From the last chapter of the first book of Don Quijote de la Mancha, by Miguel de Cervantes: “Es linda cosa esperar los sucesos atravesando montes, escudriñando selvas, pisando peñas, visitando castillos, alojando en ventas a toda discreción, sin pagar ofrecido sea al diablo el maravedí.”

Loose translation:

“It’s a beautiful thing to be traveling through the mountains, looking forward to the next thing that just happens to come along, surveying the jungles, treading rocky crags, visiting castles, and staying the night in all qualities of hostels, trying to save euros as if spending them pleased the devil.”

That’s what Sancho Panza said. He’s Quijotasizing, and so am I. Traveling around the Iberian Peninsula will do that. I’ve fallen in love with being an estudiante andante. Sure it’s not very down to earth. Neither was Don Quijote. Sure, it’s exhausting. Learning is.

I’m learning a lot. Last weekend we went to Toledo. I learned that, like El Greco, I am more partial to the life of the monastery than to the life of the cathedral. I learned that, like Toledo, it frustrates me to feel like my best is in my past. I learned that, like the knife vendor, I don’t have to worry– I will have food to eat.

I discovered I have some amazing friends. This weekend’s trip was a whole-school-in-a-charter-bus trip. I got to know some people that I hadn’t. I found out I had judged some people unfairly. We played cards. We talked for hours. I realized how much I will miss these people.

Yes indeed. I won’t just miss the adventures, the excitement, the newness. I will miss my friends. But it’s worth it. Es linda cosa.

Life’s found a rhythm,
a very fast beat.
Here’s what I do
in a typical week:

Lunes, the first day
on a calendar in Spain,
to school, where I try hard
to put Spanish in my brain.
That day is Sevillanas,
a class to learn to dance.
I realize every week I really
haven’t got a chance.

Martes, class again,
and we start to make our plans,
book hostels, check bus schedules,
to see all that we can.
That night I usually skype
with a good friend of mine,
reflect on what’s been going on
and wish I had more time.

Miércoles, a good day,
the middle of the week.
classes, homework, travel-planning–
all are at their peak.
In the afternoon we practice
two languages of songs.
At seven (still called afternoon)
our friends come join the throng.

Jueves feels like Friday
on a typical week aquí
because so very often
we have the Friday free.
That day I walk an hour
to a convent where kid’s stay.
Sister Gema’s like their mother
and I just go to play.

Viernes, half the time,
is a day that I have off.
So we get up extra early
and head to the bus stop.
With passport, camera, pajamas
and a bocadillo in my pack,
we’re seeing as much of here
before we must go back.

Sábado I wake up
in some comfy hostel bed.
We breakfast, strap our packs on
and to the sites we head.
We walk to where we want to.
Sometimes we take a bus.
We shop at mercadillos.
We’re happy to be us.

Domingo in Sevilla
is a true day of rest.
We worship in a packed house
Half locals and half guests.
If we’re out somewhere traveling
Sunday’s the day to come back.
Exhausted, I do my homework,
talk to my roommate, and unpack.

Life’s found a rhythm
a very fast beat
That’s studying in Spain
on a typical week.

“Portugal!”
That’s what we said
as we continued to head
west in order
to cross the border
to leave Spain
and enter another domain.
“Portugal!”
That was our battle cry
each time
we stepped on the gas
in order to pass
some car insufficiently fast.

Portugal is where four friends (Rachel, Rebecca, Jen, and John)
spent four days (Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday).
We went to Lagos, Lisboa, Sintra and Évora,
and lots of other pueblos in between,
since we had a rental car, and a lot of curiousity.

See my Tabblo>

Rachel and I rode the bus (we are getting really good at riding busses) to Arcos, a cute little white pueblo with some history and some artisans. We sat in the plaza on top of the hill, next to the castle and the cathedral, neither of which we could go in. But that was okay because the blue sky and wispy white clouds that God suspended over the hills and the valleys and the orange groves was better than any architecture that gold could buy or decorate. We talked with a Dutch guy who travels all over Europe taking pictures for travel literature, and he said that my counting to twelef wasn’t bad. After attending mass at another hilltop church, we bought a kilo (or was it two kilos?) of oranges and headed down into the valley. Once we got there, we realized that the dirt cheap oranges we had bought at the top weren’t as good of a deal as the thought, only because the ones at the grove are even cheaper, and a little fresher too. Oranges are delicious here, and they are in season now. I ate four of them that day, one at each bench we stopped to gaze from. At supper that night, I sat down to find an orange on my dessert plate. It was yummy.

We went to Gibraltar, which is British. Gibraltar is a rock, a town, a trophy.

We went throught the town, following the bra trail.

We went to the end of the rock and flew (on our feet) through the wind.

We went inside the rock– through the tunnels, into the cave, deep within the siege mines.

We went to the top of the rock, where we ate our grocery store lunches and thought about what would happen if we were to fly an American flag there.

We went across the active airstrip.

We went to the bus station, where we met a permanent traveler.

We went by bus to our hostel. On the way we formulated plans to become permanant travelers ourselves.