Barcelona has always been on my short-list of Spanish cities to visit. It is the second-largest city in Spain (wooo Madrid!), sits right on the Mediterranean Sea (which I had never seen before), and was the site of the 1992 Summer Olympics (Dream Team, represent!). Not to mention that the natives speak Catalan, a Romance language that is essentially a mixture of Spanish and French.

As the date of my trip approached, I started to lose my enthusiasm for visiting the city. I ended up booking a flight and lodgings by myself because my friends all had other plans. Not a huge deal, but also not ideal, especially given Barcelona’s reputation for pickpockets and its recent string of robberies. Some people I talked to were also turned off by how touristy the city is.

I vowed not to let those preconceptions hinder my enjoyment of the jewel of Cataluña.

For me, Barcelona lived up to its reputation — both the good and the bad.

Day 1: The tourist’s nightmare

That first day I decided to simply acquaint myself with the city while crossing a couple sights off my list along the way.

I sampled the old-world architecture in the Gothic quarter, careful not to get lost in the labyrinth of narrow streets that were once under the dominion of the Romans.

A side avenue off of Las Ramblas. Crazy-packed!

A few streets away, I stepped out of the medieval world and into the more modern Las Ramblas, the famous avenue that is constantly crammed with people. The wide median is littered with stands selling art, souvenirs, flowers and even pets like birds and turtles. Street performers were decked out in ridiculous get-ups. It was quite the sight to see, and I was careful to guard my wallet in that pickpocket’s paradise.

I’ve allowed myself one expensive meal in each city I’ve visited, just so I can pretend for a short while that I’m not a penny-pinching college student. I chose to escape that lifestyle on Las Ramblas.

Poor choice.

There were a number of restaurants with outdoor tables that advertised similar prices. After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, I inexplicably decided to order paella from “The Pita House.” I can only shake my head at myself for that choice because The Pita House just does not scream authentic Spanish food.

A Ronaldinho impersonator performs on Las Ramblas.

My next mistake was ordering sangria. Everyone around me had ordered a large glass of sangria for themselves. I figured I could do the same, and that it wouldn’t be too expensive. I was wrong. My jaw dropped when I got the bill — paella + two tapas = 10 euro. Sangria = 14.30 euro. Yikes. Their paella sucked, too.

I didn’t even have enough cash in my wallet to pay the bill. Thankfully, the manager was super nice and said not to worry at all. I think I was only a couple euro short. I was angry because I felt that the waiter misled me and essentially lied about the sangria by omission, but I did not take the trouble to argue.

So I learned my lesson about ordering a drink without knowing its price.

I crawled shamefully back into my poor college student shell and vowed to eat at the myriad of cheap, fast food Turkish restaurants in the city for the rest of my stay, and to skip lunch when I could. It saved me a lot of money and gave me more time to see the city.

Although I had considered Madrid to be the hub of Picasso paintings, (the Reina Sofia museum holds his famous “Guernica,” after all), the most well-known Spanish painter is actually more associated with Barcelona, where he lived for much of his life. I toured the Picasso museum my first day, and I was quite impressed.

The temporary exhibit featured newly-discovered drawings from Picasso’s Japanese erotica phase. Picasso was one of the first to bring the sexually-explicit art to Europe.

This exhibit was…interesting. Most people, myself included, seemed to feel awkward looking at the erotica. Everyone struggled to balance the desire to enjoy the displays without seeming like you’re staring too hard at them. You didn’t want to be caught looking at any one drawing for too long, as if your eyes would be burned out or another museum patron would mentally wag his or her finger at your indulgence. (At least that’s how I felt. Maybe I was the only one.)

The permanent exhibit was where it’s at. Seeing the progression of paintings as the boy genius developed into the maestro we all know was quite impressive. I especially enjoyed his reinterpretation of Velazquez’s “Las Meninas.”

Continuing to culture myself, I attended a performance of Mozart’s Requiem at the Palau de la Música Catalana. I had heard about the concert before arriving in Madrid, and I was dead-set on going. The concert was held on Dec. 5 to coincide with the anniversary of the legendary composer’s death. I’m a huge Mozart fan, and hearing Requiem was especially intriguing to me because of its importance in the movie “Amadeus.”

The astounding architecture above the stage and audience.

The Palau is the perfect setting for the symphony. A portion of its ceiling is composed entirely of stained glass, and the walls are adorned with grandiose sculptures. The breathtaking architecture and atmosphere made the concert that much more enjoyable. I got chills during “Lacrimosa,” which the orchestra performed again as an encore.

At this point you’re probably wondering, “What’s so nightmarish about this day?” Well, the sangria debacle, for one. The other, more upsetting episode happened late that night, while I was heading back to the hostel with some American friends I had just made.

A man approached me on the sidewalk and gave me a lingering high five. I thought it a little odd. Then he started acting really funny, and I thought I felt something brush against my pocket. I checked, and I still had my phone. I confronted him about the alleged trespass, and he got defensive. I thought nothing of it, and we parted ways.

Upon returning to the hostel, I realized he had swiped the little cardholder that contained my hostel key and my Barcelona tourism card. Replacing the hostel key cost 10 euro. I had paid 40 euro for the tourism card, which gives you free public transportation and a ton of discounts around the city, and I only got to use it for one day. The situation could have been much worse, but I still felt angry and jaded. The guy had done it all with a friendly smile. At least he will have had no use for his spoils.

I went to bed sick to my stomach at the thought of how much money I had blown and lost during the day. A little voice in the back of my head was questioning if I had bitten off more than I could chew with five days alone in Barcelona.

I decided to buck up. I promised myself I would spend more frugally and also carry my wallet, phone and camera in my buttoned front jacket pocket throughout the rest of my time in the city. Tomorrow was another day.

Day 2: The tourist strikes back

My second day in Barcelona was borderline perfect, and it restored confidence in my choice to vacation there.

I hung out some more with my new American acquaintances before they had to travel back to their study abroad homes near Marseille. We took advantage of the day of free admission to city museums by exploring the underground foundations of several buildings from the Roman period.

After parting ways with the American students, I hoofed it across town and up a huge hill to visit Parc Montjuic, site of the 1992 Summer Olympic games.

The plaza on top of the hill was another breathtaking sight that I’ll not soon forget.

The Olympic plaza high on a hill overlooking western Barcelona.

Near the plaza was the Olympic stadium. I was a little bummed that it was closed that day, but I figure I’ve seen big stadiums before, so I wasn’t missing too much.

More intriguing was the adjacent arena, whose doors opened up just as I arrived.

I was a little confused to see the venue packed with spectators. It soon became clear that a sporting event had just ended, and that a trophy presentation ceremony was set to begin.

Let the confetti rain down and "We Are The Champions" blare through the speakers.

After surveying my surroundings, it wasn’t hard to figure out that tennis’ Davis Cup championship had just ended. The international tournament pits teams of the best of the best from each participating country against each other. Spain’s super group had just defeated the Czech Republic to claim the prize.

There's the big guy smiling on screen!

If you know anything about tennis, you know that Spain’s Rafael Nadal has been one of the top two players, if not the best, in the world in recent years.

Yep, he was there that day. How random and lucky was that? In my nearly four months in Spain, I’ve now seen the country’s two most famous and important athletes of the past decade: Pau Gasol and Rafa Nadal. Heck yeah!

Other highlights of the park included an art museum dedicated to works by the famous Catalonian painter, Joan Miró, a quick tour of the ethnological museum, and the silent magic of the Greek-style theater.

The only time I'll stand on stage in a Greek theater and look out into the audience.

I enjoyed the view from the Olympic plaza so much that I decided to climb back up to catch the sunset. It was well worth the subsequent soreness in my feet.

A definite "wow" moment

I returned to the hostel feeling immensely content with how I had spent my day. Even more fun awaited me when I got there.

I had planned on just taking it easy and going to bed early since my feet hurt so badly, but I made new friends in my hostel room that night, two Germans backpacking their way across Spain. Timo and Katharina offered me a plate of pasta they were making, and we hit it off.

Their English is very good, and I enjoyed just talking with them about everything from Rammstein to the economic crisis, pogs to 9/11. They were just as interested in learning about American life as I was intrigued with their lifestyle.

Later on, they invited me to join them at a jazz club. Katharina and I got to talking and realized we are both percussionists. We spent the night critiquing the different drummers, and the three of us had a blast at the concert. As soon as Katharina started falling asleep at the table, we knew it was time to call it a night.

Day 3: The tourist and “Tim Burton”

Monday was my Antoni Gaudí day. The famous, (or infamous, depending on your tastes), architect’s buildings have become the face of Barcelona in the 20th and 21st centuries. His style is unparalleled, easily creating the most unique architecture I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Timo, Katharina and I walked to two of Gaudí’s houses as well as his masterpiece — la Sagrada Familia. My new friends were on a tight schedule because they were heading back to Germany that day. I thought we might have to say goodbye prematurely since I wanted to tour one of Gaudí’s houses, but the ridiculous entrance fee saw to it that we could move along pretty quickly.

The inside looked even cooler, but I'll just have to look at pictures instead.

It is obvious that Barcelona is proud of Gaudí and chooses to flaunt its champion of architecture. It’s also painfully obvious that city leaders know how to exploit his fame. They gouge tourists by charging nearly 17 euro to enter one of Gaudí’s designed houses, with a student discount only lowering my admission fee to 13.50 euro. Thanks, but no thanks.

Gaudí’s style immediately made me feel like I had walked into a Tim Burton movie, somewhere along the lines of “Beetlejuice” or his forthcoming “Alice in Wonderland” reinterpretation. The distorted shapes of columns, the neo-Gothic influences and the liberal use of color in some designs gave the eyes plenty to feast on, and took me into a dream world that I had previously only seen on the silver screen.

La Sagrada Familia is the most well-known work (in progress) of Gaudí, for better or for worse. You either love it or you hate it, and I loved it.

La Sagrada Familia and all its massiveness.

Timo and Katharina spared a few minutes to look in awe at the huge cathedral before catching a subway train to begin their journey home. I decided to brave the long line and pony up the cash to sneak a peek inside the church.

The half-hour wait and 9 euro entrance fee were almost not worth it just to see the inside. The cathedral has been under construction since 1882 because Gaudí insisted that it was solely a work for the people and by the people, and thus should only be paid through public donations. Very noble, but personally I think he should’ve just begged the government to help him out so the project would take maybe, oh, 20 to 50 years, not 150.

I believe the word you're looking for is "wow"

My point being this: it was cool to see the unique columns and the beautiful stained glass windows inside, but the entire center of the church was taken up by scaffolds, buckets of paint, construction materials, workers, etc. Sort of ruins the atmosphere.

Under construction for 127 years

Nevertheless, I decided my money had not gone to waste after I passed through the museum in the crypt of the cathedral. I learned a lot of cool history, most of which left me thinking that Barcelona should be thankful the project has gone this far down the road to completion.

Turns out Gaudí died a very premature death. Being the free spirit that he was, he moved to a small house on the outskirts of the city center. He lived a hermit’s existence there for several years, growing a beard in the process.

One day in 1926, on his way to the project site, he was tragically struck by a streetcar. Due to the famous architect’s scraggly appearance and reclusive nature, the bystanders failed to recognize him and believed him to be a homeless man. The rumor (perhaps now legend?) says that Gaudí was taken to a hospital for the poor and homeless, and a couple of days passed before his friends and family found him. When it was suggested Gaudí be taken to a better hospital, he refused, saying that these were his people and here is where he would die. And so he did.

I saw Gaudí’s house and several nearby buildings and plazas he designed. The area is now a public park.

After more hiking around the city, I headed back to the hostel to relax before grabbing a cheap dinner at the Irish pub affiliated with the hostel. I was talked into staying and playing a pop culture trivia game, and it didn’t take much convincing.

Our team, “Shaved Kebab,” was composed of two Australian girls, a French girl and myself. We made a pretty good team, with everyone knowing something different. (I still can’t believe one of the Australian girls knew that the pop group “Aqua” was from Denmark. But hey, I knew that Orson Welles starred in Citizen Kane. I pulled that one out of nowhere.) Our perfect second round wasn’t enough to overcome our poor first round, so we did not win the prize. We did however get free drinks for having the best (or weirdest?) team name.

Day 4: The tourist who saw too much (at the beach)

As crazy as it is for a Midwesterner to be saying this in December, Tuesday was a perfect beach day: around 65 degrees Fahrenheit with hardly a cloud in the sky. I proceeded to explore the marina and later the shoreline, walking barefoot along the water. It was heavenly.

Beach day!

Except for the naked men. Barcelona’s beach is not a designated nude beach, but it’s obviously legal. To make matters worse, the five to ten unabashedly disrobed people I saw were middle-aged men with grey hair, pot bellies and floppy, uh…skin. But seriously, I unwillingly saw more phalluses in one hour than any self-respecting heterosexual male should see in an entire lifetime.

Muskegon could learn a thing or two from Barcelona’s coast. Not only does Barcelona have a beautiful beach on an important body of water, but it also has the business offices, quality restaurants, and abundance of shopping outlets that make it a thriving and successful area. City officials even had a mini-city built out in the bay, complete with a mall, aquarium and IMAX theater.

The bridge to tourist city.

To be fair, Barcelona has some major advantages over Muskegon. It’s got a running head start in terms of history, culture, population and location. It also has hosted the Olympics, which pumped tons of money into the city and spurred even more growth. But, I’m also told that Barcelona imported the sand for its beach. Fake beach, what?! Score one for Muskegon.

Another highlight of my second-to-last day in Barcelona was eating at a restaurant that serves traditional food of the Basque country and Navarra. The atmosphere in that restaurant was great, with old paintings on the wall and other little touches that made it feel quite old-world. I asked the bartender to recommend a tapa for me, and I ended up eating a dish of sausage and garbanzo beans served with a gravy-like sauce. Delicious!

That night I decided to eat dinner at the Travel Bar again, and I ran into my “shaved kebab” friends. The measly plate of curry was not enough to fill our stomachs, so we decided to eat — you guessed it — some doner kebabs. The Turkish equivalent of a Greek gyro is absolutely delicious, what with its shaved lamb meat, and is so cheap it’s almost a steal.

I headed back to the hostel to watch the second half of Real Madrid’s win over Marseille in the European Champions League on a high-definition television set in the basement. Afterwards, I watched the comedy “Super Troopers” dubbed in Spanish. They even translated “shenanigans,” but the Spanish equivalent escapes me. Still very funny though.

Day 5: The tourist twiddles his thumbs

Having already checked everything off my list of things to see and do (minus the activities deemed too expensive),  Wednesday served as a day to just wander the city and enjoy having absolutely nothing that I had to get done. The trouble with that is I’m no good without a plan and something to do.

I went back to the beach and enjoyed the sun for quite awhile, (keeping my distance from the sunbathers, of course). I wandered around the marina area again, exploring a sailboat put on display by the maritime museum.

Aboard the sailboat

Later, I decided to grab a snack at a traditional Catalan restaurant to see what their cuisine is all about. I was told their most prominent dish is a special type of sausage. I didn’t try that, but I did have one of their more common tapas. They eat snacks on a type of thick bread called “coca,” which tastes a little like the thick crust of a pizza. On top of that, I had pork loin with cheese melted over it. That was quite satisfying, and at that point I felt that I had done a good job of sampling the unique food of the Basque country and Catalonia without dropping a bunch of cash.

After my lunch, I continued to wander the city and explore new territory. I didn’t find a whole lot more except for some cool graffiti and the remains of the ancient wall that encapsulated the city when it was ruled by the Romans.

I headed back to the hostel to pick up my bag and kill some time before traveling to the airport. I suppose I could have enjoyed the city more, but it was a little chilly, my feet hurt and I was ready to leave Barcelona.

I got to the airport way too early and was afraid I would be incredibly bored since Lord knows I did not want to do the homework that I had brought with me on the trip. Luckily, I was pleasantly surprised by Ellen, another girl in the Marquette program. She had spent the week in Prague and was catching a connecting flight to Madrid. We dined at McDonald’s and had some fun conversations while passing the time until our delayed flight was ready to take off.

Thus, I returned to Madrid feeling satisfied with my vacation in Barcelona, but glad to be back in more comfortable surroundings.

The tourist’s conclusion

My time in Barcelona got me thinking about how it compares to Madrid, its rival city and, in some circles, its archenemy. Since I’ve lived in Madrid for a short time and only spent a few days in Barcelona, I cannot fully speak to the comparisons politically and socially. However, I now feel like a seasoned tourist of both cities.

In my opinion, Barcelona has a lot more exciting sights to offer its visitors. It has more high-quality museums than Madrid, it has more stunning architecture, it has a beach, it has the Olympic venues and it just has a certain flair that Madrid lacks at times.

On the other hand, Barcelona’s city center feels too touristy, and the high prices are very reflective of that. Madrid has its tourist hotspots, but the majority of the city feels more down to earth; Barcelona was great, but I felt like I was walking through a dream world.

In the end, I’m very glad that I went to Barcelona, and I’ll take the nightmarish aspects along with the dreamlike features. But it felt good to be back in Madrid, and I’m proud to be able to call this great city my temporary home.

Anyone who thinks that la Alhambra is the only sight worth seeing in Granada is wrong.

When I started planning my trips around Spain, everyone — both the natives and the knowledgeable — told me that Granada is a beautiful city in Andalucía, the famous southern sector that also includes Sevilla. Most also told me that all I really needed was one day in the city to see la Alhambra, the famous expansive palace that housed centuries of Muslim caliphs and, later, Catholic kings.

I disagree with that sentiment. When I traveled to Granada with two other Marquette students over the weekend, we found a small treasure tucked into the mountainside. Granada is a city bursting with diverse culture, beautiful architecture, breathtaking scenery, great flamenco music, delicious food, Gypsies living in caves, and — of course — la Alhambra.

Liz, Rachel and I took an early bus out of Madrid Saturday morning, arriving in Granada in the early afternoon. We decided to just meander around the city center.

We did the obligatory tour of the city cathedral. Don’t get me wrong, it was enjoyable, but churches have become old hat at this point.

The cathedral had a pair of really cool pipe organs!

We then proceeded to shop, (I’m cringing as I type this), until dinner time. For once, I actually had an item of clothing in mind that I wanted to buy. Ever since I got to Europe, I’ve been craving a cool European jacket. All the Spanish guys wear similar dark-colored coats with lots of pockets. I can’t pull off leather, but I think I could rock this style.

After a few hours of looking, we failed to come across the perfect jacket for less than 80 euro. So that plan was out.

Liz, Rachel and I ate cuscus and drank Pakistani tea in a Moroccan restaurant that night.

As is usually the case when one goes shopping, I found something unexpected that I really liked. I’m the complete opposite of an impulse-buyer, but how could I turn down a cool jacket for 10 euro? It screams European, it’s a new look for me, and it’s reversible. Sold.

Eventually, the growling of our stomachs overtook the urge to continue searching the stores for my dream jacket.

We ate in a really quaint Moroccan restaurant. Each of us ordered cuscus with chicken, and Rachel and I also tried Pakistani tea. The food was delicious, and I’ve decided that Americans don’t know how to do tea because the Pakistani tea was heavenly.

Later that night, we crammed into a flamenco bar. We felt cool and completely un-touristy because we were the only non-natives in the place.

I love flamenco. It has the simplicity of American blues mixed with the spontaneity of jazz, but I am thoroughly convinced that the average American would completely eff up a flamenco concert.

As you may know, flamenco usually involves women dancing while someone plays acoustic guitar and sings. It always incorporates clapping, but on the off-beats. Since the crowds at every American concert I’ve ever attended epically failed to clap along with a straight 4/4 beat, I’m positive they would cause a train wreck at a flamenco show.

I felt like I got a taste of real flamenco culture at our show. There was a young Spanish guy playing guitar while seated. On the other side of the stage, a woman clapped the accents while occasionally dancing to the music.

Seated in the middle of the stage was this 80-year-old singer. He would scat a lot, using the vibrating voice that characterizes flamenco. He also hopped off his chair to belt out particularly powerful moments in the song, at which point everyone in the crowd would go nuts. I hope I’m that passionate about music at his age.

We soon grew tired of standing in the packed little bar, so we searched for a new hangout spot. It makes me cringe again to say that we settled on an Irish pub. In our defense, it had the television tuned to Spanish premier league soccer while blasting a kick-ass rock playlist through the speakers.

We three were the last to return to our hostel room, which also served as the temporary abode of three other travelers. Now is a good time to explain the part of this article’s title that probably made everyone go, “Wait…what?!” Rachel, Liz and I did not actually encounter corpses in the sense of cold, motionless cadavers.

However, one of our roommates seemingly lived in his bed that weekend. He was fast asleep when we arrived in the afternoon, he was out like a light when we got back late that night, and the cycle repeated itself the next day. There were only a couple of times that we saw his bed empty. Thus, Rachel dubbed him, “The Corpse.”

We met The Corpse the second night. He seemed like a pretty friendly Australian. The ten-second conversation we had was the only time we ever saw him “alive.”

The second day we tackled the big kahuna: la Alhambra. Our tickets weren’t good until 2 p.m., so we scaled the city’s hill to explore the famous Albayzín neighborhood. It was a chore to navigate the labyrinth of narrow streets, especially while walking uphill. There was a major payoff.

Me standing at the mirador de San Nicolas, with la Alhambra laid out in the background.

The view from el Mirador de San Nicolas was spectacular. From it one can see all of Granada spread out below, and la Alhambra stands directly across, on the adjacent hill.

The neighborhood also is home to many native Spaniards and immigrants alike, mostly Moroccans. I was digging the diversity.

We ate tapas along the river, surrounded by medieval Granada on one side and the impressive Alhambra on the other. Afterwards, we put our walking shoes back on to climb the other hill to la Alhambra.

La Alhambra did not disappoint. In 2007, it was in the running for the title of one of the “new” seven wonders of the world. The controversial poll, in which people could vote online an unlimited amount of times, yielded these results:

• The Great Wall of China
• Petra in Jordan
• Brazil’s statue of Christ the Redeemer
• Peru’s Machu Picchu
• Mexico’s Chichen Itza pyramid
• The Colosseum in Rome
• India’s Taj Mahal

I can’t argue with any of those choices, but I still think la Alhambra is worthy of the list. Like I said, it was built by Muslim caliphs, who ruled Spain from the eighth through the 15th centuries. Granada was the last bastion of Moorish rule to fall to the Catholic kings, peacefully turning it over to Isabel de Castilla in 1492. Isabel was living in the palace when Christopher Columbus delivered the earth-shattering news that he had discovered a New World. Isabel is now buried on the site.

La Alhambra

In addition to the rich history, the palace/castle has some of the most stunning architecture I’ve ever seen. I believe the Moors were the best thing to ever happen to Spanish culture, and la Alhambra gives strong credence to that argument. It is filled with colorful tile patterns, beautiful Arabic phrases carved into clay and wood, intimidating towers, luscious patio gardens, and unique ceilings.

Moorish decor

El patio de los Arrayanes. Love the reflection. (Copied this photo idea from a tourist guidebook.)

This ceiling never ceases to "wow" me.

Perhaps the best “wow” moment of la Alhambra was looking out on Granada from the highest tower of the castle, Torre de la Vela. It’s hard not to feel like you’re on top of the world.

View from the tallest tower of la Alhambra.

Having accomplished our main goal for the weekend, everything afterwards was just gravy.

That night, we decided to go on the hostel’s tapas tour to be social while having a night on the town. We went to three different tapas bars, and I had a blast talking with guys from Australia, Mexico City and Cleveland. The food was pretty good, too. I even tried blood sausage! (Never again. I ate one bite, and it tasted kinda like jerky. Problem was, I couldn’t eat it while knowing what it was. Too gross.)

The next morning, we rousted ourselves out of bed to hop on the hostel walking tour of the Albayzín neighborhood. Even though we’d already seen it, it was worth hiking up the hill again just to hear the guide’s commentary.

Our guide was a Brit who has lived in Granada for a number of years. He was hilarious, making us do a silly hokey-pokey thing at the beginning of the tour to loosen us up and telling us pretty witty jokes.

He was also a gold mine of interesting and useful tidbits. For example, I learned a ton about the history of Granada and la Alhambra, including that gem about it being the site where Columbus delivered the news to Isabel. He told us that Granada, which is Spanish for pomegranate, was thus named because of the abundance of the fruit that was introduced to the area by the Moors. Interestingly, granada is also Spanish for grenade.

He also explained why medieval Spanish doorways have smaller openings within their large frames. It’s not because Spaniards are historically short; it’s actually because the short doorway forces one to duck his head upon entering, thereby making it easy to chop off an intruder’s head.

The guy even explained to me why residents of Ireland and the U.K. drive on the left, while most of Europe and America drive on the right. (For the sake of space, I’ll leave this explanation out. If you really want to know, feel free to leave a comment below.)

All too soon, it was time to catch the bus back to Madrid. I started to miss Granada as soon as we departed. Although the city is fairly small, it is so full of life. I fell in love with the culture, the history, and the scenery. I’ve decided that Granada is my second-favorite Spanish city, behind Sevilla. It’s not a coincidence that my top two are located in the southern community of Andalucía, which has the most visible, lasting fingerprints of Moorish culture.

Although I’m completely satisfied with my three-day trip to Granada, there were a few things that would’ve been fun to check out, like the Gypsy caves on top of the hill, the aqueducts that supply water to the fountains of la Alhambra, and the abandoned monastery hidden within the surrounding mountains.

Having been there myself, I know that Granada has much more to offer than just la Alhambra. I will passionately argue with anyone who thinks otherwise.

I was stoked when I found out last school year that one of my roommates, Alan, had plans to study abroad in Ireland at the same time that I would be taking classes in Spain. Although I wasn’t sure it would come to fruition, we vowed to visit each other.

Months later, we made our plans a reality. I visited Alan in Galway, on the western coast of Ireland, at the beginning of October. He took a puddle-jumper to the Iberian Peninsula a month later to visit me.

As our Marquette friends can attest, Alan and I are a study in contrasts. Alan is generally carefree, while I worry about everything. Alan likes to procrastinate, and I like to frantically plan things months in advance. (Case in point: I booked my plane ticket to Ireland a month ahead of time, whereas Alan booked his with only seven days to spare.) Alan likes to argue; I like to avoid confrontation. Perhaps the only thing we can completely agree on is that the Beatles are awesome. You get the picture.

Yet these differences, instead of making us want to throttle the other person, seem to balance us out. Alan has helped me chill out, and I like to think that I help light a fire under him when he needs it.

Now that you’ve got the background, I’d like to recount some highlights from our respective visits.

Looking back, the two trips had some interesting comparisons.

Food:

• Burger King in the Dublin airport vs. McDonald’s in the center of Madrid. (I must say I thoroughly enjoyed the Burger King more, and not just because it was my first taste of American fast food since arriving in Europe.)
• Authentic Irish breakfast vs. authentic Spanish tapas. (God bless Alan, he loved jámon serrano, a.k.a. Iberian ham, but his stomach hated him for it later.)

Lodgings:

• Alan’s apartment vs. a Madrid hostel. (I slept on Alan’s couch for free. Alan dropped a small amount of cash, but he got a bed, a bathroom and free Internet. Good deals all around.)

Sports:

• Galway United soccer game vs. Real Madrid soccer game. (Two very different atmospheres, but we saw our team win both times.)

Two buddies at the Galway F.C. soccer game.

Alan was lovin' the spectacle at the Real Madrid game.

Sight-seeing:

• The Cliffs of Moher vs. el Palacio Real. (I know Alan appreciated the Spanish architecture, but nothing really compares to the cliffs.)

 

Don't touch the edges unless you're that crazy girl from our tour.

 

Alan leans against a trash can in front of the palace.

Art:

• The mural of rock gods vs. Picasso’s “Guernica.” (No offense to Picasso, but I gotta go with the painting that depicts Elvis taking Adam’s place and nearly touching God’s finger. Come on, that’s awesome!)

The King with God.

Deceased legends

Living legends

Besides all the fun touristy stuff, the two of us spent a significant amount of time kicking back and shooting the breeze. Although we have both made friends in our respective foreign countries, the comfort and excitement of catching up with a close friend cannot be overstated.

Alan and I reflected a lot during those two weekends. We talked everything from relationships to how quickly college is flying by, from Brett Favre to the final season of “Lost.” Oh yeah, and the meaning of life. We covered it all.

But that was exactly what we needed. Although we’re living the dream in foreign countries, it’s surprising how quickly we each have settled into a routine. I think a flight to another foreign country to spend time with an old friend was just the shot in the arm we both needed.

My time spent with Alan in Europe also helped calm one of my fears about studying abroad. Change is inevitable even under normal circumstances, so it goes without saying that things will be different when Alan and I return to the States.

Nevertheless, hanging out with Alan on a different continent showed me that some things may change, but what’s important will stay the same. We’re still the easy-going Californian and the worrywart from Michigan. We’ve simply got new experiences and new perspectives of the world. That can only make for new and more complex conversations.

So when we return to Marquette and to our respective homes, I’m not worried about what will be different. There will be an adjustment period, but then we’ll settle back into life in America. Things may not feel exactly the same as before, but that’s part of life and part of studying abroad. Our friends will have evolved, just as we have.

All we can do is hang on and enjoy the ride.

The opportunity to travel internationally is quite a rarity and luxury these days. The fact that I had visited three foreign countries by age 18 makes me one ridiculously lucky guy. (Okay, I realize my trip to Canada won’t turn any heads, but at least give me props for Mexico and Spain.)

In fact, my childhood trip to Spain planted the seed for me to study there eight years later. When I was in seventh grade, my parents and I visited my uncle and his wife. They were living in the south of Spain, in the renowned region of Andalucía, because my uncle was stationed at the U.S. naval base in Rota.

One week in Spain was enough time for me to fall in love with the place, whetting my appetite for a return visit that I never really believed would happen. But, lucky for me, the opportunity presented itself, and here I am.

The reason I bring up that seventh grade vacation is because my parents and I visited Sevilla. I have only a handful of vivid memories from that day-trip. However, when I visited the city again last month with the Marquette program, I had the distinct feeling that I’d been to some of the places before.

Let me tell you, it was well worth seeing them again.

La Catedral de Sevilla is the third-largest cathedral in the world.

I’ve seen so many churches this semester that they all start to run together — except for the cathedral in Sevilla. The structure, like many of its Spanish counterparts, combines architectural styles from the Romans, the Muslims, the Gothic period, and others. What sets it apart is its sheer size. Pictures don’t really do it justice.

Possibly even more beautiful was el Alcázar, the royal palace that also incorporates a heavy dose of Muslim architecture and decor. I distinctly remember visiting the palace during my first stay in Sevilla, and I was excited to be able to form more memories of the place.

The inside of the royal palace was absolutely stunning.

Although the group only spent one night in Sevilla, there was still plenty of time for me to have distinct experiences in my second go-round in the city. Some of those experiences were embarrassing, like accidentally walking into a lesbian bar with some other Marquette kids. (That was actually fun and interesting, but we didn’t stay long.)

Other experiences were exhilarating, like attending my first Spanish premier league soccer game with my buddy, Dylan. The game between Sevilla and Espanyol Barcelona ended just like it started: 0-0. Despite the lame score, the game was really exciting, and the atmosphere of a professional European soccer game was as good as advertised.

This fan is ready!

Dylan and I only learned one part of the main Sevilla cheer, as in the first part of the cheer that goes, “Seviiiilla, Seviiiilla…” After that we would just mumble and clap along with everyone else.

Sevilla fans are really nice, though. The teenager sitting next to us shared his Doritos and his trail mix throughout the game. That was pretty rad.

I was just really impressed with how diehard the fans are. Obviously, many American sports fans bleed the colors of their favorite team, but it was still cool to see that same passion reflected in the screaming faces of the Sevilla fans.

Then there were the moments in Sevilla that made me think, “This is what it’s all about.”

Twilit view of the cathedral from the rooftop terrace of our hotel.

It doesn’t mesh well with my theme of revisiting Sevilla, but the tale of the Marquette group trip would not be complete without talking about Córdoba. We spent a grand total of two hours in the city, but it was still plenty of time to cross another item off my bucket list of things to see in Spain: la Mezquita de Córdoba.

The mosque is one of the largest of its kind in the world, with nearly 20 rows of Islamic-style arches. Christian architecture and decor was, of course, added on when the city was re-conquered.

The famous rows of arches.

Although we all felt rushed in Córdoba, and justifiably so, I don’t feel too cheated. Sevilla was definitely more impressive and more full of culture, so I’m glad that we spent the majority of the weekend in Sevilla.

Having said that, one night in Sevilla was not nearly enough. We ran out of time before we could tour the inside of the cathedral. I also would’ve liked to have spent more time around the river Guadalquivir, eaten at more tapas bars, and sat longer on the rooftop terrace just soaking everything up.

Oh well, I really cannot complain. How many 20-year-old Americans can say they’ve visited Andalucía twice in their lives? I most certainly do not take my experiences for granted.

About a month ago, my friend Nicki Thompson sent me a link to info about the celebration of la Fiesta del Pilar in the Spanish city of Zaragoza.

I’ve never taken part in a Spanish festival before, so I was intrigued. My excitement grew as I read that Zaragoza celebrates the religious holiday with free concerts, outdoor theater, dancing, tons of food and fireworks. The fact that it’s a national holiday, ergo a three-day weekend with plenty of time to travel, clinched it for me.

The Saturday morning before the festival (which took place on Monday, Oct. 12), I boarded a bus to Zaragoza with my friends Lauren, Liz and Jake. The nearly four-hour trip was made easier by the beautiful surrounding terrain and a trippy Denzel Washington movie, which I periodically watched, albeit on mute because I didn’t have headphones to hook into the feed. (Incidentally, I just IMDB’d that and found that the movie was “Deja Vu”).

Upon our arrival in Zaragoza, the foursome hoofed it from the bus station to our hostel, soaking up the warm weather and making a pitstop for tapas.

While Lauren took a recharging nap in the hostel, Liz, Jake and I acquainted ourselves with the city.

We encountered free entertainment, beautiful architecture, whacky fun and the just plain trippy:

This band of percussionists rocked the simple, but groovetastic method of drumming.

The basilica dedicated to la Señora del Pilar, whom the festival honors.

I got this!

This parade was so weird and interesting!

I felt like I got my money’s worth in that first afternoon, and that anything more was just gravy. So one can imagine how excited I was that I still had two days left in that thriving bastion of culture.

I have very few regrets from the weekend, but one of them occurred that first night. The official schedule said there would be fireworks at 9:15 p.m., but we weren’t sure because we asked a native and she said there wouldn’t be fireworks that night. Turns out she was wrong.

While stopping in a store near the central plaza, we heard the explosions of fireworks.We quickly left the store. We could hear the fireworks, but our view was blocked by the closely-knit buildings.

We booked it as fast as we could to the plaza, but our task was hindered by the mass of people standing between us and the perfect nightcap. In a disappointing twist of fate, we made it to the plaza mere seconds after the fireworks stopped. Oh well.

After sampling a free rock concert in the plaza, candied apples and hot dogs, we called it a night.

The guy pulled Lauren out of the crowd to dance Aragonese style.

The next day brought even more free cultural fun. The four of us viewed Francisco de Goya paintings in a museum, checked out the collection of local food and wares, and listened to a traditional Aragonese band. (Zaragoza is the capital of the region of Aragon).

Me in front of the palace. It had a bridge over what used to be a moat!

The highlight of Sunday afternoon was definitely the Aljaferia, a palace that once served as the home to Muslim caliphs and later to Catholic kings. It’s one of the last buildings of its kind left in Spain, outside of Andalusia.

I also love Islamic architecture

By late afternoon, our feet were aching and our stomachs were growling. We decided to utilize the hostel’s kitchen and fix an economical pasta dinner. Ingredients: noodles, pre-made spaghetti sauce, bread, grated parmesan cheese. Total cost of a dinner for four: 4.77 euro. Man, I love being a cheap college student.

After dinner, our night was just beginning. We took a city bus to Zaragoza’s version of German Oktoberfest, held at the local carnival/amusement park. We were disappointed to find that Oktoberfest was being celebrated in one big tent, outside of which stretched a ridiculously long line. It was about a two hour wait to get inside the tent, and I was in no mood to do that.

Around and around and around we go, on the ferris wheel

We decided to go on a few rides before we made a final decision about the beer tent. First, we went on the ferris wheel, which was one of the fastest and most exciting ferris wheel rides I’ve ever experienced. I decided to try to take some artsy photos, some of which turned out kind of cool.

A ride similar to the Sea Dragon at Michigan’s Adventure also caught my eye. It was basically a roller coaster that went forward and backward several times, up and down a sort of half-pipe track. Lauren isn’t a fan of coasters, but she stepped up her game and rode with us. It definitely made us all feel that pull in the pit of our stomachs, the feeling that you either love or hate. I love it.

We roller coastered like Egyptians

By about midnight, Liz and I were ready to head back to the hostel for shut-eye because we wanted to rise early for a mass on the official day of the festival. Lauren and Jake decided to wait in line to get into the Oktoberfest tent. No one had any regrets about their choice.

The church in the quiet darkness before the 6:30 a.m. mass

My alarm went off at 5 a.m., and I sat up and realized that Jake was still not back from Oktoberfest. Liz came down the hallway to meet me, and we walked downstairs to the hostel entrance just as Lauren and Jake stepped out of a cab. Lauren bid us goodnight, but Jake decided he wanted to go to mass.

In retrospect, Jake probably needed more sleep.  He almost nodded off and slid onto the woman sitting next to us.

Although he was posing here, this is a dead-on approximation of his state at mass

I give him props for going, though. Even though he was basically there in body, not in mind, he can still say he went.

After mass, the crux of the weekend commenced: la ofrenda floral. This is basically a huge procession of people from all over the country, decked out in traditional clothing, who bring flowers to the altar in the center of the Plaza del Pilar. It took all day to completely fill the offertory altar. Quite impressive.

La ofrenda floral at the beginning of the day...

Traditionally-garbed people bring flowers to the offertory altar

...the finished project

After watching the procession for awhile, the three of us headed back to the hostel to catch up on some sleep. By mid-afternoon, we were ready to check out of the hostel and have our last hurrah in the heart of the city. We lounged by the river, saw the inside of another cool church, grabbed a quick lunch, and listened to some more traditional music as dancers performed choreographed numbers while playing the castanets. It was another day filled with sights and sounds that I’ll never forget.

Choreographed dancing while playing the castanets. That's talent.

Three days is definitely not enough to truly soak in and understand a different culture, obviously, but we packed as much fun and cultural experiences into those three days as was humanly possible.

Zaragoza was a good life choice.

Me on a bridge over the Rio Ebro, behind the basilica.

When I started brainstorming for my blog post about moving in with my host family in Madrid, the saying “home is where you make it” popped into my head. I couldn’t remember where I last heard that phrase, so I Googled it. One of the main links that popped up was a YouTube clip from the movie “Joe Dirt.”

If you’re a fan of David Spade and stupid humor, you probably remember the scene where Joe Dirt finds his old house down South abandoned — another dead end in the search for his family. At that moment, a guy with an incredibly thick Louisiana accent comes up and gives Joe the sage advice that I used to title this post. Joe, who has a lion-sized heart and an acorn-sized brain, thought the man said he likes to “see homos naked.”

But I digress. I think in some ways I feel like Joe Dirt. I’m having a blast while making my way in a completely foreign place, trying out new things and learning even more about myself. At the same time, I miss my family and everyone I love back home. The challenge is to create a makeshift home for myself in these new surroundings until I return to my true home.

In that sense, I’m really thankful for the way Marquette’s program in Madrid is set up. The university finds families within the city who are willing to welcome American students into their homes, feeding them, helping them with homework, and providing them with the closest thing they’ll have to their own family for a few months.

We could be much worse off. Kids in other programs at the Universidad Complutense are forced to find an apartment in the city, without the help of their home university. They obviously have a higher level of independence than the Marquette kids, but I think they miss out on a cultural experience; and they don’t get the comfort of a “host mom” or “host dad.”

I got lucky with my assignment, even in comparison to some of my Marquette cohorts:

• I live in a huge, five-bedroom apartment complete with a kitchen, living room and two bathrooms.
• My host mom is an amazing cook. (She’s made everything from paella to egg rolls, fried chicken and french fries to lasagna.) My host dad is a free-lance journalist who loves to help American students with their homework.
• The family has every school supply I could ever need — most importantly a stapler, tape, and a printer.
• I have my own bedroom, complete with a desk, a rolling chair, a night stand and reading light, a dresser and shelf space.

Besides the host parents and their 19-year-old daughter, who is living at home while studying to become a nurse, there are two other American students living here. The girls, from California and Nevada, attend a different university in Madrid. Although I worried we would all get in each others’ ways, that hasn’t been an issue at all. We American students share one of the bathrooms, and the host parents even let us put groceries in the extra refrigerator.

So I clearly have all the amenities I could need. But supplies and appliances only make up the house. A cohesive group of people is needed to make a home.

I’ve struggled to make this place feel like home. Everyone’s schedules are so different that I really only talk to the other residents at dinner time. I’m also disappointed that we don’t all eat together. I eat with the other two American students, but the host family eats dinner later than us.

We’ve had some long, interesting discussions, but I don’t really feel like I’m getting to know the other members of the house.

My homesickness comes and goes, remaining dormant during the day when I’m busy with school or at night when I am having fun in the city with friends, but it is sometimes waiting for me in my room when I go to sleep at night and when I wake up in the morning. I fight it by listening to my favorite music, looking at pictures, and using the wonders of technology to communicate with people back home.

(It also doesn’t help that I’ve had to drastically cut back my food consumption. We pay the host family for breakfast and dinner. I have no complaints about dinner, but Spaniards don’t eat much breakfast, so we just get cereal and toast. I’m on my own for lunch. Being a poor college student who wants to blow his money on plane tickets and cool stuff, I buy a minimal amount of sandwich supplies. So I eat a small lunch everyday and have to ignore my growling stomach until dinnertime.)

I know I have excessively high expectations for my host family. I had hoped we would become really close, doing activities in the city together, maybe sitting down to watch television together after dinner, etc. I just haven’t felt that type of connection forming yet. Maybe it will; I’ve still got time. And maybe it won’t. That might not be such a bad thing.

The fact that this place doesn’t quite feel like home, and that I miss my homes in Muskegon and at Marquette, gives me perspective. It allows me to enjoy the hell out of Madrid and the rest of Europe while I’m here, then head back to my true home and really appreciate it.

I’ll be able to sleep soundly knowing that I can create a fulfilling life anywhere in the world, but nothing can take the place of home.

The first stage of culture shock is the “honeymoon period.” During this period, everything in your new environment is new and exciting. Although you miss your friends (and significant other) from back home, “the novelty and excitement of experiencing a new environment outweigh the loss.”

I would say that was true for me the first few weeks in Madrid.

For those first two-and-a-half weeks, the 14 members of the Marquette en Madrid program lived in single dorm rooms on campus. Our rooms were air-conditioned, we got to eat three meals a day in the cafeteria, there was a bar downstairs, there was free (shoddy) wi-fi, benches and a ping pong table beckoned us in the open courtyard, and, oh yeah — there was a pool.

So basically, we were vacationing at Club Med in the bustling capital of Spain. We were livin’ the life.

Now, this is not to say we weren’t working. Spanish universities generally begin their fall semester in October, so us Americans were spending our September learning about Spanish art, history, politics, grammar and composition in a three-week intensive course that earns you three college credits. So don’t tell me we were slacking.

Having said that, we were slacking. We generally procrastinated on homework, we stayed out late on school nights and we burned through cash. But hey, we had just arrived in Europe, and the reality that we still needed to study while here was not yet pressing upon us. We were on our “honeymoon.”

Just thinking about living in el Colegio Mayor Sepi makes me nostalgic for it. I miss having three square meals a day. (More on that in the next blog). I miss the pool. Most of all, I miss being down the hall from my friends.

I also tried and failed to make Spanish friends. Some Spaniards were living in the dorm while making up classes that they failed the year before. Sometimes they intimidated the American students, but they were generally courteous and helpful.

We kind of made friends with one guy who directed us to the cool college student bar in the area, but I wouldn’t consider him one of our buddies.

Meanwhile, I plucked up the courage to go chat with a Spanish guy, and we hit it off. He is a freshman studying architecture. We talked about school and sports for a good 15 minutes. A few days later, he invited me to hang out with him and his friends. Unfortunately, I already had concrete plans that evening. I never got another chance to hang out with him, and I left before I could get his contact info. Still kicking myself over that one.

However, in addition to getting tight with the Marquette students, I made a few other American friends. Students from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and Indiana University were also staying in the dorm. They usually hung out in the courtyard, which facilitated shooting the breeze and getting to know each other.

During the honeymoon period, I started to learn my way around the city. I took a couple of walks by myself to scope out the area, and I started glancing at maps. After a week of taking the metro around the city, I had a pretty good mental map of Madrid.

There were some bumps in the road to acquainting ourselves with the city. The group got lost a few times, but we generally kept those incidents to ourselves.

Our fun activities those first couple weeks included sampling tapas, strolling through the city’s gorgeous public parks and, of course, enjoying the world-famous Madrid night life.

Adjusting to the Spanish schedule has probably been the toughest part of settling in here. Spaniards eat a small breakfast or no breakfast at all, they eat lunch around 2 p.m., and they don’t sit down for dinner until about 10 p.m. That just doesn’t work for me.

Those who know me well know that the only time I truly get cranky or angry is when I’m hungry. Seven or eight hours between meals does not sit well with me, but whatever. I’m dealing.

The upside to the late meal schedule is that it fits nicely with the social schedule. Spaniards generally go out around midnight or 1 a.m. on weekends, staying out sometimes until 6:30 a.m., when the metro system reopens. I can proudly (or grudgingly, because I greatly value my sleep) say that I’ve pulled the all-nighter.

Franzi and I

One of the highlights of the honeymoon period was getting to see an old friend. Franzi is a young German girl who was an exchange student at my high school my senior year. We became good friends, but we had not seen each other since graduation.

In a happy (and almost unbelievable) coincidence, we both are spending a few months in Madrid. I’m studying here until January, and she’s baby-sitting for kids in the city until next spring. When we found out, we immediately vowed to look each other up.

Our first time hanging out together in Madrid was the night before Franzi’s birthday. It was a blast!

Liz, Jayne, Lauren, me and Franzi

Soon, our honeymoon period in the dorms was over. It was time to move in with our Madrid host families. It was time to really put ourselves out there: to commit to speaking Spanish 100% of the time (or at least make an effort), to learn Spanish customs, and to basically immerse ourselves in the everyday Spanish way of life.

The honeymoon had come to a close, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. It was just the commencement of the next stage of studying abroad in Madrid.

Although I’ve been in Spain for over a month and my recollections are not as fresh, I thought it made the most sense to go back to the beginning of the trip for the first blog post.

It was quite difficult saying goodbye to my parents on the curbside at O’Hare airport in Chicago, but I’ve flown by myself plenty of times in the last couple years. The only difference was this time I was flying thousands of miles, instead of hundreds, on a flight that would last about ten hours, instead of a measly 45 minutes. And I wouldn’t be returning for months.

But I wasn’t really flying alone. I soon met my fellow Marquette en Madrid students, from both Marquette and Loyola University Chicago. We broke the ice with the same spiel that every college student does so much they can rattle it off in their sleep. (“What year are you? What’s your major? Where are you from? Who’s your favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” etc.).

After eating my last meal of burger and fries at McDonald’s for the next four-and-a-half months, (Or so I tell myself. Still going strong on that one, but I gave in and had BK in Ireland. More on that later), I boarded the plane.

The plane ride was basically like pulling an all-nighter because I was unsuccessful in my attempts to fully fall asleep. Like any all-nighter, it started off with a bunch of adrenaline and fun (i.e. chatting with Maggie and Jayne about everything from Chicago to cacti). But after a few hours of annoying co-passengers, crappy airline food and way too many Michael Jackson music videos, I was ready to stretch my legs in the warm Madrid sun.

Before we could enjoy Spain, my cohorts and I had to stick it out for a few more hours in the Frankfurt, Germany airport. We used our five-hour layover to play euchre, contemplate purchasing duty-free beverages and laugh at ridiculous advertisements.

My first photo taken in Europe. Sad or awesome? You be the judge.

To us, it was late on the night of August 31. But with the time difference, it was actually the morning of September 1. I felt for the first time the overwhelming reality that we’re on the other side of the Atlantic. It’s a thought that brings quivering excitement or dull sadness, depending on the day.

After a quick hop over France, we finally arrived in Madrid Barajas Airport. It was touch and go for a few minutes, but everyone’s luggage also made it to Spain intact. Doctor Anne Pasero, Marquette’s resident program director for the next two years, met us at the terminal. We then split into two groups for the shuttle van ride to the dorm we would stay at for the next two-and-a-half weeks.

I really enjoy these shuttles to and from airports because they’re good for getting initially acquainted with a city. During my shuttle ride in Madrid, I learned two things: American music is incredibly popular in Spain, and Spaniards become psychotic daredevils when you put them behind the wheel. Seriously, I think the motorcyclists all have death wishes, and I swear our driver actually sped up when he saw pedestrians crossing the road.

More than a day after I departed my home in Michigan, I arrived in my new (temporary) home in el Colegio Mayor Sepi. We each had single rooms with our own bathroom and air conditioning, so I definitely felt like a pampered college student. It was great.

September 1, 2009 was a relatively uneventful day, but it’s a day I will never forget. It signaled the end of many things, but it was the start of something amazing for all of us.