52 signs you're an American in Spain

...because you can take the American out of America, but you can't take the, well, you know...

1. You have a love/hate relationship with the siesta.  
2. You're not a fan of dubbing. 
3. You're really awkward with the double-kiss greeting.  
4. Your English gets worse by the day. 
5. You're waiting for Netflix and Pandora to get their you-know-what together and start functioning overseas. 
6. You curse the lack of toilet paper, paper towels and/or soap in the bathrooms here. 
7. You've explained countless times that rugby and American football are not the same. 
8. Your internal meal bell still rings around noon and 6 p.m. 
9. Cooking with butter reminds you of home.
10. You've gone to the ethnic aisle to find peanut butter. 
11. You have introduced said peanut butter to foreign friends. Their response was something along the lines of, "It tastes like peanuts," or my personal favorite, "Um, it's really thick."
12. You've paid outrageous prices for said peanut butter, ingredients to make tacos or baking supplies.
13. You wonder why anyone builds living quarters without an oven.
14. You've corrected a Spaniard's English and then later realized it was actually correct in British English.
15. You've been teased for your Central American/South American Spanish.
16. You'll never be able to keep up with Spaniards on the social scene. Going out at 2 a.m. isn't easy. 
17. You try to adapt your wardrobe to Europe, but on days when life sucks, you put on tennis shoes and your college sweatshirt and ask Europe to cut you some slack.
18. You brought a college sweatshirt from home. Or four college sweatshirts from home. 
19. You're the go-to expert on how life in America is/is not like it appears in the movies.
20. Spaniards think it's weird that you wear socks around the house.
21. Anywhere within eight or nine hours driving is a totally doable weekend trip. Spaniards don't agree. 
22. You don't have the heart to tell Spaniards that you don't catch a cold from not wearing shoes in the house/not wearing a scarf/not buttoning your coat. 
23. It's hard for you to understand that going to the doctor is free. As in, you don't have to pay. At all. No, really, you just go and then leave and keep your money.
24. You see gas prices here and suddenly $3.50 a gallon seems like a bargain.
25. You wonder why Europeans prefer hatchbacks over small sedans.
26. You've had to explain to people back home that Spanish food is not Mexican.
27. "Spicy" Spanish food doesn't seem remotely spicy to you. 
28. Sometimes the whiny, entitled American comes out when you can't buy something at 1 a.m. or anytime on a Sunday.
29. Your friends in America are 24 and married, while your friends in Spain are 30 and still staying out 'til 8 a.m.
30. You've realized that wine and coffee in Spain are far superior and cheaper than in America. 
31. You've told a Spaniard which part of the country you're from, and they've related your state/city to something from pop culture.
32. Or they said, "That's in the north, right?" To which you've responded, "No, it's actually in the southwest/center/complete opposite part of the country."
33. You've explained that Americans don't wear scary costumes for Halloween, and we instead use the holiday as an excuse to dress like an idiot or a lady of the night.
34. When you visit the States or have a visitor in Spain, you stock up on food (i.e. Reese's) and cosmetics.
35. You've realized Americans know nothing about European geography or politics.
36. You've visited more of Spain than most Spaniards. 
37. You've lost multiple battles against Spanish bureaucracy and customer service. 
38. It took you months to stop apologizing to people who run into you on the street.
39. Old people on park benches in the evening strikes you as the epitome of Spain.
40. You regret not learning to drive a stick-shift (or you're really glad your parents made you do it). 
41. You can point out America's flaws, but if a European does it you suddenly get all sensitive. It's like the great U.S. of A is your best friend or your mom. Nobody dogs on your mom.
42. Sometimes the lack of political correctness in Spain makes you squirm.
43. The Spanish practice of putting a heater under the table in the living room took some getting used to.
44. You dearly miss your clothes dryer. 
45. You'll never stop eating breakfast on the run/ordering coffee to go, even though it's totally un-Spanish. 
46. You've yet to eat an American-caliber burger in Spain.
47. You've explained that we don't eat burgers every day.
48. You feel uncomfortable in McDonald's or Burger King because you feel like everyone there knows you're American and are therefore fulfilling the stereotype. 
49. You have no good defense for, "That's why Americans are obese."
50. You wonder why America doesn't have cañas.
51. Given the crisis, you're thankful for the economic opportunities we have waiting for us in America.
52. But you're not ready to pursue those opportunities yet because you're floating through your youth in Spain, where life is usually beautiful, sometimes frustrating, sometimes backwards, occasionally tears-inducing, mostly entertaining and always worth it.

Dear fellow countrymen and women, any signs you'd add to the list?

On being an American introvert in Spain

After a weekend in a mountain house with 12 Spaniards, this post seems timely...

Spanish is a social culture, which makes it an anomaly of sorts when compared to individual-based America. Spain is all about evening walks on the crowded city-center sidewalks, where old men are dapper in cardigans, slacks and leather shoes. Here, friends go to each other's homes for mid-afternoon coffee and company. Spaniards meet on weekend afternoons to tapear, in which they sip beers and order dishes to be picked over by the group. They talk, they laugh, they kiss hello and sometimes goodbye, too. They thrive on the communal experience, on shared moments together and conversation over long lunches and drink dates. To not be social is to not be Spanish.

I love this picture I took in Avila because it sums up Spanish culture so perfectly. 

Which puts me, an introvert and an American to boot, in a tough spot sometimes. Let me begin this spiel by noting that being introverted and being anti-social are not the same. The latter is a personality disorder, actually. Introverts don't hate people or parties or talking or groups of three or four or five. Like most humans, we enjoy revelry, banter, fun and togetherness, but we reach a point in which we are simply drained by the beauty of it all. We replenish our energy in the most glorious way possible, I think: by being alone. I love the silence and the tranquility of being solo, and quite frankly, I need it.

My need to be alone doesn't necessarily defy American cultural norms. Sure, some of my friends think I'm a weirdo when I am noticeably delighted to be holed up solo, but it's not widely frowned upon. Here in Spain, from what I've gathered, at least, being alone or doing things alone isn't quite as acceptable. There are times I want to eat alone. There are times when I'd rather not have coffee at her house or my house. Because as a teacher, I'm surrounded by people and energy and commotion and chatter and screaming every day. So after work, sometimes I just want to go to my room and let my thoughts fight each other for my attention. There is no better noise to me than deafening silence.

Even so, I try to accept any invitation offered to me as a way to embrace Spanish culture and experience everything I can during my short time here. But you can't fight nature. Sometimes I feel like a gorilla in captivity because like him, I've grown comfortable in an environment that's entirely unnatural for me. But there are times when I bang my head against the glass or mindlessly spin in circles, thus showing there's a part of me that still knows I'm going against the grain here.

The emphasis on relationships and community and living life with people instead of just around them is something I admire about Spanish culture. And I envy the people who can embrace that each and every day. For me, it's a challenge, but I'm making the effort and making friends. So here's to different cultures challenging us, teaching us and changing us.

Stuff I Eat: Yemas de Ávila

The lack of recent posts about my culinary adventures doesn't mean I haven't been trying anything and everything edible (and some things that would be, by most definitions, inedible). Quite the opposite, actually. I've been too busy eating to write about how much I've been eating.

Name: Yemas de Ávila (Yemas de Santa Teresa)

Translation: Avila egg cakes (Saint Teresa egg cakes)

So what is it exactly? It's a pastry typical of the province of Avila. It's egg yolks mixed with a syrup made of sugar, cinnamon, lemon and water. The result is a soft yellow confectionery that I can best describe as a mix between a pastry (because it's soft and sweet) and a candy (because it's small and totally unlike a traditional bread-based pastry).

Where I ate it: Avila, Spain. I popped into a traditional pastry shop (the city is loaded with them) and bought a box. They're gold in food form. I don't say that for their yellow color but rather because I paid 5 euros for a box of 12 tiny yemas.

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "These look like lemon drops, but the fact that 'yolk' is in their name is throwing me off."

Texture: Because I anticipated something resembling lemon drops, I wasn't expecting them to be soft. Needless to say, I was surprised (unpleasantly, at first) to find that yemas are indeed barely solid. The exterior is slightly crispy, but it dissolves on contact with your tongue and gives way to the treat's gloriously gooey innards.

Taste: Given the ingredients (read: lots of sugar), it's very sweet. It tastes like a soft ball of sugary goo with a touch of lemon, all of which is given consistency by the yolk. They're slightly reminiscent of a gum drop, but they're softer and just plain better. I thought I would be able to taste egg in the yemas, but much like the eggs used in any other pastry, the egg-like flavor is completely disguised in the pastry.

Verdict: Heavenly...and way too easy to eat way too many. They're tiny but incredibly sweet. I'm a serious addict to sweets, so I could easily down a few of these at a time. But if you're not a fan of sweets, these golden balls of saintly deliciousness aren't intended for you.

It'd be blasphemous for me not to like something named for Saint Teresa, given she's my patron saint and namesake...I'm not much for blasphemy.

Nine things you thought wrong about Morocco

A Spanish friend and I took a week and traversed the gut of Morocco. Much like I described the derelict parts of Bulgaria, the desolate, dog-eared side of Morocco has its charm. The half-finished buildings and the missing windows and the trash-strewn fields and the "toilets" at roadside stops all contribute to the intrigue and offbeat beauty of Morocco, a country that doesn't try to hide itself behind blush and high heels. You can’t fully understand and experience a country in seven days, but we got a pretty extensive glimpse into Moroccan life on the road from Marrakech to Fez and back. It was us, our van, the Sahara Desert, the Atlas Mountains and hundreds of kilometers of open highway. And wow, was it incredible.

Tinghir, palm tree oasis in the Sahara

Atlas Mountains

I learned a lot in a short time on The Great Moroccan Road Trip. I realized that people know nothing about the country, that much of our “knowledge” of what Morocco is and isn’t comes from tall tales and TV shows. So, inspired by the bountiful tourist misconceptions, I’ve jotted down a list of things you thought wrong about the jewel of North Africa.

1. Police only want to rip off tourists.
This couldn't be further from the truth. I'd read horror stories of tourists being hassled for speeding and paying arbitrary fines on the spot. What if they took us for all we had? It's true the country is one giant speed trap. Police checkpoints are everywhere, and the speed limit signs are posted so close together it's impossible to obey them. But we passed through more than 15 stops, and every time, the officers saw we were tourists and let us on our way with a smile and a bit of elementary English or conversational Spanish.

2. The roads are awful.
Sure, they are not like U.S. highways, but anyone who expects them to be doesn't understand much about the world. Moroccan roads are narrow and generally lack asphalt shoulders, but they are in surprisingly good condition. The main and semi-main highways have gravel shoulders. We crossed the center of the country in a big van with no problem, and we didn’t use four-wheel drive. We navigated using street signs, a Michelin map and English/Spanish/broken French to ask for directions. We got lost a few times and cursed poor signage when we did. But guess what? We lived to tell the tale.

3. Going on a guided tour is the best way to see Morocco.
I don't doubt that the guided tours are great. But they aren't necessary. If you have someone who's comfortable handling tight curves on mountain roads and who's not intimidated by offensive and defensive driving, I'd recommend a road trip. The guided tours post their exact itineraries online. It's easy to find one you like and use it to plan your own adventure. Let it be known, however, that renting a car wasn't cheap (250 euros for four days, including extra insurance for peace of mind. I’ve read it’s cheaper if you rent from a local company.). Despite the expense, having a car was great for convenience and comfort. Do be advised, though, that passing through towns is like an obstacle course, but not a fun one. The only reward at the course's end is knowing you didn't crash into a donkey cart or run over a cloaked woman. The country is full of long-haul cabs that take tourists and locals to and fro, but they pack as many people as possible (plus one or two more) into those aging Mercedes. I imagine traveling in an overcrowded hotbox could make the red rocks of the Sahara look a little bit like the bowels of hell. 

Defensive driving at its finest.

Driving gave us the freedom to soak in views like this. 

4. Morocco is incredibly cheap.
This may have been true before the tourist boom, but Morocco is no off-the-map destination. It’s full of tourists, and the prices reflect that. You can find beds at well-reviewed youth hostels for about 9 euros a night per person (which is comparable to Budapest and Prague, for example), whereas nicer hotels are closer to 20 euros per person and up. It’s en vogue to renovate old homes and convert them into gorgeous hotels, and for how nice they are, they’re definitely cheaper than a similar lodging option in, say, Italy or Paris. But don’t think visiting Morocco with a clinking coin purse is sufficient. You’re going to spend a decent chunk of change if you want to see more than one city. You can find traditional food for around 3 euros a person, but if you’re more comfortable eating at tourist restaurants, expect to pay closer to 8 or 10 euros for a meal. As for souvenirs in the medinas, hard-line negotiation is a must. At most you should pay half the price vendors initially quote. 

The souks, Marrakech

5. Since it’s touristy, everyone speaks good English. 
Morocco is the first place I’ve visited where people were much more inclined to speak Spanish than English. Geographically, it makes sense, of course, given that it’s directly south of Spain. In Marrakech, the vendors spoke just about any language necessary to lure a customer in for a sale. But outside of Marrakech, I noticed English was much less common. When we camped in the Sahara, the workers all spoke great Spanish but limited English. Along our driving route, neither English nor Spanish worked well. Broken French was the best – and often only – way to communicate. This isn’t to say you can’t make it on English alone, of course, but it’s likely to be more difficult.

6. The Sahara Desert is made up of endless sand dunes.
You know that awesome footage you’ve seen on National Geographic of undulating mountains of powder-fine sand kissed by the desert sun? Most of the Moroccan Sahara is nothing like that. Much of it is rocky and dusty. Some is flat. Some is mountainous. The rest falls somewhere between the two extremes. There are two small parts, called the Erg Chebbi and Erg Chigaga, that are as orange and dune-y and spectacular as what Google boasts. But for reference, the Erg Chebbi is only 22 kilometers across at its widest. Think of that in terms of the expansiveness of the Sahara and you’ll realize it’s only a small blip on the map. 

This is the Sahara. 

So is this. 

And this. 

And this. 

And this, too. 

7. Moroccan men love to harass Western women.
Yes, some of them do offer camels in exchange for ladies, but the only time I heard such a proposal, it was a joke. Moroccans are sales people, and they’re tactical. If they see you looking at a map, they’ll offer to guide you to the location, hoping for a small service tip at the end. If you stop to look at their wares at a stand in the medina, they’ll often badger you to go inside to browse further and talk prices. The closer you get to the desert dunes, where tourism is the area’s lifeblood, the worse the hounding gets. Men will block the highway or flank your vehicle on their motorcycles to promote their sales pitch. But from what I saw, they did that to men and women alike. 

It didn't take much coercing to get me into the shops. 

8. Morocco is all desert. 

I'll let photos speak to the country's geographical diversity. 

9. The food and water will kill you. 

Oh, how we Westerners love to have our food packaged or pasteurized.  In Morocco, if you refuse to try any local fare, your overall experience will be as sterile as that pre-made supermarket sandwich you opted for at lunch. I found a dead, petrified bee in the taffy I bought from a street vendor, and I ate it anyway. I ate fresh salads, olives and fruit. I drank juice in the mornings and ordered traditional pastilla and cous cous at afternoon meals. At the Marrakech food market, I went as far as to eat the leftover eggplant off a stranger’s plate after she left (that was probably a bit too far, admittedly). In the end, my gut didn’t violently scold me, and as far as I know, my body hasn’t been ravaged by a tapeworm or pathogen. I never did drink the water, but I did brush my teeth with it. I wouldn't necessarily recommend my careless approach to eating whatever I saw, but a little culinary adventure is healthy. 

Delicious mixed salad

Pastilla, a traditional dish (often described as a "meat pie" of chicken) in a crepe-like crispy shell and topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon

Beautiful traditional sweets

Marrakech food market

So, with all that said, here’s to living and learning, to debunking myths and to spreading truth in a world of tales. 

On living anonymously

It's OK to fear starting over, to stew about the person people know you to be and how you want people to know the New You. It's scary to build yourself from scratch, to leave behind the people and places whose smells and smiles you recognize, whose presence is so intricately linked to your identity that you don't know who are are without them. 

We all have those people and places that help define us. There's that restaurant you go to when your diet crumbles and then there's the one you go to when you start anew. There's the rundown party house that reminds you of morning-after struggles with Captain Morgan and the tacky bar that'll always make you think of The One Who Got Away. And then there are the people who give these places meaning. 

In your new home, no one will be a pharmacist, cook, biggest fan, friend and listener quite like Mom. No one will affectionately and intentionally annoy you like your big brother. And no one will grip your secrets as tightly as your best friend. But there's something refreshing about living anonymously. Each day when I walk down the street, I see no one from my past. I only see people who may or may not be part of my future, people who may turn out to be my roommate's cousin's tutor or the worthless woman at the bank who's at work to do everything but her job. It's both terrifying and invigorating that people here aren't tied to milestones or mile markers back home. Restaurants and parks and street corners here aren't tied to memories. Everything is new, and so am I. 

With every person I meet, I can define my identity. No reputation precedes me. No yearbook entry tells people here I'm the most or least likely to succeed. No two degrees of separation tell a new acquaintance her roommate didn't like me in high school. I am Teresa, whoever that may be. I'm not saying I'm here "trying to find myself." That's a cliche, and nobody knows what the heck it really means, anyway. But starting over has an interesting way of sparking self-reflection, of making us question which parts of our former selves we'd like to conserve and which ones are better left to die along with the previous Me. So, as I stumble through this latest adventure, here's to Teresa being more thoughtful, less catty, more selfless, less volatile, more delicate with feelings and altogether less like the worst parts of the Old Me. Because sometimes it takes leaving behind who you were to realize who you'd like to be. 

Nobody said it'd be easy.

I was freshly 18 when he and I met at a party in a new friend's basement. You know, one of those places with the low-slung ceilings, mismatched furniture and a keg on ice. I had plans to move to the dorms that week and join the college scene as a smart-but-social co-ed. I didn't want a boyfriend. But he was tall and skinny and had shaggy brown hair. With those three characteristics, he met all of my teenage girl criteria. And so, he was mine before he knew he was mine.

I can map the trajectory of our relationship according to the evolution of his haircut. At first it was long, far past his ears, unkempt and chill. So was our relationship. It was fun and carefree. We partied, crashed on friends' floors and made beer-fueled memories we couldn't remember the next morning. Then he cut it. It was still long, but it was above the ears. It was still cool but more serious, more suitable for a degree-seeking 20-something. Our fun fling took a similar twist toward serious. We began saying "I love you" at the end of every call and increasingly chose Netflix and frozen pizza over drunk non-memories. With every inch he cut off, we inched closer to middle-class suburbia and joint tax filings.

Five years in, I moved to Spain to work for what was supposed to be a one-year deal. As part of that, I was traveling, teaching, making new friends and drinking wine and coffee. (Both were drinks I'd always adamantly despised before. They stain your teeth. They taste like shit.) And so, ours was a slow, undetectable decay, like a tumor that goes unnoticed until you're saying your last goodbye. I found myself embracing everything around me in Europe and embracing a life without him. I call B.S. on the "absence makes the heart grow fonder" line. With every Skype call missed, we grew further apart. While I was gone, he became a career man, a slacks-and-button-up man with his own health insurance and 401k. Meanwhile, I became even more of a lost soul. I was overqualified to be unemployed post-Spain but too clueless to know what I wanted to do. 

I can't pinpoint when exactly I questioned going back to Nebraska to settle down, but it seems I came to a fork in the road. One path was full of curves, bends I couldn't see past and neon warning signs. It promised to be exciting but full of risk and uncertainty. The other path was straight and narrow, lauded for its smooth surface and suitability for cruise control. It was The Path by any rational standards. It was safe and comfortable, The Sure Thing that everyone searches for. I spent days, nights, mornings, evenings and middle-of-the-nights telling myself The Path was the right path for me. 

When I finally chose The Wrong Path, I cried. He cried. We cried, but rarely at the same time. It always seemed like he was grieving when I wasn't, or vice versa. I grieved in private, at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., as the unrelenting cadence of motorbikes outside my barely-there street-side window kept me awake.

I could've had it all - a nice house, a stable career, a handsome, loving husband who would kiss me before leaving for work in his new sedan. Instead, I moved back to Spain, where I rent a bedroom in a furnished apartment and earn a pittance at my part-time teaching job. Here I'm seeing the world, gaining Spanish fluency more each day and challenging myself to build a life as a young woman who doesn't identify as the future Mrs. Anybody. 

It has not been easy, but in life we're liable for the decisions we make and the hearts we break. I broke my heart and his heart and our families' hearts, and that weighs on me every day. I struggle with my decision, and having faith that I made the right one is a daily challenge. Months after calling off our wedding, moving on remains an ongoing pursuit. We've relapsed too many times to count, done the familiar dance of exes caught somewhere between committed and not.

There are days when the allure of The American Dream eats at me like a parasite I can't shake. We tend to measure life by a quantifiable system of metrics, and accordingly, I'm failing. We assess success by hours worked, children raised, money earned and cars owned. The intangible victories - challenges overcome or fears conquered, for example - don't count for as much. I recognize that. I don't expect everyone to understand my choice, to legitimize my lifestyle or to encourage my wanderlust. But I do hope that they respect my decision and the guts it took to make it. Maybe he and I will be Us again someday. Neither of us can say for sure. I still love him, but for now, I've chosen to live instead of to love - to live out my dreams, to not let them be dreams at all, really. So here's to having the courage to follow my instincts and the confidence that I've pursued happiness, even if in the end, I could've found it right in front of me.

Don't envy me.

People call me brave and adventurous, ambitious and determined. They congratulate me for making a decision that changed my life even though I was terrified it would, well, change my life. But for as courageous and composed as people think I am, the truth is deep down I'm as frazzled and anxious as you are. The path I've chosen wears on me, just like yours wears on you. 

I'm scared - Every. Single. Day. Of what I'm missing back home. Of losing touch. Of losing people. Of not learning enough or trying to learn too much. Of missing the signs that I'm in the wrong or the right place. You may think my life is worth envying. You see my pictures on Facebook; you imagine me regularly parading through passport control; you see me making friends around the globe and pursuing the opportunities I always said I would.

But you know what? I envy you, dear 8-to-6'er (nobody works 9 to 5 anymore, let's be honest). You're chained to your desk, at a job where you don't feel fulfilled. You sometimes plot how to accidentally spill your coffee on your keyboard so that it can be out of commission for a while. You eat lunch at your desk because coming back from a break just reminds you how much you don't want to be there. But hey, you have stability. You have a steady paycheck, perhaps a retirement account and savings, even. There are times when you feel accomplishment and optimism and self-worth. I envy that.

Dear wearied mom, you think cleaning runny poop - or, God forbid, crusty poop - off your teething infant's butt is unglamorous and perpetual. Perhaps you feel moribund, stuck in the monotony of your day-to-day. While I'm eating couscous in Morocco and Parmesan in Italy, you're taste-testing baby foods. Those meats really are awful. As much as you love your kids, sometimes you dream of travel, adventure or, hell, just a few days off. But guess what? I envy you, too. You are surrounded by people who know and support you. As much as that baby cries, she loves you, and you can hold her when you're about to break. I envy that.

Dear straying partner, you think your relationship is sparkless, blissless, romantic-comedy-moment-less. On Monday you talk about a weekend date night, but by Friday you're microwaving popcorn and falling asleep at 9 with crumbs in your bed. He's tired. You're tired. You wonder about passion and romance and surprise. But guess what? You're falling asleep next to him. When he holds you, it reminds you why you've hung on for so long. I envy that.

Dear young newlywed, you still hold your hand in the sun and watch your ring sparkle. You can't help but cry when you hear the song you danced to with Dad at your wedding, and you have tiered white cake in the freezer. But sometimes the naysayers get to you, the ones who've said you're not at an "OK age" to marry, that being ready only happens after you pass a certain birthday, that you didn't have time to find you before you agreed to we. You know what? I envy you, too. I envy the strength you had to commit. I envy the burnt dinners at home and the wedding album on the coffee table. I envy you having an us.

Even so, life is about decisions and accepting the highs and lows that come with them. There are good days and bad days for all of us. I'm not cleaning baby poop off butts, but I'm cleaning pigeon poop off my European sandals. Some days I'm OK with that. Some days I'm not. But I can't sit and compare my life to yours, and you shouldn't compare yours to mine. Because envy is a cancer. So here's to fighting it with everything good we've got.

16 days in 17 photos

Madrid > Milan (only to the airport. An Italian friend picked us up there). > Jesolo, Italy > Ljubljana, Slovenia > Lake Bled, Slovenia > Verona, Italy > Parma area, Italy > La Spezia, Italy > Cinqueterre, Italy > La Spezia > Pisa/Florence (accidentally) > Venice > Prague, Czech Republic > Budapest, Hungary > Madrid, Spain.

May 30, 2013, to June 14, 2013

The flooded Danube River in Budapest. When in Italy we realized that the Danube was at record high levels, which could affect our trips to Prague and Budapest. Luckily it didn't cause any problems for us in the end.

I loved this "castle" in the city park in Budapest. Turns out it's just a recreation of one in Translyvania in Romania, but it's cool nonetheless.

Budapest was our last stop, and we were exhausted, so we paid for a hop-on/hop-off bus, and although I felt slightly dorky, it was worth the roughly 13 euros to not have to walk one. more. step.

Fisherman's Bastion, a lookout point, on the Buda side of Budapest. One of the prettiest structures I've seen.

Plaza del Erbe, Verona. Such a beautiful place.

Our Italian lunch in Verona: tomatoes, parmesan, ham and bread. We ate an incredibly amount of bread and cheese while in Italy.

We officially became members of the Betolo Fun Club. We got picked up in the Betolo at the Milan airport and roadtripped to Jesolo, Italy; Slovenia, Verona and back to a small town outside Parma.

Manarola, one of the five villages that make up the Cinqueterre area of Italy's northwest coast. The breathtaking villages are built into the cliffs and aren't accessible by car.

Venice, my second time there. The cheapest gondola ride we could find was 30 euros a person, so we passed.

Old Town Square in Prague.

Trdelnik, a typical Czech/Slovakian pastry. Perhaps the most amazing pastry I've ever had.

I was so excited to see Nebraska represented on the John Lennon Wall in Prague.

Old Town Square, Prague. The whole city looks like it came from a movie set.

Ljubljana, Slovenia is a beautiful, relaxed small city.

The stunning Vintgar Gorge near Lake Bled, Slovenia.

Lake Bled, Slovenia, where beauty is everywhere, the drinking water is as pure as it gets and the air is crisper than crisp.

We had to do a steep 30-minute climb in totally inadequate footwear to get to this point to see Lake Bled from above, but it was worth it.

 Looking at these amazing places reminds me how lucky I am to do what I do.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Traveling 101: What not to do

After finishing my first year teaching and before coming home to Nebraska, my roommate and I took a nice 16-day swing around Central Europe. Once upon a time, I was a planner - meticulous and organized and anal. But together we have become the ultimate non-planners, a pair of late arrivers of the worst kind. But dang do we have a good time.

I'm going to use our failures to craft a somewhat sincere tips list for any readers who might try to recreate anything we did. Here's the trajectory of our trip: Madrid > Milan (only to the airport. An Italian friend picked us up there). > Jesolo, Italy > Ljubljana, Slovenia > Lake Bled, Slovenia > Verona, Italy > Parma area, Italy > La Spezia, Italy > Cinqueterre, Italy > La Spezia > Pisa/Florence (accidentally) > Venice > Prague, Czech Republic > Budapest, Hungary > Madrid, Spain.

1. If you sleep in the airport, be on time for your flight.
The minute I finished my last day of work, I headed to my apartment, finished packing, caught a bus to Madrid and slept in the airport, awaiting our early morning flight to Milan. Somehow we ended up losing track of time and having to power-walk/lightly jog to the gate after the rest of the passengers had already boarded. In the end, after sleeping in the airport five times, my best tip would be to just loosen your grip on your wallet a bit and fork out some euros for a bloody hotel. But if that doesn't happen: Don't try sleeping on the floor in the Madrid airport. There's a rancid woman who lives in the Ryanair check-in area, and the floorspace outside of that area is freezing. Your best bet is to snag a table at the cafeteria and fashion a makeshift bed out of the chairs.

2. If you're going to be in a country for any significant length of time, buy a SIM card with internet. 
We spent about a week in Italy and found ourselves chained to restaurants with wi-fi and internet cafes. We wasted way too many hours and euros on internet, trying to communicate with the Italian friend and panic-searching for lodging. We could've bought a SIM card from the get-go (for about 15 to 20 euros) and saved ourselves the stress and money. As long as your smartphone is unlocked for international use, you can pop in a SIM card from any European country. You'll get a local number and everything. So European.

3. Speaking of lodging...Find lodging before you arrive to a country where you don't speak the language.
We arrived to La Spezia with no place to stay and without internet to look for a place. The information office was entirely unhelpful, so we paid 5 euros for wi-fi to do a haphazard lodging search. Italy is expensive, in case you didn't know, and we couldn't find anything cheap and available. So we reached out to an Italian Couchsurfing contact, who helped us find a place for 30 euros a night (each) near the train station (the owner didn't speak English, so I have no idea how we would've dealt with the situation without the local guy). Unfortunately, the Couchsurfer came to our rescue after we had already wasted three hours at the train station, caged in the wi-fi zone next to the loudest train platform.

4. Read the terms of a low-cost airline flight very closely.
We're seasoned Ryanair flyers, so we've never had a problem with them (make sure you always print out your boarding pass ahead of time or you'll have to cough up 50 or 60 euros at the airport). But from Venice to Prague, we flew Wizzair, a Hungary-based low-cost provider I'd frankly never heard of. It was cheap. For a reason. At a Venice internet cafe while trying to check in for the flight, I discovered that you have to pay to take a standard-sized carry-on. Only very small carry-on bags were free. Beings that we only had carry-ons for 16 days of traveling, our carry-ons were far from small. So we tried to pay online to add carry-ons to our flights (how ridiculous is it to pay to add carry-ons?), and guess what? The site didn't work. So we scrambled to contact the airline, but it costs more than a euro a minute to call. We bought a calling card, which we later found out can't be used to call a toll number. Ultimately we went to a bar with internet (which we had already been to earlier that day) and wrote a Spanish friend and asked him to call the Spanish Wizzair line. He called at 10:02 p.m. The customer service line closed at 10. So we ended up throwing a bunch of stuff in one big carry-on and paying 45 euros at the airport to take it on the plane.

5. Make sure you triple check that you have boarded the correct train. 
From La Spezia, we intended to go to Collechio (a small town near Parma) en route to Venice. But we unknowingly boarded the wrong train and ended up in Pisa at 10 p.m. (I wish we could've seen our faces when the ticket man on the train informed us that we were not going to Collechio.) We had to take a train from Pisa to the central station in Florence and then catch a bus to a secondary Florence station to get to Venice on the night train. Let's just say Pisa and Florence are not places you want to be wandering aimlessly at night.

I'm sure someone somewhere once said that from failure you gain strength or wisdom or something like that, right? I like to think I've gotten something out of these mistakes other than a handful of memories that are awesome only for how awful they really are. If not, oh well.

Here's to living and learning.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Stuff I eat: Lengua con alcaparras (tongue with capers)

I've been globetrotting for a while and journeyed back to the homeland last week, so I've been missing in action around here. I'll try to catch up as best I can.

I didn't intend for every food I featured on here to be gross, bizarre, better-in-the-garbage-than-on-your-plate type stuff. But it's managed to work out that way so far, and today's entry is no exception.

Source

Name: Llengua amb taperes

Translation: The name above is in Mallorquin, the local language of Majorca. It'd be "lengua con alcaparras" in Spanish and in English "tongue with capers," which are the unripened buds of a plant found in the Mediterranean.

So what is it exactly? It's veal tongue - boiled, peeled and cooked with onions, capers and tomatoes.

Where I ate it: Cura, Majorca, Spain (a small town in Majorca, one of the Balearic Islands)

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "It's amazing how many times I find myself in a situation where I'm eating oft-discarded animal parts. And if my dad were here he'd tell me I'd never eat this if he put it on my plate back home."

Texture: As tender as it gets. Knife not needed. You don't even need teeth, really. You could gum the stuff and enjoy it just the same. Now, in my last post about oxtail, I also talked about incredible tenderness but in a negative way. I said oxtail was so tender that it lacked substance. The good news is that veal tongue didn't dissolve in the same way oxtail did. You don't have to chew the tongue, but it doesn't immediately disintegrate either. It was a slow melt-in-the-mouth, one you could appreciate and enjoy. Luckily, the meat (which is really mostly muscle and fat) didn't linger long enough for me to really think about the fact that the stuff falling apart on my tongue was, well, tongue.

Taste: This may or may not be surprising, but the tongue tastes like...beef! Even better than that ambiguously generic "beef" description: It actually tasted like roast. Yes, roast. OK, wipe that disgusted look off your face and think about this: As this guy explains it, round steak, for example, is none more glamorous than butt. If you can eat butt, you can eat tongue.

As for the capers, although familiar to people raised in the Mediterranean (or in Mediterranean-like climates), they're nothing like anything this Midwesterner had tasted before. They're tiny but packed with flavor. They've got a tart, slightly bitter punch. They don't taste like Greek olives but have a similar sort of mild kick. Just try them.

Verdict: Absolutely delicious. I owe my Mallorquin friends big time for exposing me to two gross-but-actually-not-gross dishes: tongue and frito mallorquin, which is liver and blood. I enjoyed the tongue so much that I'm dying to try a tongue taco at a traditional Mexican taqueria.

I think there's one saying that's perfect here: One man's trash is another man's treasure. So here's to eating trash - and liking it.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Stuff I eat: Rabo de toro

I'm going to keep citing Anthony Bourdain until I run out of references. His quotes are like strings of sometimes-vulgar-but-always-poignant poetry: “That without experimentation, a willingness to ask questions and try new things, we shall surely become static, repetitive, moribund.” It's with that Bourdain-inspired mindset that I've tried blood sausage, pig ears, liver and...

Source

Name: Rabo de toro

Translation: Oxtail (the name used to refer to the tail of an actual ox, but it seems to have stuck even though what is served presently is the tail of cows and steers.)

So what is it exactly? Just what it sounds like. It's a traditional dish in Cordoba, served with the meat on the tail bone and bits of solidified fat. From what I'm told, it's traditionally seasoned with garlic, onion and vegetables to form a sort of stew. I tried it (for the second time) at a traditional Cordobese restaurant, assuming that if it was going to be life-alteringly delicious anywhere in Spain, it'd be there.

Where I ate it: Cordoba, Spain

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "I'm all for parts conservation and getting the most out of a slaughtered animal, but this really doesn't look good."

Texture: The meat is extremely tender and moist, and that's typically one of the dish's most lauded qualities. No chewing is required. Normally tenderness is the mark of a good cut, but I found oxtail to be so tender that it lost substance and so moist it bordered on slimy. (Keep in mind this is based entirely on my unenlightened culinary opinion. Many people love this dish.)

Taste: From what I could taste of the meager amount of meat on the bones, the meat was similar in taste to ribs (again, I warn you of my untrained palate). You're thinking, "Teresa, ribs are delicious." You're right, but the potential deliciousness of oxtail, which I think of as rump roast's ugly cousin, was drowned out by off-putting texture and yellow gelatinous fat.

Verdict: I wouldn't order oxtail in a restaurant because it'd cost me an hour's worth of private English lessons, and I'd rather spend that 10 to 15 euros on blood sausage or squid in ink than on oxtail. However, if someone else was paying, or if I was a guest in someone's home, I'd eat it again without quarrel.

Adventures in teaching

Kids say the darnedest things, and even more so in a foreign language. Sometimes my students' questions and/or comments catch me entirely by surprise, and I have to maintain composure while I think about how I'm going to address *insert taboo topic here*. Every day is an adventure. As an auxiliar, my job is as much to teach the English language as it is to teach the way we use the language (and the way we don't use the language.)

In a recent class with 14-year-olds, we were reading a news story about Samoa Air's charge-by-passenger-weight ticket policy. We were debating about fairness, discrimination, obesity, etc. My students kept using the term "fat people," i.e. "fat people have to pay more" or "it's unfair to fat people." I decided to give them a lesson about the intricacies and subtleties of  English (I wrote before about the loose Spanish PC code here): We don't say "fat people," I explained. Instead, we say "overweight," "large," "obese" or "big." This small lesson somehow morphed into a much longer, much more uncomfortable discussion. One student asked what we call "los negros" (black people). I explained that we typically say "African-Americans," which then prompted the "so why do you say 'white' but not 'black'?" follow-up. Good question. I had no sufficient answer. Then a girl asked when we say "n*****." She was 100 percent sincere. I was admittedly shocked and had to think for a bit about how to explain such a delicate word without actually repeating the word. I told them that it's incredibly derogatory and offensive, and I advised them to never, ever, ever use it. "But why do we hear it in music and movies so much then?" Another good question. Another unsatisfactory answer from me.

After all of that, just when I thought I was off the hook, a girl mentioned African immigrants selling sunglasses, watches, ice cream and other goodies on the beach. A student raised his hand and, again 100 percent sincerely, asked if I could explain the difference in pronunciation and meaning between "bitch" and "beach" because he couldn't hear any distinction between the two (I wrote a bit about that here). So, I got the go-ahead from the teacher, and I explained it. What. A. Day.

Here's to students keeping teachers on their toes.

Un saludo,
Teresa

On my decision to stay

I've accepted a position to teach again next year in the province of Cáceres, Extremadura, where I work now. With that said...

No one said following your gut was easy. Constant goodbyes are awful. Distance is awful. Tough decisions are awful. But so is forgoing an opportunity that will change your life out of fear that it will, in fact, change your life. Don't let your dreams be dreams, as they say.

My decision to stay will fray relationships and jeopardize career opportunities I could've taken. I'll waste money I should be saving and postpone the adulthood I should be planning for. I'll miss moments, birthdays and holidays with the people who are most important to me. I'll see cake-smeared nieces and nephews on Facebook and wonder if I should be home watching them evolve from infants to toddlers to schoolchildren. I'll see Husker tailgates and wonder if I should be connecting with old friends, rebuilding bonds naturally strained by distance.  I'll see family photos and wonder if I should be sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table while I can. I'll think about my unworn wedding dress hanging in a closet and wonder if sacrificing a marriage to my very best friend in order to stay here was foresighted or careless. I'll wonder about regrets and everything that was but isn't anymore. And when I leave let again, there will be more tears and more hard-as-hell goodbyes.

I have very little to show for the last six years of my itinerant existence. I have a college degree with honors and a hard-earned résumé that don't necessarily apply to my current pursuit. I own almost nothing, I have meager savings, and I can fold, stuff and Space Bag most of my life into 100 linear inches. What I do have is an email inbox and a blog full of travel dispatches, a Paleolithic computer full of photos and a memory full of characters and chapters.

I really hate "what ifs" and "could've beens," but there'd be no avoiding them next year in Nebraska or Spain. Anthony Bourdain (goodness, I really can't stop quoting him; the man's a machine) said, “[When I die], I will decidedly not be regretting missed opportunities for a good time. My regrets will be more along the lines of a sad list of people hurt, people let down, assets wasted and advantages squandered.” So here's to another year of adventure, discovery, growth and independence in Europe. Here's to another year of being poor, lost and foreign. With that, The Nomad Chronicles continues...

Un saludo,
Teresa

"This week in errors," Issue 3

This feature publicizes the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails. This week's issue focuses on students unknowingly saying/writing wildly inappropriate things.

1). In a class, my students were playing "20 questions" about celebrities to practice asking questions about and describing personal characteristics. Nicki Minaj came up (if you don't know who she is, look here), and one of my students asked the student describing her if the person being described "had a big ass." I couldn't believe what I heard, so I asked him to repeat because I was sure I'd heard it wrong (like the time a student said he made a mistake on a PowerPoint because he "was wrong" and I thought he said he "was drunk"). He repeated, and sure enough, he confidently repeated "ass." He didn't realize that was a bad word because he'd learned it as an equivalent to "culo," which technically it is, but it's stronger in English.

2). This comes from one of my roommate's students. Look at #3.

The girl meant to say "hold me" or "pick me up" ("cogerme" in Spain Spanish), but in parts of Latin America, "coger" means "f***," so when she searched "coger" in a translator, that's what she got.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Feria de abril

I imagine Sevilla's "Feria de abril" might be like the Texas State Fair or any traditional event celebrating the southern U.S. If you're from there, such festivities are cultural gems. If you're not, they're an excuse for southern pride to puke all over the place. The southern U.S. and southern Spain are alike in that they have subcultures that are very much alive, deeply ingrained and wildly celebrated. Both "souths" have customs that are exclusive, esoteric and shall we say slightly obnoxious?

You could say Sevilla's April fair is obnoxious, exclusive and esoteric, but in the most awesome way possible. There are lots of fancy, expensive flamenco dresses, overdone makeup, guys getting drunk on horseback, fried food and booze. Lots of booze -- including the traditional drink, rebujito, made of white wine and Sprite. A network of more than 1,000 casetas, which are individual bar/reception areas set up exclusively for the event, fill the fairgrounds. To get into all but the handful of public ones, you have to know someone inside. The fair is loud and hot and a bit circus-like. The bathrooms are as close as it gets to urge-reversing, and you have to weave through piles of horse poop in the streets.

On the other hand, it's alive, vibrant, merry and good ol' fun. Relatively cheap drinks, colorful characters and ridiculously beautiful people abound (the beautiful people part was kind of sickening, actually.) The dance floors are full of immaculate women twirling and stomping the Sevillana, the region's typical folk dance.

I'd love to go back next year. I had a blast (and I love Sevilla anyway). But next time I'm going to dress as a Sevillana, and I'll come equipped with a dance move or two.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Entrance to the fair

General debauchery

Entrance to one of the casetas

One of the casetas

Way too adorable

Caseta

Just the police taking pictures of each other

My roommate and I with one of the horsemen

Some Sevillanos took us for a ride through the fair (and then the police told them to drop us off because guiris who aren't dressed in typical attire aren't allowed on horseback).