Continue the journey

here:

http://juliannulrickson.blogspot.com/

Otro blog!

Follow me!

Todo tiene su tiempo

There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven—

A time to give birth and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.
A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance.
A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
A time to search and a time to give up as lost;
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;
A time to be silent and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate;
A time for war and a time for peace. 

A time for Spain and a time for Michigan.
Un tiempo para España y un tiempo para Michigan.

...thus close my 180 days in Europe.
...así terminan mis 180 días en Europa.

What more is there to say? It was life; I met people: people who happened to be living in southern Spain near the grand Atlantic Ocean and who are really just the same as people in my little town here in the forest on the shores of Lake Superior. I am thankful for the opportunity to learn and grow, not to mention the chance to enjoy hours spent with new friends, delicious meals, necessary siestas and daily adventures.

No sé qué más puedo decir (el pasaje es de Eclesiastés 3 y resume mis pensamientos). Allí viví; conocí a la gente: la gente que vive en el sur de España cerca del mar Atlántico que en realidad es igual que la gente en mi pueblo aquí en el bosque en la orilla del lago Superior. Estoy muy agradecida por la oportunidad de aprender y crecer, y además, los momentos en que disfruté de pasar horas con amigos nuevos, comidas riquísimas, siestas necesarias y aventuras cada día.

 

DETROIT
News: 3 of my 5 flights delayed, the on-time flight I nearly missed and things are looking if-y for the last. Such a good character-building day! PTL

Literally just sprinted through the Philly airport. Practically the last one on the flight--headed to dear Michigan now! Hallelujah!

USA USA USA!

If I ever leave this place alive

[If I tell these stories here now, I won't have to do it later. I'm a pro pointless story-teller. ]

Oh, Lisbon.

The area of town in which my fist hostel supposedly is was so sketch I peace-d out of there ASAP. I didn't actually ever find it either. I just found myself in little alley ways. And on the walk to my hostel--whose existence I almost doubt--I ran into a friendly Portuguese cop. Now, the reason this cop was there was not because there was a Portuguese Donut shop. He was there because the street was that sketch. So, I gladly approached him, practically ran toward him just to feel safer, and after asking for directions in Spanish I asked "now, I'm not going to have to walk up this street? (Gesturing to the street he was patrolling in a rather sedentary fashion) It doesn't seem safe, right?" He looked at me with those big, mournful Portuguese eyes and said, "No."

We found another route to Rua do Maria (linguistic side note: they rrreally rrrroll their r's!). I found a Rrrrrua Maria but number 55 looked pretty absurd...in a negative way. It didn't appear to be a hostel nor was it on a street I'd like to walk down alone early tomorrow morning.

So, I am in a hotel! The fifth one I've entered after price-checking. I sauntered into a beautiful, five star hotel just for fun and the nice young man told me it was 163 Euro for the night, I think. I told him before asking that it was mostly out of curiosity and so he didn't think it too odd as I tottered out of there with my enormous green back pack and my squeaky, damp moccasins. I heard everywhere from that price to 100 to 63 to 77 to 50. And, here I am. Breakfast included.

Down the street from me is a hostel. The British girl working at the desk was helpful but could only offer me the TV room couch for the night. Various factors led me to my current decision: I would have had to wait to claim the couch until midnight; there seemed to be an astounding number of males between the age of 25 and 30 strutting about the place which doesn't make a public sleeping area that appealing; and the real deciding factor? A wake-up call. I left my clock in Sevilla for my Spanish flat mate. (I am going to make Spain more time-conscious, one person at a time. It's just so funny in the morning when someone starts fussing about how late it's gotten, as if time is some silent panther, creeping about! Thus, I am without an alarm clock. I thought my phone would do--but it won't.) That reminds me, I need to schedule that wake-up call right now.

...done.

The guy at the reception desk must think I'm nuts! I walk into the place, ask how much tonight would cost, and then leave. Five minutes later, I'm back. My first question is, of course, about the wake-up call. Would it be possible? Why then, I'd like to book a room. I found myself stumbling over English. Awesome. (I've been speaking Spanglish all day, which here, works.) My credit card didn't function--I tried two pin numbers though I knew the first was correct. Is there an ATM nearby? Just up the street? Great. I scurry back with the bills practically flying about. He looks on like a dear little Portuguese grand-father.

My mid-travel face? My I've-walked-around-Lisboa-for-five-hours face?

Of note: a) Look at the bags under my eyes: I'm tired; b) I'm blogging a photo of myself taken by Photo Booth? I'm definitely tired; c) I am also triumphant! I am in a hotel! by myself! Look ma, no help!; d) USA USA USA tomorrow!

Obrigada for the cool weather

LISBOA, Portugal -- It is so nice here: grey, rainy and cool. It has an entirely different feel than Sevilla. The temperature, the odd, guttural language and the slow pace of the big-eyed Portuguese--really, people here have large, sad-like-Humphrey-Bogart eyes--are quite a change from broiling and vivacious Sevilla.

On the delayed flight here from dear Sevilla, there was an 8-year-old boy crying for his life (I think he was tired and didn't like the sensation of building pressure in his ears). And I had thought that a baby's crying could be rather annoying...

When I got to the airport, I had to pick up my luggage (which is too heavy, I believe, but Sevilla let me go without paying extra). I had to talk to three different people until I found a way to store it overnight. So, it's awaiting me in the Left Luggage area to claim in the morning.


Prices here are cheaper than Sevilla. And people speak English. As of right now, I would recommend a visit. I am going to roam around some more, find my hostel and then prepare for my flight tomorrow.



...less than an hour later:
I am not in my hostel yet. I started walking there and got sketched out. I am glad I brought a scarf: it's going on my head when I do decide to make the trip to Rue do Maria 55. My rain-soaked moccasins and I are certain that once we are in the hostel, we aren't coming back out again until morning for the flight home! So I decided to make use of my time out of doors before I shut myself away for the evening. I am going to roam around some more in the not-so-sketch areas of Lisboa--there are plenty to be found--while ducking under trees to let the heaviest rain pass before I continue on my adventures.

What have I sought refuge, you may ask? Why, I will tell you. Starbucks--I confess. I have learned to be quite efficient in the 45-minute internet time limit.

About 14 hours and counting until I leave for the wonderful United States.

A rather tardy review of CC-CS and a few bits of advice

My opinion on The Center for Cross-Cultural Studies has changed since my first few days here in chilly February.

I didn't speak all that much Spanish during the semester and that was my biggest complaint. I didn't find the classes challenging, but I really should have taken courses at the university. I didn't speak Spanish all the time in the Center--I confess--but no one else did either. At home, my roommate and I ended up chatting in English every so often when we weren't around our host señora. I could have been responsible for myself and only spoken in Spanish, but I didn't. So, I want to clear this up for myself and tell future study abroad students: speak Spanish. You might be the only one doing it, but do it anyway. Avoid Americans. This means you'll be a loner for a while, but do it anyway.

Volunteer. Take basic dance classes at Voulez-bar in Nervión. Do something other than going to Buddha or Caramelo with Americans if you can help it. Well. Maybe go once. It's an experience. Hang out with your intercambios, too.

Find a neat bar or café near your home and go there every so often. Get to know the people that work there or frequent there and you'll have found yourself a speaking partner and they won't even be aware how beneficial they are to you. Una tostada con mermelada (my favorite) y café con leche would be the perfect complements to a Spanish conversation at breakfast.

This is just if you actually want to improve your Spanish. There is plenty of fun to be had with little to no effort involved if you don't really want to practice too much. Anyway, those are some of my consejos.

The CC-CS staff have always been helpful, as far as I've found. Helpful in the Spanish way, but definitely there to lend a hand, whether it means getting help in a roundabout way or a different-than-American-organized way--they get the job done. We are in Sevilla, España after all. Things are not the same as in our country.

And a report of their office staff: a few days ago, I went to hand in my cell phone. I ran into the director who A) remembered my name though we hadn't spoken much, and I hadn't been there since mid-May! and B) took a minute or two to chat. I love that about Spanish culture: there is (almost) always time to catch up with someone you happen to run into. And last week, I ran into one of my professors on the street. She was shopping, paused to chat a bit, and--like the director--remembered my name, too! I really appreciate when people remember names. It's just a nice detail.

In the main office, the women are kind and offer a hello and a smile along with their useful aid for us ignorant guiri students. Take advantage of the opportunities when studying abroad. Get over the cultural differences. Be prepared to be offended sometimes but be aware you may be offending someone sometimes too. Focus on the positive! ¡Y habla español!

EDIT: After reading this, I've realized the enormous amount of command forms. Be prepared. This is the way we speak here. Commands twenty-four seven. It's so efficient! 

Being where I am 45%.

My enthusiasm is running low and filling me with the same dread I feel when I’m at a café with WiFi and I see my computer battery is low and I don’t have my charger and adaptor.

Which, in reality, is not that big of a deal.

Today is Tuesday. So soon--Monday, August 1--I will be leavin’ on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again...

In some ways, life is going to be so easy and comfortable back in Meecheegan. But, life is still fun and chock-full of learning experiences here. I’m entirely aware that the idea of being able to escape and leave behind my life here is something that doesn’t really happen normally. So, I have to continue to choose to be totally here.

Easier said than done.

Yesterday, I almost cried. I almost ditched plans with a group of people.
Today, I decided, is the last day I’m going to Starbucks--I think.
Tomorrow...well, I’m just not going to worry about it. Today’s enough. At the very least, I have plans to hang out with the one girl that’s been a friend to me this summer.

Part of being here 100% feels like I’m here 250%--hurtling me out of my comfort zone, stretching me, challenging me, scaring me and definitely, bettering me.

One way I have needed to step out of my comfort zone is in accepting invitations to dine at people’s homes. And, due to a) not being where I am 100% b) my idiotic fear that people dislike me and c) a cultural miscommunication, I was totally and accidentally rude last week! I was invited to eat lunch with a family after church, I accepted and then didn’t go to church. I didn’t exactly forget but I didn’t really think I was expected either and I had something else to do. Really, I just didn’t think. At all. Until the next week, when I hurriedly apologized and was just as quickly, and sweetly, pardoned. I realize one reason that I pushed it from my mind was because after inviting me casually, the couple left and said ‘bye without confirming plans. I think the confirmation is essential in the States. Or maybe that’s just me? Anyway, I convinced myself they didn’t really expect me and voila!: accidentally impolite.

So, take people at their word! Period. Letting your 'yes be yes and your no be no' is a good thing to practice and to accept from others. If people say something is okay, it’s okay. If you ask them if they want help and they say no, leave them be: but, one may encounter issues: for instance, here, you have to deny what people want to do to/for you (for example, more helpings of food multiple times)--just remember that. There are, of course, worse problems to encounter. If people invite you over for lunch, they may just want you to come over for lunch. Gee whiz, what a thought!


Because I like adventures, because I want to be sent to some far corner of the world with Wycliffe Bible Translators and because I am me; I chose to stay here to live in another culture and push myself personally and linguistically. SUCCESS! I couldn’t have chosen from many other options that would have beaten me up mentally and emotionally as much as this summer has. I am so thankful for this experience! I have learned a lot--equal parts of Andalucia’s culture and language and a greater understanding of myself and the blessings I’ve received. I will always have fond memories of Sevilla and I am already dreaming of when I can come back, if I can fit it into my future. We’ll see. I mean, I will need a few weeks before I start dreaming about coming back...but it will happen.

And you too can experience (something hilarious and moderately representative of) la cultura andaluz. Check this out:

Así sí…

Finally, photos from Norway!

Danger at Besseggen.

Well, see this and more, lovelier photos in my web album of my Norwegian adventures. There are about three hundred. Dedicated followers may peruse them all but I do plan/hope to sort through them and delete the riff-raff.

This was our route:

Naive

See post: "Like a tap dance..."

That guy just gave me the drink for free. Of course I can´t walk in there and pay later! He just didn´t enter it in the system. And I suppose I cannot imagine myself walking in ¨Hi, the other day, someone gave me a free drink? I´m here to pay for it...¨

My one American friend here laughed at me for thinking that I actually was expected to pay for the frap.

So, muchas gracias, Starbucks guy.

(Maybe that´s why he looked at me like I was silly when I asked when the machine would work again...) Good heavens.

(Do things like that happen in America? I feel like they don´t really.)


In other, much less embarassing news, yesterday during a conversation I was asked ¨How many years have you lived in Spain?¨ (...in case it´s not obvious, it was in Spanish. I don´t actually speak that much English these days.)

Qué guay.


Interesting fact of the day:

I set a new record for myself. Thursday night I got three hours of sleep, leaving me pretty exhausted on Friday. I went to Huelva with my American friend, helped him teach a dance workshop thing to españoles, colombianos and brasileños and then went out to lunch with three Brazilians. (Side note: I find Brazilian Portuguese much lovlier than Portuguese Portuguese. And I’m not alone in this.) On the bus ride home, I slept for 45 minutes of the hour-long trip, then got home at about 7 PM, said hi to my flat-mate and that I thought I’d take a little siesta.

Well.

That siesta lasted a long time, I realized, when I woke up at 1:20 AM! I got up, got a sip of water, said good night and went to bed again. Until 9 AM. I calculate I slept about 14 hours. Cielos. I’m not sure if I should be worried or not.

"Like a tap dance..."

...an excerpt from a quote by Marina, regarding my life. Oh, Spain.


Today I enjoyed a free caramel frappuccino from Starbucks! Well, free at least for today. The guy working there kindly told me to come another day and pay, since the credit card machine was down and I had no cash on me at the moment. Wow! That would not happen in the States.

Trust is an odd issue here in Spain. A friend of mine will tell me to look away as she types her e-mail password in and yet a Starbucks employee will let me walk away with a drink that costs €4,30. I find this so unusual. I may be making generalizations based on these particular instances, but I have seen this type of behavior elsewhere too. Walking through my apartment building, people peer out of their windows to see who am I. And it isn't because I'm a foreigner: if they hear anyone going by, they look to see who it is. Why does it matter?

I look forward to baking again. Vanilla extract here is atrociously expensive. As is maple syrup, among other things.

Though I am so excited to get home, I am still going to be where I am. For right now, that means Sevilla, España. Thanks Brown, for good advice.

10 days left!

Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time, because the days are evil.

--Ephesians 5:15, 16

La que vino del mar.

Te quiero, amiga!

Here we are, hanging out at a pool on a warm afternoon with our friend from salsa class. From chilly February until this ridiculously hot July, we've been keeping each other sane here in sunny Spain. Good thing phone plans through CC-CS were free for calls between students, right Marina? :)

I remember thinking--when people would say "Oh, that's great that someone will be there that you know, right?" -- "I'll be fine on my own."

...what a joke.

It's been a blessing to have her around! We've learned from each other, worked on our Spanish and frequented the dance floor at Voulez-bar, stunning people there by being both blonde and capable of dancing salsa and bachata.

Thousands of words

I haven´t uploaded pictures for two months so here are a few. See more awesome salsa photos and more, here.
They range from the last fiesta at CC-CS up to the past week & capture part of my Spanish life in snapshots.

In Norway, lock the bathroom door.

People don´t knock on the door before opening it. Before I forgot entirely, that was just a bit of advice I wanted to pass on to anyone else traveling up to beautiful and chilly northern Europe.

And in Spain--maybe these aren´t true of everyone, everywhere but they´re what I´ve been told or learned by experience--don´t go to bed without saying goodnight, otherwise you´ll be considered quite rude.
Don´t smile at people on the sidewalks or in bars unless you want to welcome undesirable attentions.
Do ring the bell on your bike to let people know you´re coming. It´s apparently more obnoxious to whiz by them unannounced.
Don´t tip anyone (unless they really deserve it...and I´m sorry to say, they won´t often because they´re not working to earn them.)
If you´re in even the slightest bit of a hurry, ask for the bill before you´ve even begun eating and always remember, you must actually ask for the bill--often more than once.

Above all, when in a foreign country, remember that people won´t always understand cultural differences (just as you won´t yourself). As the visitor, you have to be on your toes and expect to meet many a challenge. They might find it hard to see their own culture from an outside perspective.



Two weeks and 6 days from right now I will be on a plane heading west to Lisbon, Portugal and will be there 24 hours (thank you, airlines) followed by a hop, skip and a jump through the United States (Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, Hancock) will arrive home after a two-hour drive. From 10:00 AM, August 1st until I actually get home at 2:00 AM, August 3rd, I will likely be shouting for joy in Spanglish.


A few days ago I had such a pleasantly delightful, albeit normal, day I thought ´´Gee, why don´t I blog about this for the folks back home?´´ As is often the case, though I don´t have much that I have to do, I find myself constantly on the move, occupied by practicing guitar, teaching (in a very loose sense of the word) English or German or biking here and there in the city, running errands. So I finally got around to it today.

Now I remember--it was Friday. The last day I taught English to two boys here. As per usual, I got up, helped get some coffee brewed, toast toasted and some fresh cheese and apple membrillo (it´s sort of like a thick, dry jam. I have no idea what you would call it in English) out of the fridge, ready to spread on some whole grain bread I purchased the morning before.

After that, and turning on the hot water for a shower and scurrying through my morning routine, I got out of the house by 11:10 in order to get to tutoring for 11:30. I swiped my bike card, leapt on a moderately-functional bike and headed toward the center.

Greeted at their home by the boys, ages 7 and 13 (the elder´s birthday was the day before), I was informed that we were to go to las setas that day. It´s actually a modern structure for shopping and a high look-out point to view the city, but here it´s literally called the mushrooms because of its peculiar shape. Below the structure lie ruins, which we were to also visit as an educational outing, I suppose. With these two, I have my hands full. They´re cute and mischevious and I am supposed to only talk to them in English. Long ago, though, I realized the futility of that, so we´ve been speaking Spanglish ever since. It works well.

The 7-year-old more or less conquered the gerund. I would say the infinitive in Spanish and see if he could get the ´´in action´´ verb in English. And if he didn´t know it, I´d next say the English infinitive. After a cumulative 3 hours of this, he could go from comer to ´´eating!´´ among other things. I tried the superlative with the older brother, of course having to expain it didn´t always work..funnest, beautifulest, etc. I am glad to have grown up speaking English!

On top of the mushroom building, when we were looking out over the city, the little guy got nervous. At first I thought he was kidding, as he often is, but as soon as he grabbed onto me, I realized he meant it. Now, at seven years old, he wants to be independent and tough, yet wanted the comfort of knowing I was there--so darling--what did he do? Grabbed my wrist. Apparently holding my hand would have been too childish for him. So we strolled around a bit, wrist in hand, before heading back down to the ground in search of ice cream.

Going on outings with little kids is like the grown-up version of playing house: I almost felt like the two of them were my children, until I realized...I am only twenty-one. I so often forget. They are seven and thirteen. So in reality, they are like my little brothers. (So much life ahead of me! What to do...what to do? Well, first things first, continue recounting my day rather than go off on an existential tanget...)

After some more Spanglish, English grammar, ice cream and a free sample of frozen yogurt, my time was up. I dropped them off with their grandmother (she might actually be their great-grandmother or great-aunt..but here in Spain, things aren´t always made clear) and headed home. I believe I am going to write them in very, very simple English. I do hope they continue studying...

Merrily on my way with my final paycheck of the summer, I meandered  through the uneven and unpredictable streets to the market close to home to pick up some fresh fruit and vegetables and something to eat for lunch. I had told my roommate/friend that I was going to rustle up some grubs for the main meal that day.


I made sure to go to the produce stand run by the most amiable man in the market. He happily helped me pick out some delicious paraguayos (which look like flattened peaches) among other things. Fruits and vegetables are so fresh, flavorful and cheap here! Loading up my Le sac de Maman bag I got in Paris (´´Mom´s bag´´...I find it funny & it´s great for an outing to the market) I decided we needed something substantial for lunch. So, some protein (both my mother and father will be glad to know they trained me well in this respect)!

Now, the last time I picked out meat at a butcher was three years ago in Costa Rica! And my friend/Costa Rican mother always told me what to get. So, there I stood, certainly looking as lost as I felt, peering down at lumps of bloody meat from various animals, unknown to me. Two little old ladies arrived after me and I encouraged them to please order before me...I remained undecided. The butcher, amused, assisted me when I explained my dilemma: I was to make lunch. We selected some pork which I could throw in a skillet with some just-purchased veggies. Upon deciding the quantity of three glistening slices, he said ´´Oh, two for him and one for you, eh?´´ I just laughed. (A literal translation of what a friend said: I must have all the paint of a Spanish housewife. Yeah, that´s funny.)

Pork, peppers, paraguayos--next up, pan! I stopped at my usual bakery to pick up some whole-grain bread and then headed home in the hot afternoon sun.

Lunch was a success, if I do say so myself. And spending the morning feeling oh-so-very-Sevillian was equally thrilling.

...still counting the days though, until I get home and can make some good gazpacho for you, my dear friends!

How did Emily Dickinson survive?

Call me American (and you´d be correct) but the three weeks ahead with zero plans seem to be looming endlessly.

I just like to be productive and useful.

Maybe I will be a pro guitarist by the time I leave, or speak fluent German, or be bald due to an existential crisis leading to a total head shave

If Em could hang out in her house all her life, I think I can manage something for a few days. And she wrote beautiful poetry, nonetheless. Maybe I can do something like it.

27: Continuing the countdown

I love Sevilla! I am so glad for the friends I´ve met here and my dear little church and the hot sun and the new culture to in which to thrive, learn and sometimes--just survive. At thirty-two days left, I was a bit more stressed out..that was only a few days ago, but I just couldn´t decide what I wanted to do. I literally looked up tickets for home! I heaped blame on the Spanish culture--which was partially to blame for my stress--but I will accept the rest of it. Anyway, now things are sorted. I can avoid lots of difficulties by doing what I want to do rather than worrying about the opinions of others (when it´s applicable, it´s definitely best to do what we want to do and not freak out..like I am known to do).

I miss Marquette, too! And I am so excited to get home and see everyone. These few weeks will fly by (I hope) and soon I will be attacking my friends with ferocious hugs (since I have experienced a hug shortage in Spain.)
It´s like my feelings about college: I adore Hillsdale (our strange little bubble of intellectual oddballs) but I am equally ready to graduate and get outta there! Probably more ready to graduate than go back for this final year...sort of like I´m more ready to head home than stay here much longer.

Just learning contement, as per usual.

And, to repeat the usual Spanglish refrain around my home here: El Señor es maravilloso, all the time!

32 more days

Can I survive them?

I believe so.

As I have told other people--particularly some distressed friends during the semester here--life is no better on one side of the ocean or the other. Now I have to walk the talk and take my own advice.

People are people and there is definitely nothing new under the sun.

Not even under this amazingly hot, sevillian sun.

There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven—

A time to give birth and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted. 

A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance.
A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
A time to search and a time to give up as lost;
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear apart and a time to sew together;
A time to be silent and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate;
A time for war and a time for peace.

 He has made everything appropriate in its time. 

He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end. 

 I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one’s lifetime; moreover, that every man who eats and drinks sees good in all his labor—it is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will remain forever; there is nothing to add to it and there is nothing to take from it, for God has so worked that men should fear Him. That which is has been already and that which will be has already been, for God seeks what has passed by.

It's only 38 degrees

SEVILLA, España-- You know you're Spanish when: you leave the house at about 18:30, appreciating the cooler weather. I was sitting at a café chatting on Skype, enjoying the breeze and tolerable warmth, when to my surprise, I checked the temperature--100 degrees Fahrenheit! I will never again be able to complain of heat in Michigan.

Another Spanish test passed: I finally succeeded in eating pipas, sunflower seeds, the Spanish way. They don't have them shelled usually, so there's a certain trick to eating them in one swift move. Yesterday I finally conquered that talent as well.

What day is it?: I travel inefficiently sometimes

PARIS, France-- Again.

Left Grimstad, Norway yesterday at about 19:00. My bus arrived at the Oslo Bus Terminal at 23:00 and there I waited until my bus to the airport left, at 4:00 AM. (I was amused and appalled by the utter sketchiness I witnessed there. How did I survive?) I took the bus to the airport, flew to Paris Beauvais on my 6:30 flight (on which there were not one, but two crying babies) then took the two-hour bus ride to the city. I took the metro to the Eiffel Tower, which feels like home to me now, sat there, dazed and confused, eating part of a sandwich which I was not allowed to finish on the bus to the city earlier. Then I walked to the 15th arrondisement, grabbing some jam and a baguette on the way. I need gentle foods. My sleep deprived stomach disliked the coffee I gave it earlier today.
And now, here I am at Natalie's dorm again, debating whether or not to nap. I may wake up feeling worse and hating myself for ever falling asleep. To sleep, or not to sleep; that is the question.

In other news: Sevilla tomorrow for five more weeks--still working on plans during that time--and then HOME HOME HOME.

Continuing the trek across Norge

MOI, Norway-- Quick update: Marta and I stopped by Haugesund today and saw Christina! From Bergen to Moi we had to take two ferries, we passed by fields upon fields of grazing sheep, and a stopped by a  rocky, blustery seashore.

Tomorrow to Snig* and finally Grimstad. Then I take a bus to Oslo, then a bus from Oslo center to Rygge airport, a flight to Paris, and the next day I finally return to mi querida Sevilla, arriving on the 24th.


I love brown goat cheese and homemade plum jam on hearty whole grain bread.

*Snig, sometimes spelled Snik, is definitely not spelled Sinig: my misspelling on what I thought I heard the Norwegians say.

A, e, i, o, u, å, æ and ø

BERGEN, Norway--I have almost conquered Norwegian vowel sounds, but I cannot accustom myself to Norwegian daylight. At 1:00 last night it was rather light, and I awoke at 8:00 to the same cloudy, gray brightness.

Last night, Marta, Karen and I had a delicious dinner, watched Coco Before Chanel and Inception. We could not have chosen two more dissimilar movies. The first was, as Karen described, very calm. The second was anything but calm. It stressed me out but I enjoyed it. It is rather like the comparison between Norwegian and Spanish culture. Norwegians are very, very calm. And Spaniards are not. Both the passionate warmth of Spanish people and the pleasant calm of their northern neighbors have positive and negative aspects. I like both countries and their cultures. People are people.

Another huge difference? Organization here in Norway and the lack thereof in Spain. Websites here contain easily navigable pages of information and are fairly dependable as far as I can tell. I cannot say the same for my beloved Spain and its Internet capabilities. I have learned there that the best way to get information is to ask someone personally. And if he does not know the answer to your question, his aunt, grandfather or cousin will.

Greetings: No kisses here in Norway. Hand-shakes or hugs allowed. I am perfectly alright with any of the above, though oddly enough, I am beginning to see how the hug is more an invasion of personal space than the double beso. Many Spaniards say the hug is a more personal and close show of affection while kisses are less: the Americans with whom I spoke on the subject here both agree and disagree. To each his own, I suppose. I do not hug my Spanish friends and cannot exactly imagine hugging everyone there, but then again it is the reverse when I think about my life in the States: I think you all would be rather shocked if I walked up and kissed you on the cheek, but a hug is, in general, welcome. I believe I will just continue traveling the globe so I can greet people in a variety of ways.
The coolest (as in least friendly) greeting I have yet experienced was in Guatemala last summer, when I went with Wycliffe Bible Translators to visit the K´anjobal (a Mayan people group). Theirs is more distant than a hand-shake: you merely place your hand next to the hand of the other person for a moment and then take back your own. This does not imply any less emotion within the people though: in fact, the mother of the family with whom I stayed for three days cried when we left, though we could hardly converse with her and had done no more than touch our hands together briefly. Again I find that people are people too, even though we express affection in such different ways.

By the way, what is a holy kiss? Thessalonians and other books of the New Testament instruct us to greet each other in that way. I cannot imagine any sort of kissing going on in the sanctuary at Bethel on Sunday mornings. I mean, those Baptists will not even dance, for goodness´ sake. (Mostly kidding here, people.)

My Norwegian vocabulary is up to about 20 words, maybe more, including the numbers one through ten. And today I translated the back of the milk carton with moderate success. TineMelk and my translation of the message from Mr. Melk entertained my new Norwegian friends over our delicious breakfast of quiche made by Karen.

Meet Mr. Melk here.
And hear some hilariously accented Norwegian and see some crazy stunts here.

In other news, what on earth was I thinking when I schemed up train travel all summer in Europe, alone, without a job etc etc etc? What a silly, romantic, American notion. Utterly nonsensical. I cannot even keep myself afloat on this single trip to Paris and Norway. And now that I am out of a steady job in Sevilla, what shall I do? Keep me in your prayers, friends.
A fresh and painfully true quote from my dad, ´You are going to be enslaved for a long while...I will save plenty of projects for you here, girl.´ Oh, I know Dad, I know.

I am ready to work hard those three weeks I get in the UP in August: these incredible 6 months will have been worth every penny spent and borrowed.

It´s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas: June in Norway

GJENDESHEIM and BERGEN, Norway-- Marta and I went on twelve hour hike yesterday! We traversed one of the most famous climbing spots in Norway, Besseggen. We arrived in Gjendesheim from Oslo on Wednesday night at about 22:00 and began to pitch the tent, and the rain started simultaneously. We managed to get the tent set up fairly easily, started heating up some water for some much-needed hot chocolate and realized, though the sky was still light, it was well after midnight! After a short six-hour sleep, we got up and hiked and hiked and hiked. Our route left Gjendesheim, went over mountains, crossed Besseggen and then around a lake, finally (to our surprise) to again cross a mountain or two before reaching camp. Besseggen was the trickiest part of our route: it is the part of the path between two lakes, on a narrow ledge--two meters wide at its most narrow--and the lakes are at two completely different levels, about a 400 meter drop on one side and maybe 100 on the other.

The ferry we had planned to take in order to hike a different route was not running on yesterday--the season started today--so we were informed of the route around the lake which was a circle rather than having to walk to Besseggen and back-tracking the same route home. When I found breath to spare, I was inspired to sing various songs, among them were Singin in the Rain and Climb Every Mountain.


I also had some encounters with local wildlife. I saw a cute, patterned Norwegian mouse, a lemming! (disclaimer: it may have just been an over-size, chubby brown mouse, but I am pretty sure it was a lemming), something that appeared to be a seagull, mosquitoes and...a herd of wild reindeer! The reindeer were amazing: large, powerful and white with enormous antlers. We first saw a small pack of five and then as we continued walking, came across a large herd of about thirty! The only thing that would have surprised me more would be if Santa had shown up and given me a gift.

The first half was rocky, uphill, cloudy, rainy and awesome. The second six-hour stretch of the hike was incredibly beautiful and that is where we spotted most of the new creatures. We spent the latter half, after the breath-taking descent at Besseggen, walking around a never-ending lake. It was beautiful, snowy, mossy and extremely painful. My ankle, after years of sprains, decided to hurt. A lot. But what is that I have seen on football t-shirts? ´Pain is weakness leaving the body?´ I am strong now. Today, Marta and I are both rather stiff and my knees hurt from compensating for my lame ankle but it was totally worth it. During the hike, when we had an hour or two left, I remember dreaming up ways to be rescued: perhaps a helicopter? perhaps I could hobble down to the nearest road and hitchhike to Gjendesheim? In the end, we made it back to camp and then decided to make some headway to Bergen, so we hopped in the car, I mean limped, and drove for a little while before pulling over to sleep. In the Golf.

Yes, on a country road in Norway, we pulled over, fought mosquitoes over our dinner of Lapskaus heated on an open (fake) flame, and then reclined the seats, bundled in sleeping bags and awoke to the same clouds and rain as the night before and hit the road by 8:00.

Now here we are in Bergen, in a classy loft apartment of Marta´s sister. It is raining, as apparently it always is in Bergen. I suppose it is the Seattle of Norway.

I enjoy the fact that everyone here addresses me in Norwegian. Except on the trail, where Germans addressed both Marta and I in English, which seems to be the common language among the people in northern Europe. And it seems that everyone in Norway can speak English! Apparently they begin learning it in second grade. I cannot get used to the fact they all know it. It makes sense that they learn it, but it is such a foreign concept to an American. I cannot believe the world is learning my language, I would like to learn theirs. And I am learning some Norwegian. My pronunciation is improving and some words are becoming familiar. But after three and a half days here, what am I expecting?

I just wish I could say something, because I would like to at least be able to respond when people take a glance at me and assume I am Norwegian. I have the opposite problem in Spain. People take one look at me and address me in English, though our conversation would almost always function better in Spanish. And here, I make a quizzical face and they smoothly transition to their excellent English. I have to constantly remind myself I am not in the States.

I am really enjoying the cultural contrasts I find between the warm and sunny south and the cool, beautiful north: more to come on my observations.

The land of my forefathers

...well, at least the land of my great-grandfather, Ulrick Ulrickson.

OSLO, Norway-- I am surrounded by people that look like me! This is unbelievable. They do not have the ojos chinitos like I do, for the most part we have a resemblance. What a fascinating change this is compared to Spain.

Today in Norway`s biggest city I saw the Opera house, a fortress way older than the States, the American Embassy and...the Crown Prince!

Norwegian lessons have begun, and the sounds are completely foreign to me. First thing to realize is that I shall speak with an Eastern Norwegian accent, using a friendly and familiar Spanish r rather than a gutteral, more challenging one.

More adventures to come in the land of the vikings and fjords...

If the circle-braid comes back into popularity

I'm taking full credit.

PARIS, France: I rocked the braid all day here in Paris: stopping by the Latin quarter, Notre Dame, the Luxemborg Garden and spent a few hours roaming the Parisian streets. I bought a book of Rilke's poetry in German and English at Shakespeare and Company. I could have spent hours in that book store, nestled in the Poet's Corner, but then I probably would have bought too many books and had to pay RyanAir's heinous over-weight baggage fees.

I just want the world to know that I started this trend--or brought it back from a century ago--in October 2010. Someday soon, someone will be featured on the real Sartorialist with hair like this...someday.

At Notre Dame, I ran into a classmate from Hillsdale! This world can be so cozy and small sometimes. We stopped and chatted in front of the cathedral, only minutes later to be swarmed by pigeons. A woman near us was feeding them and even putting seed on the hat on her head, allowing the filthy animals to perch there. I wasn't too keen on the idea, but Sarah had a hat on and went for it. I snapped pictures, risking my braided-head to do so--whilst unprepared, a bird swooped on my head too! I shouted at it and it let me be. I literally had just started singing "feed the birds, tuppence a bag..." when I had to begin frantically waving my arms because feeding the birds was actually the last thing I wanted to do. The song was just rather fitting at the moment.

The Luxemborg Gardens were lovely but overpopulated. I don't know why I imagine I can find a garden all to myself in Paris or Madrid or any city, but it appears to be my subconscious hope as I approach a garden. The green spot I've hunted on the map is to be my haven for a few hours...then I enter only to be disappointed by the myriad others looking for a reprise from the busy city sidewalks. I enjoyed the stroll, a few solitary-ish moments beneath a tree and then walked back to my friend's apartment, being ever-so-French by picking up a warm baguette for our supper.

I'm creating a splendid soundtrack to my life here in France, begun by listening to Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'un m'a dit" on the flight in--French countryside is absolutely gorgeous and inspired me to listen to the only French song on my iPod--then singing Les Miserables songs to myself as I view the Eiffel Tower and then today, of course "feed the birds." Jon Foreman has been delightful company as well: he and I enjoyed sunset at the Eiffel Tower together. And King David's Psalms and songs were good food for meditation and reflection as I sprawled in the grass in front of the Tower. As I paraded down Rue Vaugirard today, in the 15th arrondisement, Sufjan Steven's Chicago made my life feel epic. I am so glad for music. And food--

Pain au chocolat, macarons, crépes with nutella and walnuts, chocolate sable, just-made sandwiches chock full of meat and vegetables on hearty bread, cheeses of all varieties, fresh jams and jellies, baguettes, baguettes and more baguettes...this city is delicious.

And who knew French food was simple? My friend Natalie says it is and I'm starting to realize she's right. My definition of simple might just be too elementary as far as cooking goes... I think four years ago, when I visited France for the first time, I was scared away by the huge amounts of cheese with all sorts of strong flavors. The food may not be too complicated but the cheese and its flavors sure are. I find I am enjoying the simple meals here though now; a fresh baguette, cheese and raspberry jam--nothing could be better! Accompanied by wine and finished off by dark chocolate, this has been a marvelous few days.

I'm not the typical tourist: I would rather sit for an hour in the Luxemborg Gardens or at a café observing life on the Parisian streets than stumble through the Louvre for half a day. Though I would like to go say hello to my friend Mona Lisa--it has been four years after all--I just don't think I can take the time from other things I'd rather be doing.

Note to self and others: Northern France is much cooler than southern Spain, pack appropriately and take up every kilo of the 10 kg RyanAir limit in scarves and warm clothing.

Where I've been for the last three weeks

...basically, just hanging out in Sevilla.

Four days after the end of the semester, my mother finally arrived. (We're talking late May here...I have a lot to catch up on.) She had some flight issues and so I stayed at a friend of mine's house until she got here. My brother flew in a couple days later and I enjoyed showing them around my dear Sevilla.

The good: They enjoyed tapas, a carriage ride, the Cathedral, Itálica and more. I took them to my favorite café multiple times, allowed them the American experience of Starbucks in Spain, and Peter and I biked on Sevici bikes a bit.
The bad: I lost my Canon camera in a taxi our last day in Sevilla. We were hurrying off to Santa Justa to catch the AVE from Sevilla to Madrid and in the midst of bustling luggage in and out, I left my camera on the floor of the taxi. I wonder where it is now.

Madrid was groovy. We went to the Prado, ate good food, stayed in an apartment I hunted down on airbnb.com and went to Toledo for half a day to stroll around. They left, I went back to Sevilla for a work meeting, gathering information about a possible job.

The ugly: That job that I thought I had, I no longer do. Yesterday I went to the Plaza de España at 8:30 AM to try and get a paper necessary to work here. To make a long story short, my student visa isn't the right kind so I can't work the allotted 20 hours per week generally allowed. That leaves me with about five weeks unaccounted for at the end of June and all of July, but at last in the first two, I will be tutoring the same two children as during the semester so it's not a total loss, financially.

Since the beginning of June, when I returned for that meeting, I have been staying at my friend's house, paying my way by working with her to fix up another apartment she plans to rent out. We laugh at the disparity of our ages--she could be my mother, but that doesn't stop us from having fun biking around Sevilla, attempting to make gazpacho, scheming up big plans for the rest of my summer and more. Actually, all of my friends here are older than me: I do not understand how I'm not actually twenty-eight years old, sometimes thirty, instead of a measly twenty-one. I literally cannot believe how old I truly am. Such is life. The struggle against time only shows us we don't belong in it. We're fish out of water.

So, this fish out of water is eager to see what the Lord has planned for July, since I just lost any plan I once had. Vamos a ver.

Paris, je t'aime! Mais tu n'es pas Seville.

PARIS, FRANCE--I arrived in Paris today, somehow safe and sound and I am now, at quarter to two, in a little apartment with a crane-your-neck-out-the-window view of the Eiffel Tower.

I packed today in 20 minutes, not even coming close to reaching the 10 kilo RyanAir weight limit. With my high level intelligence after four hours of sleep, I crammed everything I could into my tiny leather backpack from fake-Morocco in Granada, rather than a larger, more comfortable and decidedly more American backpack.

I hopped onto my RyanAir flight and up in the air, over the lush countryside of France, as I was stuck in my seat--which was unassigned, as apparently is the norm for RyanAir--I debated whether or not to get up and find the bathroom. I hoped that RyanAir hadn't started charging for the bathroom. Thankfully, they hadn't.

My friend Natalie is in Paris for part of the summer and was kind enough to let me come. We both keep lapsing into Spanish instead of attempting French.  So far, it's been a fun experience to be in a country where I don't understand most of what's being said,

I arrived in Paris Beauvais airport: surprise for me. So, to note for other travelers: there was no payphone and a taxi ride would cost 160 Euro into Paris. I hopped on the 15 Euro bus ride, half-slept the hour or so journey and arrived in Paris, unsure what to do.
The French girl ahead of me, talking in broken English to an American Navy woman with the world's cutest baby, was kind enough to show me where the nearest metro station was. I figured she had a phone, mentioned the fact I needed to find a payphone to call a friend and--as I hoped--offered me hers! Her iPhone was sweet, I reached Natalie, gave her ambiguous directions to find me, and waited. For 45 minutes on an ever-darkening, ever-crowding Paris city corner. I nearly resorted to strolling over to a huge line outside of a club to ask a friendly patron for his or her cell phone to call Natalie again, when I saw her!

I literally had no plans for my arrival, hadn't researched where Beauvais was nor had a clue where Natalie lived as far as the metro lines go. But, no need to worry.

I'm here now, happy, full and tired and nursing my wounded nose: I just had the hottest dijon mustard in the planet. I love spicy foods, like jalapeños, but this thing burnt the inside of my nasal cavity. I think the man at the greasy spoon café was trying to kill me. Maybe because I called the salat, lechuga. Lo siento...I mean, je regrete.

*EDIT: Thanks Lucas, for the correction in the title. 

since i found a free second

fyi: i´m in sevilla, helping a friend fix up an apartment in return for a room to stay and food. it´s awesome but i have been so out of touch with communication across the pond, sorry dear friends and family.
i´m getting sucked into the spanish way of life. no one ever does anything alone, i think. it´s interesting and tiring.
tomorrow i go to paris, then the 14th to norway, then i return to lovely sevilla on the 24th to begin work a couple days later!

One plan down: so many to go!

I booked a flight! My absurdly disjointed summer planning has begun:

For a mere total of 13 Euros--a 1€ ticket!--I am flying from Paris to Oslo on June 14th. That is the only plan I have right now for the entire summer. Join me in laughter at this delightful fact.

Watch out, Europe!

...I don't know how or when I'm getting to Paris nor do I know whither I shall go from Norway, but I'm sure it will be great.

And I just ran into a friend from high school in the Mercado San Miguel in Madrid--what a small, wonderful world.

Madrid, España

I got to Madrid on Friday with my mom and brother, arriving on the AVE with three Spanish friends in the same train car. Mi mamá y hermano leave tomorrow: then for me, back to Sevilla to sort out a few things. My summer plans are shaping up and soon I'll disclose them....

The one sure plan is Norway in mid-June and my departure from Europe August 2.

Oh, the possibilities!

The last clean load of laundry has been packed, sort of

Thoughts at ten to two, the night before the program ends:

Is Eurail worth it? It doesn't seem to be.
So here I am, nearing the end, with a whole two months ahead of me really unplanned--I mean, really.

I just looked up driving directions from Madrid to Florence. Somebody help me.
And the rental car prices are horrendous, so that option's out at least.

I need to get from Sevilla to Madrid to Oslo to Budapest to Sevilla (and let's throw in Marseilles and Salzburg for good measure) during the months of June and July.

RyanAir?
Hostels?
Hitch-hiking and begging?
What about a pilgrimage--I can just walk everywhere!

This is going to be great.

La Feria: I feel pretty, witty & scared

During la Feria, the streets of Sevilla, España are at their liveliest and most colorful: swarming with tourists; women in enormous, vibrant flamenco dresses; men in perfectly circular wide-brim hats and old-fashioned, short, fitted coats driving 4-horse drawn carriages; and more. Everyone and their baby is ready for the festivities, literally. I saw many a wee babe smothered in fluffy ruffles and some three-year-olds in pink heels:

 Alas, I had no flamenco dress of my own. I settled for a red dress one day last week, to avoid blandness at the very least. Armed with a moderate knowledge of sevillanas and a camera, I planned to hit the streets of Feria during the day to get a sense of the different atmosphere. Waiting in the center of town for a couple of friends, I witnessed the phenomenon of the ultimate tourists.

Background note: Feria isn't taken lightly here and actually causes some complaint amongst the population. It's commonly called clasista. The problem is the private casetas. The private casetas are just that: private. Not everyone can enter, and those who spent the money, rented the space and provided the food--in my opinion--have every right to invite whomever they please. If they have the money, they're going to spend it on their caseta. We see "class" differences while strolling about Feria, but is that different than what we see on the street everyday? People wear what their money can buy them, drive what their money can get them and spend it how they please. Feria is no different. It isn't a guaranteed public fiesta. In the end, are the complaints founded? that the outsider will not enjoy himself at Feria? The average Feria-goer can and likely will get drunk in a public caseta and have a swell time, I believe. May I present exhibit A, below?:

Back to the original thought, that Feria isn't taken lightly: women are decked out, all day and all night, and the paparazzi-like tourists have a field day. Those with money make it known: they wear a different flamenco dress each day for the week of Feria. Now, the average price range I've seen on flamenco dresses was at the very lowest, €100, ranging anywhere up to €500. Do the math--remember the 1.4 conversion rate--and be shocked. Anyway, I was people-watching near a fountain and saw a Spanish woman pursued by various tourists with cameras. They thought they were inconspicuous, but their khaki shorts, cameras slung about their necks and tennis shoes were the blatant markings of a tourist. As I was watching this woman fail to shake off her followers, I realized I was in the viewfinder of someone's camera myself! Across the plaza, two men thought they were pretty sneaky. I empathized with the women in the flamenco dress and waited for them to move on. I think the lovely, old building behind me framed a blonde in a red dress fairly well, or something. As I had walked to that bench earlier, a wandering photographer asked me if he could take my picture--what? Since when does this happen? Oh, Spain.

Slightly out of place.

Walking home that night, I had the biggest scare I've had yet in Sevilla: I was followed! Now, don't worry: I don't plan on letting this happen again. I only have a week left; I won't be up that late/early again; and I won't walk alone on narrow side streets anymore. Thankfully, I was on the phone with a friend here so I felt as if someone were with me and they could have at least instantly responded (I say this to stave off others' worries). I was walking home after a late night at Feria, someone passed me on a motorbike twice, slowly, then oddly enough, stopped in the road when I was crossing; then must have turned around later because as I was turning onto the last few small streets home, I heard a motorbike behind me again. I thought, "no, that can't be him," but it was. There were some people in the street, and then, as if in a movie, they all vanished in a group around the corner, walking away from me. I had hoped for a few stragglers, but no such luck. Before turning down another street where the bike had anticipated my route, its engine shut off, my heart about quit too, and I turned around and took off for the longer, better-lit path home. I am still alive, safe and sound, and slightly wiser.

A non-creepy, silly parallel to this type of situation: earlier in the day, upon asking the price of a ride around Feria in a horse-drawn carriage I was informed by the driver of the exorbitant €80 price tag on a 45 minute ride. I was about to walk away as he decided to let me know it would be free if I'd be his girlfriend...after a moment's debate, I decided the opportunity cost was a bit too high. I'll take a carriage ride another day.

Often, situations in Spain are more like that: harmless and hilarious. They do tend to become annoying, to say the least, with the more aggressive, macho men. But these last few days, I haven't had a worry in the world: I've got a protector.

Her name is Maya and she's nine years old. She's got a great set of sharp teeth and a loyal spirit. She's a Rhodesian Ridgeback that I'm watching while her family is away. I've got a great apartment to myself, near the Cathedral, and I stroll around with this large animal, happily watching the people eye her and then shuffle to the side as I walk by. This never happens--it's generally shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalks of Sevilla, and generally, the bigger man wins the sidewalk space. I miss chivalry.

Her owner said people flock to dog-walkers as fountains of knowledge; oracles of Sevilla's geographical information. And she was right. I've been asked twice for directions since walking the dog and am happy to report, I was able to assist in both cases.

Tomorrow, the fantasy is over. I return to my little bed, in my little room, with my feisty little Spanish host mother. It was fun while it lasted. But being called to the table to eat, and being prohibited from any housework aside from making one's bed is a rather harsh reminder that one doesn't belong. At Leo's, I'm just a study abroad student. Here, I'm a functioning human being: I gladly wash dishes, singing with joy as I do; I walk the dog with a skip in my step and create meals for myself, using more dishes than necessary sometimes, just so I can wash them later. But it's been a contentment-learning experience: c'est la vie.

And on Thursday, I will bid good-bye to my host mother and say ¡hola! to my real mother!

La Feria: ¡Olé! Sevillanas y más...

 

You can enjoy my guiri-style sevillanas and more in the photos I just put up!
Here, I'm being taught how naturally sevillanas can be done by a four-year-old--humbling.

LA FERIA: It's a fair?

...that was my first thought on Monday, when I went to see the alumbrado (at midnight, when they light up the portada, main gate, and the rows and rows of lanterns at Feria). And yes, folks, as the name would appear, la Feria is indeed a fair, Spanish-style.

Half of the fair grounds are taken up by by the usual: rides, fair food and expensive, hard-to-win games in which you may be able to walk away with a large, stuffed-animal pig which you won't know what to do with the next day. Their Ferris wheel is the fastest one I've ever been on. And the other rides looked much too rickety to be trusted. The students with pulled muscles and stitches can attest to the fact that they may not be too secure. But then again, the girls in flamenco dresses even survived them so, this is just a warning: enter at your own risk. An interesting variation to the typical Viking Boat we have in the States--the long boat swinging like a pendulum--is that in addition to the rows of seats, there are "jail cells" at either end. The seating was empty because everyone wanted to be standing up, not buckled in, jostled around amongst ruffles of dresses and limbs, flying around in the cages on the ends of the 'boat.'

3 AM and the night life of Feria is just getting started. This area was the usual State Fair-esque part, full of sugary friend foods and useless knick knacks.

The other half of Feria--what I found to be the

Here's a glimpse at the hustle and bustle of a public caseta: I preferred las privadas.

better half--and the original reason for its existence is las casetas. This area is a mini-community of little party tents. [No, I have never seen or heard of anything like this before. Perhaps something comparable, yet more wild and less classy, would be an area of a college town with a bunch of frat houses. Exit one house, enter the next one down, and keep on partying. Then again, that might give you the wrong impression.] This section of cobblestone streets and tightly-packed sandy sidewalks is cluttered in rows and rows of tents, covered in cheerfully colorful, striped materials. Each caseta is erected on a rented plot of land in a designated part of Sevilla used yearly for Feria, has a wooden floor, chairs and tables inside, a bar and food, room to dance and a group of friends or business associates there around the clock, ready to greet their invited guests. There are two types of casetas: public and private. The majority are private casetas, which means invite only. I was fortunate enough to make a friend in bachata class that invited me to his caseta. He explained that it was as if I were invited to his home. This translated to: I merely show up and immediately am handed enough food and drinks to prepare for hours of fun. The food? Delicious Spanish staples, like revuelto Rociero and carne mechada. The drinks? Rebujitos, rebujitos, rebujitos. A blend of manzanilla sherry and 7UP, it's a refreshing drink for the hot, dusty days and long, busy nights.


As unique as one half of the Feria is from the other, the days and nights are even more radically different. Day time boasts men on horseback in their flat, circular brimmed hats and tight, short coats and boots. Women, ages 0 to 80, are in flamenco dresses all day and all night. Parties of people are carted by in horse-drawn carriages, arriving from the streets of Sevilla to la Feria in style. The atmosphere during the day makes you feel as if you've been transported to Spain's past. Strolling around one afternoon, hazardously dodging death by horse carriage, I stopped by "our" caseta with two friends from Hillsdale, as I said, "just to say hi." Three hours, two plates of food and two pitchers of rebujitos later, we left.

I took many a photo, because thousands of words are required to give even a very simple interpretion of Feria. As my friend here said--and I whole-heartedly agree--it's just something you have to experience. I would recommend somehow getting an in to a private caseta though. There was no other reason I stayed out 'til three or four AM except to dance sevillanas with my new and old friends, in a pleasant, cozy atmosphere. Yes, I did that for multiple nights in a row and my body is still annoyed with me. My brain isn't quite functioning up to par right now either: today was a very warm day and at seven PM, it dawned on me I had good reason to lament, for not only had I worn black jeans and a black top, I put on wool socks this morning. I have no idea why.

More to come on the wonderful, crazy week that was la Feria de Sevilla.

The blessings of friendship & modern technology! Etc.

This has been a marvelous day! 

I finally got to go to the church for which I've been searching: la Iglesia Presbiteriana Reformada.

I arrived corriendo en bicicleta for a 45 minute journey, including a bit of walking, for the 11 o'clock service and met all sorts of wonderful people that know my friend Ryan, who lived in Sevilla and attended this church for a few years a while back. They were quick to welcome me back for next week's service and the lunch to follow, which means hours of fun conversation and heaps of delicious Spanish food prepared with love by very experienced hands. I do hope to go, although I have to somehow work out the timing with attending my usual church, Betania (Bethany) here in Triana.

So, after the service presbiteriana was over, I chatted with one of Ryan's friends, and may go to la Feria this week with him and some of the members of that church. 

From there, I leapt on my bike and headed back to Triana, hoping to make it in time to sneak into Betania to snag my Bible, which I had forgotten there last week. (I accidentally took a hymnal of theirs in place of it--boy, I ought to return that soon.) [Side note: I commiserate with those who dislike English spelling. For several weeks, I too have been having issues. I remain convinced--until spell check tells me otherwise--that accidentally ought to be 'accidentily.' To the average English-speaker's eye, I'm sure that looks ugly, but not to me, anymore. I'm used to logically phonetic spelling and pronunciation these days.] 

I got to church at the perfect time: they had just gotten done with the service and, as usual, were scattered about the church and street, chatting away in the early afternoon sun. I was talking to another friend--someone from Grand Rapids, MI! What a small world--when a dear, older lady who had taught me some songs greeted me. We chatted a bit, she asked me if I had plans for the day (I had told Leo earlier that I wouldn't be coming home for lunch, not knowing whether or not someone would invite me, but just hoping) and upon hearing my answer, invited me over: I accepted immediately (never mind the 10-15 minute presentation, 8-10 page paper and final exam I have to prepare for Wednesday).

I went to her house by car with a couple from church, and we chatted and ate delicious chicken, rice and pisto for a pleasant couple of hours. We finished off with a cappuccino and off I went again, on my bike in some drizzling rain, to Triana. I logged a couple of hours on my bike that day, I believe. She is such a sweet woman and even showed me her guest bedroom and told me it was mine whenever I came back to Sevilla and she wouldn't hear of me paying even one céntimo.

If this day could even get better, it did: I had a productive hour at home, chatted with Leo, had some tea, then headed to Starbucks to meet Marina and Caitlyn. One hilarious conversation and a white mocha later, I was back on my bike headed home yet again. I ran into someone I know, for whom I was going to house/dog-sit this summer but I'm no longer needed, which frees up more time for travel! She had invited me over for a pancake breakfast tomorrow--a real breakfast!! Unbelievable. I haven't had anything more than 6 cracker/wafer things in the morning for about three months. I said hello, confirmed my appearance the next day at 10:00, and was merrily on my way.

In the midst of a light dinner, to Leo's chagrin I had asked for yogurt with which I ate my granola that's left over from Portugal, I chatted with my dad who is thinking of coming to Europe again, and we shall hunt down some relatives in Norway together! Then, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, I got to see five beautiful woman I love in one Skype conversation. Though I've been called a Luddite, I do have my share of good experiences with technology and so therefore will not ditch it all completely...though I may not necessarily mind being surrounded by less switches, cords, buttons and lights when I'm living in the jungles of Africa...or wherever I end up.

Notes to self:

Use fewer parantheses (maybe that means my brain just always thinks in paranthetical thoughts, and I do think I think this way, I mean, clearly I do, but maybe I could take time to think about my blog post before typing it--but I was too excited, this had to be right here, right now: instant gratification)

Always be welcoming.

Always invite people over for lunch after church, especially new faces.

Always rejoice!

Half-way

Three months down, three to go.


Does time fly when you're having fun?

I'm surprised I have already reached this point in my time abroad, yet the three remaining months seem to be looming ahead: standing between me and the friendly faces awaiting my arrival in the beauty of August in the Upper Peninsula.

Oh, time.

"Where, except in the present, can the Eternal be met?"

C.S. Lewis

Stumbling upon treasure

Just so these photos don't get lost in the midst of the new ones I just added; I wanted to give you a glimpse of what I saw during Semana Santa. Unfortunately, it wasn't the extravagant, passionate production it normally is. The disaster of a rainy Holy Week is thankfully rare: the last time it happened was 80 years ago. This sight (photo on left) generally greeted me in the streets; drenched and empty seating, all over the city.

I happened upon a beautiful, stationary paso Sunday morning before attending church. I had a few minutes to spare and across the street, the doors of a Catholic church were open (which are so often shut, the suspense had been building to see what was behind them) and therefore I decided to investigate. This was my curiosity's reward (photo on right); its flowers and candles were splendid and numerous. They lit up the room, which slowly started to fill with people. By the afternoon, I saw a line stretching down the entire street, easily 200 people long. And to think, I had strolled right in! The other "float" in the church was golden and ornate, featuring Jesus' suffering and bearing of the cross, in contrast to the floral beauty of Mary's paso:

Next up, the week-long party known as la Feria! It officially begins Monday--let's hope it won't rain. I hope to once again don some flamenco gear and hit the streets and casetas (tents) with my camera at the ready.

Flamenco fashion show!

My sevillanas class instructor, Elena and I after the successful desfile de moda flamenca.

As I paraded myself ridiculously down the red carpet--they actually had a red carpet--I was glad to see her smiling face near the end, encouraging us all to not be awkward and embarrassed Americans in flamenco dresses. It was actually a good time! Probably my first and last fashion show, but it's something to include in my memoirs. See more photos of the guiris playing dress up --> here.

Why study abroad? & dear Jack

Studying abroad is as personally challenging as it is linguistically, if not much more so. I think anyone studying in a foreign country for a semester a summer or any length of time will come to find this out as well. You can do as little or as much as you want with the language--hang out with Americans all the time and stick to Irish pubs or avoid the guiris in exchange for Spaniards--but you cannot escape the fact that you, alone, are in a foreign country living in a new situation and have to deal with your issues yourself. Hello adulthood in another language. It's fun and horrible. I've often spent a day accomplishing things in Spanish that I'm not prone to attempt in Michigan and realizing this, I then say to myself, "after this, I can do anything!" I don't know what it is with speaking a new language that frees up my capabilities, but I find the slight language barrier almost provides a level of protection and layer of anonymity and so, I just do what I want! These may not be entirely developed thoughts, but they're bopping around my head and needed to be expressed at least partially.

And the wisdom of C.S. "Jack" Lewis is always a good thing. So, here it is. And this is applicable to my blog because I wish I could have said all of this in a few recent conversations. It's just part of learning about life and people are people too--I've wished to express myself this eloquently and rightly in the States too but it's a wee bit more difficult here, as I stumble through my argument, rapidly filing through my Spanish vocabulary and aim to say this:

“What we call ‘being in love’ is a glorious state, and, in several ways, good for us. It helps to make us generous and courageous, it opens our eyes not only to the beauty of the beloved but to all beauty, and it subordinates (especially at first) our merely animal sexuality; in that sense, love is the great conqueror of lust. No one in his senses would deny that being in love is far better than either common sensuality or cold self-centredness. But, as I said before, ‘the most dangerous thing you can do is to take any one impulse of our own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow at all costs’. Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. And in fact, whatever people say, the state called ‘being in love’ usually does not last. If the old fairy-tale ending ‘They lived happily ever after’ is taken to mean ‘They felt for the next fifty years exactly as they felt the day before they were married,’ then it says what probably never was nor ever would be true, and would be highly undesirable if it were. Who could bear to live in that excitement for even five years? What would become of your work, your appetite, your sleep, your friendships? But, of course, ceasing to be ‘in love’ need not mean ceasing to love. Love in this second sense-love as distinct from ‘being in love’-is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit; reinforced by (in Christian marriages) the grace which both partners ask, and receive, from God. They can have this love for each other even at those moments when they do not like each other; as you love yourself even when you do not like yourself. They can retain this love even when each would easily, if they allowed themselves, be ‘in love’ with someone else. ‘Being in love’ first moved them to promise fidelity: this quieter love enables them to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run: being in love was the explosion that started it.”

Non-empty mailboxes make for happy Mondays

Monday, Monday, so good to me! Really. Through the foggy morning I plodded toward class propelled by a hope: the hope of checking my mail and not leaving empty-handed.

To make a long story shorter, in recent history, four pieces of mail traversed the ocean, survived the journey through the continent, and made it into my welcoming arms. This morning before literature class, one single letter greeted me and I confess--I was disappointed. (I had expected more!) Later today, before I had an unexpected --and dreaded, due to the fact I had forgotten things over a long break--dance class, I looked in my mailbox again, not expecting anything as joyous as the--gasp!--three letters patiently awaiting me. I am thankful to such wonderful friends like Rosie and Lara and my dear brother Peter, from whom I received two letters: one of which a lovely, water-colored Easter greeting by his own artistic hand. The letters I got were just the way I like 'em: in handwriting (which is a double-standard I guess, as I only print my letters) on unlined paper (and Rosie's was handmade by her! Hers is such beautiful work, as you can see here on Etsy.) and folded either in half or thirds. Why such detail about these letters? Well, they made me just that happy, I suppose.

And, as I will no longer be at this address as of May 18th (I will be in Sevilla until June 12th though; perhaps I'll ask CC-CS if I may continue to use their mailing address? I will let you know) anything that is going to arrive here ought to be sent fairly soon, I believe it takes about a week to come to me. After that, I will only be able to receive virtual letters until August 2nd, when I´ll be back in the good ol' US of A.

In Córdoba, España, one of the places I went to during my dad's visit here, we stopped by shop selling an enormous variety of leather products: notebooks, bags, pillows, even bowls and my favorite--leather chests! My dream is to get a leather chest in which to store the thoughtful letters I've received over the years, among the few, sundry wordly posessions I treasure enough to store in such a lovely, functional piece of art. Enough words spent on letters though.
I would definitely recommend this leather shop (Taller Meryan, I believe) to anyone visiting Córdoba. First of all, la Mezquita is a must-see: it is the most uniquely beautiful building I've seen during my time in Europe thus far and once you're in the city, check out this shop and the amazing--and pricey--chests. Walk up the Calle de Flores and at the end, turn right.

A long-term, international traveler's concern: Visas. For anyone who is curious or runs into an issue similar to mine, the Spanish Visa actually allows a 30-day grace period after the expiration date. I was relieved to hear this as I believe the Spanish consulate in Chicago made an error on my Visa application and gave me the six-month allowance for earlier than the dates for which I applied. My Visa expires July 25th and I fly out of Sevilla August 1st and out of Lisbon August 2nd. Instead of worrying--which is always, always a bad idea--I just asked the kind people in the office at CC-CS and was instantly through with that concern.

Next up: train travel in Europe. I need to include Norway, Germany, Paris or Marseilles, Budapest and Salzburg at least...in 1.5 months of travel. ¡Caramba!

EDIT 26/4/11: I actually will be leaving Spain May 30th, rather than staying for the extra two weeks. That frees up my summer a bit more and though I'll miss out on a few euros, I'm glad the way things worked out. Norway, here I come!

¡Feliz Pascua! He is risen! Today the sun rose too.

The sun is finally shining after a week of cloudiness mixed with an absurd amount of rain! It's such a fitting reminder that the Son rose today. Happy Easter!

I woke up to the early morning rays, donned some running clothes and dashed outside, just to catch a glimpse of the star that was placed at the perfect distance away from our earth--it was glorious.

Speaking of our earth, I was reminded of its astounding smallness yesterday outside the grand Cathedral. I ran into someone I haven't seen in over a decade! She and I went to fourth grade together: I had just moved to Sheboygan Falls, WI and she moved away the following year. Since then, we hadn't seen each other until yesterday. ¡El mundo es un pañuelo! (Literally: The world is a handkerchief.) What a small world!

Surprises abound on el Sábado Santo!

We were in line to enter the Cathedral to see what there was to see, likely a beautiful, gilded paso that hadn't been allowed to leave for the ridiculous downpour. I had been strolling around Sevilla and saw a line forming and--assuming it was for something worth my while--just joined right in. Unfortunately, as we slowly approached the door, just about ten people away from entering, it was shut in our faces and we were told we could not enter, much to the chagrin of the waiting Spaniards and tourists alike--people even shouted a bit! We, like the gathered crowd, waited it out for a little while. The rain fell, I reminisced about the passage of time, feeling like an old lady, until my soaking wet socks, shoes and jeans reminded me to head home. I love walking everywhere...until times like these. In twenty minutes, I was home and in a robe, sipping some tea.



Now that the sun is shining brilliantly today, I am hoping to see a procession. Soon I'll head to church, celebrate the day and then--as I told a friend--we need to make it a real Easter! Aside from our thankfulness to the Savior, we might want to add a chocolate bunny or two to the day's festivities.

Wishing you all a Hyvää Pääsiäistä! That right there is one of the many reasons I want to go to Finland--just look at those words.