Personal Narrative-Sacrifice In Spain

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I grimaced slightly. Inside the chilled, artificial air of the Fiumicino Airport my high waisted black trousers had seemed practical and trendy. Now, however, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the exit, it was apparent that I maybe, in some shape or form, had made something akin to a mistake. The merciless Roman sun seemed to literally pound into the sizzling concrete. I saw that even the darkly tanned Italian drivers that on any other day would have been cajoling tourists into their compact little taxis had parked right next to the curb and were fanning themselves with today's paper. I adjusted my (also poorly chosen) black felt fedora, and turned to my kindly aunt. I blinked as she grinned excitedly at me, her wide brown eyes crinkling…show more content…
I ate plenty, and spent what allowance was given to me on museums and galleries. It was interesting, because I had attended an art school in Serbia for around five years. However, I had been trained in the classical style. I had studied the style of Rennaisance masters thoroughly enough. Spain's surrealism had caught me off-guard. The abstractness of their style and culture was decidedly foreign to me. I was so absorbed in the engrossing nature of this seemingly meaningless, endless mass of symbolism I couldn't decipher. It was akin to a cypher puzzle, where a certain level of understanding was required to comprehend the gravity of its potential rewards. In a way, it reflected my own torn state and unintelligible feelings that I was having difficulty defining. Looking past the eccentricity present, the message of various pieces becoming easily understood. I was lost in it. Not only the art, but the city as well. Leaving various museums in an almost dazed state, I found myself taking a picture of an enormous tree for some arbitrary old woman. I, being an idiot, asked for directions to the beach in Spanish. So naturally this kind old woman began to answer me. Being a wise old spirit, and seeing that my blank, dead-fish stare indicated that I understood nothing that came from the general direction of her mouth, took me by the hand and led me to the beach. At this point, I realized that I seem to have penchant for pleasent, grandmotherly old women. I thanked her kindly, and returned much later than I had planned to the

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