Lalita Retreat Center

I'm at my yoga training center! It's not exactly what I expected it to be, but it's going to be a life-changing experience no matter what. The internet here is incredibly sketchy and costs three euros a pop, so I think my posts will be getting a bit scarce whilst in yoga camp. Just know that for the next twenty one days, I will be safe. Albeit surrounded by mosquitoes and giant spiders.

My last days in Madrid were wonderful. I went to the Prado and Sofia museums, where I was able to see the work of Picasso, Dali, and Goya, among many others. I managed visit at the particular times of day when the museums were free, so I didn't have to spend any extra money. I did spend some extra money on a very special shot of alcohol, but it was a cultural thing, so I excused myself. There's a legend in Madrid about a tree that would produce a very sweet fruit that would ferment under all of the leaves. The bears would eat the fruit, become intoxicated, and engage in drunken brawls under the branches. The legend says that this is why there are no more bears in Spain. They all killed each other, drunk off the fermented fruit. In a special bar in Madrid, they serve shots of this alcohol in chocolate shot glasses. You drink the liquor, then eat the glass. I couldn't resist.

Statue of the extinct Spanish bear chowing down on the madrono berry

I went on the free walking tour yesterday, and had an extremely animated, waifish scottish fellow as my guide. I learned that the main reason pork is such a hit in Madrid (there are far more pig products than fish products) is that because during the Inquisition, the best way to show that you weren't Jewish or Muslim was to be seen gnawing away at a tasty piece of pig.

Our Spanish guide discloses the secrets of this ex-brothel

I also learned that they've introduced pine trees to Spain, and that they're wreaking havoc on the local fauna. The goats can't eat anything that grows under the pines because the needles make the ground too acidic, and the fish are all dying because they can't handle the extra acidity in their water. Also, all the grapevines here are from California. A malevolent foreign insect destroyed all the native vines a few years back, so now every single grape has its origins in California.

This post is going to be very scattered. I have to slap a mosquito about every other word, so it's quite difficult to maintain my train of thought.

I had to meet the yoga bus at eight thirty this morning at a hotel near the airport -- so about fifteen/twenty miles out of town. I gave myself two and a half hours to get there, assuming that I'd get dreadfully lost on the metro. However, due to some miraculous intervention, I made my way straight to the hotel without a single mishap.

The yoga program here is just about as hippie as they come. We've got a massive circular room with prayer flags hung from the ceiling where we will be doing our asana study and meditation. All the food is vegetarian, and we are forbidden to kill all insects (minus the extremely aggressive mosquitoes, that is). We wash our own dishes and have no cell phone reception. It costs ten euros to do one load of laundry (that's about fifteen dollars, for all my fellow Americans), so I've decided to wash my clothes every night by showering in them and thoroughly sudsing up the generally offensive bits. The toilets are "paper free", so we have to throw all of our soiled trash in waste baskets. We compost all of our food to feed the cows, and the vegetables we eat are grown right here on the grounds.

Outside the yoga studio

The room I share with Maria (from Canada), Mette (from Denmark), and Ingrid (from Norway)

Lalita

Our yoga training studio

A great thing about this program is that once again, I get to meet people from all over the world. So far, I've heard people from Scotland, Ireland, Finland, Denmark (I miss you, Alex...), Novia Scotia, Toronto, California, New York, Malaysia, Hungary, Spain, Austria (she sounds like Arnold...), Germany, Pennsylvania, England, and Norway. Tons of women, four men.

I know I'm going to learn a lot here. The self-sustainability aspect of this facility is really inspiring, and I can tell that the yoga teachers are going to be great. I do feel a bit trapped here though, and it's going to be difficult for me to communicate with all of you at home. I'm definitely feeling the pangs of homesickness. I'm in the middle of some glorious country with some wonderful people, but I can't stop missing Wednesday night dinners. It's hard to believe that I've only been gone for two weeks.

As it's so expensive to access the internet here, I'll probably only be online once a week while I'm here. I'm thinking Friday afternoons will probably be best for me. However, I do intend to write letters home, so expect to receive some from me. I'll include a return address on my envelope, and would love some letters from home.

Much love,

-Aimee

Wandering Madrid -- Plaza Mayor

I spent a lovely day in Madrid yesterday. No self-respecting person in this city wakes up before nine o-clock, so I had the morning to myself; although I did have to put up with my five dolled up, alcohol reeking dormmates tumbling into the room at five in the morning. This seems to be the norm here -- dinner is at ten, party preparations last until midnight, and then the young people party until five or six in the morning. I wake up for the day just as the exhausted young people crawl into bed for the "night".

I headed off for Retiro Park around nine o'clock. It ended up being just a thirty minute walk from my hostel, and was such a straight shot that I didn't even falter with directions once. The park itself was absolutely breathtaking. The grounds were perfectly manicured, there were statues lining the walking/bicycling/running streets, there were fountains in every plaza, there were various playgrounds scattered about the area full of very happy children, and there was a beautiful lake in the middle, full of paddling young couples and black swans. I sat down on a bench and studied my yoga sutras for an hour, watching the runners and rollerbladers and frolicking dogs out of the corner of my eye.

A view from Retiro Park

Probably a bank. I hear that most of the new buildings are banks. 

Madrid

Caught in the middle of a protest

Fabrizzio Hostel

Fabrizzio. The crocodile after which the guesthouse was named. 

The glass chapel in Retiro Park

At two o'clock I met Jose Ramon (a friend from Pueblo Ingles) for lunch at a Spanish restaurant near Retiro Park. The food was delicious and fairly authentic. The dessert we ordered at the end was certainly unique to Spain; chilled milk mixed with lemon and sugar, then sprinkled with nutmeg.

After lunch, Jose Ramon and I returned to Retiro Park where we had our interview. It was the first interview I've done wherein I asked the questions in English and my interviewee answered in a different language. I needed to explain what a few of the English words in my questions meant. I never realized what difficult concepts faith and regret are.

After Jose Ramon dropped me off at Plaza Mayor (telling me that my boyfriend and I should come visit him at his house on the beach whenever we can), I went back to my hostel and Skyped Alex for a while. Up until now the internet connection has been so sketchy that it would cut out every couple of minutes and video calls were virtually impossible. The connection here is quite good, so I was able to see his face for at least half an hour, and that made my day (even more than the Spanish dessert I had at lunch).

I settled into my room to study yoga sutras, but my dormmates arrived and quickly filled the air with the same noxious cigarette/perfume/nail polish/hairspray mix. I quickly vacated the area and ended up watching "The Last of the Mohicans" in the main room with a very sweet nineteen year old girl from Germany.

A few things I've noticed about Madrid:

Spanish women are so thin. It's ridiculous. I could encompass their waists with my hands, and I have pretty small hands. The stylish women tend to wear very light, short dresses with a thin belt around the middle to emphasize their extremely tiny waists.

Everyone moves extremely quickly.

The Spanish government is trying to outlaw American restaurant chains like Burger King and McDonalds.

Spain has an excellent assortment of all my favorite things: olive oil, goat cheese, red wine, olives, and honey.

Well, I'm meeting another friend from Pueblo Ingles at the famous Spanish market today, so I need to get going.

Much love,

-Aimee

Plaza Mayor

I'm writing this post from the dorm room of my second hostel in Madrid. I tried to couchsurf for this four night break between Pueblo Ingles and my yoga training program, but the couchsurfers I contacted wouldn't give me any solid answers regarding where to meet, when to meet, and how to meet. So I decided to bite the bullet and pay for a hostel. It is a lot nicer than the one one on Gran Via where I spent my first tumultuous night in Madrid. However, the entrance scared the bejesus out of me. It's a very old building near one of the main plazas in Madrid, Plaza Mayor. The big wooden door was left wide open, there were construction supplies stacked against the walls, and there were no lights. The side of the building had scaffolding all the way to the top, and the entire structure looked dilapitated and abandoned. After spending six hours on a bus, thirty minutes wandering the metro, and twenty minutes weaving my way through the congested streets of Madrid with my ENORMOUS bag, I just about collapsed in an anxious smelly heap in front of the terrifying building. I was sure that it had been abandoned long ago and that I had somehow been scammed into paying sixty five euros to stay at a hostel that didn't exist.

But I decided to stick to my guns about not panicking in these sorts of situations. I dragged my luggage into the dusty, pitch black building, found an elevator, and squeezed myself in. The elevator was very dimly lit, had a metal grating, and was hardly large enough for my bags and me. I have never felt so claustrophobic in my life. I hit the button for floor number four, and up the elevator went, painstakingly slowly. I made a mental list of all the numbers I could call when the elevator stalled and trapped me in that tiny space.

But the elevator finally stopped at floor number four and I tumbled out, right in front of the door that led tIo my hostel. The Spaniard who answered was incredibly friendly and told me to sit down and try to regain some sort of calm. So... I'm calming down. Writing my blog and trying to ignore the two girls walking around in their underwear. I can't understand a word they're saying, but it looks like they'll be leaving soon. They're applying make-up and dancing in front of a small standing mirror to the song, "Can't get no satisfaction." God.

A view from my hostel

A view of the famous plaza -- from my hostel. This is where the Inquisition carried out many of their executions. 

My last couple of days at Pueblo Ingles were absolutely magical, and I miss them already. My yoga presentation went well, and several people told me that I would make an excellent teacher. I went on a gorgeous hike with a very friendly Spaniard who kept telling me that I was "unique", but always pronounced it "eunuch". 

Hiking with Antonio

Hiking with Antonio

I arranged to stay with two Irish girls when I'm in Ireland, and a woman from South Africa is picking me up from the airport in Dublin the day I arrive. Thus, if I stay with Svetlana during my five days off in Italy, this will be the last time I have to stay at a hostel during my travels. I don't think I'll miss them. At the moment, the cigarette smoke is mixing with the hairspray and nail polish and the perfume to serve as a sickly sweet, instant headache inducer.

I had my first interview out of America yesterday, and it couldn't have gone better. It was very encouraging to have my project so positively received. I have another interview planned for tomorrow afternoon, and one planned for Monday.

I'm becoming very efficient at charging my electronics and washing my clothes in the sink. I've learned that an Australian will say "Have you not?", a Brit will say "Haven't you?", and an American will say "You haven't?" I've learned that in some countries, when your ears are ringing, it means that someone is thinking of you. In Spain, when someone is blind, they say, "You can't see over the donkey's back." I've learned that out of all the Americans here, I have the smallest potato in my mouth. I've learned what it's like to talk nonstop eight days in a row, and it's a lot harder than it sounds.

Well... I think I'm going to go ahead and try to study some yoga before I call it a night. I miss you all very, very much. Anna, I'll write you back soon, I promise.

Lots of love,

-Aimee

Coto del Valle

I'm just about to start my fifth day at Pueblo Ingles, and I'm still thinking that I must have cheated someone to get here. I found out yesterday that the waitlist for Anglos is about three thousand. I don't know how I passed all of them on the list, but I'm extremely happy that I did.

Sunday evening had to be my favorite experience so far. Apparently, the good people here at Pueblo Ingles have a ritual that they perform in every program Sunday night after dinner. So at ten forty five. Dinners here are VERY late. The ritual itself is very pagan, and there was some recitation of witches and worms and bones and brews. We were outside under a full moon with four people reciting in Gaelic, Spanish, English, and another language that I'd actually never heard of before. On one side of the performers was a table where the program MC was concocting the ritual's traditional drink -- an extremely alcoholic brew to ward off the witches. The drink itself was made from gin, orange peel, sugar, various spices, and coffee beans. The MC proceeded to light it on fire, and the flames reached about a foot and a half into the air. During the somewhat eerie, somewhat hilarious recitation, he stood in the background ladling the flaming alcohol. He took one ladle full of it around the circle, and we all dipped our fingers into the flames and quickly swallowed them before our fingers could be burned. The drink was one of the strongest I've ever tried (not that that says very much), but it was quite flavorful and good.

So, all of us feeling a bit light-headed (some quite a bit more than others) from the ritual, we continued on to the singing portion of the evening. Each country had to stand in front of the group and sing a song they felt exemplified their country best. I don't know the names of the other songs, but I did manage to capture the performances on video, and they were all absolutely delightful. There a six Americans here, and we decided rather last minute to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." After singing it through once or twice, the group decided that I ought to sing it and they would do improvisational dance around me. When our turn came, I belted away, and the rest of the group magically transformed themselves into the best rainbows and bluebirds and lemon drops I have ever seen. The Spaniards loved it, we won the competition, and they asked for an encore. Still having a bit of that ritual witch repelling brew in us, we were more than happpy to oblige.

Monday was a very busy day for me. I had one to ones all morning and telephone calls and one to ones all afternoon. I learned that most Spaniards think that Americans speak with potatoes in their mouths. They dislike our lazy manner of speech, how far back the resonance is, and how we contract everything we possibly can.

After a hard day of incessant chatter, we were given an hour off to prepare for dinner and the party we were required to attend afterwards. Sunday night is ritual night, Monday night is party night. I'm looking forward to going to my yoga program where after a hard day's work, I'll be able to go to bed at a decent hour.

A funny thing happened at dinner that I think is worth mentioning because it was so out of character for me. When nine o'clock rolled around, I found myself seated with one of the anglos from Australia, a very funny middle-aged Spaniard, and the ex-navy MC. As the conversation started, I began to feel an occasional kick in the shins from the MC who was sitting across the table from me. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to embarrass him and I'm still a bit shy with fellows who are over two hundred pounds and stand over six feet tall. I figured that he'd notice soon enough, so I held my tongue and winced every so often. Once he went so far as to step on my bare toes and apologized quite sincerely, which I found odd as he had been kicking me on and off for the last half an hour and hadn't said a word.

Near the end of dinner, the conversation turned toward our romantic partners. The MC started talking about how much he hated his mother-in-law, but loved his wife. By this time, I'd been kicked in the shins one time too many, and had sipped just the right amount of wine. As the very intimidating ex-navy man waxed on about how much he cared for his wife, I finally blurted out, "You sure about that? 'Cos you've been playing footsie with me for the last half an hour."

There was silence for just a moment. Everyone stopped chewing and looked a little shocked, including the MC. "You mean that's you I've been kicking? I thought I was kicking part of the table."

"No, that has most definitely been my shins," I replied as our whole table broke out into self-perpetuating laughter. Including the MC.

After dinner, we had a Spanish dance party with a lot of bad American music, but a lot of FINE Spanish dancers. There was a middle-aged principal who danced for four hours straight, in what seemed to be a mixture of classical ballet, flamenco, and tango. The final dance was between him and a lovely girl from Ireland, who did something that looked like a mixture of ballet and Irish step dancing. They danced to the Bohemian Rhapsody, and it might have been the most magnificent thing I've ever seen.

Today we went on an excursion to a nearby town built into the mountainside. I took some pictures of an old fort and ate some local olives.

I'm about to start my next one to one, so I'll go ahead and let this already long-winded post come to an end.

the fort in Cazorla

Cazorla... never did find out why it was smoking.

The olive groves really do go on for miles. 

Spoiled Rotten -- Coto del Valle

I'm writing this post from the extra bedroom connected to my room that I discovered yesterday afternoon. This means I have three beds, a bathroom, two TVs, two massive closets, and a lovely balcony all to myself. It's very spacious, but the empty beds make me feel a little lonely. It's difficult to spend the entire day engaging in fairly intimate conversations with strangers, and then go back to an empty hotel room. I had a bout of homesickness last night after dinner.

The view from my hotel window

That said, my time here has been absolutely phenomenal. The Spaniards are a joy to speak with, even though it gets very difficult at times. After my fourth hour long one on one yesterday, I started mispronouncing words right and left. I believe I confused the hell out of the poor Spaniard trying to learn English from me. The worst was when I pronounced "salutation" as "salution". I felt like a royal idiot for the rest of the day.

I don't think I've mentioned yet how sensitive the kitchen staff has been with my gluten intolerance. When I applied for this program, there was a section for the applicants to mention any food allergies or sensitivities. I wrote that I was sensitive to gluten. Sure enough, my first meal arrives with a special gluten-free roll baked just for me. It's been very nice to have that one less thing to worry about.

Trina, you would love the food here. So much pig, and I can guarantee that they're happy, because I see then frolicking out in the woods every morning. This part of Spain is teeming with wild boars, and this tine of year, with baby boars as well.

Each country represented at this program needs to get onstage and perform a song tonight. There are six people here from America, and we're thinking of doing Oklahoma. I feel sorry for the solo women from North Africa and Australia.

This program is so good for me. I'm already becoming quite comfortable with aproaching someone, saying "My name is Aimee, I believe we're partners. Where would you like to walk?"' and then taking off on an hour long talking walk through the Spanish countryside. It's a very big step for me. Today, I spoke with a woman getting her doctor's in psychology in Madrid and a young man who loves race cars, scuba diving, and wine tasting -- and hates English. I've become very good at exposing certain English idioms, which is part of the one on ones. Today, I explained what it means when something "comes in handy," and what it means to "call it a day." It's very interesting to see so many things whose meaning we take for granted, absolutely flabbergast these non-English speakers.

I have to get ready for lunch now. Probably a lot more meat and goat cheese. Jason, I had the most amazing cheese dish I've ever had before. Fried soft goat cheese drizzled with what appeared to be a molasses reduction. God, it was amazing. Oh, good theme for dinner, by the way -- "reduction."

some pictures of scenery (we're not allowed to post pictures of people):

The salt-water pool

Our four star hotel

A nearby stream

The beautiful town of Cazorla

Coto del Valle

I am writing this post from a rustic spanish hotel tucked away in a beautiful national park. I have a ridiculously comfortable queen size bed, have enjoyed authentic spanish cuisine all day, and have met some thoroughly wonderful people so far.

After the meeting yesterday, my new photographer friend from Canada showed me around the city. She's someone who really knows how to listen and how to laugh. Her company made this huge foreign city take on such a jovial tone.

Madrid at night

Some of the street art in the city

Grand Via at night

A small city park

After wandering the streets for a few hours and making sure we knew how to find our meeting place for the next day, we headed back to our respective hostels. And good grief, mine was awful.

A sign hanging outside my door -- I did not adhere to it, however, and made good use of the "clean" beds.

 I climbed into bed around eleven o'clock and did my best to fall asleep. However, the sirens passing by every five to ten minutes did a very impressive job in keeping a person who hadn't slept in 48 hours from drifting off. I tried to adjust to the sirens, and just as soon as I thought I might be able to tune them out, the drunken yelling started. As the inebriated spaniards hashed things out right under my window, I thought, "Okay, this won't be so bad. They have to go to bed soon, right? And then it'll be just me and the sirens again. I can do this."

However, I quickly learned that people in Madrid do not sleep. The pissed Spaniards carried on their shenanigans until six in the morning.

So recognizing that the noise was not going to disappear any time soon, I did my best to ignore it. Treat it like a clock ticking in the background. A very loud, anxious clock.

Then my dormmates came in. They all plopped down in their squeaky bunks, and immediately fell asleep. One of the fellows started snoring. Quietly at first, then louder and louder and louder until he finally woke himself up with a gigantic sneeze. Then he would fall back asleep and the process would start all over again -- starting out with at small snore and culminating in a resounding "aCHOOOO!!!"

I quickly discovered that the very nice girl from Seattle sleeping below me was a sleep moaner. While the fellow was snoring and sneezing, the sirens blaring, and the drunks arguing, she moaned and giggled in her sleep all night long.

And the final dormmate of mine managed to sleep through the whole f*cking thing. I think that by the time my alarm sounded at six o'clock, I had the most resentment built up toward him -- for being able to sleep through the horrendous cacophony, whilst I lay awake in misery.

I met my Canadian friend at 7:00, and we wove our way through the intricate Madrid metro. We made it to our meeting place in perfect time, and proceeded to board our spacious bus for the six hour drive to Coto del Valla.

A view from the bus. Olives EVERYWHERE.

The drive itself was uneventful. I spoke with a Spaniard for a few minutes, tried to sleep (without success), and spent a good deal of time talking with two Canadians and a very funny gentlemen from London. The road was extremely narrow, and about an hour out from our destination, became nauseatingly tortuous as well. The elevation climb was steep, and my fear of heights definitely kicked in.

It was a relief to finally arrive at the hotel. The scenery is absolutely breathtaking. Rolling hills covered in coniferous trees and olive groves. Forests filled with wild boars, of which I've already seen an entire family. They fed me an incredible meal and then set me up with this lovely little room. After spending last night at the hostel, I simply cannot believe my good fortune.

I spent a couple of hours in general initiation business -- which was quite fun and I got to meet a lot of new people. The variety of English speaking people is delightful. I've been hearing Irish, South African, British, Canadian, American, and Australian accents all day long. Most of these people are very well traveled and all have epic adventures that they love to share.

I'll be doing a presentation on yoga in front of the entire group at some point this week. My job is basically to make the head honcho -- a hilarious, British ex-Navy man -- look very silly. I anticipate that Dancer, sideways Crow, or Half Moon will accomplish this goal with ease.

And with that, I think I'll turn in for the night. I haven't slept since Monday, and I'm definitely starting to lose my mind. As I'll be speaking with Spaniards for about 18 hours tomorrow, my mind is something I'd like to have in working condition.

Flight out of Denver and first day in Madrid

I'm writing this post from a claustrophobic little hostel near the city center of Madrid. The room in which I'll be spending the night has six beds and is smaller than the room I shared with Jason, Jared, and Jaime growing up. The bunks squeak and the mattresses are lumpy, but the water pressure in the bathroom is excellent, something I'm told is quite the rarity. But I digress...

My plane left Denver for Toronto at ten thirty on the dot. The flight was uneventful and the plane itself was full of new gimmicks that will one day undoubtedly make their way into all major airline aircrafts. Screens on the back of every seat, two chargers for each person, multiple movies to choose from. I would have had myself a heyday if I hadn't been so broken up after leaving Alex at the airport. So I tried to relax while listening to the playlist Alex gave me as a parting gift.

Last photo with Alex at Denver Airport

I spent six hours waiting for my next flight. I charged my phone, lonelily emailed my boyfriend, and watched the Canadian news. I heard several "aboat"s and all "aboat" the tornados that were hitting Toronto. Great things to hear when waiting for a flight. The lightning storm outside the airport was pretty magnificent, though. I got a couple of pictures of lightning that looked like it was striking down right behind a parked plane.

Airport storm

The flight from Toronto to Madrid was long, and I was so hungry and tired that I ate the airplane food. All of it. There was the hour delay before the plane took off (due to the tornados), there was the painstakingly bad Liam Neesan film, and there was the baby who wouldn't stop crying. So I guess it was an uneventful trip.

I arrived in Madrid at about noon, and had two hours to claim my baggage, find an ATM, buy a bus ticket, and make my way into the center of Madrid to meet the Pueblo Ingles team for lunch. And you know what? I did it all perfectly in two hours and five minutes -- which felt amazing.

At lunch, I met a wonderful Canadian woman named Carrie. We talked about the Rocky Mountains and middle schoolers (the two things we have in common) for two hours. After we'd finished our lemon rice and pork, we went upstairs for briefing and flamenco dancing. I was able to video most of it, so I'll try to find a way to post it via youtube later.

I am now showered, fed, and very excited about the week ahead of me at Coto de Valle.

Alex, I'll try to Skype you tomorrow. I tried today, but you weren't online. Also, I can't seem to access my email account from here - which I'm hoping is just a temporary hitch, because that would definitely make WWOOFing a lot more difficult.

Saying goodbye to my family Tuesday afternoon was incredibly difficult. You've all been so supportive of me taking this trip, and I know that I wouldn't be here without your help. Anna, I miss talking to you about math and horseback riding and your best friends. Jaime, I miss your epic smile and contagious laugh. Jared, I miss your extremely inappropriate sense of humor. Jason, I miss your hugs and encouragement. Mom, I miss your healing soup and hands. Dad, I miss your support and drive.

Alex, I miss you. All of you. Even the part that likes watching basketball so damn much. I love you. Be good.

-Aimee

Final Preparations

Well, the ten day countdown goal certainly didn't happen -- mostly because I really haven't had that much to prepare, believe it or not. I'll be bringing as few things as possible on this epic adventure, so my time hasn't really been consumed with packing. Things I am bringing, however, include:

iPhone

Collapsible keyboard to sync with iPhone

Yoga mat

HD video camera to keep up my interview project

Kindle -- I plan on getting through the complete works of William Shakespeare, something I should have down a LONG time ago. 

Tripod

Paddock boots for when I have to frolic with hundreds of goats

LONG UNDERWEAR

GRE study guide

Headlamp

Six tiny locks for my suitcase -- to prevent drug dealers from stuffing it with all sorts of unpleasantness.

I think that's all the stuff beyond the basics I'll be bringing with me. If anyone has any suggestions as to what might come in handy for yoga school or WWOOFing, let me know. 

I've been wanting to get out of Junction for so long that it's kind of blowing my mind a little that I am actually, definitively leaving in the near future. I'm beginning to think of all the things I'm going to miss about this conservative little desert city. My initial excitement at getting out and learning about different cultures is becoming a bit tainted by, "Holy crap, I'm about to travel to a couple of countries by myself, where I don't know the local languages or customs, I'm god-awful with directions and I trust people way more than I should." 

And after I indulge in my little panic-party, I remind myself of one of the main reasons I'm doing this trip. Namely, forcing myself into situations wherein I'll have to work on all the things about my personality that need a bit of tender tweaking. I want to get over my fear of strangers and my general awkwardness around new people. I want to learn to navigate new cities and not feel bad about having to ask for directions. I want to develop the independence that this adventure is going to force me into developing. 

I've been trying to take all those fears and channel them back into my original excitement. An excitement to learn about organic farming and yoga and the musicality of Ireland (that will hopefully find its way into my plays). 

This time next week, I'll be in Madrid. Probably looking for my hostel and desperately lost. But I've decided that I'm not going to worry about all the times I'm going to inevitably get lost and focus on enjoying every moment of befuddlement. I mean, there are much worse places in which I could lose myself.