Sarah Thomas • Spain
…Here are some “good to knows” I’ve learned on the go:
1. 9PM dinner is a long way away if you eat your sandwich at noon. Hold out till two if you can.
2. Being late for class is a no-no. Tardy arrivals are met with disapproving looks from the professor. However, class begins 10 to 15 minutes after the schedule indicates. So being late is actually being on time.
3. Melon is eaten with a knife and fork. Gnawing it off the rind is a little maleducado (poorly mannered).
4. University library books are lent out for only one week at a time. Late returns will be punished! If you return a book late, you cannot check out (or renew) any other books for double the amount of time you had the book after its due date (which isn’t a problem unless you have a research paper to write and are denied access to all university library resources).
5. Take caution with the word “coger.” Sometimes it means “take,” as in “take the bus.” Sometimes it means the F word.
6. Sometimes the Southern gate of Parque María Luisa (a large city park) is left open, but all the others are inexplicably chain locked. Unsuspecting joggers are subject to surprise entrapment upon reaching the northern end of the park.
7. Seventy degrees feels chilly after a couple months in the 90′s.
8. You must renew your student visa in the morning. In the Sevilla government office, 11 AM does not count as the morning and neither does 9 AM. Arrive at eight and don’t make any plans until 12:30! You’ll be gettin’ cozy with the waiting room for about four hours.
9. Buying alcohol after 10 PM is against the law. If you’re on your way to a party in someone’s apartment and forgot to pick up your contribution to the liquor supply, Danish butter cookies will suffice.
And now my favorite thing I’ve learned thus far:
10. It is possible start a day without a plan and go to bed happy. Failing to plan ≠ planning to fail (at least not always).
Cheers to learning on the fly!
Yesterday the high-pitched fanfare of a televised bullfight drifted into my bedroom. It is a shrill, distinctive tune. I was introduced to it when I saw my first bullfight about a month ago. It was one of my favorite parts of the event, something artful amidst an otherwise gory practice. Now my ears perk up when I hear the song resonating from the radio or television.
I recognize the tune, and I also recognize that it isn’t really my own. It is not part of my background or my history or my culture. What I mean to say is that while after nine weeks I feel less like a tourist, I still feel like a cultural outsider. And this recognition makes me think: if this isn’t my culture, what is?
A history professor recently made an interesting point. “You have it easy,” she said, directing her comment to a lecture hall of Spanish students. “You know exactly where you come from, you have your traditions, your customs, your holidays.” She compared Spain to the United States. “From the beginning, they’ve had to create they’re own culture. Not everybody comes from the same place.”
That’s just it. There’s no built-in culture stemming from a common lineage. There is a beautiful mixed bag of different heritages, but my generations-old, Western European roots seem distant and I feel culturally bland.
My host mother’s granddaughter, Alejandra, is six years old. A few weeks ago she showed me how she can dance Sevillana, a traditional baile originating in Andalucía. It has a Flamenco feel, but is less rigid. It is danced at fiestas.
“Se coge la manzana, se mira la manzana, y se tira la manzana,” she sang as she artfully circled her wrists above her head. “Pick the apple, look at the apple, throw it away.” She fluidly flung her hands out past her hips before repeating the sequence.
What can I teach her in turn? What do I know that my grandmother knows…and that her mother before her knew? And before her? I’m at a loss.
Catalonia, a Northeastern region of Spain (with Barcelona as its capital), has long been set apart from the rest of the country. It has early Frankish roots and has maintained a separate language and distinct customs for centuries. Francisco Franco brought 36 years of strife to the region as he tried mightily to crush its culture in the name of Spanish Nationalism. It lives on, though, and after visiting I can attest to its vibrance.
Every Saturday at 6 pm and Sunday at noon, townspeople gather in the plaza outside the cathedral. I went to see the spectacle. I watched expectantly as slowly, casually, a crowd amassed. Musicians set up off to the side and as they blew the first notes through their brass instruments, the people joined hands and form circles without any apparent discussion or leadership. Then they began the Sardana dances, slow circle dances with lots of toe tapping and cross-stepping.
Young people and old people joined in for round after round. The rings expanded and multiplied until the square was a sea of raised hands and steady, rhythmic circling.
Thirty minutes passed, and then an hour, and I found myself entranced by the music, the tradition, and the patriotism behind it. This culture has been threatened and has survived. Have the rituals of my ancestors been lost in the test of time?
Sheepishly, I began to mimic the steps. Tapping and shuffling, I followed the feet weaving so naturally in front of me. At a break in the music, a man approached. “Do you want to learn?” he asked. He took my hand and started counting. We did the steps together. When the next round began, I added my backpack to the pile of purses and bags that had accumulated at the center, and took a place in the circle.
Moving in unison, grasping the hands of the strangers-turned-comrades on either side of me, I felt part of something. I was helping to celebrate a heritage. I don’t have Catalonian roots and the ancestry isn’t mine, but I was included just the same. I can’t put my finger on my “culture,” but in that moment it seemed less important because they were willing to share theirs.
I have not abandoned my search. My yearning for tradition is still very much alive. But maybe I’ll think of myself less like a colorless hodgepodge and more of a blank slate. A blank slate with a splash of the countries my blood comes from, a splash of each of the states in which I’ve lived, and now a splash of Sevillana and Catalonian dances. And torero trumpet salutes – after all, I’m learning to hum along.
There are aisle-seat people and window-seat people. I am a faithful, and thus far life-long member, of the latter group. By bus, my preference is driven by my desire to avoid motion sickness. In airplanes, though, it’s all about wonderment.
Once on a late afternoon flight, the nasal intercom voice requested that we close the window shades to minimize glare on the drop down T.V. screens. The in-flight movie was about to begin. I was baffled, thinking, “We are currently flying in the air and you are asking us to shut out the sky.” I looked on helplessly from my station in the middle seat as the generous, warming sun was sealed out of the cabin.
I do get it. People get bored of looking at the same, endless vista. Flights can stretch on and I myself have been known to read or sleep with the best of them. Then there are moments like the one I had on Sunday.
It was 5pm and I was flying home to Sevilla from Barcelona, where I’d spent the weekend. I had been dozing for the first half of the flight, but woke in time to see a different side of Andalucia.
Pressing my forehead to the window, a vast landscape of mountains spread below me. They were uniform in color, a gray/brown, and seemed evenly spaced, neat and deliberate.
Unlike mountains I’ve seen before, these didn’t beckon me. Rather they whispered a story that wasn’t mine; murmured secrets I’ll never know. Their darkness and their shadows held the history of Romans and Visigoths, Christians, Muslims, and Jews tolerating each other, killing each other. They were knowing mountains.
Then a glimmer caught my eye. White and glistening, the city of Córdoba came into view. Being tightly clustered, it looked like a single entity – a diamond, or coin dropped from the worn pocket of a giant trudging across this land. The bright white walls and roofs, designed by the Arabs to repel the summer heat, reflected the daylight in a way that seemed to capture the nature of the sun itself. It was gold and beaming. It shown against the backdrop of the slate terrain.
In the times of ancient Rome, a people traveled through these mountains. Then they stopped and built a city. Hundreds of years later, I flew over that same place and admired what they and their successors had done. The magnificence of a city and a landscape transcended time and vertical space to make me think and feel.
And that is why I will always choose the window seat. Because you can appreciate the earth’s beauty and wonder at the mysteries of time and bear witness to the staging ground of history, but first you have to open that window shade and look.
My dad likes to point out the inherent risk of Chinese character tattoos. If you don’t know the language, the tattoo artist could make a mistake and you would never know. You might end up walking around unwittingly advertising something nonsensical, embarrassing, or provocative. One thing I’ve learned living in Sevilla: the same goes for t-shirts.
It’s trendy to wear English phrases plastered across one’s chest. Some recent proclamations include “SEX SEX SEX,” and “Tastefully style.” I thought I saw one that said, “I love my body” (and thinking it was a plug for positive body image, was trying to contain my “You go girl!” when I realized it said, “I love my boy”). And then there is the recurring tank top favorite, “Stick out tongue.”
Most of the t-shirts make me laugh, but I saw one recently that made me think. It was simple. “Live the green life.”
Recently I have been questioning the efficacy of the “go green” slogan in the States. It’s on bumper stickers and merchandise. It’s a household expression. My fear is that it has taken on a life of its own and abandoned the meaning behind it – that it is a fad to be “green,” rather than a lifestyle choice.
Here in Spain that is not the case.
I climb two flights of stairs to get to the program’s study abroad office. Before last week, I did it in the dark. It wasn’t the normal kind of dim, shadowy dark. It was the totally disorienting, pitched-black-abyss kind of dark – the kind that hits you without warning when you go from squinting in the sun to standing in a chilly, tile corridor with no lights and no windows. That was me. Needless to say, I became quite comfortable with the step-slide technique. *Tip: if you can slide your foot forward, it’s time to maneuver a landing.
The thing is, they don’t leave common spaces perpetually lit here. Stairways, public bathrooms, entryways – if you want light you’ve got to find the switch and turn it on. Better hurry, too, because those things are on timers and there are no exceptions made for the leisurely energy consumer.
Private spaces are conservation zones as well. Mercedes, my host mother, has been known to enter a room and turn out the lights without consulting the people therein. She has also banished the use of our friendly, oscillating fan now that we’ve left the 90˚F’s behind with September.
Water is another carefully guarded resource. We keep our cloth napkins in a drawer under the microwave and use them for weeks at a time before washing. We reuse our drinking glasses. We take military showers.
Part of our study abroad handbook outlines the program’s environmental objectives. Here is a translated quote: “missing an opportunity to recycle is a crime against the earth and against humanity.” To some it may seem melodramatic, but these Spaniards are all bite.
Giant recycling receptacles line the city streets. The green, igloo-like ones are for glass, the blue ones are for paper, and the red ones are for oils. When they reach capacity, bags of empty bottles and disassembled cardboard boxes pile up beside them.
For all the recycling gusto, however, it is apparent that it’s the second rate option. The premiere objective is to avoid creating that waste at all. For example, none of my university professors have provided their classes with hard-copy syllabi. Why? Because the syllabi are posted online. To print would be to consume paper unnecessarily.
Now, I’m not saying they’re perfect here. Sometimes I come home to find the television blaring with not a soul in sight. The same goes for the radio in the kitchen. But what I am saying is that this city is making a concerted effort to protect the planet.
The shirt I saw gave me pause not only because it was coherent, but because it was truthful. The Sevillanos are walking the walk. They’re living the green life. Or at least they’re making the most honest stab at it that I’ve ever seen.
Wednesday night I found my very hungry self staring longingly at a table full of baked goods. I had been wandering through La Feria de Naciones – an event best described as a cross between a world marketplace and a tent city. For four weeks craftspeople from India, Kenya, Columbia, France, China, Argentina, Turkey, and Australia (just to name a few) are here in Sevilla peddling their wares.
I had worked up an appetite taking in the Egyptian tapestries and Peruvian chocolate carvings, and after very little deliberation had decided to buy a half loaf of pan con pasas (raisin bread). I put in my order and stood expectantly waiting for the nice man to wrap up my food, take my money, and send me on my way. He didn’t do any of that though. Instead he paused, looked at me and said, “Pues, tengo que hacerlo” (“Well, I have to make it…”) and asked me to come back in half an hour. It took me a second to realize what he was saying. And then it hit me that he was actually about to bake me a loaf of bread.
Sometimes things like that happen here. I’ll walk past a gypsy playing accordion on the sidewalk, or watch middle-aged woman saunter down a corridor of the university with a lit cigarette in hand. I just want to yell, “Is anybody seeing this!? This is so bloody European!” But I don’t shout, I just whisper to a friend. And then I sit back on a park bench, by a fountain, and eat a half loaf of fresh, hot raisin bread baked just for me and marvel at this life I’m leading.
Anyone who has seen me immediately post wake-up knows that the neon orange bits in my hair aren’t mysterious or all too gross. All it is is clay from my industrial, putty earplugs. I wear them to sleep every night. I bring them to concerts, on bus rides, in the car if my brother is driving. I have sensitive ears and tend to get overwhelmed with too much noise and/or commotion. Last night things changed.
I found myself at the starting line of a race packed shoulder to shoulder with 16,000 Sevillanos. It was 9:50pm and I was waiting among the masses for “La Carrera Nocturna” (The Night Race) to begin.
The only light came from the streetlamps that cast a hazy orange glow on the whole scene. We were captured in this halo of light and excitement and anticipation. Spontaneous bursts of cheering spread forward from somewhere behind me. I didn’t know the words to the chants, but getting pumped up feels the same in every language. The energy was collective and electric.
The 10.5 kilometers that followed comprised the most sensory experience I’ve had in this city thus far.
For the first few kilometers, I ran just in front of the self-proclaimed “Los Lentos” (my best translation = The Slow Pokes). They were a group of 40 middle-aged men. They were dressed in red and carried balloons and banners that said things like “¡voy lento!” (I go slow!). They sang and clapped and shouted. They were having such fun! And they weren’t the only ones! There was a group dressed to go running with the bulls (white clothes, red scarves). There was a group in business suits and sunglasses. There were two wily guys running in dresses and long blond wigs, and then my personal favorite: a cluster of four older men wearing bunny ears and cotton tails.
The patter of feet was a low rumble as we made our way through the city. Pedestrians lined the streets to cheer and watch the spectacle, “¡venga, venga!” Families held signs for their loved ones and little boys extended their hands for high fives. We ran through the center of town, along and across the river, through tunnels, over bridges. I saw the sights with new eyes – El Torre de Oro, La Plaza de Toros. They were beacons in the dark. Every bit of the city was urging us forward.
I could smell the heat rising from the asphalt and the human bodies working hard around me. It felt unifying – we were pushing ourselves together, sweating together. Runners swarmed the re-hydration tables to grab water bottles. After drinking what they could, they sprayed the rest out over the crowd. It was cool and refreshing on my skin and when it hit the black top it smelled like summer rain. The empty bottles crunched under our feet.
Running through tunnels was almost celebratory. Like children discovering the echoes of our own voices, we yelled gleefully and marveled at all the noise we could make. People waved their arms and cheered. The neighborhood of Triana offered the best tunnel of the race. It was in the crease of a valley so that as far as I could see in both directions the road was overwhelmed by a sea of bobbing heads. It took my breath away. The volume of our cheering only seemed appropriate given the sheer volume of human beings present in that moment.
Turning corners created unavoidable bottle necking. It was hectic and we had to squish in together and slow down to a trot before picking up speed again. We stepped on the backs of each others’ shoes. We brushed shoulders and cut each other off. There was no such thing as personal space and there were no apologies for bumping into one another.
In the last part of the race, a man running next to me turned his head, looked me in the eye and said, “animo.” It comes from the word, “animar” which means “encourage” and it’s kind of like saying “keep it up.” The sweet, unsolicited encouragement drove me forward into the 1992 Olympic Stadium where we finished the race. The cheering and the lights added to the palpable thrill of running where Olympians had run. I felt unity with the past, with the other runners, and with my own body. I tasted togetherness.
More than anything else, last night was a festival for my senses. I was fully present and fully inundated with sights, smells, sounds, and feelings. It was a raw experience, sans earplugs, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
P.S. Maybe those orange bits in my hair are a little gross… I can’t speak for the lucky souls who’ve seen them.
I didn’t pack shorts when I came to Spain. Thanks to the study abroad handbook and word of mouth, I had learned that Spanish women almost never wear them. So, the day before leaving for Sevilla I went to Target and stocked up on jersey skirts. I made the voyage across the Atlantic with the intention of blending in.
To some extent, I’ve continued my efforts over the past two weeks. I try to walk taller, maintain better posture, keep my voice down in public. But no matter how I try, there is something about me that is forever foreign here.
It’s the reason “xyz tour company” salespeople approach me in the street. They hand me fliers complete with all the best destinations in Sevilla. “Bus tour? Bus tour?”
It’s the reason the ice cream scooper at Ferratti, a heladería near the center of the city, only speaks to me in English. I respond to him in Spanish, but it doesn’t stop him. “Cup or cone?”
It’s the reason I feel extremely conspicuous walking by the Plaza de España at night. By day, it’s a tourist destination. By night, it’s the gathering center of all Sevillano youth ages 13 to 17. Swarms of them mill around the plaza, clustering in small and boisterous groups to share extra large bottles of liquor. I never knew I could feel a) so out of place and b) so intimidated by people younger than my little brother.
Most natives here have a touch of Arab blood running through their veins. They have olive skin and rich, dark hair. I am fair. Maybe that’s it.
Or maybe it’s that I’m a little clumsy – catching the toe of my sandal on crags in the sidewalk, dropping my cell phone (and watching it skid under a parked car… leading me to crouch down, cheek to the ground, to scoop it back to safety). It just doesn’t jive with the caché of the people here.
Sometimes I smile at strangers. That too, based on the less than energetic reactions, may be a red flag of foreignness.
My roommate and I spent the morning at local café on a busy corner in our barrio. We settled ourselves at an outdoor table to read, write, and watch the world go by. We saw men on their motos, horse drawn carriages toting newlyweds, and then we saw two girls that looked just our age standing on the corner. We commented to each other that they looked friendly. Wouldn’t it be nice to meet them. And then, as if they could hear our whispering, they made a beeline for our table.
Their names are Naomi and Clara; they’re students at the University of Sevilla. They want to practice English. We want to practice Spanish. We exchanged numbers and have plans to meet for coffee. Just like that.
As they walked away, I was in disbelief at what had just happened. I’m happy… gleeful, even. How did they know that we spoke English!? How did they know we’d totally want to meet them… that we were just the right candidates for this language exchange?
The answer is a mystery to me, but one thing I know for certain is that I am officially, 100% glad that I stick out like a sore thumb. My non-Spanish aura just made me my first Spanish friends.
Yesterday marked the end of the first week of orientation here in Sevilla. I have three classes every weekday: grammar, conversation, and culture, and never in my life have I been more interested in verb tenses, vocab, and Spanish cuisine. I don’t want to memorize; I want to know – because class is a slow, clarified version of what I’m learning on the fly every other moment of the day.
At times, the learning curve has been really frustrating… and I still don’t feel sincerely comfortable here… but I’m starting to settle in and I have the feeling that I may fall in love with this place.
It takes about 25 minutes to walk from Mercedes’ apartment to the study abroad office and I walk the route at least twice a day. Though my feet get sore and dusty, I don’t for a minute regret the distance – it feels like a private walking tour. The city is scattered with beautiful, intricate buildings each representing different countries (Mexico, Morocco, Guatemala, and Portugal to name a few). They were built in 1929 for the World Fair and give the city a well-deserved historic feel. Even shopping districts, bars, and discotecas reflect the architecture of the past.
The plazas of the city do the same. Sevilla seems to be organized around them – Plaza de San Fernando, Plaza de Armas, and Plaza Nueva, among others. The plazas themselves are centered around large fountains and are lined with benches. They’re the best at nighttime because that’s when the people come out. I must say, in all the newness of this foreign place it’s the people that intrigue me the most.
For one thing, the women walk differently here – I’d describe it as more of a strut except for that it doesn’t seem arrogant. Rather it’s confident or elegant… and smooth. I’m not exactly sure how they do it, but I think high heels are partly responsible. High heels are a wardrobe staple here for all women from adolescence to white-haired granny-hood. Whatever the cause for the saunter it’s definitely fitting because the women are beautiful and have a keen sense of style. Daily wear is reminiscent of American “church clothes” and eveningwear is a sight to behold (way flashy).
Also, the babies here are the best I’ve ever seen. I’ve always loved babies more than puppies and flowers and dessert, and these ones trump all the rest. They have huge eyes and pinchable cheeks. And they have the most wonderful, old-fashioned baby carriages with places to attach mini umbrellas/parasols to protect them from the sun.
And siblings dress in matching clothes all the way down to their shoes! At first I thought it was just a coincidence that I’d seen so many sisters in matching dresses, but according to Mercedes it’s extremely common. “Of course!” she said, “They’re siblings, they’re equal… they dress equally.” I’d never thought of it! Then again, I also never imagined that little kids could stay awake so late into the night, but it’s common for toddlers to be out with their parents at restaurants and bars long after midnight.
In terms of men, I am trying not to judge the whole population by the few that make their presence know with catcalls and other inappropriate behavior. The truth is, it’s the young, teenage boys (emboldened by the anonymity of nighttime) and the dirty old men (viejos verdes) that are the vocal ones.
The men in between tend to keep their thoughts to themselves and go relatively unnoticed. To be honest, the most notable thing about them is the pace at which they run. The early morning brings crowds of men to Parque María Luisa, the park near our apartment. Middle aged men of all shapes and sizes come and run (sometimes in groups as big as five or seven) with incredible determination. They move quickly and their effort is apparent in their facial expressions – it’s as they’re one stride behind the reigning champion in the last stretch of a race. With just a little more effort they could win. It’s really funny to see… so unexpected!
I hope to one-day boast that I’ve made Spanish friends, but until then I am in observation mode. Every day is a field study. And while I’m dying to feel some sense of belonging, or at least somewhat more comfortable, I think being an outsider has its perks. Everywhere I go I see something new. I’m in a constant state of learning. The classroom offers preparation and explanation, and real life is a whirlwind of application. I love it – and I think I’m about to love it here.
It’s only been two days, but it feels like I’ve been in Sevilla for much longer. It’s not that I feel at home here, or because my Spanish is coming easily, or because I have rhythm in my hips (for Flamenco, of course) – because none of that is true (yet). Rather, it’s the intensity of each moment that makes the days seem full and important.
The flight from New York to Madrid was a certain warm-up for what was to come. I think of airplanes as mini, joint embassies representing the places from which they depart and those to which they head. This is most obvious to me when I fly from Colorado (where I have spent many summers) to my home in New Jersey. Without fail, half the passengers are backpack carrying, Chaco-sandal-wearing mountain lovers and the other half is a group easily identified by their more serious expressions and various tri-state accents. The trip acts as a symbolic and practical transition from one place to the other.
The flight to Spain mimicked this experience, except that it was 100 times more intense. I had been chatting with my fellow students on the jet way, and as soon as I stepped onto the plane, the flight attendant greeted me with a crisp “hola.” It took me by surprise! And at that moment it hit me – I was really going to Spain. From that point on, all aspects of the flight seemed particularly Spanish. I perceived the passengers to be stylish and European. The music overhead as we taxied on the runway seemed to have a Spanish flair. And during take-off I made note of the nearby elderly woman crossing herself and thought, “ah, yes, well this is a Catholic country” (though in fact she turned out to be American).
If the flight was me dipping my toe to test the water, the past two days have been a swan dive (or maybe a canon ball) into the deep end. The vast majority of communication is in Spanish (even with Elizabeth (my dear friend and roommate) I am proud to say!), and we definitely only speak Spanish in our home stay. Our host mother, Mercedes, has finally slowed her speech to the point that we can understand her, enabling us to converse over meals. The food, as a side note, is amazing! I leave every meal wishing I had more room in my stomach for one more bite of fish or an extra sip of “tinto de verano,” a drink made with red wine, seltzer water, ice and lemon – perfect for the hot, hot days and hot, hot nights.
The hardest part is understanding the Sevillanos. The accent is thick here and the pace is rapid. I have to consciously muster courage to ask for directions, order drinks, and respond spontaneously to unexpected questions. I feel butterflies when we enter stores or bars – and self-conscious when we walk in the street as a group of 30, speaking broken Spanish amongst ourselves and supplementing our conversations with “¿como se dice ____ (insert English word here)?” But when all is said and done, this is part of the experience. We have to start somewhere. As my cousin told me before I left, everything wonderful is scary. I am thrust from my comfort zone at every turn and I marvel at the fact that I am actually in Spain! Her words feel so true.
