must have dark hair and dark eyes. Sure, their are exceptions, but they are rare. The feeling of "identity crisis" is so thick, you could cut it with an Inquisition era guillatine.

As for the past week: pretty good. I enjoyed going out last weekend with some friends in Palma. My Bio test was was pretty easy and I´m confident on my Castellano test as well; it was all old Mrs. Staley Romanticism. This weekend is my last as a minor as next Friday is my 18th birthday. So, naturally, I´m going to paint the whole town red while I still can avoid being tried as an adult. I havn´t made any plans yet for my special day, but I think my host brother and I may go to see the new James Bond after school. I´ll take it shakin, not stirred.

Remember Remember, the Fifth of November

This entry has nothing to do with Guy Fawkes.

Its finally over. Twenty-two months of campaigning, mud-slinging, and national divide has hit its climactic end. Barak Obama has defied racial barriers and political "rules" to become the forty-fourth president (elect) of the United States. I couldn´t be prouder of my country. Last night, we showed the world that we arn´t a nation of racists; we proved that democracy works; and most important of all, we made it clear that its time for a Change.

I didn´t go to school today because I stayed up all night sucking in Wolf Blitzer´s bullshit. My family was a little agrivated that I wouldn´t get up this morning, but they understood that it was very important to me as an American to witness this, and for that I am thankful. It was about 5 A.M here when CNN projected that Obama would win the election. I jumped out of my chair and proceed to dance around the living room in joy. Never in my whole life had I felt such national pride. Like many Americans, I have spent the last 4 (plus) years waiting for the end of Bush´s reign of terror; however, even with the economy in shambles and the war in Iraq grinding on, I never lost my patriotism (just my patience) for our great country.

The Spaniards are hipocritical when it comes to their opinions on America. Most of them see America as a country of belligerant biggots; and they never hestitate telling me this. They believe that the actions of Bush reflect the wishes of everyone in our country and that our ultimate goal is World domination. They point fingers and us and scream "intolerancia" or intolerance. If only there was a mirror big enough to see themselves in.

Spain is not one country, its several autonomous regions that, for the most part, dislike each other. To name a few, their are the Basques in the North who dream of independence; Andalucia in the Sounth and Aragon in the North, both of whom profited off of Franco; and of course my favorite, Catalunya. The divide can be felt when you cross from one region to the other, and I´m not just talking about the difirence in language or customs.

The past weekend I had to take the SAT in Zaragoza. That required me flying to Barcalona, and then taking a train to Girona. Both of these cities are deep in Catalunya and everyone speaks Catalan. In Girona, I stayed with Tommy and his host parents, Ana and Jordi, on their farm. His parents drove both of us the five hours to Zaragoza, which is in Aragon. You can actually feel the diference when you cross the border; almost comparable to leaving a country.

When we arrived, Jordi announed that everyone in Zaragoza was facist. Zaragoza was on Franco´s side in the Civil War and has maintained its conservitive values since Franco´s death. Everything there is family oriented and takes some sanctuary in God. After the SATS, we enjoyed lunch with Ana´s family. The food was spectacular, but the conversation was awful. Ana´s family, which live in Zaragoza, made remarks about how awful Catalan and Catalunya is. It was horrible to see how even a family can be divided by borders and politics.

And the racism dosent just stop there. Many are intolerant of Muslims and Africans. The phrase "Que moro" (how moorish) is used in everyday language to mean that something was cheap and Negros y Christianos is black beans and rice. The racial intolerance is absolutely astounding. So, Spain, next time you point a finger, remember there are three pointed back at you.

It is safe to say that America has done something that Spain could never do: we elected a black man as our president. This is a huge milestone in American History and surely will have huge summary in the next edition of the American Pagent. Now while their is no such thing as a silver bullet for our problems, their is Hope in Obama. I am truely glad to have witnessed this moment in history.

El Mallorquin

This evening, Marie Angeles and I went to a Bodega, a place where wine is fermented and stored, in a small town called Binisalem. It was a rather bland experience: rich yuppies walking around rooms filled with thousands of gallons of red gold, touching the barrels and smelling the air around them, as if they had an idea what the hell they were doing. "This one is good", one man said in Catalan as he smelled the air three feet away from the barrel. Well, of course it smells good, its wine; but there is no way to determine how good it is from a yard away. I know what a wine connoisseur looks like, and believe me when I tell you that this man, or any of these posh bastards for that matter, didn´t look a thing like my father.

But something significant happend tonight, something that I wasn´t expecting at all: standing around with these boring people (excluding Marie Angeles) I had the strong desire to go home. However, I´m not talking about Haddon Heights, I´m talking about Palmanyola. Without really realizing it, I´ve become a Mallorquin. As we drove home through the dark olive fields, I felt strangely comfortable; an almost indescribable feeling. The air was cooler and we had the heater on a little; the music on the radio was Amaral, this Spanish group that I have fallen in love with. I could smell wood fires outside the car, burning somewhere in the blinking lights that are towns. I felt safe and secure, as if it were my own mother driving the car.

I spent the majority of my weekend in Barcelona for another AFS orentation. It was good to see the other AFS students, especially Tommy. Everyone had their own stories to tell about their families and how their new life was treating them. Most were happy, some had problems, but the overall mood was good. Some peoples Spanish hadn´t progressed at all, but they could speak Catalan a little; for others, the opposite. The most impressive difference was that of Hiroki, the student from Japan. When he arrived, he hardly spoke a word; now he speaks pretty decently. Those Japanese sure are fast learners.

I wish we had more free time to do stuff in Barcelona, but it really wasn´t a big deal. The volunteers were cool as usual, and we all had a pretty good time. When it came time to leave, I was sad. To put salt in the wound, I didn´t get to say goodbye to anyone because Tyler and I literally had to run to the train station to get to the airport on time. With the exception of Tommy, I won´t be seeing any of them until February. I really feel like they are my friends and its hard to be so close and so far at the same time. One of the most important life lessons I have learned in coming to Spain is how to deal with seperation.

Quemar Despues De Leer

One word. Busy. Thats about the best way to describe my past two weeks. Tests, tennis, SAT planning, and trying to appease both my worlds. Last weekend, I managed to get out a little. I went out with a friend from school, Lisa, her boyfriend, and her friend Sonia. We saw a movie in Festival Park; Burn After Reading. It was one of those movies that I had been looking foreward to seeing, and I was not dissapointed in the least bit. Afterwards, Lisa´s boyfriends drove me home. It was nice to not worry about catching a bus or train.
That weekend was a long one too; we have Columbus Day here too. On Columbus day my family and I went to Cap de Formentor. Its the northern tip of the island and essentially inhabitable. If , however, you were able to build a house their, it would be the greatest location in the world. Mountains that drop straight down to the water with the most spectacular views I have ever seen.
Tuesday night I had to take a Castellano Comprehenson Test for this language class I am taking. What a nightmare that was! I had to wait an hour to get into the testing room as it was first come, first serve. The test took me about 15 minutes, but then I had to wait for two hours to get it graded. In that time, I got into an argument with some Russians. They saw my American passport, and started saying insults in English. Fortunately, I always pack Russian insults. I retorted with Otebis´and Blyadischa. Look them up if you really want to know. Oh and my grade, perfect score.
When it came to my Chem test later that week, I didn´t do so well. But, I wasn´t shakin up in the least bit. I still did better then a large portion of my class, and most of my errors were becuase I didn´t translate the Catalan correctly. I will surely do better on the next one.
Devendres, I went out with a friend from school, Alvaro. We met up at a bar near El Corte Ingles. I´ve decided that this bar will now be my bar. Cramped, smokey, and old men speaking in Catalan about God-knows-what. Just my kind of place. He introduced me to one of his friends, and we all got along great. Our conversation bounced around a bit. From Spanish politics, to US politics, to Anarcho-Syndacalism. Both of them were impressed with my knowledge of the Spanish Civil war (of which I owe thanks to Deren) and Communism. I fit in well.
Yesterday we had a mini fiesta at the house and that kept me bound there all day. I didn´t mind though, I needed a day of relaxation.
Today I went with my family to a town in the middle of the island called Lluc. There, we went hiking and I practiced parcour on Roman ruins. A blend of modern and ancient culture. On the way home, I witnessed my first accident here, and God it was awful! European drivers, in short, suck. They are too fast and have little care for the people around them. I was suprised that I hadn´t seen an accident until today. The car in front of us made an unexpected U turn into on coming trafic. The car in the other lane swerved to miss it and hit the guard rail. It was then launched into the air, did a barrel roll, and landed upside in a field about 30 feet away. The woman and her son climbed out, basicly unhurt, but the woman fainted on the side of the road. We stopped our car to help, but by the time we were gonna get out, a crowd of people had surrounded them. We would have been useless. So, we drove off.

I Kissed Socialized Medicine, and I Liked It

So I have not written in a while, but I have a legitimate excuse. I was sick. Enfermo. It was an especially brutal cold and Marie Angeles insisted that I go to the doctors after my third day of the wretched disease. The doctor´s office was not unlike any other. Quiet, well lit, and the occasional cough in the waiting lounge. However, there was one very noticible diffirence between this and a doctor´s office in the U.S. : the huge goverment crest on the main wall. I was walking on the sacred ground of socialized medicine.

My overall experience wasn´t diffirent at all from a doctor´s office in the States, but the fact that it was socialized made it all that much better. Opportune, the French girl that is staying in my house in NJ for the year, has to pay a hundred dollars at the doctors in the US. Even though I am an extranjero, I still qualify for free healthcare. Yes, that does mean that their taxes are higher, but at least the poor don´t die because they can´t afford insurance.

The end of the past weekend (5/10/08) was good. I went to that party with Tyler Saturday night at Club 40. It was really nothing more then a school dance with bad music. Fortunately, some girls were caught drinking in the bathroom, and we all had to leave. We spent the rest of the night wandering around the city aimlessly. I slept at Tyler´s house again that night. The next morning I realized I was sick, but I had an obligation to go hiking with my AFS representative and her family. Tyler couldn´t go because he had homework, so at 11 I left his house and walked across town to meet Virginia, my AFS rep.

We drove down a winding road through the mountains at a terrifying speed. The road was technically two lanes, but it was really no wider then my driveway. At nearly every corner we almost crashed. Finally, we reached Ireland, or atleast thats what it looked like. Rolling hills, green grass, and lots of sheep. We hiked up a mountain and went splunking in a cave at the top. I can´t even begin to explain the beauty of this place, so I won´t. Here are pictures instead.
(will add pictures tomorrow when I have batteries in my camera)

The German in Alaska

So Tyler and I went out last night into Palma to find something to do. Discoteques were a possibility, so was partying. The biggest problem that we had was our lack of cash. I had 10€, he had about 50 cents. Based on this, we decided to skip the Discos and look for a cheaper alternative. We looked high and low for a cheap place to get a drink. The Supermercado was our first choice, as the beer is the cheapest there. Unfortunately, it had already closed. Eventually, we passed a place called Hamburgeseria Alaska. The name intrigued me, so we stopped. On one side of the bar there was a man drinking a pint of beer. I asked him how much it cost, in Spanish, but he didn´t understand. He was German. When I asked again in English, he responded perfectly. He was completely fluent. The beers were about 3€ a piece, so I bought two; one for me, one for Tyler. We stood there drinking our beers and talking to this German man about European politics. After we finished our beers, he offered us cigarettes. Now I am not a smoker, but I have laid guidelines as to when I am allowed to smoke a cigarrette. The setting was an outdoor bar. People all around me were speaking Spanish and Catalan and there was already a lot of smoke around us. The night was getting cloudy and it had just begun to rain. This German man stood there with the pack of Camels in his hand, one cigarrette outstretched to me. I knew that moments like these only come once in a while, so I took the cigarette. We continued talking and the German man bought us each another beer. All in all, we talked for about two hours. When it got close to the time to be home, Tyler and I said our goodbyes to the German man, of whom we never learned his name, and headed home. We arrived to Tyler´s family´s appartment a little after midnight. We made ourselves some dinner and went to bed.
Today is the one month anniversary of me leaving the US. We celebrated by having a BBQ at home. Tonight I will be going to a party with Tyler, somewhere in Palma. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go win a game of tennis.

World Politics

I love American politics, especially in the mouths of foreigners. All the radio stations here play clips of Obama speechs, even if they don´t know what he´s talking about. So far, the only person I have met here who really knows about American politics is Maria. There is alot of talk, but not alot of information. Obama is cool because he´s young, and McCain is bad because he Republican. That seems to be the logic here. But then again, it´s about the same in the US. Gossip is the new politics. National healthcare? Welfare state? What the hell are they? They arn´t the real issues; Sarah Palin´s daughter is having a baby! I´m including the links to two songs that I hear on the way to school every day. They´re Mexican, but the Spaniards love them.
As for school, everything is going well. My Spanish has been getting alot better. I learned how to speak like teenager, you slur words. Even if they´re incorrect, they still sound right. Last night I went out with Maria and two of her girlfriends. We went to a Mexican restaurant, it wasn´t San Lucas, but it was good. Maria left this morning for Madrid, so now I need to make some new friends. I´m going to the discos tonight with Tyler, that should be interesting. Maybe I´ll meet some new people there.

Viva Obama!

http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=A0dMxqgS1-8

http://es.youtube.com/results?search_query=viva+obama&search_type=&aq=0&oq=viva+oba

I Kissed a Girl, and I Liked It.

One of the most shocking diffirences that I have noticed in Spain is the lack of distinction between genders. I don´t mean physically, but how unbelievably comfortable they are with each other. The first, most noticible thing is the kissing on the cheek when you greet or say good-bye to someone. In the United States, this is unheard of. Okay, maybe you could pass this off as a cultural diffirence, but it almost seems like we Americans are afraid to kiss someone so openly. Subconciously, does a kiss leads to sex? Is it too provocative?

The clothing style is something else. Girls, like guys, often wear baggy jeans. Guys, like girls, have long hair. Girls wear their underwear just as high as guys do, and guys carry purses. When standing in line the other day, I couldn´t tell that the person in front of me was a girl until she turned around. I´m not saying that the people here look androgynous, just that they have very similar tastes in clothing. There is alot more middle ground between feminine and masculine.

Another difference I witnessed in Barcelona. When AFS read out our sleeping arrangements; they were in alphabetical order. Thats it, just alphabetical order. Tyler and I were the only two boys in a room of six. Most of us were taken aback. Girls and boys, together? Instances of this are rare in America. In most cases, people go out of there way to seperate us. But why? Are we all going to have sex in that room together? Are we going to lust more? If anything, it has the opposite effect. When you´re in the company of the the opposite sex, you put your gaurd up a little and you are on your best behavior. You make sure to stay clean and hygenic. In a room of all guys, it is easy to get carried away and become wild. Girls (no offense) have the tendency to stop this rowdy behavior.

In my school, there are three floors. Two bathrooms on the top floor, two on the bottom. The girls room on the top floor has been turned into some sort of closet and is completely unusable. In America, one of two things would happen in this situation. The girls would have to hike up and down two floors to use the bathroom, or the state would deem the school sexist, and force it to reopen the top bathroom. Well in Spain, we share. I was so shocked the first time I used the upstairs bathroom. I was taking a leak in the urinal when I heard the stall door open behind me. Out walked a girl. I zipped up so fast the zipper could have generated electricty. SHIT! I thought, I must be in the wrong bathroom or something. My heart pounded for a few seconds, waiting for her to scream. But nothing, just the sound of her washing her hands and exiting. When I got out of the bathroom, my friend Andrés noted that my face was pale, like I had seen a ghost. I told him what had just happened and he laughed. Apparently, thats how things are done here.

All of these things have lead me to the conclusion that America is incredibly conservative, at least on the issue of gender divide. In Spain, we are kids; amassed under one name. I like it this way. It allows you to be more relaxed with the opposite sex and to not view them so much as a girl or boy, but as a person.

As for the past two days: Splendid. Last night I went out with Maria to Palma. I bought a Cell phone at El Corte Ingles, prepaid. Only cost me about 30€. Afterwards, we went to the movies to see El Niño con las Pajamas Rayas. Its about the Holocaust. Certainly one of the saddest movies I´ve ever seen. I recommend reading the book too, its better then the movie.

Fish me a Wish

So, I live on an island. On this island there are many ports and harbors. Im not talking about huge ports like Philadelphia or New York, but fishing ports, nestled between mountains. Soller and Andratx are two such towns. They are located on the other side of the mountain range that I described in my earlier entry "A Tear Shed". When the mountains abruptly ends, the ocean abruptly begins. There is no flat land like on my side of the mountains. Occasionally, there will be a spot big enough to put a castle and a small town between the ocean and the mountain. Soller, which I visited about a week ago, and Andratx are just that.

Friends of the family own a sail boat and they invited Miguel and I to go sailing with them this afternoon. We left Andratx at about one and sailed around Isla Dragonera, an uninhabitted island off of Mallorca. Since there were no towns around, except Andratx, the views were amazing. None of them were spoiled by hotels and tourist. We dragged a fishing line behind the boat and caught an 8 pound tuna. I had a really great day. Few of you may know this, but sailing is favorite thing in the whole world. Out here at sea, I am really in my element.

Where Romans Tread

In my bordem this afternoon, I found myself doing something very out of the ordinary. Homework. I was slowly reading my Catalan history book, translating words with a Catalan-to-Spanish dictionary, and then a Spanish-to-English dictionary. I felt like I was reading the Rosseta Stone. Fortunately, the text wasn´t difficult and I understood almost everything. We´re learning about the Romans, Visigoths, Musulmans, and Vandals. This chapter of history is often looked over quickly in America, as it really has no direct impact on our history. We all learned about the Romans in grade school, and about how Ceasar was assasinated by members of the Roman senate. Et tu brute? Here its diffirent. They teach Rome and Musulmans like we teach the Revolutionary war. In New Jersey, we can boast a handful of Revolutionary War battles and a few sunken Nazi U-Boats off the coast. Here they can boast carnage. Palma, the city I go to school in, was laid seige by dozens of diffierent armys in the past two-thousand years. Romans, Vandals, Moors; everyone wanted a piece of Mallorca. And who wouldn´t? Not only is it beautiful, it also maintains strategic point in controlling the Medditeranian.
Just last night, Jaime, Miguel and I went walking through the old section of Palma. Castles, walls, and old fortifications command the city. One can almost imagine hoards of pissed off Vandals running up the street that I was eating my dinner on. I did a little research and I discovered that several major battles were fought right under my feet in what is today Palmanyola, the town I live in. There is alot of history here, more then America, and you can actually feel it.
After I was finished history homework, I got to work on enjoying my Sabado. I went out with Maria to El Corte Ingles to look at cell phones. I´ve come to the conclusion that it is actually impossible to live without a cellphone nowadays. I found a really cheap one, prepago. Not too pretty, but it gets the job done. Afterwards, I had dinner at Maria´s and we watched a Spanish movie (naturally), with Spanish subtitles. I got the jist of it, or at least I hope I did.

A Tear Shed

Today I shed my first tear. I didn´t cry when I said goodbye to my parents. Not when I left America, nor when I arrived here. Not before bed at night, nor when I wake up in the morning. Don´t get me wrong, there have been times in the the last three weeks that I was sad, I just havn´t cried. It happened like this: Angel was driving me to school. It was early in the morning, about 7:00, and the sun was just beginning to rise. The road to school runs parallel to a spectacular mountain range in the West. The sun was shining just enough light to make them sparkle. There are olive orchards and sheep pens all along the sides of the road. I was staring out the window, but not really looking. Everything was quiet. Then a song came on the radio, a song I hadn´t heard in a very long time:

"I was bruised and battered, I couldn´t tell what I felt

I was unrecognizeable to myself

I saw my reflection in the window, I didn´t know my own face

Oh brother are you gonna leave me

Waistin away

On the Streets of Philadelphia"

I turned my head, and cried. I didn´t bawl or moan. I hardly made any noise at all. I don´t think that either Angel or Miguel knew. Seeing those mountains in the distance; the sheep and the olive trees next to the car; and hearing Bruce Springsteen, a Jersey Boy, sing a song about Philadelphia made me realize how far away from home I actually was. Its a totally diffirent world here.

The moment didn´t last long, not even the duration of the song. Somewhere in the middle, the dumb Spanish girl that reads the daily gossip interrupted, and song was over. "Púta", I muttered under my breath. And like that, my eyes dried up and I went on with my day.

As for my day, same old same old. I did have fun watching one persons lighter inevitably light about forty ciggarettes during break outside. He lit his own, and then used the ciggarette to light a freinds. It carried on like this until everybody´s ciggarette was lit. The funniest part was that it wasn´t planned, its just that no one had a lighter. Tonight I´m going to Palma with Jaime, my "cousin". He´s about 28 and loves spicy food. He´s the first person that I have met here that likes their food pica, or spicy. Its a misconception that all Spanish people like spicy food. Mexicans like spicy food. Spaniards like olive oil.

The F-Word

The United States, like many countries, has words that are considered foul and rude. The "F-Bomb" and "Shit!" are two such examples. Yet in Spain, "Joder!" and "Mierda!", their translations (respectively), are not nearly as taboo. You hear them on the street, on the radio, and even in the mouths of teachers and parents. It just goes to show that a word is really just a word, and nothing more. Sure, words can be meaningful and powerful, but the fact that a compilation of certain sounds in the vocal chords is bad, is absurd. I think the Spaniards have realized that. However, there is one word here that will turn heads and silence crowds; and I unwittingly dropped it at the dinner table last night. Franco. The Spanish "F-word". We were having a conversation about the diffirent regions of Spain and their diffirent languages. I said something along the lines of "... well Franco tried to make everyone speak only Spanish..." (in Spanish of course). Miguel pushed himself back on the chair, startled. Marie Angeles dropped her bread, and her husband shot me a strange glance. The conversation had shifted towards the awkward. After a few endless moments, everything returned to its normal rythem, but I could tell that they were a little shaken. I don´t think I´ll be using that name again.

As for my day, it was pretty good. Dijous is always the shortest day of school a week, 8 til 1. I was delighted to find that a girl in my class walks the same way as me to the Plaça Espanya where the bus and train station are; she takes the train, I take the bus. Since we were talking, we walked slower, and I missed my bus. But I´ll take someone to talk to over the bus any day. Since the next bus wasn´t until 2:30, I figured I would just wait until Marie Angeles came to pick up Miguel at 3:00. That gave me about an hour and a half to relax, an early Siesta. I bought a beer and a copy of El Pais at the supermarket, where the beer is the cheapest. I found a pleasant table under an umbrella on Calle San Olms, and sat. When I got back to the house, I finished my book, The Kite Runner. Really a spectacular read. Speaking of books, I had to catch the bus back to Palma this evening to purchase a copy of Rimas, by Gustav Becquer. I would have bought it after school, but I didn´t have enough money (not because I spent it on beer). So I bought the book in El Corte Ingles, and walked back to the same spot as earlier, this time with a Coca Cola. I spent another hour and a half there, reading Rimas. Or at least trying to.

The picture above is of Calle San Olms, very close to where I sat.

Primero Dias

Since I am starting my blog about three weeks after my arrival, everything that has happenend here so far will be in this post.

Departure NYC 9/5/08

Im happy that my last taste of America was the Big Apple. The flight over the ocean was long and cold; however, my spirits were kept warm by two things: The deep, inspirational conversation I had with the man next to me for most of the eight hour flight; and the overwhelming feeling of acomplishment. I am a dreamer, but unfortunately most of them never come true. Going to Spain has always been a dream for me, but the moment we took off from JFK, it became a reality. When looking for the right words to discribe my emotions, I could only find a cliché: A dream come true.

Zurich 6/9/08

Its quite common to go back in time when you cross the Atlantic Ocean...

My first glimpse of Europe couldn´t have been more perfect. We came in over France, but my view was completely obscured by clouds. Almost immediately after we crossed the border into Switzerland, the clouds dissapated. I was completely blown away by the grandeur of the Swiss Alps and the rolling countryside. We landed in Zurich and were given about an hour to wander about the Airport. I snapped a few pictures of a Smoking Lounge, something almost unheard of in the US. Most of the guys ran for the bars to purchase the sweet taste of freedom for about 8€ a pint, but Tommy and I felt that we should save that special moment, when a man (legally) buys his first drink, for our arrival in Spain.

Madrid 6/9/08

Finally, after days of being in transit, we set foot on Sanish soil. Tired and dirty, I made the appropriate entrance to land of the bulls. After a few minutes in the Airport, we were ushered to a bus that took us to our hostel. Unfortunately we didn´t get to see much of the city. Like Boston, Madrid is a city of tunnels. We emerged in a park with ammusement attractions. The driver turned down a dirt road and within a minute we could see the hostel. It wasnt to shabby, and the AFS staff was very friendly. Most of us wanted to get some sleep, but that wasn´t allowed unitil after dinner. That night at dinner, Tommy and I sat with three girls from Switzerland, with two of whom I stay in contact. We joked about our differences in culture and corrected a few stereotypes, but most importantly we found that even on the other side of the world, teenagers are teenagers. Tommy and I said our farewells that night as my flight was early the next morning, long before breakfast.

Mallorca 6/9/08

When Tyler (from North Carolina; the other AFS student going to Mallorca) and I stepped off the plane the first thing we said was: "Shit its hot!" and I´ll be darned if it was anything less the 100. We walked off the plane and down a flight of steps onto the tarmac, something I had never done before. We were taken by bus to the airport and we went immediately to find our maletas. An array of languages hit us as we walked into the baggage claim; German, Spanish, English, and of course, the feared Catalan. After a twenty minute wait or so, our bags came out on the belt and we left with them. Now, because of some errors with AFS and the mail, I had never actually seen my family. I knew there would be three of them. Marie Angeles, Angel, and their son Miguel. The suspense of finding out who they were and what they looked like made me feel like I was going on a blind date, except this date I couldn´t run from and would last about 10 months. I didn´t have to look very hard. The minute I walked out the salida, the three of them ran up to me. "Hola, ¿Que tal? ¿Que tal tu vuelo?" The greeting took about 20 minutes. I learned that Tyler´s host parents were friends with my host parents. It was nice to know I had someone to retreat to and speak English. Once we had finished kissing cheeks and shaking hands, we all, Tyler and his family too, headed for the parking garage. There we kissed cheeks and shook hands once more, but this time as a goodbye. The four of us climbed into Angel´s Audi. A quite spacious car by European standards. The conversation we had was mostly about the scenary around us: "¿Tienes Ikea en Estados Unidos?" "¡Si y mi me gusta mucho!" They took the long road home, through Palma, the main city. I was completely blown away by its beauty. Turquoise water, castles, and winding narrow streets were around every bend. I was truly in paradise. When we left Palma and headed inland, the scenery changed from palm trees and endless sea, to huge mountains and red earth. It was abosolutely breathtaking. We pulled into Palmanyola, my new home, about ten minutes later. Classic Spanish architecture mixed with swimming pools is the best way to describe it. We pulled up to the house (bout seven or eight and I yelled to the cabby...) and I was immediately greated by their little dog, Duna. We went inside and I was shown around. My room was small, but pleasant. We ate lunch out on the picnic table and I learned a little bit about Spanish cooking. Bread with every meal, even pizza. After lunch, I told them that I wasn´t trying to be rude, but that I only had about ten hours of sleep in the last three days and asked if I could go to bed. I slept til ten.

Maldrago 9/9/08

We went to the shore. It was a forty-five minute drive to the other side of Mallorca. During the drive I witnessed some of my first poverty here. It wasn´t the kind of poverty I was used to, not at all like the pile of rubble known as Camden. This was a rural poverty. Sprawling fields of sand and olive trees with mud huts and broken windmills. Sad, but beautiful. When we arrived at the beach, I was almost knocked to the ground by the absolute beauty that is Maldrago. It´s something you would see on a postcard or screen saver, the kind of place that you might spend your whole life trying to find. My family told me that it was their favorite place to go on Mallorca, and I could see why. The told me it was in the Zona Alemanes or German-Zone in English. Sounded alot like Cold War lingo to me, but it is acutally how the island is broken up. German tourists, English tourists. Two zones. We swam for a while and I took alot of pictures. Definately one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

Tommy Andreas Barcelona 14/9/08

A week had passed since out arrival and it was time for an orientation. AFS paid for everything. Tyler and I met at the airport and we flew from there to Barcelona. We arrived in barcelona after a twenty minute flight. There, we took a train to Barcelona-Sants station. AFS told us to meet everyone else at the McDonalds at 11 in the morning. That gave us about three hours to kill. We ate our sandwiches and I bought a cigar, Don Ernesto. I put it in my bag for later. At about 10 we bumped into another AFS student, she was from Iceland. I can´t remeber the town she was staying in, but it was somewhere in Cataluna. Everyone at the orientation was staying somewhere in Cataluna. That included Tommy in Girona. Everyone got there after 11. Tommy, Tyler, Hanna (one of my swiss friends), Siga (the Icelandic girl), and I all chatted passionately about our first week there. Well, okay, Tommy and I spoke passionately and the others watched with bewildered expressions on their faces.

The AFS volunteers that were leading us around Barcelona for the day were all kids. One actually younger then me. We went to the Gaudi Gardens and we were alowed to split up and do our own thing for a while. Siga, Hanna, Tyler and I bought a pitcher of best Sangria I ever tasted. After our free time, we were split into groups and we discussed Spain with the volunteers. After an hour of that, we walked to the hostel and relaxed for a little. That night we all played a game, a sort of Spanish spin the bottle. All the boys had numbers, and the girls had letters. There were 7 boys and about 18 girls. All us guys were going to get some action. There would be a person in the middle, boy or girl, and they would have to call out a letter and a number (a guy and a girl). If it was a girl in the middle, then it was the guys objective to kiss her on the cheek before the other girl kissed him. If he was kissed by the other girl, he would sit in the middle, if the other girl couldn´t kiss the guy in time, she would go into the middle. We were all a little uneasy about it at first, but after about three rounds, we were really getting into it. And my god what a crazy game! People would tackle each other, roll around on the ground, and crawl on their bellies to lay a smack on the other persons cheek. It was madness, but it was fun. Afterwords we had to make a skit to describe why our native country was so great. Tommy, Tyler, Adam and I, the American boys, definately put on the best show. Tommy was an Native American and we all sang "This land is my land.."

Afterwards, we were allowed to do our own thing again, but since it was after midnight, we had to stay quiet. A group of us had a UN meeting of sorts, or at least thats what it seemed like. Hanna from Switzerland, Siga from Iceland, Yoann from French Canada, Ligia from Brazil, and Tyler and I from America all sat around in the dark. They all smoked ciggarettes and I my cigar. We talked about politics, what kids do for fun, and international gossip. We talked for at least an hour, then went to bed. The next morning we all ate breakfast and waited around to go home. We learned that our next orientation would be in October. Tyler and I were taken to the airport and went back to Mallorca.

School and a normal life 17/9/08 - Present

At first, I was frightend by the idea of school, then excited, and now its just school. The Spanish school day is quite diffierent from that in the US. Three hours of each subject are needed each week. One moves from class to class, but with the same group of kids in every class. This is good I suppose, it lets you bond a little easier. The hardest part about school is not the subject matter, but the language it is spoken in: Catalan. I had four years of Spanish under my belt before I came to Spain, and it certainly shows. I have very little trouble communicating in Spanish. Catalan is a diffirent story. It has the rythem of Italian, but the sound of Spanish and French. Every day I learn a little more of it, but at this pace, ill be lucky if I can form coherent sentances by Christmas. Almost all of the my classes are taught in Catalan with the exception of Castellano and English. Chemistry and Biology are pretty easy to translate as most scientific words are latin based and are similar to their english cognate. History and Catalan class are a totally diffierent story. It will be a jumble of rough sounding words, and I´ll be lucky if I pick up one word per sentence. Poetry in a language you can´t read is beyond impossible. I´m not really worried though, I just need to take things day by day, poca a poca.

At first, I didn´t really talk to anyone, but within a few days I had some friends. Well, I wouldn´t really call them friends yet, but at least I don´t eat alone. My only real friends here are Mario and Maria. Mario lives in the outskirts of Palma and we met because Marie Angeles and his mother play paddle tennis together. He´s 17 and goes to an art school in Palma, and most importantly, he likes The Mars Volta. Maria and I also met through the family. Her father is friends with Marie Angeles and she was invited over for dinner one night when I made pancakes. She did a foreign exchange to both Paris and the US for a year each. She speaks English well and she likes to practice it with me. Just the other night we went into Palma and she taught me everything I need to know about being a teenager in Spain. Unfortunately for me, she is leaving to go to the university in Madrid in two weeks. Then I´ll be down to one real friend here.

Life in the house is getting quite normal now. At first, everything suprised me. Things like Angel being home for lunch every day and siesta before his return to work. I know what is expected of me every day, and I follow them dutifully. The only thing I can´t get used to is sleeping. I just can´t sleep at night. The dogs bark outside and kids lights off fireworks at all hours of the night. Not to mention my bed is uncomfortable. Eventually it will get better, but as of now I am sleep deprived.

The food is good too. Pasta, pork, beef, fish, watermellon, and all sorts of goodies. Suprisingly, I´m losing weight, it must be all the olive oil. The other day, they bought me lots of pork ribs and BBQ sauce. They were suprised when I actually cooked it. Until that point, I don´t think they really thought that my job as a BBQ cook was real. Well, I sure suprised them. Angel said it was the best thing that ever come off their grill. I blushed at that. Kids here don´t have jobs and rarely do more then their chores in the house. By cooking for them, I stepped from the kid-zone to the adult-zone. Its much nicer up here.

From this point on, I will try to write something every day. Please subscribe, but I will send updates via email too.