Three down, three to go.

Ah, another week has begun. And what better way than to begin it with a reflection on the previous one?? This weekend we traveled as a massive group to Cordoba on Saturday to visit the mosque there, which was turned into a cathedral when the Christians took over and didn´t have enough money (because of all the wars they were fighting) to build their own cathedral, so they converted the already standing mosque into their own religious center. I have never studied architecture in the least, but I love learning little tidbits as I see it here. For example, the double arches of the mosque were built in such a way that the weight was distributed not down the columns but outwards toward the walls of the huge building. For that reason the columns on the outer perameters are no longer perfectly vertical -- the weight over the years has slowly pushed them outwards. Also, light for Muslims entered the building from the sides; there were big open doors or open walls around the edges of the building that allowed light to come in from west to east -- pointing in the direction of Mecca. The Christians bring their light in from above, from God. It´s amazing the significance of something that seems so small as the direction of light! The rest of the city was like a postcard. I spent some time wandering by myself (i´m quickly getting tired of being part of a huge group) and watched elderly couples hobble arm-in-arm down the ancient streets, geraniums bursting out of the windows of rows upon rows of whitewashed walls, which appeared like the only clouds against a sky of piercing blue. A small cat in a doorway let me scratch its head -- which for me is a sensation of home. It made me miss my cats. A gypsy woman with her two children emerged from a doorway by where we were standing at one point as we waited to enter a synagogue. First impression: she is so beautiful with her colrfully striped skirt and two beautiful baby girls grasping watever piece of her clothing or hair they can reach. Second impression: she is a seasoned begger -- she knows how to target the tourists and look pitiful just before lunch time, when our bocadillos are still in our bag but already in our minds for lunch. Third impression: she is miserable and desperate, pained at the dehumanization of having to beg for a meal in front of her two sweet little girls, having to pretend not to be offended by the thousands of dollars of tourist accessories -- from digital cameras to fancy walking shoes -- that blurr before her without the compassion to offer her food. Fourth impression: why???? I gave her my bocadillo and had ice cream for lunch instead.



Sautrday evening when we got back I had a hell of a time trying to find out information about the bus schedule for the next day. The United States is incredibly well-organized compared to this country. There were no schedules online, no one would answer the phone, and when I arrived at the station on Saturday nobody was in the information booth and the girl at the ticket stand didn´t know when they would be back. Finally someone showed up, only to inform me that I was at the wrong station. So, I rented a bicycle (which has become one of my favorite pastimes here) and rode to the station on the other side of town. Unfriendly faces met me at the information booth just long enough to inform me of the departure times for the bus to Aracena on Sunday. "Gracias" I responded through the most sincere smile I could muster. The bike ride back cooled my reddened face with the evening breeze and horizontal rays of setting sunlight.

Yesterday a few friends and I did indeed make it to the bus station and find the correct bus and pay the bus driver, and soon we were pulling out of the station quite unsure as to what the day might bring. The small town of Aracena is situated in the Sierra Morena, just north of Sevilla. On a sunday it seemed to be a town populated only by ancient white buildings and pig legs hanging in some of the windows. By some miriacle we managed to follow the scarce signs to what is known as the Grota de Maravillas -- the Goto of Marvels. It is a natural cave filled with the most surreal rock and mineral formations I have ever seen. We toured through the cave, ooh-ing and aah-ing as we went. It truly was spectacular. I managed to sneak some illegal pictures (they don´t let you take your own because they want you to pay 5 euros for the picture they take like at a theme park. or if not that then a post card. thank you, capitalism) so as soon as I figure out how to post pictures I will do so. Even so, they do not do it justice. I felt as though I was in an indiana jones movie, so I kept waiting for some creature to leap out from the crevices at me. After the tour was over, we surfaced into the hot, dry air of outside. My purpose for coming to this town was for the hiking trails through the mountains, so we did our best to follow the map (which left out some streets and didn´t show the names of several of them, although it´s impossible to find the street names half of the time anyhow) to the trail head. For about an hour and a half we tried to find the trail head. Finally we managed to go in the right direction, but it was so late and there was absolutely no shade, so we turned back after about 45 minutes on the actual trail. But it was not a lost day -- despite the detours we saw absolutely beautiful countryside and I was happy to find that the same is true of the country in any country: people are much nicer than in the cities. A truck full of people stopped to ask where we were going and assured us we were going in the right direction, then they offered us some water to salvage our parched lips. We also passed a caballero fully dressed in spanish traje. It was an amazing experience.

I could go on forever -- I have seen, felt, smelled, and thought so much that I can only begin to write it down. And I have a homework assignment to complete before my computer time runs out and then I have to study for the two exams I have this week. Much love to you all -- know that even in the enchantment of this place I miss home and all the people that make it home.

Hasta la pasta,
Catita


p.s. -- when i said i went to a Segolla exhibit last week, I meant Sorolla. oops.