:-)

Join me as I leave Spain for a couple weeks and begin my journey through Italy and Greece...

different names for the same thing

I just finished my first final exam at the Universidad de Sevilla, for my Latin American theater class. It was intense.

At first glance, it seems just like a lit class at UCSB because the final is three hours, and students are given a couple sheets of paper and a couple essay questions. Only here, it's worth the entire grade for the class. After three hours (yes I used the whole time) of writing in Spanish, i'm both exhausted of thinking in Spanish and acustomed to it, so English words aren't coming easily. After a semester long class, three open-ended essay questions are an anticlimactic and stressful way to determine our grade. I'm not a fan. Though the professor said after he read us the questions that the exam was really easy, I think I would've preferred something more directed, because I had four sheets of paper, three hours, and no idea what he wanted.

Vamos a ver...

toros y sangre

I’ve done about everything Spanish there is to be done in Spain by now, everything except the most stereotypically Spanish of all: a bullfight. Bullfights, like flamenco, fans, and Feria are a remnant of the old world, a subject of hot moral debate in modern times, and a practice that many Spaniards, including my señora, don’t support. In fact, Cataluñya, the north-east province that is home to Barcelona, is trying to ban bullfighting. Of course, they’re also trying to separate from Spain and use their native language calalán instead of castellano, what better way than to reject a Spanish tradition.

I had to go to a bullfight. I don’t condone the killing or torturing of bulls, horses, or the mauling of people in the bullring, but I had to go see it. From a moral standpoint, it was actually an interesting study in spectator sociology, because in the face of a 1,000 pound bull on the loose, the audience sympathizes with their fellow humans in the bullring, making it easier and almost a relief to see the bull finally die. I tried not to think about the moral implications of this, because whether or not I paid 10€ to sit in the sun at La Real Maestranza yesterday, six bulls would have died and the crowd would have cheered.


I ended up at a novillada or novice bullfight because the real corrida season is pretty much over. It was all the same to me because it was cheaper, less crowded, and a more than adequate taste of the bull aspect of Spanish culture. At almost every fight there are three toreros (or bullfighting novices in my case), and six bulls. The basic organization of the killing of each bull is the same, with the torero as boss and all of his little helpers running around doing their part. The bull is let out of the gate and he runs into the bullring to a chorus of “wows” from the audience and a song from the band. Novillada bulls are supposedly smaller than the real bulls used, but they are still huge, black, and fast, with big horns. All of the little helpers and the matador are out on the dirt with pink capes, running the bull around the ring to see what it’s like. Some of them were fast, some were stupid, and some were mad; the torero’s technique later depends, in part, on the bull’s mood and, in part, on how stupid, brave, or well-practiced the torero is. After they run him around and antagonize him a little bit, they parade a horse and rider with a spear onto the field. The horse is blindfolded, wearing a ridiculous-looking dress that’s horn-proof, and the rider has his feet in steel stirrups. Ideally the rider will stab the bull twice in the back with his spear, starting the process of spilling blood and weakening the bull. Then some of the helpers grab little, colorful spears and run straight at the bull, veering at the last second to stick them into the same spot on the bull’s back. At this point the bull ideally has eight colored sticks hanging out of his back, his red blood is visible on his black skin, and the torero steps out with his small, red cape and sword.


This is the subject of the common pictures of bullfights. The torero with his tight, heavily decorated suit stands with his red cape off to the side, twisting his body around as the bull runs at the cape. Ideally it’s a very calm process and the torero has the bull transfixed and his every move controlled by the red cape. Interestingly enough, bulls are actually colorblind, but they’re attracted to the movement of the cape as the torero stands still beside it. After tiring the bleeding bull out still more with a series of these passes, the torero will ideally stick his sword into the perfect spot on the bull’s back so it reaches his heart. The helpers come out and confuse him with their capes and the bull, exhausted and bleeding, falls within a few minutes. The torero holds up his arms to the audience’s applause and one of the helpers takes a knife and sticks it into the bull’s brain to finish him off for good. If the judge says the torero has done especially well, someone comes out and cuts the ears off the bull (and/or the tail), and gives them to the fighter.


During my particular fight no ears or tails were awarded and most of the swords weren’t stuck in at that perfect spot or far enough in, so the bulls had to walk around the ring suffering for awhile before they fell. The last bull fell eventually with the sword half hanging out of his back, but when the helper went in for the final kill, the bull jumped back up again. One of the bulls was so angry at the helpers antagonizing him with their capes from behind the wall that he made a run at the wall and broke a piece of molding, sending it high into the air. The last bull succeeded in running the horse and rider with the spear up against the wall and toppling them over, so while a team of eight men in berets and red polo shirts tried to get the horse on his feet again, the helpers tried to keep the bull’s mind off the completely powerless horse. They blindfold the horses because they would freak out if they saw a bull running at them, but the horse gets freaked out anyway and backs up even though he can’t see the bull. The last torero, from France, was actually crazy, and he met the bull at the gate. He got down on his knees facing the gate, and as the bull ran into the ring he flipped his cape up over his head so the bull ran around him instead of straight into him. This torero also put in all of the little spears in by himself, doing a little ballet with each set as the music cheered him on. He was cocky but the audience loved him as he ran around without a cape, pushing the bull away with his hands.

As you can probably tell, bullfights are a guy’s sport. Esteban went with his polo shirt and sunflower seeds, and I went like a Spanish woman, with makeup, high heels, and a skirt. And when it started getting boring or gory or the sun, heat, and flies got too intense, I pulled out my fan and started fanning myself impatiently. From the movement around the rest of the ring, it seemed that most women were doing the same. What would a traditional Spanish bullfight be without traditional Spanish machismo?

a new meaning of calor

No puedo creer el calor que hace en Sevilla.

It’s a heat unlike any other. A wet heat, gentle heat, a heat that gets into every part of the city and stays there, pounding and pushing night and day. The closest Seville gets to air conditioning, except in some of the more modern clothing stores, are the skinny streets that are almost always shaded, the cool tile patios, and the rickety standing fan which is the newest addition to my room (and incidentally my new best friend). In the last few days I have gotten used to being perpetually wet and sticky; leaving for class after having taken a shower and dried myself off and arriving 30 minutes later, drenched. My nights are spent tossing and turning, the only relief from the stuffy heat is my window which lets no breezes through, only bugs. My ventilador helped last night, but it’s been a little while since I’ve been used to sleeping with a fan.

My señora just told me to close my window because in Sevilla, when the sun starts peeking through the tall blocks of apartment buildings, it’s time to salvage whatever coolness might remain in the house and wait to open the window again until the sun goes away. I’m starting to think that siesta is necessary, even though it’s extremely counter-productive and irritating. A few months ago the Spanish sun was a welcome sight because it meant I might not have to wear my warmest coat when I left my ice box house. Now it means all the Americans are wearing their mini skirts and flip flops and all the Spanish woman are wearing short sleeves and sandals instead of scarves and knee-high boots.

I had to laugh last night during my fourth hour of insomnia when I was looking at the estimated temperature list for July in my Let’s Go Europe book. Copenhagen: 69. Berlin: 73. Budapest: 79. Madrid: 90. In Seville, well, I think it gets worse than that. According to my señora, May is the unpredictable month, June is starts getting hotter, but July and August are the months where the heat is the worst. I will thankfully be safely at home by the ocean, readjusting from the nine-hour time difference, getting re-spoiled on the temperate weather of So Cal, and trying to purify my body after living on the Spanish diet of ham, oil, bread, and red wine for six months.

I think I’ll survive, especially since I’ll be traveling for two weeks around Italy and Greece. According to Let’s Go, Rome and Athens only get to 83 and 89 respectively in July. The two hottest cities in Europe after Madrid…

hasta la muerte

Sevilla F.C. won the UEFA Cup on Wednesday night. On Thursday night the players and the cup itself arrived home to a city literally beside itself with happiness. The fans were out in the thousands as the team’s double-decker party bus made its way at snail’s pace from the airport, to the cathedral (only in Spain would they present their soccer cup to the Virgin), to the government building, and to the stadium. The beautiful part about it was that it was truly a citywide celebration, except for the loyal fans to the city’s other team Betis. Teenagers drinking Cruzcampo united with old men sweating through their collared shirts, their wives, little girls and boys with red and white soccer jerseys, boys on motos honking, women in cars honking, groups of boys screaming and cheering and waving huge red flags. Perhaps more so than Feria and Semana Santa, this celebration was open and welcoming to soccer fans of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors.

I waited in the big plaza by the government building and watched as the fans waved their flags and scarves, jumped around, set off fireworks, screamed, sang, and chanted for hours and hours as they waited for the bus and the cup to arrive. It finally arrived at 1:30 a.m., about three and a half hours after it was supposed to have arrived at the airport, and though no one could see anything because the crowd was so big, everyone took their Sevilla scarves in two hands, held them high in the air, and sang the Sevilla theme song while swaying in time to the music. “Sevilla, Sevilla, Sevilla… Soy sevillista hasta la muerte (I’ll be a Seville fan until my death)” When the city’s mayor spoke to congratulate the team, his voice was drowned out by the chanting and cheers of the crowd. When the president of the club and they players got on the microphone to speak through the second story windows of the government building, the plaza went completely silent. Sevilla F.C.’s been around for 100 years, and I don’t believe they’ve won until now. I was there to watch the celebration.

¡GOL!

Spanish media: 1
Lindsey: 1

I officially book ended my language acquisition today with a nice question-and-answer session for another heavily made up, microphone-wielding woman. This time I was walking back from the shopping area, and this time I saw the woman with her microphone and camera man before they cornered me, so I was prepared. There’s a big book fair going on this week, so her questions were about books, and fortunately I’m well-versed in words and in Spanish literature. Unlike last time, my Spanish came out fairly clearly and normally, and I only had to ask her to repeat her question once.
(roughly translated from Spanish)
What’s the last book you read?
El cuatro de atrás by Carmen Martín Gaite.
What’s it about?
It’s a weird story about the autobiography of the author with some elements of mystery, like a man dressed in black.
Where are you from?
The United States.
Do you think people in Spain or in the U.S. read more?
I think people here read more.
(turns to the camera, which I was avoiding by looking at her): Did you hear that listeners!? She thinks you read more than people in the United States do! (turns to me): Do you have something to say to the Spanish public about how they should read more?Well, reading is very important. Read more!
The women and her entourage giggled a little, smiled at me, said thank you, very good and moved on.
As much as I deserve a point for that performance, I hope that it doesn’t appear on television.

I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve been thinking lately that I’m getting more comfortable with Spanish. I have learned quite a few new words, colloquial sayings, and “um” noises to fill the spaces in my sentences, and though my accent is far from perfect, it’s passable, and though I talk painfully slow, it’s ok, because normally people don’t have to squish up their faces in order to understand me. I think it depends on my confidence level, but today already I’ve had several exchanges in Spanish that weren’t premeditated and they all went just fine. I think my shame is pretty much gone when it comes to talking by now because I live here, I feel like I’ve been studying Spanish for a million years, I can read whole novels in Spanish, and my command really is good enough that I shouldn’t be intimidated to talk when I want to. I’m still a foreigner, but if I hold my head up high and accept that, then I can get along just fine. And though I’m looking forward to returning to a land where I know the cultural norms and the language 100%, I’m definitely going to miss the adventure and excitement that comes with doing mostly everything in Spanish.

futbol fun and no sleep

Last night Sevilla Futbol Club played Middlesbrough in the UEFA Cup in Holland, which happens to be the second best futbol cup in Europe. It actually wasn't necessary to watch the game or even read the newspaper to see who won: everytime Sevilla scored (four times), the city erupted in collective cheer from every corner and the cars honked the Sevilla FC win tune. When they finally won, well, the screams, fireworks, and horns went on all night and have continued into today because the cup and the players are, as we speak, making their way to the Ayuntamiento government building where there will undoubtedly be more cheering, screaming, and singing. I have never seen anything quite like this, especially since Sevilla has two rivaling futbol teams. But they're all pretty near crazy with their songs, their cheers, their red and white, and their scarves.

my conclusion that was also edited (but not as much)

We could have been anywhere. But were at our home stay in Rabat, Morocco sitting in the comfy patio room with our host family of seven and my American companion was showing the three fascinated brothers of the house his Canon PowerShot SD400 digital camera with 5 megapixels and a 3x digital zoom. The brothers, for their part, were asking all the right questions before all four boys turned back to their heated game of FIFA Soccer 2004 on the family’s Playstation 2. The rest of us were sipping Coca Cola with an Arabic label because we had been told not to drink the water, speaking in bits of English, Spanish, French, and Moroccan Arabic to get our points across the language barrier.

Day three in Africa, a country we had long since found did not have much in the way of Western toilets, toilet paper, showers, or forks. Not that these comforts are the only symbols of civilization; Sevilla doesn’t have much in the way of toilet paper or warm water either. But what many of the people I met in Rabat did have was technology — internet, e-mail, a cell phone, and at least a basic knowledge of English — all things quite foreign to even my host señora in her first-world country of Spain.

The Canon PowerShot saw admiration during its three-day stay in Morocco, but it also saw many decrepit dwellings, skinny children, and poverty. Western consumer products like technology, as well as Coca Cola and good old American fast food, seem to have preceded real assistance in this and many other third-world countries. Because though cameras, video games, computers, and even McDonalds are nice comforts of modernity, they don’t help a country or its citizens sustain themselves. Indeed, the outsourcing and cheap labor now popular among many Western manufacturers further accentuates the divisions between rich countries and poor; these workers often make less in substandard conditions than a comparable worker would make anywhere else.
The thousands of Senegali and Western Saharan immigrants who have arrived on the shores of the Canary Islands or perished in the ocean getting there in the past few months didn’t risk their lives for technology. Granted, technology is part of life in most first-world countries, but first these immigrants seek the jobs, money, and basic comforts for themselves and their families that are not so easily obtained or available in their home countries. Sirifo Kouyate Sakiliba, an immigrant from Senegal that I had the pleasure of interviewing for más o menos 6, admits that he has bought a car in his twelve years in Spain. But more importantly, he provides for his family here in Spain and sends money back to his family in Senegal so his brothers can attend school.

Many of the Moroccans I spoke with didn’t dream about leaving their home country except to travel, a dream impossible for most holding a Moroccan passport. Many others, though, save up to pay the exorbitant prices to get a ticket across the straight to Spain or position themselves around the barbed-wire and high fences separating Ceuta, a colony of Spain, from the rest of Morocco, in hopes of making it over. A few immigrants, like those featured in this magazine, make it across the sea or over the fences, but Spain only has so many jobs to give them.

Those of us lucky enough to hold passports from first-world countries have the luxury to move freely around the world, and the goods that our companies produce follow. As seen from the hundreds still dying in the seas each day trying to immigrate to a better life, the undernourished, underpaid people of the world still need more than fast food and technology. As holders of golden passports, we all have a responsibility to help; for the staff of más o menos 6, listening, learning, and observing were the first steps. The stories of the immigrants we have talked to here in Spain, those we talked to in Morocco, and of course the images captured by the Canon PowerShot were crucial to a better understanding. A little bit of understanding can go a long way.

my original article for mas o menos that was severely edited: my version so it can be published SOMEWHERE

Estaba sentándose a la hora de la merienda sorbiendo un café como un español y como normal porque ya ha llevado doce años en España. Aunque lo ha hecho un hábito, todavía Sirifo Konyate recuerda que solamente los blancos beben el café por la tarde en Senegal, su país de nacimiento. Un puente entre culturas en su vida y también en sus trabajos como mediador intercultural y músico, lo que era reflectado en sus ojos no fue su lucha con inmigración, sino el futuro de su niño multirracial que nació aquí en Sevilla.

Aún su músico ha ayudado en sentirse más cómodo en España, Sirifo dijo lo que ha motivado en aceptar la cultura española fue el nacimiento de su hijo. “Él es de aquí, su madre es de aquí, pero ¿Dónde busca su referencia? No hay muchos negros en la calle; yo mismo soy su referencia. Me quedaré y lucharé hasta que me canse.”

Sirifo tuvo la oportunidad de venir a España para una gira de su grupo de música. Vino doce años pasados, se quedó, se casó y ahora tiene los medios para ayudar su familia en Senegal. Sirifo paga para todos sus hermanos asistir a colegio privado con suficientes pantalones, comida y bolígrafos. Cuando era niño, iba a escuela pero algunas veces su familia no tenía el dinero para comprar los materiales. En su tiempo libre, aprendía como tocar la kora, un instrumento típico de Malí, de sus familiares músicos. Él nació en Senegal, un país de África occidental, pero su padre es de Malí, y su madre, de Guinea-Bissau — todos estos países en Africa y España forman parte de él.

Efectivamente, Sirifo ha adaptado el nombre español, Pablo, para su nombre musical. Además de facilita relaciones entre la gente, Sirifo cree que su música es un buen ejemplo del enlace entre sus culturas: la de Senegal y África, y la da España. Pero su hijo negro y blanco es el mejor ejemplo de inmigración, de culturización y de los aspectos positivos de inmigración. Sirifo mismo se identifica con todas sus culturas. Dijo, “Creo que no mantenga mi cultura de origen cien por cien y creo que sea negativo mantenerla cien por cien. Tengo que aceptar la cultura española y una mezcla de Senegal y España es mi cultura.”

En realidad, dijo que lo que es importante no es identificar con la bandera de un país, pero formar una conexión con la gente y la humanidad. Sirifo habla cuatro dialectos africanos, español y francés, y su trabajo como mediador cultural tanto como músico y lenguas ha ayudado en formar conexiones aquí.

Es común para los jóvenes Africanos inmigrar a España u otros países en Europa porque, Sirifo dijo, siempre buscan cosas que no tienen allí. En su caso, buscó dinero para pagar para cosas mejores para sus padres y sus hermanos. Pero el parte negativo de esta realidad es si todos los jóvenes están saliendo de Senegal y Africa, nadie excepto los mayores todavía están allí. Por eso, Sirifo cree que Africa está despoblando, y no hay mucha gente joven sobrante para avanzar la cultura y el país.

Aunque ha abrazado todas las culturas en su vida, todavía se siente como extranjero aquí en su nuevo hogar, y en su país de nacimiento también. Después de doce años, ya ha arreglado a su nueva vida y no es difícil sentirse cómodo. Pero al principio, dijo que “era difícil e increíble para mí… pero dejé mi país con el cocimiento que tendría que aprender muchas cosas desconocidas e inesperados como la mirada que hace a un negro.”

Ahora da gracias porque tuvo la suerte para venir a España. Y su nuevo lucha con inmigración es cría su hijo como un español, pero como un Africano también. Sirifo se sirve como su único modelo negro y africano. Pero sus dos padres, Sirifo y su esposa española, se sirven como sus modelos españoles. En realidad, no importa si Sirifo nació aquí o no, sino que ha aceptado y adoptado la cultura española en su vida. Por eso, nos encontró en un café por la tarde, sorbiendo un café.

todo sobre mis madres

I was worried and not very hopeful about my real mother and my Spanish mother meeting. Considering they differ 15 years in age, two feet in height, are culturally completely separate, and do not speak a word of each other’s language, I did not give the encounter much hope. I knew it had to happen, because I did want them to meet each other, and because I wanted my mom to try real Spanish food.

True to her word, my señora fed us an arrozita (affectionately rice, aka paella), with saffron, shrimp, plenty of mussels, and choco (cuttlefish). The afternoon started off rather unusually with my mom and me sitting at the table eating and my señora yelling at a repairman in the kitchen. When she finally sat down, she started yelling at my mom too, I suppose thinking that if she talked louder she would get her point across the language barrier to my mother. My mom reacted by waiting for my translation and trying to answer in Spanish with a good, or a yes, or a no. Once the two got the hang of talking through me, well I think it worked pretty well. Conversation was flowing between me and my señora, and then to my mom, and then through me again. Translation is interesting and I think I did a pretty good job… better than the translators in Morocco who took a whole paragraph in Arabic and boiled it down to one word in English. We got her talking about religion, Semana Santa, and the flamenco dress (gypsy dress, as she calls it) that the family used to own. She pulled out her bag of photos and was showing my mom members of the family and friends, using words and pointing, with my mother understanding every word.

Language is an interesting phenomenon, a great divider and a great unifier. But it doesn’t have to be anything, because even if two women don’t speak a word of the same language, they can still get along.

there's no place like home

I’m sitting here on my bed listening to my señora wash the dishes from lunch and to the strains of her granddaughter playing quietly in the other room. My window is open to let in the breeze and the bird songs, and if I’m lucky, no huge moths or flies will decide to enter. The day is warm, but the apartment is comfortable, an oasis from the blazing heat on the concrete outside. The city is resting from a long week of partying; this afternoon there are no yells from the rides of the fair that was down the street and no smell of churros being fried. Tomorrow, the stores will be open normal hours and everyone will get back to work. Día del trabajador is strategically placed on the first of May and on a Monday, because out of the 30 days this April, approximately ten of them were normal work and school days (and that’s not counting the days my university professors decided not to show up for class). The rest of the days were holidays, weekends, festivals, or fiestas during which the stores were not open and the whole city plus thousands of tourists were out on the town, watching parades, bullfights, riding roller coasters, or simply being Spaniards and spending long hours drinking and eating at cafes.

I feel strangely at home. It’s the atmosphere. It’s the comfort. As my dad said last night, Spain has ceased being a novelty, but after all the homesickness I’ve been feeling in the past few weeks, it’s also become somewhat of a home without my realizing it. I had a long talk with my señora this afternoon about the importance of family, about relationships between parents and kids, about raising kids. The conversation began when I mentioned that I really liked the word “embarazisima,” which was used on T.V. to describe a “very pregnant” woman. We decided that I’m of course way too young to be or to aspire to be embarazisima, but she was three times and it changed her life forever, as kids will do. And though I’ve only known her for four months and I hate when she doesn’t understand me and that she feeds me too much, my señora’s become somewhat of a madre as well. When my mom was here to visit she told her (in Spanish of course), that I’m half Spanish because I have a Spanish mother here in Sevilla. Que suerte tengo.


(that's before I cut my hair)