El sombrero más guapo/A most handsome-looking hat

Since I returned from my hiatus in Africa I´ve taken to wearing a new hat I bought earlier this summer.  It´s origin is from Ecuador, where authentic versions are manufactured, though the style itself was made famous by Theodore Roosevelt when he wore one in a strategic photo op for the Panama Canal construction in the early 1900´s -- hence the name, Panama hat.  But what delights me most about my new favorite accessory is not the casual, breezy feeling I immediately assume whenever I don it, but rather the inevitable comments I receive from a very particular demographic of Andalusian men.

Allow me to be frank.  I do happen to find Spanish men to be attractive.  But what sets apart these men is that they are almost always of a certain age; I´m sure you know the type.  Slicked back salt-and-pepper hair or most likely balding, they are the kind who walk with a deliberate stride clasping their hands behind their backs.  They are almost always seen in groups of three or more -- never alone -- and are either hanging outside the local bar in the middle of the day (of which, Andalucia has many), cerveza and smoke in hand, or they are walking to the next local bar down the street. 

Ordinarily I most certainly would find their boisterous, overt comments rather forward and borderline offensive, but when I´m wearing my new Panama hat, the comments turn somehow endearing.  More about the hat as an object of admiration rather than the random cat-call from a complete stranger.  ¡Qué arte!, or ¨What style!¨ they say as I walk the narrow streets of Cádiz.  Yesterday one man caught me in mid-stride and bellowed, ¨El sombrero más guapo!¨  A most handsome-looking hat!  Even the man behind me in the supermarket line mumbled something to me as I was paying for my groceries.  In truth I have no idea what he said, but I distinctly heard the word sombrero, so I looked him in the eye, smiled and said, ¡Graciaaa! in my best Andaluz.

Yes, I realize these men are generous with the compliments because they either have the exact same hat hanging on their hat rack back at home or have misplaced theirs at the last feria or Carnaval.  More a nod to their own taste than an honest form of flattery.  But a little recognition, when given on the right occassion such as wearing a smart hat, even if it is only in the spirit of comradery, is welcome and most definitely appreciated.

Tinto de Verano/Red of Summer (a Spanish wine cocktail, much like sangria)

Where did the summer go?  Though the weather in Cádiz brims of comfortably warm days that melt into just a hint of evening cool where a jacket is optional, the summer appears to be slipping further and further away like the end-of-the-week glimpse of a favorite beach house rental as seen from the rearview mirror.  A sensation which, for the moment, causes me to pause and ponder the question:  What did you do over the summer?  Such a simple question, yet I find I want my responses to be more profound, more meaningful than they really are, like I actually DID something worthwhile to help change the world in a positive way somehow.  In the end, I really just had fun this summer, kind of like when that was all that was expected of me when I was a kid.  Really, I can think of worse predicaments to be in. 

And so here it is, my list of what I did this summer, by yours truly:

1. I fell in love.  Once or twice, at least.
2. I cut my hair.  A woman knows when it´s time.  It was.
3. I traveled to a part of the world I´d never dreamed I´d get to know.  Four countries in East Africa, each one teaching me something exciting, haunting and new about humanity and about myself.
4. I officially dropped out of my grad school program, though I absolutely accomplished the two main goals I had set for myself in coming here for an immersion experience:  to learn to speak Spanish and to experience the Spanish culture.
5. I discovered a renewed passion for my old day job, though I´m learning that perhaps part-time work is more suited to me.
6. I smoked a little, I drank a lot.  Always in good company, even if I just felt like enjoying a cold one on my own.
7. I did not finish reading any one book in particular.
8. I golfed for the first time in over three years.
9. I lost myself in Venice.
10. I had fun.

Un maestro real/A real master

What a rare and wonderful opportunity to be in the presence of a music legend.  Someone with 100% pure talent who has dedicated his entire life to his craft playing with other music legends such as Paco de Lucía and Camerón de la Isla.  Yet what surprised me most about Spanish guitarist Tomatito is just how Andalusian he is, his warm presence and calm demeanor completely belying the fact that he is truly one of the world´s most talented (if not THE most talented) living flamenco artists.

Spending Thursday early afternoon with an intimate group of about 50, Tomatito was a charismatic yet graceful guest at a Universidad de Cádiz Q&A.  When he entered the lecture hall with a UCA professor and a few university staff, the only indication of his rock star status was his gorgeously flowing dark head of hair.  He assumed absolutely none of the airs you'd expect from someone as successful as he is in the music business -- he was gracious in his reception and sincere and thoughtful in his responses to questions from both the interviewer and members of the audience.  He didn't play his guitar, but he did share funny generational anecdotes referring to his young grandson discovering Spanish guitar.  And at the end of a little more than an hour, he stayed until every last fan had a chance to shake his hand and take a photo with him if they wanted.

Yeah, I'm a fan.

Cádiz clásico/Classic Cádiz

Such a beautiful evening to take a leisurely stroll through town before an early cena.  I couldn´t resist trying my hand at capturing the fading light, my absolute favorite, on a classic Cádiz facade.  Plaza de Argüelles, cinco de mayo, right around 20:45 local time.  No flash required.

Cariño/Sweetheart

One thing I absolutely adore about this part of Spain is the lovely manner in which people greet each other.  It´s perfectly normal to walk into a neighborhood café for the very first time and be welcomed by the barkeep with an ¡Hola, wappo! - gaditano for hello, guapo, which is Spanish for gorgeous.  Dime, cariño.  Talk to me, darling, used in addressing a man or woman.  Or, ¡Hasta luego, bonita!, see you later, beautiful.  All standard exchanges around these parts.

Makes the day that much sweeter in an already refreshingly pleasant corner of the world.

Pesca'o Frito/Fried Fish

Fried fish is the local specialty around these parts, and lucky for me my Spanish girlfriends from the Masters class, "Las Chavalas" as I like to call them, offered to take me out for an almuerza of pesca'o frito ('chaval/a' is a local term for someone you'd call referring to either a young girl or boy or someone with whom you are on familiar, friendly terms).  Almuerza is lunchtime at around 2:30 p.m., is the big meal of the day and can easily last for over 2 hours.  Tapas are generally served the rest of the day at meal times, which of course are very different from in the States. 

Café con leche is whenever you get up and get around to it.  Desayuno (breakfast) is anywhere from 8 a.m. to noon and generally consists of nothing more than toasted bread with olive oil and tomato or some sort of florescent-looking pork spread I have not yet had the nerve to try.  Tapas are then served from around noon to 2 p.m. to tide you over until almuerza, the big meal of the day.  Then is marienda (afternoon snack), which can be anywhere from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., and finally cena, what we know as dinner, is served at around 8:30 to 11 p.m.  A side note:  I have yet to see traditional American-style coffee served here in Cádiz, and although I do miss it I like the fact that there are no Starbucks here even more.

Now, unbeknownst to Las Chavalas, the day they chose to take me out for pesca'o frito (pesca'o is local for pescado, which is Spanish for 'fish') is the day I decided to have my oath of office for the Navy Reserves administered.  Since my friend Emily, also a Naval officer and, therefore, someone who is qualified to administer the oath for me, was joining us for almuerza, I thought why not?  Since I didn't yet have the verbal communication skills to explain to Las Chavalas what all was about to happen after lunch that day, I had Emily, who's lived here for two years already, assist with the translation.  Las Chavalas were thrilled.  So much so that I kept hearing them say, ¡Qué guay!, ¡Qué guay!, which I later learned means, 'How cool!'

And so, below is the scene that took place in the Plaza de Flores where I took the oath of office for the Navy Reserves.  I love the fact that it took place in that particular spot, the place in town where they sell flowers, with my new Spanish girlfriends present and eagerly observing, and especially that Emily is the officer who administered the oath for me.  This is one oath of office ceremony that I will never forget.

¡Qué guay!

Erizada/Sea Urchin Festival

I realize it’s been quite some time since my last blog entry.  At least longer than I had intended.  And the reason for a prolonged gap in posts?  Well, I vowed in my blog mission statement that I would be honest in writing my entries, warts and all, and the truth is … I’ve been partying.  Not that this should come as a surprise to anyone (Mom and Dad, you know I just want you to be proud), as it’s generally a well known fact that the Spanish love to party.  And I’m here to verify that the generalization is TRUE!  When I came to Spain I had set two specific goals for myself:  1) to learn to speak the Spanish language and 2) to partake in the Spanish culture.  And while I’m working, diligently, on goal number 1, I’ve found I’m having a much easier time going about realizing goal number 2.  Here’s an example:

Two Sundays ago I woke after a late night party at my apartment complex and decided I really should enjoy the beautiful sunny day, the first we had in a while, rather than sleep-in.  And so, I went out on a 'paseo' (walk).  After enjoying my weekly churros and chocolate at a leisurely noon-time breakfast, I found myself meandering down to the market plaza and stumbled upon the scene depicted here:

Suddenly I’m reminded that my dear friend and all-around American-in-Spain/UCA guru, Emily, to whom I’m forever indebted for introducing me to this magical place, told me about the sea urchin festival which was supposed to happen in Cádiz this week.  Festival is right -- these guys aren’t fooling around.  By the time I make it back to San Antonio Plaza, the larger of the two plazas that bookend my street, people are starting to congregate, casually standing in line somewhere in the vicinity of the beer tent located in the middle of the square.  At 12:45 p.m. on a Sunday!  I mean, church just barely ended and there are probably 500 people already in the square, waiting for the festivities to begin.  I later learned that 'Erizada,' or the Sea Urchin Festival, marks the beginning of Cádiz’s preparations for Carnaval, the biggest celebration of its kind in Spain and a main attraction for many tourists near the end of winter/beginning of Spring.  Erizada is a party just for the people of Cádiz, where people from all classes and ages come out to enjoy the celebration.  It’s a time when you can meet with your fellow neighbors, enjoy the free, raw seafood (including sea urchins) provided by various local sponsors, drink (alcohol) freely in the streets and just enjoy the fantastic heritage of this beautiful seaside city.

Another extremely important aspect of Erizada is that it marks the beginning of the 'concursos' -- the singing competitions that determine which specific groups are allowed permits to perform at various locations throughout the city during Carnaval.  This kind of singing competition is like one I’ve never seen.  It puts the likes of U.S. talent shows such as American Idol to shame.  Emily later explained to me that, historically, Carnaval is the one time during the year when Spaniards are allowed to come out into the public and vent their frustrations with the current royal aristocracy, government officials, city authorities, or any other groups or issues of the day with which they really have an ax to grind.  Back in the day, it was thought that if a “good” ruler was prudent, he and/or she would allow for this festival once a year, when everything is turned upside down (the poor are encouraged to dress-up as and mock the rich, and the rich are subjected to their ridicule) in order to provide an outlet that allows for peace and order the rest of the year.  Kind of makes sense to me, but there’s more of my thoughts and observations on Carnaval to come in later postings.

Just to give you a taste of what I am talking about concerning the concursos, this photo is of the first group to perform, and this was probably their eleventh song out of about a dozen performed in San Antonio Plaza.  This group wants to make it to the final round -- to be able to perform at Carnaval -- and they want it bad.  And might I just mention, during every single song the 'cantantes' gesticulated just as you see here.  It’s like every single member is an actor, singing on his own stage.  Entertaining, indeed.

Oh, and after meeting up with my friends in the plaza at around 1:00 p.m. and spending the next seven hours walking the streets, drinking local Manzanilla and eating Spanish 'tortilla bocadillos' (a potato omelet served on a toasted baguette, something I never dreamed I’d say is really quite delicious), with a 'descanso' (nap) on the beach sometime in the middle, at 8:00 p.m. it was time for me to call it a night.  I had the late night party the night before, remember?

It’s good to be the fool in Cádiz.

El Vino/The Wine

I suppose this was inevitable, as anyone who knows me even a little can easily imagine my delight to find that I can purchase a bottle of perfectly drinkable, everyday red at the supermarket around the corner for around 2.5 Euros (currently about $3.40).  What luck!  I haven’t even sampled the local bodegas yet, but rest assured it’s only a matter of time.

This entry is for Helio, my Spanish wines teacher at the Cervantes Institute in New York.  Only I’m sure he’d prefer I venture to the Spanish Sherries or Manzanillas, being (so near) the Sherry Triangle, after all. 

A brief culture lesson:  'Spanish Sherries' is actually redundant as, like Champagne is to France, true Sherry comes from only this region in Spain.

¡Salud!

Gente educada/Polite Andalusians

I had to laugh when I saw this umbrella in a trash receptacle in the Plaza San Antonio this afternoon.  Not because it barely drizzled here earlier this morning, though it´s been cloudy and grey all day, but because it brought back memories of rainy days in New York City.  Post-storm, you could tell how heavy the rainfall was by how many broken umbrellas were strewn across the city streets, victims of the oft’ erratic weather patterns that hit Manhattan.  Sure, some managed to make it into the city trashcans located on nearly every street corner, but more likely to find them in the gutter or along a sidewalk – and with such good intentions of keeping their owners dry and protected, too.

Just another reminder Cádiz is a long way from NYC.  And, yes, this was the only "paraguas" to be seen, sans owner.

Churros y Chocolate/Churros and Chocolate

My very first Spanish language book from freshman year of high school was called, “Churros y Chocolate.”  In fact, I still have it buried away in a storage bin somewhere at home.  I always thought it was a strange name for a book, and the concept of dipping donut sticks into melted chocolate even stranger (what can I say?  I was a kid from Northwest Ohio and the thought of the deliciousness that could be never crossed my mind back then).  Twenty-some years later, I feel very differently.

The consistency of the chocolate is something between what we in the United States know as hot chocolate and pudding.  The texture of the churros strikes a perfect balance between slightly crunchy on the outside and slightly chewy on the inside.  And the tastes that marry between the bittersweet chocolate and the not-quite salty, deep-fried manna from heaven are only part of the attraction.  A larger portion of the perfection-that-becomes goes to what happens to the consistency of the churro when it is dipped in the chocolate, with every nook and cranny perfectly filled with just the right proportion.  The delight to the tongue is to die for.

I try to indulge in this pleasure no more than once a week, though when I first arrived to Madrid I had some for dessert my first night in Spain and then again for breakfast the next day.  I mean, why not?  Yesterday I enjoyed these while having a leisurely breakfast at 11:45 a.m. outside the bustling Plaza de Flores where, you guessed it, they sell gorgeous bunches of flowers.  I bought the ‘Diaro de Cadiz’ from a man standing with a stack of papers not more than 10 yards from my café table singing, “Dee-aaaaaaaaar-ee-ooooh, ‘d Cad-eeeee” every minute or so. 

Cielo.

Dia de mudarme/Move-in day

Monday I experienced that rite of passage all people go through when changing their place of residence, which of course is move-in day.  If you think moving is a stressful evolution back at home, just try and imagine what it must be like to do it in a foreign country!  Luckily for me, before I even arrived to Spain my friend Emily found me a furnished “piso” to rent, conveniently owned by the landlord who also owns the house she and her husband are renting.  A piso is a flat or apartment, depending on your English-speaking country of origin.  To me, “flat” is more descriptive because it doesn’t allude to accommodations most Americans, New Yorkers excluded, are accustomed to.  Like a functioning kitchen.  Or, I don’t know, a place where the bed, living and dining room furniture aren’t all in the same space.

All preconceived notions of the definition of ‘apartment’ aside, the piso couldn’t be in a more perfect location.  Nestled between two lively plazas, one big and one small, it’s just two blocks from the university which, like many colleges in the United States, makes it just steps away from some of the best watering holes in town.  It also means that when I have my class break during siesta, anywhere between 2 and 6 p.m. local time but for me is from 2 to 4:30, I can easily crash at my own pad (sweet!).  But also, the flat itself is located in what I’m sure was once a grand palace in the heart of Cadiz, which easily could have been built around 200-300 years ago, just to provide some point of reference.  Like no other apartment to rent in the U.S., that’s for sure.

Yet despite these attractive qualities, move-in day is still move-in day, and all the anxieties that go along with up-rooting yourself and your worldly possessions (in my case, mainly my clothes) don’t magically disappear simply because it’s a foreign country, even if that country is lovely Spain.  For starters, when I first arrive at the apartment the caretaker, or the person I gather is the landlord’s agent (the landlord’s cousin, but of course), tells me there is a small problem.  The cleaning lady arrived earlier that morning and locked the keys in the apartment.  The caretaker doesn’t even have a key to enter into the building’s main corridor and has to ring for someone to let us in.  Hmmmm. 

Then there is the issue of exactly which apartment I am going to rent.  My choice is the attic flat, which the landlord has yet to renovate but, when I met with him the week prior, he assured me would be ready in one month.  So I was already aware the first apartment I was moving into was only temporary, until the attic could be renovated.  Yet when I ask to see the attic on Monday in order to check on the renovation progress, I find it looks exactly as it did when I first saw it a week and a half ago.  Furthermore, I run into the contractor who is doing the renovation, a gruff, short middle-aged man, and he is hesitant to give me any kind of indication as to when the apartment might be done, if ever.  This does not provide any relief, whatsoever, from my move-in day anxiety. 

The next time I see the contractor he is knocking on my door so that he can access the apartment to fix the drains to the sink and shower.  Really?  After the cleaning lady was already here in the morning to clean?  Yes, which makes me wonder what the Spanish definition of cleaning an apartment is.  After about an hour and a half of commotion from him and two of his co-workers running out and about, setting up a rather peculiar-looking plumbing machine and shouting back and forth with what I presume to be some local version of rapid, explicative-filled Spanish, he calls for me to look and see something.  He has clentched in his fist and then shoves in my face a huge, stinky grey mass of what looks to me to be hair and goo, typical stuff that causes clogged drains.  He explains it’s because of “la comida,” the food leftover on the dishes the previous tenant tried to wash in the bathroom sink.  Instead, I need to use the common kitchen area to clean my dishes.  I nod my head, Sí, not seeing this as an issue since there is no kitchen in the apartment in the first place.  He then snorts and proceeds to throw the blob directly into the trash can for added emphasis, just to be absolutely certain I get the message.

Still, as I’m finding most times is the case with my Spanish adventures, there is a silver lining to the chaos that has become my life.  After working non-stop unpacking clothes, scavenging for and moving furniture, and fixing minor odds and ends like closet doors and window hinges and taking a break only for classes, I now have a place to come home to that I absolutely adore.  Case in point, as I write this blog entry every so often I’m glancing out the window from the small dining table to gaze at oranges growing on the tree in the courtyard garden.  Beautiful.  Sometimes I have to pinch myself for the luck.  So much so that when I ran into the contractor on the street yesterday on my way to the big plaza, la Plaza San Antonio, I told him I didn’t really mind exactly when the attic renovation would be finished. 

“No me importa.”

La Saga de Visado, Parte Dos/The Visa Saga, Part Two

Continuing ...

Back to Merche, who so graciously volunteered to escort me to the Policia Nacional in Puerto Real to complete the visa paperwork so that I can finally obtain my international student ID (the national police station in Puerto Real is the designated office in this region of Spain to process student visas.  It's about a twenty minute drive from Cadiz).  For me, having a native Spaniard with me to help complete what's turned into an administrative feat of epic proportion was not only ideal but, considering my feeble language skills, totally necessary.  FINALLY, this was it -- I was about to get the required stamped documentation so that I can stay here legally for one year of studies.  Hurray!  Only, no.  That's not what happened when we arrived at the police station in Puerto Real.  Turns out I needed to have another form of documentation, una resolución (pronounced "res-oh-lu-THEE-on") from the Spanish government's Office of Foreigners, located in Cadiz. 

Fair enough.  It makes sense that because I am a foreigner taking classes at a university that is physically located in Cadiz, I should have some sort of proof the local government has knowledge of my living and studying and participating in the local economy.  So Merche and Lalia (turns out Lalia, another of my amigas from the other night, was the one who provided our transportation from the train station in Puerto Real) take me back to Cadiz so that I can get the required "resolución."  If the line at the foreigner's office isn't too long, Lalia offers to bring me back to the police station in Puerto Real so that I can finish the paperwork that day and be done with it.  So sweet of her.

But of course, the line at the Oficina de Extranjeros in Cadiz had at least two dozen people in it with only two agents working the help desk.  And so, armed with a written script in my notebook that Merche had prepared for me on the car ride over, Lalia and Merche drop me off and leave me there to fend for myself since there is no way of telling how long this part of the process will take.  I completely understand and am grateful for all they've done for me.

Standing in line listening to people chatter, I quickly realize I am probably the only extranjero who doesn't speak Spanish at least very well.  No, I am certain of it.  Sure, there are a couple of other students who are very possibly from China waiting, but I suspect most of the others are there to obtain work visas.  Before long, I also realize I am the only one who is not holding a fistful of documents that appear to be exactly what I had to turn in to the Spanish Consulate in New York back in November.  I nervously wait, seriously hoping I'm standing in the correct line and that the visa that's affixed to my passport will somehow magically explain everything to whomever ends up assisting me at the help desk.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, it's finally my turn to be seen by the agent.

Sí, hay más ...

La Saga de Visado, Parte Uno/The Visa Saga, Part One

Considering what an absolute administrative nightmare it was for me to obtain my temporary student visa from the Spanish Consulate in New York back in November, I decided to take Merche up on her offer to accompany me to the Policia Nacional in Puerto Real to complete the paperwork in order to obtain the coveted international student ID. 

A side note for background purposes -- I use the term "administrative nightmare" in the purest sense because that's exactly what it was.  For someone 18 years of age or older to get a (legal) student visa in Spain (I don't know the requirements for other countries, though I suspect if they are members of the Schengen countries the requirements are the same), she/he must submit to the Spanish Consulate nearest the place of permanent residence:
- two application forms,
- a valid passport (must be surrendered to have visa affixed by consulate),
- two passport photos,
- a letter of acceptance from the institution from which she/he is studying,
- proof of health insurance for the duration of stay,
- proof of financial means of at least $1,000/month for room and board,
- a money order for the $140 non-refundable student visa fee (the most expensive of all types of visas),
- a police records certificate for the past five years requiring a fingerprint background check and bearing the "Apostille of the Hague Convention",
- a signed doctor's statement of good health

OK, so while I agree the required documentation seems applicable and relevant to studying abroad, the kicker is that beginning October 1 of last year, for U.S. citizens (like, from where else are people applying for visas at the Spanish Consulate in New York going to be?), ONLY records issued by the FBI are valid, meaning a police records certificate from any other jurisdiction (i.e. city, state) is not valid.  And did I mention it's a 12 week turnaround to obtain this FBI background check?  And that all requests for said background check must be made to the FBI Criminal Justice Information Services Division in West Virginia via snail mail (huh?!).  Furthermore, in order to make an appointment with the Spanish Consulate you must have assembled all of the required documentation and apply for an appointment on-line, which toward the end of last year required a 4-6 week waiting period.  Oh, and lastly, it takes on average 7 weeks after the scheduled appointment for the visa to be processed, meaning the paperwork travels to Spain and back for processing.  I'm not kidding. 

Without going into the gory details that can only come into existence for a resident of my beloved New York City, I sincerely hope you can appreciate that the whole "obtaining a student visa to study in Spain" experience turned into quite an ordeal.  And since I didn't even know I was accepted into the program at Universidad de Cadiz until mid-October, with classes beginning January 10, traveling to Spain to study for a year had turned into somewhat of a predicament.  Yet, miraculously, I somehow managed to get my passport back with said visa in time for my January 4 flight.  A huge "muchas gracias!" to the good folks back at the Spanish Consulate in New York for not only putting up with me and my persistent, multiple inquiries (some may say manic, but I think that's a strong word, don't you?), but for also making it happen.

And here I am, back in Spain -- as if all the administrative gymnastics state-side wasn't enough, the prize for obtaining the student visa is, as mentioned earlier, the international student ID.  In fact, the visa that's permanently affixed to my passport is only good for three months.  It's the student ID that will keep me here legally for the duration of my studies.

Sí, es verdad.  Hay más por venir.

Otra lengua totalmente/Another language altogether

Remember when I speculated that I might not be the only foreigner currently with a huge learning curve due to the language gap? Foolishness. After meeting Blanca from China yesterday (not her given name), my theory suffered a serious blow. In her early twenties, she's been studying Spanish only four years to my eight-and-then-some and, actually, I'm considering whether or not her Spanish is better than my English. !Increible!

Nevertheless, I did happen upon three very simpatica locals in the cafeteria during coffee break and they quickly put my language insecurities at bay ... for the time being. Chari and Eulalia are from Cadiz while Merche is from nearby Puerto Real, which coincidentally is where I have to go to the police station to get my student visa stamped and authenticated and made all official-like in the eyes of the Spanish government. I mentioned this in passing to Merche and she immediately offered to take me to the police station herself in the coming days. Wow. I had not anticipated the genuine kindness from the locals here! A huge plus for visiting the area, and I'm quickly learning part of the reason Cadiz itself is so charming and highly desirable as a European vacation destination.

Still, after listening in on their animated conversation over cafe con leche, I'm beginning to realize the language is quite different here than in other parts of Spain. The Cadiz accent has a tendency to drop the endings of words. Take for example the Spanish word for thank you, "Gracias." In Cadiz they say "Gra-thee-ah" (the Spanish lisp of "th" for soft c's and z's is generally practiced throughout Spain; yes, that means that locally Cadiz is pronounced, "Ca-deeth"). The same is true for the Spanish word for good-bye, "Adios." In Cadiz, they say "A-dee-oh," which is fine and good when speaking in simple phrases, but I can only imagine what all I'm missing while sitting in class lectures with my nose firmly planted in my English-Spanish dictionary. !Ay, caramba!

!Es otra lengua totalmente!

La 10 Por Ciento Solución/The 10 Percent Solution

Wow -- I had anticipated yesterday to be something of a wake-up call, but I'd have to estimate I understood in total about 10% of the Spanish I was exposed to during and between classes. Although not an ideal situation in any figment of the imagination, I choose to see this as 90% room for improvement rather than the obvious "Maha" obstacle (Sanskrit, not Spanish) for obtaining a Master's degree IN SPANISH. There are 52 students in the class of which about half are international students including nine from China, a first for the program. Soooo, I can't imagine that I am completely alone with the language barrier, but for now it's difficult to take much comfort in what my optimistic mind views as nothing more than a minor detail. Right.

I met three other international students during the coffee break between classes -- Elizabeth from El Salvador, Enrique from Chile and someone who sounds like "Erneste" from Cuba. Having followed them down to the student cafeteria, I was grateful they were kind enough to entertain my broken Spanish as we drank our cafes con leche. But the best encounter by far was meeting Diego Caro, a professor and the program coordinator, on the ferry ride back to Puerto de Santa Maria where I am currently staying. He's a tall man for Spanish standards with twinkling eyes and a broad smile, has a paternal way about him and was extremely patient with my 10% when I introduced myself as a friend of Emily (whom I'll talk much more about later in this blog). Just the type of hombre you'd want in charge of the program. After chatting the entire ride home, with Diego's kind encouragement, I hardly minded the fact that I had just missed the previous ferry an hour before.

!Que suerte! Sometimes things happen for a reason.

¡Bienvenido a Después!/Welcome to later!

Hola! Today is my first day of classes as a new Masters student at the Universidad de Cadiz in the Andalucia region of Spain, and only my fifth day in country. These last few months have been a whirlwind blur of making preparations to leave the active duty Navy to embark on this journey and finally participate in a foreign cultural immersion experience, something I've been dying to do since I was a kid. Don't ask me where my wanderlust comes from because I'm the only one of six in my immediate family to have it, much to my parents' chagrin. It's what brought me to the Navy twelve-and-a-half years ago (well, sixteen-and-a-half if you include trade school) and it's what's making this journey so incredibly authentic, fantastically amazing and especially rewarding after all these years of dreaming. I can hardly believe I'm here, in SPAIN, actually doing it. !Increible!

Welcome to later.