Seeing as it’s our last week here (I know, what?), my roommate Arielle and I decided to live it up a little, break out of the routine, and head out to the streets for a crazy Thursday night of tapas in Triana. Triana is the “perfectly Spanish” neighborhood next door--I’m talking colorful narrow streets, a view of the river, a fair number of important churches, and loads of bars. After some careful research (highly recommend this woman’s website: http://www.sunshineandsiestas.com/), we set out at just before 9pm for a bit of an early dinner as evidenced by all the empty bars we passed...oh España…
The first stop on our ruta de tapas was Bar Santa Ana, a bar noted for its Semana Santa (Holy Week) paraphernalia. It definitely did not disappoint. The walls were completely covered (horror vacui??) with photos, decorations, signs, a countdown until Holy Week, and even a mounted bull head. Everywhere we looked there was a face of another virgin looking down on us (effigies of these virgins are paraded around in processions all throughout Holy Week). Quite the decor. We stumbled awkwardly for a bit, playing the ever-so-impossible game of whether we should seat ourselves and wait for someone to take our order or stand in the doorway and wait to be approached. We chose the former and hopped on a pair of barstools. “Buenas,” the bartender began, “¿Para beber?” (What would you like to drink?) Alright, Elana, here we go, “Un Cruzcampo para mí gracias.” Deep breath. After four months in Sevilla, I still had yet to try the prized Cruzcampo, and tonight was the night. I’m not a particularly big beer fan. Not actually a particularly big alcohol fan for that matter, but this is different. This is an experience, not a drink. Cruzcampo is a brand that was created in Sevilla, and it continues to be made here. It’s the drink of drinks. It’s on signs, the top of a building in bright red lights, beach umbrellas--you get the point. I’m not quite sure how I managed to avoid actually tasting it for so long, but avoid it no more. The verdict: Be it Cruzcampo or lo que sea (whatever), I still don’t like beer. May be the only person in Spain to leave half a glass of beer on the counter, but what can you do? Wasn’t about to hop on the bar and chug. One thing at a time in a night. The beer, however, was just the beginning of the novelties that Bar Santa Ana had to offer. Our tapas arrived, patatas bravas (basically french fries with a slightly spicy red sauce) and tortilla de bacalao (we weren’t sure what it was going to be, but it turned out to be exactly what we had eaten for lunch, which was like a fried ball of dough with some codfish), and so did the people. This group of men of all ages that had slowly been gathering in the corner finally got busy. Out came the guitars, the tambourines, the always-loved triangle, and the conductor’s baton reincarnated as a wooden spoon. After a bit of warm-up, the bar erupted in song. It was honestly such a beautiful sight. Just a bunch of guys, hanging around at a bar, singing and playing music. They were so happy, just high on life. Drinking their Cruzcampo, taking a drag on a cigarette, and singing their hearts out in an old bar with a lot of character in the middle of Triana. I felt like I was watching a scene from a movie. Bonus that they sounded good. “¿Una canción más?” (one more song?) I asked Arielle. Our plates were scraped clean and my beer was half empty and finished as well as I was concerned, but I couldn’t leave without savoring the moment a little longer. It was so perfectly joyous and so quintessentially Spanish that I felt like nothing like this, nothing quite like this, could ever happen anywhere else in the world. And so, one song later we were off to bar #2, which I don’t remember the name of (must be that half a beer really getting to me…). This place was written up for its legendary croquetas de puerro (leek croquettes), and I was psyched. However, a glance at the menu and a simple “no” confirmed that croquetas de puerro were no longer served and had not actually been served for three years. Bummer. Instead, we went for the merluza (hake) with some kind of sauce that was good and completely impossible to pin down. During this meal, however, I could hardly pay attention to the food because of the interesting conversation--or should I say the proximity of the conversation--we were having. The man next to us was quick to begin talking to us--in English, of course, but that didn’t last long--and even quicker to burst the thing we Americans call “the personal bubble.” I’m not sure if I’ve written about this already, but Spanish people don’t really believe in the concept of personal space. If they’re talking to you, their nose is inches from yours. Their hand is touching your arm. Their breath is on your face. I have to fight the urge to take a giant leap backwards and just roll with it, but I can’t help feeling incredibly uncomfortable. As we carried on a perfectly normal conversation with this friendly man--about his children, learning other languages, how we should come back to Spain to work, etc.--I had to keep reminding myself that this man whose mouth could literally have eaten the food off my fork and whose hand kept gripping my arm was not, in fact, a creep, but rather a Spaniard observing the normal laws of personal space (or lack thereof). As we paid the amount of 2.50 euros scribbled in chalk on the bar in front of us, the friendly and very close man suggested another place down the street called Blanca Paloma. We headed over to the packed bar, a bit more modern, a younger crowd, no singing men, no virgens. We once again astonished the waiter with our lack of drink order (because tapas and no drink is practically blasphemy here) and instead ordered queso de cabra con frambuesas y nueces (goat cheese with raspberries and walnuts). Yum. While waiting, a different waiter was kind enough to make polite conversation with us, give us some olives and glasses of water, which normally don’t arrive unsolicited. I was personally very touched and surprised by how welcomed we had been all night. At the first bar, a man approached us and asked how we were doing and where we were from. Before we left, I gave him a wave, and he blew back a kiss. Again, not creepy in Spain because that’s how greetings and despedidas (goodbyes) go. At the second bar, we had a whole conversation with a perfect stranger, a real rarity these days. And now this waiter was kind enough to ask about our classes and make sure we were taken care of. Small gestures, yes, but meaningful. I have serious doubts that this would happen in America. As Arielle pointed out, the culture is completely different. Spain, or at least southern Spain where I am, has this incredible dedication to socialization, and that in itself is in such stark contrast to our way of life. It’s not like you waltz into a bar to find a bunch of men belting it out everyday... In other words, a lot of what we lived tonight wouldn’t happen in America. In a way, I think the essence of Andalucía is contained in experiences like these, experiences that “wouldn’t happen in America;” they capture this element of socialization that is so foreign to us. Perhaps I only see them as essential because it’s so unique for me, but I really do think it is a huge part of the andaluz identity. Also, I will add my questioning of the distinction between being social and being welcoming. Although I felt welcomed, I am not sure if they were being welcoming per se or more just being social. I’m not sure I could tell you exactly what the distinction is, but I think there might be something there. In other words, perhaps our experiences tonight were less of a reflection of the “welcomingness” of people and more a product of the socialization ingrained in society. Not to say that socialization doesn’t include being welcoming, but I think being welcoming has a bit more... I’m sure my sister Shayna would have some ideas considering a project she did a couple summers ago about the meaning of welcoming. Let’s hear it, Shane! At the end of the day, however, whether you want to classify it as socialization or being welcoming, I felt welcomed over the course of the night, and that made for a great evening. Love to all, and happy Chanukah! See everyone in just one short week! For those in the midst of exams, good luck!! XOXO, Elana
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Last Saturday evening, my roommate Arielle, her mother who is in town visiting, Sarah, and I went to a fútbol match AKA soccer. Up until Saturday, I’d only been to one soccer game in my life (if 20 minutes of a high school game counts), and frankly, I found it to be a bit of a bore. But here, of course, soccer is all the rage, and I didn’t want to miss out on an experience that is so essential to Spanish culture and to thousands of sevillanos. So, I squeezed into my two pairs of pants, pulled on my four layers of shirts, wrapped myself up in a scarf and a hat, and off I was. The first few steps into the stadium left me a little bit breathless. The vibrant green grass. Bright lights shining all around. Stacks and stacks of fans decked in red and white. The giant moon beaming down from just above the stadium walls. It was overwhelming. I had to pause for a moment to get my footing as we made our way up up up the dizzyingly steep stairs to fila 13. “Are they going to play the national anthem?” Arielle’s mother asked. I think I may have actually scoffed a little. This was something we had discussed in a class back in September, and it was terribly intriguing to me at the time. The answer: no, they would decidedly not be playing the anthem at the game. Spain’s national anthem is one of only four in the world (thanks, Wikipedia) that does not have official lyrics. In the past, lyrics have been proposed--during Franco’s rule, under the rule of one of the monarchs, etc, but nothing has stuck. Rather than unify, the anthem I think is a bit more divisive--even controversial. Instead of a national anthem, each autonomous region (there are 17 that make up Spain) has its own anthem. So as the crowd rose from the seats and the music began to play over the speakers, it was not the national anthem that we heard, nor was it the anthem of Andalucía, but the Himno del Sevilla F.C.--the anthem of the Sevilla fútbol team. The largely male crowd was suddenly on their feet. In place of hands on hearts, the entire stadium was clothed in a sea of scarves lifted in the air. “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla,” they sang. “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla,” the scarves declared. The team Sevilla, that is. The moment was both inspiring and a tad humorous to me. Their passion was so real, so intense. It reminded me of a book I read way back in middle school called How Soccer Explains the World. For these fans, soccer was not just a sport. It was a way of life. That much was obvious. In place of pride for their country, they have pride in their team. Of course, I am not one to mock team spirit. It is just that I have grown up seeing that kind of pride reserved for my country above all else, and to see that same emotion displayed for a team was a bit jolting. What I presumed to be the season-ticketers kept up the excitement the entire game. And when I say entire, I mean entire. Cheers, chants, singing, waving flags, even a drum. I couldn’t catch the words, but those people must have been exhausted by the end. They provided non-stop background music to the game that rang throughout the entire stadium. The rest of the people were a bit chiller, saving their energy for the much-anticipated ¡GOL! (of which there were two) and for player substitutions, when everyone would clap very enthusiastically, and I would wonder if I had just missed something… But despite walking in with very little knowledge and only a smidge of team spirit, it is now almost one week later, and I’m still singing the Sevilla anthem around the house (link here, but remember, you’ve been warned: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHG3EjnTZbk). I wouldn’t call myself a sevillista just yet, but the enthusiasm was certainly contagious. Also, in case you’re wondering, we won. Shabbat Shalom and happy weekend! <3 Love to all, Elana On the Gym and Credibility
It’s been about two months since I joined a gym here. It was an odd feeling to join a gym in another country. I’ve bought phones in other countries, gone to grocery stores, been to the movies, and even been a “regular” at restaurants, but I had never before joined a gym. It has a certain permanence to it, as if to say, “Yes, I am living here for an extended period of time!” It has been such a great feeling to lift weights though and to find that, despite the fact that I’m in a different country, a weight room is a weight room, a bar is a bar, a dumbbell is a dumbbell. It’s kind of cool to feel that just about anywhere in the world, I can find a bit of familiarity, a bit of comfort, in the gym. Gosh, not too long ago, when I was picked last in gym class and ran the slowest mile, who would’ve thought that, of all people, I would be saying that? #thanksCoachBurnam #AthleticIntensitychangedmylife Of course, as with anything, joining a gym has also brought its own challenges. As my roommate Arielle can attest to, there was one particular day that really got to me. Unlike in the gym at school or at home, this gym employs a few monitor-like employees who make their rounds and occasionally step in to correct someone’s form or teach them a new exercise. They’re kind of like one-minute personal trainers except they don’t know anything about your history. In theory, I really like the concept, the fact that a theoretically knowledgeable person can step in and stop bad form before it stops you. However, in practice, it has been frustrating. I am not so confident about many things, but what I am confident about is my knowledge of weightlifting technique. On this one particular day, I was warming up to do a lift called a deadlift (which is essentially picking up a bar and putting it back down--with lots of little nuances that are very important of course) when one of these monitors comes up and stops me. “¿Qué quieres hacer?” (What do you want to do?) he asks me. “Ehh...no sé el nombre en español…” (I don’t know the name in Spanish) I reply. He apparently takes that to mean that I don’t know Spanish at all, and he just starts miming with an occasional word from here on out. “¿La espalda?” he asks, gesturing to his back. I kind of shrug because yes, the deadlift does work the back, but it’s also for legs, for core, for arms--it’s a full body exercise--but yes, it can be for the back for now. He grabs my bar and starts demonstrating the stiff-leg barbell deadlift, which is an exercise that yes, works the back but also is really focused on the hamstrings and requires a lot of hamstring flexibility that a lot of people don’t have and therefore end up doing the lift incorrectly. So he starts showing me this move and trying to watch me do it and make sure I’m doing it correctly. All the while, I know that I don’t have the required flexibility for it, and I know it’s also not the lift that I want to be doing. But without knowing the names of lifts in Spanish, I am left with absolutely no credibility and no response. I should have attempted something, but I didn’t. Both my Spanish abilities and my knowledge of technique were being questioned, a frustrating experience to say the least. On the Weather Well, if you remember earlier posts, I did a lot of complaining about the heat--how I was drenched in sweat, how confining it was, stripping down to my underwear just to make it through the night. Yep, good times. As you can imagine, I was psyched for colder weather, and now that it’s here, well, I’m not a huge fan. I joked earlier in the semester with my host family that I would never be comfortable here temperature-wise. That has officially become the case. Well, with one exception actually. There was one day, a few hours rather, that I remember walking home from class and thinking, “This is absolutely perfect weather. What a beautiful day!” And then it ended. #temperaturesensitivity #72-78degreelife #southerner In all honesty, I don’t know what happened to the days of truly comfortable weather. It was broiling when I left for Italy for five days, I spent five days in Italy, and then I came back to winter. The jeans are out. The wool socks are out. The fuzzy socks are out. The sweatshirt is on. In the summer, air conditioning was rarely turned on because of electricity costs. In the winter, however, heat is never turned on because, well, there is no heat. And so, just like that, my one bed sheet (which is actually a giant pocket!) was stuffed with a comforter, two blankets were added on top of the bed, PJs came back in style, and they are accessorized with leggings, a pullover and, of course, fuzzy socks. Oftentimes, it’s actually much colder inside than outside (let’s be real, it’s not actually that cold outside, especially compared to Philly). This is because the houses were designed to stay cool. Example A: Andalucía’s pueblos blancos (white villages) are so named because, you guessed it, all the buildings are white in order to reflect the heat (fun fact: the lime used to paint them also has an antiseptic property). This is all good and well during the summer months, but once winter hits, it’s a bit of a different story. On Thursday Nights According to my homestay dad José, Thursday nights are the best nights to salir (go out) (By the way, going out here doesn’t mean a few drinks at a bar, a few songs, and bed by 2 or 3am. Oh no. Going out means going out all night. Proof of this on my two most recent early morning departures from Sevilla when I witnessed groups of jóvenes (young people) out in the streets drunkenly making their way home at not 2, not 3, not 4, but 5 and 6 in the morning. So yeah...a night out takes on a whole new meaning). Anyway, the popular Thursday night scene is not the most relevant information for me, but...I think José is actually just trying to encourage my roommate Arielle and me to live it up a little. Instead, we prefer a more laid back Thursday night. Last Thursday was a particularly enjoyable one. My host mom Carmen, Arielle and I were sitting around the kitchen table and somehow got on the topic of music. A few opera songs, one Freddie Mercury appearance, and half a Mambo #5 later, I was, to the absolute hysterics of Carmen, up prancing around the kitchen in a full-out five star lip-syncing performance of The Backstreet Boys’ I Want it That Way. When that song comes on...another me comes out. Needless to say, it was a pretty wild night. Maybe not a typical Sevillano Thursday night but rather something even better: a Carmen-Arielle-Elana Thursday night. After the first two weeks of class, I could no longer use my always successful go-to conversation-starter line: “Perdón, ¿esta es la clase de (insert name of class here)?” Yep, foolproof. Leads into a discussion of my exchange student status, my exotic nationality, their future career options, and, if we’re lucky, differences between the Spanish and American educational systems. All that just from asking if I’m in the right class.
But considering we’re two months in, I can’t exactly strike up a conversation by asking what class I’m in. Talk about looking clueless… Luckily, though, I have kept up conversations with those few acquaintances from the early days. It’s hard to call them friends exactly because of the true language barrier that exists. It’s not to say that we couldn’t have deeper, more interesting conversations, but it’s difficult. Picture this: I walk into my Islamic Art class and take a spot in the second row. The middle-aged man whose name I don’t know is in front of me, and we exchange a few words about how hard it is for me to understand the professor. He offers to give me his notes (this is routine at this point), and I gladly accept (although I have yet to actually receive them). Shortly after, another student whose name I knew at one point also takes a seat in the front row. We chat for a bit, usually about how how hot or how could it is and maybe about how much we need to study for this class. She actually emailed me notes from the whole semester. They’re great. Then walks in Rosario, the triumph of the first week. I actually only understand about 25% of what she’s saying, and I think she thinks I’m a bit nuts because I must have the weirdest responses to what she says, always alternating between “Hmmm”, “Oh sí?” and the most neutral stare I can conjure up. Then in walks Carmen, always a few minutes late and huffing and puffing. She gives me a pat on the arm or double kisses (before which she always gives me the warning “un besito” for which I’m very grateful), asks what’s up, and then the professor usually walks in. This is Monday through Wednesday. Three times a week. Every once in awhile, I get introduced to a new person or have a conversation that’s a little longer, but it is definitely a challenge to push deeper. Before coming here, I planned on only having Spanish friends. That was the goal--to integrate myself as fully as possible and challenge myself to not get caught in the trap of only hanging with Americans. About a month and a half of conversations about the weather and what I’m studying later, and I realized that only having Spanish friends just wasn’t so realistic. It’s not that four months isn’t enough time to make deep friendships, but I think the language barrier, time constraints, and even cultural differences make it difficult. Friendship, perhaps, (or at least the friendship I need in life) was too lofty a goal for me, at least for now. Instead, I try to value good conversations, fun activities, nice interactions--even if it’s a one-time occurrence. These kinds of connections are much more attainable. They are still, however, not enough to sustain me socially for four months, and so I decided I needed to be a little easier on myself and accept that having a balance of American and Spanish friends was acceptable. So far, this has been a good (and less lonely) decision. This is not to say that I have completely abandoned the principle of working to socialize with Spanish people. I have not given up--just put things into perspective. In fact, I might even be more motivated and more comfortable now that I don’t feel that my entire social life is dependent on making Spanish friends. I was particularly pleased with my performance today, for example. My class on Motor Abilities and Exercise has been the easiest to understand and the hardest to meet people. It’s a class of all first year students, majority male, majority very handsome and muscular. They mostly want to be gym teachers, personal trainers, and physical therapists. I always sit on the right side of the classroom, usually near my one friend who is a very sweet middle-aged gentleman who used to be a Philology teacher. He’s another one of my first day successes. I’ve tried my luck talking to the other people in the class, but the conversations have been rather short and one-sided. I guess maybe I’m expecting too much from 18-year-old boys...Today, however, I abandoned the right side of the classroom and decided, for the first time, to cross to the other side of the room. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, but that’s where more people sit. That’s where all the girls sit. That’s where it all goes down. I saw an open seat next to the girl that I actually talked to a few weeks ago on the bus, and I went for it. Before I knew it, I was getting asked all sorts of questions almost without pause. Where are you from? What are you studying? How long have you studied Spanish? What are you doing here? Are you a believer? Oh you’re from the US? ¡Que guay (how cool!)! Not only was I exotic because I was from the US, but I was also a mythical creature because I was Jewish. It was funny though. Not a word from anyone for so long, and then all of a sudden...I felt like saying, “I’ve been here twice a week for two months!” Must be that right side of the classroom… I have noticed, though, that either initiating the conversation myself or getting introduced to someone through a mutual friend are really the only ways to get something going. It’s not that people are unfriendly--it’s just that they won’t exactly go out of their way. But once you start (and really all you have to do is start!), it’s easy(er)going. I remember for one project a few weeks ago I needed to interview someone. I went down the street in my neighborhood and approached an older woman on a bench by herself. Twenty minutes later I had heard half her life story. It actually didn’t help with my project at all, but it was like a regalo (gift) for her, she said. But all I had to do was really just ask one question, and voila! Being here and being the definition of an outsider has made me reevaluate my own behavior when I am in the fortunate position of being part of the ingroup. How often do I go up to the person standing alone? Do I sit with the lone wolf? Do I seek out the unfamiliar face? Being welcoming is something I strive to do, but I think now I have a whole new appreciation and a renewed sense of dedication to the task. I definitely look forward to going back to the States and not being the stranger anymore, but I also look forward to the challenge of making sure that strangers never feel as if they are so. Thanks for reading, and sending love to all. Shabbat Shalom/Happy Friday! Elana (written on the train to Venice)
I catch one-second glimpses of postcard-worthy fall foliage scenes as we race between tunnels at 280 km/hour. I can hardly believe I’m on a train in Tuscany on my way to Venice. It really hasn’t hit me yet. We spent two days in Rome and Vatican City, which was exactly how one would imagine--everything from the cobblestone streets bordered by erect columns, humongous structures that reduce you to the size of nothing, outdoor lunches on quiet side streets, cozy restaurants bursting with an Italian buzz, snippets of conversations with dramatic bursts of “Mamma Mia!” all the way down to the giant pizzas with beautifully thin crust. It was really just as one would imagine...except with about 100x more people--at least. All those scenes in the movies (thinking of The Lizzie McGuire Movie in particular here or Under the Tuscan Sun) when people speed around plazas in cute motorbikes, stroll down reasonably empty streets, finding space to stand and toss a coin into the Trevi fountain--lies, people. But in all honesty, Is the Trevi fountain any less magical when you have to shove your way through a crowd just to see it? Is the David any less perfect when you have to keep ducking out of other people’s photos? Is the Sistine Chapel any less remarkable when you keep being shushed and herded by Vatican guards? Is St. Peter’s Square any less majestic when you keep being hawked by self stick vendors? I don’t know, and I guess I’ll never know what a ‘vacant Rome’ looks like, but I do know that everything I did see and how I see it still left me speechless. And now, a note about Italians from my limited experiences with them. If españoles are “el grado extremo de la condición humana” (the extreme degree of the human condition) according to Julian Pitt-Rivers, Italians seem to be off the charts. The irritated, stressed water slams his notepad down. Hours later, he is singing from table to table. The bus driver talks on the phone the whole ride, gesturing with his hands to the invisible other party (all I could think was “Put your hands on the wheel!!”). The woman next to me on the plane is sure to give me a hug and double besos (kisses) when we part despite the fact that we only had a two-minute conversation. But even with the intense ups and downs, Italians generally seem to have a kind, endearing warmth about them--the dog that comes into the restaurant gets a pat from all the customers in line. The giant unknown bird on top of a car is thrown a few crumbs by the waiter in Rome before half-heartedly being told to shoo. The English-speaking woman at the bus stop tries to convince the taxi driver to take us all the way to our Airbnb at 2am (that’s another story). The Airbnb host sends us a midday message to check in and see how our trip is going. Of course there are the non-noteworthy interactions, as well, but I have noticed that sweet little moments such as these are quite frequent. It ain't easy being green...or being an exchange student for that matter.
Classes have started to pick up these past couple of weeks, and I'm quickly realizing that the work is piling up. Studying abroad actually means studying abroad contrary to popular belief...at least in Seville! But Spanish universities and the Spanish educational system in general is incredibly distinct from the American system. For one, the responsibility for learning the material falls heavily and solely on the shoulders of the students here. This is made clear by various aspects of the course structure. For example, there is typically only one exam at the end of the course, and the entire grade rests on that one exam. Without knowing how the professor tests or what the professor is looking for, students have to blindly prepare for the looming final. Besides the fact that there are no "mid-terms" or smaller evaluations scattered throughout the semester, students are also not given assigned readings or even dated syllabi. Instead, on the first day of class, each student is given a page or two outlining the topics that will be covered in the course (no dates listed!). In addition, in lieu of reading assignments, students are given a bibliography of about 20 to 30 books that the professor used to create the course (What on Earth am I supposed to do with that???). Once asked, some professors pointed out a few of the "good ones." Lastly, students are given the exam date. That's it. That's it, people. From there on out, the students are the ones left to create their own study schedules, their own reading assignments, etc. It is truly all on the students. So what do students do? They go to class...sometimes. They mostly go, but all of my classes do seem to be shrinking each week. However, I will say that Spanish students do not, I repeat DO NOT, arrive late to class. In fact, they often arrive 20-30 minutes early just to sit in the room or wait outside (this might be because students often have a number of their classes in the same room). The professors, on the other hand...Let's just say waiting for professors to show up has sometimes felt like another class entirely. But really, I'm not complaining because that means: 1) less material that I have to struggle through, b) less time spent trying with all my might to understand the professor, and c) a chance to be brave and try to talk to Spanish students. So yeah, not complaining. Once the professor does arrive, however, the show begins. Thus commences 1 and a half to 2 hours of transcription. Two of my three university classes are teacher-centered environments in which the professor lectures, and the students listen--or write rather. Typing furiously or writing non-stop on sheets and sheets of blank printer paper, the students try to copy down every word--in essay format (I can always spot the Americans because our screens are filled with bullet points instead of paragraphs). I don't understand the efficiency of the note-taking format to be honest, but it is what it is. With this kind of system, it seems all too easy for students to slide through the semester worry-free only to arrive the day of the exam and completely fail. And indeed, this happens--a lot. They post grades in the hallways (I know, right?), and I found myself astonished while waiting on a bench one day. Out of 0 to 10, they need to get a 5 or above to pass, which in most cases, is all that they care about/all that matters. On the board, however, I saw fail after fail after fail: 3s, 2s, even 1s. It seemed like the majority wasn't passing. Considering the lack of accountability during the semester, it makes perfect sense, but it was still quite a shock. A number of students in my classes are repeating the class, and I have been told it's quite common to be in university for longer than four years. Here, that's not such a big deal. Here, education also doesn't cost anything near what it does in the US. Two students I was talking to were complaining about the cost of tuition. "¿Cuånto pagas?" I asked. The answer: a couple thousand euros a semester. WHAT? I really couldn't contain my shock. Then they explained that private universities cost much more--$15,000 euros sometimes (don't remember if that's for a semester of for a year). (Private universities, as a side note, are also considered much worse here--only for the students that can't get into public schools and instead have to pay a lot for a lower quality education.) The low cost, therefore, makes it much more acceptable to spend another year or two in university whereas in the US, so much rides on us doing well. Our education is an investment, and we are expected to take that very seriously. That's not to say that they don't take education seriously here, but the pressures are clearly different when a significantly greater amount of money is involved. Undeniably, school life and family life are strongly linked, and I think that this kind of educational system lends itself to a culture that is able to prioritize family more. Or perhaps the family culture came first and the university culture came after...who's to say, but I do know that they seem to work in harmony. Many university students live at home and go to the nearest university. Many students go home to eat lunch with their families. They are not (for the most part) hundreds of miles from home. They are not too busy with extracurriculars. They are not running from one meeting to the next. They are not stressing over homework every night to the point that they don't have time to hang with friends. No. Here, they are much more balanced. They prioritize family and friendships and quality time, things that I think America, and Penn especially, has let fall on our ever-growing list. Here, time is spent on what's important, and it's something I'm still adjusting to. My Google calendar at school is a mess of colors: one hour meeting followed by one hour of class followed by one hour lunch with friend, and so on. Here, that kind of schedule just doesn't fly. One Sunday afternoon, I blocked out one hour to meet with a Spanish student, one hour at the gym, and one hour for dinner. The actual evening: I met with a Spanish student and arrived an hour late for dinner. She was focused on enjoying the time with me, chatting, walking, grabbing a drink, meeting up with another friend, seeing a procession that happened to be in the streets. I, on the other hand, was worried about making it to the gym and getting home for dinner on time. I hadn't planned to spend so much time socializing. I hadn't prioritized socializing. I think going back to Penn, that kind of "timeless" social life in which hours are spent wandering the streets, reading poems in the bookstore, grabbing a couple tapas, heading from one bar to the next without the rush and hustle and bustle and urgency and "gotta run" that I've grown so accustomed to--that is something I will miss. And sadly, it's something that I don't see as possible in the US given our educational system. I just want to add, as well, the disclaimer that I am only speaking from my experiences in 3 classes at the University of Sevilla. I have been told high school is much more stressful here because they take one exam that practically determines their whole life. I have been told other departments, like the medical school, are much more intensive. Needless to say, my analysis is based on what I have seen and my thoughts, and they are not meant to mark Spain's truth. “In the present day, when popular literature is running into the low levels of life, and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind; and when the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growth of poetic feeling, and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I question whether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turn to these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking; and to steep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance.” This past weekend, I had the privilege to go to the nearby city of Granada, home to the well-known palace and complex La Alhambra. My group was only able to spend about 2-2.5 hours there, but I could have easily spent a week! As Washington Irving wrote in his Tales of the Alhambra, it is indeed a place to "linger and loiter."
A bit caught up in the "old Spanish romance" Irving mentions, I found myself pulling out my notebook on the morning bus ride to Granada to jot down some thoughts. I had just woken up from a few hours of on-and-off dozing and happily found myself in the golden moment in which everyone around me was still frozen in sleep and in silence. Being the first to awake allows for one of my favorite pockets of time (and not one I get to relish in often as the late-sleeper that I am). It's a time in which the day is in limbo--the moon hanging on by a fading thread as a whispering sun bathes the earth and sky in a hazy light: the day has begun and yet still waits to be awoken from slumber. In the stillness of this particular limbo moment, I looked out the bus window to see the sun barely creeping over the dry Granada mountains and the early fog drifting along in the distance, After a few long moments, I pulled my eyes away from the landscape and let my pen scribble along the page: Man really has nothing on nature, and yet we try so hard. Gazing out the bus window, there are olive orchards, rows and rows of trees, for kilometers. They blanket the mountains, covering steep hillsides and rocky turf. One has to wonder who dared to challenge the land to plant trees here. (And now, a haiku) Spain's mountainous orchards shrink me. How did trees get there? How did we get here? (And now for the debatably less existencial 6-word stories Arielle and I wrote the next day) Estamos en Granada. No comemos granadas (We are in Granada. We don't eat pomegranates). Granada: una ciudad sin las granadas (Granada: a city without pomegranates). En Granada, no hay ningún caballo (In Granada, there are no horses). Hay perros más grandes en Granada (There are bigger dogs in Granada). After spending a lovely weekend in the smaller, romantic and yet overall seemingly more modern city of Granada, I was glad to return to Sevilla (I don't fault it for its preference for tiny dogs). On the bus ride back, I decidedly labelled it "home." To close out, I invite all my loyal readers to take a page from Hemingway's book and share your own 6-word stories. As Sandra Cisneros wrote, "We all have a story." Whether it's about your day, your week, your dinner--I'd love to hear! Missing you all and sending love from Spain (which may be one autonomous region smaller pretty soon)! To say that tensions are running high would be an understatement. Cataluña's call for a referendum for independence has been dominating the news for the past six weeks, and now it is reaching its climax. For those who haven't been privy to a daily update, here is my painfully basic 3-part summary that attempts to refrain from bias.
Now, those are the facts. Here is a list of all that I have heard from various sources (though the vast majority andalucían), including professors, the news here in Andalucía, friends, middle-aged people, students, parents, singles, etc. Hold tight because it's quite a jumble:
In all of this political madness, I have come to four conclusions: 1) Entering a new country also means entering an entirely new political system with which I am completely unfamiliar. I feel as though I have been plopped into Spanish chaos with no context, no history, and the question of reliable sources. Every person seems to have an opinion that is expressed as the singular truth of the matter, and I walk out of nearly every conversation, every classroom, every article, every news segment feeling less and less sure of what I know to be true. With such limited understanding and my limited background knowledge, I feel quite uncomfortable and frankly unjustified passing judgment on the call for independence. After all, these days, American politics is enough of a mess to understand and to trust, and it's A) happening where I've lived my whole life and learned about and B) IN ENGLISH. 2) Despite my lack of profound knowledge, what I do know is that this is an incredibly charged and emotional conflict for many people. Walking down the streets of my barrio, nearly every apartment has the flag of Spain hanging from the balcony. My homestay Dad said the Chinese stores are all sold out! Seeing such a display of national sentiment is impressive. It seems ironic though that although the flag of Spain attempts to symbolize an aggressive kind of unity, the mere display and sheer quantity of flags reveals and acknowledges a spreading crack in that very unity. So along with the cries for unification and condemnation and the declarations of pride and of outrage, the flag also confesses just a hint of fear, fear that what once seemed absurd may become reality. 3) I don't like to see violence anywhere in the world. My friend from Barcelona, Janis Ripoll Garriga, flew there to participate in and volunteer to help the referendum this past weekend, and she has been my amazing "on-the-ground" source of information. The videos and images she has sent me are not easy to look at, but the violence occurring is undeniable. It is precisely this that is bringing Cataluña's call for independence into the international spotlight. The latest update from Janis is that 893 people have been hurt. Warning: some disturbing content. All images courtesy of Janis. 4) Lastly, something Janis wrote to me earlier stuck with me and may be the truest I have heard. She said, "Spain has lost Catalonia already." The sentiments of the catalanas are strong, and no matter what happens with the referendum, the desire for independence will not simply disappear. According to Janis, over 90% of the people who voted yesterday voted for independence (Side note: Janis informed me that over 3 million people voted, but over 700,000 votes were stolen by the police, so that's 90% of the countable votes). That's over 2 million people--2 million people that will not be silenced, that will not give up, that will not change their minds. 2 million people (plus) that represent an enormous problem for the Spanish government, an enormous threat to the unity of Spain. Trying to cage a bird that has decided to be free is futile, and it seems that the page is already turning on a new era.
In Andalucía, the question keeps surfacing: what will Cataluña do once it's no longer part of Spain? Once it's no longer part of the EU? I don't know the answer to these questions, and I don't know if Cataluña knows either, but I think we may be about to find out... Lastly, I encourage all my loyal readers to let this be the beginning of your investigation of what's happening over here. Facts are elusive, so I recommend reading a variety of sources in an attempt to get a picture for yourself. Janis has also sent me a bunch of articles, which I am happy to send to anyone! Love to all, my thoughts to those injured, and my prayers for the families and friends and all those affected in California. I don't understand this world... Throughout this program and especially during my gap year, we spoke a lot about what it means to be a traveller versus a tourist--to experience the culture rather than just photograph the popular highlights. I think an apt metaphor is to think of it as the difference between riding a bus and riding a bike. On a bus, the landscape whizzes by you at 60mph, and you're able to catch glimpses of beautiful countryside, roaming hills, old churches--postcard snapshots every which way. It's breathtaking and lightening fast. On a bike, however, it's a wholly different experience. You sweat in the same heat as the farmer out in his field, feel the same wind on your face that tickles the leaves of the olive trees. You appreciate the subtleties of the terrain as you pedal through each and every incline with aching legs and enjoy cruising on every downhill stretch. You begin to know the landscape intimately as you familiarize yourself with it over time--a journey of months to become acquainted rather than to just wave hello. That is what it is to be a traveller. It's a kind of knowing, a kind of knowing that seeks the authentic rather than the imagined, the cliché.*
A few weeks ago, I visited a market in my neighborhood. I took a lap around, snapped a few pictures. Yep. Done. It was cool but not anything to write home about. This weekend, however, my homestay mom took Arielle and me to the mercado in Triana, and this time, it inspired me to write a blog. She pointed out types of fish, explained why they all had eyes, showed us her favorite fruits, joked with the man behind the spice counter, bought some amazing cheese for us to snack on, took us on a stroll down a "secret path" by the river, wound through the streets of Triana to show us the best, most typical tapas places, had us pose in front of a wedding party dressed to the nines, walked us past an art fair...Carmen brought the market to life. It was one of my favorite mornings here. Seeing a beautiful or interesting place is nice, but experiencing a beautiful place with someone else has the potential to be transformative. Going with Carmen was just that: transformative. She allowed me to see beyond just the surface level, to experience it through her eyes, to appreciate the nuances, to (at least attempt to) seek the authentic. I was riding a bike. *But what is authenticity, anyway? Authenticity is at the heart of travel, and yet it is incredibly elusive. It's been on my mind a lot lately, and I don't pretend to understand it in the slightest. Is it simply context? Depth? What makes one moment authentic and another not? Does it have to do with the person's state of mind? Or the environment? Or both? If anyone has any thoughts, I'd love to hear them! 2) Day: last Saturday. Time: 9:30am. Place: On the street where Orthodox services are (allegedly) held.
Last time was not so successful, but this time was different. This time, I was prepared. I had called ahead earlier in the week (turns out they actually didn't hold services the previous week. Wow.). I knew where the bike station was that I had spent 10 minutes circling around last time. I knew what the door looked like. I knew what time services started. I was ready. This time, the door really was unlocked, and I pushed it open, almost laughing to myself. It was the next door that was more difficult to open--and not because it was locked. After stepping across the threshold, I could hear voices. Men's voices chanting. Men's voices chanting a prayer I didn't recognize. I thought about chilling in the hallway for awhile. I thought about not going in. No, that wasn't an option. I took a deep breath and walked in. It was a small room. I wouldn't notice until later, but the walls were decorated with hangings, prayers, the velvety fabric with Hebrew lettering. There were maybe 30 chairs, of which 4 were occupied. Four older men, maybe in their 70s, sitting and chanting together. They kind of glanced over as I walked in, and I quickly grabbed a siddur (prayer book) and sat in the back, where the women would have sit if there were other women there. For about thirty minutes, I rifled through the siddur, painfully searching for the page they were on. All the while, I knew I would never find it because my prayer book had Purim on the front. I thought maybe I could find something overlapping, something, anything to latch onto, partially so that I could feel more part of the group and partially so that the group wouldn't think I was a clueless tourist. But I was neither and both: part of the group as a Jew and yet not as a Conservative Jew. Partially a clueless tourist wanting to check out a Jewish community in Spain and partially someone just wanting to celebrate Shabbat. And as I sat there, flipping page after page, I was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of sadness. These are the Jewish people of Sevilla. These four older men are the legacy of the Jews of Sevilla. Sevilla, where the Jews flourished during the Golden Age under Muslim Rule. Sevilla, where Jews lived in a bustling barrio by the river. Sevilla, where many Jews suffered attacks just for being Jewish. Sevilla, where Sephardic Jews brought their keys with them when they were expelled in the hopes that they would one day return to their homes. Sevilla, where the Jewish neighborhood has been reduced to a street sign saying "La Judería" where tourists take pictures. Sevilla, where these four old men are all that is left. In the back of the room, I sat there quite honestly close to tears. Then, the door opened, and in came a young dark-skinned man. The four men immediately stopped the prayer to greet the newcomer. He was actually a visitor from Venezuela. The men shook his hand, chatted a moment, and then resumed praying. At this point, my deep sadness almost instantly turned to fury. Here I was, sitting there for probably close to an hour. Not a word. Not hardly a glance. Definitely not a smile. And this man walks in and they stop the entire service? Seriously? Why? Because I'm a woman? Because he's a man? I realize that Orthodoxy is different, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be welcomed. Not only was I not recognized, I was truly not even "seen." I may as well have not been there. I had expected a not-super-welcoming community, and that I could live with. But I had not expected a selectively welcoming community. That, on the other hand, was too much. After fuming for a good chunk of time (and finally finding the right prayer book after I watched one of the men show the visitor), another woman entered. She looked like a foreigner to me and also received no greeting from the men. I, however, was determined to make her experience better than mine and gestured for her to sit by me (I found out after services that, as it turns out, she had been attending services for years and was not, in fact, a tourist. She converted to Judaism and has a daughter living in Israel). The rest of the service went on. A few more men trickled in, even two younger men, which was hopeful. The Torah portion was read (though not from the Torah), and then they read the Spanish translation. Despite three semesters of Hebrew and I don't know how many years of Spanish, I didn't really catch much. Finally, they made Kiddush. The wine cup was passed around to all the men, and then, to my surprise, it was passed to the other woman and to me. A few men said Shabbat Shalom to us and shook our hands on our way out. Conclusions: Although this was a frustrating experience for me to feel so invisible, I think that I was too quick to judge. I think a combination of Orthodox Judaism and generational differences help to explain the situation. Perhaps, these older men are very traditional and very set in their ways. They are not mean, nor are they necessarily unwelcoming. They are simply used to a certain Saturday ritual. I represent a tourist, there one weekend and gone the next. I don't count toward the minyan. I am not a man. I am someone to be passed the cup of wine to and to be wished Shabbat Shalom to at the end of services. That's not a bad thing. It's just the way things are. The younger men instill hope in me--both for the future of the Jewish community in Sevilla and for the future of Orthodoxy. For one, they came. Albeit late, but they came. Maybe they went out for drinks the night before or slept in or whatever, but they pulled out their tallitot and prayed on a Saturday morning in Sevilla. That is big. As far as the future of Orthodoxy, from what I sensed, they seemed a bit more welcoming of me. There are a million and one reasons for this, but I'd like to believe that it's a sign of a trend toward a Judaism community that is more accepting of women in prayer spaces, as well as social ones. |