Fresas con nata

I feel like my host grandfather and I bond the most when we are eating fruit together after lunch. On the menu today: strawberries that were so good I thought I was going to die, topped with whipped cream. [I don’t know what it is about the strawberries in this country, but they are awesome. So is strawberry ice cream–although that’s not a surprise]. Today we bonded while looking at pictures of Portugal’s beaches online (school trip this weekend!). I guess Spain isn’t that bad, but I did get made fun of by my host grandparents for saying I was going to bring my homework to the beach.

Semana Santa en Sevilla

Hello all!  I don’t know if you have heard or not, but Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is a huge deal in Seville.  The whole process involves weeks of preparation and set up and is rooted in centuries of Catholic tradition.  I am lucky enough to be living in one of the most famous places IN THE WORLD to visit during Semana Santa, so now I’m going to tell you what I thought about it all.

Now, before I begin, there is one thing of the utmost importance for you to know.  The hooded figures in the pictures below are NOT associated with the KKK, and there is nothing sinister about the cloaks and tall pointy hats.

What is it?  Well, from what I have learned, it is basically a week long celebration for the city, and among the Catholic community, it is sort of a celebration of faith and an acknowledgement of the trials and suffering of Jesus in the last week of his life. It really ends up being a flashy show of who can wear the fanciest outfits and sponsor the best procession.

The city during Holy Week: Starting the Monday before Holy week even began (I’m talking like April 7th), the city was swarming with visitors from all over the world.  I heard English everywhere, wasn’t the only one wearing shorts, and the sidewalks were at times impassable.  Streets and sidewalks were fenced off, churros stands and souvenir carts popped up out of nowhere, Sevici (that’s the bikes that I rent) stands were turned off, and bleachers were constructed in streets.  

For these reasons and the perceived annoyance of so many foreigners in the streets, many Sevillanos leave the city (or the country) for Semana Santa.  [Fun fact, I went to Madrid and Toledo for three days, but there were almost as many crowds there.]

Processions  themselves: So the week is made up of processions through the streets that everyone gets super excited to go out and see.  Now, a Spanish person would probably cringe if they heard me describe it like this, but the best way I can think to describe the processions is like a parade.  Individual churches throughout the city organize their procession, where they take a paso on a walk from their church to the Seville Cathedral and back to their church.  It sounds easy enough, right?  Well some of the processions can last 14 hours.  They are fairly slow moving.  Now, going along with the parade description, the pasos are like floats.  Constructed of wood as early as the 15th century, the pasos depict a grieving Virgin (lamenting the torture and murder of her son, Jesus), or Jesus Christ himself in various stages of crucifixion.  All of the pasos are magnificently detailed and despite their gruesome themes, they are very beautiful.  They are also incredibly valuable and old.  For these reasons, the processions do not occur if there is a possibility of rain for the day. Another interesting thing about the pasos is that they are carried by men all over the city. Think about how heavy it is! It’s all wood and fancy adornments and who knows what else. Back in the day, the dock workers used to carry the pasos, but now it’s just normal men who are honored to carry the paso. They have to train a lot to carry it in sync-I saw them practicing together in Plaza Nueva about two weeks before Semana Santa even began!

There is a specific order to the processions.  First, there will be people carrying a big wooden cross that guides the procession. Then, there will be lots of people dressed in the long cloaks specific to their brotherhood, carrying large candles, wearing the tall hoods and sometimes walking barefoot. They are called nazarenos, or penitents, and have received the immense honor of paying penance anonymously in the procession. After the nazarenos, there will be a group of altar boys/acolytes. (Fun fact: the mothers of the altar boys will show up periodically throughout the procession with quick snacks or little sandwiches for their sons– the processions are long!). Next in line is the paso, the most important part. Sometimes people applaud, sometimes there is silence, or cries of joy and spontaneously sung songs that pertain to the celebration. Sometimes there will be a band following the paso, but not always. I liked seeing the bands because they were made up of musicians from middle school age all the way up to grandparent age, all marching together and playing music together. After the band, there will be more people who look like the nazarenos, but their hats aren’t pointed. They carry wooden crosses and are making a public penance.

Attitudes about Semana Santa in Seville:  Like I touched on before, there are some citizens of Seville who flee the country leave Spain for Holy Week to avoid the crowds and tourists.  There are some who disapprove of the whole tradition, lamenting that the overflow of respect and care for the cherished pasos amounts to idolatry (this is certainly a justifiable sentiment, in my opinion).  And there are still others among the natives who love Semana Santa, rising early and going to sleep late, following all of the processions year after year.  The avid Semana Santa goers are mostly the strongly Catholic (this makes sense, as they understand the confradias and brotherhoods behind the processions, who’s history makes it all the more interesting), and also older people (this also makes sense), but reactions to the tradition really depend on the person.  From what I’ve seen of the young people of Seville, who receive a week off of school for the celebration, the week is full of late nights, parties, and drinking by the river: normal activities for your Spanish teenager.

My two cents: I didn’t like Semana Santa that much.  I don’t like crowds, I don’t like drunk people I don’t know, and I don’t like people getting drunk to celebrate the ultimate sacrifice made by the Son of God.  I felt like the whole week was very showy and loud, really just a show to make money off of the tourists.  For this reason, I didn’t go out and experience as much of Semana Santa as I probably should have.  Also, since I am not Catholic and don’t know much about Saints of Seville or the history of the confradias and churches here, all of the processions began to look the same to me. I just don’t know enough about it to fully appreciate it!  I am very glad that I saw the processions that I saw, and I took some really great pictures.  I was excited at the idea of what I thought would be a refreshing celebration of religious and spiritual mentality, but because of the crowds and grand displays, I just didn’t feel that. It was very cool to see the processions, but I think that in order to have a more personal experience and form a more educated opinion, it is necesary to go to a smaller town to see the processions there.

Here, enjoy some of my pictures!

¡No puedo leer!

So, it is 2:30 in the morning and, like any normal person, I am wide awake. I just can’t get myself to go to sleep, even though I have school soon. I don’t want to go. I’ve never skipped a college class, but I have a sinking feeling that the first time could be near. I sat with my homework out basically all day, but accomplished close to nothing. And now, I don’t know if the insomnia is from the cup of coffee I had this afternoon (one of the benefits of pretending to do homework is that you get to drink coffee to look the part) or dread because of the imminent boredom and frustration that is coming in six and a half hours when I will be reluctantly sitting in class.

School here makes me so frustrated and mad. Before I studied abroad, people told me (I don’t know how qualified they were) that I wasn’t going to have much homework in Spain, because my teachers would want me to have time to explore. That hasn’t been the case. I get lots of reading to do every single night, and I never complete my assignments. (You heard me right, I complained that my teachers are giving me homework. Hey, it’s 2:30 am, this is what you get.) I’m not interested in the stories. I don’t understand them. I literally can not read them. And I’ve given up! I can’t force myself to sit down and stare at a page that doesn’t seem like it will ever make sense to me. I can’t read in Spanish. It sounds weird in my head as I type this, but I don’t know what the sentences mean. I don’t know how to process this: I don’t remember not knowing how to read in English. I don’t remember struggling to understand the words on the page in front of me. Most of my childhood memories involve devouring books, not shoving them to the edge of my desk because they are useless to me.

I’m frustrated because usually school is something that I can handle: not with ease, but I can handle it. But lately, I’ve felt lost in class. I stare at my homework, but don’t complete the assignments. And I’m frustrated with my teachers because I ask if they have suggestions for completing the reading, ways to tackle all the meaningless sentences, and their answers don’t satisfy me.

I guess this is a good experience for me to have as a 19 year old who wants to be a teacher with a habit of positively impacting students’ lives. If there is one thing I’ve learned from my education classes and my job at a summer camp for high school students last summer, it’s that I could quite possibly run into high school students who don’t know how to read. They will feel the same way I feel now if I, as their teacher, assign reading after reading without tools to break it down and build the skills they need. Maybe this, maybe this frustration at myself, my teachers, and language in general–something that I am not used to experiencing in a classroom–will make me a more open minded, compassionate, and prepared teacher.

Nísperos

I tried a new fruit today at lunch: níspero!
They are like the size of a kiwi, but bright orangish/yellow. You have to peel them and then remove the large pits inside so it is a little tricky, but boy oh boy are they good. If I had to describe what they taste like, I think I would say a cross between a kiwi and a cantaloupe. Is that weird?
I think Miguel and Pilar were surprised that I like them, apparently Miguel is the only one in the family who eats them!
Look, I stole pictures from the internet:

Apparently they are grown in Japan or China, and in English they are called loquats, Japanese pears, or Chinese pears? I’ve never heard of them, but I’ll be on the lookout in the US!

Seville Cathedral

If you google Seville, you are likely to be swamped with pictures of a monstrous, scarily beautiful cathedral.   Seville is famous for it, I had to visit it with my program one of the first weeks I was here, and I go by it every day on my way to school.  Last week, when my mom and her friend, Mrs. Marshall were here, we went in it again.  I realized I really don’t know much about this world famous building that I barely even glance at when I pass by anymore.

(me on my school trip)

So, here are some quick facts about the Cathedral.

Traditional name: Catedral de Santa Maria de la Sede

Claims to fame: largest Gothic cathedral, 3rd largest church in the world, registered in 1987 as a World Heritage Site

Location: Seville (duh.)  More specifically, downtown Seville, on the always fun to visit Avenida de la Constitución.
It’s big. You can’t miss it.

Neighbors: Alcázar Palace (Muslim Palace), and the General Archive of the Indies (Museum housing documents related to the discovery of the Americas).

Famous people buried here: Christopher Columbus (the guy who found a route to Asia the Americas), Ferdinand Columbus (son of Christopher), Fernando III of Castile and one of his wives: Elisabeth of Hohenstaufen, Alfonso X of Castile (their son), and Pedro I of Castile.

The Seville Cathedral was built on the site of  an ancient Muslim mosque to demonstrate the city’s wealth after it became a respected trading center on the Iberian Peninsula.  (I haven’t found anything about it being built to honor God, isn’t that interesting…)  According to Wikipedia, the members of the local cathedral chapter said something along the lines of “let’s build a church so beautiful and so grand that those who see it finished will think we are mad”.  In my opinion, they achieved their goal.  The Cathedral is scary big, and it’s Gothic Style, so it really catches your eye and makes you a little sad if you look at it for too long.  (Do you understand what I mean?  Gothic architecture always looks sad to me).

Anyways, the construction of this beast of a building began in 1402 (on the site of an old mosque) and was funded by the clergy of the parish, who pledged half of their stipends to pay for all of the architects, artists, stained glass experts, masons and carvers required to complete the huge project.

When the dust cleared in 1506 everyone marveled at this lovely brand new cathedral…until 1511 when the dome collapsed and construction commenced again.  In 1888 the dome collapsed again (because of an earthquake) and destroyed a lot of valuable stuff inside the cathedral.

Here, look at some pictures!

Look at all the fanciness carved out of wood!

(I had a little trouble choosing a small amount of photos for you to look through…just wait, there’s more).

Now, something that was news to me when I first came to Spain is that way back in the day, Spain was under Islamic rule.  For this reason, there are countless Muslim influences on everyday life in Spain: architecture, food, music, and even words from Islamic civilization have lingered in the culture of Spain.

An example of this is the architecture of the Cathedral.  While overall Gothic, the Cathedral has some elements commonly found in ancient Muslim mosques (because it used to be one).  These are the use of columns, and more interestingly, La Giralda, or bell tower.

Here’s a sort of good picture of the Giralda…

Far away version:

The Giralda is a really super famous symbol of Seville, because it’s really pretty!…and really tall (105 meters). The structure is the former minaret (bell tower) of the mosque that used to be on this site.  I’ve gone to the top of the Giralda twice, and it is very cool.  It is the tallest structure in Seville (except for the new skyscraper being built by the river, but that is another story) so at the top, you feel like you can see for miles.  Here, look at my pretty pictures!

So traditionally (like, when it was a mosque), the minaret was where they made the call to prayer.  The tower has 34 ramps to climb up to make it to the top.  Why are there ramps instead of stairs? Well, back in the day, a donkey had to climb to the top when it was prayer time (and donkeys don’t do so well on stairs, I’ve heard).

Anyways, that’s a little information about the Seville Cathedral for you!  There’s a lot more to learn about it, but this was the overview version. It’s famous, so I thought we should all learn a little about it 😊.

How (not?) to dress in Spain

Please enjoy the contrast between what I wore today and what the Spaniards wore today. I would like to add in that the high was 82 degrees Fahrenheit–a temperature that I thought meant “whip out the shorts!” But everyone keeps talking about how unbearably hot it gets here in the summer: 45 degrees! …Celsius. That’s 113 degrees Fahrenheit! (This is why siesta is a thing: they lay down for the hottest part of the day because you will melt if you go outside).
I got a lot a lot of stares from people while I was going to school this morning: it was early so I was one of the only extranjeras in the street (the tourists were still sleeping-they’re the only other ones who wear shorts). I don’t know if I’m so beautiful that they were stunned, if they have never seen pasty white legs before, or if they just thought I was nuts for wearing shorts without thick black tights underneath (that’s what everyone else does).

Anyways, coming from Michigan, where we pull out the sandals as soon as the snow is gone, it sure is a change to see people in long pants and jackets on an 80 degree day!

40 Days Left

I only have 40 days left in Spain, and my oh my has the time flown by.  I am really ready to go back to the U.S.  I miss my family and I miss my life at my University.  But then again, once I return to the U.S., I think I am going to miss parts of Spain too.  Who knows, maybe I will return here some day.  

So, I have 40 days left until I can hug my dog, drive my car, and spend money I don’t have at Target.  These last 40 days are going to entail a week long visit from my mom (she gets here on Sunday), another trip to Madrid, Semana Santa, days at the beach, Feria, a trip to Portugal, and EXAMS.  It’s going to go by quickly, and I hope that I can make the most of it.  

I’m excited for Semana Santa and Feria! I’ve been hearing about both of these holidays since before I arrived in Sevilla, and this week I feel like I got lectured about them both every single day.  Semana Santa and Feria are quickly approaching, and it is apparent that the Sevillanos are very excited about this.  For those of you who don’t know, Sevilla is like reeeaaally famous for Semana Santa.  Semana Santa is basically just your average Catholic Holy Week on steroids.  The week revolves around processions–sort of like parades–of groups within Churches who carry lifelike wooden sculptures that depict Jesus dying on the cross or Mary grieving the death of her son.  These sculptures are pieces of art dating back to the Baroque era, and it is an honor to be in the procession.  Processions like this happen in lots of Spanish speaking countries, but Sevilla does it the best (or so I’ve heard).  While Semana Santa is deeply rooted in the Catholic faith, the festival of Feria doesn’t have any religious roots at all.  The Feria–fair–started as just that: a livestock fair.  Now, however, it has turned into an event absent of livestock.  Everyone is very joyous, decked out in their Sunday best as they drink, eat, have a good time, and dance the  Sevillano (a special type of flamenco).  

All in all, the excitement of the Sevillanos is rubbing off on me, and I am looking forward to seeing these world famous holidays right in the same city I have been living in for the past two months.  

Annnd five days later…Morocco

Hi everyone! sooo this post took longer than I thought it would, but I’m just full of fun and exciting things to share, so grab a snack or something and here we go!

Last weekend, I had the amazing opportunity to visit a continent that most North Americans never set foot on.  I went to Africa!  More specifically, I went to the towns of Chefhaouen, Tangier, and Tetouan in the country of Morocco.  Now, I just want to throw out the fact that I had absolutely no idea what to expect before I went on the trip, and the few expectations I did have were completely 100% incorrect.  For one, I was expecting black people, because, well it’s Africa.  Instead, the people I encountered were more Middle Eastern looking, and the buildings I saw also resembled those that I have seen in pictures of the Middle East.  I was expecting everything to be brown, because, well it’s Africa.  Imagine my surprise when our bus wound its way through mountains, with rolling fields of green, grazing animals, and rushing rivers.  It was not what I expected at all, but I guess that just goes to show how little I know about the world around me.

So our journey began in Seville.  We spent nearly an hour waiting in the rain because of people who didn’t show up in time, then we finally got on the bus, which was soooo much fun. After three hours of driving, the driver brought us to the wrong port (the second leg of our journey included a ride on a boat). The bus driver made up for his mistake by driving like a madman through the remaining mountains and hairpin turns to get us to the correct port just in the nick of time to get on the boat. During this harrowing journey, we were all a little queasy and antsy about whether we would make it to the boat in time.

When we finally made it to the correct port, we ran right on the boat and it took off.  Did you know that waves are capable of making even big boats rock all over the place? It’s the truth. You have to be careful walking! When we got to the other side (Africa!) and met our guide, we got on the next bus.  It was here that I experienced some of the worst fear I have even had in my entire life.  (Obviously I need to get out more).  Picture yourself in my shoes.  You are a 19 year old travelling to a continent that you have only heard talk of when associated with war, violence, trafficking of women, sickness, thirst, and hunger.  Your guide is a man slightly older than your parents, who briskly tells you that he lives in Morocco.  He tells you that he speaks about seven languages, and starts nonchalantly talking about the border between the Spanish territory we currently are in and the actual country of Morocco.  He forcefully says that taking photos at the border are strictly prohibited and that while we were in this country, it is strictly prohibited to take photos of any police officer or person in uniform.  I felt like we were about to go into a war zone!  We were stuck in traffic because Friday was a festival in Morocco,  so he was telling us names of different places and cities that we were going to visit.  Then he told three random students (my school wasn´t the only school on the trip) that they were going to be staying in a hotel in a different city because there wasn’t room in the first one.  I was sitting on a bus full of confused people, trying to understand the imperfect Spanish of a man who was describing Arabic cities.  Then, my panic escalated. The guide began to walk up the aisle of the bus with a plastic shopping bag, asking everyone for their passports.

Call me dramatic, but I nearly lost it right there.

I kept hearing my parents’ voices telling me to be careful with my passport, but this man who I didn’t even know was asking for it, and everyone else was handing theirs over.  What if he wasn’t even a real guide for the company we were with? It hurt quite a bit as I dropped my ticket back to Spain, my ticket back to the United States, into the worn plastic bag.

At this point, I had myself convinced that our guide was a spy for the Moroccan army.  He was middle aged and balding, and spoke seven languages.  It made all the sense in the world.  I had figured out his master plan, too: he stole our passports and was going to sell them for profit once we got to Morocco, trapping us in the country forever.  Then we were going to be forcibly enlisted into the Moroccan army and the situation would explode into a huge international conflict.  It didn´t help that as he was collecting the passports, he made a joke about “selling our passports for the big money”.  But seriously, how much does an American passport go for?  In these moments, I was convincing myself that I was safe because it was a bus full of Americans, and The United States wouldn’t be too thrilled about our enlistment in the Moroccan army.  Also, I have come to realize on this trip that a lot (a lot a lot a lot) of my classmates are from very (very very very) wealthy families.  This fact was a small comfort, because I counted on their parents paying the ransom money to rescue us.  As my conjectures got more and more extreme, I was incredibly thankful that at least I had found a copy of my passport in a folder that moring and had had the sense to put it in my wallet.

When we finally got to the border (nearly an hour later) I was slightly distracted by my panic and surprised to see that the doors of every car–including the trunk–were opened by the guards.  Now I know the only border crossing I’ve ever dealt with is Michigan to Canada, and things don’t get that crazy over there, but it seemed pretty intense to me.

At 10:32 pm (well actually it was 9:32 Moroccan time), after an hour and a half, I FINALLY GOT MY PASSPORT BACK, and suddenly the world seemed like a better place.  All I wanted then was dinner.

We went to our hotel then, which was rather fancy.  There was a hookah bar and a restaurant, and several balconies overlooking the  lobby.   Within four and a half minutes of our arrival, there were approximately 8 men leaning over the balconies from the floors above, grinning and waving at us, calling out to us in Spanish.  I was really surprised by the amount of Spanish (and French) that was spoken there; our waiters spoke Spanish as well.  Our long awaited dinner at the hotel was really really good.  It was some kind of vegetable soup, thick bread (not just white bread like in Spain!), really yummy chicken, and flan (does anybody even like flan?). The students in my program have for two months lamented the lack of flavor in Spanish food (salt and mayonaise are the favorite condiments), but Morocco used herbs and spices and all that good stuff in their cooking and it was great.  We had to only eat cooked vegetables (as opposed to raw), and avoid the water, drinking bottled water and using it to brush our teeth, but nobody got sick from the food or water, so that was also great.

The next morning, we left our hotel bright and early to get on the bus again and drive to the famous blue city in the mountains: Chefchaouen.  I was surprised to see wild chickens on the side of the road, and terrified at the warnings we received from our guide.  Some of the highlights were: “Stay with the group at all times”-this one was repeated about four times, “Don’t accept free services from anyone”, “If someone offers you drugs, say no-it’s illegal!”, and “There will be a guide at the front of the group and at the back of the group.  Stay in between the guides.”  All in all, I wasn´t feeling too confident about my safety nor my stomach–we had just driven through the Rif mountains in a bus–when we arrived in the city.    Right off the bat, I realized that I was a minority, if not an oddity in this country.  The bus dropped us off next to a garage where three men were leaning over a car with the hood up, working on something.  I was looking at the car to try to see a company name so I could tell my father and brother what kinds of cars they have in Morocco (interesting, right?), when the men looked up at me, grinning broadly, winking, and beckoning me toward them. I made a mental note not to let my gaze linger for so long again.

We spent the next several hours on a guided walk of the city, and boy oh boy was it beautiful. The city is built right into the mountains, and life there revolves around Sunday market and Tuesday market. When I googled the city to make sure that I was spelling it right for this blog post, I found out that Chefchaouen is almost as famous for selling cannabis as it is for its distinctive white washed and blue painted walls. Wow! I guess I understand now why the guide told us not to accept drugs! Anyways, if you haven’t noticed from the pictures, basically the whole city is blue. Now, because I have a short attention span, I really don’t know why it’s blue. On the tour, I think I remember one of the guides saying something about the glare off of the white walls being too much for people’s eyes, or that mosquitos don’t like blue. Something like that. When I did my trusty google search, I found out that the people who started this blue tradition were Jewish refugees who settled in the city after they were kicked out of Spain (Spain has gone through multiple phases of only liking Christians and Catholics, remember). Anyways, I have never ever seen anything like this city before. As we walked by homes and small shops, I was surprised to see Coca-Cola, Pringles, Oreos, and Nutella among hand made bread, caged chickens, and fresh (still wiggling) fish.

Here’s a picture of me with one of our tour guides. Don’t let his outfit fool you: this man is the proud owner of an iPhone and an iPad.

At one point of the tour, we stopped for a small presentation at a weaving shop, where they make beautiful woven rugs, blankets, scarves and other fabrics by hand. The colors of the fabrics are absolutely vibrant. They literally do everything themselves, right in the little shop! While we were in there, there was a painter applying a fresh coat of blue paint to an upstairs stairwell- they really like blue paint over there.

As we continued our walk through the city, I started feeling somewhat embarrassed. We were a very large group, and as we walked through the town, it was an event. People going through their everyday routines had to step aside to make room for us. And we were loud. People came out to the doors of their homes and stores to see the commotion as we went by on the street. Embarrassingly late in the walk, a revelation struck me. We were walking up and down narrow winding streets where people’s houses were. We were running around on a Saturday morning inches away from uncovered windows, taking pictures of doors, sitting on benches for pictures, and remarking on how different it all was, while with our phones, we snapped photo after photo. I felt like we were exploiting this city somehow, and I don’t think we left the best impression of the United States that we could have. The guide had to remind students that it’s not okay to just take pictures of people without asking. It was like everyone went into full blown tourist mode and forgot that we were in people’s neighborhoods, standing just outside of their homes.

Before lunch, we had some free time to shop around at touristy little stores in the plaza outside the hotel we were going to meet in. I quickly realized that if you go into someone’s store, they want you to buy something, and they will talk to you until you either buy something or push your way out of the store. You are also expected to barter for your purchases, which is really nerve-racking for me. While I want a good deal, l think I’m too nice! I don’t want to offer too low of a price, because I don’t want to disrespect the men working! So usually, I avoid bartering.

Other things I noticed in the city were a multitude of stray cats and an incredibly large amount of people who spoke very good (British) English. As our group gained stares wherever we went, I also felt, for the first time in my life, what it was like to be a minority. My skin, hair, and eye color, and also my religion are oddities in this country, and stares are not something that I am used to.

On Saturday after lunch, we got back on the bus (yet again) and went to the larger city of Tangier. This bus ride came with more warnings and reminders from our guide, that this is a big city, that there are discotecas and bars here and it’s not the safest for us to go out alone. We were told not to buy anything on the streets, and make sure that our bags were zipped up all the way. Again, there was the reminder to stay with the group, as one Gide would be in front of us and one guide would be being us. Somehow, the repetition of this warning throughout the trip really irked me. Were they being overly cautious? What would happen if we were alone? By sheer luck (not), we arrived in this large bustling city just in time for it to get dark and start to rain. But that didn’t stop us from going on a walking tour throughout the city, through a marketplace and tiny alleyway type streets. The marketplace was pretty neat to see, with fresh vegetables and meat–including rabbits in the process of being skinned.

The people trying to sell things were unavoidable. We were a big group of Americans, and when they saw us coming, they basically came running. This was really hard for me. I don’t know, maybe I am too dumb to be allowed to go to other countries, but when someone talks to me, grabs my attention, and asks me to buy the goods they are offering (even if it is junk), I can not ignore them. I can not send them away with an irritated jerk of the head like I’ve seen so many Spaniards do. I can’t pretend they don’t exist and just blow on by. So when I speak to them, with a smile and a “no, gracias”, they don’t leave me alone. I made the mistake of one time saying (to an armful of meticulously beaded bracelets), “very pretty, but no thank you”, and that man wouldn’t let it go. Little do these merchants know though, I’m a Weaver. And while I don’t suffer as much pain as my father or brother do from it, it really does hurt me to have to hand over money. So, I didn’t buy anything from anyone on the street, but I did talk to several young men with very good English who were trying to sell me things. There was a recurring theme with all of them as they talked to myself and other girls I was traveling with: they always called us pretty. At first, I was feeling pretty good about myself, but then I realized it was a clever sales tactic. They are very sneaky!

At the end of our walk, we ended up at a large souvenir type store, and once again, prices weren’t fixed. It was a matter of bartering. I had my heart set on a precious ring to have as a keepsake (the man told me it was real silver so of course it was true!), and it was for the low-only-for-the-pretty-girl price of 50€ (after I gave him a shocked look at hearing the first price he gave me). My first attempts at bartering did not go well, and trying to end the conversation, I told him I had no cash. He then told me to use my credit card and started following me as I tried to get away: that’s when I had had enough, and I firmly told him (twice, I guess the first time wasn’t firm enough), that I was no longer interested in buying anything in his store.

That night, we ate dinner in our new hotel. The most notable thing about it was our view of the street from our table. For only being a couple hour bus ride away from Chefchaouen, Tangier was really different. There was European type clothing, cars and brightly lit stores everywhere, and people drinking.

The next morning, we woke up even earlier (daylight savings time was this weekend), and got on our bus again to see a bit more of the city. We went through the “Barrio California” and “American forest”, richer areas of the city where foreign workers often live. As we were driving around, I was momentarily surprised at the rampant examples of skinny cows in fields on each side of the bus, but then I came to a realization. Maybe I’m just used to seeing unhealthy obese cows in the United States, and they are really supposed to look like the ones in the States. Also, did you know that they have windmills on top of the mountains here? They do.

After this, we got to see camels! For the low price of 2€, I could have ridden one, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There are two reasons for this: 1. The camels looked sad and unhealthy, and 2. I’m scared of camels. Even though the camels were getting beat by the owner, we got some good pictures.

We then went to the city of Tetouan, which is a big place, but not quite as city-like as Tangier was. The first place we went to in this city was easily my favorite: it was a bakery! Morocco knows how to make good sweets, I can tell you that much. A lot of the stuff there reminded me a little of baklava. Everything was freshly made, with nuts and flaky goodness, coated with honey or sugar and who knows what else. I of course got something, but I don’t know what it was called–I think the names were in Arabic.

After we got sweets at the bakery, we walked through the city some more, bringing people to their feet as we walked by in all of our American college student glory. I swear, every eye was on us as we noisily made our way down each street, snapping pictures of everything in sight and drawing every vendor on the block to our sides. We walked through the medina, or old town. It is made up of small winding streets of homes and shops. Some of the streets are so narrow, with buildings that are so tall, light hardly makes it down to the street. This area of the city, if I understood the guide correctly, is primarily Jewish. They fled here after the fall of Granada and as Spain got less and less tolerant of other religions, they built their lives here.

We stopped at another big touristy type store, and this time I finally did it: I bartered! My prize? A super cool Moroccan ring that I probably paid too much for. I still love it though. Check it out!

Next, we went to a traditional pharmacy. There, a pharmacist with super good English talked to us about how in Tetouan, when people are sick, they don’t go to the doctor for medicine. Instead, they use traditional herbs and spices to get better. We learned about argan oil, which is used for dry skin, burns, and thinning hair. Then he showed us several different lotions; some with rose hips (against stretch marks, burns, and razor burn), another with lemon (for dry skin), magical creations against cold sores and toe fungus (it may comfort you to know that these are separate creams), and more. There was curry, cinnamon, saffron, cumin, ginseng, and mint tea. One of my favorites was perfume made of amber–I even bought some! I also bought some lipstick made from henna, so now I am a fancy lady. This was one of my favorite parts of the trip, besides the blue city. Just look at how pretty it was!

Lunch on Sunday was in a sort of banquet hall. It consisted of vegetable soup, vegetables with some sort of dressing on them, and couscous with chicken. Dessert was my favorite part (are you surprised). It consisted of a very small very rich powdered sugar covered cookie and a warm sweet tea. I don’t know what it’s called, but boy was it good. Here’s a picture.

Lunch also included henna on our arms and taking pictures on a big couch.

To top it all off, there was a man who performed a tricky dance with REAL FIRE. I’m not going to lie, it was a little scary as he was twirling that plate full of candles around his head.

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All in all, it was a really cool trip, and I’m glad that I went because it is not something that I would ever in a million years do alone!