I Shall Be Released

On Friday, my international program went on a guided excursion with some our trip advisors to the South of France.  We were to visit the charming little pueblo of Saint Jean de Luz and then move on to Biarritz, the summer hot-spot for the hot-shots of the Basque Country.  We were promised delicious pastries, quaint and beautiful shopping areas, and breathtaking views of the Bay of Biscay.  I was so excited to go to a new country and see the sights.   

We arrived at Saint Jean de Luz and I decided I should run to the bathroom real quick.  There was one big bathroom with a bunch of stalls and a long line.  However, I found a lone room with one bathroom stall off to the side that no one else had bothered venturing off to, so I ducked in there and tried to hurry back to the rest of the group that was getting antsy to head into town.  I was also rushing due to all my excitement to see France, with no time to be bothered by the fact that the toilet had no seat, only enough time to be very grateful to my mother, who sent me away with approximately a million travel-sized bottles of hand sanitizer.  I hurried to gather my camera and purse and reached for the lock on the stall to let myself out when my heart dropped into my stomach, which proceeded to do about sixteen somersaults. The lock was one hundred percent, undeniably, through and through stuck.  I was stuck.  I was in the South of France.  I was locked in a gross little bathroom stall in the South of France.  The only sight I was going to be seeing all day was that seat-less toilet. 

I could hear the rest of the group crossing the street and heading into the town.  My friends were all leaving.  …Why doesn’t anyone notice I’m missing?  Do I…have friends here?  But there is no time to be offended.  I quickly surveyed my options:  Can I climb under?  It would require lying completely flat on the tile of the bathroom floor and attempting to squeeze under the six-inch gap like an inch worm.  Can I jump over?  It would require acquiring Spiderman-like scaling abilities followed by a ten-foot plummet to the other side.  Should I just…stay…in here?  I suddenly remembered that I had finally added some euros to my tiny little cell phone the day before and that I could call someone to come back and get me.

“Kelsey, it’s Christie.”
“Christie?  Oh...Christie!  …Where are you?  We’re leaving.”

“I’m aware.  I need you to go back to the bathrooms.  Not the room with all the stalls, but the room all by itself, off to the side, the room with only one stall.”

“…Why?”

“Because I’m stuck in that stall.”

“Oh, God.”

Thank God for Kelsey Anderson, who came running to that bathroom stall (cracking up, mind you, but I’ll forgive her for blatantly laughing at my compromising position) ready to rescue me.  I begin screaming from the inside, “I CAN’T GET OUT! KELSEY I CAN’T GET OUT.”  Through her laughing, she realizes that if she pushes from the outside, the lock becomes slightly easier to move from the inside.  I make a little progress, but my fingers are really starting to hurt and the lock has barely moved.  “KELSEY.  I AM STUCK IN A BATHROOM STALL IN FRANCE.”  I can now hear some of the program advisors outside the door: I guess someone had called for backup assistance.  I am not only fully embarrassed, but also still fully still stuck in the bathroom stall.  I am literally banging on the door like a two year old and screaming, as if that is going to help me at this point, when Kelsey the Angel starts putting all her energy into calming me down so that I actually begin addressing the problem again instead of just screaming helplessly about my whereabouts.  “We know you are stuck in the bathroom stall.  Just keep pushing the lock.  It will come undone eventually.”  And it did.  The door opened.  I was out.  Hello, France!  I’m here! I’m free!!!!!

We ran to catch up with the rest of the group.  A few people came up to me and asked, “Hey did you hear someone got stuck in the bathroom?” You don’t say.  I wish I could say my awkwardness in France stopped there, but it continued well into the rest of the day.  I thought I was over the whole new-girl phase, but this was a whole new country, so I guess I should have expected some bumps along the road. 

Haven't gotten any more photogenic.

At least my friends are pretty, and blinded by the sun.

We all seemed to forget the fact that French people don’t necessarily speak Spanish, or English for that matter, and that we would be rendered mute upon arriving in France.  My girlfriends and I ventured into a small pastry shop, and I wanted to order a chocolate croissant.  I figured that “one” in French was “un,” so I just went up the counter and said with all the confidence I could muster, “Un crossant au chocolat.” My friend Elana looked over to me in absolute amazement and screamed, “You speak French?!?!?!”  All I had done was read directly off the placard in the display case.  But I guess compared to Emily, who (to our amusement) was incapable of doing anything but speak in Spanish with a French accent, I did a pretty good job at playing the part of a French girl.  “Mu-eehy bi-eeehhhhn,” Emily.

We are happiest at feedings times.

Saint Jean de Luz was beautiful, and we enjoyed singing “Tale as Old as Time” as we wandered through the cobblestone streets, pretending we were all Belle from Beauty and the Beast.  We weren’t there for too long before we were off to Biarritz.

Saint Jean de Luz, Cue musical number:

Look there she goes a girl who's strange but special
   A most peculiar mad'moiselle
It's a pity and a sin

She doesn't quite fit in

'Cause she really is a funny girl
A beauty but a funny girl

 She really is a funny girl

That Belle

Biarritz, a city whose population multiplies by six during the summer, but is still quite charming during the fall.  After running along the gorgeous beach and declaring that I had found Heaven for about the 76^th time since arriving in Europe, Kelsey and I skirted off to find  some French chocolate.  Unfortunately, Johnny Depp was not inside the little chocolate shop…seductively plucking  at his guitar strings, with his whimsical pony tail swaying back and forth, serenading me, staring at me with his beautiful brown eyes, asking me to run away with him so that we could start a new life together in the South of France…but the feeling of the little shop did remind me quite a bit of the movie Chocolat.  My excitement over all the sweets that there were to choose from did not translate to English, Spanish, or Spanish with a French accent, and least of all to French.  I sounded kind of like to an excited whale, but the shop owner somehow understood me and I literally skipped down the streets, licking my fingers and screeching with happiness. 

Beach at Biarritz.

Me and my savior.

Wrap it up.  I want it all. 

 Our trip to the South of France had us back to Spain before dinner.  As I got back to Bilbao, I realized how comfortable I have become in my Spanish surroundings and how far I have come from that first week here, which I spent hiding in my dark hallway, starving in my bed because I couldn’t find the cafeteria, and panicking every time anyone even attempted to speak to me in Spanish.  After leaving for France and being once again completely uprooted and socially inept, I realized that Bilbao and I are friends now. 

I know my running route.  I know where the sunniest benches are in the quietest part of my favorite park when I want to read outside.  I know the best place to grab un café con leche or a glass of wine, and the barista knows my name and asks how everything has been going for me every time I come in, and if I’d like a table outside if it’s nice evening.  I know what food in the cafeteria is edible, and what will leave me curled up in my bed wondering if I accidentally just consumed rat poison.  I know which receptionist is the most patient with pesky tourist questions, and he most certainly knows me.  If anything, I have learned to ask for help when I need it.  Even if I’m embarrassed, even if I feel stupid, even if I really am stupid and locked myself in a bathroom stall. There’s always a new door to be opened, and always someone willing to lend a hand.

Bilbao.

My home.

Other than our trip to France, this has been a rather uneventful, yet lovely, week.  My classes are going well and keeping me busy.  My Hispanic Literature teacher made me laugh so hard the other day that I spit out the water I was drinking while in class.  Graceful and delicate as always.  In my defense, my teacher is always trying to learn new English words, and never fails to use them incorrectly.  On this particular day, whatever he was trying to say not only made no sense, but was such a clumsy mixture of Spanish and English that that water had no chance at staying in my mouth: “Yo no soy freaky, pues, I’m freaky but not en sexo, que pasa con my reputation here?” 

Minor victories of this week include successfully getting a hair cut without accidentally communicating to the hairdresser that I wanted her to chop my hair off and bleach it white, and major victories include booking my final trip in December that I’ll be taking with Elana and Kelsey.  We shall be having some very romantic dates with each other in the most romantic city in the world.  Good thing I love you girls. 

As for what’s next on the list:  I’m off to Dublin on Thursday, and will be there until Sunday, when I take off to spend a couple days in London! More adventures to come…

Girl From the North Country

“The highest summits of the whole Autonomous Community of the Basque Country are located in this mountain range: Aitzuri, 1,551 metres high and Mount Aizkorri, 1,528 metres high.”

Without fully intending to do so, I climbed that little Mount Aizkorri two weeks ago.  After reaching the top the highest peak in el país vasco, an area characterized by its incredibly mountainous terrain, I took away a little more than awkward sunburn and a sore butt.  I took with me the realization that getting to the top isn’t half as important as the memories you make along the way and the attitude that carries you there.

As I left for my weekend trip to Barcelona on the 6^th, I was ready to attack the city.  Despite the fact that I hated field trips from elementary-high school (I’m not a fan of being told to stand in line, wait my turn, get my ticket, pass go but do not collect $200, etc), I have become a huge fan of being a tourist and letting these kind of “field trips” that help me get to know an entire city in a couple days time.  I have even (almost) rid myself of the habit of throwing major temper tantrums when my days out on the town don’t go my way.  Maybe I have just become so used to getting lost, ending up on the wrong metro line, sticking out like a sore thumb, being laughed at in public and generally doing most things incorrectly that it takes a lot more to upset me than it did in the States (a la the Getting Lost en Route to Stone Harbor Meltdown of 2011…wasn’t that fun everyone???). 

I arrived in Barcelona on Thursday and was welcomed into Chema’s absolutely wonderful apartment.  Chema, for those of you who don’t know, is my bestest friend at USC who I have been looking forward to seeing since I got to Spain.  I was extra lucky because this particular weekend, one of Chema’s oldest childhood friends named Eckart was also visiting.  Since I had the pleasure of meeting Eckart last year in Los Angeles, I was so happy that we were able to meet up with each other again, this time in Europe! I’m sure Eckart felt equally as lucky when I forced him to get off the couch and wake up extra early with me on Friday to meet up with my girlfriends and explore the city.

We started out on by waiting (patiently) for an hour and a half to get into La Sagrada Familia, a fantastic and HUGE church designed by Antoni Gaudí.  Although construction began on the Church in 1882, it remains unfinished and in a constant state of construction.  Needless to say, it’s a pretty impressive piece of work. 

La Sagrada Familia.

It's not possible to capture the inside of this building in a picture.

Miss Ashley Moret, my very good friend from high school who I haven't seen in years, was also in Barcelona for the weekend!  It was such a treat to see her!  Here we are on the roof of La Sagrada Familia.

After our lunch of paella, a rice dish typical of Spain, we headed up to Park Güell.  This park turned out to be everything I have been waiting to see in Spain and more.  This park is what I imagine Heaven to look like.  I was blown away.   The pictures do not do it justice.

My friends are supermodels!  

Can't wait to come back here next month...with a secret surprise special guest!

I decided I would like to get married here.

Preferably to a beautiful Spanish man a la Javier Bardem.

Eckart and I then went back to meet up with Chema for tapas, which were so good that I forgot that we had gotten lost for an hour and a half while looking for the restaurant.  Actually, once we arrived at said restaurant, at around 10:45pm, there was still a wait for dinner (because I swear that Spaniards are awake twenty-three hours out of the day and think that eating dinner at midnight is normal), so we just went to another restaurant close by, but I had absolutely no complaints.  The process of ordering many small plates to share within the group makes dinner much more relaxed, social, and fun!

On Saturday, we did a lot of walking around and sightseeing.  After walking down Las Ramblas, a street central to the city and absolutely buzzing with tourists, we ended up at the beach for the majority of the afternoon, just sitting and enjoying the view.  At this point, I had decided that I was in love with Barcelona and ready to move there. I was so sad we had to leave on Sunday.

We call this the "Wavey Bridge."  It may or may not have a slightly more official name.

All the girls I made the trip with.

I seriously miss you guys already!!!!!!!

On my way back home, I realized that I was truly bummed out to be coming back to Bilbao –which was the same way that I felt coming back from Madrid.  My friends and I were so in love with Barcelona that we had let our complaints about our hometown pile up over the weekend to the point that returning to Bilbao felt like a punishment.  During the week, I couldn’t shake that feeling, and was wondering why my friends and I had gotten so down about Bilbao.  I decided to devote the next weekend to exploring the city with the same enthusiasm that I explored Madrid and Barcelona.  Just because I live here all the time doesn’t mean that I can take it for granted and stay in my dorm on the weekends that I am not traveling. 

On Thursday, I started volunteering at an after school center in downtown Bilbao in an area called San Francisco, the most socioeconomically disadvantaged area of the city.  The center’s main goal is to give the children of the neighborhood a safe place to be as the afternoon turns into evening, as many of their families and neighbors are dealing with financial stress, drug dependencies/addictions, and issues surrounding prostitution.  Perhaps these kids are up against a lot, but their smiles sure do not show it, and they absolutely made my day!  I spent an hour working with four students in an ongoing workshop teaching English.  There is an extreme amount of hyperactivity within the group, as often occurs with children who are dealing with issues at home that are much greater than “How do you say ‘geometría’ in English?” I have some ideas as to how to engage the students through some more interactive and game-centered approaches that I am hoping to get the green light to try out in the weeks to come.

As I said goodbye to those four children and made my way outside, I was immediately jumped on by four new children, all girls, who I had never seen before in my life but who were immediately fascinated by the sight of me.  “¡¡¡¡¡¡OJOS CLAROS!!!!!!! ¡¡¡¡¡¡OJOS CLAROS Y AZULES!!!!!!!! ¡PROFESORA RUBIA!” Blue eyes AND blonde hair?  They couldn’t get over it.  It’s so funny to stand out with this color combination, which attracts absolutely no attention in the States, and especially at USC.  They instructed me to take the clip out of my hair and flip my head around to tousle my hair up, and they asked if “more pretty teachers would be coming tomorrow.”  I assured them that there would be, and they were very pleased.  They thought it was “super guay” (really cool) that I could speak English, but I thought it was super guay that they just made my week by giving me hugs full of enough energy to carry me through the rest of the weekend.  They were literally hoisting each other up to try and help one another reach my cheeks to give me two kisses.  They were screaming happiness at the top of their lungs.

On Friday, my friends Elana, Emily and I decided to explore the older neighborhood of the city a little more.  We climbed up a very, very long set of stairs and found ourselves in a beautiful park above the city that we never knew existed.  That’s what we get for complaining about Bilbao instead of going out and living in it!   We plan to return to the park for a picnic soon.

Then, on Sunday, the three of us risked our sanity as well as our lives by returning to the hiking trip for their hike up Mount Urregarai.  My backpack weighed about one hundred pounds.  I was so ready for that mountain.  Two sandwiches, two apples, two cereal bars, two bottles of water, one powerade, my camera, and a smile on my face: I was ready.  The hike was everything I wanted and more!  It was not only absolutely breathtaking, but there was little to no rock climbing, no tears, no mental breakdowns, and no cursing out of the entire Basque countryside!  It only took us a little over two hours to climb up the mountain. We sat at the top enjoying our food and the amazing view for about an hour and a half before making our way to the bottom.  We decided it was one of our very favorite days that we’ve spent in Spain so far.  The 75-degree sunny weather did not hurt.

Sweaty and squinty-eyed: Looking great.

I live here.

The sheep ended up here, too. Baaaaah.

So, yes, I absolutely love traveling outside of Bilbao and Barcelona is one of the coolest cities in the world.  But, that doesn’t mean that Bilbao is not also beautiful, and I have to dedicate more time to exploring it, instead of thinking as my weekends in Bilbao as “rest weekends” in between trips to other cities. Today, I felt very proud to be from the Northern Spain.  El País Vasco really is beautiful and unique, and today I truly felt like a part of it.

In the end, it’s not about where you are, or even where you are going.  It’s about the journey you take in getting there, what it helps you learn about yourself, and the amazing people with whom you share the highs and lows.  As I am feeling extra in touch with my Zen, one-with-nature, wild and wildnernessy side of myself today, I return to my favorite quote, from Chris McCandless’ final diary entry in the book Into the Wild: “Happiness only real when shared.”

As I Went Out One Morning

During my first week in Bilbao, I went to a Sports Club meeting to get some general information on what kind of groups I might be able to join on campus.  I was told multiple times during that meeting that the Hiking Club was a very popular choice for international students, because it was a great way to see Basque Country while meeting local Spanish students.  Outdoors, sunshine, walking.  Sounds good to me.  Sign me up.  Can’t be too hard if “everyone does the hiking club.”

On Sunday, I woke up at 7:00, put on a tank top and my short shorts (I no longer care –stare all you like), threw a cereal bar in the pocket of my camera case, bought a small water bottle (I didn’t want to be carrying anything too heavy all day, so I didn’t bother brining my reusable, larger bottle), and was out the door.  The day before, I had told my friends at the dorm that I would be gone for most of the morning but would catch up with them by lunchtime.  Since we were meeting at 8:00 AM to start the hike, I figured I would be back by 1:00 PM at the latest.

I was sitting on the bench with my friend Emily where we believed the group was meeting as the clock approached 8:00, but there were no other students in site.  Were we in the right place?  We started to get a little worried, but we figured that Spanish people don’t really bother to be on time all too often, so we should give them a few more minutes.  It was then that I spotted a group of people on the other side of the street.  Let me specify: a group of middle- aged men with huge backpacks.  And huge water bottles.  And hiking boots.  And…hiking poles?  What the heck do they need those for?  And what exactly do the have in those huge backpacks?  And why are their pants so freaking tight, and their socks so high? Is that the hiking club that “all the international students” join?  Is that the casual, breezy, lazy-Sunday-stroll hiking club that I signed up for four weeks ago?

Emily and I crossed the street and approached one of the men.  Before we could even open our mouths, one of them spotted my plastic water bottle and gasped.  “Please tell me that’s not all the water you brought,” he said.  “...,” I coolly responded.  “You’re not going to make it through the day.”

Awesome.

Emily and I boarded the bus that was going to taxi us to the mountain, despite my desperate pleas to let me go back to the dorm.  The group consisted of burly old men, a few woman who looked like they could break my back with the flick of their pinky fingers, and one other American girl named Ali who was just as unprepared as were Emily and me.  Emily and I were definitely the youngest of the group, and by far the most out of place.

I had no idea where we were going, and was growing increasingly concerned as the bus ride carried on…and on, and on. It was 11:00 by the time we finally arrived at the mountain.  I was getting hungry.  I thought we would be halfway done the hike by this hour.

Well, there was no turning back now.  We were in the middle of God knows where so I no longer had the choice to run away and go back to sleep.  Here we go.

Hour 1: I am keeping a positive attitude, practicing my Spanish, and enjoying the scenery.  Rolling hills of endless green.  I spot some horses a few feet away.  How nice!  Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

I can do this.  I like ponies.

Hour 1.5: The hills expand in all directions.  I am confused.  I figure we must be either nearing the top and getting ready to turn around and head back, or better yet that this is a circular route and we’re almost done. 

Hmm...where are we going, guys?

Hour 1.75: We come across a tunnel at the top of a hill, and everyone reaches in to their backpacks and pulls out sandwiches, fruit, and granola bars, as well as extra bottles of water.  I guess it’s lunch time.  Ali asks, “Is it lunch time?”  One of the men shoots us a look of surprise and shakes his head, “No…no! No, this isn’t lunch time!  We’re just having a snack!”  I quietly swallow the last bite of my cereal bar.  Maybe they are planning on stopping at a restaurant to eat on our bus ride home.  That would be nice.

Where are we?

Hour 2.0: The group is presented with two options: The “short and hard” route, or the “long and roundabout” one.  I figure this must mean we have about half an hour to go and we are just planning how to get back to the bus.  We choose the “short and hard” route.  I see a sheet of rocks that goes straight upwards, but I figure it will only take a couple minutes to climb it, and after that I’ll be home free.  Let’s do it.

Hour 2.5: It’s been half an hour, and the sheet of rocks has not ended.  Nor is there any end in sight.  Every time I turn a corner, my heart drops.  After another 15 minutes, I decide that this is the hardest my body has been pushed in years, maybe ever.  The only thing keeping me going is the thought of falling behind and being left to die.  Just when I think I might be almost to the top of whatever monstrosity I am climbing, the sheet of rocks turns in to a mountain of rocks.  The realization that we actually are at the bottom of the mountain and haven’t really even started climbing dawns on me.  My eyes fill with tears as I look at the path ahead of me.  Scratch that, there is no path.  Just rocks.  Using my hands and feet, I start to climb.  I’m out of water.

Emily prepares to head up some rocks - this is one of the milder inclines (during the steeper ones I could not stop to reach for my camera).

Hour 3.0: There is a moment when I think I reach the top, and in a fleeting spurt of elation, Emily and I pose for a picture and congratulate ourselves.  I cannot breathe, and I cannot believe what I just put my body through.  Then I turn my head to the right and see the rest of the group…hundreds of feet above me…climbing the rest of the mountain that I did not even know existed.  “Emily, I can’t do this.” 

That one time I smiled.

Hour 3.5: Out of breath and out of energy, I slowly push myself to the peak.  I sit perilously on the top of a small rock and take in the view of the rolling hills and mountaintops around me.  I have made it.  I can’t see straight, but I think it’s beautiful up here.  The rest of the group reaches into their backpacks and begins eating the pounds and pounds of food they have brought to replenish their bodies, all the while drinking from their never-ending supply of water.  It is 90 degrees.  I am in the direct sunlight, on top of a mountain.  One side of my body is getting sunburned but I don’t have the energy to turn around.  I do not know how I will ever get down from here.  I want these people to finish their food as quickly as possible so that, 1.) I don’t have to watch them eat their delicious looking feasts as my stomach turns in on itself, and 2.) We can get a move on and get to the bottom of the mountain, where I hopefully can buy a new water bottle.  No such luck. Never have I hated the concept of a huge, relaxing, drawn-out Spanish lunch more. 

Basque Country in all its glory.

Hour 4: The group rises to begin the descent down the mountain.  I look in the direction the leader of the group is heading.  An endless slope at an incline far too steep to walk down, made up entirely of rocks, with little-to-no path to follow save a few rocks that are slightly more worn down than others.  My sneakers have no traction, and I slip on every single rock.  I have to travel sidewise and use my hands to keep my balance, repeatedly sticking my hands in pricker bushes to catch myself as I fall, screaming, “I can’t do this!!! I am scared of heights! There is no path! The rocks are falling out from under my shoes! Emily!!!!! I hate this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Every few seconds I find myself frozen with fear, desperately trying to figure out what my next move should be, and praying that the next step I take is on solid ground and that I don’t trip for the 156th time.

Is this a joke?

Goodbye, life.

Hour 4.5: Dehydration sets in.  The rocks become blurry demons that come in and out of my focus.  I don’t remember a lot of hour 4.5.  I think of this half an hour of my life as a truly traumatic experience, and I believe my brain is protecting me by erasing all memory of these thirty painful minutes.

Hey, at least you have a hiking pole.

Hour 5: There are sheep in my way.  Are you freaking kidding me?  Seriously?  I seriously DON’T have the energy to yell for these SHEEP to get OUT OF MY WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  If you know me at all, you KNOW how I get when I’m hungry, you KNOW how I get when I’m tired, you KNOW how I get when I’m overheated, but do you know what I’m like when I am all three of those things at the same time, dehydrated beyond belief, and falling down an endless mountain of rocks in the middle of nowhere?  God bless you, Emily.  God bless you.

There are tears in my eyes.

Hour 5.25: “I can’t F---ing believe I signed up for this F---ing club, I hate this, my knees hurt, I can’t see, I need water, whoever told me this was a good idea is an idiot, I am never, ever doing this ever again ever in my life, everyone here SUCKS, Spain sucks, I. HATE. SPAIN.”

Hour 5.5:  Suddenly, I realize the rocks are behind me.  I have once again found myself lost in a sea of endless hills.  I grow delirious and start running.  Running down a path that may have no end.  Just, running.

The road behind.

The road ahead.

Hour 6: Is that…is that a bar?  Is this my imagination or do I see people up ahead?  People drinking water?  People sitting down?  I skip ahead and realize that it is just not a mirage –a figment of my imagination spurred on my extreme dehydration.  I sprint to the bartender and ask for a bottle of water and a bottle of lemonade.  I come close to finishing both of them before I even find a seat.   I then see a hose spraying endless amounts of water into many a happy hiker’s water bottle, and realize I can drink as much water as I want.  I refill my water bottle and head back inside to the bar, picking up a menu.  Everything on the menu in Euskara (the Basque language).   I don’t speak Euskara. I wave the bartender over and point to the first thing on the menu.  “Give me this.”  I am given what appears to be almost an entire loaf of French bread with chorizo in the middle.  I eat it in about five minutes.  Had I not been stuffing my face with what tasted like the best food ever made, I would not have been able to handle the conversation I overheard between some of the group leaders: we aren’t finished yet.  We have a “Basque ten minutes” left to go, they say, smiling to themselves.

Hour 6.5: Half an hour later, I realize that a “Basque ten minutes” doesn’t really mean ten minutes.

Hour 7: An hour later, I realize it doesn’t mean an hour, either.  With every step, it feels like someone is taking an ax and attempting to amputate my legs from the knees down.

Hour 7.25: The bus.  I see the bus.  I SEE THE BUS.  I CAN SIT ON THAT BUS.  I CAN SLEEP ON THAT BUS.  I DID IT.  I’M DONE.  I AM DONE!

On the hour and a half bus ride back, I think back to the morning, coming up on twelve hours ago, and can barely believe everything that had happened between then and now.  I almost cried at least ten times.  I almost died about eight times.  I screamed at every living thing I saw.  I swore that showing up that morning was the worst decision I had ever made in my life.

But then again, I climbed a mountain.  A real mountain.  And the only real injury I had to show for it was a scraped knee.  I met some amazing people, and felt like a part of something bigger than myself.  As I hopped off the bus, I turned to one of the friends I had made along the way, Alex, to say bye.  “Hey Alex, maybe I’ll see you next time?”

I felt like Superwoman for the next few days.  This week was full of new experiences.  Aside from the setback of putting my body through hell and having a sliiight mental breakdown on the top of a mountain, a couple highlights include going with my cooking class to a Txoko (a Basque community kitchen) to learn how to cook three traditional Spanish dishes (Pecas, Tortilla de Patata, y Arroz con Leche), and going to the beach in Gexto with my girlfriends. 

In the Txoko - I needed a little help.

There’s always an adventure to be had.  Off to Barcelona tomorrow!  Abrazos.