CADIZ

I did something I've never done before (which is happening a lot lately)...I wrote down blurbs of what happened on my trip to Andalucia (the southern Arab-influenced province in Spain) entre el 20 y 23 de marzo in my journal, so that I'd remember them for this blog. That tells you how dead-set I am on describing it just how it was...I won't exaggerate (too much), and I'll try to get the feelings and sensations that went through me just right, as chronicled in my journal.

It began rather reluctantly at 12:30am on Friday. I love San Sebastian. I love it. The people, the luxury, the life...and I've become unnaturally attached to it. So leaving for the opposite side of the country didn't really appeal to me. Especially on a Thursday night. I missed salsa and the usual Erasmus festivities. You don't understand (you might)...I live for San Seb Thursday nights, the dance, the conversation, the craziness. This time I was especially looking forward to dancing/talking to a couple people...but I digress! So I missed this night in order to sit on a bus for 6 hours (cheapest way to Madrid...I can take it). And then sit on a plane for two more. And then sit on a train for two more. If you've never spent a long time traveling, it gets tiring FAST, lemme tell you. I'd get bored on long trips even if Rafael Nadal came along to strip for me. Wow, another digression.

But my fickle kiddy mind quickly turned this reluctance into the excitement. I grew up this weekend, if only a little. My bus dropped me off at the wrong stop in Madrid, meaning I had to navigate the Madrid metro system in order to get from Avenida de America to Barajas Airport...within an hour. I'm still a sissy when it comes to public transportation (and to international travel...though that's changing quickly), so this freaked me out. I started by staring at the turnstiles for a few minutes, marveling at how absolutely everyone but me seemed to know exactly what they were doing. So I meandered on over to "informacion," where you would think the attendant would be pleasant to people who need informacion. Not so. This greasy-haired dyed-blonde with a smoky face and skull eyes snapped at me through the glass, "Tomas el 4, y despues el 8," telling me which metros to take as if I should have known it all along. Then she threw a map of me. All the lines scared me, as did the tiny ticket she gave me, but WOW, good metro systems are easy to figure out, aren't they? Because within ten minutes (after getting on metro 4 going the wrong direction) I was on my way to Barajas no sweat. Hey mom, didja hear that? Heather learned how to read a metro map and get around Madrid on her own...big girl now! (but not really)

On the plane I read El Pais, one of the major Spanish newspapers...the words swallowed me. Yes, my Spanish has improved, but I laugh at how unfluent I am sometimes, like when reading newspapers, or hearing conversations between jovenes. All I can say is thank God for airplanes; the trip to Sevilla from Madrid was a breeze, and before I knew it I was emerging into the warmish southern Spanish air looking for Mikayla...who missed the bus to the airport on accident, so I also learned how to navigate the Sevilla EA bus system! Not so bad!

Andalucia: First impressions
Older and poorer. This was my vibe as I began to trudge around Sevilla, with Mikayla (SO HAPPY TO SEE HER) as my guide. That is, older buildings and a poorer appearance. My feet were not moving; I wanted nothing more than to sink into a down comforter. But that too changed quickly. The Basques were in PV waaay before the Moors, Romans, and Christians fought over Sevilla, so its difficult to compare the age of the two cities. And I'm sure Sevilla has its rich people. But in the "heart of the Spanish south," which some call the heart of Spain itself, cracks covered the adobe walls, and I saw litter, dirt, and horse poop...things which San Sebastian has, but they are certainly better hidden here, in the wealthiest autonomia of spain.
On the other hand, I also saw the patterns and colors of the Moors in Spain (Muslims), whose influence in everywhere in Sevilla. Gold domes, puzzle-piece archways, Morrocans and Arabic: I saw and heard the magic of the Arab world from centuries past in Sevilla. I was especially excited to hear four distinct African languages, spoken by tourists and street vendors who were probably taking a day trip from the north of the continent, only a two-hour plane ride away. Even Mikayla and Jordan, who, owing to their Spanish culture classes, are full of ridiculous architectural trivia, praised Sevilla for "la mezcla de cultura"...the obvious mix of culture that contributes to the confusion and beauty of the city. I almost got tired of looking up and seeing steeples, domes, mosaics...beauty is exhausting, you know? Like watching too much Rafael Nadal tennis...oops, there's that darn digression again.


CADIZ
With Jordan (so good to see this madrileno estadounidense otra vez!) and Perry, his roommate for next year, we took a crowded train to Cadiz, the southernmost tip of Spain. Mikayla and I shared a bench and a chocolate bar (thank you). We got off the station at the last stop as the sun was going down and asked around for directions to Barcelo Cadiz, our hotel for the next three nights. Thanks to Jordan, who suggested we sneak him and Perry into our hotel room so that we'd all pay half-price, I spent three nights at one of the best hotels ever. I got the down comforter I had been wanting...plus pristine bathroom, cable TV, velvet carpet, and we were a hop away from the beach. The beach at Cadiz is famous. The white sand never ended and I couldn't see anything but blue on the horizon...very different from Donostia, where the bay is enclosed and there are mountains in the distance. I was enchanted. I was also closer to Africa than I'd ever been, and I felt it pulsing in me...I will end up on that continent sometime soon, you wait and see.
The best part was not the beach, though (for a California girl, Redondo...Cadiz...not much difference, haha!). It was what you saw when you turned your back to the ocean. The skyline of Moorish architecture: the gold-domed mosque, a whitewashed Cathedral, a lighthouse singing my name (we did go visit, the wind was intense, but worth the trip). It takes your breath away.
The people also made it worth it. Not the Cadiz people...though they seemed nice as well. I had a phenomenal time with Jordan and Mikayla and Perry. They are adventurous and open and I wouldn't mind going elsewhere with the three of them!

Memorable moments

• Talking to Mikayla as the sun set on the last night...she radiates subtle wisdom and peace (and silliness) and I love being around her. I learned a lot from her and hope to continue our friendship.
• White sand rippling as the wind blew it...it made me think of desert dunes, and I wanted so bad at that moment to up and move to Egypt or something.
• Eating tentacles. Stomach churns just thinking about it. It looked good at the table to our right. I'm glad I opened my mind, but never again.
  
• The wind on the long walk out to the lighthouse castle...the sand hit Mikayla and I like needles. I was Indiana Jones.
• Discovering a new culinary favorite, thanks to Jordan: patatas bravas. Literal translation: brave potatoes!! But don't call them that.
• The AMAZING typo on a Spanish menu translated into English: "Hoe Made Food."

How it all felt
Magical. Unreal. A little sad, leaving it...magic never lasts long. Also, free. There were moments and hours throughout the weekend where I realized I wasn't preoccupied with anything, neither homework nor men nor my future nor God. There was only me and the moment. Being alone, when done right, is such liberty.
Then again, as I pulled into San Sebastian bus station after going "home" all day Monday, I realized how happy I was to be back to "my city"...the people, the nights, and the two months that I have left.

I am thinking of you. Peace be with you.

Loving (and Leaving) Limbo

Inertia. For those who forget high school physics, objects in motion tend to stay in motion. So imagine a California car (named Heather...I'm just going to make this metaphor very clear) driving down a normal California road. The scenery is fantastic, almost perfect, but this car has been on this road for quite a while. Then you put the car on Spain Highway. There's so much to see and do that fills the car with goosebumps and utter excitement and fear...and you expect the car to take a pit stop and describe everything to you in blog form? Shame on you! (Let's not forget, Heather, that you created the blog in the first place, so you're the one who said you'd update this blog...Yes, you're right, my creepy third person personality) Anyway, there's my rationale for not updating my blog in a while.
Another feature of the car metaphor is that you're never stopped. Being the sola driver on her way up Monte Urgull or into a smoke-filled and male-packed nightclub or tapas bar is never comfortable...it may take my breath away, but I suffer the consequences. Sometimes I cannot breathe. This metaphorical car is always in motion, always thrown off balance, and so always a little uncomfortable. Sometimes a lot uncomfortable.
Spain is my limbo. All the Catholicism that has begun to take a stronger presence since Lent began in this 99% Catholic country (though very few people show it) makes this comparison even more accurate. I feel removed from the world, but not quite delivered to Paradise, like I'm supposed to figure things out and fix things up here before I really get thrown in headfirst. Because when I get back, I'll be on senior highway, headed for adult-dom. Oh, #$%@.
That isn't to say I don't go bed relaxed and ready for the next one, smiling all the way. Here's what's been happening (though, I remind you, things change quickly in limbo). Monday through Friday 10am through 3pm I usually spend in class or at Deusto working on group projects (I have one in EVERY class. EVERY class. not good for self-coined "free spirits"), sitting with extranjeros in the cafeteria, or wasting time on facebook (this has lessened of late, thankfully). Then I take some sort of trip...to sit on La Zurriola and think, to a French boutique with the word "rebajas" posted invitingly on the front glass, or, as Miriam/Ted/Mandy and I did last week, to one of the hidden and beautiful corners of San Sebastian. Tatyana from Belaruse told us about Palacio de Aiete, a quaint, green park only a 10-minute bus ride from our barrio, Parte Vieja. There was a waterfall that the rain accented beautifully...and the whole park fell together in moss, swans, flowers, silly red cottages...it was a little too much, at moments, especially since I was with the happy couple Ted and Miriam, who were as giddy as the swans were (if either of you are reading this, which I doubt, know that I am exaggerating for the sake of divirtiendome). On the downside, we were soaked, and I'll have to return for a pensive walk when verano (summer) starts for sure.
So that's an example of a "local trip." Some other ideas I have are climbing the non-Jesus mountain on the opposite side of Bahia de la Concha, walking every single passageway on Monte Urgull, and, as soon as classes start, SURFING. Karl, Corinna and I have mapped out times to take classes. Now we're waiting on an email from our instructor. Oh please, please, please let him be a well-formed young Spaniard.
Next, I try half-heartedly to do homework. The problem is (that I am lazy) that I'm only taking four very low-workload classes, and I know my grades don't transfer to my LMU GPA. So as much as the IDEAL would be to return to the US fluent in Spanish, I very, very much doubt that it will be the case. Especially with the amount of time I'm spending on facebook, writing ENGLISH blogposts, and chatting with Europeans who lack as much Spanish as I do.
Finally, I go out. This could entail a jazz club for flamenco guitar, Zibbibo (the bar literally underneath our flat), or, my personal favorite, DANCING. My favorite night of the week is hereby Thursday night, where the Erasmus gang goes to salsa dance at Bataplan (if you don't know this word by now, get updated on my blog, please!). I get reasonably dressed up, and I found out recently I've got good hips for salsa and merengue (Maria Frye, when I get back, you're on). We all end up getting free drinks afterwards at Molly Malone's, then the girls go home for primping while the guys...I don't know...drink...and we all end up returning to Bataplan until sunrise. It's pure fun, safe, magical...and the dancing just invigorates me. I don't know why I quit dance as a silly 4-year-old for soccer. Anyway, I'm glad to be somewhere where I'm old enough and accepted enough to dance freely and ridiculously, and even well...in LA I'd have to find a new group of friends and get a fake ID and a lot of spare time to make that happen.
So there's what limbo entails. NOT SO BAD. Like I said, forever, as time blows my bangs into my eyes, I remember this is going to end. Soon. And I wonder what I will learn from it, and how I will cope with leaving it for either heaven or...elsewhere.

Never doubt you cross my mind, and you are loved.

Favorite carnaval pics

When these girls shook their hips all the straws attached to their ridiculous costumes shimmied in every direction. It was kind of mesmerizing, but also hilarious.
















This is Jesus (who gets cable...he's equipped with a radio tower), who peacefully watches and protects the partying city from the top of Monte Urgull. I visit him on Sundays.
















These fellas reminded me of the first naked bike rider I ever saw (earlier in the month...see previous blogs), except they were enunciating their nakedness. I got my camera out too late, but their fronts sported fake black hair and...parts...everywhere you would expect.
This is me eating chocolate con churros. Quite obviously I was in heaven. I DID have a special occasion to eat them--Hannah in Spain--but won't require one in the future.


Lastly, the man below wins the prize for best carnaval costume (and highest self-esteem) overall...the snow queen from Narnia. He was having a great time.