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!