Segovia, Malaga, and Reality

I had the fortune of spending the entire weekend in two completely distinct yet fundamentally Spanish provinces: Castilla y Leon and Andalucia. Segovia, a city to the north and located in the former of the two provinces, is a beautiful historical mountain town, set against an impresive 2,000-year-old Roman aquaduct and home to the castle that inspired Sleeping Beauty. The weather was lovely, the arcitecture impressive, and the pastries incredible. The girls and I had the fortune of trying Tarta de Ponche, a pastry encased in sugary dough with three layers of rum cake, pumpkin filling, and toasted marshmallow. Later we drove up to La Granja, the royal family's vacation palace nestled in the woods and surrounded by fountains. Throw in a rollercoaster and this could've been a trip to Disneyland.

Wasting absolutely no time this weekend, I woke up at 4:45am the next morning and my roommate and I caught a plane to Malaga, a southern coastal city on the Mediterranean facing the African coast. Though Annie and I had planned to spend the entirety of the weekend on the beach, we found a nice castle, a fortress, and an enchanting cathedral to explore in the city... that isn't to say we didn't take full advantage of the location/spend at least four hours on the beach each day. Again, the food was fabulous--but that's to be expected of Spain by now--and I came back content and a slightly darker shade of white (off white?).

But now reality is hitting. And it's hitting hard. I've been sucker-punched into the real world: classes end this week, finals start next Monday, the final day of my internship is Wednesday, and I leave Madrid, Spain, Europe in ten days. Yo aluncino, de verdad. I really can't believe it. So while usually these posts try to provide some sort of cultural commentary on the places I've been, the only thing I can think about is the place I'll be going soon: home. I'm both so excited to return to the states and practically devasted to leave behind the people I love here. There's no way that I could ever duplicate this experience, nor would I want to. It's just I'd like to experience it all just a little longer...

Being my own boss

I’m continuously amazed by the amount of responsibility I’m allowed at my internship. That’s why I was shocked to hear that I would be “taking over” as interim social worker at the center while Ruben was gone for two days. Now that knew how to do everything that the social worker does, Ruben explained, he could trust me to do it on my own and do it well. Thrilled to be given the opportunity, my first day alone in the office was satisfying and productive. I spent all of Tuesday full of confidence as I filtered through paperwork, updated files, spoke with a few newly-moved in residents, and prepared registration forms for Wednesday.

Today I strutted into the office, mentally prepared to effectively take my boss’ place for the day and beaming with pride that he had the confidence in me to think that I would be capable. I was excited for the interview I had with the new refugee, a man from Sri Lanka named Raymond who spoke enough English to not need a translator. This was the only task of the social worker I had never done on my own. Up until today, I had always observed Ruben conducting the interviews. I would sit contently in the chair to his right, taking notes on this essential process from the sideline, fascinated by the background stories I heard. Now it was my turn to sit in the boss’ chair, record the vital details of one man’s flight from violence, and turn it into a logical report to be sent off to lawyers and ministry officials.

When Raymond entered my/Ruben’s office with his bundle of papers tucked under his arms, my confidence began to drain. I began by posing the most basic questions (name, birthday, family members, etc.) which should be the part of the interview meant to relax the interviewee. Despite only having to write down simple facts and being able to look over at my guideline of questions to following, I became nervous—nervous that I was not being authoritative enough, nervous that I did not look like I knew what I was doing, and above all else, nervous that the man across from me was looking at me with the same doubts running through his head. I felt inexperienced and extremely under-qualified. I was far too professionally immature and young to be handling a job of this magnitude, where the well-being of one person is solely in your hands. One crucial piece of information missing from the report could make or break this man’s chances of asylum in the country. Suddenly my boss’ twelve years experience was dauntingly apparent. Everything I felt lacking in this interview I recalled from all the ones I had seen him breeze through time and time again: the fluidity of his inquiries, the questions he poses that lead to just the right answers, the way he eased the new refugees into divulging painful moments about the flight from their countries… Well, I had to at least appear like I was in charge, I told myself. I asked Raymond how old he was. “Twenty-one,” he replied. I glanced down at his asylum document to confirm his birthday: January 7th, 1987. My birthday.

Realizing we were the exact same age, I felt instantly younger than him. This “man” sitting across from me had run through the bullets of the Tamil Tigers terrorist group to escape from his village; this man had been persecuted by the Sri Lankan army and kidnapped; this man was forced to grow up and face a reality that no one should face. Really I’m just a student pretending to sit in a big person’s and do a big person’s job and try to wrap my head around real world issues and life and death situations. One day I’ll get there and make a difference and do adult things—and today probably helped me take me one step closer. To say that my experience at the Center for Refugees is humbling does no justice to my internship. To say that I’ve grown from this experience barely scratches the surface. To say that I’ve grown up, that I’m an adult and ready for an adult-like job is far from reality. But it’s one-hundred percent true to say that I’m blessed to be where I am in life.

British Aftertaste

Over a bowl of lentils and chorizo, my host mom turned to me today at lunch and asked me if I enjoyed the food in England. I told her that it was much of what I expected and on the whole not-so-thrilling. Pepo, my host dad, gave me the logical explanation to the infamy of British food: “The reason English food doesn’t have a flavor is because the English people don’t have a flavor. And the only thing they do well there is marmalade but even those oranges come from Spain!”

I’ll admit: that’s more than partly true. If England were characterized by its food, it would be a bit on the bland side. Personally, I ate hot cereal (i.e. OATMEAL. YES.) for breakfast every single day and I couldn’t have been happier. Maybe I should’ve passed on the meat pies for lunch, but I made up for it by drinking a few pints of what could not have been further from the watery swill that the Spanish call cerveza. But whatever the hell “English flavor” may be it couldn't just include flavorless meats and gravies... it would have to also include so many other cultures—the huge population of first-generation immigrants who own their own authentic restaurants and a spirit of entrepreneurship not found in many other countries beside the U.S. and certainly not in Spain. I can say that I had the best Indian food and some delicious after-midnight kebabs while in Brighton. Logically speaking, the epitome of “Spanish flavor” would be ham and red wine. Though they love their seafood (and boy, do they ever do it well), I’m pretty sure a madrileño would not survive a week without a ration of pig and a glass of vino tinto.

Food aside, Rebecca could not be having a more distinct experience from me abroad. While I live with the Spanish mirror image of my American family, with prepared meals and clean laundry, and head off to work four days a week, Rebecca shares a flat with five other English students on the University of Sussex campus. However the language difference, while the most glaringly obvious distinction, is nonetheless the most significant difference between our programs. And it was not more obvious than when hanging out with Rebecca’s friends.

The British are hilarious. So while they may be lacking in the bold and refreshing frankness of the Spanish, but they’re sure a hell of a lot funnier. I have never gotten along better with ten complete strangers in my life. They reminded me so much of my Washingtonian friends (sharp wit and laid back attitude) that I could not help but feel at home. [Side note: Rebecca, Amanda and I almost peed ourselves laughing when we found out that the Brits pronounce urinal “ur-EYE-nal.” As Rebecca and I are considerably accent neutral from a U.S. standpoint, they had little ammunition to make fun of us and moved on to Amanda’s southern “Britney Spears” voice. We decided it would be best to “take a piss on” someone else for awhile, since Amanda seemed extremely offended by that parallel. After I imitated a pretty thick and scarily accurate Long-Island Janis-from-Friends accent, everyone decided, both the Americans and the British at the table, that New Yorkers are the most detrimental to the image of the general American populous.]

After getting past the hour-long pronunciation debate of “tomato, tomahto” I felt like these guys were my childhood friends, that I had grown up sharing the same jokes and favorite movies and that maybe, somewhere deep down, I had a little British in me. And while they weren’t overly inviting and hands-on like the Spanish, I needed no encouragement to instantly connect with them. Just when I thought I had adapted the essence of Spanish culture and conformed to Spanish lifestyle, I realize how British I am at heart. One weekend is certainly not enough time to judge an entire country (though honestly, isn’t that what I’ve been doing this entire semester?) but I felt like I fit right in. While the Spanish are in-your-face and pungent, I think I actually prefer a dry and subtle flavor.

¿Cómo se dice "jazz"?

Now, I don't claim to be an expert on jazz. But I've taken a few classes, I've been in a jazz band, and I think I've listened to enough of it to at least appreciate good jazz... and distiguish it from the terrible. The other night we walked into what many (multiple guide books) consider to be THE place for jazz in Madrid: Cafe Populart. Despite being absolutely packed, it was nice to get into a relatively inexpensive place with and be surrounded by people in their 20's who appreciate this kind of music. And then the band came on.

Besides being far too old to be playing gigs for the young madrileno crowds, what I heard was non-musical. The tenor had sheet music, the drummer's 16 bar solo was just him tapping his sticks together, and they all played like a middle schoolers learning their scales are. We were appalled. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, we stayed for one more song only to hear it deteriorate further. I couldn't believe that these people were getting paid. But the one thing that made it worse was the audience's reaction: people were jamming out, doing that terrible white-person groovy dance, and I'm pretty sure I was being grinded on from behind by an Australian tourist who excitedly convulsed in my personal bubble to the spectacularly crappy beats. Everyone loved it and everyone thought it was jazz. We left.

It was a disgusting display of music and afterward I just kept thinking how outright offended I was. The one thing I can claim to be genuinely American here is jazz and that's probably why I felt so defensive. I'm sure a Spaniard would be equally disgusted if he came to Flamenco studio in Connecticut and saw some born and raised New Englanders trying to do a dance obviously meant for a different culture with a different history. But I really didn't think that jazz was that hard to understand and considered it, before that night, something of a universal in the music world. And if you're a paid musician, you certainly should know what you're doing and where your music comes from. But then why did everyone LOVE that performance? Is the only reason jazz doesn't function outside the U.S. that it's too far away from its roots? What makes it so typical of our culture that a non-American audience can't distiguish between the good and the bad? Or was everyone there just faking enjoyment because hey, if you don't appreciate this music, you're probably not cultured?

I really thought there there was something universal about music---that everyone could at least agree with what sounds decent (logical chord progressions, for God's sake) as opposed to a hodge podge of attempts at Miles and Coltrane and notes on a piano. I've never felt more snotty in my life and felt terrible for bashing on a group that looked like they enjoyed what they were doing. And I understand that I'm probably reeking of a holier than thou attitude. But I was just suprised and dissappointed and still very confused.

Also the Spanish do not understand nor like baseball one bit. Apparently it's too "Latin American." Maybe some things are best left on the other side of the world anyways.

Finding Refuge

I feel like I might be over-using this phrase, but "falling in love again" really is the only accurate way to describe so many of my experiences here. Today, my renewed love showed up at el Centro de Acogida a Refugiados.

My suprevisor had minimal work for me (a rarity) and needed to speak to a former resident for awhile so I moved into the waiting room and read a few articles discussing the mortgage issue in Spain. Thrilling, yes. Shortly after (and to my good fortune), my two buddies from Sri Lanka came downstairs to say hi. We chatted for awhile and I felt relieved and happy to hear them talk about how great they were adapting to the center. Waiting for the receptionist to fill out their paperwork, Jose (the center's security guard) and I began teaching them Spanish swear words and pick-up lines. At one point the director of the center came out and asked us to keep it down because we were laughing so hard at Thilaksan's confusion about "colega". While we were still giggling over "joder, macho" and "que pasa, cabron?" one of the young mothers brought down her 8-month-old baby to pass around and I spent a good hour taking turns my Palestinian friend, Yassir playing peek-a-boo and kissing the baby's fat little cheeks. As I headed back to Ruben's office, Ahram (my Irani companion who speaks perfect English and strangely enough loves Michael Moore) approached me with a question. He explained that he was having issues communicating with the director of the carpentry courses and needed me to talk to her for him. I called up the course site, translated the conversation back for him, and was soon offered to be taken out for drinks for being so helpful.

Today solidified my feelings for my internship---how much I love every single person living and working there, how much they've affected me, and (I can only hope) how much I've affected them. Even writing this, I can't help but insert "my friend _____" when talking about each one just because I feel that much a part of their lives. It's like I have a wonderful new extended family of 92 residents and 33 coworkers.

Having spent the majority of my work day socializing with the residents and the workers in the lobby, I walked back into Ruben's office feeling confident and content. As I opened the door, there sat Yolima and her brother--both refugees from Colombia and both nearly in tears. Yolima might be my favorite woman in the center. Intelligent and extremely friendly, I chat with her nearly every day after she waddles out of the elevator, already into her third trimester of pregnancy. She's constantly carrying a giant encyclopedia of medical terminology. Though she was a praticing doctor back in Colombia some of her diploma work doesn't transfer here so she's forced to study. With the exception of today, she's never without a smile.

As my boss explained to me later, Yolima was having problems proving the legitimacy of her flight from Colombia to Spain with the Office of Asylum. Colombians in general have the most difficult time passing the final stage of admission into asylum. Eighty percent of the refugees in the center come from Colombia, the majority if not all of them affected directly by the violence caused by FARC guerillas. FARC is the longest running Marxist-based millitant movement, though it has lost nearly all its political character now-a-days and certainly the support of the common people. Since 1964 they've bombed, murdered, kidnapped, extorted, hijacked and dealt with unbelievable amounts of cocaine (mostly to finance their campaigns) in the jungles of Colombia. The fact is that Spain receives so many Colombian immigrants fleeing for the same reason makes people like Yolima seem just like another statistic. In fact, that's exactly what the government treats them as: a number. When their case is reviewed by the Ministry of Immigration and Emmigration, Colombians are often clumped together as "just another FARC case" and, if nothing seems extremely out of the ordinary, they are usually dismissed with a vote of "desfavorable." According to the Genova Convention, "general violence"---events like seeing your cousin killed before your eyes, watching your father blackmailed into paying taxes to terrorists, ---does not count as a legitimate excuse to solicit asylim. If Yolima, a vibrant and capable woman who is willing to earn her living and contribute to Spanish society, cannot find support in a developed and rather generous country like Spain, then there's little hope for everyone trapped in Colombia.

A little choked up on the metro ride to school, I took something extremely positive away from my encounter with my favorite Colombian. For once in my academic career, I think I've found something I would love to dedicate my life to: helping the Yassirs, Ahrams, and Yolimas of the world.

For lack of a better word

As Annie and I sat on her bed watching season two of The Office and inevitably cracking up every thirty seconds, our host Mom walked in and asked us about the show. I described the setting, the basic premise, etc. but told her that really the show revolves around the hilarious character interactions. So I tried explaining Michael Scott’s character to her. And I couldn’t. “He is…um, pues…él es…awkward?”

I realized at that moment that the Spanish vocabulary is missing one of my favorite adjectives of all time. “Uncomfortable,” in a physical sense, just doesn’t quite cut it. “Clumsy,” as the literal derivation from torpe, is most often used in describing a person but again: it just doesn’t work. And for the situations that Michael always finds himself in, the Spanish use what can be most accurately translated as “embarrassing.” For awhile I thought that I couldn’t have felt more disconnected from Spanish culture. So much of the humor (and even a few people) that I appreciate and love stems directly from this word.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that “awkward” doesn’t even exist in Madrid. The fact is that Spaniards don’t even allow the opportunity for an awkward situation to manifest. The language itself, based on commands rather than requests, couldn’t be more forward: “Give me your ID number… Leave that folder there… Bring me some water, waiter!” If there’s a slight lull in the conversation, my co-worker will turn to me and ask why I’m so quiet. Tired? Not understanding? Both? Even a question like that is considered a courtesy rather than impoliteness. In a Spanish discussion, being “politically correct” is considered beating around the bush—if you’re avoiding a specific phrase, then you’re not articulating yourself accurately. Even personal tensions and individual conflicts are always verbalized between people. And if it doesn’t get resolved, the Spanish start to yell (one thing I learned quickly with my time here: they don’t get awkward, they get angry). The people here are direct, forward, and communicative. And if you chose to create an awkward situation (either through cultural ignorance or simply because you weren’t following the conversation), they will be sure to call you out on it—which, surprisingly, isn’t even awkward in itself.

This communicative nature of the Spaniards transcends the culture and permeates so much of what I’m going to miss about Madrid. Obviously there are plenty of people I miss from the states and trivial things like oatmeal or popcorn; but with only one month left on the other side of the world, I already find myself compiling a laundry list of the distinctly Spanish things I’ll miss: late Sunday lunches of Thanksgiving-like proportions (in both the number of guests and the number of plates), chatty and candid coffee breaks with my co-workers, greeting and saying good-bye to everyone in the room, and simply the warmth of every single person I’ve met. The openness of my host family, the inclusiveness of my coworkers, and the hospitality of complete strangers really has made my time here extraordinary.

When I finally return to the U.S., I hope that I can retain some of those characteristics I’ve adopted and grown to love: to always maintain that Spanish frame of mind, to tell someone exactly what I’m thinking, to tell someone exactly how I feel about them… and perhaps I’ll retain enough of the language as well and still be able to strike up a conversation months from now with a Spaniard, if I have the fortune of running into one. And hopefully I won’t come across as inarticulate or…well, awkward.