This doesn't look real, does it? Promise it was... Ok, i rented them. Only 30 euro!
Anyway, the paella was delicious. It’s rice that’s mixed with this wonderful yellow cream, kind of giving it the feel of risotto. Mixed in is whatever you want—we had four big prawn shrimp, mussels, calamari, y jamon (Spanish ham is supposedly the best.) The Spaniards in the boat went on and on about the ham. It was very good. Bobby Lee got churios, which was egg, cheddar, sausage, and slivers of hashbrown. Best breakfast casserole you’ve ever had.
After lunch Bobby Lee, Leigh Anne, Gio, Steven, Laurel, Peter, and I walked around a little, but Bobby Lee was throwing a fit to go shopping, so I took her to Zara. She kept on going in these terrible European fashion stores and I had to pull her along.. I knew she’d like Zara so much more. Yep, I was right. I accidently spent a lot too. Woops. Good deals though! Made our way back to the boat about 5.. dog tired.
A quick shower later and we were ready for our FDP, Flamenco night. It was amazing. 30 minute bus ride outside Cadiz to this little remote area. As we got off the bus, we were greeted by flamenco dancers with trays of white and brown sherry. STRONG. We then proceeded up to the tiny arena—only SAS people at this thing, so it felt very authentic to me—and were entertained by the dancers, horses, and a bull fight. The dancers came out, clad in a black and white vests, tight curve-hugging skirts with ruffles at the bottom, and slicked hair that was secured at the nape of their neck. But what made them believable, more than their garb, was their confidence. The way they confronted what they were dealing with dead on, with pride. With chest out, energy bursting form their finger tips, and an arrogant cock of the head, they danced with more passion and conviction than I had thought possible. The man in control of a gorgeous, huge, jet-black stallion controlled him with skilled signals from the reins he held as he walked beside the horse’s hindquarters. The stallion’s head dramatically curved in a beautiful but painful arch, muzzle grazing the muscles of his chest. He took no steps; everything was an exaggerated prance. I’ve never seen anyone control a horse by walking behind it, but the Spaniard made it look natural, as though any other way would be ludicrous. I loved when the flamenco dancers “danced” with the stallion, challenging it and being challenged back. Twists of the wrists in exchange for a graceful dressage. They would move into the horse’s space, as close as possible without touching it, affronting and daring. It was beautiful.
Then the Spaniard came out again—riding, this time—on a great white horse, who could do all sorts of wonderful tricks. He goose-stepped, he grapevined across the arena in diagonals, and he finaled with a prolonged stand on his hind legs.
After the dancers and horses, a little 14 year old boy clad in a plain but tight gray matador suit ran out with a pink cape in his hand. Out trots the cutest little baby bull you’ve ever seen (I think there was an audible awww from the crowd). At first the boy chased the bull for a while, trying to wave the cape in front of its face, and the whole thing was quite comical. Then the bull began a few timid charges. The boy’s stance was obviously newly learned, but he looked beautiful. Chest out, body tight and alert, he looked like a proud rooster. Sometimes the cape would be too close to him and he’d get gored or even mowed over, but every time he chased after the bull, pride and determination driving him hard. The fight is a desire to prove oneself to the crowd, and to have dominance over the bull. One must be the fool in this game, and neither’s pride will allow himself to be jested. The boy then exchanged his pink cape for a red one, which the bull immediately noticed. The game heated up as the bull grew angrier. I, along with everyone in the stands, began to get seriously nervous for our young matador. The bull furiously pawed the ground, savoring the anticipation before the charge. The he exploded through the cape, barreling into the thighs of the matador and throwing him to the dirt. The boy scrambled up and immediately, foolishly, challenged him right back before he was ready and got gored again. And again. Then something changed in our young boy. With our fervent, sherry-induced “oles!” his chest grew higher and he swished the cape with ease over the charging bull’s neck. The he did it again. His challenging and arrogant stare became more determined, and he was not gored again. He finished the fight amidst criers and claps from the crowd and was hoisted to the shoulders of his proud brother. Glorious thing, the pride of a Spaniard.
After the fight we went inside a quaint little farmhouse for sangria, tapas, and more flamenco dancing. As the liquid courage increased in our fanny-packing group, so did the arduous “Oles!” The wonderful arrogance of the dance gave us inspiration, and we were all dancing by the end of the night. Granted, it was the Macarena.
Upon our return to Cadiz, we geared up for a night out (starting at 1230). Caught a taxi to the strip of bars along the beach and partied with SAS people until early morning. Highlight—dancing to MJ’s “black or white” with Marcus (a black guy). Love him. He’s a bad ass.
Sun. 9/6
Headed to Sevilla today, the flamboyant city of Carmen and Don Juan, where bullfighting is still politically correct and little girls still dream of growing up to be flamenco dancers. (description courtesy of Rick Steves). Had plans to get off at 8.. knew that wasn’t going to happen. Ended up taking the 3 pm bus because it took a little while to get the boys moving. Our group was put together by Leigh Anne, and it turned out to be very… interesting. Peter (grew up in Palestine, nice enough guy), Bryan and David (ridiculous. Acted like 5th graders the whole time. All they wanted to talk about was sex. Sat down to dinner and David made a comment about his penis. Not impressed by them.), Laurel (tall, skinny, so sweet, quirky to the 9th), and Leigh Anne (my roommate, extremely uptight. I think I’m good for her, haha.). One hour 45 min bus ride to Sevilla. Checked into hostel Samay and went to a real bullfight. Gruesome, horrifying, and provocative. The moment the bull trots out in the arena, his fate is sealed. The matadors get him riled up with their capes before a man on horseback trots out with a long spear to the sound of Spanish trumpets. The horse, thank goodness, is blindfolded and has long armor on, because the bull butts and gores him almost off his feet when the man is stabbing the bull. Essentially the bull is stabbed so many times by matadors that it bleeds to death. Only 20% of Spaniards still go to bull fights now. I think the Americans there were the only ones that were clapping for the bull. Yet they do eat the bull when they’ve finished him off, it’s just that it’s torturing the bull for entertainment instead of a quick, humane death. Heart-wrenching, seeing its sides heave with strained breath and blood slowly replace the back sheen of its coat. I will never go again, but I’m glad I saw it. I think what the 14 year old boy did was a lot more heroic—when you don’t have a way of defending yourself and you face the bull is when courage (or insanity, depending on who you’re talking to) kicks in.
After the bull fight we showered and found a very expensive restaurant right on the plaza of a beautiful cathedral. We ate al fresco (“outside,” I think). Wonderfully romantic spot. It was spoiled by the 5th graders we had in tow… the penis comments wafting across the table were hard to block out, but I succeeded. In salute to the fight, I had bull’s tail for dinner, which was very tender and very good.
Following dinner we walked around Sevilla and found a very swanky outdoors bar by the river—secluded by trees and drapes. Low white couches, cool candles, not crowed. We walked by through an empty town, the prettiest I’ve ever seen. Allies might be narrow, but they were clean, and the soft light from street lamps touched almost everywhere and everything. Prettier than Florence, I think.
Mon 9/7
The next morning we set off to meander. Had a good baguette sandwich with prosciutto (very thin bacon-like slice) and olive oil, had a beautiful turquoise ring made on the street for only 5 euro (talked him down from 10), and saw SAS people all day. Didn’t go in the big cathedral—didn’t have my student ID so couldn’t get a discount. Enough cathedrals anyway. Had some fresh-squeezed orange juice and mulled around, looking in lots of shoe stores. That’s what they love in Spain… shoes and ham.
Once back in Cadiz, we had a siesta and a shower, both sorely needed. Slept on the boat.
Tues 9/8
Today had a light lunch on the boat (free) and met up with some people (Sam and Caroline) to go to a park and use the wifi. But it was 6 AM at home, so no one to Skype with except mary chandler, who was in Granada (another little Spanish town). Oh well. Then went to the beach where found a group of SASers and laid out the rest of the day. I loved Spain. I like Italy more though because the people are nicer and more willing to help. I tried to speak Spanish everywhere, but they got frustrated so easily! For the most part people were nice though. But they DON’T know English. It’s totally on you to speak Spanish or no communicado for you. All in all, Spain was a wonderful first port. Get our feet wet in Europe before we dive head-first in Morocco!
The bullfight, before I was tramatised for life. So glad we had those fans. SOOO hot in Spain!
Paella!
Paella!
First port
Sept. 5
Landed in Spain at 0800 this morning! We’re about to go on our first trip, an FCP (faculty directed practica) with Dr. Vaughn (non-profit leadership). Saw the churches of Cadiz. 1000-1330. I’m integrated into military time now. I’m supposed to find the role the churches play as a non-profit… but the Spanish people in the presentation on Spain said themselves that most people don’t go to church, even though they consider themselves Catholic. They might believe, but only 50% of believers go to church. So what is the role of the actual physical building now? Has it become just an architectural and historical monument and tourist site? What does the empty building mean to the people? Do they feel identity with it, or is it history to them as well? Our cute Spanish tour guide, Dori, says she believes my hypothesis is right; churches and cathedrals are a lot different from the American churches. She used the word monument as well. The tour was a tour of the city as well. At 1330 we ended and got lunch at a restaurant with a big group of SAS kids. We invaded Cadiz… 500 college students everywhere. Stuck out like a sore thumb. But we loved seeing each other on the streets. Increased comradery in a foreign land. For lunch I ate paella (pa-aye-ya) with Sam, this kid from Indiana. His mannerisms remind me of Zachary Davis. Very sweet, clumsy, and studying to be a mortician. Says he had a job as a greeter and liked it. Wants to bring a more liberal view of death to Americans. He’s traveling and studying how other cultures deal with death—traditions and rites. An odd subject, but a worthy one. I’ve always loved the old New Orleans funeral with big marching bands and umbrellas—a celebration of their life, rather than a mourning of their death.
Landed in Spain at 0800 this morning! We’re about to go on our first trip, an FCP (faculty directed practica) with Dr. Vaughn (non-profit leadership). Saw the churches of Cadiz. 1000-1330. I’m integrated into military time now. I’m supposed to find the role the churches play as a non-profit… but the Spanish people in the presentation on Spain said themselves that most people don’t go to church, even though they consider themselves Catholic. They might believe, but only 50% of believers go to church. So what is the role of the actual physical building now? Has it become just an architectural and historical monument and tourist site? What does the empty building mean to the people? Do they feel identity with it, or is it history to them as well? Our cute Spanish tour guide, Dori, says she believes my hypothesis is right; churches and cathedrals are a lot different from the American churches. She used the word monument as well. The tour was a tour of the city as well. At 1330 we ended and got lunch at a restaurant with a big group of SAS kids. We invaded Cadiz… 500 college students everywhere. Stuck out like a sore thumb. But we loved seeing each other on the streets. Increased comradery in a foreign land. For lunch I ate paella (pa-aye-ya) with Sam, this kid from Indiana. His mannerisms remind me of Zachary Davis. Very sweet, clumsy, and studying to be a mortician. Says he had a job as a greeter and liked it. Wants to bring a more liberal view of death to Americans. He’s traveling and studying how other cultures deal with death—traditions and rites. An odd subject, but a worthy one. I’ve always loved the old New Orleans funeral with big marching bands and umbrellas—a celebration of their life, rather than a mourning of their death.
Anyway, the paella was delicious. It’s rice that’s mixed with this wonderful yellow cream, kind of giving it the feel of risotto. Mixed in is whatever you want—we had four big prawn shrimp, mussels, calamari, y jamon (Spanish ham is supposedly the best.) The Spaniards in the boat went on and on about the ham. It was very good. Bobby Lee got churios, which was egg, cheddar, sausage, and slivers of hashbrown. Best breakfast casserole you’ve ever had.
After lunch Bobby Lee, Leigh Anne, Gio, Steven, Laurel, Peter, and I walked around a little, but Bobby Lee was throwing a fit to go shopping, so I took her to Zara. She kept on going in these terrible European fashion stores and I had to pull her along.. I knew she’d like Zara so much more. Yep, I was right. I accidently spent a lot too. Woops. Good deals though! Made our way back to the boat about 5.. dog tired.
A quick shower later and we were ready for our FDP, Flamenco night. It was amazing. 30 minute bus ride outside Cadiz to this little remote area. As we got off the bus, we were greeted by flamenco dancers with trays of white and brown sherry. STRONG. We then proceeded up to the tiny arena—only SAS people at this thing, so it felt very authentic to me—and were entertained by the dancers, horses, and a bull fight. The dancers came out, clad in a black and white vests, tight curve-hugging skirts with ruffles at the bottom, and slicked hair that was secured at the nape of their neck. But what made them believable, more than their garb, was their confidence. The way they confronted what they were dealing with dead on, with pride. With chest out, energy bursting form their finger tips, and an arrogant cock of the head, they danced with more passion and conviction than I had thought possible. The man in control of a gorgeous, huge, jet-black stallion controlled him with skilled signals from the reins he held as he walked beside the horse’s hindquarters. The stallion’s head dramatically curved in a beautiful but painful arch, muzzle grazing the muscles of his chest. He took no steps; everything was an exaggerated prance. I’ve never seen anyone control a horse by walking behind it, but the Spaniard made it look natural, as though any other way would be ludicrous. I loved when the flamenco dancers “danced” with the stallion, challenging it and being challenged back. Twists of the wrists in exchange for a graceful dressage. They would move into the horse’s space, as close as possible without touching it, affronting and daring. It was beautiful.
Then the Spaniard came out again—riding, this time—on a great white horse, who could do all sorts of wonderful tricks. He goose-stepped, he grapevined across the arena in diagonals, and he finaled with a prolonged stand on his hind legs.
After the dancers and horses, a little 14 year old boy clad in a plain but tight gray matador suit ran out with a pink cape in his hand. Out trots the cutest little baby bull you’ve ever seen (I think there was an audible awww from the crowd). At first the boy chased the bull for a while, trying to wave the cape in front of its face, and the whole thing was quite comical. Then the bull began a few timid charges. The boy’s stance was obviously newly learned, but he looked beautiful. Chest out, body tight and alert, he looked like a proud rooster. Sometimes the cape would be too close to him and he’d get gored or even mowed over, but every time he chased after the bull, pride and determination driving him hard. The fight is a desire to prove oneself to the crowd, and to have dominance over the bull. One must be the fool in this game, and neither’s pride will allow himself to be jested. The boy then exchanged his pink cape for a red one, which the bull immediately noticed. The game heated up as the bull grew angrier. I, along with everyone in the stands, began to get seriously nervous for our young matador. The bull furiously pawed the ground, savoring the anticipation before the charge. The he exploded through the cape, barreling into the thighs of the matador and throwing him to the dirt. The boy scrambled up and immediately, foolishly, challenged him right back before he was ready and got gored again. And again. Then something changed in our young boy. With our fervent, sherry-induced “oles!” his chest grew higher and he swished the cape with ease over the charging bull’s neck. The he did it again. His challenging and arrogant stare became more determined, and he was not gored again. He finished the fight amidst criers and claps from the crowd and was hoisted to the shoulders of his proud brother. Glorious thing, the pride of a Spaniard.
After the fight we went inside a quaint little farmhouse for sangria, tapas, and more flamenco dancing. As the liquid courage increased in our fanny-packing group, so did the arduous “Oles!” The wonderful arrogance of the dance gave us inspiration, and we were all dancing by the end of the night. Granted, it was the Macarena.
Upon our return to Cadiz, we geared up for a night out (starting at 1230). Caught a taxi to the strip of bars along the beach and partied with SAS people until early morning. Highlight—dancing to MJ’s “black or white” with Marcus (a black guy). Love him. He’s a bad ass.
Sun. 9/6
Headed to Sevilla today, the flamboyant city of Carmen and Don Juan, where bullfighting is still politically correct and little girls still dream of growing up to be flamenco dancers. (description courtesy of Rick Steves). Had plans to get off at 8.. knew that wasn’t going to happen. Ended up taking the 3 pm bus because it took a little while to get the boys moving. Our group was put together by Leigh Anne, and it turned out to be very… interesting. Peter (grew up in Palestine, nice enough guy), Bryan and David (ridiculous. Acted like 5th graders the whole time. All they wanted to talk about was sex. Sat down to dinner and David made a comment about his penis. Not impressed by them.), Laurel (tall, skinny, so sweet, quirky to the 9th), and Leigh Anne (my roommate, extremely uptight. I think I’m good for her, haha.). One hour 45 min bus ride to Sevilla. Checked into hostel Samay and went to a real bullfight. Gruesome, horrifying, and provocative. The moment the bull trots out in the arena, his fate is sealed. The matadors get him riled up with their capes before a man on horseback trots out with a long spear to the sound of Spanish trumpets. The horse, thank goodness, is blindfolded and has long armor on, because the bull butts and gores him almost off his feet when the man is stabbing the bull. Essentially the bull is stabbed so many times by matadors that it bleeds to death. Only 20% of Spaniards still go to bull fights now. I think the Americans there were the only ones that were clapping for the bull. Yet they do eat the bull when they’ve finished him off, it’s just that it’s torturing the bull for entertainment instead of a quick, humane death. Heart-wrenching, seeing its sides heave with strained breath and blood slowly replace the back sheen of its coat. I will never go again, but I’m glad I saw it. I think what the 14 year old boy did was a lot more heroic—when you don’t have a way of defending yourself and you face the bull is when courage (or insanity, depending on who you’re talking to) kicks in.
After the bull fight we showered and found a very expensive restaurant right on the plaza of a beautiful cathedral. We ate al fresco (“outside,” I think). Wonderfully romantic spot. It was spoiled by the 5th graders we had in tow… the penis comments wafting across the table were hard to block out, but I succeeded. In salute to the fight, I had bull’s tail for dinner, which was very tender and very good.
Following dinner we walked around Sevilla and found a very swanky outdoors bar by the river—secluded by trees and drapes. Low white couches, cool candles, not crowed. We walked by through an empty town, the prettiest I’ve ever seen. Allies might be narrow, but they were clean, and the soft light from street lamps touched almost everywhere and everything. Prettier than Florence, I think.
Mon 9/7
The next morning we set off to meander. Had a good baguette sandwich with prosciutto (very thin bacon-like slice) and olive oil, had a beautiful turquoise ring made on the street for only 5 euro (talked him down from 10), and saw SAS people all day. Didn’t go in the big cathedral—didn’t have my student ID so couldn’t get a discount. Enough cathedrals anyway. Had some fresh-squeezed orange juice and mulled around, looking in lots of shoe stores. That’s what they love in Spain… shoes and ham.
Once back in Cadiz, we had a siesta and a shower, both sorely needed. Slept on the boat.
Tues 9/8
Today had a light lunch on the boat (free) and met up with some people (Sam and Caroline) to go to a park and use the wifi. But it was 6 AM at home, so no one to Skype with except mary chandler, who was in Granada (another little Spanish town). Oh well. Then went to the beach where found a group of SASers and laid out the rest of the day. I loved Spain. I like Italy more though because the people are nicer and more willing to help. I tried to speak Spanish everywhere, but they got frustrated so easily! For the most part people were nice though. But they DON’T know English. It’s totally on you to speak Spanish or no communicado for you. All in all, Spain was a wonderful first port. Get our feet wet in Europe before we dive head-first in Morocco!
