tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8562190385837688912024-02-20T12:42:41.590-08:00Transatlantic Postgrad MusingsAngela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-12843685939190227122011-09-18T12:33:00.001-07:002011-09-18T13:07:24.846-07:00OopsOk, don't hate me, I realize it's been 9 months since I last posted, but time just slipped by!! I will be updating my blog MUCH more regularly now. Really.<br /><br />So update on my life, I'm back home in Chicago. More on that later.<br /><br />There are a LOT of realizations I made in my time in the Czech Republic, both about Czech culture and culture in general. First, I will start with all things Czech.<br /><br />Now, the Czechs are in general very nice people. You will find cranky ones in Prague because they are up to their ears in foreigners, but apart from that, they are a shy buy welcoming people. The young Czechs are especially nice and (sometimes) less timid. They almost always treated me very well, and were curious about me and my life, always with an air of confusion as to why I was living in their country. Fashion, however, in the Czech Republic wouldn't compare to, let's say, Milan or Paris. Now I'm not exactly one to judge, being no fashionista myself, but compared to some of the clothing I saw, I should be on the red carpet.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxCMM7mKoYLCv2wFbuOw-SyeQu5tJ796yfBmeAJr2phNJSZZaWCbSvhzZlZD7q9Sr8JetG5WzuT6e6Q6y3cIGotVadxsmFhSBgRrg37jQ468N7eknc4Ml5CYUxt4udz7DihcL7YcqyxSP/s1600/IMG00256-20110604-1828.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxCMM7mKoYLCv2wFbuOw-SyeQu5tJ796yfBmeAJr2phNJSZZaWCbSvhzZlZD7q9Sr8JetG5WzuT6e6Q6y3cIGotVadxsmFhSBgRrg37jQ468N7eknc4Ml5CYUxt4udz7DihcL7YcqyxSP/s320/IMG00256-20110604-1828.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653787579672320258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">These, my friends, are Czech pants.<br /><br /></span></div>Do you see the man standing on the left of these two women? The checked (haha) pants with giant, noticeable black patches? These are Czech pants. Mostly worn by men, but I have seen them on women a few times. They vary in color, are often orange, and the patches can also be any color of the rainbow. I have not figured out the reason behind these pants. It has been suggested that because the Czechs enjoy hiking in natural settings, like the mountains, these pants give them the support and comfort they need for their trekking adventures, without worrying about ripping a hole in them here and there.<br /><br />Moving right along, I also made some observations in the public school classroom in which I taught. As I commented on in an earlier post, I only used this classroom twice a week for a couple hours, and it was used the rest of the time by a Czech teacher and a big group of 8 year olds. One day as I was waiting for my students to show up, I noticed this on the teacher's desk:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0gRI_9VuBTGKLu3saVS7EiSmFWjEwdFPBW3W8sY60IMUy2v5IhJwJSrsc3_N8bn0OpFioEhQjAoZIS8JnXrzoI0zf1MSSEAAVrFiK1KpxOG5RKEC9B3uaKSOWT7_MAjagVwx79veVcHv/s1600/IMG00145-20110113-1155.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0gRI_9VuBTGKLu3saVS7EiSmFWjEwdFPBW3W8sY60IMUy2v5IhJwJSrsc3_N8bn0OpFioEhQjAoZIS8JnXrzoI0zf1MSSEAAVrFiK1KpxOG5RKEC9B3uaKSOWT7_MAjagVwx79veVcHv/s320/IMG00145-20110113-1155.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653786620746532722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Can't you just hear The Simpsons music playing in your head right now?</span><br /><br /></div>It immediately reminded me of The Simpsons when Bart has to write the same sentence over and over on the board in the opening credits. But wait a minute; teachers actually make their students do this in <span style="font-style: italic;">real life</span>? You know something is wrong with a situation if you can find that same thing happening in The Simpsons.<br /><br />But what does it mean? I Google Translated it and came up with this: "I do not have to fly around the classroom." Um, unless there was a classroom of birds that I was unaware about, I doubted this translation was correct. I showed this picture later to a Czech friend who laughed and said not to take it literally, that it means a student was too hyper and was running around the classroom too much. Oooooooh, ok. So not <span style="font-style: italic;">literally</span> flying. Right. Totally knew that. This observation made me realize that in the American culture, we often think and speak quite literally compared to other cultures, and this causes me too think too literally sometimes. Duly noted.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Am7ljw2MtgWite7BF1oxoui0kgvM0GDi0oLGcL_X8BgyrDn1oN-P4vkR8Wgef94n5Iltj2kUnIa3aIAUm4x9Rm9TKTMyeByEq2rwPErsNRg2-QTPonubeT8QdiLPu66bvlRnhe8R80_6/s1600/IMG00250-20110527-1146.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Am7ljw2MtgWite7BF1oxoui0kgvM0GDi0oLGcL_X8BgyrDn1oN-P4vkR8Wgef94n5Iltj2kUnIa3aIAUm4x9Rm9TKTMyeByEq2rwPErsNRg2-QTPonubeT8QdiLPu66bvlRnhe8R80_6/s320/IMG00250-20110527-1146.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653791308379353362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Can you figure out what it is trying to say? Maybe the Russian translation is better than the English one!<br /></span></div><br />This, now THIS, made me want to laugh and cry all at the same time. It was located on the door of an extremely seedy, 24 hour casino/bar right down the street from my apartment, that I passed frequently. Worst. Translation. EVER. I must admit that some Czechs have fabulous English, surely even better than mine, but once you leave the city of Prague, English speakers are far and few between. This sign was definitely in Prague, and reminded me that Prague is in many ways still a very Czech city, with many of its older residents clueless in regards to English.<br /><br />Lastly, and maybe less significantly, how cool is this apple??<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-kZ5pbueEtdch9dctCUnTltTs4ct8oQ6J_JiTClEqE8PXTer-ai0SWyJTCOXFkeq-IrK9gIIg3pWxag-h365MuiDvkxSdXlsPfb8Bv3G0-pq9_LlxMoVqR0cxwQp2XLMRjd1Snxi91qw/s1600/IMG00149-20110121-0751.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-kZ5pbueEtdch9dctCUnTltTs4ct8oQ6J_JiTClEqE8PXTer-ai0SWyJTCOXFkeq-IrK9gIIg3pWxag-h365MuiDvkxSdXlsPfb8Bv3G0-pq9_LlxMoVqR0cxwQp2XLMRjd1Snxi91qw/s320/IMG00149-20110121-0751.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653786916720188578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">I've never been so excited about an apple in my life</span>.<br /></div>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-46769648502004202582010-12-20T08:47:00.000-08:002010-12-20T09:06:46.248-08:00I Love My MajorSomething happened today that made me feel...smart? Special? Or maybe stupid, and uncultured...<br /><br />I had just missed my tram to the center, it was one of those times where I saw it close its doors and drive away as I was approaching. I checked the schedule to find out that the next tram came in 10 minutes, and remembered there was another tram stop nearby that went to the center as well. I walked up to it, saw a tram there but wasn't sure if it was the right tram. Figuring it wasn't wise to hop on a tram that I couldn't be entirely sure was the right one, I watched it drive away as I ran up to check the schedule. Awesome, that was the right tram, and wouldn't come for another 10 minutes. So I walked back to my original spot as I figured that tram would come first.<br /><br />As I was waiting, a short, stout Czech woman came up to me. I would guess she was 70 years old. She asked me something in Czech, and I whipped out my customary " <span dir="ltr" id=":z6">nemluvím </span>cesky" (I don't speak Czech). She was very friendly, smiled, and said something else in Czech. I took an educated guess and decided that she was asking what language I speak. I told her <span dir="ltr" id=":z6">anglický</span> (English), and she shook her head. She raised her eyebrows and asked, "French?" I said no. She shrugged and started walking away. I decided to play the language game with her and show her that she isn't the only one who can speak more than one language. I said " <span dir="ltr" id=":z6">španělský" (Spanish) without much any expectation that she would speak Spanish. She turned around and said, "Ahhhh, muy bien." She then proceeded to tell me, in Spanish, that she wanted to know when the next tram to the center was arriving. I was in shock that she spoke what seemed to be perfect Spanish, albeit with a bad accent (not unlike my own!) I told her that it had come about 3 or 4 minutes ago.<br /><br />She thanked me and asked me if I was from Spain. I said no, but I lived there for a while and thus can speak Spanish. She said she lived in Quito, Ecuador with her husband because he worked in the embassy there. Well, it's a small world after all.<br /><br />My favorite part of this story is that an oldish woman in the Czech Republic speaks so many languages. I'm young and vibrant and can barely speak 2. Young Czech people are great at languages, but the older Czech people usually only speak Czech, and maybe German or Russian because that is what they used to teach in school. Secondly, here I am in Central Europe and my easiest way of communicating (sometimes) is in Spanish. Thirdly, I am so glad I missed those trams, because speaking in Spanish with that old Czech lady made my day.</span>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-69068363199811127792010-12-01T14:37:00.000-08:002010-12-01T15:02:04.767-08:00Blackboard IssuesWell, I teach English in a public school. During lunch time, I teach a short, 1 hour English class to a select few Czech students whose parents have decided they want to pay forward a bit of extra cash so their kids can learn English for 1 hour, twice a week. I teach in the classroom of a Czech teacher, and as I teach during the lunch hour, it's empty, apart from the teacher wandering in and out, eating her lunch, and grading papers. She is a very nice teacher, always says hello to me (in Czech of course) and even gave me a piece of banana bread once! However, she speaks no English. Literally, none. I have tried saying things in English to her, just to make casual conversation, because I definitely cannot do that in Czech, and there is an insurmountable language barrier between us. I deal with it; smiling and saying hello and goodbye will just have to suffice.<br /><br />However, I walk into the classroom one day and see this sign on the chalkboard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzAAY8rHTsXkJhiqhcCu3ETJ41mJBnbqHaBLYmufCW0CUQ0JqBGQdEVS5SdGUO19NmXG5aLtq3y2zhan6ZlLDerQiwuU6sfk8201nH3FpqUqmfs0JsYEYxdKuVGr73mUOO_BPo9XZa5qL/s1600/IMG00072-20101109-1148.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzAAY8rHTsXkJhiqhcCu3ETJ41mJBnbqHaBLYmufCW0CUQ0JqBGQdEVS5SdGUO19NmXG5aLtq3y2zhan6ZlLDerQiwuU6sfk8201nH3FpqUqmfs0JsYEYxdKuVGr73mUOO_BPo9XZa5qL/s320/IMG00072-20101109-1148.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545848306114196146" border="0" /></a><br />When I first see it, I stare at it. I didn't think it was for me, because I consider myself a generally courteous person - I would never use her board and then not clean it. But then I stared at it some more and realized that of COURSE it is meant for me, who else in that school speaks English?? None of the teachers speak English, except the young one on the opposite side of the building. This teacher must have done some serious Google Translating at home. I feel offended because I do indeed clean the board, so where is the problem?<br /><br />I continue as I always did, using the board and cleaning it after every lesson. Then, a couple weeks later, (last Friday to be exact), I had the good luck that one of the student's mothers (who speaks English!) dropped him off at the class. As I was chatting with her, the teacher walked up to me hastily and started going off in Czech. She seemed more worried than angry. After she finished talking I stared at her, then looked at the child's mother. I had an inkling that I knew what this rant was about, and I was correct. The mother explained that the teacher would like me to clean the board when I am done using it. I told the mother that I do indeed clean the board after every lesson. The mother translated for me and then the teacher told her that I don't clean it well, there are always streaks, and that I need to rinse out the eraser with water. I told the mother that I do, how else would I clean a blackboard? Anyway, this went on for a minute and I surrendered and said I will try harder. Quite frankly, I don't know what more I can do. Next week I will bring in some bleach and sandpaper and just go at it. Next paycheck, I'm buying this woman a whiteboard.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-24885007822007689602010-11-02T16:36:00.000-07:002010-11-02T16:45:52.355-07:00Locks in the CRLocks on doors in this country are strange. Now, most people wouldn't devote an entire blog entry to locks on doors, but apparently locks on doors are a subject close to my heart. Anyway, I'm not talking about locks on main doors. I'm talking about bathroom door locks. They are quite literally locks, with keys.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFvj9MxJ2mHAUwE8u-JVfrGzJxMLyMb9cAB5lt15ONNIPgWC6ebdtITXHHFDmVcQ0eFTuLSGdG-qdUroPXhyphenhyphenMvroCmM1J4UFQQDVpdq9RUWxp41eXBjHd1kaapOHtBUsA0NH108aaHomr/s1600/Door.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFvj9MxJ2mHAUwE8u-JVfrGzJxMLyMb9cAB5lt15ONNIPgWC6ebdtITXHHFDmVcQ0eFTuLSGdG-qdUroPXhyphenhyphenMvroCmM1J4UFQQDVpdq9RUWxp41eXBjHd1kaapOHtBUsA0NH108aaHomr/s320/Door.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535101389248786594" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I wouldn't complain, except they are not always as simple as one might hope. You turn the key to lock it, then turn it the other way to unlock it, and sometimes it doesn't open right away. I have never considered myself a particularly claustrophobic person, but when I am in a one square foot bathroom at a bar or even in my apartment and can't get out, my blood pressure starts to rise.<br /><br />In the school where I teach, a little girl locked herself in the bathroom; as in, she could not open the door and kept turning the key round and round with no success. She started crying and screaming hysterically in Czech, and I felt more than a little useless. Thank goodness, at that very moment her mother arrived to pick her up and ran up to the door and started speaking to her in Czech, and a few seconds later, after some more attempts of turning the key, she emerged tear-faced and shaking from the trauma.<br /><br />Some bathrooms, such as the one in this school, have a key in the lock that one must turn to lock and unlock the door. But, hypothetically, if I were crazy, I could easily lock the door, throw the key out the window of the bathroom, and be stuck in the bathroom. No one from outside the bathroom could save me, and my only means of getting out just flew out the window. The window is not big enough for a person to fit through. What would I do? How would I ever leave that bathroom without a fire squad coming in and saving me? Needless to say I have no plans of chucking the key out the window, I'm just saying, it is physically possible.<br /><br />Now, whatever happened to the door knob with the lovely little button that locks the door and unlocks when you simply turn the handle? I never thought I would miss something as simple as a door lock.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSlO-yhS-G9kni5qQINI-jO-oYZqXd2kGaVNMvCaNCyhm-gV8gPcWxU5YfnXaiCNJcezOiJ_LhmNo9_aVlylvjPo9o971cgDaKB5ofZUVV_KtdLQoxQsKKhYf0xXtMX5jcHN5mcNdjOK8/s1600/door-knob-lock.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSlO-yhS-G9kni5qQINI-jO-oYZqXd2kGaVNMvCaNCyhm-gV8gPcWxU5YfnXaiCNJcezOiJ_LhmNo9_aVlylvjPo9o971cgDaKB5ofZUVV_KtdLQoxQsKKhYf0xXtMX5jcHN5mcNdjOK8/s320/door-knob-lock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535099653740032674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Just to point out, not all bathroom doors are like this. Some have a metal bar that slides easily into a hole in the wall when you close the door, and opens equally as easy.<br /><br />Although, when going into a new bathroom in a bar, I always test the door before actually closing it. And if it is a weird lock, I just don't lock the door. I have indeed been walked in on quite a few times, but you know what, I prefer that over locking myself in an unknown bathroom in a noisy bar in a foreign country.<br /><br />In addition, I always always <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> bring my cell phone with me to the bathroom. Because ya just never know when you're not going to be able to return to your drink as quickly as you want to.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-9616901666251122942010-09-30T13:31:00.000-07:002010-09-30T13:41:28.165-07:00Czech AdsI love Google. That is to say, I like Google as much as I could probably like an inanimate object.<br /><br />However, I have recently been getting Czech advertisements on the side of my Gmail. So it's caught on that I'm in the Czech Republic, bravoooo! Too bad I don't speak Czech.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYl4jhDNqDigBq-E9dvGaWqrQ27P8i74dNcHisWKO472iqIT-__jgpARNu1C6WRryI2IVcU6LXhHKfn5KBM5BE2zNd2iS3uvGCexfByu6TI7dhyMXroviUAQR5p5wQV4qk9pDqouTVQXZ/s1600/pho_ft_czech_ad3Large.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYl4jhDNqDigBq-E9dvGaWqrQ27P8i74dNcHisWKO472iqIT-__jgpARNu1C6WRryI2IVcU6LXhHKfn5KBM5BE2zNd2iS3uvGCexfByu6TI7dhyMXroviUAQR5p5wQV4qk9pDqouTVQXZ/s320/pho_ft_czech_ad3Large.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522808182296441810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">That's great. Excuse me while I don't bother translating this. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">When advertisements are in a foreign language, I don't pay attention to them and they aren't so bothersome. Like my grandma who lost her sense of smell says, you might not be able to smell roses anymore, but you don't have to put up with odors either.<br /></div></div>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-41335639458116703682010-09-29T11:27:00.000-07:002010-09-29T12:03:33.873-07:00Language Barrier<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I came to the Czech Republic without any knowledge of Czech, and quite frankly, with little desire to learn it. I've heard it's a simple language in that prepositions are not used much and sentence construction is easy, but I've also heard that it is difficult because, well, it is nothing like English. Or Spanish. Auto means car, politika means politics, and that is where the similarities end. Learning this language would be the definition of starting at square one, and the knowledge of it will be useful for me for exactly one year. After that, its relevance disappears. For me, at least. To make up for my lack of Czech, which I do at times feel guilty about, especially when I see my friends trying to pick up a bit of Czech, I have been working on improving my Spanish vocabulary by reading Spanish books. Spanish is a language I already know a lot of and plan to use for the rest of my life, so for me, it has more utility.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">For these reasons, and probably more, I have not mustered up any interest in learning Czech, to which my trilingual German roommate snickered and stated that I am indeed a true American. I arrvived here without even knowing how to say hello, yes, or no, which, looking back, seems absurd to me now, considering how useful these words are. However, I came to Prague ethnocentrically thinking that more people would speak English than in reality really do.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I have picked up some useful words and phrases mostly because my survival instincts kicked in. Ano is yes. Ano is a lot of fun, because the way the Czechs pronounce it, it sounds like how I pronounce "I know" and so the rare times that I hear Czech people talking on their cell phones in public, when they answer the phone, to my untrained ears it sounds like they are stating to the caller that they know why they are calling. In addition, ano in Spanish means anus. Spanish is not my native language, so I try and imagine using the word "anus" in place of yes, and don't quite know how I would do it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Dobry den means good day, but it is used as hello here. Ahoj (pronounced ahoy) means hello, but is only used for close friends and family. Prosím (proseem) means please and here's the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">really </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">fun one: thank you is </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="result_box" class="short_text"><span style="" title="">děkuji. I still have to Google Translate this one to get the spelling. The first time I looked this up I listened to it a million times, but could not say it. The thing with </span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="result_box" class="short_text"><span style="" title="">děkuji is that every person in the Czech Republic has his or her own way of pronouncing it. When I first got here and heard everyone pronouncing this word, I thought there were 14 different ways to say thank you, but in reality, they are all the same word. I've adapted to saying you-kwee or yicky, but the ways of pronouncing it are endless.</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The "d" is silent, by the way, and "j" sounds like a y. At this point I don't ask why, I just try to accept.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Lastly, and most importantly, about a week ago I learned how to say "I don't speak Czech" in Czech. This is probably an oxymoron, because by saying this, I am indeed capable of speaking some Czech. I have had at least half a dozen people come up to me and ask me for directions, even when my headphones are in, to whom I have stared, removed my earplugs, and said slowly, in English, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Czech." I must look Czech to them, which is a major contrast to Spain, where people rarely asked me for directions because one glance was enough to tell them that I am not a native. This is some annoying irony because I can actually speak Spanish and, believe it or not, give directions, at least around Granada, where I have spent so much time, yet in the country where people do ask me directions, I can't speak the language. Store clerks and train ticket-checkers often say something to me, and I don't like smiling and shaking my head in a confused manner. So I decided to learn how to say: nemluvím česky (pronounced neh mloo veem chesky). After meeting a nice Czech girl who told me how to pronounce it correctly, I can now say it, um, decently, although far from like a native.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Knowing how to say this has been one of the best decisions I have made in this country. Czech people really appreciate when I speak their language, albeit a very pathetic and conversation-ending phrase. Instead of trying to decipher my English "I don't speak Czech," they know right away that I am a foreigner and don't have to waste time trying to figure out why I can't seem to communicate with them like a normal Czech person. For example, the ticket-checker on the train today said something to me, and I told her this phrase. She smiled, said something that was probably the Czech equivalent of okay, and left me alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I think I've hit the plateau of my Czech knowledge. I still need to learn good night and goodbye, but I'm in no rush. However, today I learned 6 new Spanish words from a Spanish newspaper. In conclusion, bilingual is just fine for me.</span>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-50959179857412236932010-09-18T12:38:00.002-07:002010-09-18T16:20:18.581-07:00Chimney ManThe other day something happened that has made me reflect and appreciate life a bit more. My boyfriend and I were sitting on the Prague subway chatting in Spanish and there was a man who seemed to be a manual laborer, perhaps even a hobo, with a gray one-piece suit on. As is par for the course, we had lost track of what stop we were at and started wondering out loud in English where exactly we were. Well, this man was sitting next to us and I could tell during the conversation that he was interested in what we were saying. He jumped into our conversation and told us in some broken English that the stop we were looking for hadn't arrived yet. He asked if we didn't mind, could we tell him what language we were speaking before we switched to English. We said Spanish, and he seemed satisfied with the answer. He said, "I make chimney man" which I quickly corrected (must be my inner English teacher) to be that he <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a chimney man, ahem, worker.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZn7gBtatt9_SIArIWl6Hq1gdfN2WcwuBhrbyCU336M52IkYt3AA7eHV34QuYhe8qE4JDGdveCgirTVBzsgITbc6ttbRpsNFnfgpo_bH960qke5pw3QStdUe7vhsG2ffsdv_8X9thfj2u5/s1600/chimney"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZn7gBtatt9_SIArIWl6Hq1gdfN2WcwuBhrbyCU336M52IkYt3AA7eHV34QuYhe8qE4JDGdveCgirTVBzsgITbc6ttbRpsNFnfgpo_bH960qke5pw3QStdUe7vhsG2ffsdv_8X9thfj2u5/s320/chimney" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518394964283186642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Something like this, minus the hat</span><br /></div><br />Normally, it seems that the Czech people that speak English work in higher paying jobs than the chimney sector. This made me think about how this man knew English...perhaps he learned it in school, perhaps he needs to speak it with his customers, or perhaps he has an interest in English and has managed to pick up some of the language himself. I feel bad for him though - it seems that he is a bit stuck in his job. Is he happy being a chimney man? Can he work in another job if he wants to? He speaks some English, so could he move to an English-speaking country if he wanted to, to work? I assume that being a chimney man does not pay very well, and I ask myself what options he has in his life.<br /><br />All of which makes me grateful for the options that I have in my life, for the fact that I have flexibility in where I live and in what I do. Who knows, maybe he is happy "making chimney man" in his life and wouldn't trade it for all the jobs in English in the world. I shouldn't push my thoughts into his head. His head is not mine, and after all, we probably think differently.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-41985351959987424942010-09-03T10:26:00.000-07:002010-09-04T12:44:48.528-07:00Prague in PicturesEver wanted to see Prague without actually having to move from your couch? I decided to make the effort and do it for you. You're welcome.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdRAteI8sdIi-G_M6PcMP0Ahgm1_lNK0sp6lYgmwAAClgRnDskweTvPJ2hFJoyf4CL08qIaat89VtGNt_tB8v_QuvLP5BGsWxA0v5eUmgI6TPffYU21Vphe2KaVjxRaEmLhfyacjGjw_f/s1600/IMG_5829.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdRAteI8sdIi-G_M6PcMP0Ahgm1_lNK0sp6lYgmwAAClgRnDskweTvPJ2hFJoyf4CL08qIaat89VtGNt_tB8v_QuvLP5BGsWxA0v5eUmgI6TPffYU21Vphe2KaVjxRaEmLhfyacjGjw_f/s320/IMG_5829.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509030412463410018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Wenceslas Square<br /><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMRtPQ-_-o7zHlGyp_lQt6-almlWfHuW7hWASku67QwLJCRtXpo20-KZS4JFbit8KA9VdoOAmyoH684GrVD5j_T_gW_FpvCfC3EyfCW3R5PHNUMv7ktJW_g6b8bOXAil1D4fVYJKUvOus/s1600/IMG_5830.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMRtPQ-_-o7zHlGyp_lQt6-almlWfHuW7hWASku67QwLJCRtXpo20-KZS4JFbit8KA9VdoOAmyoH684GrVD5j_T_gW_FpvCfC3EyfCW3R5PHNUMv7ktJW_g6b8bOXAil1D4fVYJKUvOus/s320/IMG_5830.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509030841019840642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Oh good, McDonald's has reached Prague. I was worried there for a minute.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPb7L_AWUXALZy401u85jo26NqX4_9XpgnvtH8UFnbohojKwZmYqgQ-x9VFWzISbOGoajdNI61HZusjYEg3zQ4l3YhAeui5FFTMlFQwnQkN2M53ndoeqdJ44d9E3saGuR8g0YdRZlfRElj/s1600/IMG_5840.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPb7L_AWUXALZy401u85jo26NqX4_9XpgnvtH8UFnbohojKwZmYqgQ-x9VFWzISbOGoajdNI61HZusjYEg3zQ4l3YhAeui5FFTMlFQwnQkN2M53ndoeqdJ44d9E3saGuR8g0YdRZlfRElj/s320/IMG_5840.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031337701770802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A cathedral, I'm still working on learning names...<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8PBFnSlL69S6iADpBM1CPDvdab_Hcl3F8HCXFWn5BADtY2O_ZN03DSXIlAyrWNIRrFLRGPJ9foatNHbrN8iKPiWVFbdQG4EO7m1A7lWd67FN1Eu08rOk4J0MWBorPLgedC1ZVVuU-Oab/s1600/IMG_5839.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8PBFnSlL69S6iADpBM1CPDvdab_Hcl3F8HCXFWn5BADtY2O_ZN03DSXIlAyrWNIRrFLRGPJ9foatNHbrN8iKPiWVFbdQG4EO7m1A7lWd67FN1Eu08rOk4J0MWBorPLgedC1ZVVuU-Oab/s320/IMG_5839.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031271671091202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Apparently people get married on Tuesdays in Prague<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlViHOeoGbJ27R_0IEuRqDnJTOx42vy2qmrPXK1Oal862IDHQDsp-9SRqO2nU-8F_CVHuRgivjGQW5as4ISvCm82lFCWXW8_kJ7ASDgwIDCQ8H40J3bnfQ7DfSF5ghSrZjkVkIbzgBg2E5/s1600/IMG_5841.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlViHOeoGbJ27R_0IEuRqDnJTOx42vy2qmrPXK1Oal862IDHQDsp-9SRqO2nU-8F_CVHuRgivjGQW5as4ISvCm82lFCWXW8_kJ7ASDgwIDCQ8H40J3bnfQ7DfSF5ghSrZjkVkIbzgBg2E5/s320/IMG_5841.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031417371722866" border="0" /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Old Town Square</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAf5hmulP_JaGwaq1-gkYwaKpMKyJxbj0cvS8FbbTEVJQYzgnbe0AhOVgD5VSUszgI1OmGt0UpviATGIk_5PMzMa00LPn1U5vARMdGHKXSDRHHZTKwN2WG9nQowBXkyuYbrQgDfisasmM/s1600/IMG_5850.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAf5hmulP_JaGwaq1-gkYwaKpMKyJxbj0cvS8FbbTEVJQYzgnbe0AhOVgD5VSUszgI1OmGt0UpviATGIk_5PMzMa00LPn1U5vARMdGHKXSDRHHZTKwN2WG9nQowBXkyuYbrQgDfisasmM/s320/IMG_5850.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509032016269012386" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Horses in Old Town Square</span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4HmN0Lp-wXV6zMEq-0hwzpRls-6gw5RjQEysoEz6_lJJCoMkIMxyCmLgjJYsvpzh8PfQ2SP9kpJ4Oetz9vQNdxIOMU5W_JAYkIiJWRowwXzGh1aXZTb7cbW69Ehl-CURMx1eKpTeYZ5z/s1600/IMG_5848.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4HmN0Lp-wXV6zMEq-0hwzpRls-6gw5RjQEysoEz6_lJJCoMkIMxyCmLgjJYsvpzh8PfQ2SP9kpJ4Oetz9vQNdxIOMU5W_JAYkIiJWRowwXzGh1aXZTb7cbW69Ehl-CURMx1eKpTeYZ5z/s320/IMG_5848.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031941264270146" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Um, statues in Old Town Square<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPpIxwUTQ-1RGBxn8FhKqoYqjXnbS04lK9Z_aKDkHciV2oVvelsXnVp4_DKuMnBXZNlwn2ncO7ZpGNGlB5rJKfp6Pfl6vebU1tfTjoHXvS0K3vluhObiFgIguvTCk11zDBRjrCdv1v7B_/s1600/IMG_5842.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPpIxwUTQ-1RGBxn8FhKqoYqjXnbS04lK9Z_aKDkHciV2oVvelsXnVp4_DKuMnBXZNlwn2ncO7ZpGNGlB5rJKfp6Pfl6vebU1tfTjoHXvS0K3vluhObiFgIguvTCk11zDBRjrCdv1v7B_/s320/IMG_5842.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031728115172034" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">What appears to be a cathedral<br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlViHOeoGbJ27R_0IEuRqDnJTOx42vy2qmrPXK1Oal862IDHQDsp-9SRqO2nU-8F_CVHuRgivjGQW5as4ISvCm82lFCWXW8_kJ7ASDgwIDCQ8H40J3bnfQ7DfSF5ghSrZjkVkIbzgBg2E5/s1600/IMG_5841.jpg"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscaHQ4CUnOcBVmp0ofpKpz116COxHMehS_lECbE7irzQ_RL2ypNvqzCV4GFU722mb7Oaw4dz4FyWiw3qJWbU55ai5H2zfJkJ3HxlbySFfNZlLlh0evRah6nCitt_ili_JfJMHKPEtPxry/s1600/IMG_5835.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscaHQ4CUnOcBVmp0ofpKpz116COxHMehS_lECbE7irzQ_RL2ypNvqzCV4GFU722mb7Oaw4dz4FyWiw3qJWbU55ai5H2zfJkJ3HxlbySFfNZlLlh0evRah6nCitt_ili_JfJMHKPEtPxry/s320/IMG_5835.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031083253562610" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A nice summer market</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLow5sks5Ekp6P0uy4UzKj3qntalrTvw5R-WFj83m-GlgVCfBoeDBsp7KON8xFtFIpQ_u5XAijinMYWtv3s4OKsbXpmRlrBR1lfG3keKyn22q4EFHtMSWYremhSe1OMoVkbf8HREx3rqNY/s1600/IMG_5833.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLow5sks5Ekp6P0uy4UzKj3qntalrTvw5R-WFj83m-GlgVCfBoeDBsp7KON8xFtFIpQ_u5XAijinMYWtv3s4OKsbXpmRlrBR1lfG3keKyn22q4EFHtMSWYremhSe1OMoVkbf8HREx3rqNY/s320/IMG_5833.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509031002091293970" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A bridge<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTE30xZAh9PiX8fJDzVNlGKeIAsceRCGThJd7Na3JpGZ6KTwmMqEzgxV3PNqF5Zpbj1P-M-UdEx6zJ5svaVA5cpbTve-1FTsv0YKU_JhtTCtvn8uX1RJ-gOftGNlTBnSdC6uObPq_EjJ0y/s1600/IMG_5852.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTE30xZAh9PiX8fJDzVNlGKeIAsceRCGThJd7Na3JpGZ6KTwmMqEzgxV3PNqF5Zpbj1P-M-UdEx6zJ5svaVA5cpbTve-1FTsv0YKU_JhtTCtvn8uX1RJ-gOftGNlTBnSdC6uObPq_EjJ0y/s320/IMG_5852.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509035327283881938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Meat<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1O7q_3WjYFDwamGbbiOOK85GmnTDYLjS4lSpzeuUyWVX5sAd8MfsoaWM6_Hp6j34ZTIyheCCNJn-Z9lFN7NY2N4s2Vjg27pBTABjakFizNhJe65hpdj3F0RcZusuDIC97liYPNsL4Nor/s1600/IMG_5858.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1O7q_3WjYFDwamGbbiOOK85GmnTDYLjS4lSpzeuUyWVX5sAd8MfsoaWM6_Hp6j34ZTIyheCCNJn-Z9lFN7NY2N4s2Vjg27pBTABjakFizNhJe65hpdj3F0RcZusuDIC97liYPNsL4Nor/s320/IMG_5858.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509032100729099794" border="0" /></a>???<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The following pictures are <span style="font-size:100%;">views from Charles Bridge on a beautiful, 70 (ahem, 21 degrees Celsius) degree Saturday afternoon.<br /><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuN9ax3ZA17iOTrnldVm6S6PUiJrMTkqbeil3It7rJFrhyphenhyphenpyT288z5to1EdUGGaOzvVhfcX83iMH9J_VOpGaRuf_5hGQ_iPiXgSHnVrMtN2QrGdNlsc9a44k-WdU7in02kKlQXwERZLUkQ/s1600/IMG_5917.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuN9ax3ZA17iOTrnldVm6S6PUiJrMTkqbeil3It7rJFrhyphenhyphenpyT288z5to1EdUGGaOzvVhfcX83iMH9J_VOpGaRuf_5hGQ_iPiXgSHnVrMtN2QrGdNlsc9a44k-WdU7in02kKlQXwERZLUkQ/s320/IMG_5917.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513114888254676450" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuN9ax3ZA17iOTrnldVm6S6PUiJrMTkqbeil3It7rJFrhyphenhyphenpyT288z5to1EdUGGaOzvVhfcX83iMH9J_VOpGaRuf_5hGQ_iPiXgSHnVrMtN2QrGdNlsc9a44k-WdU7in02kKlQXwERZLUkQ/s1600/IMG_5917.JPG"><br /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The entrance from a distance</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNTN4oShAmMaaVLRyfJ79B3vhyphenhyphenxiIKCOSL_nmCoaIFWmMSLksmhoWc_OKmaeb8janFVcr95TFCn3vK9Lmo_PNvhR6ohn5KB_yJm2c-rPn2Dg8HI9D7rA1YP1KTZezLOMzFa6ltshCHGSG/s1600/IMG_5920.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNTN4oShAmMaaVLRyfJ79B3vhyphenhyphenxiIKCOSL_nmCoaIFWmMSLksmhoWc_OKmaeb8janFVcr95TFCn3vK9Lmo_PNvhR6ohn5KB_yJm2c-rPn2Dg8HI9D7rA1YP1KTZezLOMzFa6ltshCHGSG/s320/IMG_5920.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513115048951022002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The entrance close up</span><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGrvH4h65bNeE8oEWLg3e1BjCrWSz7Jm54eAOW-l1Ne1OLVB4Rbjk0rQ1nrIFJXtC0pccqYWtK1duLaDUiKdqmRY0GFLggVsXbJNdE4nJTyU5WrFRpSH2rcrmwIAf7kJtXutVMeBMDpwF/s1600/IMG_5912.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGrvH4h65bNeE8oEWLg3e1BjCrWSz7Jm54eAOW-l1Ne1OLVB4Rbjk0rQ1nrIFJXtC0pccqYWtK1duLaDUiKdqmRY0GFLggVsXbJNdE4nJTyU5WrFRpSH2rcrmwIAf7kJtXutVMeBMDpwF/s320/IMG_5912.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513113738844702946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">I heard more English on this bridge than I've heard in my whole time here in Prague</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWTh1F0nrFywcN-PmniVxnatxTxq-EiknssP9XPxJALur6FeiEpGEHvCz6lWvQfDWkYkhfNLLCpZ9WXtjT9i_AgklUmkfzXvIKXuK9zRaPRAhDlrqJGwfCZqpbyEolC8Jtf7WfxICy34S/s1600/IMG_5879.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWTh1F0nrFywcN-PmniVxnatxTxq-EiknssP9XPxJALur6FeiEpGEHvCz6lWvQfDWkYkhfNLLCpZ9WXtjT9i_AgklUmkfzXvIKXuK9zRaPRAhDlrqJGwfCZqpbyEolC8Jtf7WfxICy34S/s320/IMG_5879.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513110018171052786" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcQctkS_D5iFE9VCsCwUScv_tpc679LaIKMbPWhMQCvAS4I2ncysinr5onNBiFthWlD_u4WVlWJp471cKxUgpGGP5EPUrzdSbeQLkPrRXdL1KXazPQQAZFIYzIjhwran2fWOcsIKUQDSd/s1600/IMG_5877.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcQctkS_D5iFE9VCsCwUScv_tpc679LaIKMbPWhMQCvAS4I2ncysinr5onNBiFthWlD_u4WVlWJp471cKxUgpGGP5EPUrzdSbeQLkPrRXdL1KXazPQQAZFIYzIjhwran2fWOcsIKUQDSd/s320/IMG_5877.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513109612371771874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Someone's beautiful balcony garden</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQ9vFRkKZG1YNSYFGLAimztTAZduDSwP5_VwiHgCTOLqvJp4WgCQccEHSe8BplJmRjXpz9kfwM-NlnyDJRYfRasAsEW1PZHHzy52CMmT7B-dLMyrzIB0HGZKIaM8iIhKGZ14_jdE1tenL/s1600/IMG_5876.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQ9vFRkKZG1YNSYFGLAimztTAZduDSwP5_VwiHgCTOLqvJp4WgCQccEHSe8BplJmRjXpz9kfwM-NlnyDJRYfRasAsEW1PZHHzy52CMmT7B-dLMyrzIB0HGZKIaM8iIhKGZ14_jdE1tenL/s320/IMG_5876.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513109327967251778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Adorable river-side café where I want to eat. One day...</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_oK9DcZ8C62Nn007czy6A-C_-mBpqioc-tAL0abmoEEklNXfQRDA7I2TyfUEdwblclzzvu2JsryDdCScVE1Ogx5thTXnIIgN1QnZAtXTKAMf3tO1VcTq3Y2w2eRn8FWIYhfiI6fbALfZ5/s1600/IMG_5875.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_oK9DcZ8C62Nn007czy6A-C_-mBpqioc-tAL0abmoEEklNXfQRDA7I2TyfUEdwblclzzvu2JsryDdCScVE1Ogx5thTXnIIgN1QnZAtXTKAMf3tO1VcTq3Y2w2eRn8FWIYhfiI6fbALfZ5/s320/IMG_5875.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513109106546692578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Looks like Venice!<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbUFOM9W2rdoZkBKo1sc3JVBDRHotqUoyasc_cV008XqMrskMPJwUbWXwM14xCE1cd0-keNTEH_ufTZ2UCJcnPMg0xssCIA8rBvPwP6bgIZK_HAGLd2b4m4US-dHU5JL-RsUezQ_eFIQa/s1600/IMG_5903.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbUFOM9W2rdoZkBKo1sc3JVBDRHotqUoyasc_cV008XqMrskMPJwUbWXwM14xCE1cd0-keNTEH_ufTZ2UCJcnPMg0xssCIA8rBvPwP6bgIZK_HAGLd2b4m4US-dHU5JL-RsUezQ_eFIQa/s320/IMG_5903.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513113980700256626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">I really think the hot air balloon adds so much to this picture<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBqRr_6cEuB9E2VDpR-84voTqH6L4BrRpXAoU5-RXxCZ9M64Z8KYccrx6O1Xu8r3rexcG-wV4aerQoEe2fUyp22ju0jU2ebyg4F9cy1UsXM7LDJA0MibPKkWgk-5yU-rFizdI-B-PWJK/s1600/IMG_5902.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBqRr_6cEuB9E2VDpR-84voTqH6L4BrRpXAoU5-RXxCZ9M64Z8KYccrx6O1Xu8r3rexcG-wV4aerQoEe2fUyp22ju0jU2ebyg4F9cy1UsXM7LDJA0MibPKkWgk-5yU-rFizdI-B-PWJK/s320/IMG_5902.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513113385877358626" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2z1lpG1RfFw_yFgbham5CHOgJfzRyXZQbPHLFLK6AuQhQ9pEcjGm0wUuDAlmC4u9Y21G1XAbvGrDfDxqyJWpdLdL2NjoVhN03FJ_g2bqNxtMZmIjZLpn757WgQeYqSxZkr9F6MI7CfBW/s1600/IMG_5901.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2z1lpG1RfFw_yFgbham5CHOgJfzRyXZQbPHLFLK6AuQhQ9pEcjGm0wUuDAlmC4u9Y21G1XAbvGrDfDxqyJWpdLdL2NjoVhN03FJ_g2bqNxtMZmIjZLpn757WgQeYqSxZkr9F6MI7CfBW/s320/IMG_5901.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513113196611796418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNvpH7qYVEO2oYYJGXWJApxZHVIqN204whwHWTGSoKdoJnCV6d8ez3_QEBMUATctYsBXjPuBJWuofe77-nN7f89rgfVEip731Yl47RB9BD0gorTlLsrcwIpdEh4ZKrNprMtEOrbgnvsPe/s1600/IMG_5891.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNvpH7qYVEO2oYYJGXWJApxZHVIqN204whwHWTGSoKdoJnCV6d8ez3_QEBMUATctYsBXjPuBJWuofe77-nN7f89rgfVEip731Yl47RB9BD0gorTlLsrcwIpdEh4ZKrNprMtEOrbgnvsPe/s320/IMG_5891.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513111306424501170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The other end of the Charles Bridge<br /><br /></span></div><br />Ok, you just virtually crossed the Charles Bridge. Congratulations! Now, no more vistas from the Charles Bridge. Just<span style="font-style: italic;"> of</span> the bridge :)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOnonl-yB6bJpeCdTtczdFXfdshY7vAVjxIuoA__M37HRAqsox31zrTjOd8g1Sz4X-TO1TBnUefHUhOgiXxjne8RFPhVuHm6wQBnZBghBiktQi_Xmya-jczVccz5a_9WNuS7xVIIYdLwX/s1600/IMG_5898.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOnonl-yB6bJpeCdTtczdFXfdshY7vAVjxIuoA__M37HRAqsox31zrTjOd8g1Sz4X-TO1TBnUefHUhOgiXxjne8RFPhVuHm6wQBnZBghBiktQi_Xmya-jczVccz5a_9WNuS7xVIIYdLwX/s320/IMG_5898.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513112777597119026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A park near Charles Bridge<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbPZyap4nXVEujMS_yUbaHE2END93rAplB0P_RMua9QJdyg8IwzktWA2s5AQwaj8ohOWml8mI4it6w_zayJhx508ZnT7FA1BGmwBiB-LfxXMqcLAiHyESKOJrlZrx5DlOOimps2wm5PFF/s1600/IMG_5897.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbPZyap4nXVEujMS_yUbaHE2END93rAplB0P_RMua9QJdyg8IwzktWA2s5AQwaj8ohOWml8mI4it6w_zayJhx508ZnT7FA1BGmwBiB-LfxXMqcLAiHyESKOJrlZrx5DlOOimps2wm5PFF/s320/IMG_5897.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513112406892282594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">So green!<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrgE5UDgvOn3MA5klDAB6YJqgVlGcj5S595P6Fj9eQKUNNM6TXmOb3ytgATubgwsZSPVx4Mqqdi7DG3ZGFyPQovwDKj0_yBLjq57PQmZDBLzNNmI8tm5y31nqwTOIg3IsFREXA9es79ok/s1600/IMG_5894.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrgE5UDgvOn3MA5klDAB6YJqgVlGcj5S595P6Fj9eQKUNNM6TXmOb3ytgATubgwsZSPVx4Mqqdi7DG3ZGFyPQovwDKj0_yBLjq57PQmZDBLzNNmI8tm5y31nqwTOIg3IsFREXA9es79ok/s320/IMG_5894.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513111960478181442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">View of the Charles Bridge<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvWo2-FmHHRau3uMsKOdlhmwDJdXDZcRbJtcG9BIS3uPXJacU9JhAXYF_Vf3ORwSOO7hqXJfWdqz0wLjYL6kcvu1jxPseLeDxLbdHmN82PEHYaOfVOPNeqykEQ353QUiE88eT1ZcD5mmSS/s1600/IMG_5895.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvWo2-FmHHRau3uMsKOdlhmwDJdXDZcRbJtcG9BIS3uPXJacU9JhAXYF_Vf3ORwSOO7hqXJfWdqz0wLjYL6kcvu1jxPseLeDxLbdHmN82PEHYaOfVOPNeqykEQ353QUiE88eT1ZcD5mmSS/s320/IMG_5895.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513112154187720386" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Again<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippe4KCDYqRb7A6R3vw2IM-4BPTEUKYJsEqr-LrgGRNxIfWg7CWHhJPx8nhsOKpY42Glgehjo7u4MF3pP7K5dw99LsQX99s0COBl_LJWbog0YtE1emNWccFLDj26i1zKL888ugx3NG_6e6/s1600/IMG_5893.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippe4KCDYqRb7A6R3vw2IM-4BPTEUKYJsEqr-LrgGRNxIfWg7CWHhJPx8nhsOKpY42Glgehjo7u4MF3pP7K5dw99LsQX99s0COBl_LJWbog0YtE1emNWccFLDj26i1zKL888ugx3NG_6e6/s320/IMG_5893.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513111802704650802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A plaza off of Charles Bridge</span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFx80Qm-OT0pPUJHT_a4irHQKyK_sUCMKoFLC6bIHpTTGWvrEod4RJkZxDmwnAXBf53picjE27RF3cnObKmMYM8qq_4tM9HGdNMgmyMHTKrwYfZYryEU8arRb7QfKOseFCTQ7mlHZchOBs/s1600/IMG_5892.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFx80Qm-OT0pPUJHT_a4irHQKyK_sUCMKoFLC6bIHpTTGWvrEod4RJkZxDmwnAXBf53picjE27RF3cnObKmMYM8qq_4tM9HGdNMgmyMHTKrwYfZYryEU8arRb7QfKOseFCTQ7mlHZchOBs/s320/IMG_5892.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513111562141968978" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLh5Ga2-mmVlU5dTO-bbMCW4IjAB8gRu7yCOFiVzavcRSyW-yUqcsXw70OsioK5YHSG5G4WdkuWcxd2jxGOxy-nrUq6UAdIxp8DYBcFEVJF84zMcv3TBhq7T2exwt7tZBi4xUTSsIZXhm/s1600/IMG_5888.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLh5Ga2-mmVlU5dTO-bbMCW4IjAB8gRu7yCOFiVzavcRSyW-yUqcsXw70OsioK5YHSG5G4WdkuWcxd2jxGOxy-nrUq6UAdIxp8DYBcFEVJF84zMcv3TBhq7T2exwt7tZBi4xUTSsIZXhm/s320/IMG_5888.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513111097967221538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gZbgT0Qj5CSC0jWl7_cVx2QCKa06gHR9oHiqiYazAOGrBsikvG-LFx-cLOAz4ry8cfPNbj1ME62XJ039Y7iohg5D7iNDGUwqv_JFs3_24RoZhKzGMkHJi4JP7iC2fypozAUnWky-4GtO/s1600/IMG_5885.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gZbgT0Qj5CSC0jWl7_cVx2QCKa06gHR9oHiqiYazAOGrBsikvG-LFx-cLOAz4ry8cfPNbj1ME62XJ039Y7iohg5D7iNDGUwqv_JFs3_24RoZhKzGMkHJi4JP7iC2fypozAUnWky-4GtO/s320/IMG_5885.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513110845384111778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcTcy8lj7SRc1iRdTScR6wxDxthzUlgkZx_Ia9pyJV-soBUfPYwmQRdo0Nauu-HLMqxEUAR8qsXWlwH3OqZ_DN2TrRfjxgCHkesRYYnx2qOs2kZJHeDcQNIoGxW_a6dNb9YnU_08UvAeMG/s1600/IMG_5880.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcTcy8lj7SRc1iRdTScR6wxDxthzUlgkZx_Ia9pyJV-soBUfPYwmQRdo0Nauu-HLMqxEUAR8qsXWlwH3OqZ_DN2TrRfjxgCHkesRYYnx2qOs2kZJHeDcQNIoGxW_a6dNb9YnU_08UvAeMG/s320/IMG_5880.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513110400737779090" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Another bridge<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0H5S8MhJrqbEd4LfpjWMwZOVdh1mG7BLWHESlORDo6PAf7tHDUyOvrvsDUv_cXRwVwTDm9uXVtxiVAH8-mtShGRcPeXe3LzLAdIXt5TmuWXhVruYtAUaleIUgqnbDrNljMB5R14PVoAM/s1600/IMG_5873.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0H5S8MhJrqbEd4LfpjWMwZOVdh1mG7BLWHESlORDo6PAf7tHDUyOvrvsDUv_cXRwVwTDm9uXVtxiVAH8-mtShGRcPeXe3LzLAdIXt5TmuWXhVruYtAUaleIUgqnbDrNljMB5R14PVoAM/s320/IMG_5873.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513108165680143282" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A restaurant's menu at the entrance of Charles Bridge. I'll pass. And what's pork knuckle? That can't be too tender.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMHwdo8nmjNXrfIIslGkLc3_2vSddwrlwbOOjXYR9Z5XeZOltV4a9BwPaVg4VWANTVV9mVeeHdNtV_QJqCOYPXt2vp40NsPgYcb0mFE7ePrEZF2JpEChea3remv4hbqkWQgDsqPEioLD_/s1600/IMG_5871.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMHwdo8nmjNXrfIIslGkLc3_2vSddwrlwbOOjXYR9Z5XeZOltV4a9BwPaVg4VWANTVV9mVeeHdNtV_QJqCOYPXt2vp40NsPgYcb0mFE7ePrEZF2JpEChea3remv4hbqkWQgDsqPEioLD_/s320/IMG_5871.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513107318195557714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Malostranksa Square<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Well, that's Prague in a nutshell! </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Once I discover more of the city I will have a lot of other exciting pictures, but these are the really popular, touristy sights of the city. </span>Enjoy!<br /></div></div>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-16987578099148274372010-08-31T06:51:00.000-07:002010-08-31T07:38:02.211-07:00How do you say "FML" in Czech?Adjustment to life in Prague has been smooth, for the most part, with the exceptions of some turbulent bumps. I needed to register in the Foreign Police office, as I am a foreigner. In the first meeting with my new boss, she told me to go register myself and that the people in the office would speak a bit of English. I went straight from my meeting with her to the Foreign Police office. As soon as I entered I had a feeling that something was not going to go right. First of all, I had an inkling that the 65 year old, obese man behind the "Informace" (Information) desk where I got in line just <span style="font-style: italic;">might </span>not know any English. I waited in line to speak to him, and lo and behold, English, not so much. I handed him my passport and what my boss had written in Czech to get the point across of what it was I needed. He looked at my passport, smiled, and said American, eh? I only know this because American in Czech is americky, not too hard to figure out. He then went on to make what I can only imagine to be a snide comment, snickered, and handed me the passport back. He then said a few sentences in Czech, looked at me, and figured out I had not even the slightest clue what he just said. He then directed himself to the line and asked if anyone spoke English. Fortunately, a guy in the line did speak English and told me I needed to go to another office on a different floor than this office. He then proceeded to tell me the name of the office I was to go to, to which I pleaded he write down the horrendous, 57 syllable name of whatever office he just said. At that very moment, another worker at the office happened to pass by and the guy behind the counter asked her to show me where to go.<br /><br />We walked to another building very close by, and at the door she signaled where I was to go and said everything in Czech, of course. The only reason I knew where to go was because the English speaking guy said 3rd floor, and this lady pointed to the left at the end of the hall. Using these clues, I made it with no problem to the actual Foreign Police office. I went to the computer that generated tickets. It was in English and Czech! This was a good sign; I relaxed. I figured out what I needed in English and printed the ticket, which was in Czech. I waited about 15 minutes and when they called me up I showed the lady my ticket and gave her my passport. She looked at them and then said things to me in Czech. As is my usual feeble response, I shrugged my shoulders and said "English?" She gave my passport back to me and the only English she then said was "You must speak Czech." After a moment of confusion, I asked if there was someone in the office who did speak English. She shook her head and said no. I was flabbergasted. This was the Foreign Police office. Surely they deal with English speaking immigrants on a daily basis, and no one in the office speaks English???<br /><br />Before arriving to the Czech Republic, if I had to guess one place in the whole country that would speak English, I would guess the Foreign Office in the capital, A.K.A. Prague. After living here for a few days, I can now tell you that your best bet for English is the bank, pharmacy, and post office. The places where I would expect some level of English, like the Foreign Police office and the ticket booth for public transportation, are a bit lacking.<br /><br />Anyway, all's well that ends well. Lesson learned. I came to Prague for excitement, right? Well, excitement I got!Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-62551392406551444992010-08-24T10:15:00.000-07:002010-08-30T13:05:49.398-07:00Arrival to PragueI’m in Prague! It’s been a stressful journey because Prague does not feel anything like home to me. In the past when I have crossed the Atlantic it has been to go to England to visit my family or to Spain to visit my boyfriend, and in both locations I always feel very comfortable and can speak the language. However, in the Czech Republic, I know no one, do not speak the language, and, well, do I need any more reasons?? However, Prague definitely has its redeeming qualities. Firstly, my boyfriend is also moving to Prague, and he is my main motivation for moving here. Secondly, I have attained a job teaching English, which is something I have always wanted to do after graduating from college. Thirdly, I have heard nothing but wonderful things about Prague. I have talked to a handful of people who have visited, studied, or worked in Prague, and all have told me that they are just <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> incredibly jealous of me and will just <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> to come visit me while I’m there. So, I figured I can’t go wrong by moving to a city that all its visitors want to return to. According to them, and I will be confirming or rejecting this in a future entry according to my judgments, it is a beautiful, inexpensive city with incredible architecture, great nightlife, and fabulous public transportation. What can beat that? So making the decision to come here wasn’t much of a difficulty.<br /><br />The major inconvenience for me in the Czech Republic is the language. I'm going to try not to be blatantly ethnocentric, but everything is in Czech! <span style="font-style: italic;">What</span> is that about? I realize that it is the Czech Republic, and there is English occasionally on signs, like in the subway. But unless the food is an English brand, food in the supermarket is in Czech, so I spend a great deal of time eying food and reading Czech nutritional facts. So far I've learned fiber, calcium, fat, and protein. I'd translate them here but I've forgotten them already.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM5X1JNXfiFTwD7Gb4-wp6nora115IGCY7vfY31pYmRSml7YRGMzhYd1lpvnNFe03JGmt9LfmbhNJEr2-RuVL3M86lDIrCZKRHllym-xxYHHIIXdGFF-BJJNuGfNSVvlgd3ykkyDJnd2w/s1600/IMG_5862.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM5X1JNXfiFTwD7Gb4-wp6nora115IGCY7vfY31pYmRSml7YRGMzhYd1lpvnNFe03JGmt9LfmbhNJEr2-RuVL3M86lDIrCZKRHllym-xxYHHIIXdGFF-BJJNuGfNSVvlgd3ykkyDJnd2w/s320/IMG_5862.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511295720316448290" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">You knew there'd be a picture of milk in my blog. Notice there is nothing about skim, semi-skimmed, or anything. And the words in Czech on the front are not related to the fat content. I figured out that you need to look on the top of the carton for a percentage, A.K.A. fat content. Duly noted.<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyr02SnnwQWE1DWL-C3bsG-O9ZF3Q_x11zb7CQtvirkSYci4vRvMeSDIIreYv0jYSle2ZayQ1k7mkJ4xgygt6_5AOOPZMKSBc4AYke0CsxbtepI6xjyK_64oTogWv3trxqeKVuIzr55PiE/s1600/IMG_5864.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyr02SnnwQWE1DWL-C3bsG-O9ZF3Q_x11zb7CQtvirkSYci4vRvMeSDIIreYv0jYSle2ZayQ1k7mkJ4xgygt6_5AOOPZMKSBc4AYke0CsxbtepI6xjyK_64oTogWv3trxqeKVuIzr55PiE/s320/IMG_5864.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511295854141346978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">And here is the cereal I buy, with clear directions on the complex process of pouring cereal into a bowl, followed by the milk. The words above the picture say "Instructions for Preparation."</span><br /></div><br />Oh, one more important thing to mention about the Czech Republic: the diet. As you’ll know from previous entries, it’s safe to say that I am a relatively picky eater, and do not eat meat or foods loaded with empty calories, generally. According to Lonely Planet’s guide book to Prague, the Czech diet is a “cardiologist’s nightmare.” Meat, dumplings, meat, goulash, fried cheese, wilted lettuce, with a side of meat. I have, however, read up on some vegetarian restaurants that I will be patronizing with frequency. But anyway, maybe this is a sign that I should start sharpening up my culinary skills and actually step foot into the kitchen to do something other than looking for snacks. Looks like it’s going to be a lot of boiled veggies and whole grain rice for a while.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-43707430910092334632010-08-24T10:11:00.000-07:002010-08-27T15:59:54.307-07:00Change of SceneryI love the USA, I really do. I think it has a lot of great qualities, and it will always be my home first and foremost. The more I compare America and Europe, the more I think about how different they are. I am very happy in both places, but when I compare them, I start to see imperfections in America that I never noticed before. Until I studied in Spain when I was 20 years old, I thought America was perfect. I was quite happy with where my life was headed – I was an undergraduate student studying Spanish and enjoying college life. However, once I moved across the pond and started thinking beyond what new drink I would try at the bar next weekend, I realized that America has some serious flaws. For example, 45 million people are without health care because they can’t afford it. Another example – many Americans cannot afford to go to college, and thus do not attain an education level higher than high school and cannot make as much money as their more competitive peers who went to college and graduate school. These problems do not exist to nearly the same extent in Europe; there is more equality. I believe that America is oftentimes too capitalistic and inward looking, and has forgotten to care for the poor and hungry, or whatever shpeel the Statue of Liberty says. Life in the USA is not as good for many Americans as it was for me, and this bothers me. I want everyone living in America to live well, because that, to me, defines a perfect country.<br /><br />So, I no longer believe America is better than any other country. It has some major flaws that could quite easily be worked out, if it weren’t for that obstacle we call politics. But don’t worry! I will still constantly be comparing America to other countries I learn about, more specifically, the Czech Republic, in the entries that follow. Why? Because I have moved to Prague! Read on for more details.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-22199423174760199492010-08-24T10:00:00.001-07:002010-08-26T02:59:35.349-07:00Trash IssuesEurope is great. Seriously. I love most things about it. There’s just one thing that keeps sticking out to me as slightly inconvenient: tiny trash bins. Why? Why are they so small? England, Spain, and now the Czech Republic all seem to have small trash bins in the houses. If they were bigger, it would not be necessary to empty them so often. However, they are very small, and I don’t know if this is just an optical illusion, but seem to be full a good 90% of the time, and thus need taking out way too often. Do Europeans just not mind taking out the trash? Perhaps they are just innately less lazy than Americans, who generally believe that having to take the trash out more than once or twice a week is a crime to humanity.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT09xKmTJIIwxfCRuxiSQsSkWECpbhQv8H7qYOMRL459ldhlbVhal3aWEswBAuym99EcSCLoygdTOdMtthYEGk-QuwGq62WHwyoyOr1S610U56rRHQPYvW24VXcMW_Ysf5Km_5kKWUPBV0/s1600/IMG_5493.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT09xKmTJIIwxfCRuxiSQsSkWECpbhQv8H7qYOMRL459ldhlbVhal3aWEswBAuym99EcSCLoygdTOdMtthYEGk-QuwGq62WHwyoyOr1S610U56rRHQPYvW24VXcMW_Ysf5Km_5kKWUPBV0/s320/IMG_5493.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509023500457128370" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Trash, plastic recycling, and paper recycling in my apartment in Spain<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcrnrAID-Qf_DQzbn8QeBDUM27UcQC-ZICkXCqIQJ9NicUQQNakRXOIMsII_jC73MIcjuo67kNmHpPmZUIx0XMmiseCrJYd6GGLsc4dgAbU_CNEfY2DHgxhyphenhyphen0-t4rldoZidYMvXhaSjOU/s1600/IMG_5861.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcrnrAID-Qf_DQzbn8QeBDUM27UcQC-ZICkXCqIQJ9NicUQQNakRXOIMsII_jC73MIcjuo67kNmHpPmZUIx0XMmiseCrJYd6GGLsc4dgAbU_CNEfY2DHgxhyphenhyphen0-t4rldoZidYMvXhaSjOU/s320/IMG_5861.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509023258867964866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Trash in Czech Republic apartment</span><br /></div><br />That’s my rant of the week. Or, at least for the day.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-12895127377495742512010-08-24T08:35:00.000-07:002010-08-24T09:46:51.447-07:00Napkins: Less is Not More<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/AAG/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>50</o:Words> <o:characters>288</o:Characters> <o:lines>2</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>353</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal">Napkins in Spain are...different. In bars, at least. Bars in Spain, or at least in the southern part of the country, serve food with drinks, and thus there are always plenty of napkins around. However, they are about as useful as using a sheet of wax paper to wipe my mouth. Actually, I am convinced that they have a wax coating, because they are always so pretty and shiny. And they always thank me for patronizing their bar, how very polite.
<br /></p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p>
<br /><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGYaGdYfMTPUNoxi8nm0p10FqqSkS9-nc9zfuDQ-3cDNUhjjOeVN8VqP50TIxkCih8umAqmYTCAzzO3i_7FgutE4Wj23fWv1MBYV2tSZWUECaTqPEZoBJwWlgmhN0bU0UQzUGAGGbQZbvs/s1600/IMG_5827.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGYaGdYfMTPUNoxi8nm0p10FqqSkS9-nc9zfuDQ-3cDNUhjjOeVN8VqP50TIxkCih8umAqmYTCAzzO3i_7FgutE4Wj23fWv1MBYV2tSZWUECaTqPEZoBJwWlgmhN0bU0UQzUGAGGbQZbvs/s320/IMG_5827.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509000602289676354" border="0" /></a></p><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/AAG/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>3</o:Words> <o:characters>21</o:Characters> <o:lines>1</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>25</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I can see my reflection!</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p style="font-family: arial;"></p> <!--EndFragment-->
<br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOssYveCc7saJA58RNxGsakCMDvDgE-AuAsmPF2egXbE3UFQqR2IOpy8YBHgH3Cf8FA4l3WLOKtDvXmeOUUAdd19WnAs1L8bx0gvIy5QObdsXwzR16EqvMihtbbAHQqm9lxIWmEK0srEw/s1600/IMG_5828.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOssYveCc7saJA58RNxGsakCMDvDgE-AuAsmPF2egXbE3UFQqR2IOpy8YBHgH3Cf8FA4l3WLOKtDvXmeOUUAdd19WnAs1L8bx0gvIy5QObdsXwzR16EqvMihtbbAHQqm9lxIWmEK0srEw/s320/IMG_5828.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509000696822582402" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link style="font-family: arial;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/AAG/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>47</o:Words> <o:characters>271</o:Characters> <o:lines>2</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>332</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal">As there is always a huge supply of these napkins in bars, I never feel bad using many of them, as 8 of them use about as much paper as one normal napkin. Oh, and bonus! These napkins serve as toilet paper for women in bars, as there is never toilet paper in the bathrooms in bars and thus these napkins are the next best thing. </p> Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-85556428642777784082010-08-18T14:44:00.000-07:002010-08-18T15:13:31.439-07:00The Great English MigrationWell, I've made a fun little observation about English people. And while I can't bash them too badly, because I am 50% English, I must comment that they are a strange race. They are rather sun deprived, because England tends to be cloudy and rainy. They do have completely sunny days, but they are far and few between. As a result, many English people like to head to the beaches in Spain for a quick sun bathe. I noticed this phenomenon when I myself was making this same trip, except I started in Spain and flew to England to visit my grandmother. The route is Leeds to Málaga, and it is flown very cheaply by Ryanair, a low cost European airline. This route is flown almost entirely by English people. Thus, English people will dig out their long-lost swim suits and make a nice weekend out of the southern coast of Spain. However, they are a bit over eager and end up soaking up too much sun. It's funny how if a culture does not have enough of something, they make sure to take full advantage of it when they have the opportunity.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uZVS-4x7FHcrDjqiDDx3nRnF4ZzPfg3TLpy3PAVOXYpbreqa7h0yHzwWFdEHgOqhs_wYnA-YxIiuxS2Gs6d5leTBGGDI_KFve5g_cd4u7o5NuJy-0josQiD4pD3lCdkQgZbbhjfrxGSi/s1600/IMG_5633.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uZVS-4x7FHcrDjqiDDx3nRnF4ZzPfg3TLpy3PAVOXYpbreqa7h0yHzwWFdEHgOqhs_wYnA-YxIiuxS2Gs6d5leTBGGDI_KFve5g_cd4u7o5NuJy-0josQiD4pD3lCdkQgZbbhjfrxGSi/s320/IMG_5633.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506874030242142562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Too much of a good thing<br /></span></div><br />This is a picture of English people waiting in line to check into their Ryanair flight back to Leeds, where they can pick their sun blisters in peace.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-29314766376056414662010-07-12T07:11:00.000-07:002010-07-12T03:05:22.659-07:00Gooooooooaaaaaalllllll!!!!!!!!!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oRvauFSdiT4YdLwRqH8uE6ZyUEYBEVuplDwdQjcqw4722z99b2BHTC_IYOFJXf_o4RDCfMSfodsPdubh4I_TsKHV0bt0Qmlay8xI9sajSqcBZnOfWEguyz6utFjCg1vdPHP2jrSwF1zH/s1600/5"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oRvauFSdiT4YdLwRqH8uE6ZyUEYBEVuplDwdQjcqw4722z99b2BHTC_IYOFJXf_o4RDCfMSfodsPdubh4I_TsKHV0bt0Qmlay8xI9sajSqcBZnOfWEguyz6utFjCg1vdPHP2jrSwF1zH/s320/5" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492956126263272050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Spain brings home the gold for the first time in history</span><br /></div><br />Well, living in Spain during the World Cup is important, despite the fact that I came over here without the slightest clue that the World Cup was happening, and without really knowing what it is. As I now know, and most of your reading this already know, it's basically the Olympics of soccer. I think.<br /><br />Spaniards here get really really <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> excited about soccer. It's Spain's main sport, without a doubt. Americans have football, basketball, and baseball, and of course golf, tennis, soccer, hockey, etc. But for Spaniards, it doesn't get any better than soccer.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfM4hP-kxNzb8u5cvTiP7OUB41YRM6rv7e38rR_gQX0OtrbU0esi16nsND9AjFu3he952L0qoFWm1XCT3I7A4cy7aK0AHwMVUFjbBsKvz9Ik3EG-TegCzzCSIfoekOKLw1Zcnk-N93bdcg/s1600/1.jpg"><br /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4E6xE6OS-WT3WLwfJ6xSjzW7RcWat8zOgulqnOsUM8kNn1ue1kIvDzTiJWUefN0ycGzBw7w7dhWO-0-gW96UhS0C_P1zms2FR-i4BVAFtUR3hkhlYX5zGapvDSfL4M2pNUHkZyMGO7czQ/s1600/25soccer.TS.4001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4E6xE6OS-WT3WLwfJ6xSjzW7RcWat8zOgulqnOsUM8kNn1ue1kIvDzTiJWUefN0ycGzBw7w7dhWO-0-gW96UhS0C_P1zms2FR-i4BVAFtUR3hkhlYX5zGapvDSfL4M2pNUHkZyMGO7czQ/s320/25soccer.TS.4001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491215337320420338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">It's like the rainbow threw up red and yellow everywhere<br /></span></div><br />When I watch a soccer game with my boyfriend and his friends, as soon as I step into the room my face gets painted with the colors of the Spanish flag (red and yellow) and loud, obnoxious noise-making balloons are thrust into my hands. The environment is pretty similar to what one experiences at an American sport event. Everyone will go to a bar to see the game or to someone's house, pass around the potato chips and beer, and chaos ensues.<br /><br />Soccer isn't my <span>favorite</span> sport, I've always been more of a basketball fan because, uh, points are actually scored, but for me, at <span style="font-style: italic;">least</span> half the entertainment of watching a soccer game is watching the Spaniards watch the soccer game: yelling profanities at the players of the opposing teams, jumping up and down and shrieking as loud as their vocal chords will allow them when Spain scores, muttering "ooooh-eeeeee" when the opposing team almost scores a goal, and falling to their knees 3 inches in front of the television screen when Spain is attempting to score a goal and pleading, "For your mother!!! Get it in the goal for your mother!!!" I mean, you can't buy live entertainment like that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD4aYbFfqUPOyZgyROPRfUZbnHr6zj5ipnLvMre5K7guiaQIRU0y6Z36IqMm44Tz1TfnhwKpwLvh-omBreJ56dJ7amneVlCip08Zq0pQwvZFZ808xgVJR7426GYF20tkU3KS1Djov6w4l/s1600/IMG_5490.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD4aYbFfqUPOyZgyROPRfUZbnHr6zj5ipnLvMre5K7guiaQIRU0y6Z36IqMm44Tz1TfnhwKpwLvh-omBreJ56dJ7amneVlCip08Zq0pQwvZFZ808xgVJR7426GYF20tkU3KS1Djov6w4l/s320/IMG_5490.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491215699240885682" border="0" /></a><br />In America, many people fly the American flag on their houses and apartments, and no one thinks twice about it. In Spain, if you spot a Spanish flag waving outside a place of residence, you can count on that residence being big Franco (former dictator of Spain from 1939 - 1975) supporters, a.k.a., possibly fascist. However, during the World Cup, all bets are off; everyone waves their flag proudly so that there is no doubt which soccer team they are supporting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiV8f9d7XVx3rZPYesKbuxe_Z9GzCBt9L7kYzk2NFUYbIRSM3TFeJHF_5V6iVmhAVlmGwcBUq2NkpJpSYWIKoA49ZbohnlszJ9yss3g0boidVZ-Cx9sBIRHH8spoQ3Llu6mgv4vVjMRmo/s1600/IMG_5496.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiV8f9d7XVx3rZPYesKbuxe_Z9GzCBt9L7kYzk2NFUYbIRSM3TFeJHF_5V6iVmhAVlmGwcBUq2NkpJpSYWIKoA49ZbohnlszJ9yss3g0boidVZ-Cx9sBIRHH8spoQ3Llu6mgv4vVjMRmo/s320/IMG_5496.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491215888018576290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">World Cup season: the one time every four years when waving the Spanish flag outside your home doesn't scream "I love fascism!"</span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX-p655xSnojAW2UAanextiQdTUWzgsOcqWTfOoosjMLl0-aJZBHgKfQfrM3KmnYQMntMb-paexwIMryknGymr9SJXK_uyTxk4W37KGOSqvV60D7aJQy7yxFB-MEF0_CgKPFN0PoTmB66/s1600/IMG_5499.jpg"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfM4hP-kxNzb8u5cvTiP7OUB41YRM6rv7e38rR_gQX0OtrbU0esi16nsND9AjFu3he952L0qoFWm1XCT3I7A4cy7aK0AHwMVUFjbBsKvz9Ik3EG-TegCzzCSIfoekOKLw1Zcnk-N93bdcg/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfM4hP-kxNzb8u5cvTiP7OUB41YRM6rv7e38rR_gQX0OtrbU0esi16nsND9AjFu3he952L0qoFWm1XCT3I7A4cy7aK0AHwMVUFjbBsKvz9Ik3EG-TegCzzCSIfoekOKLw1Zcnk-N93bdcg/s320/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492952749123768162" border="0" /></a><br />I was in a small village in Spain when Spain won the World Cup. This was a HUGE moment for Spain. Soccer started doing the World Cup in 1930, and it takes place every four years, and Spain has never won. Brazil, Germany, and Argentina have won most of the recent World Cups.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtLixt6rIRNM5SgEKP37MbbUu7zKjR-9KrGedtWLE7-kSKKN1RO5Jmj4a5WLFbmk5ukgdFpUXE8pZTgrW6ySxhkp877jbVl82RwDMBHdYNr9v6_J7O1fHvoNTyXo-_04Xn6C0PN80-p7b/s1600/3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtLixt6rIRNM5SgEKP37MbbUu7zKjR-9KrGedtWLE7-kSKKN1RO5Jmj4a5WLFbmk5ukgdFpUXE8pZTgrW6ySxhkp877jbVl82RwDMBHdYNr9v6_J7O1fHvoNTyXo-_04Xn6C0PN80-p7b/s320/3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492953160900271282" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Red and yellow <span style="font-style: italic;">everywhere<br /><br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KQhBe7Pdbo1X3HzeCOkN1ZYZkteu4eb1k8DIEejwi6k9a12q03tOI9MKZTsU2jqiaNsEVxf45ol68XMYhO061GF9tzfaQO3KtrWzam0KeTcPWadzFjN7RFx4xlqFPE4-RGBGYgxlPKv7/s1600/2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KQhBe7Pdbo1X3HzeCOkN1ZYZkteu4eb1k8DIEejwi6k9a12q03tOI9MKZTsU2jqiaNsEVxf45ol68XMYhO061GF9tzfaQO3KtrWzam0KeTcPWadzFjN7RFx4xlqFPE4-RGBGYgxlPKv7/s320/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492955388443886882" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />So, needless to say, Spain partied long and hard to celebrate the event. It was amazing, a unique experience that I will probably never have again. I'm not Spanish, but I felt Spanish that night! The people were so united and happy, it's amazing how a sport can bring a nation together. Cars were driving in the street, honking like there is no tomorrow, people screaming and waving their Spanish flags, and of course, the obnoxious-beyond-belief vuvuzelas, the South African plastic blow horn. It's a great way to make noise, but then again, it's also a great way to lose your hearing at a young age.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRLiZ3FF_HOkAi2zydK5ci5dBHC1oNVTk1upAkQoWGvpzFvd-tCKf7t97fEONwuoTfw4nbHWRWIhY6FAw5ZD0jL6i_VEPtdMt2reP7wyaI_urZhZyBMsm3bQ1o3ATAFymGSgfJW95FpnJ/s1600/4"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRLiZ3FF_HOkAi2zydK5ci5dBHC1oNVTk1upAkQoWGvpzFvd-tCKf7t97fEONwuoTfw4nbHWRWIhY6FAw5ZD0jL6i_VEPtdMt2reP7wyaI_urZhZyBMsm3bQ1o3ATAFymGSgfJW95FpnJ/s320/4" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492955584465733058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm wearing earplugs the next time Spain wins the World Cup in South Africa<br /></span></div></div><br /></div>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-69397976993833606152010-07-07T10:13:00.001-07:002010-07-08T04:32:09.032-07:00My First Experience with Civil Disobedience...Kind OfI love Spain, I truly do, but the lack of food that I want to eat is starting to become an issue.<br /><br />My boyfriend and I decided to go to lunch one day at a bar that serves a "menú del día" for 3 Euros. This means that there are 3 plates selected for you, one after another, and you eat what you get and pay 3 Euros. Each day the food that is served is different; the day we went, the first plate was salad, the second pork, and the third, pudding. I had a feeling that this lunch was not going to go as smoothly as one might hope.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtcq6S0aV5khssh4VZAXC5Aq7UmI8qvTVHaq-pu3-dI8y1mQoWX4j0329yXJwMnsFyqXFJST0un8_r2UJSCwdC0sHZ1qWUwFo0UNpMDVe8mV0-v9rgIDSqNFbcV9cmPM7-QQ4EbSoAuWo/s1600/IMG_5495.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtcq6S0aV5khssh4VZAXC5Aq7UmI8qvTVHaq-pu3-dI8y1mQoWX4j0329yXJwMnsFyqXFJST0un8_r2UJSCwdC0sHZ1qWUwFo0UNpMDVe8mV0-v9rgIDSqNFbcV9cmPM7-QQ4EbSoAuWo/s320/IMG_5495.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491493803487901138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">You can't beat these prices with a stick</span><br /></div><br />We arrive to the restaurant and I see that pork is the middle plate that is offered as part of the meal, and of course I cannot eat this, what with the whole vegetarianism thing. The salad looks edible, so I ask the bartender if I can just have the salad for half the price. Nope. I can pay the full 3 Euros for a wilted salad, so I decide it's not worth it. My boyfriend orders all 3 plates and I decide just to sit with him at the restaurant, as I'm not very hungry anyway. The bartender sends us to the back of the bar, where there are tables with just one place mat, and one chair. My boyfriend looks puzzled and pulls up a chair for me. I am mid-sit when I hear the bartender angrily state that I cannot sit down if I am not ordering anything. My boyfriend suggests that I order a drink, and the bartender replies that it will cost 3 Euros, which in Granada, is an absurd price for a glass of Coke.<br /><br />We leave. Angrily. This has never happened to me before, and this is in no way representative of Spanish bars, or bars in Granada. This bar was...different. The owner of this bar wanted to make sure that every chair in his bar was filled by a person who paid 3 Euros for something, even if it isn't the 3 course meal. Many manual labor workers go to bars like that for lunch. It's a good, quick, cheap lunch break, and it fills their stomachs. Well, I'm not a bricklayer, and I don't eat like one, so I guess that it's not the best locale for me to search for nourishment.<br /><br />Lesson learned! In English we have the saying, "You get what you pay for." I've now learned that this sometimes also applies to the service you receive.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-53195697075516300922010-06-30T05:33:00.000-07:002010-06-30T07:28:36.644-07:00Meat-Tastic"So you don't eat meat?"<br />"Nope."<br />"No meat? Like, none?"<br />"None."<br />"But...no meat..."<br /><br />This is the typical conversation that I have with Spaniards that I meet for the first time when we are eating tapas (small portions of food that bars serve with drinks). I am the first vegetarian most of these people have met before. There must be other vegetarians in Granada, but they are far and few between. In Madrid and Barcelona, the big cities, there are vegetarians, and a lot of vegetarian restaurants, but in Granada, I’m a freak of nature.<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfF1vxj-iciWrxg8a4hIg3k1QJZgl0r8N0b-J6a2Zc2-hwDcOmJ6kn0eO1hNNzCeVy1XPY6HLIrfpXEJyRLLSx2mbBO21AQp3gsC0I_KOXmgmjwJIDrxuojyPZPCnE03jMaYBRXqSjJxrg/s1600/Fruits+and+Vegs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfF1vxj-iciWrxg8a4hIg3k1QJZgl0r8N0b-J6a2Zc2-hwDcOmJ6kn0eO1hNNzCeVy1XPY6HLIrfpXEJyRLLSx2mbBO21AQp3gsC0I_KOXmgmjwJIDrxuojyPZPCnE03jMaYBRXqSjJxrg/s320/Fruits+and+Vegs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488543183110904562" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is what my dreams are made of</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The Spanish eat a lot of meat. Not in huge quantities, but with almost all their meals they are accustomed to having some sort of meat with the food (except for breakfast). So going out for tapas can be a bit challenging.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When you go to a tapas bar, you sit down and the bartender asks you what you want to drink. You tell him, and depending on the bar, one of two things will happen:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->a)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->The bartender brings you your drinks and a tapa to share. This way, you don’t get to choose your tapa, it’s luck of the draw, whatever the bar is serving that day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->b)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><!--[endif]-->The bartender brings you your drinks and asks what kind of tapa you would like, and you choose from a menu.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Guess which system I prefer. When the first system happens, 90% of the time the tapa has meat in it, because most tapas have meat in them. I understand that it is just how the system works here, and it is really a very hospitable system, because it is like being in the home of a friend. You sit down, and without even asking, you are brought food, which really is very sweet. There’s just a bit of a culture clash when I receive food I can’t eat.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfZ8q8reBX8JKR-I8ofVhI_wTYvbny8Ihc6r5Gjp6WnnzeOPuW7IngHyBloECxKs3NuLwHPTKTKI1bjXYAVg4aqhRCMqq3NH3Bxk7THVKG-hqR5MEUHNPZ60Ky1jx3XBhh52PfVB93Ww5/s1600/IMG_5458.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfZ8q8reBX8JKR-I8ofVhI_wTYvbny8Ihc6r5Gjp6WnnzeOPuW7IngHyBloECxKs3NuLwHPTKTKI1bjXYAVg4aqhRCMqq3NH3Bxk7THVKG-hqR5MEUHNPZ60Ky1jx3XBhh52PfVB93Ww5/s320/IMG_5458.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488538937081553490" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Here is a typical tapa for 3 people. These wouldn't happen to be soy burgers would they...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Spanish are not picky eaters. In America, we are used to ordering food exactly the way we want it and with the ingredients we want. For example, Burger King’s motto is “Have it Your Way.” American restaurants pride themselves on giving their customer exactly what they ask for. For example, in a restaurant, I will ask the waiter to grill my food instead of fry it, substitute in a different kind of cheese, hold off on the spicy, and put the dressing on the side, all for one dish. The Spanish are less picky (although, compared to me, the majority of the inhabitants of planet Earth are less picky), and just eat whatever tapa is put in front of them. There are fewer details mentioned when ordering food in Spain. For instance, when ordering a hamburger, details like ketchup, mustard, kind of bread, types of vegetables, etc, are just not as important.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My boyfriend and I were visiting a nearby village once, and we went out for tapas in a bar. When we ordered drinks, we asked for a tapa without meat. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned there was a plate of ground beef in front of me. I thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. I’ll never really understand how that happened, perhaps the bartender thought we were kidding and ACTUALLY wanted the meatiest tapa they could serve us, or confused “tapa without meat” with “tapa with meat.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKQZPYY7xxlcmftIKYZ8I45BBwlVGhuqmHfzkF7x4woMdMYf6ejm3H9qYY0GuAqzpHmdDFvfKO_gyB2FDCXC_-lor18jJh3JZ-qiidp6dnJfmNkBsRWIH4vcJPmHb8YJWS05ioAZ9qnJu/s1600/meat2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKQZPYY7xxlcmftIKYZ8I45BBwlVGhuqmHfzkF7x4woMdMYf6ejm3H9qYY0GuAqzpHmdDFvfKO_gyB2FDCXC_-lor18jJh3JZ-qiidp6dnJfmNkBsRWIH4vcJPmHb8YJWS05ioAZ9qnJu/s320/meat2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483765475926389106" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Andddddd here's your tapa</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> I wasn’t even a vegetarian until I studied abroad in Spain. I just wanted to add some excitement to bar and restaurant trips.Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-67012180797424632742010-06-23T16:29:00.000-07:002010-07-01T08:11:19.327-07:00Would You Like Some Ice With Your Milk?Milk, everyone's first nourishment. I am a big fan of milk, and drink about 2 cups a day of it. I'm a vegetarian, so milk is an important source of protein for me.<br /><br />Milk is...different in Spain. It doesn't come in the refrigerated section. It comes in cartons, just hanging out on the shelf with the other non-refrigerated food.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaE5RbNJe1dJdd6njmUUFjXfeYZx-W4rgvQx8QCpUUkCwrKiVQkt6Z6e4bET4Do1Svw6c_6-ETeONTHSaBaYSgLLp6fE8g_NIU2POyVafHUx3GB0XdewjhAnKmGCZ1pM4IRieXT8dvFFTY/s1600/IMG_5455.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaE5RbNJe1dJdd6njmUUFjXfeYZx-W4rgvQx8QCpUUkCwrKiVQkt6Z6e4bET4Do1Svw6c_6-ETeONTHSaBaYSgLLp6fE8g_NIU2POyVafHUx3GB0XdewjhAnKmGCZ1pM4IRieXT8dvFFTY/s320/IMG_5455.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488575262039848002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">No need to rush home to put the milk in the fridge in Spain<br /></span></div><br />This was one of the things that stuck out to me when I first started living in Spain. In Chicago, when I see milk that has been out of the fridge for more than a few minutes, I start to lightly sweat and panic and immediately put it in the fridge. After all, doesn't milk curdle when it gets too warm?<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocsMlLmgK4L2kmgOD5G-zqHSMr7Q97pDbK_-_9EG8A7uyttghirhsX5wqj-3ChDYywW_afWfoEZhmSvVLLc0-yWzM_masettrket2wW9OXnVa9Ftf64plNFmXrzzlVtWvWV9QlE-4BQMc/s1600/IMG_5480.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocsMlLmgK4L2kmgOD5G-zqHSMr7Q97pDbK_-_9EG8A7uyttghirhsX5wqj-3ChDYywW_afWfoEZhmSvVLLc0-yWzM_masettrket2wW9OXnVa9Ftf64plNFmXrzzlVtWvWV9QlE-4BQMc/s320/IMG_5480.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488581716847431138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The plastic gallons of milk from my childhood are a long lost memory now<br /></span></div><br />Nope. I don't know what UHT is, but I think that's the reason this milk doesn't curdle. Better not to ask. Once opened, however, the milk needs to be stored in the fridge. Kind of like, uh, mayonnaise in the U.S. After a semester of study abroad and 2 more months living in Spain, milk still remains a mystery to me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8uk4RXFGAmucMesC46muZ43cEAsiP_c1rU7oyVFQvJh7qsuP9en4KeXW00ZS7Zo_WFLdPv7q48XPoBGZB7P6KzcSGZ9s-uldmA5_bJQF9qfSDqvqjUkGYw2LvEZUcPujEoBCorRp_MOC/s1600/IMG_5485.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8uk4RXFGAmucMesC46muZ43cEAsiP_c1rU7oyVFQvJh7qsuP9en4KeXW00ZS7Zo_WFLdPv7q48XPoBGZB7P6KzcSGZ9s-uldmA5_bJQF9qfSDqvqjUkGYw2LvEZUcPujEoBCorRp_MOC/s320/IMG_5485.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488582429543226018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">By the way, cheap wine comes in cartons here too</span><br /></div>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-12831618566507101152010-06-19T09:19:00.000-07:002010-06-20T04:09:50.690-07:00Some Like It HotI mentioned in an earlier post that Spanish girls don't really wear shorts without tights. The dress code here is a bit different from the US. Spaniards have a pretty excellent sense of style, especially the women. In late spring/summer, the young women in their teens and twenties always have a nice shirt on with either pants, a skirt, a dress, or occasionally shorts with tights.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4V8hCjKJTXrdpFi36FoTmbhcbqI2n81i2fpLbH_nUtZ9ujG7kD7Dtxc8k0t4byfqs-bNtUNEOIAVREnOL8JeQd_7eWUfBUNq-tQ1P7XP4w06jw7i058OvgIM02mvugg5XlNLYH8_NAz0/s1600/IMG_5437.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4V8hCjKJTXrdpFi36FoTmbhcbqI2n81i2fpLbH_nUtZ9ujG7kD7Dtxc8k0t4byfqs-bNtUNEOIAVREnOL8JeQd_7eWUfBUNq-tQ1P7XP4w06jw7i058OvgIM02mvugg5XlNLYH8_NAz0/s320/IMG_5437.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484806336949450962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">These girls look nicer taking a casual stroll around Granada than I do at most formal events.</span><br /></div><br /><br />Even the women in their forties dress like adolescents. From behind they look like twenty-year-olds, and then they turn around and I realize that they are at least thirty-five years old.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTN8vNNRGGMU22oT2-ZAGk-pieypmQ2aPNROFiVO6J2srJyi-GmDqu750dsig7-wYTfjHIRm5i51202WP7VWnwLtgRNj2121LhVQNTtPbuyyTv5Nqm1vhLJBQb8HlSTDm3vEw9cbBTYST/s1600/IMG_5431.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTN8vNNRGGMU22oT2-ZAGk-pieypmQ2aPNROFiVO6J2srJyi-GmDqu750dsig7-wYTfjHIRm5i51202WP7VWnwLtgRNj2121LhVQNTtPbuyyTv5Nqm1vhLJBQb8HlSTDm3vEw9cbBTYST/s320/IMG_5431.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484805930748030674" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">For example. </span><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Granadinos, i.e. people from Granada, are a durable race. It is an understatement to say that Granada is a hot city in the summer. It's basically Africa, as far as latitude is concerned. In the summer it is usually between 30 and 40 degrees Celsius, which is somewhere in the high 80s and 90s and even 100 degrees Fahrenheit. It isn't humid, which is always a plus, so at least it's not muggy beyond belief like Chicago. However, air conditioning is less popular here than one might hope, and it is almost always sunny, thus the sun does not hide behind clouds very much. I like to wear cool clothing, so I don't lapse into heat exhaustion too often. However, the residents of Granada don't even seem to notice to heat. They walk around in pants, PANTS, which is understandable for going to work I suppose, but on weekends too? Really? Why? I wore pants one day when I thought it was going to be cool, but it was not, it was not cool at all, and I thought my legs were going to melt off my body.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRjy1yA8-GAjhyjKc5H_aFhe7uxynePAVfKT1VVs51jTY3dJPmYjhdTxwm_k-7UGsWjBIFyiisjirQWu7syh6h7t4bASDCLYf6aKWMgP8397dnZ_zta8oEulhSfRRD8_XXb4H10pvX0FM/s1600/IMG_5429.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRjy1yA8-GAjhyjKc5H_aFhe7uxynePAVfKT1VVs51jTY3dJPmYjhdTxwm_k-7UGsWjBIFyiisjirQWu7syh6h7t4bASDCLYf6aKWMgP8397dnZ_zta8oEulhSfRRD8_XXb4H10pvX0FM/s320/IMG_5429.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484522338414885074" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Case in point: this picture was taken on Saturday, June 19. These people are not going to work, they must just enjoy sweating out all their bodily fluids in one afternoon.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Chicagoans will put on shorts the first day that hits 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius) in March, whereas Granadinos seem perfectly content to continue on with pants until...well, ever?<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">My theory? The Granadinos are used to sun and warmth, and don't need to take advantage of being able to feel their limbs, because they don't have the excessively cold 8-month winters that Chicago has. Perhaps Chicagoans appreciate the sun more and therefore wear cool clothes the first chance they get, or maybe Granadinos really are just a stronger species who don't have sweat glands. Personally, I think it's a mixture of both.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><!--EndFragment--> </p>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-34070074060418496992010-06-19T06:02:00.001-07:002010-06-19T09:17:37.271-07:00Bureaucracy Much?<span style="font-size:100%;">There may be some differences between Spain and the US, but they do share one giant thing in common: a large and inefficient bureaucracy.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I want a job, right? I decide to visit the friendly folks at the temporary job office to get some help in my search. I go the main street of Granada, Gran Vía de Colón, and find the office. However, there is a sign on the door saying that as of October (ahem, 8 months ago), the office has been on the opposite side of town. Oh ok, that’s cool, but why does Google Maps still think it’s on Gran Vía de Colón? I march across town and find the new location. The woman behind the desk kindly informs me that I need a social security number to look for jobs through the temporary job office. She advises that I go to the social security office, on Gran Vía de Colón, where I had just come from. So I do. I arrive at the social security office and am informed that I cannot get a social security number without a foreigner identification number. I inquire about the location of this foreigner identification office and am told to go to the police station, which is about 10 minutes away. No problem, I figure, I’ll go to the police station, then back to the social security office, then back to the temporary job office, and by the end of the day, I’ll have at least 5 jobs lined up for sure.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Wrong.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I wait an hour and a half at the police station for my number to be called. The place is packed with people, but they all look suspiciously Spanish, and all I can hear is Spanish. Where are all the foreigners wanting to get their identification numbers like me? Finally my number is called and I walk up to my assigned desk, even though the man at th</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e desk is still helping the lady in front of me. He glances at me and asks for my passport and Spanish identification card. I inform him I’m not Spanish. He does a double-take at me and my heart sinks. I know then and there that I’d just wasted and hour and a half of my life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLEk_udSbDfLVB6JB3k7Ss_EXa0BpNK1kHqqiPUzLn1XBvCQQ_qmCWIW2oLCZLQ6xOepRoXfKctNPrA6Es6d8R4op_MrH290zhMp9ziNzd8u9uSp-dZTRu9lG_nohLqimY5Hvy2FbpxVU/s1600/line.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLEk_udSbDfLVB6JB3k7Ss_EXa0BpNK1kHqqiPUzLn1XBvCQQ_qmCWIW2oLCZLQ6xOepRoXfKctNPrA6Es6d8R4op_MrH290zhMp9ziNzd8u9uSp-dZTRu9lG_nohLqimY5Hvy2FbpxVU/s320/line.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483756373490588770" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">See the pissed lady in the front of the line? That's me.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">He told me that as of November of last year the rules had changed and foreigners can no longer go to the police station to get identification numbers. He took me outside the building and pointed to a piece of salmon computer paper taped haphazardly to the wall that mentions something about a foreigner office. I stared at it, then at the man, and back at the sign. I jotted down the information and was on my way, yet again. Luckily for me, my cell phone has Google Maps. I arrived at the location in about 25 minutes annnnnnd it was closed for lunch.* It was Friday so I decided to return Monday.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPRjtZhamgq2MUf1luqUxbKP4QrJBk9zxDFw95gfd61LdNk54ovzHEa4ClvzxnIGUUmPagUZe3w4u_133Y4tdUlwuJnIRwrQ6WCyj-O1SEZqzexxi4kt5d0Tkozbz30zTtrEFY0bcsoM0/s1600/IMG_5428.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPRjtZhamgq2MUf1luqUxbKP4QrJBk9zxDFw95gfd61LdNk54ovzHEa4ClvzxnIGUUmPagUZe3w4u_133Y4tdUlwuJnIRwrQ6WCyj-O1SEZqzexxi4kt5d0Tkozbz30zTtrEFY0bcsoM0/s320/IMG_5428.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484518536034161586" border="0" /></a></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The Spanish just really like to make lines. These students are waiting in line to enter one of the university libraries so they can study for their final exams.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Fast forward to Monday. I go to the foreigner office, this time with my boyfriend for emotional support (and his language skills always come in handy). The foreigner office finally accepts my documents, however I need to return in an hour and a half so they can prepare the documents. Well that’s fine, no pasa nada as they say here in Granada. We go back an hour and a half later, and I am given a sheet that says I need to go to a bank and pay 10 Euros. We go to the bank, I pay my 10 Euros, they give me a document, and we return to the office. They stamp the document with my identification number and I am now an official foreigner in Spain.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Super, I think, now I can get a social security number. But of course, that would be far too easy. We go to the social security office to be told that I cannot have a social security number because I don’t have a job. Once I get a job, they will give me a social security number. Um, but, I need a social security number to GET a job at the temporary job office. My boyfriend talks quickly and incomprehensibly with the woman behind the desk, nods his head, and we leave. I stare at him. He explains that what the woman said goes completely against what the woman in the temporary job office said. So we go to the temporary job office to tell them what the social security office told us. The lady at the temporary job office clucks her mouth and says with no social security number, I can’t work. We explain the dilemma of my Catch-22 and she allows me to fill out an application with my foreigner identification number.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkbWIL_emPkkvz2FbhFjSByutMj8D3QrDRy20nLjBatGLPbxMXEi2Pww8Dqob0FFcEPgDyx_G2iZf3RfFgVLGgKzhdYqx_FlYT665IzHoHSOlnl5gJI-apng6toPGlFvsqyLf-1Kizw_m/s1600/bureaucracy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkbWIL_emPkkvz2FbhFjSByutMj8D3QrDRy20nLjBatGLPbxMXEi2Pww8Dqob0FFcEPgDyx_G2iZf3RfFgVLGgKzhdYqx_FlYT665IzHoHSOlnl5gJI-apng6toPGlFvsqyLf-1Kizw_m/s320/bureaucracy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483756897660878562" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Not nearly enough.</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m going to hope very hard that my sheet actually gets turned in somewhere that will pay attention to it, and will, of course, hire me in a somewhat efficient manner. But no promises. This is, after all, Spain, and being in a rush goes against everything they believe in.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">So all in all, I truly do love Spain, and the Spanish people really are very nice (except that one that snapped at me in the social security office), but if they could communicate just a bit more between themselves that’d be really super.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">*Sidenote: Spain loves its siesta (nap). Monday through Saturday, everything, EVERYthing, except large supermarkets, gas stations, and restaurants, closes from 2 pm until 5 pm, for lunch/siesta. Nothing is open on Sunday, except restaurants and gas stations. The Spanish eat their lunches around 2 or 3 pm and then pass out in a food coma until 5 pm, when they resume their daily tasks. Stores then typically stay open between 5 or 5:30 pm until 8 or 9 pm, and people have dinner between 9 pm and 11 pm, at which point I often have stomach cramps from hunger if I have not had my merienda (snack) at 6 or 7 pm.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1aq_pz4UTmCA2dk8ObKsuOqJndeecAOw6UOG5g22q5uenAKe85y8hzC9IDSrv4BR07pgl1IkAcu2RVhamBwKGxCrjo9NVy4ToS6EZEv2zBkhh_ZrDq-PzqjIPPV9vwy1u3d4bhXW8Ixu/s1600/IMG_5424.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1aq_pz4UTmCA2dk8ObKsuOqJndeecAOw6UOG5g22q5uenAKe85y8hzC9IDSrv4BR07pgl1IkAcu2RVhamBwKGxCrjo9NVy4ToS6EZEv2zBkhh_ZrDq-PzqjIPPV9vwy1u3d4bhXW8Ixu/s320/IMG_5424.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484466880039849938" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">When they close for lunch, they mean business. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHICDRbVusMyKjc6thC9enOS_Zhv6rno1K7sJHWM8jx3HVWP4Zb1foxjDDX4AQOXe6rrAK6xnRn9v9z8qt72iA2JLG6oJieReQeEQCoVJhyphenhyphen5jf37c9iL17BcAK_L6TDAj6htXm-khm-Lh-/s1600/IMG_5425.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHICDRbVusMyKjc6thC9enOS_Zhv6rno1K7sJHWM8jx3HVWP4Zb1foxjDDX4AQOXe6rrAK6xnRn9v9z8qt72iA2JLG6oJieReQeEQCoVJhyphenhyphen5jf37c9iL17BcAK_L6TDAj6htXm-khm-Lh-/s320/IMG_5425.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484466091969301442" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-35982480320738027822010-06-16T04:15:00.000-07:002010-06-16T04:54:59.475-07:00Rrrrrubia!!<span style="font-size:100%;">Yes, that is my name here in Spain. Blondie. It’s not that they don’t have blond women in Spain, because there are some, with skin that is even lighter than mine (yes, skin lighter than mine does exist). However, the vast majority of Spanish women have brown hair and brown eyes, they're called morenas, and that’s just how it is. Some dye their hair, and the Spaniards call them blondes from the bottle (i.e. dye kit). </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’ve never considered myself a true blonde, my hair is more light brown, if you ask me. However, in Spain, I’m blonde, no doubt about it. My Spanish friends laugh when I claim to have brown hair. They point out a Spanish girl with dark brown hair and say, “<i>That’s</i></span><span style="font-style: normal;font-size:100%;" > brown hair.” Fine, I surrender, I’m blonde, and definitely not from the bottle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: normal;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiNqNs9H_xU5j5N_M9H47ugML5eWYoX-P2dJ2OhlnsDnXWzX2uNLr45OmKNJmzMUE8YQ5DpFCEymi-8lu-Do1LUVl808_YAXUceJAzxUbOW6mapWvftm7etyAMFwUWX803zFqEdXI8A_D/s1600/RubiadeBote.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiNqNs9H_xU5j5N_M9H47ugML5eWYoX-P2dJ2OhlnsDnXWzX2uNLr45OmKNJmzMUE8YQ5DpFCEymi-8lu-Do1LUVl808_YAXUceJAzxUbOW6mapWvftm7etyAMFwUWX803zFqEdXI8A_D/s320/RubiadeBote.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483336910671555554" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">= Blonde from the dye kit. Oh, I forgot to mention that hair dye comes in soup cans in Spain.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;">Thus, blondes are noticed. As are foreigners. Especially foreign girls. With blond hair. And blue eyes. I stick out like a sore thumb in this country, and I never expected that in Spain. After all, I am half Italian, I have some Mediterranean blood in me, surely I could pass for a Spanish girl? <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nope. You would think that as there is always a steady stream of foreigners in and out of Granada (foreigners love to study in Granada, it’s a relatively cheap part of Spain) that Spanish people would no longer feel the need to stare at the foreigners as they pass them on the sidewalk. Well, actually, they do. Not all Spanish people, but a good 50% of the 30 year-olds and under do. There are always a couple of obnoxious ones that will whistle or catcall. But most just stare. And it’s not just Spanish guys; Spanish girls stare too. Sometimes it’s due to my clothes, as I wear shorts in the summer (call me crazy, but it’s like a trillion degrees here). Spanish girls usually only wear shorts with tights, or skirts and dresses in the summer. I have always enjoyed my shorts sans tights and don’t plan on changing that anytime soon. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t even have to open my mouth for people to know I’m definitely not Spanish. When I meet a friend or family member of my boyfriend, they immediately, without hesitation of any kind, ask where I’m from before they have a chance to hear my American accent. I was in a bar once, wearing a hat and a heavy winter coat, and a waiter behind me, who couldn’t even see my face, said, “Excuse me,” in English. It’s like they have a sixth sense for sniffing out foreigners.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJSkUN6dszs0w8SAJ7Roi2Z6yWXdNmGslDtrP928kP-Ojhw9F_bGBoZOblK2F-gyYyD0Q6fIVbBPQWxwFkkKjI-TQ1eTykiuCexaMe13CYPY2AZURUO7zDLgnPWmcAo1fbv7-LFiBivXW/s1600/me.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJSkUN6dszs0w8SAJ7Roi2Z6yWXdNmGslDtrP928kP-Ojhw9F_bGBoZOblK2F-gyYyD0Q6fIVbBPQWxwFkkKjI-TQ1eTykiuCexaMe13CYPY2AZURUO7zDLgnPWmcAo1fbv7-LFiBivXW/s320/me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483333416469935426" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Blonde or brunette? I guess I'll never really be sure.<br /><br /></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">But that doesn’t even begin to compare to the looks that my boyfriend and I get when we walk down the street holding hands. I am now accustomed to double takes and looks of utter confusion when we are out together. It’s not unusual to see a Spanish guy with a foreign girl in a bar or a club, and the Spanish young people and the foreigners love to spend time together in big groups, but they’re not usually seen as couples in the light of day. So I suppose we’re unusual.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I’m not complaining; it's a nice change from the monotony of blending into the Chicagoan crowd. After all, I never minded a bit of extra attention. It got me a boyfriend, didn't it?<br /></p> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment-->Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-856219038583768891.post-23445758080209368512010-06-15T05:24:00.000-07:002010-06-15T05:56:00.645-07:00My Spanish Adventure Begins...Ish<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">College: check.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Everyone congratulated me for such an amazing achievement, because apparently 4 years of studying during the week and drinking on the weekends is quite a feat. I did study pretty hard for my grades, but for me, college was relatively easy. Now I've hit what I fear will be a substantially more challenging part of life - getting a job and living independently. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I moved to Spain to be with my oh-so-wonderful Spanish boyfriend, but it was also quite convenient that I want to teach English to Spanish-speakers, so making the move was an easy decision. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">However, getting a job has not been quite as easy as I might have hoped. Spain is notorious for its high unemployment rate, and the recession pushed the rate to 19% in December of 2009. Surely a job will come around, but as of now, I'm unemployed but quite content to enjoy the Spanish summer leisurely. And of course blog in the meantime. It's a good way to fill my time and keep my friends and family updated on my life, and hopefully attract a few other readers along the way. I have noticed a plethora of fun little differences between Spain and the US, which I will describe in detail in the posts that follow. </span></span>Angela Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03940860072392156743noreply@blogger.com4