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
Friday, January 30, 2009
Hey Mr. Heinz, I like the stuff of your ketchup
A good buddy of mine once told me, if you begin to blog, events in your life will become judged on their worthiness to be made known to others. Soon this evaluation of "worthiness" had a call name for rapid identification, like a trucker ambling down I-65 responding only to "Chili Dog" through the tones of a see bee radio. Cullen and his friends began to exclaim events in their life as "blog worthy". As to be expected "blog worthy" transitioned to an acronym. "BW" meaning "that is blog worthy". To make acronym status is a powerful thing; two letters stand for much more than even the words they represent. With this in the bag and jostling around in the spaces of my mind I stroll through daily life here in Sevilla.
The "BW" acronym has had a party with my life this week in Spain. The weekend met me with a flurry of discotecas, nice meals, and great times with friends, both new and old. Rob Clayton, a good buddy of mine and brother in Christ from Clemson and I reveled at our present places in life; being in the same city for awhile is a welcome change in our friendship. I am so thankful he is here (Here’s to you Shred). We rocked a discoteca with mutual friends and met some wonderful Spanish people. A few hours later I found myself jumping up and down, like a small child on a trampoline, arm and arm with Spaniards chanting a song in a tongue not my own. No coincidence the discoteca is called the “Fun Club” (prounounced: fOOn KLUb), and as Scott says, “fOOn KLUb was fun”. We need to figure out if the club has members or not. As we walked home that night we struck up several sappy American songs in the streets of Spain. Ryan Seacrest would have been proud of our Destiny’s Child performance and even the ever stingy Paul Simon would have loved JD’s stirring solo.
Smaller stories seem to be knitting together easily, creating a tale much bigger than they could ever be alone. It is these smallest of happenings that give joy to my life in Sevilla. A host of oranges showered my friend, Scott and I, as we walked home from class. Falling from aloft towards our feet like the bombs of a B-52 squadron. I also found a bit of good karma and received a surprise of sorts from a Spanish lady. The surprise was a cerveza or “beer”, not just any paltry beer but Cruz Campo, the water of a dehydrated Sevilla. She had spilled her groceries and I gave a hand. That hand got a free beer but more importantly a good laugh from a small and simple moment. Spanish intensive classes began this week and I have thoroughly enjoyed them. Being in Spain has found my speaking skills lacking and I relish at the opportunity to learn more and improve with the time I am given here. Our maestro, Luis Recio, is a colorful, kind, middle aged man, who is quite possible the best teacher I have had to this day. Our homework on Wednesday was a “street assignment”, in which we were given the task to walk the street by the Puerta de Jerez, a beautiful fountain and plaza, and strike up conversations with real Sevillanos. I felt like a little tater tot waiting, on the bus, for his first day of kindergarten class. However, with the mantra, “When in Spain” playing on my internal sound system my assignment partner Mark and I marched into the unknown. An intimidating, nerve filled, awesome hour of broken Spanish, really nice people, and laughter.
The people here are keen on walks or "los cambios". Like Americans, the day after turkey, they parade the streets with admirable consistency. However, unlike the red, white, and the blue, Spaniards all too often have no "purpose" in mind as their shoes step side by side through the cobble stone streets. By "purpose" it is meant that there exists no means to an end here in Spain. Two gentlemen will walk with each other, worn hands folded comfortably behind their dapper backs, for the higher purpose of having no means to an end with one another. A task should be carried to enjoy the process of getting to the end. More times than not the journey well enjoyed makes a better ending. For example, one could live a life marked with a great deal of haste to experience “everything” and in their perpetual “go” mode miss the tiny things that make life worth living. The walk I speak of is a selfless walk, to your friend, and your true self. How many times have you let yourself stroll awhile with only the course of conversation present to call things to a close? No deadlines, no other plans, just you, where you are, a walk with the other person in mind. No "purpose" other than the beautiful purpose of enjoying one anothers' company and living in the present (something that really is much more difficult than perceived). "Living in the present" is fitting for a bumper sticker on the rear window of a jaded 98 Subaru and nice to throw out in bar conversations but I wonder how many people really understand the notion. I have a sincere feeling the people here in Spain have their hands grasped softly around the idea.
(I already have the next part written, as the piece is intended to be viewed and read as a whole, i thought a little "installment" approach might help you read things and not overwhelm you. Dumas wrote installments so why not me. Credit mister stark for the idea)
"Don't Fight It"
"We are all part of the story"
-Scott Rick, University of Wisconsin
The "BW" acronym has had a party with my life this week in Spain. The weekend met me with a flurry of discotecas, nice meals, and great times with friends, both new and old. Rob Clayton, a good buddy of mine and brother in Christ from Clemson and I reveled at our present places in life; being in the same city for awhile is a welcome change in our friendship. I am so thankful he is here (Here’s to you Shred). We rocked a discoteca with mutual friends and met some wonderful Spanish people. A few hours later I found myself jumping up and down, like a small child on a trampoline, arm and arm with Spaniards chanting a song in a tongue not my own. No coincidence the discoteca is called the “Fun Club” (prounounced: fOOn KLUb), and as Scott says, “fOOn KLUb was fun”. We need to figure out if the club has members or not. As we walked home that night we struck up several sappy American songs in the streets of Spain. Ryan Seacrest would have been proud of our Destiny’s Child performance and even the ever stingy Paul Simon would have loved JD’s stirring solo.
Smaller stories seem to be knitting together easily, creating a tale much bigger than they could ever be alone. It is these smallest of happenings that give joy to my life in Sevilla. A host of oranges showered my friend, Scott and I, as we walked home from class. Falling from aloft towards our feet like the bombs of a B-52 squadron. I also found a bit of good karma and received a surprise of sorts from a Spanish lady. The surprise was a cerveza or “beer”, not just any paltry beer but Cruz Campo, the water of a dehydrated Sevilla. She had spilled her groceries and I gave a hand. That hand got a free beer but more importantly a good laugh from a small and simple moment. Spanish intensive classes began this week and I have thoroughly enjoyed them. Being in Spain has found my speaking skills lacking and I relish at the opportunity to learn more and improve with the time I am given here. Our maestro, Luis Recio, is a colorful, kind, middle aged man, who is quite possible the best teacher I have had to this day. Our homework on Wednesday was a “street assignment”, in which we were given the task to walk the street by the Puerta de Jerez, a beautiful fountain and plaza, and strike up conversations with real Sevillanos. I felt like a little tater tot waiting, on the bus, for his first day of kindergarten class. However, with the mantra, “When in Spain” playing on my internal sound system my assignment partner Mark and I marched into the unknown. An intimidating, nerve filled, awesome hour of broken Spanish, really nice people, and laughter.
The people here are keen on walks or "los cambios". Like Americans, the day after turkey, they parade the streets with admirable consistency. However, unlike the red, white, and the blue, Spaniards all too often have no "purpose" in mind as their shoes step side by side through the cobble stone streets. By "purpose" it is meant that there exists no means to an end here in Spain. Two gentlemen will walk with each other, worn hands folded comfortably behind their dapper backs, for the higher purpose of having no means to an end with one another. A task should be carried to enjoy the process of getting to the end. More times than not the journey well enjoyed makes a better ending. For example, one could live a life marked with a great deal of haste to experience “everything” and in their perpetual “go” mode miss the tiny things that make life worth living. The walk I speak of is a selfless walk, to your friend, and your true self. How many times have you let yourself stroll awhile with only the course of conversation present to call things to a close? No deadlines, no other plans, just you, where you are, a walk with the other person in mind. No "purpose" other than the beautiful purpose of enjoying one anothers' company and living in the present (something that really is much more difficult than perceived). "Living in the present" is fitting for a bumper sticker on the rear window of a jaded 98 Subaru and nice to throw out in bar conversations but I wonder how many people really understand the notion. I have a sincere feeling the people here in Spain have their hands grasped softly around the idea.
(I already have the next part written, as the piece is intended to be viewed and read as a whole, i thought a little "installment" approach might help you read things and not overwhelm you. Dumas wrote installments so why not me. Credit mister stark for the idea)
"Don't Fight It"
"We are all part of the story"
-Scott Rick, University of Wisconsin
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Life in Sevilla
hey all, a great deal has happened since my last post almost a week ago. Spain has already become my home. It is hard to believe after a week i feel so at ease and comfortable here. On Wednesday of last week i woke up in Hotel Fernando III with the appetite of a Heath and a wee bit of the nerves. If you do not know what a Heath is just get acquainted with my older brother. Heath has a uncanny knack to plan lunch and dinner at breakfast, eating meals while constantly awaiting the next. I was on a mission to find some grub because the Spanish seem to never snack, eat smaller portions, and take more time away from eating. My stomach felt like a legion of monarchs had set up shop within its not so cavernous halls. The nerves opened the door to those butterflies as i was soon to meet the Echeverria clan, our sense of family in Spain.
I grabbed a croissant and walked into the lobby to be greeted by an army of fur coats and a small roar of Spanish conversation. Antonio, one of the orientation leaders and a really great guy, lead me over to Elena. I felt like a kindergartner hopping on the yellow wagon for his first day of school. We exchanged a few anxious salutations and sped off to my new home away from home, LOS REMEDIOS, a "zone" of the city a spear throw from the heart of the city. I walked in the door and was greeted by "chica", the families' Shepard dog, who has become really tight with me. Elena played tour guide and showed me around the home, showed me the ropes, and established herself as one of the most gracious, kind, and fun ladies i have ever met. She doesn't speak a lick of English and it is primo. Her house has become my class room. I love sitting with her in the salon conversing about life- food, her children and grandchildren, her views on Obama and American politics (she really likes Obama), and her awesome lifestyle (flamenco class 3 days a week, an avid chef, quite the reader, and proud member of a dog walking club). She should be in Webster's dictionary as the definition of patience.
J.D and I share a little room, about the size of a bunk bed. We try to work on the language together but it is super nice to have him here and ooze English from time to time. You have no idea how much i appreciate the English language now. We express who we are with letters, words, verbs tenses, participles, and a litany of other grammatical terms. God gave us language so we could share our hearts, passions, and express who HE made us to be with each other. It is a beautiful thing to be able to listen and speak without really thinking too much about it. I have realized the intricacies of speech, like a person hearing music for the first time, i am over joyed with the smallest of spoken things.
I have been hitting the "club" scene on a consistent basis becoming the Cal Ripken Jr. of night life here in Seville. These people have the stamina of marathon runners when it comes to night life. They crank it up around birth and never stop. I respect it. I have met some wonderful people in my program and love hitting the discotecas with them, meeting Spaniards, and rocking out to the beats of europe. Friendship is strange in that it came strike up so quick (Pygmeo, Tortuga, Albondiga and others- you know of what i type). I am thankful for that. Yesterday, we took a trip to Italica, a beautiful roman ruin nestled in the foothills of Sevilla. I stood in the middle of a gladiator arena and had to pick my jaw back up after viewing some of the most beautiful mosaics i had ever seen. At the discoteca and in las madrugadas (morning hours) I met Juande and Antonio, two hombres studying at La Universidad de Seville, we talked soccer (the world's official language), and i plan to meet up with them and work on my Spanish while they improve their English. And to put some sprinkles on that cup of ice cream we are going to play some soccer here soon in the barrio.
All in all, life is always good, people are patient and give of themselves if you let them, and you learn so much if you just let go and allow things to happen. I will update soon and also apologize for the boring read- i know there is a lack of color here but I wanted to let you eat the whole sandwich instead of just give you a pickle.
ciao,
Ryan
"weakness can sometime be the strongest of strengths"
I grabbed a croissant and walked into the lobby to be greeted by an army of fur coats and a small roar of Spanish conversation. Antonio, one of the orientation leaders and a really great guy, lead me over to Elena. I felt like a kindergartner hopping on the yellow wagon for his first day of school. We exchanged a few anxious salutations and sped off to my new home away from home, LOS REMEDIOS, a "zone" of the city a spear throw from the heart of the city. I walked in the door and was greeted by "chica", the families' Shepard dog, who has become really tight with me. Elena played tour guide and showed me around the home, showed me the ropes, and established herself as one of the most gracious, kind, and fun ladies i have ever met. She doesn't speak a lick of English and it is primo. Her house has become my class room. I love sitting with her in the salon conversing about life- food, her children and grandchildren, her views on Obama and American politics (she really likes Obama), and her awesome lifestyle (flamenco class 3 days a week, an avid chef, quite the reader, and proud member of a dog walking club). She should be in Webster's dictionary as the definition of patience.
J.D and I share a little room, about the size of a bunk bed. We try to work on the language together but it is super nice to have him here and ooze English from time to time. You have no idea how much i appreciate the English language now. We express who we are with letters, words, verbs tenses, participles, and a litany of other grammatical terms. God gave us language so we could share our hearts, passions, and express who HE made us to be with each other. It is a beautiful thing to be able to listen and speak without really thinking too much about it. I have realized the intricacies of speech, like a person hearing music for the first time, i am over joyed with the smallest of spoken things.
I have been hitting the "club" scene on a consistent basis becoming the Cal Ripken Jr. of night life here in Seville. These people have the stamina of marathon runners when it comes to night life. They crank it up around birth and never stop. I respect it. I have met some wonderful people in my program and love hitting the discotecas with them, meeting Spaniards, and rocking out to the beats of europe. Friendship is strange in that it came strike up so quick (Pygmeo, Tortuga, Albondiga and others- you know of what i type). I am thankful for that. Yesterday, we took a trip to Italica, a beautiful roman ruin nestled in the foothills of Sevilla. I stood in the middle of a gladiator arena and had to pick my jaw back up after viewing some of the most beautiful mosaics i had ever seen. At the discoteca and in las madrugadas (morning hours) I met Juande and Antonio, two hombres studying at La Universidad de Seville, we talked soccer (the world's official language), and i plan to meet up with them and work on my Spanish while they improve their English. And to put some sprinkles on that cup of ice cream we are going to play some soccer here soon in the barrio.
All in all, life is always good, people are patient and give of themselves if you let them, and you learn so much if you just let go and allow things to happen. I will update soon and also apologize for the boring read- i know there is a lack of color here but I wanted to let you eat the whole sandwich instead of just give you a pickle.
ciao,
Ryan
"weakness can sometime be the strongest of strengths"
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A Story of Oranges
Everything begins and nothing ever ends without something beginning again: walking out your front door, going past the stop sign in your neighborhood, getting your driver’s license, saddling up your car for college, saying goodbye to the United States, growing up, there all dependent on each other. Today was my first day in Spain. I ran down the up section of an escalator to catch a flight, met a neat military man from Louisiana in Madrid (by far the most befuddling airport experience of my life), and talked soccer with my cabbie named Marcos. He spoke no English and a little French, which proved to be no help at all; it was the best ride of my life. Around two in the afternoon, Seville time, I found myself sitting in a café, pigeons fidgeting curiously around my chair (as if they knew I was the new guy in town), underneath the beautiful orange trees of Seville. The guys and gals in the travel books weren’t playing games about the copious (that vocabulary usage for Will Nettleton) amounts of orange balls giving taste to thousands of trees throughout the city. I liken the amount of oranges in Sevilla to the number of red and blue solo cups in the grove on Saturdays. The little orange fruit is so big here that the guys say, “la naranja de Seville” about girls, which means the orange of Seville or “your dream girl”. The city is beautiful and the people or very hospitable. However, the city’s street design is anything but hospitable. It seems the calles here have a strange sense of humor as the asphalt all works together to from a wondrous Spanish labyrinth. J.D Stark took me on an extensive tour of the city and really impressed me with his uncanny internal compass. It was nice to catch up with a good pal and brother in Christ and surreal to do so in Europe of all places. I think J.D is already a Spaniard. The jet lag is causing me to run out of strong so I am going to read and hit the sack. Last thing, these people love soccer over here, this looks like the beginning of something beautiful. If you can not speak Spanish you can always speak soccer. The whole world speaks it. Also, be praying that Rob Clayton, J.D., and myself can find a Christian community over here. I’m thankful to have those two with me on this adventure.
Ciao
Ciao
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