These first days have been tumultuous. I was sipping cool wine in a dark corner of Rome, and then suddenly sitting with my family at the dinner table in Minnesota. The 24 solid hours of travelling, while definitely long enough, was not adequate transition. Even the preceding ten days, spent glorious trekking across Italy, was not enough. It really was a flawed idea from the start: Like 10 days gallivanting around Italy would make it easier to return? Yeah right.
Regardless, I’m sitting here in the air conditioning (what is that?) of a national chain coffee shop, feeling a little displaced. Suddenly, I am back to my American life. I have my cell phone and the ability to call anyone at anytime. I have wireless Internet access always at my finger tips. I shop in grocery stores where the chicken comes in nice cut and cleaned packages. Cars zip around the city and the only pedestrians are people out to get exercise.
I asked a friend to walk with me to Barnes and Noble last week. She looked at my request sideways, but being the great friend she is, happily agreed. Half way through our walk I realized that this wasn’t going to work. America is not Europe, and walking as a means of transportation is not a reality. The only route to the Barnes and Noble, located smack dab in the center of busy suburbia, is not pedestrian friendly. After almost losing our lives to an Escalade (a grossly extravagant and unnecessary vehicle in my opinion), struggling against the noise and wind of an overpass, and walking through a McDonald’s parking lot littered with trash, we arrived. The quiet of a Barnes and Noble has never tasted so sweet. I wasn’t going to give up easily, so I switched from walking to biking. I almost felt like I was in Spain when I rode my bike to the grocery store to pick up some vegetables and then rode to the bread shop for a loaf of bread, despite the odd looks I received from the other customers, wondering what sad state I had been reduced to that I had to BIKE to get my groceries. Needless to say, life is still full of adventures, just a different kind of adventure- adventures in adjustment.
Not wishing to exude the “I’m back from Europe, and it is so much better than America” attitude, there is beauty in the return to home. And this country is home. America may not have everything figured out, but the I have such a beautiful appreciation for my community and the people I love. I love sitting down with my family for dinner at night or meeting a friend who has known me since I was 10 for a cup of tea. Community is a place of comfortable companionship. It is in interaction and conversation with these people that serves as a mirror, a reflection back to us of who we were and who we are. With a community with which we have history, we are able to perceive better the change that time slowly, but assuredly works in our lives. It is one of the greatest gifts of community- an opportunity to better engage our heads and our hearts in this life.
So as my head and my heart engage in this transition of life, I am looking at old things in new ways. In articulating my experiences to others, I am having to internalize just what the past six months of my life represent. This is a bittersweet process. A dear friend asked me a great question yesterday. “When you landed on American soil, Sarah, was it a relief or a burden?” he asked. I stopped for a moment before answering, “Both.” The dream had to end and I knew its end was coming, but there was this deep part in me that secretly hoped it wouldn’t have to be that way. I guess it is the true definition of bittersweet. I’ve never been on such an emotionally difficult flight. Those extremely awkward 10 plus hours were startling.
But I accept that bittersweet. Each day is proving to be a new adventure in seeing how my new basket of experiences, thoughts, and ideas find their own room in this life.
That is why we need to travel. If we don't offer ourselves to the unknown our senses dull. Our world becomes small and we lose our sense of wonder. Our eyes don't lift to the horizon; our ears don't hear the sounds around us. The edge is off our experience, and we pass our days in a routine that is both comfortable and limiting. We wake up one day and find that we have lost our dreams in order to protect our days.
From Letters to My Son by Kent Nerburn
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Viva Italia
I headed to Italy for ten days between saying goodbye to Sevilla and my return to the US. It was a stellar vacation. Travelling alone can be very exciting; one is not strapped by an itinerary and you meet the most intriguing people. I began in Pisa, headed to Florence, moved on to Cinque Terra, biked through Tuscany with some friends from Texas, visited Venice, travelled to Assisi (as in St. Francis of), and took in Rome. The food was delightful, the sights were impressive, and the countryside was breathtaking. Check out the pictures!
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia1
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia2
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia1
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/Italia2
Thursday, May 10, 2007
If we don´t talk about it...
My roommate here in Spain and I are fairly close. This is to be expected after sharing the adventure of the abroad experience together. One of my favorite things about her is her story-telling ability. She always has a great story to share. This one came up in our conversation this week about preparing to leave Sevilla:
Katie was 10 and her younger cousin was 5. They had just come back from errand running where Katie’s mom had bought the young cousin a small helicopter toy to play with. As the younger cousin was flying his little helicopter through the sky, he suddenly grabbed one of the blades and purposefully broke it off. Katie had been sitting with him, seeing all of this unfold. Dumbfounded and annoyed, she asked, “Why did you just break the gift my mom just gave you?” The five-year-old, in complete seriousness, looked at her, replying, “If we don’t talk about it, it will be OK.”
That story makes me laugh. Can you imagine a five-year-old turning to you and saying that? While he is quite precocious, I’m wondering if WHY that story strikes me as funny is because that is the mode out of which we’re tempted to operate: If I ignore it, it’ll go away. If we don’t confront that issue, we’ll be fine. If I pretend that everything is OK, the hard stuff will disappear. In a desperate attempt to keep it together, we gloss and glaze over the life of our hearts. I’ve learned that can be a very dangerous thing.
But it is so easy to do. As I sit just a mere two days from leaving this place, I wish I could fool myself with that line, that if I don’t talk about it, it will, indeed be OK. I wish I didn’t have to face a series of difficult goodbyes, the packing of the suitcase, the last walk through the park, the last glass of Sangria on a sidewalk café as the sun sets, the last trip to buy the daily bread with Victoria. I don’t want to face these things because they mean I must confront that my Sevilla time has ended, that I must wake up from this dream of a reality and return to a land that is so very different, that I must move on to what is next in this great journey. It means acknowledging that this place has entered my core, becoming apart of the fabric of my life.
While Katie and I joke about not talking about it, we have talked quite a bit about what it means to have spent this time here, the joys in returning home, the challenges in returning home, what we hope to take with us, the goals we have because of our time here. In that talking (and as verbal processors!), we have gained some valuable insight as we voiced things aloud, and we have found a safe place to consider and ponder exactly why leaving is difficult. Regardless of whether we talk about it or not, this transition is difficult. But we forge ahead as it is all apart of this crazy and full journey of life, knowing that the beauty only increases.
But really, let’s not talk about it.
Katie was 10 and her younger cousin was 5. They had just come back from errand running where Katie’s mom had bought the young cousin a small helicopter toy to play with. As the younger cousin was flying his little helicopter through the sky, he suddenly grabbed one of the blades and purposefully broke it off. Katie had been sitting with him, seeing all of this unfold. Dumbfounded and annoyed, she asked, “Why did you just break the gift my mom just gave you?” The five-year-old, in complete seriousness, looked at her, replying, “If we don’t talk about it, it will be OK.”
That story makes me laugh. Can you imagine a five-year-old turning to you and saying that? While he is quite precocious, I’m wondering if WHY that story strikes me as funny is because that is the mode out of which we’re tempted to operate: If I ignore it, it’ll go away. If we don’t confront that issue, we’ll be fine. If I pretend that everything is OK, the hard stuff will disappear. In a desperate attempt to keep it together, we gloss and glaze over the life of our hearts. I’ve learned that can be a very dangerous thing.
But it is so easy to do. As I sit just a mere two days from leaving this place, I wish I could fool myself with that line, that if I don’t talk about it, it will, indeed be OK. I wish I didn’t have to face a series of difficult goodbyes, the packing of the suitcase, the last walk through the park, the last glass of Sangria on a sidewalk café as the sun sets, the last trip to buy the daily bread with Victoria. I don’t want to face these things because they mean I must confront that my Sevilla time has ended, that I must wake up from this dream of a reality and return to a land that is so very different, that I must move on to what is next in this great journey. It means acknowledging that this place has entered my core, becoming apart of the fabric of my life.
While Katie and I joke about not talking about it, we have talked quite a bit about what it means to have spent this time here, the joys in returning home, the challenges in returning home, what we hope to take with us, the goals we have because of our time here. In that talking (and as verbal processors!), we have gained some valuable insight as we voiced things aloud, and we have found a safe place to consider and ponder exactly why leaving is difficult. Regardless of whether we talk about it or not, this transition is difficult. But we forge ahead as it is all apart of this crazy and full journey of life, knowing that the beauty only increases.
But really, let’s not talk about it.
Feria
April is an odd month here in Sevilla: Half the month is spent working and half the month is spent vacationing. There are two full weeks of vacation; the first week off is Semana Santa, and then, at the month, stores and businesses close once again for Feria. Feria is a huge, ten-day fair celebrating food, drink, and dancing- very common themes in the Andalusian culture.
Feria is a highly anticipated event. People prepare and plan months in advance. It is an around the clock party. Women with perfectly done hair, impeccable makeup, and beautiful Flamenco dresses are seen throughout the city. They are waiting at the bus stop, walking in the street, dancing at Feria. Men are all in jackets. Children are dressed up as miniature versions of their parents. Horse drawn carriages take over the streets. The casetas, or small tent houses at Feria, are the epicenters of the parties. Free food and drink, along with great music are available in the casestas, but you have to be invited to enter or find someone who is invited to bring you in along with them. The tradition of Feria as an agricultural fair has long faded. Dressing up is now just for fun. . Feria is about friends and family. It is ten days dedicated to being together. Nowhere is Spain’s beautiful culture more clearly demonstrated than during Feria.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart14
Feria is a highly anticipated event. People prepare and plan months in advance. It is an around the clock party. Women with perfectly done hair, impeccable makeup, and beautiful Flamenco dresses are seen throughout the city. They are waiting at the bus stop, walking in the street, dancing at Feria. Men are all in jackets. Children are dressed up as miniature versions of their parents. Horse drawn carriages take over the streets. The casetas, or small tent houses at Feria, are the epicenters of the parties. Free food and drink, along with great music are available in the casestas, but you have to be invited to enter or find someone who is invited to bring you in along with them. The tradition of Feria as an agricultural fair has long faded. Dressing up is now just for fun. . Feria is about friends and family. It is ten days dedicated to being together. Nowhere is Spain’s beautiful culture more clearly demonstrated than during Feria.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart14
Five Sevilla Smelss
The nauseatingly sweet smell of the Cruzcampo beer factory down the street
Spanish sewage- gross.
The blossoms of the orange trees
Bodies hot and sweaty from the sun
Freshly baked bread
Spanish sewage- gross.
The blossoms of the orange trees
Bodies hot and sweaty from the sun
Freshly baked bread
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Writing
What we have lived, we have lived not just for ourselves, but for others as well. We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories, the better we want to live them.
Henri Nouwen
Henri Nouwen
Five random moments I want to remember
One of my professor fits the eccentric bill. Last week, instead of getting up from his seat to write on the chalkboard, he talked animatedly while writing on the desk with his chalk. If was as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, looked up a little flushed, erased with the back of his hand, and then stood up at the board.
Arturo, a Spanish friend, showed me his favorite place on the large, modern bridge. Every time he walks across the bridge, he stops here. A large piece of white metal sweeps up high into the sky. We stood at the base and looked straight up, following to where it ascends, just two meters higher than the Giralda Tower. We standing near the back of the white metal arm on this very busy bridge as the traffic passes all around us, our heads thrown all the way back. The white rushes into the blue of the sky. For a moment, we just stand there, taking in this massive structure in the middle of Sevilla rush hour. And then we’re lowering our heads and moving on.
I went to a meeting at the church I’ve been attending. They are such a fun, loving group. As everyone assembles for the meeting, we greet one another, kissing each other once on each cheek, as is the custom. One must greet everyone in the room, and we spend a good five minutes doing this. No flimsy handshakes or half-hearted hellos. This is up-close and personal.
A bird flew into the laundry room off the kitchen last week. I went to throw away my banana peel after breakfast and found him huddled in the corner with bright eyes. He was trapped and didn’t know how to get out. I sleep with my window flung wide open each night. I really hope I don’t wake up one morning lying next to a bright-eyed bird who found his way into my room by night.
The park down the street has the most wonderful benches. Sometimes, on my way home from class, I’ll stop to sit in the sun and watch the Spaniards of all ages stroll through the quiet refuge. The sun feels good on my face and the moments stretch out.
Arturo, a Spanish friend, showed me his favorite place on the large, modern bridge. Every time he walks across the bridge, he stops here. A large piece of white metal sweeps up high into the sky. We stood at the base and looked straight up, following to where it ascends, just two meters higher than the Giralda Tower. We standing near the back of the white metal arm on this very busy bridge as the traffic passes all around us, our heads thrown all the way back. The white rushes into the blue of the sky. For a moment, we just stand there, taking in this massive structure in the middle of Sevilla rush hour. And then we’re lowering our heads and moving on.
I went to a meeting at the church I’ve been attending. They are such a fun, loving group. As everyone assembles for the meeting, we greet one another, kissing each other once on each cheek, as is the custom. One must greet everyone in the room, and we spend a good five minutes doing this. No flimsy handshakes or half-hearted hellos. This is up-close and personal.
A bird flew into the laundry room off the kitchen last week. I went to throw away my banana peel after breakfast and found him huddled in the corner with bright eyes. He was trapped and didn’t know how to get out. I sleep with my window flung wide open each night. I really hope I don’t wake up one morning lying next to a bright-eyed bird who found his way into my room by night.
The park down the street has the most wonderful benches. Sometimes, on my way home from class, I’ll stop to sit in the sun and watch the Spaniards of all ages stroll through the quiet refuge. The sun feels good on my face and the moments stretch out.
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