Hate Mondays

hate mondays

Not only on Mondays, but every day on my way to work I pass this graffiti, and I can't help but nod to its artist; not only for their excellent use of the English language but also for the superb expression of a universal sentiment. As I watch the abundant graffiti in Bilbao quickly being recanvased by the government and born again to a new generation of miscreants, I suspect it's no coincidence that this particular tag line survives.

My workday mornings are literally all uphill: a brisk struggle up to the bus stop, then the commute, followed by another typically sweaty hike up to the school where I teach, which in spite of being rewarded by a pleasant view, doesn't quite curb my 7:00am, Monday-morning attitude. Fortunately the cliché holds true: What goes up must come down, and the day is all downhill from there.

Mondays are my shortest workday, and most of my classes are really enjoyable--most of them. And after classes, I take the scenic route home. 

From Galdakao I hop on the free bus to connect with the metro, but then walk home. The walk takes me through the neighborhoods of Basauri and La Peña, which are places that I probably wouldn't see otherwise. They have a bit of a bad reputation, but I rather like them. There are nice shops and parks, and the walk is a good way to relax and disconnect.

So as much as I admire the spirit my street-artist friend was trying to convey, Mondays are actually one of my favorite workdays. But I still salute him, on Monday and every other day of the week!

arriving in bilbao

Eurovision's Plot to Confuse Outsiders

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Last night, a naive and unsuspecting guiri, I watched the Eurovision competition for the first time.

A year ago a friend had explained the hype to me, underlining Eurovision's traditional, cultural significance. Unfortunately our plans didn't work out, so I was left with the idea created by my imagination: A vision of the spectacle as a cutting edge, international music competition in which different European countries showcased their best talent. Maybe my brain subconsciously channeled American Idol to translate the idea, but that's what I thought the competition was.

At least until yesterday, when some friends invited me to partake in some Telepizza and watch this year's concert. I arrived eager and completely green, expecting an epic performance, something like the Olympics meets Battle of the Bands.

However, as the night went on and I found myself enveloped in a conversation about whether or not Bonnie Tyler was completely hammered, I worried that my face might be contorting into one of those internet memes I never really understood. [Insert rage face here.]

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My friends tried their best to answer my unending questions, but by the end of the night we conceded that the cultural gap was too broad to be crossed in a single viewing. Because Europe.

In case you'd like to share in some commiseration (or maybe some enlightenment!) here's a rundown of Eurovision's greatest perplexities for the (or at least this) expat.

Not all of the countries are even IN Europe.

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Wait, what? It's called EURO-vision.

"Why isn't Portugal participating?" I asked--which seems like Europe 101, right? "That would be too many countries." But, isn't Azerbaijan in Asia? See also Russia, Armenia, Cyprus, Israel...

(And now that you mention it, why is Georgia considered Europe, anyways?)

The music is NOT hip, or even necessarily representative of the country it's representing.

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I've got no beef with Bonnie Tyler or Cascada, but they're hardly cutting edge. And Celine Dion (France's Eurovision representative in 1988)? She's from Canada!

How do they even CHOOSE these bands?

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Seriously, how do they select these bands? After a downward spiral of questioning my friends, the Internet has since revealed to me a complicated broadcasting network conspiracy selection process, though as of yet I have found no logical explanation for taste.

The voting process is somehow MORE COMPLEX (and time consuming!) than a Rubik's Cube. 

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For an event so seemingly arbitrary, the voting process is like a sophisticated electoral college system, complete with nightmarishly bureaucratic timing. You can't vote for your own country. Okay, I guess that makes sense... But you can vote more than once. Wait a minute... That's questionable, but it's easy to overlook while your jaw is dropping when, a half hour into the tallying process, they announce that country 9 of 36 is about to weigh in.

But don't worry, there's always the animated butterfly to console you as you wait for the results.

It all comes down to the hard truth that Eurovision is ridonkulous, and everyone knows it. (Especially England, it seems.)

I absolutely don't get it, but in a way I sort of loved it. Here's looking forward to watching again next year! 

Pau and the French Pyrenees

the skyline in pau

"Pau has the world's most beautiful view of the earth 

just as Naples has the most beautiful view of the sea."

French poet Alphonse de Lamartine used these words to describe Pau, and while I tend to be wary of superlatives, I think he put it best. As the bus approached Pau and the Pyrenees grew on the horizon, I thought that even if we turned around before we'd arrived the sight alone would have still been worth the trip. I have visited the Pyrenees region before, but Pau's view, especially from the aptly named Boulevard of the Pyrenees, is beautiful. 

The city of Pau is more difficult to describe. "It's so cute!" I overheard another enthusiastic twenty-something behind me squeal in English as the bus pulled up, before she quickly amended her opinion to "Well, actually it's kind of dirty."  I smiled as I eavesdropped, although, she had a point, I thought while contemplating my own ideas through the windows.

This was my second adventure to the Basque region of France, and also my second trip with a group called "Los planes de Cloe," even though the plans are actually organized by a nice lady called Amaya. She posts little white fliers all over Bilbao, and then curious passersby like me sign up, along with a growing number of "regulars." It's a fun way to see France through Spain's eyes, and it also allows a good mix of freedom with order since the only organized parts of the trip are the timetable and the bus ride, when maps and practical information are distributed along with insider tidbits, like how the coffee in France is bad. 

This trip it was not the terrible coffee that was stressed (although it was mentioned), but a warning about eating lunch. Sure, the food is probably good. But the schedule is different: The French eat very early, Amaya explained. At around noon. And the service is horrible. That's right, in Spain they think the service is bad in France. 

Pau is a city of blues and greens and yellows pinks, which all fade to white in muted shades tainted by dust. The effect is charming, if perhaps a bit dirty. Notice how all of the buildings are only a few stories high, Amaya instructed the bus full of Spaniards, and how many of the windows have shutters. And sometimes they use stones from the river to decorate the fronts of the houses, not just the streets. I did as she said, wondering at how the narrow windows and angular roofs gave an impression of towering height, even if they were much shorter than the apartment blocks in Bilbao. I am always amazed at how a few hours drive can reveal different worlds. 

When we were set loose, I focused my day on sampling cheeses at Pau's huge farm market building, nibbling on pastries at every opportunity, and browsing the stalls that crowded the streets.  

the braderie market

While many people on the bus came for the braderie, the end-of-the-season sales that take to the streets of France as a giant market, the main attraction in Pau is certainly the castle. It's called a castillo in Spanish, but it's also called a château, leaving me a little lost in French translation and guessing at its identity, which is perhaps something of both. 

Built in the middle ages and constantly evolving in the years since, the château de Pau became home to the monarchy of the kingdom of Navarra, which includes much of present-day Spain and Basque Country, during the time of the Renaissance.

Its best-known resident was Henry IV, who was king of Navare and then of France. He is known for leading religious battles and for signing the Edict of Nantes, although his several wives and many lovers also earned him recognition. Henry was born in the elegant château and had a unique cradle carved from a tortoise shell (which, with my luck, was on loan to the Louvre). The extent of both his connection to the castle and to extravagant living ends there, however, as he was then brought up more austerely in the countryside. Although their connection was brief, Henry's fame and that of the castle remain intertwined.

Other famous residents include Napoleon, and Marie Antoinette, whose legacy was the castle's garden.

the château de pau

pau castle

Pau also offers another lesser-known château, the château de Franqueville, which is located a bit farther out of town where the Henry IV hiking trail begins--a trail that, after eight hours of walking, will lead you all the way to Lourdes. Always attracted to both hiking trails and the edge of town, I wandered my way there in the afternoon and was not disappointed (I may have even hummed the Disney tune "Adventure in the Great Wide Somewhere"). Locals seemed to have the same idea, as the grounds were dotted with blankets where families, friends, and couples spread out to appreciate the view. 

Pau, I hope we meet again someday. 

the view from the château de franqueville

chemin henri iv

a view of pau

Getting Lost in the Souks of Marrakech

There are many things to see in Marrakech, but none so famous as the souks: An exhaustive labyrinth that could take an entire day to explore or a lifetime to learn. Offering everything from spices to snails, the selection in Morocco's largest Berber market attracts anyone and everyone, be it tourists from across the globe or locals doing their daily grocery shopping. Today you might find nicknacks like knockoff Gucci sunglasses next to authentic handicraft like antique Berber rugs, but the market's traditional divisions still generally prevail. Head to the Souk Haddadine for ironworks and lanterns, the Souk Smata for babouches and belts, or even to Souk Ableuh for an elaborate sampling of olives. Whatever you're looking for, you can probably find it in the souks--if you can figure out how to get there. 

I bet on my own sense of direction to navigate the stalls, after ditching the guide and convincing my Dad and brother to come out with me for an evening stroll. Instead of branching out from the central square, we started from our hotel at the northern reaches and worked our way inwards. Heading deeper and deeper into the maze as the sun went down, we passed the sparks of the metalworkers and came to a new understanding of the term "fresh" while watching locals purchase their chicken for dinner--fully feathered and squawking when selected, but limp by the time they reached the bag. Although the boys quickly confessed that they could never find their way back, I remained confident: Left at the slippers, right at the pots, and straight on through the scarves... And if my girl-directions failed me, we were headed to the famous Jemaa el-Fnaa square, where we could always catch a taxi home. 

Unfortunately we'll never know if I overestimated my skills, because I underestimated the souks.

After a thé de menthe and some fresh orange juice in the square, we started to snake our way back, but at the end of the main strip I was already confounded: I could have sworn we'd gone straight here! The only way through was to the right, and I remembered that square from the morning... We definitely hadn't passed through it tonight. Even as we were leaving the hotel earlier, stores had already begun to close, and now the stalls were nearly empty. In an interesting yet terrible moment, we realized that it was not only the shop windows that were rolling down their blinds; the medina itself was transforming. Doors were sliding, streets were changing, and what had been a fun puzzle was quickly becoming a problem. 

It was like an adventure right out of A Thousand and One Nights, but how to get home? Finally obliged to consult a map, we had the audacity to consider that we might still make it back something like the way we'd come. And like the moths flocking to the few remaining street lamps, we had no trouble finding "help." Which hotel are you staying at? Can I point you in the right direction? Money? No, no, you don't need to pay me... 

I walked right into it. 

As the nice young man pointed us down corridors, lights were going dim, doors were closing shut, and my pulse was on the rise. Just as his uncle's-brother's-friend-twice-removed started to fiddle with the keys to unlock one of the many dark doorways, my eyes were growing wide and the voice of reason began to repeat in the back of mind: "Oh crap." The clinking of the keys made a heavy sound in the empty corridor, with only my heartbeat to compete against the silence. 

No sooner had my father drawn the line with a quick, "Nope. Not doing it." than I had turned on my heel and was breathing a sigh of relief as we set off, briskly, in the opposite direction. The sound of cursing faded behind us as we reached Jemaa el-Fnaa, where my brother's unfailing GPS could lead us home safely by the main road. 

Have you visited the souks of Marrakech? Would you brave them at night? 

Because Spain: Don't Touch That Fruit

As we strolled through the Mercado de San Miguel in Madrid, my Mom gave a little start when a vendor started shouting violently. What could we have possibly done wrong? 

Don't worry, I explained, he was yelling at the man behind us--for touching his fruit.

"DON'T TOUCH THE FRUIT" is like the unofficial welcome to Spain, especially for Americans accustomed to melon-squeezing-grandma culture. To select your produce, you must put on plastic gloves, but don't squeeze! And don't forget to weigh your fruit. Or you can tell the shop assistant what you'd like, depending on the venue. If being scolded is a welcome, then overhearing someone else be scolded while wearing little plastic gloves is when you know you've arrived. 

"How are you supposed to know if it's ripe without touching it?" a friend once asked. We expats may never know.