Geography test, in Spanish

Yes, you read that title correctly. I don't remember the last time I had a geography test, the kind wherein you point out rivers and mountain ranges on a map. But I do know the next time I have to do so - tomorrow.

The test will be in Spanish. Maybe that won't be too difficult when I am just pointing out mountain ranges; but when I get to the part that requires an explanation of the Spanish political system, ughh!!

On a completely unrelated note, here is a picture I took at Retiro as I was walking home on Sunday:

Can you believe that man is making his wife and young child row the boat? He knows it's wrong, too. That's why he has that guilty look on his face.


Look at that woman's face, the pain and indignity she is trying to hide. My heart really breaks for her. How did it come to this?

Anyways, time for studying. Wish me luck!

Easter was eclectic, to say the least

It consisted of a convent, a cave, and a castle. I passed time at a river, and a discotheque. And fish was served at every meal. I got to tinker around on a guitar. I went on a church retreat with Oasis, because the Presence was just more desirable than processionals.


Clearly, I was never a horse girl.

Weird moment: being in a discotheque called "Sala Aphrodite" until 2am the Saturday night before Easter. The whole time I was prancing about wearing my big nerd smile, meditating on the absurdity of it, wishing I was at a prayer vigil-Holy Ghost party. As I was dancing, I thought back to the Saturday night before Easter 2010... I think I was at Poway WalMart at 2am, trying to find the big fattest Easter basket for Pastor Jerry to give to Zoe at church the next day. And I couldn't figure out which Saturday night I preferred. Sala Aphrodite and Poway WalMart each have their charms, you know.

A couple highlights:


Yeah, you just watched that.


For a brief moment, I was tempted to be a nun. Then I remembered - I don't want to be a nun. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed!

I'm blogging from my phone

It's really difficult. Consider the ratio of fingerpad surface area to touchscreen keyboard surface area. That last sentence took about 55 seconds to type. Anyhow today was quite lovely. It began with a pancake breakfast. It was definitely IHOP: we were Dutch, British, Colombian, and American. Althou%gh I was barely American and they definitely asked me to chant something Hawaiian. The Prado, tapas, and Retiro with Antonia the German came later. I got called out a a filipina by the waiter at the tapas bar. When he found out I am Ilocana, he.called for some guy working back in the.kitchen: "Eh! Ilocana!" To which I replied, "Yeah, pero diac maawatan." (I don't understand) Who knew I.d be drawimg on my Americanness,.Hawaiianness, andmy Ilocananess in one 24hr period?
And now my computer charger is broken, I don't know if i'll make thru the next day witjout my computer. I can't keep typing like this.anyway it's 1am, I can't party like I used to when I was
26 and. I.m going to bed. Typos and all.

Marrakech.

Um, yeahhh.

"How was Marrakech?" they keep asking. And I keep opening my mouth, as if to respond. And as I wait for my brain to catch up to my mouth, I realize I've been standing there for a full seven to ten seconds, saying "Uhhh..."

And then it laughs. My brain laughs about Marrakech. I don't laugh out loud, because I don't want people to get the wrong impression, like I think Marrakech is amazing, or awful. So I stand there, saying "Uhhh...," and inside, I laugh.

I can tell you this about Marrakech. If nothing materializes in the outside world, I can always go back and become someone's third wife - become a henna artist, drink the world's best orange juice and mint tea everyday, and possibly never take a shower again in my life. I mean, it might not be that bad. Maybe I could take up the berber guitar while I'm at it.

Well, for now I'll file that option under "Plan D," right after God's perfect will for my life, being a staff writer for 30 Rock, and being an eyebrow model.

In reality, Marrakech is as much of a sensory overload as is our very decorated ryad:


Alexandra (my savvy Belgian friend) and I arrived early Saturday morning at our ryad. I hadn't slept the night before, Alex had barely slept; but we knew we wanted to just barrel through the first day & sleep really well that night. So we ate our delicious complimentary breakfast: breads, jams, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs - very Frenchie. I had the best coffee I've had in a very long time. It was full-bodied, chocolatey, slightly nutty, with no acidic aftertaste. Yum!

After breakfast, we were naïve enough to think we could survive the souks on no sleep.


We barely came out of this certified UNESCO World Heritage Site alive. I certainly got an F--- you from a vender whose instruments I wouldn't buy. It wasn't so nice. When we finally found our way out of the maze of souks, we had our first life-changing glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. There would be more orange juice to come.


When we finally returned to our ryad in the late afternoon, the incredibly hospitable staff prepared some moroccan mint tea for us, which we enjoyed on the rooftop terrasse.


The next day, we met up with David Way. He has worked hard to overcome the centuries of discrimination and oppression leveled against his people group (lefties) to become a successful world traveler and iconic photographer. Kudos, David!

The three of us decided to catch a bus and find some camels to ride. We did. I don't know which dismount was more startling and unexpected: the sweaty bus or the smelly camel. Anyhow, after the camel ride, we attempted to visit a palace. The map lied about the palace, and we didn't make it inside. But on the plus side, we acquired a few Brazilians. Adding to my small repertoire of Portugués.


We had wandered through a few unnecessarily narrow paths (streets?) and were lured into the gorgeous blue courtyard of a Jewish synagogue by a young kid. At this point, I was so wary of being conned that I hung back for a few minutes, waiting for the kid to demand money. I was wrong, thankfully. Later we shared a very communal dinner overlooking the swirling, amoebic mass of stalls in Jamaa el Fna Square.


The next day we finally made it to the palace. It was fun.


For our last night altogether, we braved the stalls in the heart of the square. It was the best couscous I have ever had in my life. And we may have dissected a Moroccan sausage, out of sheer curiosity.


Alexandra... my partner in crime and haggler-extraordinaire:


Ah, Erasmus. Life's rough.

Merci, Alex, for the great times, for balancing caution and adventure, and for speaking French. Someday you will be a highly successful business woman - and maybe I'll be your filipino girl!

A bit of Sweden in Madrid

And just in time, too. I was beginning to have withdrawals. See, it went like this: Sweden, then the wonderfully quintessential Madrid weekend of friends, tapas, and very late nights, then - Monday.

Monday came with a vengeance, with a 2-day old headache, with an hour and twenty minute commute to cancelled classes and mandatory conferences.

Oh, Monday.

When she rises to her full height and rears her ugly head, few forces in this world can compare.

Enter José Gonzalez & the Göteborg String Theory. When I finally arrived at the gorgeous old Teatro Lope de Vega after hours of scrambling and organizing, I folded myself into that plush, velvety-red cushioned seat, looked Monday straight in the eye, and said to her:

"Chill."



Yeah, I was there.

And yes, it was transcendent; and no, the videos cannot capture what it means to be wrapped in the sonic embrace that is a José Gonzalez & The Göteborg String Theory concert. Do you realize that there exists music of such exquisite beauty, such substance and weight, that you feel you could step out into it and not fall? Can you tell that I had such spiritual revelation at this concert that I felt I encountered Jesus there?

Yes, it really was that good. And the revelation I got is that the piercing beauty and near-perfection of this music I try to describe is a mere shadow of the beautiful and perfect love of a God who always has and always will love us perfectly, passionately and wholly. It is a mere shadow of a shadow.

This God who pursues us as we reject Him, avoid Him, deny Him. This God who forgave us even as we nailed Him to a cross. This God who shows mercy to the humble sinner & chastises the arrogant, power-abusing religious leaders. This God who promises to teach us the "unforced rhythms of grace." This God who requires us to believe in that exquisite beauty, that substance and weight of glory. Who requires us to step out into faith. Who won't let us fall.

I am loved, and so I love. I have received, and so I give. He laid down His divinity, and so I lay down my life. I can't see very far down this dimly-lit, narrow path, but I know He surrounds me, and it is enough.

Thank you, Monday.

This was Sweden

Sweden is classy. Sweden is clean. Sweden gave us H&M, IKEA, and José Gonzalez. Somebody, selah and thank Him for Sweden!



What a joy to see my dearly beloved friend and favorite M-Div, Emilie Schneider. Her generous heart, familiar laugh and propensity for fika were a welcome reprieve from the daily reality of "all things new" in Madrid. Here Emilie anticipates a fika in this cozy café in the old town:


We stayed the first night with the dynamic Phil & Anna Close. Conversations with this Australian musician & Swedish intellectual were rich, deep, inspiring and never dull. Plus, they have two of the cutest little "Ausswedes" you'll ever see! Of the entire Close family I only have pictures of Micah; I can't believe it! I don't even have a picture of Anna's American sunroom. But anyways, check out this little bundle of amazing:


By the way, I can't even describe how much I loved the design of Anna's bathroom - I didn't take a picture but I will be copying it, tile for tile, when I get to design my own bathroom!

Can we just talk about how impeccably stylish everything is Sweden for a second? Honestly, I've seen bathrooms in fine dining restaurants in the U.S. that are nowhere near comparable to, say, the bathroom in the Swedish bus station. Style and comfort. Everything in Sweden has sleek lines and comfy cushions, including the Swedish metro.


Anyhow. Another example of exquisite Swedish style: Sophie, our prayer-wielding, pattern-cutting host for part of the weekend (her apartment could also be a page out of a design magazine). She took us to a thrift store that, not surprisingly, outclassed most retail shops I've visited. It had a refreshment table, folks: sweet iced tea served in a delicate, antique, pink glass pitcher, wafer cookies, and tea biscuits... all this with Astrud Gilberto played in the background. Emilie & Sophie strutting their "new" stuff:


Things I recommend in Sweden: Kaffekoppen, that thrift store whose name I can't remember, Hillsong Stockholm, the Spanish tapas, the prayer & worship session in the cozy church cellar in the heart of the Stockholm partying district, anything Anna cooks (even if she apologizes), wandering for hours through narrow cobblestone streets and this Sunday flea market:


Things I don't recommend: the changing of the guard, putting your feet up on the metro, or mispronouncing Bagarmossen. The less enjoyable side of Swedish perfection - being corrected by random Swedes who felt it their humble duty to set me straight! However, I will always treasure the memory of the older Swedish gentleman on the metro who asserted that Emilie & Sophie were from New York, and I was clearly Alaskan.

Anyhow, I'm already wondering when I will get to go back, shop, wander, maybe get a seat this time at Sky Bar, and take another fika! Stay classy, Sweden!

Las Fallas: road trip to Valencia

Las Fallas.

It was non-negotiable - we had to go.

After several fruitless attempts to sign-up for the half-priced student bus groups, a couple friends and I rented a car for the trip to Valencia. There was no way we were paying 50€ to take the bus. We knew that renting a car was a risky - what if we couldn't find parking? What if some hooligan reveler trashed our rental car? Would we be able to drive home after a sleepless night wandering the streets of Valencia? It was a tough decision to make, but in the end...


We got a Mini. Isn't she beautiful? I can't tell you how refreshing it was to drive again, after weeks of germ-infested, un-American public transportation. Ah, the freedom of the open road!

How do you like my parking job? We weren't exactly sure this was a parking spot. It was more of a "space by the front door" spot. But in relation to the other parking jobs around us, it seemed perfectly legal.

Anyways. How can I describe Las Fallas? The crowds...


The fireworks...


The burning of massive, stories-high puppets in tiny town squares.



Mounds of churros and chorizo piled high on street carts and carnival booths.


Three million people thronging the city streets, well past four in the morning.



Small children throwing firecrackers right at my feet - you don't expect me to have a picture of that, do you?

No, my friends, I don't think my description could do Las Fallas justice. So for those of you, like me, who are nerds for the working class cultural roots of bizarre traditions, read what "Don Quijote" has to say about Las Fallas.

I will say that we walked at least ten, possibly twelve hours that day/night. We began with a quest to find On the Rocks - a pub that I'm sure does not exist. Once we abandoned (for the first time) our search for On the Rocks, we paused and marveled at the Arts & Sciences museums. They were magical in the twilight, and I had the BEST horchata I've EVER had there.




We never did find On the Rocks, Chemma, Hülya, or any of the other groups we were looking for. But I did run into my fellow San Diegans, Tim and Ajay found a fellow Brit, and Dominic found, um, Rick. Strange things happen in Valencia.

La Cremá, or the burning of the ninots, is a big deal. It takes an entire neighborhood committee nearly a year and tens of thousands of dollars to create these massive figures, all for them to be burned in mere minutes. The firefighters keep the party going, though. Check out the look on this bombero's face, seconds before he blasts the crazy college kids prancing about on the bench:



P.S. After the burning, a polka band surrounded by scores of dancing people played a few swirling, energetic tunes... and at the very center of it all was this adorable little heartbreaker:


We tried to catch a quick nap on the Mediterranean before the drive back to Madrid. The beach was dark and cold. Very, very cold.


When the hypothermia started to set in, we realized it was time to head home. Hasta luego, Valencia!