My last day in Spain was brightened by a little glimmer of home... home, in this case, meaning Columbia.  I met Louise by the bear statue in the Puerta del Sol for a final round of vino y tapas.  We chatted away about my upcoming hike through the Alps, her approaching pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela and our shared love of the siesta.   I made my way trip through the maze of Madrid's metro and randomly commented to a fellow traveller how much I would miss this despite all of my complaining.  The constantly delayed flights were always bearable considering the fact that the average going price was around twenty euros.  Jess and Katie would have nodded in agreement but I got no such support in return, just the look of confusion and hesitance that I had become used to over the year.  

I arrived in Geneva and was blessed to be invited into the home complete strangers... who, for once, were not couch surfers.  Less than seven degrees of separation led me to Adrienne who graciously let me invade her home and her life for a few days while I waited and prepared myself mentally for my ascent to the icy peaks of the Alps.  Mentally, I say, because hardly exerted myself physically while I hung around that beautiful limbo; I did even less than a normal day in Ciudad Real, if that is at all possible.  

Adrienne and her family were precious, extremely hospitable and just as busy as my own; so I felt right at home among the comings and goings and random intersecting of schedules. To elaborate on their perfection as hosts: each night I was treated to a dinner prepared by Frederic... if not him than one of his employees at the incredible catering company, Le Traiteur.  The first night we ate at the Domaine de Choully.  A beautiful old country house that overlooks vineyards and Geneva.  The next night I went with Adrienne and her son to dine on their boat that had been completely redone... it was truly a sight to see.  We ate watching the sunset as we rode around the Lake of Geneva.  There was even a little pit stop in France to see an ancient castle.  The website is www.chevrier-traiteur.ch and I highly recommend checking out the information. I only wish I could repay them for all that they offered me.  Thanks so much, belatedly, for all that you did for me... and good luck with the University Tour!

Sunday, when I was supposed to meet up with mom and the rest of the hiking group at the airport there was a mishap with the flights.  Instead of heading to Chamonix early that morning as planned, Adrienne and I went on a hunt for an open supermarket.  In Switzerland all of the grocery stores are closed on Sunday so if you want to do some shopping you have to hop over to France, about a five minute journey, to spend your money.  That is another difference between Switzerland and most other European countries, the money.  Granted, I haven't seen every form of currency in the world, but from what I know, Swiss money is by far the most beautiful.  The bills look like mini pieces of art... but are only about as valuable as the US dollar.  The Euro still has us beat on that point.  

So another day of delicious croissants, yummy chocolate and the fear of being exploded to tiny particles due to sleeping directly above the Large Hadron Collider... and then mom and I headed toward another new adventure full of ups, downs and gourmet food each night.

xox crj 

Slowly the realization that I would soon be leaving Ciudad Real, forever, washed over me.  Jess left immediately after our return from Malta.  We bussed it back to Madrid from Valencia's airport, stayed the night at Katie's in Toledo and then I went with her to the Barajas the next day.  Tearful and, again, the one being left, I headed back to Katie's where we tried to prepare ourselves for when our time would come to leave the places that had somehow become our homes.

The process of packing up belongings and sorting through the objects that I had amassed was not any easier than the times past.  I have always told myself that I am going to void my life of any frivolous items; I need to be streamlined and able to pack everything I may need in two carry-on sized bags.  The amount of paper that I accumulate never fails to surprise me.  I fully believe that that particular habit is connected to a gene somewhere in my DNA.  I am positive of this especially after seeing the collection of lifetime souvenirs and forgotten items that are piled around my parent's and grandparent's houses.  It was so trying, though, once I started sorting through the various trinkets and boxes that somehow got stacked up around my apartment.  

I have always become sentimental when thinking of the person who sent me a little note who knows how many years ago.  I have millions of birthday, Valentine's Day and Halloween greeting cards from people who I never want to forget.  It has always been in the back of my head that the act of keeping their handwriting will prove that they existed and that they, at one point, saw me worth their time and the cost of a postage stamp.  I have notes that were secretly passed to me when the teachers were looking the other way... the pencil is wearing off and the names are slowly slipping away but I cannot bring myself to throw these people in the garbage.  I used to save every ticket to every concert or museum that I went to and the maps from every town that I visited; I stopped the tickets except for the most awesomely envy inspiring ones and now send my maps to Rafa, the boy that I tutored.  I would rather someone else throw them away than me.

So that is what I occupied myself with the last couple of weeks that I was in Ciudad Real.  My obligations at the university had ended and I was only tutoring... I couldn't bring myself to decide upon a last day to see my precious kids so I kept visiting them, teaching them Boomer Sooner and doing homework with them until the very day that I left.  I think that may have been the hardest part of the whole experience.  Leaving these families that had, against all of their Spanish tendencies, fully brought me into their homes and added me to the family.  

One afternoon I went with Rafa, his parents and Miguel to Almagro to see the city.  Sara's mom is from there, the tiny pueblo only about 18 miles from Ciudad Real.  It was wonderful to see the village from the eyes of people who had grown up going there, who were proud of what it had to offer.  And, much to my surprise, it was full of history and appeal.  We visited the quaint town square which has bragging rights on one of the oldest theater houses in Spain.  It dates back to the time of Shakespeare when the famous Spanish writer Lope de Vega's pieces were performed.  And to make it even more amazing they were acted out by none other than he himself with his actors.  From there, and after a nice refreshing drink under an umbrella in the plaza, we went to tour one of the many paradors of Spain.  Paradors are old buildings, sometimes convents and ancient palaces, that have been restored and modernized but none lack the true Spanish touch.  Walking through the hallways it is easy to see how they lived centuries ago.  The woodwork and stone masonry is impeccable.  I will never forget that afternoon trip with a few of the people that I adore most in the world.

It was a task saying goodbye to the kids that I had spent nearly every week with since my arrival in Spain.  I promised to send them Peeps, Candy Corn and Broadway musicals in English and then I told them I would see them in September.  Turns out I was mistaken on that last bit but I have already sent some marshmallow ghosts and pumpkins across the Atlantic.

xox celia rose 

One day while partaking in one of our favorite pastimes... looking for cheap flights to Anywhere, Europe... Jess asked her roommate Oscar where he would go for vacation if he could go anywhere. His reply, "Malta."

When this was reported back to me, with exclamations from Jess that it was definitely a country to add to the "Must Visit" list, I drew a blank. I had heard of the fluffy dogs and the beer but never connected them with the tiny island perfectly located, militarily speaking, between the coast of Sicily and Tunisia. In my defense, and that of the rest of you who are racking your Trivia Pursuit archives, Malta is easily overlooked due to the fact that the biggest island is only about 17 miles across it's longest part. The photos that pop up when Googled are gorgeous but give only a half truth of the island.

The Blue Grotto and Paradise Bay are almost too beautiful to be fully appreciated and are even more awe inspiring after crossing the monotone, thirsty earth in the yellow and red busses that have been in use since the 1960's. The contrast between the intermittently placed lush, relaxing coves and the rest of the craggy, sun baked land is a shock when flying in. From the airplane it appears to be more like a dessert than a dream destination.

One of my private tutor students Julian, a university graduate with no plans for the future... sound familiar?... had moved to Malta after receiving a scholarship to improve his English. We had been in touch sporadically but I had not heard anything specific from him so was not expecting to see him. That is pretty much the same as me saying that when I am back in Columbia I am surprised to see anyone from my graduating class... ignorant. Even though the population of Malta is far larger than Maury County, the size of the island pretty much guarantees the happenchance of seeing everyone at least twice during your visit. Katie, Jess and I were just finishing our third delicious wrap... we were dying for food with flavor and Malta came through in the clutch with food options that were other-worldly in comparison to what was found on the peninsula. From there we headed to the token salsa/hookah bar when all of the sudden I was bear-hugged from behind and went into self defense mode. I whipped around and there was Julian with an undisguised look of disbelief slapped on his face and laughing uncontrollably. It took me a good moment to compute where I was, who he was and which language to speak to him in. Small world... smaller Malta.

We also kept running into the most gorgeous Spanish bomberos, firefighters, that had been on our flight from Valencia. In the discos at night and on the beach during the day, these boys brought a nice touch of eye-candy to Malta... which, contrary to popular belief, is not exactly overrun with supermodels. There was a group of rich Frenchies from the Bordeaux area... their daddies were either in the business of wine or tobacco and were there to study English. They seemed to rarely grace the classroom with their presence and I had fun trying to speak French with them over the blasting minimal and techno music.

We couchsurfed with a self-proclaimed Arian DJ from Sweden who worked as a tech-support customer service guy at an online gambling company.  He had midwestern US accent and was an amazing cook; we ate like queens. There was only one little brawl about the issues between the Middle Eastern and Western cultures but when asked which continent the Middle East was on and he confessed that he didn't know, had never been to his parent's homeland nor spoke Arabic, his side of the argument unravelled pretty rapidly. By that point in our travels we had grown tired of constantly being thrown the blame for the state of the world. We were usually the first to admit that, yes, certain fellow US citizens played key roles in the development of certain wars that continue today but, we were not ready to take responsibility for the religious battles that began way back when. However, we gracefully overcame our snippy attitudes when he played us a remix that he did of Michael Jackson's Thriller, Billy Jean and Beat It. Who won't smile and dance when listening to the genius King of Pop?!... demented as he may be.

The best, and most confusing, part about Malta was that everyone spoke some form of English. At one point it was a British colony and therefore driving on the left side of the road and beans for breakfast are par for the course. We noticed, however, that the Maltese-infused English was quite different than what our ears were accustomed to... and the underage children that crawled the streets at night trying to act our age were no temptation to interact with the locals. To avoid unwanted conversations we spoke Spanish to one another and played dumb when asked "From where are you girls?" We had never been so ready so claim that we were Spanish. It was quite convenient and I miss having that option here in the States. My brothers are putting forth a valiant effort but I basically talk to myself when I toss the English out the window and start babbling to them in Spanish and expect a response.

So after a week of crystal clear waters, golden sand and no topless beaches... we said a bittersweet ciao to the tiny island in the Mediterranean as we headed back to Spain for our final farewell to Europe.

xox crj

Valencia.  For a long time I didn´t give the beautiful city perched on the Mediterranean coast a second thought because I was used to hearing Valenciana, which is the quaint little mining town next to my beloved Guanajuato.  But what´s in a name?  We all deserve to be heard and truly known rather than judged by our titles and appearances.  So I gave Valencia a chance.  Jessica, Katie and I had to catch our flight to Malta from the Valencia airport so we decided to spend a few days there before heading out.

On May 29, after leaving the last official class of the year, I began packing my bag.  The weather has been crazy due to the drastic climate change, that some people refuse to believe, so I was struggling with what to pack for the beach vacation that we had been planning since the beginning of March. Jeans, shorts, tank tops, sweaters, high heels, tennis shoes, flip flops... every combination possible went in the bag.  But I still wasn´t prepared for the adventure that was waiting for us.

After a five hour bus ride halfway across the country... yes, only five hours and you have gone from the center of Spain to the coast, faster still in a car... we found ourselves in the gorgeous town that provides you with museums, the beach and an international airport.  The Manchegan rain followed us but we made the best of it by snapping photos of the Plaza de Toros, climbing to the top of the cathedral´s bell tower and ducking into cozy cafes each time the sky opened up. Francesco, our Sicilian friend that we met in Mallorca, was visiting his father so we got to meet up with him for the afternoon.  He had to catch the nine hour boat ride back to the Balearic Islands that night but we were excited to have one last goodbye.

We sat down to munch on some tapas outside of a restaurant when a group of British footballers stumbled up looking for someone to help them order food.  They pulled a table up to ours and soon the street was filled with English, to the annoyance of everyone sitting around us.  We had a few communication problems because of the different accents that were being thrown around.  They were from all over the UK and had very thick accents, but we managed to get by.  They didn´t speak any Spanish and when Jess, Katie and I needed to say something just between us we could use our language skills to go over their heads.  I felt like a mom must before her child knows how to spell... ¨n-a-p t-i-m-e¨.

The next day we let ourselves sleep in, because that is what you do on vacation, and then got ready to see La Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias. We stopped by a cafe near our hostel first and were joined by two older men.  Vicente was a lawyer and Julio imported silver from Asia. We welcomed their company and they bought our food.  They were really gung ho about practicing their English but they quickly realized that they appeared much more intelligent when they spoke in Spanish. 

The City of Arts and Sciences was magnificent.  The architecture looked like something out of a sci-fi comic book; it was impossible to understand how someone could come up with a design like that... and then make it reality.  We didn´t go into any of the museums because the entrance fee was quite high and we were only at the beginning of our trip.  We thought it was wise to enjoy the city from the outside... where it was free.

Vicente and Julio told us about a restaurant that overlooks the beach and they invited us to meet them there so that we could see another part of the city.  Vicente showed up wearing a screenprinted T-shirt with a photo of him and Bruce Springstein on it, a Bruce Springstein concert hoodie and a backpack filled with memorabelia such as an autographed record, photos that he took when he creeped at the hotel where Bruce was staying and a concert T-shirt that he bought in 1984 and had never been washed.  He said that he was friends with his wife, he knew the body guards and chatted quite a bit with the piano player.  He and Bruce are on a first name basis. Hmmmm.

The restaurant was, appropriately, called Vivr Sin Dormir (live without sleeping) and we all sat on the porch, drank Agua de Valencia and watched the sun set.  Later they showed us a place, Gabana, that was popular with the Italians.  We said goodbye to the old guys,  plopped ourselves down on some of the chairs and the boys came swarming.  I got to pretend to speak Italian with the little bit that I know and they guessed right away what our job was. The teachers in all of us came out as we over simplified and enunciated our English.  The girls and I have gotten used to using simple sentences and no contractions which is just par for the course when speaking to someone who is learning but hasn´t dominated a second language.  Sometimes, though, we even talk to each other like that, ¨You go get ready, I wait you!¨  Through a beautiful blend of Spanish, Italian and English... and miming... we convinced them all to join us for a sunset swim, fully clothed, in the Mediterranean before we left for dinner and warm pajamas with plans to meet them the next day. They thought we were crazy.

The next day we woke up at noon, we never get to sleep in as teachers, and headed to the beach.  Café con leche is always our first stop and I am going to need that Spanish tradition in Tennessee.  The bus ride took about half an hour and just as we got to the beach the clouds were rolling in.  We headed in the direction of Gabana but had to duck in to a restaurant when the floods came.  We have the worst luck with weather!  We asked the waiter for big plastic bags and got decked out in blue garbage bag dresses and white grocery store bag hats. Americans are smart.  Everyone just stared and snickered but we knew they were jealous that they hadn´t done it first.  What we do lack, though, is sense of direction and we realized that we had been going in the wrong direction to get to the Italians.  So, plastic wrapped and ready, we set out on the two kilometer hike that would have only taken two minutes had we turned right instead of left.

After chatting with them for a while we set off in search of food.  We stumbled upon a tiny Italian restaurant with noone in it and warm air that was heavy with deliciousness. Fazzoli´s is good, free breadsticks are the bomb, but nothing beats real Italian cooking.  We had ordered our food to go but snapped out of it and stayed there for a while relishing in the flavors and smells that were coming out of the kitchen.  I even tried a piece of meat... it had tons of spices, Rosemary, Thyme, Oregano, and my taste buds got the best of me.  But only for a bite and then I stuck with the garlic bread and olives.  The people who worked there were so nice and funny.  We took photos of our food and they thought we were hilarious.  There was a bar that you could look over and watch them prepare the food and I was intrigued by all of the ingredients... one chef, with a hairstyle I will call ¨electrocuted¨, kept holding up the different bottles and spices and asking if we wanted a photo.  Everyone who worked there was Italian and they had a map of Italy on the wall with their pictures on it to show where they came from.  The owner asked if I wanted to work there.  I said YES and I want to eat, work and be a fat Italiana.  But they don´t have a map of the United States.

Valencia is a city that I would live in.  If I cannot find a decent job that gives me insurance in the States I will come back Spain.  I never thought I would say that but with the current economic situation in my country and the fact that I have health care here... it doesn´t seem like a rash decision.  I hate that I am far from my family and friends.  However I think I could stay for a year longer, with a better paying job, travel less, save more money and then be comfy enough to head home. 

We´ll see where the plan goes... Jess reviewed with me the plans that I had spouted off since the beginning of the trip, over a total of four days, and I think there were about seven different variations.  The list only continued to grow as we moved the chaos of our vacation to Malta.

xox cr