Travels with Mom

For Abba and Mom. Some of the best from our 700+ photos over our week-long travels in three countries and nine cities.

MADRID




























BARCELONA

































PARIS






































































MARRAKESH
(mom was really sick...)

RABAT





















FES



























































VEJER DE LA FRONTERA


Today, I'm off to London. Then Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, and Nuremberg.

Waltz with Bashir

watch it.

(trailer)

אניּ מתגעגעת לדבר ולשמוע עבריּת

A Jerusalem Moment

Had a funny even almost nostalgic moment today:

I was walking to class when I noticed a lone backpack on a bench outside of the school. I half expected it to explode while wondering where the bomb squad was.

35 Minutes

Taking the ferry between Tangier, Morocco and Tarifa, Spain is remarkably easy and fast. The trip between two continents and two worlds is only a 35 minute brisk ride across the Strait of Gibraltar and once on the other side, the other-other side remains a hazy outline in the horizon.

To travelers, it’s a godsend -a convenient way to hop across continents to explore a different culture in just over half an hour. In our high-speed/ ADD, internet dominated society, sitting in an air-conditioned luxury cabin including a decent cafeteria and duty-free shop and entertained by fragrance commercials of frolicking beauties for 35 minutes is an incredibly convenient and doable way to experience the exotic.

Many travel agencies in Spain offer weekend trips to Morocco. Most even offer day trips to Tangier. Spend the day in a Muslim country but sleep in the comforts and conveniences of a western one.

At the customs desks, my mom and I sailed through with our American passports.

At the ropes separating those leaving the country from those staying, (a.k.a. those with passports and those without), a middle-aged Moroccan man grimaced and brusquely swept away his tears, while his son looked away with bleary eyes, and his hijab-donning wife cried freely on him.

Another man, maybe his brother or a friend gently but firmly held the wife back while the man, with his Moroccan passport in his left hand placed his right hand on his wife’s shoulder as the deep creases in his too-young face tightened in a final bid adieu before stepping beyond the ropes.

Morocco is plagued by high unemployment (my professor likes to call it “serious hanging out”) and widespread poverty. Many Moroccans have college degrees but still beg on the streets. Every day in Spanish news, especially in Andalucia, you hear tragic stories of illegal Moroccan emigrants washing up on shore after drowning in the sea on precarious patera boats. It is not only extremely difficult to obtain a visa to work or study abroad, but it is also often difficult to even acquire a passport. The deck of our ferry had a direct view of the port where Moroccan youth spend all day every day smoking and watching port-traffic.













This scene is a common one in stories of the emigrant experience. It reminded me of my own father leaving us in Los Angeles since I was twelve years old to work in Seoul to support the family.

However, a fundamental difference is the intensity of our farewells. When my dad leaves, my brother and I barely roll out of bed to wish him a safe a trip and send him off to the airport with a gruff hug. My mom will accompany him, and we’ll crawl back into bed not worrying when we’ll see him next.

We know he’ll be back in a few months. We’ll e-mail or call every so often. It’s no big deal. It’s been more than seven years since this coming and going has gone on.

As I witnessed this scene at Tangier customs, I wondered when this man would ever see his family again. Perhaps this was his first time away from home? Perhaps this was the first time he was abroad? Or perhaps, he was going for a long time, and he didn’t know when he would be back.

When my dad leaves to Seoul, he is in a sense going back home. Though he is very much Americanized, Korea is still his birthplace and his homeland. He is going somewhere where there will be no language barriers and where he will find familiar food and faces. It’s still very hard to have our family separated, but at least he is somewhat at home.

It was a little bit strange to be on this ferry filled with Americans, Spaniards, French, and Germans-all tourists who mostly when they got on the boat didn’t take a second look back at Tangier and settled into plush chairs inside the air-conditioned cabin.

Then there were the Moroccans-mostly men and mostly young to middle-aged. Instead of walking into the cabin, most of them stood silently on the small deck smoking cigarettes and leaning over the rails as if their Moroccan blood was pulling them back to squint through the hot sun back at Tangier.















Before departing, a loudspeaker directed the passengers with safety precautions in English, French, and Spanish. When my mom went to buy an orange juice at the cafeteria, they assured her that they only took euros.

As we pulled away from the port, many tourists came out to the small deck to wave good-bye and take a few pictures as the tallest minaret faded into the distance. Some of the Moroccan men took out their camera phones and took pictures of themselves and the wide expanse of ocean behind them, but most of them just stood silently leaning over the rails for the 35 minutes until we reached Spain.

Carnaval, Picha!

(I meant to post this last night, but THOMSON, my wifi-privileged neighbor cut off.)

The week of Carnaval is wrapping up here in Cadiz.

Tonight is night seven, and there are still South American street vendors trilling their “lingua de gato” whistles at groups of costumed Gaditanos roaming from plaza to plaza. There are still warbling, bleary-eyed drunks on every corner. I’m still caught off guard when I wonder why that man behind the trash can is standing so closely and staring so intently at the wall.

There are still confetti and empty Cruzcampo beer bottles littering the narrow alleys left by the throngs of chirigotas fans. There are still nightly concerts of Andalucian flamenco wailing-at-the-top-of-my-lungs-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps that last until 3am.

The temporary buñuelo stands woo passerbyers with fresh fried donuts drenched in chocolate sauce, and the candy vendors bundle up under fluorescent colored lights and five euro hats and wigs waiting for the nocturnal sugar craving or the beer munchies. Men still frolic through the streets blowing their kazoos and flouncing their chirigota costumes; while the neon carnaval lights strung up in every street beckon night-long debauchery until dawn.

Carnaval in Cadiz is legendary. The city’s population swells up to more than double with Spaniards from nearby and not so nearby cities as well as with extranjeros ranging from Germans to Americans.

The city’s demographic also becomes conspicuously young as the elderly, seasoned Gaditanos take their seats along the busy pedestrian streets to judge this year’s selection of costumes on the fresh-faces of carnaval aficionados. Hippies and bums come from all over Spain to sleep on the beach and sell their hemp wares while admiring each others dreadlocks.

The first Saturday is the big day for costumes, when if you aren’t wearing a costume or some sort of ridiculous, colored wig, people will stare and wonder what the hell you were thinking. I was Michelangelo-you know, from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I was never a big fan, but I thought I’d give my brother a tribute. Regardless, I’ve seen costumes every day of this week. Carnaval-goers really take to heart, “go big or go home”.

Weekend number two, here we come!

One Month Down

I've been in Cadiz for just over a month now. I've had two weeks of university classes (this week is vacation for Carnaval-that post is next), and I feel very settled in my host family's home despite the inevitable moments of culture shock and the mutual gaps in understanding.

My host mother Rosa is a typical Andalusian woman; she's bien fuerte (loud, garrulous, likes to gesticulate a lot); she chain-smokes from the minutes she wakes up to the minute her head touches the pillow; she makes great desserts from just milk and a box of flan powder; she's liberal with the olive oil; she's opinionated; she laughs easily and extra-loudly before wheezing into a cough; she often shrugs her shoulders and looks at you in disbelief while saying "Hom-BRE, cla-RO!" in response to questions that shouldn't elicit such passionate responses; and of course, she's generous with her love.

(here's everyone preparing Carnaval costumes. Rosa's the one in the bright blue robe on the right holding that ubiquitous cigarette.)

My host sisters Rosita and Sonya speak in the manner of true Andalusians slurring their words and talking so fast I often wonder if I learned the right kind of Spanish.

That's three women, now four with me me, in the house, but there are more females living here. Two dogs that bark incessantly and wander into my room because they know I drop cereal on the floor when I reach for my midnight snack; a cat that snuggles in my pajamas after making its rounds of the bidet in the bathroom; and there's also some sort of gecko in the kitchen-it's so quiet I barely remember it exists, but I'm pretty sure it's female too.

My spoken Spanish has greatly improved, and I was just mentioning to a friend that I could probably dominate at the listening comprehension section of any Spanish test since the Gaditano tongue is the fastest kind of Spanish there is.

Example: There's a saying "No todos pueden ser de Cadiz." Meaning not everyone can be from Cadiz. But Gaditanos would say while gesturing wildly with their chins, "No to pue se de Cai." Where did half the syllables and consonants go?

I spend most of my days when not in class idling away the hours reading, running, taking long siestas, sitting at the beach, and wondering what I'm doing with my life here. At night, I've taken to watching Korean dramas on mysoju.com, which has helped improve my Korean a lot, but it's also made me extra-dramatic and wistful.

I intended on taking advantage of Cadiz's southern tip proximity to Morocco by focusing on the Islamic influence and the history of al-Andalus, but it seems that Cadiz is not really the right place for it. I'm a little disappointed and unsure of how to organize my feelings and goals right now.

It's like I'm coming down from the most focused high in Jerusalem to this idyllic paradise where my days pass in a slow haze of listlessness.

These days have been so undemanding. What do I have to complain about?

My routine is a little skewed. I sleep at 2am or 3am because my neighbor's wifi internet connection kicks in around midnight, so I'm drawn in by e-mail, perezhilton.com, the paper, facebook, skype, everything.

I wake up whenever I very well please, which is usually around noon. Hear me out before you judge me, please. Although last semester I slept in an actual bomb shelter, it is here in Spain that I actually feel like I sleep in a bomb shelter. Or a bat cave. No windows in my room, so it could be 5am or 3pm for all I know.

Anyway, it's not only my week off; the whole city gets this week off to revel in Carnaval delights. Even if I don't deserve it, the rest of the city deserves a break.

My mom is coming to visit next week, and I'm giving her a whirlwind tour of Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, Marrakech, Rabat, Fes, and Tangier before finally introducing her to Cadiz. She sent me to all these places before, and the least I can do is bring her to them so she can enjoy them too.

I'm so excited to get out and travel again, but I'm more excited because maybe this will be the motivation and inspiration I've been so lacking.

Back From Hiatus

Both having spent our college years in Boston, a conversation that often comes up between my cousin and me when I'm back home is how the weather in Los Angeles is almost too perfect.

Granted, I'm usually only back during the summer when L.A. is glimmering at its best.

Before any of you stuck in snow or bitter New England winds wonders why I don't shut up and stop complaining about good weather, hear me out.

Weather in Los Angeles is fantastic. Winters are chilly, but I've never had to whip out more than the occasional scarf, which I would wear more for fashion than for warmth. Earmuffs, gloves, Northface armor coats-all unnecessary. Plus, we've got those Santa Ana's.

Warm springs beckon hot summers, and the occasional shower ensures some green in the concrete mess of freeways. Summers are hot and dry, yes; and in the Valley, it's almost unbearable. But the days are tempered by the proximity of the beach, and the balmy nights make up for the scalding heat.

And autumn, my favorite season anywhere; fall in L.A. is marked by warm, windy days. Sure, we Angelinos don't get to enjoy the passing of time with rainbow foliage, but we also don't have to start dreading the cold either.

Los Angeles glows with sunshine.

But sometimes, all that sunshine seems to mock you when you're having a bad day. I like that Boston weather can reflect my feelings; torrential rains and howling wind when I'm pissed, and gloomy gray skies with the occasional flurry when I'm sad.

This year, I'm spared the New England winter, that bitter cold that every year makes me grumble how any human or living life form can survive in weather like it. It's the weather in which I have to remind myself "left, right, left, right..." while I walk to and from class as I bend my head forward against harsh gusts of wind.

This year, I missed the colorful leaves, but I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to trudge around in my Uggs, simultaneously wear three pairs of pants, or have to write a postage note on my window to remind myself that sunshine does not equal heat.

Instead, I spent last semester in Jerusalem where the weather was much like an extended summer for me until one day, in mid-December, someone somewhere must have snapped, and it just got cold.

This semester, I'm in the Costa de la Luz, in Cadiz, the city that boasts something like 350 days of sunshine. Luckily, it seems I've arrived during those 15 days without sunshine.

It's been about a week and a half since we've arrived in Cadiz and about two and a half weeks in Spain. I've written since three posts, two of which are not about Cadiz. Already, I spent a weekend away.

I remember writing towards the end of last semester on my reflections of culture shock. In that post, I wrote that I would probably initially feel unhappy in Cadiz just like I initially didn't like Jerusalem. In it, I wrote that I would remind myself to reread those posts and take it in stride.

But the difference is that even when I was unhappy in Jerusalem, I still had so much to write about and think about and talk about. I'm not unhappy here in Cadiz, but I'm bored. Apathy to me is far worse than extreme emotion whether it be hate or love. Life in Jerusalem was never easy, but it was always interesting.

How can I describe my feelings right now? I don't know if I can quite decipher them myself let alone articulate them in writing. I'm overwhelmed.

Cadiz is an incredibly underwhelming city. It was once a thriving port city, visited and inhabited by all kinds of historic folks, but these days, it's a sleepy beach town that's infamous for its February Carnaval debauchery. It's a mark on the map for a lovely day trip or a week-long siesta spent lounging and drinking on the beach at sunset.

Everything about Jerusalem was so extreme; when talking on the phone with my mom, I would often tell her that it was the hardest time I'd ever had being abroad. It was probably the best too. Life in Jerusalem was a semester of extreme highs and lows. I was never at peace; I was never idle. I don't think that anyone can completely understand Jerusalem or the conflict without living daily with the subtle yet omnipresent tensions surrounding and permeating every mentality, every simple decision made.

Cadiz is pleasant, and it is slow. Not only are faces becoming familiar, but the dogs are too. Problems are solved with a brusque "No te pasa nada", or as the Andalucians say, "No te pa na". And the closest thing to rioting would be the ensuing celebrations if Cadiz ever won a football match. The biggest news stories come from outside of Cadiz, which is quite a change from living under the global spotlight.

I brought up the weather because I can't adequately compare Jerusalem and Cadiz in terms of experience. There is no comparison-there is no better. Instead, let me compare the weather and point out the irony.

Jerusalem's weather was gorgeous. It was sunny. It was ideal. Yet, Jerusalem itself was not a happy city. Cadiz, on the other hand, is light and stress-free. Yet, the rain and the ocean winds have been relentless, and the sea boils and tosses angrily.

I get travel warnings that still come to me from the Hebrew University prohibiting students' travel to the Sinai Peninsula. I laugh as I reminisce about that bumpy midnight drive across the Sinai looking up out the window in the backseat wondering what Nicole was thinking, while now, I'm stuck under house arrest in Cadiz because of a hurricane warning.



"You have to be inspired to have passion." -TJ

I'm sorry I haven't been writing or updating. It was/is (reverse) culture shock. It was abrupt change. It was premature, unjust disappointment spawned from incomparable and irrelevant situations.

I needed to remember that inspiration can't always come easy. I need to rediscover my passion by finding inspiration in other places.

No more solitary brooding and futile nostalgia.


Not so quiet anymore, huh?

Banksy in Palestine

I was inspired by Eleri's "Banksy" post. :)

Banksy around the world, and here, Banksy in Palestine:

His most famous one there:

Weekend Excursion to London

I love that this is possible.

Spent the weekend in London visiting friends and just barely missed the snow. I was surprised by London. I'd never been interested in visiting, but it's really such a cool place, and I never even got to see a tenth of it. Such diversity and such style. It was a nice change from the homogeneity of small town Cadiz.

I visited some of the big sites: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Paddington Station, the London Eye, Parliament and even walked through a demonstration for the Tamils.



I ate some wonderful (and cheap) Pakistani food at Tayyab's and top-notch dim sum at Pearl Liang's for if you're ever in the London area.

It seems these days I'm not feeling very loquacious.

¡Bienvenidos a Cádiz!

It's been a while since I've updated.

In the past few weeks, I returned home for about a week to sunny Los Angeles and then hopped on another flight to Madrid. Now I've finally arrived in Cadiz.

In Madrid, I saw a lot of graffitti on the walls with drawings of tanks and "Israel asesina", and a lot of the girls here sport colorful keffiyehs though more for fashion than for any political statement, I think.

To be quite honest, I don't have very much to update on. Cadiz is just as small and lovely as I remember despite the unseasonal squally weather. The roads are narrow and cobblestoned with winding alleys that lead into hidden plazas warbling with bubbling fountains and gnarled tree roots jutting up from ancient mosaic tile floors.

It's just been such a strange and abrupt transition from Jerusalem (almost like a reverse culture shock with a more familiar yet different culture), and I think I need more time to settle and resolve my experiences from there before I can embark on any here.

It's still surreal.

August 9, 2008
-"Every time I walk to Hebrew class and survey the view overlooking Jerusalem, the golden dome on the Dome of the Rock winks from the distance. Yet, I still feel as though I’m looking through a screen, and the whole experience is just surreal."

Finally made it to the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa today.

















Look at how excited I was-I subconsciously even dressed in the same colors!

















And I still can't stop smiling.


I know I haven't updated in a while..my heart just hasn't been up to it.