Living the Dream

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.

Robbed!

My cell phone got stolen last Friday.

When I told my host father about the incident and mentioned it to a teacher, they each shrugged their shoulders. It’s pretty common around here, they said. So I’m not going to dwell on it.

OK fine, I’ll tell you how it happened. About 15 people from my program were playing Frisbee in the park and we all put our stuff down next to the field. After an hour and a half of playing, we returned to our stuff to find my phone and a friend’s bag missing. Nobody saw anything. That is all.

Spanish University Classes, Or Lack Thereof

It started like every other first day of school in my life.

I woke up early, showered, put on nice-ish clothes, made sure I had all of my needed supplies and headed for my first class at the University of Sevilla.

I arrived at the classroom seven minutes early, double-checked to make sure I was in the right place and nervously waited for the teacher and other students to arrive. I waited…and I waited.

Twenty minutes later, I accepted the fact that the class wasn’t happening. It turns out that the dean of the department this class is in decided that classes in his department weren’t going to start until a two days after everybody else—a decision apparently made the night before and completely unannounced but somehow known to all but me.

Later that day, I attended a class in another university department. This time the students showed up, but the professor didn’t. We were eventually told that he had accidentally been scheduled to teach two classes at the same time.

That nightmare of a first day was a week and a half ago, and I’m still trying to figure out what classes I’m going to take.

My biggest worry about taking regular classes at a Spanish university was that I wouldn’t be able to understand the professors. That fear has come true, but it’s far from the most frustrating thing about my first 10 days as a student here. The “most frustrating” prize goes to dealing with the system, which is very different than in the Unites States.

To start, Spanish students don’t register to classes before they attend them. Instead, students receive various class schedules, attend as many classes as they want and personally let the professor know if they’re taking the class by the second or third week…or whenever. It’s very relaxed and kind of nice, but also a bit unorganized.

Then there are the classes themselves, which are apparently mandatory for students but optional for professors. When the professor does show up, he/she doesn’t show up on time, so classes ALWAYS start late (by 5-10 min) and usually end early too. Oh yeah, and for classes longer than an hour, there’s a five minute break after each hour. I know, I know, it’s pretty sweet.

Finally, there’s the system of evaluation. None of the classes I’ve been to (and I went to a lot in trying to figure out my schedules) have homework. Instead, there’s one make-or-break final at the end of the semester. That applies to us Americans too. Again, kind of nice but a little unnerving.

On the bright side, no class on Fridays!

My (still) tentative schedule:

Spanish Art Seminar

Literature and the Spanish Civil War

The Image of Spain from the Cinema

Modern History of Spain

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

My First Bullfight

As the large dark brown beast bolted into the arena at full speed and headed straight for a man holding a yellow cape, a crowd of more than 10,000 jumped to their feet and shrieked in excitement.

I shrieked with them. The bullfight was underway.

Now I don’t know how you feel about slaughtering animals for human enjoyment and I’m not really sure how I feel about it either, but I can tell you this: I’ve taken in Chicago Cubs games from box seats, cheered in the student section during Northwestern football games and watched NBA games from the nosebleed seats, and I’ve never experienced anything like I felt when that first bull entered the arena.

I’m not going to describe the fight in detail because I don’t think it’d be that interesting. But I thought I would use this space to briefly tell you about the process of the sport, which is very structured due to tradition.

Bullfights feature six bulls and three bullfighters, each supported by six assistants. The bulls are fought one at a time by one fighter and his team of helpers (each team fights two bulls). Each fight lasts about 30 minutes.

After the bull enters, the bullfighter observes as two assistants enter the arena on horseback and eventually stab the bull twice with a large lance before departing.

Next, three more assistants enter with pointed flags. Each of these assistants sticks two flags in the bull, attempting to get as close as possible to the location of the other wounds.

In the third and final stage, the bullfighter enters the arena alone with a dark red cape and a sword. The bullfighter uses the cape to attract the bull, trying to get as close as possible to show his control over the bull. Finally, the bullfighter maneuvers the bull into the right position and stabs it with the sword. If he does his job right, it should only take one jab to kill.

If the bullfighter is especially impressive, he will win not only cheers and flowers from the crowd, but one or both of the bull’s ears.

This happened twice at the nearly sold-out bullfight I attended on Sunday, the last fight of the season. Sevilla’s own Daniel Luque won the most praise after showing ridiculous control over one of his bulls and then killing it with one motion.

All in all, it was an exciting three hours. More importantly, it was an interesting glimpse into Spanish culture.