August 27, 2012 - Sevilla, Spain
I have now been in Spain for a week and I'm starting to feel at home in Sevilla. I've temporarily moved into an apartment in the city's historic center with a Spanish family (consisting of a senora, her 29 year old son and a creepy cat who uses the bidet as a toilet) and I've started classes at a local language school. In this short period of time, most of the intimidating parts of the move have become less intimidating. I'm becoming more confident in Spanish and I'm getting lost in the maze of narrow cobblestone streets less frequently with each passing day. I'm also slowly adjusting to the rhythm of life here in the South.
Sevillanos generally stretch out the days as long as possible and when I finally go to bed at night, I feel as thought I have had two for the price of one. On a typical weekday, I have class from 9am-1pm, with a coffee break in the middle. I then take a leisurely walk home and have lunch around 2 or 3 before taking a siesta. After spending a few afternoons outside in the heat, I've learned that this is absolutely necessary. Lunch is the largest meal (usually three courses with my host family) and after eating, people often stay inside sleeping during the hottest part of the day. Then, at 6 or 7pm, public life begins again. As it cools down, outdoor activities such as going for a run, strolling through one of the many parks or kayaking on the river become pleasant. Dinner isn't until at least 10pm, which leaves plenty of time for exploring the plethora of museums, churches and shops that the city has to offer or relaxing with a cup of coffee or a glass of Rioja. A light dinner or tapas is often followed by a few hours at some plaza - for me usually the Alamada de Hercules, which is a short walk from my host family's apartment on foot. After all this, I'm usually the first one in the house to go to bed when I crash at 1 or 2am. (At the end of my first day here, my host mother asked if I was feeling okay because I came home "early" at midnight.)
This schedule may seem extreme, but weekend days are even longer. A day at the beach may be followed by midnight tapas and watching flamenco or dancing in an outdoor discoteca until the sun begins to rise. While it sounds intense, I don't find myself exhausted as I would expect, at least not now that I have gotten past my jetlag. The general attitude toward time is very different here from in the United States. From drinking coffee to running errands, nothing is rushed. Instead of trying to "do" or accomplish as much as possible between sunrise and sunset, people have adapted to the rhythm of the heat, making the most of every hour of liveable temperatures. This scheduled is not just for students either; I feel perfectly safe walking home at 1am because the streets are still filled with children and grandparents. It's not easy for my body to follow this schedule of eating and sleeping - it feels odd to think of this as an everyday schedule rather than a vacation - but I'm working on it. I have ten more months to learn to relax.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Home
August 14, 2012 - Tacoma, WA
I was recently interviewed for a friend's documentary on the theme of "home." I told her that I consider my home to be the Pacific Northwest. I've lived here most of my life and is it the place where I can find many of the people who are dearest to me. It's also a beautiful corner of the earth. Each time I venture out, I love being welcomed home by the trees, mountains and ocean. However, while my travels have my realize my attachment to this particular place, they have also expanded my idea of home. My two longest journies of the past years have both been homecomings, in some sense.
My journey to Cameroon two and a half years ago was motivated by a desire to see and experience the place where I had lived as a baby. I made my pilgrimmage to the village of Meiganga, where I embraced people who knew me before I could crawl. "We knew you would come back someday," they told me. There, I was amazed and deeply moved to be welcomed home to a place that I couldn't remember.
My journey to Norway last fall brought me back even further, to the roots of my great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers. To be honest, I had never felt a particularly strong connection to the land of my ancestors before going there. I went to Norway to study peace-building, and found a home along the way. Throughout the four months that I spent in Norway, I was welcomed warmly and frequently into the homes of many relatives, many of whom I had never met. One distant cousin led me down a trail made by my great-great-grandfather, speculating that I may be the first of his direct descendants to set foot on it in close to a century. Literally walking on the soil of my ancestors and forming relationships with my Norwegian family, our shared history became suddenly meaningful to me.
Now, I am on the verge of moving to a new place that is completely foreign to me, in a country where I do not yet speak the language. The only person I know is the one who will be joining me a month into this adventure. While this move is intimidating in many ways, my experiences in Cameroon and Norway make me confident that I can feel at home in Seville. I look forward to discovering how my roots and my definition of home will expand during this year in Spain.
I was recently interviewed for a friend's documentary on the theme of "home." I told her that I consider my home to be the Pacific Northwest. I've lived here most of my life and is it the place where I can find many of the people who are dearest to me. It's also a beautiful corner of the earth. Each time I venture out, I love being welcomed home by the trees, mountains and ocean. However, while my travels have my realize my attachment to this particular place, they have also expanded my idea of home. My two longest journies of the past years have both been homecomings, in some sense.
My journey to Cameroon two and a half years ago was motivated by a desire to see and experience the place where I had lived as a baby. I made my pilgrimmage to the village of Meiganga, where I embraced people who knew me before I could crawl. "We knew you would come back someday," they told me. There, I was amazed and deeply moved to be welcomed home to a place that I couldn't remember.
My journey to Norway last fall brought me back even further, to the roots of my great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers. To be honest, I had never felt a particularly strong connection to the land of my ancestors before going there. I went to Norway to study peace-building, and found a home along the way. Throughout the four months that I spent in Norway, I was welcomed warmly and frequently into the homes of many relatives, many of whom I had never met. One distant cousin led me down a trail made by my great-great-grandfather, speculating that I may be the first of his direct descendants to set foot on it in close to a century. Literally walking on the soil of my ancestors and forming relationships with my Norwegian family, our shared history became suddenly meaningful to me.
Now, I am on the verge of moving to a new place that is completely foreign to me, in a country where I do not yet speak the language. The only person I know is the one who will be joining me a month into this adventure. While this move is intimidating in many ways, my experiences in Cameroon and Norway make me confident that I can feel at home in Seville. I look forward to discovering how my roots and my definition of home will expand during this year in Spain.
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