Posts Tagged ‘Seville’
Never have I ever smelled a city like Seville. Maybe it’s the rows of orange trees lining the streets or the fragrant Spanish bakeries, but there is something inexplicably delicious and wonderful about it. The same rings true for Sevilla (the Spanish name for Seville) as a whole. Unfortunately we only had three days there, but the short time we had there was absolutely lovely. Sevilla is filled with bright Andalucían architecture, narrow winding streets, and lusciously inviting palm trees. There is a vibrant street life created by its public parks, outdoor cafés, and groups of revelers filling the city squares at night. Sevilla has an atmosphere of relaxation, of people who aren’t afraid to take the time to enjoy life. After getting off the bus from the airport, we literally walked right into a party – the first sign that we were in a city we would surely love. Our exploration of Sevilla showed us many beautiful moments, such as the middle-aged man lazily fishing on the river and the father playing soccer with his little sons in the middle of a quiet street.
One of the most fascinating things about Sevilla is its religious heritage. On the one hand, it is filled with Islamic influences from its time under Muslim rule. There is still an Islamic flavor to some of the architecture, and at times Sevilla reminded me of the way I imagine cities like Istanbul to look. There are still Turkish baths (which we sadly did not get to visit) and Arabian tea houses (which we did). The place I was most surprised to find Islamic influence, however, was the flamenco performance we attended. Sevilla is filled with flamenco, which is hardly surprising since the style was born there. I had always thought of it as quintessentially Spanish until I attended that performance. As the male singer belted his impassioned melody, his voice would occasionally vibrate in the same way as a muezzin’s does as he sings the Islamic call to prayer.
As prominent as the Islamic influences are in Sevilla, the signs of Catholicism are even more obvious and widespread. It is home to the largest Gothic cathedral in the world – the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See. The streets, many of which are named after saints or other religious figures, are occasionally adorned with Catholic iconography, such as the Crucifix or the Virgin Mary. Our last night in Sevilla we found a very unexpected manifestation of Spain’s predominant religion – a Catholic-themed bar. Had we not been taken there by the people we were staying with, there is no way we would have found it. It was a tiny place, filled with archaic Catholic artifacts. The air was stagnant, in a way you would only expect from a wealthy grandmother’s sitting room. I would have given anything to be able to speak Spanish that night to ask the bartender (who spoke no English) about this fascinating place. I wondered if people found it sacrilegious, as the signature drink is called the Blood of Christ – which, at least in my politically correct American mind, seemed like something that could be rather controversial in a nation that’s predominantly Catholic. The Catholic artifacts were all from the owner’s personal collection, so I assume that he must have been quite a religious man. But one of the Sevillans I was with, who had never been there before, was muttering something about blasphemy the whole time – leading me to believe that no matter what the intentions, the bar didn’t sit well with all of Spain’s Catholic inhabitants.
I was hoping to get more than five hours’ sleep tonight for the first time in over a week but I’m too shocked and astounded by what I saw tonight to even think about sleeping yet. Ok, Rude Change, you got me.
To not put an unnecessary cliffhanger at the start of the post, I watched two men get severely wounded tonight in the name of art. Specifically, bullfighting.
Most bullfights occur in Sevilla during the holidays and festivals that occur in spring, but there are just a few in September every year where novilleros (basically junior matadors) get to try their hand at slaying six mid-size bulls (novillos) in front of modest crowds. Tonight, €13 (or $15) was all it cost to see the historic display.
The crowd was heavily divided – half Spanish locals, mostly older men or with younger couples interspersed who would laud the novilleros’ performance with a bien or an olé when appropriate, and half foreign tourists who had come to witness the spectacle for its novelty and probably its brutality too.
The Plaza de Toros where the bullfight was located had an in-house band, a half-orchestra to play the famous pasodoble between bouts and leading up to one particularly drawn out kill. There was also a pair of trumpeters who would play during the bouts, signaling the entrances or exits of the bandilleros, the picadores and the novilleros.
I felt pretty jaded after the first bull was slain. Don’t misunderstand me; it was horrifying, gruesome, and cruel to watch the bull be reduced from such a proud, strong creature to a stiff, then finally limp corpse dragged across the sand and out of the plaza by a team of mules.
The most striking image I have is of the first bull who, in my mental snapshot, is staring at one of three men who surround him, panting from the awesome exertion of energy in his struggle to stay standing; colorful but deadly banderillas hanging from his back like leeches. As he turns, the sheen of wet blood in the matted black coat around his shoulders catches the late afternoon sunlight, giving him the appearance of an obsidian statue as the blood drips and sprays down his haunches.
After the first two bulls were slain a large portion of the crowd dispersed, including many of the people from my group. But my roommate and I and our host brother, Fernando, stayed until the end.
In doing so, we saw novillero Antonio Espaliú get lifted off of the sand and become suspended by the third novillo’s horn for a total of thirteen seconds – thirteen seconds longer than anyone wants to be carried around by an angry wounded animal. The bull caught him when he appeared to misstep after a pass – lifting him into the air, before the left side of his torso snagged on the bull’s horn on his way down, passing through his side completely.
Novillero Antonio Espaliú After Sevilla Goring from Joshua Brechner on Vimeo.
His fellow toreros quickly brought him to a waiting gurney nearby where we were sitting, which you can see in the video. This event quickly snapped us back to reality and all of the toreros were noticeably jumpier after that.
Yet everyone was taken by surprise when in the fifth bout, bandillero Jesús Márquez was lifted up into the air and brutally gored in the thigh. From where I was sitting, I could see him stand up and clasp his leg as blood spewed out. Limping out of the bull’s zone of destruction, he too was rushed to an awaiting gurney.
It was a shocking night, and not one that I’ll soon forget. An interesting discussion is going on in Spain about the ethics of bullfighting. Just this past July, in fact, Catalonia banned the practice beginning 2012, which has set off a wave of discussion around the country concerning the ethics, culture, tradition and economics of bullfighting.
Furthermore there’s an ongoing debate about whether bullfighting should be considered an art, as the Spanish Ministry of Culture does, or a blood sport as many animal rights activists would have you believe. All I know for sure is that I’m going to be dreaming about it tonight, during my brief five hours of sleep.
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If you’re interested, you can see both accidents here and here, respectively, although be warned – it is gruesome. Courtesy of toromundo.tv.
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…
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.
I’ll be honest: I’m not really a soccer fan.
That’s a blasphemes thing to say here in Spain (and if my host father finds out, he’ll be upset), but it’s true. I’ve always thought the sport was boring, with a monotonous pace prompted by to its running clock, conservative (but admittedly smooth) movement and lack of frequent scoring.
But knowing there is nothing more Spanish than soccer game, I headed to the local stadium earlier this week to see for myself.
What my friends and I experienced early in the game, to be honest, validated my fears and left us disappointed.
The stadium was huge, but not nearly filled on this cold Tuesday night (it wasn’t a big game as Sevilla’s opponent, a club team from the nearby providence of Murcia, is much worse than Sevilla and not even in their league—think Ohio State’s football team against Eastern Michigan’s). And yes, there was constant chanting and yelling, but no signs of the rowdy soccer fans we were expecting.
Most of all, the first half trickled along at a slow pace, with neither team scoring a goal or even getting particularly close.
As my friends and I sat at halftime, eating sandwiches made by our host mothers (homemade sandwiches are a tradition for night games), we wondered if the game was worth the 10 euro admission price.
In the second half, the teams made sure we got our money’s worth.
Lorqui struck first, scoring on a breakaway goal just two minutes into the half. But Sevilla answered with a penalty kick goal just three minutes later, and proceeded to score three more times in the next 10 minutes before ending with a 5-1 victory.
The crowd got louder and louder with each goal. By the end us Americans were sucked into the cheering and excitement of a sport I never knew could be so exciting.
Venga Sevilla!
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.
Halfway through my stay in Sevilla, here are eight of the many things I have learned from la vida Sevillana. I know that there are countless lessons still to come.
• Tenth grade world history did not elaborate on Spanish history, and the amount I have learned since arriving here is startling. Remnants of powerful Moorish kingdoms that flourished while the rest of Europe trudged through the Dark Ages are obvious in the architecture, culture, and language that surround me. On that note, Arab baths were the precursors to modern saunas—unlike the baths in Rome, they featured steam rather than pools of water.
• I have relearned a few key words: tutorias (office hours), hacer falta (to be necessary), and contraseña (password)
• The University of Sevilla thoughtfully provides coffee vending machines for those of us nurturing a budding caffeine addiction. ¿35 cents for a small café con leche on the way to class? ¡Sí, por favor!
• I value Spanish a lingua franca. While picnicking by the river with students from all over Europe, I felt infinite appreciation for the ability to express myself — although clumsily — in a language other than my own.
• Sardana dances. On a weekend trip to Barcelona with friends, I found myself joining hands with older men and women native to Barcelona. Twice weekly, hundred of Catalonians gather in front of the Cathedral both to chat with friends and to perform the regional “Sardana,” accompanied by live music. A kind man taught us the traditional dance, which has its roots in Catalonian pride.
• Vale la pena (it’s worth it) to run in Sevilla’s annual Carrera Nocturna (a 10K race) if you find yourself in Spain in late September. Read my lovely friend Sarah Thomas’s article (also on The 195), entitled “The Night Race” for a full account of one of my favorite nights in Sevilla.
• In some senses, Spain’s political culture completely contrasts that of the United States. As my professor explained today, “In Spain, we joked about the Bill Clinton ‘scandal.’ Of course the president lies. Many times, Adolfo Suarez said he would not legalize the Communist Party, and then he did. He lied, but there is no problem. Besides, Monica Lewinsky was older than 18.”
• If you have a balcony (or any other available surface… a wall will do), there is no reason you should not have a potted plant.
Great article!
