the online journal of jordan e.

Just Like Panchovilla
Across Sevilla, past two scurrying rats and over yards of concrete, we got to the train station last night to find that the entire night train to Barcelona was booked. And Mr. Ticket Man wasn't budging - at the sight of our student IDs he said, "Are you fooling?" Distressed, we descended to the track anyhow where I sought out the advice of a guy next to me, whom I perceived to be an English speaker. He was in fact a South Carolinan graced with the regal name of Prescott Huntley Brownwell II. Sir Brownwell, a kid our age who is taking a couple of years to literally work his way around the world, happened to be in the same sticky situation as us. As a group of three, however, the feeling of defeat faded and we soon adopted an Indiana Jones mentality: we would board the train anyhow without tickets and see how far we could get.
Huntley claimed experience in this area, so we crammed our bags in an overhead shelf and followed him into a dining car and began sipping away at black teas. It wasn't long before the train made its seemingly victorious takeoff lurch and not long before the ticket guy came a-calling.
Trapped. Trapped like a dog, I thought. I concentrated hard on my tea, but couldn't ignore that distinct ticket-man tap on my shoulder. I swiveled around on my barstool and heard, "Could I see your ticket please?" I wanted to be able to reach in my pocket and pull out a crinkled paper marked "PAID," but had to resort to saying, "Can I buy one now?" He replied with a string of Spanish, roughly translating into: "You guerrilla train riders! I wish I could kick you out, but this train is already moving. Therefore I will conspire with the other ticket men and devise an evil plan to make you pay, because yes, you will pay." We swiveled back around, dismissed the ticket man's claims and fantasized about getting to Barcelona without paying the $50+ fare.
The dreaming ended shortly after reaching Cordoba when he returned with two helpers who explained that we would have to each pay 68.50€ - not for beds, not for chairs, but for four hours in a booth on the dining car (the rest of the 6 hours we would have to fend for ourselves as far as seating would go). That stunk big time, but was really our only option considering this was the only train to Barcelona.
As the rest of the train snuggled a little deeper into the cushions of their beds or seats, we bought a couple more teas and talked. It was great to hear the stories Huntley had thus accumulated from his adventures abroad. He has posed as a Canadian for work, hitchhiked with stoned, Spanish truck drivers, been a farmhand on a Scottish farm and recently returned from a trip to Morocco where an Arab approached him and talked to him about "swarms of buzzing bees" and "plowing snow." That last story was a little too weird. "Swarms of buzzing bees?" "Plowing snow?" Did he perhaps ask you to "describe the hedgehog?" It seemed too weird, but strangely enough, like the group of Americans Sarah and I had met earlier that week, Huntley had encountered the Hedgehog Man of Fez, Morocco. Very, very weird.
Frazzled and much poorer, we got to Barcelona and then to our hostel, where Huntley decided he would stay for the night, too. We couldn't sleep so we went into the city for some lunch (some very good and cheap lunch, in fact) and to see Sagrada Familie (the church Gaudi had designed, which was amazing), Gaudi's park, some more of the pier area and elsewhere. In between it all, that same snorting man from last weekend in Barcelona somehow found us in the crowd and gave Sarah a snort that nearly made her pass out. We still aren't sure why this man randomly snorts at people, but we are sure that he has one heck of a snort - one so good that he I think he may be on the edge of a snorting profession.
Later, at the hostel, we met some of the most interesting people. (Check out www.bearsac.com to find out more about one of the girls and her bearfriend staying there.) A few of us went out for Moroccan teas and tapas. Mr. Bearsac stayed home.

posted by Jordan @ 6:41 em

Too Good
The weather today was perfect. Sunny. Very Warm. Perfect for exploring Ithalica, where we saw the remains of a Roman community from 2,200 years before. The leftovers of the ampitheater, thermal baths and temples were all interesting, but quite honestly it put me in a state of melancholy. There was a whole society that functioned in those perimeters and all that's left to show is basically a pile of rubble. I imagine that each person spent their life there like a little ant, day in and day out, performing some task. And when their joints couldn't handle it anymore, some younger person stepped up and began working their way to old age. Is that what this great gift of life should be used for? I have to make sure that when I croak people will have more than a xerox box of office work and a stack of postcards to analyze my life by.
But enough deep thoughts by Jordan Shermer.
We saw more of Seville, too - more sites, more buildings, districts and shopping. Still loving this city, but I am not finding any Spanish food that I am crazy about. Today I ate "arroz negros," which is rice and seafood in a black sauce. After I had finished, Sarah looked at me and told me it looked like I had just eaten a box of Oreos. "Mmm, Oreos," I thought. While those nummer chocolate cookies are available here in España, we opted for Kara's suggestion, "churros and chocolate." (It's your basic snake of fried donut dough served with a cup of chocolate dipping sauce.) Sorry Kara, no me gusta. Those things would make Richard Simmons pass out and, well, the grease even gave me a tummy ache. All the more reason to head back to our hostel, "Hostal Colon."
Now we are just an hour from departing for Barcelona on the train. Onward!

posted by Jordan @ 2:29 em

Calling the Barber of Seville
The day began at 7:00am in room 108 of Huespedes Sanchez. Somewhere down the hall a man was having a barf attack - one so violent and loud that I felt like I could reach over, pat his back and offer a toothbrush. Instead I rolled over and decided this was a sign to stay away from squid.
Sarah and I got on a train to Seville later that morning, hoping the weather would improve and that we would be able to find somewhere to stay for the night. As the train rode on through field after field of olive trees, the sun did come out and slowly the temperature rose to 20 degrees (70). Hot diggity.
We exited the train station and decided to go after the sites in Sevilla like a bargain shopper after a bluelight special. But first we needed to eat. I ignored the nauseating sign from that morning and had different fishes and fried squid, which so far has been doing quite well in my tummy.
Then we were off to the streets, giant, heavy backpacks on and maps in hand. We saw the Spanish Square, the bullfight arena, the monument to Christopher Columbus, various parks and important looking buildings. We also saw our shoulders being torn off our bodies from those enormous packs and decided a hostel was necessary to be found. Luckily, we came across one with rooms and strangely enough, an owner who could only speak Spanish and German.
After dropping off our stuff, we explored the Santa Cruz district, looking at shops and buildings as we passed. So far I would have to say that Seville is my favorite of Spanish cities that I have visited. It could be the great weather that ranks it so high, but the character and beauty also factor in.
Tomorrow our plans are to bus it to a town outside of Seville called Italica, which has Roman ruins, see the Alcazar, Macarena District (yes, thank you, I still can bust the moves to that tune), rent bicycles (and knee pads, motorcycle helmet and mouth guard for me) and check out some things via wheels and night train it back to Barcelona. It should be fun!

P.S. Apparently BackBlog's (the commenting service I use) server is down. Hopefully it will be up and running soon...

posted by Jordan @ 3:04 em

¡El Splendiferoso!
My hooves are bloody stumps right now. We explored Granada from 8:30am to 12:00am yesterday, seeing the Alhambra, some of the Moorish quarters, side streets, plazas, the Sierra Nevadas and more. We also saw from a distance what are apparently "cave people," who seriously live in caves in the side of a small mountain. I really wanted to rustle some out for some nice souvenir photos, but I couldn't find a stick that was long enough.
Whatever danger and adrenaline rushes we missed from not disturbing the cave people was made up ten-fold thanks to the bus driver who took us up the steep hill to La Alhambra. He floored it up streets that seemed only wide enough for a dwarf donkey and a cart, causing pedestrians to run and the numerous moped drivers to kick it into fourth. We barely squeezed by two older men who had run for the safety of a doorway, sucking their stomachs in to avoid the side view mirrors. That ride was so worth the 85 cents.
There happened to be some other Americans on that crazy bus route who are studying Arabic in Morocco right now. One guy was actuallz from Princeton, Minnesota where my family and I lived for almost ten years before Duluth (he even had the same kindergarten teacher as me!). Like a true Minnesotan he had some great stories. He said that there is an Arab in the city they are living in that really likes to converse with English speakers. He doesn't approach people with the customary "hellos" or "how are you doing?" though. Instead it always goes a little like this:
Arab: "Describe the hedgehog."
English Speaker: "It's a small, prickly animal."
A: "Where it live? What it eat?"
E: "It eats bugs..."
A: "Bugs? No! It eat snake! (wiggles his arm in snakelike motion) Write this down!"
He also likes to talk about snow plows, buttonholes and shovels. That was some funny stuff.

As for now, though, we are in Almuñécar, a city on the Costa del Sol. There is no sun on this coast, however. It feels like a monsoon has hit and Sarah's umbrella is now permanently inside-out.

Food update:
-Could not find the squid yet, but still searching
-Ate oxtail, mussel and a giant shrimp that was giving me the evil eye from my plate of arroz paella
-Found out that palm tree hearts are delicioso
-Bought a pastry for breakfast, thought it had jam in the middle; it took one bite to realize it was tuna fish
-Still do not plan on eating the Dutch raw herring, Bart

posted by Jordan @ 3:52 fm

Oh Barcelona
Did you know they have palm trees here? I was delightfully surprised - not only by the trees, but also by the interesting architecture, arroz paella, 68 degree weather and the man who was walking through the crowd, randomly snorting at people to make them scream. But we are leaving this Catalan metropolis tonight for the Andelusian city of Granada. We have heard that there they serve oxtail stew...

posted by Jordan @ 12:51 em

No quieres aceptar a Cristo? Pues, tambien soy vendedor de tuperware. **
We barely made it after missing a train, but we are now in Barcelona, Spain. A hoard of Scottish highschoolers saved us from cracking out the tourist books and led us to the metro. We are leaving soon in search of a good Spanish dinner (I´ve heard that the Catalan speciality is squid cooked in its own ink and I´m determined to give it a try) so hopefully we will run into another mob of Brits to help us find a good place.
Until the next time...

**Excellent Spanish phrase provided by Señor Kiehn

posted by Jordan @ 1:59 em

The Wonderous Nadine
I do have a roommate, her name is Nadine. She's been great to live with, we get along well.

I came close to blowing it once, though. I told her that she looks like she could be an elf from Lord of the Rings and she got miffed. Having long, very blonde hair is no curse, I told her - the elves are the pretty ones.

And they can shoot arrows like a mofo.

That Nadine, she's a studying machine. She spends a lot of time on her bed, covered in a dolphin duvet, working on physics, chemistry, informatik, math and technological English. Every once in a while I catch two blonde eyebrows peering over a heap of books at my side of the room. I pretend I don't see that frustrated stare and continue to read my book or write a long journal entry with scented gel pens, stickers and stars in the margins. I tell her that she's a Sally Super Student and hope that she'll never get the urge to throw one of those chemistry books at me. German textbooks could do some damage if launched.

She's got a cd player under her nightstand that she said I can use, but I only do when she's gone. Sometimes, when she comes home and its laser is still working the melodies of Daily Planet or Martin Sexton you can see her physically tighten up. I kick myself for not being able to make the mad dash to the stop button in time and bite my lip. It's weird given clearance to do something but managing to tread on that person's turf at the same time.

To make up for it, I become enthusiastic about her cd collection. She's got "Die Phantastische Pan," versions Red, Yellow and Green. Marshall Fields has it too. The playlist is quite impressive: "Unchained Melody," a Tori Braxton hit or two and maybe some from Dirty Dancing. They are all played with a pan flute.

Do you recognize that one, she asks? I think about it. She turns it up. I get the feeling I am in an elevator. She starts singing along. She doesn't sing words, only pan flute noises. Yep, I think I know that one..."The Power of Love," right?

There are times when the cd player is unplugged, I've written enough in my journal and she's finished with her chemistry protocal a little early. So we talk. I hear stories about how her grandma's nylons were discovered on the handle of their door by the UPS man; she tells me all about the first time she got contact lenses and how she involuntarily cried for two days; and we discuss what kind of flower is the best for a spring wedding. It's the tulip.

I wonder if ten years down the road I will be getting my annual Christmas card from Nadine Döbrich or if we'll be arranging for another visit from her. Maybe the ten months will end and she'll simply continue wearing down her pencil lead, this time without the burden of a less loaded down roomie to be envious of. No need to worry about that yet. It's only Friday, February 21.

The halfway point.

posted by Jordan @ 8:11 fm

Plans
The huge advantage to this particular study abroad program is the spring break. Europeans don't get just one week off to roadtrip it to the nearest sunny spot. Instead, they are graced with six. While many of the natives prefer to leave these 48 days absolutely blank on their calendars, I have quite the schedule penciled in:

22.02 Fly to Barcelona (100€), go to Granada, Algeciras, Jerez de la Frontera and Sevilla, try to get a tan
01.03 Go home to Jena
02.03 Make hundreds of flashcards and start studying for my Russian final like a madman
03.03 Memorize all information on every flashcard
04.03 Apply Bandaids to my paper cuts
05.03 Take final at 12:00 in Professor Runge's office
06.03 Wish my dad a happy birthday and write my Shakespeare paper
07.03 Decide that I hate Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice and think about burning my rough draft
08.03 Realize that I don't have a lighter, so I continue writing
09.03 Hopefully put the concluding paragraph on the sucker, wish Megan a happy birthday
10.03 Go to Celle, Germany to visit Brendan
11.03 Fly to Stockholm (15€), stay with Ingrid's family in Norrkoping, perhaps visit my roots in Skaare
17.03 Fly to London (8€), eat some St. Patty's fish and chips
Fly to Amsterdam (100€), visit Bart, avoid eating the raw herring
23.03 Take train to Frankfurt while wearing my new pair of wooden clogs
24.03 Meet my dad and brother, Jake, in the Frankfurt airport, bring them back to Jena and then travel with them in southern Germany
31.03 Escort Papa and Jake the Snake home, have tissue on hand
01.04 Wash mountain of laundry, sort through everything I accumulated and reminisce
02.04 Frolick in the hills of Jena
03.04 Work on scholarships and ad portfolio (that one was for you, Mom)
04.04 Wish Mary a happy birthday and throw a "Happy Anniversary of your 1982 Baptism Day" party for myself, serve a nice jello salad
05.04 Get schedule set for next semester, avoid 8:00 class like the plague
06.04 Do absolutely nothing and in the process make my roommate, whose break has been long over, envious
07.04 Attend the first day of summer semester class
08.04 Start anticipating the visits from the rest of you!

posted by Jordan @ 7:21 fm

Good Intentions
The weekend was rather eventless. It seems like almost every student that lives in the vicinity of Central Europe packs up a suitcase and heads home every weekend...and they don't take guests.
Johannes didn't go home, though. No matter that he lives in Frankfurt and that he is well over forty and that he is married to a wife that is probably sitting at home alone. Nope, those things didn't matter a bit. In that case, it's totally normal that he would make me "Texas Two Step" with him and try to buy me a beer and continually put his hand on my shoulder, wedding ring and all.
I am so, so, so, so sick of this.

Am I tired of "strange people"? Tired of the people who have pet squirrels, dress like Julio Iglesias and have kumquats in their fruit bowls? Not a bit. This world would stink without them. I would most definitely miss hearing their stories, enjoying their idiosyncrasies and talking with them; appreciating the fact that we have been made in the image of God, not of Kathie Lee Gifford. But I am tired of them getting the wrong idea. As far as I know, a display of kindness is never to be understood as "I want to have ten million of your babies." Never ever. I'm so, so sick of this.

posted by Jordan @ 8:04 fm

Happy Valentine's Day!
Remember passing out My Little Pony valentines, eating cheap sugar cookies with red sprinkles and box after box of those stinking conversation hearts? How about making your own little valentine mailbox out of an empty oatmeal container? Those were the days. What I would give to be back in Mrs. Kiloran's seemingly carefree 2nd grade class again.

posted by Jordan @ 5:05 fm

"Thank you for being a friend..."
If I have the right to yammer about Golden Girls during awkward silences, then I ought to know which one I most resemble. Perhaps I am Sophia, the snappy Sicilian granny. Could I be Rose, the native of St. Olaf? Or am I most like Blanche, that philly who can pull off teal blazers with three inches of shoulder pads?
Why make you decide. Lifetime TV is willing to deliver their most accurate and scientifically based testing to do it for you (www.lifetimetv.com/shows/golden/games/index.html).
I went to the link.
I toiled over the questions.
And like a cadet on their first day of boot camp, the calcuation process nearly broke me down - the suspense was killing me. But alas, the screen lit up with its results; results that only such an accurate profiling test could offer.

I am Dorothy.

Dorothy?!?! She was the She-Man with the Frank Gifford voice! Choosing Mister Burt Reynolds for one of the questions had something to do with this, no doubt. Despite being disappointed with the Dorothy label, I must say I am inspired by this fine quote that I have been left with: "I look like the mother of a solid gold dancer." True words, spoken by Dorothy Petrillo Zbornak Hollingsworth.

But enough about me...which one of these fine ladies are you?

posted by Jordan @ 8:56 fm

Spit It Out Already
Five minutes have passed and you've already covered the conversational basics:

How was your day?
What did you do last night?
How are your roomies?
Did you have class today?

Or to be used during finals:

How many tests do you have?
Are you nervous?
How was the test today?
Have you been studying quite a bit?
What are you doing during break?

Yet you are both going to be on this Strassenbahn for the next ten minutes. There is no bathroom to excuse yourself to. There is no third person to add some pizazz to the conversing and you've both already begun to pretend to be interested in the view out the window. The dangerous stage is already in the makings: The Awkward Silence. That's right, those blank, unwanted spaces, void of words but jam-packed with practically tangible tension.
Some people are graceful with them and make them almost seem like "appropriate pauses" - you know, like they're using the moment to conjure up a thought or emphasize a point. Others register the uncomfortable situation, nod a few times, bid their adieus and high-tail it out of there. But then there are other people, like me, who feel responsible for filling this audio void and fumble for some stray question such as, "Did you ever watch Golden Girls?" or a sputter out cliché fillers like, "Well, that's cool..." or "Good deal."
My attempts are seemingly calm. Superficial. Nonchalant. Yet at this point I've reached the place of no return. The social part of my brain, the part which seems to be functioning just fine in the other people on Tram #4, has gone to crappers. And while my mouth mechanically speaks the words, "What were the names of the ladies on Golden Girls?" there is but one message which has seized control of my thoughts and will not cease to circle: awkwardsilencessuck.iwishicouldthinkofsomethingtosay.whycan'tithinkofanythingtosay?awkwardsilencessuck.iwishicouldthinkofsomethingtosay.whycan'tithink...
I've hit a social wall - a wall that is so difficult to climb that even André the Giant couldn't have scaled it in his days of living primage. For the love of everything good, I can empathize with Harry in Dumb and Dumber when he says, "Are those your skis?...both of them?" Do I scoff at his feeble attempt at smalltalk? No - props to Harry for thinking of some good wordage to fill the audio waves!
However, awkward silences don't always indicate bankruptcy of the "First National Bank of How Do You Do." In those moments of conversation, when the quiet spots seem to pass unnoticed, you finally have something good in your hands. You have a person with whom you feel so comfortable talking to that the urge to jabber about Blanche, Dorothy and the rest of the Golden Girls gang has been wiped out with the rest of the phrases on the "Things to Say When I Have Nothing Else to Say" list and Hypercolor t-shirts (you can't find those anywhere these days).
I guess I will continue to suffer through the pauses in hopes of getting one more conversation closer to being, simply, friends.

posted by Jordan @ 9:07 fm

New Tenant
They say my heart is a piece of gold with channels made of steel,
But it's just wrapped in thin, metallic paper that crumbles as it peels.
Inside the shimmery outside sits stagnant, rotting slime;
My arteries are decaying; Ventricle 3 is out of time.
I've hidden this secret from them, but how long can I keep it from you?
Can I twist my ribs, fold my skin, somehow stash away this goo?

But your eyes burn through the cotton, past the flesh, straight to my heart.
You've known it from the beginning; you've known it from the start.
You witnessed the worms enter, bringing me down with that age-old attack.
And you saw the pink quickly fade into a sickly shade of black.

Yet you didn't leave me once; the ooze didn't scare you away.
Instead your eyes stayed steadily burning on my trophy of dismay.
The heat was finally unbearable; you had boiled down my pride.
You let me rip away the fences and give you all that was inside.
Immediately you were off to work, prompted by my desperate call.
You scraped away the rot, exterminated and patched up every wall.

Inside the renovation you made a home of your own;
Hung photos of the fam and activated a 24-7 phone.
Better Homes and Gardens couldn't have brought about better results -
The folks at BH&G know nothing about breaking down decrepit vaults.
Rather your refining power and sovereign reign was the key.
They solved mankind's puzzle and gave way to eternal liberty.

posted by Jordan @ 7:44 fm

Dumb
Wow. I think I may have a new "most embarrassing moment" now. Martha hosted a Valentine's party on Monday night where we played this gamed called, "Rippel Tippel." The way it works is each person gets a number and when your number is called you say something like, "Rippel Tippel 'Insert your number here,' ohne Tippel (without Tippel), ruft (calls) Rippel Tippel 'insert some other person's number here' mit drei Tippeln (with 3 Tippeln)." (Rippel Tippel are just nonsense words (kind of like ipple dipple).) But if you fumble your words or mess up the sentence somehow you receive a Tippel on your face. (For a while, the Tippeln came from the ash of a burning cork, but Joachin finally put an end to that as I was about to get branded.)
Anyhow, just as the pace of the Rippel Tippeling was getting a little faster and a little more intense, someone called my number. I tried to get the words out as fast as I could and in the process said, "Rippel Nippel 'Neun,' mit zwei Nippeln..." I was hoping that only the other English speakers there would recognize the extent of my faux pas, but, yeah, it seems that is the universal word for the anatomical feature. Great.
At least everyone had a good laugh.

posted by Jordan @ 7:56 fm

Warning
You know who is out there. You know who has been compared to a both an irate wolverine and my mom after nine o'clock.
Beware.

(See commentary under the Thursday, January 30 entry.)

posted by Jordan @ 8:10 fm

Check that guy out! No, not him...no, the one behind her...kind of by the doorway there...
So many times do our freshly developed photos contain candid shots of total strangers; people you didn’t mean to capture on your film; those who happened to be in the way of the viewfinder. Who are these people? Certainly we can’t judge them by those single haphazardly taken portraits in our photo albums. After all, first and exclusive impressions of these mystery people will almost inevitably lead to unfair and totally untrue profiling. If we could only know the real story behind these folks…
That one guy, the one who was bowling in the lane next to and your friends last December, has sleepy eyes and his mouth wide-opened. Maybe he was midway through a Terets attack, triggered by his latest gutter-ball. Perhaps he was ordering another beer. Or maybe he was telling his teammate, Dennis, good-going on that spare.
Or could it be that he was simply yawning because that sleepy groan is the only noise that he feels comfortable using his vocal cords for? Fact is, he is no extravert. It’s a struggle for him to the leave the house for Tuesday-night bowling league and at the end of the tenth frame he promptly returns to his familiar nest, made up of his pet cat and Readers’ Digest.
Then there’s the butt-shot of a lady from last Fourth of the July. The tag on her jeans clearly reads Tommy Hilfiger, but you can’t dismiss her as a well-off homemaker from Suburbia with a new PC Cruiser, a Marshall Field’s charge card and a subscription to Better Homes and Gardens.
In reality, she’s never owned a Mary Kay product and she has no idea what the word “cul-de-sac” means. In fact, she bought those jeans, a used coffeemaker and a 1987 Phil Colins cassette last week at a rummage sale and has been riding the bus to her job at the Miller Hill Car Wash every day for the last seven years now.
And who can forget that old man practically busting his gut laughing at something that didn’t make it into your 4” by 6” print? He must be the ideal grandpa, you think. His pockets always jingle with loose change, after a snowfall he always shovels his neighbor’s walk (even though they are forty years his younger) and each holiday his sweet grandkids are subject to relentless tickling and teasing from him.
Or so you think. You see, he’s not laughing at all. His little grandson, Nelson, the one who is not allowed to drink more than one sugary beverage a day and has just passed the tenth level of Super Mario for the 27th time, just accidentally cracked grandpa in the shins with an aluminum bat. That’s a yelp of pure pain and a release of a timeless curse-word you see.
It’s hard to judge what’s truly going on with these stray characters that get caught in our Kodak moments. But for the most part, it’s harmless to imagine what might be. However, we must not forget that somewhere out there, someone has retrieved a finished roll from their trip to Duluth, or Europe, or the Minnesota-North Dakota border and has noticed a very unphotogenic pose of one of us in the background. Of course it’s not long before they say things like, “Do you think she’s slow?” “Check out those chompers!” or simply, “Woof!”
It’s clear that when we blindly judge, we often don’t even scratch truth’s surface. (And I promise you, I'm not slow...)

posted by Jordan @ 7:54 fm