Decompressing is a tough activity following the six days I spent immersed in English … in a way I never thought possible … with people I never expected to fall so deeply in love with.
I found myself craving Vadelavilla. The people. The way my heart smiled during my time there.
I found myself craving Vadelavilla. The people. The way my heart smiled during my time there.
“Hi,” I began. “My name is D. I am originally from just outside of Washington, DC. In my former life, I was a publicist. Now, I am traveling and writing about it. If I could be any animal, I would be … a bird.”
I sat down.
After introductions, Dade explained the program: early wake up call for breakfast, followed by four one-on-ones with Anglos, then lunch, then siesta, then more one-on-ones and group activities, then performances, then dinner, then optional drinks at the bar.
What did I get myself into?
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.
Anthony and I were sitting next to each other on the bus. I really wanted nothing more than to just turn on my music, watch the Spanish countryside pass by and eventually close my eyes and sleep.
But, that wasn’t going to happen.
We needed to sit next to one of the Spanish-speaking people and converse with them in English.
I grudgingly surrendered the seat next to Anthony and surveyed the bus for a seat next to someone who did not speak English as their native langugage.
Most of the seats were taken, save one or two.
One empty seat was next to a girl with a head full of massive curls and a smile that spread across her entire face. She looked friendly. And likely easy to talk to.
I walked up to her, sitting alone in the window seat (damn).
“This seat taken?” I asked her, having a “Forrest Gump” moment and vividly recalling the poor boy in his youth trying to sit next to someone on the bus only to be turned down.
“Where are you going? How long are you here? Where are you staying? How do you know the person you are staying with? How did you meet? How long have you known each other? What does your friend do? What do you do? Where do you live?” The immigrations officer fired question after question at me.
I stood at the counter, silently praying she would stop asking questions and stamp my passport.
Fortunately, she did.
I had spent my entire flight across the Atlantic paranoid. When I went to check in online earlier in the day, I was informed I had to call the airline — that my trip was beyond the limit for travel and a visa was required.
My heart nearly jumped into my chest.
How could I have missed this? I thought I was good to go.
1. If you want Zagreb’s Upper Town to yourself for wandering, it is deserted at 2 a.m. There is nothing more magical than having the city in your hands to breathe in. Even if nothing is open, to walk on the old streets, to see the gothic buildings, it is an amazing experience. Bonus pointsContinue reading “What I learned in Croatia (The List)”
I woke up on my last morning in Croatia, shaggy blonde Brit by my side.
Whoops.
I love Saturdays. Except when the Saturday is my last day in Croatia. Then, I despise it. Chopper and I had a grand plan for my last full day of traveling: lounge at the beach and then head out to a nice birthday dinner for myself. And we did just that.
I looked up at the stairs that seemed to rise to the sky. Panting. We had made it up the first few sets of stairs, me trying to balance the very unsteady bag I had on my back. I had specifically taken this piece of luggage for my trip because it had wheels (!) and straps to turn into one massive backpack. But, it really wasn’t made to be balanced on a back. I could barely stand up straight, and when I was upright, it felt like the weight of the bag would have me topple over, down the stairs and back to Square One.
Even though the Sea Urchin were stationery, I hated them.
Once we docked the boat and headed to our beach (which was almost as small as the boat, but sandy), I carefully surveyed the water. Just a patch of seaweed a few feet out … I’d have to swim over it so as not to risk any chance of anything.
When I say swim, I mean it this time. Earlier, swimming meant more fa-la-la-la-la-look-at-me-I’m-in-the-water, a kick here, an arm movement there, a little treading water. In Hvar,
swimming meant actual strokes to move past that patch of seaweed. Granted, because the water is clear, I could see its brown green tangle for what it was. But, you never know. Lurking entangled in the plant could have been my Croatian nemesis, black spiky awfulness, just waiting to stick its needles into the soft arches of my naked feet.
D Travels 'Round