Today, as you may be able to guess, was capital.
Ellen is not here (though this does not make the day capital). She is in fact traipsing around Los Lagos in Portugal. And because I do not particularly enjoy beaches and would rather go to Portugal out of beach season, I remained behind for my three day weekend.
And what have I done? My friend, I have walked. I have walked or been standing for at least nine out of my twelves hours not at home and though my knee caps are threatening mutiny, I am so happy, because there's nothing like a day spent semi-exercising.
At 11:00 I hopped the bus and walked around a shopping area, searching for the elusive comfortable, flat shoe that matches my purse but isn't a sneaker. Fruitless, I met up with Stephanie and 7 others for lunch at a Chinese place at 2:30 and afterwards continued my search for another few hours. Again, fruitless, I headed to somewhere in Sevilla (still don't know where) where there was a party for Campus Crusade (here, "agape" as they understand that the crusades weren't a good thing) and Intervarsity and something else.
And, my friends, I MET SPANIARDS. Not only did I meet Spaniards, I HELD CONVERSATIONS WITH SPANIARDS. This is headline material. I MADE FRIENDS. My friends are Dani (18, from Ecuador, told me he was studying to make Play-dough. I was confused, so I believed him), Kike (pronounced Key-Kay, short for Enrique, I promise) who is 20 and studying law, and Tania (24, from Mexico, finishing her masters?).
And guess what? My new friends called me a freak. Why? Because of my hair. They were kind of serious. I always knew that's how Spaniards felt.
I'm over it.
There is a girl in our school named Emily, who is very blonde, very blue eyed, and very beautiful. Some of the Spanish men, especially one, were following her around the room like hypnotized puppies.
María says Dani is going to fall in love with me. And she asked me if I was going to date him. And then she told me not to because I have a boyfriend. This is how conversations sometimes are with María. I needn't say a thing.
That being said. I love you Tyler. That's right blog world. I said it.
I also bought my plane tickets for break. Lucky me, the dollar is worth less than half a pound. For example: if I weigh 140 pounds, I weigh ~280 dollars.
I will be flying into Dublin, Ireland, and spending a day and a half there, then flying into London, catching the bus to Oxford, chillin' with the intellectuals, and then spending a day or two in London before I catch my flight back to Sevilla.
But that's enough, because I am wiped.
Mmm. My ankles are in such glorious pain.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Too Tired To Title
I'm going to try again:
Everyday, I wake up at 7:15, roll out of bed and into the shower, where I turn the water off whilst I shampoo, condition, and scrub, then I roll back into my room, put on my face, clothes, etc, and roll out of the apartment onto the 34 bus and over to school where I hit the double buzzer, what up the stairs, sit through 4 classes, and then roll back onto the 34 and on home.
But yesterday was not a normal day, because yesterday, my professor for Teatro del Siglo XX, José María, made fun of my accent...and I was speaking English.
In the midst of exploring the wondrous simbolism of the second scene of the final act of Bodas de Sangre (Bloody Weddings; it's a comedy), a Chicagoan named Brit encountered a word she didn't understand: cenizas.
"What's cenizas?" she said.
"It's like the stuff you get after a fire," replied José María.
"Ash," said Californian Arturo (Ian, really), rubbing his thumb against his middle and index fingers.
"Ass," said José María with his Spanish accent."
"No, no, no, no, no, aSH," said Arturo, emphasizing the 'sh' sound.
"Ash," said Brit, satisfied.
José María looked at her confused and then pointed at her and Arturo, saying, "those were two separate words, no? They sounded different."
"No...ash," said Brit.
"Ash," said Arturo.
"Yes, the vowels are different. She didn't say the same word, no?"
And that's when it hit us like a bus. His ears were picking up the northern twang so well he couldn't understand the word. It was hilarious. We explained it to him. There are different accents in the United States. He had each of us say "ash" and smiled as he heard the difference between Brit and I and the others. He thought Brit and I sounded hilarious, and continued to mimic us throughout class, noting how strong and weird it sounded.
I thought I'd left that sort of talk behind in the United States. Hilarious.
Maybe you would have had to be there, having the entire conversation in Spanish. Camille will understand someday.
Anyway, it's my blog and I'll post what I want to...post what I want to, post what I want to. You would post too if it happened to you. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba.
That song ruins so many sentences for me.
Anyway, then I went to la clase del arte donde no habl....whoa, sorry, Spanish slip. Enjoy that for a moment. It happens a lot.
Anyway, then I went to art class, where we didn't talk about art. At all. We talked about perverts and relationships in Spain. Relationships here are far less structured and far more private (as people here do not talk about their lives unless you are their closest friend who pulled from off the street from in front of a bus. Or something. Here, everything is a gradual slide, not a set of levels. Women don't get engagement rings. In fact, a couple is called boyfriend and girlfriend on the wedding day right up until they say whatever Spanish people say in place of "I do". The couple might not even tell people they're getting married. After they're married, they are called, "marido y mujer"; literally "man and his woman". This is a bitter pill for an American woman. And unfortunately, Arturo, the only boy in the class, claimed that in America, women like to be referred to as a man's "woman" in all seriousness.
Mistake.
But we understood he meant well. Mostly ;)
We also learned how to say "friends with benefits": "Amigo con el derecho de roce". Literally, this means "friend with the right to chafe/rub/friction".
..............................Yuck.
I also forgot to say how la Noche Larga de Museos went on Saturday. Well it went, and we went to the Flamenco Museum. Kind of. In reality we waited in line for 2 hours to hear a Venezuelan man with a beautiful singing voice perform 3 flamenco songs before we were told to leave. The museum did not expect so many people to come to a museum in the middle of nowhere and occupy a mile of space in a tiny cramped neighborhood in some unknown corner of Sevilla.
So we didn't actually see the museum, but it was worth it for the in-line conversations.
And I think this will actually post. Fantasmic.
Everyday, I wake up at 7:15, roll out of bed and into the shower, where I turn the water off whilst I shampoo, condition, and scrub, then I roll back into my room, put on my face, clothes, etc, and roll out of the apartment onto the 34 bus and over to school where I hit the double buzzer, what up the stairs, sit through 4 classes, and then roll back onto the 34 and on home.
But yesterday was not a normal day, because yesterday, my professor for Teatro del Siglo XX, José María, made fun of my accent...and I was speaking English.
In the midst of exploring the wondrous simbolism of the second scene of the final act of Bodas de Sangre (Bloody Weddings; it's a comedy), a Chicagoan named Brit encountered a word she didn't understand: cenizas.
"What's cenizas?" she said.
"It's like the stuff you get after a fire," replied José María.
"Ash," said Californian Arturo (Ian, really), rubbing his thumb against his middle and index fingers.
"Ass," said José María with his Spanish accent."
"No, no, no, no, no, aSH," said Arturo, emphasizing the 'sh' sound.
"Ash," said Brit, satisfied.
José María looked at her confused and then pointed at her and Arturo, saying, "those were two separate words, no? They sounded different."
"No...ash," said Brit.
"Ash," said Arturo.
"Yes, the vowels are different. She didn't say the same word, no?"
And that's when it hit us like a bus. His ears were picking up the northern twang so well he couldn't understand the word. It was hilarious. We explained it to him. There are different accents in the United States. He had each of us say "ash" and smiled as he heard the difference between Brit and I and the others. He thought Brit and I sounded hilarious, and continued to mimic us throughout class, noting how strong and weird it sounded.
I thought I'd left that sort of talk behind in the United States. Hilarious.
Maybe you would have had to be there, having the entire conversation in Spanish. Camille will understand someday.
Anyway, it's my blog and I'll post what I want to...post what I want to, post what I want to. You would post too if it happened to you. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba.
That song ruins so many sentences for me.
Anyway, then I went to la clase del arte donde no habl....whoa, sorry, Spanish slip. Enjoy that for a moment. It happens a lot.
Anyway, then I went to art class, where we didn't talk about art. At all. We talked about perverts and relationships in Spain. Relationships here are far less structured and far more private (as people here do not talk about their lives unless you are their closest friend who pulled from off the street from in front of a bus. Or something. Here, everything is a gradual slide, not a set of levels. Women don't get engagement rings. In fact, a couple is called boyfriend and girlfriend on the wedding day right up until they say whatever Spanish people say in place of "I do". The couple might not even tell people they're getting married. After they're married, they are called, "marido y mujer"; literally "man and his woman". This is a bitter pill for an American woman. And unfortunately, Arturo, the only boy in the class, claimed that in America, women like to be referred to as a man's "woman" in all seriousness.
Mistake.
But we understood he meant well. Mostly ;)
We also learned how to say "friends with benefits": "Amigo con el derecho de roce". Literally, this means "friend with the right to chafe/rub/friction".
..............................Yuck.
I also forgot to say how la Noche Larga de Museos went on Saturday. Well it went, and we went to the Flamenco Museum. Kind of. In reality we waited in line for 2 hours to hear a Venezuelan man with a beautiful singing voice perform 3 flamenco songs before we were told to leave. The museum did not expect so many people to come to a museum in the middle of nowhere and occupy a mile of space in a tiny cramped neighborhood in some unknown corner of Sevilla.
So we didn't actually see the museum, but it was worth it for the in-line conversations.
And I think this will actually post. Fantasmic.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Burg!
Just so you know, I just spent 40 minutes writing a blog only for it to disappear and not post and be unretrievable. I liked it a lot. Maybe you would have too. But I am too disappointed to try again right now.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Fulfilment, Fulfilment
Hey, look at me. I'm updating.
As I write I am sitting on a newly washed mint green comforter. A new season, a thicker blanket. Not that I have ever minded blankets.
I am officially going to England for my fall break. And I have a partner in crime. Her name is Kelsey. She's nifty. We plan on passing time in Oxford, as she also has a friend studying there and a couple of days in London, and perhaps some time in Madrid as well. Travelling is quite a bit of work. We need to decide which busses to take, which planes, we need to research prices and buy those tickets ASAP, and what's more $34 is only £16 pounds (insert sad face here). But hey, they speak English, and we can show everyone our amazing Sevillanas skillz at the pub.
No.
Last Saturday, Ellen, the aforementioned Kelsey, a girl named Katie, and I went paddleboating on the Guadalquivir. We intended to go kayaking, but were unable to find the mysterious kayak rental store.
On our way back to the paddleboat rental, just after the other girls took an innocent swim in the river, I noticed a man headed down the steep bank towards the river. He looked suspicious. He stood for several minutes holding his hands awkwardly at his hips, when (I think it was me) said, "He looks sketchy. I think he's going to flash us." Everyone else observed him on the hill, awkward holding his royal blue, elastic waist windbreakers. Just after I suggested they calmly turn their heads, and just after I said I would keep an eye out, I looked up to see that he had indeed "dropped trow" and was standing on the riverbank, awkwardly postured, in broad daylight, exposed and vulnerable to the world. I managed to be extremely unobservant and looked away nonchalantly.
I say nonchalantly, because really, what's new about being flashed? That is so two weeks ago.
But yes. That's twice. In a month.
As we walked back up towards the bus stop, dressed in athletics (so obviously American) some 14 year old boy decided he was Casanova and made a kiss at us, saying, and I quote, "I love you all night long," except his accent made it sound more like, "Ah luv yuh, ol naught long."
This is why we dress like Spaniards.
I took two tests on Monday. My grammar test went well, and I received an A, if barely (I am continually discouraged in my encounters with the past tense). And my history test...well...let's just say I'm glad grades don't transfer because I misunderstood a word and consequently only answered one-fourth of the essay. I also absolutely knew all the information to ace the essay, too.
I'm trying very hard not to let the idea get to me that I am going to take a bad grade, not for any lack of knowledge on my part, but because of one misunderstood word. So far, I am not very successful.
Today I took an art history test. If I didn't do well on it, it's not because I couldn't have explained the architecture better, it's because time was very limited. My hand didn't stop moving that pen once during class. We had to view pictures of Muslim architecture and describe each in ten minutes with a detailed essay that would begin with something like this:
Estamos viendo la cúpula de la capilla Villaviciosa en la mezquita de Córdoba. Es de arte califal y del siglo X durante el reino de Al-Hakan II. De abajo a arriba, puedes ver a la izquierda un granarco de herradura dentro un granarco lobulado con sus propias dovelas del estilo típico, es decir, con partes rojo de ladrillo y partes blancos de piedra decorada de ataurique alternativamente. Arriba es....bla, bla, bla...
Want to know how many grammar mistakes I just made?
I don't.
Was there anything else to write about? I don't remember.
And that excuse is good enough for me.
As I write I am sitting on a newly washed mint green comforter. A new season, a thicker blanket. Not that I have ever minded blankets.
I am officially going to England for my fall break. And I have a partner in crime. Her name is Kelsey. She's nifty. We plan on passing time in Oxford, as she also has a friend studying there and a couple of days in London, and perhaps some time in Madrid as well. Travelling is quite a bit of work. We need to decide which busses to take, which planes, we need to research prices and buy those tickets ASAP, and what's more $34 is only £16 pounds (insert sad face here). But hey, they speak English, and we can show everyone our amazing Sevillanas skillz at the pub.
No.
Last Saturday, Ellen, the aforementioned Kelsey, a girl named Katie, and I went paddleboating on the Guadalquivir. We intended to go kayaking, but were unable to find the mysterious kayak rental store.
On our way back to the paddleboat rental, just after the other girls took an innocent swim in the river, I noticed a man headed down the steep bank towards the river. He looked suspicious. He stood for several minutes holding his hands awkwardly at his hips, when (I think it was me) said, "He looks sketchy. I think he's going to flash us." Everyone else observed him on the hill, awkward holding his royal blue, elastic waist windbreakers. Just after I suggested they calmly turn their heads, and just after I said I would keep an eye out, I looked up to see that he had indeed "dropped trow" and was standing on the riverbank, awkwardly postured, in broad daylight, exposed and vulnerable to the world. I managed to be extremely unobservant and looked away nonchalantly.
I say nonchalantly, because really, what's new about being flashed? That is so two weeks ago.
But yes. That's twice. In a month.
As we walked back up towards the bus stop, dressed in athletics (so obviously American) some 14 year old boy decided he was Casanova and made a kiss at us, saying, and I quote, "I love you all night long," except his accent made it sound more like, "Ah luv yuh, ol naught long."
This is why we dress like Spaniards.
I took two tests on Monday. My grammar test went well, and I received an A, if barely (I am continually discouraged in my encounters with the past tense). And my history test...well...let's just say I'm glad grades don't transfer because I misunderstood a word and consequently only answered one-fourth of the essay. I also absolutely knew all the information to ace the essay, too.
I'm trying very hard not to let the idea get to me that I am going to take a bad grade, not for any lack of knowledge on my part, but because of one misunderstood word. So far, I am not very successful.
Today I took an art history test. If I didn't do well on it, it's not because I couldn't have explained the architecture better, it's because time was very limited. My hand didn't stop moving that pen once during class. We had to view pictures of Muslim architecture and describe each in ten minutes with a detailed essay that would begin with something like this:
Estamos viendo la cúpula de la capilla Villaviciosa en la mezquita de Córdoba. Es de arte califal y del siglo X durante el reino de Al-Hakan II. De abajo a arriba, puedes ver a la izquierda un granarco de herradura dentro un granarco lobulado con sus propias dovelas del estilo típico, es decir, con partes rojo de ladrillo y partes blancos de piedra decorada de ataurique alternativamente. Arriba es....bla, bla, bla...
Want to know how many grammar mistakes I just made?
I don't.
Was there anything else to write about? I don't remember.
And that excuse is good enough for me.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Promises, Promises
Things I promise to talk about when I actually have time to update:
I am officially going to England (that's write Amanda, happy birthday!!!!) I just wrote write. I am so sorry people. This is what happens when you are immersed in anothe language. Amanda is a writing major though, so perhaps it was an appropriate mistake.
I was flashed again. This time in broad daylight.
I had two exams today
I have one exam tomorrow.
I went out for tapas.
Etc...? Yeah, Etc.
Time for Sevillanas! ¡Olé!
I am officially going to England (that's write Amanda, happy birthday!!!!) I just wrote write. I am so sorry people. This is what happens when you are immersed in anothe language. Amanda is a writing major though, so perhaps it was an appropriate mistake.
I was flashed again. This time in broad daylight.
I had two exams today
I have one exam tomorrow.
I went out for tapas.
Etc...? Yeah, Etc.
Time for Sevillanas! ¡Olé!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Raindrops on Roses, My Face, and the Kitchen Floor.
Another walk in the park thwarted. I'll just have to update.
I have an awful cough that sounds pretty manly and a little terminal, but I don't feel sick at all. María, however, will not be satisfied until I go to the farmacía and buy some cough syrup.
Last night we had a lightning storm and it was amazing. Amazing. It even rained on my face in the middle of the night through the open window. If I had thought of it, I would have taken video of it for you, but then I might have died because it was a lightning storm and María wanted the window open. Why was María in our room? Well, during the storm, there were some pretty fantastic cracks of thunder, you know, the kind that shake an apartment complex, and Ellen and I began joking that we ought to go into María's room and say we were scared and start singing what I'm sure would be a fantastic rendition of "My Favorite Things" from the Sound of Music. Just as Ellen was giving me a sound bite of what I had to look forward to, María came into our room because she was scared. It was pretty great. She sat on my bed and jumped at the lightning bolts and said things like, "¡Qué miedo!" and wagged her hand (a part of body language that means "intense" here).
Durante la tormenta, I mentioned that in the United States, storms make me nervous because I'm afraid of tornadoes (a reasonable thing to be afraid of), but that I'm calm during storms here because there are no tornadoes in Spain. To which she replied, "Oh, Chica, listen, you don't need to be scared. We don't have any tornadoes in Spain."
And that my friends, is what we call "the language barrier".
Which has been frustrating me a little lately. Namely since I received my graded composition in grammar yesterday.
Last night we also had a little rain in our apartment when the ceiling in the kitchen and bathroom began leaking like the upstairs residents had turned their bathroom into a recreational indoor pool. Turns out their washer had just broken mid-cycle and flooded their entire apartment. I woke up María and explained to her what had happened, to which she responded by grabbing my arm tightly and dragging me to the kitchen where Ellen was putting pots underneath the leaks and soaking up the water with an already sopping towel. Apparently, this is not the first time this has happened.
Ellen and I were supposed to go to Portugal hoy, but instead, we are going to experience "the Long Night of Museums" here in Seville, which entails free admission to any museum after 9 pm. The museums will stay open until 2 am. Personally, I think it's pretty nifty and I prefer it to a beach in Portugal, which may seems backwards to you, but I have my reasons.
It looks as though I will either be going to Oxford for break and distracting Ms. Kuehn (a-hem, start looking for people I could stay with). Or renting a cottage in southern Germany with a group of people and playing a lot of cards and enjoying a lot of God's creation and trying to buy groceries from red-faced husky german men who wear socks with sandals (a tell-tale sign of Germans here)
Fact: If you have not seen the mullet-dreadlock combination, you have not lived.
Another fact: My butt is sound asleep.
But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go buy some cough syrup.
I have an awful cough that sounds pretty manly and a little terminal, but I don't feel sick at all. María, however, will not be satisfied until I go to the farmacía and buy some cough syrup.
Last night we had a lightning storm and it was amazing. Amazing. It even rained on my face in the middle of the night through the open window. If I had thought of it, I would have taken video of it for you, but then I might have died because it was a lightning storm and María wanted the window open. Why was María in our room? Well, during the storm, there were some pretty fantastic cracks of thunder, you know, the kind that shake an apartment complex, and Ellen and I began joking that we ought to go into María's room and say we were scared and start singing what I'm sure would be a fantastic rendition of "My Favorite Things" from the Sound of Music. Just as Ellen was giving me a sound bite of what I had to look forward to, María came into our room because she was scared. It was pretty great. She sat on my bed and jumped at the lightning bolts and said things like, "¡Qué miedo!" and wagged her hand (a part of body language that means "intense" here).
Durante la tormenta, I mentioned that in the United States, storms make me nervous because I'm afraid of tornadoes (a reasonable thing to be afraid of), but that I'm calm during storms here because there are no tornadoes in Spain. To which she replied, "Oh, Chica, listen, you don't need to be scared. We don't have any tornadoes in Spain."
And that my friends, is what we call "the language barrier".
Which has been frustrating me a little lately. Namely since I received my graded composition in grammar yesterday.
Last night we also had a little rain in our apartment when the ceiling in the kitchen and bathroom began leaking like the upstairs residents had turned their bathroom into a recreational indoor pool. Turns out their washer had just broken mid-cycle and flooded their entire apartment. I woke up María and explained to her what had happened, to which she responded by grabbing my arm tightly and dragging me to the kitchen where Ellen was putting pots underneath the leaks and soaking up the water with an already sopping towel. Apparently, this is not the first time this has happened.
Ellen and I were supposed to go to Portugal hoy, but instead, we are going to experience "the Long Night of Museums" here in Seville, which entails free admission to any museum after 9 pm. The museums will stay open until 2 am. Personally, I think it's pretty nifty and I prefer it to a beach in Portugal, which may seems backwards to you, but I have my reasons.
It looks as though I will either be going to Oxford for break and distracting Ms. Kuehn (a-hem, start looking for people I could stay with). Or renting a cottage in southern Germany with a group of people and playing a lot of cards and enjoying a lot of God's creation and trying to buy groceries from red-faced husky german men who wear socks with sandals (a tell-tale sign of Germans here)
Fact: If you have not seen the mullet-dreadlock combination, you have not lived.
Another fact: My butt is sound asleep.
But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go buy some cough syrup.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Abuse.
Yesterday, I finally found the nerve to go talk to Leslie (a superior) here at the school concerning María, because, while María is absolutely wonderful, she would feed us way to much. I would eat and be full, and then she would say, "You don't like it?" and I would say, "No, I like it very much, but I'm full," and she would say, "No, no eat, eat," and sometimes put more on my plate. Thus, after almost every meal (what with the bread and the spread and the fruit, and the main course, and the salad, etc) I would feel somewhat disgusting and it just so happened that Ellen felt the same way. It's hard, because I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, or offend María, but it's not good to be gaining weight off of entirely healthy food, especially when I'm trying to lose a tiny bit.
So, I talked to Leslie, and Leslie had Ana call María. When I got home, María said nothing. When I sat down to eat though, she plopped a small spoonful of the rice dish on my plate, said, "Is that good?!" and hit me upside the head pretty hard.
I was entirely stunned and then realized that María was joking. It was almost impossible to convince her that Ellen felt the same way, as María thinks that I think I'm fat...it's all very complicated. It's hard to communicate in a second language all the time, you know? I can't convince her otherwise. So yes, now we have less food, thankfully and María is constantly feeding us, saying, "See, now you can't say that I'm saying, "eat, eat." Now you can eat as much as you want."
It's hilarious
It has also occurred me to that if an adult in the United States ever did what María does-hit me upside the head, for example- I would very, very displeased, but because it's María, weird as it is, it's ok.
But the complicated part. The Spanish (and by "the Spanish" I mean, "the María") seem to categorize people into 3, maybe 4, categories: Fat (gorda), (a little fat (gordita)), normal (Delgatita), and anorexic (anoréxica). As María sees it (I think), because I am normal, but am trying to lose a little weight, and don't want to overeat, I am trying to move down a rung on the ladder of body composition; that is, I want to look anorexic (which is often described by holding up your pinky finger and talking about how crazy thin the crown prince's wife,who is a former journalist and is the daughter of so-and-so and whose daughter started kindergarten, is). So although Ellen feels the same way, because María seems to think I'm going for the skeletal look, and, probably, because I sit next to her at dinner, I get a lot of prodding. I don't mind. It's just so interesting how this cultural thinking works. I like trying to adjust.
I also think María's ideas of how much we actually eat are skewed, because today, Ellen wasn't with me for lunch, but I ate the exact same amount as I would at any time (less than before at María's table) and she was impressed with how hungry I was. I think she just can't keep track of how much Ellen and I are eating individually.
It's all feels so very strange and all feels so very normal at the same time.
Except for being hit upside the head.
So, I talked to Leslie, and Leslie had Ana call María. When I got home, María said nothing. When I sat down to eat though, she plopped a small spoonful of the rice dish on my plate, said, "Is that good?!" and hit me upside the head pretty hard.
I was entirely stunned and then realized that María was joking. It was almost impossible to convince her that Ellen felt the same way, as María thinks that I think I'm fat...it's all very complicated. It's hard to communicate in a second language all the time, you know? I can't convince her otherwise. So yes, now we have less food, thankfully and María is constantly feeding us, saying, "See, now you can't say that I'm saying, "eat, eat." Now you can eat as much as you want."
It's hilarious
It has also occurred me to that if an adult in the United States ever did what María does-hit me upside the head, for example- I would very, very displeased, but because it's María, weird as it is, it's ok.
But the complicated part. The Spanish (and by "the Spanish" I mean, "the María") seem to categorize people into 3, maybe 4, categories: Fat (gorda), (a little fat (gordita)), normal (Delgatita), and anorexic (anoréxica). As María sees it (I think), because I am normal, but am trying to lose a little weight, and don't want to overeat, I am trying to move down a rung on the ladder of body composition; that is, I want to look anorexic (which is often described by holding up your pinky finger and talking about how crazy thin the crown prince's wife,who is a former journalist and is the daughter of so-and-so and whose daughter started kindergarten, is). So although Ellen feels the same way, because María seems to think I'm going for the skeletal look, and, probably, because I sit next to her at dinner, I get a lot of prodding. I don't mind. It's just so interesting how this cultural thinking works. I like trying to adjust.
I also think María's ideas of how much we actually eat are skewed, because today, Ellen wasn't with me for lunch, but I ate the exact same amount as I would at any time (less than before at María's table) and she was impressed with how hungry I was. I think she just can't keep track of how much Ellen and I are eating individually.
It's all feels so very strange and all feels so very normal at the same time.
Except for being hit upside the head.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Posibilidades
As, thus far, all of my travel plans have fallen through, I am in the process of making my own future happen.
So, Amanda, were I to visit you, I could fly into London on the 30th and return to Seville on the 3rd for 40 Euros.
I could fly into Pisa on the same dates for the same amount of money (if I can get others to jump on my travelin' wagon)
Another option would be for my parents (a-hem) to visit. Which is now a possibility.
More later as I hurt myself trying to organize this stuff.
So, Amanda, were I to visit you, I could fly into London on the 30th and return to Seville on the 3rd for 40 Euros.
I could fly into Pisa on the same dates for the same amount of money (if I can get others to jump on my travelin' wagon)
Another option would be for my parents (a-hem) to visit. Which is now a possibility.
More later as I hurt myself trying to organize this stuff.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Graphic Norway
Ok, you can breathe. I'm updating. I've also been steadily putting pictures up on my photobucket account.
What have I been up to since Thursday, you're wondering? Well, right now it's Sunday at 10:10 PM, and people, Sunday has been really nice, you have good things to look forward to.
On Friday my entire school went to Córdoba (Cordoba if you're a loser) to have a tour of the Mezquita...oh...thinking...Mosque, yes, mosque...a tour of the mosque. It is quite impressive. We also visited ruins of a Muslim city called Medinat al-Zahra, from the reign of Abderramán III (yeah, I'm learning). The site was only inhabited for about 30 years and is only about 10% excavated. I was filled with awe. The mosque filled me with awe. Ruins in general fill me with awe.
I go to these places and people are running around me, talking loudly, taking pictures of themselves, and I just can't participate. I need to touch the rocks and let my over-worked imagination play. I need to be silent and wondering in ruins. I feel I need to respect them and listen to what the weathered stones are saying.
What drives me nuts is that ruins start me thinking about God. I see these walls covered with intricate carvings, dilapitated with age and conserved by the hills under which they were buried, and all I can see are people. People who lived way-back-when living; washing clothes, telling their kids to be quiet, plucking blossoms in spring, readying the town for royal welcomings, and I know that God actually knew them. He saw these people that my head wants so much to see but can't see. He was there way-back-when too. He has enough room in his big God head thing that he can known everyone there ever was, is, and is to come. He loved them, just like he loves me and Ellen and my mom. That's a lot of lovin'. It's hard to handle and impossible to fathom.
I think it's hard because it forces one to realize tangibly for one moment that it is impossible to contain God. My life is relegated to some odd years on earth. God is relegated to eternity. He is undefinable. The best I can do is see where he just was and hurt my head by imagining where he's going.
I need to stop thinking about this, or I will never read my history homework, which, by the way, does not fill me with awe and wonder. It just makes me wish Dr. Winn spoke Spanish fluently and taught at an island school in Seville. Being Spanish would improve his pirate skillz.
I also went shopping yesterday and, per usual, got lost. It is a darn good thing that I do not mind being lost, or I would be angry all the time.
Today I called Ellen a scary backwards-faced witch. Perhaps this merits explanation. You won't get any. I'm just writing it because I think that perhaps she'll read it in school tomorrow and start laughing.
European news is graphic. Yesterday, Ellen and I were innocently chillin' after supper when suddenly news came on about a nude beach. I only realized it was about a nude beach when Ellen yelped, turned her head, and unforunately pointed in the direction of the television which was proudly displaying 50 full-frontal men on a nice jog. Then, a man and his wife, frolicking side by side. Somewhere, his grandma is beeming with joy. Wait, what am I talking about? She's probably on the run too.
So, I've come to see more of a man's privates by watching national television than by being flashed on the street by a perverted narcissist. Oh, irony.
Is that irony? The word "irony" is a chancy one. Not for the faint-hearted.
What do people want from Spain? A shirt that says, "Graphic Norway"? I saw one at church today.
Ok. That's enough. Time for my bottle (water) and then time for bed.
What have I been up to since Thursday, you're wondering? Well, right now it's Sunday at 10:10 PM, and people, Sunday has been really nice, you have good things to look forward to.
On Friday my entire school went to Córdoba (Cordoba if you're a loser) to have a tour of the Mezquita...oh...thinking...Mosque, yes, mosque...a tour of the mosque. It is quite impressive. We also visited ruins of a Muslim city called Medinat al-Zahra, from the reign of Abderramán III (yeah, I'm learning). The site was only inhabited for about 30 years and is only about 10% excavated. I was filled with awe. The mosque filled me with awe. Ruins in general fill me with awe.
I go to these places and people are running around me, talking loudly, taking pictures of themselves, and I just can't participate. I need to touch the rocks and let my over-worked imagination play. I need to be silent and wondering in ruins. I feel I need to respect them and listen to what the weathered stones are saying.
What drives me nuts is that ruins start me thinking about God. I see these walls covered with intricate carvings, dilapitated with age and conserved by the hills under which they were buried, and all I can see are people. People who lived way-back-when living; washing clothes, telling their kids to be quiet, plucking blossoms in spring, readying the town for royal welcomings, and I know that God actually knew them. He saw these people that my head wants so much to see but can't see. He was there way-back-when too. He has enough room in his big God head thing that he can known everyone there ever was, is, and is to come. He loved them, just like he loves me and Ellen and my mom. That's a lot of lovin'. It's hard to handle and impossible to fathom.
I think it's hard because it forces one to realize tangibly for one moment that it is impossible to contain God. My life is relegated to some odd years on earth. God is relegated to eternity. He is undefinable. The best I can do is see where he just was and hurt my head by imagining where he's going.
I need to stop thinking about this, or I will never read my history homework, which, by the way, does not fill me with awe and wonder. It just makes me wish Dr. Winn spoke Spanish fluently and taught at an island school in Seville. Being Spanish would improve his pirate skillz.
I also went shopping yesterday and, per usual, got lost. It is a darn good thing that I do not mind being lost, or I would be angry all the time.
Today I called Ellen a scary backwards-faced witch. Perhaps this merits explanation. You won't get any. I'm just writing it because I think that perhaps she'll read it in school tomorrow and start laughing.
European news is graphic. Yesterday, Ellen and I were innocently chillin' after supper when suddenly news came on about a nude beach. I only realized it was about a nude beach when Ellen yelped, turned her head, and unforunately pointed in the direction of the television which was proudly displaying 50 full-frontal men on a nice jog. Then, a man and his wife, frolicking side by side. Somewhere, his grandma is beeming with joy. Wait, what am I talking about? She's probably on the run too.
So, I've come to see more of a man's privates by watching national television than by being flashed on the street by a perverted narcissist. Oh, irony.
Is that irony? The word "irony" is a chancy one. Not for the faint-hearted.
What do people want from Spain? A shirt that says, "Graphic Norway"? I saw one at church today.
Ok. That's enough. Time for my bottle (water) and then time for bed.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Bits and Pieces...and Male Bits Too
Male bits, you say? Read to the end or skip everything to find out.
I like the bus. I like to watch people on the bus. I like how everyone comes together to go their separate ways. I don't know. I just like it. There are more people on the bus lately, because at long last, it has rained...and continues to rain in Seville. This is good as we were in a long drought. The rain also means that it is no longer uncomfortably warm here.
I also received, finally, two Spanish catcalls yesterday. Perhaps it seems stupid that I am excited about this, but allow me to explain. Although catcalls here are stupid, certainly, they are not like catcalls in America. In the United States, I could go for a walk and get yelled at by drunk college guys, but that is not a compliment. It's drunk college guys who have nothing better to do than yell at women on the street. Any woman could walk down the street in Whitewater and get yelled at. It's not flattery. Here though, if you get a catcall, it means that a man is noticing that you look nice. He is complimenting you. It's an acceptable practice stemming from Machismo. The blonde girls in our school (of which there are plenty) are catcalled all the time. They are exotic and desireable because they are attractive foreigners. However, in the last two weeks I had not received any compliments, and compared to the stories of other girls, I was starting to feel a little self-conscious. Because having red hair like mine (un-dyed) is so strange here, I have received a lot of dirty looks from women, and a lot of startled, unpleasant looks from men, as though they had just noticed my third ear. This does not serve to make one feel particular postive about one's own appearance. So when Ellen and I received a piropo I felt relieved.
Being so different from eveyrone has me caught in a difficult line of thinking. Because I am so obviously different, I want to be obvious in the most positive way. I want to leave a good impression eveywhere I go. It's difficult to explain, so difficult that I don't even know if it's possible.
As I spend my days here, I also begin to realize that who I am isn't, and shouldn't be, confined by who I was. You can get lost and find yourself amidst the masses here.
I also want to learn more about Christian hospitality as I live here. I want to love the people I see on the train and show Maria that I appreciate what she does. It's difficult, but I think better than what we do in the United States. Because I cannot simply say "thank you" to others and have them take me at my word, I need to express gratitude in ways I have not expressed it before. This is a learning process.
I'd like to think that I'll have a gentler spirit when I return stateside.
Also, yesterday I was supposed to have a quiz in Arte. A quiz which never occurred. Oddly, I felt kind of jipped, because I was so prepared. I like it, because now, I can't walk down the street without thinking, "Hey, that's Muslim architecture, what beautiful arcos lobulados ciegos sobre columnas adosados con decoración rica del estilo ataurique." Learning makes you think a lot. In Spanish.
And, por fin: male bits.
Last night was Encuentro (a student worship service here). Encuentro is quite far from my house, you see, and, as many of you know, I have an abismal sense of direction. After Encuentro, I need to hurry to catch the bus so that I won't be late for supper, but this time, Ellen was not with me, and I needed to figure out how to get home on my own.
Well, I figured wrong and ended up in the middle of Triana. Triana is a good part of town, quite, quite full of people, and even farther from my house than Encuentro. Fortunately, I ran into a stranger from church, who, incidentally is from Fort Atkinson, WI, who showed me the way to the Triana bridge into Seville from which I knew my way home. I walked across the bridge, using my naturally hyperspeed walking gait, and turned to walk along the river towards el Torre de Oro. As I walked along the scenic path, there were people to my right sitting on benches, talking, making out passionately, you know, the norm here. And then, as I came upon a little group of trees, I heard a quiet voice. I glanced over, without breaking my stride, only to see a man masturbating facing the passing people. A flasher. I was flashed by a masturbating man. In the middle of a crowded pathway. Interesting. I was not upset. We learned on our first day in Spain that for some reason, men doing this in Seville is not all that uncommon. This also has to do with Machismo. Men get off on "shocking" women with their "manliness". I feel I was prepared. Is that weird?
Maria asked me if he was drunk. I told her I didn't ask.
Ahora es tiempo ir a clase.
I like the bus. I like to watch people on the bus. I like how everyone comes together to go their separate ways. I don't know. I just like it. There are more people on the bus lately, because at long last, it has rained...and continues to rain in Seville. This is good as we were in a long drought. The rain also means that it is no longer uncomfortably warm here.
I also received, finally, two Spanish catcalls yesterday. Perhaps it seems stupid that I am excited about this, but allow me to explain. Although catcalls here are stupid, certainly, they are not like catcalls in America. In the United States, I could go for a walk and get yelled at by drunk college guys, but that is not a compliment. It's drunk college guys who have nothing better to do than yell at women on the street. Any woman could walk down the street in Whitewater and get yelled at. It's not flattery. Here though, if you get a catcall, it means that a man is noticing that you look nice. He is complimenting you. It's an acceptable practice stemming from Machismo. The blonde girls in our school (of which there are plenty) are catcalled all the time. They are exotic and desireable because they are attractive foreigners. However, in the last two weeks I had not received any compliments, and compared to the stories of other girls, I was starting to feel a little self-conscious. Because having red hair like mine (un-dyed) is so strange here, I have received a lot of dirty looks from women, and a lot of startled, unpleasant looks from men, as though they had just noticed my third ear. This does not serve to make one feel particular postive about one's own appearance. So when Ellen and I received a piropo I felt relieved.
Being so different from eveyrone has me caught in a difficult line of thinking. Because I am so obviously different, I want to be obvious in the most positive way. I want to leave a good impression eveywhere I go. It's difficult to explain, so difficult that I don't even know if it's possible.
As I spend my days here, I also begin to realize that who I am isn't, and shouldn't be, confined by who I was. You can get lost and find yourself amidst the masses here.
I also want to learn more about Christian hospitality as I live here. I want to love the people I see on the train and show Maria that I appreciate what she does. It's difficult, but I think better than what we do in the United States. Because I cannot simply say "thank you" to others and have them take me at my word, I need to express gratitude in ways I have not expressed it before. This is a learning process.
I'd like to think that I'll have a gentler spirit when I return stateside.
Also, yesterday I was supposed to have a quiz in Arte. A quiz which never occurred. Oddly, I felt kind of jipped, because I was so prepared. I like it, because now, I can't walk down the street without thinking, "Hey, that's Muslim architecture, what beautiful arcos lobulados ciegos sobre columnas adosados con decoración rica del estilo ataurique." Learning makes you think a lot. In Spanish.
And, por fin: male bits.
Last night was Encuentro (a student worship service here). Encuentro is quite far from my house, you see, and, as many of you know, I have an abismal sense of direction. After Encuentro, I need to hurry to catch the bus so that I won't be late for supper, but this time, Ellen was not with me, and I needed to figure out how to get home on my own.
Well, I figured wrong and ended up in the middle of Triana. Triana is a good part of town, quite, quite full of people, and even farther from my house than Encuentro. Fortunately, I ran into a stranger from church, who, incidentally is from Fort Atkinson, WI, who showed me the way to the Triana bridge into Seville from which I knew my way home. I walked across the bridge, using my naturally hyperspeed walking gait, and turned to walk along the river towards el Torre de Oro. As I walked along the scenic path, there were people to my right sitting on benches, talking, making out passionately, you know, the norm here. And then, as I came upon a little group of trees, I heard a quiet voice. I glanced over, without breaking my stride, only to see a man masturbating facing the passing people. A flasher. I was flashed by a masturbating man. In the middle of a crowded pathway. Interesting. I was not upset. We learned on our first day in Spain that for some reason, men doing this in Seville is not all that uncommon. This also has to do with Machismo. Men get off on "shocking" women with their "manliness". I feel I was prepared. Is that weird?
Maria asked me if he was drunk. I told her I didn't ask.
Ahora es tiempo ir a clase.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Why Seville Is a Lot Like a Musical
Today was capital.
Ellen wrote this as a comment a couple of posts back, but I believe it bears repeating:
"Something else excellent that I just found in the dictionary is uses of the exclamation point in English. For example: "Oh no! The cat's been run over!" "
This is now one of my favorite things to say. As well as "toodle pip" thanks to Amanda. "Canis" is also fun, but only when Ellen is within earshot.
I have begun paying ten Ay-OO-roes a pop for Sevillanas classes. Sevillanas is Sevillian flamenco, which most people here know. It might be hard, but imagine yourself at a party, minding your own business, listening to some current music, when suddenly, a little Spanish guitar number comes on and everyone around you pairs up and suddenly starts doing a flamenco in four parts. Apparently this actually happens here (though I have not been eyewitness) and I am not going to miss out on a chance to be part of spontaneous, choreographed dancing (like a musical, Becks!). So, yes, I am learning. I may even purchase a saucy dress sometime. I don't know. I do know that people should not, however, expect me to come back all flamenco-ed. It's hard.
Also, on Saturday, Ellen and I went to a Mercadillo, which is a Spanish flea market full of people yelling at you in incoherently fast Spanish. It was actually a great deal of fun. One vendor thought Ellen and I were French and started motioning at us, saying, "deux ou-roes, deux." French women? We were pretty flattered. Two vendors also immediately, explicitly identified us as Americans, but were very kind and appreciated that we spoke Spanish. I bought shoes, earrings, and a belt...all for 15 Ay-OO-roes. Yay.
Also, starting now, I will occasionally relate to all of you some of the amazingly absurd things t-shirts here say in English. It's a lot like people wearing shirts with Chinese symbols.
Today: Drink Slavery.
Ellen saw an amazing one the other day. You should ask her about it.
That's all for now. I'd better get to my history homework. All four pages of reading.
Ellen wrote this as a comment a couple of posts back, but I believe it bears repeating:
"Something else excellent that I just found in the dictionary is uses of the exclamation point in English. For example: "Oh no! The cat's been run over!" "
This is now one of my favorite things to say. As well as "toodle pip" thanks to Amanda. "Canis" is also fun, but only when Ellen is within earshot.
I have begun paying ten Ay-OO-roes a pop for Sevillanas classes. Sevillanas is Sevillian flamenco, which most people here know. It might be hard, but imagine yourself at a party, minding your own business, listening to some current music, when suddenly, a little Spanish guitar number comes on and everyone around you pairs up and suddenly starts doing a flamenco in four parts. Apparently this actually happens here (though I have not been eyewitness) and I am not going to miss out on a chance to be part of spontaneous, choreographed dancing (like a musical, Becks!). So, yes, I am learning. I may even purchase a saucy dress sometime. I don't know. I do know that people should not, however, expect me to come back all flamenco-ed. It's hard.
Also, on Saturday, Ellen and I went to a Mercadillo, which is a Spanish flea market full of people yelling at you in incoherently fast Spanish. It was actually a great deal of fun. One vendor thought Ellen and I were French and started motioning at us, saying, "deux ou-roes, deux." French women? We were pretty flattered. Two vendors also immediately, explicitly identified us as Americans, but were very kind and appreciated that we spoke Spanish. I bought shoes, earrings, and a belt...all for 15 Ay-OO-roes. Yay.
Also, starting now, I will occasionally relate to all of you some of the amazingly absurd things t-shirts here say in English. It's a lot like people wearing shirts with Chinese symbols.
Today: Drink Slavery.
Ellen saw an amazing one the other day. You should ask her about it.
That's all for now. I'd better get to my history homework. All four pages of reading.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A Cleaner and Brighter Future
As predicted, showering has made me a lot happier with the world.
And no day can be so bad when lunch ends with ice cream cake.
And no day can be so bad when lunch ends with ice cream cake.
Anger
Today, I am incredibally frustrated with Spanish. I can't understand my teachers or remember words I heard just moments ago.
I can't figure out how to be organized here. I need to take notes in Spanish, but I can't organize them on paper or on the computer, nor can I concentrate on what the teacher is saying while I'm writing things down.
It sounds silly I know, but I probably feel this way because A) I didn't get to shower this morning and B) I'm wearing my glasses. I never feel awake when I do either of these things, and I am far more prone to crankiness when I haven't been properly washed of all things yesterday.
So, I feel like I can't hear anyone, understand anyone, or express myself coherently to anyone. Most of the people in my level speak far better than me, and though I know I need not dwell on any of these things, it's hard not to when I'm stumbling over my tongue in class and hearing myself say things incorrectly while simultaneously being unaware of what is correct.
I just walked up to the secretary's desk to look at the sign up sheets for various things. The secretary, Ana, asked me how I am. I said (in Spanish), "I'm a little frustrated." She replied, "Oh, why?" I said, "Because I can't express myself in Spanish." and she said, "...what? express?" and I almost started crying.
I need to vent and talk about these things, and yet, when I try to talk to people, I either can't make myself understood, or I feel like I'm making them uncomfortable or I feel like I'm being judged for being upset, so I just stop. I just want to go home and be alone to think and become rational again, but I get home and Señora starts asking me questions, which I either can't understand or to which I don't know how to reply, and everything snowballs.
Also, I don't want to always be with people I know from NWC, but the majority of students in Acento de Trinity live pretty far away. I try to plan on things so that I can be included in activities, but it never seems to work out. I tried to go to a disco with a big group, for example, and had a plan for which bus I was to take and which taxi I was to go home in, but there I sat, waiting for the bus that was supposed to arrive at midnight, but never came, all dressed up, ready to meet people, only to be disappointed again. Just like slushies, just like every other activity I hear everyone talking about in school.
Yuck. For the first time, I do NOT want to be here at all.
And yes, I know it will get better, and yes, I know I oughtn't complain, and yes, I know. But right here, right now, I feel upset and hopeless. I am not ignorant of the plusses of being here. I know the sun will probably come out tomorrow.
I can't figure out how to be organized here. I need to take notes in Spanish, but I can't organize them on paper or on the computer, nor can I concentrate on what the teacher is saying while I'm writing things down.
It sounds silly I know, but I probably feel this way because A) I didn't get to shower this morning and B) I'm wearing my glasses. I never feel awake when I do either of these things, and I am far more prone to crankiness when I haven't been properly washed of all things yesterday.
So, I feel like I can't hear anyone, understand anyone, or express myself coherently to anyone. Most of the people in my level speak far better than me, and though I know I need not dwell on any of these things, it's hard not to when I'm stumbling over my tongue in class and hearing myself say things incorrectly while simultaneously being unaware of what is correct.
I just walked up to the secretary's desk to look at the sign up sheets for various things. The secretary, Ana, asked me how I am. I said (in Spanish), "I'm a little frustrated." She replied, "Oh, why?" I said, "Because I can't express myself in Spanish." and she said, "...what? express?" and I almost started crying.
I need to vent and talk about these things, and yet, when I try to talk to people, I either can't make myself understood, or I feel like I'm making them uncomfortable or I feel like I'm being judged for being upset, so I just stop. I just want to go home and be alone to think and become rational again, but I get home and Señora starts asking me questions, which I either can't understand or to which I don't know how to reply, and everything snowballs.
Also, I don't want to always be with people I know from NWC, but the majority of students in Acento de Trinity live pretty far away. I try to plan on things so that I can be included in activities, but it never seems to work out. I tried to go to a disco with a big group, for example, and had a plan for which bus I was to take and which taxi I was to go home in, but there I sat, waiting for the bus that was supposed to arrive at midnight, but never came, all dressed up, ready to meet people, only to be disappointed again. Just like slushies, just like every other activity I hear everyone talking about in school.
Yuck. For the first time, I do NOT want to be here at all.
And yes, I know it will get better, and yes, I know I oughtn't complain, and yes, I know. But right here, right now, I feel upset and hopeless. I am not ignorant of the plusses of being here. I know the sun will probably come out tomorrow.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Tirita and Tirito Mean Band-aid and Handgun Respectively. Try Not To Confuse Them.
So, I'm sitting here on my bed, in my room, in an apartment in Spain, listening to distinctly non-Spanish music with little I want to do and lots I ought to (namely study) and it occured to me that I ought to post on my blog.
Unfortunately, I have found myself not wanting to blog lately. Not because I don't want to keep people updated. No, it's because as I have re-read my other posts, I have noticed that my grammar and writing skills are slowly sliding downhill. This would make sense were they being replaced by amazing Spanish skills, but, sadly, they are not. Communicating with Maria is still quite difficult (try explaining how wireless internet is different from pay-as-you-go cellphones in broken Spanish) as is communicating with strangers who catch me off guard on bus stops or at the flea market. I know things will improve and, in fact, I am not so discouraged, I only wish words and verb tenses would come to mind more readily more quickly than they are.
It's also hard to rid myself of certain American idiosyncracies, such as constantly saying, "please," and, "thank you." In truth, this matters very little, and would matter even less if constantly being polite were not a sign of formal distance here. Spaniards, in fact, very rarely say little polite sayings, taking them as words of discomfort or lack of familiarity. It is far more important to them that people act graciously than speak graciously. I mean it every time I say, "thank you," to Señora, and I'm sure she understands that Americans (and the English) just say these things often, but I would like to express my gratitude in a culturally-saavy way.
This reminds me that Ellen found a book in our little room that is for Spanish speakers learning English. The book advises that Spaniards planning to visit an English home learn to say, "please," and, "thank you," often as it is a cultural norm. It also gives several examples of how to politely refuse food-"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish."-how to request something-"Would it be alright if I brought my friends 'round for coffee tomorrow?"-and how to properly express gratitude in more complex social terms-"Thanks for looking after me."-and-"Can I help with the washing up?" Of course, these ideas are only hilarious if you say them in a British accent and are living in Spain.
As Ellen and I continue interacting with Maria, we are realizing that she may be pretending to understand us more than she does. We also believe her hearing might not be particularly spectacular, though she continues to be wonderful and entirely feisty. She gives me a love tap everytime we leave for school and last night, after dinner, she sat down with me and my computer and had me look up a fiesta in her town that was taking place honoring "La Virgen de la Regla" which among other things, can mean, "Virgen of Menstruation." I believe she is Señora's patron saint of sorts. She excitedly told us about her hometown and the festival and then suddenly turned her back to me and looked at me smiling and pointed at her shoulders. I thought to myself, "What is going on? Does she want a massage?" and so she did, because she took my hand and made it pinch her shoulders. So yes, I gave Maria a massage. Ellen was dying.
Señora's hand movements perfectly match her personality.
Since Mom asked about school:
Everyday I have four classes. The first is Teatro del Siglo XX (20th Century Spanish Theater). It's pretty much a high school or college literature class with a lot less reading at one time. It's hard, because there is a lot of simbolism in the plays that I miss owing to the language barrier. The next class I go to is Historia del Arte (which I will not translate). We read some and memorize pictures, periods, styles, etc. of art. We will be going on several trips around the city to be eyewitness to Muslim, Jewish, and Christian art. Next I go to Communicación Advanzada, which is an advanced grammar class. I enjoy it a lot, because my professor has a very elegant accent, and though she expects a lot, she teaches very well. We don't have a set schedule so much as we come to class and ask her about specific words and hang ups in the language, which she then explains. Last is Historia de España Medieval, which is only hard in that, by then, my blood sugar is really low, and I can only think of lunch and siesta.
Well, I have other things to say, but I think I will go to bed and end this long post as it is.
I love you all.
Unfortunately, I have found myself not wanting to blog lately. Not because I don't want to keep people updated. No, it's because as I have re-read my other posts, I have noticed that my grammar and writing skills are slowly sliding downhill. This would make sense were they being replaced by amazing Spanish skills, but, sadly, they are not. Communicating with Maria is still quite difficult (try explaining how wireless internet is different from pay-as-you-go cellphones in broken Spanish) as is communicating with strangers who catch me off guard on bus stops or at the flea market. I know things will improve and, in fact, I am not so discouraged, I only wish words and verb tenses would come to mind more readily more quickly than they are.
It's also hard to rid myself of certain American idiosyncracies, such as constantly saying, "please," and, "thank you." In truth, this matters very little, and would matter even less if constantly being polite were not a sign of formal distance here. Spaniards, in fact, very rarely say little polite sayings, taking them as words of discomfort or lack of familiarity. It is far more important to them that people act graciously than speak graciously. I mean it every time I say, "thank you," to Señora, and I'm sure she understands that Americans (and the English) just say these things often, but I would like to express my gratitude in a culturally-saavy way.
This reminds me that Ellen found a book in our little room that is for Spanish speakers learning English. The book advises that Spaniards planning to visit an English home learn to say, "please," and, "thank you," often as it is a cultural norm. It also gives several examples of how to politely refuse food-"I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish."-how to request something-"Would it be alright if I brought my friends 'round for coffee tomorrow?"-and how to properly express gratitude in more complex social terms-"Thanks for looking after me."-and-"Can I help with the washing up?" Of course, these ideas are only hilarious if you say them in a British accent and are living in Spain.
As Ellen and I continue interacting with Maria, we are realizing that she may be pretending to understand us more than she does. We also believe her hearing might not be particularly spectacular, though she continues to be wonderful and entirely feisty. She gives me a love tap everytime we leave for school and last night, after dinner, she sat down with me and my computer and had me look up a fiesta in her town that was taking place honoring "La Virgen de la Regla" which among other things, can mean, "Virgen of Menstruation." I believe she is Señora's patron saint of sorts. She excitedly told us about her hometown and the festival and then suddenly turned her back to me and looked at me smiling and pointed at her shoulders. I thought to myself, "What is going on? Does she want a massage?" and so she did, because she took my hand and made it pinch her shoulders. So yes, I gave Maria a massage. Ellen was dying.
Señora's hand movements perfectly match her personality.
Since Mom asked about school:
Everyday I have four classes. The first is Teatro del Siglo XX (20th Century Spanish Theater). It's pretty much a high school or college literature class with a lot less reading at one time. It's hard, because there is a lot of simbolism in the plays that I miss owing to the language barrier. The next class I go to is Historia del Arte (which I will not translate). We read some and memorize pictures, periods, styles, etc. of art. We will be going on several trips around the city to be eyewitness to Muslim, Jewish, and Christian art. Next I go to Communicación Advanzada, which is an advanced grammar class. I enjoy it a lot, because my professor has a very elegant accent, and though she expects a lot, she teaches very well. We don't have a set schedule so much as we come to class and ask her about specific words and hang ups in the language, which she then explains. Last is Historia de España Medieval, which is only hard in that, by then, my blood sugar is really low, and I can only think of lunch and siesta.
Well, I have other things to say, but I think I will go to bed and end this long post as it is.
I love you all.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Experiments
Ellen invented a fun game which I really enjoy.
You see, unlike Americans who are generally raised to walk around smiling in public like they love everyone, Spaniard do not waste energy on strangers.
So when we are on the bus, or on the street, sometimes we'll smile at Spaniards and give a little affirming nod. Sometimes they become noticeably uncomfortable, but sometimes, like today, they smile back. Sometimes they are a little startled and quickly look away. Sometimes they just stare back stone-faced.
I know it sounds stupid, but it's actually quite diverting.
I also like it when I go into stores to order something, the employee hears my accent, knows where I'm from immediately, and wants to practice their English.
You see, unlike Americans who are generally raised to walk around smiling in public like they love everyone, Spaniard do not waste energy on strangers.
So when we are on the bus, or on the street, sometimes we'll smile at Spaniards and give a little affirming nod. Sometimes they become noticeably uncomfortable, but sometimes, like today, they smile back. Sometimes they are a little startled and quickly look away. Sometimes they just stare back stone-faced.
I know it sounds stupid, but it's actually quite diverting.
I also like it when I go into stores to order something, the employee hears my accent, knows where I'm from immediately, and wants to practice their English.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Bombas de Agua
So,
Last night was "Noche de Chicas". This entailed 40 American girls walking in a group to a bar (a man was so impressed he started clapping and cheering for us-the men are very vocal about their "interests" here) to get refrescos and then paddle boating on the Guadalquivir, which was quite exciting.
Paddle boating invited two incidents, while sitting under a bridge, we were unwittingly the object of strutiny of two smiling Spanish boys above who said,"Hah-lo! Do yi-ou laik Sevilla?" and then continued to follow along with our boat on the shore.
Also, there are 7 boys in our program. All of them decided to crash our Girl's Night with water balloons. We were surprised.
Two funny things happened recently with Maria also:
1) Today, when we were eating, she couldn't get the remote to work. Then she realized it was the phone. We all laughed pretty hard.
2) Ellen was trying to tell her that she likes the sound of French. Ellen's grammar was fine, but Maria could not for her life understand the word "frances". We explained it and she finally got it and made a face as if to say, "what a lot of work". I said, "I'll bet we probably have horrible accents." She just smiled at me knowingly and nodded her head eagerly.
Just like the man on the bus who couldn't understand me. Now I know how foreigners feel in the United States. It's not a bad feeling really. It's just this little extra barrier beyond the language.
I also went shopping the other day and bought a great deal of clothing in order to deal with the constant stream of 90 degree days. I wasn't prepared to sweat so much, I guess. Everyday Maria says "Mira," and points to the weather on TV (by the way, TV is a HUGE part of the Spanish household and is the centerpiece of lunch and dinner--usually news, followed by celebrity or regal gossip, followed by weather) which always tells us that the next day is going to be really hot with a big yellow sun.
The girls on the trip are quite, quite nice, as are the guys, one of whom has the same favorite CD as me, which I know is stupid, but any connection can be exciting when you don't really know anyone..
Yes. I'm done. I need to drink my vitamins so I stop feeling like I'm getting a cold.
Last night was "Noche de Chicas". This entailed 40 American girls walking in a group to a bar (a man was so impressed he started clapping and cheering for us-the men are very vocal about their "interests" here) to get refrescos and then paddle boating on the Guadalquivir, which was quite exciting.
Paddle boating invited two incidents, while sitting under a bridge, we were unwittingly the object of strutiny of two smiling Spanish boys above who said,"Hah-lo! Do yi-ou laik Sevilla?" and then continued to follow along with our boat on the shore.
Also, there are 7 boys in our program. All of them decided to crash our Girl's Night with water balloons. We were surprised.
Two funny things happened recently with Maria also:
1) Today, when we were eating, she couldn't get the remote to work. Then she realized it was the phone. We all laughed pretty hard.
2) Ellen was trying to tell her that she likes the sound of French. Ellen's grammar was fine, but Maria could not for her life understand the word "frances". We explained it and she finally got it and made a face as if to say, "what a lot of work". I said, "I'll bet we probably have horrible accents." She just smiled at me knowingly and nodded her head eagerly.
Just like the man on the bus who couldn't understand me. Now I know how foreigners feel in the United States. It's not a bad feeling really. It's just this little extra barrier beyond the language.
I also went shopping the other day and bought a great deal of clothing in order to deal with the constant stream of 90 degree days. I wasn't prepared to sweat so much, I guess. Everyday Maria says "Mira," and points to the weather on TV (by the way, TV is a HUGE part of the Spanish household and is the centerpiece of lunch and dinner--usually news, followed by celebrity or regal gossip, followed by weather) which always tells us that the next day is going to be really hot with a big yellow sun.
The girls on the trip are quite, quite nice, as are the guys, one of whom has the same favorite CD as me, which I know is stupid, but any connection can be exciting when you don't really know anyone..
Yes. I'm done. I need to drink my vitamins so I stop feeling like I'm getting a cold.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Gracia de Maria Guitierrez Amerigo
My senora is quite, quite cute.
Whenever we eat she tries to make us eat more, insisting that we eat very little. Today at lunch, I told her that I'm trying to lose a few pounds, and she began talking about how I don't need to, and that Ellen is thinner, and that she can't let me go back to the States and have my boyfriend angry that my senora didn't feed me in Spain.
But tonight, when I sat down to dinner, she pulled my plate over an inch like she always does, and pointed at my food, saying (except in Spanish), "See, it's ham wrapped around turkey, with pureed potatoes. It won't make you fat. And the fruit, it won't make you fat." And she just smiled in this amazingly adorable way that shows that she really cares and thinks about what she does. And every time she gets up to leave the table, she tells Ellen or me to eat more salad or more bread.
I love it here.
Whenever we eat she tries to make us eat more, insisting that we eat very little. Today at lunch, I told her that I'm trying to lose a few pounds, and she began talking about how I don't need to, and that Ellen is thinner, and that she can't let me go back to the States and have my boyfriend angry that my senora didn't feed me in Spain.
But tonight, when I sat down to dinner, she pulled my plate over an inch like she always does, and pointed at my food, saying (except in Spanish), "See, it's ham wrapped around turkey, with pureed potatoes. It won't make you fat. And the fruit, it won't make you fat." And she just smiled in this amazingly adorable way that shows that she really cares and thinks about what she does. And every time she gets up to leave the table, she tells Ellen or me to eat more salad or more bread.
I love it here.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Nothing to Give Here.
I have pictures up on my photobucket account now. It's pretty organized there, so look under the subheading "Espana".
Also, They have Mr. Clean here in Spain, but they call him Don Limpio. It's pretty great.
They also have the Simpsons, which makes no sense, because the point of the Simpsons is generally American satire or jokes that are specifically targeted at Americans.
They also don't walk around their houses sans shoes for fear of getting sick.
Just so you know.
Also, They have Mr. Clean here in Spain, but they call him Don Limpio. It's pretty great.
They also have the Simpsons, which makes no sense, because the point of the Simpsons is generally American satire or jokes that are specifically targeted at Americans.
They also don't walk around their houses sans shoes for fear of getting sick.
Just so you know.
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