Culture Overload

Soccer victories , white pueblos of Andalucia , biking in Sierra de Grazalema , rooftop birthday barbeques , Moroccan Arabic class , bullfights , Feria de Jerez and all the flamenco dresses, mudejar architecture, flamenco shows, hanging our laundry like true gaditanas, and capoeira performances in leafy plazas.

A Love Story of Sorts

Whenever I travel, I always carry with me a stack of photos of family, my dog Polly, high school years, and my closest friends to help me through those lonely days, so I can decorate the walls of my new home away from home and to show new friends my oldest friends.

Each photo evokes a distinct memory - birthday bonfires, prom night, a week in Maui with mom, baseball games, random afternoons with the shisha pipe and pink champagne. Sometimes I chuckle; other times I feel a momentary pang of nostalgia.

When I see one photo in particular, at first I always smile, but this quickly changes into a bittersweet sigh and a resigned shake of the head.

It is a picture from almost three years ago. It is of me and a friend. I am glowing from a deep tan after a weekend of sprawling on the hedonistic shores of Ibiza. I'm wearing a dark navy and rich green dress that has long since faded from the sunlight. He is wearing his signature leather necklace that he still sports to this day. We are sitting, and I'm leaning on his shoulder.

This photo always elicits many curious comments and questions. This is the one photo from the bunch that provokes a lightheaded giddiness of familiarity. And this is where it all starts.

I met Paco four summers ago when I came to Spain for the first time through the Experiment in International Living as a high school junior. I lived with a Spanish host family in Vejer de la Frontera for four weeks. I had a host brother Francisco who was my age, and Paco was his best friend.

The three of us spent that summer frolicking on the beach, rollicking in the warm waves, wandering the winding streets for hours, frequenting the small town bars with the other underage hooligans until the wee hours, all the while gesturing and gesticulating madly to each other because I didn't speak very much Spanish and neither of them spoke English.

Vejer is in Andalucia, and this is where my interest in Arabic and Middle Eastern studies was sparked. The legacy of Al-Andalus is apparent in the mudejar architecture and every summer there is a Moroccan arts and crafts festival. I returned home with the seed planted that would guide the course of my college studies.

Before I left, I exchanged my email address with several of the Spanish friends that I met in Vejer. Paco is the only one who kept in touch. We emailed each other every week for a year. We never missed a birthday or a holiday. The next summer, I had graduated from high school, and my parents congratulated me with a trip to anywhere I chose with a friend. I chose to return to Spain.

Denise and I went on a Contiki tour that included all the big cities and (party) sites. Before we returned home, we made a surprise stop in Vejer. Those few days were some of the best ever. I ran into old friends, and Paco and I spent almost every minute together.

During those few days, only we seemed to exist in this ephemeral bubble that would pop when I left again. He was my first love. I'd never cried so hard leaving anyone or any place in my life, and I vowed to him and myself that I would come back some day.

Neither of us knew or quite believed that I would actually be back three years later as a study abroad student. Here I am in Cadiz just a two hour drive from Vejer, and I've been here for over four months already. I’d known that Francisco wanted to study at the University of Cadiz, and I knew that Paco was working in the port. As small as this city is, I finally ran into Francisco and Paco just a month ago. They have been living in the new part, and I live in the old part of the city.

Paco and I had kept our internet correspondence strong just until, strangely enough, I arrived in Cadiz. I had written him several times that I was going to be studying in Cadiz, but he never responded to that part of the email. Apparently, he never quite believed it either. This past year, he wished me a merry Christmas, and I told him how I'd spent Christmas Eve in Bethlehem. And then, the emails stopped.

I gave up hope talking to Paco again after the email connection was so abruptly severed. I never saw him or Francisco in my daily warblings up and down the streets of Cadiz. I sought out places in the city that would seem like his favorite haunts but to no avail. I finally bumped into Francisco at a local club, and the next day I ran into Paco and his girlfriend on the seaside promenade.

Since then, our contact has been short and scarce. I met with Paco twice, and both times, we spent the day in a reverie of nostalgia. We galvanized old names and old faces from distant memories as we sat on the beach watching the waves crash like we used to those past summers in Vejer.

It’s been three years, and much has changed. When I saw him with his girlfriend, I was surprised by my reaction. I was neither hurt nor jealous; I was simply so glad to finally see him and that he was happy and that she was making him happy.

Two nights ago, Cadiz won a football match. Paco has been writing me for years about how gaditanos celebrate their football victories by jumping into the fountain in front of the old city walls. Two nights ago, Paco and I swam in the fountain together as the crowd surged around us in a sea of yellow waving flags, drunkenly singing regional gaditano anthems, and jumping wildly around with flares to crashing beer bottles.

For a brief moment, old feelings were rekindled, and he claimed in a drunken release from his inhibitions, “te amo”, and that was simultaneously what I’d hoped to hear from him before coming to Cadiz and what I’d hoped to never hear after coming to Cadiz. We haven’t talked since that night, and I’ve only got about a week left in Cadiz.

There are times when I sit on the ramparts by myself and look out into the ocean as the sun sets, and I know that he is doing the same a few miles down the shore. Part of me wonders with a bit of sadness what might have been. But most of me realizes that our paths diverged long ago.

This is a tribute to young love, and to how pure and powerful it is, and to how long it can last despite its youth, and to how wonderful it is even in retrospect.

There, Tif. There's your update.

That's Not My Name! They Call Me Gordy.

Okay, let's just put aside the fact that my name has been changed from Stacy to "Stefy" during the past four months due to pronunciation difficulties. (I guess it's better than "Tasty", which was my name in Jerusalem from time to time.)

I must say though, I get that it's a "cultural thing", but I really resent my host mom referring to me as "gordy" and "gorda" these days. More so because she is a considerably large woman herself. FML.

This gordy is going for a run. Damn.

This is Our Time

I've been seriously slacking on this blog.

Partially, internet is a limited affair, and when I'm inspired to write something, usually I'll have to wait to update, and by the time internet becomes available, I'd much rather download and watch Arrested Development.

Partially, I'm not driven to write so often because I don't feel like I have too much to write or update on. I don't like to write about my daily, mundane goings-on because that's boring for you and me.

But who am I kidding, I've become lazy. Even writing a blog entry is kind of a hassle. Even planning for future traveling is an unpleasant task.

This Tuesday marks the four month anniversary of my arrival in Spain. I've been here for four months and to be quite honest, this will break my parents' hearts, but I really don't feel like I have too much to show for it all.

Cadiz is fantastic. It's beautiful and slow-paced.

My life here is so easy, and often I find myself sitting in sun-dappled, leafy plazas for hours on end in the bright sunlight, watching little children run around with precariously topped ice cream cones and sticky lollipops, and I think to myself, how wonderful my life is.

Sometimes, I sit on top of my friend's rooftop with a view of the golden domed cathedral, which brings back memories of Jerusalem without the underlying tensions and strain. She'll be hanging her laundry to dry in the brisk sea breeze like a true gaditana, another friend will be pouring herself another cocktail at 4 pm., and I'll lean over the ledges to watch the people walk by below in the narrow alleys and think to myself, life is too good.

Other times, I walk out of my two-hours of Spanish class (which is really more like 40 minutes of total teaching time) and head the thirty feet straight to sprawl on the beach while watching the sun-streaked sky slowly fade into dusk against the silhouette of the sea-side castle promenade. And then I think to myself, what a life I have.

It is a Sunday afternoon, and having gotten home last night at five am., I'm taking it easy. Delicious aromas waft from the kitchen as Rosa (host mom) is in the kitchen making a traditional Spanish stew. I'm in the salon reaping the benefits of neighbors who have wifi (thanks, THOMSON) reading up on newspapers and celebrity gossip while Spanish television blares mindlessly in the background. And the streets below are bustling with Sunday afternoon pedestrians yelling to each other from windows while the dogs incessantly bark in rounds.

I've lost much of my Hebrew, and despite my Moroccan Arabic class, I still feel as though much of my Arabic has also been buried under new random Gaditano colloquialisms. I've finished at least eight books-all of them for leisure. I have two weeks left of classes, but then again, class attendance has always been optional.

Most days, I spend in a nearby plaza reading and people watching. I'll go to class as an escape from boredom. Or I'll trek to the beach and greet the beach hippie/sand sculptor extraordinaire. Then I'll sit on the docks and watch the fishermen scrub down their boats while others commence an impromptu flamenco clap.

It seems that during the day, I sit around and impatiently wait for the day to end so that the night can begin. Whether the night means internet connection or going out with friends for dinner and drinks, the clear sunlight of these long days is both beautiful and mocking.

Days here are long, lovely, and lonely. I have a lot of alone time to think about god knows what. I've checked off several books from my reading list. I'm a regular lone fixture on the old walls overlooking the ocean as I spend hours brooding about how wonderfully dull my life is in Cadiz.

One more month and then I'm home.

I'll end on this note:

Tif, always the voice of optimisim and reason. And it's not just Cadiz.

Tif: "Well, as fruitless as life is now, it's never going to be as obligation-less and wonderful as it is now. I'm so lonely, but i need to keep reminding myself that i'm going to miss this lonely down time. When am i ever going to get time like this to sleep in everyday and watch endless movies?"
Me: "This is our vacation, right? Before life starts?"
Tif: "YES-before life starts. This is like OUR TIME. Before money gets complicated, and responsibilities become endless."

Travels during Semana Santa