CU Abroad – Elizabeth Krevsky

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!

My father works as a doctor in Philadelphia, and he’s told me many stories about how he has tried to help non-English-speaking patients feel more at ease in the hospital by doing simple things like waving to a deaf patient or by using “medical Spanish” in a consultation with a Puerto Rican patient. But until this week, I never fully appreciated the stress and anxiety that accompanies a visit to the doctor in a foreign country using a non-native language.

For the past two weeks in Spain, I’ve been experiencing floaters in my vision, so I acted on my parents’ wise advice and decided to get my eyes checked out. Only, I had a few problems:

(1) I didn’t know any ophthalmologists in Spain

(2) I don’t consider myself a fluent Spanish speaker (how do you say ophthalmologist in Spanish?)

Nevertheless, I made an appointment at a place my señora deemed the best ophthalmology clinic in Sevilla, and took the ten-minute taxi ride to the clinic. After walking in the door, I immediately faced my first obstacle: getting past the receptionist at the front desk.

For some reason, whenever I ask someone from Sevilla to speak slower so that I can understand them better, they inevitably repeat exactly what they said before, only ten times louder. So, when the receptionist asked me for personal identification and insurance, this is basically what happened:

“Aweoajngavaoajafnbiu?” à unintelligible Spanish from the receptionist.

“¿Repita, por favor, con más despacio?” à Say it again, please, more slowly?

“WIEROGHVWNOSDVJNSKJL????” à much louder unintelligible Spanish.

And so on. Eventually, I understood what the receptionist wanted (with help from my roommate, who kindly accompanied me to the clinic), and after showing her my passport I was directed towards the back waiting area. As I stared at the neatly stacked Spanish fashion magazines on the side table and chattered nervously to my roommate, I became increasingly concerned that my Spanish skills might not be up to par for a non-routine doctor appointment.

While the visit certainly didn’t come close to any of the nightmare scenarios running through my mind in the waiting room, it also wasn’t exactly like a visit to the doctor at home. When I was asked to identify the letters on the wall, it seemed more like two tests in one: can you see the letters? Do you know the Spanish alphabet? Instead of easily describing the floaters in my vision to the doctor, I had to be careful to communicate my symptoms in Spanish so he understood me correctly, and it probably took a little longer than it normally would have in English.

But ultimately, what struck me most about the whole experience was that it really didn’t seem so different from an ophthalmology appointment in the U.S. We briefly discussed my symptoms in Spanish, but the doctor took his time to speak slowly and with impeccable pronunciation (none of that indecipherable Sevillan accent business). He said “Mira aquí” (look here) and I looked at his ear. He tapped my knee and I looked down. He put drops in my eyes and I squinted.

It was one of those life experiences that was slightly terrifying at the time, but ultimately reassured me about my competency using a second language in a foreign country. You don’t really need to use that much language when a doctor is examining your eyes, but it was comforting to know that I could communicate with the ophthalmologist and survive a doctor’s appointment abroad. The experience made me feel just a bit more ingrained into Spanish society – going to a place no tourists dare venture: the ophthalmology clinic – and less like a foreign visitor on vacation from “real life.”

The best part? I don’t have to go back.