It has been a fairly unexciting week. Up until last night when Eddie and I went out to tear it up with some friends there was really nothing worth noting, except the results from Midterms coming back in. Even those weren't unexpected, but the general grumblings from other students continue to tickle my funny bone. I have one professor, an young Italian woman named Ida who has a PhD in Medieval Spain (I think) and attempts to inspire interest in the subject matter of our 3 cultures class (Muslims, Jews, Christians); I say tries to because frankly she has a weird sort of proficiency in English and odd phrasing combined with her accent which causes many to tune out. The male population of the class, myself included, has trouble focusing on the subject matter regardless of what she says. That kind of young Italian woman. She quite literally asked the class at large if we are in fact college students and if at American colleges we are required to write essays anymore. Hilarious, at the time; in retrospect.....I could go off tangentially about how far our education system has fallen in today's world. Europe alone provides so many vivid examples of how poorly we educate our children as a general rule. I was told by several Scandinavians and a Belgian I met some weeks ago that in the Scandinavian countries by the time a student is twelve he or she will be fluent in three or four languages, and by eighteen the number can climb to six or seven. One would be in serious need of being smacked around for saying all European systems of education are comparable or better than the best the States has to offer. Some are comparable, better even. Don't look now but the Asians have caught up as well, possibly even begun to surpass the West given their fanatic work ethics even by American standards. Ok so a little tangent there inspired by the lack of effort or ability or both on the part of some of my peers two weeks ago.

Ah yes, November starts Tuesday which means two events most immediately: Americans tearing up Sevilla celebrating Halloween which has only sort of caught on here as a commercial venture. The gay community LOVES the event though and since the city boasts such a vibrant gay community and Rico seems to know half of them by now it should be quite the spectacle. Luckily we have Tuesday off for all saint's day which I can only assume is a sort of holdover religious day of celebration of the saints etc. etc. whatever. All the holidays are just Christian replacements of old pagan holy days anyway. I personally enjoy the dia de los muertos as it is practiced in Mexico more than American Halloween. Maybe it's because I'm off in the head and refuse to eat candy.
More importantly, when Eddie and I looked at our schedule for October we knew we were going to have a ridiculously busy month, and indeed we have. The sevillanas dance classes twice weekly and volunteering with the kids both kept us moving at a brisk pace Monday through Thursday and the weekends have been full to bursting with trips and cultural visits etc. November looks slightly more imposing, if only because now term projects and papers and presentations are all going to be due at some point during the month, leaving us with only the last hurrah of taking finals in December. Next month will also be more....challenging? Adventurous? We'll see. We go to Granada, a two day/ overnight affair with the school the second weekend, and then beginning Thursday the 24th we do The Big One, Rome for four days. It looks increasingly likely that it will be my only other major trip outside Sevilla during my time here which is an idea which has grown on me. Financially I can't afford to go traipsing about willy nilly like I'd imagined. In the end though I would hate myself for flitting across the surface of many lakes rather than diving deeply into one and exploring. Tourists can see a bunch of cities in a short amount of time. I never want to be a tourist.

Now I must do something I hate: try to relate to you in words what can only possibly be understood by seeing, hearing, and feeling for yourself. Victor, our dance instructor, is the director of dance of the museum of flamenco here in Sevilla. The class was invited to attend a performance of his during Midterms but Eddie and I felt we couldn't go given our test load the next day. Judy informed us of a special performance he and the museum were putting on Friday night, a flamenco tribute to a famous Spanish poet on the anniversary of his death. I just was not ready. First, the setting was so incredibly understated. There were maybe 150 people sitting on three sides of this small wooden stage, the majority of them foreigners, Germans and Asians for the most part (go figure). The performance was given in four parts: first the woman, who we will get to in a moment, performed a piece of her own; next a singing solo in what can only be described as Spanish-Arabic style; next a guitar piece; finally, Victor Bravo in all his glory.

Now Victor was stellar of course. He was dancing in a style that originated in Cadiz and roughly translated means fun or happy. Man did he ever get into it, feet flying and stomping and him twirling madly one second and holding himself composed just so the next. But I am compelled by my nature to settle my focus upon Asuncion, or Asun (Ahh-soon) as they call her. I have never seen a woman dance like that. The only comparable emotional energy I can even think of would be from some of the pieces in Les Mis, but even those fall short. There is a concept which I think I may have mentioned already at some point: duende. It is a Spanish word with no possible accurate translation in English. The best I can do is dark soul because they say Sevilla is a city of duende, or as a famous Spanish nun who lived here once quipped: 'In Sevilla it is hard not to sin.' A person can certainly have duende, a sort of darker passion emotive of suffering and sensuality. Asun wore a blood red and black flamenco dress and her faced looked as if she were mourning the death of a child, but her body undulated back and forth in sensuous, rolling rhythm. Flamenco is possessed of so much energy to begin with but this was just senses tingling to the nth degree. As the dance progressed she was less mournful, and anger began to take form. Finally, she was stamping and twirling furiously as if determined to fight back death itself. To put it as succinctly as I am amble, when she was finished I was close to tears, not because her emotional state was translated to me although it did happen for others; I almost wept because all I could think was "I will never seen anything like this ever again." Kind of like 'nothing will ever be so bright, we'll never be here again etc'. You might say I'm silly for doubting my ability to see another incredible female flamenco dancer in my entire lifetime. You would be both right and wrong. Right because I certainly could. Wrong because the pieces Asun and Victor composed for the evening were in special tribute to the aforementioned poet, entirely their own creations. Taking video was expressly forbidden, but it wouldn't have done the experience justice in any case.  Rico nailed it: When Asun and Victor take the stage, God stops to watch. She was literally that impressive. One of my friends who went along has photos and even a video (shhh) of some pieces and as soon as they are available to me they'll be on here.


Different topic: the internet is awesome if you weren't already aware. I'm currently watching the Broncos get stomped on by the Lions thanks to some nifty streaming sports coverage sites. It's not much but just a little taste of being back home is cool now and then. Even if the commentary is being done by some British guys who have no clue what is actually going on. Back to soccer for you.

Best laid plans

Details first:

Our journey to Alicante for the weekend looks increasingly unlikely at this point. First of all Eddie is only beginning to recover from a terrible cough/bronchitis problem that had him immobile since Thursday afternoon. Secondly the girls he met from Alicante a few weeks ago advised us about the best hostels to stay in while we were there and then said we could "hang out" once we got there and make plans. Not what we thought they meant when they said we should come see them. Thirdly there is going to be a lot going on here in Sevilla this weekend, not the least of which is the final weekend of the festival of nations which is taking place in one of the parks, five or ten minutes walking distance from our neighborhood. It's not all the nations of the world but many of the Latin countries and various European ones. They each have a food booth which is fantastic. Even better, there are shops with cultural knicknacks, whatnots, and doodas, none of which are as expensive as some of the "cultural products" we've seen in other parts of Spain. Finally, staying home will mean essentially burning the 35 american dollars the tickets cost; however, we had yet to book a hostel when we made the decision so overall we will save that 125 E for the weekend plus the cost of food and any other transport. So really, we burned a little cash but saved even more, and we don't get the experience obviously.

Now the promised reflection on being halfway done.

First of all I don't believe I am halfway done. I think last week I told you about how enamored I am with Spain and what a crazy first couple of days I had right? It seems like it. Midterms were surely real enough, but they felt less like a midway point marker and more like a sudden alarm sounding, alerting me to the reality of how quickly the sand is pouring through the hourglass. I don't feel as though I have been missing opportunities or letting them fall by the wayside; far from it. So I can find some solace there.
It has been plenty long enough for me to find the less attractive realities to living in this country. Nothing is truly awful or problematic.....but there are some bits of our society, the police for example, that quite simply need to work. Without questions or bickering or exceptions. I thought I saw a police car pulling someone over today and I about fell over from surprise, but then true to form they just sped around the vehicle and off to parts unknown. I always see police speeding somewhere but you never see them arrive or arrest anyone or do anything. Another disturbing detail: for a country quite literally on the very brink of following Greece into austerity reforms and begging for bailouts nobody, and I mean nobody, seems worried. Nobody talks about the upcoming elections or the sovereign debt crisis. Even the older professionals are out at bars until 5 in the morning drinking and talking. Culturally speaking America could probably use a little more gathering communally and talking and sharing each other's company; on the other hand, our straits are nowhere near as dire as Spain's and we have this Occupy Wallstreet movement taking off, and already you can't open an internet browser without some random factoid about one Republican candidate or another being crammed down your throat through your screen. You also may have noticed there are a lot of cranes in my pictures of the city. Off the top of my head, there are no less than seven new apartment complexes being built within a half mile of our apartment. Where are they getting the money for this? Who is going to pay to move into Sevilla in an economy like this? It's not just Sevilla either. Madrid seemed to be under construction, Cadiz had its fair share of projects. Perhaps it is Spanish stoicism, or perhaps the "no pasa nada" attitude really is a way of life. Either way, to put it metaphorically, I'd still put a freaking screen on my open windows after the first night of fending off mosquitoes, moths, and gnats. Such a course of action simply does not occur to the average Spaniard.

I do love it here. The food is simply wonderful, as are my host family and new friends. I suppose it is much like any other experience of period one may go through. The place itself may or may not be so fundamental in shaping the experience but the people are always essential. I have been blessed with a roommate who is (according to everyone who spends any time around us) a long lost brother of sorts. We are all blessed to have teachers who understand our focus cannot be solely on the schoolwork; several even encourage us to travel as much as possible and arrange the class load accordingly. It's a little strange to me but if you'll give me a few inches I'll take the mile, thanks.  I find my transcribing these thoughts to you today especially apropos: it rained today. By rained I mean some billowing grey clouds rolled in about eleven thirty this morning and dropped a sprinkling, a smidgen of moisture. Just enough to re moisturize all the dog crap drying on the sidewalks, but the smell and the feel of the rain was simply glorious after baking for so long. The temperature has finally, blessedly begun to drop this week. Walking to the gym Eddie and I were slightly put off by how much the roiling grey clouds, gusts of wind, and slightly cool temperature reminded us of Michigan and Ohio in the fall. We don't exactly know what to do with such weather. I mean we have the clothing for it of course but cold? Sevilla? Impossible. Simply cannot be.

Everyone talks about how studying abroad will change you, open your horizons, make you see the world differently. I'm sure it has actually been happening and man I have seen some things (did I tell you about the mothers who hold their 2-5 year old daughters over trees to pee in the plazas between apartment buildings? They go to incredible lengths to dress their children perfectly, often in little matching uniforms, and yet they'll just hold them there to do their business in front of God and everyone. And they don't bring paper towels or tissues or anything. Just shake 'em dry and on we go. The ironies and contradictions are hilarious). I just haven't felt the deepening or broadening very much. In my head I'm still just some kid from New Mexico, studying in Ohio, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with my life. Therein might lie the issue, because according to the calendars I'm no longer a kid, and I really haven't been for a while. The question then becomes, I think, is this doing something with your life? Some days it sure feels like it. Some days I'm less certain.

Partway Done

Rather than reflect completely on my half-experience here so far I'm going to do the easier option for now (I'll get to it before we head for Alicante), because I'm lazy today. What follows is a take home essay I wrote for my Spanish culture and society midterm last week. I wrote it in the manner I would have written if I were relating the trip to you all which is what Judy wanted us to do to spice things up. It is a story I wish was real about a part of Spain I cannot visit this time around but which sounds fascinating to me. Enjoy.

Silas Horst

Spanish Culture and Society

Midterm Essay-Regional Differences

                When I first read about Galicia it sounded almost too strange, too different, to be true. I have always found it easier to imagine a place or a people based on what I have experienced, and thus it was strange for me to imagine a part of Spain unlike what I had seen briefly in Madrid, or especially what I found in Sevilla and the surrounding campo. Andalucía, from the southern portion of Badajoz all the way down to Cadiz on the coast was uniformly dry, hot, brown, and covered in patches of olive trees. I was told it’s not always so sweltering, temperatures reaching the mid 40’s Celsius during the afternoons, and that with the approach of winter relief would come; more than relief, truly cool weather, pants and jackets weather. I remained skeptical. Like I said, most of what I understand is based on what I have lived and nothing Spain could throw at me would compare to a northern Ohio winter. Al Andalus might get chilly at best.

When I let my mind piece together Galicia on its own I saw northern Oregon, which I visited briefly long ago. Maybe more standing water given the little fingers of ocean that protrude inward like in Scandinavian countries. I hoped it would be as beautiful as Oregon in the fall, when the rain didn’t so much fall everyday as exist as a perpetual part of life. This northern piece of Spain, so green and moist, felt positively alien after a month and a half of living in Sevilla. Was that soil, dark and thick-looking? Those certainly weren’t olive trees. The bus from Santiago de Compostela to Pontavedra wound its way past village after village. Growing up in the southwest and within spitting distance (relatively speaking) of Colorado, I hesitate to describe anything in this part of the world as mountainous. Still, Galicia had more elevation to be gained and lost in several hundred yards than in all of Sevilla. The second weekend of our semester our host family took my roommate and I into the “mountains”, to a small rural community called Segura de Leon an hour and a half north of Sevilla. The country there ought to be referred to as “hilly” or maybe “rolling” but certainly not mountainous, but I was courteous enough not to correct anyone. How does one communicate the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, or the vast expanse of Montana? There is no common ground for the average Spaniard.

                I was drawn to Galicia because those writers who transcribed their experiences there all spoke about how it is a place for introspection: the rain and especially the nature of their livelihoods, farmers and fishers for the most part, lead to a more conservative, hearth and home attitude. From what I saw in Pontavedra the people still congregate in bars like Sevillianos, but the culture of life in the streets was nonexistent. At 5 in the morning one can round a nondescript corner in Sevilla and run smack into the middle of several dozen young (and sometimes not so young) people drinking, smoking, and conversing loudly beside their cars. My two nights in Pontavedra were notable for the relative peace and quiet. Despite having a tight budget I positively feasted during that time. Andalusian cuisine can get fairly repetitive, especially because my host mother stuck to a routine rotation. She is an exceptional cook and I wouldn’t take anything from her dishes. The paella, yellow rice and vegetables supplemented by small shellfish and whole shrimp cooked in the same pot is always delicious (I average three plates of the stuff), and whenever she says we are having lentajes (lentils) for lunch I feel tremors of excitement. She puts two types of sausage into the lentil pot, one a dark black blood sausage possessed of a singular flavor exquisite and overpowering. The secret to both dishes is dipping ungodly amounts of fresh bread into the mix. The jamon Iberico, thinly sliced salt-cured pork which never tastes heavy but somehow overwhelms you after one slice too many, is a rare delicacy which my roommate and I do our best not to scarf when it is provided. The rest is mostly just typical Mediterranean cuisine, tons and tons of bread and olive oil, fruits, the occasional store bought tortillas and such. I have warmed immensely to bread and olive oil, especially when the bread is fresh and soft.  The plethora of seafood options in Galicia simply blew me away. I could have stayed a month and not sampled all the Cantabrican coast had to offer. Oysters and shellfish galore, fried, grilled, or steamed fish with strange names like turbot and hake; above all, once the sun lowered itself into the sea and the temperature began to dive, warm soups complimented by (what else?) fresh bread. I imagine, like the hardy frontier cuisine of old American West, the food tastes that much better, that much more satisfying after a long day hauling lines out in the ocean.

Oddly enough though, it had yet to rain and I began to feel slightly cheated. I was drawn to Galicia specifically because I prefer to be alone. I am self-sustained by nature and by preference. I refuel and think most clearly on my own. Furthermore, and this may seem to be an oddity for a kid who grew up in the deserts of the southwest, I love the rain. I began to fret, and seeing as I had exhausted what Pontavedra had to offer the weekend tourist I decided to head back to Compostela and stop along the way in the smallest village I could find or see from the bus. Halfway there we came upon a scattering of communities around the town of Valga and I seized my chance. There were half a dozen small groupings of the ubiquitous red roofed buildings and the much larger conglomerations surrounding Pontecesures and Padrón three or four miles north. Because the day was plenty cool I picked south and set out; over the next three hours I randomly selected lefts and rights, wandering, wondering, and wistful. When my stomach informed me that it was time to add purpose to my steps I oriented myself towards what I later found out was Ribocias. Feeling supremely confident I approached an amiable looking older gentleman leaning on fence on the outskirts. Sizing up my backpack and cheerful grin he squinted at me and waited.

Now, my Spanish was fairly good for simple interaction at this point and I told him I was looking for food and a place to stay for a night. He looked me in the eye and I returned the gaze. Muttering under his breath in Gallego (which sounds a little bit like Spanish and Portugese mashed together and softened. For example, los ríos ya llevan sangre becomes os ríos xa levan sangue) he seemed to make a decision. When he responded in crisp Castillian Spanish it took me back a little. Speaking to people in Sevilla, even for someone who grew up in New Mexico, is a bit like swimming through mud. They seem to take a perverse sort of pride in omitting a letter or two here and there, especially the last s or d or whatever they feel like. My favorite shortened phrase: “A come!” which is what our host mother yells at my roommate and I to inform us our food is ready. It would normally be ‘A comer’. There’s also the ubiquitous “No pasa nada” which is both a phrase and declaration of lifestyle all in one. It usually becomes “no pasa na” or even “No pa na”. The rhythm is so fast at times that I found myself asking for something to be repeated which I normally would have understood perfectly. Even funnier (but not in the moment) is the intonation of things which leads the inexperienced foreigner to feel he is being yelled at, persecuted for some crime or fault he has committed without his knowing. For the first couple weeks I thought my host family was a fractious, bitter group of people living together. On the contrary, much like the Cubans, they love each other to death but he or she who is loudest gets heard. Returning to the Galician farmer, he told me there was a place to stay in the town and one or two places to eat. He said he was heading home for food soon and I could follow him, all of this coming to me more clearly than most instructions I received in Sevilla. I asked a few questions, including if it was possible to sleep outdoors (I had done it before in my travels and one could save a lot of Euros by finding a secluded grove of trees). He said he wouldn’t do it but if I wanted I certainly could. And then, the golden words:

Va a llover manana.

It’s going to rain tomorrow.

I don’t know how he knew. I doubt he looked at weather.com daily or anything like that. Being a lifelong farmer, one who rose early to tend his livestock and care for his garden (both of which he showed me before I thanked him and we parted ways) one must get a sense for such things. He was quiet and reserved as we walked which I enjoyed immensely. I let the silence deepen, enjoying the countryside. Eventually I asked where he learned his crisp correct Spanish and he gave me a small glimpse into his life, speaking about an all-too-brief experience at the University Valencia on a scholarship. Surprisingly I could hear a sort of deep, old longing in his voice when he spoke. I asked if he liked being a farmer, working on the land. I told him despite my inclination towards studying and probing mankind’s history I liked the feel hard work. A man without calluses can’t be trusted. He smiled a little and rattled off a phrase in Gallego, way too fluid for me to get the gist. He translated it into Spanish: this is where I was born. This is what I do. It was stoic and sad but commendable. From the look of his farm, livestock, gardens, and stables, just because it might not have been his dream didn’t mean he put in half the effort. When I mentioned this he broke into the first real smile I’d seen, thought for a few seconds, and then asked me if I’d like to eat with him and his wife. I agreed instantly but I insisted he let me pay them for it. He didn’t seem to like it but I was adamant. For the life of me I can’t remember what was in the soup! It was delicious and filling but as is always the case it was the conversation which I will never forget. I gave them my story and my thoughts on their part of the world in return for their hospitality. They listened quietly and mumbled back and forth to each other in their language. None of it sounded malicious; more like they were gauging me, assessing my bright-eyed optimism and youthfulness with the experienced eyes of the old and wise. When they finally rose to wish me goodnight and point me towards a patch of quiet woods on their land I thought hours and hours must have passed. Glancing at my watch I did a quick double take at the little neon numbers. 10:22. It wasn’t even midnight. They must have seen my surprise because they chuckled.

“The cows rise at 5:30 and you have to beat them.”

Ah yes. True farm life. It had been a long time since I’d experienced it.

In my mind I had come to Galicia because I would be able to walk, as hundreds of thousands of travelers had before me, down an ancient road with a low wall on either side. The rain would drip off my jacket and create little puddles along my path but it would not hinder me; it would obscure the world and I would be left with a hundred yards in any direction, secluded, isolated, calm and quiet and perfectly at peace. When I had gone far enough into the countryside to be sure of my isolation I would do as I always did when presented with thunderstorms in the Colorado mountains. I would stop and say a little prayer of gratitude for the beauty of the world around me, for my health, the love of my friends and family. Then roll back the hood of my black rain jacket and let the rain run through my hair and down my face and smile. To keep a long story short, there were more trees than I would have imagined. The rain, when it came, was bitterly cold and driven in mad gusts. I smiled all the same.

Ronda and Miscellany

So as I told my Mom I had midterms this week and I'm confident the testing process is neither unique nor worth commenting on here or in the States. I will say the level of.......competence, shall we say, of the average international student is low. The panic when faced with (gasp!) the first real schoolwork of the entire semester was palpable and laughable. Having five tests in two days proved to be a half marathon of sorts but it wasn't challenging in the normal way I'm accustomed to at Ashland. Still, and this will sound slightly perverse, it felt so good to be under some sort of academic pressure. I had been on cruise control for the two weeks prior to exams. It was also fun to write so much, which is such an integral part of the Ashbrook program I had taken it for granted. So my week was kind of normal for a change, not easy but not terribly difficult, and I felt like I was back swimming in one of my elements. It was run of the mill, if you will. Except I'm in Spain.

You know the drill, pictures, some with comments, thoughts on the city visit to Ronda afterwards.

Halfway down into the Gorge. That's Ellie, from Boston, out on the rock. Stupid blog loaded my last picture first and it's a Herculean effort to drag it all the way to the bottom so whatever. Ronda is a city on a hill, only the hill is more like an extended ridgeline. The city is ancient, predating even the Romans if I'm not mistaken.

As you may or may not be able to discern vaguely, the part of Andalucia to the south and east of Sevilla becomes increasingly mountainous. Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe behind only?...........right, Switzerland. Which always makes me laugh because all I know of Spain is very flat and maybe a few rolling hills. The mountains around Ronda actually approached the distinction mountainous. Not quite. With my semi-experienced eye I gauged it might take two hours to climb the steepest and craggiest of them from the valley floor, nothing at all on the Rockies but you have to stop comparing everything to the States. Ok, ok.

Roadside eatery. They have laid claim to the best olive oil in all of Spain. Judy says its pretty good and I concur. Have I mentioned my newfound passion for toasted bread doused in olive oil? Tis delicious, but subtly so. To the American palate accustomed to peanut butter, jam, jelly, and butter it is simply too understated.

This was taken from the oldest bridge which spans the Gorge.

The hotels are all situated right up against the steep cliffsides. I don't know what the going rates are for the nicer places but I wish I had the expendable income to have stayed a night and explored the countryside around Ronda.

This building just struck me as a convent, nestled in the trees at the bottom of the Gorge. I have no idea what it is in actuality.

Ah and here we have the famous Judy Cotter, Californian by birth and lifelong Spaniard and Sevillana by choice. I apologize for only having a picture of her backside. I'll be sure to get a better one of her before my time is done. She has helped immensely with so many aspects of our experience here. She's a little crazy, but it is a passionate, fiery crazy spurred ever onward by her love for this country and it's culture.She is what one might call the "real deal". We got a two hour presentation on bullfighting from her today which was both fascinating and so very personal; Judy fell in love with the only American ever to become a full Matador, one John Fulton. What a life they shared. I could talk on either subject at length but I'll save it for those who really want to hear about bullfighting.

Our presentation was given in a small room in the local museum which was once a?............yup, Muslim palace, later used by Ferdinand and Isabella as a country retreat. These kinds of places seem to lie about over here.

The crown jewel (debatable) of Ronda, the oldest bullring in all of Spain.

It's funny, I just realized this is almost just like being in a professional baseball stadium with the retired jerseys and club history etc. Except this spectacle is not a sport in the way we understand it.

The old bridge, el puente viejo. Wait till you see it from the bottom.

The landscape was actually reminiscent of northern New Mexcio, minus the olive trees and much more scrunched up. Everything is more tightly packed in Europe. Americans, especially from the West, sometimes take for granted the ridiculous amount of sheer space we have to move around in. In the time it would take me to drive from the Colorado border to El Paso I could easily do 2/3 or 3/4 of the whole country of Spain. That is, if the roads were straight and the speed limit was comparable.

Yeah. Words fail although Eddie came close: "What's that place in Lord of the Rings where the Elves live?
Rivendell?
Yeah."

It was easily the best city visit yet. Only Granada, which is an overnight next month, can probably top it.

So I'm doing pretty well. I still can't shake the feeling I should be doing more with myself. Maybe I'm just my mother's son, if only a little. When I step back and think though I realize how much I have gained in experience rather than just knowledge while I've been here. For example, and one could learn this fairly easily at home as well, don't book an expensive ticket without consulting all your calendars at the same time. I planned to do Rome the weekend of the Granada visit. My best option now is to pay the exorbitant fee to change dates and go later. I'll still get to do Rome for 5 days, but I'll be throwing away money for my carelessness. It wouldn't be the first time. Good thing it's actually my money for once huh? I feel my commentary has reached a sort of stagnant point so I'm going to take the easy way out and have a succession of guest blogs over the next week or so; I've become good friends with an English teacher who is here working at the ICS and she is also keeping a blog so I'd like to ask her to put some thoughts down. Said with the best possible intention, I believe her perspective would be a nice change of pace for most of ya'll, seeing as she's probably a little more your speed.  I might also get another of my peers to put some thoughts down, Eddie again if he feels up to it or someone else. I'll just have to find one capable of transcribing coherent and useful thoughts. Ok so maybe they're not SO bad; I'm probably just an elitist.

Ah, also, Eddie and I head to Alicante and more beaches on Wednesday night I think. We fly back Monday morning in time for class and then it just so happens to be Halloween Monday night AND Tuesday is a Spanish holiday of some sort. I think by now you can do the math.

The Roman ruins of Italica, bits of Sevilla

I'm ashamed to admit I almost opted out of the city visit to Italica yesterday. I wasn't feeling too well when I woke up at 6:30 for a run, and afterwards I seriously considered staying home and preparing for midterms (which are next week. Mid-terms. It can't possibly be). Luckily for me and for you I managed to suck it up and walk the 3-4 miles over to the bus station to meet up with group, and off we went. I left so early that I felt inclined to take a few photos of notable buildings and details in Sevilla so you can gain a little more perspective on what I see and experience every day. Comments will be under the pictures.

 These are all of the Plaza de Espana, which is a massive semi-circular structure that sits on the northeast corner of the Parque Maria Luisa. I must admit I'm guilty of just almost taking it for granted anymore because I run in and around and through the park all the time. When I take a moment or two to take in the Plaza I'm always blown away. The picture at the top of the blog is also of the Plaza, one I found on the internet before coming here. The craziest part about it all isn't the ornamentation, or the soaring belltowers, or the pattern in the central plaza made out of hundreds of thousands of black and white stones taken from the Guadalquivir river; the nuttiest thing is this structure houses normal government offices, like offices of the department of parks and recreation and mundane crap like that. Can you imagine going to work for the local department of miscellany in a building hundreds of years old?

This is a little tower that overlooks the river. There are several of these up and down the river.

 The yellow building is such a neat little place. It's a gatehouse and restaurant where they make a mean sandwich. Also, those cool looking rings that decorate the bride supports? You can definitely use them to crawl up into the underbelly and cross over. You think Spaniards look at me funny walking in the streets.

 This is the bridge we cross to get to calle Betis, which is where we spent many a night when this experience started. 1 Euro shots seemed so appealing once upon a time but our group got collectively sick of those bars very fast. It's all international students and creepy Spaniards trying to sell you some drugs or get with foreign chicks.

Little history first and then I'll unload the other photo bomb.

Italica was once the city of retreat for Roman patricians and politicians alike. Like many other cities of note it boasted a colesium, in this case the third largest of the Roman world. Capacity crowds during it's spring festival exceeded 25,000. During these games an average of 2000 condemned prisoners and professional gladiators died every day. As you can see in the pictures only parts of the second tier of seats remain. There were originally three tiers rising around the arena. Though the stadium was undeniably the most prominent feature, the villas owned and lived in by the patricians are very much worth contemplating. A single villa, which could easily house three generations of a family as well as their hired or, more likely, slave laborers. These homes were hundreds of yards long, complete with running water, huge central courtyards, central heating and many other "modern" amenities which the Romans understood and used intricately in their construction. Italica was surrounded by a massive wall, one of the original gated communities if you will. It's ruins are approximately 9 Km north of Sevilla and today they are being ever so slowly excavated and refurbished.

 Here we have the rules and regulations for gladiatorial conduct, inscribed on this piece of metal circa 200 B.C. In typical Spanish fashion, this ancient and priceless artifact is simply hanging on the wall in one of the small chambers under the crowd seating. You can walk right up and touch it (I did. Goosebumps) There is no security to speak off. One could conceivably rip it off the wall and walk out of the park with it if one were so inclined and built like the Hulk.

 This is a replica of the original statute of the Roman emperor Trajan. Unfortunately, up until the 50's Italic was like a scrapyard for Sevilla's elite to come and plunder whatever they felt like. It sounds too stupid to be true but all of the statues and much of the original marble, along with many of the mosaics within the villas, were taken and put in mansions around the city. Much of them have since been collected and placed in a museum here in Sevilla.

 Judy took us to a restaurant after our visit where the food was very very good. For 15 Euros it was a decent lunch. She claimed that the steak you see below is the best she has ever had anywhere in Spain. It was good, don't get me wrong, and the sauce you can see in the picture above was delicious, a combination of olive oil, garlic, a little pimiento or whatever the Spanish equivalent is, and cilantro I think. Unfortunately, like many of you, I have experienced true American beef, especially of the James' Ranches quality out of Durango CO and thus anything prepared in a country where they prefer to kill the animal while it is young so the meat is more tender......well it's just not comparable.

After having flan prepared in a small Cuban diner in Nick's grandma's neighborhood in Miami this stuff was just laughable. Curses.

This is a fish eyeball. In most restaurants in Spain if you ask for the fish you get the fish. The whole fish. So Sam and I sampled the eyeballs. Not recommended.