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There is not a stick of premade cookie dough to be found in the entirety of Oxford.
I know this because yesterday I really wanted to make cookies. Being on a strict student budget, I didn't want to have to buy every ingredient (flour, sugar, baking soda, salt) and then only use a little of it, leaving the rest to grow stale in the cupboards of the kitchen. So of course, what would any red-blooded American do? Turn to the genius of Pillsbury in the form of our saviour, Poppin Fresh. I soon realized the errors of my ways, howerver, when I went to Tesco, Sainsbury's, Marks & Spencer... and came up empty-handed. I was finally directed to a specialty delicatessen in the Covered Market called Palms, which the lady at M&S promised had "imported American delicacies." When I asked the lady for premade cookie dough or something like it, she pointed me to a single shelf, which held... cake mix. Betty Crocker cake mix. (Which, apparently, you also cannot find easily in England.) It occured to me at that moment that when I said "premade cookie dough," they thought I was talking about a dry mix. (What a dark, cruel country this is, not to have Pillsbury cookie dough to offer to its children to eat straight out of the packet.) Realizing my search had ended in futility, I instead bought another American food group that has been missing from my life--Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Nothing has contributed more to the waistline of the American child from coast to coast than this mix of neon-orange preservatives and simple carbohydrates.
Spring has hit Oxford like a sledgehammer. It's as if while I was away on my four-week spring break, England suddenly realized, "Right-o--better get along with spring" and burst into blossom. Everywhere I go, trees are flowering, warm breezes blowing, lambs prancing around pastures. This, of course, has led to a widespread sense of joy in the English people. The day I came into Oxford, when it was mid-60's and partly cloudy, I counted no fewer than five men walking down the street with their shirts off. For the British female, warm weather means sundresses and skirts. Holy crap, are there a lot of skirts. Whenever I look out the window onto High Street, I feel as if the whole women's movement never happened because almost none of the girls I see are in pants or shorts. Considering the fact that I live in jeans, this makes me stick out like a sore thumb.
I have never seen a society as in love with the sunshine as that in Oxford. In Northern California, we are all giddy for about the first week that it turns warm, and then settle in for the long, harsh, climbing-upward-to-low-110's summer, when the grass turns brown and dry with the heat and a simple lemonade stand by the road will turn the profit of a small NGO on a hot August day. But here, people seem never to get tired of it. Instead, they stream out of their houses and litter themselves like potato-chip bags across Christ Church Meadows. They even seem to forget the emphasis they all put on privacy here and lie on blankets to make out voraciously with their significant other, even in the presence of strangers. As one book I read said, you can only be truly British if you agree with the phrase "I am a different person when the sun comes out." My answer to this before my winter in Oxford would have been, "When the sun comes out? As opposed to... what? Nighttime?" But now I finally understand the sense of being cooped up over a long, hard winter, praying every day as you check the 10-day forecast on weather.com for the temps to climb. "Please," you seem to bargain with the screen. "Make the high at least 60-something! I'll give blood if you do!" Still, I feel as if deep in my core, I am at heart a Californian--the people around me seem to act like children, frolicking around as if they cannot believe their good fortune. I want to go up to them and say, "Dude, it's only the sun!"
Suffice it to say, though, that when I returned to Oxford, I almost didn't recognize it. What's this--greenery on the trees? People actually walking on the path next to the river? No puddles to dodge when I'm wearing my jeans that have a tendency to drag on the ground? During our first-weekend field trip to the Lake District, I came onto the bus wearing my heavy tweed jacket, and my British professor laughed at me. "Francie!" he said. "You're still dressed as if it was winter!" I guess now I just connect Britain with coldness and can't get out of that mindset. I brought almost nothing with me that is suited to anything below freezing--about three t-shirts, one light sweater, and that's about it. I was forced to buy flip-flops and capris in Spain just because I looked ridiculous, all wrapped up in my scarves and coat. (Look at me---claiming that I am still American in my nonchalence about warm weather, and yet devoting a good portion of my entry to discussing it. I think I am becoming more British than I may realize.)
And now that we're talking about spring break, I guess I should go into that, shouldn't I? In order for you all to not have to spend half a day reading my blog, I am going to do it in short, reader-friendly format, with a quick rehash of each place we went and a grade for the experience. (Look at me--I'm already prepared for a teaching position.)
PARIS: This was my first stop, but not Genevieve's and Kelly's. They had spent the week before in London, but I had to finish up my finals and, since I live about an hour away from London and had been there many times during the term, I didn't feel the need to "do" London, as they did. My British Airways flight to Paris was 2.5 hours late--keep in mind that the entire flight there takes about 40 minutes. I hate travelling alone, because whenever I do, something always seems to go wrong. I thought the lateness would be it, but I also almost didn't get off the RER train in time at Gare du Nord, and then my bag wouldn't fit through the Metro ticket wicket, driving me close to tears. I hate being in a country in which I don't really speak the language--I feel like an illiterate five-year-old, completely dependant on others.
Our hostel in Paris was this cramped, tiny little room at the very basement of this crappy hostel, and although the receptionist claimed it had "a shower," it was the tiniest shower I have ever seen and in no way disconnected from the room. There was a line of about three tiles and then--boom!--the shower. It was also absolutely FREEZING in Paris, so most nights, we were miserably cold. ("I love Paris in the springtime," my ass.) Genevieve got sick in the middle of our stay there, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of our room. I was reading "Angela's Ashes" during this time and kept thinking, "This is my life right now." Never mind that our bed wasn't infested with fleas or that our father wasn't drinking away his wages on Guinness--I felt as if we were living in similar squalor, and no one really cared. Add this to the fact that the hall outside our room was being redone and we breathed in the fumes of drywall every time we had to climb the four separate staircases to reach the ground level, and you'll see what I mean.
Still, Paris was gorgeous. We were able to visit Sacre Couer (this beautiful white church on a hill in Montmarte overlooking the city) and the Jardin du Luxembourg (where my dad proposed to my mom), as well as many eat many pate sandwiches, coo over cute little dogs being pulled along on jewelled leashes, and be seranded with accordions playing "La Vie en Rose." I don't think you can have a bad time in Paris, even when your roommate is coughing up phlegm and you're doubled over with cold, even while wearing a winter coat, scarf, and mittens. GRADE: B.
MADRID: Madrid was the biggest surprise to all of us. All of the guidebooks kind of gloss over it, claiming that Seville is more charming and Barcelona funkier and cooler. We were going there because it was the easiest Spanish city to fly into from Spain, and booked only two nights there. But I think in the end, it was my favorite city. The people were friendly and helpful and would speak Spanish with Kelly and me, even though it was apparent that we were tourists. The city held a wealth of cool places to go to and a bumping nightlife, and yet it felt small and welcoming, what with the efficient subway system that was absolutely spotless and easy-to-use. It was also the first time since about October that I had been in a relatively warm and sunny climate, and we shed our heavier layers like a butterfly shaking off its chrysalis. The hostel we had the first night was right smack dab in the middle of the town and nightlife, and had amazing bathroom facilities. The one we stayed at the other night was a little weird, but still better than our Paris digs. I would really like to go back to see Guernica and tour the Royal Palace there. Overall, it was wonderful. Grade: A.
SEVILLE: I couldn't hate Seville if I tried because of the most important reason--Liz was there! My childhood friend Elizabeth Gray, whose dad has been friends with my dad since they were in preschool together, is studying at Seville until the summer and was able to meet up with us quite a number of times. Seville was also, as the guidebooks all say, so pretty--it was like the Disneyland version of Spain! Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping up cobblestone streets, bright flamenco dresses in shop windows, even the smell of orange blossoms permeating the air (which actually seemed strange, because I associate that smell so strongly with my grandparents' house in Phoenix, where I usually spend my spring breaks, because their house was built in the middle of this huge orange grove, and each April you can't escape the heady smell of orange blossoms as the trees turn a starry white.) It had so many quaint, picturesque neighborhoods and also a great nightlife. We were in a hostel that was in the Triana neighborhood, across the river from the center of town, but it was a very walkable city.
The only real drawback to it was that they were doing road construction on the pedestrian walkways while we were there--more road construction than I have ever seen in my life in one place. Liz said it was because Semana Santa (the Holy Week before Easter) was coming up, when masses of tourists descend on the town like locusts, and they wanted to finish it for that. But the road construction did bring something good with it--catcalling construction workers! Kelly and I kept laughing about it, because we both agreed that we had never actually experienced the stereotype before. It was a bit jarring after England, where boys are polite to the point of ignoring you on the street and you wonder why you are even bothering to put makeup on in the morning. (Of course, this is not true with everyone--I warned my roommate this term to not expect any action in the Land of Sexually Frigid Boys, as Kelly calls it, and she came in the second night from a bar with a guy's number scribbled on a napkin.) But it would always take me about 10 seconds to realize they were shouting "bella" or "hola, chica" at ME, at which I would simply blush and smile shyly at them. It's not like any of them were Brad Pitt (or Jake Gyllenhaal, for that matter,) but catcalling is the one area of feminism I can't agree with. I like it when boys do it. I don't feel offended or like "a piece of meat." They are just trying to be nice. We especially have to soak it up while we're young. Liz always rolled her eyes, but she has just gotten used to the adoration. ;)
The best part of Seville was the Royal Palace there, especially the gardens. I can't even describe them, they were so beautiful and peaceful--"almost like the zoo," my sister said, "except without the animals." But that same feeling of immensely tall shade trees and pleasant, sun-dappled nooks. Grade: B+.
BARCELONA: I don't really want to go into Barcelona. It was not funky, cool, hip, or any of the other outdated terms the guidebooks used for it. It was just a chaotic, nasty mess. The area we were staying was right in tourist land, so there were rows upon rows of stores that I could visit in England (H&M, Puma, McDonald's even), and I felt as if we weren't even in a foreign country. (Of course, that didn't keep us from frequenting Starbucks twice a day. Starbucks is one of the few international chains that I like--no matter where you go in the world, it is always comforting to see that circular green sign and settle down into a faux-purple-velvet chair while blowing on your latte to cool it.)
There was an incredibly nasty maid in the hostel. We had been told when we checked in that we would have to be out of our rooms from 12 to 2 for cleaning, which we agreed to. However, at around 11, this maid would come in and throw open the shutters, then proceed to shake us awake, chattering away in Spanish that did not sound like, "Get up and greet the dawn, my sweets." They also had those kind of showers that turn off every 15 seconds if you don't continue to push in the water control. I hate these showers. The only time I ever encountered them before was once in a pool changing room. In this case, they are perfectly fine, since all you really want in that case is to wash the chlorine off you before going home. But for your daily shower? A constant stream of warm water is one of the most basic human rights, in my mind. We are not cows being washed off before being led to the slaughterhouse--we are human beings, goddamn it, paying good money for the facilities. When will hostels realize this? I don't know.
But aside from the hostel, other things were horrible. The city was waaayyy too big. It seemed about the size of Paris or London, but without any reason to be. The buses and metro were overcrowded beyond belief, and Barcelonians apparently believe they can push, shove, and line-jump as much as they want. There wasn't much to see beyond the Gaudi stuff, and considering that he's an architect, most of his stuff was houses that you look at, say "oooh, ahhh," and leave. OK, OK, Sagrada Familia (the giant church that looks like it's melting) was pretty cool, but the rest of it wasn't that impressive. Even Parque Guell didn't meet my expectations--the tiled iguana is the only cool part of it. And it started raining while we were there.
The people were also the rudest, meanest people I have ever met. People claim that the French and New Yorkers are brusque and unhelpful, but compared to Barcelonians, the French and New Yorkers look like the Depression-era farmers from "The Grapes of Wrath," sharing their last potato with their neighbors. One citizen that stuck out to me as the example of all of Barcelona was this bitchy bus driver that picked us up from Parque Guell, screeching the second the bus doors opened to get in NOW, then driving up to a stoplight about 5 feet in front of us while we were still paying and slamming on the brakes so hard all of us fell over as we were standing there, even though there was not a car in sight. It continued to the moment we were leaving the Barcelona airport, when the security staff was yelling at me to take off my jacket. It's like, "Hello! The main reason Barcelona exists is because of tourism. You have meat on your tables because of us. Treat us with a little respect, jerkwads!" I also met three different people that got their purses stolen while they were there. I have sworn to myself I will never go back again in my life. Grade: D.
VENICE: Venice was my other favorite city. Although our hotel was on the mainland and not actually in Venice itself, it was a short bus ride into town, and the bus stop was quite nearby. Venice is... beautiful. Pictures cannot possibly do it justice. I was also surprised by it, as I was with Madrid, because my dad told us that there wasn't much to do and that it is best seen with a boyfriend. But I am so glad we did end up going. I think part of the reason I liked it so much was just because of that former fact--there weren't a lot of tourist sites to see outside of Palazzo San Marco, so we spent most of our time eating gelato and pizza and wandering through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways. (Hey, I didn't say I lost weight here--I just said I liked it.) :) The town is 90% tourists, too, so you don't have to worry as much about your valuables. Still, this didn't mean it was like Barcelona in terms of tourism choking all of the individuality out of it--there was nary an H&M, Burger King, or Starbucks in sight. I don't know how they've managed to steer clear of these big chains, but they have, and I was grateful for it. The best part was when we took the waterbus up the Grand Canal--I had to pinch myself, it was so beautiful. All I could think was, "My friends are all in school right now, and I'm HERE." Grade: A-.
ROME: Rome is like this kid I taught last year at Summerbridge. At times he would drive me up the wall and I would have to keep him after class to have "special talks," but then suddenly he would get into a class discussion and I would just stand there, in awe of the maturity of his ideas and his ability to notice things the other kids never would in a million years. Yes, Rome was overcrowded and crazy, large, kind of smelly, and way overtouristed. But at the same time, you never lost the sense of its character. It was truly Italian to me, much more so than Florence. At times I would have to restrain myself from socking a street vendor from showing me ONE MORE squishy animal meant to entertain five-year-olds, but then you would take a bite of orgasmically good caramel gelato, or have a guy ten times more attractive than any you could ever hope to catch the attention of in the States proclaim you "beautiful, beautiful," or you turn a corner and--WHAM!--the Trevi Fountain in all of its glory. It is such a multi-faceted city, so full of contradictions. I even enjoyed the morning we got up at 5:30 AM to stand in line for the Sistene Chapel, regardless of the fact that it was incredibly overhyped. (Come on, people, it's paintings on a ceiling. Very pretty, famous paintings, but paintings just the same.)
My two favorite parts were: 1) the Keats Museum, housed in his house near the Spanish Steps where he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. (Of course, this sent me into introspection--by the time he was 25, he had become so famous that all of us still quote him and he remains a staple of the study of English poetry. I only have four more years to gain this status?) 2) I also loved, loved, LOVED the Palatine Hill/Roman Forum, with all of its ruins and pretty gardens and orange groves. My sister remarked to me, "It's funny--most of my favorite sites we saw on our trip were outside," and I have to agree with her. The gardens of the Royal Palace of Seville, walking down the streets of Madrid, sitting at the very front of the waterbus in Venice as it snaked down the Grand Canal, wandering along the Seine in Paris, getting lost in the Santa Cruz neighborhood of Seville--all of them were in the fresh air, taking in the beauty of nature and buildings. Museums are nice, but they can't beat Mother Nature.
Our hotel was about half an hour outside Rome, since it was Holy Week and everyone wanted to be in Rome for Easter, but it only cost a euro for the bus, train, and metro ride into the city, which was a friggin' STEAL. I also liked that we were a little outside of the masses of people in Rome--I felt like a businessman making the afternoon commute home, separating my tourist life with my nighttime activities. We were right near the beach, where we went on Easter Sunday instead of getting crushed among the other tourists to hear the Pope say something in Latin as original as, "We welcome and bless this Easter morning." Grade: B+.
Well, that's my spring break. You want to know the best part, though? Because we were travelling around so much, we often found ourselves waiting--for taxis, for buses, for trains, for planes to take off. And because of all this downtime, I was able to finish no less than SEVEN books. They were:
1. "Nineteen Eighty-Four" by George Orwell
2. "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt
3. "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro
4. "The Girls" by Lori Lansens
5. "The Grapes of Wrath" by John Steinbeck
6. "The Age of Innocence" by Edith Wharton
7. "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden
My favorite, hands down, was "The Remains of the Day." It was one of those books that you start reading and realize it is going to be your new favorite book if the writer doesn't screw it up. And he didn't, fortunately. It was also the first book in a long while that I've read that's provoked new thoughts in me on so many different subjects--politics, expressing one's emotions, England being better than America, etc. I feel as if it made me understand England and its people more than any other book I've read. AND the main setting of the action, Darlington Hall, was described as being "near Oxford." Woot. I just rented the movie and am hoping to watch it tonight. (Read it.)
I got back to Oxford and, along with the landscape being unrecognizable, the people around me had change almost entirely, also. Because Stanford (and Oxford, for that matter) operates on the quarter system, our year is split up into three segments (the fourth quarter being summer term, which most people don't attend.) Thus, most Stanford kids study abroad only one quarter. I think this is a crying shame--you cannot get to know a place in 10 weeks or less any more than you can gain a true understanding of a subject (note the academic bitterness.) I feel as if you are just starting to get over the dip after the honeymoon phase when you leave. This is why I elected to stay two terms, January through June, most colleges' semester. And I don't even feel like THAT is enough. But new people had moved into the Stanford House, and I have to go through the whole I-suck-at-making-new-friends dance yet again. I really feel as if I'm one of those people others have to know for a long time before they actually start to like. I was just beginning to feel comfortable around last term's kids when they left. And now there's more people I have to have awkward chit-chat sessions with. Groan.
But my British friends are back. OK, OK--British friend. I really have only made one good British friend in my time here. Well, I mean, outside of the newspaper--I am very close to all of them, but we don't hang out much outside of newspaper, since we're all from different colleges and socialize within different circles. This can be nice, since they're my "Wednesday friends" I get to see once a week for a break from the Stanford kids, but I wish we could do slightly more than that, since they're all such nice, interesting people.
But anyway, my one British friend--the boy from Brasenose I mentioned earlier in my blog. We both very much wanted to see each other, but since he was busy with exams (yes, they have exams at the end of spring break--talk about a way to ruin your six weeks of freedom) and I was busy with Stanford House programs and outings, the first time we could do it was last night, Friday night. I couldn't come to Formal Hall, but he asked that I come meet up with some of his friends afterward, since they were all going out pub-hopping. I have to admit that I was nervous as a cat walking there. I usually feel quite comfortable around him, but him and his friends? There are so many of them, and only one of me, and I was afraid I would say something like "I spilled beer all over my pants" and have them laugh because, remember, pants=underwear in England. It was the exact opposite, though. We all hung out at the college bar and then tried to get into The Kings Arms (a popular student pub here), realized it was too full, and retired to one of the boy's rooms with a bottle of vodka, some mixers, and the music of Bob Dylan and Blondie to keep us company. Now, I don't really like what all of the Brit kids think of as a "fun night out"--clubbing. It is too expensive, too noisy, and you have to wait simply forever to get in. But vodka and talking? This was much more my scene. It is the typical Friday night preparty at Stanford before going to frat parties. I think they all thought of it as something out of the ordinary, but I was thrilled. We also got into the whole "Britain-versus-America" talk, which I never get tired of. They all must think I am a terrible bore, because that and poetry is all I ever want to talk about, but it is a subject that endlessly fascinates me. I also got a long lecture on the TV show "Doctor Who" and the difference between the multitude of British accents. It was pretty much what every visiting student dreams of--a get-together where you are the only foreigner and they ask you 1,000 questions about your home country and how it compares to their country and laugh in a nice way at your slang and the way you pronounce your vowels. And I finally had it.
I know this because yesterday I really wanted to make cookies. Being on a strict student budget, I didn't want to have to buy every ingredient (flour, sugar, baking soda, salt) and then only use a little of it, leaving the rest to grow stale in the cupboards of the kitchen. So of course, what would any red-blooded American do? Turn to the genius of Pillsbury in the form of our saviour, Poppin Fresh. I soon realized the errors of my ways, howerver, when I went to Tesco, Sainsbury's, Marks & Spencer... and came up empty-handed. I was finally directed to a specialty delicatessen in the Covered Market called Palms, which the lady at M&S promised had "imported American delicacies." When I asked the lady for premade cookie dough or something like it, she pointed me to a single shelf, which held... cake mix. Betty Crocker cake mix. (Which, apparently, you also cannot find easily in England.) It occured to me at that moment that when I said "premade cookie dough," they thought I was talking about a dry mix. (What a dark, cruel country this is, not to have Pillsbury cookie dough to offer to its children to eat straight out of the packet.) Realizing my search had ended in futility, I instead bought another American food group that has been missing from my life--Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Nothing has contributed more to the waistline of the American child from coast to coast than this mix of neon-orange preservatives and simple carbohydrates.
Spring has hit Oxford like a sledgehammer. It's as if while I was away on my four-week spring break, England suddenly realized, "Right-o--better get along with spring" and burst into blossom. Everywhere I go, trees are flowering, warm breezes blowing, lambs prancing around pastures. This, of course, has led to a widespread sense of joy in the English people. The day I came into Oxford, when it was mid-60's and partly cloudy, I counted no fewer than five men walking down the street with their shirts off. For the British female, warm weather means sundresses and skirts. Holy crap, are there a lot of skirts. Whenever I look out the window onto High Street, I feel as if the whole women's movement never happened because almost none of the girls I see are in pants or shorts. Considering the fact that I live in jeans, this makes me stick out like a sore thumb.
I have never seen a society as in love with the sunshine as that in Oxford. In Northern California, we are all giddy for about the first week that it turns warm, and then settle in for the long, harsh, climbing-upward-to-low-110's summer, when the grass turns brown and dry with the heat and a simple lemonade stand by the road will turn the profit of a small NGO on a hot August day. But here, people seem never to get tired of it. Instead, they stream out of their houses and litter themselves like potato-chip bags across Christ Church Meadows. They even seem to forget the emphasis they all put on privacy here and lie on blankets to make out voraciously with their significant other, even in the presence of strangers. As one book I read said, you can only be truly British if you agree with the phrase "I am a different person when the sun comes out." My answer to this before my winter in Oxford would have been, "When the sun comes out? As opposed to... what? Nighttime?" But now I finally understand the sense of being cooped up over a long, hard winter, praying every day as you check the 10-day forecast on weather.com for the temps to climb. "Please," you seem to bargain with the screen. "Make the high at least 60-something! I'll give blood if you do!" Still, I feel as if deep in my core, I am at heart a Californian--the people around me seem to act like children, frolicking around as if they cannot believe their good fortune. I want to go up to them and say, "Dude, it's only the sun!"
Suffice it to say, though, that when I returned to Oxford, I almost didn't recognize it. What's this--greenery on the trees? People actually walking on the path next to the river? No puddles to dodge when I'm wearing my jeans that have a tendency to drag on the ground? During our first-weekend field trip to the Lake District, I came onto the bus wearing my heavy tweed jacket, and my British professor laughed at me. "Francie!" he said. "You're still dressed as if it was winter!" I guess now I just connect Britain with coldness and can't get out of that mindset. I brought almost nothing with me that is suited to anything below freezing--about three t-shirts, one light sweater, and that's about it. I was forced to buy flip-flops and capris in Spain just because I looked ridiculous, all wrapped up in my scarves and coat. (Look at me---claiming that I am still American in my nonchalence about warm weather, and yet devoting a good portion of my entry to discussing it. I think I am becoming more British than I may realize.)
And now that we're talking about spring break, I guess I should go into that, shouldn't I? In order for you all to not have to spend half a day reading my blog, I am going to do it in short, reader-friendly format, with a quick rehash of each place we went and a grade for the experience. (Look at me--I'm already prepared for a teaching position.)
PARIS: This was my first stop, but not Genevieve's and Kelly's. They had spent the week before in London, but I had to finish up my finals and, since I live about an hour away from London and had been there many times during the term, I didn't feel the need to "do" London, as they did. My British Airways flight to Paris was 2.5 hours late--keep in mind that the entire flight there takes about 40 minutes. I hate travelling alone, because whenever I do, something always seems to go wrong. I thought the lateness would be it, but I also almost didn't get off the RER train in time at Gare du Nord, and then my bag wouldn't fit through the Metro ticket wicket, driving me close to tears. I hate being in a country in which I don't really speak the language--I feel like an illiterate five-year-old, completely dependant on others.
Our hostel in Paris was this cramped, tiny little room at the very basement of this crappy hostel, and although the receptionist claimed it had "a shower," it was the tiniest shower I have ever seen and in no way disconnected from the room. There was a line of about three tiles and then--boom!--the shower. It was also absolutely FREEZING in Paris, so most nights, we were miserably cold. ("I love Paris in the springtime," my ass.) Genevieve got sick in the middle of our stay there, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of our room. I was reading "Angela's Ashes" during this time and kept thinking, "This is my life right now." Never mind that our bed wasn't infested with fleas or that our father wasn't drinking away his wages on Guinness--I felt as if we were living in similar squalor, and no one really cared. Add this to the fact that the hall outside our room was being redone and we breathed in the fumes of drywall every time we had to climb the four separate staircases to reach the ground level, and you'll see what I mean.
Still, Paris was gorgeous. We were able to visit Sacre Couer (this beautiful white church on a hill in Montmarte overlooking the city) and the Jardin du Luxembourg (where my dad proposed to my mom), as well as many eat many pate sandwiches, coo over cute little dogs being pulled along on jewelled leashes, and be seranded with accordions playing "La Vie en Rose." I don't think you can have a bad time in Paris, even when your roommate is coughing up phlegm and you're doubled over with cold, even while wearing a winter coat, scarf, and mittens. GRADE: B.
MADRID: Madrid was the biggest surprise to all of us. All of the guidebooks kind of gloss over it, claiming that Seville is more charming and Barcelona funkier and cooler. We were going there because it was the easiest Spanish city to fly into from Spain, and booked only two nights there. But I think in the end, it was my favorite city. The people were friendly and helpful and would speak Spanish with Kelly and me, even though it was apparent that we were tourists. The city held a wealth of cool places to go to and a bumping nightlife, and yet it felt small and welcoming, what with the efficient subway system that was absolutely spotless and easy-to-use. It was also the first time since about October that I had been in a relatively warm and sunny climate, and we shed our heavier layers like a butterfly shaking off its chrysalis. The hostel we had the first night was right smack dab in the middle of the town and nightlife, and had amazing bathroom facilities. The one we stayed at the other night was a little weird, but still better than our Paris digs. I would really like to go back to see Guernica and tour the Royal Palace there. Overall, it was wonderful. Grade: A.
SEVILLE: I couldn't hate Seville if I tried because of the most important reason--Liz was there! My childhood friend Elizabeth Gray, whose dad has been friends with my dad since they were in preschool together, is studying at Seville until the summer and was able to meet up with us quite a number of times. Seville was also, as the guidebooks all say, so pretty--it was like the Disneyland version of Spain! Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping up cobblestone streets, bright flamenco dresses in shop windows, even the smell of orange blossoms permeating the air (which actually seemed strange, because I associate that smell so strongly with my grandparents' house in Phoenix, where I usually spend my spring breaks, because their house was built in the middle of this huge orange grove, and each April you can't escape the heady smell of orange blossoms as the trees turn a starry white.) It had so many quaint, picturesque neighborhoods and also a great nightlife. We were in a hostel that was in the Triana neighborhood, across the river from the center of town, but it was a very walkable city.
The only real drawback to it was that they were doing road construction on the pedestrian walkways while we were there--more road construction than I have ever seen in my life in one place. Liz said it was because Semana Santa (the Holy Week before Easter) was coming up, when masses of tourists descend on the town like locusts, and they wanted to finish it for that. But the road construction did bring something good with it--catcalling construction workers! Kelly and I kept laughing about it, because we both agreed that we had never actually experienced the stereotype before. It was a bit jarring after England, where boys are polite to the point of ignoring you on the street and you wonder why you are even bothering to put makeup on in the morning. (Of course, this is not true with everyone--I warned my roommate this term to not expect any action in the Land of Sexually Frigid Boys, as Kelly calls it, and she came in the second night from a bar with a guy's number scribbled on a napkin.) But it would always take me about 10 seconds to realize they were shouting "bella" or "hola, chica" at ME, at which I would simply blush and smile shyly at them. It's not like any of them were Brad Pitt (or Jake Gyllenhaal, for that matter,) but catcalling is the one area of feminism I can't agree with. I like it when boys do it. I don't feel offended or like "a piece of meat." They are just trying to be nice. We especially have to soak it up while we're young. Liz always rolled her eyes, but she has just gotten used to the adoration. ;)
The best part of Seville was the Royal Palace there, especially the gardens. I can't even describe them, they were so beautiful and peaceful--"almost like the zoo," my sister said, "except without the animals." But that same feeling of immensely tall shade trees and pleasant, sun-dappled nooks. Grade: B+.
BARCELONA: I don't really want to go into Barcelona. It was not funky, cool, hip, or any of the other outdated terms the guidebooks used for it. It was just a chaotic, nasty mess. The area we were staying was right in tourist land, so there were rows upon rows of stores that I could visit in England (H&M, Puma, McDonald's even), and I felt as if we weren't even in a foreign country. (Of course, that didn't keep us from frequenting Starbucks twice a day. Starbucks is one of the few international chains that I like--no matter where you go in the world, it is always comforting to see that circular green sign and settle down into a faux-purple-velvet chair while blowing on your latte to cool it.)
There was an incredibly nasty maid in the hostel. We had been told when we checked in that we would have to be out of our rooms from 12 to 2 for cleaning, which we agreed to. However, at around 11, this maid would come in and throw open the shutters, then proceed to shake us awake, chattering away in Spanish that did not sound like, "Get up and greet the dawn, my sweets." They also had those kind of showers that turn off every 15 seconds if you don't continue to push in the water control. I hate these showers. The only time I ever encountered them before was once in a pool changing room. In this case, they are perfectly fine, since all you really want in that case is to wash the chlorine off you before going home. But for your daily shower? A constant stream of warm water is one of the most basic human rights, in my mind. We are not cows being washed off before being led to the slaughterhouse--we are human beings, goddamn it, paying good money for the facilities. When will hostels realize this? I don't know.
But aside from the hostel, other things were horrible. The city was waaayyy too big. It seemed about the size of Paris or London, but without any reason to be. The buses and metro were overcrowded beyond belief, and Barcelonians apparently believe they can push, shove, and line-jump as much as they want. There wasn't much to see beyond the Gaudi stuff, and considering that he's an architect, most of his stuff was houses that you look at, say "oooh, ahhh," and leave. OK, OK, Sagrada Familia (the giant church that looks like it's melting) was pretty cool, but the rest of it wasn't that impressive. Even Parque Guell didn't meet my expectations--the tiled iguana is the only cool part of it. And it started raining while we were there.
The people were also the rudest, meanest people I have ever met. People claim that the French and New Yorkers are brusque and unhelpful, but compared to Barcelonians, the French and New Yorkers look like the Depression-era farmers from "The Grapes of Wrath," sharing their last potato with their neighbors. One citizen that stuck out to me as the example of all of Barcelona was this bitchy bus driver that picked us up from Parque Guell, screeching the second the bus doors opened to get in NOW, then driving up to a stoplight about 5 feet in front of us while we were still paying and slamming on the brakes so hard all of us fell over as we were standing there, even though there was not a car in sight. It continued to the moment we were leaving the Barcelona airport, when the security staff was yelling at me to take off my jacket. It's like, "Hello! The main reason Barcelona exists is because of tourism. You have meat on your tables because of us. Treat us with a little respect, jerkwads!" I also met three different people that got their purses stolen while they were there. I have sworn to myself I will never go back again in my life. Grade: D.
VENICE: Venice was my other favorite city. Although our hotel was on the mainland and not actually in Venice itself, it was a short bus ride into town, and the bus stop was quite nearby. Venice is... beautiful. Pictures cannot possibly do it justice. I was also surprised by it, as I was with Madrid, because my dad told us that there wasn't much to do and that it is best seen with a boyfriend. But I am so glad we did end up going. I think part of the reason I liked it so much was just because of that former fact--there weren't a lot of tourist sites to see outside of Palazzo San Marco, so we spent most of our time eating gelato and pizza and wandering through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways. (Hey, I didn't say I lost weight here--I just said I liked it.) :) The town is 90% tourists, too, so you don't have to worry as much about your valuables. Still, this didn't mean it was like Barcelona in terms of tourism choking all of the individuality out of it--there was nary an H&M, Burger King, or Starbucks in sight. I don't know how they've managed to steer clear of these big chains, but they have, and I was grateful for it. The best part was when we took the waterbus up the Grand Canal--I had to pinch myself, it was so beautiful. All I could think was, "My friends are all in school right now, and I'm HERE." Grade: A-.
ROME: Rome is like this kid I taught last year at Summerbridge. At times he would drive me up the wall and I would have to keep him after class to have "special talks," but then suddenly he would get into a class discussion and I would just stand there, in awe of the maturity of his ideas and his ability to notice things the other kids never would in a million years. Yes, Rome was overcrowded and crazy, large, kind of smelly, and way overtouristed. But at the same time, you never lost the sense of its character. It was truly Italian to me, much more so than Florence. At times I would have to restrain myself from socking a street vendor from showing me ONE MORE squishy animal meant to entertain five-year-olds, but then you would take a bite of orgasmically good caramel gelato, or have a guy ten times more attractive than any you could ever hope to catch the attention of in the States proclaim you "beautiful, beautiful," or you turn a corner and--WHAM!--the Trevi Fountain in all of its glory. It is such a multi-faceted city, so full of contradictions. I even enjoyed the morning we got up at 5:30 AM to stand in line for the Sistene Chapel, regardless of the fact that it was incredibly overhyped. (Come on, people, it's paintings on a ceiling. Very pretty, famous paintings, but paintings just the same.)
My two favorite parts were: 1) the Keats Museum, housed in his house near the Spanish Steps where he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. (Of course, this sent me into introspection--by the time he was 25, he had become so famous that all of us still quote him and he remains a staple of the study of English poetry. I only have four more years to gain this status?) 2) I also loved, loved, LOVED the Palatine Hill/Roman Forum, with all of its ruins and pretty gardens and orange groves. My sister remarked to me, "It's funny--most of my favorite sites we saw on our trip were outside," and I have to agree with her. The gardens of the Royal Palace of Seville, walking down the streets of Madrid, sitting at the very front of the waterbus in Venice as it snaked down the Grand Canal, wandering along the Seine in Paris, getting lost in the Santa Cruz neighborhood of Seville--all of them were in the fresh air, taking in the beauty of nature and buildings. Museums are nice, but they can't beat Mother Nature.
Our hotel was about half an hour outside Rome, since it was Holy Week and everyone wanted to be in Rome for Easter, but it only cost a euro for the bus, train, and metro ride into the city, which was a friggin' STEAL. I also liked that we were a little outside of the masses of people in Rome--I felt like a businessman making the afternoon commute home, separating my tourist life with my nighttime activities. We were right near the beach, where we went on Easter Sunday instead of getting crushed among the other tourists to hear the Pope say something in Latin as original as, "We welcome and bless this Easter morning." Grade: B+.
Well, that's my spring break. You want to know the best part, though? Because we were travelling around so much, we often found ourselves waiting--for taxis, for buses, for trains, for planes to take off. And because of all this downtime, I was able to finish no less than SEVEN books. They were:
1. "Nineteen Eighty-Four" by George Orwell
2. "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt
3. "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro
4. "The Girls" by Lori Lansens
5. "The Grapes of Wrath" by John Steinbeck
6. "The Age of Innocence" by Edith Wharton
7. "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden
My favorite, hands down, was "The Remains of the Day." It was one of those books that you start reading and realize it is going to be your new favorite book if the writer doesn't screw it up. And he didn't, fortunately. It was also the first book in a long while that I've read that's provoked new thoughts in me on so many different subjects--politics, expressing one's emotions, England being better than America, etc. I feel as if it made me understand England and its people more than any other book I've read. AND the main setting of the action, Darlington Hall, was described as being "near Oxford." Woot. I just rented the movie and am hoping to watch it tonight. (Read it.)
I got back to Oxford and, along with the landscape being unrecognizable, the people around me had change almost entirely, also. Because Stanford (and Oxford, for that matter) operates on the quarter system, our year is split up into three segments (the fourth quarter being summer term, which most people don't attend.) Thus, most Stanford kids study abroad only one quarter. I think this is a crying shame--you cannot get to know a place in 10 weeks or less any more than you can gain a true understanding of a subject (note the academic bitterness.) I feel as if you are just starting to get over the dip after the honeymoon phase when you leave. This is why I elected to stay two terms, January through June, most colleges' semester. And I don't even feel like THAT is enough. But new people had moved into the Stanford House, and I have to go through the whole I-suck-at-making-new-friends dance yet again. I really feel as if I'm one of those people others have to know for a long time before they actually start to like. I was just beginning to feel comfortable around last term's kids when they left. And now there's more people I have to have awkward chit-chat sessions with. Groan.
But my British friends are back. OK, OK--British friend. I really have only made one good British friend in my time here. Well, I mean, outside of the newspaper--I am very close to all of them, but we don't hang out much outside of newspaper, since we're all from different colleges and socialize within different circles. This can be nice, since they're my "Wednesday friends" I get to see once a week for a break from the Stanford kids, but I wish we could do slightly more than that, since they're all such nice, interesting people.
But anyway, my one British friend--the boy from Brasenose I mentioned earlier in my blog. We both very much wanted to see each other, but since he was busy with exams (yes, they have exams at the end of spring break--talk about a way to ruin your six weeks of freedom) and I was busy with Stanford House programs and outings, the first time we could do it was last night, Friday night. I couldn't come to Formal Hall, but he asked that I come meet up with some of his friends afterward, since they were all going out pub-hopping. I have to admit that I was nervous as a cat walking there. I usually feel quite comfortable around him, but him and his friends? There are so many of them, and only one of me, and I was afraid I would say something like "I spilled beer all over my pants" and have them laugh because, remember, pants=underwear in England. It was the exact opposite, though. We all hung out at the college bar and then tried to get into The Kings Arms (a popular student pub here), realized it was too full, and retired to one of the boy's rooms with a bottle of vodka, some mixers, and the music of Bob Dylan and Blondie to keep us company. Now, I don't really like what all of the Brit kids think of as a "fun night out"--clubbing. It is too expensive, too noisy, and you have to wait simply forever to get in. But vodka and talking? This was much more my scene. It is the typical Friday night preparty at Stanford before going to frat parties. I think they all thought of it as something out of the ordinary, but I was thrilled. We also got into the whole "Britain-versus-America" talk, which I never get tired of. They all must think I am a terrible bore, because that and poetry is all I ever want to talk about, but it is a subject that endlessly fascinates me. I also got a long lecture on the TV show "Doctor Who" and the difference between the multitude of British accents. It was pretty much what every visiting student dreams of--a get-together where you are the only foreigner and they ask you 1,000 questions about your home country and how it compares to their country and laugh in a nice way at your slang and the way you pronounce your vowels. And I finally had it.