my last view of the Alhambra in Granada

The final paella.

Navidad is sprinkled over every plaza in Granada!

During the last week of November and the first week of December, crews slung up huge Christmas light banners with shapes on them—teddy bears, dolls, ribbons, and ornaments.  The anticipation was excruciating; every day more and more lights went up but remained off with a silent reminder of Christmas slowly approaching.

We’ve taken quite a few field trips over Andalucía (organized by the wonderful IES!), and every bus ride I am surprised by the expanse of olive trees in the rocky terrain.  The groves actually look quite bizarre at first, as though a polka-dot blanket is spread over the mountainsides.  The trees are planted in perfect lines, so as you drive by the rows seem to warp out continuously.  And, just when you think you’ve reached the end of the grove, another one begins.

A key cultural dish in Spain, especially southern Spain, is paella.  Paella is traditionally made on Sunday afternoons when extended families visit the house, because it is easily made in large quantities.  It also takes a long time to make (lots of prep work), so it’s considered a special dish.  In some areas of Spain, mostly in the cities, paella isn’t made as frequently.  However, in the pueblos (or suburbs) families will have paella pans in all sizes for different crowds, and is still a big part of tradition.

On a lighter, happier, and shorter note, this year, Ecuador has given me a home away from California where I feel so comfortable and happy. As one of my UCSD friends put it, “it is so cool to hear that you found somewhere that fits you well.” 2012 has been a year of privilege for me, and December, has undoubtedly been the craziest month of them all.

Four months ago you would have found me crying hysterically in the Lufthansa terminal in New York clutching my stuffed Dalmatian, yelling at my mom on the phone to come pick me up. As I sat anxiously contemplating the next four months, my biggest apprehension was not the language barrier, but that I wouldn’t make any friends.

I dreamed in French last night.

It was one of those gibberish dreams that merit no recounting, but I was tickled to find that my subconscious still had a foot on Gallican soil.

I can’t believe it was a year ago that I was grabbing a last pint in the pub with my friends, saying goodbye to Dublin.  A friend of mine described traveling as leaving a piece of your heart behind in a foreign land, always being connected to places and people by having spent time among them.  I do feel I left a bit of myself behind on the rolling green hills and boisterous pubs of Ireland.  Still, a year later, every time I hear a jig or smell the rain I get a twinge of “home”sickness, longing to be back in old Erin’s green aisle.