tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76574246729672230842024-02-07T16:29:18.565-08:00Joandalucíamy travels and general life observationsjoaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-54146351004892943642015-07-02T08:26:00.002-07:002015-07-02T08:26:54.387-07:00Gringabroad: Colombia EditionThe tale of two guiris in South America for the first time. Opinions, observations and noteworthy experiences.<br />
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<b>Part I</b><br />
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The trip started before we even left New York when Avianca called Jennie, my non-Spanish speaking sister, to let her know, in Spanish, there had been a change in our flight itinerary. Bold move, Avianca, leaving a message in rapid fire Spanish for two gringas who booked tickets on your US website. Good thing it wasn’t too much of a modification. After replaying the message about 100 times we (I) figured out that they had delayed our connecting flight an hour, no big deal. What was supposed to be only a 1.5 hour layover in Cartagena turned into a 2.5 hour layover, forcing us to eat lunch in the airport.<br />
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And thus, our cultural immersion began. We surveyed our options in the domestic terminal and observed that almost every Colombian was dining at the fried chicken establishment, so we did too. The food was decent; the price was incredible (at 9,900 COP, our meal cost us a mere $3.88). The most fascinating part was that every one was eating with plastic gloves. Genius. When you finish eating your fried chicken, your hands are clean; not smelling like <i>fritanga</i> for days.<br />
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<b>Medellin</b>: We spent only two nights in Medellin (meðeˈʝin not mede-ian), a decision based on the misconception that it was a small city that could be visited thoroughly in two days. While we did get a nice sense of the city and learn quite a bit about its history, I left with the desire to see and do more. There is no MUST SEE attraction in Medellin; the city has no Eiffel Tower, no Statue of Liberty, no Sydney Opera House; yet at the same time, there is so much to do.<br />
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After surviving our roller coaster taxi ride (the airport is one hour outside the city, and the drive is a series of curvy roads that line the mountain side down into the city), we arrived at our lovely little <a href="http://buddhahostel.com/en/">hostel</a> in the Laureles neighborhood, which is not a very touristy part of the town. The atmosphere was friendly, the beer was cheap, food was good, no complaints here.<br />
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I think among foreigners, myself including, Medellin (Colombia in general) has a reputation for being a dangerous, violence ridden city, full of Pablo Escobars. The truth is, it is now one of the safest places in Colombia. Of course, there is still crime and poverty; its violent past is not ancient history, but many efforts have been made to improve the city over the last 10-15 years.<br />
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One of the most noticeable additions is the public transportation system. It is a very simple system of aboveground trains, buses and cable cars which still managed to confuse me (ashamed as I am to admit that coming from a city with one of the most intricate public transportation systems). The difference here is that the price of the ticket varies based on how many zones you travel. The interesting part is that you don’t insert a ticket when you exit the metro so it is not clear how the system knows you exit where you said you would. I suppose the people of Medellin are just very honest about where they are traveling!<br />
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What I consider the “coolest” part of the public transportation system are the cable cars that carry 8-10 passengers up the steep mountainside villages of Medellin. These gondolas, which now also double as a tourist attraction, were initially constructed in an effort to connect the traditionally poor, marginalized citizens of the northern favelas to the well connected, better off southern barrios. The idea was to decrease inequality among the Medellinenses by facilitating access to poorer areas of the city.<br />
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About half way up the hill, all the locals get off; there are no more homes after this stop. At the top of the mountain is Arví National Park. Before getting lost in the endless, winding, unmarked trails, there is a little market where vendors sell arepas and tamales, local fruits and wines to stock up on before your adventure in the wilderness, and, of course, jewelry and other trinkets for the tourists. We were lucky enough to ride the cable car up with a local who wanted to ‘take a walk in nature’ before heading to work later in the afternoon. Our new friend, Jaime, became our tour guide for the rest of the day.<br />
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He had us try new fruit, Uchuva (I don’t know the translation in English); a typical pastry from the region, solterita, and wine made from a berry that looks like a blueberry but isn’t. We picked up some treats for lunch and went on a stroll through the woods. It was great that he was there because the trails were completely unmarked; we might still be lost in the woods today if it weren’t for Jaime. Despite the maze like woods, I do recommend a visit to Arvi Park. The views are spectacular, the meandering trails are serene albeit disorienting and there are great locals to meet (people) and food to try along the way.<br />
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After our adventure in the park, Jaime took us to a bar with a local Colombian brew: Bogota Brewing Company, <a href="http://bogotabeercompany.com/">BBC</a>, not to be confused with the British Broadcasting Corporation. It turns out Colombia was playing a friendly against Costa Rica in preparation for the Copa America, so the place was packed! It was almost as great as being at a bar in Spain watching la selección española play.<br />
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Even when there isn’t a match, I’m sure BBC is a great place to hang. It is located in the Poblado neighborhood, the touristy part of town, which seems to have been built right into a forest. The bar feels like a tree house.<br />
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Because we wanted to say we did more than eat and drink in Medellín, we decided to visit <a href="http://www.museocasadelamemoria.org/">Museo Casa de la Memoria</a>, a museum dedicated to the victims of Colombia's recent violent past, and reminiscent of Yad Vashem. It is a small but comprehensive museum that shares the history of both Colombia and Medellin through a series of interactive exhibits. The Casa is unique because many of the stories are told by victims themselves, or relatives of the victims. As painful as it is to recall these personal experiences, a group of over 400 people agreed to share the pain they endured and the lessons learned as a result.<br />
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The museum aims to share the truth of a previously concealed past, commemorate the desaparecidos and other victims, unite the city and its citizens, and, most importantly, ensure that history is never repeated.<br />
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Now for the fun stuff: nightlife.
Medellin comes to life at night. While there is a lot of hustle and bustle during the day, the city seems to transform into one big party once the sun goes down, at least on Saturdays. One street we walked down during the day seemed sketchy and desolate. When we walked down that same street at night, there were bars and restaurants and clubs, people dancing and chatting and singing on the streets.<br />
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We met up with my friend, Maria, and her friend, Juan Pablo, for an authentic Colombian night out. Ironically, we ended up going to a salsa club called <a href="http://www.sonhavana.com/SubIndex.php">Son Havana</a>, a great venue with a live Cuban band and locals dancing salsa until the sun comes up (we did not last that long). So, although the music and style of dance did not originate in Colombia, the experience was very cultural.<br />
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After two jam packed days, we packed up and headed to Cartagena. With so much left to see and do in Medellin, I hope to get back one day.<br />
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Stay tuned for Part II of this story.joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-49765948208495251642013-12-24T10:25:00.000-08:002014-04-30T12:28:21.495-07:00It's the most wonderful time of the year...<style>
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Yes, even for Jews (at least those in suburban NY). Although we do
not actually celebrate the birth of Jesus, we do celebrate family. We do take
time from our otherwise busy schedules to enjoy one another’s company without
thinking about work or school or anything else that is stressful in our lives
(at least for a few hours.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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This year I will be celebrating
the typical Jewish Christmas, the one that involves going to a movie and eating
Chinese food. I will celebrate the fact that I live in a country in which
everything (except movie theaters and Chinese restaurants) is closed and there
is nothing to do except relax. </div>
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But this holiday season is about
more than just relaxing to me. It is about new beginnings. While technically
the New Year is always a new beginning, I am hoping that this one brings change
to my life. And I’m not talking about the typical<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">…</b> (I’ll go the gym more; I’ll find a job a like and work hard at
it). Everyone makes those types of New Year’s resolutions, and good for those
of you can keep them for more than the month of January. </div>
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What I am talking about is this….</div>
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Since retuning from Spain, I have
been thinking lot about what is important to me. Is it family? Is it friends?
Is it new cultural experiences? Is it learning? Is it a great job? If it is all
of the above, then how do I prioritize them? </div>
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Yesterday I received a Christmas
card from the primary school I taught at in Spain two years ago. The amount of
joy that I felt upon opening that card, knowing that someone in the school
remembered to include my name on the mailing list, was immeasurable. And all
because of a little piece of paper. </div>
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On Friday, my sister surprised me
with tickets to see the Broadway show Annie, a strong reminiscence of our
childhood. The fact that she spent money on the tickets was great. But the gift
was so meaningful to me not because of the monetary value, but rather the
thought that went into it. The memories the show evoked and the happiness I
felt while singing along to each and every song cannot be quantified.
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It’s the little moments in life
that are truly priceless (sometimes clichés are just spot on). If I spend too
much time focusing on one goal, or prioritizing my life, or searching for that
perfect something, then I miss out on the small things. I don’t appreciate that
coffee date with a friend I haven’t seen in over a month or buying chocolates
for my mom to cheer her up after surgery. </div>
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This New Year, I am going to try
harder to recognize and appreciate all the little things in life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here are my new mottos: </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Life is made up of little moments...$0"</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"keep smiling"</span></td></tr>
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It is just too stressful to live
any other way. </div>
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Happy Holidays! </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-17893211893527021182013-11-29T14:25:00.001-08:002013-11-29T14:25:28.360-08:00Live to work or work to live?
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For me this cliché represents the
difference between my life in America and my life in Spain. There is a
fundamental lifestyle difference between these two of my favorite countries. I
cannot say which is better or worse, although I do have my theories. What it
comes down to are priorities. The USA is a country founded on “The American Dream,”
the idea that anyone through hard work can be successful. And what does it mean
to be successful? Well that is not an easy question to answer.
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Ask a Spaniard what it means to
be successful and sure, some might answer that making money is important to
them. But is it their main purpose in life? It is safe to say, no. Spaniards,
from my experience, are very family oriented and social people. They enjoy
spending time together over tapas and a cerveza or a two-hour lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever met a NY banker with a two-hour
lunch break? I think not. </div>
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So here I am, a New Yorker with a
Spanish state of mind. (I was brainwashed during my two years there.) Is this a
sustainable way to live? Why can Spaniards get away with a 25-hour workweek?
How can banks be open only 5 days a week and close at 2pm daily? Sure you are
thinking the results of this way of life are 25% unemployment and an all time
worst economic crisis. </div>
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But change the definition of
success from being rich to being happy and there you have a fundamental
difference between the way a Spaniard and an American (New
Yorker at least) thinks. The key to a successful life is not necessarily a high-powered
job as a lawyer or a banker; the secret is to do what makes you happy. Ok so
maybe one of these jobs makes you happy, now what? Ever heard the expression,
“married to a job”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talk about
people being married to their job when a person spends most of their waking
hours at work, or working. I am not here to judge someone who finds happiness
in this way of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just to
elaborate on the personal crisis I am currently going through in my post Spain transition.
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The USA is one of the richest
countries in the world, but is it one of the happiest? </div>
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We’ve all heard money can’t buy
happiness, right? So why is wealth such a focus in this country? I recently
read an article, maybe it was in the Huffington Post, but it was nonetheless
accurate, titled “16 Ways Europeans Are Just Better At Life.” Some of the ways
were meant to lighten the mood. For example, the comparison between European
cheeses such as Gruyere and Parmesan and “the yellow, nondescript foodstuff” we
call American cheese. Another lighthearted difference was the “sexy accent” Penelope
Cruz has when she speaks English compared to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">horrendous</i> accent Mayor Bloomberg has when speaking Spanish. </div>
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Others were a little more
serious. For example: health care. According to a Bloomberg study, the US
ranked number 46 out of 48 countries surveyed for efficient health care
systems. So we are the richest, therefore happiest country in the world and
there are 45 nations that have better health care than we do? Ok, since I don’t
want to make this blog political (I don’t really know enough to be shelling out
my opinion publicly), I will move on to the life expectancy comparison (which may
be slightly related to the health care issue). But that aside, a 2011 World
Health Organization Study showed that 24 European nations have a higher life
expectancy than America, which ranked number 33, “just one spot ahead of Cuba.”
So if this is the most successful country in the world (or at least one of
them), the land of the free and the home of the brave, why can’t we up our life
expectancy?</div>
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Ok, still slightly political, but
let’s talk about vacation time. Other than teachers, who gets a full month off
for summer vacation? Oh, that’s right, Europeans. “By law, every country in the
European Union has at least four work weeks of paid vacation.” (<a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/money/business/2013/06/08/countries-most-vacation-days/2400193/">USA
Today</a>) And what is the law for Americans. Oh yeah, there isn’t “a single
legally required paid vacation day or holiday.” Now that’s just not fair, is
it? </div>
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If you want to read the article,
you can see it <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/07/16-ways-europeans-are-just-better-at-life_n_3950351.html">here</a><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/07/16-ways-europeans-are-just-better-at-life_n_3950351.html"></a>.
My point in all this is to consider, that different isn’t always bad. Success
doesn’t always mean rich. And there is no better or worse when it comes to a
way of life. I do however believe that many people are so caught up in their
own way of life that they don’t even stop to consider doing something
different, out of the ordinary, stepping out of their comfort zones. </div>
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I have been fortunate enough to have
an experience in my life that brought me way out of my comfort zone and introduced
me to an entirely new way of thinking. Unfortunately, that experience has now
become somewhat of a curse. I cannot handle the 9-5 lifestyle: waking up at 5
am to go to the gym before work, eating lunch at my desk or breakfast on my
walk to work. I have only been working for about two months now so sure it
takes some getting used to. But I feel like my life right now is just work (and
commuting to work). There isn’t much time in the day to do other things I
enjoy. Is this just the definition of adulthood?</div>
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Tell me what you think…do you
have any advice or opinions for me? Criticisms also welcome. </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-76120379633805043632013-08-23T13:52:00.001-07:002013-08-23T13:52:44.368-07:00Thoughts<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<b>**In order to read this post, you must put yourself in a time machine and travel back to June of this year. Once you have done so, please enjoy! </b></div>
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Two years later and I still don’t
feel ready to leave this beautiful city behind. I think back to the timid,
fearful, recently graduated girl I was when I first got off the plane in
Sevilla, and I cannot fathom that she and I are the same person. I embarked on
this incredible adventure not knowing anyone else who would be joining me in
Spain, knowing very little (next to nothing) about teaching English, or
teaching in general, and with very little confidence in my Spanish skills.
Despite having studied abroad in Spain, I was relatively unprepared for moving
and living independently in a foreign country. I have learned and grown so much
over the past two years. Day to
day, it is hard to notice a change of any sort. But when I sit down and reflect
on who I am versus who I was, it is shocking how much has changed.</div>
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At the end of last school year, I
left Sevilla thinking that my time here was over. I packed up all my stuff,
donated my towels and bedding to good will, I left nothing behind. Then after
the initial excitement of being back with my friends and family in New York
died down, I found myself quite depressed that I wouldn’t be returning to Sevilla
in the fall. I was “looking for a job” in New York, but for every hour I spent
looking at opportunities in New York, I spent three hours trying to figure out
ways I could get back to Spain. Luckily, I was able to find a way to get back
here. Still teaching English of course, but in a different setting than the
previous year. </div>
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Now I sit here at the end of year
2, three weeks away from the end of my contract. I cannot believe that it is
already time to pack up and think about plans for the future. I had a rough
start this year. I was teaching as the primary teacher, as opposed to a
teacher’s assistant. I was in a new town (still in Sevilla), with new
co-workers and students with a completely different schedule from the year
before. There was so much for me to get used to. And even though I knew this
year wouldn’t be the same as the year before, I hardly expected it to be as
different as it was. </div>
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I have never been really good at
transitions, so it took me a while to adjust to my new life in Sevilla. I had
to overcome many obstacles the first few months I was here. I told myself that
I would get through the year because I don’t like to give up when things get
tough but that it would be my last year. Having the opposite schedule to all of
your friends is not an easy thing to deal with. While all my friends were done
with work by 2pm, I was just getting ready to leave for work at that time. So
with the opposing schedules I could only get together with friends on the
weekends. Not the end of the world, but took some getting used to. Last year
too much free time, this year not enough. Hard to get it right!</div>
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So, yes, I thought this was definitely
to be my last year in Sevilla. And still that might be true. But as I am
finding myself nearer to the time to say goodbye, I feel sad and unsure about
leaving. Natural I know. And I try to think if the benefits of me staying here
outweigh the benefits of moving onto a new experience in my life. My rational
side says move on. My emotionally vulnerable side tells me to stay and see what
another year has to offer. I feel fortunate that I am able to make such a wonderful
decision, but at the same time completely overwhelmed by what lies ahead. </div>
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I have my entire life ahead of
me. I am young. They tell me these things and I know its true. But decisions a
person makes when they are young are extremely indicative of the future. I am
writing my own history right here and now. It’s only 10 months, but in 10
months so many things can change. No decision is the wrong decision, so why is
it so hard to choose something?</div>
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Back to how I started this post.
I have changed so much over the past two years. I was scared to death when I
first started my job last year, teaching English in a small town near Sevilla.
I knew nothing about the education system in Spain, I knew nothing about
teaching in general. I didn’t know my co-workers or what they expected of me. And
I was not confident in my ability to communicate with anyone. </div>
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Well most of you know the end to
this story. I ended up having the most wonderful experience, with kind and
compassionate coworkers who helped make not only my job but also my life in
Spain easier. By the end of the year I was comfortable standing in front of a
classroom of 25 students and explaining something about my language or culture.
I felt comfortable inserting myself into a conversation among my Spanish coworkers
at recess. I had built relationships with my students. I wanted so badly to
repeat my experience but as bureaucracy here (in Spain) doesn’t function as you would
expect, the Spanish government decided to give my position to a complete
stranger to the school, instead of to me. </div>
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For that reason I left thinking I
wasn’t coming back. Then, an opportunity was given to me to try something a
little different, teaching at an academy. It is a different experience because, although the classes are smaller, there is no one else in charge of the students
but me. I make lesson plans. I decorate the room. I lay out the rules of the
class and therefore I am in charge of disciplining those who do not follow my
rules. Not an easy task for someone who has a background in education, not an
easy task for someone who has the same native language as their students,
definitely not an easy task for me. </div>
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<b>...</b><b><o:p> </o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Change<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I’ve been thinking a lot lately
about that word. Change. It is a phenomenon that almost anyone anywhere in the
world can relate to. Some people fear it while others embrace it. Sometimes
change is positive, sometimes change is negative. Sometimes it creates new
opportunities and sometimes it means losing something we had grown accustomed
to having. </div>
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On my second to last night in
Spain, after two years of teaching (and learning), living and exploring, I am
facing a huge change in my life. I cannot qualify this change as either good or
bad, its just not that simple. Although there are a lot of things I am looking
forward to in my near future, I am extremely sad to leave behind all the
relationships I have formed and experiences I have had in the past two years. I
feel now as though I know better how to live in southern Spain than in my own
country. </div>
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Living abroad requires a much
more conscience effort to understand a people and their culture. I grew up in
New York. Life is the way it is there and I never thought twice about it because
I never knew any different. Not the case in Spain. I spent my first 6 months here
comparing everything to how things are done in New York. Now, daily life here
seems nothing but normal. These are topics that I have discussed numerous times
before in my blog, so I will not extrapolate here. But I am talking about
things like siesta, beer being cheaper than water, stores being closed on
Sundays, dinner at 10pm, wearing pants until June because even if it is 90
degrees its still not summer yet! I have made a list that I will post at a
later date of ways an American can tell they have been in Spain for a long
time. </div>
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So, change. What does this mean
to me? An opportunity to start a new and exciting chapter in my life? While,
yes, it does mean that, I have always been a person to fear change, fear the
unknown. And let’s be honest, everyone does a little. I have never been particularly
good at making transitions, I take a while to adjust to a new situation but
once I do I am usually able to enjoy it to the max. Which is what makes it so
hard for me to leave. Everyone keeps telling me “Sevilla isn’t going anywhere,
it will still be on the map,” and while that is a fair point, what is hard for
some of my friends and co-workers to fathom is that this experience
will never be here again. Even the difference between this year and last year
has been quite unbelievable. Same city, same job, two completely different
years. </div>
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I know change is good. I know. I
personally would rather be able to say that I put myself out there and took
risks and sometimes failed, than say that I lived a comfortable life where I
never challenged myself to try something new. </div>
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So, as my wise mother once said
to me, “There is a lot of beauty in the world and you must keep discovering it
and carry your experiences with you in your heart.” </div>
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All I can do is cherish the
wonderful experiences and memories I have made here in Spain. As of right now,
it looks like this short chapter in my life is ending. (but hey, you never
know) And as sad as I am about it, I am keeping in mind this cliché,
but very true quote: </div>
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“No llores porque ya se terminó,
sonrié porque sucedio.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez</div>
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“Don’t cry because it’s over,
smile because it happened.” Dr. Suess</div>
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(There seems to be some dispute
over who the actual author of this quote is. I give both men credit) </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-26618450081923317102013-05-22T15:38:00.000-07:002013-05-22T15:38:54.975-07:00when in...morocco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCw4NxK6xPyUWqPf5zJfWUiPxgF5YlfpTkukDw581sgJ2FopswQs8Pbf_QM5zFtIEiVo-pgbg1WIKWPR2Hf44wN6avwELOEVTW3Kbwxshb4BPZnW7gPILqk5cN0bx6pQ3n_k_usror2iFG/s1600/IMG_0991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCw4NxK6xPyUWqPf5zJfWUiPxgF5YlfpTkukDw581sgJ2FopswQs8Pbf_QM5zFtIEiVo-pgbg1WIKWPR2Hf44wN6avwELOEVTW3Kbwxshb4BPZnW7gPILqk5cN0bx6pQ3n_k_usror2iFG/s320/IMG_0991.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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How to explain my weekend in
Morocco…Filled with <i>you had to be there</i>
kind of moments, yet I want nothing more than to share my experience with my
readers. It is not an easy task I have set for myself, but I will give it my
best shot.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, as most of my travel posts
begin, I took advantage of a day off from work. This time I actually had to
take an extra day off because the holiday fell on a Wednesday, and I also work
on Thursdays. But given that the holiday was <i>Día del Trabajador </i>AKA Labor Day, I found it appropriate to give
myself an extra day to celebrate myself (or to have a long weekend in Morocco).
</div>
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The fun began as soon as I
stepped off the airplane in Casablanca. After the nightmare that was going
through customs and security, I was greeted by my first-ever welcome sign. I’ve
always been jealous of those passengers who have drivers holding up signs for
them when they arrive (although the jumping up and down and screaming family
members have been a decent substitution). This time I got the sign AND the
jumping up and down mother. While I was enjoying my first hug with mom since
January, I saw a Moroccan man in a suit walk over towards us. I could only
assume he worked for the airport and was about to tell us to get out of the way
and continue the reunion outside of the arrivals terminal. Little did I know,
he would become our best friend over the next five days. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Abdou, aforementioned man in
suit, was our personal driver and tour guide. My mom and step-dad had found him
when they first arrived in Casablanca from Marrakesh. He was the only driver
(apparently) who gave them a decent price for a ride from the train station to
the hotel (in Morocco taxis don’t believe in using their meters). So, since he
seemed to be a trustworthy man, he was hired to pick me up from the airport as
well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An important fact about Abdou is
that he is Moroccan, and only speaks French and Moroccan Arabic. Well, we know
approximately THREE words in Arabic so that wasn’t a viable option for
communication. Luckily, Barry (step-dad) knows a bit of French, so we were able
to get by. But when I say a bit of French I mean he studied it in high school
and maybe college, not sure, and hasn’t gotten to practice it much since then.
So, <i>you had to be there</i> moment number
one: listening to Barry and Abdou trying to communicate. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNN0fO3ULKwbw4UxzM9Cq4s7GJEobIm7STr0uGJB5beC9AHLCOiTTv0GveSc10-2rNFMVZP-Sdag8ccKpmRTx0PST08fidXO_lWiVXPHYawl5JWk9TB4vw7FeQj1ccHLnNrWNX54ZUW-bg/s1600/IMG_0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNN0fO3ULKwbw4UxzM9Cq4s7GJEobIm7STr0uGJB5beC9AHLCOiTTv0GveSc10-2rNFMVZP-Sdag8ccKpmRTx0PST08fidXO_lWiVXPHYawl5JWk9TB4vw7FeQj1ccHLnNrWNX54ZUW-bg/s320/IMG_0137.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">best buddies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we finally left the airport
I was so caught up in talking to mom and Barry that I didn’t realize we were
walking in circles around the parking lot. I suppose Abdou was excited to see
me too? So excited that he forgot where he parked the car. Next thing I know,
Abdou turns around and hands me his cell phone, saying something to me in
French, which I assumed was related to the person on the other end of the
phone. I was right. It was his daughter. Meryam (his daughter) is
also an English teacher, same age as me, and teaches in a high school in
Marrakech. Since we are the same age and have the same profession, Abdou
decided that we should…no, we WILL, be friends. But I’ll get to back to that
later on. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time we arrived at the
hotel, after spending 35 minutes in the taxi praying for our lives (did I
mention Abdou likes to talk with his hands, so more often than not he has no
hands on the wheel), I was exhausted. The first night was relaxing; we ate in
the Moroccan restaurant in the hotel. The first of many meals at which I would
stuff myself silly. But when you are normally eating food cooked by me, meaning
its gross, it makes sense that you want to take advantage of food that actually
tastes good. I ate the most amazing tagine with chicken and noodles and lots of
really yummy spices. I thought it was the best meal I ever had, until I ate
again the next day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5LE1kXx_aJ263rqVxypLvmMmHWwCUeb8vlrsyryQKSvtjHYMm3BDHP2cmPFsZh0TPM8jHFM2AC-Qt5qspsE2W_R1SxmrVkOjxpemlw9pML0WhjHyme9htFSaG4J8J5IfmXbvJiShGcK0/s1600/IMG_0296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5LE1kXx_aJ263rqVxypLvmMmHWwCUeb8vlrsyryQKSvtjHYMm3BDHP2cmPFsZh0TPM8jHFM2AC-Qt5qspsE2W_R1SxmrVkOjxpemlw9pML0WhjHyme9htFSaG4J8J5IfmXbvJiShGcK0/s320/IMG_0296.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this isn't something I was lucky enough to eat myself but for some reason it's the only food picture i have from the entire trip. tagine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Thursday, we visited the third
largest mosque in the world, supposedly. Some sources call it the largest,
others the seventh largest, I don’t know. But what I do know is that it was
really, really big. What was unique about this mosque compared to other ones I
have visited is how modern it is. Built only twenty something years ago, it has
a retractable roof, heated floors, escalators, which I thought was pretty cool.
It also has a lot of other amenities like a hammam and a <span style="background-color: white;">lounge</span>
that apparently to this day no one has ever used. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSw9nNPT4F8F8RiMPvXaWzlmh8NYVT0ucpxjY2oAAA7AQrUK6NmsgGBFbRokMrokN4dw4KOxvQ0Vv29ERfJcczyekEpNIDI1uy2afi-q3L3Ke5HMQJHQTT7djz-uz-2OUZ4RZuuqGzJna/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSw9nNPT4F8F8RiMPvXaWzlmh8NYVT0ucpxjY2oAAA7AQrUK6NmsgGBFbRokMrokN4dw4KOxvQ0Vv29ERfJcczyekEpNIDI1uy2afi-q3L3Ke5HMQJHQTT7djz-uz-2OUZ4RZuuqGzJna/s320/IMG_0034.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">big mosque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAq3gOf6Tm-iRgMXEP7MZiuDw9WifYqnC2ScXw7SShfyQuy2gbAzKZOnqyijkT898k9dDRxQAk0-uXWRXkcFFXHns8pXCDQYIYGb_k2AZBlQEeDoKMX_m-7PxhXwPxDU7Ot628s4JWsW3X/s1600/IMG_0949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAq3gOf6Tm-iRgMXEP7MZiuDw9WifYqnC2ScXw7SShfyQuy2gbAzKZOnqyijkT898k9dDRxQAk0-uXWRXkcFFXHns8pXCDQYIYGb_k2AZBlQEeDoKMX_m-7PxhXwPxDU7Ot628s4JWsW3X/s320/IMG_0949.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hard to tell from these pictures how ginormous it really is</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After our visit, our trusty
friend Abdou picked us up in his bigger taxi since we were going to take a
longer ride to a city south of Casablanca, El Jadida. Not a super touristy
place in Morocco, so it was really neat to be able to see how Moroccans really
live without trying to impress tourists. On the way there we rode along the
coast, which was beautiful (what I saw of it before I fell asleep). Before we
arrived in El Jadida, Abdou asked us if we wanted to take a tour around a neighboring
town. Despite saying no, we saw the town anyway. Abdou pretty much does what he
wants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which leads me to my next <i>had to be there</i> moment. After a long
stretch of highway, before entering El Jadida, there is a roundabout. There was
a police officer directing traffic at the roundabout. He had his hand up in the
universal <i>stop </i>position facing
towards our car. Well, Abdou saw no reason to stop (no cars threatening our
lives) so he continued through the rotunda even though he was told to stop. The
police officer blew his whistle after us, suggesting
that we had to pull over. We were sure the policeman was going to give us a
ticket for disobeying his orders. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abdou went out to talk to him,
came back a few seconds later to grab his ID. Normal. Policeman needed to take
down his information. Just as we were chatting away about how we expected this
to happen sooner or later, we turn around to see Abdou high-fiving the
policeman. Not a normal reaction after getting a ticket. He gets in the car and
says OK, OK, one of the few things he knows how to say in English. And then he
repeats “secretary general de petite taxi”. It was then that we found out that Abdou
is highly ranked in the taxi world. In fact, he is so important that he has
many friends in the police department (I don’t really see the connection
either). He took out a notebook and showed us the names and phone numbers of
all his friends in the police department; there were about 3 pages of it. <i>Then he added one more.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We spent two lovely days in this
small beachfront Moroccan town. The city of El Jadida was controlled by the
Portuguese for around 250 years so it doesn’t have a particularly “Arab”
appearance, although the market place and all the conservatively dressed Muslims
give it more of a Moroccan than western European feel. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxM5Swr-CK7HNa1mORkMQxNDxChzYK3OrXmyKKTyLfofH2c8YORVPWSD1qJiukM13DYScQ320sghxJOe_b8s_xz4MgTx3gTiL0ePtTw9DJGBTkVb2L56o8vctR0QvCPrBnaV_VjpXQ5xg/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxM5Swr-CK7HNa1mORkMQxNDxChzYK3OrXmyKKTyLfofH2c8YORVPWSD1qJiukM13DYScQ320sghxJOe_b8s_xz4MgTx3gTiL0ePtTw9DJGBTkVb2L56o8vctR0QvCPrBnaV_VjpXQ5xg/s320/IMG_0072.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cistern</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV1Wa53BAZPLGUF-8Nj5cxjrkOWzWyKfiEZZMrOrA8sRuuVGTaA1E9W4_quFwm06ZURMTFB-nLfpuTWqf41sMUZUBYS0LYPbg7CJvO-kZdhyphenhyphenlSVeq6MCmjciMF0CTpnYCxa8uUP37Oe9B/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV1Wa53BAZPLGUF-8Nj5cxjrkOWzWyKfiEZZMrOrA8sRuuVGTaA1E9W4_quFwm06ZURMTFB-nLfpuTWqf41sMUZUBYS0LYPbg7CJvO-kZdhyphenhyphenlSVeq6MCmjciMF0CTpnYCxa8uUP37Oe9B/s320/IMG_0095.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and mamacita on the ramparts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the city we visited a really
big old cistern and the old city ramparts. We walked around the market and
bought spices and typical Moroccan sandals and…converse sneakers. We bought
jewelry and scarves and leather purses and candles. I love the shopping in
Morocco. It’s fun and the shop assistants are usually so friendly. They invite
you to sit down and join them for a cup of tea, and some offer your mother
150,000 camels to have your hand in marriage. Maybe another <i>you had to be there</i> moment. Or the man in
the shop dresses you up as a Berber (indigenous group of north Africa) and then
you show the picture to another man and he says that you are not dressed as a Berber
but in fact as a Tuareg. But I think there is a relationship between the two
groups so that could be the source of the confusion. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLp0pkB3yyvaEs1U03NaI9bFzppePCbGz0jvWSE6e-grVSZ8iErv66HqvGP593HnD-GZ99U9nAEw1lMAUY2WYMhSnXRTEW2TTuqlyOR8SIsDnhvmUdLPXXIWh3mbi0Qyold723DbLObZa-/s1600/IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLp0pkB3yyvaEs1U03NaI9bFzppePCbGz0jvWSE6e-grVSZ8iErv66HqvGP593HnD-GZ99U9nAEw1lMAUY2WYMhSnXRTEW2TTuqlyOR8SIsDnhvmUdLPXXIWh3mbi0Qyold723DbLObZa-/s320/IMG_0970.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me as a berber, or maybe a tuareg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianoDisWFtjSrsRT1le8CvUScEjV3N_S1_nZU85UxEmgorv3t3HCBpJxrpG3AgtnGY4mol3STDi5iYA8OMsl48uZ97omlQOzec_qa3QbbRnqbNSu58lih87fuuKhIJqFTgWHREycBSHrfP/s1600/IMG_0126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianoDisWFtjSrsRT1le8CvUScEjV3N_S1_nZU85UxEmgorv3t3HCBpJxrpG3AgtnGY4mol3STDi5iYA8OMsl48uZ97omlQOzec_qa3QbbRnqbNSu58lih87fuuKhIJqFTgWHREycBSHrfP/s320/IMG_0126.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">man who offered camels to marry me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides shopping and meeting my
future husbands (if only they knew I was Jewish), we did a lot of walking
around and eating in Morocco. Both in Casablanca and El Jadida we had waiters
who kindly listened to us when we ordered the food we wanted but still decided
for us what it was we would eat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also got a really cool henna
tattoo (matching with mommy) that was probably the most <i>you had to be there moment</i> of them all (followed closely by me
using the Turkish toilet). Barry (our French expert) decided he didn’t want to
wait for us while we had the hennas done. So he took us to the spot on the side
of the road where the ladies were painting henna and left us to communicate on
our own. We sat down on buckets that look like the one where we store our dogs’
food and they gave us a book to look through with all the possible designs and
places they could do the henna. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother and I sat for
approximately 10 minutes deciding which design we liked best and which would be
the most appropriate for two extremely white, clearly not Moroccan women. We
finally decided (decision making is NOT my forte) and tried to explain to the
women what we wanted. The head lady seemed to understand because she shook her
head saying ‘<i>oui’</i> . She seemed to be
copying from the book for the first two minutes, while the other woman sitting
next to her seemed to be free styling the henna. The head lady caught on a few
seconds later and decided to go with her own design too. So instead of getting matching
hennas that we spent, no joke, ten minutes trying to pick out, mom and I got
two similar but slightly different beautiful without stencil done hennas. Take
a look…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvFebZrXI-8S-F_hcxF_HCu05htXS_TdPCLsw_aetZ_EYQGzL6FHCiFr-5m7kMH1KeBgeP5spRFCP9A_cdkwOISnXmocwCe6DPmxYmd8BbAx32Z3Q4FZ5g-ItOEFi1neOfleUJrxdzXR0/s1600/IMG_0963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvFebZrXI-8S-F_hcxF_HCu05htXS_TdPCLsw_aetZ_EYQGzL6FHCiFr-5m7kMH1KeBgeP5spRFCP9A_cdkwOISnXmocwCe6DPmxYmd8BbAx32Z3Q4FZ5g-ItOEFi1neOfleUJrxdzXR0/s320/IMG_0963.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfNrcTuC7gQUmdQqLByJdHJI7iNNCSyGkWxfdHtXN1S6ZNTaBgsb4tzUdn0NXNZ3K-cyFc3yO-u8rc0LXjkSRP1wrx1ChnTnMW0Engi2XKKVF9lRhZ3rRJm7PfJ-C6CGaluSIba8A_0RH/s1600/IMG_0964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfNrcTuC7gQUmdQqLByJdHJI7iNNCSyGkWxfdHtXN1S6ZNTaBgsb4tzUdn0NXNZ3K-cyFc3yO-u8rc0LXjkSRP1wrx1ChnTnMW0Engi2XKKVF9lRhZ3rRJm7PfJ-C6CGaluSIba8A_0RH/s320/IMG_0964.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KozWet2CLn2RqkNPTxvStYAr89kvXZsiv_N-DwiL-cOopfTS3oCxneZyUoWeOlaFVtT4GgIFdsPMwHal6epLKCF6KdWO0Exv75BfVgr7PokI9hOlkLV7ib94lWuUBjdbslmGtomr_Q2R/s1600/IMG_1007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KozWet2CLn2RqkNPTxvStYAr89kvXZsiv_N-DwiL-cOopfTS3oCxneZyUoWeOlaFVtT4GgIFdsPMwHal6epLKCF6KdWO0Exv75BfVgr7PokI9hOlkLV7ib94lWuUBjdbslmGtomr_Q2R/s320/IMG_1007.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">after it dried</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since none of us could
communicate we sat awkwardly for a while waiting for the henna to dry (can’t
put a sandal on until it dries in the sun a little bit). We were miming to each
other trying to find out more about one another, but after a while we just
started giggling together. Finally, the little side of the road henna business
got crowded and the ladies needed their stools back. Let me try to explain to
you the conversation of how we determined the cost of the henna, since Mom and
I do not know our French numbers. After we had the whole town trying to tell us
the number (saying it louder when we don’t speak French isn’t helpful). Someone tried to write it in the air
and I guessed, but was wrong. Finally, a smart young gentleman typed the number
into his phone so we could look at it. We thought he worked with the henna
ladies but turns out he was just a passerby. After that whole magillah (saga),
the ladies put plastic baggies on our feet so the henna wouldn’t rub off
against our shoes and smudge. For some reason, that caused me to waddle down
the streets in this small Moroccan city, with people pointing and laughing as
they saw me. Glad I was able to provide a little entertainment…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later on, our loyal driver came
to pick us up in El Jadida and take us back to Casablanca where I had to fly
out from the following day, back to Spain. We were ready to go to the hotel and
relax in the luxuries of a modern city (sort of) but Abdou had other plans for
us. He wanted to take us to his home to meet his family since his daughter was
in from Marrakech and he wanted us to be friends. It turned out to be a great
experience, despite the language barrier (his poor daughter had to translate
the whole time). We sat in a beautifully decorated living room while sipping
Moroccan tea and eating pastries; I can’t complain. It was great to be able to
sit for a while and talk to a family that comes from such a different
background and different culture than we do<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7657424672967223084" name="_GoBack"></a> and I’ve come
to the conclusion that we really aren’t all that different after all! </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEirdxc6K3yczFmHklJo0FfsFgYZ3A8RtpC5vXjmwWOz91KEY2OdqQnWzKs748AatT0_aEdr5jtCp6-pZRkTWRT7_wuDak33y0QbfiXIQUwjzAruebfmjiomsVZD2IrzwVqsPytycH8TN6/s1600/IMG_0132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEirdxc6K3yczFmHklJo0FfsFgYZ3A8RtpC5vXjmwWOz91KEY2OdqQnWzKs748AatT0_aEdr5jtCp6-pZRkTWRT7_wuDak33y0QbfiXIQUwjzAruebfmjiomsVZD2IrzwVqsPytycH8TN6/s320/IMG_0132.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our new moroccan friends :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So I will leave you with that
concluding food for thought. I could go on and on with more you <i>had to be theres</i>, like when the six of
us squeezed in the 5-person taxi or putting our suitcases on the top of the
petite taxi without bungees and driving around the city, but I won’t. My work
here is done.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingIbCwFDBiIEDYUQWqbv59na0V1s7-GyN33Sb6hFS8yI4x6zJxApisOG7W82wcJfqrI_q-pCfcYvaoFwFVe38wjbiwrukzge0dVS_aRR2XxrCjkrSvUvcO5pzLXQyPOtwazr5M0oHn-2H/s1600/041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingIbCwFDBiIEDYUQWqbv59na0V1s7-GyN33Sb6hFS8yI4x6zJxApisOG7W82wcJfqrI_q-pCfcYvaoFwFVe38wjbiwrukzge0dVS_aRR2XxrCjkrSvUvcO5pzLXQyPOtwazr5M0oHn-2H/s320/041.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">little taxi with bags on top</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I hope you have enjoyed hearing
about my trip as much as I enjoyed experiencing it! </div>
<!--EndFragment-->joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-6227279409477692532013-04-23T14:20:00.003-07:002013-04-23T14:22:11.374-07:00FERIA round two <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFVV7aeIpoetyMEfg77f8TD7XxeXwAuslU9F4w-G5z2vYwS479sNQTRCFvTlmfeNmGcwSTN8kAnl87I5gGzs-DXiG5B6_5_-ViJSzJk9V3SiyHuKG9Oj0tUmlM_wR76ISpPkmfv1rIerV/s1600/IMG_0833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFVV7aeIpoetyMEfg77f8TD7XxeXwAuslU9F4w-G5z2vYwS479sNQTRCFvTlmfeNmGcwSTN8kAnl87I5gGzs-DXiG5B6_5_-ViJSzJk9V3SiyHuKG9Oj0tUmlM_wR76ISpPkmfv1rIerV/s320/IMG_0833.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Last year around this time, I wrote a post about the Feria
of Sevilla. My last sentence was “Hope I can be back here for next year’s!” Well,
what do you know my wish came true. </div>
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Another feria come and gone.
Rebujitos, casetas, trajes de flamenca and Sevillanas. Dashing men (and women)
riding on horseback. Go with old friends, leave with new ones. A temporary tent
city with streets named after famous bullfighters, carnival rides and fried
dough, dancing until the sun comes up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.altur.com/img/mapas/pl_feria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="186" src="http://www.altur.com/img/mapas/pl_feria.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mapa del <i>real de la feria</i> or the fair grounds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Each year in April, two weeks
after Easter Sunday, the people of Sevilla celebrate the arrival of spring
(this year is felt more like summer) with this huge fair. Many towns and cities
around Spain have similar celebrations throughout the year, but Sevilla has
come to be one of the biggest and most well-known of them all. </div>
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I’ve gathered some information
over my two years as to how and why the feria tradition began. Not sure if this
is accurate but here’s what I’ve learned. </div>
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The idea was proposed by a
Catalan and a Basque who suggested to the city council in the mid 1800s that three
days in April be dedicated to the selling and trading of livestock and crops.
At first, the feria was held in a small park with something like 20 casetas
(tents). Over the years it gained fame and success (now there are over 1000
casetas), and the feria had to move to a bigger space. In the 1920s, the feria
started to change into what it is now: a small city within the boarders of
Sevilla that springs up for a week in April and becomes a temporary home for Sevillanos
to dance and sing and eat and drink. Still not clear on why/when feria became an event dedicated to partying rather than to commerce and trade. </div>
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The feria begins on a Monday
night with a dinner called “el pescaíto”, andaluz for “fried fish”. The dinner
does involved lots of fried fish, but also your typical Spanish noshes<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">: jamón, queso</span>, olives
etc. This dinner is only for members of the casetas (all other days of feria
members can invite guests into their little tent homes). At midnight on the
first night, there is a ceremonial turning on of all the lights known as “el
alumbrao”, andaluz for “the lighting or the illumination”. Right at midnight,
all the lights around the feria are turned on, including the lights of the
portada, the entranceway into the fair. There are over 350,000 light bulbs used
to light the place up at night.</div>
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<object class="BLOGGER-picasa-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2tyR0RYlPLirlBroxQqABFK17pLRsPieNRMRsjUYBzo57YtDsI1Nr2ntNBqVOa7s82_nADCUOxTFKQy65hKMS2PZbC0BiYJOpUKzVI4PWffgqeuMD-FXTny7LDVO1eiB6dIx8Vr4lnym/s1600/IMG_0747.MOV" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http%3A%2F%2Fredirector.googlevideo.com%2Fvideoplayback%3Fid%3D8609cd07caf8a1b9%26itag%3D18%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1369269206%26sparams%3Did%2Citag%2Csource%2Cip%2Cipbits%2Cexpire%26signature%3D923BE10382F24729D5EF10301F1639810C52228A.AAE04A604093A280299FBC4422EB7FBF1F131F7A%26key%3Dlh1" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?videoUrl=http%3A%2F%2Fredirector.googlevideo.com%2Fvideoplayback%3Fid%3D8609cd07caf8a1b9%26itag%3D18%26source%3Dpicasa%26cmo%3Dsensitive_content%253Dyes%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1369269206%26sparams%3Did%2Citag%2Csource%2Cip%2Cipbits%2Cexpire%26signature%3D923BE10382F24729D5EF10301F1639810C52228A.AAE04A604093A280299FBC4422EB7FBF1F131F7A%26key%3Dlh1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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Every year the portada is inspired
by an important event, monument or building in the city. Last year it was based
on the facade of El Salvador Church in Sevilla. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://framuru2.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/p1010646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://framuru2.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/p1010646.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the real church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOqoO6qqIo1Bpc4fKT4R_nBSmdluBswtCMuaODM-5VoeEQVl3chy5X8NvGi4GkAQBC7TuiAQLcrkgGQXZUw1de4O7rCYu6xKp3x0x2uULRtULh83EJKzj5ArnNo0hldGBmQMdEW50Flk7/s1600/DSCN3151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOqoO6qqIo1Bpc4fKT4R_nBSmdluBswtCMuaODM-5VoeEQVl3chy5X8NvGi4GkAQBC7TuiAQLcrkgGQXZUw1de4O7rCYu6xKp3x0x2uULRtULh83EJKzj5ArnNo0hldGBmQMdEW50Flk7/s320/DSCN3151.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Portada 2012</td></tr>
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This year it was loosely inspired
by Plaza de España, although the dimensions aren’t accurate (the two towers are
not actually joined by a bridge). </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mirayvuela.com/vuelos-baratos/vuelos-espana/espa%C3%B1a_sevilla_plaza_de_espa%C3%B1a1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://www.mirayvuela.com/vuelos-baratos/vuelos-espana/espa%C3%B1a_sevilla_plaza_de_espa%C3%B1a1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the real Plaza España </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBJVI9MF3oQU3vCc8k-DAKCfuuZYdYrX6BLWViydiYLeraa7mkM7w09t1Dps5VCuMznMWqRZnIS9nbLqWqL8jZw1p7Ekg4YpLEmLBrAfPHExw3M7z1WMu_4_YHGKF7B_H1ZxHbIjG4Gro/s1600/IMG_0831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBJVI9MF3oQU3vCc8k-DAKCfuuZYdYrX6BLWViydiYLeraa7mkM7w09t1Dps5VCuMznMWqRZnIS9nbLqWqL8jZw1p7Ekg4YpLEmLBrAfPHExw3M7z1WMu_4_YHGKF7B_H1ZxHbIjG4Gro/s320/IMG_0831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portada 2013</td></tr>
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This feria I decided to get into
the spirit a little bit more than I did last year by buying my very own traje
de flamenca. Many women in Sevilla acquire a new dress for every feria, for those
who can’t afford it, every couple of years. It is not so difficult to find
someone who has so many to spare that they are willing to lend one out for a
feria season. The problem is that these dresses are very tailored to one’s body,
so unless you find someone who is your exact body twin, it is hard to borrow a
dress. Plus, I think of it as a great souvenir for the future. In an ideal
world I would have liked to design a dress for myself, which many Spanish women
do, but since I cannot afford to spend €400+ on a single article of clothing, I
bought a “predesigned” dress from a store. Of course when you buy from a
regular store you run the risk of being seen in the same traje as someone else!
HORROR! And I did actually see a couple of people wearing the same one as me,
but given that I am a guiri (foreigner), I didn’t mind. Here is a photo of me in my dress. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DOMZNBSImSzmOpAFYQOo04ibt6-4eEJUxR-TFL3kQ3VxXbUCxbWcQrbJOIwZo2c-PHTPvkqZaNJIS1Pcz4h8bVc_KjRFmfpPvnplga54cakqP1mmZlLdBSmUjYmiDaA8eX_0Zj0Jzbzw/s1600/IMG_0820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DOMZNBSImSzmOpAFYQOo04ibt6-4eEJUxR-TFL3kQ3VxXbUCxbWcQrbJOIwZo2c-PHTPvkqZaNJIS1Pcz4h8bVc_KjRFmfpPvnplga54cakqP1mmZlLdBSmUjYmiDaA8eX_0Zj0Jzbzw/s320/IMG_0820.JPG" width="277" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and my ladies before feria day 3, i believe</td></tr>
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For me an important part of the
feria is the attraction park called “Calle del Infierno”, or Hell Street. I
think my childhood must have been lacking in town fairs because of the
excitement I feel when I am there, or maybe I just love going on rides. This
time around I only went on two rides because I was just having so much fun at
the “adult feria”. Also, it is really hard to sit down in a flamenco dress so I
had to dress differently on the day I wanted to visit the rides. I went on one
incredible ride called the Inverter that does just what it says, inverts. It is
a two minute adrenaline pumping experience in which you are turned upside down,
backward and sideways so many times that by the end of the ride its hard to
tell which way is up. It was awesome. I also rode the Ferris wheel, which is
not usually my first choice when it comes to rides but my friends outvoted me.
It was actually a pretty fast moving Ferris wheel so it wasn’t as boring as Ferris
wheels usually are. And from the top there was an amazing view of the entire
fair ground. Since I went at night all you can see are the lanterns that line
the streets of the feria and mark the location of each caseta. It was quite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">impressionante</i>. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVI7ukKO3XnypcopjjG64KYqf3p5UruRWMYqVz2WT7uTPeZXanuPYiX6qHvag5NTcQp951GtOfKR76JcOatYBn_RAf5zX3hmn_Z3uWkVw4EvTpNnwJsdtQ1OgjUVtEuWeoSgo_hfnpIA5i/s1600/IMG_0909.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVI7ukKO3XnypcopjjG64KYqf3p5UruRWMYqVz2WT7uTPeZXanuPYiX6qHvag5NTcQp951GtOfKR76JcOatYBn_RAf5zX3hmn_Z3uWkVw4EvTpNnwJsdtQ1OgjUVtEuWeoSgo_hfnpIA5i/s320/IMG_0909.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view from the top of the Ferris Wheel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So, feria round two, mission
accomplished. Although I am sad because this is probably the last time I will
be at Feria de Abril for a long time, I think I went out with a bang. I attended
every night of the Feria, including the alumbrado the first night. I danced
Sevillanas (or my awkward at dancing version of it), wore a typical traje de
flamenca, drank rebujitos, went on a few rides, got churros and chocolate for
breakfast one morning at 7am before going to sleep for “the night”, and even
got invited to a “disco-caseta” by a member of one the bands. </div>
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I also learned that I have a
hidden musical talent. The “instrument” is called <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">cañas</span> and it is basically two bamboo
sticks that have to be hit together at a certain beat. It is typical in the
feria to see people tapping on cañas to the rhythm of sevillanas. </div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIw5_UM1lno">For a taste of SEVILLANAS </a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvHo_bW-i8n6YvfN32aKwQ4BDMis7bATpVEkRdSU5dJpkxTROu-WII1jTKRN6-IGdDQdAkj8p0Z6ON86ijXYB-nIjFw2W-NTLdbOW4TX_rCWgjhuwDKsIFD0BjOqn8WxzffO4vvJBx4rM/s1600/IMG_0925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvHo_bW-i8n6YvfN32aKwQ4BDMis7bATpVEkRdSU5dJpkxTROu-WII1jTKRN6-IGdDQdAkj8p0Z6ON86ijXYB-nIjFw2W-NTLdbOW4TX_rCWgjhuwDKsIFD0BjOqn8WxzffO4vvJBx4rM/s320/IMG_0925.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">caña(s)</td></tr>
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So, thank you feria for being
such an amazing experience, again. For now, I’m trying to look forward to other
events in the near future to get out of my post feria depression. All good
things <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">must</span> come to an end, right??</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoC1vw2CxE6eydtSVbhrLwr10kUkwaDt537ojGZx3-o9FIyA5EGSJlUR15uQ2ztE6xpqNDTapeoum6NnPAldw6sbQD3Bx_wKlq3-xzzXQ07xhBJhvLNMJ2MYayyA1oeF8WCKpFZYPUGdZ/s1600/IMG_0885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoC1vw2CxE6eydtSVbhrLwr10kUkwaDt537ojGZx3-o9FIyA5EGSJlUR15uQ2ztE6xpqNDTapeoum6NnPAldw6sbQD3Bx_wKlq3-xzzXQ07xhBJhvLNMJ2MYayyA1oeF8WCKpFZYPUGdZ/s320/IMG_0885.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FIN</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-64175702860126475432013-04-19T09:41:00.000-07:002013-04-19T09:42:51.050-07:00El Derbi <style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjEGTSSl-URCDZ62rMhvdYMFVDc1Lx1S7VN9kqMmbyq4qsrAgFm4OT6ogaYWWrNHZQLUs9h8K_swoBBDsx9HnxEY8m2OFMcGlyE2E32EyHoUeoMpEu0hFLuiNUt274RYsb67kU6R5POTn/s1600/IMG_0739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="101" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjEGTSSl-URCDZ62rMhvdYMFVDc1Lx1S7VN9kqMmbyq4qsrAgFm4OT6ogaYWWrNHZQLUs9h8K_swoBBDsx9HnxEY8m2OFMcGlyE2E32EyHoUeoMpEu0hFLuiNUt274RYsb67kU6R5POTn/s320/IMG_0739.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I have now been to more “subway series” in Sevilla
than I have in New York. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Side note: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you non-New Yorkers/non-Americans reading this
blog (if there are any of you), the subway series is when the best team in
baseball (The New York Yankees, obviously) plays against the other team
accessible by the New York City subway, the New York Mets. Upon writing this
post, I learned that the original use of this term was for a world series
between the two New York teams, but since then has been applied to interleague
play. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last Friday night there was a showdown between the two
football teams in Sevilla, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Betis Balompié
and Sevilla Fútbol Club, </i>said by some to be the most violent rivalry in
Spanish football, maybe even the whole world. In my retirement from USC
Lacrosse, I don’t find myself playing sports much these days, but I still enjoy
watching athletic competitions. So I spent the euritos necessary to experience
this incredible face-off (more so between the fans than the players) known as
the derbi sevillano. I went with a bunch of other Americans who had never been
to the derbi before, and we all got into it as though we had been born and
raised beticos. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHQMFdYPZYXxpXqXghF6CaLiUkmbzkBx54uINMa8wGRCUeDBRnFYYGPRsZRBo9Vd0oxnzXnFzHPixqRuuUntUnLAcNAw3zrNact8keSrPu0CSAdevaAilAugqTPGNOUm6OfJj6wkyL4jR/s1600/549056_4990938935964_736044002_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHQMFdYPZYXxpXqXghF6CaLiUkmbzkBx54uINMa8wGRCUeDBRnFYYGPRsZRBo9Vd0oxnzXnFzHPixqRuuUntUnLAcNAw3zrNact8keSrPu0CSAdevaAilAugqTPGNOUm6OfJj6wkyL4jR/s320/549056_4990938935964_736044002_n.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and Gabi pre-game</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although there are similarities between the derbi and the
subway series (two teams from the same city competing in an athletic event) it is
really quite a different experience. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For starters, walking through the streets of Seville during
a ‘derbi’ is somewhat eerie, like walking through a deserted ghost town. There
is virtually no one on the street. Everyone is crowded into bars, or around
televisions or computers in their homes. This match is more than just a game
between the two teams in Seville. The winner gains bragging rights until the
next derbi, and this is very important when it comes to soccer. The Spanish
people are very obsessed with soccer, much like Americans are with football or
baseball. When people want to find out which team you support, they don’t
simply ask, “which team are you a fan of?” but rather eres betico/a or
sevillista (roughly translates to are you Betis or are you Seville?). You do
not simply support your <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">futbol</span><span lang="ES-TRAD"> </span>team; it is a part of your identity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In New York, almost anyone you ask (who is originally from
New York) will say they support either the Mets or the Yankees. There is no
middle ground. Although there are many diehard fans, I think it is safe to say
the outcome of the subway series is not as significant as the outcome of the
derbi here. (Of course, that is because no matter which team wins, the Yankees
will always be a better team). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here in Sevilla, the choice is Sevilla or Betis. No in
between. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last derbi I went to was at the Sevilla stadium, so I
had to go in disguise. Unless you sit in the visiting team section, it may
actually be life threatening to wear the wrong color in the wrong section. For
example, a Betis fan has to wear a red shirt at Sevilla’s stadium to stay alive.
The rivalry is so strong that the fans are not even allowed to enter the
stadium through the same section. Before the game, when one team sees the
other, the taunting begins. And it doesn’t stop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVZUh47QiZKIIm9Bw3tSvvkfLBUHVTQWLvpV1GyWFgJvIySm06eTwDiHyLRNMCxumCUC8Yhh9y_5fyI1xlaxMWTx0uxunEs-8OPdWzZ7nWmBO0_-G7Cj0EcZ4Pz_fV69vrXbzj6CrJK1o/s1600/DSCN4379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVZUh47QiZKIIm9Bw3tSvvkfLBUHVTQWLvpV1GyWFgJvIySm06eTwDiHyLRNMCxumCUC8Yhh9y_5fyI1xlaxMWTx0uxunEs-8OPdWzZ7nWmBO0_-G7Cj0EcZ4Pz_fV69vrXbzj6CrJK1o/s320/DSCN4379.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in disguise at the first derbi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As an American, growing up with different cultural concepts
of what children should be exposed to at what age, I would say this is not a
good place to bring a young child. But the Sevillanos seem to take the opposite
approach. The sooner they learn the importance of supporting their team, and
fighting for what they believe in, the better. There are curses thrown around,
middle fingers put up (saw a boy of about 8 do that), I even saw one Betis fan
pull his pants down and moon the Sevilla fans after Betis scored a goal. People
show their support in all different ways: some by doing the sign of the cross, others
by throwing chairs when the opposing team scores a goal, others sing lullabies
while rocking their newborns to sleep (again the sooner the better when raising
a fan). Not a place a child of mine will be until at least his teenage years. But
here, for some, football=life.</div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-27656711385156120282013-03-11T17:32:00.001-07:002013-03-11T17:32:18.848-07:00Istanbu-log
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIlBmXLl_fGA0QSWAKqr1IvIQDblUgYWJAYCpyMrDEa17prHXp_h6nFaMJexwZbY-C-nw8nctIJo1KPskArfyLvvi5yXHf6V6LJ0YND7UJo_Ouk9pUi8za1gs3ljfzKFMy-_8WmDprCSh/s1600/IMG_0276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIlBmXLl_fGA0QSWAKqr1IvIQDblUgYWJAYCpyMrDEa17prHXp_h6nFaMJexwZbY-C-nw8nctIJo1KPskArfyLvvi5yXHf6V6LJ0YND7UJo_Ouk9pUi8za1gs3ljfzKFMy-_8WmDprCSh/s320/IMG_0276.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></b> If you ever have an opportunity to travel to Istanbul, take
it. Seriously. It is one of the coolest places I have ever been to. I think I
say that about a lot of places I travel to, but really, Istanbul is up there on
my list. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The journey began on a rainy Wednesday night. It was a long
weekend for the residents of Andalucía, in celebration of Día de Andalucia. As
always, I wanted to take advantage of my not-only-three-but-four-day weekend to
travel somewhere new and exotic. This dream came to fruition when a few of my
friends told me they were going to Istanbul. I hopped on board as soon as I
could. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In total we were a group of six or seven, depending on the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t all on the same flight, nor
the same mode of transportation to get us to those flights, which all took off from
Madrid. Some brave souls took the six-hour bus ride; others took the high-speed
AVE train. De todas formas, we all arrived Thursday early/late evening and the
adventure began right then and there, if not earlier (like when my suitcase
broke the moment I stepped out of my apartment building and thus was traveling
with a broken rolly bag the whole weekend (see photo below).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwRjTIny_2ZR9AGp_rmrD55knlClDYEKis1yOkpMC9F0OEb0s0Y0UyPH3H8NS4VHBk-Yz5Pj-BKsbVY0QlcyoJfaWD09sktxd0uB66jP-mTDM6EefPy0nwrnUJAIPWRMdEs3-O3voi-TQ/s1600/IMG_0263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwRjTIny_2ZR9AGp_rmrD55knlClDYEKis1yOkpMC9F0OEb0s0Y0UyPH3H8NS4VHBk-Yz5Pj-BKsbVY0QlcyoJfaWD09sktxd0uB66jP-mTDM6EefPy0nwrnUJAIPWRMdEs3-O3voi-TQ/s320/IMG_0263.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">broken suitcase</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, besides that little snafu, the voyage was rather easy.
Swiss Air, my new favorite airline, made the experience very comfortable.
Between the free, incredibly amazing Swiss chocolate and the friendly
multilingual flight attendants (although I’m sure a few of them disliked me for
my American tendencies such as asking for a coke refill) dare I say the flight
was enjoyable?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not trying to sound
like an advertisement or anything…although customs in Zurich is a pain in the
you know what, but that’s a story for another time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZ_6ai0WZ_gKuuruoEgfVG5hSN44H5eGb4pXlU2RjgZTSNBzbUvneP6HLBW9wbEllWH9i8_XMvZYOJf2PujHWC3Q56CRBEW3lgbt4FZp7ek5l7Jj87Uxkl7sTeu66R4uqjweLrfksgmAM/s1600/IMG_0260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZ_6ai0WZ_gKuuruoEgfVG5hSN44H5eGb4pXlU2RjgZTSNBzbUvneP6HLBW9wbEllWH9i8_XMvZYOJf2PujHWC3Q56CRBEW3lgbt4FZp7ek5l7Jj87Uxkl7sTeu66R4uqjweLrfksgmAM/s320/IMG_0260.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">also, this was my view for a good portion of the flight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, back to Istanbul. We arrived at the hostel and right
when we checked in we were welcomed by one of the friendliest hostel people I
have ever encountered. We arrived a little before 8pm and he told us he was
just about finished with his shift and would love to show us around town if we
wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We dropped our stuff in
our room and freshened up and went exploring with a native! We were all pretty
tired from the long day of traveling so we just went out for dinner and then
came back to relax at the hostel. We ate what I consider a Turkish pizza, like
it might as well have been a pizza but it was on pita bread, and it was
delicious. And the food only got better from there. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyCDfh26NyqXSo4wsStIc6WBeoEX1XvyhYc8rzSKWuuHAl3Df3LmSzroCWc95XSlAewWFIsIHztrV_shKx2ksW-pL5WCuWlpqcx_7iO0_Hlc-Sn2t4AOxoOow8MVg2Ge7rN8owM7dkbOd/s1600/601378_10102853329781093_1679430054_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyCDfh26NyqXSo4wsStIc6WBeoEX1XvyhYc8rzSKWuuHAl3Df3LmSzroCWc95XSlAewWFIsIHztrV_shKx2ksW-pL5WCuWlpqcx_7iO0_Hlc-Sn2t4AOxoOow8MVg2Ge7rN8owM7dkbOd/s320/601378_10102853329781093_1679430054_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We woke up the next morning at 8am, not my ideal wake up
time, but it was definitely necessary if we wanted to see all the important sites
in the three short days we were there. Met up with a Turkish guy one of my
friends had met through 8tracks (music sharing website) and he showed us around
the town. Example two of how nice and friendly Turkish people are. He could
have been really sketchy and dangerous (yes, I know that’s what you are thinking
parents but we were a big group in broad daylight). But he was quite the
contrary. He was a genuinely good guy. He wanted to show us around the city he
grew up in. He asked us what we wanted to see in our time in Istanbul, and also
gave us recommendations, and he helped us plan out our days. I’m really happy
that he stayed with us for the two full days we were there. When in a foreign
city it can be really hard to find your way around, especially when you don’t
speak a word of the language. So it was nice to have a personal tour guide, but
also just great to get to know a local dude and an awesome DJ...check him out, DJ Batu. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In our 48 hours together, he not only showed us a lot of
Istanbul but also taught us (me at least) a lot about Turkey. Ashamed to admit
it but I did not know that Turkey is not a part of the European Union, in fact
most of Turkey isn’t even in Europe but in Asia. I blame this embarrassment on
the fact that the importance of geography is not stressed in American schools,
at least it wasn’t in mine. Or I slept through that unit…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides the things Google Maps could have taught me, I also
found out that military service is mandatory in Turkey. Never knew that. There
is a way to get out of it, however. If you leave the country for employment or
studying purposes, you can essentially “defer” your service. If you stay living
long enough outside of Turkey, you can pay so that you are never called to
service. Of course, only people who can afford it can pay the fee. Our tour
guide friend, Batu, told me all about this while we were on our ferry trip from
the European side of Istanbul to the Asian side (cool! one city, two continents). All the others had fallen
asleep (it was towards the end of the second day) and I, uncharacteristically,
was the only one who stayed awake with Batu, with a few others chiming in now
and then when they heard something interesting. He told me how he had to decide
where he wants to live next year because he can’t stay in Turkey. Naturally, I
wondered why, and so began the lesson about Turkish military service. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Separately, I also learned that although Turkey has a
reputation for being a conservative Muslim country where it is forbidden to
sell/drink alcohol (not true!), only about 40% of the population practices the
religion, and I learned that although few, there are Jews (and alcohol) there!</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnumtZl3UxO81qaU9xXaDg_aXQNeHP9DfdxI7ES2FiuZQ3pCFsPo_sIZH19wk56tFViKssBLiTjcIM7XcAs71W8BVju9Zi02wmq-mX-Y7w6gnHgL3FHCzCu9nwOPcvGuKDsxH2ujeGAtb/s1600/IMG_0314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnumtZl3UxO81qaU9xXaDg_aXQNeHP9DfdxI7ES2FiuZQ3pCFsPo_sIZH19wk56tFViKssBLiTjcIM7XcAs71W8BVju9Zi02wmq-mX-Y7w6gnHgL3FHCzCu9nwOPcvGuKDsxH2ujeGAtb/s320/IMG_0314.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the local beer (don't have pictures of any jews)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though the majority of the population isn’t practicing,
there are still many signs of Islam being the dominant religion in the country.
Living in Spain, I am used to Sunday being the day of rest when EVERYTHING is
closed. I was surprised when we were walking around on a Friday afternoon and
all the shops were either closed or closing. It reminded me a lot of “siesta”
in Spain, but I was pretty sure this Spanish custom hadn’t made its way to
Turkey yet. Then, when I saw herds of people making their way to the nearest
mosque, or taking off their shoes and laying out mats to pray, it all made a little more sense. Also, I heard
the call to prayer, which I remember hearing when I was in Morocco a few years
ago, so this time I wasn’t as alarmed as I was back then when I heard Islamic chants
throughout the city, beautiful but alarming. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWHPmh2ZzsCxRvyp-S3y5N48F4UOuVMDgcVof0ec33sm3yOZQAI3syHKefVtZxpTuS6oslFWi43C-foWZAw1SftcwH8wuQLcCX8DiHqN2azFCLvmzcZ_Zj9aQ1NE1p0bsaUp-JE9CI-gc/s1600/DSCN4600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWHPmh2ZzsCxRvyp-S3y5N48F4UOuVMDgcVof0ec33sm3yOZQAI3syHKefVtZxpTuS6oslFWi43C-foWZAw1SftcwH8wuQLcCX8DiHqN2azFCLvmzcZ_Zj9aQ1NE1p0bsaUp-JE9CI-gc/s320/DSCN4600.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ritual washing of the feet before prayer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5FIiPPgKn3AOZNuG3BSXXdqbXKt6MQBsITyC4WSHNf7tH2CONHSNrWggJBi1ZILzYRQmZQ33WSIXSO_ybeNLnf5k9mcCsuUQ3QijCCcSiRmhMUaWQdMCyBwK-Tq3Flm2mnPm_1GnJzzG/s1600/IMG_0279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5FIiPPgKn3AOZNuG3BSXXdqbXKt6MQBsITyC4WSHNf7tH2CONHSNrWggJBi1ZILzYRQmZQ33WSIXSO_ybeNLnf5k9mcCsuUQ3QijCCcSiRmhMUaWQdMCyBwK-Tq3Flm2mnPm_1GnJzzG/s320/IMG_0279.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stop, drop, and pray (in the gran bazaar)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, regarding stereotypes, I was very surprised at how
modern and westernized the city was; I would even say it was a little more
international than Sevilla (not that Sevilla is known for being international,
but it is where I live, so I made the comparison). There were stores from all over
the world: The North Face, Zara, Gucci, Prada. These stores juxtapose the
local, more “typical” stores: the Gran Bazaar (where I was given a free sample
of Turkish delight and then had whispered in my ear that it was an
aphrodisiac…), the Spice Market, all street vendors in general. There is a
newer, modern part of the city that feels like it is a world away from historic
city center. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHAiCzAWtokpf8LeCGeTfafrYz0YODt1v5xSDoxFTl0Fl-iWogn1Rp4SoFH25PZN6ui7UoNsDSqHTyMbzlbd7vUlHYVCde73bYq7tsJbOT3xS11iRrjAF-ruTPtzbnZljU550FBO_pPc9/s1600/DSCN4606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHAiCzAWtokpf8LeCGeTfafrYz0YODt1v5xSDoxFTl0Fl-iWogn1Rp4SoFH25PZN6ui7UoNsDSqHTyMbzlbd7vUlHYVCde73bYq7tsJbOT3xS11iRrjAF-ruTPtzbnZljU550FBO_pPc9/s320/DSCN4606.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cool display in the gran bazaar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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</div>
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One day we ate lunch at a food court type place inside a
mall in the modern part of the city. There were so many options from typical
Turkish food, to hamburgers to WAGAMAMA (if I wasn’t in Turkey for only three
days I would have gone back to eat there for sure!). Seeing that we had so
little time, we wanted to eat as much typical grub as possible. So our big
group (think we were all 7 that day) sat down for lunch at the Doner Kebab part
of the food court. I looked around and realized we were probably some of the
only, if not THE only non-locals eating in this food court. I found it humorous
that all of us Americans were eating kebabs, while there were natives at the
hamburger stand and the steakhouse and Nathan’s (yes, there was a Nathan’s in
Istanbul, Turkey and no there is not one in Spain). </div>
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<br /></div>
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I could go on forever with observations and reflections, interesting
anecdotes I learned or experienced, and silly quotes from my travel mates who,
along with me, reached delirium shortly after arriving in Istanbul. But I
won’t. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> however
leave you with this conundrum of mine. I understand that the White House is
called such because of its white colored exterior, and that the Leaning Tower
of Pisa has its name because it leans. By this logic, shouldn’t “The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Blue</b> Mosque” in Istanbul be, I don’t
know, blue. The guidebooks say it has its name because of the blue tiles
adorning the walls of its interior (actually gotta give Wikipedia credit for
that line), but from what I saw, it wasn’t overwhelmingly blue. Sure it had
some blue tiles here and there BUT not enough to warrant the name…see for
yourself:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGntna3Jj4MJ6f62cDze5nl2wBhC9RYY7LIySMgfq17IPu9kuMaP6UAOlQb9VtwChuyRiGo5U8e2WDQleOlTxStR2jhd1sHUJUmDB49hBdEpqzWzCFb-72InsB7y1J5Q8XX51QSa4TA81Z/s1600/DSCN4698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGntna3Jj4MJ6f62cDze5nl2wBhC9RYY7LIySMgfq17IPu9kuMaP6UAOlQb9VtwChuyRiGo5U8e2WDQleOlTxStR2jhd1sHUJUmDB49hBdEpqzWzCFb-72InsB7y1J5Q8XX51QSa4TA81Z/s320/DSCN4698.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Upon further inquiry, I learned that the name Blue Mosque is
only its nickname to tourists; I think whoever coined the name might have been
colorblind. In Turkish, the name more appropriately translates to “The Sultan
Ahmed Mosque,” named for the Sultan who ruled during the mosque’s construction.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaccws-9rMc92j-GgqONMAYLG9QZDxf4FwBEq5Fl_pFiw64F5Tf_Jcn3N4VDPV4aS0vLL8K4vbF3QnV848ye0IgTejXQ1tLAHQCMZm5iG9mELN6ISxR1lp3DYVqR22AnF3ISIU6n8QhMJ/s1600/DSCN4697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaccws-9rMc92j-GgqONMAYLG9QZDxf4FwBEq5Fl_pFiw64F5Tf_Jcn3N4VDPV4aS0vLL8K4vbF3QnV848ye0IgTejXQ1tLAHQCMZm5iG9mELN6ISxR1lp3DYVqR22AnF3ISIU6n8QhMJ/s320/DSCN4697.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I went to visit the “blue” mosque, I decided to wear
blue so I would blend in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and also, if you turn Turkish coffee upside down when
you get to the bottom of it, you can see your future.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
PS-Please forgive my cheesy post title </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
PPS-I have a lot of pictures that I promise I will post to facebook one day. and ill link the pictures here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
PPPS-In the mean time, for your viewing pleasure: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCV3bhCRnTE">HARLEM SHAKIN'</a></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-64386739330326417502013-03-06T01:08:00.000-08:002013-03-06T01:08:06.574-08:00Spanish Ex-SPA-rience
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A couple weeks ago I experienced
something for the first time here in Spain, a spa treatment. And I decided it was worthy of a post. Normally while I
am here I prefer to save my money for things like traveling (see upcoming post
about Istanbul), eating out and of course a little bit of shopping (and rent
and utilities and all the boring stuff). However, I was given an opportunity
(thanks groupon!) that I couldn’t turn down: manicure, pedicure, back massage
and facial treatment all for 19<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">€</span>!</div>
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I bought the groupon with a
couple of other friends. We were going to go together and have a girl’s spa
day. Unfortunately bad news broke when we called to make the appointments, the
spa could only accommodate two at a time. Since there were five of us we went
in two groups of two, and one brave soul had to go in alone. </div>
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I was given the last slot of the
three appointment times we were given. Having heard nothing from the girls who
went before me, I did not know what to expect. I walked over to the place with
my time slot buddy (in the pouring rain). We did not know exactly where we were
going; we only knew a street address. As the numbers got closer and closer to
our destination, the street became more and more deserted, looked like the
street belonged to ghost town. I knew we were parallel to one of the most
popular hang out spot in Sevilla so I wasn’t nervous or anything like that, it
was just a little disconcerting. Also, it was pouring rain so this is really
just my perception of my surroundings without really having seen anything
because when I walk with an umbrella the only thing I see is the ground two
feet in front of me. </div>
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So, we finally arrived at our
destination, number 89. Good year. Like everything else on the street, it was
an unmarked storefront. There was a door but the metal grate that stores put up
so no one robs them when they are closed was a little bit covering the door. We
tried to open it, but it appeared to be locked. Have I mentioned it was pouring
rain? I went around to the other side of the store (it was on a corner), no
door there! So, this was the door. But how do you get inside? Duh, the
doorbell. </div>
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After double-checking that we
were in fact in the right place, we rang the doorbell. But the adventure was
not over yet. </div>
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A cheerful, bubbly Spanish woman
with a fuzzy black grandma style sweater opened the door for us. She kindly
told us that we would have to wait a little bit because she hadn’t yet finished
with our friends. The waiting room was a mixture of what I consider a typical
spa waiting room and someone’s living room. Comfortable chairs though, so I
can’t complain. Now I don’t know about you, but when I don’t know exactly what
I am about to experience, I get a little anxious. So when that “little bit” I
had to wait turned into half an hour…you can only imagine. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally it was my turn! I went
into a room with aforementioned bubbly Spanish woman’s compañera. I saw a
massage table so I thought I would get my massage and facial in this room and
then get transferred to the other room for the manicure/pedicure. Well, I was right
indeed about this being the massage/facial room, but little did I know this
would also be the manicure/pedicure room. The whole 90-minute treatment on the
massage table!</div>
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I got a very relaxing back rub
from the compañera, lights off and heat on. Then the other lady came in and
said she was going to take over to do the facial. Turned off the heat, turned
on the lights and exposed the hospital white walls. Maybe I am just spoiled
from the past spa experiences I have had, but for me, ambience is somewhat
important. I was relaxed from the back massage and then immediately jolted into
another state of consciousness. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy the facial, I
really did, but I prefer the lights to be dimmed and relaxing ocean sounds in
the background while I am in a spa. But this is partially my fault for expecting
a “spa” experience. After all the groupon did advertise it as a “wellness mix”,
whatever that means… </div>
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I am not sure if I am accurately
expressing my experience. When I read over this blog, it seems like I didn’t enjoy
myself, but really quite the contrary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had a great time. </div>
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Fuzzy sweater lady had a
personality that one might find on a TV land sitcom, reminded me a little of
Lucy from I love Lucy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed
like every five minutes she was getting up to fetch something she had left in
the other room: her glasses, the acetone, face cream etc. She also repeatedly
put her glasses down somewhere, couldn’t remember where, and since she couldn’t
see without her glasses couldn’t see where in the room she had left them! It is
beyond me why someone who can’t see without glasses would take them off. I
suppose we all have our quirks. </div>
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Not surprisingly (given that my
appointment started half an hour late), there was some prisa (rushing) towards
the end of my appointment. So there’s me lying down on a massage bed, having my
fingernails painted by one lady, and toenails painted by another. I was asked
what color I wanted my nails painted but in the end it didn’t really matter
what I wanted. I asked what my options were and Lucy said I’ll bring you some
choices. Turns out if I didn’t want green or transparent, I had two option, red
or purple. Quite the change from the 150 options I have when I go to a nail
salon in the USA. Made my life a little easier though. For anyone who hasn’t ever
gotten a manicure with me, I usually spend about 15 minutes deliberating over
which shade of purple I want as if it is the last manicure I will ever get. So
I chose red. Well, when your fingernails and toenails are being painted at the
same time, surprise surprise, they can’t both be the same color. So it was,
purple on the fingers and red on my toes. Never been one to match my hands to
my toes anyway.</div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-23705292778898188782013-02-17T14:38:00.000-08:002013-02-17T14:38:04.446-08:00USC MADRID in Sevilla
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Yesterday I went back in time. I
spent the day with 25 USC students and two professors. USC Madrid makes a trip
once a semester to visit Sevilla so the students get to know another, important
part of Spain. Since Lette is better at keeping in touch with people than I am,
she had been in contact with the program coordinators (yes, for those of you
who didn’t know, Lette and I did know each other before coming to Sevilla, we
both went to USC and studied abroad in Madrid) and they kept her updated about
when they would be in Sevilla in the spring semester. </div>
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They invited us to join their
Saturday city tour which included a trip to the Museo de Bellas Artes and Plaza
del Toros, two places in the city that I have passed by one million times (but
pretty sure I’ve never actually visited). It was great to be able to go to the
fine art museum with the USC art history professor. Unfortunately, when I
studied abroad, due to scheduling conflicts, I wasn’t able to take his class.
For me it was a real treat to be guided through the museum by a professor that
is not only extremely knowledgeable about art, but also extremely enthusiastic
about sharing his knowledge. As my parents told me multiple times in college, a
good professor is the most important factor in choosing a good class, even more
so then interest in the subject. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
now almost two years after graduating college, I finally really understand what
they meant by that. </div>
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Paco, the art history teacher, is
one of the most enthusiastic and intelligent professors I have ever heard. He
guided us through the museum showing us the most important paintings,
explaining the history of the artist, of the painting in general and the time
period in which it was painted. Usually, when I am in a museum I look at my
watch every three minutes because I am so bored. I hardly noticed we had spent
an hour and a half going around the museum. I was so happy to be learning again
in a “classroom” type environment, it has been so long. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed a lot of the students got
bored while we were visiting the museum, and I just wanted to tell them to try
to appreciate how lucky they are to have such a great teacher because sooner or
later they will miss it. But, I didn’t say that. Instead I decided to listen
and learn as much as I possibly could because lucky for me I didn’t have to
scribble all the facts down to study for a test next week!</div>
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After the museum we strolled over
to the Plaza de Toros, where they have a bullfighting museum and you can walk
around the bullring. We took the necessary café con leche break and then
continued our day. I don’t think I mentioned that the day started at 10:30 AM
on a Saturday. I can’t even remember the last time I woke up that early on a
Saturday. </div>
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At the Plaza de Toros, we did a
guided tour with a really great tour guide. I love when I get good tour guides
because really it is just a question of luck. Everyone pays the same amount for
a guided tour, and the guide can really make or break one’s opinion of a place.
Our tour was in English and Spanish. It came in handy that I understand both
languages because I realized the tour guide was giving different information in
each language. Sometimes she would forget to say something she had said in
Spanish in English, and vice versa. So the people on the tour who understood
both languages ended up learning the most. </div>
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After a morning full of learning
and being on our feet, USC treated us to an amazing I don’t know how many
course lunch at La Taberna del Alabardero. This is a restaurant that I walk
past almost everyday on my way to work and always thought was a hotel. It is
also “la escuela de hosteleria”, which I think means something like hospitality
school. I think since I always see the word “hosteleria” outside the building,
I just assumed it was a hotel because hostel and hotel look similar. I’m not
sure. It is in a really fancy old building that used to be a palace, home to a
wealthy Sevillian family. The inside is even more gorgeous than the outside,
and the food as delicious and beautiful as the décor of the building. </div>
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We ate a typical three-hour lunch
that consisted of three courses of appetizers and a main course and dessert. To
start, to share we were given paté and bread chips, tortillitas de camarones (fried
shrimp pancakes) and croquetas filled with something delicious and
unidentifiable. Then, each person got a bowl of seafood rice, something like
paella but also with broth. Not sure what it was exactly but I know it was
really yummy. By the time my main dish came I was so full I could hardly eat
it. Had I known all the appetizers would be fish/seafood based, I might not
have chosen fish for my main course (we had a choice between fish and meat).
Still, being full has almost never stopped me from eating when good food is put
in front of me (or any food for that matter) and yesterday was no exception.
Then dessert…something like cheesecake but not as good. To avoid having to be
rolled out of the restaurant I decided not to eat the cake and just stick with
coffee to help the digestion process. </div>
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At lunch we sat at a big table
with about 10 students and the two professors chatting about our experiences
and theirs, answering questions about our lives in Sevilla, why we decided to
come here to teach, how we were enjoying it and so on. I was really happy to be
able to talk about my experience here with the students because I remember when
I was in their position and even when I was still living in Madrid, all I could
think about was how I would be able to get back to Spain. And the students for
the most part seemed really interested in what we had to say. </div>
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It was a great day. Made me feel
like I was back at USC for a little while, tuition footing the bill for our
museum entrances and food. But also, just being in a learning environment, with
other people who share similar interests with me. I found out that one of the
girls is staying at the same home stay I stayed in. Jealous. I hope Christina
(my study abroad roommate) and I remain our host moms’ favorites but I am happy
that someone else gets to experience their generosity, kindness and good
cooking. </div>
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<br /></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-64320452265771601702013-02-17T13:48:00.001-08:002013-02-17T13:52:06.177-08:00Alternative Carnaval <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52mn-BUyJdSNRuFZS69u7IMATRA-7cDfZBvRCzqBYOVvQc9e8WeL8pv-gPIaEX0yr0rZeHIxM1zkH_wPVAFw9NfW-ngubLfthwKdE9JcHoaRu9PRdO8542Dz7Yd7Y0HIaambjeY_WhUyy/s1600/IMG_0188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52mn-BUyJdSNRuFZS69u7IMATRA-7cDfZBvRCzqBYOVvQc9e8WeL8pv-gPIaEX0yr0rZeHIxM1zkH_wPVAFw9NfW-ngubLfthwKdE9JcHoaRu9PRdO8542Dz7Yd7Y0HIaambjeY_WhUyy/s320/IMG_0188.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Being a Jew, I don’t really know all that much about
Christianity. But I know that Easter is a really big holiday, and lent is
somehow involved with that holiday, although lent begins 40 days before Easter
(<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">mas o menos</span>). Well
lent (just speculating here) means that you have to give up something that is
important to you, and therefore must commence with a big party. In some
countries like New Orleans (okay some cities), this celebration takes the form
of Mardi Gras. For some reason the rest of the glamorous USA has not caught on
to this incredible tradition (I hear it is incredible but I’ve never been
myself). And in many other countries around the world, the beginning of lent is
marked by carnaval. </div>
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In Spain, the biggest carnaval celebration is in Cadiz (I
think). Many people from Sevilla flock to Cadiz to celebrate (to drink on the
street and dress up in costumes, much like adult Halloween in the States). Now
I really love dressing up. I have always loved Halloween and costume parties in
general, always calls for a good time… </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqU7nenPh6murbzucFaMxAmGVaHaFMCP3ODv-khWb91AczxFRHjerdOXt2sV2vDXepfavzwlNEh0JNLmte99fJ3BpgrmlNRkqDmKAMDEp6EwGyur5OL9Wg17NX5geMh98tZiUIPKneHgL/s1600/30102011939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqU7nenPh6murbzucFaMxAmGVaHaFMCP3ODv-khWb91AczxFRHjerdOXt2sV2vDXepfavzwlNEh0JNLmte99fJ3BpgrmlNRkqDmKAMDEp6EwGyur5OL9Wg17NX5geMh98tZiUIPKneHgL/s320/30102011939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcu0yXX5J5tyDh7jvvNLzutTwNAuYK8xLc1xGXxx-o40Bblu8O1EldRREuGKSYCmIVQfox3_TTVLZjCaq29rV-0viCyxoGA6RlY8Q8n-ES0VsKdv0J073mf7oJgtszxhTfSCXkS6R_s0OQ/s1600/380479_10150334133051669_725846668_8591647_883334550_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcu0yXX5J5tyDh7jvvNLzutTwNAuYK8xLc1xGXxx-o40Bblu8O1EldRREuGKSYCmIVQfox3_TTVLZjCaq29rV-0viCyxoGA6RlY8Q8n-ES0VsKdv0J073mf7oJgtszxhTfSCXkS6R_s0OQ/s320/380479_10150334133051669_725846668_8591647_883334550_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But for
some reason, neither this year nor last, the festivities in Cadiz haven’t
really caught my attention. A costume party YES A costume party in a plaza
filled with so many people that you can’t move around and its 45 degrees
outside NAHHH. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I didn’t want to give up on the dream completely, so,
like that time I went to Belize for Christmas instead of going home
(alternative winter break) I did what I am calling "alternative carnaval." </div>
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Carnaval goes on for two weekends. During the day, it is
quite similar to what I imagine happens at night except they also have the
chirigotas all around the city. Chirigotas are comical musical groups that sing
about current events in Spain: the president, the crisis etc. Given that they
sing in Spanish, about very topical issues, and use colloquialisms, I don’t
completely understand the chirigotas, but I appreciate them for their cultural
importance. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IAtKIDdqpg_aZo2-TpT7IvwsKH01QPr73Kt3fge9SAR0nJY_-tPAn6W97VCdfPN3iaMnGdP-nt5xpd-o8uuyiBIBS-9lwOWB3Vtx0gzgxnDCy2m_IfV_TWFO9ANPu8VPvX6w9bDfC0aM/s1600/IMG_0173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IAtKIDdqpg_aZo2-TpT7IvwsKH01QPr73Kt3fge9SAR0nJY_-tPAn6W97VCdfPN3iaMnGdP-nt5xpd-o8uuyiBIBS-9lwOWB3Vtx0gzgxnDCy2m_IfV_TWFO9ANPu8VPvX6w9bDfC0aM/s320/IMG_0173.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a chirigota</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Last Sunday, one week ago, I went to Cadiz for the day to
soak in this cultural experience and the sun. Cadiz is a city right on the
beach, so on a clear day, even though its not quite beach weather yet, it is a
great place to spend the day. The trains from Sevilla to Cadiz during Carnaval
are a hot commodity. Since it was a last minute decision, I didn’t have many
options in terms of which trains to take, so in the end I was only there for the
afternoon. Not complaining though, went with two American friends and we had a
good time (well cant speak for other people but I know I enjoyed myself). </div>
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We “dressed up” (painted our faces) to be a part of the
festival. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DbGkfXlOWR-Tjcmqsz1wDapwE6k3cFdNsWSpOZD7BAwxlQmPK3f9hsOZV0KLZmZZ_djQnTnJvU-Hyw5m_LPot_Uwgp1Bl15tfFO_g_ccqG9xJqQmKKFwdPm4ut67C8ydh0XWGVUJs9pD/s1600/carnaval1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DbGkfXlOWR-Tjcmqsz1wDapwE6k3cFdNsWSpOZD7BAwxlQmPK3f9hsOZV0KLZmZZ_djQnTnJvU-Hyw5m_LPot_Uwgp1Bl15tfFO_g_ccqG9xJqQmKKFwdPm4ut67C8ydh0XWGVUJs9pD/s320/carnaval1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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When we got off the train in Cadiz, we walked into the center of town
and joined the party. The chirigotas were singing in corners in front of the
cathedral, in the main plaza and on the main road that follows the beach. At
some points there were so many people on one street (one super small ancient
European city street) that I wasn’t walking, I was just gliding along with the
crowd. I did feel so claustrophobic at one point that I told myself “I am never
ever going to do this again.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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But then I just started thinking about how comical all this
was and I couldn’t stop laughing (maybe the beers I had drank helped a little).
There were adults and children of all ages (and I mean all ages, grandparents
included) dressed up in costumes varying from Batman to policemen to farm
animals roaming the streets, drinking beers and cokes and snacking on
bocadillos and pipas (all typical street festivities in Spain involve beer and
sandwiches and/or sunflower seeds). Despite my spells of claustrophobia, I
realized I was having a lot of fun. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We spent a good portion of the day sitting on a ledge in
front of this: </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZ6IjNr6Iwvyja75Sx4EyQmP1FJY1opnDBUx0eMXtBZJWcLrg87a-IL1bdvH74gWm_CoYA4EMXm7MnTJksjfuDNfBPO_91VNN6jc5mG3HVBfsLI2gdwCe38nrvkNtZr48G82EFGmZV751/s1600/IMG_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZ6IjNr6Iwvyja75Sx4EyQmP1FJY1opnDBUx0eMXtBZJWcLrg87a-IL1bdvH74gWm_CoYA4EMXm7MnTJksjfuDNfBPO_91VNN6jc5mG3HVBfsLI2gdwCe38nrvkNtZr48G82EFGmZV751/s320/IMG_0176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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So I would say it was a good day. I think I am always going
to be a little curious about what the evening carnaval parties are like, but I
think I am okay with leaving it as a curiosity. </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-66742552039986536942013-01-16T02:55:00.000-08:002013-01-16T02:55:04.320-08:00My day as a real teacher
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Last week, the woman
I normally teach with in the mornings on Thursdays couldn't come to school.
Since I am not actually a teacher, I was not allowed to be alone in the
classroom but still I was in charge. For the first time ever pretty much,
I gave an entire one hour ingles lesson to a class of 27 Spanish six year olds,
three one hour classes to be exact. This is not totally and completely new to
me, as I have spent the last three months teaching myself how to teach on the job
teaching English in a private academy. But boy was this experience different
from teaching after school classes of eight students max. </span><span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Additionally, the teacher didn't leave me much of a lesson plan. She told
me to review everything we have learned so far, a very daunting task it seemed
at first. I was lucky enough to have an English teacher with me in class the
first hour but before we started he said to me "today you are the teacher
and I am the assistant, the class is all yours". Whoa. Well long story
short it turned out okay. The next two classes I didn't have an English teacher
in the room with me, just another teacher who had a break period. So I am glad
I was able to do the trial run with an English speaker in the room. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span>The at first overwhelming task of reviewing everything we have learned so
far turned out to be quite the opposite. Since the children are so young, the
amount of material we have covered is really small but at the same time quite
impressive. These little pipsqueaks have really soaked up a lot of vocabulary
since I started with them in October. We reviewed the parts of the body and
face (don't think I even knew the word torso when I was 6 years old!), we made
a list of healthy versus unhealthy foods, (most still think hamburgers are
healthy but we'll chalk that up to a cultural difference not lack of
vocabulary), we talked about the members of our families and modes of
communication (doesn't hurt that the Spanish word for radio is radio and the
word for Internet is Internet). Still very pleased with the progress
we've made. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span>And to be honest I am pretty pleased with myself. What I imagined at
first would be a disaster actually turned out to be an enjoyable day. One of
the three classes gave me a lot of trouble and it was very discouraging. But
after talking to a few other teachers during recess they all told me not to
worry because this class is a problem for everyone. Feel bad for their teacher.
In the other two sections we had a lot of fun playing games, reviewing
flashcards and even learning some new vocabulary. Although my day was mostly a
success, I still don't think I see teaching in my future. 27:1 is never a good
ratio, no matter how patient you are! </span></span></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-75293475243616237812013-01-16T02:50:00.000-08:002013-01-16T15:06:48.300-08:00Reentry<style>
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*imagine this was posted one week ago </div>
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Today is Wednesday. I
got back to Spain on Monday. I noticed it’s been a while since my last post
(thanks parents for constantly remind me of that fact). Although nothing crazy
and adventurous has happened, except for my two transatlantic flights, my new
year’s resolution is to write more (how many times have we heard that before?)
and enjoy every moment of my last “semester” in Spain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I am calling this post “Reentry”
not because I want to write about my voyage through customs in Lisbon, but
because I want to remind my future self, and other daring individuals who pick
themselves up and move to a foreign country, how even after a year and a half of
living in a place, coming back is never easy. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I could not have been more
excited that this year I was fortunate enough to go home for the Christmas
holidays to be with my family and friends. As soon as December started, and
everyone began the countdown to Christmas day, I began my countdown to the 21<sup>st</sup>,
the day I was flying home. I had been talking for weeks with friends and family
members about all the fun things we wanted to do during my visit to NY. Of
course only about half of those things happened, but no complaints here. I
celebrated Jew Christmas with my family, went skiing, saw a show on Broadway,
rang in the New Year with my best friends, but most importantly spent quality
time with people I really care about. I had a wonderful break.</div>
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People who have lived in a
foreign country for an extended period of time often find themselves wishing
they were in the place they weren’t. I am no exception. When I’m at home all I
do is talk about Spain, when I’m in Spain, all I do is compare life here to the
life I grew up with in America. It is almost like a disease that every expat
catches, at least the ones I have talked to. It is impossible to avoid, and I
think in a way that is a good thing. Without recognizing the differences
between one place and another, it is impossible to appreciate what one country
has to offer that the other does not. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now after all these sappy,
extremely broad observations I have just made, I still have to reiterate, no
matter how prepared you think you are, no matter how long you have lived in
another country, going “home” (original place of birth) or coming back after a
vacation at “home, IS NOT EASY. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Going home, not easy? Sounds
strange. But after so many months/years, one grows accustomed to a way of life.
Although I’ve spent the majority of my life in America, it still shocks me
sometimes when I come home from Spain and go to the supermarket and see 86
different varieties of water on the shelf. Water is water no? No. At least not
in America. And for an indecisive person like me to have so much variety, and
then on top of that, the shock of so much variety, no bueno. And on the flip
side, when I am back in Spain, and I only have two brands of water to choose
from, I am extremely disappointed. Just can’t win. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Ok, I know you are thinking,
really Joanna? You are complaining about having too much variety and then
having none? If that is your biggest problem in life, then you have things
pretty good. And you’re right. I do have it pretty good. But put aside the
petty differences between Spain and the good old USA, there are less tangible
differences that make re-entering life abroad difficult. Luckily, this time
around wasn’t so bad, because I was only home for two weeks. But the very day I
got back, and the first day back at work, was not easy. I wondered, why do I do
this to myself. I’ve never been good at transitions. And here I am, still
living life semester-to-semester, transitioning every 3-6 months. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
Then I remembered: the constant
sunshine, 65 degree days in January, café con leche, cerveza at noon, rebajas
(sales) for two months after Christmas, waking up at 11am to go to work (don’t
be too jealous, I don’t get home until 11pm), eating a full feast at lunchtime
for 10 euros max, siesta (good for those who can take it), students that tell
me everyday that I am beautiful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so much more. </div>
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No, there are no bagels here;
there is no heat in the winter or AC in the summer (at least where I live). But
this is not forever (I don’t think). And as long as I can remember that, “reentry”
will always be a little bit easier. </div>
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<br /></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-19172387424906436302012-11-25T08:04:00.000-08:002012-11-25T08:04:19.565-08:00My Visit to Pilas
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Last Friday, after a solid two
and a half months back in Seville (I cannot believe it’s been that long), I
finally made my first visit to Pilas. For my new readers, if there are any,
Pilas is the town that I taught in last year. I worked at a primary school
there that I would do anything to be able to teach at again but the Spanish
government had other plans for me, so lo and behold here I am, as you know, in
Utrera. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, I woke up Friday morning
and caught the bus to Pilas from Sevilla, something I rarely did last year
because I got a ride to school everyday from teacher Ismael. There is only one
bus that goes to Pilas, and leaves about every 2-3 hours. Since Friday is
normally my day of rest after my exhausting four-day week (give me some credit,
they are 14 hour days), I didn’t want to wake up for the 9 o’clock bus. Also,
if I was going to go that early I might as well have gone with Ismael, he
leaves only half an hour earlier. Boring details aside, I rode the 45-minute
bus from Sevilla to Pilas and as soon as I stepped off, I felt like I had
stepped into a time warp. </div>
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Although it had only been four
months since the last time I was there, it felt like forever. And walking down
the street towards the school, I had butterflies in my stomach that I remember
having the first day I went to work there. I’m assuming this time it was
excitement more than nerves; nonetheless it was the same exact feeling. As I
approached the building, I turned off my iPod and I could hear the sound of the
children in physical education class playing on the patio. It was a beautiful
sunny day; in fact I think I was in just a t-shirt most of the day. The birds
were chirping, and I could smell the factories crushing recently grown olives
into fresh olive oil (that last part I made up, but I wanted to give the whole
sensual experience, and it probably was happening nearby, although I actually couldn’t
smell it!).</div>
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<br /></div>
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I (actually the bus schedule)
timed my visit so that I would arrive just as recreo (recess) was starting. I
figured that would be the best way to see all the teachers and children I
wanted to see all at the same time. I walked to the front of the school and
there was some construction happening in the entranceway. Initially, I was a
little confused, even concerned, that I wouldn’t be able to enter the building.
In retrospect that doesn’t make any sense, of course even with construction
happening, people can enter and exit the building! </div>
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<br /></div>
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So, I waited for a little while
in the front of the school, and after about 5 minutes another man came to the
gate, opened it, and walked right through the construction into the school, so
I followed his lead. The first person I came across was the secretary, who had
no idea I was coming to school, not even sure she knew I was back in Spain. She
gave me a big hug and kiss and we talked, and she offered me an orange, which
is so typical…my memories of her all involve her eating some sort of fruit. But
once the recess bell rang, all the children came running into the halls,
bocadillos and batidos in hand. </div>
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From the moment the first kid saw
me, the hugs and kisses didn’t end. It was a great feeling; honestly I was a
little worried some of the kids weren’t going to remember me. Boy was I wrong.
They were so excited to see me, as I was to see them. It kind of reminded me of
when I come home at the end of a long day and my dogs are wagging their tails
and chasing each other in circles because they are so excited to see me (or any
human). </div>
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The half an hour recreo seemed
like it finished in 5 minutes, as did the rest of the afternoon. My favorite
class from last year begged me to come back with them after recreo, so I said I
would. I wanted to keep my promise, but I also wanted to spend some time with
my other students and co-workers from last year. I went with teacher Fran who
is now teaching first grade (taught second last year), and he introduced me to
his new babies…then I was going to visit his class from last year (my favorite)
and I ran into teacher Elena in the teachers' lounge. She was having her
speaking hour with the new auxiliar, the new me. The girl Chelsea is very nice,
and I am extremely jealous of her. They invited me to sit down and chat with
them for a while, so I stayed there not realizing how quickly the time was
passing. I wanted to visit my class from last year while they were in English
class, but before I knew it that 30 minute class was over, and they were now in
art class. The art teacher is new, and not part of the bilingual team, but she
was nice and let me stay with the class anyway. </div>
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After 30 minutes there, I said I
had to leave so I could go visit other classes. Upon hearing “me voy”, the kids
sprang up from their chairs and ran to the door to form a blockade. Now they
may only be 8 years old, but a blockade of 15 eight-year-olds is not an easy
one to get through. They were tugging at my clothes and telling me that I was
not allowed to leave, ever, that I had to stay in Pilas, forever. They were so
confused why I wasn’t back with them this year, obviously eight year olds don’t
understand the concept of the government telling you where you have to work, I
hardly understand it. They said it’s okay that I’m not with them this year as
long as I come back next year…gonna be a hard task to accomplish. </div>
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Going back to the school made me
realize/remember why I loved it so much. I was super attached to the kids I
worked with, and my coworkers weren’t so bad…This year, I see each of my
students for two hours a week and that’s eat. It’s hard to form a relationship
with kids when you only see them twice a week. I mean last year I was only at
the school three days a week, and even though I was probably with each classe only
an hour and a half a week, I saw them in the hallways, I saw them at recreo,
when they arrived in the morning and when they left in the afternoon. There was
much more time to connect with them and grow attached. This year, I am
struggling to form that same relationship with my students. But I think it’s
just the nature of the job. </div>
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Although I am sad that I’m not at
the school in Pilas again this year, I am extremely grateful that I had the opportunity
to work there in the first place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-33791380068681993762012-11-22T05:07:00.002-08:002012-11-22T05:33:31.262-08:00Thanksgiving<style>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">el día de acción de gracias </b></div>
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Today marks the fourth Thanksgiving of the past six that I
have been out of the country, more specifically, in Spain. I should be used to it by now, and to a certain
extent, I am. But that doesn’t mean that when I woke up this morning I didn’t
wish I could crawl into bed with my sister and watch the Thanksgiving Day
parade. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I were gathering together with my family
at some point this afternoon to stuff ourselves silly with turkey and pumpkin
pie, and then maybe watch some football. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Although today is a very difficult day for me to be away
from home, I still appreciate the significance of the day. Even though it is not a
holiday here, I think it should be observed and people should all take a step
back to recognize and appreciate the things they have and are grateful for. After
all that’s what thanksgiving is really about, not just eating so much food that
you think you may never eat again! </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am extremely grateful for my
family and friends, especially for all the support and help they have given me
throughout my experiences abroad. I am also grateful for the opportunities I
have been given so far in my life; the fact that I am able to spend so much
time living and learning in another country is not something I take for
granted. </div>
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</div>
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So I wish a Happy Thanksgiving to all, Americans and not, but
especially to those of you who are spending the holiday out of the patria…And
for those in the States, eat an extra helping of stuffing for me!</div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-73864101527260911412012-11-15T06:21:00.002-08:002012-11-15T06:36:51.251-08:00Small Town Living, Sort of <style>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I now have lots of time to think and blog in the middle of the day...so this post is a little longer than usual..stick with me!<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b></div>
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<span class="st">A couple of weeks
ago I began giving morning classes twice a week to the babies in the academy.
And when I say babies, I mean infants that can hardly speak Spanish yet. I
think the youngest one is younger than one year, nine months or something
absurdly young like that. So, I have the thrilling task of teaching these non-Spanish
speaking tots how to speak English aka make sounds that sound something like
English words. As a result of this new undertaking, I now spend the entire day
in the budding metropolis that is (NOT) Utrera. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="st">As pueblos go,
Utrera is not too small, 51,630 inhabitants, according to the ever so reliable
Wikipedia, so really it’s more like a small city. Despite this enormous
population, Utrera has a very small town feel. I am so fortunate to be able to
spend three days a week here, so I can really learn what small town life is all
about, and more importantly, so I can be grateful that I live in Sevilla. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-1UFAiAt6oIJqweQECSitG6CW9srC-cVkKiHKXjSiYVWn0OeIH3nZfhk0Etfe0m46EyxllZyqka8X04G3twz17vGIEasr5hsctwb0Qidyyr3wHsLYD2DkWgXbVVxOn7sxEOkqbwtA6iB/s1600/photo-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-1UFAiAt6oIJqweQECSitG6CW9srC-cVkKiHKXjSiYVWn0OeIH3nZfhk0Etfe0m46EyxllZyqka8X04G3twz17vGIEasr5hsctwb0Qidyyr3wHsLYD2DkWgXbVVxOn7sxEOkqbwtA6iB/s320/photo-2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is a beautiful pueblo..that I cannot deny.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="st">Coming from a
suburb of NYC, which in fact has fewer inhabitants than Utrera, but living a
lot of my life in the city with over 8 million people, I notice a lot of
differences in the lifestyle. In general, Spain is much more relaxed than what
I am used to, but life in the pueblo is even more tranquilo. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="st">For example, I
finish my morning classes at 1pm (yes, although </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Post meridiem </i>1 o’clock is still considered the morning in Spain)
and I don’t begin again in the afternoon until 4:15 or 4:30, depending on the
day. In NYC, 3 hours to kill is no problem at all. Sometimes just to get from
one point to another can take 45 minutes or more. But it isn’t really fair to
compare Utrera to the largest (and best) city in the world. So I won’t. But
even in my little pueblo of Scarsdale, I could go shopping, see a movie, go to
the library, sit in a café…and easily pass the three hours. </div>
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Well, here in Utrera, it’s quite
a different story. I was ecstatic last week when I found out there was a
library and I figured out how to get there (for some reason, street sign seem
to be optional (sparse) in the south of Spain). I sat down at one of the study
tables around 1:15, preparing myself to settle in there for the next couple of
hours. I brought my computer so I could use the wifi, I brought my nook to
read, some papers to correct, and my class books to make lesson plans. The time
was flying by; I thought maybe the whole spending the afternoon in Utrera thing
wouldn’t be so bad after all. </div>
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However, around 30 minutes after
I arrived, I noticed the people around me began to pack up their things and
leave. I thought, ok they are going home because no one wants to be in the
library at lunchtime (lunch is the most important meal of the day here). About
five minutes after that, all the lights were turned off. Weird, I thought.
Maybe they were trying to conserve energy? Another five minutes and I hear, “Ya
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">estamos cerrado</span> (We
are now closed)” Closed! I knew stores would close for siesta but the
library????</div>
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So, I had to venture on to bigger
and better things. I trekked around the city with my computer and my backpack
and all my books until I arrived at a restaurant that looked comfortable and
inviting (the only establishments open in the middle of the day are restaurants).
The restaurant was an important decision for me because I would be stationed
there for the following two hours until it was time to go to work again. And
this has now become my routine….</div>
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Fast forward two weeks to yesterday…November
14….huelga general en Sevilla (maybe all of Spain?) For those of you who don’t
know, huelga means strike. If you ever plan on visiting Spain this is a very
important word to know because here it seems like there is a huelga every other
week. I know, I should be more sympathetic, there is a creesis here and things
are really bad. There are no jobs (unless we keep stores open at <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">mediodía</span>, thus creating
more shifts aka JOBS). The price of education has now gone up to a whopping
1,000€ a year (talk to me when its $50,000 a year). Oh and what is that…you
still don’t have to pay for healthcare…oh yeah. </div>
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Sarcasm aside, things are
worse here than they used to be. And in all seriousness, I realize when you
spend your whole life used to one thing (free education, free health care, a
certain salary) it is hard when there is even a slight change. Someone recently
drew my attention to a New York Times article (yes, I do read the articles you
email me) about people in Spain that are so desperate as a result of homes/jobs
lost, that they have resorted to dumpster diving in order to have food to eat,
and other essentials items to live. At first glance I thought, this is an
exaggeration and an awful portrayal of the situation here. Imagine my surprise
when one day, I actually saw a woman jump into a dumpster to collect things
from inside. It broke my heart…</div>
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Anyway, I almost forgot there was
a point to what I was saying. So today, huelga general, except for Joanna and
all my coworkers at New England Academy, the small city-town Utrera, has even
less to offer me. The library is closed; many restaurants and stores are
closed. Luckily, the Cuban (?) restaurant (they say its Cuban/Mexican but the
food is 100% Spanish) where I have eaten lunch for the past three days I’ve
worked, is open. And there I am, eating my Spanish food cooked by Cubans
perhaps. For the first time, I am in the company of other diners, remember no
one is working because they are on strike, but I don’t think many people in
Utrera are actually striking (protesting in front of government buildings etc).
Upon my return to Sevilla last night, there were signs that protests had occurred,
flyers everywhere and garbage bags filled with empty beer and alcohol bottles piled
high.</div>
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Pues, c’est la vie en España…<span class="st"></span></div>
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For anyone who actually read my
entire rant, thank you. For those of you who skipped right to the bottom, I
completely understand. </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-18764698597349465622012-11-12T06:28:00.003-08:002012-11-12T06:28:37.950-08:00Lost in Lisbon <br />
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Note*</div>
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I am inaccurately calling this
post Lost in Lisbon, we were not actually lost most of the time. Of course,
there were moments when we were wandering around in circles, but mostly that
was on purpose; we were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exploring</i>
Lisbon, rather than getting lost. However, I like the alliteration so I’m
sticking with my title. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Halloween weekend was a Puente
(long weekend) in Spain. Instead of celebrating Halloween (officially it’s not a
holiday but kids are starting now to dress up and go trick or treating), Spain
celebrates the day after, the Day of the Dead. In all honesty, I’m not exactly
sure what that is a celebration of; I suppose it is to honor the dead. But here
in Spain, it seems more like it is an excuse to have a day off. I could be
totally wrong, so Spaniards reading this, don’t be offended. </div>
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So, to aprovechar (take advantage
of…sounds way better in Spanish) the long weekend, Samantha and I took the
overnight bus from Sevilla to Lisbon on Wednesday (Halloween) night. The bus
left at midnight, and arrived at 6:30 the next morning. We decided on that
bus so that we would have the most time possible to see Lisbon. Well, not
surprisingly, as soon as we got to our hostel, we slept for almost the entire
day. For those of you who have been on a 6+ hour bus ride before, you
understand our need to sleep in an actual bed...Imagine sleeping on an airplane
(you are pretty uncomfortable, right?). Well now take that image and add less
comfortable seats and the sensation of feeling every turn the bus/plane makes,
plus not having heat or blankets…now you are really uncomfortable. And so were
we on the bus..ergo, our decision to sleep more!</div>
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It was just the two of us on the
bus from Sevilla, but we met two of Samantha’s friends from school at the
hostel. In fact, the whole trip was their idea. Her two friends, Laura and
Julia, are twins who are currently teaching English in a pueblo in Granada. I
had met them earlier in the year because they were in Sevilla for two weeks for
an orientation, so it was great to see them again. </div>
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After the twins arrived, and
Samantha and I woke up from our “nap”, the four of us went out for dinner.
Since I was feeling a little sick I didn’t join in on the partying that night,
but there was more of that to come in the following days. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikB__YjAFKvDGckKbwzqumxtmqj81ebwpmA8GW1cXAZMtdHRwheM8wFnNSBKLD2fcL_8VaEPfOExx85eYo70ct5tsBvU6tgjjRdgynuV50hh_1kqeV_f4TyYdJyesXNrkzu8TUxAfdrHqn/s1600/DSCN4205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikB__YjAFKvDGckKbwzqumxtmqj81ebwpmA8GW1cXAZMtdHRwheM8wFnNSBKLD2fcL_8VaEPfOExx85eYo70ct5tsBvU6tgjjRdgynuV50hh_1kqeV_f4TyYdJyesXNrkzu8TUxAfdrHqn/s320/DSCN4205.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The four of us atop <span class="st">Castelo de Sao Jorge</span></td></tr>
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We spent all day Friday and
Saturday exploring Lisbon…visiting a beautiful cathedral, an old fortress, a castle,
a monastery and more! We watched and listened to Fado (typical Portuguese
music), we ate and drank typical Portuguese food and drink. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above: Said beautiful Cathedral </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Below: Beautiful stained-glass window inside said beautful cathedral </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxH069xUBcoadDC6RH33XZuIESr3R_S2GqnsJT-P8rT2Fr0Z-zv6YLPVoM1wcoFjcIaJYgkO53zsGcHvb50qUzNgAa7XHBvEssfhqcllbYPuwIanr8W9OUqDOgnGn1RyKCotqFlfFcGgs/s1600/DSCN4179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxH069xUBcoadDC6RH33XZuIESr3R_S2GqnsJT-P8rT2Fr0Z-zv6YLPVoM1wcoFjcIaJYgkO53zsGcHvb50qUzNgAa7XHBvEssfhqcllbYPuwIanr8W9OUqDOgnGn1RyKCotqFlfFcGgs/s320/DSCN4179.JPG" style="background-color: #444444;" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fado music</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3K-FRbrumB6Ox8AAW5A0L2o6IJsSVsk4yYA6sYkV4-PIUHqMjcdCBfOHZFdymFO03O23UlWNbS9CXvFkt7U48_e3xKhMWC2UlszwcNaY4ImHOs1rHy_rK30qK5VEqXRrXIcYqU4TjJBH/s1600/DSCN4268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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On Sunday, although we still hadn’t
seen all of Lisbon, we decided to go to Sintra, a town approximately 45
minutes outside of Lisbon. And boy am I happy we did that. Sintra is a little
town in the mountains, and it looks like it was pulled straight from a
fairytale. The roads are windy, there are trees (enchanted forests) everywhere. There is
a big fortress/castle at the top of the hill. Around every corner there is a
view more beautiful than the next, a view that looks like a page from Snow
White or Cinderella.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the breathtaking views</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNFYVwvRbEEzjRUOKIKVRQhRSQiY62i2DkGFwx4Yo-yjDMKfwc3lsfSpLxxaxnteQJv2iWrVrwJUjv23FENUK0EJ8ylVTRGKFviv0oOd2ptN5uC_ygYR5DZCc9YOKfniXA9prjKKhwySg/s1600/DSCN4348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNFYVwvRbEEzjRUOKIKVRQhRSQiY62i2DkGFwx4Yo-yjDMKfwc3lsfSpLxxaxnteQJv2iWrVrwJUjv23FENUK0EJ8ylVTRGKFviv0oOd2ptN5uC_ygYR5DZCc9YOKfniXA9prjKKhwySg/s320/DSCN4348.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cinderella's Castle</td></tr>
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Unfortunately, it was cold and
gloomy, making it feel even more like a fairytale in my mind, but made it
uncomfortable to be outside for too long/made it difficult for my pictures to
capture the true beauty of the town. </div>
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En fin, I highly recommend to
anyone who has not been to Lisbon to put it high up on the list of places to visit,
up there with Prague. Seriously, go! I’m so glad I did. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photos don't lie</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">look how pretty! </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-14551589883598762232012-10-06T12:26:00.000-07:002012-10-06T12:26:12.229-07:00Salesianos
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While the experience is still
fresh in my mind (somewhat), I would like to write a short post about my first
day of work at job number two. </div>
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My previously mentioned friend, Samantha,
who got me job number one, also led me to job number two. There is a man who
studies at the academy, who is also a teacher at a somewhat private school in
Utrera. The school is a chain I guess you could call it, I don’t know if that
word applies for schools, but there are a bunch of these schools around the
country. It’s a catholic school, founded by a famous priest, don’t rememer his
name, forgive me I’m Jewish. Its public in that it is funded by the government,
but in every other sense it seems like a private school. There are boarders,
and uniforms, and it looks a little like Hogwarts. </div>
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Well, back on topic, this man,
Carlos, asked Sam if she would be willing to help out at the school a couple of
hours a week. Since she is already working at yet another school in the
morning, Sam decided not to take the job and offered it to me. Good deal. Thanks
SammySpain!</div>
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So this past Thursday morning, I
had to wake up at 6:45 AM, yuck, in order to be at Salesianos at 9 (normally I
will be arriving at 9:30 but this was the first day so I had to take a tour and
meet all of the millions of teachers there). Well I am now becoming somewhat of
an expert at taking the train to Utrera, so that part of the commute presented
no trouble for me. But as soon as I got off of the train, I realized all I
really knew in terms of how to walk to the school was, go to the right. I did
however plan a little bit ahead and picked up a map of Utrera at a hotel
earlier in the week. </div>
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For some reason, maybe the fact
that it’s impossible to find street signs in Spain, I was having trouble
following the map. I couldn’t exactly figure out where I was, so it was hard to
figure out exactly how to get to where I wanted to go, obviously. Luckily, I
turned a corner, and saw three boys in school uniform! I followed them the
whole rest of the way to school, without them noticing! Maybe I have a future
career as a spy? </div>
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The school is an entire city
block, like NYC style city block. So once the boys got me close to the school
it was really hard to miss. Also there were tons of little school kids in
uniform, gossiping and cramming last minute for a test. I met Carlos at the
main gate to the school, and he gave me a tour of the school, completely
useless because it’s so big that I will never remember how to get everywhere.
He introduced me to almost every single person that works at the school, even
the teachers I will not be working with (which is almost all them because I’m
only working with one teacher). But it was nice to be introduced anyway. </div>
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The job itself is very much like
what I did last year as a language assistant. I will be in each of the first
grade classes for one hour a week, because they want to start something of a
bilingual program at the school. Since it is not technically a public school,
they do not have the official bilingual program and therefore are not assigned
a native speaker as an <span lang="ES-TRAD" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-TRAD;">auxiliar
de conversación</span> (fancy name for language assistant). Right, so I’ll be
in the classroom so the kids can get used to hearing a native English speaker,
learn correct pronunciation and all that fun stuff. </div>
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The morning was fun. Taught the
parts of the body and face, three times. Made little 6-year-old friends.
Looking forward to more. </div>
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Since I don’t start at the
academy until 4:30 on Thursdays, I was invited to stay at the school for lunch
(they serve lunch there because there are afternoon classes too and not
everyone can go home to eat). Also there are boarding students and they
obviously need to eat there. Seeing as this is Spain, and lunch is the most
important meal, I was served not just a sandwich or basket of chicken fingers
(like what you might find in a school cafeteria in America) but rather an
entire 3-course meal. There was salad and a potato stew to start, chicken and
more potatoes for the second course, yogurt and fruit for dessert. Not too bad.
I think I can get used to having a good meal made for me once a week. </div>
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In the cafeteria there is a
student eating section and another one for teachers. I sat in the teacher’s
section because I was eating with the primary school kids, and also I’m a
teacher of sorts. It was a little lonely because no other teacher was eating at
that time (1pm is really early for lunch here). But eventually some started
trickling in, a couple even sat with me! Exciting, new friends! Some teachers
were young and seemed cool but the only problem is that they mostly all live in
Utrera. And I don’t. So, that’s a bummer. But still, good to know there are
young, friendly people working there. </div>
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After lunch, I spent a couple of
hours sitting in the teachers’ lounge (one of the lounges I should say)
preparing my classes for the academy. I believe in that time I met the rest of
the staff I hadn’t met earlier in the day. It’s a great environment at that
school. Everyone was super nice to me, many complimented me on my Spanish
(always nice to have a little confidence booster) and a lot of them spoke
English pretty well. I’m excited to have some extra work in the mornings, and
the extra money of course, but by the end of the day Thursday I was dead tired.
I don’t finish at the academy until 9:30 so I was out of the house almost 14
hours. For me, that’s a lot! </div>
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Sorry I lied, not a short post. </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-52391581211155460182012-10-02T14:54:00.000-07:002012-10-02T14:54:34.977-07:00My Morning in Macarena
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
On the topic of new beginnings…I
thought I’d take this opportunity to enroll myself in an official language
class for the mornings, partly because I love learning languages, and partly
because there are some aspects of my life that would be easier if I were
officially a student here. So this morning I ventured into the Macarena
neighborhood of Sevilla, might as well be another city for all I know, think I
went there once the whole time I lived here last year. Luckily, the bus pretty
much dropped me off right in front of the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas (Official
Language School). I had to walk a little but my handy dandy iPhone 3 maps app
helped me out. I only walked in one cirle. I thought the fact that I arrived
without (with relatively little) trouble was a good omen. And, I was wrong…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
When I arrived there was a line
that wrapped around the entire building. I thought it was odd that there would
be so many people wanting to sign up for a language class TODAY. I mean I know
a lot of people are unemployed and want to take advantage of their free time to
learn English, but it literally seemed like the entire city of Seville was
there to sign up for classes. And I didn't want to wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
Well I walked myself to the front
of the line where I could see people entering the building, to wait on more
lines, but couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t know what specifically these people were waiting for. I couldn’t see a person they were waiting to
talk to at the front of the line, although I assume there was someone there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
As I was walking back to the end
of the line, feeling a little defeated, I heard something that sounded like my
name. I was listening to my iPod so I thought maybe I was just going a little
crazy, imagining things as a result of lack of sleep (this work schedule really
throws off my sleep schedule…dinner at 11pm??? That’s bedtime for me!) Turns
out I’m not crazy, or at least in this particular instance, and there was
actually someone I knew in the line! What are the chances, I know about five
people in Sevilla! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
A fellow volunteer from the Davis
Cup was waiting to sign up for English classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was very confused to see me there, seeing as I am a
native English speaker. Luckily she explained to me that all the people in line
were in fact signing up for English classes; the signup for other languages was
in another part of the building. Phew! One point of confusion settled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
When I ventured into the other side
of the building, I did in fact see signs indicating that there were classes
besides English at the school. There were class lists on the walls, and things
written in Italian and German and French. But that was about as much luck as I
had! I know there are classes in languages besides English. I asked one very
unfriendly lady about signing up, and she said, from what I understood, “you
can’t, look online.” Well that was super helpful, and she was about the only
actual person I could find who seemed to work there. So, I left. I’m taking her
helpful advice, and looking online. And all the information is for the
2011-2012 school year. Awesome!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
I do however have a Plan B. And
that includes bringing a Spanish person with me next time I go, if there is a
next time…. or making one of my Spanish friends call. Keep y’all posted! I know
you are dying to find out what happens next! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
In other news, it looks like my
bank account from last year was never actually closed down even though I did
cancel it. Lucky for me! Now (I’m pretty sure) I don’t have to open a new one! </div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-49226753003685766562012-10-01T05:03:00.001-07:002012-10-01T05:03:28.368-07:00New Beginnings
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Today marks the beginning of a
new month, but it’s more than that for me. It is also (one of) my first days
living in my new apartment, and the beginning of my full work schedule. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
For the past few weeks I have
been living with Pilar and her family, and now I am finally settled (mostly) in
my own place. I am living in the apartment I mentioned earlier, with the three
Italians. Still have only met two of them, the third one is on a really long
vacation/business trip (not sure) in the USA. So far the living situation is
good. Of course, being as this is Spain, the apartment has some…quirks let’s
call them. For example, there are one and a half bathrooms. Or should I say one
bathroom and a closet with a toilet in it. When one of my roommates was in the
shower yesterday, I decided it would be a good time for me to explore the
second bathroom. Well, for those of you who don’t remember, I am relatively
tall…and I didn’t exactly fit sitting down on the toilet seat correctly (sorry
if this is TMI), so I had to sit sideways on the toilet. For those of you who
haven’t tried it, it is not as comfortable!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
Also, on the theme of bathrooms,
I feel obligated to mention my first experience in the shower here. As in most
places I’ve been in Europe, the showerhead is hand held, but has a place where
you can let it rest so it becomes a normal over the body showerhead. I thought
this would be no different; hold it in my hand when I need to, but have the
option to put it in the rest (I’m not sure what the appropriate word for that
is) when I want to shampoo or soap up. Well, when my hair was adequately rinsed
and I was ready for shampoo, I put the showerhead in its holder, and just like
a scene in a movie it started spinning around in circles, water spraying
everywhere. I mean the shower head was running laps swinging back and forth
from one side of the shower to the other, somehow also managing to spray water
on the ceiling. At the time I didn’t think it was that funny, but looking back,
it’s just one of those things you gotta expect and accept when living in a
foreign country. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
Also, as I mentioned, this week I
start my full work schedule. For the past two weeks, I have been only teaching
primary level classes, children basically. Then in the evenings we were doing
exam practice for those students in the academy who are studying to get their
FIRST or PET certificates. Honestly, I’m still not quite sure what those things
mean, so I can’t explain it to those of you who have no clue what I am talking
about. But I know there is some European Union standards for learning English and
these tests represent different levels of proficiency. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
Now the test prep is over (I think
because the test is in the next two weeks) and we are starting with the adult
classes in the evenings. I am actually a little nervous to teach adults,
especially because my past experience is mostly with children. Of course adults
will be easier in terms of discipline, or at least I hope! But the problem is
that the English is more difficult, more grammar than games. I guess there are
pros and cons to each level. Who knows, maybe I’ll love teaching the adults.
Only time will tell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 126.65pt;">
So, here’s to new beginnings!
Happy October everyone!</div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-66973472340475269712012-09-22T07:16:00.001-07:002012-09-22T07:22:16.874-07:00Año Two <div style="font-family: inherit;">
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For those of you who don’t know I
am back in Sevilla for round two. The lovely government of Spain decided they
didn’t want me in Seville anymore and sent me to a public school in Cordoba (no
not in the beautiful little city you’ve all visited or read about in books, but
rather a small town in the middle of nowhere Cordoba). I kindly rejected the
position and went on to look for my own job. Since I didn’t want the position
offered to me, I wasn’t sure this summer if I was going to be able to return to
Spain, or if I would have to start real life in New York. Luckily my friend
Samantha knew of an academy looking for new teachers(she also happens to work there which is nice) and she got me the gig! Phew,
one more year until the real world. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">However, this year is going to be
a different in a number of ways. To start, instead of working 12 hours a week
as an assistant, I will be working 20+ hours a week (practically full time in
Spain) in my own classroom. Yes, that means for 5 hours each day (cant work on
Fridays when living in Europe), I will be in charge of my own group of
students, 4 groups per day. Apparently, being a native English speaker makes me
qualified for this job, we’ll see how accurate that turns out to be. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My first day of work was this
past Monday so it hasn’t been all that much time yet. But so far, it’s been a
bit of a challenge. I’m sure I will get used to it, and once I learn to
discipline in Spanish all will be well. My schedule consists of two groups of
first graders, two groups of sixth graders, one third grade class and one group
of five year olds. At first I was assigned the three year olds, but I couldn’t
handle it: crying and throwing chairs at each other, and cutting apart their
class books and who knows what else. Just not my scene. There is a nice teacher
who agreed to switch with me so from now on I will have her five-year-old
class, but I haven’t started with them yet. The adult classes begin on October
1<sup>st</sup>, so starting then I will also have two adult groups in my
schedule. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After spending the entire summer
doing essentially nothing, yet somehow keeping super busy, it feels like a lot
to work 5 hours straight in one day. But im not complaining, a five hour work
day in reality is nothing. Except that it goes straight through dinner time, the day ends at around 9:30pm, and
at the end of the day I am dying of hunger. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Good news is I can go straight
home after work. Bad news is there is about a 50-minute commute between work
and Seville. The academy is in Utrera, a big town/small city outside of
Seville. The train ride is only 25 minutes but depending on where I am living,
I have to add time to the commute for getting to/from the train. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Now you may be thinking,
depending on where she is living? That’s a strange thing to say. And yes it has
been a strange 12 ((?)I’ve lost track) days since I arrived. I have lived
essentially in three different places, with different friends, because I am
still looking for that perfect piso (apartment). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My friend Pilar has taken me in
for a while until I find a place to live. She is Spanish, hence the name Pilar,
and lives with her parents. So it’s sort of like doing an immersion program for
a couple of weeks. I am able to practice Spanish (I have no choice if I want to
communicate), and live the way Spaniards do (aka eat dinner at 11pm because its
still too hot to eat earlier, or something like that?) That also includes
sitting around at lunch gossiping about family members I don’t know (still very
interesting to listen to). And a daily siesta of course!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I think I will be here for about another week, as I have found a place to live (I think/hope!) but the room isn't available until the 29th or 30th. It is with three Italians, one girl and two guys, who from what I can tell are very nice. In fact, tonight they invited me over for a beer so we can get to know each other, even though I won't move in for another week! Good sign I think! </span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Well, here's to the beginning of a new year of blogging and a new year of adventures in Spain, or wherever else the wind takes me! </span></div>
joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-81691417406368610802012-06-18T08:16:00.002-07:002012-06-18T08:16:33.587-07:00Triana to Tribeca<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuoo-i14EClMSa8FI8yz8fDMYd22sjVnyim7dPQfR6fwil8z7Sv9JrIK7FXbd0AV8oHozut68T-D8J-BNZzK9C8tgpVuc9iCxiC884D6K0mxOckAmeUHGEz6x31fJSH4Sbw3JerNOwpGc/s1600/Triana+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuoo-i14EClMSa8FI8yz8fDMYd22sjVnyim7dPQfR6fwil8z7Sv9JrIK7FXbd0AV8oHozut68T-D8J-BNZzK9C8tgpVuc9iCxiC884D6K0mxOckAmeUHGEz6x31fJSH4Sbw3JerNOwpGc/s320/Triana+bridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TRIANA BRIDGE<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /><br />Well my avid blog readers, this is probably the last one of the series. I might start up again sometime when my life provides something interesting to write about.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSlBmMck30x9wgNzXzbGaDuwpFAQj6lPIFkY_7iiBptMzYtFtHlxmSEzpdv0o13soTv1KiW9fJQajcrCny9wlwd2wqJrL8paNBIv97v84gLwZ-rVNcQw-Dc6JOgObTgZ978c8poIfUbwn/s1600/tribeca.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSlBmMck30x9wgNzXzbGaDuwpFAQj6lPIFkY_7iiBptMzYtFtHlxmSEzpdv0o13soTv1KiW9fJQajcrCny9wlwd2wqJrL8paNBIv97v84gLwZ-rVNcQw-Dc6JOgObTgZ978c8poIfUbwn/s200/tribeca.gif" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Triangle Below Canal (clever NYC) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After almost a full day of
travel, from the land of toros and tapas, to the city of bagels and big
buildings, here I am, back in New York after nine amazing months in Spain. There
were ups and down, of course. There were times when all I wanted to do was go
home and eat a bagel or go to the grocery store on a Sunday. There were times when
I thought, why isn’t the waitress bringing me a complimentary glass of water,
and refilling it every 3 minutes? There were times when I missed my family and
friends more than anything in the world. But there were also times when I <i>actively</i> realized that I was having the
time of my life. I was fully immersed in a Spanish life, not only speaking the
Spanish language everyday, but also living the way Spaniards do, siesta and
all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, after a week back home, I
already feel myself starting to long for the things I never thought I would
miss. The air conditioning in my house is making my throat hurt; maybe those
crazy Spaniards have a point about turning the AC off at night, even if it
makes you sweat a little. When my friends ask me at 12:30 what I want to eat
for lunch, I’m thinking are you crazy? Lunch isn’t for another 2 hours! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there are those things I
knew I would miss. The crazy football fans, the one euro beers, general
happiness and no pasa nada way of life, and of course my Spanish friends! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since I don’t really have a game
plan for the future, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect, and watch Spanish soccer!
It sure is great to be home, to experience once again my American way of life
but at the same time there is something very strange about it. I feel like
nothing should be different than when I left in September, but of course life
has gone on. My family and friends in New York have not been on hold. And I
suppose I have not either. But it is hard to come to terms with the fact that
my friends no longer live down the block from me, that I cant hang out with
them whenever I want because they now have jobs that require working late
during the week. I suppose this is normal, and with time will change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time has come where I
actually have to figure out what my next move will be. Will I stay in NY and
join the daily 9-5 grind? Will I return to Spain for another yearlong
adventure, teaching, living and learning? Or will I go in a completely
different direction? Only time will tell, so stay tuned! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For now, I want to leave you with
a little blurb I found on the internet. Written by a fellow American living
abroad in Europe, it explains exactly what I feel right now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Couldn’t have said it better
myself (that’s why I didn’t!): </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">So you look at your life, and the two
countries that hold it, and realize that you are now two distinct people. As
much as your countries represent and fulfill different parts of you and what
you enjoy about life, as much as you have formed unbreakable bonds with people you
love in both places, as much as you feel truly at home in either one, so you
are divided in two. For the rest of your life, or at least it feels this way,
you will spend your time in one naggingly longing for the other, and waiting
until you can get back for at least a few weeks and dive back into the person
you were back there. It takes so much to carve out a new life for yourself
somewhere new, and it can’t die simply because you’ve moved over a few time
zones. The people that took you into their country and became your new family,
they aren’t going to mean any less to you when you’re far away.</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">When you live abroad, you realize that,
no matter where you are, you will always be an ex-pat. There will always be a
part of you that is far away from its home and is lying dormant until it can
breathe and live in full color back in the country where it belongs. To live in
a new place is a beautiful, thrilling thing, and it can show you that you can
be whoever you want — on your own terms. It can give you the gift of freedom,
of new beginnings, of curiosity and excitement. But to start over, to get on
that plane, doesn’t come without a price. You cannot be in two places at once,
and from now on, you will always lay awake on certain nights and think of all
the things you’re missing out on back home.</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-75413891881279336712012-06-07T08:50:00.000-07:002012-06-07T08:50:59.008-07:00Stuck in Santiponce<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLxRbRBvkkUSd0g69RPGWudOsPKJg2KUkcdI_WLJuP9RaUVuamnT1bNUQ5k8Wen34gtqHKGprh0GKldl73VoGNu1q4MknDqyUpjacDJA4GmQRkShhLBY-xH3Adz8xRtnqjdIL_edHb5oY/s1600/564235_10150837517816669_477688981_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLxRbRBvkkUSd0g69RPGWudOsPKJg2KUkcdI_WLJuP9RaUVuamnT1bNUQ5k8Wen34gtqHKGprh0GKldl73VoGNu1q4MknDqyUpjacDJA4GmQRkShhLBY-xH3Adz8xRtnqjdIL_edHb5oY/s320/564235_10150837517816669_477688981_n.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Chelsea at Italica</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you who consistently
read my blog, the story I am about to tell might sound vaguely familiar (see crises in camas post). Way in
the beginning of my time in Seville, I went to a town right outside, Camas,
with my roommate Chelsea. We were new in town and didn’t realize that
EVERYTHING here closes on Sundays. Ill start with that…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since this is my last week in
Spain (super sad face), I am trying to get everything done that I didn’t get
around to in the last 8 months, oops. Today, a Thursday, but a holiday in
Seville, Chelsea and I decided to take a trip to Santiponce to see some ancient
ruins they have there called Italica. It is actually really cool, I felt like I
was transported to a completely different place and time, although the heat was
the same! I wouldn’t say the ruins are as impressive as the ones you see in
Rome, but still a worthwhile trip. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8eWnrZ7UGaHGSY_HYh636YW-5FpdIzupcqC18WECy8o9KfedaGWfPk4tETZf-MB6mOMCZKM1OWXQHJ1APZ2cGi2kV9izhopRP5xtxN47HhhYj6u6ODz70coP7Ndp7etD1G2xzVLlZ81Kg/s1600/179969_10150837521296669_2015501424_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8eWnrZ7UGaHGSY_HYh636YW-5FpdIzupcqC18WECy8o9KfedaGWfPk4tETZf-MB6mOMCZKM1OWXQHJ1APZ2cGi2kV9izhopRP5xtxN47HhhYj6u6ODz70coP7Ndp7etD1G2xzVLlZ81Kg/s320/179969_10150837521296669_2015501424_n.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">just chillen with some ruins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Well, anyway, given the holiday
in Seville, and lack of reliability of Spaniards in general (sorry Spain but
its kinda true-called the bombona man to come before 10am today and at 4:20 he
still hasn’t showed) we didn’t really know when the bus was coming. If the bus
was following the holiday schedule, it should have come at 10:30, if it was
following a normal day schedule it would have come at 11. Well, it came at
10:50, go figure. Good thing we were running late anyway and got there right at
10:30, so we didn’t have to wait too long. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Upon arriving in Italica, my
small bladdered and amazing chef roommate reallllllllllllllly (like always)
needed a bathroom. So we found her one in the ONLY bar that was open in town.
Since we didn’t want to just go in to pee, we sat down and had a coffee and a media
tostada doused in olive oil, yummmmm…Gotta live like the Spaniards do for my
last week here! I have no pictures since I forgot my camera, but I did take
this one picture of my sugar packet. I’m not exactly sure what it means but I
think it’s fitting that it has to do with being asleep:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkTsgacGiWsIRfKdWL6F-Lmg5RpW4vZ4zqRcA_ZLmVz8Z1WPoXYJ2ll-BAwPU_RqtNxvP2gI-XaNyXMASqfTKCMQ_UgyGh3KiZdVIsAV60THBxY58CyHdRVVjgimsScqRWBCM7apbQLZP/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkTsgacGiWsIRfKdWL6F-Lmg5RpW4vZ4zqRcA_ZLmVz8Z1WPoXYJ2ll-BAwPU_RqtNxvP2gI-XaNyXMASqfTKCMQ_UgyGh3KiZdVIsAV60THBxY58CyHdRVVjgimsScqRWBCM7apbQLZP/s320/photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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After fueling up on a wonderful
breakfast, although an iced coffee would have been nice given the 90 F/32 C
degrees, we went to explore the ancient city of Italica. (For free I might add
because we were considered European residents by the ticket taker, despite our
awesomely American accents)</div>
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<br /></div>
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The signs that explained what
everything was were in Spanish, and included a ton of Spanish words I didn’t
really understand. So, we didn’t exactly know what we were looking at, but
nevertheless, it was cool. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, on the way home, it was
still a holiday (surprise, surprise, it was only 2 hours later). So we didn’t
know exactly when the bus would be coming. We figured the best way not to miss
the bus would be to wait at the bus stop, even though it was like sitting in a
frying pan. As soon as 15 minutes had passed, Chelsea decided to put her music
on and dance around, despite the unbearable heat. I couldn’t help but compare
it to our trip to Camas in the beginning of year. Except that time was even
worse because we didn’t even get to do what we went to Camas for. For the first
10 minutes I really enjoyed the dancing, it was very entertaining. And I liked
it all the way until the bus came, but waiting for something you don’t know
when/if will ever come is slightly miserable. I did find it amusing that all
the other 3 people waiting for the bus didn’t want to wait with us at the bus
stop, even though there was a free show going on. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally the bus came (after
approximately a 50 minute wait), and we drove right through CAMAS on the way to
seville!! It’s strange how things work out. I feel like I’ve come full circle
now that I’ve had the same experience twice, but 8 months apart. It is nice to
look back and think how much I have changed in these past months. But I’ll save
the sentimental blog for later. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now I’ve got to get started on
the packing (another super sad face). It’s not real until the packing begins,
so my denial officially ends now. But Chelsea has kindly just brought me a
mimosa to make the packing a little more fun (after waking me up with coffee
and cooking me lunch). How I am going to miss her!</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszPcMmbQvMEe60zwLjfzHeEE640bfVd3oSDvXixMZjx_HwLMn3rj8YA9buhMehIPNwalZoSrKLjTM7N5Ime3yCfonaduhJfakxsmQg87Tb5eHs9qFutiZL08ANXvkiSthMn6t0sbLkudl/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszPcMmbQvMEe60zwLjfzHeEE640bfVd3oSDvXixMZjx_HwLMn3rj8YA9buhMehIPNwalZoSrKLjTM7N5Ime3yCfonaduhJfakxsmQg87Tb5eHs9qFutiZL08ANXvkiSthMn6t0sbLkudl/s200/photo+(1).JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">can't believe i ever wore this stuff!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Don’t get me wrong America + American
friends, I am super stoked to see you! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can’t believe there’s only three
more days!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-58705049040324307052012-05-28T14:17:00.000-07:002012-05-28T14:17:46.858-07:00Weekend in BCN<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauyvBApUAyIbSu_jAYF6L8TAu5hUsA47lAYjjGIpnGzBmdoCRoktvWG37q5PkZcIC4XfRuhlVh47OpxsV6MnJGlzA9wThFle9qVOivzC6AR2lAYgyx0z6GLkheIauOdEPWA49_IpDUbvi/s1600/DSCN3322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauyvBApUAyIbSu_jAYF6L8TAu5hUsA47lAYjjGIpnGzBmdoCRoktvWG37q5PkZcIC4XfRuhlVh47OpxsV6MnJGlzA9wThFle9qVOivzC6AR2lAYgyx0z6GLkheIauOdEPWA49_IpDUbvi/s320/DSCN3322.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This weekend I went back to my
old Spanish stomping grounds, Barcelona. Chelsea and I decided to take
advantage of the puente (long weekend) we had for Rocio, a religious pilgrimage
in the south of spain. From what I understand, it is similar to the Camino de
Santiago except everyone does it at the same time of year. I’m pretty sure once
they get there its just a big party (what else is new Spain) for five days,
with a little bit of praying involved. For some reason I still can’t figure
out, this virgin is more important than all the others and deserves her own
pilgrimage. Before I left on Friday I saw the beginning of the journey to
rocio. They are all different depending on the hermandad (brotherhood). Some
walk, some drive, some go on horseback. And they dress in the typical southern
spain (feria) garb, flamenco dresses and trajes de corto. But, as I’ve been
told, the dresses are a little different in that they are more comfortable
(finally someone realized its nice to be able to breath in a dress).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, after deciding not to take
part in this religious pilgrimage, I went up north to Barcelona. I had my
first couch surfing experience. I have been hearing only good things about
couch surfing since I first heard about it freshman year. For those who don’t
know, it’s basically a project for young travelers who want to save money. In
exchange for offering up a couch or your company in your home town, you are
given a variety of couches to choose from in your destination. Now all you
skeptics may be doubtful of such a thing, but there are ways to verify that
people are not creepers. But yes, it does involve a certain level of trust and
maybe stupidity. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, I’m alive and well to tell
the tale. And all is well that ends well, right? Our host was a student at the
university in Barcelona, but he is from Paraguay. He was very friendly and
willing to help us figure out what we wanted to do and how to get around town
(although I did remember quite a bit from living there in 2007). He also took
us out with him on Saturday night, and I really enjoyed meeting new
people. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We spent a lot of our time
walking around town because the weather while we were there was absolutely
perfect, 75 and sunny every day. We visited the beach, the rambla, Sagrada
Familia, the Barcelona Cathedral, Parc Guell, the boqueria, plaza espanya and
watched the magic fountain show. We probably did more but that’s what comes to
mind right now. Unfortunately I did not get to eat at my favorite restaurant,
Cal Pep, because when we went to eat there at 3:30pm they told us they were
closed, despite all the customers eating at the bar. I was thoroughly
disappointed but I can’t say I was let down by the food I did eat in Barcelona. I
mostly ate at places I’d never been before and everything was amazing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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It was great to be in the city
during the king’s cup final. Everyone was really happy they won, and I’m pretty
sure there was a big celebration on Sunday because almost everyone was wearing
a jersey that day. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It was really nice to visit Barcelona
again. I think it has to be one of my favorite cities I’ve been to. Although
now I am a little more broke, I’d say the trip was definitely worth it! </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, for my final two weeks in Seville…</div>
<!--EndFragment-->joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7657424672967223084.post-81613535988068253512012-05-15T06:30:00.002-07:002012-05-15T06:30:37.181-07:00Week in Review<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b>(may 10-today)</b></div>
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Despite the unnaturally high temperatures this week (I’m
talking 100-105 averages) I had a lot of fun. First of all, in gym class at
school we started the unit on lacrosse (a sport that most students have never
played or even heard of here in Spain). So I had to start from the basics. Now
my Spanish has definitely improved since I’ve been here, but giving a class in
Spanish to a bunch of kids that are anxious to run around and throw things is
an entirely new task for me. In terms of vocabulary I was okay (I had reviewed
the words with a Spanish lacrosse friend who also speaks English) but I still
found explaining the basics of catching and throwing quite difficult. Also, due
to the lack of knowledge about lacrosse in Spain, it is not easy to buy equipment,
in fact it is impossible, it must be bought over the internet. So instead of
spending time and money waiting for a shipment of equipment, we made our own
sticks out of water bottles and broom sticks (I think). And by we I mean Ismael
(gym teacher) and the doorman/caretaker. Although I would have been glad to
help make the sticks if I had been asked.</div>
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So now, picture me, an American standing in front of a group
of young Spanish students (ages 9-11) each of them holding a different colored
broom stick with half a water bottle attached to the top, trying to teach the
basics of lacrosse. Yes, it is a sport I love and have played for almost ten
years, but the skills needed to throw a real lacrosse ball from a real lacrosse
stick are very different than what the students needed to successfully throw
and catch. As with almost anything, the first class was kind of a test run. I
think the kids had fun throwing the ball around, but the class could have gone
more smoothly. Also keep in mind that I am not a trained gym teacher. </div>
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Anyway, after three introductory lacrosse classes last week
I think we’ve finally figured out how to make the most of it. Needless to say,
I am enjoying it a lot because I get to go to school and play lacrosse for 2
hours a day. My only complaint is that in each class I have to play goalie when
it comes time to practice shooting. Since I am the only one with a real stick,
and with experience I was nominated. And even though the kids have never played
lacrosse before, some are really strong and have a good throw. So it’s really
scary to be in the goal! But at the same time really fun. </div>
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After a fun week of lacrosse at school, I went to my first
ever Spanish concert. It was a singer named Pablo Alborán who sings kinda slow,
romantic music but has a beautiful voice and plays both the guitar and piano. I
went with my friend Sam who is obsessed with his music. I didn’t know it too
well but it was still a fun time. </div>
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The next day I went to the beach! I thought it was my first
beach experience in Spain so I was excited, but as I write this I am realizing
that during my three months in Barcelona I spent a fair amount of time at the
beach there. So correction, my first trip to a beach in southern Spain! Still
exciting. Since I don’t have a car, nor do I want to rent a manual car, we went
on the bus. The only problem with the bus is that you have to go when the bus
wants to leave or else you are stranded at the beach. And unfortunately, the
last bus left at 6pm, at which time there was still prime beach weather.
Although I wish we could have stayed longer, I enjoyed the time we spent there.
We met up with my friend Isabel, who was there with her boyfriend and some
children (not quite sure whose they were, nieces maybe). So I got to practice
Spanish, and be 10 years old again playing in the waves on a boogy board. Good
times all around. </div>
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We got back to Seville just in time to watch the
Betis-Barcelona match. I have to say, even though it was a tie, it was a good
game. I wish Barcelona hadn’t scored that goal in the last 15 seconds of the
game, and Betis would have won, but a tie against one of the best teams in La
Liga ain’t bad. </div>
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This morning (now two days ago), I went kayaking with the
Ismael and kids and neighbor and kids. I have now done this about three or four
times and I really love it. It’s so nice to be on the river in the middle of
Seville, especially on a hot day like today. There was lots of splashing of the
disgusting river water, but it was quite refreshing. We went on an adventure of
sorts, under pedestrian bridges (probably shouldn’t be doing that with my
height) and navigating through sticks and leaves in the water (the part of the
river I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to kayak on but whatever I was just
following my orders). Things did get a little crazy at times with kids spinning
in circles in their kayak, and 4 year olds accidentally getting pushed into the
middle of the river without a paddle. But we all survived and had a wonderful
Sunday morning. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->joaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09570204513739438695noreply@blogger.com1