I think somewhere there in Spain I might have grown up a little. Maybe no one else noticed, but I did. If that's worth anything...
Maybe it's all internal
Since being home I have watched 4 movies (I Am Legend, Talk to Me, Enchanted, and Knocked Up (which I found surprisingly delightful)) and 5 installments of the National Geographic Earth-or-whatever-it-is-series. I have cleaned the kitchen. I have done the laundry (monetary compensation offered). I have begun cooking for myself without the box and without the directions and with lots of vegetables. I have loaded the dishwasher without being asked at least 5 time in the last 4 days.
I continue to go to bed early and wake up involuntarily at 7:00 AM. Who knew jet lag could be so enabling?
I'm distracted...I think it's time I gave up and moved on.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Samantha, You Remember Wisconsin, Don't you?
I have been home for 4 full days.
Slipping back into the rythms of la vida cotidiana (daily life) in Wisconsin has been surprising effortless.
As I walked semi-conscious through customs and through the glass doors to face the throng of eagerly-waiting loved ones, all I could think about was A) I'm done with planes and B) about how I hadn't slept in a long time (I would go 42 hours without sleeping).
I looked up from my tottering luggage cart, ladened with over 100 lbs. of personal junk and briefly caught a glimpse of a tall man in a suit with shaggy brown hair. I looked down absent-mindedly and all at once caught myself. I looked up again. It was Tyler. In a pin-striped suit. With a bouquet of flowers. Looking forlornly overjoyed. In Chicago. Not Los Angeles. What?
There were kisses. There was face-to-shoulder snuggling and a strong welcoming embrace.
I saw my parents and there were hugs all around.
And then we lugged my luggage to the new car I had never seen before and headed home in the snow.
I've been over-enjoying cooking and getting up early with my jet-lagged self. I watched movies from a couch for the first time in 4 months. I blowdried my hair without socks on. I woke up warm. I've pet cats. I've watched TV. I've run errands.
As I go through my day, I encounter all these little things that give me pause as I think, "I couldn't do this in Spain!" Speaking with people about Spain also gives me pause as I struggle to recover my English word bank and translate my Spanish memories.
That's enough for now. What I'm saying is, in a nutshell:
I've come home.
Slipping back into the rythms of la vida cotidiana (daily life) in Wisconsin has been surprising effortless.
As I walked semi-conscious through customs and through the glass doors to face the throng of eagerly-waiting loved ones, all I could think about was A) I'm done with planes and B) about how I hadn't slept in a long time (I would go 42 hours without sleeping).
I looked up from my tottering luggage cart, ladened with over 100 lbs. of personal junk and briefly caught a glimpse of a tall man in a suit with shaggy brown hair. I looked down absent-mindedly and all at once caught myself. I looked up again. It was Tyler. In a pin-striped suit. With a bouquet of flowers. Looking forlornly overjoyed. In Chicago. Not Los Angeles. What?
There were kisses. There was face-to-shoulder snuggling and a strong welcoming embrace.
I saw my parents and there were hugs all around.
And then we lugged my luggage to the new car I had never seen before and headed home in the snow.
I've been over-enjoying cooking and getting up early with my jet-lagged self. I watched movies from a couch for the first time in 4 months. I blowdried my hair without socks on. I woke up warm. I've pet cats. I've watched TV. I've run errands.
As I go through my day, I encounter all these little things that give me pause as I think, "I couldn't do this in Spain!" Speaking with people about Spain also gives me pause as I struggle to recover my English word bank and translate my Spanish memories.
That's enough for now. What I'm saying is, in a nutshell:
I've come home.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Adventures In the last days.
I am now a blonde.
Kidding.
But earlier today, Ellen did happen look in the mirror and say determinedly, "I want to cut my bangs."
That was innocent enough. I've cut my own bangs many a time.
"Use my hair cutting shears," I offered (then dug through my belongings to find them).
I laid back down on my bed while Ellen grabbed the garbage can and set herself in front of our full length mirror, ready for business.
"Thwack," said the scissors satisfactorily.
I lay there, eyes wide, turned to the ceiling, thinking to myself, "That sounded like a decidedly large cut...."
"Uh-oh..." peeped Ellen.
"You didn't blunt cut them, did you!?" I asked incredulously.
"Maybe?..."
I sat up and looked at her concerned.
There she sat, her sad, hacked hair strewn across her face.
"Help me?" she squeeked, almost laughing.
Then I set about to trying to fix Ellen's bangs, from which she had cut about two and a half inches (they were long, it's ok). It was a terrifying endeavor, and if you are not trained and/or magical, I suggest not messing with other people's hair, but in the end, I believe my prayers to the art major gods were effective, that it turned out alright, and that her new bangs will suffice...until, that is, she can seek professional help.
I am also sick of my hairstyle, but I think I can wait a couple of days.
Botellón-ing tonight. Tamely. Hopefully no murderous gypsies.
Or no overly friendly, married Spanish men carrying around guitars wearing doublets and blue tights and patch-bedazzled capes who think it's appropriate to try and kiss me, because it isn't "sexo" and they are a little drunk. Boyfriend? Who cares. He's not here. Don't be so puritanical. And it's the holiday of the Immaculate Conception, surely the Virgin Mary would have acquiesced. C'mon honey, how 'bout a kiss?
How about not?
Not that that happened to me last Friday or anything.
I am all done with exams. Some (grammar) went better than others (history).
Hmm. All done with this semester of school and this semester in Spain.
I'll have to think about that some.
Kidding.
But earlier today, Ellen did happen look in the mirror and say determinedly, "I want to cut my bangs."
That was innocent enough. I've cut my own bangs many a time.
"Use my hair cutting shears," I offered (then dug through my belongings to find them).
I laid back down on my bed while Ellen grabbed the garbage can and set herself in front of our full length mirror, ready for business.
"Thwack," said the scissors satisfactorily.
I lay there, eyes wide, turned to the ceiling, thinking to myself, "That sounded like a decidedly large cut...."
"Uh-oh..." peeped Ellen.
"You didn't blunt cut them, did you!?" I asked incredulously.
"Maybe?..."
I sat up and looked at her concerned.
There she sat, her sad, hacked hair strewn across her face.
"Help me?" she squeeked, almost laughing.
Then I set about to trying to fix Ellen's bangs, from which she had cut about two and a half inches (they were long, it's ok). It was a terrifying endeavor, and if you are not trained and/or magical, I suggest not messing with other people's hair, but in the end, I believe my prayers to the art major gods were effective, that it turned out alright, and that her new bangs will suffice...until, that is, she can seek professional help.
I am also sick of my hairstyle, but I think I can wait a couple of days.
Botellón-ing tonight. Tamely. Hopefully no murderous gypsies.
Or no overly friendly, married Spanish men carrying around guitars wearing doublets and blue tights and patch-bedazzled capes who think it's appropriate to try and kiss me, because it isn't "sexo" and they are a little drunk. Boyfriend? Who cares. He's not here. Don't be so puritanical. And it's the holiday of the Immaculate Conception, surely the Virgin Mary would have acquiesced. C'mon honey, how 'bout a kiss?
How about not?
Not that that happened to me last Friday or anything.
I am all done with exams. Some (grammar) went better than others (history).
Hmm. All done with this semester of school and this semester in Spain.
I'll have to think about that some.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Four Days Remain.
Good news all, only four days left before culture shock becomes re-entry shock and I freeze to death in the Wisconsin winter to which I am no longer accustomed.
I bet you'll all be glad to get rid of me once and for all.
But yes, four days. Four days, four exams, a 6 page composition analyzing a play, a nine hour flight home, and a two hour ride and I will be torturing fluffy cats with a soft, high-pitched grating voice that people normally reserve for spoiled babies or horribly rickety, humanized dogs.
Time for class...
I bet you'll all be glad to get rid of me once and for all.
But yes, four days. Four days, four exams, a 6 page composition analyzing a play, a nine hour flight home, and a two hour ride and I will be torturing fluffy cats with a soft, high-pitched grating voice that people normally reserve for spoiled babies or horribly rickety, humanized dogs.
Time for class...
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Help Me, Ronda.
It's been awhile. Sorry about that. As the semester winds down, I've been thinking (or intending to think) about my paper and my exams and my friends here more than posting.
I do, however, have all the pictures up from recent adventures on my photobucket.
There is nearly just a week left of my life in Seville. It's bittersweet of course, especially since I have just finally accepted being here, have finally just settled in, and have finally stopped being bothered by the majority of nuisances and differences.
Last week or so, I came to the conclusion that, though I appreciate Seville, I do not like it. It is not mine like Wisconsin is mine. The palm trees are not mine like the birch trees are mine. The Guadalquivir is not mine like the glacial lakes are mine. The pigeons are not mine like the squirrels are mine. The dirt is not mine like the grass is mine or the hills are mine.
Spain is rich in history and quirks and strangers talking about exotic underwear on the 34 to Prado de San Sebastian. I live here. I have shared in these quirks and have absorbed the curious stares on the bus for 3 months. I am no longer phased by them. I do not pause as I stride through Plaza Nueva, my heels striking the pavement in a decidedly quick, American gait. I dress like a Spaniard and walk stoic passed the compliment-doling, weed-offering Canis on the street like a Spaniard, but I smile at the dogs on the "sidewalks" like a distracted child and quietly sing along with the dated, American nineties music in the department stores. I no longer feel like a foreigner, or an extranjero, or an American in Seville. I feel like an adjusted Samantha in Seville.
And Samantha is ready to go home, because Seville isn't hers. I was so fed up last week (and last month in general), as though all the frustrations I had been tossing our meaninglessly into the air and onto Ellen's lap were finally resurfacing because I had never really turned inward to deal with them. When I signed up, I knew studying abroad would be hard in a lot of ways and in different ways than I had the capacity to imagine, but knowing the anvil is going to fall on your head before it hits doesn't render the impact any more merciful.
I feel that in wanting so much to see a marked change within myself, I never noticed it slipping in under the radar, but I think this acceptance and growth finally began to materialize when, last Friday, I went to Ronda, a sitty (whoops...city) nestled oh-so-snug-ly in the Pyrenees mountains. I realized what I've missed so much is the convergence of what is natural with what is man-made. In Ronda, the houses line the cliffs. In Sevilla, the cliffs would be bulldozed to make way for the houses.
...Yeah. I think I could get used to Ronda (which means "night watchman").
Sunday, I went to Granada (which means "pomegranate"). From the few moments I actually absorbed the city atmosphere and second-hand smoke, and watched bubble man (picture taken by Ellen and edited by me, as my camera couldn't handle the light source), I think I might have liked it better than Sevilla. It too, rests in the mountains. It has a colder climate and appears to house colder climate people, though, truth be told, I didn't think much of the supposedly awe-inspiring Alhambra (I think the Guardia Civil is going to come after me for saying that).
But I chose Sevilla, not Granada, and I do not regret it. As I was sitting in my little grey bus seat today, I looked out the window toward the Torre de Oro as we crossed the bridge and realized that I wouldn't see it many more times before I have wake up at the butt crack of dawn, pay 25 euros for a cab, and take my final European flight to cross the Atlantic. It's as though everything I do now carries this sense of finality which neither bothers me, nor brings me joy.
I don't think I can properly explain how I feel about this place or what I've done here. I think I've wasted a lot, but that the waste hasn't been wasted on me.
I've learned.
I'm learning.
I will learn.
Whether I'm comfortable with it or not.
I will come home and torture all of you with countless, seemingly-arrogant tales that begin with the words, "Vale, when I was in Spain..." and you will all wish I would just go back. Some part of me will probably want to. I know that, just like entry shock, re-entry shock will be hard in countless subtle little ways I cannot foresee.
But I am ready.
See you then.
As a sidenote:
Janet Olson said...
Curious minds are wondering, "What's up with Samantha?" Speculative minds are saying, "Oh, she's probably really busy finishing up her semester and getting ready to come home." Say in your blog if I'm right, and if so, I win! Just say, "Mom's right, just like always." Say it fifty times.
Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always.
Daughter's obedient, just like always.
I do, however, have all the pictures up from recent adventures on my photobucket.
There is nearly just a week left of my life in Seville. It's bittersweet of course, especially since I have just finally accepted being here, have finally just settled in, and have finally stopped being bothered by the majority of nuisances and differences.
Last week or so, I came to the conclusion that, though I appreciate Seville, I do not like it. It is not mine like Wisconsin is mine. The palm trees are not mine like the birch trees are mine. The Guadalquivir is not mine like the glacial lakes are mine. The pigeons are not mine like the squirrels are mine. The dirt is not mine like the grass is mine or the hills are mine.
Spain is rich in history and quirks and strangers talking about exotic underwear on the 34 to Prado de San Sebastian. I live here. I have shared in these quirks and have absorbed the curious stares on the bus for 3 months. I am no longer phased by them. I do not pause as I stride through Plaza Nueva, my heels striking the pavement in a decidedly quick, American gait. I dress like a Spaniard and walk stoic passed the compliment-doling, weed-offering Canis on the street like a Spaniard, but I smile at the dogs on the "sidewalks" like a distracted child and quietly sing along with the dated, American nineties music in the department stores. I no longer feel like a foreigner, or an extranjero, or an American in Seville. I feel like an adjusted Samantha in Seville.
And Samantha is ready to go home, because Seville isn't hers. I was so fed up last week (and last month in general), as though all the frustrations I had been tossing our meaninglessly into the air and onto Ellen's lap were finally resurfacing because I had never really turned inward to deal with them. When I signed up, I knew studying abroad would be hard in a lot of ways and in different ways than I had the capacity to imagine, but knowing the anvil is going to fall on your head before it hits doesn't render the impact any more merciful.
I feel that in wanting so much to see a marked change within myself, I never noticed it slipping in under the radar, but I think this acceptance and growth finally began to materialize when, last Friday, I went to Ronda, a sitty (whoops...city) nestled oh-so-snug-ly in the Pyrenees mountains. I realized what I've missed so much is the convergence of what is natural with what is man-made. In Ronda, the houses line the cliffs. In Sevilla, the cliffs would be bulldozed to make way for the houses.
...Yeah. I think I could get used to Ronda (which means "night watchman").
Sunday, I went to Granada (which means "pomegranate"). From the few moments I actually absorbed the city atmosphere and second-hand smoke, and watched bubble man (picture taken by Ellen and edited by me, as my camera couldn't handle the light source), I think I might have liked it better than Sevilla. It too, rests in the mountains. It has a colder climate and appears to house colder climate people, though, truth be told, I didn't think much of the supposedly awe-inspiring Alhambra (I think the Guardia Civil is going to come after me for saying that).
But I chose Sevilla, not Granada, and I do not regret it. As I was sitting in my little grey bus seat today, I looked out the window toward the Torre de Oro as we crossed the bridge and realized that I wouldn't see it many more times before I have wake up at the butt crack of dawn, pay 25 euros for a cab, and take my final European flight to cross the Atlantic. It's as though everything I do now carries this sense of finality which neither bothers me, nor brings me joy.
I don't think I can properly explain how I feel about this place or what I've done here. I think I've wasted a lot, but that the waste hasn't been wasted on me.
I've learned.
I'm learning.
I will learn.
Whether I'm comfortable with it or not.
I will come home and torture all of you with countless, seemingly-arrogant tales that begin with the words, "Vale, when I was in Spain..." and you will all wish I would just go back. Some part of me will probably want to. I know that, just like entry shock, re-entry shock will be hard in countless subtle little ways I cannot foresee.
But I am ready.
See you then.
As a sidenote:
Janet Olson said...
Curious minds are wondering, "What's up with Samantha?" Speculative minds are saying, "Oh, she's probably really busy finishing up her semester and getting ready to come home." Say in your blog if I'm right, and if so, I win! Just say, "Mom's right, just like always." Say it fifty times.
Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always. Mom's right, just like always.
Daughter's obedient, just like always.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Peach Polka Dots
Monday, I put on a big floofy green-polka dotted dress and peach accessories, donned a ridiculous amount of make-up, lacquered my hair with atomic hairspray and danced Sevillan flamenco with 11 similarly dressed comrades in front of my school.It was fun. We took pictures. We took videos. We twirled. We drank pop. I got me some killa blisters.
Want to know how to dance Sevillanas? My favorite part goes, "delante, al lado, detrás, bom-bom, bom-bom." I also enjoy, "Detrás, al lado, arriba, bajamos y uno, dos, y tres. "
So now you all know how Sevillanas goes and you have no excuses to not dance with me upon my saucy return stateside.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Postin' 'n' Toastin'
It's amazing how much can happen between a Tuesday and a Sunday.
Aside from life's little (sometimes big) frustrations and loads of joy, an American national holiday has been celebrated, two excursions outside of Sevilla have been made, and what may be an exorbitant amount (or un montón) of photos has been taken.
I was not, however, flashed.
If you want to see pictures (there are lots...some of me even) you can go here and look at albums 17 (with 3 sub-albums) and 18.
http://s7.photobucket.com/albums/y292/ihaveaclevernickname/Espana/
After experiencing a thoroughly dampened Tuesday in Sevilla, Wednesday passed by innocuously enough, but then came Thursday, the day all you smug Americans in your snug America thought that you was gettin' you some turkey, but that I was not.
Incorrect my friends. Incorrect.
Not only did I have a Thanksgiving meal (for which I was thankful), and not only was there a football game (and yes, it was fútbol americano), but I also skipped about the ruins of a second-century Roman city and stayed out until 2:30 in the morning pretending to dance salsa in a Cuban club. Take that, tryptophanomaniacs.
I woke up Thursday, cursing the alarm, and took my usual quick, alternately hot (when the water is on) and freezing (when the water is not) shower, put on my face and my clothes, and ate breakfast while my cold toesies toasted underneath the table cloth which hides the little heating bulb which has fast become my most extreme appendages' best friend as Sevilla's hot climate has slid into the cool of fall.
Ellen and I walked through our familiar, somewhat soggy construction site surrounding our apartment building to our bus stop, coger-ed the 34 bus to school, and then coger-ed another bus to Italica, because in Spain, you take field trips to ancient ruins (not like 6th grade, when I took a field trip from which all I remember is a formaldehyde-preserved two-headed piglet in a jar...which I believe I heard was stolen at some point in recent history).
So my Día de Acción de Gracias began quite nicely as my schoolmates and I walked through the stone corredors of the gladitorial amphitheater, which gave my imagination a run for it's unpleasant money...to think of how many men were marched into the arena, nervous and determined, and then how many were carried out through the other side, defeated, dead, devoured for the sake of public entertainment, and then to think that there I was standing in the same spot where some guy with dark, Mediterranean eyes spurred his heels and took a final blow or bite while a crowd jeered and cheered at the fragility of his humanity...not to mention all those poor, fuzzy aminals...It all made me very thankful, that I am not in any danger (I hope) of being chucked into a ring of death.
Though, when I think about it, perhaps Italica wouldn't have been so bad. The city did have a pretty high-tech sewage system and fancy-pants statues and who-knows-what-else, because the majority of the city is still buried beneath the rolling Spanish countryside.
After our excursion, the majority of my classmates and I decided to Thanksgiving it up by coger-ing yet another bus, which took us to a park where, not only did I liberate a stranded crayfish, but we played football (and by "we" I mean "they played and I took pictures as if I were the proudest soccer mom in the world"). It rained a little, and the game went a little long (2.5 hours), and some weird Spanish guy watched everyone in amazement for a while, but it felt really homey to be sitting on uneven grass, soaking in the chill of the wind, and watching a bunch of Americans play a decidedly American game. Eric "Sin Huesos" DeVries even sprained his ankle, generously taking one for the team by enacting the Thanksgiving creed which states that someone needs to be injured before sundown.
Exhausted, I rode the long, long bus ride back home, talked to Mom and Dad, took an all-too-short nap, and arreglada-ed myself for the long awaited Thanksgiving dinner. Because we are all Americans, and because we have all been in a different country and culture for over three months, Acento arranged to give us a little bitty break by hiring a club to make us a traditional Thanksgiving meal, providing the ingredients and the recipes. It was nice to walk into Azucar de Cuba (Cuban Sugar) and see all of my classmates, dressed to the nines, and share communion with them. We watched a slideshow of photos accompanied by a lot of "aww"s (obligatory and genuine alike) and then we waited eagerly for our food. It was surreal; surreal because the food, though "traditional", had been prepared by a Spanish chef, and so was made with a Spanish understanding of a decidedly non-Spanish tradition. We had glazed turkey served on the bone, Spanish green beans, corn, really sweet sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and a cake-like piece of stuffing followed by a desert plate with carrot cake, pumpkin-pie flavored flan, and kind-of apple pie. It was so appropriate for study abroad group of Americans, not to mention so, so good.
After dinner we all mezcla-ed and chatted and took more pictures and exchanged Secret Santa gifts (or as the Spanish like to say amigo invisible gifts) and then the club opened to outsiders and the salsa-ing began. I thought I was all cool dancing with the Americans, and then I saw them, dancing in the corner, the actual Hispanic-Americans, the people who could apparently disconnect their hip bones at will. Ellen bravely danced with a Mexican who was causing all of us to stare in bewildered wonderment as he tossed around shimmying women and put them to shame with his latin-ness. As for myself, I danced with Alfredo, a very nice, bouncy man of undetermined nationality who was very encouraging as I stared blankly at the ground trying to figure out what the heck he was doing with his feet.
Then it was 2:30, so Ellen and I went to bed, because we usually say our goodnights at about 11:00.
Saturday, Ellen, Amy and I went to a pueblo in Andalusia to visit La Rábida, the monastery where Columbus and his son chilled for 6 years waiting for a thumbs up from Isabel. It was closed when we (finally) arrived at the door, so we walked around a park for a while, sniffing excitedly at the pine-fresh air. Once the doors opened, we entered, armed with nerdy electronic tour sets, and began wandering about, weaving in and out of an elderly English touring group. For me, the monastery in and of itself isn't much to see, but hearing the calm voice in my ear phones repeatedly mention how Columbus faithfully Christianized the indigenous peoples of the Americas actually made me giggle a few times. There is actually a room with dirt from all the American countries, including the USA, which makes me wonder: if I were to break that glass of the over-fancy box and put my hand in it, would I be on American soil?
La Rábida was on beautiful grounds, which I enjoyed more than the inside, but inside I was hit upside the face with a wonder that I have not experienced in much too long: silence. I was sitting in a pew in the sanctuary, staring at Amy, who was staring at the ground, when I suddenly tuned into some noisy birds outside. Birds. Nothing else. I could get used to that.
I look forward to that. I will be home in 18 days. It's so weird to me that people are counting down the days. Why?
And yes, I did have to explain to María that Thanksgiving and Independence Day are two entirely different holidays.
"Thanksgiving is the day you all won independence from the Indians, right?"
Aside from life's little (sometimes big) frustrations and loads of joy, an American national holiday has been celebrated, two excursions outside of Sevilla have been made, and what may be an exorbitant amount (or un montón) of photos has been taken.
I was not, however, flashed.
If you want to see pictures (there are lots...some of me even) you can go here and look at albums 17 (with 3 sub-albums) and 18.
http://s7.photobucket.com/albums/y292/ihaveaclevernickname/Espana/
After experiencing a thoroughly dampened Tuesday in Sevilla, Wednesday passed by innocuously enough, but then came Thursday, the day all you smug Americans in your snug America thought that you was gettin' you some turkey, but that I was not.
Incorrect my friends. Incorrect.
Not only did I have a Thanksgiving meal (for which I was thankful), and not only was there a football game (and yes, it was fútbol americano), but I also skipped about the ruins of a second-century Roman city and stayed out until 2:30 in the morning pretending to dance salsa in a Cuban club. Take that, tryptophanomaniacs.
I woke up Thursday, cursing the alarm, and took my usual quick, alternately hot (when the water is on) and freezing (when the water is not) shower, put on my face and my clothes, and ate breakfast while my cold toesies toasted underneath the table cloth which hides the little heating bulb which has fast become my most extreme appendages' best friend as Sevilla's hot climate has slid into the cool of fall.
Ellen and I walked through our familiar, somewhat soggy construction site surrounding our apartment building to our bus stop, coger-ed the 34 bus to school, and then coger-ed another bus to Italica, because in Spain, you take field trips to ancient ruins (not like 6th grade, when I took a field trip from which all I remember is a formaldehyde-preserved two-headed piglet in a jar...which I believe I heard was stolen at some point in recent history).
So my Día de Acción de Gracias began quite nicely as my schoolmates and I walked through the stone corredors of the gladitorial amphitheater, which gave my imagination a run for it's unpleasant money...to think of how many men were marched into the arena, nervous and determined, and then how many were carried out through the other side, defeated, dead, devoured for the sake of public entertainment, and then to think that there I was standing in the same spot where some guy with dark, Mediterranean eyes spurred his heels and took a final blow or bite while a crowd jeered and cheered at the fragility of his humanity...not to mention all those poor, fuzzy aminals...It all made me very thankful, that I am not in any danger (I hope) of being chucked into a ring of death.
Though, when I think about it, perhaps Italica wouldn't have been so bad. The city did have a pretty high-tech sewage system and fancy-pants statues and who-knows-what-else, because the majority of the city is still buried beneath the rolling Spanish countryside.
After our excursion, the majority of my classmates and I decided to Thanksgiving it up by coger-ing yet another bus, which took us to a park where, not only did I liberate a stranded crayfish, but we played football (and by "we" I mean "they played and I took pictures as if I were the proudest soccer mom in the world"). It rained a little, and the game went a little long (2.5 hours), and some weird Spanish guy watched everyone in amazement for a while, but it felt really homey to be sitting on uneven grass, soaking in the chill of the wind, and watching a bunch of Americans play a decidedly American game. Eric "Sin Huesos" DeVries even sprained his ankle, generously taking one for the team by enacting the Thanksgiving creed which states that someone needs to be injured before sundown.
Exhausted, I rode the long, long bus ride back home, talked to Mom and Dad, took an all-too-short nap, and arreglada-ed myself for the long awaited Thanksgiving dinner. Because we are all Americans, and because we have all been in a different country and culture for over three months, Acento arranged to give us a little bitty break by hiring a club to make us a traditional Thanksgiving meal, providing the ingredients and the recipes. It was nice to walk into Azucar de Cuba (Cuban Sugar) and see all of my classmates, dressed to the nines, and share communion with them. We watched a slideshow of photos accompanied by a lot of "aww"s (obligatory and genuine alike) and then we waited eagerly for our food. It was surreal; surreal because the food, though "traditional", had been prepared by a Spanish chef, and so was made with a Spanish understanding of a decidedly non-Spanish tradition. We had glazed turkey served on the bone, Spanish green beans, corn, really sweet sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and a cake-like piece of stuffing followed by a desert plate with carrot cake, pumpkin-pie flavored flan, and kind-of apple pie. It was so appropriate for study abroad group of Americans, not to mention so, so good.
After dinner we all mezcla-ed and chatted and took more pictures and exchanged Secret Santa gifts (or as the Spanish like to say amigo invisible gifts) and then the club opened to outsiders and the salsa-ing began. I thought I was all cool dancing with the Americans, and then I saw them, dancing in the corner, the actual Hispanic-Americans, the people who could apparently disconnect their hip bones at will. Ellen bravely danced with a Mexican who was causing all of us to stare in bewildered wonderment as he tossed around shimmying women and put them to shame with his latin-ness. As for myself, I danced with Alfredo, a very nice, bouncy man of undetermined nationality who was very encouraging as I stared blankly at the ground trying to figure out what the heck he was doing with his feet.
Then it was 2:30, so Ellen and I went to bed, because we usually say our goodnights at about 11:00.
Saturday, Ellen, Amy and I went to a pueblo in Andalusia to visit La Rábida, the monastery where Columbus and his son chilled for 6 years waiting for a thumbs up from Isabel. It was closed when we (finally) arrived at the door, so we walked around a park for a while, sniffing excitedly at the pine-fresh air. Once the doors opened, we entered, armed with nerdy electronic tour sets, and began wandering about, weaving in and out of an elderly English touring group. For me, the monastery in and of itself isn't much to see, but hearing the calm voice in my ear phones repeatedly mention how Columbus faithfully Christianized the indigenous peoples of the Americas actually made me giggle a few times. There is actually a room with dirt from all the American countries, including the USA, which makes me wonder: if I were to break that glass of the over-fancy box and put my hand in it, would I be on American soil?
La Rábida was on beautiful grounds, which I enjoyed more than the inside, but inside I was hit upside the face with a wonder that I have not experienced in much too long: silence. I was sitting in a pew in the sanctuary, staring at Amy, who was staring at the ground, when I suddenly tuned into some noisy birds outside. Birds. Nothing else. I could get used to that.
I look forward to that. I will be home in 18 days. It's so weird to me that people are counting down the days. Why?
And yes, I did have to explain to María that Thanksgiving and Independence Day are two entirely different holidays.
"Thanksgiving is the day you all won independence from the Indians, right?"
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