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.

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Daughter's obedient, just like always.