Celebrating the End in True Spanish Style: Drinking with My Professors By the River

And just like that, it´s over.

My Shoes Tell My Story

This week, as I prepare to pack, I am getting rid of a few things near and dear to my heart because they are just too run down to take home.

The first, of which I am struggling with most, is a pair of shoes. I threw out my shoes today, and it was if I was throwing out a bit of my time here in Europe. These shoes were, in fact, the way I made one of my best friends here, as she came up to me at orientation and said “I like your shoes”, from there we started talking, and we have been enjoying Spain together ever since. These shoes were also worn the first day I met my Señora, in my desperate attempt to look a bit more European. They have carried me through the labyrinth-like streets of Sevilla as I struggled to become familiar with my city. They carried me through the ancient halls of the Alhambra in Granada and the Alcazar in Sevilla and through countless cathedrals. They have carried me up the stairs of the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, and the Notre Dame. They carried me through the Roman ruins just outside of Sevilla in Italica, through the hills of Austria, through the hedge maze and sands of the Mediterranean Sea in Barcelona. They have carried me through the packed streets of Madrid, through airport terminals, metro stations, bus stations, and train stations (usually at a very fast pace). They have carried me over the “Puente de Triana” (bridge) and into the center of the city, managing to dodge the dog feces that litter the city, while carrying me to class every day and finally, back up the stairs of my apartment after a long day. In a lot of ways, I grew up in these shoes. The scuffs on the toes, the worn soles, and the smell, tell the story of my adventures in Europe.

The other thing I parted with today, but in a less dramatic matter, was my day-travel bag, which has been with me on all my trips thus far outside of Sevilla. It served me extremely well carrying my camera, Rick Steves travel books, metro maps, water, etc., that is, until the strap pulled out in Paris. I found a makeshift way to use it on the rest of the trips, using Velcro, and this worked well enough (aside from it often pulling off) until the day it pulled out and hit me in the face. At that moment I put my foot down and decided I must get rid of my loyal Target purchase. I could have brought it home and have it fixed, but since space in my suitcases is limited, I had to leave it behind. When I was explaining this all to my Señora, she said, “Don’t throw it away, I will take it to a zapatero (a shoe-fixer guy) and I will keep it as a memory of you”. So aside from accompanying me on all my travels through Spain and the rest of Europe, it will now accompany my Señora through the streets of Sevilla, quite an appropriate “resting place”.

I never thought I would be so sentimental about a pair of shoes and a cheap fake-leather bag, but then again I never thought that I would be so sad to go. I guess Studying Abroad really does change a person.

A Few Recent Random Moments in the Algeciras Household

Last Sunday my Señora’s son and his girlfriend came over for lunch. My Señora was in the kitchen furiously cooking up a storm, and I asked if I could help her with anything, expecting her to decline as usual. This time however, she actually took me up on it, saying that I could set the table, cut the bread, and ration out the picos (little breadsticks). While this may seem like an every day chore, this is a huge deal. Señoras never allow their students to do any work. To me, this was another sign that I had become her adoptive daughter. I smiled to myself as she made pork while I cut bread in the tiny kitchen, listening to her telling me the best way to cook pork (she has slowly been telling me her recipes), passing her recipes and traditions onto the closest thing she has to daughter: me.


On Monday evening I came home to a house reeking of beer. I quickly discovered why as I walked into the kitchen to give my usual greeting. My Señora was holding a spray bottle filled with Cruzcampo beer, watering her plants with it. She told me that her cousin had insulted the leaves of her plants (quite a large insult for my Señora) and that she was hoping the beer would make the leaves shinier. As she told me, all the plants needed were tapas and they would be set for the night.


The other evening my Señora came into my room with a book of 250 jokes, telling me that I should read them as study breaks. This is a result of her trying to tell us a joke and completely failing, at which point we got into a long conversation about “The Art of Joke-Telling”.


This past Saturday afternoon, I peeked my head into the kitchen to tell my Señora that I was running out to run a quick errand. She then asked me if I would do her a favor: run to the panadería (tiny bread store) she goes to every day (right around the corner from my apartment) to buy 3 loaves of bread and 12 eggs. She was asking me to go because she wouldn’t have time to do her hair before it closed (she has to look perfect to leave the house, even if it is a 2 minute walk). Once again, this may seem like nothing to all of you, but this is a big deal in the life of a student living with a Señora, aware of Spanish norms, and it signifies that she no longer considers me just a student and is not worried about inconveniencing me. I had to smile to myself because just that morning as I was out and about I saw a little girl coming back from the panadería and I was thinking how nice it would be to just go to the corner bread store and get your bread every morning. I went to our bread store, and ordered my Señora’s usual, feeling like a Spaniard, and thinking that I really don’t think I will be able to leave.


Saturday evening, my roommate Emma, my Señora and myself enjoyed a great dinner, discussing everything under the sun (including my Señora’s hilarious storytelling of how annoying mosquitoes are). After dinner, Emma and I went out onto our beautiful terrace to enjoy the magnificent evening weather and do homework, while my Señora sat in the salon sewing the aprons she will be giving to our Moms. She left the patio door open so that we could watch the talent-challenge show that was on TV, and at times we would all run into the salon to see what crazy talent (including someone stripping a woman’s clothes using a piece of heavy construction equipment) was being shown at the moment. We stayed until the wee hours of the night, enjoying each other’s company in silence. It is moments like those that I realize that I truly do have another family here, no matter how odd it may be, consisting of my Señora, my roommate, her sons and their girlfriends. I can’t explain how hard it is going to be to leave that family, and the pit in my stomach grows larger and larger as the day I leave comes closer and closer.


This Sunday was Mother’s Day here in Spain, and my roommate and I went out and bought a vase full of flowers for my Señora. The look of excitement and happiness on her face when we gave it to her, and the kisses she planted on our cheeks, were well worth the expense.

A Japanese Woman, a Gorge, A Bull (Last Weekend)

Last Saturday I visited Ronda, a white-hill town outside of Sevilla known for its beautiful views, massive gorge, and old bridge. All of my friends were either in Lagos for the weekend or studying for our upcoming exams, so I headed out on my own. About an hour into the bus ride, the Japanese woman sitting next to me asked me “¿De dónde eres?” (Where are you from? in Spanish). I rattled off in the Andaluz accent I have been practicing since arriving, and she gave me the blank stare that I am sure I have often given native Spanish speakers. I repeated it, more slowly, and we started talking. Turns out she was learning Spanish and was in Spain for 3 weeks traveling. She told me all about her travels in Spain and elsewhere, and I shared travel stories as well. As I was staring out the window thinking how amazing it was that a Japanese woman from Tokyo and an American girl from the Midwest were able to communicate in Spanish, a language that is neither of our native languages, she leaned over me and offered me her dried sardines.

The whole reason I went to Ronda was to hike down the gorge above which there is a giant, beautiful, bridge. The first half of the hike down, the part you are actually supposed to hike down, was relatively easy aside from the absolutely scorching heat. When I got down to the part where you are supposed to stop, there was a great lookout point of the beautiful waterfall, gorge, and bridge. I couldn’t stop there though, so I continued down a very narrow path, having to crawl under burr-covered trees, climb down cliffs (no joke), and jump over fallen trees. I finally came to the old foundation of a house, where there was an even better view of the scenery, one worth the climb. After admiring it for a while, I continued walking until I came to a mini-gorge. Someone had laid a board down in order to cross the gorge, and I decided to brave it and walk across that as well. Oddly enough, it wasn’t until I had precariously made my way across the board that I decided I shouldn’t keep going. At this point, the path become just wide enough for one shoe and was barely hugging the cliff. I decided that especially since I was alone, whatever view I would have would not be worth risking my life for. The climb back up was a challenging one, especially in the heat, but I finally made it up and rewarded myself with my bag lunch in a little shaded plaza looking over the valley below. The rest of the day was spent just wandering around and enjoying the city as well as hanging out in parks and relaxing. It was a great day.

The following Sunday, I went to my first Bullfight in the Plaza de Toros in Sevilla. I was expecting to absolutely hate it, which is most likely why I enjoyed it so much. If you can get past that it is cruel to animals, and that it is rather gross, you can appreciate and enjoy the tradition and emotion behind it all. Watching the bullfighters as they sauntered up to the bull, ready to “dance” with it, their lips pursed in this weird way was all too entertaining.

We were not watching professional bullfighters, but rather the ones closer to our ages that are training to become professionals. Because of this, we were able to see a bit more action. We were amazed to see how they start off, kneeling right in front of where the bulls are released, remaining that way until the bulls charge past them and at their cape. On one of these rounds however, there was a bit of a problem, and instead of charging past the bullfighter, it charged right and him, and he actually had to jump right over the bull. The speed at which he reacted was incredibly impressive.

As my Señora had explained to me, when a bullfighter does a particularly good job (getting the bull to run around him in a circle without moving and killing the bull with just one stab), the audience waves white handkerchiefs to signify that they want the bullfighter to get the bull’s ear. We were able to see this happen, and the boy’s reaction when he killed the bull with one blow was one of complete happiness. The crowd of course went wild, waving their hankies, and the master of ceremonies cut off the bull’s ear, handed to the bullfighter, and he paraded around the ring waving the ear bank and forth as the audience threw their sombreros into the ring. It was quite the moment to be a part of. One of the other bullfighters was not quite so lucky, and aside from the fact that the sword he tried to jab into the bull’s back was thrown from the bull and into the audience area, he was thrown by the bull (rammed into and then thrown around on the bull’s back) not once, but twice. As bad as it is for me to say, that was one of my favorite moments. Overall, I really enjoyed the bullfight and all the tradition it entails, and I am glad we suffered threw the blazing heat (tickets in the sun are significantly cheaper) and random gross moments when blood spurted from the bulls back to take part in such a storied tradition.

A Bad Day for the American Waistline, a Good One for the Spanish Soul

Yesterday when walking down the streets of Triana (my neighborhood) the guy that works at the pastry and coffee shop I frequent recognized my out of context. I feel this could be a sign that I go a little too often. Maybe the first sign should have been when I ordered my usual to go instead of to eat there and I threw off his whole day’s rhythm.

Part of The Family

By the luck of the draw, I have lived with a fantastic Señora for the past three months, someone who I will always consider my Spanish Mom. I would not have thought this when my name was called from the other end of the hotel by CIEE staff and as I nervously walked over to my Señora, decked out in her finest clothes, complete with heels (despite this fact the was still ¾ my height).

I can remember quickly introducing myself and planting a kiss on both cheeks before being asked, “How are you?” My response was truthful “Well, I am pretty nervous”. She responded that there was no reason to be nervous, then grabbed my largest bag and started dragging it through the hotel. I tried to protest, but since at this point my Spanish was horrible (both due to the fact that I had just arrived three days ago and because I was so nervous I don’t think I could have said a proper sentence in English), and since, as I have learned, I have a very stubborn Spanish Mother who refuses to let me do more than an ounce of work, my protests went unheard.

I can also remember walking along the narrow cobblestone streets with my luggage, me with an enormous backpack and suitcase, my Señora with a suitcase half her size. We must have looked like quite the pair. She tried to ask me numerous things, but I couldn’t understand a word (she has a VERY think Andaluz accent…for the record, it is well known that it is the hardest Spanish accent to understand), that is, until she asked, “Do you speak Spanish?” I responded yes, but since I was so nervous I was having a hard time. Most of the rest of our walk and wait for the taxi was in silence, aside from the click of her heels and the sound as my suitcase’s wheels rolled over the cobblestone path (a very distinctive but annoying sound). When in the cab, I caught my Señora looking over at me, inspecting me. I also caught the cabbie trying to stifle laughs as well as a confused look as he glanced in his rearview mirror, trying to figure out what this Spanish woman was doing with a girl who hardly spoke a lick of Spanish.

After a quick tour of my new home, I was left alone to unpack my bags and to wonder what the heck I was thinking when I decided not only to come to Spain, but to live with a Señora. As I unloaded all my possessions I had brought, organizing my armoire, I listened in on the many phone calls my Señora made, reporting to every person on the planet that I had arrived and was very “linda” (this means pretty on the inside) and “guapa” (pretty on the outside). As I was finishing unpacking my bags, I was called to lunch and I nervously approached the kitchen.

Over a lunch of turkey nuggets, fries, and other food I can’t remember, grasping at straws and trying to prove that I wasn’t completely inept, I asked how many other students she had had. “You are my first” she responded, trying to suppress a nervous smile. Suddenly, I thought I had a chance here. At the very least, she wouldn’t be comparing me to her other students, she would just think that all Americans are dumb as rocks. We shared a knowing look, now able to understand each other’s nerves and enjoyed the first of many lunches.

Now, those lunches are not something I dread, but something I look forward to. My Señora is more than just the woman I live with, she is my confidant. When something goes wrong here, I talk to her. When I have news from home, she is the first to hear it. When I have a question about where I can buy a pack of stamps, she is the one I ask. When I have absolutely no idea how I am supposed to peel the new oranges (we have to use knives now), and I royally screw mine up, she takes it, shows me how to peel it, and gives me a new one. When I need a good laugh, I listen to one of her stories (she is a hilarious storyteller, her facial expressions just do me in). We have shared stories of our families (I think she has my family tree memorized), stories of our past, music, pictures, and our lives.

That formal kiss that we planted on each other’s cheeks is no longer used, instead it has been replaced with the one she uses with her family members, where she kisses me numerous times on one cheek making this loud smacking sound (it actually grosses me out a bit). We have also breached Spanish norms and have actually hugged each other, each time one trying to comfort the other.

Now, when I catch my Señora looking at me, it is not a look of inspection, but a look of pride, a broad smile across her face. She has often said that she has noticed a huge change in me, both in regards to my Spanish, as well as growing emotionally (she says I have become a much more confident person, as well as other things). She often parades me around our neighborhood and Sevilla, introducing me to relatives, neighbors and friends.

That heavy Andaluz accent that I struggled with so much in the beginning has not only crept into my ears, but also my mouth, and often times I catch myself pronouncing words the Andaluz way. My Señora is very proud of this, and calls me her little Sevillana.

Now, my Señora no longer calls me with the name I introduced myself with so many weeks ago, but instead uses “Mi hija, guapa, bonita, and at times, mi hermana” (translating to my daughter, beautiful (both guapa and bonita) and my sister). All of these are terms of affection used between close friends and family.

I have not only slowly snuck into the life of my Señora, but also the lives of her family members. My Señora proudly relayed to me the other day that she was talking on the phone to her younger son’s girlfriend when the girlfriend asked what I was up to. In the background, my Señora heard her son yelling at his girlfriend “And what do you care what my sister is up to, she is mine, not yours”. The nieces have also become very possessive of me, having an obsession with an American they met the first week that could barely speak Spanish. Now, I not only speak Spanish well, but have them laughing as I tell them what a hard time I am having trying to dress like other Sevillanos, in a sweater and jeans, in the 90 degree weather (they found this so funny they retold the story to my Señora…twice). The last time the youngest niece came over to try on her Flamenco dress that my Señora was working so hard on, she brought with her trading cards of the statues that are on the Holy Week floats for me.

Because my Señora not only opened her home but also her heart, I think leaving my Señora and my new family here will be harder than when I left my family and friends behind in the States. My friendship with my Señora was an unlikely one, but it has come to be one of my most important ones. I know that I could never have survived this crazy Study Abroad experience without her. I can remember writing in an email, trying to express my concerns about leaving Sevilla to my parents, that I will always have my family at home, but I will not always have my family in Sevilla. Over time though, I have come to realize that while I may not see them as frequently, I will always have my eccentric, copla and flamenco loving Señora and her family.

Fa, A Long, Long Way to Bus, Metro, Plane, Bus, Train: Austria (April 5-April 12)

While most Spring Break students are packing their bikinis and shorts and leaving 30-degree weather behind to head towards 90-degree weather, I was packing gloves, hats, and mittens, saying goodbye to 95-degree weather, and heading to colder temperatures in Austria. As we stepped out of the airport after our epic journey and into Vienna however, we were pleasantly surprised by the “cool” 60-degree weather. We had finally made it to Austria, and we were ready to begin our adventure.

Our Austrian Extravaganza began in Vienna, mostly because it was the cheapest city in Austria to fly into. The highlight of our time in Vienna was the Opera we went to. We were unsure how to obtain the two euro standing room tickets (we just wanted to see the Opera Hall) but some kind, old Austrian man saw five confused, young Americans outside the Opera Hall and asked us if we needed help, then had us follow him around the outside of the hall into a side entrance, where he ordered us to stand in line. We really had no idea what to expect once inside, but luckily, helpful Austrian women taught us to hang our scarves on the railings to save our seats and also taught us how to work the monitors that would translate what was being screeched (some may call it singing). After about 30 minutes of the show we had had enough and headed out to one of the best dinners I have had in my time in Europe (and no, not because of the food).

We had quite the entertaining meal, topped off by me hitting the bench after biting into my pizza crust and hearing a loud crunch. In my typical, overdramatic way, in between laughs and to four very confused faces, I stated that I thought I had chipped my tooth. A second later, when feeling around my mouth, I realized I had, in fact, chipped my tooth. When I confessed this fact, everyone burst out laughing even harder, and I was left not knowing whether to laugh and cry (in the end I did a combination of both). For the rest of the trip I was referred to as Skaggle Tooth (a combination of Snaggle and Buck tooth).

On a spur of the moment decision, half of my group decided to buy train tickets to go on a daytrip to Salzburg. The minute we arrived we second-guessed our decision, since we had been dropped off in a snowstorm (remember, I had left behind 95 degree weather). Luckily, though, the storm tapered off and as the day went on the weather became better and better. The first half of the day we walked around Salzburg, doing a combination of normal site seeing and trips to places where filming was done for the Sound of Music. One of my favorites was hiking up to the Nonnberg Abbey and seeing absolutely breathtaking landscape.

At one point on our walk, we stopped in a narrow alley. We were standing in a triangle talking, when out of nowhere a group of pigeons started dive-bombing. This is a fairly normal occurrence in Sevilla, so I didn’t really react. One of my friends, Dorothy, however, pulled out a matrix move, bending backwards in order to avoid the pigeons’ wrath. I thought that she was totally overreacting, that is until I was “pidge-slapped” in the face. That’s right, I was hit in the forehead with a pigeon’s wing (I have witnesses to back me up). I, of course, was totally freaked out and screamed in an extremely high-pitched voice “It hit me in the head”, attracting the attention of everyone in the square. Dorothy and I were absolutely hysterical, finding the situation hilarious, and I was laughing so hard I was doubled over with tears streaming down my face, attracting even more attention. It took us quite a while to recover from the incident, and for the rest of the day every time a pigeon came near us we practically hit the ground in fear.

The second half of the day in Salzburg was spent on a Sound of Music Tour. Many may find riding around Salzburg singing songs from The Sound of Music, conducted by their tour guide Trudy a bit geeky, but I wouldn’t spend a day in Salzburg any other way. Trudy was so cheesy it was hilarious, and it was a great way to see where the movie was filmed and to see both Salzburg and the surrounding countryside. Much of the tour was spent reenacting scenes from “The Sound of Music”, and I am proud to say I was the only one to climb the trees that the cast did when they are hanging from trees dressed in curtains. After a great, exhausting day in Salzburg, we got back on a train and headed back to Vienna.

The following morning we woke up early and headed off to Hallstatt, a tiny mountain town of 500 people in the lake district of Austria. The train ride in itself was amazing, as we drove along rivers, up mountains, along lakes, and through beautiful countryside. When we finally made it to Hallstatt, I felt as though I had entered a storybook. Hallstatt is a beautiful town (it is a UNESCO World Heritage town) perched above a lake on a mountainside with one river contained by two very old walls that also serve as foundations for the houses ripping through the town center, and with another river lazily running through one far end.

Our walk with all our luggage from one end of the town to the other to get to our apartment took less then fifteen minutes, and along the way we came across many Austrian children anxious to say “hallo” and many elderly men anxious to tip their heads and smile. Our apartment was, just as the rest of the town is, perched above the lake, with a balcony with a beautiful view of the lake and surrounding mountains. Every morning was spent on the balcony eating pastries bought at the local bakery, watching the blazing sun and its reflection in the crystal clear water as it climbed up the sky.

Once settled in, the rest of the group decided to rest for a bit while I took a hike. At one point on my hike, I came across a road that I wasn’t sure if it was private or not, and when an Austrian man (dressed in the typical Austrian clothing) approached with a wheelbarrow full of wood, I pulled out the little German I knew “Privat?” He answered with a slue of German words, and when I gave him what I am sure was a very confused look, he switched to English and we had quite a little chat before he wished me a good hike and we parted ways. I hiked until I reached a good lookout point of the town and then headed towards the sound of rushing water, coming to a bridge crossing the violent river rushing below. After relaxing a bit and enjoying the scenery I headed back in a different direction, following a logging trail back into town.

The following day we all took a hike to a fantastic waterfall fed by a glacier. To get there we hiked through the town, through pastures, past other waterfalls, through evergreen forests covered in snow, over leaf-covered paths, up steep inclines, alongside the rushing river, and over old bridges until finally reaching our destination, a giant waterfall fed from three different directions. After admiring it from the observation area, we hiked down a precarious path to get closer to the water and explored the area, being sure to have good footing so we wouldn’t get swept away in the frigid, fast moving water. We found an area of slower moving water and decided to try the water, having read somewhere that the water was clean enough to drink. Yes, I drank the river water (it was absolutely fantastic) and no, I don’t have E coli…yet. After exploring some more by the river, we continued on a different path to find glacial gardens, an area of different types of landscapes formed by glaciers. We continued hiking up until the path ended, and then headed on our way back down. The rest of the day was spent relaxing after our exhausting hike.

The next day we rented paddleboats to get to the center of the lake. Our original plan had been to take a ferry out across the lake and to hike around half the lake, but since the railroad is out because of a nasty storm that ruined the tracks (for this reason we had to switch from a train to a bus when arriving) and the ferry only is there to take people from town across the lake to the train, the ferry wasn’t running. We had a great time out on the paddleboat nonetheless, and when we were sitting in the middle of the lake I heard this loud rumbling sound. I turned around to see that an avalanche was barreling down the mountainside. I could not believe it, it was quite the thing to experience, and pretty fun to watch from the safety of the lake. Later on that afternoon, under the guidance of our lederhosen-clad apartment owner, we took a bus up to see a glacier and the lake below it. Once again, our original plan had been to hike around the lake, but a massive avalanche had ripped through that side of the lake and the path, so we could only tackle one side. We did this, despite the sign warning “Do not pass, danger of avalanches”. Later on that evening, I took another hike around a less traveled part of town higher up on the mountain where the lake used to reach. I came across more Austrian locals, eager to, at the very least, give a polite nod and a “hallo”.

The next morning we reluctantly left Hallstatt by train, not eager to exchange the peaceful serenity, clean air, beautiful scenery, sounds of birds and water lapping against the shore, and pitch black nights accented by stars, with our hectic lives in Sevilla.

After 16 hours of travel by train, bus and plane, we finally arrived at the Madrid bus station and waited to start our 6-hour drive back to Sevilla. We were welcomed back to Spain by a fight between the rent-a-cops and what we now know was a homeless man. As the first punch was thrown, I eagerly turned to my friends, and said a little too loudly, “He just threw a punch”, attracting the attention of the man sitting behind me. He then tried to strike up conversation with me, asking me where I was from and what I was doing there before trying to offer me his half-eaten sandwich. He continued to ask the same question over and over again, one in which it took us a while to figure out what he was asking. It wasn’t until we were walking away to board our bus, as he yelled after us if he could come with and if I would take care of him, that we realized what he was asking. It turned out that he had mistaken me for a homeless person (yes, I was a bit offended), as he was one as well, and was asking whether or not we thought we were going to be thrown out on the streets like his friend just was. At this we all started laughing hysterically, another mix-up revolving around me. As my friends remarked that only I would be hit on by a random homeless man, I thought to myself both that we were a long way from Hallstatt, Austria, and that there could have been no more appropriate way to be welcomed back into Spain.