by Sima Kalmens

The crowd parted rather quickly, loud enough for me not to discern between screams of awe and laughter. I saw a shaggy-haired demon heading towards me, staring venemously with tiny, rubber, black dots–eyes. I panicked and turned rapidly to follow my friends, but the demon had found his target. He grabbed my arm and lightly hit me with a stick. The crowd was amused but quickly closed in again. The demon disappeared, the sound of his stick hitting the sidewalk the only marker of his presence.

No, the Alpine yuletide does not involve public humiliation. I had walked right into the middle of an old pagan tradition: men dressing up as demons and running around with sticks, hitting people. Welcome to Christmastime in Salzburg, Austria, a tiny valley town alive with history and beauty, surrounded by the Alps, and at this time of the year, decked out in Christmas markets, which warm the December chill, and weird traditions.

So I was lucky enough to be properly initiated into Salzburg, but despite the title of this post, that wasn’t all I did. The highlight of my weekend in Salzburg was the Sound of Music tour, a four-hour endeavor that took me to all the classic film’s principle locations: the lake, the houses used as the front and back of the Von Trapp residence, the gazebo, and St. Michael’s church–from the wedding scene–which is located in the small town of Mondsee just outside of Salzburg. It was amazing, as well as mildly surreal, seeing all the places that had existed only on my television for thirteen years. However, my favorite part of the tour was seeing the Austrian countryside through the windows of the tour bus as it rolled down the autobahn. I saw rolling green fields, the towering Alps, glistening lakes, and small houses dotting the uneven terrain. I had the opportunity to get off the bus and take pictures of the town of St. Gilgen–and Wolfgangsee, the lake–and Mondsee, which is one of those charming Alpine towns that only seem to exist on postcards.

Salzburg itself is a charming Alpine town, the likes of which also appear on postcards: old European buildings, churches, orange-lit Christmas markets selling traditional glühwein (hot spiced wine) and stollen (Christmas bread), and the ambiance of local authenticity. Despite modern times, Germanic tradition seems to be deeply rooted in Salzburg. St. Nicholas walks around, distributing peanuts and candy to children, the demons float through the crowds with their sticks, carolers sing on the steps of the Dom Cathedral, and vendors at the market dole out–for money, of course–every handcrafted good imaginable. The Christmas spirit is alive and well, and despite the evening chill, I’m happy to be there among the demons.

by Sima Kalmens

I remember getting on the train five years ago, during my last visit to Spain. The train was white and sleek with minimal purple writings. The impeccably neat interior boasted a relatively wide aisle and comfortable, roomy seats. The train took off smoothly and within minutes, Anger Management was playing on the video screens descended from the ceiling. En route to Seville, I gazed out the window as the brown and green Spanish countryside whizzed by me.

For those of us who prefer our transportation to stay on the ground, the Spanish railway company, RENFE, boasts the train that combines the comfort and convenience of ground transportation with the speed of airplanes. AVE, which stands for Alta Velocidad España and also cleverly, and appropriately, employs the use of the Spanish word for bird, is the gem of Spanish railway services.

AVE service premiered in April 1992 with daily routes between Madrid and Seville, conveniently in time with the 1992 World Fair that was being held in Seville. By 1994, the trains were running faster, cutting travel time from Madrid to Seville by 40 minutes and completing the route in two and a half hours. Madrid is 471km away from Seville.

The Madrid-Málaga line was completed in 2007 and the anticipated Madrid-Barcelona line debuted in 2008. Madrid and Barcelona are 600km apart and the trip takes a little under three hours, punctually ending at Barcelona’s Estacio Sants.

RENFE began offering middle-distance services via AVANT in 2004. Routes include Madrid-Toledo, which takes less than 30 minutes, Madrid-Segovia, Barcelona-Huesca, and Málaga-Seville.

AVE now has 1,835km of track in service throughout Spain and is well on its way to becoming the world’s largest high-speed service with the most kilometers of available track.

RENFE does not compete with airline prices and choosing AVE service over cheap airlines will not necessarily save you money. However, the convenience of train stations’ central locations beats the lengthy, and expensive, commute to and from the airport. Furthermore, you completely avoid the drama that is airport security. Same price, less hassle? I’ll take that anyday.

by Sima Kalmens

I arrived in Spain from the United States last week with the awareness of cultural differences seated somewhere in the back rows of my mind. The rest of the seating area was densely occupied by my excitement. I was finally in Madrid!

Conveniently forgetting all the Spanish I know as soon as one of the Barajas employees asked me something, I incoherently mumbled something along the lines of es bueno while lugging my stuffed suitcases towards the row of taxis. As soon as I got into a taxi, I realized that I was completely clueless as to how tipping works in Spain; this preoccupied me for the entire 30-minute ride. I knew that tipping is not as big a deal in Europe as it is in the United States, but that was the extent of my knowledge. How much less of a big deal is it? What if I undertip and the taxi driver hates me? I realized I didn’t even know how to say “keep the change.”

The total came out to 34E. I decided it would be acceptable to round up, so I gave the driver 40E. To my confusion, I got 6E back in change. Apparently, expecting the driver to keep the extra 6E as a tip was a purely American thought, one that has not yet crossed the Atlantic Ocean.

Although I must admit that it is considerably easier not to have to fiddle around with a pencil after receiving the check at dinner, trying to figure out the tip (basic arithmetic is not one of my fortes), the odd feeling of leaving only 50 cents or so still remains. Which brings me to another point.

I am simply not accustomed to change being worth anything. In the United States, change is petty money. People often forget they even have any. Here in Europe, clanking change has more variety than anything with the word variety in it. There is a 2E coin, a 1E coin, 50 cents, 20 cents, 2 cents, and 1 cent. Seeing the number two on American money is rare, with the exception of $20 bills and quarters (25 cents), of course. A $2 bill in the US is ooh-d and ahh-d over, and kept as a collector’s item, while 50 cent coins are rare and 2 cent coins are virtually unheard of. So you can imagine my unrest when I leave a restaurant table adorned with a huge pile of coins; in the US it is considered disrespectful.

Cab fares and restaurant tips aside, in the past week I have come to the realization that the metro is a prime location for cultural observation. While it is not necessarily the corazón of Madrid life, it is nevertheless a bustling center of people coming, going, and interacting. Greetings aren’t hugs or macho slaps on the back. Quite the contrary; they’re docile kisses on the cheek full of cariño or hearty handshakes.

The madrileños seem genuinely interested in each other, a refreshing change from American indifference, where the phrase “how are you?” is usually a mere equivalent of “hello” and the speaker does not stop to hear the answer. Having gotten lost more times in the past week than I would care to admit, I have gotten in the habit of asking fellow pedestrians for directions and have discovered that they are more than happy to ensure that I reach my destination, even if they themselves cannot offer adequate directions.

I could get used to this.

by Helen Macrae

Well, September has sneaked up on us again and it’s time to get back to work. For all the English teachers out there especially, I hope you’re refreshed and con ganas after a nice long break without having to hear anyone utter “the people is”, “it depends of” or a mangled –ed ending pronunciation (argh!). I was fortunate enough to head off for a month-long jaunt around the USA, taking in 7 states and a HUGE amount of fun along the way. We saw the sights in New York, guzzled clam chowder in Boston, cycled over the Golden Gate Bridge and admired the views as we sped down Highway 1. We spent too much money in Vegas, ooohed at the Grand Canyon, hiked through the New Mexican desert and floated the river drinking beer with a bunch of Texans. It was my first time in the States and, in short, I had a blast.

Part of the fun derived from comparing the USA with Spain, which is where I’ve called home for the past couple of years. In our countrywide game of “Spot the Difference”, here are the main ones we came up with:

Size

There’s no getting away from it, the USA is one big mutha of a country. To someone who’s grown up in England, and a 45 minute drive to visit friends warrants staying with them for a whole weekend, flying 7 hours from New York to San Francisco and still being in the same country is simply mind-boggling. Granted, Spain is somewhat bigger than the UK, but it’s still pretty tiddly in comparison to a continent which has four of its own time zones, and more if you start counting all those other bits.

Other things we noticed came in giant size were all the cars, or rather those cars-on-steroids our American friends preferred to call “trucks”. They’re enormous! For our drive from California to Texas we’d hired what the car-rental company termed a “mid-size” car, which ended up being a massive family saloon and by the far the biggest thing I’ve ever driven (given that I’ve never had my own car and my parents have a penchant for hatchbacks), yet we were still dwarfed by pretty much everything on the road. Now don’t get me wrong, if you live in the middle of nowhere with only a dirt track for access then having a chunky off-road vehicle is perfectly acceptable, but surely the worst that most of the people we saw in those 4 x 4 monsters have to contend with are nice tarmac suburban streets on their way to drop the kids off at school. Give me a nice Spanish-sized car any day! And don’t even get me started on those ridiculous Hummers…

To match the massive cars, we also saw a few, er…massive people. However, I’d expected to see an individual the size of a planet on every street corner, and to be fair, we didn’t see that many really. Perhaps it was because they were all hiding in their trucks! After a detailed analysis (some might call it perving) in the various states we visited we decided that the general body type was pretty similar to the UK, i.e. with a hearty Anglo-Saxon feel about it, i.e. much bigger than tiny Spaniards with their svelte Latino frames. Afters many years of puzzlement I’ve come to the conclusion that the Spanish must just be blessed with fantastic genes, because there’s no other way they could pull it off with the amount of tortilla, jamón and vino they guzzle.

Or perhaps Spaniards are skinnier simply because they have a more sensible idea about portion control: generally, what you get on your plate in Spain is an amount that a normal person could eat in a sitting. Time and time again in the States we ordered what we thought would be light snack to be greeted with something resembling more like a three course meal. In Boston we ordered an “appetizer” of nachos as a warm-up to dinner, and I swear the waitress almost did her back in trying to heave it onto our table. I know it’s perfectly acceptable to ask for a doggy bag for your leftovers (whilst in both Spain and the UK people will probably think you’re just a bit of a skanky weirdo), but in all honesty I think I’d prefer to pay a quarter of the price in the first place and get a fraction of the food.

Eating out

Talking about portion sizes leads me nicely onto my next topic, which is the whole experience of eating out in the US. As we were there for a month and I can’t and/or won’t cook at the best of times, we dined out a lot. From street vendors and busy New York delis to classic diner joints and posh restaurants: you name it, we ate there. One thing I was pleasantly surprised by was the sheer variety of food on offer. Of course there were the staples I’d been expecting (McDonalds, KFC, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, etc.), but also a wealth of other choices: Japanese, Indian, Thai, Chinese, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Lebanese…and the rest. In Madrid we’re lucky enough to have this sort of variety but thinking back to when I lived in Zaragoza with its one (not very good) Indian restaurant, I have the feeling you’d struggle in the rest of the country. Of course, I realise that Spanish food is absolutely delicious and I love it as much as the next person, but I’m all for a change now and then, and in the States after drinking way too much on a river in Austin you decide you want something as specific as, say, deep-fried macaroni cheese and pickles, then deep-fried macaroni cheese and pickles you shall have!*

The amount of options within the different types of foods on offer was also slightly overwhelming. As someone who’s lived in Spain for a while, the sort of choice I’m used to is un bocadillo de jamón or un bocadillo de queso or (wait for it) un bocadillo de jamón Y queso. So of course when I walk into a New York deli and say “I’d like a bagel please”, I don’t expect to have a series of increasingly complicated questions barked at me whilst everyone in the queue behind me taps their feet and tuts because I don’t know exactly how I want aforementioned bagel. Plain, onion or cinnamon raisin? Scooped out or not? Toasted or untoasted? With cream cheese or not? With normal cream cheese or low-fat cream cheese? And so on and so on (and then I tried to order a coffee, God help me). As someone who normally avoids Subway because deciding which type of bread I want gets me in a muddle, at first it was a bit much. But after a while I got into the swing of things, and then soon I began to enjoy it, because who doesn’t want their morning bagel and coffee just they way they like it?

*I must just mention that I actually threw up shortly after consuming this, but it tasted good at the time. And it was probably the beer that made me sick anyway. Maybe.

Customer service

And so to the final big difference we noticed: customer service. Obviously this links back to my previous point on eating out, but applies to many places other than restaurants, such as bars, taxis, hotels and beauty salons (so I had to aprovechar and get my nails done, it’s a lot cheaper over there!). The one thing guaranteed to get a Spaniard confuddled is tipping since it doesn’t happen much over here, and in the States you tip for everything, and that means EVERYTHING. Even as a Brit I found it bewildering, because although we tip at restaurants and the like, we don’t feel the need to tip a taxi driver 20% or more. Unless they provide you with particularly scintillating conversation surely they’re just fulfilling their primary function which is to get you from A to B in one piece, so what extra service are you paying for? And giving the barman a dollar for every drink you buy (if you don’t want him to ignore you for the rest of the night that is), what’s that all about? Add these costs onto the tip you give your waiter plus the hidden taxes they spring on you when the bill comes, and it starts to be a lot more expensive than a night out in Spain.

I tell you what though, it was completely worth it for the amazing customer service we got over there. I know that when your waiter introduces himself, provides witty information about the specials, keeps your drinks topped up without you having to ask and brings you the bill in the blink of an eye, he’s on some miserable wage and is doing it all for tips, but if the service is that good I’m happy to pay extra. In some places in Madrid I’ve had the staff do their best to ignore me when I’ve tried to order, had my food practically thrown at me when it arrived, then been made to wait at least half an hour for the bill. Not everywhere of course, but it’s happened on more than a few occasions. I’d even go as far as to say that people in the US were more polite in general, seeming genuinely sorry if they knocked into you on the street or mistakenly jumped the queue. Even New Yorkers! Compare that to my first day back in Spain when I was elbowed out the way by not one but two abuelas in the supermarket. At least Spaniards are honest about it though, and don’t sink to that awful faux politeness we use in England, when someone yelling “Sorry sorry, excuse me!” as they barrel past you on the Underground really just means “Get out of my way…NOW”.

So there we go, a short summary of what were, to me, the most obvious differences between the two countries. I sincerely hope I haven’t offended anyone in the process, because I love Spain with all my heart (why else would I choose to live here?) and I absolutely loved my first taste of the US, despite the fact they have no ground floors, I still don’t know what biscuits are, and people don’t really go to the restroom to rest. I’m looking forward to my next visit already!

by Martin Quinn.

Does anyone remember the classic Colombian football lineup of the 1990s? Of course you do and not least for their flamboyant style, along with their fantastic ability. We had Carlos Valderrama’s unforgettable Sideshow Bob/palm tree haircut. Or the demented antics of René Higuita, the scorpion-kicking goalie with a dodgy perm. Colombian football fans still remember proudly their national selection from those days when the beautiful game took their minds off, and occassionally kept their minds on, the country’s problems.

It’s 6PM in Pereira and it’s already getting dark, which is kind of strange for me as we’re somewhere in the middle of summer. We’re in the local Olympic stadium tonight, Estadio Hernán Ramírez Villegas, which holds about 30,000 people, to see Deportivo Pereira play Santa Fe. It’s a fairly basic, openair venue, with a nice view of the mountains. It’s adorned in the national colours of yellow, blue and red though it still looks as if it could do with a lick of paint, like a few other things in the city. Behind us are little booths containing commentators so I’m sure I’ll get my ears busted if somebody scores a ¡¡¡Góóóóóóóóólllllllllllllllllllllll!!!, though the aeroplanes flying over us from the nearby airport are doing a good job of this already. The eccentricity of many of its characters is what really lights up the game of football and South America is the home of the wild and the weird when it comes to soccer.

Deportivo were formed in the 1940s and play in red and yellow. I’ve seen the shirt being sported by city locals all day and the team’s crest is graffittied all around town. Unfortunately they generally don’t do well in the League and have never won anything, apart from the Second Division back in 2000. Behind the goals on our right are the ferocious Ultras of the local team. “So are they on the Left or the Right?” I ask Hector, my local soccer buddy. “They’re right-wing but just a bunch of kids” he replies. The game has started and after ten minutes some players are substituted for Santa Fe. “Very early substitutions, sí?” I say in awful Spanish but Hector reckons it’s to do with the altitude. Some of the players from places further from the ionosphere find it tough going playing in the mountains.

Pereira is over 1,400 metres above sea level, a high elevation that can seriously affect a player’s fitness if they normally play at a lower altitude. The main cities of several South American nations are way up in the mountains, giving Andean teams like Ecuador, Colombia and Bolivia a home advantage. A few Argentinians were calling for Diego Maradona’s sacking as manager a while back after Bolivia gave the Argies a 6-1 spanking followed by Ecuador beating them 2-0 on their respective home patches. The elevation factor was an excuse put forward to save dear old Diego, though Colombia gave them a run for their money in Argentina.

I’m just thinking that putting Maradona in charge is like making your national hero national manager. Only Eva Perón or Che Guevara might have done a better job. At the moment Pereira have the run of play and they’ve some very skilful players. Apparently they’ve a strong home record and are putting on a good game of footie for the fans tonight. There’s guys and girls walking about the stand selling empanadas, cigarettes and drinks but the beer man is nowhere to be seen so I’m not interested. I had a burger earlier which was about as tasty as the pies in the old version of Celtic Park, which weren’t very nice, so I’m not attempting any more stadium food. There’s about 10,000 here tonight, including about 200 of Santa Fes’ supporters, down from Bogotá to cheer on one of Colombia’s more successful teams, having won the League six times.

At half-time we go for a walk and meet a few of the other fans. A friendly lot, but still heartbreakingly difficult to communicate with, due to my horrifyingly bad comprehension of Spanish. I talk, they reply, I look confused, they look at each other and shrug. Higuita signed for their team last year at the ripe old age of 41, but he doesn’t seem to be there now. The wacky world of René Higuita is a reminder of the “glory days” of narcotraffiking. He spent a few months in the slammer in the 1990s for acting as a go-between in a dispute between Pablo Escobar and a rival cartel. Apparently now he wants to get politically active but, if his infamous lapses in concentration follow him into the muddy world of politics, he could end up sparking off a war with Venezuela or even the US, depending on his political leanings.

The second half sees a few substitutions for Deportivo. They’re good on the ball and nice, fluid passers. They drive forward very much and Santa Fe nearly catch them on the counterattack a time or two, but for a fantastic goalie. With all the pressure though, Pereira should be two or three up but they don’t seem to be in luck today. The keeper comes out to hoof one final free kick up the park but it’s all over. 0-0, though the home team deserved more. Outside the stadium, I see a truckload of soldiers who were watching the game, roaring their heads off as they drive away. A little shellshock after to many firefights with the guerrillas in the jungle I diagnose, though any uniforms I saw during the match were fairly passive, unlike some of the potty-mouthed local kids who weren’t afraid to tell the ref, or the scary-looking cops at the sideline, what they thought of them.

World Cup ‘94 should have been the national side’s greatest moment but ended up a nightmare. The Colombians had annihilated Argentina 5-0 in the qualifiers after ending a 30-game unbeaten run by the Argentinians with an earlier 2-1 victory. No less than Pelé was putting them forward to win. But the dark world of drug cartels reared its head and Higuita had already been ruled unfit, due to his stint inside for his dodgy dealings. Rumours circulated that there was cartel interference in team selection and the players looked worried. They lost their first two games, eliminating themselves. The second defeat, against the USA was helped by Andreas Escobar’s infamous own goal. The Gentleman of Football was gunned down two weeks later in Medellín by a killer who apparently shouted ¡Gol! twelve times for each bullet fired. The killing was thought to have been a cartel-inspired punishment due to heavy betting, and subsequent heavy losses, by drug lords. Escobar has near-saintly status now in the country.

The fans still remember these sometimes-dark, sometimes-glorious days and hope remains for Colombia’s qualification for World Cup 2010. Their next qualifier is against Ecuador on September 5th in Medellín, when we’re visiting the city, so fingers crossed we get tickets to see one of the most flamboyant sides in world football.

by Martin Quinn.

Cocora was an Indian princess of the Quimbaya, the tribe local to this part of Colombia that I find myself in. They were supposedly a fearsome bunch in their heyday and expert goldsmiths. Most people in the provinces of Quindío, Risaralda and Caldas have some Quimbayan ancestry and their symbols are to be seen everywhere here. In gift shops, place names and the people’s complexions, a rich native history lives on strongly here.

The princess is remembered in the present day in the name of Cocora Valley, a nature reserve within a broader national park known as Parque Nacional de Los Nevados. The valley is about a mile above sea level and notable for its palm trees. The Wax Palm is a sight to see in that it can reach heights of 60 metres though it looks as if 30 metres is the average. When we arrive, I’m struck by the separate shape of the palms, which sit within, but are outnumbered, by the rest of the trees. To look at them, some of the hillsides have obviously been cleared of trees but the Wax Palms have been left alone, leaving some standing alone and others sticking their heads high out of the forests. In the distance, they look a little like insects stuck on the top of poles. The trees are endangered through their use in the manufacture of candles in the country’s pre-electricity days. The leaves were also used heavily for Palm Sunday celebrations. Luckily enough, the area was eventually made a sanctuary to protect the tree and the Wax Palm became a national symbol in 1985.

The workers here are very friendly and helpful, filling us in with information and running over to us with umbrellas after we emerge from having a trout dinner in one of the restaurants. You can camp, fish and go horseriding in the park and there are several restaurants along with little giftshops. It’s a nice way to spend a few hours and in spite of the rain, which is more or less daily, you couldn’t leave the place in damp spirits. The road in and out is bumpy so drinking a beer almost costs me a few of my top row but eventually we’re on the road again and back home, to Pereira.

One of the things I don’t like about living in Madrid is the distance from the sea. Being from an island and living so close to the ocean kind of connects you to it so eventually you miss it when it’s not there, close at hand. But one thing that this South American trip has taught me is an appreciation of the mountains. You can cleanse yourself of the city and its noise with a few hours halfway up a mountain. So when I get back, it’s straight to Navacerrada!

by Martin Quinn.

One thing you’ll notice about Colombia, if you ever take the great pleasure of visiting it, is the palm trees. They’re everywhere. They stick out from all the other vegetation giving the place a feeling of the exotic nestled within the more ordinary. I used to think they were confined to very hot climates but no, the type you see here doesn’t crave the sun as much as their cousins, and the northern European tourists, in the south of Spain.

Today, we’re off on a road trip to the neighbouring province of Quindío. Its capital is Armenia, which I remember from the news a few years back when there was an earthquake. The hilly countryside seems more peaceful today so I settle back with a beer. We drive out of Pereira, where we’re staying and pass a series of motels. Apparently they’re “Love Hotels” where casual partners can spend a few hours discussing whether President Uribe has brought stability, amongst other things. I’ve heard of these places before but I thought they were confined to Japan, not Catholic Colombia.

A little later, a ramshackle hotel on a hill is pointed out to me and its former glories are described. La Posada Alemana was once an elegant place and owned by the infamous Carlos Lehder. Lehder was the co-founder of the Medellín Cartel along with the even more infamous Pablo Escobar. Currently, he is thought to be in the rather less extravagant surroundings of a US prison though his exact whereabouts are unknown. A protected witness because of his cooperation with US authorities against former Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega, it is thought that Lehder will be a free man soon, if not already. The hotel’s history is a testimony to these heady and decadent days. In its heyday, the hotel was equipped with a helicopter pad and adorned with a large bronze statue of John Lennon. A favourite haunt of Colombia’s upper class, its location is beautiful, on a high perch, snuggled beneath the Andean peaks.

It’s interesting to see places of significance to the country’s sometimes macabre history and we are reminded of the struggle between government and guerrillas a little on up the road. Two soldiers, the pillion man tooled up with an assault rifle, are riding on a motorbike in front of us while we are driving along windy roads as we enter the department of Quindio. There are a lot of checkpoints but the Colombian army leave us alone and wave us by, if they’re not just waving out of courtesy. The soldiers look VERY young, maybe 18 years old on average and not up for much of a fight. There is a strong security presence due to the tourist element in this part and my girlfriend tells me as we enter our first stop, the village of Salento, that there was a guerrilla attack on the police here about 10 years ago, copperfastening the security situation.

Salento is a lovely wee place. It has a large central square with a church as pride of place and marquee restaurants dotted around it. Full of tourist gift shops, pool halls and cafeterías, I keep hearing the mini-courtesy of “mucho gusto” repeated when we are attended by the shop folk. “Muy amable”, I thinks. We then prepare for a climb up a staircase almost as steep as the steps at Minas Morgul which the Hobbits and Gollum ascend as they enter Mordor in the Lord of the Rings. These steps though, feature the Stations of the Cross and the top boasts a large crucifix, along with a hippy salesman, a few kiteflyers and a few more soldiers.

If you ever visit the Andes, make sure you find a nice medium-sized peak to get the full effect. We are surrounded by mountains, the forest-covered peaks towering high and the valleys sweeping low. Waterfalls descend the hills and a large river, probably the former home of our lunch, works its way through the glen. This place reminds me of Ireland, only on a grand scale, and the rainy climate caused by the eastern Pacific winds hitting the mountain peaks ensure a very Irish greenness. It’s a cloudy day and the valleys are partially filled with fog as the peaks have clouds dragging off them. It makes me feel very much at home but amazed at a majestic place I’d only ever read about. Another similarity with the Oul’ Sod are the sometimes bad-quality roads experienced in Ireland’s west. I don’t care about the occassionally bumpy ride as the girlfriend’s sister has driven to the top, sparing us the walk and bringing us further on.

Before though, a salesman persuades us into buying a glass of Canelaso. A mixture of passion fruit, sugar cane, cinnamon, aromatic herbs and a nip of brandy, it helps to scare away the cold my South American buddies seem to be experiencing. I’m quite warm myself and the fact that we’re a mile up a mountain doesn’t register. We get into the car and head for the valley of the Indian princess and the palm trees, the national symbol and an amazing sight to behold…

by Martin Quinn.

Madrid, Spain. August the 14th. 3.30PM…Where is everybody? Walking down the street, you would be forgiven for half-expecting Charlton Heston to come sprinting past you screaming, chased by a gang of zombies. But The Omega Man it isn’t, it’s just that anybody wise has ducked out of the Castilian sunshine and gone to the beach. Unfortunately, being stuck in the middle of a recession has left a few of us guiri English teachers stuck in the middle of Spain with no money, no classes and no factor 50+ sunblock.

Not me though. I just have to hold out to Saturday and I’m off to Colombia in what could only be described as an “alternative” holiday. It’s my first time outside of Europe so it definitely beats rainy July days in County Donegal, my former holiday of choice. Luckily I’m going with the missus and staying with her family for the month so I don’t have to pay for accomodation or tourguides. Packing, as always, has proven to be a pain in the proverbial and the prospect of a twelve-hour flight to Bogotá, followed by another flight to the better half’s home town of Pereira is also less than looked forward to.

Still, I’m not complaining. What a country! I’ve been told that it’s quite similar to Ireland in that it’s a very green and lush place though, being so vast, it has a variation of climates. These range from hot and rainy in the north, on the Caribbean coast to hot and rainy in the south, in the Amazon Basin. Oh, and the bit in the middle, which is variable and contains desert, savanna and mountain ranges. We’ll be in the west, in the Andes which contains several different climate zones ranging from permanently snow-covered peaks to sierra with more moderate temperatures. At the moment, we’ve planned to stay in the cities of Pereira and Medellín though a trip to the Caribbean resort of Cartagena de Indias is in the pipeline also.

Colombia hasn’t been without its problems but, coming from Northern Ireland, I maybe understand a little better than many that this is no reason to fear visiting the place. There is a problem in sections of the country between the government and guerrillas and Colombia has gained a bit of a reputation because of the drug trade. Having said that, as long as you are aware of your surroundings and you tread carefully, there shouldn’t be a problem anywhere you go. The country’s problems are also confined to areas where you generally wouldn’t have to be, provided your name isn’t Tarzan. The cities are safe and rich in an extremely diverse culture that includes Native, Spanish and African influences.

The country gained independence from Spain in 1819 thanks to a bloke called Bolivar. You can see a statue of the great Simón here in Madrid, in Parque del Oueste and he is regarded as being the liberator of half of South America from colonialism. However, had the heroic Venezuelan attempted this sort of thing closer to the present, I reckon he would have been described by the press as a “fanatical left-wing dictator”. (I’d love to see the king’s face if they ever put a statue of Hugo Chavéz up in Retiro Park!)

So, all in all, the only thing I’m really worried about when I go to this fine country is meeting the in-laws for the first time. Watch this space, more to follow…

by Isaure Cointreau

Semana Santa is a week where Christians commemorate the passion, death and resurrection of Christ. As for being very important days in the Spanish culture with these amazing street processions, it is also a holiday. With a week on their hands without having to go to Uni., what would international students do with their free time? Travel would be a good guess. Therefore with a quick look on the Ryanair website, the tickets were booked in a second for a fair price.

We were three girls, two French and one American, all with one same envy as to relax and discover the secrets of the Baleares. Staying at the Hostel Mimosa in Illetas, we were a 40 mn bus drive from the center of Palma and it was fantastic. Illetas is like a little village of its own on the shore, and has magical little beaches that will make anybody staying in the center of the city mad jealous. Therefore the weekend was about settling in, visiting the city and enjoying the sun by the sea.

The capital of the Island although it is a very touristy destination and an Ibiza kind of look in the summer, it had nothing to do with it as the off-season makes it a wonderful place to be. Culturally there are many things to see. The Cathedral of La Seu is one not to miss as it is as imposing as it is charming, with its incredible gardens and architecture. However to all Mallorcan visitors I would suggest to flee the city as there is so much more.

The Soller Harbor is one of the hotspots, and the transportation that will accommodate you is quite an experience. The little train station Plaza de Espana in Palma will bring you throughout a picturesque drive in a 1900 train to the little town. When arriving at destination, have a litlle walk throughout the village, and a taste of the many typical pastries. Then a tram will be of service to bring you to the port. It is a sight to be seen as you wonder around the streets of the village. My memories are filled with bright colors, sunshine, incredible views of the blue horizon and the perfume of oranges.

To be sure there are many stops one would like to have a go to in this paradisiacal island, though as short trips don’t always allow to do so, priorities are a must. Therefore our second destination was Valdemossa. After a short bus drive throughout the hills and mountains of the inner-grounds of Mallorca we arrived in a very French looking and charming village. Greens are all over the place and as it was then raining, it gave a very intense country side look, through even more enchanting. It is the sort of place you can imagine nature as being a whole and alive creature, filled with beauty, mystery and peace. Others before me had had this impression, and as their illustrious names are engraved to the pace and ambiance of the place, it gains in appeal. Chopin and Georges Sand, Ruben Dario, Jorge Luis Borges, and believe it or not Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones, were fascinated by it and lived there for a while.

Pollenca was our last stop and our motivation was set to go to highest Northern part of the Island. Less typical or less charming the town is more of a resort than anything else. Though being divided in two different entities one can share separate enjoyments. With the old town on the one side which offers great sights and cute little old streets to wonder in, and the modern side as in the harbor, it’ll depend what you are looking for. After enjoying the more cultural and picturesque part of the city, I suggest you ask someone a ride to get to the sea because it is a long walk ahead. When getting there, the next best thing to do is have coffee and dessert in a little café that is set on the water and enjoy for one the view and a good book. Though if the weather permits it you might want to enjoy the sea delights or try kite-surfing as it is really popular there.

How about Semana Santa? It wasn’t Seville’s breathtaking processions though it was nevertheless very impressive. Abby was at first put off by the K.K.K robes and masks though knowing it had nothing to do with that she then enjoyed the ceremony as much as we did. The people that march in the streets in these long costumes are all volunteers making amends for their past sins and showing their devotion to their religion. This marvelous act of faith makes one wonder, Christian or not. Carrying carts filled with candles and showing off either the Virgin Marie or the pain of Christ, the ceremony was very touching. Children accompany them on their route watching out for the wax falling of the candles and giving out candy to other kids watching the assembly. This detail made me smile as it gave to the whole parade a less grave tone, adding a warm and friendly touch to it.

After this we went back to Illetas to enjoy our night at the cocktail bar, talking to the cook of the hostel and having a taste of his fancy salmon. I’ll come back that’s for sure. Mallorca would be a wonderful island to live on, though I would exclude tourist season in it. Speaking with the locals it apparently destroys the charms and looks of the summer holidays and throughout the years of the capital city. However, what a sight to seen! There are so many places to go to, things to see and views to be had from one end of the island to another. “Enchanting” this would be my word to define it.

by Isaure Cointreau

People keep asking me the same question when they come to Spain:

-What do you like about it so much?

I guess I never knew what to say but honestly what are the good and bad sides of this place? When thinking about it, the relaxed pace of life is the first idea that pops into my head. As if holidays were around all year, the feel is part of the everyday life. People just take their time to do their thing, what else could explain the siesta and the slow reactions of the shop assistants, the relaxed walk of the crowd down Gran Via and then again the outraging number of bars in Madrid? Spain has its way and to any foreigner, used to a more tensed lifestyle, this comes as a shock. Although all the newcomers aren’t used to this southern rhythm, they accommodate themselves well and pretty fast.

However, it can be seen as very frustrating when the two different visions of life confront each other. Firstly, if people are used to live on a high speed level they’ll find a little cankiness take over them when encountering a slow response to their enquiry. Secondly, if one is in a rush or on a crisis, he’ll just have to cool off or plan ahead. Let this be a lesson to us all as there is no need to panic; the world is not falling apart. Therefore, patience is the key to prevent from any nervous breakdown.

The friendliness and the good mood of people appears as another factor that makes Spain an enjoyable place to live. Think about it, even Madrid shows off a tranquil lifestyle. Comparing it to other capital cities such as Paris or London is an outrage as it is like pointing to another direction; it has nothing to do with the pace of life in these countries. Therefore it feels good to be a Spaniard, even a temporary one.

However, because there is always a flipside, one shouldn’t be surprised by the much less enjoyable edge to the character of these people. Yes, they are loud and that is a fact, but to add a little more to the picture they also have a little tendency towards egocentricism, or should I say excessive pride. Not that they won’t welcome you into their home and gladly show you around, these warm people just like things done their way. Don’t get offended if while walking you happen to get in someone’s way and they just push you away with their predominance. It’s just how things are.

The qualities required to a country for us to fall in love with it are “Good people, good food, good culture and good access”. Well for the most part I guess Spain succeeds into having every single one of these appealing characteristics. People’s warmness is undeniable, but let’s find out about the rest. Referring to culture, I would mean to target the historical heritage and the modern inclination towards Art in the general sense. Spain offers a cosmopolitan grasp of cultures as the Mediterranean civilizations made it a principal destination to invade. Therefore the Moors, the Romans, the Greeks, the Christians have left throughout the centuries an incredible amount of architectural and artistic leftovers from their different regimes. So wherever you will go in Spain you will find a necessary sightseeing tour.

However in our more modern times Spain appears as to have its place next to the main cultural spots such as Paris & New York. Madrid holds every international exhibit such as Bacon, Rembrandt or Max Ernst in its museums or foundations. Bilbao has its own Guggenheim and Barcelona other than its Picasso museum has a wide variety of places that are worth a detour. However the little plus appears to be the access these cultural centers offer. Most of the exhibits are free or of a very reasonable charge. Even if they occur in a variety of places in Spain, they are never more than a few hours of train or bus ahead. Who could want more? The cultural horizon in Spain is endless.

How about food? Internationally renowned it however shows a wide variety in terms of quality and diversity from one end of the country to the other. Because there is something else than the Spanish comfort food known as the famous and trendy tapas, the cardinal points change a Spaniards habits to food although they all cherish their ham. The gourmet side of the Iberian soil appears to be up North around the French border where San Sebastian has more Michelin Stars per inhabitant than anywhere else in the world. Down South the food is more inspired by the Sea side and always accompanied by the strong Rioja Wines and up East however Valencia’s Paella is a wonder. However, the only critic I would make is the emphasis on oil and its outraging quantities in every plate, is it really necessary?

Other than that, if you ask me why I like this place? I’ll just ask you: What is there not to love?