Wednesday, July 24, 2013

More Adventures in Spain!


So what have I been up to these past couple weeks? I leave on Saturday, and I’m so ashamed that I was unable to keep up with my blog and document all of my adventures. I’m learning so much here and traveling all over Spain, so perhaps that’s a good excuse for not keeping everyone updated? Perhaps not, but I’ll try to bring everyone up to speed:

Traveling
Besides wandering all over Avila,which is an adventure in itself, I’ve traveled to Segovia:

Roman Aqueducts

Alcazar Castle

Cathedral
Tomb of St. John of the Cross

Alba de Tormes:

Remains of Castle
Tomb of St. Teresa of Jesus
Fontiveros:

Surrounding Fields
Near St. John's Birthplace
Gotarrendura:

Town Where St. Teresa's Family Had a Some Property

Salamanca:

Two Cathedrals Built Together
University of Salamanca - One of the Oldest in the World
Plaza Mayor
Toledo:

The City
Inside the Cathedral

Granada:
View of Alhambra and Mountains

Inside the Alhambra (Moor Castle)

Sevilla:

Lots of Orange Trees

A Common Sight in Seville
Galapagar/Madrid:

I Spent the Weekend With These Sisters
Daughters of Mary of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
The Beautiful Chapel of Our Lady

 I must say, though, out of all of these cities and villages, Ávila is probably my favorite. It’s definitely not Wisconsin, but it’s such a beautiful, medieval city, full of lovely little shops, parks, convents and monasteries, and cafeterias.

San Vicente Basilica

One evening, I was treated to a visit to the town’s marian patron shrine (Sonsoles). Every town in Spain has at least one patron saint or Marian patron, which is evidence of the country’s strong Catholic roots. Most of the streets also carry Marian/saint-related names.

Sonsoles Shrine


Food
So, I’ve officially had “pulpo,” which is cooked octopus. It’s very chewy and purple, and I was thankful that the suckers didn’t stick to my tongue.



 I’ve also had paelle de mariscos – one of my favorite Spanish dishes. However, this was the first time I had ever had it with mariscos (shellfish), so I had the great misfortune to accidentally eat shrimp legs. They’re quite crunchy. 



What else? Lots of yogurt, gelato, sangria, pizza, Spanish tortilla, fresh fruit. I’ve several horror stories as well, though I don’t want to ruin anyone’s appetite, so I won’t share them.

Churches
I could ramble on and on about the beautiful churches here: the stain-glass windows, the high altars, the frescos, the arches, etc. It’s actually quite distracting for me to got to Mass here, so I prefer the humble Franciscan parish near my home.

Oh, I almost forgot! I had the opportunity to visit the monastery where Teresa of Jesus lived and served as prioress. While there, my group and I were able to talk with one of the cloistered Carmelite sisters who live there. One of the coolest experiences ever!

Paz.


Sunday, July 7, 2013

When In Spain, Do As the Spanish Do


Today is my 7th day living in Spain, and I’ve gotten over the shock of Whoa-I’m-actually-in-Europe long enough to make some observations of daily life here in Ávila.



Mass
Probably the thing I’m most thankful for here in Spain is that I live about 2 minutes from a little parish named San Antonio. Not only is it nearby, but it’s also run by Franciscan friars and has a 8pm Mass every day!!! I think I may stay here in Spain JUST FOR THAT! It’s been a great blessing to go to daily Mass though I’ve noticed some interesting differences:
  •  Communion lines are a fiasco! There is no organization whatsoever. Whoever gets out of his pew first, gets to the front of the line!
  • Most people stand during the consecration and whenever the Blessed Sacrament is in procession. Thus, I’m not really sure why they have kneelers.
  • The Apostles Creed is recited instead of the Nicene Creed.
  • No chapel veils! I assumed that because Spain is a primarily Catholic country that most women would wear mantillas, but I haven’t seen one yet!
Churches
The churches here are gorgeous! My favorite, architecturally, so far has been the cathedral in Segovia. It’s an absolutely huge Gothic beauty of a church! There are probably 15 or so chapels and churches here in Ávila along with the cathedral, and not a single one is a minimalist, modern atrocity! Of course, any building containing Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament is a place of prayer, but it’s so much easier to pray when you’re surrounded by lovely mosaics and statues rather than abstract modern art or blank walls.

la catedral de Segovia

Food
The staples of the Spanish diet seem to be bread, meat, pasta, rice, and more bread! Every so often, I’m blessed with some fruit, yogurt, or ice cream, but most of the time I’m eating bread and meat. Thank goodness that I walk almost everywhere; otherwise, I’d bloat up like a balloon!

 Clothes
I’m living among very stylish people, which makes me wonder if I stick out in a crowd. Even the elderly are dressed well. I can’t tell you how many old gentlemen I’ve seen sitting on park benches, dressed in suits and fedoras, smoking pipes or cigars with a cane in hand. Most of the young people wear the latest styles, though I’ve seen some to which I’m not accustomed (harem pants).

Streets
The streets here are very narrow and often cobble-stoned. It’s often difficult to walk side-by-side with someone on the sidewalks because they’re also very narrow. Something that has become a great frustration for me is that the names of the streets are found on plaques connected to buildings. Instead of having a street sign at every corner or intersection, you have to search for the street’s name on the surrounding buildings. I’ve gotten lost more than once because I couldn’t figure out which streets I was on!

Bars
Something that’s reminded me of home is the prevalence of bars and taverns. Each barrio (neighborhood) has at least a couple, but I’m beginning to loose count of how many there actually are in this city. The bars are also different from those in the U.S. You can order a coffee, a beer, a shot of liquor, a sandwich, or all of these in one bar!

Coffee
European coffee is so much better (and a heck-of-a-lot stronger) than any American coffee, but people drink it differently. It’s usually served in a small mug and saucer with a tiny spoon for mixing in sugar. There are no refills! You can have it with milk (café con leche), which is very creamy and resembles an American latte – but better! I’ve also taken it with ice because it’s very hot and dry here in the afternoons. You simply mix in the milk and sugar into the mug and dump the mug’s contents into a glass with ice.

Beer
I haven’t tried any beer yet, but it amazes me that people will drink alcohol at any time of the day! I usually have a cup of coffee at the local bar around 8:30am, and there are people who come in for a shot of liquor. I have another cup of coffee around 3pm, and there are people enjoying a beer. I walk past a bar in the evening, and there are people having a couple beers or bottle of wine. I asked a friend about it, and she explained to me that alcohol here in Spain is often cheaper than water, so if someone’s thirsty, alcohol’s the way to go!

 Bathrooms
I’ve already experienced the great injustice of paying to use a public restroom in Italy, but I didn’t realize that the same occurs in Spain until a couple days ago. Imagine my outrage when, upon finally finding the aseos, I learned that I needed to scrounge up some change! How inconvenient, especially for something as necessary as that! What are these Europeans thinking? This would never fly in America, I can tell you that! There would be rioting in the streets!

 Weather
The climate here in central Spain is very dry. It’s only rained once since I got here, and there aren’t many other chances for rain according to the weather reports. It becomes very hot (80-90 degrees Fahrenheit) during the afternoons, but because there’s no humidity, it feels much more comfortable than you’d think. Still, most people sit in the shade or nap during the hottest parts of the day.  

People
I've only been here a week, but I'm definitely observing some differences. Probably the most notable difference between Americans and Spaniards is that Spaniards are much more comfortable with physical touch. For example, upon meeting someone for the first time, you kiss both cheeks (beginning with the left). You also do this with friends and family members - even just people you happen to know. I see people do this all the time! From the point of view of a primarily German-no-touching-American, it's a bit bizarre, and I'm still getting used to doing it myself. 





Wednesday, June 5, 2013

7 Things I Bet You Didn't Know About the Catholic Church


Humility Moment: Even as a Theology major attending one of THE most orthodox Catholic colleges in the country – and perhaps the world – and a practicing Catholic to boot, there are still things about the Catholic Church that I don’t know or fully understand. Go figure, I’m a twenty-one year-old member of a two thousand year-old Church. OBVIOUSLY, I don’t know, or understand, everything. As St. Augustine so brilliantly said (as he usually does), ““We are talking about God. What wonder is it that you do not understand? If you do understand, then it is not God.”

Of course, all will be made clear in heaven, but sometimes we practicing Catholics mistakenly think we’re “better” somehow because we know and understand more than anyone else. Granted, after listening to the media’s go-to representatives of the Catholic Church (i.e. renegade nuns, Catholics for Choice, ex-priests, Joe Biden, etc.) blabber nonsense about women ordination for a few minutes, I change the channel, confident that I’ll find something more coherent on Dora the Explorer. However, it’s prideful to place ourselves on a pedestal simply because we were given the grace or opportunity to have better catechesis. Yes, most Catholic Americans know very little of authentic Church teaching, and many don’t care, but we mustn’t 

1.     Pass up opportunities to share our knowledge (respectfully!) and explain what the Church actually teaches (“No, the Church doesn’t hate homosexuals. We believe that their lifestyle is harmful to both their bodies and souls and encourage them to live chastely. We support and love the people, but hate their sin.”)
2.     Ignore chances to increase our knowledge and understanding. (Instead of “Ha! Go to a talk about conversion? I already read Scott Hahn’s book twice! What more is there to know?”)

One of the most wonderful things about being Catholic is that there is ALWAYS something more to learn. Sure, you can know the Catechism inside and out, but you can choose to go deeper in understanding every time you read it. The same goes for Scripture - why else would the Church have lectio divina?

7 Things I Beet You Didn't Know About the Catholic Church:

1.     Zucchetto trading 













There's an old tradition that you can hold up a white zucchetto (pope's white skull cap) during a papal audience, and the Swiss Guards will swap yours for the pope's... how cool is that?! 

2.     Deer beer 


















3. St. Brendan the Navigator













4.     Eastern rites














There are so many awesome rites of the Eastern Church - check them out! What All Catholics Should Know About Eastern Rites

5.  St. Nicholas = boxer




















There’s a colorful legend in Church History that St. Nicholas, while present at the first ecumenical council (Nicea 325 AD), punched the heretic Arius in the face. The reason: for insulting Jesus Christ by claiming his lack of divinity. 

6. Camping with the Pope (yet another reason to love JP2 the Great!)



















Before becoming pope, John Paul 2 (then, Karol Wojtyla) would take people camping with him in the mountains. Check out his shoes!

7. Just War Theory (thanks again, Augustine)




















Pax. 









Tuesday, May 28, 2013

मैं तुम से प्यार करती हूँ: A Bollywood Love Affair

It's official now. I don't know how it happened. I didn't plan it. I probably should have seen the signs, but it's too late now: I'm a Bollywood addict.
I suppose it all started with "Lagaan." Just one crazy night, staying up into the wee hours of the morning, crying, laughing, cheering, yelling... and I was hooked!

What is it about Bollywood movies that makes them so intriguing and - dare I say - addicting? A Brief History of Bollywood is helpful, though all one really needs to know is that Bollywood is a term applied to Indian cinema.

Bollywood Characteristics Appealing to (Some) Americans:

1. *Clean* Romance
Almost every Bollywood film has an element of romance, and most of these include love triangles, arranged marriages, unrequited love, etc. Granted, some of it gets sappy, but because of traditional Indian culture, there is usually no explicit sexual material. Although modern Bollywood may include risqué material, anything before the early 2000's doesn't even include kissing. ***note: Some Americans may object to the different view of modest dress; dance numbers often include bare backs/midriffs.***

2. Melodrama
If you think that Downton Abbey is too dramatic, try watching a Bollywood film! It's FULL of drama: family feuds, forbidden love, political tension, lovers' secrets... the list goes on. Thankfully, many films don't take themselves too seriously, which is half the fun.

3. Family Values
As is the case in many other countries, family is a much higher priority in India than in America, which is evident in the films. Parents and elders are more often than not respected, and young adults and adolescents are expected to value their family members, even extended family.

4. Religious Values
Though it may be a bit shocking to American audiences at first, Indian movies often contain a lot of religious material... and not the satirical take on those pesky Christians that we often see in our own media. Many movies' plots actually focus on religious themes and their complexities. A beautiful example of this is found in "Jodhaa Akbar."

5. Silliness
Exhibit One
Exhibit Two

6. Song and Dance Numbers
This is probably my favorite part of Bollywood films. The dancing, the singing, the randomness.... so good. Ye Ladki Haye Allah is probably my favorite.

7. Criticisms
Some people are critical of Bollywood because it doesn't portray Indian life acurately. While I agree that Indian life is much more likely to look like this:
rather than this:
the point is that it's not meant to be taken accurately most of the time. Since life in India is often hard and impoverished, films are a form of escape from reality. Thus, the entertainment is not the equivalent of a documentary for Americans. If we should expect Indian films to accurately portray the harshness of the average Indian life, shouldn't they expect the same from us? Pretty sure that would mean that this:
and this:
are accurate portrayals of American life. Pretty sure that's not the case most of the time!

8. Last Plug
If you still have no desire to watch Bollywood, at least try this one:


Saturday, May 25, 2013

A Walk One Evening


Bare feet streak bare ground
Birds’ tracks lace the dust
Skin prickles as the air chills
And coy yowls welcome nightfall

Barn fans hum in my ears
Tractor planting in the south field
Grumbles as it goes
Only an hour or two left of daylight

While sunrays paint cloud wisps
Flares of gold and orange
Mirror mild flames burning
Silver thatch’s brilliance

Path ends as daylight fades
I turn back home again
Realizing I made the right choice
Farmland instead of the City

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Borkowski's Pond


           My father told me once that people from the city, deep down, longed for the green grass, cornfields, and wide-open places of the country. Oh sure, those people who built brand new houses in the middle of fields, once owned by old farmers whose land had been in the family for generations, wanted to be there rather than the city. Problem was, we didn’t want them and their snooty town-ness around us. As much as they tried to fit in, their designer jeans, too-bright smiles, and new cars didn’t blend well in rural Wisconsin. The ones who really stuck out were the business people from Chicago. Sick of the rat race in the Windy City, they wanted a simple “northern getaway.” The ones who stuck around past late fall got exactly that: icy winds from Canada gusted and soon
brought snow, which drifted so high that the expensive SUV often ended up in the ditch.
            I remember the first time that I ever saw an SUV. Growing up as a scrappy farmer’s daughter, the only vehicles I ever saw were beat-up Chevy pickups, families’ minivans, and the occasional teenager’s souped-up station wagon. My father’s family had been farming the same land since Great-Great Grandpa Schultz had come over on the boat in 1905. We took great pride in our heritage as people who worked the fields to provide for our dairy cows. My father used to say when I was little, “Ellie, some people think that milk and cheese come from a store, not from our cows. Can you believe that?” Of course I couldn’t. I had no idea that people saw the world so differently than myself.

The summer that our neighbor, Jim Borkwoski,  decided to finally sell his field property my daddy volunteered my brothers and I as free labor. We helped him with stone-picking, mowing the ditches, and clearing  the treelines of brush. Borkowski would let us younger kids ride in the tractor cab with him if the day was especially hot. One such day, while we were driving along Otter Road, a huge, green monster of a vehicle almost sideswiped us. Its driver had taken that curve along the crick too fast but had the nerve to blare on his horn, as if a tractor on a country road was an unexpected sight. As soon as he had passed and Borkowski finished grumbling about “those damned city slickers” who “can’t drive worth a s***,” I asked the old farmer about that strange truck. Borkowski scowled, his weathered face crinkling up like a dried apple. “That was an SUV, Ellie. A big waste of money if you ask me.”
Being six or so at the time, my natural response was, “Why?”.
Borkowski chuckled, “Because, kiddo. City people always need something that’s bigger, better, and faster than what they already have. They’re never content to go slow and steady like us farmers. That SUV is a waste of money because it’s something that they don’t really need or want.”
“Well, what do they want?”
“Heck if I know! I still wonder that myself.”
Old Man Borkowski, a ‘Nam vet and retired farmer, wasn’t much to look at what with his crooked back, weather-beaten features, and balding head, but he always seemed a lot wiser than he let on. I had a lot of respect for that old-timer, however cantankerous he could be.  Not long after his son, Mikey, had died,  Borkowski decided that he had had enough of a hard life and deserved a rest. The stubborn Polack had struggled to keep things going as best he could with his nephews and cousins – first selling the cattle and farm equipment, then leasing the fields to relations, later demolishing the old barn and sheds for scrap lumber. Finally, he gave in and sold the whole 150 acres for real estate. I think it killed a part of him to do that, but he really had no choice because none of the locals were willing to take on more work than they already had.
Although he sold the acreage, Borkowski couldn’t bring himself to leave the place entirely. After fifty-or-so years of working the same fields, he remained tied there by memories and a sort of loyalty. He kept the little white farmhouse and surrounding property, refusing to be forced into a nursing home, which I think was best; the nurses there probably would have gotten fed up with his grumpiness. Mikey’s wife and kids moved in with him, leaving their house on the east side of the pond. He bellyached for a week or so, claiming the need for peace and quiet, but we all knew that he needed someone to keep an eye on him. Besides, grieving is lonely enough without making yourself lonely.
Within a year or so, several families had purchased lots and built houses on Borkowski’s property – that is, what used to be his. My brothers and I secretly wished that no one would build on the other side of the pond, but all of those hopes were shattered by Ms. Jane Carter, a newly divorced attorney from Chicago.
Though I had many reasons for disliking the woman, much of my prejudice against her was because she chose to build her gigantic house in the back field west of  the pond. Because Borkowski had known my father since he was “a helluva lot smaller than you,” the crotchety farmer had allowed my siblings and I, along with a few other neighborhood kids, to trek through the pine woods and use the pond. Damn, but I was furious when I learned that we couldn’t go there anymore.
Borkowski’s pond was one of my favorite places.  Its murky, spring-fed water was chilly until late July, but my brothers and I would be there once school let out in May, sometimes pushing each other off the creaky dock when we weren’t attempting to catch frogs or bullheads with old fishing nets. August was always the “swimming month” in my family since it was at that time that the sun was usually the hottest, and it felt wonderful to swim after working in the garden, mowing the lawn, or helping with hay chopping during a particularly humid day. If Borkowski’s nephew, Andy Epson, hadn’t cleared away the cattails every spring, there probably wouldn’t have been any space to swim with everything grown up like the surrounding marsh.
Ms. Jane Carter moved to our area the year I turned ten, some time around deer season. I remember because the day she moved in, Borkowski stopped by to meet her. He wasn’t a very social person but tried to be friendly to the newcomers anyway. He had gone bow hunting the day before with Andy, so there were two bucks strapped to the top of his truck. Now this is a common sight for country folk. We didn’t so much as blink an eye, but Ms. Jane Carter hadn’t gotten the open season memo. 
She was a rather skinny woman with sharp features and a beak-like nose that poked out of her face. Her pale complexion was contrasted by her inky-black hair, which she always wore pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, while her glasses sat perched at the end of her nose. She had a shrill warble of a voice, and her expressions were very much like her clothes: severe, professional, and tailored.
As soon as she and Borkowski had exchanged some-what friendly greetings, Ms. Jane Carter caught sight of the deer. She swooped down on the old man like a bird of prey. Shrieking and flapping her arms, Ms. Jane Carter demanded an explanation.
“Who the hell do you think you are, bringing those ANIMALS on my property?! You can’t just go around killing animals and bringing them here!”
Borkowski, though a bit shocked, responded in kind, “Ma’am, it’s deer season, for Pete’s sake! It wasn’t my intention to get you all riled up. I just came back from hunting and -.”
“I don’t care what season it is. I want you to take those animals off of my property this instant!” Her voice cracked with emotion. According to Borkowski’s retelling of the incident, she was one of those people who believed hunting was a sin.
I won’t go on to describe the rest of their conversation as I heard it retold by my father, but suffice it to say that it didn’t leave a good first impression on either Ms. Carter or Borkowski. He finally left, deer in tow, and Ms. Carter kept a lookout the rest of the day for meddling neighbors. We all did our best to be pleasant if we saw her out-and-about, but most people kept their distance after hearing about her temperamental behavior from Borkowski.
Several weeks later, my father and I were out deer spotting one evening in our woods bordering Otter Road when we heard squealing tires and scraping metal. Once we got closer to the road, we saw an SUV half stuck in the crick bed, spinning its tires for all it was worth.
“Well, I’ll be darned, Ellie. I think that’s Ms. Carter,” exclaimed my father.
Upon our approach, we found this to be true. She looked rather shaken up but determined to get herself out of the predicament alone. Waving us away, she called, “I’m just fine, thank you.”
My father wasn’t convinced, since all she was doing was digging her vehicle deeper into the mud. “Ms. Carter, my truck’s parked a mile or two up the road. I’m going to leave my daughter here with you while I get it and a good-sized chain to get you out of there.”
Despite all of her protests, my father simply shrugged, patted me on the shoulder, and asked me to keep her company. “See if you can calm her nerves,” he suggested. “I’ll be back soon.”
Seeing that my father was serious, Ms. Carter turned off the monstrous SUV, leaving the headlights on, and sat back in her seat without acknowledging me. I didn’t know what to say except, “Pretty night, ain’t it?”
I guess that wasn’t the right thing to say at the time because she turned to me, her features all scrunched up in a frown, and then began to cry.
Awkwardly, I handed her my pocket hankie, which she accepted and blew her bird nose. “Don’t worry. My daddy will be back soon.”
She sniffed and gave me a small smile, which softened her face a little. “I’m not accustomed to having people help me. I like to take care of my own things in my own way.”
“Oh, I understand that, ma’am, but it’s always good to know when to accept people’s help too. Don’t city people help each other?”
She began to cry again. Not knowing what to do, I patted her shoulder and introduced myself. “My name’s Ellie, short for Elvira. Your name’s Ms. Jane Carter. Borkowski told us back when you first moved here. He said you don’t like deer.”
She laughed a little and hiccupped from her tears. “Thank you, Ellie. I’m sure I didn’t make myself very welcome for the outburst, did I?”
“No, but you sure gave us something to talk about!”
She laughed even harder and asked me about myself. I told her lots of stories until my daddy came back, including some about Borkowski’s pond. She nodded and smiled, though I don’t think that she understood some of what I told her.
“Well Miss Ellie,” she said, once she was back on the road and had thanked my father, “I’ll know from now on not to drive like a crazy person at night. Thank you for talking with me. Would you like to stop by my house some time and show me around the pond? I haven’t had time to see it yet and would appreciate a guide.”
Beaming, I answered proudly, “I’ll show you all of the best places to find cattails, Ms. Carter!”
She laughed quietly. “And Ellie, you may call me ‘Jane.’”