What is Michael doing in Jerusalem anyway? (In which I attempt to be informative and end up just talking about food)

It has come to my attention that I haven't really gone into much in the way of basic, basic detail on blog, so those who arrive at this blog without the benefit of advance information might be a little confused.

Also: I've been living in Jerusalem for three weeks now, so it might behoove me to give you a little bit of an overview of what life is like for me right now -- before I slip back into a more scattered, anecdotal blogging style.

 So yeah! I live in Jerusalem, which is a couple layers of city on top of each other, the older layers of which are some of the oldest layers of city in the world.

The whole city is dense with cultures and histories and traditions and faiths, overlapping, intermixing and weaving together in tremendous and beautiful and also occasionally morally revolting and traumatizing ways. One way or another there's a lot of feels.

Then there's the politics. You can't turn a corner or buy a bag of chips without choking on it like abnormally thick, rancid, polarizing, volatile air.

A brief sample: I'm living in Jerusalem. Israel claims it as its capital, but the international community (by which I mean pretty much everybody, but also specifically the big guns at the U.N., including Amurkah.) puts their consulates in Tel Aviv, and when they put "Jerusalem" on official documents, like under "birthplace" on passports, they just leave off the comma and specific country.

To be specific, I'm living in East Jerusalem. But where is East Jerusalem? Well Israel says it's Israel. And they treat it like it's Israel, but everybody else puts their hands over their ears and kind of ignores that.

But that's cause they've got their eyes set on very particular solutions to this whole massive trainwreck of a geopolitical struggle and taking their hands off their ears for too long might endanger those idealized plans and this is all tongue-in-cheek and neither-here-nor-there so we're-just-going-to-put-politics-Palestine-and-Israel-all-away-for-now. But yeah, I'm in a fairly awkward, confusing position, geographically speaking.

So I'm living in Jerusalem.

It's sort of a city in a desert, except there's a bunch of pine trees and grass and various other temperate plants because a lot of people wanted to make it look European. (Cigarettes and capris would've been much more effective and much less intrusive to the indigenous ecosystem)

I live in a neighborhood called Beit Hanina, and I attend church at the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer in the Old City. It's part of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan and the Holy Land, which is the primary representative of the spunky, self-confident global minority that is Palestinian Lutherans.

I'm working at an odd preschool-daycare sort of hybrid run by the ELCJHL, and I play with children, and there's a lot of interesting adventures and quirks to get into there, but we'll get into that later. Needless to say, silliness, tears, etc. etc., lots of weird and fascinating language difficulties and opportunities, many different smells (few pleasant), etc.etc.etc. whatever.

Food! Food is good. I'm currently living on a diet consisting mostly of cheap Hospital lunches, invites to occasional local bbqs, and leftover Bible Study pastries.

Only sort of. But I'm eating a monstrous amount of yogurt, hummus, and fresh produce. That's about it. Vegetables, oil, and milk fat. (With live cultures!) 

Also for the last week I've been having the most incredible inexplicable cravings for dark chocolate and coconut. I've been rapidly burning through some funny imported Polish coconut cookies but I'm never satisfied. I usually trust that my body knows what it's doing better than I do, so I sort of just follow its lead, but this might be one of those times where I have to step in and demand that it put down the Dr. Gerard Kubanki Kokosowe. (now with Podluzne kruche ciasteczko wypelnione kremem śmietankowym i wiórkami kokosowymi!)

Here be pictures.

rice and lentils and onions (mujuddara) and what is probably yogurt or tahini sauce.  (R-L cause that's how they do here)

Cucumbers and tomatoes and various other things diced up, and probably drowned in parsley (tabbouleh!)

shakshouka and coffee! Egg, tomato stuff with various other vegetables mixed in, anddddd parsley.

Did I mention I work on the Mount of Olives and can go chill out here in the mornings, only minutes from my workplace? No I don't think I did. Hey look, the sovereign nation of Jordan! (The hazy, faint mountains in the distance) And now we return to your regularly scheduled food programming.

Most meals outside of my flat consist of many little plates like this. It's a little overwhelming. Also this is just the appetizer round. It's called "salads" and it's an opportunity to stuff your face with hummus and arugula. 

And after salads... Meat! And potatoes! And more vegetables! And more meat! And usually someone will complain to the waiter at this point about the woefully insufficient supply of hummus thus far received. Then more hummus will be delivered, and there is generally much rejoicing. (If you don't eat all the hummus and/or complain about there not being enough, you're probably not adequately fulfilling your social obligations.)

Oh parsley. You're like that friend I thought I sort of knew cause you were always kind of hanging out on the fringes with our pals back in high school, all ground up and somewhere in that ubiquitous "generic spices" category, but now I get to know you and see you in your element, as an individual, on your own terms, and wow you taste funny.






Also the lemonade here is made with mint. I don't think I'm ever coming back. (Kidding! I'm kidding! Don't deport me!)

Flashes of Coffee, Cats, and Assertive Hospitality: First Impressions of the Holy Land

The hour spent taxi-ing from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem after our flight is the longest hour I've ever experienced. I want to sleep and I have to sleep but I already slept for maybe half of the 11 hour flight and if I sleep much more I know I'll be awake all night.

I blink repeatedly to keep my eyes open, telling my body it's not time to sleep yet and trying to keep hushed the shouts of "LIES!" it keeps throwing back at me. I want so bad to be able to look out the window and calmly observe the middle eastern landscape, but I keep stumbling violently into dreams and I can't tell what's real -- all I know is I'm uncomfortable. I feel more cramped than I actually am because my body blindly, angrily somehow still thinks it's on a plane.

We get out of the shuttle at the front of our East Jerusalem neighborhood, send our bags ahead in a friend's van, and begin the trek to the flat. First lucid observation outside of the airport: There are a lot of cats. Cats of varying breeds and levels of healthiness swarm like squirrels through the alleys and dumpsters and into the streets. They're the only creature I've ever experienced that can "not care" in an intensely threatening manner. Lots of cats in Jerusalem. Huh.

This lone cat subsided from creepy staring long enough for us to take an artsy shadow shot. Thanks! You can go back to licking yourself.

Beginnings are weird. Of relationships, of experiences, of adventures -- no matter what exactly is being "begun," the beginning seems to do the same sort of thing. In the long-term it doesn't look like it amounts to much: first impressions fade, you settle in, you might barely remember how it all started -- but beginnings set the tone and lay the defining groundwork for the structure and dynamic that is to come.



It was my first day in my flat, in my new space, my first step out of structured orientation and into independence. I'd moved in and then left again to go explore -- and when I say explore, I mean stumble around aimlessly and nervously trying to cobble together Arabic phrases in my head and find my way to the store and back. After an hour of anxiously and awkwardly finding my way to a store and buying an Arabic version of "The Giving Tree" ("Shajara il-Kareem"), I was on my way back home, struggling with the overwhelmingness of everything.

I was excited to be out on my own (not including my host-brother-uncle type character who wasn't here yet at that point), but all of my confidence and overflowing energy was suddenly nowhere to be found. I was so eager to finally climb out of the nest and get away from the small family of birds I'd spent a month of orientation with that I didn't even notice that there was apparently no ground there, just a lot of open air and a terrifying sense of height.

But then I see a coffeeshop in the distance. My last hope at comfort and stability: coffee. I plan to regroup and recenter myself with a nice, hot cup of the local bean water, which is similar enough to my experiences with bean water in America that it's familiar and a little bit nostalgic.

I walk in and start throwing around coffee-buying-related-Arabic-phrases like nobody's business. I'm on home turf now, I tell myself.

But wait! I'm fascinated by the sights and smells of the coffeeshop and its long bank of piles of beans and various coffee-related machines and contraptions that I don't understand -- but the cashier's blank looks and blunt English responses tell me two things: 1) I have some things to learn about coffee here. 2) Also Arabic. I've got a ways to go there.

And 3). This is not a place you go to buy a cup of coffee. I seem to be buying a half-kilo of Arabic coffee. Whoops.

But then we start talking. He's caught on to my feverish commitment to speaking Arabic as much as possible, so he tries every phrase in Arabic now before switching to English (after I pathetically repeat, "shu?" "shu?" "shu?" (What?) for lack of a better phrase with which to say "I'm sorry, come again? I have no clue what you just said but I want to.")

He affirms me and my attempts to speak language, I tell him I'm living in the area for the year and volunteering with the local Lutheran church, HE KNOWS THE PEOPLE I'M STAYING WITH, we converse, he pontificates about the local culture and what my year ahead has in store for me, HE DECLARES HIMSELF MY FRIEND; Inside my head I'm freaking out, one little positive social encounter and I'm overjoyed, words have happened successfully between me and people AND SOME OF THEM WERE IN ARABIC.

I'm flipping out on the inside but on the outside I'm still going through the motions of a commercial transaction. I pay, I take the coffee, and I go ahead and leave, closing our conversation in the process and making abundant promises to stop by in the future and check in.

As I leave with an absurd grin on my face, the last 10 minutes a big happy blur, I realized I closed that conversation a little abruptly and totally could have lingered a bit. Was that awkward? Yes. But he didn't mind. He was just going about his day and making mine in the process. (Leaving out names and exact places so he won't be overly associated with my making a fool of myself.)

Also I got the wrong kind of coffee. If I put this in my coffee-maker I'll get a cup of mud and a disgusting coffee-maker. Whoops.



One week later? I'm moved in for good and settling in, finally finishing blog. Also I have the right kind of coffee now. Everything is as it should be.

New Beginnings and an End to Waiting

It's been less like stasis and more like a sort of limbo, a weird, indefinite holding pattern of weeks on end, shuffling our feet, twiddling our thumbs and pacing through Detroit and Chicago as we wait for the powers that be in the Israeli consulate to give us a thumbs up.

We go to YAGM orientation and then the rest of the YAGMs leave. We tearily say goodbye as they disperse across the globe, and then we lie around Chicago and go to a museum and our sentimental feels start to get a little puzzled.

The other YAGMs who got their visas late start to abandon us too, but it's okay! We drive to Michigan! Things are happening and we're going places! We watch some movies and it's interesting and there's a whole bunch of band geeks and Jesuit retirees and everything's hunky-dory.

Then the band kids leave us too. We tearily say goodbye as they tromp off to start the school year, disturbed and perturbed by the clingy, sobbing young adults from Chicago. The cafeteria starts to empty, the schedule begins to loosen, and all of us start showing up to every meal 5-20 minutes late. Pretty soon even the employees there start disappearing, and we're left pining for a weekend retreat group to come ask us to be quiet or simply a staff person to come refill our coffee and nag us about the mugs and spoons we keep squirreling away from the dining hall.

But then we see the light at the end of the tunnel, albeit shrouded in a murky haze of visa uncertainty and regional conflict. We drag our things back to Chicago and try to keep our heads up, but the doubt and abandonment issues of recent weeks cast a pall of uncertain futility over our efforts to remain something vaguely resembling "positive."

Then commence two days of chaos. We drive and walk and public transport our way back and forth to and from Trader Joe's, the Israeli Consulate, and the ELCA Churchwide office countless times. We face sudden interrogation at every turn from embassy security officers, grocery store staffers, and well-meaning receptionists.

"Are you having a pleasant browse?" "So how's the visa situation?" "Are you carrying with you a weapon or anything that may resemble a weapon?" As we slump over our cart in the frozen food aisle and wait for the latest stressful 7-way phone conversation interchange to end -- as an ELCA staffer passes us in the hallway on their way to another productive and fulfilling work venture through which they meet a purpose and feel validated -- as a deep, hushed, and strongly-accented voice shoots rapid-fire questions at us over a phone and ushers us up to the 31st floor of a building with messily transliterated name tags.

Through last minute sprints across town, through reschedule after reschedule and visa delay after visa delay after desperately awaited cross-country overnight package after desperately awaited cross-country overnight package, our long period of waiting in limbo began to come to an end.

An end arose in sight, but we were too doubtful, too beaten down by past betrayals and past hurts to hold too firmly to hope. Monday. 5:30 p.m.ish. With a slightly-better-than-decent chance of all visas and flights appearing in the right place and time.

We've spent nearly a month on orientating, and now we're finally being retrieved from the dirty cryogenic chamber in the ELCA's basement. But we feel loved! And validated! And ready (more or less)! My body's just afraid to get too excited for fear of disappointment.






(Pictures will be added after arrival overseas in order to make more clear any weird, unexplained portions of this.)

Stepping Stones to Community While We Float in Limbo (i.e. Michigan)

The upside of getting your visas delayed? You have two whole extra weeks to spend exclusively with your fellow travelers in tight community. And the downside? You have two whole extra weeks to spend exclusively with your fellow travelers in tight community.

But in the end it's net-positive! (And I'm not just saying that because some of my four fellow volunteers and two country coordinators will likely end up reading this.)

Living in community is not an unproductive venture. Something important and valuable happens when you live in a tight space with a small group of people -- with only the hustle and bustle of the retired Jesuits all around to distract you from each others' irritating little personality quirks.

Living in community (initially) is one of those vaguely painful and somewhat uncomfortable processes (like starting at a new school or dental surgery under anesthesia) where you commit yourself to going through some awkwardness, swelling and irritation, and then you come out the other side good as new (except perhaps with numb chipmunk cheeks or a little syringe for cleaning the food gunk out of your mouth for the next few weeks.)

(Speaking of the dentist, I've continued working steadily on my Arabic, and I think I can honestly say that I've never made weirder noises in my life. Doing a lot of gargling and spitting. A'yup.)

You fake it until you make it, essentially. You create community by acting as if it's already there (assuming nothing goes seriously wrong to disrupt and derail your dental surgery in progress). And just like any good medical procedure, there's a standard sort of process to it. (I work at camp, so this is something we work on and watch in action and theorize about on a weekly basis.)

We arrived at YAGM (Young Adults in Global Mission) orientation only vaguely familiar with each other, like those people you did that group project with that once in Spanish 250. So for that first week we were on our best behavior (the 5 of us but also the other 60ish YAGM volunteers). We had fun, got to know each other, and engaged in friendly shenanigans, but we didn't totally relax. We thought before we spoke, watched our manners, and generally kept our quirks at bay.

In the school of thought I come from, we call that pseudo-community: We feel like close friends that are really there for each other, but we don't really actually know each other yet. As soon as pressure appears and you sort of have to work as a team or even make a decision together, the facade starts to show some cracks. You've come together as a community like cold marshmallows, gently fitting together and rubbing up against each other with no real pressure or friction, but without any real cohesion or strength to resist outside forces.

The YAGM community at the end of the first week of orientation was not your ordinary pseudo-community, but you can only do so much in a week. The YAGM authorities not only broke the ice for us but proceeded to shove us into the lake, forcing us to get to know each other at a serious level instead of dwelling at the surface and standoffishly chatting about our preferences in pets and toothpastes. It was a bit cold under there but it had to be done.

The crazy-stressful experience of the impending life adventures and challenges and the sense of foreboding that comes with that helped to start bonding our marshallows together a little more thoroughly, and the shared vision and mission gave our marshmallows the will and momentum to stay firmly together -- but it will be up to the rest of the year to come to turn that gooey mass into a rock hard, sticky safety net of emotional support and compassionate conviction.

So we had an impressive amount of collective marshmallow cushion to rest on as a community by the end of that first week, but the true comfort of community hadn't begun to set in quite yet. (So maybe orientation heated us up to melt us together, but I didn't finish drying?)

The YAGM team headed to Jerusalem, meeting with our lovely Arabic tutor, Sally.

Whatever. It's a complicated process, different people progress at different rates, and the stages tend to melt into each other like soft, cylindrical spongy confections made from sugar, gelatin, and egg white. But by the time us Jerusalem peeps started getting our quality time as a small gorup after everyone else left, the "best behavior" was fading fast. I felt myself relaxing and letting the quirks fly. (Mostly a lot of mumbling, random falsetto, giggling, weird non sequiturs, and picking corn kernels off other people's plates.)

And that's a good sign. Comfort and genuine behavior is important in a community! But it also means your little cloud of personality can start getting in other people's way, and you sometimes find that other people's collected masses of condensated quirks tick you off a little bit. Interpersonal cloud conflict is going to happen in any attempted community, but for it to really work, you've got learn how to work around those barriers of personal eccentricities. And if you're really a high-functioning community, you'll find out how to harness them.

So us Jerusalem YAGMers have had a valuable two weeks to learn how to actually function as a team, but also to start learning how to tolerate, appreciate, and love each other fully. Yay!

God's peace and goodbye for now!


Michael

Waking up in Michigan

The long wait for visas continues. Hope is alive and well, and she's tentatively scheduled us a flight to Tel Aviv for September 6th, but she has her fingers crossed and she keeps checking her phone so I'm not really sure how to read that behavior. But we're optimistic! And we sternly, semi-confidently expect visas to arrive before September.

In the meantime, we've ventured to Michigan, where we're staying at a fancy Jesuit retreat center that frequently plays host to various church groups and band camps. (Sweaty band kids keep stealing our table.) ("Sweaty sousaphonist" is a term I wanted to use just then, but then I would be making assumptions about what instruments the various sweaty children play, and that's a problem. You can't sacrifice your integrity for a cheap joke Michael, especially when you're not even sure that's the proper term for a musician who specializes in the use of the sousaphone.)

But besides the adorable children visibly struggling their way through primary school (bless them), I really enjoy the random pictures of Pope Francis scattered about the facility (bless him), and I have much appreciation for the copious amounts of complementary coffee of questionable quality (BLESS IT, I guess).

It's definitely a little anti-climactic to be sitting here in Michigan after a week of orientation, rather than getting to actually get going, but I'm trying to see it as an exercise in patience.

And it's not like we don't have plenty of orientating and preparation to do for our time in the Holy Land anyway? With our team of volunteers and our humble coordinators we've already started diving more deeply into the history of the region -- so we should be all read up and ready to go in a couple more life-times of careful study and analysis. (Which at least means we won't be running out of things to do anytime soon.)

Then there's the whole language learning thing! I've been producing spit, phlegm, and gaspy wheezes all summer in anticipation of learning Arabic, but it's helping surprisingly little. Apparently there's a little more to it than that? It's actually a pretty beautiful and complex language and it's a lot of fun. But yes, there is a lot of spitting.

Our first vaguely on topic Middle East venture for orientation was a casual trip to the Oriental Institute in Chicago last Wednesday (after the other YAGM volunteers started catching flights). I say "vaguely," because how relevant is the history of the Hittites and the Assyrians to the Middle East today? Also because the whole "oriental" label is a little iffy for me, in a "what-does-that-really-mean?" sort of way. (For me it was more of a museum about western archaeologists and their conclusions about Sumerian trade routes than a museum about the Sumerians themselves -- if you know what I mean.)

But whatever. Life goes on and learning continues.

Michael goes overseas! Or really, actually, to Chicago. And soon to Michigan. Heh.

Hi!

For those of you wandering idly through this puzzling piece of blogmanship trying to verify that it is in fact the site from which I, Michael, will be blogging from and about Jerusalem for a year:

Yes.  It is.

I can’t promise I’ll stay entirely on topic – so don’t be too surprised if you catch some weird tangents about terrifying high fashion department stores in urban Germany, classy horror-filled clothing boutiques in French cities, or any of a wide variety of numerous other topics I might end up on that have little or nothing to do with scary clothing outlets in Europe. (I'll be writing newsletters occasionally that will be a lot more direct and to the point in terms of letting you know what I'm doing.)

Usually hopefully the tangents will have a point, potentially relating to the issues and events more immediately at hand. The point of this most recent tangent being that I’ve seen Abercrombie & Fitch outlets in Paris and Dusseldorf, and they were something out of an Orwellian nightmare tinged with high school nostalgia and dripping with a noxious cocktail of musk, matching tight shirts, and peer pressure.

It was dark, there were more random staircases than I knew what to do with, and identically dressed store employees kept popping out of random dark corners with perfectly-styled hair and eerie German-accented unison choruses of “Can I help you?” It was like a dimly lit alien museum full of a very limited range of confiscated Earth artifacts – namely, tight, over-priced teenager clothes.

I wanted to feel bad for the imitation-human creatures apparently forced into servitude as robotic tour guides by their cruel Martian overseers, but I got the feeling they were far beyond the reach of sympathy by this point. (I guess the real question is why are the alien masters so fond of Abercrombie & Fitch? Perhaps unresolved middle school traumas and anxieties? Or more likely the outrageously over-perfumed ventilation shafts are easily adapted for larva incubation purposes.

Anyway.

I don’t really have much to talk about yet, so I reverted to talking about other things to give you a little bit of content. I’m just gonna forget for now about all the other things I said I was gonna talk about on this blog in the past, but watch out for random unexpected jaunts into the past throughout the next year! (Maybe they’ll be more relevant? It will be a journey of discovery for all of us.)

I’ve officially left my sticky, humid home in the South, and am now in Chicago. Will be here for a week for various types of orientating, and then I’ll be moving on to Michigan for two weeks of more Jerusalem-specific orientating as we wait for visas to arrive. Hah.

Oh gosh, do I sign off? I don't know even normal blogging protocol all that well, let alone when you have piles of people you're specifically writing for and to.

Um,

Michael.

A Bloginkle in Time, by Madeleine Bl'oggle

So I wanna talk about cool things and European things and stuff but first I'm gonna do some crazy weird time warping stuff and talk about other things. Maybe I'll start in the present and then work my way back to Europe; plan! So I'm living in an apartment. An old, scratchy musty one with an oven that barely opens and makes everything smell like eminent explosions, there's a secret badger gremlin inside-the-house nook behind a bathroom mirror, and all our wood floors make it look as if the previous inhabitants were sabre-toothed tigers who fought a lot and painted and spilled water and generally didn't take very good care of the floor. (Also they left dead gazelles in the bathtub.) (kidding.) (But they probably weren't very good with neighbors.) 

Also in the apartment, is a cat. His name is Simba Cat, and he is, what I like to call/have just decided to like to call, a little bit poky. I'm not sure what I mean by that, but we call him Mr. Bity, and sometimes I poke him and poke him and poke him for a while and then he bites me and then I smack him. Simba Cat and I get along great.

Okay now back in time to the post-Europe, pre-semester period. Let's see how I was filling my time upon my return from my summer of adventure, shall we?  (Keep in mind that past me is not aware of future me, so IHe can only use the further past as a reference point when in the past, so the idea of time is gonna get a little bit confusing and twistedly relative.)

But whatever, BACK TO AUGUST!

Brief foray from Europe, forward into the present day for some existential pondering: Every now and then, you have a moment of unexpected clarity. You'll be spending the day at home, drinking buckets of coffee and wasting hours brainstorming ideas for itunes playlists, when all of a sudden you look up to find yourself sprawled uncomfortably on the carpet in front of the television, lazily watching old Futurama but devoting the majority of your attention to the little bubble wrap sleeve of sorts in which you have submerged your arm nearly up to the elbow. 

In this brief second of perspectival conscientiousness, the only thought that crosses your mind is this one: "What am I doing?" You only have a moment to slip from this to further existentially oriented wonderings about purpose or identity before, as a natural result of the suddenly interrogative mode assumed by your brain, it is followed shortly by the question, "Is bubble wrap still effective at safely wrapping fragile packages after it's been thoroughly popped?" 

Diverted away from the initially reflective moment of reflection, you continue your productive day of noodling, twiddling, goofing, and boodling. The moment has passed, leaving nothing but a vague feeling of uncertainty and an inexplicably smug sense of self-despising(nessment). After another 30 minutes of poking holes in cereal boxes and sitting on couches in a variety of unconventional ways, even these vestiges of reflective emotions are gone.

So, in an unexpectedly poignant nutshell, that is what I've been up to since I got back from Europe.
NOW BACK TO EUROPE

 (that was weird. I feel like I'm in my own grossly remixed and disinterpreted self-narrated version of A Christmas Carol. Instead of being about Christmas there's Spain, and instead of a ghost of my old business partner there's a cat. I wonder what life-changing eye-opening conclusions I'm supposed to be coming to as a result of JacobSimba CatMarley's intervention? Don't neglect my relationships with family and friends in favor of my schoolwork or I'll end up doing nothing with my time but eating fancy feast, sticking my head through the blinds at random passers-by, and eating the toes of any unfortunate souls who dare enter my abode and not let me paw at their faces?)

This font's name is Trebuchet. Trebuchet will be my Spain-Me font. Now back to youme, Spain-Me!  (I'm so sorry. I think whenever I don't blog for a long time my blog-me gets kind of crazy and rabid from being all cooped up, so when heI finally get a chance to share, the cabin fever is a little bit debilitating and he's am all cramped up from hiding somewhere in my grey matter so he be a little wacky and full of himself for a bit.)

While in Spain I had the delightful chance to go to Barcelona to meet up with a German old super-hero friend of mine. After realizing that Spain is huge (as I've covered in a previous blog) and that taking a train or bus from Sevilla to Barcelona would be cray, I booked a flight on the mother of all cheap airlines: RyanAir.  This means that for the price of a delightful 2-course meal with dessert, you get a seat on an airplane and as much luggage as you can stuff into a backpack, provided that you then hold onto the backpack for dear life; If any of the supposedly well-meaning airport staff reach for it or say something about its size or weight, you point to the people behind you and accuse them of harboring a bomb. Or shampoo. You can be pretty ambiguous about this actually, airport security is crazy.

Once on the plane, of course, you are the captive audience of RyanAir for 2 hours and 58 minutes, and the flight attendants make full use of that time. From the moment that the plane starts to taxi down the runway, salesmen dressed like flight attendants murmur into the microphone constantly about newspapers or alcohol or toasters or train tickets or whatever else they think you could be threatened into buying. Your challenge is to ignore everything anyone says, keep your eyes pointed away from the aisleways, and pretend to be asleep.  

Once getting to Barcelona, however, I realized that I had turned my phone off in an attempt to appear like I was Spanish and knew what I was doing, which radically failed when I couldn't turn it back on without the special code that I'd left in Sevilla, so I was at the airport without being able to contact my friend or any idea of how to get properly from the airport to the hotel without spending a fortune on a taxi ride.

After awkwardly bumming around in the Barcelona airport around 11 at night, buying some coffee, desperately trying to gather enough fragments of sparsely scattered wifi to make facebook contact like a starving farmer looking through an abandoned mill for enough scraps of wheat to put together a single biscuit, I gave up and got on a bus. 

After a stop or two I panicked and got out searching for a taxi, anxious to find someone who had a working knowledge of Barcelonan geography and could thus ferry me to my destination. 

I found a taxi, had an extensive and pleasant conversation with the driver, in which he was impressed by my Spanish and I in turn understood about half of what he said, and arrived at the hotel/hostel, which had a weirdly light green theme, and also something about melons. Before getting out of the taxi though, I'm pretty sure my driver managed to overcharge me by leaving me waiting in the car with the meter running as he got into a huge fight with the taxi driver in front of him, who, as far as I could tell, must have been a jerk. On the bright side, I got a little more accustomed to the Barcelonan dialect and picked up a lot of curse words. Yay!

Another weird language thing involving Barcelona:

Our hotel had a pool on the roof!  So we didn't really swim much, but we hung out on the roof a lot because we're cool kids and we wear sunglasses and don't nobody mess with us. At one point there were a lot of other German people on the roof, and then one of them came over to German super hero amigo Phil, and apparently asked him if he had any cigarettes, but it was German so I didn't get a bit of it. Then he turned to me and spoke it at me too. In a fit of panic and wild uncertainty, I apologized in Norwegian for not being able to speak German. He got confused and weirded out and stopped talking to me, so I guess that was successful? Norwegian is probably not the language I should instinctively go to as a panic switch kind of thing.

Barcelona is a subject that to which will be returned in the future, because it is beautiful.



I might probably leave me in Europe for a little bit, and maybe I'll keep up the whole font differentiation thing for a while, and maybe I'll start putting pictures in here again too, but maybe I won't do all of those things.