My Ocean's Eleven Moment

You know that scene at the end of the new Ocean's Eleven in which all the guys on Ocean's team are standing in front of the fountain and one by one they walk away? For me, that was an incredibly sad scene. It was a tight wonderful group that accomplished a lot together (I know that what they accomplished was criminal, but it was still totally badass and awesome). And the group breaks apart slowly until it's just Danny and Rusty and it feels like they're holding on maybe a little bit past when they should, because they're so sad to see it end? Well that's happening here! In early April, two members of our group left (they were part of a CIEE duo program and spent the fall in Chile so they weren't able to get visas to stay for as long as the rest of us). Then right after Feria two more girls from the program left, along with the best friend of one of those girls who had been with us for over a month and felt essentially like part of the group as well. And tomorrow another girl is going home to catch her sister's graduation from college, which is definitely a good reason to go home, but my goodness! The group has been reduced by almost 50%, which makes me really, very sad.

I have grown so close with my fellow gap year students. We have seen some of the most beautiful sites in Spain together, danced at some of the biggest discotecas in Europe together, gotten lost together, experienced culture shock together. We have been there for each other through everything from tummy aches (thanks to the absurd quantity of fried food we are fed here) to intense bouts of homesickness. For me, being in such a small group, having such an intense (intensely new, intensely exciting, intensely foreign) experience, has made my relationships with all these people grow deep and strong more quickly than I am used to.

The weird thing is, I'm actually happy to be so sad about this people-leaving-thing. My separation anxiety is just another demonstration of how much I have enjoyed my time here and the people with whom I have shared it. That's a silver lining, yes ma'am! And happily, a lot of the people here with whom I am close live in the Boston area, just like me. So it shouldn't be too hard to stay in touch once we get back on the treadmill of non-gap year life.

La Feria de Abril

If Andalusia satisfies a lot of stereotypes about Spain and its people (bullfighting, Flamenco dancing, wine drinking, nap taking), Feria de Abril does most of the work. Feria is a week-long party that takes place on a huge stretch of land in Los Remedios (my neighborhood!) that is empty for most of the year--in fact, the only thing that takes place there is Feria.

During Feria,most women dress up in traditional Flamenco garb,

called trajes de gitana, or gypsy dresses!

The partying--which includes a lot of drinking, a lot of live music, and above all, a lot of dancing Sevillanas--occurs in casetas (tents) owned and operated by businesses, families, or public organizations such as sports teams and political parties. The most charming casetas (and the one with the lowest food/drink prices) are private. This means you have to either get a paper invitation or belong to a family that is well-known in that caseta. Luckily for us, we were able to get into a number of private casetas: my host father Paco gave me two admit-two tickets to his, and a friend of mine's host family certified that we would be able to enter theirs. Most of the casetas we entered were divided into two rooms: one with tables, chairs, and a stage, where people could eat and watch/dance Sevillanas, and another with a bar and empty space for people that wanted a more casual dancing environment. A few casetas also had spaces set up for live bands.

At the mouth of the Feria grounds is la portada, a giant gate designed and constructed anew every year. I believe that I mentioned in a previous post that it is right at the end of one of the main streets in Los Remedios, down which I walk every day on my way home from school. It was cool watching its development, and the final product was quite impressive. This year the gate was celebrating 100 years of flight, which is why there is a model plane hanging in the top of the figure 8.

The gate is also the city's motto: see the NO8DO?

Feria is, in one word, overwhelming. The lively music in every caseta and the excited shouts of thousands of Sevillanos cause quite a din, while the colorful lanterns and brightly patterned dresses make for a kaleidoscopic landscape. The only sense that suffers is the olfactory: the smell of horse droppings mixed with alcohol and fried food was unpleasant. Feria is also exhausting: you spend a lot of time on your feet, and you essentially become nocturnal, spending 11 pm to 6 am at the Feria grounds and sleeping until 2 in the afternoon. At least, that's what my friends and I did most of the week. People are really at Feria all day because there is always something exciting going on. The Feria grounds contain a huge amusement park and during the afternoons traditionally-dressed horsemen gallop or pull carriages through the streets (hence, the smell). Some gal pals and I spent only one afternoon at the Feria grounds. We rode a very tall ferris wheel, which was a little scary but also fun! We had a great view of the hundreds of casetas and the horse-drawn carriages trotting through the streets.

Those are jingle bells on the horses' faces. Poor things, the sound probably drove them nuts,

but as fast as they ran from it, they couldn't escape it!

As fun as Feria was, it didn't sadden me too deeply to return to a normal, more restful schedule at the end of the week. True, getting used to waking up at 8:30 for class was killer, but I'm really awful at staying up until 6 am!

The Rides of March, Part Two

Apologies for the cliffhanger. Further apologies for that sarcasm just now. So, I had just finished describing the first half of the Rides of March, that is, Dad's visit, Morocco, and Barcelona. Next up was Cádiz.

In June 2007, I went to Madrid with an exchange program through my high school. There I lived with a wonderful family, Los Moreno, with whom I grew very close. They are goofy and warm, just like my own family, and they immediately welcomed me as their own daughter/sister. Since then, I have stayed in touch with Teresa, the daughter who is my age. When I told her I was coming to Sevilla, we decided we had to figure out a time to meet up.

Los Moreno invited me to their new house in Cádiz during Semana Santa, the Holy Week that a lot of people have off from school and work. I had never been to this house before--when they brought me to Cádiz in 2007, we stayed in their old house in Sancti Petri. We did visit Zahara and the site of their new house--at that point, it was just a white outline on the beach. I was so excited to see the finished and furnished product this time around.

Los Moreno picked me up in Sevilla and made me feel at home instantly by complimenting the improvement in my Spanish and teasing me about my Andaluz accent. Maite (la madre) is originally from Cádiz, so she was thrilled to hear me drop my s's, but Álvaro (el hermano mayor) gave me a hard time for speaking "Andaluz en vez de Castellano" (instead of Spanish). In my family, as in their family, teasing means love, so I welcomed this display. A two-hour drive south later, and we arrived in Zahara. The house is so cool: it is modern, with walls that slide back and reveal stunning panoramic vistas and with circular windows that remind me of portholes--perfect for the beach.

Almost immediately, Teresa and I donned our bathing suits, grabbed our towels, and bolted down to the beach. And WHAT a beach. The sand was soft and white and the water was clear and clean (and cold). There was a lot of trash farther up among the grassy patches, but we ignored this. There were also a few dead dolphins who had washed up because of some crazy storms (apparently Zahara suffered a lot of floods this winter, as did many areas in Spain). These were very sad, so we tried to avoid them as well.

Catching up with Teresa was a lot of fun. We talked a lot about our friends from the exchange, travels over the past few years, and her studies (she is in her first year of a six-year college track-she is becoming a doctor). In Spain, you basically choose what you want to major in before your junior year in high school, and then apply to your appropriate department at various universities. The amount of time you spend in college depends on what career you have chosen. Teresa filled me in on the application process. I knew from before that a huge part of pursuing higher education in Spain was la Selectividad, but I didn't realize just how important this 3-day test was. Apparently, it accounts for 40% of a score (the other 60% being high school grades) that is sent to colleges, along with nothing else. That's it. That's all--the score. No interview, no personal essay, no recommendations, nothing else. This method, while certainly efficient, strikes me as terrifying (talk about test-day stress) and cold. One of the things that I am most looking forward to about college is the texture of a diverse student body: people with a ton of different experiences, passions, personalities, quirks, flaws, hopes, dreams. How can you assemble a group like that just by looking at one score? It seems to me that you'd end up with a lot of similar people: kids who studied really hard and test well. I think that people are worth much more than their ability to memorize and turn out a well-organized essay, and I don't think that the Spanish school system agrees. Oh well. It just makes me appreciate the U.S. system more I guess.

Along with our chats, Teresa and I practiced some of our favorite activities from 3 years ago, those being playing cards (she is an absolute champion) and watching the O.C. (we love quoting it ad nauseam). My 3 days in Cádiz flew by too quickly, and before I knew it, she and Maite were driving me to the train station, singing along to MIKA (they love him) and some recordings of chirigotas (they had to explain the songs to me at intervals because the clever men of Cádiz sang way too quickly for me to catch anything).

After returning from Cádiz, I was on a mission to experience Semana Santa as fully as possible in two short days before leaving for Amsterdam. Semana Santa is a week-long celebration of the life of Jesus Christ, culminating in El Domingo de Resurreccion (The Sunday of the Resurrection, which nobody calls Easter and which does not involve bunnies or eggs). To celebrate, the churches of Sevilla put together processions. These processions can last anywhere from two to thirteen hours. Every procession departs its church, wherever it may be, and makes its way into the city center and down the carerra oficial, the official path. This path runs along some of the biggest and most important streets in Sevilla, eventually going behind City Hall and up Avenida de la Constitución (the biggest street) toward la Catedral.

Every procession includes Nazarenos, members of the church who dress in long tunics and wear tall pointed hoods which cover their faces except for two eye holes. The colors of the outfit depend on the church. To many Americans, the uniform of the Nazarenos is reminiscent of a terrifying and hateful group in our country, but actually, the Nazarenos dressed like this long before the KKK even existed.

Nazarenos bearing La Cruz de Guía, the cross that opens every procession.

The people carrying and surrounding the cross are usually important members of the church.

Other important players in the processions are the costaleros, strong burly men (they are always men, unlike Nazarenos, who are often women and children as well) who carry the pasos, or large altars, through the streets. These pasos are very heavy: every costalero ends up carrying about 50 kg (110 lbs). Every brotherhood, that is, every church, presents two pasos: one depicting a scene from the life of Jesus, and another of the Virgin. On Palm Sunday, all the pasos depicting Jesus show his entry into Jerusalem. On Thursday night--during which the processions last until the early hours of the morning and people are accustomed to staying out all night--the images are all of his death. To mourn, women dress in black dresses and don La Mantilla, a lace scarf that hangs from a stiff comb worn in the hair. The following Sunday, the day of the Resurrection...well, you can guess what the image on that day is. Other than that, the scenes from Jesus's life appear un-chronologically.

A paso from the life of Jesus--I was too far away to figure out what this scene is though.

This Paso was going down the Carerra Oficial: it is behind City Hall at this point.

Happily, it did not rain in Sevilla during my two-day stint. When it rains, the pasos do not go out: they are too fragile. Since the Nazarenos and Costaleros practice for the procession for the entire year (many times this winter I saw men carrying scaffolding with bags of bricks placed atop to practice bearing the weight of the paso) it is very, very sad when the processions are cancelled.

A customary treat served in Sevilla during Semana Santa is torrija: bread soaked in milk and egg that has been fried and then doused in honey and sugar. So, french toast, but worse for you. It is served in cafés and bakeries for the weeks surrounding Semana Santa, but the best torrija is home-made, and happily, my family fried up a delicious batch while I was in town. I enjoyed it immensely.

After seeing as many pasos as I possibly could during two short days (I think I saw 7, not including the many that I walked by on my way to watch others), I flew to Amsterdam with a group of friends. Due to the legality of many vices in Amsterdam, a lot of people assume that a visit to the city would involve little more than partying. But partying did not really interest me: I was most excited to visit the Anne Frank museum. This girl's story, warm and tragic at the same time, has always been interesting and captivating to me. As a symbol of hope through adversity, she is my hero. As an example of tragic injustice, she is somebody I will always carry in my heart. And as a writer, she is a role model. Expressive and descriptive, her diary is at once intimate and for the public; it is not just a detailed account of the Holocaust, but also a story about growing up. We waited in line for over an hour and a half as it rained, and the wait was well worth it.

The Anne Frank House was a well-balanced mixture of historical and emotional material. The annex in which they lived is preserved though unfurnished (when the Nazis raided the home, they took all the furniture. Otto Frank, the only surviving member of the Frank family, wanted the annex to be left that way). Personal--and moving--touches remain: pencil marks on the wall in the parents' bedroom, indicating the children's growth, and Anne's movie star collection still pasted on her wall. Especially moving for me was the attic. Visitors are not allowed up; they may only look inside. While I would have loved to have seen the attic, I thought preserving this space, keeping it tourist-free, was a good choice. As we reached the base of the attic ladder, the sun came out and the room--a place I viewed as Anne's refuge, her childish domain, when I read the diary--was filled with warm light.

While the Anne Frank House was unequivocally the highlight of the Amsterdam trip for me, I also enjoyed the Rijks Museum and the Keukenhof Tulip Festival. I desperately wanted to visit the Van Gogh Museum, but I only spent 2 days in Amsterdam, so I didn't have time to get there (Keukenhof, which is about an hour away from Amsterdam by bus, was a whole-day affair). Here are some photos from those other two adventures:

And that concludes my chronicles of the Rides of March. Next up: Feria de Abril!

The Rides of March, Part One

Before I apologize for not posting recently, hear this: March was the busiest month ever. The first weekend of the fine but busy month, my dad and godfather visited. Less than a week after they left, four days were spent in Morocco, and right after that I spent 5 days in Barcelona. Semana Santa (the week-long Easter celebration) followed almost immediately thereafter. It saw me soaking up the spectacle in Sevilla, scooting down to Cádiz for a beach hangout, and then jetting off to Amsterdam to catch the famous tulip festival. Basically, 5 awesome weeks, but 5 weeks in which I neglected this blog. Sorry.

My dad and godfather's visit was excellent. It felt great to be able to show them around the city-to be an expert, an old hat, a Sevillana. I also didn't realize how much I missed them until they showed up outside the Cathedral! We did a lot of touristy things--a tour of la Catedral and Real Alcázar and a visit to the Maestranza (the bullring)--and took a survey of the comida fina(classy food) of Sevilla, something that was as alien to me and my student budget as it was to them. We also went out to dinner with my host parents, Paco and Helena. I was really nervous about going out with all of them and being the translator, but it turned out just fine. Turns out reactions to delicious food do not require translation. The evening was also certainly lubricated by a few bottles of Rioja.

Paco (my host father), Helena (my host mother), Clifford (my godfather), my dad, and me at dinner.

We went to a wonderful restaurant in what Helena called Triana pura--

the most authentically Spanish part of Triana, the proudest barrio Sevillano!

My four days in Morocco, which where spent in Asilah, Rabat, and Chefchaouen, were amazing. Asilah is a beautiful seaside city: the buildings are all white with brilliant blue and turquoise accents, and every year new murals are painted on designated white-washed walls. Rabat was dingier, but with beautiful architectural interruptions: an ornate, magnificent mausoleum built in the 1960s (even though it looks like it is hundreds of years old), the remains of a mosque designed by the same guy who designed La Giralda, the bell tower of our Cathedral here in Sevilla, and Chellah, a site of ancient ruins. In Rabat we stayed with homestay families, which gave us access to wonderful homecooked meals. We also went to a Hammam -- a public bath--and did some great exfoliating. We spent very little time in Chefchaouen, which was touristy: mostly we just explored the markets there. Morocco was unlike anything I have experienced before. I had never been to an Arabic-speaking, Muslim, developing, or African country before. So going to an Arabic-speaking AND Muslim AND developing AND African country presented me with a lot of new things.

The 5 daily calls to prayer were certainly new for me. At first they took me by surprise, but I got used to them very quickly-I actually enjoyed being woken up by the sunrise prayer. It was beautiful and alarming because of how unfamiliar it was.

The poverty we saw in some places was disturbing: we drove by a Slumdog Millionaire-esque shantytown and my friend Sarah and I had tea in a home insulated with garbage. But at the same time we were presented with examples of relative wealth and abundance. For example, our meeting place (and the homestay of 3 of the boys on the trip) was a three-story house with high ceilings, beautiful tiles, and luxe furniture. Seeing such a dramatic juxtaposition was really interesting, especially after living in the Boston area my whole life (a very socio-economically segregated region).

The customs were also a surprise for me. It is rude for members of the opposite sex to publicly display any affection, which, given that our group likes to hug, required some adjustment on our part. Also, it is common to eat with your hands, using stiff bread as a sort-of-utensil (you load the cous cous or whatever delicious, well-seasoned thing you're eating onto the bread and eat it in one yummy bite). BUT the left hand is considered the "dirty hand" -- the one used for going to the bathroom -- so it is rude to use it while eating. That also took some getting used to.

The fantastic cous cous my friend Sarah and I were served in our Moroccan homestay.

Apparently, Friday is cous cous day. What a great day.

After Morocco, we went to Barcelona. Tragically, no pictures will be posted in this section of this massive update because my camera and wallet were stolen at a club. HUGE bummer, but I managed to stay pretty calm about it. My friends were very supportive and Nancy gave me a number to call where I could fill out a police report in English, which was good because, as comfortable as I have gotten with my Spanish, the thought of filing a police report in my second language stressed me out a bit. Other than that minor snare, Barcelona was great. We accomplished a lot of touristy goals: we saw Gaudí's La Sagrada Familia and his amazing park Güel, visited the Centre de Cultura Contemporania de Barcelona (CCCB) (awesome and very interesting), the Museu d'Art Contemporani de Barcelona (MACBA) (awful and super weird) and the Picasso Museum. It is so cool seeing things like La Sagrada Familia and Picasso's work, which I studied in my History of Art and Architecture class last year, in real life! I can't wait to take more in-depth Art History courses in college. We also took a tour of FC Barcelona's stadium. There are no words that could possibly capture how swank this stadium is! There is also an FC Barcelona Museum attached to the stadium, which chronicles the history of both the team and sport. Visiting this Museum and having attended an FC Sevilla vs. Moscow match two weeks earlier turned me into a futbolista -- a huge soccer fan! I have even started learning the Sevilla song by listening to it on YouTube.

OK, I can't continue writing right now, and I am only halfway through describing the Rides of March. Cádiz, Semana Santa, and Amsterdam will be described in another post shortly, because if I don't post this update right now, it will enter the black hole of things that I put off until they are irrelevant.

The all-nighter: Cádiz and back in 12 hours

Never in my life had I pulled an all-nighter before two weekends ago. Of course I had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning at some sleepovers, but always in the comfort of PJs and a sleeping bag. So I was unprepared for the adventure my group went on two Saturdays ago: an 8-hour promenade through the streets of Cádiz at its famous Carnaval, which takes place over the course of eleven days every February. Regarded as one of the best Carnavals in the world, this fiesta was a must-see for our adventurous group. We were excited to witness and participate in the tradition of showing off creative disfraces (costumes). We were also eager to watch the legendary chirigotas--large singing groups that write and perform satirical music commenting on politics and current events.

So on a cold (at least, by Andalusian standards) Saturday night we donned our regrettably store-bought costumes and took a train to Cádiz. We noticed some great costumes on the train: my favorite group comprised five girls wearing big sunny-side up eggs made of foam and traditional Flamenco accessories--a Spanish omelette!

When we arrived in Cádiz, we were greeted by an ever-growing mob of people in crazy outfits. We passed a large plaza packed with food vendors and made our way into a knot of narrow and winding streets, where most of the celebration was taking place. As difficult as navigation was (walking through Cádiz was reminiscent of the first days I spent in Sevilla, confused, with my nose in a map) we managed to find our way to another large plaza housing a stage. There we watched a chirigota perform and talked--or rather, shouted over the crowd and the amplified voices of the witty Spanish singers--with some Andalusian natives.

I was impressed by how warm and welcoming the people we met at Carnaval were. The only comparable event I have ever attended in Boston is the 4th of July fireworks spectacle, where people were definitely not as friendly!

After leaving the chirigota concert, we wandered around the city, in and out of cafés, taking in some much-needed caffeine. At 5 in the morning--8 hours after arriving in Cádiz--we boarded our train back to Sevilla. As much fun as I had in Cádiz, it felt good to go back to the city that now feels like home.