Tales from Spain, Portugal, and Morocco

My dear friend Ciera met up with me in Barcelona, and we set off to explore Spain, Portugal, and Morocco together! We may have gotten quite a few stares when we saw each other across the airport, ran toward each other squealing, and then belly-bumped/hugged (we each had our large packs on our backs and smaller ones in front). There was a drum corps in the airport playing music to celebrate the arrival of someone else, but the chaos of their performance only added to my excitement to not be traveling alone for once!

Barcelona:

I started this portion of the journey well by running around the famous Park Guell at sunrise. I didn’t stop to take any pictures or explore the buildings, knowing I will have a chance to do so later.

First disappointment of the trip - the Gaudi cathedral, La Familia Sagrada, required buying tickets a few days in advance, which we neglected to do. His other buildings in the city are quite expensive to enter. We got a few lovely pictures of the outsides.

Paella

Our first night there, we decided to go with a group from our hostel to a free music festival. Upon arriving, we found ourselves surrounded by 10,000 teenagers - we were the old people of this crowd, which was a strange feeling. It was chaotic. We left some time after 3 am, right when the party was getting started, and walked for way too long before realizing that our roommate at the hostel who “knew Barcelona like the back of his hand” was too drunk to know where we were. Taxis are a godsend.

We also traveled up into the hills above the city to see Montserrat, a beautiful former monastery built into the rocks.

Ibiza:

Ciera was determined to see this place of partying legend, the beautiful island where celebrities can be sighted (in the summer, anyway, not during the season’s closing weekend, when we went). After a relaxing afternoon on the beach, we got ready to go out around 10. We headed downstairs to find other people from the hostel and decide which club to go to. We then spent another few hours sitting around chatting, finally leaving at 1 am. Maybe I’m getting old, because at this point my bed sounded nicer than any club. We came all this way, so there is only to press on. We quickly realized this is not our scene. Rather than pop or house music which is popular in the US, the DJ’s are spinning loud, throbbing, repetitive, somewhat down-tempo music. I think this is called trance music? You can’t dance to it, other than to step back and forth and nod your head a bit. At 4 am we called it quits, although the others from our hostel stayed out until 7 am or later. We’re glad we went, but won’t be back. Oh, and for anyone who knows the Mike Posner song, yes, there were a lot of people taking pills in Ibiza. We refused to even take a sip of anyone’s water, just to be on the safe side.

Sunset over Ibiza

Toledo:

We now made our entrance into Southern Spain! As I was a Spanish major during undergrad, I was beyond excited to see all the places and buildings I learned about in textbooks. A constant theme throughout Southern Spain is the heritage of three cultures living in the same place - the Catholics, the Jews, and the the North African Muslims. Of course, the latter two were expelled from the country or forced to convert around the same time that Christopher Columbus landed in the Americas, so it hasn’t always been peaceful co-existence. Regardless, all three ethnic groups have noticeably impacted the local culture.

We had the funniest moment of the trip in Toledo. It was mid-afternoon, and as we walked along the hill opposing the city to get a panoramic view, along a popular tourist route, we spotted a parking lot that had a fantastic vantage point. I started to walk into it, before looking over to see a car with windows down, music blaring, and two teenagers… well, doing what teenagers do at look-out points. We made awkward eye contact, and I quickly walked back to the road. I couldn’t resist yelling over my shoulder, “Que se diviertan! (Have fun!).” A few seconds later, they yelled back, in English, a very insulting phrase involving my mother, which I quite resented because she is a lovely lady.

Famous painting by El Greco - textbook come to life!

Morocco:

We found a 19 Euro flight to Marrakech - is this all our lives are worth? - and of course we had to go! It was our first time in Africa, and also our first time in a predominantly Muslim country. We were apprehensive, but also excited! Upon arriving late at night, we waited a bit for the taxi driver our hostel had hired to transport us. He was late, and I immediately started worrying, because I didn’t want to have to find another taxi in a city where there are many counterfeit or illegal drivers. He eventually showed up, thankfully. We were amazed by how many people were out and about so late at night, but it makes sense given that temperatures in the fall are in the 90’s during the day. Summer,of course, is much hotter than this. We approached the Medina, or the walled-in old town, and our taxi driver stopped unexplainedly and told us we had to wait. We both tried to stay calm, even though we had no idea what was going on. Then, a man walked up to the taxi and told us to follow him. We did, skeptical, although he had told us he worked for our hostel. It turned out that he was a lovely person, and he had to come get us because the millenium-old streets are too narrow for taxis to pass through.

The next morning, we needed to pull out the local currency from the ATM before our private tour. The hostel worker told us to take a right and a right, which should lead us to a large square. We think he meant a right and a left, because a right and a right led us into the maze of tight alleys that is the Marrakech market. It was early morning, so no one was shopping yet, and the merchants were setting up their stands for the day. The men all talk to us - “Hello!” “Beautiful.” “Where are you from?” “Buy ___, I give you good price.” “Hello, HELLO!” I instantly applied the skills I learned in Latin America - when harassed on the street, keep eyes down, don’t respond, look busy, look tough, keep walking, at all costs do not make eye contact. We were still very uncomfortable, and desperately trying not to get lost in the maze of market corridors. We couldn’t find an ATM, so we hopped into a bank, exchanged currency, and found our way back to the hostel. At this point, we were late for the private tour, and they were mad at us. It wasn’t really our fault, though, so we put it behind us and moved on.

Our tour is wonderful, and deeply uncomfortable. First, the positives - we got to see beautiful places, many of which we couldn’t have seen without a male guide who knew the city well. After all, as we had already seen that morning, women in public spaces without a male guardian are generally treated very poorly. We are not just women, we are foreign, white, and non-Muslim. However, the aforementioned requisite male guide was beyond creepy. He was a 67 year old man who, I kid you not, had a large patch of nose hair growing on the outside of his nose, and thick glasses which made it appear that he was constantly looking down our shirts. Perhaps he was, because he is lecherous. As soon as we got into the van, he told us how delighted he was to have us on his tour. All throughout, he stood too close, physically corned us up against buildings, and gripped our arms for much longer than comfortable, or necessary. He “accidentally” grazed our breasts. If he felt that we were not paying enough attention to what he was saying, he gripped our arms tighter, or grabbed the strap of our purses. Even the locals stared at him, disturbed by how he was treating us. We were deeply uncomfortable, but unsure what to do as we didn’t want to anger him, as we thought we might be in more danger without him than with him. In hindsight, we should have told him off, but I’ll expand more on this in a separate post about lessons I’ve learned traveling as a woman. 

He explained things relatively well, but managed to interject a few creepy statements. When we heard the muezzin, or Muslim call to prayer, he bragged to us how flexible Islam was because he could finish the tour and then pray later, from where he was, without compulsion to go to the mosque. He added how wonderful it was that Islam permitted him to forbid his wife from going to the mosque at prayer times, because he should be able to keep her at home (implying that’s where she belongs). Later, whilst walking through the harem’s quarters in what was formerly a palace, he distinguished the genius of Muslim architecture from Jewish architecture: you see, the Jewish houses we had passed earlier, where you could see into their patios? The Muslim architecture has the patio on the inside, away from prying eyes. Imagine you girls doing your chores half-dressed, or naked. (Ewww, why are you imagining us naked? Why are you talking about it?) Now imagine someone walking by and seeing you. No good - clearly better that the women are hidden away (implying that women should be only for the consumption of their man. Never mind that he can have as many of them as he like). 

Finally, it was the end of our tour. Our guide walked away quickly and we didn’t have a chance to tip him, and the worst thing is, we felt guilty! Then I told Ciera that he didn’t deserve a tip with how he treated us, and she agreed.

Mr. Creepy left us at a Moroccan restaurant with food he swore was authentic and clean. We ate well - roasted nuts, dates, savory meats, mint tea, and traditional desserts. Everything was delicious! 



Upon leaving, we walked into the market (yes, the one close to our hostel). The variety of wares was truly staggering - everything was so beautiful. Every few steps, there was a different smell and sight - glistening hand-made jewelry, bushels full of spices, raw meat sitting out while flies land on it, piles of fresh herbs and produce, glowing intricately carved lamps, hand-tooled leather shoes and purses, and Argan oil and other botanical products which are indigenous to the region. I wish I could have taken more pictures, but it actually would have been dangerous to do so. Moroccans don’t like having their photo taken unless you pay them, and they can be a bit aggressive about it. I thought I was being discreet when snapping this one, only to see looking back on the photo a few minutes later that someone had noticed. No more market photos for us!

A traffic jam involving a donkey cart, a few trucks, several motorcycles, and pedestrians

Anyway, as we stood in a jewelry shop, I started to get hot and nauseous. Deep down I knew what was happening, but I tried to tell myself that I was just overheated. After all, in an effort to comply with cultural norms, we were wearing long jeans, long sleeve shirts, and scarves even though it’s really hot outside. At some point, I accepted the inevitable- I had gotten food poisoning. I pulled Ciera away from a nice but insistent shopkeeper, who was disappointed at the lost sales, and told her I needed to return to the hostel immediately. Problem was, even though we knew we were close, we didn’t  know how to make it out of the maze. Ciera desperately asked for directions from shop owners, while I leaned against the wall, half-delirious, trying desperately not to get sick all over their goods. Finally, a restaurant owner took mercy on us and walked us to the hostel’s street himself. It was just in the nick of time, because I sprinted for the bathroom and immediately began dry heaving, before my lunch made a sudden and violent reappearance.

After we were sure that I won’t throw up again, we went to catch our night train to Tanger. There was a language barrier buying tickets - we indicated that we wanted second class tickets, not knowing that we had signed ourselves up for a long night in stiff-backed chairs which don’t recline. To top it off, the lights stayed on, and people’s conversations/music video viewing/who knows what else continued almost the entire night long. It was not restful in the least.

Exhausted, we still tried to make a day of it in Tanger, doing a taxi tour. After a tasty lunch at a tea house (which DIDN’T make us sick!) we stocked up on junk food and headed back to the hostel with the intention of not leaving again until morning. Of course, we were harassed the entire walk back, even by boys who may not even be old enough for middle school. At least our hostel has a good rooftop view, and we dined while listening to the minor key strains of the Friday night meeting of worship at local mosques.

Ancient graves

Where the Mediterranean and Atlantic meet

Hercules' cave - legend has it he came here

So, when people ask me how I liked Morocco, I say that it’s a lovely place, but that I will never again visit without a man. It’s truly unfortunate that this is the case in the 21st century, but our experience was just degrading, by and large. There was one redeeming experience: the bus ride to catch a ferry back into Spain. Outside the tourist areas, the men on the bus were wonderful. None of them harassed us, and they were very considerate to female passengers, helping them with their groceries or their children. So, it’s unfair to speak poorly of all Moroccans.

Granada:

I don’t often get “hangry,” but after eating so little in Morocco for fear of getting sick again, and a travel day which took longer than expected, I rapidly devoured the free tapas which we got with our sangria in Granada. We immediately loved it here, and it turned out to be our favorite city in Spain. There is a university in town, meaning that there were lots of young people, and the city just has a good vibe.

The famous Alhambra, a palace

One of the neatest cultural experiences we had was watching a Flamenco show in a small venue recommended to us by our hostel’s owner. It was truly small - there was enough seating for maybe 20 people, and standing room for a few more at the back. The show was mesmerizing, particularly when the female performer danced - she was unabashedly fierce, and her focus, commitment, and skill in her art was intensely alluring (and I say this as a straight woman - I instantly developed a lady crush!).

Boy, bye

Cordoba:

Not much to say here, because we were exhausted by this point of the trip. We came mainly to see the Mezquita, a building which has been both a mosque and a cathedral at various points over the centuries, and which is one of the most famous buildings in Spain. It was actually more amazing in person than I had imagined, which is saying a lot!

The Catholic cathedral which was superimposed in the middle of this building which was originally a mosque

Lisbon and Sintra:

We ended the trip on a high note, because Ciera and I both agree that this was our favorite place of all! It’s hard to select any one salient element of the city - it’s more that the city had a combination of wonderful things which contribute to an altogether lovely place. The people were incredibly warm and welcoming. There were far fewer tourists than in the other cities we’d been to. The streets were charming, and the city was full of great look-out points. Portuguese is easy on the ears, and similar enough to Spanish that I could communicate with relative ease. I was already enjoying the city for all these reasons, but when our handsome waiter brought me a free, unsolicited (but very much enjoyed) pint of craft cider as we watched the sun set over the river, I officially fell in love.

It's like I teleported to Rio and San Fran, but really, these are just Lisbon's versions of Cristo Redentor and the Golden Gate Bridge

And then, and then, we explored Sintra, a place which can only be described as magical. We visited Quinta da Regaleira, an estate with a huge garden designed by a quirky wealthy family to be a delightful real-life fairy tale. There were little tunnels which lead to man-made caves. stone towers, cathedrals tucked among the trees, waterfalls, fountains, and all varieties of grasses, shrubs, and trees. It was a great place to get lost for a few hours and appreciate the whimsy and extensive planning and effort which went into making this place.

We also see Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point of Europe. It strikes me that this is the closest to home I'll be during my whole trip!

#Wifey #WeGoToTheMostRomanticPlaces

Barcelona, again:

Just like that, our two weeks traveling together came to an end, and we flew back to Barcelona so Ciera could catch her flight home. We said goodbye quickly so that we didn’t have time to tear up. Ciera is truly a wonderful person to travel with, and I feel so lucky that she took the time off to come travel with me! Our trip was fantastic, and one neither of us will ever forget.

So, after Ciera left, I circled back to the spend more time at places we had passed by the first time around. I got to go inside Sagrada Familia this time, and all I can say is,  Wow! I also walked around Park Guell for a few hours. 

Barcelona from Park Guell

From here, I took off to Vienna, where I was to be reunited with my dear friend Kieryn! This, of course, will be a separate blog post.

No Adventure Without a Challenge (Northern Italy)

Week 2 of the voyage was full of highs and lows! Note - there are some longer stories, so feel free to just scroll through the pics if you're short on time ;)

Interlaken, Switzerland
Switzerland was a wonderful combination of rain, fog, catching a cold, and exorbitant prices. I have to admit, I'm still bummed about not being able to see the mountains. Or rather, I saw the bottom half of them - still beautiful, but not exactly the Swiss Alpine views that people write home about! My new American friend and I wanted to do some hiking, despite the woman at the hostel waving her hands and repeating, "Storm is coming! Very dangerous!" One idea was to take a train part way up the famous Eiger mountain, hoping we'd get up high enough to see the peaks above the clouds, and then to hike down. The ticket for such a short ride would have cost 81 Franc (that's more than $81), so we changed plans. We still got some good views from the short hike we did out of town.

Looking down on Interlaken

Cortina d'Ampezzo, Italy
Planning my travels this fall, I literally Googled "best places to hike in Europe," and that's how I decided to go to the Italian Dolomites, even though I hadn't heard much about them. Cortina d'Ampezzo, home to the 1956 Winter Olympics and popular mountain resort town, was base camp for exploration. I immediately fell in love!

Abandoned ski jump from the Olympics

Cortina d'Ampezzo

Tre Cime di Lavaredo (Dolomiti)
Sunday, September 18th, I was determined to see Tre Cime di Lavaredo, a rock formation that was strongly reminiscent of the Torres del Paine in Chile, which is one of my favorite places in the world. Upon arriving to the hotel, I find out that the public buses to Tre Cime stopped running one week earlier. "Not possible, off season," they shrug. Car rental? "Not possible, off season," shrug. Taxi? Over $140 for the round trip. Then, I have a brilliant idea - I can bike there! A shop in Cortina rents electronic mountain bikes (yes, there is literally an electronic motor that works as you pedal to propel the bike forward). The shop owner says it's doable if I'm fit, recommending a route which climbs slowly on a bike path through the mountains for 15 km, climbs and descends 10 km along the highway and over a short pass to the entrance to the park, and then climbs a demanding 7 km up to the mountain hut where I'll start my 3 hour "easy" hike around the Tre Cime. In total, a mere 1000 meters of elevation gain between Cortina and the start of my hike. He also says that it might drizzle at first, but that the weather should clear up in a bit.

I whiz along toward Tre Cime. This e-bike is magical! I sing Steppenwolf to myself, "You don't know what you will find, come along with me on a magic carpet riiiidddeee..." Then I realize that this e-bike isn't a magic carpet, it's a flying broomstick! I've found the Muggle's version of a Nimbus 2000! The views are beautiful, and the climbing is easy work with the help of the motor. The battery looks dangerously low by the time I get to Tre Cime, but no worries, it's all downhill back, right?

At first I worry I've come all this way for nothing because the fog obscures the Tre Cime. Not Switzerland, Round 2! However, the clouds clear enough to see the formation, and I have a lovely (if rainy) trek around the base of the Tre Cime, drinking in the views from every direction.

Tre Cime di Lavaredo (top) and their Chilean cousin, Torres del Paine (bottom)

Cairns mirroring the Tre Cime

A few other Americans ask me, "Wait, aren't you the one who took the e-bike up here?!" I smile and bask in their admiration like a small time celebrity. Trek finished, it's time to bike back. At this point, it's raining harder, and I'm cold. Thankfully there's not much traffic descending out of the park, because the hairpins are tight, the roads steep and slick with rain, and my hands are frozen and having a hard time gripping the brakes. It's fine, all is fine. I decide to take a steeper, more direct route back into Cortina. When I reach the first little uphill section, I turn on the battery of the e-bike. Two minutes later, it dies. The bike is no longer magical. It is now many times heavier than any other kind of bike because it's weighed down by a dead motor. I try desperately to pedal, but my legs can't do it. Welp. Time to push this heavy bike up a 12% grade. In the pouring freezing rain. My shoes squish with every step. Surely it'll be downhill after this next turn. Ok, the next one. Downhill at last! Blast, another uphill section. Come on girl, you can do this. Crying won't fix this! Only biking will fix this! Cowgirl up! I regret all of my life choices. Then, in the next breath I take it back, realizing this is just part of the adventure.

Thankfully, once I push over the steepest pass, it's all downhill back to the bike shop. I roll in, dripping all over the floor and shivering. The owner looks at me and says, "You are very brave!" I look back and just say, "No, I'm just very wet."

Alta Via 1 (Dolomiti)

Up next is a three day hut-to-hut hike along part of Alta Via 1, a famous trek through the Dolomites. I feel particularly accomplished as I fit all of my clothes, sheets, towel, and breakfasts/lunches into a regular sized backpack! I am not traditionally a light packer, so this is big progress! It also will make the hike considerably easier.

Before I go on any further, let me just say that these mountains have some of the most amazing views I've ever seen. Just check out these pictures and videos, which don't begin to do them justice.

Or, in case you prefer panoramic videos:

Views from Mt. Lagazuoi, just above the first night's mountain hut

Views from the second night's mountain hut

Whoever planned these trails has a very different relationship with gravity than I do. As a Colorado hiker, I’m accustomed to a long, relatively moderate incline to a summit followed by an equally measured descent. In the Dolomites, throw that thinking out the window - it’s steep, demanding ascents and descents over multiple mountains in one day. The trail is incredibly narrow in places, with sharp drop-offs to the side.

Sassy face, because of course the trail goes up between those two rocks...

They even have what are called Via Ferrata, or ropes, chains, and ladders built into portions of the trail.  Many of these features date back to World War I, when this section of trails was the site of battles between the Austro-Hungarian and Italian troops. In fact, many of the hide-outs dug into the side of the mountain are still there, and open for exploration! 

All examples of WWI battle forts

The morning of Day 3, to descend from the mountain hut situated on top of a mountain, I have the option of taking the Via Ferrata but decide against it because a) it’s too foggy to see more than a few feet and b) this section consists of a 30 meter ladder, followed by an 80 meter ladder. I don’t have climbing gear, by the way, but a few crazies do it without. This is a ladder down the side of a cliff, as tall as a 25 story building.

So, a few lovely German women I met along the trail and I decide to take the “long way” down to the end of our hike. We arrive at the bus stop, and see no time table posted - a bad sign on a rural road in off season. After waiting over an hour, we decide it’s time to start hitchhiking. I can now check this off the bucket list! We fly thumbs at a few cars at first, then at all the cars as our desperation grows. There should be a special punishment for people who have plenty of space in their cars, slow down just enough to look pityingly at hitchhikers, and then just drive past and leave us on the curb. I suggest that perhaps we ride the sheep in the meadow across the street down into town, since human beings are being so unhelpful. Finally, a pair of friendly Scotsmen pick us up, and we make it back.

All in all, it was one of the best weeks of hiking I've ever had! The Dolomites forever will be one of my favorite places.

So Far, So Good (France)

I am one week in to my trip backpacking around Europe! It feels like it's been longer, in many ways. I'll try to keep this blog updated with photos and anecdotes, partly as a way for me to remember this trip, partly to let my parents know I'm still alive, and mostly out of narcissism.

Anecdote #0: Why I should have done proper rehab
Sunday September 4th, the day before I am supposed to leave, I fall trail running and re-sprain my ankle,which I had injured earlier in the summer and failed to rehab properly. After hiking out over a mile to the nearest road, I can't put any weight on it. We drive to multiple urgent cares before finding one with a functioning X-ray. Verdict: not broken, but the trip has to be delayed. I now fly to Charlotte, and on to Paris on Thursday, September 8th. Reykjavik got the axe. So much for my Walter Mitty adventures through Iceland.

Anecdote #1: Airport Sticker Shock
Arrive to the airport around 8 am for 10 am flight and am not permitted to check in. American Airlines has decided to make itself the Visa police and not let me board my plane because I have a round trip flight to and from a Schengen zone city which returns more than 90 days after departure, and no Visa. The official rule is that US citizens may not spend more than 90 of every 180 days in Schengen zone countries, and my research shows that if I spend the remainder of my time in other countries I will not have a problem. American Airlines feels otherwise. I wait on hold with STA (the travel agency for young people, bless their hearts) and change my return flight to come back within 89 days, and THEN can check in. Too late to check the bag, so all the carefully packed toiletries go in the trash. I arrive at the gate 10 minutes before boarding ends and cry in public. Sure I'm relieved, but I also just spent an unconscionable amount to change my return flight. No matter, I'm on my way!

Paris

If you go to Paris and don't take an Eiffel Tower selfie, did you really go to Paris?

Arc de Triomphe

Inside Notre Dame during mass

Anecdote #2: Jet Lagged

One day in Paris wasn't enough, so I'll have to circle back later this fall, but I already have plans to meet up with Andrew, a friend from DU who now lives in Lyon. Early trains are cheaper, so I leave the hostel by 6 am. Thanks to jet lag, I've hardly slept, so I'm in a strange waking dream. My thoughts are as follows: Oh, duh, hipster district, of course people are still out partying. Men. All men. I don't speak French, return catcalls with blank stare. Why did I think a dress was a good idea? It's shorter with the huge pack on. Oh crap I forgot to put on shorts under - damn jet lag. Please don't let me flash anyone. Why is that asshole singing? Oh no, another asshole is coming in singing louder. Fight! They're going to fight! Phew, train is here. Why are stations so big? I'm going to miss my connecting train... made it. Traveling alone is hard.

Lyon

Roman ruins in the hills

Lyon's version of Red Rocks... It'd be cool to go to a concert in ancient ruins!

Anecdote #3: Slip and slide

Escargot is delicious - salty, garlicy. Also incredibly hard to eat. Left hand is clamping the shell, right hand is trying to dig the snail out of its shell with a tiny little fork. The oily herb sauce coating the snail gets the best of me. Snail shoots out of clamp, slides across table, leaves trail of green grease. Proper French people stare at me, don't I know this is a nice restaurant after all?

Chamonix, France

Anecdote #4: Grace

Thanks to the help of trekking poles and an aggressive ankle brace, I can hike! For up to 6 or 7 hours, over pretty rocky terrain. Good thing, because the views are incredible!

Cheesin'

And I thought I was crazy... yes, that's a squirrel suit.

A mere panoramic photo doesn't do it justice

Took the cable car up

Climbers coming in through tunnel of ice

Perched above the glacier

Why I'm Burning the Letters I Wrote to my "Future Husband"

One day in sixth grade, I remember confessing to my mother that I was worried about something: I hadn't yet experienced my first crush. At an age where many of the other girls in my class were going boy crazy, no one had really caught my eye, not even a Disney channel star or pop singer. My mother reassured me that this was normal, and that I was really quite young. Much to my relief, a short time after I developed a crush on the middle school bad boy - handsome, smart (but he would never show it), rebellious, with floppy long hair and tight jeans. It was the mid-2000's, after all.

Around this same time, like many evangelical girls around the nation, I loved reading Brio magazine, Focus on the Family's publication for teenage girls. Along with advice on family, friends, God, and (very modest) fashion, there were, of course, articles on boys. Unlike mainstream teen girl mags, these articles were not about trying to figure out whether he liked you, or cute date ideas. Rather, they were articles exhorting sexual purity, and cautioning against the dangers of dating. The idea was that when you meet your future husband, all the waiting will have been worth it. A handful of speakers and writers suggested that teenage girls start praying for their husbands and writing him letters saying that they were "saving themselves" for him. They also encouraged developing a "checklist" of character qualities that we should see in a boy before dating him.

I took them up on that advice. I began praying for "my future husband" and writing him letters at the ripe age of twelve. Every year or so throughout my adolescence, on a particularly lonely or emotional night, I would sit down to write him a letter. They were sappy, full of sentimentality that I had finally found "the one," and saying that I just knew that he magically embodied every trait on my Future Husband Checklist. I expressed my hope that he, too, had been "waiting for me."

How was it that in one short year I had gone from not really caring about boys, to writing sappy letters to the one I thought I'd marry someday?

My evangelical, conservative surroundings continued to develop my ethos on romantic relationships. My parents took me out for the nicest dinner I had ever had when I turned thirteen and presented me with a purity ring as a sign of my commitment to stay sexually abstinent until marriage. (My mother now insists that she just wanted me to wait until I was older before deciding to sleep with someone, but if that was her intent, that was a strange way to go about it.) About once a year in church youth group, we would divide up into boys and girls for the night to talk about the "Christian" ideals for masculinity and femininity in a marriage context. Here, we girls were told that wives were to submit to their husbands, and that husbands were to be the spiritual leaders of the homes. I hated the idea, but tried to make myself believe it because I was told it was the "right" interpretation of the Bible.

Thus began my incredibly polarized, inconsistent perception of my identity as female as I progressed through high school and my first years of college. On the one hand, I had excellent family and mentors who told me that I was capable and encouraged me to shine. I played adventure sports, worked out hard, excelled in school, rose to leadership roles in almost every organization I participated in, had great friends of both genders, began planning a career in business, and planned church service projects in our community. No one told me that I was incapable of doing any of these things because of my gender. At the same time, I became increasingly upset that nothing was happening in my life, romantically speaking. Every time that I liked a boy and demonstrated some level of interest in him, I was rejected. Was I not pretty enough? Not feminine enough? Would I ever be desirable? What if no one ever wanted to marry me? My poor parents, and siblings, and friends heard me cry so many times. I was deeply discontent about my singleness.

As time went on, things got darker. By the summer before my junior year of college, I still had never had a boyfriend. My fears strengthened. If the man was supposed to be the leader of the home, what kind of man would be "strong enough" to lead me? Several people had actually asked me this question, point-blank. I became romantically interested in a friend, despite the fact that at times he was indifferent to my feelings and treated me poorly, because he was authoritative, military-type, and traditionally masculine. Once, he told me that I would "have to marry an MMA fighter to find someone manly enough for me." Another time, we were sparring verbally, and he said something so rude that I half-jokingly, half-seriously hit him. He hit me back. Hard. Everyone in the room froze - it was so clear that a line had been crossed. And yet, when I prayed about it, I felt so certain that he was "the One" for me because he was "manly enough." I even told a few people so. Thankfully, I went to go study abroad, and he started seeing someone else, so nothing materialized between us.

My actions soon turned inconsistent, too. I maintained that I was going to remain "pure" until marriage, but I would get drunk and make out/hook up with boys, both abroad and occasionally after I returned home. I began having very serious doubts and questions. What does the Bible really have to say about women? Do men have to be leaders in marriage? What role can women play in the church? What does the Bible really have to say about pre-marital sex? What about masturbation? How are women realistically supposed to engage with their sexuality when for many women there is a ten-to-fifteen-year age gap between when their hormones hit and when they are married? I felt guilty every time I "rebelled", but frustrated when I asked these questions or admitted that I was struggling. Some seemed shocked, uncomfortable, and incapable of handling any authentic questions about female sexuality. Others treated me with compassion (varying between patronizing and authentic), but shrugged and told me that the Bible said what it said, that this was God's plan, and that I just needed to pray harder and surrender more. In other words, figure it out. To this day, I believe that one of the main reasons that I was never asked to have a leadership position with the Christian group I was involved with in college (when all of my other friends were on the leadership team, and when my work as a leader was highly valued in every other organization I was a part of) is that I asked hard questions, and that me being a strong woman made them uneasy and me untrustworthy when it came to mentoring and shaping others.

Thankfully, God has enough grace for me to question, even when humans don't. A lot has changed since then - I've been dating a wonderful man for over a year, and he loves me because I am a strong, ambitious woman, not in spite of it. I do not make him feel emasculated, and our relationship is very much a partnership. I also have done extensive reading and research on femininity, from Christian and secular sources, and have come to my own conclusions - essentially, that women are equally valuable to men, powerful, and capable of creating an enormous impact. There are differences between men and women: some biological, many results of socialization. Ultimately, the heart of God is for all of us to work against patriarchy. Nowadays, I rarely fear that I am not feminine, or that I will die alone (although old fears do have a way of popping up every now and again).

Nonetheless, the hurt and the damage remain. The letters I wrote to my future husband are a tangible representation of the ways in which gender roles destroyed me. I am burning them to express the lingering emotional collateral.

I am angry that I was told at such a young, impressionable age that I should be waiting around for "my future husband." The message I received, over and over, is that I was not complete until I met "the One." It is absurd that anyone would encourage young teenage girls to think about marriage, when they likely will not wed for years or perhaps never at all. I am angry that I was made to feel that something was wrong with me because of my strengths and capabilities, purely because I was born female. I was told that (at least in certain aspects of my life) I needed to tone myself down so as to not injure the fragile male ego. I wonder at what I my life might have been like if I didn't waste so much emotional energy worrying about my future spouse and whether I would ever be enough as a woman. I've always been a perfectionist, and that is a separate issue, but I wonder if my perfectionism wouldn't have driven me so hard, wouldn't have broken me down so much, if I had a fuller sense of who I was as a woman. I wonder if I wouldn't have put on 25 pounds from emotional eating because I felt deeply inadequate but was too scared to sit with such an emotion, so I ate myself numb instead.

I am saddened by how the church has manipulated and controlled female sexuality throughout the centuries. In the Inquisition, male church leaders feared that women were temptresses under the employ of the devil to cause Christian men to stumble. Women were accused of witchcraft, tortured, and brutally murdered. I visited a museum in Mexico at a site were such atrocities occurred, and let me tell you, it is horrifying. Today, in the United States at least, the form of control may be more subtle and less severe, but it is control nonetheless. My friends attended a church which literally put out a cake, and took chunks out of the cake as a metaphor for every sexual encounter a girl had before marriage. They then frosted the cake with white frosting, saying that the "grace of God" could make you "clean" again, but that under the surface you would still be damaged goods. The psychological damage of such a vivid metaphor is harmful, not only to girls who had consensual sex, but also to the large percentage of girls who are sexually abused. Another winning method is imposing strict dress standards on girls, telling them that they should not "cause their brothers to stumble" with their clothing. In other words, your sexuality is dangerous, and therefore we must protect males from you by controlling you. And oh, by the way, your sexuality isn't actually yours anyway - it belongs to the magical mythical man whom you will someday marry.

I am devastated knowing that the same patriarchal lies I believed for so long are still running rampant in our world, and having very real effects on people. There are other strong, capable women in the North American evangelical church with stories very similar to mine, and I feel their pain. However, the damage we suffer is light compared to many other women. I shudder to think how many women in the church stay in abusive relationships because "male headship" can quickly dissolve into aggression, as I saw with a man whom I thought I wanted to be with. Outrageously, many widely-followed evangelical leaders speak out against divorce, even in the context of abuse. My heart breaks for women in other parts of the world who face considerably less freedoms and privilege, and considerably more danger, for being female than women in more egalitarian nations.

I am scared to admit what I felt for so many years. Reading this with some level of detachment, I acknowledge that many people hearing this would shame me for what I have written. The world tells us a lot of bullshit, and we have to choose to believe was is true. People could easily think, that's dumb, why would she believe those things? Or, if she was such a strong, independent woman, why did she latch on so quickly to what others told her? Get over it. Move on. I worry that I'll be labeled another entitled, overly-sensitive Millenial, who whines about the fact that the world has given her an unfair lot when in reality the world is just an unfair place. To which I say, it's real. It happened. It hurt. Everyone experiences hard things, and it's important to deal with them. If we don't deal with them, they become toxic, and we cannot change the pattern, making us very likely to inflict the same hurt on others.

I am also proud. I am proud that I was brave enough to question everything that I had been taught, and willing to consider a different way. I am proud that I continually get better at feeling my hurts rather than numbing them. I am proud that I have fought so hard to gain back my mental health and to build a healthier identity. I am proud that I choose to speak out about what I experienced, so that maybe another girl or woman feels less alone in her own hurt. I am proud that I want to work toward a better world, in which "female" does not mean "lesser."

Finally, I am unsure how to move forward. I don't know how to re-engage with a church which has made it clear that my type of woman (one who is unabashedly strong and doesn't buy the literal, historical interpretation of the Bible which is used to shame women) is not welcome. Even outside of the church, it is often exhausting being a woman in this world. I am privileged in so many other ways which help me to overcome (or not even have to face in the first place) the obstacles which face so many other women, but my heart breaks that such obstacles exist in the first place. I'm starting by burning these letters, as catharsis. However, ultimately holding onto my anger and resentment will only make me bitter and ineffective. I suppose I'll end this by saying that I'm praying that I can continue to heal, that other women will continue to heal, and that we as a church, we as a nation, and we as human beings continue to work against patriarchy and the shameful subordination of women.

Tax, Fiscal Policy, and Immigration Reform

Since I've seen some interesting posts lately about various political candidates' proposals regarding immigration reform (Donald Trump, I'm looking at you), it seemed relevant to share my thesis. I double majored in Accounting and Spanish, so it should make sense that I chose to write on the Tax and Fiscal Effects of Immigration Reform.

Should you choose to read it, please understand that this was the very last thing I squeezed in before graduation, so I didn't exactly have the time to make it perfect. Hopefully you will still find it thought-provoking.

The Tax and Fiscal Effects of Immigration Reform

The ultimate conclusion of the paper? Simply granting citizenship to currently present undocumented immigrants would cost the government more in benefit payments than the government would receive in increased taxes. This is because families headed by undocumented immigrants could begin receiving benefits for which they are currently ineligible. Nonetheless, the alternative of mass deportation and/or increased border control has proven to be very expensive and not effective, not to mention a human rights violation. However, making the immigration process easier for all would greatly benefit the US budget. Undocumented immigrants are only a smaller subgroup of immigrants as a whole, and immigrants actually earn more and need less government support than the average domestic-born American. Read the thesis if you want the evidence I used in arriving at this conclusion!

For those who don't want to read a 20 page paper, here are a few fascinating tidbits (see the paper itself for proper citation):

• There are 4.4 million people waiting for visas to come to the US. Depending on visa category, the wait times are between 19 months and 33 years.
• In 2010 alone, undocumented immigrants paid $13 Billion (yes, Billion with a B) into Social Security, a benefit which they are not eligible to receive. Each year about $9 Billion of that goes into a suspense fund, essentially an account for payments received which cannot be credited to any person in general. This money, of course, is available for paying out benefits to those currently receiving Social Security payments.
• Naturalization in and of itself is estimated to increase an immigrant's earnings between 8 percent and 11 percent, with no change in human capital characteristics such as language abilities or industry-related skills. This translates into more income taxes paid and/or fewer government benefits needed.
• Undocumented workers pay an estimated $12 Billion in state and local taxes each year. Their effective state and local tax rate is 8%. For comparison, the wealthiest 1% of the population has an effective state and local tax rate of 5.1%.
• The US Border Patrol budget increased tenfold between 1993 and 2010. Meanwhile, the number of undocumented immigrants in the US has tripled. Other statistics which have increased include the number of border-crossing deaths (from 263 in 1993 to 463 in 2012) and non-criminal deportations (from 116,000 in 2001 to 240,000 in 2013). Over 108,000 of the people deported each year have children who are US citizens.

One final note: I welcome opposing viewpoints, so long as they are respectful. I do not tolerate remarks which are mean-spirited or which demonstrate ignorance toward an entire nationality of people.