Semana diez: Tu guía y fotógrafa local

¡Hola a todos y todas y feliz miércoles! Delia Bousquet, guía y fotógrafa local, aquí, lista para compartir las aventuras de la semana… y había muchas.
Week one in Sevilla is down and we have three weeks and two findes left, which is not fair, and I find myself wondering every single day how I can fit all of Spain in two checked bags (pending purchase of the second bag) and a backpack (spoiler: lots of books and colorful pants). Probably not the best feeling to have every time I go to the store or am planning a trip, but as I wrote last week, I’m going all out on these adventures. De hecho, this might have been one of the most jam-packed weeks I’ve had, filled with many side quests and journeys. But fear not, I’ve dragged people along on most of these adventures because I have somehow become the local guide, facilitating translation, tours, life hacks, and plenty of advice-sharing. We’ve covered everything from time zones and Spain’s complicated history with a particular dictator wanting to have the same time zone as a bad German guy, the Romans (!), how to order a café (con leche), rebajas, arcos góticos, lunch as the biggest meal of the day, and walking (not sure what I meant by this one in the notes app). Definitivamente, a full-circle moment when I got to introduce my new friends to the magic of Mercadona, showing them my favorite snacks and the wonders of the juice machine (which they found as cool as I did).

Why did we go to Mercadona? Because post–day one of class, our homework was to bring a “un objeto comestible” to the clase, and me, living with a host family that serves me three giant meals a day, didn’t really have anything to bring. What was my prof expecting? Me to rob the pantry? I mean, I’m sure my host mom would have provided me with something, but I just never see her and we don’t really talk much. Don’t get me wrong, she is super nice, but with the whole energy conservation situation and odd piso set-up with every room divided, with not really a living room situation, our paths don’t really cross, as she is always in her room and me in mine, and the doors must stay closed. And as I stated last week, I get solo meals in the kitchen, especially prepared for me. I seriously don’t understand when she and the rest of the adult children are eating. They must be, right? Fuera de la casa? I honestly don’t understand what is going on. But I really can’t complain because when we do talk (mostly via WhatsApp or when she tells me my lunch/dinner is ready) she is super nice. I have acquired many apodos (nicknames) already like Cielo (sky) and hija (daughter).

Yes, I’m a little disappointed that I’m missing out on that language immersion and practice, and perhaps I may be overcompensating for it in our class and in public. Well, maybe overcompensating isn’t the right word because, quite frankly, I could teach this class. Por ejemplo, did you know that fire cooks food so it has less bacteria? Or that cooking is altering food? Or that olive oil is made from olives? Now, are these one-word answers to the prof’s ridiculously simple questions helping the español? Probably not. But whatever, I’m having a good time in Spain, and if going to this hour-and-45-minute class every day minus the findes is what it takes, I guess it is what it is. Apparently, I’m not doing a good job of hiding my boredom from the rest of the class, though, because I was discussing this matter with one of my friends, and he told me, “Yeah, every time I look over, you look so annoyed and like you’re about to fall asleep.” My bad; that’s probably why I’m getting the vibe the prof doesn’t like me.

And did I mention I had to buy a 26-euro book for this class? I kid you not, after our first class on Thursday, our prof walked us down to this bookstore and told us we all needed to buy this book… his book. Ok, whatever… considering we have four essays about the book. I kid you not, the book has the same information as the class. Almost word for word. Making this purchase extremely frustrating. I get it: if you write the book a class is based on, of course, it’s hard to have something different to say, but then don’t make us buy the book. Had the assignment been “write a two-page summary of class on Thursday,” life would’ve been fine, but the “write a summary on chapter one,” where I then had to read 16 pages of the same nonsense (presented in an even more disorganized manner than the class) and then write the two-page summary, is ridículo. And it’s not even an essay; it’s a summary. Like, what are we in? Elementary school? Técnicamente, he did say we could write some opinions in it… but having just given all of vosotros (you all… Note: English really needs this pronoun) my opinion, I’m pretty sure it would not be appreciated. Another—I guess call it “fun”—aspect of this book is it is written for Americans, with some questionable Spanish, complete with a fun little glossary at the end of the chapter, which conveniently has the words not in order of appearance but alphabetical order.

The class itself, like the book, at the moment is definitely feeling more like middle-school Spanish with an emphasis on the vocabulario. Sure, I need it because my ability to talk about food in Spanish is extremely limited, but the reality is that fuera de España, I’m not going to need it, as none of my work in Princeton or in my career where I perhaps might need Spanish again is surrounding food. However, I am getting some great words for the palabra de la semana, like tiquismiquis—aka my brother Tyler. I, on the other hand, am the complete opposite and, as you’ll hear later with my finde, have been seeking out some super odd and unique food in Spain. I am still on the lookout for cow tongue and some kind of cheek (I think it was pig? but honestly I don’t remember). Probably not a good combo, considering one of the girls here who I’m friends with is vegan, and I may have done a little too much talking about wanting to eat baby cow tongue… followed by my question: “Wait, who here was the vegan?”.

Anyway, this first essay is due today (or I guess yesterday for vosotros y vosotras because this should be coming out on miércoles), and it’s written, but I’m currently procrastinating the grammar check and revisions. Por un lado, I’m feeling like I should just submit it as is because these grades are not going back to Princeton, and the odds I fail this ridiculous class are very low (I kid you not, our class assignment today was drinking shots of olive oil… yuck), but por otro lado, it is another chance to practice grammar and whatnot since, unlike in Barcelona, grammar counts. Ugh.

Crazy how my whole perspective on Spanish has changed in one year. Last July I would’ve told you gramática y ortografía are everything, but thank God I don’t have any in-class essays in the near future because, with doing so much typing on the computer, I’ve quickly forgotten spelling and gotten lazy with my accents. I can’t spell in English either, and probablemente my spelling in Spanish is better. My English spelling is really bad. Not my brother’s level of bad, but still bad. Something to work on if I ever end up as a professor because I refuse to write on any type of board in front of people due to this… we’ll call it an issue. My grammar is terrible too; I still don’t understand how to use commas, which definitely finds its way into my Spanish essays. I kid you not, there was a paper I wrote in an in-class Spanish essay where 95 percent of the problems were just commas. But I feel like points shouldn’t be taken off because I can’t use a comma in English or Spanish.

If you think about it, this is probably the best I’ll ever be at grammar and spelling in Spanish in my life because from here, it’s all elective classes in Spanish, not actual “learning the language” classes. I’m sure grammar counts for something, but that’s what spellcheck is for, right?

Pues nada (I’m practicing my discourse connectors, lol… I still have my list from Spanish that follows me everywhere when papers are lacking connections), how one writes two pages on fire and using leaves to eat baffles me still, but fear not, that is what our discourse connectors and long—oh, what are they called… see, the grammar is going out the window—relative clauses are for. Just keep modifying the nouns until you’re at two pages, right?

In all seriousness, I think my grammar (en español) is not bad and I could definitely draw you a beautiful chart—or perhaps mapa would be a better word for it—of all the tenses or really any topic. Trust me, before the exam, I’m the one you want to be friends with, with the ridiculous amount of flashcards and maps.

Now, kind of related but on the opposite side of Spanish class, there’s something I need to address, and it’s sociolinguistics (one of my favorite topics). I have no idea what is going on here in Sevilla. Perhaps it is the heat, or the small number of us, or that we’ve created some tiny language community (fun fact: many linguists go study languages in prisons for this reason), as there’s a lot of English happening outside of class, but there is a linguistic revolution (I’m sure there’s a more academic term for this) going on that no one seems to have a problem with except me. Which is fair because, two months ago, I had an annoyance with paper size, así que obviamente, I’m a little too observant.

Básicamente, la situación is that there is one girl in our class who, con mucha (emphasis on the mucha) frecuencia, likes to say “I fear.” For example: “I fear I do not like tomatoes.” Or, “I fear I must go home.” Now, one person having a catchphrase—or, more academically correct, a “hedge”—is fine. I certainly have picked up a few in Spain that I can’t explain why, but all of a sudden, I just started saying them a lot, like algo así or cosas así, which both translate to “something like that.” I kid you not, at the end of every sentence, I was finishing with algo así.

On the English front, I’ve noticed within the blogs, I keep saying “I mean.” Both of these, and the “I fear,” serve similar linguistic purposes… I think. I’ve only really read one book on this, titled Wordslut: The Feminist Guide to Taking Back the English Language (btw, great book). The purpose is to soften opinions or ideas. Instead of saying, “I don’t like tomatoes,” one could say, “I fear I don’t like tomatoes,” and it softens the opinion. Or, “I mean, I’ve never really liked tomatoes.” Or, Me encantan las ensaladas con tomates, aceitunas, queso fresco y cosas así. The así stuff more avoids details to soften the opinion, which is somewhat different than a precursor to the opinion as with “I mean” and “I fear.”

Don’t vosotrxs (I’ve been trying super hard to avoid “you guys” since reading that book… and doing so much work with inclusive language in Spanish… and am severely lacking a pronoun in English) worry, because I did inform all my friends of this—because the “I fear” spread like wildfire. Every 15 seconds someone would be saying “I fear” (me included, I fear 😊), and it was driving me absolutely insane! This little chat didn’t help the situation, and I’m not qualified in any way to give an analysis on what the heck is going on (A Very Good Spanish Documentary has this title), but it’s interesting.

In other linguistic news, my English is getting really messed up. As you’ll see in the Mercadona video—well, most of you won’t because y’all don’t speak Spanish—in a full-on English conversation, my brain decided that pan is an English word. This happened many times walking around Mercadona, where I had this barra de pan en mano and we were talking about it, and I looked down at the bread labeled pan and, obviously, pan is an English word. Somehow my brain decided pan in English equates to pan in Spanish (which obviously it doesn’t—pan = bread). I don’t think I can recommend the experience of walking around Mercadona speaking in English while saying pan in the most English way possible, because pan in Spanish is more like pahn, with a vowel sound almost as open as in pon—but not quite.

As fun as being the local guía of Mercadona was, I can’t say my professor was thrilled with the idea of me bringing 50-cent pan from Mercadona to class—bread that, the day later when this class was held, was, quote, “as hard as a baseball bat.” Look, for a stupid class assignment to talk about food, I’m not going to break the bank, especially considering I wasn’t going to actually eat this bread because, like I said, three giant meals a day here.

It was more of a symbol—of Mercadona, and the hecho that se puede comprar pan por 50 céntimos. But no, I had to get the lecture on shopping local or whatever. But fear not, I had all the right answers to the questions. Where is Mercadona from? Valencia. What do I buy at Mercadona? Why do I like Mercadona? Thank God we didn’t get into how many Mercadonas I’ve seen (we’re at 32, btw)… but my friends all seem to think it’s super cool I’ve been counting. And they may or may not have started their own counts too.

So, all in all, I may have started a fight with my professor in the middle of class about Mercadona, but it’s clearly the superior supermercado. No Día, no El Jamón, no other supermarket with odd names will ever be superior because everything you need is in Mercadona. Plus, in a world with so much poverty, is it really bad to be selling 50-cent bread? They should start handing it out on the streets when it’s a day old and no one has bought it. But I guess the bread is still “processing” or “cooking” or—idk, really—doing something in your stomach because it’s cheap.

Fear not, bread connoisseurs, because I point-blank asked where one should go get bread in Sevilla, to which I was hit with the most elementary-Spanish-class answer ever: “One buys bread at a panadería, fish at a pescadería, meat at a carnicería.” No kidding. So I persisted: “Do you have a favorite panadería in Sevilla?” Finally, we ended with an answer. And it’s on the docket to visit later this week in all this tiempo libre I have. Because I’m definitely NOT reading that book. Next chapter? La comida de tres culturas. I’m sure tomorrow’s class is going to start with, “Did you know that in Spain there were three cultures?” Not to burst anyone’s bubble, but I kind of lived in Toledo (la ciudad de tres culturas) for a month, and in Barcelona, once again, got “the talk” exploring art from the Edad Media in Al-Andalus. Thank God we’re finally past the Romans! I mean, seriously, someone hire me because I’m a professional at this point—both from these three classes and personal travel. Something my mom hasn’t exactly enjoyed in our phone conversations, with me explaining all the Spain lore.

The History of Spain — in Treinta Segundos

Tribes everywhere—Celtics, Iberians, all doing their tribal thing. Romans roll in, set up shop from Tarragona, build a ton of roads, aqueducts, and theaters, and force everyone to speak Latin (thanks, that’s why we have Spanish).

Then—Visigoths! Big Germanic energy. Rule for about 300 years until, surprise twist—Muslims sweep up from North Africa in 711 and set up Al-Andalus, ruled first from Córdoba (fancy libraries, running water, big brains), then Sevilla, and finally Granada. They hang on until 1492, when the Reyes Católicos (Isabel and Ferdinand, who are literally still lying around in Granada) kick them out.

Same year, Isabel funds Cristóbal Colón to sail to the “Indias” (spoiler: he did not find India). Also Same year—bye to the musulmanes and judíos, thanks to the Catholic obsession.
Enter the Renaissance: Spain goes full Pokémon—gotta catch ’em all! Thanks to their daughter Juana “la Loca” marrying a Habsburg, Spain suddenly owns chunks of Italy, the Netherlands, the Americas, and more. Throw in the Counter-Reformation to keep everyone Catholic and stop those pesky Protestants.
Fast-forward—Napoleon is like, “just passing through to get to Portugal,” and Spain’s like, “sure,” then—whoops—he takes over. Spaniards say NOPE, start guerrilla war, push him out.
Then—colonies start breaking up with Spain (“It’s not you, it’s independence”). Cue political chaos: First Republic (yay democracy!), dictatorship (boo), Second Republic (yay again!)—too much, too fast—Civil War (1936–39). Lots of death, mass graves, horror. Franco takes over (dictatorship—again, boo).
Finally—Franco dies (yay), Constitution of 1978, democracy, and… here we are.
And time.

I think I have it down. I’ll spare you the art lecture that can accompany that blurb—much less interesting.

Speaking of personal travel, I think I’ve ranted enough about my class (though I still have some left for you).

Thursday was our first day of class, and I arrived late. Not “swoop in the door thirty seconds late” late. A whole ten minutes late. Not the first impression I was hoping to make. I do have good reasoning though. Well… not really, because there’s no excuse unless you walk in with a broken leg or a stolen passport. Google told me it took 25 minutes to get to class. I decided 45 minutes before class would be plenty of time. Unfortunately, I got these numbers mixed up the morning of class and thought 30 minutes would be enough time to get to class, which technically it should’ve been.

However, the public transportation in Sevilla is terrible. Unlike in Barcelona, where the metro comes every, I don’t know, four-ish minutes, the tram and, I believe, the metro here come every 10–15 minutes. So when I watched the tram leave the station from across the road while I was waiting for the crosswalk to turn green, I was in trouble. Another large issue I have with the transport system is that I have to pay per journey. While in Barcelona I paid 22 euros for a month of unlimited travel, I have already put 45 euros on this Sevilla card because I went through 10 euro in a week.

I did make it to class eventually, and now I leave for class an entire hour early. It’s a grab bag—sometimes I’m 15 minutes early, other times 30. Pero, it doesn’t really matter because, like I said last week, I found the best coffee place of the entire trip on day two in Sevilla, so I’m very content arriving early to go get a €1,90 café con leche para llevar. They even recognize me every morning!

I don’t even know how to describe this liquid gold, but it is unlike any coffee I’ve had in my entire life. It has a rich flavor profile with so many different notes—flavors (one being just the most subtle taste of chocolate). Not sure how to describe it properly. It’s sweet, but also rich. Honestly, it doesn’t even taste like coffee. It could be an entirely different beverage in itself. But it’s magical. It’s great compared to the coffee at the casa, which comes from a whole new brewing method: a moka pot. I still don’t entirely understand the concept, nor have I researched or cared enough to find out, but the coffee it produces has been… interesting. Not the worst (reserved for a latte from Starbucks) but certainly not anywhere near the best.

Is the caffeine getting me through Vocab 101? No… but it is helping me get all those participation points and come up with some outlandish questions for the prof, who says he wants us to ask more questions, but when I try, he seems annoyed. Perhaps that is what happens when one asks about what hour the Romans were eating lunch. But to be fair, he told us what time they were eating dinner (4 pm!), so it only seemed like the next possible thing to know was what time they had lunch. 12 pm was not a satisfying answer for me. Follow-up question for my next class will have to be: if the Romans were eating at 4 pm, why are the Spaniards having dinner at 10 pm? Was it that German time switch?

Post-class, we went to the centro comercial, where I went on a shopping spree. Not for myself—I only walked out with a €6 swimsuit. But I also ended up with Christmas in July: Christmas gifts for my mother and a grad gift for my brother.

Post-mall, I also had the fun experience of going to the salón de uñas (nail salon). Which was fun (and relatively cheap), but I failed to take into account a few things before getting a full set (like longer fake nails) done. I forgot how hard it is to type and do things with long nails. Is it possible? Yes. I typed one of the longest—and I’d argue best—papers in high school with long nails right before prom. My senior year, I had my nails done probably close to five months because once you get them done, your natural nails are just so dead, and it’s a pain to remove the nail versus getting them filled a bunch of times. I did end up having to remove them for rowing, but it was fun while they lasted.

It is very challenging remembering how to type with them, and this blog has been a struggle filled with so many typos and just overall hand fatigue. But we’re getting through it, and I think they’re fun… plus a chance to practice some new vocab, right? That’s the great part of Spain—you’re living the textbook in real life. I remember all those chapters with the odd vocab words trying to simulate everyday activities like “at the doctor” (very thankful I haven’t had to use this one yet) or “the environment.”

If you think about it, who gets to be the person that decides something is important enough for it to be in the textbook? Like there certainly wasn’t a “going to the nail salon” chapter, or “arguing with customer service at Atocha after your train arrived late” chapter. But these chapters are crucial because they give you the words for everything to live life. If you don’t have a word for something, does it even exist? In the land of in-class essays and tests, no. If you don’t have the word and know how to spell it correctly (with accents), it doesn’t exist.

If I were at home, I would’ve pulled out some of my old Spanish books from high school to give some wild examples, but all I’m remembering is that one chapter about going to the doctor, one about camping (and let’s face it, I’m not camping in Spain unless I’m stuck on the side of the road lost), and a bunch of weird skits we did where me and one of my best friends from high school, Lucas Canvan, would rotate killing each other off as part of the script. The doctor would give the wrong medication, the secret agent would be looking for the melatonin dealer, the ex-boyfriend robbed a bank, someone got the coronavirus. That was a big one. I remember basically doing every single project my first two years of Spanish about COVID. Need to practice the subjunctive? Espero que no haya el coronavirus en el futuro. Commands? Lávate las manos. I’m pretty sure Señora Forgue told me I had to stop writing about COVID, but that was around the time we got to the camping unit and I set up a tent in the middle of our classroom.

No judging because these beauties were pulled from the archives aka my freshman year of high school. Fun fact: I actually met Pablo (one of my high school Spanish teachers) the day the camping video was filmed. He flung open the door and told us no one would ever say ojalá followed by que.

Friday’s class was about the food we brought in. Somehow, the picos (basically like small, rock-hard breadsticks) and a manzana won the unofficial contest. (Like seriously? It’s bad bread and an apple—basic beyond belief.)

We also visited some ruins from—yep, you guessed it—the Romans! We went to the Antiquarium, where they used to pack fish in salt to preserve them or something like that. Bright side: class was cut short because we had a required weekend trip to Jerez and Cádiz!

Now, how one can require a bunch of students to go to a winery seems a little sketchy to me, especially considering this wasn’t part of our actual class (though our professor came along).

We saw Jerez via a guided tour, though personally I prefer the self-guided method with a lot more walking and getting lost. Then we got to our hotel, unloaded all the “luggage” (people brought full suitcases—no joke), and had one hour to find lunch.

Here’s the issue: walking to a restaurant takes 15 minutes each way, and no one in Spain eats lunch in under 30 minutes. The supermarket was the only viable option. Desafortunadamente, there was no Mercadona, and we ended up at El Jamón.

Last time I go there. For a store named El Jamón, the ham and cheese selection was severely disappointing. Ironically, the worst jamón I’ve had on this trip came from El Jamón.

But life is about those pequeñas victorias, because I did find the official Cheetos! Apparently, the ball-shaped ones don’t count as Cheetos or something.

I also had the fun pleasure of getting sent an amazing picture from Gorka—back at Gorka’s Place again, with the fish situation from last week—while biting into the worst sandwich of my life.

Maybe it was my fault. I got “creative” and bought the variety cheese pack. But really, it was the flavorless jamón and gross bread that did me in.

But yay for Cheetos (corn-flavored, no actual cheese involved) and orange Fanta. Clearly, I’m being super healthy here in Spain.

But food was necessary, because after our break, we were escorted off to the obligatory winery. Unlike last time, we didn’t get a two-hour explanation of every piece of equipment. This time, we got 1.5 hours about barrels. And a ten-second train ride. I actually think the equipment tour was better.

Sin embargo, the tour was in Spanish, so I can’t complain. That’s the beauty of a second language—you can never really waste your time, because any listening is good listening.

This winery was way more “branded,” I guess you’d call it, than the last one. It was mostly staged photos and rooms. Definitely a step down from the equipment extravaganza in Barcelona.

Did I need to see the little glass of wine with a ladder in it, designed to attract mice so they could drink it? No. Not really.
But I did. So now you can too.

I know what you’re thinking: Delia, tell us about the wines!

Well. The tasting lasted all of 20 minutes, and like the last place, we got very little information about the actual wine. Maybe that’s standard practice? I’m certainly not qualified to be critiquing wineries at this stage in my life, but if I owned one, I’d walk customers through it. Like:

Deep garnet hue with medium-plus viscosity. Aromas of blackcurrant, dried fig, and subtle eucalyptus, supported by secondary notes of vanilla and clove from 12 months in French oak. On the palate, full-bodied with firm, well-integrated tannins, moderate acidity, and a long, structured finish of dark fruit and earthy minerality.

But no. They couldn’t even give us three sentences about the first—and supposedly most famous—wine we tried. I can give you two words: rubbing alcohol. Possibly the worst liquid I’ve ever consumed. 0/10 stars.

The second wine? Glorious. Best I’ve ever had. Though I’m not sure it actually qualifies as wine since it came in a wine bottle but had ice and seemed more like a cocktail situation.

After the winery, we hit up the pool and then dinner.

Dinner, however, was downtown, and our hotel was very much not. Our professor and the CIEE rep told us not even to try walking and to ask the front desk for a taxi.

After one of the girls jokingly told the one solo boy in our class to “man up” and go ask, the front desk hit him with: “You have to WhatsApp them.”

He came back with a business card in hand, looking extremely bewildered. He must’ve gone back and forth with us for a solid five minutes, asking, “What should I write?”

I offered plenty of message suggestions. None were taken. Eventually, I just said, “Give me the phone.” I went back and forth with the taxi WhatsApp bot—who, frankly, was useless.

Thirty minutes later, we still had no taxi (despite ordering two). I canceled one and decided to walk the 20 minutes to town with a few girls while the others finally got a taxi.

You’d think from how they were talking that the walk was along a highway. Nope. Most normal walk ever. Residential buildings, sidewalks. Local guide Delia says: take the walk. You have two feet—use them.

The restaurant/bar we went to was highly rated on Google and had items like cow tongue and some other organ I can’t remember but thought was cool. I settled on the bull’s tail, labeled a local favorite. So obviously, I had to try it.

Turns out it was kind of a pot roast situation. Fantastic. Highly recommend. I don’t know if it was an actual tail, but who cares—it was good.

One great aspect of Spain is that it really is a country for talkers. I love a good sobremesa—long chats about literally anything.

This particular one was full of stories from a girl in our group who has three majors and two minors at the University of Iowa—all in different languages. So cool. I loved hearing about her language journey.

I think I’m at the point where I’m ready to start learning another, but it’s hard to choose. I never even got to choose Spanish—it was more of a “you must take Spanish” situation at Griswold Middle School.

French could be fun, considering part of my family is supposedly from Canada and my last name is French. But Italian could also be cool. Or maybe something completely different—like Basque. (Because why not?)

I do think if I were to learn Basque, I’d have to turn it into a little project. I’ve talked to Spaniards from all over the country, and they all say they’d love to learn Basque but that there’s no good Duolingo-style resource.

Do I have any clue how to make a language learning app? Absolutely not. But there has to be someone at Princeton who speaks Basque… or knows someone who does. And someone who can code.

And just like that— the final part of the life plan.

The piso in Bilbao with the big balcony and super comfy couch perfect for a good siesta. A passive-income language-learning app that casually preserves and teaches indigenous languages (plus Basque—is Basque considered indigenous?). Meanwhile, running a side hustle in the U.S., maybe with my brother—who’s double majoring in business—running a cafeteria next to playgrounds, while I full-time work on research and, I guess, teach. (We’ll see how the teaching thing works out… might get boring fast.)

All that’s missing is maybe a pet (though I’m not sure how a dog or cat would handle frequent international travel) and, of course, un novio.

When I mentioned some of these plans to friends from Seville and during my “junior year study abroad” brainstorming session (which is still up in the air between Oxford, Spain, and Australia), one of the girls told me about a program in San Sebastián where they teach you Basque. That could be cool, though my only hesitation is that I’ve already been to so many of the big sites in Spain that I’m not sure there’s enough left to see.

That said, I do have a road trip on my bucket list: starting in northern Portugal and driving across northern Spain. That would be amazing—especially since I never made it up to Galicia or some of the other provinces up there.

After dinner that night, we walked around town, and a few people from our group decided to ride the carousel. I would love to tell you that decision was alcohol-fueled, but considering they shared one sangría between the three of them, I don’t think that was the case. They did look like they were having fun, though—which I would hope, considering it was 9 euros for that ride.

Speaking of sangría, we need to address the elephant in the room.

Sangría = ultimate tourist drink in Spain. Every single Spanish professor I’ve had says the same thing: “Don’t drink the sangría, blah blah blah.”

Did I try a sip of it anyway? Of course I did. And honestly? I agree with the professors. It’s literally just cheap, low-quality wine drowned in sugar. If you want sugar, go buy a soda. Sangría is kind of gross—the sugar might even be stronger than the alcohol.

Maybe the sangría helped, though, because on our walk after the carousel, I secretly tried to lead the group back to the hotel together. We made it pretty close—until three of them spotted a bar and decided to stay. It was already midnight, and we had to be up by nine, so the rest of us headed back and called it a night.

Saturday morning, we were greeted by the hotel breakfast buffet and a sign identifying us as The American Students.

I kid you not: I walk down to breakfast, and a staff member goes (in Spanish), “Are you with THE American students?”

How was I supposed to know if I was the American student? There were other students at the hotel! I said yes (I was right, lol), but not exactly something I want to be advertising.

We headed down to Cádiz, where we walked through town and—surprise!—went to a cathedral.

Inside, our professor asked, “Has anyone been to a cathedral before?” and I, of course, said, “Sí, muchas.”

Naturally, he followed up with, “Where?” So I went off listing basically every Spanish city I’ve been to (kind of embarrassing). Then I had to explain to everyone why this cathedral wasn’t Gothic—no pointed arches, no massive windows—and was actually Baroque.

I don’t think I’d ever seen a Baroque cathedral before, so that was cool, though we definitely spent way too much time inside.

We also got to climb up the tower, which surprisingly had no stairs—just one long, spiraling ramp. And no, a ramp is not easier. Stairs would’ve been more efficient. That ramp just went on forever.

The view, though, was worth it. Cádiz is gorgeous, even with its own little “Havana,” which I had zero interest in visiting after all my research this past semester on Cuba and the Cuban diaspora.

Then, the beach—with my brand-new towel. (Because you can’t go to the beach without a towel.)

The towel had a great message: “Every summer has a story.”

This summer probably has the most stories of any summer of my life—maybe even the most I’ll ever get out of a single summer. (I hope that’s not the case, but still.)

But my other summers have stories too:

The summer I was a camp supervisor managing 15 staff, organizing 300+ person events, shepherding 100 kids through a giant casino (to get to a basketball game), chasing misbehaving kids through parking lots, and making LOTS of parent calls.
The summer I trained for the USA Triathlon Long Course National Championship and won it, while also road-tripping cross-country with my family and grandma in a tiny RV for 2.5 weeks.
The summer I went to Vermont for a two-week class (those wellbeing credits, am I right?) and we literally ran out of food, sat alone in the woods for six hours during bear season (“for the spiritual wellbeing, of course”), and went on a three-hour hike in pouring rain.

Good times.

And that’s just the past three summers. You haven’t even heard about Alaska, my heroic lifeguard saves, or my “innovative” teaching style during swim lessons. (You won’t find a more detail-oriented, overly-invested instructor anywhere.)

The beach in Cádiz, unfortunately, follows the pattern: it comes with a story. A very red and very painful story, which I’m still enjoying four days later. I don’t even know what went wrong. I put on sunscreen, and we were only there for about two hours.

The Cádiz beach itself was pretty—not Costa Brava pretty, but still pretty. My one complaint? The sheer aggression of the waves. Full-on attacking-you-type waves. I haven’t seen waves like this since Playa Grande in Costa Rica with another high school class. (And honestly, the Costa Rica waves were bigger.) That being said, not a lot of swimming happened in Cádiz.

This officially marks the end of my Spain beach experiences. No more beaches. Eight out of ten times, they end in a sunburn. Plus, it’s so boring. I checked the clock about fifty times waiting for the bus. Who enjoys just sitting out in the hot sun, covered in sand, while slowly roasting? Not me. But you already know my travel style: walk until you can’t walk anymore.

And that was exactly the energy I brought into Sunday with a bright and early solo trip to Granada, starting at 8 a.m.

I know, I know—8 a.m. doesn’t sound early. But the bus station is all the way across town, and Sevilla public transportation is… terrible. I left the house an hour and a half early, just to be safe, and still had to try three different methods of transport. Google Maps lied to me multiple times: “Take this bus” (never came), “Walk ten minutes and get on this other bus” (nope), “Take the metro” (closed). Aggravating!

The bus ride to Granada was beautiful—not Andorra-bus or Bilbao-flight beautiful, but still, mountains and olive fields make for a nice view. Time flew because I spent it reading for an essay I had to write. (Yes, I hauled the book around all day. Not fun.)

On the Granada docket: The Alhambra and La Capilla Real—the Royal Chapel that houses the remains of Isabel and Fernando, a.k.a. Los Reyes Católicos, a.k.a. the queen I once had to write a whole essay about in the first person. (I’ll never forget 1492. Great party trick—along with the fact that I can label 30 Spanish cities on a map. Who says Americans don’t know geography? Just don’t ask me to label anything north or east of France, or south of Spain. But in all seriouness the amount of times I’ve pulled out 1492 in class the past few days is crazy. The prof has started calling me 1492!)

The walk to the Alhambra took two hours (Google swore it should’ve been one, but apparently Google doesn’t consider that there’s a mountain involved). When I finally arrived, you’d think it was still an active military fortress with all the security. Every five seconds, someone wanted to see my passport. Which, of course, I didn’t have. We had to settle for a U.S. driver’s license because apparently a copy of a U.S. passport “doesn’t count.” Why they needed my passport to look at old walls, I couldn’t tell you.

The Alhambra itself? Amazing. A full-circle moment, since I gave a whole presentation on it fall semester—so seeing all the Muslim-influenced architecture in person was very cool.

Outside of the Islamic architecture, though, I had no idea what I was looking at. But it was pretty, and I figured I could always Google the details later. I had places to be, and casually strolling through the Alhambra was not part of the plan.

Pro tip: Leave at least three hours for the Alhambra. My aggressive 1.5-hour visit involved a lot of speed walking. In my defense, I didn’t realize it was a whole park with multiple buildings connected by long walks. I thought it was just one building: in-and-out.

Still, it was worth it—a photographer’s dream. I’ve always joked about a Spain wedding, and while I doubt you can rent out the Alhambra (though, if Bezos can rent out Venice, who knows?), this would be the place: gorgeous mountains, endless arches (weddings love arches), flowers, amazing food, and, oh yeah, a giant palace-fortress.

But fine, you could probably “settle” for a nice little Granada wedding at some overlook or fancy restaurant.

One funny thing about speed-traveling through places without reading the signs is that sometimes you take photos of things that later turn out to be… historically awkward.

For example: I was in this gorgeous garden outside a palace, snapping away, when I overheard a tour guide explaining to her group that the garden was built in honor of Franco. You know, that Franco. And yeah… suddenly the garden felt a lot less beautiful.

No funny stories from my time in the Royal Chapel—home to the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabel—nor photos, because photography wasn’t allowed. But it was incredible. Not only did I get to see their tomb, but also Isabel’s actual crown. I stood in front of it for a solid five minutes in pure awe. Fear not, though—I did get a postcard with a photo of it since I couldn’t take my own.

By this point, it was around 4:30 p.m., and I still hadn’t eaten lunch. I was starving. Luckily, I found a restaurant that was still serving its menú del día (probably for Americans who think 4:30 is “early dinner”).

While there, I ended up talking to a British woman sitting near me. She cracked a joke to the waitress about how hard Spanish is, I laughed, and suddenly that became my invitation to chat (which I didn’t mind). She was from the UK, in Granada to set up her sister’s apartment for school, and—casual detail—an aeronautical engineer.

When I told her I’d been in Spain for about two months, she said, “Wow, you’ve picked up a lot of Spanish for only two months!” Naturally, I explained that I’ve been studying Spanish for years. Her immediate response? “Oh, so you’re from California?” You heard it here first: apparently, for the British, California and Miami are the only places in the U.S. where people speak Spanish.

Pro tip: If you want a fast lunch, don’t go to a Spanish restaurant. There were maybe three people in this place, and it still took over an hour. By the time I finished, it was 5:30, and I had a 6:30 bus back to Sevilla. The bus station was an hour’s walk away, so I had to figure out the tram system, fast.

I got to the station, played around with the ticket machine, and—of course—missed the first tram while staring at the screen. Turns out, the machine only refills cards; it doesn’t issue new ones. But then I noticed a picture of the tram card on the screen—it looked exactly like my Sevilla transport card, just green and labeled “Granada.”

In a desperate move, I decided to try loading money onto my Sevilla card to see if it would work. It did! (Which was good because the tram was 2 euros—way more expensive than Sevilla’s 50 cents.)

Why do I tell you all this? Because apparently, Andalucía has a regional transport program where one card works in multiple cities—including Granada and Sevilla. If I’d known that, I would’ve been taking buses all day instead of walking two hours. But hey, I enjoyed my morning hike—and I even saw a Mercadona along the way.

Speaking of which: I thought my count of 32 Mercadonas was impressive, but I recently looked up the total number of stores in Spain—1,618. Which means my 32 is less than 2 percent. (So, clearly, I need to up my game.)

I made it back to Sevilla, only to battle the city’s horrific public transport again. Honestly, I should’ve walked. The “1-hour” public transport trip took longer than the 40-minute walking route. Not my fault, though—the right bus came, but the driver refused to take passengers and told us to wait for the next one.

That meant taking another bus, transferring to a third (which I missed because it came early), then finally walking the rest of the way home. I’ve officially given up. At least next weekend’s train station is closer.

Monday:

Monday’s class highlight? We were mandated to take olive oil shots and then describe them in detail. Honestly, how does one describe olive oil? It’s oil. It’s supposed to taste like nothing—that’s the point. What’s next? Eating butter off a spoon?

The olive oil escapade was the most interesting part of the day because the rest of it was just me writing my ridiculous fire-themed essay, which I cleverly titled “The Ignition of the Kitchen.” (It works better in English with the rhyme than it does in Spanish.)

I also spent hours editing photos for the blog. People don’t realize how much time goes into it—1–3 hours just for the photos, plus several hours of writing, plus putting it all together. But hey, what else am I doing during siesta? I guess I could read one of the many books I’ve bought, but honestly? I prefer the blog.

Tuesday was less interesting on the class front. Did you know that Spain is the country of three cultures? UGHHHHH. It’s not like I lived in Toledo for a month. The amount of times I’ve had to answer a question with 1492 is too many for the past few days.

Post class was quite entertaining. I went to Mercadona (a new one because I’m trying to both see more of Sevilla and get that percentage of Mercadonas up). Posted right in front of this beautiful giant Mercadona was, however, the VOX party! I did have a few minutes where I thought I should go talk to them—because I’ve heard so much about them in the news that it seemed like it could be cool—but I decided these probably weren’t the people to go practice my Spanish with.

Heading back home, I also stopped at El Corte Inglés because my professor is always talking about its supermercado, and as a Mercadona lover, I had to go see what the hype was.

It was giving American Walmart. It was actually somewhat overwhelming because I haven’t been in a supermarket with so many options in 2.5-ish months. It’s crazy. A whole aisle dedicated to chocolate bars. Wild. Why would one need so many options?

Team Mercadona for me.

The final activity of the day was El Torre del Oro, a large tower-situation thing. It was supposed to be a CIEE-led trip (aka free entry), but they never showed up. Entonces, me and my friends went solo and paid the donation to enter. It had some awesome views of the city. I’m just hoping that CIEE will show up today for the cine (movie theater)! Which I have been wanting to go to all summer. We still don’t know the movie, and I’m going to be upset if it’s not in VO in Spanish. Why would I go to a movie theater in Spain to see a U.S. movie dubbed in Spanish? It’s like the worst way to see a movie. Happy Gilmore with the Barcelona host family lacked 90 percent of the humor. You can’t dub Adam Sandler—he’s just too iconic.

Next week will be filled with bucket list activities, such as this movie theater and a big trip to Málaga to do El Caminito del Rey—something that I’ve always wanted to do. I’m staying the night in Málaga and then seeing the city Sunday and heading home that night. BUT… no beach. I’m not bringing a swimsuit because I really don’t want to be burnt. That, and no buying more books (somehow I’ve gained 4 in the past week) and pants (I saw a sign for three-euro pants and couldn’t help myself). I’m keeping myself accountable, so I’m writing it down. You’d think I was a big reader with the number of books I’ve bought, yet I’ve only read three whole books this year—soon to be four when I get through Cultura de la Gastronomía en España. I’m just not a big fiction person, and I like to read shorter stuff like news articles or Britannica. Good news is I’ll get through the next year before my junior year abroad with the books I have now.

I have no idea why I couldn’t convince anyone to come with me on this trip. It seems so exciting and cool to me. But I guess they’re just boring and prefer a wild Friday night out at the club in Sevilla. I didn’t need them to come, but it would’ve been nice because I found this awesome Airbnb in city center for 150 euro with four beds plus a couch. The Princeton-in-Spain chicas would’ve been down. But I guess being boring is the new cool. They have both clubs and alcohol in America, but not El Caminito del Rey or Málaga… plus the train was only 40 euro both ways. Their loss.

Oh, and exciting news! Operation Go to Galicia—which has been in progress since mid-May—is a go! The flight is booked for my last weekend in Spain, with a trip to Córdoba the day before. Meaning… I’ve officially taken my last trip to the RENFE website for this Spain adventure. It’s bittersweet because I hate that website but love the trains. Where has the time gone?

With that I’ll wrap it up. I can’t believe I have two blogs left in Spain, and probably three left for the summer (because I’m sure I’ll fit the last three days into one last blog at home). I don’t know what these blogs will turn into in the future—perhaps the starting point for a successful blog, notes for a book (because I’ll probably have close to 170 full pages of writing by the end of the summer), or maybe just some fun things to look back on during the cold months of the winter semester when I’m dreaming about that piso with the balcony in Bilbao, Basque Duolingo 2.0, and the cafeteria business… with maybe a little bit of Basque or French or Italian involved. 😉

Nos vemos el próximo,

Ps. We’ll see how the timing turns out next week for the blog because I have a midterm on Tuesday that is sounding like I may have to do some studying for. Why I need to know the exact dates the romans invaded seems dumb because it is not applicable to literally anyone’s life, but some memorization is going to have to happen. But at least I have 1492 down!

Palabras de la semana:

(Tons because I’m basically in Spanish Vocab 101… I’ll spare you the 5,000 food words I’m pretending I’ll remember someday)

Tiquismiquis – picky/fussy person (aka “picky eater”… you know, the person who hates cilantro for “moral reasons”).
Retrogusto – aftertaste (the flavor that lingers… usually the part wine people pretend to enjoy).
Espeso – thick (as in soup).
Imparable – unstoppable (me when buying books, apparently).
Aperitivo – appetizer or pre-meal snack
Bocado – bite, small mouthful (“un bocado delicioso” = “a tasty bite”).
Hallazgos – findings/discoveries (like in research or “archaeological findings”—or when you discover the good Mercadona near your house).
Hervir – to boil (water, pasta, or in summer, me in Sevilla).
Barro – mud or clay (mud after the rain; clay for pottery).
Ganadería – livestock farming (all the cows, goats, and jamón origins).
Machacar – to crush/mash/grind (like garlic or spices).
Sembrar – to sow/plant (as in seeds, not as in “to sew clothes”).
Bacalao – codfish (every Spaniard’s favorite salty fish, apparently).
Granada – pomegranate (fruit) or the city (context matters).
Sidra – cider (Spain does amazing cider, especially in Asturias which my profesor says is an “arte”).
Lista de cosas para hacer antes de morir – bucket list (literally: “list of things to do before dying”). I thought this was going to be the title for the next blog… but I think bucket list is sufficent.
Atrasado – delayed/late.
Cata – tasting (wine, olive oil, etc.).
Almazara – olive oil mill (where the magic liquid gold is made).
Regadío – irrigation (fancy farming word; opposite of dry farming, aka “secano”).
Huertas – orchards or vegetable gardens
Ayuno – fasting (like religious or health fasting; opposite of my Cheetos-and-Fanta lunch).
Olivo – olive tree (not to be confused with “aceituna” = the actual olive).
Vid – grapevine (the plant that makes wine happen).
Cerezas – cherries (a summer favorite).
Canela – cinnamon (pro tip: Spain loves canela in desserts).