No es mi culpa and Casual Nun Fun

You don't realize how awful service in Spain is until your parents show up and you go out for every meal. Not once this week have we waited less than 35 minutes for a check at the end of a meal. Asking for a glass of water becomes an ordeal, hand motioning that you really just want tap water, not bottled, not mineral, not seltzer, not a tapa - just water from the sink. Nevermind, I'll have a coke. Don't even try asking for a lemon after.

We were so excited to order a cheese lasagna, an item that can hardly be found meatless in America. We were silly to believe that we could have our lasagna and eat it too. It came with ham. When I asked the waiter if we could just see the menu to order something else because we were 'vegetarians,' he yelled at me, "No es mi culpa, tienes que cobrar." Okay, no one was blaming anyone, I was offering to buy MORE food, and had already planned to just give the lasagna to Courtney. Calm yourself, camarero. If tipping was a thing in Spain, we would NOT have tipped them. As we waited for a check yet again, we joked about ordering breakfast it had gotten so late.

Not all service in Spain blows. Today, my mom and I went on a walking tour of a lesser traipsed area of Sevilla, La Macarena (Hey, Macarena - aightt!). My host mom's younger son's girlfriend is also named Macarena. Anyway, the 'tour' consisted of us walking into 8 different churches and looking at idolic statues of Jesus at various ages, San Juan, and un monton de virgenes. In La Iglesia de La Macarena, we had to walk behind one altar with the Virgin in order to see another altar with the Virgin. (It's confusing that she can be in two places at once but the statues were shiny and pretty, so whatever.)

At the third church, my senora ran into a nun-buddy of hers. Apparently, her husband Sebas, a latin professor, used to teach the Catholic tongue to nuns. The nun, 400 years old and roley-poley, began to give us a very complete tour of her convent and chapel. One third of the way through, she realized we didn't speak Spanish. Halfway through, just after the story of Saint John's pilgrimage to Jerusalem, my senora informed her we were Jewish to which she exclaimed, "And this whole time I've been acting like you knew these stories!" Nope. Pretty sure you just gave us a biography of every saint, a full description of every painting and sculpture, and a oral history of your convent. So actually, we're all caught up - thanks!

You are my new friend. I think your name is Rosario. Or maybe you were talking about a rosary. 

After a cute picture and some parting gifts from the roley nun, we enjoyed a day of more eating, more walking, more museuming (we were the only ones inside Museo de Artes y Costumbres - it was kind of creepy but cool! That's what you get for doing things during siesta time in Sevilla), we had a relaxing evening of more eating and pre-departure errands.

My parents are off to Madrid and I'm GOING TO AFRICA TOMORROW. Shakira's African lyrics taught me "Zaminamina, ay ay, waka waka, ay ay." Do you think I can bargain in a Moroccan market with that?