Back in the US of A.
I'm not totally bummed. Indeed, after Paris, I was ready to come back. I got back last night, and surprisingly, didn't suffer any jet lag. It'll probably hit me when I least expect it. Now I have to get unpacked. Boo. Come to think of it, in reality I have to get packed (my whole apartment, that is) because I'm moving in a couple of weeks. Also boo. And I have to pay bills and along with that, two rents at the same time because I'm moving into a new apartment before the lease is up at the apartment where I am now. Triple boo.
Anyway, before I can fathom moving, there's a little something coming up this weekend. I have made very cryptic mention of the circumstances surrounding the event this weekend, though, because I'm very hesitant to put anyone else other than myself on display, in a manner of speaking, on this blog. But I have to say something about it, because I can't just act like it's not a big deal and gloss over it.
It is potentially a big deal, and there's a maddening mix of excitement, expectation, nervousness, stress, frustration and uncertainty surrounding it. But what can I do other than pray, wait, and see? Absolutely nothing.
How do I find myself in the places I find myself? The upside to being closed-off is that you only find yourself in comfortable, predictable, stable situations. The downside is that you often miss out on what could have been. The upside to being open is that you're more apt to have a variety of experiences—comfortable or un, predictable or un—therefore the tapestry of your life has a richer texture and color. The downside is that you're also more likely to experience disappointment because of the very nature of the unpredictable as opposed to the predictable.
But in the end, I choose to be open. In the end, I'd much rather experience the temporary regret of having done than the lasting regret of having not done. The unpredictable also has positive possibilites, and, at least in this case, the uncertainty will soon clear.
We'll see.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Au revoir!
Last night, I bought a t-shirt that says “C’est moi la plus belle!” Which, being interpreted, means, “I am the prettiest!” I really don’t think that I am the prettiest, but I thought the shirt was cute, and I figured it would be a self-esteem booster. (When I pointed to the shirt I wanted to the souvenir shop guy, he said, “Oui, it is you, it is you.” LOL. ) Plus, when I wear it in the US, no one is going to know what it says. Anyway, I wore it today, on my last day in Paris. During the day, I forgot about what was on my shirt, but I was reminded by a few Frenchmen that let me know they agreed! Today was another full day—Arc de Triumph, Musee de Orangerie (lots of Monet and other Impressionists), Centre George Pompidou (really awesome modern art), we took some more pics of the Tower, and we ended the day with a boat tour on the Seine. But the day didn’t end until it rained on us! Oh, well. Now I can say that I’ve been rained on in Paris. Enjoy these last pictures of my European experience because tomorrow, it’s back to the US of A!
Bonjour!
Oui, I am totally in Paris and loving it. Internet time is a little limited, so I’ll be quick about it and just post some pics for your viewing pleasure. So many things in Paris are iconic, they don’t really need an explanation. We got to Paris last night and after a fabulous dinner went to the Eiffel Tower. It’s quite dazzling at night. The next day my roommate and I hit the Louvre—Mona Lisa is smaller than you think. We also got the really cool opportunity to see the Tour de France live! The area around the Centre George Pomipdou is quite eclectic. We got hugs from a couple of people touting signs saying “free hugs,” and saw a trio of glistening Brazilian guys do capuera—a cool blend of martial arts and dance. And no day in Paris is complete without a crepe! Enjoy!
Friday, July 25, 2008
¡Adiós!
Today is my last day in Salamanca, Spain.
I woke up this morning melancholy and full of wanderlust. I went to the cafe around the corner and got a café con leche with a tiny little sandwich. Then I wandered over to a cybercafe. I have a confession to make. We have Internet at our residence, but I went over to the cybercafe because the guy who works there is super cute, and I wanted to see him one last time. I normally went there to print out papers or stuff on the Internet since we don't have printers here. And no, he's not one of those "cute but not cute" guys, for someone's information. He had an eyebrow ring, which would normally be kind of eww for me, but he's that cute.
Anyway, on my way over there, I started to tear up, oh, sentimental fool that I am. I wrote an email to a friend as a pretext, and asked him what group he had playing in the background. It was some modern Flamenco, and I liked it. He made a CD full of Flamenco for me and gave me candy. I felt like a little girl. I told him that I was sad because today was my last day here and I wasn't ready to go back. I nearly cried! What is wrong with me? He was really sweet about it and said some encouraging things to try to make me smile and sent me off with dos besitos.
Then I wandered over to the park. My sunglasses stopped the tears from running down my face. I found a shady, solitary spot and just sat there. A man calling out to his dog named Whiskey. An old decrepit man hobbling along on crutches. Bent over women walking arm in arm. I brought a book to read, but all I could do was stare into space.
I teared up talking to nearly everyone I spent time with today. I slowly began snapping out of it, though. I eventually did some whirlwind souvenir and gift shopping. I got my last ice cream cone from Café Novelty in the Plaza. It was tiramisu-flavored. I think the ice cream is what completely snapped me out of it.
Now I have to pack. My next adventure is Pah-REE. I don't know if I'll have Internet access there, but if so, my next post will be "Bonjour!" Here are a few "goodbye" pictures:
I woke up this morning melancholy and full of wanderlust. I went to the cafe around the corner and got a café con leche with a tiny little sandwich. Then I wandered over to a cybercafe. I have a confession to make. We have Internet at our residence, but I went over to the cybercafe because the guy who works there is super cute, and I wanted to see him one last time. I normally went there to print out papers or stuff on the Internet since we don't have printers here. And no, he's not one of those "cute but not cute" guys, for someone's information. He had an eyebrow ring, which would normally be kind of eww for me, but he's that cute.
Anyway, on my way over there, I started to tear up, oh, sentimental fool that I am. I wrote an email to a friend as a pretext, and asked him what group he had playing in the background. It was some modern Flamenco, and I liked it. He made a CD full of Flamenco for me and gave me candy. I felt like a little girl. I told him that I was sad because today was my last day here and I wasn't ready to go back. I nearly cried! What is wrong with me? He was really sweet about it and said some encouraging things to try to make me smile and sent me off with dos besitos.
Then I wandered over to the park. My sunglasses stopped the tears from running down my face. I found a shady, solitary spot and just sat there. A man calling out to his dog named Whiskey. An old decrepit man hobbling along on crutches. Bent over women walking arm in arm. I brought a book to read, but all I could do was stare into space.
I teared up talking to nearly everyone I spent time with today. I slowly began snapping out of it, though. I eventually did some whirlwind souvenir and gift shopping. I got my last ice cream cone from Café Novelty in the Plaza. It was tiramisu-flavored. I think the ice cream is what completely snapped me out of it.
Now I have to pack. My next adventure is Pah-REE. I don't know if I'll have Internet access there, but if so, my next post will be "Bonjour!" Here are a few "goodbye" pictures:
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
I'm Not Ready, I Say
(sigh.)
At least I'm done with my papers. Here's the thing: I love reading, discussing, gathering ideas, and even doing research. But it takes a scary amount of energy and willpower to overcome inertia to actually write the paper. And that's scary because I'm supposed to be starting a graduate program in August where I will eat, sleep, and breathe writing papers. I have a final tomorrow, and then I'm done. Tomorrow is the last day of class.
Saturday we leave Salamanca for Paris. We spend Sunday and Monday in Paris, and Tuesday we leave to go back to the US. Here's the thing: I'm not ready to go back.
Right now, I'm free. I'm an untethered, unburdened, helium-filled balloon. I can rise. I can wander. No demands are being made of me, no expectations set for me, no responsibilities charged to me. Sure, I had to go to class, read, and do my little Spanish work. Despite my paper aversion, my trusty inner nerd always kicks in. But what did I really do? Who reigned after the inner nerd's job was done? The inner wanderer. What I really did was ascend cathedral towers. I relished long, windy walks over cobblestoned streets. I listened to a centuries-old clock tower ring. I admired the river flowing under the Roman bridge I stood upon. I was dazzled by the Plaza Mayor at night. I savored café con leche and while sipping it, realized that it's not as simple as mixing coffee and milk together. That description doesn't do Spain or the inner wanderer justice, but it's an idea.
Oh, but when I get back, the helium-filled balloon will be nothing more than a deflated piece of latex. You think you're walking anywhere? Fill up that car with gas. You think an apartment comes free? Pay those bills. You think your apartment full of stuff is going to get up and move on its own? Pack up your junk, rent a U-Haul, and handle it. You think your decisions are your own? Look at the smiling faces surrounding you. They missed you. You think you're off the hook? Buy those books. Make those grades. Help that person. Be that example. Smile that smile. I'm bracing myself for the unyielding brick wall of reality with which I will inevitably collide as soon as I step off the plane and the Alabama humidity envelops me.
I wrote a paper for my Latin American Literature class analyzing a short shory by Argentine writer Julio Cortázar called La noche boca arriba. The face-up night. Basically, this guy gets in a motorcycle accident and ends up in the hospital. While he's in the hospital, he dreams of running through the jungle, being hunted by the Aztec who want to capture him and offer him as a human sacrifice to the sun god. When he wakes up, he's back in the hospital, but when he slips back off to sleep, he's back in the jungle. The story goes back and forth between the modern world of the hospital and the ancient world of the jungle. The jungle dream advances to the point where the Aztec finally catch him and they have him bound, carrying him towards the sacrificial altar in the temple. And as the priest raises the knife, the man tries desperately to wake back up, but he realizes that he is awake. Right before he dies, he remembers dreaming of a strange city with lights that shone without fire or smoke, of riding through streets on a large shiny insect that rumbled. The motorcycle accident and hospital stay were the dream. In my conclusion, I suggested that Cortázar's point was that the line between reality and fiction is not as fixed as we'd like it to be. Maybe it's a little blurrier than we're comfortable with. Maybe there's some overlap.
I said all of that to say that it reminded me of my mental dilemma. It almost feels like where I'm at now is fantasy and what awaits me when I return is reality. But aren't they both just different states of the same conscious reality? Forget it. I'm going to the plaza and getting some ice cream. But not before I post pictures of the excursion we took last Sunday. We went to El Escorial, a monestary where all of the Spanish royalty is buried, and Valle de los Caidos, a monument commissioned by Spanish dictator Francisco Franco to honor all of the fallen soldiers from the Spanish Civil War. I also included pictures of my little walk down to the Roman bridge, and there's some other random ones in there too. Enjoy!
At least I'm done with my papers. Here's the thing: I love reading, discussing, gathering ideas, and even doing research. But it takes a scary amount of energy and willpower to overcome inertia to actually write the paper. And that's scary because I'm supposed to be starting a graduate program in August where I will eat, sleep, and breathe writing papers. I have a final tomorrow, and then I'm done. Tomorrow is the last day of class.
Saturday we leave Salamanca for Paris. We spend Sunday and Monday in Paris, and Tuesday we leave to go back to the US. Here's the thing: I'm not ready to go back.
Right now, I'm free. I'm an untethered, unburdened, helium-filled balloon. I can rise. I can wander. No demands are being made of me, no expectations set for me, no responsibilities charged to me. Sure, I had to go to class, read, and do my little Spanish work. Despite my paper aversion, my trusty inner nerd always kicks in. But what did I really do? Who reigned after the inner nerd's job was done? The inner wanderer. What I really did was ascend cathedral towers. I relished long, windy walks over cobblestoned streets. I listened to a centuries-old clock tower ring. I admired the river flowing under the Roman bridge I stood upon. I was dazzled by the Plaza Mayor at night. I savored café con leche and while sipping it, realized that it's not as simple as mixing coffee and milk together. That description doesn't do Spain or the inner wanderer justice, but it's an idea.
Oh, but when I get back, the helium-filled balloon will be nothing more than a deflated piece of latex. You think you're walking anywhere? Fill up that car with gas. You think an apartment comes free? Pay those bills. You think your apartment full of stuff is going to get up and move on its own? Pack up your junk, rent a U-Haul, and handle it. You think your decisions are your own? Look at the smiling faces surrounding you. They missed you. You think you're off the hook? Buy those books. Make those grades. Help that person. Be that example. Smile that smile. I'm bracing myself for the unyielding brick wall of reality with which I will inevitably collide as soon as I step off the plane and the Alabama humidity envelops me.
I wrote a paper for my Latin American Literature class analyzing a short shory by Argentine writer Julio Cortázar called La noche boca arriba. The face-up night. Basically, this guy gets in a motorcycle accident and ends up in the hospital. While he's in the hospital, he dreams of running through the jungle, being hunted by the Aztec who want to capture him and offer him as a human sacrifice to the sun god. When he wakes up, he's back in the hospital, but when he slips back off to sleep, he's back in the jungle. The story goes back and forth between the modern world of the hospital and the ancient world of the jungle. The jungle dream advances to the point where the Aztec finally catch him and they have him bound, carrying him towards the sacrificial altar in the temple. And as the priest raises the knife, the man tries desperately to wake back up, but he realizes that he is awake. Right before he dies, he remembers dreaming of a strange city with lights that shone without fire or smoke, of riding through streets on a large shiny insect that rumbled. The motorcycle accident and hospital stay were the dream. In my conclusion, I suggested that Cortázar's point was that the line between reality and fiction is not as fixed as we'd like it to be. Maybe it's a little blurrier than we're comfortable with. Maybe there's some overlap.
I said all of that to say that it reminded me of my mental dilemma. It almost feels like where I'm at now is fantasy and what awaits me when I return is reality. But aren't they both just different states of the same conscious reality? Forget it. I'm going to the plaza and getting some ice cream. But not before I post pictures of the excursion we took last Sunday. We went to El Escorial, a monestary where all of the Spanish royalty is buried, and Valle de los Caidos, a monument commissioned by Spanish dictator Francisco Franco to honor all of the fallen soldiers from the Spanish Civil War. I also included pictures of my little walk down to the Roman bridge, and there's some other random ones in there too. Enjoy!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
As of right now . . .
two papers down, and one more to go. And I've already written the intro for number three! Oh, I am en fuego!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Spanish Procrastination
Ay, ay, ay. The lesson I'm learning this weekend is that procrastination is the same no matter where you are in the world. And also that the consequences are the same. I was hoping that procrastinating in Spain would be somehow more stylish, fanciful. I thought that I'd be able to wave my papers away with classic European ennui and then languidly get around to writing them during siesta sometime. Oh, not so.
The Spanish translation for 'procrastinate' is a mouthful. Dejar las cosas para más tarde. Literally, "to leave things for later." Oh, and have I left things for later. At least I've gotten one out of the way. Two left to go. Dos más. As supporters of Barack Obama would say in Spanish, (Oh, and by the way, he is uber-popular in Europe. Even my dear little gossip show-loving former Spanish host mom is all about him.) ¡Sí se puede!
The Spanish translation for 'procrastinate' is a mouthful. Dejar las cosas para más tarde. Literally, "to leave things for later." Oh, and have I left things for later. At least I've gotten one out of the way. Two left to go. Dos más. As supporters of Barack Obama would say in Spanish, (Oh, and by the way, he is uber-popular in Europe. Even my dear little gossip show-loving former Spanish host mom is all about him.) ¡Sí se puede!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Xenophilia
At long last, I've identifed my malady.
In Europe, there's a lot of talk about xenophobia—fear of foreigners. The immigration rate has skyrocketed and it's literally changing the face of Europe. In the US, our demon, and an old one at that, is racism. In Europe, their demon, a somewhat new one, is xenophobia. It's less race as in color, and more race as in nationality.
Anyway, I have the opposite problem. I am hopelessly drawn to anything foreign. Foreign customs? Cool! Foreign accents? Wow! Foreign languages? Ooh! Foreign countries? Ah! Anything that approaches the new, different and exotic automatically has me nearly enraptured.
That can become a problem.
Especially when the, er, object of supposed enrapturement has a Y chromosome that I'm proud to lack. Now, I'm not saying I'm enraptured. At all. All I'm saying is that I recognize the danger of being taken in by things that are, in the end, superficial. At the end of the day, a Cuban guy with jet black hair, a husky voice, and a sexy accent is only that, if that's all you know about him and that's all that attracts you to him. (And, okay, I did meet a really hot Cuban guy that fit that description, but he was just a friend of a friend, and, according to Spanish custom, the only interaction I had with him were greeting and goodbye cheek kisses. And, okay, I had to fan myself afterward when he walked away.)
So anyway, all I'm saying is that I'm aware of my propensity and am trying not to let the shallowness of it cloud my judgment. But I must confess that right now, I curse my malady. Going back to the US, however, (which I will do in about a week and a half) will definitely cause it to go into remission, thank God.
In Europe, there's a lot of talk about xenophobia—fear of foreigners. The immigration rate has skyrocketed and it's literally changing the face of Europe. In the US, our demon, and an old one at that, is racism. In Europe, their demon, a somewhat new one, is xenophobia. It's less race as in color, and more race as in nationality.
Anyway, I have the opposite problem. I am hopelessly drawn to anything foreign. Foreign customs? Cool! Foreign accents? Wow! Foreign languages? Ooh! Foreign countries? Ah! Anything that approaches the new, different and exotic automatically has me nearly enraptured.
That can become a problem.
Especially when the, er, object of supposed enrapturement has a Y chromosome that I'm proud to lack. Now, I'm not saying I'm enraptured. At all. All I'm saying is that I recognize the danger of being taken in by things that are, in the end, superficial. At the end of the day, a Cuban guy with jet black hair, a husky voice, and a sexy accent is only that, if that's all you know about him and that's all that attracts you to him. (And, okay, I did meet a really hot Cuban guy that fit that description, but he was just a friend of a friend, and, according to Spanish custom, the only interaction I had with him were greeting and goodbye cheek kisses. And, okay, I had to fan myself afterward when he walked away.)
So anyway, all I'm saying is that I'm aware of my propensity and am trying not to let the shallowness of it cloud my judgment. But I must confess that right now, I curse my malady. Going back to the US, however, (which I will do in about a week and a half) will definitely cause it to go into remission, thank God.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Alcalá and Madrid
There's something about going back to a familiar place and finding that everything you held dear is the same. Right where you left it. But, this is life, and to find that some things have changed is inevitable.
Alcalá de Henares is a little city right outside of Madrid where I lived the first two times I came to Spain (once for a month in 2002, and again for a semester in 2004). When I stepped off the train Friday afternoon, I saw a short, nervous little man sitting on a bench, reading the paper. Memories came flooding back when I realized that he was a professor of mine from 6 years ago, when I took Spanish Civilization for the first time in undergrad. Carlos de la Hoz. I took the shortcut out of the train station as I had years ago, and was delighted to find that I remembered it. I went to the convent of cloister nuns who make their living making candied almonds and bought several boxes, smiling as I put my money in the revolving door, watched it swing around, and got my almonds and change in return. I walked around the Plaza Cervantes (named after the famed author of Don Quixote de la Mancha, Miguel de Cervantes, who was born in Alcalá) and chatted with a toothless old man about the beautiful day. Everything's the same.
I got a call from a friend from those blissful days after texting him that I was in Alcalá, and he said it would be best to come to the hospital now to see the baby because they would be discharged soon. Six years ago, when I met my friend for the first time, I never imagined that I'd ever be back in Spain and that one day I'd meet his wife and hold his first child. This is life, and some things change.
I sat down to lunch made by a wonderful lady I'd lived with the last two times I was in Spain. One of the first questions she asked me: ¿Tienes novio? Do you have a boyfriend? (sigh.) Same old Blanca. I met the girls who are living with her now for a month-long summer program and went shopping with them and met some of their friends. Later on that night, we sat in the Plaza watching the guys kick around a soccer ball, laughing at children's antics, warding off curious stares due to our English conversation, and breathing in the magical night air.
Just like old times, I stayed up with Blanca watching and commenting on the gossip shows. That night, the grandson of the infamous Spanish dictator Francisco Franco was featured, telling all of his drug addiction struggle. "If his grandfather could see him now," clucked Blanca in Spanish, with a shake of her head.
Saturday morning, I was off to Madrid. But not before Blanca made sure that I ate breakfast and packed me a lunch. I was reminded of a time years ago that Blanca wanted to show me some curtains she'd bought for an apartment she was renting out in another city. As we crossed the street on the way to the curtain store, she warned me to be careful and held my hand. Even though I was 22 years old.
I met up with a classmate in Madrid, and after wandering around the heart of the city, Puerta del Sol, and eating at a nice Cuban restaurant, we visited the requisite art museums, the Prado and the Reina Sofía. He'd never been, so I relished my role as Metro navigator and art historian.
Later on Saturday night, I met up with a friend I met when going to church in Madrid. She's now married and has an adorable little boy. We had fun catching up, and her son fell in love with my camera. We went to church together the following morning. The beautiful thing is that although the service was completely in Spanish, I felt the same awesome power of God. I could feel the love of the people there. The church sells plates of food after Sunday morning service, and I was brought to tears when a young lady treated me. All of the church people are immigrants (most of them at this particular church are Colombian), and most of them don't have very much at all. But of the little that they have, they still give. How could a spoiled American girl (I don't care what you say, Americans are spoiled compared to the rest of the world) accept something from a probably not-so-well-off Columbian girl? I also met a gorgeous young Moroccan girl who was majoring in English Language and Literature. "But, aren't your parents Muslim?" I asked. She told me that it was a long and wonderful story, but all she could say was that Jesus brought her where she was today. Wow. We later compared mp3s and raved about Jane Austen over guayabana popsicles. I'd never tasted guayabana in my life, and it was divine. "If you were to taste the real thing in Colombia," one man added, "you'd love it even more."
I watched the Spanish countryside speed by the bus window on the way back to Salamanca, feeling that, no matter where I am, God is with me.
Alcalá de Henares is a little city right outside of Madrid where I lived the first two times I came to Spain (once for a month in 2002, and again for a semester in 2004). When I stepped off the train Friday afternoon, I saw a short, nervous little man sitting on a bench, reading the paper. Memories came flooding back when I realized that he was a professor of mine from 6 years ago, when I took Spanish Civilization for the first time in undergrad. Carlos de la Hoz. I took the shortcut out of the train station as I had years ago, and was delighted to find that I remembered it. I went to the convent of cloister nuns who make their living making candied almonds and bought several boxes, smiling as I put my money in the revolving door, watched it swing around, and got my almonds and change in return. I walked around the Plaza Cervantes (named after the famed author of Don Quixote de la Mancha, Miguel de Cervantes, who was born in Alcalá) and chatted with a toothless old man about the beautiful day. Everything's the same.
I got a call from a friend from those blissful days after texting him that I was in Alcalá, and he said it would be best to come to the hospital now to see the baby because they would be discharged soon. Six years ago, when I met my friend for the first time, I never imagined that I'd ever be back in Spain and that one day I'd meet his wife and hold his first child. This is life, and some things change.
I sat down to lunch made by a wonderful lady I'd lived with the last two times I was in Spain. One of the first questions she asked me: ¿Tienes novio? Do you have a boyfriend? (sigh.) Same old Blanca. I met the girls who are living with her now for a month-long summer program and went shopping with them and met some of their friends. Later on that night, we sat in the Plaza watching the guys kick around a soccer ball, laughing at children's antics, warding off curious stares due to our English conversation, and breathing in the magical night air.
Just like old times, I stayed up with Blanca watching and commenting on the gossip shows. That night, the grandson of the infamous Spanish dictator Francisco Franco was featured, telling all of his drug addiction struggle. "If his grandfather could see him now," clucked Blanca in Spanish, with a shake of her head.
Saturday morning, I was off to Madrid. But not before Blanca made sure that I ate breakfast and packed me a lunch. I was reminded of a time years ago that Blanca wanted to show me some curtains she'd bought for an apartment she was renting out in another city. As we crossed the street on the way to the curtain store, she warned me to be careful and held my hand. Even though I was 22 years old.
I met up with a classmate in Madrid, and after wandering around the heart of the city, Puerta del Sol, and eating at a nice Cuban restaurant, we visited the requisite art museums, the Prado and the Reina Sofía. He'd never been, so I relished my role as Metro navigator and art historian.
Later on Saturday night, I met up with a friend I met when going to church in Madrid. She's now married and has an adorable little boy. We had fun catching up, and her son fell in love with my camera. We went to church together the following morning. The beautiful thing is that although the service was completely in Spanish, I felt the same awesome power of God. I could feel the love of the people there. The church sells plates of food after Sunday morning service, and I was brought to tears when a young lady treated me. All of the church people are immigrants (most of them at this particular church are Colombian), and most of them don't have very much at all. But of the little that they have, they still give. How could a spoiled American girl (I don't care what you say, Americans are spoiled compared to the rest of the world) accept something from a probably not-so-well-off Columbian girl? I also met a gorgeous young Moroccan girl who was majoring in English Language and Literature. "But, aren't your parents Muslim?" I asked. She told me that it was a long and wonderful story, but all she could say was that Jesus brought her where she was today. Wow. We later compared mp3s and raved about Jane Austen over guayabana popsicles. I'd never tasted guayabana in my life, and it was divine. "If you were to taste the real thing in Colombia," one man added, "you'd love it even more."
I watched the Spanish countryside speed by the bus window on the way back to Salamanca, feeling that, no matter where I am, God is with me.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
El Retablo de las Maravillas
That's the name of the play we put on today in my theatre class. Some other classmates of mine did another extremely famous play during Spain's Golden Age called La Vida Es Sueño. We had a lot of fun:
So . . . anyway. It's cool getting to know people who will be starting the program with me in August. It's all in preparation for suffering together, I guess. lol. I had a nice, long walk and talk with one of the guys tonight. He's the same age as my little brother (It's totally weird that I'm starting to be older than people), and there's this little maternal instinct in me to take care of him. There's another guy in the program who reminds me of my middle brother. He even uses the same lingo, i.e. "Oh, so that's what's up."
God is really cool. He can use anybody anywhere to do whatever He wants whenever He wants to. I just have to trust that He is in control. I just have to not worry about walking in a fog of uncertainty, put my life on autopilot, and chill. But Lord, is it hard to do.
Boo and Yay
Boo
Ugh, the front desk guy. I was a little intrigued by him at first, but he's sort of flaky. Boo.
It's hard to meet new Spanish people. All day I'm surrounded by my American classmates. Although our classes are totally given in Spanish, I don't have any daily social interaction for a significant amount of time with Spanish folks.
I have all of these papers to write. And I need to do research. And I haven't even picked a topic yet for any of them.
Speaking of topics, I am a completely blank slate about my Master's thesis. I have no idea what I'm going to write about, I haven't chosen any faculty mentors. I'm just in no-woman's-land.
Yay
I met this really cool Apostolic girl who's also in Salamanca and who has a crazy amount of things in common with me. We'll probably go to church sometime.
I'm going to Alcala and Madrid this weekend to see my peeps from back in the day (see Chantelliver's Travels for background info.)
My group is going to perform a play (well, a fragment of one) for my Spanish Theatre of the Golden Age class tomorrow. We bought props and everything. It's a comedy by Cervantes, and I get to play one of the tricksters. I should have pictures posted tomorrow.
I'm having a good time! More to come!
Ugh, the front desk guy. I was a little intrigued by him at first, but he's sort of flaky. Boo.
It's hard to meet new Spanish people. All day I'm surrounded by my American classmates. Although our classes are totally given in Spanish, I don't have any daily social interaction for a significant amount of time with Spanish folks.
I have all of these papers to write. And I need to do research. And I haven't even picked a topic yet for any of them.
Speaking of topics, I am a completely blank slate about my Master's thesis. I have no idea what I'm going to write about, I haven't chosen any faculty mentors. I'm just in no-woman's-land.
Yay
I met this really cool Apostolic girl who's also in Salamanca and who has a crazy amount of things in common with me. We'll probably go to church sometime.
I'm going to Alcala and Madrid this weekend to see my peeps from back in the day (see Chantelliver's Travels for background info.)
My group is going to perform a play (well, a fragment of one) for my Spanish Theatre of the Golden Age class tomorrow. We bought props and everything. It's a comedy by Cervantes, and I get to play one of the tricksters. I should have pictures posted tomorrow.
I'm having a good time! More to come!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Segovia
I almost forgot today was Sunday. Yikes. I didn't go to church (gasp!), but I did drop in for a few minutes of mass at a church built in the 11th century in the city of Segovia. Segovia's main attraction is the Roman aqueduct. What's crazy is that the city didn't stop actually using the thing to transport water until the 20th century. Like in the 19-teens or something. Spain was conquered by a lot of people (before they conquered a lot of people), among them, the Romans.
If you know anything about me, you know how I am about the Romans . . . I began to wonder if Mark Antony was in Segovia or anywhere in Spain at some time. I mean, he was a member of the 2nd Triumvirate (that was before Octavian bumped my boy and Lepidus and became the famous Caesar Augustus), so didn't he have to kind of check up on the provinces or whatever at some time? Just so I could say I've been where Mark Antony's been. Actually, I have. But that was when we lived in Italy back in the day. And that was before I cared about Mark Antony.
The Alcázar in Segovia (Arabic name for castle--the Arabs, or "Moors" at the time, were another group that conquered Spain after the Roman Empire fell) contains a room were King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella sat on their thrones and heard the petitions of Christopher Columbus in before he discovered the New World. I tried to imagine him kneeling respectfully before them, trying his best to persuade them to sponsor his voyage. We went to the very top of one of the towers and got some spectacular views. Sidenote about the Alcázar in Segovia: it is the model for Cinderella's castle at Disney World.
We also took a small stop by the city of Ávila. We didn't have time to explore, but we stopped at a lookout point and took some awesome pictures--it's surrounded by this spectacular wall that goes all around the city.
Oh, and lastly, I included pictures of another outdoor jazz concert we went to last night. We had a blast. It hit me why we were the only ones getting excited about the music: Jazz originated in the United States. As Americans, we couldn't help but get into it because it is the music of our homeland! I could tell you a story about a creepy guy who came up to us afterward and told us some stuff that was overwhelmingly TMI, but that would not be expedient. Lawful, perhaps, but not expedient. lol. More to come!
If you know anything about me, you know how I am about the Romans . . . I began to wonder if Mark Antony was in Segovia or anywhere in Spain at some time. I mean, he was a member of the 2nd Triumvirate (that was before Octavian bumped my boy and Lepidus and became the famous Caesar Augustus), so didn't he have to kind of check up on the provinces or whatever at some time? Just so I could say I've been where Mark Antony's been. Actually, I have. But that was when we lived in Italy back in the day. And that was before I cared about Mark Antony.
The Alcázar in Segovia (Arabic name for castle--the Arabs, or "Moors" at the time, were another group that conquered Spain after the Roman Empire fell) contains a room were King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella sat on their thrones and heard the petitions of Christopher Columbus in before he discovered the New World. I tried to imagine him kneeling respectfully before them, trying his best to persuade them to sponsor his voyage. We went to the very top of one of the towers and got some spectacular views. Sidenote about the Alcázar in Segovia: it is the model for Cinderella's castle at Disney World.
We also took a small stop by the city of Ávila. We didn't have time to explore, but we stopped at a lookout point and took some awesome pictures--it's surrounded by this spectacular wall that goes all around the city.
Oh, and lastly, I included pictures of another outdoor jazz concert we went to last night. We had a blast. It hit me why we were the only ones getting excited about the music: Jazz originated in the United States. As Americans, we couldn't help but get into it because it is the music of our homeland! I could tell you a story about a creepy guy who came up to us afterward and told us some stuff that was overwhelmingly TMI, but that would not be expedient. Lawful, perhaps, but not expedient. lol. More to come!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Independence Day in Spain
Well, Spain doesn't exactly have an Independence Day. They were the ones other countries had to fight for independence from. Yep. The oppressors and colonizers of Latin America.
Anyway, even though we didn't have this huge 4th of July celebration, an adventurous group of us took a walking tour. Out of all the places we went, the coolest was the San Esteban monestary. Christopher Columbus was trying to convince people that he knew a short cut (and was also trying to get money). He'd been before Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand several times, but one of the groups he appeared before was a council of monks and scholars that met in the monestary of San Esteban in Salamanca, Spain.
I got to walk into a room where Columbus presented his case, which eventually led to the "discovery" of the place I call home. How's that for 4th of July patriotism?
We also went to a convent with beautiful gardens, went to the very top of the Salamanca cathedral and took some awesome shots and ended the night at a jazz concert. I've also included some pictures from Thursday night--the plaza is absolutely dazzling at night, and we learned how to salsa. Ay, ay, ay!
Anyway, even though we didn't have this huge 4th of July celebration, an adventurous group of us took a walking tour. Out of all the places we went, the coolest was the San Esteban monestary. Christopher Columbus was trying to convince people that he knew a short cut (and was also trying to get money). He'd been before Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand several times, but one of the groups he appeared before was a council of monks and scholars that met in the monestary of San Esteban in Salamanca, Spain.
I got to walk into a room where Columbus presented his case, which eventually led to the "discovery" of the place I call home. How's that for 4th of July patriotism?
We also went to a convent with beautiful gardens, went to the very top of the Salamanca cathedral and took some awesome shots and ended the night at a jazz concert. I've also included some pictures from Thursday night--the plaza is absolutely dazzling at night, and we learned how to salsa. Ay, ay, ay!
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Livin' la Vida Española
Schedules are different in Spain. We eat breakfast at the normal time, but we don't eat lunch until 2 p.m. (Most Spaniards get a little midday snack to tide them over.) It's the biggest meal of the day. There's a siesta, which is the most awesome power nap ever, and businesses close during that time . . . from about 2 to 4:30 or 5. Dinner doesn't come until 9 p.m., and it's lighter than the lunch meal.
More to come!
The great thing is that it doesn't even start getting dark until about 10:30, so places in the Plaza Mayor (main plaza) stay open until as late as 2 a.m. The plaza is great . . . you'll see old couples walking along arm in arm, little kids playing and running around, younger couples . . . well, this is Europe . . . and there are bunches of stores and little cafes with places to sit outside. Ideal for people watching and just soaking it in. Anyway, last night a few classmates and I decided to have a midnight "study session" in a cafe at the plaza. Yeah, we got loads done.
Here's a gem right here--an automatic bathroom thing on the street that you have to pay 20 euro cents to use:
Additionally, no trip to Europe would be complete without a pseudo-crush. My crush of choice this time around? The front desk guy. Well, there are 3 front desk guys, but my guy is the one who's there in the morning. This morning he was telling a couple of us over breakfast about the music he likes, and he mentioned a reggae-ish singer named Shaggy. Except he pronounced it "Soggy." We were like, who? Finally he said, "You know Scooby Doo? The same name as Scooby Doo's friend." Oh, Shaggy! Awww.
More to come!
Cool Buildings and Stuff
Me at the Plaza Mayor
The Cathedral
Me and Katie in front of the Cathedral
If you click on this pic to enlarge it, you may be able to better see the faint red writing on the wall. They are words written with the blood of bulls from bullfights long ago.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Frutería
A frutería is a store that sells fruit and vegetables. Here's a grammar lesson. Adding "-ería" (more or less) onto a noun in Spanish turns it into a word meaning a store that sells that noun. For example:
zapato = shoe, zapatería = shoe store
papel = paper, papelería = paper (stationery) store
pan = bread, panadería = bakery
joya = jewel, joyería = jewelry store
Anyway, this morning, I was telling the front desk guy that I wanted to meet more Spanish people so that I'd have more opportunities to practice my Spanish. Then he was like, "Okay, here's an opportunity to practice your Spanish. I have a list of things that I'm going to order from the frutería. I'm going to call them and let you order." (We also eat at our residence, and I guess one of the front desk guy's duties is to keep the kitchen stocked with whatever they need.) He re-wrote out his little list in neater handwriting for me and called the place and gave the phone to me. Cinco kilos de patatas, diez lechugas, tres sacos de limones . . . it gave me flashbacks of when we lived in Italy across the street from a grocery store and my mom would send me over to order from the deli.
Anyway, there's my Spanish experience of the day. More to come!
zapato = shoe, zapatería = shoe store
papel = paper, papelería = paper (stationery) store
pan = bread, panadería = bakery
joya = jewel, joyería = jewelry store
Anyway, this morning, I was telling the front desk guy that I wanted to meet more Spanish people so that I'd have more opportunities to practice my Spanish. Then he was like, "Okay, here's an opportunity to practice your Spanish. I have a list of things that I'm going to order from the frutería. I'm going to call them and let you order." (We also eat at our residence, and I guess one of the front desk guy's duties is to keep the kitchen stocked with whatever they need.) He re-wrote out his little list in neater handwriting for me and called the place and gave the phone to me. Cinco kilos de patatas, diez lechugas, tres sacos de limones . . . it gave me flashbacks of when we lived in Italy across the street from a grocery store and my mom would send me over to order from the deli.
Anyway, there's my Spanish experience of the day. More to come!
¡Hola!
From Atlanta, to Paris, to Madrid we went. Air France hospitality was notable as far as airplane service goes, but there were periods of time I thought I was at Six Flags. Seriously. I mean, I love Six Flags, and I'm a rollercoaster fiend, but not thousands of feet up in the air. Naw.
Spain recently won the Euro Cup (soccer, or the real football is a gargantuan deal here) and so I thought I'd get in the spirit and wear my España shirt today. Upon seeing my shirt, random people on the street yelled out "España!" with raised fist, and I did the same in turn. It made me feel authentic. Like, the shirt gave me street cred.
At the Colegio de Maestro Ávila between classes
Messy bed accompanied by bookbag and George
Nice desk scattered with a bunch of stuff overlooking a window. (With my zoning habit, I'm never going to get any work done.)
Anyway, on the Paris to Madrid, I sat next to a friendly-looking Spaniard and wanted to get some practice in before touchdown, so I struck up a conversation asking him if he liked cookies. Only because he hadn't eaten his. But I guess he thought I was asking because I wanted them and he gave them to me. Okay, okay . . . deep down inside I wanted them. Anyway, I learned that he was fluent in 5 languages (that makes me SO jealous) and we discussed things from Spanish grammar to American politics. He even carried my carry-on off the plane for me. Aww. Here's a bit of cultural info: When greeting one another and before leaving, Spanish people kiss each other on both cheeks. (Men to women and women to women only. No male bonding stuff going on.) It means absolutely nothing other than 'hi' and 'bye,' but when we cheek kissed goodbye after getting off the plane, I felt like I'd been baptized in Spanishness. Welcome back!
Last night was a bit of orientation and finding our way around. The main plaza was dazzling . . . we had the requisite tapas, I splurged on a bit of decadent Spanish ice cream, and as the night wore on, a few of us decided to head back. Unfortunately, a person in the trio of us who headed back to the residence knew that she knew a quicker way back. It turned out to be a bad idea to trust and follow her. Homegirl got us so lost . . . it was ridiculous. I ended up asking a Spanish lady where a landmark I remembered was located. I figured if we could get to what I remembered, we could find our way back. Channy saves the day! And yes, it was technically day. It must've been 1 a.m. by the time we got back. Homegirl sheepishly said, "I guess you won't follow me anywhere again." T'yeah.
Today was the first day of class, and it was great. The professors are animated and really into their stuff. That always makes it less boring. I'm taking Spanish Theatre of the Golden Age, Introduction to Latin American Literature, and The Spanish Post-War Novel. Exciting stuff.
Spain recently won the Euro Cup (soccer, or the real football is a gargantuan deal here) and so I thought I'd get in the spirit and wear my España shirt today. Upon seeing my shirt, random people on the street yelled out "España!" with raised fist, and I did the same in turn. It made me feel authentic. Like, the shirt gave me street cred.
Anyway, here are some pics of my first full day:
On our way to class!
At the Colegio de Maestro Ávila between classes
The Colegio de Maestro Ávila (where morning classes are held)
The group (along with professor) in the Spanish Theatre of the Golden Age class
Some cool looking Salamancan buildings
Some cool looking Salamancan buildings
Washing handfuls of delicious cherries our gregarious program director lavished on us
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Me right before Introduction to Latin American Lit
Here's my home away from home:
Messy bed accompanied by bookbag and George
Nice desk scattered with a bunch of stuff overlooking a window. (With my zoning habit, I'm never going to get any work done.)
My oh, so European bathroom, featuring a bidet. (I'll let you look up what it's used for.)
More to come!
More to come!
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