So... I had a crazy dream last night.... In fact... its really weird, so maybe you should stop now.... Here's the scene:
An old warehouse district of a city fainting resembling Deep Ellum, mostly resembling Adams Morgan but meticulously clean. Businessmen and women in suits come, following a real estate developer who is converting entire portions of the area into old lofts.
The district is quite ancient... resembling something from the post-Civil War industrial boom. Its known as the area where parents leave unwanted children... In fact, billboards advertise this fact: A giant baby against a pale green background with bubble letters (We'll take care of them).
Wandering the streets are countless transvestites... dressed in glitter, lime green face paint, and ragedy magic dresses. They look less like homeless transvestites and more like androgenous beings- holy almost. (I think I was subconciously blending the idea of Hijra's in India with the androgony of angels themselves)
I'm floating above this scene watching everything unfold...
The transvestites have lived there for generations... taking unwanted children and nurturing them... and now there home and the children's only hope was slowly being sucked away.... the real estate developer is slowly destroying their home...
the dream ended with teh billboards of the giant babies starting to come to life.... and as I opened my eyes... The first thing I thought of... is if that is where all the babies that die young go. Do they go to a strange district of heaven inhabited by androgenous beings... angels... transvestites....? More importantly.....
Is there real estate development in heaven?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
I'm blind.
The smog blows and my eyes water up into dust, I wonder why I’m here. The city teems with a competing beauty that tires me. I want so much for something unknowable to be.
I’ve found myself lately staying up late reading Origen or browsing through Gnostic theory. I wake up after dreams of other places and times. The back of my mind is never in the reality that I am in. It’s a strange adriftness, I’m so enwrapped in a dream here. It’s just a long still line that never stops.
Along university road, I saw a blind man - dark waves against fluttering lashes, round shoulders and a golden jaw. He saw right through me and for a moment I had a vision.
I kissed his lips, I painted his face on a canvas he would never see. I poured coffee into a never ending glass we shared, and drank from the cream jar straight. Our hands touched the sounds of the unknowable… A champagne covered sunrise filled everything with warm and bubbly loss. We drowned ourselves in all that was gourmet and left our walking canes at the door.
Then, I read his cards, and envisioned a future without us. Our lives parted over broken dishware and tainted evenings. Suddenly I was on a plane again running away to a new known – a place like every other place. Suddenly I was in an un-homely sanctuary. Suddenly, I was walking down the street again, passing a blind man I never knew, I never met... Back to the unreal reality and the daily footsteps of paced life.
I’ve found myself lately staying up late reading Origen or browsing through Gnostic theory. I wake up after dreams of other places and times. The back of my mind is never in the reality that I am in. It’s a strange adriftness, I’m so enwrapped in a dream here. It’s just a long still line that never stops.
Along university road, I saw a blind man - dark waves against fluttering lashes, round shoulders and a golden jaw. He saw right through me and for a moment I had a vision.
I kissed his lips, I painted his face on a canvas he would never see. I poured coffee into a never ending glass we shared, and drank from the cream jar straight. Our hands touched the sounds of the unknowable… A champagne covered sunrise filled everything with warm and bubbly loss. We drowned ourselves in all that was gourmet and left our walking canes at the door.
Then, I read his cards, and envisioned a future without us. Our lives parted over broken dishware and tainted evenings. Suddenly I was on a plane again running away to a new known – a place like every other place. Suddenly I was in an un-homely sanctuary. Suddenly, I was walking down the street again, passing a blind man I never knew, I never met... Back to the unreal reality and the daily footsteps of paced life.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Feline cities with refugee reflexes
*** Will add pictures of recent trip to Petra and Wadi Rum soon*** This blog explains why I don't blog as much in Jordan:
It is true that Amman is a city of refugees. Every soul has been swept by all encompassing change, and altered their existence. All beings in this place are searching for a home… Some, the Bedu and Gypsies, were driven from their wandering by the fierce economics of the “modern” state. Others are Palestinians or Iraqi’s broken by violence and fear. Some are Westerners, going to the East to find meaning. All, call Amman home, all call Amman their refuge and sanctuary. Truth, in this place, is a matter of memory and a contrasting matter of survival. Everyone is pulled by false Eastern traditions and impossible Western futures. And so memory balances with sanctuary. The future balances with survival.
In this city of limbo, only the cats truly survive. For the month that I have been here, I have yet to spy even one dog or rat. Like the refugee-citizens, the felines are clever and abandoned. Dirty but not savage, and completely alone, they are fighting to survive amiss the unforgiving cement of the city.
Here, all are scared by visions of a darkened past and a cloudy future. Its strange, because by the mere fact of being here, I feel myself swept into this multilayered system of being. I am stuck in a strange limbo sanctuary where the sweeping pattern of my existence lays broken in a knot. Its all unchanging and in conflict. I’m double-minded, unwilling to look for solutions and dwelling hapless on the problems.
This isn’t to say that I’m unhappy. I am stuck. I am stuck on unchanging happiness and unchanging problems. I’m stuck on a cloudy future and a false history. I’m stuck in a limestone city with so much to offer but few open doors. I’m stuck searching for a future under relentless blue skies that stay the same azure.
This weekend I went to the Wadi Rum – an ancient landscape, the Bedu call the face of the moon. It was beautiful, it was stunning, but completely empty, overwhelming unchanging. That’s where I am. A place of monotonous joy and colorless pain. Everything is the same and everything is beautiful.
It is true that Amman is a city of refugees. Every soul has been swept by all encompassing change, and altered their existence. All beings in this place are searching for a home… Some, the Bedu and Gypsies, were driven from their wandering by the fierce economics of the “modern” state. Others are Palestinians or Iraqi’s broken by violence and fear. Some are Westerners, going to the East to find meaning. All, call Amman home, all call Amman their refuge and sanctuary. Truth, in this place, is a matter of memory and a contrasting matter of survival. Everyone is pulled by false Eastern traditions and impossible Western futures. And so memory balances with sanctuary. The future balances with survival.
In this city of limbo, only the cats truly survive. For the month that I have been here, I have yet to spy even one dog or rat. Like the refugee-citizens, the felines are clever and abandoned. Dirty but not savage, and completely alone, they are fighting to survive amiss the unforgiving cement of the city.
Here, all are scared by visions of a darkened past and a cloudy future. Its strange, because by the mere fact of being here, I feel myself swept into this multilayered system of being. I am stuck in a strange limbo sanctuary where the sweeping pattern of my existence lays broken in a knot. Its all unchanging and in conflict. I’m double-minded, unwilling to look for solutions and dwelling hapless on the problems.
This isn’t to say that I’m unhappy. I am stuck. I am stuck on unchanging happiness and unchanging problems. I’m stuck on a cloudy future and a false history. I’m stuck in a limestone city with so much to offer but few open doors. I’m stuck searching for a future under relentless blue skies that stay the same azure.
This weekend I went to the Wadi Rum – an ancient landscape, the Bedu call the face of the moon. It was beautiful, it was stunning, but completely empty, overwhelming unchanging. That’s where I am. A place of monotonous joy and colorless pain. Everything is the same and everything is beautiful.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Two weeks and it's hit me.
We sat there that night in that café up on the hill... Eyes glassy over the shisha smoke, throwing stories into each other’s mouths. We were filled to the brim with explosive possibilities of brilliant conversation and dreams of expatriation. Studying abroad is like that… exploring who you are as you invent yourself for a new set of friends.
I have to say, Amman has become a strange hallucination for me… I find myself retreating to expat hang outs much more than I ever did in Spain… Everything is so brilliant and new and englightening but… simultaneously not knowing the local dialect makes things impossibly frustrating and overwhelming. To top it off, I’m not in a walking city. I’m bound by psychological blocks against dirt cheap taxi cab fares and minimal distance.
The physical appearance of the city is everything I hate: post-world war two industrial mayhem in an white and dusty boxy urban sprawl of interlaced car driven suburbia. The culture is something completely comprehensible. As much as I may appear to be 100% American, my father’s side is arab and I understand a fair amount of the culture backdrop. The difference is… I empathize with arab culture rather than fall into it. Certain traits in me I see reflected in this place but others are complete opposites…
So amist this internal backdrop, I will return with my new friends over shisha or mint tea and we will contemplate the next few months. Contemplate our news lives. Discover our surroundings until our new lives become our old lives. And our surroundings disappear as we venture off to where our lifelines may take us.
I have to say, Amman has become a strange hallucination for me… I find myself retreating to expat hang outs much more than I ever did in Spain… Everything is so brilliant and new and englightening but… simultaneously not knowing the local dialect makes things impossibly frustrating and overwhelming. To top it off, I’m not in a walking city. I’m bound by psychological blocks against dirt cheap taxi cab fares and minimal distance.
The physical appearance of the city is everything I hate: post-world war two industrial mayhem in an white and dusty boxy urban sprawl of interlaced car driven suburbia. The culture is something completely comprehensible. As much as I may appear to be 100% American, my father’s side is arab and I understand a fair amount of the culture backdrop. The difference is… I empathize with arab culture rather than fall into it. Certain traits in me I see reflected in this place but others are complete opposites…
So amist this internal backdrop, I will return with my new friends over shisha or mint tea and we will contemplate the next few months. Contemplate our news lives. Discover our surroundings until our new lives become our old lives. And our surroundings disappear as we venture off to where our lifelines may take us.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Vintage suburbia in West Amman
I know I haven’t updated as much or often as I did in Spain… However, perhaps that is a good thing. I could tell you of the ruined villas and secret hideaways of Jebel Amman or I could relate the eccentricities of my cousins. Though both these topics have elicited some degree of interest to me, the revolving allure of Amman occurs indoors.
Gardens is the improperly named dusty district where my friends are housed. From the outside it looked no different than the tiny boxy villa rowhouses, however the inside proved to be a complete break from 21st century realities. The walls were plastered with 60s stylized amber wall paper, as artfully spotless vintage couches dotted every room. The lighting was that dim honey that commonly cloaks antique Polaroids. They sent me on a tour of avocado coloured bathrooms and James Bond stylized beds equipped with built an antique radio…
The bubble of lost time extended itself not only to the interior design but also the very actions of the inhabitants. Coffee was served out of a French press, as everyone ate cookies and talked of how our respective families were doing. A girl was knitting in the corner as 50s stylized French pop drifted from hidden speakers. We found ourselves sucked into the past, and I felt oddly right at home.
Gardens is the improperly named dusty district where my friends are housed. From the outside it looked no different than the tiny boxy villa rowhouses, however the inside proved to be a complete break from 21st century realities. The walls were plastered with 60s stylized amber wall paper, as artfully spotless vintage couches dotted every room. The lighting was that dim honey that commonly cloaks antique Polaroids. They sent me on a tour of avocado coloured bathrooms and James Bond stylized beds equipped with built an antique radio…
The bubble of lost time extended itself not only to the interior design but also the very actions of the inhabitants. Coffee was served out of a French press, as everyone ate cookies and talked of how our respective families were doing. A girl was knitting in the corner as 50s stylized French pop drifted from hidden speakers. We found ourselves sucked into the past, and I felt oddly right at home.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Week one
So much has happened, its truly impossible to recapture it. I decided pictures would do it best. For those of you that don't know, I got terribly ill and had to go to the hospital. I was well within 24 hours but hte medicine has made me absurdly thirsty and ADD. Therefore, I'm not going to write much expect explanation for the pictures.
One is my bedroom.
Some are just general pictures of Amman.
One is a photo inside of a cafe I will likely frequent a lot.
And the rest... seem explanatory.
cool.
*****UPDATE PICTURES WON"T LOAD****
One is my bedroom.
Some are just general pictures of Amman.
One is a photo inside of a cafe I will likely frequent a lot.
And the rest... seem explanatory.
cool.
*****UPDATE PICTURES WON"T LOAD****
Week one
So much has happened, its truly impossible to recapture it. I decided pictures would do it best. For those of you that don't know, I got terribly ill and had to go to the hospital. I was well within 24 hours but hte medicine has made me absurdly thirsty and ADD. Therefore, I'm not going to write much expect explanation for the pictures.
One is my bedroom.
Some are just general pictures of Amman.
One is a photo inside of a cafe I will likely frequent a lot.
And the rest... seem explanatory.
cool.
One is my bedroom.
Some are just general pictures of Amman.
One is a photo inside of a cafe I will likely frequent a lot.
And the rest... seem explanatory.
cool.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Home again, home again?
September 1, 2007
Against a steep incline on a hill overlooking the Jordan University lays a boxy concrete villa surrounded by olive trees, grape terraces, and fig. My initial impression of dread and nervousness cloaked all beauty in a hazy rumble of my stomach. My given description of the family was only somewhat accurate:
Name Birth Sex Speaks English Occupation
Issa 1937 Male Yes Retired
Nawal 1947 Female Little Housewife
Carol 1977 Female Yes UN officer
Sylvie --- Female No Maid/housekeeper
Religion: Roman Catholic
Family name: Alam-Salman
Equipped with this meager knowledge I was expecting to be greeted by an elderly slow moving small household…. However, when I arrived the building was bursting with persons. The 5 children of Issa and Nawal lived within mere blocks… one even lives on the bottom floor of the villa. All have kids, all the cousins live close enough to visit every few weeks, and so I found myself with a typical Arab family – loud, noisy and full of love.
My first day was rather dull, but my second was disastrously dramatic. I awoke that morning to a cup of Turkish coffee. Moments later my stomach rumbled. Minutes after that, I excused myself to lie down. Within an hour I had Montezuma’s revenge, could not hold down any food without throwing up, and was dizzy with a 102-degree fever.
They called my coordinator and rushed me to the hospital. They diagnosed me with the vague but accurate “tourist bug” and stabbed my arm into an IV. For the past day and a half I have been battling that. Heavy drugs make me sleepy and yet I feel only nominally better… The fever has passed, as had the vom.
Tonight I’m to meet my cousins. Their relation to me is somewhat distant. They are my father’s first cousins children and family. I hope everything will work out and I desperately hope I will not feel sick when they come to pick me up.
Hope everything is well with everyone!! I have Internet from Sunday to Thursday sporadically. Feel free to send e-mails and such. If you begin the thread, I’ll respond. Much love.
Against a steep incline on a hill overlooking the Jordan University lays a boxy concrete villa surrounded by olive trees, grape terraces, and fig. My initial impression of dread and nervousness cloaked all beauty in a hazy rumble of my stomach. My given description of the family was only somewhat accurate:
Name Birth Sex Speaks English Occupation
Issa 1937 Male Yes Retired
Nawal 1947 Female Little Housewife
Carol 1977 Female Yes UN officer
Sylvie --- Female No Maid/housekeeper
Religion: Roman Catholic
Family name: Alam-Salman
Equipped with this meager knowledge I was expecting to be greeted by an elderly slow moving small household…. However, when I arrived the building was bursting with persons. The 5 children of Issa and Nawal lived within mere blocks… one even lives on the bottom floor of the villa. All have kids, all the cousins live close enough to visit every few weeks, and so I found myself with a typical Arab family – loud, noisy and full of love.
My first day was rather dull, but my second was disastrously dramatic. I awoke that morning to a cup of Turkish coffee. Moments later my stomach rumbled. Minutes after that, I excused myself to lie down. Within an hour I had Montezuma’s revenge, could not hold down any food without throwing up, and was dizzy with a 102-degree fever.
They called my coordinator and rushed me to the hospital. They diagnosed me with the vague but accurate “tourist bug” and stabbed my arm into an IV. For the past day and a half I have been battling that. Heavy drugs make me sleepy and yet I feel only nominally better… The fever has passed, as had the vom.
Tonight I’m to meet my cousins. Their relation to me is somewhat distant. They are my father’s first cousins children and family. I hope everything will work out and I desperately hope I will not feel sick when they come to pick me up.
Hope everything is well with everyone!! I have Internet from Sunday to Thursday sporadically. Feel free to send e-mails and such. If you begin the thread, I’ll respond. Much love.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Pictures from Amman
* The language center is basically where all my classes are and where my educational life will be centered around when I'm there.
* The weird statue is the oldest human statue in the world. There was otherones that looked the same but had these creepy wide eyed faces but... I forgot to photo them.
* The rest of the pictures are of the old citadel of the city, pretty much everything from Roman ruins to Ummayyad ruins
Enjoy.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Little Boxes
My first impression about Amman came hours after I had arrived… The plane landed, I was rushed to the hotel, I made a few fool-hearty hellos then I slept. At 5:30 am, I awoke – eyes wide open – to a reverberating spiraling voice beckoning the faithful of the city to prayer. All was still… the sun had just dawned leaving a blue cast to the…. Boxes.
Amman, Jordan is a city of little boxes tossed up on 7 hills and convoluted to fit the ideological mold of a “modern city”. Individually, these boxy buildings are nothing but slabs of grey concrete with perfect rectangular eyeholes… Little more ingenious or beauty than a concrete parking garage.
However, in the early morning or with a carefully achieved viewpoint, Amman morphs. The thousand and one holed buildings become honeycombed in shape… The dusty monotony of the concrete becomes a clear grey calm against the blue sky. The call to prayer beckons the soul to tranquility and you submit.
My first day in Amman has been just that… submission. A calm acceptance to the drudgery of jet lag and the pace of orientation. We saw sites, we ate food, and we go to know one another. All very routine and predictable in a way… the city itself breathed calm and I submitted.
Even the unexpected news of my home stay assignment with a family brought little surprise. Maybe this will be how all my time is here? Calm and relaxing learning. Peace in the face of surprise. Gentle submission to the greater powers above.
Pictures are to come, as soon as I unpack my bag (next few days)
Amman, Jordan is a city of little boxes tossed up on 7 hills and convoluted to fit the ideological mold of a “modern city”. Individually, these boxy buildings are nothing but slabs of grey concrete with perfect rectangular eyeholes… Little more ingenious or beauty than a concrete parking garage.
However, in the early morning or with a carefully achieved viewpoint, Amman morphs. The thousand and one holed buildings become honeycombed in shape… The dusty monotony of the concrete becomes a clear grey calm against the blue sky. The call to prayer beckons the soul to tranquility and you submit.
My first day in Amman has been just that… submission. A calm acceptance to the drudgery of jet lag and the pace of orientation. We saw sites, we ate food, and we go to know one another. All very routine and predictable in a way… the city itself breathed calm and I submitted.
Even the unexpected news of my home stay assignment with a family brought little surprise. Maybe this will be how all my time is here? Calm and relaxing learning. Peace in the face of surprise. Gentle submission to the greater powers above.
Pictures are to come, as soon as I unpack my bag (next few days)
Friday, August 3, 2007
Endgame Spain
Monday, June 30, 2007
I have been of two minds lately. Half avoiding, half anxiously longing to update for days…. Days? No, it’s been weeks! It’s been weeks since I have last written. I suppose first there was Morocco, a sad-glorious whirlwind of leather tanneries and impossibly crowded souks. There was the serenely passive second journey to Granada. Which ended with the arrival of my Parents. Then, a farewell party. Then the trip across Andalucia, Extremadura, and Portugal... All the different beds, lifestyles, and emotions scrambling together. A fevered rush I’ve had… never having a moment to break… or, maybe having a small moment but only a moment long enough to nap and plan what to write. To dream for only a moment, then begin life again.
And here I am now… outside beside the pool of the last parador of our tour… It’s an ancient Renaissance-Mudejar monastery, set within a picturesque and remote Portuguese town by the name of Evora… so many towns, so many crazy hotels for so many days. My father is one of those characters who adores researching… At his job, he researches population statistics, budgets, and government grants. In his spare time – when not sleeping at odd moments of the day – he obsessively pours over travel magazines… Furthermore, he NEVER disposes of these travel guides. Conte Naste, Geographic Traveler, amongst others pile on already crowded shelves and seems to sit and rot for years. Then suddenly, after many many months of thought, he finally chooses a locale. Then the pouring over the magazines begins again. In time, he tends to create truly spectacular trips… And this one has been no exception.
However, as our trip concludes, I am truly relieved to be going home. I adore my dad’s silly French-Canadian-Arab cousin Patty, and likewise my mother and father are excellent company. Again, Spain and Portugal has been more than incredible. However, the contrast between my life in Sevilla and my two weeks of traveling with my family felt like going between fire and ice. I went from daily outings to bars and clubs. Constant reckless youthful nights went to two weeks with less than a conversation with someone under the age of 55.
It’s been fun but now, I am much too ready to be home. Looking as to how unreliable internet access is, and how little time I have when road-tripping. I think this will be my last entry in Spain. I'll write in a months time in Jordan. Much love.
I have been of two minds lately. Half avoiding, half anxiously longing to update for days…. Days? No, it’s been weeks! It’s been weeks since I have last written. I suppose first there was Morocco, a sad-glorious whirlwind of leather tanneries and impossibly crowded souks. There was the serenely passive second journey to Granada. Which ended with the arrival of my Parents. Then, a farewell party. Then the trip across Andalucia, Extremadura, and Portugal... All the different beds, lifestyles, and emotions scrambling together. A fevered rush I’ve had… never having a moment to break… or, maybe having a small moment but only a moment long enough to nap and plan what to write. To dream for only a moment, then begin life again.
And here I am now… outside beside the pool of the last parador of our tour… It’s an ancient Renaissance-Mudejar monastery, set within a picturesque and remote Portuguese town by the name of Evora… so many towns, so many crazy hotels for so many days. My father is one of those characters who adores researching… At his job, he researches population statistics, budgets, and government grants. In his spare time – when not sleeping at odd moments of the day – he obsessively pours over travel magazines… Furthermore, he NEVER disposes of these travel guides. Conte Naste, Geographic Traveler, amongst others pile on already crowded shelves and seems to sit and rot for years. Then suddenly, after many many months of thought, he finally chooses a locale. Then the pouring over the magazines begins again. In time, he tends to create truly spectacular trips… And this one has been no exception.
However, as our trip concludes, I am truly relieved to be going home. I adore my dad’s silly French-Canadian-Arab cousin Patty, and likewise my mother and father are excellent company. Again, Spain and Portugal has been more than incredible. However, the contrast between my life in Sevilla and my two weeks of traveling with my family felt like going between fire and ice. I went from daily outings to bars and clubs. Constant reckless youthful nights went to two weeks with less than a conversation with someone under the age of 55.
It’s been fun but now, I am much too ready to be home. Looking as to how unreliable internet access is, and how little time I have when road-tripping. I think this will be my last entry in Spain. I'll write in a months time in Jordan. Much love.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Wipe away those tears....
Monday July 9, 2007
I suppose I am still recapturing the last few days… So let’s begin where we left off… the end of Alemeda… The whole situation had left me with unprecedented depression. It was like seeing a friend die without ever appreciating their presence…without ever saying goodbye. With my heart heavy, I decided to take a weekend trip away from Sevilla… to forget the ills of the city and discover a degree of peace. … When the program offered a free trip to the rural province of Extremadura, I took it…
Extremadura… how to describe such a place? It was very rural… thus the people were exceedingly friendly… The towns were perfectly preserved medieval villages and castles surrounded by sleepy eighteenth century constructions… There was no nightlife or partying in the streets… All was quiet tranquility, a soothing massage to the wound wrought by Alemeda’s demise.
Indeed, there truly isn’t much to say. I could spout out historical facts about the place…. point to conquistador houses, babble about Roman amphitheatres, and describe Moorish castles… However, I feel all that wasn’t really the importance of the place. It was walking through the narrow medieval streets in the evening twilight. It was taking long naps in the afternoon, and having delicious cookies from a local bakery. The sights on the trip were beautiful, but it wasn’t the sights that made the trip so great for me… It was that cool relief that the countryside brings. It was a mourning period, where thoughts were collected and sorrows pardoned. It was a trip to a sleepy province that took you in with open arms.
I’m still not over what has happened to my beloved Alemeda, but I feel as if I can now at least move on. I doubt with my limited time left I’ll discover a place I love as much in Sevilla, but at least I have my memories of place. So many people on the trip were just on the brink of discovering this hidden pocket and never were able. I can at least be thankful for that.
Enjoy the pictures in lieu of descriptions.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Manana no existe
Sunday July 8, 2007
I have not been keeping up with my entries… I suppose I’m starting to become jaded with this place, so completely at home that I have ceased to see it with child-like eyes. Then again, this week… by waiting… I have a story to tell that would not have been a story if I had taken everything day by day.
It began at the Clam – the modern, sleek teahouse-bar in Alemeda de Hercules. The day was sweltering beauty with a cup of tea serving as the perfect relief. The day, spoke of newness of creativity. The day of hinted of beginnings. We never had been so wrong.
At the Clam, we happened to chance upon acquaintances we had met in Alemeda a few nights before. They kissed us on each cheek, as is the custom in Sevilla, and we made small talk and promises to reunite in Alemeda once more. In and out, we half spied all the Alemeda regulars that we had grown to love, though we were so consumed in our own affairs we failed to notice.
We asked for our check around eight o’clock. Our waitress was one of our favorites… a thirty something year old hipster inclined to give sparkling smiles and speedy service. “Billete” we said.
She stopped and gazed briefly into each of our eyes. Her response was something so unexpected, our language skills completely fell apart.
“Manana no existe”, she said. Her eyes tranquil and sad. Was the store closing? What of our bill? What exactly did she just say?
Noticing our confusion, she broke into melodic English – “There is no tomorrow, no yesterday, just the moment.”
She walked away… our tea was free for the day but something had definitely changed.
On the way home, we went over all the theories possible, and settled on the dark fact that she likely was quitting… The Clam had changed dramatically since we had first frequented it. All our beloved waiters had been disappearing… we blamed long vacations and illness… They were gone for now but soon to return … Whatever our notions, the word “quit” had gone completely unuttered for weeks… Her dramatic farewell had changed our minds.
Manana no existe… Manana no exite... It drifted in and out of our mind throughout the rather uneventful next few days…
By Friday, it was time for Aterciopelados, a favorite Columbian rock band that was to perform in Sevilla. I got my hair cut… quite short. I robed myself in brand new clothes I had bought in Spain. I wanted this night to be a change, a break from the past and a new future. I was right, in the worst of ways.
We paid the bargain price of 5 euros, and made our way to the Festival of Culture - the site of the concert… Eating kebabs and curried chicken we sat along the Guadivilir river, dreaming of Morocco to come, excited for the concert at the moment, and nervous about the Clam…
The concert, was beautiful… all sadness had been thrown out of us. The lead singer told stories of her child, of war in Columbia, and of love. We swayed desparetly clinging to the spiraling melodies. All the tents at the outdoor festival were glowing like lanterns, and the river breathed a chilly sigh that competed with the summer heat… It was undoubtedly one of the greatest concerts I had been to in some time…
We planned to botellin in Alemeda afterwords… Botellin… I expect you do not know the term… Its drinking in the streets… a Sevillan custom for generations… only within the last few years had it been limitied… Alemeda was one of a handful of places where botellin was legal.
We raced to our home away from home, to the sparkling roman columns, and sleek exciting bars… It was time to drink in the streets, to reunite with old friends, to kiss the ground where hippies met college students met professionals met intellectuals. We went to Alemeda de Hercules but it wasn’t the Alemeda we had always known. Police lined the streets…. People were forelornely scurrying about with unopened bottles of rum and sacks of ice… There was an aura of fear and extreme sadness.
The city had rushed a vote to outlaw bottlellin… in effecting killing the Alemeda we had always known.
Tears come to eyes to write this… I have only been here for two months, but Alemeda was everything I loved in Sevilla… everying.
Manana no existe… Manana no existe.. Her words finally made sense… Tommarrow, Alemeda wasn’t to exist. The Clam and its comforting staff were fleeing. The hippies who used to juggle fire were no more. The bars lost their luster without the hundreds contently milling in the street. My home, had been burnt to the ground.
* * * * * * *
I had craved for something new… the concert, my haircut, the atmosphere of the festival, all hinted at new beginnings, but with all beginnings something must come to a close…Why must we destroy the past in the name of progress? Why must Alemeda die for something new to begin…
I honestly feel like its my time to leave Sevilla now… I’m only going to be in the city for eight more days… I’m spending four days in Morrocco and two days in Granada to total two weeks left on my program… And then my parents, my cousin, and I are to travel across Andalusia and Portugal for a week and a half… Life is a pattern. A tapestry. It took me about eight days to find Alemeda… and eight days before I leave Sevilla… Alemeda has left me…
“In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.” –Angels in America, Tony Kushner
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
This makes Putumayo look bad.
July 4, 2007
Sunday…
Sunday…. My memory is dim, but I will relate the best of what I can piece together… I went to Cordoba… a city of horseshoe arches and flowering patios…. Its all a blur though, no concrete chronology is in my mind.. I suppose I’ll write more of Cordoba when I visit again with my parents… the few hours I was there were too quick and too much to exactly reinstate here. I suppose what I am more interested in is African tribal dancing… something similar to an African putumayo concert I went to last semester….
My friend and I were taking a quiet night… We ordered a glass of vino tinto and lounged outside a bodega watching people walk by... However, our tranquil break was broken somewhere between midnight and twelve. A band of African drummers and dancers dressed in a rich tapestry of West African prints appeared, lumbering past us towards the busiest area of the plaza.
The tribe pitched camp, sat crossed legged, and began to drum. Louder and louder, singing as they propelled their arms downwards. Boom boom be-boom. The entire plaza filled with the rhythm of the sub-Sahara, and soon an enormous crowd encircled them…
After a while, we could stay still and felt compelled to see what was going on. We downed our wine and abandoned the bodega, and decided to take part in the commotion. A man was dancing, crouched over with his arms and hands tightly bound by a rope. He danced within the circle chanting softly in some unknown tongue. Nearby, the beat of the drums continued… Anxiously we waited… then from some odd corner of the crowd emerged a lanky fierce looking man with tangled hair and a piece of cloth.
He walked up to the bound man, and covered him with the cloth. The beat of the drums and singing continued… the wild haired man worked to its beat. The cloth began to raise, at first it just seemed as if the bound man was standing up, but soon the cloth was raising much higher than the man… 6 feet… 7 feet… 8 feet? It was absolutely absurd. Children were crying, people gasping. Magic. The chanting of the wild haired man, the incantations of the magician, abruptly stopped, and the sound of the drums slowed… The cloth feel inches from the ground… The magician pulled out the cloth and there stood the man with the ropes completely untangled, amist a roaring crowd.
I felt like I was in a street fair in the middle ages… It was as if I was witnessing some spontaneous traveling circus of sorts…
The next trick involved a man in a gruesome African mask. There was a brief pause from the magician trick and a man robed in palm leaves, hay, and an enormous and frightening mask waltzed into the center of the circle. His dance was crazy and exciting… A blend of hula, belly dancing, and the jumping of the Maasai people in Sudan. It seemed he was the western equivalent of a jester. He juggled for a bit, but people seemed moderately bored. So, he grabbed to bystanders from the crowd and ordered them to hold a rope out tautly in a horizontal manner. The drums and singing still persisting, he would race towards the rope acting as if he would jump and then stop abruptly. The drums would settle. And he would move it a few inches higher. He repeatedly did this until he would have had to been an Olympic athlete to have leaped over. We all prepared for some sad demise to the frightening harlequin.
He raced back, launched himself forward… then… lifted the rope above his head and snuck under. The crowd rippled with laughter at the trick. By this moment, the spectacle started to die down… It seems they were to continue later but the group was worn out.
We were worn out as well, and against my better judgement, I left to go to my home and prepare for a long next day.
Sunday…
Sunday…. My memory is dim, but I will relate the best of what I can piece together… I went to Cordoba… a city of horseshoe arches and flowering patios…. Its all a blur though, no concrete chronology is in my mind.. I suppose I’ll write more of Cordoba when I visit again with my parents… the few hours I was there were too quick and too much to exactly reinstate here. I suppose what I am more interested in is African tribal dancing… something similar to an African putumayo concert I went to last semester….
My friend and I were taking a quiet night… We ordered a glass of vino tinto and lounged outside a bodega watching people walk by... However, our tranquil break was broken somewhere between midnight and twelve. A band of African drummers and dancers dressed in a rich tapestry of West African prints appeared, lumbering past us towards the busiest area of the plaza.
The tribe pitched camp, sat crossed legged, and began to drum. Louder and louder, singing as they propelled their arms downwards. Boom boom be-boom. The entire plaza filled with the rhythm of the sub-Sahara, and soon an enormous crowd encircled them…
After a while, we could stay still and felt compelled to see what was going on. We downed our wine and abandoned the bodega, and decided to take part in the commotion. A man was dancing, crouched over with his arms and hands tightly bound by a rope. He danced within the circle chanting softly in some unknown tongue. Nearby, the beat of the drums continued… Anxiously we waited… then from some odd corner of the crowd emerged a lanky fierce looking man with tangled hair and a piece of cloth.
He walked up to the bound man, and covered him with the cloth. The beat of the drums and singing continued… the wild haired man worked to its beat. The cloth began to raise, at first it just seemed as if the bound man was standing up, but soon the cloth was raising much higher than the man… 6 feet… 7 feet… 8 feet? It was absolutely absurd. Children were crying, people gasping. Magic. The chanting of the wild haired man, the incantations of the magician, abruptly stopped, and the sound of the drums slowed… The cloth feel inches from the ground… The magician pulled out the cloth and there stood the man with the ropes completely untangled, amist a roaring crowd.
I felt like I was in a street fair in the middle ages… It was as if I was witnessing some spontaneous traveling circus of sorts…
The next trick involved a man in a gruesome African mask. There was a brief pause from the magician trick and a man robed in palm leaves, hay, and an enormous and frightening mask waltzed into the center of the circle. His dance was crazy and exciting… A blend of hula, belly dancing, and the jumping of the Maasai people in Sudan. It seemed he was the western equivalent of a jester. He juggled for a bit, but people seemed moderately bored. So, he grabbed to bystanders from the crowd and ordered them to hold a rope out tautly in a horizontal manner. The drums and singing still persisting, he would race towards the rope acting as if he would jump and then stop abruptly. The drums would settle. And he would move it a few inches higher. He repeatedly did this until he would have had to been an Olympic athlete to have leaped over. We all prepared for some sad demise to the frightening harlequin.
He raced back, launched himself forward… then… lifted the rope above his head and snuck under. The crowd rippled with laughter at the trick. By this moment, the spectacle started to die down… It seems they were to continue later but the group was worn out.
We were worn out as well, and against my better judgement, I left to go to my home and prepare for a long next day.
The all night botillin
July 2, 2007
Let’s begin with an image of my immediate scenery. A half-eaten packet of fiber rich soy yogurt and homogenized milk lie upon my desk amidst piles of books and old receipts. The Saltio tile floors are littered with coins and socks and a residue of stickiness from the excessive heat of the day. And, I? I am lounging in my chair, cross legged in new pair of linen pants and a familiar sky blue shirt labeled “BALLROOM, Marfa”, struggling to piece together all the things I have failed to write of.
The party on Friday and its exhilarating aftermath is probably where I should begin… Memory is a strange beast though, and even if it has only been three days, it seems ages ago. Nonetheless, I suppose I shall dig into the recesses of my recollections and retrieve some semblance of past events. The party at the Palacio was not as grand as the first, however, it was still open-bar bliss. I dressed in a brilliantly red striped shirt, I had worn ages ago at a cultural festival at Grapevine High School. I drank only red wine… that is, until it ran out and was forced to move to white. My intercambio failed to show citing an old friend who had been traveling abroad as an excuse. I was disappointed however, perhaps it for the best, considering the later surprises in the night.
We went to “botillin”, a colloquial term in Sevilla for drinking in the street. We had bottles of rum and vodkha and met with a gigantic group of Spaniards. There was Sergio, a former orientation guide who transformed to be our closest Spanish friend. There was Victoria, with her long curly hair and good music tastes. We sipped vodka and tonics with pierced lipped strangers and blue eyed emo boys. We toasted a birthday and our last three weeks in Spain.
By three o’clock, all secrets were revealed. We were amist artists and film students, gays and straights, beautiful crazies who thirsted for life and love. I felt right at home. The party shifted at 4 am from the deserted streets of Alemeda to the riverfront club of Priscilla’s. In Sevilla, where rain is a myth and the heat is legendary, for every party on the streets there is a mirror image along the banks of the river. The club was made for boys who like boys who like girls who like boys. A splendorous androgony of sexuality, that at it’s worst led to lonely views of the twinkling neighborhoods across the river. At it’s best, there was red bull induced dancing that lasted till dawn and beyond. We left around 7:30 am, utterly exausted but still leaving others behind who would surely dance until the club closed at 9:30 am… My head kissed the pillows that night and I was to some degree intoxicated till 4 pm the next day… Despite the excess, there was no hangover the next day. All I was left with was a thankfulness for life and the spontaneity it can bring.
Let’s begin with an image of my immediate scenery. A half-eaten packet of fiber rich soy yogurt and homogenized milk lie upon my desk amidst piles of books and old receipts. The Saltio tile floors are littered with coins and socks and a residue of stickiness from the excessive heat of the day. And, I? I am lounging in my chair, cross legged in new pair of linen pants and a familiar sky blue shirt labeled “BALLROOM, Marfa”, struggling to piece together all the things I have failed to write of.
The party on Friday and its exhilarating aftermath is probably where I should begin… Memory is a strange beast though, and even if it has only been three days, it seems ages ago. Nonetheless, I suppose I shall dig into the recesses of my recollections and retrieve some semblance of past events. The party at the Palacio was not as grand as the first, however, it was still open-bar bliss. I dressed in a brilliantly red striped shirt, I had worn ages ago at a cultural festival at Grapevine High School. I drank only red wine… that is, until it ran out and was forced to move to white. My intercambio failed to show citing an old friend who had been traveling abroad as an excuse. I was disappointed however, perhaps it for the best, considering the later surprises in the night.
We went to “botillin”, a colloquial term in Sevilla for drinking in the street. We had bottles of rum and vodkha and met with a gigantic group of Spaniards. There was Sergio, a former orientation guide who transformed to be our closest Spanish friend. There was Victoria, with her long curly hair and good music tastes. We sipped vodka and tonics with pierced lipped strangers and blue eyed emo boys. We toasted a birthday and our last three weeks in Spain.
By three o’clock, all secrets were revealed. We were amist artists and film students, gays and straights, beautiful crazies who thirsted for life and love. I felt right at home. The party shifted at 4 am from the deserted streets of Alemeda to the riverfront club of Priscilla’s. In Sevilla, where rain is a myth and the heat is legendary, for every party on the streets there is a mirror image along the banks of the river. The club was made for boys who like boys who like girls who like boys. A splendorous androgony of sexuality, that at it’s worst led to lonely views of the twinkling neighborhoods across the river. At it’s best, there was red bull induced dancing that lasted till dawn and beyond. We left around 7:30 am, utterly exausted but still leaving others behind who would surely dance until the club closed at 9:30 am… My head kissed the pillows that night and I was to some degree intoxicated till 4 pm the next day… Despite the excess, there was no hangover the next day. All I was left with was a thankfulness for life and the spontaneity it can bring.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Sixweeks
Things are moving in pretsel shaped complexity now. My time is nearing six weeks and it has recently come to my attention that someone of my distant past might be in the very city I’m residing in. This is not a someone that I know but, a someone of a past that never got to know. It’s a situation that never came into being - an ill-fated forcibly forgotten high school crush.
Those of you who know of my object of adolescent infatuation, should know by now who it is. Furthermore, I’m going to clarify my desire for this person is currently nil. Desire was sapped out between my final year of high school and my initial few months of college. But, in any case, it adds a layer of coloring to Sevilla that I had not expected, and now I’m going to be on look out. Just the other day, before I had learned of this news, I almost thought I saw this someone but, I figured my mind was playing tricks on me. I have been advised to contact via facebook this person, but I keep drifting back and forth on the idea… We will wait and see.
Tonight is the party at the Palacio. The entire ancient courtyard will be done up, everyone will be neatly dressed, and I plan to have the best time I’ve had in weeks. The plan is to freely drink the fruits of the open bar, then make our way to Alemeda de Hercules to drink in the streets and gaze at the stars.
I have high hopes for tonight. It’s a promising hour. Its nearing the high tide of summer where all manner of possibilities lies before you. My intercambio is going to be attendance. We’re meeting a group of Spainyard acquaintances for drinks. I plan to make the very most of the night. Wish me luck.
Those of you who know of my object of adolescent infatuation, should know by now who it is. Furthermore, I’m going to clarify my desire for this person is currently nil. Desire was sapped out between my final year of high school and my initial few months of college. But, in any case, it adds a layer of coloring to Sevilla that I had not expected, and now I’m going to be on look out. Just the other day, before I had learned of this news, I almost thought I saw this someone but, I figured my mind was playing tricks on me. I have been advised to contact via facebook this person, but I keep drifting back and forth on the idea… We will wait and see.
Tonight is the party at the Palacio. The entire ancient courtyard will be done up, everyone will be neatly dressed, and I plan to have the best time I’ve had in weeks. The plan is to freely drink the fruits of the open bar, then make our way to Alemeda de Hercules to drink in the streets and gaze at the stars.
I have high hopes for tonight. It’s a promising hour. Its nearing the high tide of summer where all manner of possibilities lies before you. My intercambio is going to be attendance. We’re meeting a group of Spainyard acquaintances for drinks. I plan to make the very most of the night. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Theives and existential ramblings
I saw a movie at the cinema today… I ran inside barely catching my teacher who had reserved the tickets early. As usual, I was running on Spanish time - five minutes late.
The film was called – Ladrones or thieves…. It was awash in religious symbolism painted in grey somber tones, sung in Gothic chants, flowing through brilliantly smooth transitions... I understood about three- fourths of the words in the movie. But, the primary plot was obvious, and the art direction was so crystal clear if I did not immediately understand a word, a phrase, a gesture… it became readily apparent in the minor details… It was set in the grey area of life… somewhere between good and evil... there was a mannequin, an untrustworthy antique dealer, a confused lovesick girl, and a lonely lonely boy. The director drew pickpockets in a hazy reality and then inversely made clear details unreal. He threw in a Virgin and Child motif, there were hints of jailing, and red preordained a bloody demise. At face value, it was all thieveries but deep down it was much more.
Completely thought provoking and a little melancholy, the film was exactly what I needed at the moment. For whatever reason, not being a part of the world around you – being a foreigner – reveals the symbolism in life. Gestures become words, words become nationality, and nationality becomes fitting in somewhere. And usually that somewhere isn’t where you are. You learn to deal with… You find the world a strange wonderful reality of impossibilities, absurdity, and magnificent beauty. That had been my time in Sevilla… an unreal beautiful world where I spoke little but heard more than the natives … At least, it was that way at least till the last week.
I suppose at times the cleverly arranged façade falters and you realize that you are indeed alone… feeling as a stranger. It’s startling. From the top down the symbolism in life fades. Gestures cease to become words, words loose connotation with nationality, and nationality is a meaningless term. Its not homesickness or awkwardness… The closest word to it is in the spirit of an Arabic word… Feeling like a stranger longing for his native land… However, having the feeling of a stranger, not necessarily BEING the stranger. As if you are longing for a place that doesn’t exist. A place in your mind… in your heart… in all those patterns you imagined around you. The sense of the world.
I’m rambling into existential nonsense… I guess… discarding all my above analysis… the film rekindled the magic I felt here. The graffiti in the alleyways became horoscopes again. The Clam became a funky coffeehouse instead of a room full of uninteresting strangers. I lived in a ship, sailing above the city, instead of a tiny room on a dusty rooftop patio. I was in the Spain I loved again, and all that dull stuff was left behind….
The film was called – Ladrones or thieves…. It was awash in religious symbolism painted in grey somber tones, sung in Gothic chants, flowing through brilliantly smooth transitions... I understood about three- fourths of the words in the movie. But, the primary plot was obvious, and the art direction was so crystal clear if I did not immediately understand a word, a phrase, a gesture… it became readily apparent in the minor details… It was set in the grey area of life… somewhere between good and evil... there was a mannequin, an untrustworthy antique dealer, a confused lovesick girl, and a lonely lonely boy. The director drew pickpockets in a hazy reality and then inversely made clear details unreal. He threw in a Virgin and Child motif, there were hints of jailing, and red preordained a bloody demise. At face value, it was all thieveries but deep down it was much more.
Completely thought provoking and a little melancholy, the film was exactly what I needed at the moment. For whatever reason, not being a part of the world around you – being a foreigner – reveals the symbolism in life. Gestures become words, words become nationality, and nationality becomes fitting in somewhere. And usually that somewhere isn’t where you are. You learn to deal with… You find the world a strange wonderful reality of impossibilities, absurdity, and magnificent beauty. That had been my time in Sevilla… an unreal beautiful world where I spoke little but heard more than the natives … At least, it was that way at least till the last week.
I suppose at times the cleverly arranged façade falters and you realize that you are indeed alone… feeling as a stranger. It’s startling. From the top down the symbolism in life fades. Gestures cease to become words, words loose connotation with nationality, and nationality is a meaningless term. Its not homesickness or awkwardness… The closest word to it is in the spirit of an Arabic word… Feeling like a stranger longing for his native land… However, having the feeling of a stranger, not necessarily BEING the stranger. As if you are longing for a place that doesn’t exist. A place in your mind… in your heart… in all those patterns you imagined around you. The sense of the world.
I’m rambling into existential nonsense… I guess… discarding all my above analysis… the film rekindled the magic I felt here. The graffiti in the alleyways became horoscopes again. The Clam became a funky coffeehouse instead of a room full of uninteresting strangers. I lived in a ship, sailing above the city, instead of a tiny room on a dusty rooftop patio. I was in the Spain I loved again, and all that dull stuff was left behind….
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Sometimes behave so strangely
This last week has likely been the hardest week yet this summer. I cannot exactly determine the exact perimeters of the difficulty, nor can I map its whereabouts. It’s like dark matter… exerting a pull of gravity and affecting my life but invisible and wholly unknown.
The best explanation comes from a small but frightening incidence the other day. I’m in Alemeda, a large open rectangular forum lined with large trees but open to the sky in the center. I walk under one of the gigantic trees and make my way across the square. Standing in the center of the square, I suddenly hear a crack. Then a crash in the place I had stood only twenty seconds before. A gigantic limb of one of these trees fell right where I had been walking.
Yes, this could be construed as lucky, and in all likelihood it was. However, it’s as if I’ve been in a race against catastrophe. It’s always twenty seconds behind be, leaving constantly anxious, perennially paranoid, and emotionally out of sorts.
Set within this mental stage of insecurity and ill omens, I’ll relate to you a most interesting Thursday and Friday.
(**)
I am with Elise as usual. Elise, an economics-industrial engineering major from Penn State, has become my day to day companion frequenting all adventures and most dull afternoons. We get a call from a group of friends inviting us to a concert “near to the Futbol Stadium”. With nothing else to do, Elise and I plan to get dinner then head out.
After a delicious tapas meal and a glass of tinto, we’re ready for the concert. We were in for disastrously long journey. Near the Futbol Stadium was either an outright exaggeration or complete lie. We walked and walked, and got lost, and walked and nearly cried and got lost some more. Hours later (and I am absolutely not exaggerating when I say hours), we arrived. I myself had walked at minimum 3.
Imagine walking, enormously fatigued, and suddenly finding yourself in a Franco designed industrial wasteland of a suburb. Then, after a few more turns, you are in a bustling commercial center, however this is no ordinary retail strip. The entire place used to be self storage units. You must pass first through a security gateway patrolled by a uniformed rent-a-cop. Then passing a wired fence and a few boxy cement walls, there is a graffiti city of music venues and cheap bizarre restaurants.
Dazed, we met our friends at a tapas bar with a clown motif, populated by children and old men. We drank lemonade-beer, a close kin to mikes hard lemonade in spain… We wandered an alleyway filed with brown boxes slept in by stray dogs. All this, under fatigue in duress at 11 o’clock at night in a dimly lit industrial self-storage cement mess…
It was a simultaneously haunting and magical place. The concert was a blend of flamenco, Arabic music, and Seu Jorge (the Brazilian singer). It touched on just about every genre and then twisted it into a danceable emotive rhythm. Needless to say, it was worth the journey….
***)
Its Friday, I had received a call from my intercambio (local exchange language partner). He wanted to meet the next day. He asked me to invite a few friends and their intercambios.
This was a bad weekend for get-to-gathers… everyone took weekend trips to Portugal, Madrid, and the coast. Because of some of my bad luck, Elise and I were left in the city. So it ended up being Elise, the intercambio, and I sipping tea at a local coffee shop and catching dinner.
Brawny but short (like most Spainyards), he dressed every-bit preppy American. I, on the other hand, was dressed top to bottom in clothes I had bought in Spain… It was as if he were from America and I from Spain.
It was a good time, though my Spanish was aweful. As of late, my abilities have been diminishing rapidly. Elise commented to him that my Spanish was typically much much better… I think its part of my general unease I’ve had of late. My temperament has without a doubt effected my Spanish and in many ways effected even my English. He was completely gracious and wonderfully nice, but being with him put me in the most depressed of moods. Then again, I think it wasn’t him. It was more a trigger. My sudden meeting exacerbated my paranoia… my malaise worse than it previously had been…
To counter this, Elise and I went to the “Clam”… our usual hang out in Alemeda and drank our favorite coffee-alcohol mix drink topped with nata (whip cream) and butter cookies. Still not relieved… we made an oath instead to stay out all night….
Equiped with whiskey, we went into the forum of Alemeda where on weekend nights youth and hippies drink, smoke, dance, and jam in the streets. Tonight, unexpectedly, it was busier than we had ever seen it. Apparently the weekend was a gay-pride weekend in Sevilla and this was the first party of the weekend. A live band had set up stage and people were doing congo-lines through the streets. Beer was 75 centimos and there was kissing and dancing for all. We, of course, joined in, and soon were having a splendid time… meeting people, mixing it up. Despite my malaise I felt a bit better… I felt like “it was like the 60s, only with less hope”…
The worst hour was between five and six. Alemeda was emptying out and the all-nighters were headed to overly priced clubs…. We contented ourselves to people watching on park benches and street corners… That hours was perhaps the longest hour of my life…. As the sun started to creep up out of the clouds we made our ways to a churro breakfast place… a reward for our patience..
We dipped the crispy benet-like goodness into a thick warm chocolate and smiled. We parted ways content with our all night decision… I climbed to my little boat on the roof. Green key got me inside. Red key up the stairs on to the roof. And yellow in my room. I looked out on the city, the sun finally truly revealing itself, closed my eyes and breathed in the new morning….
In the end, despite all anxiety, ignoring all bad temperament, I was for a moment at peace.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers
Sunday, June 17, 2007
I feel drained. So much and little has happened this weekend. Everything is a haze of hookah smoke, embellishment, and loss. We left for Granada on Saturday morning… I threw my bag under the bus – stopping momentarily to take out my wallet and journal – and we took a three hour journey to Granada.
When I arrived in Granada, my bag was mysteriously missing. There was no explaining it. People claimed to have seen it under the bus, the drivers claimed that they had stood guard. Whatever the case, my bag – along with its contents disappeared. My only real losses were my tarot cards and my camera… I refused to be upset by it though. I was in Granada, I was in Spain, and I wouldn’t let bad luck destroy the weekend.
Granada. Awash with hippies and Moroccans. A city of artists and craftsman. Of life, and youth. It felt… like Austin. Where Sevilla is my District of Columbia, Granada is my Austin. The night was spent quietly bonding with people amidst hookah smoke, Arabic tea, and shwarmas…. Oh dear god the shwarmas. They were among the best I’ve ever had in my life and the people the most friendly. Fitting for the second largest college town in Spain, the city of an intellectual, free spirited, crazy adventure. Perhaps my bad luck of loosing my bag granted me good luck in areas of my life.
I was given gifts of falafel by street venders, baklava by bakers, tea by tea sellers. People were stopping me in the street asking me if I was from Granada. My Spanish was excellent. My Arabic was reemerging. My social skills blossoming. The trip was a reprieve from reality. It was as if I was fasting, pardoned from material things – clothes, a clean shave, contacts.
And again… the city. I cannot even begin to explain how much I loved this university town nestled in the mountains. Streets taken from Arabian nights. Ancient tea houses smelling of Arabic philosophers. A populace awash with youthful energy. Cheap and delicious food. It was an oasis.
Granada in Spanish means pomegranate. Like this delectable fruit, the city was sweet and juicy. It was exotic and a luxury. It was filled with a thousand pits of lost bags and bad luck but sugarcoated with a personality that made all pessimism vanish.
Above all places I have visited in Spain, in Granada I could live forever.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Of plums and beaches
Wednesday, June 13, 2007-06-13
As I promised, I’ll relate the story of Cadiz (pronounced Cadi-th) as well as a peculiar coincidence concerning plums. So what of Cadiz?
The city smelt of brine and rosemary: an addictive aroma fitting for a place supposed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe. As we wandered along its ancient pathways, we stumbled upon a cobblestone street covered with rosemary and lined with garland. A gigantic crowd of people lumbered towards us as if bewitched by the melodic and mournful songs emanating from a marching band. It was Corpus Crisiti in Cadiz, and a religious procession was underway celebrating the body of Christ. The rosemary procession was something incredible that made me wish America wasn’t so tradition less. It connected everyone in the town to this 3,000 year history, to ancient memories, Visigoths and Moors, to the Phoenicians and Romans, and farther back, more ancient… more remote. Antiquity blended with the present. All there is, all there was, happened now.
After a long observation of the procession, we entered one of two Cathedrals in the city and sprinted to the peak of highest tower. The entire city lay before us. Most of the businesses of the city were closed because of the feast day but, the beach never shut its’ doors.
We walked through a few more sights in town, none too noteworthy, and found our way to the shore. The entire day was spent half underwater with salt in my ears catching waves and half on a sandy beach towel emblazoned with “George Washington University” where I napped or read or daydreamed of possibility.
The day had no epiphanies, no drama, there was no beginnings or endings, and in all likelihood it will one day fade from my memory. The day was sunshine and quiet thoughts that pulsed like the waves that massaged this ancient seaport. It was meditative. It was beautiful.
* * * * *
A few of you – namely Z and Amy – know of the miraculous nature of the family plum tree. Years ago, my father and I planted a sapling plum. Over the years, it had grown dramatically, blossomed awesomely, but had stubbornly refused to yield any fruit. Completely forgotten, it was not until the day I left that anyone noticed the tree was awash with plums. Ironically, in a year noted for the plague killing of the bees, the plums decide to blossom.
My mom sent pictures of baskets filled to the brim. As usual, I have a theory. This was the only summer I have been absent from home since the tree has been transplanted. Sensing this, the genius of a tree furiously bore fruit, as if to lure me home. It wanted me back. To a degree, its attempt at yearning worked. The images and letters about this phenomenon of produce did make me nostalgic for home. In fact, I complained to my mother, I complained to my friends here, and I daydreamed about plums. Maybe it was the daily e-mails about plums sent to me, maybe it was because I hadn’t even tasted a plum in years… but those plums sounded like the greatest food in the world.
The next time I talked to my Senora, I told her of the beach, my weekend, and most importantly of plums (or ciruelas). She listened, she smiled, and excitedly ran to the kitchen revealing a basket full of plums. Apparently that very weekend, as she visited a friend in the countryside, a plum tree was miraculously producing more plums than it ever had before. Her friend was so awash with plums that she offered them to my Senora to take home.
So perhaps the plum tree in Texas, telepathically communicating with the plum trees of the world, pompously told of its ability to withhold fruit from its cultivator. Maybe, other plums felt bad for this person and felt it necessary to make equally magnificent plums. Maybe, this person was me and I got a taste of Texas in those plums.
Then again, another theory. Maybe because there were two cultivators for this tree – my father and I – this had some effect. Maybe, it’s mandated in some lawbook of nature that other plum trees must supplement the loss when the cultivator is absent or the the tree in question will die . Maybe, as the Alchemist says, “when you want something bad enough, the entire universe conspires to help you.”
Maybe, I got my plums after all.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Where to begin? The Finest Chocolate in the World and catered cocktails in a Moorish patio of a historic Palace? A sun-blistered beach in Cadiz (pronounced Ca-di-th by the lisping Spaniards) or a night with a time traveling Welsh-American? What of the Rosemary Procession and the ageless French students? Perhaps the beginning is the best… To those of you questioning, all reservations about Sevilla have checked out. I utterly adore this place. It took three weeks for me to become accustomed and now, my time left seems tragically short.
Beginnings. Thursday. The Palacio, our place of study that was once a fanciful palace found in the historic Jewish quarter of Sevilla. A cool summer evening, the building has been transformed in lieu of several “3 week-ers” departure. The gates open, fountains are running, caterers are catering. The bar tender freely pours wine and beer to our hearts content. Teachers stumble drunkenly, students are singing. Everyone is dressed in their finest. There are pictures and tears of farewell. First round of hour d’ervs, second, third, fourth and… now desert is hurriedly dispensed. Tiny, minuscule squares of dark fragrant happiness. The Finest Chocolate in the World. A tiny nibble leads to a gasp for air so as to dilute its finery. We – the Americans – gather around completely mesmerized by the indescribably light yet rich velvety goodness of the stuff. We questioned its origin (Swiss? Belgian?), we demanded explanations (Homemade? How expensive?) but, none seemed satisfactory. We contented ourselves with the mysterious experience of having tasted the Philospher’s Stone of chocolate, the holy grail of desert divinity.
Buzzed by more than just chocolate, someone yelled for after party celebrations. And, we found ourselves at the fateful, always American, ex patriot cervezerias and bodegas of Calle Betis in Triana. Despite the picturesque cobble stones and breathtaking old world waterfront view, one might has well been in Adams Morgan or Uptown Dallas. We proceeded to do the second most popular sport in America – next to American football of course – and bar crawl. From the Pirate bar with its red white and blue seaside aethetics to Big Bend, with its endearing Texan charm, we toasted on 1 euro beers and cheap chupitos of tequila.
Now, much more amiable, I befriended bouncers and barmaids and, most importantly, the two ageless Frenchies. Adrian and Mikel, two youths from around Paris, studying in Spanish in Sevilla for 3 months… Their appearance? Gangly boys with shining youthful eyes, completely Agreeable and more than a little bit crazy. We joked, we bought each other shots, and partied the night away. Why ageless? They appeared to be not a day above 15. However, they insisted they were their 20s. Was it just us? No. They got carded (something unimaginable in Spain) at the door of a bar. Whatever their number of years, the ambiguously aged Frenchies have been making reoccurring appearances at my nightly sojourns into the city.
***
The following day, was Cadiz? No. The sunburns on my face have blistered my memory as well. Was it Friday? No We met the ageless French on Friday… Saturday then… Yes, Saturday. Saturday was the day of we met the time traveling Welsh-American. I met up with the Frenchies at Big Bend with my dearest friend here Elise. After perhaps one tequila shot and a beer (it was a deal a beer + a shot for 1.50). The Welsh-American decided it was time to be spirited away to another time. As I was to find out, time traveling is a tiring feat to all involved. We escaped big bend and rushed beside the waterside, across bridges, through narrow streets, getting lost, finding ourselves again, frustrated French cursing, bummed cigarettes, urination on public sidewalks, and finally a gleaming club called “Jackson’s”. The ageless French, put out and exhausted by now, almost hesitate to go in. Elise and I, annoyed by the Welsh-American’s eccentricities nearly leave them for other adventures. Unmoved, the strange Welsh-American convinces us that we have indeed time traveled and inside is our final destination – the mid to late 1970s. We laugh, and go inside.
Flower prints assault us. The French are dumbfounded. Hippie print skirts, 70s disco-funk accompanied by groovy girls and black guys with afros. We saw a long haired man who could only have been Jesus and elderly people who surely were hippies themselves. These refugees from a bygone age danced as the walls of this tiny boxy bar-club spoke of free love turned 70s disco nights. And for a minimum of 30 minutes, we all stood awkwardly dumbfounded at the fact that it seemed we had indeed time traveled. After recovering from our initial shock, we proceeded to dance and drink and dance and drink and dance some more. The Frenchies went nuts. The Welsh-American creepily did an old man dance. Elise got over her fright and grooved a bit. And then it was over, 4 am and a bus to catch at 8. Elise and I had to go. Cadiz (pronounced Cadith) was tomorrow.
***
Sunday. A hour and half bus ride to the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe. Cadiz stood broken against the seashore now, the most poverty ridden capital of the most impoverished providence in Spain. Despite this, it shown with blistering admiration for its past and how the cathedral shined and how the waves tasted of salt. All afternoon was spent bodysurfing the waves and foot races along the sea shore. Watching the tide slide into the ocean and children gossip and play. Cadiz was, well, paradise in a shining cove. Oh…. Its lunch time soon. The pictures will hopefully convey you the beauty of that place. I still have the Rosemary Procession, Plums, and the Clam to discuss, I’ll finish Cadiz another time.
Ciao.
Rosemary, Plums. The Clam
Friday, June 8, 2007
Dark nights and lonely days (Part one)
(A forewarning, the next two entries are an interconnected long rant that is way too personal. I almost didn’t publish it but then I realized that I really don’t hide anything from any of the readers here anyways, and I needed to get it off my chest. I also have put these in chronological order so as to better understand them)
Thursday, June 8, 2007
Where to begin? Over the last few days I have become a mute, befriended the Cretans, and battled heartlessly against technology. I suppose it began Wednesday night. Elise, Allison, and I wandered the streets talking of NPR and waterfront fiestas for hours. Though we never found a satisfactory bar, it was seemingly a good night. That is, until we went to Alfalfa. At approximately three in the morning, we united with a tiny legion of drunken and high guys from the program.
I suppose, there was nothing outwardly wrong with this encounter. They smiled. We laughed. They commented on life, we pounded fists, they did the ¨¨we’re wasted thing¨, and we parted ways. Underneath this thin veneer of civility, my mind was racing.
I realize now I hate my mind. I’m either caught up in situations so much I loose connection with who I am. When I wander the streets of Sevilla, sometimes I forget I am a corporeal entity and nearly bump into passer-byers. I feels as if I´m a silent observer floating above situations so much so, that at times I loose touch with my sense of self. I have this odd out-of-body experiences daily.
Other times, I completely become self absorbed, garnering the , rapidly analyzing ever inflection, and most importantly making fast paced theories. I am completely immersed in my relationship, my corporeal existence, and posture, I become – in effect – the hands-on director and unwilling actor of my life. Hands-on because I´m completely focused on what the next course of action should be. Unwilling, because my body moves slower and less adeptly than my mind envisions.
In any case, the entire day I was half in a out of body mood. At the moment we ran into the boys, my body analyized absolutely everything about the situation. It felt of tension. I´m not sure why, my theories pointed to me. I have always been uneasy around guys in general. At he beginning of my time here, this crew were typical drinking buddies of mine. I had run away from their friendship for long walks through the city and NPR. I say run away, because I typically refuse to get too close to guys – straight, gay, or otherwise. You have to live or grow up with me, to have any semblense of me opening up. It’s a defence mechanism I´ve known about for a long time, but it made me so angry at that instant.
In any case, I went to bed that night berating myself for the messes I put myself in. This inner monologue, took its hold the next day with almost disasterous results.
Thursday, June 8, 2007
Where to begin? Over the last few days I have become a mute, befriended the Cretans, and battled heartlessly against technology. I suppose it began Wednesday night. Elise, Allison, and I wandered the streets talking of NPR and waterfront fiestas for hours. Though we never found a satisfactory bar, it was seemingly a good night. That is, until we went to Alfalfa. At approximately three in the morning, we united with a tiny legion of drunken and high guys from the program.
I suppose, there was nothing outwardly wrong with this encounter. They smiled. We laughed. They commented on life, we pounded fists, they did the ¨¨we’re wasted thing¨, and we parted ways. Underneath this thin veneer of civility, my mind was racing.
I realize now I hate my mind. I’m either caught up in situations so much I loose connection with who I am. When I wander the streets of Sevilla, sometimes I forget I am a corporeal entity and nearly bump into passer-byers. I feels as if I´m a silent observer floating above situations so much so, that at times I loose touch with my sense of self. I have this odd out-of-body experiences daily.
Other times, I completely become self absorbed, garnering the , rapidly analyzing ever inflection, and most importantly making fast paced theories. I am completely immersed in my relationship, my corporeal existence, and posture, I become – in effect – the hands-on director and unwilling actor of my life. Hands-on because I´m completely focused on what the next course of action should be. Unwilling, because my body moves slower and less adeptly than my mind envisions.
In any case, the entire day I was half in a out of body mood. At the moment we ran into the boys, my body analyized absolutely everything about the situation. It felt of tension. I´m not sure why, my theories pointed to me. I have always been uneasy around guys in general. At he beginning of my time here, this crew were typical drinking buddies of mine. I had run away from their friendship for long walks through the city and NPR. I say run away, because I typically refuse to get too close to guys – straight, gay, or otherwise. You have to live or grow up with me, to have any semblense of me opening up. It’s a defence mechanism I´ve known about for a long time, but it made me so angry at that instant.
In any case, I went to bed that night berating myself for the messes I put myself in. This inner monologue, took its hold the next day with almost disasterous results.
Part two
Friday, June 9, 2007
I suppose, going to be in a grumpy mood leads to angry and hate filled dreams which forces one to wake up with a general loathing of life itself. At least, this was my observation on Thursday.
I was going to go to ¨los hippies¨ or the festival of corpus cristi that morning but because of my hate, all I did was lay in bed for hours. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and get dressed. To try to cheer myself up, I attempted to wander the city however it was devoid of people. Being a festival-holy day in Spain, means absolutely all stores or places of interest are closed. I eventually found a tiny café and silently ordered churros y chocolate (which can be vaguely described as a blend of benet´s and hot chocolate). The chocolate didn´t cheer me up, but it did put me in a middle-of-the-road mood.
When I ventured outside, the sun and humidity nearly killed me. I stumbled back to my sailboat on the roof and attempted to work the air conditioner to no avail. I was really tired at this conjecture and despite (or perhaps because of) the 95 degree heat… I passed out on my bed.
When I awoke hours later it was late in the afternoon. I gathered my laptop and ventured to the clam bar… (Its actually called Republica but at night its completely white walls just look sooo pearly). In any case, I proceeded to write, write, write and read, read, read for the entire day. It helped alleviate some of my ills but later that day I was to have an almost-break down.
I went back to my place, silently ordered dinner on the way, and studied for a test the following day. Those who have lived with me (and perhaps others too) are accustomed to the fact that I talk to myself. Its strange, sometimes I worry I´m going schizophrenic because when I´m alone for too long, I literally do talk to myself and argue and laugh and have a time as if it was with another person.
The entire day talking to myself, had put me on edge. Around 11:00 Me and I started arguing and by midnight our dialogue had reached alto to crescendo at a realization. The only conversations I had had all day had been with myself. This might have not bothered me but Me and I at this point in one of the worst fights we’ve ever been in. We brought up the silliness from the night before. We attacked our past actions and in the end, we had to escape each other. We nearly brought each other to tears. We had thrown things across the room. I needed to get out for air. For something.
I dropped by a random bar named Plateau lined with Marilyn Monroe posters and tea kettles. I, unused to real comprehensible conversation, had extreme issues asking for a cup of tea. Two dark haired beauties sitting next to me interceded and ordered me a pot of red tea (decaffeinated, thank you very much). Both were Cretan students living in Sevilla for the next few months. The boy, Alexandre, a dark haired, pragmatic and serious mathematician, who constantly avoided homework in order to practice Spanish. The girl, Eftihia, a dance teacher in training who had come to Sevilla to train in flamenco and Argentinean tango. We talked for hours. They were convinced I couldn’t speak Spanish to English became our lingua franca.
As we proceeded to leave the bar at 1:30 we were harassed by a bouncy sprite of a Hungarian and her blonde German art form of a boyfriend. They bought us beers and we sat down, once again conversing in English. We talked for at least an hour about everything from the varying international methods of trash collection to the politics of the EU. Afterwards we retreated to an indy rock bar around the corner that conspicuously resembled the black cat. It was exactly what I needed.
Though that night I had severe insomnia and only slept for an hour, it was a fair trade of for what could have been a very lonely day indeed.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
The writing on the walls....
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Sevilla, as I have thus described, is a strange place indeed. To add to its list of oddities, is the curious nature of its graffiti. The stuff is everywhere. Its leaves no surface untouched – glass windows of buses, park benches, historic monuments, and resturaunts of the well-to-do.
While the standard abstract calligraphy of the street occasionally surfaces in Sevilla, more often than not the lingua of the alleyways is nothing more than pure genius. This (oftentimes multi-lingual) script calls for political and social movements, offers advice, attacks modern tourism, and speaks of love. These commentaries about existence and life itself have become my daily horoscopes. Every new one I find, are my inspiration, warning, or contemplation for the day. “Never trust a hippie”, I avoid the street markets where x-hippies sell their wares, opting for commercial venues instead. “I have died only for the salvation of tourists?” The churches in Sevilla are now more filled with tourists than sevillanos… social commentary at its finest. And on and on and on.
You all know me well, I am a theorist above all other things. And I have a theory for this. Sevilla is a city built on a rich multilayered history. True. Baroque – that art period defined by glorification, ostentation, and sharp contrasts between dark and light – is one such history. Another past is that of Moors, who brought with them the art of Arabic calligraphy which in itself was a highly spiritual process. Another, those medieval priests rewriting the Bible on carefully illuminated manuscripts. More recent? With Franco persecution and with the European Union modern changes. These sevillano graffitists are undoubtedly the forbearers of mind boggling labyrinth of history. Bitter now, with no work for calligraphists or illuminated manuscripts, they inscribe on the city itself, which they blame for their fate.
What do they write? Drawing from their baroque past it is undoubtedly highly contrasting and emotional – one artist writes a deep black HardxCore one day and a yellow ode to love the next. Why not of religion if they are born out of monks and mullahs? In Spain, the language of politics and social causes and individuality has replaced religion completely. Indeed, religion itself is a social movement, part of the politics of modern life, by attacking the tourist attraction that city cathedrals have become.
You doubt me I suspect, however I have a bit of photographic evidence to back it up. Conspicuously during siesta as other sevillanos were napping or lounging at cafeterias, I transcribed a few notations of these everyday epiphanies with the lens of my camera. The following is a tiny sampling of my photographic evidence; hopefully I will accumulate more as my stay here continues.
“Precariously she burns me hot, precariously she is going to burn.”
“Never trust a hippie”
“Jose is the color of my dreams”
“Have you died only for the salvation of tourists?”
Others with no picture as of yet:
“Stop speculation of old homes”
“Vote or die” (Wasn’t this also a chant of the American Revolution?”)
"I have no home"
Sevilla, as I have thus described, is a strange place indeed. To add to its list of oddities, is the curious nature of its graffiti. The stuff is everywhere. Its leaves no surface untouched – glass windows of buses, park benches, historic monuments, and resturaunts of the well-to-do.
While the standard abstract calligraphy of the street occasionally surfaces in Sevilla, more often than not the lingua of the alleyways is nothing more than pure genius. This (oftentimes multi-lingual) script calls for political and social movements, offers advice, attacks modern tourism, and speaks of love. These commentaries about existence and life itself have become my daily horoscopes. Every new one I find, are my inspiration, warning, or contemplation for the day. “Never trust a hippie”, I avoid the street markets where x-hippies sell their wares, opting for commercial venues instead. “I have died only for the salvation of tourists?” The churches in Sevilla are now more filled with tourists than sevillanos… social commentary at its finest. And on and on and on.
You all know me well, I am a theorist above all other things. And I have a theory for this. Sevilla is a city built on a rich multilayered history. True. Baroque – that art period defined by glorification, ostentation, and sharp contrasts between dark and light – is one such history. Another past is that of Moors, who brought with them the art of Arabic calligraphy which in itself was a highly spiritual process. Another, those medieval priests rewriting the Bible on carefully illuminated manuscripts. More recent? With Franco persecution and with the European Union modern changes. These sevillano graffitists are undoubtedly the forbearers of mind boggling labyrinth of history. Bitter now, with no work for calligraphists or illuminated manuscripts, they inscribe on the city itself, which they blame for their fate.
What do they write? Drawing from their baroque past it is undoubtedly highly contrasting and emotional – one artist writes a deep black HardxCore one day and a yellow ode to love the next. Why not of religion if they are born out of monks and mullahs? In Spain, the language of politics and social causes and individuality has replaced religion completely. Indeed, religion itself is a social movement, part of the politics of modern life, by attacking the tourist attraction that city cathedrals have become.
You doubt me I suspect, however I have a bit of photographic evidence to back it up. Conspicuously during siesta as other sevillanos were napping or lounging at cafeterias, I transcribed a few notations of these everyday epiphanies with the lens of my camera. The following is a tiny sampling of my photographic evidence; hopefully I will accumulate more as my stay here continues.
“Precariously she burns me hot, precariously she is going to burn.”
“Never trust a hippie”
“Jose is the color of my dreams”
“Have you died only for the salvation of tourists?”
Others with no picture as of yet:
“Stop speculation of old homes”
“Vote or die” (Wasn’t this also a chant of the American Revolution?”)
"I have no home"
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
A rant. Its my time.
Am I missing out? This weekend a slew of los Americanos are venturing into Portugal to the picture paradise known as Lagos. I, joining a miniscule minority of misfits, am opting out. The cost of the trip is tremendous (180 euro! or more than 200 dollars) though it provides 2 meals, room and board, 2 free drinks, and access to a beach party.
Though I still have class Friday, it’s a long weekend for most Sevillanos. Lola (my senora) is going to the beach with her amigas (she seems to party a lot for an older lady) and her son is staying with family I presume. She said she’ll leave me enough money for 4 days worth of lunch and dinner at restaurants. Probably around 50 euros I’m guessing… So I suppose I will finally get to explore some restaurants I’ve been wanting to try without destroying my budget.
So what am I to do? I have Sevilla to myself, quite literally. I guess, I plan to find one person I know to go out with at night. During the day, I want to write and read until my hands go numb and my eyes dissolve into my frontal lobe. Grotesque no? Torturous no? I’m working around ideas for a story to write… Nothing so grandiose as THE Story that some of you old middle school friends might remember from long ago. However, a story nonetheless.
I do half wish I would have made arrangements to travel. There is a free day trip to the beaches of Cadiz on Sunday but… it sounds kinda tiring and boorish to me. I suppose I’ll figure out something to do. All the Americanos just go to such boring places. Lagos. A beach. Beautiful. Woo hoopidie Doo. Why not Ibiza?! Or Basque Country?! Or Andorra?! At least consider a Parador (Spainish palace, convent, castle, etc.) for godsakes. I found out there are student rates for Paradores in Portugal and Spain starting at only 20 euros including a complementary breakfast. Hostels cost 20 euros. Two meals cost 20 euros. All the boring-everyday-humdrum necessities of life costs somewhere around 20 euros. Why not jump on something exciting and different?!
P.S. I´ll definately add something interesting beyond rants soon. I still have yet to mention my grafitti observations.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Typical week.
June 3, 2007-06-03
So what of my life lately? The day is filled with class, naps, and escapades in the city. Typically my escapades amount to nothing more than café con leche at a nearby cafeteria (interestingly cafeteria means coffee bar. It kind of makes sense if you think of it café- teria. I’unno its one of those fun new language things I’ve been learning since I’ve been here where we have a completely different meaning ascribed to it). Truly there has been not much more to life than that.
My life is turning into a clear routine.
Step One: A casual purchase of the daily booze at the grocery store. This typically consists of rum, beer, or wine. Note that all the above are comparably cheaper in Spain than in America.
Step Two: I return home for dinner at 10:00. Enough said. Dinner usually precludes and/or postludes a fifteen minute discussin about random musings with my Lola (my Senora) and her son.
Step Three: Alemeda de Hercules. I have a fondness for this area of town known as the Alemeda de Hercules. A grandiose rectangular outdoor courtyard lined with Alemeda trees filled to the brim with indy record shops, jazz clubs, music venues, and artsy cafes. At approximately the stroke of midnight, hundreds of college kids, scene types, high schoolers, and rockers bring booze, smokes, and rolling paper and sit on the ground or near to bars.
Step Four (optional): Stay at Alemeda all night or head to Alfalfa - the area where the Euro study abroad kids, some locals, and a few Americans tend to chill. Do a few chupitos (shots) go home.
Yes yes. This is my routine, My only complaint is its SO hard to meet Sevillanos. My Spanish IS improving but slowly and my conversational Spanish isn’t where I would want it to be right now. Sevillanos are extremely friendly and willing to make small talk. However, a lengthy discussion or an invite to hang out later is difficult. Most people in Sevilla live and die in Sevilla. Their friends are friends since they were young and so becoming friends with random foreigners doesn’t make sense.
I’ve been trying to think of a remedy to this over the weekend. I think my solution is to meet gay kids. There are tons of gay guys and girls in Alemeda. From what I can tell they are just as dramatic, super friendly, and bitchy as gays in D.C. In other words, they make friends and loose friends fast. Furthermore, apparently much of the gay population in Sevilla is of rural origin or other parts of Spain or Europe. They themselves don’t have the cemented relationships other Sevillanos have. So perhaps, they are my outlet for more Spainyard friends. There are quite a few gay bars and gay people in general in the Alemeda de Hercules area and even more bars towards the river on the otherside of town.
Anyways, that’s all for now. This weekend I went to the beach and got the worst sunburns of my life even though I used SPF 35 and reapplied it multiple times. It hurts super bad and at least one part of my skin is purple and nearly pealing.
Oh and to Amy and Z. My mom was SOOO happy y’all visited; she sent me a really excited e-mail. So anyone in town I’m sure is welcome to visit with my mom, she’d be thrilled. Ok that’s all loves. Sorry this post is so rambly and shitty, my sunburns are killing me and I desperately need to lie down.
-Adam
P.S. Z if you’re reading this… beware! All they eat in Spain is pork. In fact, this relates to anthropology a bit. People tend to have more words for things that relate to their climate/food/lifestyle etc. There are a billion and a half words for different cuts of pork. Its really hard to keep it straight, so before you leave you might want to learn all the words so when you order food you won’t freak out and die. Some of it deceptively tastes like chicken or lamb. Today I had a meatball that was indescribable. I couldn’t tell if it was beef or pork. So just beware.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday May 30th - The Caves
The Evening star is so bright here. It practically competes with the moon. Maybe its always been this bright and its taken Sevilla for me to notice. At night instead of talking to myself, I tried talking to her. Maybe I’m going crazy, it just gets so completely lonely in my tiny dingy of a room.
Ship. I’ve decided my little room on the roof is a tiny sailboat, floating above the city. I can here the ebb and flow of the city below – church bells crashing, the drinking of tinto de verano, and the roaming of wild dogs. All the noise of the city is below me, distant; and I alone sailing above. Very Ameliesque in a way (how many people are having organisms right now?). I guess I could I could not have asked for a better homestay.
Wednesday was a somewhat frustrating day. The program hosted a trip to the mines and caves surrounding Huelva – a city about an hour and a half away. We began the day early, completely weary and anxious and ended it in much the same manner. Our first stop was las minas de rió tinto – The mines of Wine River. The mines were… much as mines should be – long dark and cavern like. The one astonishing thing about them was a lake formed by miners pumping water out. As the guide blabbered about compositions of rocks and the mine’s 5,000 year history, all I could do was stand transfixed at the incredible color of the water. The edges were a yellow slowly bleeding into a crimson red giving the illusion of fire due to the high mineral content and acidity of the water. The body of water itself was huge and found deep within a huge desolate valley in the rock- dotted with the stray shrub or fig tree. The overall effect was startling and from our photo vista, difficult to capture with the camera. However, the guide portrayed the place perfectly by conveying the colloquial name of the place: the wounds of the earth (El dolor de la tierra), a place where Gaia herself would bleed red with blood.
Next, we left the mines to go to a tiny village of 4,000 inhabitants secluded deep in the mountains. Linares de la Sierra, the town was called, had approximately one laundry “facility”, two bars, and thousands of cats. Our new, much more enjoyable, very handsome twenty-something year old guía referred to it as something of an anachronism – revealing a Spain of years past. The town DID have one public font that everyone got water from, and ONE outdoor laundry area where people used washing boards to clean there clothes, as they had told us about before. However, what was most memorable about the town was the plethora of cats. It seemed as if cats outnumbered residence. Likewise, accompanying this army of felines where their familiars – ancient old ladies. Indeed at least one of these centenarians was blind, and clearly many more mumbled under their breath. I have suspicions this was the town where old cat ladies came to die. I became completely enchanted with this one stray – a midnight black cat with lime green eyes. I was petting the poor thing – half feverishly with love, half worried about fleas – and it followed me throughout the town. I suppose there were just so many cats and so few people, a few cats fell through the holes of proper welfare. In the end, we (halfheartedly) left. The too-short stay in the eerily empty town was suplanted by a trip to go to see the Grutas de Las Maravillas.
I’m not going to write much about this cave. To me, a cave is a cave is a cave. Stalagmites and underwater lakes and cavern-guides who are hunched over with crossed eyes seem to be universals across the world. In fact, by the time I walked in the cave, I was ready to walk back out and head to Sevilla. After a much to long subterranean hike, we entered our bus and I took an hour and a half nap home. Then continued my dreaming for another two hours on my own bed.
That’s all for now my friends. I hope to talk to each of you soon. I’ll post some pictures of the mine and village soon… I let someone borrow my camera cord.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Of big hair and heavy metal
Monday, May 28th
I’m going to start posting the days I write these on top because for some reason my attaché doesn’t attach to the computers at the internet café, so I can only load these up when I go to the Palacio (the building with my classes). And those computers can be extremely busy… like at times it takes an hour for one to be empty.
So about Malága. We get off the bus, and are immediately greeted by a wholly four star luxury hotel. We were greeted at the door by bellhops and waiters who took our bags and served us complimentary wine and prompted us to be seated in the reception area as they offered us green olives. The place was fantastic.
The town of Malaga, on the other hand, was a bit of a disappointment. It was not as historic as Sevilla. There was less of the frantic energy and apparently we were told wrong. Malága was a few kilometers east of the Costa del Sol – the Spanish Riviera with its infamously touristy but beautiful beaches. Malága was instead a “port” town with a dingy beach and a halfhearted boardwalk.
We met up with some “intercambios” or exchange students from the local university and they took us to lunch and showed us around. Where Sevilla is trapped somewhere around 1981, Malaga is trapped in the early 90s. The city was chalk full of Heavy Metal addicts and, to contrast, pastel wearing yuppies. In fact, I was talking to the intercambios and they told me they had dressed conservatively for us and typically they’d be sporting heavy metal t-shirts! The girl had giant 80s hair, and the guy had that long dirty look sported by my brother in 93. It was kinda amusing. They were asking me about Metallica and random 90s and 80s metal bands. I confessed I didn’t know much.
We also went to the Picasso museum there. It was fairly interesting though I’m not the biggest fan of Picasso. Most the works there were not anything to write home about.
The night, we vowed to go bar-hopping till 6 am. We made it to 5, and then I had to help carry one guy home.
The next day was absolutely incredible. We went hiking in a fantastic natural park near the tiny pueblo of Antequera. It looked almost as if it was taken from the land before time. The guia related that a vast ocean in the Triassic period had
carved out the rocks. I would describe more but I feel like the pictures will do more justice.
Hope everyone is feeling splendid, Talk to you later!
-Adam
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday I'm in Love.
Friday May 25th
What to say? I apologize for my lengthy, flowery, and utterly baneful posts. My life is not that interesting, but I suppose without roommates, neighbors, or much classes all I ever want to do is read and write. I’ve finished a book and two plays in a week if that says anything.
In any case, Calle Betis on Wednesday didn’t turn out as planned. Instead, I met with two of my friends – two fratboys from University of Colorado Boulder – (strange bedfellows no?) at our “go to bar” – Cabo Loco.
The night started out innocently enough. A beer here. A tequila shot there. There was tons of Spaniards out (friendly as ever), that we exchanged words with. At some point however, I had an encounter with the little green fairy… and I hope NEVER to repeat our meeting. I was holding my liquor quite well actually, but that green stuff packs a mighty punch.
I remember walking home carrying my multicolored keys. Green goes to the door. Red to the roof. And Yellow your home. Somehow I managed to get back and pass out on my bed. The next day was hell. The one bright side to my miniature green misery, was I had some of the most vivid and spectacular dreams of my life.
My sister opened a second store in Dallas, and became wildly successful. My brother took over Metro cinema in Colleyville and he and Lela made an amazing indy theatre. Daniel nearly died in a motorcycle accident but was miraculously unharmed and vowed never to take such risks again. And so much more. I saw buildings get torn down, cities rise up….
This weekend, I’m heading to Malaga. It used to be the locale of the rich in famous – a Spanish Riviera of sorts. It is supposed to be lovely but extremely touristy now. However, the beaches are said to be charming and there is supposed to be a magnificent Picasso museum. In any case, do send me your numbers because I lost my book full of numbers. I plan on using my phone cards at some point to call people besides my parents…. Cool. Hope everything is well with y’all!
-Adam
What to say? I apologize for my lengthy, flowery, and utterly baneful posts. My life is not that interesting, but I suppose without roommates, neighbors, or much classes all I ever want to do is read and write. I’ve finished a book and two plays in a week if that says anything.
In any case, Calle Betis on Wednesday didn’t turn out as planned. Instead, I met with two of my friends – two fratboys from University of Colorado Boulder – (strange bedfellows no?) at our “go to bar” – Cabo Loco.
The night started out innocently enough. A beer here. A tequila shot there. There was tons of Spaniards out (friendly as ever), that we exchanged words with. At some point however, I had an encounter with the little green fairy… and I hope NEVER to repeat our meeting. I was holding my liquor quite well actually, but that green stuff packs a mighty punch.
I remember walking home carrying my multicolored keys. Green goes to the door. Red to the roof. And Yellow your home. Somehow I managed to get back and pass out on my bed. The next day was hell. The one bright side to my miniature green misery, was I had some of the most vivid and spectacular dreams of my life.
My sister opened a second store in Dallas, and became wildly successful. My brother took over Metro cinema in Colleyville and he and Lela made an amazing indy theatre. Daniel nearly died in a motorcycle accident but was miraculously unharmed and vowed never to take such risks again. And so much more. I saw buildings get torn down, cities rise up….
This weekend, I’m heading to Malaga. It used to be the locale of the rich in famous – a Spanish Riviera of sorts. It is supposed to be lovely but extremely touristy now. However, the beaches are said to be charming and there is supposed to be a magnificent Picasso museum. In any case, do send me your numbers because I lost my book full of numbers. I plan on using my phone cards at some point to call people besides my parents…. Cool. Hope everything is well with y’all!
-Adam
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Stringing the moments together...
(Just FYI, I usually write this the day before then post it during my breaks in class the following day).
Life is a not made up of a series of moments. It’s a string of actions and events woven into a tapestry of existence. Some threads last forever, foreshadowing the future to come. Some change colors. Ambiguous in their course. However, all the threads in the end, interrelate and blend with the grander fabric of reality.
In other words, I’m a strong believer that events in our lives foreshadow other events, occurrences and events in the world are all interrelated. What you see in the world, becomes your world. The mechanics of this are beyond me. A friend of a friend is attempting to work out the Theory that unites all theories… but that is without a doubt beyond me. So as the mechanics are beyond me, my observation of this idea remains.
The events of the past two days mesh perfectly with this idea. Monday night, I was invited to the bar Cabo Loco. Though this bar, happens to be one of the few things I CAN find in this labyrinthine city, I got terribly lost. I found myself in an area with jazz clubs, art cafes, and record shops. Perhaps, a sevillano blend of U-street (Deep Ellum). The people had a peculiar look to them that I could not exactly put my finger on until I spotted two bars - El hombre y el oso and italica… It seemed I had stumbled into the Oaklawn (Dupont circle) of Sevilla… I wrote a mental note to myself, and continued to be lost for another 10 minutes.
Eventually I found Cabo Loco. We had a few drinks, and some Europeans came in. It was a mixed crowd of French people, Italians, and Sevillanos. I was, at the time, quite bored with my American amigos so, I decided to befriend these Europeans. Our mutual languages were broken English and broken Spanish. We tended to stick with Spanish because that seemed to be what they preferred. Apparently, most of them were exchange students from Europe who have been attending the Universidad de Sevilla for nearly the last year. The rest were expatriates and sevillanos that they had befriended.
I ended up leaving the Americans, and bar hopping with my new European friends. Needless to say the night didn’t end till the next morning… for various reasons… So much happened and it was great fun but I care not to recount. It would take too long, and I’m getting weary of writing in English. Ask me about it sometime over a drink and you’ll hear an interesting story indeed.
Lets just say, the threads of the last few days came together.
Tuesday, was a waste of a day. I wasn’t hung over… but I had only slept an hour for at least 24 hours if not more…. The siesta on Monday had not been very successful and I didn’t sleep that night at all. And so Tuesday, I was incredibly clumsy, got lost everytime I left the house, went to bed early, and was extremely anti-social and emo. I decided weariness gives me culture shock, because everything perturbed me, depressed me, and made me homesick.
Today is Wednesday, and much better than yesterday. I suppose its because I’m well rested but… there is not a problem in the world. I’ll likely go out tonight with my American friends, who mostly bore me, at Calle Besis – the clubbing, bar, youthful, area of the town.
Forgive my bad grammar and spelling. The more I write and speak Spanish, the less English makes sense to me. Español es más natural que Inglés. Perhaps this is a good sign?! No sé. I don’t know. I suppose my American friends here are good company but I miss everyone tons! Hope things are alright in D.C. and Dallas or wherever you may be! Talk to you soon.
-Adam
Life is a not made up of a series of moments. It’s a string of actions and events woven into a tapestry of existence. Some threads last forever, foreshadowing the future to come. Some change colors. Ambiguous in their course. However, all the threads in the end, interrelate and blend with the grander fabric of reality.
In other words, I’m a strong believer that events in our lives foreshadow other events, occurrences and events in the world are all interrelated. What you see in the world, becomes your world. The mechanics of this are beyond me. A friend of a friend is attempting to work out the Theory that unites all theories… but that is without a doubt beyond me. So as the mechanics are beyond me, my observation of this idea remains.
The events of the past two days mesh perfectly with this idea. Monday night, I was invited to the bar Cabo Loco. Though this bar, happens to be one of the few things I CAN find in this labyrinthine city, I got terribly lost. I found myself in an area with jazz clubs, art cafes, and record shops. Perhaps, a sevillano blend of U-street (Deep Ellum). The people had a peculiar look to them that I could not exactly put my finger on until I spotted two bars - El hombre y el oso and italica… It seemed I had stumbled into the Oaklawn (Dupont circle) of Sevilla… I wrote a mental note to myself, and continued to be lost for another 10 minutes.
Eventually I found Cabo Loco. We had a few drinks, and some Europeans came in. It was a mixed crowd of French people, Italians, and Sevillanos. I was, at the time, quite bored with my American amigos so, I decided to befriend these Europeans. Our mutual languages were broken English and broken Spanish. We tended to stick with Spanish because that seemed to be what they preferred. Apparently, most of them were exchange students from Europe who have been attending the Universidad de Sevilla for nearly the last year. The rest were expatriates and sevillanos that they had befriended.
I ended up leaving the Americans, and bar hopping with my new European friends. Needless to say the night didn’t end till the next morning… for various reasons… So much happened and it was great fun but I care not to recount. It would take too long, and I’m getting weary of writing in English. Ask me about it sometime over a drink and you’ll hear an interesting story indeed.
Lets just say, the threads of the last few days came together.
Tuesday, was a waste of a day. I wasn’t hung over… but I had only slept an hour for at least 24 hours if not more…. The siesta on Monday had not been very successful and I didn’t sleep that night at all. And so Tuesday, I was incredibly clumsy, got lost everytime I left the house, went to bed early, and was extremely anti-social and emo. I decided weariness gives me culture shock, because everything perturbed me, depressed me, and made me homesick.
Today is Wednesday, and much better than yesterday. I suppose its because I’m well rested but… there is not a problem in the world. I’ll likely go out tonight with my American friends, who mostly bore me, at Calle Besis – the clubbing, bar, youthful, area of the town.
Forgive my bad grammar and spelling. The more I write and speak Spanish, the less English makes sense to me. Español es más natural que Inglés. Perhaps this is a good sign?! No sé. I don’t know. I suppose my American friends here are good company but I miss everyone tons! Hope things are alright in D.C. and Dallas or wherever you may be! Talk to you soon.
-Adam
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