On homesickness

Today of all days, homesickness is on my mind.

Of course it is.

I spent a good half an hour this morning trying to compose and Facebook post wishing everyone a happy Thanksgiving, that would also express my own wish to be with them. In fact, as I write this blog, I still haven't succeeded in wording the post correctly. And it will probably turn out being very short and succinct and maybe appear to be a bit emotionless. But I promise. It's not.

What I wouldn't give to be in my grandma's kitchen today, lending an expert hand to the candied yams and mashed potatoes. What wouldn't I give to have spent the morning gearing up for the Turkey Trot in Buffalo, NY (The longest running road race in America!), complete with the last minute run to the bathroom. What wouldn't I give to have spent yesterday seeing old friends and great teachers from school. What wouldn't I give to have spent last night eating chicken wings and pizza (what wouldn't I give to spend this weekend alternating between eating left over Thanksgiving dinner food and pizza and wings).

What wouldn't I give?

Well. That's a hard question to answer.

I've been asked a lot lately if I've been homesick. And I think the answer is yes. How is it possible that I'm not certain?

Well, I always imagined homesickness to be the little girl at her first night of sleepover camp, terrified and crying desperately to go home now.

That's never been me. Even at sleepover camp. I never wanted to go home. I never wanted to trade home for the experiences I was having. Yes, I loved getting letters. Yes, I loved seeing my parents again at the end. But I would never give up my time there, just to go home.

Here, it took me a while to recognize homesickness. Because it was never the hysterical "All I want is to be home" that I always thought it was.  It came more in my overjoyed reaction at getting letters. I've sent and recieved a ton of emails (sorry if I haven't managed to respond to all of them). Facebook is great because it is so easy to keep up with people back home. And I love Skyping with my family.

Yes. I miss my family. Yes. I miss my friends. Yes. I cannot wait to see them again.

But would I speed up the time that is left here to reach the day I can see them? Would I give up my time here and the things I've learned and the friends I've made to be with them for just a few days?

...No.

And I feel cruel and heartless and unloving for writing that.

But if there is one thing that I've learned, and one thing that echoes through our childhood stories and memories, it is that family is family no matter how far away everyone is. My parents will always be my parents, my grandparents will always be my grandparents. Same goes for my uncles and aunts and cousins. Same goes for the future family members who have yet to join our crazy disaster.

That won't change just because I miss one Thanksgiving.

Running through Seville

You'd think I would have learned by now that restaurants operate slightly differently here than at home.

But as a friend and I ran through the slippery streets of Seville, I couldn't help but laugh at myself and the situation I had just encountered.

Rewind two hours:

After wandering around the shopping streets of Seville with a few friends, our stomachs started to growl, as it was approaching the dinner hour. One member of the group knew of a restaurant with a great happy hour deal--everything on the menu was half off, clearly catering to the tourists, as Spaniards would never think to cenar at that time.

Deciding it sounded like a good place to eat, we set off in search of it, only to get turned around more than once in the city's winding streets.

Eventually we made it, but with only an hour or so before we had to leave to arrive on time to our flamenco show that night. Pressure was on. But we thought, "Hey, we can dine in an hour."

Welp. Maybe in the states you can.

The minutes ticked down. Eventually we ordered out food. Forty minutes to go. It couldn't take that long could it? The place was empty. Our food should come in twenty minutes max, giving us plenty of time to eat and still have time to walk to the show. We chatted. We joked.

Time ticked down.

Twenty minutes until we had to leave. We let the waitress know we were in a bit of a hurry.

Ten minutes until we needed to leave. We asked that the check come with our food.

Five minutes. What do we do?

Zero minutes. Desperate, stressed, we decided we had to leave. The waitress told us the food was on the way, in the oven right now. Could we take it in doggy bags? Yes, of course. And so half of us left, hurrying to meet up with the rest. While I and another friend waited, tapping our fingers in impatience for the food to show up.

Eventually, it did. Two bags full of boxes. We gripped them and stepped out the door, breaking into a trot. Dodging through the streets, hoping we wouldn't get turned around.

It had rained in the last hour, the streets were slick, and as we trotted along the risk of slipping and falling was great.

But we made it to the hotel, sweaty and out of breath. Red-faced, the stress still pounding through us.

Running through the streets of Seville was a much needed reminder that things don't always work the same way here as they do at home.

Road trips

Alright, alright. I admit it. I love road trips.

The long hours in a car, the infrequent stops, the country side lazily rolling by, the sun moving from morning to evening. I love it.

Not only do they serve as a handy metaphor, but they also provide an excuse for leisure and for work. When else can you snooze for hours on end, waking up in infrequent intervals? When else can you sit and read for hour after hour without feeling like you should be doing something else? When else can you stare out the window and let your mind wander from place to place without limit?

Well, there are probably other times. But still. I love road trips. To me, they're a weird way to put life on hold for a bit. What can you do in a car? Not much. So it's a time to take advantage of the forced rest.

I've had the pleasure of going on several road trips these last few weeks, and I'll admit that I'm probably one of the first ones to fall asleep once the bus starts moving. But there really is nothing like stepping into the strange portal that is the road-trip vehicle, where time is stopped for a while, where you exist in a different plane, only to step off and back into the real world, as if not a single hour had passed.

Salamanca // A day in Spanish

So about a month ago now I visited Salamanca and La Aliva. While I enjoyed the trip, my visit there didn't really leave me with any profound insights into life, the universe or everything. So hopefully you weren't expecting another video of me trying to draw some profound conclusion or another.

Instead, I made a video in Spanish. Is it perfect? Nope. Why didn't I revise it until it was? I was feeling kind of impatient... (Don't mention to me that it took for weeks for me to put this together--I've been busy!)

Armadura de ropa

A few weeks ago, my professor caught my eye while I was setting my things down before class started. "I loved what you said about armor yesterday," he said. "I told my wife about it; she was really impressed."

I thanked him. And as you can imagine, pretty psyched that he had taken note of what I said.

We'd been talking about ways of coping with difficult situations. He'd asked us what "refuge" we have for tough situations or how we address challenges.

My answer was that I have clothing that acts as armor that I don when I know I'll need a little extra strength to face the day. And I don't mean that I dress to the teeth with the latest fashion on the day I need to address something important. Nor do I mean that I put on my most intimidating face. When I don my armor, it's not to scare everyone else.

It's to bring out a little bit more strength from me.

My armor is simple things--some tshirts from the LT program, tshirts from my high school swim meets, the sweater I think I look particularly good in. The clothes tend to come from important parts of my life--moments of success, of good memories. Donning this armor, it feels like I'm able to bring a little of those good times with me into the tough times.

There are some days I wake up and I think to myself, "Yep, I'll need a little bit of the LT mindset with me today." or "I'd like to be reminded today of what I've learned from swimming the 500."

Going into this gap year thing, I'd always planned on adding to my collection of armor. This time in the form of rings. Not only are they slightly more versatile than tshirts, and I can wear them pretty much anywhere, they are less permanent than tattoos (still not planning on getting one, but I know there are people who like to commemorate important moments in their life with tattoos.) So throughout my time here I've kept my eyes out for the sort of rings I was looking for.

Finally, I bought the first ring of the trip, my Spain ring, a couple of weeks ago. I'd had in my mind an idea of what I wanted it to look like, inspired by a number of my camp friends, so I was lucky to find what I was looking for.

Already, I'm looking forward to pulling it out in the future, turning it around in my hands on a tough day, as a reminder of what I'm capable of.

What armor have you found over the years? What do you reach for or who do you go to when you need a little extra strength?

Lessons in Lisbon, part 4: The Kindness of Stangers

d. talking to people

Like in Ireland, I met a lot of people in Lisbon. They were all great. From one guy working at our hostel hugging us goodbye, to the tour guide passionate about history, to the shopkeeper asking me about my family. The man who gave us directions, and the woman who welcomed us into her bar to listen to Fado, and the man behind me in line helping me order lunch. 

A couple of days ago, one of my favorite authors John Green was experiencing some unfortunate layovers in various airports. He tweeted from the MSP airport, stuck there over night. Fortunately a bookstore was open and he decided to sign some copies of his books. He also had a wonderful conversation with the woman who worked there, making his night just a little bit better. About that experience he wrote "it was the pleasant conversation with a stranger that really pulled me out of myself, and as a result, a long night became bearable. So tonight I give thanks for kind strangers, and hope that I can be one each time the opportunity arises."


Yeah Lisbon was beautiful, and the river was tranquil, and the houses were colorful, and the history fascinating. But I really loved the trip because of the people I met. So, thanks guys for making Lisbon such a wonderful place. 

In talking to these people, about their travels, their lives, I learned a couple of things. But before I tell you what they are let me at add this: I know this makes it seem like the only plus to talking to people and making friends is learning about myself, and not, you know, learning about other people as well, and I know it seems that talking to people turned me inward towards myself instead of, as Green said, pulling me out of myself. I've always been told that the best thing I can do is become interested in other people, rather than trying to get people interested in me. And that did happen. I promise. I spent a night laughing so hard I cried as a group of strangers played spoons late into the night. I asked people questions--why do they sing, what languages they know, why do they like that band, what was there favorite city, what plans do they have for the future? And I'm fairly certain I've gotten better at question asking.

But asking all these questions inevitably makes leads to the raising and answering of some of my own questions. 

I've noticed I almost always get really jealous when I hear about other people's experiences--the other gap year student who biked across America and then road the trains through Europe, the two au pairs, the Canadian just arrived from Central America, the spanish expat. I still can't help but compare my experiences to theirs, and, because I am seeing their experience only through the words they have told me, they seem perfect and flawless and astounding. 

And, as the theme often is for this blog, I have to remind myself that my own adventure isn't done yet. And as much as I'd like it to be otherwise, my adventure is grounded in real life--just like theirs--which means it won't be perfect and flawless. 

Astounding? Yes.

Astonishing? Yes. 

Maybe the best decision ever? Yes.

And to be honest, would I trade what I'm doing for what they've done? Probably not. 

I am not them. They are not me. 

But, we can contribute to each others lives. We can sit and talk over breakfast one day, we can play cards for an hour, we can tell each other stories of history. And together, make our adventures even more wonderful. 

Lessons in Lisbon, part 3: Languages

c. Languages

Over breakfast one morning, I listened to one of the hostel staff chatting in Italian to one of the guests. A few minutes later, she was chatting to a coworker in Portuguese and then turned to me and told me, in English, that hairdryers were available at reception if I wanted to make sure my hair was totally dry before going out today.

I asked her how many languages she knew. She asked in return, "How many I know or how many I speak?"

"Both." I responded.

She explained that she knows a lot--Portuguese, English, Italian, French, Spanish, basically all the romance languages and then some. But some are easier than others--for instance she doens't like speaking spanish because she thinks her accent is bad. But she can also read various Germanic languages, and understand some others (although some languages she can only understand written and not heard and others the other way around.)

This question quickly lead to a conversation about accents and dialects and the difference between Portuguese from Portugal and Portuguese from Brazil.

So. Um. I was quite impressed.

She was at least the fourth person I met in Lisbon who spoke more than two languages. The others included my tour guide who had Spanish, English, Portuguese and Czech in his repertoire, a Canadian living in Spain working on learning her third language, and a Dutch man who spoke too many to count.

My dutch friend explained the he learned a mountain of languages in school--English and French among them. But he'd always hated those classes. Always failed those classes. It wasn't until he started traveling and trying to use the languages that he realized 1) how helpful they were and 2) that he could actually speak them, more or less.

More and more I'm realizing how lucky I was to grow up with English as my first language--that's the language they use in all the hostels and in a room full of people from five countries or more, they all talk in English. That makes it easy.

More and more, I'm realizing the importance of learning languages, not just because of the world opening, new perspective giving that everyone hears about, but because I hate finding myself reduced to pointed and holding up fingers, stuck using only one syllable words to get my point across as I found myself in Portugal. I dislike struggling to talk to people, misunderstanding them, asking them to repeat themselves.

So the decision now is what do I start learning next? What do you think? What languages do you know? Wish you knew? Used to know?

Lessons in Lisbon, part 2: Public Transportation

b. Bus Doors

Perusing the map of the bus route, my friend and I searched for our stop, uncertain of where we were exactly.

"Well, the worst that could happen is that we don't get off in time for our stop and need to get off at the next one." My friend pointed out, "I mean, it's not like we're unused to walking."

I laughed and agreed with her, keeping an eye on the map and tracking our progress.

We were ready to go when our stop came around, but we didn't actually get off the bus. Because while we pressed to button to open the bus doors, they didn't open. And after waiting maybe 10 seconds, the bus pulled away from the stop, continuing onto the next one. With us still on board.

Good news was that it wasn't to far, or to complicated, to walk.

And that wasn't the end of our public transportation adventures. Trams that don't go all the way to the end of the route. Metro passes that get demagnetized. Just barely missing trains. Late busses.

Nearly everyday in Lisbon saw public transportation mishaps--er, adventures. In MN I'd hardly ever (cough never cough) used public transportation. But now...let's just say that taking the metro or catching a bus aren't quite as intimidating as they were before.

Lessons in Lisbon, part 1

a. City of History

Once again, I find myself sitting on a couch in a hostel.

Today I'm in Lisbon, Portugal. City two of four I'm visiting this November. The whirlwind of traveling this month, I fear, will leave me posting a little more infrequently, but I'll do my best to keep these posts interesting. 

Yesterday, I wandered around a fairy tale like town called Sintra. Visiting a mansion and an ancient Moorish fortress, I was surrounded by green things, impressive masonry, and beautiful views, and assaulted by absolutely ferocious winds. 

So far, Lisbon has been lovely. It's quite a distinctive city--unlike anything that I've seen yet. (Well, I mean, in terms of traveling through Europe, I still haven't seen much) The buildings are lovely pastel colours, the Atlantic Ocean is off in the distance. Built on seven hills, like Rome, the old parts of the city have streets that wind and curl up inside themselves, overlapping like a jigsaw puzzle. 

Portugal, I've learned, has a really interesting history. I'm embarrassed to admit that I never really paid much attention to this little country--forgetting that it has seen glorious epochs in its history. This is a country of navigators, of adventurers, of map makers. A country with a history of riches and slavery and wars and alliances. A country that has seen violence and tragedy, a country once open to the world, then closed to the world, and only recently opened back up again. 

Now it seems to be filled with wonderful people, but that may be just because I come here as a traveler. Once again, I'm meeting people over breakfast, in my dorm room, on the tours. Once again, I am astounded by people from all walks of life, astounded by where people are and what they are doing. And I find myself feeling the twinges of jealously, the twinges of inspiration. 

I was told by my tour guide today to be careful--becoming an expat can quickly become addicting. He's right.

B-A-R-C-E-L-O-N-A

When you hear  the word "Barcelona" what comes to mind?

Beaches? Catalan? All night parties? Crazy architecture? Futból?

To be frank, I didn't know all that much about the city (and I still don't). Despite all my years of Spanish class with cultural lessons thrown in, didn't pick up much on Barcelona. I'd heard of Catalan. And I knew that there was something about Catalonia wanting to be its own country, but I didn't know how big a deal it was. I had also heard of the Sagrada Familia and Gaudí, but really didn't know anything about Modernism. Oh, and I'd heard that the Ramblas are the place where you're most likely to get robbed in Europe.

Basically, I arrived in Barcelona, knowing next to nothing about the city. So naturally I had a lot to learn in the next few days.

One Barcelona is beautiful. That's what everyone told me before I left: "Barcelona es una cuidad muy preciosa" "Barcelona? Es una cuidad bonita, y muy abierta.""Vas a ver la Sagrada Familia? Es impresionante"and the like.

I agree. I mean, it's just a little pretty. Just a little.

I took in a lot of architectural marvels there. Most of them by Gaudí. Various houses he created, and park Guell. Which is really interesting. I feel like I could spend a lot of time there...but maybe eventually go crazy by the end. While I like to think that I can appreciate Modernism in architecture, and parts of it are without a doubt beautiful, sometimes my brain just refuses to accept what my eyes are seeing. 

I had the chance to watch the Sardana dance. Every Sunday a bunch of people appear out of nowhere, an orchestra sets up and begins to play. They dance the Sardana, the traditional dance of Catalonia. Yeah, there's a bit of a political statement behind it. But to me it seems like a moment of coming together. The music, the dance--their not getting paid. But they're kicking up their heels, joining something bigger than the individuals, and loving every minute.

And finally, I got some time to sit surrounded by water, do a little writing, and remember where I am. 

While it's a good thing that I feel at home here, it sometimes that let's me forget that I'm not back home in Minnesota. These little trips, too, help me to remember I'm in someplace wonderful, and that I need to remember to look around me every once and a while. 

So Barcelona is beautiful. I really enjoyed my time there, and, yes, I'm looking forward to finding myself there again. 

Some Obvservations

1. Spain is filled with outdoor spaces where people can spend time. But the only people I've really seen taken advantage of this and sit for hours are all several decades older than me. Now, as I mentioned before when talking about the pool, I don't have anything against elderly people, and actually I like to think that I admire and respect them (1. because the people in my life who are that age are some of the COOLEST people I know, and 2. Well, they know a lot more than me). But I have to wonder at the fact that I often see older people on benches and never younger people. Maybe it's a lifestyle left over from a time before I was born, maybe it's because all the young people are in school or sleeping in after staying up all night partying. But whatever it is, one of the images of Spain I'm going to bring back, for better or worse, is that of an elderly man, reclined on a bench, cane in hand, taking in the sun and chatting with an old friend.

2. It's cold here (well, just got a little brisk today, hanging out around 43 degrees fahrenheit as the high)...and it seems like the last thing people are going to bring out are the hats and gloves. Winter jacket, boots, scarves, yes. But they leave their hands and heads exposed. I find this strange considering the fact that people walk everywhere here, so although I know what cold is, I really don't spend much of my time outside in the cold in Minnesota--but here they do. Maybe I'm weird, but the hat and gloves were always the things I pulled out first, before the heavy jacket, before the scarf, even before the boots, always had a pair of light gloves. What can I say? I like it when my fingers function.

3. Although my Spanish has gotten good (if I do say so myself) certain words continue to elude me. Aprovechar, meter, y echar. I know what they mean. But their uses? My goodness, they just don't fit in the frases I want to use.

4. I'm mixing up Spanish and English spelling. See above "frases" as an example. Also common are words that end in "ion" like terminacion, accion, reaccion.

5.Learning English is REALLY hard for Spaniards. Their language doesn't have as many vocal sounds as ours so words like "fill" "feel" and "fell" all sound the same to them.

6. Sometimes the thing that makes me feel farthest away from home is the time difference.

7.  I need a haircut.

The Eat Pray Love Life

So a while back I visited Toledo and La Granja. Pretty awesome trips all around. And I definitely intended to make it back to the gardens at La Granja. But seeing how fast the time que falta is filling up, I don't know when I'll make it back.

Yeah, the cities were cool. But, the best part about this trips was that at these places I saw the start of some of my greatest friendships here. And I got a taste of what I've been thinking of the "Eat Pray Love Life." The way we all think living abroad is supposed to be but the way it inevitably isn't. Gave me some food for thought, and finally about a month later I've been able to mold that food into some kind of shape...


Is she still making videos? You asked.

Yep. Yep I am.

Headed to Barcelona this weekend. Will have loads of free time, if you or anyone you know has been to Barcelona and knows some places that I ABSOLUTELY need to see, lemme know, I'd love to check it out. Also, will there be blogs this weekend? I have all sorts of thoughts, it's just a matter of writing them down for y'all and there's so little time....

Show off

Esta mañana, me desperté con una idea fenomenal. Había querido escribir unos blogs en español, pero no sabía en que tema yo debía escribirlos. Y hoy, por fin, he pensado en un tema.

Pero ahora, después de mis clases, después de la piscina, no puedo recordar este tema fenomenal. ¡Ah que pena! Estoy segura que era un idea fantástico. Quizás quisiera escribir de las símbolos complejos en Bodas de sangre o de los partes de las historia de España que son experiencias exclusivas de la historia de este país. Pero no sé, no sé, no sé. Y está volviéndome loca.

¿De que otras cosas puedo hablar? Unos de mis hermanos aquí le gusta muchísima corregirme cuando yo hago un error con mi español. Hoy, yo mencioné que el verbo "equivocarse" me confunda. Y él siguió a utilizar esta palabra por todo nuestra clase. Yo intenté a utilizarla también, pero, por supuesto, él encontró otras maneras para corregir mi español. También, cada vez que yo dije algo incorrecto, él me miró con una expresión que dijo, claramente, que el le disfruta cada vez que yo hago un error.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wrote that in Spanish. It's basically just a bunch of fluff. I did have a brilliant idea for a topic to write about in Spanish, but I did actually forget it. So....your left with some cotton candy. I assure you, there are errors (they were intentional...?) So if you spanish students out there spot any TELL ME. You'll get a prize. Well no. But you'll get everlasting admiration.

Icing on the Cake

It's ten o'clock. I just finished writing an essay on Bodas de sangre. Finally have some time to write this blog, baby. Get ready for some writing that resembles stream of consciousness more than thoughtfully planned out thoughts.

This is the first time that I have sat down in front of this blog without really having planned what I wanted to write. Well, no, about a week ago I sat down and decided when I'd write about all the themes I want to write about, but what inevitably happens with that is when the day finally arrives, I don't really feel like writing about it.

Today I was hoping to write about the word "vale," and the fact that I use it about a hundred bazillion times every day.  And how that usually makes me think of the verbal garbage I usually throw in with whatever I say. For me these words consist mostly of "you know," "like," and "I mean." Which I sometimes STILL find myself throwing around in the middle of my Spanish sentences. I mean, really? Are these words so ingrained in my head that I can't even shake their muscle memory when I'm talking in a different language?? I've been trying to replace them with their Spanish equivalents ("pues," "así que," "a ver"...) to some success.

But, instead of talking about that interesting topic, I open up this blog and the first thought that came to my mind was: "Ahhhhhh there's soooooo little time left." Well duh. More than two months into my time in Spain, and I look at my November only to realize that it will be my busiest month yet. I'll be somewhere that's not mi casa for every upcoming weekend in this month, and these trips will be no shorter than three days.

Basically I'm not going to stop moving this month. And I think we all know that that makes the time go faster. Also, warning, this may mean that the blogs get sparser. Or the videos get sparser....or both.

Yesterday, I felt a little bit of panic welling up inside me. I was thinking about all the things I still wanted to do, thinking about all the things I felt obligated to do, feeling pangs of jealously when some of the people I've met make impromptu trips to parts of the country that I didn't think to do but feel like I should have done. So bound up in the nows and the things I haven't yet done, I found myself repeating the things I needed reminding of back in the beginning of my time here:

It's enough that I'm here. 

The biggest, scariest, strangest, and most important step I've taken all year was the one that took me away from my parents and onto the airplane. And sometimes I wonder if this gap year thing was only ever about seeing if I'd actually do it. Somedays I still look up and find myself surprised that I am actually in the middle of this year abroad, that I actually did it.

And also: Why did I come here? For the Spanish.

And I know I can rest easy knowing that the first thing isn't even a requirement that I have to meet, and the second one I've met.

As for the rest, it's just icing on the cake, baby. The friends I've made, the places I've seen. I've spent two months in Spain, surely I've learned something by now.

* EDIT: so rereading this I feel like I implied that people I've met here who have become my friends are well just icing on the cake.
What I wish I had thought to write last night was: Some people get blue frosting, others get flowers, others have sprinkles. I've gotten great friends and seen great things, none of which I could have planned for or anticipated before arriving.

Tourists

On weekend mornings, starting around 9 o'clock, the plaza around the aqueduct is full. The tourists have arrived. Their numbers are the most pronounced Friday through Sunday, when they pass through the narrow streets in groups, their leaders whispering into a microphone, swarming the cathedral and El Alcazar. But, if you know how to look, their presence can also be seen in the rest of the week. The stray map, the couples taking photos, people stepping out of their hotels in the morning.

And it's no wonder that they come here. I mean, Segovia has a lot of bragging rights what with it's aqueduct and castle, and being the location where momentous historical events took place (Isabel I of Castile was crowned queen of Castile here, for example).

Perhaps if I was a local, I might sigh with exasperation over the presence of the tourists, tired of having strangers traipse through my streets. I certainly used to think there was some sort of stigma attached to being a tourist (well, maybe specifically an American tourist). And I have often done everything I could to avoid appearing like a tourist. I went to London last spring with my family, and I was obsessed with not appearing like the typical clueless, rude American tourist stereotype—well, at least this is what I imagined the stereotype to be like. Maybe it isn’t, but regardless of what the stereotype actually is, I didn’t want to seem like a tourist at all. 

This attitude creates a problem--it closes doors. I didn't want to stop and take pictures, I didn't want my pace to slow so that I could gaze in open-mouthed amazement and the wonders that surrounded me. 

But here in Segovia, I've found that my attitude has changed. Because as a new comer here myself who still feels a little like a visitor, I enjoy watching the tourist explore the city, if only because it helps me remember what a great place I have gotten to live in. I've given directions to several wandering groups, and taken countless photos for them. I listen to their conversations, often hearing snippets of languages I can't decode, and being strangely confused when I hear English.

And...I also really like blending in with them. Walking in the crowds of people visiting this place eases my nerves of being a visitor myself. I can walk through the gardens around the Alcazar, and read all the posted information about historical buildings without being worried about sticking out like a sore thumb. Because I am not the only visitor here.

At first I was concerned with acting like someone who had lived here all my life. But now I'm comfortable with my status as an extranjera here for a bit. And that, I think has let me slow down and stare in open-mouthed wonder at the beautiful things around me.

I love wondering around the city, taking photos, visiting the Alcazar, staring for long amounts of time at the aqueduct. In Ireland, I acted the part of the tourist: I spent most of my time wandering around Dublin and Galway, taking photos and expressing my awe of how beautiful that country is.

And I like to think that means that I have started to learn how to see the world through eyes that are open to wonder. And I'm pretty proud of that. But I think my younger self, the little adventurer that would, would be even prouder.