CU Abroad – Elizabeth Krevsky

As my semester in Sevilla is winding down, I can’t help but think about all the things I’m going to miss about Sevilla. I’ll miss being able to tomar un café (have a coffee) with a friend on a lazy weekend afternoon, watching the consistently well-dressed Spaniards strolling through the sunny plazas. I’ll miss the olive oil, fresh bread, seafood, and tapas (I love food), and I’ll miss the fact that it stays light out until 10:00 p.m. I’ll miss passing by the world’s 3^rd largest cathedral on my way home from a night out. Above all, though, I’m going to miss the close family unit of which I’ve become a part these past five months.

From the very beginning, my host-mother has been incredibly welcoming to my roommate and me. After a brief tour of the apartment, I remember standing in the narrow hallway and feeling an uncomfortable mix of anxiety and nervousness. My host-mother immediately set me at ease when she assured us, “Now you have a home here.” Within hours she began affectionately referring to us as “mis niñas” (my girls), or individually as “mi hija” (my daughter), and she quickly became mi madre española (my Spanish mother).

It’s not too far off from the truth when I say that my family life here in Andalucía is somewhat akin to the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”; it’s loud, loving, and in your face. My 60-something year-old host-mother is the most popular woman I know, so her home phone and cell phone ring almost literally every five minutes. On one average Monday, I walked out of my building at 8:00 p.m. to see my host-mother, two of her daughters (out of five children) and their husbands, one baby granddaughter, one teenage granddaughter plus boyfriend, as well as three or four close friends and their children all hanging out on the patio out front. My roommate and I taught one of the granddaughters how to make chocolate chip cookies – we made 50 – and they were all gone within 24 hours, what with everyone stopping by to visit (and eat). Occasionally a certain eight year old granddaughter barges in my room to bounce on the bed while rambling in Spanish, pretending she can’t understand me (although I happen to think she’s lying most of the time, just for fun). A huge group of the family (plus my roommate and I) went to see another granddaughter’s futbol (soccer) game, and we took over the bleachers cheering her name and generally being that obnoxious family.

There is always food in the kitchen, and lots of it. Remember that scene in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” where the boyfriend says he’s not hungry but the mother insists on preparing more food anyway? We go through a similar exchange with every meal. “¡Come todo! ¡Come todo!,” (Eat it all!) my host-mother will insist, wagging her finger at my roommate and I, urging us to eat more and more until our stomachs can’t bear any more filling with her delicious food (such a hardship, I know). One time she went to the beach for a short vacation and left several full meals in the refrigerator for us. Upon her return, she was horrified to discover that we had eaten maybe half of the food she left for us (because she left portions appropriate for two growing 14-year old boys). After giving us a brief, incredulous look, she simply shook her head and walked away muttering, “I can’t leave you girls alone!”

I have loved getting to become a temporary part of this family; it’s incredibly social, full of laughter, and never, ever dull. At times, in fact, it has been a little too much. When two young granddaughters start fighting and yelling at 8:00 a.m. while I’m trying to sleep, or when I’m studying for exams and half the family decides to have a party in the kitchen (we have a very small apartment)…it can be a little frustrating. I miss my quiet time.

Other times, I have felt the uncomfortable sensation that my roommate and I are intruding on the family’s space, since after five solid months some of the daughters still treat us with a certain distance and disregard. They have rapid-fire conversations full of private jokes and colloquialisms we couldn’t possibly understand, and or they pointedly ignore our presence in the room. They’ll let us play with their small children, but barely give us a greeting when we walk in the door. I don’t think I’m imagining it when I sense that they think we are monopolizing their mother and family matriarch, when she already has more than enough family to take care of.

I understand their point of view: in their minds, we appear to be just a couple more rich American girls who have crash landed in their lives for a blip of time – just five months – and we theoretically might never come back. Why should they bother make an effort to get to know us when we’re just going to leave, anyway?

Such is the conflict inherent in the housing system I signed up for. I became part of this family and this Spanish life for five months, and now I will be leaving it behind as I return to the States. I’ve gotten to witness the incredible closeness of an extended family where everyone lives within five blocks of each other and sharing a meal with the grandmother/aunts/uncles/cousins is no big deal. While my time here in this family has been, at times, a strange mix of awkward, hilarious, comfortable, and confusing, it has also been one of the most fascinating and rewarding experiences of my life thus far.

Now with only four days left here in Spain, my host-mother has informed me that I will forever have a home waiting here for me when I return to Sevilla. And I plan to come back.

I apologize for waiting so long before writing another blog post, my friends, as life after Feria caught up with me. In the past couple weeks I wrote two final papers, gave three final presentations, and taught my host-mother’s granddaughter how to make chocolate chip cookies. I visited the Picasso museum in Málaga and I wandered around Sevilla to take some final photos of my favorite places as the semester winds down. Life in Sevilla has reached a certain sense of normalcy, which must mean that it’s almost time to go home (a topic to be developed further in a later post).

In the meantime, it has gotten hot. And not just “time to break out the tank tops” hot or “bring a water bottle with you everywhere” hot (let’s face it, I do that anyway), but no: walking outside officially feels like exiting a cool, comfortable building only to find yourself baking in a blazing oven. I am constantly reminded of the oppressive heat on my way to class as I pass the electronic temperature reader by the fountain, these days always displaying a temperature well above 30ºC (90ºF). I constantly seek out the sombra (shade) as I walk outside, since there is at least a 5ºF or 10ºF difference in temperature between the sun and shade. Yesterday, the temperature was about 104ºF at 3:30 p.m, and I was foolish enough to be wearing jeans as I took pictures in the Plaza de España (a very, very bad plan). Whenever I ask my host-mother’s granddaughter, “¿Cómo estás?” she often responds, “Estoy muerta.” (I’m dead, as in dead from the heat). It’s HOT.

You never know what will turn up in the Plaza de Espana...

This intense heat explains so much about the way Andalucían society works. For example, I now actually understand the rationale behind the siesta, the three-hour break in the afternoon when people leave work, stores shut down, and absolutely no one remains outside on the street. Every day people go home at 2:00 p.m. to have lunch with the family and relax inside, ensuring that any sort of store, business, or tourist attraction that you might think would be open at 3:00 is instead closed for siesta (even the post office on a Monday afternoon! Grr…). Here, the hottest part of the day starts at around 2:00 p.m., siesta time, so it really does make total sense for the city to stop, take a break, and hide from the sun, much as it might frustrate my grand plans to do some errands in the afternoon. Really, there’s no point in walking outside unless you want to arrive at your destination drenched in sweat (I’ll take this opportunity to apologize to the members of my 3:00 p.m. History of the Spanish Civil War class). My host-mother explained to me that in July, the dead of summer, no one is outside during daylight hours, except for the crazy tourists, so people wait until after 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. to venture out to the tapas bars for a cold beer and social time with friends. On weekends, it seems that all the people of Sevilla disappear to go to the playa (beach) to escape the heat.

So far, it’s been bearable: I’ve got my tank tops, sunglasses, and water bottle with me at all times. (Though I’m a little worried because I seem to be running out of sunblock.) I (almost) always remember to close the shades in my bedroom to keep the sun out during the day. Being a quite pale-skinned person, I’ve gotten particularly skillful at hopping from shady spot to shady spot on the sidewalk in my crazy dance to avoid the burning rays of the sun. As I sit here in my room, sweaty and exhausted after my 20 minute hike from class, I have to be honest: I can’t wait to return to Philadelphia in two weeks for some nice, “cool,” 80ºF weather.

the lovely but painful part of my walk to school without shade

My señora generously invited my roommate and I to her family’s private caseta, so I got dressed in my bright pink skirt, grabbed my camera, and walked twenty minutes and across a bridge to Los Remedios.

The minute I entered the fair grounds was like taking a brief foray into Sevilla of old.  Women and young girls strolled the streets in shockingly bright polka-dotted flamenco dresses with large matching flowers tucked behind the ear. Lavishly decorated horses and carriages paraded through the fair grounds while their riders balanced a glass of rebujito (sherry mixed with Sprite) in their free hand.

One row of casetas

I had to sort of sneak up on the women to snap pictures of their dresses (from behind, unfortunately). Every single dress at feria was ridiculously bright, and I did not see one replica.

The true essence of Feria, however, takes place beneath shady protection of the caseta, where Sevillanos eat tapas, drink copious amounts of rebujito, meet up to chat with family and friends, and dance sevillanas (a traditional flamenco-esque dance that virtually every Sevillano has known since childhood).

When I arrived at my señora’s caseta, I quickly found myself crowded in amongst my señora’s now familiar children, grandchildren, and close friends seated around one of the small tables sharing pitchers of rebujito and plates of tapas. Not leaving the shade of the caseta for hours, we all took shelter from the intense heat well in the 90s (although I swear just two weeks ago we were all shivering from the cold). Much of the attention was focused on the adorably fat eight-month-old baby granddaughter, passed around from person to person and cooed to in Spanish baby talk. In between periodic bouts of clapping to the beat of the rhythmic background flamenco music and some occasional dancing, the caseta was loud with easy conversation and the shouts of young children running through the tent and creating mischief just outside their parents’ view. My señora convinced me to dance the first part of the sevillanas with her even though I was clearly an outsider who had never attended Feria before in my life. As I fumbled my way through the four distinct passes of the dance, onlookers urged me to raise my arms up higher and shouted at me to “spin to the right! To the right!” as I fell over my feet, confused by the unfamiliar beat of the flamenco music. Not surprisingly, I received many sympathetic (but friendly) “oh, well, at least you tried?” glances as I sat back to appreciate my señora’s talented eight-year-old granddaughter’s enthusiastic stomping, twirling, and arm-waving to the music.

My roommate and I in front of our caseta in the "early" evening (11 pm). Someone holds out a glass of rebujito (of course)

This wonderfully intimate snapshot of Spanish cultural tradition seemed a marvel in a world where the modern wonders of the cell phone, Internet, and television have regretfully replaced many real, face-to-face social interactions. Though I did see some people chatting on cell phones around Feria (certainly a jarring sight amidst the horses and colorful flamenco dresses), modern technology still remained largely frozen outside the festive world of Feria as people stayed for hours (literally until 6 a.m.) passing the time with family and friends. Now I know where Sevilla gets its “party” reputation from…

But at the end of the day, I still wonder: when do the babies get their nap-time??

Everyone in Spain has a “significant other.” I’m serious. Either they’re married, widowed, in a relationship, or they’re younger than fourteen years old and therefore don’t count. Either that, or else they’re trying way too hard.

Take Juan*, for instance. A few weeks ago I participated in an “intercambio” (exchange), the University of Seville’s program which facilitates language learning by pairing up students who want to practice the other’s native language. I met up with Juan, a Spanish dentistry student, to have coffee and walk around the city for two hours while practicing Spanish/English.  Though it felt sort of like an awkward first date, I thought that the intercambio went pretty well; there was little to no overt sketchiness on his part, and I got to spend time with a native speaker who let me ramble in grammatically incorrect Spanish. At the end of the intercambio, Juan asked me if I’d want to meet up again, and I said “sure” because, really, why not?

But then he started with the text messages. The first one invited me to come out with him and his friends to a discoteca on a Thursday night, to which I kindly responded “Thanks, but I already have plans” (and I really did!). The next week, I got another one:

“¿Quieres que quedemos esta semana? Tengo ganas de verte.”

[Do you want to hang out this week? I want to see you/I need to see you/I feel like seeing you]

As is obvious from my awkward translation of “tengo ganas de verte,” the expression just doesn’t transfer well to English. The important thing to note, however, is that “tengo ganas de verte” has a distinct romantic connotation, as confirmed by my señora’s 19 year old granddaughter who promptly raised her eyebrows and asked if I had a Spanish boyfriend after reading the text.

I didn’t really know how to respond to Juan, so I copped out and just ignored him. Another week went by, and I received yet another text from my new friend:

“¿Hola guapa, quetal estas? Quieres venir a cenar a mi casa? Tengo ganas de verte.”

(Hello beautiful, how are you? Do you want to come have dinner at my house? Tengo ganas de verte). Add this text to two more missed called from dear Juan.

I was all at once impressed by this guy’s audacity, disturbed that he invited me to his house for dinner after a mere two hours of superficial conversation, peeved that he wasn’t getting the hint from my utter lack of response, and rather curious as to whether his constant pursuit ever works out for him.

Maybe this machismo is due to the fact that most Spaniards (at least in Andalucía) live at home until they’re married and they are desperate to escape their parents (one of my friends lives with a family who has a 30-year old son who still lives at home, and that’s a perfectly acceptable situation). Maybe the pursuit is a relic of the not-too-long-ago Franco dictatorship when gender norms were rigid and the ruling doctrine “encouraged” early marriage and lots of babies. Maybe Spanish men are just naturally very aggressive. Regardless, I have resorted to all sorts of tactics to avoid the creepers.

I’ve pretended I don’t speak Spanish, and I’ve pretended I don’t speak English. I’ve walked really really fast with a group of friends and I’ve learned to ignore piropos (catcalls) on the street. I’ve grabbed a fellow American to dance and called him my boyfriend, hoping to provide “proof” that I am NOT AVAILABLE and do NOT want to accept any drinks bought in the hopes of wooing me for something other than polite conversation. But thanks.

Since being in Spain, I’ve learned what is and is not acceptable behavior (you should not react angrily to an innocent piropo, for instance, no matter how much it pisses you off that the same construction workers feel the need to shout lame pick-up lines on the sidewalk every day.) I know how to stay safe.

Now I just have to convince my señora’s granddaughter that I am not, in fact, in a relationship with a Spanish boy.

*Name changed to protect the creeper

“Sgeun un etsduio de una uivenrsdiad ignlsea, no ipmotra el odren en el que las ltears etsan ersciats, lo mas ipormtnate es que la pmrirea y la utlima ltera etsen ecsritas en la psiocion cocrrtea. El rsteo peuden estar ttaolmntee mal y aun pordas lerelo sin pobrleams. Etso es pquore no lemeos cada ltera por si msima snio la paalbra cmoo un tdoo.”

“Aoccdrnig to rsereach at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteres are in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.”

I thought this translation was so cool (because it works in Spanish, too) that I had to share.

Eojny!

Semana Santa is Spanish for Holy Week, the religious observance leading up to Easter Sunday. This past week, thousands of Sevillanos and tourists filled the streets to observe the striking pasos in their processions throughout the streets of Sevilla. Pasos consist of a set of religious images, usually life-sized (or larger) wood-carved and painted statues of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and other religious scenes. These images are fixed atop a float lavishly adorned with newly polished gold, silver, fresh flowers, and lit candles, and in total each paso usually weighs more than 2,000 pounds. This week, I saw processions with anywhere from 25 to 60 men underneath the paso, bearing the full weight of it on their shoulders as they marched in procession from their respective church to the Catedral (Cathedral) of Sevilla and back again: a process lasting hours. Members of the church’s hermandad (brotherhood) – nazarenos – solemnly marched in front of the paso carrying long candles and incense, while others accompanied it playing traditional religious hymns.

Needless to say, Semana Santa in Sevilla is a really big deal.  

But as I was standing on the sidewalk, trying not to step on anyone’s toes in the midst of a crowd patiently waiting for the chance to view the paso of the hermandad Santo Entierro, I couldn’t help but marvel at the contradictions in a society where 94 percent of the population is Catholic, but less than 20 percent of the Catholics attend church with regularity. After Franco’s repressive dictatorship when Catholicism was the official state religion (and forcibly imposed on the population), today 51.3 percent of Catholics simply consider themselves non-practicing Catholics. Sevillanos observe their religious traditions with fervor, and they went out to the streets every day and night during Semana Santa to view the pasos in an atmosphere of respectful solemnity and awe. At the same time, in this increasingly secularized society, street vendors in the plazas hawked cotton candy, popcorn, and glow-in-the-dark toys as if the processions were part of a grand celebratory parade.

While the overwhelming presence and strength of traditional Catholic symbols and images in Spain make religiosity utterly palpable in annual events like Semana Santa, it is curious to me that Spain has legalized gay marriage, eased divorce law, and expanded the rights of transsexuals. On Good Friday, the New York Times printed an article about Spain’s battle to legalize abortion.

Semana Santa was like nothing else I have ever seen in my life, and further confirmed the complexity, contradictions, and rich history surrounding Spanish culture. But despite the supposed great honor it is to be one of the nazarenos carrying the pasos for hours on end during Semana Santa, I’m pretty pleased that I don’t have to do it. 

*pictures to come

Since I am based in Sevilla, the heart and capital of Spain’s southern-most region, Andalucía, I sometimes forget that Spain possesses incredible social, political, and geographical diversity. Spain is a big place.

The country is roughly 504,782 square kilometers, which is more than twice the size of Oregon. Four major languages are spoken: Castilian Spanish (Castellano), Catalan, Galician, and Basque. There are 17 autonomous communities, such as Andalucía (my personal favorite) and Catalonia (and I’m not even going to get into the fact that there’s a sizeable political movement pressing for Catalonian independence from Spain). Each region is fiercely proud of its own culture.

Upon entering the airport terminal after arriving in Barcelona, I could already tell that the city is immeasurably a world apart from Sevilla. First of all, the official language of Catalonia is not Spanish: it’s Catalan. Airport signs read “Sortida” (exit) instead of the Spanish “Salida” – although there was no doubt that I was heading in the right direction when I noticed the English line that read: “way out.” [I love bizarre English translations. I even found obvious typos in the explanatory signs at the Sagrada Familia – “threes” is definitely is not the same thing as “trees,” for example.]

In Sevilla, the stereotypical image of Spanish culture comes to life. We have sunny, warm weather most days, and hundreds of orange trees line the street. There are always, always people outside chatting in plazas, and folks take their siesta break by returning home for a leisurely lunch with the entire family (no, siesta is not normally a nap; it’s simply a long break in the work day). You can see a free flamenco show every night at a very chill bar in Barrio Santa Cruz, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sevilla composed of narrow, winding stone streets and centuries-old architecture. People don’t rush.

But many foreigners automatically associate all of Spain with flamenco, sunny beaches, beautiful women, and bullfighting (as evidenced by the multitude of over-priced postcards and key chains sold on Las Ramblas: the most famous (and most frequented by tourist) street in Barcelona). However, to my mind, all of those tourist artifacts do not represent Spain, because they are more geared to the typical Andalucían image of what people think Spain should be. Barcelona is something else.

Barcelona is very much an international, cosmopolitan city, located in northern Spain and a cheap plane flight away from major European cities like London, Paris, and Rome. The pace of life is a lot faster; I felt like I was always struggling to break through a mad crush of tourists, or I was the only person (with my friend) on the street. Major sites are relatively walk-able, but the metro is an integral component of daily travel (especially if you’re someone who wants to see Parc Güell and the gothic cathedral all in one day à mission accomplished!). The city has a wonderful mix of old gothic architecture side-by-side with innovative modernist architecture. Barcelona’s nightlife culture is insane; clubs start getting exciting around 1 or 2 a.m., and my friend and I still saw people straggling out of clubs when we went to catch our bus at 6 a.m. on Monday morning.

Barcelona is one part of Spain, and it’s different from the rest. It’s a fabulous place for a vacation and I haven’t stopped raving about the city’s amazing architecture, delicious food, and rich culture since I returned last week. But when I exited the plane, felt the warm sun on my face, and watched Sevilla residents meandering towards the airport shuttle bus, I was so happy to be back in Sevilla. If you ask me, Andalucía is the best autonomous community in Spain…but then again, I’m biased.

*Shoutout to Olga, fellow blog-journalist studying in Barcelona!

Before embarking on my studying abroad adventure, I had heard various opinions regarding the level of difficulty of Spanish university classes. The vast majority of friends/relatives assured me, “Don’t worry about it!,” claiming that the academic rigor would be far less than that of Cornell. By and large, they’re right; most of my classes have super long reading lists, but few of the books are actually required. Most of the grade consists of one exam and one paper…and that’s it. Classes are pretty much entirely lecture-based and they don’t have any version of discussion-based “sections.”

That is generally the case for all of my classes, except one: Social History of Spanish Colonization. It’s slightly terrifying.

During the first week of class the professor announced that for next Wednesday we would have to read a [dreadfully boring] 16^th century text and write a commentary on it. She didn’t give us any instructions about what type of commentary she wanted (In depth analysis? Simple summary and critique?), no minimum page requirement, no theme on which to focus, nada. Just this: write a commentary.

So, I did the best I could, and when she asked for volunteers to share their commentaries on the text in class, I was the first to volunteer.

“¡Qué valiente!,” [How brave!] she exclaimed, apparently shocked that an American student in the second row would be the first to participate. That should’ve been my first clue to the ordeal I was getting myself into, but I just sort of chuckled and said “Gracias” and began with my commentary.

“I think this text is interesting because…” And she stopped me right there. “No, no, no!,” she interrupted, forging ahead full speed in Spanish: “You have to start with the basics – in what age was the text written? Who wrote it? To whom is it directed? Why? Then give me a detailed summary of what the text discusses. Then you can talk about your analysis. At the end.

“…because it’s not really important what you think,” I added in my head. Sitting in my first class of the day, confronted by a slightly hostile Spanish professor demanding a lot more detail than I was prepared to give about a text I didn’t even like, I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

As many students studying in a foreign language could probably tell you, responding to direct questions in a second language is infinitely more difficult than simply sitting in lecture and following along.  Exchanging direct eye contact is somehow way more intimidating when you know the person is expecting a coherent response to a specific question, and it’s even more intimidating when that person is your imperious Spanish professor who talks really fast and will be giving you a grade for the course

So as I kind of blankly stared back at the professor, trying to recover from the interruption and comprehend her new questions, she asked again, “What age was it written in? When? What age?”

Long pause.

“Well, it was written in 1519…?” The year was printed on the sheet of paper.

“No, I asked you what age it was written in! The age!”

Grasping at straws (and feeling like kind of a moron), I answered, “Well, it was during the period of Spanish colonization…” Terrific. I correctly identified the title of the course. A+ for me.

After what felt like an interminable stare-down, a bit of head-shaking and a couple raised eyebrows, she eventually gave me the answer. It was written during the FIRST era of Spanish colonization. Hm.

So I thought I was off the hook after that, but no. She kept pelting me with background questions about the text, refusing to give in to my meek “please call on someone else!” face. After fifteen or twenty minutes (which felt like an hour), she finally let me give my (grossly generalized and sadly lacking in depth) summary of the text and we moved on.

This class just completely took me aback because the student-teacher interaction was just so different from anything I’ve experienced in the U.S. Generally, in my experiences at Cornell, professors/TA’s are really excited about your participation and will enthusiastically welcome any comment you make; they won’t shoot you down or make you feel extra uncomfortable if you don’t know the answer, but instead they’ll nicely move on. Spanish professors are tough.

After class, I walked right up to the professor’s desk and said, “I’m sorry I completely misunderstood what you were expecting for the commentary…”

She quickly interrupted me (she kept doing that!): “Oh no I love participation! It was stupendous! Very good. Much better than those other students (it became clear during class that some of the members of the class hadn’t even attempted to read the text, much less participate).” Huh.

So while my Colonization class that Wednesday was particularly stressful and I’m pretty sure my face burned red with a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment the entire two hours of class, I learned several things:

1) My teacher is actually a really nice and understanding person, but she happens to become a scary professor-demon during in-class discussions.

2) The professor expects a lot of detail and background information when addressing a primary text (even if I think the answers are obvious à The first period of Spanish colonization?? That’s all she wanted??!).

3) A one minute brief commentary just doesn’t cut it.

4) My personal analysis really isn’t that important (or at least it’s far secondary to a basic but thorough explanation of what the text is)

5) Class participation will win me lots of brownie points.

So, that class was a really beneficial experience, in spite of the terror/embarrassment/frustration that was involved. Maybe now I should try to figure out why these interactions are so stressful in my next class: Anthropology of Communication…

Fun photo of the week: pig suspended over the bar at a traditional tapas bar in Granada (during a weekend trip)

I’m a news writer for the Cornell Daily Sun, and when one of the editors contacted me about writing an article regarding Spanish students’ perceptions of the Gaza conflict, I was intrigued; Israel’s retaliatory rocket attacks on Gaza has sparked tremendous discussion and debate on Cornell’s campus, and I knew that I could make an interesting comparison with the decidedly more polarized sentiments at the University of Seville.

However, the fact of this notable ideological difference between the college campuses was not the most exciting thing for me about writing this article, because before I even began I had a pretty good (and accurate) guess of what I would encounter: unequivocal support for the Palestinians and a complete lack of a pro-Israel voice.

While I was eager to share my findings about Spanish students’ opinions with the Cornell community, I found the very process of interviewing people for a news article in Spain – in Spanish – a much more daunting prospect.

From what I can tell, the University of Sevilla does not have a daily campus newspaper (or even a weekly), so students are not used to being accosted by amateur news reporters and asked for their opinions about x, y, or z. Furthermore, the general sentiment about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is so obvious on campus it almost seems hardly worth writing about, so I was a tad nervous about receiving “duh, you stupid American” eye-rolls in response to my questions.

So, as I was sitting with my mini spiral notebook and pen in hand on the grass outside the fábrica, eyeing a group of 12 or so beautiful Spanish students lounging and chatting in the 60 degree sunny weather (oh, how I love Sevilla!), I was more than a little apprehensive about the notion of approaching the group.

Nevertheless, after about ten solid minutes of pretending to write studiously in my notebook, I decided to go for it. With my American backpack and black fleece jacket instantly giving me away as a foreigner, the group fell silent as I walked over to introduce myself. Glancing nervously at the wide circle of students, I said,

“Hi! I’m an American student from a university in New York (Spanish people love New York, so I figured it was a good opener), and I write for my university’s newspaper. Could I perhaps talk with some of you about the conflict in Gaza for an article I’m writing?”

I waited for an interminable pause as the students looked at each other with a mixture of glances like “Who is this crazy girl?,” and “I guess, why not?,” and “Cool, I want to be in the newspaper!” Then they all started talking at once.

Pretty soon, I felt almost like I was back at Cornell, trying to elicit concrete statements from a big group all trying to put forth their opinion and get quoted (only in this case, the students kept shouting in louder and faster Spanish). My carefully prepared and perfectly-phrased questions in Spanish quickly went out the window as I got caught up in the interview, asking grammatically-incorrect follow-up questions and trying my best to follow along to a spirited debate between two members of the group.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I have found in my (albeit limited) experience interviewing students for news articles, Spanish students have far less concern with “political-correctness” as compared with American students. For instance, when I asked the question – “Who is to blame for the current conflict?” – one guy I’ll call “Mr. Sunglasses” quickly responded, “It’s all the Jews’ fault.”

Right.

As a news reporter, I am always careful to refrain from injecting my own subjective stance in interviews and articles. But as a Jew, and as someone who has studied this conflict intensively through both academic coursework and through reading multiple daily news sources, I’ll be honest: it wasn’t easy to keep quiet. Of course, effectively maintaining my journalistic integrity, I did not respond the way I wish I could have, but instead I honestly asked (without a hint of derision): “Is that a joke?” In the end, Mr. Sunglasses conceded that he is, in fact, capable of separating the Jewish people from the State of Israel, and he does not intend to blame Jews in general for the ongoing violence, but he maintains the belief that Israel is completely at fault and does not deserve to exist. As I writer, I have to accept that.

Reflecting on my Sun reporting experience in Spain, I think that it has been the most challenging and most rewarding single news article I’ve written thus far. I successfully approached and interviewed students while talking exclusively in Spanish, I spoke with students whose views are radically different from my own but maintained my distance as an objective reporter, and I translated all of the Spanish quotes to write the article coherently (I hope!) in English. I’m no longer shy about approaching Spanish students to talk with them, because on the whole, they will respond enthusiastically (especially if you start out with a provocative and divisive world issue). It was also good to know that I haven’t completely forgotten how to write in English…Overall: success!

Note: I welcome any and all comments on the article – please let me know what you think!

I consider myself a pretty reliable, very “on time” sort of person, so my first day as a student at the University of Seville kicked my butt way far out of my comfort zone and right into a chaotic, bureaucratic mess.

Classes for the Faculty of Geography and History* are located in the massive Fábrica de Tabacos, the old tobacco factory of Bizet’s Carmen. Built in the 18^th century, the fábrica boasts cracked stone fountains, open-air patios, and lofty ceilings, along with endless hallways and nonsensically numbered classrooms. The first time I explored the impressive building I wandered in circles for about 45 minutes before discovering the Consejería, the advisor’s office in charge of all the logistical information for my faculty (i.e. classroom numbers, how to make technology work in the rooms, etc.). During the first few days of the semester, the Consejería is indispensable to all the international students in desperate need of directions to their classes (all located within the same building, mind you).

I started the morning off well, having thoroughly explored the building the week before, and arrived six minutes early to my first class (after being repeatedly assured that classes begin ten minutes late in Spain, anyway). I arrived at the door of the lecture hall to find a note saying that due to water damage, my class “La España Actual” had been moved to aula (classroom) VII for this week only. So, I started wandering the wide hallways of the fábrica, walked past aulas V, VI, and then started to panic as the numbers skipped to X, XI, XII. I headed to the Consejería for directions, only to be informed that La España Actual class was canceled for today.

“Okay, no big deal,” I thought, and headed to the Michigan-Cornell-Penn program center to check my e-mail, write a paper, and kill time before my 12:00 class. After returning to the fábrica for Social History of Spanish Colonization, I attended a class in which the professor actually showed up; unfortunately, it was the wrong professor and the syllabus had the wrong title for the course, but it turns out I was still in the right place. Go figure.

For the third class of the day, I decided to head straight to the Consejería to ask for directions to my next classroom, and learned that this class had also switched rooms for the week. With the benefit of the advisor’s semi-clear directions, I headed to aula VI off a tiny hallway in the Law Faculty Corridor, only to find a completely empty, dark room with a locked door. Assuming that class had been canceled, I returned to the Consejería:

Me: “There wasn’t anyone in the room you told me about…”

Advisor: “Oh, right. Class was canceled.”

Me: “Do you think there will be class tomorrow?”

Advisor: “Perhaps.”

Me: “Perhaps?”

Advisor: “Theoretically, yes. But I can’t really say.”

[Awkward pause as I coped with an inner desire to start ranting about how the university is frustratingly inept at notifying its students of important logistical changes to their schedules, all the while realizing that anything I might say wouldn’t make one bit of difference, because that’s just the way things work at the university.]

Me: “Okay, thanks.”

Here, this type of logistical breakdown is simply the norm; classrooms are moved, professors are switched, classes start late, and life goes on. As much as I crave regularity and reliability, I welcome the challenge of stepping (or taking a flying leap) outside my comfort zone and adjusting to the somewhat unpredictable Spanish university system. Hooray for culture shock!

As for my anthropology professor who’s currently doing research in Cuba? “Perhaps” he will show up to class next week.

*Since I’m a Government major, this is the department in which I am taking most of my classes

**Special thanks to Amy for letting me use her photos in this blog post!