Vacation's Over

I can tell when it's time to wrap up a trip; aside from the date on my return ticket. It's the little things that start piling up. I begin to run out of toiletries (and no, foreign replacements just don't cut it). My watch's battery has died and it's taking up space in the bottom of my bag. I start leaving things behind all over the place (I think I've accidentally left a small souvenir in every country). I start getting tired of staring at the same 5 shirts and two pairs of pants every morning. The once charming quirks of the road slowly turn into annoyances. And I start dreaming about everything I miss in America.

Traveling is like a two sided coin (um, not to be confused with those single sided coins going around today). On one side, exploring the world is one of the best things I've done with my life. The adventure and thrill of something new is addicting. I linger near maps and globes, imagining what journeys await me. Even now, after two months of traveling I caught myself staring at the world map in the back of the US Airways magazine, wondering what continent my life will take me to next. I learn something new everywhere I go and every trip leaves it's mark on me. Some marks are big, some are small, but they all help me build myself into the person I want to be.

But on the other side, the more I travel, the more I love America. Don't get me wrong, traveling wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable without the surprises that every new country brings. But what can I say, America has spoiled me. I've long since discovered that many of my life's essentials — say fruit or vegetables — are exotic and rare treats. I can't describe how reassuring it is to know that I can walk through an airport here and pick up a banana at nearly any convince shop (I spent nearly an hour in the Madrid airport this morning looking for fruit, any fruit, before finally finding some soggy, soft apples). I love that I can walk into a restaurant and be greeted with a smile and a pleasant hello, not a dirty scowl that wordlessly asks "what are you doing in my restaurant?"

Yes, I'm an American through and through. And very proud of it. And I can only hope that — in the same way that every journey leaves it's imprint on me — I leave some positive imprint from myself and America on someone who's path I've crossed. Yeah, it's a little self-centered to think like that. But when I think back through my travels I see that it's the people who make ordinary days special. It's people who teach me about life and about the world out there. It's people who show me what it really means to be a Kiwi, Spaniard, or a Moroccan. In return I do my best to show them what it means to be an American.

Going Out on a High Note

Last night one of my favorite bands, the Foo Fighters, played in London. An evening with my favorite band sounded like a perfect way to finish my adventures around Europe so I spent some time on ebay.co.uk, trying to get a ticket to the concert. The Foo Fighters are much bigger in Europe (as compared to America) so tickets aren't easy to come by. But I persevered and ended up with a seat. Sure was about about 10 rows from the top of the arena and literally couldn't be much further from the stage, but it didn't matter. The music was loud and the atmosphere was electric.

And the Foo Fighters lived up to the hype. It was an epic performance. At nearly two and a half hours long, the show included a a lot of their older (and louder) stuff. As Dave Grohl (pictured above) explained before launching into another series of vintage songs: "sometimes I just gotta scream my ass off." Which he did. It seems like a good motto for my trip, too. There will be plenty of time to settle down and take care of my "normal" life, but sometimes I just got kick back, do exactly what I want to do, and scream my ass off. Which is what I've been doing for the last two months.

I Just Want Chips

I don't understand the British language. I was at a Mexican restaurant last night, have a couple of drinks and snacks before going to a concert (more on that later). In need of a taste of America (well Mexico, but close enough), I asked the bartender for some chips and guacamole. He looked at me strangely and told me he needed to check with his manager first. I sat and watch him and the manager have a quick conversation, point at me, and talk some more. He finally comes back over and says "yeah we can do that" and proceeds to spend 5 minutes typing away on the kiosk to ring up my order.

It's during this process I realize that something has gone horribly wrong. In the back of my head a light goes off: "chips" aren't actually chips here, they're french fries. So I call the bartender back over, explain what's going on, and we both have a quick laugh. I elaborate on my original order, explaining that I actually want corn chips and guacamole. "Oh right, you want nachos," he says. I tell him that in America nachos mean just chips and cheese, and I definitely didn't want cheese. But apparently it's different over here so — for the first time in my life — I order nachos (and guacamole).

A few minutes later my order shows up and (much to my unfortunate surprise) nachos in England are, in fact, exactly the same as nachos in America. Except I have a tiny dollop of guacamole in the corner. Thanks. So I'm stuck with a plate of nachos for dinner. But it's 7:00pm, I haven't eaten since breakfast, and the nachos cost a staggering 6 pounds, so I saddled up and ate an entire plateful of cheese covered chips. Europe makes you do strange things.

The end result is that I still have no idea what the English call chips. Crisps, perhaps? I think that's just for potato chips, though. A task for my next trip, I guess.

England

England has long since been a thorn in my side. Previous trips to London were far from ideal; the city and I seem to have developed a mutual feeling of distrust. So it was a with a wary eye that I stepped foot back into the country last week. In my mind England had a lot of apologizing to do.

Fortunately, my week was sensational. The first good decision I made was to avoid London proper and spend most of my time exploring the English countryside instead. "Charming" isn't a word that's usually in my vocabulary (I just confirmed this with a quick blog search — "charming" is nowhere to be found), but there's no other way to describe the English countryside: it's charming. The English love a good brick building and the land is peppered with a variety of old brick walls, houses and facades.

Speaking of old, the amount of history in England can't be overstated. Yeah, "duh," I know. But I still can't believe how every singly city is just steeped in history. Oxford (pictures here), for example, is obviously well known as one of the oldest universities in the world. But it's amazing to read through Oxford's history and stumble across all the famous people who've studied, lived, and left their mark on the town. Next to Oxford is Blenheim palace (pictures), the largest palace in England. Not only is it home to generations of famous dukes and earls, it also happens to be where Winston Churchill lived. And just a short train trip north is Warwick (pictures), one of the top 10 castles in all of Europe. As an unabashed Gothic fanatic, I couldn't help but feel giddy as I walked along the ancient castles walls at sunset, envisioning the medieval view over the old village. And then there's Stonehenge (pictures). In a country filled with history, Stonehenge is heads and shoulders above anything else. It is old. Built in 4000 BC, it was already ancient ruins when the Romans stumbled across the site in 43 AD.

So yeah, England has done its part and has won me over.

Iceland

Lets start with the facts: Iceland is phenomenal. I love pretty much everything about it. I love the constantly changing, occasionally extreme weather. I'm used to unpredictable weather in Seattle, but it pales in comparison to Iceland. Sitting directly on the gulf stream doesn't help any. A relentless wind pushes a week's worth of weather systems across the island in an afternoon.

I love the alien landscapes, the result of a recent combination of volcanic and glacier activity (not to mention that Iceland lies on the mid-Atlantic ridge, which continues to pull and stretch the island). The glaciers fuel a gorgeous collection of rivers and waterfalls, which wind their way around geothermal activity and through tectonic cracks. And there is no doubt about it, Iceland is rugged land. I saw a more diverse population of shrubs and bushes on the edge of the Sahara than I saw throughout inner Iceland. (And the rest of my pictures from a day trip through inner Iceland are here.)

I love the small, comfortable feel of Reykjavik. With a population under 200,000, downtown Reykjavik is a friendly union of small business and houses. No colossal high-rises, overwhelming pedestrian crowds, or frantic commutes. A streak of Scandinavian practicality that runs through nearly everything, too. Building design is simple and effective. It almost looks like IKEA decided to get into the architecture market.

And, possibly more than anything else, I love Icelandic people. After weeks among overbearingly boisterous Spaniards, Iceland's reserved nature was relaxing step back (although many locals appear determined to make up for their agreeable personality with a brazen disregard for American or European style standards, opting to forge a style that is purely Icelandic). Iceland is truly a multilingual country, as everyone speaks flawless English. It was fascinating to watch them talk to each other and subconsciously slip back and forth between languages, depending on what the situation called for.

And speaking of the Icelandic language, what a strange beast. I read a quote about learning the language that goes something like: "Learning Icelandic is like getting a tattoo on your ass: it's painful, it takes a long time, and you rarely get to show it off." Encouraging! The biggest problem is that most of the letters look familiar (it's based on the Latin alphabet), but the letters don't sound like you'd expect them to (and there are several sounds that I'm simply incapable of producing). For example, "h" and "v" work as expected, except when put together, where they produce a "qu" sound. The letter "g" sounds like a "g" or a "y", depending on the surrounding letters. And "ll" creates some weird "l"/"h"/clicking sound, which I haven't come close to saying correctly.

Icelanders were also a little confused about why anyone would visit their windswept island in the middle of the fall. Without fail, the first question they ask is: "Why come to Iceland, and why come to Iceland in November?!" There are, as I've started to list, at least million reasons why Iceland is amazing. Icelandic people, growing up and enduring the windy, dark, and sometimes bleak conditions, have a hard time imagining Iceland as an exotic location. But it is. I liken it to traveling to Mars and running into a Martian race there. The Martians would have a hard time understanding what is so exciting about a vast, burnt, dry, red land. But come on, it's Mars!

I always felt a little silly telling the locals I went to Iceland because well... "dude, it's Iceland!" Next time I tell them to read this, instead.

Arctic Chill

I just landed in London this afternoon, I'm currently spending a wonderfully quiet evening outside the Stansted airport (where I'll be departing for Iceland from tomorrow). I can't tell you how comfortable it is to be in an English speaking country. Passing through customs, I was able to stroll up to the counter with a casual "How's it going?" greeting. Of course, the English would rather choke on their own tongues before partaking in some casual pleasantries with a stranger, but it was still nice to know that a certain level of comprehension was available to both sides of the conversation.

Also, I still can't get over the hilarious ways that British English manages to stretch the language. Take the signs at the airport for example. There are signs for "pick up" where, presumably, one would go to get arriving passengers. So what does the sign for departures say? "Set down," of course. Sure, it's the opposite of "pick up" so it makes sense, but do you really say you're about to go "set someone down" at the airport? Funny people, these British.

Anyway, back to Iceland. It will be, I think, one of the highlights of my trip. Enormous natural hot springs, geysers, absolutely alien landscapes, probably a little snow, and — hopefully — a glimpse of aurora borealis! I've never gone hiking in a snowstorm before, this could be my first chance. Of course, having just spent the last two months in a wonderfully Mediterranean climate, I'm not sure how ready I am for sub-freezing temperatures and gale-force winds. But it all adds to the mystique and the adventure.

But right now I think I'm most excited about not having to travel for a few days. Tomorrow is the end of my eleven day travel marathon. I've been through four countries, on three planes, five trains, a couple ferries and spent countless hours in buses. It's been an unforgettable, but extremely busy week and a half. I can't wait to have just one day where I can sleep in, wake up, and not pack up my bags for trip somewhere. Spending two nights in a row in the same place will be blissfully relaxing. Well, at least until I step outside and am blown off my feet, at least. :) I have no idea what to expect in Iceland, which should make every day a surprise.

Arabian Nights

My trek through Morocco marked the second time I've set foot in Africa. But the similarities between Morocco and Tanzania end at the continental level. Actually, I don't really consider this as my second time in Africa, but more my first time in the middle east. Culturally and architecturally, at least. It was an incredible trip, of course. Instead of rehashing the entire trip, I thought I'd just go through some of the highlights from the adventure.

Hands down, my highlight of the trip was our night on the edge of the Sahara desert. We only had one night and a morning there, but it was worth a two day bus ride. After yet another tasty Moroccan dinner (more on that later) we wandered out from lodging and into the dunes. It was dark already, so we hadn't really seen the dunes yet. We walked around a bit before the entire group settled down on top of a dune to enjoy the stars above us. We were (of course) in the middle of nowhere, so the starlit sky was stunningly bright. We even had a few shooting stars streak across the midnight sky. And, as if to put the finishing touches on an extraordinary night performance, the moon slowly rose over the Saharan horizon. Lying on a Saharan sand dune while basking in the pale moonlight has to be one of the most remarkable things I've ever experienced.

We didn't have much time to sleep, though. We were up and out of bed by 4:30am the following morning to catch the sunrise, as well. This time we trekked a little further into the desert, courtesy of our unusual friends. This is the first time I've met a camel face to face before and they are surprisingly large (unless you're Duncan, who managed to snag some sort of miniature camel/donkey hybrid). Once airborne, the ride was very easy (aside from the knobby saddle that made sitting comfortably more or less impossible). And the sunrise, while not as overwhelming as the moonrise, was another once-in-a-lifetime experience. And, since it wasn't pitch black out, I managed to get a few pictures, as well (this one is my personal favorite). The camel ride back under the early morning sun also created some cool camel shadows.

So in a span of just a few hours I saw both the moon and sun rise in the Sahara desert. That alone would have been worth our five days in a bus, fortunately there is other stuff to see in Morocco. Our other major stop was in Fes, one of the largest (and oldest) cities in Morocco. Previously, La Boquiria in Barcelona marked the apex in crazy local markets. It has absolutely nothing on the medina in Fes, though. Unlike Barcelona's solid square of stands, the market in Fes is just a single pediestrian road, meandering and winding some 2 miles through the heart of downtown. Our walk through the market included highlights like: watching a man slit a live chicken's throat, seeing another man tear the jaw off of a skinned camel head, and more meat hanging out than I could count. Salesmen tempted us with the finest Moroccan made shoes ("the Moroccan Nike's!" they told us). Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted every sense. But you couldn't let your head swivel too much, lest you be flattened by the occasional load bearing donkey, who's overloaded figure demanded a wide berth. I took a bunch of pictures as we hiked through the labyrinthine streets, trying to capture scene. But they were all garbage and I ended up deleting them all. So you'll have to use your imagination.

We also made a stop in Chefchauen, a small town who's claim to fame is it's uniformly blue buildings. Our guide said that the blue walls help keep mosquitoes away, but I suspect that the walls also make the city unique, driving a steady stream of tourists to this otherwise pedestrian destination. Regardless, the blue walls were distinctive and the town was a great stop. It was also our last stop before the border crossing at Tanger, meaning it was a chance for everyone to blow their remaining Moroccan currency. For me this meant a few overpriced postcards, M&Ms and a Kit Kat bar, and a huge bottle of water that I didn't really need. I tried spending a lot on my lunch too, but it's hard to do much monetary damage when your entire meal comes out to 39 Dirham (about 4 Euros).

Throughout our entire trip, though, one thing remained consistently (and surprisingly) good: the food. I am a starch addict, so things got off to a good start when I learned that bread is served at every meal. Lots and lots of bread. Granted, it's not the best bread I've ever had, but still. Any meal that involves an all-you-can-eat bread buffet is doing something very right. Aside from the bread, Moroccan meals include a lot of my favorite things: some combination of chicken (something that is sorely missing in Spain), couscous, and beef was present at pretty much every meal. Sadly, I was in full "avoid African water, fruit or vegetable" mode for the entire trip, so I didn't dare try any of the salad options. But it was still a welcome break from Spanish cuisine.

Hasta Luego, Spain

My last weekend in Spain turned out to be quite eventful. After getting robbed and dealing with a bout of homesickness, I completely the triumvirate with violent case of food poisoning (or something) Sunday night. There's nothing like an evening in a cheap hostel, jumping back and forth from my bed to the (conveniently close) sink to make for a truly enjoyable trip through Andalucian Spain. It's been the kind of weekend where, as I pull my map out this morning, I drop it. I pick it up and realize that I dropped it in a fresh pile of pigeon crap. Of course, I only realize this after I somehow manage to wipe the map on both my shirt and my pants, meaning I get to spend the day walking proudly displaying my bird badges. It's been the type of weekend where the only thing I forget behind in Barcelona is something trivial like my cellphone charger; only to discover that I need to use my cellphone a lot, yet can't. It's been the type of weekend where I finally splurge for a somewhat luxurious hotel (one that even has wifi) only to discover that I somehow lost my power adapter on the train, so I can't even spend a sick evening on the internet. In general, it's been a pretty awful weekend, except for one small detail: I'm sightseeing through southern Spain!

When I wasn't huddled in bed or praying to the porcelain gods, I thoroughly enjoyed both Ronda and Sevilla. Ronda, a beautiful little town, divided in half by a deep gorge. An imposing bridge is the main connection between the two parts of the city. There aren't too many "attractions" to see, which was fine with me. I had a great time exploring the edges of the city, climbing over old walls and ruins.

I cut my trip through the Andalucians short, skipping Arcos de la Frontera and catching a bus ride straight to Sevilla. I've only had a day here, but so far it's my favorite city in Spain. There is a ton of stuff to see, but I haven't been overwhelmed with people, dogs, or sounds yet. As promised, the largest gothic cathedral in the world is, well, large (and it contains the tomb of Christopher Columbus). There's also a Granada-esque Alacazar, complete with intricate details and watery gardens. Everywhere you look you'll find an old church or historic building. Even the plazas look Spanish.

Sevilla is a fantastic city, one that certainly deserves more than 24 hours of my attention. But, 5:00am tomorrow morning I'm packing up and saying chow to Spain. I'm joining forces with my cousin and his classmates for a 5 day trek through Morocco. It will be, I think, one of the highlights of my travels this year. So I'm off to bed, taking my "Languages of Europe" book with me, hoping to memorize a couple of important Arabic phrases before we push off tomorrow morning.

Southern Spain

As I type this I'm on a train from Granada to Ronda. I'm doing a whirlwind trip through southern Spain (one night in Granada, one night in Ronda, half a day in Arcos and then two nights in Sevilla) before heading south to Morocco for a week. After a month of "living" in Barcelona it feels a little strange to on the road again. I'm still not sure if I actually liked Barcelona, but I liked the way I visited it: staying for a long time really let me get a feel for the city, exploring (both good and bad) neighborhoods that I would have never have otherwise seen.

It was also great having my sister with me. Most obviously, she speaks Spanish and, although you can certainly get on English alone in Barcelona, it was nice to have her as a back up. Ironically enough, it seems that the southern region isn't quite as English-friendly as Barcelona. And now that I actually need to communicate in Spanish, I'm alone. Fortunately I've so far gotten by with phrases like "una billete a Ronda hoy noches" ("one ticket to Ronda today night") at the train station and "mi bolso aqui hoy?" ("my bag here today?") when trying to keep my bags at the hotel while I go for the day. Everyone has been very friendly, at least.

And, of course, it was fun to have my sister's company in Barcelona. Every night I got to come home from a day of exploring and tell my sister about all the adventures I stumbled across. I had someone to go try new food with, something I'll pretty much never do on my own. And Kelsey's classmates provided us with a group of friends to hang out with at the bars at night.

And suddenly I've been thrust into a world of strangers, speaking languages I don't understand. I wasn't expecting that, after a month in Spain, I'd suddenly feel so alone and out of place. A lonely homesick feeling has started pulling at me, trying to sneak its way into my heart. But today, as I sat pondering life, I realized that I was lying on a bench in the middle of Spain, soaking up a late October sun. Gnawing on a bocadillo (a Spanish sandwich), listening to live music and staring at the ever-impressive facade of the Alhambra high above me. And waiting for me in Seattle is a home, a family, and an unending love that will follow me no matter where I go. I'm blessed not just to be able to travel the world, but to have the support and encouragement from my family that lets me follow every adventure I dream up. So thanks again, mom and dad. :)

Granada

Wow, what a difference a short flight makes. Granada is nothing like Madrid or Barcelona. Obviously it's much smaller, but it's also much more "Spanish." Guitarists and small bands hang out in every plaza, making every walk an enjoyable one. Many streets are too narrow for cars (and — somehow — the streets that are wide enough for a car manage to be two way streets. I have no idea what would happen if two cars met on most of these roads... they're way too skinny to try driving backwards in). And flamenco is a nightlife staple, often spontaneously erupting in the evening (just follow your ears).

If Barcelona is the city of concrete (which isn't hard argument to make) then Ronda would be the city of stones. Everything is built from stones: buildings, bridges, walls, roads, and sidewalks. And all the stones, especially in the sidewalks, are ornately arranged, creating a beautiful collage. I spent nearly as much time staring at the ground as I did staring at the sites. Well not quite, but it definitely held my attention.

As for the sites, Granada has a ton of history. 1492 was a big year for the city. First, it was the last Moorish town to fall to the Spanish Reconquista, creating a united Spanish state under King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel. And, just a few short months later, Granada is where Christopher Columbus asked the king and queen to fund his trip to west, beginning Spain's dominance of the New World. The king and queen are entombed here, in the Royal Chapel. The chapel and adjacent cathedral are the two main attractions on saw on my first evening in Granada. Unlike most churches I've seen, they're buried among many other buildings, making it hard to get an appreciation for the size of everything (not until I explored the city and looked back down was I able to see how big the church actually is).

But the illusion is dropped once I stepped inside: everything is massive. Not just massive as in extraordinarily large, but more like overwhelmingly imposing. The pillars must be 20 feet around. The organs (there are two of them) are two stories high. Giant paintings fill the archways. Giant books with verses from the bible are abound (the books were easily 4 feet high). Even the writing in the books was huge: there couldn't have been more than ten words on each page. It's an extremely impressive place to be. The chapel, on the other hand, is much more under control (size wise). But what it lacks in overwhelming size it makes up for in overwhelming detail. The high alter and the metal grill work were the best that money could buy.

In the evening I went out for my daily paseo and, once again, Granada did not disappoint. The best place for me was in the old town, where the streets are too narrow for cars (and occasionally too narrow for people). There are a million little roads to explore, each with reason to turn down. I spent about two hours in the dark, getting lost and unlost several times before calling it an evening. I don't know if "urban explorer" is a term yet, but that's what I was. However this paseo was a little off because, in perhaps the biggest difference in Granada, the streets were absolutely empty at night. Sure there were some boisterous bars along the main plazas, but just a few blocks away was complete emptyness. I would go minutes at a time without seeing anyone. It probably didn't help that a storm passed through earlier in the evening, but by the time I was out I had a full moon shining down on me.

But, the obvious highlight of my time in Granada was a trip to the Alhambra. I'm not even sure how to go about describing it. As I kid I used to dream up an imaginary castle that I wanted to live in some day, completely with towers, walls, and fountains. After a visit to the Alhambra, I've realized I'll need to revise those plans, should I ever get the chance to build my dream home. Incredibly detailed walls fill room after room. Beautifully maintained gardens hid around every corner creating a calming blend between human construction and nature's construction. And (of course), water flows everywhere and fountains spring up all over the place. I took way too many pictures and couldn't bring myself to delete most of them, it was just too much fun to walk through (the rest of my pictures are up here).

A Barcelona Farewell

After nearly a month with my sister in Barcelona, last Friday marked my final night as a temporary resident. To celebrate my sister and I threw together an impromptu (and very Spanish) farewell dinner. The two big-ticket items being the very high class cheese (manchego) and the ham (jamón ibérico). We picked up our dinner at the market, also grabbing some fresh bread to put everything on and a bottle of Spanish wine to complete the meal. I'm not sure exactly what makes jamón ibérico the top of the line, but (apparently) you get what you pay for. And I paid dearly: my little platter ran me 15 Euros.

And the verdict? It's extremely powerful, flavor-wise. It was so strong that I actually had to add a touch of Kelsey's cheese to help balance out the flavors. As you might expect, anything that I have to add cheese to in order to improve the taste probably isn't going to get high marks. But I managed to finish off the plate and thoroughly enjoyed my Spanish meal. I don't plan to buy it again, but it was a good to try once.

Friday night is also when all of the students and teachers in my sister's course go out together. We joined them after dinner, starting at the bar at Kelsey's school and then cruising from there. It was my last night out in Barcelona and I made sure I enjoyed it. I managed to discuss all the big topics: talked about America and politics with an English guy, discussed religion with Scottish dude and chatted about Halloween with a couple of Spanish girls.

We didn't wrap up the evening until sometime around 3:00 and were unpleasantly surprised with one more Barcelona parting gift: a torrential downpour. But, running through the streets, hopping from one awning to another, attempting (unsuccessfully) to stay at least a little dry was fun! I was running and laughing through the city, not letting Barcelona's wet parting gift ruin my evening.

So Barcelona stepped it up a notch. On our home street, just a block our so from our front door, I was robbed. Since we were both running and jumping from place to place, Kelsey and I weren't right next to each other. I was regrouping under an awning, preparing for one final push to our apartment when two guys walked up to me. They were quite jovial and looked to be drunk, dancing, yelling and causing a two man scene. You see this a lot in Barcelona, so I didn't think too much of it. They came under the awning with me to get out of the rain.

They sloppily walked over, bumping into themselves, bumping into me, dancing with themselves, dancing with me. I smiled at them, got out of their way, and turned to leave. As I took my first step I subconsciously felt for my wallet in my front pocket and... it wasn't there! I whirled around, the two men were still dancing and laughing, apparently not in a hurry to go anywhere. I told them that I wanted my wallet back, but (of course) they just stared blankly at me. I kept repeating wallet and pointing at my pocket and they eventually pulled out their wallets as if to say, "see these are our wallets."

But I continued to repeat "my wallet" and they finally pulled mine out. They calmly looked through it, pulled out my cash (40 Euros) and handed my wallet back to me. I checked to make sure nothing else was missing (they didn't take my credit cards, thankfully), gave them one final look and made a beeline home. I was brimming with emotion: shocked that I'd actually be robbed, furious that I let myself get too comfortable in Barcelona, grateful that I managed to get my wallet and credit cards back (losing 40 Euros obviously isn't the end of the world); but mostly I just felt violated.

I've never been robbed before. Granted, these two guys were very nice about the whole thing and I am grateful that I was able to catch on quickly and get my wallet back, but it's still left me a little shaken. It's certainly put me back in high alert mode, as well. Saturday I flew from Barcelona to Granada and I've been on full fledged suspicious-person watch. Anyone passing within a 5 foot circle of me has gotten a thorough visual once over.

I'm happy that I'm off traveling again, too. I've been too busy to spend (too much) time dwelling on Friday night. Which is good. There's nothing I can do about it now and in the long run it's not really a huge deal. It was just a disturbing final reminder from Barcelona that — no matter comfortable I may start to feel when I travel — I always need to keep my guard up. And my guard is currently way up. To quote George Bush: "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twi — can't get fooled again!"

Montserrat

Nestled in the hills some 30 miles from Barcelona is the monastery of Montserrat. Founded in 1025, the monastery is Catalonia's most important pilgrimage sites and is steeped in history. The church houses a statue of La Moreneta, one of the patron saints of Catalonia and the most revered religious symbols in the area. Pilgrims travel from all over to touch the statue for good luck. The monastery also features the oldest boys choir in Europe, who live in the monastery and give daily performances.

My last big event in Spain was a day trip out to Montserrat last Tuesday. But, as interesting and historic as the monastery is, it wasn't my main reason for my trip out there. In fact, I only spent about 20 minutes in the church. I made a quick trip past the La Moreneta, giving it a quick rub. And I missed the choir performance completely. Where was I? Exploring the surrounding terrain. Montserrat is located among some absolutely ridiculous rock formations and there is a lot to explore. And (possibly most importantly), my day in Montserrat was the first time in nearly a month that I wasn't surrounded by concrete; the first time that the only sounds I heard were birds chirping and the occasional voices of other hikers (usually German, of course...).

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. Getting to Montserrat is a bit of an adventure itself. A train gets you most of the way, but drops you off at the bottom of the rocky hills (I want to call them mountains, but they're really not that big. What they lack in height they make up for in sheer steepness, though). The train drops you off at a fun cable car, which carries you essentially straight up the rock face. It's a little steep, but it was a surprisingly smooth ride.

I arrived at Montserrat shortly after 10:30 and wasted no time at the monastery proper. Instead I looked for the near trail and started hiking. And what a great day of hiking it was! There are probably 10 kilometers of trails and I hiked on just about all of them. I didn't get back down to the trail head until nearly 4:00 in the afternoon. The trails closest to the monastery are especially picturesque. Small gardens and mysterious stairways litter the side of the trail, begging to be explored. I happily obliged. There are also great views back down towards the monastery. And, since this is a monastic area, there are small churches and crosses on every rocky peak. The main hiking trail goes past a bunch of them, which makes for a pretty rewarding hike.

Roughly 1000 feet above the monastery (which can also be reached by a funicular, but where's the fun in that?) are the ruins of some of the original settlements. I'm not exactly sure how (or why) the original monks decided dwell up here, but the remaining structures are worth the trek. There was also a small stairway at the very end of the ruins that led directly to the top of one of the bigger peaks. It was a somewhat intense half hike/half scramble up, but the resulting view was incredible.

Arriving back at the monastery in the afternoon I took a quick stroll around grounds. There are lots of statues, artifacts, and other structures to explore. The church is fairly impressive too. It's not anywhere near the largest or most gaudy church I've seen, but it's quite beautiful inside. Every wall, ceiling, and arch is covered in artwork. The church is still also still functioning, making it feel much more alive than the other churches and cathedrals I've seen so far. Below Montserrat is a (fairly short) hike down to Santa Cova, where La Moreneta was originally located. The hike is really interesting, it's lined with ornate statues depicting scenes from Jesus' life.

All in all it was a great day away from the big city. And a great way to whet my appetite for the outdoor adventures I'm about to get myself into in Morocco.

How To Speak Like A Tourist

It's been almost a month since I touched down in Madrid, making this by far the longest amount of time I've spent in non-English speaking country. Fortunately, the language barrier hasn't been much of an issue. Sadly it's not because I can speak Spanish (a 100 word vocabulary doesn't get you far these days), but it's because everyone here speaks English. In my three weeks in Barcelona I think I've run into maybe five people who don't speak English.

I was hoping that I'd leave Spain with a slightly better grasp of Spanish, but — for a number of reasons — it doesn't look like that's going to happen. Most obviously, Spanish isn't the primary language of Barelona, Catalan is. So while walking around town, looking at signs and maps, I've ended up picking up bits and pieces of Catalan, not Spanish. In addition, most people will start a conversation in Catalan (which is fair enough, it's their language). But at the first sign of confusion they switch immediately to English, skipping Spanish entirely (and skipping an opportunity for me to learn a little).

An unexpected wrench in my Spanish-speaking plans are all the German tourists. (I've mentioned it before but I'll say it again: the Germans love, love, love to travel. They seem to account for the majority of tourists, no matter where I am. From New Zealand to the Grand Canyon, German tourists are unavoidable. Barcelona is no different. I'm not sure how there are any Germans left in Germany, they all seem to be traveling abroad.) I've had several opportunities to dust off my rusty German skills and bring them out for a few interesting conversations. It's been a lot of fun to rediscover how many German words are still lurking somewhere in the back of my brain, but it's been horrible for my Spanish. My languages wires are a total mess right now.

For example, I was at Vodofone today (where I met one of the five locals who doesn't speak English), adding 5 Euros to my cellphone. After a few confusing minutes we finally agreed on what I wanted to do. "Cuanto cuesta?" he asked, trying to figure out how much money I want to add. Wanting to sound like a local, I switch to foreign language mode and immediately respond with "fünf," German for five. Oops! Right continent, at least... I've also started saying things like "ein mas" instead of "una mas," which is half German and half Spanish.

So I basically speak two languages, English and "everything else." Everything else includes some German, Spanish, and a little Catalan. It leads to some fun sentences but really isn't really all that useful. I just can't wait until I get back to America and continue to speak in "everything else" for a few days.

Antoni Gaudí

On my first weekend in Barcelona my sister and I did a quick tour of Gaudí's major works: Park Güell, Casa Milà, Casa Botllò, and the Sagrada Família. The lines to go inside were long and we had a full schedule, so my sister just gawked at the exteriors. His style is fanciful, unique and definitely fun to look at. But I came away only mildly impressed. Yes, his stuff distinct, but it reminded me of modern artwork: random, disjointed, and really not adhering to any sort of cohesive theme.

Last week I had more time to explore the city and ended up going inside both the Sagrada Família and Casa Milà. A more in-depth exploration of his architecture has completely changed my opinion about him. I went to the Sagrada Família first, Gaudí's massive unfinished cathedral. Construction started in the late 1800s and is moving forward slowly (they hope to be done by 2026, but that seems a little optimistic to me). Although it's still under heavy construction, it's probably the most impressive building I've ever been in. The exterior has two main facades: the Nativity facade and the Passion facade. The Nativity facade is the only major part completely while Gaudí was still alive and (naturally enough) is the most directly influenced by his vision. The entire facade absolutely crawls with details and exploring the features is a hypnotic experience. A half hour quickly slipped away as I sat outside, letting my eyes meander.

During the 1930s (after Gaudí's death) most of his blueprints and plans were burned. This means that everything built since is based off the limited plans that survived and more recent blueprints, designed "in Gaudí's style." The Nativity facade is an obvious example of this. While it doesn't really look like the Gaudí's original work, it certainly feels like it belongs on the same building. Sinewy arches and stylized statues cover the exterior, although it's not nearly as detailed as the other facade.

Once inside, impossibly high pillars reach to the (not yet completed) ceiling. Unfortunately most of the construction is going on right in the middle of the cathedral, so you can't walk around the main nave freely. You can, however, take an elevator up to the top of one of the pillars, which provides a great view of the city, surrounding neighborhood, and a close up view of the other pillars. (And, of course, you can see lots of construction.)

Surprisingly enough, my favorite place was the basement of the cathedral. The basement houses a museum that details the method behind Gaudí's madness. Nothing in Gaudí's work is as random is it outwardly appears. Being in love with nature and having an extremely strong grasp of advanced geometry, everything Gaudí built attempted to fuse these two themes. The museum shows how he incorporated natural shapes and geometric patterns into all of his work. It's hard to see at first, but the museum highlights specific sections of a building and explains where the inspiration came for the shapes, colors and patterns. Armed with this basic knowledge of his style, I walked through the rest of the cathedral with very different eyes. Pillars become a forest and stairways look like shells. Looking at his architecture turns into an adventure, trying to find hidden shapes everywhere.

After being blown away by the Sagrada Família I had to head over to see the inside of Casa Milà, his famous apartment complex. Another crazy thing about Gaudí's work is that when he took on a project he would design every single detail. Not only was he in charge of designing and constructing the building, he was also in charge of everything that went in it. Every door, every piece of furniture, every doorknob; all designed by Gaudí. I don't know how he wasn't completely overwhelmed by the scope of a project with so many details. But back at Casa Milà the main attraction is the roof, which flows and undulates all over the place. It looks like some sort of fantasy landscape, but you learn it's not just for show. Every peak is a water tower, chimney or air vent. Gaudí wanted to hide their ugly profile and this is how he did it.

Having wander through these buildings I'm now officially a fan of Gaudí. I don't think I can name five architects, but if I ever create a "top five architects" list GaudÍ is currently firmly entrenched in the number one position. I've already got 2026 circled on my calendar, or whenever the cathedral is finally finished. It will be a truly mind-boggling building and I can't wait to see it finished.

La Boqueria

I'm happy to report that the food situation hasn't been all that unpleasant in Spain. Sure I haven't had a salad, smoothie, or fajita in a month, but I'm certainly not starving over here. My favorite place to pick up the essentials is La Boqueria market. Just a block off of Las Ramblas, every fresh food you could possibly imagine is crammed into a tiny market, packed with tourists and locals alike. The prices are cheap, the food is good, and wrestling your way through hundreds of people is always fun. Last weekend I decided to bring my camera with me.

The middle of the market is dominated by a huge seafood section. Lobster, octopus, fish of all shapes and sizes, and other unidentifiable sea-creatures: it's all there. I was about to take a picture of a huge lobster lying on the ice when it suddenly twitched and started squirming! I jumped back about three feet, nearly flattening a chihuahua. Turns out they keep the lobsters alive! I was not expecting that. I gave the crustacean section wide berth and stuck to the much more dead (and more safe) fish sections.

But the seafood has nothing on the fresh meat section. Actually, it's not much of a section as pretty much every other booth is dedicated to meat. There is meat everywhere. And most of it is some form of ham. Spaniards love their ham. Have you ever been overwhelmed by the smell of ham? I have. It's about as much fun as it sounds. I could have spent the afternoon taking pictures of various parts of dead animals: legs, bodies, innards, brains (sometimes still in the skull), but the smell of ham was just too powerful so I took one quick picture of some cured meats before continuing on.

The front of the market is where I spend most of my time. This where I pick up the stuff that I usually eat, like eggs, bananas, vegetables, and other healthyish stuff (they've also got a bunch of dried fruits and nuts, but it's a bit too pricey for me). But this is all a built up to my favorite row in the market, the candy row. It's actually not the best or cheapest place to buy candy (yes, I've tried several different places...). But you don't even need to buy anything here. The sugary aroma is so strong and so overpowering, all you really need to do is stand next to the candy for a couple minutes. It smells delicious. A quick walk by, a few deep breaths, and that's really all you need.

Street Performers on Las Ramblas

I've mentioned it before, but I'll say it again: there is a lot of stuff happening on Las Ramblas. You can buy flowers or buy birds, but the biggest attraction is the street performers. I took a paseo down the street last weekend, snapping a few pictures of the acts that I saw. There are some regulars there, but every day I see someone new. For the most part each individual performer isn't all that impressive, but they certainly make the walk entertaining. Looking down a row of performers is going to make you smile at least once.

So lets take a quick run through our performers. Some of them are statues, some of them marionettes, and some of them are just strange guys in front of a speaker. There are women dancing with fans, men dancing with glass balls, and one man bands. Some people ride strange animals, other are, in fact, strange animals, and are both strange and have strange animals (yes, one of those dogs is real and is wearing goggles). There are couples performing together, guys working as team, and occasionally performers taking a break together. Some people like to dress up like movie characters, other like football stars, and some like to dress up like a table.

My personal favorite are the performers that scare people. Here's a guy who hides in a box and then pops out screaming at anyone that gives him money. He's one of my favorite to hang around for an extended period of time. You're guaranteed to hear one group of screaming girls every five minutes or so. Quality entertainment.

Sport

Lets talk about sports (if you don't like sports you can probably just skip this completely). Europeans love sports. Sadly they're not too fired up about baseball or American football, so I've had a hard time following the playoffs or the Seahawks. However, they love the "other" football. Last weekend my sister and I got tickets to FC Barcelona, one of the best football teams in the world. It's always been a goal of mine to watch a real football match in Europe and it was great to actually sit in the stadium, watching them play. Even though we were sitting at the very top of the stadium (the "cheap seats" still cost 50 Euros each), the view was great. And cheering along with 90,000 fans is always fun, no matter what sport you're watching. And since the fans here actually know how to play football, they actually cheer at things like a nice cross or a nice back pass.

My favorite sports-related discovery so far is that Europeans don't boo. Instead they whistle to voice displeasure. I've heard this on TV before (of course), but hearing 90,000 angry fans whistling at the ref is actually mush more deafening than a boo. More piercing, too. Sadly, though, I've discovered that I will probably never be huge football fan. The more I watch, the more I get upset by all the flopping and acting that the players do. My favorite sports bar (creatively called "SportsBar") has a lot of TVs and occasionally I'll get to see American football, football, and rugby all at the same time. Watching soccer players dive all over the field is really difficult to watch when you see guys slamming into each other on the other screens. And it's a problem the leagues can fix too! But that's a discussion for another time.

Of course, it's getting harder to watch American football, too. Everyone knows this, but the game is so, so slow. Rugby and football are 45 minutes of continuous action. American football is what, 10 seconds? Followed by 45 seconds of waiting? Followed by a commercial break? I was watching an American football game on BBC's station last weekend and it was actually pretty funny. The BBC station doesn't know how to deal with all the commercial breaks in our football games. They actually have a second set of commentators that they cut to during our breaks who then spend a minute or two analyzing the last 15 minutes of the game. They literally don't have enough commercials to play.

So that leaves rugby as my new sport of choice. Continuous action, lots of hard hits, no diving or acting... There's just one problem: I still have no idea what's going on. Well I have an idea, but I couldn't name a single rule. But it's fun to watch!

And speaking of fun things to watch, I also discovered that Barcelona hosted the Ping Pong World Championships last weekend! As a ping pong aficionado I wasted no time in securing a couple of tickets to watch that. I've never seen professional ping pong before (who has?), but it was a lot of fun. We went on day one (out of three). 10 Euros gets you table-side seats and 3 hours of ping pong. There isn't much to say, I guess: they're really good and I had a great time. Kelsey and I were the only two cheering for the Canadian player (representing North America), but he got killed in the one match we saw him play. I took some pictures (of course) and even managed to take a couple of short videos.

Barcelona

I've now been in Barcelona for just over a week. The guidebooks duly note that Barcelona and the rest of Catalonia are not like the rest of Spain and "almost feel like another country." There's no almost about it. Barcelona and Madrid are very, very different cities. And not in the way that say Seattle and New York are different cities, it's more like how New York and London are different cities. I could waste a lot of pixels comparing Madrid and Barcelona, but I'd rather just talk about Barcelona on it's own. If forced to choose just one word to describe Barcelona I would quickly settle on humanity. The city is nothing if not living reminder of everything that our race has to offer (both good and bad). Barcelona is one of the most diverse cities I've ever seen. Located at the crossroads of Spain, Catalonia, France and the Mediterranean (and of course a major tourist destination for the rest of the world), there are more colors, cultures and languages than I can count here.

This teeming mass of people provides a wide range of experiences. With so many people out and about (and they're always out and about) there is always something to do. One of my favorite ways to kill an hour is to grab some gelato and stroll Barcelona's famous Las Ramblas. Simply put, Las Ramblas is where the action is in Barcelona. Street performers, restaurants, merchants (selling everything from souvenirs to birds to bootlegged DVDs), and who knows who else mingle with an unending stream of tourists. I walk through Las Ramblas every day and every day I see something new.

On the other side of things, there is no down time in Barcelona. Like all Americans, I appreciate a little Colin-time and love my personal bubble. There are no such concepts in Barcelona. There is just no way to escape all the people. I can't even find peace and quiet in our apartment. We have to keep our balcony doors open to keep the room tolerably cool. But the open doors welcome in the outside world. Kids scream, mopeds squeal, and (my personal favorite!) construction workers fire up the stone saw to cut through another slab of concrete. And it all sounds like they're actually on my patio, directing their outbursts straight into my ear.

So there's no respite at home, how about peace and quiet in the park? Sadly, it's not to be. Barcelona, like most large cities in Europe, ran out of foliage long ago and is now desperately clinging to any remaining shrubs. A stroll through the park kind of feels like a museum. The grass is fenced off and frequent signs remind everyone that walking on the grass is prohibido. Instead we get to walk along the carefully groomed walkways, keeping an eye out for the rest of Barcelona, who

Barcelona is an amazing architectural city, though. American cities are inherently dull because there really isn't much history in them. Barcelona, like everything else in Europe, has thousands of years of history. But it shows that you don't have to be old to be interesting. Barcelona has managed to preserve it's history while embracing new architectural ideas and movements. The most obvious example is the modernisme movement — highlighted by Antoni Gaudí — which took place just 100 years ago. My sister and I spent last Saturday visiting some of Gaudí's work (including Park Güell, the Block of Discord, Casa Milà, and the Sagrada Família). It's amazing to see not only his incredibly unique vision, but also to see the crowd that it still attracts, a hundred years later. It gives me hope that American cities will someday realize that architecture can be unique, functional, and visually pleasing enough to draw a crowd.

A Tale of Two Cities

[Note (again): originally written some time last week, but I haven't had internet so it's a little late]

Originally titled This is Spain!, I'm adding a second half to this post, describing the highs and lows of my first week in Barcelona. My literary companion Rick Steves says that traveling through Europe is a roller-coaster adventure, filled with many screams of delight and terror. Things work best when you enjoy the good parts and don't let the lows bother you (too much).

The Highs
It's Tuesday night, the end of our first full day in Barcelona. It's just past 9:00pm, but still quite warm and a little humid. The small wooden double door to our tiny patio is wide open, although it isn't doing anything to help against the heat. It does allow fresh sea air to waft in though, a welcome change after the dry air in Madrid. My clothes are still hang-drying off the side of the patio, they should be dry (and probably a little stiff) in the morning. The TV is on, FC Barcelona is playing Stuttgart tonight (in the "Champions League" where the winners of each country's local league play each other). The announcers are excitedly chatting away in Spanish (of course), but the language of football is universal. I'm relaxing in our compact apartment, having just opened an "Especial" (a cheap beer we picked up at corner store — 1.50€ for a 6 pack). The entire block just erupted in cheer; Barcelona just scored and is now up two to zero (everyone is watching the game).

Life doesn't get much better than this. This is why I'm here in Barcelona, this why I'm in in Europe. I can't wait to see what adventures tomorrow morning brings. I've spent a lot time pondering life in the last couple years, trying to figure out exactly what is important to me. That's a question I'll probably be asking myself for the rest of life, but when I fall asleep excited to wake up the next morning, I know I must be doing something right.

The Lows
It's Wednesday night, a mere 24 hours after I typed up the previous two paragraphs. Today was a long day. Things started off auspiciously: my clothes are still not dry. They are dry-ish, but I'm not a huge fan of starting the day in a mildly damp shirt and pair of boxers. My itinerary for the day has two major tasks: find a cheap cell phone and find wifi internet that I can use for the next month. Drop me in any random city in the world and I feel like I can pull both of these off without too much of a hassle.

I left our apartment at 9:00am this morning and pounded the pavemetn almost non-stop until 6:00pm. Tonight I sit in bed without a phone and with no idea where I can find wifi. And exhausted and annoyed that nothing got done, mentally beat from trying to explain what I'm looking for in some combination of English, Spanish, and rudimentary sign language. The details of todays exploits are as long as they are mundane, which makes them even more annoying. I visited no less than 6 Vodofone stores throughout the city, each with a different reason as to why they don't have any of the 29 Euro phones available today. I visited three information centers, dozens of coffee shops and went on more wild goose chases than I can count in an attempt to find usable wifi. Starbucks, of course, has wifi. They also decided that 180 Euros would be a reasonable amount to charge for one month's access. I've gotten to the point where I'd consider using it, except none of their stores (I think I visited 5) actually have electrical outlets, so I'd be limited to 2 hour spurts of work. Other coffee shops, bars, and restaurants were all tried; all with extremely fatal flaws. Seriously, does anyone use wireless in Barcelona?

To top things off, my shirts still weren't dry tonight. However, our upstairs neighbor watered her plants. The water promptly seeped through and my freshly washed shirts are now soaked again and covered in dirt. They're not back in the hamper, ready to start the process all over again. I, too, am ready to start the process all over again. I'll be waking up tomorrow with the same two objectives that I had this morning.

Plaza de Toros

[Note: originally written on October 2nd, but I haven't had internet access for a week, so it's a little late. And yes, this is what happens when I have too much time to write a blog entry, it becomes unnecessarily descriptive...]

Shortly after 5:00pm last Sunday night my sister and walked out of the Prado (one of Europe's largest museums, one that cannot be conquered in a single outing) and, for the first time since arriving in Spain, go our separate ways. This is our last night in Madrid and there's still one quintessential Spanish experience I haven't experienced yet: a bullfight. Despite an entire day of prodding, Kelsey is sticking to strongly to her convictions: she does not want to see it in person. So it's just me and my broken Spanish, sitting on a packed Metro, heading towards the home of bullfighting: Madrid's Plaza do Toros arena.

Stepping through the turnstile I really had no idea what to expect. Walking out of the stadium three hours later I still wasn't sure how I felt about what I just saw. Bullfighting is, if nothing else, a study in contrasts. The entire event, once a bastion of Spanish culture, is now frowned upon by manly locals. And although overall attendance is rising, the increase is due in large part to tourism. Barcelona outlawed bullfighting a few years ago (with the rest of Catalunia following suit) and it's easy to imagine this trend continuing throughout Spain — eventually. But not yet, bullfighting is still alive and well in Madrid. Matadors are some of the highest paid entertainers in the world, with the top performers earning nearly 200,000 Euros for an afternoon's worth of work.

The term "bullfighting" is a misnomer, as well. This is not a man vs. beast fight, it's more aptly described as an artistic sacrifice. In the end the bull will die and the matador will walk away untouched. (For example, in over 200 years of bullfighting in Sevillia, just 30 matadors have been killed.) Bullfighting isn't really a sport, either, but a performance. Reviews of the event are written up in the entertainment section newspapers, not the sports section. Matadors are judged on how close they can get the bull to storm past them, standing still as the bull lunges in vain at the small red cape. In addition, it seems that bonus points are awarded for good style.

Of course, "good style" is a matter of personal (or at least cultural) opinion. [Apologetic preface: I don't really like putting things in a male/female sexist light, but it's an easy analogy and gets the point across.] And no matter how you slice it, standing face to face with a ton of angry bull is an impressive and (dare I say) manly proposition. In an apparent attempt to diffuse this unbridled manliness, matadors proudly exude blatant effeminatity (and this is not a word, according to my friends at Webster. It's good to know I'm stretching the boundaries of the English language). Our hero slowly struts around the ring, sporting a uncomfortably tight, sequined leotard suit that would make any Barnum and Bailieze trapeze artist jealous. Every calculated step, every swish of the cape, and (especially) every flick of the head is executed with just flamboyant gusto that it's hard not to smile and chuckle.

Until he pulls out the sword for the fatal blow. [Editor's note #2: things may get a little gory below. Queasy readers are advised to skip the rest of this post.] An ideal strike is delivered just once, burying the sword through the ribs and into the heart, killing the bull quickly and without much spectacle. Sadly, this doesn't happen all the time (or even most of the time). Often the matador is unable to angle his sword properly, so the blade only goes in a few inches (or bounces off completely). One unlucky matador failed on 5 consecutive attempts, prompting unhappy whistles from the crowd. When the final act get to this point the bull doesn't have any fight left in him. Head bowed and no longer responding to the taunts of the matador, the bull has signaled that it is no longer a responsive target. At this point the matador simply lines up the sword along the bull's spine, where a quick strike finishes the job instantly.

However, sometimes things don't go according to plan. The first bull I saw killed was an especially graphic experience. The sword appeared to be delivered correctly, but the bull did not calmly lie down, like he's supposed to. Instead he staggered to the right, then back to the left. Then he slowly jolted forward, taking stalky, unsteady steps. The matador followed behind him, waiting for the beast to fall so he could retrieve his sword. But the bull continued on. Blood started trickling out of his nostrils. The bull grunted, coughing up mouthful of blood. A woman in front of me turned away and closed her eyes. Blood started flowing freely from the bull's mouth, leaving a dark red trail as the bull continued to stagger on. His front legs gave out and he fell head-first into his own pool of blood. But his back legs continued to jerk, unwilling to give up. The bull finally toppled over, legs still quivering, blood still flowing. I was forced to turn away as well, unprepared for anything like this.

Fortunately, the other five bulls followed the script and died when they were supposed to (six bulls are killed in a traditional bullfight). But I was unable to shake the initial experience from my mind. A strong, determined, but ultimately doomed bull, pincushioned with barbs and a sword, refusing to die. It was... not right. Not fair. And certainly not humane. It's not something I will watch again. It's not an experience I'll recommend, either. This is not something you have to see to believe.

If that's not descriptive enough for you check out the pictures.