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.