CU Abroad – Elizabeth Krevsky

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)