Greetings from hot, humid Hyderabad, India! All is well here, and I'm happy in my Ammamma and Thatha's house despite swimming in my own sweat. I have the energy to do little but sleep and eat all day. It amazes me how people work here. Spaniards could learn a thing or two from Indians- it's half as hot there but they complain twice as much and work half as hard. Yesterday it rained here and I nearly took to the streets singing "Ghanan Ghanan." I've never felt such extreme emotions towards rain as I have this year.
I know I still owe you a long reflective post about the semester in Sevilla. I was planning to write it here, but it turns out that temperatures above 105 degrees Fahrenheit and frequent power cuts are not conducive to thinking, much less blogging. But I've been getting some requests to post the essay I entered in the writing contest, and since it's a broad reflection on my experiences this semester, I'll leave you with that. Apparently the CIEE staff enjoyed it, and I hope you do too.
My Study Abroad Experience Explained Through Oranges
First week in Sevilla: I try eating an orange off a tree by the Cathedral. Its intense sourness instantly teaches me that these oranges aren’t for human consumption.
I’m inhaling second-hand smoke by the pack. I’ve never been stared at so much in my life. The city is a maze of cute but impossible alleys that branch off and intersect and change names at whim. I’m starving by noon and tired before dinner is served.
First week in my homestay: I make a terrific mess peeling an orange at lunch. My hands are covered in sticky orange sap and smell wonderful.
I try wearing cute shoes like Spanish women, but with two hours of walking daily, my feet protest and I revert back to sneakers. I purchase a phone entirely in Spanish. The salesperson surely thinks I’m an idiot, but I did it, my first successful business transaction in Spanish.
Second week in my homestay: Seeing me struggle repeatedly, my señora teaches me how to peel an orange neatly. I’m stubborn and try to perfect my own method instead.
Everything shuts down at mid-day and on Sundays; I wonder how anything gets done in this country. Isn’t it unhealthy to eat dinner so late? I won’t catch a cold because I’m not wearing slippers, that’s ridiculous!
Third week in my homestay: Still struggling with my technique, I try my señora’s. I’m surprised how easy it is and no longer dread eating oranges in front of my señora.
The lack of internet in my homestay is killing me, but I force myself to try new things in my downtime. I explore the local library and check out a collection of Spanish short stories. I put up with annoying ads to watch my señora’s favorite TV show with her and find it addicting.
Halfway through the semester: In a lecture about Spanish etymology for my interest group “España y sus Vecinos,” I learn that the word “naranja” comes from Arabic and realize that the word for “orange” in my native language, Telugu, is almost identical.
Elders here complain about the state of youth, children are in a rush to grow up, and everyone’s struggling to make ends meet, just like in the U.S. I realize it’s impossible to tell whether someone is a Spaniard or a foreigner based on his laugh.
Semana Santa: The orange blossoms emerge, filling the city with their sweet scent.
My family visits me in Sevilla and I proudly show them around, telling them information I’ve learned from cultural activities. They meet my señora. I’m nervous because they don’t speak Spanish, but she yaps away so enthusiastically that there’s no time for translation or awkwardness. Her warmth and love for what she does transcends language barriers.
Last week of classes: In my semantics class I learn the phrase “media naranja,” meaning “soulmate.”
What’ll happen to Pablo and Lucía on Arrayán after I leave? I’ll miss crossing the Guadalquivir everyday. Will I remember how to drive? I’d like to walk more. I’ll miss my Spanish friends and guías who’ve made me feel comfortable here. I want to reach out to international students at my home university. I’ll miss every sign and commercial being a learning opportunity. Oh no, I’m spelling English words “-ción.”
Studying abroad is a process of peeling back layers to discover a culture- messy, juicy, and bursting with vitality- while opening yourself up to that culture. As with oranges, it may not be love at first bite, but eventually you’ll find some aspect that’s a perfect fit for you.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Mera joota hai japani, yeh patloon inglisthani
And just like that, it's the end of an era. Yesterday was my last exam as an undergraduate student. Today's my last full day in Sevilla. By this time tomorrow, I'll be surrounded by clouds somewhere over Eurasia, truly flying solo for the first time. There's so much reflecting to do, so many half-written thoughts to share, I don't know where to start.
A lot of people end their semester abroad saying it was a "life-changing" experience, as though they've morphed into a new person altogether over the course of four months in Europe. I won't claim that. I may be a little darker and fatter, but I'm essentially still the same person you knew on the other side of the Atlantic. (Sorry to disappoint.) Rather than a semester of change, I'd say this has been a semester of introspection. I've realized there's so much you don't know about yourself until you step outside your comfort zone (and have vast amounts of time to ruminate on the subject, of course). We're all used to looking at ourselves in a certain context. You fit neatly into a certain niche in your community, in your family, in your social circle. You're the high-achieving pre-med; you're the responsible but sheltered older daughter who has to pave the path to independence; you're the motherly, OCD, emotional one who never colors outside the lines. But extract yourself from that environment and look at yourself in a different light, from a different angle. Are there features you didn't notice before? Parts that you didn't know existed? Parts that melt away when not held in place by the mold? Other parts that naturally fit the mold? You don't know what you're capable of until you push yourself to the edge. You don't know where your priorities lie until they're shaken up.
Perhaps the reason I was so set on studying abroad was because my family has never traveled internationally other than to India, which isn't a vacation in the typical sense because we stay in familiar places with relatives and don't do any classic touristy things. My parents' theory is that as long as we have close relatives in India, we'll should go there and spend time with them as often as possible instead of traveling the world. Anyone who knows me know how much my family, and therefore India, mean to me. I've always looked forward to the warm familiarity of India trips surrounded by people who love me unconditionally. But the rest of the world held a mystique for me, the allure of the unknown. Now I've explored a pocket of that world. It's been exciting, for sure. But in all honesty, this semester has made me realize that traveling in Europe sounds a lot more glamorous than it is. Yes, each city has it's own distinctive flavor (I can verify that that's not just a myth propagated by guidebooks), but sometimes I can't help but think they're all the same. The clouds I gaze at and the air I breathe just float from one to another. Each drop of the ocean washing over my feet here has touched a thousand other coasts. Every city has an art museum, a tower, a plaza with history. World-famous monuments and museums can teach me, they can impress me, they can provide photo ops to make my friends jealous, but they can't touch my heart the way a meaningful conversation with someone I love can. What connects me to places are people, the people I love. And that's why I've come to the realization that India will always be my favorite travel destination. Sure, Paris and London and Tokyo sound glamorous, but no place on earth will fill me with satisfaction the way India does.
After four months in Spain, I want India more badly than ever. At least once a day I want to eat something so spicy that my nose runs and my eyes tear up. I want to convince myself that I fit in and be oblivious to the staring because it's not accompanied by piropos. I want to eat real breakfasts and drink hot chai and Bru coffee. I want to eat eggplant. I want to have such low standards for bathrooms that I can't possibly be disappointed. I want to start all over again with the wide-eyed fascination with everything around me and the challenge of understanding street signs and news reports. I want to be barefoot in the house. I want to be barefoot on rooftops. I want to put on a salwar and feel pretty. I want my cheeks pinched by family members I only have vague recollections of. I want to eat Ammamma's aloo parathas and Nayanamma's sambar. I want to eat jackfruit and mangoes and pomegranate. I want to see meat so appealing it tempts me. I want to subconsciously speak English in that British/Indian accent from spending too much time with my cousins. I want to see my new baby cousin Ravichandra and play with his cousin Nitisha. I want to not have internet access for days and not miss it.
The sappy, reflective posts about study abroad will come later, but right now, I want India.
A lot of people end their semester abroad saying it was a "life-changing" experience, as though they've morphed into a new person altogether over the course of four months in Europe. I won't claim that. I may be a little darker and fatter, but I'm essentially still the same person you knew on the other side of the Atlantic. (Sorry to disappoint.) Rather than a semester of change, I'd say this has been a semester of introspection. I've realized there's so much you don't know about yourself until you step outside your comfort zone (and have vast amounts of time to ruminate on the subject, of course). We're all used to looking at ourselves in a certain context. You fit neatly into a certain niche in your community, in your family, in your social circle. You're the high-achieving pre-med; you're the responsible but sheltered older daughter who has to pave the path to independence; you're the motherly, OCD, emotional one who never colors outside the lines. But extract yourself from that environment and look at yourself in a different light, from a different angle. Are there features you didn't notice before? Parts that you didn't know existed? Parts that melt away when not held in place by the mold? Other parts that naturally fit the mold? You don't know what you're capable of until you push yourself to the edge. You don't know where your priorities lie until they're shaken up.
Perhaps the reason I was so set on studying abroad was because my family has never traveled internationally other than to India, which isn't a vacation in the typical sense because we stay in familiar places with relatives and don't do any classic touristy things. My parents' theory is that as long as we have close relatives in India, we'll should go there and spend time with them as often as possible instead of traveling the world. Anyone who knows me know how much my family, and therefore India, mean to me. I've always looked forward to the warm familiarity of India trips surrounded by people who love me unconditionally. But the rest of the world held a mystique for me, the allure of the unknown. Now I've explored a pocket of that world. It's been exciting, for sure. But in all honesty, this semester has made me realize that traveling in Europe sounds a lot more glamorous than it is. Yes, each city has it's own distinctive flavor (I can verify that that's not just a myth propagated by guidebooks), but sometimes I can't help but think they're all the same. The clouds I gaze at and the air I breathe just float from one to another. Each drop of the ocean washing over my feet here has touched a thousand other coasts. Every city has an art museum, a tower, a plaza with history. World-famous monuments and museums can teach me, they can impress me, they can provide photo ops to make my friends jealous, but they can't touch my heart the way a meaningful conversation with someone I love can. What connects me to places are people, the people I love. And that's why I've come to the realization that India will always be my favorite travel destination. Sure, Paris and London and Tokyo sound glamorous, but no place on earth will fill me with satisfaction the way India does.
After four months in Spain, I want India more badly than ever. At least once a day I want to eat something so spicy that my nose runs and my eyes tear up. I want to convince myself that I fit in and be oblivious to the staring because it's not accompanied by piropos. I want to eat real breakfasts and drink hot chai and Bru coffee. I want to eat eggplant. I want to have such low standards for bathrooms that I can't possibly be disappointed. I want to start all over again with the wide-eyed fascination with everything around me and the challenge of understanding street signs and news reports. I want to be barefoot in the house. I want to be barefoot on rooftops. I want to put on a salwar and feel pretty. I want my cheeks pinched by family members I only have vague recollections of. I want to eat Ammamma's aloo parathas and Nayanamma's sambar. I want to eat jackfruit and mangoes and pomegranate. I want to see meat so appealing it tempts me. I want to subconsciously speak English in that British/Indian accent from spending too much time with my cousins. I want to see my new baby cousin Ravichandra and play with his cousin Nitisha. I want to not have internet access for days and not miss it.
The sappy, reflective posts about study abroad will come later, but right now, I want India.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hotter than the sun in the south of Spain
After weekends upon weekends gallivanting all over Spain and it's neighbors, I'm ending the semester back where I belong- in good old Sevilla. And boy does it feel good. No sleeping on buses, no living out of a backpack, no eating PB&J for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Just pure relaxation and soaking up the best of Andalucia. Since Feria, the weather in Sevilla has been literally perfect. Every day I marvel at how impossibly blue the skies are and bask in the intense sunshine until it's almost uncomfortable. In the past week, I've had a heart-to-heart with my senora, worked up the courage to complain to my program director about one particularly horrendous professor, gone for a run through all my favorite parks in the city, studied in the Alcazar like I've been meaning to all semester, and fallen in love with the novel "Kite Runner" all over again, this time in Spanish. A successful week, if I do say so myself. I really think I'm just beginning to fall in love with Sevilla, which is unfortunate because the end is on the horizon (and I'm not sure how successful a long-distance relationship would be in this case). I guess I'll just have to be content with a short but passionate tryst.
In the two weekends since the end of Feria, I've accomplished the two major items remaining on my "to do list" for the semester: one characteristic of southern Spain, and the other classically European.
The bullfight (La corrida de toros)
I had been wanting to go to a bullfight all semester, but I wasn't expecting to like it. In fact, the more I heard about bullfights, the more I was just hoping to make it through the whole thing without throwing up. Before the semester started, I didn't even know the bulls die in a bullfight. Two weeks ago, my Phonetics and Conversation professor told us she took some American students to a bullfight once and they had to leave early because they were on the verge of vomiting. So despite pretty much expecting to hate it, I went because it was one of those typically Spanish (and especially Andalucian) things that I may never have the chance to see again, and because I wanted to experience it for myself before forming an opinion.
Laura, Victoria, and I bought tickets to a bullfight in which the toreros (bullfighters) were apprentices instead of professionals. This means the tickets were cheaper, the toreros were younger (one was a few months younger than me- an unsettling realization!), and the bulls were younger, but the action was the same as in professional bullfights. After ignoring several pestering men selling un-official tickets outside the Plaza de Toros (bullfighting ring), we finally paid our 10 euros for tickets in the "sol alto" section. Although this is technically the "worst" section, the entire stadium is so small that we were closer to the action than I have ever been at a PSU football game. We also agreed that we wouldn't have wanted to be any closer because that would just mean seeing the cuts and blood in more graphic detail.
Outside Sevilla's Plaza de Toros
The poster for the bullfight we attended. Of the three toreros, one was Spanish (from the province of Sevilla!), one was Mexican, and one was French.
Inside the Plaza de Toros
Part 2: The bloodshed begins when two men (picadores) come out on horseback and each takes a turn stabbing the bull in the back of the neck. If the picadores are successful, the bull will hold its head lower during the rest of the fight, making the torero's job easier and safer. During the stabbing, the bull inevitably charges the horse that the picador is sitting on. The horses are blindfolded and wear a mattress-like covering for protection, but it still looks painful and it's a miracle they don't spook and gallop away. Considering the horses are rammed into by an angry bull, can't see what's going on, and can't escape, I almost feel worse for them than for the bull.
Sadly I didn't get a picture of this part, but here you can see the picadores on horseback entering the arena at the start of the bullfight.
Part 3: Next, the three banderilleros reappear (on foot) and each one attempts to stick two banderillas (sharp barbed sticks) into the bull's shoulders. While one tempts the bull into approaching by waving a cape, another simultaneously plants the two banderillas firmly into the bull. The brightly-colored banderillas stay lodged in the bull's now-bloody back for the remainder of the fight. This step further angers and tires the bull, who I'm amazed is still alive at this point. Stab count: 8.
Part 4: The torero finally enters the ring with the famous red cape and a sword. The torero uses the cape to attract the bull in a series of passes that serve to both exhaust the bull and impress the crowd. This phase of cape-waving is the reason bullfighting is considered an "art" and even gets its own name: faena. Indeed, the faena is rather dance-like, with the torero arching his back and placing his steps so precisely they look choreographed. Except instead of a curtsy, this dance ends with the torero maneuvering the bull into the correct position to stab it between the shoulder blades and into the heart. Ideally, the bull should die immediately, but in all of the rounds we watched, the bull stumbled around for a few minutes before finally toppling over. If the torero has performed well, the crowd waves white handkerchiefs to indicate that he should win an award. The awards, in order of increasing prestige: an ear of the bull he has just killed; both ears; both ears and the tail. These prizes are rare, however, and none was awarded at the bullfight we saw.
Part 5: The dead bull is dragged away by a team of horses, and a team of men quickly clean the arena in preparation for the next round.
Repeat six times. And there you have a complete bullfight.
As it turns out, I wasn't as repulsed by the bullfight as I expected to be. While one of my friends left after the third round, I sat through all six and didn't even cover my eyes. Maybe it was the fact that I was expecting it to be unbearably gruesome. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't see any blood for the first two rounds due to the glare of the sun. Maybe it was the fact that I was so preoccupied with trying to understand what was going on that initially I didn't notice the bull's labored, heaving breathing or the way it clung to dear life for several moments before finally toppling over. Maybe it was the fact that it all seemed so surreal, looked so much like the pictures and video clips I'd seen, that it didn't register that it was happening live in front of me. In fact, I had a harder time watching my TA cut off frog heads in physiology lab, where I was mere inches from the action and could hear the crisp "snip" sound.
If anything, I found the bullfight a little boring. I couldn't pin down why, but Laura said it perfectly: unlike other sports that hinge on the suspense of who's going to win, bullfights always end the same way: with the bull dying. I'm sure a true bullfighting connoisseur (who can distinguish between a skilled torero and a poor one based on his faena) will disagree, but for an ordinary viewer like myself, every round is the same sequence of steps with the same predictable ending. To make an analogy, as much as I love PSU and want the Nittany Lions to win every game of the season, part of the thrill is the (slight) possibility that we might lose. That's what makes it exciting when we win... and that's what's lacking in a bullfight. (To be fair, Spaniards don't consider bullfighting a sport, so maybe that's not the right way to evaluate it, but I don't know enough details about faena to view it as an art.)
Still smiling at the end of round six.
I tried to see the art in it, I really did. I didn't want to be just another American who opposes bullfighting because she's squeamish or doesn't see the artistic/cultural value of it. I seriously considered the major arguments in favor of bullfighting, and here are my opinions:
1. "Bullfighting is a part of the Spanish culture and therefore must be respected and preserved. Also, Spain's economy will suffer if bullfights disappear."
True, it's culture, and true, it's good for the economy (by attracting many tourists and employing many people). Guess what? Those were the same arguments used to defend slavery in the United States. Should we have kept slavery around too? Enough said.
2. "The meat of the bull doesn't go to waste, it's eaten. It's hypocritical for anyone who eats meat to oppose bullfighting. What's more, the bulls live extremely well, even better than ordinary livestock, before they are killed."
This argument is slightly better than the first, in my opinion, because it gets to the root of the issue (morality) rather than simply claiming tradition as justification for continuing a questionable practice. In fact, I almost agreed with this theory. It seems to me that a lot of people want to enjoy their hot dogs and hamburgers without knowing (or acknowledging) how they got there. For instance, I'm not opposed to hunting as a sport because that's how meat was obtained in the past (before we figured out how to efficiently raise livestock in mass quantities) and hunters always use the meat of the animals they kill. It's the third part of this statement that I'm not so sure about. While it is true that bullfighting bulls are treated far better than your ordinary cattle (I've even heard that they have virgin cows at their disposal, much like Islam promises its faithful in heaven), this argument assumes that a good life justifies a prolonged, painful death. Maybe it does, but did anyone ask the bulls? How does the prospect of being treated like royalty for the first 20 years of your life but then dying by being stabbed for 20 minutes sound to you?
At the same time, I think a lot of arguments against bullfighting are flawed too:
1. "It's not a fair fight because there are several humans facing one bull."
I don't believe any of the pigs or cows or chicken you had for dinner this week had a fair fight either. In fact, they didn't get to fight at all. They were conceived, born, and raised with the intention of being killed for meat, and there is a multimillion dollar industry dedicated to that end. If you believe animals should only be killed when they get a fair fight, go hunt your own dinner tonight.
2. "It's wrong to get entertainment out of the death of an animal."
Yes, it would be wrong with human executions (I'm not suggesting we bring back public hangings), but the bull isn't conscious of the fact that it's being used as a source of entertainment. So I say, if you're going to kill it anyway, why not obtain as many benefits from it's death as possible? That's just being resourceful, like the Native Americans using every part of the animals they killed, from the hide to the bones. In fact, if there are people who enjoy watching livestock killed in slaughterhouses, I say charge them a few bucks and let them have a good time too. The viewers will be happy, the rest of society will be happy because the economy will be better, and the animals won't know the difference- their fate is your plate anyway. (Upon re-reading this paragraph, I realize it sounds pretty radical to the point of being considered satirical, so I'd like to state that it's not- I'm completely serious about all this. I'm a big believer in killing as many birds as possible with one stone.)
So after all this shooting down arguments, where do I actually stand on the issue? I'm still not 100% sure, but I think I'm opposed, but solely because the killing is such a long and drawn-out process. If the majority of the time was spent waving around a red cape with the actual killing happening in one fell swoop (as I expected it to be), I wouldn't have a problem with it. The fact that the bull suffers for so long (about twenty minutes) unnecessarily (we have the means to kill it within seconds) seems immoral to me.
In any case, I'm glad I went to the bullfight for the cliched "cultural experience." I'll probably never see another one, but at least now I can say I've "been there, done that."
The soccer game (el partido de futbol)
Sevilla has two futbol teams: Sevilla Futbol Club and Real Betis. Sevilla F.C. is in the first division, and Betis now plays in the second division after being relegated last year. Despite this difference and the fact that Betis hasn't been doing too well lately, the population of Sevilla seems to be split fairly evenly between hardcore Betis supporters and loyal Sevilla fans. It makes for a pretty intense intra-city rivalry. Anyway, since I haven't been following the teams, I didn't have a preference, but I chose to attend a Betis game because Sevilla was playing Barcelona that weekend, which meant ticket prices were way out of my range. Betis was playing Murcia, another Spanish team. The day before the game, I went to the stadium and bought a ticket for a seat above the northern goalpost.
In terms of the sport itself, I think futbol is a thousand times more exciting to watch than American football. It doesn't stop every two seconds, and even a sports dummy like myself can follow what's happening. I was actually on the edge of my seat several times, waiting for the goal-scoring kick, whereas at football games I'm usually either asking the person next to me what's going on or waiting for the wave to come around. However, as a show, European futbol ain't got nothing on PSU football. To be fair, I doubt anything in the world can compare to the spectacle that 110,000 PSU fans can put on. There was singing (primarily coming from the section above the southern goal, which I presume was something like our "student section" for loyal fans) but I couldn't join in because I didn't know the words, and tapping your foot along simply isn't as exciting. Instead, I let my mind translate the sounds into the familiar "Ohhh, oh oh oh ohhh, oh!" that reverberates through Beaver Stadium after a first-down. It felt strange sitting the entire time and actually watching the game. The stadium was far from packed, and I almost missed the pushing and shoving and standing for hours at a time. And I admit, during intermission, I got so nostalgic for PSU football that I listened to "Don't Stop Believing," "Sweet Caroline," and "Zombie Nation" on my iPod. I know I should have been living in the moment, listening to the sounds around me instead of trying to escape to Beaver Stadium, but what can I say? It was the closest thing to a Beaver Stadium experience I'll get for several months, so I couldn't help but recreate the experience in my own pathetic way.
Okay, enough nostalgia. A few interesting observations from the Betis game:
The match ended in a 1-1 tie. (We scored in the first half; they scored in the second.) As a result, everyone left the stands pretty dejectedly. I have a feeling the experience would have been even more fun if Betis had won, but I still had a really good time watching an exciting sport and bringing back memories of the good old days in Beaver Stadium. Now if only you combined the sport and spring season (everything's better when you're in a t-shirt instead of bundled up in a winter jacket) of futbol with the spirit of PSU football, I think you'd have the perfect sporting event.
And now I'm down to the last five days. My last five days as a Sevillana and my last five days as an undergraduate. The forecast predicts rain on all five, and I'm glad because that should make it a little easier to say goodbye.
In the two weekends since the end of Feria, I've accomplished the two major items remaining on my "to do list" for the semester: one characteristic of southern Spain, and the other classically European.
The bullfight (La corrida de toros)
I had been wanting to go to a bullfight all semester, but I wasn't expecting to like it. In fact, the more I heard about bullfights, the more I was just hoping to make it through the whole thing without throwing up. Before the semester started, I didn't even know the bulls die in a bullfight. Two weeks ago, my Phonetics and Conversation professor told us she took some American students to a bullfight once and they had to leave early because they were on the verge of vomiting. So despite pretty much expecting to hate it, I went because it was one of those typically Spanish (and especially Andalucian) things that I may never have the chance to see again, and because I wanted to experience it for myself before forming an opinion.
Laura, Victoria, and I bought tickets to a bullfight in which the toreros (bullfighters) were apprentices instead of professionals. This means the tickets were cheaper, the toreros were younger (one was a few months younger than me- an unsettling realization!), and the bulls were younger, but the action was the same as in professional bullfights. After ignoring several pestering men selling un-official tickets outside the Plaza de Toros (bullfighting ring), we finally paid our 10 euros for tickets in the "sol alto" section. Although this is technically the "worst" section, the entire stadium is so small that we were closer to the action than I have ever been at a PSU football game. We also agreed that we wouldn't have wanted to be any closer because that would just mean seeing the cuts and blood in more graphic detail.
Outside Sevilla's Plaza de Toros
The poster for the bullfight we attended. Of the three toreros, one was Spanish (from the province of Sevilla!), one was Mexican, and one was French. 
Inside the Plaza de TorosTo my surprise, a bullfight doesn't simply involve throwing a bull and a bullfighter into the ring and watching them battle it out. It's rather complicated, with multiple stages involving people with different roles. Below, I'll describe the structure of a bullfight using my pictures. Disclaimer: I will probably oversimplify things and get some details wrong. Google it if you want the technical details; I'm just here to convey the gist of a bullfight as I understood it from watching one.
Part 1: The bull enters the ring and its ferocity is tested by three banderilleros who wield magenta and yellow capes. The bull charges towards the waving cape (because of the movement, not the color- a common misconception) and the banderillero then runs behind a "trap door" to protect himself. The purpose of this stage is to provoke the bull (which is by nature a non-aggressive creature) and ensure that it is responsive enough to be worthy of fighting.
Part 1: The bull enters the ring and its ferocity is tested by three banderilleros who wield magenta and yellow capes. The bull charges towards the waving cape (because of the movement, not the color- a common misconception) and the banderillero then runs behind a "trap door" to protect himself. The purpose of this stage is to provoke the bull (which is by nature a non-aggressive creature) and ensure that it is responsive enough to be worthy of fighting.
Part 2: The bloodshed begins when two men (picadores) come out on horseback and each takes a turn stabbing the bull in the back of the neck. If the picadores are successful, the bull will hold its head lower during the rest of the fight, making the torero's job easier and safer. During the stabbing, the bull inevitably charges the horse that the picador is sitting on. The horses are blindfolded and wear a mattress-like covering for protection, but it still looks painful and it's a miracle they don't spook and gallop away. Considering the horses are rammed into by an angry bull, can't see what's going on, and can't escape, I almost feel worse for them than for the bull.
Sadly I didn't get a picture of this part, but here you can see the picadores on horseback entering the arena at the start of the bullfight. Part 3: Next, the three banderilleros reappear (on foot) and each one attempts to stick two banderillas (sharp barbed sticks) into the bull's shoulders. While one tempts the bull into approaching by waving a cape, another simultaneously plants the two banderillas firmly into the bull. The brightly-colored banderillas stay lodged in the bull's now-bloody back for the remainder of the fight. This step further angers and tires the bull, who I'm amazed is still alive at this point. Stab count: 8.
Part 4: The torero finally enters the ring with the famous red cape and a sword. The torero uses the cape to attract the bull in a series of passes that serve to both exhaust the bull and impress the crowd. This phase of cape-waving is the reason bullfighting is considered an "art" and even gets its own name: faena. Indeed, the faena is rather dance-like, with the torero arching his back and placing his steps so precisely they look choreographed. Except instead of a curtsy, this dance ends with the torero maneuvering the bull into the correct position to stab it between the shoulder blades and into the heart. Ideally, the bull should die immediately, but in all of the rounds we watched, the bull stumbled around for a few minutes before finally toppling over. If the torero has performed well, the crowd waves white handkerchiefs to indicate that he should win an award. The awards, in order of increasing prestige: an ear of the bull he has just killed; both ears; both ears and the tail. These prizes are rare, however, and none was awarded at the bullfight we saw.
Part 5: The dead bull is dragged away by a team of horses, and a team of men quickly clean the arena in preparation for the next round.
Repeat six times. And there you have a complete bullfight.As it turns out, I wasn't as repulsed by the bullfight as I expected to be. While one of my friends left after the third round, I sat through all six and didn't even cover my eyes. Maybe it was the fact that I was expecting it to be unbearably gruesome. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't see any blood for the first two rounds due to the glare of the sun. Maybe it was the fact that I was so preoccupied with trying to understand what was going on that initially I didn't notice the bull's labored, heaving breathing or the way it clung to dear life for several moments before finally toppling over. Maybe it was the fact that it all seemed so surreal, looked so much like the pictures and video clips I'd seen, that it didn't register that it was happening live in front of me. In fact, I had a harder time watching my TA cut off frog heads in physiology lab, where I was mere inches from the action and could hear the crisp "snip" sound.
If anything, I found the bullfight a little boring. I couldn't pin down why, but Laura said it perfectly: unlike other sports that hinge on the suspense of who's going to win, bullfights always end the same way: with the bull dying. I'm sure a true bullfighting connoisseur (who can distinguish between a skilled torero and a poor one based on his faena) will disagree, but for an ordinary viewer like myself, every round is the same sequence of steps with the same predictable ending. To make an analogy, as much as I love PSU and want the Nittany Lions to win every game of the season, part of the thrill is the (slight) possibility that we might lose. That's what makes it exciting when we win... and that's what's lacking in a bullfight. (To be fair, Spaniards don't consider bullfighting a sport, so maybe that's not the right way to evaluate it, but I don't know enough details about faena to view it as an art.)
Still smiling at the end of round six. I tried to see the art in it, I really did. I didn't want to be just another American who opposes bullfighting because she's squeamish or doesn't see the artistic/cultural value of it. I seriously considered the major arguments in favor of bullfighting, and here are my opinions:
1. "Bullfighting is a part of the Spanish culture and therefore must be respected and preserved. Also, Spain's economy will suffer if bullfights disappear."
True, it's culture, and true, it's good for the economy (by attracting many tourists and employing many people). Guess what? Those were the same arguments used to defend slavery in the United States. Should we have kept slavery around too? Enough said.
2. "The meat of the bull doesn't go to waste, it's eaten. It's hypocritical for anyone who eats meat to oppose bullfighting. What's more, the bulls live extremely well, even better than ordinary livestock, before they are killed."
This argument is slightly better than the first, in my opinion, because it gets to the root of the issue (morality) rather than simply claiming tradition as justification for continuing a questionable practice. In fact, I almost agreed with this theory. It seems to me that a lot of people want to enjoy their hot dogs and hamburgers without knowing (or acknowledging) how they got there. For instance, I'm not opposed to hunting as a sport because that's how meat was obtained in the past (before we figured out how to efficiently raise livestock in mass quantities) and hunters always use the meat of the animals they kill. It's the third part of this statement that I'm not so sure about. While it is true that bullfighting bulls are treated far better than your ordinary cattle (I've even heard that they have virgin cows at their disposal, much like Islam promises its faithful in heaven), this argument assumes that a good life justifies a prolonged, painful death. Maybe it does, but did anyone ask the bulls? How does the prospect of being treated like royalty for the first 20 years of your life but then dying by being stabbed for 20 minutes sound to you?
At the same time, I think a lot of arguments against bullfighting are flawed too:
1. "It's not a fair fight because there are several humans facing one bull."
I don't believe any of the pigs or cows or chicken you had for dinner this week had a fair fight either. In fact, they didn't get to fight at all. They were conceived, born, and raised with the intention of being killed for meat, and there is a multimillion dollar industry dedicated to that end. If you believe animals should only be killed when they get a fair fight, go hunt your own dinner tonight.
2. "It's wrong to get entertainment out of the death of an animal."
Yes, it would be wrong with human executions (I'm not suggesting we bring back public hangings), but the bull isn't conscious of the fact that it's being used as a source of entertainment. So I say, if you're going to kill it anyway, why not obtain as many benefits from it's death as possible? That's just being resourceful, like the Native Americans using every part of the animals they killed, from the hide to the bones. In fact, if there are people who enjoy watching livestock killed in slaughterhouses, I say charge them a few bucks and let them have a good time too. The viewers will be happy, the rest of society will be happy because the economy will be better, and the animals won't know the difference- their fate is your plate anyway. (Upon re-reading this paragraph, I realize it sounds pretty radical to the point of being considered satirical, so I'd like to state that it's not- I'm completely serious about all this. I'm a big believer in killing as many birds as possible with one stone.)
So after all this shooting down arguments, where do I actually stand on the issue? I'm still not 100% sure, but I think I'm opposed, but solely because the killing is such a long and drawn-out process. If the majority of the time was spent waving around a red cape with the actual killing happening in one fell swoop (as I expected it to be), I wouldn't have a problem with it. The fact that the bull suffers for so long (about twenty minutes) unnecessarily (we have the means to kill it within seconds) seems immoral to me.
In any case, I'm glad I went to the bullfight for the cliched "cultural experience." I'll probably never see another one, but at least now I can say I've "been there, done that."
The soccer game (el partido de futbol)
Sevilla has two futbol teams: Sevilla Futbol Club and Real Betis. Sevilla F.C. is in the first division, and Betis now plays in the second division after being relegated last year. Despite this difference and the fact that Betis hasn't been doing too well lately, the population of Sevilla seems to be split fairly evenly between hardcore Betis supporters and loyal Sevilla fans. It makes for a pretty intense intra-city rivalry. Anyway, since I haven't been following the teams, I didn't have a preference, but I chose to attend a Betis game because Sevilla was playing Barcelona that weekend, which meant ticket prices were way out of my range. Betis was playing Murcia, another Spanish team. The day before the game, I went to the stadium and bought a ticket for a seat above the northern goalpost.
In terms of the sport itself, I think futbol is a thousand times more exciting to watch than American football. It doesn't stop every two seconds, and even a sports dummy like myself can follow what's happening. I was actually on the edge of my seat several times, waiting for the goal-scoring kick, whereas at football games I'm usually either asking the person next to me what's going on or waiting for the wave to come around. However, as a show, European futbol ain't got nothing on PSU football. To be fair, I doubt anything in the world can compare to the spectacle that 110,000 PSU fans can put on. There was singing (primarily coming from the section above the southern goal, which I presume was something like our "student section" for loyal fans) but I couldn't join in because I didn't know the words, and tapping your foot along simply isn't as exciting. Instead, I let my mind translate the sounds into the familiar "Ohhh, oh oh oh ohhh, oh!" that reverberates through Beaver Stadium after a first-down. It felt strange sitting the entire time and actually watching the game. The stadium was far from packed, and I almost missed the pushing and shoving and standing for hours at a time. And I admit, during intermission, I got so nostalgic for PSU football that I listened to "Don't Stop Believing," "Sweet Caroline," and "Zombie Nation" on my iPod. I know I should have been living in the moment, listening to the sounds around me instead of trying to escape to Beaver Stadium, but what can I say? It was the closest thing to a Beaver Stadium experience I'll get for several months, so I couldn't help but recreate the experience in my own pathetic way.
Okay, enough nostalgia. A few interesting observations from the Betis game:
- Before the game started, after the players were announced and came out onto the field, everyone stood up. I thought it was for the national anthem, but instead I think it was a prayer. I'm not completely positive because it was in Spanish and hard to hear the voice on the loudspeaker clearly, but I thought I heard something along the lines of "forgive us... give us... bless us..." I suppose it's not that surprising, since Spain is, for all practical purposes, a Catholic country, but it was still unexpected for me.
- Spaniards curse like sailors in general, but for futbol games I think they leave the rest of their vocabulary at home. I have never heard the words "cono" and "cabron" so much in my life, and I'm pretty sure one of their fight songs has the phrase "puta madre" in it. What's even more interesting is that most of these foul words were directed at their own players for not playing well. Talk about team spirit.
- Instead of wearing team jerseys and eating soft pretzels, fans at futbol games here sport team scarves and eat sunflower seeds, the shells of which they litter all over the ground.
The match ended in a 1-1 tie. (We scored in the first half; they scored in the second.) As a result, everyone left the stands pretty dejectedly. I have a feeling the experience would have been even more fun if Betis had won, but I still had a really good time watching an exciting sport and bringing back memories of the good old days in Beaver Stadium. Now if only you combined the sport and spring season (everything's better when you're in a t-shirt instead of bundled up in a winter jacket) of futbol with the spirit of PSU football, I think you'd have the perfect sporting event.
And now I'm down to the last five days. My last five days as a Sevillana and my last five days as an undergraduate. The forecast predicts rain on all five, and I'm glad because that should make it a little easier to say goodbye.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
All last week, when I had to catch up on relating a week's worth of adventures, I was complaining about how much time blogging takes out of my life. I was feeling guilty that I spend so much of my limited time in Sevilla writing about my life here (both on my blog and in personal letters/e-mails to people) rather than being out there living it; that I waste away the beautiful days in front of my laptop in the Universidad's Sala de Lecturas instead of basking in the numerous parks and plazas the city has to offer. Now I'm finally caught up on blogging, so I should feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, right? Instead, I feel empty. Yesterday I submitted an entry for a writing contest, the first writing contest I've entered in years, and it felt so, so good to get those creative juices flowing again. And that's when I realized, I like to write. Well, I had always known I enjoyed writing, but I hadn't done it in so long (papers for school don't count) that I wasn't sure if my affinity for it had faded. I mean, I didn't really miss writing when I wasn't doing it because my life was so busy with schoolwork and such, so it was hard to tell. But now that I've done more writing this semester than probably during any other period of my life, felt guilty about said writing, and taken a break, I realize I'm addicted to it. It excites me and fills me like few other activities do.
After much internal conflict, I've decided not to feel guilty about spending so much of my time in Spain in the world of words, because if that's what I enjoy, what's there to feel guilty about? In fact, coming to Spain has been the catalyst for my rediscovery of my passion for writing. I know I didn't need to go to another country to rediscover this (that would be a pretty hefty start-up cost) but I truly believe it's because I'm here that I have the time and the fodder to write. Even if I had stayed at Penn State this semester and taken easy classes so I'd have lots of free time, there would always be some exam I should be studying for or some friend I should be hanging out with or some voice in the back of my mind pressuring me to read ahead for med school. Here my biggest priority is to take in everything around me, and with a goal as vague and non-quantifiable (lacking a defined way of measuring) as that, I don't feel guilty letting other equally non-productive goals interfere. For me, taking in the world around me goes hand in hand with reflecting on it and writing about it, and I'm okay with that.
Earlier when people asked me what I'm going to do with this blog after my semester in Sevilla ends, I figured I'd obviously stop blogging. After all, as much as I like writing, I'm not presumptuous enough to assume that anyone is going to want to read about my ordinary life in the U.S. of A., and plus, I probably won't have time to write as a med student. But now I'm not so sure. I still tell myself that those reasons to stop writing are 100% true, and yet that doesn't make them relevant. I'm afraid this may be a similar situation to that of the sweet tooth I developed at Penn State, that after indulging myself so thoroughly in the addiction this semester, I won't be able to go back.
Even when I have a designated audience such as in this blog, I write selfishly. I write because I like how I feel when I'm doing it. I like when I re-read something I've written and am truly satisfied with the way it sounds. I like capturing the thoughts and emotions of a moment in my life and preserving them between the pages of a website or a notebook for eternity. I don't care if my blogposts become so long that I lose my readers one by one, because in fifty years when my memory's going I want to read them and relive every detail of that epic trip or chuckle at my naivete or show my grandchildren that I was young once too.
You could argue that most of my writing isn't selfish, that it's a way for me to stay in touch with the people I love. True, I have a Word document entitled "Messages from Sevilla" that's 96 pages (and counting) of my e-mail exchanges with friends. Yes, I've written letters and postcards in English, Spanish, and Telugu this semester. Most notably, I've poured hours of effort and love into letters to my grandparents and great-grandparents in my childish Telugu. But I consider that writing selfish too. I do it because I like receiving long e-mails in return and feeling like I'm a part of my friends' lives, because I feel accomplished when I write a 3-page letter in Telugu, because I like feeling close with my relatives.
I've been told I think too much, feel too much, write too much, and none of it is very productive. No, I'm not out there protesting global warming or taking care of sick puppies or even bettering my own future in any way. I'm in the Sala de Lecturas, the heat of my laptop warming my thighs, and it feels good.
After much internal conflict, I've decided not to feel guilty about spending so much of my time in Spain in the world of words, because if that's what I enjoy, what's there to feel guilty about? In fact, coming to Spain has been the catalyst for my rediscovery of my passion for writing. I know I didn't need to go to another country to rediscover this (that would be a pretty hefty start-up cost) but I truly believe it's because I'm here that I have the time and the fodder to write. Even if I had stayed at Penn State this semester and taken easy classes so I'd have lots of free time, there would always be some exam I should be studying for or some friend I should be hanging out with or some voice in the back of my mind pressuring me to read ahead for med school. Here my biggest priority is to take in everything around me, and with a goal as vague and non-quantifiable (lacking a defined way of measuring) as that, I don't feel guilty letting other equally non-productive goals interfere. For me, taking in the world around me goes hand in hand with reflecting on it and writing about it, and I'm okay with that.
Earlier when people asked me what I'm going to do with this blog after my semester in Sevilla ends, I figured I'd obviously stop blogging. After all, as much as I like writing, I'm not presumptuous enough to assume that anyone is going to want to read about my ordinary life in the U.S. of A., and plus, I probably won't have time to write as a med student. But now I'm not so sure. I still tell myself that those reasons to stop writing are 100% true, and yet that doesn't make them relevant. I'm afraid this may be a similar situation to that of the sweet tooth I developed at Penn State, that after indulging myself so thoroughly in the addiction this semester, I won't be able to go back.
Even when I have a designated audience such as in this blog, I write selfishly. I write because I like how I feel when I'm doing it. I like when I re-read something I've written and am truly satisfied with the way it sounds. I like capturing the thoughts and emotions of a moment in my life and preserving them between the pages of a website or a notebook for eternity. I don't care if my blogposts become so long that I lose my readers one by one, because in fifty years when my memory's going I want to read them and relive every detail of that epic trip or chuckle at my naivete or show my grandchildren that I was young once too.
You could argue that most of my writing isn't selfish, that it's a way for me to stay in touch with the people I love. True, I have a Word document entitled "Messages from Sevilla" that's 96 pages (and counting) of my e-mail exchanges with friends. Yes, I've written letters and postcards in English, Spanish, and Telugu this semester. Most notably, I've poured hours of effort and love into letters to my grandparents and great-grandparents in my childish Telugu. But I consider that writing selfish too. I do it because I like receiving long e-mails in return and feeling like I'm a part of my friends' lives, because I feel accomplished when I write a 3-page letter in Telugu, because I like feeling close with my relatives.
I've been told I think too much, feel too much, write too much, and none of it is very productive. No, I'm not out there protesting global warming or taking care of sick puppies or even bettering my own future in any way. I'm in the Sala de Lecturas, the heat of my laptop warming my thighs, and it feels good.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Hey, it's all there at the county fair
Surely at this point you must be wondering why I was able to travel for ten days in the middle of the semester when I already had a spring break. Did good-student Ramya skip classes? Never! In fact, I had no classes the week of April 19-23 due to something called the Feria de Abril, or simply Feria. So what is Feria, besides the reason for my second spring break?
How do I even begin to explain the city-wide, week-long spectacle that is Sevilla's Feria de Abril? Let's see...
If you're a Penn Stater: It's like the Blue and White carnival, except drinking is legal and people wear suits and dresses instead of t-shirts and shorts. It brings out the spirit of an entire city like an Ohio State game and people party like it's your average Thursday night in State College.
If you're Indian: It's as colorful as Holi, has more lights than Diwali, and involves a dance form with a specific sequence of steps like Garbha. Food is cooked in quantities only seen at Indian weddings and sold at prices reserved for foreigners in India.
If you don't fall into either of the above categories: I pity you. (Just kidding, but seriously, what were you thinking?)
A little history
"Ferias" (which simply means "fairs") actually began in the 12th century in cities all over Europe as annual markets where merchants from the surrounding areas would gather to sell their goods. To this day, many Spanish cities have ferias, although Sevilla's is celebrated on a scale unlike any other. (When Sevillanos do a festival, they don't mess around.) Sevilla's Feria de Abril began in 1847 as a livestock fair and took place at the Prado de San Sebastian, then on the outskirts of the city but now near the center. Over the years, Feria quickly became a festive occasion and the livestock stalls phased out. In 1957, the Feria grounds were moved to Los Remedios, the neighborhood in which I live and where it is still held today.
Feria 2010
Despite being sleep deprived and having a ton of work to catch up on, I spent all Sunday afternoon and evening at Feria and then went back at night to see some more. Considering I've never been much of a fair/carnival person before, that's saying something. Since it's such a photogenic holiday, I'll explain the various aspects of Feria through some of the hundred-plus pictures I took on Sunday.
The portada is the elaborate main entrance to the Feria grounds. Every year it's different and is dedicated to an important event or monument in the city. This year's portada commemorates the centennial anniversary of the first military plane taking off from Sevilla (see the model plane at the top) and NO8DO, Sevilla's motto.
In front of the portada
Interior of a caseta
As mentioned earlier, everyone dresses up for Feria. (Even I took a break from my usual slob attire and seized the opportunity to dress up.) The majority of Sevillana women strut their stuff in Flamenco dresses, which are ridiculously colorful and ruffly and change with the fashions of the times. For instance, in the '80s, long puffy sleeves were in, but now sleeveless is the way to go. Flamenco dresses are loud and flirty and flattering and I absolutely love them. If they weren't so expensive (100 euros is considered a good deal and they go up to the thousands) I would have been rocking one too. Instead I had to settle for taking an obscene number of pictures of stangers' rear sides.
Spaniards frequently dress their children in matching outfits, and I find it adorable. When whole families wear matching Flamenco dresses, I just want to pinch their cheeks off!
Laura and I tried our very first churro relleno at Feria and fell in love at first bite. Churro relleno (n.): a deep-fried tube of dough filled with Nutella and served warm and oozy. Also known as heaven (or heart attack) on a plate.
Spain's pride and glory: ham and paella
By far the most precious picture I've taken all semester. This one's worth clicking on to see the full-size image.
It looks like your average merry-go-round, but what you can't tell in this picture is that they're real live ponies! I would have eaten this up if I were a child in Sevilla.
Laura and I decided to ride "La Carcel" ("The Prison"), a ride in which you stand inside a "cell" which rotates around on the end of a giant stick. It's essentially like a Ferris wheel except you're standing freely in a cage instead of strapped into a seat. It doesn't go upside down or particularly fast, so we thought we could handle it, no problem. It was a blast and the view of the Feria grounds from the top was incredible, but I'm fairly certain I slammed into the poor little boy in our cell a few times and Laura came out with bruises. Here I am looking terrified, post-ride.
The portada lit up at night
Strings of lightbulbs hang above every street. I've heard that there are 30,000 lightbulbs in total.
Casetas in the foreground, "la calle del Infierno" looming in the background.
The whole thing ends with a fireworks display on Sunday (well, technically Monday) at midnight. Spaniards are usually known for running late, but this is one thing they're punctual about. While it wasn't the most impressive fireworks show I've even seen, fireworks are inherently impressive so I can't complain.
Conclusions: Feria is now tied with Holi and Navratri as my favorite holidays, and I made the right decision to study abroad in Sevilla in the spring.
How do I even begin to explain the city-wide, week-long spectacle that is Sevilla's Feria de Abril? Let's see...
If you're a Penn Stater: It's like the Blue and White carnival, except drinking is legal and people wear suits and dresses instead of t-shirts and shorts. It brings out the spirit of an entire city like an Ohio State game and people party like it's your average Thursday night in State College.
If you're Indian: It's as colorful as Holi, has more lights than Diwali, and involves a dance form with a specific sequence of steps like Garbha. Food is cooked in quantities only seen at Indian weddings and sold at prices reserved for foreigners in India.
If you don't fall into either of the above categories: I pity you. (Just kidding, but seriously, what were you thinking?)
A little history
"Ferias" (which simply means "fairs") actually began in the 12th century in cities all over Europe as annual markets where merchants from the surrounding areas would gather to sell their goods. To this day, many Spanish cities have ferias, although Sevilla's is celebrated on a scale unlike any other. (When Sevillanos do a festival, they don't mess around.) Sevilla's Feria de Abril began in 1847 as a livestock fair and took place at the Prado de San Sebastian, then on the outskirts of the city but now near the center. Over the years, Feria quickly became a festive occasion and the livestock stalls phased out. In 1957, the Feria grounds were moved to Los Remedios, the neighborhood in which I live and where it is still held today.
Feria 2010
Despite being sleep deprived and having a ton of work to catch up on, I spent all Sunday afternoon and evening at Feria and then went back at night to see some more. Considering I've never been much of a fair/carnival person before, that's saying something. Since it's such a photogenic holiday, I'll explain the various aspects of Feria through some of the hundred-plus pictures I took on Sunday.
The portada is the elaborate main entrance to the Feria grounds. Every year it's different and is dedicated to an important event or monument in the city. This year's portada commemorates the centennial anniversary of the first military plane taking off from Sevilla (see the model plane at the top) and NO8DO, Sevilla's motto.
In front of the portadaThe main action of Feria (for most adults, anyway) takes place in the casetas, decorated marquee tents that line the streets of the fairgrounds. Casetas may be owned by individual families, organizations, political parties, or neighborhoods of Sevilla. To enter a private caseta you need to know someone who owns it, but the public casetas are open to everyone and have the same activities going on inside. All casetas follow the same layout: a seating area to eat and drink with some space to dance in the front, and a kitchen/bar in the back. The casetas sell the same food all day every day, with no distinction between meals. The casetas are well-decorated because it's a source of pride for the families who own them, and every year there's a contest for the best-decorated caseta.
Exterior of a public caseta. This one belongs to the neighborhood La Macarena, if I'm not mistaken.
Exterior of a public caseta. This one belongs to the neighborhood La Macarena, if I'm not mistaken.
Interior of a caseta
Spaniards frequently dress their children in matching outfits, and I find it adorable. When whole families wear matching Flamenco dresses, I just want to pinch their cheeks off!Sevillanas is the typical dance of Feria. It's a variation of Flamenco dance with less stomping and more graceful hand-twirling. It's traditionally danced between a man and a woman, but often you'll see two women dancing together because more women know how to dance it than men.
Two women dancing Sevillanas in a caseta.
What's a festival without food? Much like at fairs in the U.S., deep-fried food plays a lead role at Feria, although I didn't see any deep-friend Oreos or ice cream for sale. In addition to the fried goodies, all the classic Spanish foods are made in mass quantities: paella, patatas bravas, tortilla espanola, and of course, jamon iberico. Spaniards also have a strange obsession with waffles (called gofres), which appear to come from a package rather than a waffle iron and are eaten with chocolate syrup instead of maple syrup. Oh, Spain...
Bullfighting season in Sevilla kicks off during Feria. There are bullfights featuring the best toreros (bullfighters) every day during Feria. All the streets in the Feria grounds are named after famous toreros, and the backs of the street signs give brief biographies.
The entire week, the only form of transportation allowed in the Feria grounds is horse-drawn carriage. While there are plenty of horse-drawn carriages in Sevilla year-round, during Feria they become especially important. The horses are cleaned up and decked out, the drivers dress in fine suits and hats, and the prices are jacked up.
What's a festival without food? Much like at fairs in the U.S., deep-fried food plays a lead role at Feria, although I didn't see any deep-friend Oreos or ice cream for sale. In addition to the fried goodies, all the classic Spanish foods are made in mass quantities: paella, patatas bravas, tortilla espanola, and of course, jamon iberico. Spaniards also have a strange obsession with waffles (called gofres), which appear to come from a package rather than a waffle iron and are eaten with chocolate syrup instead of maple syrup. Oh, Spain...
Laura and I tried our very first churro relleno at Feria and fell in love at first bite. Churro relleno (n.): a deep-fried tube of dough filled with Nutella and served warm and oozy. Also known as heaven (or heart attack) on a plate.
Spain's pride and glory: ham and paella
By far the most precious picture I've taken all semester. This one's worth clicking on to see the full-size image.Casetas full of dancing and drinking are only one half of the story. The other half of the huge Feria grounds is packed with rides and attractions typically found at amusement parks and carnivals. Haunted roller coasters, Ferris wheels, bumper cars, water rides, moonbounces, raffle games- you name it, Feria has it. There were even multiples of several rides like I'd never seen before. There's also a circus that you can buy tickets to and is very popular based on the long lines we saw outside it. The huge area where the rides are located is called "la calle del Infierno" ("the street from Hell") by locals, and it's not hard to tell why.
It looks like your average merry-go-round, but what you can't tell in this picture is that they're real live ponies! I would have eaten this up if I were a child in Sevilla. 
Laura and I decided to ride "La Carcel" ("The Prison"), a ride in which you stand inside a "cell" which rotates around on the end of a giant stick. It's essentially like a Ferris wheel except you're standing freely in a cage instead of strapped into a seat. It doesn't go upside down or particularly fast, so we thought we could handle it, no problem. It was a blast and the view of the Feria grounds from the top was incredible, but I'm fairly certain I slammed into the poor little boy in our cell a few times and Laura came out with bruises. Here I am looking terrified, post-ride.Feria at night is as awesome as in the daytime, but with the clear blue skies replaced by brilliant lights. Both are so beautiful and alive, I can't decide which I like better.
The portada lit up at night
Strings of lightbulbs hang above every street. I've heard that there are 30,000 lightbulbs in total.
Casetas in the foreground, "la calle del Infierno" looming in the background.
The whole thing ends with a fireworks display on Sunday (well, technically Monday) at midnight. Spaniards are usually known for running late, but this is one thing they're punctual about. While it wasn't the most impressive fireworks show I've even seen, fireworks are inherently impressive so I can't complain.Conclusions: Feria is now tied with Holi and Navratri as my favorite holidays, and I made the right decision to study abroad in Sevilla in the spring.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Up, up, up, can only go up from here
April 22: Gaudi, Gaudi, Gaudi
I awoke at 5:17 AM to find my bus in Barcelona. Having slept soundly through the night, I was surprised we had gotten there so fast. A minute too fast, in fact. I looked out the window to see us pulling away from the Sants train station, where I was supposed to have gotten off! I sprinted to the front of the bus and asked the driver to let me off at the next red light. Half awake, I stumbled back to the station, feeling relieved that it was open and warm and that Laura had found a safe place to wait for me. But when I searched for Laura, she was nowhere to be found. I called to ask her where she was, and that's when she told me she was at Norte, Barcelona's other station. I had missed a text from her around 3 AM saying that I should get off and meet her at Norte because it looked slightly less shady than Sants. So we were separated and on opposite sides of Barcelona at 5:30 AM. Terrific.
Having no other alternative, we frantically made plans to meet at the Plaza de Catalunya, a somewhat central location that would still be a 40 minute walk for each of us. However, all two of our Google maps print-outs of the city were with Laura. Anyone who knows me at all should be very concerned at this point in the story because I have zero direction sense. But I did what I had to: I went inside the convenience store/gift-shop in the train station, found a city map in a Barcelona guidebook, took it to a desolated corner of the store, and furtively snapped a couple pictures. After orienting myself outside the station with help from a nearby bar owner, I set off onto the streets of Barcelona around 6 AM, alone and armed with just a couple illicit pictures on my camera and some hastily jotted down notes.
Desperate times call for desperate measures: an illegal photo of a map from a guidebook in the giftshop, also known as my lifeline
Sunrise in Barcelona: a lot less romantic than it sounds
Candy galore! Those little silver beady-looking things in the front are candy too. Reminds me of the silver foil-looking part in some Indian sweets.
It's like an anatomy lab storeroom, but on sale for human consumption!
Gaudi's Casa Batllo on "the block of discord"
Cool building on "the block of discord" that houses a Guess store
More crazy architecture housing high-end clothing stores. This one's a Hugo Boss.
This building on La Rambla (which houses a bank) is Asian themed, with images of fat ladies in kimonos at the bottom and Chinese fans and umbrellas forming the decorations above. I adore it.
Gaudi's Casa Mila in the Eixample district
The awesome library at the University of Barcelona
We thought the figurines of Jesus not on the cross looked funny.
Laura trying to use the "Easy Order" kiosk at the McDonalds on La Rambla. If you know Spanish, note the spelling of the word "kiosk" in Spanish. I found it amusing.
Eating at the fanciest restaurant I've been in in months: a little place called McDonalds on La Rambla.
Our main purpose in taking pictures of ourselves outside the Sagrada Familia was to make ourselves feel pretty.
In front of the Dow Jones Bar. Note the clocks showing the time in various cities around the world and the screens below them showing the current prices of drinks.
The main part of the Cathedral
A sneak view of Mass in the crypt from the grating above
A statue of a woolly mammoth in the park. Completely unexpected and unrelated to anything else in the park.
"Art" in the park. Oh, Barcelona...
At the Estadi Olympic Lluis Companys, the main stadium used for the 1992 Summer Olympics. I was surprised how small it is (it only seats 65,000), but I guess it's hard to impress a girl who's used to Beaver Stadium.
Outside the Olympic stadium, which I think looks more like a government building than a sports facility
More of the Olympic complex on Montjuic. Check out that twisty white thing on the left. It's a telecommunications tower built to transmit television coverage of the '92 Olympics. Barcelona, artsy even in its technology.
Our view of the magic fountain
More close-up view of the fountain
We sat on a ledge behind this sheet of waterfall, in front of the art museum (the large building in the back in this photo).
The front of the crypt of the Sagrada Familia where mass is held. Where are the melting, bird-poop-covered cakes?!
Gaudi's resting place. Note the Romanization of his first name ("Antoni" became "Antonius"). I don't like it, and I find it offensive that they would do that. Just saying, in case anyone ever tries to mess with my name after I'm dead. I don't care what language you speak; I'm Ramya, not Ramona.
This is a hospital! It makes me want to get sick enough to be hospitalized for a week but not so sick that I can't walk around cheerfully taking pictures.
Laura on a bench with the sausage and liter of milk. If we weren't constantly cracking up, I swear people walking by would have thought we were homeless.
Tell me this doesn't look like a cross between Disney World and Candy Land.
I thought it looked like a gingerbread house, so I tried to eat it.
This part was inspired by waves, so obviously I surfed.
Laura and I seated on the wavy bench which contains Gaudi's characteristic multicolored mosaic design
View of the city from atop Parc Guell. On the larger image, you can see the Sagrada Familia faintly on the left.
A carefully selected beach pic that shows the lovely scene sans topless women
Enjoying another liter of ice cream. I think I've fulfilled my semester-long ice cream craving and quenched cravings for months to come.
I awoke at 5:17 AM to find my bus in Barcelona. Having slept soundly through the night, I was surprised we had gotten there so fast. A minute too fast, in fact. I looked out the window to see us pulling away from the Sants train station, where I was supposed to have gotten off! I sprinted to the front of the bus and asked the driver to let me off at the next red light. Half awake, I stumbled back to the station, feeling relieved that it was open and warm and that Laura had found a safe place to wait for me. But when I searched for Laura, she was nowhere to be found. I called to ask her where she was, and that's when she told me she was at Norte, Barcelona's other station. I had missed a text from her around 3 AM saying that I should get off and meet her at Norte because it looked slightly less shady than Sants. So we were separated and on opposite sides of Barcelona at 5:30 AM. Terrific.
Having no other alternative, we frantically made plans to meet at the Plaza de Catalunya, a somewhat central location that would still be a 40 minute walk for each of us. However, all two of our Google maps print-outs of the city were with Laura. Anyone who knows me at all should be very concerned at this point in the story because I have zero direction sense. But I did what I had to: I went inside the convenience store/gift-shop in the train station, found a city map in a Barcelona guidebook, took it to a desolated corner of the store, and furtively snapped a couple pictures. After orienting myself outside the station with help from a nearby bar owner, I set off onto the streets of Barcelona around 6 AM, alone and armed with just a couple illicit pictures on my camera and some hastily jotted down notes.
Desperate times call for desperate measures: an illegal photo of a map from a guidebook in the giftshop, also known as my lifeline 
Sunrise in Barcelona: a lot less romantic than it soundsAfter nearly an hour of walking and only getting lost once, I found the Plaza de Catalunya, where Laura was waiting for me. She told me that she had had a once-in-a-lifetime experience in the wee hours of that morning: a taste of homelessness. Since her bus had arrived at 2:30 AM when the bus station was closed, she had resorted to huddling on a bench outside the station next to a homeless man. She was cold and hungry and sleep-deprived and altogether miserable. I think she may have cried a couple times, and understandably so. On the bright side, the homeless man seemed friendly and tried to say a few things to her in Catalan. At least the homeless are an amiable bunch.
So it was 7 AM and we were cranky but together in Barcelona. Once again, Laura desperately needed to sleep and I desperately needed to shower, but we couldn't check in to our hostel until 2 PM. So we grabbed breakfast (overpriced bocadillos and cafe con leche, welcome back to Spain) at one of the cafes just opening up on La Rambla and halfheartedly decided to start on our sightseeing for the day. First we went to La Boqueria, a huge public market off of La Rambla with stands selling a rainbow of fruits and vegetables, chocolate-covered everythings, dozens of varieties of olives, full legs of ham, cow tongues... you know, the usual.
So it was 7 AM and we were cranky but together in Barcelona. Once again, Laura desperately needed to sleep and I desperately needed to shower, but we couldn't check in to our hostel until 2 PM. So we grabbed breakfast (overpriced bocadillos and cafe con leche, welcome back to Spain) at one of the cafes just opening up on La Rambla and halfheartedly decided to start on our sightseeing for the day. First we went to La Boqueria, a huge public market off of La Rambla with stands selling a rainbow of fruits and vegetables, chocolate-covered everythings, dozens of varieties of olives, full legs of ham, cow tongues... you know, the usual.
Candy galore! Those little silver beady-looking things in the front are candy too. Reminds me of the silver foil-looking part in some Indian sweets.
It's like an anatomy lab storeroom, but on sale for human consumption!Next we hit what's known as "the block of discord" on Passeig de Gracia, called as such because it looks like a bunch of crazy 19th century architects tried to outdo each other in creative twists. While Barcelona's biggest-name architect is Antoni Gaudi (and boy does Barcelona capitalize on that name), I found his buildings less visually appealing than other lesser known ones and less bizarre than I was expecting. Still, between Gaudi and his contemporaries, the result is a city full of buildings that make you stop and stare. The quirkiness is by no means confined to one block, or even to buildings; everything from the lampposts to the parks in Barcelona are works of art.
Gaudi's Casa Batllo on "the block of discord"
Cool building on "the block of discord" that houses a Guess store
More crazy architecture housing high-end clothing stores. This one's a Hugo Boss.
This building on La Rambla (which houses a bank) is Asian themed, with images of fat ladies in kimonos at the bottom and Chinese fans and umbrellas forming the decorations above. I adore it.
Gaudi's Casa Mila in the Eixample districtAfter an hour or two sampling funky architecture, we noticed ourselves running out of steam and our appreciation for renowned buildings dwindling ("Really Gaudi, that's the best thing you could come up with?"). We still had hours till our hostel opened but Laura was on the verge of throwing a tantrum due to lack of sleep. Being the expert on all things sleep, I suggested finding a library to sleep in. We found the library at the University of Barcelona, which, like everything in Barcelona, looked modern and artsy. We found an empty reading room, and while I paged through books on Greek gods and religious references in the Simpsons, Laura slept on the table.
The awesome library at the University of BarcelonaFeeling fairly refreshed after naptime, we headed to the Plaza de la Seu just in front of the Cathedral of Barcelona in the Gothic neighborhood. There we found something like a flea market for antiques. All kinds of odds and ends from old written-on postcards to old-fashioned telephones filled the tables. I don't think I've ever said, "Who buys this stuff?" so much in my life.
We thought the figurines of Jesus not on the cross looked funny.By then, 2 o'clock had rolled around and we checked into our hostel. It was my last hostel experience of the semester and the first time we didn't have a room to ourselves, so I would say I lucked out. Although it was slightly more ghetto than the previous hostels we'd stayed at (elevator that takes disturbingly long to get to the fourth floor, staircase that looks like it belongs in a haunted house, strictly rationed breakfast, shower stalls with two shower heads but no shelves or hooks), the staff and other girls in our 10-person room were friendly and the location was ideal, so I can't really complain. (In other news, even the crappiest motels will seem like 5-star hotels to me for the next few years, so that's cool.) After dropping some stuff off at our hostel, napping, and showering, it was lunchtime. We both cracked and had McDonalds for the first time all semester. Man, did those onion rings hit the spot!
Laura trying to use the "Easy Order" kiosk at the McDonalds on La Rambla. If you know Spanish, note the spelling of the word "kiosk" in Spanish. I found it amusing. 
Eating at the fanciest restaurant I've been in in months: a little place called McDonalds on La Rambla.After lunch, we went to what is probably Gaudi's best known project: the Sagrada Familia. A massive Catholic church that has been under construction since 1882 and is not expected to be complete until at least 2026, the exterior of the Sagrada Familia is dripping with perplexing, almost grotesque details. Some, like the figures of Jesus on the cross and scenes from his childhood, I understood, but others like random words, a grid of numbers, and bunches of fruit on top of columns were a mystery. The "front" (the Passion facade; in quotes because although it is the main entrance now, I think it will eventually be a side) isn't too much of a strain on the eyes, but the "back" (the Nativity facade) is just hideous. (Yeah, you heard me, I called a work by Barcelona's beloved Gaudi hideous.) For the best description, I'd go with a toss up between Laura's guidebook that called it a cake-in-the-rain style and a kid in my program who said it looks like it's covered in centuries old bird poo. Indeed, regardless of how creative his vision may have been, every Gaudi building I had seen to this point was a melting, dripping mess. As advised by several friends who had visited Barcelona earlier and said the interior is just full of construction, we did not pay the 13 euro to go inside, but we took plenty of pictures of the outside.
Our main purpose in taking pictures of ourselves outside the Sagrada Familia was to make ourselves feel pretty.Before heading back to our hostel for the night, we wanted to check out a bar in the vicinity of the Sagrada Familia. Early in the semester, a classmate who had visited Barcelona had raved about the Dow Jones Bar, a bar with an American stock market theme whose drink prices fluctuate like stocks. As a non-drinker who doesn't particularly like inhaling obscene amounts of second-hand smoke, bars normally aren't my scene, but even I was intrigued. As our only guide was a Google maps print-out on which Laura had starred the location of the bar, it took us a while and several failed attempts asking for help, but we finally found the place on Calle Bruc. The bartender was a friendly blonde who must have been American based on her accent-less (or American-accented, depending on your perspective) English. The interior was decorated to match the theme: a Wall Street sign, a statue of a charging bull, a poster of some American monument in flames, a football helmet. Instead of drink prices on a menu, they scrolled on screens, and when there was a "crash," a siren went off and lights flashed, encouraging you to drink up. Laura had a drink as we played cards and watched a professional darts match on TV. It was a good ending to a day that started in homelessness.
In front of the Dow Jones Bar. Note the clocks showing the time in various cities around the world and the screens below them showing the current prices of drinks.April 23: Dia de Sant Jordi
When we left our hostel on Friday morning, La Rambla was filled with stands selling books and roses. We found out that this was in honor of Dia de Sant Jordi, or Saint George's Day. Saint George is a patron saint of Catalunya, and the tradition of exchanging books and roses is based on the fact that Saint George loved both. A holiday about books and flowers? I support that.
Books and roses for sale on La Rambla. Note the red-and-yellow striped cloth, which is the flag of Catalunya and a very common sight around Barcelona. Regionalism is a big deal in Spain, particularly in the autonomous communities of Catalunya and the Basque Country.
When we left our hostel on Friday morning, La Rambla was filled with stands selling books and roses. We found out that this was in honor of Dia de Sant Jordi, or Saint George's Day. Saint George is a patron saint of Catalunya, and the tradition of exchanging books and roses is based on the fact that Saint George loved both. A holiday about books and flowers? I support that.
Books and roses for sale on La Rambla. Note the red-and-yellow striped cloth, which is the flag of Catalunya and a very common sight around Barcelona. Regionalism is a big deal in Spain, particularly in the autonomous communities of Catalunya and the Basque Country.After perusing books in Catalan which we didn't understand a word of and Spanish that was way above our level, we headed to the Cathedral of Barcelona. The Cathedral has a typical Gothic interior with 28 elaborate chapels sponsored by local guilds. The Native Americans that Columbus brought back with him to Spain were supposedly baptized in one of these chapels. ("Hey, nice to meet you. Not only am I going to kick you off your land, but first I'm going to bring you back to my hometown as a souvenir and sprinkle this water on your head to make you Catholic.") Under the main altar is the tomb of Barcelona's other patron saint Eulalia, a 13-year old girl tortured 13 times for her faith by Romans before being crucified on an X-shaped cross. We couldn't enter the area where her sarcophagus lies because Mass was going on, but I did get to see a bit of Mass, complete with old men in robes chanting and nuns singing, "el cuerpo y la sangre del senor." As in Lisbon, I liked the cloister better than the cathedral itself. The cloister, which is very green and almost has a rain-foresty feel to it, has 13 resident geese (in memory of Eulalia) and the tombs of wealthy merchants who donated generously to the church.
The main part of the Cathedral
A sneak view of Mass in the crypt from the grating above
In front of the chapel devoted to Santa Lucia, the patron saint of vision problems. Lord knows I should be praying to her religiously.
In the beautiful cloister
Crazy arch/waterfall structure called the Cascada. It is said that the design was loosely based on the Trevi fountain in Rome, but I see the influence of Gaudi, who assisted the architect as a student at the time, more. God, that man is everywhere in Barcelona!
In the beautiful cloisterFrom the cloister, we decided to check out the Parc de la Ciutadella, Barcelona's most central park. It includes a zoo, a lake, a large fountain, ping-pong tables, and several statues too abstract for my understanding. A Natural Science Museum which resembles a medieval castle borders the park on one side and the beautiful pink Catalan Parliament building is located in the center. In essence, it's exactly the kind of park you would expect in Barcelona.
In front of the Parliament building. This sure beats the Capitol building in D.C. or anything we might have in Harrisburg.
In front of the Parliament building. This sure beats the Capitol building in D.C. or anything we might have in Harrisburg.
Crazy arch/waterfall structure called the Cascada. It is said that the design was loosely based on the Trevi fountain in Rome, but I see the influence of Gaudi, who assisted the architect as a student at the time, more. God, that man is everywhere in Barcelona!
A statue of a woolly mammoth in the park. Completely unexpected and unrelated to anything else in the park.
"Art" in the park. Oh, Barcelona...Next it was time to hit Montjuic, a large hill with several tourist attractions from which you can get a great view of both the harbor and the city. The guidebook recommended taking a taxi, bus, or cable car up the mountain, but adventurous (read: cheap) as ever, we walked it. It actually wasn't that bad a walk, and it makes me feel accomplished to climb a mountain every now and then. We saw the Castle of Montjuic, a large 18th century fortress built for defense which now houses the military museum. (Neither of us is big on guns or knives, so it was yet another addition to the list of "museums we've only seen from the outside.") We stopped at several "miradors" (places with great views of the city) to catch our breath and snap some pictures. After a mini-crisis in which I thought I broke Laura's camera (truly terrfying, as our cameras were probably our most prized posessions at that point), we checked out the area that was developed for the 1992 Olympics.
Although no picture taken with my camera can really capture the awesome view of the city from Montjuic, this was an attempt. You can see the Sagrada Familia around the level of my chin and to the right.
The Castle of Montjuic
Although no picture taken with my camera can really capture the awesome view of the city from Montjuic, this was an attempt. You can see the Sagrada Familia around the level of my chin and to the right.
The Castle of Montjuic
At the Estadi Olympic Lluis Companys, the main stadium used for the 1992 Summer Olympics. I was surprised how small it is (it only seats 65,000), but I guess it's hard to impress a girl who's used to Beaver Stadium. 
Outside the Olympic stadium, which I think looks more like a government building than a sports facility
More of the Olympic complex on Montjuic. Check out that twisty white thing on the left. It's a telecommunications tower built to transmit television coverage of the '92 Olympics. Barcelona, artsy even in its technology. As night fell, we made our way to the Palau Nacional (National Palace), which is now an art museum. From there, we had an excellent view of the Magic Fountain, an impressive fountain built for the Universal Exhibition that was held here in 1929. Located downhill of the National Palace and uphill from the Plaza de Espanya, the fountain, like many things in and around Montjuic, was restored for the 1992 Olympic games. Every night from about 7 to 9 PM, the fountains are activated for 15-minute "shows" set to colorful lights and music. We climbed a ledge above a fake waterfall to chow down on PB&J sandwiches while enjoying the show.
Our view of the magic fountain
More close-up view of the fountain
We sat on a ledge behind this sheet of waterfall, in front of the art museum (the large building in the back in this photo).The end: A perfect day followed by a homeless night
Remember I said we had decided not to go inside the Sagrada Familia because it was expensive and full of construction? Well, we actually found a loophole by which be could go in: Mass. Mass (the Catholic religious service) is held in the underground crypt of the Sagrada Familia twice a day in Spanish and Catalan. I had never been to Mass before and I figured, why not make my first time in one of the most famous churches/tourist destinations in the world, especially since I have a bona fide Catholic to tell me what to do? Although we ran late because we underestimated how long it would take us to get there from our hostel, we made it just in time to catch the last 30 seconds of Mass... and more importantly, to sneak some pictures in the crypt. Such pious people we are. The crypt is a relatively small area that doesn't overlap with the part you get to see if you pay to enter and I didn't see anything characteristically Gaudi about it, but at least I can say I've been inside the Sagrada Familia.
The front of the crypt of the Sagrada Familia where mass is held. Where are the melting, bird-poop-covered cakes?!
Gaudi's resting place. Note the Romanization of his first name ("Antoni" became "Antonius"). I don't like it, and I find it offensive that they would do that. Just saying, in case anyone ever tries to mess with my name after I'm dead. I don't care what language you speak; I'm Ramya, not Ramona. After sneaking pictures all over the crypt of the Sagrada Familia, we set off to Parc Guell, a garden complex with fantastical architectural elements designed by (guess who...) Gaudi. On the way, we stopped at a couple places, the first being the Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau. Normally we avoid visiting hospitals when we travel, but this one's an amazing example of Gothic/modernist (basically, Gaudi-style) architecture. It was built in the early 1900s as a hospital for the poor, and it still functions as a hospital today. Gaudi died in this hospital in 1926 after being hit by a tram outside his Casa Batllo.
This is a hospital! It makes me want to get sick enough to be hospitalized for a week but not so sick that I can't walk around cheerfully taking pictures.Second stop: a Lidl (grocery store) to pick up some snacks (read: an entire log of sausage and a liter of milk), which we proceeded to eat straight from their packages on a bench. Because we are just THAT classy.
Laura on a bench with the sausage and liter of milk. If we weren't constantly cracking up, I swear people walking by would have thought we were homeless.After an uphill walk that would have seemed steep to some weaker beings, we arrived at the Candyland-ish entrance to Parc Guell. Parc Guell is by far my favorite creation of Gaudi's, probably because it's an eccentric outdoor park rather than a single building. (Oh, and I guess the fact that it's free and we actually explored it helped.) Originally intended to be a high-income housing community situated on a hill in the Gracia district, it flopped, but as something of a theme park (the theme being eccentricity), it's extremely popular. At the entrance to the park are two buildings that remind me of the edible house in Hansel and Gretel. Inside you can find a main terrace surrounded by a long curvy bench, a covered structure with 100 different colorful columns that was intended to be a produce market for the housing development, the full range of street performers from annoying to impressive, plenty of picnic tables, and paths that lead higher up for even better views. I'll let the pictures do the talking...
Tell me this doesn't look like a cross between Disney World and Candy Land.
I thought it looked like a gingerbread house, so I tried to eat it.
This part was inspired by waves, so obviously I surfed.
Laura and I seated on the wavy bench which contains Gaudi's characteristic multicolored mosaic design
View of the city from atop Parc Guell. On the larger image, you can see the Sagrada Familia faintly on the left. Then we had officially done everything we had wanted to do in Barcelona... with one exception. Remember the beach that we never made it to on our first day in the city? Well, we still had hours to go and it was perfect beach weather, so that's where we headed. Taking the metro from Parc Guell to the beach (my first metro experience in Europe, and a very painless one), we arrived at a packed beach in the peak of the afternoon. The shore was filled with couples publicly displaying their affection, American sorority girls sipping wine out of boxes, Indian men selling all kinds of useless junk, Asian women offering massages, and topless sunbathers. That's right. I hadn't realized that topless sunbathing is legal on all European beaches, so the number of bare-breasted women certainly came as a surprise. Amongst the masses of tourists, we found a patch of sand and plopped ourselves down. While Laura sat under an umbrella reading P.S. Your Shrink is Dead, a quality novel she had found in our hostel, I basked in the sunshine and eavesdropped on shallow conversations of the frat boys from New Jersey sitting next to me, which made me strangely nostalgic for Penn State. Soon enough I was asleep.
A carefully selected beach pic that shows the lovely scene sans topless womenSince our bus back to Reus wasn't scheduled to leave Barcelona until 3:45 AM, we decided to watch the magic fountain show again. This time we watched passerby more than the fountains and entertained ourselves by guessing the life stories of the Spanish teenagers we spotted. We also indulged in a liter of walnut ice cream. The weather was practically begging us to do it, and I have no regrets.
Enjoying another liter of ice cream. I think I've fulfilled my semester-long ice cream craving and quenched cravings for months to come.The fountain show ended just after 9 PM, leaving us hours to kill. (When planning this trip, we had thought, "It won't be that bad, and this way we'll get to see Barcelona at night." Oh, how little we knew!) We thought laying on the beach sounded like a peaceful way to spend the night and maybe even catch some sleep, so from the fountain, we headed towards the beach. About halfway there, I felt someone coming coming up close behind me just as Laura muttered, "Let's move aside, I don't trust these guys behind us." Now we had been cautious all week to the point of being paranoid about anyone walking behind us for too long, but this time I got a good scare because I'm fairly certain he had his hand on my backpack and would have gone for the kill in about two seconds. As we quickly stepped aside, I glanced at the guy, who made eye contact with me and had a disgusting snicker on his face. I spent the rest of the night wishing I had punched him in the face, but all I could muster at the time was an evil glare. Although no damage was done, the incident left me very shaken up.
It's quite a distance from the magic fountain to the beach, and it felt even longer in the dark, weighed down by all our belongings, and paranoid about anything that moved in our vicinity. After nearly an hour-long trek, we finally made it to the beach. We were glad to see it was neither packed with rowdy teens nor deserted and settled down a safe distance from a group of British girls botelloning. However, it soon got very chilly and we kept getting bothered by men who tried to sell us beer (which I later found out may have actually been a cover for selling marijuana), so we left after about an hour. On the way to the bus station, we had to stop and rest on benches a couple times, which was perfect since we had so much time to kill. Around 1:45 we made it to the bus station (read: trailer) and were relieved to see it open. We sat down and caught our breath for a full fifteen minutes before we were told that the station was closing. Then we sought shelter in a bar across from the station. Although neither of us was hungry, we bought some small pastries and ate them as slowly as possible (easy for me, hard for Laura) while playing a game with the menu to test our knowledge of Spanish food. Around 2:50, the bar had cleared out and the owner told us it was closing in ten minutes. So once again, we were evicted. But having spent hours homeless on the streets of Barcelona over the past week, those last 45 minutes flew by.
From the time we got on the bus, the rest of the journey went smoothly. We were in the Reus airport by 5:15, with a comfortable amount of time to check in (interestingly, this time they checked the weight of our bags but not the size) and board the plane. Every moment of the journey we kept checking clocks and enthusiastically declaring the number of hours until we'd be back in Sevilla. As reluctant as I may have been to call Sevilla "home" all semester, after our crazy week away, I had never been more eager to return and see the good old Guadalquivir River and beso my loving senora and eat her oily salads. As we walked back to our senora's apartment from the bus stop in El Centro, we saw a few women in flamenco dresses and got really excited, sneaking photos of them from across the street. Little did we know that was just the tip of the Feria iceberg.
It's quite a distance from the magic fountain to the beach, and it felt even longer in the dark, weighed down by all our belongings, and paranoid about anything that moved in our vicinity. After nearly an hour-long trek, we finally made it to the beach. We were glad to see it was neither packed with rowdy teens nor deserted and settled down a safe distance from a group of British girls botelloning. However, it soon got very chilly and we kept getting bothered by men who tried to sell us beer (which I later found out may have actually been a cover for selling marijuana), so we left after about an hour. On the way to the bus station, we had to stop and rest on benches a couple times, which was perfect since we had so much time to kill. Around 1:45 we made it to the bus station (read: trailer) and were relieved to see it open. We sat down and caught our breath for a full fifteen minutes before we were told that the station was closing. Then we sought shelter in a bar across from the station. Although neither of us was hungry, we bought some small pastries and ate them as slowly as possible (easy for me, hard for Laura) while playing a game with the menu to test our knowledge of Spanish food. Around 2:50, the bar had cleared out and the owner told us it was closing in ten minutes. So once again, we were evicted. But having spent hours homeless on the streets of Barcelona over the past week, those last 45 minutes flew by.
From the time we got on the bus, the rest of the journey went smoothly. We were in the Reus airport by 5:15, with a comfortable amount of time to check in (interestingly, this time they checked the weight of our bags but not the size) and board the plane. Every moment of the journey we kept checking clocks and enthusiastically declaring the number of hours until we'd be back in Sevilla. As reluctant as I may have been to call Sevilla "home" all semester, after our crazy week away, I had never been more eager to return and see the good old Guadalquivir River and beso my loving senora and eat her oily salads. As we walked back to our senora's apartment from the bus stop in El Centro, we saw a few women in flamenco dresses and got really excited, sneaking photos of them from across the street. Little did we know that was just the tip of the Feria iceberg.
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