Tag Archives: photography

huerto-day, gone tomorrow.

As I write this, the February sun is streaming through my little window, promising a warmer day than it really is, showcasing this beautiful city as it bathes the streets in pure, white light.

but I still don’t want to go outside.

Now, I realize that many of my readers (if there are any others besides my parents) will be perusing this from somewhere along the east coast, USA, and will already be shaking their fists at the screen, or at least shaking their heads, in disapproval; current temperature in Charlottesville, VA: 19° F.

Anyway, now for the explanation of why it is so hard to get up and do ANYTHING: I left my heart in the huerto.  This weekend we (me, P., and our newly found friends) whisked ourselves away to the Valencian countryside, where we stayed with our Spanish friends (and strangers) in R.’s “country home”, a villa set smack dab in the middle of the family orange orchard (huerto).  We arrived by train in time for supper, a gourmet meal (prepared for us by someone who was already staying at the house) of sausage, tortilla española, salad, tofu and tomato sauce.  We spent the rest of the evening touring the house (a beautiful, nineteenth century home with three stories, what felt like a bajillion beds, and eclectic decor acquired in Morocco, India, Japan) and warming ourselves by the fire, talking and singing and unwinding from the stress of the week.

The next morning we were kicked out of bed at the ungodly hour of 12:30pm, given the daily ration of cafe con leche and magdalenas (the most dinky excuse for a muffin I’ve ever seen) and plopped into the cars that would take us to the mountain we were scheduled to climb that day.  When I heard that the weekend included a hike I was of course elated, having missed so much the Blue Ridge mountains I’ve grown up with.

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So the day started in high spirits, the sun shining, fresh oranges in our bellies and hands (the amount of citrus I consumed is a staggering figure) as we walked to the start of the trail.  I probably should have known something was up when the equivalent of a park ranger came out and asked us all for names and cell phone numbers, “si acaso os perdáis o algo…” (“in case y’all get lost or something”, followed inevitably by the phrase “¡no te precupes!”).  Before the excursion really took off even, we stopped for a photoshoot at the monastery in ruins, the deciding it was the perfect moment to do some impromptu yoga, led by V., a multi-national, multi-lingual, multi-talented friend we met at the house.  With a fresh set of endorphins flowing through us, we started the trail.  It was a simple gravel path winding up the mountain, like any other unsuspecting hike, but the incline was for sure a challenge for this out-of-“practice” (read: out-of-shape), self-proclaimed mountain woman. I don’t remember the moment when I knew there was much suffering ahead, but at some point this fact became very clear to me.  We were suddenly on the side of the mountain, with no lovely gravel path in sight, just a mountainside covered with thorn bushes and an occasional fern.  Shortly after starting this portion of the hike, the lovely boulders painted with trail markings disappeared as well.  With the Spanish boys up ahead shouting to the American girls puffing behind (“c’mon pilates! let’s stop whining and start hiking!), you can imagine the tension that was slowly crystallizing.  To make a long story short (I think we spent an hour and a half traipsing through the non-trail, hacking at gnarly branches and trying not to trip on rocks), we finally reached the summit of the mountain (called Creu del Cardenal, located at 1700ft, a distance of 3km from the starting point) to take in the view: a panorama of the gorgeous Valencian countryside; the valley down below us to the left, and the Mediterranean ocean lapping gently against the coast to our right.  Legs “temblando como un flan” (literally: “shaking like a flan”, the Spanish equivalent to “shaking like a leaf”), we refueled with more muffins and ensamaidas (the point of this description is to remind you that we had eaten nothing but coffee and carbs some 4 hours before), and I tried to hold back tears caused by the beauty of the place, the love I felt for these people I was with, and the fears that were gnawing at this happiness, asking me what I would be doing with my life in 4 months.  I also just wanted to know how the hell we were going to get down from up there.

The slide down the mountain (I call it a “slide” and not a descent because I think I did more falling, tripping and slipping than actual walking) was relatively uneventful, since we managed to follow the trail the whole time.  But here is where you get an explanation for the lack of images in this post: I dropped my camera.  My beautiful, month-old, “sexy” black camera was eaten by the Creu del Cardenal trail.  And after being wildly upset with myself and with everyone in the world, I started giggling with the thought that when I received it in August, I had no idea it would end up abandoned on the side of a mountain in eastern Spain, after a five hour day in the mountains.  But please, rest assured, I’m still horribly upset.

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That evening was spent with more (new) friends (like C., the guy they kept referring to as “the surgeon”, with a tone of wonder and gravity that suggested he performed all his operations on the moon) cooking and creating (we ate in the in-house art studio, where after dinner we painted a massive collage) and most importantly: RELAXING. I haven’t felt so at ease in months.

Which is why the return home was so brutal; the past few days I’ve wandered around my barrio half-asleep, seeing but not processing, looking but not appreciating, wishing myself back in the huerto.  But with the sun finally back to stay, and the knowledge of what I’d be doing at home right now, it’s safe to say I’m finding contentment, even in the now old-hat routine of classes, meetings, clubs, etc. Because before I know it, I’m huerto-day, gone tomorrow.

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Filed under schmoozing, spring semester, travel, Valencia

Paris, and my entrance into the world of flickr.

WARNING: this email is just a shameless plug and excuse to promote my new flickr photo page. More info to follow.

Seine-ic view.

A bit of everything in this installment.  Firstly, made it to Paris, despite the nasty weekend-cold I had just gotten over a few days before, to see my good friend Isabella from Chatham, who is studying abroad there with Smith College.  I had been to Paris two times before and felt satisfied with the amount of tourism I had done, so the weekend was less about showing me the sites and more about catching up.  She lives in the 13th arrondisement right by the national library, a towering modern building (or, group of 4 buildings) that’s designed to look like four open books that form an enclosed courtyard at the center.

Bibliothèque François Mitterrand

She told me that although it is a lovely design, it was not a well-thought out one: the designer did not take into account the fact that his open window idea (he intended for the entire exterior to be windows, which they are, but did not realize that all that light would damage the precious materials that the library is indeed trying to protect.  Now these windows are merely covered up with a quick fix of Ikea blinds to shelter the books).  We spent most of our time just wandering around central Paris, drinking hot chocolate in a café on the l’île de France, scoping out the Bastille neighborhood by night and hanging around her apartment, a cute and cozy hideout from the November weather (which still has not hit Valencia).

SHAMELESS PLUG: and if you want to see the pictures from the trip, AND all the pictures from the semester so far, just check out my new flickr.com page. I realize I had been sending y’all links to facebook albums that I’ve made private.  So now everyone, a facebook member or not, can see what I’ve been up to.

This week has been relatively low key: my internship on Monday, my tutoring session on Wednesday (not sure if I mentioned but I’m giving English lessons to a 7 year old boy whose family wants him to learn enough language to go to summer camp in America.  He’s a great kid and I’m learning lots about my own language in the process of teaching it!), and on Thursday something cultural; the program bought us all passes to this art exhibit that’s here for a year, a collection of Sorolla paintings from the New York Spanish Society.  Ironic that they’ve been in the states all these years and I’m only just seeing them now in Spain.  It was finally time for my art history class knowledge to kick in, and it made the event more enjoyable, since I could actually see what we had talked about in class a few weeks back (Sorolla is a quintessential impressionist from Spain).

With only a short while left in the semester, the group dynamic and the individuals are definitely changing.  People are starting to get comfortable, starting to feel bad for not having spent as much time in Valencia, and starting to wish they weren’t leaving in 3 weeks.  It’s so hard to believe that the first semester is already over, and that after a month of traveling the program will refresh, start all over again, this time with a new batch of people (and much more of them!).  We year kids keep prophesying about what the experience will be like to be sitting in the orientation the first day, watching the newbies and their anxiousness while we already have 4 months under our belt.  But the change will be welcomed and I’m excited to see what will go on next semester…

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Filed under fall semester, travel

ciao, bella!

The problem with slacking in your blogging is that when you finally do, you have so much to say. So I’ll admit, I’m guilty of this week.  So sit back, relax, find your coffee/pipe/snack and settle in for the post-Fall Break update:

Started the internship at the publishing house, and am really enjoying it.  It’s less an internship and more of a personal tutoring session given by a publisher; we have a very defined checklist (yet another syllabus, if you will) of what we’re going to accomplish (such as learning to correct Spanish texts, formatting a page to be printed, translating and other general editing tasks), and none of what we do in the weekly meetings is actually used or published.  Instead, we’re given exercises from the real world (real letters or documents) but only use them as practice materials.  This doesn’t bother me too much, it’s just not what I expected. It’s also great practice for my language skills, since I’m correcting texts in Spanish, and having to remind myself of grammatical and stylistic rules.  Now all I have to do is work up the courage to ask the company for a summer job…

Apart from academics: last week was Fall Break.  And before I launch into my description of my TRIP TO ITALY (!!!!) I should explain the nature of the holiday itself.  In Spain they have this wonderful custom of «hacer puente» (“making a bridge”) between two holidays, in this case the Valencian independence day and an obscure national holiday.  When this happens, you get all the time off in between the two holidays since they’re so close together.  What an excellent system.

a puente

So the week of freedom started off with a traditional Valencian holiday (read: fiesta) called Nou d’Octubre (the ninth of October).  I would be lying if I told you I knew the full story behind it, but basically on this date in the 13th century, Valencia defeated the foreign occupants in the city and declared itself independent.  I honestly didn’t know how important this day was to the Valencianos, but it definitely is: EVERYTHING was closed, and EVERYONE was downtown, watching or

the moros y christianos parade

participating in an incredible parade.  I’ve never seen such elaborate costumes: glitter and fans spitting fire and medieval robes. Moreover, it’s the Valencian version of Valentine’s Day, and the traditional gift to give your lady is a handkerchief full of marzipans shaped like fruits and veggies, or erotic shapes if you’re into that sort of thing.  After a day of spectacles, our new Valencian friends (a very convoluted story that includes playing guitar in a plaza, watching magic tricks and schmoozing with artists who live next to the city’s cathedral.  The ending, however, is that I’ve made some very colorful Spanish friends) invited us to their annual Nou d’Octubre dinner party.

And the fun never stops! After celebrating my first October 9th, I headed off to Italy for a week!  The posse I traveled with consisted of 5 other girls from my program, half of whom were from different schools (Catholic University, Michigan State) than UVA.  I didn’t know them all that well going into the trip, but I loved having a chance to spend time with them outside of the school, where our communication is generally limited by the fact that we can only speak in Spanish.

The trip started in Rome, where we stayed in a suburb northwest of the city center in a quintessential hostel: 10 beds to a room with one shower in between us all, lockers for our luggage, overstarched sheets (at least they were clean!), a communal kitchen and dining room, etc.  The guys at the desk were all hilarious and liked to broadcast American rap music over the speakers in the dining room every evening.   We spent the first night wandering around the city and managed almost immediately to stumble upon the Coliseum, the Forum and the Palatine Hill.  The amount of history in the city is staggering; everywhere you turn there’s some archeological wonder, something you’ve read about in history classes but never dreamed you’d see one day.  The next night we decided to check out Rome’s nightlife, and signed up for the infamous “Spanish Steps Pub Crawl”, during which a group of 20-somethings take the pub crawl participants around to different bars around the city.  What was great about this was the people we met: everyone was travelling, most of them without a plan, just seeing where life took them.  It was also nice to not have to worry about getting lost in the city, since we had people leading us.  Overall, a good night.

How fitting (or ironic, really) that after a night out my next day would be spent at the Vatican.  A word to the wise: when Rick Steves tells you in his Lonely Planet guide that Monday is NOT a good day to do the Vatican, listen to him.  He’s right.  A lot of the other museums and monuments in the city are closed this day, making it a perfect time to go visit the Pope and his pad.  So along with everyone and their uncle, I made my way to the northwest corner of the city.  Any visit here is divided into two parts: St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vatican Museum.  Out of the two, the former was my favorite; you can just tell there’s something special about the place.  It’s not just a church, it’s THE church.  The interior is ornately decorated with gold, vivid paintings and incredible sculptures (such as one done by Michaelangelo when he was only 19).  Downstairs you’re led through the basement to the tomb of St. Peter himself, a shrine dedicated to the discovery of his remains that occurred rather recently in the 1960s.

Then onto the museum.  Imagine trying to fit all the attendants of a rock concert into one room.  Now multiply that by 20 (the amount of rooms it felt like we saw in the museum. Probably entirely inaccurate.), and imagine all these people moving in the same direction from narrow hallway to narrow hallway (in the direction of the Sistine Chapel, in this case).  That’s the Vatican Museum.  Not exactly my favorite experience of the trip.  I didn’t realize how vast this museum was going to be, and the amount of visitors there not only made it hard to maneuver, but hard to understand the significance of what we were seeing.  And once you start the tour you can’t backtrack (read: THERE IS NO ESCAPE).  But the payoff of walking into the Sistine Chapel is pretty incredible.  EVERYTHING in it is painted: the columns on the walls aren’t columns, they’re paintings.  The curtains aren’t fabric, but paint on walls.  And in the very center of the ceiling of this vast room: the creation of Adam.  Truly an amazing sight (there was no way the “no photos” rule was going to stop me from snapping a few shots).

My final day in Rome I spent at a Dada/Surrealist art exhibit at the Museo di Risorgimiento, right next to the Coliseum.  It was truly an incredible show, with pieces from Duchamp, Breton, Miró, Calder, etc.  For me, even if the message of the art escapes me, I am simply just excited to be in the same room with such famous works (ok, so call me an art groupie).  The rest of the day we just wandered around the city, trying to hit all the leftover spots before leaving the next day.  What we found was an adorable little neighborhood called Trastevere, a nice change from all the tourists and hustle and bustle of the downtown area.

sunset from the Ponte Rialto

Wow, we’re only on city 2 of 3 (or 5, depending on how you look at it) of this trip.  You’ll have to forgive me for rambling.  But onto Venice: what an amazing city.  There’s truly nothing like it anywhere else in the world.  We stayed in this adorable little town of Oriago, 30 minutes from downtown Venice (since lodging in the center of the city is way expensive), which was a great taste of what small-town life in Italy is like.  The town literally had one stoplight. So on our first day we caught a bus into town, and then hopped straight away on a water taxi to visit two of Venice’s outlying islands: Murano and Burano.  The first is known for its hand blown glass, while the second is a lace-making island.  Just to give you an idea of how incredibly beautiful it was: don’t be surprised if you hear I’ve escaped to Murano, eloped and started my apprenticeship as a glassblower.  When you’re in the factory watching them make it, it’s incredible to realize that this task has been done the same way for hundreds of years, and the skills the workers possess come straight from their fathers, grandfathers, etc.  It seems so picturesque and perfect from a tourist’s point of view, but can you imagine growing up with that kind of pressure?  With that decision having been made for you almost from the day you were born?  Phew.  Heavy stuff.  So after grappling with that reality, it was time for a change of scenery.  On to Burano (the prettiest of all the islands, according to the guy in the lobby of our hotel).   He knows his stuff; all the houses on the island are painted bright, cheerful colors, and a babbling canal runs through the town, where the locals park their boats for the commute to Venice proper.  The lacework is also gorgeous, even for those of us (aka: this chick) who aren’t that into it.  After snagging a slice of pizza and a few pastries, we headed out on the water taxi to downtown Venice.

By this time I was fading, very aware that I hadn’t had a siesta in 4+ days, so I opted to sit for an hour in St. Mark’s Square, people-watching and dodging swarms of low-flying pigeons.  Sounds boring, but was perfect to just sit there and soak up the atmosphere. All around the square are cafes and shops, and each café has its own band to serenade its diners.  And for the fellow-coffee fiends: the [allegedly] first café to serve espresso in Italy is in this same piazza.  After reconvening with the group (all people-watched out), we splurged and got a gondola ride (I say splurged, because, well, it isn’t cheap.  But what’s interesting is that there’s no set price for these rides, you just haggle until you get it down to where you want it.  After this trip I can honestly say I have improved greatly in this skill).  Much to our dismay, our gondolier didn’t/wouldn’t sing, but just being in a gondola, floating serenely down the Grand Canal was enough.  What’s also so special about Venice (something you really notice during one of these rides) is how quiet the back streets/canals are, since there are no cars or buses or even people walking around; all you really here is the calm lapping of the water against the ancient foundations of the buildings.  Post-ride we strolled/explored some more, taking in the sunset from the Rialto Bridge, and bingeing on gelato (despite the howling wind and impending rain that seemed to follow us around the country).

After the short stay in Venice, we were headed to Florence.  Almost can’t decide which I loved more between the two.  In Florence we had the luck of staying in the heart of the city, right near the cathedral.  We got in at night, so we headed straight out to see what we could: the cathedral (Duomo), the Ponte Vecchio, the church (and nightlife neighborhood) of Santa Croce.  We decided we were less interested in museums and monuments (being at the end of our spending money) and more excited to see the town, and the Tuscan countryside.  I’ll admit now that I regret not doing the obligatory Uffizi/Academia visits, because the amount and quality of art in them is staggering.  Next time, I guess! With the alternate plan in mind, we got an early start the next day, with our first stop being the leather market.  This place is just three big streets that are lined, everyday, with stalls selling leather, behind which are actual stores.  Again, my haggling skills came into play and I left satisfied with my purchases (a cashmere scarf and leather bag).  When I started contemplating leather pants, I knew it was time to get out of there. (¡BROMA!).  We then made our way to the town’s famous Duomo, the Pitti Palace (home to the Medicis, I think?) and the Ponte Vecchio for the second time.  In the afternoon, we hopped on a train bound for Siena, a tiny, quaint medieval town in the heart of Tuscany.  After general wandering and exploring (are you sensing a theme here yet?  If not, it’s the verb “explore”.  This translates roughly to: walking around, snapping photos of picturesque scenery and buildings, eating gelato, getting lost at least once, being ambivalent about what to do next, and eating dinner.  Not a horrible system, really.  I mean, when can I honestly say I’m going to be in Italy next?  At least I got out and saw it), we settled into a café in the town’s main piazza.  Warmed by a dinner of salad with roasted vegetables and a steaming plate of gnocci, we hopped back on the train back to Florence.

The next day was our last, with our plane leaving from Pisa in the early evening.  So OF COURSE we had to go see the Tower.  But really, there’s not much more to do in that town.  So we checked our stuff at the train station, power-walked over to the other side of the city, and stared in awe.  It’s really leaning, I’ll tell you that.  Made me kind of nervous to think about climbing it (that being the second most popular activity in this town, coming in just below taking the obligatory “I’m so strong I’m holding up the tower” optical illusion photo).  So we opted for the latter.  And that’s when my camera died.  That’s when I knew the trip was over, that it was back to the real world and back to Spain (if this dream life of mine can really be classified as “the real world”).

The trip (and the break from schoolwork) was an awesome experience.  Almost more so because of how much it taught me about travelling (and I don’t mean the kind I did in high school, when everything was planned for me and I just got to go along for the ride.  Don’t get me wrong, I kinda miss that style).  Like how you should not forget a towel when you’re staying in a hostel (don’t worry, Mom, I remembered shower shoes), not plan late afternoon flights so you don’t waste a day travelling, and not stress when there’s a plane delay.  And the time away made me realize how much Valencia feels like home; I was honestly EXCITED to get back to the country, back to a language I can communicate in, back to Adela’s awesome cooking, back to my new Spanish friends and my other friends in the program.  Of course I miss home, but I’m so grateful that this place has become comfortable to me.  It’s MY city; I’m not just visiting anymore.

And with that, I’m out.  I know I talked (wrote?) your ears off, but just think of it this way: there will be absolutely NOTHING of worth to report this week, as it is exams.  Enough said.

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Filed under fall semester, travel