Semana Santa

I arrived in the airport on Tuesday afternoon, a little sad to have left Ireland behind but very grateful to be back in Sevilla—finally back in my city, and just in time to catch the bus from the airport to el Centro where I could catch a bus to my apartment. I have mentioned before how there are orange trees throughout the city, and the flowers of the orange trees, called azahares, had just started to open when I had left Sevilla. Now they are close to being in full bloom and I was overwhelmed with their sweet smell the moment I stepped outside. After an unusually long wait at the bus stop, I finally got on a bus bound in the direction of my apartment, and it was very lucky that I did because if I had not gotten on that bus, I would have had to walk all the way there. You see, it is Semana Santa and the road was blocked off for a few hours to allow the pasos to pass.

That explanation may require some explanation. Semana Santa, or Holy Week, in the Christian liturgical year is the week immediately preceding Easter where we remember and observe the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It begins with Palm Sunday and goes through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and finally Easter (or Resurrection) Sunday. For those who might not be familiar with exactly what Holy Week is, I hope this clears up some confusion: Maundy Thursday, or Thursday of the Lord's Supper, commemorates the Last Supper and the changing of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Good Friday is the anniversary of the crucifixion of Jesus, and as such is a day of sorrow. Holy Saturday is usually a quiet day of prayer and reflection in preparation for the celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. Semana Santa (and its celebration) is very important in Catholic countries like Spain and Latin America.

Semana Santa is the main fiesta of Spain. Almost every community observes it with pomp and solemnity, usually with pasos (processions), the best and most famous of which are in Sevilla (and I am not just biased). There are special foods, like torrijas (a dessert that reminds of french toast, only thinner and soaked in honey) that are served specifically during Semana Santa. Everyone at the very least has every afternoon off from work and no classes are held during the whole week. From the 16th century, Semana Santa has been a major part of the life of Sevilla and the Semana Santa celebrations here in Sevilla are the largest and most well known in the world. Brotherhoods (Hermandades) of robed men carry huge wooden sculptures depicting the Virgin Mary and scenes from the Passion of Jesus Christ through the streets. The pasos are accompanied by bands and robed penitentes in tall cone-shaped hats. Some of them are nazarenos and carry heavy wooden crosses as a sign of penance for their sins and as a way to identify with the suffering and death of Jesus Christ. They are all robed and masked so that they can do penance with anonymity. (Disclaimer: I know they look like KKK members, but they have nothing to do with that in any way, shape, or form. Participating in Semana Santa as a penitente is a serious religious act respected by everyone. Again, I just want to be very clear that they are NOTHING like the KKK.)

Anyway, I finally arrived at my apartment and Carmen was just getting ready to leave. She explained that a paso would be coming down our street in a little less than half an hour, so I had a few minutes to set my things down and change before running out into the street as I heard the drums passing my window. I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking my fill of the pasos and the smell of the azahares. A fitting way to spend my first day back in Sevilla.

Pubs

I want to set some things straight. I realize that I have told a lot of stories from Ireland that involve pubs, and I want to be clear that the pubs of Ireland are not like bars in the States. (Disclaimer: I don’t even really know what bars in the States are like, so these comparisons are based off of my rather primitive and non-firsthand understanding of the bar culture of home). The pub is the center of Irish social life; the best thing I can compare it to is the coffee shop of the States. The whole community goes to the local pub for food, conversation, and live music, not just for a drink. It is a place where people hang out and talk, where the bartender knows your name and, more than that, is your neighbor. I met so many wonderful people, got a lot of free cups of tea, heard some great music, and all in all fell in love with the atmosphere of pubs and wish that back home in the States it were more like this.

The bars in Spain are also very different from what I understand the bars in the States to be like. When I was in Granada, we met up with a friend and she took us out to eat at her favorite tapas place, which was obviously a bar because every place that serves tapas (or any food, really) is a bar. But this was not like any bar I had ever seen (or heard of) in the States. We sat at the tables in the front left section of the bar, with the bar itself along the front right; but in the back section of the bar, there were couches set up around two or three coffee tables and some bookshelves along the wall with books, magazines, a checkers board, and some other games. There were two families sitting on the couches, the parents talking over a bottle of wine and children playing checkers and entertaining themselves. It was something you would expect to see in someone’s home, not in a public bar, but that is the way (some of) the bars of Spain are. There is a park near my apartment with a small outdoor bar/café, and it is perfectly normal to see parents sipping a glass of wine while their kids climb on the jungle gym and swing on the swing-set. It is just a very different cultural attitude towards alcohol and a different atmosphere as a result. Alcohol is an important part of the culture and a part of everyday life in a wholesome kind of way that is different from the States. Not that it is better or that I want bars opening in public parks at home, but I do think that the US might have less alcohol-related problems if alcohol were something people learned how appreciate socially and to enjoy in moderation from a young age. I also don’t want to say that all bars in Spain are like that—of course there are clubs and things, but as a general observation, the attitude towards alcohol and the consumption of alcohol is very different here in Spain and in Ireland as well. Something to think about and talk about (especially in view of Point Loma’s Covenant)…

Trad

On my first night in Kilkenny, Jenn, the friend I met from the hostel, and I went in search of live music in one of the pubs (because that is what you do) and ended up at Cleere’s pub, apparently a pretty famous small concert venue. It happened that a few local bands were playing in the back room. It was not the traditional Irish music (trad, as it is called) that we were looking for, but we were not disappointed. However, as I was determined to find some good trad, I asked around the next day and eventually came across a poster that offered some promising information.

That night, Kilkenny was celebrating Earth Hour (an annual event where everyone turns out their lights for an hour as a way to raise awareness about global climate change) culminating with “Trad Night by Candlelight” at Ryan’s pub. Perfect. I told Jenn about it, and she was just as excited as I was. The music was fantastic, although the session was not quite as long as I would have liked. Jenn and I made friends with one of the musicians from the band who told us about a flaedh (a trad festival) going on in a small town called Leighlin (lock-lin) Bridge only about twenty minutes north of Kilkenny. With a little bit of schedule adjusting, Jenn and I figured we could make it out to Leighlin Bridge for a while for the sake of some good music. I love that we were able to be spontaneous and flexible with plans, just pick up and go.

Once we arrived in Leighlin Bridge, a very small but very beautiful town, we were directed to the Parish center, where they were having a barbeque to start the day’s festivities. (It was Sunday and the flaedh had been going on since Friday, so this was the final day). A handful of people were hanging out in the parking lot, adults chatting over hamburgers and hotdogs (or sausages, as they say) and kids playing football and playing impromptu tunes on their small pipes. We were immediately welcomed and given free lunch, in spite of our protests. After an amazing hamburger (my first taste of “American” food in about two months), we walked back down to the town’s main pub where the music would be happening later. We were only able to stay for a little bit of the music, but it was worth every minute.

We took a seat at the bar and the bartender asked us what we would have, to which we replied that just a cup of tea would be lovely. He asked us where we were from, why we were in Ireland, and if either of had any Irish in us; after I told him the story of my Irish family, he declared me to be honorary Irish while I was there. A few minutes later, he brought out two mugs of tea and two chocolate snacks for which he refused payment: “They’re complimentary for you,” he said. A guy sitting a few seats down said, “Jim, how about a complimentary pint down this way.” To which the bartender replied, “Now, Pat, you’re not nearly as pretty as the two girls, and besides, I know how many you’ve already had.” I am seriously blown away by the friendliness of the Irish people. I don’t think I have ever received so many free things accompanied by so many smiles and stories.

Kilkenny

After Dublin, I headed to Kilkenny, a typical small Irish town southwest of Dublin with a castle and a lot of history. A few people asked me why I was going to Kilkenny. I guess it is expected that if American students are travelling to Ireland, they will spend their time in the big cities (or in the pubs of the big cities). Oh, stereotypes. I did not want that at all. I wanted to get a good overview of Ireland, her people, her landscape, and her history, which seemed to surprise some people (which is a little sad, I think). Anyway, I headed south to Kilkenny, and I think my time there was the highlight of my trip.

After feeling very alone and isolated in the big city of Dublin, the atmosphere of community and family in Kilkenny was very pronounced. The hostel where I stayed was a major part of the feeling of community. At night, everyone sat in the living room sharing stories around the wood stove, and there I met a new friend, Jenn, who will be around in some more stories soon to come.

I suppose I have heard somewhere before that the Irish are some of the friendliest people in the world, and it is definitely not an exaggeration. As I was reading my map at the bus station, a man asked me where I was headed and as he was headed in the same direction for at lest a while, he walked with me and gave me a mini tour of the town. As he pointed out the major sights—the castle, the cathedral, the abbey, the historic pub—he ran into a friend of his and his boss who both asked him if he would be coming out to one of the pubs for a pint later. I have really enjoyed all the opportunities that cities like San Diego and Sevilla offer, but something I realized while in Ireland is that I love living in a small town where you can’t walk down the street without seeing someone you know to stop and talk to. I loved getting to be a part of some of the small towns that really are the foundation of Irish life and culture.

More Lessons from a Pub

I love the pubs of Ireland. I love the good food, the tea, the music, and just community that they are. I like trying new things, especially new food-- it is a kind of miniature adventure in itself. One thing I have been doing for some meals here in Ireland is getting recommendations from locals about favorite local pubs and ordering the daily "special." Now that has been an adventure. Forrest Gump's momma always said, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get." That is a lie; well, maybe just an inaccurate comparison. I can tell you exactly what you will get in a box of chocolates: CHOCOLATE. Now, the pub's daily "special" on the other hand... who knows. In spite of the uncertainty that clouds the "special," I have been continually pleasantly surprised. I have ordered the soup and sandwich specials at a few different pubs, and each time (although some things sounded quite bizarre) I absolutely loved it. Especially the roll with glazed pork, bread crumbs and applesauce alongside a bowl of potato and mushroom soup. Strange, yes? But amazingly delicious. So, my new and improved analogy: Life is like the neighborhood pub's daily special-- you never know what you are going to get, but you will might just find yourself pleasantly surprised.

Lessons from a Pub (first night in Dublin)

As I had just arrived in Dublin after a very long and rather stressful day of travelling, I did not feel up to a too-large dose of adventure right away. I took some time to settle in to the hostel and use the computer for a bit before asking the man at the reception desk if there was a place close by that he would recommend for dinner and maybe some live music. He was very friendly and told me Brannigan's Pub right around the corner for food and The Celt a little further away for music. I thanked him and headed to Brannigan's pub, hoping to find something cheap to eat and maybe just sit and listen to Irish accents. I was not disappointed.

The pub was a typical local pub, which I love, with good food, a relaxed atmosphere, a friendly bartender, and friendly people. I walked up to the bar and ordered some food, just in time to catch the start of the football match which I pretended to be deeply interested in and made a little bit of small talk about it with the man sitting a few seats down the bar. I enjoyed the quiet time, just listening and thinking. After I finished my food, the man who I had only casually talked to introduced himself as Gary and started talking to me as I sipped my cup of Irish tea (or scald as it is sometimes called here). He must have wanted someone to talk to (or maybe it was the Guinness), because we talked (well, he mostly talked and I mostly listened) for more than two hours and it was one of the greatest things of my life. He asked me where I was from and just started telling me stories about his life and teling me about Dublin. All in all, he bought me two cups of tea and two 7UPs as we talked about politics, religion, travelling, literature, football, and family (to name just a few) and he was full of the most amazing stories and bits of wisdom.

One of my favorites was: "I like to take the ideas of how you are supposed to be, what you're supposed to look like, what you are supposed to do and turn 'em on their heads... Then I like to bang 'em on their heads a few times for good measure." And when he was talking about Irish stew: "As an Irishman, I know a good spud. This one was stunning." He told me he was curious about where I was from because my accent was very slight; after we started talking more he said I sounded more American, but at least I was able to blend in for a while. As we were finishing up, he said "You're a watcher, you are. Keep on watching and paying attention and you won't be dissappointed. You have a good gaze-- a good hold. There must be a hell of a lot of Irish in you." When I said that there was, he laughed with the pleasure of being right and told me he could tell, that my facial features, dark hair, and light eyes are very Irish-- what they call Black Irish, descended from the original Celts (the red hair you may think of as traditional Irish comes from the Viking bloodlines). He said, "You're a good girl, you are. Just trying to find your way, and doing it Sweeney Todd, too-- that just means alone, you know. You're doing the right thing and you're doing all right." Thanks for the encouragement, Gary.

On the Streets of Dublin

As the title of this blog may tell you, I am not in Sevilla right now, or even in Spain. Why, you ask? Well, Semana Santa is a very big deal in Sevilla-- every day is a holiday for everyone for more than a whole week. I have been looking forward to seeing Semana Santa in Sevilla since I started thinking about study abroad, but it is also a very long break and I wanted to take advantage of some of that time to do a bit of outside travelling. So, for the first few days of Semana Santa, I decided to travel to Ireland. I think I might just say that again because I am so excited: IRELAND! I will be gone for a little less than a week (Wednesday March 24 to Tuesday March 30), but will return with plenty of time to see most of Semana Santa in Sevilla (Tuesday to Sunday).

So, now that you know what I am doing, I guess I might tell you a little more about how it has been, or maybe just a few reflections and realizations.

1. There is nothing like independence to make you feel so free and so incredibly vulnerable at the same time. There is no one depending on me but myself; and at the same time, I am depending on no one but myself. That is to say, I can make all the plans I want and do the things I want to do when I want to do them, but !geeze louise! it is a lot of pressure and a lot of hard work. There is no one holding my hand or taking care of me, and if something goes wrong, it is no one's fault but my own. Sometimes the things we thought we wanted, although great and glorious, often remind us of the things we had before. As I am here in Ireland doing all these travel things for myself, I find myself missing having food cooked for me and a consistent bed and a real "home" to come home to. At the same time, I am finally doing something that I have wanted to do since I was a kid. What a mess I am, right?

2. (To follow 1) Adventure is out there! And Adventure is scary. That is why it is an adventure. But it is also glorious and exciting and new and surprising. That is also why it is adventure. So, here I am wanting Adventure (with a capital A) in the Great Wide Somewhere and realizing that I am scared stiff. How can what I want so badly scare me just as badly at the same time?

3. There are few feelings worse than realizing when it is already too late that you forgot your lunch on the kitchen counter. Believe me. It has happened to me multiple times, and it always makes the day a little less cheery than it might have been.

4. (To follow 3) There is always time to double check. To quote my wonderful dad: "Prevention is easier than fixing." I know this. Seriously, it has been drilled into my brain since childhood. So why on earth do I still forget my lunch on the kitchen counter?

Granada

I spent this past weekend exploring the streets and monuments of Granada with a group from my school. My roomate Christy has a friend, Tiffany, from her home university who is studying abroad in Grandada right now, so we were able to meet up with her. She came to visit Sevilla a few weeks ago, and we were able to show her around our city, and this weekend she was able to return the favor. Tiffany has actually been in Granada for a semester already, so she was able to show us the city in a different kind of way, taking us on a fantastic walking tour through the Albaicín (the old Arab neighborhood) and afterwards to her favorite tapas place. It was wonderful to see the city from the perspective of another student who had been living there and had discovered so many things about the city already-- like favorite places to walk to or favorite places to eat. Granada has a tradition that with the purchase of a drink (una copa) comes a free tapa; there may be copas without tapas, but never tapas without copas. One of the reasons I loved Granada is that it is one of those quirky cities with character, not just urban concrete and twisted freeways; maybe what I want to express is the difference I feel when walking the streets of a city like San Francisco compared to how I feel when driving through the skyscrapers of a city like Los Angeles. I think that is why I love San Diego (and now Sevilla) so much.

Well, now back to Granada: Granada is a city in the Sierra Nevada mountains of Andalucia where one can still see the influence that the Arabs had while they were in power during that period of Spanish history. (Sierra Nevada sound familiar? Well, sierra means mountain range and nevada means snowy, so now you know). The old Arab neighborhood, called the Albaicín (all-by-seen), is still a huge part of the city of Granada. (Most of my photos are of the Albaicín and the view from the top of a hill somewhere in the depths of the neighborhood).

Granada was the last city that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella (whom we call los Reyes Católicos or the Catholic Monarchs) recovered from the control of the Arabs during the Reconquest of Spain. They kept the Alhambra (the moorish citadel and palace) as a symbol of the power of their reign; the Arabs had, after all, been there for centuries and now Granada, their last bastion of power, had been conquered by the Catholic Monarchs. I do not know how I feel about the religious-political propoganda of the Catholic Monarchs, but I am glad that they did not destroy the Alhambra because it is magnificent. I think I might like the Alcázar of Sevilla better, but the Alhambra and its gardens were beautiful.

Anyway, because Granada was such an important city to the Catholic Monarchs, they asked to be buried there, and for that purpose they commisioned la Capilla Real (the Royal Chapel). It was amazing to see with my own eyes what I have been learning about in my classes. I am taking History/Civilization of Spain (1500 to present) as well as Art History of Spain (1500 to present) and it has been so fun for me as everyhting comes together. Basically, I get to study the history of Spain as well as the art that came out of Spain during that history all at the same time. This means that when we visited la Capilla Real, I understood it's history and why it was in Granada, what period and artistic styles it is a product of, why the building itself is in mainly a gothic style but the monuments are in the style of the Renaissance, and so much more. I was able to enjoy the visit on a deeper level than I would have if I had simply visited it with a tour guide who mentioned a few of the facts as we passed through. Next to the Alhambra is the palace of Carlos V, which we also studied in my Art History class. I cannot communicate how the pictures on the slide show do not do it justice and how lucky I feel to be able to see these great works in person while I am studying them.

One last thing: The pomegranate (in Spanish granada) is the symbol of Granada (claro). It appears on the flag, public transportation, sidewalks, and all kinds of city property-- very much like the motto and symbol of Sevilla, NO8DO, which I will explain another time.

(This is me leaving you in suspense, waiting to read my next blog... I don't know if it is working...)

¿Una Moto? Ok, whatever you say.

In addition to the upper-division Spanish program CC-CS has for American college students, they also hold English classes in the Center and offer English tutoring for Spanish children. As I am studying to be a teacher, have had experience with children and with tutoring, and would love to have some extra cash, I decided to sign up to be a tutor through the program. Because it had been a while and I had not heard anything, I assumed that I was not going to receive any students to tutor. However, when I checked my email today, I had a message saying that I did indeed have students and the parents would like me to start today.

I nervously proceeded to call the phone number given to me and to talk with Ignacio, the father of the two children whom I will be working with. After we determined that 3:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon on Mondays and Wednesdays would work the best for everyone, he asked that I meet him in front of the Corte Ingles in Nervion so he could walk with me to their house so I did not get lost. "Ok. I can do that," I thought. "No pasa nada." This, however, required that I rush home immediately after my class ended aty 1:45 pm, eat quickly (which never exactly works out in Spain because meals always have a way of taking longer than you think), and leave my house at 3:00 pm to power-walk to El Corte Ingles by 3:30 pm. No pasa nada, right?

Well, Carmen was out when I arrived home; because everything happened so quickly while I was at school, I did not have a chance to tell her that I was in a hurry for lunch today. After I was eventually able to gulp down some lunch and run out the door, I made it to our meeting place in time. Except I was the only one who was on time. I waited there for about twenty minutes before I received a call from Teresa, the mother of the family, apologizing for the confusion and saying that Ignacio was coming to get me "en la moto" because it was a little before 4:00 pm and they did not want me to be late for my class at 5:00 pm. As I was too busy being relieved that they had not forgotten me and wondering about how on earth I was going to get to class, it did not quite register in my brain that "la moto" is short for "la motocicleta." ......

Ignacio showed up a few minutes later, sure enough on a moto scooter. As he explained that he had been caught up at work and apologized for being late, he pulled out a spare helmet and handed it to me. To his question of "¿Te da miedo las motos?" (Are you afraid of motos?), I replied, "No, no. Está bien," even though that was not exactly the truth. He assured me that we would go slowly anyway. I put on the helmet, got on the back of the scooter, put my feet on the small foot rests, and then we were off-- in the direction from which I had come! I had just power-walked twenty minutes down Calle San Francisco y Javier to get there on time, and now we were riding back in the direction I came from. I could do nothing but smile (trying not to laugh). There I was in Sevilla, with the wind in my face, riding on the back of a scooter with someone I had just met. The situation was, well, just ironically funny, but here in Sevilla-- with a wave of the hand and "No pasa nada," we just go with it.

We got to the house, and I met Teresa and los niños-- Nacho, the boy, is 12 and his sister Teresita is 10. We did a few exercises and talked for while, so I could get to know them a little and get a feel for how much English they knew, but we did not have enough time for a full hour. Ignacio told me that he would take me back to school on the moto today so that I would not be late, for which I was very grateful. I strapped on the spare helmet again-- a little tighter this time so it did not slip to the back of my head in the wind-- and we were off once again. To get back to the Center, we drove along the river (which was very scenic from my view on the back of a moto) and through some back streets to avoid traffic before pulling up in front of the Center on Calle Harinas. I thanked Ignacio for getting me there on time for class and said good-bye, thinking to myself, "Well, that was interesting."

¿Una moto? Ok, whatever you say. No pasa nada.

An Artsy Semester

So, I am now in the middle of my second week of regular classes (my first month here was an intensive period of just one language class every day for four hours) and I have sorted out my schedule. I am taking Advanced Spanish Composition, History/Civilization of Spain, Art History of Spain, Spanish Film, and Cultural Realities of Spain. As most of you know, I am majoring in Literature and Spanish at Point Loma, and I was hoping to be able to study literature of Spain while I am in Spain, but it was impossible due to schedule conflicts. On the other hand, I am tremendously excited about how well all of my classes fit together this semester. My Spanish Civ. class and my Art History class are both starting with the fifteenth century and moving forward to the modern era. Studying both the history of Spain and the art of Spain that came out of those eras in the same semester is going to be fantastic. It is also going to be a really artsy semester for me with Art History, Spanish Film, and a water-color painting class I am taking for fun on top of my normal hobby of photography. It should be interesting, and I am looking forward to learning a lot, to say the least.

A Soundtrack for Life

I ride the bus from Nervion every morning to Prado San Sebastián where I transfer to the tramvía (electric/cable train) to continue on to Plaza Nueva where I get off and walk a few more blocks to school. I then do this in reverse to go home for lunch, then come back to school for my classes in the afternoon, and then once again in reverse when my day is finally done. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time on public transportation (when it finally stops raining here, I hope to walk more, but until then...well, we continue on). The tramvía at least is always tuned to what must be a classical radio station-- sometimes it is an intense symphony, a melancholy piano sonata, or famous operatic works. Although I already had a sense of how important music is in a film, I am learning more about it in my Spanish Film class, which, consequently, is changing the way I observe and perceive things. When riding the tramvía, I find myself imagining that the music is part of the soundtrack of my life or someone else's life: "If this were a movie, what kind of emotions should I be feeling, what kind of thoughts would be going through my head, where would I be headed, and where would I be coming from?" Oh, man, my profe would be so proud.

A Passionate Language

One of the things I love about the Spanish language is the passionate and descriptive nature of it. I have heard some names that in Spanish are perfectly normal, but would be quite strange in English. One of my professor’s names is Milagros (Miracles) but she goes by Mila, and another of my professor’s names is Consolación (Consolation) but she shortens it to Conso. Encarna (one of the women I met in my apartment complex) is short for Encarnación (Incarnation – like the theological term) and my friend Jess was telling me that she met a woman named Puri, which is short for Purificación (Purification). I doubt you would find those names in a book like 1001 Baby Names in the States. One can get away with saying fantastic things in Spanish that would never fly in English. For example, this past week I bought books and school supplies for my classes, and when I paid in exact change, the girl behind the counter said, “Gracias. Stupendo.” Now, as someone who has worked behind a counter, I can get away with saying “Awesome, thanks,” but if I said “Stupendous,” you would probably wonder what I had been drinking lately. In the same way, phrases like “Chicos, es divino!” (Guys, it is divine!) and “Que barbaridad!” (What a barbarity!) that are normal in Spanish evoke sentiments of, shall we say… “Drama-Queen” ? … in English. Seriously, if I started saying things like “What a barbarity!” or if you heard other people saying, “People, this is just divine!” what would you do?

Morocco

This past weekend I visited Morocco with a tourist group based here in Sevilla. Almost all the students from my program went on this trip to Morocco as well as other study-abroad students here in Spain. It was strange returning to Africa with a huge tourist group, actually rather unsettling. I think I experienced more culture shock from that huge group of tourists than I have experienced anywhere else, even when I went to Africa the first time. We visited a few cities in Morocco—Chef Chaouen, Tangiers, Tetuan, Ceuta—but only the very touristy parts. Don’t misunderstand me—the cities were beautiful, I learned a lot about the culture and customs, and I am very glad I went. I just hate being a tourist, especially in a place like Africa where it is crucial to be culturally sensitive and aware of the issues there. I hate being with a group of tourists, especially a huge group of tourists who are so blatantly American. Well, enough of that. Morocco is officially a Muslim country, but I was surprised at how many changes have occurred within the past decade for the Moroccans. The government of Morocco is an absolute monarchy (the king has all the power), and their current king is relatively young, about forty-five or so. He was educated abroad somewhere and has put into effect what to me appear to be some very good changes in the country. For example, the current king’s wedding was a public one, which means that for the first time in the history of Morocco, the people have seen the face of their queen; in the past, the wife (or wives) of the king were always veiled and never seen by the people. She also appears to be involved in several causes and active in her role as queen, which to me seems to be a wonderful step forward for the rights of women in Muslim countries. I hope that the government of Morocco as a Muslim country can set an example for other more conservative Muslim countries in the world to take steps for women’s rights. Besides some of those political things, I learned a little bit about the Muslim culture itself. One of my favorite moments was walking the windy streets of Chef Chaouen, a beautiful small market town (yes, Mom, I was in a big group, which consequently made us even more obvious). I asked our guide, a local man of about sixty, why everything was painted in shades of blue, and he told me that certain colors are very significant in the Muslim culture. For example, blue represents the love of Allah, white represents the peace of Islam, and green represents the community of Muslims around the world. This explains a lot; every Islamic center I have ever seen in the States has been painted in schemes of white and blue or green, and now that I understand the symbolism, it makes a lot of sense.