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.
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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. |