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.