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.