So here's the thing, y'all.
When you're getting ready to go gallivanting off to study in foreign lands, and you're constantly followed by a chorus of every single human you know telling you how lucky you are and how much fun you're about to have, nobody mentions that there is necessarily going to be a period of serious adjustment.
Nobody warned me that I wasn't going to instantly have more-fun-than-anyone-ever-has-ever-in-history. Even if someone had, I probably wouldn't have believed them. LIVING in SPAIN? How could it be anything other than glamorous and exciting and nonstop fantastic? There'd have to be something wrong with anyone who didn't instantly click!
Well.
Contrary to my every expectation, I spent a lot of the first couple weeks feeling bewildered and emotionally exhausted and, honestly, apathetic. It didn't make any sense to me. To borrow my sister's favorite self-description, I'm an "easily amused and overly excited" kinda gal. Why wasn't I interested? Or motivated? Or at the very least, happy?
Maybe it had something do with the Things I Didn't Read in that stupid dumb pamphlet on culture shock I was given. Maybe it didn't. Whatever. But for no specific (or at least identifiable) reason, my first two weeks here were actually kinda rough, and I spent a lot of the time--though not all of it! don't get me wrong--feeling pretty damn bummed. I'm sure there were a lot of factors at work, not least of all my complete rookie status in this whole international deal.
I knew I was inexperienced, but it took getting dropped in the middle of ALL-NEW SENSORY OVERLOAD OF UNFAMILIARITY for me to realize just how sheltered I'd been. Until only a couple weeks ago, I had never been in a situation where someone expected me to know a language other than English. (This realization hit me in the Copenhagen airport, when not one, not two, but three Scandinavian flight attendants made indecipherable attempts to engage me in conversation, only to receive the response ''Guhhh... English?'' Guess my Danish grandma's genes were doing some false advertising.) So I go from being a capable communicator with a huge lexicon of language and cultural capital with which to relate to people, to being a stuttery and nervous girl clumsily navigating something entirely unfamiliar.
Which, if you'll excuse the language, really fucking sucks.
And as much as I wanted, hypothetically, to completely go to town blogging every little word/detail/image of my experience, I couldn't hack it. I'm really not the fake-it-til-you-make-it type. As anyone who knows me even a little bit could say, I have zero skills in the Hiding How I Feel department. I wanted to wait til I felt better-- cause I knew I would, even when things were hardest.
And now I do. I am lucky enough to be able to say that I turned that ship around: I now feel all the way like myself again, silliness and scatteredness and enthusiasm and all. It feels damn fantastic.
(Also, big grateful hugs to the people who helped keep me happy through the worst of it. You know who you are, and you made a world of difference.)
So, here I am: back in action as your resident spanojournalist. Or something. I'm living and eating and sleeping SPAIN, and I have a lot lot lot to talk about.
I'm happy (finally). I'm ready (mostly). And I'm going to do my best to write it all down.
Granadablog, take two: launched.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
How to get from San Francisco to Granada in 12 easy steps
1) Spend your last night in America wisely.
Dinner at the parents' house with the whole fam, including Grandma, which was lovely. Also, Mom's potato salad? YES PLEASE. Then back to the house to finish packing.
Around the time my sister went to bed (Me: "So do you want to wake up and see me off when dad comes to pick me up at five?" Her: "...Um. Why don't you just.. come to my room and hug me goodbye? I can't promise to be awake, but I can promise to let you!"), best-man-friend Andrew came over. Not only was it good to get some friendy time, but we also got to make an In-N-Out run before I went gallivanting off to a land where there are no Double-Doubles. Seeing as how that adventure ended around two, I found myself with three hours left before airport time and things still left to do. I made the mature and responsible decision to all-night it. After having only three hours of sleep the night before, and three connecting flights ahead of me...
Well. You're only young once.
2) Watch the sun come up over SFO.
With the generous help of my parents, I and my artfully crammed bags were deposited at the San Francisco International Airport just before sunrise. We made some brief but sincere goodbyes, and then I was off to navigate the necessary steps to pull off this, my first ever international flight. Once through security I sat in the terminal, sleep-deprived and staring into space, waiting in vain for it to start to feel real.
3) Flight the first: SFO -> IAD.
Six uneventful hours. I was fully prepared but as yet unexcited; sleepy but unable to sleep. I watched several episodes of 30 Rock and felt absent of feeling.
4) Layover the first: Washington, D.C.
The last hour I spend in America for months, and it's all under fluorescent lighting. Blech.
I also got my last chance to send out text messages. Shouldn't have been a big deal, but I am spoiled in that my bestiest-best-best friend and I are pretty typically attached at the keypad, and the idea of being thousands of miles away from her without that as a lifeline was kinda giving me the junkie shakes. But when boarding time came, I turned off the phone for good and all, not to be used for the next four months.
5) Flight the second: IAD -> CPH.
Question: WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME HOW AWESOME EUROPEAN AIRLINES ARE? Hands down the most fabulous airplane-related experience of my life. I flew SAS, and they just would not stop giving us free stuff. Two free meals, two free beverages, a water bottle, a blankie, and an endless supply of instant-view movies? Don't mind if I do.
6) Layover the second: Copenhagen, Denmark.
No longer in America? Why isn't this more exciting? Also, why is Denmark so friggin' expensive? Five dollars for a bag of M&Ms, I mean really. And that's when the travel thing started to get a little old.
7) Flight the third: CPH -> AGP.
Ok, guys. That first flight was fine, and the second one was fun in parts, but this airplane thing is just not cute anymore. Nope, I'm done. Especially cause all these Danish babies (why are so many Scandinavian flights so densely populated with children?) keep screaming and screaming. Also, the little girl to the left of me with the portable DVD player is on her ninth straight episode of Danish-dubbed Dora the Explorer and I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE ARE WE THERE YET ARE WE THERE YET
8) Escape the Málaga airport.
I landed, and try as I might I still could not for the life of me get my head around the fact that I was finally there. Espain! My final destination! Or, just another airport.
I did manage to gracefully handle one of the more insanely nerve-wracking experiences of my life, which was... reassuring? (You know how as you're waiting at the baggage carousel for your checked suitcase to show up, and you always feel like yours won't show up? Yeah, me too. Silly, right? Except my luggage really didn't come. Everyone from my flight walked away with their luggage, the carousel stopped, and there I was trying in a panic to calculate how long I could live off of what I had in my carry-on. Ten minutes later, I found my bag in customs. Gaaaaaaah. But. All's well that ends well.)
I then met up with Roz, my freshman year roommate who's studying abroad with me. Both totally overwhelmed from traveling, we were super psyched to find each other thousands of miles from home. With stuttery Spanish, we grabbed a taxi to the hotel where we were meeting our group.
9) Spend one night at the Hotel Puerta Málaga.
Meeting Roz at the airport was absolutely a joy and a relief, but meeting Ariana at the hotel was bordering on magical. Ariana, among my closest college friends and one of the few people on the planet who I've discovered I can't get tired of, is not only also doing the Granada Advanced Spanish program (YAY), but is going to be my roommate for the whole semester. (QUADRUPLE YAY.)
There are a gabillion aspects of this study abroad experience that would probably have made me nervous or anxious for months beforehand that never even crossed my mind because I knew I would be here with her. Making friends? Dealing with homesickness? Integrating into the social structure? Avoiding emotional isolation? It ain't no thing! I got mah gurl!
We then went exploring in Málaga, and I had my first Spanish meal. We also got extremely extremely turned around on our way back and ended up taking two hours getting somewhere that should have only taken us fifteen minutes (AND we had a map-- last time I trust Ari's "sense of direction," let me tell you), but even though I was tired enough to pass out and needed to pee like you would not believe, it was still a blast. Together, at last! In Spain! Really can't complain.
BONUS: In Málaga, the main street is called La Calle Marques de Larios. Named for the Spanish nobledude of that title. Who, oh I don't know, happens to be my great-great-great-grandsomething. There's also a statue of him outside the plaza. No big deal, y'all.
10) Get oriented.
I was taken to get a cell phone, given maps and forms and lists of tips galore, and shown a bunch of PowerPoint slides whose contents can be accurately summarized with the sentence "USE COMMON SENSE." Another country? Another culture? Another language? Bring it on, says me!
11) Take a bus from Málaga -> Granada.
I considered using that hour and a half on the bus to make bestyfriends with some or all of the 94 other people traveling with us. Or to sleep. Instead, I introduced myself to like three people, immediately forgot all of their names, and spent the rest of the time chatting furiously with Ariana. It's ridiculous that I can spend as much time with her as I do and always want to spend more. I am so lucky to have her.
12) Arrive in new home.
We met up with our new familia when the bus dropped us off in Granada. One madre, probably in her fifties, and her daughter, in her late twenties. My jetlag and general exhaustion prevented any extraordinary clarity of understanding, but the vibe of extreme warmth is the same in every language, and I know already that I like them very much. One short taxi ride and lugging of suitcases later, we arrived in the apartamiento that will be our home through December. Ari and I share a room (with a STRONG decorative theme of Very Pink With Lots of Stuffed Animals), and though it's small it's certainly homey. I sense good things from this place.
I've been here for about a week, and between the EIGHT FRIGGIN' HOURS A DAY of our orientation classes, and the scads of structured activities the program has been leading us through, my downtime has been more or less nonexistant.
But! I now have regular access to internet! Maybe I will ever have time to use it! Wish me luck. (Or, if it's that important to you, wish yourself luck.. that I might grace you with my writings. Or something.) Much love to my homies, both at home and abroad. I miss you all, mucho mucho mucho.
Anyway! Heyguesswhat?
I live in Spain. AY CARAMBA.
Dinner at the parents' house with the whole fam, including Grandma, which was lovely. Also, Mom's potato salad? YES PLEASE. Then back to the house to finish packing.
Believe it or not, THIS (and more) all fit into one suitcase. With room to spare. DAMN I'M GOOD.
Around the time my sister went to bed (Me: "So do you want to wake up and see me off when dad comes to pick me up at five?" Her: "...Um. Why don't you just.. come to my room and hug me goodbye? I can't promise to be awake, but I can promise to let you!"), best-man-friend Andrew came over. Not only was it good to get some friendy time, but we also got to make an In-N-Out run before I went gallivanting off to a land where there are no Double-Doubles. Seeing as how that adventure ended around two, I found myself with three hours left before airport time and things still left to do. I made the mature and responsible decision to all-night it. After having only three hours of sleep the night before, and three connecting flights ahead of me...
Well. You're only young once.
2) Watch the sun come up over SFO.
With the generous help of my parents, I and my artfully crammed bags were deposited at the San Francisco International Airport just before sunrise. We made some brief but sincere goodbyes, and then I was off to navigate the necessary steps to pull off this, my first ever international flight. Once through security I sat in the terminal, sleep-deprived and staring into space, waiting in vain for it to start to feel real.
3) Flight the first: SFO -> IAD.
Six uneventful hours. I was fully prepared but as yet unexcited; sleepy but unable to sleep. I watched several episodes of 30 Rock and felt absent of feeling.
4) Layover the first: Washington, D.C.
The last hour I spend in America for months, and it's all under fluorescent lighting. Blech.
Because the refinedness of my humor is inversely proportional to my seratonin levels, I was determined to get a danish for my flight to Copenhagen. (Hilarious, right? I thought so too. Too bad it was DISGUSTING.) Also pictured: wretchedly overpriced yogurt parfait, beloved water bottle.
I also got my last chance to send out text messages. Shouldn't have been a big deal, but I am spoiled in that my bestiest-best-best friend and I are pretty typically attached at the keypad, and the idea of being thousands of miles away from her without that as a lifeline was kinda giving me the junkie shakes. But when boarding time came, I turned off the phone for good and all, not to be used for the next four months.
5) Flight the second: IAD -> CPH.
Question: WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME HOW AWESOME EUROPEAN AIRLINES ARE? Hands down the most fabulous airplane-related experience of my life. I flew SAS, and they just would not stop giving us free stuff. Two free meals, two free beverages, a water bottle, a blankie, and an endless supply of instant-view movies? Don't mind if I do.
My first legal drink, at a few thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Red wine, cause I'm classy like that.
I made a friend on the airplane, a world-travelly Romanian woman heading to Copenhagen for her Master's degree. She was absolutely fantastic, and since she doesn't deserve to have her name misspelled on the internet, I won't put it here, but she taught me a million things about traveling in Europe and made the eight hours pass even more pleasantly. If you're reading this: thanks, and good luck!
6) Layover the second: Copenhagen, Denmark.
No longer in America? Why isn't this more exciting? Also, why is Denmark so friggin' expensive? Five dollars for a bag of M&Ms, I mean really. And that's when the travel thing started to get a little old.
7) Flight the third: CPH -> AGP.
Ok, guys. That first flight was fine, and the second one was fun in parts, but this airplane thing is just not cute anymore. Nope, I'm done. Especially cause all these Danish babies (why are so many Scandinavian flights so densely populated with children?) keep screaming and screaming. Also, the little girl to the left of me with the portable DVD player is on her ninth straight episode of Danish-dubbed Dora the Explorer and I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE ARE WE THERE YET ARE WE THERE YET
8) Escape the Málaga airport.
I landed, and try as I might I still could not for the life of me get my head around the fact that I was finally there. Espain! My final destination! Or, just another airport.
I did manage to gracefully handle one of the more insanely nerve-wracking experiences of my life, which was... reassuring? (You know how as you're waiting at the baggage carousel for your checked suitcase to show up, and you always feel like yours won't show up? Yeah, me too. Silly, right? Except my luggage really didn't come. Everyone from my flight walked away with their luggage, the carousel stopped, and there I was trying in a panic to calculate how long I could live off of what I had in my carry-on. Ten minutes later, I found my bag in customs. Gaaaaaaah. But. All's well that ends well.)
I then met up with Roz, my freshman year roommate who's studying abroad with me. Both totally overwhelmed from traveling, we were super psyched to find each other thousands of miles from home. With stuttery Spanish, we grabbed a taxi to the hotel where we were meeting our group.
The first picture of me taken in Spain. Excitement tempered with the most exhaustion I have ever felt.
9) Spend one night at the Hotel Puerta Málaga.
Meeting Roz at the airport was absolutely a joy and a relief, but meeting Ariana at the hotel was bordering on magical. Ariana, among my closest college friends and one of the few people on the planet who I've discovered I can't get tired of, is not only also doing the Granada Advanced Spanish program (YAY), but is going to be my roommate for the whole semester. (QUADRUPLE YAY.)
There are a gabillion aspects of this study abroad experience that would probably have made me nervous or anxious for months beforehand that never even crossed my mind because I knew I would be here with her. Making friends? Dealing with homesickness? Integrating into the social structure? Avoiding emotional isolation? It ain't no thing! I got mah gurl!
We were ok with seeing each other again. I mean, it wasn't that awful. We dealt with it.
We then went exploring in Málaga, and I had my first Spanish meal. We also got extremely extremely turned around on our way back and ended up taking two hours getting somewhere that should have only taken us fifteen minutes (AND we had a map-- last time I trust Ari's "sense of direction," let me tell you), but even though I was tired enough to pass out and needed to pee like you would not believe, it was still a blast. Together, at last! In Spain! Really can't complain.
BONUS: In Málaga, the main street is called La Calle Marques de Larios. Named for the Spanish nobledude of that title. Who, oh I don't know, happens to be my great-great-great-grandsomething. There's also a statue of him outside the plaza. No big deal, y'all.
TOLD YOU I WAS SPANISH.
10) Get oriented.
I was taken to get a cell phone, given maps and forms and lists of tips galore, and shown a bunch of PowerPoint slides whose contents can be accurately summarized with the sentence "USE COMMON SENSE." Another country? Another culture? Another language? Bring it on, says me!
11) Take a bus from Málaga -> Granada.
I considered using that hour and a half on the bus to make bestyfriends with some or all of the 94 other people traveling with us. Or to sleep. Instead, I introduced myself to like three people, immediately forgot all of their names, and spent the rest of the time chatting furiously with Ariana. It's ridiculous that I can spend as much time with her as I do and always want to spend more. I am so lucky to have her.
12) Arrive in new home.
We met up with our new familia when the bus dropped us off in Granada. One madre, probably in her fifties, and her daughter, in her late twenties. My jetlag and general exhaustion prevented any extraordinary clarity of understanding, but the vibe of extreme warmth is the same in every language, and I know already that I like them very much. One short taxi ride and lugging of suitcases later, we arrived in the apartamiento that will be our home through December. Ari and I share a room (with a STRONG decorative theme of Very Pink With Lots of Stuffed Animals), and though it's small it's certainly homey. I sense good things from this place.
I've been here for about a week, and between the EIGHT FRIGGIN' HOURS A DAY of our orientation classes, and the scads of structured activities the program has been leading us through, my downtime has been more or less nonexistant.
But! I now have regular access to internet! Maybe I will ever have time to use it! Wish me luck. (Or, if it's that important to you, wish yourself luck.. that I might grace you with my writings. Or something.) Much love to my homies, both at home and abroad. I miss you all, mucho mucho mucho.
Anyway! Heyguesswhat?
I live in Spain. AY CARAMBA.
Monday, August 30, 2010
When Productivity Strikes (t-3 days)
Okay, somebody better pinch me, cause this wave of competence has been just unreal. Even I don't believe how much stuff I've been getting done.
I mean, it's bad enough that I 1) read the entire Granada chapter of my Andalucía guidebook, 2) re-read my program's "Get Set!" booklet, and 3) skimmed several chapters of my Spanish phrasebook.
What's worse is, I also 4) did a currency exchange for a buncha euros, 5) nailed down my phone plan biz for when I get back, 6) opened a checking account, 7) got myself a debit card, 8) transferred my entire summer earnings to my dad's bank account (necessary? yes. depressing? ALSO YES), 9) officially notified the bank of my travel dates, and 10) stopped at LensCrafters-- only to find out that since my glasses are ancient they would have an 85% chance of snapping in half if tightened, so they remain loose and silly, but still.
I (11) did two loads of laundry! I (12) made photocopies of a whole stack of my official documents! I (13) printed out my flight itinerary! I (14) bought. A friggin'. Planner!
I HAVE ALMOST FINISHED PACKING. (15.)
Who is this girl? When I look at that accomplishy list I feel almost woozy.
I am a capable, responsible adult and I can take care of myself? I guess it just goes to show that even though my dinner tonight may have been a (dry) bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal (that I ate with my hands), you can't let that fool you.
Apparently I'm a lot more prepared than I thought I was. While reading up on Granada, I realized that I knew more than I thought I did. As I was reviewing my travel phrasebook, it became pretty clear that I'm better at Spanish than I usually think I am.
50-ish hours away from airport time and it ain't no thang. I got this... I got this. I'm good.
I mean, it's bad enough that I 1) read the entire Granada chapter of my Andalucía guidebook, 2) re-read my program's "Get Set!" booklet, and 3) skimmed several chapters of my Spanish phrasebook.
What's worse is, I also 4) did a currency exchange for a buncha euros, 5) nailed down my phone plan biz for when I get back, 6) opened a checking account, 7) got myself a debit card, 8) transferred my entire summer earnings to my dad's bank account (necessary? yes. depressing? ALSO YES), 9) officially notified the bank of my travel dates, and 10) stopped at LensCrafters-- only to find out that since my glasses are ancient they would have an 85% chance of snapping in half if tightened, so they remain loose and silly, but still.
I (11) did two loads of laundry! I (12) made photocopies of a whole stack of my official documents! I (13) printed out my flight itinerary! I (14) bought. A friggin'. Planner!
I HAVE ALMOST FINISHED PACKING. (15.)
Who is this girl? When I look at that accomplishy list I feel almost woozy.
I am a capable, responsible adult and I can take care of myself? I guess it just goes to show that even though my dinner tonight may have been a (dry) bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal (that I ate with my hands), you can't let that fool you.
Apparently I'm a lot more prepared than I thought I was. While reading up on Granada, I realized that I knew more than I thought I did. As I was reviewing my travel phrasebook, it became pretty clear that I'm better at Spanish than I usually think I am.
50-ish hours away from airport time and it ain't no thang. I got this... I got this. I'm good.
Monday, August 23, 2010
It's all in my head (t-9 days)
The other night, I had one of those rude and nagging message-dreams.
It was a couple weeks into the future, and I was on the plane to Málaga. (The plane in question happened to be orange and shaped like a car. You know. How it do.) After landing, I was approached by a gaggle of Spanish airport security officers asking for my visa (in English? with British accents? Sure). Only... I didn't have it. I panicked, of course, and started frantically searching my carry-on and my suitcases and turning out every single one of my friggin' pockets, but my visa was nowhere to be found; I had left it at my parents' house. I could SEE Spain through the windows and I knew I was there, but I was forced to turn myself around and get right back on the plane, because, as the surly Spanish security dudes told me in a dramatic chorus, I "should've packed sooner." Then I woke up.
Uhhhh... Dear subconscious: subtle, you ain't.
I have (sort of) been working on packing. But instead of really, y'know, doing any actual packing, I've been doing what my sister calls "Visualizing the Actualization Process" of packing. It's a handy expression that's code for procrastinating HARD.
I've for sure thought about packing. I've talked about it. I've made some lists, trying to brainstorm a roster of Things I Need (while struggling to keep it separate from the instantly flooding-in ideas for a much longer list of Things I Just Really Want--like my obnoxious keepsakes, or lots and lots of cardigans). But until that morning, when in a frenzy of scary-dream-induced productivity I dragged a suitcase into the middle of the room and started throwing random articles of clothing into it, I had done bupkis.
Since the Dream Scare, I've been trying (with some minor success) to get away from the purely mental and make some steps forward that are more.. solid, shall we say?
For instance! I did something that's sorta been at the back of my mind for months now: I bought a water bottle. I was meandering through a Marshalls and bumped into a shelf full of super cheap name-brand ones, so I picked out one of the fancy detailed aluminum kind. How's that for something solid? Aluminum!
It actually makes me feel ridiculously chic and collegiate and environmentally conscious. (There's also the added bonus that it was the only damn one that wasn't slathered in embarrassing slogans in the "GO GREEN! REDUCE REUSE RECYCLE! I LOVE EARTH MORE THAN YOU DO!" family.) It's shiny and gold and I'm a little obsessed with it, probably because I look at it as a totem of the put-together-prepared-and-ready-for-anything Margaret that I want to be. That I want to pretend I am.
She's on it! She's with it! She has a water bottle! Sure, she hasn't packed or practiced her Spanish or straightened out her finances, but did you not hear about her water bottle? She totally has one! Look at her go!
...don't judge me.
So, I did that! I also bought a three-pack of European plug converters, and took my passport and its enclosed visa back to my place so there's no chance it will get left at the home of my parents, cause damned if I'm going to let my subconscious get away with predicting my mistakes, OH HELL NO.
Let's hear it for productivity! Next up:
1) Getting off my bum and doing my dang laundry, cause otherwise I'll never get packed;
2) Buying a gift for my host family, utilizing the tip I got from my roomie's Spanish mother that they'll probably be into fridge magnets and comestibles;
3) Getting my glasses tightened, cause even though I never wear them they are loose as all get out and have taken on a kind of trapezoidal shape that is beginning to concern me;
4) Takin' care of bidness at the bank, including a) opening a checking account, b) wiring a sad majority of my summer earnings over to my father, and c) trying to up my pathetic credit limit;
5) Actually cracking open my Lonely Planet guidebook to maybe find out a little bit more about what I'm getting myself into;
6) Making at least three photocopies of every highly important document/card I'll have with me in Spain and scattering them across safe locations;
and
7) Finally spending some gahdamn time with my Grandma, because I never do enough of that anyway, and since being home I have been totally negligent on that front.
Seven things. That's not so bad! It's even lucky, right?
Right.
It was a couple weeks into the future, and I was on the plane to Málaga. (The plane in question happened to be orange and shaped like a car. You know. How it do.) After landing, I was approached by a gaggle of Spanish airport security officers asking for my visa (in English? with British accents? Sure). Only... I didn't have it. I panicked, of course, and started frantically searching my carry-on and my suitcases and turning out every single one of my friggin' pockets, but my visa was nowhere to be found; I had left it at my parents' house. I could SEE Spain through the windows and I knew I was there, but I was forced to turn myself around and get right back on the plane, because, as the surly Spanish security dudes told me in a dramatic chorus, I "should've packed sooner." Then I woke up.
Uhhhh... Dear subconscious: subtle, you ain't.
I have (sort of) been working on packing. But instead of really, y'know, doing any actual packing, I've been doing what my sister calls "Visualizing the Actualization Process" of packing. It's a handy expression that's code for procrastinating HARD.
I've for sure thought about packing. I've talked about it. I've made some lists, trying to brainstorm a roster of Things I Need (while struggling to keep it separate from the instantly flooding-in ideas for a much longer list of Things I Just Really Want--like my obnoxious keepsakes, or lots and lots of cardigans). But until that morning, when in a frenzy of scary-dream-induced productivity I dragged a suitcase into the middle of the room and started throwing random articles of clothing into it, I had done bupkis.
Since the Dream Scare, I've been trying (with some minor success) to get away from the purely mental and make some steps forward that are more.. solid, shall we say?
For instance! I did something that's sorta been at the back of my mind for months now: I bought a water bottle. I was meandering through a Marshalls and bumped into a shelf full of super cheap name-brand ones, so I picked out one of the fancy detailed aluminum kind. How's that for something solid? Aluminum!
It actually makes me feel ridiculously chic and collegiate and environmentally conscious. (There's also the added bonus that it was the only damn one that wasn't slathered in embarrassing slogans in the "GO GREEN! REDUCE REUSE RECYCLE! I LOVE EARTH MORE THAN YOU DO!" family.) It's shiny and gold and I'm a little obsessed with it, probably because I look at it as a totem of the put-together-prepared-and-ready-for-anything Margaret that I want to be. That I want to pretend I am.
She's on it! She's with it! She has a water bottle! Sure, she hasn't packed or practiced her Spanish or straightened out her finances, but did you not hear about her water bottle? She totally has one! Look at her go!
...don't judge me.
So, I did that! I also bought a three-pack of European plug converters, and took my passport and its enclosed visa back to my place so there's no chance it will get left at the home of my parents, cause damned if I'm going to let my subconscious get away with predicting my mistakes, OH HELL NO.
Let's hear it for productivity! Next up:
1) Getting off my bum and doing my dang laundry, cause otherwise I'll never get packed;
2) Buying a gift for my host family, utilizing the tip I got from my roomie's Spanish mother that they'll probably be into fridge magnets and comestibles;
3) Getting my glasses tightened, cause even though I never wear them they are loose as all get out and have taken on a kind of trapezoidal shape that is beginning to concern me;
4) Takin' care of bidness at the bank, including a) opening a checking account, b) wiring a sad majority of my summer earnings over to my father, and c) trying to up my pathetic credit limit;
5) Actually cracking open my Lonely Planet guidebook to maybe find out a little bit more about what I'm getting myself into;
6) Making at least three photocopies of every highly important document/card I'll have with me in Spain and scattering them across safe locations;
and
7) Finally spending some gahdamn time with my Grandma, because I never do enough of that anyway, and since being home I have been totally negligent on that front.
Seven things. That's not so bad! It's even lucky, right?
Right.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Maybe I should start preparing, or something? (t-16 days)
It would be a total lie to say I hate packing. I actually secretly love it. (Not a secret: I'm pretty great at it. Being the daughter of a champion Tetris player and a civil engineer, I am ACES at fitting things in boxes.)
I do, however, have a major problem with packing. It's the same problem I have with almost every other rewarding or productive pastime: I can't ever seem to get started.
I could call it laziness or focus deficiency, and I could blame anything from my genetic code to 21st century digital culture, but whichever way you slice it I'm still sitting in my jammies past noon on a Monday guiltily facing the plain fact that I've done virtually nothing to prepare for the biggest trip of my life, which is only two friggin' weeks away.
In a word: EEK.
The big question is, what do I do now?
When I faced with a problem that has no instant solution, I do as any good child of my generation should, and turn to Google.
I now have somewhere between 30 and 40 tabs open, and I'm hoping that somehow having pages upon pages of tips for packing and budgeting and culture-shock-avoidance and language immersion will, by the powers of osmosis, make me somehow more ready. Or at least spur me to start getting myself ready. That's reasonable, right? Osmosis is a... thing, right?
Um.
At any rate, the general consensus of these various online tips lists seems to be 1) read up, and 2) pack light.
Hoooboy. 1) something I haven't done, and 2) something I have a history of being terrible at. Not promising.
Aside from the endless vacuum of tips available in cyberspace, I also have a motley collection of more concrete resources at my disposal.
I just need to.. get.. started.
I do, however, have a major problem with packing. It's the same problem I have with almost every other rewarding or productive pastime: I can't ever seem to get started.
I could call it laziness or focus deficiency, and I could blame anything from my genetic code to 21st century digital culture, but whichever way you slice it I'm still sitting in my jammies past noon on a Monday guiltily facing the plain fact that I've done virtually nothing to prepare for the biggest trip of my life, which is only two friggin' weeks away.
In a word: EEK.
The big question is, what do I do now?
When I faced with a problem that has no instant solution, I do as any good child of my generation should, and turn to Google.
I now have somewhere between 30 and 40 tabs open, and I'm hoping that somehow having pages upon pages of tips for packing and budgeting and culture-shock-avoidance and language immersion will, by the powers of osmosis, make me somehow more ready. Or at least spur me to start getting myself ready. That's reasonable, right? Osmosis is a... thing, right?
Um.
At any rate, the general consensus of these various online tips lists seems to be 1) read up, and 2) pack light.
Hoooboy. 1) something I haven't done, and 2) something I have a history of being terrible at. Not promising.
Aside from the endless vacuum of tips available in cyberspace, I also have a motley collection of more concrete resources at my disposal.
KEY:
1. Some glossy Study Abroad magazine my school gave me. Lots of print-heavy articles that zzzzzz,,,,
2. Relics from a time, at least a decade ago, when my dad thought he was going to teach himself Spanish. Why, yes, that phrasebook DOES come with a companion cassette tape!
3. My sister's old Spanish-English dictionary. I was with her at Walgreens when she bought it. For her 10th grade Spanish class. In 1996. I'm not sure either of us has used it since.
4. A birthday present from my dad this past May. I open gift. "Aweseome! A guidebook to.. Seville! Hey thanks, Dad!" Dad smiles. "You know I'm going to Granada, right? I did, like, tell you that part, right?" Blank but pleasant expression. "I mean, you know I won't be living in Seville... not that this isn't TOTALLY COOL." Nervous laughter. It's his own way of telling me he thinks I need to spend a bunch of time in Seville, apparently. Well arrright then, pops. I'll try.
5. Another, less bewildering birthday present from my father. Lonely Planet's guide to Andalucía. Handy!
6. Spanish language flashchart my grandma gave me. The most elementary language basics that I'd hope I'm in no danger of forgetting... but you never know.
Alright. Okay. I'm here, I'm ready, I've got the calendar marked and the information in front of me.
I just need to.. get.. started.
Go? Go!
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Firsts, Fear, and Filler (or, t - 18 days)
Two and a half months ago, I ceased to be a teenager.
I'm not sure if I thought of it as more of a loss or a gain, but I know on some level I figured it would make me feel more like a grown up. Being 'in my twenties' feels a lot less forgiving, like I missed my window for that string of mistakes and irresponsibilities people practically expect from you when your age ends in 'teen (lord knows I was way too square to make any of them at the time, but that's a whole other story).
As it turned out, having passed another arbitrary milestone on my way to adulthood didn't drastically change me; in fact, I think I had more typically teenage firsts this summer than I've had in any previous years.
I took my first ever driving test, and subsequently made my first ever round of next-time-when-I-get-a-DMV-lady-who-is-less-mean-I'll-TOTALLY-pass explanations. I had my first awkward experience being underage in a liquor store. For the first time, I watched so many movies in theaters that I ran out of new ones to go see. I finally got my wisdom teeth removed, and got my first chance to find out what all that Vicodin fuss is about. I cursed the government for gobbling a third of the nominal amount on my biweekly paychecks; I paid rent. I did a bunch of stuff I'd never done before. It was great. I was happy.
With my summer essentially over, I'm back at home and jobless, with only two and a half weeks between me and another, bigger first. You see, I'm about to start my junior year of college, and I'll be spending the fall studying abroad in Granada, Spain.
The thing is, I've never left the country before. (It's funny, when I say that around my classmates, people usually say "Why?!" like I must have made this big conscious decision. Simple truth: I never had the chance before! And now I do.) I've also never lived anywhere but in California. Or spoken Spanish for more than about an hour straight. And now I'm only 18 days away from doing a whooole lot of both of those things.
Let me get this much clear: I'm not scared. I don't scare easily. Whether that's because I'm just a steely tough-as-nails type or because I'm too scatterbrained to sit down and process the big-dealiness of what I'm about to do is beside the point.
This is all a much-too-long long way of saying:
Hello! I am Margaret. This is going to be my travel blog.
Keeping records of this is important to me. Cause of that whole never-ever-done-this-before thing. I might be bad at it; consistency has not always been my strongest suit.
But here we are.
Now: let's do this thing.
I'm not sure if I thought of it as more of a loss or a gain, but I know on some level I figured it would make me feel more like a grown up. Being 'in my twenties' feels a lot less forgiving, like I missed my window for that string of mistakes and irresponsibilities people practically expect from you when your age ends in 'teen (lord knows I was way too square to make any of them at the time, but that's a whole other story).
As it turned out, having passed another arbitrary milestone on my way to adulthood didn't drastically change me; in fact, I think I had more typically teenage firsts this summer than I've had in any previous years.
I took my first ever driving test, and subsequently made my first ever round of next-time-when-I-get-a-DMV-lady-who-is-less-mean-I'll-TOTALLY-pass explanations. I had my first awkward experience being underage in a liquor store. For the first time, I watched so many movies in theaters that I ran out of new ones to go see. I finally got my wisdom teeth removed, and got my first chance to find out what all that Vicodin fuss is about. I cursed the government for gobbling a third of the nominal amount on my biweekly paychecks; I paid rent. I did a bunch of stuff I'd never done before. It was great. I was happy.
With my summer essentially over, I'm back at home and jobless, with only two and a half weeks between me and another, bigger first. You see, I'm about to start my junior year of college, and I'll be spending the fall studying abroad in Granada, Spain.
The thing is, I've never left the country before. (It's funny, when I say that around my classmates, people usually say "Why?!" like I must have made this big conscious decision. Simple truth: I never had the chance before! And now I do.) I've also never lived anywhere but in California. Or spoken Spanish for more than about an hour straight. And now I'm only 18 days away from doing a whooole lot of both of those things.
Let me get this much clear: I'm not scared. I don't scare easily. Whether that's because I'm just a steely tough-as-nails type or because I'm too scatterbrained to sit down and process the big-dealiness of what I'm about to do is beside the point.
This is all a much-too-long long way of saying:
Hello! I am Margaret. This is going to be my travel blog.
Keeping records of this is important to me. Cause of that whole never-ever-done-this-before thing. I might be bad at it; consistency has not always been my strongest suit.
But here we are.
Now: let's do this thing.
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