You know I don't speak Portuguese.

Our second-to-last excursion of the semester was to Lisbon, Portugal. As usual, we met at the Sevilla Santa Justa train station bright and early to board the bus for the four-odd hour long trip across the border. Unfortunately for me, I've never been able to sleep on buses, airplanes, trains, etc. But there's a bright side to everything. In this particular case, I was awake to see the beautiful changes as we moved further and further out of Sevilla. The landscape surrounding Sevilla is charming in its own way-- semi-arid hills covered with olive trees, small towns and farms here and there, occasionally an old abandoned castle. Decidedly Spanish. But as we got closer to Portugal, the dry landscape got more green and more hilly. I would include a picture, but it was fairly cold that morning and, consequently, the windows on the bus were foggy for most of the time in Spain. They did clear up in time to see the border crossing into Portugal.

On the left is Spain, on the right, Portugal.

Not long after getting into the country, we stopped to eat/relax at (where else?) a truck stop. The highways here are dotted with them, all of the same company whose name I don't remember. Variety in food during long-range road travel is not one of Europe's strong points (Italy is the same way, so I'm going to judge the rest of the continent accordingly). The food is expensive and plain, and the worst coffee I've had since I've been here was at one such stop on the way to Granada. The immediate difference here, though, was that everyone spoke Portuguese.

Now, Portuguese and Spanish are very similar on paper. After learning a few key joining words, anyone who can read Spanish can make sense of Portuguese. But the accent, ah, there's the rub. Portugal Portuguese (as opposed to Brazilian Portuguese) pronounces all intra-word "s"s with a heavy, almost Eastern European-sounding "zh". For example, the word for house in Portuguese and Spanish is casa. In Spanish, you would pronounce it just the way it looks: CAH-sah. In Portuguese, it's CAH-zha. This is a small difference, but when one considers how many words have "s"s in the middle or end of them, it begins to mount. This, as well as a few other, more minor differences in pronunciation makes it sound like a mix between French and Russian (as one of my friends put it), and makes it all but unintelligible jibberish to me, even though I can understand Spanish just fine. Luckily, I had learned the most important vocabulary before the trip-- how to say cafe con leche (cafe con leite, for those wondering).

Anyway, a few hours after leaving the truckstop, we found ourselves in Lisbon. Lisbon, even at first glance, is much more colorful and topographically-varied than Sevilla. Pastel colors predominate, and the city is similar as far as hilliness to Austin. I instantly took a liking to the place. Immediately after checking into the hotel, we set off for our only required side trips of the excursion: to a Jeronomite monastery and to an old tower fortification on the Tagus River, which runs through Lisbon. The monastery was built in the 15th century, had Gothic architecture, is the home to the tomb of Vasco da Gama, etc. etc. If you'd like, you can check out the Wikipedia article about it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosteiro_dos_jerónimos . But I'd like to talk about a small revelation I had here.

If you read the article, you know that this place is visually and historically incredible. My reaction upon seeing it?

"Meh. Seen better."

The second this thought crossed my mind, it gave me pause. I've seen better? I thought to myself. Who the hell do I think I am? This is more impressive than any building the vast, vast majority of people will ever see. And I'm indifferent? Living in Spain, seeing spectacular architecture and history day-in and day-out numbs the senses. It skews one's perspective. But the realization of this absurd indifference made me think about just how lucky I am, and I'd like to take a paragraph or two here to reflect on it.

As far as I know, I'm the only one on either side of the family (which is extensive) to have the opportunity to study abroad for a semester in Europe. My mom, the valedictorian of a prestigious private school in Houston (which my grandparents made huge sacrifices for her to attend-- my grandparents' selflessness when it comes to their children and grandchildren could easily take up books to fully recount), never got the opportunity. My dad never got to travel much at all in the United States, much less Europe, until he married my mom. I'm not more intelligent than my dad. I certainly don't make the grades my mom did. And yet, here I am, just over halfway through a semester in Sevilla. I don't deserve this opportunity. But luckily for me, the hard work and generosity of others has made it possible for me to be here. I would be remiss if I didn't publicly thank those involved.

First and foremost, my parents have been absurdly generous throughout my entire college career, and especially so during my study abroad experience. They paid for my plane ticket to and from Sevilla, and made up the difference in fees that my scholarships didn't cover. My parents have never been rich. We've always been right smack in the middle of middle class. But they've worked hard all their lives and have made innumerable sacrifices to provide for me and my brother. I won the parent lottery, in the words of Randy Pausch. Beyond my parents, my paternal grandmother and maternal grandparents have also given generously to help me realize this opportunity. Without their help, this trip would likely have been impossible. I couldn't possibly thank my family enough.

I also need to acknowledge the generosity shown to me by Texas Tech. Through merit scholarships alone, I was able to pay for the vast majority of expenses associated with the program, which are fairly steep. One of the reasons I chose Texas Tech was the low tuition and the generous number of scholarships available. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't have made this trip without the enthusiastic support of study abroad provided by my university. But scholarships aren't won by individual people. I'd like to publicly thank those who wrote letters of recommendation for me-- Drs. Marjean Purinton and Gary Bell. They took the time out of their busy schedules to recommend me for the money that is now financing this trip. In addition, Don Harragan, president emeritus of Texas Tech, funded the Honors College Study Abroad Scholarship, which helped immensely with the cost of this semester.

For all of the above reasons, I am absurdly lucky to be here seeing the things I'm seeing. And I don't take it for granted. So, to those mentioned above who helped make this experience possible, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Back to discussing said experience.

After seeing the evening's sights, we headed back to the hotel. A few friends and I decided to make a trip to the grocery store to get snacks and food for the next few days. In addition to the usual sandwich supplies, we bought a gallon of ice cream, some "green wine" (not green at all, as it turns out-- more like a sparkling white wine), and a nice bottle of porto. I had never tried port, and figured that if there was ever a time to give it a shot, it was in Portugal. I wasn't disappointed. Sweet, oaky, strong. Paired horribly with the ice cream. But delicious nonetheless. And what a difference a day can make! The next night, we finished the bottle. The twenty-four-odd hours spent oxidizing took the bite off the alcohol (it's a fortified wine and has an alcohol content of around 20%) and enriched the oakiness. Fantastic.

The next morning I took a bus to the other side of the river to the statue of Cristo Rei, which is a miniature of the Cristo Redentor in Brazil. Perched on a cliff high above the city, it offers incredible panoramic views.

You may notice that the bridge in the picture looks awfully similar to the Golden Gate in San Francisco. No coincidence there; the same company that built the Golden Gate built this one. Lisbon's isn't as large as San Francisco's, but is still beautiful. Between the miniature Cristo Redentor and the miniature Golden Gate, many of us started to think that the people of Lisbon just wait for the rest of the world to do cool stuff then put smaller replicas in their own city. At any rate, it was a great view (once I got over my persistent fear of heights) certainly a worthwhile side trip. On the way back to the hotel, the bus made stops at an art museum and at Lisbon's world-famous aquarium. I opted for the aquarium.

The Lisbon Oceanarium, as I have just said, is world-famous and houses an incredible diversity of animals. Its most well-known attraction is its 180,000 cubic foot main tank, which contains approximately 100 different species of marine life. Besides the tank, they had extensive exhibits of a variety of non-water bound animals, such as PENGUINS! And they were so close you could reach out and touch them!

And there were otters. That they were feeding by throwing bits of fish onto their bellies. Unimaginable cuteness.

I really enjoyed the aquarium. It was pricey-- fourteen euro if I remember correctly-- but worth it. Afterward, I headed back to the hotel to meet up with some friends for dinner. We went to a cheap churrascaria nearby. It definitely wasn't Fogo de Chao, but it also only cost about fifteen bucks for all you can eat meat. No, it wasn't top quality. But it was meat. And a lot of it. Can't pass it up.

The next day I had planned on taking a trip with a bunch of people from the group to the nearby town of Sintra, which apparently had a really cool castle and offered great views of Lisbon. However, plans often change. Sometimes for worse, other times for better. Still other times for fantastic. I was sitting at the breakfast buffet at the hotel with a friend of mine, Nate Covarrubias, chatting as always. He mentioned that he was waiting for a phone call from someone else regarding a trip to Fatima. I knew before the trip that Fatima was near Lisbon, but I also knew that it was too far to take a trip on my own and that no group trips had been planned. He also mentioned that someone else that had previously planned on taking the trip had decided not to go. I asked if there was any chance that I could take his place. Five minutes later, I was in a taxi and on my way. Turns out that the director of the center had organized a trip for the three people who had wanted to go and hired a taxi, writing it off as an educational expense. I was thrillled.

For those who don't know the story of Fatima, here's a brief introduction. On May 13, 1917, three children were tending sheep when they reportedly saw a woman "brighter than the sun, shedding rays of light clearer and stronger than a crystal ball filled with the most sparkling water and pierced by the burning rays of the sun"-- the Virgin Mary. She appeared again on the thirteenth day of the following two months in the same spot, and again on August 19th. These apparitions immediately became famous, and a large crowd (30,000-100,000 in size, depending on the source) gathered to witness a miracle that had been prophesied-- what became known as The Miracle of the Sun. One of the more famous aspects of the apparitions at Fatima were the three secrets supposedly bequeathed to the children by the Virgin Mary. The first two were visions of hell and admonitions to prayer. The third was kept secret until 2000-- it predicted the assassination of a pope, which was widely regarded as coming to fruition in the assassination attempt of Pope John Paul II on, interestingly, May 13th 1981 which is, of course the anniversary of the first apparition. John Paul II believed that Our Lady saved his life that day-- he later placed the bullet that struck him into the crown of the statue of Mary at the site of the apparitions-- and continued a special bond with Fatima until he died.

We chose an excellent time to visit Fatima. More correctly, we were lucky enough to get to make a trip to Fatima when we did. There was hardly anyone there (relatively speaking-- there were a few hundred people there, but the place is built to accommodate hundreds of thousands). A small, open-air altar marks the spot of the apparitions.

Behind the bishop saying mass is the statue of Our Lady wearing the crown that contains the bullet that struck Pope John Paul II. The people pictured are members of the Portuguese army.

Fatima is an incredible place. A quiet, holy place-- quite unlike so many Marian sites that have been overrun with souvenir stands and other cheesy shops. For those interested, more pictures of my time there can be found in my album, which can be accessed here (the Fatima pictures are in the last half). It's an incredible place that really can't be captured in words.

Once we got back to Lisbon (an hour and a half drive from Fatima), a group of us set out once again, this time to wonder the streets of downtown. Walking around on cobblestone streets seems to me to nurture the soul. Even better when enjoyed with others.

Our time in Lisbon was far too short. I could've easily spent a few weeks there and around Portugal. But I was able to cram quite a bit into the time that I had, and, on the bright side, it leaves more to be explored on my next trip.

On the difficulty of securing an internship

You might get the impression from my previous posts that all I’m doing in Spain is eating and traveling. While those are my most enjoyable endeavors, I’m also enrolled in the last twelve hours of coursework required for my Spanish degree. Now, my college friends might point out that twelve hours is hardly a heavy load, and they’d be right. But no matter how little, any time spent in the classroom feels like it drags on forever because, well, I’m in Spain and I’d rather be leisurely sipping a café con leche and reading a book. Luckily, that’s exactly what one of my classes, an independent study in literature, entails. Instead of having lectures, my professor and I choose works for me to read, set deadlines, and meet periodically to discuss them. Thus, while my friends here in Sevilla have class from 9-12 each morning (two classes back-to-back), I have lecture from 9-10:20 (a course called Spanish life and culture) and I’m finished with my classroom time for the day. After the first class, I go to my favorite bar to have breakfast and read.

                 

Now, before we go any further, I need to explain the difference between a bar in the United States and the typical bar in Spain. While there certainly are American-style, only-for-drinking-at-night bars here in Sevilla, the majority are quiet, family-run cafes that specialize in breakfast and tapas. Imagine if Starbucks also sold alcohol and you’d be on the right track.

                 

Anyway, I go to a particular bar, Café d’Arthe, which is right around the corner from the school. It has the best, cheapest breakfast and café con leche and the friendliest workers in the city. It offers the perfect atmosphere for reading. It’s the best classroom I’ve ever had at Tech.

                 

Alas, not all of my classes are so leisurely. I’m taking four classes this semester. The semester here is broken into two halves, which would ordinarily mean that I would take two classes for the first half and two for the second. I finished with one of my classes last half and am now taking another half-semester course. The other two classes span the regular semester: my independent literature course that I mentioned above, and a class called “The internship in Spanish.” The point of this class, as the name suggests, is to secure and internship with a local business and work 70 hours total over the course of the semester, with various side assignments (such as writing an essay over a labor issue in Spain).

                 

So, in January when classes started, I started looking into options. Luckily, the Center keeps logs of the places where previous students have worked and have them filed according to category (social work, restaurants, gyms, etc.). One of the suggestions from the professor was to work at one of the local nursing homes, which, she said, had been a really good experience for previous students. The idea of sitting around chatting with old people, many of whom lived through not only the Franco era, but the Civil War itself, sounded charming. I got the information for a nearby Church-run nursing home and, a few weeks later, stopped by and asked for the director. After waiting for a short time, two nuns, one old, the other older, came in to greet me. I introduced myself as a student from the university and told them that I was interested in doing an internship with them, as students had done in the past. To my dismay, however, they told me that they had decided not to take on any students for this semester. They were very sweet and had a good reason for doing so—they said that many of the people at this particular nursing home were in a far too-advanced state to be able to hold any meaningful conversation, which would mean that any students interning there would have only minimal opportunities to improve their language skills. Fair enough, I thought, and I thanked them for their time and left.

                

 Despite this setback, I really wasn’t concerned about the situation. I figured there were plenty of other opportunities to work in nursing homes. There weren’t. That particular home was the only one on file, so I had to figure something else out. Unlike most of the other people in the class, I’m not a business or business-related major. So I wasn’t all that interested in getting a desk job here in Sevilla. After reviewing my remaining options, I found a promising opportunity at the offices of an association for developmental disorders. They’d taken students before, and I figured it would be a great place to practice my Spanish while doing medically-related and meaningful work. I stopped by that very same day—we’re now in the third week of January—to talk with the director about an internship. She wasn’t there, but the office secretary was very friendly and let me know that she’d be in later that week and, if I wanted, I could leave a resume and contact information to be passed on. I wrote a brief letter describing what I was looking for and jotted down a resume. The secretary told me that I’d probably hear something by week’s end. This was on a Monday.

                 

The following Tuesday (that is, a week and a day after I first dropped by), after not having heard anything, I returned to the office to again try to talk with the director. She wasn’t there, but the secretary told me that she would be in on Thursday. I returned on Thursday to an empty office. The following week I returned, to be told that the director would certainly be there the next week and, if I would like, the secretary would set up a time specifically for me in the director’s schedule. I came back the next week ten minutes before my scheduled meeting. After waiting there for two hours, the secretary called the director to ask her where she was. The director, she told me, had something else that had come up and wouldn’t be able to meet with me today. I thanked them for their time, told them I’d be in touch, and left.

                 

Beginning to feel the pressure—it was now February and I was the only one that hadn’t started working yet—I asked around for other options. One of the associate directors at the Center told me that there was another nursing home close by that a student had worked at the year before but, for some reason, hadn’t been documented in the log of previous businesses (hence my not knowing about it). Encouraged, I went by there that very same day. Only to be told that the director wasn’t there, but, if I would like, I could return the next day to meet with him. Being a “director” must be the best job in all of Spain. From what I can tell, it basically means that you never, ever have to come to work. Quickly seeing where this was headed, I thanked them and left with no intentions of coming back. I didn’t have another month to waste waiting for a meeting with someone who may or may not actually exist.

                 

Now beginning to get nervous, I returned to the Center to ask if they had any other ideas. “How do you feel about working in a restaurant?” they asked me. I sighed. My first and only experience in the food service industry, a three month stint at Sonic in high school, had left me prematurely jaded. But I was out of options. However, when they told me that Café d’Arthe, at which I had become a regular, positively loved having students and were somewhat disappointed that none had applied, my disappointment turned to excitement. Spaniards spend half their lives in bars (remember, think coffee shop rather than Moe’s), they say. They’re sort of like the roadside diners in the country, or the barbershops in Harlem. Bars are where Spaniards go to shoot the breeze with their neighbors and friends. They’re the social hubs of the country.

                 

The owners of the bar, whom I had gotten to know over the previous month, were happy to have me joining them. I learned to make coffee and pour beer and that was that. If only I had gone to them first, I would’ve saved nearly a month and a half of walking around the city for canceled meetings with non-existent “directors”.

                

 In addition to satisfying the requirements for the course, working at the bar is a lot of fun. There are two owners, Eva and Jairo, and another employee named Mauricio. Eva is from Columbia, Jairo, her husband, is from Venezuela, and Mauricio, Uruguay. Nicest people you’d ever met. And so generous, too. In addition to getting most of my breakfasts for free these days, Eva and Jairo will encourage me to have a second breakfast or, if I go too long without my treasured café con leche, Jairo will tell me to make one for myself, in the same imperative manner in which a father might tell his kid to go mow the lawn. What can I say? They simply insist on giving me free coffee. And of course I don’t want to offend them, so I do as they say and make myself another delicious, creamy, rich, steaming cup of deliciousness. It’s tough work, but someone’s gotta do it.