The Brave, the Strong, the True, revisited

"Do you get that feeling in your stomach--"
"You mean nervousness about the flight?"
"Yeah...and leaving Spain and getting home and exam and everything..."
I pause.  There it is, the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Check in for your flight.  Print your boarding pass.  Is your carry-on too big?  What if you over sleep?  You still need gifts for so-and-so. Did you even get that question on your grammar exam correct anyway?  You probably should have studied more.  You see Nathaniel in two days!  etc etc. 

The list goes on and on.

"Yeah. I got it..."  I shiver, and make a face at my friend.  "Maybe I want some cola-cao.  Do I want some cola-cao?"
"Come on.  How many more times are you going to get to order Cola-Cao in Spain."
"True."  I grin, and get up to order.

•••

Its my last day here in the beautiful city of Granada, and I have literally no idea how that happened.  It seems like its always been tucked around a curtain, out of sight, gradually peeking out.  Then, suddenly, its hovering above me.  And I am literally at a loss of how to react.  So I'll put that off, and instead talk about what what this time has given me.

This blog start off about courage.  About what my mom saw in me.  Her daughter, the brave, strong, and true, and me having no clue what she meant.  And then I learned so much more.  I learned about humility and what it meant to be a world citizen.  I learned about patience.  There was lesson upon lesson about perseverance as I woke up every morning, and no small bit about forgiveness. I learned to open my heart to people, even when I knew I would have to say goodbye.  Possibly forever.  I learned to face the new and strange, and find the familiar in it.  I lost myself here, and I found myself.  And I learned what was more important to me than anything.  What and who I loved more than anything.  The people that I missed, that I wept for, was in the first part my family.  I had no idea just what my family meant to me prior to this time apart from them.  And I had to idea of the strength  of their love for me either.  I mean, I did, but not quite in this way.  Now I can't wait to get home to tell them just how much I love them.

But in the end, I also discovered a strength within myself.  A strength I never knew I had.  And a courage I had never known.  Moreover, I found a truth about myself.  At the end of the day, Im really just a nice girl, with big dreams, from a small town, and the most important thing to me is, and always will be my family.  So I guess mom was always right.  I really am her girl, the brave,  the strong,  and the true.

Faith, Love, and Advent

Something I've been thinking on this past month has been about faith and Advent.  Advent, the season in which we wait for the coming of Jesus, also happening to occur in the same few weeks when waiting to go home has been the hardest.  This kind of hit home for me...that in those moments when I felt impossibly and infinity far away from everyone and everything that I loved and loved me, this was symbolic of the impossible infinity between God and his people before Christ came.  That there was a giant chasm between the love of God and his people.  But even that chasm could be crossed.  God's people waited and waited and waited for the Messiah, and then he came in the form of a child.  That child took our pain and sorrow and sin, and died for it, closing the infinite gap between God and man.  This semester there were times when I knew my family and friends loved me back at home, but I couldn't feel it. They all just seemed to every far away.  Infinite and Impossible.  But I waited and waited and waited.  And in the time with the birth of Christ, I also will be reunited with my family and loved ones, just as the birth of Jesus reunited God with his people.

So this Christmas is especially poignant for me.  In a way, I understand the profundity of Advent and Christmas even more than before, because I know the feeling of being so very far away fro my family, the patience it has required, and the faith I needed.  Somedays I needed to hang on solely to the faith that the semester would reach an end, and I would see my Mom and Dad and brother and home yet again.  I clung to that faith like a lifeline.  And thats the meaning of faith, isn't it?  "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, and the conviction of things not seen."  Its believing in that scrap of hope even when everything around you says otherwise.  And sometimes it doesn't have to be logical.  But its one of the strongest things in this world, carrying you through the storms of life.  I know that faith in my family, and their love, got me through the harder times here abroad.  But it was my faith in God that carried me even further.  Now, with Christmas rapidly approaching, I have come appreciate even more what it meant 1) for the People of God to wait for the Messiah, 2) what it meant for God to be divided from his children, and 3) what it meant for Christ to leave the glories of heaven and the Father, to live among us and bridge the impossible gap.

So in this season of Advent where we await the coming of Christ, in the second coming, in our hearts, and in his birth, I give thanks.  Thanks for the love I've been shown by my family, thanks for the love of my God, because he has been faithful to me.  Even when home seemed so far from me, I was comforted in the knowledge that I was never truly far from Him.  And now I only have a week left of waiting when I shall be reunited with my family.  And to some people that may not seem like a Christmas miracle, but it is.  Because I know that I could not have come this far, learned so much, grown so much, without faith and His faithfulness to me.  And that really is what Advent and Christmas is about.  God's faithfulness, and ability to cross the impossible boundaries.  We are never really alone.  Never really lost.  Never really unloved.

...Rejoice, rejoice Emmanuel shall come to thee oh Israel...

Touching Lives, and Saying Goodbye

The folks of Central College Abroad!
(plus my brother and german sister, and my moroccan host family)

"There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed.  Some forever not for better.  Some have gone, and some have remain.  All these places have their moments. With lovers and friends, I still can recall.  Some are dead and some are living.  In my life, I've loved them all."

-In My Life, the Beatles. 

Maybe I've been getting a little sentimental of late.  Then again, I tend to when things are wrapping up: the school year, breaks, camp season. Because, inevitably I have to say goodbye to a whole bunch of people.   Some I know that I will see again.  Some I probably will.  And still others, I will only ever see again if fate decides it so.  So as I prepare for another round of goodbyes, I'm taking the time to think on all the people that have entered my life lately, and all that they have taught me.  And I guess this is a shout out to all of you, a chance for me to say thank you, I miss you/ will miss you. 

The absolutely wonderful staff of Beaver Cross

I have met a lot of people in the last year, all kinds, from all places.  I've studied with them, sang with them, ate with them, worked with them, prayed with them, traveled with them, explored with them.  Each place I've lived, in the mountains of Marlboro VT, in the close knit community of Potsdam, in Staff Lodge of Beaver Cross, and in the bustling streets of Spain, the people around me have touched my life.  I can only hope that I have returned the favor in some way.

They all have their stories, things about them that make them totally unique from everyone else in the world.  And everyone has taught me a thing or two.  The fun times and the memories we made all equally important as any lessons.  All the trips for frozen yogurt, an experience I have had the pleasure of sharing with friends from upstate NY to Granada, Spain.  Hiking and water fights.  Exploring the Alhambra or getting shwarma at 3 am. Coming up with an a cappella arrangement on the fly.  Or just simply sitting the library late at night.

Marbl-bros

This has been a pretty big year in my life.  I've traveled and visited four different countries: Turkey, Spain, Morocco, Germany.  This is the first year I didn't live at home over the summer.  I've attended a different school each fall since freshman year: Clarkson, Marlboro, Centro de Lenguas Modernas Universidad de Granada.  While in my head, I might still feel like the little girl holding her mother's hand, I'm not.  Well...a part of me always will be that girl, but I've grown. And in no small part due to the people that have surrounded me.

In the many walks of life I've seen lately, I can say that it will always be the people that are the most memorable.  The things they have to say.  Their stories.  Their hope and dreams.  Fear and secrets.  We are all so fearfully and wonderfully made, that each life is a miracle in itself.

there's no place, and no people, like home

So... all these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall...In my life, I've loved them all.

Sitting on the Roof of the World

As my journey reaches its end, I feel like this song sums up my time in Spain.

"I climbed a mountain, not knowing that I had
Thought it was just a point from A to B...

And there I was, sitting on the roof of the world,
there I was, with all the gods,
not knowing how I got there or how to leave...

people say, whats so special about being back here, with everyone so close,
Thats the point.  I don't want to be different, I just want to fit it.

There I was, there I was, sitting on the roof of the world
there I was, with all the gods,

not knowing how I got there or how to leave..."

These words, though not explaining my experience verbatim, touch on some key points.  This semester was a mountain for me to climb, and now that I am at the top, I'm still not quite sure how I got here.  And I find that two weeks (to the day) until I board that plane a little to soon.  On the other hand, when friends ask me why I can't wait to be home, they don't understand how close I am to the people there, to my family, my brother.  I almost needed this experience to discover what things in life really matter.  In the words of a classmate of mine, "when you are in another country, you really find out who you are."  And in discovering that, I also found out what really matters in my life.  

Before this experience, I thought that studying abroad was just something you did in college.  It was a good idea, one gains good experiences and language skills.  Since I started studying Spanish when I was 14, I just knew that fall semester of my junior year in college, I would study in Spain.  So last semester, I knew it was time to look for and apply to a program.  It was a never a decision I made, and I am not even sure I wanted to.  I just knew I had to, in this world I had created inside my head.  

I saw it as just a point from A to B.  

But it had been so much more than than.

So now Im sitting in a café, countries and ocean and hours away from everything that I love and hold dear, sitting on the roof of the world, and I find myself at a loss of how to really leave.  Its oddly surreal.  Even more so knowing that life at home can't possibly be exactly how I left it.  There are new people at my family church, who don't know me at all.  One of my best friends is getting married.  My brother is even taller.  And life at Marlboro, that surely will be different as well.  I will be in my second semester of my junior year, having to preparing for senior year.  New students will be on campus, students who don't know me, and yet are friends with the friends I left behind.  And yet other friends won't be on campus, graduated or studying abroad.  So there is no going back.  Not really.  That doesn't mean that I can't wait to see each and every face I've missed, the lights of my small town a lit for Christmas, the snow covered Vermont mountains out of the library windows at school.

So in two weeks, I will take a taxi, to a bus, to a plane, to another plane, to the waiting arms for my family, with the knowledge that I'd climbed mountains.

A few thoughts on the last few weeks.

The count-down begins.  Well, to be honest, the count down began some time ago, but with the three weeks in between me and my eighteen hour journey of a day home, its very real.  In my head, three weeks still seems like a lifetime.  That possibly has to do with the oceans and countries, and classes and projects and exams in-between as well.  This week will be the longest though.  Once I hit two weeks, thats when time will race.  Thats when I will suddenly have to study for grammar and arabic classes, still want to get that last taste of churros, and still somewhere have time to shop for Christmas presents and never mention packing!  (Im trying to pull off a magic trick where I go home with less luggage than I came with...I'll let you know how that goes.)

But after struggling for several weeks with an irrational fear of tragedy striking and never seeing my family ever again, Mom reassured me that such fears aren't unheard of.  In fact, they are just an expression of love.  Real, deep, longing love.  And I guess I must just miss my family more than I had previously thought.  Don't get me wrong, I do love Granada, and this has been and amazing experience, but as the holiday's approach, with Thanksgiving this Thursday, the first Sunday of Advent this Sunday, and Christmas a mere four weeks away, I am feeling that missing part of my life even more keenly with each passing day.  I can also feel the Potsdam snow on my nose, and see the lights that light up Market Street.  I can smell the evergreen boughs decorating the church windows and hear the squeals of delighted children, the piping of the organ and the singing of the choir.  My brother and friends all talking at once in the din of the parish hall as we stuff our faces with food we all brought to share for Christmas Eve dinner.  I can see the twinkling fairy lights of the tree, and the furry paw of the cat trying in vain to tear ornaments from the branches.  And everywhere the whiteness of the snow that blankets the ground.

But somehow, the more I close my eyes to imagine it, the further away it seems, reminding me of one of the things I am terrible at: living in the present.  Look at the city around me!  A city that in a few weeks will be gone to me, and I surely will miss.  Live in the moment, and enjoy it, and the time will pass.  But the further ahead I look, the slower everything seems to take.  So I breathe deeply, take sip of cafe con leche, and dig into my exams, and enjoy my last few weeks.

(flash to the past...memories anyone?)

Even so...the song "I'll be home for Christmas" has an entirely new meaning for me...

Sevilla

Also this past weekend, we went to Sevilla, which might be my favorite city I've visited in Spain thus far.  We walked through the ancient Jewish neighborhood, to the city center, saw the cathedral, went to Starbucks, walked along the river and through the city, went to the Real Alcazar, and Plaza de España (affectionately, Star Wars plaza, seeing as scenes from Attack of the Clones were shot there).  So here's a photo tour through this beautiful, old city.

These pictures are the interior and exterior of the cathedral in Sevilla, also once a mosque.  Notice the difference in architecture between the tower on the right from the style on the rest of the cathedral and especially from the interior of the cathedral.  The layout of the interior was strange to me, because I couldn't immediately tell where the altar was.  Regardless it was a beautiful building.


As I said, we also had our Starbucks fix for the month, which allowed us to meander through the streets of Sevilla.  We saw street performers, a Christmas market devoted to selling only nativity scenes, and all kinds of people.  Once in Starbucks, the small group of friends I was with found about half of the other students in our program there as well.  Seems everyone had the same idea; something comforting and familiar in the still strange, and yet wondrous new world.  Then to the river it was.

It was strange, walking along palm tree lined rivers and roads, while reading Facebook statuses from home about snow, wind chills, and general cold.  Thats not to say it wasn't chilly in Sevilla, or even in Granada now for that matter (at this very moment I am curled up under multiple fleece blankets, comforter, plus my trusty Granada sweatshirt).   I also was on a clumsy streak that day, tripping over my own toes and nearly every uneven edge in the sidewalk.  Truly graceful.

We walked all over the city center, down major streets and tiny alleys.  We chatted, we laughed, we took in the sights.  Sometimes when Im traveling I prefer just walking around to straight up touring.  You get a feel for a place that way.  A feel for its culture, both present and past.  A feel for its people, for its tourists.  For its food.  (bakeries anyone?)  Sometimes I learn more from a city just walking around and looking at the people filling the sidewalks and the buildings lining the streets, using my senses, than touring.

 Some places really are worth taking the time to tour though, such as the Real Alcazar, palace and gardens.  Yet another sight where two cultures and religions come together in a single sight, seeing as both the Christians and the Muslims occupied it.  The gardens of the Alcazar are magnificent, full of palm trees, roses, bushes, streams, and man-made ponds (complete with fish).  Apparently some people get married there.  It certainly is a photogenic spot!

Inside was, again, a mixture of european and islamic culture.  For example, I once again found myself surrounded by tile art.  I can't seem to get away from it!  In the words of one of my friends in the program, "You love you some tile art!" But also there was an entire room covered with rugs depicting maps of Spain, maps of Europe, and maps of the world, as understood in the time Ferdinand and Isabella.  Also courtyard that predated and inspired the Alhambra, but then the room where the Spanish court met and talked about the Americas.  All in the same place!

Our last stop of the day was the Plaza de España.  We basically stopped to see it and take pictures.  It was beautiful, and I can see why it was used as the patio scene of planet of Nadal in Attack of the Clones (not a very good movie, but hey, its cool to see where a movie was filmed!).  And great for photos!  At the end of a busy, fun filled weekend, it was nice to watch the crowds wander around taking pictures.  One strange thing did happen.  As a group of us girls all stood together getting our picture taken, some tourists noticed, and decided they wanted to take our picture too.  Not for us.  For them......?  So, in all, Sevilla was an exciting trip and beautiful city to see.

Hey!  Its my job!  

and underground water supply
from the real alcazar
...and now wishing well

Córdoba

When I traveled to Istanbul, Turkey last March, and saw the Hagia Sofia (a museum that was first a giant Byzantine church before the Ottomans conquered Constantinople in 1453, then became a mosque), I became deeply disconcerted.  I found it disturbing that one culture could entirely take over a previous culture's worship space, scrubbing it clean of any sign of the previous faith, carving out greek lettering and crosses, white washing mosaics, removing the alter, and replacing them with entirely new symbols.  I expressed this feeling to my professors, and aware that I was going to Spain this fall.  They told me that I needed to visit the Mezquita de Córdoba, to experience the same affect, but from a different point of view.  And since then, all anyone could tell me was to go see the Mezquita de Córdoba, that it was beautiful and magnificent, but also strange, due to the presence of a baroque cathedral smack dab in the center of it.  On Saturday I finally saw the Mezquita and experienced the out of body feeling brought on by walking into a cathedral from a mosque.

There are four sections of the mosque, not including the cathedral.  Three are made of pillar after pillar holding up these red and white arches.  The enormity of it is impressive.  It just goes on and on and on.  Every direction you look, all you see are arches and pillars.  Eventually, though, it changes.  The mihrab, pointing to Mecca, the holy city of Islam, decorated in gold.  I found myself thinking about Turkey, about how this Mezquita compared to those I saw on that trip in March, how it was similar, and how entirely different.  The art, the architecture.  And yet, the same religion, coming from the same root.  They were under the auspices of what we call "the Islamic Empire", but the Ottomans, coming along a few hundred years later, were a very different culture.

And finally the moment came that people had been preparing me for since I saw the Hagia Sofia.  We walked from the shadowy reds of the ancient mosque into the white light of a small baroque cathedral, overbearing in ceiling carvings and paintings.  It was as though I had stepped into an entirely different world.  It was so different, unreal almost.  When the Christians conquered Córdoba, they didn't even build a worship space that fit within the atmosphere of the existing space.  No, this was jarring.  Discordant.  Confusing.  And I feel like I would have appreciated the cathedral more if it wasn't inserted in the middle of a former mosque.  The other parts of the mosque that are now Christian, as in side chapels used for weddings, prayers, confessions, etc, feel much more appropriate, all designed in darker stone and red velvet.  It appears very much in a tradition catholic atmosphere and yet does not clash with the ghosts of an ancient past.

My professors who led the class trip to Turkey were correct.  The Mezquita gave me a lot to think about.  More than I could in one day, and I still am processing it.  One thing that stood out strongly for me though...The Mezquita de Córdoba is a symbol of the multi-cultural history of Andalusia.  Spain isn't all about tapas or bull fighting.  Its about all of it.  And then some.

40 Days and Home

Its 40 days, 40 days left until I begin the long journey home.  And I would be lying if said that the prospect of traveling home didn't panic me sometimes.  And again, I would be lying if I said that I wouldn't miss Granada.  I will miss being able to walk everywhere, I will miss my favorite café next to school (where I happen to be now), I will miss my eccentric professors and my newfound friends.  But at the same time, I will be overjoyed to be home, which is probably why I am the only student to know the exact number of days until I return to Mom and Dad and Than.  See, its not the US that I miss.  It isn't even Potsdam or Marlboro College or Camp.  It is home.  All three of these places have been a home to me.  Together they have formed a single notion of home.  Home isn't a country.  It isn't really a place.  Home is made by the people surrounding it, by the memories created within it.  Home is both concrete and transcendent, and I don't think I appreciated the depth of home until I was so far from it.  No, until I  had to recreate home so far from it.  But if home is transcendent, part feeling, fueled by memories, than I carry it with me, wherever I go.  Perhaps I am never truly away from home.  Then again, perhaps this is exactly what made it so very hard to uproot myself and start anew in such a new environment.

In these last 40 days, I now am reflecting on the previous 60-ish.  It was indeed a challenge, but I think part of the challenge was my own stubbornness.  I didn't want to create a new home here in Granada.  There were plenty of people I loved already, people I missed so keenly that I couldn't imagine getting close to the people here, only to leave in a matter of months, never to see them again.  It wasn't a conscious choice, I don't think, but on some level I wanted to protect myself from losing a second home.  I missed everything I knew already so much, to build something new only to lose it again seemed too much to handle.  But despite my own stubbornness, my own blocks, Granada has become a surrogate home.  And for a third time, I would be lying if I said it was like the home I left behind, but finally, I would be lying if I said that I would feel the loss of this home when I do leave.

So even as I count down the 40 days until I can see the people that I love, until I can lay eyes on the snow covered, festively lit town I miss, I also dread saying goodbye.  Unlike when I said goodbye to my family and to my friends, this goodbye is, most likely, permanent.  But that doesn't mean I have to board my heart up from it like I did in the beginning.  Rather, I almost should put more of myself into this experience, because I don't get a second chance.

Bocadillo Days.

Bocadillo is the word for sandwich here, and has come to mean much more than just a sandwich.  Three of the four days I go to school, I bring a bocadillo.  I am now so attached to the word and the simple concept of a bocadillo, of making my own lunch, that I will probably continue to call sandwiches bocadillos when I return to the States.

A standard bocadillo here in Granada consists of some kind of meat (or two), usually ham, and cheese on baguette style bread.  Wrap that up in foil and throw it in your bag for school and presto! you have lunch.  However, bocadillos serve more purpose than simply lunch for school.  If, on the weekend, for example, your host mother mentions that she will be out for the evening, then that means its a bocadillo night.  So you trot off to the kitchen, take some cheese from the bridge, butter some baguette, add cheese.  Once again, bocadillos have saved the day yet again.

There is something comforting about a bocadillo that is hard to explain.  When you are studying for mid terms, eating a bocadillo curled up on your bed in inexplicably relaxing.  Perhaps it is that everything in a bocadillo can be labeled "comfort food", i.e. bread, cheese, etc.  You can rely on a bocadillo to always be there for you, and never leave.  It is entirely possible that I am placing too much of an emphasis on a bocadillo, but it is such a part of my life here, perhaps not.

With the studying of midterms, a bocadillo has come to be very important.  Those few minutes when you can put al thought of verb conjugations and vocabulary words and research topics out of your mind, and just think on the wonderful mixture of cheese and bread.  Its the simple things in life, really.

180º

Since this is a blog chronically my adventures here in Spain, it is only fair to be completely and totally honest.  So when I say I was heartbroken to leave Germany, this is entirely true.  I missed my brother and Laura and Laura's family so much, that sitting in the airport waiting to go back to Spain felt awful.  Also, as many new things as I had done, as many new things I had learned, I was having a hard time adjusting, making friends, etc.

I felt terribly lonely, and impossibly far away from everyone I loved and cared about.  It seemed to me that everyone in our study abroad group had made friends, or traveled with friends from their own university but me.  I was also struggling with being the only student from the northeast on the trip, and while that sounds silly, it made a difference from time to time.  We had different reference points, raised in totally different ways.  For example, when I reference a big city, I would reference New York, or sometimes Boston (and Ottawa...from time to time).  Most everyone else would mention Chicago.  Little things like that, but it made it harder to relate with people.  So by the time I returned to Granada, I was miserable.  I felt like only student only not meeting up with friends at night for coffee or drinks, the only one no one called to make plans with, and when I tried to make plans with anyone, they seemed to fall  through.  Marlboro, Potsdam, Camp, these places where I felt loved and full of people who meant so much to me, felt so very far away.

At night, I cried myself to sleep.  I Skyped my mom in tears, and struggled with the option of coming home.  The only reason that I didn't pack up and get on the first plane to Boston or New York or Montreal was I didn't know what it would do for my educational track.  It would set me back a semester, so I held on.

And then things began to change.  It started with a Skype video message I came home to one night early in October.  It was a message my mom organized, featuring three good friends from Camp this summer, just being funny and saying 'hello' in their own ways.  I then got to talk to a couple more friends from Camp in real time on Skype, and thats when things began to change.  Classes started, giving me direction during the day, and homework at night.  Especially Arabic.  And I began to make some new friends in these classes.  I was excited when I woke up in the morning to go to class, which was something that hadn't really happened in weeks.  Also, I started going to church in Granada, it was full of young people and lively music, and gradually things got better and better.

I started meeting up with people during the weekends, meeting up for homework study parties.  The city didn't seem quite so frightening, and I began to explore it more.  I discovered a coffee shop very close to my school, and started doing homework there.  Little by little I made a routine for myself.  And then, one day I woke up and realized that things had done a 180º turn.

Its time to prepare for next week's midterms now and I'm more than halfway through my time here in Granada.  Admittedly, I still miss friends and family more than I can say, but I also am happy to be here in Spain.  How often will I have a chance to live in Europe, to travel through Spain?  Its an adventure, and I am glad I came on it, no matter the challenges it has presented.

On the Move Again!

So...remember my track record with public transportation?  Well, I gave it yet another shot, as a mere day after I returned to Granada after Morocco, I was leaving for Germany.  We had a week break before classes officially started, and I was taking mine to visit my brother and my friend Laura in Germany.  But a city bus to the bus station, a bus to Malaga, and an airplane stood in the way of my final destination.

My host mom told me the bus stop that would get me to the bus station, and I was off.    On the bus I met two russian girls heading for Malaga.  They invited me to join them for the day, which was perfect because I was staying the night in Malaga because my flight was at 6:55 in the morning.  If I hadn't met these girls I doubt that I would have explored Malaga at all.  Since I had the chance to explore with these girls, I did.  We explored the streets, walking around the cathedral, through a garden, and eventually along the beach.  Around five in the evening I took a taxi to my hotel by the airport, had a shower, dinner, and went to bed.

The plane ride went smoothly, and by ten the next morning I was in the beautiful country of Germany.  Now the last time I had met my friend Laura, I was four.  We know each other from my mom being an exchange student host by Laura's grandmother.  Then Laura's mother, Heidi, was an exchange student and Mom's family hosted her.  In the years that have passed, Mom and Heidi have traveled across the ocean to visit each other, and Heidi's children have stayed with us in the US.  Now my brother is staying with Laura.  From the moment I found my brother, Nathaniel, and Laura at the airport, Laura and I got along famously.

We spent that first day in the city of Colonge, visiting a church, the Döm.  At the Döm, we climbed the 500 and some stairs to the top of the tower, and saw of view of the entire city.  We also explored the city, seeing a few sights, and shopping.  On the whole, I was beyond pleased to be in Germany.  In fact, I really didn't want to leave at all.

It was great to see Nathaniel.  He is my best friend, my side kick, my partner in crime, and when Im not home, one of the things I miss most.  Also, who I talk about more than anyone else.  My classmates in Spain are probably sick and tired of me going on and on about him, but what can I say?  I'm a fan of my brother.  Actually, staying Laura and Nathaniel, and Laura's parents Heidi and Adolf, felt like being home.  I mean, it was different for sure.  But it felt like family.  All through the first day there, everyone was calling me Sternchen (little star), which was what everyone called my mom (whose name is Starr).  I felt loved and cared about, which was heavenly after toughing my way through my first month, feeling impossibly far from everyone I loved and everyone who loved me.

Also, I loved the landscape of Seigen, Germany.  Everything was so green.  The mountains were not so unlike the Adirondack mountains from home.  And it was cold.  In Granada, at this point, it was still quite warm, getting into the low eighties in the afternoon.  But here, in Germany, it was cold and windy and felt like fall.  I even had to wear a jacket!  Imagine that!

Language wise, it was interesting, because I don't know German.  However, when I was little, Mom taught Nathaniel and I some, and I must have remembered more than I thought.  Laura speaks English, Heidi speaks a good amount of English, and Adolf speaks some.  Most of the time, though, when Adolf talked, it was in a mixture of a few English words, and quite a bit of German.  Surprisingly, I usually got the gist of what he was saying.  Also, we met up with Laura's friends from time to time over the course of my visit, and they would speak in German and English.  There, too, I was not nearly as lost language wise as I had expected.  So, even though I can't speak German, sometimes I can understand a bit.  And then I also got inspired to learn German, which I hope to do when I return to Marlboro in January...we'll see.


We hiked in the mountains, explored the city, ate schnitzel and rolls with nutella and Haribu gummy candies.  Also sushi, and it was pretty good sushi.  And Laura and I fell asleep watching a chick flick one night.  It was relaxing beautiful, and as the hours ticked by, closing in on "Good bye", I felt myself wanting to leave less and less and less, and altogether too soon, the time came for me to leave Germany.  As I left, I promised that I would come back, and sealed the promise with a tear.

Tales from Morocco p. 5. Wrapping up...

Chefchaoan.  Our final stop.  It is a city of white and blue nestled into the mountains.  It was once a Jewish, hence the buildings of white and blue, and until the first half of the twentieth century, no Christian was allowed with its walls.  It is a bit of a tourist city, and full of markets and venders selling leather bags, genii pants (also dubbed fun pants, fancy pants, and crazy pants by members of our group), scarfs, post cards, trinkets, and food stuffs.  Also, a myriad of adorable, but still stray, cats.  We stayed in a beautiful hostel, with a roof top that looked up into the stars at night.  We went up to the roof after dinner, and as I looked at the stars, I realized how much I had miss them.  I can't see the stars in Granada.  This is the first time I've ever lived anywhere that I couldn't see the stars.  But it the open, rugged mountains of Morocco, I could.

The next morning there was an optional hike at 7 am.  While on the one hand it was early, I also love hiking, and I opted to go.  In the morning, the sky was gray and air cool, and hardly anyone but us in sight.  Even the cats were asleep.  It was just us and the blue buildings and the mountains.  Our hike led us a little out of the city, up into the foothills to a mosque looking over the city.  It wasn't strenuous, but it was beautiful.  And now that I'm gone from Morocco, it is those mist covered mountains that I see in my mind.  It is a landscape that is both rugged and majestic in its roughness.  The people are hospitable and humble, full of hope for their country.  They are diverse in ideals and opinions and beliefs, and aren't a people or a place I will be quick to forget.  

Tales from Morocco p.4 The Rif Mountains

As I said, Moroccan Exchange was devoted to showing students the "real Morocco" and meeting "real people", therefore, on our third day in Morocco, once again we hopped on our bus and headed off to the Rif Mountains.  Our final destination was Chefchaoan, a village of white and blue in the mountains.  Along the way, however, we stopped in a village town to have lunch with a family there.  We brought one of the Moroccan students with us to serve as translator, who also promised that we could ask the family anything and not be afraid of it being offensive, because he would be the filter.  We all thought this was a bit hilarious, because this particular student we had already learned was notorious for saying literally anything without worrying of who he was offending, especially when it came to his remarkably progressive views.  Apparently that was an ability he could turn off and on as he desired.

The village was small, and unlike anywhere I had ever been. There were animals and children everywhere, running up the sandy paths.  The house of the family hosting us was bigger than I'd expected, but still rather small.  We all sat on cushioned benches, tired, hot, and hungry.  Lunch was cuzcuz, which is now one of my favorite foods.  And once again, we spent a long time in a cultural-exchange discussion. This one was different, seeing as our hosts didn't know english and we didn't know arabic (my low level of arabic really wasn't helpful at all), so it all went through our handy dandy translator.  We talked about their daily lives on their farm, because we wanted to know how these people lived.  They asked us about American wedding customs, and we asked theirs.  Our hosts seemed very interred in marriage in the US, even asking us if we all wanted to get married.  It was an awkward moment for a bit, because some of the girls in our group weren't sure, and didn't know how to express that and didn't know how our hosts would react.  Once again, our translator filtered our doubts into a way that our hosts could appreciate.

We then took a "hike" up the hills behind the house.  I say hills because we were already in the mountains, and there was only a hill in the way of the top of the mountain.  I was amazed at the balance and grace of the little children that ran up the mountain, because it was, at some points, crazy steep.  You almost had to run the path for fear of falling.  But the view was stunning, and worth a mountain goat impression or two.

About late afternoon we bid farewell to our hosts and piled into the bus, headed now for our last, but not least stop of Chefchaoan.

Tales from Morocco p. 3 Hope for Saalé

Once in Rabat, there was no rest for the weary.  We had to meet at 9 am and be ready to roll, and roll we did.  Our first day had us driving by the slums Saalé.  Our trip leader explained to us that slums like these were breeding grounds for terrorist groups.  Young boys grew up with no education, either secular or of their faith, no hope for any kind of future outside of the slums.  Representatives from the terrorist groups would come in taking advantage of the situation, and saying that Allah wanted these boys to join the terrorists groups, that they would be awarded in heaven for their acts, and the groups would provide for their families.  It was not just a way out, it was something to live for for.  Seeing this play out before them, a group of Moroccan students began to start tutoring for the children in the slums, and eventually it became a charity center called Hope for Saalé.  Even the king of Morocco recognized their work and gave Hope for a Saalé a donation which allowed them to build a center to host their classes and programming.

Saalé

So at the entrance of the Hope for Saalé building, a number of the Moroccan students met us.  They showed us around the center, and then led us to a classroom for another intercultural discussion.  The following hour or so proved to be an interesting and lively time, but also caused me to think and consider my own culture.  I suppose that was the point of the discussion.  Our conversation with the Moroccans was broad, covering a variety of subjects from gun control to US military spending to the situation in Syria.  It was particularly interesting seeing as there were an equal amount of variety in opinions as topics brought up.  Political and ideological points of view covered the spectrum, from conservatives to extremely progressive liberals, muslims and christians, atheists and agnostics.  And yet, it continued to remain a friendly conversation.  Over the course of the discussion, I was blown away by how much attention the Moroccan students paid to the world not only within their own country, but the wider world. They even had a better grasp of the political situation than I did, then most of the American students for that matter.  It made me consider that I'd grown up in  world where I didn't need to read the news.  What I needed to know I could find out from over hearing snippets of other's conversation.  I had seen no need to keep up and critically consider the world around me.  Admittedly I tried, but not hard enough.  I thought about the culture of American young people, how we were almost spoon fed.  It seemed to me to be a culture of entitlement, and I was shocked that I fit into that culture, that stereotype of the naive and ignorant American, because I wanted to act as a world citizen.  I wanted to put effort into understanding and considering other cultures and people, keep up on their news, their lives.  But I hadn't to the best of my ability.

So as we left Hope for Saalé, I was left to consider several things.  Firstly, the fate of Saalé.  What would become of these people, these children?  Secondly, the perseverance of the Moroccan students for starting Hope for Saalé.  It had taken years of work and patience to get it started.  And thirdly, my own lack of understanding and a resolve to change that.

Tales from Morocco, p. 2 The Homestay

So where was I...right!  The real Morocco!  Part of Morocco Exchange was placing us in Host Families.  Before we got to Rabat, we divided into groups of three.  I think that the host family experience I had really did a lot to open my eyes to the realities I'd been hearing about, been telling myself.  That I was blessed.

middle courtyard area with door to kitchen

The two other girls I was staying with from my group and I were staying in what felt like a house of children.  The oldest sister was our age, and she put us all to shame.  Her name was Besmah, and she learned nearly flawless english in three years by watching english television.  The youngest sister was seven and named Zainab, and was both sweet and feisty at the same time.  In the little I knew of standard arabic (which is very different from the Moroccan dialect, mind you) I did manage to ask her name that first night, and then tell her all our names, but that endeared all us to her.  There were also two other sisters and a brother.  Also a french speaking scholar father.  We aren't really sure where the mother was, Besmah told that she was away taking care of a sick grandfather and would return the next day, but she told us that each day.  It was a noisy household, and I liked that.

middle courtyard with door to sitting room/ breakfast area

But staying with Besmah gave me a lot to think about.  It was another shock of how much I'd taken for granted my entire life, and how much thought I'd been giving to things that didn't matter as much as I'd thought.  Besmah and her family lived on the bottom floor of a house.  There were two sitting rooms, the father's office, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the middle courtyard room.  It doesn't sound small when I type it, but seeing it, it gave me pause.  I hesitate say they were poor, because I don't know.  Clearly money was tight.  Besmah to only traveled an hour to college every day, but seemed to support the family as well.  We weren't entirely sure what the father did.  And Besmah was always anxious to make sure we like the food, the house, where we slept, etc.  She couldn't have been more hospitable.  In fact, Im glad I had the chance to stay with her, and experience the life of the lower middle class in Morocco, instead of the upper middle class.  It felt more real somehow.

where we slept/ sitting room #2 (with our luggage)

Our first night at dinner Zainab wore two bracelets made of simple plastic beads.  One was pink and one was red.  As we all sat there eating and laughing, Zainab slipped the red one off and handed it to me.  I tried to give it back a little later, but she refused it.  So now I wear it, to remind myself of the kindness I found in Morocco, not just from Besmah and Zainab, but from everyone I met.

Tales from Morocco p. 1

first glimpse of Moroccan coastline

I meant to write my tales of Morocco days ago, but I really couldn't earlier.  I had to let the experiences mull around in my head, to fully understand their meaning in my life.  They had an impact, and a large one at that, but I couldn't put it into coherent thoughts, not then.  Now I can't put it into coherent thoughts, not unless I try.  So bear with me, as I stumble over my over memories of the heat Tangier and students of Rabat and and the beauty of the Rif mountains.

We left for Morocco from the port of Tarifa, in the morning.  The sun was bright and our hearts were high.  We had absolutely no idea what awaited us on the other side of the Straight of Gibraltar.  How could we know?  Once landed, with feet touching our first African soil, our group of twenty-five was divided in two, and sent with two different guides.  My group was led by a young women who had recently finished two terms in the Peace Corp., her most recent having been Morocco.  She led us from the ferry, through the markets of Tangier, to a women's center.

picture from the roof of the Woman's Center.

At the Women's Center, we met with three students for lunch, where we were encouraged to ask them anything.  What followed was a
living discussion, going from the culture of a hijaab (headscarf) to public education in Morocco.  What I learned about the education system, was one of the first examples I found of just how entitled I was.  Without money and connections, it is very difficult to get a job after graduation. For starters you have to have top marks, but the problem with that is if you get notably high grades on an exam, the professors can be brides to swap exam scores of a high exam with a low one.  So students have to do well, but not too well, otherwise students with money and connection take their exam scores.  This was one of many points we discussed, but one that stuck with me, as it showed me in a way how easy it was for me here in the United States.

We said "shukran" (thank you) and piled back into the bus.  The plan was that we would visit the seaside city of Asiilah and then meet our host families in Rabat.  As soon as we got into the bus, we promptly fell asleep.  Sometime later, we woke to the sound of our leader saying "Wake up everyone, we are going on a camel ride!"

And since a picture says a 1000 words:

It was an exercise in balance and trust, and cheers to us, no one in our group got thrown off the camel!

Asiilah was an beautiful city, and unfortunately we visited it in the heat of the day so at least for I could not enjoy it to its fullest.

One of the other things I truly appreciated about the day was that our leader had the bus drive us around one of the shanty towns surrounding Asiilah.  While the king of Morocco is one of the wealthiest men in the world, approximately 90% of the Moroccan people fall under the poverty line.  One of the fantastic things about Moroccan Exchange, the program who took us to Morocco, was that they didn't want to show the truistic Morocco.  Sure, they showed us camels on a beach, but that wasn't their point.  They wanted us to meet the real people, understand their struggles, their triumphs, their culture, and their history.  And I think that they did that.     

More to come....

Confronting History

Yesterday our program toured the Alhambra.  There is so very much to say about this great place that rises on one of Granada's three hills.  I'm not sure what I have to say even does it credit, but I will attempt to do so.  When I title this post "confronting history", I feel as though I did just that.  There is so much history in that place, it is though it is alive, as though the ghosts of the moorish ghosts still walk through the military sections, waiting for the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella to attack, as though the moorish kings lounge in their gardens, listening to music and reading poetry.  It is alive.

I am in Spain, specifically Granada, studying the influences of Islam in Spain and Europe, so the Alhambra was fascinating to me.  You start in the military section, and as you go through, you see the arab gardens and the palaces of the arab kings and suddenly, it is a palace of European kings and queens.  It feels terribly disjointed.  Comparing the section of the Arab Alhambra to the European Alhambra, the Arab Alhambra is built with much more detail, its walls with carved with perfected detail, with entire ceilings covered in muquarnas, fountains leading into other fountains, and magnificent gardens.

(the wall off to the left is the one I mention)

But I really confronted history in the first part of the tour, in the military section.  Our spanish professor, Aurelio (at later time I will give a profile of Aurelio. He deserves a decent description) explained the military sector of the alhambra as a small city, with living quarter, food, water, dungeons.  The explanation went on.  It was the wall off to the left that was difficult for me to think about.  Aurelio explained that in the reign of Franco, the military dictator of in the 20th century, people were lined up and executed along the wall.  And thats when I came face to face with history.  Maybe it was because I had read so much about the Spanish Civil War and the reign of Franco, and I could envision exactly what Aurelio meant in my mind.  Maybe because it was such a stark and brutal past, but regardless, I suddenly had to confront that it was real.  It had happen.  And it happened directly in front of me.

It struck me then that I had grown up in a privileged, safe world.  The world for the most part isn't safe, and in that moment, I just stared at the wall and let myself face that fact.

little bits of courage

So you may ask, what do these rather awkward stories have to do with courage?  Well...When your bedroom is the only place in your "home" you feel comfortable, that means that there is an element of anxiety to leave it.  I realized the other day that it in fact took courage to leave the room.  So I left bedroom door open.  More than that, I didn't return to my room after dinner.  I brought my laptop to the sitting room where my host mother and brother sat and we, host mother, brother, roommate, and I chatted until midnight.  That was when my host mother began to believe I could speak spanish.  And that was when the apartment began to feel a little more like home.

Churro con chocolate

Before Spain I had never eaten churros con chocolate.  They are quite good, and I expect to eat them again sometime soon.  However, before I can truly continue this story, I need to take you back to orientation.

Veronica, our program director is very frank and takes no prisoners when she says things.  One piece of advice was as follows.  "Some people on the streets may invite  you for chocolate.  It isn't chocolate.  It is hasheesh.  You can go just don't tell me.  Churros con chocolate is actually chocolate and is fine."  And I made a mental note that I wanted churros, and not a chocolate bar.

Later in the week my roommate had a craving for chocolate, and I had never tried churros.  Our mistake was telling our host mother that we were going out for chocolate, instead of chocolate and churros.  We dug our hole deeper when we said that it was one of those night when you just needed it.  I should have noticed something when all she said was 'Vale' (O.K.) and look at her son, who smirk and looked down at his laptop.

Churros are one of God's gift to creation.  So we all are clear.

The next day it hit me what exactly we said to our host mother and I rushed from class to tell Marissa.  We could hardly wait for lunch to get home and clear up the mess.  Once there, however, I felt so self-conscious, I didn't know how to begin.  I felt terrible.  What does this woman think of me?  She really is a stranger, taking me into her home.  Have I greatly offended her?  Can I fix it?  All these thought whizzed through my head, and I sat and ate lunch in silence.  So did everyone else.

Finally Marissa couldn't stand it.  "¡Amelia probó su primeros churro anoche!"  (Amelia tried her first churros last night!)

Our host mother glanced up and a look of relief crossed her face.  "Ah...Churros!"

She seemed very happy about churros and proceeded to tell us the best places in the city for them.  Our host brother shook his head and left the table.

My New Family.

I live in a decent sized apartment on the river with the mother, her youngest son (who, if I ballpark it, is 27ish), and my roommate, Marissa.  Plus the two Italian girls who are here another week.  Then the three older brothers come in and out every so often but they are married and live elsewhere.  It took us till Wednesday to figure out our host brother's name was Tony.

We have interesting interactions with Tony.  The first night Marissa made the mistake of asking him which fútbol team he preferred, Madrid or Barcelona.  He raised his eye brows and answered Granada, pro supuesto.  (Granada, of course).  Then she started talking about tennis and Rafa Nadal.  Tony had no interest in tennis and Rafa Nadal.  We can't tell if he is teasing us or not.  Then I accidentally took his water glass at dinner and he had to go back to the kitchen to get a new one.  At breakfast Marissa needed help with the toaster.  I scared him by accidentally flashing my flashlight phone app in his eyes when we both arrived home at the same time at night.  The list goes on.

For the first half of the week my host mother was convinced that I did not speak Spanish and spoke only to Marissa.  To be fair, this really is my fault.  When we arrived, I was tired and nervous, and barely spoke.  When I did, I stumbled over simple words.  It looked like I spoke no Spanish!  Within days I was ready to speak Spanish and no one would speak to me. Instead, my host mother would speak to my roommate and ask her to translate.  Eventually the whole thing got figured out but even now, her older sons come in, hear me speak Spanish and turn to their mother in surprise and says "she actually speaks Spanish?!"

Yes.  Yes I do...I've been studying it a while.

catching up!

trying frozen yogurt at llaollao

So I haven't been nearly as good as a blogger I should with catching you up on what happened after I met my roommate and the other girls at the bus, but I can tell you that we arrived just fine in Granada.  A little tired, a little hungry, a little sore, but there!  We arrived at our hotel without incident and found a tapas bar...octopus is a very interesting food when served on top of french fries.  Also, it glows red when seven girls' cameras' flash.  If you ever wanted to know.  And then Sunday rolled around.  Our program director, Veronica, announced our roommates and sent us off with our host mothers.  Off Marissa and I went to our new home.

Things that have happened in the following week:

sign of my new school

We moved into our home in the apartment along the river (beautiful by the way)
We  met our host brother
Had to convince our host mother that I do in fact speak spanish
Visited the Alhambra
Started 3 hour a day Spanish classes
Had to fix a colloquialism error in which telling our mother we were going out for chocolate meant going for hasheesh when WE meant chocolate as in chocolate and churros
Basically adjusting to the Spanish culture in general...

river near my apartment at night