Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Pass tea vents.
If you were to pass tea vents, it would smell good, I think. If you would like to see more pictures of passed events, take a look at this Tabblo about my day trip into Madrid with Becky and Avery on January 19.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Consider yourself kissed.
At first, the Spanish custom of giving a kiss on each cheek as a greeting made me a little nervous. Not actually doing it (that's easy and not awkward at all) but the thought of it. I thought it would be awkward and that I would somehow mess up when I did it.
The first person I gave dos besos (two kisses) to was a little old man involved with the street evangelism ministry in Madrid. The last place I got dos besos was the Catholic church I worshiped at yesterday.
During orientation at the school here, they explained the practice of dos besos in detail. Often when a group of friends goes out or when a family gets together, they will all go around and give dos besos to everybody before leaving to go on their separate ways. But sometimes this is just impractical. Say you are saying goodbye to the fourteen friends that you've just discoed away the evening with. That's twenty-eight kisses. In such a case, it is appropriate to just say, "Dos besos para todos! (two kisses for everybody!)" as you wave goodbye. It's a way of saying, "consider yourself kissed."
Having so much to explore, so much to try, and so much to talk about makes me want to do two things: a) spend none of my time keeping in contact with people and b) spend all of my time keeping in contact with people. I hope to continue to use this blog as a sort of compromise. When you read these posts, imagine that we have run into each other on the street and chatted a bit. Consider yourself kissed.
I am happy to say that Tabblo seems to be working well again, so I have finally finished an old post on my time in Toledo with my ECA friends. It can be found here.
And here's one of my pictures from the parks. More photoblogs will be coming.
This past weekend, I spent a day in Morocco, a day in Gibraltar, and a day in Los Arcos. But since I've only journaled about half of one of those days and already have about four notebook pages, I won't be able to post anything until tomorrow. And I use 'tomorrow' in the Spanish sense, as in, 'not today.'
Dos besos para todos!
The first person I gave dos besos (two kisses) to was a little old man involved with the street evangelism ministry in Madrid. The last place I got dos besos was the Catholic church I worshiped at yesterday.
During orientation at the school here, they explained the practice of dos besos in detail. Often when a group of friends goes out or when a family gets together, they will all go around and give dos besos to everybody before leaving to go on their separate ways. But sometimes this is just impractical. Say you are saying goodbye to the fourteen friends that you've just discoed away the evening with. That's twenty-eight kisses. In such a case, it is appropriate to just say, "Dos besos para todos! (two kisses for everybody!)" as you wave goodbye. It's a way of saying, "consider yourself kissed."
Having so much to explore, so much to try, and so much to talk about makes me want to do two things: a) spend none of my time keeping in contact with people and b) spend all of my time keeping in contact with people. I hope to continue to use this blog as a sort of compromise. When you read these posts, imagine that we have run into each other on the street and chatted a bit. Consider yourself kissed.
I am happy to say that Tabblo seems to be working well again, so I have finally finished an old post on my time in Toledo with my ECA friends. It can be found here.
And here's one of my pictures from the parks. More photoblogs will be coming.
This past weekend, I spent a day in Morocco, a day in Gibraltar, and a day in Los Arcos. But since I've only journaled about half of one of those days and already have about four notebook pages, I won't be able to post anything until tomorrow. And I use 'tomorrow' in the Spanish sense, as in, 'not today.'
Dos besos para todos!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
pictures
Sorry about the lack of pictures since I've been in Sevilla. Tabblo, the site that hosts my photoblog, has been has been fluking up my posts lately, so I haven't been able to publish anything. But the people there are working on it. For now, I've put some pictures on flickr. I've captioned the photos, so if you view them as a slide show, click on 'options' to turn the descriptions on.around Sevilla
los parques
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
a typical day
Typical day:
-Get up at 8:00am
-Eat cereal for breakfast. My roommate Alaina eats toast like a normal Spaniard, but I'm just special because my body can't eat yeast every day. Try explaining that to someone who doesn't speak English and who has only ever eaten toast for breakfast every day of her life for all of her sixty years. That was my first full-length conversation with my señora.
-Shower and get ready for school.
-Walk twenty minutes through Triana (my barrio), over the canal Guadalquivir, past the Torre de Oro, past the McDonald's, to my school.
-Attend three classes, completely in Spanish (we are not allowed to speak English at the school). I take advanced grammar, art history (We are visiting the mosque in Córdoba this Friday!) and a literature class on Don Quijote.
-Spend some time on the internet, since we don't have internet at our apartment.
-Walk home for our 2:30 lunch.
-Do some homework during the siesta. It's been gorgeous every day, so we often go to the park.
-Explore our barrio. One of my favorite spots is Antonio's store.
-Return to school to use the internet, meet up with friends for tapas, or attend a school activity.
-Walk back home for our 9:30 supper.
-Finish homework, journal, and talk until bedtime.
-Get up at 8:00am
-Eat cereal for breakfast. My roommate Alaina eats toast like a normal Spaniard, but I'm just special because my body can't eat yeast every day. Try explaining that to someone who doesn't speak English and who has only ever eaten toast for breakfast every day of her life for all of her sixty years. That was my first full-length conversation with my señora.
-Shower and get ready for school.
-Walk twenty minutes through Triana (my barrio), over the canal Guadalquivir, past the Torre de Oro, past the McDonald's, to my school.
-Attend three classes, completely in Spanish (we are not allowed to speak English at the school). I take advanced grammar, art history (We are visiting the mosque in Córdoba this Friday!) and a literature class on Don Quijote.
-Spend some time on the internet, since we don't have internet at our apartment.
-Walk home for our 2:30 lunch.
-Do some homework during the siesta. It's been gorgeous every day, so we often go to the park.
-Explore our barrio. One of my favorite spots is Antonio's store.
-Return to school to use the internet, meet up with friends for tapas, or attend a school activity.
-Walk back home for our 9:30 supper.
-Finish homework, journal, and talk until bedtime.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
You can't be a multilingual, world traveling musician and lazy at the same time.
We are sitting inside now. We were sitting outside, using the internet from school, because school is closed for the evening. I think the reason that the cashier came out and asked us to either buy something or leave was that my new friend had started to play the harmonica.
He wasn't exactly a new friend, just a man on the street. I was reading my email when I heard a voice say "Hello, girls." (How did he know that we spoke English? Do I really look that much like a foreigner? It might have had something to do with my roommate Alaina skyping in English with her parents.) I looked up and saw a man in a flannel shirt carrying a sleeping bag, a knapsack, and a violin in a plaid case on his shoulders. "Please visit the site lazybeggars," he said. "It's my friends' site."
I didn't know what to say. So I said "okay" and hoped that he would go away and not wait to see if I visited the website. Because I wasn't going to visit the website.
But he stood there for a few more seconds. He was the picture perfect beggar. "Can I take a picture of you?" I asked, since my camera was sitting in my lap.
"Only if you pay me. I am not a tourist attraction."
I noticed that he was gripping his left hand with his right and that there was an inch long gash on his left thumb. "What happened to your hand?" I asked.
"Last night I was drunk. Now, I am not a man who is always drunk. I am only drunk maybe two or three times a year. But last night my friends and I had a party. And I fell and hurt my hand and it's really hurting me now."
I had a hard time believing a man holding a large bottle of beer in his hand when he said that he rarely gets drunk. I said "Well, be careful," and pointed to the twenty ounces he had left.
"This?" he chuckled. "Don't worry. I am just… waking up. But please, visit the site lazybeggers. And if I see you again, we will talk. We are not all the same." He walked away, and I went back to reading my emails. I did not visit his recommended site, but something told me that he would be back to ask.
Sure enough, in just a few minutes, he was back, and he continued to pester me to visit the site. Please don't be porn, I thought as I opened a new window and typed "lazybeggars.com" With my permission, he sat down in the cafe chair next to me. I noticed his crooked, yellowed teeth and tried not to breathe in too much of his beer breath.
When the site came up, it was not what I had expected. It was some professional looking site with various services and offers. It was not what he expected, either. "I think you spelled it wrong" he said. So I spelled it more phonetically. 'lazybeggers' didn't get me anything at all. "No, spell it like that," he said, and he touched my screen. Have I told you how I feel about people touching my screen? After a few more tries and a few more fingerprints, we gave up on finding the site.
I asked him where he was from. "My nationality is a traveler." I was about to ask him where has born when he said, "I was born in Croatia, but I would be offended if you called me a Croatian. You know there was a war there– I'm sure you've heard something about it– and I was never able to complete my education. So now I am a man without a degree, without an education. But that is really not the reason why I do not like Croatia. I am not blaming them for everything. A Croatian just isn't who I am. I don't have the same mind as they do. They are very nationalistic. When I go to Croatia, I have to act like a Croatian, but if I leave Croatia, I'm told that I'm not a Croatian anymore."
"You don't fit in there?"
"No, I don't fit at all. So I travel. I have been everywhere in Europe. But only in Europe. I want to go everywhere in the world, though. I think I am not going to die soon, so I will be able to go many places. I want to go everywhere."
Me too, I thought. We have that in common. But unlike him, I wasn't fluent in Croatian, English, Spanish, and whatever other languages he's picked up along the way. "How did you learn English?" I asked.
"They teach it in school in Croatia. They did give me that. My Spanish is not quite as good, but I can say everything I want to say." Just then a friend of his walked by, giving him a chance to prove his Spanish skills. As they talked, the beggar sitting in the chair next to me reached into his pocket and brought out a little harmonica in its case. He showed it to his friend, but his friend said that he would come back later.
As his friend walked on, the beggar explained the harmonica to me. "This is not my instrument. That guitar is my instrument." He pointed towards the pile of possessions he had left leaning against the wall. "But some people stole my guitar once, so my friend gave me this harmonica. That's why I told him to come back and get his harmonica, since it is his. I can't play it very well, but I can play."
He took the harmonica in his hand and set the case on the table between my laptop and his flask of beer. He played a few notes, frowned, switched the harmonica upside down, played a swoop of notes that hummed in the opposite direction of his expectations, laughed at himself, switched it right side up again, found his starting pitch, and was about to begin the song. He paused for a moment. "Is it okay with you?" he made sure. I nodded.
He started to play, and I recognized the tune. "Silent Night!" I said aloud. Harmonica might not have been his first instrument, but it sounded good. But I didn't get to enjoy it for long, because that's when the cashier came and told us that we had to be consuming something from the cafe to be sitting there.
As we stood up to leave, he to his wandering on the dusky streets, and we to buy a fanta and fries and sit inside, I asked him where his favorite places in Europe were. "If I get the chance to travel, where should I go?"
"My favorites," he replied without hesitating, "are Rotterdam and Rome. Besides Sevilla."
He wasn't exactly a new friend, just a man on the street. I was reading my email when I heard a voice say "Hello, girls." (How did he know that we spoke English? Do I really look that much like a foreigner? It might have had something to do with my roommate Alaina skyping in English with her parents.) I looked up and saw a man in a flannel shirt carrying a sleeping bag, a knapsack, and a violin in a plaid case on his shoulders. "Please visit the site lazybeggars," he said. "It's my friends' site."
I didn't know what to say. So I said "okay" and hoped that he would go away and not wait to see if I visited the website. Because I wasn't going to visit the website.
But he stood there for a few more seconds. He was the picture perfect beggar. "Can I take a picture of you?" I asked, since my camera was sitting in my lap.
"Only if you pay me. I am not a tourist attraction."
I noticed that he was gripping his left hand with his right and that there was an inch long gash on his left thumb. "What happened to your hand?" I asked.
"Last night I was drunk. Now, I am not a man who is always drunk. I am only drunk maybe two or three times a year. But last night my friends and I had a party. And I fell and hurt my hand and it's really hurting me now."
I had a hard time believing a man holding a large bottle of beer in his hand when he said that he rarely gets drunk. I said "Well, be careful," and pointed to the twenty ounces he had left.
"This?" he chuckled. "Don't worry. I am just… waking up. But please, visit the site lazybeggers. And if I see you again, we will talk. We are not all the same." He walked away, and I went back to reading my emails. I did not visit his recommended site, but something told me that he would be back to ask.
Sure enough, in just a few minutes, he was back, and he continued to pester me to visit the site. Please don't be porn, I thought as I opened a new window and typed "lazybeggars.com" With my permission, he sat down in the cafe chair next to me. I noticed his crooked, yellowed teeth and tried not to breathe in too much of his beer breath.
When the site came up, it was not what I had expected. It was some professional looking site with various services and offers. It was not what he expected, either. "I think you spelled it wrong" he said. So I spelled it more phonetically. 'lazybeggers' didn't get me anything at all. "No, spell it like that," he said, and he touched my screen. Have I told you how I feel about people touching my screen? After a few more tries and a few more fingerprints, we gave up on finding the site.
I asked him where he was from. "My nationality is a traveler." I was about to ask him where has born when he said, "I was born in Croatia, but I would be offended if you called me a Croatian. You know there was a war there– I'm sure you've heard something about it– and I was never able to complete my education. So now I am a man without a degree, without an education. But that is really not the reason why I do not like Croatia. I am not blaming them for everything. A Croatian just isn't who I am. I don't have the same mind as they do. They are very nationalistic. When I go to Croatia, I have to act like a Croatian, but if I leave Croatia, I'm told that I'm not a Croatian anymore."
"You don't fit in there?"
"No, I don't fit at all. So I travel. I have been everywhere in Europe. But only in Europe. I want to go everywhere in the world, though. I think I am not going to die soon, so I will be able to go many places. I want to go everywhere."
Me too, I thought. We have that in common. But unlike him, I wasn't fluent in Croatian, English, Spanish, and whatever other languages he's picked up along the way. "How did you learn English?" I asked.
"They teach it in school in Croatia. They did give me that. My Spanish is not quite as good, but I can say everything I want to say." Just then a friend of his walked by, giving him a chance to prove his Spanish skills. As they talked, the beggar sitting in the chair next to me reached into his pocket and brought out a little harmonica in its case. He showed it to his friend, but his friend said that he would come back later.
As his friend walked on, the beggar explained the harmonica to me. "This is not my instrument. That guitar is my instrument." He pointed towards the pile of possessions he had left leaning against the wall. "But some people stole my guitar once, so my friend gave me this harmonica. That's why I told him to come back and get his harmonica, since it is his. I can't play it very well, but I can play."
He took the harmonica in his hand and set the case on the table between my laptop and his flask of beer. He played a few notes, frowned, switched the harmonica upside down, played a swoop of notes that hummed in the opposite direction of his expectations, laughed at himself, switched it right side up again, found his starting pitch, and was about to begin the song. He paused for a moment. "Is it okay with you?" he made sure. I nodded.
He started to play, and I recognized the tune. "Silent Night!" I said aloud. Harmonica might not have been his first instrument, but it sounded good. But I didn't get to enjoy it for long, because that's when the cashier came and told us that we had to be consuming something from the cafe to be sitting there.
As we stood up to leave, he to his wandering on the dusky streets, and we to buy a fanta and fries and sit inside, I asked him where his favorite places in Europe were. "If I get the chance to travel, where should I go?"
"My favorites," he replied without hesitating, "are Rotterdam and Rome. Besides Sevilla."
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Para Hacer
To do:
√ settle into my room in Sevilla
√ do a bunch of laundry (er, have my Señora do it)
√ buy another converter
√ decide what classes to take
√ learn how to say, "I wonder…"
put some minutes on my cell phone
send for my Sevici card
decide whether or not to take flamenco lessons
catch up on my photo blogging
practice bass
finish my teacher aiding journal
read some Don Quijote
make a tabblo of my walk to school
sort through the pictures I took yesterday
buy some Spanish music
read all the labels in the grocery store
get my voice back
get an intercambio
learn how to say, "I'm overwhelmed."
√ settle into my room in Sevilla
√ do a bunch of laundry (er, have my Señora do it)
√ buy another converter
√ decide what classes to take
√ learn how to say, "I wonder…"
put some minutes on my cell phone
send for my Sevici card
decide whether or not to take flamenco lessons
catch up on my photo blogging
practice bass
finish my teacher aiding journal
read some Don Quijote
make a tabblo of my walk to school
sort through the pictures I took yesterday
buy some Spanish music
read all the labels in the grocery store
get my voice back
get an intercambio
learn how to say, "I'm overwhelmed."
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