Growing up...Moving on.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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?"

It never rains in Sevilla, but man...

...after a month of total dryness, it pours and reveals how poorly constructed the city's sidewalk and streets are as the water sits in dips creating 2 feet wide puddles six-inches deep that one must walk through to get to the bus stop.

I really haven't had much to post about lately that I've felt like spilling out onto the world wide web.

I am finally better and went to the gym yesterday.

This week our school is having Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant that is specially preparing a traditional Thanksgiving meal (for some reason the teachers think carrot cake is traditional, but I won't argue). And like most of you, I don't have school Thursday or Friday, so stop feeling smug.

The boyfriend of one of the girls in the program is visiting and he proposed Friday.

I miss you all.

Responsal Haikus to Mom

To understand this you will have had to have read the previous post.
I cannot even imagine one can say that sentence in Spanish.

Mom,

A:

"Tyler wins.
No ride from airport-
Fun walk home."

Sammy must walk home?
Daughter lost in Chicago-
No Spanish presents

B:

"oh,oh,our mistake
good haiku 5-7-5
what were you thinking?"

Looked it up online
Incorrect Information
Cleverness thwarted

The REAL Post

Hardy har-har guys. I hate you all. Picking on a poor, stressed girl for accidentally clicking the wrong button and publishing her notes for her next post.

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

And now that this post won't be a surprise to any of you, why even bother? Oh well.

As you know I returned home from London rockin' a nasty cough and swollen nodes. As fashionable, and elegant as it may have been to cough up globs of phlegm, it has been unpleasant and I am still not entirely better. I am well on my way, but oy, I'm tired of blowing my nose and gagging in the morning (aside from brushing my teeth).

I have company though. I have company in the form of the mysterious stranger who lives in the apartment above us who I hear performing a variety of bodily functions every morning and throughout the day. The poor man's forte appears to be smoker's cough (to which the majority of the population here is well on its way). Any time I'm in the bathroom I may be startled by a loud burst of moistened hacking. I feel so badly for him.

If I didn't think smoking was an addictive, pointless waste of money and quality of life at the expense of other people's respiratory tracts before, that man has scared me straight. That and the video I watched in high school where the man's broken voice gurgled out of the hole in this throat and made me gag...like most things.

Sorry if that seems harsh, I've just been downwind, or right next to, or forced to move because of smokers so many times here and I have always been paranoid about/felt suffocated by cigarette smoke. Por ejemplo, last week, there was a time when I couldn't breath at all because I was really sick and out of breath from running to catch the bus. I walked down the street, straining to catch a good breath of air, but everywhere I turned, I would start to deeply inhale toxic fumes which my lungs would then reject, causing me to start hacking demurely and approach an asthma attack threshold.

Not fun. Don't smoke.

On a lighter, healthier note, I know I spend a lot of blog time being boggled by María's lack of short/long term memory, and although today, during lunch, she asked me for the 10th time what exams I had this week, asked for at least the 10th time why Ellen doesn't have the same number of exams as me, and she has been repeatedly and adamantly denying the sacredly held belief that I have red hair (don't ask me why; no, I don't know what other color it would be, and yes, I do find it a little upsetting...Steph will understand), I think it's high time I gave María the props she deserves for being a fantastic Madre Española:

1. María spends her day in the house wearing her nightie, but whenever she goes out, even if it's for 15 minutes, María gets really excited, gets totally arreglada-ed (done-up) and often comes and talks to us, calling us pet names and describing excitedly what she's going to go do that day or who she's going to see that night. She dons this little satisfied smile on her face--and I actually think one of my photobucket photos demonstrates it quite nicely, if memory serves--and when she returns, she always tells us with equal excitement what she heard about this-and-that or so-and-so. So cute.

2. This is selfish, but I like María because María really likes us. She really likes us. She calls us "hijas" and she's always telling people what good girls we are and she wants Cam to live with her next year, because if we say Cam is a good girl then she must be a good girl. She's always complementing us and she always wants to know about our days or what's going on in lives (no matter how many times we have to say it). To illustrate, whenever I talk to Tyler she says something akin to, "You talked to your--your boyfriend, your love today, no?...."What's up with you two? How is he?"..."How long did you talk?"..."2 hours? Oy-yoy-yoy-yoy-yoy, believe it, listen, 2 hours! Look, chiquita, believe it"..."Ah, love. How nice. You miss your boyfriend. Talking for 2 hours. Oy, chiquita." Ellen is probably vividly imagining this interchange as she reads it, though it doesn't possess quite the same tone in English.

3. I think it also reflects quite well on María just how hard it is to make her mad. When the upstairs neighbor's washing machine broke and it flooded our apartment, she wasn't cranky at all. She was industrious, yes, but not angry. All she kept saying was, "Oh, pobres, this is the 5th time this has happened, the pobres. They thought they had it fixed. Oh, the pobres. They can't help it. It's not their fault." And although she has a prominent tendency to declare whether or not people are decidedly ugly or pretty, whenever she talks about her friends, you can tell that she really cares about them. She talks to several people on the phone every day and is always telling us about her extended family, which may or may not be massive. She talks about what they do, and even if something bad happens, she never seems upset by it, she just tucks it under her wing and keeps going, never crying over the spilt milk of life. She just says she'll make a special errand to mass and pray for people.

Finally, in summation, in conclusion, fourthly (I know how you like that Mom), I like María and as I hear more and more about others' señoras, I feel more and more blessed to have such a good relationship with her. I've heard stories of señoras threatening to cut a girl's hair because she was shedding too much, or a señora telling girls they will never get husbands because they can't make their beds properly, or a señora harping on one roommate to the other. I know confidently that María would never do anything like that. I like knowing that.

I also like knowing that María likes it when the older construction workers call her 'guapa'.

A particularly aggresive construction worker around our building is very excited that I'm a redhead while another was so loud and obnoxious yesterday that I accidently started laughing. Not a good idea.

You know what? I was going to vent in this post about a lot of frustrations I have been experiencing lately: feeling like I haven't done anything with my time here, like my Spanish isn't mejorar-ing, etc., but I don't think this is the post for that. I think it's more important to seize this final month (and a month exactly from today it is).

However, there is a small tale from Oxford that I forgot to tell (Ellen, you will not want to read this last part, like bullfighting-presentation not want).

When Kelsey and I strolled throught the covered market in Oxford, someone walked by me and I backed up to let them through, my hand brushing a strange texture as I shifted. I turned around and peered upwards, only to see two hooves strung together from which dangled the tawny corpse of a barely-doe/almost-fawn...bluntly decapitated, in all its horrifying lifelessness.
I very soon after left the covered market, not feeling too well.

Anyway, two presentations and three exams down...one to go. I'm hoping to kick Zurbarán, Murillo, and Velasquéz in the face.

Hope everything is going well, and in parting, here is a real haiku for Mom:

"Stole your thought?
I do not read minds.
Tyler wins"

Points for creativity though!

the deer in Oxford

María told me I don't have red hair

The man next door terrifies me.

what I like about maría
excitedness to go out
she really likes us
excitedness for our lives
the way she doesn't judge or get angry at people.


recent frustrations with being here

Sidenote to Previous Post

Friends, you are misled. You seem to have the impression that María thinks I'm sick because I go about my day with wet hair. Not correct. María thinks I'm sick because I shower in the morning and get my hair wet. Period.

Also, all of my vacation pics are up. It's a chore to get through all the organization in my account to get there, so here is the link:

http://s7.photobucket.com/albums/y292/ihaveaclevernickname/Espana/16%20Vacaciones/

Back to Life, Back to Reality, Back to the Present Time

Judging by the fashion on the street, the present time might be the 80's or early 90's, when that song was actually popular?

It seems to me that the way the world dives right back into business after a vacation is quite, quite cruel. One comes back from vacation with all sorts of resolutions and ideas for bettering oneself, making more time for prayer and connecting with friends, when suddenly, one is sick, incapable of speaking above a whisper, and buckling down for the 2 presentations and 4 exams that are about to take her under in the next week.

Not that I have anyone in mind.

Being sick has impeded my reentrance into the swing of things in Spain a bit. The day I missed school, I woke up gagging phlegm and decided to take my risks with María's home remedies in leu of hacking up bits of greenish-brown ooze in front of my classmates.


According to María, causes of my illness include:

1. Walking around barefoot (always a classic).
2. Having slept with the window open a crack.
3. Having wet hair in the morning.
4. Sitting on a cold floor
5. Drinking cold water.

Among other things, I was told to wear a scarf and not exercise because sweating would prolong the illness. She also told me that I'm not that sick, because my face isn't "that bad."

Well, what gives if your lymph nodes are roughly the size of kiwis, you start gagging uncontrollably every time you cough, and you are choked with pain every time you swallow something? Meh, who cares? Your face is fine.

What do doctors tell people here?

Oh María, she's so nice and matter-of-fact and insistent all at once. There are just so many Spanish medical superstitions that I cannot comprehend...

When I was well enough to go to school, I was amazed by how everyone had A) noticed I was gone, B) actually wanted to know how I was, C) looked really sympathetic when voice squeaked out of my vocal chords, which were probably being squashed by my ginormous lymph nodes.

I don't even know if the lymph nodes are in your throat. It was some sort of gland or node or round thing that I could feel protuding beyond it's natural size beneath the skin of my neck.

Perhaps a small guinea pig. Or a salamander.

Even my history teacher quieted the entire chattering class with, "Quiet! Quiet! She's going to speak! Samantha is going to say something!" Then as everyone turned to watch me intently, all I could do was laugh almost silently with small, raspy squeaks.

It was like I was Ellen.

Anyway, I'm feeling mostly better now. And lucky me, I need to research for my history presentation. It's the day before my history test. Awesome!

I have French techno stuck in my head, thank you very much Amanda Allen.

PS. Last night, Ellen and I had "roommate night" which, apparently was just a set up for "Tyler's anniversary surprise night (via Ellen in Tyler's absence)", during which I received a pedicure and Mexican food. It seems everyone in school knew about it but me, and the pedicurist continually remarked that I have a very good boyfriend.

I might agree with that.

Vacaciones, Por Fin.

Good eve, ladies and gents, boys and girls, johns and janes, nuns and monks, I have returned to my piso (apartment in Spain) at long last after a week of walking, speaking English, being flashed, thoroughly not enjoying my first beer, being bewildered by the beauty of England's countryside, developing a large foot bruise, and experiencing the general flavors of Dublin, Oxford, and London.

In hindsight, apparently London's flavor includes a hearty cough. I didn't go to school today. María took my temperature with my armpit and made me gargle something which I ended up spitting all over the mirror after it triggered my gag reflex.

Anyway, detailed below is a day by day account, and I warn you, it is not for the faint-hearted or time-weary blog traveler, as it is bound to be extremely long.

Maybe you should read it in chunks. With a cup of coffee.

On Saturday after my obligatory period of being lost on the way to the airport bus stop, Kelsey and I wheeled our way to the airport and winged our way to Dublin, Ireland. As we flew in over the island, my worries left me and I became certain that I was going to enjoy myself. After two months in the dry, somewhat grass-less climate of Andalusia, I felt excessively giddy at the sight of the herds of woolly sheep bounding across their pastures in the rolling hills dotted with clusters of vibrantly-colored deciduous forest. All I needed was a blanket, a cat, and a fire.

Ireland is Wisconsin on steroids.

After standing around and sniffing wondrously at the autumn breeze like intrigued hound dogs for a while, Kelsey and I found a bus to take us into the city where we promptly found ourselves lost and headed in the opposite direction of the hostel. Luckily, I have no shame as I am often lost, and I unabashedly asked a kindly gent who pointed us in the correct direction. We soon found ourselves standing at the mouth of a sketchy, dark, cobble-stoned alleyway where, somewhat unfortunately, there hung a banner: "Litton Lane Hostel". Home. We walked in through the chiming door, peered wearily at the penis cartoon and the pierced, but smiling girl behind the counter and began our check-in as we listened to some slightly psychedelic hard-rock in the background. Then I lugged my entirely impractical, almost necessary 15 kilo luggage up the stairs and walked into our room, where Silent Woman was sleeping. Silent Woman was snoring and none-too-pleased to be disturbed, so Kelsey and I headed out into the brisk air and onto St. Steven's Green, which may be the most beautiful park in the western hemisphere.

My objectivity may be clouded by the presence of the first ducks I had seen since Wisconsin.

After I cooed like an idiot at water fowl for a sufficient amount of time, Kelsey and I headed back to Litton Lane and once more entered our hostel room, now occupied by Tania Lili, an inquisitive 21-year-old from Mexico City. Later I would meet Yanna from Germany, Miriam from Sardinia, Angry Sleeping Woman from Barcelona, and Francine from Brazil. For now though, Tania, Kelsey, and I headed toward the cobble-stoned Temple Bar neighborhood (decked out for Halloween), sat down at a Pub and drank our respective Irish pints o' Guinness.

Not a good first beer to have, my friends.

Then we went to bed. And it was so, the first day.

Sunday arrived soon enough, and while God was taking his Sabbath, Kelsey and I headed in a general direction toward Kilmainham Gaol, a name I can only spell because I retained the ticked stub. If memory serves, we only managed to lose our way 2 or 3 times and we arrived a great deal later than anticipated, but we arrived nonetheless and took a tour of this Irish jail which was used to house lots o' Irish prisoners, especially executees (like that?) from the Easter Uprising. It was not as interesting as we had been told it would be. Then again, we were tired from getting lost 2 or 3 times. We did, however, get to hear an authentic Irish woman refer to the potato famine, so perhaps that in-and-of-itself was worth the 5€.

Not that the potato famine is something to be excited about.

We then set out to find lunch, excited to be able to eat whenever we wanted. We made sure to pass the Guinness plant on our way home, which, by the way, emits a gag-worthy (and I mean gag-worthy) vomit-ish smell, and of course, we managed to get lost (only once) on the way home. When we finally found our neighborhood, we wound up eating at the same time I would have eaten in Spain. Foiled.

We decided we wanted to revisit St. Steven's Green as the previous day's visit had been cut very short by the park's closing. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, whilst on our merry way, the merry day decided to rain. We ran into Starbucks, apparent haven for all dry ground seekers, and sat down with a hot cup of coffee. We were talking, minding our business well enough, considering melting a white chocolate truffle in our mugs, when three Israeli men sat next to us and inquired as to what there was to see in Dublin. It was then that Kelsey and I realized that the answer to their question was, "Not much." So instead of doing anything, we all watched the rain together and, before parting ways, decided to meet up again to go to a pub later that night.

In the interim, the rain stopped and Kelsey and I walked to St. Steven's Green, where, as appears to be my theme crime in Europe, I was flashed. I managed to give a safe thumbs down to my would be assailant, warned a family to tarry in their visit to that area of the park, and found a police officer (there were a lot of children in that park) who confusedly thought I was a Norwegian...with a Spanish phone number...from the United states.

Later that night, after scraping our visual memories with a pumice stone, Kelsey and I walked to temple bar, ate cheaply (and were miraculously identified as Americans by our accents according to the sleuth behind the fastfood counter), saw the Ghostbusters, 3 out of 4 Teletubbies and many, many women who must have been very, very cold, and headed into a lively pub, hell-bent on talking to strangers. As I walked up to the bar to round up a couple of ciders, I was immediately successful, as two 40-somethings struck up an awkward, somewhat one-sided conversation, which included an unwelcome joke insinuating that my boyfriend was cheating on me (seriously, why do people think that joke is funny?).

"You've a boyfriend here?"
"I've a boyfriend in the United States."
"Is that really the same?"
"It is to me."
"Ahh, so you trust him while you're away?"
"Sure do."
"I wouldn't, Bahahahaha!"

Hilarious.

They were nice anyway. Kelsey and I managed a narrow escape, settled near a ledge and soon discovered the wonders of body language. We were facing each other, talking, when I suggested we turn out slightly to give the impression that we were open to discussion. We did, and immediately were approached by Peter from Belgium and my friend, Gavin from Wales who is 27 and divorced with 5 kids and one on the way. After a lengthy ex-wife discussion, Gavin insistently predicted that I will be married to Tyler and have a "little girl" within two years' time.

We bid adieu to our happily buzzed acquaintances, and headed over to meet the Israelis (Matin, Moses, and Roi), getting lost (sensing a theme?), but fortunately running into them on the way. A Gingerbread man, a Chicken, a Gorilla, and more cold women later, we were at another pub, drinking Coronas (I know, I know, Mexican water) and discussing Jewish culture, families, significant others, studies, and anything else under the sun. All in all, it was a very nice night, and Kelsey and I slept soundly.

I never did get a buzz. But there was morning, and there was evening, the second day, my favorite day of the trip.

The third day, Monday entailed an early wake-up call, and getting lost on the way to the bus stop, as a marathon had changed the city around. We caught a bus to the Dublin airport, an avión to London Stansted, a bus to London Victoria, and then a bus to Oxford, where we arrived two hours ahead of schedule, and I with no way to contact or find my Amanda. After about a half-hour, I was kicked into the cold by the closing coffee shop in which I had found refuge and chai tea. After about an hour, and several numb fingers later, Kelsey having left with her host, I struck up a conversation with a nice, elderly English woman named Rose. And after two hours, I began to wonder where Amanda was. She arrived at 7:40, 40 minutes after I had expected to see her, 2 hours and 45 minutes after I had arrived in Oxford, and directly after I had sent one worrisome text to Ty and directly after I had made one worrisome call to my Mom wondering what on earth I was going to do. There had been a little miscommunication betwixt Amanda and I. Still feel bad about that. But the wait just made me all the more relieved to see her.

Amanda and I hurried onto my intended hosts (half because it was late, half because it was real cold and we wanted central heating real bad), the Kinghorns. Upon entering, we found that a very timid, but very nice Mrs. Kinghorn expected me to be in by 10:30 or 11:00 in order for her to unlock the door and let me into the house. Amanda and I exchanged a few meaningful glances, thanked Mrs. Kinghorn, and skedaddled on back to Amanda's house, Crick, at which point I began discussing finding a hostel after all, as the likelihood of me getting to bed at 11:00 on any given night was slim to none. That night, and the following nights, I ended up sleeping at Crick, unwittingly inciting a great deal of discomfort that I will not go into here. In hindsight, I should have just found a hostel. But there I was, the third day

After a night of speaking Spanish in my sleep, Tuesday morning arrived, and I took my sweet time waking up to greet it. Eventually, I found the ganas to get up and get on with it, and headed out the door to meet Kelsey. We wandered for a while, ate a couple of sorely missed pastries, and then met Amanda at the biggest bookstore in England (it would be in Oxford). We three set out to tea at some sort of function with Amanda's school on Frewin Court (love the name) that I still don't quite understand. What I did understand perfectly was the smorgasbord of pastries (donuts, cream puffs with fudge frosting, cheese puffs without fudge frosting, and God's gracious gift to humanity: bonafee) which all too quickly and happily jumped into my mouth, down my esophagus, and into my eagerly waiting tum-tum.

As I digested, Amanda and I took a turn in the parks where some friendly ducks greeted me by the creek, expecting food. Finding I had none, my company was quickly ignored, but the memory of ducks spotting me and then eagerly waddling toward me is still a slice of a dream come true.

We then went to an impactful evensong (getting lost on the way, or at least turned around) at Christ Church Cathedral. I had been so long since I had been able to worship in my own language. I needed it.

That night, however, in order to reverse any positive evensong effects, it was necessary for Kelsey, Amanda, Stephanie, and I to doll ourselves up and go Euroclubbing at the Bridge, a trendy night spot in Oxford. It was everything I had ever imagined: like an 8th grade dance with alcohol. There were smoky, multi-colored lights, eardrum blastin' beats, a beer-soaked dance floor, short skirts, and stiletto heals, one of which stomped my stiletto-clad foot in a particularly painful moment and only yesterday did I pay enough attention to my poor foot to notice what must have previously been a huge, dark bruise. Oh yes, it was everything I hoped it would be, and I enjoyed myself, though I don't know that I need to repeat the experience. And there was morning and evening. The third day.

Tired and sweaty, Amanda, Kelsey, and I returned to Crick, where I promptly cuddled up in my blankets and slept quite, quite well. Wednesday woke me with the promise of cream tea. It was delicious and I can almost taste that creamy biscuit-y scone now, but unfortunately, Kelsey misunderstood our meeting place and waited for a half-hour before giving up and wandering about until I found her and treated her to tea for her efforts. The waitress did not remember me. Later that night, after an improvised, succulent dinner, Amanda and I went to see a ballet, The Snow Queen, performed by the English National Ballet. It was beautiful and impressive and so warm that I caved to concessions and paid the equivalent of $5 for a dinky cup of ice cream. Strawberry ice cream....mmmm. It was good. The fourth day.

One lost glove, one night of comfortable sleep, and a train later, Amanda and I were setting out to enjoy Thursday in London. Following a great deal of effort and Underground transportation, we lugged my things to my hostel, and met a patiently waiting Ross two hours later than intended. We did not, however, get lost. We ate an amazingly delicious meal of Tandoori Indian food and then navigated our way to the theater where we watched Spamalot in London's West End, enjoying such ditties as "You Won't Succeed on Broadway (If You Don't Have Any Jews)". On our way back to my hostel, we decided to pick up some ice cream, which we then enjoyed on the tube, which is always very warm. This ice cream, however, did not cost the equivalent of $5.

It was, in fact, from McDonald's, but I felt no shame, as a £1 McFlurry is, in reality, a $2 McFlurry.

I then walked up the quiet stairs to my hostel room. Due to limited space and arrangement options, I had had to pay for a double room, but was the only person sleeping there. Totally worth it. I slept so well that fifth day.

Friday arrived soon enough, and after having done a tolerable job of avoiding sight-seeing, I joined Kelsey, and a few other friends we had met in London, in a jaunt to the Tower of London, where we had a fantastic Yeoman/Beefeater guide who informed me that I was a regular Elizabeth I and where I almost bought the do-it-yourself paper executioner's model kit that allows you to cut off the paper victim's head.

After seeing all the sights I could see there, there were other sights to be seen that I didn't particularly care to see, including: the Globe Theater, St. Paul's Cathedral (where Mary Poppins herself sang "feed the birds" and where there is now a sign insisting that one oughtn't do such a thing for the sake of public health and building conservation), Abbey Road, and Trafalgar Square.

Perhaps I should clarify that it's not that I had no interest in these places. I just am not a sight-see...er. I would prefer to stay in one place and soak it in, as sometimes sight-seeing becomes a mad dash at navigating the Underground in an effort to cram in every historical marker on the map.

I ended up wandering off somewhere near the West End and meeting everyone later.

Once we all returned to the Hostel (Journey's Waterloo), there was much relaxing and melting into sofas to be done. My ankles and knees experienced a good deal of discomfort after 9-12 hours of daily walking and so I plopped down on a chair and was soaking in the nothingness that I was doing as I watched a British sitcom apparently aimed at reinforcing the stereotype that Americans are imbeciles with no known functioning logic, when I struck up a conversation with Robert from England who told me that my hair color only exists in Scotland and that, therefore, I must be Scottish, an idea that differs only slightly from the general sentiment in America which dictates that, due to my hair color, I must be Irish.

So ha, we aren't so different, are we, British people? Eat that. Eat that on the seventh day.

Then I went to bed and became ill.

Illness, however, could not stop Saturday's arrival. By now, Ireland seemed like a time buried in the past. Yet there we were just 8 days later and there was only one more item on our agenda before heading home: A picnic on the green of Hyde Park consisting of...McDonald's...because none of us had money anymore.

After eating and making fun of pigeons and seagulls like we were the top of 6th grade's social food chain, we set off to the airport in hopes that we could rest our tired bones during the three hour flight. Alas, I had all too soon forgotten that a Spanish plane is not much like any other plane one can experience. Whereas a plane full of British people is generally quiet and relaxed, a Spanish plane is talkative and disruptive and generally filled with lots of gestures and loud voices. As, unlike the majority of western Europe, Spaniards generally do not speak English, whenever the pilot or flight attendants made an effort to say something, the noise in the cabin would undergo a dramatic crescendo, maintaining the volume for some time afterward.

But the flight finally ended, we descended the stairs into the warm Andalusian air and sauntered Spanishly into the airport where the 60-year-old Spanish passport officer did his civic duty in informing me that I am "muy guapa" and I had a surprise waiting for me just the other side of the exit doors, where Ellen was standing with a bouquet of flowers on behalf of Tyler, celebrating our 1 year anniversary. Go ahead and say it, I'll wait: Awww.

And then I coger-ed the bus back into Seville that eighth day, learning along the way that the metro system had changed during vacation. Oh dear.

But I made it back, and had a great vacation, and all is well, except for me, of course. I'm sick.

But there is good news for those of you who have actually made it this far. My recounting of my adventure within my adventure is finished.

I hope all is well! I look forward to hearing from you brave blog readers!

María and Venting Within a Historical Context

There are three days until I wing my way to Dublin. Can we chew on this for a moment? It's like the redhead capital of the world (except Scotland has more). Jealous Steph? Jealous? By the way Steph, School is not over by any means. We are halfway done. It's my week-long midterm break. I will spend two days in Dublin, three in Oxford, and 1.5 in London. And they will speak my language.

Moments with María, episode 2:

We are sitting at dinner. The meal is winding down. Ellen breaks apart a piece of bread (like Jesus, aww) and hands me half. I start chewing.

A few seconds later:
María (to me): Eat bread.
Me (with mouth full): What?
María: You never eat any bread.
Me (with mouth full): Yes I do. I eat some at every meal and...
María (interrupting): No you don't. Ellen likes bread more than you. You don't like bread. Eat bread.
Me (with mouth full): I'm eating some right...
María (interrupting): You never eat bread. Eat bread.
Me (with mouth full): There's bread in m...
María (interupting): No...
Me: (at this point, I actually open my mouth and just show her the half eaten piece of bread in my mouth)
María: Oh. Ellen eats more bread than you.

What's more, is that during that meal, I ate two-and-a-half pieces of bread. Ellen ate one-half.

This conversation demonstrates two integral parts of the Spanish/María mindset:

1) Comparisons-Spanish culture is the antithesis of politically correct. María likes to demonstrate her feelings about things by comparing Ellen and I, without any context of the past; that is, she only takes into consideration what is happening right in front of her, without awareness that A) the things compared have no cause-effect relationship or B) they are not normal occurances. Examples include:
"Ellen eats more and is thinner than you."-if Ellen is especially hungry that day
"Ellen likes chocolate, you don't"-if I only eat one piece of chocolate for dessert
"Ellen likes kids, but you hate them"-as Ellen helps at a kids' shelter for a class, and I am not in that class.
"Ellen likes to go places. Why do you always stay at home?"-if Ellen leaves once, and I have to stay and do something else. Etc.
"Samantha always likes to be more done-up than you."-not taking into account that I shower daily and have different hair than Ellen (among other things)
"You're trying to be anorexic."-if one of us is "not" eating very much

These examples also help demonstrate the second point of our interaction with María:
2) The Preoperational Stage of Cognitive Development according to Piaget- Wikipedia (Patron Saint of College Students) states that "The hallmark of the preoperational stage is sparse and logically inadequate mental operations" and that it usually characterizes children "between 2–7 years of age". Children is this stage of development make a common logical error in not only being unable to make logical connections or assumptions by padding observance with context (as demonstrated by María's generalized comparisons drawn from specific and unsual instances), but also in truly, truly believing that if they don't say that it happened, or if they didn't personally witness its occurance, that it did not happen and there will be no way you can convince them otherwise.

This was the problem with María forcing us to eat too much. She wouldn't pay attention to how much food we were taking at a time, or how many portions we were eating. Then, when we were full, she would refuse to believe us when we said how much we had actually eaten, because she did not personally witness it. When she would pay attention she would compliment us on how much we ate, even though we've always eaten pretty constant portions.

However, I think it should be said that I do not think that María has the mental processing of a 5-year-old. María is, I'm sure, one of the best Señoras the program has. She is generous and kind and usually patient and totally understanding and sympathetic. All I'm saying is that there is this one really befuddling part of her logic that Ellen and I cannot understand, but run into often, so we must approximate it and compare it and accept it (and sometimes be frustrated by it). She has been a widow for at least 10 years, and has been taking in American girls for that amount of time as well. I get the impression that most of the girls (at least the more recent pairs) she has mothered did not speak as well as Ellen or me. So she may not be used to having people refute what she is saying. Heck, I know I did a lot of smiling and nodding and agreeing to God-knows-what at the beginning of the semester when I couldn't understand a cotton-pickin' thing she was saying.

Anyway, I hope what I said doesn't come across as snotty or arrogant. That isn't my intention. I'm just trying to give a comparison for people to understand what I run into in my surroundings here. And since most people don't live with possibly-elderly-but-unidentifiably-aged Spanish women, I don't think just saying what I experience really conveys the experience.

Wow. That was lengthy. Sorry.

I do believe, however, that just saying how angry my history test made me, will correctly convey the sentiment. I received a B. Yes, a B is a fine mark. But I did not deserve a B. And what the woman expects from a class of 26 second-language students is absolutely irrational. Knowing how her tests are, I studied for 6 hours for this exam, outlining everything and making sure it was solid in my head. In 50 minutes, we had to answer two long essays, one "medium" essay, and two short answer questions. One of the long essay questions was this: "Explain the medieval city: characteristics, society structure and heirarchy, political organization (this would include everything we knew about the nobility). Talk about artisans and the organization and function of guilds" The medium ditty went something like this: "The Medieval lower class: explain groups and characteristics (there are four distinct groups with long explanations)". In reality, I was answering 3 long essay questions, in my second language, in 50 minutes, and she claimed with all certainty that we obviously didn't study because our answers didn't have enough explanation or detail. I can honestly, honestly say that if my answers didn't have enough explanation, it was not because I did not know the information. It was because I was trying to write at the speed of light so that I could at least answer every question to some point of completion. I was exploding internally while she was talking. I continue to. Are these feelings not valid?

I know I'm overreacting, but it just seems so unreasonable.

On the bright side, we didn't have any tests yesterday. And we learned all the arm movements to all the passes of Sevillanas. Apparently, I'm not very coordinated, but I did get candy out of the deal.

And today, José María giggled like a school girl, so really, the world is all roses.

"This Week: An Autobiographical Tale" by Samantha Olson (author of the hit post "Holy Toledo")

Hey look! I'm a real post! Possibly a real, long post.

I did finally make it through those exams. It's not that they were especially hard, just not placed at an especially good time during the week, and, well, trying to explain, in Spanish, the entire system of a city in medieval Spain or illuminating a painting by El Greco in a very limited amount of time while trying to use accurate grammar and still have legible handwriting can be both difficult and stressful.

After all this mental Hell has broken loose, my weekend has flown by and it's harder and harder to believe (yet more and more a dominating thought) that in less than a week I will be in Dublin, then Oxford, then England. Planning things has never been my forté, and as a certain English bus service continues to reject my credit cards, I'm a little bummed at the prospect of tying up all sorts of loose ends this week before I embark on a journey to the land of A) autumn and B) unabashedly-pasty redheads like me.

I am especially looking forward to wearing a coat and scarf and gloves. I even put them all on this morning while I was organizing my things, just because I fancied the idea. It continues to be unseasonably warm in Seville. Though the calendar continues to insist that it is, indeed, late October, the thermometer continues to carry on with this absurd idea that it is 83° and I find it perfectly disgusting, which, unfortunately, Ellen is entirely aware of as I am constantly noting that it is still very warm and that I do not like it one bit.

I continue to be easily irked with María. I do not like being impatient nor irritated, but I continue to let things push at my buttons. Ellen and I have some trouble understanding her thought processes as there are certain things concerning which we remember having had lengthy, thorough conversations, of which she never seems to have any recollection She also asks the same question several times after it's been answered clearly and emphatically. I know part of this owes to our accents, but sometimes it's just mind-boggling.

We have; however, subir-ed our way up the affectionate nickname ladder to the top tier or "niña" (and by "niña" I mean "hija"). Ellen and I are feeling pretty self-satisfied about that.

Speaking of Ellen and I being self-satisfied: we joined a gym. That's right, I shelled out €66 for two months at a gym really far away, because, to me, it's worth it. They even have a jacuzzi and sauna in each locker room. And, if after you're done exercising, you feel like taking off the amount of time you just added to your life during cardio, you can hop in the tanning booth for 15 minutes.

You can even buy a thong in the thong machine, which appears to be often used by the skeletal woman with almost-opaque exercise pants. It was leopard print.

On the bus home from the gym, some 12-year-old girls in private school uniforms were reading their Elle magazine (which, at least, is not as bad as a 12-year-old girl reading Cosmopolitan), and Ellen and I were off in our own little hemispheres, thinking in Spanish, when I suddenly heard those words: "Ahr yoo Engleesh?" Ellen and I looked up to see 6 tiny heads staring at us intently. "Yes." They giggled. "­¡Muy bien con el inglés chicas!" said Ellen. I think it was only at this moment that it occurred to these girls that we spoke Spanish, and, judging from the looks on their faces, I think it was only at this moment that it occurred to them that we might have been listening to what they had been saying. I'm kind of glad we weren't.

I told the school secretary about it when Ellen and I arrived for Girls' Night (where we watched My Best Friend's Wedding and ate pizza and danced). She said, "English? No. I thought you were German. Or Russian."


Saturday flashed by, and today was Sunday. Ellen and I and many others went to a professional soccer game where our team, Real Betis Balompié, was playing against Racing de Santander. It was extremely warm, and we had pretty awful seats, but it was still a lot of fun. And at least I realized that I remember almost nothing about soccer from middle school gym class.

There was this one part where a questionable call was made, the result being that a Betis player was unfairly ejected from the game. As a player from the opposing team jeered him, the Goalie (Ricardo (Ellen has his autograph)) scooped up the ball carried it over to the opponent and kicked it right into his chest.

I was hoping against hope for a fight. Like a hockey fight. I love hockey fights.

Then Ellen and I came home and we saw the game covered on the news. It was exciting to see the plays we remembered (except, now that it was on TV, from a reasonable, recognizable distance).

Fun fact: Whistling here means "boo" where you people are.

I promise we're almost done and not only can you continue on with life, but I can be that much closer to snuggling into my pistachio green blanket for the night. I just want to leave you with some inspirational words I saw on a very fashion-forward, done-up woman's shirt on the bus, exactly as they appeared.

"DONT TRUST ANYONE
I give you feelings
kiss and sensations
JUST NEED YOU
Revolution of new
EXCEPT ME"

Nothing like a little English nonsense splattered across the torso to make one feel sophisticated. That's what I always say anyway.

I really am having a good time here and believe I am learning a great deal. There are so many blessings in my life that easily evade the blogosphere.

I love you all and I hope everything is going well Stateside/Englandside. It's great to hear from you all!

Too Much Bean Soup. Too Much Spanish.

Ok, now that I've tackled that bohemoth (the three exams)...

Hello.

I don't have much to say, because my mind is made out of bean soup (which Ellen and I have had for lunch four out of the past seven days) after studying so much and writing frantically in scribbled, barely-coherent Spanish.

But tonight is another Noche de Chicas. Ugh. I feel disgusted just writing simple things in Spanish. I think I need a nap.

On Sunday I am going to go to a Betis game, es decir (leaving that), a professional soccer game. Whoa. Almost wrote football there. Sorry guys.

I think I should probably just let my mind cease functioning again.

Whoa Nelly!

I'm taking a moment to pause the blogging whilst I study and partake and three exams and focus on a friend.

Be back soon.

Keep checking. Obsessively.

Intense Virginity

Yesterday Ellen and I went to see the the Virgen de Consolación as she exited the cathedral for some reason unbeknownst to us, but beknownst to a lot of Catholics...we think.
Once we actually found out which door she was leaving from (and yes, it took a long time) we stood and waited as the street crowded and our noses filled with second-hand smoke and dusk fell and a couple near us made out, which is totally normal, because people are inspired all the time to make out during Catholic ceremonies...right? Right? Anyway, we waited until it finally happened. The doors opened and the procession began. I would tell you all about the procession, but I couldn't see most of the people. I do know they were wearing fancy clothes and carrying fancy staffs and golden crosses and going very slowly. Then we saw her, the wooden icon upon her golden chariot. She was impressive and surrounded with candles.
By the way, I'm not intending to be sarcastic. Some rites of Catholicism are confusing to me, especially since the majority of the culture here observes Catholicism for the sake of cultural institution in place of any belief. Anyway, she was impressive...and getting closer...and closer...and closer...until the crowd pushed back so hard that I was pretty sure I was either going to be trampled by the be-camera-ed and be-cellphoned spectators who were unwilling to budge or that I was going to be run down by the virgin herself.

And then, at the last moment, she turned and went on her merry way...except I think she was the sad virgin Mary, the Mary after Jesus was crucified. I don't know...

Yeah. Maybe I should read up on Catholicism.

It was all just very...intense.

As for today, it was a Monday like many Mondays before. I learned the last paso de Sevillanas (just the feet) and we all wore flamenco dresses which function as portable mini saunas. Our instructor lives near Ellen and me and wants us to come over some time. I'm pretty pumped.

Venting/story time:

Lately, I've been a little culture-sick, which is like home-sick, but instead, sick for the culture in general. María mistook the fact that I wanted to be alone for a few hours as me being mad at her and disatisfied with her señorahood.

When this emotion came to the surface during lunch today, I had the monumental task of explaining that I come from an idependent culture and family and sometimes, I just need to have time to myself to process things. She didn't understand, citing that I spend a lot of time with Ellen and that Ellen is a person and why don't I want to be with Ellen, and that if I don't want to be with Ellen, I can study in the other room etc. to which I responded that it wasn't Ellen that was a problem but being surrounded with so many unfamiliar people and places all the time. This only confused her more, so I assured María that it had nothing to do with her (though, in truth, she is a large part of the Spanish culture I experience). Then I said off-handedly, "I think you wouldn't be confused if we spoke the same first language, I just can't express myself perfectly, just know that it's not your fault and don't worry yourself."

María misunderstood and said, "No, no, no, you shouldn't speak English, you're here to learn Spanish. You should be happy to speak Spanish."

I looked at Ellen. Ellen tried her hand. She too was unsuccessful, but somehow we all arrived at what seemed to be a happy agreement that María could not understand, and I could not sufficiently express myself (though I thought I made admirable work of it) and thinking that that had taken care of the problem, I watched her walk into the kitchen and was giving Ellen a just-between-us look of utter exasperation when María reentered, sat down next to me, smacked me a few times in the arm and said, "Don't be mad at me. Are you mad at me?"
All I could do was laugh. "No, I'm not mad at you at all."
"Good," she beamed, slapping a bar of chocolate on the table (like a reward for not being mad). "You're just sad because you're fighting with your boyfriend
"Um, no I'm not. He's fine."
"You're not fighting? Then you miss him. That's it."
"Well, no, I'm ok. He's in Canada on vacation right now."
"Then you must be stressed out from homework. That's why you're upset."
"No..."
And so on and so forth. The debate and inquisition rages on.

That's two Marías I don't understand.

I'm not mad or discouraged. It's life as usual in Spain. And though I have felt impatient with María at times, or have been seething with resentment because I can't blowdry my hair the way I want to (without socks on) or not drink the last bitter sip of my tea or handwash my favorite shirt--it builds up, ok?--I know that I will settle back in and have, in fact, already begun to do so.

So life continues.
And I'm glad it does.

God is good all the time.
Sometimes I'm just too self-involved to stop and remember it.

Christopher Columbus Delivers a Good Weekend.

This weekend has been the most fun I have had so far in Spain. It has been what I have been craving.

On Friday, we had the day off as the Spaniards are a big Columbus fan and have a nationally celebrated holiday in his honor. I'm pretty sure the biggest part of the holiday was that the prince was wearing a uniform.

I spent the majority of Columbus day lounging around in my PJs, but at about 5:00 (17:00), I decided that enough was a enough, put on some nice clothes and set out to do...something...anything. I ran into Steph on the bus, and as she was on her way to meet her Intercambio (language exchange partner) at Puerta Jerez, I accompanied her until she reached her destination (internet cafe) and I reached mine (a bench with a book).

After accomplishing objective G from my previous post, I got up and walked around. On my way back, I saw Stephanie meeting her Intercambio Lourdes, who was accompanied by her sister, Blanca. Two Spaniards against one American is unjust, so I joined them. We simply walked around the city talking about movies and music and whether or not Wentworth was a common American name or not and planned another get together.

Then Steph and I headed to the Plaza de España for Ellen's brainchild: the cheap picnic. It was so much fun. We sat there, Steph, Ellen, Amy, Tamara, Katie and I eating our bocadillos on the steps as we watched the world pass, talked, and generally stuffed our faces.

Then we headed to the cultural fair in the park where we browsed the mini-shops and saw thong-bikini clad, oily Brazilian women shaking around like strippers for family entertainment and, most importantly, partook in desserts. I opted for the 3 euro tiramisu. It was worth every centimo.

After the night was over, we all decided that we had much to much fun and that we should do the same again...Saturday. So we did.

Saturday we grabbed our bocadillos and sat by the Guadalquivir, munching on goodies that had been sent in care packages from home (barbecue chips and twizzlers) and sharing the homemade apple pie that Ellen and I (mostly Ellen, I just peeled and cut the apples) made earlier during the day. We watched the fish jumping out of the water in the river and talked about everything girly and then, after a long time and an entire bag of twizzlers, headed over to Rayas for ice cream where all of us almost died from a severe bout of deliciousness.

And then I walked home. I love walking.
And then I slept. I love sleeping.

And now I need to write a composition. :(

So bye and thanks for reading and commenting! I feel blessed knowing that there are people who care enough to keep up even when I'm living in countries so strange that there are bidets in the bathrooms.

Unimportant Realizations and Resolutions

This is my snaggle-toothed heart-breaker. Don't judge. It's not a very flattering angle.

Ok, I am going to disregard my current upset-ness as regards my disappeared European converter and instead focus on the fact that I have had a good week.

Things I have decided:

A: The next time I catch a woman staring at me on the bus, I am going to have a little fun; meaning I am going to wink at her.

B: José María and Carmen are two of my top teachers of all time. They are amazing at la enseñanza. Amazing. They make you understand things and have fantastic senses of humor and know exactly what they're talking about.

The other day, Carmen was explaining the difference between a "bata" (robe) and an "albonoz" (bathrobe). When Britton asked, "¿Una bata puede ser 'sexy'?" ("Can a robe be sexy?") Carmen replied in a low throaty voice, "Puede," raised her eyebrows, winked at the class, and then began laughing this deep, Spanish laugh. It was pretty great.

Today, José María began to deliver on his promise to refer to "McBeth" as much as possible, as we discovered last night (which I will detail in a moment) that he is actually quite capable to saying "McBeth" and not sounding like farm fowl. Now it's less like, "quack, quack" and more like "Mahk-Bayth". We are all so proud.

C: I am going to go to an authentic, insane, European soccer game.


Now that that moment is over...

So far this semester, my theater class has been discussing seeing a play written by Federico García Lorca, but the play we had chosen happened to be the same day as a wedding of one of José María's relatives, so instead we opted to bear witness to an interpretive dance to Lorca's collection of poetry, "Romancero Gitano" (Gypsy Romance).

I went in fully expecting weird lights and spandex-onesie clad art students with dark makeup snapping and making googly-arms while someone read poetry in a lame beret, but what I got instead was amazing authentic flamenco music, singers, and some of the best professional dancers in the country who interpreted the poems by performing the significance of the poem in dance while it was sung by an amazing flamenco cantante. This "play" included the most famous female flamenco dancer in the south of the country and a man who danced to the point swimming his own pool of sweat and spraying sweat from his sopping hair when he did quick turns. He was own, proper sprinkler system.

And then, at the end of the dance, they killed him with fake daggers so that he could go off stage and collapse in a heaping pile of well-earned exhaustion, I'm sure.

Yeah. It was amazing.

And there was definitely a stripping nun in there somewhere.

I'll leave you thinking as you wish on that.

Most people are probably unaware of what my plans for break are. I know I've mentioned that I am going to England, but I think I've neglected to say that I have bought tickets and reserved hostals and that I am, in fact, going to be spending two days in Dublin, Ireland as well before winging to London and busing to Oxford and that I am going to go see Spam-a-lot in London as well.

We have another three day weekend this week (today is my Friday) and I fully intend to...

A: Go to a bar on Reina Mercedes.

B: Go out for tapas.

C: Buy more postcards.

D: Figure out how to send postcards and packages here.

E: Eat crazy ice cream

F: Sign up for a gym

G: Finish my book

H: Finish this blog entry...

One thing down, seven to go.

PS. My history teacher is telling us about what she did when she went to Chicago, and through lots of circumlocution and description, we've figured out that, from a suggesting list her student gave her for her visit, she ate a corn dog, deep-dish pizza, went to Water Tower Place, ate at the Cheesecake Factory, ate ColdStone (describe as "an ice cream store where they mix things together in front of you" except in Spanish), went to a White Sox game where there were fireworks, ate Crispy Creme donuts, ate actual breakfasts (pancakes, hashbrowns) etc. She loved the food and the American schedule and was happy that everyone was smiling at her and now whenever Spaniards say anything bad about Americans, she tells them they're wrong.

Adorable.

PPS. We spent 10 of 50 minutes talking about history. That's the way to end a week.

Santo Toledo

This weekend I went to Toledo for art class. I hardly enjoyed it, but that was my fault. Toledo está in a far more beautiful part of the country than is Seville; however, the steep-isimo hills that the city is built on do begin to weigh down on the feet after a while. I was also quite, quite tired, having only slept 4 hours and then having ridden the bus for 5 or 6 without being able to catch z's despite trying my darndest to do so. Of course, being sleepy doesn't change the fact that Toledo is beautiful, only my abilities to care that it's beautiful. There I was, standing next to Don Quixote windmills in La Mancha, or walking around a monastic cloister, or standing in a Gothic cathedral looking at a painting by El Greco, recognizing that it is wondrous and ancient and beautiful and still being totally unable to pay attention because mentally, all I was interested in was some rest.

In fact, this picture is an excellent illustration of all I was interested in doing in Toledo. The other outstanding citizen in the photo is Kelsey.

I was also exceedingly interested in crying, as lately, I've been missing a little bit of me time. Privacy is hard won in Spain. It's not that people are constantly asking about your personal life...they don't...at all. It's that it's hard to find time to be alone. And after not having time to be alone and collect and process, well, one begins to feel...alone. Like you are surrounded with people, totally unaware of who you are and keenly aware that they haven't an idea of who you are either.

I don't know, perhaps that was pure gibberish. Made sense to me.

Then I talked to Tyler on Skype and I felt better.

Quite possibly, my favorite part of Toledo was Pepe (seen here). I love the dogs here in Spain. Many of them appear quite vacant, but all appear ernest and spunky. Pepe was no exception: entirely vacant, entirely spunky, entirely Pepe. Although, in truth, his name is not actually Pepe (unless the goddess of coincidence is smiling upon me).

Pepe appears to spend most of his day at a bar in Toledo, eating scraps off the floor around half-smoked cigarettes while his owner pours a pint from behind the counter and some curmudgeonly old bachelor complains about politics. Yes, this dog is a regular at a bar.

Welcome to Spain.

I saw Pepe inside the bar, and when his owner saw me eyeing his pet, he pointed at me, said something to the dog, and Pepe obliged, calmy strolling outside and standing in front of me so that I could scratch his ears.

He did not remember me the next day as he calmly weaved around tourists during what I'm sure was his daily constitutional. He was not to be bothered.

Anyway. The point is, Pepe made me happy.

What does not make me happy is this scraggly, adorable, snaggle-toothed, possibly-homeless dog that sits outside the apartment complex every day apparently with the sole purpose of making Ellen and I feel broken-hearted.

Hmmm. Perhaps instead I ought to think about how José María sounds when he says McBeth. It's comparable to "quack, quack" and as I love ducks, that's fine with me.

In closing, here is a video, courtesy of Ellen, of Carmen telling us about something in the cathedral. Spanish is so commonplace to me now that I am surprised when people don't understand it (speaking it is very different, of course) . Then again, Carmen speaks pretty clearly for us, whereas María tends to drop the second halves of words all over the place. Apparently Sevillan Spanish is one of the hardest to understand.

I had my own video, complete with examples of everything Carmen was discussing or explaining, but apparently I don't understand the camera I'm using here and ended up taking a picture of Kelsey's legs. Whoops.

Nevermind. I can't get it to work. Some other time perhaps.

I hope everyone is doing well over there in the New World.

And yes, Columbus Day does merit a day off here.

Fin.