DTilla Does Sevilla

(Note from the Editor: This blog is roughly a month overdue.  Sorry, but the weather has been way too nice to sit inside blogging.  And by that, I also mean there is a new season of Real Housewives of Orange County.  Don’t judge me.)

So for those of you who notice I haven’t blogged in a while (shout out to my grandparents and the Kapner family!) there is a reason.  And the way I came to realize this reason, well, it starts at Starbucks.  

It was a beautiful March day in Sevilla, and Sara and I decided to go to (one of the three) Starbucks right in the historic center of town.  We sat outside, people watched, and I pretended to do some homework before the blanket that is the Sevillan sun lured me into a public siesta.  When I awoke, Sara had to go to class, so I decided to move inside, as sleeping in public by yourself is way more embarrassing than doing it with a friend sitting next to you. 

I sat inside reading for quite a while, and after a few hours, two obviously-American-looking people approached me.  Word of advice: There is no way to scream “I’m an American tourist” like a Northface and sneakers. Anyway, they approached me, explained that they were visiting as part of a tour of southern Spain, and asked for a suggestions.  Within minutes, I found myself filling up napkins upon napkins with sites to see, restaurants to eat at, foods to try, plazas to drink in, and more.  I even circled places on their map like a hotel concierge! 

“Wow,” the woman said to me, “You’re so enthusiastic about all of this; you must really love it here.”  And then it hit me: All these wonderful things that I was suggesting as tourist destinations, have simply become part of my daily life.  I walk down windy cobblestone streets everyday; I spend the afternoon botelloning by the river; I walk by the Cathedral multiple times every week.  The waiter at Los Coloniales (favorite tapas bar in Sevilla) recognizes me by face (and thinks my name is Sara).  Not that I take any of it for granted, but this has just become my daily life.  

Living in Sevilla, and especially picking up the relaxed Sevillano lifestyle, has brought me to understand how someone could want to leave the stressful hustle and bustle of the States for a culture with well, a “less linear” notion of time.  (Don’t worry, Mom, that’s just an observation, not a threat of a permanent move.)

The woman inquired about all the people she saw sitting out in cafes and bodegas, passing the afternoon and early evening just sitting, sipping, and chatting.  ”Do they ever work?” she asked.  I made a mildly insensitive remark about Spain’s unemployment rate, but what I really meant was “They just have different priorities.”  

I  come from a place where people lose sleep over not having an internship lined up by January.  These people may be 40 years old, unemployed, and recently moved back in with their parents, but they’re still out there sipping their afternoon tinto de verano and enjoying life with their friends.  They’re not thinking about their schedule; they’re not struggling to stay awake after sleeping a cumulative 20 hours in four nights- they’re just genuinely living in the moment and enjoying life. As someone who lives and dies by her Google calendar and averages about five hours a night during the school year, I think they just might be on to something.  

I want to steal a Spanish child.  Badly.  I gush over American babies, and force friends to look at Facebook pictures and watch YouTube videos of adorable babies (a personal favorite: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-z05l12WX4).     

But these are babies of a whole other caliber.  They dress in toggle coats, corduroy shorts, and little boys often wear brightly colored tights.  

They speak Spanish.  Everyone on my program has some strong feeling about the fact that small children here speak Spanish.  Some are bitter that they’ve spent 2-3 times that child’s life trying to master that language and still can’t conjugate “dar” in the imperfect subjunctive.  I, on the other hand, find it adds to their classy style.  

It’s apparently very “de moda” (en vogue) to have a poorly behaved child, though I still can’t quite understand why.  (Editor’s Note: I wish this trend would have caught on in the United States circa 1995-2002; I would have loved it.) But the result of the trend of misbehavior means children run wild in the street, yell, scream, flail- all in their perfect wardrobes.  It is a positively glorious sight. 

A friend of mine who is in a teaching program here was telling me recently that she was assigned to work with a classroom of three-year-olds.  ”Ooooh, I’m so jealous,” I said after gushing to her how in love I am with Spanish children, “Can I come to work with you?” “No,” she replied, “There are laws against that.”

I guess that one did make it across the pond.

Besos,

J

P.S. In the writing of this blog, I may have YouTubed every video containing the words “baby” “sneeze” and “fart”.  My two favorites are http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4TQWlbQrkY&feature=related and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FqjNzFPnPew&NR=1&feature=fvwp.  Happy watching!

For those of you who are, well, my parents, you know that I like what most Americans would consider unreasonably small portions.  I’m the one who leaves one scoop of tuna and seven grapes in the fridge because I plan to spread that one scoop of tuna on one rice cake and accompany it with seven grapes.  And if you were wondering, yes, this is often followed by one spoonful of ice cream (calories don’t count if the ice cream never makes it to a bowl).  

I’m also amused by the entire miniature toiletry section at Target (Hint: My birthday is July 26).  

So it is no surprise that I was delighted by one of Spain’s most visible traditions: tiny things.  There are the obvious beautiful tiny thing: delicate pastries, artisanal chocolates, and colorful French macaroons decorate every (and I mean EVERY) bakery storefront. 

So I, ILRie that I am, opt for the working man’s adorable tiny thing: the individual gummy.  That’s right, individual gummies.  

Every convenient store (or “Chino”) has them.  And when I tell you they have a variety, I mean a VARIETY.  See those pink stacked tupperware containers in the picture above?  Each one is filled with a different kind of gummy, and each gummy costs five or ten cents (according to their size). Most people fill a plastic bag (provided by the Chino with a bunch, and the person working at the register counts them up and charges you accordingly.  But I, small portion lover that I am, just grab my one, nonchalantly flip the cashier a €.05 or €.10, and I’m on my way.

The pleasure these gummies bring me, and all the other cultures people of España is anything but miniature.

Besos,

J

So to make a long story short, my “Intensive Spanish” class turned out to be more like “Field Trips and Coffe Time”- suck on that Cornell (while still kindly giving me three credits, please).  

Last week, we went to this gorgeous old church/convent called “Convento de Madre de Dios de la Piedad.”  It basically tells the story of those few times Spain executed/kicked out thousands of people on basis of their religion: minor blips in history (Remember 1492? Awkward…).  

The building was built by Muslims (gorgeous dome architecture, dark wood), was a synagogue for years (stars of david and hamsas are carved in all the walls and doors), and then became a church in 1496.  Since then, it’s been run by Dominican nuns (as in Order of Dominicans, not Haiti’s neighbor).  How do they manage to pay for the upkeep of this impressive structure? 

Bakesale.  That’s right, church bakesale.  These ladies (and by the way I think there is a height limit- they were all below five feet tall and ADORABLE) bake a variety of traditional Spanish baked goods (particularly Magdalenas, a cupcake/muffin type goodie), sell them for roughly €.50 each, and use the money they raise to keep the church looking like it’s still 1496!  Well perhaps minus ambiance of “Let’s go force some Jews and Muslims to recant!” filling the air.

My professor, coincidentally named Magdalena, walked us around, told us about some of the structures in the church, and took us to a table where we could buy Catholic tchotchkes.  The woman selling said tchotchkes was confused by the group of Jews who discreetly moved to the back for this part of the tour.

Afterward, Magdalena bought us Magdalenas, and I, not wanting to offend her by not eating them, started my early practice for Jewish motherhood and pushed others to eat more than they wanted to make up for my not eating any.  Then I told people to put on sweaters.  No just kidding.  But really, it was a bit chilly.  

Besos,

J

Those of you who know me well, or those of you who don’t know me well, but have seen that girl sleeping in the dark, comfy chair in Catherwood from roughly 3pm-4pm every school day, know that I value naps.  Dr. Maas has told us, in his great wisdom, that a power nap can be restorative.  And to be honest, I never really got them memo that napping generally ceases post-kindergarden.  So I’ve been repping for the sleepy kids from 1996-2010; why stop now?

Siesta is likely my favorite part of the Spanish daily life.  We come home from school (I have intensive Spanish from 12-3 all this week and next) starving, and scarf some serious comida (read: a large plate of rice, but I’ve adjusted).  After that, our bellies are on the verge of rupture, and Sara and I return to our room.

Our room is essentially a womb.  It’s dark, very warm, and I spend most of my time inside of it curled up in the fetal position.  No complaints.  The second I walk in, my body is ready to siesta like a champion.  The fact that I can make out every individual coil in my mattress has served as absolutely no hinderance to my ability to fall asleep.  In fact, I’ve come to embrace the coil, as feeling those circles in my side and/or face means it’s siesta time.  

The only problem with siesta?  Like a chocolate bar or Real Housewives marathon, it’s tough to stop.  Siesta is traditionally from 3-5, and Sara and I, in theory, try to take it from 4:15-5:15.  But, with the exception of one day, 5:15 has generally meant anywhere between 6:30 and 8:00.  As I said, we siesta like champions. As our time here has gone on, however, we’ve gradually (albeit resentfully), started to respect our 5:15 alarm more.  

Once regular classes start (after the two week period of intensive Spanish), I’ll have class until 4:30 on Monday and Wednesday, which means that I won’t get home until around 5:00.  But don’t fear; I’ll just take a later siesta.  After all, I have to respect the Spanish culture.  

Besos,

J

This is a picture of Sara’s and my refrigerator.  

I’m kidding.  Clearly, this is what came up on Google Image search when I entered “refrigerator full of yogurt.”  But ours is close.

To say it in the nicest way possible, Spain has been quite the gastronomic adjustment.  The first day, we walked in to the dining hall for breakfast and saw what looked like bread and whipped chocolate cream cheese; not too bad.  Turns out, it’s actually bread and pâté- which is awesome for a celiac who doesn’t eat much meat.  

Spain’s one saving breakfast-time grace: If you ask enough times, you can get a yogurt.  You’ll get roughly 3-4, “But what do you mean you don’t eat bread?”s, but if you can get over that initial hump, you’re practically in the end zone.

So, Sara and I have played Hungry Hungry Hippos; claiming that Americans always eat three yogurts at a time, and engaging in the time-honored American college tradition of hoarding food from the dining hall.  I’ve started wearing my winter jacket (it’s way colder than I expected here), of which the pockets are much more conducive to yogurt theft than my leather jacket.  

We’ll take the weather as a sign from God that we should be filling our pockets with yogurt.

Besos,

J

P.S. For those of you wondering, we eat lunch and dinner (closer to) normally.  Sara’s vegetarianism doesn’t exactly translate (their veggie option is usually fish), but we’ve figured out how to get creative with the food we’re given.  And sometimes it’s really good. 

So Sara and I moved in to our apartment yesterday. It’s so Sevillian- our stained glass windows open to an internal courtyard, and the tile around the bathroom mirror is gorgeous.  We have two Spanish apartment mates who are absolutely adorable, and one elusive Swiss apartment mate whose name we are yet to learn.  But the highlight of of the day (besides the pork-in-oil, carrots-in-oil, and potatoes-in-oil lunch), was getting my enormous green suitcase on the top of our ten foot tall armoire.  

I stood on my chair, and was able to get the suitcase about halfway on the armoire.   I figure I could then jump a bit, and push it all the way.  FALSE.  No matter what I did, I could not get the suitcase to budge, and half of it was hanging off the edge, ready to crash on my head, a la ACME anvil, at any moment.  At this point, we got creative. My first idea was to hit it with Sara’s office chair.  Funny thing about office chairs: they’re more than a little difficult to lift above your head, let alone lift above your head and use to strike an object with force.  

Next came Sara’s idea: let’s hit it with a broom!  So Sara got on the chair, with a broom, and began smacking the suitcase, as if it was her seventh birthday party and she could not move on with life until she broke her (green suitcase) piñata.  I would be lying to you if I said I didn’t pee a little.  

Finally, I, as the giant of our room (at a whopping five feet three inches), got on the chair, and used the broom to push the suitcase.  Victory!

After we popped a bottle of champagne to celebrate our long awaited victory, and gazed at the beautifully placed suitcase, we both looked at one another and, almost in unison, said, “How are we going to get it down?”

Semester resolution: Make very tall friends.

Besos,

J