CU Abroad – Elizabeth Krevsky

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