We are family, I got all my sisters with me

Boy, does time fly! At the start of the semester and during the dreadful month of rain, the end of the semester seemed like eons away. But ever since I started traveling, beginning with the trip to Morocco at the end of February, time has steadily picked up the pace and now it's got an unstoppable momentum. The semester will end in one month and I'm now simultaneously trying to plan a trip to Barcelona next week, my last two weekends in Sevilla, and my trip to India after the semester ends. On top of all this, there are still tales of travels past to be recounted, photographs to be uploaded to facebook, letters to be written. I don't say this to complain (after all, this is the easiest semester of "school" I can remember since I left Bridle Path and the majority of the "work" I do consists of planning my own entertainment), but merely to explain my tardiness in blogging to my readers. I have discovered that when I'm doing the most interesting things is when a blog post is most called for and simultaneously when I have the least time to blog. This is what I like to call the central paradox of blogging.

Okay, enough dilly-dallying. Now to the task at hand: relating the adventures of the Punati family in Andalucia.

Wednesday: Typical tourists in Sevilla

I didn’t stay in the hostel with my family in Sevilla because my parents waited too long to finalize their travel plans- so long that, as I scoured the pages of hostelworld.com in late February, I actually feared they wouldn't find lodging at all and would be homeless for the duration of their vacation. Advice: If you’re visiting Spain during Semana Santa, book everything in advance. Months in advance. Years, if you can. Fortunately, they found a 3-person room in a hostel in the barrio Nervion. As such, the plan was that I would sleep at my senora's house and meet up with my family at their hostel every morning to start the day. It was a 45-minute walk from my senora’s apartment to their hotel, but remember, I like walking, and I didn’t want to make them wander through the maze that is Sevilla to arrive at a more central meeting point.

So on Wednesday morning, I arrived at 10 o’clock sharp to find my sister still in bed and my parents still in pajamas and distressed. Apparently one of their suitcases which has a number lock that had never been used decided to spontaneously lock itself the previous night with many of their necessary belongings inside. Having discovered this around midnight, my dad called my handy uncle (standard protocol whenever anyone in my family has a problem with technology) who suggested trying all 1000 possible number combinations- a mere 333 each. They had stayed up late into the night doing exactly that with no luck. So my dad, figuring it must be stuck due to a problem with the locking mechanism, had asked the lady at the reception desk for tools to break the suitcase open. The lady had said she would send her husband up to look at it. By the time I arrived, nobody had yet come to help, so I went down to the reception desk to clarify that they had understood the problem and to ask to borrow tools in Spanish. When I explained the problem, the lady laughed- apparently between my dad’s description in English and charades (box-like motions?) she had thought the bed was broken! Ramya’s Spanish to the rescue! (Fact: I have never felt more useful and proud of my Spanish skills as I did during the week I was with my family. Surrounded by native Spaniards, I usually feel like my Spanish is pathetically inadequate, but spending a week in Spain with my family whose Spanish vocabulary consists of “hola” was a great boost for my self-esteem.) She lent us some tools with which my dad was able to pry open the lock without breaking the suitcase, and thus began our day.

After the great suitcase debacle, we started the day at the Cathedral of Sevilla, the number one tourist attraction in the city. Built on the site of a mosque (remember, Sevilla was the second capital of Al-Andalus, the Muslim kingdom in Spain) after the reconquest, the Cathedral’s claims to fame include being the third largest church in Europe by area, the largest church in Europe by volume, the largest Gothic building in Europe, and the resting place of Christopher Columbus. And you’ll never hear about the Cathedral of Sevilla without a mention of the Giralda, the minaret of the original mosque that was converted into a bell tower. Since I pass this landmark on my way to class every day, it's easy to forget its historical significance and architectural splendor, so it was nice to refresh my memory and marvel at it while acting as my family’s personal tour guide. Also, despite living here for over two months, it was my first time climbing up the 34 quarter-turns of steep ramps to the top of the Giralda. Not only was it the perfect workout for the Punati family vacation, A.K.A. fitness bootcamp, but the view at the top was enough to make us forget about our aching thighs.

Here you can clearly see the contrast in architectural styles between the Moorish (Muslim) Giralda on the right and the Gothic Cathedral on the left.

Up in the bell tower

The courtyard of orange trees in the Cathedral, as seen from the Giralda

Tell me that isn't the cutest little Spanish plaza you've ever seen.

See that circular thing around the middle and slightly off to the right? That's Sevilla's Plaza de Toros (bullfighting stadium). Not as imposing as Madrid's, but I thought the bird's eye view of the city was cool.

After grabbing a quick lunch of bocadillos (sub-par, but it’s the classic Spanish lunch and I figured my family could suffer through one bocadillo lunch if I can do it three times a week) we headed to the other must-see locale in Sevilla: the Real Alcázar. Another reflection of the Muslim history and Catholic reconquest of Al-Andalus, the Alcázar was a Muslim palace that was almost completely destroyed and rebuilt in an almost identical style by the Catholic king Pedro I. He reinvented the wheel so well that the Alcázar even has verses from the Koran in Arabic on the walls. I wonder if the Catholic kings that kicked the Muslims out with such vigor knew that the lovely "decorative tiles" which with they adorned their palace read, “There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is his prophet." Full of horseshoe arches, colorful tiles, intricate plasterwork, and patios with reflecting pools, the Alcazar looks strikingly similar to Granada's Alhambra, the palace that was constructed by Muslim kings in the 14th century and still stands in its original form today. While the Alcazar of Sevilla may not be original, with the exception of little images of castles and lions scattered here and there, I think it's pretty darn close. Again, I led our family through the numerous rooms, explaining bits of information I had retained from my two previous guided visits there and reviving a sense of awe and appreciation for the city in which I live. After hitting the major rooms and patios, we wandered through the gardens of the Alcázar, which are equally if not more elaborate than the interior, to settle down and bask in the Andalucian sun.

My family occupied by various things (probably the food that we were about to snack on) in the gardens of the Alcázar

Around 6 PM, we finally meandered out of the Alcázar in search of a Moroccan restaurant for dinner. But everywhere we turned, we ran into Semana Santa processions. This would be a good time for an explanation of Semana Santa as it’s celebrated in Sevilla. Semana Santa (Holy Week) is the week leading up to Easter and for many Sevillanos, the only week they are religious, as the festival comes with a lot of pomp that is undeniably appealing. Each church in the city has hermandades, religious brotherhoods, that organize the processions. At the heart of the processions are pasos, elaborate floats depicting the Virgin Mary or Jesus in various stages of the crucifixion. The pasos are ornately decorated with flowers, fabric, and candles and the statues themselves are gold or silver-plated. Each paso weighs about 4,000 pounds is carried by about 40 costaleros, or men who carry the pasos. Being a costalero is back-breaking work- sometimes literally, as a few men have died doing it. Accompanying the pasos are nazarenos, people who wear robes with pointy hoods colored according to the hermandad to which they belong. (Yes, it looks like KKK garb, and as an American, it takes some mental effort to not have a negative reaction to them and remind yourself that they are unrelated.) The nazarenos carry long candles and sometimes walk barefoot as a sign of penitance (although there's a joke that the people who are apparently most repentant during Semana Santa are the women parading around in stiletto heels). Also involved are bands (think marching bands) and penitentes who carry wooden crosses and wear the same robes as the nazarenos but without the pointed hood. On each night of Semana Santa, a couple hermandades make the slow procession from their respective churches to the Cathedral while crowds pack the streets to look on. Instead of the solemn ambience you might expect of a occasion honoring Christ’s death, the atmosphere is surprisingly festive. People dress up as if they were going to a party; stands with flashing neon signs selling cotton candy and other goodies pop up everywhere; penitentes give out candy to children and drip wax onto their wax balls; children add to their wax balls every year and compete to see who has the biggest; business booms at bars as bystanders sip beers and even penitentes stop in for refreshments on breaks. We even caught some band members smoking cigarettes when they had rests in the music, in true Spanish fashion. Oh, Spain... you have a real knack for taking any occasion and turning it into an excuse to work less and party more.

A paso of a sculpted scene from the life of Christ. (Photo taken on a "cultural visit" to a church sponsored by my program the week before Semana Santa.)

A paso making its way towards the Puente de San Telmo on Friday night

On the left: a stand selling cotton candy. On the right: a paso of Christ on the cross.

Nazarenos

Our view of candle-bearing nazarenos from inside Levies

After running into Semana Santa processions that clogged the streets even after re-routing several times, we gave up on Moroccan food and decided to dine at Levies, a great low-key restaurant close to my study center. We sampled a variety of tapas from gazpacho (cold tomato soup) to garbanzos con espinaca (chick peas in a spinach gravy), and for the first time, my family ate Spanish food that they actually enjoyed.

To finish off our day of classic touristy things to do in Sevilla, we went to a Flamenco show at the Casa de la Memoria. Although we were in the back row (of three) of the audience, it was an intimate setting and we were able to stand for a better view, which gave me a better appreciation of the intricate, rapid footwork of a Flamenco dancer. The movements of their feet are so fast and rhythmic that they almost seem mechanical rather than biological.

The Flamenco performers

Thursday: Day trip to Cordoba

Thursday started with us catching the first bus to Córdoba at 7:30 AM. My family had wanted to do one day-trip from Sevilla and I had recommended Córdoba, as it is a reasonable 2-hour bus ride from Sevilla and has the architectural structure that probably left the biggest impression on me out of everything I’ve seen in Spain: the Mesquita-Catedral (Mosque-Cathedral). Not only is it visually stunning with its candy-cane arches, conglomeration of architectural styles, and mind-blowing proportions, but it is also a building that tells a story if there ever was one. Initially built in 600 A.D. as a Christian Visigothic church, it was bought and remodeled into a mosque in 784 shortly after Cordoba became the first capital of Al-Andalus. The mosque went through several phases of construction and renovation, initially utilizing materials from the old Roman temple and later using newly crafted pieces and styles, as evidenced by the transition from mismatched columns to uniform columns and architectural shortcuts. In 1236, Cordoba was recaptured from the Muslim army by the Catholic King Fernando III and the mosque was reconverted into a Christian church. Various architects continued to add to it until the late 18th century. I had never considered myself a big history buff before, but it's hard not to be when I visit places this cool and full of history nearly every weekend.

Mi madre with the intricately carved choir seats in the Mesquita-Catedral. Each of these rich wooden seats depicts a unique scene or character from the bible.

After the Mesquita, we headed to the Synagogue of Cordoba- one of three old synagogues remaining in Spain, the other two being in Toledo. It's tiny, worthy of only a 15-minute visit, but worthy of a visit nonetheless.

Since our quest for Moroccan food had been unsuccessful the previous night, when we stumbled upon a Moroccan restaurant called Hammam, we entered eagerly. It was our first fancy sit-down meal, the kind that involves cloth napkins and free bread while you wait for your food. Tired of all the walking and the cold, we were relieved to finally sit down and talk in a quiet atmosphere, catching up on two months of family news, school and work frustrations, and of course Desi gossip. The food was delicious and we even topped it off with some traditional Moroccan tea and sweets. Everyone was satisfied and happy- until we got the bill, which had an extra 6 euro charge. When I asked what it was for, our kind waiter said “the bread.” What br- WHAT?! You mean that basket of toasted pita and olives you placed on the table at the beginning? Ridiculous. It’s one thing to be fancy-shmancy and overpriced, but it’s another thing to be deceptive about ripping people off.

Mi padre and hermanita with the delicious Moroccan lunch. How is it possible that Morocco and Spain are so close but none of Morocco's knowledge about cuisine and spices rubbed off on Spain?

We left the restaurant with a figurative bad taste in our mouths and wandered around the adorable streets of Cordoba until it was time to take the bus back to Sevilla. Back in sunny Sevilla, we did even more wandering until dinnertime rolled around.

Wanting to give my family another taste of good Spanish tapas, I lead them in the direction of Taberna Coloniales, a place we went during orientation that I loved. Worn map in hand, I confidently led the way… only to run into Semana Santa processions everywhere we turned. But this time we had no time constraints (like the Flamenco show the previous night which we had bought tickets to in advance) so we toughed it out. We squeezed through crowds of people in Plaza de Alfalfa, darted in front of candle-bearing nazarenos on Calle Luchana, and snaked in between tables of people dining outside restaurants in Plaza Santa María la Blanca. We said “perdon” dozens of times and invaded hundreds of personal bubbles. Distances that looked so close on the map suddenly felt like miles. Semana Santa had turned the maze that is central Sevilla into an obstacle course within a maze. Finally, after over half an hour of this uncomfortable journey, we saw a clearing ahead in the direction we were headed and breathed a sigh of relief. The hard part was over and all that was left to do was cut through Plaza del Salvador… or so we thought. As it turned out, the Iglesia del Salvador is the second biggest church in Sevilla (after the Cathedral), and this was the night the paso of Mary was scheduled to make its journey from the Iglesia to the Catedral. Had I known this, I would have given up as soon as I saw the plaza. Instead, I figured, “We’re so close and we’ve already made it through a couple packed plazas; one more should be doable.” The difference was, the crowd in this plaza wasn't going anywhere- they were waiting for the paso to exit the church and more people were packing in. At one point, a man who saw us struggling to get through said, “It’s going to be difficult to get through here; better to drink a beer and watch.” Unfortunately, we didn't heed the advice. When we saw people in front of us pushing their way through in the direction we wanted to go, we tried to follow in the (non-existent) path they cleared. When we saw people pushing through in the opposite direction, we tried to occupy the (non-existent) spot they had vacated. About halfway through the plaza, it became clear that we would be stuck there until the crowd dispersed, although we had no clue when that would be. It wasn’t a matter of courteousness or people’s reluctance to make way- there simply was no room to budge. At one point I was literally shaking, and not because it was cold. At another point I had to look to the sky and take several deep breaths, all the while wishing I knew some calming meditation techniques to reassure myself that I would make it out alive. Shortly thereafter I contemplated faking a medical emergency to escape, although I doubt that would have helped since there was no way another person, much less an ambulance, could have gotten through the crowd. I was gripping my dad's shirt and my sister's hand, close to tears for having put my mother through her worst nightmare. As the paso began to exit the church door, the crowd fell silent- an impressive feat for hundreds of Spaniards. With all the brainpower that I could muster, I willed the paso to inch along ("get a move on, darn costaleros carrying 40,000 pounds on your backs!") until, what felt like an eternity later, the paso had finally reached the edge of the plaza and began to exit via a branching street. The crowd began to clear a bit and move in the direction of the paso, and that's when regular breathing patterns resumed. We turned to each other and just breathed. And that’s the story of how we accidentally got trapped in a location that some Sevillanos prize and others (the sane ones) avoid at all costs on Thursday of Semana Santa.

The only picture I took in the crowds, although this was not taken in Plaza del Salvador (the people aren't packed densely enough).

The paso of the Virgin Mary that we watched exit the Iglesia del Salvador. (This photo was obviously not taken during the event, when taking photos was the last thing on my mind, but rather during the "cultural visit" to the church the previous week.)

I’m sure you’re wondering whether we made it to Taberna Coloniales after all that. Well, after surviving Plaza del Salvador, the rest of the route really was a piece of cake- moving with the masses and empty streets. I found the place, along with a sign outside saying it was closed for dinner all week due to Semana Santa. In the end, we ate at a great little Middle Eastern place called Aladdin near my parents’ hotel.

Friday: Peace at last

Friday was my family's last full day in Sevilla, and it was a glorious one. It was free of luggage malfunctions, rip-offs, throngs of people, and other occurrences that lend themselves to juicy stories. Which is fortunate, since this blog post is already unbearably long.

We spent the morning strolling through the picturesque Parque de Maria Luisa and the Plaza de Espana, taking in the sights and sounds and sun. We met up with my friend Laura for lunch at a restaurant across from the Universidad de Sevilla on Calle San Fernando. The weather was fantastic and we ate at a table outside, perfect for tanning (well, more like blackening in our case and burning in Laura's case) and people-watching.

My whole family was basically resisting the urge to take pictures like this every second we spent in Sevilla.

After lunch, the five of us trekked across the Puente de San Telmo to meet my senora and check out my home away from home. On the way, we stopped at a little stand selling fresh coconut, beans, and wrinkly brown things that look like peanuts. Intrigued, we asked what they were. The lady said, "Chufas." We still didn't know what they were, but thought, "What the heck, let's try them." After buying a cup, we stood around like idiots for a few minutes before asking the lady how we were supposed to eat them. Though I'm positive she was laughing at us in her head, she politely informed us that you pop the whole thing in your mouth. We were surprised to find they taste just like coconut. Upon further investigation, I found out that a "chufa" is called a tiger nut or earth almond in English. (Credit: www.wordreference.com, A.K.A. my Spanish Bible and survival guide for the semester.) Interesting, useless fact of the day? Check.

We showed up at my senora's apartment at 4 PM on the dot, exactly when I told her we'd stop by. I was anticipating awkwardness since my senora doesn't know a word of English and my family's vocabulary had only improved to include words like "la cuenta" and "los servicios" since they had arrived in Spain. Instead of sparse conversation and awkward silences, my senora was even more talkative and affectionate than usual. She greeted us all with besos (kisses on the cheeks) and I was very glad I had coached my family for this (to your left, then your right). After a quick photo shoot of the happy family with the loving caretaker, she proceeded to eagerly show my family around the tiny apartment, pointing out photos of her children and grandchildren. She talked about the importance of caring for foreign students and making them feel comfortable in a new country, about loving me, about my mother's youthful appearance. She spoke at lightning speed and didn't seem to care that they didn't understand her. I tried to translate but couldn't keep up since she wasn't pausing for it, but it didn't matter because her warm nature and love for what she does transcended language barriers. My family mostly just smiled, with my mom uttering "gracias" a few times, but hopefully their appreciation for her shone through too. They told me later that they thought my senora looks like my childhood babysitter, whom I used to call "Mummy," which I think is an appropriate comparison both in terms of appearance and quality care-taking.

My familia real with my madre española.

From my senora's apartment, we parted ways with Laura and headed to the nearby Parque de los Principes for more relaxation in the sun. We had covered everything I had wanted to do with my family in Sevilla- with one exception: the Chocolatería Virgen de Lújan. Despite having had churros twice in Madrid, there was no way I was letting my family leave Spain without eating at my favorite churros place. (Yes, it's the only one I've been to in Sevilla, but I see no reason to go anywhere else.) My family agreed that the churros here were superior to those in Madrid, although they were weak and couldn’t finish two orders of churros con chocolate. As a result, I took on more than my fair share of the grueling task. Yum.

On the bus ride from the chocolatería back to their hotel, we had the privilege of seeing a live show for free! About halfway to the hotel, the bus driver got out at one of the stops and the bus was stopped for an unusually long time. A woman and a man behind us started a ruckus, shouting about how ridiculous it was that they had to wait so long and the fact that there was no driver on the bus. A man who I gathered was in some position of importance in the transportation department came on board and tried to explain that there was some problem because the driver who was supposed to be working that shift hadn’t showed up, so the other drivers were actually doing them a favor. Despite his attempts to explain and apologize for the delay, the commotion only intensified, with louder yelling, wild gestures, faces turning red, people standing nearby moving away or getting off the bus, the whole shebang. Even as a new driver got on the bus and we finally drove away, the woman would not stop screaming about how for every one person who speaks up, 300 people stay silent and other infuriated nonsense. When she and the man got off the bus a couple stops later, they continued to walk in the direction the bus was headed, allowing for name-calling matches between them and the bus driver whenever we stopped. I didn’t understand everything, but it’ll suffice to say that it was the first time I got to hear some nasty Spanish words live and in context- a real-world learning experience!

Back at my parents' hotel, we savored our last few hours together resting our legs and reflecting on the past week. Along with blisters on their feet and panic attacks, I had given my family a good taste of Spain, from the blandest cuisine to the best desserts and from pleasant parks to packed plazas. Despite having spent the majority of the time complaining about things that annoyed them about Spain (the fact that Spaniards wash their streets obsessively but don't provide proper facilities to wipe your butt or wash your hands in public bathrooms, the European cost of everything given that the quality of bathrooms and service in public places are on par with India, the ubiquitous smoking), when I challenged them to list aspects they liked, they were able to come up with a sizable list (the coffee, the abundance of open spaces such as parks and plazas, the general cleanliness of streets, the friendliness of the people, the fact that people are well-dressed, the fact that they probably lost weight over the course of the week). After one final exchange of goods (they had brought me stuff I had been craving from the U.S. such as Oreos and peanut butter and I sent a suitcase back with them to lighten my load on my journey to India) and a dozen final reminders to be safe and take care of myself, we said goodbye.

As I walked back to my senora's house under a row of orange trees, I felt a strange mix of nostalgia and independence. It was the same path I had taken the past two nights, but it felt like I was walking from one world into another- from life with my family to study abroad. Spring break #1 was officially over, and freshly aware of what I was missing out on, I missed my family, my friends, and my home more than ever.