¡PODEMOS!

Alemania 0 - España 1

Words aren't needed. Just let your eyes drink in these photos.

They're just so beautiful.

Watching on a big screen with some friends.

Yep, Richard Cox happened to be passing through, so I brought him along.

Celebration spot of Sevilla, Puerta Jerez, of course.

Crazy in the streets. The solidarity was priceless.

"Campeones, campeones, OE, OE, OE."



As far as everything else goes...

I feel like I'm currently abiding in the twilight zone among...

... the attempt to subsist through the inferno of Sevilla (yesterday it was 114.8 F),
... the participation in the fanatical jubilee of the championship (see fotos and video above),
... the fact that I just lived one of the most beautiful weddings (and I say "lived" because I have been breathing, eating, and drinking this wedding for the last two weeks),
... and the shock of losing living life day in and day out with both of my two sisters (as we've done for the past two years).

As soon as I have a moment to process this lunacy, I will put up fotos of the gorgeous wedding in the Andalusian countryside and absurd "despedida de soltera" that happened in the streets of Sevilla.

¡ES-PA-ÑA!

NO way.

My house is currently a circus filled with an entourage of Sylvia's kindred from all over Spain for her wedding tomorrow, and while it's way more than slightly overwhelming... I LOVE it.

I don't know if it's the quantity of people or just the murderous inferno that Sevilla has been surreptitiously mutating into over the past few days (they have to invent a new word just to encapsulate the heat here in Sevilla because existing ones just don't cut it)... but I think I'm going CRAZY. No seriously.

So yesterday was a SUPER fantastical day referring to Spain's WIN in the EuroCup semi-finals to bring them to the finals against Germany on Sunday night. The game, of course, was incredible. We about 15 -20 girls stuffed in my piso, half of which were doing wedding "manis and pedis" at the kitchen table. I, however, was glued to the television set... half for my enjoyment of a REALLY good fútbol game and half for my shameless appreciation of the perfect male specimens that are Fernando Torres, Sergio Ramos, David Villa, and Iker Castillas. Mmmmmmm.

The game ended with Spain shutting out Russia 3-0 (yuhu!) and huge celebrations out in the streets complete with Spanish flags and car honking.

At this point... I went downstairs to meet up with some friends to"tomar algo" (aka grab a drink) at the bar under my house. And being the wonderfully responsible girl that I am, I offered to bring the trash and recycling down to the street. I grabbed my keys, my phone, a two euro coin, and three bags of nastiness.

I ran downstairs, pased my friends waiting below, and proceeded to throw out said bags in three different GI-normous trash/recycling bins on the street which happen to be located RIGHT in front of a happen' bar bursting with celebratory fútbol aficionados. I then went back to properly greet my friends with dos besos and I realized that my keys were no longer on my person.

Yes, I had in fact thrown away my keys.

Thrown them into the depths of the abominable filth that is the communal trash deposit for my block.

And what was worse... I didn't know which one of the three.

Chaos unfolds.

I run back to the bins to look for them.
In plain view of the hoards of people.
I start to attract attention.
Search #1 (through the depths of abominable filth of communal trash deposits), no success.

At my friends' suggestion, I run up to my piso just to make sure I hadn't left them upstairs. My sweet (unfortunately soon to be former) roommates both came down with me to continue the search.

Now we are three girls searching through trash in front of hoards of people dressed like Spanish flags.
People begin to ask me and my friends what we are doing and then offer their two cents.
"Why don't you just climb in?"
"Forget it, they're gone now."
"What if you got a giant magnet?"

Search #2 (through the depths of abominable filth of communal trash deposits), no success.

Side note: Sylvia's fabulous sister hung posters of the bride throughout our neighborhood that read (in Spanish) "The most beautiful girl in the neighborhood is getting married. Boys, how did you let her get away?"

There is a huge group of guys standing right in front of a pole donning one of said posters, and so while Sylvia is helping me look for my keys... I take the opportunity to draw their attention to the poster and that, in fact, the protagonist of the poster was right there in our midst.

They begin chanting (in Spanish) "Gettin' married! Gettin' married!"

At this point, I remember I have a mini-flashlight in my room and make another trip up.

Now, I'm looking through trash bins with a flashlight and conning my friends into helping me.
Search #3 (through the depths of abominable filth of communal trash deposits), no success.

Finally, I had to let it go and surrender to the fact that my keys were lost and gone forever in the depths of abominable filth of communal trash deposits.

We carry on with our evening.

So I'm stubborn and maybe a little obsessive. Right before going to bed, I pray. I tell the Lord that I know it's silly, but I need a little miracle, I need to find my keys. I tell Him I'm gonna get up a 5am to look for them (when there's no one in the street and to beat out the trash men.) And I write that all down in my journal as "proof" that the prayer was prayed for when it would be answered. I set my alarm.

I wake up at 5am this morning and run down to the street to find a heap of new trash from the happenin' bar cast out on top of the waste I had originally contributed to the depths of abominable filth of the communal trash deposit.

I open a second bin and begin transferring rubbish from the desired bin.
Then I uncover a buried box and hear a little rattle.

You've got to be kidding me.
NO way.

Prayer answered.
I've got my keys.
Rock my face off.

oh NO you jus' dint

Lemme tell you, friends.

Today Spain has made me hot. And I don't mean is just the temperature-sense of the word. I mean in the heated, huffy, inflamed, pissed sense of the word.

There have been THREE incidents in the last 24 hours that have left me utterly flabbergasted and entirely indignant.
In the words of William Shakespeare (which I will always remember from the abridged version of A Midsummer Night's Dream we performed in 6th grade)...
"I am amazed and know not what to say!"

I explain.

Well... yesterday was actually a day from a fairy tale. It was wonderful. It was kinda a "last hoorah" for Mari, Sylvia, and I as roommates before Sylvia gets married on the 28th and Mari moves to Barcelona on the 30th. We went to the Arab baths for a 2 hr circuit in the fancy baths (warm bath, hot bath, cold bath, salt bath, jacuzzi, sauna) and a 25 min massage, then to a nice restaurant for lunch, to a favorite spot for iced café con leche, a little shopping through the centro, the last fitting of Sylvia's wedding dress after which we take it home, rent a movie, and eat kebabs in our salón. As Sylvia said, it was like being on vacation in our own city.

BUT this is what happened.

Incident #1:

During my 25 minute massage (which in my perhaps slightly pretentious opinion is a short massage), I note the masseuse to become more and more lax with her massaging of my ankle. She is only using one hand. And it's not moving. It's the same lazy movements. Then I hear a "clickety clickety, clickety, clickety." And I think "nooooooooo, that can't be." But her hand doesn't move from that spot. In fact it even pauses. So I turn around enough to confirm my suspicions and SEE her texting on her mobile phone. YEP. TEXT MESSAGING. DURING my massage. She was holding it so she could see it in the light that was coming from the door that she left partially open (also a tacky move, but I'm picking my battles.) So when we're only talking 25 minutes of massaging... 4 minutes of texting is a pretty hearty chunk proportionally. Not to mention that it is sooooo the opposite of relaxing for the PAYING client. Tensing in fact.

So, to make a long story short, I decided to be a proactive and bold Julie Ann (which I've pretty much got covered in English, but it's been something I'm having to teach myself in Spanish). I asked for an "hoja de reclamaciones" which is the super official government complaint form that virtually every business/establishment in the country has. They're taken fairly seriously and are decently threatening.

Anyway... one of the receptionists is horrified and slightly tries to dissuade me from filling it out while the second one hands me the paper because its against the law to prevent someone the opportunity to complete the form when they've asked for it. This second receptionist also alludes to the fact that this is not the first time this has happened! (Whaaaaaat? This place is nice, it's not like your joe-blow salon, it's like a snazzy historical site recognized by the government of Andalucia.)

So, I fill it out and the nice receptionist goes and gets the "head masseuse." And now thinking back on it and talking over it with Sylvia and Mari... the head masseuse was pretty ugly about it all. She surreptitiously offered me another massage performed right then (ie after I had showered and dressed and had a full day planned), but said with the form completed I would have to wait a month for it to be processed. (Fine by me, I live here.) Through more talky-talky and subtle rudeness as if this woman were appalled by my "shockingly implausible" accusation which the receptionist had confirmed was not all that incredulous, I identify which girl was my masseuse, the woman offers a half-hearted cold apology saying she will go talk to the masseuse, and we (Sylvia, Mari, I, and my completed form) get up to go. We chat with nice receptionist, and I explain how I just thought it was better for them as a company if they knew. She (and Mari and Sylvia) affirm my actions, and we turn to leave. No sooner do we get out of the door when the head masseuse comes running up and says "ooh, just one more question. I've just talked with the girl, and she doesn't have her mobile on her now, but said that she was messing with her watch. Are you sure you saw a mobile?"

Whaaaaaaaat? Excuse me? Now you're calling me a liar? Done. I am sooooo turning the complaint form to the Oficina Municipal de Información al Consumidor. Take that.

Moving on.

I've been getting up at 7am lately to run before the merciless heat of Sevilla sets in at, oh, about 8:30am. So this morning I'm running on the great carril bici (those fabulous green bike lanes I wrote about earlier) because I read in the newspaper that wheel chairs, rollerbladers (yep, they still exist here), and RUNNERS are all allowed to use the carril bici. And I'm pondering the happenings of Incident #1 from the day before... you know, deliberating what I SHOULDA said or SHOULDA done, the typical.

Incident #2:

Then these two women, age 45 to 50ish, come riding by on their city bikes and start LITERALLY physically PUSHING me off of the carril, screaming about how I need to get out of the way, and dinging their dumb little bells at me. All the while I'm screaming "siiiiiiii, aquí se pueeeedeeeee" back at them. (Look at how proactive this Julie Ann is becoming in Spanish, wahoo.) Not the day to mess with me, Spain, Julie Ann is angry and assertive.

Moving on.

I continue my run, now contemplating both Incidents #1 and #2, replaying them in my mind and inventing better ways of telling off all parties involved in Spanish. Then the final and most horrible incident of all occurs.

Incident #3:

I am running in my brown yoga pants and Wal-Mart purchased white men's undershirt, and I feel someone COMPLETELY grab my ENTIRE left butt cheek and squeeze.

Horrified, I think "who in the WORLD do I know around here (that would be awake at this hour) well enough to handle my bum in such a manner?"

Then I realize that this RANDOM MAN (as in MAN in a business suit, tie, and helmet, not some punk teenager) on a moto/motorcycle thing has shot out of the normal traffic flow, lept up ONTO the carril bici/bike lane, and crossed it to where I am running on the dirt between the bike lane and sidewalk ... all to grope my ass. (I'm sorry, but this occurrence can only be appropriately described in such a vulgar manner as that.)

As he zips past me and I actualize and register the details of what just happened, all I can think is "I wanna punch him, I wanna punch him." I actually run faster after him with the intention of bodily harm. He once again crosses the carril bici and maneuvers himself back onto the road disappearing between cars into the four lanes of traffic. I am SO livid and outraged at the harassment that I SCREAM out a Spanish expletive after him.
I don't even care. I was just accosted. OH.

IT WASN'T EVEN 8AM IN THE MORNING!!

As my directora pointed out... the perv-o hadn't even yet had his café, went WAY out of his way and broke laws just to grab my ass... just to get his Thursday morning jollies at MY expense. And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Pure violation.

So there you go... physically abused and sexually molested before 8am (after being morally insulted less than 24 hours before).

I'm done. I'm so over Spain at the moment.
I went into work this morning and was like "I am sooooo ready for my American vacation. I need some USA."
Me toca.

i look like my mom.

Proof.

I know that Father's Day was just the other day, but I don't look as much like my dad.

But anyway... point being that there is a cute little boutique in Lexington that my mom and I like to shop at (when I'm home), and for Mother's Day, they had a "Mom/Daughter" lookalike photo contest. My mom entered us with these photos, AND WE WON. Haha. Now we get to split a gift certificate there. Word.

In the childhood photos, I think we're about 4-ish. I mean, identical. The other photo was taken last October when my mom came and visited me in Sevilla. Sweet, right?

Anyway... I have to go take my banana bread out of the oven... which is the indirect, but correlating result of the (very successful) bachelorette party that Mari and I threw for Sylvia yesterday (of which fotos will NEVER surface if I have anything to say about it.) Let's just say that I my Spanish vocabulary and knowledge has been amplified in unexpected ways. Fine by me. Her wedding is gonna be the shizz.

"i want to ride my bicycle."

For the rest of my life... looooong after this slice in Spain is completed... I will think back about my time here, and a few things will stand out.

The heat.
The ham.
The hair-styles.
My bicycle (hereby referred to as my bici... as in bicicleta.)

My bici has been an integral part of my life here ever since I purchased it (oh that glorious day in September 2007). It goes where I go and sleeps where I sleep.

Ok... I know I may seem a little obsessed, but you've got to try to understand.
Think about often you're in your car in a normal suburban town. You and your car spend a lot of time together. It's a pretty big part of your life. That's me and my bici. We're best buds, amigos íntimos.

Of course, our relationship is not perfect. There exist pros and cons.

Let's discuss, shall we?

Pros:

My bici gives me exercise (yuhu.)
My bici give me money... ha... or well it's at least economically smart and easier on my bank account (no paying for gas OR bus passes.)

My bici gives me time. It allows me to be in control of my life. I know how important this is... because I suffered my first year here living with the other option... which is living at the mercy of public transportation (aka the bus - pronounced boose in Spanish... that just makes it better when you say it like that.)

For a whole year I based my life around that durn schedule of the boose. They stop running at 11:30pm... therefore I had to plan nightly transportation accordingly. I had to calculate and allot time for the boose journey (plus traffic), PLUS the wait time for the boose to arrive at the boose stop, PLUS the walking time to my final destination. (Are you tired yet? Oh the joy of not having a car.) It's a miracle I ever went anywhere. So basically, my bici gave me my life back. I know exactly how much time it takes me to get somewhere, and I control whether it is more or less time. AND can leave when I want. I dictate my life. Not that stupid boose. Eat my dust, boose.

My bici gives me a free pass that would be the equivalent of passing GO, collecting $200, then taking a short cut to turn around and do it again collecting $200 more. That is to say that I have the freedom to ride on any and every type of foundation Sevilla throws my way. I explain.

First of all... we have these awesome green bike lanes (el carril bici) all to ourselves. They are pretty well laid out all over the city, and you can get almost anywhere on them. For instance, I ride on one all the way from my house to work everyday.

No carril bici? No problem, just ride in the regular road. We cyclers are not pedestrians, so we are more than capable of then riding in the road with all the smart cars.

Too much traffic on the road? Red light? No problem, just bump up to the sidewalk. We cyclers don't use any type of motorized transportation (ie a moped, motorcycle or car), so we can maneuver on the sidewalks or pedestrian streets alongside around the plebeians. (Side note... riding on the pedestrian streets is SUPER fun because it's like this huge, life-size version of "fording the river" on the Oregon Trail with obstacles that move and everything.)

Too many people crowding the sidewalk? No problem, just jump back down to the street.

Uh oh... confusing labyrinth-like one way streets? (and you're going the opposite direction) No problem, just ride to the side. The cars have no option but to go super slow (or else they would literally loose their side mirrors on these tight hallways they call streets.) If need be... just jump up onto the 15 centimeter space created by two side-by-side tiles that serve as the excuse for a sidewalk on these particular streets (more like side-I-will-put-my-body-flush-against-the-graffiti-decorated-wall-and-suck-in-my-stomach-as-much-as-physically-possible-walk.)

Sometimes I just marvel at the opportunities the bici gives. The possibilities are endless.
Freedom, I tell you. Complete freedom.

*Side note: no, I do not know if all of these actions are what one might actually call "legal," but I do know that I only repeat what I see the people here doing. "When in Rome..." Right?


Ok, so I won't claim that life with my bici is entirely perfect.

Cons:

My bici makes me arrive everywhere I go (in the summer) sweating like a fat man in a sauna on the surface of the sun.

My bici is concern when left in any place that isn't inside my house or work. Attached to my bici, I have no less than four locks with which to chain it to appropriate "parkings" such as a bike rack, or more likely a tree or sign. SOME people in Sevilla are real jackals and are super into stealing bikes, so bike theft is HUGE. My friends Beth, Raquel, Loyda, Dany, and most recently Ashley have each been made victims within the last year... and considering that I don't know all that many people here... this is a pretty large percentage. PLUS, Dany has actually had TWO bikes stolen from his PISO.

Actually, a few days ago... I was the victim of an attempted theft during PLAIN DAYLIGHT in the middle of a centro comercial (a mall) that has freaking (useless) security dudes! I knew this because when I got to my bici, the lock was all contorted (and now the plastic covering is jagged and torn,) and the quick release device for the bike seat had been pried off and discarded to the side. (Luckily, I am anal about locking my bike, so the seat was locked to the back wheel, and they were unable to take it.) And luckily, I'm also some sort of genius and was able to fix it that night. Uf. The whole situation has left me feeling such hostility towards these burglarious scoundrels. Yep, I'm pissed.

No, seriously... what is it that makes these vile crooks think that it is honestly OK and valid to take something from someone else? How do they sleep at night?

Also... come to look at it... these cons are not a fault of my precious bici, but rather outside factors of the cruel, heated (temperately speaking) world in which we live.

¡Viva la bici!



PS... I paid my debt at the cafe.

real grace.

So, I got home supér late from a concert last night, and then got up rather early to go to church this morning. I hastily dressed myself up, got my purse together, and left my house on my bike. I got about 3 minutes down the main road and thought "crap... I left my Bible and journal (which I clearly like to have) at home." So, I turned around and went all the way back to get them. Then, I headed out again to church.

Church is about a 35 to 40 minute bike ride from my house which I don't mind at ALL because a) I like to ride my bike and b) it takes me by virtually every important landmark in Sevilla that, yes, are frightfully becoming more and more banal each time I see them.

Plaza de España, Parque María Luisa, Plaza de las Americas. Check.




River and the Torre de Oro. Check.





Puerta Jerez. Check.
Catedral. Check.









Plaza Nueva. Check.








Alameda de Hercules. Check.

I don't even have pictures of some of this stuff because it's just so ordinary. I should fix that.

Anyhoo... I always stop to eat breakfast at a café that is about 5 minutes from my church (so about 30 to 35 minutes from my house.) I chained my bike up outside, walked in, and ordered a café con leche and a tostada entera con mantequilla y mermelada de melecotón (toast with butter and peach marmalade... honestly possibly one of my absolutely favorite things about Spain.)

As I sit down and get out my journal to begin my Sunday morning ritual of contemplating life and recording those oh-so-provident-and-precious musings into its anticipatory pages... I'm fishing around in my purse and realize that in the midst of getting it together this morning (which included relocating the contents of the last night's purse from the concert to the bigger purse to go to church this morning... which also happened to be the purse that went with my dress... you see, I am what the Spanish would call very "fashion"... ha. right. anyway)... the pocket book did not make the transfer! Aaaaaahhhh. I literally had no money on me. Zero euros. Cero zapatero.

I go up to the counter and explain my stupidity and forgetfulness to the chica working. She was so wonderful and just said "don't worry about it, you can come by later today, tomorrow, or the next day and pay... whenever you can." I have never had that happen to me before, anywhere in the world.

Cool, right?
That's real grace.