Blogette: Stream of Consciousness upon Returning

We drove into Jacksonville on Sunday night, July 19. It had been more than eleven weeks since we left home on our grand (academically-driven) adventure. During those weeks, we went to Northern Virginia, New York, Germany (Frankfurt, Cologne and Aachen), France (Paris) and Spain (Madrid, Toledo, Sevilla, Trujillo, Guadalupe, Cordoba, Rota, Cadiz, Jerez de la Frontera, Arcos de la Frontera and Tarifa). We traveled by plane, train, ferry, rental car and taxi, and explored everywhere on foot.

We're back home now ... happy and sad, invigorated and exhausted, richer and poorer.

Here are a few random thoughts:

1. Spain! What a gorgeous, marvelous, evocative country!
2. Spain! The skies are so blue! No clouds at all, just blue skies.
3. Spain! Flowers, history, architecture, religion! I could live there for the rest of my life.
4. Except ... (and I wince as I admit this) ... I did not fall in love with the people.
5. Spaniards (with many exceptions, and we only visited the cities/towns listed above) are not particularly warm.
6. The Spaniards we met generally did not smile.
7. Or relate to us with a happy attitude.
8. That part of our trip was difficult.
9. The exchange rate was horrible and everything was expensive ... after eleven weeks, MasterCard and American Express love us.
10. They love us because they know we will have a mutual relationship for some months to come.
11. Sigh.
12. My Spanish did not improve one iota. Andalucian Spanish is unique ... and uniquely difficult.
13. In addition to the warp speed and particularized pronunciation of the local language, see 5-7 above.
14. I also wince as I admit that I did not love Spanish cuisine.
15. The wine was cheap ... a good thing. Water was expensive ... a bad thing.
16. Tapas ... good occasionally, but not every night.
17. Pork, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork. Pork.
18. Pork.
19. Also octopus and squid.
20. I loved working in the archive. Handling actual documents dated from the 1540s and 1560s was so thrilling to me, I practically cried. I knew I was holding a precious treasure in my hands every day.
21. Every morning as I walked to the archive, I walked past the incredible gothic cathedral; past beautiful horses lined up to pull tourists in elaborate carriages; past hundreds of flying swallows which swooped and cawed overhead.
22. I got to see Corpus Christi in Sevilla from beginning to end, and I will never, ever forget it.
23. I met a Franciscan friar and a Franciscan nun ... which thrilled me.
24. I saw two mind-blowing flamenco performances.
25. Bullfights ... a very complex subject. I hated it; I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
26. I saw the coast of Africa!!
27. The patient and good-humored people traveling on space-A were soberingly inspirational. I have so much ... I should never complain about anything as long as I live.

I am so thankful for this unforgettable summer. Ten years ago if anyone had told me that I would be poised to graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in History after having spent the summer living in Sevilla, Spain, and preparing to begin an M.A. in the fall, I would never have believed it. But ... here I am. My cap and gown are hanging in the doorway and gold honor cords, signifying summa cum laude, are draped over my bulletin board awaiting my graduation ceremony on July 31.

I think I may be the luckiest woman in the world.

Blogette: The Storyteller and the Gypsy

In the last eight days, we’ve traveled twice by train to Cordoba. This is the place in Spain that speaks to my soul, and I know exactly why. It’s because of the wildly beautiful, haunting Mezquita: an eighth century mosque with a fourteenth century cathedral embedded in its center. It’s because of the evocative Sinogoga, the only one in Spain which today remains substantially intact after the Jews were expelled in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella … yes, the same year Christopher Columbus sailed to the New World. It’s because of the archaeological museum, which houses not only Roman and Visigothic ruins, but proto-historical artifacts (defined as “end of the second millennium to the second century BC”) like the stunning stone and bronze ex-votos (sculpted offerings of personal gratitude to the gods) which mesmerized me today.

And it’s because of the people who live in Cordoba, two of them in particular: the storyteller and the gypsy.

The storyteller was in the museum, relating a tale in Spanish from A Thousand and One Arabian Nights to an entranced group of children. He was dressed in a long, white robe and a purple turban, and was such a gifted, enthusiastic raconteur that Bill and I lingered to listen to him. He had only one prop … a “genie” oil lamp … but he spoke in voices and added startling sound effects so that we understood which story he was telling. My heart aching, I wished that Cooper had been there to sit amongst the children. I wished my advisor, Dr. Francis, who is a fabulous yarn-spinner in his own right, had been there. But, alas, they were not, and all too soon his story had ended.

I first saw the gypsy when we were in Cordoba last weekend. She was sitting on the cobblestone street outside the Sinagoga with her three children, begging. I emptied my wallet then, giving her everything I had, which was only coins. Friday, on our second trip to Cordoba, I saw her on four separate occasions during the day. The first time, I felt annoyed. She approached me, plaintively, and I wagged my finger at her, chiding, “I gave you money last week!” Bill and I walked on and I told him, “It’s just not the same the second time.” But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her face and her voice were deeply compelling.

The next time I saw the gypsy, I clandestinely snapped a picture as we were walking down the street. She was nursing her youngest child while she appealed to the passersby, but I gave her nothing. When we turned the corner, I stopped to see the photograph. My memory card was full, however, and the image was not on it. Oh well, I thought, and walked on.

Despite the joy we felt while exploring the streets of Cordoba, I could not stop thinking about the gypsy woman. I kept mulling things over in my mind. She gets up in the morning and goes to work doing the only thing she can do with her three children in tow. I went to work for years doing the only thing I knew. How are we different? She takes care of her children; I took care of mine. It’s only luck or opportunity or fortune or karma that she is on the street begging, and I am driving around Jacksonville in a BMW.

So we went back to the Sinagoga after lunch on Friday, looking for her. That time, I gave her five Euros in trade for her photograph. She thanked me in a language I didn’t understand then and can’t identify now. Her children thanked me. When I saw her for the fourth time she recognized me and begged for more money … or maybe she just thanked me again. I don’t really know.

I told Bill on Saturday morning that I had to find her again before we left Cordoba, and he understood. That afternoon, after we visited the museum and wandered through the narrow, medieval streets, we returned to the Sinagoga but she wasn’t there. I was crestfallen. “Wait,” Bill said. “She’ll be here when the Sinagoga reopens at 3:30.” So we lingered in the stifling heat for half an hour, listening to a man in the lane playing flamenco music and Led Zepplin on his guitar.

At 3:25, she appeared. By then, I saw her as beautiful. I pressed my back against the stone wall to watch while she parked her ragged stroller and sat down on the edge of the street, laying her toddler across her lap while she changed his diaper. That was different. Last weekend, he had no diaper. Bill and I watched as tourist after tourist walked by her, indifferent to her entreaties, her children crouched beside her. After a couple of minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I asked Bill to walk with me. Approaching her, I knelt down in the street, handing her ten Euros. Her children began jumping up and down and the gypsy grasped my hand and kissed it. I was horrified by her deference. “No,” I said, “I just want to buy your photograph.”

I snapped one, and then her children posed for a second photo. As I knelt there, the baby wrapped his arms around my neck. I could smell him and I didn’t really want the children to touch me, an admission that shames me. I handed the woman another ten Euro bill. She tried to kiss my hand again but I pulled it away from her; understanding, she reached out to me instead. She pressed her cheek against mine, murmuring unidentifiable words in her soft voice. We kissed each other and I began to weep. She broke my heart. I have so much, and she has so little.

It matters not to me if she is practiced in her craft. Before I became a student, I was certainly practiced in mine. We do what we must to survive. The gypsy mother in Cordoba does not know that with her begging, she has made me want to be a better woman (my apologies to Jack Nicholson's character in As Good as it Gets).

The Boss

I hate gender stereotypes, I really do. I shy away from Women’s Studies or writing academic papers from a “woman’s perspective” because it seems so trite. In a social situation, I secretly mourn when the men end up on one side of the room and the women gather on the other. It makes me want to leave the party.

But my husband has posted a challenge on his blog (http://www.kbcuz.blogspot.com/ and if you haven't read it, please stop right now and check it out) to which I am forced to respond.

So … Men are Closed and Women are Open.

Why in god’s name would I want to sit here in our apartment in Sevilla with the doors and windows hermetically sealed, cave-like, shivering in an artificial and chemically-created blast of iced air? Outside, the sky is crystal blue: swallows are flying and calling … cathedral bells are tolling crazily … passionate Spaniards are shouting, fighting and cooing in the street just below our balcony.

It’s so alive outside!

I know it’s hot … I recognize 100 degrees. Sometimes I want to turn on the air conditioner too. But I view the air conditioner as my slave, and men (well, at least the ones I know well) view it as The Boss. “Close the door! The Air Conditioner is on!” “Why are you opening the window? Don’t you know the Air Conditioner is on??”

Yes, I know. And frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

If it were up to me, I’d cycle the air on and off just exactly as I wanted. I’d open the doors and windows when I felt like it, and close them up to cool things off when I felt like it. I don’t mind being hot, in fact, I like it. Sometimes I like the languid feeling of shimmering heat, lazily watching an iced tea … or gin and tonic … frost and sweat on the table next to me. But mostly, I like the feeling of being open, open to the air and the sounds and the possibilities.

I don’t really think this is because I’m a woman; I think it’s just because I’m Karen.

And so we will continue to struggle together to find a compromise, although I don’t think my sweetheart will ever really understand that, for me, it’s more than just an issue of temperature. It’s an issue of sensory opportunity.

Mi espanol chupa

This is a mini-blogette, just long enough to express dismay that my Spanish es horible.

I thought it would improve while I'm here but, sadly, that does not appear to be happening. Here is why:

1) In the archivo, I am transcribing handwritten 16th century Spanish into modern, typed Spanish. This is called paleography. Sixteenth century Spanish as written by a scribe is difficult: abbreviated, spelled creatively, and archaic. My paleography has vastly improved; I am transcribing 10 to 15 pages per day. My reading comprehension, however, has only moderately improved because I am spending most of my time and energy working on interpretation, not translation.

2) I am now beyond humiliation when attempting to speak Spanish to native Spanish speakers. It's really true that Sevillanos don't speak English. Seriously. Although Bill and I traveled in Turkey for three weeks without a single word of Turkish under our belts, encountering absolutely no one who didn't speak English, this is not true in Spain. In Spain, people speak ... Spanish.

(This actually reminds me of home, where many people are resentful of Spanish-speakers who don't try to learn English, and complain that our ATMs now ask if one wants to conduct business in English or Spanish. But I digress.)

I gamely try to speak Spanish whereever we go, but my vocabulary is severely restricted. For ejample, I admit that I was forced to say to a pharmicist "Por favor, necesito cotton balls." I am currently the queen of Spanglish, and while that might be kind of funny, it's not going to help me get into a Ph.D. program.

3) Spanish people have one of two reactions to my attempts to speak to them in their language:

• Incomprehension and a blank stare.
• Comprehension followed by a burst of warp-speed Spanish in response.

4) I haven't yet worked up the energy to drill Spanish vocabulary, which is clearly what I need to do. I'm hoping that this public confession will shame me into carving at least 30 minutes out of each day to do so. I brought my Spanish I and II flash cards with me ... now all I need to do is play with them!

Blogette: Funny potato chips

I don't know why it amuses me to see the different flavors of Lay's potato chips sold in other countries, but it does. I found these in a tourist shop in Guadelupe this weekend:

This afternoon, I ran across a really unusual flavor at El Corte Ingles, the local supermarket (I had to buy these):

And look at the flavor I stumbled across two years ago when we were in Cappadocia, Turkey!

Cookie Nuns

I thought I would blog every day, but it's just impossible. There is too much going on in Spain; my mind is saturated not only with historical sights, but with a new language and culture. The days in the archivo are fabulous but they're long, and mentally taxing. I'm slogging through a book for my independent study in religion, helping Billy keep up with the housework and laundry, and doing the long-distance bookkeeping. I think perhaps I'd better try writing blogettes instead.

So here's one.

We drove to Extremadura in western Spain on Thursday with the intention of visiting three medieval towns (we made it to two). Bill and I stayed in the Parador de Trujillo: a 16th century monastery which has been modernized and converted into a hotel. Right next door to the parador is the Convento de Santa Clara ... an order which describes itself as concepcionistas and Franciscanas. The nuns are dulce artesans. That is, they bake homemade sweets and sell them to the public.

The convent

An icon in the convent's lobby

I discovered the convent quite by accident on Friday morning; its doors were open, so I slipped inside. The lobby was quiet and serene, but I was a little surprised to see a brightly-lit showcase with cookies and tarts on display. They weren't inexpensive: most of the items were €6 to €10. But this was a religious house of women ... alluring to me, and mysterious. I wanted to buy something.

After careful consideration (the sweets were little works of art), I chose "Pastas de Sacristan," which look like thick sugar cookies, and have an almond in the center.

The cookies were €6, so I fumbled in my bag until I found the proper bills and coins (those darn €1 and €2 coins are a bit of a challenge if I'm not wearing my glasses). I wasn't entirely sure what to do next but as I glanced around, I noticed a turnstile in the corner, and a doorbell next to it. I put the money in the turnstile and rang the bell.

Only a few seconds passed before I heard a woman say "Digame!" ("Tell me!") I confess I was a bit disappointed. I had hoped to hear a breathy, ethereal voice softly sing a response: "In the name of the Blessed Virgin of Santa Clara, please tell me what you would like me to sell you." But she just sounded like an impatient store clerk.

The turnstile is constructed in such a way that one never sees who is on the other side. The device turned, and my money disappeared. I heard the invisible nun's shoes click on the stone floor as she walked away, and a minute or two later, I heard her return. The turnstile turned again, and I found twelve fat cookies in a plastic bag.

Billy doesn't really care for the cookies, which taste only faintly of almond and lemon. But I think they're delicious. And although the invisible nun didn't sing sweetly, I envision her as a beautiful, otherworldly woman who baked a blessing of heavenly love into the sweets.

The Cross of May

We were Skyping with Sandie Stratton on Friday afternoon when I heard a brass band. We frequently hear music in the streets of Sevilla but this time the band was close to our apartment, and getting closer. I stepped out onto the balcony and saw excited young boys in the narrow street leading from the cathedral past our apartment. They wore distinctive headdresses; one carried a wooden cross.

In celebration of particular feast or saints' days, Catholic brotherhoods in Sevilla conduct religious processions through the streets featuring a float, or paso, borne on the shoulders of men and upon which is mounted a religious statue. These small processions evidently occur often … we’ve bumped into three in the two weeks we’ve been in Sevilla. But this particular procession was bumping into us, and I was very excited! After taking a couple of quick photos from our balcony, I ran down the stairs to get in front of the paso. In order to do so, I had to squeeze past the marching band, but I saw others doing it, so I plunged right in. I darted into a vacant spot in a store entryway to see everything from the beginning.

The boys leading the procession wore not only their padded turban-like headgear which allows them to bear the weight of the paso, they also had on t-shirts that read Cruz de Mayo … Cross of May. These were young boys, and darling. Bill, who grew up attending Catholic schools, suspects the boy carrying the cross had earned the privilege somehow, perhaps by writing an essay.

Children from various Catholic churches compete against one another during the Cruz de Mayo, imitating the much larger processions with pasos built by their elders for this and other religious celebrations, such as the huge Semana Santa (Holy Week) held in April.

After the boys holding the cross aloft passed by, the paso approached slowly and reverently, carried on the shoulders of other little boys and directed by a suited man with excellent posture, who pressed his face close to the paso and shouted directions to the boys hidden below. The paso paused right beside me, and a shower of rose petals cascaded from the wrought iron balcony above.

As soon as I could, I stepped into the street to see who stood on the balcony, but I wasn’t able to really photograph the little girls I glimpsed in their flamenco dresses. However, I was able to surreptitiously photograph an enchanting baby girl parked in a stroller across the narrow street. Isn’t she adorable?

After the paso passed me on its way to another plaza or its home church, the band marched exuberantly through the narrow street. Then ... it was over. The crowd disbursed and the magic vanished; all that remained were the rose petals in the street.

Just another Monday in Sevilla

We slept on freshly-washed sheets with the windows open last night. It was cool outside, and either quiet or we’ve just gotten used to the noise in the streets. We had set the alarms on our cell phones to wake us (shrilly) at 6:30, when I get in the shower and Bill … lovely man … makes coffee and breakfast. We’ve discovered that a hard-boiled egg and toast is the best meal and the least trouble, but this morning we were out of bread, so Billy made me an egg with sliced tomatoes and an orange.

It was another productive day for each of us in the archivo. Saber, Kryzol and Justin are working on Florida (Justin showed me a cool document written in a native American Indian language and translated by a friar); Spencer is working on 16th century Venezuela; Ashleigh is researching Franciscans in China during the mid-16th century; and I am transcribing a long legal document dated 1542 about a conquistador in Nuevo Reino de Granada … Colombia. Today I transcribed seven pages in six hours … wow! Dr. Francis is in the midst of several books and he always has something interesting on his table. Not that we can wander around looking at other people’s legajos, because the Sala is tightly controlled and is much quieter than the UNF library. Sometimes, however, we manage to peek at one another’s documents.

At 3 o’clock, the girls came back to our apartment so Kryzol could give a Spanish lesson to Saber and me; Ashleigh needed to use our Internet connection. Bill had made a big salad and put out sandwich fixings, so we ate happily and then opened a couple of books written in Spanish. Saber and I took turns reading aloud while Kryzol corrected our pronunciation and helped us with translations. After the girls left, I tried to read The Handless Maiden: Moriscos and the Politics of Religion in Early Modern Spain by Mary Elizabeth Perry. It’s a great book and I have to read it for my independent study in Religion, but I could hear the sounds from the street below, and the breezes were wafting in through the balcony doors. I was distracted by the beckoning of Sevilla.

So we went for a walk. Every time we wander the streets, I fall a little more deeply in love. I thought today that, although I have been in some of the most beautiful cities in the world … Istanbul, Paris, Venice … I have never seen a city more lushly gorgeous, more romantic, or quite so evocative as Sevilla, Spain. I am completely enchanted. Just look at some of the things we saw as we strolled the streets this afternoon:

Spaniards are religious, and many of the Catholic churches in Sevilla have little celebrations which involve children (or adults) processing through the cobblestone streets carrying a float topped with the statue of a saint. Today we saw some young boys practicing. You can barely see the crucifix and rosary atop their float.

Early in our walk, we passed the Archivo General de Indias satellite office where we UNF paleographers go to work each day.

This is the little cafe next door to the AGI, where we have "onces" at 11 o'clock. I usually order a zumo de naranja (orange juice) and a croissant, but sometimes I ask for a cafe solo (espresso). Also popular are cafe con leche (a little coffee and a lot of milk) and tortillas (a fat potato and egg pie).

Isn't this a pretty restaurant? We've never eaten here, but as we passed it, we admired the building.

The streets are so narrow, many are closed to vehicular traffic. This street had a sign indicating that it was accessible to firemen.

Here is the gorgeous Alfonso XIII Hotel. The building is lovely, and behind these banana trees you can just glimpse the tented area where people were lounging on pillows, perhaps having a tinto de verano (red wine of summer). Billy and I are going to dress up and go here for cocktails one evening.

This is another view of the Alfonso XIII Hotel. It's surrounded by a beautiful garden ... and I'm crazy about awnings.

We stumbled upon this gigantic building which is currently closed and under renovation. It's the Palacio de San Telmo, built in the 17th century as a college-seminary for naval orphans. Only in Sevilla!!

Flowers, flowers ... everywhere! These pyramidal floral structures can be found throughout the city. Billy wants to put one in our backyard.

A view of the riverwalk. At twilight, it's glorious.

Another view of the riverwalk. See the doves and pigeons? There are birds all over Sevilla, including swallows which dart and swoop near the Cathedral all day and, it seems, much of the night.

Oops ... I guess I really liked the riverwalk! I do love flowers and beauty in general, as most of you who know me, know.

Here is the famous Torre del Oro, a bulwark tower built early in the 13th century by the Almohad ruler Abul-Ula. It used to be covered in gold tiles, hence the name. Today it's just stone, but oh-so-romantic. There's Bill in the background.

Isn't it gorgeous? This is Sevilla!

They don't speak English in the Texas Lone Star Saloon

I never, ever thought I would want to eat in an American-style restaurant while traveling in Europe. I've always looked askance at the McDonald's and Burger Kings which are, sadly, ubiquitous around the world.

I should have known better.

Every time I make a silent judgment about others ... "Why would ANYONE eat in a McDonald's in Paris??" ... I end up humbled.

So here is a confession: this evening in Sevilla, I absolutely had to have a hamburger.

Dr. Francis had (goodnaturedly) forbidden us to eat in the Irish bar or the Tex-Mex place which is ... right down the street from our apartment. He doesn't want us to cheat on our commitment to learning or improving our Spanish language skills. I thought I could eat there with Bill and just quietly not mention it. But now that I have, I find it's definitely blogging fodder, so:

I swear they don't speak English in the Texas Lone Star Saloon, Dr. Francis.

I've mentioned before that I'm not really loving Spanish food, although the tapas last night at Tapas Viapol were my favorite so far. I especially liked the Berenjenas a la Crema con Queso (mashed eggplant with cheese) and Piquillos relleno de Merluza y Rape con salsa de espárragos trigueros (peppers stuffed with fish and covered with asparagus and sauce). But we've been gone for 25 days and I've just been craving a big, juicy hamburger. So tonight we went to the Texas Lone Star Saloon.

The Saloon is a sports bar with a bunch of TVs mounted on the wall which were all playing fútbol ... not football, but soccer. The waitress approached us and spoke in Spanish using phrases we had never heard before. For example, she asked Bill if he wanted his cerveza (beer) "pinto o media pinto" (pint or half pint). I actually had to break out my apology phrase ("Lo siento pero no puedo hablar muy bien") for the first time in a day or two.

The waitress left us with menus, one of which ... I also confess ... I swiped. I just had to. It was too precious not to have for my scrapbook. I even took a photograph of it so you could see what a Tex-Mex restaurant in Spain serves. So I spoke Spanish to the waitress when she returned to take our order: "Me pone una hamburguesa Waco sin cebolla (no onion)."

Not surprisingly, our hamburgers were absolutely dreadful (that definitely was NOT barbeque sauce ... it resembled chili, and the hamburger patty, much smaller than the bun, was pre-formed, reheated, and overcooked).

Nevertheless, I thought it was ... ummm ... simply delicious!

Bill had a Fort Worth hamburger, which he ate with a knife and fork. I cut mine into quarters and picked it up like I do at home, lickin' my fingers and smackin' my lips. It was perfectly satisfying.

My hamburger at the Texas Lone Star Saloon was a fun end to a domestic day (laundry and apartment cleaning). Tomorrow I'll be up at 6:30 and off to the archivo for the start of my second week.

Why I love Sevilla

I am too tired to write. It's late again ... and I've been up late for too many nights in a row. My first week in the archivo was satisfying; in fact, I would even dare say ... thrilling. But I'm looking forward to a quiet Sunday of resting, reading and nesting.

They say pictures are worth a thousand words, don't they? I'll let them speak for me tonight.

The Sevilla cathedral at night

Billy and Karen at Italica

Italica ... Roman ruins outside Sevilla

Fabulous door knockers on a house in Sevilla


A view from the Giralda


A view from the Giralda: the cathedral, the Archivos General de Indias and the satellite building where we work each day


Inside the Sevilla cathedral

Inside the Sevilla cathedral

Random gorgeous building

Earthly and ethereal in Sevilla

After a satisfying day in the archivo (I arrived at 8:15 and left at 3) and a siesta, Billy and I went wandering in Sevilla. I wanted to go to the Giralda (I can't believe we haven't been yet) but it closes at 5, so, camera in hand, we began to walk. Thank the technology gods for digital cameras! We've been gone for 21 days and I have 1,643 photos. Okay, I do tend to take multiple shots of the same thing, but still ...

It's so difficult to cull through the myriad fabulous things I'd like to share with you; this evening I'll just concentrate on three of them. They are the earthly and the ethereal.

The Dress (the earthly)

The first time we walked down our street and I looked in the store windows, I knew I wanted to buy a flamenco dress and a fan. Spanish women are feminine, and they use beautiful fans with regularity ... it's so hot in southern Spain. I love the way these women look, sitting on the train or in a restaurant, talking, and fanning themselves offhandedly with a lovely lace fan. Hmmm. It seems wherever I go, I pick up a personal habit. The first time I was in Italy (1996), I saw Italian women wearing fishnet stockings with their business suits. I loved the look and began wearing fishnets years before they became trendy in the U.S., as they are now. I think I'm going to have to start carrying a beautiful fan.

But about the dress. Flamenco dresses are uber-feminine. They are festooned with ruffles, bows, laces and fringe. Many of them are bright. Fuschia! Chartreuse! Tangerine! Scarlet! Some are, I confess, a bit tacky for my taste. Many of them are handmade, and they don't appear to come in multiple sizes. When I look in the store windows, I see row after row of individual dresses ... only one of each kind. I think one must choose the dress one wants and have it altered. I have only been window shopping thus far ... I'm not sure my Spanish language or knowledge of the culture is adequate to venture into one of these stores so soon.

But I found the one I want. Actually, Spencer found it. He pointed it out to me in a window and I gasped ... it is so beautiful. This dress has the price displayed on a discreet paper "tent" ... €1,500 or approximately USD 2,067.73. Well, I can dream, can't I??? I wish I were brave enough to go in and ask to try it on. Isn't it gorgeous?

The Helato (earthly/ethereal)

Right up the cobblestone street from The Dress is Dr. Francis' favorite heladeria; we were in the mood, so we stopped in (before dinner ... it's the only way I ever eat dessert). Helato is gelato ... sherbet ... Italian ice. It's refreshing and cool on hot Sevillano days like today, and this particular place will make special flavors for you if you ask. But why? It already has a dizzying display of flavors. Today, I ordered something with the word "Colombiana" in it (chocolate chips and coffee) and "Crema de Sevilla" (lemony) ... yum! Bill had naranja (orange) and plantana (banana). Two small cups (each cup is a very generous scoop ... and you can mix flavors) is €5,20.

There are little tables outside where you can sit to watch the scooters roaring down the cobblestone street, and the pretty mamas strolling their beautifully dressed babies.

This is one of three cases ... that equals at least 42 flavors!

They even carve fruit into flowers ... these "flowers" are watermelons.

The Friar (the ethereal)

We'd barely finished our helatos when we bumped into a church: la Iglesia Franciscana de San Buenaventura. Unlike the Giralda, this one was open ... prior to mass (misa) at 7:30. "Let's go in!" I urged Billy. Oh, I love old European churches so much! They're like a perfect present. I admire the outside first, and anticipate what's inside. It seems so often when I open them up by stepping inside, the church is so lovely and heavenly it brings tears to my eyes. This one did. Just look at its Baroque beauty:

While I was quietly walking around looking at each of the chapels and the elaborately-dressed statues of Jesus, Mary and various saints, Bill concentrated on looking for the patron, Buenaventura. A friar sitting in an open confessional spoke to Bill in Spanish as he approached. I could see them talking together across the church, and then Bill followed the monk through a curtained door. I followed too.

The priest, Fray Tómas Patero, was an absolute joy. Using our halting Spanish, we told him that we lived in the United States (he wanted to know exactly where ... and was it near Cuba?), and that I was a student of history and religion working in the archivo in Sevilla. We asked him if there was an image or statue of the patron, and he told us about St. Francis of Assisi and his follower, Buenaventura ... who lived in his heart. He took us into the garden of the convent, and turned on the fountain for us when I asked if I could take a photo:

He even posed for pictures with Billy and me, holding my hand and then kissing me on both cheeks when we left:

For me, this was an incredible gift ... a moment in time with a man who has committed his life to God, taking vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. The memory of his kindness to us ... two earnest American tourists ... is something I will always cherish.