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Who knew that one should check seismic pressures before traveling? Because of the Icelandic volcano that erupted and clogged Europe’s airways with dangerous ash, most air traffic squealed to a halt. I left my home in Vigo on that fateful Thursday to try to go on a weekend vacation to London, via the Madrid airport (I have to fly there from where I live to get almost anywhere else). I arrived in the spilling-over-with-angry-passengers airport with an unusable ticket to London, sin mobile phone, sin laptop. Cursing Icelandic volcanoes, I spun around in circles for a bit.
 Photo from: http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4047/4464501044_1199b0ee03.jpg Of course I didn’t grasp the scope of the problem, and with valid return tickets in hand, I barred my teeth and told myself I’d make it to London. Thus ensued four days of trying to push my way to the British Isles through other means of transportation than air travel. Yes, me and every British person on the continent were fighting for ferry fares and train tickets. I successfully booked two train tickets, one from Madrid to a small town in the south of France, and from said small town to Paris. With the warm blanket of success wrapped around my travel-weary self, I slept easily that night, almost tasting the Earl Grey tea I expected upon impending arrival.
The train to the Hendaya, France, carried me through curvaceous countryside, undulating with ripples of foothills leading to the Pyrenees. Contentedly waiting for my train to Paris, self-assured I could easily catch the Chunnel when I arrived, I overheard some other travelers chatting about the chaos caused by the volcano. Then I heard “Chunnel booked til Tuesday.” This was on Saturday. I bolted to a pay phone and called my parents. Yep, looked pretty much like I’d be stuck in Paris if I boarded the train. I started troubleshooting with my parents: “Ok ... train for Paris to Cannes, ferry from Cannes to Portsmouth, train for Portsmouth to London...” My wonderful mother calmly advised me: “Meg, maybe you should head back to Vigo, hon.” Lip quivering, I agreed. First step, get back to Spain. See full post
Tags: International, Environment, Updates
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Mercat de la Boqueria—or the Boqueria Market in Barcelona is a lively, modern food market, purposely situated off of la Rambla, a heavily-pedestrian-travelled road, to bring in the most clientele. I set out early in the morning (relatively speaking, given “Spanish time,” getting up at 8 am is quite early), to watch the goings-on before the market becomes inundated with pesky tourists.
 Photo submitted by: Megan Burik I realize that I myself am a tourist, but I have this strange inclination to not consider myself one. Perhaps this is because I currently boast a Spanish address, or speak a little of the language, or am not nearly as rude as some I’ve seen. Despite my foreign nationality, La Boqueria rewarded my early arrival with observations only available in the morning.
I arrived at the market. The energy, the zest—the vendors readying their wares. Cutting mushrooms, slicing fat off large slabs of meat. Orders taken on tiny notepads as vendors yell quantities to men with carts. There is an art to the assortment of fruit—the colors like rainbows of juice. Peel, press-labeling the meat, cheese in size, in price, in marketability. Stories traded by locals with smiling mouths of satisfaction. Keepers smoke while they wipe a display case clean—sweeping the walkway around the shop. Then I noticed the wide-eyed (like always) tourists, eyes spread to try to take in the array of colors, people. See full post
Tags: International, Food and Drink, Culture
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Before I spent the majority of my spring break in Andalucía, I held the stereotypical views of the southern region of Spain: cities of blanch white walls capped by terracotta roofs, with warm sun overhead and warm people within—where the British take their holidays. These stereotypes exist for a reason.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik While I did visit Seville, Spain during my vacation, I left my heart in Granada. A city rich in history stands in the shadow of the impressive hilltop remains of the Moorish fortress, La Alhambra. Like an ever-present guardian, La Alhambra bears witness to all the mixings and goings-on in Granada.
The history of La Alhambra spreads across centuries, as did its construction. In the 9th century, the first inhabitants built a small citadel, followed by the more fortified palaces of the Nasrid Dynasty in the 14th century. In 1492, Spanish troops overwhelmed the Moors and re-conquered the area for Spain. Legend has it that Boabdil, the last sultan of Granada, cried whilst trudging away from his surrendered land. His mother scolded him, saying “Don’t cry like a woman over what you couldn’t defend like a man.” See full post
Tags: Nature, International
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Catching a whiff of spontaneity in the air, I joined a friend on a trip to Morocco. My ignorance about the country was only surpassed by my excitement to explore it, and packing my most conservative clothing as advised by a travel blog, I hopped on a plane.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik We went to Marrakesh, the largest city in Morocco. The city is essentially divided into the old section and the new section, the old section inside the Medina and the new section radiates from the Medina. Surrounded by walls meant to fortify the city against ancient enemies, the Medina houses the heart of Marrakesh-- teeming with interlocking veins of meandering alleys. Vendors haggle with visitors over the tiniest trinkets to intricately woven rugs beneath the shadow of the Koutoubia Mosque tower. The air is dank with scents of life, mixing smells of everything from the tender lamb rotating on skewers to the donkey droppings in the streets. Above the playing of mock snake-charmers, the haunting intervals of the call to prayer sound throughout the city several times a day, beckoning to the followers of Allah.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik My enjoyment of the vivacity of the open markets and gypsy musicians was only overshadowed in a small way by my observations about Moroccan women. I cannot say for certain what stance involving women is official in Morocco, I can only share my brief observations. Most of the native women, especially the older women, dressed in long, loose clothing. Some of the younger women appeared more “Westernized” (whatever that term is supposed to mean) and dressed in jeans. See full post
Tags: Clothing, International, Language, Religion, Culture
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I don’t know how many people can say they went to a feminist rally/parade in Spain and carried one of the protest figures, but I can.
It began when I saw a poster for what appeared to be a feminist event at my university, but I wasn’t very sure what this implied for the Spaniards. I had no face that popped into my head when I imagined a Spaniard feminist. That soon changed. It was the International Day of Women, (or something like that, I was translating from the poster), and the galegas y galegos (citizens of Galicia) celebrated it right.
 Photo from: http://media.collegepublisher.com/media/paper309/stills/8dfi14o9 Intending to stand back and observe, a woman came up to me and asked me to help carry one of the protest dolls that would be marching at the front of the parade. I was then commanded by another woman to make the doll dance with the drum beats and to chant whatever they were saying in galego. This resulted in me uttering nondescript noises and then yelling the words I did know. See full post
Tags: Language, Events, International
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“Don’t worry, Meg. They’ll get it done, tomorrow. Spain is the Land of Tomorrow,” goes the refrain that a Vigo, Spain, native often recites to me. The pace here is a lot more relaxed than in America, which is frustrating in business matters but soothing in everyday life. People take time to enjoy conversation over dinner. If you ask for a coffee to go (or “para llevar”) the barista may look you up and down and accurately place the “foreigner” label on you.
For me, however, this relaxed style of life proved rewarding when I experienced the calm enjoyment of Spanish Art. While meandering through the Prado in Madrid, the art of Francisco de Goya kept my eyes lingering and my traveling feet planted. Though the Prado is considered a haven for older classic art, Goya’s work showed glints of modern movements, like Expressionism and Surrealism. Despite heritage from “The Land of Tomorrow,” the classically trained Goya did not procrastinate on pushing 18th century art into a new, unexplored realm, perhaps acutely aware of his own mortality. An artist, aware of his inevitable end, realizes his growth, his evolution, is forever ongoing. Immortal evolution in a mortal casing. Even in the “Land of Tomorrow,” everyone’s supply of tomorrows eventually runs dry.
 Photo from: http://www.museodelprado.es/ Over the span of his life, Goya’s art depicts an evolution in his style and social criticism. The commissioned portraiture work from his younger years is characteristically exquisite, though lacking in commentary. I walked by these in the Prado with only a passing glance. Though as he ages, he is still supported by patronage and his work becomes full of personality, both his personality and whomever’s he painted. A prime example is the pair of paintings of “La Maja,” one naked and one clothed (La Maja Desnuda” and “La Maja Vestida”). The clothed painting of this woman bridges on trite. But posing a contrast, seductive power radiates from her face her face in the naked painting. He is not blushing about politics either, instead Goya’s views leak out of the paintbrush and onto the canvas in paintings such as “The Disasters of War” in which a poignant use of color and shading clearly paint the innocent party in white and the antagonists in the ominous shadows. See full post
Tags: Culture, International, Art
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Along with my constantly exploring eyes, Spaniards easily pinpoint me as an American from my manner of dress. I don’t wear the over the calf boots, the skinny jeans or the tights. I don’t own a long shirt or have bangs across my forehead. It’s not for lack of interest in their fashion, I just have a hard time carrying it out.
So I’m still wearing my chucks and jeans as usual, which some Spaniards do actually sport, but combined with other more European styles than a casual sweater like me. They also wear these leather bomber/motorcycle rider jackets. I found a knock off for 25 Euros at a Chinese dollar store (it doesn’t look as cheap as it sounds). Paired with my aviators, you don’t want to mess with me or my American fashion. I like to think the jacket helps me fit in, but you would have to ask a Spaniard.
 Photo from: http://www.studentsurvive.com/images/Mirror%20Aviators I’ve also noticed a lot of Spaniards have facial piercings. Some are ambitious with lip, ear and even nose piercings. Some are a bit more modest with the metal, maybe only a lip ring. I had a leg up on my other American friends on this one. In my nose, shines a silver stud. Spanish fashion-5, Meg-1. See full post
Tags: Culture, International, Clothing
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You hear it on the street, when ordering meat, and looking for shoes to fit your feet. The word in Spain, is "vale." It is pronounced with a soft "b," so it sounds like "bollay.” The Spanish use it almost like a nervous tick. The word pops out of their mouth like expletives from a person with torettes, in the same way an adolescent would use the word “like.” The closest Midwest equivalent, I suppose, would be "Ok." But Midwesterners don't throw this out after every sentence. Vale is almost like a verbal period, an exclamation point or question mark. It can also be an ellipsis when repeated three times "Vale, vale, vale."
 Photo from: http://www.spain-flag.eu/photos/spain-flag The literal translation, is something along the lines of adhering value to something, because the verb infinitive is valor and means "to value." By saying vale, it's like saying "alright" or "sounds good," you place your stamp of approval on something with a rubbery, verbal tick. They even use it as a place holder, sometimes as "ummm."
Here is an example conversation, translated minus the vale:
Me: How do I get to the nearest bus stop?
Consierge: Vale. Take a right? Vale. Then follow the street up, to the right, vale, and you will see it past the cathedral. Vale?
Me: Vale, vale, gracias.
(Usage of vale is shown to scale).
I've started to pick it up, as fake conversation shows, but mostly to pretend that I'm thinking and that I know Spanish very well. Conjugating verbs and recalling vocabulary causes my brain to perform in a clunky way, like a new manual car driver. So, vale fills in. I'm not abandoning that endearing little word though, even when I am perfectly bilingual and smooth on gear shifting. Vale, vale, vale.
See full post
Tags: Language, International, Entertainment
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