culture shock

There are no pickup trucks here, none.

Every plaza has a small herd of dogs, possibly the guardians of the plaza, roaming free from leashes.

There is a plaza every five minutes whatever direction you walk.

There will always be a minimum of five old men in the vicinity, no matter where you are (cafe, street, plaza)

Wearing slippers in the house is the only accepted pastimes. i once went barefoot, and i still get mocked by my host mother.

The facade of a building is either charmingly historic or bluntly architectural.

No one speaks my language, I go to a grocery store, a restaurant, a cafe, a store, I must speak in Spanish to be understood.

Everyone wears scarfs and boots, no exceptions.

Light switches are different, a large square pad that tilts one way or another, I have not seen a switch I recognize.

I can see a Cathedral from my bedroom window.

I walk to and and from class everyday, it takes me fifteen minutes, I recognize landmarks as plazas and certain twists of the road.

Street performers can be scary, especially the ones in flowerpots.

You won't know exactly where you are, if you get lost, until you find a map. Orientation is difficult.

There is no "dryer" after the washing machine. Clothes go on a clothesline outside.

Drinks come in tiny little bottles or cups. Coca Cola is especially adorable, a miniature glass bottle. Coffee is the most upsetting. I pay 2 euros for a thimblefull? And starbucks just released Vienta or whatever, their newest huge size.

No carpets, I haven't seen a single carpet.

The table where I eat all my meals has a heater underneath it, and a tablecloth over it, so when you eat lunch or dinner, you pull up the tablecloth like a blanket and drape it over your laps and you legs and feet under the table get really warm from the heater.

Spanish talk shows are full of mean and loud and opinionated people.

Spanish soap operas are hilarious and full of very attractive and emotional people.

The "Don't Walk" signal is more of a suggestion than a command.

And one particular difference, that I absolutely adore, the amazingly delicious pastries. One is flaky, sugary, honeyed, shaped like a heart and covered in chocolate, another is long and flaky, stuffed with chocolate, covered in sprinkles and so soft and delicious. And you haven't lived until you've had legit hot chocolate and churros. Melt in your mouth, thick soupy chocolate and doughy yet crunchy and hot churros.

More later,

Love always,

Jennings

bellas artes and bohemian rhapsody

my weekend was quite odd, quite pleasant, and unabashedly European. I woke up on friday very late, missing school, because my phone died rending my alarm clock, well, dead. at two, the day was over, school was over. Loli, my host mother, chastisedme for my tardiness and failure to enjoy the coffee she daily prepared me. of course, given my rudimentary understanding of spanish, and my so-so verbalization skills, i got away with a repeated "i'm sorry, it won't ever happen again, please, i'm sorry"

what to do for the rest of the day? i was well-slept, no need for a nap, which is what i usually took care of at this hour. i put on makeup, a new dress, some leggings, and scurried out the door. determined to walk around until dark, feeling nerdy by spanish standards for my lack of "marchosa" or party-girl-ness. i walked down to Sierpes

, a main shopping street in seville, and comfortably window shopped for a few hours. upon reaching the end of sierpes, i realized i was near Corte Ingles, a massive enormous department store that houses literally everything. there are five floors, the bottom boasts a supermarket, the second gleams with what seems like miles of design

er makeup, and the top three sell clothes. across the plaza from "big" Corte Ingles is another Corte Ingles that has electronics, art supplies, cameras, books, all kinds of stuff. i explored for another few hours.

there were few things that truly differenciated Corte Ingles from a regular supermarket/supermall/department store. in one clothes floor, there was a whole enormous section devoted entirely to flamenco dresses. expensive, highly ruffled, flamboyently colored party dresses.

after being introduced to some makeup that cost upwards of a hundred euros, i fled to the books section. the selection for english books was disheartening. however after a moment's pause i purchased a massive biography on Michael Jackson. halfway through it i now realize...HE LIVES!!

anyways, i checked out the supermarket section and was stunned to discover more kinds of meat on display than i had ever witnessed. the seafood section alone was enough to beat HEB's paltry display to a pulp then take it's mom out to dinner. clams, fishes, octopi, stingrays, sharks, even monster sea creatures i have no name for. only the grocery store's i had visited in mexico could begin to compare.

after Corte Ingles i stubbornly decided to experience some culture. i found my way to plaza museo, where the Museo de Bellas Artes was located. I spent a good two hours analyzing and taking furtive pictures of the amazing artwork. hardly anyone else was there, besides several portly mustached security guards (who clearly weren't doing their job as i "stole" over 80 pictures of fascinating and expert artwork). the realism and atonement of the christian images contrasted with several paintings that displayed, quite acutely, the trials of the working class or peasants. anyways i could probably do a whole post of the Bellas Artes but not now. i include a few random pics, not my favorites, but they're interesting nonetheless.

one of the many images of virgin mary and son

something vaguely impressionist? i like it, especially the water

a movie theater and watched Black Swan again, in spanish. it was just as freaky and beautiful the second time around, perhaps more so because rather than focusing on the script i paid attention to the well-executed cinematography and acting, i knew exactly what was going on, and cringed twice as much because of it.

that evening, after i returned home and ate dinner, i recieved several phone calls alerting me to the plans for that evening among the CIEE exchange students. we were to meet in plaza san salvador and hang out, passing time as is the spanish way. after getting dressed, slashing on some red lipstick, applying all the necessary dazzle, i escaped out the door at 10:35. Reaching salvador fifteen minutes later, i was disheartened to realize my friends were already immersed in a conversation, the type that would be really obnoxious to interrupt. ya know the type? so i was elated when a guy beside me struck up a conversation, in spanish. eventually, he and his friends began clapping and singing flamenco-style songs as i danced in my best sitting-down imitation of a flamenco dancer. the other girls in their group followed my lead and soon we were the loudest, merriest group sitting on the steps in salvador plaza.

later, one guy from new york suggested karioke. quickly we followed his suggestion and the next thing i knew i was sitting with some new friends in a karioke bar, being urged from my chair by two spanish girls on the stage. i sang shakira's "she-wolf" in spanish, blinding reading from the teleprompter, as Estrella and Natalia sang superfast and accurately from memory.

after this show, about six heart-wrenching spanish ballads later, crooned by middle-aged men and teenage girls alike, i returned to the stage accompanied by three new york college men. together we brought down the house with a shrill, hearty, powerful, inept, enthusiastic rendering of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Natalia took a video with her camera, and i certain that when or if it is ever displayed, i will be both highly humiliated and proud of the images.

we shared a taxi home after our song, and then i was saying a fond farewell to my new friends.

a truly memorable day and night in sevilla, spain.

futbol

today i played soccer for one hour with a bunch of 12 year old boys. it was, without a doubt, the most exercise i have gotten in over six months. luckily my hard work and determination, as well as my eventually willingness to bodyslam anyone shorter than me into the ground, awarded me much respect amongst my midget crowd. i scored four gols. my hand hurt from all the high fives i recieved. although, it should be mentioned, the goalposts were sideways desks, the playing field was half of a gym, and the ball was a soft green nerf. HOWEVER, i was so skilled, i was nominated their power forward or whatever. that "agressive player that plows everyone else aside to force the nerfball beneath the desk". ya know.

interestingly, this volunteer job requires me to ride a bike for thirty minutes, then a bus for another twenty. i rent my bicycle from a convenient red kiosk, one of many located throughout the city. wide green paths are marked specifically for bicycles, and when i'm a normal pedestrian, i frequently get yelled at for straying into this bicycle lane. quite a few times i've been so spaced out that i've actually met a screaming bicyclist face to face, handlebar to hands. however as a bicyclist myself, i've become quite adept at veering my bike away from stupid idiot walkers, and staying within my nice green road.

tapas and maps

after i finally arrive, i am exhausted. someone once told me that if you stay awake for three days, you begin to hallucinate, and honestly i felt as i were in a dream. after arriving, without luggage and a day late to my program, i was immediantly escorted to torre del orro where my tour began. there are about eighteen other students in my program, and more than half are year-long students, meaning they know each other and the city quite well already. already there is dissonce between us, a distinct line between the veterans and the noobies, however most are funny and nice and welcoming, just established in their patterns and friendships.

walking around seville for the first time, as i mentioned before, was unreal. the city was like old black and white films of paris, bustling with the vigor of new york, romantic and beautiful and picturesque in a way that struck my sleep-deprived mind as ethereal and dreamy. we ate tapas together, delicious plates bombarded our table, one after the other, chicken, rice, coquettes, and i vibrated with hunger and exhaustion, unable to communicate well, fearing being left out unless i attempted conversation. after tapas we went to flamenco, again i imagined i was hallucinating again, with a studly serious man wearing vivid red high heels stomping furiously on a platform to the beat and croon of spanish guitarist. his heels stomped louder faster, furiously and his hands danced flamboyently, not ceasing even to push his shiny curls from his face. as he twirled, my body gave out, too much, too soon. i abandoned flamenco, my guides, and my fellow students, and attempted to find my way home.

after an arduous and byzantine trek, i found my appartment, crashed in my tiny twin bed, and slept, almost missing the bus tour the next morning.

the day was long, not boring, and brimming with too many striking sights to name. that evening, my friend emily james and i accompanied our other friends matt and louise out on the town. they live across the river of seville, while we live near each other, on the edge of the city. after finding one another, we broke the conversational ice over hookah, then later found a cafe and continued our midnight conversations. after arriving home at two, i realized i could sleep for only five hours before i had my first day of spanish school.

thus far school is enjoyable. there are six nationalities represented in a room of ten people. australia, korea, japan, denmark, switzerland, and cananda. the japanese women are the most funny, and our entire class vibrates with energy, a group of people all learning and struggling and living in a foreign country.

I should be in spain

but instead im in a hotel in new jersey. i feel quite relaxed actually, after the adventures and nastiness of the day. i have a bottle of grape juice and a king size package of reeses buttercups, and this is my dinner since they stop room service at midnight. all i have is my carryon, no luggage, and I have a flight to Barcelona at seven tomorrow evening. I have been away from home for fifteen hours and counting.

The day started nicely enough, if vaguely tragic, hugging my little brother goodbye, going to my moms house, making scrambled eggs with Zach, tearful goodbye kisses, and a periodic shutdown of all negative emotion. I refuse to weep, I refuse to sob, succumbing to homesickness this early on will only lead to difficulties later. Then I was off.

Two hour drive to houston, singing Katy Perry's more risque songs at the top of my lungs, i think nothing. After my mother leaves me, I am completely alone, completely self-reliant, not for the first time, but in the most common and typical way. Navigating airports is challenging for most adults, I see a women arguing with a travel agent, frantically trying to get on a flight, reduced to tears because the women can do nothing. perhaps foreshadowing my own eventually helplessness in the face of these weatherworn beacons of knowledge.

In houston, my 1:10 flight to Newark has been delayed. Mechanical issues. My connection to Barcelona leaves at 7:10. No big deal. Again, the flight is delayed, I'm concerned about speaking to the travel agent about my connection, fearing dismissal. Overcoming my shyness, I inquire, receiving a snide response about how they can't hold the airplane for me (the subtext assuming I believe I am superior/presumptuous/spoiled little girl)

The flight leaves at 3, arriving at 6:50. We (myself and my fellow airplane travelers (and really it should be "we" because somehow it felt as if it was us against the conniving and evil airline, we cracked jokes, we helped each other out, one nice man helped me store my overhead carryon, another allowed me to board in front of him, etc)) sit and sit, the plane finally departs, scheduled time of arrival is 7:40.

I will miss my flight to Barcelona. Fear, the kind of awful crumbly and teary fear that dominates one's mind, pours over me. I attempt to relax, read, chat with my seatmate, longing to relax in this tight chair on this crowded steel bus hurtling through the air. We arrive in Newark. We taxi about for three hours. Now the horror of that statement may be lost on you, so i will attempt to elaborate. The air is dusty and hot, my clothes cling to me, my neck hurts, my body hurts, everyone is hissing with frustration and annoyance. Perhaps horror may be an exaggeration, and really, it is. A man has a heart attack during this period of time. An announcement interrupts my mental anguish, requesting that a doctor on board reveal himself. Death has a way of slamming perspective upon you. This is nothing, this is simply a blip in my journey. Relax, calm yourself, and distract yourself.

Attempts to somehow avoid booking a hotel and board a midnight flight to Madrid fail. I wait in line another hour, waiting consumes me. Patience isn't a quality that runs rampant in my blood. I tend to want to go, now. Wait wait wait and then, tedium, frustration, and a booking on the next flight to Barcelona.

I catch a taxi to my hotel, the aptly named The Renaissance, a far more difficult task than it might appear. Commanding women direct the flood of people seeking transportation, callously ignoring those who don't speak up. Without some shred of confidence, I never would have left the slushy park and loading zone of the Newark International Airport. After I attain a taxi, I realize my cash has been exchanged to euros. I have only 16 dollars for an 18 dollar fare. Cursing both my luck and that of the cabdriver, I sheepishly give him a 10 euro bill in addition to my crumpled cash. He drops me off in front of the hotel. Boarded for renovations, the handwritten sign taped to the glass door reads. I blink, considering the possibility that I am stranded in jersey, surrounded by waist high snowfalls, with no cash. I glance to my left, noticing a path of footprints. Stumbling I follow the path, snow reaching to my knees, plodding along in my already soaked boots, before reaching a service road. my hand is on my phone, ready to call my mom, i curse my packed pepper spray, hoping feverishly for no bad men to catch me. the hotel is open from the rear, and I numbly go through the motions of checking in, showering, and making phone calls before crashing blindly in bed.

Twas a hard day, and I will be one day late to the program.

Two Weeks and Three Days

Until I leave, and I'm getting more and more anxious. Leaving terrifies me more and more but I know that's what my soul needs. To get out of here. When I was in school it felt like every day was just the same mindless tedium, class after class, test after test. Finish studying for one, and another is on the horizon. I hope that's not what college is going to be like. For now, I'm filling my days with Zach, cooking, family, and sleeping. A lot of sleeping. Too much sleeping. I'm going to help my dad at his storage business until I leave. You won't get another post from me until I'm actually in Spain, living the dream, ideally.

I suppose this blog is going to keep whoever cares updated on Skype times, the daily goings on of my life abroad, and my personal thoughts and revelations.

Love, J.