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

Rome

Hola!

Okay, so this Rome blog is well overdue (as my mom informed me), but I’ve been running around quite a bit here.

Anyway, Rome was absolutely beautiful and I saw as much as I could feasibly see in three days time.

We were fortunate to have a lovely unofficial tour guide in Becky, who is a friend of Angie (the girl I traveled with) and currently studying in Rome. She took us around and explained some of the archeological sites that are casually nestled in the midst of buildings that are way older than anything in the U.S., but still rather “new” for Europe.

Our first afternoon was mostly confused until we met up with Becky, who we followed like helpless ducklings trail a mother duck. We went to mass at a cathedral I can’t currently remember the name of (okay, there are about 900 cathedrals in Rome, we should be proud if I remember any of them).

Afterwards, we were directly across from the Holy Stairs and so we went in and climbed them. Just so you know, you have to climbed the stairs on your knees (you know, because the Catholics love penitence). My poor Protestant-raised knees were in quite a bit of pain as we ascended the well-worn wood stairs. At bit of background for you: The Holy Stairs are the marble stairs Jesus climbed on his way to be condemned by Pontius Pilate. They were brought to the city by Saint Helen and covered in wood and are now climbed by Christian pilgrims. The observer in me couldn’t help but look around at everyone else (which is probably frowned upon) and I found it absolutely fascinating to watch people. Everyone moving at their own pace, some solemn face, some praying, some ready to just be done with climbing on their knees (I may have fit into this category. Just maybe.)

The next day we saw the Pantheon and Spanish Steps and I insisted that when Angie and I visited the Colosseum and Forum, we take a guided tour. It definitely made both locations worth venturing into (as otherwise there are no markers or explanations). I’ll spare you the (literally) gory details, as I’m sure you’ve heard some of them repeatedly. On the tour we met a lovely mother-daughter duo who was venturing through Italy and were fascinated by our studying abroad. Our tour guide for the Forum was an American woman who had studied abroad in Rome and loved it so much that she eventually moved there.

The following morning we ventured to St. Peter’s Basilica for morning mass. As is my custom, I had to somehow unintentionally cause trouble. When the priest we knew who worked there took everyone through a door where little tourists are never supposed to venture unescorted, I, however, missed the door and got stuck on the other side. After fiddling for several moments with the latch, I managed to get into the hallway where an Italian guard sprang up and inquired as to what exactly I thought I was doing. As I shot down the hallway I chirped, “I’m with the group!” Eventually the priest explained that it was okay and I was with him, but not before the whole group took notice of my rather loud reentrance.

I could probably go on and on but I’ll stop by telling you that after wandering around the Vatican we got blood orange gelato and it may have been one of the most wonderful things I have ever eaten.

I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves and I apologize for the delay of this entry (I currently have a visitor).

Love,

Natalie

Lisbon, Portugal

Hola!

Let’s see, updates, updates, updates.

I went to Lisbon, Portugal this weekend.

I know absolutely no Portuguese. And, for the record, before someone mentions it: Portuguese does have elements of Spanish. But you know what it’s like when someone reads a word in English and pronounces the vowels oddly or emphasises the wrong syllable and you have no idea what they’re trying to say? It’s like that. Except it’s Portuguese phonetics.

The receptionist promised me a five-minute Portuguese lesson. He lied. Though he did give me a map and the phone number of the hotel and promised to get us all back safely if the taxi drivers couldn’t figure out where to take us.

Anyway. Some highlights.

Gigantic, intricate, beautiful, poorly lit cathedrals are, as I’m sure you know or suspect, quite plentiful in Europe. For that matter, so are fountains. We saw both.

What stuck out in my mind from Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa (the cathedral) was the ceiling, or rather, the description the tour guide gave about it. She mentioned that it was designed like a spider’s web. The round stones at every intersection of the arcs that worked together to create the web-like design supported the ceiling and it would crumble without them.

It was a beautiful day for the most part and the city’s “feminine” coloring, as my tour guide described it, was well complimented. The buildings are all painted in hues of light pink and yellow and other pastel shades. It reminded a bit of Candyland, actually.

During our free afternoon, we wandered into the Colombo Mall, which is the largest mall in Europe. It’s really freaking huge. I’m not too sure how much of it I saw, as I was too overwhelmed by the short amount of time and sheer number of stores to explore too much. (That and I’m doing my best to hold out on shopping too much until Morocco). *Side note: Word tried to autocorrect “I’m” in that statement to “I are” and I was mildly horrified.

We also found a lovely little Pasteleria with patient workers and delectable, inexpensive coffee and pastries. The view in the windows was mouthwatering. The confectionaries were stacked up in their respective sections in the kind of luring display you see in pictured in magazines. You know somewhere is good when the locals are two and three deep at the counter waiting to order.

All in all, it was a good trip. I promise I’ll try to post pictures of something soon. Also, I’ll make myself write about school soon, as I’ve hardly mentioned academics and I want to reassure you that I’m actually studying.

I hope you’re all having a great time running around wherever you are in the world!

Love,

Natalie

Cadiz

Hola!

I’ve decided to save classes for when they start to get more intense and instead talk about flashy, exciting things. Last night was Carnaval de Cadiz. It’s a gigantic carnival (as the only slightly different Spanish spelling would imply) that’s held yearly in Cadiz and I had the pleasure of spending several hours gallivanting about the gaudiness and glitz (oh, the alliteration!).

Having known about the event for weeks, I came up with and created my costume the day of the event (in very characteristically me fashion). My decision was primarily based on the fact that in certain conditions—humidity, lack of conditioner, the aid of a teasing comb, etc—my hair has the potential to be humorously and horrifyingly large. This in mind, I decided to be a sort of glam version of Medusa. I found a strapless, green dress at H&M for 10€, used green and black eyeliner to make snakes coming off my eyes (alas, lacking the make-up expertise of Kelsey), and tousled my hair until it looked downright ‘80’s. Voila!

The bus ride was an entertaining starter to the main attraction. A bus full of Avatars and cowfolk and butterflies and other worldly beings (including, much to my chagrin, another Medusa) all standing and mingling and dancing to music that topped the U.S. charts about two years ago. My suspicions are that this is a rather unsafe manner of conduct on a bus, but we made the hour and a half trips with no casualties (save for me falling into Avatar on a rough turn). We also found about 50 Waldos all traveling on the same bus.

Cadiz was craziness and cold. The initial walk to the main party was bitterly cold, but the body heat of thousands of people made the crowds much warmer. We walked in trailing a group of drumming clowns and from there met a variety of interesting characters. The whole crowd was a collection of colorful Geishas, rowdy conquistadors, scandalous religious figures, and leggy bugs.  I was surprised by the number of American pop culture costumes, like the Jabberwockies from ABDC and the cast of Futurama. A lot of people, like the first group we talked to, didn’t wear recognizable costumes, but random components that made them into things like cow-pig-vampires.

The city itself was full of pastel-colored, official-looking buildings and winding cobble stone streets. They had strung up colored lights with jester faces and “Carnaval de Cadiz” glowing in them. However beautiful the city might be normally, in all the revelry, the streets resembled the floors of a frat house, with rivulets of liquor and urine running through the stone’s cracks and bottles and trash shoved into piles against walls.

For several hours we just wandered around, befriending bumblebees and a clown who opened everyone’s bottles with his teeth. Of course, creeps ran rampant, emboldened by masks and inebriation, but most encounters were short lived because of the mass and constant movement of the crowd.

It was an absolute blast and a half, but by the end of the night, we were ready to head home to our lovely Sevilla and sleep soundly.

Since then, I’ve managed to find my way into some more entertaining situations, but I’ll detail those another time (probably soon so that I don’t forget).

Anyway, I hope you’re all well and still having your own exciting adventures (perhaps in the snow?)

Love,

Natalie

Here's a decent shot of my make-up (as decent as can be with photobooth and a poorly lit room)

Gibraltar

Hola!

So, I haven’t updated in a bit. I think I’ll write a bit on Gibraltar for now and save the first week of classes for a little later (as not to overwhelm you too much, you lovely people).

There is exactly one creepy hostel and one potentially non-existent (as we never actually saw it) motel on the island of Gibraltar. Consequently, we stayed in the nearby Spanish town of La Linea de Concepcion in a nice, quiet hostel. The walk from La Linea to Gibraltar is only about 15 minutes, so it’s very conveniently located.

Things you may not know about Gibraltar, or, rather, things that I didn’t realize until they confronted me:

1. Gibraltar is a 15-minute walk away and you legitimately just need to show that you’re in possession of a passport (you don’t even need to show the picture) to get into the country. However, it is, in fact, a small British island in just about every way. Being used to Spanish eating schedules, we looked for a place to eat at 10pm. After wandering to several restaurants where the cooks had gone home, we found somewhere with a late night menu. However, as most of the restaurants become bar/nightclubs after 10pm or so, there was a pretty rowdy crowd all around us.

2. The only path to get into Gibraltar has a landing strip running across it. If you’re thinking, “why, how very characteristically European to be so space efficient and, yet, simultaneously so horridly inconvenient,” you and I are on the same page. When planes fly in (which happens fairly frequently), they close down the one means of exiting and entering, trapping you on Gibraltar for at least 15 minutes per plane (which isn’t too bad unless you have to get to your hostel in time and two planes are landing). 

Those were the two big points. Oh! Also, Gibraltar takes several kinds of currency: Euros, pounds, and dollars (just for kicks, I suppose, as I can’t imagine it’s too handy to wander around in Europe-let alone a really tiny island off the coast of Spain-with large amounts of American money).

And Gibraltar most certainly is small. MJ, one of our well-loved directors, said that after two hours in Gibraltar, you’ve seen Gibraltar. In fact, the tour of anything interesting to see on the island takes approximately 1.5 hours. However, it’s a pretty fun 1.5 hours. The monkeys are terrifically adorable and the babies are particularly endearing. I couldn’t help but continuously snaps pictures of them doing things that are completely and totally mundane in the monkey world (like eating orange slices and sitting still) because they were so darn cute while doing them. They also climbed one of my friends and sat on her shoulder/head.

Other than that there were some caves and tunnels in the rock. Fun fact: There are more roads in the rock than there are on the rest of the island. Overall, it was a good trip (besides the part where I lost the little receipt to get me home and had to buy a new ticket, but I’m just going to roll with stuff like that).

Anyway, hope all is well wherever you are and that you're having adventures of your own!

Love,
Natalie

I thought this little guy was pretty entertaining.

Culture Shock and Chocolate

Hola!

So, I pretty much officially hit the wall that is the common study abroad phenomenon known as "culture shock." It wasn’t so much the change of routines, behavioral difference, or noticeable lack of green things in my diet. More than that, it was the intense frustration over my inability to convey my thoughts coherently or understand what other people were trying to tell me when speaking informally.

My host family is full of lovely people who might very well think that I only smile, nod, and make 5-word sentences. My roommate happens to be fluent in Spanish thanks to her Peruvian family and, subsequently, can keep up fairly well with the flow of conversation. I, however, struggle to overcome the Sevillano habit of dropping then ends of words that can make sentences sound like one continuous word. Often, this leaves me at a dead standstill trying to merge into a conversation paced, at times, above my response-speed capacity.

However, after hitting said wall (and taking a nice long nap and eating chocolate and whining to friends), I started moving beyond it. At the preemptive suggestion of Pitt’s study abroad office, I’ve been doing things and running around to get over it and, lo and behold, have started feeling more proficient in Spanish (and better). Today, I explained to the sales woman at the Mac store that my friend had the two-year Apple Care plan so she could get a new charger. I also informed my host dad that Punxsutawney Phil is from Pennsylvania when it came on the news; explaining further than many places in PA have names derived from Indian tribes.

It’s funny, you don’t think about how these silly little conversations will be the hardest part of speaking another language. I can debate about whether we should grant amnesty to illegal immigrants in the U.S. with relative ease, but it can be hard to chitchat about fashion and music. Classroom Spanish leaves you with vast academic abilities and the conversational vernacular of a fourth grader, but I’m picking it up pretty quickly. Even going so far as to overcome my surprising nervousness about talking in Spanish (which is surprising because, as I'm sure you know, I love talking in English).

On another note, I got my shoe back from Toledo. I had left one of my favorite heels there and only discovered that its mate was sadly single when I got to Sevilla. My roommate called and specified “black” and “high heel.” It took a week and ten euros just to get the hotel to send me my “shoe,” which, at first, was someone else’s brown flat, fitting neither of our descriptors. Fortunately, after several more calls, we got my black heels back together, ready to run around the city. I’m pretty sure no one but me thought I could pair them again, but the true love between a good pair of shoes knows no obstacle.

Also, the entirety of my program, which is really only nine people, is addicted to chocolate. Milka? Delicious. Milka Choco-swing? A scrumptiously sinful s’more-like combination that I’d highly recommend. There are just so many kinds of crazy chocolates here. My host sister told me that a really common snack for kids is having bread and chocolate like a sandwich. I’m pretty sure everyone here would be 300lbs if not for the tremendous amount of walking.

Okay, I’ve rambled long enough. Hope you’re all doing well and still enjoying my nonsense.

Love,

Natalie

Late Night.

Hola.

Class continues to be intense (we’re covering what most of us have learned in the last two years or so in two weeks). We watched a movie the other day that no one understood that, I believe, involved stereotypes. The nine people in my class agreed that all we really got out of it was that a man with mutton chops that it looks like he stole right out of Dickens was catcalling a girl who walked by and that two men who looked ridiculously out of place in what would be Spanish “ghetto” clothing robbed a foreign couple.

We’re all getting lost less, though we’re not venturing very far beyond the three neighborhoods where everyone lives. But that’s where most of the places we’ll go and things we need will be, so I hope to know it fairly well with practice. I’m still fairly convinced that Sevillanos come with inborn homing devices like cats and pigeons.

One Thursday we did what was basically the equivalent of a bar crawl with some intercambios, which literally means “exchange” and is basically a person who helps you learn their native language (in this case, Spanish) if you help them learn your native language (English). It’s not terribly practical to travel around with huge hoards of people, especially easily disoriented Americans. But, overall, we managed pretty well.

Last night I went out with my roommate Fiorella and friend Ellen, which was a much more sensible traveling party. We checked out some bars and clubs along Calle Bettis, which is (as I’m sure you’ve gathered) where are the bars and clubs are located. It’s in Triana, across the river. We met a lot of American students studying in Spain. All being foreigners, everyone forms those brief bonds where you look out for strangers because they’re from your respective country. This comes in handy because there are an awful lot of super creepy guys around. One man repeatedly asked me “McCain or Obama? Why?” and nothing I said was the appropriate answer. And they all travel in packs, often separating one girl from her group of friends.

To educated briefly on “going out” in Spain. You don’t actually leave the house until midnight at the earliest. You better believe that I had a serious nap beforehand. Everyone stays out until 6 or 7 (and when we left some guy went “that’s early!”). Gonzalo, a Spanish advisor at Pitt, told me (in his adorable Spanish accent), “it’s not unusual to see people leaving the discoteca at 10 in the morning.” And if my household is any evidence, everyone is totally supportive of this.

Other than that I’m hanging out and eating oranges waiting for the weather to warm up a bit. My Spanish is improving but it’s definitely challenging to get around. Hope all is well with everyone!

Love,
Natalie

Sevilla

Hola.

So, I’ve been in Sevilla a few days and here are some fun facts:

1. There are so many small streets that in order to put them all together in a map-like form, it takes an entire gigantic book. Not only have I been told this, I’ve seen it in person. Subsequently, as a silly little American girl, I’m constantly getting lost. However, I’m finding all kinds of new and exciting places that I can never get back to a second time.

2. As one would expect, oranges here are positively scrumptious. I ate three in one day and my host family thought it was great.

3. Apparently Spaniards do not eat many vegetables, though they do eat more bread than I’ve ever eaten in my entire existence (okay, that might be a bit hyperbolic, but seriously, I miss vegetables).

4. A lot of streets are geometrically designed stone patterns, which are lovely to look at, but terribly uncomfortable for feet.

5. Women wear their hair in a more natural style here. It’s nice. If my hair is a little frizzy, I just fit in more, so I’m definitely all about it.

My host family is incredibly hospitable. Pacita (my host mom) smiles a lot and makes jewelry (which we’ve bonded over). She told Fiorella, my roommate, and I that we would be like her daughters and has given us a lot of privileges in the house. Jesus (my host father) is also very kind. For the past two days, he’s walked us to where we need to go and Fiorella, our friend Ellen, and I all follow behind like ducklings.  Jesus (host brother), who Fiorella and I refer to as Jr. (and will henceforth be known as such), doesn’t seem to be home very much. We don’t know much about him, but Pacita assured us that he’s just shy at first.

Getting lost has been a common occurrence for everyone in the program and we’re all tired from walking by the end of the day. Today, Fiorella and I asked how to get to our street and just about every person stared at us, wide-eyed, and said “Es tan lejos!” (It’s very far!). At this point, we’re so used to walking in circles that it never really seems that “far.”

The other day I was walking down the street and a boy who was about 10 stopped in front of me and mirrored me when I moved. At first I thought he was just being a funny kid (which I guess he was for his tres amigos). But then he started saying thinks in English and Spanish like “fuck your mother” and “you and me.” I wasn’t really sure what to do there; it looks pretty bad to bully a ten-year-old, now doesn’t it? But eventually I made eye contact with a woman and she inquired about what was going on and after the boy said, “I’m telling her ‘fuck your mother’,” she just nonchalantly asked “why?” And that ended it.

My first day of intensive classes was today. They were, well, kind of intense. It will essentially be five hours straight each day of learning things about Spanish, but I know I’ll be pretty darn prepared for my classes at la Universidad de Sevilla.

Besos!

Love,

Natalie

Toledo

Hola.

We went to Toledo yesterday morning. Toledo sits on a hill and subsequently, is not only a maze of narrow, cobblestone streets, but also very steep. Our tour guide stopped in front of a building and said “this is 200 years old, that’s new for us.” Everything is, by American city standards, ancient. Quique (short for Enrique), one of our directors, told us that what people think of as “Toledo” is only a small part of the actual city. Our hotel sits in a newer section, outside the, as he refers to it, “theme park” that is traditional Toledo.

At 10 tonight we took a cab into the old part of town. We started with tapas in a few cafés and bars. My friend Julia and I asked for recommendations from the bartender and ended up with squid and venison. I can’t speak with any authority, but am starting to notice that food comes swimming in olive oil here.

On a whim, Julia, Fiorella and I decided to take a picture in front of a statue in a park and ended up being swarmed by a group of 20-something Spaniards, who had been drinking and swinging (for those whose imaginations will wander too far: swings, like the kind you push children on in a park). Enthusiastically, they offered a sampling of their drinks (wine, coke, and lemon) and even “the marijuana,” which we politely declined for obvious reasons. We did, however, chitchat about music and politics and collectively agreed that “alguien es mejor que Bush/anyone is better than Bush.” 

Later at a club called Piccaro, Julia and I talked to a couple from Madrid. People warned me before I came that Spaniards (Europeans in general, actually) would be standoffish and reserved at first, but they were vibrant and expressive. I talked mostly with the guy, who teaches sports to children and rocked a tongue ring/sweater combo. He was animated and pantomimed a lot of his words, partially to help me understand, but also partially because of a humorous and theatrical disposition. They were, all around, warm people, nonchalantly correcting our Spanish and immediately feeling comfortable enough to tease us. She gave us her email and phone number, informing us that her home in Madrid was open to us.

Today we travelled into Sevilla and met our host families, but I’ll save that until I’m better acquainted with them. All for now, chicos!

Love,
Natalie

P.S. Also had a great photo op at some windmills in La Mancha.

a bit quixotic

Here

Hola.

So, I’ve made it to Spain. I haven’t really slept since I woke up Tuesday morning at 9am, so I’m sure that this won’t be the most eloquent post I’ve ever written. I feel considerably better than expected, though I might just be lying to myself. 

I managed to navigate through the Heathrow and Madrid airports with relatively few snags, save, perhaps for Madrid airport’s pictographic signs, which, frankly, are not deciphered with ease when jet lagged. I managed to befriend several other study abroad students on my flights, and, for the most part, avoided befriending several strange, inappropriately friendly men (so, it’s begun).

I’d love to describe Madrid, where I am currently located, but will do it more justice after a good night of sleep. I will, however, let you know that I have never seen such well-attired dogs in my life. So far there’s been a variety of bows, ribbons, sweaters, and even a full denim jumpsuit. I was a bit taken aback to see a woman walking three small dogs donning bows and ensembles, each in their respective color. I must admit, there’s a distinct unnaturalness to coordinating your outfits with your dogs. Admittedly, I find most of these dogs’ dresses to be atrocious and usually unnecessary.

I hope to be more engaging next time I write. By that I mean, I hope to be more capable of thinking of the words I’m looking to use and recalling the descriptions I had intended to write.

All for now.

Love,

Natalie

Almost There

Hello.

Very little time left until I find myself running around Spain. I’m mostly packed now save for a few odds and ends and the pieces of clothing I’ll fling in at the last moment in a desperate attempt to over-prepare. My suitcase is approximately the same weight as a chubby 2^nd grader, though infinitely more unwieldy. (Scratch that, just weighed it, it’s the same weight as a really fat 2^nd grader, which British Airways doesn’t like, so I’m going to give in and check two bags).

I’m a wee bit nervous, but I know I’ll love it. Ever since I set foot in Seville in 11^th grade, I’ve wanted to study there (though, at the time, I didn’t think about taking classes in Spanish). It’s beautiful there. I hope I can adequately paint a picture for you. I’ll do my best to snap pictures, but I tend to forget about my camera in the moment; so, at times, you may have to be content with my words.

Well, this is it, darlings. Not too long from now, the world is going to seem just a bit smaller as I acquaint myself with somewhere new. Here’s to hoping you all have splendid adventures of your own and enjoy reading about mine.

Love,

Natalie