Comida

One of the things I miss most about Spain is the food. And not just the food in itself, but the style and culture of eating in Spain-- food isn't just for nourishment, it is a tool for being together and for conversation.


Spanish cuisine currently holds a reputation for innovation and creativity previously only given to French cuisine. However, the imaginative recipes being developed by today's Spanish chefs are, despite their innovation, based on the solid traditions of Spanish food which is unpretentious, simple, healthy, and delicious.


Traditional Spanish cuisine is very much a product of the resources, geography, and the different cultures that have influenced Spain. Spain and Portugal form the Iberian Peninsula, separated from mainland Europe by the Pyrenees Mountains and surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. Spain's miles of coastline, more than any other country in Europe, provide bountiful seafood and fish which appear in many traditional dishes like paella, Spain's national dish. Spain is also a very close neighbor to Africa (Morocco is only fourteen kilometers/eight miles across the Strait of Gibralter) and many of the spices, like cumin and safron, used in Spanish cooking are from African influences. Different cultures that settled in Spain throughout the ages brought their own contribution to Spain's cuisine. The prominence of wine is a result of the time Spain spent as part of the Roman Empire. The Greeks introduced the quintessential Spanish ingredient, olive oil, while seasonings and spices that we associate with Spanish food are a legacy of the Moors.


Spain's culinary traditions rely on an abundance of locally grown vegetables and fruits as well as meats and poultry. The Greeks may have brought olives to Spain, but the arid climate of Spain is perfectly suited to grow them as well as many other fruits and vegetables. Jamón serrano, a cured ham, and chorizo, a seasoned sausage, are very popular as well as a multitude of other dishes with ham and pork. Seriously, they like ham so much that there is a museum, El Museo de Jamón in Madrid, and they have jamón flavored chips. Seafood and fish are popular in coastal areas like Valencia and Andalucía. Other popular foods are cheeses, eggs, beans, rice, nuts (especially almonds), and bread (a crusty white bread, baked fresh daily, is common and was part of my daily diet). Olive oil and garlic are also common ingredients; my señora made a traditional dish called sopa de ajo (garlic soup) made with olive oil, day-old bread, and garlic.


One of the best-known Spanish dishes, a stew called paella (pie-AY-ah), originated in Valencia, an eastern province on the Mediterranean Sea. Rice, a main ingredient, is grown in Valencia's tidal flatlands. Though there are numerous variations, paella is usually made of a variety of shellfish (such as shrimp, clams, crab, and lobster), chorizo (sausage), vegetables (tomatoes, peas, and asparagus), chicken and/or rabbit, and long-grained rice. Broth, onion, garlic, wine, pimiento (sweet red pepper), and saffron add flavor to the stew. My señora also made paella with chicken, which I liked better than the traditional seafood paella.

Home

So I am back in California, home from my adventure in Spain. And I miss Spain already. California, forgive me; I did not realize how much I loved you until I was away. But, culture shock on re-entry is much worse than it was going into Spain. It is crazy to think about all that has happened and how much I have changed in the past few months. Even though I am no longer in Spain, there is so much I am still thinking about and still processing. So, even though I will not be posting things that are currently happening, I think I will continue writing about memories from Spain and everything I am still working through.

Where did the time go?

It is my last week in Spain... I don't know what to say or think. I don't know if I am ready or not. It seems to change by the minute.

Part of me says, "It's time. It's time to go home." This is the part of me that wants to see my family and friends, misses the ocean and the beach, and wants In'N'Out Burger and a chocolate shake like none other.

Part of me says, "There is so much still to do and see-- there wasn't enough time and I am not ready to say good-bye." This is the part of me that is sad about not having travelled to all the places I wanted to, not having tried all the things I wanted to, and also the part of me that is not ready to say good-bye to all my friends here.

One thing I do know: I am definitely ready to be finished with school and finals. I am just ready for summer and the freedom I am (possibly falsely) convinced will come with it. Sometime during the last week, School and Spain morphed into one entity, so although I am maybe not ready to say good-bye to Spain and all that I love here, I am ready to be home for summer.

In the meantime, I am studying for finals and trying to pack up my whole life into one suitcase, which happens to be quite difficult...

Some of the reasons why Spain has stolen my heart

For the past week or so temporary stands and booths have been being constructed in Plaza Nueva and in Plaza de San Francisco. I discovered first that, in addition to celebrating the Day of the Book on April 23, today begins the Sevilla Feria del Libro--a ten day festival celebrating the book. When I was in Barcelona, I discovered that they celebrate el día de San Jordi (Sait George in English-- you know the guy who killed the dragon) which also happens to be April 23; it is like their Valentine's day, except they exchange books and flowers. Anyway, the booths in Plaza Nueva and Plaza de San Francisco are filled with books from the bookstores around Sevilla. If you did not already realize, this is Lit Major Heaven, and I need not say that this could be very dangerous for my wallet. (Sevilla, you have a city-wide book fair!? Do you know how much I love you?)


This is not the only way in which Spain has stolen my heart. In Barcelona I visited the Chocolate Museum, or the Museu de Xocolata as it is known in Catalan. Besides the fact that sweet chocolate was a Spanish invention (the Spanish took the bitter chocolate used by the Aztecs and mixed it with milk and sugar which was the beginning of what we know as chocolate), the first mechanized chocolate factory was in Barcelona, Spain. Many of the displays are chocolate sculptures, including various well-known Barcelona buildings and illustrations from various stories. It is owned by the Gremi de Pastisseria de Barcelona (the city pastry-makers' guild) and on the other side of teh courtyard is the school for pastry chefs. The wall of the building is practically all windows, so I stood there watching them bake for a long time. It was like the Food Network, only better.

Alcázar (this time with photos)

These are photos from the Alcázar (royal palace) of Sevilla. You may not remember, but I wrote a blog much earlier in the semester about the Alcázar. I will not bore you by repeating things I have already written, but if you want to read about the Alcázar, feel free to check out my previous post :)

Now for photos:

Toro! Toro! OLE!

I finally mustered up the courage to go to a bull fight (corrida de toros) this past Sunday. I convinced myself that it was a cultural nessecity and that my experience in Spain would be incomplete without it. How could I tell people that I lived in Spain and never went to a Corrida de Toros? So, I found a few other friends who felt the same way and we decided to go to a Novelladas (a Corrida with younger toreros and younger bulls, basically like the "minor leagues," if you will). And I actually enjoyed it. If you know me, you know how I feel about blood and gore and what I have just said may have come as a shock. However, it was not as bloody as I thought it would be and I actually found it really interesting. And besides thinking of Ferdinand (a book from my childhood) through the whole thing, I had a little Hemmingway moment-- forgive me for being a Lit nerd.


The Corrida de Toros, practiced in Spain, Portugal, some cities in southern France as well as in several Lain American countries, is a traditional spectacle where bulls are ritually killed in a public arena. Spain, above all, is known for tauromachy (bullfighting), and I was a little surprised to hear about the other countries that still practice the sport. Bullfighting is said to have been a tradition that sprang up in the colonies of the Roman Empire in Western Europe (i.e.: what is now Spain and Portugal) where many human-versus-animal events were held. There are also theories that it first cane to Spain by way of Emperor Claudius as a substitute for gladiatiors when he instituted a short-lived ban on gladiatorial combat. Bullfighting later spread from Spain to its Central and South American colonies, and in the 19th century to France.


The tradition of the Corrida de Toros as it is practiced today involves professional toreros (bull fighters) who execute various formal, even artistic, moves in order to maneuver, subdue, and eventually kill the bull. These maneuvers are performed with little protection and at very close range. Obviously, it is dangerous and can end in injury or death of the torero; but it is important to remember that he has chosen this profession (this is, in fact, his job) and is professionally trained. The subject of toros is one of strong debate in Spain becuase of the danger for the torero and because certain groups feel that it is a blood sport and useless killing or propogates animal cruelty. It is also important to remenber that every toro used in a Corrida is treated exceptionally well and that after the bull is killed, all of it is used for meat. In addition to being a delicacy of Spain, it is supposedly the best quality of meat there is becauseof how well it is fed and how well it is treated (although I have never tried it). Aficionados say that the Corrida de Toros is the ultimate union of art and courage. Bulls learn fast and their capacity to do so should never be underestimated. Indeed, a bullfight may be viewed as a race against time for the matador, who must display his bullfighting skills with style and with proper form before the animal learns what is going on thrusts its horns at something other than the cape.


Anyway, back to the actual bullfight.

There are two "rounds" and three toreros (bull fighters) who, in total, each kill two bulls. They each kill one in the first round and each kill another in the second round. Even though they are all from the same year (imagine "grade") of bull-fighting school, they start with the oldest then move to the youngest. During the Corrida the crowd alternates between clapping (which means good job, well done, we like it) and whistleing (which means bad job, poorly done, we don't like it). The crowd is critiquing the torero on his bravery, his performace, his style, and his artistic interpretation. The audience looks for the matador to display an appropriate level of style and courage and for the bull to display aggression and determination. For the matador, this means performing skillfully in front of the bull, often pushing the limits in how close he stands to the bull and turning his back on it to demonstrate his mastery over the animal. The skill with which he delivers the fatal blow is another major point to look for. A skillful matador will achieve it in one stroke that goes through the spinal chord of the bulla nd the aorta killing it instantly. Two tries is barely acceptable, while more than two is usually regarded as a bad job. The moment when the matador kills the bull is the most dangerous point of the entire fight, as it requires him to reach between the horns, head on, to deliver the blow. If a torero does really, really well, at the end of the fight the crowd will wave white pañuelos (kind of like handkercheifs) and one of the officials will cut off one of the ears (orejas) of the bull and give it to the torero as a trophy. Very, very rarely, the crowd may petition to spare the bull's life if it is exceptionally strong and brave. They did not give any orejas at the bull fight I went to, but I have seen it happen on TV. Carmen, my host mom, watches bull fights broadcasted live from Madrid. That's Spain for you.


One really interesting thing happened during the middle of the Corrida. The third torero had started to do his thing when the bull ran straight into one of the walls of the Plaza and tripped over it's horns that had gotten stuck in the ground. It must have injured it's neck or something in the fall, because after that it was really sluggish and was apparantly not fit for the fight. The crowd started whistling and whistling and all of a sudden everyone left the arena-- the picadores, banderilleros, and the toreros. The bull, deemed not suited to the fight, was left standing in the middle of the Plaza and after a few minutes about eight to ten steers (castrated bulls) entered the ring and roamed around the bull in the middle. The bull eventually calmed down and left teh ring with the steers. The steers are used to calm the bull down and get it out of the ring safely. The best thing about this is that I knew what was going on thanks to Ernest Hemmingway and his book The Sun Also Rises. And you thought a Literature Major was useless!

A parting thought:
Ernest Hemingway said of bullfighting in his 1932 non-fiction book Death in the Afternoon: "Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honour."

Churches and Convents

The weather here in Sevilla has been like full summer in California with brilliant sun and slight humidity, but a heat that is sweetened by a light breeze every so often. I went for a walk this morning with three other girls to take advantage of the lovely weather and the quiet streets. For Christmas, my parents gave me a guidebook of Sevilla full of self-guided neighborhood walks and special walking tours of the city. It has seriously been one of the best and most useful gifts I have ever received; I have used it countless times and learned so much about the city and the history that is hidden on every corner.

Today we did a tour of churches and convents in the area of Sevilla known as La Macarena (which has absolutely nothing to do with Ricky Martin). We first passed by Iglesia del Salvador, a beautiful church that used to be the city’s main cathedral before the actual cathedral was built. Iglesia del Salvador was redone in later years, and now is now one of the most impressive baroque churches in the city—in terms of both architecture on the outside and art on the inside. Next stop was Iglesia de San Pedro, another baroque church that although much simpler than el Salvador, is still very beautiful. One of the tile paintings depicting purgatory on the outside of Iglesia de San Pedro has a small bird hidden in it (which I found); according to local legend, if you find the bird, it means you will get married...

Well, anyway, we moved on to the Monasterio de Santa Ines, a lovely small convent full of cloister nuns (meaning they have no contact with the outside world). Many of the convents in Sevilla (and I imagine in the rest of Spain and Europe too) don’t get as steady a stream of support as they did in past centuries, so they have to find other ways to support themselves. Many of them make jams, pastries, and other sweets to sell and sometimes rosaries and other crafts as well. However, it is difficult to sell things when you are a cloister nun and are shut off from the outside world, so they have developed an ingenious system. There is a small alcove with a rotating shelf in the wall where, after you ring the bell, a nun from behind the wall will ask you what you want. You then put the money on the shelf and she will turn the shelf around, take the money, put the pastries on her side of the shelf, and turn it back around so you can take them. I bought some tortas de chocolate, which turned out to be small chocolate biscuit/shortbread type cookies. Christy bought some magdalenas, which are kind of like the Spanish version of a muffin.

We went on to see a few more churches—Iglesia de San Marcos, Convento de Santa Isabel, and Palacio de las Dueñas—but my favorite was the Convento de Santa Paula, which is one of the few enclosed religious complexes in Sevilla that welcomes visitors. We went inside and talked to a nun who was adorable and lovely. She asked us about where we were from and how long we had been in Sevilla. She called us guapa and complimented me on my Spanish. I wish you could see how big I smiled. The nuns there make jam and marmalade, and we each bought some before leaving. Buying sweets and jam from nuns is like the epitome of fair trade—you buy all-natural products (made with love and prayer, nonetheless) and the money goes directly to good deeds and social justice without any intermediary. I think things might taste better when they are made by nuns.

In any case, it was a very lovely day.

So, this one time in Spain I ate...

A bowl of melted cheese. Seriously.

Some friends and I went out for tapas and copas the other night, and I ordered the restaurant specialty: a tapa called provoleta napolitana. The menu described it as grilled provolone cheese with tomatoes, olives, olive oil, garlic and other herbs (my best translation). I was expecting something like an empanada, or something on top of bread, or... I don't exactly know what I was expecting. What I got was all of those ingredients melted together in a bowl.

Literally, it was a medium-sized bowl full of melted cheese that I ate with a spoon. It was surprisingly and amazingly one of the best things I have tasted in Spain. I suppose it might be almost like a pizza without bread or tomato sauce. Even so, I still can't get over the fact that they served a tapa that is just melted cheese...

Archivo de Indias: AARRGH!

Today I visited the Archivo General de Los Indias (The General Archive of the Indies), a museum and the place where archival documents are stored that illustrate the history of Spain's empire in the Americas and the Philippines. King Carlos III, the king who my Civ profe argues is the best king of all the Bourbons, started a project to bring together under a single roof all the documentation regarding the overseas empire, which until that time had been dispersed among various archives. At the moment there is an exhibition about pirates in the Caribbean (not the movies, the REAL pirates). The exhibition gave a history about famous pirates, what piracy meant for Spain, and how the Spanish goverment tried to fight back. If you did not know, almost all the territory (and thus gold) of the Americas and the West Indies belonged to Spain. Other countries, England and France specifically (but Spain has always had problems with France, so what else is new?), wanted "un trozo de la pastel" and decided the best way to get it was to steal from Spain. Remember Sir Francis Drake? Hey was a privateer, meaning he was paid by the Queen of England to be a pirate and rob as much gold and silver from Spain as he could. Then he was knighted for doing a good job. Imagine how Spain felt about that... Then, the Dutch government saw what a success the English had had with that plan and decided to give it a try as well with their brand of privateers called corsairs. After that, it was anybody's game and buccaneers, freebooters, and smugglers roamed the open seas. Aarrrgh, me mateys! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! And all those other pirate things... Anyway, the Islands of Tortuga, Saint-Domingue, and Jamaica (which was owned by the English, who consequently did not care that Spain was being robbed blind) turned into bases for them because the governors there promoted their expeditions and offered them refuge when needed. Reading about all of this coincidentally made me feel very piratey and I admit that I rather wanted to get some rum, but I had to run back to class asking myself "Why is the rum always gone?"

Barcelona

As Feria is a week long festival, we had the whole week off from school, and because there really is only so much to see at Feria, we (my roommate and some friends) decided to use the extra time to take a trip to Barcelona.

Barcelona, the second largest city in Spain, is the capital of Cataluña, located on the northern Mediterranean coast of Spain. During the time of the Guerra Civil (Civil War) in Spain, many of the artists and intellectuals fled to Barcelona to escape the oppression and censorship. Even now, Barcelona is a very artistic city, the frontlines of the Vanguardia.

I loved the artistic character of the city and all the art we were able to see there. One of my favorite parts was the modernist architecture of Antoni Gaudí. We took almost a whole day to see Gaudí's Park Güel, the apartment buildings he designed, and the Sagrada Familia (the cathedral that most view as his masterpiece, although it was never finished). I loved them all, but was most intrigued by the Sagrada Familia, which is still under construction.

Gaudí was a devout Catholic, to the point that in his later years he abandoned secular work and devoted his life to working on the Sagrada Familia. His intention with the project of the Sagrada Familia was to depict the Bible, that is to say all the importnat stories of the Bible, in stone. There were supposed to be three facades-- one depicting the birth of Christ, one depicting his death, and the third the ressurrection and heaven. He designed it to have 18 towers, 12 for the 12 apostles, 4 for the 4 evangelists, one for Mary and one for Jesus.

Towards the end of his life, many of Gaudí's friends and family began to die and this put him into a state of depression that slowed down his work. In 1926, Gaudí was killed in an accident and left the cathedral unfinished. The only existing copy of his last recorded blue prints was destroyed by the anarchists in 1938 during the Guerra Civil (the Spanish Civil War). This has made it very difficult to complete the church in the fashion Gaudí most likely would have wished. It is still under construction and they predict it will be finished relatively soon (well, for Europe)-- forty or fifty years.

After his formation as an artist, Spanish painter Pablo Picasso divided his time between Barcelona and Paris. For this reason, Picasso is also very important to the city of Barcelona and it's artistic character. On our first day in Barcelona, we went to the Picasso Museum which I enjoyed a lot. When people think of Picasso, they think of Cubism, which makes sense. The thing is, Picasso has such a variety of styles ranging through so many different periods of art history. Picasso did a series of paintings manipulating the light and composition of Velazquez's Las Meninas which I just recently saw in the Museo del Prado in Madrid. I can not tell you how amazing it is to be studying about a work of art or a movement of art and then go to see it.

Icing on the cake:
There is a bar in Barcelona where Picasso, Buñuel, Dalí and many other artists and intellectuals of the modernist movement in Spain would sit drinking coffee and discussing there work. It is called Los Cuatro Gatos, which literally translated means The Four Cats, but "cuatro gatos" is a colloquial expression here used to mean "nobody or no one." I like understanding Spanish puns, although I do not yet make them. Coming soon, though, I assure you. Anyway, we went to Cuatro Gatos and were geeking out over our coffee and desserts.

(photos from Parque Güel)

Feria

La Feria de Abril, one of Sevilla's most important fiestas, is basically a week long carnival plus a celebration of flamenco culture, eating, and drinking. Feria officially begins at midnight on Monday with the Alumbrado (lighting of the main gate, the lamps in the street, and the lights of the casetas) and runs six days, ending on the following Sunday with a huge display of fireworks.



The "farigrounds" (for lack of a better word) are located in Los Remedios, a barrio on the far side of the river, and are totally covered in rows of casetas, individual decorated tents which are temporarily built there. When they say "caseta," they literally do mean "little house." Besides the bar and the tables and chairs for eating, they are decorated extravagantly (well, some more than others). Some of them have wallpaper, paintings, or gilded mirrors. Most of the casetas are privately owned and you need an invitation or some kind of connections to get in, but there are public casetas as well. Some of these casetas belong to families, some to groups of friends, clubs, trade associations, and even political parties and local barrios (neighborhoods).



All day long, but especially from around nine at night until six or seven the following morning, at first in the streets and later only within each caseta, people are dancing Sevillanas (the traditional flamenco-esque folk dance), eating tapas, and drinking the traditional drink of Feria, rebujito, which is a mix of manzanilla (sherry, usually from Jerez) and 7Up.


One of my favorite parts of Feria was watching all of the horses and carriages full of people dressed in traditional flamenco costumes. All of the colors are brilliant and almost overwhelming. Another favorite was seeing everything lit up at night during the Alumbrado and afterwards. Sorry I don't have any photos to post yet, but I am working on it.

Madrid: A Weekend of Art

This past weekend, I travelled to Madrid with my Art History class to see some of the larger museums in Spain. We went to the Prado (home of several very important works including Velazquez and El Greco), the Museo Reina Sofia (contemporary art from the 20^th century and onward including Dali and Picasso), and the Museo Thyssen (everything). In addition to the art museums, we went to the Palacio Real (Royal Palace), the Plaza Mayor, and other parts of historic Madrid. In a small section of free time, I made a literary pilgrimage to the houses of Lope de Vega (a baroque playwright) and Cervantes (author of Don Quixote). (Laugh at me if you like.)

Although I was rather overwhelmed by its scope, I enjoyed the Prado very much. Seeing the paintings of El Greco in real life is an experience so completely different from seeing them on a PowerPoint slideshow. The Museo Reina Sofia was interesting, but the art of Spain from the 20^th century is usually dark and depressing. Having been produced in ages dominated by war, dictators, censorship, disillusionment and general suffering, you can imagine that this art does not often deal with uplifting themes. The Museo Thyssen was my favorite because it had everything from gothic art to contemporary art in a museum that was a manageable size. In addition to several very interesting paintings that captured my attention, there was a special exhibit of Monet that I particularly enjoyed. It is one of those experiences where you arrive and realize that this something is much larger, more important, and perhaps more moving and powerful than you thought it was or even had imagined it to be.

Teatro de la Maestranza

Last night, my roommate Christy and I went to the Teatro de la Maestranza, a famous modern theater here in Sevilla, to see the English National Ballet’s production of Cinderella. I have a list of things I need to do before leaving Sevilla, and one of the things on the list is to see something in the Teatro de la Maestranza. Christy and I noticed signs for the ballet on the street during Semana Santa, and after Christy told me that we could get tickets for only 26 euro, we decided to go for it. I am so glad that we did. Amazing. The music, by Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev, was beautiful beyond words. The grace with which the dancers moved seemed contagious, as if I gained grace and peace simply by watching them.

Pablo Picasso said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life,” and it is so true. This has been a crazy week for me with projects due and a big exam yesterday. I have been trying to get things sorted out for next year at Point Loma, mainly housing and class registration. Without wasting your time with too many of the details of my problems with scheduling classes for next year, I will simply say that it has been a mess and so have I. I have been emailing just about every professor in my department trying to get things worked out, and yesterday I received an email that eliminated an option I had been counting on. I was crushed and at the end of my rope. Seeing the ballet after all of the stress and emotional exhaustion of this week was tangibly refreshing, even cleansing. And this weekend I am going to Madrid with my Art class to see some museums, so I am looking forward to a weekend of art.

Farewell to Semana Santa

Today, the last day of Semana Santa, we went out to see more pasos, to get some churros, and to say farewell to Semana Santa. I knew Semana Santa would be a big deal here in Sevilla and I was so excited that I would be able to be in Sevilla to celebrate Semana Santa where it is so famous, but I do not really know what I expected it to actually be like. It is an interesting concept—religious parades all day every day for a whole week. If we have debates about Nativity Scenes or the Ten Commandments being displayed in public places, I cannot imagine something like Semana Santa happening in the States. Here in Sevilla, everyone goes to mass during Semana Santa and is in the streets watching the pasos. Although they might not be practicing Catholics during the rest of the year, for Semana Santa, at least, everyone is Catholic. It was interesting to be a part of a festival that has such a strong religious theme but is much more cultural and not exactly religious at all anymore. For example, there are normally a lot of street performers in el Centro because it is a rather touristy area and they can get the attention (and money) that they want, but during Semana Santa the streets were full of every street performer I have ever seen there, plus new ones, all to make the most of the crowds of people. There were people selling balloons and there were stands selling popcorn, cotton candy, and silly toy horns and things—all stuff I would expect at something like the Strawberry Festival that happens in my home town or something similar, but not at what I perceived as a serious religious festival. There are people, like my señora Carmen, for whom Semana Santa holds deep religious significance, but largely it seems that people are there for the show, not because it is part of their faith or religious expression. I have really enjoyed Semana Santa, and I hope you maybe learned something new or at least enjoyed some of the stories I have had to tell. Thanks for reading and Happy Easter.

La Madrugada

Semana Santa celebrations, like basically everything else in Spain, are intense. The entire point of celebrating Semana Santa in this way with pasos and penitents (at least when the tradition was created in the 16th century) was to educate the people about the Passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ and for people to remember and participate in his Passion, death, and resurrection.

Yesterday was Jueves Santo (Holy Thursday or Maundy Thursday) where we commemorate the Last Supper and the sacrament of Communion. It is the day where Jesus celebrated the Passover meal with his disciples, washed their feet, and after praying for hours into the night was arrested and brought before the Jewish authorities. The midnight hours of Thursday night of Semana Santa, or La Madrugada (madrugada simply means the early hours of the morning after midnight), are meant to commemorate the events of that night and are perhaps the most important of the whole of Semana Santa with some of the most important and best-loved pasos including El Silencio, Jesus del Gran Poder, La Macarena, y La Esperanza de Triana.

Each paso is made up of penitents, a marching band (sometimes dressed as Roman centurians or in another Biblical costme), a sculpture of a scene from Jesus’ final days, and a second sculpture of the Virgin Mary. They march down a predetermined route, enter one side of the Cathedral, pass through it, and exit out the other side before heading back to the church they came from. It is funny because all of the Virgins are very beautiful (“Todas son muy guapas,” as Carmen says), but many people have their own particular favorite and insist that she is more beautiful than all the others are. For example, there is a huge rivalry (if you can even call it that) between two images of the virgin: La Esperanza de Triana and La Macarena. Carmen, my señora, was telling Christy and me that she has a friend who is very dedicated to La Esperanza de Triana. We heard him telling Carmen that La Esperanza de Triana is “la mas guapa que todas.” Carmen, on the other hand, prefers La Macarena, but is careful not to say that in front of him. It is like a friendly but heated sports rivalry, only Spanish-Catholic style. Personally, I like La Macarena, but I don’t want to take sides.

The first paso, El Silencio, would be passing the Cathedral a little after 2 AM, so Christy, Kerry, and I left our neighborhood at 1 AM to go to el Centro with the hopes of finding a good spot to stand where we would be able to see everything else until the last paso came by around 6 AM. That is so late for me (Or is it early? I am so confused…), but for Jesus, for Culture, and for Art, right? Right. We were lucky to find a spot near the side of the Cathedral where we could just stand and see everything pass by.

I have not seen so many people in the streets of Sevilla in all my time here, and the Spaniards have no concept of personal space, so walking was an adventure. Because the streets were blocked off for the pasos and there were many areas set up with chairs we could not take normal routes to get out of el Centro. We had linked hands so as not to get separated and there was a moment when the crowd was moving through a very small alley with two or three downward stairs before the alley rounded a corner. I was pressed against Christy with who knows who pressed against my back and on every side of me, and the whole crowd was moving as one. All of a sudden, I realized my feet were not touching the ground; I was basically carried over all the stairs by the forward motion of the crowd. Terrifying, but absolutely hilarious. A few seconds later ground rose up to meet my feet, and after a few more minutes in the middle of the mob, we were able to walk more freely and returned home a little after 6:30 AM. And that’s La Madrugada.

Semana Santa

I arrived in the airport on Tuesday afternoon, a little sad to have left Ireland behind but very grateful to be back in Sevilla—finally back in my city, and just in time to catch the bus from the airport to el Centro where I could catch a bus to my apartment. I have mentioned before how there are orange trees throughout the city, and the flowers of the orange trees, called azahares, had just started to open when I had left Sevilla. Now they are close to being in full bloom and I was overwhelmed with their sweet smell the moment I stepped outside. After an unusually long wait at the bus stop, I finally got on a bus bound in the direction of my apartment, and it was very lucky that I did because if I had not gotten on that bus, I would have had to walk all the way there. You see, it is Semana Santa and the road was blocked off for a few hours to allow the pasos to pass.

That explanation may require some explanation. Semana Santa, or Holy Week, in the Christian liturgical year is the week immediately preceding Easter where we remember and observe the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It begins with Palm Sunday and goes through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and finally Easter (or Resurrection) Sunday. For those who might not be familiar with exactly what Holy Week is, I hope this clears up some confusion: Maundy Thursday, or Thursday of the Lord's Supper, commemorates the Last Supper and the changing of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Good Friday is the anniversary of the crucifixion of Jesus, and as such is a day of sorrow. Holy Saturday is usually a quiet day of prayer and reflection in preparation for the celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. Semana Santa (and its celebration) is very important in Catholic countries like Spain and Latin America.

Semana Santa is the main fiesta of Spain. Almost every community observes it with pomp and solemnity, usually with pasos (processions), the best and most famous of which are in Sevilla (and I am not just biased). There are special foods, like torrijas (a dessert that reminds of french toast, only thinner and soaked in honey) that are served specifically during Semana Santa. Everyone at the very least has every afternoon off from work and no classes are held during the whole week. From the 16th century, Semana Santa has been a major part of the life of Sevilla and the Semana Santa celebrations here in Sevilla are the largest and most well known in the world. Brotherhoods (Hermandades) of robed men carry huge wooden sculptures depicting the Virgin Mary and scenes from the Passion of Jesus Christ through the streets. The pasos are accompanied by bands and robed penitentes in tall cone-shaped hats. Some of them are nazarenos and carry heavy wooden crosses as a sign of penance for their sins and as a way to identify with the suffering and death of Jesus Christ. They are all robed and masked so that they can do penance with anonymity. (Disclaimer: I know they look like KKK members, but they have nothing to do with that in any way, shape, or form. Participating in Semana Santa as a penitente is a serious religious act respected by everyone. Again, I just want to be very clear that they are NOTHING like the KKK.)

Anyway, I finally arrived at my apartment and Carmen was just getting ready to leave. She explained that a paso would be coming down our street in a little less than half an hour, so I had a few minutes to set my things down and change before running out into the street as I heard the drums passing my window. I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking my fill of the pasos and the smell of the azahares. A fitting way to spend my first day back in Sevilla.

Pubs

I want to set some things straight. I realize that I have told a lot of stories from Ireland that involve pubs, and I want to be clear that the pubs of Ireland are not like bars in the States. (Disclaimer: I don’t even really know what bars in the States are like, so these comparisons are based off of my rather primitive and non-firsthand understanding of the bar culture of home). The pub is the center of Irish social life; the best thing I can compare it to is the coffee shop of the States. The whole community goes to the local pub for food, conversation, and live music, not just for a drink. It is a place where people hang out and talk, where the bartender knows your name and, more than that, is your neighbor. I met so many wonderful people, got a lot of free cups of tea, heard some great music, and all in all fell in love with the atmosphere of pubs and wish that back home in the States it were more like this.

The bars in Spain are also very different from what I understand the bars in the States to be like. When I was in Granada, we met up with a friend and she took us out to eat at her favorite tapas place, which was obviously a bar because every place that serves tapas (or any food, really) is a bar. But this was not like any bar I had ever seen (or heard of) in the States. We sat at the tables in the front left section of the bar, with the bar itself along the front right; but in the back section of the bar, there were couches set up around two or three coffee tables and some bookshelves along the wall with books, magazines, a checkers board, and some other games. There were two families sitting on the couches, the parents talking over a bottle of wine and children playing checkers and entertaining themselves. It was something you would expect to see in someone’s home, not in a public bar, but that is the way (some of) the bars of Spain are. There is a park near my apartment with a small outdoor bar/café, and it is perfectly normal to see parents sipping a glass of wine while their kids climb on the jungle gym and swing on the swing-set. It is just a very different cultural attitude towards alcohol and a different atmosphere as a result. Alcohol is an important part of the culture and a part of everyday life in a wholesome kind of way that is different from the States. Not that it is better or that I want bars opening in public parks at home, but I do think that the US might have less alcohol-related problems if alcohol were something people learned how appreciate socially and to enjoy in moderation from a young age. I also don’t want to say that all bars in Spain are like that—of course there are clubs and things, but as a general observation, the attitude towards alcohol and the consumption of alcohol is very different here in Spain and in Ireland as well. Something to think about and talk about (especially in view of Point Loma’s Covenant)…

Trad

On my first night in Kilkenny, Jenn, the friend I met from the hostel, and I went in search of live music in one of the pubs (because that is what you do) and ended up at Cleere’s pub, apparently a pretty famous small concert venue. It happened that a few local bands were playing in the back room. It was not the traditional Irish music (trad, as it is called) that we were looking for, but we were not disappointed. However, as I was determined to find some good trad, I asked around the next day and eventually came across a poster that offered some promising information.

That night, Kilkenny was celebrating Earth Hour (an annual event where everyone turns out their lights for an hour as a way to raise awareness about global climate change) culminating with “Trad Night by Candlelight” at Ryan’s pub. Perfect. I told Jenn about it, and she was just as excited as I was. The music was fantastic, although the session was not quite as long as I would have liked. Jenn and I made friends with one of the musicians from the band who told us about a flaedh (a trad festival) going on in a small town called Leighlin (lock-lin) Bridge only about twenty minutes north of Kilkenny. With a little bit of schedule adjusting, Jenn and I figured we could make it out to Leighlin Bridge for a while for the sake of some good music. I love that we were able to be spontaneous and flexible with plans, just pick up and go.

Once we arrived in Leighlin Bridge, a very small but very beautiful town, we were directed to the Parish center, where they were having a barbeque to start the day’s festivities. (It was Sunday and the flaedh had been going on since Friday, so this was the final day). A handful of people were hanging out in the parking lot, adults chatting over hamburgers and hotdogs (or sausages, as they say) and kids playing football and playing impromptu tunes on their small pipes. We were immediately welcomed and given free lunch, in spite of our protests. After an amazing hamburger (my first taste of “American” food in about two months), we walked back down to the town’s main pub where the music would be happening later. We were only able to stay for a little bit of the music, but it was worth every minute.

We took a seat at the bar and the bartender asked us what we would have, to which we replied that just a cup of tea would be lovely. He asked us where we were from, why we were in Ireland, and if either of had any Irish in us; after I told him the story of my Irish family, he declared me to be honorary Irish while I was there. A few minutes later, he brought out two mugs of tea and two chocolate snacks for which he refused payment: “They’re complimentary for you,” he said. A guy sitting a few seats down said, “Jim, how about a complimentary pint down this way.” To which the bartender replied, “Now, Pat, you’re not nearly as pretty as the two girls, and besides, I know how many you’ve already had.” I am seriously blown away by the friendliness of the Irish people. I don’t think I have ever received so many free things accompanied by so many smiles and stories.

Kilkenny

After Dublin, I headed to Kilkenny, a typical small Irish town southwest of Dublin with a castle and a lot of history. A few people asked me why I was going to Kilkenny. I guess it is expected that if American students are travelling to Ireland, they will spend their time in the big cities (or in the pubs of the big cities). Oh, stereotypes. I did not want that at all. I wanted to get a good overview of Ireland, her people, her landscape, and her history, which seemed to surprise some people (which is a little sad, I think). Anyway, I headed south to Kilkenny, and I think my time there was the highlight of my trip.

After feeling very alone and isolated in the big city of Dublin, the atmosphere of community and family in Kilkenny was very pronounced. The hostel where I stayed was a major part of the feeling of community. At night, everyone sat in the living room sharing stories around the wood stove, and there I met a new friend, Jenn, who will be around in some more stories soon to come.

I suppose I have heard somewhere before that the Irish are some of the friendliest people in the world, and it is definitely not an exaggeration. As I was reading my map at the bus station, a man asked me where I was headed and as he was headed in the same direction for at lest a while, he walked with me and gave me a mini tour of the town. As he pointed out the major sights—the castle, the cathedral, the abbey, the historic pub—he ran into a friend of his and his boss who both asked him if he would be coming out to one of the pubs for a pint later. I have really enjoyed all the opportunities that cities like San Diego and Sevilla offer, but something I realized while in Ireland is that I love living in a small town where you can’t walk down the street without seeing someone you know to stop and talk to. I loved getting to be a part of some of the small towns that really are the foundation of Irish life and culture.

More Lessons from a Pub

I love the pubs of Ireland. I love the good food, the tea, the music, and just community that they are. I like trying new things, especially new food-- it is a kind of miniature adventure in itself. One thing I have been doing for some meals here in Ireland is getting recommendations from locals about favorite local pubs and ordering the daily "special." Now that has been an adventure. Forrest Gump's momma always said, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get." That is a lie; well, maybe just an inaccurate comparison. I can tell you exactly what you will get in a box of chocolates: CHOCOLATE. Now, the pub's daily "special" on the other hand... who knows. In spite of the uncertainty that clouds the "special," I have been continually pleasantly surprised. I have ordered the soup and sandwich specials at a few different pubs, and each time (although some things sounded quite bizarre) I absolutely loved it. Especially the roll with glazed pork, bread crumbs and applesauce alongside a bowl of potato and mushroom soup. Strange, yes? But amazingly delicious. So, my new and improved analogy: Life is like the neighborhood pub's daily special-- you never know what you are going to get, but you will might just find yourself pleasantly surprised.

Lessons from a Pub (first night in Dublin)

As I had just arrived in Dublin after a very long and rather stressful day of travelling, I did not feel up to a too-large dose of adventure right away. I took some time to settle in to the hostel and use the computer for a bit before asking the man at the reception desk if there was a place close by that he would recommend for dinner and maybe some live music. He was very friendly and told me Brannigan's Pub right around the corner for food and The Celt a little further away for music. I thanked him and headed to Brannigan's pub, hoping to find something cheap to eat and maybe just sit and listen to Irish accents. I was not disappointed.

The pub was a typical local pub, which I love, with good food, a relaxed atmosphere, a friendly bartender, and friendly people. I walked up to the bar and ordered some food, just in time to catch the start of the football match which I pretended to be deeply interested in and made a little bit of small talk about it with the man sitting a few seats down the bar. I enjoyed the quiet time, just listening and thinking. After I finished my food, the man who I had only casually talked to introduced himself as Gary and started talking to me as I sipped my cup of Irish tea (or scald as it is sometimes called here). He must have wanted someone to talk to (or maybe it was the Guinness), because we talked (well, he mostly talked and I mostly listened) for more than two hours and it was one of the greatest things of my life. He asked me where I was from and just started telling me stories about his life and teling me about Dublin. All in all, he bought me two cups of tea and two 7UPs as we talked about politics, religion, travelling, literature, football, and family (to name just a few) and he was full of the most amazing stories and bits of wisdom.

One of my favorites was: "I like to take the ideas of how you are supposed to be, what you're supposed to look like, what you are supposed to do and turn 'em on their heads... Then I like to bang 'em on their heads a few times for good measure." And when he was talking about Irish stew: "As an Irishman, I know a good spud. This one was stunning." He told me he was curious about where I was from because my accent was very slight; after we started talking more he said I sounded more American, but at least I was able to blend in for a while. As we were finishing up, he said "You're a watcher, you are. Keep on watching and paying attention and you won't be dissappointed. You have a good gaze-- a good hold. There must be a hell of a lot of Irish in you." When I said that there was, he laughed with the pleasure of being right and told me he could tell, that my facial features, dark hair, and light eyes are very Irish-- what they call Black Irish, descended from the original Celts (the red hair you may think of as traditional Irish comes from the Viking bloodlines). He said, "You're a good girl, you are. Just trying to find your way, and doing it Sweeney Todd, too-- that just means alone, you know. You're doing the right thing and you're doing all right." Thanks for the encouragement, Gary.

On the Streets of Dublin

As the title of this blog may tell you, I am not in Sevilla right now, or even in Spain. Why, you ask? Well, Semana Santa is a very big deal in Sevilla-- every day is a holiday for everyone for more than a whole week. I have been looking forward to seeing Semana Santa in Sevilla since I started thinking about study abroad, but it is also a very long break and I wanted to take advantage of some of that time to do a bit of outside travelling. So, for the first few days of Semana Santa, I decided to travel to Ireland. I think I might just say that again because I am so excited: IRELAND! I will be gone for a little less than a week (Wednesday March 24 to Tuesday March 30), but will return with plenty of time to see most of Semana Santa in Sevilla (Tuesday to Sunday).

So, now that you know what I am doing, I guess I might tell you a little more about how it has been, or maybe just a few reflections and realizations.

1. There is nothing like independence to make you feel so free and so incredibly vulnerable at the same time. There is no one depending on me but myself; and at the same time, I am depending on no one but myself. That is to say, I can make all the plans I want and do the things I want to do when I want to do them, but !geeze louise! it is a lot of pressure and a lot of hard work. There is no one holding my hand or taking care of me, and if something goes wrong, it is no one's fault but my own. Sometimes the things we thought we wanted, although great and glorious, often remind us of the things we had before. As I am here in Ireland doing all these travel things for myself, I find myself missing having food cooked for me and a consistent bed and a real "home" to come home to. At the same time, I am finally doing something that I have wanted to do since I was a kid. What a mess I am, right?

2. (To follow 1) Adventure is out there! And Adventure is scary. That is why it is an adventure. But it is also glorious and exciting and new and surprising. That is also why it is adventure. So, here I am wanting Adventure (with a capital A) in the Great Wide Somewhere and realizing that I am scared stiff. How can what I want so badly scare me just as badly at the same time?

3. There are few feelings worse than realizing when it is already too late that you forgot your lunch on the kitchen counter. Believe me. It has happened to me multiple times, and it always makes the day a little less cheery than it might have been.

4. (To follow 3) There is always time to double check. To quote my wonderful dad: "Prevention is easier than fixing." I know this. Seriously, it has been drilled into my brain since childhood. So why on earth do I still forget my lunch on the kitchen counter?

Granada

I spent this past weekend exploring the streets and monuments of Granada with a group from my school. My roomate Christy has a friend, Tiffany, from her home university who is studying abroad in Grandada right now, so we were able to meet up with her. She came to visit Sevilla a few weeks ago, and we were able to show her around our city, and this weekend she was able to return the favor. Tiffany has actually been in Granada for a semester already, so she was able to show us the city in a different kind of way, taking us on a fantastic walking tour through the Albaicín (the old Arab neighborhood) and afterwards to her favorite tapas place. It was wonderful to see the city from the perspective of another student who had been living there and had discovered so many things about the city already-- like favorite places to walk to or favorite places to eat. Granada has a tradition that with the purchase of a drink (una copa) comes a free tapa; there may be copas without tapas, but never tapas without copas. One of the reasons I loved Granada is that it is one of those quirky cities with character, not just urban concrete and twisted freeways; maybe what I want to express is the difference I feel when walking the streets of a city like San Francisco compared to how I feel when driving through the skyscrapers of a city like Los Angeles. I think that is why I love San Diego (and now Sevilla) so much.

Well, now back to Granada: Granada is a city in the Sierra Nevada mountains of Andalucia where one can still see the influence that the Arabs had while they were in power during that period of Spanish history. (Sierra Nevada sound familiar? Well, sierra means mountain range and nevada means snowy, so now you know). The old Arab neighborhood, called the Albaicín (all-by-seen), is still a huge part of the city of Granada. (Most of my photos are of the Albaicín and the view from the top of a hill somewhere in the depths of the neighborhood).

Granada was the last city that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella (whom we call los Reyes Católicos or the Catholic Monarchs) recovered from the control of the Arabs during the Reconquest of Spain. They kept the Alhambra (the moorish citadel and palace) as a symbol of the power of their reign; the Arabs had, after all, been there for centuries and now Granada, their last bastion of power, had been conquered by the Catholic Monarchs. I do not know how I feel about the religious-political propoganda of the Catholic Monarchs, but I am glad that they did not destroy the Alhambra because it is magnificent. I think I might like the Alcázar of Sevilla better, but the Alhambra and its gardens were beautiful.

Anyway, because Granada was such an important city to the Catholic Monarchs, they asked to be buried there, and for that purpose they commisioned la Capilla Real (the Royal Chapel). It was amazing to see with my own eyes what I have been learning about in my classes. I am taking History/Civilization of Spain (1500 to present) as well as Art History of Spain (1500 to present) and it has been so fun for me as everyhting comes together. Basically, I get to study the history of Spain as well as the art that came out of Spain during that history all at the same time. This means that when we visited la Capilla Real, I understood it's history and why it was in Granada, what period and artistic styles it is a product of, why the building itself is in mainly a gothic style but the monuments are in the style of the Renaissance, and so much more. I was able to enjoy the visit on a deeper level than I would have if I had simply visited it with a tour guide who mentioned a few of the facts as we passed through. Next to the Alhambra is the palace of Carlos V, which we also studied in my Art History class. I cannot communicate how the pictures on the slide show do not do it justice and how lucky I feel to be able to see these great works in person while I am studying them.

One last thing: The pomegranate (in Spanish granada) is the symbol of Granada (claro). It appears on the flag, public transportation, sidewalks, and all kinds of city property-- very much like the motto and symbol of Sevilla, NO8DO, which I will explain another time.

(This is me leaving you in suspense, waiting to read my next blog... I don't know if it is working...)

¿Una Moto? Ok, whatever you say.

In addition to the upper-division Spanish program CC-CS has for American college students, they also hold English classes in the Center and offer English tutoring for Spanish children. As I am studying to be a teacher, have had experience with children and with tutoring, and would love to have some extra cash, I decided to sign up to be a tutor through the program. Because it had been a while and I had not heard anything, I assumed that I was not going to receive any students to tutor. However, when I checked my email today, I had a message saying that I did indeed have students and the parents would like me to start today.

I nervously proceeded to call the phone number given to me and to talk with Ignacio, the father of the two children whom I will be working with. After we determined that 3:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon on Mondays and Wednesdays would work the best for everyone, he asked that I meet him in front of the Corte Ingles in Nervion so he could walk with me to their house so I did not get lost. "Ok. I can do that," I thought. "No pasa nada." This, however, required that I rush home immediately after my class ended aty 1:45 pm, eat quickly (which never exactly works out in Spain because meals always have a way of taking longer than you think), and leave my house at 3:00 pm to power-walk to El Corte Ingles by 3:30 pm. No pasa nada, right?

Well, Carmen was out when I arrived home; because everything happened so quickly while I was at school, I did not have a chance to tell her that I was in a hurry for lunch today. After I was eventually able to gulp down some lunch and run out the door, I made it to our meeting place in time. Except I was the only one who was on time. I waited there for about twenty minutes before I received a call from Teresa, the mother of the family, apologizing for the confusion and saying that Ignacio was coming to get me "en la moto" because it was a little before 4:00 pm and they did not want me to be late for my class at 5:00 pm. As I was too busy being relieved that they had not forgotten me and wondering about how on earth I was going to get to class, it did not quite register in my brain that "la moto" is short for "la motocicleta." ......

Ignacio showed up a few minutes later, sure enough on a moto scooter. As he explained that he had been caught up at work and apologized for being late, he pulled out a spare helmet and handed it to me. To his question of "¿Te da miedo las motos?" (Are you afraid of motos?), I replied, "No, no. Está bien," even though that was not exactly the truth. He assured me that we would go slowly anyway. I put on the helmet, got on the back of the scooter, put my feet on the small foot rests, and then we were off-- in the direction from which I had come! I had just power-walked twenty minutes down Calle San Francisco y Javier to get there on time, and now we were riding back in the direction I came from. I could do nothing but smile (trying not to laugh). There I was in Sevilla, with the wind in my face, riding on the back of a scooter with someone I had just met. The situation was, well, just ironically funny, but here in Sevilla-- with a wave of the hand and "No pasa nada," we just go with it.

We got to the house, and I met Teresa and los niños-- Nacho, the boy, is 12 and his sister Teresita is 10. We did a few exercises and talked for while, so I could get to know them a little and get a feel for how much English they knew, but we did not have enough time for a full hour. Ignacio told me that he would take me back to school on the moto today so that I would not be late, for which I was very grateful. I strapped on the spare helmet again-- a little tighter this time so it did not slip to the back of my head in the wind-- and we were off once again. To get back to the Center, we drove along the river (which was very scenic from my view on the back of a moto) and through some back streets to avoid traffic before pulling up in front of the Center on Calle Harinas. I thanked Ignacio for getting me there on time for class and said good-bye, thinking to myself, "Well, that was interesting."

¿Una moto? Ok, whatever you say. No pasa nada.

An Artsy Semester

So, I am now in the middle of my second week of regular classes (my first month here was an intensive period of just one language class every day for four hours) and I have sorted out my schedule. I am taking Advanced Spanish Composition, History/Civilization of Spain, Art History of Spain, Spanish Film, and Cultural Realities of Spain. As most of you know, I am majoring in Literature and Spanish at Point Loma, and I was hoping to be able to study literature of Spain while I am in Spain, but it was impossible due to schedule conflicts. On the other hand, I am tremendously excited about how well all of my classes fit together this semester. My Spanish Civ. class and my Art History class are both starting with the fifteenth century and moving forward to the modern era. Studying both the history of Spain and the art of Spain that came out of those eras in the same semester is going to be fantastic. It is also going to be a really artsy semester for me with Art History, Spanish Film, and a water-color painting class I am taking for fun on top of my normal hobby of photography. It should be interesting, and I am looking forward to learning a lot, to say the least.

A Soundtrack for Life

I ride the bus from Nervion every morning to Prado San Sebastián where I transfer to the tramvía (electric/cable train) to continue on to Plaza Nueva where I get off and walk a few more blocks to school. I then do this in reverse to go home for lunch, then come back to school for my classes in the afternoon, and then once again in reverse when my day is finally done. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time on public transportation (when it finally stops raining here, I hope to walk more, but until then...well, we continue on). The tramvía at least is always tuned to what must be a classical radio station-- sometimes it is an intense symphony, a melancholy piano sonata, or famous operatic works. Although I already had a sense of how important music is in a film, I am learning more about it in my Spanish Film class, which, consequently, is changing the way I observe and perceive things. When riding the tramvía, I find myself imagining that the music is part of the soundtrack of my life or someone else's life: "If this were a movie, what kind of emotions should I be feeling, what kind of thoughts would be going through my head, where would I be headed, and where would I be coming from?" Oh, man, my profe would be so proud.

A Passionate Language

One of the things I love about the Spanish language is the passionate and descriptive nature of it. I have heard some names that in Spanish are perfectly normal, but would be quite strange in English. One of my professor’s names is Milagros (Miracles) but she goes by Mila, and another of my professor’s names is Consolación (Consolation) but she shortens it to Conso. Encarna (one of the women I met in my apartment complex) is short for Encarnación (Incarnation – like the theological term) and my friend Jess was telling me that she met a woman named Puri, which is short for Purificación (Purification). I doubt you would find those names in a book like 1001 Baby Names in the States. One can get away with saying fantastic things in Spanish that would never fly in English. For example, this past week I bought books and school supplies for my classes, and when I paid in exact change, the girl behind the counter said, “Gracias. Stupendo.” Now, as someone who has worked behind a counter, I can get away with saying “Awesome, thanks,” but if I said “Stupendous,” you would probably wonder what I had been drinking lately. In the same way, phrases like “Chicos, es divino!” (Guys, it is divine!) and “Que barbaridad!” (What a barbarity!) that are normal in Spanish evoke sentiments of, shall we say… “Drama-Queen” ? … in English. Seriously, if I started saying things like “What a barbarity!” or if you heard other people saying, “People, this is just divine!” what would you do?

Morocco

This past weekend I visited Morocco with a tourist group based here in Sevilla. Almost all the students from my program went on this trip to Morocco as well as other study-abroad students here in Spain. It was strange returning to Africa with a huge tourist group, actually rather unsettling. I think I experienced more culture shock from that huge group of tourists than I have experienced anywhere else, even when I went to Africa the first time. We visited a few cities in Morocco—Chef Chaouen, Tangiers, Tetuan, Ceuta—but only the very touristy parts. Don’t misunderstand me—the cities were beautiful, I learned a lot about the culture and customs, and I am very glad I went. I just hate being a tourist, especially in a place like Africa where it is crucial to be culturally sensitive and aware of the issues there. I hate being with a group of tourists, especially a huge group of tourists who are so blatantly American. Well, enough of that. Morocco is officially a Muslim country, but I was surprised at how many changes have occurred within the past decade for the Moroccans. The government of Morocco is an absolute monarchy (the king has all the power), and their current king is relatively young, about forty-five or so. He was educated abroad somewhere and has put into effect what to me appear to be some very good changes in the country. For example, the current king’s wedding was a public one, which means that for the first time in the history of Morocco, the people have seen the face of their queen; in the past, the wife (or wives) of the king were always veiled and never seen by the people. She also appears to be involved in several causes and active in her role as queen, which to me seems to be a wonderful step forward for the rights of women in Muslim countries. I hope that the government of Morocco as a Muslim country can set an example for other more conservative Muslim countries in the world to take steps for women’s rights. Besides some of those political things, I learned a little bit about the Muslim culture itself. One of my favorite moments was walking the windy streets of Chef Chaouen, a beautiful small market town (yes, Mom, I was in a big group, which consequently made us even more obvious). I asked our guide, a local man of about sixty, why everything was painted in shades of blue, and he told me that certain colors are very significant in the Muslim culture. For example, blue represents the love of Allah, white represents the peace of Islam, and green represents the community of Muslims around the world. This explains a lot; every Islamic center I have ever seen in the States has been painted in schemes of white and blue or green, and now that I understand the symbolism, it makes a lot of sense.