Posts Tagged ‘Sevilla’
• Spain
Well, more like eight hours.
Somehow, I found myself standing in a main Sevilla street amid a crowd of curious onlookers, trying to figure out how I was going to paint the six foot tall gray dome in front of me. On top of all of this, I had never done graffiti before in my life.
How did I get there? Well my grammar teacher, Maria del Mar (or Maria from the Sea) handed me a pamphlet describing a concurso for graffiti artists. I thought she was telling me I could take an instructional course if I wanted to. Turns out that concurso means “contest” and she was prompting me to enter, based on a comic I drew for her class (telling the heart-warming yet tragic story of Mr. Sponge and his princess).
The contest was taking place for its third year, run primarily by LIPASAM, Sevilla’s Department of Sanitation. The point was to have graffiti artists paint the unseemly green dome-shaped glass recycling bins that dot the streets of Sevilla in an effort to encourage more people to recycle their one-liter bottles of Cruzcampo. Not only would it help the environment, but it would probably also divert Sevilla’s thriving army of street artists away from the city walls for a few hours, with it’s alluring grand prize: no less than 1,500 euros for the winner.
It took me an hour just to translate the rules in the pamphlet and make sure I was going to fulfill all of the requirements: Spanish resident – check (since I’m a student here), availability on the weekend of the contest – check, between 0 and 99 years of age – uh, check. I dutifully sent in my application on the day it was due, attaching three (3) prior works from the artist or group of artists painting the container, one (1) sketch (bocete) of the work that is to be created, and the list of materials that I would need to carry out my design.
I sent in my design (drawn in colored-pencils borrowed from my host brothers), and was shocked when I received an email two weeks later letting me know that I had been accepted as one of the 30 artists (reportedly from all over the country) who would be painting their designs. The week before the contest, I bought two cans of spray paint and practiced my graffiti on some cardboard behind my host family’s apartment. It seemed easy enough to make the jump from colored pencils to cans of spray paint, although I was having trouble with the dripping.
But on the day of the contest, standing with the gray container in front of me, spray paint in hand, I found myself to be more than a little tentative figuring out how to start. Though once I got going everything became a blur. I hardly took notice of the parents or kids standing around me, how much I had to pee, or how the sun had positioned itself perfectly in order to scorch me as I painted. Local news teams swarmed the contest around midday and fortunately I avoided having to stumble through an interview on live Spanish TV.
All of the containers turned out beautiful. You can see a slide show of photos from the contest (featuring yours truly) by Paco Cazalla. In the end I didn’t win, but its cool to know that something I created is now out there on the streets of the city of Sevilla. Now if I can just find out where they put it….
OK, so I’m no Jared T. Miller, but I’m ok with that. In order, you get glimpses of Sevilla, the beach of Matalascañas, the University of Sevilla, the town of Carmona, the Real Maestranza (Plaza de Toros) in Sevilla, the Cathedral of Sevilla, The Royal Gardens of Alcázar, and finally the Mezquite of Córdoba.
Sevilla by Sight and Sound from Joshua Brechner on Vimeo.
All of the sound was captured in these locations as well. You can hear my host cousin, Alfonsito, repeating what the shore-side ice cream vendor was shouting, the paso doble performed at the Plaza de Toros, and a Flamenco tocaor (guitarist) who stopped when he realized I was recording him.
What’s missing from these pictures is the heavy urban culture in Sevilla and the large presence of graffiti (sanctioned and otherwise) that overlays the city’s jumbled streets. That and the nitty gritty, darker side of the city life – Romanian immigrants that line the river in tents, construction projects that have been halted indefinitely since the major economic downturn here, and the garbage-strewn parts of the city that don’t receive nightly attention from the squadrons of street cleaners.
The sheer number of historic sights and beautiful vistas can be blinding, but as I transition from tourist to resident this brilliance is beginning to fade away. If you’ve got questions about what you’re hearing/seeing, feel free to send them my way.
I’m in the midst of finishing my Diccionario Urbano Español, which is getting pretty vulgar pretty fast, so Grandma: I apologize in advance.
P.S. Ken Burns I love you.
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!
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.
Early Thursday morning, I was running late after (almost) forgetting my passport before a flight to Lisbon. The ensuing rush to get to the airport led me to hail a taxi instead of boarding the airport bus, but I could not have been luckier.
My taxi driver was the caring, grandfatherly type – exactly what I needed in the midst of the stress that hit me before I had even eaten breakfast. Once in the cab, I calmed down enough to ask if he had always lived in Sevilla, and the conversation flowed so easily that I forgot to manically check my watch.
The driver raved about Sevilla; “isn’t it beautiful?” he asked. I agreed, and he praised the good climate that lasts “almost all year!” He told me that his younger sister lives in Alaska after marrying an American soldier previously stationed in Sevilla. I could not help but laugh. “I’ve never seen Alaska,” I said, thinking of the sure contrast between her impression of the United States and my own. He responded, saying that she also spent three months in Colorado, a place slightly more familiar to me, and we talked vaguely about mountains before moving on.
More topics emerged: American military presence during Franco’s regime, Sevilla’s Chinese population that has maintained an entirely separate community within the city, and the difference between British and American accents after he guessed that I was from the United States. He compared my accent to that of his niece, the oldest daughter of his now-Alaskan sister. Though I have no idea whether it was a compliment, I felt my posture straighten a little bit in pride.
Once we arrived at the airport, I rushed out of the taxi, thanking him. His simple response to my repeated “Muchas gracias,” was “Nada, hija.”
“Nada, hija:” a caring way of saying “nothing, child.” The only other person who has called me “hija” since my arrival in Spain is my host mother, and I felt infinitely happy and lucky to have been temporarily adopted by this caring, helpful taxi driver in the midst of my panic.
Turns out, the panic was unwarranted: arriving only 65 minutes before take-off of my international flight, I was the third passenger to check in.
…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!
Great article!
