NTS: When using Instagram, do not hashtag search the name of the Spanish city where you spent the best year of your life. Doing so may incite a sad nostalgia.
http://web.stagram.com/tag/logroño
http://web.stagram.com/tag/logroño
Showing posts with label spain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spain. Show all posts
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
Monday, 31 January 2011
If home is where the heart is, then my heart is in two different places
Madrid. Taken from our apartment balcony.I just arrived home after being in Madrid for two nights. By home, I mean Logroño. It was a weird sensation feeling at home in a place other than Sydney. It’s official. I’ve settled.
As much as I miss home, I haven’t felt home sick per se.
So back to Madrid. As much fun as I had, the city isn’t for me. I guess because it reminded me a lot of Sydney. Big, and commercial, fast paced with fast food.
I went with five friends and we were scolded what felt like every five minutes. We were shopping the first time it happened. Three of the girls took a photo while inside a store, and were told off by the sales assistant.
The second, third and bajillionth time it happened, we were in an art museum. Sometimes you were allowed to take photos, as long you didn’t use flash. Take two steps forward into another room and suddenly you weren’t allowed to take photos at all. When it came to seeing Picasso’s Guernica, you were allowed to stand a few metres away from the painting and observe it, but if you wanted to take a photo you had to step back and do it from outside the doorway. We learnt all these things by getting told off.
The final time it happened I was at Madrid’s famous El Rastro flea market. I took a photo of some antique coins, and the stall-holder (an old, cranky man) literally smacked me on the arm and yelled at me (in Spanish), saying that I deserved to be slapped. Conclusion: when in Madrid you’re better off not taking any photos.
We had a crazy night out on the second day. This picture pretty much sums it up. Let’s just say the night started with three beautifully intact flowers, and finished with a flower, a stem and a straw.
What I'm going to miss about Madrid though, are the art museums. Rembrandt, Miro, Renoir, Picasso, and Dali. I saw them with my own eyes, and stood as close to the canvases as the artists them selves once did.
Love, Noeline
xox
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Siesta, Fiesta
One thing I’ve learned so far (but have yet to master) from being in Spain is how to prioritise rest. Every Monday to Saturday, from about two and four in the afternoon, all the restaurants and shops (except major supermarkets and shopping centres) close. In what is known as siesta, most people go home to nap. During this time the streets are almost deserted; an odd scene to envision in the middle of a beautiful day in a beautiful city that was bustling just moments before. After that it’s business as usual until about 9pm.
Sundays are even worse. True to its Christian roots, Sunday really is a day of rest. This time EVERYTHING, ALL DAY is closed. While the country falls asleep around me, I usually find myself fidgeting, looking for something to do, or tossing around in my bed.
That’s because in my country we’re taught how to sacrifice basic human needs like sleep, eating well and keeping a healthy social life in order to work hard. For the most part, the country is still open on public holidays. Rest, we’re told, comes when you retire. There are hundreds of tourism ads aimed at retirees into going on lavish holidays ‘because they deserve it.’ But why do we have to overwork ourselves in order to deserve something?
Another thing I’ve learnt from the Spaniards, is how to prioritise fun. According to Spanish Living, “every day throughout the year there are fiestas taking place somewhere in Spain, either at a local, regional or national level.” Some are held in honour of patron saints, others in local folklore. Some well known ones include the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (self explanatory), and La Tomatina in Valencia (tomato fight). I was lucky enough to catch the Festival of the Three Kings on my second day of arriving in Logrono. It featured an extravagant street parade of people dressed up as The Three Kings who brought Jesus gifts, throwing lollies at children in the crowd.
The nightlife here is more like early-morning-life. There are lounge bars you can go to from around midnight. But clubs don’t usually open till about 3am, and close at around 7am. Plus, they don’t wait till Friday or Saturday to go out, clubs are open on Thursdays too – yes, a school night. In comparison, clubs in Sydney die down by around 2am.
Where do they get all the energy? Probably from all the siestas they’ve taken during the week... no... their life.
Siesta and fiesta. You do it not because you deserve it from overworking yourself, but simply for being human and alive.
Love, Noeline
xox
Chupitos from bar Absolut
Festival of the Three Kings
Sundays are even worse. True to its Christian roots, Sunday really is a day of rest. This time EVERYTHING, ALL DAY is closed. While the country falls asleep around me, I usually find myself fidgeting, looking for something to do, or tossing around in my bed.
That’s because in my country we’re taught how to sacrifice basic human needs like sleep, eating well and keeping a healthy social life in order to work hard. For the most part, the country is still open on public holidays. Rest, we’re told, comes when you retire. There are hundreds of tourism ads aimed at retirees into going on lavish holidays ‘because they deserve it.’ But why do we have to overwork ourselves in order to deserve something?
Another thing I’ve learnt from the Spaniards, is how to prioritise fun. According to Spanish Living, “every day throughout the year there are fiestas taking place somewhere in Spain, either at a local, regional or national level.” Some are held in honour of patron saints, others in local folklore. Some well known ones include the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (self explanatory), and La Tomatina in Valencia (tomato fight). I was lucky enough to catch the Festival of the Three Kings on my second day of arriving in Logrono. It featured an extravagant street parade of people dressed up as The Three Kings who brought Jesus gifts, throwing lollies at children in the crowd.
The nightlife here is more like early-morning-life. There are lounge bars you can go to from around midnight. But clubs don’t usually open till about 3am, and close at around 7am. Plus, they don’t wait till Friday or Saturday to go out, clubs are open on Thursdays too – yes, a school night. In comparison, clubs in Sydney die down by around 2am.
Where do they get all the energy? Probably from all the siestas they’ve taken during the week... no... their life.
Siesta and fiesta. You do it not because you deserve it from overworking yourself, but simply for being human and alive.
Love, Noeline
xox
Chupitos from bar Absolut
Festival of the Three KingsFriday, 14 January 2011
Three stop overs, one bus and one taxi later…
It took me 36 hours of travel, but welcome to my first post from Logrono, Spain.
I’ve been just over a week and I’ve spent everyday exploring some nook or cranny of this beautiful city. When travelling, keeping yourself busy is one of the best ways to avoid homesickness.
But with sore ankles permitting me from going out, I’ve finally been forced to sit down and reflect.
For starters, the weather here is the coldest I’ve ever experienced in my life – a big deal for people whose moods are predetermined by the weather. But I’m sucking it up.
I’ve also never felt so grown up in my life. Now I can say I’ve solidly lived out of home. Now I can say I’ve had a roommate, and had my patience tested by them. Now I can say I’ve done my own groceries and cooked my own food… and survived. Now I can say I’ve worried about money, I mean really worried about money; about whether or not I have enough to survive, as opposed to something superficial like being able to ‘afford’ a pair of high heels.
I realised that being able to afford something doesn’t mean having enough cash or money on your credit card to buy it. It’s about how much you don’t have to sacrifice in order to make that purchase.
I’m falling in love with this city, and am glad I chose it. Not Madrid. Not Barcelona. But the one most people have never heard of. It’s one thing to say you’ve been to all the top tourist destinations in the world, but all that shows is that you know how to read Lonely Planet. It’s another thing to go somewhere unpublished, to ask locals for directions and be told where to get the best pinchos. For me, that’s the difference between travelling and living in another country.
It’s a weird feeling when I consciously realise I’m speaking another language in a foreign country. That it all sprung from something as simple as a word in my head, an ‘ok’ to study International Studies at uni. People make small decisions in their head all the time without realising the power of where it can, or will eventually take them.
So here’s some things I’ve noticed about my town. There is a fuck load of dogs, yet the city retains its peaceful qualities because they don’t bark. My one dog at home makes more noise than all the dogs here combined, squared, and multiplied by a hundred. There are few gardens to keep them in, so there are about two or three dogs being walked down every street at any given time. I’ve only seen one cat, and it was wild.
Old people run this town. Unlike Australia where the elderly are mostly found in nursing homes, their Spanish compatriots wander around the town till past midnight. The women wear fur coats, walk down the street with linked arms, exchanging gossip and giggling – it’s like Sex and the City meets Meryl Streep meets Spain.
Classes started this week and I needed to buy a notebook. Only problem is their note books are what we call grid books, and grid books bring me bad memories. I used them for math class in high school, my most torturous subject ever. This was one thing I couldn’t suck up. Instead, I trolled dozens of discount stores before striking gold. What’s even more annoying is that similarly, grid books are impossible to find in Sydney.
Also, in bars and cafes people throw their rubbish on the ground below them. Literally. I guess it’s easier to sweep the serviettes up than pick them out from between dirty dishes.
I’ve met some pretty cool people while here. With a particular group of girls, it’s funny because we all speak English but have different accents. We then argue over the names of things are. Like, thong or g-string, hair tie or bobble, cell or mobile. It’s a bit of a struggle making friends with actual Spanish people because our classes are separate from theirs.
The architecture here is amazing, especially the old town with its cobblestone footpaths, sandstone buildings, and baroque churches.
I hope the rest of this year goes as quickly as my first week. And in between my classes for Spanish Language, Spanish Conversation, Spanish Cooking, History and Art of the Camino de Santiago, and doing culture assignments through correspondence for my uni back in Sydney – I’m going to do my best keeping you guys posted with my more interesting antics.
Actually, I’m going to a discoteca for the first time tonight.
Hasta luego, muchachos.
Love, Noeline
xox
I’ve been just over a week and I’ve spent everyday exploring some nook or cranny of this beautiful city. When travelling, keeping yourself busy is one of the best ways to avoid homesickness.
But with sore ankles permitting me from going out, I’ve finally been forced to sit down and reflect.
For starters, the weather here is the coldest I’ve ever experienced in my life – a big deal for people whose moods are predetermined by the weather. But I’m sucking it up.
I’ve also never felt so grown up in my life. Now I can say I’ve solidly lived out of home. Now I can say I’ve had a roommate, and had my patience tested by them. Now I can say I’ve done my own groceries and cooked my own food… and survived. Now I can say I’ve worried about money, I mean really worried about money; about whether or not I have enough to survive, as opposed to something superficial like being able to ‘afford’ a pair of high heels.
I realised that being able to afford something doesn’t mean having enough cash or money on your credit card to buy it. It’s about how much you don’t have to sacrifice in order to make that purchase.
I’m falling in love with this city, and am glad I chose it. Not Madrid. Not Barcelona. But the one most people have never heard of. It’s one thing to say you’ve been to all the top tourist destinations in the world, but all that shows is that you know how to read Lonely Planet. It’s another thing to go somewhere unpublished, to ask locals for directions and be told where to get the best pinchos. For me, that’s the difference between travelling and living in another country.
It’s a weird feeling when I consciously realise I’m speaking another language in a foreign country. That it all sprung from something as simple as a word in my head, an ‘ok’ to study International Studies at uni. People make small decisions in their head all the time without realising the power of where it can, or will eventually take them.
So here’s some things I’ve noticed about my town. There is a fuck load of dogs, yet the city retains its peaceful qualities because they don’t bark. My one dog at home makes more noise than all the dogs here combined, squared, and multiplied by a hundred. There are few gardens to keep them in, so there are about two or three dogs being walked down every street at any given time. I’ve only seen one cat, and it was wild.
Old people run this town. Unlike Australia where the elderly are mostly found in nursing homes, their Spanish compatriots wander around the town till past midnight. The women wear fur coats, walk down the street with linked arms, exchanging gossip and giggling – it’s like Sex and the City meets Meryl Streep meets Spain.
Classes started this week and I needed to buy a notebook. Only problem is their note books are what we call grid books, and grid books bring me bad memories. I used them for math class in high school, my most torturous subject ever. This was one thing I couldn’t suck up. Instead, I trolled dozens of discount stores before striking gold. What’s even more annoying is that similarly, grid books are impossible to find in Sydney.
Also, in bars and cafes people throw their rubbish on the ground below them. Literally. I guess it’s easier to sweep the serviettes up than pick them out from between dirty dishes.
I’ve met some pretty cool people while here. With a particular group of girls, it’s funny because we all speak English but have different accents. We then argue over the names of things are. Like, thong or g-string, hair tie or bobble, cell or mobile. It’s a bit of a struggle making friends with actual Spanish people because our classes are separate from theirs.
The architecture here is amazing, especially the old town with its cobblestone footpaths, sandstone buildings, and baroque churches.
I hope the rest of this year goes as quickly as my first week. And in between my classes for Spanish Language, Spanish Conversation, Spanish Cooking, History and Art of the Camino de Santiago, and doing culture assignments through correspondence for my uni back in Sydney – I’m going to do my best keeping you guys posted with my more interesting antics.
Actually, I’m going to a discoteca for the first time tonight.
Hasta luego, muchachos.
Love, Noeline
xox
Monday, 1 November 2010
How to move to another country
The romanticism of moving to a new country is so misleading. So I'd like to share with you, my dear readers, my stress.
[x] Buy a massive-ass suitcase
[x] Renew passport
[x] Travel insurance
[x] Plane ticket
[x] Get police fingerprint check
[ ] A (second) matriculation letter from my university in Spain saying I've been enrolled, my subjects, and the commencement/end dates of my course (the first copy from them didn't meet consulate standards!)
[ ] A bank statement proving I have enough funds to support myself
[ ] A medical certificate clearing my health
[ ] Book an appointment with the consulate to get my VISA
[ ] Exchange money into Euro
[ ] Apply for Centrelink
[ ] Pass Spanish 4 (no pass, no go)
Getting a police fingerprint check will either be one of the easiest, or hardest things in the world. With my luck, it was the latter. I went to one near uni after class, but they only do them on weekends. So I asked for the appropriate form, so I could fill it out during my 1 hour commute to my local police station.
When I got there, the attending constable had no idea what they were doing. They were making up information saying I was given the wrong form, and that my uni should have issued me the appropriate one. They then refused to give me the $175 police check the consulate specifically asked of us. They insisted on issuing me with a $52 background check, minus the fingerprints. Whenever I tried explaining my situation, they would talk over me saying that the $175 one is only for people applying for working visas and are going to be working with children. Since I had my credit card as part of my ID sitting on the counter, they went ahead and charged me $52. When I showed them documentation from the consulate that explicitly stated requiring the more expensive check, they refused to give me a refund - saying it would take 6 weeks (if that) for the cheque to arrive at my house. So they charged me the remaining amount on a different receipt with an incorrect product description (here's to hoping the uni will still rebate me my money). After leaving the police station I got a call back saying they wouldn't send my fingerprints for internal examination without a registered envelope, in case it got lost. So the next weekday I bought a registered envelope from the post office. I was advised that registered envelopes MUST be posted over the counter of a post office and NOT in a post box. So now I had the added burden of hoping that the policeman/woman whose hands my documents ended up in would be so kind enough as to take the time out of their busy schedule and line up in a post office to send my shit away. Upon arrival at my local police station, there was a different person attending the counter. I explained my situation, that I had already been there previously and was just dropping off an envelope to send my documents away. My fingerprints were there but my form was missing. Whereas the previous constable told me they kept no such forms on the premises, this one pulled out a whole stack from underneath the counter and got me to refill one. She then told me that I actually didn't need to provide a registered envelope, because postage was included in the cost. FMFL (Fuck My Fucking Life).
I've come to realise it's all pot luck within and between police stations. I've had friends who had no problems, and friends who had just as much drama as I. And it sucks because it's not like you can complain about the level of police customer service over something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things they have to worry about (i.e. actual crime).
Even with getting a medical certificate from the doctor, I've had friends who didn't have to undergo ANY tests whatsoever. My doctor insisted on giving me a blood test, which means another week of waiting for the results and picking them up.
Another friend of mine going to the same university managed to get all of her paperwork together last week and booked an appointment with the consulate. Her matriculation letter got rejected because it wasn't specific enough. Besides our name, the four of us girls going to La Rioja pretty much got issued the same one. So we've emailed our adviser asking her to tell the uni we need new ones. But alas, our adviser is sick and has not been replying.
All these little delays are keeping me from booking an appointment with the Spanish consulate who I have to show all this documentation to, who them selves take weeks to process VISAS. Did I mention it's holiday season soon = there's going to be a fuck load of other people getting their VISAs processed, and we're all going to slow each other the hell down! I honestly wouldn't be surprised if I don't end up leaving on time.
Thank God for my scholarship giving me one less thing to worry about (accommodation).
On top of all this I've got five assignments to hand in over the next 11 days :(
I can't wait till this is over and I can look back at this entry and laugh.
Love, Noeline
xox
[x] Buy a massive-ass suitcase
[x] Renew passport
[x] Travel insurance
[x] Plane ticket
[x] Get police fingerprint check
[ ] A (second) matriculation letter from my university in Spain saying I've been enrolled, my subjects, and the commencement/end dates of my course (the first copy from them didn't meet consulate standards!)
[ ] A bank statement proving I have enough funds to support myself
[ ] A medical certificate clearing my health
[ ] Book an appointment with the consulate to get my VISA
[ ] Exchange money into Euro
[ ] Apply for Centrelink
[ ] Pass Spanish 4 (no pass, no go)
Getting a police fingerprint check will either be one of the easiest, or hardest things in the world. With my luck, it was the latter. I went to one near uni after class, but they only do them on weekends. So I asked for the appropriate form, so I could fill it out during my 1 hour commute to my local police station.
When I got there, the attending constable had no idea what they were doing. They were making up information saying I was given the wrong form, and that my uni should have issued me the appropriate one. They then refused to give me the $175 police check the consulate specifically asked of us. They insisted on issuing me with a $52 background check, minus the fingerprints. Whenever I tried explaining my situation, they would talk over me saying that the $175 one is only for people applying for working visas and are going to be working with children. Since I had my credit card as part of my ID sitting on the counter, they went ahead and charged me $52. When I showed them documentation from the consulate that explicitly stated requiring the more expensive check, they refused to give me a refund - saying it would take 6 weeks (if that) for the cheque to arrive at my house. So they charged me the remaining amount on a different receipt with an incorrect product description (here's to hoping the uni will still rebate me my money). After leaving the police station I got a call back saying they wouldn't send my fingerprints for internal examination without a registered envelope, in case it got lost. So the next weekday I bought a registered envelope from the post office. I was advised that registered envelopes MUST be posted over the counter of a post office and NOT in a post box. So now I had the added burden of hoping that the policeman/woman whose hands my documents ended up in would be so kind enough as to take the time out of their busy schedule and line up in a post office to send my shit away. Upon arrival at my local police station, there was a different person attending the counter. I explained my situation, that I had already been there previously and was just dropping off an envelope to send my documents away. My fingerprints were there but my form was missing. Whereas the previous constable told me they kept no such forms on the premises, this one pulled out a whole stack from underneath the counter and got me to refill one. She then told me that I actually didn't need to provide a registered envelope, because postage was included in the cost. FMFL (Fuck My Fucking Life).
I've come to realise it's all pot luck within and between police stations. I've had friends who had no problems, and friends who had just as much drama as I. And it sucks because it's not like you can complain about the level of police customer service over something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things they have to worry about (i.e. actual crime).
Even with getting a medical certificate from the doctor, I've had friends who didn't have to undergo ANY tests whatsoever. My doctor insisted on giving me a blood test, which means another week of waiting for the results and picking them up.
Another friend of mine going to the same university managed to get all of her paperwork together last week and booked an appointment with the consulate. Her matriculation letter got rejected because it wasn't specific enough. Besides our name, the four of us girls going to La Rioja pretty much got issued the same one. So we've emailed our adviser asking her to tell the uni we need new ones. But alas, our adviser is sick and has not been replying.
All these little delays are keeping me from booking an appointment with the Spanish consulate who I have to show all this documentation to, who them selves take weeks to process VISAS. Did I mention it's holiday season soon = there's going to be a fuck load of other people getting their VISAs processed, and we're all going to slow each other the hell down! I honestly wouldn't be surprised if I don't end up leaving on time.
Thank God for my scholarship giving me one less thing to worry about (accommodation).
On top of all this I've got five assignments to hand in over the next 11 days :(
I can't wait till this is over and I can look back at this entry and laugh.
Love, Noeline
xox
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