The only English-speaking town in Spain

Tucked into the Soria region of Spain is a little mountain village is Valdelavilla — a  place completely isolated from the rest of the world, where Spaniards trek to learn English through intensive language immersion programs. It’s the only place in Spain where English is the first language.

Other than people participating in the program and the few staff on hand to take care of the property, there is nothing.

There are no stores. There is no cell phone service. The restaurant is located in an old villa. The bar has no stools and doubles as the “internet cafe.” So does the bench outside reception. And, the wifi is about as speedy as an old-school dial-up connection. The more people pow-wowing online at Valdelavilla, the slower it goes.

Despite these things, I fell in love with the town at first sight. Well, once I knew I wasn’t going to have to haul my backpack through the little stone streets.Continue reading “The only English-speaking town in Spain”

The first Valdelavilla friends

The first friend I made at Valdelavilla was Anthony, a New York native with an infectious laugh living in Madrid.

We actually met at the tapas reception the night before we left, but still. He was my first friend. Following the reception, he and I went out for a bit in Madrid, grabbing a drink and some non-tapas food.

The second friend I made was Silvia, a 24-year-old consultant living 50 KM north of Spain.

We actually met on the bus to Valdelavilla, but still.Continue reading “The first Valdelavilla friends”

An introduction to Valdelavilla

I was early to the tapas reception at El Bajo, of course. The pull-down metal gates had not even be lifted yet, so I walked around the Bilboa Metro area for about 30 minutes.

It was my first full day in Madrid and I had explored the city center for a few hours, wandering nearby my hostel and the Anton Martin Metro stop. After taking an hour or so back in my room, I figured it was time to head over to the Vaughan Systems reception for the people who were going to help native Spanish speakers improve their English by talking talking talking for six straight days.

Once the gates were lifted, I headed over to the bar. It was empty, save for one woman going over name tags.

This was it. And I was the first.Continue reading “An introduction to Valdelavilla”

The upside of Irish locks

I stood at the door of the house in Galway where I was staying, fumbling desperately with the lock I just couldn’t get to open.

“It’s an Irish lock,” Abbey explained on the phone, “You just have to mess with it.”

And mess with it I did.

Only, nothing worked.

I put the key in, pulled it out a little, lifted the handle, and tried it again. And again.

It was late and I was tired — we had been drinking since dinner, which was just after sunset — and all I wanted to was crawl into a bed and go to sleep.

But, that wasn’t going to happen.

“You having troubles?” A man’s voice called from the street above the walkway.

I turned and looked into the dark and a silhouette standing before me … weighing the situation in my mind.

Do I talk to him? Do I ignore him? He seemed pretty good-looking from a distance … maybe he was nice, too.

“I can’t get the lock open,” I began. “It’s an Irish lock … it’s not working.”

“You need help?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, hopeful he could open the door.

He grabbed the key from me and worked it into the lock with no success.

“Sorry,” he said, turning to me. “I can’t get it open.”

I looked at my watch … it was early and because it was St. Paddy’s Eve the bars were open late. I could only imagine how late everyone would be to arrive home.

“Well … thank you for trying,” I said, surrendering to my reality. “I guess I will go and get a drink back in town. Do you want to come?”

“I just got let out of the police station for having had too many drinks earlier today,” he said, light eyes catching mine and smiling. “But, sure.”

So, together we walked down into Salthill to grab a drink and kill time.

Jonathan, it turns out, had spent his day celebrating the upcoming holiday and was being a little too loud outside. The Garda let him out early because they thought all of the bars were closed and he would go home.

And then he met me, and I spoiled the plans of a quiet night sobering up.

Instead, we found ourselves in a cab together, riding to a Galway bar to have cocktails since the bars in Salthill were closed.

My new friend ended up taking me out the entire remainder of the evening, paying for my cab, buying me beer and Jameson with Coke, holding my hand and guiding me through the crowds to go outside and talk.

After a few drinks, Jonathan leaned in and kissed me.

I melted. But not really because of who he was or that I liked him (I can’t say our conversation was anything amazing … and he had just gotten let out of the police station for being too drunk) but I LOVED the fact that our paths had crossed accidentally.

I was trying to go home and go to bed and there he was, and then there we were … and the absolute unexpectedness of the moment just took me over and I loved it.

He asked me to go home with him.

I pondered it for a moment, then declined.

The evening had turned into something so random, but it didn’t need to go any further.

When one of Abbey’s housemates walked by us outside, I quickly took stride with him, bidding my farewell to Jonathan with kisses (on the cheek this time), and walked with him back to the house.

This time, his key worked. Perfectly.

The time my liver hated me

I arrived in Dublin in the early afternoon, Abbey (that’s @ahesser on Twitter and the author behind the fabulous site, A Chick with Baggage) and her friend, Brian, greeted me at the airport.

That was the last time in five days there was absolutely no alcohol coursing through my blood (sorry, Mom and Dad).

The following is an excerpt from my liver’s journal:

Day 1:

After you checked into Abbey Court, the hostel on River Liffey just across from Temple Bar, you went to eat.

And by eat, you clearly  meant drink with a side of lunch.

So what if Brian had started a tradition earlier during their travels in Ireland — every time he ordered a beer (Guinness) he had to order a shot of Jameson on the side? You didn’t  have to do the same.

But, you did. And then you had another beer.

When it came time to move your bags from the storage room to the dorm, you didn’t need  to cross the river to Temple Bar to do some exploring … but you did.

And by exploring, you clearly meant more drinking.

Sure, you meant to go for only one drink, but soon it turned into an entire evening at Auld Dubliner. Followed by drinks near the hostel, followed by a not-so-sober Indian dinner.

Day 2:

D, you did it again.

First, it was a tour of  the Jameson distillery.

I must be the luckiest liver in the world — you were chosen as the whiskey taster at Jameson, which meant not only did I get to enjoy (if that’s what we are calling it) a complimentary glass of whiskey at the end of the tour, but also a taste test complete with Scottish and American whiskey.

You may now be a whiskey fan, but damn. After awhile, it just hurts.

In case Jameson wasn’t enough, then you went and headed to Guinness and toured the old brewery. Of course, at the end of the tour, there was more drinking when you received a complimentary Guinness. The three of you sipped your delicious and beautiful stout from the top of the building at Gravity Bar. While the bar did provide you all with stunning 360-degree views of Dublin, was the Guinness really necessary? Really?

When you returned to the hostel, I thought I would have time to recover, but noooo. Abbey did some work and you and Brian just had to sip on Jameson and Coke,and then head out a few hours later back to Temple Bar for more drinks.

Ugh.

Day 3:

You are slowly killing me, D.

I don’t care if it is St. Patrick’s Eve. It was fun to go and pick up Abbey’s friend, Emily, from the airport and head to Galway, Abbey’s home for three months, in preparation for the next day’s festivities.

Yet, you felt it necessary to include a Bulmer’s with your lunch when your group stopped in a little town.

Then, that night, you ended up in the beautiful seaside town of Galway, celebrating St. Paddy’s Eve. You drank even more.

I think I may loathe you.

Day 4:

You brutal bitch.

Did you really start the St. Patrick’s celebration in the early afternoon with mimosas, then head out to town to drink with the locals until the wee hours of the morning? 

Did you really consume that many beers and shots?

Day 5:

Ha ha ha.

What’s the matter? You feel a little groggy? You can’t get out of bed.

Serves you right.

It’s called rebelling. You better get used to it if you plan on drinking like you are 21 every day.

Seriously. You deserve every ounce of pain you are feeling.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the night off.

It is an absolute pleasure to be delightfully sober.

Do this again and I promise, I will kick your ass.

Love,

Your Recovering Liver

Yotel, motel, Holiday Inn

I cautiously stepped my foot down the one step to the little door of my pod, hoping I wouldn’t wedge myself and backpack and carry-on bag in the doorway.

So … this was what I was in for — a tiny room, with a tiny bed and a tiny toilet and a tiny shower.

Ahhh, sweet Yotel.Continue reading “Yotel, motel, Holiday Inn”

Sorry, mate

After a lengthy discussion in a pub in Soho regarding the Brit’s use of “sorry” and “mate” in conversation, Pat and I were on the escalators headed to the Tube having an entire conversation in  only those two words as we ended our day out in London.

It went like this:

Pat: Sorry.

Me: No worries, mate.

Pat: Sorry?

Me: Mate, sorry?

And continued as we giggled at our meaningless cider-fueled banter.

Pat, a friend of  mine I had met in Las Vegas when we worked on Fright Dome (he did the photography/videography and I did the PR), and stayed in touch beyond both of our exits from Sin City.

Before I go any further, I have to admit I have serious visa envy towards Pat. His girlfriend, Lina, is Swedish and lives there, and he just got his two-year visa and moved to Sweden three weeks ago. My mind just goes into crazy overdrive hyper mode even thinking what I would do with a visa.

After spending the majority of my time combing the streets of London by myself, it was so nice to have an old friend to galavant around the city with me.

Shaun had to work nearly the entire time I was in London, so I mostly ran around the city wandering wherever felt right.

I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Notting Hill and Portobello Market — the winding streets of row homes all painted different colors, the little vintage shops and the pubs made me feel warm and fuzzy. It was easy for me to spend a day just walking around the area.

But it was the last day with Pat, his girlfriend and their friend that was my best day in London.Continue reading “Sorry, mate”

Backpacker chic

I looked in the mirror before we headed out to celebrate Shaun’s flatmate’s birthday.

Messy hair back in a low pony styled by Shaun: hot.

Smokey eyes: sexy

Graypink vintage shirt, dark jeans: Not too bad.

Then, I looked to my feet.

Backpacker black flats: Ugh.

I’m not the most stylish person, but I don’t think I dress terrible most days. Except when I’m backpacking. Then, I live in the same shirt and pants until they stand on their own (OK, slight exaggeration).

But, for a night out in London, a city that oozes style and fashion, I had absolutely nothing.

Standing next to the five girls, all dressed in ridiculously amazing clothes and accessories, hurt my eyes.

“Love, I have an entire closet full of vintage if you want a go,” Shaun’s friend had offered.

I stood in her room, gazing and marveling at her closet packed with sequins, sweaters and awesome, and then looked at what I as planning to venture out for a night out — a boring old striped sweater with a low neck I had adored when I got it at Macy’s.

 But  now … it just seemed so … obsolete.

London is a sick fashion city. Everyone looks amazing. The girls have some serious style Americans just don’t rock. It is an intimidating city to kick off a backpacking adventure when everyone around you looks just so … good.

Yeah, going out in what I was wearing was not an option, so I quickly shed my backpacker clothes and pulled her gorgeous silk shirt with a bow in the back over my head.

Not too shabby.

Even though I was still wearing jeans, it was  a little bit closer to the gorgeous of the other girls.

And then, there were my flats.

I had picked cute ones to bring with me, but they were still flats and when I stood next to the heeled-clad feet of my new friends, they were blech.

“D, you’re backpacking!” Shaun had exclaimed when I rolled my eyes at my original outfit. “You’re not supposed to have cute stuff!”

Smiling to myself as I cursed my lack of fabulous apparel, I knew she was right.

So, backpacker chic it is.

Maybe when I get home I will be OK with tossing the heels. Most of them are in storage, anyway.

And buy some vintage.

A bit of Croatia in London

I nearly peed my pants on the way to Shaun’s flat. No, really, I nearly peed my pants.

After having two rather large glasses of Peroni with Tim, I headed back to the tube. I was half way into Bank’s massive station when it hit me how urgently I needed to use the loo.

“Sorry,” I said to a tube staff person, “where is a restroom.”

“There isn’t one in this station,” she said.

Well, crap.

I figured I could hold it so I hopped on the DLR towards Poplar. Only, I was way wrong.Continue reading “A bit of Croatia in London”

Naptime interruptus

 
I closed my eyes on the black leather sofa.
 
Ahhhh. It felt so good to just lay there. Backpack off. Messenger bag off. Both piled in a heap on the floor next to me. 

As soon as I had found the key to Shaun’s, placed under a bench outside her flat, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a wave of thankfulness sweep over me. 

Finally. 

The non-stop travel from America and the loss of my night and sleep had started to wear on me and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and just be. 

But it didn’t last long. No sooner had I begun to relax there was a bang on the door. 

Ignore it, I thought. You don’t live here. Don’t open the door. 

Then, another knock. 

OK. Ask who it is. 

I stubbornly got up and walked to the door. 

“Who is it?” 

“It’s Tim,” said a heavily accented Australian from behind the bright blue painted door. 

Right. That meant nothing to me. 

I figured if he said his name, he must have known the people living there, so I popped the door ajar and poked my tired head out. 

“Oh right, hey there, you must be Shaun’s friend.” 

I opened the door the rest of the way. 

“I’ve just come to pick up my mail, I used to live here.” 

I let him in, retreating back to my couch. 

“So, where ya’ been?” 

Thus, our conversation began, and the sleep I was so looking forward to quickly slipped through my fingers. Continue reading “Naptime interruptus”