They are artists...

Photo Credit: Alison Morrow

Try to remember the most violent tantrum of a two year old you have ever seen: brows furrowed in indignant concentration, hands thrusting through the air, feet stamping forcefully into the ground. Now multiply it by a hundred and you might have a fraction of the energy exhibited by the flamenco dancers.

But no, the dancers aren't two year-olds throwing fits. They are artists.

Their feet moving so fast that you can barely distinguish between taps; the crimson skirts, sporting layers upon layers of fabric, swishing and whipping every which way; their feet slamming into the ground with such unbelievable force--I'll tell you what: those are some high heels in which I would never want to be on the wrong end. My goodness.

I'm still mesmerized by the seemingly contradictory movements of their bodies. While their lower halves were in a frenzy, feet and legs moving so rapidly that if you blink, you will miss a stomp, their upper halves took on smoother movements, hips swinging and swaying to the singer's raspy chants, hands revolving in the most suave of moments. All interrupted by rapid finger snaps and quick clicks of the castanets.

And the sound; I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body. Almost everything staccato. Clicks. Clacks. Rattles. Taps. Quick. Snaps. Short. Raps.

The drums: heavy thuds. The castanets: sharp clicks. The claps: quick raps. The snaps: rapid clacks. The symbol: a coppery tin-tin. All staccato.

All staccato except for the elongated chants, the singers oscillating up and down the musical scale with their throaty voices. Wrapping around every ear in the flamenco restaurant, the voices provided the ear a relief from the short raps, taps, rattles and clacks.

Needless to say, I was enthralled. But above all, I still can't forget the sound. ...

....Days later and I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body.

Let it Take your Breath Away

Have you ever seen something so stunningly beautiful that it literally takes your breath away? I have: the view from El Castillo de Santa Bárbara.

Just close your eyes and imagine this: straight down below you glittering in the fading sunshine is the Mediterranean, an impossibly blue-green sea, not a speck of muddy-brown anywhere. The waves break a bit at the shoreline, but beyond that, smooth. Smooth as glass, el mar stretches into an endless pale blue sky, delicately painted with the typical evening streaks: the palest of blues, the softest of yellows, the most muted orange.

Now turn, a little to your left and, careful not to look directly into it, take in the setting sun. His final rays of the day bathe the quaint casas below in a comfortable orange glow.

Now, a bit dazed from gazing at the setting ball of fire, you let your eyes follow the snow-white gulls, dancing in the last rays of light; they are so at ease, soaring ballerinas, pirouetting through the evening air.

They drift to your left, unexpectedly, and beyond them, something else catches your eye, las montañas. Etched into the fading blue sky--looking like a five year-old's first creating on his etch-a-sketch--the mountains stand tall, surrounding the city, almost as if guarding its many little treasures and secrets.

Finally, you look straight down again, and this time, you see the twisting streets below. You see movement. Movement everywhere. The people, the cars, the birds, the tram, the waves--all are on the move. And yet, you can't hear a thing.

How strange. How tranquil. How magnificent.

You may feel a little shiver electrifying your body; that's ok...let it work its way down your spine, traversing its way through your arms and legs, your fingers and toes. 

So now, just rest your hands on the cool, stony wall, inhale the briny sea air--be sure to take it all in--but most of all, be prepared to let it take your breath away.

Siempre estoy aprendiendo: Always I am learning

A lie: The classroom is the only place where one can learn. Never in my life has this statement been more false because now, the world is my classroom. Alicante--la ciudad del sol, according to my host father--is my classroom, and like an eager student, the classroom nerd, perhaps, I have my pen in hand, notebook open and highlighters at the ready because siempre estoy aprendiendo--Always, I am learning.

So far, I have not only learned new vocabulary and verb tenses in the classroom, but I have learned how to navigate a strange city; how to ride a tram (and not get on the wrong line); how to hold a conversation in Spanish with my host familia; how to not be embarrassed about my [many] mistakes; how to ignore catcalls like the confident Spanish women; how to deal with being so far away from everything I know and love; how to recharge a tram pass and buy a Spanish movil; how to ask for help when I need it, pride aside; how to do things myself when I don't need help; how to make friends in a place where I don't know anyone; how to really enjoy the little things like the warm caress of the sun on my face; how to cope when there are many areas where wifi doesn't exist; how to deal having to depend on finicky networks when wifi does exist.

However, above all, I have learned how to live life; how to make my heart happy.

How is it possible that I have only been here for four days?! It's loco!

In any case, I can't wait to see what this beautiful classroom of Alicante has in store for me the next four months.

Un Pececito: A little fish

 

 A fish does not realize it is in water until someone takes it out of the water: our program director's analogy for cultural immersion.

I can't even begin to say how true this has already been for me; even something as simple as ordering a cup of coffee is a new concept--apparently you pay after you drink and it is cringe-worthy to walk down the street and drink coffee at the same time. (Spaniards sit down and drink coffee, using the time to relax and socialize.)

Anyway, to use the director's analogy, this little fish has never felt so out of the American water in her life, not even when I visited Paris in high school. Then, I only had to tread in the shallow end of the French water, as I only was there for four days; however, now I am diving head first into the deep end as I will be here in Spain for four months, so I might as well get used to the water.

I am excited to get used to the water, and go beyond the surface of what is different about the Spanish culture and figure out why it is so different.

Why do Spaniards eat la comida (lunch) and la cena (dinner) so late? Why is it inappropriate to wear gym clothes out in public? Why do they seem to have no idea what personal space is?

Right now, I honestly can't say that I know the answers to all, or any, of these questions nor am I completely comfortable or adjusted yet.

However, this pececito is planning to grasp ahold of every chance, every opportunity, every experience nueva that comes to me; I don't intend to let anything float by me in this big, strange sea they call Europa.

Hasta Luego, America

The butterflies in my stomach relentless, the rapid pulsing of my heart unwavering, the quivering in my hands unyielding: I can't help but second guess myself, even though I know. I know I can do this.

Having dreamed of this since my tongue first spoke Spanish, savoring every syllable, I know that I can do this. Having been restless since I caught the travel bug after my trip to Paris, I know I can do this. I have to, I want to, I need to.

And so, prepared as I can possibly be, yet not prepared at all, I wait to start my journey. Watching the polished businessmen yammering into their cells, I wait.  Smiling at the frazzled parents checking and double checking their boarding passes, all while chasing down two rosy-cheeked toddlers, I wait. Watching travelers pass by my gate, some in no hurry, mosying by with Starbucks in hand; others whizzing by, polished businessmen striding by so fast that if I blink, I only catch a flash of their navy blue tailored suits, I wait..

Through all the bustle, I wait, wondering; hoping; dreaming.

Blog about Blogging

Before this class, the thought of blogging had never really occurred to me. To be honest, I just thought the blogging world was meant for spoiled, angst-y teenagers who used blogging as a venting outlet, complaining about how life isn't fair, all the while sipping on their mocha lattes and typing on $2000 macs.

However, since this class, I have realized that blogging is so much more than that. It is a way to connect, a way to get relevant information, and (my favorite) a way to be creative.

A person who is all about the details in writing, I love the fact that blogs allow writers to fully express the scene so that many times, I feel like I am right there with the writer. I also love being able to read classmates' takes on current issues and hot topics, and being able to connect with the 'universal' undertone that is present in so many peoples' blogs.

Therefore, I think that blogging is a good component to this class; not only because of its relevancy, connectivity and creativity, but also because it is the way in which the world is moving: towards the age of ever-increasing technology.

Excuse me, Sir, Please Let me Walk in Peace

Photo of Cat Callers. Image taken from thefeministwire.com

"Mmm...baby, where you goin' with that hot lil' bod?"--This is what one man thought was OK to leer at me at three o' clock on a Tuesday afternoon, with three little kids in tow, I might add.

Lips smacking and eyes scanning every part of me--except for my face, of course--this man succeeded in making me feel extremely self-conscious and humiliated--two feelings that NO ONE should have to endure at any time, let alone while walking home from class in the middle of the afternoon.

After the humiliation had worn off, I become infuriated. What gives anyone the right to comment about my body, objectifying me and making me feel like less of a person? And furthermore, what is he teaching the three little boys that he had presumably just picked up from the bus stop? That is is OK to objectify women? That it is OK to humiliate women for your own self-gratification?

Some might say, well, what's the big deal? Its not like he touched you or anything. You just need to not be so sensitive and have thicker skin; others might say, well, what were you wearing? You were probably 'workin' it. 

Such thought-processes, such frames of mind: these are a problem. A Big One.

It is a problem that this wasn't the first time that something like this has happened to me. It is a problem that some people don't find this offensive behavior to be harassment and it is a problem that this type of thing seems to be becoming the norm, a problem that this type of behavior is "OK."

Yes, women have made tremendous strides in overcoming inequality and gaining equal rights, but shouldn't those rights include the right to walk down the street without being harassed?

Apparently, they don't.