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.

Popurrí

I have been in Sevilla for one month--long enough to have established a daily routine but not long enough to feel like my routine isn't special. So every time something unexpected/funny/foreign happens, I get excited and file it away in my brain, saving it for emails, this blog, and stories for my grandchildren. In the states, when something unexpected/funny/foreign happens, I take less than a second to think about it and throw it away. But here, my brain is quickly growing crowded with those unexpected/funny/foreign happenings. So today's post is a little bit of potpourri, or as it's called here, popurrí.

Jorge's Latest Shenanigans

1. Jorge walked in on me getting into the shower. He ran into his room, very upset. I like to think that I was cool as a cucumber in this situation, saying I didn't care and that now he has hard evidence that I do NOT have a culo gordito.

2. Jorge has chicken pox (maricela). I have also had chicken pox so I know I won't get it, but I certainly can get shingles. Which is why I grow very upset when he comes into my room and rubs his face on my pillows and clothes. Which he has done more than once.

3. Jorge has taken to picking up cushions from the couch and waving them at me, yelling "TORO! TORO!"

4. Yesterday I walked into the apartment, greeted by Jorge shouting, "hola fea, Papa está haciendo caca!" Roughly translated, "whaddup uggo, Dad's pooping!"

Hermanitas de los Pobres

I realized I couldn't handle working with the people who were really mentally out of it. While working with them was an emotional drain, I think what actually made me decide to seek a change was my inability to communicate. They couldn't understand a word I said, and the few times they spoke, I couldn't understand what they said. They also kept asking me to take them home (or to their rooms) or just let them leave. When I could find an actual employee to tell them that the elderly person was tired and wanted to rest, they told me I wasn't allowed to take them back to their rooms.

I decided I was awful company for them and that I was not getting enough practice speaking Spanish. I went to Nancy, the gap year coordinator/mother hen here and told her I was unhappy with my volunteer situation. She ironed things out for me so that the next time, I only worked with people who could carry on conversations about things that exist. I helped in a computer class and sat in on a memory class. My time in the computer class is sort of how I pictured all of my time in the elderly home going: talking to people, helping them, making them laugh. I was seeking grandparent-grandchild relationships with these people, and I could feel that (sort of...a little...hopefully) happening in the computer class.

Then, during their memory exercises, I had a great time even though I wasn't really helping out. María, the occupational therapist whom I follow around and try to assist, read the elderly folks a paragraph about a man celebrating his birthday. Then she gave them a copy of the paragraph with some words, names, numbers and dates left out so they could fill in what they remembered. Chaos ensued as everybody started cheating off each others' papers and mouthing answers to one another from across the table. It was so funny to see these elderly folks--who until this point had seemed so dignified--go a little nuts with the exercise. I am hoping that from now on I can take a more active role; I would feel better being more helpful and getting to interact with some of the ancianos.

Sevillanas Class

I haven't really said that much about Sevillanas yet. This four-part dance, a Flamenco derivative, is practiced at the Feria de Abril, a week-long fiesta that takes place every--yes, you guessed it--April. Feria is a huge deal here: every year a new gate is constructed at the mouth of the fair grounds. The gate is huge and glitzy and very close to where I live, so I have been keeping tabs on its development! The dresses are also a big deal; every self-respecting Sevillana owns at least three. My host mother, Helena, owns five, including one for when she is pregnant. Since Feria is so important, the CIEE girls decided it would be embarrassing if we couldn't participate even a little. We haven't discussed the fact that we might not get to put our moves to use because Feria is really for true Sevillanos; the casetas, or dance tents, are all invitation-only. Putting aside that small snag, we threw ourselves into intense study at a dance school in Triana. It is a lot of fun, as public humiliation often is if you can master the art of self-deprecation. The CIEE girls make up the majority of the class, but there are a couple of 8-year old Sevillanas who kick our asses twice a week from 7-8 pm. We tend to ignore them because they have an advantage (it's in their DNA, I'm serious).

La Matanza

Remember before I left for Spain, when I wrote that I hoped people in Sevilla would like jamón serrano as much as people in Madrid do? Well, they like it more. In fact, here they have jamón ibérico, which is supposedly even better. Serrano is to ibérico as Dunkin' Donuts is to Starbucks. I can't tell the difference, but the latter is considered to be of a higher quality and thus is much more expensive. The point here is that in order for people in Sevilla to be happy, a lot of pigs have to die. And so, my gap year group was brought to a matanza (slaughter) of a pig in the countryside this weekend. I was dreading this. Even hard-core aficionados of toreo (bullfighting), which to me, looks pretty gross, were shocked when I told them my weekend plans. "You're going to see a matanza? Those are really disgusting. You will probably be a vegetarian by Monday."

The matanza was, in fact, really disgusting. It was sad and disturbing when the pig was brought out of the truck and forced onto the slaughtering table, and it made some pretty upsetting noises. Fortunately, after it died and the carniceros (butchers) burned off its hair and skin (that was also pretty gross, for the record), it no longer looked like an animal. It looked like uncooked food. After the pig had been dismembered, we left and went to a nearby museum. It was a jamón museum. I'm telling you, they take it really seriously here.

The guy who administered the fatal cut, sharpening his knives.

I can't imagine a pig-killer looking any different, can you?

Needless to say, I'm glad the matanza is over and that there isn't another one scheduled for this semester. While this experience failed to convert me to vegetarianism, it did make me feel like puking and/or crying.

I've let the matanza overshadow our visit to Córdoba, an error which I will now try to correct because Córdoba is really quite impressive. I had studied its famous mosque-turned-cathedral in Art History last year. I was dazzled by the rows and rows of red and white arches and the delicate light that entered through high-up windows and trickled down to the floor. I had high expectations for the visit to Córdoba, and those expectations were all surpassed by miles. I will let some of my photos do the talking:

The cathedral, which was built inside the mosque. Another burn on Islam!

An example of the aforementioned red and white

arches being bathed in delicate light.

The arches and some typical Islamic architecture.

The columns are all different from one another because they were recycled--taken

from ancient ruins! Sustainability points.

El grupo!

Well, I must say hasta luego. I have dance class tonight! More on that in my next post, I promise.