Living the Dream

Escaping Espana

When I woke up yesterday morning, at the end of four months of living in a foreign country away from my family and closest friends, I wanted nothing more than to go home. The plan was to fly from Sevilla to Madrid to New York City to Indianapolis, arriving home the day after leaving.

Unfortunately, it would not be that easy. It’s as if Spain didn’t want to see me go.

I immediately sensed trouble when I arrived at the Sevilla airport at 11 a.m. to find a group of students from my program huddled around a table. Their early morning to flight from Sevilla to Madrid had been canceled due to a massive snow storm in Madrid. Knowing my flight was probably also in trouble, I gloomily sat at the table with them.

Sure enough, my flight was canceled and although we were put on another flight, it was delayed and the eight of us all continued to sit in Sevilla as our flight from Madrid to New York took off at 5 p.m.

Shortly after midnight, more than 13 hours after getting to the Sevilla airport (some of my friends wanted 17 hours), we flew the 40 minutes between the two cities.

Then the craziness began. What awaited in Madrid was the longest line (or rather, dozens of lines) I’ve seen in a long time. Thousands of people were stranded in Madrid and wanted just one thing: to get out.

My friends and I split up, hoping one line would be significantly faster than the rest. When we learned that one line was going to get us to an Iberia representative first, we all piled into it.

After more than four hours of standing in that line, we made it to the front. It was 5 a.m.

We were lucky. Six of my friends snagged the last seat on a flight from Brussels to Newark, leaving soon at 7 a.m. The other one got a flight to Chicago the next day.

As for me, I was put on standby on a flight to New York City at 5 p.m., exactly 24 hours after my original flight and 30 hours after arriving at the Sevilla airport. If I didn’t get on that one, I would have to wait another 20 hours for the next flight to the U.S.

Fortunately, I made it on standby and am currently jetting across the Atlantic at hundreds of miles per hour. I have a flight to Indianapolis early tomorrow morning.

I feel exhausted, angry and hungry. But most of all, I’m excited. I’m going home.

More substantive posts on my last few weeks in Sevilla and general reflections on my study abroad experience will come soon.

Hasta Luego, Sevilla

As I prepare to finish my study abroad experience, I can’t help thinking about the city that has hosted me for the past four months.

Sevilla, Spain, is special in so many cultural and historical ways. But that’s not where my thoughts have turned lately. Instead, I’ve been thinking about Sevilla’s status as a tourist city.

I’ve never lived in a tourist city before (I will forever defend my hometown of West Lafayette, Indiana, but it is not exactly the first stop for those visiting from other countries or states). Sevilla, due to its attractions and historical significance, is a legitimate hot spot for of visitors from all over the world.

I think this is especially important and ironic for me, an American who tried so hard to feel like a local.

Those efforts paid off. A few weeks into my time here, I began to feel like a true sevillano. I ate (a variety of fried ham and meat including Pringa, a sandwich made up of several meats) and drank (Cruz Campo, the best beer in the world) the local diet, I (kind of) adopted the accent, I came to know my way around the city by heart. And of course, I began to judge the “guiris” (Spanish for “tourist”) who came to visit.

I learned to recognize them on the street. They’re easily identifiable by their pale faces and quiet voices, their tendency to travel in groups and walk slowly and most of all, their reliance on maps of the city (the few times I’ve used a map, I’ve been sure to glance at it quickly when nobody was looking).

As I passed the tourists on the street, I would smile to myself and stand up a little straighter, knowing that I lived here and they didn’t; that they were just passing by and would soon be gone.

Now I too am leaving. And although I stayed a little bit longer than those I was so quick to judge, I doubt my presence meant too much more to the city. In the end, as much as I became a “local” here, I am still technically just a guiri.

During my nearly four months in Sevilla, it has rained approximately seven times. Three of those seven came on the final three days of my time here.

I joked with my host parents and friends that the weather was a reflection of Sevilla’s sadness in me leaving. I know that’s ridiculous, but I sincerely hope it’s the case.

If it is, the feeling is mutual. Because although I stayed in Sevilla for less than four months (a blip on the timeline of my life) and never obtained “local” status, my time here will stay with me forever.

I hope to return here some day. But even if I can’t, I know I will always be a little bit sevillano.

I will be blogging my adventures in Spain on the195.com, a multimedia site by Northwestern students studying abroad. Please follow me there.

Thanksgiving And The Unspoken Agreement Of Study Abroad

Walking into the dining room last Thursday, I stopped dead in my tracks. A pumpkin centerpiece sat in the middle of the table, with hand-drawn paper turkeys laying on the plates and large helpings of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce waiting to be eaten.

I didn’t understand at first. After all, I’m living in a country that doesn’t even celebrate Thanksgiving and I didn’t expect any recognition of the holiday from my host family.

But while this year’s Turkey Day was the first of my life away from my U.S. family, I felt at home. No, it didn’t feel exactly like Thanksgiving in West Lafayette, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the effort.

Later that day, after dinner, we took turns saying what we were thankful for.

My roommate and I thanked our host parents for being the best hosts ever (they really are) and for everything they’ve done for us, including the day’s celebration. When it was their turn, our parents were quick to turn the tables, thanking us for teaching them about American culture and keeping them young.

It was one of my favorite moments of my time here.

Reflecting later, I realized that my Thanksgiving in Spain represented one of the parts I love most about studying abroad and traveling abroad in general: the unbelievable willingness of the natives to welcome visitors with open arms.

I remember getting the same feeling when I traveled around Israel last winter as I’ve gotten so many times here: Why are these people being so nice to me?

In both countries, strangers took me in and taught me what they could about local life, but they also listened to my customs. They fed me delicious food and offered to take me wherever I wanted to go. And knowing I was far from home, they bent over backwards to make me feel comfortable.

To get this royal treatment, all that I had to do was express interest in their language, their culture or their life. One mispronounced word of Spanish or one question about the local religious customs, and I was in.

I view it as something of an unspoken agreement: The travelers agree to soak up the culture of the place they’re visiting. In return, the natives agree to open their homes and hearts, to teach and to listen, to show the travelers their culture and ultimately, to try to make the experience as pleasant for the travelers as possible.

The trade isn’t a fair one, of course. It’s not even close. But luckily for the travelers, the natives don’t care.

I have benefited greatly from this uneven agreement during this experience.

When I arrived in Spain almost exactly three months ago, I didn’t know a single Spaniard. When I depart Sevilla in three weeks, I will leave behind an amazing family and the best group of Spanish friends I could have wanted.

And that’s what I’m thankful for this year.

On A Brighter Note...

I’m going to Paris in 2 hours!

Assaulted

Crime is beginning to get a little out of hand here in Sevilla.

When my cell phone and a friend’s bag were stolen while we were playing Frisbee a month ago, we didn’t really think anything of it. Petty crime like that is pretty common around here, we were told.

But since then, the incidents have piled up. A few weeks ago, a girl on our program had her phone stolen when she set it down for a minute in the changing room of a clothing store. A couple weeks ago, two other girls had their bags taken by a gang of Spaniards.

And last week, my roommate and I were assaulted. Well, kind of.

Gabe and I were walking by the river when we were approached by a group of five or six Spanish men about our age. One of them asked Gabe for some alcohol. He said no and kept walking. But the Spaniard was persistent, following Gabe and continuing to ask for alcohol and cigarettes.

I’ll be honest; as this was happening, I didn’t really understand much of what was going on (Gabe’s Spanish is much better than mine). Literally the only words of the conversation I understood came from a second Spaniard, who said to his persistent friend the words “tiro en el rio” (in English, “I throw in the river”). That freaked me out.

At one point, the river-thrower asked me a question, I replied “no entiendo” (“I don’t understand”) and they left me alone.

Anyway, Gabe finally forcefully said no and we started walking quickly away from the group. A moment later, the biggest Spaniard in the group came up behind Gabe and slapped him across the face, hard, and walked away. It was one of the most cowardly things I’ve ever seen.

Gabe stopped for a second; you could tell he was thinking about fighting back. But what could we do? There were six of them and two of us. So we kept on walking.

The incident served as a wakeup call, as I haven’t really worried about safety here. I’m still not too worried, but it might be time to at least think about it. Or at least watch out for cowardly face-slapping Spaniards.

I am blogging my adventures in Spain on the195.com, a multimedia site by Northwestern students studying abroad. Please follow me there.

Sevilla 5, Ciudad Lorqui 1

I’ll be honest: I’m not really a soccer fan.

That’s a blasphemes thing to say here in Spain (and if my host father finds out, he’ll be upset), but it’s true. I’ve always thought the sport was boring, with a monotonous pace prompted by to its running clock, conservative (but admittedly smooth) movement and lack of frequent scoring.

But knowing there is nothing more Spanish than soccer game, I headed to the local stadium earlier this week to see for myself.

What my friends and I experienced early in the game, to be honest, validated my fears and left us disappointed.

The stadium was huge, but not nearly filled on this cold Tuesday night (it wasn’t a big game as Sevilla’s opponent, a club team from the nearby providence of Murcia, is much worse than Sevilla and not even in their league—think Ohio State’s football team against Eastern Michigan’s). And yes, there was constant chanting and yelling, but no signs of the rowdy soccer fans we were expecting.

Most of all, the first half trickled along at a slow pace, with neither team scoring a goal or even getting particularly close.

As my friends and I sat at halftime, eating sandwiches made by our host mothers (homemade sandwiches are a tradition for night games), we wondered if the game was worth the 10 euro admission price.

In the second half, the teams made sure we got our money’s worth.

Lorqui struck first, scoring on a breakaway goal just two minutes into the half. But Sevilla answered with a penalty kick goal just three minutes later, and proceeded to score three more times in the next 10 minutes before ending with a 5-1 victory.

The crowd got louder and louder with each goal. By the end us Americans were sucked into the cheering and excitement of a sport I never knew could be so exciting.

Venga Sevilla!

Football Games, Hats And Halloween

Sorry for not writing for a bit. I’ve been busy, in part studying for midterms, which I finished yesterday.

If you’re wondering, the tests were pretty easy. I get the feeling the professors here want us to pass. After all, we are studying abroad, but let’s not kid ourselves—studying is not the most important part of our experience here.

Anyway, here is an update on what else has been going on in Sevilla:

• A group of us watched the Northwestern/Iowa football last Saturday game in a bar which advertises itself as “the most American place in Sevilla.”

The bar was packed but by Spaniards, thanks to an FC Barcelona (soccer) game. The soccer fans looked at us with bewilderment throughout our football game, especially when we sung the NU fight song as it ended (really, we did).

Meanwhile, Gabe and I dragged along our Spanish father and tried to teach him how American football works. He got it pretty quickly, even going as far as to say Iowa would have won if he was coaching them.

By the end, he was really into the game even though he had no stake in it. Between watching him and watching the soccer fans, I began to get the impression that Spaniards just like yelling during sports matches for no reason.

• Cultural observation: Despite the sunny climate and young population, nobody wears hats in Sevilla.

I’m not a big hat-wearer, but as my good friends know, I do throw on the old Cubs hat every now and again. Yesterday was one of those days, and I decided (after my midterm) to count how many people I saw wearing hats.

You guessed it. I didn’t see a single hat. Crazy, right?

• I got the chance to experience Halloween in Spain a couple weeks ago.

The holiday is just started to catch on here (it’s been here for five years, a Spanish friend told me), and it’s currently a little different than the tradition we know and love.

For example, the 10-year-old twins in my house were unaffected by the holiday, not dressing up, trick-or-treating or carving pumpkins, etc. But when we hit the streets on Halloween night, we saw a lot of adults dressed up.

As for the costumes, they were pretty elementary—mostly just masks or witch hats. No policemen, no candy bars (as my mom recommended) and no Sarah Palins, which was very disappointing to me.

• We’re going to a soccer game tonight!

The Lesson Of The Tower Of Gold

Sevilla is without a doubt the most breathtaking city I’ve ever lived in (admittedly the competition is pretty weak—I love my hometown of West Lafayette, Indiana, but it is not quite as compelling).

The capital of southern Spain is home to the largest Christian cathedral in the world, the oldest still-functioning royal palace in Europe, the oldest bullfighting ring in Spain, the remains of Christopher Columbus and this ridiculously beautiful public plaza, to name a few sites.

But of all the amazing attractions of this city, my favorite is a medium-sized, ugly building. The “Torre del Oro” was built as a military watchtower by Sevilla’s Muslim inhabitants in the beginning of the 13th century.

Why do I love the Torre del Oro? Several reasons.

It’s partly because of its location. Situated in the middle of Sevilla and along the Guadalquivir River – the most relaxing part of the city – the bottom of the tower is the perfect place for a chill picnic or a botellon (outdoor drinking party).

It’s also partly because of its name. “Torre del Oro,” translated to English, literally means “Tower of Gold.”

But most of all, it’s because of the tower’s historical significance.

Years after being used as a watchtower, the Catholic Kings of Spain used the building as their primary storage space for gold and other items obtained in colonizing the Americas. Columbus and other explorers used the Guadalquivir River as their primary way to enter Spain upon returning from sea. And just down the road from the river, the colonists built an immense archive to house the records of their conquests in the New World.

These days, it’s easy for Americans to think that the United States has always been the most powerful place in the world. It’s easy for us to forget that we’re citizens of a relatively new country, colonized thanks to the ingenuity of more powerful nations.

Here in Sevilla, the most important city (in terms of colonization) of the country perhaps most responsible for America’s discovery, there are constant reminders that things were not always the way they are now.

As multiple professors have told us, Spain was the most powerful country in the world 500 years ago. Now it is not, and all that remains to remember the greatness are old and sometimes ugly buildings, like the Torre del Oro.

But that’s a pretty important memory, one that I think is central to the study abroad experience.

I am here to embrace about another culture. In doing that, I’m not only learning about both the present and past of this place. I’m also leaving behind my old thoughts about America’s centrality and superiority to the rest of the world.

The Torre del Oro symbolizes that message to me, and that’s why it’s my favorite place in the city.

I am blogging my adventures in Spain on the195.com, a multimedia site by Northwestern students studying abroad. Please follow me there.

A Typical Spanish Family: Mine

Sitting on the couch during a reunion of my Spanish “family” (the relatives of the people I’m living with) yesterday afternoon, I was startled by the sounds of high-pitched shrieking and laughter.

I looked up wearily, expecting to see more poor behavior from the 10-year-old twins who have become my brothers here. But the twins were sitting quietly in the corner, playing a Gameboy.

It was my host mother who was causing the ruckus, giggling and squealing while working with her sister (my aunt) to tickle her brother-in-law (my uncle).

The rest of the family didn’t seem to notice. My grandmother, chatting with one of my cousins, looked up for a moment, a smile breaking across her face as she slightly shook her head before resuming her conversation.

Me encanta mi familia. I love my family.

Besides being ridiculous, the Quiroga Costas clan is also a “typical Spanish family,” my host mom told me during my first week here. So I figured we could knock out two birds with one stone – you get to learn about a typical Spanish family, and I get to talk about my sweet people I’m living with.

There are four of them (six of us, if you count my roommate Gabo and I) living in a third floor apartment in the center of Sevilla: My father, a hilarious lawyer named Juan Luis; my mother, a delightful woman and a great cook named Marta; and the twins, Fernando and Borja (although I mentioned their sometimes poor behavior before, they are actually intelligent, kind and very active kids).

But that’s not all, of course. Like many Spaniards, the extended family is very important in this house.

Marta’s parents, my grandparents, live in the adjacent apartment complex, also on the third floor, and often yell to us from their window (the grandparents, by the way, are also hosting two students on my study abroad program). And Marta’s two sisters, my aunts, both live in and around Sevilla (one of the aunts has three children and is also hosting two other students on my program) and visit often.

And then there are the family reunions, held on birthdays or anniversaries or whenever someone feels like having one. Joyous affairs, they always begin with delicious tapas and lively conversation and end with extremely strong alcoholic beverages and passionate debate.

We’re a family of jokesters. Sarcasm is basically the family language, and no topic is too crude to be discussed at the lunch table. At the same time, we’re a very traditional family. We’re devoutly Catholic (well, the family is), we’re politically conservative (by Spanish standards) and reunion meal seating is sometimes assigned according to Spanish tradition.

Honestly, I’m very grateful to have been placed with these people, who have welcomed us into the family and treated us like kings. From buying only food that Gabo and I like to pestering us to talk with them so we can practice our Spanish, the family has made our time in Sevilla what it has been.

And now, I feel a part of them.

The Dangers Of Guided Tours, And Observations On Africa

I was on the beach when it hit me. We were playing Frisbee, surrounded by dozens of young boys doing back flips in the sand, men chatting quietly amongst each other and women in hijab walking silently. As I peered at the people staring at us, puzzled by our game (or, as I prefer to think, amazed by our skill), it hit me: I’m in Africa.

More specifically, I was in Morocco. Now, three days after returning from the whirlwind weekend trip, I’m still struggling to put meaning to it.

On study abroad to learn new cultures, these three days could have been some of the most meaningful— my first visit to Africa, my first visit to a majority-Arab country, my first time eating in a king’s palace, etc.

They weren’t.

Instead, I spent more time this weekend riding buses than seeing Africa. The activities that could have been valuable were rushed: 30 seconds riding a camel, five minutes seeing where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea, seven and a half minutes exploring a cave.

The 4-star hotels we stayed in were nice, but they did little to add to our cultural education. The highlights of the trip, and this should tell you something, were that Frisbee game on the beach and hours of card games in our hotels.

All of these problems I credit to the nature of our trip – a guided tour. It’s difficult to see a country when you are being herded with 52 other people by guides that don’t speak your language so you can fit a structured schedule.

So let me offer this advice: Avoid guided tours. Maybe you’ve had good experiences with them in the past, but, well, you just got lucky that time. Instead, I suggest you go on your own, as some of my friends are doing this weekend in Morocco. It’ll probably be cheaper, too.

It would be unfair, however, to end this post on that note. After all, my weekend wasn’t completely worthless. I returned home with my first soccer jersey, a steal at $11. And yes, I learned a bit about Africa.

Actually, there are dozens of things I could tell you about Africa—from the ancient homes that were all painted blue, supposedly to repel mosquitoes, to the tobacco (or marijuana; we’re not quite sure) one of our guides kept on his hand all day so he could sniff it whenever he wanted.

But I’d rather briefly tell you about something Africa was not: what I thought it would be.

In the United States, our reaction to that continent has been socially programmed. Just hearing the word “Africa” conjures images of poverty, desperation and AIDS. The same feelings exist in Spain, although it lies just nine miles from the continent. My host parents warned me of the trip several times, and demanded all the clothes we took on the trip be washed immediately upon our return.

Expecting to see a destitute area, I instead saw a modern, capitalist, liberal, and above all, likeable country. A late night show in a club featured dancing and acrobatics. Women in hijab readily helped us with directions on the street. And a McDonald’s served as one of group meeting points.

Yes, we did see some of the Africa I expected. Men followed us down the street for blocks at a time. My friend Alex bought a hookah for $22 when the original asking price was $60. We were hounded on the street by vendors trying desperately to sell us bags and bracelets.

You’re probably thinking that I would have seen more of this stereotype if our trip had been less structured. And you’re right.

But even in just three days of mostly bus rides and hotels, I did see some of the real Africa. And I liked it.

So one more piece of advice: Visit Africa.

I am blogging my adventures in Spain on the195.com, a multimedia site by Northwestern students studying abroad. Please follow me there.