the ineffable solace of a desert laden

Adventures of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b

2009-02-20T01:11:00.002+01:00

Frequent happenings, by definition, are ordinary experiences in our lives.

In certian cases these experiences might actually be odd or downright outlandish, but we never realize it because of the regularity its occurence. It is in these instances that it is more than worthwhile to step outside of the normalcy of our lives in order to appreciate the depth of peculiarity.

I invite you into one of mine that takes place in my very building of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b.

There is a woman (God help her) who lives in my building who is unfortunately very ill. I think she might be schizophrenic, which is hard. I want to specify here that her sickness is NOT funny at all, I wish I knew how to help her... but rather that some amusing situations result from these adverse circumstances.

I have now been living in Spain for two and a half years. Before I ever knew this woman lived in my building, I actually coincided with her on the #6 bus my FIRST week of life here. Vaya casualidad. And it was a pretty memorable experience.

At the ungodly hour of 6:45 in the morning, she climbed onto the bus SCREAMING (remember the ungodly hour) and demanding she be taken to the police station, never mind that she had no money to pay for a ticket, because her purse had been stolen. She held up our bus until the following bus caught up to the first. The rest of us passengers unloaded and boarded the second bus hoping to move on with our Tuesday morning, only to realize that she had in fact followed us to bus number two as we watch the first bus peel away in triumph. There are more details, but suffice it to say the episode lasted 45 painful early morning minutes, including dramatically advising potential passengers not to board and "save yourself while you still can" as if we were incarcerated, making compatriots out of strangers as only mutal suffering can. I spent the rest of that year exchanging knowing nods each time I boarded the bus and one of those particular other passengers was present. But I digress...

To explain a little bit more about my beloved building of 19b on Avenida Reina Mercedes, as is typical in Spanish apartment buildings, most of the flats have windows which give to an unexciting, inward patio housing some sort of generator and providing a space for the multitude of necessary clothes lines and such. Now, upon first moving here, I had the bedroom closest to the stairwell with one of these windows to the patio. Then, it only took about a month or so for it to begin.

The screaming.

Sometimes late at night.
Sometimes early, early in the morning.

It was from the stairwell... or from the patio... I don't know. But I recognized the voice. Oh how could I ever forget that voice from the shrieking session on the #6 bus that fateful Tuesday morning.

And it's the what that she screams (present tense, it still happens) that is so bizarre, too. Sometimes you can't make it out, but at othert times it is clear. "¡¡Asesinos!! Murderers!! They're trying to kill me!!"

I would wake up and hear it. After a while, I came to expect it. I learned to just try to go back to sleep. Herego the frequent happening that became ordinary.

A few months ago, I moved to another bedroom in our apartment, and my new roommate Maca moved in. She is hilarious and embodies all of the Andalusian art of humor in the world. She'll start telling a story and have me rolling, with tears flowing in about two minutes (which might not be saying much because I realize I laugh easily, but seriously, the woman is stinkin' hilarious.)

The first night she heard it, she came to me all worried.
Maca: "Julie... ummmm... there was a woman screaming last night that someone was murdering her."
Me: "Oh yeah... she does that. Don't worry, the poor thing is just ill. She can't help it. You don't need to be scared."
Maca: "Hmm... you think you could have mentioned that."

But now, it's this totally normal thing. And bizarre bit is that the WHOLE building that has windows that give to the patio have this unspoken, mutual knowledge and tolerance of this woman's eccentric habit of screaming at blasphemous hours. And furthermore, she doesn't just scream while sitting inside her house, she purposely goes to the window and leans out to scream so everyone will hear her.

One night she started screaming her usual "¡¡Asesinos!! Murderers!!" at 4am, and some brave (dumb) neighbor decided to politley ask her to stop, "Señora, silencio por favor, Madame, silence please." Well, she kept hollering, but changed her rant to "¡¡No me pienso callar!! I will not even think about quieting down!!" for the next hour and a half in protest to his grievance.

So now, as Maca says, this woman starts a session of bellowing untrue, absurd accusations and the whole building just lies in bed in silent endurance... everyone knowing that everyone else is awake as sleeping through such boorish declartions is impossible... clinging to the hope that she will quiet down... and praying that no one says ANYTHING... because they all know that if someone dares... they can expect another hour of the theatrical broadcasting of her objections to the complaint.

So there you have it, one of the best kept secrets of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b.
It's as normal as bread and butter.
You are all invited to experience and partake.

Snap, back to reality

2009-01-25T16:42:00.004+01:00

Well, kids.

After a beautiful month of vacation in the Western Hemisphere including the following:
a divine week under the golden sun on the beaches of Turks and Caicos (absolutely nauseating, I assure you) with my hilarious family (yes, matching baby blue polos with the emblem "Burandt 2008 Holiday" on the right breast pocket were definitely donned for Christmas Eve dinner)...

a refreshing visit to Washington DC over New Year's/my 25th birthday...

a quick, thoroughly entertaining jaunt down to Nashville...

and a nostalgic and replenishing weekend down to Winston-Salem, NC home of the alma mater Wake Forest and a stop-over in Charlotte...

each sojourn complete with precious hours of quality time spent with friends so inexpressibly dear to my heart...

I found myself one week ago today back in Sevilla, Spain where I had a quick, bitter dose of reality.

As we all know, one coolest things about "real life" is paying bills. (For those of you who may have happened upon this musing and therefore might not know me extremely well, read sarcasm.) Let me also assure you, that paying bills in another language and a foreign country where they do things just different enough from the US so as to confuse you does not make it any cooler, but rather, more frustrating (imagine that). In fact... I went all fall waiting and waiting for power bills to reach my mailbox so I could pay them, but they never came.

So when I arrived in my piso (apartment) last Sunday afternoon to find two backed up electricity bills comfortably coated by a substantial mantle of dust and total dishevelment of personal effects, I greeted reality, acknowledged "I don't think we're at Club Med anymore, Toto," and wondered what in the world my roommates could have possibly doing while I was gone that they couldn't some how prevent or at least soften the current hazardous state of our piso. But, I digress. I put myself to work, paid some bills and cleaned.

The following day, Monday, consisted of a day's work followed by an enjoyable lunch and afternoon with my ex-roommate Sylvia. Then, my current roommate Lidia called me with the bomb. She returned to our house that day to find it without power. Curious. Did I know why? No, in fact, I just paid two bills the day before. I tried to problem solve for her from Sylvia's house to no avail, and ended up coming home to a FREEZING piso and putting myself to bed by candlelight, resolving to talk to the doorman in the morning to see if he had any help to offer our predicament.

Tuesday, I woke up as an ice cube and went to pay another community/water bill (yoohoo) to turn in to the doorman as I asked him about our electricity. (See how I know how to work the system?) So I gave Paco the receipt to the communidad and asked if he knew anything about our electricity. That's when he laid it on me. "Yeah, they cut off y'all's power yesterday."

WHAT?

Excuse me? Did I hear you right? They CUT OFF my power? Couldn't be. I hadn't gotten a notice. I paid two bills yesterday online. He suggested I go call and check it all out. She-yeah.

I pick up the phone. Time out... it's wireless therefore doesn't work without electricity... guess I'll call from my cell. Might as well bust out the computer to try to pull up my online proof of payment for our conversation. Time out... there's no internet when the WiFi in the house needs electricity to run.

This is when it hits me. I didn't realize this actually happened to people, like not in the movies.
I thought you had to be like a red-neck, white cracker to not pay your bills and therefore have your power cut off.
Awesome. I AM that red-neck, white cracker.

Well... an hour later which consisted of talking to two different phone operators, getting hung up on, reciting myriads of payment information, and suffering through an extremely painful version of someone singing "the sun will come out tomorrow" while on hold... as if the power company somehow knew that the clients utilizing their help line would be desperate and in need of a little reassurance albeit in the form of cheesy music, not to mention sung in a language that the wide majority of Spaniards don't understand.... we finally came to the conclusion that there was yet a THIRD bill that has still not arrived in my mailbox, that I paid over the phone then and there with a debit card. Sweet Moses. She said she'd send for the notice to get my power back on ASAP and reinstate me as a respectable citizen of the earth who pays their bills.

The fact that I am able to write this and put it online is proof that I have internet and am paying my bills. My only worry now is that Paco may never look at me the same.

party time, excellent.

2008-12-02T11:09:00.004+01:00

I woke up this morning and my hair resembled that of Garth Algar, co-host of Wayne's World.

The similarities were a little too close for comfort.

Thank God for flat irons.

I no longer look like him now.

if you were a fly on my wall...

2008-11-20T01:17:00.002+01:00

It's currently 1:21am.

If you were a fly on the wall of my room right now...

1) You'd be freezing. According to the internet... it is currently 8 degrees Celsius (around 20 degrees Fahrenheit) which means it's probably 6 degrees Celsius inside my bedroom because, in fact, my piso works much like a refrigerator... rejecting any and all heat attempted to be generated by my mini-radiator and minute space heater.

2) You'd be listening to an endless string of Sevillanas (the branch of flamenco, in both dance and song, specific to Sevilla), and you wouldn't be able to stop it nor figure out where it's coming from. It's not coming from outside as I've checked my window multiple times, so I've concluded it must be coming from the apartment above me. I know it's not coming from the apartment beside me because an old couple lives there... I can hear them mumbling/shouting their conversations at night.

Bed time.

spicy sports

2008-10-17T12:14:00.008+02:00

Keeping in step with the "sporty" theme of life... the other day a few of my students, Mercedes, and I participated in Sevilla's Carrera de la Mujer (Women's Race) to support breast cancer research. Translation, a 5k (about 3 mile) race that both started and ended in the Plaza de España. The experience was rich, to say the least.

Highlights:

The fact that any woman who actually desired to run this "race" had to navigate through a sea older Spanish señoras who placed themselves the front of the starting line wearing long skirts and tennis shoes, carrying purses, and sporting their women's race t-shirts with their official numbers pinned to them.

It is also worth noting that these same señoras did not actually complete the 5k as I saw them mosey-ing through the park on the other side of the race barriers as I was completing my second loop of the park. Cunning foxes they are. Foiled again.

At the end of the "race" was what I consider a fairly good representation of the female stereotype in a society attempting to break-free from its machista roots. That's right... a massive AEROBICS class held in the middle of this national monument. Let the record show that the majority of the class was led by MALE aerobics instructors. Ha. Ha.

I must say, participating in a gi-normous aerobics class with hundreds of Spanish women in the middle of a renown Spanish superstructure (featured in George Lucas's Star Wars: Episode II, which I have never seen) was nothing short of hilarious. Not many can claim that. However, after a few grapevines and box steps, it did lose its luster and we peaced out, but not before milking all the sponsors' booths for all the sweet free stuff they were distributing (ie the BEST part of any race.) I am now the proud bearer of a number of things that no women should live without such as pink breast cancer awareness shoe laces, a tube of chapstick on a cord to hang around your neck, a new pair of socks, a pink quick-dry towel, and a pink sporty knapsack thing in which to deposit it all.

Good healthy fun had by all.

it's good to have American friends in foreign countries...

2008-10-12T18:56:00.008+02:00

... because then you can have a conversation such as the following and fully appreciate it.

Scene: Julie Ann and Beth walking down typical Spanish street filled with motorcycles (motos).

Julie Ann: You know, I have to admit... motos are pretty hot.

Beth: Well, that depends.

Julie Ann: On what?

Beth: Well, like if it's a Harley or if it's a "got-room-for-one-more-if-you-still-wanna-go-to-Aspen."

Few things satisfy more than a well placed quote from an endearing American classic such as Dumb and Dumber... even more so when the people with whom you interact daily are (to no fault of their own) incapable of appreciating such genius.

"LLOYD, when I think you couldn't be any dumber, you go and do something like this... and TOTALLY redeem yourself."

Now Beth and I play the "hot or not" game with the motos we see. In case you're wondering, the new Vespas = hot.

Special thanks to Beth Smith, Lloyd Christmas, and Harry Dunne for making this blog possible.

sporty spice

2008-09-27T13:46:00.006+02:00

So, I only like writing a blog entry when I have something of potential interest to impart to my following of voluntary readers. Since my last rather melancholy, transitional post, I have been happily shifting into regular life here and waiting for "blog-worthy" experiences to occur. But of course blogging requires much more than simply the occurrence of events worthy of recording... it also necessitates the correct writing environment.

Now on this beautifully poetic rainy Saturday morning of monochromatic, indecipherable skies and rain drops invisible to the ear and eye until heard and seen dancing off the railing of my open window... accompanied with an appropriate rainy-day music selection of Tracy Chapman, the aroma of a tiny "mandarin-cranberry" Yankee candle, and the soothing effects of a pomegranate green tea... I have found the ideal circumstances for blog writing. Enjoy.

Like I said, I've been settling back into my daily Spanish routine with work (which has been wonderful), siestas, a Madonna concert, and spending time with friends (including a trip down to Málaga to visit Patri and Miriam). But looking at the not-so-common aspects of my life as of late... the theme would have to be "sporty."

A few weeks ago, I woke up to head to work and discovered my transportation (aka my bicycle) had a flat tire. Optimistically, I filled it up in hopes that the re-inflated tire would successfully carry me to work. It got me about half way there. But upon arriving to work, Leslie (my fabulous director/boss) informed me about a nearby bike repair shop and suggested I go immediately. (Yes, I realize my job is beyond-words amazing.) So I went, and for the small price of five euros I obtained a new tire and the knowledge of their bike club that organizes constant bike trips outside the city, the upcoming and most unique one being a night trip which they schedule for every full moon.

So, shaking off any and all fears of arriving and not knowing a soul (if I've learned one thing by living here for two years, I've learned to dominate the apprehension of situations where I know NO ONE... that's basically my life)... I arrived at the specified plaza and found out 40 people... only about FOUR of which are women.

We donned our helmets and bike lights and headed out of the city towards the country. It was such a singular experience riding on paths up massive hills, across fields, and through orange tree groves all bathed in the gentle glow of the moonlight. I think I spent most of the trip repeating "shut up, SHUT up, shut up, Lord, are you serious?" in my head. I was also able to meet some people (most of whom happened to be men, I mean, what do you expect from the percentages), all of whom , at the realization that I was from the United States, had the common tendency of recanting any and every travel they had ever made to North America... for instance "I've been to Montana." Hmmm... that's nice.

I was talking to one guy, and another decided to show off by zooming past in between up, but only succeeded in colliding into the dude with whom I was talking bringing them both to the ground in a heap of mountain bike and Spanish men in spandex. A lovely look, I assure you.

Also, the owner of a tetería, an Arabic style tea shop found all over southern Spain, also participated in the mini-trip and invited the whole group for free drinks afterwards. Yup, a Monday night I was out mountain biking and drinking a juice of exotic fruits till about 2am. Only in Spain. PS... I'm not in many of these pictures that I swiped from the store's website. But here in this last one I'm (clearly not in the foreground, but) in the background... riding with no hands, I might add.

My second sporty event was actually last night... Sevilla's annual night race around the Guadalquivir River. I had never been able to do it the past two years of being here, so I was pumped to sign up for this free event. Let's see... 10,000 participants (probably fair to say about the same ratio of women participating in this event... or even less... than in the bike trip... aka lots of dudes.)

I was most excited about running around Sevilla through the streets at night... there's something incredibly freeing about running down main thoroughfares that you've been on in cars of buses just with your own two legs... plus Sevilla is just beautiful at night.

However, I will say that I do not think that the main challenge was completing the 12 kilometers, but rather the avoiding of contact with the grotesquely sweaty men through the narrower routes of the race. These guys had NO problem brushing up against me with an entirely saturated appendage, it makes me ill just reflecting on it now... OH the humanity.

Let me also say how I thought the amount of "attention" given to the participators was slightly exaggerated at the end... massage therapists and podiatrists after 12 kilometers (roughly 7.5 miles). Come on people, this is no marathon... this is like a weekend run. Which also brings me back to the bizarre Spanish phenomenon of not only the presence of beer for sports PARTICIPANTS (not just spectators), but also the HEALTH BENEFITS of said beer. I don't think I will ever come to understand that... somehow every required health class I ever had in high school and college in the US missed that apparently obvious fact. But I'm not complaining... at the end of the race, I received an apple, a cheesy medal with a rainbow ribbon, and a t-shirt that resembles the color of a highlighter. Yoohoo.

Don't worry... my sportiness doesn't end here. Next week, I'm participating with Leslie, Mercedes, and some students in a short Sunday morning 5k "women's race" sponsored by the city to benefit breast cancer research all around the Plaza de España and Parque María Luisa. What can I say? I like to be active, and I like to be outside. Except on rainy days like today... these are perfect inside days.

Today is a day for baking cookies... watching movies... and maybe (if the rain allows) a trip to Starbucks which I have pending. (You see... Starbucks is so ungodly expensive here that it is a true treat and only allowed when "Spain" does something so frustrating to you that a trip to a ridiculously expensive American franchise is not only deserved, but is also pretty much the only thing that will keep you from collapsing to the ground in a pile of defeat. I have one of those saved up from this past week.... yesssssssss.

welcome back.

2008-08-27T18:46:00.002+02:00

welcome back. welcome back. welcome back.

It's year 3.
It's a crisp 107.6 degrees Fahrenheit outside.
I do nothing more than simply pass through the threshold of my un-airconditioned home and strip off EVERY last layer of clothing.
(What? My roommates aren't back yet.)
The name of the game is survival.

Transitions.
I’m bad at them. But I'm surviving them, too.

(Warning: I’m trying to keep myself from getting too “existential” which is why I’m writing this on Day 3 back in Spain rather than on Day 1. Logically, I get less and less emotionally overcharged as time passes… but let it suffice to say that the days right before, during, and right after such transitions for me are rather loaded.)

Thank God I've got the (more than sufficient) distraction of work to keep me from over-contemplating the back and forth, the ebb and flow, of maneuvering between two different lives while maintaining the same persona.

It's not that I am a different person... quite the opposite... I like to think that I am the same Julie Ann no matter where I am.

But I think it's comparative to trying to weave together the fabrics of two very different cultures.
They are both very strong and beautiful textiles…
each having their place and purpose…
forming a specific part of my wardrobe.
But they don’t blend together naturally…
they require effort to cohere…
and there are very few, thin threads to do the job.

It costs me dearly every time I leave a place.
But I’d much rather it be like so than any other way.

I stumbled across this quote which I think captures everything about me at the moment.
I love you all. Thank you for loving me.

you can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you,
but at the same time you carry them with you
in your heart,
your mind,
your stomach,
because you do not just live in a world
but a world lives in you.

frederick buechner, telling the truth.

wedding of the year

2008-07-09T01:31:00.006+02:00

I can honestly say that Sylvia and Ruben's wedding was absolutely the most original wedding I have ever seen.

Once again, I'm just going to try and let the pictures speak to try to capture the lunacy and the beauty of this wedding.

To begin, the night before, for a last second bachelorette party, about thirty girls dressed in wigs to partake in tomfoolery through the streets of the old centro of Sevilla.

Note the cathedral in the background. Normal, right?

The day of the wedding a heat wave straight from the deserts of AFRICA hit us. According to the paper it hit 46 degrees Celsius (114.8 degrees Fahrenheit)... and my house has NO air conditioning, so we suffered every last degree all day long. My friend, Steph, managed to capture this proof when it was only a brisk 45 degrees (113 degrees). But seriously, Sylvia's 11-year-old cousin and 1-year-old niece were at our house and were physically getting ILL because of the heat... poor Rafa was BARFING. I mean, this heat is inhumane, poor little bodies literally can't even handle it.

This is actually the only picture taken with my camera where I actually show up from the whole day. Sad. In an effort to not overwhelm the bride, I didn't even get a picture with her which makes me want to cry. And any other photo of me was taken with someone else's camera.

Bridesmaids don't really exist in Spain, but I had the absolute honor of being the ONE to help Sylvia into her wedding gown...

... and then accompany her in the car to the ceremony. THIS is a completely exclusive foto.

The wedding was at an Andalusian hacienda belonging to an uncle of Ruben.

They played two U2 songs during their ceremony, "One" and "In the Name of Love"... I said it was original.

Sylvia SANG her wedding vows to Ruben... precious.

I captured perfectly Sylvia's reaction to Ruben promising her they would "enjoy" that night together.

Ruben and others definitely ended up in that pool by the end of the night (ie around 4am).

Here is the only foto where you can see my lovely dress... with Stephanie (a DEAR friend and work collegue) and Loyda (future roommate from Colombia).

Here we are again with our friend Johnny from Costa Rica. He likes Petra.

The decorations were ridiculous, and you wouldn't believe the amount of things they were gifted or comped for this wedding... the Lord was blessing them left and right.

Not to mention there was also a concert after the whole tapas part.
AND the fact that instead of throwing the bouquet at the end of the wedding, the bride chooses a special (single) friend to gift it to... she gifted it to me. I might have cried... a lot.

It was an absolutely magical, charming, joyful, and bittersweet wedding, and the novios come back from their honeymoon today, and I can't wait to talk to Sylvia!

¡PODEMOS!

2008-06-30T16:26:00.006+02:00

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.

2008-06-27T13:10:00.007+02:00

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

2008-06-19T16:21:00.007+02:00

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.

2008-06-17T16:12:00.004+02:00

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."

2008-06-08T16:10:00.008+02:00

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.

2008-06-08T14:48:00.005+02:00

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.

self-reflection.

2008-05-28T15:13:00.006+02:00

There is nothing like a good, solid two weeks with the family to inspire good, old-fashioned self-reflection in a person.

I explain.

So, fourteen days after non-stop European travel and fun... the Griswald... I mean Burandt family arrives in the beautiful capital of Madrid where a disgraceful amount of water is pummeling the city from its former aerial location among the Spanish heavens.

We walk out of our hotel and into mortal combat against the pluvial showers...
Mom and I struggle with the wind to find the precise degree of angle so that our matching three Euro plaid umbrellas (purchased in Rome... so that would make them Italian and therefore cooler) do not cruelly fold inside out upon themselves, therefore creating awesome "brellabowls"...
Dad and Brother Ben (who are too manly to necessitate our wimpy umbrellas) battle some-sort of psychological war of attrition, like if they just withstand the rain enough... it will stop.
So Dad dons his "Italia" baseball cap (bought as a replacement for the baseball cap he brought, then lost, but later found in his suitcase) and Ben, his hoodless Arcteryx water-resistant jacket which has long since lost its insusceptibility to water, having transformed into a rather absorbent sponge jacket.
We can all imagine how rain reacts to mind games... and the two of them soon huddle with Mom and I under our Italian umbrellas.

Well... God REALLY loves us, and this particular day he decided to demonstrate his love through the provision of a movie theater which features movies in "versión original" (ie the original language) with Spanish subtítilos. AND what is more... the theater was freaking flanked by two of the most quintessential, amazing American institutions.
That's right.
Starbucks and McDonald's.
So... Dad heads to MickeyD's while Mom, Ben, and I spend a sinful amount of money in Starbucks which God forgives us for because he provided the spot and was giving out special grace because of the Spanish monsoon that was falling.

THEN we all see a showing of the new Indiana Jones (with Spanish subtitles) on opening day, while indulging in a large popcorn and diet coke (with four straws) like six hours before it was even released in the US... wahooooooo.

(I promise I'm getting to the self-reflective part... here it is.)

I tell you all this to explain how it is that we arrive back of the hotel... having walked back in the SAME rain that we endured on the way to the "cinema"... and decide to pamper ourselves in purchasing a movie to watch in the hotel room. (To me, an American treat.)

So we choose the movie Hot Fuzz.
Now, I don't know how many of you have seen this movie. (Maybe I just live over here in Spain and therefore am WAY behind on movies... very true.)
But I had never even heard of this one... and my parents had seen it for some reason and suggested it.
Now I don't want to ruin it for anyone because I honestly suggest you ALL see it because it is HILARIOUS and one of the most enjoyable movies I've seen in a LONG time (which I surprise myself in saying because I am not one for British humor... yep... don't think Monty Python is funny and don't really care to give it any more than that one chance to prove itself.)

But here is how faithful IMDB describes it... just to give you a point of reference:

Jealous colleagues conspire to get a top London cop transferred to a small town and paired with a witless new partner. On the beat, the pair stumble upon a series of suspicious accidents and events.

Ok... not giving anything away... there is this GREAT scene where these ordinary, everyday people start doing that classic Jean-Claude Van Damme style hardcore fighting, and in watching that... this entirely new thought occurred to me.

How would I, Julie Ann Burandt, fare in true, intense hand-to-hand combat?
OR... what if I was even doing it... with WEAPONS?

Now, maybe you dudes have thought about this before... but this was TRULY a NEW thought for me.

How would I manage? Could I do it? I mean... maybe I don't have the skill... but I've got a decent amount of strength and agility. Hmmmm.

(See... here in lies part of the hilarity of the movie... you are so used to seeing Bruce Willis, Sly Stalone, and Arnold... heck even Angelina Jolie doing all these fancy combat moves... it is just ludicrous to see mom, pop, billy, susie, and grandma pulling it all off. Genius, I tell you, genius.)

Time out... I could SO be Angelina Jolie. Question answered. I would dominate in such militant encounters. Done.

So... now... while you're chewing on your new pugnacious thoughts... I'll leave you some eye candy of the "Burandt Family Vaycay Spain/Italy May 2008."

(Yes, I titled it.)

A few details.

Time in Sevilla.
Dinners out with my roomies, at my pastor's house, and home-cooked for my friends (complete with real Texan chilli and cornbread... thanks Aunt Debbie for that mix).
Cathedrals. Palaces. Gardens.

Rome. Colessium. Forum. Fountains. Plazas. Buildings. Food. You name it.

Cinque Terre. Hiking. Absurdity. Food, good food.

Pisa. Towers that lean. Food.

Madrid. More palaces. Movies. And yes, even a musical.

PS... these are my pictures from my camera... hence why I don't appear in any of them. I promise I was there, too.

my crisis of being.

2008-05-06T00:03:00.008+02:00

Every once in a while a certain type of moment hits me like a freight train... or in my case... hits me like the AVE (ie the high velocity - alta velocidad - train).

Anyway... I call these moments my "crisis of being."

The last one I had occurred last Monday evening.

I was working and had reached a point of delirium.
I started thinking about all my friends and the amazing jobs things they are doing.
I know some pretty cool people.
I have friends in medical school, PA school, nursing school, law school, grad school for psychology, grad school at HARVARD.
Friends who are jet-setting across the US giving hard-core presentations in front of clients over twice their age.
Friends who have been editors at big-time, big city magazines and have already left their jobs.
Friends who live in Washington, DC, New York City, and LA doing things that are beyond me.
Friends who are Peace Corps volunteers changing the lives of people in 2nd and 3rd world countries.
Friends who are engineers working at the "happiest place on earth."
Friends who are tour managers, organizing a well-known band's performances across the world.
Friends who are accountants, dealing with (literally) millions of dollars.
Friends who are teachers, educating the youth of America.
Friends who are ministers, pastoring to people around them.
And I know there's more that I can't pinpoint right now.

No really, sometimes I marvel at the intense caliber of cool of the people I know.

And you know what I was doing?
Cutting out sea creatures out of colored paper.

That's right.

Big fish
Skinny fish
Star fish
Jelly fish
Sting rays
Sea horses
Octopuses
and let's not forget the sweet crab I cut out. (Not a single template, I might add.)
And I thought "WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?"

Given, this was all for a reason. Read on if you'd like to give me a little more accreditation, but feel free to stop if you enjoy the fact that my job sometimes is to cut out sea-dwelling inhabitants.

I was preparing for our school's carnival-style fiesta we were throwing at the convent which acts as a children's home for kids who have families who can't take care of them full-time, so they live there during the week and go home on the weekends.

I decided we should bestow our carnival with a theme, bajo el mar (aka under the sea), based upon my personal favorite station of Verner Elementary's Spring Fling which I attended every year of my primary schooling. It was a "fishing" station where the coolest mom obtained and painted a refrigerator box to look like the ocean, and then we kids got to fish for prizes with clothes pins for hooks. TRY and tell me that's not SWEET. (Ok, so it was difficult to procure a refrigerator box... this old sheet made do.)

So clearly, I determined this would be a wonderful addition to Acento de Trinity's third annual fiesta en el convento de los niños, and hence rooted the rest of the activities based upon this theme. We dressed in "beach attire" and began by playing a tremendous game of terrestrial "sharks and minnows" (which clearly became "tiburones y pececitos"). Then I oversaw a complicated rotation of about thirty Spanish children divided into 5 different teams through the following games:

a Spanish-style "cake walk" (where we replaced "cake" with "bag-o-chuches" which is the bomb candy here)

a relay of dressing in over-size beach finery (including my goggles)

a beach towel water balloon toss

a create-your-own-boat-with-random-objects-that-float craft along with face painting (because what self-respecting carnival doesn't have face painting?)

a shoot some penalty shots competition (not super "under the sea"-esque, but I mean, this is Spain, what do you expect?)

Meanwhile as the kids won the little events, they were presented with a gusanito (a little worm) to go and fish in the mar for a prize (maned by the professors.)

Of course, it was not totally perfect, but I have amazing students that helped so much, and with their indispensable assistance as team captains and activity supervisors, the fiesta was a complete success. We even got the coolest nun ever, Madre Gema, to participate.

(No, seriously, this woman rivals Sister Mary Clarence, she's too cool to even wear her habit... the woman is phenomenal, not to mention hilarious.)

So conclusion, well... yo que sé, if you want doctors or lawyers, you better look somewhere else... but if you want mono-colored sea creatures cut out of computer paper (without the help of a template, mind you), then I'm your girl.

gazpacho for the ego

2008-04-27T14:57:00.004+02:00

Who needs chicken soup for the soul when Spain provides the ego with gazpacho?

As any female who has spent any short period of time in Spain would know... Spanish men are renowned for their piropos or cat calls.

To receive a piropo is not exactly a huge feat as they are given out quite generously. I have received them while in the middle of a long, sweaty run on a hot day when - as hard as it may be to believe - I was not looking so attractive. Needless to say... piropos do not retain demanding requisites. As long as one possesses female anatomy and a beating heart, she is a potential recipient... and I have my doubts about that second condition being entirely essential.

Also... the population that yields these piropos is extensive. It's not just the stereotypical construction workers that those from the United States would immediately assume. It's any male, young or old, wearing a business suit or a soccer (fútbol) jersey.

Now, these piropos are so widespread that we even cover this subject in orientation with my newly arrived students ever semester. We let them know that they are basically simple expressions to vocalize an observation that a male makes about a female from afar and are, for all intensive purposes, harmless and do not necessitate any type of reaction or even acknowledgment.

So, on to the reason why I'm writing. I received the most bizarre piropo yet today.

I'm riding my bike home from church after having purchased a box of ice cream bars for a housemate to replace her box that I finished last night. (Oops.)
I'm wearing a fabulous yellowy-orange summer dress that I bought in a lovely hippie town in southern Oregon and that my mom just mailed to me. (Thanks, Mom.)
I stop at the last traffic light before my house and wait for the little green man to show up across the street.
I look to the left to watch for cars.
Right next to me pulls up a middle-aged business-looking man in a suit and helmet.
Very conversationally, he looks directly at me and pretty much says (translated)... "that's one great ass you have."

No response.

Conclusion: Who needs something healthy like chicken soup for the depths of your soul when Spain is right there feedin' you good ole' gazpacho for your superficial ego. I swear, ladies, if you're feelin' bad about yourself or the way you look... get yourself on a plane to Spain and come visit me for a weekend, it'll do wonders for that self-confidence. Vanity, shmanity.

Warning: You kinda miss it when you leave Spain. I get back to the US, and I'm like "what? No one's saying anything to me. Am I not pretty anymore?" Eeeehhh... it's worth the risk.

PS... everyone is welcomed and encouraged to come visit Julie Ann in Sevilla.

Spotlight on Ukraine

2008-04-15T13:00:00.009+02:00

I had the most unbelievable opportunity to visit my friends Kelly and Jared in Ukraine (which I learned is entirely incorrect to call the Ukraine, so consider yourself now informed) with my friend Sarah who has been living in France. Now... Kelly and Jared speak Ukrainian and Russian respectively... so Sarah and I lazily rested in the fact that we needed not worry of our sheer ineptness to communicate in Ukraine while in their presence. Therefore... when the inevitable departure date rolled around... we were highly unprepared and supér-nerviosas.

Now... while traveling in some countries may be easy... be not fooled about Ukraine. To get to Kelly's town in Ukraine... we literally took planes, trains, and automobiles over a period of three days and four countries (in my case).

Sevilla to London by plane,
London to Krakow by plane,
Krakow to Lviv by overnight bus,
Lviv to Rivna by train,
Rivna to Sarny by bus (read: glorified van).

Now Kelly is an absolute gem and traveled all the way to Poland to pick up her helpless friends and guide them across the border at the beginning of the trip... however, she does have a job teaching English which forced Sarah and Julie Ann to mature into "big girls" rather quickly.

She rode with us on the scary bus (called a marshuka... but in Julie Ann's Ukrainian, that would be marushka, as I have not a prayer at remembering how to pronounce anything... but in reality, this is the glorified van with no shocks so as to absorb the greatest amount of the pot-holes-o-plenty that Ukrainian roads provide).

She put Sarah and me on our train, and we waved goodbye to her through our window and embarked on what turned out to be the most hilarious portion of our trip (which is saying a lot considering we did not stop laughing our entire time in Sarny.)

Sarah and I survived our day in the enchanting city of Lviv... managing to remain only slightly ripped of and taken advantage of by only one of our three taxi drivers. And found ourselves waiting at the Lviv bus station for our 10pm night bus to Krakow a safe and solid two hours early.

Here's where the fun starts.

Sarah and I sit down on a bench with our suitcases, completely content to chit-chat and laugh about our adventures while giving thanks to God that we'd made it that far. Then we begin to notice this Ukrainian man keeps passing by us repeatedly. Finally he stops to talk to us.
"dfkdrejrhejkrekljrklejrkl."
We stare at him vacantly.
"dhdrjekrlejklrejkrjek."
We are immediately suspicious that he has not-so-pure intentions as any female American traveler has been taught to surmise, so we ignore and keep on talking. He leaves.
A minute or so later... he shows up again.
"fdjkldjkejrkejrkeljrekl kiev dhklejrkeljrkel."
We stare at him.
"rjkerjekjrekjrkej ruso? erekrjekrjekjek."
"No, no ruso," I answer.
"fjdkrjekrjekrjek polaka? jkerjekrjek."
"No, no polaka. " I point to myself, "Spanish." I point to Sarah, "French."
"fjdkrjeioreiorjed deutsch? ehkrejkrejkl."
"No, English, Spanish, and French." I say, indicating to myself and Sarah, respectively.
"fdjkrerjkejk." He runs off and returns with a round, older man who says, "jkerjek deutsch."
"No."
"rjkerjekkjk." He runs off again and this time returns with a cute blond woman who says, "erjekrejk italiano!" in this fantasitic Ukrano-Italian accent.
Then appears this other blond woman with a little girl, both screaming "rehrejkjkj nospeakenglish! drherejkljkjk."

At this point in time... we communicate through a mixture of broken English and my deciphering of Ukrano-Italian with my Spanish knowledge and establish the fact that Sarah and I had not missed the Kiev bus (which apparently the original Ukrainian man, not a creeper as we had first assumed, had worried.) When they realize we have a whole two hours to wait for the bus to Krakow... they immediately invite us to their office where they have a bus travel company between Ukraine and Germany (hence why someone spoke deutsch) to have coffee.

Why not?

They sit us down on their couch and are all talking at once attempting to figure out our story through Ukrainian, broken English, and Ukrano-Italian-Spanish as they begin to serve us coffee and shove little sandwiches at us. Finally, the German-speaking pudgy round man calls his English-speaking son, passes me the mobile phone and has me explain to his son who and what we are who then is able to solve the mystery... and then the round man disappears.

The little girl then busts out her English books from school... the original Ukrainian busts out bottles of champagne and vodka wanting to start some toasts... I bust out a pencil so Sarah can write down English vocab for this little girl... and the two woman repeatedly explain to us (absolutely no less than five times... one in English and one in our Ukrano-Italian)... that they know how to speak lots of languages (Ukrainian, Russian, Polish) but they're just learning English. Oh, and that the one U-I-S speaker is married to the original (now drinking vodka and constantly repeating his new favorite phrase "nospeakenglish" rapidly amongst crazy Ukrainian, and doing so with a remarkably good English accent, ironically enough) Ukrainian... she is 36 and he is 31 (cinque, cinque) she keeps telling me (that she is five years older) and that they've been together for 3 years and that he doesn't get along with her 16-year-old daughter. All the while asking me "capici? capici?" to assure herself of my understanding. (All that from Ukrano-Italian... not bad, eh?)

Then somehow... after the first (yes, I said first as in "there are more than one") bottle of champagne is opened and sipped through plastic dixie type cups... Sarah gets the grand idea of teaching the children's song "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" to the little girl. Immediately it is decided that this song HAS to be recorded onto their mobile phones so the little girl can bring it to her school on Monday and teach it to her English class. (See video below of Sarah and 3 Ukranians sing and dance while Julie Ann and vodka drinker record).

At some point in time, the vodka drinker leaves, goes to a market nearby, and returns with two of the most amazing boxes of Ukrainian chocolates to gift to me and Sarah. At this point... we become aware of the fact that it is 9:30 and our bus has arrived. We attempt to say our goodbyes, but are met with the many protests of a now crying little girl and a new bottle of champagne which for some reason, they want me to open.

We excuse ourselves and make it over to the bus to put our suitcases on. The friendliest crew of Ukrainians then follows us out to the bus with more plastic cups and the second bottle of champagne. The semi-English-speaking woman talks to the driver in Ukrainian and tells us "don't worry... he no leave without you." And they proceed to fill our glasses and we make toast after toast to friendship.

It is now 9:55pm... I am exchanging phone numbers with the Ukrano-Italian speaking woman and her vodka drinking husband... capici? capici? Sarah and I are drinking faster to try and finish off the bottle so we can get on the bus, and it won't leave us. They keep reassuring us "don't worry, Sarah... don't worry, Julie." (Yes, we are now on a first-name basis.)

The next thing we know... the bus is cranking up... and backing out.

Sarah spazzes. With full plastic dixie cups of champagne, we run to the door and she starts BANGING on the plastic. The bus driver is CRACKING up. The Ukrainians are yelling "Silly Sarah... don't worry... bus don't go... capici? capici?" To which Sarah and I are responding... "umm... helloooooo... it IS going!! What are you people talking about??"

So the driver finally opens the door... we leap on all the while blowing kisses at our new friends, balancing our boxes of chocolates, and trying not to spill our champagne dixie cups. We walk up the little stairs to the only two available seats left which (thankfully) are the front ones... and find ourselves looking at a very unamused mixture of 30 to 40 Polish and Ukrainian people. Ooops. Spectacle?

The bus heads towards the gate of the bus complex... and we watch our semi-English speaking friend open it for the driver. Ooooooooohhhh... THAT'S why we weren't supposed to worry. Silly communication barrier.

We're halfway through the gate, and here this woman comes running again with her little girl... THROWING herself in front of the bus, WAVING her arms, and screaming STOP in a beautiful Ukrainian accent. Reluctantly our now slightly annoyed bus driver opens the door yet again... and the woman pops up to pass me my pencil. MY MECHANICAL PENCIL which I had left in their office when we were doing English vocabulary. Do people GET any nicer than this???

So... that's my story. It's long, but it's good.

Conclusion: Ukrainians are THE most friendly, hospitable people I've ever met in my life.

So good.

Please note how my Ukrano-Italian friend spills the champagne in all the excitement, and then starts speaking Italian at the end.

what i did for work yesterday.

2008-04-04T13:31:00.005+02:00

So yesterday was the "fiesta flamenca" for Acento de Trinity.

We went to the Hospital de la Caridad where we often go to play Bingo.
They set up a caseta (tent) for us and served us food in true feria style as my students performed the sevillanas dance that their dance instructors (ie my roommates) have been teaching them this past semester.
Words just can't complete explain... so here is a video.
This is just a small flavor of how people really dress during feria, which (unfortunately) I will be missing this year because (fortunately) I have the opportunity to leave tonight to meet up with a friend living in France to go visit my friend working in the Peace Corps in the Ukraine.

PS... new fun game.
Here is a picture of a nurse who works at the home for the elderly.
The game is called "look closely for the action that you would never see a nurse do at a home for the elderly in the US."

lunes.

2008-03-31T13:33:00.007+02:00

Peter Gibbons:
Let me ask you something.
When you come in on Monday, and you're not feelin' real well, does anyone ever say to you, 'Sounds like someone has a case of the Mondays'?

Lawrence:
No.
No, man.
Shit, no, man.
I believe you'd get your ass kicked sayin' something like that, man.

Yep, it's Monday. And everyone around Acento is feeling it. I feel like this "Office Space" quote pretty much captures the mood around here at work. We've got "the Mondays" today.

The school where I work is small. It's no more than 50 paces from the front desk back to my desk in the back where I sit and work.

Our response to "the Mondays."
Ana Bello (the recepcionist) is in the front with Leslie (the directora).
I am at my desk in the back.
Ana Bello calls my móvil to tell me that it is "snack time" and I need to come to Leslie's office.
Then we drink coca cola light and eat patatas fritas.

If I'm gonna have "the Mondays" this is where I wanna have them.

posers.

2008-03-23T21:55:00.009+01:00

We did not deserve to be here.

We could not afford to be there on our own.

There is no reason we should have been there.

But the grace of God.

A serious blessing from him.

We stayed in a village that resembled the North Pole. (There is an aerial picture of it somewhere in the mix.)

We ate freshly baked French bread every morning with strawberry jam.

As the only Amercians there we rubbed elbows with Europeans from Sweden to Spain.

We celebrated the Irish holiday of St. Patrick with Frenchmen.

We danced to 'Soulja Boy' and learnt them Euro-peans a thing or two 'bout dancin'.

I feel like these pictures speak for themselves.

I don't even know.

We didn't deserve it.

And I'm grateful.

smells.

2008-03-12T14:53:00.002+01:00

So our mild winter has given way to an early spring which as consequently birthed premature orange blossoms (azahar) on the orange trees which demarcate virtually every road, path, and avenue of Sevilla.

I only wish all those people who spend so much time trying to fix the ozone could have already contrived a way to capture smells to put on the internet (because clearly sights and sounds are insufficient) because then y'all would be able to understand, appreciate, and fall captive to the felicity provided by these tiny flowers.

The best way I can think to describe it is this:

You know how, deep down, you've always wanted the ability to have magical soundtrack to your life follow you around, playing the appropriate music at the congruous time??

Well... this is it... only in the olfactory sense... an enchanted, hypnotizing aroma that has inundated this entire city....

Well... not entirely.

I came home this past weekend to trash cans full up to my ear lobes.
The reason they don't get taken out is that we don't have super-convenient large trash bins aesthetically hidden in agreeable locations. We have large trash bins conspicuously place smack in the middle of bustling life itself on the street.
And my Spanish roommates don't like bringing the trash to the street "because its embarrassing."
So we let it pile up so the neutral-feeling American has to take out obscene amounts of fetid trash.
So, instead of leaving it to fester in the hallway (which I have done once in my not-so-ignorant stupidity... yes, I knew better... and the stench was so bad that the smell hit you just walking up the stairs to our floor and I had to light candles to eradicate it)... I opted to suck it up and bring it down to the street.

Now, my street is not just any street. We are a street with a university.
Where there is a university, there are many students.
Where there are many students, there are many bars.
One of these such bars is located directly next to the door of my building.
It is called "Cancun."
It usually (rather appropriately) reeks of marijuana .
We share trash bins.

It was late. I was already in my pijamas. I was up to my ear lobes in trash.
I sucked it up.
And took it out... in my pijamas. (I did change out of my slippers, though.)

I'm not exaggerating when I say there were at LEAST 75, maybe 100 people below my building. Most Rastafarians... so many that I was pardoning myself, in my pijamas, with these massive bags of trash to get through to dispose of it all.

Awesome.

So there are my smells... azahar... trash... marijuana... but mostly azahar.

i am a professional bingo caller-outer

2008-02-22T13:06:00.005+01:00

So we all have moments in our life where we sit back and say "is this for real?"

Sometimes they happen more frequently, at other times, less.

One of the most unreal aspects of my job which is a constant source of this innervation is our Thursday night Bingo at the old men's home called El Hospital de la Caridad.

On these nights I come bearing a Bingo number-device, game card, and cheap prizes I bought at a Spanish version of a dollar store (referred to as a chino because Chinese people typically own them)... such as Spain themed key-chains, pencils, and mini local landmarks.

We play various rounds which are all taken very seriously first attempting to make a linea or a fila (a line or a row) and then going for the carta entera (the whole card) for the grander prizes. I have been corrected by old men, have been hit on by them, and have become privy to their inside jokes about certain number (15 - la niña bonita, "the pretty girl" and 90 - el abuelo, "the grandfather). They walk in and out of the game as they please... so there will be anywhere from two to ten of them at a time. But, mainly they get bored by the end.

Photos are required for actual proof or you may not believe me.

Yesterday, Domingo won four different times.

And the coveted prize was a little plate with the Simpsons on it.

Bip.

to brag a little (not on me)

2008-02-19T17:50:00.003+01:00

So Sylvia would probably kill me...

... but the other night she took a friend to one of the most popular (aka cheapest) places to see a free flamenco shows in Sevilla... a place called the Carboneria.

That night, they asked for volunteers to dance sevillanas (a type of flamenco dancing) and, as she is a sevillanas profesora (she teaches my students on Monday nights with my other roomie, Mari)... she volunteered to go up on the stage and dance. Thank God someone videoed it.

It is with much pride that I post this video of her doing the remarkable 'cuarto paso' (fourth combination)... which also happens to be my favorite.

Ps... if you're just looking at this on facebook... the video might not show up and you'll have to actually click the link to the real blog.

another spanish-do

2008-02-14T16:58:00.004+01:00

So I got bored.
Bored of my hair looking the same.
I thought why not get bangs?
It's cool here. So are semi 80's hair-dos. When else in my life will I get to try it out?
I won't be back to the US til the end of July, so I'm going for it.
Judge me, make fun of me. I don't care. It's just hair.
And I like it.

PS... and yes, that is a Valentine's rose... and yes, it did come from a Spainard... although everyone in our group from Salva's beginners class eating lunch at the Mexican restaurant received one. :)

feliz día de san valentín... o mejor dicho aquí... feliz día de los enamorados.

wanna know what's dumb?

2008-02-13T01:31:00.000+01:00

"All good things must come to an end."

That's dumb.
Who decided good things have to end?
Who's the genius who fears a world full of goodness... thank the Lord that place doesn't exist.

I tried to Wikipedia it, and it told sent me to some article about the Star Trek series finale, forever proving Wikipedia's unreliability as a veritable source of information. (Although I will continue to appreciate and take advantage of its wide range of serviceable albeit occasionally arbitrary information.)

So I just consented to googling it which led me to another perhaps questionable source who claimed it dates back to Chaucer in 1374.

I dunno... I feel better about calling a fake alien a dummy rather than Geoffrey Chaucer... but truth be told, I just hate the phrase, and all that it stands for, and you can't change me.

Yes, all things may have to end, but why do we have emphasize the fact that the good things do in a trite cliché masquerading as an penetrating proverb?

Ok, fine... tonight was one of those really precious nights that made me sad that my roommates are getting married and moving out of our apartment this year.

accomplishment.

2008-02-11T01:05:00.000+01:00

I am 24.

This past weekend, I achieved a new state of being that I had never reached in childhood.

I can now ride my bike WITH NO HANDS.

And I don't just mean milliseconds of tense jazz-hand-like spread fingers before grasping the handlebars again before careening into an orange tree... I mean minutes upon minutes, meters upon meters of by my side, out like a T, up in the air or even bouncin' along, dancin' to Timbaland (that's right... I ride with the ipod, which I'm pretty sure is illegal.)

I am the red-headed bike rider who is unafraid to ride while wearing a skirt, throw her hands up in the air, and move to "it's to laaaaaaate to apologize..." on the main drag of Paseo de las Palmeras. What? I already stand out anyway.

The ride to work just got that much more fun. Move over, World, here I come. (And I've got a little bell to ding if you get in my way.)

Addendum: It's gotta be pretty discomposing for a dude on a bike to get the pass from a chick... wearing a skirt, listening to Kelly Clarkson, and riding with no hands. Toma.

disconnect

2008-01-14T22:15:00.000+01:00

I think that some people have this horribly misconceived notion of my life in Spain.

That I lead some fanciful existence...

some cross between the adventure and grandeur of Bourne's identity, supremacy, and ultimatum all rolled into one...

amalgamated with the passion and enchantment that can only compare to what happens below the sun in Tuscany.

LIE.

Now to rectify.

Truth. I have to clean a wicked messy apartment (note the untouched adornments left from the holidays.)
Truth. I have to take out the recycling (its currently chillin' in the hall.)
Truth. I have to wash dishes (we have no dishwasher.)
Truth. I have to go to the grocery store (none of the highly appetizing food in that fridge is mine.)

The difference is I just do it in Spain.
Life is normal here, too.
I don't brag.

True scenario (ie it happened tonight, but in Spanish.)

Me: This piso is miserably messy.*

Miriam (just out of the shower): I can't find my cell phone.

Mari (walking out of her room): I can't find my pen with the little chickens and eggs on it. It's yellow.

Sylvia (trying to run out the door): I can't find my calender, it's says 2007 on it.

Me (collapsing to floor in not unwarranted melodramatic fashion): We haaaaave to clean.

Sylvia (nonchalantly stepping over supine Julie Ann to leave): Ciao.

Mari: My tummy hurts. I have gas. I feel like pooting.

This is normal life.
(It's not a movie.)

*The Spanish word used here is fatal, which knowing what it means in English, I think gives an appropriate conception to the state of the piso.

Home for the Holidays... a look back at December

2008-01-07T04:25:00.000+01:00

Being home for the holidays, I am both shocked and excited to hear that people actually do look at this blog occasionally... enough to have asked me why I stopped writing. Gah.

So I wanted to update.

Then, I didn't realize how much really happened over the last few months of my life until I looked at the pictures.

And as I look at the pictures... it doesn't really seem like my life.

From travels to Prague and Vienna with my Aunt Debbie and my Mom (I had trouble pulling their noses out of the guide books)...

to crazy, busy Thanksgiving (Italica, football, dinner and salsa dancing at a Cuban restaurant)...

to the most wonderfully bizarre road trip through Extremadura (Roman ruins, medieval pueblos, and eccentric religious processions) ...

it's far too much to put into one blog without losing interest.

So instead...
after having been in the US for a month...
this blog is a holiday summary of how I celebrated Christmas in Spain before I came home...
(also used to psyche me up for returning on January 12.)

Here we go:

Christmas at home:
My lovely roommates Marian and Sylvia (both soon to be married in 2008!) and I decorated our piso for the second year in a row. Although it might look a little ghetto... I think the correct word to describe it would be charming. If this year is anything like the past one... our tree might be up until March. Mari will take it down when I'm at work, and then I will mourn its disappearance.

For further entertainment, I've added this video we took while decorating to Christmas tunes. For those of you who don't have the pleasure of actually having met my roommates... you can witness the craziness first hand. In this video we are saying "Merry Christmas... we're in Spain" and then Sylvia and Mari send a message to my future children, telling them that they are to refer to them as "Aunt Sylvia and Aunt Mari."

Christmas at work:

There are two convents where students volunteer. One that acts similarly to an orphanage and another as an assisted living home.

At both convents, we entertained with Christmas carols (in both Spanish and English... go ahead... ask me to sing "White Christmas" in Spanish).

In the children's home, we also delivered gifts to the kids... and in the old folks' home, we were honored as one of the residents sang flamenco to us.

Although of course there is more... this is at least a flavor of my navidad española... I will be better of posting short interesting things as they happen...

Oh... and another thing... there is a standing invitation for whomever would like to come and visit... I know after that video, you're all lining up. :)

dawn.

2007-10-24T13:00:00.001+02:00

So this was the view from my terraza to which I woke up this morning.

"You paint the sky for me to see your majesty.
Your majesty is why I sing."

How great is our ridiculous God?

first anniversary!

2007-10-01T08:56:00.000+02:00

October One marks the one year anniversary to the DAY that I left the United States to come to Spain. Wow.Wow.So, of course, this anniversary also indicates a return to the blog.

I love thinking about how this year is so different... and improved.
New job...
Lovely changes...
Resurgence of a love for life in Europe...

For just a pinch of the flavor of life here... just enough to incite a little jealousy... for the anniversary of September 11, the Royal Orchestra of Sevilla gave a free concert in the Plaza de San Francisco which classically ended in a delightful autumn shower which sent everyone laughing and running for cover. It was one of those "in Europe even rain storms seem romantic and beautiful" kind of moments. This particular photo reminds me of the line "in the rain, the pavement shines like silver" from a song from Les Miserables. (I know... I'm classy and cultured.)

On a less chic and more domestic front, I've loved returning to the simple life in my piso with my Spanish family, ie roommates Mari and Sylvia who are more like sisters (BOTH of whom, by the way, are getting married in 2008... so not only do I get to attend two Spanish weddings - well, three actually counting one of the professors with whom I work- but I also get to help plan these two!) Anyway, I've had a GREAT time updating our piso and here we all are trying to figure out how to make our new TV work. We were clearly just hangin' around the house and lookin' rough. (They would probably kill me if they knew I put up these particular pictures. Other home additions include a new trading-spaces-esque wall hanging in my room and the wonderful, much-needed new covers for our couches (as well as the recently arrived Beth who is pictured sitting on them.)

On the work front, the job is incredible. I often find myself unable to believe I'm being paid to do it. Another great euro-perk... I ride my bike to work. Please. Anyway, I'll give more details later about the little activities and trips we do with are marvelous students (whom I LOVE.) Bu here are a few pictures just to give a little flavor. (Side note: I'm appearing less and less in the pictures as part of my job is to take picture of the students in their lives here in Sevilla in our fabulous program.)

s'mores are to pilgrimages ....

2007-05-25T13:59:00.000+02:00

... as the United States is to Spain.

Stick with me here... I'm pulling this analogy from some of my more recent experiences here... Give me a minute, and I promise it will make sense.

First of all... Beth and I went with some of my "gym friends" to camp out for a night on the beach in Portugal. Ridiculous. So fun. We were eight total, four boys, four girls. The guys surfed, and we layed out. The beaches in Southern Portugal are absurd as you can see from the pictures... coves surrounded by cliffs.

Our adventure was that we did not take into account that we were on the ocean and, of course, there was a tide that rose. Even after a Portuguese policeman came down to our camp ground to tell us to put out our illegal fire and warned us about high tide... the boys were suuuuuuure it would not reach us... well, reach us it did and we were forced to take down our tents and move our campground in the middle of the night. Hilarious.

But before our fun was impeded by the fun police... Beth and I busted out graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmellows to make s'mores. And not unlike the plump little redhead in The Sandlot explaining the s'more process to Smalls... I enlightened my favorite Spanish friends on the proper preparation of s'mores... and in Spanish I might add. Hilarious. I never knew how complex s'mores were until this night. They made the procedures so complex... "how long do I let this roast?" "I put this on the STICK?" "aaaaahhhhh, it's on fire!!!" Something that is soooo normal for us... incredibly foreign to them. But yes, they did enjoy.

So... moving along. A few days ago marked the beginning of yet another festival (God bless Spain) called El Rocio. If anyone is familiar with the festivals here in Sevilla, I would describe this one as a mixture of Semana Santa (Holy Week) and the Feria (the Fair) as El Rocio blends the flamenco dress of Feria with the religious thumbprint of Semana Santa. Basically El Rocio is a huge pilgrimage where people come from all over and congregate in this tiny pueblo called El Rocio that has no paved roads, but instead dirt ones straight out of our wild, wild west.

A bunch of the professors from my school all elected to do the camino (walk) from Almonte to El Rocio together... so they rented a tractor and basically a flatbed trailor with seats, a table, and coolers full of alcoholic beverages and enough food to feed Africa which we decorated beautfully. Two wonderful professors, Lola and Isabel, took me under their wing and decorated me up flamenco style complete with dress, manta (the shawl thing), and a flower. Hilarious. The real deal.

Basically, we rode down a dirt path with oodles of other people on horses and in carriages, stopping umpteen times in the patches of trees to pull down our table and set up moooooore food. We NEVER stopped eating. Haha. And aaaanytime we were moving, we were singing songs as we had a guitar, multiple tambourines, and castinets with us on the journey. The most fabulous part was seeing our students throughout the day all dressed up either really excited or reeeeeeally embarrased to see us, a bunch of professors, out. Did I mention that I rode side saddle on the back of the horse with one of my students? Photographic proof of that soon to come. We didn't leave til about 2am... I got back to Sevilla at 3am. Classic.

And to come full circle and complete my analogy. Basically... pilgimages/festivals such as this where you dress in flamenco dresses and travel by horse and tractor to a church are as normal to them as eating s'mores are to us... yet s'mores seem as strange and complex to them as this crazy pilgrimage seems to us.
They have been dressing in these clothes and dancing these dances and participating in these festivals since they were teeny-tiny. Amazing. Fascinating. Phenomenal. Wow.

So s'mores, right?

The Oops Hair-cut

2007-05-09T11:21:00.000+02:00

But First...

Julie Ann's Top Five Unique Observations of Things Spain Has in Large Quantities:
(well... at least they've stood out to me recently for one reason or another)

5) over-abundance of mullets... they are not only an acceptable, but also a "cool" do... this isn't new, but with the warm weather... they are apoppin' out all over the place

4) profusion of mayonnaise... (which is one of the most difficult words to spell, I'm just saying)... they eat it with anything and everything... french fries, salads, chips... you gotta break someone's arm just to find a little ketchup 'round here

3) plentitude of paper napkins... these things are not what we consider normal, practical (read purposefully absorbent) paper napkins... no, these are cousins to tissue paper and dispel liquids... right

2) popularity of in-line skaters... whoo-whoo... bust out the knee and elbow pads... this sport was never a fad... a fad implies an activity that was short-lived... viva in-line skating here

and finally...

1) copiousness of "jean on jean"... "denim on denim"... "the Canadian tuxedo"... no matter what you call it... it's all here... like the mullet... not only is it admissible... it is also attractive... I knew I was adjusting to Spain when I considered doing it myself... when the thought even crossed my mind... then in a desperate moment... during a trip to Marbella when no other jacket-layer was available and the cool (read freezing) Mediterraean Sea night breeze was ablowin'... I broke down... I'm not above that... I don't judge... drastic times call for drastic measures... and here is the picture to prove it.

This picture also brings to light a new, inadvertant chapter to Julie Ann's Spanish life.
So I went to the salon with a medium length hair-cut photo in hand... apparently, the girl mistook me for Meg Ryan because that's whose short hair-cut I left with.
I have to give it to myself because I held it together at the salon... but when I called Beth and then ran for refuge in her piso... there were tears... oh yes... as well as a few choice fuerte words that I must admit I did drop.
All I could think of was how after the girl made the initial hack to my head (to which I was oblivious thanks to a stupid magazine full of pictures of Victoria Beckham and Doña Letizia)... she said "si, es un gran cambio"... and how I wanted to respond "yeah, un UNITENDED gran cambio, punk."
My only condolence is that, yes, it will grow, and quickly.
Short hair is not "my" thing. It's weird. I feel weird. Oh well.
But the kids' reactions at school are the best... hilarious.

Although I would rather like to hide this until it grows... here are a few photos which include the new do... plus a good outline of my past few weekends. Thanks to the plethora of holidays in Spain, Beez and I went to the playa in Marbella (a fantastic, not to mention popular little vacation spot for Eurpeans) that has beautiful beaches and also mountains (ooooh). Then we went to Amsterdamsssss which, of course, was lovely and hilarious. (By the way, to clear things up, Amsterdam is a city in the country of the Netherlands in the province of North Holland where the people and language are called Dutch... and yes, I had just learned that.) We walked aaaaaall over the lovely city, biked through the Dutch countryside looking like refugees (note bags tied to bike with rope), and ate... a lot (mainly ice cream for me). Unfortunately... as it was just the two of us... most pictures are either of just one or the other of us... or the classic "self-taken" photo... at any rate... at least they give you a good idea of the hair-cut. And yes, these last two fotos of me were taken the same day... note the ice cream in both... and can I just say that on the left that is ice cream I had on my crepe-like pancake... foooooor breakfast. Oh yeah.

2007-04-25T19:20:00.000+02:00

Yup... I did a marathon.
Before and after pictures:

So... the day before, we went to pick up my dorsal (my bib, I think)... and they had this HUGE free "pasta party" with heinous amounts of pasta which was totally worth documenting with fotos. I got lots of lovely free stuff like t-shirts and silly hats that had a battery-operated radio inside it.

So... day of... Julie Ann was ridiculously nervous... I kept myself busy making a playlist during the entire metro ride to the starting line. There were SOOOO many more men than women running. I was more than a little perturbed with there were only 16 porta-potties for 13,000 people... the majority of which were men... so clearly... the BILLIONS of men that were in line to start were pooping when I only had to pee.

Of course we were all greasing up... and here is a lovely picture of me putting vaseline on my arm (Beth was sure to get the aesthetically pleasing tulips in the background).

But let's see... yup... it was hard. It hurt... but it wasn't so much my muscles... but my joints. Knees. Hips. Ankles.

At every water/refreshment stop they offered oil and this crisco like substance to slap on your thighs (or wherever... ew... don't think about that too much)... and also had this spray "icey hot" numbing stuff if you wanted it. The weather was phenomenal. Not too hot at all... 20-24 degrees (celcius, of course)... and absoltuely gorgeous.

The city was phenomenal to run through. Kilometers 30 to 40 were the WORST. (Yes, I'm now thinking in kilometers, at least where the marathon is concerned.) And I was feeling EXTREMELY emotional by the time I got to the last two kilometers and this one man who had already finished was encourging us saying "ya está hecho" meaning "it's already done." Haha... hilarious.

Some guy was annoucing names when you crossed the finished line, and when I crossed listening to my I-pod (the wonderful winning last song happened to be Kelly's "Breakaway"... how beautifully appropriate)... I at first didn't hear mine... so he called it out again and then I turned and he was like "Yeah, Julie!!!" So I threw my hands up in the air and laughed.

They gave us a bag of goodies when we finished as well as a trash bag to keep us warm? (Who knows?) But then, in true Spanish form, they had a GI-normous beer stand available right after the finish line, and men who had finished the race and hadn't even taken off their numbers yet were downing beers. Sick. I hardly wanted anything to eat. But honestly, I was in the best mood. I didn't feel miserable. I felt fabulous. I'll totally do it again. Love this picture of me and Bees at the end... I can't believe she touched me. I had salt cristalized on my face and everywhere from the sweat. And if it looks like I peed my pants... that's just from all the crisco-like oil substance they gave us which was lovely and melted down the inside of my legs. Secret: I love being dirty and sweat when you've done something like that.

THIS is Spain in a nutshell

2007-04-18T23:24:00.000+02:00

So I was at the grocery store this morning around 11:00am ... and the man (about in his late 30s) in line behind me had two things on his shopping list which (in my mind) managed to encompass all that is Spain...

- three packages plump (read HUGE) green olives

- one bottle giorgi line "gel fijador" (read styling hair gel... actually the exact same kind that Sylvia asked me to buy her the other day)... plus "gel" is pronounced "hell," so that gives me a little juvenile giggle as well

be fooled not...

2007-04-10T19:55:00.000+02:00

What you see in these pictures has nothing to do with what we Americans associate such images... (I don't even want to write it)... but here in Spain has everything to do with Semana Santa (aka Holy Week or the week between Palm Sunday and Easter).

I've had the most a-MA-sing last two weeks with two wonderful visitors from different areas of my life (Heather from the Ranch and Dara from high school in Lexington) who choque-d here in Spain which about made my head explode, but was utterly delightful. Entirely too many things happened to tell in one blog to keep interest in reading and because they've put many pictures on facebook already, I thought I might focus on one thing that didn't quite make being "tagged" to anyone in particular and as you look at these photos you might see why. (Heather managed to capture my standard reaction here.)

So... I had no idea what to expect... Semana Santa is as popular and familiar as the Super Bowl here and Spaniards were shocked that I did not know the "ins and outs" of everything. So I will do my best.

There are maybe around 50 "religious" brotherhoods that do processions from their respective starting points (perhpas a church) and carry ornate pasos (or floats)... generally one representation of Jesus and one of the Virgin Mary... and end up in the Catedral. The parade includes marching bands and hooded nazarenos that we as Americans would only relate to the KKK. They dress in pointy hoods, but come in all colors from white to black to green to purple. They range from all ages (including little children) and sometimes hand out candy and things. They swing balls on incense, carry candles, and even crosses. The parades all take different routes through the city and can last up to 12 hours. There can be as many as 9 processions happening at once. It is a sensation that appeals to every one of the five senses, but after seeing one procession I was good to go. "Got it."

The crowds were absurd. The city completely shut down around them. Soon, Beth, Dara, Heather, and I began using the "procession schedule" as a guide for telling us which routes to avoid as we wanted to traverse the centro to shop and eat rather than to learn where we could see these things. While I believe in the past the processions had been considered very sacred (people would cross themselves while passing a paso), it has definitely been transformed into a more of a cultural tradition that is just an excuse to get together (ie we walked through a wicked thick cloud of pot smoke and Heather got a shot of a kid rolling his joint, yay Spain).

Nevertheless it was extremely interesting and fascinating. Everyone is dressed up and out walking around.

Some of the most classic pictures from the week. You see, Heather is what the Spanish would call sin verguenza or completely shamless, and she would hurl her life into peril and sacrifice herself for the "ultimate photo"... blatantly speaking to Spainards in her charming Southern accented English. "Can I take a photo?" But, I'm completely indebted to her as it did leave me with some priceless pictures I never would have otherwise. My FAVORITE picture is the one of Heather squeeged between these two hooded white kids. But then, this other one where she dragged me and Beth into the photo with her is quite classic as well. Read our expressions:
Beth: "I am so embarrassed, why do I have to stand directly next to him... aaaaaawkward and creepy."
Heather: "Yesssssss... sweet photo op!"
Julie Ann: "Sweet Moses, but at least I have my ice cream with the hooded dude, even if it is cold enough for me to be in a scarf."
And poor Dara had to take that picture... Dara is so much more chill... I had to be the one to take photos of her... note the traditionally dressed woman in the background to the left with the black comb and vail in her hair like a maja from the yesteryear... that was on "Holy Thursday" and maaaaany women were dressed as such, no idea why.

So all in all... Semana Santa was an enjoyable festivity. I want my friends back. Have this be an encouragment and an advertisement for all to come visit. :)

just a cross-section of my life...

2007-03-09T10:46:00.000+01:00

Typical... so my roommates teach a Sevillanas class on Tuesday nights. (Sevillana is a dance that's pretty much like flamenco.) So clearly, sometimes they practice at home. One night around 9:30 Reuben (Sylvia's boyfriend) was over, and we were standing around in the kitchen eating our make-shift dinner of cheese omlettes and various bocadillos... and Mari started to practice for the upcoming class.

Now, Reuben is fantastic. He is incredible. He works at a juvenile delinquent center as a counselor. Baller. He's got the kindest heart, he cares for Sylvia like none other, and he has the greatest sense of humor. When Mari began practicing... clearly he joined in... mimicking her dancing... somehow keeping a straight face while Syliva and I laugh our heads off and I literally fall to the floor. THEN, Reuben puts on this flamenco-dress style apron that we have for some reason (so cheesy, I know,) rolls up his pant legs to reveal his dark socks, and stuffs a flower behind his ear. Mari, also inspired, runs and puts on another cheesy flamenco apron and they continue.

We are a family. Sylvia came into my room the other night to talk. She gave me a hug and the next thing I know there are tears in her eyes. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me it was because she started thinking of how hard it would be when I eventually leave. That is the depth of our friendship. Same with Mari. And we've never had a conversation in English.

Sooo, as I mentioned before... Día de Andalucía... my Spanish family and I went with Sylvia's church to a public part of the National Park Donaña near where Reuben lives. My new Columbian friend Loyda also came with us and we continued to bond on a "we're not from Spain" level. It was a beautiful day. Loyda and I brought our own bocadillos, but there was so much overflow food from everyone's barbeques that we ate more than enough. We walked around the beautiful naturaleza , took silly pictures, and I held babies. Oh... and I officially sold myself to the Madrid Marathon in April as Reuben's brother offered to get all my info in, and I gave him the 40 euros. Aiieee!!

Let's see... I also went on a weekend jaunt to Geneva, Switzerland to see the infamous Whitney Roach. WOW. Our reunion was absurd... and I say that not because of the amazing surroundings (who is going to complain about an enchanting city with gorgeous architecture set on a lake surrounded by the Swiss Alps,) but because the profudidad of how we were able to reconnect... I think we only stopped talking to sleep. We cooked, we ran, we went to the market and bakeries, she introduced me to the RIDICULOUS people at her church... I was floored by the teenagers she works with, I went to a teenage heavy metal concert, we watched the lunar eclipse... I mean what didn't we do? It was the Lord... that's all I can say. When you know, you know. Unfortunately, I'm a nunu and I took like no pictures... so I only have one of the two of us... and the rest are from city... one is the view from her apartment... a-MAZ-sing.

Oh... and this weekend I'm going to the beach to try out that new bikini. :)

school in spain is FUN!

2007-02-27T17:38:00.000+01:00

Spain is wonderful for a myriad of reasons... one of which is the sheer number of holidays they celebrate (which as they continue to accumulate... seem ever more pointless)... but who am I to complain as I am able to benefit from each of them.

So tomorrow is "El Día de Andalucía"... so a few things happened.

1) The third hour of the day was completely canceled and the culinary trade school portion of our IES provided us with a free hot chocolate and fresh (fried) pastry breakfast.

2) There was a raffle, and I won the uggliest turtle-shaped piggy bank.

3) In my second hour class, I had the privilege of being serenaded by the "Hymn of Andalucía." This experience merits more detail.

Now, as I've mentioned before there has been carpool drama. Mercedes is an English teacher who has dropped out of our carpool and started her own. Haha. I work with Mercedes. She is definitely unique.

Now, Elena (another member of the original carpool) had the first hour with my second hour class. She wrote the lyrics of the "Hymn of Andalucía" on the board, told the kids not to erase it... and then had the kids sing it to me... pretty much to rile them up and irritate Mercedes.

This class is Cuarto de ESO (which is like our equivalent to 10th grade)... and is one of the worst behaved classes. I do not exaggerate when I say they do NO cease from talking for a moment to listen to any sort of lecture and get up and walk around freely in the class, throwing things, doing whatever they want. Halfway through the class when Mercedes went to erase the lyrics off of the board, they SCREAMED (I mean, SCREAMED) that she couldn't and launched into round two of the ballad.

Oh... I forgot to mention the best part... in this class there are only about 5 boys, and of course they all sit together in the back of the class. One of them in particular spent the hour calling out different versions of my name (Julie, Julia, Juliana) and blowing kisses in my direction. When I left the class... he handed me this. A love note... I think... "SAT... heart... I love." What?? What does that mean exactly? What 10th grade boy takes the time to write in bubble letters and color in with high lighters. Please.

And a little bit more info on my students.
I've been trying to think of the best way to describe them... and I finally found it. Unfortunately, it is a Spanish term (go figure) which I learned from the professors with whom I work... there's not really an English equivalent. They're called "canis" just as we would say "jocks" or "preps" or "nerds" or "goths."

Canis are their own breed, one which I at least have never encountered in the United States. (That is not to say they do not exist in the US... I do not have the audacity to assume that I am the authority on teenage cliques, but I digress.) I did a little google research of my own to provide a few pictures and get my facts straight. Canis (pronounced can-knees) consist of the following attributes:
- both boys and girls don an abundandt array of gold chains, rings, and earrings... girls particulary wear this net-like piece of jewelery that attatches from their rings to their bracelets
- both boys and girls are fond of facial piercings... particularly those that stray from the normal ears and nose... to the eyebrow and skin above or below the lip
- both wear brand name sports sneakers (however not tennis shoes), specifically puma or nike
- boys wear "track suits"
- girls wear "J.Lo-esque" suits... both which tend to be completely solid colors such as bold reds, yellows, pinks, blues, or white
- girls are fond of the play boy bunny logo and wear heavy cat-like eyeliner and streaked hair that has that amazing ability to appear wet all hours of the day
- both girls and boys are compelled by their love of "reggeton" music (example the group "RBD") and strong Latin influence

They are a self-appointed opposites to their counter groups "pijos" who are the Spanish "preppies" who wear designer name brands such as Ralph Lauren. Like I said... I've never experienced anything much like them. One day, two of my sweet girls (typical canis) in Segundo de ESO (our 8th grade)... asked me if I was more cani or more pija. I asked them what they thought, and they said "definitely more pija." Haha. I think I'm OK with that.

P.S. ... I was watching an episode of SVU on my computer (of course)... and a Spanish friend came up behind me and told me I looked like Olivia Benson (actually his exact joke was something like "was I watching myself acting on TV?" or something lame like that... but whatever... he thought I looked like Olivia)... between that and my "love note"... could this day GET any better??

oh... you know... life

2007-02-16T16:38:00.000+01:00

1) There was an earthquake here last Monday... only a few seconds, but still a 6.1 on the Richter scale. Weird.

2) I just made chicken alfredo from scratch for the first time today! And it was not a failure at all, but rather quite the contrary... a rather savory success. And you should see me manage my little cart that a trip to the grocery store necessitates... and on the bus, no less.

3) A few photos now from a recent trip to San Sebastian and Bilbao with my middle school friend Leila all the way back from Tuscaloosa with whom I was reunited thanks to the wonders of facebook and her roommate. San Sebastian is a truly charming city, remarkable for the combination of mountains and beach. It has an enchanting cove and precious old centro area full of original boutiques and such. Completely underrated on the grand scale of European cities... easily one of my all-time favorites in Spain... perhaps in all of Europe.

Bilbao is totally worth visiting simply for the Guggenheim... absolutely absurd. Frank Gehry is a veritable genius. Never has glass, marble, and titanium assembled to create such a fascinating structure. Definitely all it's cracked up to be... as is the Subway found only meters outside the entrance where we had lunch. Definitely endulged in the guilty pleasure of not only eating the sandwich, but gloating slightly on the inside when we knew the "appropriate Subway conduct" of ordering a sandwich and three Spanish businessmen were clearly confused at ordering a "personalized" sandwich and paying all at the same time (clearly un-Spanish).

Is it bad that my personal favorite part of San Sebastian was the purchase of an original bikini from this amazing little boutique we stumbled upon accidentally... directly from the designer himself? It should be coming in the mail shortly. You can check out his things on his website here... his collection is the one called "Goiuri"... the other ones are from other designers. (Sorry, it's all in Castellano or the other Spanish languages which I don't know.) My actual suit is not shown, but you can get the flavor. :) My personal hope is that he will blow up, become famous, and then I can boast "oh... I had one of thooooooose bikinis before Jennifer (Lopez, Garner, or Aniston... you pick... me da igual) did."

Plus, a group of my students from segundo de ESO (ie 8th grade) told me that they liked me better than their real teacher and wanted to know why I couldn't teach all of their English classes. Haha... aw.

being put to good use...

2007-02-06T16:54:00.000+01:00

So today I received the best question I've been asked yet... the students are supposed to be filling out these exercises that incorporate the ideas of "as (fill in adjective) as" and "not as (fill in adjective) as" as well as "too (adjective)" and "not (adjective) enough." So clearly, no one is really doing it, and these girls call me over for some "help." And clearly, we're speaking in Spanish because although this is an English class... no one is interested the silly, practical, conversational English... but rather the following:

Student: Julie, can you come here?
Me: Sure. What's up?
Student: What does "smack that" mean?
Me: Wait... what??
(keep in mind this is pronounced with a thick Spanish accent, therefore hard to decipher)
Student: "Smack that"
Me: (Looks down at notebook and sees attempt to write said phrase, but it's spelled "smake that") Ooooooh... smack that... well, it's kinda like "hit that"... but in a distinct way.
Student: What about "P-I-M-P?"
(she actually spelled it out)
Me: Hahahaha... uh... have you been listening to 50 Cent?
Student: Yes! I love hip-hop/rap music. So, what does "P-I-M-P" mean?
Me: Well... it's how you spell "pimp." A pimp is the guy that's in charge of prostitutes. Isn't this wonderful knowledge I'm imparting. Maybe we should finish the worksheet?

Thank you, 50, for inspiring my students in Almonte, Spain.

A little more food for thought:

1) It's super awkward to me that in international flights you are expected to be able to sit down next to a complete stranger... just the two of you... nice and cozy... ask him permission any time you want to get up and go to the bathroom or fill a water bottle... eat all your meals by him... and then lean back your seat and fall asleep right next to him. That's just a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle to intimate for my liking.

2) It's really hard for the Spanish people to decipher/pronouce "t-shirt" and "teacher." Trying pronouncing the difference yourself. It's kinda hard.

it makes me laugh...

2007-01-24T23:07:00.000+01:00

Some random thoughts and observations again...

- The other day I was going on a run and this woman was walking her dog down the street. The street, of course, is lined with parked cars. That's normal... until the proceeded to lift its leg up and full out pee on this new-ish looking silver car. Oh... she just watched it. We're not talking just marking territory here... we're talking inundation.

- So there is drama in my "turno de coches" aka my carpool. First of all... the fact that I am part of a formal carpool makes me laugh. But I can tell you that Javier likes to listen to talk radio in the morning while María Jesús likes the M80 (pronounced em-mey ochenta) radio morning show where at 8:20 every morning they do a custom rap. Anyway... the drama is that one of the professoras that I happen to work with in the English department, Mercedes, quit the carpool. (I don't want to say too much, but apparently that was A.O.K. with everyone else.) Then, she asked me "how the carpool was going" without her behind their backs.

- I am getting very good at telling military time. (My dad will be proud.) And I'm getting super good at understanding degrees in celcius. And let me tell you... when I say it's 10 degrees leaving Sevilla in the morning... that's cold... but when I get to Almonte and it's 2 degrees that's FRIGID (keep in mind that 0 degrees is freezing)... also keep in mind that those temperatures make no sense considering that somehow it is sunny with blue skies outside... keep also in mind that these temperatures are outside AS WELL AS inside because insulation does not exist here. You know where this is most noticeable... is actually in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet seat is like trying to pee while sitting on a block of ice... forever proving that it is tougher to be a girl than a boy. Forget that childbirth stuff... the true torement lies in being forever condemned to sitting on a bum-numbing surface while peeing.

- Well... I was gonna wait to post this until I had photos from my friend Leila's visit, but I think a post where I successfully mention peeing twice can stand on its own without photos. Those will be on later. :)

round two...

2007-01-16T23:09:00.000+01:00

So after a lovely Christmas break in the United States during which I constantly doubted the reality of the legitimate existence of my life in Spain because from my impregnable plaid couch in Lexington, KY it only seemed a fleeting dream. But now that I'm back here... I'm questioning the veracity of my time spent back home. If it weren't for the presence of a few new American articles littered throughout my piso, I wouldn't be so sure. But, de verdad, time at home with family and friends was precious beyond words.

After successfully making my passage through five aiports, I arrived in Sevilla late Saturday, January 6th without luggage or a euro to my name and no way to get any considering the cash machines were out. Problem solving process... long story short... grace of God I got to my piso that night. Thank God that jet lag is worse traveling west rather than east, so I wasn't too bad.

A couple of funny things... going back to school was actually such a joyful thing... Spaniards are so warm, and I've never received so many "dos besos" and "feliz años" as I did that first day back to school. Also, a group of professors confessed that they "googled" my name over the break and stumbled across this blog with pictures of me and Sevilla. Haha... awkward.

So... although, not gonna lie, I had a decent bit of a break down before heading back... I am enthralled to be here now to "take the bull by the horns" this spring. I feel like when I first came to Spain, I arrived on my knees with the rug having just been pulled from under me not knowing where I would live or what my job would be like... but now that I have much more of a grasp on my life here... I am meeting it head on. Bring it on, life. :)

But... this had an absolutely wonderful start. The Monday night after I arrived, Mari and Sylvia came home and we had our own Christmas from which we took this photo. Note the Kentucky t-shirts we are all wearing and the matching coffee mugs bearing our names which I painted for the liters and liters of café and té which we drink on a daily basis. Gaaa, I can think of no other word aside from precious to describe our time together as it definitely ended in tearful expression of our gratitude of one another... cheesy, yes perhaps admittedly yes, but completely authentic and from the depths of our little hearts. I know I say it a lot... but I honestly don't know where I would be without Mari and Sylvia... their encouragment... their advice... their ears... their abrazos... their LAUGHTER... beyond words they are... at least those in English. They are una pasada.

Sylvia told me that every time she returns to our piso after being away that it feels more and more like home. I couldn't agree more.

I like this. It's only just begun.

feliz navidad

2006-12-17T11:42:00.000+01:00

Now ever since I threw "Julie Ann's Claymation Christmas Party" in Tuscaloosa my junior year of high school after baking 9 different types of Christmas cookies, a gingerbread house, and giving out invitations to all my friends specifying that they bring "G" rated gifts suitable to open in front of your grandmother to play the "white elephant/dirty santa" gift exchange game... I have known I absolutely LOVE, love, love Christmas.

I mean my one of my all time favorite movies in general (forget just Christmas movies) is "White Christmas"... not to mention that my mother and I make it a tradition to not only watch it, but also "Holiday Inn," both the old and the new "Miracle of 34th Street," both "The Santa Clause" one and two, both "Home Alone" one and two, "Christmas Vacation," "A Charlie Brown Christmas," "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," "It's a Wonderful Life," and "Elf."

I now have 230 Christmas songs on my ipod.

I used to be of the "why do they start Christmas earilier and eariler every year" brigade until I realized, "uuuhhh Christmas dominates, why not let the season last as long as it possibly can?" Why shouldn't I let the fact that I get to celebrate the fact that Jesus was born for two whole months? Fine by me!

So of course, it has torn my little heart up not being able to celebrate Christmas with all the people that I love in the United States... but scattered through here are photos of my delight-tation of Christmas here in Spain. They have turned on all the beeeeeautiful Christmas lights in the centro and Mari, Sylvia, and I decorated our piso for a Christmas party while listen to my scores of Christmas songs.

I wish I could figure out how to put videos on here because I have a endearingly cheesy video that Sylvia took of Mari and I dancing to Mariah's "All I Want for Christmas is You." I will stick by this til the day I die... it really is the little things in life.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

a sundry of...

2006-12-11T21:14:00.000+01:00

haphazard thoughts...
indiscriminant observations...
assorted caprices...
arbitrary musings...
and variagated photos ...

- So very often I find myself walking through the halls of a high school... in Spain... asking am I serious? Haha... is this for real? I love walking down the hall and having kids scream my name in their accent... "Jooooooooooooolie!! Hi!"

- The good thing is that after being in the school for two months without actually teaching a ton of classes, I have absolutley no fear of walking into classes and teaching and walking down the halls. Bring it on, punk kids. :)

- This is the back of my apartment building. Our balcony is the second floor (el primer piso), in between the palm tree and the other tree, with the two rugs hanging over the side.

- The other day in my car pool I looked around and was the youngest member (not to mention the only female) by at least 15 years (and I'm being generous)... and what came on the CD player (ie NOT the radio)... but "I'm a Slave for You" by our very own Britney Spears. I looked around thinking "please, God, let these men not understand these lyrics." This song was immediately followed by "I'm not a Girl, not Yet a Woman," also by the ex-Mrs. Federline... yes, it was indeed her entire album to which we listened. What?

- So after teaching for a few weeks I realize that I enjoy teaching the first and second levels of ESO the most, followed by the two levels of bachillerato, then with the third and fourth levels of ESO coming in a distant third. (See previous post for explanation of levels.) You see... the first and second of ESO don't have that high of a level of English, but aren't too cool for my games like "bingo" (which are pretty sweet if I do say so myself)... then the bachillerato levels have a decent enough of a foundation that you can talk with them... but with third and fourth of ESO, they don't know English still, but they're too cool for games..... THEN it hit me... bachillerato equates to juniors and seniors in high school in the US... third and fourth of ESO corresponds to US high school freshman and sophomores... which means that first and second of ESO correlates to US 7th and 8th grade!!!! That's right... I prefer middle schoolers. Haha... oooooh goodness, who would have guessed.

- There is a child in one of my classes (second year of ESO) with a little round face and tight dark curls who makes a lot of trouble. He looks to me like Spanish Corey Matthews from Boy Meets World. I call him Spanish Corey Matthews in my head. But I can't share it with anyone here because no one knows what I'm talking about. And anyone readng this can't appreciate it because I have no picture. Oh well. Trust me. It's funny.

- If I ran the world, movies with sad/depressing endings would have a warning label on the box so you don't stress yourself and waste your energy hoping for a happy ending when it's just not coming. Don't worry, I wouldn't get rid of those kind of movies altogether for all you weirdos who want to pay to see something depressing, I'd just fix it so I wouldn't have to be deceived.

- "The Holiday" is a lovely movie... at least I enjoy what I procured from the film in Spanish.

- Shay and I went to Códorba this past weekend when he visited for the puente (holiday). There is an (apparently) lovely mezquita (mosque) there that cost 8 euros. We wouldn't know. We didn't go inside. We DID, however, pay 14 euros to see the circus. Haha. It was awful. Don't be fooled by the poster in this photo. Elephants, rhinos, lions, there were NOT. I wish it wasn't a liar. There were, however, gymnasts in flesh-colored tights and thong leotards for costumes (Did we mention there were children present at this event?)... and a group of dogs playing soccer. By far, the highlight of the circus was when the "goalie" dog chained to the "Barcelona" goal squated and pooped in the middle of the game. Any time you can possible start a story with "so when the dogs were playing soccer...." you know that it's gonna be worth at least 14 euros. :)

- The other night Beth and I were hopped up on Christmas spirit and purchased a bag of roasted chesnuts in the centro. While these warmed kernals might bestow tidings of great joy to lovers of the acclaimed Christmas carol... they fervently lack in pleasurable taste. Poop.

- Walking around a beautifully lit centro can cure any and all foul/melancholy disposition. This is my absolutely favorite sight in Sevilla.

- P.S. my one hour carpool in the morning is kiiiiiiller. It's all I can do to stay awake the whole time.

- The other day I was in class allowing the students to ask me questions which sounded like this: "whaaaaaa-at.... eeeeeeeeez.... yoooooore... na-aaaahhhme?"
"wh-eeeeeeerh... aaahhhhhhh-re... youuuuu... frah-uuuum?"
"ha-oooow... oh-ooooold... aaahhhhh-re... youuuuu?"
Then all of the sudden this student called me by my first name (which still startles me when anyone says it correctly here in Spain, much less a student) "Julie Ann!" And he pauses to think and struggle through his question, but instead opts for "¿mepuedeshablarenespañol?" (canyoujusttalktomeinSpanish?) Haha.

- As a teacher, it is toooootally accepted to dress pretty much however we want. Jeans are totally accepted. One of my higher-ups has his eyebrow pierced.

- The kids at school do pretty much whatever they want. It is not uncommon for kids to just get up and walk around the class, or blatantly sit there and not do work... not even bothering to take out materials and fake it. Non-members of a class will just come in from the hall and interrupt. One girl told the teacher if she didn't allow her to sing fandango (a typical flamenco type song) then she wouldn't behave... so at the end of class, the student had her own personal mini-concert. But kids run around and scream between classes just like they do in the U.S. Haha. Punks.

- You would not believe the difference between my street during the siesta versus during peak hours of life here in Spain. I wanted to put some compare and contrast photos to help convey my stupefication at the drastic difference between exactly how crowded and brimming with people the street can be versus how barren and abandoned it can be, but I felt like a tool taking a photo during the uber-full of people time, so here is the empty time. (My door is just past the blue Telefonica store and sign, if you can make that out.)

- The other night Beth and I made "pomanders" or yummy, Christmas-y, smelly, decorative thingys by sticking whole cloves in oranges in pretty designs while listening to Christmas carols and proceding to dance around the piso. It's the little things in life. I reccommend the little things.

- I appreciate that although I freeeeeeeze inside, it is still beautifully sunny enough for me to run in shorts along the river during the day.

- I am slowly becoming able to be "me" here in Spain. Here I am freaking out because I just realized that our bus was going to take us on an extremely indirect route around the city back to our piso. Mari thought it was hysterical and made me freeze for a photo. I'm definitely missing the car and feeling the pain of being at the mercy of public transportation.

- The other weekend, my roommate Sylvia gave a concert here in Sevilla at a fundraiser. She is such a fun performer to watch. That girl is precious.

- Style here is very different, and I don't quite understand it. It is quite the "in" thing to dress head to toe in all one color (no really as in hat, jacket, pants, shoes) and in rather odd colors such as a bright orange, a bold teal, or an irridescent yellow.

- When driving Spaniards are much better at obeying the rule of using their blinker than people in the US (or at least me), however, I have noted that more than one driver with whom I've driven is in the habbit of putting on their left blinker to move into the passing, left lane and leaving it on for the duration of their occupation of said passing lane (no matter how many minutes or kilometers pass) until they return to the slow, right lane.

- Although, yes, it is absolutely freezing here... inside... (I am wearing three layers of shirts today, not for style, but for survival, plus a sweater, plus a large coat)... when Spaniards drive they keep the heat on soooo high that I think I'm going to melt away.

- El Parchís (aka Parchisi) dominates and its a totally underrated game.

- All of the English books in Spain teach this wacked-out Brittish English which includes this verb "have got," and Spaniards are obsessed with it. As in...
"Julie Ann has got red hair."
"Julie Ann has got one brother."
"Julie Ann and her brother have got two parents."
You know, for as much as I've been told that Brittish English is "more proper" than my improper, uncouth, barbaric American English by people here... I do delcare that "have got" sounds pretty darn gramatically incorrect to my "uncultured" ears.

Well... I feel like that's enough... and no worries... before I leave to return for Christmas I will include lovely fotos of the Christmas edition of my life including decorating the piso for Christmas!!!

i promise i have a job.

2006-12-02T13:20:00.000+01:00

So... it's a lovely Saturday here in Sevilla... it's raining outside which I very much don't mind right now. Mari and I are sitting on our computers in the salón. She is playing on facebook (I vice to which, yes, I am culpable for introducing her,) and I just finished my chore for the week of cleaning the bathroom (a duty which I actually don't mind and that I'm pretty darn good at thanks to my work for Grace at the ranch for so many summers- whoop whoop housekeeping!). What a perfect time to write a blog, no?!

So I think I'll begin with explaining a little bit about the way Spanish school works. VERY different from the US.

Ok... so their school system.
It begins with a type of preschool called educación infantil that you do til age 6.
Then you enter educación primaria from 6-12...
followed by educación segundo obligatorio (ESO) from 12-16 of which there are 4 levels.
At that point, you receive a type of graduate certificate.
Then from 16-18, you have the option of doing further schooling called bachillerato (of which there are 2 levels) before going to the university OR doing a type of vocational training to enter the work world.

My school IES Doñana, is an Instituto de Educación Segundaria (hence the IES). It incorporates ESO, bachillerato, and the vocational training listed above... so there are kids from 12-18 running around. I work with classes of all levels of ESO as well as both levels of bachillerato. They are punks. Haha. And they don't really know English at all which means the HATE trying to speak it.

My instituto is actually huge. Although Almonte (my little pueblo) is rather small, the school is big because they bus kids in from other surrounding pueblos as well. I think there are like 90 different professores in the school and something like 2000-ish students, so it's a size I'm used to. Here is a picture I tried to take of Almonte from the bus window coming from the highway. It's not fabulous, but it kind of give you an idea of how these pueblos are just little entities or clusters of pocket villages that exisit as you drive down the highway.

And just a side note information, right now my school (as well as any building including my piso) is FREEZING right now because every edificio is built to expel the life-sucking, unforgiving, infernal heat of Andalucia during the summer... so during the winter, we have not a prayer to retain any minute amount of it. Here is a picture of the departamento de inglés where I used to sit and buscar materiales por el internet before I recevied my lovely new schedule. It kinda gives you an idea of how the inside of the school looks. Note the tiled walls and floors, read arctic.

ANYWAY, their school day works as follows:
primera hora 8:25-9:25
segunda hora 9:25-10:20
tercera hora 10:20-11:15
recreo 11:15-11:45
cuarta hora 11:45-12:45
quinta hora 12:45-13:40
sexta hora 13:40-14:35

As you may note, they don't have a lunch time because they all go home and eat afterwards (while I drive the 1 hour commute back to sevilla with my carpool), but the period called is a time for students (and professors) to go to the little cafetería and eat chips, candy, or a bocadilla (a sandwich with an obscene amount of bread in proportion to the tiny slivers of meat- most likely jamón- and queso).

The cafetería also serves café con leche and is more like a café than anything we would think of as a school cafeteria. The bar tender's name is Manolo and one time when he was explaining the difference between a manchado and a café con leche to me (answer the ratio of coffee to milk is much less in a manchado), he spilled coffee all over himself and blamed it on me (but all in jest), so we joke about that quite frequently now.

Other odd differences I've noted in the Spanish school:
1) the students all call the professors by their first names
2) if the students don't use their first names, they use maestra, or rather they whine maestra
3) the teachers do not have fixed classrooms, so the teachers move from room to room each class while the kids stay... personally I think this is dumb for a number of reasons, mainly because (a) there is no way to have stocked materials for your subject in your room, you have to carry them around and (b) it gives the students this "territorial" type advantage/control over the teacher which is horrible because their behavior is abhorrent already
4) because of how the teachers move around, they don't have a fixed "all day, every day" schedule... so they might teach 2 classes during primera and cuarta horas on Monday, then 5 on Tuesday, etc, etc.... this frees them up to come and go only when they have to be there, but often time leaves them with huecos or holes in their schedules
5) professors (not me, because I'm not really real) also have hours of guardia which are just times where they have to be "on call" to patrol the halls or to just be available to random student if they have problems
6) they don't do substitutes unless a teacher is out for an extended period of time, so if a teacher is just gonna miss a day, the kids just have a hole in their schedule and do whatever they want... really good for 12-16 year olds.

Well, now that I am in classes (nevermind the fact that it took me 2 months to get there), I am very quickly gathering funny stories which are worth telling, however as I realize that this blog is already a little long, I will save them for later to post with other fun recent pictures of me and the crazy people with whom I am doing life now. :)

And a PS... please just imagine what a dork I felt like taking pictures of the high school... I want to be able to put pictures of the inside, but I can't bring myself to do so when there are kids running around. Haha.

Here... and just to end... Yesterday Beth and I went Christmas shopping in the centro and while we were walking back by the cathedral we had a "I can't believe we're living in Spain" moment and took a picture and then walked around listening to our ipods. I find that Coldplay is perfect for this type of setting. I got cold and am actually wearing three purchases (hat, scarf, sweatshirt) that I somehow ended up with for myself when shopping for others. Oops.

virtual tour

2006-11-25T19:26:00.000+01:00

Sooooo...
if anyone is interested in taking a "virtual tour" of my life here... or at least of my piso... I thought I'd post a few pictures of my humble abode. There are a few little quirky things that do not function that I love to bug my roomies about that I will affectionately describe throughout the tour.

To begin... here is a little photo of what you see when you first walk in... this is the foyer. Now, up until about a week ago, it was full of junk (old clothes, small pieces of furniture, etc) to be donated/thrown away that had litterally been sitting there for at least four months... waaaay before I got here. I've been absolutely itching to clean it up, and it had taken every ounce of will power not to just throw it all out myself. I finally succeeded in nagging Mari until she got me the number of the donation center, and I called them to come pick it all up. Then I threw everything else out, hid whatever else she wanted to keep, and then cleaned. She flipped out and said that it has never looked this good and clean in the four years she's lived in this apartment. All of the visitors we have now comment on it. And to think Mari told me that most Spanish people think Americans are dirty. Ha.

Now, walking down the little hallway in the foyer, my room and my little half-bath (with non-functioning toilet - unless you want to dump a pail of water down after usage) are through that little doorway off to the left. Oh, and in my room, the window doesn't completely close, which should be fun as it continues to get a little colder in Andalucia. :)

Then, once fully in the little foyer, the little kitchen is off to the right as well. As I've mentioned, much of our little piso is not completely functional. The kitchen light doesn't work, so we have this lovely lamp in the corner whose lampshade I secured on with my fully functional American duct tape. We have an adorable little fridge with our own shelves, a gas stove which scares me each time I light it myself with a ligher! a microwave, and a microwave oven. I now handwash everything (oooh). And in the unpictured laundry room, our washer only opens with the help of a kitchen knife.

Then, you enter our little dining room/living room which has a little balcony with a precious view and our little racks on which we dry our laundry. In the living room, the cable jack in the back of the television does not hold the cable cord itself well, and it's constantly going out. We use half of a clothes pin to help hold it in. We always have our little computers going with the little wireless hookup or the ethernet cord. People joke that it's like a "locutorio" in our house as we all sit on the couch, listen to music, and read email. We often ghetto-rig up my computer (the only one that plays dvds) to watch downloaded movies that won't play on our dvd player.

Then, off to the left between the dining half and the living half of the "salón" is the where the full bath is located. Our lovely bathroom has wonderfully hot water, but if you don't hold onto the European style moveable faucet when you turn the water off, it WILL fall on your head. (A trick it took me far too long and a few too many bumps on the head to learn.) Also, because Spainards are uber-concerned with conservation, Mari has us make sure to press the flusher twice to ensure that the least amount of water is used.

Then Mari's room is off to the right of the bathroom, and Sylvia's to the left. We all have tiny little beds, but you would be surprised the amount of visitors we have coming through this apartment to spend the night on the weekends, either on our futon in the living room or on the floor in their rooms or wherever!

I am wonderfully blessed by this preciously imperfect piso and furthermore by the two angels that live in these fabulously lived in rooms. I don't know where I'd be without them.

does this happen?

2006-11-14T22:13:00.000+01:00

I went running tonight, like I do most nights.

I was crossing a street right as the light was about to change.

So was a girl on her bicycle.

We collided.

Her nose and face smashed into my ear and head.

She fell over, and her notebooks spilled in the road.

I stood there, but with an imprint of a tire on my thigh.

She thought her nose was broken.

There was no blood.

A nice runner man picked up her bike while I picked up her belongings.

We determined we were fine, apologized, and said "hasta luego."

She biked away, and I ran off the other direction.

see? i'm making a difference...

2006-11-11T18:23:00.000+01:00

My hope is that this entry will reassure any and all who might be worried that I am the same old Julie Ann here in Spain as I am anywhere else in the world...

So I have this Spanish friend who likes to sometimes practice speaking English with me. Understandable, no big deal. But the thing is... he likes to use the f-word in order to sound cool. Furthermore, he has a few German friends that I've met who also use the f-word... specifically in the context of "f-ing shit."

Now, don't get me wrong about what I am about to say... I have absolutley no problem with foreigners trying to speak English. (I mean... first of all, I'm doing the same with Spanish, and additionally, I truly appreciate the use of English if the alternative is something ridiculous like German.) BUT, if you know me at all, at all, at all... in the least bit possible... you know that I absolutely detest the use of said f-word by a native English speaker... much less a non-native speaker. It is my belief that when a non-native speaker curses at all, but specifically uses the f-word, that they sound just silly because clearly, they do not know the proper usage of the word, and besides, they say it with a goofy accent. Dumb.

So clearly, I began correcting my new friends. I simply told my Spanish friend that I hate the use of the f-word in English, just like I would tell any of my native English-speaking friends. He asked me why, and I did my best to describe that I think it's incredibly vulgar, strong, unnecessary, and just sounds bad. So then when his German friends began using it in front of me... he corrected them. Then, knowing more English than him, they asked me what they should say in place of "f-ing shit," so I told them that "that sucks" would be sufficient for what they were trying to express.

Haha.

Julie Ann Burandt... cleaning up the English language one foul-mouthed foreigner at a time. ;)

P.S... Right now there is a b-rated movie on t.v. about a woman who lets a gambling problem ruin her life and her family... I'm pretty sure it's a "Lifetime Original."

the persistence of time...

2006-11-07T13:48:00.000+01:00

Time is such a funny thing.

In high school and in college I feel like I never had enough... like I was always running out of it.

Here, don't ask me how, but time is different. It just is. I don't know how imaginary lines seemingly haphazardly drawn on an allotment of land can have such undisputed authority as to govern everything... from the language one speaks to the cultural etiquette and conventions to which one concedes and abides. Time is one of those things that just magically and mysteriously changes upon entering Spain.

First of all, the amount of time it takes to do something is multiplied by 3. For instance, in the United States it takes about 10 minutes to get pretty much everywhere you want to go... maybe 15. (Think about it.) Here in Spain, you need to allot 30-45 minutes to go and do whatever you do. But the trick is... it does't feel like what 30-45 minutes feels like in the U.S... somehow, that becomes the norm here and it just feels equivalent to the U.S. 10-15. Walking 30 minutes to go somewhere = normal. No pasa nada.

The bus. I ride the bus anywhere from 30-45 minutes every morning I go to work. That's just to meet my carpool. Then I ride with my carpool 45-60 minutes to work. No pasa nada. Normal. Otro ejemplo... I take an 8 hour train ride to Valencia to visit two of my very favorites , Shay and Drew... no big deal, plus toootally worth it. (See picture with me and said fabulous former 106 members in traditional pose.)

In this world, the amount of time it takes to do simple tasks like picking up train tickets or running to the store is increased exponentially. And this is all OK. Because here's the second thing about time in Spain... although everything takes longer... somehow I feel like I have more time in which to accomplish whatever I need.

This idea is perfectly exemplified by the typical Spanish approach to "going out." Saliendo por la noche consists of perhaps eating dinner at 9:30 pm, "botellón"-ing around 11:30 pm (a botellón is simply when people buy their own beverages with which to make drinks and stand outside on the streets and hang out in large groups of people drinking) , going to a club to dance around 3:00 am, and then making it home around 6:00 am. Where did all this time come from? How do they survive the next day? Questions I have yet to answer. This is a custom to which I have yet to completely adapt and to which I pretty much lack the desire to do so.

But in a culture where there is a set amount of time to rest each day from 2 til 5... where everything dies for three hours... things last longer into the night. Everything is pushed back about those three hours, and all of the sudden, there are about three hours more in the world.

I feel like I've done a poor job explaining this... however, I still don't completely understand it myself... so go figure. Well... I think I'm gonna go running... and soon enough I'll write about my school... and THAT is a very fun subject. (read: sarcasm) :)

the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but...

2006-10-30T15:41:00.000+01:00

(PS... incentive to read... there are photos at the bottom)

Sooooooo... lately I've been pondering exactly why Spain can be so frustrating to me. I mean, I have been incredibly lucky as far as my comprehension of the Spanish language has been concerned. Not to be prideful, but when evaluating my language competence in the most objective manner that I can, I would estimate my understanding is at about 80%... which is pretty good. The main problems I face in the 20% of comprehension that I lack are clearly a deficit in my vocabulary (which is slowly growing), but more so the sheer speed at which Spanish is spoken. You know, when you stop and think about it, we speak English at a fairly steady, slow pace. Sure, you can speak it quickly, but that takes specific effort. Spanish, however, is naturally spoken (or better said, rattled) at the speed of light. Por ejemplo, I went to a comedy show of two Spanish comics the other night, and a Spainard told me that even he had trouble deciphering the delivery.

"So... if you can understand Spanish, what is the problem, Julie Ann?" you may ask. Well, that's easy. It's the speaking. Plain and simple. As I believe I've mentioned before... it is my belief that when you can't speak a language, people assume you're a moron. Here in Spain, I'm an imbecile.

Imagine this:
You're in a situation or a conversation where you understand what's going on, you connect with the ideas people offer and exchange. Ooooooh, now you, too, have an idea in your head. It's a good idea, rather clever actually. It adds to and furthers the conversation. It's intelligent, like you are. You want to express it. You want to participate. As you begin to formulate this idea with the goal of verbalization, you realize that you don't have the words with which to express your idea, because in this new language (which you can comprehend completely) your vocabulary seems to be limited to that of an eight-year-old. Then, once you do begin to dumb your wonderfully brilliant idea down to the insufficient elementary words of a child, you stutter because in speaking a new language you get nervous and become increasingly aware of this odd accent you're trying to feign and uncomfortably concious of the sympathetic look of understanding from the other participants in the conversation. Your brain (clearly functioning at the adult level with your intelligent comment) moves faster than your poor little puerile mouth is capable, so after sputtering a few syllabals, you simplyopt for the silent alternative... which leads me to another idea...

It is impossible, or rather, extremely difficult to have a personality or anything which slightly resembles charisma or dynamism in a new language. With my stunted vocabulary and narrow ability to communicate, I cannot fully articulate and disclose all that is me. Therefore, I have come to another conclusion that I believe that these Spaniards are only experiencing Julie Ann at about 50% (which is unfortunate if you ask me.)

I have come to compare all of this to living in a tiny, intangible prison where you are held captive by impenetrable bars created by your inability to communitcate. Here, you are robbed of the freedom of expressing yourself, thus losing the amenity of gaining understanding from people around you and having absolutely no hope of dazzling them with your radiantly bright personality, because here your personality at best is only dimly lit.

This little inhibited, impalpable bastille has opened up an infinite amount of time to ponder the profound aspects of life and has led me to a few basic conclusions for all of humanity (or at least for me), two of which I will share here:
1) people have a deep need to be able to express themselves.
2) people have a deep need to be understood by those around them.

All that said, as frustrating as this is... I still feel I am where I need to be, I do not desire to be anywhere else.... I am simply saying that Spain is not all fluffy kittens and peanut butter cups. However, Spain is NOT without its fun... I will now insert pictures so as to prove so...

So the other night, my compañera Sylvia came back from being out of town for 11 days. So the next morning Beth came over and joined Mari and I making her a surprise American breakfast which included pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, apple topping, and dance music. (See cheesy foto to the right in which Mari and I give the affirmative "thumbs up" while Sylvia pretends to drink the syrup.)

Then Mari and Sylvia wanted to take a picture of the four of us posing "Julie Ann style" with one arm up in the air. Where did they get the idea that that posture is essentially customary behavior for me?

the who

2006-10-23T15:52:00.000+02:00

(I promise this will be shorter than the last little story.) :)

For those interested in who I am living with... here are a few pictures!

First of all... for some reason, being an alien in a foreign country makes you prone to being a moron. I'm not only finding this out as far as language difficulties go (ie it is a personal opinion of mine, that if you hear someone stuttering through trying to speak your language, you immediately assume they are dumb... first you may disagree, but think about it... i'm right)... but also in simply living life. Here is a picture of me from the first week of being here where I was getting food from the frigadero and ended up dumping pineapple juice all over the floor. I'm dumb.

Not to worry though, that misfortune was preceded by Beth's accident of putting entirely too much soap in the washing machine which cause a huge overflow of bubbles with which we were able to mop the floor. Sweet.

So we comprise the silly Americans trying to survive adapting to a new culture. Thank the good Lord for the grace and help from my two compañeras españolas, Sylvia and Mari (short for María Ángeles or Marian).

In the picture to the bottom left, Sylvia is posing in the pink on the left. She is (I think) 27 years old. She's from Barcelona and has only lived in Sevilla about 2 months longer than us. She is a fairly well known Christian singer with a beautiful voice, two CDs, and the sweetest novio who live just outside town. I think she works with Intervarsity here at the university. She cooks very well and feeds me. :)

Mari, on the right, is 29. She's originally from Málaga, but has lived in Sevilla for a few years now. She works with youth through Campus Crusade at a church across town. She makes me laugh because she loves (downloading) and watching American television shows and movies all the time. She has the FUNNIEST ring on her telephone... it literally is a female voice singing "ring, ring, ring... riiiiiiiiiiiiiing" in this soulful Whitney Houston-esque style. What?

Already I can tell that they are some of the most ridiculously passionate people I've ever met (which is saying a lot... I mean, I know some passionate people, me probably being one of them.) They both are like big sisters looking out for Beth and me, and we're already so comfortable together. The other night after watched a silly girly movie, we downloaded the Elton John song "Don't Go Breaking My Heart," looked up the lyrics online, and sang it karioke style (hys-TER-ical to hear with a Spanish accent). We've decided we want to do a monthly "American night" where we drink Coke, eat pizza, pancakes, and cookies. I'm there.

Finally, here is a photo of the four of us together taken through the window of our piso. Don't ask, who knows? We're weird. I'll fit in just fine. :)

home sweet home

2006-10-20T16:20:00.000+02:00

There is a list in my little Van Gogh/Hemingway-esque moleskin notebook that I now (very appropriately, of course) carry around of different aspects of life abroad, specifically here in Spain that I would like to comment upon. I think, however it will be better to do so in pieces.

I find it appropriate to begin with maybe a more detailed (yes, long) version of how I secured a "humble abode" in which to abide. :) - An aside, I'm having trouble concentrating on writing this now, because there is currently a television show called "El precio justo" (aka "The Price is Right") on in the background, complete with a large spinning wheel, the Spanish version of "come on dooown" ("al jugaaaaar"), and its own shady looking host (see foto to the left). - Anyway... as I was saying.

So I left Lexington on October 1, arrived in Sevilla October 2, went to Granada October 3 to go to a pointless meeting which I loosely refer to as an "orientation" which failed to orientate on October 4, and then returned to Sevilla that night. On October 5, I first went to my school in Almonte , and by October 6 I knew (a) that living in the small town of Almonte would not satisfy and (b) that a kind group of professors who carpool the one way, one hour distance from Sevilla to Almonte was willing to include me.

October 6 marks the beginning of my ten day intensive search for a piso. Now to look at this time now, it's easy to think "ten days... no pasa nada"... but mind you... these were ten days, each with no end in sight. Not gonna lie, not a lot of eating nor sleeping happened during this period of time... no seriously, it didn't. I only hope that these words that follow can just begin to capture the immense desperation I in which I lived for those ten days which consisted of the following (and I refrain from exaggeration here in order to accurately portray my search):

- 4 websites which I check religiously (1 which was on an hourly if not half-hourly basis)
- no less than 30 different pisos whose owners I called and spoke with in Spanish
- no less than 50 euros spent on charging my phone to make said phone calls (all of which were clearly in vain)
- 4 hours spent walking around a certain areas looking for leads
- an estimated 10 hours (at least) spent in transit while physically going and looking at pisos
- 1 anuncio advertising my personal desperation to the world around me
- 1 pathetic email begging other "auxiliares" in my program living in Sevilla if they had any leads
- 3 pisos who agreed to meet me and then canceled I'm pretty sure because I'm American
- 4 pisos I actually visited in the flesh (two of which were with sets of two guys, one set that was super sketchy)
- 1 piso that I found out I had accidently agreed that I intended to buy (thank you, language barrier)
- 1 piso where I couldn't figure out why these two French girls wanted to share the same bed until they told me they were a couple... oooohhhh, I'm dumb.

Now, when I came back from my "orientation" in Granada, I spent the night with Beth, a friend of a friend in Lexington who is also in my program and who was temporarily living with two Spanish girls (Mari and Sylvia) before the couple who was living in her piso moved out and a friend of one of the girls moved into the room in which she had been staying. (Got it? That's confusing.) Anyway, the original plan was to spend the night once on her couch... or maybe the duration of the weekend, tops, before I found my own piso. Well, one night turned into two, then three, and so on, and I began worrying that my constant presence on their couch in the middle of their living room everynight, not to mention my three large suitcases in their foyer, was beginning to bother them, especially with no hope of a sign of my leaving. On the fourth day, Sylvia, out of the blue, told me "calm down, sweetie, you don't need to suffer, God has a place for you, and until then you are more than welcome to live with us, you already have a house in the mean time." We were walking down the street. I started to cry.

Now, during this time I went through periods of being positive, hopeful, and secure about the fact I would find a place to live, but it was very difficult to prevent my desperation from turning into utter discouragement and depression. On day 6, I had my first true breakdown (which I think was pretty good that I held out that long, considering the circumstances), crying into my journal and a few psalms, after which I had my first truly good night of sleep.

At that point, I began emailing people and begging them for prayers for my getting a piso. I had spent much time this past summer with some amazing people praying for my time in Spain, specifically where I was going to live, and during this time God was definitely beginning to answer prayers that we prayed (such as for friends and a community), but that of a piso was going unanswered. Beth told me that at meals when I was at school and she was home with Mari and Sylvia, that they would pray for my finding a piso as well.

On about day 8 of the search, Beth and I sat down on the couch with Sylvia who noticed we both looked pretty down, and she called Mari in the room with us. We all began talking and realized that each one of us was in what I fondly call "a funk" for different reasons. Beth was missing her family in the states, Sylvia was missing hers in Barcelona (she's only lived here for 2 months), Mari was something, and I, of course, was bummed about not having a piso. Well, our talk turned into a therapy session complete with cheetos, chocolate cookies, and coke and ended with us discussing the characteristics we want to see in our future husbands (funny how girls are girls no matter what country in which you live.)

So day 10 arrived, and I decided to bust out my journal and re-read many of the prayers I prayed about Spain and many of the talks I heard from very educated, respected speakers while out at the ranch. I felt very impressed to just focus on what God had done since I'd been in Spain, thank him for that, try to be joyful in the midst of my circumstances, and remain as trusting as I could. I sat down and wrote out exactly what God had done for me and for what was left that I was asking for. I also decided to be brave and boldly ask that God provide a piso for me that day. Well, that day I enviously moved Beth out of this piso and into her permanent one and spent the rest of the afternoon on the internet searching and calling. Then I decided that if I were gonna live as if I were trusting the Lord to provide, then I should do the things that I would do if I were already in my own piso that I hadn't done yet because I was just waiting... like running. So, I went on a run. Came back... still looking for pisos. It got to be about 11 at night, a little late (even for Spain) to find out anything from anyone about pisos.

About that point, my roommate Sylvia came home and checked her email on my computer. All the sudden she looked at me and asked, "Julie, if you could stay here in this piso, would you want to?" My answer: "hombre, claro" (translation: man, duh). And she explained how her friend had emailed right then, explaining that she felt that the Lord just really wanted her to stay in Barcelona where she was. At that point, the three of us each burst into tears, so excited. Then right there on our couch we prayed together and thanked GOD that I had a place to live!! I didn't even think this was an option, but Mari said she had just been thinking that I could stay if Sylvia's friend didn't come and almost suggensted that I move my bags into that room.

Needless to say, I now have a lovely Spanish piso with small, functional little room that I LOVE. (I've taken two about 5 hour trips to IKEA to get things for it, but that is a story for a different blog... as well as thoughts on pisos in general.) But I wanted to include a few pictures of my oh so cherished, newly decorated room. The walls are a light orange and two of the pieces of furniture (a large wardrobe and desk/table thing) are both bright red. I had no idea what to do color-wise, so I just decided to bring in blue and did a blue comforter, blue curtains, and blue little accents with candles and flowers here and there. These pictures can give you a little tast of what it looks like in kinda a 360 degrees fashion.

Well, hopefully soon I'll have pictures of the rest of the piso as well as Mari and Sylvia so you can see the absolute angels with whom I live. You know, what's ridiculous, when this whole process ended, I was almost a little sad (don't get me wrong, I was overwhelmed with relief), but there is something precious about being in a time of desperation (perhaps much more recognizable in hindsight). Also, for a time, I was just kicking myself for not having the foresight to come to Spain earlier and get a piso before I started work, but if I had done that, I would probably be living in the lost, tiny little town of Almonte rather than Sevilla and I wouldn't even know these amazing girls. It's crazy how this whole process worked out... from developing a friendship with them before moving in to the fact that Sylvia's friend didn't think to email until the day before she was supposed to arrive to say she couldn't come (which happened to be the day that I decided to boldly ask the Lord for a piso.) Wow. God is good. Simply.

in the beginning...

2006-10-17T23:50:00.000+02:00

Breathe.

It's what I have to stop and remind myself, not just every day, but about every moment now.
Can we please recapture the chaos that I have fondly called my life for the past six months?

Let's see... May 2006... graduated from here, Wake Forest University in the quaint tobacco-producing metropolis of Winston-Salem, NC (see beautiful foto thanks to the talented Joe Martinez to the left.)

Then spent the summer from May until August being a crazy backpacking, white water rafting, biking, and climbing things here (see foto of the barn and big top to the right) at the cherished JH Ranch in dear, sweet Etna, California, population under 1000.

Now, after the short month of September of feeling guilty for simply exisiting and relaxing at home in the horse capital of the world (which could be a lie, I just thought it might apply) Lexington, KY (note foto to the left is neither my house nor my horse farm), I find myself in yet a new and evermore different location.

Since October 1, 2006, I have been in Sevilla, Spain (see foto of the Torre del Oro along the picturesque river) struggling to grasp and piece together how I have been so blessed as to have expereienced all of these incredibly distinct, equally wonderful places. I am still very much in shock and reeling from the multitude of transitions which has taken its toll on my body and my mind in many and varied ways (not excluding my poor skin being one of them... no worries everyone... it's starting to clear up now.)

As I have lived these past six months, sometimes I get nervous that that is all I have done. That is... just live. I suppose at some times in life that is simply all you can do is "just live." I think my concern is at some point it is easy for me to feel like life is just happening to me or even worse... life is just doing me instead of me doing life. Live is a verb and it is something that I would like to do myself, thank you very much. I don't know why transitions like this are so hard for me. Perhaps it is because I empty so much of myself into whatever it is that I'm doing at the moment that when I have to end it, I feel like I'm leaving so much of myself behind... that when I move onto the next stage, I'm actually only a portion of myself. The good news is that the Lord is faithful in filling that part back up, and not once have I been left in the cold... even this time. :)

I will not lie, I've had some pretty difficult transitions which I've cried myself through... moving from Alabama to Kentucky, leaving Kentucky for Wake, then leaving Wake for... "the real world" (my Mom says this is a "thing" of mine that I've been doing since I was a child, when we moved from Texas to Alabama at the age of 4, my Mom had to stop the car and console me because I was crying so hard), but (returning to what I'm not lying about)... this transition to Spain has by far been the hardest (being "homeless" for two weeks while looking for a piso)... which is why I have been here 17 days without getting in touch with anyone. I figure that no one likes to hear people complain, so I spared the grief. However, I will say that things are more than looking up now... I am absurdly excited to fully begin life here... and I can honestly look back at the past two weeks and already see the good from them. My lesson: hard times are not necessarily bad times.

Ok, enough thoughts for now... I have school in the morning. :) More on life here in Spain, school, the people, my piso, and pictures to come.