A guilt trip

I've been sick for a while. I had an awful cold for two weeks and now since Wednesday night (in which I went to bed healthy-ish until Thursday morning greeted me with a different story) I've spent almost all of my time in my bed, except for a short walk yesterday. While I'm accepting this as just the most fantastic opportunity to learn contentment, I'm also going to make use of it to my immediate benefit: I would appreciate something else to do besides watch movies. I read if I find the energy, but I don't always have it. I would much rather enjoy letters from you. Therefore, write me? Perhaps upon reading this you may muster up your pity, jot out a little note (or pages worth of information, that would be swell) and drop it in the mail to:

Juliann Ulrickson
CC-CS Calle Harinas 16 y 18
Sevilla, España 41001

And easier for you to send, and almost as enjoyable for me to read: a letter-like e-mail to little old me at jculrickson@gmail.com

Let me know what's new in sus vidas, for here you get at least a glimpse of mine.

So, I just had my lunch (which recently has been no more than a kiwi and some salad, much to Leonór's chagrin) and explained to Leo that I would be okay; no, I don't need a doctor. When she's scolding me or just chatting, she often calls me hija, which means daughter. Actually--everyone does. That's something they do here. To address a waiter, you might call him tío, though he certainly isn't actually your uncle. At a restaurant with some friends recently, one of us called our waiter señor for the lack of a better title and he said smiling, 'excuse me, I'm not an old man.' Sorry tío, we learned our lesson then. On the phone with her grand-daughter the other day, Leo was throwing out the endearments left and right, mi alma (my soul), mi hija, etc. And, having been just addressed as her alma as well, I just thought I'd mention it. She wants me to get better. Getting better = eating more food. She's warned me that no one will recognize me when I return home if I don't start eating. I'm trying!

And now, I'll keep my eye on the mail box.

P.S. Don't actually worry too much about me, I'll be fine. I just really love letters.
P.P.S. But don't take that to mean I'm not actually sick; because I sure am.
P.P.P.S. This is getting out of hand--clearly too much time spent in bed.

[Good heavens. Leo just leapt into my room with a small plate of half-an-apple cut up. "Eat this! It's good for your stomach!" I replied "bueeennooo" and followed orders.]