These first days have been tumultuous. I was sipping cool wine in a dark corner of Rome, and then suddenly sitting with my family at the dinner table in Minnesota. The 24 solid hours of travelling, while definitely long enough, was not adequate transition. Even the preceding ten days, spent glorious trekking across Italy, was not enough. It really was a flawed idea from the start: Like 10 days gallivanting around Italy would make it easier to return? Yeah right.
Regardless, I’m sitting here in the air conditioning (what is that?) of a national chain coffee shop, feeling a little displaced. Suddenly, I am back to my American life. I have my cell phone and the ability to call anyone at anytime. I have wireless Internet access always at my finger tips. I shop in grocery stores where the chicken comes in nice cut and cleaned packages. Cars zip around the city and the only pedestrians are people out to get exercise.
I asked a friend to walk with me to Barnes and Noble last week. She looked at my request sideways, but being the great friend she is, happily agreed. Half way through our walk I realized that this wasn’t going to work. America is not Europe, and walking as a means of transportation is not a reality. The only route to the Barnes and Noble, located smack dab in the center of busy suburbia, is not pedestrian friendly. After almost losing our lives to an Escalade (a grossly extravagant and unnecessary vehicle in my opinion), struggling against the noise and wind of an overpass, and walking through a McDonald’s parking lot littered with trash, we arrived. The quiet of a Barnes and Noble has never tasted so sweet. I wasn’t going to give up easily, so I switched from walking to biking. I almost felt like I was in Spain when I rode my bike to the grocery store to pick up some vegetables and then rode to the bread shop for a loaf of bread, despite the odd looks I received from the other customers, wondering what sad state I had been reduced to that I had to BIKE to get my groceries. Needless to say, life is still full of adventures, just a different kind of adventure- adventures in adjustment.
Not wishing to exude the “I’m back from Europe, and it is so much better than America” attitude, there is beauty in the return to home. And this country is home. America may not have everything figured out, but the I have such a beautiful appreciation for my community and the people I love. I love sitting down with my family for dinner at night or meeting a friend who has known me since I was 10 for a cup of tea. Community is a place of comfortable companionship. It is in interaction and conversation with these people that serves as a mirror, a reflection back to us of who we were and who we are. With a community with which we have history, we are able to perceive better the change that time slowly, but assuredly works in our lives. It is one of the greatest gifts of community- an opportunity to better engage our heads and our hearts in this life.
So as my head and my heart engage in this transition of life, I am looking at old things in new ways. In articulating my experiences to others, I am having to internalize just what the past six months of my life represent. This is a bittersweet process. A dear friend asked me a great question yesterday. “When you landed on American soil, Sarah, was it a relief or a burden?” he asked. I stopped for a moment before answering, “Both.” The dream had to end and I knew its end was coming, but there was this deep part in me that secretly hoped it wouldn’t have to be that way. I guess it is the true definition of bittersweet. I’ve never been on such an emotionally difficult flight. Those extremely awkward 10 plus hours were startling.
But I accept that bittersweet. Each day is proving to be a new adventure in seeing how my new basket of experiences, thoughts, and ideas find their own room in this life.
That is why we need to travel. If we don't offer ourselves to the unknown our senses dull. Our world becomes small and we lose our sense of wonder. Our eyes don't lift to the horizon; our ears don't hear the sounds around us. The edge is off our experience, and we pass our days in a routine that is both comfortable and limiting. We wake up one day and find that we have lost our dreams in order to protect our days.
From Letters to My Son by Kent Nerburn
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Viva Italia
I headed to Italy for ten days between saying goodbye to Sevilla and my return to the US. It was a stellar vacation. Travelling alone can be very exciting; one is not strapped by an itinerary and you meet the most intriguing people. I began in Pisa, headed to Florence, moved on to Cinque Terra, biked through Tuscany with some friends from Texas, visited Venice, travelled to Assisi (as in St. Francis of), and took in Rome. The food was delightful, the sights were impressive, and the countryside was breathtaking. Check out the pictures!
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia1
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia2
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia1
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia2
Thursday, May 10, 2007
If we don´t talk about it...
My roommate here in Spain and I are fairly close. This is to be expected after sharing the adventure of the abroad experience together. One of my favorite things about her is her story-telling ability. She always has a great story to share. This one came up in our conversation this week about preparing to leave Sevilla:
Katie was 10 and her younger cousin was 5. They had just come back from errand running where Katie’s mom had bought the young cousin a small helicopter toy to play with. As the younger cousin was flying his little helicopter through the sky, he suddenly grabbed one of the blades and purposefully broke it off. Katie had been sitting with him, seeing all of this unfold. Dumbfounded and annoyed, she asked, “Why did you just break the gift my mom just gave you?” The five-year-old, in complete seriousness, looked at her, replying, “If we don’t talk about it, it will be OK.”
That story makes me laugh. Can you imagine a five-year-old turning to you and saying that? While he is quite precocious, I’m wondering if WHY that story strikes me as funny is because that is the mode out of which we’re tempted to operate: If I ignore it, it’ll go away. If we don’t confront that issue, we’ll be fine. If I pretend that everything is OK, the hard stuff will disappear. In a desperate attempt to keep it together, we gloss and glaze over the life of our hearts. I’ve learned that can be a very dangerous thing.
But it is so easy to do. As I sit just a mere two days from leaving this place, I wish I could fool myself with that line, that if I don’t talk about it, it will, indeed be OK. I wish I didn’t have to face a series of difficult goodbyes, the packing of the suitcase, the last walk through the park, the last glass of Sangria on a sidewalk café as the sun sets, the last trip to buy the daily bread with Victoria. I don’t want to face these things because they mean I must confront that my Sevilla time has ended, that I must wake up from this dream of a reality and return to a land that is so very different, that I must move on to what is next in this great journey. It means acknowledging that this place has entered my core, becoming apart of the fabric of my life.
While Katie and I joke about not talking about it, we have talked quite a bit about what it means to have spent this time here, the joys in returning home, the challenges in returning home, what we hope to take with us, the goals we have because of our time here. In that talking (and as verbal processors!), we have gained some valuable insight as we voiced things aloud, and we have found a safe place to consider and ponder exactly why leaving is difficult. Regardless of whether we talk about it or not, this transition is difficult. But we forge ahead as it is all apart of this crazy and full journey of life, knowing that the beauty only increases.
But really, let’s not talk about it.
Katie was 10 and her younger cousin was 5. They had just come back from errand running where Katie’s mom had bought the young cousin a small helicopter toy to play with. As the younger cousin was flying his little helicopter through the sky, he suddenly grabbed one of the blades and purposefully broke it off. Katie had been sitting with him, seeing all of this unfold. Dumbfounded and annoyed, she asked, “Why did you just break the gift my mom just gave you?” The five-year-old, in complete seriousness, looked at her, replying, “If we don’t talk about it, it will be OK.”
That story makes me laugh. Can you imagine a five-year-old turning to you and saying that? While he is quite precocious, I’m wondering if WHY that story strikes me as funny is because that is the mode out of which we’re tempted to operate: If I ignore it, it’ll go away. If we don’t confront that issue, we’ll be fine. If I pretend that everything is OK, the hard stuff will disappear. In a desperate attempt to keep it together, we gloss and glaze over the life of our hearts. I’ve learned that can be a very dangerous thing.
But it is so easy to do. As I sit just a mere two days from leaving this place, I wish I could fool myself with that line, that if I don’t talk about it, it will, indeed be OK. I wish I didn’t have to face a series of difficult goodbyes, the packing of the suitcase, the last walk through the park, the last glass of Sangria on a sidewalk café as the sun sets, the last trip to buy the daily bread with Victoria. I don’t want to face these things because they mean I must confront that my Sevilla time has ended, that I must wake up from this dream of a reality and return to a land that is so very different, that I must move on to what is next in this great journey. It means acknowledging that this place has entered my core, becoming apart of the fabric of my life.
While Katie and I joke about not talking about it, we have talked quite a bit about what it means to have spent this time here, the joys in returning home, the challenges in returning home, what we hope to take with us, the goals we have because of our time here. In that talking (and as verbal processors!), we have gained some valuable insight as we voiced things aloud, and we have found a safe place to consider and ponder exactly why leaving is difficult. Regardless of whether we talk about it or not, this transition is difficult. But we forge ahead as it is all apart of this crazy and full journey of life, knowing that the beauty only increases.
But really, let’s not talk about it.
Feria
April is an odd month here in Sevilla: Half the month is spent working and half the month is spent vacationing. There are two full weeks of vacation; the first week off is Semana Santa, and then, at the month, stores and businesses close once again for Feria. Feria is a huge, ten-day fair celebrating food, drink, and dancing- very common themes in the Andalusian culture.
Feria is a highly anticipated event. People prepare and plan months in advance. It is an around the clock party. Women with perfectly done hair, impeccable makeup, and beautiful Flamenco dresses are seen throughout the city. They are waiting at the bus stop, walking in the street, dancing at Feria. Men are all in jackets. Children are dressed up as miniature versions of their parents. Horse drawn carriages take over the streets. The casetas, or small tent houses at Feria, are the epicenters of the parties. Free food and drink, along with great music are available in the casestas, but you have to be invited to enter or find someone who is invited to bring you in along with them. The tradition of Feria as an agricultural fair has long faded. Dressing up is now just for fun. . Feria is about friends and family. It is ten days dedicated to being together. Nowhere is Spain’s beautiful culture more clearly demonstrated than during Feria.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart14
Feria is a highly anticipated event. People prepare and plan months in advance. It is an around the clock party. Women with perfectly done hair, impeccable makeup, and beautiful Flamenco dresses are seen throughout the city. They are waiting at the bus stop, walking in the street, dancing at Feria. Men are all in jackets. Children are dressed up as miniature versions of their parents. Horse drawn carriages take over the streets. The casetas, or small tent houses at Feria, are the epicenters of the parties. Free food and drink, along with great music are available in the casestas, but you have to be invited to enter or find someone who is invited to bring you in along with them. The tradition of Feria as an agricultural fair has long faded. Dressing up is now just for fun. . Feria is about friends and family. It is ten days dedicated to being together. Nowhere is Spain’s beautiful culture more clearly demonstrated than during Feria.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart14
Five Sevilla Smelss
The nauseatingly sweet smell of the Cruzcampo beer factory down the street
Spanish sewage- gross.
The blossoms of the orange trees
Bodies hot and sweaty from the sun
Freshly baked bread
Spanish sewage- gross.
The blossoms of the orange trees
Bodies hot and sweaty from the sun
Freshly baked bread
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Writing
What we have lived, we have lived not just for ourselves, but for others as well. We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories, the better we want to live them.
Henri Nouwen
Henri Nouwen
Five random moments I want to remember
One of my professor fits the eccentric bill. Last week, instead of getting up from his seat to write on the chalkboard, he talked animatedly while writing on the desk with his chalk. If was as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, looked up a little flushed, erased with the back of his hand, and then stood up at the board.
Arturo, a Spanish friend, showed me his favorite place on the large, modern bridge. Every time he walks across the bridge, he stops here. A large piece of white metal sweeps up high into the sky. We stood at the base and looked straight up, following to where it ascends, just two meters higher than the Giralda Tower. We standing near the back of the white metal arm on this very busy bridge as the traffic passes all around us, our heads thrown all the way back. The white rushes into the blue of the sky. For a moment, we just stand there, taking in this massive structure in the middle of Sevilla rush hour. And then we’re lowering our heads and moving on.
I went to a meeting at the church I’ve been attending. They are such a fun, loving group. As everyone assembles for the meeting, we greet one another, kissing each other once on each cheek, as is the custom. One must greet everyone in the room, and we spend a good five minutes doing this. No flimsy handshakes or half-hearted hellos. This is up-close and personal.
A bird flew into the laundry room off the kitchen last week. I went to throw away my banana peel after breakfast and found him huddled in the corner with bright eyes. He was trapped and didn’t know how to get out. I sleep with my window flung wide open each night. I really hope I don’t wake up one morning lying next to a bright-eyed bird who found his way into my room by night.
The park down the street has the most wonderful benches. Sometimes, on my way home from class, I’ll stop to sit in the sun and watch the Spaniards of all ages stroll through the quiet refuge. The sun feels good on my face and the moments stretch out.
Arturo, a Spanish friend, showed me his favorite place on the large, modern bridge. Every time he walks across the bridge, he stops here. A large piece of white metal sweeps up high into the sky. We stood at the base and looked straight up, following to where it ascends, just two meters higher than the Giralda Tower. We standing near the back of the white metal arm on this very busy bridge as the traffic passes all around us, our heads thrown all the way back. The white rushes into the blue of the sky. For a moment, we just stand there, taking in this massive structure in the middle of Sevilla rush hour. And then we’re lowering our heads and moving on.
I went to a meeting at the church I’ve been attending. They are such a fun, loving group. As everyone assembles for the meeting, we greet one another, kissing each other once on each cheek, as is the custom. One must greet everyone in the room, and we spend a good five minutes doing this. No flimsy handshakes or half-hearted hellos. This is up-close and personal.
A bird flew into the laundry room off the kitchen last week. I went to throw away my banana peel after breakfast and found him huddled in the corner with bright eyes. He was trapped and didn’t know how to get out. I sleep with my window flung wide open each night. I really hope I don’t wake up one morning lying next to a bright-eyed bird who found his way into my room by night.
The park down the street has the most wonderful benches. Sometimes, on my way home from class, I’ll stop to sit in the sun and watch the Spaniards of all ages stroll through the quiet refuge. The sun feels good on my face and the moments stretch out.
Sevilla Sights
I met a woman last year who studied in Sevilla about thirty years ago. Sevilla still holds a special place in her heart. As soon I shared that I would be studying in Sevilla, she was pulling out her photo album. I knew Sevilla must truly be a wonderful place when the photo album did not have to be dug out of a box from the back of a closet, but sat out, easily accessible. She shared some wonderful stories and pictures me that sunny afternoon, increasing my excitement for the unknown world of Sevilla to come.
Last week, my roommate and I pulled out the street guide and made the trek to her old house here in Sevilla. It was so much fun to discover what I call Sayre’s Sevilla Sights. Just as she had talked about, the restaurant near her house still stood: The waiter was setting up the midday meal. The directions to her house, “Down the street, pass the restaurant on the right, come to the end of the street, last house on the left”, were perfect. I remembered one of the pictures of the house in particular, and when I stood on the corner, looking back at the house, it was the same picture. My roommate and I were like two kids on a treasure hunt; we were full of anticipation and loved discovering 29 Bolivia.
Despite the thirty years that separate our visits, Sayre and I both love Sevilla; it is like a little secret we share. Obviously, Spain has changed much between our stays, but in some ways, the Spain Sayre so loved and continues to love is not much different from the Spain I so love. When I talk about places or the culture, she just gets it. This is a gift- to know you don’t always have to remember this place for yourself. Rather, there are people who know it and love it. Regardless of time, that knowledge and love are something to be shared always.
I hope that my photo album is on an easily accessible shelf in my home one day, that the stories flow easily, and some young student sets out to find my old flat, allowing me once again to remember the love I have for this place.
Last week, my roommate and I pulled out the street guide and made the trek to her old house here in Sevilla. It was so much fun to discover what I call Sayre’s Sevilla Sights. Just as she had talked about, the restaurant near her house still stood: The waiter was setting up the midday meal. The directions to her house, “Down the street, pass the restaurant on the right, come to the end of the street, last house on the left”, were perfect. I remembered one of the pictures of the house in particular, and when I stood on the corner, looking back at the house, it was the same picture. My roommate and I were like two kids on a treasure hunt; we were full of anticipation and loved discovering 29 Bolivia.
Despite the thirty years that separate our visits, Sayre and I both love Sevilla; it is like a little secret we share. Obviously, Spain has changed much between our stays, but in some ways, the Spain Sayre so loved and continues to love is not much different from the Spain I so love. When I talk about places or the culture, she just gets it. This is a gift- to know you don’t always have to remember this place for yourself. Rather, there are people who know it and love it. Regardless of time, that knowledge and love are something to be shared always.
I hope that my photo album is on an easily accessible shelf in my home one day, that the stories flow easily, and some young student sets out to find my old flat, allowing me once again to remember the love I have for this place.
Hopelessly in Love
Ah, yes. Paris in the spring. I do not know of any other place in the world that has higher romantic standards, especially in the month of April. Everything is wildly blooming and the blue of a fresh new sky creates an incredible backdrop for the Eiffel Tower. I spent a week in Paris visiting a dear Smith friend. Smith was our only common ground, and without it, we hadn’t connected for quite some time. Paris was spectacularly beautiful, to be sure, but I didn’t fall in love with any Paris; I fell in love with my dear friend Leena’s Paris.
Leena has been living in Paris for the year, and it was such a gift to see her in her Parisian atmosphere. She met me at the Metro stop near her apartment and we didn’t stop smiling until I left a week later. Her wonderful French family invited me to stay with them in their very classic French apartment. They spoke some English, but better Spanish. With this trilingual crowd, I felt like a slacker in my quasi-bilingual-ness. Leena, her French host father, Francois, and I chatted away in Spanish about his trip thirty years ago to Sevilla and sunny Spain.
Listening to Leena speak in French may be one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve heard. I remember her taking her first French class at the beginning of college. Now, three years later, she speaks beautifully- almost without an accent! On the first day as her dad, Francois, Leena, and I sat in the living room, I was so proud of her that this Parisian journey she had so successfully completed. I think the pride welling up in chest may be a hint of what my parents experienced when they visited me. It is exhilarating to watch those you love dream, fly, and soar.
Enough gushing.
Leena has found many loves of her own in Paris, but the most cherished one may be a direction for her future: food. This soon to be award-winning critic showed me Paris from the culinary point of view. From fine foie gras (do you know what that really is?) to asparagus, Julia Childs, our fellow Smithie, would have been very proud indeed. The beauty of visiting someone in his or her city can only be surpassed by visiting an aspiring food critic in her city of Paris.
I was graciously invited to attend the Leena’s host mother’s birthday party- a chartered and catered boat along the River Seine. It was an absolutely fantastic way to see Paris. Seeing Paris from the river was so fun, but watching the Parisians immensely enjoy the ride and views was even more fun. It was as if we were all seeing the city for the first time as we stood in the sun and watched the entire city pass by. The exclamations and expression revealed the delight of seeing Paris from a fresh view.
I managed, of course, to accomplish much of the tourist sights. I will never forget the moment I glimpsed the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. It is not an especially grand painting and rather small in size. It has never held extreme personal value for me, but seeing it- oh, it took my breath away. What was that emotion welling up inside me? And then I understood…those ifs that became whens have now become reality. These things I’ve looked at, studied, and thought of that were so far off are now here in my present, happening and occurring. I’m seeing things I always dreamed of and experiencing things that always were far off. It is almost more than my heart and head can hold!
Leena and I, after lounging in a quiet park one afternoon, spontaneously dropped in to a Bach concert in Saints Chappell. Decorated in stained glass on all sides, this chapel looks as fragile as lace. As the sun set and the colors of the glass deepened, the full, rich, melancholy sound of Bach on the cello created a magical moment.
During one of my days, I met up with some other friends who were also traveling in France. All five of us piled into a rental car for a trip to Giverny and Normandy. Giverny has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl, falling love with paintings of a Japanese bridge and water lilies. To see Monet’s home and garden- and in full, spectacular bloom! More dreams and far off things becoming reality.
After Giverny, we continued Normandy. Normandy is known to the French as often being overcast; the clouds set the scene for a visit to D-Day’s famous Omaha Beach. There is a beautiful cemetery filled with crosses in perfect rows. I think of the poem my fifth grade teacher had me memorize: “In Flanders Fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row That mark the place, and in the sky the birds still singing fly…” Obviously, I wasn’t in Belgium and the poem refers to another battle, but the purpose of the deaths were the same. I thought much of grandfather who was a Navy pilot in WWII. He was about my age when he went off to fight. The loss of life represented in those crosses is immense. The contrast is the abundance of life represented in the visitors and the families of those who died is glaring. Beyond the American operated cemetery and monument, D-Day’s beach remains fairly untouched. There are bunkers to explore. Charges up the hill to imagine. A cold, cloudy Channel to consider. What beauty we have in freedom.
There is much to fall in love with in this life. These pictures don’t do it all justice, but might they a little reminder of the great beauty of life that I discovered in France.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/springtimeinparis
Leena has been living in Paris for the year, and it was such a gift to see her in her Parisian atmosphere. She met me at the Metro stop near her apartment and we didn’t stop smiling until I left a week later. Her wonderful French family invited me to stay with them in their very classic French apartment. They spoke some English, but better Spanish. With this trilingual crowd, I felt like a slacker in my quasi-bilingual-ness. Leena, her French host father, Francois, and I chatted away in Spanish about his trip thirty years ago to Sevilla and sunny Spain.
Listening to Leena speak in French may be one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve heard. I remember her taking her first French class at the beginning of college. Now, three years later, she speaks beautifully- almost without an accent! On the first day as her dad, Francois, Leena, and I sat in the living room, I was so proud of her that this Parisian journey she had so successfully completed. I think the pride welling up in chest may be a hint of what my parents experienced when they visited me. It is exhilarating to watch those you love dream, fly, and soar.
Enough gushing.
Leena has found many loves of her own in Paris, but the most cherished one may be a direction for her future: food. This soon to be award-winning critic showed me Paris from the culinary point of view. From fine foie gras (do you know what that really is?) to asparagus, Julia Childs, our fellow Smithie, would have been very proud indeed. The beauty of visiting someone in his or her city can only be surpassed by visiting an aspiring food critic in her city of Paris.
I was graciously invited to attend the Leena’s host mother’s birthday party- a chartered and catered boat along the River Seine. It was an absolutely fantastic way to see Paris. Seeing Paris from the river was so fun, but watching the Parisians immensely enjoy the ride and views was even more fun. It was as if we were all seeing the city for the first time as we stood in the sun and watched the entire city pass by. The exclamations and expression revealed the delight of seeing Paris from a fresh view.
I managed, of course, to accomplish much of the tourist sights. I will never forget the moment I glimpsed the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. It is not an especially grand painting and rather small in size. It has never held extreme personal value for me, but seeing it- oh, it took my breath away. What was that emotion welling up inside me? And then I understood…those ifs that became whens have now become reality. These things I’ve looked at, studied, and thought of that were so far off are now here in my present, happening and occurring. I’m seeing things I always dreamed of and experiencing things that always were far off. It is almost more than my heart and head can hold!
Leena and I, after lounging in a quiet park one afternoon, spontaneously dropped in to a Bach concert in Saints Chappell. Decorated in stained glass on all sides, this chapel looks as fragile as lace. As the sun set and the colors of the glass deepened, the full, rich, melancholy sound of Bach on the cello created a magical moment.
During one of my days, I met up with some other friends who were also traveling in France. All five of us piled into a rental car for a trip to Giverny and Normandy. Giverny has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl, falling love with paintings of a Japanese bridge and water lilies. To see Monet’s home and garden- and in full, spectacular bloom! More dreams and far off things becoming reality.
After Giverny, we continued Normandy. Normandy is known to the French as often being overcast; the clouds set the scene for a visit to D-Day’s famous Omaha Beach. There is a beautiful cemetery filled with crosses in perfect rows. I think of the poem my fifth grade teacher had me memorize: “In Flanders Fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row That mark the place, and in the sky the birds still singing fly…” Obviously, I wasn’t in Belgium and the poem refers to another battle, but the purpose of the deaths were the same. I thought much of grandfather who was a Navy pilot in WWII. He was about my age when he went off to fight. The loss of life represented in those crosses is immense. The contrast is the abundance of life represented in the visitors and the families of those who died is glaring. Beyond the American operated cemetery and monument, D-Day’s beach remains fairly untouched. There are bunkers to explore. Charges up the hill to imagine. A cold, cloudy Channel to consider. What beauty we have in freedom.
There is much to fall in love with in this life. These pictures don’t do it all justice, but might they a little reminder of the great beauty of life that I discovered in France.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/springtimeinparis
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Blood and guts all over
I had a barf bag handy and the was familiar with the nearest exist. Sitting on the hard stone bench at the bull ring, I was trying to remind myself of the cultural significance of the event in which I was about to participate, and not think about those six bulls who were probably eating their last supper, having no idea what was about to happen.
April has arrived in Sevilla, and with the orange blossoms of spring, Feria de Abril and the torero season has begun. Each night for the next two week, three toreros will face off against six bulls in front of hundreds of spectators in the hot sun of the late afternoon.
There are three stages of the bullfight, which I quickly realized are to accomplish two objectives: tire the bull out and piss him off royally. (I would be pretty angry too if someone had jabbed a pointed spear into my back and then wanted me to run around a hot ring until I died.) The first round involves a group of men with capes running the bull through a series of exercises, directing him across the ring to the second stage. The second stage consists of two picadors who are mounted on horse with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and armored. The bull runs right into the side of the poor horse as the man jabs the lance into the back of the bull. One wonders what that blindfolded horse thinks when a 450-kilo weight lunges into its side! At this point, the bull is hurt and mad, and the banderillero, who is on foot, enters the ring to pierce the bull with two arm’s length daggers. Blood is gushing down the sides of the bull. Finally, the matador enters the ring. The bull will make a series of passes as the matador whips his cape around. (Did you know that bulls are colorblind? They are not charging the red, but charging the movement!) Next, the matador will take him sword and launch it into the bull, right where the back meets the head (neck of the bull?) It will be less than thirty seconds after the sword enters the bull before this massive animal will fall over, dead, and the audience will stand on its feet, cheering for the matador.
Check out the pictures and video, if your stomach is up for it, at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart13
It was amazing to watch the disposition of the crowd change substantially over the two-hour bullfight. When the first bull charged the horse and was lanced, there was a substantial and collective gasp from the audience as many averted their eyes. But by the third bull, the initial shock had worn off. Now, people were engaged, clapping and shouting as the bull met its fate. It was an interesting process to witness this happening around me and happening to me. I found myself enthralled by the sport of this fight. (It makes me think what I else in life I become desensitized to simply because of more frequent exposure.) Suddenly, I appreciated this sport for what its cultural significance, and almost found it beautiful, in a very primal way.
The best moment was when my favorite matador had put the sword into his second bull. This bull had not really been up for the fight from the beginning: After he was let into the ring, he stopped, looked, and then turned around for the door out. It was as if he was saying, “You know, I’m not really up for this game today. No, thanks.” Actually, he proved to be a very good bull, and he had a good fight. After the sword had entered him, he, once again, headed for the door. The matador walked up to him and sat down next to him, as if to show him how to lie down and die. And the bull followed, laying down and then dying. It was this oddly poignant moment. It conveys that a bullfight is not just a sport or a killing fest, but a cultural tradition deeply rooted in respect. This matador demonstrated deep respect for this animal, and when he had finally died, began applause for the bull. It was a relief to be proved wrong: a bullfight isn’t just blood and guts all over, but a celebration of strength and power.
April has arrived in Sevilla, and with the orange blossoms of spring, Feria de Abril and the torero season has begun. Each night for the next two week, three toreros will face off against six bulls in front of hundreds of spectators in the hot sun of the late afternoon.
There are three stages of the bullfight, which I quickly realized are to accomplish two objectives: tire the bull out and piss him off royally. (I would be pretty angry too if someone had jabbed a pointed spear into my back and then wanted me to run around a hot ring until I died.) The first round involves a group of men with capes running the bull through a series of exercises, directing him across the ring to the second stage. The second stage consists of two picadors who are mounted on horse with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and armored. The bull runs right into the side of the poor horse as the man jabs the lance into the back of the bull. One wonders what that blindfolded horse thinks when a 450-kilo weight lunges into its side! At this point, the bull is hurt and mad, and the banderillero, who is on foot, enters the ring to pierce the bull with two arm’s length daggers. Blood is gushing down the sides of the bull. Finally, the matador enters the ring. The bull will make a series of passes as the matador whips his cape around. (Did you know that bulls are colorblind? They are not charging the red, but charging the movement!) Next, the matador will take him sword and launch it into the bull, right where the back meets the head (neck of the bull?) It will be less than thirty seconds after the sword enters the bull before this massive animal will fall over, dead, and the audience will stand on its feet, cheering for the matador.
Check out the pictures and video, if your stomach is up for it, at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart13
It was amazing to watch the disposition of the crowd change substantially over the two-hour bullfight. When the first bull charged the horse and was lanced, there was a substantial and collective gasp from the audience as many averted their eyes. But by the third bull, the initial shock had worn off. Now, people were engaged, clapping and shouting as the bull met its fate. It was an interesting process to witness this happening around me and happening to me. I found myself enthralled by the sport of this fight. (It makes me think what I else in life I become desensitized to simply because of more frequent exposure.) Suddenly, I appreciated this sport for what its cultural significance, and almost found it beautiful, in a very primal way.
The best moment was when my favorite matador had put the sword into his second bull. This bull had not really been up for the fight from the beginning: After he was let into the ring, he stopped, looked, and then turned around for the door out. It was as if he was saying, “You know, I’m not really up for this game today. No, thanks.” Actually, he proved to be a very good bull, and he had a good fight. After the sword had entered him, he, once again, headed for the door. The matador walked up to him and sat down next to him, as if to show him how to lie down and die. And the bull followed, laying down and then dying. It was this oddly poignant moment. It conveys that a bullfight is not just a sport or a killing fest, but a cultural tradition deeply rooted in respect. This matador demonstrated deep respect for this animal, and when he had finally died, began applause for the bull. It was a relief to be proved wrong: a bullfight isn’t just blood and guts all over, but a celebration of strength and power.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A la carte
I bought a plane ticket on one of Europe’s cheap airlines. Flying exclusively within Europe, these airlines specialize in (semi) efficient and inexpensive travel, offering flights for as low as one cent. Obviously, it is the choice for jetting around Europe. So I went to a book a flight advertised at 29.99 euro. I can do that! As I began to fill out my personal information, I am asked how many bags I’ll be checking: No bags checked is 3 euro, 1 bag checked is 6 euro, two bags is 12 euro, and so one. I have no choice but to check two, so add 12 euro to my bill. Then, I am asked if I want to purchase insurance. Given the track record of this company and there uncanny ability to not offer help if you haven’t purchased their insurance, add 14.50 euro. Next, add in the tax and fees, another 15-euro. Will I be paying by credit card? Well, I’m purchasing this online; how else am I supposed to pay? Add 3-euro processing fee.
Ok, at this point in the process, I’m a little frustrated. The bill is close to 100 euro, which is still very reasonable for a flight to my destination, but why couldn’t you have just told me the final price from the beginning? 100 euro is depressing compared to 29.99 euro. Really, there is no need to break it down so I know that the right back tire is costing me 7.35 euro.
Ladies and Gentlemen: can we say a la carte?
Ok, at this point in the process, I’m a little frustrated. The bill is close to 100 euro, which is still very reasonable for a flight to my destination, but why couldn’t you have just told me the final price from the beginning? 100 euro is depressing compared to 29.99 euro. Really, there is no need to break it down so I know that the right back tire is costing me 7.35 euro.
Ladies and Gentlemen: can we say a la carte?
All in a weekend.
There were some fun times to be had in Sevilla last weekend. I had noticed a small poster outside of the Alfonso XIII hotel in the city center. This may be one of the most prestigious hotels in the city; it used to be a palace and now, as a hotel, is where Spanish “big-whigs” stay. Needless to say, the inside of the hotel is stunning and any event put on by the hotel is well done. The poster advertised an Opera Dinner. Those two sounded like my kind of event. I grabbed a few friends and the three of us headed of to Alfonso XIII for a wonderful night. As a broke college student, I don’t attend many black tie events, but when in Spain…why not. Thus, we officially dubbed the evening “Prom 2007”. The room was beautiful, the singing enchanting, and the food and drink amazing. Between opera songs, great Spanish wine, and a diverse menu, four hours passed without notice. You know you’re at a great event when the waiter opens another bottle of champagne for your table because he notices you have one chocolate bonbon left!
So here is the great menu: (Have I mentioned I love food?)
Cream of avocado
Cured salmon with mango chutney
Cream and mussel soup with parmesan
Scallops stuffed with crab on a bed of saffron rice
Fresh strawberries from Huelva and cream in a caramel tulip cup
Bonbons
(I’m salivating as I type. It was THAT good.)
I traded my high heels from the night before for a pair of hiking boots the next morning. There is nothing better after a long evening of food and drink that a hike through the hills of Spain. Situated between Sevilla and Malaga, Ronda is a beautiful white hill town of Spain. Again, having been a Moorish community, the confluence of the three religions is evident. The Arab baths we toured were still very much in tact. The large gorge that runs through the middle of this city is its main landmark. We hiked all the way down for an impressive view looking up at this quaint town before we dug in and make the steep climb back to the top. The views were stunning, and it was a nice escape from the hustle and bustle of Sevilla.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart12
So here is the great menu: (Have I mentioned I love food?)
Cream of avocado
Cured salmon with mango chutney
Cream and mussel soup with parmesan
Scallops stuffed with crab on a bed of saffron rice
Fresh strawberries from Huelva and cream in a caramel tulip cup
Bonbons
(I’m salivating as I type. It was THAT good.)
I traded my high heels from the night before for a pair of hiking boots the next morning. There is nothing better after a long evening of food and drink that a hike through the hills of Spain. Situated between Sevilla and Malaga, Ronda is a beautiful white hill town of Spain. Again, having been a Moorish community, the confluence of the three religions is evident. The Arab baths we toured were still very much in tact. The large gorge that runs through the middle of this city is its main landmark. We hiked all the way down for an impressive view looking up at this quaint town before we dug in and make the steep climb back to the top. The views were stunning, and it was a nice escape from the hustle and bustle of Sevilla.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart12
Monday, April 16, 2007
Fillers
It is, like, totally, common, like, to be speaking with someone and hear, um, well, lots of different filler words, you know?
Discovering Spanish filler words has been interesting. My favorite filler is hombre, which literally means ‘man’. I was talking with a man in a café one day, and he kept using hombre randomly in his sentences. I’m thinking to myself, “What’s up with this dude? And why does he keep calling me ‘man’?” I wrote it off; the Spanish have done far weirder things. A week or so later, I noticed that my family had begun to use this word in conversation with me, and then um, it all, like, became clear: hombre is one of their filler words.
Discovering Spanish filler words has been interesting. My favorite filler is hombre, which literally means ‘man’. I was talking with a man in a café one day, and he kept using hombre randomly in his sentences. I’m thinking to myself, “What’s up with this dude? And why does he keep calling me ‘man’?” I wrote it off; the Spanish have done far weirder things. A week or so later, I noticed that my family had begun to use this word in conversation with me, and then um, it all, like, became clear: hombre is one of their filler words.
Acquisition
I’m reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated. Part of the book is an interchange of letters between an American and a Ukrainian. This is excerpt from one of Alexander’s letter to Jonathan:
Dear Jonathan,
I hanker for this letter to be good. Like you know, I am not first rate with English. In Russian my ideas are asserted abnormally well, but my second tongue is not so premium. I undertaked to input the things you counseled me to, and I fatigued the thesaurus you presented me, as you counseled me to, when my words appeared too petite, or not befitting. If you are not happy with what I have performed, I command you to return it back to me. I will persevere to toil on it until you are appeased.
(page 23)
Alexander’s letters are quite funny to read as his word choices are unconventional, to say the least.
And so, while I’m laughing out loud at this hilarity, I’m suddenly struck: Is this what I sound like to Spaniards? Are they secretly laughing at my word choices? Are they finding my vocabulary outdated and forced?
My Arabic professor was talking about the difficulty of learning Arabic, noting that it takes about seven months more in an Arabic speaking country to learn the language than it takes a student studying Spanish in Spain. He then proceeded to demonstrate how an Arabic word sounds different depending on the primary language of the speaker- the Arab, the Spaniard, the English, and the French. It is so interesting to see how our language acquisition and ability to produce sounds is effected by what we first learn and know best.
I still wonder, though, how my Spanish sounds to the ears of these people. At dinner one night, my roommate was talking about her class on Don Juan. For the life of her, our family could not understand her when she said, “Don Juan”. They kept looking at her quizzically and suggesting words. Suddenly, after the twelfth time of over-enunciating the words “Don Juan”, they understood her, saying, “Oh, Don Juan.” I was laughing so hard at the entire situation. My ears could hear no difference between Javier saying “Don Juan” and Katie saying “Don Juan”. But, obviously, there was quite a difference to the ears of my Spanish family.
When I am having trouble being understood, I’ve learned to just pick up the rate of my speech, lower my voice some, and gesticulate a bit more aggressively. It is amazing how that can help one be understood. Suddenly, the person I’m talking with is interrupting me, pointing out how great they think my Spanish is. If all things in life were that easy!
Regardless, learning a language is so much more than mere words and conjugations. And the part you learn off the paper and in the street may be the most important. I’ll keep checking my verbs, but my conversations are my best teachers.
Dear Jonathan,
I hanker for this letter to be good. Like you know, I am not first rate with English. In Russian my ideas are asserted abnormally well, but my second tongue is not so premium. I undertaked to input the things you counseled me to, and I fatigued the thesaurus you presented me, as you counseled me to, when my words appeared too petite, or not befitting. If you are not happy with what I have performed, I command you to return it back to me. I will persevere to toil on it until you are appeased.
(page 23)
Alexander’s letters are quite funny to read as his word choices are unconventional, to say the least.
And so, while I’m laughing out loud at this hilarity, I’m suddenly struck: Is this what I sound like to Spaniards? Are they secretly laughing at my word choices? Are they finding my vocabulary outdated and forced?
My Arabic professor was talking about the difficulty of learning Arabic, noting that it takes about seven months more in an Arabic speaking country to learn the language than it takes a student studying Spanish in Spain. He then proceeded to demonstrate how an Arabic word sounds different depending on the primary language of the speaker- the Arab, the Spaniard, the English, and the French. It is so interesting to see how our language acquisition and ability to produce sounds is effected by what we first learn and know best.
I still wonder, though, how my Spanish sounds to the ears of these people. At dinner one night, my roommate was talking about her class on Don Juan. For the life of her, our family could not understand her when she said, “Don Juan”. They kept looking at her quizzically and suggesting words. Suddenly, after the twelfth time of over-enunciating the words “Don Juan”, they understood her, saying, “Oh, Don Juan.” I was laughing so hard at the entire situation. My ears could hear no difference between Javier saying “Don Juan” and Katie saying “Don Juan”. But, obviously, there was quite a difference to the ears of my Spanish family.
When I am having trouble being understood, I’ve learned to just pick up the rate of my speech, lower my voice some, and gesticulate a bit more aggressively. It is amazing how that can help one be understood. Suddenly, the person I’m talking with is interrupting me, pointing out how great they think my Spanish is. If all things in life were that easy!
Regardless, learning a language is so much more than mere words and conjugations. And the part you learn off the paper and in the street may be the most important. I’ll keep checking my verbs, but my conversations are my best teachers.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Afternoon Musings
Oh, how I wish I was writing more! I’ll be walking on the street, sitting in classing, sipping on a coffee and wish desperately that I had a way to capture so many of these priceless moments. I’m trying to sear them into my mind, filing them away to recall some lazy Sunday afternoon a million miles and hours away from this place.
I’m imprinting this sunny Sunday into my mind. There is nothing special about this particular afternoon. In another world far from here, it is the inevitable tax day. My sweet senora and I met in the street this morning. She was returning from buying the daily bread, and I was off for a paseo, a Sunday stroll. I was to meet two friends in the Center. One friend received 1930’s postcards of Sevilla from her father for Christmas, and we spent a few hours locating the sights pictured in the postcards, taking the same picture seventy years later. We ended up speaking with a few characters as well. Old men on park benches and old women in Sunday suits with a lifetime of Sevilla history aided us in our hunt.
It has just been Victoria and I home together this weekend, as my roommate is traveling. I returned home to a kitchen that smelled delicious and to Victoria standing on our terrace, her hair in curlers, hanging up my laundry. I joined her in the half sun of the terrace and we chatted away about the weather, time past, and socialism (a favorite topic) as we hung my clothes on the rack to be dried by the sun. She is always wearing an apron as she bustles around the kitchen and the house. Today, it is the pretty pink apron that my parents brought her, along with some fun kitchen gadgets that she loves to use. Our midday meal was a dish “de mi tierra” as Victoria affectionately calls Extremadura, the region in which she grew up. Bacalao (fish), rice, and potatoes stewed together in a sauce most likely consisting of white wine and olive oil. Victoria loves talking about her recipes; she continually is marking recipes in her cookbooks and laying them on my desk for me to copy. She’ll make a Spanish cook out of me yet!
I’m sitting at her painting table on the terrace now, looking out on the rooftops to the south. Being six floors up enables one to see the world of roofs. The man across the way has his feet up on the table as he reads the newspaper. Many roofs are airing fresh laundry as the sun is bright and warm. A woman and her daughter are folding the fresh pink sheets and hanging up the next load. A man walks on the street with his bag of bread. The playground of the school is quiet, and the blue of the sky gives way to a bank of white clouds in the distance.
And so there is nothing special about this Sunday except that it is. It is pristine and sacred. These are true Spain moments. And in a life far from this moment where the light breeze wafts the smell of my clean laundry and the voices of the street toward me, I will recall this calm of space and life.
For I am still, in one peace.
I’m imprinting this sunny Sunday into my mind. There is nothing special about this particular afternoon. In another world far from here, it is the inevitable tax day. My sweet senora and I met in the street this morning. She was returning from buying the daily bread, and I was off for a paseo, a Sunday stroll. I was to meet two friends in the Center. One friend received 1930’s postcards of Sevilla from her father for Christmas, and we spent a few hours locating the sights pictured in the postcards, taking the same picture seventy years later. We ended up speaking with a few characters as well. Old men on park benches and old women in Sunday suits with a lifetime of Sevilla history aided us in our hunt.
It has just been Victoria and I home together this weekend, as my roommate is traveling. I returned home to a kitchen that smelled delicious and to Victoria standing on our terrace, her hair in curlers, hanging up my laundry. I joined her in the half sun of the terrace and we chatted away about the weather, time past, and socialism (a favorite topic) as we hung my clothes on the rack to be dried by the sun. She is always wearing an apron as she bustles around the kitchen and the house. Today, it is the pretty pink apron that my parents brought her, along with some fun kitchen gadgets that she loves to use. Our midday meal was a dish “de mi tierra” as Victoria affectionately calls Extremadura, the region in which she grew up. Bacalao (fish), rice, and potatoes stewed together in a sauce most likely consisting of white wine and olive oil. Victoria loves talking about her recipes; she continually is marking recipes in her cookbooks and laying them on my desk for me to copy. She’ll make a Spanish cook out of me yet!
I’m sitting at her painting table on the terrace now, looking out on the rooftops to the south. Being six floors up enables one to see the world of roofs. The man across the way has his feet up on the table as he reads the newspaper. Many roofs are airing fresh laundry as the sun is bright and warm. A woman and her daughter are folding the fresh pink sheets and hanging up the next load. A man walks on the street with his bag of bread. The playground of the school is quiet, and the blue of the sky gives way to a bank of white clouds in the distance.
And so there is nothing special about this Sunday except that it is. It is pristine and sacred. These are true Spain moments. And in a life far from this moment where the light breeze wafts the smell of my clean laundry and the voices of the street toward me, I will recall this calm of space and life.
For I am still, in one peace.
More Adventures
I said goodbye to my parents early on a Wednesday morning in Madrid only to say hello to come friends traveling back from France. We had decided to meet up in Madrid for a quick trip to Segovia, northwest of Madrid, before heading back to Sevilla.
We were 20 minutes away from Segovia when it began to snow. It was the Wednesday before Easter and SNOWING. We did our best to see the sights in our spring jackets and under umbrellas. My lips were turning blue in the 32 degree weather and my hands were icicles, but I managed a few pictures.
The castle is the one that Walt Disney modeled his after, and the aqueducts were large and impressive.
Needless to say, it was a fairly quick trip. Back in Madrid, we ran into massive people traffic. Both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are holidays in this country, and EVERYONE was leaving town. There wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Sevilla the entire day. I managed to secure the last bus ticket, and nine hours after leaving Madrid, arrived at 1am to an awake and alive Sevilla.
Semana Santa, Holy Week, is a very special time in this country. If one didn’t know better, one would think it was a week of Klu Klux Klan demonstrations, but the costumes, floats, and processions are actually part of acts of penance. Each church carries large, ornately decorated floats of Jesus carrying the cross and of the Virgin Mary through the streets. Nazarenos (the one who look like KKK members) pay for the opportunity to walk for hours through the streets carrying crosses, candles, and the floats. The processions begin on Palm Sunday and run continuously until Easter Sunday. All hours of the day and night one can find a procession. It took me almost two hours to walk home from the bus station at 1am on Wednesday night due to the streets being packed with people. Families with small children dressed in their best flood the small streets, becoming silent when the pazo passes. Through the dark of night, these processions continue.
This is a cherished time of the Spanish year; my senora watches the processions on direct TV the entire week. Everyone seems to have their favorite pazos, and many are moved to tears when they watch them pass. Spaniards from all parts of the country travel to Sevilla for Semana Santa. Holy Friday is one of three days of the year the bread shops are closed. Mass is full, and families are together. In many ways, it is the Spanish version of the American Christmas: there are special foods, special songs, special outfits especially for the week.
Semana Santa is a unique time; so uniquely Spain in all of its form and function. I didn’t get very good pictures, but there are a few to see. Check them out at: http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 11.
We were 20 minutes away from Segovia when it began to snow. It was the Wednesday before Easter and SNOWING. We did our best to see the sights in our spring jackets and under umbrellas. My lips were turning blue in the 32 degree weather and my hands were icicles, but I managed a few pictures.
The castle is the one that Walt Disney modeled his after, and the aqueducts were large and impressive.
Needless to say, it was a fairly quick trip. Back in Madrid, we ran into massive people traffic. Both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are holidays in this country, and EVERYONE was leaving town. There wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Sevilla the entire day. I managed to secure the last bus ticket, and nine hours after leaving Madrid, arrived at 1am to an awake and alive Sevilla.
Semana Santa, Holy Week, is a very special time in this country. If one didn’t know better, one would think it was a week of Klu Klux Klan demonstrations, but the costumes, floats, and processions are actually part of acts of penance. Each church carries large, ornately decorated floats of Jesus carrying the cross and of the Virgin Mary through the streets. Nazarenos (the one who look like KKK members) pay for the opportunity to walk for hours through the streets carrying crosses, candles, and the floats. The processions begin on Palm Sunday and run continuously until Easter Sunday. All hours of the day and night one can find a procession. It took me almost two hours to walk home from the bus station at 1am on Wednesday night due to the streets being packed with people. Families with small children dressed in their best flood the small streets, becoming silent when the pazo passes. Through the dark of night, these processions continue.
This is a cherished time of the Spanish year; my senora watches the processions on direct TV the entire week. Everyone seems to have their favorite pazos, and many are moved to tears when they watch them pass. Spaniards from all parts of the country travel to Sevilla for Semana Santa. Holy Friday is one of three days of the year the bread shops are closed. Mass is full, and families are together. In many ways, it is the Spanish version of the American Christmas: there are special foods, special songs, special outfits especially for the week.
Semana Santa is a unique time; so uniquely Spain in all of its form and function. I didn’t get very good pictures, but there are a few to see. Check them out at: http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 11.
The Real Deal
As exciting as being in Spain is for me, having my dear family visit was almost too exciting! My parents made the great journey from the Midwest to the land of sangria, flamenco, paella, and old sights, and we spent ten glorious days breathing my Spanish life together.
It was such a rich time; there are barely words to describe it. We drank café con leche, saw the sights, watched flamenco, ate great food, walked the city…my dad even attended my Arabic history class (of which he probably couldn’t understand much)!
We ventured by train to Grenada to see the Alhambra. Staying right inside the Alhambra walls, we were surprised with a great fireworks show, intimate flamenco, and a Palm Sunday choral concert in an old church.
Taking the bus through the Sierra Nevada mountains towards the Mediterranean Sea, we traveled with dark, looming clouds that were magnificent to watch as they rolled through the mountains and out to sea, just as we did. We landed in a small little town right on the Mediterranean, in a quaint hotel with a room that looked out onto the expanse of uninterrupted sea. We had a wonderful meal at a table next to a food magazine editor, explored the tiny town, saw the preparation of Semana Santa pazos or floats, had an impromptu a lunch from the man selling rotisserie chickens, found a Scrabble board to play our favorite game, walked along the beach, and drank deeply of our time together.
One of my favorite times together was our shared meal at Victoria’s. She had the three of us over for lunch, making a meal of mammoth proportions. We had gazpacho, a typical cold Spanish soup followed by fried fish, salad and bread. THEN the main course came of chicken with cabbage that is to die for! She surprised us for dessert with what she knows is my favorite- vino tinto pears. These pears are cooked in red wine and simply irresistible. It was so fun to have my family and my Spanish family together at one table. My parents brought Victoria beautiful gifts, which she simply loved. Leave it to a great cook like my dad to know what another great cook would want; I never would have thought a handheld flat grater would be so rejoiced over as a gift. It was a true gift to share my families with one another.
I don’t know if we could have had more fun together during my parent’s visit. It was all so very, very good. Family: it is the real deal.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, The Rents Come to Visit
It was such a rich time; there are barely words to describe it. We drank café con leche, saw the sights, watched flamenco, ate great food, walked the city…my dad even attended my Arabic history class (of which he probably couldn’t understand much)!
We ventured by train to Grenada to see the Alhambra. Staying right inside the Alhambra walls, we were surprised with a great fireworks show, intimate flamenco, and a Palm Sunday choral concert in an old church.
Taking the bus through the Sierra Nevada mountains towards the Mediterranean Sea, we traveled with dark, looming clouds that were magnificent to watch as they rolled through the mountains and out to sea, just as we did. We landed in a small little town right on the Mediterranean, in a quaint hotel with a room that looked out onto the expanse of uninterrupted sea. We had a wonderful meal at a table next to a food magazine editor, explored the tiny town, saw the preparation of Semana Santa pazos or floats, had an impromptu a lunch from the man selling rotisserie chickens, found a Scrabble board to play our favorite game, walked along the beach, and drank deeply of our time together.
One of my favorite times together was our shared meal at Victoria’s. She had the three of us over for lunch, making a meal of mammoth proportions. We had gazpacho, a typical cold Spanish soup followed by fried fish, salad and bread. THEN the main course came of chicken with cabbage that is to die for! She surprised us for dessert with what she knows is my favorite- vino tinto pears. These pears are cooked in red wine and simply irresistible. It was so fun to have my family and my Spanish family together at one table. My parents brought Victoria beautiful gifts, which she simply loved. Leave it to a great cook like my dad to know what another great cook would want; I never would have thought a handheld flat grater would be so rejoiced over as a gift. It was a true gift to share my families with one another.
I don’t know if we could have had more fun together during my parent’s visit. It was all so very, very good. Family: it is the real deal.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, The Rents Come to Visit
Thursday, April 12, 2007
You´ve got to be kidding me.
Elton John is coming to Sevilla for a concert in Plaza de Espana less than a week after I leave.
Horrible timing.
Horrible timing.
Monday, April 9, 2007
5 More Curious Things
Parking spaces are very limited here. This is one reason that Smart cars that are probably three meters long, are a popular buy. But besides buying smaller cars, the Spanish do not feel constrained by white lines or parking spaces, freely parking on sidewalks. One must be a very alert pedestrian.
Americans always clap along to songs on the down beats, and usually beats 1 and 3 of a song. It is easy to hear, and even easier to follow. But Spain takes clapping to an entirely new level, which is mainly due to flamenco. Flamenco takes its rhythmic cue from the guitar, then the hand clapping and the tapping of the high-heeled shoes. And it is never a straight rhythm. Two people never clap together, but create a percussion that is energetic and unpredictable, making one want to move. Even in church no claps a straight rhythm!
Tanning studios are not as popular here as they are in the United States, thanks to a bit more pigment in most of the country’s skin. But, tanning beds are advertised by signs that say “Rayos UVA”. In America, we come up with nice names like Tropical Island, Summer Breeze, or Sunsational. None of that here: You are paying for UVA rays, people, and UVA rays are what you will get. America loves denial.
When parking in the street, people always turn their side mirrors in. Although, it is not uncommon to see a car without a mirror or two, thanks to the narrow roads.
At the grocery store, the clerk will ask you if you want a bag. “Of course I want a bag to bring my new tube of toothpaste home in”, one might think. Think again because you pay for plastic bags here, which may explain why everyone rolls around what my chic-urban friend likes to call “the urban dweller cart”.
Americans always clap along to songs on the down beats, and usually beats 1 and 3 of a song. It is easy to hear, and even easier to follow. But Spain takes clapping to an entirely new level, which is mainly due to flamenco. Flamenco takes its rhythmic cue from the guitar, then the hand clapping and the tapping of the high-heeled shoes. And it is never a straight rhythm. Two people never clap together, but create a percussion that is energetic and unpredictable, making one want to move. Even in church no claps a straight rhythm!
Tanning studios are not as popular here as they are in the United States, thanks to a bit more pigment in most of the country’s skin. But, tanning beds are advertised by signs that say “Rayos UVA”. In America, we come up with nice names like Tropical Island, Summer Breeze, or Sunsational. None of that here: You are paying for UVA rays, people, and UVA rays are what you will get. America loves denial.
When parking in the street, people always turn their side mirrors in. Although, it is not uncommon to see a car without a mirror or two, thanks to the narrow roads.
At the grocery store, the clerk will ask you if you want a bag. “Of course I want a bag to bring my new tube of toothpaste home in”, one might think. Think again because you pay for plastic bags here, which may explain why everyone rolls around what my chic-urban friend likes to call “the urban dweller cart”.
Time
Time has boggled and baffled me on this great adventure to Spain. As I round the last corner to my time here, I’m taken aback by its power. I will go to school for eight days in the month of April. Is that legal?!? And after that, only exams await me. (Only? Sarah, did you just say only exams?!?) Landing in Madrid alternately feels like just yesterday and a lifetime ago, and I can hardly remember the things I did yesterday. Yes, time has been full.
And then consider this freakish thing: The ferry ride to Morocco is 45 minutes long. Morocco is one hour behind Spain. So, our journey to Morocco took a negative fifteen minutes. While we were in Morocco, Spain switched to daylight savings time, so the return ferry took 2 hours and 45 minutes. Thank-you very much Greenwich.
And then consider this freakish thing: The ferry ride to Morocco is 45 minutes long. Morocco is one hour behind Spain. So, our journey to Morocco took a negative fifteen minutes. While we were in Morocco, Spain switched to daylight savings time, so the return ferry took 2 hours and 45 minutes. Thank-you very much Greenwich.
Africa
Saying I’ve been to Africa after visiting Morocco is like someone saying they have been to North America when the only city they visited was Miami. I am not trying to pretend that my little three day experience in Morocco gave me anything even close to a full experience, but still, Morocco is Africa, and it felt, smelled, and tasted like the foreign place I imagined it would be.
It really is amazing to consider that only 14 or so kilometers separate the bottom of Spain from the top of Morocco. From the beach in Tarifa, the hills of Tangier, Morocco, Africa, rise within plain view. As the wind whipped around me on the ferry to Tangier, I couldn’t help but think about all the land that lay in my vision and beyond, and of all the peoples, tribes, communities, and cities that lay beyond. Africa feels like a different world. Maybe it is that the mix of amazing and foreign cultures resembles little of the western world with which I am so comfortable. Maybe it is as simple as its other continent status. Regardless, Morocco was another, and very tangible at that, reminder of the big, big world out there.
A three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Tarifa puts one on one of the southernmost points of Spain. We boarded the ferry that would take us from Tarifa to Tangier in a mere 45 minutes. We landed in Tangier to the hustle of a city- a city full of men. I was acutely aware of being a woman in a man’s land. Very few women were in the street, and my uncovered brown hair, pale skin, and jeans drew attention. Most people who disembark at Tangier have horror stories to tell about being approached and severely hassled. We experienced none of this, but found the city to be quite navigable and friendly. After finding our hotel, we set off to explore the Medina, or the old town.
Before we even made it to the Medina, we stumbled upon an Anglican church on its outskirts. Once again, this was a powerful reminder of the mix of cultures and religions to which this land has been host.
And then another foreign experience: As we walked out of the Anglican church, we walked dead into the middle of a dog fight. And this wasn’t one day barking at another as they passed on the sidewalk. A smaller dog had a German shepherd by the neck in a firm grip. Blood was everywhere as these two dogs struggled. Another dog circled the two, barking in protest, as a rather large crowd of Moroccans gathered. It was a strange moment that was both nauseatingly disturbing, but intoxicatingly gripping. I could not turn away. I was drawn to this fight for life, dominance, food- who knows what it was for really. It was just so primal, so the essence of survival and existence, that despite my own cushioned microwave dinner existence, it reminded me of our very basic existence that exits somewhere in the recesses of our memory. And while I live a life that never forces me to kill my chicken and eat it that night, that is a way of life that others outside of the western world consider reality. (I’ll stop here on this before I break into The Lion King’s song, “Circle of Life”!)
Morocco was a learning trip in many other ways. It was a learning to say a firm, “No” when offered guiding services. Not once, twice or three times did we have to say no to one person, but more along the lines of 15 or 20 times. (And I thought the Gap worker asking me if they might help me find something twice was annoying.)
It was learning that, as a foreigner in a Muslim country, I stood out. And I found that very frustrating, yet there was nothing I could do to change this. I’m a white, protestant, English speaking, American student. I’ve had to embrace that, which is very contrary to my generation’s great desire to blend in and look normal. There was no way this was going to happen in Morocco. One of my travel companions looks Mediterranean, and everyone kept calling her “tangerina” as if she was Moroccan. Interestingly enough, overall, we had far more success with getting answers and staying under the radar by speaking Spanish. All of our guides spoke to us in Spanish, and often preferred to talk with us in Spanish rather than English. This is due to Tangier’s proximity to Spain as well as the fact that Tangier used to be Spanish territory. Most people in Tangier speak French, Spanish, and Arabic, and many of the signs of the city were in all three.
My time is Morocco was learning yet another rhythm of life- one that is dictated by the five calls per day to prayer. Yet, also watching that rhythm of religious life be challenged by the influence of the western world. Shows on the TV in the hotel room were American Disney shows or movies, dubbed over or subtitled in French or Arabic. Music, once again, was often American: Norah Jones’ velvety voice flooded throughout our hotel lobby. From McDonald’s to Coca-Cola, it was all there. One thing I’m astounded by is how these very different cultures I have encountered in southern Spain and in northern Africa adapt and exist together. Despite hundreds of years of practice, the ability for such different cultures to live fairly peaceably among one another over time is inspiring. When I think of America and the North versus the South or the War against terrorism in the Middle East, I wonder if we might all have something to learn from this convivencia, this living and breathing together, that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews were able to attain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 10
We visited Asilah, a beautiful little village on the Atlantic coast. Our taxi driver drove us down along the coast, and we watched wave after wave crash against the completely untouched coast. Breathtaking.
Nejib, our wonderful taximan, also drove us into the hills to see some Roman ruins that have recently been found and not yet excavated. It was fun to explore and look around this place that someday will be encased in a museum.
We ended our tour at the Caves of Hercules. There is a fairly magnificent shape of Africa naturally cut in the rock. A stunning picture.
Our trip was so worthwhile, although Tangier was fairly underwhelming as a destination. This is most likely because Tangier is a melting a pot, having existed for so long as an international zone. But contained in our little weekend were glimpses into a truly beautiful country, whose differences served as reminders of the magnificence found in contrast.
It really is amazing to consider that only 14 or so kilometers separate the bottom of Spain from the top of Morocco. From the beach in Tarifa, the hills of Tangier, Morocco, Africa, rise within plain view. As the wind whipped around me on the ferry to Tangier, I couldn’t help but think about all the land that lay in my vision and beyond, and of all the peoples, tribes, communities, and cities that lay beyond. Africa feels like a different world. Maybe it is that the mix of amazing and foreign cultures resembles little of the western world with which I am so comfortable. Maybe it is as simple as its other continent status. Regardless, Morocco was another, and very tangible at that, reminder of the big, big world out there.
A three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Tarifa puts one on one of the southernmost points of Spain. We boarded the ferry that would take us from Tarifa to Tangier in a mere 45 minutes. We landed in Tangier to the hustle of a city- a city full of men. I was acutely aware of being a woman in a man’s land. Very few women were in the street, and my uncovered brown hair, pale skin, and jeans drew attention. Most people who disembark at Tangier have horror stories to tell about being approached and severely hassled. We experienced none of this, but found the city to be quite navigable and friendly. After finding our hotel, we set off to explore the Medina, or the old town.
Before we even made it to the Medina, we stumbled upon an Anglican church on its outskirts. Once again, this was a powerful reminder of the mix of cultures and religions to which this land has been host.
And then another foreign experience: As we walked out of the Anglican church, we walked dead into the middle of a dog fight. And this wasn’t one day barking at another as they passed on the sidewalk. A smaller dog had a German shepherd by the neck in a firm grip. Blood was everywhere as these two dogs struggled. Another dog circled the two, barking in protest, as a rather large crowd of Moroccans gathered. It was a strange moment that was both nauseatingly disturbing, but intoxicatingly gripping. I could not turn away. I was drawn to this fight for life, dominance, food- who knows what it was for really. It was just so primal, so the essence of survival and existence, that despite my own cushioned microwave dinner existence, it reminded me of our very basic existence that exits somewhere in the recesses of our memory. And while I live a life that never forces me to kill my chicken and eat it that night, that is a way of life that others outside of the western world consider reality. (I’ll stop here on this before I break into The Lion King’s song, “Circle of Life”!)
Morocco was a learning trip in many other ways. It was a learning to say a firm, “No” when offered guiding services. Not once, twice or three times did we have to say no to one person, but more along the lines of 15 or 20 times. (And I thought the Gap worker asking me if they might help me find something twice was annoying.)
It was learning that, as a foreigner in a Muslim country, I stood out. And I found that very frustrating, yet there was nothing I could do to change this. I’m a white, protestant, English speaking, American student. I’ve had to embrace that, which is very contrary to my generation’s great desire to blend in and look normal. There was no way this was going to happen in Morocco. One of my travel companions looks Mediterranean, and everyone kept calling her “tangerina” as if she was Moroccan. Interestingly enough, overall, we had far more success with getting answers and staying under the radar by speaking Spanish. All of our guides spoke to us in Spanish, and often preferred to talk with us in Spanish rather than English. This is due to Tangier’s proximity to Spain as well as the fact that Tangier used to be Spanish territory. Most people in Tangier speak French, Spanish, and Arabic, and many of the signs of the city were in all three.
My time is Morocco was learning yet another rhythm of life- one that is dictated by the five calls per day to prayer. Yet, also watching that rhythm of religious life be challenged by the influence of the western world. Shows on the TV in the hotel room were American Disney shows or movies, dubbed over or subtitled in French or Arabic. Music, once again, was often American: Norah Jones’ velvety voice flooded throughout our hotel lobby. From McDonald’s to Coca-Cola, it was all there. One thing I’m astounded by is how these very different cultures I have encountered in southern Spain and in northern Africa adapt and exist together. Despite hundreds of years of practice, the ability for such different cultures to live fairly peaceably among one another over time is inspiring. When I think of America and the North versus the South or the War against terrorism in the Middle East, I wonder if we might all have something to learn from this convivencia, this living and breathing together, that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews were able to attain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 10
We visited Asilah, a beautiful little village on the Atlantic coast. Our taxi driver drove us down along the coast, and we watched wave after wave crash against the completely untouched coast. Breathtaking.
Nejib, our wonderful taximan, also drove us into the hills to see some Roman ruins that have recently been found and not yet excavated. It was fun to explore and look around this place that someday will be encased in a museum.
We ended our tour at the Caves of Hercules. There is a fairly magnificent shape of Africa naturally cut in the rock. A stunning picture.
Our trip was so worthwhile, although Tangier was fairly underwhelming as a destination. This is most likely because Tangier is a melting a pot, having existed for so long as an international zone. But contained in our little weekend were glimpses into a truly beautiful country, whose differences served as reminders of the magnificence found in contrast.
Extremes
Spain is made up of a series of autonomous communities. While they are all united under the flag of Spain, each region is rich in its own culture. Foods, drinks, clothes, dance- all aspects of culture are unique in these different provinces. One of Spain’s most underrated provinces is Extremadura. Literally meaning “extreme hardness”, this land seems to be lost in the collective mind of Spain. Nestled between Portugal and Madrid, Extremadura boasts beautiful land and rich food. Extremadura wasn’t on my “must-see” list, but I was pleasantly surprised with my visit.
The first stop on this weekend trip was Merida, the location of some amazingly intact Roman ruins. There is a complete amphitheater and sporting ring, as well as an impressive museum showing a myriad of artifacts.
We journeyed on from Merida to Trujillo, where we spent the nice in a castle. The small town just happened to have a medieval fair taking place, so we passed the night eating kebabs, drinking cider, and practicing our archery skills.
On Saturday, we packed up our things and filled our water bottles for a 16 km hike through the mountains to Guadalupe. The route we took is the route that Isabella used to cross to Portugal. In Guadalupe, which may be the smallest village in Spain, there is a monastery, where we spent our second night. La Hospederia de Monasterio was also the place that Isabel and Ferdinand and Carlos V stayed on the journey to marry Isabel of Portugal. There monastery was quiet and peaceful, and they served us a wonderful dinner. It is said that Napoleon took many of the recipes from Extremadura’s monasteries known for their culinary excellence back to France with him, which is why many of France’s dishes typify those of Extremadura.
Exploring and discovering are two verbs that characterize my life here in Spain. And while it is always fun, it is even more exciting to explore and discover places you might never hear about nor visit if it wasn’t for the abundant adventure of living in Spain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 9
The first stop on this weekend trip was Merida, the location of some amazingly intact Roman ruins. There is a complete amphitheater and sporting ring, as well as an impressive museum showing a myriad of artifacts.
We journeyed on from Merida to Trujillo, where we spent the nice in a castle. The small town just happened to have a medieval fair taking place, so we passed the night eating kebabs, drinking cider, and practicing our archery skills.
On Saturday, we packed up our things and filled our water bottles for a 16 km hike through the mountains to Guadalupe. The route we took is the route that Isabella used to cross to Portugal. In Guadalupe, which may be the smallest village in Spain, there is a monastery, where we spent our second night. La Hospederia de Monasterio was also the place that Isabel and Ferdinand and Carlos V stayed on the journey to marry Isabel of Portugal. There monastery was quiet and peaceful, and they served us a wonderful dinner. It is said that Napoleon took many of the recipes from Extremadura’s monasteries known for their culinary excellence back to France with him, which is why many of France’s dishes typify those of Extremadura.
Exploring and discovering are two verbs that characterize my life here in Spain. And while it is always fun, it is even more exciting to explore and discover places you might never hear about nor visit if it wasn’t for the abundant adventure of living in Spain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 9
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
All in the exchange.
In the beginning, I was hopeful, thinking the dollar may muscle its way up in value so as to pace with the euro, relieving some of the stress on the pocketbook. All hopes have been dashed, especially after these advertisements went up all over the city. Picturing stick figures being fanned while lying in bed or riding in limousines, a new New York advertising campaign is prompting the Spanish to visit the Big Apple. After all, as the sign notes, the euro gets you more in the United States, so treat yourself to luxury.
A Homecoming
This writer is my hero.
Spiritual Integrity...
Without Holding Back
Paul Gauche
(Note to Subscribers—For the center section of today’s message we recommend using the Nooma video called “Lump.” It is available through www.nooma.com) The young son had gone to San Francisco. He was out of money, out of friends, out of options. He had hit the bottom and was at wits ends. This lost son wrote a letter home to his parents living in the Seattle area. He wrote, “Dear Mom and Dad, I have sinned deeply against you. I have sinned against you and I have sinned against God and I am not worthy to be called your son. There is no reason for you to love me or welcome me back home. I am at the bottom of the barrel and I need to come back home. I hope that you would welcome me. I have been given a ticket for a train, a ticket to get me back to Seattle. The train comes past our farm south of Seattle. The train comes around the bend and right past our farmhouse. If you want me to come home, please put a white towel on the clothesline, out in the backyard near the tracks. I will then know that you want me to come back home. If there is no towel there, I understand. I will understand that it is not right for me to come back home.”
The young man sent the letter, got on the train, and started heading north. As he came closer and closer to home, he became more nervous inside and was pacing up and down the center aisle of the train. As the train came closer and closer to his farmhouse, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He approached another man on the train, and he said to him, “Sir, around this next corner, this next bend, there is going to be a farm house on the left. A white house. An old red barn behind it. A dilapidated fence. There will be a clothesline in the backyard. Would you do me a favor and look and see if there is a white towel hanging on the clothesline? I know it sounds peculiar, but I can’t bear to look.”
Well, the train came closer and closer to the bend and started to go around the bend, and the young man’s heart was racing as fast as it could. The man said, “Look, look, look. Open your eyes.” The whole clothesline was covered with white towels. The oak trees were covered with white sheets. The barn roof was covered with sheets. The old dilapidated fence was covered with white sheets. There were sheets everywhere. The father and mother so deeply wanted their son to come back home (http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm).
The Story of the Prodigal Son is a story of extravagant, lavish, and excessive grace. The love we see here is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and excessive. The mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. The kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
The Story of the Prodigal Son, also known as the Story of the Lost Son, is one of the best known parables of Jesus—if not one of the most recognized stories in the Bible. It is the third of three stories recorded in Luke 15 that Jesus uses to describe the all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love of God. And while it is commonly referred to as “the story of the prodigal son” that title is not found anywhere in Luke’s gospel, and many commentators have argued that it would be better called “The Lost Son” which would connect it more readily to the parables of the “Lost Sheep” and “Lost Coin”—the two stories that Jesus tells just before he seals the deal with this story. In all three short stories, the overwhelming theme is the love and concern that God has for the repentant and regretful sinner, as opposed to strictly for the unfailingly righteous. In fact, many people with no other understanding of the word “prodigal” mistakenly believe it means lost; it actually means extravagant. In that sense, then the son went off to some far country and blew everything in extravagantly out-of-control living and after a change of heart returns home to the extravagant—even out of control—love, mercy and grace of his father.
Think about that: the forgiveness shown to the Prodigal Son is not conditional on good works, since the younger son has plainly done nothing “good” throughout the story, other than to return home—symbolic of repentance. And although he plans ahead what he will say while admitting his guilt to his father, his father accepts him even before he gets the chance to get half the confession out of his mouth. This is unconditional love.
In a culture where the phrase “Failure to Launch” conjures up images of young adult males unable to effectively make it out of the nest, coupled with the new and emerging data that adolescence is now stretching into the late twenties and in some cases, early thirties, our “prodigal” young man couldn’t wait to launch himself. The only dilemma here was that he launched himself into a huge mess and consequently a huge learning moment.
Entire books have been written about this story; and why not? Think about the angles and the personalities that Luke includes. Of course you’ve got the main characters—the younger, prodigal son, the older, compliant, but passive/aggressive brother, the hired hands who prepared the feast when the son returned. I want to believe there’s a mom—she isn’t mentioned, but in that culture at that time, the place would fall apart without a mom. You’ve got Jesus, himself, who tells the story, the curiously labeled group of “tax collectors and sinners” that come to listen to Jesus and the Pharisees and the scribes that caused Jesus to tell the story in the first place. The cast of characters is nearly endless, and every one is critical and important. But as I’ve lived with this story for the past many days, the one character who keeps coming to the top for me is the father, and the one word that keeps returning is “extravagant.” He is an extravagant father who waits, who watches, who welcomes.
This is really the Story of the Waiting Father. In verses 12-13, Luke gives us just about as much as we can take before our hearts begin to break for him: “The younger [of the two sons] said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So [the father] divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.”
There is something extraordinary about this waiting dad. I know how patient he is—has been and will have to be. It’s been years leading up to this. This patient, waiting dad has been through it all. His waiting hasn’t been just for the sound of the car to pull into the driveway at 2:00 a.m. His waiting hasn’t been just for the cell phone to ring announcing his son’s location and destination. His waiting hasn’t been just for the next opportunity to articulate his own agenda on his son’s inarticulate lifestyle.
His waiting has been for the next “glimpse” into that maturing heart of a frustrated and sometimes angry young man who has no idea why he’s so frustrated and angry. His waiting has been for one more moment to speak his son’s love language, another moment to bring a nonjudgmental word and touch of caring into the relationship that will last a lifetime.
The father can still hear the therapist reminding him to “maintain the relationship;” to learn his son’s love language and speak it often. The dad probably knew that the day would come—and soon, when his son would come and say, “I’m done with all of this. I want to go. I don’t feel like I fit in here. I want to go. I want to go.” And the dad would have to watch him go. The day came and the son went. The father watched him go. It is tough business—this waiting. God knows.
The Story of the Waiting Father gives us a glimpse into the heart of a waiting God who waits for us. And it is a heart that beats with love, grace, and mercy for us. In the midst of this, the message is as timeless as the passage from Luke: There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
For all of the times that we’ve just taken what we thought belongs to us and blown out to some “distant place”—surely a metaphor for going our own way, God is patiently waiting, wooing. For all of those times that we’ve told God, “I know what’s better for me than you do,” God is quietly walking by our side. We have a waiting God whose heart yearns for our return. In the meantime, God waits.
The father also watches. And there is something remarkable about this watching dad. In the Story of the Watching Father, the son, who is a long way off in every sense of the phrase, comes to his senses. Knee-deep in pig slop of every kind, the son has a moment of transformation. He plans and even rehearses his repentance and apology and turns toward home. In verse 20, we see the depth of the love and grace of this watching dad who, for days, weeks, even months or longer has not begun a new day nor gone to bed at night without staring out the window toward the horizon, watching, waiting, longing for the sight of his son to appear.
Luke says it this way: “While he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion…” I see the dad at the kitchen window peering through the blinds. He searches the darkness for headlights on the horizon; he watches for the familiar sight of his son’s long legs, his hair, his face. The dad watches for what he knows will only be a matter of time. He waits, he watches. And then, finally, after what seems like an eternity, he sees him. While he was still far off, his father sees him and is filled with compassion.
The “distant country” is far more familiar than any of us would care to admit. It is that place—physically, emotionally, spiritually—that seems rather unfamiliar no matter how long we visit or live there. We’ve all been there. We’ve all been places where, when we’re in our right minds and with our wits about us make us feel shame and embarrassment at some level—or at least should. The distant country to which the son goes and from which he returns is that great metaphor for those places in our lives that do us no good.
But the hopeful word in this story is that the son makes a change—he turns toward home. The Greek word for that turning is “metanoia,” which has everything to do with a 180 degree shift in course. And the son goes back to his home and to his father. And the promise is that when we shift, turn, and make our way toward home, our heavenly dad is not only waiting in some passive way, but in an active, yearning way he is watching. The Father is actively watching the horizon for us to come back.
The son has rehearsed it. It is a moment of repentance, revision, and metanoia. “I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” And the waiting father is watching.
God is waiting and watching for our return. And when we come up over the horizon back into the familiar places, when we pull back into the driveway we see the father who stands at the door watching for us and we’re reminded that there’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
God is waiting. God is watching. God is also welcoming and there is something significant about this welcoming dad. It is in this welcome that we see the extravagant, lavish, excessive grace of a dad whose love is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and excessive, whose mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. Whose kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
Here is what we know for sure: The son sets off and goes to his father. While he is still a long way off, his father sees him and is filled with compassion. The waiting, watching dad runs to him, puts his arms around him, kisses him and welcomes him. Then the son says to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But this welcoming father interrupts and calls out to his servants: “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.
The welcoming father shows all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love for his son because there is nothing more important than having waited and watched for and now welcomed his son back into the family.
The story of the waiting, watching, welcoming father is a story of immense, enormous, unreserved, and extravagant love. It is God’s story for you and for me. And the truth of the story is that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. There is nothing that you have done, are doing, or will do that is beyond God’s ability to forgive. Even the turning that the son did and the turning that we will do over and over again is a turning stirred by the Holy Spirit in us. There is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. Let’s come home to that today.
Spiritual Integrity...
Without Holding Back
Paul Gauche
(Note to Subscribers—For the center section of today’s message we recommend using the Nooma video called “Lump.” It is available through www.nooma.com) The young son had gone to San Francisco. He was out of money, out of friends, out of options. He had hit the bottom and was at wits ends. This lost son wrote a letter home to his parents living in the Seattle area. He wrote, “Dear Mom and Dad, I have sinned deeply against you. I have sinned against you and I have sinned against God and I am not worthy to be called your son. There is no reason for you to love me or welcome me back home. I am at the bottom of the barrel and I need to come back home. I hope that you would welcome me. I have been given a ticket for a train, a ticket to get me back to Seattle. The train comes past our farm south of Seattle. The train comes around the bend and right past our farmhouse. If you want me to come home, please put a white towel on the clothesline, out in the backyard near the tracks. I will then know that you want me to come back home. If there is no towel there, I understand. I will understand that it is not right for me to come back home.”
The young man sent the letter, got on the train, and started heading north. As he came closer and closer to home, he became more nervous inside and was pacing up and down the center aisle of the train. As the train came closer and closer to his farmhouse, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He approached another man on the train, and he said to him, “Sir, around this next corner, this next bend, there is going to be a farm house on the left. A white house. An old red barn behind it. A dilapidated fence. There will be a clothesline in the backyard. Would you do me a favor and look and see if there is a white towel hanging on the clothesline? I know it sounds peculiar, but I can’t bear to look.”
Well, the train came closer and closer to the bend and started to go around the bend, and the young man’s heart was racing as fast as it could. The man said, “Look, look, look. Open your eyes.” The whole clothesline was covered with white towels. The oak trees were covered with white sheets. The barn roof was covered with sheets. The old dilapidated fence was covered with white sheets. There were sheets everywhere. The father and mother so deeply wanted their son to come back home (http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm).
The Story of the Prodigal Son is a story of extravagant, lavish, and excessive grace. The love we see here is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and excessive. The mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. The kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
The Story of the Prodigal Son, also known as the Story of the Lost Son, is one of the best known parables of Jesus—if not one of the most recognized stories in the Bible. It is the third of three stories recorded in Luke 15 that Jesus uses to describe the all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love of God. And while it is commonly referred to as “the story of the prodigal son” that title is not found anywhere in Luke’s gospel, and many commentators have argued that it would be better called “The Lost Son” which would connect it more readily to the parables of the “Lost Sheep” and “Lost Coin”—the two stories that Jesus tells just before he seals the deal with this story. In all three short stories, the overwhelming theme is the love and concern that God has for the repentant and regretful sinner, as opposed to strictly for the unfailingly righteous. In fact, many people with no other understanding of the word “prodigal” mistakenly believe it means lost; it actually means extravagant. In that sense, then the son went off to some far country and blew everything in extravagantly out-of-control living and after a change of heart returns home to the extravagant—even out of control—love, mercy and grace of his father.
Think about that: the forgiveness shown to the Prodigal Son is not conditional on good works, since the younger son has plainly done nothing “good” throughout the story, other than to return home—symbolic of repentance. And although he plans ahead what he will say while admitting his guilt to his father, his father accepts him even before he gets the chance to get half the confession out of his mouth. This is unconditional love.
In a culture where the phrase “Failure to Launch” conjures up images of young adult males unable to effectively make it out of the nest, coupled with the new and emerging data that adolescence is now stretching into the late twenties and in some cases, early thirties, our “prodigal” young man couldn’t wait to launch himself. The only dilemma here was that he launched himself into a huge mess and consequently a huge learning moment.
Entire books have been written about this story; and why not? Think about the angles and the personalities that Luke includes. Of course you’ve got the main characters—the younger, prodigal son, the older, compliant, but passive/aggressive brother, the hired hands who prepared the feast when the son returned. I want to believe there’s a mom—she isn’t mentioned, but in that culture at that time, the place would fall apart without a mom. You’ve got Jesus, himself, who tells the story, the curiously labeled group of “tax collectors and sinners” that come to listen to Jesus and the Pharisees and the scribes that caused Jesus to tell the story in the first place. The cast of characters is nearly endless, and every one is critical and important. But as I’ve lived with this story for the past many days, the one character who keeps coming to the top for me is the father, and the one word that keeps returning is “extravagant.” He is an extravagant father who waits, who watches, who welcomes.
This is really the Story of the Waiting Father. In verses 12-13, Luke gives us just about as much as we can take before our hearts begin to break for him: “The younger [of the two sons] said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So [the father] divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.”
There is something extraordinary about this waiting dad. I know how patient he is—has been and will have to be. It’s been years leading up to this. This patient, waiting dad has been through it all. His waiting hasn’t been just for the sound of the car to pull into the driveway at 2:00 a.m. His waiting hasn’t been just for the cell phone to ring announcing his son’s location and destination. His waiting hasn’t been just for the next opportunity to articulate his own agenda on his son’s inarticulate lifestyle.
His waiting has been for the next “glimpse” into that maturing heart of a frustrated and sometimes angry young man who has no idea why he’s so frustrated and angry. His waiting has been for one more moment to speak his son’s love language, another moment to bring a nonjudgmental word and touch of caring into the relationship that will last a lifetime.
The father can still hear the therapist reminding him to “maintain the relationship;” to learn his son’s love language and speak it often. The dad probably knew that the day would come—and soon, when his son would come and say, “I’m done with all of this. I want to go. I don’t feel like I fit in here. I want to go. I want to go.” And the dad would have to watch him go. The day came and the son went. The father watched him go. It is tough business—this waiting. God knows.
The Story of the Waiting Father gives us a glimpse into the heart of a waiting God who waits for us. And it is a heart that beats with love, grace, and mercy for us. In the midst of this, the message is as timeless as the passage from Luke: There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
For all of the times that we’ve just taken what we thought belongs to us and blown out to some “distant place”—surely a metaphor for going our own way, God is patiently waiting, wooing. For all of those times that we’ve told God, “I know what’s better for me than you do,” God is quietly walking by our side. We have a waiting God whose heart yearns for our return. In the meantime, God waits.
The father also watches. And there is something remarkable about this watching dad. In the Story of the Watching Father, the son, who is a long way off in every sense of the phrase, comes to his senses. Knee-deep in pig slop of every kind, the son has a moment of transformation. He plans and even rehearses his repentance and apology and turns toward home. In verse 20, we see the depth of the love and grace of this watching dad who, for days, weeks, even months or longer has not begun a new day nor gone to bed at night without staring out the window toward the horizon, watching, waiting, longing for the sight of his son to appear.
Luke says it this way: “While he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion…” I see the dad at the kitchen window peering through the blinds. He searches the darkness for headlights on the horizon; he watches for the familiar sight of his son’s long legs, his hair, his face. The dad watches for what he knows will only be a matter of time. He waits, he watches. And then, finally, after what seems like an eternity, he sees him. While he was still far off, his father sees him and is filled with compassion.
The “distant country” is far more familiar than any of us would care to admit. It is that place—physically, emotionally, spiritually—that seems rather unfamiliar no matter how long we visit or live there. We’ve all been there. We’ve all been places where, when we’re in our right minds and with our wits about us make us feel shame and embarrassment at some level—or at least should. The distant country to which the son goes and from which he returns is that great metaphor for those places in our lives that do us no good.
But the hopeful word in this story is that the son makes a change—he turns toward home. The Greek word for that turning is “metanoia,” which has everything to do with a 180 degree shift in course. And the son goes back to his home and to his father. And the promise is that when we shift, turn, and make our way toward home, our heavenly dad is not only waiting in some passive way, but in an active, yearning way he is watching. The Father is actively watching the horizon for us to come back.
The son has rehearsed it. It is a moment of repentance, revision, and metanoia. “I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” And the waiting father is watching.
God is waiting and watching for our return. And when we come up over the horizon back into the familiar places, when we pull back into the driveway we see the father who stands at the door watching for us and we’re reminded that there’s nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you.
God is waiting. God is watching. God is also welcoming and there is something significant about this welcoming dad. It is in this welcome that we see the extravagant, lavish, excessive grace of a dad whose love is disproportionate, larger-than-life, and excessive, whose mercy is benevolent, boundless, and generous. Whose kindness is vast, magnificent, and elaborate.
Here is what we know for sure: The son sets off and goes to his father. While he is still a long way off, his father sees him and is filled with compassion. The waiting, watching dad runs to him, puts his arms around him, kisses him and welcomes him. Then the son says to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But this welcoming father interrupts and calls out to his servants: “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.
The welcoming father shows all-out, no questions asked, and absolutely unconditional love for his son because there is nothing more important than having waited and watched for and now welcomed his son back into the family.
The story of the waiting, watching, welcoming father is a story of immense, enormous, unreserved, and extravagant love. It is God’s story for you and for me. And the truth of the story is that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. There is nothing that you have done, are doing, or will do that is beyond God’s ability to forgive. Even the turning that the son did and the turning that we will do over and over again is a turning stirred by the Holy Spirit in us. There is nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. Nothing, nothing can separate you. Let’s come home to that today.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Dance!
Flamenco is in the blood of these people. The gypsies began a tradition of song and dance that now characterizes Spain in many minds. I am in a class that focuses on the history and anthropology of the art, including the song, dance, and guitar. And while I was entertained by it long before I began to look at its significance, now I am even more enthralled and mesmerized by Flamenco performances.
I attended a fabulous show featuring a very young and successful Flamenco singer last week. The stage was dark besides the two spots shining on the two chairs and microphones. Juan Carmona “Habichuela” (Everyone in Flamenco goes by a name other than his or her given name. I’m wondering if this is where rap picked that up?) comes on stage to sing to a rapt audience. This crowd is young, and they are excited to be there. While the room is relaxed, there is a feeling of expectancy and excitement for what is to come. There is a familial feeling as he begins to sing. It as if we could be sitting on the deck together on a warm summer evening, or gathered in the family room near a fire. Take your pick of location, but this is about community. All around the theater, people are shouting out ay o olé. These ayeos are called out from the audience, eliminating the barrier between performer and audience. Random, and yet, frequent, these ayeos allow the audience to become apart of the performance. At one point, there is banter between audience members that is answered by the performer himself. Time stops during the performance. At one point, he even sings the Beatles song, “Yesterday”- Flamenco-style. I do not know how I could ever describe that to you besides using the word incredible. The performance comes to an end in a flourish, but far too soon. The audience was reluctant to go; leaving something so welcoming and comfortable can be difficult. Flamenco is far more than song and dance. It is a unique, true expression of this place, and it pulses fervently through the blood of these people.
I attended a fabulous show featuring a very young and successful Flamenco singer last week. The stage was dark besides the two spots shining on the two chairs and microphones. Juan Carmona “Habichuela” (Everyone in Flamenco goes by a name other than his or her given name. I’m wondering if this is where rap picked that up?) comes on stage to sing to a rapt audience. This crowd is young, and they are excited to be there. While the room is relaxed, there is a feeling of expectancy and excitement for what is to come. There is a familial feeling as he begins to sing. It as if we could be sitting on the deck together on a warm summer evening, or gathered in the family room near a fire. Take your pick of location, but this is about community. All around the theater, people are shouting out ay o olé. These ayeos are called out from the audience, eliminating the barrier between performer and audience. Random, and yet, frequent, these ayeos allow the audience to become apart of the performance. At one point, there is banter between audience members that is answered by the performer himself. Time stops during the performance. At one point, he even sings the Beatles song, “Yesterday”- Flamenco-style. I do not know how I could ever describe that to you besides using the word incredible. The performance comes to an end in a flourish, but far too soon. The audience was reluctant to go; leaving something so welcoming and comfortable can be difficult. Flamenco is far more than song and dance. It is a unique, true expression of this place, and it pulses fervently through the blood of these people.
Digging History
I never thought I would spend so much time looking at the ground. It seems to be something I’m doing quite frequently these days. I love Andalusia for its rich history of hosting three very different cultures and religions, Muslim, Christian, and Jewish. But, thanks to one of my classes, Archeology from Tartessos to Rome, I’m learning about the really old history of Andalusia and the Iberian Peninsula. Sevilla is primarily located for access to a whole host of ancient ruins, particulary Roman ruins. The pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 8 are of a day hike to Mulva-Munigua, located near Sevilla. This was a group trip, so I found myself in the “herd” that is over fifty American students strong. Yikes! We met at the train station for the hour ride to the drop-off point. And that is what is was: it most certainly wasn’t a regular stop. The train slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and our director told us to get off. Stepping off the train into a field on the side of the tracks, I was suddenly thinking Nazi Germany and work camps. While we were in the middle of nowhere, fortunately, we were well guided. We made our way to the ruins of a roman bath. It was pretty amazing to see the perseverance of that structure! The hike took us through some amazing Spanish countryside and right through the middle of a bull farm. It was also one of my first tastes of Sevilla heat. My appreciation for our marble-floored flat is growing with each day as the season is turning suddenly to spring.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Life of Pi
from Life of Pi
by Yann Martel
Chapter 21
I am sitting in a downtown café, after, thinking. I have just spent most of an afternoon with him. Our encounters always leave me weary of the glum contentment that characterizes my life. What were those words he used that struck me? Ah, yes: “dry, yeastless factuality”, “the better story”. I take pen and paper out and write:
Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably.
I think it over. I add:
What of God’s silence? An intellect confounded yet a trusting sense of presence and of ultimate purpose.
Chapter 22
I can well imagine an atheist’s last words: “White, white! L-L-Love! My God!”— and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeast less factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, “Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain,” and, “to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.
by Yann Martel
Chapter 21
I am sitting in a downtown café, after, thinking. I have just spent most of an afternoon with him. Our encounters always leave me weary of the glum contentment that characterizes my life. What were those words he used that struck me? Ah, yes: “dry, yeastless factuality”, “the better story”. I take pen and paper out and write:
Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably.
I think it over. I add:
What of God’s silence? An intellect confounded yet a trusting sense of presence and of ultimate purpose.
Chapter 22
I can well imagine an atheist’s last words: “White, white! L-L-Love! My God!”— and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeast less factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, “Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain,” and, “to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.
Political Apprehensions
I want to tread carefully.
In considering the media, I have also run into a very different view of the war in Iraq. I’m seeing images and hearing news of what is taking place in Iraq that I would never see in the US. And in this, I’m beginning to understand the power of the media, particularly the power of the media in America.
Here Bush is written off, and the news of the Middle East is not focused solely on “the war”. Rather, the news is of the many others battles taking place in the Middle East and the war with terrorists. This is a favorite topic of our senora, who lectures frequently about the craziness of the terrorists that are active here in Spain. Here, “the war” is not something between the United States and Iraq, but a struggle and, as Samuel Huntington wrote, a “clash of civilizations.” What is taking place is something larger than “our war”. A man on the metro in Portugal actually raised this point to me. When he found out that I was American, his first question concerned Bush and the war with Iraq. He was interested to know my generation’s thoughts and attitudes towards the situation, but also wanted to communicate that the war with Iraq is not simply an isolated war that will be neat and tidy to finish. Rather, it is a war pitting very different ways of life and thinking against one another.
While America is large and in charge, I realizing just how easy it is to isolate ourselves. I’m not saying the war with Iraq is all good or all bad, but I do think the insight of seeing ourselves as a part of the picture is helpful in seeing the power and the strife that make up much of the Arabic world. This broader perspective also challenges us not to simply digest the information on the 6 o’clock news, but search for a fuller understanding. Recognizing the power of American media is a lesson I’m learning, this time from the other side.
Oh, and like universities across America, there is a bumper sticker on the blackboard of my Contemporary History class that reads, “No a la Guerra” or “No to the war”. Students will be their liberal selves all over.
In considering the media, I have also run into a very different view of the war in Iraq. I’m seeing images and hearing news of what is taking place in Iraq that I would never see in the US. And in this, I’m beginning to understand the power of the media, particularly the power of the media in America.
Here Bush is written off, and the news of the Middle East is not focused solely on “the war”. Rather, the news is of the many others battles taking place in the Middle East and the war with terrorists. This is a favorite topic of our senora, who lectures frequently about the craziness of the terrorists that are active here in Spain. Here, “the war” is not something between the United States and Iraq, but a struggle and, as Samuel Huntington wrote, a “clash of civilizations.” What is taking place is something larger than “our war”. A man on the metro in Portugal actually raised this point to me. When he found out that I was American, his first question concerned Bush and the war with Iraq. He was interested to know my generation’s thoughts and attitudes towards the situation, but also wanted to communicate that the war with Iraq is not simply an isolated war that will be neat and tidy to finish. Rather, it is a war pitting very different ways of life and thinking against one another.
While America is large and in charge, I realizing just how easy it is to isolate ourselves. I’m not saying the war with Iraq is all good or all bad, but I do think the insight of seeing ourselves as a part of the picture is helpful in seeing the power and the strife that make up much of the Arabic world. This broader perspective also challenges us not to simply digest the information on the 6 o’clock news, but search for a fuller understanding. Recognizing the power of American media is a lesson I’m learning, this time from the other side.
Oh, and like universities across America, there is a bumper sticker on the blackboard of my Contemporary History class that reads, “No a la Guerra” or “No to the war”. Students will be their liberal selves all over.
Worthy News
I was always told that reading the paper is a good way to increase your vocabulary, and so with the best of intentions, I committed to reading the newspaper here in Spain. Not only is my vocabulary and grasp of the language expanding, but also I am learning much about what this country considers newsworthy.
There are many options of papers in this city. And the odd thing is that they are all free. At every corner that I stop at in the morning on my walking commute, another paper is shoved into my hands. I suddenly find myself with four daily papers. I was hoping to get through one! I’ve deducted thus far that these daily papers that are free to the public and aggressively handed out each morning are paid for by advertisements, but I’m still doing some research on this.
News is news everywhere: stock prices, the worth of the euro, issues in the Middle East, op-eds, killings, test scores, even crossword puzzles- all are found in my Spanish papers. But the most curious thing I find is the Entertainment section. It is as if I have opened Entertainment Weekly. All of the “news” printed in this section focuses on American celebrities, actors, singers. I read about Britney Spears and her head shaving and Anna Nicole Smith’s death and ensuing battle for her body??? I read news about the Oscars and the anticipated films of the coming year. Bottom line: if you make it in the states, you make it in the world. The reach of American entertainment culture is extensive. Commercials on the television all have American songs. The music at the mall I live near was playing Incubus the other morning. Grey’s Anatomy, Law and Order, Dancing with the Stars, House, Sex and the City, the Simpson’s- all are favorite shows of the Spanish. (Did you know they even give out awards for best voice-overs?)
No wonder the world has the impression of America that they do. The impression is based on our world of entertainment, which is a world, I feel, that very rarely resembles the majority of Americans and their lives. Additionally, many of the stereotypes I’ve encountered of Americans throughout my travels are explained when I realize just how much Hollywood shapes our reputation.
So, while other American news is harder to come by, you can rest assured that I’m up to date with Angelina Jolie and her latest adoption.
There are many options of papers in this city. And the odd thing is that they are all free. At every corner that I stop at in the morning on my walking commute, another paper is shoved into my hands. I suddenly find myself with four daily papers. I was hoping to get through one! I’ve deducted thus far that these daily papers that are free to the public and aggressively handed out each morning are paid for by advertisements, but I’m still doing some research on this.
News is news everywhere: stock prices, the worth of the euro, issues in the Middle East, op-eds, killings, test scores, even crossword puzzles- all are found in my Spanish papers. But the most curious thing I find is the Entertainment section. It is as if I have opened Entertainment Weekly. All of the “news” printed in this section focuses on American celebrities, actors, singers. I read about Britney Spears and her head shaving and Anna Nicole Smith’s death and ensuing battle for her body??? I read news about the Oscars and the anticipated films of the coming year. Bottom line: if you make it in the states, you make it in the world. The reach of American entertainment culture is extensive. Commercials on the television all have American songs. The music at the mall I live near was playing Incubus the other morning. Grey’s Anatomy, Law and Order, Dancing with the Stars, House, Sex and the City, the Simpson’s- all are favorite shows of the Spanish. (Did you know they even give out awards for best voice-overs?)
No wonder the world has the impression of America that they do. The impression is based on our world of entertainment, which is a world, I feel, that very rarely resembles the majority of Americans and their lives. Additionally, many of the stereotypes I’ve encountered of Americans throughout my travels are explained when I realize just how much Hollywood shapes our reputation.
So, while other American news is harder to come by, you can rest assured that I’m up to date with Angelina Jolie and her latest adoption.
Barcelona
My time here in Spain is affording me so very many opportunities to explore, seek, and adventure. My free time is spent exploring small side streets, a new café, or a new park. Suddenly, a Friday is upon me. More often than not, I find myself packing my weekend bag and stepping onto a plane or a bus or a train. It has been two weeks since I visited Barcelona. It feels alternatively like a lifetime or an hour ago.
The site of the 1992 Olympics, Barcelona sits on the Mediterranean in glory. The sprawl of the city as it slopes gently down into the sea is breathtaking. Sevilla, while a beautiful city, is not as Euro- cosmopolitan as Barcelona feels. Sevilla says “Spain” while Barcelona says “Europe”. I absolutely loved visiting. You can check out the pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 7.
Here’s the commentary:
It was a weekend of Gaudi- Antoni Gaudi that is. Barcelona is his canvas. Traces of his artistic eye and unmistakable design are seen throughout the city. The Temple de la Sagrada Familia looms large above the city. Construction began in 1882, and now, in 2007, it is still at least 30 years from completion. Antoni Gaudi was the project director until his tragic death in 1926, when he was run over by a carriage. Upon completion, there will be twelve bell towers dedicated to the 12 apostles. Eight have been built. There will be 4 towers to the Evangelists or Gospel writers, a tower to the Virgin Mary. There are two unique sides to the Temple: the Façade of the Nativity and the façade of the Passion. The artwork is very interesting and thought provoking, having commenced several debates over the delineation of art and religion. Additionally, nothing is constructed without significant meaning. Gaudi found much of his inspiration in the natural world, and the artwork of this eccentric man mimics it. Above all, I am astounded that this Temple is over 100 years in the making. Incredible architects, construction workers, and artists pour their life and work into this Temple, often knowing full well that they will not see the end of this project. Talk about believing in your work. I cannot wait to return to see the completed temple; it is one of my favorite places yet.
I also toured La Pedrera, Gaudi’s museum and apartment and office complex. This edifice truly demonstrates Gaudi understanding of architectures as an art form. Every element of the building has not only function, but unique form. Even the door knobs and chairs are fashioned for creativity and ease of use. His interest in shapes, colors and geometry highlight his creativity. The Terrace is the most unique part of this apartment block. The roof flows like water as the roof holds space to walk and ramble above the city. The ventilation towers and chimneys are decorated with ceramic to make them more appealing to the eye. You’ll notice that some appear like Darth Vader. It is rumored that George Lucas did visit La Pedrera while creating that very distinguishable character. Gaudi’s art was captivating and breathtaking, and a fun alternative to paintings hung on a wall. The final place of Gaudi’s I visited in the city was the most breathtaking, and a place I would make my home. The Parque Guell was constructed to be an exclusive suburb, much like our gated communities. The park was to house 60 homes, but only two were built. The attention to detail and the unique appearance of the neighborhood make one feel as if they have stepped into another world. Thankfully, the project was never completed, which means the park is now the property of the city and opens to the public.
I toured the Olympic built high into a hill that overlooks the city and the port. Near the Olympic installations is Plaza de Espana, the site of beautiful fountains. There was a great light and water show in the Plaza, much like the fountains at the Bellagio in Vegas. Only the blue beauty of the Mediterranean outdid the dancing water.
The food and beverage adventures were unparalleled: everything from great tapas to falafels to cava, Barcelona’s own champagne.
On Sunday, after seeing the Picasso museum, which features many of his early works and the beginnings of cubism, I ventured to the Cathedral to see the sardana, the folk dance of Cataluna. The men in the band were old and gray; their instruments even older and in need of a shining. They played proudly as groups of people, mainly older, gathered to dance. It is a fairly intricate dance I’m told, although it does not appear that way. The faces of the dancers are fixed with expressions of deep concentration.
Las Ramblas is a tree-lined pedestrian boulevard that is the place to be in Barcelona. Full of travelers, living statues, salespeople, and shops galore, Las Ramblas meanders its way to the port. The Mercat de la Boqueria is an open-air meat, fruit, vegetable, and fish market. It reminds me very much of Pike Place Market in Seattle, although there are no flying fish! Ending at the Monument a Colom or Monument to Columbus, the city sprawls out behind you and the great sea in front of you.
Barcelona has long been an important city, dating back to its role as an important port of the Greeks. It continues to persevere in beauty. And while it is a gem of Spain, it is very different from southern Spain. There are two official languages in Catalonia, and therefore, Barcelona: Catalan and Castilian Spanish. The Catalan government has a policy of promoting the Catalan language. School is taught in both languages, but government work is done solely in Catalan. While Barcelona is most assuredly bilingual, the Catalan people feel that they must keep this policy of dual language to protect their language and their heritage. History runs wide and deep in these places. And it is not only in buildings and museums, but in homes and hearts of people.
The site of the 1992 Olympics, Barcelona sits on the Mediterranean in glory. The sprawl of the city as it slopes gently down into the sea is breathtaking. Sevilla, while a beautiful city, is not as Euro- cosmopolitan as Barcelona feels. Sevilla says “Spain” while Barcelona says “Europe”. I absolutely loved visiting. You can check out the pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 7.
Here’s the commentary:
It was a weekend of Gaudi- Antoni Gaudi that is. Barcelona is his canvas. Traces of his artistic eye and unmistakable design are seen throughout the city. The Temple de la Sagrada Familia looms large above the city. Construction began in 1882, and now, in 2007, it is still at least 30 years from completion. Antoni Gaudi was the project director until his tragic death in 1926, when he was run over by a carriage. Upon completion, there will be twelve bell towers dedicated to the 12 apostles. Eight have been built. There will be 4 towers to the Evangelists or Gospel writers, a tower to the Virgin Mary. There are two unique sides to the Temple: the Façade of the Nativity and the façade of the Passion. The artwork is very interesting and thought provoking, having commenced several debates over the delineation of art and religion. Additionally, nothing is constructed without significant meaning. Gaudi found much of his inspiration in the natural world, and the artwork of this eccentric man mimics it. Above all, I am astounded that this Temple is over 100 years in the making. Incredible architects, construction workers, and artists pour their life and work into this Temple, often knowing full well that they will not see the end of this project. Talk about believing in your work. I cannot wait to return to see the completed temple; it is one of my favorite places yet.
I also toured La Pedrera, Gaudi’s museum and apartment and office complex. This edifice truly demonstrates Gaudi understanding of architectures as an art form. Every element of the building has not only function, but unique form. Even the door knobs and chairs are fashioned for creativity and ease of use. His interest in shapes, colors and geometry highlight his creativity. The Terrace is the most unique part of this apartment block. The roof flows like water as the roof holds space to walk and ramble above the city. The ventilation towers and chimneys are decorated with ceramic to make them more appealing to the eye. You’ll notice that some appear like Darth Vader. It is rumored that George Lucas did visit La Pedrera while creating that very distinguishable character. Gaudi’s art was captivating and breathtaking, and a fun alternative to paintings hung on a wall. The final place of Gaudi’s I visited in the city was the most breathtaking, and a place I would make my home. The Parque Guell was constructed to be an exclusive suburb, much like our gated communities. The park was to house 60 homes, but only two were built. The attention to detail and the unique appearance of the neighborhood make one feel as if they have stepped into another world. Thankfully, the project was never completed, which means the park is now the property of the city and opens to the public.
I toured the Olympic built high into a hill that overlooks the city and the port. Near the Olympic installations is Plaza de Espana, the site of beautiful fountains. There was a great light and water show in the Plaza, much like the fountains at the Bellagio in Vegas. Only the blue beauty of the Mediterranean outdid the dancing water.
The food and beverage adventures were unparalleled: everything from great tapas to falafels to cava, Barcelona’s own champagne.
On Sunday, after seeing the Picasso museum, which features many of his early works and the beginnings of cubism, I ventured to the Cathedral to see the sardana, the folk dance of Cataluna. The men in the band were old and gray; their instruments even older and in need of a shining. They played proudly as groups of people, mainly older, gathered to dance. It is a fairly intricate dance I’m told, although it does not appear that way. The faces of the dancers are fixed with expressions of deep concentration.
Las Ramblas is a tree-lined pedestrian boulevard that is the place to be in Barcelona. Full of travelers, living statues, salespeople, and shops galore, Las Ramblas meanders its way to the port. The Mercat de la Boqueria is an open-air meat, fruit, vegetable, and fish market. It reminds me very much of Pike Place Market in Seattle, although there are no flying fish! Ending at the Monument a Colom or Monument to Columbus, the city sprawls out behind you and the great sea in front of you.
Barcelona has long been an important city, dating back to its role as an important port of the Greeks. It continues to persevere in beauty. And while it is a gem of Spain, it is very different from southern Spain. There are two official languages in Catalonia, and therefore, Barcelona: Catalan and Castilian Spanish. The Catalan government has a policy of promoting the Catalan language. School is taught in both languages, but government work is done solely in Catalan. While Barcelona is most assuredly bilingual, the Catalan people feel that they must keep this policy of dual language to protect their language and their heritage. History runs wide and deep in these places. And it is not only in buildings and museums, but in homes and hearts of people.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
5 Curious Things
Babies are pushed around this city in 1950’s looking baby carriages that are often covered in plastic. I wonder how they get air in there.
Dogs are extremely well behaved here. They obey their owners and stick close to them in public, not even acknowledging a passerby. But, sidewalks are a dog’s territory and no one is cleaning up after them. Watch your step!
Everything comes in smaller packages here. Everything, that is, except sugar packets. One Spanish sugar packet equals three American packets!
When 2pm comes, construction workers’ lunch break begins. And when they say “siesta” they mean “siesta”, laying down in the middle of the construction for a quick afternoon nap.
Truly a city of PDA, couples young and old are very expressive in public. Couples are always walking hand in hand on the street. Spain, after all, is very romantic.
Dogs are extremely well behaved here. They obey their owners and stick close to them in public, not even acknowledging a passerby. But, sidewalks are a dog’s territory and no one is cleaning up after them. Watch your step!
Everything comes in smaller packages here. Everything, that is, except sugar packets. One Spanish sugar packet equals three American packets!
When 2pm comes, construction workers’ lunch break begins. And when they say “siesta” they mean “siesta”, laying down in the middle of the construction for a quick afternoon nap.
Truly a city of PDA, couples young and old are very expressive in public. Couples are always walking hand in hand on the street. Spain, after all, is very romantic.
The Importance of Consulting a Map
I’m getting a bit cocky. Having been here for a month, I’m starting to think I know the city, its sights, and its streets. As it turns out, I don’t.
A friend invited me to a ballet last weekend here in Sevilla. I was so excited about the opportunity to see ballerinas in tutus with perfect execution of plies float across the stage. I even invited three more friends who I knew would enjoy the show. We met almost two hours before the ballet started in the center of town, and began the journey to the theater. The theater is on the Isla de Cartuja, the most northwestern point of Sevilla. We had all been there earlier that day on our adventure to the Gypsy market, which proved to be even more exciting that we had originally thought it would, and so we thought we knew our way, or at least the general direction. When we were near the Gypsy market, we asked a passerby the direction of the Teatro Central. In the traditional Spanish manner, he indicated the direction with a vague wave of the hand. We proceeded on, only to find ourselves in deserted territory. This was not where the theater was. There was no traffic besides the high-speed highway, and we were four girls in skirts and high heels. I noticed a police officer parked on the other side of the road. With a sigh of relief, I darted across the road, knowing he could help us. It turns out he had never heard of the theater. However, between a road map and a call to the station, we finally figured its location. He suggested we find a taxi, as the theater was still quite a ways away. Did I forget to mention that we were now late for the show as well? We crossed back over the road and began in the direction of the theater, hoping to flag down a taxi.
There were none to be found. And after two calls to a taxi company, we were informed that they didn’t service our zone. Suddenly, the city that I thought was fully navigable by foot wasn’t, nor was it by taxi. At this point, the evening was hilarious. We thought briefly about skipping the ballet totally and finding a nice location on the river for some sangria, but decided against that. We had come too far. The option now was to run for the theater, hoping we might make it by intermission and they would allow us to be seated. Running in heels doesn’t get one far, and we eventually found a security guard who was able to call us a taxi. When he arrived, we bolted for the car.
Leave it to the cabbie to know the city. We were at the theater within five minutes. And after pleading with the theater, they consented to seat us at intermission. It turns out we had arrived at intermission, missing the first full half. The usher walked us to our seats, which were in the back of the theater, by entering at the floor and marching us up the middle aisle. Yes, we are the extremely late Americans. All slightly out of breath from the long journey, we enjoyed sitting down, exhaling as we had finally made it.
The lights dimmed and the second half of the ballet began. On to the stage pranced completely nude ballerinas. I choked on my laughter. Here we had run around the city for two hours, on a journey of epic proportions, to get to the ballet. The fact that it all of the ballerinas were nude was almost more than I could handle. What a perfect ending to our story! The four of us couldn’t look at one another for fear of erupting in loud laughter.
After the initial funniness of ending up at a ballet that no one had expected, we sat back to enjoy a very surprisingly beautiful and redemptive second half of the show. The ballet was thoroughly modern and contemporary, but still graceful and inspiring. Once again, another new experience on this never dull road of life here in Spain.
Oh, and we rode the bus home.
A friend invited me to a ballet last weekend here in Sevilla. I was so excited about the opportunity to see ballerinas in tutus with perfect execution of plies float across the stage. I even invited three more friends who I knew would enjoy the show. We met almost two hours before the ballet started in the center of town, and began the journey to the theater. The theater is on the Isla de Cartuja, the most northwestern point of Sevilla. We had all been there earlier that day on our adventure to the Gypsy market, which proved to be even more exciting that we had originally thought it would, and so we thought we knew our way, or at least the general direction. When we were near the Gypsy market, we asked a passerby the direction of the Teatro Central. In the traditional Spanish manner, he indicated the direction with a vague wave of the hand. We proceeded on, only to find ourselves in deserted territory. This was not where the theater was. There was no traffic besides the high-speed highway, and we were four girls in skirts and high heels. I noticed a police officer parked on the other side of the road. With a sigh of relief, I darted across the road, knowing he could help us. It turns out he had never heard of the theater. However, between a road map and a call to the station, we finally figured its location. He suggested we find a taxi, as the theater was still quite a ways away. Did I forget to mention that we were now late for the show as well? We crossed back over the road and began in the direction of the theater, hoping to flag down a taxi.
There were none to be found. And after two calls to a taxi company, we were informed that they didn’t service our zone. Suddenly, the city that I thought was fully navigable by foot wasn’t, nor was it by taxi. At this point, the evening was hilarious. We thought briefly about skipping the ballet totally and finding a nice location on the river for some sangria, but decided against that. We had come too far. The option now was to run for the theater, hoping we might make it by intermission and they would allow us to be seated. Running in heels doesn’t get one far, and we eventually found a security guard who was able to call us a taxi. When he arrived, we bolted for the car.
Leave it to the cabbie to know the city. We were at the theater within five minutes. And after pleading with the theater, they consented to seat us at intermission. It turns out we had arrived at intermission, missing the first full half. The usher walked us to our seats, which were in the back of the theater, by entering at the floor and marching us up the middle aisle. Yes, we are the extremely late Americans. All slightly out of breath from the long journey, we enjoyed sitting down, exhaling as we had finally made it.
The lights dimmed and the second half of the ballet began. On to the stage pranced completely nude ballerinas. I choked on my laughter. Here we had run around the city for two hours, on a journey of epic proportions, to get to the ballet. The fact that it all of the ballerinas were nude was almost more than I could handle. What a perfect ending to our story! The four of us couldn’t look at one another for fear of erupting in loud laughter.
After the initial funniness of ending up at a ballet that no one had expected, we sat back to enjoy a very surprisingly beautiful and redemptive second half of the show. The ballet was thoroughly modern and contemporary, but still graceful and inspiring. Once again, another new experience on this never dull road of life here in Spain.
Oh, and we rode the bus home.
Sightseeing
The study abroad group I’m with has kept us busy sightseeing. Last week we visited El Arenal, a neighborhood of Sevilla that is home to some of its most famous tourist sights. We visited the Torre de Oro, situated on the side of the Rio Qualdalquivir that separates the city into parts. El Arenal is the location of the Hospital de los Venerables and the Plaza de los Torros. It was so amazing to see an empty bullfighting plaza. It had a calm before the storm feeling to it, as I pictured a ring packed with people enduring the heat and watching the slow death of a bull.
A few days later, we traveled to Cadiz, situated on the Atlantic coast. It is the oldest city in Europe, founded by the Phoenicians a LONG time ago. Cadiz celebrates Carnaval, an all-out, all-week long party, so the city was decorated with party lines and the street vendors were lined up to sell all sorts of fair-like foods. We spent a good part of the day walking around the city and exploring its small streets. One of my favorite finds was a small convent down a quiet street. Near the door of the convent there is a small revolving window with a menu next to it. Here, you can order the great treats of cloistered nuns. Because they are cloistered, they cannot speak to you face-to-face, so they place the pastries or cookies on the turntable as you put your money down: an even exchange. And they are some of the best baked goods! Leave it to those nuns.
Outside of Cadiz, we visited a winery that makes sherry. The cellar where they let the sherry age is damp and cool. After an explanation of how sherry is made and the history of winery, we sat down for a fino (sherry) tasting. We tried five types of the winery’s sherry, ranging from clear and tart to dark and molasses like. I don’t necessarily prefer sherry, so, no souvenirs for me.
The ocean at Cadiz was big and bold. The sun was warm, and the breeze was full. It was time to just sit and look out on the expanse of the Atlantic. As I stared out, I thought I would make out the East coast of the US far, far in the distance.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 6
A few days later, we traveled to Cadiz, situated on the Atlantic coast. It is the oldest city in Europe, founded by the Phoenicians a LONG time ago. Cadiz celebrates Carnaval, an all-out, all-week long party, so the city was decorated with party lines and the street vendors were lined up to sell all sorts of fair-like foods. We spent a good part of the day walking around the city and exploring its small streets. One of my favorite finds was a small convent down a quiet street. Near the door of the convent there is a small revolving window with a menu next to it. Here, you can order the great treats of cloistered nuns. Because they are cloistered, they cannot speak to you face-to-face, so they place the pastries or cookies on the turntable as you put your money down: an even exchange. And they are some of the best baked goods! Leave it to those nuns.
Outside of Cadiz, we visited a winery that makes sherry. The cellar where they let the sherry age is damp and cool. After an explanation of how sherry is made and the history of winery, we sat down for a fino (sherry) tasting. We tried five types of the winery’s sherry, ranging from clear and tart to dark and molasses like. I don’t necessarily prefer sherry, so, no souvenirs for me.
The ocean at Cadiz was big and bold. The sun was warm, and the breeze was full. It was time to just sit and look out on the expanse of the Atlantic. As I stared out, I thought I would make out the East coast of the US far, far in the distance.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 6
Monday, February 26, 2007
Patience
On my way home tonight, I stopped off at the post office to mail a letter. I was prepared, knowing where my letter was going, knowing the location of the post office, and the proper etiquette once there. This is the grace of doing something for the second time: the quiet confidence that previous experience provides. I walked into the post office only to find a very long line and only one open desk. Sigh. I found myself in line and began to wait. I waited. And I waited some more.
Lines are long here. They were in Portugal as well. But, the wait is inconsequential. No one was frustrated in the line at the post office. No tapping of the toe nor sighing. Only the calm of patience. I’m beginning to wonder what our rush in the United States is all about.
Most errands, and life as a whole, are done on foot. My senora has this fancy looking cart that holds an impressive amount. While I briefly had an “urban dweller” experience, and a cart to prove it, it was a phase for me. Here, it is a way of life. My senora has been loading up her cart, running her errands to the nearby stores for over a quarter of a century. It invariably takes longer than expected. Running into someone you know or pausing to look in at a store’s window display are apart of the journey. Nothing can be done quickly. Never can one say, “I’ll just be a minute.” No, everything takes longer than expected.
And how freeing it is! One is never hurried or frazzled in that “I’m going to kill anyone who gets in front of me” way. Yes, of course people find themselves crunched for time or running behind, but they take it in stride. The world will still be rotating if they arrive a bit late.
Really, though, it isn’t as if people are habitually late. They leave early. They build some grace time into their commute. And so, with a few extra minutes, they experience a time to stop and take in their surroundings, gather their thoughts (or actually think some thoughts!), or simply rest.
In those extra moments of waiting, one notices. At the post office, the woman in front of me clutched the package she was to send with excitement. The husband behind me was a bit perturbed at his wife. The woman at the counter smiled and looked me in the eye, despite the solid 15-minute line waiting.
It was civil (Dare I say pleasant?) to wait in that line. Not a chore or a bore, and no frustration to be seen.
I noticed an American news headline today. A mother of two will be imprisoned for throwing a glass of ice at another car in a fit of road rage. Contrasted with my everyday encounters of waiting, I’m wondering if impatience breeds impatience. And, if it does, how does one combat against the status quo short temper and embrace a bit more grace and patience? Is all our anger and exertion worth the perceived time we recoup?
As I walked out of the post office, I noticed a man and a woman outside of their parked car. Blocked in by a double parking job, the man shrugged his shoulders at the woman, and they leaned against the car door. Nothing they could do but wait.
I smiled incredulously at their patience as I walked past them.
Lines are long here. They were in Portugal as well. But, the wait is inconsequential. No one was frustrated in the line at the post office. No tapping of the toe nor sighing. Only the calm of patience. I’m beginning to wonder what our rush in the United States is all about.
Most errands, and life as a whole, are done on foot. My senora has this fancy looking cart that holds an impressive amount. While I briefly had an “urban dweller” experience, and a cart to prove it, it was a phase for me. Here, it is a way of life. My senora has been loading up her cart, running her errands to the nearby stores for over a quarter of a century. It invariably takes longer than expected. Running into someone you know or pausing to look in at a store’s window display are apart of the journey. Nothing can be done quickly. Never can one say, “I’ll just be a minute.” No, everything takes longer than expected.
And how freeing it is! One is never hurried or frazzled in that “I’m going to kill anyone who gets in front of me” way. Yes, of course people find themselves crunched for time or running behind, but they take it in stride. The world will still be rotating if they arrive a bit late.
Really, though, it isn’t as if people are habitually late. They leave early. They build some grace time into their commute. And so, with a few extra minutes, they experience a time to stop and take in their surroundings, gather their thoughts (or actually think some thoughts!), or simply rest.
In those extra moments of waiting, one notices. At the post office, the woman in front of me clutched the package she was to send with excitement. The husband behind me was a bit perturbed at his wife. The woman at the counter smiled and looked me in the eye, despite the solid 15-minute line waiting.
It was civil (Dare I say pleasant?) to wait in that line. Not a chore or a bore, and no frustration to be seen.
I noticed an American news headline today. A mother of two will be imprisoned for throwing a glass of ice at another car in a fit of road rage. Contrasted with my everyday encounters of waiting, I’m wondering if impatience breeds impatience. And, if it does, how does one combat against the status quo short temper and embrace a bit more grace and patience? Is all our anger and exertion worth the perceived time we recoup?
As I walked out of the post office, I noticed a man and a woman outside of their parked car. Blocked in by a double parking job, the man shrugged his shoulders at the woman, and they leaned against the car door. Nothing they could do but wait.
I smiled incredulously at their patience as I walked past them.
Wet
It rained yesterday. Again. After moving to the midatlantic states, and after many years of cold, frozen, snowy winters, I’m learning what winter looks like everywhere else: wetness. Lots and lots of wetness. I’m sure it is different in Florida, Texas, Arizona, or someplace else for sweet fruit grows on trees, but I haven’t tried those places yet. So, I’ve learned to always carry my umbrella with me.
The rain was insulating, holding in a bone-deep cold. As I walked back home after a full day of class, I navigated the small lakes that were forming on the sidewalk, due to a lacking drainage system. Here we are, the few of us that are out, getting our beautiful European leather shoes soaked, huddling under umbrellas that only protect the upper half of our bodies, walking in pants wet up to the knee, hoping that our destination will appear quickly. The sounds of the city have been muffled. It is like a trumpet with the mute in: the noises are isolated and their ring is cut short. The crazy drivers in this city suddenly became concerned and concentrated, intensely focusing on the road ahead of them. For a few hours, the rhythm of life in this city slows and disappears behind closed doors.
It took me three days and three showers to figure out how the hot water in the house works. The first day, one of our coldest days here, I barely put my body under the frigid stream of water coming from the showerhead. The next day, I was prepared for the battle. I braved the cold: the need for to be clean can drive a person to withstand the most extreme of temperature. Then, the third day. I decided that running the water for awhile might make a difference. It did. Glorious hot water fell from that showerhead.
There are two 3-liter bottles of water sitting on the dining table. They have been there since we arrived. We fill them up from the sink, and they serve as water pitchers at all our meals. Sometimes, in a fit of American anxiousness, I wonder how the plastic of those bottles is holding up. Have I consumed all of the cancerous particles yet? Will those plastic bottles, probably bought from the Rastafarian looking man at the tobacco stand on the corner, still be on the table when I leave Spain?
Something as simple as water suddenly takes on new meaning as I live in a new world and begin to think in new ways. While Spain is far from a third world country, where clean water is often scarce, there is attentiveness to water here. People think twice about letting the water run. They are more careful in not wasting it. I see more signs that alert people to the fact that clean, fresh water is a commodity. Water is again an element with force. Water is not a convenience that one may squander, but force of nature. It pushes people inside on a rainy day. It quenches thirst on a hot day in the middle of the plaza. Seeing water as something that is not simply as bothersome weather or an unending resource reminds me of my place in the world. It is a healthy and refreshing to view see myself as a part of the world: that the world is not our own, but rather, we have a place in it.
The rain was insulating, holding in a bone-deep cold. As I walked back home after a full day of class, I navigated the small lakes that were forming on the sidewalk, due to a lacking drainage system. Here we are, the few of us that are out, getting our beautiful European leather shoes soaked, huddling under umbrellas that only protect the upper half of our bodies, walking in pants wet up to the knee, hoping that our destination will appear quickly. The sounds of the city have been muffled. It is like a trumpet with the mute in: the noises are isolated and their ring is cut short. The crazy drivers in this city suddenly became concerned and concentrated, intensely focusing on the road ahead of them. For a few hours, the rhythm of life in this city slows and disappears behind closed doors.
It took me three days and three showers to figure out how the hot water in the house works. The first day, one of our coldest days here, I barely put my body under the frigid stream of water coming from the showerhead. The next day, I was prepared for the battle. I braved the cold: the need for to be clean can drive a person to withstand the most extreme of temperature. Then, the third day. I decided that running the water for awhile might make a difference. It did. Glorious hot water fell from that showerhead.
There are two 3-liter bottles of water sitting on the dining table. They have been there since we arrived. We fill them up from the sink, and they serve as water pitchers at all our meals. Sometimes, in a fit of American anxiousness, I wonder how the plastic of those bottles is holding up. Have I consumed all of the cancerous particles yet? Will those plastic bottles, probably bought from the Rastafarian looking man at the tobacco stand on the corner, still be on the table when I leave Spain?
Something as simple as water suddenly takes on new meaning as I live in a new world and begin to think in new ways. While Spain is far from a third world country, where clean water is often scarce, there is attentiveness to water here. People think twice about letting the water run. They are more careful in not wasting it. I see more signs that alert people to the fact that clean, fresh water is a commodity. Water is again an element with force. Water is not a convenience that one may squander, but force of nature. It pushes people inside on a rainy day. It quenches thirst on a hot day in the middle of the plaza. Seeing water as something that is not simply as bothersome weather or an unending resource reminds me of my place in the world. It is a healthy and refreshing to view see myself as a part of the world: that the world is not our own, but rather, we have a place in it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Lisboa
I’m young and I’m in Europe: two good reasons for someone to take an overnight bus to and from Lisbon, Portugal. Heading out with my roommate and a girl with whom I graduated from high school, we rode a bus through Thursday night to arrive in Lisbon at 5am. An hour behind Spain, we found ourselves sitting in front of the closed Metro station, eating our packed lunch. The ride and the wait were well worth it because we greeted Lisbon by sunrise. As morning dawned on the Portuguese city, monuments, palaces, castles, and the ocean sparkled in the light. The city lay crisp and cool, uninterrupted and still. We navigated our way to an open cafeteria for strong coffee and croissants. Europe is about eating, it really is. After our second breakfast, we found a small place to stay centrally located, dropped off our bags, and began our tour of this sweet city.
I don’t think I would ever travel to Portugal as a destination from the states, but it was a surprisingly lovely trip. We successfully navigated Metro, bus, train, and trolley. We traveled on Friday northwest of Lisbon to Sintra, a small town tucked into the hills. Sintra is the location of several National Palaces. We journeyed even further into the hills to see the Pena National Palace. What a gem! Intricate design and color surprised up. Ferdinand von Coburg Gotha, married to Queen Maria II (for all of you Portuguese royalty buffs) ordered this palace to be built in the 19th century. This romantic edifice blends artistic styles from Antiquity to the Renaissance, the art of the East, Arab-style domes, minarets and manuelino motifs. The palace was the refuge of the last king of Portugal went he went into exile before the country became a republic. The Palace enchanted us. The inside was ornately decorated, and an interesting look into 19th century opulence and royal life.
The Jeronimos Monastery looms large in Belem, a short trip east of the center of Lisbon, on the river. Like much of Europe, the interaction of the old and new always arrests me. You turn a corner, and suddenly, the Monastery faces you fully. Begun in 1501, the cathedral and the cloister feature a late-Gothic, early Renaissance design. While I have seen more monasteries, cathedrals, and palaces in the past month than in life in total, I’m still overwhelmed by the greatness. It is odd, though, to watch myself get used to the beauty and the greatness as it becomes apart of daily life. Oh, that it would always be powerful! We stopped at Pasteis de Belem for one of the best pastries I’ve ever eaten. Of the 100 employees of the pasteleria, only three know the recipe, and have signed agreements to never share the secret. Made since 1837, these pastries are the crowning jewel in a city famous for their pastries.
Our second day was overcast, and the sky spit at us much of the afternoon. The Torre de Belem and the Monument to the Discoveries sit on the Tagus River. Portugal’s history is consumed with discovery. The Discoveries monument is beautiful, but begs questions concerning whether discovery is something only to celebrate. I believe that discovery and pushing the limits of what we know is a human instinct. But, as a student of history, it is equally important to consider the ramifications of actions. Pushing the main discoverer on the monument are knights, royals, and men of the church. And this is a major part of considering the history of discovery: the church. The more I study, the more I realize that little of the subject of history can be separated from the history of the church. Understanding its role, and its thought process are helpful in deciphering the story we find ourselves in today as a church.
The Torre de Belem is the defensive complex constructed to protect the city. Erected between 1514 and 1520, this tower truly is a fortress. You’ll notice in the pictures that I just had to touch the ocean water. And in true Sarah fashion, ended up sliding in.
Our last stop was the site of the 1998 World Expo. Lisbon only made me love Spain and its culture more. I think Portugal is like the little brother of Spain. Much like Eastern Europe is only now coming into its own, Portugal, having been under a dictator for so long, is just beginning to explore democracy and questions of their identity. The World Expo site was a great testament to the desire of Portugal to move forward and take responsibility for its own growth. At the Expo site was a large, new mall. It was odd to see American and Spanish stores in a Portuguese mall in which you could smoke. The mall stood as a testament to Portugal’s strivings to make up for lost time.
Suddenly, we were climbing back onto the overnight bus. We were only in Lisbon for two days, but it had seemed like an eternity. All in all, time has been playing tricks on me. Full days and new experiences seem to be claiming time faster than ever before, but the days are still rich. And the discoveries, although they include both good and bad, are revealing much to me about this world and who I am in it.
I don’t think I would ever travel to Portugal as a destination from the states, but it was a surprisingly lovely trip. We successfully navigated Metro, bus, train, and trolley. We traveled on Friday northwest of Lisbon to Sintra, a small town tucked into the hills. Sintra is the location of several National Palaces. We journeyed even further into the hills to see the Pena National Palace. What a gem! Intricate design and color surprised up. Ferdinand von Coburg Gotha, married to Queen Maria II (for all of you Portuguese royalty buffs) ordered this palace to be built in the 19th century. This romantic edifice blends artistic styles from Antiquity to the Renaissance, the art of the East, Arab-style domes, minarets and manuelino motifs. The palace was the refuge of the last king of Portugal went he went into exile before the country became a republic. The Palace enchanted us. The inside was ornately decorated, and an interesting look into 19th century opulence and royal life.
The Jeronimos Monastery looms large in Belem, a short trip east of the center of Lisbon, on the river. Like much of Europe, the interaction of the old and new always arrests me. You turn a corner, and suddenly, the Monastery faces you fully. Begun in 1501, the cathedral and the cloister feature a late-Gothic, early Renaissance design. While I have seen more monasteries, cathedrals, and palaces in the past month than in life in total, I’m still overwhelmed by the greatness. It is odd, though, to watch myself get used to the beauty and the greatness as it becomes apart of daily life. Oh, that it would always be powerful! We stopped at Pasteis de Belem for one of the best pastries I’ve ever eaten. Of the 100 employees of the pasteleria, only three know the recipe, and have signed agreements to never share the secret. Made since 1837, these pastries are the crowning jewel in a city famous for their pastries.
Our second day was overcast, and the sky spit at us much of the afternoon. The Torre de Belem and the Monument to the Discoveries sit on the Tagus River. Portugal’s history is consumed with discovery. The Discoveries monument is beautiful, but begs questions concerning whether discovery is something only to celebrate. I believe that discovery and pushing the limits of what we know is a human instinct. But, as a student of history, it is equally important to consider the ramifications of actions. Pushing the main discoverer on the monument are knights, royals, and men of the church. And this is a major part of considering the history of discovery: the church. The more I study, the more I realize that little of the subject of history can be separated from the history of the church. Understanding its role, and its thought process are helpful in deciphering the story we find ourselves in today as a church.
The Torre de Belem is the defensive complex constructed to protect the city. Erected between 1514 and 1520, this tower truly is a fortress. You’ll notice in the pictures that I just had to touch the ocean water. And in true Sarah fashion, ended up sliding in.
Our last stop was the site of the 1998 World Expo. Lisbon only made me love Spain and its culture more. I think Portugal is like the little brother of Spain. Much like Eastern Europe is only now coming into its own, Portugal, having been under a dictator for so long, is just beginning to explore democracy and questions of their identity. The World Expo site was a great testament to the desire of Portugal to move forward and take responsibility for its own growth. At the Expo site was a large, new mall. It was odd to see American and Spanish stores in a Portuguese mall in which you could smoke. The mall stood as a testament to Portugal’s strivings to make up for lost time.
Suddenly, we were climbing back onto the overnight bus. We were only in Lisbon for two days, but it had seemed like an eternity. All in all, time has been playing tricks on me. Full days and new experiences seem to be claiming time faster than ever before, but the days are still rich. And the discoveries, although they include both good and bad, are revealing much to me about this world and who I am in it.
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