Brighton and Blessings

Before I left the States, everyone warned me about how cold, dreary, rainy England would be. I don’t doubt for a second the accuracy of their descriptions of London weather. But since I’ve been here, nearly every morning I’ve woken up to a window-full of sunshine.

The morning we left for Brighton was no different. Even the local British students told us to dress warmly for our day trip to the coastal city. However, after hopping onto the bus to Hammersmith, riding the Underground to Victoria, walking down the street to the coach station, and taking the coach to Brighton—a grand total of almost 4 hours—we each quickly removed a couple of layers of clothing.

For Justin, Andy, Stephen, and me, Brighton was a lot like, well…Santa Monica or Huntington Beach. The only difference is that instead of sand, Brighton’s beach has large, smooth, round rocks. Of course, when you’re with guys, you have to think with your stomach. Since it’s a beach town, we were told we had to try fish and chips there. Fortunately, we were able to find a cheap place and enjoy our food right there on the beach. I was going to type “and listen to the pounding waves,” only the water there is every surfer’s worst nightmare—almost completely still.

After lunch, we wandered up and down the pier, complete with overpriced crepes and donuts, candy stores, arcades, roller coasters, and carnival games. My three companions are really chill guys, so we sat on a bench and soaked up the sun. Then we topped it all off with vanilla ice cream cones.


The Royal Pavilion was our next stop. We took a tour of King George IV’s scandalously ornate palace; each room has its own intriguing story and design. I really liked the use of Chinese designs, bamboo, and dragons. My favorite thing was the extravagant chandelier with lotus lanterns hanging from the claws of a dragon—it was really cool (I realize that “really cool” is awful coming from an English writing major, but I’m too tired to think of a better description…you have to see it for yourself).

Sadly though, the Royal Pavilion was not nearly as exciting as we expected. We still had a few hours left before our departure time, so we decided to meander down the street looking at shops and restaurants—everything from organic coffee shops to a vegetarian shoe store. The best way I can describe Brighton is fashionable hippie meets bohemian chic.


When we got bored, we stopped for coffee at the local bookstore and browsed through the student cookbooks. We decided that the people who write those cookbooks have probably never been students, since their recipes are too complicated or have too many ingredients to suit our needs. The rest of the trip was uneventful; I slept nearly the entire way back.

This afternoon, I was feeling lonely and homesick. I started crying, asking God to comfort me and to teach me to rely on Him for satisfaction and contentment. Before I had finished praying, I heard a ringing sound in my hall, indicating that someone wanted to get buzzed in. I went to my window and looked down; my flatmate Amy was standing at the front door.

Apparently, not everyone’s keys work in the new lock that they installed on our door. I walked down and let her in. She came back up to my room with me to use my laptop, and we started chatting a bit. Before I knew it, Amy and I decided to go searching for Chinatown in London’s West End.

We dropped by the post office to buy an oyster card, then rode the bus to the Hammersmith station, where we took the Underground to Leicester square. Chinatown was right around the corner. Amy and I were nearly starving when we arrived, but we wanted to make sure we went to an authentic Chinese restaurant (meaning, not too many tourists or white folk). We walked around until we found one with plenty of Asians walking in and out.

I was so thrilled to finally eat Chinese food and hear Chinese spoken. Between teaching Amy how to use chopsticks and contentedly devouring my cha siu fan and ong choy, I tried to observe the other Chinese people around me. It was weird to hear Chinese people speak perfect Cantonese to order, and then converse amongst themselves in English, but with super thick British accents. So strange.

I was proud of myself though. I ventured into Central London on my own—meaning, without following other level-headed Biola people around. Somehow, going to Chinatown really helped fight off some of my homesickness. I guess good food can do that. My dad pointed out to me that it’s funny that I’ve become Chinese enough to feel more at home in Chinatown than at Roehampton.

I’m really thankful that God provided both a friend to keep me company today, as well as an opportunity to get to know one of my flatmates on a deeper level. Sometimes, I’m just amazed at how quickly, directly, and unexpectedly God answers my prayers.

My "Firsts"

My apologies to everyone who waited patiently—or impatiently— for my blog entry. Since I’m writing so late, I’ll only be able to give some brief highlights. It’s been an interesting week of settling in, making friends, and getting to know my way around London. The overarching theme for these last few days is “firsts.”

1. My first…sip of wine

So, as most of you know, I celebrated my 21st birthday here in London. I was feeling a little sad; I think this is my first time having my birthday far away from my family and close friends. Several of the Biolans here at Roehampton got together to cook dinner and hang out. To my surprise, they gave me a card and bought me a bottle of wine. I figure you only turn 21 once, and they were all kind enough to celebrate with me last minute (they didn’t know it was my birthday until the night before). So I got to experience my first (and only) sip of wine. I think the awful look on my face said it all though.

2. My first…time church-hopping.

For most of my friends at church, going away to college means searching for a new church to plug into and serve at during their four (or five…or six…) years of university. At the time, however, I sensed that God was calling me to stay at my home church, FCBCFV, and to serve in the college fellowship, ROCK. I never had to worry about searching for a new church. Being here in London means that for the first time, I have to look around for a church to attend.

This past Sunday I went with several of the girls to Hillsong. It was definitely a different kind of church than I’m used to: the service was held in the Apollo theatre, and we even had to wait in line to get in. The musicians and singers were great, save for the fact that I didn’t know any of the songs (it was almost like a concert, with the entire stage set up for Wicked). I do have certain qualms about the more charismatic churches, but for the most part, it was a good experience. Plus, the people we met were incredibly friendly.

In the next few weeks, I plan on visiting two or three other churches, including a local Chinese Christian church. And no, I’m not searching for a British Chinese husband, I’m just curious.

3. My first…time going to a bar.

Since I don’t drink, going to a bar seemed strange at first. Actually, no, it’s still strange to me. I feel totally like a fish out of water. I just stood there awkwardly, watching everyone else stand around talking, drinks in hand. When I did join a conversation, it was hard, because the music was too loud and it seemed like everyone was trying to talk over it. My friend Tom had to bend his head every time he wanted to hear something or say something. When more people showed up, the crowd began to press in a bit, so I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. I only lasted 20 minutes before I had to excuse myself.

4. My first time…going to a party.

Of course, it’s silly to say it’s my first time going to a party. So I have to qualify that. It was my first time going to what you would generally categorize as a normal college party. It’s just one of those things you can’t find at Biola unless you really go looking for it. It was actually really interesting to see what kind of drinking games they play, although we had some trouble with the multilingual makeup of the group (you didn’t have to be drunk to know that forcing the French girls to rhyme in English is funny). It was a good opportunity to get to know my flat-mates better. Plus, I wasn’t the only one who stuck to drinking orange juice and Coke.

5. My first...piece of mail.

I don't have much to say about this other than that I was super excited to get my very first piece of mail here at Roehampton. I LOVE YOU KATIE LEE! I was so happy I almost cried. Okay, I admit, I got a little teary. I actually didn't think about making this one of my "firsts," but the obsessive-compulsive in me thought that five sounded more complete, so I had to think of something to round out my list of "firsts."

As a side note, does it seem that all of my first experiences here in London have involved alcohol in some form or another? So you don’t go on thinking that that’s the case, I’ll list a few other things we did. One day, they split us up into teams of six and sent us on a photo scavenger hunt around Central London, to help us familiarize ourselves with the transportation system—the Underground in particular—and to see all of the major sights. My team didn’t make it very far into the scavenger hunt before we decided to just do our own thing, taking pictures and going shopping.

Since then, I’ve made a grand total of three trips to Primark, which is an amazing clothing with very cute clothes and very reasonable prices. I definitely have to restrain myself, since I’ve been holding off buying new clothes for the last couple of years. I’m serious, I told myself, “No, Lynnette, you don’t really need this cute top. You need to save money so you can buy an even cuter one in London.” But the Primark on Oxford Street is probably my mom’s worst nightmare (she hates shopping). It’s massive, with two stories, including men’s, women’s, and home furnishing. We made the mistake of going on a weekend. It felt like there were thousands of people all jostling and competing to purchase clothes. I felt like my competitive side was coming out, wanting to edge other people out so I could grab what I wanted. It was totally insane.

Other things I’ve done here…I registered for classes (which was relatively painless—I was really worried at first), I’ve eaten fish ‘n chips, I cooked (pasta one night, and a Portobello mushroom last night), I learned how to use my ID card to print at the internet café, and I made friends with a girl just because she had a cute panda purse. All that’s to say, it’s been an interesting week. Of course, I have more stories, but there’s still so much more here for me to discover and explore. As always, I’m on a search for yummy, cheap food in London. And I’m still fighting off some minor homesickness. The good news, though, is that I only have classes Monday and Wednesday, which gives me plenty of time to travel throughout the UK and Europe. Or to study.

***

When I first decided to go to Biola, several friends had concerns about my going to a Christian school. They felt that, at a non-Christian university, a) your faith can be really tested by the secular environment around you, and b) you have the opportunity to share the Gospel with other students. My view on going to Biola has always been that we’re receiving good solid training, so that in whatever field we go into, we can make an impact for Christ. And, we’re constantly reminded that we must be even more intentional about getting outside our comfortable Christian bubble.

However, being here at Roehampton, I feel like I can experience a little bit of what it’s like to go to a secular university. I think this is an opportunity for me to be a good witness to the people around me—my classmates, new friends, and flat-mates. I really think that my time in Malaysia and the training beforehand (Thanks Jeff!) was really helpful in guiding how I think about evangelizing to people here.

Like many of the “freethinkers” we met on our trip to Malaysia, it seems that a multicultural, cosmopolitan place like London makes people, on one hand, very open and accepting of different religions, and on the other, increasingly influenced by post-modern thinking. I was so excited because God has already given me the chance to share a little bit about my faith with a new friend. Pray that God will really be able to use me here at Roehampton, and that I would be sensitive to His leading.

Anyways, I want to end with a funny story. Today, I went with Justin, Andy, and Stephan (all Biola guys) down the street to Roehampton village to have fish and chips for lunch. There were only two tables available: one had four seats, and the other had two. Obviously, we wanted the table with four seats. So I set my jacket and scarf down onto the chair as way of saying, “I’m claiming this table.” It’s much more sanitary than the animal way of claiming territory.

This older gentleman came in after us, but he knew what he wanted right away, so he ordered before me. After he finished ordering, he walked over to our table (I was standing right next to it), pointed at my things, and asked, “Are these yours?” I nodded my head and replied, “Yes, they are.” Of course, I expected him to trudge over to the other table—the one with two seats—and seat himself there. But by the time I ordered and turned back around, he had already set his food down on OUR table. Justin just looked at me and shrugged, so I just grabbed my things. We ended up taking our fish ‘n chips back to school to eat.

Unexpected Kindness

Right now, I’m sitting in my room at Roehampton. It feels a little bit lonely right now because only the international students are moving in right now. Thus, campus is eerily quiet, save for the chirping of birds and the squirrels running along wooden fences (it startled me the first time). I’m actually feeling a little bit homesick now.

I don’t want to blog too much tonight, so I’m just going to tell my story as quickly as possible. Margaret took me to the airport in Almería. It’s by far the smallest airport I’ve ever been to. There are five gates and one security check. And we had to walk to the plane.

The plane ride was pretty uneventful. It’s weird not having assigned seating on EasyJet. I tried to sleep or listen to music—anything to prevent me from worrying about getting from Gatwick to Roehampton. When I arrived in Gatwick, I had two options in my head: Option A, I bite the bullet and take a taxi, and Option B, I take the tube to the station nearest the school and take a taxi the rest of the way.

Taking a taxi would be disgustingly expensive, but at least the chances of getting to Roehampton in one piece would be high. Taking the train and then the tube seemed more of a hassle despite the savings, especially because I had two suitcases, and with my sense of direction, I’d be bound to get lost. And then the lady who checked my papers at immigration actually recommended I take the Gatwick Express to Victoria and then take a taxi the rest of the way.

With all of these ideas in mind, I inquired at the airport information desk. The man grimaced when I mentioned taking a taxi, and told me that train would be the best option. With that, he pointed me in the direction of the train information desk. When I got up to the counter, however, the young man there didn’t know where Roehampton was. I thought he was going to just brush me off, but to my surprise, he offered to look it up on Google for me.

That was when the trouble began. For some reason, he was using the keyboard from hell. When he tapped a key, it would type the letter 20 times. And then when he pressed the backspace, it erased the entire field. It took him about 10 minutes just to type in “Roehampton University.” Meanwhile, a long queue was beginning to form behind me. I seriously prayed that God would heal the keyboard.

Once he found the nearest train station to Roehampton, it was smooth sailing from there. He actually gave me an entire route plan to use, pointing me towards the automatic ticket machines. The plan was to take the Southern line towards Victoria, then transfer at Clapham Junction, taking southwest line towards Weybridge, then get off at Barnes.

The only problem is that I have no idea how to use them. I was a little panicked, but I asked the woman behind me, and she basically did the entire process for me so I could buy my ticket. Then, when I made it down to the platform, she actually caught up to me because she wanted to tell me that I would need to make a transfer.

When I got to Clapham, though, I thought that I would be taking a train at the same platform, just across the way. I sat for about 10 minutes wondering if I was right or not. The girl I asked said she thought it was okay. About two minutes before my train was supposed to arrive, I asked an attendant and discovered that I had to go from platform 11 and 12 to platform 5 and 6. Another small moment of panic.

Fortunately, he kindly offered to help me carry my bags down the stairs. Then I briskly walked to the next platform. At the bottom of the stairs, a young man (maybe about my age) asked if I needed help carrying my bags up the stairs. I don’t know why they don’t have escalators or something. Either way, I made it onto the train just as it was about to leave.

When I got off at Barnes, I ran into another young man, who asked me if I was an international student moving in today. I said that I was, and asked if he was a student. He told me that he used to go to Roehampton, but that his girlfriend was moving in today as well. Then, to my surprise, he left his bike, grabbed my bags, and helped me carry them up the stairs and across the street.

Then he had to run back down to meet his girlfriend, who was arriving on the next train. I stood there on the sidewalk looking completely baffled. He told me that I had to take the bus, but he didn’t say what number or—if he did—I didn’t hear him. Another girl was standing there, and when I asked her, she told me which numbers I needed. It was then that I realized that I didn’t have any pounds (at least, no coins) on me. So she gave me two pounds and quickly caught her bus.

I walked with my two suitcases to the bus stop and stood there, pounds in hand, still confused. I saw a girl that I thought seemed pretty young, and asked her which bus I needed to take to get to the university. Not only did she tell me which bus to take, she helped me carry my suitcases onto the bus, and when we disembarked, she helped me take them across the street and up to the main entrance of Roehampton.

From there, I had to sign in, grab my welcome materials, get my key, and move in. I was grateful that some of the upperclassmen are employed to help us; I had one of them to help me move my two suitcases across campus and up four flights of stairs. I don’t know how I would have done it otherwise.

Also, as I was walking across campus, I saw the same guy who had been waiting for his girlfriend. I waved at him and he waved back—I never thought I would see him again. But as I was waiting in the welcome center, he ran over and quickly gave me his email, then rushed off again. That was definitely unexpected.

Overall, I definitely praise God for helping me make it from Almería to Roehampton safely. He totally provided people along the way to assist or take care of me, especially making that trip from Gatwick Airport to the school. A lot of people have told me that British people aren't friendly, but if not for their kindness, I don't think I would have made it in one piece.

Frankly though, the best part of all was that I had prepared myself mentally to pay £70 or so, and I actually spent about £11 total. I feel like a good Chinese.

Las Playas y La Tortilla

So today’s theme is: the beach. The original plan was for Monday to be our day of adventure, searching for Cabo de Gata—a beach that Margaret had heard good things about. But we were both pretty tired and accidently overslept. One of the things I’ve learned about Spain is that you really have to “go with the flow.” So we decided to stay in during siesta (yes, it’s a beautiful thing) and play some guitar.

A couple hours later, we headed down to nearby Aguadulce, which is a fairly small but scenic stretch of beach. The water is sparkly blue-green, and the shore is remarkably clean—especially for a country where littering is pretty commonplace. We walked along the sleepy port in search of a good café that served Spain’s traditional paella.

Sadly, the locals were still enjoying their siesta when we arrive in Aguadulce. There was one restaurant full of young teenagers smoking things they shouldn’t. We still had a couple hours before the usual mealtime, so we continued our leisurely walk, following the red cobblestone sidewalk around the corner.

We first noticed a large sign that read: “HOTEL. Puerto Salud. Fisioterapia.” The walls of the three story facility were completely white. At first, we thought it was simply a hotel, but as we approached the building, we looked up and saw that the high walls surrounding the buildings were protected by barbed wire. As we passed closer, we peered through the gates. Inside looked more like a hospital then a local hotel—a deserted hospital.

Margaret and I can only guess what that place actually is. Was it really a hotel? A mental institution with a nice view? The sign did say “fisioterapia.” I suppose we will never really know. The place reminded us of something straight out of a horror movie. Whatever it was, we decided to head back toward the port before our imaginations got the better of us.

We changed plans again and picked 30°, a Mediterranean café. At least, that’s what it said it was. Spain’s beaches are on the Mediterranean Sea after all. We sat at one of the beach front tables and enjoyed lemon sorbet (Margaret) and fresh mango juice (me). My mango juice was really good, but the straw came with firework streamers attached to it, which made it difficult to drink without either swallowing plastic or choking in laughter. Margaret was particularly amused by my sorry attempts at drinking my juice seriously.

That evening, we actually ended up going to the mall to do some grocery shopping and eat dinner. We were dead set (well, almost) on eating paella that night, but after we sat down to order, the waitress informed us that you had to call in advance if you wanted to eat paella. Margaret and I were pretty sad about that, but we were still able to enjoy each other’s company at dinner. Dad always did say it’s not about WHAT you eat, but WHO you eat.

On a side note, at the mall we bumped into three of Margaret’s friends from her church. They kindly gave us a ride home, with a stop at Daisy’s flat on the way. I love meeting new people, so it was really neat to meet Margaret’s friends. They’re from all over the place: Ecuador, Bolivia, Colombia…and they all have their own accent. I didn’t mean to be so quiet, but I was trying hard to understand the conversation, and my Spanish comprehension is painfully slow. It was great fun though.

Since we weren’t able to go on our little adventure on Monday, Margaret and I left early (early here is 10) this morning to catch the bus to Cabo de Gata. It took a total of about 1.5 hours to get there, but we were abundantly rewarded for our patience. The sun was out and the beach was relatively secluded save for a few fellow sunbathers.

Margaret and I enjoyed soaking up the sun and listening to…well…our mp3 players. But it was really peaceful there. The sand at Cabo de Gata is much softer than at Aguadulce, too. Once we got too warm, Margaret and I cooled off by taking a dip in the sea water. And when I say cooled off, I mean cooled off. It was cold! But it felt great, anyways.

We ended our trip with a cold Coke, sitting under the umbrellas at one of the seaside cafés, listening to the sound of the gentle waves. If only we were able to eat the paella they were serving—it looked and smelled absolutely delicious. But alas, we had a 4 pm bus to catch.

One thing I had heard about before I arrived in Spain was something called a “Spanish omelet.” How I heard about it is a long story, but ever since then, I’ve wanted to try it. Fortunately for me, Margaret knows how to make it! So after we got home and cleaned up, we moved to the kitchen and began our lesson. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m more of an eater than a cook, but it was really exciting to learn how to make it.

The Spanish omelet is actually more of a potato pancake with egg in it. The funny thing is, everyone here calls it a “tortilla.” Never would have guessed, right? The best part is flipping the entire omelet, out of the skillet, onto the plate, and back into the skillet. Margaret is a great cooking teacher, too. I felt like I learned a lot of practical cooking tips just from watching her and listening to her explanations.

After we finished cooking, we walked ten minutes to the house of Margaret’s friends, who are also missionaries in Spain. I’m getting tired, so I won’t go into detail. But they’re three children are amazing—they speak English, Spanish, and Arabic. The two year old doesn’t actually speak much at all yet (at least, not coherently), but he’ll definitely be trilingual when he grows up.

I’m really having a hard time believing that tonight is my last night in Spain. Tomorrow I make my journey to London. Pray that I’ll make it safely to Roehampton, sanity intact. I wish I could say that I’m excited, but at the moment, I feel quite nervous. I think once I arrive on campus I’ll feel better. Alright, time for me to go pack. ¡Ciao!

*Tangent: we saw jamón serrano EVERYWHERE. It's really strange.

Granada, etc.

For those of you who have been impatiently waiting for a second entry—no, I haven’t disappeared into the heart of Spain. I just didn’t have internet for a few days. I said previously that my future posts would not be as long as the first. I lied. This time, it can’t be helped; I was away for three days and couldn’t blog. So I’m doing it in one go.

Since this is my first visit to Spain, Margaret decided to take me to Granada, which is a two hour train ride from Almería. The scenery along the way was a contrast between the red, rocky mountains and the green hills lined with short olive trees. Some stretches had “green houses”—which are really more like white tarp-like tents—where they grow their produce. Other times, we would see stone houses and caves carved into the sides of the rocks.

Granada is a university town with an eclectic assortment of people: Spanish students, English tourists, Moroccan and African immigrants, backpackers, sightseers, families, and professional businessmen. It has much more of a bustling, city-like atmosphere than Vicar, where Margaret lives. Margaret’s friend in Granada was away for the weekend, so she graciously allowed us to stay in her flat (though without the luxury of a hot shower).

We spent some time just walking leisurely around the city and people-watching near the fountain in one of the many plazas. The people in Spain are very interesting. In some ways, they are “too hard” as our friend Adrianna says. They can be rude, and they smoke and litter too much. But they are also very affectionate with each other, as well as incredibly social. And a LOT of people here have pet dogs (of course, it’d be better if they picked up after them once in a while).

After a short time, we met up with Adrianna, a fellow missionary that Margaret met through her roommate. She is wonderfully sweet and offered to take us around. I mentioned that I really wanted to try churros con chocolate, like I had seen on Travel Channel, so she took me to “the best churreria in all of Granada.” It really was as good as I expected. The chocolate was very, very dark chocolate, and thick, almost like pudding. The chocolate near the surface is more solid than the chocolate underneath, which is actually more liquid and sweet.

Surprisingly, the churros aren’t what I’m used to having at Disneyland or from sidewalk stands, where they’re ridged and covered in cinnamon. They reminded me of the bread that they serve with congee (Chinese rice porridge)—almost exactly like that. It makes a yummy combination with the chocolate though. To top it all off, we got to hear Adrianna’s testimony, which was really neat.

Then we browsed through Little Morocco, which is a basically a web of narrow streets lined with teterias, tapas bars, and shops selling Moroccan gifts. We were particularly drawn to the teterias, which serve an international menu of teas along with Indian dishes. They have a dark, Arabian atmosphere because of the Moroccan draperies and pillowed booths, complete with smoke from the many hookahs.

Adrianna showed us her recommendations for kebabs, teterias, and tapas before leaving us at the bus stop. Finding our way back to the flat was a little nerve-wrecking, since it was late, and we weren’t actually sure where our stop was. We ended up sitting in the front of the bus and yelling last minute for the bus driver to let us off. But we made it back safely.

The next morning, we woke up at six. We took a series of three different busses to make it to our 9 am reservation at the Alhambra. Along the way, we accidently left our debit card in the ATM too long and weren’t able to get any more cash. But since the bank wasn’t open yet and the Alhambra was waiting, we decided to go back later to inquire at the bank.

The Alhambra was beautiful…and huge. We listened to the audio tour as we walked from room to room, taking pictures of the ridiculously intricate architecture. Some of the walls are decorated from floor to ceiling in Arabic—written praises to Allah. It’s really amazing. We also enjoyed the restfulness of the gardens and pools, and walked up the stairs to the battlements.

By the way, I thought from the very beginning at the narration on the audio tour was strangely overly-dramatic and romanticized. Some parts, the narrator even quoted poetry. Toward the end of the tour, it suddenly dawned on me that the voice on the audio tour was none other than Washington Irving, the American writer (think “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle”) who stayed at the Alhambra around 1829. I thought he was pretty cheesy, but Margaret told me, “You have to embrace it Lynnette.” Secretly, I suspect she thought it was cheesy too.

From the top of the Alcazaba (the fort) you can see all of Granada. It’s an awesome view of the city. There are two or three different levels to the Alcazaba, and at one point, I stood at the very top, and Margaret ran down to the middle level. I started taking pictures of her once she reached the center. When I was done, I gave her the thumbs up sign, and I expected her to start heading back towards the stairs.

Instead, Margaret, who absolutely loves heights, decided to walk to the wall of the battlement, sit on the wall, and put her feet over the ledge. It wasn’t really dangerous at all, but I could hear people behind me gasp in horror. When she came back up, she told me that she could hear voices behind her say “¡Está loca!”

We decided to be economical and walk down the mountain instead of spending money on another bus fare. Margaret and I went to have doner kababs, which is basically a kebab pita sandwich. We talked for quite awhile, but since we were surrounded by tables of smokers, my asthma began getting a little agitated. Unfortunately, we had a difficult time the check from our waiter. Margaret said that that is pretty typical of Spanish customer service.

We rested awhile at the plaza fountain again and talked about “Must Haves and Can’t Stands” (yes, that’s what girls do when we get together) before heading off to do some window shopping. I always have to buy a keychain to commemorate every place I travel to. But because of our lost debit card—the bank told us that the card was destroyed already—we had to search for a shop that took credit card.

Once that was taken care of, we went to a nice little café and had some cold treats—coffee ice cream and blackberry sorbetto. The weather in Spain so far has been very warm and sunny, which made us thirsty after walking around so much. For dinner, we wanted to go to a teteria, but we couldn’t find one that took credit cards, so the two of us finally settled on a nice tapas restaurant.

I was really excited to try tapas for the first time ever. The way it worked was that for every drink you ordered, you got a house special tapa to go with it. Or something like that. We also ordered a few a la carte. The bus ride back to the flat was the same as before, hoping that we’d recognize our stop in time to alert the driver.

The next day, we packed up, cleaned the flat, and made both breakfast and lunch. Then we waited at the bus station and ate the hot potato-egg pancake that we had bought from the supermarket earlier. For lunch, we packed sandwiches of French bread, jamón cerrano (cured ham, a specialty in Spain), and cheese.

Unfortunately, the bus came really late, and we hardly had any cash left. As soon as we disembarked, we hailed a taxi. Margaret told the taxi driver, “I ONLY have seven euros. Nothing more.” The fare ended up being €6.67. We barely made it to the train station by 10 am, and slept on the train for two hours. By the time arrived and took the bus back to Almería, we were pretty worn out (we had stayed up late the night before, too). I actually slept through until this morning.

Around 8:30 am, Margaret woke me up and we walked with her roommate Gloria down the main boulevard to the Sunday open air market. We set up a table of Christian materials and handed out tracts for the next several hours. I’m not used to standing that long, but Margaret and Gloria have practice. It’s pretty amazing. They can tell—for the most part—the difference between Spanish, Romanian, Moroccan, African (okay, so that one is more obvious than the others), English, so on and so forth. The thing is, each require their own language (i.e. Moroccans read Arabic, most of the Africans speak French), their own tracts, and their own cultural sensitivities.

The cool part of handing out literature in Spain is that most of the passersby actually take them, something completely unheard of in the States. Given, some of the tracts end up on the ground a few meters away, but in general, most people take them pretty willingly. Some even say “Gracias” as they walk away, and you can even hear them reading aloud as they walk.

To be honest, the most difficult part of standing there handing out literature was the smell of the spit-fire chicken roasting only a few yards away from our table. It was actually my very first time passing out tracts, and at first, I was pretty intimidated. But after I tried it, I was glad that I did. I really pray that some of those people have their lives changed by reading them.

Overall, these last few days have been both fun and tiring. It was nice this afternoon having an evening to just relax and recuperate. Plus, these blog entries take me a lot longer than I had anticipated when I left home. I also want to stay out of Margaret’s way so she can get work done. I can’t be a complete nuisance. Anyways, I’m trying to multi-task now, downloading and uploading photos, checking emails, and blogging all at once. What would I do without technology?

In Transit

First things first: you may or may not have noticed, but I titled my blog entry “In Transit.” At first glance, it seems like a really boring title. Shouldn’t a header be catchy? Witty? Attention-grabbing? Of course, as a writer, I naturally want my blog titles to be interesting enough to draw my readers’ eyes--and brains--on down to the actual text. But somehow, as soon as this title popped into my head, something about it just screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE. I CAN HANDLE THIS ONE.”

The conclusion I came to was that, when it comes down to it, the people who want to read about my misadventures will do so with or without a great blog header. And those who are too lazy to read more than 100 words have already stopped reading and will miss out on my scolding them. A warning to the wise: this first entry is really long. The next entries will definitely be shorter. Read at your own risk.

So back to the point, I titled this entry “In Transit” because my new friend Patrick kept saying those words. I don’t know in what context he was able to say it so many times, but those words stuck in my head. Plus, it seemed like a fitting way to describe an entire day of travel.

Let me back up a bit. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to shower and get the last few things together. Around 5, my mom and dad drove me to LAX. It was definitely hard to say goodbye to them. This is the longest time I will ever have been away from them, not to mention my very first time flying solo. Needless to say, I was more than a little anxious.

The flight to Toronto was long, but I managed to get at least a few short hours of sleep. I don’t really sleep on planes because I need the rest. I sleep because I’m too bored not to. Auntie Polly has definitely spoiled me; I’m so used to Cathay Pacific that somehow, Air Canada just doesn’t compare. Plus, they force you to purchase food from them at exorbitant prices, instead of just coming around with free peanuts or pretzels. The cheap, angry Chinese in me kicked in and I refused to eat simply out of principle.

Landing in Toronto was an interesting experience. It was strange to look out the window and see rain clouds stretching across the goose grey sky. I don’t actually know what goose grey is, but it sounded nice to me. I had quite a long layover there. I tried to kill time by watching an episode of a Japanese drama I had saved on my computer and journaling in my spiffy new notebook (thanks ROCK). Sadly though, I was still pretty antsy.

Enter Lien. She came and sat across from where I was camping out. I was so starved for conversation (seriously, I was silent for longer than anyone has ever seen before) that I asked if she were going to Madrid, too. That at least got conversation going, and I soon discovered that we’re the same age and we’re both studying abroad in London. Only, her pre-semester stop is Brussels, while mine is Spain.

Our short conversation satisfied me for the time being, so I gathered up my courage and went to check out airport food. I actually wasn’t that hungry, but I noticed that my hands were shaking uncontrollably and hypothesized that my blood sugar was low, seeing as I boycotted Air Canada’s ridiculous snack offerings. After refueling (doesn’t that seem appropriate at an airport?) with a BBQ chicken sandwich and apple juice, I sat back down in my original position. Except this time, Patrick had moved to sit across from me.

Same as last time, I asked if he was going to Madrid and soon learned that he was my airplane buddy. My new friend, I found out, is Peruvian, and is going to study and work in Madrid. He doesn’t like sports, he installs stereo systems into cars, and he studies electrical engineering. Or at least, that’s what I think he said. Between his English and my Spanish, we understood very little and got along just fine.

So, after a while, I asked Patrick to look after my backpack so I could use the restroom. On my way to the restroom, I decided to look again at the board with all the flight listings. I was a little suspicious, because the Japanese ladies next to me waiting for their flight said they were going to Rome. Turns out, my suspicions were confirmed, because our flight to Madrid was now set for gate 177, instead of 179 like it had listed previously. I don’t really understand. They give absolutely no warning and no announcement of a change in gate. I felt like I was just lucky that I stumbled across it.

Well, Patrick and I moved to the next gate, and as we were struggling to communicate in Spanglish, we attracted the attention of a really sweet Canadian couple who had served in Spain for 17 years. They helped translate the missing pieces of our conversation, and then dove into a full-fledged conversation with Patrick. I was excited to discover that even though I can’t speak much, I was definitely able to understand almost their entire little chat.

And THEN, 30 minutes later, they changed it again. No announcement. Oh, and this is another thing that makes me mad. Both the Toronto airport and the airport in Madrid have great wi-fi connections. Only, you have to pay to use them. I’m a poor college student interested only in sending a quick email to my family to let them know that I’m still alive—I don’t want to pay for it! And the other thing about Toronto airport: All of the Asian people there are Cantonese speakers. It made me homesick.

Ok, I want to speed things up a bit now. Turns out, I ended up sitting in the row behind Patrick, next to another Peruvian girl, who had met Patrick on their previous flight from Lima to Toronto. I had a hard time sleeping during the 8 hour flight, but I was pleasantly surprised they served dinner and breakfast. Plus, I managed to make it through the new Indiana Jones movie. Maybe half a thumbs-up from this critic.

My wait in Madrid was the longest. I think I pretty much sat by myself the entire six hours, without talking to anyone, struggling to keep myself entertained. I journalled, walked, wrote flashcards of Japanese vocabulary, listened to music, played the loner game…

The only other “conversations” I engaged in were with the lady at the self-check in counter for Iberia, the guard who patted me down at security, and two little Venezuelan children who were probably more bored than I was, so they came over to talk to me. I take great pride in knowing that my Spanish is on par with that of a three year old child.

The flight to Almeria was a unique experience all together. The plane was dinky—really puny and aged. I think it probably held about 30 of us total, and boarding, I wasn't sure if it could hold even that number. At least it was a quick flight. I somehow slept through the take-off and landing, and woke up for the in-flight soda. The guy next to me downed a cup of thick, orange-red tomato juice with added sweetener. Yummy.

The end of my journey finally arrived, and I was so relieved to see Margaret waiting for me at the welcome gate in Almeria. After 25 hours of traveling, I think the most exciting part was coming back to Margaret’s apartment and taking a shower. No wonder nobody wanted to talk to me.