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!
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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. Thus far, I have utilized this space to reflect on how I see the world around me and have neglected to reflect on the way the surrounding world sees me. Two specific experiences from the past week stick out to me:
1) On Monday, we went on a class trip with the program to the workshop of local artist Martín Lagares (Like him on FB!). He is a sculptor who does a combination of contracted traditional religious works and more contemporary pieces. He talked to us a little about sculpting, showed us around his studio, answered a few questions. After about 30 minutes or so, he asked for a volunteer. My hand shot up (because, no matter the task, who wouldn't want to be a volunteer in a sculptor's studio??), and he gestured for me to come forward: He was going to sculpt me. I nervously stood there, inches from his block of clay, both nervous and excited to see myself through the eyes of a sculptor. His hands moved quickly, fingers twisting, palms pressing--the clay yielding to his power, yielding to his grace and transforming almost magically from brick to body in a matter of moments. The whole time, his eyes almost never left my face. To be looked at by an artist is something so different, so complex. He was studying me, the shape of my chin, my cheeks, the wisps of my hair. "Cuál parte del cuerpo es más difícil esculpir?" (Which body part is most difficult to sculpt) I ask him. He explains that no body part is difficult. They're all easy. Just a few touches here and there, and you have an eye, a pair of lips, an eyebrow. t's not about making a sculpture that looks exactly like the person, he said; it's about making a sculpture that captures the essence of a person--that is what is difficult. Under his gaze, I felt so exposed. He was searching for me. Not just my proportions but my spirit, my identity. While he worked, he also challenged all of us to sculpt faces with small balls of clay. I chose to sculpt his face. So at the same time he was studying me, I was also studying him. It was one of the most uncomfortably honest silent interactions I can remember. Part 2 coming soon. Stay tuned. Love to all, and stay safe in these horrible storms! Elana This past week, I got a bike. Well, actually I got access to about 2,500 bikes at stations all across Sevilla. You pay for a membership, and then you have unlimited access to the bikes. The first half hour is always free, and each additional hour costs a little under a dollar. What most people do, however, is just switch out bikes every half an hour as they come across a station. That way, it's always free! It's called Sevici--get it? Like Sevilla and bicicleta (bicycle)?
My biking experience thus far has been limited to neighborhood rides on beach vacations, so the idea of city riding is a little scary. However, Sevilla is apparently one of the best biking cities in the world, bike paths linking nearly every street (check it out), and it's a very common method of transport here. I figured, I'm here for four months, I may as well go for it and do as the sevillanos do. My first couple rides have been exhilarating, adrenaline-inducing, sweat-producing experiences. Riding on the river trail, the breeze blows in my face, the sun beats down, and my energy is up. I look to my right and see the shining Guadalquivir river quivering in the heat. I look to my left and see the various restaurants and taperías dotted with leisurely outdoor diners. I feel like I'm flying past it all, gliding through the city (not so effortlessly, might I add). And then...I cross the bridge, and there's a crowd of pedestrians just waiting for me to navigate through them. I'm weaving back and forth, breaking, stopping, inching along, squeezing my way through, and then ultimately resorting to walking my bike along the path. Saturday morning, I decided to venture out on my two wheels once again. I pulled myself out of bed, threw on a skirt (retrospectively not a good idea), and headed to services at a nearby synagogue. There are two in Sevilla: one reform and the other orthodox. The reform congregation is newer, and they unfortunately don't resume services until Rosh Hashanah. In the meantime, I decided to check out the orthodox services. About four years ago, my homestay family housed a Jewish Penn student who went to services, and he was able to give me all the details: services would be inside a residential building (they keep the doors unlocked on Saturdays), second door on the left. They follow Sephardic tradition, meaning men and women are separate, but they are all in one small room together. He also mentioned that I shouldn't be surprised if I don't find the community particularly welcoming because foreigners are always coming in and out for a Saturday service. So, with his advice in mind, a screen shot of the map and the nearest bike stations, I set off in search of the Jewish community with a mixture of excitement, hesitance, doubt, and the expectation that I would probably be a not-so-welcomed guest. 30-40 minutes, a bit of circling, and a lot of sweat later What I did not expect, however, was to not even make it in the door. Unfortunately, the doors were not unlocked. I heard no voices. I found no other doors. Just one big locked door in the middle of a narrow street. I spent about 15 minutes being bummed out and hoping that someone would magically come to the door, but alas, no so such luck. And it wasn't as if I was about to start stopping passersby to ask. "Perdón, hay servicios para Judíos aquí?" Don't think that would go over so well. Instead, I decided to take advantage of my location and walk to the famous modern sculpture Las Setas, as it's called (the mushrooms per the shape). They were not what I had expected them to be from photos I had previously seen. But then again, that seems to be a theme. What most drew my attention, however, was not what was above ground but rather below. If you descend the staircase, you find a glass-enclosed exhibit covering almost the entire underground space. What's inside? The ruins and artifacts of the old market that used to be where the Setas are today. You see, the Setas were kind of a controversial project--a contemporary sculpture/tourist attraction taking the place of a historical market? I don't think so! To add to that, the construction of it cost double the estimate. On the other hand, some people felt that it would help propel Sevilla into the future, to show people that the city has more than just a history, but a present and future to show as well. In this way, Las Setas to me symbolize the ongoing battle between preservation and progress, but there's a spin: this conflict seems to have more to do with how outsiders perceive Sevilla and Spain rather than what it actually is like. Las Setas scream progressivity not just to Sevillanos but to the world. They are a landmark of architectural modernity that put Sevilla on the map for a present-day, rather than a past, occurrence. They acknowledge that Sevilla has continued changing and developing and contributing, and they push the world to acknowledge that, as well. |