Generally Speaking

Generalizations aren’t a good idea. Either they’re wildly unfair due to specificity, or they are just as unquestionably banal as the previous sentence. However, you’ll notice that in the writing of this blog I have made quite a few generalizations myself thus far and for these I offer the following amends:

Sevillanos know how to party. To the nerds and squares of Sevilla, I apologize.

Sevillanos stroll. To all three of Seville’s residents who can power-walk, I apologize.

Sevillanos are candid. To those here who know how to hold a secret, I apologize.

As my only line of defense, I submit this generalization as a credo under which I write (complements of OSC):

Most people are decent in every country.

And knowing that, believing wholeheartedly that the people I generalize about—while flawed—are good-willed, frees me to make my observations.

Another Orson Scott Card quote states that “A man always assumes others are as virtuous as himself.” I know my own failings, and I am sure others have their own as well. But I also know that I (generally) mean quite well towards others.

I don’t wish anyone harm (excepting incompetent secretaries, bad teachers, and soccer opponents, all of whom deserved to be deep-fried in chocolate sauce gnawed on by toothless octogenarians), and it seems reasonable that most people at least, do not wish any harm on me.

Generally speaking, of course.

Religious Shenanigans

The Spanish know how to party.

Today, January 6^th, is technically the Day of Epiphany, but more popularly known as Three Kings Day in Spain. Here, where Catholicism has long become a mere piece of cultural window-dressing for the majority of citizens, the holiday is more accurately about having a good time (sort of the like America has done with Easter and the whole bunny thing).

In that spirit, the Spaniards have an enormous parade on their equivalent of Christmas Eve (January 5^th). Float after float drives by enormous crowds of Spaniards, many of whom hold umbrellas, upside-down, outstretched over their heads. They are the smart ones, the umbrella holders, because not only do they increase their capacity to catch candy, but they can also shelter themselves from the hail of goodies being hurled at them from well-wishers on the floats.

And they do throw them: none of this tossing nonsense.

At the end of it all, at least 50 minutes worth of parading—and we got there a little late—the streets were covered inch-deep in sticky sweets. The hems of my jeans clung stickily to the heels of my shoes as the once dauntless purple Keds squelched back across the bridge to Triana.

On the upside, I got to see not only my novio fresh from his flight from the states, but also such religious icons as Indiana Jones, Sponge Bob Square Pants, and the Simpson family. My favorite part, however, was the several brass bands playing along the way such tunes as “Under the Sea” and “Waving Flag”) and generally inspiring illogical happiness.

The Spanish do indeed know how to party.

On a side note, I swear I notice that the font is way too large for these posts. I'm working on it. I just haven't been able to figure out how to make it smaller without making it ridiculously small. My apologies.

Good Morning

Today is a watershed moment. Today is a day that will live not in infamy, but definitely somewhere like it. Today I have survived 22 years of life and I’m still going strong. How do I do it, you ask? Clean living? Most definitely. Keeping on my toes, moving fast, staying afloat? Well, I certainly try to be nimble, anyway.

The answer, however, is most probably God.

Not that I’ve been faced with hungry lions or bloodthirsty Philistine giants, or even trials and tribulations of many kinds. But despair can be a thirsty little lion sometimes, hatred can tower bloodthirstily over a person, and sometimes loneliness can be the most terrible trial of all.

I am, however, exceptionally well-equipped to deal with life’s little messes. Let me introduce you to my arsenal: my first weapon of defense is logic; my next is endurance; perhaps third is humor; fourth, maybe, is a talk with a good friend; and finally an entire array of diversions (laptop, ipod, books—not, you’ll note, a kindle—sports, games) at my disposal.

But then they fail me—daily, inexplicably, unquestionably, inevitably—they fail me, and the Lord sustains me. The Lord sustains me—daily, inexplicably, unquestionably, inevitably—he sustains me. I lay down and slept, Psalm 3 says, and the Lord sustained me.

And so, my voice you shall hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning I will direct it to you, and I will look up.

Transparency

I think the U.S. should get used to this idea: we are a nation of introverts compared to the Spanish. Seville bubbles with affability. She’s talkative and exuberant. She likes to dance and shop and stay out late with her friends. She bubbles with orange-trees and smolders with late-night lights.

She’s still demanding, though, U.S.; don’t think you’ve got the market covered on that score. But she’s demanding relaxation and she will not be denied. Relax, our host told us on our first morning when we woke up an hour late and were rushing around the house in order to get to school on time. Relax, he said, the late will always be late.” The he shrugged and helped himself to more jam.

I’ve never seen a city so transparent to outsiders before. Maybe because it’s not really during the tourist season she doesn’t feel the pressure to pander to camera-toting foreigners.

Or maybe she’s always like this. Maybe, for once, it isn’t the Truman show. For once there’s no mass cover-up scheme, designed to keep the travelers from seeing the full nature of the people they’re trying to visit.

So, thanks, Seville, for your gregariousness. You might yet make an extrovert out of me.

Saying Goodbye to Groundhog Days

Some days are the epitome of mundane, forcibly resembling Bill Murray’s hellish Groundhog Day. The movie sold well not because we were so happy to see Andie MacDowell finally change her mind about her obnoxious coworker, but because everyone has their own Groundhog Days. Mundane, boring, sameness, doldrums.

Today was not once such day.

Everything was fantastically different, from a delicious two-euro veritable tankard of tinto de verano to the plaza de España (google image search; it’s worth it) to my new roommates from Arland (otherwise known as “Ireland” but I only figured that out after I asked where exactly that was and received the politely puzzled answer, “Over, you know, next to England?”). Then it was—as my father likes to say—“nose to the grindstone” all day long on our first day of class. 

The golden city of Seville, however, has not noticed the sudden change of pace in my life.

Seville is a strolling city, after all: a strolling, sauntering, laughing city in which I went for a short walk tonight. As I strode through the streets, I couldn’t help wishing my own novio was around (and not just because I was extremely lost and he knows the city). Everywhere I looked, people were linked arm and arm or hand in hand or heads bent together in conversation. Mothers, daughters, brothers, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, all care-freely celebrating the holidays the way no American I’ve ever seen has done. 

It was even more captivating than the plaza de España. And I do believe that’s saying something.

An Awkward Foreign Accent

Because of two doomed years of Spanish back in high school, I remember how to say the following with extreme efficiency verging on fluency: gracias, de nada, and por favor.

Because my roommates back in GR think they’re funny, I recognize this phrase: necessito orinar.

And because I have watched Season 1 of Community, I know that hands are 90% of Spanish. (Gracias, Señor Chang.)

Unfortunately, even if I manage to speak a few words (as occurred when spanglishing my way through a conversation with my friendly taxi driver from the airport), they’re in a Mexican dialect, not a Spanish one. Once I’ve said anything, most of the people immediately begin to address me in English—preferring to stumble along in my language rather than hear me haplessly butcher theirs.

Julian (“Bean”) Delphiki, one of my favorite book characters of all time, is described once by Orson Scott Card as being fated to “always speak the language of the heart with an awkward foreign accent.” It’s an angsty line for me to identify with; but I always have, and not just because my fluency in Spanish is somewhat questionable.

Today I met Rosa, the housekeeper of Casa Alfareria 59. When I walked into the airy white building, lined with leafy plants and blue tile, she was all smiles and held her arms wide for a hug. Forget Spanish, hugs are where I really start to stutter. Back home, hugs are just one aspect of a girl language I never learned but could function without fluency. Here, they’re everywhere.

Yesterday, my Spanish education crash course commenced. Tomorrow, classes begin in how to teach English. And I guess today was my first tutorial in how to hug.

Liminal Figure

Traveling is timeless. Not only “from the dawn of time…” and all that, but more because you lose all sense of time while doing it. Maybe not so much on a long drive, but when dodge-duck-dip-dive-and-dodging your way airplane-style through Mountain Time and Central Time and Eastern Time and God Only Knows What Time, there is a distinct feeling of purgatory.


And despite the post-reformation era we live in, indulgence-sellers hawk their George Clooney GQs, neck pillows, and overpriced drink-wares at you, in order to help pave the way through these liminal lands of travel.

For me, it was a 21-hour day of wayfaring: Chesterton to Chicago by Prius; Chicago to Philadelphia by a fortunate early flight; Philadelphia to Madrid overnight; and—it was cheaper this way, I swear—an hour hop from Madrid to Seville. With all that bouncing around, all I needed was a caduceus and a pair of winged sandals and I would have been indistinguishable from Hermes (the Greek patron saint of travelers, as well as the classic liminal figure).

However, I am happy to bid my farewell to Hermes (particularly as he is also known as the protector of thieves and I'm staying in a hostel) and welcome my new home for the next month. Seville is an adorable cobblestone town, with inedible-orange groves along the cobblestone streets and tiendas haphazardly sunk into the larger buildings lining them. My hostel is tucked away down one such side-street and remains to be explored.

Perhaps after a nap, that is.