Two opposing desires: to go get a churro or to sit in bed on my computer. Is this my life? Caramba. I'm glad more classes start tomorrow.

Málaga- Sunscreen & passports required

Bathing suits optional.

Three lessons learned outside of the classroom. We got to our hotel "Las Vegas" on Friday evening and were greeted by an ever-so-cheery front desk attendant. (Hotel attendants in the States aren't always that warm, so here I wasn't entertaining any high hopes. These Spaniards have a soft spot buried under the often rude exterior. [And yes, of course this is an over-generalization.]) And I found my suspicions correct, as he demanded...I mean asked for, our passports. Our passports? Sorry, we don't travel with them. We have other identification. That didn't suit him. He asked us where we were from and upon hearing Estados Unidos, indignantly told us that Americans always travel with passports and furthermore, gave us some food for thought: what would they do to him in America if he came up to a hotel desk with merely a copy of his passport? Well, since three-quarters of us could only wave a sheet of paper at him with a poor picture of our face in black and white, I decided to shield our weak argument with Nadia's passport. The tried-and-true blue USA passport and a new angle did the trick. Assuring the girls it would all be okay (everything will always be okay, somehow) I re-approached the desk. The loop-hole in his argument was his stance that Americans always traveled with passports. He wasn't saying "Our hotel requires you show them," but he insisted that we just ought to have them. Really, he must have been annoyed that we waltzed up there expecting to be let in with a piece of paper, while, in his words, they would laugh in his face in the States if he tried it. A few kind words and signatures later, we were in.

The beach the next day was beautiful and almost everyone there decided to put up with wearing a bathing suit. Maybe they just lost part of it--I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. We lolled around on the beach for two days and explored ruins of a castle and Alcazaba on Sunday.

It was a great weekend with these girls but after a few days of doing nothing, I'm glad to return to Sevilla and start a new routine here with classes beginning tomorrow.

If you go to Málaga: wear a bathing suit and suncreen (plenty of it! the insides of my elbows and the front of my shoulders and my shins sure wish I hadn't forgotten them while applying the skin-saving cream) and book a hostel once you arrive (maybe call beforehand). It will probably be cheaper and you can definitely find some as near to the beach as we were.

Málaga, España- First weekend adventure

I'm leaving on a bus in an hour and a half to head southeast to Málaga! Chrissy, Jaclyn, Nadia, Julia and I are going to spend the weekend there and return home to Sevilla on Monday.

It will be a break from school, the normal routine here and internet too, I believe. Yet, armed with friends, The Brothers K (for a second read) and my iPod, I'm ready for a sunny and fun few days.

Planning for this didn't take long, and we didn't really have an option. My phone died (and refuses to be resurrected, it seems) so Nadia couldn't get a hold of me yesterday. I was sitting near Puente Isabel at my favorite churro stand with Amanda and Krystal and the aforementioned group of girls walked by. I shouted a greeting and then heard "Where have you been?!" I racked my mind--what was I supposed to be doing? It was really that they had been searching for me so we could book our hotel and buy our bus tickets, both if which we had yet to do, and I was unreachable. So, I made a phone call, shouted in Spanish over the loud traffic on the street and booked our hotel, with the help of Juan at hotels punto com. Next, how were we to get there? We trekked from Triana to Nervión to discover we were at the wrong bus stop. We needed Prado San Sebastian...in Triana. Back another 40 minutes, in line for 20 and finally, 32 euros later, we're ready to go.

I'll be back in normal contact with the world on Monday evening.

18:54 on Monday

That's 6:54 PM. I'm almost used to telling time this way.

I'm sitting outside Café de Indias, using their internet. The price? A frothy cappuccino. I'm on one of my favorite streets here: Los reyes católicos. It leads right up to Puente Isabel that I cross everyday to get over the Guadalquivir river to Triana, the pueblo in which I live.

A woman with purple hair just walked by. Now, I've seen red hair here: in fact, my host mother has very red hair and I've seen varying shades, but this? Most definitely purple. Wow.

The mild, fresh breeze is frequently interrupted by cigarette smoke. Since coming here, I've been strangely tempted to buy a pack and smoke a few. I haven't gone crazy nor have I forgotten the years during middle school that taught us the myriad bad effects of smoking. I might just smoke and blend in for a day, and I might not.

Two men, obviously good friends, greet each other with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Now, in the U.S. we like to label some guys' close friendships a bromance, but I think even they would stop at this. Yet here it's not abnormal in the least.

The babies are precious here! They're dressed like mini-adults. They often stare at me and I don't mind. The little girl tottering on by me had to get tugged on the arm to continue.

If only someone were on Skype right now--I'd love to chat. I have two hours until dinner and plenty of sunlight to enjoy. Today I didn't even wear a scarf, which is a European must-have. Spring is on its way!

I just added photos of my hiking adventures today (click the photo to check 'em out). I loved this town! It really reminded me of Guatemala, white-washed cemeteries and all. I even asked a woman at the bakery about getting a job here this summer, but no such luck. It's a small town with no job opportunities for its own residents, let alone a gringa like me. Alas. I shall look elsewhere in España. I will probably get my TOEFL certificate soon and be much more employable for this summer. I don't want to have to resort to marrying a rich old Spaniard for money. I should probably make some for myself and soon.

Zahara de la Sierra, Cádiz, España

Plaf!

...and other things uniquely Spanish.

Salsa and bachata and merengue have been livening up my last three evenings here in Spain. Wednesday night I headed out to a salsa club with Marina and Gabriela, in search of free lessons. We arrived at 10:30 and hoped to find a group of classmates, possibly Spaniards with two left feet (if there even is such a thing) or at least Americans that, like us, did not know how to dance. I swear, some of these people here must have been dancing as long as they've been walking. Unfortunately for us, the class was over, so we thought our ignorance was to be prolonged indefinitely. I did not want to have walked all the way to Nervión from Triana (a 40 minute journey) only to leave without a single dance. And perseverance paid off. As I glanced around the room for someone, anyone, to re-teach this American, I happened to see not-so-tall-because-I'm-in-Spain, dark and handsome man who after a moment, beckoned me over. Then I had to answer, the first of a million times, that "I'm learning" when I was asked, "¿Bailas?" (Do you dance?)

This Argentinian taught me bachata and dusted off my vague memories of salsa. Now, a friend of mine had been a good and patient teacher and I remember learning salsa and merengue with him, but Costa Rica was a long two-and-a-half years ago. Therefore, my new friends that evening were perfectly correct in telling me I was just a little oxidada (which just as it appears, does mean "oxidated," or oxidized; essentially--rusty). It was a compliment in disguise though, or so I shall call it, because they thought I had had real lessons before that evening. I'll cling to that hope, when I nurse my wounds and embarrassment after spinning when I'm not supposed to, or completely missing the cue to do so. There's much to learn, but I've got an entire semester to dedicate to it!

Plaf! (exclamation): used to describe something falling, bumping into another object, an assortment of motions, etc. I love the way languages vary. Even our exclamations use such different sounds. Do you know how a dog barks in Spanish? Guau guau! Some precious class time has been spent barking like dogs and chirping like birds and neighing like horses, only to reach the conclusion that cats are the only animals that can converse internationally: both Spanish and American cats meow, but with slightly different accents, I'm sure.

In addition to animals, we have talked about movies. A really, really interesting fact: Saw IV was only shown in adult movie theatres here. While in America, pornography may be hidden away in those certain shacks with covered windows littering the sides of highways, the same is the case in Spain with Saw IV. Yet surfing the channels in Spain is a risky move if you want to avoid explicit nudity and other such things. I find it fascinating what cultures will shut away as taboo and what they will permit for public access.

But I do not watch TV here nor will I ever watch a Saw movie. I would much rather be dancing! Let's hope it's rather like riding a bike, no matter how rusty it may be.

I did go to church on Sunday, just not the one I hoped to attend. Instead of locating the Iglesia Presbiteriana Reformada, that I dutifully hunted for over a half hour (after walking more than an hour), I went to another church; nameless, it would seem, other than the fact it was evangélica. As I walked in squares looking for a certain street, having followed people's directions which led me various ways, I passed by this church a few times. When I say church, you may envision a church building, perhaps even a steeple of sorts, but forget that image. This was just a doorway on the average city block here, located in a rather run down part of town, and nearly identical to the many stores next to it. The door was propped open, with people greeting each other as they entered. I heard a guitar playing and singing inside. I was pretty discouraged by this point of the morning, as well as exhausted, and I decided that there was no way I was going to spend over three hours walking Sunday morning for no reason. So, after giving up on the first church, I walked back for the third or fourth time, asked a woman near the door if the service was over (almost hoping it was so I could just give up on the day and feel justified) but she told me it hadn't begun yet. Well then. I walked right in.

I did not allow myself time to worry--nor did Lupe: this cheery, kind woman walked up to me immediately, said ¡hola hermana! (hello sister!) and kissed me on both cheeks, the usual Spanish greeting. Little did I know I would soon be smothered in kisses and welcoming love. Though feeling--and looking--rather out of place, I quickly grew more comfortable as people came up and greeted me. I just stood by Lupe and let them come, observing the small room with a small platform and simple pulpit, several rows of chairs and little kids scampering about before they noticed me and stared. People kept coming at me, so I did my best to forget my exhaustion (because of my rather un-wise life choice the night before) stumble through some sentences explaining why I was there, how I got lost, had wanted to find a different church, but decided to come to theirs, yes I speak Spanish, no I'm a student, I'll be here for four months, etc.

I was flooded with Dios te bendiga's and besos and one woman greeted me, introduced herself and then announced she was Mexican. The next told me her name, that she was Puerto Rican (I find it intriguing that their non-Spanish nationality was the second fact to share about themselves) and then after a minute of chatting, asked me if I spoke English. I said I did, and to my surprise, she responded, "So do I." Whoa! Apparently, she and her husband are from Puerto Rico and moved to Orlando FL. Then they lived on the Canary Islands for a year as missionaries and have now transferred their mission work to assisting this church. It was nice to speak with her, yet confusing when someone would come up and address me in Spanish while we were speaking: my already scrambled brain was a bit overwhelmed. At least I have a connection with someone here who can help me with any troubles bridging the cultural gap and frequent misunderstandings between the American and Spanish life. I'm not sure I'll need her for that, thankfully I find myself getting along quite easily (I think I have my Costa Rica experience to thank) but I know some friends of mine here who might benefit from her counsel. It appears getting lost was a blessing! The metro station happened to be on the way to Lupe's house so after the three-hour church service ended, I was heading home alone on the metro, happy, hungry and tired.

I plan to stay in contact with Lupe and Evelyn, the puertorriqueña and others, but I am still determined to find that church.

To satisfy curiosity and perhaps alleviate concern, I shall share about my Saturday night that blended right into quite the Sunday morning.

I began making plans at about eleven, and by quarter to midnight I was on my way, strolling down Calle Bettis--one of Sevilla's better known tourist locations, one which I wouldn't recommend unless you want to take a shot named after your state or see your school's banner on the wall--to meet a friend, Lauren, at the metro station. We arrived in Nervión after midnight after my first metro ride, and walked a few minutes to meet our gathering group of friends. After the botellóncito on our friend's patio, we headed to Abril. (Somehow, I have mastered walking in heels, which is a good thing; because after the momentous occasion of buying my first set of heels in years, I've had many an occasion to trek around in them over Sevilla's cobblestone streets or wear them at all hours of the night. Now, I just recalled that I've only been here a week...but for some reason I feel like I've worn them a whole lot. Maybe it's because heels are a ridiculous design for one's footwear. I tend to favor my moccasins for the daily hike to school: so much more comfortable.)

Imagine what you think a Spanish club would be like at one AM: include a man at the door handing out cards for a free drink at the bar, a line of 45 made-up people outside and then exaggerate the original thought and you'll just about have it. We strolled in without a problem and without showing IDs. After three hours of dancing with friends to much American music, I left accompanied by my friend Caitlyn. At three AM I had decided arbitrarily, and rather experimentally, to leave around four. I was glad to end the night on a good note, leaving after the rap version of Hide and Seek beat out its rhythm. (I thought of Lara and Laura and our swell, recent rendition of the original.) On the way out, we passed a long line of sevillanos waiting to enter. What on earth? I couldn't have enjoyed even staying out past such an hour: much less arriving then. I had fun, but it can only last so long.

The atmosphere here is magnetic. There's something oddly comfortable, yet disconcerting, in knowing there are no rules. It isn't a question of how late you stay out: it's not unheard of to stay out literally all night, have breakfast with your friends and then part ways. Therefore, partying until a certain hour of the morning and then heading home will never be considered extreme. There is no limit, as far as length of time goes.

New experiences are fun. I just won't have too much fun, heeding my dear friends and family's advice. I want to both enjoy myself and be safe: as I told Susan and others, I shall be "responsibly wild." Now, don't be dubious. I can do it. My behavior here hasn't been wild in any estimation though, so no worries!

More to come regarding my taxi cab adventures and accidental exploration of Seville (read: lost) and the rest of Sunday, which marked my one-week anniversary of being in Spain.

Sunday's adventures

At four this morning, I was having a spiritual conversation with my taxi driver. After spending the first few hours of today with friends, having a botellóncito and then heading to a club, I found myself chatting with this man, who knew where Lansing was and guessed that my father was a doctor. Before that, I wouldn't have supposed my morning could have gotten anymore interesting.

Later, after about a four hour nap, which doesn't pass as a night of sleep, I got lost in an entirely new area of town after having trekked an hour and a half looking for a specific church. After asking multiple people for directions, I discovered a few things: such as, some older Spanish women feel the need to be holding onto your arm or hand if they're communicating with you, perhaps they think it aids understanding; and people here will give you directions just so far, and then without fail, will tell you to ask someone else when you reach a certain corner or landmark.

A few other idiosyncrasies of the Spanish: they like exact change. Don't buy something for €7.50 and pay with a 20 unless you want a disappointed, possibly disgruntled, cashier. And apparently, many people have the hardest time believing that a blonde can speak Spanish. They either don't pay attention when I address them or are surprised when I speak coherent Spanish. It's as annoying as it is amusing.

I will share more about my "cultural experiment" of staying out Saturday night/Sunday morning later. It was eye-opening. I do not know how or why this phenomenon of partying became the social norm, but it is unbelievable.

I must share this amazing story: two days ago, I was stopped on the street by someone asking for directions to a certain cosmetics store. What? I can't believe someone thought I belonged here. Either her eyesight is really poor or she thought I was a northern European that had moved to Sevilla, or something. I'm pretty sure her eyes were just fine, so I'm going to take it as a compliment. I really can't bear to be obviously American. My blonde hair absolutely declares "I am not sevillana!" so the least I can do is look like a northern European. I will count this a success.

People generally throw out their entire, if limited, English vocabulary when they see me. I ask a question in Spanish, they respond in their attempt at English. And then there's the brief yet ever-ready "I luff jou."

So it was refreshing to not only be addressed in Spanish, but as if I were a local. A few more weeks here, and I would have actually been able to help her out.

1, 2, 3...

Proof of my wonderful blessings.

I'm thinking of you all, my dear friends! I wish you were here.
I have to share this photo and story: upon arriving here, my letter box at CC-CS had a letter in it for me from Laura Brown. What a wonderful friend she is! It had the sweetest note on the inside and a cute drawing on the outside (including an excellent rendition of the United States). The two other cards came from Bible study girls at Hillsdale. All three were so full of love! I am posting them up on my wall here so I have a tangible reminder of each of you.

...count your blessings name them one by one. la la la.

To siesta or not to siesta

Instead of trying to sleep during today's siesta, here I am. I tried and failed to nap, as usual, and perhaps that's the reason I feel somewhat disgruntled and sick to my stomach. So now I sit here, cringing as the sun shouts at me to wake up and do something. But I do want to do something! Too much free time is quite possible. Homework provides some relief from a totally self-centered existence, but so far, I haven't found any other outlets for this restlessness. Now, what on earth am I rambling on about? I've only been here a few days. Okay. Respira.

Well, that was the mediocre news, now on to the good: Today I went to the famous cathedral here, Catedral de Santa María de la Sede, or as los guiris may call it, Seville Cathedral. It's enormous! In fact, it's the third-largest in the world, after the Vatican and a cathedral in Brazil. I'm going to add photos soon, though we went with a group, so I didn't get to stop and take as many as I'd like. I'll have to go back and enjoy it better alone, or with one or two people.

Now on to the greatest news: As I told many of my friends and family, I heard from a friend of mine (my sister Joy's church's interim pastor Ryan) about a church here en Sevilla. I was so glad to come hear knowing of at least this one church, la Iglesia Presbiteriana Reformada, that I could attend. The better news? Yesterday I met two sweet girls studying here at CC-CS that are also looking for a church to attend. Hallelujah! I'm thankful for the possibility of fellowship anywhere in the world. Hey Bible study, this is a direct answer to prayer! And it was for them as well. Gracias a Dios!

The thing I love most here so far is strolling around by myself, marveling at the buildings, looking in at the little shops and catching snippets of conversations and glimpses into the lives of los sevillanos. I may do just that after spending these moments of peace in a quiet time. Perhaps siesta may be good for the soul.

 

Las primeras fotos

I just added a few photos to Facebook: clicking on this one takes you to the album.

Wrapped up in a pink robe that Leonór (nuestra "madre" Sevillana) gave me to wear, I sit here to record my day. I don't plan to post as frequently as I have been, but I thought I'd make use of this free time, before classes are underway. The nights get chilly here apparently, around 35 degrees Fahrenheit, and we don't turn on the heat; therefore, the robe. I'm still full from our dinner that began at 9:30: a delicious chicken broth and noodle soup, with various croutons and thick slices of Italian-like bread and a tortilla española, finished off with coconut yogurt, which was surprisingly tasty and which we were commanded to eat. Now, this sounds like a lot of carbs and may strike fear in the hearts of some of my immediate family (lack of protein?!) but a tortilla española is actually a scrambled egg, onion and potato mixture that turns out like quiche. I plan to make it some day.
My roommate Gabriella and I walked around Sevilla today, and got café in a café..fancy that. The brief hours I spent in Sevilla have thus far given me a favorable impression. Not having slept in the plane at all last night though, I find my enthusiasm is somewhat diminished by exhaustion. Tomorrow will be wonderful.
Speaking of wondrous things, a shower after hours of travel is unbeatable. My near-panic attack of the day was not when I was in Madrid speaking with five women with Iberia Airlines, each of whom directed me elsewhere to get my boarding pass, nor was it when I took a taxi alone to a street in Sevilla that I had to insist existed, but rather when the shower water stubbornly refused to heat. I briefly contemplated not showering until April, until Leonór shouted about having to turn on the hot water. What a relief!
Now I can fall asleep with the lullaby of motocicleta engines outside our apartment window. I've missed that sound.

Sevilla, España

I'm here! I just had a delicious lunch and now I'm debating whether or not to siesta.

madrid, españa

finally in spain! got euros and now i need to get some water. in a few days i should have internet in sevilla. sorry for all the alien jibberish. oops.

this is maravilloso!

Airports: Black is the new black, in fact, it's the only black

  (I composed this in the Detroit airport, I believe.)
   Here's to you travelers that move about the airport seemingly as comfortable as if it's your home, the men and women in black--maybe dark neutrals--you who strut about in leggings, heels or those Italian-leather loafers. You look so put-together toting your compact, roller carry-on. Perhaps you don't like bluetooth headsets (nor do I), but you'll have to get off your smartphone once the plane is ready to take off. The shudder of the aircraft as it leaves the ground doesn't startle you, you don't move a muscle as we land (somewhat precariously, I thought). In fact, traveling seems to bore you. You didn't even smile at the darling adopted Asian toddler, scampering around with a Winnie-the-Pooh blanket in tow. Maybe you were in the middle of a business deal on your Blackberry.
   I find the airport a wonderful place for people-watching, especially characters like you. As I shove my orange Macbook into my very full backpack, I marvel at your carry-on: how does anything at all fit inside? I discover your secret as you claim three checked bags; one of leather, another possibly Burberry and one of those suitcases with a nice, hard outer shell. That must be where you keep your other pairs of leggings and more clothes, dare I suggest you have a non-black shirt in there?
   I had to chug the rest of the water from my water bottle so I could bring it through security. You don't have that problem--you buy FIJI. I like those square bottles too, but I'd rather keep the three dollars in my wallet. I push aside the scarf spilling out of my Guatemalan purse to get to my book, wherever it's buried, while you easily peruse Kindle with your shiny iPad.*
   This isn't to say you don't look cool. You do. Today, I find I'm wearing gray and black and even mascara. And I do apologize for getting pasty crumbs on you yesterday.

*EDIT (21/02/11): Proof of my ignorance: I was informed yesterday that a Kindle is in fact its very own piece of technology. Who knew? Not me.

iAdios!

Philly, PA-- About to board for Madrid. I have no idea how long this flight will be. So thankful to be finally leaving! My love to you all. will fix blog later

...is this real life? We're stuck in Detroit for now.

I love all these character-building experiences!

Finally on a plane! Yes.

In Hancock, MI