i sizzle, i scorch, and now i pass the torch...

I am sunburned, but happy.



Saturday was our final ISA excursion, so we all met at 8:30 in the morning to ride to Cádiz, a beach town not far frm Sevilla. The bus ride was less than pleasant for me, and somewhat reminiscent of Forrest Gump. Having arrived late, I had no choice really of where to sit, and ended up in the back of the bus with the "in crowd" of our group. Hours before the first traces of sunburn, I felt the burn of being unwanted. The ride back, however, was much better. I sat with a new friend with whom I talked about God and poverty and traveling. We first stopped in Jerez, a city near Cádiz, to see a horse museum. I can see the confused look on your faces now as you read....a horse museum??? Fret not, dear reader, we all felt the same way -- especially in conjunction with our anticipation of the long-awaited beach. The stables of the museum (which contained real LIVE horses) reawakened my lifelong dreams to someday have horses of my own. I´m not sure how that works with also being a world traveler. I don´t think horses are especially fond of flying. Oh well -- all minor details. Anyhow, we drug our feet through the museum and finally made it to Cádiz, where a small group of us first climbed to the highest tower of the cathedral for a truly breathtaking view of the town, which is located on a small peninsula. Saphire blue water smiled at us from all sides, and the whitewashed walls of the monolopy-esque buildings reflected the majesty of the sun. The cool breeze refreshed our weary bodies (weary because we got lost in the winding streets for nearly 30 minutes before finding the right building) and I have never felt so certain in my life that if I truly wanted to I could fly. But instead of flying we descended the dream-like spiral of the tower, and then walked to the beaches.

Almost as numerous as the grains of sand that danced carelessly with the waves were the people laid out on that sand. Umbrellas, bikinis, and beach towels were part of the mosaic that Nature designed to be tan and blue. It was insane -- but awesome. We found a spare plot of sand to set our things down, and then dashed into the cool, clear waters. I forget that the ocean can be clear blue and the beaches soft white. Texans don´t have very good beaches to compare to. But here I could see my feet beneath me as they sunk into the muddy sand, and the perfect sized waves tossed us around enough to feel its movement a part of my own pulse without having to struggle to maintain contact with the air. I am always amazed at the increased bouyancy of salt water -- I felt a little like Bill Nye as I made remarks about this. I have yet to find a sensation more relaxing and freeing than to float atop ocean waves, all the faces around me erased except that of the Sun. If it weren´t for the salt water filling the tiny canals of my inner ear and the UV rays that I know were my invisible enemy, I could have laid like that for the whole day. I suppose I need not go on about the wonders of the beach, as most of my readers will have known them themselves, and so my words, pale in comparisson to the reality, are pitiful. I will comment, however, on the unwritten allowance for toplessness on European beaches. It was neither shocking nor disturbing, only strange. Again I wondered about the American stigma about nakedness, but not so much so that I was convinced to remove my own top. After a day at the beach, I was so exhausted that our attempts once back in Sevilla to go see some live music all but failed, and I happily came back home and to sleep.



Sunday morning I reluctantly woke up to go to the bus station and meet my friend, and we left for Ronda, a small town in the mountains famous for its gorges and bridges. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into or what the day would bring, but that was half the fun. We wandered around the city a bit to get a feel for what there was, and before long we were met by the breath-taking view of the sheer cliffs of the gorge that splits the city in two. The famous bridge, called Puente Nuevo, was truly impressive, despite my previous conviction that no bridge can truly be impressive. It was so immensely tall, and the wonders that kneel at its feet so surreal, that we soon understood the bridge´s nickname "balcón de coños" (which roughly translates to "balcony of ´oh shit!´"). Anyhow, after admiring its beauty both natural and man-made, we found a path down into the gorge. Thinking that it would take us to a slightly lower point in order to take picutres, we followed it down along the crumbling walls of a once-standing fortress. All that remained of an arabic fortress from the 13th century was an unmistakably arabic archway, through which we passed, and followed the path that started to get narrower and narrower, and more overgrown with vines and wildflowers. By the time the vegetation had consumed us as we were in a tunnel of greenery rather than an open path, we came upon the remains of a 18th or 19th century electric company building. For hours we explored this world that, save the grafiti dated in recent years, felt like it had been untouched for a century. It was both eerie and exciting -- thrilling and chilling. We dodged waterfalls, pushed aside vines, and dared slipper slopes, always to be rewarded by another amazing view of a part of the city´s history that had been abandoned to the vines and branches of Time. Wild figs grew through the walls of the buildings or out of the sides of cliffs, and the gentle sound of trickling water let us forget the nearby city as we took on the role of explorers and adventurers. Finally, after my friend had a nerve-shaking slip and the sun, too, was slipping lower and lower, we decided to head back. Half way up the slope was a small, dilapidating old house, in which there lives a man who sells refreshments to tourists on their arduous journey uphill. We stopped in and, after finding out from a pair of musicians seated on a ledge of the cliff by the house that the owner was down the path, we headed down again, this time towards the bridge. We found ourselves at the very feet of the bridge, just meters away from the crystal-clear waters. We found the owner hacking away at some stray branches, and he stopped his work to show us the amazing view and tell us a little about what we saw. He walked back with us to the top, where we purchased some beverages and sat for a while to chat with the owner (whose name, we found out, was Antonio) and the two musicians, who were visitors -- one from Italy and the other from Venezuela. Once well-rested and armed with bellies full of Fanta limón, we completed the climb up. The rest of our visit in Ronda was uneventful, but not boring in the least. It is an amazingly historic and beautiful city, and we were reluctant to climb aboard the bus at 7:00 to go back to Sevilla. Exhausted yet again, I enjoyed a quiet evening consisting of little more than a shower, dinner, and sleep.

And now, is the beginning of the end. Except for a few exams and a presentation this trip is over. So........if anyone wants anything from Spain let me know now, for this is my last week of shopping. I´m still in love with this country, but at the same time eager to come home.

I have to relenquish my computer now to the hoovering students eager to check their facebooks.
:D

love love love