Time in Spain is an orange. A large journey peeled away little by little, cleaned of the inch between appearance and reality, and consumed one juicy peel at a time. These full and savory “bites” of Andalusia have all possessed a character and personality of their own. Like a family of children all given different gifts and interest to share with the rest of the world. The people, the locations, the sites all share a common past and continue to splash unique colors on the canvass that is modern day Spain. A confusing reality: difference in their similarity. It is from common ground that we are able to see those differences. From here we run:
To move, to change, verbs to describe the physical act of moving from point A to point B- motion. Something is healthy about rambling, taking a stroll from point A to B, taking care to enjoy the non-existent letters between the prior two. I need that kinetic energy from A to B, a static life is like breathing without a pulse. The past couple of weeks have been of the globe trotting variety. I hearken back to the Indiana Jones films and compare my journeys to his. As if my life is a display of dots, arrows, planes, trains, and buses marching relentlessly in the foreground of a faded map. Fourteen days ago I traveled to Grenada, a city balanced in between the lofty Sierra Nevada mountain range. The history of a place and of a life determines the present, the “now”, the manner in which that town or person displays itself to the rest of the world.
Grenada is a place much akin to Louisiana- third world and proud of it. Last of the Muslim strongholds in Spain, a fusion of culture and people, a step into the city center are a pair of converse soles planting firmly into a different, unique Spain, a smash and grab of African, Muslim, European, gypsy, and Spanish cultures. The serpentine streets play host to heaps of peddlers selling nick knacks, scarves, odds and ends, clothing, essences and spices. Like an energetic child during show and tell, the store owners are eager to display their possessions. Unlike a Wal-Mart run, a purchase among the streets of Grenada includes bargaining. To exchange euros without the bargain is playing the part of a robber to your own bank account. As to be expected I took part in some wheeling and dealing, making my way through the marketplace like a politician unearthing votes. Following a successful deal I asked to take a picture with the salesman- that went over like soggy chips. Perhaps, he thought a picture would grab his soul with firm and cold fingers, makes me think the vast forces of Asian tourists cause him to consider a life in isolation. The warmth amongst rather frigid weather in the area comes from “teterias”, intimate and dim tea shops shacked to the windy streets of Grenada. Sipping on tea is kin to shrouding your body within a soft woolen blanket. It warms from the inside out- shaking the cold away for a brief repose.
The Alhambra looks proudly down onto the city and has been doing so since the 14th century. The palace was constructed not by hands alone. Stone is permanent and only Allah can bring permanence into being so the palace is constructed with rose colored bricks. Moreover, only Allah can attribute breath to a being which leaves the Alhambra without human or animal figures on its grounds, at the bottom of the ocean starving for its first “breath” in centuries. The early morning trek through the expansive grounds and small glance into the history and religion of Spanish times of yore was worth the early morning wake up call. I needed an IV of coffee after a night at Grenada 10, a lively discoteca. Mary Maher, a good friend of mine from Ole Miss, brought the shakes and moves of the south to Grenada. It was beautiful. After a good deal of Spanish conversation with Adrian, the witty and smart guide, and the striking up of friendship with some sevillanos our bus came to whisk us away. It was a great weekend (thanks to Mary Maher for her patience in finding me, and off course Scott and Marcus for keeping things light and enjoying life- cheers to our balcony lads).
The next week brought the birth of the regular academic session, initially awkward, but now fairly comfortable. Comparable to the donning of a dress shirt, stale and plastic on the first wear yet progressively more comfortable each time it slides over your shoulders. The rhythm of academia here in Spain is distinctive to the country. A good deal of out of the class reading and work is the norm. At times I feel as if I am translating the bible into an unwritten language-least to say it is time consuming, a worthy and satisfying time consumption. Along with the start of classes came the baptismal part of my Spanish conversion. Wednesday night saw me clad in a Spanish scarf and wearing the country flag like a cape of a batman wannabe on Halloween. I had a football match to attend- England vs. Spain- Torres, Xavi, Iniesta, Beckham, Lampard, Sergio Ramos- a litany of first class footballers, decorations on a field, and the pride of two nations. The fans sang anthems like members of church choirs and urged their teams on. The strength of association these people have with their sport teams is enviable. Rob and I hopped in on the Spanish chants, dancing in and out of musical notes, although it was painstakingly obvious we were Americans. I ate a terribly undercooked hamburger, with the color of an embarrassed cheek, seemingly ran through a maze to find my seat number, and enjoyed a great experience with a good buddy - Rob Clayton. All and all, it was an unforgettable evening (please go check out Rob’s blog for an account of the “Crazy English Man Dialogue”).
As i shared above about the disparity and similarity amongst the Spanish people and cities I am reminded of a truth of the world we are but tenants in. Each person has a different accent, a unique past, specific talents, varied abilities, diverse passions, and a special tint on the glasses through which they view the world. We are all created in God’s image, whether you want to bear that image or not, whether you believe or not, you have not a choice. As a result of this we can know there is something beautiful within each one of us. The cross of Christ set us free to embrace the redemption inherit to each one of us through His love. Not one person treading this world right now, the past, or future is undesirable of my love and friendship. Everyone has something to offer, a gift to give. It is up to you to receive and garner the patience necessary to see the worth and value in all the people around you. They have it. You have to find it. And because God gave it to them the hide and seek is worth it every time. A speck of sand looks strange by itself, special in color, unique in shape, but amongst thousands of other similarly different specks it is part of a beautiful beach. Just like Spain, and all of her cities, we all are the same within our differences. Once you begin to appreciate what is different you begin to value yourself.
In my next installment, hopefully coming this Friday, I will share about the great friends I have been given, Scott and Marcus, among others. A spontaneous trip to Cadiz in the southwest of Spain, the Body of Christ in Spain, and the awesome run in I had with Conchi, a native amiga of mine. It is hard to write, even weekly, I respect the welders of words immensely. To do so one must press the stop button on life and unfold life in rewind. I sometimes am afraid of what I might be missing while I tap away with my fingers and unfold the past. At that I am pressing play and getting out of here, "when in Spain..."
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
"Do that Macarena"
... continued from the previous installment, "Mr. Heinz i like the stuff of your ketchup"
J.D and I took a small “day trip” of sorts to the Plaza de Espana, near the Guadalquilvir River in Sevilla. The best way to describe the Plaza is this: post card material. It is the kind of place people get engaged, the best friend of a non romantic guy looking to do right by his proposal. I was in photographer heaven, snapping shots like Andre Agassi in the Canon Rebel commercials. The plaza is the size of a couple of football fields, with large mosaics working their way towards a central fountain, an army of Nikon toting tourists flanking every position, and a support staff of classic, black, and yellow, horse drawn buggies. In the background a palacial structure, with two spiraling towers on each end, rests watching all the coming and going in the plaza. It is very comparable the Palace of Versailles, in France, and was built in 1929 for the World Exposition. The sun came out for about an hour and we enjoyed our time there, strolling around and wondering how someone envisioned such a feat as what lay before us. We ran across a man and his wife playing flamenco and dropped some metal in the open guitar case. Subsequently we were treated with “Hey Macarena!” thank you American roller blade music. We sat in the sun, with a post card background, listening to flamenco for awhile then I rocked off to class. On my way toward wisdom and knowledge I ran into a North Face clad man, and thought “American”, he was definitely thinking the same; Lo and behold it was John Stevenson, one of my friends from grade school. To think we ran into one another in Spain. I am eager to see what other small and big surprises await my steps in Europe.
My time with the host family has been amazing. They are a story that deserves its own “book” and are most definitely “blog worthy”. The previous two Sunday lunches have been nothing short of epic. These people do lunch the right way- food is simply a reason to spend time with family. My world awakened to a rumble of noise, a heap of Spanish conversation making its way toward my English ears. JD and I were nervous with the prospect of dining with the whole clan but soon gathered courage to follow our noses toward the kitchen. We were greeted like long lost family, back from a life long repose in America. I exchanged kisses with the ladies, “dos vesas” “two kisses” here in Spain are normal when making or renewing an acquaintance, and received kind embraces from the men. After social hour in a kitchen the size of Ford truck the entourage set up shop in the salon. We dined on delicious pasta, breads, cheeses, and crowned the kingly meal with some “pastelitos” “little cakes”. I watched conversation buzz about me, racing to make its way towards the ears sitting around the table. I found myself content to sit and listen to a chorus of foreign smiles, laughter, and conversation. It was a story my ears had the skill take part in, but my mouth was yet silent. Oftentimes I feel as if I am reading a story that I am living in but I am not a character. My Spanish is steadily getting better, more and more I find myself becoming a character in the Spain I live in on a day to day basis.
I find myself thinking that all of life is "blog worthy". Every part of your life is worth a page in some story book. If you observe the life your living and take your experiences captive the seemingly mundane becomes vivacious. Every person in this world has something worthy to offer because each one of us carries the image of God. The same reasoning applies to the experiences we are given. It is left to us to gain the patience to find redeemed good in others and ourselves as well as finding the purpose for the experiences in our lives. Slowing down seems boring and I argue that in doing so you can really start to live an exciting life. You are where you for a reason, find it.
"Im down to clown"
-Rob Clayton, Clemson University
J.D and I took a small “day trip” of sorts to the Plaza de Espana, near the Guadalquilvir River in Sevilla. The best way to describe the Plaza is this: post card material. It is the kind of place people get engaged, the best friend of a non romantic guy looking to do right by his proposal. I was in photographer heaven, snapping shots like Andre Agassi in the Canon Rebel commercials. The plaza is the size of a couple of football fields, with large mosaics working their way towards a central fountain, an army of Nikon toting tourists flanking every position, and a support staff of classic, black, and yellow, horse drawn buggies. In the background a palacial structure, with two spiraling towers on each end, rests watching all the coming and going in the plaza. It is very comparable the Palace of Versailles, in France, and was built in 1929 for the World Exposition. The sun came out for about an hour and we enjoyed our time there, strolling around and wondering how someone envisioned such a feat as what lay before us. We ran across a man and his wife playing flamenco and dropped some metal in the open guitar case. Subsequently we were treated with “Hey Macarena!” thank you American roller blade music. We sat in the sun, with a post card background, listening to flamenco for awhile then I rocked off to class. On my way toward wisdom and knowledge I ran into a North Face clad man, and thought “American”, he was definitely thinking the same; Lo and behold it was John Stevenson, one of my friends from grade school. To think we ran into one another in Spain. I am eager to see what other small and big surprises await my steps in Europe.
My time with the host family has been amazing. They are a story that deserves its own “book” and are most definitely “blog worthy”. The previous two Sunday lunches have been nothing short of epic. These people do lunch the right way- food is simply a reason to spend time with family. My world awakened to a rumble of noise, a heap of Spanish conversation making its way toward my English ears. JD and I were nervous with the prospect of dining with the whole clan but soon gathered courage to follow our noses toward the kitchen. We were greeted like long lost family, back from a life long repose in America. I exchanged kisses with the ladies, “dos vesas” “two kisses” here in Spain are normal when making or renewing an acquaintance, and received kind embraces from the men. After social hour in a kitchen the size of Ford truck the entourage set up shop in the salon. We dined on delicious pasta, breads, cheeses, and crowned the kingly meal with some “pastelitos” “little cakes”. I watched conversation buzz about me, racing to make its way towards the ears sitting around the table. I found myself content to sit and listen to a chorus of foreign smiles, laughter, and conversation. It was a story my ears had the skill take part in, but my mouth was yet silent. Oftentimes I feel as if I am reading a story that I am living in but I am not a character. My Spanish is steadily getting better, more and more I find myself becoming a character in the Spain I live in on a day to day basis.
I find myself thinking that all of life is "blog worthy". Every part of your life is worth a page in some story book. If you observe the life your living and take your experiences captive the seemingly mundane becomes vivacious. Every person in this world has something worthy to offer because each one of us carries the image of God. The same reasoning applies to the experiences we are given. It is left to us to gain the patience to find redeemed good in others and ourselves as well as finding the purpose for the experiences in our lives. Slowing down seems boring and I argue that in doing so you can really start to live an exciting life. You are where you for a reason, find it.
"Im down to clown"
-Rob Clayton, Clemson University
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