(I was hoping to get this out by Saturday, but then you eat one bad thing and you’re out for a weekend. Anyway, I’m back now, if you haven’t read my last blog on Amsterdam, start there) We got into Bruges late Thursday evening and even at night, I could tell that it was a picturesque city and I was pumped to spend the following day there. Our hostel was apparently the hippest bar in town so after checking in, Hildie and I went down so that I could have a birthday beer. I drank a dark Belgian to commence my 23rd year and the fact that my next 48 hours would include tasting as much Belgian beer as possible. The next day, our itinerary included the Bruges Belfry, the french fry museum, the chocolate museum, seeing Christ’s blood, the Bruges beguinage, some beer for me, and wandering around the city to enjoy the architecture. We had until 5pm when our train left for Brussels to do it. I was excited for the Belfry because of the movie In Bruges (highly recommend) and it did not disappoint. There are over 300 stairs to get to the top and they are not wide. You can stop in rooms along the way to read about some of the history, which was a welcome relief from the steep stairs. The view from the top was stunning. It had been hailing and sleeting when we woke up, so half the sky was an ominous grey while the other half was a beautiful light blue. Almost immediately upon arrival at the top, the bell started clanging its hourly song. It was a really loud twenty seconds, but cool nonetheless. There wasn’t much to do besides see the sights and take some pictures, so we quickly descended. Now, a word of caution. I have some guidebooks that have not disappointed me in my travels. However, there hadn’t been too much in my guidebook about Bruges, so I took it upon myself to google somethings to do while there. Don’t do this. Or, if you do, carefully read the reviews. Besides the Belfry and seeing Christ’s blood (there is a vile in Bruges that is believed to contain a cloth stained with Jesus’ blood), the next two most visited spots seemed to be the french fry museum and the chocolate museum. Both seemed great to me as those are two of my favorite foods and I’d been told you got free fries at the end of your fry tour and free chocolate during the chocolate tour. I’d convinced my friends to go with me and off we went. When we arrived at the french fry museum, we found out we could get a discount if we purchased both our chocolate museum ticket and fry ticket together, and excitedly we went inside. I cannot begin to tell you what a strange experience it was. First of all, our “guide” was this little cartoon picture of a french fry and sometimes a potato that was plastered all over the walls with its hands pointing where to go next. The “museum” portion was a lot of strange, vaguely racist statues of people from Latin America picking potatoes throughout history. Information-wise, entire walls were covered in writing that you had to read if you wanted to learn anything. Each section had multiple languages, but the weird part was that it wasn’t always the same languages. There was always English, always Flemish, usually German, usually Spanish, but sometimes there were additional languages as well. The best part was that they clearly hadn’t had a native English speaker read the translations, so some of the translations were hilariously bad. We all had a hard time not laughing through the whole thing. The layout was also absolutely nonsensical, which is why I guess we needed the cartoon pictures on the walls. After going up a level to finish the tour, we had to go down to the basement of the museum where the fries were. We had been smelling the whole time so it didn’t matter that we didn’t get them for free (though we did get a discount), we were all ready to try some true Belgian fries! I was also stoked because they had pickles on their menu and I’ve been craving pickles since arriving to Spain (I look every time I go to the grocery store, but have had no luck). I ordered my fries and pickles and eagerly awaited their arrival. Finally my buzzer buzzed signaling that my salty, fried potatoes were ready and I jumped up to get them. The first thing I noticed was that my “pickles” came in a plastic container and looked like snot. Not promising. I took a taste and immediately regretted it. Alas, I figured my fries would improve the situation and took a bite. I kid you not when I say they were probably the worst fries I’ve ever had in my life. And I’ve had some really bad fries. We turned our disappointment into a good laugh about how bad everything was, finished our gross fries, and began our walk to the chocolate museum. The chocolate museum started out more promisingly as we were handed a bar of chocolate when we walked in the door. There was also free chocolate at the welcome desk, so we snagged some of that too. Our hopes spiraled downwards as we were handed a sheet with instructions of how to do the museum [see photos at the end of this] and we saw that again our tour guide would be a cartoon picture of a — wait — what is that?? I’ve included a picture, you all can take a guess. Again through the multi-level, confusing, far too much text (with bad translations) we trod. There was free chocolate on every level though, so that helped make up for the lackluster museum. The tour ended with a demonstration of how to make Belgian pralines, which was cool, but still. We walked out again stifling our laughter until we could get onto the street and truly laugh at how bad it was. My bad, friends, I promise next time I’ll read the reviews. There was a Christmas market in the main square and we decided we’d check that out before finding something to eat, seeing the Christ’s blood, and enjoying the scenic city. Once to the market, however, I had to remind myself that I was in Belgium and not in Spain. The Catalonian flag was everywhere. People were holding it up to wave in the wind, wearing it as capes, on bags, on pins, anywhere and everywhere. It made me a little nervous because a couple minutes after we arrived they started chanting things I could only half understand (because it was in Catalan not Spanish) about independence. I couldn’t tell if they were angry or happy and I didn’t want to mess with anything, so my friends and I quickly left to find the church with Christ’s blood, conveniently called Basilica of the Holy Blood. Unfortunately, the church was closed until two. We were able to talk to some Catalonians about why they were there and demonstrating after they asked us to take a picture for them. We got the basic facts: their President is hiding in Belgium and they want him to go free and then we got an impassioned speech about how they just wanted a better life for themselves and their families, apart from Spain. It was hard to disagree with their pleading eyes and sincere worries for the world. There was a girl about 16-years-old in the family and it was her huge nods of agreement that probably got me most. This is the world she’s growing up in, this is she wants for the future, and she believes in it whole-heartedly. It’s a story about Catalan diametrically opposed to the one I’ve been hearing in Logroño. After that interesting aside, we wandered the city enjoying some architecture and found food before going back to see the Christ’s blood. I was curious what all the hullabaloo was about as we lined up with signs everywhere to take off your hat, to be quiet, and to not take any photos. The church itself was stunning, huge stained glass windows and the sun managed to pierce through the clouds and hit the stained glass right as we walked inside. We waited as people walked up to the pulpit-y thing, looked down at something, and then walked off. We it was our turn we walked up together, and to be honest, I had to make myself not cringe. It looked gross. Curdled and strange. But I have a hard time believing it’s actually Jesus’ blood, so I felt like I was looking at old sheeps blood or something. From there, we grabbed our luggage, I tried a couple more Belgian beers, and we walked through the Beguinage. A Beguinage historically was a place for women who wanted to give their life to God without taking vows or being totally separated from society. In Bruges, it’s now a convent. It’s a stunning area with beautiful brick houses surrounding a garden that reminded me a little bit of Scripps College. From there, we hopped on our train to Brussels, where we’d be staying the remainder of our trip. So next time you’re in Bruges, go see the Beguinage and Belfry, but skip the french fry and the chocolate museums. We arrived in Brussels and calculated that it would take 29 minutes to go by public transportation to our hostel and 30 minutes to walk. We opted to save money and walk, but pretty quickly regretted that decision when we realized that the entirety of Brussels (or at least the thirty minutes to our hostel) was totally under construction. We had to go across roads and the huge canal and various train tracks, but eventually we arrived without any harm done. Though it was early, we were all tired so I tabled plans with a friend who lived nearby, we ate dinner, got a beer at Delirium Café (which was interesting but overwhelming) and we all went to bed. For our Saturday in Brussels, we wanted to see all of the classic touristy things and we planned to end our night with the aforementioned friend in her nearby city. To be completely honest, I was underwhelmed by Brussels as a city. I don’t know if it was because Amsterdam was so magical or because I was at the end of a long week of travel, but the city of Brussels itself didn’t do much for me. The coolest thing about the city was a surprise found inside its cathedral. We walked in just to see what it was like inside, but were excited to find that different groups within the Brussels community had created different nativity scenes. There were ones from the Spanish community, the Japanese community, the Russian community etc. And they all had unique and interesting takes on nativity scenes. My favorite was the Chinese nativity scene which was just simple lines on a white sheet. The strokes were clean and you knew exactly what it was without all of the clutter. Plus a lot of the other baby Jesuses were MASSIVELY oversized, which just made me feel bad for Mary. The peeing boy statue that attracts tourists was smaller than I was imagining and I wasn’t sure why it was so popular, but alas. If you’re there though, be sure to check out the peeing girl and the peeing dog as well. Those are a little less known and I think a little cooler. By far, the best part of Brussels was the waffle I had. Fluffy and sweet and covered in chocolate, there was nothing more I could’ve wanted. I genuinely don’t remember the period of time that I was eating the waffle because I was consumed in euphoric joy. For the afternoon, I went to a bar recommended by my brother and his friend. My friends don’t like beer, but it was cold so we were content to play Pocket Farkle and Spades while I tried as many beers as our time frame (and my size) allowed. My gosh, they were some of the best beers I’ve ever had. I love sours, so I thought I wouldn’t fall in love with Belgian beers, as most Belgians I’d had have a specific flavor profile. After my time at Moeder Lambic, I’m officially sold. Wow that beer was good. Finally, for our last night abroad, we made our way to my friend’s town of Leuven. Quick background story: for my sophomore year of high school I’d just moved to Santa Barbara and as happens when you move in the middle of high school, I sometimes had a hard time adjusting/making friends/feeling included, all of that. And one day I was trying not to cry (read: crying) at my locker while changing for cross country and the Belgian girl who’s locker bordered mine took pity on me and asked me about my shoes, calling my large moon-boot typed shoes (shout out to Hoka One One!) “hoovercrafts”. And no, I didn’t spell that wrong. Anyway, long story short, she made me laugh and stayed my friend throughout the year she spent in Santa Barbara and when she saw I’d be in Spain, she made the mistake (hehe) of telling me to tell her if I ever traveled to Belgium. At the time, I hadn’t thought I would make it to Belgium, but when she wished me a happy birthday I sent her a message telling her I was on my way to Belgium, and flash forward two days, there we were, meeting up in her fairytale city adjacent to Brussels. We ate the Belgian version of Chipotle, then she took us around the Christmas market, to Leuven’s enchanting Beguinage, and to a couple bars so I could finish up my beer tour of Belgium. The next day we woke up to big snow flurries, which was beautiful for looking at, but not great for traipsing through for food and then to the airport. We prayed our flight wouldn’t be delayed and then prayed we would make our flight when we were huddled into a mass of people with no specific line in the Charleroi airport trying to get through security. We did make our flight and then our bus back to Logroño, and by 3am on Monday, I was tucked in my own bed ready for my full week of work. And that, dear readers (or reader, at least, because I’m counting on Jewel to still be reading), was my puente. Photos to come and some more blogs on their way – even if “on their way” means after Christmas break. Congrats fellow Spain-Fulbrighters, we’ve almost made it through our first term!
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Note: My long weekend travels were packed full of adventures and I’m including them despite them not all being the adventurous or humorous stories I usually try to write. I’ve also divided this blog into two (or three?) parts because otherwise it’s already too long.
Part 1: Amsterdam. First things first, in Spain, a long weekend is called a “puente” (which literally means “bridge”) When I saw we had a Puente over December 6th, 7th, and 8th, I was stoked because that meant I had five days over my very own birthday to travel. On the top of my outside-of-Spain list in Europe was Amsterdam (stop snickering, it’s mainly due to reading and loving The Fault in Our Stars [As I blog I’m realizing a lot of my travel goals are due to fictional stories and songs, but I digress]). Eventually my friends and I decided we may as well tack on Bruges (also on my list because of a movie) and Brussels, both which are both easily reached by train. Luckily we were able to leave Tuesday the 5th and make up our hours at school a different day. So there I sat at 1:40am, Tuesday December 5th in the Barcelona airport, after leaving Logroño at 5:55pm the day before. We had arrived to the Barcelona-Sants train station and gone in to eat and to catch our train to the airport. At the McDonald’s, we grabbed our greasy brown bags and went off to our own corner of the restaurant whereeeee we were promptly kicked out. Okay, we thought, McDonald’s is closing, we’ll go grab our train to the airport. Well, as it turns out, it was not just the McDonald’s that was closing, but the entire train station. I really don’t understand how a huge metropolitan train station in the second biggest city in Spain can just shut down. However, Spain doesn’t care, so we were waved outside to regroup and finish our McDonald’s and then search for a bus that would get us there. Luckily, we had 7 hours to make our flight and getting a bus was very easy. And in the freezing Barcelona airport I sat realizing that in 12 hours on almost no sleep I was supposed to be at the Anne Frank House and on my way to Heineken. Such is traveling when you’re 22 (now 23), right? We were all pretty tired open arrival in Amsterdam. However, as soon as we made it to Central Station in Amsterdam, I was mesmerized. Though traveling in the winter has its downsides (keep reading for tales of winter weather), it does mean that you get all of the stunning Christmas lights. Such was true in the Amsterdam train station, where small golden Christmas lights cascaded down the walls. I couldn’t stop smiling as we stepped outside and I breathed the air of a new country. We’d done research before we went and knew there was a breakfast place with good reviews called Omelegg. Spain doesn’t have a ton of breakfast places so we were really excited to eat some good breakfast food. While we walked there I realized that I’ve never seen a “classic” European town. I’d been in Spain – which is different – Portugal, which is tropical, and then as one of my professors described the location of a conference I went to, “the armpit of Germany and Poland.” I was in awe of the brick buildings with the décor and the narrow, cobblestone streets of Amsterdam. Everything was incredible. The breakfast place was warm and tiny and delicious. I had a mouth-wateringly good goat cheese, spinach, broccoli omelet. After eating, we made our way to the Christian hostel on the border of the Red-Light district that we’d booked a month or so before due to it’s lower price. Inside the walls were covered in sayings like “God loves you”. It felt somewhat homey considering I’ve spent a lot of time in places with similar decorations. We checked in, put our bags in the secure luggage room, and then set off into the cold Amsterdam day to explore a bit. After trying stroopwaffle and wandering through a market on a canal, it was finally time for us to get into our room. We dumped our stuff and Hildie and I headed out to make our time at the Anne Frank House. The Anne Frank House is almost indescribable. It should be a requirement to visit if you’re in Amsterdam, honestly. I think it does a perfect job of sharing history and making sure you know that it is STILL your job to make sure nothing like the holocaust ever happens again. I think it was particularly poignant for me to go right now in the midst of this political upheaval where the need to protect the vulnerable is even more present. It was a sobering reminder of how just a few people have to go along with the herd before it turns into a stampede (and how just a few people can make a significant difference as well). But you’ll have to go yourself to really experience it. We’d planned to go to the Heineken Experience directly after the Anne Frank House per suggestion of a good friend of mine who warned if we didn’t do something right after, we’d be down for the rest of the week. The Heineken Experience was fine, at the risk of sounding like a pretentious beer snob of a millennial, I’m used to craft breweries (and craft brewery tours) so the giant corporate experience really was a unique feeling. I liked the history, but it was a little too put together for me. During the tour, we were allowed to try any of the ingredients (except the yeast). The guide had made a big show of saying we *could* try the hops but to warn him if we did because he wanted to see our faces etc. Obviously, I immediately wanted to try them. I wasn’t sure whether they would be unbearably bitter, but whatever, I felt as if I’d been challenged. I put them in my mouth ready to be shocked, but the hops were nowhere near as bitter as I was anticipating and the guide quickly tried to retract what he’d said (“I really just try to play it up, they’re not that bad”) which kind of bummed me out, but alas.The tour finished in what I can only equate to a frat party and because we were exhausted from our day and a half of travel, we left pretty quickly to find food and get to bed. After a delicious pasta meal, I was in bed by 8:50. I woke up the next morning at 8:30 (12 hours of sleep!!!) and could still barely drag my butt out of bed. I pulled myself together for the free hostel breakfast, but told my friends to go on their Rick Steves walking tour without me because I could not function yet. I slept for another 3 hours and woke up to meet them for Dutch pancakes. And my gosh, DUTCH PANCAKES. I could eat those for the rest of my life. Those of you who know me know that I am not exactly known for eating a ton of food, but let me tell you, I ate more in the three days in Amsterdam than I’ve eaten in the rest of the days in December. I finished an entire pancake (and they are not small) and then split a second one with Hildie. After the pancakes, we went to the Van Gogh Museum. I have not been particularly sold on museums (just wait until you hear about Bruges), but boy oh boy is the Van Gogh museum worth it. It told the story of his life and included works of his influences, his friends, and ended with people inspired by him. I’ve always liked Van Gogh for his use of color, but standing in front of his actual work was remarkable. Post-Van Gogh museum we walked around the Vondelpark and I sought out some spots from The Fault in Our Stars (Peter Van Houten’s house anyone?) and made our way to a recommended dinner spot (person: “It’s like… what do you call it? With McDonalds and Burger King” me: “A food court?” Person: “Yes, it’s like that but not, excuse my language, sh*tty food”). There were tons of food options, all of which looked delicious. I chose a pulled pork sandwich and couldn’t have been happier. There was a market attached that was all goods made by local artists and craftspeople and included such gems as naked-except-a-Santa-hat cartoon Donald Trump wrapping paper and local coriander/white tea beer. By the time we’d enjoyed perusing the Amsterdam market, it was dark enough that we figured we could walk around the Red-Light district in its full-ish effect. It was very strange for me. I could probably write a whole blog about how it felt to see all of these women in windows, seemingly trapped in rooms that looked like gross high school bathrooms, and surrounded by eerie neon lights. Every description I’ve heard of the Red-Light district has been perfectly accurate, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being there. I was kind of sickened by it to be honest, especially when we were almost back to our hostel and we watched a man coming out of one, thanking the woman and telling her to have a good night. It was all so surreal and strange. It’s not about the women, I know that it’s an honest livelihood and that having things legalized makes it way safer, but it just made me so sad. Alas, we were pretty tired from our day, so we got into our hostel for another early evening (though more like 10 or 11 instead of 8). The next morning, I woke up ready to go at a more reasonable hour and thought to myself “I’m 23!” before reminding myself that I was not technically 23 until the evening in Amsterdam time, but nonetheless, it was my birthday and I was getting to spend it in a place I’d dreamt of going for years. The hostel breakfast that morning was French toast, a delicious start to my day. We had to check out of our hostel, but were allowed to leave our stuff in the luggage room, so we did so before hurrying our way to our canal tour. The canal tour was interesting, I liked seeing the city from below and we were able to learn some interesting history about the city. It still blows my mind that the city is literally built on piles. After the canal tour, we stopped by The Fault in Our Stars bench and the “I AMSTERDAM” sign so that we could be as touristy as possible on our way to lunch. I’d found a brunch placed called “The Breakfast Club” during some google searching and before I’d read the reviews, I’d known I would have to eat there. I told my friends they did not have to come with me, but they did read the reviews and it checked out, so we all leaned against the frigid Amsterdam sleet and freezing wind and trudged to our destination. I was in love as soon as I saw it. 80s graphic shape décor on the windows, 80s music, a poster of The Breakfast Club on the wall, and teal and purple cushions for the stacked benches we could sit on to eat. The food (and lattes) were also delicious. Because I had wifi, I was able to FaceTime my parents and Gus. After our lunch, we’d decided to do a Rick Steves tour of the Jordaan district, because a) it was supposed to be cute b) we had time and no official plans and c) it’s close to my name. We made it about halfway through the tour before deciding it was wayyyy too freezing to enjoy any of it and seeking refuge in a café at the top of a huge building. That way we could get a view of the rain soaked city while enjoying warm hot coco. We stayed there pretty much as long as possible, playing a question game Hildie had downloaded onto her phone. Eventually we knew we needed to pick up our bags from our hostel and sit down to the casual, but well-reviewed Italian place we’d chosen for our pre-train dinner. Despite the cold and sleet, we got our bags without issue and hustled to the restaurant. We walked in and quickly felt out of place. “Casual” was not the word I would have used to describe it. Our misplaced feeling only intensified when the woman at the bar asked, “do you have a reservation?” We did not have a reservation, so she surveyed her folder and told us she thought she could fit us in. Wide eyed, we followed her to the back where a huge round table sat waiting for us, chandelier, candles, and all. The food was impeccable. We’d chosen it in part because it had a gluten free menu for Hildie, and she even said it was some of the best gluten free pasta she’d ever had. For my part, I loved my homemade lasagna. We were offered the dessert menu and I said, “why not it’s my birthday” and our waitress responded, “oh well then you have to get dessert!” And I vaguely hoped that meant I wouldn’t have to pay for it (turns out free desserts on your birthday are an American thing). Still, the chocolate ice cream I ordered was incredible and it was my birthday after all. We ran from dinner to the train station, boarded our train for Bruges, and settled in for rest and reflection (despite the loud Spanish group a couple seats ahead). The train ride was nice, and I considered for the millionth time this trip and billionth time since arriving to Spain how lucky I was to be there. Grocery shopping in Spain is always an experience, and not the Whole Foods kind. My adventures with grocery shopping in Spain started the very day of my arrival. I got to Logroño and wanted food, but knew I wouldn’t be able to handle a restaurant where there would almost definitely be families eating and friends enjoying each other’s company, plus I was exhausted and mainly wanted applesauce and orange juice. “That should be simple enough” I said to myself as I walked out of my airbnb into the chilly September evening. I walked for blocks and blocks and only encountered one thing that looked vaguely like a grocery store and it seemed like it was under construction, plus there were security guards outside, so I decided it must not be one (later I found out it is, in fact, a grocery store). Eventually I turned around and came back down the way I came, but on the opposite side of the street and eventually I came upon a fruit vendor. I decided that was fine, grabbed two apples with my bare hands (GASP! This is a big faux pas here, but I didn’t know that at the time), paid the kind owner who smiled genuinely and overlooked my foreign mistake, and went back to the airbnb.
The Fruit Faux Pas: Anywhere, fruit specific or not, you need to put on plastic gloves, pick out your fruit/veggies, put them in another plastic bag, and then bring them to a weigh station (come to think of it, is that why they charge you for plastic bags here? They have to make up for the absurd amount of plastic wasting on people picking out fruits and vegetables?). At the weigh station you realize you forgot to check the number(s) of the item(s) you’re purchasing and you race back to the various fruit and vegetable bins, making note of their numbers, then scurry back to a weigh station, where surely enough another, more confident Spaniard, is weighing their entire weeks worth of fruits and veggies, so you wait until they are done, place your first bag of fruits on the weigh station, confidently press the numbers for your selection, let the machine print a sticky tag with the price, but don’t see it so you press the same button again and this time realize your mistake, and then move on to your next bag, which you do properly. At the end of your shopping excursion, you’ll bring those bags to the cashier where they’ll scan them like anything else, having already been weighed. In the months since I’ve arrived to Spain, some of the grocery stores have begun moving away from this process, and are just weighing the items at the cashier, so maybe that will continue to be a trend. As with most things these days, we shall see. The day after my arrival in Spain, I searched on GoogleMaps for grocery stores and found one a little further than I had gone the night before. I set out, hopping this would work for me. When I got the the grocery store, it looked almost sketchy to me. I hadn’t learned yet that it’s typical of Spanish stores (at least in Logroño) to have a small entrance and then are big inside. I walked in and did what my mom does, which is walk through each aisle to get a sense of how everything is set up. I was still utterly confused. As soon as I’d begun categorizing “okay, dairy is here” etc. I would find another dairy section elsewhere. And there are thing I knew but don’t feel real until you’re actually there, like the fact that eggs aren’t refrigerated. Anyway, I searched high and low for orange juice and applesauce and eventually (in the third section of juice I stumbled upon in this tiny grocery store) found Sunny D and although I hadn’t had that since I was a child, I went for it. There was applesauce in the dessert section and the baby section, so I took it from the baby section and went to checkout. Checkout proceeded as normal, I told the woman I didn’t want a bag and headed back to the airbnb, clutching my precious goods. I assumed my struggle was just because I was new in Spain. But no. Since my first days in Logroño, I have visited nearly every grocery store in my general vicinity. I have ones I prefer, but at the end of the day, they’re all confusing for me. I still almost always have to go down every aisle of each store because I cannot grasp how things are organized and I’m pretty sure they keep changing them up, but I can’t say that for sure because I don’t know where anything is anyway. I feel fairly confident that Spain does have a system of organization that works for grocery stores, though that confidence has only diminished since my first days here. I cannot for the life of me figure out why grocery stores are organized the way they are and why each chain organizes theirs in a different way. For instance, remember that part earlier about perpetually finding new sections of the same stuff? Yup, it’s like that in every grocery store. And I feel like I have to check each of them, because sometimes the selection is slightly different. I end up wandering up and down aisles in tiny grocery stores with wide eyes and an open mouth, not unlike a person leaving an opium den, to find myself checking out hours later with less than 6 euro worth of items. Which brings me to my next issue (wait – shall I say adventure-promoting?) with Spanish grocery shopping. I have to go to a few different grocery stores to get what I need. And it’s not like going to Trader Joe’s plus Vons, King Soopers, Schnucks, or Publix [how’s that for a showing of where I’ve lived folks] and then CostCo, it’s that one grocery store will not carry yogurt that every other chain carries, but the grocery store that doesn’t is the only one that carries a half kilo of carrots rather than the full kilo, meanwhile there’s one that carries the yogurt, but not the milk I need… You get the point. To get everything I need, I end up going to at least three grocery stores and spending 4 euro at each – or – more likely, only go to one and eat rice and carrots until I make myself go to the second for broccoli and chicken and the third which has almond-milk, but by that point I’ve already run out of the first stuff, and I don’t feel like going to ANOTHER store. It’s a vicious cycle. And this isn’t even touching on the specialty shops for bread or meat or cheese or produce, which I often don’t even bother with because I’m either out of time or too exhausted from my other grocery expeditions. The larger grocery stores often carry nearly everything are, unfortunately, on either end of Logroño. Which means from me in the center, it takes over thirty minutes to walk to either of them. Not very convenient for taking the time to get there and back nor for carrying bags full of stuff home. To be fair, there are also two natural food grocery stores nearby that I like and that are organized in a nearly logical way, but I only go there for the stuff I can’t find elsewhere. A few of the grocery stores in town just underwent major construction and are now a different chain (a chain of one of the big ones far away, in fact). I didn’t know what all the construction was for until last week when the new chain name went up, so it was just confusing for me to walk around pulled up linoleum floor and exposed ceiling as I picked out my tortillas and eggs. I haven’t been into the newly renovated grocery stores yet and won’t for at least another week as I am on my way to Amsterdam (!!!!!) But despite everything, I must be an optimist at heart because I have hope that perhaps they have solved the conundrum of grocery shopping in Spain. I’ll let you know soon. I can’t tell you that before I left I thought I’d be blogging about grocery shopping, but I can say it has turned out to always be an adventure here. PS, sorry mom, I know this blog makes it sound like I only eat broccoli, carrots, rice, tortillas, eggs, and cheese. It’s true, that is all I eat at home, but sorry it makes it sound that way. Or should I be apologizing to Chris White for this one? |
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November 2018
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