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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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