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.