Sarah Thomas • Spain
Sevillanas from Sarah Thomas on Vimeo.
Dancing is one the most fundamental aspects of Sevilla’s Feria de Abril. I knew this long before I set foot on the fairground, but like many things, I didn’t understand its vibrance until I saw it with my own eyes.
After an early afternoon spent eating, drinking, and mingling in the Costas caseta (that of my host family), my host mom led our jumbled group of family members – aunts, uncles, nieces, and cousins- into the hot Feria sun. We shuffled through the dusty streets, the hems of our dresses gathered in sweaty palms, and finally made our way to a large, high ceilinged tent.
Following a long, cool corridor off the entryway, I couldn’t anticipate the color and motion that would greet us inside: a dance floor alive with young girls. They were moving in harmony, following the traditional steps of the “Sevillanas.” To my untrained eye they seemed to be spinning and spinning, their colorful dresses fanning out like so many pinwheels in the wind.
Live music came tumbling from the musicians on stage, guitars and tambourines setting the rhythm for the dancers and cuing their uniform twirls and swirls.
“Sevillanas” is a dance originating in Castile and popular at festivals like the Feria of Sevilla. It has four parts, each with its own set of strictly choreographed steps. Combining intricate footwork with elegantly circling arm movements and slow turns, it can be very provocative and sultry. It was originally a courting dance and facial expression is as meaningful as the moves themselves. Women and men alike display coy smiles or aloof disinterest, passion or apathy, depending on the phase of the dance.
But dance floor ratios seem to be universal – or at least they looked familiar to me. Women and girls whirled away to the music while men nursed their beverages on the sidelines. As a result, a collage of colored ruffles and patterns dominated the scene. Together with music and motion, the panorama summed the “feel” of Feria better than any description I can piece together here.
So here’s a video! My host mom, Marta is in red, her sister, Rocío is in white. Like the little girls dancing in the background, they have been performing these steps since they were 5 and 6 years old. Here’s to tradition! Here’s to culture!
Whirling colors, glinting sunlight. The melody of conversation, laughter. Dusty air, sweaty skin, the buzz of large scale festivities. The images swirl around in my head and come flooding back to me in a colorful rush – my experience of La Feria de Abril.
People had been talking about feria since I got to Sevilla. “Oh, you like Sevilla? Well just wait till you see la feria (you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!). It proved to be more vibrant than anything I imagined.
La feria was originally a livestock trade fair dating back to the mid 1800s. Tradesmen from all corners came to do business in the classic Adalucían tradition – over tapas, taking their time, forming relationships. Over a century and a half, it has evolved into a citywide fiesta. For a full week, an empty lot on the western side of el Río Guadalquivir is built up into a tent city – rows of “casetas,” temporary canvas abodes, give form to the event. Inside are cash bars, tables, and dance floors. Most, owned by upper crust families, country clubs, and political parties, are private, invite only. Others, a little rowdier and a little smellier, are public.
Families of all levels of society come to the feria. Dressed in their finest, they come to have fun and socialize, to see and be seen. Despite thousands of paper lanterns and flowers, the women are the most eye-catching ornaments of the affair. They promenade in traditional flamenca dresses, fitted from the torso through the mid thigh and flaring out in ruffles to the ground. Flattering the feminine form, they call attention for more than just their bold patterns and loud colors. The men dress in suits and slick back their hair. The children dress as mini adults. Everyone looks snazzy.
My host family had plans to do lunch at their caseta the Friday of feria. Waking up at 9, I thought I’d have the whole first half of the day to myself. Little did I know a girlish frenzy would consume the entire morning and land me squarely outside my comfort zone.
Marta, my host mom, is one of three daughters. Over the years they’ve collected what seems to be a stock pile of flamenca dresses. I was still groggy-eyed in my pj’s and slippers when Marta tempted me with a game of high stakes dress-up. Her offer? She said I could try on a dress…but not just to flit around the house taking pictures. She said I also had to wear it to the feria, the most populated, public destination imaginable. In all my extroversion, I have a self-conscious streak, and this dare brought it to the fore. Mainly, I was nervous I’d be elbowing my way into the tradition of a culture that isn’t mine, making a fool of myself in the process.
But study abroad is the chance to seize opportunities, and that little voice inside finally won out over my nerves. When again will I be able to wear a traditional dress to Sevilla’s Feria de Abril? Maybe never. And with that commenced a flurry of activity. Finding the right jewelry, pulling my hair back, pinning the shawl at just the right angle. My anxiety about wearing the dress bled into the excitement of primping and prepping.
And to my surprise, no sirens sounded as I stepped onto the street. No alarms announced my entrance. In fact, the effect was just the opposite of what I had expected. Parading down the street in a red and white polka dot frock with a giant flower secured to the top of my head, I found that I blended in. Without meaning to, I had become part of the spectacle!
We started out in the family caseta. Seated around lacy table cloths we dined on rich finger foods and an endless stream of rebujitos – a refreshing drink made of manzanilla and Sprite. We chatted till we were blue in the face and then, in accordance with traditional feria practice, made way to a different caseta. We spent our entire day this way, moving from scene to scene. My favorite stop on the tour was the caseta with all the dancing…
More to come…
Semana Santa affects everyone in Sevilla, but not everyone in Sevilla loves it. It transforms the city for a week. Barricades line the streets, roped off sections of folding chairs sprawl into the main pedestrian avenue, tourists clog the bars and the sidewalks. Many natives see it as a week-long inconvenience. Irritated by the hassle, they get out of town and flee to the beaches or the countryside.
Then there is the faction of Sevillanos that live for this week. I’m talking “se vive la Semana Santa.” They prepare for it throughout the entire year. Band members rehearse their trumpet music by the river starting in September. Men are spotted carrying sand-bag-topped platforms, training to carry the pasos (giant floats), starting in February. Family members are absent from the dinner table, opting for meals and masses with the hermandades (religious brotherhoods), starting in March.
Families from this camp fit their lives around the processions for the week, running to see the pasos from different viewpoints around the city, trying to pick out their loved ones (with surprising accuracy) behind the cloaks, noting any little change in the Virgins’ garments or the pasos’ floral arrangements from the year before.
My host family belongs to this group, and as a temporary member of the Costas-Guerrero clan, I too “lived” the festivities. The family is fortunate enough to have a spot in the “palco” – elevated, outdoor box seating at center of the city from which to view the processions. Starting on Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday) and lasting till Sábado Santo (Holy Saturday) we spent every afternoon and evening there.
This lively family loves to laugh, and with at least five to ten people in our particular box at any given time, there was a lot of happy energy flowing. Conversations were studded at regular intervals as the pasos crossed before us. Out of respect, everyone stands as they go by. This was but one of the countless lessons I learned that week.
My host dad, Juan Luis, my “maestro” (teacher), informed my every curiosity. He taught me to listen when the palios (pasos of the Virgin) go by – they make a special clacking sound. He taught me that the higher the capirotes (cone hats), the more serious the hermandad. He informed me that some music bands march with several different brotherhoods throughout the week, sometimes back to back – we conjectured about how much sleep they were getting. Thanks to his patience and endless knowledge, I developed a working understanding of this centuries-old practice.
In fact, for me, the whole week was defined by learning and observation. I especially loved watching the children. They are giddy about Semana Santa in the same way American kids are giddy about Halloween, and with good reason.
Some of the penitents from the more lighthearted brotherhoods hide little treats in the folds of their robes. When children approach, they dole out candies and estampitas (mini cards with pictures of the Virgin). They give out melted wax from their candles which the kids collect in ever-growing balls. They dart from penitent to penitent, hands extended, asking for goodies.
My host brothers (both ten years old) are especially passionate about Semana Santa. They’ve been marching as penitents for four years now. Weeks before the holiday arrived we had procession music blaring in the living room and other signs of the coming holiday began popping up around the house.
One evening, before I had the vocabulary down, I referred to the capirote as a sombrero for lack of a better word. Fernando, one of my host brothers, turned slowly to look at me. With a combined expression of utter disbelief and almost disgust he said “Sarah, sombrero?” And in his eyes I read “how could you be so ridiculous?”
It was hilarious to me and also fascinating. I was reminded of my anthropology classes. Cultural knowledge is learned from birth. Even if I lived in Sevilla for the rest of my life and learned all the vocabulary and recognized all the music, I’d never understand it in just the same way as my host brothers do.
Depending on which Sevillanos you talk to, Semana Santa is either an annoyance or a way of life. For this particular outsider, though, it was, above all, a learning experience. I rubbed shoulders with the valued ritual of another culture and, while I’ll never “get it” like a native, I surely added some new understanding to my cultural knowledge base.
Easter Sunday was no big deal in Sevilla. I was expecting some Spanish equivalent to floral print dresses, big family meals, dyed eggs, and “Happy Easter!” greetings, but instead it was oddly mundane.
The week preceding, however, blew American Easter traditions right out of the water. Those seven days comprise Semana Santa (Holy Week), which is the most extravagant religious and cultural display I’ve ever seen.
The holiday is characterized by a series of processions throughout the city. Thousands of people, all members of Sevilla’s religious brotherhoods, don floor length robes, face coverings, and cone hats called “capirotes” (attire that is shockingly reminiscent of, though distinct from, KKK garb). They are known as nazarenos, symbolic penitents from Nazareth, and parade en masse from their home-base churches to the city’s main cathedral and back. The marches last up to 12 hours.
Carried with each brotherhood are “pasos,” heavy, ornate platforms topped with biblical depictions of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The 2,500 pound floats are born by armies of roughly 45 barrel-chested men moving in time below.
Stretching late into the night, the processions become more and more enveloping as darkness sets in. The solemnity and anonymity of the penitents seems mysterious and removed as they shuffle forward. They hold long candles that glow dimly in yellow, bobbing halos. Sickeningly sweet incense smoke wafts through the air in visible plumes.
When the paso comes into view it is enough to move some people to tears. After the passing of thousands of nazarenos, it seems bright, surprising, and otherworldly. Bands of music follow closely behind as it sways artfully and deliberately. Aficionados of Semana Santa praise a smoothly rocking paso, “anda bien (it moves well),” they say.
The tradition of Semana Santa is born out of a story of suffering and death – that of Jesus Christ. Logically, it is mournful in many ways – melancholy chapel music, depictions of the suffering Jesus and his mother, spectators dressed in all black on Good Friday.
And yet sometimes there are lively marches, cheerful, bumping pasos, and in truth, a lot of the week is spent socializing over tapas and torrija (a yummy, French-toast-like dessert particular to Semana Santa).
In the end, the holiday seemed like a conjoined observance of both death and life. For some of these Catholics, the recognition was very literal – the acknowledgment of the suffering of the Passion and following Resurrection. And for anyone, the contrast between somberness and joviality was notable. After thinking about it, it made sense to me: what is more conjoined, more mutually dependent, than death and life? One can’t exist without the other.
Easter didn’t feel the same without the colors and the bunny, but Semana Santa was a reminder about mortality and a demonstration of the richness of life. It was a worthy swap.
Plus it was so, so interesting. More to come…
Our closest friends and our greatest loves are out there in the world, but what if they’re in Kenya, or Chile, or China, or Spain? What if our kindred spirits are speaking Swahili or Chinese or Spanish? Even if we met them, came face to face, we may never know the connection we share if a language barrier is standing in the way.
For me, this is one of the most compelling reasons to learn a second language. Just speaking one other swings open the floodgates of communication to a whole population of people.
If ever I’ve struggled with Spanish grammar – “por and para,” “ser and estar,” subjunctive – if ever I’ve stumbled over pronunciation, or destroyed the accent, or felt embarrassed, I have to say it’s been worth it for the relationships it has allowed me to form. Above all, my friendship with my host mom, Marta, is worth any degree of foolishness I’ve felt in grappling with this foreign tongue.
Marta is the spunkiest 37-year-old I know. She’s the hardworking mother of twin 10-year-old boys, a wife, a sister, a daughter, and a host mom. She starts the day at 7AM and is on the go till late at night. She has plenty reason to be generally flustered and preoccupied, and yet has made space in her life for me. Hanging with Marta feels like hanging with my best friend.
I go where Marta goes: to the center for shopping, to the rooftop to collect the clothes from the line, to Ochoa (a café) for merienda (6PM coffee break). We run errands, go for walks, sit and chat after meals. I’m to learning to use a batidora (a mixer of sorts) and to make bizcocho with yogurt and lemon rind. I’m learning to joke, to whisper, and to catch innuendos in Spanish.
Last week, we took a walk to the center of Sevilla to buy postcards. Along the way we passed a convent whose chapel was open to the public. Curiosity led us inside.
Looking back, nothing was really that funny. But laughing when you’re not supposed to compounds the issue exponentially. What started out as the giggles evolved rapidly into an uncontrollable laughing fit. Kneeling at the front of the chapel, we buried our faces in our folded hands as we tried to bear the hilarity in silence. With at least 20 nuns in prayer behind us, I found myself hoping our heaving breaths sounded more like sobs than laughter. Unable to compose ourselves, we finally had to get up and leave.
With Marta, losing it like this is commonplace. Laughter is her way of life. She can find humor in the face of challenge or in the monotony of a weekday afternoon. She has a way of laughing air into even the most trying situations. Enough talk about stress management – this ebullient spirit has it down. Her trick? She doesn’t take herself too seriously. The result? Life is fun with Marta. I’m trying to take a page out of her book.
Sometimes I feel right on the money with my español and sometimes I still feel hopeless in the face of endless vocabulary. Whatever the case, I can say with certainty that the years of tedious worksheets and listening exercises and practice dialogues are proving worth it. These skills have come to life in Spain and have allowed me to come to know a dear friend. There’s no better pay off than that. I am happy and grateful.
*Photo courtesy of Brian Rosenthal, Medill journalist and photographer extraordinaire – also Marta’s host son from the Fall semester, making him my host brother. Thank you, Brian!
In addition to blogging, I have been keeping a personal journal of my experiences abroad. The following is a journal entry from Saturday, December 5th. I was in Morocco.
We’re currently staying at a hotel in the middle of the Sahara desert. We started out in Fez today and after almost eighth hours traveling by bus through the mountains (some of which we looked down on through clouds to see their peaks and ridges), winding around rock formations, coming upon huge, sparkling bodies of water (so unexpected), we got to the town of Merzouga, which means “white whale.”
We saw many people as we passed through several villages. After reading so much about the anthropology of development, I find myself wondering why we (Westerners) feel the need to come here and change lives. Just looking at the people reminded me that there are many ways of living, ways completely different from mine or any I’ve yet seen, completely distinct ways of living good, full lives. I am not the center of the universe. I am only the protagonist of my own life’s novel. Same goes to you, Western world. [Note: my thoughts on this are far more complicated than are represented in this entry.] Anyway, it was fascinating seeing all the different people. And so many flags! Red with a simple, five-point, green star. I love it.
The last leg of the trip was most exciting. We piled into 4×4s and I was with a few other students, a tour guide, and the most vibrant, free spirited Berber man named Adde. He is a musician and works with tourists. He is amazing. He taught us to say beautiful (heh leh–la) and wow (een wa) in Berber. He told us about his philosophy of music and how some people say music is peace. He thinks music is peace too, but that it is also love. And when he is older and he has enough money he’s not going to play for pay anymore, rather just for sharing… because to use music for business is to sell it, and you can’t sell love. His favorite music is African jazz. I asked him how he got into it andhow he learned to play. His answer: “spirit will.”
After dinner, Adde and a bunch of others started playing drums. We all sat and listened and eventually danced. Those of us who stayed late ended up doing the limbo with someone’s unfurled turban. They all (well, not all) have turbans and hats and the long over jackets. It was so fun that I felt like I had a giant smile on my face the whole time.
Late into the night Elizabeth and Nora, two friends, came to get me. They led me away from the hotel and into the dunes where there was a bonfire fed by dry palm branches. We spent 45 minutes sitting with the Berbers on blankets around the fire. We communicated in Spanish. I met a 21-year-old named Azu (Ah-zoo) who, until three years ago, lived with his family as a nomad. When he was 18 they moved to a town (we could see the lights of it glowing across the darkness of the dunes) and now he works with tourists and is learning languages. It was so interesting. He said he likes the life in the town more than as a nomad – he said the pastoral life is really hard.
At one point my friend Esteban and I went out to look at the dunes and the sharp, clear night sky. Orion’s Belt is vertical from here! It is a metaphor! This place is so foreign even our constellations are turned on their heads. Wow.
-SBT
January in Greece is off-season. Streets typically teeming with people are totally passable, beaches are deserted, and business is slow almost anywhere that caters to tourists. Two friends and I traveled through the country for two weeks during this lull.
Many times over we encountered the friendly, conversation-making question “why now?” Which was invariably followed by the useless though well-intentioned suggestion that “next time” we come back in summer.
This chatty, harmless thing to say was strangely powerful in giving me a twinge of doubt. I wondered if we would be better off somewhere else, if we were missing out on the “authentic” Greek tourist experience.
By the end of our trip, however, any second thoughts had left my mind.
On day twelve, I found myself passively glancing around a dusty pottery shop in the Peloponnesian town of Nafplio. The hole-in-the-wall establishment was overwhelmed by shelves packed with things like candle holders and dishes. It was a colorful, jumbled mess anchored by a bearded, older man seated in the corner: the owner.
Our conversation began with some chatter about his clay wheel. Topped with coffee cups and papers it seemed like a forgotten artifact, but he told me it’s just the opposite during the summer months. He makes all the pottery himself and when souvenirs are in high demand, he uses it every day. I must have looked interested because before I knew it he was showing me the back room, informing me about the clay he imports from Italy, and explaining how the kiln works.
Next to the shelves of tools and clay slabs I noticed a bulletin board of photos. The conversation turned to his family: a lovely wife, two daughters, and a “crazy,” or in my interpretation, “crunchy,” mother in law. “Call her to say it’s a sunny day and you hang up knowing more than you ever needed to about vitamin D,” was the example he gave.
Before I knew it, my new friend had whipped out a plastic ice cream tub full of honey soaked Greek cookies (made by his mother in law – with olive oil instead of butter). Standing there enjoying the treat and the moment, he talked about the value of “the present.”
“You have to honor it,” he said, and to illustrate his point, he looked out the door of the shop and gestured outside.
“It is a cloudy day. I look out and see the lemon tree. I am happy. I am a little fat.” The wide-waisted potter looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “as simple as that.” I think I’ll remember that line forever.
The truth is, it really did feel simple. I had nowhere to be but there and nothing to do but talk to him. And without the hustle of tourist season, he didn’t have much to do right then either.
It’s moments like those when it is easy to cherish the present – and I want to remember this encounter when things are not so carefree. Stress and worry distract and detract. I risk overlooking the unexpected joy around the next bend. And you just never know when you are going to make a friend or learn a lesson or hear a line you’ll always remember. Thanks, off-season and sweet old man, for the reminder.
I grew up in a nutrition-conscious household. We had one small cabinet dedicated to snack food, but Baked Lays chips were about as exciting as that got. The alluring world of oatmeal pies, Dunkaroos, and Hostess cakes existed only in the abundant pantries of the neighbors’ kids. At my house we ate wheat bread, plain yogurt, and topped our ice cream with melon balls. Needless to say, fast food wasn’t on the menu. Now that I’m off to college, I have access to any kind of food I want – but the habits instilled by my smoothie-making, bran-muffin-baking mother have, for the most part, stuck with me. At the very least, it’s safe to say I won’t be spotted at McDonald’s.
However, the other afternoon, fate acquainted me with America’s most popular fast food franchise for the first time since Salad Shakers were kicked off the menu. I was at my friend Eva’s house and two other friends, Paco and Jesús, had gone out to pick up lunch. I assumed they would come back with something Spanish, like Iberian ham, or at least standard, like deli sandwiches. But instead what they brought was McDonald’s.
At first I was surprised – they actually chose to buy McDonald’s? Then for a split second I was concerned – I have to eat it? And then I put on my game face – people all over the world consume this stuff and they’re doing okay. With that, I dug in.
Not only was it actually quite tasty, the meal that followed was the happiest meal I’ve shared in Sevilla. The four of us gathered around the kitchen table and spent as much time talking as we did eating. We laughed and laughed and sat back in our chairs.
Paco is the quintessential, free-spirited goofball. He joked and made silly comments. The glimmer in his eye alerted me when he was teasing, and the laughter to follow seemed even more gratifying with the added sweetness of understanding. And when the quips went over my head, Jesús would explain them to me slowly and clearly, his patience a comfort. When the boys were being totally ridiculous, Eva would give a quick wink or a smile from across the table. “Ignore them,” she said with her eyes.
They taught me Spanish slang and asked me about my thoughts on Obama and foreign policy as if I spoke for the entire nation. I taught them about the sport of lacrosse – they’d never heard of it. We you-tubed each others’ favorite musicians and found our homes on Google World. Questions and curiosities whirled around over the pile of fries at the center of the table.
So I learned to take my nose out of the air. The value of a meal can best be measured by the communion shared over it. At home it happens over grilled chicken breast, free-range, certified 100% organic. Here it happened over breaded nuggets. The food may be different, but if human connection is the goal, either suffices. Pass the fries, please.
When Eva told me she was a “balomano” coach I had no idea what she was talking about. Even when I realized that “balo” is “ball” and “mano” is “hand” (in English, “handball”), I still was at a loss for what exactly it was.
So Saturday morning she picked me up in her car and we drove 15 minutes outside of town to a residential neighborhood with a recreational area comprised of several cement courts.
Walking up on the scene before us felt surprisingly familiar and comfortable. Two teams of girls were skipping, butt-kicking, and high-kneeing across the nearest court. Warm-ups. Visions of the many and varied recreational leagues of my youth came flooding back to me.
Coach Eva dropped her bags and shouted directions. Her team, dressed in ice blue jerseys, came bounding toward the bench where I had stationed myself among the scattered water bottles and equipment. Laughing and shrieking, ponytails swinging, they plopped themselves down at Eva’s feet.
The pep talk that followed was unintelligible to me. The team, unabashed adolescents from ages 11-14, took chattiness to a new level. Eva’s speech was peppered with questions and comments from the team, more of a peanut gallery, really, and I couldn’t follow the thread of banter. Both entertained and exasperated, Eva finally called the girls into a huddle.
“Uno… Equipo! Dos… San Augustín!”
After a quick call and response cheer, the girls dashed off to their stations on the field of play. The game is a fast-paced combination of basketball and soccer; it begins with a toss up. In a surprising contrast to their preteen silliness, the girls skillfully whipped the Nerf-sized ball from one to the other. They looked natural and at ease. It occurred to me that even though I’d never seen the sport before, some of them had already been playing for a few years.
The spirit of the players morphed from moment to moment. Game faces broke into laughter at the drop of a hat. Whining sharpened to focus with the blow of the whistle. Good sportsmanship mingled with snide remarks. Prancing, carefree movements contrasted with clean passes and complicated plays. The limbo that is adolescence seemed encapsulated on the court before me.
The drama of injury halted play upwards of five or six times over the course of the game. Player down, teammates surround with concern, player hobbles off the court – the routine was boiled down to an art. Time after time the fuss and commotion that had commanded rapt attention only moments ago was eclipsed by resilient giddiness as play resumed.
And so it became clear that, at least on the balomano court, adolescence in Spain looks just like it does in the U.S. Unruly, spirited, moody, goofy. And actually, toddlers are bratty here and young mothers look tired and elderly folks lose their hair and move slowly. For all the different languages, customs, and middle school rec. leagues out there, we’re all hitting the same phases and stages. We’re all marching down the same path.
And I find comfort in that, or at least familiarity. Amidst all the newness that comes along with living in a foreign place, it’s oddly reassuring: people are people everywhere.
