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.

El Viernes Santo & Holy Week

Good Friday? What's today really all about?

And this is what's going on in Sevilla. The rain hasn't been this heavy--bad enough to cancel the Semana Santa processions--in 80 years.

Although the santos have not made it out of the churches, sevillanos, tourists and those of us abroad who don't quite fit either category, certainly do our best to catch a glimpse of them. I took a walk yesterday, braving the busy streets, to see what there was to see:

These are not members of the Klan. The KKK perverted this religious tradition and now, as I assume the majority of Americans here, I am slightly frightened of these figures as they stalk down the streets. They are dressed in this manner as a sign of humility and during a procession, actually distribute candy to kids who remember to ask Nazareno, dame un caramelo!

 
I was walking in black jeans, organic shoes (whatever that means) and a nice sweater. With my red bag slung over my shoulder, providing protection for my camera from the torrential rains, I felt ridiculously under-dressed for strolling the streets of Sevilla.

I tried to take a walk today, but it was too much. People everywhere! Stands someone must have borrowed from a circus clutter the streets! A small street I usually love to walk down was populated with purple nazarenos and so I turned around then and there. When everyone around you is well-dressed and/or in a disconcerting costume, and bustling about knowing precisely where they're going, or flawlessly giving that impression, it doesn't do much for the ol' self-esteem or comfort level. I watched Pride and Prejudice in Spanish and called it a day.

Thankfully I toughed it out on the slick, cobblestone streets yesterday and can now share these photos. I was truly glad for the rain. An umbrella provides blessed anonymity and shelter from which I could more easily shoot photos of the people and peculiarities I found.








I look forward to attending class on Monday. Spanish literature hasn't changed, nor will there be any tourists or nazarenos in my classroom.

 

See the rest of the photos here.

Olá Portugal!

I’m on the southern coast of Portugal for an escape from Semana Santa in Sevilla. There are lots of people, lots of tourists, lots of processions and lots of nazarenos. For the average American, these are pretty frightening to run into on the street. But here, they’re seen in a favorable light--they hand out candy! Nazareno, dame un caramelo!

An excerpt my dad received in a meeting during his week here:

“How should we understand the ancient festivals as they are celebrated in Sevilla, devout and irreverent at the same time, with the participation of all the people, full of color? Perhaps simply, we should see in them the enthusiasm, in the strictest etymological sense of the term, of a society for whom the Universe forms a totality--which is not able to reduce reality to separate and isolate entities on different planes--Heaven, Earth and Hell--and for whom the absolute contraposition of our modern culture between religious and profane would make no sense. For their society, reality itself is confirmed by the spectacle that is seen: saints, Virgins, monsters, giants, crucified Christs, and scenes where, with simple eans, the most complex mysteries of faith are set forth. The presence of the visible image makes superfluous the intellectual demonstration of the truth represented by the image.”  Fiesta Grande - Corpus Christi in the History of Seville, Vicente Lleó Cañal

I will be back for the last couple of days which will be interesting, I’m sure.

So far, here in Tavira, I find that the rain in Spain falls mainly on southern Portugal...but at least it's peaceful.

Una semana española para Papá

My dad was here for a quick week--arriving last Sunday and flying out bright and early Sunday morning. I bade him adios on Saturday evening. Over the week he got to see a bit of mi vida española, including one of my favorite snacks-- cañas de chocolate from Horno San Bernardo across from the cathedral (but they can be found anywhere). While there, he got his first taste of Spanish pushiness. It was his first day, in fact--what luck! We were enjoying the pastry, I sipped a café con leche and he had a fresh-squeezed orange juice in his hand, when a shoe shiner strolled up to him, offering to clean his shoes. My dad exercised his extensive Spanish vocabulary and said “no, gracias" and then, as I’ve experienced time and time again, he learned that merely saying no does not suffice. The man literally grabbed my dad’s leg and started scrubbing his shoe. Of course, my dad was shocked and laughed a bit, perplexed as to what to do. I found this guy's behavior incredibly rude and unnerving and urgently told at my dad to do something, otherwise this man would never go away. Unfortunately, a physical response is often required here--especially because we're in a city, a city that happens to be located in southern Europe--otherwise people will just do what they want. Thankfully, I could relax a few seconds later when the shoe shiner was sent away without the cup of coffee he had been asking for (I am not sure he would have been satisfied with merely that).

We saw another Spanish phenomenon that intrigued my dad, which I captured in a photograph. The self-assigned parking assistants of Sevilla make a few euros a day, I assume, with their unrequested help for the car-owning sevillanos. At least they're doing something to earn money. Outside of the store Zara there is one of the creepiest street people: a man in a large baby carriage with face paint and a bonnet, continually making odd crying sounds. Me da repelucos.

On Thursday we went to Ronda, España (after having attempted to go on Wednesday and were thwarted by the oft-misleading Spanish horarios online: the bus we were expecting only ran on Sundays apparently). Check out the photos: it was beautiful! It’s the home of Spain’s oldest bull ring and the beginning of bull fighting as it's done today. The “new bridge” is from the 1800s. The history of Europe is so different from America’s!

Aside from the shoe-shiner attack, I believe my dad had an enjoyable time and I loved the company. Anyone who's up for a quick trip to Spain would be quite bienvenido!

A Yooper on da loose in Andalucia

 
Well, Leo did say my dad looked pretty young. (She said he could be my brother...maybe he should check her vision.)

Click the title for more photos!


Yooper (noun): Nickname for people who live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Traditionally, Yoopers are big fans of outdoor recreation such as hunting and fishing.

And this is hilarious (thank you Wikipedia): Yooper is a form of North Central American English mostly spoken in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which gives the dialect its name (from "U.P." for Upper Peninsula).

A life goal realized

at a hippie festival.

A Senegalese friend invited me to a drum concert, knowing how enthusiastic I was about African drums (don't mistake my enthusiasm for knowledge--I was excited as I am ignorant. I mean, I've heard a djembe...a few times...in America). But when a friend and I met him at a salsa club and he informed me he was in a band and had friends in one too, I was thrilled and told him so! Thus, the invitation.

Three of us headed out Friday evening, choosing three fairly-functional Sevici Fahrräder, armed with two maps in my cool, new (Moroccan-scented), leather backpack. One was a map that didn't actually include our destination, on which I had scrawled directions; the other fairly large and cumbersome, with at least a simple portrayal of where we were headed. I mostly looked at the sun and followed my instincts, pedaling along merrily. I had my moccasins on, after all.

Never lost, just in new & unknown territory.

We soon followed the sounds of the drums! Well, to clarify: the first time we heard the drum
 we had mistaken the cars on the bridge over-head as a drumbeat (wishful thinking, perhaps). Minutes later we heard the real drums, which piqued* our interest and gave us energy to hurry ourselves the rest of the way in the still-warm Sevillian evening.

Parque Alamillo greeted us with quite the sight--I did not know Spain boasted such a hippie population. We passed a stereotypical van; the stereotypical sights and sounds; smells too, suggesting some recreational smoking (it is legal here in Spain); as well as the typical clothing, or lack thereof. But they weren't what interested us. In the midst of a circle of los hippies, we found that for which we had been looking (awkward evasion of a prepositionally ended sentence (that's probs not a real adverb))--a band of African drummers!

See more photos by clicking on these words.

The rhythm was unbelievably danceable and their energy and cooperation were astounding. There seemed to be a set of gestures they would use to signal a change in the rhythm, otherwise, I'm not sure how they could communicate and stay in sync throughout each distinct change in the music. They sometimes sang, sometimes got up and danced (I filmed one of them) and then finally, finally, something I've always wanted to do: I danced to the rhythm of the African drumbeat.
I had told my friend that before we left I would have done it for at least a couple minutes. I mean, who doesn't want to stroll out in the middle of Spaniards, other Europeans, Americans etc., and dance like a Yooper from Michigan, temporarily in Sevilla, España, to the sound of Senegalese men skillfully playing music? Clearly, I was up for it. And it was wonderful. She and I leapt right in and got lost in the music.

The night remained just as swell as later I found myself learning Wolof (which is Senegal's official language, I believe, or one of them), brushing up on my German,  and speaking Spanish and English. My brain was happily confused. My visiting friend speaks German and English. One of the men from Senegal speaks Wolof, other African and European languages, German and Spanish. The other speaks various African languages, Wolof, French and Spanish. I speak Spanish, English, German and now 5 phrases of Wolof. My friend from Hillsdale speaks Spanish, English and the same bit of Wolof. Talk about a linguist's dream conversation! I was often translating the German to my friend in Spanish, while simultaneously trying to throw in my brand-spankin' new 20-word Wolof vocabulary. And in learning those phrases, I unconsciously broke them down into phonemes (smallest bits of sound) and discovered some Wolof relative pronouns. If this was a hint at what my future (with Wycliffe, I think) will be like--dancing to the enticing rhythm of other cultures and learning new and unfamiliar languages--bring it on! Hallelujah!

Now back to earth for a bit. We hung out with our new friends some more (after hearing an awesome Spanish-y, folk-y band, which inspired unser Fruend and me to start one next year at Hillsdale!) continuing our 4-language conversation, and then parted ways. We hunted a restaurant and soon found ourselves munching tasty salads, enjoying delicious pizza, and sipping red wine (well, Ben two of us haben Wein getrunken aber die andere, nicht)...at 11:30 PM. How Spanish. Little did we know how time had flown, but we certainly had been having fun. Und ein Insider: and you know what Einstein says about time.

To top off a delightful evening, I sleepily and safely strolled home alone as the other two headed out for some late-night salsa dancing. And as I selected various streets, planning the unknown route as I went, I determined that any road including a family, elderly people, groups of girls or at least one baby, would be safe. In the hour-long walk to dear old Triana, I successfully made it to the exact street at which I thought I'd find myself. I count it a victory.

Magi chi yam Juliann, I had proudly said to one of the Senegalese men in the second band. He was impressed. Nothing compares to speaking with someone in his native tongue.

I cannot wait to learn more languages: ñu dem! ¡Vámonos!

*EDIT 12/4/11: Thank you to my sister Joy, the Hillsdale English major, I replaced the incorrect peaked with piqued. May I blame this error on the normal problems one has with one's first language when speaking a second? Probably not.

Today: A typical Tuesday

I woke up bright and early at 7:30 AM and went on an unintentionally long run of 50 minutes (Side note: I've been having various problems with English lately, for instance, I was positive unintentionaly was spelled with one l--I mean, what's the other one there for anyway?) What a great surprise, upon arriving to the apartment to be greeted by a waiting Leo--"that took a while!" A jog around the Cathedral, a sprint through the Plaza del Triunfo, only having to dodge a few creepers, gasp through puffs of smoke and clouds of cologne, and seeing one friendly Spanish face from church: overall a very enjoyable morning.

Next up: literature class at 10:15, which I really like. My professor Ana is great and we're getting into realism--huzzah! After that, the mandatory Spanish café with Marina. There was some sort of protest outside the Cathedral near where we were seated, whistles and shouts serenading our coffee break and an exorbitant number of sedentary police officers were blue-suited spectators.

Lunch at the apartment, then siesta for the soul (the country-wide nap time is such a handy way to set aside daily devotional) and then a glance at homework...which inevitably drifted into planning my summer. Norway? Germany? Hungary? Spain? All of the above, please. Make money? Hmm..spend it. Work on an organic farm and speak others languages.  It's shaping up to be quite the adventure, as far as I can tell.

Then came baby-sitting--I mean--tutoring. It's no wonder I get confused. The poor little 9-year-old José with whom I spent an hour and a half today was as rambunctious as they come, refused to say a word of English and drew on me with marker. I was writing a list for him, so he could see his every-increasing English vocabulary when he decided it would be fun to not let me write anymore. No holds barred on how he prevented me from writing, I'll leave it up to your imagination. Then he got out the permanent marker. Need I say more? My favorite thing right now is getting him to say red correctly. Sound out the American r for yourself and think of how many other languages have it. (He likes to say rrrrrrred.) That's right--we're pretty unique. And th. But I am determined for him to at least say a few consonants well.

I called his mother back, after he was reduced to tears of exhaustion on the phone with her 20 minutes earlier (I almost joined him) and she agreed it'd be best that we leave it at that for the day. I'm not sure about this situation--I was hired as a tutor but she's never even there when I show up...unusual.

I then leapt onto a bike and headed on out to Nervíon for bachata and salsa classes. I had plenty of time, unlike normal, so I enjoyed a leisurely ride. Class was as fun as always: bachata introduced some smooth new moves and in salsa class, a song was dedicated to me, Juliana! Even though the words are about a rather quesitonable character (Juliana, que mala eres...etc.) it was a fun time, dancing around to "my" song. Now, no one ought to forget my name at least (our teacher has finally got it down, after weeks of calling me Julieta).

I was strolling home at 10:30 PM, exhausted yet content, when suddenly I was interrupted by a ¡Perdona! ¿Dónde está la parade del tranvía? I immediately ended my phone conversation and began explaining to this man where to go, and I explained I was headed that way ¡vamos! but he and his wife began discussing another idea when all of the sudden another woman addressed me in Spanish for directions. Now the heavily Irish-accented Spanish was amusing, but I put her out of her misery, "well, we could just speak in English." Gladly, she responded and doing my best to make out her story through her accented English, ended up walking with her for ten minutes helping her find a hostel. As I pointed her down Avenida de la Constitución I said I was going to 'hop on a bike' to head home (which is perfectly normal for me), "you're really Irish!" she shouted, laughing. Well then, cool.

All this talk of various cultures reminds me of the other night where there were too many representatives to count. I was having dinner with an Italian and a Dutch girl (Erin & Marina, from Hillsdale) I had delicious Mexican guacamole, a savory Greek gyro and a hearty German beer, along with a taste of an Australian kangaroo burger (1. They eat kangaroos? 2. Ew.) Ordering some of the above in Spanish was just a confusing situation. [It was a fair featuring different ethnicities' foods and just as we clearly tried, you could eat your way around the world.]

Alright, maybe today wasn't entirely typical but it was great. And tomorrow is Wednesday (which means almost Thursday, the weekend). More cultural fun: Ben Murrey, a fellow Hillsdalian is visiting from Germany and of course I will get to sprechen auf Deutsch a bit. I was invited by a new Latino friend to a Spanish club for a German party--odd mix. I recently made friends with a few Senegalese and through that connection, I am going to an awesome African drum concert on Friday. Saturday, Ben, Marina and I are kayaking on the Guadalquivir. And my dad arrives on Sunday! From da U.P. to Sevilla: talk about culture shock, eh der, pops?

Now that my head's whirling, time to go to bed.

I could have danced all night

until I realized how tired I was after six-and-a-half hours of dancing already.

Yesterday was a great, and fairly typical day for me here in Spain. I had my one Thursday class, literature (which I really enjoy) and then had most of the afternoon free. Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor a family of four Spanish children, talking with one or two each session. Last evening I arrived 25 minutes late (how Spanish of me) and strolled around with 9-year-old boy teaching him important words such as "horse," "fountain" and "grass." I chatted with 12-year-old boy, focusing on airport and traveling vocabulary. He, like a small percentage of Spaniards, will be spending a year in an English speaking country to improve his language skills. At 13 years old, he's going to spend a year in Ireland away from his family. That's pretty unbelievable. So, the burden is on my shoulders to prepare him--I hope it goes well. As of right now, he'll be able to name the things he finds on a plane: flight attendants, seat belts, aisle (and what a tricky word that is!), pilot and engine. Next lesson I'm going to provide him with useful questions he may need to ask once he's there.

From there, I scurried in my little heels to the nearest Sevici station, leapt onto a bicycle and pedaled out to Nervión. The walk takes 40 minutes at most, so by bike on a warm day I went as quickly as possible to arrive at bachata lessons without panting. I was actually two minutes late for that as well. Very typically Spanish: the lessons begin at 8:00 (20:00) but they don't actually begin until 20:15 or 20:25. And they are an hour long whether or not we start late, so my salsa lesson is inevitably rather tardy too. But really, who's counting? I am there to dance. It's actually great, because I get done tutoring at 8, so the rush to Voulez-bar is less hectic knowing I am not quite down to the wire on time.

Free commercial for Voulez-bar and my other favorite spots in Sevilla so far:

Voulez-bar, Calle Marron Balbino, Nervíon--right on the street near the Hotel Viapol (the big red building) this bar and salsa club has nice instructors and employees, two levels with dance floors and bars and is right up the street from:

Ohana, another salsa/bachata/zomba club. With a bar and restaurant upstairs, the downstairs is split level with another bar and a rather crowded dance floor. There's also a mirrored wall which I have actually found quite distracting. The dancing here is at a pretty high level, but there are plenty of patient partners to be had.

...other recommendations to be made later. I have a few favorite cafés in Triana and some great clothing stores--cute stuff, not too pricey--soon to be featured here.

Coming soon: If I were a church, I just found myself in la Iglesia Betania.
Spanish, Wycliffe, opera and Michigan: who knew all of these great connections were just waiting for me, a ten-minute walk from my apartment? Sunday, March 27 was my favorite day in Sevilla so far! It was the most wonderful afternoon that suddenly became a long evening, and was a direct answer to prayer. I will soon recount some of the events of those marvelous 13 hours in a future blog post.