Looking Back on 8 Months in Spain

"Until I feared losing it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."  

While recently reading To Kill a Mockingbird, this quote struck me.  Sometimes you never realize how much you love something until you have to let it go.  It didn’t hit me how much this sentiment rings true, however, until I was faced with an abrupt realization: I have only two more weeks in Sevilla before having to say goodbye.

After this realization hit, I felt myself fall back in love with everything Sevilla.  During the year I found it easy to get caught up in the monotony of daily life.  Taking the bus to school, working, cooking meals, and going grocery shopping, I never feel that I am, in fact, living in Spain.  I carry out day to day activities as I would anywhere in the world, forgetting that I am living an adventure few can claim to have lived.  My days here have ranged from monotonous to difficult, from happy to sad; by no means has it been a perfect year.  During study abroad I took the time to stop and smell the orange trees.  This time around, I haven’t always been as appreciative.  But when I think of all I have accomplished in this time: the traveling, the bond with my school and my kids, the friendships, the fun times, and everything I have learned about Spanish culture, I can’t help but wish I could do it all again.

Looking back at Scout’s quote, the worry about Spain slipping away from me fully made me realize how important this year and this city have been.  This is the first city I had ever visited in Europe, the city I was always excited to come home to during study abroad, and the city I loved so much that I made a pact with myself to return at any cost.  It was this pact that took me on the plane back to Boston two years ago.  Knowledge that I could, and would, make my way back to the enchanting city calling my name.  Although my thoughts about returning wavered once being back amongst the familiar, I knew that it was a journey I had to complete.  My time in Sevilla was not quite finished.  So, two years later, and I have the same feeling again.  Despite the frustrations that living here entails, I’m not ready to say goodbye for good just yet. I know that when I do finally leave Sevilla in two weeks it will be with a heavy heart.

Most importantly, I’m not quite ready to give up the traveling.  Living in Europe, the world is at your fingertips.  A new world is just a few stress free hours away.  I may not remember every bit of travel over the past two years.  I may not remember every painting seen at the Louvre, every step taken in London, every old monument sat upon in Rome.  What I do remember are the feelings; the moments when I felt at one with the world; the moments when I recognized the importance of travel in my life.  Looking down on the Chain Bridge at night in Budapest; riding a camel through the desert in Egypt; laughing my head off on a terrace in Lagos; standing aside the remainders of an ancient civilization on a hill, looking down on modern Athens; letting the snow fall down and feeling a sense of calm with the world in Edinburgh.  These memories cannot be replaced by words or photographs (although I have many of both on this blog).  They are important memories because of what they meant to me. 

Despite the fact that I am leaving soon, I know that traveling will always be something important in my life.  While studying abroad, I came upon the notion that waking up every morning, we have no idea what is in store for us.  I would think, “what will I have seen by tonight? what will I know? where will I have been?”  In a routine life, such questions are not as pertinent.  Life-changing moments rarely occur when every day is the same adventure.  While traveling, you have no idea who you will meet and what this person will teach you.  You have no idea what you will see, and what this will teach you about the world.  Most importantly, you have no idea what you will learn about yourself.

Journey to the End of the World: Lagos

Thursday of Feria, Jan, Rachel and I set off on one of my favorite trips to date. Our destination was Lagos, an adorable beach town on the southern Algarve coast of Portugal. We started our journey Thursday morning, renting a car from Sevilla's train station for the 3 hour drive. Initially we got a bit lost around Sevilla, but we were soon on the highway with a destination of Portugal. Driving over the border between countries was like crossing from Massachusetts to New Hampshire. There was a sign saying Welcome to Portugal in three languages, and that was about it.  No customs, no passports checks, no stopping. In one minute we had crossed over between cultures, languages and governments.  Have I mentioned how much I love the EU?

Arriving in Lagos was an adventure in itself. Streets in Europe do not really have street signs like at home. At best, they have unreadable plaques randomly plastered to the sides of buildings, impossible to see. With a little help from a smart phone, we found our way, and wound through tiny, white washed streets. Our car had a bit of a problem with the hills and sharp corners for a few reasons. First, we were driving a boat that just did not fit.  Second, European cars are not used to being automatic, and the engine was having some difficulties making the fast changes. We found and passed the hostel, unable to stop and block the tiny road with our car. So, we turned the corner and found ourselves conveniently stuck behind a stationary truck.  As we believed the truck would leave us stranded for a while, Jan and Rachel hopped out with our bags to run to the hostel while I held down the fort. Before they could return, however, the truck was moving and now the line of traffic was waiting for me. I decided to keep moving and turn the corner, hoping to loop my way back around. Instead, I found myself at a dead end at the top of a narrow hill with no hope of turning around. A nice Portuguese man saw my predicament and opened the gates to his auto shop to help. His Portuguese directions, though I'm sure well-intentioned, did not help much as I tried in vain to avoid hitting anything. Luckily, at this point, I saw Jan and Rachel running up the hill, having found the bright red boat stuck on the hill. They brought with them Arthur, the man who worked at the hostel, who helped me turn around and got in the car to show us to the parking.

With our car parked and our bags dropped off, we were free to explore the beautiful city. And beautiful it sure was. Tiny, winding streets of white washed buildings brought back memories of small towns in Morocco, while the cliffs and rocks jutting out to the sea were unlike anything I have ever seen. Tiny coves and inlet beaches are hidden behind huge rock bluffs and virtually impossible to find without great directions. We found one secluded bay to take in the remaining sun of the day before heading back to the hostel for dinner. We settled on Thai food for the night that came highly recommended. The Thai food tasted amazing going down... but not so great coming back up. But more on the Great Food Poisoning of 2011 later. 

Leaving Thai food, before the food really settled, we headed to the bar Inside Out down the street from our hostel that we came to know very well over the weekend. We didn’t realize that the Portuguese went out as late as the Spanish, and were the first patrons to arrive at 10:30. We made friends with the bartender, a native Lagosian, and received our first free shots of the trip. At this point, things were starting to feel a bit sour in our stomachs, so we headed back to the hostel for a bit to wait out the storm. We ended up meeting a group of our fellow hostelers, who invited us out with them to the bars. With them, we went to a different bar down the street, where it was starting to fill up a bit. Soon into our first drinks, however, we started dropping like flies. First Jan made a run for it, cutting our new friend off in the middle of telling a story, running for the door. He joked, “Wow, is my story really that boring that she had to run away?” (It kind of was, but Rachel and I didn’t have the heart to say so, or to mention Jan's likely stomach issues, so we just laughed it off).  I was up next for the upset, and ran to the bar bathroom, unsure whether I would make it back to the hostel in time. Emerging a while later, Rachel was finally the last in line to get struck, and took off at a run to the hostel. I followed, running through the cobblestone street in my heels, cursing whoever sent us to the Thai restaurant in the first place. Good thing we had a good sense of humor about it and laughed hysterically at our own misery.

The next morning we woke up feeling refreshed, cleaned out, and still laughing that our first night in the big party destination was spent in the bathroom. We headed out bright and early (ish) to Dona Ana beach, where we laid out for hours in the hot sun. For lunch, we got Lagos' famous Chicken Piri Piri take out, which is a chicken cooked barbecue style with a special sauce.  We ate up on the terrace of our hostel, which soon became one of our favorite Lagos hangouts.  A few other hostel patrons were congregated for lunch, so we joined them and ended up spending the afternoon in the sun talking and making new friends.  This hostel experience was better than anything I could have hoped for.  Lacking the crazy party vibe of the other appropriately titled Lagos hostel, The Rising Cock, our small hostel had a laid back, chill outside with a bottle of wine feel.  Our new friends told us that they were planning on a large pot luck barbecue for dinner, so we headed out to buy a few supplies.  We hit up a big grocery store for wine, cheese, bread, and veggies to roast, but were unable to find the shish kabobs that one of our neighbors raved about.  Running around the city, we asked everyone we could for the grocery store with the shish kabobs.  I'm sure if the people of Lagos didn’t already think Americans were crazy, they did now.  Finally, after an hour of running around searching, we found the kabobs and headed back to the hostel to dig in.

One thing I quickly realized was that Lagos was a special place. People from all walks of life find themselves coming to Lagos, and in a lot of cases, staying. Most of the bartenders and waiters are from the English-speaking world, travelers that found themselves in Lagos never wanting to leave. In this small party town, everyone seems to know each other, and everyone is down for a good time. Your bartender from earlier in the night will show up at your next destination after their shift had ended, ready to have some fun. You see your waiter from breakfast, who may or may not remember you, drinking at the bars. The people making your drinks are most likely more drunk than you are, offering up free random shots of their own drunken creation. And the next morning, everyone from tourist to worker to local sleeps it off on the beach. I can easily see why people never want to leave.

For dinner, about 15 Canadians, Aussies, Brits and Americans camped out on the rooftop terrace barbecuing, swapping travel stories and tips, and eating.  Most everyone had completed rather extensive travel, and I felt inspired to add many more destinations to my to do list.  Jan, Rachel and I became quick friends with Farrell, a Canadian who had spent 5 years living and studying in Australia.  She soon had us convinced that we need to all move to Australia.  Just think about the opportunities to travel in Southeast Asia!  We all hung out in the hostel until around midnight, when we headed out to the bars.  Things really hadn’t picked up yet in town, and we wandered to a few places before finding the crowds back at Inside Out, one of the three bars open until 4 am. We met up with four guys from our hostel – two Canadians, a Welshman, and an Aussie – who had all met while travelling Europe and decided to keep travelling together for the time being. We closed the bar that night at 4 before turning in for the night.

Tired from the night before, we slept in Saturday morning and pulled ourselves out of bed for an amazing brunch. We returned to Dona Ana beach, where the cloud cover of the day left us shivering and bitter. We once again picked up wine, cheese and bread for the evening, which we ate greedily on the terrace with our friends from the night before. They regaled us with their travel adventures and misadventures, ranging everywhere in the world from Europe to Central America, from the US to Australia. The owner of our hostel, an adorable old Portuguese man, made a large vat of delicious soup for everyone to try in the hostel, which supplemented our snacks to become a proper dinner. After our incredibly cheap, yet delicious, dinner, we headed out yet again to Inside Out with our new friends.

Sunday morning we had another delicious breakfast before heading out in our car (named Juan Carlos) to Cabo Sao Vicente on the west coast.  These cliffs, situated near Sagres, are the southernmost point in Portugal.  The gigantic cliffs drop off from the land straight into the Atlantic, which beats up against them in constant rhythms.  The Iberian peninsula, and Europe, literally just dead end here.  I have been to other cliffs throughout Europe – all containing hordes of tourists and fences prohibiting you from getting anywhere near the edge, but these cliffs are entirely different.  Save for a few daring fisherman and surfers, we had the cliffs to ourselves, free to walk straight up to the edge and look down at the Atlantic beating up against rock.  People used to believe that this very spot was where the world ended and dropped off into nothingness.  Staring into the abyss of open waters, you begin to wonder if maybe they were right.

Of course, it wouldn’t be our trip if we didn’t have any excitement, namely terror, at the cliffs.  We had parked Juan Carlos in the parking lot that just so happened to be situated right on the edge.  Our car was parked dangerously close to the 100 meter drop.  Now, as I said before, Juan Carlos was not used to being an automatic car.  He was a bit temperamental with gears.  You can imagine our terror, therefore, when Rachel put the car in reverse and we started moving forward, bringing us mere feet to the edge.  We all screamed bloody murder as she slammed her foot on the brake, wondering what the hell we were going to do.  I believe someone even yelled out “I’m not ready to die!”  Teetering on the edge, the only choices we could see were put the car in neutral and push, or put it back in reverse and step on it, hoping for the best.  We chose the latter.  Putting the car back in reverse, Rachel timidly released the brake, sending us forward again.  Thankfully, amidst screams of "IT'S IN R!" she pounded her foot on the gas and we rocketed backwards away from danger.  Lesson learned: no parking close to intimidating cliffs.

Back in the safety of the Lagos cove, we met up with our friend Farrell and soaked up our last rays of the trip.  We opted to go for the grotto tour, which turned out to be a tour around the coves in a rickety old motor boat, driven by a guy who could barely speak English, swaying through the waves.  The scenery was absolutely breathtaking, and I managed to snap a few photos before feeling completely and utterly seasick. That night, we kept tradition running by returning to the grocery for our fancy snacks and wine, having a great time laughing with new friends on the terrace. The four of us each bought our own bottle of wine, which we drank straight from the bottle.  Keeping it classy.  We all went out for a late dinner afterwards and for drinks at some of our favorite haunts, savoring our last moments of vacation in Lagos.  Monday seemed to come all too soon, and we were once again driving our almost death machine Juan Carlos back to sunny Sevilla.

My Favorite Week in Sevilla

Feria in Sevilla.  Just the very words bring excitement to my ears.  Feria is a place to see and be seen – an old tradition of women dressing up in trajes de gitana and men in suits and caballero hats.  Little children run through bright crowds in their adorable little outfits, while decorated horses pull carriages through the tent-lined streets.  Everyone who is anyone in Sevilla has access to a caseta - tents ranging in size offering food, drink, music and dancing.  Casetas can be owned by individual families for quite a hefty price tag, or by businesses who sell tickets to their employees.  Feria may be one of the most exclusive, and expensive, holidays in the world.  If you don’t have access to a tent, don’t have the money for a dress, don’t know how to dance sevillanos, and aren’t able to arrive splendidly on horseback, you are fresh out of luck for this holiday.  You’re either a member to the Sevillanos’ club, and members have to pay a steep price for admittance, or you aren’t.

Of course, for those who cannot afford to partake in the real celebration of Feria, people watching in the streets is a free activity open to the public.  You may get some looks for not being dressed appropriately, but go with it.  After all, you are most likely secretly judging others for their outfit choices as well. Traditional trajes come in all shapes, sizes, colors and patterns imaginable.  Looking through the sea of thousands of trajes you are unlikely to look upon two of the same dress, but certainly able to find some you absolutely love, and absolutely hate.  Free admittance is also available in a select number of casetas públicas, or tents open to the public.  Here, you can try the famous rebujitos – a mix of sprite with manzanilla, a sweet white sherry.  Beware of the rebujitos: they go down like water, especially on a hot day in the tent, but act quickly.  You may also hear and watch some great sevillanas – flamenco music and dance style typical to Sevilla.

My Feria festivities began Tuesday, the one day that week that schools were open.  Of course not many students showed up, and classes were being piled together based on grade level.  During recreo, or recess, teachers whipped out delicacies for everyone to try, including rebujitos, cruzcampo, jamón serrano, olives, bread and delicious cheese.  Sevillanos music was playing in the background as teachers paired off, clapping to the flamenco beats, winding their wrists, and dancing with pride.  I had learnt the clumsy steps to the first baile last Feria, but was a bit nervous to try out my skills in a room full of Spaniards.  One teacher quickly pulled me over, however, and we started dancing.  Of course I felt embarrassed, but I soon learned that if I just went with it, accepted that my steps and movements would be off, and had fun with it, I would feel a lot better. I even heard a few ole’s after we finished dancing.

After school on Tuesday I ran home to quickly throw on my flamenco traje and head to my first lunch at Feria.  Of course, throwing on a traje is no easy feat.  First, it is incredibly tight and hard to pull on.  Second, there are numerous compliments that have to sit just right for you to look the part.  The flower and comb had to be attached securely to my head, and the matching earrings, shawl and necklace were added on top.  Soon, Rachel and I were ready to meet up with Antonia, who was taking us into her caseta for lunch.  We had a fun time meeting her friends, listening to some great music, sampling numerous tapas, and of course drinking a never ending supply of rebujitos.

After lunch, I met up with Julia and Janet, who were both experiencing Feria for the first time.  We headed to a public tent and did what one does best at Feria – drink, listen, and observe.  For one of the only times in Spain, I truly felt like a local in my traditional dress.  Too bad they could tell right away the second I opened my mouth that I was indeed an extranjera.  Although I only got to wear the dress the one day, and only experienced a brief amount of Feria due to travels, seeing what I could reminded me all over again why I fell in love with Sevilla over two years ago.

How to Navigate the DIA on Calle Venecia: An insider’s guide to the not-so-super market

DIA on Calle Venecia has 3 magnificent aisles of goods for purchase.  Walk straight past the produce as you enter: you have no idea where it came from or how long it has been sitting on the shelf.  Next, you stumble upon the shrine to olive oil.  Olive oil in all different shapes, sizes, textures, and labels… and yet they are all somehow the same.  Finally, aisle one concludes with an ode to pasta.  Penne or angel hair is the only difficult choice you have to make when debating your pasta future.  If you want wheat pasta, find the nearest airport out of Sevilla.  

The second aisle opens on the beverage selections, and only the beverage selections.  Coca cola, water, fanta, and endless boxes of cheap Don Simon wine await you here.  This brings us to aisle three: the final aisle.  Here rests frozen boxes of pizza with jamón, frozen veggies, queso fresco and yogurt.  If you expect to open your strawberry yogurt and find a pink substance, think again.  DIA’s latest cost-cutting measures include cutting the food dye.  I hope you like white strawberry!  Skip most refrigerated items, specifically including the premade tortilla Española.  Unless of course you want your entire kitchen to fill with the delicious smell of ASS.

Finally, just to the left of the one cash register, where a surly employee is waiting to grimace at you, you have the meat counter and cleaning supplies.  A classic combination.  Macarena, the friendly meat counter worker, wears no gloves, and slaps the meat on the counter with such a force that I’m surprised it doesn’t get bruised.  Despite all of this, I go back week after week, like the fool that I am.  Maybe it’s the convenience of knowing that Macarena already has my weekly chicken order memorized.  Or it could just be that the food is dirt cheap.  As it should be.

Semana Santa at Maria Zambrano

Nazarenos in the parade

Today, in a celebration of Semana Santa, many of the kids in my school dressed up for a traditional parade through the school and the surrounding neighborhood. Walking into school, I saw teachers dressed up in black dresses, little girls in black lace and rosary beads, looking like grieving widows, and little boys in suits. The activities commenced at 9:15, as drums and music could be heard outside through the open windows.  At this point the kids were goners – standing up on their chairs to look at the musicians outside. The band then entered the school and marched through the hallways playing traditional Semana Santa music. The kids and I all ran to the door to have a look. I at least had an excuse to look – it was my first time ever seeing this happen!

Little weeping widows

procession

kids watching the parade

little ones holding the insense

 

After the band made their way towards the hallways, the classes were excused one by one to walk to the patio and sit, waiting for the procession. The first kids out were wearing the traditional Nazareno outfits. To sum up these outfits, they look just like the KKK. It has taken a lot this year to see these outfits everywhere and not get a sense of fear upon looking at them. Most Spaniards I talk to have no idea why these outfits would have such a bad connotation in America. The teacher sitting next to me, however, leaned over and said “this must remind you of the Ku Klux!” I was shocked that somebody had actually heard of this! So I responded yes, it is extremely weird and slightly frightening watching a procession of four year olds marching with crosses and white hoods. Next in line came the little girls dressed in black dresses, lace veils, rosaries, heels, red flowers and lipstick. They looked like miniature 60 year old women, and were of course adorable. Next, the sixth graders held tiny versions of the floats used during Semana Santa. In the real parades, 40 or 50 men stand underneath these enormous floats, carrying life size effigies to Mary or Jesus and about 100 burning candles. These versions were carried on small tables, and featured small figurines of the holy family.

waving to the audience

little women

guiding the parade

For many of the kids and teachers this parade was just business as usual. They had seen the pasos so many times that it no longer was exciting. Kids saw it as a great way to get out of class for an hour and talk to their friends. I, being the American, was snapping away photos on my cellphone and cursing myself for not bringing my camera. Looking around, my excitement was only matched by my little Chinese friend Hitao, who also had never seen the likes of a Semana Santa parade in school before. His look of excitement and awe mingled with a “what the hell is going on” look matched mine perfectly and made me laugh, knowing that at least one person shared my sentiments.

holding the torches

angry?

After this adorable parade, I went back to my next class, the fifth grade, where I was giving a presentation about American Easter. I talked about the Easter bunny, painting eggs, and showed some hilarious photos of me and Mark as kids dressed in our Easter best. The kids thought that the photos were hilarious, asked numerous questions about Mark, and could not believe that I used to be blond. The biggest deal for them, however, was that we didn’t celebrate Semana Santa, or holy week! One boy even asked “y donde está Jesús?!” (where is Jesus?). Instead of explaining about America's politically correctness and freedom of religion, I simply replied that for many people in America, Easter is not a religious holiday, but a day to get candy. This clearly went over their heads and they scoffed, pronoucing “que raro. Que raro seño!”

decorations in the school hallway