La Feria

As much as we have loved to party in all the other countries we've been to, Spain has proven to us it loves to party the most.

Last week was the famous Feria de Abril, literally April Fair. It is a week long celebration of life and Spanish culture. It's a fair on CRACK. Rides, foods, tents with their own personal parties, and most importantly of all WAFFLES. Known in Spain as 'gofres', the waffles is a delectable play on the belgium treat smothered in chocolate or strawberry or whipped cream to your heart's desire and is the heaviest drug to which you can get addicted.

I refuse rehab. My addiction is so bad that one morning, I woke up in a cold sweat and drug the most willing human being from bed to accompany me to the fair (which doesn't close until 6AM) to get a waffle.

Best decision of my life.

This isn't just a creepy carnival fair with clowns and dunk tanks like we do in the states. This is a serious celebration. So much so that you don't even wear jeans when you attend; all of the girls, toddlers to twice divorced women wear full on flamenco dresses.

"But how do they ride the rides?" I also asked myself this question. But somehow, they get their tight mermaid-stlye dresses over the leg separator and lift off. No clue...

Los getting loco on the Inverter.

However, I must agree that if I were in that dress there wouldn't be venturing on the rides either.
My favorite: the Inverter!

Basically, there are four rows of four seats in a circular formation at the end of a pendulum. It starts swinging back and forth until eventually, you guessed it, you're completely inverted. And then there's that moment where your seat just buckles and starts swinging and your clavicle gets bruised.

It's AWESOME.

This ride, as well as the lamest haunted house I've ever enjoyed being in, a pirate ship cage, and a bouncing kangaroo ride, were all offering club music to wait in line to.

It is literally just a massive party. And it's awesome.

And it is now on my bucket list to come back in the most fabulous flamenco dress the world has ever seen and ride the Inverter.

The week ended with a 4th of July worthy fireworks show on Sunday night. Made me wanna bring the whole festival to us in July.

Felices Pascuas

Even without weekly scheduled group excursions to mass, I was able to get myself up this morning in time to attend mass for Easter Sunday.

Mom, how proud are you?

Even though it wasn't Notre Dame, I knew that I wouldn't regret doing so. The cathedral that we decided to trek into the city center to chill with God in was Alcazar Cathedral. This is the elusive cathedral I spoke of earlier. It's the one that holds Christopher Colombus and whatnot.

Just a tiny corner of what is the massive cathedral.

We did think, by the way it sits on a plot of land equivalent to what looks like three city blocks, that it was the biggest cathedral in Europe. Unfortunately, we were wrong. It is actually the third largest; the first being St. Peter's Basilica in Rome (check...) and a cathedral in London whose name escapes me. This, however is the largest gothic cathedral in the world.

NO BIG DEAL.

We were walking into the city center from what I explained to you all (vosotros) as our suburbia haven and saw an amazingly low number of people outside. Those who were were all decked out in either adidas or wearing their one shoulder backpack to the front.

AKA: American tourists.

Inside of Alcazar, not to be confused with Alcatraz.

Santa Domingo in Spain is not a time to enjoy the sun, which had peaked out today for the first time in weeks to celebrate JC's ascension I guess. It is a time for church and siesta. The entire city is shut down.

Naturally, our first fear was that we would get to the cathedral and find the entire population of Seville inside, since it was only 9:30 and there was no sign of native life. We got lucky. We got there, and though it was swarming with tourists and the mass had literally just begun, we were able to explain to the high security team that we actually wanted to pass through their gated area to attend the mass.

We were seated in an awkward area off to the right of the elaborate floral decor alter in wooden fold chairs. The smell of the waving ball and chain filled with incense brought me back to my early Catholic school girl days when we used to cover our noses for dear life. I guess the fact that it was in Spain made me appreciate it a little more.

The mass was such an elaborate show that we saw
all the side stage action.

The Spanish mass especially made me appreciative of the holiday and chillin' in the house of the Father. Though it was long, I like the challenge of piecing together the lisps into comprehensive spanish.

What really struck a chord of familiarity, being in a gothic church, was the music. Remember me describing the Halloween-esque music of Notre Dame? Well, this wasn't quite as creepy, and the alter boys didn't emerge from the depth of a pit of punishment, but when they played Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, I truly felt like I was in a vampire movie (one in which they don't sparkle.)

Considering the sun that had taken a vacation from us until this moment, it didn't feel like I was doomed to the inner circles of Hell for all eternity. Leaving church made me feel good about myself, and even better about my friends who all also agreed to wake up early to pay homage to our religious practices in the most important Catholic city behind the Vatican itself.

Soaking in some sun and sangria; the Spanish way.

That didn't change the fact that we were starving and the whole city was shut down to celebrate the finale of holy week. After walking for a good half an hour we stumbled across a little outdoor cafe who must be either in the red or run by heathens that would feed us. Not my favorite paella de tapas, but it did the trick.

I think God is finally as appreciative of us as we are of Him, that's the only reason I can think of that he finally provided us with a beautiful day.

La Isla Tranquilla

Spain is in a league of its own when it comes to European tourist cities.

Paris was more saturated in history and art than the Chip Shop is saturated in fat. It took no attempt at all to learn; I simply walked not even out of the building, but out of my room and shot back in time with what the signs on the door warned us to be "old Parisian staircase."

Rome was much more full of its own solid culture of the oldest civilization that somehow echoed through time and was maintained in artifacts, culture, and customs. Hearing the Italian was a little bit more familiar than the snotty French, but still not quite comprehensive to my native English mind.

Now here I am in Spain, the country who doesn't take lessons from the others and does its own thing.

This program was originally supposed to take us to Salamanca, but changed to Seville due to it being more urbanized for us little city students. Even though I know the feeling of being secluded from any type of urban setting and requiring modes of transportation to interact with other humans, I'm not used to it during my school time months.

It's not nearly as bad as my shaded house in the hills, as we can walk down the block for restaurants, bars, and markets, but the real action is a 40 minute walk.

THE HORROR.

I supposed we would be able to live without the 3 minute distance between the nearest department store like we had in Paris and Rome, but didn't realize how truly quiet of a setting we were capable of living in as a group.

All of our basic conveniences are very close by which is a convenience, except between the hours of 2 and 5.

Perhaps you've heard of something called Siesta? Basically, it's nap time. All the stores, restaurants, gelaterias, farmacias, and even the cervecerias close their doors and have lunch and a nap.

Oh you smoke and just finished your pack of cigarettes? Well you get a chance to dabble with the cold turkey method because you're not getting a drag until everyone wakes up.

Oh your brand new flip flops ripped and you're walking on one foot? Well you're going to waltz the Walk of Shame like no other broad after Halloween, because you're gonna do it with no quick fixes available with a quick debit purchase.

Or maybe you just need something to eat, or your sweet tooth is begging you for some churros and chocolate? Not until after dinner, which isn't until 9 o'clock anyway.

I didn't understand their late dinner until I got here, and went out to the club. You see, in New York, we would always be ready by about 10 or 11, be out by 12, stay there until anywhere between 2-3:30 depending on who had too much to drink, and go home.

In Spain, they eat because they need to have the food in their stomach close enough to when they start drinking, which is at least 2 hours after we even finish pre-gaming. Most clubs are free before 1AM because no self-respecting siestaing Spaniard would even dare hailing a cab to the club until 2AM.

Spain is so chill, it's unbelievable. I don't chill like "dude I been drunk for days, spain is so chill."

I mean you walk outside, and the traffic, even with all the stop lights, is a maximum of 5 cars. They sleep in the middle of the day and give you tapas for 2 euro. The bike lanes, which run directly roads, are possibly the most serious aspects of Spain; if you're walking on the bike lane, approaching simply ding the bell and you step aside onto the designated sidewalk.

I'm telling you, neanderthals.

What I could probably appreciate the most is tapas. Since Spain was announced on my itinerary, all Dad said was "you havta get tapas." And I finally have and understand why.

A bowl of paella, plate of calamari, and a chicken selection: 2 euro each; 6 euro lunch.

Absolutely delicious.

The sunshine? Yeah, that's been on spring break too I guess. But otherwise, the palm trees and calm winds are everything to reckon with.

Y yo hablo español todos los dias.

Domingo de Ramos

pensé que Roma era reliosa….

Seville takes it to a whole different level.

Today was (and still is for you American based Americans) Palm Sunday. After a long day of siesta and getting rained on I walked down the hall of our family complex and ran into one person who simply said, “we’re going to church.” It has been a few weeks since I’ve partaken in a nice little sit down with the Man Upstairs, so I jumped into as conservative a dress as I own and joined in the march to the city center.

pretty elaborate for a no name church.

The city was mobbed with people of literally every age in there absolute best attire. All the guys, from the tiny tots to the abuelos were in full suits and the girls were dressed in the most modest form of club attire.

Easter in Seville is a fiesta like no other.

Without knowing exactly which church we would be attending mass, we followed the crowds of people, though they seemed to be going in every direction imaginable.

Maybe the massive cathedral there will have mass was our mindset. This particular cathedral was so large that the general consensus was that it was most likely the largest in Europe. We have still yet to confirm that, however what is confirmed is that the actual body of Christopher Colombus is here. That’s pretty monumental in itself.

What they didn’t have, however, was mass.

So we continued on, hoping to find at least a church to say a little prayer in to (partially) earn a beer that we were planning on having afterward.

Joe modeling his Palm Sunday attire and palm.

We got lucky in finding a church that was holding mass within the next ten minutes. We entered to discover that the group of 11 of us made up the majority of the congregation. That was fine. The mass was obviously still in Spanish. It is helping me get much better at it, so I have no complaints.

We sat through the shortest Palm Sunday mass in history and collected our palms that are more like little olive branches than the palms I’m used to folding into little crosses.

At the conclusion we exited to find the city had erupted into a full party. It can best be compared with New York’s Halloween parade, or the Rockefeller tree lighting. It was a big deal.

Having been warned beforehand, we avoided the shock of seeing the traditional tall pointed and face covering robes that Americans can identify as racial hate groups. Not in Spain, everyone. This is a very sacred tradition rooted in medieval ritual. Even the little Spaniards wear them and were part of the parade into which we were thrown directly into.

And this is only Palm Sunday….

The Klan has NO originality...

From what I collected from the mass, the priest was very intent on emphasizing that being in Seville during Easter is a very fortunate occurrence. No other city in the world embraces the religiosity of the season like Sevilla.

I’m interested to see what other types of messages God is trying to extend to me by bringing me to this continent that loves Him more than I could have ever learned from Bibles and theology class.

Jumping Right In

So we have departed from Rome, and although I already miss it dearly and it’s been less than a week, I can’t knock the sunshine in Spain.

And of course my ever-developing Spanish.

We actually live in a hostel that is unaffiliated with the school…need I say more?

I digress.

So far, everything my dearest señor had ever taught me is a proven fact. Everything from the lisp that all Spaniards speak in to the vosotros form and they, in fact, do not hold up signs that say, “conjugate this verb!” You just have to know how.

We are relatively separated from the real life of the city, which is a new idea to us. We have the bare necessities nearby; ie- supermercado, bars, American diner.

The first weekend here, I experiences all of the above and even took an excursion outside of the lively Sevilla.

Sharon, Sebastian, and me: bridge conquerers.

We drove a long time to some bridge in some town.

Sounds promising right?

Alright, so we signed up to participate in a bungee jumping excursion.

I didn’t really watch the entire hooking up process. All I knew was that we were to sit into a leg harness that and those little mountain climber clips were attached until you were ready to plummet.

NERVIOSA.

I watched two people go first. Actually, I watched two people get strapped in and one climb back over the railing in fear. Very inspiring. So naturally I volunteered to go next.

It was me and go ol’ Sebastian, which was intimidating considering I knew if he went there was no way I was backing out. I got strapped into the harness and the first wave of immense fear hit me as I climbed over the railing. I wasn’t hooked in, this was not the time to trip. Had I tripped, I probably would have at least broke my arms, therefore I wouldn’t be able to type.

Comforted yet Mom?

So there I was, standing on the railing of a bridge letting Spanish speaking men tell me I’m going to be okay as my hands tremble relentlessly.

All I kept reminding myself of was the jump I did into the state park which will not be named due the illegal nature of our presence where I jumped into the water after having to get pep talked into doing it. This was worse.

I heard the countdown begin, looked over at Sebastian, and as soon as the countdown finished, even mid-freak out speech, I pushed off the bridge.

Once we got into the raft I asked my jumping counterpart what he thought and he said “I thought I was dying.”

THE JUMP.

Accurate.

The fall isn’t long, but it was long enough for me to see my 20 years flash before my eyes as my stomach came up through my throat.

And then I felt the tug of the stop.

After that is the swing which gives a slightly smaller drop, but nonetheless stomach turning.

This was one of those moments that you feel young and alive (as someone else screamed as the jumped from the ledge.)

It was an absolutely incredible experience. And it took place in Spain. Adrenaline at its finest.

in our life boat.

From some points of view, this can be seen as completely uncharacteristic of me. But if nothing else, this entire trip is an excuse to do things uncharacteristic because that's part of finding out who you are and doing it in the best way possible: jumping off bridges.

I mounted the bridge and screamed ESTAMOS VIVIENDO. I don't think there was a better way to put it in any language. I had to jump because had I stood on the ledge and climbed back over, it'd be a missed opportunity.

And I'd have to sit in the Puss Circle with those (and by those I mean one person) who were strapped in and stepped back from the ledge.

In all honesty, I want to go back and do it again. But maybe I'll just settle for sky diving next.