Lo que me inspira

As the new crop of auxiliares de conversación trickles into the Facebook groups for the 2013-2014 school year, there is one tema that simply doesn’t stop repeating:

“I’ve been placed in [insert small Spanish town name here], and I’m only [insert number of minutes or kilometers by car or bus] from [insert capitol town of said province, typically Sevilla or Huelva]. I’ve already decided I’m going to live in [said province’s capital]. This is feasible, right? I have my heart set on living in a big city.”

To be blunt, you’re setting yourself up for a giant headache (and wallet-ache), future auxiliar. But first, let me give you some background.

When I first arrived in Valverde del Camino, located in Huelva province, I was convinced I could find a way to live in Sevilla. I had studied abroad there in 2009, and I am still to this day completely smitten with the city and all it has to offer.

And let’s face it - I had always considered myself a “city girl.” Though I grew up in a suburb in southeastern Wisconsin until I went off to college in Milwaukee (WI’s largest city), I raced off to the “big city” every chance I could get in high school. From 18-23, I lived there. I thrived there. City life just had so much more to offer me.

So when I found out I had gotten placed in a town of just shy of 13,000 inhabitants, I’m sure you can imagine my face.

This image is a pretty accurate replica of the above-mentioned face.

I could find little to nothing about this pueblecito online, save for brief entries in Wikipedia and a website for leather boots. And don’t even get me started on trying to nail down an apartment before my arrival.

Luckily, I had a responsive directora at my school placement, C.E.I.P. José Nogales, who so kindly offered to not only pick me up from the bus stop, but to also stay in her home until I found an apartment, wherever that may be.

I had been communicating with another auxiliar in town who had plans to live in Sevilla and commute to Valverde during the week, because there was a teacher at her school who carpooled from a town just outside of Sevilla every day. But as luck would have it, the woman could only fit or have one more person in her car, so I was out of luck. 

In many long conversations with my directora, who I now consider family, she explained to me the difficulty of taking buses from Sevilla to Valverde and back. From a general American viewpoint, we seem to think, “Public transportation is great in Europe!” But that punto de vista does not apply to all countries.

In Spain, the public transportation is by no means bad - that is, if you’re in a large city, but getting to and from a pueblecito to a big city means you have to be far more flexible with the buses’ timetable. Unfortunately, the Valverde-Sevilla/Sevilla-Valverde route doesn’t quite jive with my scheduled hours at the colegio.

Mientras estaba comiéndome la cabeza, my director’s sons came home for the weekend from university - my first weekend in Valverde. The oldest is roughly the same age as me, and he invited me to hang out with his friends in their peña. To make a long story much, much shorter, they made my way of thinking do a complete 180. That weekend was all it took to make me say to myself, “Venga, life in un pueblecito doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

A group photo of some of the peña at the “American Party” I threw in my new apartment back in November.

And I’ve never looked back. I’ve surprised myself tremendously in the way I’ve taken to small town life. Maybe what I enjoy the most is how much it allows you to really get to know a place, to quickly build a list of familiar faces, to develop relationships with shop owners and café workers and regular folk you happen to pass on the street at the same time every day por casualidad.

I eat breakfast at the same place every Thursday in between classes, and the woman who is always working has my order memorized, and the cook always greets me at my table with a smile and a salutation. The tobacco shop on my street has - more than once - given me my tobacco saying, “Pay when you can!,” for example, when the ATM ate my U.S. debit card, thus rendering me cash-less and frazzled.

Now, let’s talk financials. Living in a small city means rent is cheap. We’re talking 100-200 euros, tops. I’d say the minimum you’re going to pay in a large city like Sevilla would be 200 euros minimum, if you’re extremely lucky. If you add in the money you will be using to take at least one bus twice a day (going to your town and coming home) or carpooling, that will run you anywhere from ~8 euro/one-way bus ticket to ~10/day carpooling (which is what seems to be the going rate). That’s an extra 50-100 euros a week spent on transportation alone. 

Then there’s the matter of finding private lessons to make some extra cash in the after-school hours. If you’re not living in the same town you’re working, finding private lessons will not be simple. In large cities, there is a flux of auxiliares who all want the same thing - a little more spending money for those afternoon coffees and beers with friends. It’s a simple case of supply and demand. While the demand is high in Sevilla, the supply is more than ample, and in a city so large, the word just doesn’t spread as quickly that you’re looking for students.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to do anything. As creepy as it is, my number got passed around by goodness knows who, and I had more people calling me for private lessons than I actually wanted and could realistically give. (And let’s just not talk about the time a man came wandering into the school to find me in my classroom in the middle of class and ask me for private lessons. Aiiiis.) This was a huge perk to living in Valverde for me, because not getting paid until January (which is the reality for a good portion of the auxiliares) is una putada. And believe me, that extra dinerillo helps.

Two of my adorable private lesson kids celebrating a successful class with a “Gangnam Style” dance sesh in my apartment.

Now I’ve not written this to discourage people from living in a capital city and commuting to work every day. For the strong of head and heart (or just plain old cabezota), I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it work for you. What matters above and beyond anything else is that you are happy where you are, wherever that may be. What I am saying is that a 700 euro stipend is sufficient to live on, but you’re - more likely than not - going to be cutting it thin.

Money issues aside, I would hate to see people pass on what could be an incredibly satisfying, eye-opening, life-changing opportunity in a small town in Spain, simply because it’s small. I’ve had such a positive experience in my own small town that I’m coming back for round two in September! I even got an incredible pareja out of the deal, and we’ve already got an apartment reserved for when I get back in the fall.

I’m in the less-than-two-weeks-until-I’m-back-in-the-U.S.-for-the-summer final stretch right now, and I’m finding myself marveling at how attached I’ve gotten to this way of life, these children, a new set of amazing friends and “family.” In less than nine months, I’ve started to grow roots in this tiny town, and I haven’t a single regret.

P.S. My last piece of consejo, I promise: With all the money you’d save living in a smaller city, think of all the places you could go, all the trips you could take, on the weekends! Whether that be Sevilla every weekend for a three-day party binge or that European destination you’ve always wanted to visit, that extra money would come in handy when you want to splurge on some authentic macarons from that upscale bakery in France - or whatever happens to tickle your fancy!

Inspired by a recent Gala Darling post entitled, “Things I Love Thursday,” I am hereby instating FGF, or Fridays are for Feeling Grateful, which will be a weekly installment of things I am feeling grateful for at the moment. Gala Darling expressed that in writing this way, it helps you become more in the moment. In appreciating what you have right now, you subsequently become more optimistic, and the things that you do still want will naturally come to you easier, because you are not constantly fretting over just how much you want them.

FGF List - Week One (Friday, May 24, 2013)

♡ Finding and reserving an apartment in Valverde (Spain) for my boyfriend
and I to move into for next school year (less stress and worry!) ♡ Getting to see my family and friends and beloved Milwaukee/Wisconsin in 18 days(!!!) ♡ Today’s rainy cold morning turned into a sunny, hot afternoon ♡ Hair-dying extravaganza with my best Spanish girlfriend this afternoon - and having coffee with her and her boyfriend in my house while our hair was slicked back with dye ♡ Getting an ongoing, online freelance writing gig earlier this week (!!!) ♡ Finally sending off some packages that I had been neglectful about sending off for far too long ♡ Cold iced tea in hot weather ♡ Living relatively close to a beach in summer (We might be going tomorrow, yippee!) ♡ Finally having met someone who I am truly willing to do the long-distance-thing with AND someone who is willing to do the long-distance-thing with me (albeit it will only be short-term) ♡ One euro coffee ♡ 

I have to admit, I had fun writing this list. It didn’t take long, nor should you have to think very hard while doing it - simply write down whatever comes to mind! I encourage you to do a similar activity, no matter if you scribble it into a journal or on a paper towel, no matter if you never look at it again or decide to publish it online, too. It’s important to remind ourselves of all the little things that matter in life, not just the big, the bad and the ugly ones.

Yeah, United States, I’m talking to you.

Last week, I had one of the infamous reuniones for all of the teachers at my elementary school. Held (once again) in the charming, fairy tale-esque countryside house of one of my workmates, it was a much welcomed opportunity to eat, drink and be merry with my compañeros del trabajo.

As we sat around the humongous dining table, making our way through the various courses, the room was filled with chitter chatter and laughter - and one tantalizing aroma after another.

(Side note: Why must there always be a 2-3 cake minimum at every single gathering? I mean … I’m not really complaining, being the golosa that I am, but I’ve never left a single Spanish festivity of any kind with my stomach feeling anything less than on the brink of explosion. Hello, food-coma nap.)

But wait, no one cares that meanwhile, there are mothers openly breastfeeding at the table? You’re going to carry on a conversation with this woman, alternating between making eye contact with her and her baby’s mouth adhered to her breast? And this woman is not even going to bat an eye? Vale, vale, que no pasaa naaa.

But wait. In the United States, this (pardon my French) shit doesn’t fly. My alma mater actually has a separate breastfeeding room in the Union, which, to be quite frank, always struck me as odd. Why does there need to be a separate room for breastfeeding mothers? Something so natural shouldn’t have to be hidden. Mothers shouldn’t feel shame for breastfeeding in public, nor should society give her the stank face for doing so in their attempt to shame her into breastfeeding in private.

This has nothing to do with what way you choose to provide nourishment for your infant and everything to do with the sexual objectification of the female body. Quite simply put, a child feeding from it’s mother’s breast is standardly viewed as dirty and offensive.

A few quick Google searches or a once-over of the Wikipedia page “Breastfeeding in public” will clue you in pretty fast to the intricacies of the general U.S. public’s distaste for public breastfeeding. Often described as “creepy” and “gross,” a female breastfeeding in public is an act that people have tried and tried again to claim is “indecent exposure” or “public indecency,” despite laws in place that forbid it to be prosecuted as such.

My coworkers breastfeeding their children at the dining table couldn’t have bothered me less. The two thoughts that ran through my head in the moment were: (1) It is mad cool that no one cares even a single iota that these women are breastfeeding right here, right now; and (2) Why would this same scenario in the United States play out so differently? Mad uncool.

For further education on the matter, I’ve compiled a list of quotes and articles on the subject of breastfeeding in public that I hope help shed some light on the issue.

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”[…] it’s about working to ensure that women and their bodies are considered as important (as normal) as men and their bodies. Something happens for all of us - regardless of whether we are breastfeeders or not - when a woman is allowed to breastfeed, in public, as a member of her community, while getting shit done in her life - it makes a statement that women belong, that women’s bodies belong, that women are here.” - Guest: blue milk on Feministe

“Is there a breastfeeding backlash?” - Article by Jessica on Feministing

“Breastfeeding is a personal decision, and not one that should be mired in judgment.” - Jessica Valenti on The Daily

“‘It is normal. It is not obscene. It is every baby’s need to have food and be nourished and nurtured,’ said Veronika Polanska as she rallied the moms to publicly feed their babies.” - CBC News / British Columbia, from a nurse-in held in response to an incident in a Canadian H&M

“Kansas gives out breastfeeding cards” - Article by Jessica on Feministing

“Target Employees Bully Breastfeeding Mom Despite Corporate Policy” - Article by Bettina Forbes for Best for Babes

“It’s going to take a couple of generations before it’s a non-issue. Our ultimate goal is for people to not notice that anything is happening, just like with breathing or speaking or a baby taking a bottle.” - Kelly Roth, as cited by CBS News

“Exposéing My Breasts on the Internet” by Adrienne Pine on Counterpunch, her response to breastfeeding her child during the university class she was teaching

“Funny how we live in a society that both expects women, especially highly educated and ambitious women, to breast feed, but forbids them to do so while pursuing other ambitions. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think pushing women out of positions of prestige and power and back into the home was a feature and not a bug of the system.” - Amanda Marcotte for Slate

“I have a feeling this is what’s at work with Maher and a lot of met who take issue with public breast feeding. They resent that a woman’s public body - her exposed or partially exposed breast - could be there for someone other than them, for something other than sexual consumption. After all, if a woman is exposed in public it’s supposed to be because she’s flashing her tits for beads or taking money in a g-string - not for feeding babies. Because that’s unsexual, and therefore unacceptable.” - Jessica for Feministing*

*And from the same webpage, but the following article beneath Jessica’s:

“What Maher said is like male politicians telling women they can’t have abortions. I was surprised, because Bill’s always saying America needs to be more European and get over its puritanical shit. Hey Bill: not being able to see a boob outside of a sexual context is so American. Not being able to ignore a boob is so puritanical.”

“I’ve tolerated [Maher’s] snideness in the past, but this time, Bill stepped over the bottom line: breastfeeding sustains a baby, and a mother who’s nursing will stop at nothing to do it, nor should she. To suggest we do it for attention and praise is just astoundingly ignorant, and hints more at his own motives than ours.” 

- Both quotes from Sarah Thyre from the aforementioned article

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And to bring this discussion back full circle to females breastfeeding in Spain, I recommend you check out “Spanish fathers entitled to breastfeeding leave” by Barney Henderson for The Telegraph. Punto pelota.

After making you do all that extracurricular reading, I’m sure your eyes are weary, and your head may be spinning from all the facts and arguments thrown at your dome. But if you even for a second think I have some razón for calling the United States “Prude-y Judy,” well, then I think my job is done here for the day, folks. 

All I’m asking for is a little bit of compassion, respect and logical thinking from my fellow Americans. We don’t look down upon mother birds who chew their food and then throw it up into their babies’ mouths to provide them with nourishment, now do we? Any and all related processes of a mother giving her child the nutrition it needs to grow and be healthy should be viewed as equally as natural. Now chew on that, y’all.

While this anecdote is short, it was too sweet not to be shared:

As I was walking down the big hill to go to work at my elementary school, an adorable little elderly woman was making the trek up it. 

(This should be prefaced by the fact that elderly Spanish women, when walking along in the streets, have a tendency to say whatever they’re thinking or feeling out loud. It seems like it’s directed at you, but whether or not it actually is, will forever remain a mystery.) 

We happened to make eye contact, and she said, “Aiiiiii qué cuerpecitaaaa más malaaaaa.” 

My smile quickly faded into a look of confusion, as I nervously giggled, and we both kept on walking in opposite directions.

I thought to myself, “Wait, did she just say I’m fat? Did I look like I was struggling down the hill?”

And that’s when I started laughing not at the awkwardness of the situation, but at my own stupidity.

What she was trying to imply was that she’s old and has difficulty going up the hills in town. It had absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever. But given I had been up since 7:30AM, it was still morning and I still wasn’t quite awake two hours later when our paths crossed … En fin, no soy muy de las mañanas, or I am still most definitely not a morning person.

I slept in today. Until 11:30. I woke up to steamy sunshine, chirping birds and the hustle and bustle of the residents of my Spanish pueblo in the streets getting their morning errands done. I ground up some of my Alterra Guatemalan. I made myself coffee with my Aeropress.  I rolled a cigarette. I sat down at my laptop.

I only had to look at the very first post in my Facebook news feed to know that Massachusetts is still within the eye of the storm. (The bombing’s suspects continue to wreak havoc and widen the scope of their attack as law enforcement pursues them.) Ever since the first word I got of the Boston Marathon bombing, my eyes and ears have been glued to the Internet, scouring its depths for every article, tweet and podcast that helps me stay in touch while I’m 4,126.11 miles away from home.

And then I started thinking: What have been my problems, worries and preoccupations this week?

“Has that pimple on my upper lip gone away yet? Am I going to survive the heat of the Feria tomorrow in Sevilla in a dress that weighs an obscene amount? Why have my pezones been hurting? You really need to do dishes/do laundry/clean the apartment. Why did my iPad have to overheat (and delete) the first version of this very blog post while I was in my upper terrace soaking up some sunshine?”

Y habían más. (“And there were more.”) And what are they all? Tonterías. (“Foolishness/absurdities/trivialities/nonsense.”)

It is disgustingly easy to get wrapped up in the little stuff that - in the grand scheme of things - is entirely meaningless. In doing so, we are affecting not only ourselves but the people and world around us. Every second we spend fretting over something miniscule, we are damaging our well-being, and we are, frankly, wasting time.

I am admittedably an “emotional” (some would say “dramatic,” I’d imagine, at times) person. From my perspective, that is mostly a good thing, but there are times that this allows me to get in the way of myself. I let things bother me - big or small - and as soon as something affects me, I say it, I get it out. And then I’m over it. It’s as easy as that. It is part of what makes me who I am, while simultaneously being one of my biggest flaws.

But right now, as I’m looking at the words I’ve written down, my “problems” for this week, and I’m thinking about what’s going on in my home country, I feel stupid. I feel helpless. I feel worried. I feel confused. I feel sad. I feel angry. I feel guilty that I am here and not there.

I feel a gap inside of me, a gap that longs to be having in-depth discussions with my intelligent, insightful and conscientious friends about what’s going on in a way that the Internet and social media can never truly compare.

This is not the first time - and will not be the last - that this physical distance has made me feel a little empty, like something’s missing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s normal (though I detest the word) for anyone working, living and/or traveling abroad.

No hay más remedio (“There’s no other choice”) except to keep reading, keep watching and keep listening with bated breath as the events continue to unfold in the United States. I’m leaving my personal tonterías at the door and focusing on staying in touch with what’s happening at home, something that is so much bigger, so much more important, than worrying when the next cockroach is going to scurry across my apartment’s floors.

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Extracurricular Reading Suggestions:

Out of all that I’ve read or listened to about what’s going on in Massachusetts, these two articles stand apart from the crowd. They are not only informative, but provide thoughtful insight. As a friend of mine commented to me on Facebook underneath the first article, “Written word that achieves the right sentiment. I was watching the news yesterday horrified by not only the attacks but by the awful live coverage that seemed desperate and insincere.”

“The Marathon” by Charles P. Pierce for Grantland

“Why Boston’s Hospitals Were Ready”by Atul Gawande for The New Yorker

How many posts am I going to start off saying “Madre mía, I haven’t written in a really long time. Discúlpame.” What I really need to be telling you is that I’ve been so darn busy living this life I find so beautiful in Spain that I find it hard to make the time to write.

I value spending time in places that I love with interesting people over just about everything. I may be just sitting down to write a blog post, but if alguien texts me to grab a coffee, ya voy. And I’ve never regretted it. But I love to write. It’s what fuels my being. (Well, other than café, supongo.)

Sometimes all you need is a boost of inspiration. And after reading some motivating words on Memoirs of a Young Adventuress’ travel blog, I’ve decided to really put my effort behind putting my words out there again. Not only that, but she (Liz) helped me realize a major error I was making in blogging my own travels (i.e., writing up personal accounts of everything I’ve done here in Valverde del Camino thus far - hello, “online diary” syndrome).

This is the promise I am making to myself and to all of you - whoever y’all are who give me a pity read cuando os da la gana. (Hi Mom!) I promise to turn this blog into an informatively witty page where you can find (hopefully) useful tidbits about living and traveling from a 20-something that lives in Andalucía. 

And I’m counting on you all to help keep me in check. Don’t let me blabber on about what I ate for breakfast - unless it has a certain relevance, which I can certainly always justify. « See, that’s what I mean. KEEP. ME. IN. CHECK. I’ve been a “sharer” since 1989, and once I get going, the end result is … well, obscenely long blog posts.

¿Qué más os puedo decir? Así que, here’s to a new and improved Lo que me inspira.

Maybe one of the things I love most about Spanish culture (and I could be wrong in generalizing here; it might just be my friends) is their willingness to organize little get-togethers. We’re constantly flitting from one place to the next on the weekends - a walk and backpack lunch in one countryside, a daytime birthday party in another. The best part about it is that while these places are all old to them, they’re brand new to me, and I get to wander around in amazement, soaking up Spain’s beauty and snapping photos.

One Sunday morning, eight of us awoke far earlier than we ever would after a Saturday night out, packed our backpacks, leashed up the pooches and set out for an invigorating, sun-filled hike through the countryside. Sweating out the night prior, we walked and laughed, as the dogs ran frantically to and fro, one minute circling our feet only to jet off again the next. One of our friends’ dogs is particularly hyperactive, and he almost got himself into a situation with some cows who were not exactly thrilled by his presence.

We set up camp for a moment to eat our bocadillos (“sandwiches, typically on a baguette”), of which my lovely novio (“boyfriend”) had prepared for me, complete with juice boxes to wash it all down, so all I had to do was show up. (But really, he’s super great.) We found an abandoned dog, which was extremely upsetting, because it was very sweet and disgustingly thin. We also found said dog’s owner, who tried to claim that the dog had only been lost for a few days when it was apparent that he was lying, but nevertheless, we handed the dog over. That aside, that little excursion was a welcome reminder at how awesome it is to not waste a Sunday morning being lazy in bed.

—

Surprisingly, my next little adventure was out to the countryside home of the director of my school for the annual November convivencia (roughly “get together”) of José Nogales’ teachers. Oddly enough, I’m good friends with her sons, and I already had future plans set to go to this same house for a weekend-long party, so it was pretty amusing to get a preview of what would be our digs a few weeks down the road.

After school, we all set out to this house, which is not too far outside of town in a pueblo called Los Pinos. A teacher or two and her husband had already set out an hour or so ahead of us to set everything up and begin to cook the paella. As we swung the front door open, awaiting us was a large banquet table filled to the brim with aperitivos (“appetizers/hors d’oeuvres), per Spanish custom, and a drink, alcoholic or otherwise, was placed in our hands. After all the nibbles to start us off, a heaping plate of paella, two different cakes (one of which I had two pieces), it’s safe to safe I engorged myself in the most gluttonous of ways. (And yes, this quantity of food is totally quid pro quo for a Spanish get-together) Also, acorn liquor exists - and it’s awesome. BUT, OH, THE PAELLA. 

Told you.

But really, told you. #gratuitouspregnantbelly 

Fighting past that food coma, it really was a great opportunity to spend time with my coworkers and fellow teachers outside of school, to see everyone kick back and enjoy themselves and one another. I got to know them better - their relaxed, out-of-the-classroom selves - and they got to have actual time to talk to me and ask me questions, instead of the couple minutes we get here and there during the school day. I was really grateful to be included in the festivities, and I even have a lovely 8”x11” photo of all of us, a small token given to all the teachers, which is currently proudly being displayed in the salón (“sitting/living room”) of my apartment.

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El campo seems to be the recurring theme to the majority of our adventures, and each time, we’re headed to a new site, which has given me the opportunity to see a lot the nearby areas surrounding Valverde del Camino. It’s all due to my incredible good fortune in finding a steady group of all Spanish friends here, who I never cease to learn from in every single way imaginable. And hey, they’re not all that bad to have fun with either. Y ja ja, y ja ja. (It’s the Spanish way of doing fake laughter. Pretty spectacular to hear, at least for me. I’d be more than happy to do it for you sometime. Perhaps I’ll include it in the vlog I’ve been thinking about doing for too long now…)

Stay tuned for more mini-excursion updates, coming soon to a laptop near you!

We certainly had no shortage of rainy, gray, windy, dismal days last week - at least here in the south of Spain. With weather more akin to the likes of London and Seattle, I’ve had plenty of indoors time, which I’ve spent reading like a fiend and playing some addicting games on my new iPad.

And all of this would not have been complete without my estufa. What literally translates to “stove” is actually something much, much better. The estufa I’m referring to is a special type of table that I’ve encountered in every Spanish home I’ve ever been in. The table and its size and shape are of no importance, but instead what lies beneath.

Each table has at least one cloth of varying thickness laid over the tabletop. And underneath? A heater. I’ve seen everything from gas to oil to electric - even one that utilized embers, and that cloth covering everything acts both as a blanket and a barrier, blocking the heat from escaping. 

Spanish buildings, homes and apartments, at least in Andalucía, are built for warm weather, not cold - as I’m positive I’ve mentioned before - and central heating (and air conditioning) are somewhat of a foreign concept. That being said, I can’t stress enough how epic the estufa is. With this wonder of an invention, I can’t really see a need for central heating. Te lo juro. (“I swear.”)

I’m severely lacking in photos of this magnificent invention, but this image pulled from Google will have to suffice. The rest is up to your imagination.

The hole in the middle at the bottom is where the heating unit goes, whichever type you prefer. Cover the table with big pieces of fabric - again, to your liking - and ¡voila!

All I’m saying is I have to know some crafty enough people to fashion something similar to this, and you’ll be thanking me come time to pay the energy bill. (I will certainly be lusting hard after central air conditioning, however, by the time the summer temps start to roll through here, and I’ve yet to find a better solution to summer in Andalucía than AC. Pray for me.)

Shortly after I finished eating lunch today, a knock came at the door. Given that I’ve already had the luck of running into every loco in town, I did the manditory peephole check to make sure we (meaning my roommate, Margaret, and I) were in the clear. Turns out it was the next-door neighbor who had made too much meat for his lunch and was offering us the leftovers. And he just so happened to have a bunch of fresh picked oranges he wanted to give us.

This simply does not happen in the U.S.

And let me tell you, that meat was rica rica rica (“delicious”). I wasn’t even hungry any more, given I had just eaten, but as soon as we tasted a tid bit, all bets were off. Without a second thought, we practically licked that dish clean.

Thank goodness my aunt’s package had just arrived from Cincinnati today, so I could return the kindness by giving him a sampling of some prime chocolate from the one and only Graeter’s. The end result was an at least 20-minute conversation with this kind old man, who - and here’s the real kicker - is also the uncle of one my friends here. (And my friend’s aunt owns the apartment I’m renting and lives right below me.)

This same man had stopped by a month ago or so and brought us fresh eggs from his farm, and he is currently making goat cheese (which I caught a glimpse of today, and it looks great and smells even better), of which he promised us some as well. And all because this house used to belong to his parents, and he was born in our apartment.

There is nothing like small town Spain life. Nothing. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

By pure chance and luck, my lovely friend Anthony had been working at a vineyard in Fermoselle - a town even smaller than my own, located in the north of Spain, so small that most people I know here in Valverde del Camino have never heard of it ever. A brief history on Anthony and I? We met in class at UW-Milwaukee. We were both in the same degree program - English: Professional and Technical Writing. And initially, we hated each other. Okay, hate is a strong word. Let’s say we had difficulty seeing eye to eye. Over time, we warmed up to each other, and now? WELP, we love each other a lot. He’s intelligent, sassy, fierce, opinionated, driven, extroverted … what more could a girl ask for?

Upon finding out that our paths would intersect in Spain for a couple of months, we knew we had to plan a trip somewhere to meet up and ended up deciding on a weekend in Barcelona, where Anthony’s man friend, Matías, was working and residing for the time being. Joining us would be two other girlfriends of Anthony’s: Maddie, who is currently interning and living in London, and her best friend, Sara, who was in London on vacation to visit Maddie.

We settled on the long weekend of November 15-18, booked flights and hostels and waited anxiously to reunite. I hadn’t seen Anthony since mid-summer when he was home in Milwaukee on a month or so break between working on a vineyard in New Zealand (where he met Matí) and getting ready to jet off to Spain. (To further ensure you how rad Anthony is, he is now currently living in Australia, working on getting the beer he brewed and bottled off the ground.) Needless to say, I was excited to see and spend time with him outside of serving him coffee at Alterra.

When finally the time had come for me to jet off to Barcelona, Miri and Carlos drove me to the Sevilla airport after work on Thursday the 15th, and off I went to reunite with Ant and the girls. And aside from my excitement to meet and see them, I hadn’t been to Barcelona since 2007, and I was ready and raring to view the city a second time, five years later. Thanks to great guidance from all involved, I was able to quickly and easily find the bus I needed to take to the Plaza de España where Anthony, Maddie and Sara would be awaiting me.

I can’t even begin to describe to you what that moment felt like - realizing it was my stop, gathering my things, stepping off the bus, scanning the crowd from my familiar faces and spotting them almost immediately, the long-awaited hugs, smiles and laughs. De película, as my Spanish friends say (which essentially means “like a movie,” but can also mean “fantastic”). Seeing Anthony give me a burst of energy, just what I needed after all that traveling.

And I can’t even begin to explain to you how awesome it was to have two other Wisconsin gals there with me in Barcelona. (And also I still feel like a jerk-off for not realizing I had actually met Maddie once before, being that she was the former roommate of my dear friend and coworker Callie.) Either Anthony has really good taste in friends, or us Wisconsinites have an inherent bond no matter where we are in the world. (I’d like to think it’s a little bit of both.) What really provoked it for me was Sara’s laugh, which lit me up like none other, reminding me so much of my friends’ laughs at home - a good hearty Wisconsin laugh that’s impossible to resist.

Walking and talking at a rapid pace all the way back to the hostel, we checked me in and cracked up the bottle of rum Anthony had purchased in duty-free to share with all of us. Matí met us at the hostel, and the boys began to cook us dinner: chili con carne. I have to say, not only did I love getting cooked for by these handsome gents, but also the end result was positively delicious. We had decided ahead of time that we wanted to at least cook together that first night to save money and still have dinner together, since the hostel was equipped with a community kitchen. (And the best part is that we ended up cooking dinner together every night while I was there!)

Enjoying getting to know each other and eating our first meal together.

After we had filled our bellies with chili con carne and relaxed with a few rum and Cokes, Matí decided to head back to his apartment, though he was quite the trooper and still incredibly charming despite being under-the-weather. Sara, too, decided to hit the hay, while Maddie, Anthony and I headed out for a late-night stroll around Barcelona. We headed towards the water, naturally, and ended up goofing around in a nearby half-indoor, half-outdoor mall, taking a ton of photos. Ultimately, we called it an early night, since we all had been traveling quite a bit and wanted to save up our energy to hit the town the following night.

We set out late morning the next day, Friday, on the metro to stroll through Parque Güell, one of Gaudí’s masterpieces, stopping to watch a hilariously entertaining and talented band that posts up there, The Mañaners. After a refueling break for a tapas lunch and coffee, we leisurely made our way back through the city, deciding to exercise our legs some more and walk the whole way. I mandated a gelato break (sweets are my weakness, and gelato was my best friend when I studied abroad in Sevilla), and the rest of the group stopped to try some empañadas at an adorable little shop Anthony knew of. Needless to say, we were in need of that infamous siesta by the time we got back to the hostel.

Upon waking, the girls and I set out to look for souvenirs for their families and grocery shop for our paella dinner that we had planned. Shopping in the Mercat de Sant Josep de La Boqueria, the well-known, open air market usually referred to simply as La Boqueria, is something I could never get sick of, if even just for the giant candy stand that always calls my names and the fresh, natural juices that were 2-for-1€. Buying fresh seafood and veggies was a fun little excursion, despite the hustle and bustle of everyone trying to get what they needed from the market before it shut down for the evening.

Thus began family-style dinner number two, with the boys manning the ship otra vez. Meanwhile, us girls started in on the bebidas for the evening, white wine to complement the paella and ye ol’ standby rum and Coke. We ended up making a new German friend, Chris, in the meantime and invited him to eat dinner with us, because we had overcooked, which is easily done with paella. (And yes, the only reason I remember his name is because it is the same as my brother’s. Normally, I am terrible with names. Faces, no problem, names, yikes.) 

Per usual, we got caught up chatting and playing silly games post-dinner in the common room of the hostel, but eventually, we readied ourselves and hit the streets to walk our way to the main strip of bars. (In retrospect, we definitely should’ve taken the metro; it was a long walk - and I wasn’t even wearing heels.) Incredibly fascinating it was to view the difference in between the more ‘high brow’ clubs, where you have to be wearing a certain attire to secure entry, and the strip of bars we went to, where attire is less important but the tunes are just as bumpin’. Needless to say, I didn’t even bring a pair of heels with me to Spain (On these cobblestone streets? Paso (“I pass.”)), much less shoved that, a dress, my curling iron, blowdryer and all the make-up I own in my Chrome bag for my weekend get-away. They just didn’t make the cut.

I, however, couldn’t have been more pleased with how our evening ended up. After a few shots, we spent the entire night dancing away, sweating profusely and, frankly, not giving a damn. I ended up being swooped away and dancing with some random man who tried to sweep me off my feet and failed, because I couldn’t have cared less; I just wanted to dance. Shortly thereafter, a man peddling roses gave me one and then tried to ask my guy friends to pay for it. I attempted to hand it back to him, because, like I mentioned before, I couldn’t care less - I was just out to have a good time and dance! But he careened me towards some man, presumably someone he already knew, and said this man would pay for it, but I owed him a dance for the rose. Well, as you can probably guess, this guy looked like a total creep, and I was not about to dance with him, so sucks for that guy, because I’m pretty sure he still paid for it, and I just walked away, because my friends were wanting to head over to the next place. Moral of the story? Free rose and lots of laughs.

We did Barcelona right that night - that’s for sure - as we waltzed our way over to a cab, all drenched in sweat from head to toe from dancing so much but with a smile on our faces all the while.

Our German friend, Chris, on the left. And literally, you can see the sweat; I wasn’t lying. (Photo taken by Maddie.)

Saturday morning, Sara, Maddie and I left Anthony and Matí to have some quality time together while we set out on subway and by foot to do some essential Barcelona sightseeing, if you’ve never been before. (Read: GAUDI GAUDI AND MORE GAUDI.) Our first stop was La Sagrada Familia (which if you don’t know it’s history, you should look it up; this thing has been being built since 1882, and it’s still a work in progress.)

What took my breath away was the interior of the cathedral, due to the sheer magnitude of change that had occurred since the last time I had the pleasure of being inside its walls. (Em. Maybe I should’ve rephrased the last part of that sentence, given I’m talking about a religious structure. Moving on.) I was in Barcelona in 2007 for a high school class trip I elected to go on, and, of course, we visited La Sagrada Familia. I remember it being filled head to toe with construction, plastic sheeting masking much of its beauty. While still a sight to be seen, the interior now doesn’t hold a candle to the interior in 2007. I later learned, when talking with a teacher at my school about my trip, that there was apparently a visit from the pope in 2010, or somewhere around there, and for that reason, they spread up construction more than usual to impress him.

The interior of La Sagrada Familia.

After La Sagrada Familia came Casa Milà, or La Pedrera, as it is commonly known, another one of Gaudi’s architectural masterpieces. But there was obviously a much necessary descanso (“break”) for sweets and coffee. We lucked out with a lovely little cupcake place near La Pedrera where I devoured an adorable miniature strawberry cheesecake and a metallic macaron. I had also already been to La Pedrera, but I could never get sick of looking at the vintage apartments, preserved in all their glory. As hipster as that sounds, old things are cool. I dare you to try and tell me otherwise.

Followed by a siesta to rest our weary pies (“feet”), the complete crew rejoined for a final tapas date before Sara and Maddie departed - Maddie back to London and Sara home to the U.S. We marveled at all of our paths colliding in this moment, coupled with tears and laughter and wondering when we’ll all see each other next. Big squeezes goodbye and the girls were off in a taxi to the airport.

Shortly thereafter, Anthony and I split off from Matí to run a few errands as Matí prepped his apartment for our small dinner party that evening. And oh what a dinner party it was. Throw together two Argentinians, two Americans, a French person and a general knowledge of more languages than you can imagine, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for success. Yet another evening where I had a group of handsome men cooking for me while I got to relax with a glass of wine and enjoy their company. I couldn’t have wished for a better night to cap off my trip.

The next morning, after another mediocre - but free - breakfast in the hostel, I checked out and made my way to the nearest café for a freshly-squeezed orange juice and capuchino to relax and wait for Anthony and Matí to walk me to area where I could catch the bus back to the airport. I’m still thankful for that walk and those hugs on that bright sunny morning. 

From bus to plane to taxi to train to my fantastic valverdeño friends’ loving arms awaiting me in Huelva, it was a long day of travel but with a great reward at the end. Upon showering me with hugs and kisses, we made our way to the movie theater to see the new Twilight film with our friend Cinty, who lives in Huelva, and then they carted my tired behind back home. It should come as no surprise that I got hella sick shortly thereafter, but by golly was it worth it.