Tag Archives: travel

How Do You Travel?

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I read a lot of travel blogs, and don’t get me wrong—I love them—but I’m admitting it: I’m no traveler. You may be asking yourself, Wait. If she’s no traveler, why is she always traveling? Good question, my friend.

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It’s for the food. Yum! (Kidding. Mainly.)

I like staying put, whether that means staying put in the US or staying put in Spain. I like my home, my things, my comfort zone. I like knowing I’m insured. You know, lame things like that. I know that these aren’t great excuses—heck, there’s even backpacker insurance out there for you people who are adventurous (read: more adventurous than me)!

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Me at my most comfortable: warm pub, a good drink, and great company.

Nowadays when I travel, it’s mainly to reunite with that boy of mine or to see friends/family (like my trip to Houston last July). I am not a person that has a natural itch to travel just for travel’s sake. Instead, I have to be prompted by pictures like the one above or by posts about other blogger’s 7 Super Shots.

Sometimes I do feel a bit alone in the travel blog/expat blog world. I mean, I love seeing new places, true. But I also love my bed. Are these things irreconcilable?

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All Atwitter

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I tweet, do you?

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Now, in my everyday life, I come up against a lot of resistance to Twitter, which I just do not understand. People tell me, “What do I care about if you just went to the grocery store or ate something delicious?” I just want to stomp my feet and yell, “You do not understand Twitter! The purpose is not to tell others what you ate for lunch or about your latest trip to the bathroom!” But then I struggle to explain to them what, exactly, it is about.

I admit it—I love Twitter. Much more than Facebook, actually, although Facebook does have its uses. Why Twitter? Well, because Twitter makes me aware of things. Twitter has been the way I’ve learned breaking news stories. (Thanks, Trending Topics.)

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  • Twitter is a democracy. Celebs often interact with us plebes. You can talk to anyone (though they may not talk back). People who don’t know you can follow you, just because they’re interested in what you have to say, even if you’d never be “friends” on Facebook.
  • You can get instantaneous feedback. You can ask your followers a question and get tons of responses, like when I asked for opinions on where I should go in Italy.
  • Hashtags. I love using hashtags, which are just words or phrases preceded by #. If you add # before something, it’s instantly searchable. My favorite hashtags? #IUBB, #Spain, #ESL, and #learnSpanish. Apparently, some people really like #TTOT, or Travel Talk on Tuesday, where you can ask/answer questions about travel every Tuesday at certain times.
  • Education. I love linguistics. This is no secret. I follow a lot of linguistics blogs on Twitter, and I’m always to find something interesting to read.
  • Pure entertainment. Sometimes I get bored. Luckily, I have a smartphone and Twitter! This is a winning combination for curing boredom. I just hop on Twitter, laugh at my friend’s tweets, and write something inane, hoping someone will gratify me by replying.

Those are my reasons for using Twitter. What are yours? I’ll leave you with some of my favorite Tweeters (I’ll spare you my #IUBB tweeters, as that’s not this blog’s audience, but rest assured I’m wholly obsessed with the Hoosiers):

  • @CyLesVida: Castilla y León es Vida tweets all about one of my favorite comunidades, Castilla y León. I love keeping up with the news. Plus, they retweeted me!
  • @LongReads: Long Reads tweets out “the best long-form stories on the web.” I save these on my Kindle and read them when I have a free moment.
  • @WinesfromSpain: Wines from Spain tries to raise awareness about the deliciousness of Spanish wine in the US. Although I need no convincing, I love reading about Spanish wine nonetheless!
  • @Fundeu: Español Urgente is where I learn matices of the Spanish language. Sometimes I disagree with their prescriptivist perspective, but that’s just how Spain approaches the Spanish language nowadays.
  • @GeoffNunberg: Geoff Nunberg is the resident linguist for NPR’s Fresh Air, and I always love his segments. I am hopelessly addicted to linguistic blogs, so this just feeds my addiction.
  • @GuiriBullshit: Guiri Bullshit is hilarious if you’ve ever worked as an auxiliar de conversación. As they say in their self-description, “Over 2,000 Americans go to Spain every year to teach English in public schools. Far less of them have a clue.” Truth. But they don’t tweet enough!

Of course, there are always my friends. I want to include you all … but I can’t!

Seven Super Shots

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Why yes, I am a follower? Why do you ask? Liz tagged me in her post, so I couldn’t resist; besides, I’ve loved all the other ones I’ve read.

My 7 Super Shots are not all superb photos; instead, they reflect a super moment, one that took my breath away or brought me to tears or causes me endless nostalgia to this day. Here goes …

1. A photo that … takes my breath away.

This photo was taken in Lisbon, Portugal, in February 2008. I was studying abroad in Toledo, Spain, and this was my first international trip. I was so excited, as I had always wanted to go to Portugal. Seeing the bridge, the 25 de Abril Bridge, reminded of another bridge, a bridge I’ve yet to visit, the Golden Gate bridge. It was twilight, serene, and utterly beautiful. To this day, I find it hard to fathom such a picture-perfect moment.

2. A photo that … makes me laugh or smile.

Back in the fall of 2010, I took a day trip with Mario’s family to Puebla de Sanabria, a quaint little village just a stone’s throw from Portugal. We went with his cousin, his cousin’s wife, and their children. Here’s little María, who kept us constantly entertained with her stories. Here she is, telling one I can no longer recall, but looking at this photo still causes me to smile.

3. A photo that … makes me dream.

This photo was also taken on that trip to Sanabria. The rain had just started to fall when we settled in for a nice café. After a short while, the rain let up, and the sun came out from behind the clouds. Naturally, a rainbow (un arco iris) soon emerged, leaving us in awe of its magnitude. I honestly have never seen a rainbow almost touch the ground like this one.

4. A photo that … makes me think.

This photo was taken in April 2011, during Zamora’s Semana Santa (Holy Week). The ones down in Andalucía get all the press, but Zamoranos take pride in theirs and think—naturally—that theirs is worth visiting as well. It is. Even Italians know about it. It makes me think about tradition, and family, and pride in one’s home, something I don’t always see a lot of in Spain. I love seeing the Zamoranos excited about their town, proud of its beauty and heritage, eager to show the world.

5. A photo that … makes my mouth water.

This photo, taken during Zamora’s Renaissance Fair in 2010, literally does make my mouth water. I love cheese, especially the cured kind that’s so common in Spain. This stuff isn’t cheap, though, so I relish the opportunity to eat it—especially if someone else is buying.

6. A photo that … tells a story.

Toledo is a place I’ll always remember and love. It was my first home in Spain, the place I first got to hear the castellano accent of which I’ve grown so fond, the place I felt desperately homesick, the place I remember as where I learned not only about the outside world but about myself, the place I cried and laughed and was sad to leave.

This photo was taken during my first few days in Toledo. It was warm and sunny and I was enchanted—the typical honeymoon phase, but I didn’t care. We stopped in every shop, browsed through every shelf, talked to strangers easily and willing (if in halting Spanish). This man’s shop was found on a small Toledano side street (and aren’t they all side streets in Toledo?). He explained to us what he was doing, known as damascene (in Spanish: damasquino), the art of “interlacing gold on iron or steel to produce beautiful decorative designs.” (Source) He asked us—time and again—”¿Entendéis?”, hoping that we did understand and could fully appreciate his work.

7. A photo that … I am most proud of (aka my worthy of National Geographic shot).

I shared this photo in my post about Castilla y León, but I love it. It was taken during my parents’ visit to Spain in April 2011. This is in Segovia, atop the castle, looking out onto the road below. Here I see ancient meeting modern—if you look hard enough, you’ll see a small car winding its way around the hills. To Spaniards (and many Europeans in general), this juxtaposition is nothing new; to me, however, it’s fascinating, beautiful. I love the ancient feel of Spain, the way I can walk the cobblestone roads just like Cervantes, the way the buildings still cast cool shadows onto the hot streets in summertime, the Plaza Mayor of every city teeming with people to this day, the feeling that you are connected with the past and that, someday, the future will be connected to you.

Say Hello to my Mother: Guest Post

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Before I let my mother take the reins, I’d just like to say that I hounded her to do this, and she finally obliged. She wants to be crazy rich and famous, so naturally that means she’ll get her start on Y Mucho Más. You may not realize this, but I’m, like, totally famous. (NOT.)

Here’s Donna. (You may also wish to read this entry, because she’s great.)

Funny how it seems like just yesterday we drove to Chicago to take Kaley to O’Hare airport for her first international flight. She was studying abroad in Toledo, Spain, for the spring semester of her junior year in college. She was so excited. I was jealous but happy for her. I loved the thought of going to Europe and living and studying in another culture. My friends and fellow parents often comment on how it seems that just one generation made the difference in the popular trend of traveling abroad. When I was growing up, it was rare for anyone unmarried or below the age of thirty (old enough to pay for an expensive trip on their own) to study abroad or even travel to another country.

As we said our goodbyes, Kaley never looked back. Her dad and I (especially her dad) had a few tears. I knew I was going to miss my daughter and she too would miss us. She was ready to go and experience the world. I was ready too, because I hoped she would learn to appreciate home.

Kaley made friends quickly, but in some of her early phone calls, she expressed her feelings of loneliness. Once we made definite plans for her father and I to travel to Spain during her “spring break,” she had something to look forward to and quickly acclimated herself to Spanish living. Our Skype discussions were filled with tales of travel and late night escapades. She told us that Spaniards ate dinner late and stayed out late. We found out it was definitely true on our first visit to Spain.

We flew to Spain during Holy Week (the week before Easter). We had the best tour guide, one named Kaley. I bragged that she was so good at Spanish and I insisted she was fluent. She adamantly argued with me that she was not, but two years when later we went back to Spain … she agreed with me that she was indeed fluent in Spanish.

In the late spring of her senior year of college, Kaley accepted an internship with a mission-based group in Salamanca, Spain. She was ready to return to Spain and live for the entire year. In early September we again drove her to Chicago with a one-way flight to Spain. She had insisted she wasn’t coming home for Christmas, as it was too expensive. By the time December rolled around, she had changed her mind and booked a ticket to be with her family during the holidays. We didn’t object too much.

In late September during one of our Skype visits, Kaley informed me that she “accidentally” flirted with a guy. She stated, “I don’t know what to do about it.” She wasn’t supposed to be dating anyone during the internship, per the rules of her workplace. I thought she sounded genuinely concerned that she broke the rules. However, she later was rather pleased that she had broken the rule. In a few short weeks she called to say she was dating this awesome, cute Spanish guy. She was swooning over the phone. As I am a mom, I quickly warned her that dating someone from another country could become very complicated. I think she reverted back to being a teenager at that moment. She exclaimed, ”Oh Mom, that is silly, it is just the same as dating someone in the US.” My response was to quietly say a prayer, as I had always done as I watched her grow up. I asked God to bless whatever was in His will and please don’t break my little girl’s heart. God must have had Mario in His plan because two years later he’s stuck around.

Still here, two years later.

Kaley has spent about two years off and on in Spain. There have been ups and downs. She has been homesick, she has spent more time in the Madrid airport than anyone should have to, and she’s learned to live without the things she loves here in the States. She has been taken into and loved by a wonderful Spanish man and his family. She has learned to cook delicious Spanish food. She has traveled to many places in Europe and learned to appreciate the wonderful history and culture of Spain and the rest of Europe.

This culture includes cheese. Lots of cheese.

As I contemplate the future, I know that Kaley is in good hands. She loves her Spanish family and cannot say enough good things about them. I feel good when I know Kaley has “parents” in Spain. Jesús and Pepita worry about her when I’m not there to do it [Kaley: and cook for me too!]. When she is not in Spain, she misses them like she would miss her family if she were away from them. I want to thank Kaley for bringing Mario into our family. It wouldn’t be the same without him. We feel like we have gained a son as well as a new country.

(Sorry so blurry.)

L-R: Mario, Jesús (Mario’s dad), Randy (my dad), Pepita (Mario’s mom), Carol (my grandma), Donna (my mom), Richard (my grandpa), me

How to Continue a Positive Bilingual-Bicultural Relationship

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One of the best parts of writing a blog are the people you “meet.” While I’ve not met any blogger friends in person, I’ve had the opportunity to interact with a lot of different people, whether that be fellow bloggers or people who just like to read my blog. I especially love emails, and always love to hear from you! So if you’ve ever thought about saying hey, please email me at: kalhendr[at]gmail[dot]com.

So I’m very happy to introduce my first ever (!) guest post from my friend, Melanie. Melanie, like me, is in a relationship with a Spaniard. What’s distinguishes her from most of my friends who are in relationships with Spaniards is that she and her husband live in the U.S. In Texas, to be exact. Thus, she has a unique perspective – one that I think we don’t get to hear a lot about in my corner of the blog world. Anyway, I’ll let her take over from here.

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Whether it is marriage that has strengthened your commitment to your foreign partner or some other less formal arrangement, continuing a bilingual/bicultural relationship may not be as easy or the same as first starting one. After learning how to deal with and coming to enjoy each other’s similarities and differences in the beginning of a relationship, here are a few tips for a continued rich personal and cultural experience for you both:

Customs

Embrace each other’s cultures wherever you live: do not let where you live dictate the extent to which you appreciate each other’s cultures. For example, I find it extremely endearing that at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, Spaniards individually greet and wish each other “Happy New Year” with two kisses. On the other hand, I also appreciate the way that celebrating birthdays is a little bit more fun and special in the US with birthday cake, presents, and parties (customs I haven’t noticed as much in Spain). Enjoy each other’s traditions by following them wherever you are. It may make your partner feel special that you remembered something significant from his or her culture and brought it to life in your own.

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Turrones

Food and Drink

While it’s easy to compare whose country may have better cuisine, my advice is that it’s better not to make the contrast because this battle will never end! Instead, enjoy both countries’ gastronomy by learning each other’s family recipes or purchasing cookbooks (I personally recommend Culinaria Spain, edited by Marion Trutter for those interested in Spanish dishes). Wherever you live, make an effort to cook each other’s favorite dishes. For example, it is my personal goal to always learn a new recipe from my mother-in-law every time we see each other. Making these dishes later keeps my husband happy.

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Tortilla de Patata

People and Travel

While you may have enjoyed visiting your partner’s pueblo the first few times around, remember that a person’s hometown is always special to him or her. Even if going back to visit a small town on numerous occasions isn’t as exciting as packing up to go on a cruise or other exotic vacation, try to enjoy the experience through your partner’s eyes, childhood, and relationships. Learn new phrases from in-laws. Ask your partner to take you to one of his or her favorite childhood spots – whether it be a hangout, school, look-out point, etc. There will most likely be a story that goes along with the ride. And remember, most importantly, that family members and friends will always be happy to see you whenever you go back to each other’s hometowns. I always ask my husband to take me to the Mirador de Cáceres because the sights are that beautiful!

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La Parte Antigua de Cáceres

Enjoy the journey

You may not know where you will live in a few months, next year, or for the rest of your life with your partner. That’s okay. Remember to enjoy where you live in the moment, and know that you are probably there for a justifiable reason: job, family, health, etc. It’s easy to become anxious thinking about the future and how this whole bicultural-bilingual relationship will work out. But being too focused on the future can impede moments shared together focused on building understanding and deepening that cross-cultural love that brought you together in the first place. Remember that several simple moments of joy can add up to an overall rich and happy life.

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Thanks, Melanie!

Bye, Bye Puentes(?)

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In Spanish, puente literally means bridge. There are lots of them in Spain and many of them are quite beautiful. Take the puente romano located in dear old Zamora.

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But puente has another meaning. It’s something like a three-day weekend. In Britain, apparently, it’s called a “bank holiday.”

Here’s how it works. Say you have a national or regional holiday on a Tuesday (like our Fourth of July, for instance). It doesn’t really make sense to work on Monday, am I right? Only instead of you having take a personal day/vacation day, it’s pretty much given to you. Yay! You bridged that gap, didn’t you? Plus, not only are there national holidays, there are regional ones too. April 23, for example, is El Día de Castilla y León, Castilla y Leon Day.

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These days are usually full of tradition, but there’s a lot of traveling, too. After all, why not take advantage of “free” vacation days?

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I really liked this last year because we had a great year for puentes. El Día de la Constitución (Constitution Day) is on December 6. La Inmaculada Concepción (Immaculate Conception) is held on December 8. Last year, those days were Monday and Wednesday, respectively. That meant, of course, a five-day weekend! A lot of auxiliares didn’t work on Fridays either so they basically didn’t have to work that week. (I, unfortunately, had to work Fridays.)

So if you like vacations and days off, puentes are pretty awesome. The thing is, though, they’re not so good for productivity. (I mean, it makes sense.) And Spain’s economic situation isn’t the best. (Read: 5.4 million unemployed people, 23% of the active population.)

The president-elect, one Mariano Rajoy, has stated that he will eliminate the puentes and instead move the bank holidays to Mondays. This is obviously a drastic measure, especially because lots of people travel during puentes. These people could argue (and some have!) that the hotel industry, which includes restaurants (la hostelería), will lose business. Who knows, really?

Will this be the end of the puente? Do you think this will help or not?

Hey, I’m just glad I got my puente-ing in when I could.

Try Dating a Spaniard

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You got problems, I got answers.

  • Does your Spanish need improving? Try dating a Spaniard. They espeak the espainish and they can help. All they have to do is open their mouths and start talking. Simple. Easy. Plus, they have may sexy accents. Score!
  • Does your boyfriend wear jorts? Try dating a Spaniard. They do have impeccable style. My previous post was more about women’s fashion, but…Spanish men, at least the ones I know, know how to dress. Thank you, God.
  • Does your boyfriend’s idea of cooking include Easy Mac? Try dating a Spaniard. Mine’s specialty is arroz con leche (rice pudding) and it is divine. I’ll do a recipe post sometime. He also makes lentejas. The first time I went to his apartment in Salamanca he made me a two course meal, which, of course, knocked me off my feet. Swoon.
  • Do you hate spending vacations in Florida? Try dating a Spaniard. Instead, you can spend summers in el pueblo (the village) where there is exactly one café and no supermarkets. You can sit around and chew the fat, eat until you need to echarte una siestecita, and take long nightly walks. It’s the life. I swear.
  • Do you want to make others curious about your life? Try dating a Spaniard (or, okay, any foreigner I suppose). People tell me that they are curious about Mario and me. They want to know what language we speak, where we want to live, what Mario thinks of the States, what I think of Spain, how do we make this LDR thing work, etc. I mean, if you like that kind of thing, you should try it. I don’t know if I like it always, but sometimes I do. Plus, it gives me blog fodder.
  • Do you want to have the best wedding “reception” ever? Try dating a Spaniard. Okay, so I’m not married or engaged, but I have been to Spanish wedding “receptions” and they are much more fun than U.S. ones. Goodbye, punch and cake. Hello, five course meal, great wine, dancing, raucous laughter, and eardrum-shattering shouts of “¡Vivan los novios!” (Long live the bride and groom!) I Internet know a few people married to Spaniards (Erin, Eric, Hayley), and I think they would concur.

Oh, so yeah, I tried dating one. His name is Mario and, contrary to popular belief, he is not an Italian plumber with a penchant for mushrooms and throwing fireballs when he’s angry. Oddly enough, his penchant is for desserts. A sweeter tooth was never to be found than the one he’s got! (Okay, maybe his dad wins this one.)

In all seriousness, I want to make a disclaimer: by no means do I think all American guys wear jorts and live on Easy Mac. Au contraire, I know this is not so. In the same way, not all Spaniards are sophisticated. The odd Spanish mullet proves this point. (See also: rat tails.) But it is kind of funny and I think I’m pretty lucky to have tried dating a Spaniard, even if I didn’t think of these reasons until two years later.

¡Hasta la próxima!

On My Mind

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There’s one thing on my mind right now…

This guy is flying across the Atlantic tomorrow!! (Two exclamation points in a blog post is really something.)

As you can probably guess, I’m pretty damn excited. I’m excited because:

  • It’s been more than four months since I’ve seen him.
  • He’s pretty much the best guy in the whole world.
  • He’s bringing queso zamorano, my favorite cheese in the whole world.
  • He may or may not be bringing my favorite budget wine – Elías Mora.
  • He’s cute.
  • I love him.
  • There’s probably 1000+ more reasons, but right now I’m way too excited to go all in depth on you.
Anyway. I’m sure some of you have or have had a long distance relationship (otherwise known as an LDR). How did you survive? What was the reunion like?
And…
Should I just kidnap him and never let him return?
(I’m seriously thinking about it.)

Zamora

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There are times when a town is more than just a town.

It’s the place you grew up: summer picnics, fireflies, and sprinkler dancing. There, you remember the times you cried in school and came home broken. The times you spent at your friends’ houses, dressed up like Sporty Spice, singing into a hairbrush. The times you spent at school in the hallways, “working.” The times you cheered at the football games for a team that never once won. The times you ran up and down your street in a last-ditch effort to get in shape. The time you wore your graduation gown as your mother took endless photos on the patio. The time you drove off to college, when there was finality in every step you took, every item you packed in your trunk.

It’s the place you went to college: lush green lawns, professors in tweed overcoats, the smell of stale beer at the frat houses. The time you first went to a class, so nervous you thought you might vomit. The times you studied until 2 AM, hyped on caffeine and the I-used-to-have-a-4.0 fear of failing. The times you spent all night having totally deep conversations with the people who would become your best friends. The times you spent gorging yourself on horrible cafeteria food because, hey, it was free. The time you got a paper back with a grade that made you cry. The times you wondered if your ears would be permanently damaged from loud music in a bar. The time you wore a black gown and a red sash and thought to yourself, “What now?”

For me, Zamora is a place that will remain forever locked into my memory. It is not a famous town; it’s not well known outside of Spain, perhaps even outside of Castilla Leon. But it’s famous to me and to my family.

 Zamora, located on a rocky hill in the northwest of Spain, is the city Henry IV called the “most loyal and noble.” Known for its Romanesque architecture and abundance of churches, it is called a “museum of Romanesque art.” Spain’s version of the expression, Rome wasn’t built in a day is Zamora no se ganó en una hora (literally, Zamora wasn’t won in an hour), which references the battles between supporters of Isabella the Catholic and Juana la Beltraneja.

For me, though, Zamora is the first journey I took with Mario, the place I first ate cocido, and first realized I was in love.

 I taught there. The students were surly and unwilling, but surely they learned a little from me. I learned there, too—Spanish and how to survive and why I never want to eat morro. I learned to buy fruit and vegetables from the fruit stores and that expressing myself in Spanish wasn’t so difficult after all.

I ate countless meals there—lentejas and lomo adobado and pollo guisado. I drank little cups of coffee with the skim milk Mario’s mother was always sure to have on hand. I baked for them a few times, which caused Mario’s father to comment that we put chocolate chips in so many things. (True!)

I laughed. I laughed and I cried and I swore things I didn’t always do. I walked miles upon miles around town, people watching. I drank coffee and cappuccinos in dark cafes while using the free wifi. I drank Elias Mora, 2 euros a glass, and ate plates of briny olives. I watched soccer games at friends’ houses while we passed around plates of chorizo, queso, and empanada. I watched as my friends exploded in glee after a particularly important Real Madrid victory. I too jumped up and down, although I didn’t exactly know why.

 I ate in tapas bars, weekend after weekend. We ordered rounds of red wine and cañas, plates of patatas ali-oli and montaditos. We wiped the grease off our faces, crumpled the napkins, and threw them on the floor. A mark of a good place was the presence of numerous napkins on the floor. We chatted; I didn’t always fully understand. I practiced my Spanish, at first haltingly and later with more confidence.

I went to weddings unlike any I had ever known. There were cocktail hours, five course meals, limitless wine, and chaotic dancing to music I’d never heard before. There was raucous laughter and the shouts of children who had stayed up way past their bedtimes. There were even Conga lines. There was, of course, love.

Lots of it.

In short, I’m not Zamora’s best advertiser. It is a lovely city, in the core of Castilla, a place to get lost and remember that not all of Spain is bulls, flamenco, and Sevillanas. In Zamora lurks the heart of a Spain that remembers what many have forgotten—hard times, famine, bitter cold. But there also lurks true grit, people that take you in their hearts and love you truly, people who won’t take no for an answer.

I’m good at saying no, not so good at saying yes. So next time I go, I vow to say yes: yes to more, yes to dancing, yes to laughter, yes to life.

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The Worst Part of Traveling is Traveling

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I like traveling. I also hate it.

Now, before you write me off as completely crazy (I take it for granted you already regard me as slightly), let me explain.

I like traveling. I like this part:

You know, doing something you’ve only seen in movies. For me, this involved, yes, getting my picture taken inside a red phone booth. Forgive me, I lose all fear of being a cliched traveler when confronted by such things. Mario is fascinated by other sorts of things. See:

Yes, yellow school buses. For us, they are ubiquitous and not particularly noteworthy. For him, they are were something he had only seen in movies.

Also, this:

You know, finding myself in places I had only seen in photos. The Arc de Triomphe, the glass pyramid at the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, La Sagrada Familia, Parc Guell, etc.

I love learning new languages, eating new foods, soaking up the culture. My mom experienced a fried calamari sandwich in Madrid. I’ve eaten steak tartare in France, jamón serrano in Spain, and super fresh prawns in Lisbon.

You may be thinking, Um, Kaley, it really seems as though you do like traveling. All of it. What gives? 

What gives, my friend? I’ll tell you what gives: I hate the part in which I actually have to get from place. I don’t particularly love buses, airpots, and impatient tourists waiting in long lines. I could deal without Ryan Air’s famous “customer service.” I really don’t care for jet lag.

(Side note: this graphic is so true!)

In about a week (October 25th, to be exact), Mario will be packing his bags into a car, then a bus, and finally a plane to cross the Atlantic. Once he has done all that, he’ll arrive 8 hours later, only to pack his bags into yet another vehicle and drive 3 more hours. He’ll finally arrive at my house, something like 18 hours after he started. And he’s lucky. It’s a direct flight.

I’ve mentioned on occasion that I wouldn’t mind teleportation being invented. Any day now.

Seriously.