From Andalucia to Washington D.C.

I've been in the States for three weeks now. I've jumped from family, to friends, to job interviews and I am only now catching my breath. I left you last in London, where in the midst of my cultural appreciation, I made a decision to live with a wonderful college friend of mine when I got back from Spain. 

One of the things I discovered while in Spain was how much community means to me. So after I had made the decision not to renew my contract I was stuck with a "now what?" The year that was supposed to confirm my desire to teach ESL yet it only confirmed my dislike of the Spanish education system. Not ready to commit to the field or another degree I started looking at entry level jobs all over the country. Let me tell you, the job economy seemed all too prolific for the economic crisis we're in. Overwhelmed, I had no idea how to even narrow things down. So instead of the 'what' I started looking for the 'who'; who could I be near that also lived in a thriving economy, and here I am.

I'm still on that job hunt grind, and I wish I had more to share on that point, but it's going. Once I had my living situation arranged in Spain I felt the paradigm shift. I was free to enjoy the time I had left. And because I'm no Hemingway that could going on a safari and write about it from the back of an elephant, I let my reflection fall to the wayside. 

I won't promise much but I would like to share the rest of my London trip, plus the Valencia/Toledo/Madrid vacation I took with my parents, as well as the quick beach excursion I took with Noemi and Caro.

I am so happy about where I've ended up. And I'm excited to share these D.C adventures with you as well. Even though I'm a bit of a promise breaker, I'll try and keep you posted.

London Chronicles: Naked

As you may have garnered from previous posts, I’m not super comfortable with seeing other people’s skin outside of a pool/beach scenario. However the universe seems to be trying to desensitize me with my various run-ins whilst in Spain be it with a host family, top-less beaches, or advertising. The universe apparently dissatisfied with my progress has now thrown London into the mix as well. So here are three stories for you.

#1

After staying in various hostels, especially in mixed rooms, I've learned the wisdom of a sleep mask and earplugs. Unfortunately that wisdom doesn't get you too far if your earplugs fall out. So I found myself being woken up to the rhonchus sounds from across the room. Only the source wasn't across the room, he was in the middle of the floor. At first I was just confused how anyone could be sleeping while sitting up. How do you not just slump over if you don’t have any support? But my confusion was interrupted to my horror when I noticed in the  moonlight said guy was not wearing a shirt or pants, only this itty-bitty thin tight speedo-esque underwear. And my only thought for a moment was OH DEAR LORD NO! I quickly pulled my mask down and tried to expulse the blighted image from my mind. My inner monologue ranted angrily, This is not your home! This is a mixed room! You are not free to roam about in just your knickers. I don’t know you, we are not friends. I don’t want to see a stranger’s junk!!! Then as if he heard my angry musings, the snoring stopped and I heard his unsteady attempts to get up.  Ah, he was drunk. It made more sense, but then another shot of panic coursed through my body. 

My room reenactment 

The possibilities of the moment started piling up as he made a bumbling attempt to stand. Please don’t throw up on the floor. Please don’t mistake the trashcan as for a toilet, as I had heard happened the night before, and please don’t mistake my bed for yours.  I relapsed into the child mindset of “if I can’t see him he can’t see me,” squeezed my eyes shut, and held my breath as I listened. Victory! He’s climbing up another bunk’s ladder. Crisis averted.  I had lowered my guards, when I heard a shouted whisper, “DUDE WRONG BED.”  OMG Laughter built up in my chest. “DUDE THIS ISN'T YOUR BED”  I peeked from under my sleeping mask to watch the drama unfold.  Drunk guy was balancing on the ladder grabbing at the mattress to pull himself up. The occupant was redirecting him to no avail. Drunk guy plopped down on the bed dazed and not comprehending his unwelcome arrival. I couldn't take it. I turned over and bit my hand to keep from laughing.  Finally the flustered occupant got his friend to leave and drunk guy managed to get into the right bed.  I quietly chuckled, my embarrassment and frustration dissipated, and fell back to sleep.  

#2

Second night: my ear plugs fell out again. This time I was brought out of slumber by a taptaptaptaptaptaptap on the door. However after a few bouts of insistent taps I realize it wasn't our door, it was across the hall.  Absolved from any responsibility I tried to nestle myself back to sleep. Yet just as I was on the brink of success, I heard him again: taptaptaptaptaptaptap taptaptaptaptaptaptap rattlerattle taptaptaptaptaptaptap. I wanted to scream into my pillow. No one was moving in my room and it seemed like no one was coming to this guy’s rescue. Again my inner monologue raged at the disturbance, The doors lock ya numbnut, you’re always supposed to have a key on you. Why can’t you just go downstairs and get a spare key. It’s your own fault for not bringing it with you. STOP TAPPING just freaking knock if you want someone to open the door. I reached my limit. I got up and I stuck my head out the door to tell him to cut it out, when again I was faced with a rather large shirtless, pantless, tiny underwear man. You've got to be kidding me. KEEP YOUR DAG FREAKING CLOTHES ON! Arrested for a moment, I finally manage to tell him to go downstairs to get help since no one had answered the door in the twenty minutes he’d been tapping.  He just looked at me and said, “oh” and walked away. REALLY. REALLY! TWENTY MINUTES AND IT NEVER OCCURRED TO YOU! Having eradicated the disturbance, I slipped back into my bunk jammed my earplugs in, and slept soundly until morning. I still don't get it though, I mean maybe he was embarrassed because he wasn't wearing any clothes and reception was three flights down. But again that’s your own dag-on fault if you choose to leave your room without clothes or a key. Or maybe he was just drunk. But hey sleep deprived Angela ain’t got time for your mess nor your unwelcome bodily exposure.

The Uncertainty of the Poet at Tate Modern

#3:

It’s my last day in London and technically I've not seen any nudity aside from the paintings from the National Gallery and Tate Modern, just a whole lot of  unwanted exposure from my hostelmates. So obviously the Universe need to make one last attempt.  Anyways I’m just walking down the street on my way to see Wicked at Victoria Palace Theatre.  You know I’m looking around taking in all the buildings and the area, excited to see the show when something catches my eye. I think, Hmm, that’s weird; a puddle is forming near that telephone booth. I wonder why? Hindsight: ANGELA, NO! USE YOUR DEDUCTIVE SKILLS. YOU DON’T HAVE TO LOOK! Just think! Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it!  <SlowMo> DOOOONNNTTT DOOOOOO ITTTTT </Slowmo>. And then my eyes were burned. Aghast I jerked my gaze away. I did not need to see a homeless man’s genitalia. Nope. But there it was. I mean COME ON! Its broad daylight! This telephone booth was not an obscure corner or some back alley! IT WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SIDEWALK!!!  IT HAD SEE-THROUGH DOORS!!  I’m pretty sure the homeless guy’s buddy was laughing at me as I hurried away, but that could have been my imagination.

UNIVERSE STAHHHP. I've had enough of your sass -_-

London Chronicles: The Great Mishap

Right out the gate and its time for a horrific (for me) European travel story:

Now I've always been a procrastinator, however my time in Spain may or may not be exacerbating that fact. So considering I had a flight to London tonight means... I packed this morning. In my defense I'm a light packer and pretty low maintenance. Although I will acknowledge that my decision to stay up late doing last minute research may have harmed rather than helped me (long term effects are still to be determined).

Yet this morning was actually chill. I got my stuff together, stopped by a chino to get some earplugs and sleeping mask, and then headed over to Raícesp for a theology class. (Which I found fascinating; we looked at the different streams of Christianity since the Protestant reformation.) We ran long like I expected, so I printed my bus tickets there and just went straight to the bus station. No problem. In fact it was even better. I had forgotten I bought a supra bus ticket so my seat was cushy and spacious and no one was yaking up a storm the whole time.

Once we got to Malaga, we made an unexpected detour at the bus station instead of going directly to the airport, which threw me for a loop. Everyone seemed to be getting off and I nervously looked around to see if anyone was staying. Thankfully I wasn't the only one, so I kept my cool and sure enough we were on our way again.

Por fin the airport was in sight. I got my bags and headed to a bench to orient myself. I had rearranged my bag so I could fit everything in one according to RyanAir regulation. But when I went to take out my boarding pass to have it in hand, all I found were my printed bus tickets.

No.

I had left my boarding pass in my school bag. At the apartment. In Granada. Two and a half hours away.

Noooooo

I was flying with RyanAir, notoriously the most unforgiving and unaccomodating airline that is in existence.

Nooooooooooo.

I was ready to cry.

However I started praying under my breath to keep myself from hyperventilating until I could confirm I had no hope. My specs were not looking good. I had seen computers but never printers at airports so I started drawing up a back up plan. I could go back into the city to find a place to print... but it was in my email not on a flash drive. My breathing became more harried. First things first: find an information desk. But once I explained myself, the woman only delivered bad news. Not only was there no place to print in the airport but I could only print the tickets up to 6 hours before the flight departed. My back up plan needed a back up plan.

My heart sank. She recommended I go talk to Ryan Air to figure it all out. In full battle mode. I scoured the airport seeing different airlines' check-ins and their printers mocking me as I mentally composed desperate pleas to let me print from them. I found the Ryan Air office. Closed. My chest tightened. However they were loading luggage. So I waited anxiously in line to speak with a representative not knowing what I could even bargain for. When I was finally up to bat, I started to make my move, but I got the hold-on signal from the lady. Of frickin course. Precious time was slipping through my grasp. She got on her radio, checked the computer, talked to her co worker, all the while I'm practicing my breathing like I'm in labor.

Then she motioned me over and she spoke in English. Praise. The. Lord. Just the break I needed to calm down. I cut the excuses and just laid it out there.
-I don't have my tickets
Where to?
-Stansted.
When?
-8:30
You need to go to the computers past Starbucks and print there, but you need to go now. We have a 4 hour limit before boarding

I was flabbergasted. The airport had a printer! It was 4 hours not 6! ....Hold up! Info lady from before needs to get her mess together! (I know, I know, my fault not hers but ooo I was heated).

At this point I run. I didn't know the time and didn't care to check. All I knew was Ryanair lady told me to go, so I was getting to going. I found the computers. There was only one with a printer. Still amped on adrenaline I only notice the minutes. It's 26 past the hour, I may or may not only have 4 minutes to print this out. First attempt: failure. It printed a screen shot instead of my pass. Second attempt: I tasted the sweet relief of success.

Turns out I did have an hour to get it printed, but I didn't care. I just walked over to a table and put my head down thankful but still reeling from the possibilities of missing my flight. My dad would have killed me or at least the emanation of his frustration across ocean would have beaten me into a hole. I would have been so embarrassed and upset. I almost couldn't believe I had been that forgetful. Almost.

What makes this situation a little bit more painful is that this was not the first time this has happened. I was 14 and going to El Salvador when on the morning of the flight I had the bright idea of trying out a different bag just hours before I left. I decided to stick with the original bag, but had left my passport in the other one. Unfortunately I couldn't just print out another passport. I ended up having my brother speed from Poquoson to the Norfolk airport in 40 minutes to get it to me right as we had to go through security.

I can be so unbelievably empty headed, its not even funny, but hey here's to life experiences. So praise the Lord for the bus schedule getting me there super early, having a Ryan Air lady who cut to the chase, and an available printer at the airport. Jesus, please dear lord, help me not be a knucklehead while I'm in London.

*Dad if you're reading this, let me remind you that the important thing is everything worked out.*

Semana Santa in... Egypt?

I know, I know. Semana Santa was how long ago? Well my post about it turned into a book so I  decided to scrap it and highlight some snippets of the strange and wonderful about my trip in Egypt.

Sarah, Kelly, and I showing some UVA love at the pyramids

First things first; Cairo is dirty. There’s no getting around it. Being so lucky to be built right to a desert, dust covers everything. When we first drove in, I thought that all the buildings were just painted brown or made from brown materials. NOPE. I realized I was mistaken when I eventually saw some rare streaks of blue and orange paint peaking through its top coat layers of dust. Also it’s dirty in the sense that trash pick-up doesn't seem to be a priority, so there’s liter in the street. However sanitation wasn't a huge culture shock considering I live in a country where dogs freely defecate in streets without any pick up. And of course, I never step into puddles.

Ladies only optional metro car

Traffic is CRAY. So there’s all this cheap public transportation, from taxis, to metros, and microbuses. The metro actually has segregated cars on the metro just for women, which was surprising reassuring to only be with women. Microbuses are exactly that: Mini tiny buses that fit 8 people but manage to fit into back alleys and tight spots. But real kickers are pedestrians. Crosswalks are practically non-existent because when travelling by foot you walked straight into 4 LANES OF MOVING TRAFFIC to cross to the other side. Seriously it’s just NBD, you don’t run and you don’t hesitate. It’s kind of amazing how nonchalant and fluid pedestrians can become walking amidst the cars.  However the microbuses will take you down, so we had to watch out for those.

Cat-calling/male attention: I dressed conservatively (long sleeves in high 80s) to respect the culture and admittedly to avoid attention. However even if I had worn a burqa, as long as I didn't have a man escorting me, I was fair game. (Interestingly enough a reporter dressed up as woman for an experiment in street harassment.) In Spain we have piropos but they are nowhere near the extent of Egypt. Thankfully for me I didn't understand most of what was being called out, but I did get called sugar and brown eyes. I didn't feel threatened and most of it rolled off my back, but I can completely understand how oppressive all the unwanted and unasked attention could surmount to be.

These girls asked to take pictures with us at the citadel.
They were hilarious. 

4.Vendors. Due to the revolution, political unrest, and overall media image of Egypt, tourists seem to have chosen to vacation elsewhere. Therefore as a tourist it felt like I had a big 'ol sign over my head that said, “Please Harass Me. When I say 'No,' I’m just playing hard to get.” False.  I realize that I am a probable source of income when I’m walking through the market, but the more someone tries to coerce me the more I just want to leave.  Funny thing about the 

Khan el-Khalili (one of the major markets) is almost everything that was being sold there I could get in Moorish markets behind Plaza Bibramblas in Granada.

Camel Market

Anyways despite these little blurbs, I had a fantastic time. For me my trip was less about being a tourist and more about spending time with my friends. I hadn't seen most of them since graduation last May and it was so good to see familiar faces. However because of their schedules I didn't get to hang out with the seven of them all together too much, but I did spend get lots of one-on-one quality time aka my love language. Kelly and Sarah did an amazing job of showing me around and letting me experience their life with them. Going to see them was such a good decision. I felt completely refreshed and encouraged coming back to Spain, even if it only took a day for my kids to start driving me crazy again.