barcelona, te adoro

It’s really hard to be ripped away from something you’ve just realized you fell in love with. I’m sitting in my smaller-than-a-twin-sized bed on the MV Explorer, eyes low from lack of sleep, physical and emotional exhaustion. And I can’t go up to the top deck to watch the ship pull away from Barcelona; it’s just too sad to handle. Four days and I fell hard for this city. The fact that we have to leave is making my heart wrench. I can barely even fathom the fact that we’re about to spend a week in Italy; my mind keeps replaying the reel of Barca in my head.

After a journey across the Atlantic that at times seemed like it would never end, we finally reached Barcelona’s rugged coast, adorned with palm trees snug against a mountain range. The feeling of racing from my cabin to the outside deck with my roommate Mackenzie and getting our first glimpse of Barca was no less than euphoric. It remains the only day thus far on the trip that we’ve woken up for breakfast (7-8:30); our excitement was bigger than sleep. It felt like waking up at 4AM the day I was leaving for Disney World when I was five years old. Thinking somehow that waking hours would make our flight come faster.

First thing after the announcement was made that we could disembark, we grabbed a cab and shuttled up to the top of the city to explore our first taste of the genius that is the modernismo artist synonymous with Barcelona itself, Antoni Gaudi. And El Parc Guell is Gaudi’s real-life CandyLand: the artist’s vision of achieving the impossible, expanded to acres and acres of meandering paths and enchanted nooks. You are greeted first by a massive stone building, sprinkled with ornate tile and built in the quintessential Gaudi style: organic curves and whimsical shapes and colors. Proceed further and the depth of the park appears. A large open meeting space with vendors, musicians of all genres around each winding corner, seemingly endless green space for jogging, wandering or mere relaxation.

After the park we continued our Gaudi tour with one of the most recognizable landmarks of Barcelona – La Sagrada Familia. The church could very well be the most fascinating structure I’ve ever seen, perpetually under construction for the past century. It’s dual-sided, one half modern and strikingly Gaudi, with the same geometric curves and whimsical feel as his other famous works. The older side is a souring monstrosity with turrets and steeples reaching to the heavens yet fragile-looking as melting candles. I like to think that Gaudi wanted us to be forever perplexed by his religious masterpiece, yet struck by the symbolism of its construction. The church is a work in progress, possibly forever for the genius left no tangible blueprint. Couldn’t the same be said of “the church” meaning Christianity as a whole? My fascination with Gaudi continued as we toured La Pedrera, one of his famously designed apartment buildings with its wonderland roof overlooking the city.

The rest of my stay in Barcelona exists in my mind as a blur. Granted, that could be due to the gallons of sangria consumed and absurdly late nights. (I’m talking LATE – dinner crowds file in around 11 and club-goers keep trucking through till 6AM closing).

The food here is as expected, lots of paella (delicious), Iberian hams and tapas. Although admittedly, the same menu items are commonplace at almost every restaurant and the repetition gets a bit tedious after a few days. So much so that myself and one other SAS traveler whose name will be withheld for anonymity committed the primary mortal sin of travel.

We ate a Big Mac.

There they were, gleaming yellow arches after a grueling morning of walking around Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s charming shopping hub, lined with vendors and sidewalk artists. My stomach had just about reached its capacity of tapas for the trip and then suddenly that all-too-familiar insatiable craving came back. Something so undeniably American it made me want to shoot myself. Halfway around the world, and we sheepishly snuck into McDonalds, ordered one Big Mac between us, ate it, and got the hell out of there. Interesting side note: McDonald’s are so much nicer in Europe and have more selection, like Kit-Kat McFlurries! I’m a little peeved my post-Grove snacking isn’t that diverse in Miami.

However, not the staggering La Sagrada or the equally reverent Big Mac could prepare me for what would happen one fateful day in Barcelona’s shockingly perfect Gothic Quarter. Ecstasy was achieved. And no, I don’t mean chemically induced. I think I found heaven. Or at least what I hope my heaven looks like one day.

A tiny hole in the wall restaurant tucked in a little quad off one of the main streets in the Gothic Quarter. The setting was too flawless to not be the makings of a postcard. The inspiration travel book writers must turn to when describing this neighborhood. The weather was more perfect than words, sun shining through the canopy of trees above our heads onto our tiny antique wooden table in the quad outside the restaurant. Happy people strolled by, either with adorable dogs (pup-friendly, another highlight of Barcelona for me) or hand-in-hand. Blissful Spanish cuisine spilled onto our plates, sangria flowing maybe a touch too heavy-handedly. Periodically, tiny orange blossoms from the trees above us would gently cascade down and land in our hair and café con leches. A Spanish guitarist meandered over to our table and started playing Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” Our friend Nicki was so taken by the scene mixed with the music that she started crying. And then he asked for a suggestion from me, and without even pressing my music taste began playing “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead. Completely and utterly shocking. If this isn’t what heaven is like I don’t think I want to go. And honestly, devoted readers, the innumerable photos I took and words that are flowing from my fingers right now will never do it justice. I will remember those hours and their perfection, our laughs filling the air and rising high above Barcelona, for the rest of my life.

It was in those moments that I fell in love with Barcelona. We stayed out until 9 in the morning after hitting all of the necessary clubs on our last night here (Razzmatazz which is overrated, Shoko which is underrated, and Opium which is perfection). After stumbling out the doors of Opium at 6AM closing time, arm-and-arm, we watched the sun rise over the ocean and savored our last breathless moments in this enchanted city.

The memories we created here could fill volumes. Crashing a French guy’s bachelor party in the VIP section of a club and instead of getting kicked out, getting fed Dom Perignon gratis for the rest of the night (and the night after). Viva La France! Embarking on our own “DIY Barcelona Bar Crawl,” sampling a local chupito at each establishment. Reuniting with a Miami friend in the most unlikely of cities. Our friend Shea attempting to smuggle a contraband ham sandwich onto the boat in his pants. Plunging in the freezing Mediterranean hours before we had to be back on the ship just because. Friendships were solidified, days seemingly like years.

Barcelona, I will be back. And next time, it will be for more than four days. There are enough beautiful medieval alleyways in the Gothic Quarter; it could take me a lifetime to photograph all of them. Doesn’t sound like too bad of a plan.

meclizine: a love story

I cannot believe it, but I’m finally here. Sitting in my cozy cabin on Deck 4 of the MV Explorer. Shuttling through the night somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic with around 700 of my soon to be closest friends.

It’s been a weird journey. Canada is pleasant but super expensive (two paperbacks for $45? you’ve got to be kidding me) and I had several near-panic attacks at the thought of a boat full of the aforementioned nerds but everything is completely – and weirdly – fine. I got here in one piece. They didn’t confiscate any of my belongings during luggage search (I uncomfortably shifted things in my toiletries bag when I overheard a SAS employee making fun of a girl whose steamer got confiscated. Um… whoops? Wrinkly clothes girl, if you’re out there, I’m in room 4058 and I’d be happy to share) and I made it through and onto the ship in ample time.

But before my journey to Pier 21 and aboard the Explorer, I ventured out into downtown Halifax for what would become a semi-infamous pre-SAS meetup.

Remember how awkward it was pre-freshman year when you were so excited to go off to college and would sit on Facebook during lazy summer days stalking your future classmates? Alright, that was mildly acceptable when we were 18. But we’re, for the most part, upperclassmen now. WHY in God’s name did a handful of horny guido SAS-ers from middle of nowhere Pennsylvania send me Facebook messages asking what country I was most excited to visit when they saw my picture in the “SAS Summer Voyage 2010” Facebook group? Because Semester At Sea is freshman year all over again.

And the night before embarkation was like the night before your fall semester started. Which frat would throw the biggest blowout? What grimy wannabe promoter would secure the most buses to venues in South Beach and undoubtedly promise no line/no wait/no cover/open bar and then deliver none of the above? Who would you make out with?

This all went down at one of the classic Halifax haunts – The Argyle.

One soon to be infamous SAS-er decided to be “that guy” and order a shot for every person in the bar, racking up a nearly $400 bar tab. Needless to say he has one of the most expensive cabins (the Junior Suite - hell yeah) and made a whole boatload (pun intended) of friends who he didn’t remember meeting once he actually boarded the ship. It was a little awkward and a little sad watching the 75% girls on the boat (that’s right, 75% of the 700ish students are girls) vie for the few and far between males feeding them alcohol and cheesy lines. I got out of there pretty quick but hey, at least I got some good material for this blog.

“What’s your major?” “where are you from?” and the newly added “where do you go to school?” Oh the magic three questions that must have left my lips no less than 250 times in the past three days. Empty promises of summer-long friendships abound just like at the dawn of college life.

But luckily, the nerds and Facebook creepers seemed to have disappeared into the shadows of the MV Explorer and I’ve met some really amazing people. It’s also been interesting to meet more students from different areas of the country I’m unfamiliar with. When I first set foot on campus at UMiami I became accustomed to the foreign breed of human known as “northerner” who talked louder and cursed more than me. Now, I’m exploring the seemingly wonderful culture of California. The west coast, Cali in particular, is the most heavily represented area on the boat. I think every person from California is just nicer, per capita, than people from the east coast. No offense, I love New York City more than anywhere in the world but that hard exterior they have can often be hard to crack, even with the charms of a Southern belle like myself. Californians want to be your best friend like a golden retriever from the moment they meet you. I could get used to this.

From the token meatheads who have already attempted to lift weights despite the crazy imbalance of the boat AND taken a pathetic jog around the deck totaling at no more than a quarter mile to the one kid who is a rising freshman in college and getting his first college experience on SAS, this boat is a social experiment. Hey, let’s see what happens when we shove 700+ mostly rich (hence, used to being pampered) college students into tiny cabins with complete strangers. I wonder what they’ll do when they are ripped away from their precious Facebooks and Blackberries and forced to communicate via… actually speaking? Today I literally bought a pad of cute pink post-it notes to leave messages on people’s doors when I can’t find them. I also have a master plan of capturing and training a carrier pigeon from that famous square in Veniceand smuggling him back onto the ship with me. I’m learning just how intertwined our society is with technology. This is going to take some getting used to. Although I must say, my vacation from my Blackberry has been oddly freeing.

And oh, while we’re on the topic of getting used to things. I have neglected to address the most glaring issue facing us SAS-ers in current days.

Seasickness.

Humans are not supposed to reside at sea. That’s what land is for. Oh, beautiful, stable, unmoving land. How I miss thee. Already almost a thousand miles behind me on the coast of Nova Scotia. Less than three days in and I’d wager a good three-quarters of the ship has puked or at least considered it. Once we reached open water on the Atlantic people started throwing caution to the wind and racing for the nearest bathroom in mid-meeting, mid-conversation, hell, mid-anything. The twisty, knotty, just slightly swaying feeling you get in your stomach at sea is really, really terrible. I came prepared with these painfully dorky too-small to be sweatbands/too-big to be bracelets looking bands that supposedly help maintain your equilibrium. To that I say, bullshit. My only solace has been these cute little pastel colored pills called “Meclizine” that the front desk (or in proper nautical terms, the “purser’s desk”) hands out like candy to the queasy masses. They could be placebos for all I know, but at least I’ve been able to sit through two classes thus far today.

Last night, however, was not as peaceful. At 6 AM the entire boat was awoken to the sound of desk drawers flying open and slamming shut, phones soaring off desks, snacks careening out of their containers (I’m not kidding. My friends’ room had honey-roasted peanuts strewn from one end to the other). I felt like I was on the T-word (I feel like it’s socially unacceptable to talk about the Titanic while seated on a passenger vessel in the same-ish vicinity of the Atlantic that was her final resting place but whatever) watching the level on my water bottle on the desk side table go crazy with the motion of the waves, only to fly off like every other content of my room.

It’s pretty hilarious watching people get startled by a sudden lurch of the ship and enter a “power stance” as I like to call it to regain their balance. I can’t say I’m not guilty of doing the same, though. I’m still getting my sea legs.

Our first port is Barcelona and I could not be more excited. I’ve dreamt of studying abroad in Barca for my entire life as I’ve spoken of before, particularly when I had a brief stint in high school where I considered being a Spanish major. Although I think that may have had more to do with the attractive guys who always seemed to be in my classes more than a love for the language itself, but whatever. We have four days and three nights in port so I’ll be working my ass off to plan the world’s most perfect itinerary to do and see everything I can in that short of a time.

If anything else noteworthy happens on the ship between now and then I’ll be sure to update you, my devoted readers. Until then, adios.

chicken flavored chips and a high crime rate: blame canada

And so the journey has finally begun. Thanks to some confusing legalities involving bonds and millions of dollars, Semester at Sea is forced to disembark their voyages from an international port. Enter Halfiax, Nova Scotia.

The trek that brought me here was, in a word, hellacious. Thank god I'm traveling with a fellow SAS voyager, my friend Cam from UMiami, or else I think I might have caused such a scene at Hartsfield-Jackson-Atlanta International Airport (side note: just because we're the country's busiest airport doesn't mean we also need the longest name) that TSA would have escorted me out.

To begin, I awoke at 2AM. Does it even count as waking up if you're not sure if you even slept/you normally wouldn't have gone to sleep yet at that time? I don't know, but it blew. After the car was loaded, my dad had arranged for a classy going-away breakfast: 3AM at the Waffle House on 41 and 285. The clientele in the wee hours of the morning were dressed in their finest ghetto clubwear and still feeling that last glass of Henny; a peaceful way to begin my journey to say the least.

Once I finally made it to Hartsfield, I was stuck in line at the United counter behind a woman who was checking at least 20 full-sized boxes. Why? Once I got to the front and began hauling my luggage on the scale, a number appeared that made my heart sink: 56. Let it be known, I HATE OVERSIZED BAGGAGE FEES. They have been the bane of my existence since I started attending a college that requires me to board a plane in order to get there, and were even worse when I interned in New York City last summer. Why must we fashionable women be penalized for wanting to bring a few more pairs of shoes? Has an extra stack of American Apparel v-necks ever hurt anyone? I think not. Regardless, as my fears were realized and the 56 appeared on the screen, the United representative informed me the oversize fee was $200. I immediately started crying (acceptable), and began throwing jeans and bikinis in all directions to get the weight down. At 51 I was at the end of my rope. I flashed the guy huge glassy puppy dog eyes and he let me go.

Atlanta-DC. Once I found my terminal in DC that would lead me to Halifax, I began noticing likely Semester at Sea participants. My normally bubbly nature would have led me to engage them in most circumstances especially due to the three-hour delay, but one thing stopped me dead in my tracks at Dulles gate D6.

They were all massive nerds.

I'm talking: Sketchers-wearing, weird board game with parents-playing, "how many stamps do you have on your passport?"-discussing, straight-up USDA-certified NERDS. Shit.

Rather, I sat silently in the corner and consumed an entire issue of Vanity Fair (I made sure the nerds saw I was reading the issue with hot scantily clad World Cup footballers Drogba and Ronaldo on the cover and not New Moon) while Cam slept stretched out across three chairs with his reflective Ray-Ban aviators and red Beats by Dre headphones on, fully solidifying our stance as cool kids on the boat.

Finally, after the worst plane nap of my life, we reached the bustling metropolitan area of Halifax, Nova Scotia. And by bustling metropolitan area, I mean I felt like I was an extra in Fargo. Our cab driver was a sweet man, oozing with Canadian hospitality, who informed us of his undying love and devotion to the Ford Taurus (he's never driven any other type of cab!) and pointed out the three Tim Horton's on three consecutive blocks in the suburb we drove through named Dartmouth. Don't let its collegiate name fool you, Dartmouth was fairly destitute and depressing, but once we reached Halifax all was redeemed. The town is downright charming, with stone buildings and pubs on every corner. There's a quaint boardwalk where you can watch the vessels arrive, and I swear only seven people reside in the entire metro area. Spooky. However, our cabbie did tell us to beware of Halifax's high crime rate. All I could think of was that scene in Bowling for Columbine where Michael Moore lists off the number of murders in other countries on a yearly basis in comparison to ours. I think Canada had around four. Most likely in the grittier areas like Montreal, but I'll be sure to watch my back.

Dinner was at Salty's, a cute seafood restaurant right on the water. I had probably the best fish and chips of my life and ordered my first legal drink since Cabo Spring Break '08. It was exhilarating, to say the least.

All-in-all, my stay in Halifax has been pleasant. World Cup games are amusing in French and everyone here is really obscenely nice (other than that bitch at customs who demanded a letter from SAS with my itinerary and reasons for entering the country? Pipe down). But we made one fatal mistake when perusing the late-night snack collection in the lobby of the Marriott Courtyard.

Chicken. Flavored. Lays. Chips. Curiosity got the best of us and we decided to sample what was sure to be a local delicacy. It tasted like the powdery stuff you add to flavor Ramen noodles. Times a thousand. Won't be doing that again.

Boat begins loading at 8AM tomorrow so sadly I will have to say au revoir to Canada and hello to the open seas. I ran into a more normal looking kid my age at the hotel gym today so let's hope he (along with hundreds of others like him) will be going on SAS and offsetting the nerds. A girl can dream.

come sail away

In exactly one week I will be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

So shall begin a trip that will undoubtedly change my life and the way I view culture and religion and all the other facets of humanity I'm dying to explore. Monuments will be toured, cities navigated, food consumed (oh hey Italy), legal drinking enjoyed (everywhere! THANK GOD), money spent, pictures taken, and personal belongings hopefully not pick-pocketed. And oh, this is all reoccurring 9 times. I'm not studying abroad in one country - I'm studying abroad at sea.

Semester at Sea, for those who aren't familiar with the program, is essentially a floating campus for college students from universities all over the country to pick up a few credits and see a massive chunk of the world. You take classes on the boat in between ports (I'm taking Global Studies, Christianity, Judaism & Islam, and Astronomy) and then continue your studies (aka go wild and do/see everything you possible can in the measly 4-5 days you're given) in port. They have voyages for both the Fall and Spring Semesters, and a Summer Voyage (the one I'm about to embark on).

Our itinerary:

Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada (boat departs from here)

Barcelona, Spain

Civitavecchia (Rome), Italy

Naples, Italy

Dubrovnik, Croatia

Piraeus (Athens), Greece

Istanbul, Turkey

Alexandria, Egypt

Casablanca, Morocco

Norfolk, VA, USA (boat returns here)

Hence, I'm seeing some of the most stunning and historic destinations on the planet. I'd always had Barcelona in the back of my mind as my future study abroad locale but when the opportunity to see not just Barca but also ALL of those other countries I've only dreamed of presented itself, it was too intoxicating to pass up. I mean Greece?! I literally dream of whitewashed buildings and impossibly blue skies on a nightly basis. I don't know how I'm going to have the emotional capacity to finally see all the subject matter of my adolescent daydreams manifest to reality.

Last night I had dinner with my cousin Taylor who is now out of college but studied abroad in the tiny town of Cortona, Italy as an undergrad. She was an art major and basically spent an entire summer in Cortona painting sunflowers and eating gelato. Hell yeah. Anyways, she was reminiscing about the trip, including the sole horrible club in the town called Route 66 that only played 5-year delayed American pop, and remembered a specific routine she and her friends developed. Each night after dinner they would hurry over to the gelato shop, make their purchases, and haul ass up the huge hill to where the village was situated, sit on a big stone wall and watch the sun set over the fields of sunflowers in the distance. Taylor remembered literally breaking down to tears at how unbelievably stunning the sight was. She always tried to capture it on film but it never did it justice.

I think that's the mentality I'm going to enter this trip with. I'm going to be bearing witness to things I will never again see or experience in my entire life. Yes I have a good camera and yes I'm going to want to immortalize every last cobblestone path and goat I think is cute, but there are going to be some things that will be simply too untouchable to capture. And those will be the things I keep in my heart; little mental snapshots added to the reel in my head that plays every undocumented moment that has defined my life over and over again.

Are my expectations high for this trip? Yes. Do I know every last image I have of these countries in my head is going to be entirely shattered by how beautiful they are in real life? Also, yes.

The countdown begins: 6 days till anchors away. And a whole summer of lame nautical references. Bear with me.