From My Park Bench

Today I write from a park bench. But not just any park bench, you see, this park has no grass. Instead, there are palm trees and strategically shaped bushes surrounding graffiti covered lamp posts. They are flickering now, just turning on as the sun makes its descent behind the mountains. There is a struggle between the fresh scent of the cool mountain breeze and the stench that the last pooch left behind. I, too, find myself in conflict. With the rising moon comes falling temperatures. Do I put on my cardigan or simply let the chill of the evening come over me as I sit back and take it all in? I look around. Two elderly men with snow white hair and walking canes are enjoying the evening breeze as well. I imagine they are discussing the news or the latest fútbol match when one brings up a memory from the good ol’ days. Their laughter turns into coughing which reveals lungs victim to 60 years of cigarettes. Another man stops by the park for a brief moment. Only instead of a polyester suit and pocket watch like my elderly gentlemen, this man has donned a spandex outfit comprised of short shorts and a yellow shirt that looks as if 100 sponsors have all word-vomited on it. He can only stay in my side of the park long enough for his black lab to get a swig from the doggie fountain and take care of some business. The run continues. I also share the park with some younger folks. They’ve been here awhile. Her legs draped over his, their eyes lost in each others. She runs her fingers through his hair, he kisses her forehead. They laugh together, hoping the moment never finds an end. A couple skateboarders coast by as I hear, “Oh rubia, ¡qué quapa!” paired with smooching sounds. I stick out here like a sore thumb with my blond hair. Haven’t quite decided whether or not I am going to miss that kind of attention when I get back to the States… A scooter speeds by and breaks my concentration. I want to put down my pen and paper, sprawl out across my park bench, using my balled-up sweater as a pillow, close my eyes and let my remaining senses go to work. But my mama has warned me time and again that the idiotas of the city will try to steal my purse and throw it in the river. So, for now I sit, purse strapped around my shoulder. My back begins to slouch as the wooden slats of my park bench lose any comfort they once boasted. It is growing darker and my eyes turn to the dirt beneath my feet. The ground is covered in fallen leaves and cigarette butts which are conveniently the same color. I hear the sound of the leaves crunching with every step of the passerbys. I know fall is here. I again fight the urge to let the lullabies of the city sounds sing me to sleep. I smile as I realize that I don’t have any pressing commitments or deadlines. My only duty is to occupy my park bench and enjoy life. Then a stretch of my limbs is paired with a prolonged yawn.

A girl could get used to this…

Journey of the Sixth Sense

Let the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten.

-Iron & Wine

Fish! Fish! Vegetables, fruit, right here! Chickens! It’s just past sunrise and the markets in the alleys of the medina are bustling with vendors and shoppers alike. All of the products are fresh off the farm or sea. I can hardly hear myself think over all of the commotion. My eyes are dizzy from searching for a place to set their focus. I feel the crunch of dirt, trash, and animal feces beneath my feet. My nose is working overtime filing through all the scents filling the air of the marketplace. I try to hold on to the remaining flavor of my gum, but the taste of chalky air vies for a place on my taste buds over the potent smell of dead fish. My travels in Spain have merely been training for the battle my senses face today…

My adventures have taken me to a new continent and new culture.

Morocco boasts of nearly 35 million people in a land slightly larger than the state of California. Ninety-nine percent of the country is Muslim. Here, religion is more than just a bumper sticker on your car. Religion is culture. Religion is a way of life. Everything goes back to it.

Before I get too carried away, let me start at the beginning of my journey to Morocco.

Amanda and I raced to catch our bus on Friday as packing took longer than expected, but we did finally hop on our bus to join our friends on a adventure to a whole new world…After a bus ride we hopped on a ferry that took us across the strait of Gibraltar. ¡Qué bonito! The sea was beautiful and we, of course, got the best seats we could find aside from the VIP club. After the one hour ferry ride, I placed my feet on African soil. However, this was not yet Morocco. Spain has some territory, Ceuta, on the tip of Africa, just north of Morocco. After a very brief bus ride, we arrived at the Moroccan border. I thought I was on the set of a movie. While getting our passports stamped and bags searched, a man in a white coat entered on the bus. He pointed a little black gadget at each of our foreheads where a red laser dot would appear. After reviewing the information on his gadget he would move on to the next passenger. We were having our temperature taken before crossing the border. You can never be too careful when it comes to Gripe A (Swine Flu). While waiting to have my temp taken I stared out the window. Long lines of cars and people. High fences. Men in uniforms that looked as if they belonged to the 1970s. Guns, big guns- and I don’t mean muscles. To my right I see a man who has fashioned some kind of pulley system with which he is raising up a large cardboard box over the towering fence. To my left are men dressed in dark clothing leaning against white vans with blacked-out windows. There’s a mattress. There’s a washing machine. There’s 18lbs. of garbage. Lots of loitering. We finally pass inspection with border patrol and are allowed to proceed to a whole new world of camels, desert, and magic carpets!

Ok, maybe I’ve seen Disney’s Aladdin one too many times. Actually, Morocco is a mountainous country full of luscious green pastures and grazing livestock. It is beautiful. During our trip we visited several cities, rode camels, ate true Moroccan cuisine (I drool just thinking of that couscous), sipped on tea- the best tea I’ve ever had might I add- stared in awe at the meeting of the seas (Atlantic and Mediterranean) in Tanger, witnessed an African sunrise over the mountains, and experienced culture. Being the fair-skinned blond that I am, I might have stuck out a little bit. In fact, I stuck out for the sheer fact that I’m female. Most women do not go out in public unless they are grocery shopping or at the mosque. The décor is like a fiesta for your eyes: bold and popping colors, hundreds of shapes and designs. Five times a day we heard the call to prayer. Young kids shouted profanities at us as it was the only English they knew. Women washed their clothes in the river. Vendors followed us through the streets trying to convince us of the best sales. Tips are expected for any and every little thing, but bargaining is welcome. Streets are narrow. Cats are everywhere. Uniformed men with machine guns are not out of the ordinary.

It is incredible to see a place of such contrasts. In the same country you have some of the world’s richest and most successful businessman walking the streets where women, children, and disabled beg. There is religion. There is deception. A beautiful country searching for something that they cannot grasp. Being in Morocco reminded me that you don’t have to be staring blankly at a map to be lost. These people believe they have all they answers, but they lack the true knowledge of a savior who loves them and requires nothing of them, but simply accepting His gift of life eternal…There is hope for them, the Lord has not forgotten.

I do not have enough space in this blog to truly enlighten you about my time in Morocco, the sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and feelings. But one of the greatest things that came from my trip was the journey of the 6^th sense. No, I didn’t see any dead people, but I did let my imagination run wild. I imagined what it was like to live as a Muslim woman in a male-dominated culture. I put myself in the shoes of the first pioneers of North Africa. I was at one moment a street vendor and the next a fire dancer. In the journey of my mind I flew on magic carpets and lived in a hut in the mountains with my goats. I was a businessman. I was a gypsy. I let my mind take me where my five senses could not go…the greatest journey sparked by a unique culture.

Shokran, Morocco, Shokran.

**Shokran means “thank you” in Arabic

To Kids From One to Ninety-Two

“Youth is not a period of time. It is a state of mind, a result of the will, a quality of the imagination, a victory of courage over timidity, of the taste for adventure over the love of comfort. A man doesn’t grow old because he has lived a certain number of years. A man grows old when he deserts his ideal. The years may wrinkle his skin, but deserting his ideal wrinkles his soul. Preoccupations, fears, doubts, and despair are the enemies which slowly bow us toward earth and turn us into dust before death. You will remain young as long as you are open to what is beautiful, good, and great; receptive to the messages of other men and women, of nature, and of God. If one day you should become bitter, pessimistic, and gnawed by despair, may God have mercy on your old man’s soul." -General Douglas MacArthur

As I celebrated my 22^nd birthday last week, I began to think about age, my life, my purpose. We’ve all heard the question, “where do you see yourself in five years?”, haven’t we? Well, five years ago I was 17 years old in the midst of my junior year of high school. I had no idea who I was or who I wanted to be. The important things in life consisted of cheerleading, national honor society, and which dress to wear to homecoming. Frankly, at 17, I had no idea where I’d be in five days, let alone five years. Now, as the Spanish say, I have 22 years and still don’t really know who I am or what I want to be- in the world’s terms. But truly, if you ask me who I am today, at 22, I can give you a definite answer. I will say more than “Carrie Hokanson, senior International Business major at Texas A&M University currently studying in Granada, Spain.” I am more than the daughter of Lynn and Marty, sister of Chris and Leslie…

I am a daughter of the King. (Ezekiel 16:1-14)

I am a jar of clay, bearing the treasure of the truth that is in Christ. (2 Corinthians 4)

I am salt. I am light. I am a fresh aroma. (Matthew 5:13-16, 2 Cor. 2:15-17)

I am a ragamuffin saved by the blood of Christ, made complete and perfect in His love. (1 Corinthians 13:10, 1 John 4:12, 16)

I do not know what job I will have when I graduate, where I will live, who I will marry or when, or even how many more birthdays I will celebrate on this earth, but I do know that while I am here, I am to know Christ and make Him known. So I will not fret as another year goes by and the unknowns increase. I will take joy in the adventure ahead and not settle for complacency or be held back by fear.

I want to Learn. Discover. Grow. Learning requires trying new things, trying “strange” things, trying old things one more time, finding out how to see and do things differently than “the way it should be.” Discovery requires throwing inhibitions and preconceived notions out the window and opening the door to your imagination. Growth requires the willingness to change and be humbled. One thing you can pretty much always guarantee to come paired with growth is failure. Before we ever succeed, we are probably going to fail a thousand times, but in that failure we have experiences in which we learn. We discover. We grow. The eyes of our soul are opened to who we are and who we can become, and to a world much larger than ourselves.

I write this not to romanticize a life that is hard, but to encourage you to let your wrinkles tell stories of a life that has been a great journey, rather than the markings of stress and anxiety. May the sweat on your brow come from dancing on the mountain top, rather than pacing in the valley. So, go ahead, dust off those hiking boots and start your journey. Do not end another day in regret. Be joyful always.

“We are born with potential, but we are not supposed to die with it.” –Erwin Macmanus

Dr. Atkins Would NOT Approve!

So what do they eat in Spain anyway?

Sometimes I feel as if I’m motivational speaker, Matt Foley, living on a diet of meat and cheese…and, yes, I do live down by a river- just not in a van.

The 3 main food groups in Spain just so happen to be queso, pan y jamon. That’s right folks, cheese, bread, and ham. They even have museums they love ham so much.

Before I go on, let me explain to you a daily eating routine in the life of a Spaniard.

8 or 9 AM: Wake up, go to work

10 AM: Go out for coffee and piece of toast for breakfast

2 or 3 PM: Lunch- biggest meal of the day, followed by siesta (Yes, they still practice the art of the siesta. Everything closes around 2 PM and reopens around 5 or 6 PM- except on Fridays in which most businesses do not reopen after siesta. Everyone eats a nice, big meal and takes a nap. The streets are empty. Seriously.)

9 or 10 PM: Small dinner, usually comprised of leftovers

Midnight or later: Head out to the tapas bars for drinks and appetizers

**Some meals I’ve eaten since living in Spain**

-Bocadillos galore! (baby sandwiches usually consisting of ham and goat cheese)

-pasta con pollo (pasta with chicken)

-arroz con pollo (rice with chicken)

-ham and cheese crepes

-couscous

-pot roast (it wasn’t really pot roast, but it’s the closest thing I can think to compare it to)

-lentil soup

-tortilla española (this is not the tortilla you’re thinking of, these are Spanish! They are similar to some kind of egg/potato quiche and can be served with salsa, as a sandwich, or by itself)

-flan or yogurt for desert at dinner

-everyday for breakfast I eat two pieces of toast, one with some kind of apple sauce concoction and the other smothered in Nutella (a chocolate-hazelnut spread) topped with banana slices. This is always paired with a cup of tea.

-the ice cream is AMAZING here and all of the ice cream shops close sometime in October so I am certainly getting my fair share while I can! Most “heladarias” put a lot of effort into their presentation, it’s quite spectacular with real fruit pieces, flowers, etc.

-at many restaurants it's the same price or cheaper to drink beer or wine, over a soda. And good luck finding free H2O.

-and those TAPAS…The way tapas (appetizers) bars work usually goes something like this: you buy a drink, get some appetizers like French fries, calamari, little bagel sandwiches, pasta salad, ham slices and the like for a small fee or for free!

Bread is served at every meal, along with queso blanco (white cheese). And I eat it. And I like it.

Let’s eat!

This Ain't My First Rodeo

WEAK STOMACHS BEWARE…

You can’t travel to Spain without seeing a traditional Spanish bull fight. Torros, Toreros, red flags, the works. It all began with a grand entrance parade of horses, elaborate costumes, roses, and brave Spaniards.

The only thing I knew about bull fights is what I’ve seen on TV or in movies or the like. The torero (matador) waves his red flag, the bull runs towards it, the torero jukes and gets away. Repeat. The people toss roses into the arena.

Oh was I wrong. These events do not end without some blood shed. Lots of blood shed. It all begins with multiple toreros taunting the bull with their flags, which are more the size of king-sized blankets. They run around, get the bull all riled up until the horses come in (To me, these toreros serve a similar purpose to that of clowns at a rodeo. They seem to be putting on a show, but also help to distract the animal in the arena for the sake of the competitor). The horses have got some intense armor on and remain amazingly calm for any living beast. Oh and did I mention they are blindfolded? The horses stand on either side of the ring and if the bull gets too close, their riders give the bull a nice firm stab or two with a spear. At the sound of music, the horses leave and out come the toreros with the banderillas a.k.a. glorified daggers. One in each hand, the toreros run at the bull and stab it with the banderillas around the neck/top of the spine, 6 total per bull.

Just wait, there’s more…The next stage in the bull fight is possibly the most stressful for the spectator. Alone, the competing torero faces the angry bull. These guys either have some serious guts to do this or they are straight up crazy (I am thinking a little of both). They will actually kneel down on the ground as the bull charges then. One of the most challenging moves is what we would call in English “around the back.” The torero faces one way, taunting the bull with his red flag, then turns around- his back to the bull- and brings the flag around his back. Talk about having you at the edge of your seat. This all goes on for a few minutes until the torero decides the bull is ready to be finished. He takes his sword and charges him. A good torero kills the bull on contact by perfectly placing the sword down the spine of the bull. However, if the alignment isn’t just right, another torero must stab the bull’s head with a dagger until it dies. The dead bull is then hooked up to 2 horses that drag it out of the arena and what looks like a baseball grounds crew comes out to “tidy up” if you will.

This continues 5 more times.

I could only handle 3.

Thanks, Spain, but I think I'll stick to rodeos in TEXAS.

Finally "Home"

We made it to Granada Thursday night after a day in Toledo and a 5 hour bus ride. Toledo is beautiful, but very touristy. It houses many monasteries, a cathedral and breathtaking landscapes of which I got great pics.

Chris and Leslie-- I had falafel in Toledo and thought of y'all!!! It's very popular around here.

I have discovered my luck here isn't the greatest when it comes to arrivals and pick ups..remember the story about the airport and metro??? Well when we arrived in Granada the bus dropped us off and our host families were supposed to be there waiting to pick us up. As the families arrived, Ellie, our API rep, would call the students names, there would be a kiss for a greeting and away they went, happily to their new lives for the next 3 months.. Ellen y Alyssa...Emily y Jessica...so on and so on. Then it was only my roommate, Amanda, and myself standing with Ellie at the bus stop. Ellie called my señora and discovered that there had been a miscommunication and Rosa Marie (my host mom) thought the pick up was Friday instead of Thursday. She'd arrive in 10 minutes.

"Adios, I cannot wait any longer," Ellie told us.

"But we don't have telepohones!" We replied.

"You will be fine, I cannot wait ten more minutes, I cannot wait I must leave."

So there we were. Two American girls in their early twenties. Standing all alone in the middle of city to which they had never been. At night. Awesome.

Around 20 minutes later our señora came running up to us with many apologies. We arrived to her small apartment which is now our home. It is unique to say the least. I am hoping to make a video tour to show everyone just what my living quarters are like, so I won't say too much as to not give anything away- you'll have to watch the video! Rosa Marie is very nice, but speaks no English and her Spanish is so fast! But alas, I did come to learn Spanish.

On Friday we toured the town- which is nestled in the mountains- and is much smaller than Madrid. Around 300,000 people call Granada home. It is full of historic architecture and cathedrals. There are tapas bars on every corner and you can get to pretty much wherever you need to be in 20 minutes walking time or less. What I love about this city is the culture clash. Granada is full of rich history involving, Muslims, Christians, and Jews and the city shows it off proudly. There are many alleyways where you may find street vendors selling everything from scarves to hookah. I could just get lost here…

Pictures: Top-street view of Granada; Middle- Amanda (my roommate) and I in Toledo; Bottom- More views of Toledo

The Terminal

Upon arriving in Madrid I was immediately greeted by adventure...I landed at the Barajas airport without much direction searching for customs and baggage claim. They have you go up stairs then downstairs then up and down, then- well you get the idea. After I finally get all my stuff-Mom, I'm blaming you for the excessive amount of baggage- I went to where I was supposed to meet my API rep to take the bus to our hotel. Well, I arrive and look for an API sign, my name, anything. What did I find? Nothing. I quickly read the info sheet again to see if I had misread anything. Was I supposed to meet them in terminal 1 instead of 4? OH NO! I rush to the info booth and in my best Spanish ask how to get to Terminal 1. "Metro", the angry man working the booth replies. So with my large bags I catch the lift down to the basement in an attempt to fetch the metro, only to discover that I actually need to take the bus located upstairs, except this time I decided for my own good and the good of those around me to not try to shove myself into a tiny elevator and took the escalator ramp instead. Finally, after the help from a kind Spanish man, I get my bags on the bus and head to terminal 4. When I arrive, no API. Sweating by this point, I unfold my neon yellow info sheet to read yet again. No, terminal 4 was definitely where I should be. UGH! So I did all of the above once again only this time in reverse. After wondering around terminal 4 for awhile in hopes of finding anyone from my program I spotted a neon yellow sheet of paper, very similar to the one I had from API, in the distance. With no other option I approached the group and asked if they were with API. Good news/bad news. One girl was with API and found some locals with a cell phone who contacted my directors. They were already sittin pretty at the hotel. AKA they left us at the airport...Options: take a taxi and pay an arm and leg in Euros hoping to not get taken advantage of as young American girls OR ride the metro through the city. We chose the latter. And I must say I am rather proud of myself for navigating the winding tunnels of the Madrid Metro, this was no easy task, but alas, with the help of more friendly locals, Alex and I arrived (only 3 1/2 hours late) at the Puerta del Sol and our Hotel Moderno- what a sight for sore eyes!

We then had a brief orientation (which I of course fell asleep in thanks to jet lag) and a lovely dinner. Then it was out on the town for some sightseeing and Sangria.

The next day we visited El Museo del Prado which houses the paintings of Goya and other famous painters. It was amazing. We also toured the Royal Palace. Grand and beautiful! The best part was the incredible views and landscapes. Miles of trees and parks with a backdrop of mountains. Wonderful. It was so interesting to stand in the very palace where Christopher Columbus once begged for the support of Ferdinand and Isabela to sail the world. While this palace is not where the Royal Family lives today, it is still the location for all royal ceremonies and many international affairs.

We've also had fun simply walking the streets of Madrid. Begging is very popular here, however, it is very different than the US. People dress up and paint their faces and even use props such as goat heads to ask for money. Crazy I know. You must also beware of gypsies who offer you rosemary. If you accept it, they will read your palm and expect a large sum of money in return.

Madrid is a beautiful city full of old architecture and bustling life. Stop lights are merely suggestions and ham is everywhere!