Tim and I made an epic skate video.

NPR has become a moderately rewarding addition to my audio life in the past few years. I used to loathe talk radio, but I have genuinely come to appreciate the calmative voices of NPR. So naturally, on my drive home from working out today, I flipped it on for a little “cerebral treat”.

I was informed that China is quietly going through a faith boom in addition to its remarkable economic boom. Approximately 1 in 3 Chinese people describe themselves as religious. I was shocked; I have always known China as the closely monitored, officially atheist country that it is. NPR suggests that evolving ideologies are to blame: “The collapse of the communist ideology created a void that has left many Chinese staring into a spiritual vacuum, looking for a value system to counterbalance the rampant materialism that seems to govern life in China.”

There seems to me to be an explicit parallel between an increase in wealth and a longing for the divine. We accumulate to define our sense of purpose or selfhood, leaving us with a handful of makeshift objects to cling to. Wouldn’t anyone hope to find their life’s meaning in something a bit more sacred?

Lately, I have been feeling an indecent amount of inspiration. I have had creative ideas and fantastical dreams that are remaining domiciled in my brain like a whirring swarm of honeybees. I am hoping that a dissemination of my imagination to the faceless blogosphere will clear my mind and focus my pursuits.

Today’s obsession: beekeeping.

I have been reading the award-winning novel The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, and I have rarely willed myself to put it down. The author explores the impact of familial relationships and rejection on one’s psyche by connecting it to the complex inner workings of a hive of honeybees. Kidd is genius; go read the book.

“I hadn’t been out to the hives before, so to start off she gave me a lesson in what she called ‘bee yard etiquette’. She reminded me that the world was really one bee yard, and the same rules work fine in both places. Don’t be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don’t be an idiot; wear long sleeves and pants. Don’t swat. Don’t even think about swatting. If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates while whistling melts a bee’s temper. Act like you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t. Above all, send the bees love. Every little thing wants to be loved.”
— Sue Monk Kidd

I would love to prop a nice bee hotel in my backyard some day, just so I could send them love. <3

Sights to see in Rome are endless. It was the ultimate last city to tour. We did everything, and our feet paid the price. Highlights: 1) The Vatican City where we slyly cut 200ish people in line (desperate times call for desperate measures), trucked around the museums until we gave up and followed the rushed crowds on their way to the Sistine Chapel, and opted for the short tour of St. Peter’s Basilica on our way to an elephantine pasta feast. 2) Drinking wine at the Trevi Fountain and toasting to good friends and adventures. 3) Reconnoitering the Colosseum and the Roman Forum in the rain. 4) Chilling with the Pope on Immaculate Conception. That’s right, we stood approximately 10 feet from the Pope. He rolled up in his little Pope-Mobile, gave a few waves and smiles, gave an Italian speech, and put out the vibes. 5) The Last Supper (an extended “splurge” meal) with Alex, Tori, Alyssa, and Ben before wandering back to the hostel for two solid hours of sleep to prepare us for our early morning travels home.

My last official weekend trip of the semester was to Venice, Florence, and Rome in Italy. Our school had Tuesday off for Immaculate Conception, so we extended the weekend to hit all the cities.

After a delayed Vueling (we hate you, Vueling) flight, we arrived in Venice around 5pm on Friday. We stepped outside the airport into a torrential downpour. After a rainy weekend in Paris, Tori and Alex knew to be prepared for the unfortunate weather. I missed the memo. Ironically, I had bragged about my savvy packing skills earlier that day, “Look Catie, six days worth of winter clothing… stuffed nicely in my little black backpack!” Fail. The lack of rain clothes left me sopping wet for the duration of the afternoon/evening. I almost redeemed myself by finding a slightly mangled umbrella in a trash can by the bus stop, commenting that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure… until (PSYCH!) the umbrella flipped inside out because of the strong wind. Oh well.

We ignored the weather as much as we could and toured Venice a bit, visiting St. Mark’s square and walking along the canals. The canals were charming, but it was upsetting to think about the implications of climate change for this city. Apparently we had just missed a horrible flood in Venice by a day (which happens a lot, go figure.) After taking some wet pictures and happening upon a Firemen’s Memorial service at St. Mark’s, we found exactly what we had a hankering for: a cozy Italian pasta restaurant. It was perfect– red checkered tablecloth and all. We couldn’t have been happier to peel off our wet layers and damp gloves and sit down to a long meal. YUM.

One of the blessings of the rain was finding that our hotel was fancy shmancy. It goes on the list for best accommodations for the cheapest price in Europe. I had one of the longest showers I’d had in a while (did I mention we only get cold showers at my house in Spain?) We told ourselves that even if it was pouring in Venice tomorrow, we could always return to our luxurious hotel and jump on the beds.

We woke up the next morning EARLY in hopes of seeing the city during daylight before we hopped on our train to Florence. And it was a good choice, if I do say so myself. We watched the sun rise over one of the most stunning (and dry!) cities I have ever seen. We revisited St. Mark’s, checked out the Rialto bridge, walked through a bustling market, and explored the narrow streets. Venice has this beguiling, old-fashioned glamour to it. The setting was such a drastic contrast to that of the train station later that day with the irritating Italians…But more on this later; I’m still fuming.

So this brings me to Florence… How do I describe Florence? It was everything that you would expect from an Italian city. Highlights: Gelato and pizza everywhere. Michelangelo Plaza where we watched the sunset over the city lights. Homemade pasta soup from our hostel. A colorful and exquisite Duomo Cathedral. Christmas market with hot wine. The medieval Ponte Vecchio bridge over the Arno River. Michelangelo’s David. Snoop Jesus (ha!) Christmas tree and roasted chestnuts. Getting to see a friend from home.

We had a relaxing and cheery time in Florence, perfect preparation for Rome.

One of the more difficult things about planning weekend trips with friends is that someone has been there before or someone is busy that weekend or someone’s family is in town or someone wants to stay in Madrid this weekend or yada yada yada… Well we lucked out with our Chamonix, France and Geneva, Switzerland trip because 7 of us were able to coordinate our schedules.

Chamonix, a spectacular mountain town situated in the French Alps, was our first stop. We opted for an inexpensive lodge apartment, complete with a tiny kitchen and just enough beds for the gang. We arrived at night, fully unaware of just how phenomenal the views during daylight would be. Waking up was (almost) better than Christmas morning! I have seen mountains before, but never on a scale like these. The difference is that the Alps are much more steep and jagged. I got up early so that I could relax with sugary cereal on the porch with The Kite Runner.

We decided to take a little red railcar up the side of the peak to catch a panoramic view of the Alps. We were disheartened to discover that the car merely took us to a scenic viewpoint. We got lucky when Katie, Catie, and Valerie began to venture down this little path, expanding the scope of our mountainous endeavors. After taking a few “band” pics, we stumbled upon a steep ladder stretching across the rock face toward a glacier in the canyon. This vertiginous drop to the chasm below was enough to make anyone a bit tense. I, for one, was not going to let this window of opportunity escape us. After a series of surmounting ladders, footholds, and ropes with my petrified friends, we landed on a massive ice formation. The glacier was enormous in comparison to how it looked from above. Ben threw a rock down a glacial cavity, and we didn’t hear the rock hit the water for 5 seconds. We took turns eyeing the hole while the boys held on to us so as not to slip. We hiked on the gelid glacier, took pictures, and tried to be veerryy careful.

We somehow all made it out alive, although the ascent was must scarier than the original descent. We celebrated the physically demanding day with a pasta dinner and card games at our apartment.

Geneva was an entirely different story than Chamonix. We walked the city, ate Swiss chocolate, and visited some cool sights. We got to see the United Nations headquarters in the Palace of Nations and tour the Red Cross Museum. The Red Cross Museum psyched me up that I added my International Business major. I would love to work with a worldwide nonprofit like this. We learned some interesting facts about Red Cross aid throughout the world wars. Because of legal issues, the Red Cross had a difficult time helping those in concentration camps during the second world war. Apparently, the Nazis allowed Red Cross aid in the camps as long as the volunteers never left. Apparently 10 individuals signed on to spend the rest of their lives in concentration camps providing medical care to those that suffered. Talk about a reality check!

That evening we went ice skating at a Christmas-lit rink in the middle of a funky park. The Parc des Bastions had life-size chess boards and held the Reformation Monument. The Monument was a giant wall that was 325 feet long and 30 feet high, composed of 15 foot tall statues of John Calvin, Guillaume Farel, Theodore Beza, and John Knox. The setting of our ice skating activity was engaging, to say the least.

We topped off our evening with tasty pizza and (free!) bread at a restaurant near our hotel. The next morning was rainy, but we suited up and went for a walk anyway. Geneva certainly has character… we saw the flower clock, admired the fake parachuters stuck in the trees, took pictures of the standing mirrors and tree-free-hugs box, and walked along the Rhone River. Our trip came to a close after walking around a beautiful green park and playing on a tire swing in a jungle gym on the Rhone.

Recently I ascertained that I have far too many stories that have gone untold. The following is my attempt to mend this dismal state of affairs…

1) Story of the naked Madrid men:

Midnight on a Thursday night. I am on the metro, alone. Don’t worry Mom, plenty of people are out at this time in Madrid. Call it equivalent to 8pm in the United States; restaurants are still open, and children are out. I am on my way to the airport to meet up with Tori and Alex for our airport sleepover before our early morning flight to the Canary Islands. I am at the far end of a metro car sitting next to a teenager with thick eyeliner and black nail polish. Suddenly, a horde of a dozen dressed up Spanish guys board the car. It is explicit that they are going out for the night, wearing polos, jeans, and loafers. They are loud and are (suspiciously) unbuckling their belts. I try to not make eye contact, secretly wishing I had a book to stare at rather than my empty lap. My covert attempts to check them out while acting unobservant didn’t seem to be working. They walk toward me. I panic, wondering if I am about to undergo the brunt of a disconcerting “scene.” I’ve rested my left arm on the pole, leaning my forehead against it in a way that covers the top of my face as I continue to glare at my lap. I hear, “Proximo estaccion, cuatro caminos.” Phew. The manflock moves toward the metro doors. I see the unassuming victims on the other side: two make-upped girls chatting in low voices. As the doors open, the manflock forms a “soccer game tunnel,” hooting and shouting with their pants pulled all. the. way. down. The girls blushed and sheepishly walked through the humiliating tunnel to their seats.

It was a train wreck. I tried not too look but couldn’t help it. It was so ridiculous that even the Gothic girl next to me cracked a smile. The metro bystanders spent the next 5 minutes sharing shocked expressions and suppressed laughter. If I can a nickel for every time I witnessed the indecent public exposure of 12+ Spanish men…

2) Story of the fake money:

I was at a grocery store in Tenerife with Tori buying dinner supplies for the night. Tori held the cash that Alex and I owed her for the apartment. The employee takes Tori’s 20 euro bill and does a customary marker check. She makes a face and calls over her fellow worker. The employees chatter hurriedly in indecipherable Spanish while scratching, prodding, and examining the bill. The lady apologetically hands back the bill; it is an apparent fake. I am fascinated at this development; it reminded me of Leo DiCaprio’s forgeries in the movie “Catch Me If You Can.” Being a typical college student, she is distraught and offended at the notion that she was given a phony bill and is out 20. The bill was 3/4 the size of a regular one, the marker wrote black on its face, it was missing a certain sheen, and a box in the left corner was drawn in blue pen. Evidently fake cash in Spain is a pretty common occurrence. Either Alex or I was dealt this bill, because her cash that weekend came from us. She ended up wadding it up and using it at a bar later that night.

3) Story of the singing Polish man:

It is 10:45 on a Tuesday  night, and I am doing the food rounds with my fellow Bokatas volunteers. We walk a specific route every week in order to develop relationships with the homeless in the area. Our last stop is the Polish man, Borshvek, who sleeps on a bench in a sleeping bag. He is exceptionally friendly tonight, trying his hand at broken Spanish with us. I fully appreciate the slow pace of Spanish conversation. This evening, he must have subconsciously accepted responsibility for our comprehension and understanding of the Polish language. He teaches us the words for direction, color, appearance, and everything else you can think of. Polish overload. It was endearing.

4) Story of the loud Irish:

It is the first full day of my Irish vacation, and we are on a train to Killarney, a quaint town in the Irish countryside. Catie and I are equipped with homework to pass the time. A few minutes into our study efforts, we realize that we may be unable to focus like we intended. Behind us is a group of 5 adults, some old and some middle aged. They are already causing a ruckus, belting Irish jokes in their spirited accents and laughing heartily. Never have I seen a crowd this old have so much fun in the middle of the day. The echos of their laughs reverberated through the entirety of the train car. The noise level was enough to put Spanish soccer fans to shame. Catie and I are impressed, then annoyed. The Irish are so lovable.

I have just returned from a weekend in Morocco… exhausted, educated, saddened, and inspired. There is no way that I can possibly put into a that little box of words that we call the English language the encounter that I had with Morocco, but here goes…

We met at the curb in front of the university (where the smoker’s always hang) at 10pm on Wednesday night, fully equipped for the 10 hour overnight bus ride with our comfy clothes and home-made dinners packed by our host mom’s. I had two pieces of white bread encompassing what looked like three slabs of cheap cheese. Oh, the joys of being a vegetarian in Spain! Enthusiastic about a potentially “enriching” weekend, I brought my latest nonfiction book (Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder) as my entertainment and left the textbooks at home. In the middle of the night, we were awakened to a 45 minute stop at this random rest stop. They had a popcorn machine that played creepy songs as you waited for your corn to pop. You can imagine how amusing this was for us at 3 in the morning. I didn’t get any popcorn, but I stood by the machine so that I could laugh with whoever in our group decided they wanted some. Good judgement call on my part. I got somewhere between 3-5 good laughs from this gaudy singing contraption.

We took a ferry from Algeciras, Spain to Tangier, Morocco. Arrival in Tangier involved port men hassling us to get tours with them and security guards yelling at me to turn off my camera. We hopped on the bus for a short ride to DARNA, a Women’s Center located in the heart of Tangier. Two volunteers gave us a tour of the facility and treated us to a picnic of mint tea and chocolate cake on the rooftop. (By the way, Moroccan mint tea is the best tea I have ever had. Kind of like southern sweet tea minus the lemony taste plus mint leaves. To die for.) DARNA takes in women from unsafe social situations and gives them a stable environment to live and learn important career-building skills. We actually saw some women at work weaving blankets during our tour. The DARNA volunteers sat down with us to answer any and every question that we had regarding DARNA, gender roles in Morocco, Islam, stereotypes, and other thought-provoking topics. They were completely honest. It was a refreshing way to begin our adjustment into Moroccan culture.

We stopped at the eclectic city of Asilah on our way to Rabat. It is an old white-washed city situated on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. Asilah is known for it’s street artists who graffiti colorful murals across the walls of the town. Not far from this city, we stopped at a beach and rode camels… that was a highlight to say the least.

Before arriving in Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, our tour guide Alicia gave us handouts on speaking Arabic so that we could impress our host families. Here is what I learned:

“Hello”- Salem Uuualikam. (response) Walikam salem.

“Bye”- B’slama

“Thank you”- Shukurum

“How are you?”- Le pas. (response) Le pas.  —->tough one.

“Eat”- Kool

“Enough”- Suffi/ Baraka. (We used this often when our host mother demanded that we keep stuffing ourselves with insane amounts of couscous.)

Alicia handed out background material like this and informed us of current events throughout the weekend. It made the trip much more educational. For example, before we saw one of Rabat’s shanty towns, she distributed an article on poverty in Morocco; and before we crossed the Morocco/Spain border, she briefed us on the current battles concerning illegal immigration. The information was beneficial, but we  forgot all of our Arabic when we showed up at our host house the first night. We were a bit apprehensive.

Our nerves were calmed immediately. Moroccan people are some of the most hospitable and generous people I have ever met. We stayed in the host family’s cool house (with sparkly walls, Moroccan looking pillows, and funky tassles) and were served interminable amounts of delish Moroccan food. They had the cutest little two year old girl who ran around the house and was clearly the diva of the family. We caught the younger sons watching American movies with Arabic subtitles, facebooking, and youtubing Micheal Jackson videos. It felt like home (ha.)

Our family was also hosting a student from Pittsburgh that semester. He gladly showed us around the old Medina that night and bought us toasted chickpeas (yum.) He gave us a run-down of his life there, and we were aghast at what a different study abroad experience he was having.

We woke up Saturday morning to the call of prayer. It was surreal. Breakfast consisted of bread in any and every form you can think of- fried bread, corn bread, baguette, shortbread cookies- with jam and more mint tea. I thoroughly enjoyed it. We toured some old Roman ruins (they are EVERYWHERE) and the main mosque. We visited a nearby university for a facilitated discussion with a Moroccan professor and student about education and stereotypes. Their English was impeccable. Reality check, America: it is a minimum in Morocco to know three languages. Arabic, French, and English/Spanish usually. Many people know more than that. Traveling abroad this semester has made me increasingly aware of how far behind we are in the States in promoting bi/tri lingual education.

The evening consisted of walking the medina, drinking tea with Moroccan friends (we are “facebook official” now,) and experiencing the Hamaam (aka public baths.) The hamaam was bizarre. Women sat nude in a steamy room with black exfoliating gloves and big buckets and small children. There were three spigots: hot, cold and warm water. Two Moroccan women showed us the techniques to sufficiently exfoliate using our gloves and brown, honey-like soap. I watched layers of dead skin glide toward the drain, secretly hoping I wouldn’t catch some sort of infectious disease from the (seemingly) unsanitary conditions.

We set off early Sunday morning to see rural Morocco. The bus ride was long. I read my book and watched as we passed overcrowded trucks full of men, young boys with ramshackle tools in deserted fields, barefooted children seesawing on logs and cement slabs. I began to notice a pattern as we drove through main streets of smaller towns. There were throngs of men out and about… and not a single woman to be seen. I covered up when we stopped at a restaurant for lunch.

I heard my stomach growling as we approached the remote village tucked away in the Rif Mountains where we were welcomed into the home of a Muslim family. We sat on the mat-covered dirt floor and talked to the family with the help of our translator, Jaouad. Jaouad grew up in the village, went to a university, and now has left his village permanently with the prospect of getting his PhD. He is the brother of Ibiza, one of the women we spoke with there. We asked them about their daily routine, passions, goals. The men answered quickly. We began to ask questions directed only to the women. The men still answered. Jaouad stated in English, “Ibiza, I want to hear from you. But you live in this patriarchal society, and it makes things difficult. But please speak, my sister.” His statement was a bold one, and only we Americans could understand it.

The mood was lightened when Jaouad pulled out drums and a guitar, ready for some traditional Moroccan singing. The entire family put on a performance for us; the little boys were drumming and grandma was even singing! Alicia taught us a Moroccan dance, which consisted of small bouncing with strange, repetitive arm movements. We laughed.

Our final stop was Chefchaouen, a trendier city nestled in a mountain valley. Chefchaouen is known for it’s blue-washed walls and charming old medina. We shopped, ate, hiked, and talked on the roof of our hostel. It was a suitable ending to the edifying weekend.

Alicia left us with this quote:

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs,

ask yourself what makes you come alive,

and then go do that.

Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

Harold Thurman Whitman

Tenerife wins the award for best “vaca” weekend yet. I left the Canary Islands relaxed, tanned, and refreshed. The archipelago is located off the northwestern coast of mainland Africa, and the islands are considered a part of Spain. Tenerife is the most popular and populous of the islands with about one million inhabitants. It is a volcanic island that contains the third largest volcano in the world and highest peak in Spain, El Teide. The rocky beaches and volcanic terrain were the underlining elements of Tenerife’s unconventional beauty.

Ninety degree weather sanctioned long days playing in the waves, tanning, laughing at nude people, and reading. Nights consisted of drinking wine by the apartment pool, enjoying the beach sunset, and exploring the (tacky) nightlife of Tenerife’s downtown area. My friends and I managed to get a small studio apartment on the coast, so we were able to make ourselves dinner in our mini-kitchen every evening. The exception was the Halloween Chinese Buffet, of course. We stuffed our faces with delicious food before scoping out the bar scene. Apparently Europeans don’t quite get Halloween, because every person celebrating Halloween was decked out in unreasonably dreadful costumes. The whole funny-and-creative costume mentality of the states didn’t quite transfer here. Goblins, witches, vampires, bloody zombies, and various other disturbing people tried to lure us in to their bars. We stopped in one bar, walked along the beach, and finished off the night with ice cream cones from McDonalds. It was the strangest Halloween I have ever had.

Sunday turned into adventure day. We took a long, hot, winding, stop-and-go, two hour bus ride up to Mt. Teide National Park where I found out that I can get carsick (surprise!) The volcano was fabulous, and we took a cable car to the top of the peak. The 3,000-something foot elevation reminded me of Colorado peaks, and I relished the cold, crisp air and stunning views. Tori, Alex, and I hiked around the top of the volcano and explored the Mars-like red, craggy terrain. The weekend couldn’t have been better!

All of my friends and their friends were in town this weekend. Naturally, we decided that we should show them a good time, while simultaneously taking advantage of Madrid’s unbelievable nightlife that we often forget we have right at our fingertips.

Thursday night was the much-anticipated trip to Joy’s, a discoteca that is free if you get there early enough on Thursday nights. My friend used her charm to get us on the list, so we didn’t even have to wait in line! We walked into a fairly packed bar/dance floor with overplayed American tunes bumpin’ in the speakers. The venue was sweet, complete with a stage that hosted go-go dancers. We girls spent the majority of the night dodging creepers (as usual,) but we met a few interesting characters. I got caught by a refreshingly perky German guy with bright spikey hair, and I actually felt guilty when I gave him an incorrect phone number. He was the closest person to a cartoon character that I have come in contact with. We also met two guys from the States who were friends of a friend. I’m telling you, it is a small world. We stayed out until 4am (early night.)

I slept the morning away on Friday as I was mentally and physically preparing myself another night out. Our plan was to go to Kapital, a 7 floor discoteca that is located in the heart of Madrid. Our first stop was El Tigre, a bar famous for its phenomenal mojitos and tapas, and it did not disappoint. Best mojitos of my life (BMOML.) From there we walked a distance that seemed to take forever to arrive at Kapital just in time, that is, two in the morning. The next four hours (yes, we stayed out until the metro re-opened at 6 in the morning) were a blur of some of the most ridiculous discoteca experiences I have ever encountered. I have some epic stories.

So this leads me to Saturday night. I was planning on staying in until I discovered that my friends were in town and wanting to be exposed to Madrid nightlife. This was when my worn-out/sleepy-eyed self said yet again, “Bring it on, Madrid.” We revisited El Tigre and headed to Puerta del Sol. I wanted to introduce them to the excessively forward men of Madrid. Unfortunately, we were unable to get our “in” for Joys. We ended up sitting on a fountain in the center of Sol and chatting for a significant amount of time before heading to a friend’s hotel and attempting to do a little bar-hopping.

Santi stole my computer the other day, and he decided he would do a little blogging for me (in broken English, of course.) This sums up his perspective of our weekend (ha):

yesterday i visited a famous disco in madrid i meet a lot of spanish boys and they was more handsome than usa boys interesting… i need have a spanish boifrend. the nex day i visited other disco  capital that night was increible a lot of spanish boys say beatiful tings to catie  and me.