Semana Santa

Hola!

So this is a long overdue blog post chronicling my post-Morocco festivities during Semana Santa (I’m clearly very behind on writing about my life).

Semana Santa is the Holy Week (Easter). Let me tell you, one has to mentally prepare to face the week of Easter here because the whole entire world tries to cram into a city (or section of a city) that takes less than an hour to walk across. The news shows said that hundred of thousands of people had inundated our little city. It made it nearly impossible to get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time.

Here’s what happens in Sevilla during Semana Santa (arguably the best one around). It’s like a parade, except a really, really somber parade, like if you had nazarenos instead of clowns and a paso of Jesus carrying his cross instead of, say, Miss America frolicking with Disney characters. Also, instead of cheering and excitement there’s solemn silence. (Nazarenos are the people who wear long robes and pointed hats and carry candles. Many people comment that they resemble KKK uniforms even though they come in many colors  - however, they're not at all related.)

Really, it’s a beautiful thing to witness. If you go during the madrugada (which occurs in the wee hours of the morning) the entire crowd gets silent as the pasos drift slowly by. They wobble surprisingly little considering they’re carried on the shoulders of 30-40 men, only enough that the clusters of candles waver slightly, which, I personally think, adds to the majesty of the whole ordeal.

During the day is different, there are more children and the mood is lighter. There's more chatter and loudness and the kind of excitement that comes with novelty, as opposed to knowing anticipation. If they're not wearing their Sunday best, some of the children are dress as nazarenos (yes, they make them in baby sizes!) and it's absolutely adorable.

I had off from school for the week so I was able to be awake at bizarre hours and wander the streets to try to catch a glimpse of the magic. Unfortunately, it took a while for us to get our act together, get a schedule, and figure out that the pasos almost never get there on time.

We managed to see several of the pasos and there’s some truth to what the locals say, that if you’ve seen one day, you’ve really seen all you need. Still, there’s something really incredible about the life-like features of Mary and Jesus; the way they carve Mary’s face so that it seems in nearly unbearable amounts of emotional pain, so that the glycerin tears seem as though they could almost certainly be real. There’s the strain of Jesus’ back beneath the burden of the cross, as though at any moment, the figure could give-way under the weight.

It’s a special week, where a years worth of work from a number of people is put on display so that spectators may watch is awe and I’m glad to have seen it again (I saw it for the first time in high school).

As usual, I hope you’re all having adventures of your own and I look forward to seeing you soon!

Love,

Natalie

Chinos

Hola!

So I’m writing a blog about Semana Santa but it’s a pretty somber occasion and it’s too sunny today to write about. Instead, I’m going to talk about CHINOS!

No, silly (people who understand Spanish), not Chinese people, I’m talking about the random stores owned by Chinese people that all the Spaniards, who are a little less concerned about political correctness than many Americans, call chinos in honor of their owners. It would be kind of like if we were honest with ourselves and called Dunkin’ Donuts something like "Indians" (I mean, not that someone as politically correct as myself would ever—oh, who are we kidding?). But seriously, they’re always run by Chinese people. Always. The Chinese have a monopoly on this kind of store. Even the gypsies haven’t tried to get in on it and they love to try to make me give them money for useless things.

What exactly IS a chino store? Well, I’m glad I assumed you’d be asking, my friend. Chino stores are like if Target, a grocery store, and the 5 Below had some sort of super-amazing mutant offspring and spread them throughout the city. They sell virtually anything you could possibly want (except face wash, which people in Spain apparently never use) and each store carries different stuff. Some stories sell mostly food, some mostly clothing, some sell appliances, and some are clearly selling whatever they bought in bulk on a whim. Need a fan? Chino store. Need obscure Milka chocolate varieties? Chino. Need a cow print tablecloth? Chino store. Need a kidney? Well, I haven’t seen them casually chilling out in freezers at Chino stores, but it’s totally possible.

I wish you all could know first hand how fantastic these stores are. It’s even better because two chinos never carry the same things, so you’re bound to get into all sorts of adventures wandering the aisles. So, if you go to enough chinos, you’ll find what you’re looking for and it will be way cheaper than anything you could buy in a normal store.

I bought my umbrella in a chino and it’s the best umbrella I’ve ever owned. Seriously. Ask my parents about how inferior their umbrellas seemed when they were trotting along next to my super umbrella and me. Exceedingly inferior. Point for chino store.

Anyway, it's my hope to update again soon. I hope you're all having splendid adventures of your own.

Love,

Natalie

Morocco

Hola!

So, Morocco. I should seriously write this up because I have another one coming about the insanity of the Holy Week. Anyway…

Morocco was utterly incredible. Okay, so maybe my trip had a slight snag in the beginning where Fiorella and I both overslept (faulty alarms) and ended up bolting down Menendez Palayo at 4 am searching for a cab. As it turns out, our program almost left without us because two poor confused strangers had stumbled onto our bus and filled the seats we’d left vacant in our tardiness. Luckily, our friend Ellen noticed our absence and the strangers were promptly forced off the bus (well, or politely asked to leave, I can’t really comment as I was absent). Fortunately, we did indeed make the bus so my several hundred euro payment was not in vain!

It took a really long bus ride and then a ferry ride that I slept through and then another really long bus ride to get to Fez. I arrived with a duffle bag that I had squeezed so much stuff into that it resembled a sausage and several kinks in my neck from bus/ferry sleeping. However, I did not allow said neck pain to stop me from venturing into the city before a delicious Moroccan dinner (which we late discovered was apparently the only kind of Moroccan dinner we were ever going to eat. Ever.)

The next day we ventured into the Medina, which is a ridiculously huge marketplace. From the description offered by the tour guides, I can only assume that an occasional tourist is lost in the shadowy abyss of leather goods and shouts of “Moroccan husband!” never to return. Seriously, they said it had thousands of streets, and by “streets”, they meant tunnel-like alleyways.  We saw donkey’s balancing huge cases of glass soda bottles on their backs and tables presenting spreads of one-time use toiletries and packs of pampers. We’d clearly entered the sort of completely different world you expect when traveling.

Our first stop was a rug store where they attempted to sell us on the vast benefits of owning, not just rugs, but Berber rugs. Unfortunately, few were sold on the vast overpriced carpets occasionally in patterns reminiscent of southwestern themes that I don’t find particularly attractive.

Next we visited an animated apothecary who managed to sell us on just about every product (well, as long as it wasn’t too terribly expensive). The ladies of the group (myself included) were all particularly taken with a green lipstick that, when applied, became a rosy pink (I’m still debating whether the shade is gaudy or not). After buying half the store, we wandered out into the Medina Maze and headed to lunch.

Anyway, from the leather place we ate lunch, which was pretty much exactly what we’d eaten the night before. Perhaps I should elaborate. We ate couscous, chicken, carrots, potatoes, something that looked like potatoes but tasted like cabbage, and a few other various vegetable-like things. All of it was well seasoned and we were, overall, pretty content. OH! I did try sheep brain though. The appearance and texture was kind of like eating cauliflower if it were made out of fat.

Then we went to the leather shop. They showed us how they make leather. It involved the feces of birds. I don’t remember which bird exactly because from the overlook, where we watched men stirring huge vats of dye, our nostrils were accosted with what smelled like excrement, animal carcass, and broken dreams. They had give us mint leaves before we made the trek upstairs and about halfway into the tour guides spiel, most of the group had crammed the leaves firmly into their noses. Then we wandered down to shop.

I would like to take a moment to commend myself on successfully bargaining down a leather bag better than any of the other 50 people with me. Now, I didn’t get what I would call an awesome deal. Let’s be honest with ourselves, as a group of 50 wide-eyed American students, we were like a herd of crippled gazelles on the Serengeti, hopeless. However, I did get less screwed than the other people, which gives me a certain sense of pride. I managed to haggle with the guy to get a 130 euro backpack down to 50 euros. Then I got it for 47 euros because I was a few dirhams (the local currency) short and I just slowly removed the bag from the counter as the man at the cash register shrugged, watching me. Win.

From there we met up with our bus and went to the hotel to eat and prepare for the traditional show we were to see that night. Let’s talk about the traditional show. It consisted of a decent-at-best magician who did things like turning money into paper (which is the exact opposite of the kind of power I would like to have). There were also two somewhat corpulent belly dancing women, one of which kept thrusting her bosom into the faces of the guys in the front row. Then they took twenty minutes to remove members of our group, dress them in traditional garb, and bring them back for 5 minutes to hoist them up in a wooden bowl-like structure and spin them around twice. It was like the Hora, but less fun for everyone.

The next day we got up early to head into the Sahara Desert where we’d be camping out for two nights. It was a super long bus rides along really windy mountain roads. Note: Before this I had suffered very little from motion sickness. But, you know how in Trouble there’s that die under the plastic bubble and you push it and it gets rattled all over the place before it settles down? Now imagine that die has a brain and stomach and can feel things. That’s what it’s like being on a bus speeding around the curvy, mountainous Moroccan roads.

Once off the bus we hoped into 4X4 jeeps for a race into the desert (well, we decided it was a race because they didn’t use real roads and we could see everyone taking different routes).

The desert was worth the trouble getting there. We were nestled right next to the sand dunes in a long row of tents. 

After claiming mats to sleep on we ran through the arch that marked the end of camp and frolicked in the sand dunes and met the Berbers. The boy I talked to knew just a handful of words in Spanish and no English, but we did manage to find out a bit about the culture. What stuck out in my mind the most is that the boy, who was about 14 or 15 told me that school stopped at age seven for many kids in Morocco. That meant that he’d been working to make money any way he could for at least seven years.

That night we ate and then laid out on the sand dunes and talked to each other and the Berbers. Occasionally they’d pull out their backpacks full of jewelry and trinkets to sell it to us, but some were just content to chitchat, as Moroccans love to talk. We went to bed a bit too late considering we were to be up for the sunrise and the next morning regretted it a bit as we tried to race up sand dunes (which is incredibly difficult if you didn’t know, but more on that later). I’d like to say that it was totally worth it and I was in awe of the great beauty around me, but it was cloudy and so it kind of just looked like a moon and sort of lacked the promised magnificence. It was pretty, just not what had been promise and, thus, did not meet expectations.

That afternoon we got to jump on some camels for a pretty interesting ride. I had to keep reminding myself as I tried to hold steady onto the saddle that camels were desert animals and they’re made to walk in the desert on sand dunes, but when my camel, who I dubbed Melvin, slipped a little in the sand, I couldn't help but think that I'd tumble forward and be trampled by his awkward feet. Eventually we stopped and had to do our own walking  up the biggest dune in that part of the Sahara. It was really, really big and really, really steep and while I feel accomplished, I have absolutely no urge to ever climb it again.

From there we rode into the town to be swindled by more carpet dealers and eat lunch. Unfortunately, at some point, a giant sand storm hit (I mistyped that as “sad storm” which is still pretty apt). We had to shut all the windows in the room we were in and every contact wearer loved me for remembering eye wash solution.

Post lunch, I stuck around to get henna done. They’d brought in local women who cheerfully applied the henna in flower and vine designs on our hands. The woman who painted mine had a baby tied to her back and a toddler wandering around. The baby gurgled and smiled at me even though flies landed almost directly on her eyes. I did my best to brush them off, but they lazily moved only to avoid my fingertips to another part of her face. 

Another child wandered around, about twelve, doing the henna as well. She was very small and focused as she quickly squirted on the henna into more beautiful designs than any of the other women. She was clearly very artistic, but she’ll never really have the luxury of creative expression, in Morocco, her skills will be valued most for their moneymaking abilities.

We walked back through the sand storm that scraped at our skin and eyes, even though they were covered, to the large tent in our camp to take shelter until the storm was over.  I distinctly remember thinking about the intrusive qualities of sand. It finds its way into every part of you and when you’re in the desert, you never escape it; there will always be sand everywhere.

That night there was a dance party after dinner. The Berbers definitely have some very interesting dance moves. One looks like a crippled man grasping his leg and hobbling across the circle and another like a spider, side crawling. We all danced (and sweated) and just before I went to bed, I wandered into the desert to sit in the dunes one last time and talk to a friend I’d made from the other program.

The next morning we departed early for Meknes. There wasn’t a lot of time once we arrived and it was like being reintroduced into society. Even the food we were served was less Moroccan. It was a chance for everyone to shower and get the sand out of their things and prepare to go back into Sevilla and their “normal” lives.

It really was one of the most unique and enjoyable trips I’ve ever taken. Congratulations if you’ve made it thus far in my entry. I contemplated breaking it down, and perhaps I will to expand on some of the experiences, but I thought I’d give a rough over view.

I hope you’re all having your own adventures.

Love,

Natalie

Street People

Hola!

Okay, I promise, I’m working on a Morocco blog, but it’s really long and I’m still writing it and I want to throw out a little something about daily life here.

Let’s talk about street people. I mean, street performers and gypsies. Particularly gypsies. I like them less than just about anyone. Ever. (I should mention that I don’t like gypsies who are living gypsy lifestyles, as there are perfectly normal people gypsies who live happily among the Spaniards). Here’s why:

So, male gypsies are elusive. This is presumably because they want to look inconspicuous so that when they take your wallet, you’re standing in the middle of a street going “my goodness, these people are all too inconspicuous to be thieves, I don’t know who to blame!” And I’m not saying this based off of assumptions, we had a lengthy discussion in my phonetics class talking about how gypsies make money.

The men, while tricky in their robbing, bother me infinitely less than the women. Maybe because they have the decency not to shove things in my face. Here’s how you know someone is a gypsy woman: she’s usually quite corpulent and wearing very bright, very tight clothing. It’s as though the gypsy women have sucked all the conspicuousness from their husbands into themselves to stand out twice as much. They stand on the street thrusting their sprigs of weeds in my face and offering to read my palm, only to make me feel obligated to pay them or to pickpocket me while I’m distracted by my growing irritation. (Okay, so I always tell them "no" and walk fast so they don’t do this to me, but they try really hard and all the time and it’s annoying).

Aside from Gypsies we have an inexplicably large number of silver people. They’re the statue performers. There’s the flower woman who dresses in Victorian garb and holds roses, the guy who dresses as a cowboy and is frozen in a position of pulling a gun from a holster, and another man whose only shtick is being silver and standing still. I like the silver people because they’re interesting to look at and generally not confrontational. However, I do wonder why no one seems interested in any of the other metallic colors, like gold or bronze. I mean, gold is the color of victory and silver is the color of kind of winning. If I were a metallic statue street performer, I'd want to be gold.

I also enjoy the accordion woman. Purely for her comedic value. She always sits in the same spot with her dog that wears the same little blue shirt and she always plays the same song. Every time. We know it by now and drone along as we walk past.

Competing with redundant accordion woman to be my favorite street performer are the fake Indians. They get all dolled up in their very clichéd Native American garb and play songs from “The Last of the Mohicans.”  They obstruct the path and play super loud and are thus very obvious. I can’t figure out their target audience though. The Spaniards who live there are unfazed by their playing and I can’t decide what tourist would go “Oh, look, honey! A Native American musical group selling CDs in Spain. Let’s patronize them!” It seems as though their success rate should be low.

So that’s a taste of the people I walk past on a pretty regular basis in Sevilla. I hope you enjoyed my little rundown of the local characters and I hope you’re all having adventures of your own.

Love,

Natalie

P.S. I'd have pictures but street people don't like when you take pictures and don't pay them. It makes them mad and I'm the one who has to walk by them every day and feel their spiteful gaze.

Barcelona

Hola!

So, I visited Barcelona last weekend and while I probably should have written this a few days ago, I had midterms to pretend to study for.

We left Thursday evening on Ryan Air, an airline notorious for super cheap flights. They have a reputation for giving you your money’s worth and absolutely nothing else. We managed to get to Barcelona in one piece and, as we arrived in an airport in some desolate and distant area, we took an hour and a half bus ride to get to the real Barcelona.

Our hostel was everything a hostel is supposed to be. In past trips, I’ve stayed in rooms that they try to make mimic crappy hotels. Not this one. Graffiti hostel has squeaky bunk beds, mismatched sheets, and exactly two bathrooms for all the inhabitants. No one speaks the same language but everyone can communicate a mutual hatred of that girl who hogs the bathroom to blow-dry her dreadlocks. In our room, we had a colorful bunch, including two super fashionable Americans who were going to all four years of college in Italy and a hilarious trio of Canadian Engineering majors (who we made sing ‘O Canada’ to us – and, in fairness, I did sing out national anthem to them upon request).

When we finally got to venture out into the city, our first order of business was to stalk out all things Gaudí, starting with la Sagrada Familia. It was a bit pricey to get in as, while the outside is very ornate with news things catching your eyes upon every sweep over the exterior, the inside parts that you are allowed to view are jumbles of construction (it won’t be finished for another 30 years). However, there is an interesting exhibition on Gaudí’s usage of nature in his designs, as well as a museum showing the various rooms where they construct models for parts of the cathedral.

Next was Parc Güell, full of brilliant colors and whimsy. All along the benches and walls and ceilings outside are vibrant mosaics and the houses that he put in reminded me very much of gingerbread houses with their brown walls and candy-colored stones around the windows. After leaving, we hopped on the subway to get to Las Ramblas, got off at a wrong stop, and ended up smack dab in front of Casa Batllo, the apartments Gaudí built. We didn’t wander in, but the outside was gorgeous.

On the walk to las Ramblas, which is a huge outdoor market place, we stumbled upon a shop of confectionary wonders, where we indulged in pastries (that day and the next too). For some reason, Barcelona seemed to be full of these delectable little stores that tantalize passersby with glazed-treats ad cloying scents.

Las Ramblas had all kinds of insanity to be sold. There were lives chickens and furry bunny rabbits, fragrant flowers and flamboyant street performers, and then we discovered Boqueria. Boqueria is a gigantic farmer’s market type ordeal. It buzzed with shoppers, buying fresh fruit or tangy cheeses or just about anything else. We were particularly fond of the fresh fruit juices. I don’t remember each one I tried, but I did opt to taste the cactus flower juice in one glass. We also purchased eggs to eat for the next two mornings, some fresh fruit, and some dried fruit as well.

After heading home and napping a bit, we got ready and went out to the clubs along the beach. We roamed around, stopping in an ice bar at one point and freezing out underdressed bums off, and finally ended up in one of the clubs. After dancing a bit, around 3 am (remember, I’m on Spanish time), much like a junior high dance, the lights came on and the entire room was herded to the coat check and out of the building. I’ve never closed a club and I must say, it’s a rather uncomfortable experience when the lights turn on and everyone glances awkwardly at one another.

The next day, Ellen made us some tasty breakfast sandwiches and I broke my retainer on fresh coconut. As there wasn’t much I could do, I decided to grin and bear it and we went on with the day. We moseyed for a bit along las Ramblas and along the beach, stopping to eat lunch and get ice cream. Then we found out way to the cathedral, which had a theme park length line sticking out of it that persuaded us that we were kind of tired and, really, would rather just munch on pastries and head to la Boqueria.

Once we got back, we took a nap and had every intention of going out again. However, we ended up having a camp-style conversation with our roommates until the wee hours of the morning. Our conversation and new friend’s rendition of ‘O Canada’ was infinitely more enjoyable than hearing the latest music from two years ago be mixed and remixed.

The next morning we said goodbye to our Canadian friend, packed up, and went with out Americans-studying-in-Italy to el Museo Picasso. Other than the fact that a huge (probably about 30 year chunk) of his career was missing, a lot of Picasso’s early works, particularly from when he was a child and still in school, were on display, along with brief biographies from each time period.

After that, we were forced to say goodbye to Barcelona and head back to Sevilla, which we’ve become accustomed to referring to as “home.” As much as I loved the vibrancy of Barcelona, it was nice to come back to the cozy familiarity of Sevilla.

A bit later this morning, I’ll be leaving for another trip to Morocco. I hope you’re all well and having adventures of your own.

Love,

Natalie

I snapped this picture outside the cathedral and it was one of my favorites of the trip.

Normal Day

Hola.

So, I thought that I might as well put a daily life post (since, I do, indeed have a daily life). Let’s hope this is less boring than it sounds and filled with lots of fun cultural things.

I wake up in the morning and shiver as soon as my feet hit that freezing marble floor in my room. I still sleep in the thick skiing socks that I jacked from my mom at the last minute. Often times in the midst of getting ready, I make toast and gently remind my roommate to get up. If I’m lucky, I’m the person my parents always hoped I’d be and I sit down like a civilized person and eat toast and orange juice. More frequently though, I gulp down orange juice before I leave and munch on toast as I scurry to class.

My walk takes about twenty minutes. Fortunately, Seville is a very pedestrian friendly city. Cars politely wait for bicyclists and walkers to cross and there’s ample space to walk on the main roads (this is not true of the small side streets). If Fiorella is along with me we chitchat and if I’m alone I have my ipod, so it’s really quite pleasant (if I’ve given myself ample time, which isn’t always the case).

After class, I scamper home for lunch, which is the largest meal of the day in Spain. It’s usually two dishes, bread, and a postre, which is dessert. The first course is often pasta or something with garbanzo beans or lentils and the second dish is meat. I’ve liked almost anything so far. There was, however, an incident with some fried fish where I couldn’t handle the fact that they just chomp on those spines with the rest of the small fish (as it would be tedious and almost impossible to separate them). Really, I tried, I ate some, but a rib poked me in the back of the throat and I was done. Anyway, for dessert we have an orange or yogurt.

One thing that’s interesting to mention is that there isn’t a separate living room/dining room set up. This is very common. In the center of the room is what I’ve dubbed “the fire table” and what my host mom calls the “calentita.”  It’s a rectangular table that has a large, thick tablecloth that goes to the floor over it. Underneath, in the middle of the table, is coil heater and when it’s on, everyone sticks their legs until the tablecloth and it’s all warm and cozy. On three sides of the table are couches and chairs (as this is also the living room). It’s important to mention that they only put chairs on three sides because in almost every household, they watch television during meals. Tell me that wasn’t your childhood dream.

In my own house, we favor the Cosmopolitan channel as the women outnumber the men. The day my host brother was coerced into handing over the remote so we could change the channel from futbol (soccer) to “Sexo en Nuevo York” (Sex in the City), it was a small sort of displaced revenge for all the times my brother stole the remote from me. (For the record, it was his real sister who made him change it, not me).

After lunch I nap. Everything closes for siesta so there really isn’t much to do beyond resting. It’s usually a longer nap than I intend because I’m so very, very weak.

Some days I have classes and I scurry to school and some days I have a free afternoon to wander around outside, grab coffee, go shopping, or get around to posting those pictures up on facebook (oh, who am I kidding, I’m terrible at that). 

Anyway, I float around until between 9:30 and 10:30, when it’s time for dinner. Dinner here is smaller than lunch. Usually Spanish tortilla and salad or something along those lines. (Spanish isn’t like the tortilla you’re thinking of, so stop it. It’s a sort of potato and egg dish that’s cooked in a pan so that it’s about an inch and a half or so thick and the size of a frying pan and firm enough to cut like a pie). If I’m lucky I get gazpacho, which I absolutely love. I’m sure you know what it is, but if you don’t, it’s a kind of cold soup or cold beverage made of tomatoes, peppers, cucumber, bread, olive oil, vinegar, bread, and garlic. I’m assured it’s very simple to make and my host dad promised to show me how very soon.

After dinner activities depend on how tired I am, how many classes I have the next day, and whether or not the weather is good. Some nights my roommate and I stay in (occasionally we’ll have a warm milk/tea date in the kitchen) and other nights we go out. Going out may mean just hanging out by the river to talk and drink wine or going to a bar or discoteca. You see, it’s not common for the Spaniards to invite people into their homes, so you have to leave your house to do things. In the South of Spain there’s a big emphasis on revelry and even our host parents encourage us to go out until ridiculous morning hours. 

Then I wander home or back to my room and curl up in bed and start the whole process over again.

I hope that was interesting, I really do. Haha.

Love,

Natalie

P.S. Update on Barcelona trip to come.

Cordoba and Granada

Hola!

Where does the time go? It seems to be running and running and I forget to try to blog to keep up with it.

Anyway, went to Granada and Cordoba this weekend. Cordoba is known for La Mesquita. Granada is known for the Alhambra, Generalife, and free tapas with drinks. I had the pleasure of enjoying all three. I’m sure both have many other lovely attractions, but these are what I was able to partake in during my short stays.

Cordoba was essentially just a trip to see La Mesquita, which is a mosque that was turned into a church. It’s gigantic and known for the red and white striped arches that decorate the interior. Before the Catholics came in and ruined everything, La Mesquita had perfect acoustics due to a large shell-shaped ceiling, now it has okay acoustics to a certain point before you can’t hear anything.

After the tour, we were free to wander around the city and eat the bocadillos our host moms had lovingly packed us. As we moved through the cobblestone streets, we were bombarded with gypsy’s pleas for money. All of them had babies. At first we thought, my, what a fertile population of gypsies. Then we realized that their babies all inexplicably looked exactly the same in features and dress. Yup, they were baby borrowers.

From Cordoba we took a bus ride to Granada where we had only a precious few minutes to lay down before we had to ascend a very high, very steep hill (I’ve determined people living in Granada must have spectacular legs). First we went to see a breathtaking view of La Alhambra and to watch a fire juggler/baton twirler duo fail enough times to extinguish their flames and blend shamefully into the crowd.

Next was an incredible Flamenco show. You see, Flamenco was traditionally performed in caves by gypsies and on the streets. It’s also a very expressive dance tradition that relies heavily on improvisation. Thus, the best Flamenco shows are the most organic ones, the ones where people feel moved to stand up and dance at the plucking of the guitar and the rough, wavering vocals or just at the percussion of a group. However, as one cannot plan a spontaneous show, the next best thing would be this small bar that had been built to resemble a cave. As it were, I’d been to the same place three years earlier when I went to Spain before, but I had a much greater appreciation of Flamenco this time.

It was a spectacular show. I think that the unrehearsed nature of Flamenco makes it so that when the bailaores (as they’re called in Flamenco) move, you can see in the deep lines of their forehead and tightly shut eyes their profound connection to the movements. From what I’ve seen, good dancers always seem as though they dance, first and foremost, for themselves when they perform. However, there’s still a beautiful synthesis between the entire group. If you’ve ever seen a show, the members not dancing are constantly shouting things like “ole,” this is called “jaleo” and is an integral part of Flamenco. It’s one of the ways they play off each other, the same as their complex foot stomping and clapping (as many of these people have an innate understanding of rhythm – unlike most concert clappers).

There were four dancers, three women and one man. The first two women were very young and attractive and more agile than the last woman, who was quite a bit older but had impressive usage of castanets. At the end of the show, each dancer brought an audience member up to the stage to dance. The older woman, clearly being the sassiest of the group, pulled several people to groove in the aisles and then pulled my friend up on stage and proceeded to shake her way down to the floor, daring my friend to go as low as she did (something we all hope we’ll still be able to do in our 70’s).

Post-show, we were set free and ran off to go enjoy the free tapas in Granada. Spain used to give free tapas everywhere, apparently because drunkenness was a big problem and the generous snack-sized helpings with every beverage kept people from getting too inebriated too quickly. Now Granada is one of the few cities to still offer tapas (and large ones at that) and it's a great way to grab dinner.

The next morning we trekked to La Alhambra, a Moorish/Christian palace. It was originally built by the Moors before being conquered and added on to by the Christians (much like a whole lot of Southern Spain). The walls are covered in intricately molded images of Arabic letters and important symbols. Every ceiling in stunningly crafted, one is reminiscent of the night sky. They’re still beautiful, even though the vibrant paint colors have greatly faded. Many of the doorways have what are called stalactite ceilings, which hang down in complex patterns. The whole thing is just an incredibly structure of small details and fountains (water was very important to the Moors). I kept commenting that I couldn’t imagine living there, especially as a child, wandering around and running through ornately decorated rooms as though it were perfectly natural.

Once we left the palace, we wandered through the Generalife, which is an absolutely gigantic garden. It would be a splendid place to just take walks through and to find a place to nestle into and read for hours.

From there it was lunch and going back to Sevilla, which feels so much like home now. I apologize that I’m really slacking over here on updating this blog quickly enough, but I’m sure you’ll be lenient about it, as I’ve been busy enjoying myself.

I hope to post a currently unfinished entry about a typical day here tomorrow. Hope you’re all having adventures of your own.

Love,

Natalie