tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65936256199207380202024-03-05T00:44:29.025-08:00Spain in a Lucky Packetthis is a blog all about love, power, freedom and beauty. . . the bohemian lifestyle. . . a page of doodles about our experiences as independent young, single women, unleashed in this territory of tall dark an handsomes, good food and amazing visuals. . .
none of what you will read is fiction. all solid, hardcore, day-to-day in the life of. . .Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-55358071678100182232011-02-11T07:13:00.000-08:002011-02-12T02:02:33.272-08:00The Next StationThe great student city of Salamanca greets us with great sheets of rain that pour down on our flimsy summer dresses upon arrival. Depressed much? We come from an area where the sun pours down in overly enthusiastic rays of heat, to this. As if it was not enough to leave the love of our lives behind.<br /><br />To console ourselves we head off in search of some café that will serve some kind of a tapa this late at night and find what will soon become two of our staples: <em>bolas de atun</em> (a ball made from mashed potato, mixed with tuna and served aioli) and <em>huevos fritos </em>(fried eggs served on bits and pieces of salty ham). As we mentioned, Salamanca is a student town and therefore going out for a glass of wine and a snack – even for folks living on a budget – honestly does not break the bank.<br />Example: lunch could cost you all of 2 euro 80, for two people, including either a glass of wine or a small beer or a coffee and then of course the choice of two between a selection of tapas per person: the above mentioned winners as part of the mix or artichokes drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil or a salad of mussels, octopus and peppers or a fat slice of <em>tortilla</em> or little red peppers stuffed with creamy, um, stuff <em>or</em> a portion of <em>chorizo</em>. . . And two samples of whatever, really do the trick.<br /><br />That evening we also settle into our new quarters: this time ‘round we share an apartment with other international students of <em>Mester Language School</em>. There’s a Frenchy, a Jappy, two Dutchies and a sweet Chinese girl (<em>Chinesesy</em> doesn’t quite work, does it?).<br /><br />Although the vibe and the rhythm is completely different here, another kind of caring evolves between us and the city. Salamanca is lot smaller than our previous home, foreign students flock the streets (here, we rarely came across local Spaniards and had to make an adequate effort to track down <em>discotecas</em> or bars where they were hiding away, life is more fast-paced and the city is old. Salamanca houses on of the oldest universities in Europe, the original building dating back to the 12th century. During war time, when part of the university and cathedral were bombed, advanced people of the time, decided to be a little adventurous with the rebuilding and replaced certain facades or clusters of has-been swirls, with a frog (which is now Salamanca’s representing icon: <em>la rana de Salamanca</em>), an astronaut and even a dragon licking an ice-cream cone. <br />Thought they were kak funny, hey, pulling a sly little joke like that.<br /><br /><em>(shakes of the head)</em><br /><br />And then, to elaborate on the bars . . . sigh. . . We discover what Salamanca is actually famous for – behind all the pretence of this history and culture shizz. Definitely the bars.<br /><br />There’s <em>Jacko’s</em> – name after the legend, the king of dance and sing and decorated in his honour as well; there’s <em>The Irish Rover</em>, a stunning Irish bar, made up in the rich art deco style, with heavy brocade curtains, quaint chairs and sunken couches arranged around booth tables, old-school bar and winding wooden staircase; to top that, there’s <em>El Corillo </em>that is a jazz café and <em>tapas</em> bar, where all the arty types gather for a fat chat and glass of something-something; <em>Candela</em> was the place to hit late at night when one is in the mood for some serious salsa, Spanish music and the company of Spanish ladies and gentlemen; <em>Tropica</em>, where, often, Latin ballroom fundi’s join up to jam it out on smooth sounds and have a delicious, huge, freshly shaken cocktail. <br />So the names just carry on: from reggae bars to more glitzy hang-outs, or just downright scruffy places, though still with warm atmosphere and where good times are sure to be had.<br /><br />Have we hit another jackpot, or what?Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-52741741094935880432011-02-11T07:02:00.000-08:002011-02-11T07:07:47.353-08:00The Road Trip de las ChicasOur last night was a bitter sweet one: with the end of one adventure, came the beginning of another and also the arrival of Lindi’s mother. After we picked auntie Susan up at the airport and booked her into her hotel, we give her a grand night tour of Sevilla. Pretty city lights and a couple of vodka later, we join our friends one last time and head of to bed: tomorrow, nice and early, begins The Road Trip to eventually take us to Salamanca.<em>caramelos</em><br />The Route of The Road Trip:<br /><br />Granada - Cordoba - Merida - Salamanca<br /><br />DIA UNO: First pit stop takes places at the side of the road, at some cafeteria, that looks a bit like the dining hall of a student residence, but where everything claims to be <em>caseros</em> – home made. And boy, do we dig into a meal of salad, fish, pureed potatoes and cookies that almost gives you the feeling that your own mother is spoon feeding you the Sunday lunch that she has been working on for two days straight with her fragile, loving little hands. It was gooooooood.<br />As we continue – Lindi and I not having to drive, in the magies vol, ogies toe fashion – the Spanish countryside folded out before us (in the moments that we were awake): luscious green fields, hundreds of energy brewing wind mills, small towns and run down churches. Before we know it, we have arrived at the place we shall rest our heads for the first evening.<br />That night we were treated to a guided city tour of Granada. We drive up windy, quaint little cobblestone roads, so narrow, you almost wouldn’t dare to walk there. We came to a halt, somewhere with a high altitude, and enjoyed the breath taking view that surrounded us. Granada lay before us like an ocean of warm, glowing lights and a vibrant bustle that even warmed our freezing little snouts from it’s distance. We then walk back to somewhere with a less significant altitude and were led to a cave-like looking place where we are served the best sangria in town and also watched an enigmatic and passionate Flamenco show. The lights were dimmed and the beauties and the arrogants took over the stage in a heated fashion – chests out, hands flaying, their feet feverishly tapping out beats that almost clash with those of the drum and guitar, all this with fixed expressions. <br /><br />DIA DOS: Yet again, we get up early, chow a quick breakfast of sarmies <em>al estillo de Espana</em> and hop into a bus, that will this morning take us to pay a tribute to the <em>Alambra</em> – the Arabian palace situated in Granada, very famous, but not very pretty from the outside. Many hours, longs walks and a lot of historical facts later, our lives have basically been changed by the beauty and utter mystery of what we just experienced: to try and explain the detail - though, the word detail does not even have quite the accurate ring to it - of the gardens and rooms, will take up a couple of books’ pages. As we moved slowly, through all the intricate arches, over hand-painted tiles and up and down levels of ancient art, one could feel a certain sacredness almost resting one’s shoulder. <br />All too soon, we have to return to the real world and continue on the long road. The next treat, however, was not far away and the next pit stop was to be had in the city of Cordoba – home to the<em> Mezquita</em>. During dark and stormy times is Spain, when religion once again played puppeteer to the unruly storms, the Catholics decided to take over the mosque in Cordoba and transform it into a Cathedral. Thus, on the outside, the building merely looks like the same old, same old, but inside, alongside with typical Catholic nooks of Jesus or other dramatic and over the top artworks and stuff, can be seen the distinct flavour of Muslim architecture. Needless to say: amazing.<br />Finally we arrive in Merida, in for another round of magic.<br /><br />DIA TRES: We trek through the little town of Merida, passing roman aqueducts locals carrying boxes of sweet-smelling <em>churros</em> and interesting little music shops, brunch on <em>queso Manchego </em>doused with olive oil, salad and coffee and resume along the roman paths where we quickly get sucked even further into a centuries’ old empire: a gladiator arena, theatre area, typical roman house (complete with mosaic floors) as well as captivating marble statues of gods and goddesses. <br />We stop for a divine lunch which we are served by a friendly, stocky Spaniard, of <em>revuelto</em> (scrambled eggs tossed with exotic mushrooms), mixed salad, fried fish and marinated tomatoes and a long <em>copa</em> of <em>vino tinto</em>, before we carry on to our end-destination, waving goodbye to the Romanesque palaces of our ancestors, the next stop forming the next chapter packed with Spanish tomatoes.Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-61097605826482082032011-02-11T06:41:00.000-08:002011-02-11T07:01:15.249-08:00The Sevillian Train Passes. . .To our great dismay, Lindi and I arrived at the last week of the glorious fun in the sun to be had in the city of oranges. In our last attempt to grasp and sample the city’s majesty and ambience, we drew up a to-do list of the things that still needed to be done:<br />1. Visit the hippy city of Cadiz on the <em>Costa del Sol</em><br />2. Try on as many of the flamboyant and extravagantly expensive Flamenco dresses (or <em>trajes</em>) – the <em>Fiesta de Primavera </em>(Spring festival) is soon to grace the streets of Sevilla and to dress up, watch Flamenco shows and drink in tents will be the order of the day<br />3. Visit the <em>Alameda de Hercules </em>(historical site in Seville) in the Macarena suburb<br />4. Go for paddle on <em>rio</em> of the city, cocktail in hand<br />5. Laze around in the breath taking gardens, <em>El Parque de Maria Luisa</em>, of Seville<br /><br />So, one Saturday morning, rising early from our beds we attempt to catch the morning bus to head on to the sunny side. Karin, our German <em>freundin</em>, also tags along to help us make a start to the list. The day sweeps past in a blur of great food (lunch being an enormous plate of fish, adobo style, and grilled peppers topped with coarse sea salt) good company, sea air, an educating walk-about the city and ending, lazily, on the beach with an ice-cream cone of fig, rose water and naartjie in hand. It really is like a big Kalkbay exploded on the coast of Spain. Everyone just seems to concentrate on breathing in the good air as they glide past in floaty pants and dreadlock coifs.<br />As we procrastinate leaving the side of these fearless hobo’s, we at least sweeten the deal on arrival in Sevilla, by buying candy floss sticks the size of our heads!<br /><br />The next day, Tessa (one of our Dutch friends), Karin and we swing by some ridiculously over-priced stores, to see just how Spanish we could be in the traditional Spring trajes. One would never say it, but these things are incredibly small and tight.<br />Lindi and I then take a stroll down to the <em>Alameda</em> to go and look at this famed and spectacular ruin of Sevilla. It ends up being a pile of old rocks stacked on each other, with some mythological God posed on top, at both ends of what looked like an old running trek. However, the true magic of this square in the Macarena suburb, comes from the interesting and different people prancing around, as well as from the vibey, divergent, alternative cafés that seem to have blossomed all over the place and hug the arena. And just to prove to ourselves that we <em>actually</em> don’t care that we don’t fit into these preposterous dresses, we treat ourselves to a decadent lunch at <em>Casa Paco</em>, of stuffed baby marrows, blanketed in melted cheese, a marinated salmon tapa and home baked brown bread brushed with a touch of cinnamon, topped with ham and drizzled with cumin olive oil.<br />We manage to waffle through the other activities and all too soon, the last night arrives.<br /><br />In true South African style – or rather, in true Afrikanie style – we ceremoniously greet Sevilla with a braai (we scavenged stokkies and leaves from a river bank near our flat and trekked it into the Centre City in backpacks; we even stopped at the Chinese shop to buy a 3 euro roster). Little did we know, however, that the braai we were busy setting up, was an illegal one, as two Spanish oaks kindly informed us – seeing that it was on public property, next to the Guadalquivir <em>rio</em> and directly opposite a small police station. <br />Nevertheless, we carried on with our <em>barbacoa</em>, roasting chicken strips and bits of bread on the open flames, beneath the not-so-starry Sevillian sky. <br />With a last <em>Salud!</em> with glass of Tempranillo, all our international maaitjies and teary smiles, we say cheers to the wistful surroundings and our beloved <em>casa</em>. . .<br /><br /><br /><em></em><em></em>Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-33431902104727626582011-01-27T07:49:00.001-08:002011-01-28T05:44:55.957-08:00Me gusta Semana Santa, me gustas tu. . .<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2N4O40z-_siibRPseTzNEuFFc7KKh-QL8iA9_7wJ9tbWRouXkSdb-ndLOpv3YRkaz1sr3lP82Suq4TjOyHdRkXot7_2eRotnROuOTjxvcFswiRq_LOrh7K_2gj-WO2AnKpM9tzyFFHN4/s1600/DSC04369.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2N4O40z-_siibRPseTzNEuFFc7KKh-QL8iA9_7wJ9tbWRouXkSdb-ndLOpv3YRkaz1sr3lP82Suq4TjOyHdRkXot7_2eRotnROuOTjxvcFswiRq_LOrh7K_2gj-WO2AnKpM9tzyFFHN4/s320/DSC04369.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567227271234313426" /></a><br /> Although Easter fever has long ago subdued, the memory of the Spanish catholic way of celebrating it, is still fresh in our memories: incense, crowds of people, window displays of The Virgen and fresh flowers in <EM>every</EM> shop; red banners flowing lazily from balconies in the City Center, women traditionally dressed in black and lace, the streets decked out with chairs (that can cost up to 200 euros for the week per person to save <EM>your</EM> cushion). And the little Clu Clax men! Dressed in shades of purple, blue, white, black, green and red - depending on which church the dressed belongs to. Some historical trivia on this phenomenon: the reason for these dodgy attires have nothing to do with the rude American history, but is an all catholic tradition in presenting yourself during the Easter season: it creates an oppurtunity for equality amongst the churchgoers of long ago (where being religious did not get you into the popular group, but quite the opposite - dead). Apart form hiding their identities as well, the pointy hats make everyone appear the same lentgh. It also signifies a closer connection to God. Bare feet make it's appearance every so often too, to manifest humility and humbly try to attempt to experience some of the pain that Jesus went through. Instead of carrying swords, the paraders carry enormous wax candles or baskets of pungent incense. The order of events is thus (for lack of a better expression) the Clu Clax men, a mobile display of either Mary or Mary and crucified Jesus, some more Clu Clax men, a brass instrument orchestra, another display of Mary (soldiers sometimes also make their appearance in silver and gold). And yes, these structures are of solid gold and silver and therefore need about fifty pax to lift and carry them around at, well. . . very slowly. Usually, all this madness continues for one whole week, starting on a Sunday and ending on the Sunday to follow, the Thursday being the most important day. Yet another excuse for the Sevillanos to not work and spend their time crowding the streets. Although, those past the age of just being piss cats, do take Semana Santa (<EM>saint week</EM>) very seriously and sometimes men, caught up in a moment of passion and spontanaiety, serenade the parade coming by. A serenade like no other; one that leaves you with chattering teeth, goose bumps up to your nail cuticles and watery eyes, wanting more. You know you were just part of an inexplicable spiritual moment. Have a listen to this. . .<br /><OBJECT id=BLOG_video-9f9de31506042970 class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="9f9de31506042970"></OBJECT>Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-82081569349535568742011-01-27T05:16:00.000-08:002011-01-28T11:01:31.794-08:00Everything for a ReasonFreshly back in the hood of orange blossoms and no-work mentality, our ears still suffering from bomb shock, we have to start being dilligent right away: the first exam is upon is. That means we have to start studying. A lot. Yup, it's not all la vida loca down in the south. Did we mention we are bearly able to speak Spanish yet?<br />Besides, on our way back from the Estacion de Sevilla to the street where we lived we got ripped off proper tourist style, having to pay 18 euros for a ride we paid 7 euros for the previous trip. So, who really wants to learn how to speak the language of such vile, old and polluted and disagreeable latin farts?<br /><br />We do. <br />But, not because we want to - at this moment - but because we have to. We feverishly jump in, unwillingly, for the sirens of the city are calling and being cooped up in our Triana cage. . . not so much fun. Well, half of us end up jumping in feverishly. The other party ends up gallivanting with a certain latin <em></em>stukkie<em></em>.<br /><br />Day of, silence looms over our heads like a gloomy haze. We sip our morning coffee in the quiet. Our walk to the school: silent. We enter the classroom and merely give our alma mater a nodd of the heads. The morning proceeds in utter seriousness; everyone trying to cram a few more verbs into their heads.<br /><br />And then It is placed in front of us. And It doesn't look so bad. It actually turns out to be pretty do-able. <br />And you step outside and the rest of the people aren't wearing a fat smile like you are and you know: shit. It was actually an epic fail. You just seemed to some how be the one to miss out on that detail.<br /><br />Ah well, we team up and all go and try to find the right answers in big glasses of <em>Limoncello</em> in our favourite little bar and profoundly discuss matters of the world in a language that we <em></em>do<em></em> know. We make a pit stop at our Triana palace for a budget meal of tuna pasta and a quick (2 hour) siesta. Back on the streets,we meet up with the gang for a stroll and stumble across a breathtaking shisha bar. It was like something from a Morrocan cult movie, set in the 1930's about the Spanish mafia hanging out and playing cards, where everyone talks in code and sips <em></em>mata<em></em> - if there where to be a movie like that, of course. Complete with sweet-smelling smoke dancing through the air, authentic lamps, hand carved, dark wooden tables and cushions that call each and everyone that walks through the door's individual name. <br />We end up with two human sized hookahs: one filled with aniseed liqueur and apple molasses; the other, good old water and orange flavour.<br /><br />In an instant, our love affair with this place continues. Who could be so utterly vile to call them silly farts?Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-20967878214606089262010-03-29T03:17:00.000-07:002011-01-27T07:32:47.712-08:00Las Fallas: Valencia, Weekend the FifthThe night before: out, having a good time our usual spot (The Buddah Bar), being very tranquilo, saying farewell to yet another friend and all is going to be well tomorrow.<br /><br />07:30 - We get up, shower, eat, still very mellow, catch a cab to the train station, get there, go to the platform and say farewell to our train, this time, rolling out the station. <br />Swearing and stomping our feet, missing the train by a mere 2 minutes, we set off to buy <em></em>another<em></em> ticket to get to Cordoba, high speed, and change to our actual ride. <br /><br />17:00 - Arrive in Valencia. As we steam through the city, we already sight some of the colourful, strange <em></em>Fallas<em></em>. Quick pitstop at the flat we were staying at and we meet up with a local friend (Miguel) that graciously took it upon himself to act as our tourguide.<br /><br />Definition of the annual fiesta: Grand, obscene wooden structures, designed by various artists, painted and decorated to perfection and set aligght by the Fallarita Mayor (basically the richest girl in town, dressed in rich fabrics and jewelry, that ascts as the face of the festival for the week) to burn down with loud crackles of fire and crackers, each in it's turn. <br /><br />Theme of <em></em>Fallas<em></em> 2010: Satire of various celebrities and political figures. <br /><br />Duration: One week. Starting on the 15th until the 19th of March.<br /><br />What to expect: lots of parties, Agua de Valencia (mixture of Cava, Vodka and orange juice), screaming, fireworks, bunelos (little fried cookies made of pumpkin, served with icing sugar), labyrinths of people, Fallaritas Minoras in traditional festive clothing parading around and overall madness.<br /><br /><br />After all the excitement and radical sighthings, the rest of the weekend was spent leisurely exploring the great city. We made a visit to well-known buildings, the spectacular old part of the city and an awesome Science Museum. There Cesare Pavese taught us that <em></em>"the richness in life, lies in the memories we have forgotten."<em></em><br /><br />Salud.Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-17806662791950288922010-03-23T13:28:00.000-07:002010-03-23T13:44:45.453-07:00“Summer time, . . .”<em>(and the living is Spanish)</em><br /><br />Another stroke of luck we forgot to mention: since we have arrived it has not deceased raining. Seville is situated south of Spain, near the equator and therefore usually has great rays of sun that bless the city around this time of the year. Friend Murphy decided to bless us with great showers of rain drops - for the first time in 60 years.<br /><br />On the 15th of March we did, however, see some of that glorious sun. After school, we headed down to the river that crawls through the city dividing the centro of Sevilla from Triana (the neighbourhood where we live that can be compared to a uptown Kuilsriver), with all our international friends: Thomas (Brittish, 27), George (Brittish, 23), Linnea (Swedish, 18), Paparazzi Pablo (American, 69), Maripol (Dutch, 24), Jorinde (Dutch, 19), Karlijn (Dutch, 23), Karin (German, 19), Karina (German, 22). Like true locals, we soaked up the heat (or took del sol, directly translated), enjoying the most popular and widely sold brand of red and white wine sold in Spain. Did we mention, also the cheapest, at £1,10 for a litre (Don Simon). <br />Robertsons better pull up their socks. <br />Tinto de Verano, a standard summer drink in Spain - that consists of red wine and lemonade - was also eagerly consumed. The day did not pass without the casual visit if a hobo or two and as we were sitting around laughing, another charming toothless dronkie came by and toasted a swig with us of the same label of Verano we were drinking!<br /><br />Those who do not snatch themselves a seat on the riverbank, opt for a jog or a bike ride to make use of the sun. And whatever these people do, no matter how much they exercise, drink or smoke (and boy, do they smoke a heck of a lot: in the morning, on the streets, in restaurants; while eating and drinking, when not eating and drinking; before siesta, after siesta; taking the dog for a walk, or accompanying a kiddie to the playground; grandmother and granddaughter having a puff together and you will even find an ashtray in some bathrooms), they always smell delicious. Their hair also never seems to frizz – this is honestly a frizz-free-hair nation. Maybe, that is because they spend all their hours concentrating on everything, besides working – typical Andalucian style.<br /><br />Besides, with the orange tree in full blossom, their rich scent clouding the streets, who want to work anyway?Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-89033660323478944892010-03-21T08:07:00.000-07:002010-03-23T13:27:54.483-07:00Back on Home Ground. . .Whenever I hear the word Kontiekie Toer, my throat seems to refrain from breathing, my heart starts pounding faster and I see visions of middle aged people with snowy white skin walking around in sandals and socks in the streets of some obscure little town and frowning at possibly everything they see around them, utterly bored and fed up. When those two words popped up, however, on the weekly cultural program of our language school, proposing a very exotic trip to Morocco, we gave each other one sly smile and decided it was an offer that we can not miss out on. <br />Off we treaded the next day to the Moroccan embassy, because even though we are from the same continent as our end destination, our South African passports mean squat. After a session of broken Spanish on our side and poor English on the lovely woman from the embassy’s side, we walked out about a half an hour later with two visas to visit the land of mint tea and hookah pipes. (Not even Germany delivers such good service!)<br />Obscure, some of the towns indeed were (we visited Chef Chuan and Tetuan in the lush green countryside of north Morocco), but certainly beautiful. And there was no need to walk around with a constant air of despair, our faces becoming one giant constipated balloon. The atmosphere, needless to say is vastly different; outer appearances are deceptive (one giant lucky packet!), so if the hotel sports a for star plaque and illustrious lobby, the rooms are likely to be crappy. So much was packed into those three days: we also visited Tanger, rode on camels, saw dancers and acrobats from the mountains and nearing cities perform, ate delicious spicy tagine and couscous, drank too much gunpowder tea with sugar and spent maybe a few too many dirhams (the currency used there; they do however also accept euro’s at a slightly elevated price per piece bought) and even experienced a first class disco in Tanger. The American music stopped at a certain point and a little live band started playing native music (the local girls then pull out all the stops and move their bodies serpent-like to the rhythm, wearing – against all odds – basically, um, nothing).<br />To attempt to sum up the experience, would be like asking to try and get the Spaniards to dislike soccer. Never going to happen. Nunca. Hopefully, these posted images will offer a taste of our sightings. . .Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-319242585296159612010-02-27T10:36:00.000-08:002010-03-08T05:01:09.083-08:00Sweet, sweet Spain. . .As fin de semana lends a peak at us, we decide to hop on bus and greet the city of Huelva. . . The ride started out a drag until serendipity blessed us with an encounter with John Mayer. <br />No, seriously. <br /><br />Deciding, better judgement intact, we do not stalk him all the way to his humble abode, but to rather explore the city.<br /><br />Our first sighting of Huelva (pronounced "Welba")scared us shitless. WOW! How different from Sevilla and it's whimsical frontiers!To put it in a nutshell: Huelva is landmarked by captivating contemporary graffiti that polute the backtreets, industrial monstrosities and guys that we now famously call the Wet Looks (definition: those of the masculine gender that most likely spend a precious amount of time grooming their mops, pouring half a container of hair gel to create this immaculate masterpiece).<br /><br />Roaming the streets, we did discover the sweet inside. Cobblestone roads that guide you towards Plaza de Virgen where locals enjoy the afternoon sun during their siesta, white doves flocking at their feet with a view of a enchanting and ancient church. Typical Andalucian bars line the alleyways and this is of course were we got stuck. We tuck away at plump green olivas, meat stew, tortilla espanola and fresh pan con cafe. We must have either looked ravenous or the waiter took pity on us, for we enjoyed all this for a mere 10 euros (he probably thought since the South Africans are going to lose the World Cup he might as well give us free munchies).<br /><br />In short, Marcella´s birthday rocked: after a drink and an exotic trip to The Buddha Bar, were the young and the not so young, come together to jam it out on a few American tunes (despite them singing along to every word of the songs, they still <br />can not speak a word of English), we ended up in typical Sevillian bar - Bar Torro - with some locals at seven o´clock in the morning and inbetween moutfulls of tostada and coffee, we were serenaded - flamenco style. <br /><br />As we bring this delayed update of Sevilla and it´s oranges (don´t try to consume those that litter the streets, not a joyful experience for lack of actuall orange taste), we share a copa with the likes of George Clooney, Robert Downey Jnr., Andre Agassi and Giovanni Ribishi.<br /><br />Interesting finding for the week: there are definitely more good-looking men around, than women. In fact, men seem to reach a peak after adolescence and, with the help of all their beauty products and ridiculous excercise routines, wallow in that peak for. . . ever. Women, on the other hand, are pretty, reach puberty, become very pretty and then go bald over the years and end up looking like their male companions (naturally, with a few exceptions)<br /><br />Man, do we love Spain and it´s beautifully groomed beautiful men.Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-36084993696207599782010-02-18T12:26:00.000-08:002010-02-18T13:10:48.199-08:00The PilgramageDay Three. Still no luggage.<br /><br /><br />Friendly warning: never try and apply for a non-permanent (TEMPORAL, if you should ever need it) residence card in Spain. Spaniards have no clue whatsoever of direction or english. A sure recipe to get lost or confused. . . or both. <br /><br />We started off in good spirits, singing in the rain and all that jazz, just going to the bank to register for an account. Only to be sent to some dodgy little police station to acquirre the oh-so famous tarjeta de residencia. . . temporal. Finding a cute man in uniform, more than willing to help us, was no problem. Understanding the bloke, was Mission Impossible numero 4. So, the sweetie sent us packing to Plaza de Espana (another police station), with very little comprehendible directions.<br /><br />We ended up following in the footsteps of our ancestors, copying the good 'ol Groot Trek, walking about seven kilometres and seriously contemplating the meaning of life. . .an empty stomach.<br /><br />The cards were NOT received. Work in progress. As well as emotional preparation to follow the same procedure again tomorrow. . .<br /><br /><br />Awesome finding for the day: a place that serves tapas for less than two euros and there is no need to only stare at your plate to fill up. . . you can - wait for this - eat! Heaped plates galore! Lovely, crispy fried aubergine, floating in a lush bath of tamatoe gazpacho and fresh hake, eveloped in a jacket of authentic spanish beer batter and a killer garlic mayo to go with it (seriously, it might just kill you dead - the garlic that is).<br /><br />Thus we formulated our own meaning of life. For heaven hath ascended after that meal.Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593625619920738020.post-36154767194539494102010-02-17T13:43:00.000-08:002010-02-18T01:40:37.931-08:00Shit comes in pairs of three. . Or not?So The Amazing Race commenced. . . There we are tossing back our last South African rooibos teetjie for the next seven months. . . Connection flights smoothly caught and movies galore later, something had to go wrong, right? Right. You bet your afrikaanse gat, ja. Madrid airport: we are shuffling around in glamorous plastic socks (boots are obviously hazourdous to the country and need to be removed asap at customs - more lickely the appetizing stinky sock wiffs) and the lovely male securtiy guard and Lindi having an intimate conversation about her sanitary towels, more or less sets the tone for what is about to come.<br /><br />And so, Lindi's luggage got lost somewhere in Europe. The next step was to get a taxi to our apartment in Seville. You would think a TAXI DRIVER would know something about GPS, right? Right. However, the idioto did not actually know the street we were meant to spend the next two months resting our heads and had to ask SEVERAL Spaniards for directions (men!), on our tab. . . Eventually dropped off at Arcangel San Gabriel instead of Rafael. . .we had to walk. . .<br /><br />Dripping with perspiration and heavenly downpour we greet our flatmate. . . A middle-aged granny that speaks not a word of Virginia's tongue. <br /><br />Next day: we step into. . . the Wildernis. And no, there was no Candy Mountain. . . Instead we got classmates that are all fluent in this foreign language of Spanish, as opposed to other newbies that are only starting to comprehend it. . . like us. A torturous hour and a half later we at least sorted that problem out and decided to skip conversation class for a little tapas (an understatement. . . it was minute). Spent R85 on three saucers worth of food (not even heaped), a bottle of water and a shot of coffee.<br /><br />That schocker over, we decided to do some grocery shopping. We selected a supermercado we passed on our way to school. Walking out with 6 litres of olive oil (gonna be here for two months, so what a bargain!), 6 litres of water, 6 litres of milk and two very heavy bags of other stuff - did we mention we had to drag this shit for 1,5 km's to our granny flat, no pun intended. Not only did our hands chafe, our keys did not fit into the blinkin lock. Luckily, someone from the same building strolled by and let us in. So up four flights of stairs (the elevator from the previous night seemed to dissappear) we arrive at number 15. Only to find a doggy barking from behind the door. Yip, you guessed it! Wrong apartment, wrong building, wrong street. <br /><br />No, we are not making this up.<br /><br />Yet again, drenched in sweat and downpour, we arrive at the final desination.<br /><br />We attempted to relieve all the negative energy from the past hours, and took to exploring. There must have been TOURIST written on our foreheads, for some gypsies attacked us with promises of true love, a frivolous marriage, two bambinos, everlasting friendships, intelligence, beauty (although they spin that crap to everyone) and a twig of holy leaves. They then demanded a helping of our precious euros for those obvious truths! <br />Yes, we are that fabuloso.<br /><br />We then headed home for a home cooked meal a la Marcelle and a good glass of shitty wine (headlines for broke Stellenbosch students: come to Spain. You can get drunk here for the unbelievable price of only R9,99 per bottle of vinegar!)<br /><br />And as we sit here, writing you this post, Eskom even failed us in grand Europe. Did not know they had contacts with far, far away. . .Marcelle & Lindihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07772298996353164802noreply@blogger.com1