"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!