1. This is Ally’s story; I did not witness this one. Ally was at a bar talking to this Spanish guy. He went outside to smoke, came back in, and once again found Ally. However, this time he claimed he no longer spoke Spanish and had her choose between English or Martian. She obviously chose Martian, and without breaking a straight face, this guy told her something in a series of fast, high-pitched beeps. Ally was laughing quite a bit, but managed to respond. They held a decent conversation in Martian, and Ally’s friend did not smile or laugh once.
2. This one is my friend Laura’s story. She was walking with a group that included the seven-year-old girl who lives at her house. The girl was pushing a doll in a toy stroller. An old man walked by pushing his old wife in a wheelchair. When their paths crossed, the old man said to the little girl (in Spanish, of course), “My doll is bigger than your doll!”
3. A couple of weekends ago, Emma and I went into OpenCor, my favorite convenience store, in search of ice cream. When we were in line to check out, we noticed the DVD of “Los Increibles” for sale. I recounted to Emma the time with a girl from ITS (the campus computer repairers) came to my room freshman year to reinstall Windows. We had to wait a half-hour for the thing to load, and we weren’t going to make smalltalk for a half-hour. To pass the time, we watched “The Incredibles” that my roommate had left in the DVD player. The end. This story lasted until the end of our transaction. We became aware that the cashier at OpenCor was reeeeeally feeling this story. Even though he could not have known what “ITS” is, he was hanging on every word and cracking up. It was, in fact, the funniest story he had ever heard. He was looking right at me, waiting for more. I had to quickly finish up the story before we left.
What a fun life we live in Sevilla!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Four Funny Things
Two weeks ago, a group of choir members, myself included, went out for tapas after choir, as we often do. Two funny things happened within a minutes of each other.
Two nights ago, I was playing with Esperanza, my eight-year-old host sister, and two more funny things happened within minutes of each other.
None of these on its own merited a post, but I decided that the four together are valuable enough to publish.
1.a. My friend Amy and I were talking to Pablo, a very nice, jolly, smiling tenor with whom neither of us had talked before. The topic of discussion was, unsurprisingly for the circumstances, Spanish cuisine. Specifically, everything is fried in Spain. Amy, a Minnesota native, drew the comparison that everything is fried at the Minnesota State Fair. Pablo asked what the Minnesota State Fair is. Amy began explaining it (in Spanish, of course): “Well, everyone brings their pigs and their cows...” Pablo interjected, “To fry?” Laughter ensued.
1.b. The subject still on Minnesota, Pablo mentioned mid-west accents. This shifted to general American English pronunciation, and the words that Americans destroy (e.g. “written”). This was Pablo’s cue to burst into song (in English, this time): “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on KI’ENS. We all joined in. Pablo took center stage when we arrived at the chorus: “When the shark bites, when the bee stings...” More laughter ensued. I hope shark bites aren’t one of those everyday annoyances in Spain! “Aw, not again!!” I walked home that night laughing, remembering both of Pablo’s fine lines.
2.a. I arrived home after a day of classes to a chaotic scene at home. The puppy was running around and squealing, as was Esperanza. Esperanza decided that we would play doctor. She asked me what hurts. Without thinking, I told her the truth: my left knee. She proceeded to pick up my water bottle and slam it down on my poor knee, I think to “test my reflexes.” This was amusing to me because it was sooooo painful, yet so avoidable.
2.b. After drawing a scar onto my knee, Esperanza transformed into my teacher. She was assigning me homework with help from my current book, “Bridget Jones Sobrevive” (book two). Flipping through, Esperanza selected Spanish words for me to translate into English. I was really hung up on the third word, which sounded like “shah-RON” or something. Giving up, I asked Esperanza to show me the written word. It was “Sharon,” the name of one of Bridget’s friends. Jajaja!
Two nights ago, I was playing with Esperanza, my eight-year-old host sister, and two more funny things happened within minutes of each other.
None of these on its own merited a post, but I decided that the four together are valuable enough to publish.
1.a. My friend Amy and I were talking to Pablo, a very nice, jolly, smiling tenor with whom neither of us had talked before. The topic of discussion was, unsurprisingly for the circumstances, Spanish cuisine. Specifically, everything is fried in Spain. Amy, a Minnesota native, drew the comparison that everything is fried at the Minnesota State Fair. Pablo asked what the Minnesota State Fair is. Amy began explaining it (in Spanish, of course): “Well, everyone brings their pigs and their cows...” Pablo interjected, “To fry?” Laughter ensued.
1.b. The subject still on Minnesota, Pablo mentioned mid-west accents. This shifted to general American English pronunciation, and the words that Americans destroy (e.g. “written”). This was Pablo’s cue to burst into song (in English, this time): “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on KI’ENS. We all joined in. Pablo took center stage when we arrived at the chorus: “When the shark bites, when the bee stings...” More laughter ensued. I hope shark bites aren’t one of those everyday annoyances in Spain! “Aw, not again!!” I walked home that night laughing, remembering both of Pablo’s fine lines.
2.a. I arrived home after a day of classes to a chaotic scene at home. The puppy was running around and squealing, as was Esperanza. Esperanza decided that we would play doctor. She asked me what hurts. Without thinking, I told her the truth: my left knee. She proceeded to pick up my water bottle and slam it down on my poor knee, I think to “test my reflexes.” This was amusing to me because it was sooooo painful, yet so avoidable.
2.b. After drawing a scar onto my knee, Esperanza transformed into my teacher. She was assigning me homework with help from my current book, “Bridget Jones Sobrevive” (book two). Flipping through, Esperanza selected Spanish words for me to translate into English. I was really hung up on the third word, which sounded like “shah-RON” or something. Giving up, I asked Esperanza to show me the written word. It was “Sharon,” the name of one of Bridget’s friends. Jajaja!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
End of monthlong post
The following weekend I stayed in Sevilla. On Friday, it dawned on me how little time I have left here, so Kai and I committed to doing touristy stuff, and visited the Torre de Oro that we walk by every day. Later that afternoon, I went to get a haircut. Carmen had recommended a haircut academy right near our house that’s super cheap, because the workers are students. She assured me that they do a good job. This was disastrous. I’m sure they do a good job on traditional Spanish haircuts, but my hair was completely foreign. I know that I explained things well, but a haircut is still not something I recommend doing in one’s second language. The student kept calling over her teachers for help. The teachers were fine, but the second they left her she kept screwing up. She ended up chopping off one side of hair, and completely forgetting the other side. I pointed this out, and she did a little, but it is still completely asymmetrical. This was a completely traumatic experience, and luckily, Kai was able to comfort me after.
On Saturday morning Sasha and I went to Aracena with the program. We stopped along the way to tour a mine alongside the “Rio de Tinto” (river of wine). There was, in fact, a red lake. We proceeded to Aracena, a tiny town that I had definitely seen before (I think we hiked through it the first Senderismo). It was really nice to have time with Sasha, and we spent the morning walking through the town in search of ice cream. Later on, our group visited the “Gruta de las Maravillas,” which translates to “Cave of Wonders.” This was incredible. It’s this massive cave underground that has been augmented with stairs, railings, and lights to make it walkable. It was filled with glowing green lakes and stalactites galore. I highly recommend looking up pictures online, as photography was not allowed. Saturday night Sasha and I finally saw, and loved, “Slumdog Millionaire.” It was nice to just watch a movie, a favorite activity of mine that has been removed from my routine since coming here. We saw it in the original language movie theater, which, as it turned out, meant that it was not dubbed. However, there were still subtitles in Spanish and not in English. This meant that for most of it, when English was not spoken, we were viewing the movie in Spanish. This was totally fine for both of us, but it was strange when the movie switched to English. Sasha and I confirmed after that we had both continued reading the Spanish and ignored the English, because we were used to it. I was proud that we were able to understand all of it in Spanish.
I woke up sick Sunday morning. I hadn’t been that sick in awhile, and I was surprised that I contracted something due to my massive amount of sleep the week before and my daily orange consumption. This was especially bad timing because I had midterms the week that followed. I decided to go to the doctor, something that Kai had done the week before. There is one office that’s very helpful to American students, and I dragged myself out of bed and over there. The doctor complimented my Spanish as I described my symptoms and even managed to joke with him. I remembered the unit in seventh grade Spanish where we learned sick terms and practiced doctor’s appointments in class. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve used this vocabulary since then. Ms. Morehouse should immediately get some professional development points for effective teaching, since the necessary words came to mind after an eight-year hiatus. He prescribed me some stuff, and my host family luckily had their tub of Vick’s VapoRub, pronounced in Andalusia “BeebahpoRRROO.” Somehow, I survived through exam week. I had my Flamenco exam Wednesday night, my Tres Culturas and grammar exams back to back on Thursday, and my art history exam Monday morning. I realized that these were my first content exams in Spanish. Everything’s graded on a ten-point scale, and so far I’ve only heard back from Flamenco (8’9, as it was written, with a “Bien” after my essays!).
Totally unrelated: I looked up the Spanish word “polo” in my bilingual dictionary the other day. Here is what I found:
polo m 1 pole. 2 polo. 3 ice lolly.
I liked that.
I wrote the bulk of this while falling asleep in bed last night, intending to go back and edit and delete the boring details before posting it. However, it’s raining and I’m sleepy and sick of writing, so I’m just going to post it as is, oh well.
Mom--you were wondering how to comment; you can do it right under every post!!
On Saturday morning Sasha and I went to Aracena with the program. We stopped along the way to tour a mine alongside the “Rio de Tinto” (river of wine). There was, in fact, a red lake. We proceeded to Aracena, a tiny town that I had definitely seen before (I think we hiked through it the first Senderismo). It was really nice to have time with Sasha, and we spent the morning walking through the town in search of ice cream. Later on, our group visited the “Gruta de las Maravillas,” which translates to “Cave of Wonders.” This was incredible. It’s this massive cave underground that has been augmented with stairs, railings, and lights to make it walkable. It was filled with glowing green lakes and stalactites galore. I highly recommend looking up pictures online, as photography was not allowed. Saturday night Sasha and I finally saw, and loved, “Slumdog Millionaire.” It was nice to just watch a movie, a favorite activity of mine that has been removed from my routine since coming here. We saw it in the original language movie theater, which, as it turned out, meant that it was not dubbed. However, there were still subtitles in Spanish and not in English. This meant that for most of it, when English was not spoken, we were viewing the movie in Spanish. This was totally fine for both of us, but it was strange when the movie switched to English. Sasha and I confirmed after that we had both continued reading the Spanish and ignored the English, because we were used to it. I was proud that we were able to understand all of it in Spanish.
I woke up sick Sunday morning. I hadn’t been that sick in awhile, and I was surprised that I contracted something due to my massive amount of sleep the week before and my daily orange consumption. This was especially bad timing because I had midterms the week that followed. I decided to go to the doctor, something that Kai had done the week before. There is one office that’s very helpful to American students, and I dragged myself out of bed and over there. The doctor complimented my Spanish as I described my symptoms and even managed to joke with him. I remembered the unit in seventh grade Spanish where we learned sick terms and practiced doctor’s appointments in class. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve used this vocabulary since then. Ms. Morehouse should immediately get some professional development points for effective teaching, since the necessary words came to mind after an eight-year hiatus. He prescribed me some stuff, and my host family luckily had their tub of Vick’s VapoRub, pronounced in Andalusia “BeebahpoRRROO.” Somehow, I survived through exam week. I had my Flamenco exam Wednesday night, my Tres Culturas and grammar exams back to back on Thursday, and my art history exam Monday morning. I realized that these were my first content exams in Spanish. Everything’s graded on a ten-point scale, and so far I’ve only heard back from Flamenco (8’9, as it was written, with a “Bien” after my essays!).
Totally unrelated: I looked up the Spanish word “polo” in my bilingual dictionary the other day. Here is what I found:
polo m 1 pole. 2 polo. 3 ice lolly.
I liked that.
I wrote the bulk of this while falling asleep in bed last night, intending to go back and edit and delete the boring details before posting it. However, it’s raining and I’m sleepy and sick of writing, so I’m just going to post it as is, oh well.
Mom--you were wondering how to comment; you can do it right under every post!!
Paella en el Campo
The following weekend was quite different. On Saturday I attended a “Paella en el campo” (el campo=the countryside). I happen to be a big fan of both paella and the countryside, so I eagerly accepted the invitation. Ana, a woman in choir, invited us. She is a kind, warm, Sevillian woman with three sons (ages 28ish, 23ish, and 17), two of whom are in choir as well. It was her birthday, so she invited some people from choir to her pueblo. This town, Carrión de los Cespedes (cesped=lawn, grass), is where her parents are from, where she was born, where she spent summers as a kid, and where she goes for weekends and summers now. The town is about thirty miles outside of Sevilla, and the four Germans and I met up to be driven by Ana and her husband to the cabin. I was pleased to see that I was the only American in attendance. I have been getting to know the Germans in choir, so I was glad to have an opportunity to really bond with them. The Germans are Michel, the one guy, Rebecca, Manuela, and Hannah. Hannah is the one I’m closest to, and she was key in my invitation. She is super nice, and cute and stylish (short blonde hair and a red jacket!) and she loves to laugh and does so easily. Other guests included Paco, an elderly bass in choir, Elena and Franci[sco], also in choir, and their four-year-old son Massimo, a couple who met in choir as students (the woman is Italian and was studying abroad, her husband is Spanish) but no longer attend it, and their three-month-old baby boy, among others. We arrived at Ana’s cabin, which is hidden by a gate which opens onto a lemon-tree lined dirt road to the house. The house is adorable, think Pochet for those of you who can, with a little fireplace and little bedrooms and the wonderful smell of mothballs and must. There is a front yard complete with a swimming pool, full of many months worth of green rainwater. Hannah and I played with Massimo as the others began preparing Paella. Massimo is a wonderful, adorable, outgoing little boy who happens to look strikingly like Patrik, a little boy I babysat all through high school. It always baffles me how well children speak Spanish. I’ve been studying Spanish for eight years, Massimo is only four, yet he can use imperfect subjunctive vosotros without having to stop and think. Per his mother’s cue, he showed off the English phrases he knows, with a thick Andalusian accent: Chhhhello! Wherrre arrrre yous? Vye-vye!!! We read books and kicked a soccer ball around the driveway, and it felt so good to be around children again. We all helped with the paella prep (if it weren’t for me the paella would be slightly under-tomatoed) while Massimo’s dad Franci and his cousin set up the “grill.” Ana has a gigantic paella pan, which she keeps in the garden shed, that required hosing off. This pan was placed on a paella pan holder, which was plugged into a tank of some kind of gas. Massimo’s dad manned the spatula as I watched exactly how to prepare my favorite food in the world. This day was absolutely perfect. We ate all the paella we possibly could, sat with our feet in the pool (after removing the semi-decomposed, flattened hedgehog), Ana brought our several straw hats for the fair-skinned Germans and me (I left with a great tan), we simply relaxed all afternoon. The beauty of it was the English was not an option. For the first time since I’ve been here, I spent an entire day speaking in Spanish (with the exception of trying out everyone’s favorite German song, “Lachen [uber das feld],” which none of the Germans knew). The entire day was just so Spanish. Later in the afternoon, Ana made a pot of coffee and brought out some cookies. Franci fetched his guitar and embarked on playing and singing some Spanish songs. Ana, Paco, and Franci’s cousin sang along, and several of the Spaniard accompanied him with the appropriate clapping rhythms. I tried out a few that I’ve learned in Flamenco class, none of which were correct. This was the perfect Spanish day and the perfect summer day rolled into one. After a couple more hours, the youngins decided to go for a walk. Ana led the Germans and I on what ended up to be a long walk through the town. We were walking back around 9:00 at night, and it was just so peaceful. The moon was out, we could see the stars, hear the crickets (or maybe I added that part), and smell the sweet Andalucian air. The sky was a beautiful deep blue, and I was so content. Hannah and I agreed that this day was the highlight of our time here so far. As Ana packed up the leftover paella to bring home to her hungry sons, we picked lemons off the trees to our heart’s content, as Ana instructed, to bring home. I still have a bag full of fragrant, organic lemons, with which I have no idea what I’m going to do, but they’ve made their way into tea and Carmen’s baked goods. This day was one to remember.
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008994&id=1232310007&l=2291121e46
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008994&id=1232310007&l=2291121e46
Malaga
The weekend after my last post I went to Malaga, a beach town a couple hours outside of Sevilla. This was my first non-school-sponsored weekend trip, and my first real bunk bed hostel. Malaga is a small city with fabulous views. There are hills on one side on which sit the Alcazaba (in the family as Sevilla’s Alcazar and Granada’s Alhambra) and another castle. On the other side is the Mediterranean Sea. We spent Friday afternoon (wiped out after our 6:00 AM departure) and Sunday morning (before our train home) on the beach, lying in the “sand” and watching the boats go by. I came very close to jumping in on Sunday (since I was already knee deep), but the prospect of a three-hour train ride with wet clothes was unappealing. We bought baguettes and lunchmeat at the supermarket and had picnics on the beach. Saturday was Día de Andalucía, a very important regional holiday. As a result, several tourist attractions were closed. However, we still got to sightsee, including the Picasso museum (Picasso lived in Málaga until he was ten). The highlight was the bullfight. Oh yes. Because of the holiday, the bullring of Málaga hosted an amateur bullfight, where all the up-and-coming toreadors could do their thing. By pure luck, we walked by and heard the trumpets. Admission was free, so we joined the crowd three rows back.
WARNING: THIS NEXT CHUNK CONTAINS GRAPHIC DETAILS!
This was one of the most intense experiences of my life. General outline of a bullfight: The first step is to tire out the bull. The toreador makes him run around a lot via shaking the red (pink, in this case) cloth. To further weaken the bull, the toreador stabs him between the shoulder blades with these fancy pokers, which decoratively hang from the bull for the rest of the corrida. After running the bull around more to further tire him and give the event suspense, the toreador stabs the bull and kills it. I had this romanticized view of all this; I thought the bull hardly noticed the pokers, had a grand old time playing with the cloth, then the toreador smacked the bull with the sword and it immediately died. Au contraire. When we arrived, the bull already had the pokers hanging. We realized, when we saw the glossy blood covering the bull’s front half, that this was going to be way more intense than the videos we had previously seen. The toreador, who could not have been more than eighteen, continued. At times, perhaps since this was the amateur show, he lost control. There were a couple times that the bull’s horns were perilously close to the boy, which made me quite nervous. The couple of times he dropped his cloth the older toreadors would run out with their own cloths to distract the bull while the toreador found his footing. The brown bull became increasingly bloody as his wounds continued to ooze. He was also making sounds, cries, as he continued to participate. Finally, when the bull was right in front of our section, in a swift movement the toreador inserted his sword all the way between the bull’s shoulder blades. I was horrified but could not look away, and slightly wanted to vomit all over the stadium. I hadn’t realized that the sword goes all the way in!!! I wondered where it went after, looking on the ground, then found it. In fact, this sword happened to go all the way through and poke out the bull’s belly. The bull stayed on foot, moaning this horrible, horrible moan, as blood started pouring out of its lower wound. As the bull cried, blood came rushing out its mouth as well. The beautiful young brown bull in front of us was bleeding out of every orifice, yet so completely alive still. The bull instinctively responded when the toreador waved his cloth for the final time and made its move. The point of this, as shown here, was to make the bull fall, finally. To my pleasure, they soon put the bull out of its misery. While it was on the ground bleeding and crying, two older men came over and wiggled a knife around in the bull’s neck to end it all. It’s legs twitched for a while after. Ugh. The other man sawed off the bull’s ear, a custom to present the toreador with a “trophy.” As they latched the now dead bull to the horse-drawn apparatus to remove it from the stadium, the young toreador proudly walked around the stadium, bowing and waving to his cheering fans, who were waving white handkerchiefs in the air in congratulations. He threw the ear to an adoring fan (a small boy) as the trumpet players played the customary music. The bull disappeared out of the stadium, and other crewmembers ran onto the dirt to shovel up the blood and smooth everything out. We stayed for the second bull. This one was really feisty, and the new toreador lacked the control that the first one had. There were several more incidents where the toreador dropped his cloth, and he had far more near-accidents with the horns than the first one had had. In the end, he had trouble killing it. His first stab missed, and the bull was unscathed enough to have all his faculties and he was REALLY mad. The experts came on, removed the sword, and gave it back to the kid. He was allowed another stab, which was better, but due partly to the sheer mass of the bull, wasn’t as affective as was the first one we witnessed. They counted it as good enough, got the bull of his feet, and the experts finished the job right away.
This was absolutely incredible. Before I left for Spain, a woman told me that her daughter had gone to a bullfight while in Spain. She was horrified, disgusted, and appalled for the first bull. By the end (usually five bulls later) she was standing up and cheering along with the Spaniards. I found this a little hard to believe, but felt a similar transition even in the second bull. I looked around a bit more, and took in the audience. It was mostly families, complete with grandparents and small children, celebrating Dia de Andalusia. I had to admit that I wanted to stay for more bulls. The rest of the group couldn’t take anymore, so we left, but I was already feeling it as a sheer cultural experience. I am SO SO glad that we found this bullfight. It is such a Spanish thing, but I don’t know if I really would have paid at least fifty euros to sit in the farthest, top grandstand at the Plaza de Toros to see a real bullfight. Instead, I got to be about ten feet away from the ring completely for free. This was such an incredible experience that I will absolutely never forget. If I remember, I will post the link to pictures and even videos (don’t worry, the camera was off for the deaths)!
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008923&id=1232310007&l=33cb6b300a
WARNING: THIS NEXT CHUNK CONTAINS GRAPHIC DETAILS!
This was one of the most intense experiences of my life. General outline of a bullfight: The first step is to tire out the bull. The toreador makes him run around a lot via shaking the red (pink, in this case) cloth. To further weaken the bull, the toreador stabs him between the shoulder blades with these fancy pokers, which decoratively hang from the bull for the rest of the corrida. After running the bull around more to further tire him and give the event suspense, the toreador stabs the bull and kills it. I had this romanticized view of all this; I thought the bull hardly noticed the pokers, had a grand old time playing with the cloth, then the toreador smacked the bull with the sword and it immediately died. Au contraire. When we arrived, the bull already had the pokers hanging. We realized, when we saw the glossy blood covering the bull’s front half, that this was going to be way more intense than the videos we had previously seen. The toreador, who could not have been more than eighteen, continued. At times, perhaps since this was the amateur show, he lost control. There were a couple times that the bull’s horns were perilously close to the boy, which made me quite nervous. The couple of times he dropped his cloth the older toreadors would run out with their own cloths to distract the bull while the toreador found his footing. The brown bull became increasingly bloody as his wounds continued to ooze. He was also making sounds, cries, as he continued to participate. Finally, when the bull was right in front of our section, in a swift movement the toreador inserted his sword all the way between the bull’s shoulder blades. I was horrified but could not look away, and slightly wanted to vomit all over the stadium. I hadn’t realized that the sword goes all the way in!!! I wondered where it went after, looking on the ground, then found it. In fact, this sword happened to go all the way through and poke out the bull’s belly. The bull stayed on foot, moaning this horrible, horrible moan, as blood started pouring out of its lower wound. As the bull cried, blood came rushing out its mouth as well. The beautiful young brown bull in front of us was bleeding out of every orifice, yet so completely alive still. The bull instinctively responded when the toreador waved his cloth for the final time and made its move. The point of this, as shown here, was to make the bull fall, finally. To my pleasure, they soon put the bull out of its misery. While it was on the ground bleeding and crying, two older men came over and wiggled a knife around in the bull’s neck to end it all. It’s legs twitched for a while after. Ugh. The other man sawed off the bull’s ear, a custom to present the toreador with a “trophy.” As they latched the now dead bull to the horse-drawn apparatus to remove it from the stadium, the young toreador proudly walked around the stadium, bowing and waving to his cheering fans, who were waving white handkerchiefs in the air in congratulations. He threw the ear to an adoring fan (a small boy) as the trumpet players played the customary music. The bull disappeared out of the stadium, and other crewmembers ran onto the dirt to shovel up the blood and smooth everything out. We stayed for the second bull. This one was really feisty, and the new toreador lacked the control that the first one had. There were several more incidents where the toreador dropped his cloth, and he had far more near-accidents with the horns than the first one had had. In the end, he had trouble killing it. His first stab missed, and the bull was unscathed enough to have all his faculties and he was REALLY mad. The experts came on, removed the sword, and gave it back to the kid. He was allowed another stab, which was better, but due partly to the sheer mass of the bull, wasn’t as affective as was the first one we witnessed. They counted it as good enough, got the bull of his feet, and the experts finished the job right away.
This was absolutely incredible. Before I left for Spain, a woman told me that her daughter had gone to a bullfight while in Spain. She was horrified, disgusted, and appalled for the first bull. By the end (usually five bulls later) she was standing up and cheering along with the Spaniards. I found this a little hard to believe, but felt a similar transition even in the second bull. I looked around a bit more, and took in the audience. It was mostly families, complete with grandparents and small children, celebrating Dia de Andalusia. I had to admit that I wanted to stay for more bulls. The rest of the group couldn’t take anymore, so we left, but I was already feeling it as a sheer cultural experience. I am SO SO glad that we found this bullfight. It is such a Spanish thing, but I don’t know if I really would have paid at least fifty euros to sit in the farthest, top grandstand at the Plaza de Toros to see a real bullfight. Instead, I got to be about ten feet away from the ring completely for free. This was such an incredible experience that I will absolutely never forget. If I remember, I will post the link to pictures and even videos (don’t worry, the camera was off for the deaths)!
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008923&id=1232310007&l=33cb6b300a
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Classes update!!
I am really enjoying my classes.
1. Art History. I am learning so much. There are a whole lot of new words in Spanish all at once (boveda=dome, vidriera=stained glass, etc.) but my professor (Concha) is so great. She speaks so slowly and clearly and repeats everything, which must be painful for her, but I am following and learning a lot, both about art and history. I’m really looking forward to the rest of this class, and getting even more out of the Cathedral and Museo de Belles Artes when we go with the class. It took me all class today (well at least till the first paining) to realize that this random dude named “Miguel Angel” is simply Spanish for “Michelangelo.”
2. History of Flamenco. Really interesting, really fun. My professor is a young, fashionable woman named Pepa. She is also a dynamic teacher, and makes class really fun. Since it is a flamenco class, it hardly makes sense to simply sit in our seats. The first week we learned complicated clapping rhythms (palmas) and the proper hand formation. The next class we added some feet as well. The second week we started singing a little (score!), and yesterday we got up to practice our arm and hand movements. Pepa’s father is an accomplished flamenco singer, and it certainly is genetic. She sings things for us to demonstrate, and I realized that she’s really, really good. I have learned so much about the history of Spain in this class.
3. Tres Culturas. Again, interesting, learning a lot. This is definitely my most serious academic class. My professor is a young [attractive] man who has taught in the States as well. I know very little about European history or religion, and I am learning so much. The readings are interesting, and the class structure keeps it interesting. Kai’s in class with me, and we work together, which is nice.
I’m glad to finally have a semester where I am enjoying my classes and learning a lot. I am glad that I have all of my classes with CIEE, because they pick great professors.
But wait.
4. Comparative and Contrastive Syntax.
This class is incredible. A)My Spanish is improving soooo much. B)Every class involves uncontrollable laughter. It’s difficult to describe the point of the class. I think it should be mandatory for every second-language learner, since I am learning so much. I guess it just helps express ourselves in Spanish as we would like to in English? It’s hard to explain but it’s great.
The professor is so funny. Try to imagine a fifty-year-old man with a stylish haircut wearing super-stylish clothes. He comes in in his little distressed, faded, whiskered jeans and his layered shirts and sweaters; he could be a model. A model that does ridiculous things:
1. Every time someone messes up something obvious or annoying, he announces his desire to die. “La cosa mas buena...” “BOWL OF POISON.” “La proxima dia...” “TEN BULLETS. RIGHT HERE.” He started a new route this week. Someone messed up, and he calmly said, “Give me a sandwich of anthrax.” He’s been overusing the anthrax since, so hopefully he’s looking up some other dangerous substances for next week. At one point he said “Recuerda dos mil y dos” which no one seemed to hear except me. I remembered that 2002 was the year of anthrax. Oh, Antonio. Perhaps you have to be there, but it’s hilarious.
2. Whenever he’s saying something in English, he uses a thick British accent, which is just funny. He made Kai use it while reading aloud yesterday. He told us his three pet peeves in Spanish: “cumple” for cumpleanos, “profe” for professor, and “fin de” for “fin de semana.” Later that class, to practice the verb soler, Antonio asked me if I usually eat dinner with friends on the weekends. I responded, “Suelo cenar con amigos en el FIN DE,” to annoy him. He shook his head and said in the thickest British accent yet, “Sophia Crafts you are BAD!” I enjoyed this.
3. Antonio told Scott (classmate) to “call” a girl across the room to “make plans.” After they had adequately rehearsed quedarse, Scott was ready to hang up. However, Antonio told him to say something nice to the girl on the phone. He told her he looked forward to seeing her. Antonio wanted nicer. Scott wasn’t allowed to “hang up” until he told the girl across the room that her eyes were like the sunset.
4. Antonio chose this guy Andrew to be the singer of the class. He’ll sneak in as many song lyrics as possible to our homework, then make Andrew sing into the whiteboard eraser for every example. These always include grammar stuff we’re working on, but singing them in English is fine.
5. Antonio chose the same Andrew to call Elsa, from Clark, across the room to make plans. He asked if she was free that night, and per Antonio’s gestures, she said she wasn’t. Andrew persisted, and asked if she was free the following night. Antonio was frantically indicating for her to say no, so she did. Elsa turned Andrew down a third time, and Antonio loudly whispered to Andrew to “say something about anthrax.” Andrew angrily told Elsa to give him a sandwich of anthrax.
6. Occasionally, when we’re reading in English, he has us use a “Triana accent” (that of a Spanish speaker sounding out English). Also fun.
7. He makes the occasional English mistake, which are already endearing. He explained the grammatical difference between when someone is always [blank] verses temporarily acting [blank]. He pulled out the British accent and proclaimed, “Juan behaves like a stupid!” (British, so styoopid.) This was also a favorite.
Enough Antonio for now, hopefully you don’t have to be there, I promise there will be more about him.
Preview for next time: weekend in Malaga, Bullfight, stuff about Seville that I never wrote about.
1. Art History. I am learning so much. There are a whole lot of new words in Spanish all at once (boveda=dome, vidriera=stained glass, etc.) but my professor (Concha) is so great. She speaks so slowly and clearly and repeats everything, which must be painful for her, but I am following and learning a lot, both about art and history. I’m really looking forward to the rest of this class, and getting even more out of the Cathedral and Museo de Belles Artes when we go with the class. It took me all class today (well at least till the first paining) to realize that this random dude named “Miguel Angel” is simply Spanish for “Michelangelo.”
2. History of Flamenco. Really interesting, really fun. My professor is a young, fashionable woman named Pepa. She is also a dynamic teacher, and makes class really fun. Since it is a flamenco class, it hardly makes sense to simply sit in our seats. The first week we learned complicated clapping rhythms (palmas) and the proper hand formation. The next class we added some feet as well. The second week we started singing a little (score!), and yesterday we got up to practice our arm and hand movements. Pepa’s father is an accomplished flamenco singer, and it certainly is genetic. She sings things for us to demonstrate, and I realized that she’s really, really good. I have learned so much about the history of Spain in this class.
3. Tres Culturas. Again, interesting, learning a lot. This is definitely my most serious academic class. My professor is a young [attractive] man who has taught in the States as well. I know very little about European history or religion, and I am learning so much. The readings are interesting, and the class structure keeps it interesting. Kai’s in class with me, and we work together, which is nice.
I’m glad to finally have a semester where I am enjoying my classes and learning a lot. I am glad that I have all of my classes with CIEE, because they pick great professors.
But wait.
4. Comparative and Contrastive Syntax.
This class is incredible. A)My Spanish is improving soooo much. B)Every class involves uncontrollable laughter. It’s difficult to describe the point of the class. I think it should be mandatory for every second-language learner, since I am learning so much. I guess it just helps express ourselves in Spanish as we would like to in English? It’s hard to explain but it’s great.
The professor is so funny. Try to imagine a fifty-year-old man with a stylish haircut wearing super-stylish clothes. He comes in in his little distressed, faded, whiskered jeans and his layered shirts and sweaters; he could be a model. A model that does ridiculous things:
1. Every time someone messes up something obvious or annoying, he announces his desire to die. “La cosa mas buena...” “BOWL OF POISON.” “La proxima dia...” “TEN BULLETS. RIGHT HERE.” He started a new route this week. Someone messed up, and he calmly said, “Give me a sandwich of anthrax.” He’s been overusing the anthrax since, so hopefully he’s looking up some other dangerous substances for next week. At one point he said “Recuerda dos mil y dos” which no one seemed to hear except me. I remembered that 2002 was the year of anthrax. Oh, Antonio. Perhaps you have to be there, but it’s hilarious.
2. Whenever he’s saying something in English, he uses a thick British accent, which is just funny. He made Kai use it while reading aloud yesterday. He told us his three pet peeves in Spanish: “cumple” for cumpleanos, “profe” for professor, and “fin de” for “fin de semana.” Later that class, to practice the verb soler, Antonio asked me if I usually eat dinner with friends on the weekends. I responded, “Suelo cenar con amigos en el FIN DE,” to annoy him. He shook his head and said in the thickest British accent yet, “Sophia Crafts you are BAD!” I enjoyed this.
3. Antonio told Scott (classmate) to “call” a girl across the room to “make plans.” After they had adequately rehearsed quedarse, Scott was ready to hang up. However, Antonio told him to say something nice to the girl on the phone. He told her he looked forward to seeing her. Antonio wanted nicer. Scott wasn’t allowed to “hang up” until he told the girl across the room that her eyes were like the sunset.
4. Antonio chose this guy Andrew to be the singer of the class. He’ll sneak in as many song lyrics as possible to our homework, then make Andrew sing into the whiteboard eraser for every example. These always include grammar stuff we’re working on, but singing them in English is fine.
5. Antonio chose the same Andrew to call Elsa, from Clark, across the room to make plans. He asked if she was free that night, and per Antonio’s gestures, she said she wasn’t. Andrew persisted, and asked if she was free the following night. Antonio was frantically indicating for her to say no, so she did. Elsa turned Andrew down a third time, and Antonio loudly whispered to Andrew to “say something about anthrax.” Andrew angrily told Elsa to give him a sandwich of anthrax.
6. Occasionally, when we’re reading in English, he has us use a “Triana accent” (that of a Spanish speaker sounding out English). Also fun.
7. He makes the occasional English mistake, which are already endearing. He explained the grammatical difference between when someone is always [blank] verses temporarily acting [blank]. He pulled out the British accent and proclaimed, “Juan behaves like a stupid!” (British, so styoopid.) This was also a favorite.
Enough Antonio for now, hopefully you don’t have to be there, I promise there will be more about him.
Preview for next time: weekend in Malaga, Bullfight, stuff about Seville that I never wrote about.
Marta
I wanted to share the big news story here. It is very sad, and it was definitely getting me down last week. Soon after I arrived in Sevilla, a seventeen-year-old girl was reported missing. I saw it first on the news, and then saw the “Desaparecida” signs hung all over town. It appeared that she had not run away (she hadn’t taken clothes or money), so it was a mystery. Finally, after a month, her ex-boyfriend confessed to murdering her. Marta’s family reported that the boyfriend was always really aggressive and possessive of Marta, and they suspected him all along. The ex-boyfriend, Miguel, was reported to have said something along the lines of “If I can’t have her then nobody can” and got her to come out one Saturday night. His two friends and him hit her over the head and threw her in the river. It’s so, so sad (I cross that same river every day) and it breaks my heart to see her parents speaking on TV. There was some confusion: I somehow heard that they couldn’t convict the three without the body, even though they confessed. Someone else’s senora said that that was not true (love this game... “but MY senora said...”). It’s crazy that this happened in MY city, and that people I know actually knew her (my former host mother’s niece). There´s an argument for parents: the boyfriend´s mom died when he was three and his dad is an alcoholic. He has been living with the family of his new girlfriend, who is fourteen. Anyway, that’s been on my mind.
February 23 to 26
February 23-26
To recover from Carnaval, Ally, Sasha and I had a good old-fashioned movie night Monday night. Ally lives in a big apartment in Los Remedios, the neighborhood next to Triana (where I live) on the same side of the river. She lives with a Senora and the senora’s sister, who is very sick. Ally is allowed to have people over whenever. We rendezvoused there after choir for me; I stopped to buy microwave popcorn and chocolate, Ally went to the one-euro movie rental place right next door. This was just what we needed. The three of us piled onto Ally’s bed and ate junk food and watched an American movie (we meant to put the Spanish subtitles on or something, but we forgot). It was nice to just take it easy and get wholesome time with my friends. It was pretty late after, and I didn’t want to walk home. Sasha and Ally both have their Sevici passes. Sevici is a bike rental system in Sevilla. There are stations all over the city where you can pick up and drop off bikes. Right then Sasha helped me buy my week-long pass for five Euros. A year-old pass costs only ten euros, and mine is in the mail! This was a great discovery. I had been wary of the bikes before because of my knees and my lack of helmet, but the time had come. Ally’s house to mine was all on the bike path, and I was glad to find a drop-off station right near my house. However, in the days that followed, I experienced every problem possible with the bikes.
The next day I rode to school. I see people riding Sevici bikes all the time, and they stick to the normal roads and paths and no one has any trouble. That was before I came along. I attempted my normal walking route on a bike. The difference between biking in Seville and biking in Leverett is the existence of cars and people. I didn’t hit anyone [hard] but I acquired several bruises, got my tire stuck in the tram track, and generally had some trouble.
The next day I decided to stick to the bike lanes. On the side of many sidewalks, there is a green lane designated for bikers. If a biker hits a pedestrian walking in this lane, the pedestrian has to pay eighty euros. I obviously starting aiming for them once I learned this. I worked out my route, which was not very direct but seemed safer for all of Seville. The problem I had this time was actually wardrobe-related. All of my laundry was drying, so I had to get creative. I was wearing a very short dress with tights which had big holes towards the tops. The combination of this outfit and being a blonde in Spain is not good. I got many looks and comments, mostly from disapproving old ladies, on my way in. Problem #4 occurred on my way home. Once again I stuck to the bike paths. However, I was pretty unfamiliar with them, and somehow got going in the complete wrong direction. I figured I would find something I recognized eventually. Eventually, I confirmed that I had no idea where I was, and asked a woman which direction the river was in. She showed me, and I continued on. I found the river, but I was about five bridges too far downstream. In fact, I was on the side of the highway. This was another lowpoint, being all alone, still lost, on the side of the highway with a short dress and ripped tights, on a bike without a helmet, nonetheless. I was relieved when I found the river again, this time at a better place, and an hour later ended up at home, very late for lunch.
Still not put off, I got another bike for the commute in for my evening class. On the way back I was expecting a smooth ride. I had changed my clothes and I knew where I was going. However, every bike in the city was broken. It was humorous by the time I switched bikes for the third time (it was six total going home). The bikes I used experienced these problems: a flat tire, a thrown chain, a missing handle, bad brakes, a missing pedal, gears that didn’t shift, and an unadjustable seat. There were literally no adequate bikes at this hour (they fix them in the mornings).
Nonetheless, Sevici has still been a positive thing. Now that I have it down, it makes my commute so much easier, and I feel really good biking around. My friend Daniel shared my pass last week, and my long-term won’t come for another week, so I think Daniel is going to buy the week-long which I will share this week. I love passing other Sevici bikers; this helps me feel like a real Sevillian.
To recover from Carnaval, Ally, Sasha and I had a good old-fashioned movie night Monday night. Ally lives in a big apartment in Los Remedios, the neighborhood next to Triana (where I live) on the same side of the river. She lives with a Senora and the senora’s sister, who is very sick. Ally is allowed to have people over whenever. We rendezvoused there after choir for me; I stopped to buy microwave popcorn and chocolate, Ally went to the one-euro movie rental place right next door. This was just what we needed. The three of us piled onto Ally’s bed and ate junk food and watched an American movie (we meant to put the Spanish subtitles on or something, but we forgot). It was nice to just take it easy and get wholesome time with my friends. It was pretty late after, and I didn’t want to walk home. Sasha and Ally both have their Sevici passes. Sevici is a bike rental system in Sevilla. There are stations all over the city where you can pick up and drop off bikes. Right then Sasha helped me buy my week-long pass for five Euros. A year-old pass costs only ten euros, and mine is in the mail! This was a great discovery. I had been wary of the bikes before because of my knees and my lack of helmet, but the time had come. Ally’s house to mine was all on the bike path, and I was glad to find a drop-off station right near my house. However, in the days that followed, I experienced every problem possible with the bikes.
The next day I rode to school. I see people riding Sevici bikes all the time, and they stick to the normal roads and paths and no one has any trouble. That was before I came along. I attempted my normal walking route on a bike. The difference between biking in Seville and biking in Leverett is the existence of cars and people. I didn’t hit anyone [hard] but I acquired several bruises, got my tire stuck in the tram track, and generally had some trouble.
The next day I decided to stick to the bike lanes. On the side of many sidewalks, there is a green lane designated for bikers. If a biker hits a pedestrian walking in this lane, the pedestrian has to pay eighty euros. I obviously starting aiming for them once I learned this. I worked out my route, which was not very direct but seemed safer for all of Seville. The problem I had this time was actually wardrobe-related. All of my laundry was drying, so I had to get creative. I was wearing a very short dress with tights which had big holes towards the tops. The combination of this outfit and being a blonde in Spain is not good. I got many looks and comments, mostly from disapproving old ladies, on my way in. Problem #4 occurred on my way home. Once again I stuck to the bike paths. However, I was pretty unfamiliar with them, and somehow got going in the complete wrong direction. I figured I would find something I recognized eventually. Eventually, I confirmed that I had no idea where I was, and asked a woman which direction the river was in. She showed me, and I continued on. I found the river, but I was about five bridges too far downstream. In fact, I was on the side of the highway. This was another lowpoint, being all alone, still lost, on the side of the highway with a short dress and ripped tights, on a bike without a helmet, nonetheless. I was relieved when I found the river again, this time at a better place, and an hour later ended up at home, very late for lunch.
Still not put off, I got another bike for the commute in for my evening class. On the way back I was expecting a smooth ride. I had changed my clothes and I knew where I was going. However, every bike in the city was broken. It was humorous by the time I switched bikes for the third time (it was six total going home). The bikes I used experienced these problems: a flat tire, a thrown chain, a missing handle, bad brakes, a missing pedal, gears that didn’t shift, and an unadjustable seat. There were literally no adequate bikes at this hour (they fix them in the mornings).
Nonetheless, Sevici has still been a positive thing. Now that I have it down, it makes my commute so much easier, and I feel really good biking around. My friend Daniel shared my pass last week, and my long-term won’t come for another week, so I think Daniel is going to buy the week-long which I will share this week. I love passing other Sevici bikers; this helps me feel like a real Sevillian.
Carnaval, etc.
Weekend of February 19-22:
I got a call last Thursday from Sarah Y, a good friend of mine from my a cappella group who is studying in Madrid this semester. She was visiting Andalusia for the weekend, so I got to see her a bit on Thursday afternoon. I got her royally lost, as I do best, but it was so great to see her and compare our Spanish experiences so far. She gushed at how cute and little Seville is. Ha.
Saturday was Carnaval in Cadiz. This was my first seriously negative experience so far. We spent all day preparing our costumes. I was lamenting my lack of costume stuff, since I have so much at home, and flipped through my closet here for inspiration. Luckily, I came across the “Yo Soy Fan de Gonzalo” vest from the bachelor party in Granada. After a few stops and about ten euros, Kai and I were fully equipped as Trash Fairies. We wore the vests with pretty pink wings, and put together toolbelts with wands and kid-sized cleaning supplies. We received many compliments, and didn’t lose each other the entire night (a plus of reflective vests). Sasha and Ally looked equally great as Fire and Water.
I don’t know that I expected for Carnaval, but this was not it. I guess I thought there would be like Andalusian traditions; food, music, dancing. Instead, it was just a drunken craze. We went through “We Love Spain,” a travel group targeting college students. Therefore, the bunch of buses were full of Americans planning (and starting) to get completely wasted. The group leaders made sure a hundred times over that we knew that the bus was leaving at 6:00 AM whether we were on it or not. We signed the liability form stating that we knew this. We began our evening around 11:00 pm, and I was already ready for bed. The following hours consisted of fighting through groups of drunken people, wading through vomit and bottles on the ground, and dreaming of my bed. I also received more male attention than I’ve ever wanted. I’m used to comments, but the two blonds together in a mass of drunk men was too much. People followed us and tried to grab us and it was not fun. We met up with other Clarkies who are studying in Madrid, which was nice, but it increased our group number which was hard to keep track of. There were three things that were actually enjoyable:
1. Peeing. Peeing at carnaval takes place in alleys. At one point Sasha, Ally, Sasha’s friend from high school who we met up with and I went as a group to find an alley. We are not yet experts at this art, so we simply formed a pee wall. The three non-pee-ers made a wall and held our jackets between us so the fourth could pee in privacy, and we rotated out. It was funny and great friend bonding. The Spanish women who know what they’re doing thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
2. Observing costumes. This was more appalling than entertaining, but people-watching has never been more strange. Since political correctness does not exist here, every ethnic group imaginable was represented in costumes. I don’t think I could have thought of that many different types of blackface costumes if I tried. Most people had store bought costumes (every other store in Sevilla stocked up on costumes) and walked around in big packs with the same costumes. We walked by a pack of chickens, a pack of sexy nuns, a pack of “Chinos,” a pack of Rastas, etc. Kai and I received greetings and high fives from other people with yellow vests.
3. As luck would have it, I managed to find the choir performance. Singing groups all around Andalusia compete for the privilege to sing at Carnaval. The winning group mounts the bandstand around 2:00 AM, as we happened to be walking by. This group was great, all men in sharp white uniforms (complete with top hats and coattails) accompanied by a few instruments (I couldn’t see what, at least guitar). They sang cheerful, upbeat Andalusian folk songs (?) with fabulously animated faces and choreographed arm movements. The majority of our group hung back in the plaza, but Rob (from Clark, studying in Madrid, a friend through my sophomore roommate and through sustainability/environment club/events) and I easily entered the VIP section right in front to watch. We were both cheering, dancing, and clapping along with the rest of the [drunk] audience, and this was highly enjoyable, despite the circumstances.
I’m sure I would have had more fun if I had had anything to drink, but I needed to stay awake until 6:00 AM, I didn’t want to pee outside again, and I felt that our group needed a sober leader. Generally speaking, I’m not a big drinker, which makes it shocking that I even chose to go to Carnaval. Around 4:00 AM Sasha and I were totally over it, and managed to separate Kai and Ally from the Madrid group. We really wanted to find the beach and just get away from the throngs. We pulled our group, a chain with hands held, through the masses in the direction of the water. We managed to see water, but there was no way to access it. We figured they had blocked it off so drunk people wouldn’t drown. We decided to start making our way back to the meeting point, since we had no idea where it was, and we really didn’t want to be late. After seeing many “cops” (costumes) peeing, Sasha and I finally found a real cop whom we asked directions. It turns out we were very close to where we had to be. Therefore, we arrived about an hour and a half early. Sasha and I were fine with that, and set up camp to wait. We killed much of this time talking to Spanish people, which was actually good practice. I was proud of how well I was speaking then, even though I was cold, tired, and cranky, and held my own very well. I even used complicated verb tenses such as, “If you stop asking me where I’m from I will take a picture with you.” A few hours ago we had committed to speaking Spanish, since there were so many Americans and people speaking to us in English, which was actually fun. People would speak English and we would look at each other, confused, for help. When we were asked where we were from, Sasha and I casually responded, “Sevilla.” We gave a group of young Rastas the frustrating “maybe” answer for every country they guessed, which included every country in Europe before the US.
We finally got on the bus, where the two young female group leaders were too drunk to function. They took attendance several times, but could not figure out what was going on. It started to be amusing when they reached their literally thirtieth headcount, each time resulting in a different number. Even though everyone had signed the form, they refused to leave at six with two girls missing. One of the missing girls had come on the bus, told them that she was staying, and left. We all reminded the leader of this, to no avail. “Why is there an empty seat???” “Because Jessica’s not coming back with us.” “And nobody cared to tell me this??” Needless to say, I was happy to get back to Sevilla (even if it was 8:30 AM) and Kai and I stopped to get a warm freshly-baked croissant on the walk back. Not only did I have a terrible time, but my shoes were covered in other people’s vomit and urine, and this experience totally screwed up my sleep schedule. I hate sleeping til 10:00, so dragging myself out of bed at 3:30 PM was depressing. What made things even worse was that there was another hiking trip that Sunday. I would have loved to go, and knew after the fact that skipping carnaval and hiking instead would have made for a great weekend. The lesson learned is that it’s important to do research before doing things and going places, and doing everything I can isn’t necessarily the goal I want. I just hope Feria in Seville is better (I’ve heard it’s the same), and I fear for my perfect little plazas, after seeing what Cadiz looked like. And that was the worst experience I’ve had so far.
I got a call last Thursday from Sarah Y, a good friend of mine from my a cappella group who is studying in Madrid this semester. She was visiting Andalusia for the weekend, so I got to see her a bit on Thursday afternoon. I got her royally lost, as I do best, but it was so great to see her and compare our Spanish experiences so far. She gushed at how cute and little Seville is. Ha.
Saturday was Carnaval in Cadiz. This was my first seriously negative experience so far. We spent all day preparing our costumes. I was lamenting my lack of costume stuff, since I have so much at home, and flipped through my closet here for inspiration. Luckily, I came across the “Yo Soy Fan de Gonzalo” vest from the bachelor party in Granada. After a few stops and about ten euros, Kai and I were fully equipped as Trash Fairies. We wore the vests with pretty pink wings, and put together toolbelts with wands and kid-sized cleaning supplies. We received many compliments, and didn’t lose each other the entire night (a plus of reflective vests). Sasha and Ally looked equally great as Fire and Water.
I don’t know that I expected for Carnaval, but this was not it. I guess I thought there would be like Andalusian traditions; food, music, dancing. Instead, it was just a drunken craze. We went through “We Love Spain,” a travel group targeting college students. Therefore, the bunch of buses were full of Americans planning (and starting) to get completely wasted. The group leaders made sure a hundred times over that we knew that the bus was leaving at 6:00 AM whether we were on it or not. We signed the liability form stating that we knew this. We began our evening around 11:00 pm, and I was already ready for bed. The following hours consisted of fighting through groups of drunken people, wading through vomit and bottles on the ground, and dreaming of my bed. I also received more male attention than I’ve ever wanted. I’m used to comments, but the two blonds together in a mass of drunk men was too much. People followed us and tried to grab us and it was not fun. We met up with other Clarkies who are studying in Madrid, which was nice, but it increased our group number which was hard to keep track of. There were three things that were actually enjoyable:
1. Peeing. Peeing at carnaval takes place in alleys. At one point Sasha, Ally, Sasha’s friend from high school who we met up with and I went as a group to find an alley. We are not yet experts at this art, so we simply formed a pee wall. The three non-pee-ers made a wall and held our jackets between us so the fourth could pee in privacy, and we rotated out. It was funny and great friend bonding. The Spanish women who know what they’re doing thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
2. Observing costumes. This was more appalling than entertaining, but people-watching has never been more strange. Since political correctness does not exist here, every ethnic group imaginable was represented in costumes. I don’t think I could have thought of that many different types of blackface costumes if I tried. Most people had store bought costumes (every other store in Sevilla stocked up on costumes) and walked around in big packs with the same costumes. We walked by a pack of chickens, a pack of sexy nuns, a pack of “Chinos,” a pack of Rastas, etc. Kai and I received greetings and high fives from other people with yellow vests.
3. As luck would have it, I managed to find the choir performance. Singing groups all around Andalusia compete for the privilege to sing at Carnaval. The winning group mounts the bandstand around 2:00 AM, as we happened to be walking by. This group was great, all men in sharp white uniforms (complete with top hats and coattails) accompanied by a few instruments (I couldn’t see what, at least guitar). They sang cheerful, upbeat Andalusian folk songs (?) with fabulously animated faces and choreographed arm movements. The majority of our group hung back in the plaza, but Rob (from Clark, studying in Madrid, a friend through my sophomore roommate and through sustainability/environment club/events) and I easily entered the VIP section right in front to watch. We were both cheering, dancing, and clapping along with the rest of the [drunk] audience, and this was highly enjoyable, despite the circumstances.
I’m sure I would have had more fun if I had had anything to drink, but I needed to stay awake until 6:00 AM, I didn’t want to pee outside again, and I felt that our group needed a sober leader. Generally speaking, I’m not a big drinker, which makes it shocking that I even chose to go to Carnaval. Around 4:00 AM Sasha and I were totally over it, and managed to separate Kai and Ally from the Madrid group. We really wanted to find the beach and just get away from the throngs. We pulled our group, a chain with hands held, through the masses in the direction of the water. We managed to see water, but there was no way to access it. We figured they had blocked it off so drunk people wouldn’t drown. We decided to start making our way back to the meeting point, since we had no idea where it was, and we really didn’t want to be late. After seeing many “cops” (costumes) peeing, Sasha and I finally found a real cop whom we asked directions. It turns out we were very close to where we had to be. Therefore, we arrived about an hour and a half early. Sasha and I were fine with that, and set up camp to wait. We killed much of this time talking to Spanish people, which was actually good practice. I was proud of how well I was speaking then, even though I was cold, tired, and cranky, and held my own very well. I even used complicated verb tenses such as, “If you stop asking me where I’m from I will take a picture with you.” A few hours ago we had committed to speaking Spanish, since there were so many Americans and people speaking to us in English, which was actually fun. People would speak English and we would look at each other, confused, for help. When we were asked where we were from, Sasha and I casually responded, “Sevilla.” We gave a group of young Rastas the frustrating “maybe” answer for every country they guessed, which included every country in Europe before the US.
We finally got on the bus, where the two young female group leaders were too drunk to function. They took attendance several times, but could not figure out what was going on. It started to be amusing when they reached their literally thirtieth headcount, each time resulting in a different number. Even though everyone had signed the form, they refused to leave at six with two girls missing. One of the missing girls had come on the bus, told them that she was staying, and left. We all reminded the leader of this, to no avail. “Why is there an empty seat???” “Because Jessica’s not coming back with us.” “And nobody cared to tell me this??” Needless to say, I was happy to get back to Sevilla (even if it was 8:30 AM) and Kai and I stopped to get a warm freshly-baked croissant on the walk back. Not only did I have a terrible time, but my shoes were covered in other people’s vomit and urine, and this experience totally screwed up my sleep schedule. I hate sleeping til 10:00, so dragging myself out of bed at 3:30 PM was depressing. What made things even worse was that there was another hiking trip that Sunday. I would have loved to go, and knew after the fact that skipping carnaval and hiking instead would have made for a great weekend. The lesson learned is that it’s important to do research before doing things and going places, and doing everything I can isn’t necessarily the goal I want. I just hope Feria in Seville is better (I’ve heard it’s the same), and I fear for my perfect little plazas, after seeing what Cadiz looked like. And that was the worst experience I’ve had so far.
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