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.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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
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