Et in Arcadia Ego

Every morning I cross the bridge El Puente Alcantara on my way to class.
(I'm sorry I don't have a picture of it... Try looking it up in google images.)

On one side of the bridge loom craggy mountains, shrouded in early-morning mist. On the other side lie the buses and small suburbs of civilization. I ignore them.

The view from my bridge suggests an ancient and pastoral beauty; I can almost see the shepherds and hear the pipes that the scenery evokes. And as I daily drink in the mystique of this medieval city untouched by time, the refrain in my heart echoes one of my favorite authors, Evelyn Waugh... "Et in arcadia ego."

Yesterday I went exploring with one of the other students, John, and found orange trees growing right along the street. Orange trees. There was only one sensible course to pursue: we stole one. After meandering and exploring quaint, winding streets we stopped at an outdoor cafeteria (cafe, for you Americans) for vino tinto (red wine) and tapas. I sat in the sun, sipping wine and reading Spanish literature (homework, I admit) and thought, "This is why I came." Here I am in Arcadia.