Tour De Rota

It took me over a week to actually get off base. My excuse was that I was both sick and lethargic from jet lag. So I spent most of my time either in my room or at La Plaza with my sponsor (pool, pizza, and beer).

The first time I actually got to see the town it was on a mandatory cultural field trip. I had two buddies on the trip: one who flew into spain with me and one from my division who had never gone (he was just doing it to get his spanish license).

The town was beautiful. It was everything a European town should be. Filled with tight alleys, clothes hanging from lines outside third-story windows, and topless girls lounging on the beach.

We saw a 16th century cathedral. It was breathtaking.  I'm not religious at all, but I could spend hours in there. The smell was a mixture between old wood and books. It was reminiscent of an antique store, but not so musty. It's a hard smell to describe, but definitely my new favorite.

Inside it had different chambers which were each ornately decorated. The alter in the main area had a 16th century carving of a dozen or so saints or prophets, each with set glass eyes. The detail was amazing.

And, of course, it set on top of a crypt. One I wish we had had access too. unfortunately we didn't.

We also saw a castle that took several hundred years to finish. They had recently restored it and found that some of the pillars were made from solid marble, and that hand painted ceramic tiles had been covered with paint and plaster.

We ate at on the patio of a place decorated in bull-fighting memorabilia. Posters lined the outside rafters, forming a barrier from the sun. Against the main restaurant wall were mounted bull busts and racks of horns.

For 10€ each we had an assortment of tapas, chicken or fish, a dessert, and this mixture of wine and lemon soda I don't remember the name of.

Tapas are like appetizers. They can be a smaller version of almost anything. We had bread, spanish tortilla, fish sticks, and some kind of meat pie. And Spanish tortilla is not like the kind of tortilla we have in the states. It's more of a vegetable cake that anything. It's thick and filled with potatoes and bell peppers and onions. Very dense but very tasty.

And in Spain it is rude to eat with your fingers. It was a concept I had trouble remembering. When you see appetizers you automatically go to eat them with your hands. They're called finger foods for a reason.

But no, every thing is eaten with utensils. Including chicken on the bone.

Next time you have KFC, I challenge you to try it.

But the food was good even if a little bland. They don't do spicy in spain. At all. Even pepper is a little iffy for them.

But being so excited about my little adventure, the following day I went to town by myself. I work flip flops planning to put my feet in the water.

This was a bad decision.

Halfway through my tour my feet were destroyed. The toe divider on my flip flops have a little metal sea horse on them. They rubbed the skin clear off. It was so painful.

But i trudged on like the soldier I am (*cough*).

The cathedral was closed much to my disappointment. I had really hoped to take some photos with my good camera in there.

In fact, everything was closed. I couldn't find an open shop no matter where I walked. By 6 P.M. I was utterly lost, hungry, and in pain.

I stopped in to a McDonald's (the only one I've seen) and looked at the menu. Some of it I could figured out. Much of it was the same. "Big Mac" is hard to translate as anything else. But i couldn't find what I wanted.

Caramel iced coffee.

How did you say "iced" in spanish?

The lady looked at me. Waiting for me to order.

I laughed nervously.

"I just want an iced coffee," I half whined.

"Esto?" She asked pointing to a picture of a frappe. "Caramel? Mocha?"

Not exactly what I wanted but I said "Uno caramel, por favor. "

She happily made one up for me. I spent almost as much on that frappe as I did on my entire dinner later that night.

I walked around trying to find a spot to sit. There were only a couple tables taken, but I wanted to sit on my own, maybe examine the condition of my feet, and connect to wifi so I could find my way out of this mess.

"Hola! Here!" An old toothless man called to me and patted the chair next to him. He was with his wife and another couple. Perhaps his son.

He rattled on in quick spanish I couldn't understand. It was his grandsons birthday and he was running around outside with his face painted (I had seen him when I walked in).

After a strained almost conversation I felt really awkward sitting there eating the whipped cream off my frappe.

"Uhh...donde esta navy base?" I asked. If I could find my way back to base I could decide from there what I wanted to do.

I had walked through the ocean, which had felt amazing on my feet. The water was warm enough to swim in had I brought my suit. I people watched, seeing females of all ages topless. Men wearing speedos. And when I had decided "this looks right" and turned back into town, I found myself completely lost.

The old man only verified this as he gave me directions back to base in spanish. The point was "go waaaaaay that way."

I thanked them and excused myself from the party.

What is etiquette in Spain for that kind of situation?

I walked through the shadiest part of rota I had been in yet. I was surrounded by industrial shops and warehouses in narrow alley ways. A recent briefing on ORM popped into mind:

Operational Risk Management
1) what are the dangers?
       Well, I could either be raped or mugged. Or  both.

2) what could you do it this situation were to occur?
        I really need to get me some self defense classes...

3) who would you tell?
         Let's say I lived...I wonder if they would post-pone me from going underway? I really don't want to be tied up in all that shit before my first tour on the ship.

When I paid attention again I noticed I was coming up to a nicer part of town. I turned that way.

Iliza Shlesigner puts the way I navigate best: I feel like...it's this way...

I got lost again.

I gave in and decided to use what limited data I had. I pulled up Google maps and it was also confused.

Google: I think you're here, but you might also be here.

Thanks google.

Google: if you connect to wifi I would be more accurate.

e___e

(that's my unamused face)

Eventually I found the hands.

The hands are a teal statue of a pair of seemingly robotic hands that everyone in rota hates. Apparently they hired a discount artist to do it because they couldn't afford the good one. They immediately regretted their decision.

Then, as before, I decided "this way" felt right.

It wasn't.

You would think after the space between your toes has been shredded enough, you'd give in and call a cab. Not me. It was 7p.m. and I refused to give up.

I was starving though. Part of me wanted to go back to the beach to find a place that supposedly had 300 tapas. I had no idea where that was or how to look it up. Hell I had no idea how to ask.

So I gave in. There was a nice little bar with a sign that read: Tapas! Cervesas! 

Si. Si. Me gusta.

The bar didn't have air conditioning and most of the seating was outside. But I didn't know what was customary. Did I go in and order and then take it outside? Did I just sit somewhere and wait? so I sat at the warm, tiny bar inside. It had two seats. One for me and one for an old shirtless man who looked like a bag of bones. He had a newspaper and a glass of water.

The people there were very friendly. My waitress was cute, tatted,  and tried to talk to me. She knew about as much English as I did spanish. We cracked up over our difficulty in communicating a few times.

She helped me pick out a tapa. It was some sort of meat in gravy. It was very good and enough of a portion for my meal. She also chose a beer for me that was right up my alley.

I promised her I'd return.

La Terraza if ever you're in downtown rota.

I paid 5€ for my entire meal and gave her a 3€ tip.

Also, if you go to Spain, tipping is not mandatory. They get paid real money. Tips are just extra.

I texted my buddy from my division and he gave me the number for the taxi. That was a whole other confusing event. I don't know if I took the taxi I called or just a random one that showed up. Either way I got back to  base.

Everyone is great so far.

Oh, and my feet are royally not okay. I had to go to medical to get some ointment. I'm hoping that and some bandaids will fix them. It hurts to walk.

I Don't Think I Can Afford Your Services

I have already discussed my views on arizona. On how it's beautiful from a distance, viewed from TV or through pictures on tumblr; but up close it's lifeless death trap.

So, imagine my surprise when I walked off the plane in Spain and I felt like I was back in arizona (only with much cooler weather).

Palm trees and oleanders greeted me, landscaping the brown lawns of stucco buildings topped with pink tiled roofs.

But I assured myself that it was fiiine.  The cool breeze was indication enough of how much better than arizona it was.

Or so I thought.

I was walking the long road to my ship. The pier from my barracks has to be like 80 miles away (or so it felt). Sweat dripped down my back. My undershirt clung to my skin. I was so glad my sleeves were rolled.

The image of Will Farrel from anchor man popped into mind.

"N-Dubs were a bad choiiiiceee! "

But I tried to enjoy the walk anyway. The trees that lined the street were reminiscent of the kind I saw in northern arizona. Eventually the golf course I walked along did get greener.

I turned a bend and stopped. Across the street was a patch of what looked to  e prickly pear cactus.

Surely not.

I hurried across the street.

It was.

"What is this shit!?"

I sent some quick snaps to my friends back home.

I was on the other side of the world, trying to enjoy Europe, when I found cactus. It had followed me from america. It had spread itself out across the should be Mediterranean paradise of southern spain.

I hurried on towards my ship. Mesquite bushes with two inch long needles clawed at me from ditches. Potted cacti sat in windowsills. Barren dirt and rock lined the roadway.

I didn't know if I would make it.

I did. Sweaty and breathless I arrived at the pier.

"What the fuck are you doing back?" The guard yelled at me.

I supposed it was a fair question. It was stand down. No one was a board except my sponsor and her duty section. I was hoping to get a few things squared away but I didn't really have a purpose.

"Uhh," was all I could think of to say as I approached him.

"Oh shit! You're not at all who I thought you were!"

He looked genuinely shocked. I was also taken aback. Who did he think I was? Was there another girl on board unfortunate enough to have hair like mine?

"I am so so sorry!" He said.

I laughed it off and forgave him, secretly glad I hadn't replied. I would have looked like the fool. So the hunger and heat exhaustion had served a purpose.

When I left an hour or two later he made a point to apologize again. I told him it was no big deal but he was understandably embarassed.

I had made the decision to call a cab. Walking back was not an option. Not happening.

A cab pulled up outside the gate a few minutes later. The driver did not look like a taxi driver. He looked to be in his mid 20s,  light brown hair that fell in waves over his eyes, a light shadow over his defined jaw. Veins lined his muscled arms. He definitely worked out.

Oh Spanish people. Why do you have to be so beautiful?

"Taxi?" He asked.

I nodded dumbly, hovering outside of his passenger window. I was pretty sure he wasn't a taxi driver though. The number my sponsor gave me must have been for an escort to-go service.

"Uno momento, " he said. He talked quick Castillo Spanish into his radio. Must be letting the other escorts know he had found himself a customer.

"You sixty-four," he said.

I blinked at him. If this was an anime he'd have sparkles around him every time he spoke.

"You know, eehh,  six four?" He drew the numbers in the air.

"I think you're thinking of sixty-nine," I said. I shook my head. "I can't afford that. No afford your services."

He looked as confused as I felt. I needed to find a number for an actual taxi. Then another cab pulled up behind his. The number 64 written across its door.

"Taxi six four," he said.

"Ooh! " I exclaimed. He was radioing for someone to pick up the sweaty American girl. He had standards.

I thanked him and walked to the window of the new cab. This man was definitely a cab driver. He was older, heavy, and very friendly. He was more than happy to take me back to my barracks and leave me in the parking lot. No funny business.

Anyways,  that was my first cue that I needed to learn spanish. It'd make communicating with male prostitutes so much less embarassing.

Would you like a little rum with that Disney?

The morning chill was still in the air as I turned to my brother and asked him for the vitamin water. He looked at me, eyebrows knit, and asked, "already?"

Just as he asked that my mother squeezed the throttle of her rented electric scooter and nearly rammed into the poor man ahead of us in line. I reached out as if I could magically will the scooter to not kill my moms next hit-and-run victim. 

My teeth gritted, my eyes scanning for any way for me to remote control the death-mobile, I told him that, yes, I do in deed need the vitamin water.

He pulled it out and I took a long swig of it. 

If anyone was sherlocking the crowd, they might have noticed the slight lime color to the Orange-orange vitamin water bottle. They might have thought to themselves, "that orange-flavored beverage does not seem to be the right color. Maybe it has gone bad." If they were more astute (and a better alcoholic) they'd know it was rather margarita-ish colored. 

"Woah, you gonna save any for the rest of us?" He asked. 

I cast him a look as I passed it to my mom, then to my "person," Sarah, and then back to Matt. By the time we had reached the costumed ride attendant of the Matterhorn, we were all relaxed and out of warm margarita.

The bonus of my mother's calcified-ankle-tendon-whatever-her-injury-was, was that we got front-of-the-line privileges. We'd move along the short line or even get in through the back. It was like having two fast passes at once. 

That being said, Disney kept having little "mishaps" which would cause the very ride we wanted to get on to shut down just as we got into line.

One such incident was the "blow out" mishap that shut down Space Mountain (or as they called it, a "containment issue). We speculated that the kid waited too long in line, then when the ride took off all fast like it scared the shit out of him -- literally.

At one point, over an already tense lunch, my mom was sure that a lady had given birth on a ride. I assured her the baby was no way a new born. It was wearing pants! Babies hardly ever wear pants out of the womb. They're Rebels like that.

This then caused us to need more alcohol (which is not easy to come by in Disneyland. You have to leave the park or smuggle it in. Which is wrong.) so Matt broke out the water bottle that was filled with Malibu instead of water and poured it into our cokes (this was the least creative of all the flasks we had brought with us).

We stayed well hydrated all weekend. 

Which might explain my bathroom mishap at Tequila Joes. 

Tequila Joes was a fun experience all around. We stayed laughing and eating the entire time and had a fantastic waitress. But that's besides the point. 

The point is, alcohol and first-time-use of a menstral cup and a stall door that won't stay closed is not a good combination. Let's just say it was messy and awkward (not that the second removal wasn't any less messy or awkward. Just different circumstances in which I almost called Sarah in to help me retrieve it).

The weekend was eventful.

I cried in front of Winnie the Pooh. Almost got eaten alive by a swarm of people during the fireworks show. Made a comment about my boobs too loud in front of the waitress. Made up an interpretive dance for peeing. Nearly killed a child while driving my moms scooter (it's okay, they can always make more). And was determined I should Never have kids as I firmly believe they will choke on anything that is smaller than the size of their heads. 

It was emotional. It was fun. Can't wait to do it again next year. Maybe we should do Paris next? 

Leave Makes You Fat

16 days of leave.

16 days of pure, wholesome, fattening vacation.

These past five months have been a terrible time for me --> as far as weight is concerned.

I was doing so well. I was back to my post-boot camp weight. I was stronger and faster than I had been, meaning my weight was more muscle than fat. As far as health went, I felt great.

And then my legal issues (which gave me all the time I could ever want to work out) went away. My charges were dropped (because the Navy finally realized the accusations were made by a depressed, crazy girl looking for a way to get out of her own trouble) and I was back to living a normal life again. Which meant I had a lot of "normal living" to make up for after 6 months of near-prison-like conditions (re: thanks for making me fat, jury-of-my-peers).

Which meant I got myself a boyfriend, started drinking again, and ate out ALL THE TIME.

My new boyfriend demanded all of my free time. So, no gym time for me. Plus we ate out a lot (re: thanks for making me fat, tasteless-galley-food).

I gained 15 pounds.

After I left him, and Great Lakes, behind, I got back into a healthy-er-ish lifestyle. I started running again, and even went to command PT (twice). The pounds were finally beginning to shed. I was finally being able to see the less-chunky me again. I still hated my tummy-pooch and the way my arms scraped against my thighs when I walked, but I could feel the difference.

Smores dip. And wine.

Then I graduated C School and came home.

Well, there went all that hard work.

My mom is the kind of person who believes whole-heartedly in showing love through food. And no, not cooking the food, just feeding it. So, I found myself eating out every day again. And my mother is also the type of person who finds the main course to be a formality, rather than the meal. It's just the pathway that leads you from the appetizer to the dessert (with margaritas and moscato from beginning to end as well). Needless to say, those calories add up.

Exercising is also nearly impossible.

By 8 a.m. the desert heat has already been awake and had its coffee. It is energized and READY. TO. GO! It bounces off the asphalt and onto the windows and cheers for bad guy (I'm sure). So, when I walk outside, I am assaulted. It's like walking head-first into the oven after it has been preheating to 425 for the past hour, but you forgot about it, and then you're like, "Oh fuck! I have shit to bake!" so you open up the door and it just whooshes at you like it, too, thought it was too hot and is looking for a glass of water. That's Arizona for you (re: thanks for making me fat, run-on-sentences-that-don't-actually-burn-calories).

Even the dragons can't survive here (or whatever this is)

Then, of course, there were marathons of M.A.S.H. and several good books that demanded my time. Plus, my mother anticipated my arrival by buying me 2 cases of my favorite beer (that I can't get anywhere else) and I can't let them go to waste.

All that hard work gone. I can actually feel my fat multiply. Like rabbits. Only, I don't typically feel rabbits multiplying.

I tried making healthier choices on leave. I had 2 salads. Drank some water. Drank gallons of hot tea (Teavana is my new obsession. But I'll leave that for another post).  I did go running once (and then immediately regretted it as whatever devil food poisoning or flu I got decided to kick in 3/4 of a mile away from home [and it didn't even last long enough to be considered a colon cleanse]).

I think I've decided that I should never go on leave again. I lack the willpower. The military was supposed to ingrain willpower into me.

You failed me, Navy.

You.

Failed.

Me.

So this is really your fault. Thanks for making me fat, Navy.




PS: Don't fire me. I don't actually blame you. Love you. K. Bye.