Lisboa. There's just a lot that goes on there

Traveling as a study abroad student is a little different from going on family vacations.  You can't stay in five star hotels, or go on every tour, or enter every museum, or sample every local delicacy.  Sometimes, you have to sleep on cold linoleum airport floors. Or buses. Or questionably sanitary hostels.

But you can say Night Prayer with two new friends on a cold linoleum floor, tasting the beginnings of bonds you didn't expect.
And sleeping on buses can actually be restful, if you can curl up in fetal position and pregame sleep with a conversaton about books.
And questionably sanitary hostels leave lots of room for playing mom and cooking dinner for 13 hungry souls. They are also a great place to meet classy Portuguese women who read Paul Auster and give you advice on discotecas. 

And at the end of the day, you're still in Lisbon. Or Lisboa, as the locals call it. The capital of Portugal: a land of tiled buildings, handbags made of cork, Pateles de Nata, and abandoned, Disney World- esque castles.

Hey there Jesus Cristo, thought you were in the other Portuguese speaking country

Pastel de Nata: rich creamy caramelized custard in buttery pastry. Also the only local food we could afford. NOM.

 

Ignore these goons and check out that sunset over that hilly city.

"What's your princess like?"

Ok so I don't know this kid, but he loves Sintra just as much as I do.

Madre mio

The Portuguese are much warmer than the Spanish people--and that first impression is coming from the first hour off the plane during which we wandered rather aimlessly with terrible headaches and sleepless bodies trying to find our hostel in the multi-leveled city.  We were constantly complimented on our Spanish in a country where the writing looks like Spanish but sounds like German.  And even after all of that, the end of the weekend brought with it a surprising longing to get home--Toledo home--to speak a language that I kind of know, sleep in a bed that's starting to form itself to my body, and play MarioKart with the closest I've ever had to a little brother. 

Autumn is finally here.  It's my favorite season back home, and I'm sure that much will stay the same regardless of location.

And on the Third Day...

(or third Mass she attended in Spain)

...she finally understood the reading even though it was in Spanish. And it happened to be 1 Cor 12: 12-14. 27-31. And that happened to be the same reading she heard at Mass every Friday this past summer before she lead the congregation in psalm.  And then every feeling of unbelonging dissolved and she was left with that kind of joy that makes you want to smile until you cry. And she thought of this:

and remembered that they were just freaks like her.

 

And so were the people standing to the left and right of her. And so were the paintings of the people on the walls of the tiny church, concentrated with elegance.  And decided she was exactly where she needed to be at that moment. 

 

 

 

And then she had some Tinto de Verano and danced her little heart out as she learned to flamenco.

 

 

Brothers and sisters:
As a body is one though it has many parts,
and all the parts of the body, though many, are one body,
so also Christ.
For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one Body,
whether Jews or Greeks, slaves or free persons,
and we were all given to drink of one Spirit.

Now the body is not a single part, but many.

Now you are Christ's Body, and individually parts of it.
Some people God has designated in the Church
to be, first, Apostles; second, prophets; third, teachers;
then, mighty deeds;
then gifts of healing, assistance, administration,
and varieties of tongues.
Are all Apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers?
Do all work mighty deeds? Do all have gifts of healing?
Do all speak in tongues? Do all interpret?
Strive eagerly for the greatest spiritual gifts.

not all of these could be happy posts, right?

I almost hit the wall.  I really almost did.  We were on an evening train back to Toledo from Madrid after a weekend that involved mountains and valley of emotion and I almost hit the wall.  And that frustrates me—that it’s even possible to have negative thoughts after being blessed with the ability to experience things such as the Museo del Prado.  (Note:  The Museo del Prado.  Spanish artists, like regular Spaniards, are not afraid to express themselves.  There is something violent about the romance of Spain that comes through in every aspect of their existence.  My literature professor talks about how Spaniards, historically have the gana to fight, stemming from eight centuries of fighting and defending their land, religion, spirit, and culture from Muslim invaders. Their language always sounds angry, their gaze intense, bereft of any sort of sugar coat, even when meeting someone for the first time.  There is nothing gentle about a Spaniard.   There is nothing gentle about the intentionality of a Spanish artist.  The first painting to strike me was a 16^th century work which depicted Judas leaning over Christ carrying his cross.  A crazed, terrifying, thyroid-eyed Judas.  He was not pleasant to look at.  El Bosco’s image of hell sending chills up my spine.  All culminating at Velásquez’s Christ Crucified.  A black background.  An almost three dimensional luminous body.  A bowed head.  A throb of guilt.  Wow.  It came to me, during that visit to the Prado, that the Spanish are my kind of people.  They are not afraid to be and show exactly who they are, even if it means failing to conform to social norms.  El Bosco’s 16^th century works look more like they belong with Dali’s imaginative surrealism and El Greco’s distinct style and soft interpretation far predate his time.  At the same time, they maintain an objective beauty.  They’re all weird, but beautifully weird.  Not weird for the sake of being weird, but weird because it’s strange.  Strange and familiar at the same time.    There is a sense of feeling like I’m exactly where I need to be. But I guess that’s kind of rare.  Continue to main part of blog post). 

But it did happen—that same panicky feeling of absolute non-belonging I will always associate with my first semester of college.  Bonafide culture shock.  Even the presence of my own mother and Older Sister couldn’t help me shake it.  Who is this Denise whose confidence is shaken? Who doesn’t know her way around a city? Who can’t convey anything she wants to—her gratitude towards her host family, her excitement that her real family’s coming, her love of the beauty of Toledo—because her words are simply insufficient? Who can hardly participate in the Mass or reflect upon the homily? Not the Denise I know—and that’s terrifying.

 It took a few things to help my frustrated stomach settle.  Laughter and talk of love and life and the future over a couple pitchers of sangria may have helped.  The best octopus I have ever tasted—Pulpo de la Gallena—induced a couple tranquil breathes.    Having a couple bottles of water and realizing it wasn’t, in fact, impending depression but rather week-long  dehydration (water fountains aren’t a thing in Spain)  causing me to crave sleep as if I hated my waking hours—yeah that helped.  And then, finally, just what I needed—stumbling upon a perpetual adoration chapel.  Walking in, kneeling, bowing my head.  Looking up ten minutes later to see embroidered on the mantel on which the Blessed Sacrament reted: “Yo estoy con vosotros todos los dias” I am with you always.

It’s good to know that Spanish God is just about exactly the same as English speaking God. 

 

I mean, just imagine it in real life. Actually, don't. It wouldn't do it justice.

silence, or close to it

"¿Esta muy ruido aqui, si?" It's so noisy here, right?

My host mom scrunched up her face and closed the doors to the balcony.

I smiled and nodded back in half agreement before realizing that I didn't agree at all.  It wasn't noise at all that I was hearing.  Maybe it's because my Spanish-processing mind hasn't yet developed enough agility to navigate its way through muffled crowd talk, but the sounds of dinnerware clatter and families enjoying each others company sounded almost musical to me (the fact that they mingled with a lively version of "My Way" on the accordian could have also contributed).  It's like how studying while listening to music in a different language has roughly the same effect as listening to instrumentals.  Your mind resists the immeasurable number of temptations to imbibe in processig or exercising or trying to get something out of everything that's being thrown at it.  Instead, it resigns.  Relaxes.  Breathes. Stops trying to learn something.  And in that resignation finds something worth more than all the stimuli could offer--beauty. 

Comprehension is usually a gift, but sometimes a curse.

There was a moment of silence this morning in my Writers of the Spanish Empire and Decline class.  It was brought to a close with my professor's reflective thoughts, which I hope I understood completely.  He gestured out the window and asked us to listen to what we had just heard.  No ambulences or sirens or cellphones or horns or cars.  What we hear on the streets of Toledo today is what one could hear in the 13th century. 

Me fascina.

this is the sound of settling

The thing about Toledo, Spain is that it's real. And I'm living here for a semester. No really...

...I'm living in a magic princess kingdom this semesester.

 

In Spain, they speak Spanish.  You know what's hard? Small talk.  You know what's even harder? Small talk with a family with whom you're living for a semester--in Spanish.  When you've only been taking it for two years.  And have just signed a agreement saying that you're only going to speak to fellow students and locals until December.  So there's that. 

 

 

But it really is helping me appreciate the value of mastering a language.  I love learning words, even in English, but when I learn a new word or phrase in Spanish and finally use it correctly it's not pride or fascination I feel--it's relief. This word will help me tell someone else what I need or what I did today or how I'm feeling or, eventually at least, how they make me feel.  Language barrier is a real thing; you can almost physically feel it's constricting, encapsulating power.  Wearing it down allows you to breathe a little more deeply.  One word at a time. 

 

Cerveza means beer.  Sometimes, it helps you speak Spanish better.  The bartenders at O'Brians or Enebro or Legendario most likely have a little more faith in my Spanish speaking skills than, say, my teachers or host parents or fellow students. 

 

Teachers--ah that's right. I'm studying here this semester. Granted, it will be a little different from school in the past.  I'm not taking one science class.  In fact, I'm not taking one class towards either of my major requirements.  I have one class on Monday and it starts at 4:55 pm.  Also, there is no peanut butter to take spoonfulls of when I'm awake studying in the wee hours of the morning.  None. In the entire country.  But even getting into the groove of things is helping make me feel a little more at home.  Well, maybe "at home" is even too strong of a phrase at this point--I guess it's more like finding tiny things parallel to my American life that at least put a smile on my face.  I'm running again  (the picture above was taken yesterday during my run whatttt).  I go to Mass in an overwhelmingly beautiful establishment.  I relax with my family on Sundays.  The Fresh Prince of Bel Air is still funny in Spanish.  Things are pretty much the same, no?

 

I mean, no.

 

But as my incredibly adorable 4-year old host brother said yesterday in reference to completing a Toy Story puzzle, "¡Es difícil, pero será posible!" It's hard, but it's possible. 

 

Just the inspiration I needed.  

the red lights mean you're leaving

Greenville-Spartanburg airport for the second time in less than a month.  Not much has changed since I began frequenting this quaint establishment since the early 1990s, except for the addition of free Wi-Fi (who knew) and a discount airline (which is kind of a big deal).  The decor looks like it was modeled after a jacket that Will Smith sported on the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and can only be decribed as #bacon (actually that doesn't clarify much. I may explain at some point, but probably won't because sometimes that description makes people angry.)

Not much has changed at all.  Not even the lump-in-throaty feeling I always got as a kid when leaving this place for a month, Manila-bound.  This is the fifth time I've left here, knowing I won't be home for an entire semester, and I still can't shake it.  Maybe that's a good thing.  In fact, I hope I always do get a little choked up. 

Irish music is playing for some bizarre reason, reminding me that I'm not in Dublin pre-gaming for the Emerald Isle Classic with some people I kind of like, which is exactly where I want to be.  But I'm headed somewhere, and there's half-smile on my face because of it.