I am outside of the normal world.
Until yesterday I didn´t even have my bearings on where exactly I´d come to - what the road looked like coming in, or what the neighboring farms looked like, what was beyond the hills.
I have dreamed of hairy green pods with three brown things sticking out (chestnuts) and of weeds.
I feel very, very far from everything normal, closed into a small little world with practically no connection to the outside.
Luckily, Pepi and Manolo are pretty cool people, and the day after I arrived, Dehlia came from Barcelona (another WWOOFer). Our hosts are only about 6 years older than me, and share a lot of similar views on life. They have a 20 year old daughter that moved out of home about 2 days before I arrived.
Pepi and Manolo love their country life, and try to do as much as they can by hand, and use organic, and lower their impact on the environment.
They have 3 large gardens, a hillside which we are starting to clear (pulling out small shrubby things) so they can plant fruit trees. Although that will be under the existing oaks. They also have chickens and 2 ducks, several dogs, and 4 cats that sit on the other side of the kitchen window looking in at the stove on all the rainy days we´ve had, watching them cooking.

Most of the week was cold and cloudy with a fair bit of rain - I felt like I was pretty much at home having a Vancouver type of fall. These two don´t like to work outside in the rain, though, partly due to health problems, and so we would race for indoors if it started to rain on us. We canned tomatoes and made tomato sauce one day. They make their own bread, yoghurt and soap.

Sachiko came to visit Saturday morning and stayed over till this morning. They let her work with us for the morning weeding in exchange for staying. Friday and Saturday were beautiful. We walked to town along a narrow cobblestone road high on the hill, with Sachiko yesterday, and finally I´ve been able to appreciate this area.

It is cork and acorn oaks everywhere. The cork oaks have the trunks stripped every 10 years. They make an idyllically beautiful forest. It´s 1-2 km down a cobblestone road with mossy stone fences at the side, from the nearest village (Cortegana). At night there are extremely starry skies and nothing but the sounds of animals. A lot of bells on the sheep and goats (there are none on this farm).

Yesterday we only worked the morning and Manolo made a big lunch because we had guests. An older man and woman, not a couple - both unusual people - who brought cheese and wine and olives, and a lot of joking and life to the place, which is usually somewhat more serious. Pepi and Manolo have told us their difficulties making friends here. They both were born in Andalucia but grew up in Barcelona and so are quite northern in their thinking. Besides that, they are somewhat ¨counterculture¨ being organic farmers and eating healthy and thinking a bit more critically about life than most of their neighbours, who I am told are extremely traditional and closed minded here in the sierra. This pair were a naturopathic doctor and a lady who formerly worked in a hospital and used to drive an extremely expensive Mercedes very, very fast around these roads. That´s all I know about them, besides the fact that although they are Andaluz, they are very open, liberal and think differently.

So how it works is they knock on our doors at 8 am. We sit down for coffee or herbal tea, along with homemade toast and olive oil and tomatoes from the garden, or else butter (in slabs) and homemade fig or apple marmalade. Then when we are all ready, we go out to do one of the various chores I´ve mentioned. We come in again for coffee and a small snack in a couple hours, then work some more till about 2 or 2:30 pm. We get lunch and after that have siesta. They knock on our doors at about 5 or 5:30 or 6. We have tea and then go work some more till sunset. Dinner is around 10. We help get it ready and after it we hang around a bit or just go to bed. Showering seems not to happen too often. That is slightly difficult for me.

Everybody here knows more about flamenco than the average person. Their parents listened only to flamenco when they were young. Manolo for his part mentioned his rebel years where they would wear pointy shoes with some certain other type of clothes and would go down to such and such a street or plaza and do palmas.

This morning under dark clouds and pouring rain I desperately tried on various kinds of fashion outback and fake hiking boots, of cheap quality with P.R.C. on the label. I tried on lots of nice rubber boots too. Amazingly many of these boots almost fit and some fit good enough. Never happens at home.

Manuel had told me my feet would go loco in rubber boots, even though we are expecting it to rain a lot in the next while. So I tried desperately to think how I could put vaseline on a pair of thin leather fashion "hiking boots". Finally I found a shop that had better quality boots and after my second visit there, told the girl I was going to go work in the campo.

For the second time in Sevilla I was extremely happy - unjustifiably so. By 2:00 (the bewitching hour when the stores all close) I had a pair of really good work boots that basically fit, and a bag of other ugly clothing: a Shiyu "high quality fashionable clothing has the sleeve raincoat", a shiny burgundy waterproof hat from the same venerable purveyor (the "Chino") that made me feel like an older Asian lady, and a 2 Euro crappy red toque with crappier "diamond" thingys pasted all over the front.

I have spent since 2 running around putting stuff in my suitcase and cleaning up. Finally I am sitting here looking at the Giralda which looks 10 times more stunning in this weather, with this light. It if sunny now but there are a lot of big white puffy clouds.

It is surprising what a change of light can do to a landscape. I have never noticed it so dramatically before. Probably because Vancouver changes back and forth all the time, so you don't really get shocked after 6 months of nothing but blue sky with no clouds ever, like has just happened here. I have used my umbrella probably 3 times since January. But I do believe I am in for some rain and probably would be better off with a proper Traje de Agua than a number one fashionable has the sleeve raincoat. I am desperately wishing there were such a thing as a de-materialiser that could send my goretex jacket and MEC rainpants over here without bothering my mom to send them. Besides, I will need them tomorrow, and not 2 weeks from now. I could probably have done with thick wool socks, some sort of other jacket beside a pretty pink one or a black one with beads on it in a decorative pattern. Something like a Macinaw. Anyways, I have the absolute necessities - boots, 5E worth of work clothing and something for the rain.

I saw Sachiko anteayer. As I was crossing the bridge to go to the studio, I stopped and Oscar poured me a glass of wine so I hung out for a bit and left the last day of my studio practice late. Afrooz came over for lentils and the last bit of pie. My suitcase is nearly packed again after hauling a load over to Sachiko's and emptying it into her suitcase to be stored there.

I go tomorrow afternoon. I called Manuel today to work out when to come and he said he'd be in Sevilla tomorrow for an appointment so to come back with him. So everything got put in motion.

I've e-mailed Ben to tell her the news.

It feels like a milestone. I don't know if it is.

17 years ago I had a premonition that I would one day be psychologically incapable of working. That is how I've felt over the last year. I have felt it building for a long time. In that premonition, I saw myself in Europe, going to the countryside to work on farms. There was a lot of fear in seeing this - fear of poverty; of actually being hungry and having no roof over my head. I have struggled with that all along. I have for a long time feared whether I would be able to make it in the world, mostly because I would become intolerant of it, in a way that I would not be able to override with my mind. That has also happened, to a large extent. Hence my last minute refusal of the English job. I am not even sure how to describe what I have been afraid of and what has bothered me so much about the normal world of work. About what one must do to survive in the mainstream working world. (Or even some alternative ones?)

Perhaps I should not say it yet, but I feel that something huge has shifted, the moment I sat on the hillside in Aracena and thought to myself that I have been trying to force myself to do types of work that I have felt terribly uncomfortable with, for all my working life. And that right now I cannot work with people - with the public. And during the day the decision slowly was made to go work in the countryside. Since then something has happened. It may be small, but there has been a crack made in the bitter screen through which I've seen the working world and my place in it - what I "must" do in it.

I even remember being in the house on 12th Avenue in Point Grey realising this, that long ago. It wasn't long after that I was in Europe, and ended the trip with no money, and my gut feeling was to stay in London, and just make a go of it - find a job as a waitress or whatever. Live abroad as long as I felt like it, perhaps travel more after a while.

There are some things in life which you just have to do. You cannot avoid them. During this trip now, I had a feeling I would end up in the countryside. I couldn't really bring myself to make the move, and had a feeling I would be forced to do it when the money ran out, and so here I am.

You can't be depressed listening to Miles Davis. It also makes me feel like I am in control of my life, even though it has never, ever been more uncertain and more scary.
It is music from a time before the world went crazy. Jazz from the 60s - 80s; when there wasn't as much reason to be so completely disillusioned with North American society.

Saw Sachiko last night, going to see Afrooz/Sherie tomorrow (she is going to come over and paint the view from my balcony). Mara has left for Brazil, where she goes to a conference, and goes to make possible business contacts for her grandmother's aviation company. Mara is a hard nosed businesslady. I prefer her direct and almost brutal honesty and "in-command" nature to the sweet and lovely people I keep meeting in my life who then let me down by changing the nature of our relationship and letting me know in an backhand way. I dealt with her question "what is wrong with you?" and her "if you are worried about getting a job, why are you sitting there on the couch?" (which was like a kick, but I am laughing about it now), better than Maria's offering or half offering all kinds of different sewing jobs and being extremely excited about my shoemaking ideas and then advertising for seamstresses in front of my face and saying maybe she will get someone in Elda to make her shoes for her, and telling me to be like the pajaros of the field that Dios will look after and not worry! There could be quite a number of good reasons why she doesn't want to give me work, after talking so much about it, but I don't know what it is and I'm in a somewhat uncertain position in my life.

What I would love right now is to start doing some small jobs that pay, of the sort she could have give me, while working in the campo voluntariamente.

It is amazing what the right vitamins can do. I believe I am suffering from possible adrenal mal-functioning (non-optimal functioning). After only a couple days of taking iron and vitamin B, and trying to take more vitamin C (also supposed to be necessary) I am markedly better. Unfortunately, the problem takes months to a year to solve for good. Caffeine is a culprit, and due to lack of funds combined with distance to the only decent tea shop, I have cut caffeine out. That is except for chocolate. I drink hot chocolate all the time now. It has a lot of minerals. Pure unsweetened, organic powdered baking chocolate, mixed with honey. There is no other decent way to drink hot chocolate as far as I'm concerned, except for the Mexican tablets which I haven't seen here. Vitamin C tablets were expensive and it is quite a stretch to put 30 Euros that I already put on my card for vitamins, so I bought oranges. I couldn't find any in Triana that weren't sold in huge bags for a pittance: 2 kilos for 1.5 E (some were even cheaper). Today I juiced 6 oranges, and was thinking about doing two more.

I am avoiding getting off the couch and packing all my things in order to see what gets left in Sachiko's suitcase in her closet, and what might need to be passed off onto someone else.

Yesterday I bought two pairs of pants and two sweaters for 5 Euros at a second hand clothing/antique shop. Those two seem to be mixed here. Actually both pairs of pants and one of the sweaters are decent enough to be worn every day. They are my working with the goats/collecting castañas, or repairing fences clothing. The ladies in the store were listening to some kind of evangelical Christian church music which sounded like the Vineyard, but in Spanish. It was a little bit of a double take... chanting "Jesu Cristo, Jesu Cristo...!" like it was a rock concert or something.

I feel like my life is starting to make sense. I hope that is actually true and I am not some kind of an idiot, going off with zero money in my bank account to embark on some foolish hippy thing. But things all make sense now. This last nine months were so that I could just spend my savings and get that money out of the way. Money is a problem sometimes. It keeps you from doing stuff you should do; or genuinely want to do. I feel like my life is beginning now. I hope that is true. Maybe I am the stereotype that life begins at 40. Not very much that I have done till now has made much sense. Not in terms of taking my own life direction into my own hands and acting like what I really want matters.

At least I walk down the street like that now, if nothing else. I knew what I was coming here for. To learn the things that no school can teach. The things that are required to make it in life. School can give a piece of paper that says there is a lot of stuff crammed into your head. School cannot give you confidence, it cannot give you emotional stability, if cannot help you know yourself and follow your true desires or intuition. All of these things are necessary if you want to do anything in life other than sit in a desk working for someone else. That is what school teaches you - how to sit obediently in a desk, churning through someone else's ideas. (Some people manage to have those other qualities apart from school, but not me).

Anyways, I am only starting now, at this point in my time here, to learn these things. I am at the very beginning. This last while of living off my savings has been dead time (mostly). Now that things are scary and all my weird problems with life and work have to be faced, things are happening.

I went out with Oscar the other night. This is a person who works unbelievably hard, and thinks through things in a logical manner. In some ways that puts me off, but he might be different because I think his soul may be in tact, under all that, and the logic is not the only thing there. Besides, you can't leave what he left and blaze your own trail like he's done without some kind of thing beyond pure logic and sticking to what is safe.

Well, that is my life right now and you get everything that is in my mind, not sure if that is a good idea.

All the toilet seats in Spain fall off.
I met a guy last night who is probably fairly well to do. He owns an entire building in the Arenal district and has just renovated it. Buildings here often have to be gutted. He had to take the floors out, and there were pictures of iron rods holding parts of the house up. If renovation work is going on on a building, you would be likely to see a grader (?) or backhoe actually right inside the building. They sometimes dig down below it too. The walls are left standing of course, because that is the valuable part.
This guy's building has spectacular Moorish style windows with mozaics around the edges and tiny pillars/columns, as well as ceramic knobs here and there on top of the roof. There were a ton of old and valuable tiles inside, which they attempted to save as much as they could.
He asked my advice about how to market it for rentals. He wants to find the market probably of foreigners who are on the move. Very flexible - could be rented for a month, 3 months or a year. And the prices he's thinking about are amazingly good for something as beautiful as what he's done. But that is normal for a rental here - 500E for a 1 bedroom place is possible.

I do not have a home like this. But I have a temporary home for a few more days or however long it will take me to gather my things up, that at least has something remotely pie-plate like. It was a flan or torte plate, or whatever these people over here like to make instead of pies. I had to use an olive oil bottle for a rolling pin, but did not have to substitute olive oil for anything in the actual pie - lol.
This mammoth pie is finishing in the oven right now. It has taken a long time because I only remember that 200 degrees is 400, but not sure about the rest.

Now I am going to go read The Number One Ladies Detective Agency. Mara has the whole set. This definitely makes it more homey.

I have become friends with Faro. Probably because he is not a harassing kind of dog. Well, all dogs are harassing, but this one doesn't jump up or lick (except for the first time I came over, he licked. And he licked my plastic bag yesterday).

About the only thing he does is want food (like cheese, while I am getting my own) or want to be taken for walks. But he is an animal and I can't blame him for wanting cheese. I also doubt the sanity of keeping any large dog in an apartment. Sheep dogs, for heaven's sake, should be running around in huge open country. And people who keep huskies in Sevilla just make me mad. This is pure selfishness. The only other thing to deal with is him shaking himself, which might send hair and dust all over, but at least it is funny. Anyways, he is a constant source of amusement.

My friend Bill went home to Vancouver and sent me an e-mail saying he was having culture shock.
It made me think about how used to life here I have become.
I have a long way to go before I have absorbed all of the things I'd like to from this culture, but there are some obvious ways in which I have become Spanish.

I stare at people. I ride my bike on the sidewalk. If a man looks at me, I haughtily walk past as though he doesn't exist. I turn around and look at people speaking English. I look people in the eye that pass me on the sidewalk. I don't watch where I'm going or if anyone is in front of me, but move slightly at the last minute. I walk really close to people.

I play a game with myself sometimes; I try to guess if someone is an extranjero, if they don't look obviously Spanish. Most of the time I can tell if someone is Spanish or not. Sometimes older Italian people look the same as Spanish. Some English people (like from England) look so extremely English - they have English features. I sometimes get English and German mixed up. I do this guessing when I am in the core of the downtown, as there are quite a lot of tourists there.

I never have to ask myself where a person is from if they are wearing a certain colour of red. It is common to wear red pants, and a blue shirt. There must be a dye made by a Sevillan company, or made by a Chinese company but only sold to factories that make clothes for Sevillans. This shade of red, I have only ever seen people wearing here, and it is relatively common. It is a striking, bright red. Men and women both wear pants and shoes that colour. I believe the people who wear these type of clothes are "pijos" (well to do, conservative, supposedly right wing, so I am told). They also wear khakis and polo shirts and sweaters tied around their necks. It has been in style to wear riding-type pants with tall boots around the city, as if they just stepped off a horse. Not super common, but the occasional woman a bit older than me, earlier this year. Very funny - very European. At home you can't judge a person quite so easily by what they wear.

Sometimes it is really easy to spot the foreigners: if they have really pasty skin along with blue eyes. There are occasional Spanish people who have very light skin, but there is something different about them. Or if they have blonde or light coloured hair and a shy look on their face. If they are looking down at the ground as they walk, rather than boldly staring at everyone passing. If they have a look on their face, even if you can't look directly at their eyes because they are not looking at the eyes of passers-by, that says, "Oh dear, I think people passing might be looking at me..." I saw a guy with a typically Anglo, uncomfortable look on his face. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was not Spanish. It was just a catch-all look of general discomfort in the face of other human beings in his vicinity. Self-consciousness, I suppose is the best way to describe it. At home I probably would not even notice someone with that kind of a look on their face, because I think it is pretty normal. I am sure I have had it many times, possibly chronically, in the past.

But not any more. Occasionally my face breaks, but I've generally become pretty assimilated here, into the way of doing things. Which means that your face has a look of almost haughtiness at times, but not quite. Other times you might be just purely existing and rather vulnerable, and passing people may be able to glimpse some deeper aspect of yourself, if they were so inclined to give a darn.
At home, you have to be so concerned about everything all the time. When you happen to come across another human being, you want to make sure that you don't bother them, that they know clearly that your intentions are not bad towards them. In general, your face must be guarded. But those things are not an issue here.
First of all, it doesn't matter what other people think, or if you are bothering them. Secondly, nobody is worried about anyone else's intentions, and nobody expects anybody to have any bad ones - at least not concerning interactions between strangers passing in the street. Nobody is really bothered by very much.

I don't know if you can possibly understand me. Many of these things you would not even realise exist until you live in another place. It is like being unaware that you live in the ocean if you are a fish, because you've never been outside of it.

I am not saying Anglo saxon customs or ways of being are all bad. I have met people here who have told me critical things about their ways and positive ones about their life abroad in London, for example.

On the street, Spanish (Andalucian, anyways) people start moving first without looking around them. When something comes up right in front of them, then they do what is necessary to not crash. We (before all the Chinese came to Vancouver and messed up or totally ignored our system) are aware from quite a distance, who is coming towards us on the sidewalk, and we subconsciously move so as to be sure to pass politely and carefully with the least bother to all parties concerned, so there are no sudden, last minute surprises when another human being appears out of nowhere, smack in front of you. This would make a truly Anglo person angry. It still makes me angry sometimes, if I am having a relapse.

The difference between Spanish and Chinese people in this regard is that if a Spanish person bumps into you, they always apologise in what feels like a genuine way.

It is such a pleasant, wonderful, lovely relief not to have to wear a helmet on a bike. And that wearing a skirt or men wearing a suit riding a bike is not out of the norm. And that nobody ever wears spandex or any other special biking clothing to ride a bike, unless they are on a trip to cross the entire country or something; unless they are biking as a sport.

I ride the bike on the sidewalk, sometimes through tables where people are eating. I feel guilt about this, but it is normal here. I also ride the wrong way down one way streets ALL the time, because it would be literally impossible not to.

There is much more to explain about how to comport yourself on a Sevillan street but I am staying up way too late, and already have probably adrenal exhaustion or something that I was just looking up because I am always too tired and lack sleep.

Sevilla is not normal. But I found a place that is. It has a few evergreen trees, kind of "forest"-like area, and is hilly - well is built on a hill.
Sevilla may be the most charming and beautiful city in the world, but it is flat and in the middle of the land, and only has a river going through it. Even Mara says the soil is weird here, and that's what she misses most about Madrid: the soil has substance there, and moss even grows.

I got up really early and caught a bus that only took a bit over an hour. I had been unable to make breakfast beforehand, so I ordered a mollete and two coffees in a bar high up on the hill. The jamon on my tomate, aceite and jamon mollete was not the usual. There was something special about it. The price also told me so.
I started seeing advertising about jamon on various buildings and soon remembered that Aracena is a special place for jamon, and that the pigs are brought up there eating acorns, giving the meat an amazing flavour and costing a lot more.
The whole idea was to do a sendero (hike/walk) through the forest. But I had not brought any directions so I climbed up the hill where I was told would be the tourist office. Then I had to check out the castle at the top. By the time I went down the hill to find the other tourist office which had maps, it was much later. I eventually found the trail, but had to walk out the highway a bit.

What can I say... no matter how great any city might be it kills your soul. I just might escape forever into the country.

In the morning it was sunny but cool enough to wear leggings under my skirt, and a summer jacket and scarf, which felt incredibly good sitting on a rock wall with sun hitting me. There were normal clouds in Aracena too. White, vague clouds, and later, big puffy ones. A smell of wood smoke, complete peace; nobody doing anything on a Sunday between 10 and 12. I sat glued to a spot by the church looking up the hill at the castle crying for desperate need of being in a place like this. Three little old men sat at quite a distance from each other, around me, just looking out at everything as well, nodding to each other a few times.

I could only walk an hour each way so as not to miss the bus back. But there was shade, just enough of it, unlike the areas south of Sevilla. I tried an acorn but it was bitter and despite it looking whole, there were bugs in it. Everything was cork and acorn oak with occasional olives and other bushes. The occasional horse was wandering around, and a herd of sheep.

In the town, walking up and down steep streets, there are views through narrow alleys of white buildings towards totally green hills (covered with pine or oak or other evergreens).

I am looking down at the green river with a cold wind blowing in the window. Below 30 degrees means you wear jeans. Sometimes you sweat for a while, but it might cool down later in the evening, for example, and you don't want to get cold.

Fado is partially curled up below me, while Mara has gone to work. He is very low key, and doesn't get in your face most of the time. He doesn't have to walk in my room and scratch himself. Although this morning, the first morning I am here with him alone, he came to my door when I got up, looking excited. Then lay on his cushion and looked at me out of the corner of his eye the entire time I was brushing my teeth and trying to generally make myself presentable enough to sit in my own living room.

I have now aided and abetted the exact thing that annoys me: dogs peeing on every corner of every building and every post or garbage can. I think Fado is looking at me because I actually volunteered to take him for a walk the other day. I believe this might be the first time in my life I have walked a dog. Their world is very interesting. No... in fact it is extremely dull, but interesting that they are interested in it. It is a world completely revolving around smells, most of them urine. It was quite a feat, that he managed to retain or keep producing enough of it to keep peeing on all the various things on which he wanted to leave his mark. Amazing.

This is one of the very few types of dogs I could possibly genuinely like. It is believed to be part border collie and that is why. He is bigger than they are but has the same hair and white and black. Mara found him on the doorstep of a church in Portugal and rescued him. Anyways he is really cute and makes me laugh. My understanding of how to deal with them is a bit stunted though... he came into the kitchen and started to eat from his bowl, and when I was going to leave, I wondered if I should leave the light on for him or not. It felt rude to turn the light off while he was in there!

I did a circle along the river and across and back over the two bridges on either side of us. I took Oscar by surprise, as he happened to look up as I was passing the door of El Faro on my way back. (This crazy woman who goes off to Lebrija and can't decide if she is staying in Sevilla has now gone and got a dog?!)

I have a better house than the Duquesa de Alba

 This is the view from my balcón. It's not the pee house.

I left there yesterday.

I ended up crying in Maria's shop in the morning. Teresa (Therese) took me for a walk later. Then I got a call back from Mara, at the last moment before she was due to leave. I was in Triana Saturday night and knew her ad was the same place I'd seen in June. I knew it would only be a temporary solution but called on the off-chance she might need a temporary solution too, which she did.

Teresa (a Parisian with almost no accent in Spanish, and a friend of Maria's) came with me to get the deal sorted out with Mara, and to be sure I was not getting into another bad place - to take care of me!

After she left me and I was crossing the bridge, I ran into Bill coming from the other side and he took me for a beer. Then he cancelled his guitar lesson for the evening and helped me get a taxi and move my stuff. And then took me for dinner near my new house. Equally as important as his muscle (getting my suitcases up to the 3rd floor), was his wit. There were irreverent comments of various types for a lady that would be unhygienic and then insult me, and a new flamenco nickname ("pee-foot") he threatened to give me.

I love Triana. I wanted to live here when I first arrived in January. There is a lot smaller of a section of it than of the main city, that is really nice, as far as old buildings. But in that area, and near Plaza Altozano, the Triana Bridge and the streets close to the river, it is really relaxing. Much more like a small town. I had left all my food in the pee house, to be retrieved today, because I couldn't organise everything super fast with Bill waiting, and also because I wanted a reason to return the next day so I could keep the key, until she had the deposit ready to return to me.

So I went for breakfast at an extremely low key, small bar tucked into a side street, but one I've been to before. Bar Vargas. It is pure Sevilla, Triana. Traditional. The man who runs and owns it is a genuine server. Businesslike but kind, and runs his simple establishment in a quality way. There are pictures or collections of all the important things on the wall: pins of all the hermandades of the Rocio (pilgrimage likened by Maria to the muslim one to Mecca - LOL!), a signed picture of Manolo Marin (great dancer now dead, whose studio door is just down the street), bullfighters and old pictures of the neighborhood.

Then I set out to see if my suitcase could be dry cleaned (no). So I came home and soaked it in the bathtub. Since I am so close to the Triana market, I got tomatoes and other essentials, and went to my favorite bakery in all of Sevilla to get a proper Gallega (bread with pointy ends, lots of holes inside). Since my olive oil (along with the food of lesser importance) was in the pee house until 6 pm when Mercedes agreed she could be there, on the way back from practicing I stopped in at Flores (a surname and an expensive, fancy shop) and put a small (250mL) bottle of expensive (6.85E) olive oil on my credit card.

There can't be anything as good as this. It tastes like you are eating the colour green. Similar to very young, very fresh, top quality green tea. I didn't eat it in a manner worthy of its grand origin and fancy shop. It got snorted and oinked down!

Mara seems really cool, and the only reason I wouldn't install myself permanently in this place and refuse to ever move anywhere else the rest of my life, is that she smokes and has a big dog with lots of hair. I can handle that until she/me finds another person/another place, but not to commit to living in the same space long term. As much as I might dearly love some of my friends who smoke, I could not live with them smoking while cooking in my space for a year. Same with dogs. At least this dog is a cool dog - a happy dog. But similarly - can't commit to share the couch with a dog, full time for a year. Anyways, I have one more day to be alone on the internet in a cool living room looking down on the sparkling river between typing one word and the next, at 1:30 am.

I spent several hours at Maria's shop tonight after grovelling down some more olive oil, avocado, Payoyo cheese and wine mixed with water and lemon juice. It was a strictly fun evening. I went to pick up my portatil (computer) which I'd left in her shop. We talked alone for quite a while (about subjects you might be surprised I would talk to someone I barely know, and completely in a foreign language), until a Turkish couple came in. They spoke excellent English but no Spanish. I translated, while he bargained hard and Maria made him some small concessions simply because he was Turkish and she was being nice and accomodating his cultural needs. This went on for quite a while, with the girl adding new things until they ended up with 90E worth of earrings. They were quite entertaining, and Maria was enjoying herself even though having to attempt to stick to her prices. It all ended with the guy offering cigarettes and making a funny Turkish gesture of respect for Maria.

Plaza de Toros

Puente de Triana, yellow building is El Faro, the bar Oscar runs.

At sunset, the sun on the stained glass window. I have THE best view in one of the most beautiful cities in the entire world.

The only wine below 5E at Flores was a mix of Tempranillo and Cabernet. I have not drunk a Cabernet for a very long time. It seems like some kind of sweet, syrupy thing beside the ubiquitous Rioja. There are really only two types of wine normally available in your average bar: Rioja and Ribera del Duoro. I am not with it enough to have things sorted out this good, but I think Tempranillo are often used in Rioja, Rioja being the region and Tempranillo the grape.

The wine tastes better at 2 am than it did at 4:30 this afternoon. It is made over here of course, which is why it is decent and mixed with something with enough... whatever...to tone it down. Still tastes like I'm eating sugar-ed berries. One would not really want to add sugar to fresh berries.

Anyways, if I don't get a job soon, I'll be drinking my credit card bottles of wine on the street corner.

Actually, this wine is WAY better than 90% of what I could get for even under $25 at home...

Goodnight

No more motherly Andalucian ladies

Apparently I have a problem with my mente (mind) for which I should go see a doctor, because I am too fastidious. That is what Mercedes told me this morning. She is very perceptive. Not about that, but that I was not happy. I woke up this morning knowing that I could not continue living there, that I need to leave as soon as possible but thinking I'd probably have to somehow survive till the end of the month. She asked me what was wrong. How do you tell a nice lady your mom's age, in another language, in a different culture (in which you call someone "you" in a different way, in order to show more respect) that you are not comfortable in their home because they pee on the seat always (and do a little bit of number two as well), and don't flush the toilet and their kitchen stinks and their dishrags are always dirty (and of course that the cat was the straw that broke the camel's back)?

I have learned two important things: 1. Your gut reactions are not always going to lead you in the right direction, especially when you are in an unstable state. 2. Some people (probably a lot of people) do not understand how what they do could be seen as uncomfortable or unbearable for others: most people think they way they live or do things is normal. (I am one of those probably few people who thinks practically everything I do might be seen as unwelcome or disliked by others!) In this case it probably was necessary to actually say what was bothering me, in order to have us both understand that we would look for another place/another renter ASAP. Otherwise, it does no use at all to tell people what the real problem is, if you are not going to continue an important relationship with them.

I am also not right in the head because I am nervous or scared of so many things. I am abnormal because it bothers me to watch reporters yacking on and on, questioning elderly people about the trauma they experienced when their home was broken into and they were hit; the cameras gratuitously showing the poor crying old lady over and over. I am not normal because I don't want to see blood smeared all over a car from a death, on TV. I have something wrong with me because I cried when they were broadcasting Steve Jobs' speech to the graduates the other day. That is not normal.

On the other hand, last night Maria's suggestion that I see a therapist included a "no pasa nada". She kept insisting that it is normal to be not in a very stable state after some of the things that have happened to me, and that it is very important to take care of one's mind.

I have had it with motherly Andalucian ladies. I should not judge them all by the two that I have lived with. Maria is awesome. Her friends are probably great. Concha is cool. My friend Adela is cool. But it is the ones who are not very educated, but extremely confident and never ever question themselves, but like to tell younger women how to cook, how to wash clothes etc. Those exact same ones I believe I could learn a lot from, about how to believe in myself and carry myself as if I were a queen, and how dare anyone question me. But from a distance, thank you very much. Without their cats, their pee, and their cooking advice. I am way too North American to be absorbed into the household of an un-worldly-wise woman from this culture. I need my own space, even if it is small.

Pee

The unfortunate subject of this post is ... yes, pee.

Pee has been lurking at the corners of my life in a city where there is no open dirt or grass but people insist on keeping dogs.

Sometimes intuition is wrong. Or maybe it is just that nobody can comfort you but yourself. You shouldn't trust motherly figures in a foreign country - you never know how they live until you end up surrounded by mire.

Maybe the Universe, or God is punishing me for the times I have complained against my mother. There have been times when I wished she would have been less particular and more relaxed. I think what I have now is the opposite: someone wonderfully relaxed (also with a big heart and no emotional games and really easy to live with - what my intuition told me) but dirty. She almost gets annoyed with my trying to be so uptight as to do the dishes right away after I eat.

Her dog is nice, but I am not comfortable living with dogs. He needs a good brushing; he is constantly scratching himself with his hind foot, flicking God knows what around the room, including my bedroom, until today. The kitchen towel has dog hairs on it, so I never know how to dry my hands, and either don't, or have to wipe them on my skirt. So does the counter, at times. The dish cloths are usually randomly bunched up beside the sink or in it, and it is unclear what each one is used for. One at least, seems to be used for washing, often with dirty water still in it, as well as for placing on the counter to leave things to dry on top of.

I should have run in the opposite direction on the first day, when I asked if I could flush toilet paper (can't be done here in some buildings), and she told me that if I didn't mind, to just put it in the kitchen garbage. I've lived in China. I've kept my used toilet paper in a plastic bag beside the toilet for a whole year and never really minded. I did the same in Jerez last summer. Amazingly, if you are discrete and polite about how you do things, it doesn't even smell or attract flies. Luckily when I told her I needed to keep it in the bathroom, she told me just to flush it.

The real problem is having to face an unflushed toilet and a continually dirty toilet seat.

Nevertheless, I was dealing with all of that somehow, but this morning has sent me over the edge. I have turned very suddenly from a cat-lover to someone who wants to strangle the poor, cute (I am clenching my teeth as I write that) little thing. There are two cats who live on the roof. I had difficulty ascertaining whether or not they were wild, whether they were hers, or whose. I think she is ashamed of feeding and treating them nicely. I also should have run in the opposite direction the first day when she showed me the trastero (storage space) where the washing machine is, and a cat came running out of the locked door. Then she said to stand back because the smell of urine is kind of strong.

Well last night that is exactly what happened to my suitcase, and my flamenco shoes. My made to measure flamenco shoes...

I was at home alone for half an hour, making dinner and the cats were whining to be let in. Mercedes often leaves the door to the terrace open, obviously in this hot weather. I was a bit worried about the cats coming in. I shoe-d them out, but when Mercedes came home they came back in. She let them hang out in the living room for a while, which she previously didn't do - she seemed to want them to stay out. I knew they were in my room because I heard one scratching and tearing at the bedspread and shoed it out.

This morning everything made sense - why it stinks in the house, mostly in the kitchen. Probably the cats have peed there before. And she told me, while cleaning my suitcase with ammonia (which did nothing), that they had peed in her bed. Well, duh!

I love cats, and they are not that hard to train... I lack understanding of what is going on here... why on earth would one not train them? And why would one let them in, knowing that they are not?

Another problem for me is that the place is very small. My room has a very big window, the only one that lets in light from the south and west during the day. She is used to having my room door open for light and air, so the dog can wander in and scratch himself with his fleas or mites or dandruff flying everywhere, in the pleasant breezes of my room. I asked her if she could please keep my door closed during the day if she has the outside door open. She said she is always watching to make sure the cats never go in there. Hmmmmm... and so how exactly did they get into the storage room, or into my room last night. It ended with her telling me to keep my door closed then, if I wanted. She was nice, and not mean about it. But none of this is comfortable at all.

Anyways, I guess I need to move again, just as soon as I moved. The ghetto was less stressful than having your stuff peed on by a cat. I really would rather deal with cigarette smoke seeping into my space, I think, and a noisy grandmother late at night, and a moldy shower.

Well, there is one other Sevillan woman my mom's age who is looking after me, and she is undoubtedly cool, and knows better than to let cats pee on people's things. Or to leave her own pee so it can be witnessed by others in various ways when they need to use the toilet.

Hard lessons that school doesn't teach

Today I decided to quit lying to myself, and decided to lie to other people instead, if it is necessary under the circumstances, to protect myself. I ended up in La Rinconada in the middle of the afternoon, feeling utter verguenza (shame). What I said was not really a lie - I was incapable of teaching a class, and I was not well - in the head. I refused the only English teaching job offered me, at the last minute, and left them hanging.

Nina, an English girl in Maria's shop on Saturday, connected me up with a school who wanted someone. She left a message yesterday to tell me, right before I went for a run yesterday. I got depressed. I knew I didn't want to do it. I waited and waited, and finally I called her. She told me to at least talk to them, then I'd be certain.

The trouble is, I know me. Unfortunately, I have a penchant for trying to force myself to do things that seem logical; most reasonable, despite my gut feelings. I should have known not to even call them. They gave me an hour to decide. I went to see Maria. The day before, she told me, "I am your abuela here. If you ever need anything, just tell me." I told her the situation and she is cool enough that she understood. I've trusted friends' opinions in the past, in desperation, because they were "cool" and had their lives together, and were people who didn't compromise their souls to get by. But I should have learned by now that no matter how cool they are, what seems like a good idea to them may not be for me. She advised me to take the job, saying that it only had to be for a short time, so when they called, I said yes, I'd meet them to talk.

They were two girls, younger than I, and really sweet people. Their school is in a small village half an hour from here by train. It probably would have been a really nice little place. Their approach seemed relaxed and they were interested in quality; nobody was being forced to learn here, they were students who were interested in English and good at it.

It may have been one of the few really nice teaching English jobs, except for the fact that it would be an hour commute each way including walking and getting on the train. The money was peanuts, but they were in the end willing to hire me without a proper work permit. This is why I have not had any of the other schools actually call me back by now. These people were desperate and wanted me to start today.

You can only use your mind to override your gut feelings and true desires for so long before it backfires. That's what I've been doing all my life. I did that with math and physics. I did it in a relationship. And in my job.

Yesterday in my run, I had trouble breathing. I tried to talk myself out of the depressed feelings. All night after telling them I'd take the job, I was tense - my whole body. Several times earlier in the day, I knew the answer should be no. Some part of me was telling me that loud and clear. You know you have to take it seriously when you start having thoughts of leaping out the window. Those thoughts aren't "pre-meditated" or dramatic, and I don't have them otherwise - but I become that way when my mind tries to convince me that everything is fine when something inside me is raging that it is not. I recognise that kind of thing now for what it is - suppression of real feelings, of gut reactions.

This morning I called and told them I couldn't do the job, but I'd show up today to not leave them hanging. I could hardly bear the thought. Especially after disappointing them. You force yourself beyond what you are willing deep down, to bear, trying to use your mind to impose "reason" on yourself. Eventually your body fights back and shuts down your mind. I couldn't think. I couldn't begin to figure out how I was going to face 5 hours of diverse classes - from 7 year olds to adults with no English experience. With no preparation. I was so distraught I didn't know how I would manage to force myself to say "hello, how are you" and start the class the standard way they wanted, and follow along with the textbook.

Teaching was a default job for me, as it is for many people. I did not uproot myself and come half the way across the world to continue living in resignation. That's only part of the problem: I don't believe in formal education. Education is an obedience program for society. Created during the industrial revolution to dull human beings so that they would become good workers for someone richer than they. Education for rich people was always with private tutors, or in universities, which aren't the same any more as what they were when the first ones existed. I can't explain myself well, but something repulses me deeply about a group of people sitting in a classroom, with one person "imparting knowledge" to them.

I am deeply angry about education. About my experiences knuckling under without even realising what I was doing, since age 6; with continuing to work in this field, being required to do the same thing to others that literally has traumatised me. Physics laboratories are quite different from teaching English, but there is a common thing that remains. Schools are run on business plans - it's about money, not about creating livelihoods that are ethical and dignified, for all human beings. Formal education has enforced in me a rigid notion of time and rushing to finish things. It has caused me to be on edge thinking that is the only way to survive in the world. It has stifled my creativity, as it is known to do, to all those who do not openly rebel against it.

I hate teaching. It makes me terribly uncomfortable. I am a timid person, and automatically feel the need to please people. Teaching exacerbates this. I do not like who I am, when I am a "teacher". I am like my father and my grandmother. I am skilled with my hands. I would be so utterly relieved just to be able to sew things or work in some kind of shop.

For someone who has not forced themselves against their gut feelings already several times, or over long periods of their lives, doing something they really hate for a short time to get by, may be a good idea. But there are times when the mind and logic fail. Perhaps I made the "wrong" choice. Perhaps if I had been able to calm myself down and be reasonable, I could have done it and it would have been nice, or at least given my life desperately needed stability. But I couldn't.

Tutoring is not the same. I could make 15E an hour probably, or 12 at least (yes, peanuts, but the other jobs was 9.5E an hour), tutoring privately in Sevilla. I probably can manage to get some students. It would take a lot more preparation, but I would rather plan a lesson for one student, that takes more effort on my part, than be "the teacher" in somebody's school. This is something I don't think I will literally feel sick to my stomach about doing.