Settling in Sevilla

Where to begin? As I sit here typing this, I’ve been in Sevilla for almost two weeks. I fell behind in keeping my notes and the blog up to do date, but in a way, I think this is the best way for me to explain what it’s like here. Be forewarned that this post will be a mix of observation, description, and abstract impressions that jump around a bit. It’s hard to maintain a consistent approach when there is so much to catch up on. I promise my next post will come much sooner, pick up where I left off, but it will read a bit more fluidly.

SEVILLA

I’m much more settled than I was when I stepped off the bus, and though I’m constantly thrilled to be here and awed by something new each day, the initial exclamatory of “oh my God, everything here is beautiful and perfect, I can’t believe I waited this long, how could anyone not experience this place, I never want to leave…etc, etc.” has subsided.

Sevilla the city can be described as a mix of Chicago (it seems spread out; though the city is very large in terms of the extent of its reach, there is no real overwhelming bustle of a high density population packed between large buildings that tower overhead a la Madrid), Miami (palm trees and orange trees grow wherever there is soil), and Florence (gorgeous architecture – every building looks freshly painted with beautiful shades of blue, pink, beige, yellow, and red – statues, fountains, scenic rivers, and basically every other quality aesthetic that reminds you that you are most certainly not surrounded by the dull and defeated grays of the historically and artistically deficient Boston in January). Here's an awesome picture a friend of mine took from the top of the cathedral tower.

[Side note: I have never visited any of those comparative cities – in case anyone was thinking of calling me out, but I’ve had conversations with other students on my program about it, and they seem to agree with the basic idea]

The art and history seen on practically every corner here downtown dates back centuries representing Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Neo-classical style periods (if you put me on the spot, I might not be able to distinguish the Renaissance from the Baroque, but you get the idea – its gorgeous). The influence of Muslim art and architecture is very apparent.

The very first night we got here, we went out, and everyone made the same observation. All the buildings and streets downtown were so clean, well-kept, and vibrant that we concluded that Sevilla is like Disney World, only authentic. When Disney hired architects, artists, and masons to construct their mock cities and buildings, they probably asked them: “So, uh, do ya think you could replicate what they got going on in Seville? I mean, if we’re gonna make Mom and Pop break the bank on the kiddies here, we might as well have them do so while surrounded by a little European culture, phony or otherwise.” If this analogy doesn’t drive home the point, I don’t know what could.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and seeing as though I think I may be asking a lot of my readers in terms of lengthy posts, I’ll let you examine a few scenes from Sevilla for yourself with limited commentary.

Believe it or not, the cathedral, known creatively enough as el Catedral de Sevilla outdoes the one in Toledo. As the third largest in the world, it serves as an excellent landmark when you’re trying to find your way around downtown. I would essentially echo all of my impressions of el Catedral de Santa Maria, because it matches and in some cases excels in beauty and grandeur.

It also contains a tomb of Christopher Columbus near the original front entrance. I say “a tomb” because it is not exactly the tomb of Columbus – apparently he is spread out across Spain in five or six different tombs (I’ve been getting different figures). Sounds a bit like the burial given to William Wallace by the British; for a national hero (I still have more research to do among locals to confirm that) he’s not exactly resting peacefully. I think my favorite part of the cathedral was the view from the tower, which you can see in the picture above.

Above, you can see some fraction of Colombus' remains. Interesting, I know.

This is a picture of everyone that I live with in my residencia, taken in the Plaza de España.

Yours truly, gearing up for a bike tour around the perimeter of the city. I considered getting a bike here, but after two of my house mates got their locks clipped and bikes stolen, I decided to just walk.

This is the Guadalquivir River. I asked a bunch of people what it was called and couldn't understand them, so I looked it up online. I still can't pronounce it. Its quite beautiful, especially at sunset, and I have to cross over it every day. Though you occasionally catch a waft that reminds me of Lake Ontario, its beautiful. There are open verandas and cafes all along it with tables and chairs where you can sit back and enjoy a coffee, beer, or wine.

LA RESIDENCIA

My Señora, who we affectionately call “Mama Rosa,” is nothing short of an amazing lady. Though she has a husband Norberto, a daughter Sara (18) and a son Roberto (12), we interact with her most on a daily basis. This is because she almost single-handedly cooks, cleans, and does laundry for fourteen college students in addition to her own family.

When I say cook, I don’t mean she heats up something quick and easy. Every lunch and dinner here has been a multi-course affair, always complemented by the most deliciously fresh-baked bread. Breakfast is not a big deal here, usually just some toast, fruit, juice, and coffee. Lunch is served at 2:30, and is typically followed by a half hour to 45-minute nap for Spainards. The Americans here have interpreted the siesta liberally, sleeping for two or more hours. Some have slept right until dinner, giving you an idea of how screwy our sleep cycles have become. Dinner is served at 8:30 sharp. If you think that’s late, many other families eat dinner around 10pm.

During a meal, we all sit down, and she and her husband serve us. When we’re done, they take away plates and usually refuse to allow us to help. It’s remarkable. After almost thirty meals, she has yet to repeat a dish. We’ve enjoyed a range of soups, stir fry, and casseroles, but mostly she cooks ham, chicken, or beef along with either rice or potatoes and vegetables. Everything has plenty of spice, and I’ve managed to adjust to the generally high sodium content.

I vividly remember the meal on the first night we arrived. When Mama Rosa put a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce in front of me, I knew everything was going to be okay. It was both delicious (don’t worry mom, not as good as yours) and unexpected. The food situation was one of my greater concerns heading in (admittedly I knew it had the potential to outdo UMass Dining Services) and Mama Rosa quickly put that concern aside. After speaking with other people in the program, I realize how lucky I am, because certainly not everyone has been so fortunate. There are other students in my program that eat a regular diet of eggs, plain potatoes, and bread.

Altogether, between two apartments in the same building, I’m living with thirteen other people. Nine of them are dudes and most of the dudes live upstairs on the second floor (actually the 3^rd story, but Spain is strange and marks the ground level floor 0) in the apartment everyone calls “the frat.” I live on the “first” floor in what I have privately dubbed “the sorority” since Teduardo and I live with four darling blonde girls (I know my dad jumped at the hair color – take it easy champ, I can’t afford that kind of drama all up in my living space).

[Side note: I call Ted Teduardo because the Spainards cannot pronounce the “ta” sound for the life of them so he sometimes goes by Eduardo, his Spanish class name. I’ve taken to adding the “t” because he hates when I do it.]

What’s most impressive about Rosa is that she’s able to cook so well and so consistently for so many people while maintaining her sanity, especially considering the fact that she doesn’t speak English and everyone speaks in English at the dinner table. It seems to be a natural result of putting fourteen compatible Americans together in a single living situation. Some say a few things here and there to her in Spanish but overall, people can be quite rude without necessarily realizing it. Sometimes I translate what people say for her, or just tell her the general idea of our discussion, because she often stands to the side after serving everyone waiting for an opportunity to talk. Mama Rosa works very hard for us and encourages us to speak in Spanish more, not only so she can understand what we’re talking about and participate in conversation, but also so we can improve.

This brings me to one of the few things I’m unhappy about here – language practice. At this point, though it’s still early, I feel like I have not spoken as much Spanish as I originally hoped. In fact, I think I may have gotten more Spanish practice in Madrid since I spoke often with our native-Spainard program directors on the API-sponsored excursions. The problem is twofold: First, I live with thirteen other Americans, many of which have either a low level of Spanish proficiency or little interest in improving their intermediate level. Second, I have not been here long, therefore I really only know and hang out with Americans. My opportunities are limited to conversations I have in the house with Rosa, or perhaps the occasional outgoing Spainard at a bar that can’t understand me because the music is too loud or my accent is too strong.

Perhaps I’m exaggerating here, there have been exceptions, and this particular example is a funny one. In the midst of this rather serious rant, why not inject a little comic relief?

It was probably one of the first nights in Sevilla towards the later part of the evening, so everyone was “exceptionally friendly.” I was outside a bar on Calle Betis (a series of infamously American bars) standing amongst the many smokers when I was suddenly approached by a complete stranger looking to bum a cigarette. When I opened my mouth to reply, he knew where I was from immediately.

Instant identification as an American is typical for everyone here, even the more advanced speakers. It varies, but some locals have absolutely no faith in your ability to communicate in Spanish, so they just reply to you in English (which many of them are at least familiar with) until you give up. It can be viewed as a patience issue: some Spainards are willing to bear with you, others not so much. On the whole, I’ve found that people in Seville have more patience than those from Madrid.

This particular gentleman was eager to converse with an American. He (I forget his name, so I’ll call him Pedro) started by telling me the reasons why he despises all American sports with the exception of NBA basketball. I have noticed a lot of enthusiasm for basketball (though still negligible next to soccer) and there are a handful of Spainards in the NBA that receive a surprising amount of press coverage here. Eventually we got onto the Celtics circa the 1980’s, and apparently one of Pedro’s favorite all time players was Robert Parrish. When I tried to respond that my father is big Parrish fan, I said something to the effect of “Robert Parrish is my father.” Well, for the rest of the evening, I was introduced to his friends as “the son of Robert Parrish.” Around this time, things get a little fuzzy in my memory, but I’m reasonably sure that few of those people knew who Pedro was talking about.

I think we all stayed out until around 3am, which is actually quite early. Last Wednesday, it was Teduardo’s birthday, so we all went out to a “discoteca” where we danced until 4am (yes, it was a school night, but mind you, I don’t have class until noon every day, and no classes on Friday – a real racket, I know). In any case, it was a lot of fun because I got to meet people without worrying about communicating (getting your groove on is a universal language, you couldn’t even hear someone yelling into your ear anyway; my ears were ringing for the next two days). The only drawback in addition to the ear damage were the 5 Euro Heinekens (roughly $7.40 – highway robbery in comparison to the deals mom and pop find down at the Legion, but then again the literal and figurative distance between an urban European dance club and the Duxbury Legion is considerable).

That Friday, we went out to a flamenco bar (a sort of hall where there are free flamenco performances throughout the evening) that was packed to the nines. It was absolutely beautiful. There was one man singing, a lady dancing, and one man playing guitar, and I have to say the intensity of the performances sent a chill down my spine several times. You literally couldn’t move in this place, and the vast majority of the people there appeared to be local. They would come on for roughly 20-30 minute sets periodically, and I’ll admit the scotch, beer, and sangria was settling me in, but I was really captivated by the raw emotion. At one point, this old man came out of nowhere and got up on stage – suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd. No doubt, this guy was some sort of legend years ago, and his singing, though quite worn from aging and cigarettes, was impressive. The pictures came out poorly, but I still wanted to share this one. The old guy is in the middle with the hat.

Early on that night I was feeling a little drowsy, so I had myself a black Starbucks coffee with a shot of scotch to get me going (you can order booze pretty much anywhere here, even the local ice cream shop). That kept me rolling until 5am, which really is about par for the course as far as Spanish night life goes. Nobody really goes out before 12, so now you can see how easy (and sometimes necessary) it is to stretch a mid-day siesta into a 5 hour nap.

___________________________

It was a fun experience to meet a Spainard like Pedro and have a conversation, and like most people that have patience and want to encourage those that are trying, he complemented my speaking. But like I said before, it is really hard to do. The pack mentality still reigns strong in the American students. When plans are made and five people get together, somehow word spreads and five turns into twenty. It’s incredibly frustrating because every time it happens I promise myself never again. Without becoming an anti-social recluse, I really want to break out of the American bubble abroad. It’s a concern that not many people here share. I was discussing this with a girl from a university that has something like 15+ students here, many of which she hangs out with regularly. I asked her if she was at all troubled by this supplanting of her American university to Europe, and she seemed to think it was perfectly fine, better even. I acknowledge that different people have different priorities and expectations, but I can’t help but think that however challenging it may be, passing up the new opportunities out there in favor of the familiar is a shame, not a comfort. Now I’m not saying that I want nothing to do with my fellow Americans (how presidential!) here. In fact, they’re almost all very nice people…I’m just all too aware that I could hang out with similar types anytime back in the States. (Exception: the fat blonde girls from Texas [not the cute blondes I live with] that perpetually bitch about the cultural differences such as meal times, make inane complaints like "its so dumb how the Spanish wear their wedding rings," and on the whole cast the most horrifying image of America abroad. I'm speaking toward one specific example I overheard on a bus one day. Her voice made me cringe it was so piercingly obnoxious. So these are the zombies API wants me to stay away from. That will not be a problem in the least. With regards to the rings, Spanish women wear wedding rings on their right hand with the diamond turned in toward the palm side).

I was able to speak to one of my program directors about it today and all in all, it’s quite early. I have plenty of time to meet more people, get more practice, and step outside the giant red, white, and blue bubble. Specifically, my university here has a program called Intercambio, literally meaning “exchange,” where you can get paired with a Spanish student, get their number, and perhaps go out sometime. I’m crossing my fingers that they’re friendly…