Lessons Learned

Experiential Learning Blog 7:

I despise this question of what I would do differently if I studied abroad all over again because I feel as if it takes away from the real lesson learned: that we can live life to its fullest no matter where we are, but time goes on and we must make mistakes. Moving into a house full of strangers, barely able to speak the language, is so uncomfortable within itself that I could have been two doors down from home and felt like a foreigner. I could say that I would be more outgoing, that I would stop my señora from what she was doing and make her talk to me... But I didn't. And if somehow I could redo my first study-abroad experience, I wouldn't do anything differently. 

That isn't to say that I did everything perfectly. Knowing that I only had three months to do everything I wanted to do in Sevilla and in my travels was incredibly overwhelming. It filled every free moment with pressure that I should be spending my time here or there. When I wanted to stay in at night I had to weigh the guilt into my decision. But after a while, all I really wanted was to feel comfortable doing nothing. I wanted to spend an evening talking to the friends I've made- American and Spanish- without feeling like I wasn't taking advantage of being in a different country. And what I learned is that doing exactly that was taking advantage for me.  Sevilla began to feel like home, and the friends I made I have missed every day since I left. 

 

 So whatever I did during my experience, however I dealt with all the challenges and struggles that I expected and those I did not, whatever made me fall in love with Sevilla the way I did, I wouldn't trade for any other experience, because it was mine.

Cultural Icons

Experiential Learning Blog 6:

NO8DO is Sevilla's motto. Walking down the street, you will see it written on newspaper stands, manhole covers, buildings and souvenirs sold in kiosks. I didn't find out the meaning of this motto until a few weeks ago, but it may have been for the better, since when I did learn it, it meant so much to me.

The symbol in the center represents a knot of wool, called madeja in Spanish. With the knot (reminiscent also of the infinity symbol) in between NO and DO, Sevilla's emblem signifies "No me ha dehado," meaning "She has not left me." This little cultural gem describes perfectly the sentiment that is Sevilla. Sevillanos are born in Sevilla and stay in Sevilla. They don't say they are from Spain or that they are Spanish, they say they are from Sevilla. I know that when I return to the Bay Area and to Allegheny, Sevilla will never leave me. The experiences I have had and the relationships I have made with the kind people that live here (and stay here!) will always be a part of me.

Global and Local

Experiential Learning Blog 5:

I agree in many ways with what McKay Jenkins has to say in his article "Why I'm Not Preparing My Students to Compete in the Global Marketplace." He touches on the dangers of imperialism, which always poses a threat in light of this globalization that faces us today. If we are too quick to focus our attention overseas, to problems in foreign countries, we are making a quiet assumption that they are graver than those which contaminate our own backyards (literally and figuratively speaking).
Something I've learned from living abroad for these last months is how difficult it truly is to integrate into a new culture. The transformation from being an outsider looking in, to becoming a part of a community and understanding the sentiment behind even the slightest gesture, is wonderfully challenging. It is also, I've learned, incredibly crucial. To understand the problems that face a society, one first must understand the people within it, and how they view the problems they face. To simply possess an academic understanding of, say, the effects of deforestation in Southeast Asia does absolutely nothing in light of this problem without some level of cultural understanding.

As a philosophy major interested in social welfare, I chose health care and Social Security as the topic of my final paper in Spanish Society class. Spain has one of the most universal health care systems in the world, even providing free healthcare to tourists and undocumented immigrants in Spain. Well, amongst the economic crisis that this country is facing today, Spain's Popular Party decided to change this law, requiring immigrants to pay for health care (with a few exceptions). Nevertheless, hundreds of doctors, and six out of 17 regions of Spain, pledged to ignore this new law and continue to provide health care to immigrants despite any lack of documentation. To an onlooker, this might seem crazy, considering Spain's economic struggle today. For me, this reaction is so obvious in light of the culture I have become to understand little by little. Nearly everyone in Spain is being affected by the economic crisis, especially in Andalucía which as a southern region is poorest of all. Despite these circumstances, I continue to see people helping other members of the community that are even the slightest worse-off economically or just the same. There is an ideology deeply rooted in Spanish culture that creates a connection between people, and this connection thrives despite what the government determines as law.

Thus, learning to "compete in the global marketplace" is not so helpful after all, since more importantly we must learn how to understand each other as people.

Reading Difference

Experiential Learning Blog 4:

"Golbal citizenship" is certainly a phrase getting thrown around these days, as our international relations become more complex, and are boarders less rigid, every day. In Michael Byers' article, he breaks down the various definitions that 'global citizenship' can exhibit. In doing so, he demonstrates the many ways in which one can interpret global citizenship and thus how to be a global citizen. In a world driven by economic factors, it is often that corporations (and therefore people) forget what it means to be a citizen of the world. Byers points out that "citizenship is as much about obligations as it is about rights" and gives examples such as "to pay taxes, to serve in the military, to obey laws and respect authority." For me, the obligation of a citizen, local and beyond, is to create a community in which every member has access to well-being, since we all depend on each other no matter our economic position.

Byers concludes his article with the notion that we must develop our own ideas about what it means to be a global citizen, in order to converse and debate the meaning of global citizenship and avoid the ideas put forth by often class-priviliged individuals. By partaking in such a discussion, one is already exhibiting characteristics of a global citizen, by considering the implications of the term and the consequences of such implications. In doing so, one communicates with other members of his or her community, or better yet, with people from different cultural backgrounds. During my travels this semester, I am constantly meeting young individuals doing exactly this kind of work on a personal level. Interacting with other travelers from all around the world, these travelers are having conversations in which they would be unable to partake with citizens of their own nations. These conversations are building relationships on a small scale between members of many different communities. By hearing different perspectives, listening to different ideas about our world´s experiences, travelers bring home a broader understanding of what it means to be a member of the global community, and that of many different local communities. This is exactly the kind of personal experience we should embark on in order to develop qualities of a global citizen and thus create a better world.

Memories are funny

Memories are strange. They are at the same time so irrelevant and so crucial to every passing moment. Memories are made every second, and lost just the same. And sometimes they come back, like magic, into a moment in which you are a different person, time gone by. Yes, memories are strange.

They are especially strange being created and forgotten in another country. I wandered through the streets of Sevilla after class today, which is easy to do since the roads make this city a maze, and I found myself under Metropol Parasol, or las Setas (mushrooms), the largest wooden structure in the world. The first time I saw this grand architecture was my first night in Sevilla (a great adventure in itself). I was with two new friends, one in my program and a girl in another whom she met on her flight here, and a Spanish guy leading a hostel pub crawl that took us along. After a local's tour of Sevilla's Wednesday-night life (and don't let the American idea of Wednesday night fool you-- the summer streets were quite alive), we suddenly emerged underneath these huge wooden parasols, beautifully lit. I thought back today, as I sat underneath their shade, how long ago that moment now feels. While I won't dare say I remember how I felt then, I have this vague memory of this feeling of astonishment and joy. That night, las setas were a discovery, a surprise. Sitting under them today, knowing exactly where I was situated in Sevilla, in relation to my classes and my homestay and my favorite bakeries and bars and parks, las setas took on a whole new meaning in my life.

Metropol Parasol is back there behind my goofy friend Elysia

I ascended to the top of the mushrooms one night with friends for one of the best views of the city

I continued to walk, and like I was reading a scrapbook, I would pass one place after another that brought back moments from the past. I walked by a little cafe that I have never entered, but in which has the smallest men's bathroom one may ever experience; I know this because I was walking around Sevilla with two Germans I met in Cádiz who needed to use the restroom, and upon leaving couldn't stop laughing hysterically for minutes. I passed a vending machine that sells candy, beer, and waffles that I have walked by many times with different friends, almost always noting its incredible and hilarious service. Around every corner of the streets that always seem to stump me with their labyrinth-like qualities presented something that sparked a memory of my time here these past months. 
Maybe I was having a particularly nostalgic day, trying always to somehow comprehend the fact that I am living in Spain. It's coincidence that today marks the one-month-left, as my departure from this temporary home that is Sevilla is set for high-noon on December 12th. With a ticking clock, every day includes great expectations. I can barely get a hold on all the experiences I'm having; how can I possibly retain all the memories I want? I'm striving to engrave each one into my brain like Spanish grammar, but they are flying at me at light-speed. It is scary to think that even the slightest detail of this adventure will be forgotten, and for this I am clutching onto each moment, studying my emotions and surroundings like vocabulary on a test. Without these sunny walks filled with images that remind me of the snippets of my experience abroad, what will spark these fantastic memories and remind me of all I have learned? These are intimidating thoughts. I often want to go home just to be able to absorb all of this. But one thing is true, which I must remember during my clenching of time: each memory-- whether it live at the tip of my tongue or in the depths of my heart, or whether it slip by, forgotten forever-- every single moment has changed my experience, and every one has changed me.

Deconstructing Privilege

Experiential Learning Blog 3:

I definitely agree that the opportunity to study abroad is a privilege, and one that many young people around the world do not have. Upon my arrival in Sevilla, I experienced much of the same disillusion that Talya Zemach-Bersin describes in her article. I had gone from traveling around Europe freely for two weeks to a bus full of Americans being shuttled from one Spanish monument to the next, and all the while I felt ridiculous. I embarked on my study abroad journey to understand a different culture, speaking the language and immersing in daily life; to my disappointment, I was touring Sevilla through the windows of a bus, full of English-speaking students who for the most part weren't even listening to the tour guide. This was a slap-in-the-face of how privileged of a group we were, and an early sign of the difficulties of immersion that were to come.

The students in my program all come from private universities in the states. Within days we were all planning weekend trips around Spain and Europe, able to afford such luxuries; the economic privilege was obvious from Day One. But as we began our cultural realities classes, learning about Spanish culture in a classroom setting, it amazed me how much our privileges as Americans were influencing our interpretations of life in Spain. There are stereotypes about Americans, as with any group of people, that I was aware of before beginning my study abroad, and more that I've learned along the way. It surprised me how many of these stereotypes were being confirmed by our group, and how little effort we put in to preventing such affirmation. Our privilege is so deeply engrained that often it is nearly impossible to grasp.

However, while I do agree that we are incredibly privileged to be studying overseas and experiencing other cultures in the way that we are, I do not agree with Zemach-Bersin's statement that we can never be citizens of the world. I think it takes incredible humility and awareness to be able to step away from one's own culture to interpret another without such ignorance and separation that she (rightfully) criticizes. However, being a global citizen is not about "blending in" perfectly with every culture; it is about empathy and letting go of one's judgements about another culture based on one's own cultural standards. Zemach-Bersin's criticism falls into the same trap she is criticizing, by separating the American experience from those of another nationality's; we all face differences, some much greater than others. Privileged as we are, Americans studying abroad have the chance to appreciate the differences we all experience as citizens of the world.

TEXT: "American Students Abroad Can't Be 'Global Citizens'" From the issue dated March 7, 2008 By TALYA ZEMACH-BERSIN

Language between friends

I watched this videos in my listening class during my first week in Sevilla. Cruzcampo is the prized beer of Andalucía, and you'd be a crazy Sevillano not to like it. The commercial shows many of Andalucía's delicacies until the end, when the dramatic voiceover says, "Cruzcampo: made of Andalucía." If you watch, you'll see a pretty Spanish girl holding a sign (colorado means colored, not referring to the state), and she covers the D. The Andalucían accent, luckily for us American students, is not only fast but also eats the D's and S's at the end of a word. During this chalkboard moment, the narrator exclaims that this way of speaking is 'not an accent-- it's a language between friends.'

I was walking home from tapas with my friend this afternoon, about to point out that I was jealous of the accent a woman in passing had, and that I agreed with our friend who had said the other day that he wants the Andaluz accent, despite the fact that outside of Spain he wouldn't be easily understood. Before I could point out my envy, I thought about this commercial and suddenly understood the profundity of Cruzcampo's marketing strategy. Despite their wanting to sell beer, Cruzcampo really hit the small head of a big nail. Upon arriving in Sevilla, I was overwhelmingly trying to pick up on any word I could understand, often returning friendly conversation with confused glares. Slowly as my Spanish improved, I became more excited each day to actually converse with locals and better understand the culture. But I have recently realized, it is not only the words in a language that create a culture; the way in which members of a community communicate is incredibly forceful in shaping the relationships we have with one another and thus the way we choose to live our lives. There is so much more to language than words.

Productive Dislocation

Experiential Learning Blog 2:

Nearly every day I encounter some form of dislocation, in which I feel so distant from the people around me to whom Spanish customs are so natural. But also so often, I experience a moment in which I understand something about Spain, whether it be quite small, that opens my mind and allows me to make connections that were once just questions—or not even thoughts at all— when I arrived here.

A few weeks ago, early on in my time abroad, I had a class assignment in which fellow students and I had to interview a Sevillano about some aspect of Spanish culture. My group decided to interview my host-father, who is an artist and educator, about art in Sevilla. My friends and I arrived at my homestay and walked up the steps to my floor; I was excited to have this conversation with my señor and more so to introduce my friends to my host family. But when we opened the door and I went to introduce them to my señora, she was frantic! She told us to go upstairs into my room and then eventually to go to the studio to interview her husband, all without saying hello to my classmates. I was very stressed and didn’t understand the situation; later that night she told me not to bring people in the house, as I had surprised her and the three children I live with.

From the roof of my homestay

It was not until much later that I truly understood this event. I kept thinking about my home, in which friends would be greeted and talked to and their company welcomed. My friends were just as surprised as I was by the frantic lack of welcome. However, as I continued learning about Spanish culture and reflecting on all the experiences I’ve had, I realized that the home is something much different than it is in the states. The home is for family, for taking care of, for personal time. It isn’t that Sevillanos don’t enjoy the company of others—that is certainly not the case. People in Sevilla very much enjoy talking to others, whether they know them or are just in passing. But the home is not the place for it. In Sevilla, there are plazas and gardens everywhere; my professor once joked that there are more bars and cafes than there are people; the streets at night are packed with friends, new and old, talking over tapas or drinks or simply just talking. I learned from this experience that relationships really matter in Spanish culture, but they matter in different ways. The family is greatly important, and the home is a sacred place where family can be together.

We speak Catalan

Barcelona is a big city to conquer in one weekend. I went with a girl from my program and another, the French girl whom we met in Cádiz, to a concert. We arrived just on time, like true concert-goers, two hours late and just as the band was coming on stage. WhoMadeWho put on a great show, creating a different vibe in this intimate venue (which pleasantly reminded me of San Francisco’s Warfield) than at South Pop. My friends and I made our way to the front row and at the end of the show, the guitarist reached out and shook my hand; I like to think he remembered us from Isla Christina, since we saw them after that show and told them how amazing their performance had been.

Friday was rainy, but we began our day with a free walking tour led by a Swedish man living in Barna (not Barça, he warned us—that’s the fútbol team) for the last six years. He took us to the Ramblas, a street filled with shops, famous for being famous; a mural that Franco installed as a middle-finger-esque gesture to the Catalans (Franco despised Barcelona, so he built an incredibly ugly building in the middle of the old town center, on which he placed another artistic battle: a mural created by Picasso mimicking (more like making fun of) the style of Juan Miró); he took us to city hall and the parliament, explaining the Catalan Independence flag and pointed out the many statues of Saint George killing dragons (the dragon is a symbol of religion, so this Saint was admired for defeating religions outside of Christianity); we walked down the Avenue, after which Picasso’s first cubist work was named: The Brothel of the Avenue.

After getting accustomed to the area, Kait and I explored little on our own until the evening when we ran (late again) to a bar at which we would learn how to make paella, a very traditional and delicious Spanish rice dish. The chef led us to a great market to pick out the seafood, stopping for fresh juice and to point out all the animal parts that we don’t dare to eat in the states. We went back to the bar for tapas and then he began his instruction; he explained the peppers and spices and the order of which to add different types of seafood—it was really great (and hot! Paella is cooked over three rings of fire in a huge flat pan). While we waited for it to cook, the bartender taught us how to make sangria, and we returned to enjoy the fresh seafood paella that I now (sort of) know how to make. After a nap at the hostel we went out for crepes and had a nice conversation with the woman working at the café, despite all we had heard about Catalans refusing to speak Spanish. Cataluña has a strong desire for independence from Spain; the official language is Catalan, which is more like French than Spanish. The Independence flag hangs from balconies all around the city, and there are some who prefer English to Spanish. This isn’t true for every Catalan citizen, but I definitely felt the distance formed between Cataluña and the other, more Spanish-feeling cities I have visited.

We chose a good weekend considering the rain stopped for the most part, and this weekend only included Mercat de Mercats: A series of tents filled the old town square with local tapas and cava (Catalan Champaign); we had coques twice because they were so delicious, and the vender made clear that they were not pizzas. We visited MACBA, Barcelona’s contemporary art museum, and the famous Picasso museum. On Sunday we spent hours at the Sagrada Familia, a beautifully wild work of Gaudi’s architecture that is still being built today. Gaudi spent forty years on this project, knowing he would not live long enough to see it completed. That didn’t seem to bother him though, as he didn’t want to take on the project alone. Gaudi wanted the input of future generations; he laid out his ideas and visions but encouraged the interpretation and contribution of later decades. After a weekend of art and architecture, my friend and I enjoyed café con leche in the same café that was like home to Gaudi and Picasso—the same building in which they spent their leisure and probably came up with the ideas that would change the world forever afterwards. I love the connections of art and history and the present that are so deeply rooted in Spain.

The Cádiz Charm

Cádiz is the oldest city in all of Europe. It was the last city to secede in the Spanish civil war and the first to fall under Franco. Now, it’s a beautiful town on the Atlantic coast known for its seafood and nice beaches. I spent last weekend in Cádiz in Casa Caracol, which I’ve ranked as top two in my experience. We wandered all over the old part of the city (the modern half is pretty ugly in comparison) and walked down a long pier to the castle of San Sebastian. On the shore, someone had created its replica as a sandcastle, the best one I’ve ever encountered (I later found out from other friends who decided to sleep on the beach that the creators slept there too, guarding their masterpiece).

Back at the hostel that night, my friend and I began to prepare our dinner; cooking is always fun since we don’t get to cook or even choose what we are eating each day. As we began, one thing led to another and suddenly we were making pasta with five other people. All cutting vegetables and chorizo and boiling water, we learned each other’s names and origins, kissing cheeks and bumping into each other in the small kitchen. Suddenly there were 15 people sharing this dish around the mosaic table, and every one of them was content, enjoying the meal and the company, not caring about who made or brought what. It was a communal moment like I had never experienced. This compassionate vibe sugarcoated the whole weekend, and the hostel quickly felt more like a home. The terrace, filled with hammocks and plants, made a great environment for talking late into the night, in many different languages at once, as people passed a guitar around and others helped by drumming on their laps or tapping a wine cork between their lips (try it, it makes a nice sound).

We met two German vegans traveling around Europe and later South America. We went with them to the central market, a huge spot for fresh vegetables and seafood. For their meals, they greatly enjoyed nineteen mangos or three giant melons or whatever large quantity of fruits or vegetables they felt like having; they were a fun and incredibly free couple of travelers to meet. We also met a French girl who was celebrating having just completed her Masters degree: the first European philosophy major I’ve met yet! It was exciting to talk to her about her studies and the commune she lives in right outside of Paris.

Cádiz is also experiencing the highest rate of unemployment in Spain. One girl who has been living in Casa Caracol for the past month joked that the people of Cádiz are largely out of work because the beach is so beautiful for spending one's days, and it doesn't cost a thing! It was quite a cleansing trip to Cádiz, enjoying tapas and fresh vegetables, the beautiful beaches and beautiful people.

Rain in the capital

Last weekend began with an overnight bus ride to Spain's capital, Madrid. We arrived at our hostel by 7am after making our way through the rain and darkness, and after some toast on hot cereal (my favorite since Carcassonne!), I entered the wet grey city with my brand-new umbrella. People continued on with their days, out and about in the downpour, and often stopped to wait under the shelter of Madrid's grand architecture, quite patiently. I thought about how never before have I asked myself, "I wonder what this city is like in the rain", while the question of what a place might be like in the sunshine comes right away.

Walking around the city was magnificent and filled with little discoveries. My friends and I had our first real tapas experience at El Tigre, where we ordered drinks and were overly pleased to receive a giant plate of rice and six little sandwiches. Tapas is a way of eating between main meals, and some attribute the history of tapas to King Alfonso X, who banned wine in the inns of Castile unless accompanied by something to eat in order to avoid alcohol's harmful effects. There are more than 20,000 restaurants in Madrid, and we did our best to taste the local flavor, bouncing from tapas bar to tapas bar and enjoying many delicious foods.

Museo Reina Sofía was incredible-- so incredible that we had to go back. There was one exhibit in which a big cage held three parrots, and on the other side of the room were two wooden structures. I watched as museum-goers entered the exhibit, pointed and smiled at the birds, walked in a circle around the wooden cubes, and left. Delightedly, I walked through the narrow slit in one of the port-a-potty-looking units as people stopped and watched me, as if an alarm were about to go off and the building would self-destruct. I pushed through some ribbons hanging in the entrance and squeezed through to the center, which held--- I won't say, for a description wouldn't do the experience justice. The point is, it was my favorite exhibit in that it is a perfect example of life without one's initiative, life with fear of making mistake, of not conforming: unknown.

As the weekend went on, the sun finally came out and warmed up the city as we warmed up to it. Madrid is full of life, and it is truly the city that never sleeps. We went to a discoteca with seven floors, although sadly only made it to the first two, went to a smaller scene with new Spanish friends, and I was amazed when after coffee and toast they presented the option of returning to the club at eight in the morning, where people were waiting outside to enter! But the night out didn't stop us, as we took on our last sunny day in Madrid, visiting a street market with artists and artisans selling their crafts. We saw street performers and walked through a grand park, made sandwiches with fresh baguettes and my swiss army knife in the park, returned to my favorite museum, and enjoyed Madrid's tapas once more with a student whom my friend met on her flight to Sevilla. The capital of Spain was a great place to be.

Critical Citizenship

Traveling abroad as an Allegheny student entails a one-credit course called Experiential Learning 300, in which students reflect upon their experiences by responding to readings and a professor's questions in a collective blog and commenting on other students abroad and their ideas and experiences. This course inspired me to create my own blog. For our first assignment (well, second; ironically I missed the first one), we read Vanessa Andreotti's "Soft versus Critical Global Citizenship Education" and compared our current educational programs to the ideas presented in her article about learning as a global citizen:

In my program, I am taking two culture classes while exploring Spanish culture every day. My anthropology class has just begun, however we have been discussing the role of an anthropologist and his or her goals and obstacles. My professor told us his favorite sentence: An anthropologist is not a tourist. Linguistic immersion, for example, is necessary in understanding a culture. We have discussed participative observation as a component of anthropology, in which a person must enter into the local lifestyle, observing while participating in the culture's customs.

Living in Spain these past five weeks, I have experienced these obstacles and have aimed to immerse myself in the language, converse with locals, avoid acting like a tourist (by treating Sevilla as a vacation destination rather than my temporary home and place of study), and learning and practicing the customs (like kissing each cheek to greet, for example, or eating meat). It is important to me that I do these things and all I can in order to understand Spanish and Sevillan culture. However, to understand these cultures, I must make reference to my own; this can be harmful though if not treated carefully. As Vanessa Andreotti quotes in her article, "Spivak affirms that the colonial power changes the subaltern’s perception of self and reality and legitimises its cultural supremacy in the (epistemic) violence of creating an ‘inferior’ other and naturalising these constructs." In comparing one's culture to another, especially coming from a Western society or a superpower like the United States, it is easy to fall into the trap of ranking aspects of the new culture as better or worse.

Locally, this creates barriers in understanding humanity, even those with whom one is living. This disallows us to form relationships with people from other cultures, creating a disconnect that manifests into worldly misunderstanding. Globally, these faulty relationships form the basis of our universal progress. When some culture feels a superior morality to help the rest of the world, they "run the risk of (indirectly and unintentionally) reproducing the systems of belief and practices that harm those they want to support." As citizens of the world, it is vital that we recognize our moral obligation to humanity as a whole, thinking critically about the consequences of our interactions and the ways in which we can better our relations with other cultures in order to truly understand one another.

Fui a los toros

La corrida de toros was like nothing I have ever experienced. Anyone could probably guess that considering we no longer live in a time in which animals are sacrificed in a public gathering (That is always the word used in Spanish, sacrificar, to recognize meaningful loss). However, la corrida is much more than a spectacle of the matador’s skill followed by a gory death.
 

When the first bull entered the ring, bolting toward the matador on his knees, the crowd shushed in unison; this first moment was powerful in its seriousness. Everyone in the ring showed great respect for this huge animal, including the golden matador who faced him from the ground. The matador artfully guided the bull within inches of his body, as the untrained bull expressed its most instinctual actions. Next, two other matadors came out on horses, who were covered in a heavy protective garment and blindfold. The bull rams into a horse, as he most naturally wants to do, often coming close to picking up this other amazingly strong creature with his weaponry of horns.

There are other men in the bull ring who historically help the matador and at this time place two sticks with hooks on one end in the bull’s back; Judy said that for the two-ton animal this feels something like an ear-piercing. In this particular round, the bull knocked down one man as he tried to attach the THINGS and cornered him on the ground. The matador and OTHERS took some moments to attract the bull’s attention with their capes, and only acted in this way. At this point my hand was over my mouth, eyes wide-open, and I couldn’t believe what was happening. I couldn’t and still cannot describe the emotions I felt during these first minutes, as they came and went faster and with more intensity than I could recognize.

The man was pulled from the ring and the performance continued. The matador took hold of his red cape and sword and faced the bull alone in the sandy circle. The crowd shushed again. The matador beautifully and masterfully guided the bull with his cape, showcasing the animal’s strength and power with each movement as much as his own bravery and grace.

Somehow this dance of death becomes greater than man versus beast. Like poetry, it is at once so real and so unbelievable that the audience is in awe of its beauty. At once, the drama honors the art of the matador and the nature of the bull. This is no spectacle of sport; there are no venders selling popcorn down the aisles, no member of the crowd is here to party. All eyes are on the two masters of their instincts with upmost respect. “Olé,” chanted by the crowd in acknowledgement of a skillful dance, comes from Allah as praise.

After these honorable minutes of interaction, the matador calls once more to the bull, pulling his cape across the ground next to his body and drives his sword into the back of the charging bull, an within moments he dies. La corrida feels like a thousand years in one evening. I felt every emotion I can name. I observed the history of humankind in sequence with the expressions of modern humanity. I saw death respected as a part of life and a crowd brave enough to honor an animal’s sacrifice for the benefit of mankind.

This might seem an attempt to justify cruelty. It may be impossible to believe otherwise without having such an experience or you may believe otherwise regardless. Nonetheless, I have interpreted this procession as a respectful acknowledgement of man’s place in the world. It is rational to regard humankind as the highest group on the food chain or as the most valuable species in nature; it would be difficult to argue otherwise if you are gaining anything (meat, leather, labor) at the expense of an animal. Judy is a vegetarian with two exceptions: she eats a type of pork because she loves it, and she will eat bull because they are treated better and live longer than any other animal raised for livestock. The idea of sacrifice that is so deeply rooted in the history of humanity has value in that it forces us to acknowledge the circles of life that are natural and inevitable as well as those which we as intelligent beings have created.

Instinct

Last night at my program center, a woman came to present about las corridas de toros-- bull fights. Being such an important part of Spanish culture, I had decided to attend a bull fight having accepted the fact that I would hate it. I figured this talk would help me understand this spectacle and learn its history. To my surprise, I left Judy´s nearly 2-hour presentation with a whole new perspective.

She began with a story about attending her first corrida, where she vomited in histeria when the matador killed the bull with his sword. My eyes opened like deer´s. Judy left the stadium promising never to return to the bullring and returned to California where she lived as a Spanish teacher. Wanting still to be informed of this Spanish tradition, she came across a book by John Fulton, the only American to ever have become a Spainsh matador, and from there was intrigued. John Fulton was many other things-- an actor, a storyteller, and among them, an artist.

Judy continued animatedly with her story; she moved to Sevilla and visited John's art gallery often. One lucky night, she was introduced to him and one thing led to another... She volunteered in his gallery and in four summers they fell in love. Or as she told it, it took him four summers. As Judy moved around the room, showing us props and telling us these intertwining stories about how she fell in love with corrida de toros and also with John, I found myself intrigued. She spoke all over the place, jumping from history to irrelevant antidotes: in ancient times hunters would paint members of the bovine family (the bull's ancestors) on cave ceilings and tap them with the tips of their swords for luck; matadors "dress on the left" because they always sacrifice the bill right-handed. (I´ll leave it up to you to learn that expression.) The word used in Spanish is always sacrificar, to remain conscious of the purpose behind ending an animal's life.

I never thought I'd be convinced that there is ever a reason to kill an animal in this way, and I'm not quite sure I am. But in Judy's talk I learned the facts. These bulls are treated extremely well and cared for during their lives, and live longer for this reason. They are not trained to fight; it is a bull's natural instinct to charge anything that moves. The horned beast has throughout history been represented in rituals for renewed life. (In fact, it's where we got the word 'horny' from.)

I thought about the bull's natural instinct, as a member of the world in its most natural state. Ernest Hemingway describes bullfighting as ´´the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.´´ The romantic notion of a heroic matador controlling a beast has never attracted my praise. But there is greatness in the idea of honoring the immensity of a life cycle, which as much as we try to ignore the fact, includes death. It truly is a grounding idea, even a spiritual act, to acknowledge death in its most honest performance; a respectful act of opening one's eyes to the end of a life as it follows it's most natural instinct. I began to see this tradition as I imagine the ancients viewed the world: as a cycle of life forms, which are greatly respected as equal members of the universe. I am still quite torn about the morality of this spectacle of Spanish tradition, but my eyes are open to the values of sacrifice and honor that are rooted in humanity´s history.

The bull´s instinct is to charge (and not towards red, as we often believe, but toward any moving thing). The human´s instinct is to run away. It is poetic irony to place man and animal in a place where one is fighting all instint to survive and the other is expressing its purest instinct. I believe we owe great respect to our instincts, and the instincts of all beings; I am attending a bull fight on Sunday in Sevilla to see the very famous matador Manzanares.

Watermelon lens

As I sat at the table after lunch today while my hermanitos finished their watermelon, I thought about how differently they treat me than my host parents do. I think this is universal, that around the world, kids have this amazing gift that allows them to treat others equally, without judgment or criticism. They don't yet wear the lenses that life makes for us, the ones that cause us to see the world like a soldier views a battlefield. My host parents are kind, and patient enough to have someone in their home who can barely understand what they´re saying. But I can´t help but wonder how they see me. As a stranger eating and sleeping in their home? as a part of the family? as a means of income? as a means of cultural experience? Beyond my place in their home, how do they view me as a member of society? I am a tourist at some level, but also a student. Am I more of a child, or am I considered an adult? As a young woman, what is my place in respect to my señor or any other man in Spain?

This was, and is, all very exhausting to think about, and as I watched the boys eat their sandilla, laughing and unable to sit still, I thought about how much easier it is to make a stand in this world, rather than trying to find your place. It seems that we´re all trying to figure out where we fit in, what our role is in life, how we should act as a man or a woman or a child or an elder or... it goes on forever. And forever, we could learn how to be correct. But say we´re thrown into a new country, where we barely speak the language and we live with people we don´t know and can´t understand because of that language barrier. What good did all that correctness lead to? We now have no idea who we are.

So I found myself faced with two options: (1) to observe and observe until I learn my role in Spanish society. This seemed frutile. Forever, I could try to learn how to be correct. Navigating through this path of understanding my place here, at every turn I saw myself hitting a wall, where one identity clashed with another. My desire to understand Spanish culture propels me to observe and learn the customs and act unlike an oblivious American imposing on valuable traditions. But without being myself, how can I expect to learn anything at all?

Option (2): crush my fear of being wrong. I never expected to be right, about how to speak, how to eat... but I find myself in this limbo that isn´t moving me forward.

I picked up my camara today, for the first time since I´ve been in Sevilla. I was uninspired or not in a rush or whatever the reason, it sat on my dresser. Today, my professor took us to the Cathedral of Seville, the biggest Gothic cathedral in the world. He told us about the bell tower, and how it was used for telling time, warning of danger, announcing the weather. He told us about the religious history and the fountains in which people cleansed themselves before ceremonies. I kept my ears open and my lens down, trying to retain what I could from a lecture in Spanish. But as the tour progressed, and we took breaks from discussion to look around, I crouched and angled my non-zoom lens to capture the beauty inside the high ceilings of the old building. After the tour with my professor, I climbed up the tower to see Sevilla from above, and with every click became more inspired by what I saw.

I brought one lens with me on this journey: a 50mm plastic lens that forces me to physically move to get a shot I desire, and often I can´t get far enough away to capture everything I want. But there is something magnificant about this restraint, as I am limited to the contents of a tiny frame. And with this restriction today, I realized that my own lens had become too big. Yes, I have learned much along this adventure, and yes I am proud and amazed by the perspective I´ve gained. But with too big of a lens, I was missing the little things. I was missing the beauty.

Kids have an amazing gift: to see the world through a very small lens. It is one that allows them to take what´s in front of them and just accept it. As I grow and take in this grand world and all the cultures and people within it, I hope to hold onto the child within me and never foget to appreciate a tiny frame of beauty.

South Pop

We departed Sevilla yesterday afternoon, 5 friends of less than a week, Isla Cristina-bound. Our 46€ tickets got us two nights at South Pop music festival, transportation to and from the venue, and camping-- quite a deal for a weekend trip in Spain.  After we settled into our campsite (which consists of a High School Musical blanket, a sleeping bag, and a backpack with all our belongings), we made our way to the festival grounds: one stage in a small, cement arena-- a perfect setting for an intimate concert series.

And that it was. We watched an Irish alternative rock group Delorentos as the festival-goers were still arriving. We took a break for dinner down the street, where one of our friend's host-brother ordered a series of tapas. It seemed we had every type of seafood under the sea: shrimp, swordfish, octipus, squid, tuna. Spain loves its pescados, and being right on the beach they were fresh and delicious. We came back for Herman Dune, a French duo with a folk sound and some serious guitar and vocal moments. Their songs were on the slower side and quite moving. It is an interesting feeling, being in a country of which I'm learning the language, understanding the lyrics amongst a crowd of people who may not (All the artists we saw performed in English, and probably knew less Spanish than we do). We are inevitably having completely different experiences and sharing the same space, creating a singular vibe.

That experience was even stronger during the last show of the night, for which we decided to stand front-row. Best decision yet. WhoMadeWho from Copenhagen put on an incredible performance, and we danced our hearts out. The whole stadium was on their feet, clearly feeling as alive as we were. One of my first observations in Europe was the translation of emotion when language becomes obsolete. There are so many ways we can communicate with one another, creating and sharing the same feelings, inspired by the same art. Dancing to the same beat: it sounds like such a cliche. But don't they all, the little wonders of life?

Like watching the sunrise. I did that this morning. (As comfortable as I was on our blanket, cold and using my backpack as a pillow, camping has its way of making me ready for the day.) The sun was bright orange-red coming up from behind the hills. I looked at it for a long time, straight at it, as it was just cloudy enough not to blind me. I don't know the last time I thought about the sun for minutes at a time; it really is beautiful.

I'm having my cafe con leche, waiting for my friends to wake up (get up), and listening to a morning show in Spanish that's playing inside the cafe. The morning air is fresh, a nice break from the dense heat that peaks in the evening. Today will be a day at the beach and some exploration of Isla Cristina until the festival begins again tonight. The birds here have a distinct tune, and the sound of waves crashing lies beneath all the comotion of a day. We are always surrounded by Spanish, whether we can understand it or not; but we are also immersed in the sounds that everyone feels despite their native tongue. I think it's those universal experiences that remind me we are all connected.

Still waiting... I'm at the beaching watching a father and kids set sail from the shore. The waves are crashing in front of me, making a sound that never, ever gets old, only better with time. The only hint of division between the sky and the sea is the collection of speckles on the water from the sun. The sky gets bluer and the air is getting warmer as this family prepares their takeoff. It is a timely process that I imagine will be well worth the procedure; in fact I assume the reward in part comes from completing each step patiently and proudly. This must be so, as the children are helping when they can and calmly waiting for their departure. I've gone sailing before, with my dad and sister. I loved being out at sea, feeling the wind and seeing one color for miles around.

Turn, push, jump in. And they're off. At peace.

Balancing act

My first instinct is to write this in Spanish. That must be a good sign! Every day I feel more confident in my speaking abilities (although sometimes by the end of the day, I can't think of any words-- English or Spanish). And each day I feel more comfortable walking around this home into which I moved less than a week ago. I had a minor nervous breakdown the other morning. After my first day of classes-- which for these next three weeks are intensive language courses, not the most thrilling of subjects-- I had lunch with my host family, the most plentiful and important meal of the day; I took my siesta, returned for dinner, and met a new friend for gelato and homework. It was a good day. To spare the details that make me sound, even to me, as if I'm not grateful to live here, I will summarize that I have restrictions which are considered conservative in Spanish culture. Finishing dinner at 10:30 or later, you can find Spaniards of all ages out on the streets, eating tapas, kids running around... To miss out on night life in Spain would be to completely misunderstand Spanish culture. That is to say when I stayed out with friends on my first night in Sevilla, a Wednesday, and went home at 3am, we were the first ones leaving.

So in yearning for the truest grasp of culture, and hopefully not in vain, my miniature nervous breakdown was lit by a curfew.

In my American way, adjusting to the eating habits of Spain has been a challenge. Breakfast for me consists of toast and coffee; traditionally these are interchangeable with hot chocolate or tea and yogurt or an apple... Anyway it's a light meal. Lunch comes in the afternoon, around 2:30, and includes two to three courses. I love these meals, made with fresh and in-season ingredients. I know for certain that being a vegetarian in Spain would be nearly impossible without cooking for oneself; I'm satisfied with this, as seafood is an adored and scrumptious commodity. In most households, la señora prepares and serves each course of the meal and cleans up afterward. I've struggled to find a balance between offering to help and being rude, and try to learn about and remind myself that this is the culture. Sweet, fresh fruit makes dessert, and it shocks me when the kids try to refuse it. An important value though here is that children eat what they are given and aren't really asked for input; I like this aspect. Culture is interesting because we can try to understand it, yet it is rare that we have the opportunity to be in it enough to have a wholesome perspective. And when we look at other cultures through the lens of our own, it is difficult not to make judgments or misinterpret. It's a strange balancing act that requires immersion as well as the acknowledgment that you are inevitably in no position to understand.

So I try to embrace that in other cultures, the aim is not to be full all the time; mission accomplished well before almuerzo. By dinner, hungry again, I am tired from the heat that comes late in the afternoon (hence the greatness of siesta) and have a small meal. Los niños are rambunctious but eventually go to bed; I am excited to make cupcakes for the twins' ninth birthday in a couple weeks. There is no word for cupcake in Spanish.

Rewind. I don't want you to worry about my nervous breakdown. I sat down yesterday and took to my journal. I remembered advice from two people: when I was younger, my stepmom told me that writing positive thoughts instead of negative thoughts at the end of the day helps you sleep better; in Paris, I met a girl who told me that whether she likes a person or not, she always appreciates someone who makes her feel her emotions. I came to realize that whether my hidden expectations would be met or not didn't matter, for whatever the outcome of this semester will be, it will have nothing to do with what I predicted. Furthermore, I think my expectations will prevent me from receiving all that the universe wants to give me during this adventure. So I convinced myself. And I must say that I feel better already.

A perfect pothole

My writing has slowed. My pace has slowed. My patience has been tested as much as my Spanish. These last few days in Sevilla have been different than I expected... Maybe that's where I went wrong, having expectations. I tried not to, but that's a difficult feat when thinking about the next four months of my life.
My travels around France and Bruges prepared me for this experience in some ways. I know not to look for water fountains and how to get by with a language barrier; I learned how to get around without a taxi, how to become comfortable around new people quickly; I learned how to sit back and recognize cultural differences without shouting about them, sounding like an ignorant American tourist. I'd like to think I've learned these lessons at least. But as for my fellow study-abroaders, coming from costly private colleges and apparently sheltered lifestyles, I can't say the same.

Against all my might and knowledge I think about this every time we are sheeped onto tour buses like a horde of yakking bystanders. (If you're surprised by the negativity and detail of my metaphor, join my club.) But although I seem upset by this, I see the silver linings. First, despite the disconnection that exists between me and most, not even all, of the other students in my program, I am happy to be aware of my interaction with Sevilla as a tourist. Secondly, I am taking in this experience as an individual, rather than, as I expect my reaction would be during my first time in Europe, grabbing a buddy for dear life. I don't mean to condemn the friendships surely forming around me or diminish their values. And I'm not suggesting I'll be facing this semester in solitude. I just mean that I found a wonderful peace and reward in taking in such a grand experience personally, without others to sway interpretation.

Now whether I'm better off having learned these truths about myself is debatable. I think I would be in a more blissful place without these thoughts on my mind. I've learned that I'm a nervous eater, for instance. Despite the fact that I can't wait for this anxiety to pass, however, you can tell by my whirling thoughts and long-lived partiality to worrying that I've never been one for easy bliss.

So I'm dragging you with me, making you wait patiently through this transition into mi vida Sevillana. I plan to move beyond this awkward stage soon, my classes beginning tomorrow and meeting the rest of my host family this afternoon. I plan to absorb the culture and gems of Sevilla once I get a grip on my crazy mind, but you'll have to suffer through it with me.

I can tell you this though: the food is delicious.

En Sevilla

My arrival. It's funny, my definition of arrival has changed since the beginning of my travels. I flew into Sevilla two days ago from Toulouse, France. I travelled cheaply to Hotel Bécquer, where I would meet a fellow Spanish and philosophy double-major from Allegheny. She serendipitously met a girl from another Spanish studies program on her long flight here, so I quickly became friends with two cool girls whom I'm excited to share my semester with. For them, having arrived the night before, being in Sevilla was beginning to soak in. The girls who swarmed us the next day for the start of Orientation we're in a state of surreality from what I could tell, jet-lagged and not yet realizing just where they would be for the next four months. My arrival in Sevilla was a different experience than either of these, as I have at some level gotten used to arriving in a new European city and quickly, like a trained sponge, soaking in my surroundings, having conquered the stage of dreamy disbelief. My arrivals Bruges and Carcassone and my second in Paris were full of excitement from an incredible combination of knowing and not knowing what was in store for me.

But my arrival in Sevilla was different. Yes, my plane landed in a new country and yes, I had to tell myself "I'm here"... But it was tainted inescapable milestones that I would be facing, this time in a structured program alongside newer travelers than even I, which in some ways was quite daunting. I'm not saying this taint wasn't like stained glass, like that in the windows at Basilique Saint Denis, light-altering but beautiful. This new type of anxiety really grounded my emotions in the best and worst way. These moment ahead of me, like meeting the family that would be sharing their home with me for months; living in a city for an extended period of time with most of my Spanish-speaking skill borne in high school (any student can tell you how reassuring that is(n't)); learning the customs of Spain and how not to have 'tourist' written on my forehead. Of all the new obstacles that await me now, the most surprising cause for my anxiety has been the thing most meant for comfort: being in a structured program in which everyone is more or less experiencing the same feelings. While I'm confident that soon I will have a bond with many students here for the semester, there's an ironic sense of overwhelm coming from the program's guidance. After building armor to defeat the forces of lone travel, my new place as a student with a slight itinerary and environment of structure is causing some serious apprehension. It's amazing how quickly we adapt to our environments and our lifestyles.

But as I said, it's a tint of beauty, for I think that after the wondrous trek that was my August, it's time to reunite with the incredible reality that is Sevilla. I wrote during my travels that being open minded to a situation can only bring satisfying results. Being in this program gives me access to many opportunities that would otherwise be unavailable to an out-of-the-know traveler like myself. My arrival has been a significant adjustment, more so than I had expected. But it's one that makes my experience in Sevilla my own, special so that the unexpected becomes the sacred treasure.

What to even call it these days?

There are quite a few differences between Paris and southern France: the accent, the transportation, the scenery, the crowds... But one part of French life holds true: the breakfast. This sweet spread includes baguettes with butter and orange marmalade or berry jam, a croissant, orange juice, and coffee or chocolat, which is a thicker hot chocolate. Croissants can be dipped in chocolat or in honey, but they have almost been too delicious not to enjoy plain. (almost.) As you can tell, I miss French food already, and I'm still here!

Anyway, I've had a nice final stop in Carcassonne. My hostel is actually an old castle in Malves, a little village outside the city, where there's not much except the cafe and a market, which are open just a few hours a day. I rode a bike 11km into Carcassonne yesterday to visit the Château and ramparts of the city. The medieval city of Carcassonne bustles inside ramparts (walls) that were built during the reign of Louis IX when the viscounty of Carcassonne became part of the royal domain in 1226.

The city was originally used to protect the border between France and Aragon, but was abandoned by its people beginning in 1659 when the region was annexed by the kingdom of France. In 1844, famous architect Viollet-le-Duc was appointed to restore the city, becoming one of the largest restoration projects in Europe's history. At first Viollet-le-Duc, also known for his historical yet creative restorations and additions at Notre Dame, had modest to restore the towers of Carcassonne, but in 1862 he put forth a second proposal to fully restore the full inclosure. So today we have a grand little city, frozen in medieval time, with shops and restaurants featuring regional specialties. After my tour through the castle and ramparts, I took part in Carcassonne's regional specialty: Chateulet. It is a local dish made of duck and pork (Eek!) that tastes like a chili. I put my thoughts aside on this one, determined to taste the local cuisine as I sat at a restaurant beside the château. I have to admit it was tasty, although I wouldn't be tempted to have it again any time soon. I guess I put my vegetarianism on hold for a reason.

Learning about the walled castle as I walked through centuries of history and hard work was a lot to absorb. It's amazing what was done for protection back then: ramparts, moats, slits in the walls for shooting that surrounded the entire city! It's funny to think about what we do now in the name of defense. Later that evening I was able to see the castle at night, which was just magnificent.

I sat in front of la Basilique Saint Lazaire, Carcassonne's old Roman-Gothic cathedral, waiting for the restaurant to open to get my taste of Carcassonne. I began to look back on my trip, unable to help thinking about its near close, and I began to feel anxious. Putting my pen to my journal I wrote out my anxiety, naming it excitement for the new type of adventure I will have in Seville. Then I started thinking about home, how comforting it is. But maybe it seems more so that way because I can appreciate it in a different light, having spent some time around other ways of living. I wonder if traveling would be such a beautiful, wonderful thing without home to return to. Compare, compare, that's all I can do. All that really matters at the end of all this is what I will bring home. Yes, the one-night loves and the passing moments of overwhelming experience are all part of my grand adventure, and they will make their marks no matter what I do. But... I don't know, is there a but? It's hard to say now, at this moment, when I feel every shifting who I am. Will I lose it all when I return to the place that grew me? I don't think so. I surely hope not. I have my journal at least.... It's all so bittersweet, the passing of time. Like the stone and brick of the walled city, every moment will make its claim, lost in the crowd of the rest, but nonetheless invaluable.

As I sat and thought, as I've done often these past weeks, I asserted in my ink that life doesn't move in one direction. Moments are fleeting. Decisions are inevitable and sometimes hidden and sometimes bot your own. But one thing is always for certain: life will move. The question is, will it move you?

I'm not sure what these blogs are meant for. A record of my paths? A history lesson? A way to release my inner philosophy major stuck without a classroom?

Well, stuck is one thing I'm not. I can assert that with some sense of certainty (although modern America might disagree if I continued on like this for the rest of my treasured future...). Anyway, I'm torn between treating this blog as a scrapbook and a diary, as everything I've experienced thus far affects me in different ways. So I'm sorry to say, if you're confused by my jumble of writing styles and vomit of thoughts, I can't help you. I can hardly grasp it myself... One minute I'm washing my clothes in the sink, and the next I'm learning how to taste wine (swirl, smell, a few slurps, and some air-bubble swallow make up the gist of what I gathered from the French woman who wasn't exactly intending to teach me). So here I am in my hostel on the day before I take flight for Sevilla, where my whole new adventure begins. I am experiencing a mosh posh of nostalgia, excitement, nervousness, anxiousness, courage, hesitation... Pretty much name it and I'll add it to the list. I also recognize many of these emotions as feelings I had before coming to Paris, and I don't think that could have turned out better.

So I hope you'll hang in there with me, as I spend my semester in Seville and hopefully many other places. I've enjoyed sharing what is probably a sliver of this journey with you, or at least imagining someone reading this blog, so that it begins to feel like more than a dream.

Observations

In France, cities come alive their own pace. Mornings are quiet, brasseries, markets and clothing stores open at their leisure. People begin to fill the streets, walking to their destinations, or just walking. Carousels and parks are everywhere, well water fountains are nearly nonexistent. Wine is cheap and delicious, and drunken anywhere, anytime. Soda is pricey, lemonade is sparkling water, and water bottles cost more than breakfast. French fries are fries and French onion soup is onion soup. Transportation is easy, walking is common and enjoyed. Bikes are public and cyclers are respected, and cars are just sort of there. Parking is usually underground, streets are one-way. Sidewalks are ambiguous, Crosswalk lights are suggestions. Meals are light but definitely not rushed, waiters are kind but service is minimal, tips are included. manners are expected but smiles are not. Conversation is valued but so is alone time. Ingredients are wholesome and bread is a dork. Diets exist but exercise is just getting around. Litter is accepted and recycle bins are rare, buildings are beautiful and public spaces are used. Loitering is better than rushing, and reading is easier than watching TV. Music is American and clothes are from everywhere, tourists are the ones poorly dressed. Flowers are appreciated and line the balconies, and lawns are stones instead. But most of all, there's always a place to sit back, sleep, relax, and enjoy France.

Bones and goodbyes

For every new charm is another goodbye, to people, places, a favorite food, the list goes on. Today was my last day in Paris. I know, I've had quite a few of those... I guess it became the city I couldn't leave. With so many famous attractions and hidden gems, it's hard not to find a niche there, no matter what you're in the mood for.

Especially if you're in the mood for getting scammed. Today I waited in line with a girl I met in Bruges to buy a metro pass for the day. I was very excited because I had finally figured out the strategy for choosing a ticket depending on the day's destination(s). I've developed a love-hate relationship with Paris' transport system, which is elaborate and convenient and efficient and used... It's also a playground for bumping into irritated locals and staring at maps very minute or two. Anyway, I approached the machine with confidence in my hard-earned understanding. In line, Elyse and I wondered about the man in a blazer standing next to the machine, helping people (tourists) figure its ins and outs, so we were weary but interested. He asked if we needed help and I said what we needed but continued to maneuver the buttons myself, until he said, "no that's in zone 4"... He started pushing buttons and I changed them so we could pay separately but in the end my card didn't work (as it usually didn't in those metal beasts but every once in a while made life easy...), so he offered his own and I paid him back in cash. Long story short, he was very sneaky in changing the ticket I actually bought for one that didn't get us very far, charging me for a whole day worth of zones that I never intended to visit. Another lesson learned: when someone tries to help before asked, hold onto the confidence you once had. In the heat of the moment it's hard to accuse someone of cheating, but the frustration that follows such trickery is like a leech. Benefit of the doubt is a treasure that must be handled with care, for if you give it out too easily, you'll waste 11 euro and the satisfaction of mastering a system, but if you refuse it to anyone, why live in this world community at all? Life is tricky, just like the metro system.

Fortunately, I was not in the mood for being scammed this week, and nothing worse happened like that. I was in the mood for croissants, and I always will be now. When I wanted to connect to another lifetime, I went to a museum or somewhere frozen in time. Like the catacombs. My friend and I visited them this morning, and after waiting in like for two hours(!), we descended into the Lutetian stone, which dates back 4,500 million years. Many buildings in Paris were built with this limestone, which explains why quarries underground provided space for workers mine the rock.

Down below, 120,000 square feet hold all the bones that once rested in the Cemetery of Innocents. In the late 1700s the bones were moved into the quarries that lay all throughout Paris. Now inside the sea of quarries are bones and bones and bones. At first the bones were simply dumped underground, but the king made it into a proper memorial by arranging them. The bones are stacked and create a wall, while skulls are lined up amongst the femurs and shins to create a kind of decorum. And these walls of human bones go on and on and on. It's incredible to be amongst so many remains of unnamed figures, all stacked up and mixed together, yet somehow strong and dignified. The catacombs provided an interest glance at the interests of humanity throughout history, from the men who carved out the walls of the quarries to the king who insisted on respecting the parts, to the shutterbugs (more flashers today) that gawk and stroll pass the explanations. So the underground scene was worth the wait, and we enjoyed two crepes to weigh us down.

Crepes, scenic walks, new friends, quiet time...all things I felt for and found. Days and nights on the Seine became my favorite pass-time, and exploring without much of a destination was always in the cards. Traveling alone gave me complete freedom to pursue my own singular desires, and how often does one get to do that?! What I heard was true, that it's harder to find time without others when traveling alone, as many have experiences to share and words to get out (especially to someone who can understand them). But what I've also discovered is how easy it is to be alone, and how rewarding. The freedom to focus on everything surrounding you while at the same time what's happening within... It's beautiful, really. And it creates an energy for times when you are with others and makes those moments all the more special.

Especially those at McDonald's. Ha! Just kidding, but I did to to McD's today. The last place I expected to go, but it was filled with Parisians and I went for the wifi. I also was curious about the difference between the countries' head honcho of fast food. And it was. Somehow the French even manage to have classy McDonalds. Let's just say they know how to sauce up their fries.

So goodbye for now is what I'll finish with, for who knows when Paris will lure me in again (I'll admit I've already started planning my next trip to Europe, but I'll focus now. Inspiration is oozing). On with the show. Next stop: Carcassonne, south France.