Things I Will Desperately Miss

And thus, of course, here’s the follow-up list:

1. Patra’s knee-slapping jokes (I think there were 3 or 4 this year, and they were all gems)
2. Taking flamenco lessons in a bar, ie, doing as much drinking as dancing
3. Our terrace. Our terrace on perfect days, meals on the terrace, hanging laundry on the terrace, drinking sherry on the terrace at sunset
4. 300 children
5. Seeing one of my 300 children on the street and feeling like a star
6. Saying hello to all the old men taking their morning, afternoon, and evenings walks
7. Living in a cubist’s dream
8. Being halfway between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean
9. Taking Sevilla for granted since it’s just an hour away
10. Hearing Spanish every day, especially the awesome accent the old men have here
11. Being constantly inspired by the beauty of this town
12. Cheap tickets to everywhere else in Europe
13. Being serenaded by an incredible flamenco guitarist
14. Doing yoga in an old Spanish patio
15. The Friday market
16. Olive oil, organic eggs, fruit in season all year round
17. The cliff
18. Flamenco parties every Friday and Saturday (and spontaneous flamenco in the street)
19. The fact that everyone knows how to clap in rhythm here

This list is actually harder than the last, because many of the things I will miss aren’t as concrete as the things I won’t miss. That is, I will miss all the smells of this town, all the strange and beautiful things I see every day, I will miss the sounds in the streets of the old men talking, of bands practicing for Semana Santa, I will miss the feeling that everyone welcomes me in. And I will miss hundreds of people—Patra and Adan, Emma and all the Brits, Santi and the women we danced flamenco with, my co-teachers, the choir members, the shop keepers and café owners, all the townspeople I’ve become accustomed to seeing…and, as I said above, the hundreds and hundreds of children who I love more than I thought possible. But the year has come to an end and I don’t belong here anymore. Such is life. On to the next adventure.

Getting ready for Semana Santa: Part 3

Since our apartment is on the parade route, Patra and I have had the pleasure (?) of witnessing parade rehearsals. These occur on Thursday nights around 11 pm, due to the fact that a parade rehearsal means closing down the street entirely so that dozens of burly men can haul a gigantic unadorned platform downhill at the pace of snails. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a problem if the one-way street in front of our apartment wasn't the ONLY way to exit the town. Recently, we heard the approaching semana santa music emanating from a tinny little radio (which, actually, doesn't change the overall quality of the music) and rushed to the window to watch. Rushing, of course, was unnecessary as it took the men ten minutes just to turn a corner. We watched their slow progress, their feet moving a few centimeters with each step. They passed our window and we went back to what we were doing. A few minutes later we heard a car rumble downhill, apparently unaware of the street blockage. And then, a few minutes later: the same car backing uphill on our narrow street, moving about as quickly as the men had been going downhill. Traffic jams come in all varieties in this town.

Getting ready for Semana Santa: Part 2

And, in town, posters of Semana Santas past go up:




My favorite, from 1950, is right next to my apartment (on the left):


A monument in the middle of town of the scary penitents:

Getting ready for Semana Santa: Part 1

The most important week of the year requires a lot of preparation. In my school, the terrifying penitents are made to look slightly less scary by being made out of paper:

And children make their own mini-Jesus floats:

Goodbye to Sevilla

1. At dinner tonight we learned that the horn players and drummers from the other night actually were practicing for Semana Santa. Apparently, they start practicing when they are very young, and then THEY JUST DON’T STOP. Ever.

2. Also at dinner, we asked for tap water to drink. I hadn't known the term for this, but my friend said it was "agua de grifa." Thus, I asked the waiter for agua de grifa.

"Not here," he said, smiling a little too widely. Red flag.
"What did I just say?" I asked him (he spoke fairly good English).
"Marijuana water."

Note: The correct term is "agua de grifo."

3. The Plaza de España is muy muy bonita:




4. Mis chicas Sevillanas: Patra, Colleen, y yo