Fracaso: n. failure

[The photos here correspond to the Sevilla post but I wanted to make sure everyone could see that I updated them]

I came into work today a little apprehensive. Yesterday, as my supervisor rushed off to his all-day meeting, he pointed to a mountain of paperwork that he had left for me to do and I was about 4% sure how to do it. The funding petition for the children’s schoolbooks and matriculation was due soon and I had to complete the forms with the identification numbers, school address, etc. for all the families in the center. From a foreigner's point of view, Spain has a rather complicated schooling system so registering a 16-year-old for classes was tougher than it seemed. After placing a few girls in “Bachiller 2” and still unsure as to exactly what that meant, I wrote a little note to Ruben on the stack of forms explaining my confusion, wondering if I had done them correctly. Tasks completed: 0 out of 1.

My favorite man from the Congo had to pay for the matriculation into his basic Spanish course. So we headed over to the bank to fill out a money transfer slip. Once we arrived at Caja Madrid, everything that could’ve gotten lost in translation did because a) he didn’t have the money, b) didn’t even have a bank account there, and c) didn’t think he should have to pay in the first place. Have I mentioned he only speaks French? Tasks completed: 0 out of 2.

Several files and organizational errors later (tasks completed 0 out of God knows how many), I found myself in the office trying to decipher the frantic words one of the newest Palestinian refugees.

“Doctor meeting?”
“No, you don’t have one yet. Do you need one? Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes you need one or yes you are okay?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“No. No…wait.”
“Meeting?”
“What?”

I ran upstairs to get my other Palestinian, more English-capable compañero and after a half hour of mimicking and gesticulating, we got the new guy an appointment for Thursday to help his head cold. I really hope that’s what he needed...

So I ended up leaving my boss’ desk with a clutter of sticky notes with “Lo siento, pero…” and “I couldn’t find…” and the feeling that I hadn’t done anything right. I couldn’t help but think that I wasn’t as fluent as I had thought and how competently I could do my job if only this internship were in English.

Today I came into the office fully expecting a “did you really understand what I was saying?” talk by my supervisor. Immediately when I walked in, Ruben looked up and said, “Hey, good morning! I got your notes. We’ll talk about that in a bit. Let’s go get a coffee.” Yes! Let's! Needless to say, it definitely relaxed me. Chatting over coffee with my coworkers once or twice a week is one of my favorites. Considering the political climate we’re in, the discussion usually revolves around Spanish and American politics or simply the usual office gossip (and I have most certainly managed the vocab for these conversations). Confidence boost +5. To top it all off, upon returning to the office, my boss told me that the funds for the matriculation were taken care of and that I wouldn’t need to come in Wednesday and Thursday because he’ll be at a conference.

The timing could not have been more perfect. Just when I thought I was failing, I get a break. Just when the 7:45am commute was wearing me down, I get a vacation. And just when midterms begin to peak around the corner, I get to sleep in tomorrow. Perfect. There’s nothing I want more than to continue feeling excited and thrilled every day I come into work. I'm glad that just when I start getting frustrated, everything completely turns around. It’s amazing how things work out in the end.

On that note, most of my free time will be spent studying for my exams (or surfing the internet/writing blogs). I refuse to acknowledge that I am halfway through my semester here so I will just write off these exams as a bump in the road before my travels to Barcelona at the end of the month—and that might just be the next blog-worthy, interesting thing I do…we’ll see.

Sevilla, sin camera

My honeymoon with Madrid was wearing off a bit—a combination of working diligently at my internship, an unfortunate turn of the weather, and a significant amount of outside stress was bringing me off my Spanish high. So I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time to take a vacation from my vacation. The one thing I could’ve asked for was my camera. I tend to forget at least one significant item every time I travel; at least it’s never been my medication, passport/ID, or money. But this time it was pretty substantial and I kept kicking myself over it only because Sevilla is one of the most photographic and visually stunning places I have seen.

Located in southern Spain, Sevilla (Seville in English) is a sunny and vibrant traditional Spanish city with a backdrop of palm trees, orange groves, and honest-to-god castles. The city earns its fame as the birthplace of bullfighting, tapas, flamenco, and the actual flamenco guitar. I’m proud to say I tasted a little of all four in my thirty-six hours in the city.

Like much of Spain, Sevilla is not without its Muslim/Christian architectural mix, known as mudejar. La cathedral de Sevilla, the third largest in the world, was built upon a visible Roman foundation (a layer of stones with Latin inscriptions), with Arabic architecture scattered throughout the traditionally Gothic walls and ceilings. On the top of the cathedral’s impressive tower stands el giraldillo, a bronze, fifteen-foot weathervane visible from nearly any point around the city. The surrounding areas are scattered with the most eccentric collection of native flora. Alcázar, the gardens, fountains, and palaces of the nobility that used to call Sevilla home, houses row upon row of orange trees made all the more surreal by the surrounding cascades of water and wondering peacocks.

Apart from the majesty of the city’s center, one of my favorite sights was the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza, Spain’s most spectacular bullring. After taking a tour and learning about its long and established history (including the obscene number of bulls that die each year in Spain for the sport: 40,000), I at least can now appreciate bullfighting as a cultural art form. I will, however, be one of the few tourists to not participate in the spectacle. In my opinion, no matter how you dress it up (in this case, as a stylish matador in the middle of a huge arena), I’m not too thrilled about watching any animal suffer and die for an hour for sport.

All of Sevilla was unbelievably breathtaking, relaxing, and overwhelmingly “Spanish” ...and here I was without a camera. But for once in my journeys around Spain, I was not so preoccupied with what I was capturing on film as I was with what I was absorbing at the moment. I found myself a little more appreciative of my surroundings. Indeed, Sevilla is the most stunning place I’ve seen thus far so it was easy to be captivated by its charm. But its beauty was only magnified by the fact that I wasn’t looking through the shutter half the time.

I did, however, manage to tag along with a couple of generous friends of mine who took some solo shots of me around the city. Photos are forthcoming and I’ll add some more to this entry after Wednesday.

The Spanish Flu

I woke up with a fever Friday morning. After trying to explain to the maid that she didn’t need to make my bed because I still wanted to sleep in it, I decided it was better to get up, shower, and watch three hours of The Office [side note: maids are as common as tapas and sangria in Madrid and the majority of them are immigrants from South America. Lina refuses to acknowledge that I am actually trying to speak Spanish with her]. Besides feeling rather terrible, I realized I was out of fresh episodes to enjoy. *Sigh* Life is rough.

I ended up going out that night anyways just to escape from the house. We found an amazing vegetarian restaurant and it turned out to be just what I needed. Though I have minimal complaints about the food here (on the contrary, I’ve found multiple amazing dishes), the one qualm I have is the amount of meat they eat, ham especially. Passing the jamonerias (how the hell does that translate? Ham shop?) on the street, their walls lined with hanging pig parts, makes me want to gag. So even though it seemed like a regular salad, my meal sin carne was one of the greatest things I’ve eaten thus far. Afterward we ended the night at a game bar, playing Taboo for two hours, and drinking chocolate milkshakes. I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better night to aid my recovery.

So even on my worst days here, I’ve felt amazing. And besides the first three days without sleep on this trip, I have yet to feel homesick. That isn’t to say that I don’t miss Seattle or Boston or all the people that come with them, but I feel absolutely comfortable living in this city. I’ll admit that it helps having a host mom who packs me a bocadillo for lunch during the week, does my laundry on the weekends, and prepares home-cooked Spanish food; in that sense, I’m a little more than pampered but none-the-less appreciative. I do, however, feel comfortably independent in my daily and nightly activities: commuting to and from work and school, navigating around the city (with or without a map), discovering my own favorite bars, restaurants and clubs, and above all else communicating with the people around me. I know it’s only been a month but I can imagine myself never leaving [or if that’s too harsh, I can see myself returning to Spain to work for another year after graduating]. I don’t think I can ever grow sick of Madrid.

This is also why I’m so grateful to have studied abroad in Peru last summer. “Uncomfortable” is definitely the adjective of choice to describe my stay in that country. Perhaps it was the pervasive poverty, accompanied by an inescapable guilt of being “wealthy” and American; perhaps it was simply because I was the “first blonde in this town in two centuries!” to have set foot there, as one old man eagerly pointed out in Ayacucho; then again, it could have been the physical discomfort of being without a hot shower, not being able to drink tap water or eat raw vegetables, and finding yourself scared to walk around by yourself after the sun sets. In fact, it was a strong combination of everything. But now that I’ve spent a sufficient amount of time here in the more “developed” of the Spanish-speaking countries, it’s difficult to think about the majority of the world’s population who live like the Peruvians do. And while the European stock market has been hit hard recently, and some people are losing 10% of their pensions, and the cost of living is rising at a ridiculous pace, people on the other side of the world who speak nearly the exact same dialect are struggling to find food and healthcare and shelter and the ability to survive. Two million children are working in the streets in Lima to help support their families and thousands of women in Ayacucho are still looking for their loved ones who were kidnapped or simply disappeared during the campaign of Sendero Luminoso in the 1980’s and 90’s. There’s so much that the Spanish and the Latin American populations share in common but they are literally worlds apart.

So tonight I’m going to hop on the oh-so-convenient Metro, head out to a bar, and go see some live music that will ultimately get reimbursed by BU. And I will probably pass the group of Peruvian street performers that hang out in La Puerta del Sol and I think I’ll give them an extra Euro tonight. I’ll try to remind myself that even in America the majority of the population will never experience something as life-changing as this, either because they don’t have the opportunity or they’re content in making comfortable decisions within the comfortable borders of the United States. At least for me, it took traveling to the other side of the world to finally become comfortable with taking risks in life. And I remain forever grateful for the ability to take them.

A blonde and a redhead walk into a Mosque...

I was really proud of the post I was typing up. It was a deep and thoughtful cultural analysis of the American misconceptions of the Muslim religion. And then blogspot deleted my draft. That's what I get for trying to be insightful. It was so cathartic that I can't even re-type it. Take my word for it that it would have been good. So instead I'm going to revert back to my old day-by-day detailing of what has been happening this week:

I found a great Spanish jazz bar Friday night (0r rather Lonely Planet found it for me and I highlighted the entry in my "Guide to Spain" book) and decided that Spanish jazz would be worth the pricey admission. The set, however, was entirely American covers. The girls and I were a little disappointed at first but the pianist ended up being one of the greatest instrumentalists I have ever seen live. Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" never sounded so fast, so Latin, and so good.

Before the Carnaval parade yesterday, my friend Rebecca and I found ourselves with a few hours to kill so we headed over to the Islamic Cultural Center located in Madrid's largest mosque. Amalia (the professor of the history of Spanish culture and what my dad claims looks like the Spanish Elaine Benes) recommended we go visit to really appreciate the Muslim influence in Spain. The center is free and all that was required was that the women enter with covered heads.

Upon entering the building, I instantly knew we didn't belong there. Every step I took felt sacrilegious. I had no right as a white American girl to enter a Muslim place of worship just to "see what it was about." Visibly uncomfortable and trepid, Rebecca and I were soon approached by Seif, a recent immigrant from Egypt. In broken Castellano mixed with English and Arabic, he said we looked nervous and that we should sit down with him for awhile. He asked us our names and where we were from and after finding out we were American, he exclaimed: "Ah, you are Taliban, yes?" I turned considerably whiter and stuttered for a moment when Rebecca leaned over and reminded me that Taliban was the plural for "student." Ah. Taliban. Yes, we were Taliban and boy was I relieved.

Seif had fled from Egypt only a few days prior and arrived in Madrid on the 31st of January. I couldn't help but wonder if he knew about the Center de Acogida a Refugiados, if he would end up seeking asylum, and if one day, perhaps, I would be accompanying him around the city to get a social security number and a health card...

He reached into one of his plastic bags (his worldly possessions amounted to a bag of food, a few notebooks, and a passport) and pulled out a twig. Breaking it in half, he explained, "This is for clean, Miswak. 1,500 years from the Prophet Mohammed." Seif carefully groomed the sinews and placing the fibrous section on his teeth, he demonstrated the century-old and method of brushing your teeth [see above photo]. He placed the other half in my hand and said it would last me the entirety of the 3 months I had in Madrid. What do you say to that? "Shukran," I smiled. "De nada," said Seif.

He took us on a walking tour of the center and told us we were free to enter the Mosque. Even though the sign said "all visitor welcome" we saw no women inside and had noticed a "women's entrance" sign around the corner. Erring on the side of caution, we slipped off our shoes and lingered in the doorway for a few minutes, admiring the elaborate interior to the mosque, and decided it was time to head out.

As we shook hands (shaking hands? I'm so used to the two-sided kiss now), Seif reminded us that we were always welcome back. "This is a Muslim place but we forget that we share the same God." I had forgotten. All the tension I had felt walking into the mosque was entirely self-imposed. I had every intention of ostracizing myself from a culture I knew nothing about even before I set foot inside or talked to someone like Seif. And here I thought I was so culturally aware, well-traveled, and open-minded. I still have a lot to learn over here.

PS Carnaval is everything Halloween in the U.S. should be. Why should we only get to wear our costumes for one day??