Club Promoters and Mahou, by Ryan Voth

The city of Madrid, Spain does not truly come to life until after dark. During the day Puerta del Sol acts as a passage for pedestrians to get from point A to point B. But once the sun goes down, the purpose becomes something completely different. Life that has been hiding away from the beating sun and the penetrating heat decides to come out and enjoy the spectacles of the night. Puerta del Sol, by night, becomes home to people dressed up in costumes from Money Heist (Casa de Papel), street performers on roller blades jumping over anxious girls, Gypsy Kings cover artists performing all of their classics, and a plethora of normal people, like me, ready to see where the night takes them. The process of finding plans and getting alcohol is easily facilitated by people working the streets as club promoters and Mahou beer salesmen.

As tourists in a new place we were easy targets to be sold on the "great” deals that only club promoters could provide us with (at least that’s what they claimed). Nevertheless, my friends and I blindly followed these strangers allowing them to guide us through the labyrinth of Madrid's streets to arrive at clubs and bars. Something that is important to note is that depending on the club promoter and their affiliation with the club, you may find yourself waiting in line to get into a club that does not offer the promotions which had been promised to you. Luckily, most of the club promoters we met were truthful and were keen on getting our WhatApps so that they could relay more deals to us in the future.

The Mahou salesmen were interesting as well because they had a more limited grasp of the English language and therefore resorted to their practiced phrases which consisted mainly of “good price” and “6-pack for 5 euros”. My friends and I decided that this was indeed a good deal but with little to no reference of beer prices in Spain, it is safe to say that we really had no idea. We did not realize what buying a couple six packs meant for the rest of our night. As we started taking our first sips a couple more salesmen approached offering us the same deals for their beer to which we respectfully refused since we were clearly just starting to drink the ones we had purchased seconds ago. Yet the barrage of salesmen kept coming wave after wave. It became clear that the salesmen were resilient as they did their rounds, taking turns around the fountain to offer us their “good price.” After the seventh round we had to become a bit more stern with them as their presence and bombardment of sales pitches began to infringe on the enjoyment of our night. But all in all it was a well spent night that provided us with a glimpse of what a night in

A day that I will never forget, by Lindsay Baerg

It’s hard for me to put into words my experience in Morocco. It is certainly a day that I will never forget.
As we embarked onto the ferry, I was very uncertain of what to expect. While waiting in line to have our passports stamped, I listened to different conversations; a mom talking to her little boy, sisters bickering, two friends laughing and swaying side to side with the rolling waves of the boat. The Spanish sounded more foreign and the blending of French, Arabic, and German seemed alien. My stomach became uneasy, maybe from the rocking, but more likely from the unknown ahead. I walked outside and inhaled the sweetness of the salty air as well as cigarette smoke from the elderly Spanish lady standing beside me. Spain was no longer in sight and we were cruising full speed ahead toward Morocco. Tangier began to emerge from behind the early morning fog. Large buildings outlined the modernized city and small houses covered the sprawling hillsides. As the boat began to slow, people shuffled towards the exits and funneled out. Meghan and I strode off the ferry and into Morocco.
We quickly located our guide, Abdeslam, a middle-aged man who he smiled ear to ear and exclaimed how excited he was to show us his country. Once in the car, we began the two and a half hour journey to Chefchaouen, a small town in northwest Morocco in the Rif mountains known for its blue houses. After leaving the city of Tangier, the landscape became much more barren and the houses few and far between. The road gradually became windier and narrower as we approached the town. I knew we were close when more and more of the buildings we passed were blue. After a long drive, we finally arrived. I stepped out of the car and looked up. The mountain range engulfed the sky and the bright sun illuminated the blue hues of the houses. The call to prayer rang and the sound echoed through the blue alleyways. It was hard to believe I was actually here. I was in Morocco, in a town that I had only seen pictures of online, with only Meghan and our guide. I had a sudden moment of panic as I really began to understand how far away I was. Yes, the culture in Seville is very different from the United States, but nothing like this.
On the car ride back to Tangier I looked out the window at the small houses passing by. People lived in these houses; the stunning blue houses in Chefchaouen, the houses next to the landfill, the houses by the dam, the mansions near the king’s property in Tangier. These people wake up every day just like the rest of the world and Morocco is their home. I am grateful that I got to experience it, even if only for the day.

Unfriendly or too friendly? by Abbi Solomon

The holas and smiles and friendly hellos vanish as you enter the streets of Seville and pass people on the streets. You immediately think to yourself “how rude” or “what did I ever do to them”, but soon you will realize, just like me, it is simply a cultural difference.

Living in Boston, Massachusetts all of my life, it has been instilled in me that when you pass by another or make eye contact you smile and greet that other person, but not here in Seville. It was on my walks to the gym where I realized no one wanted to smile at me and when I made eye contact, it felt different. I thought maybe I had something on my face or was just standing out as an American, but it continued to happen. I had no idea what was going on and why when a car stopped for pedestrians or someone held the door, it was not normal to say please or thank you or
smile. But how wrong I was!

I soon came to learn that this was a giant culture shock. Little did I know that making eye contact
with someone in passing was a way of signaling you are interested in that individual in a  romantic way. I felt SO embarrassed about all of the people I had glared at and smiled at without even thinking twice. I also learned quickly that directness is an action that the Spaniards love. When a car stops or someone holds a door, it is expected in this culture and please/thank you is not necessary. Where I thought I was being ignored, I was actually in the wrong and simply uneducated on the culture in Seville.

I am not saying a smile or hello does not go a long way here, it still does, but be aware of your surroundings and understanding that not every culture is the same.