The Netherlands Part 2

Until I reached the Madrid International Airport, I thought that sleeping there was not allowed. I thought they would kick out anyone who dozed off, like in a public library. I was wrong. There were people all over the place- against every pillar and in every corner of the lobby. I arrived near my entry point around 1:30 am for my 6:00 am flight so I had a lot of time to kill. The checkin counters had not yet opened. I sat in the cafe (where most of the tables were occupied) and wrote about the first leg of the journey in my notebook as I munched on the chocolate donuts I had bought in Spain.

I tried to sleep because I wanted the next three hours to pass quickly. I was tired, but not tired enough to fall asleep. My chosen corner was probably as perfect as possible. It was shaded, unlike other places where the lights would have beamed directly in my face. But it didn't matter. I couldn't sleep on that floor. I envied the dozens of people in the hall who somehow managed.

Ryanair touts itself as a budget airline, and they're not kidding. I was not assigned a seat- you choose your own like on a Greyhound bus. There are no complimentary refreshments. There is no in-flight entertainment, not even a little stereo built into the armrest. Everything about the cabin was pretty much identical to every other airline I've ever used. Only the chair couldn't lean back. Maybe it could, but I couldn't find a button for it. The only amenity was the free Ryanair magazine, which was quite entertaining. It gave me some good ideas for other places to go.

I expected to be landing at a large international airport like Madrid. I was planning to take the train from there. Actually, I wound up at a smaller airport more like Pamplona. It was not Brussels. It was Brussels Charleroi. I showed the guy at the information desk my itinerary. He told me to take the bus, and wrote the stops for me on the paper. It turned out I would have to make two more stops than I expected. From now on, I'll make sure I make sure the names match exactly, as it seems that big cities sometimes have more than one airport.

When I reached the train station, I had no idea what to do. None of the names on the platforms matched the names on my itinerary. I went to one window, and showed the guy my itinerary. It turns out I was at the bus window, and I needed to go to a different one for the trains. I conjectured that from his motions and tone of voice. I did not understand a single word from his directions, but he spoke to me in French as if I did. Many of the people from my bus got on one train so I jumped on too, guessing that it must be the right one. I didn't see any place to buy a ticket so I just boarded the train figuring you pay on board like the bus.

Thanksgiving in Spain

I'll continue the story of my travels in Holland, but first I want to fill you in on Thanksgiving.

You might be wondering if Spanish people celebrate Thanksgiving. Actually, they don't. School and work continued like any other day yesterday. Luckily I did not have any real class anyway- just a week-long class about volunteer work. I ran into two people I know (one from church and one from class) as I walked through campus yesterday on the way to the Velts' house. Neither one of them knew it was Turkey Day. There is a translation for Thanksgiving Day, but it's kind of a mouthful- Dia de Accion de Gracias.

A lady at church told me about the Velts, an American missionary family. She thought it would be nice for me to hang out with them because I an American as well. I hung out at their house twice in the following month. Then on Tuesday Jodi, the mother, called me to invite me over for an authentic American Thanksgiving feast.

The food was great. I never touch mashed potatoes voluntarily, but they looked so good I took a spoonful (which prompted, one of the daughters, Amber, to remark, "You got enough potatoes there, Brendan?"). I had six things on my plate this time instead my usual two or three. Thanksgiving is never a meal I really look forward to. I guess I was so fed up with bocadillos (sandwhiches) that I was thrilled to see something else. That being said, the food was a real treat.

I enjoyed the conversation (entirely in English) just as much. One of the guests teaches English to elementary school students. My dad has struggled to keep kids under control who understand him. According to Katie, it is near impossible to keep her Spanish students' attention. Jodi and Kelly, who was also there with her family, had their own horror stories about trying to teach in Spain.

Luke Velt is a funny guy. I can't remember how this came up, but he gave me some marriage advice. He said, "Find out what a woman wants to do, and make her do it." I had to think for a few seconds to process that. Then I responded, "But that doesn't make any sense. If a woman really wanted to do something, you wouldn't have to make her do it." Apparently common sense doesn't really apply here. Luke said that you have to make them do it. The last piece of advice I remember was from the main speaker at a Crusade retreat last year- "Guys, when you get married, you need to learn to say 'I'm sorry' even if you don't know what you're sorry for." Jodi seemed to think that was ridiculous. She laughed loudly when I said that I want to write all this stuff down.

Then the party moved to the living room area, which is actually the same room as the dining room. We talked about running for a little while. I had learned about an annual 5k foot race on New Year's Eve in Pamplona. Luke said that they require to be half drunk before the gun goes off, and you couldn't pay him enough to run it. He said that a lot of people run it in costume because Spaniards will dress in costume for any occasion. I just couldn't stop laughing as I tried to picture dozens of drunk Spaniards in various costumes running a five kilometer race in the center of Pamplona on New Year's Eve. I really hope to be outside of Spain at that time this year, but it sounds like a good time to me! Then the Velts and the other family exchanged airport security horroe stories and anecdotes about traveling with children, which were also entertaining.

I skipped both my class and the Thursday night church service to watch football at Scott and Kelly's place. I was watching it with three Michiganites who were of course rooting for the Lions, whom the Packers slaughtered. Luke said that the Lions somehow manage to be a bad team year after year after year. I didn't particularly care who won. Kelly put out chips, cheese, taco meat, tortillas, cheddar cheese, potato wedges, Rice Krispie treats, and Oreos for us to devour during halftime so I was happy.

It was one of the best Thanksgivings ever. It easily beats all four Thanksgivings in Florida. It ranks somewhere near Thanksgiving 2002 at a UCLA sorority house (no, the girls were not there) and the one where we went camping. Was that 1999? 2000? Something like that. I can't remember.

The Netherlands part 1

I have experienced quite a day. After I left the campus at 11, I had only a couple hours to hang up my wet clothes, wash and dry another load, eat lunch, find a hostess gift, work out some last minute details, and pack my backpack.
I left my apartment at about 1:30 to pick up a kabob for me and a gift for my host, whoever it may be. I was hoping to find some kind of fancy Spanish candy. El Corte Ingles, a department store, did not have anything affordable that looked good. Everything else was closed for the siesta not to reopen until 4:30, when my bus was scheduled to depart. I brainstormed desperately dreading the thought of walking hope empty-handed (except for my kabob) only to walk all the way back to the same area.
I finally spotted an open gourmet store across the street from El Corte Ingles that looked promising. I told the lady that I need a gift- something typical of Spain- for about ten euros. She knew exactly what to do. Instead of pushing me to spend twelve euros, she showed me a box of carmels for six and a half. She even wrapped it in nice tissue paper and wrapped a string around it. I couldn't stop saying, "Perfecto! Muchas Gracias!" (Perfect! Thank you very much!)
I made it to the bust stop fifteen minutes early, my backpack stuffed to the gills. The bus stop had just opened. It might have been the first day, actually. I'm not sure. It is beautiful, like Madrid's airport- a far cry from the vagrant magnets in the United States. The bus was equally impressive. There was a little tray on the seat in front of me and a place to plug in my headphones, just like on an airplane (though I could only pick up two channels). The headrest felt very nice. I would like to see the same concave design on all planes, trains, and buses.
Upon arriving in Madrid, I met up with Zac and his "friend-almost-girlfriend" Valentina. We walked around for a while. At my suggestion we ate at a little bar that did not allow us to sit at the table with our food and drinks. I showed them that was a mistake by spilling my hot chocolate all over the bar and my khaki pants. I did not want to change my pants, but I changed at the airport once it sunk in how ridiculous I looked.

Erasmus Party

You might be tired of reading my ranting about what I cannot do in Spain. But before I go into the details of the Erasmus party, I have to do it once more. In Gainesville, if you want some kind of dessert, there is a Krispy Kreme open twenty-four hours, a Ben and Jerry's open until at least eleven, a McDonald's open until at least eleven, and countless other options. Here in Pamplona, the only thing you can buy after ten o'clock, even on a big party night like Thursday, is alcohol.

The students who came to UPNA through Erasmus, a university exchange program for Europe, hold a party pretty much every Thursday. I tried to attend one of them about a month ago. The flyer said "a partir de las 22:00" (opens at 10:00) I showed up at 10:40 thinking I was late. I entered the bar only to find a group of four guys I did not know. I talked to the bartender until almost 11:30, when I got tired of waiting and left. After that, the invitations read "a partir de las 24h." I guess the bartenders were tired of waiting too.

It was not a complete waste of time. I enjoy meeting a variety of people. The bar itself is tiny, but pretty cool. There is a lot of walls artwork on the walls of a style that I have seen before in the States. Too bad the bar is too dark to really see it.

I walked into the bar at about 12:10 last night. I didn't recognize any of the twelve people or so mingling. I left and walked around the empty dark downtown streets again hoping to find some other sign of life. When I reentered around 12:25, I found a girl I recognized from my Spanish language class. Her name is Ladia, I think. It was so loud in the bar that she had to punch it into her cell phone so I could understand. Everyone seemed to walk in at the same time at about 12:32. Pretty much the entire bar was a dance floor, but only if you wanted it to be. The three types of people there- drinkers, the dancers, and those who were drinking while dancing- were all pretty well mixed up.

I talked to Ladia a little bit, a guy from Sweden, and a Spanish student who was not with Erasmus, but really wanted me to hook him up with an American girl. As you can see in the picture, it was packed. Getting to another part of the bar was quite a chore so I tried to stay in one place and dance a little bit. It seemed that most everyone couldn't dance any better than I could. That made it much easier. Half the students in the bar were probably too plastered to notice anyway. A few of them were smoking too. It blows my mind that Spain has a life expectancy of eighty years now. It is a miracle that all of Spain doesn't have lung cancer- or all of Europe for that matter, given that at least three quarters of the smokers were not Spanish.

One Adventure Leads to Another

I have not read a whole book in English since August so I thought it was time to pick one up. Neither the university's library nor the public library have much. I looked around for a used bookstore downtown, but I did not find one that looked big enough to carry a few English books. I wound up buying a copy of Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls in a department store. The story is set in Spain, and he supposedly wrote it here in Pamplona so it was a good choice.

I did not really another book, but I was still determined to find a good used bookstore after class yesterday. I had to visit the tourism office anyway, which is in the same area. My search was fruitless once again- at least in the used bookstore department. I did not accomplish my mission, but I had a ton of fun riding up and down the bumpy streets, dodging the oncoming vehicles, and pedestrians. I had been through the neighborhood several times, but never enjoyed it as much as I did yesterday. It really fits my image of a European town (I'll post a picture here later). The cobblestone streets are very narrow and filled with people. It can be frustrating trying to avoid a collision at times, but the area feels really dead when the streets are empty.

I noticed a few stores and bakeries that I somehow missed on my previous excursions. There were a couple spots where something smelled really good. Tracing its source is rather difficult. I found a good bakery by sight. A small independent bakery (unfortunately chain grocery stores and bakeries monopolize the market here as well) had some great looking chocolate chip muffins in the window. I only had ninety cents on me, but the muffins looked kind of small- about the same size as a typical cupcake- so I figured they should cost less than that. I waited in line for at least five minutes to find that it would cost 1,04€. I apologized and turned to leave, but the lady gave it to me for ninety cents. It was the best cholocolate chip muffin I had eaten since our favorite place in California closed down at least eight years ago. I will definitely return to that bakery for more muffins, and maybe even some of those good-looking cookies.

Church in Spain

I knew there was something important I wanted to write about, but it slipped from my mind until last night. I don't know how- after all, it is the very thing that brought me to Pamplona in the first place!

The "Parroquia Cristiana Evangelica" is different from Gator Christian Life in several ways, but I'm proud to report that the people here love me just as much as my beloved friends in Gainesville even when they barely knew me. I still miss my Gainesville friends dearly, but my Spanish friends make it more bearable.

I met this guy named JuanJo back in March. I mentioned him in my last post. He is a true man of God with a godly family as well. Dom, Christine, Allison, and I had the privilege of dining with his family during our mission trip. I sat next to him and talked to him for a couple hours. That was all my experience with him. He barely knew me when I arrived here, and he doesn't know me extremely well even now. Nevertheless, when he saw me for the first time at church (I don't know whether or not he knew I was coming), he was overjoyed- at least as thrilled as my parents when I reunite with them. He spouted questions faster than I could answer them "How are you?" "Are you studying here?" "How long will you be here?" The ecstatic expression on his face will be forever etched into my memory.

Dani, another friend I made in March, is four years older than me and works as a mechanic in a factory. I asked him about living in his apartment, but it was too expensive so I found another place and never told him about my decision. I still feel kind of bad about that. If that phased him, he has not shown it all. He very willingly picks me up from my apartment and drops me off. On my second Saturday night here, he and another friend Jonathon rung my apartment and asked me if I wanted to eat dinner with the youth group from the church. I wondered how they knew which apartment I live in. Actually, they didn't know; they rang four apartments before mine. I was really touched by that.

The church as whole feels much different from anywhere I've been before. Apparently the church's doctrine is Baptist, but the services are far more charismatic, like a Pentecostal church. The services are very worship-centered and about twice as long as GCL's. This is not in any way bad; it is just different. It has required some adjusting on my part. On my third Saturday here, the service ran over two hours and forty-five minutes. There was at least an additional half an hour of worship at the end. I felt like a dud in the midst of such passionate people, and I had a difficult time concentrating on God with this spectacle in front of me. There were people at the front of the room in every posture imaginable. There were a few lying on the floor. It reminded me of the services on TV.

They certainly display their passion for Christ during the worship services, but they funnel this passion into their daily lives as well. JuanJo is just one example, albeit a good one. Felix mentioned during spring break that the pastor's sons, Josué and Joel, are two young men who are really living for God. I've had the privilege of talking with both of them quite a bit over the past month. I'd really like to get to know them better. I already have some great role models in my life, but it never hurts to have a couple more.

Weekly Conversations about One Thing.

At least two people every week ask me how I'm doing with my Spanish. I don't really mind answering the same question at least twice every week, but I think they could probably answer that question better than I could if they would just ask me something else and then evaluate the quality of my answer themselves. My answer is usually, "Esta mejorando (it's improving)." I never know what else to say.
One of the guys who asks me that question nearly every week is JuanJo, one of the nicest guys I've ever met in my life. He asked me the question again after church last night. I told him that it's difficult to understand my professors, yada yada.
Then Felix, the founder of the church and Dom's father-in-law, walked up. He always talks to me in English, probably because I'm the only chance he ever has to practice his English. Then JuanJo objected, "No no no! You can't speak English! He's here to learn Spanish! You have to speak Spanish!" I actually cannot remember whether he said that in English or Spanish. Felix asked me if I understood his sermon, which I did. It was about our dependency on God. I was very proud of myself for understanding nearly all of it. He is probably the easiest pastor to understand.
Once I filled them in on my liguistical progress, JuanJo told Felix that I'm living with Spanish nonbelieving students, and that it's a good thing because I can be a light to them. Felix asked me what I think about the youth in Spain. I told him that everyone just likes to drink, and there are no alternatives. His response kind of surprised me. He told me that the United States is still sort of a city of God, but that Spain is nearly completely lost. There is so much talk in GCL about UF being spiritually dead that I had never thought of my homeland as a godly place. But he was right, and I'll tell you why in another blog. He reminded me that I am light out here for the other students. I had heard the same thing before from several people over the past few months, but it was especially encouraging to hear it directly from the big guy.
My Spanish education wasn't quite done yet- after I explained what I thought about my counterparts in Spain, JuanJo remarked, "Habla muy bien!" or "He speaks very well." He sounded genuinely impressed. That also encouraged me, but in a different way. My Spanish is always hit or miss. It is easy to speak with somebody I'm comfortable with, like Juanjo, Felix, or the other college students in the church. My professors and classmates are patient with me as well. I have the hardest time when I talk to somebody in a store (they're often the least patient and understanding). When I talk to my roommates about cooking and don't know a word or two, I completely stumble. But my roommate and people from the church have told me that I have improved so I know I'm getting somewhere. If nothing else, answering the same questions about my Spanish over and over reminds me that I should be constantly working on it.

Writer's Block

I can't think of anything interesting to write about at the moment so I thought I'd write about how I can't think of anything interesting to write about. Aaron Shust does pretty much the same thing with his song "Give Me Words to Speak," and I think it turned out quite well. I found a copy of Orange County, one of my favorite movies, at a supermarket today for five euros (luckily the DVD's here have English audio tracks as well). It tells the story of high school senior who asprires to be a writer. I was reinspired today.

One thing I love to do in my spare time is watch movie trailers on apple.com- especially here, since all the movies in Spanish theaters are dubbed with Spanish voices that sound strange to me. I've seen a couple good trailers in the last couple weeks- The Music Within, Black Irish, and August Rush. Sometimes I watch the Pride and Prejudice trailer just for fun. (Most of you know my taste in books and movies is a little strange so I don't think I'm embarrassing myself any more than I already have by making this public.) I really want to write something inspiring like these movies.

But I have a little problem- I have no idea what to write about. Many writers do it the easy way and write about their own lives, but I don't think my life is interesting enough that anyone would want to watch it in a movie or read about it. At least not yet. Then again, do I have to experience something to write about it? I think it helps, but Jane Austen managed to write a bunch of love stories while she remained a bachelorette her entire life. Perhaps she just had a vivid imagination.

I'd really like to read a novel in English to spark my imagination, but they are difficult to find in Spain. As soon as I get to a bookstore in England, I am going to go crazy. Until then, I have my history books in Spanish and my Bible in English. I think a story about the apostles would be cool. There is something awesome about Paul traveling all over Europe preaching the Word. Maybe I can write a modern version of Acts, though that has probably been done. I don't know. I'll think of something, and I might even post the opening chapter right here.

Spanish food

In my last entry I touched on food a little bit, but I have quite a few interesting food stories so I think it deserves more attention.

In the United States, you can look at a resaurant and know exactly what they serve just by hearing the name or quickly glancing at the exterior. Over here, it's not so easy. Everything is called a "bar." Even places that we would call a restaurant or coffee shop, they label a "bar." It confuses me when I'm looking for something to eat and all I can find are bars. One trick I've learned for finding actual food is to look for Coca-Cola signs.

Pamplona seems to be the least diverse city I've ever lived in ethnically and culturally speaking so I guess it makes sense that the restaurants all look pretty much the same. Most of the ones I've visited serve bocadillos (sandwhiches) and platos combinados (literally, combination plates with meat and a side item). One of my roommates told me that different bars serve different things, but I still can't see any difference. Maybe it just takes time to get to know the places.

I'm not a huge fan of Spanish food so I started making American food that I never made for myself back in Gainesville. I made french toast for one of my roommates once because she shared her tortilla (omelette) with me on her first night here. "Mucha grasa," she said as she watched me dip the bread in the egg and then drop it into the melted butter on the frying pan. I never thought of french toast as an unhealthy dish. I thought that whole wheat bread is healthy, donuts are bad, and french toast is just normal. She had told me a couple times that she thinks Americans are unhealthy. This is coming from the girl who eats Frosted Flakes for breakfast and adds chocolate poweder to the milk as if the cereal itself does not have enough sugar.