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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
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.]
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.]
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Information; too much, perhaps
I write this, shocked that I'm even able to do anything right now. I woke up at six AM, with an absolutely terrible headache. I think I could literally feel my head throbbing. Three miserable hours later, I proceeded to throw up the contents of my stomach. I'm getting awfully good at doing that, lately: my body hates me. Lying in bed, almost wishing I were dead, I wondered how long I would feel nauseated. If it were like the last time this happened to me, it was going to be a very, very long day.
Leo tried to figure out what was wrong. I answered her questions and assured her that a lack of a scarf certainly was not the cause (I haven't even been without a scarf for the six weeks I've been here, I think) and no, I most definitely was not hungover. She had asked me subtley about my alcohol intake the night before. Answer? None.
She said, 'stay in bed and sleep.' Uy. That just made me all the more aware of my furious stomach and aching head--yet, I slept! (For those of you who know me, that's almost unheard of. I never sleep during the day.) Sometime before noon, she suggested I take some medicine for my head. I was nervous to take any pills, but like she said, if you can't hold it down, you can't hold it down. And, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, they stayed down! So, I could partially open the window to let in the sunlight again. Next up: juice. There was no way I wanted to try anything beside water, but she strongly recommended it. In my fairly weakened state, I thought, alright then, the worst that can happen is that it comes right back on up again. Lo and behold, it didn't.
I write this to say, 'Leo, you were right!' Though the means of communication between a concerned host mother here and an American caregiver are much different (she was brisk and demanding in regard to my treatment, more so than I would prefer): she was right. Even though I don't think the lack of a scarf and slippers is the root of all evil, taking her advice proved quite beneficial.
And the kicker? I just had a magdalena. They are delicious, sweet little muffins that come in plastic packages. The best packaged food I've ever had. I did not want to eat it, but I meekly agreed to after drinking the peach nectar (which was delish, as usual). Now I sit here, triumphant and thankful, typing away (from my bed, where I've been all day, but still: in comparison to this morning, I am wonderful). Gracias Leonór and truly: gracias a Dios.
Leo tried to figure out what was wrong. I answered her questions and assured her that a lack of a scarf certainly was not the cause (I haven't even been without a scarf for the six weeks I've been here, I think) and no, I most definitely was not hungover. She had asked me subtley about my alcohol intake the night before. Answer? None.
She said, 'stay in bed and sleep.' Uy. That just made me all the more aware of my furious stomach and aching head--yet, I slept! (For those of you who know me, that's almost unheard of. I never sleep during the day.) Sometime before noon, she suggested I take some medicine for my head. I was nervous to take any pills, but like she said, if you can't hold it down, you can't hold it down. And, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, they stayed down! So, I could partially open the window to let in the sunlight again. Next up: juice. There was no way I wanted to try anything beside water, but she strongly recommended it. In my fairly weakened state, I thought, alright then, the worst that can happen is that it comes right back on up again. Lo and behold, it didn't.
I write this to say, 'Leo, you were right!' Though the means of communication between a concerned host mother here and an American caregiver are much different (she was brisk and demanding in regard to my treatment, more so than I would prefer): she was right. Even though I don't think the lack of a scarf and slippers is the root of all evil, taking her advice proved quite beneficial.
And the kicker? I just had a magdalena. They are delicious, sweet little muffins that come in plastic packages. The best packaged food I've ever had. I did not want to eat it, but I meekly agreed to after drinking the peach nectar (which was delish, as usual). Now I sit here, triumphant and thankful, typing away (from my bed, where I've been all day, but still: in comparison to this morning, I am wonderful). Gracias Leonór and truly: gracias a Dios.
Monday, March 14, 2011
On the other hand (and continent)...
as I was trudging home from my late class today, bedraggled, cold, wet, tired, hoping my broken right shoe would survive the half-hour (who knew the rain in Spain was corrosive?) that rather friendly, approving whistle was not altogether unwelcome. The two minutes it took to braid my hair and the utter lack of make-up apparently weren't a deterrent. It's the little things: gracias, Sevilla.
Sí, son las confesiones de una americana en España: siempre confudida en su opinión...now there are enough cognates in that for anyone to understand.
Sí, son las confesiones de una americana en España: siempre confudida en su opinión...now there are enough cognates in that for anyone to understand.
To my dear men of Hillsdale
including my fellow students, exceptional professors and especially, you men of Delta Tau Delta (I had to give a shout-out to you guys, of course--I haven't forgotten that rumoured talk I was going to give you)
and, not to neglect the men I'm blessed to call my good friends from home and my family--
I've teased some of you mercilessly and now it's time to repent. And more than merely to apologize, I'm here to say thank you. Thank you for speaking to me as a thinking, reasoning human being rather than a brainless body. Thanks for not being too creepy, as a general rule. Though not enough of you have motorbikes nor wear great cologne, you're still alright.
I appreciate not having to leap out of your way when we are walking on a sidewalk and nearing a head-on collision. I'm glad that I normally don't need to be at all worried when strolling by a group of you. Thanks ever so much for holding the door open for me or even helping me with my coat (not, of course, that it's necessary--but it's an appreciated gesture). You are swell.
I miss you.
Do you know, you're probably as presumptuous on the fifth date as they are here after the fifth minute of the first?
And this isn't to say all American men are one way and Spaniards are another. This is just big ol' generalization, as per usual.
P.S. It's raining, it's pouring! And has been for a week. Today, I biked from Marina's house to mine. It was the first time biking in heels and a pencil skirt, precariously shielding my backpack & Mac from the pouring rain with an umbrella: yes, while I was biking. "¡Valiente!" they shouted. Biking down a fairly busy street, the fruit truck tried unsuccessfully not once, but twice, to kill me, I'm convinced. Then, as I decided to go around him, I rode right into oncoming traffic--oops. Then, the people along the sidewalk were slow to move out of my way. I furiously rang the bell, in an attempt to warn them, to no avail. I had to stop. Then go. Then finally arrived home: damp, over-heated, muddy tights and wrinkled skirt and all, I announced to Leo "I don't know how, but I survived!" sitting down for lunch a half hour late.
and, not to neglect the men I'm blessed to call my good friends from home and my family--
I've teased some of you mercilessly and now it's time to repent. And more than merely to apologize, I'm here to say thank you. Thank you for speaking to me as a thinking, reasoning human being rather than a brainless body. Thanks for not being too creepy, as a general rule. Though not enough of you have motorbikes nor wear great cologne, you're still alright.
I appreciate not having to leap out of your way when we are walking on a sidewalk and nearing a head-on collision. I'm glad that I normally don't need to be at all worried when strolling by a group of you. Thanks ever so much for holding the door open for me or even helping me with my coat (not, of course, that it's necessary--but it's an appreciated gesture). You are swell.
I miss you.
Do you know, you're probably as presumptuous on the fifth date as they are here after the fifth minute of the first?
And this isn't to say all American men are one way and Spaniards are another. This is just big ol' generalization, as per usual.
P.S. It's raining, it's pouring! And has been for a week. Today, I biked from Marina's house to mine. It was the first time biking in heels and a pencil skirt, precariously shielding my backpack & Mac from the pouring rain with an umbrella: yes, while I was biking. "¡Valiente!" they shouted. Biking down a fairly busy street, the fruit truck tried unsuccessfully not once, but twice, to kill me, I'm convinced. Then, as I decided to go around him, I rode right into oncoming traffic--oops. Then, the people along the sidewalk were slow to move out of my way. I furiously rang the bell, in an attempt to warn them, to no avail. I had to stop. Then go. Then finally arrived home: damp, over-heated, muddy tights and wrinkled skirt and all, I announced to Leo "I don't know how, but I survived!" sitting down for lunch a half hour late.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The rain in Spain
falls mainly when I'm ill and/or don't have my umbrella.
I didn't go to three of my four classes on Wednesday--literatura or baile or "cultural realities"--but don't worry, it wasn't voluntary skipping. My body refused to let my brain attend class. I've been sick on and off for two weeks now, and since Saturday, I've felt pretty poorly. If being sick in the States isn't fun, I leave it up to your imagination to try and guess what it's like to be here: stuck in bed, with an unreliable internet connection and no one around to talk to. Well, enough of that pity fiesta. I try to avoid the depths of despair, at least.
I got up planning to attend class, but my tired body, sore throat, aching head and congested nasal passages hollered at me to rethink that decision. I'm starting to wonder if I caused this illness myself: I certainly contributed to it, at least. I just remembered earlier today, that last week I made two wonderful decisions--both Wednesday and Friday nights I stayed out 'til four and five, respectively. Why? Oh, I don't know. I do a lot in the name of cultural experiments. But now that I see the toll it takes on my immune system, those days are (mostly) over. I guess I must be a proud student at the School of Hard Knocks--and apparently I refuse to graduate.
Something I didn't learn in my "Cultural Realities" class, but at the SHK: if you're feeling even the least bit poorly, forego salsa dancing, especially when you live a forty-minute walk away and it's a cool, rainy night. Consider that lesson learned. Some current thoughts, soon to be revealed in a self-appointed essay assignment (read: blog), involve the lack of respect for women here (yes, it's a sweeping generalization, but not unfounded). More to come on that.
The little time I left my bed Wednesday was spent seeking a cure for my illness. A few days previous, Leo had given me some medicine to take every three hours, and despite her great faith in it, it didn't seem to help. So yesterday, I was thrilled to become one of the morning Sevillians walking around between the hours of nine and eleven, carrying a few nondescript white plastic bags. If you come here, please observe this phenomenon. I don't know whence the people come with these purchases: perhaps the wonderful little mercados full of fresh fruit and veggies, entire pig legs or aromatic fish, or like me, from a tienda china and the farmacia; but each morning, everyone seems to have a special little bundle or two in a white plastic bag, bringing some good back to their homes. I went to a magical little place we call a Chinese store (literally translated). They're everywhere, they're run by Chinese people and they have about any knick-knack you'll need to find. They're often called "Bazaar" something-or-other and it's such fun to explore the shelves of cheap, necessary stuff. I bought orange juice and peach nectar (2 litros por 2 €!)--so delicious and full of vitamins for my poor overwrought immune system. Then, I went across the street to the pharmacy to get something else medicinal, in hopes of healing myself once and for all. I had to ring the doorbell to enter, then described to the pharmacist how I felt and she produced a box of packets of powder meant to make me feel better. I am not entirely sure what I'm taking (sorry Dr. Dad) but I'll tell myself it will work. It's just a mini-adventure and it's pretty normal here--I do what I'm told by the pharmacist without necessarily knowing what it is myself. No big deal. In general, trust your elders (unless they're force-feeding you) and your pharmacists.
I hear the rain is supposed to let up on Sunday and then the good weather will begin. I eagerly await warmth and sunshine.
I didn't go to three of my four classes on Wednesday--literatura or baile or "cultural realities"--but don't worry, it wasn't voluntary skipping. My body refused to let my brain attend class. I've been sick on and off for two weeks now, and since Saturday, I've felt pretty poorly. If being sick in the States isn't fun, I leave it up to your imagination to try and guess what it's like to be here: stuck in bed, with an unreliable internet connection and no one around to talk to. Well, enough of that pity fiesta. I try to avoid the depths of despair, at least.
I got up planning to attend class, but my tired body, sore throat, aching head and congested nasal passages hollered at me to rethink that decision. I'm starting to wonder if I caused this illness myself: I certainly contributed to it, at least. I just remembered earlier today, that last week I made two wonderful decisions--both Wednesday and Friday nights I stayed out 'til four and five, respectively. Why? Oh, I don't know. I do a lot in the name of cultural experiments. But now that I see the toll it takes on my immune system, those days are (mostly) over. I guess I must be a proud student at the School of Hard Knocks--and apparently I refuse to graduate.
Something I didn't learn in my "Cultural Realities" class, but at the SHK: if you're feeling even the least bit poorly, forego salsa dancing, especially when you live a forty-minute walk away and it's a cool, rainy night. Consider that lesson learned. Some current thoughts, soon to be revealed in a self-appointed essay assignment (read: blog), involve the lack of respect for women here (yes, it's a sweeping generalization, but not unfounded). More to come on that.
The little time I left my bed Wednesday was spent seeking a cure for my illness. A few days previous, Leo had given me some medicine to take every three hours, and despite her great faith in it, it didn't seem to help. So yesterday, I was thrilled to become one of the morning Sevillians walking around between the hours of nine and eleven, carrying a few nondescript white plastic bags. If you come here, please observe this phenomenon. I don't know whence the people come with these purchases: perhaps the wonderful little mercados full of fresh fruit and veggies, entire pig legs or aromatic fish, or like me, from a tienda china and the farmacia; but each morning, everyone seems to have a special little bundle or two in a white plastic bag, bringing some good back to their homes. I went to a magical little place we call a Chinese store (literally translated). They're everywhere, they're run by Chinese people and they have about any knick-knack you'll need to find. They're often called "Bazaar" something-or-other and it's such fun to explore the shelves of cheap, necessary stuff. I bought orange juice and peach nectar (2 litros por 2 €!)--so delicious and full of vitamins for my poor overwrought immune system. Then, I went across the street to the pharmacy to get something else medicinal, in hopes of healing myself once and for all. I had to ring the doorbell to enter, then described to the pharmacist how I felt and she produced a box of packets of powder meant to make me feel better. I am not entirely sure what I'm taking (sorry Dr. Dad) but I'll tell myself it will work. It's just a mini-adventure and it's pretty normal here--I do what I'm told by the pharmacist without necessarily knowing what it is myself. No big deal. In general, trust your elders (unless they're force-feeding you) and your pharmacists.
I hear the rain is supposed to let up on Sunday and then the good weather will begin. I eagerly await warmth and sunshine.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday
"Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign? Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgment not be too heavy upon us Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still."
Monday, March 7, 2011
Cultural extravangza
A wonderful thing about Europe is its collision of various cultures and languages. Sitting on the banks of the Guadalquivir eating my lunch one day, I heard German, Italian and Spanish within an hour. And recent exposure to new cultures got me thinking how many I encounter each day.
My Friday night in five words: blind date with an Arab. It was the first time meeting someone from Morocco, hearing Arabic and discussing religion with a non-practicing Muslim (whatever that means). Interesting, to say the least.
The rest of the weekend, while I was sick and lying in bed--causing some serious apathy--I decided something had to change, I needed to do something, and quick. I spent some time with the most famous Man in all the world; a Nazarene. I heard from a blessedly brilliant Scot named Oswald. And I hung out with my very favorite Russian named Alyosha. His brothers Dmitry, Ivan and Smerdyakov had to come along, as long as their abominable father. If you have never spent time with any of the aforementioned men, you should.
Now I'm listening to Spanish music and I have to keep commanding my brain to write in English (and I am continually correcting spelling mistakes). This reminds me of a common occurrence in my communication with Spaniards: they often seem to forget their own Spanish as they assume I know none. Last night, trying to order an ice cream sundae to split with Marina, I had a fun game of charades with the waiter (not that I necessarily wanted to play). A girl nearby had ordered an amazingly-delicious looking sundae, and Marina and I were smitten. I said "we want one of those things, that that girl just ordered" (I'm sorry--I never learned 'sundae" in Spanish. What a gap in my vocabulary!) He starts saying single words or small phrases, trying to communicate. Then, he stops speaking and just tries hand motions. What? That's way harder, man. As he beckoned me over to the ice creams so I could choose which kinds, I asked how many I could select. He held up two, then three fingers. Really? I almost laughed out loud and then, in perfectly comprehensible Spanish, ordered which kinds we wanted. Things like this happen often--it's a game of verbal chicken. I keep speaking Spanish and they, broken English or some odd sign language, until one of us changes. Often, the conversation concludes with their "gud-bey!" and my "¡adios!"
Post script; I go by "Juli" here (which sounds like "you-lee" or a spanish-ized "Julie") because of the atrocious way Spaniards pronounce my name: Ju-lee-in? Shoo-lee-in? Shu-lee-an? No. Juli, por favor.
My Friday night in five words: blind date with an Arab. It was the first time meeting someone from Morocco, hearing Arabic and discussing religion with a non-practicing Muslim (whatever that means). Interesting, to say the least.
The rest of the weekend, while I was sick and lying in bed--causing some serious apathy--I decided something had to change, I needed to do something, and quick. I spent some time with the most famous Man in all the world; a Nazarene. I heard from a blessedly brilliant Scot named Oswald. And I hung out with my very favorite Russian named Alyosha. His brothers Dmitry, Ivan and Smerdyakov had to come along, as long as their abominable father. If you have never spent time with any of the aforementioned men, you should.
Now I'm listening to Spanish music and I have to keep commanding my brain to write in English (and I am continually correcting spelling mistakes). This reminds me of a common occurrence in my communication with Spaniards: they often seem to forget their own Spanish as they assume I know none. Last night, trying to order an ice cream sundae to split with Marina, I had a fun game of charades with the waiter (not that I necessarily wanted to play). A girl nearby had ordered an amazingly-delicious looking sundae, and Marina and I were smitten. I said "we want one of those things, that that girl just ordered" (I'm sorry--I never learned 'sundae" in Spanish. What a gap in my vocabulary!) He starts saying single words or small phrases, trying to communicate. Then, he stops speaking and just tries hand motions. What? That's way harder, man. As he beckoned me over to the ice creams so I could choose which kinds, I asked how many I could select. He held up two, then three fingers. Really? I almost laughed out loud and then, in perfectly comprehensible Spanish, ordered which kinds we wanted. Things like this happen often--it's a game of verbal chicken. I keep speaking Spanish and they, broken English or some odd sign language, until one of us changes. Often, the conversation concludes with their "gud-bey!" and my "¡adios!"
Post script; I go by "Juli" here (which sounds like "you-lee" or a spanish-ized "Julie") because of the atrocious way Spaniards pronounce my name: Ju-lee-in? Shoo-lee-in? Shu-lee-an? No. Juli, por favor.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
¡Sevilla!
 In recent efforts to lessen my dependence on Facebook (as I learn more about its creation and realize how I crave real communication--send me a letter, don't write on "my wall") I wanted to find a different way to share pictures. Secondly, I heard non-Facebookers couldn't see photos larger than thumbnail size, so now, anyone can check out these photos. Enjoy!And here: photos of Málaga! |
Friday, March 4, 2011
Ask and you shall receive
(if not reasonable portions) an answer, at least.
A week or so ago, I celebrated my victory against the absurd portion size Leonór dished out at meal times--it was a premature celebration. She continued to serve me too much and I continued to sit down, stare at the mountain of food on the plate or the Lake Superior-esque* steaming bowl of soup before me, and stress out. While it is the worst--and only--issue I've had with her, believe me when I say it was actually a problem. Who wants to leave the table continually feeling like an over-stuffed croqueta (which is a blend of ham and something fatty and tasty, breaded and deep-fried)? Not me. So, in the last couple of days, I've routinely brought my plate back to Leo in the kitchen and asked her to remove some, often up to half. She looks at me, scolds me, then takes off maybe a third. I shake my head, she is appalled, but finally removes the rest of the requested amount. Success! She is finally taking me seriously. I had to stop expecting her to read my mind; to give up hoping she would decide to serve me less.
I was telling my mom today, I've identified why this was an issue: I believe in America if I had a guest that didn't eat a lot and consistently left food on his plate, I would serve him less (not that this would necessarily be an issue, since we do often just serve ourselves at the table). Here, the rules of hospitality demand she serve me what she wants me to eat and I have to bargain for less. It's just one of the myriad things to learn about Spanish culture. This is not only an issue for me: sources say that an anonymous CC-CS student actually had to launch an entire, small roasted chicken out the window to escape the necessity of its consumption--it was the third chicken this student was expected to eat, poor dear. (I confess on two occasions I have made use of a napkin to smuggle away some unwanted quantity of food to dispose of secretly.)
Because I "eat so little," she kindly but persistently scolds me. I just laugh and remain firm, demanding what I want (otherwise, she'd never listen). For her small stature, she is surprisingly tough, and when she squeezes my arm or hits me on the shoulder in an attempt to encourage me to eat, I'm surprised by her strength. And one of our favorite daily topics of conversation is how little I eat--I think I'll be discussing the size of my stomach until May.
In other news, after another conversation about how much I eat, I asked her a question that had been bothering me for some time. After my roommate and I eat, we leave our plates on the table along with everything else and just go back to our room. We don't help set the table, we don't wash dishes, we don't do anything. I didn't understand if this was impolite or expected or what. I actually enjoy washing dishes and tidying up so I would welcome the opportunity to help. I got up the nerve to ask Leo if this was okay, or should we help her out? She quickly assured me that that was the way she wanted it, as she didn't work, caring for us was just part of her daily routine. I said I would love to help out in any way I could, if she'd only let me know, and she happily said she would.
Now, though I don't necessarily like it, I make myself relax and just let her enjoy serving me, whether it's at mealtimes or the random tea times she creates just so she can serve me a couple sweet crackers with the amazingly delicious manzanilla té. Oh, Leo. You think you're so tricky.
*For those of you who have not yet been blessed by the beauty of Lake Superior, I'm happy to report it's the second-largest freshwater lake in the world and I live just a few minutes away in the Upper Peninsula of MI. Unlike my warm bowl of soup, it's ridiculously cold, which is probably the reason it's so clean (when I'm on a rowboat at 200 ft. depth I can still see the bottom and the massive fish that drift slowly by) and the adventurous tourists and Yoopers that actually enter its waters have yet to mar its natural splendor.
A week or so ago, I celebrated my victory against the absurd portion size Leonór dished out at meal times--it was a premature celebration. She continued to serve me too much and I continued to sit down, stare at the mountain of food on the plate or the Lake Superior-esque* steaming bowl of soup before me, and stress out. While it is the worst--and only--issue I've had with her, believe me when I say it was actually a problem. Who wants to leave the table continually feeling like an over-stuffed croqueta (which is a blend of ham and something fatty and tasty, breaded and deep-fried)? Not me. So, in the last couple of days, I've routinely brought my plate back to Leo in the kitchen and asked her to remove some, often up to half. She looks at me, scolds me, then takes off maybe a third. I shake my head, she is appalled, but finally removes the rest of the requested amount. Success! She is finally taking me seriously. I had to stop expecting her to read my mind; to give up hoping she would decide to serve me less.
I was telling my mom today, I've identified why this was an issue: I believe in America if I had a guest that didn't eat a lot and consistently left food on his plate, I would serve him less (not that this would necessarily be an issue, since we do often just serve ourselves at the table). Here, the rules of hospitality demand she serve me what she wants me to eat and I have to bargain for less. It's just one of the myriad things to learn about Spanish culture. This is not only an issue for me: sources say that an anonymous CC-CS student actually had to launch an entire, small roasted chicken out the window to escape the necessity of its consumption--it was the third chicken this student was expected to eat, poor dear. (I confess on two occasions I have made use of a napkin to smuggle away some unwanted quantity of food to dispose of secretly.)
Because I "eat so little," she kindly but persistently scolds me. I just laugh and remain firm, demanding what I want (otherwise, she'd never listen). For her small stature, she is surprisingly tough, and when she squeezes my arm or hits me on the shoulder in an attempt to encourage me to eat, I'm surprised by her strength. And one of our favorite daily topics of conversation is how little I eat--I think I'll be discussing the size of my stomach until May.
In other news, after another conversation about how much I eat, I asked her a question that had been bothering me for some time. After my roommate and I eat, we leave our plates on the table along with everything else and just go back to our room. We don't help set the table, we don't wash dishes, we don't do anything. I didn't understand if this was impolite or expected or what. I actually enjoy washing dishes and tidying up so I would welcome the opportunity to help. I got up the nerve to ask Leo if this was okay, or should we help her out? She quickly assured me that that was the way she wanted it, as she didn't work, caring for us was just part of her daily routine. I said I would love to help out in any way I could, if she'd only let me know, and she happily said she would.
Now, though I don't necessarily like it, I make myself relax and just let her enjoy serving me, whether it's at mealtimes or the random tea times she creates just so she can serve me a couple sweet crackers with the amazingly delicious manzanilla té. Oh, Leo. You think you're so tricky.
*For those of you who have not yet been blessed by the beauty of Lake Superior, I'm happy to report it's the second-largest freshwater lake in the world and I live just a few minutes away in the Upper Peninsula of MI. Unlike my warm bowl of soup, it's ridiculously cold, which is probably the reason it's so clean (when I'm on a rowboat at 200 ft. depth I can still see the bottom and the massive fish that drift slowly by) and the adventurous tourists and Yoopers that actually enter its waters have yet to mar its natural splendor.
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