Que quiero y que tengo.

So, I owe you all a blog about Spain, don’t I?

We landed in Spain on the fourth of September, the morning after the ship medical staff had performed the Flamenco de la Salud, which consisted of excessive castanet usage and another reminder to use common sense.

I had lunch on the ship, and this is when I realized that the crew tries to make the food more comforting while we are in port, probably to make people who are staying on the ship feel better about not being out on the town.  At lunch, I met a girl named Ariel, and she and I went out with a guy named Vince to see what was up in Cadiz.  The port of Cadiz is right in the center of town, but it was not a bustling area.  It was time for siesta, so we were nearly alone on the streets.  We saw a lot of lovely gardens, but what really threw us over was the beach (see photo).  You’d think that we wouldn’t want to see water after having been on a ship for a week… but reality is a funny thing.

We sat down at a café and had some water before wandering back to the ship to meet-up with others.  I, eventually, found Dennis and cornered him to finalize our plans for Madrid.  After a few hours, we decided that we would chuck out in the morning: we had to pay for first class tickets because everything else was sold-out.  We left early on the fifth and arrived around lunch time.  The gentleman at the information desk in the train station gave us simple directions to our hostel and some good tips for getting around Madrid.  People like him make the world go round.

We went to our hostel… and the hostel told us to go to another hostel.  But I think that the hostel we wound-up in was probably better.  The bad thing was that I emptied my euro-coffer in one fell swoop paying for our room.  See previous entry for open letter to my bank.

We took a bit of time to get settled in and grab a bite to eat before heading to Las Ventas for a bullfight—what?!  Yes, Mom, I’m sorry I had to tell you that way.  I made video blogs, but they would take too long to upload.  I’ll just have to save them for a Christmas DVD or something of the sort.  Maybe.

A lot of people on the trip are trying to face their fears: those who are agoraphobic are going skydiving.  I’m not afraid of heights.  I’m afraid of not being able to challenge or question myself.  Ever since I learned about bullfighting I just knew that it was wrong, that it was morally bankrupt, that it was sick.  And because this is something I knew, that is why I had to challenge it.  Luckily, I am comfortable enough with Dennis that I could cry in front of him without feeling too lame.  I would have preferred to go with my brother, but he didn’t come on this trip.

The way I tried to challenge my view of the bullfight or to justify the opposition was to think of it as an art form, like folk dancing, paying homage to the struggles of our ancestors.  And I think that is the art people find in it.  I feel like the bullfight I saw was unfair, the kills were not very clean, the bulls seemed to be taunted and, what really shook me was when one of the bulls lay down in his own blood rather than face the matador one last time.  It made me feel sick.  I actually felt like it was a worse scene than a lot of the footage I have seen from slaughterhouses.  But I think that it was good that I went.  One of my friends, Jeanette, went to a different bullfight in a small village where they only have one each year.  She thought it was more artistic and respectful of the animals than what I reported from Las Ventas, where there is a bullfight every Sunday.  If I ever see another bullfight, I would only consider seeing one in a small village, where it is less commercial and more traditional.  (One picture: not much gore, will post videos and other photos later for those who are interested in seeing what I saw.)

The next day was ridiculous.

Madrid has a fantastic metro.  They have horrible streets.  And people have no idea where they are, except for cops, who are very helpful.  It took us a good while to find a place where Dennis had wanted to get some business cards made, which was a real task.  My Spanish isn’t that bad, but in Madrid everyone speaks Castilian which can be difficult to understand.  But he likes the cards.  If he’s happy, I’m happy.

I was over a half hour late to my appointment with an NGO for an interview, and the fellow had decided to pack-up and go home.  The street was almost impossible to find: we got off at the right metro stop, but everyone pointed us in a different direction.  By the time we got to the train station with the bus terminal, we were late for Dennis’ class, so we moped and went back to the hostel, banking on “mañana.”

Dennis’ girlfriend used to live in Madrid, so she had a whole list of recommendations for him.  We went to Casa Minga and ate the house specialty: a whole chicken, Manchego cheese, bread and cider.  It was not bad.  He also creeped on her old apartment until security told him to go away.

The last morning, we found our way out to the CrossFit we had been trying to get to the night before, thanks to a very helpful (and attractive) policeman and an elderly British expat.  It was my first CrossFit class.  (In the video blog, I pause for about three seconds here and make a variety of faces.)  I did not have expectations, but it was not that bad.  CrossFit Madrid is run by a nice guy named Javier; I had been e-mailing him beforehand.  There was only one person from Spain in the class… then Dennis and I.  I was not sore immediately after because I did not have time for that kind of crud.

We went back to the hostel to get our things out of storage and then we went to an art museum (Prado).  Art museums creep me out a lot.  I feel like there should be more singing and dancing.  And I was not that satisfied.  The collection was predominately portraiture.  I’m more into French painters—JLD, word!  There was one painting I liked, of Saint Margaret, and a ton that I recognized.  We had an eight-hour bus ride home.  Dennis slept like a baby because he tends to do that, but I could not fall asleep for more than five minutes because I knew that we would miss our stop if I weren’t awake.

We got back on the ship at around 7AM, I took a nap and then went out to the beach with Jeanette.  My body started feeling the CF workout and all of the walking and the stairs and that time of the month in combination… but the ocean washed it all away for at least five hours.  It’s no wonder doctors in Europe prescribe trips to the beach… that ocean is magical.  Of course, when we got out and dried off and started to head back toward the ship to avoid dock-time, I started feeling aches and pains again.  But those were remedied by Chinese food.  Yes, I had Chinese food in Spain.  No, I do not think that is stupid or weird.  Chinese food in Spain is not very sweet and it’s not super salty like American Chinese food… it was a lot like Thai food.  And we actually had tiramisu and chocolate mousse for dessert.  How’s that for multicultural?

When we were all waiting for the ship to tug off, Adam caught me up on seventh deck.  Adam is my partner in one of my classes; he goes to the University of Madrid, usually, so when I told him everything I did, he knew where everything was (except for the CrossFit).  He even knew what I ate at Casa Minga.  We just talked for a couple of hours and watched the sun set (picture) until the wind got to be too much and we went back inside.  That’s when Jeanette and I talked about our respective bullfights and started making a list of ways Semester at Sea could be improved.

The next morning, I woke up a few feet away from Morocco…

(To be continued.)