Un Cachito de Mi Corazón: Siempre Sevilla

I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back to Spain this year. 

Most of that had to do with the fact that I felt like it made my trip even more frenetic than it already was due to my back and forth to San Francisco. 

Perhaps had I planned a little better and tried to organize both my trips to SF and the stints of time in different counties, I wouldn’t feel like I had been zipping around the globe like some sort of jet setter. 

And it's not travel like being in Nepal or some place I've never been before. 

But there something about arriving in Sevilla that’s a lot like going home. Like when I land in NY or Philly or SF. It’s a different feeling than going to some place new. I don’t get online to see what I should go see or experience. I don’t look for a place to stay. I don’t worry about bus lines or how to get places. 

Because in Sevilla I have friends. More than friends, I have family. After twenty years of back and forth, that’s what they are now. That’s why I came back this time. That’s why I spent the time and money to fly across the globe to witness Ines marry Xabi. 

That's why when I saw Israel standing at the intersection near the plaza de armas where my blah blah car had left me, I felt a sigh of relief. I knew he and Houda would take me home where they would spoil me in their new apartment with food and the clothes I needed while I was there. They would kiss both my cheeks and call me Guapa and mean it. 

Then I would settle into my routine at Ana and Barbas house of sleeping in their smoke filled living room with Waky, their dog. We would stay up to late and eat lunch at 4 or 5 in the afternoon and meet the others in the street at the bodega next door to Ana’s hair salon. And Barbas and his son, Ismael, would say, “Cuando te vas? No te vayas. Guidi tonta.” 

From the moment I arrive until I leave and they would tell me that my Spanish has gotten worse. Which it likely has. But all of it would be said with a love that only friends that are now family can say. This line of family-friends that is so blurred that you know that they would lay down and die for you if you needed. 

Ines got married on a brisk Saturday morning and Ana and I had stayed out until at least three in the morning the night before. A decision I was sorely regretting as she woke me at 7 am to take the bus to the center where Ines lives. She was on hair and make up duty and apparently I was on “emotional support” duty – if I have to be up then you have to be up. We showered and dressed for the wedding and stumbled over to wait for the bus messing with Ines’s head telling her that we were still inebriated from the night before and had just come home. I wondered if I would ever really get used to the constant sarcasm of the sevillanos, but did my best to keep pace with the jokes. 

We boarded the bus where Ana was dumbfounded by my ability to travel independently alone around the world as I stood motionless in front of the driver. “Give him the money Jenny!” She laughed her deep smoker’s cough laugh, “I don’t know how you do it – you travel all over the world and here you don’t know to give the fare to the bus driver.” I shrugged and knew that would become one of the stories of the day to prove that I really was the “guiri tonta.” 

Ines had gone non traditional with her dress adding a white lace ruffle to the bottom of a black strapless dress she had worn more than 15 years earlier when Ana and Barbas had gotten married. She had made a bouquet of black and white flowers from cloth and her nails were extended and painted black and white as well. After Ana applied her makeup up and styled her hair, she placed a small black hat with a white veil atop her head and Inca, Ana and I stood around her oohing and ahhing the bride to be. 

I’ve never been to city hall in Sevilla and it really is a sight to behold with a large staircase going up to a series of large rooms that look they are used for hearings as well as civil ceremonies. 

The hundred or so invitees hooped and hollered at all the right moments as Ines and Xabi came down the aisle accompanied by their parents and Metallica and sat at the benches in front of the the officiant. 

Rather than rings, Ines and Xabi exchanged pendants, everyone cracking up as Ines stood on her tiptoes to try to attach Xabi’s necklace unsuccessfully until finally his mother came around to help her. 

In true Sevillano style, the wedding reception was held at Cerveceria la Cruz from 1:30 in the afternoon till the wee hours of the morning when the last of us finally staggered out of the closing pub into the streets to find our way home. 

I later heard that a group continued on to another neighborhood where the bars stay open later and the bride and groom didn’t actually arrive back home till almost 3:00 the next day! Now that's a group that knows how to party!

There was courses upon courses of food that I couldn’t eat (as only the cheese and tortilla was vegetarian), a cake that they spoon fed one another and of course people danced sevillana, artfully raising their arms as they spun around one another, preparing themselves for the la feria de abril scheduled to start the following week. 

Thinking about it now, I was glad I had made the effort to be their with Ines and Xabi. To witness their tying of the knot; I think after missing Christina’s wedding this summer, I realize how special it is to be there for people in their important moments. Friendships are like plants that need to be tended to, watered and loved. 

I was happy I spent the time to stay a night in Madrid and see Kristia. 

And my only regret about my trip up to see Javi in Alicante is that it was too fast to really get to know his life. 

And Sevilla, my love, I leave you as always with a little longing in my heart for a life that wasn’t meant to be forever. 

Now I leave again, loving my group of friends, feeling as though it is hard to distinguish the difference between the love of friendship and the love of family. 

Hasta la próxima Sevilla. Te dejo siempre con un cachito de mi corazón. 

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Post note: the other day I connected my friends daughter, a Californian studying this semester in Sevilla with two of my Sevillan friends' kids. As I watched them make plans via the group whatssap text I sent, I thought, "They're the next generation...  Life is a circle."

Be Your Own Judge: Visit El Salvador and Stay for a While

They say that you shouldn’t visit El Salvador. That El Salvador is dangerous. 

I imagine right now they are not saying that about Paris or Brussels, even though there were recent terrorist attacks. They didn’t say that about NYC after the twin towers fell. As a matter a fact, they said the opposite. That what we needed to do was continue to travel to these places to show the terrorists that we were not afraid. That of course we needed to take precautions like registering with the American embassy, avoiding crowded places and reading the updates for US residents traveling abroad. But they never said not to go. 

But they definitely advised against El Salvador. That there is rampant violence in the country. That the gangs were out of control. That for a woman alone, it was insane to go there. But that travel to Costa Rica right next door was fine. Somehow on the “gringo” trail in Central America, it was El Salvador – and maybe Honduras – that had gotten a bad rap. 

After having spent a small amount of time there, certainly not enough to be any sort of expert, but enough to be able to share a personal experience, my question is how do “they” know? And exactly “who” are they? How do “they” decide what countries are to be on the no fly list and for what reason? And I am not talking about epidemics like the Zika virus. That I can understand and certainly when traveling anywhere in Central, South America or Asia, at this point, one has to go either with the knowledge that contracting Zika is a possibility or go with a ton of 100% deet repellant and hope that doesn’t kill you or cause brain damage in your unborn fetus too. 

But I digress. ..  I am not talking about Zika or dengue or yellow ever or even malaria.

 I am talking about general feelings of safety when walking around the town square, the city streets, the nature trails, the long stretches of rocky and sandy beaches . . The country of El Salvador. 

I am talking about the stands on the side of the road that will serve you coconut water inside the coconut or if you want it to go, in a baggie with a straw. 

I am talking about eating a delicious lunch for less than 50 cents. 

I am talking about an inexpensive public transit system, typically in the back of a pick up (Picaro) or busses that travelers refer to as Chicken Buses. Chicken Busses are little more than retired American school busses where you can travel the country for less than a dollar a ride, often closer to twenty five cents. 

Chicken Buses or El bus are often an expression of creativity on the part of the driver – painting the bus all types of colors on the outside and decorating the inside with stickers and stuffed animals hanging from the roof. 

Sure, American School busses were possibly not designed to go quite as fast as they do on the curvy El Salvadorian roads and maybe with not so many adults (and at times animals) inside, but apart from that – there is not thing particularly scary about them. And yet they are part of that mystique – of why it’s scary to travel in Central America and in El Salvador in general.

The next thing you will hear about El Salvador is that gang violence is rampant. That M13 is everywhere. That may or may not be true. And just because I didn’t see evidence of gangs or gang violence doesn’t prove that it doesn’t exist. But what it does indicate is that the gang presence and violence is confined to certain places and certain neighborhoods and tends to happen more among local young Salvadorian men than to random tourists  walking down the street. The gangs are there to make a profit and survive. Assaulting tourists would likely bring a level of pressure and consequences to them they are trying to avoid. 

Petty crime is another fear of American tourists traveling to El Salvador. There I would have to say – use your head. Just like in every country where you are traveling that happens to have a large percentage of its population living in poverty. Don’t flash your iPhone around or your iMac. Don’t wear expensive jewelry or carry a ton of money or stuff you don’t need while on the beach or hiking on trails. And when you go hiking – get a guide. They usually are based on tips only and/or cost $1-2. They are worth the $2 that you will spend to avoid feeling like you are going to be lost on the unmarked trail or assaulted in a deserted area. In general – just travel like an intelligent, respectful tourist and hope for the best. 

 And if something does happen – which at times it does, try not to make it about the whole country. As long as you walk away relatively unharmed, chalk it up to Mala suerte. It happens. It sucks. I agree. It’s not your fault, I agree. And it shouldn’t happen – I agree. But that doesn’t make the country not worth visiting. Which if you read trip advisor or the travel advisories from the state department, you might infer. 

 In the last month, I heard that a friend of my family in her 60s was assaulted and robbed in a Safeway parking lot. Does that mean that the suburbs of Delaware are now not safe? No, no one inferred that. A friend of mine was killed in the street in San Francisco. Does that mean people shouldn’t go out of have a drink in SF at 8 pm? Nope. No one said that. But hear one story about a tourist being mugged on a hiking trail in El Salvador and the whole country is corrupt. It’s a strange phenomenon. 

What did I find in El Salvador. . . I found kindness – people who went out of there way to direct me to the right bus, right street, right direction when I was lost. 

I found empty archeological sites –not to the level of Tikal or Chichen Itza, but there nevertheless with museums explaining they history and the site all to ourselves. 

I found that tourists were far and few between. And when I did meet other travelers, they moved slowly and intentionally, trying to get to know each place rather than check it off of a list of places to have seen. 

I found locals interested in getting to know me. 

They offered me their houses, their food. 

They brought me presents and invited me into their homes without knowing who I was and then insisted I eat with them, share their food, drinks and stories. 

I saw mountains and waterfalls and stretches of uninterrupted sand for miles and miles.

 I scaled down the side of a waterfall with a rope and lived to tell.

 I walked with new found friends to and sometimes through seven  waterfalls just outside of town. 

I walked through cobblestoned streets and drank locally grown coffee on the “Ruta de los Flores.” 

I jogged from Juayua to Salcoatitan and waved back at the children that greeted me from the buses as they drove by. 

I returned “Adios” to the women walking hand in hand along the highway from one town to the next and saw lakes that went on for miles. 

I saw churches and cobblestones and ate pupusas for thirty cents on the street.

 I saw processions outside of the church for Semana Santa and fruits like mini apples eaten with salt or cooked in honey. I ate street food until I couldn’t eat any more.

I hiked to the top of a volcano to witness a lake a turquoise color that no pictures or words do it justice. 

I saw a family of seven packed into their car on the way to the beach and children swimming in the part of the river that meets the sea. 

I saw a sky ablaze in pinks and oranges as the sun sunk low into ocean and the surfers caught their last few waves in the fading light.

I shared an afternoon of beverages and food and love with new found friends. 

Go to El Salvador.

 Travel and see for yourself. 

Don’t let the hype scare you away from they authentic, beautiful people and places that El Salvador has to offer.