What to say? When I left home almost seven weeks ago, my goal was to write something for this blog at least once a week. As you well know, my actions have fallen far short of those intentions. If you really care to know why, send me an email and I can send you my list of excuses—as soon as I get around to writing them down.
But here I am now, sitting on my bed with my comforter over my lap and my 3G sweatshirt overtop of the black sweater I got for Christmas—which, by the way, may very well be the best present my mother’s ever given me—over my “pirate” shirt (Ask my sister Anna to explain.), trying to keep warm in 45˚F Sevilla. (Before you chastise me for being a wimp, know that the buildings here in Spain have cement walls, which are designed to keep the heat outside during the sweltering summer months, accomplish the exact same purpose during the winter. The only heater in the house is a small lamp which hangs from a hook under the center of the table and warms up our legs under the table cloth. It’s only been used once in the nearly four weeks that I’ve been here, but I still put the tablecloth on my lap every time I sit down at the table (just in case), which is almost as good as wrapping a blanket around myself.)
I I set aside this Sunday afternoon to write, to reflect, because I haven’t done enough of that lately. It’s strange to think that I’ve been in Spain for as long as I was in Egypt, because my experiences have been so different in each place. In Egypt I was a guest for two weeks and a lone adventurer for one week, during which I saw artifacts and ruins from ancient history than I probably have seen in my whole life. In Spain I have been a guest turned (temporary) resident, a bit of an explorer, a language learner, and have once again returned to my familiar role as student. But even that is not as familiar as I think I expected.
A week or so ago I read an email from Taylor (one of the half-dozen or so that they still send me every day) entitled “Learn to Rest, Taylor” about program which Residence Life was sponsoring to focus on learning to honor the Sabbath. My first thought was “Taylor definitely needs to hear this. But it doesn’t apply to me since I’m not at Taylor this semester.” I envisioned my alter-ego back at Taylor, haggard from lack of sleep, finally sitting down to read her email at midnight after a day filled with classes, paper writing, homework, and probably chapel, exercise, (at least one) dinner date, ESL, and a concert or lecture thrown in for good measure.
“Thank God I’ve learned how to rest here in Spain,” I thought. But then I stopped myself. Have I really? I’ve been here for several weeks now, but part of me still doesn’t feel like I’ve fully landed. I’m so accustomed to losing myself (and many of my intentions) in my frenzied schedule that I fully expected it to rear its ugly head here in Sevilla. I stood there waiting for it for a while, armed and ready. But when it didn’t appear, I felt kind of lost. That’s just one more reference point which I left behind in the U.S.
For a while I tried to rouse it. I signed up for five classes (History, Art, Quijote and Grammar, all advanced, and a 1 credit Current Events class which will start in March) and decided to also audit a 1 credit ‘Acción Solidaria’ community service course, for which I go with a group of volunteers from 9 pm to midnight every Monday to visit the homeless and give them a café and some cookies. I agreed to lead a weekly prayer group of six girls who are studying here in the same program, Acento. I attend ‘Encuentro,’ the Wednesday night worship service organized by the school, went to the Girls’ Night, and went along with the group to play Bingo with the ‘ancianos’ in the Catholic retirement home. I registered for an ‘Intercambio’ conversation partner with whom I’m to meet every week to practice speaking English (for her) and Español (for me). I found a vibrant evangelical church filled (primarily) with Latino immigrants and joined a Friday night “small” (ten-fifteen people) group and a Saturday night young adult Bible study in addition to attending the two-three hour service on Sunday mornings. I took on a job teaching English for an hour and a half twice a week to Maria (9) and Fernando (6), whose parents are moving their family to Ireland in August for a year there so that their children will learn English. I went to another interview to teach English for an hour once a week to Lucia (14) and found out that her mother had also arranged for me to give weekly lessons to her friends Marta (16) and Angela (14). Add to that one-three hours of walking every day, and my schedule was beginning to take shape.
But when I started to see a semblance of my former frenzied self, I caught myself. My goal before I came here was to do less than I thought I could handle, because I know myself well enough to know that I think too highly of my ability to juggle my schedule and live a healthy life. So after a one-two day internal battle between my wiser self (represented by my pre-departure intentions) and my desire to experience as much as possible (represented by my penchant for signing up for things), I withdrew from the weekly ‘Flamenco’ (a very popular Sevillana dance) class, decided not to play piano for ‘Encuentro’s’ worship team, and turned down a job to teach English once a week to a fifth student. It sounds silly now, but it was really hard for me to do that. Living out my intentions seems to be easier said than done.
As soon as I had held myself accountable to my decision to do less, I wondered what I was going to do. So far I’ve been better at doing my homework, finding new ways to get to the same place by taking different streets, keeping up on the soap opera (‘Hotel Arrayan’) that my señora likes to watch every evening and trying to understand the television news anchors (who speak as if they were paid by the words-per-minute), finding free things to do in Sevilla (the expansive parks, Plaza de España, Universidad de Sevilla’s chamber choir performance, and the public library [Wi-Fi!] are in the lead so far) and spending time with my new friends at Iglesia Cristiana Manantial de Vida than I have at reading the three books that I brought with me, journaling daily, blogging weekly, planning the trips that I want to take this semester, or communicating with my friends and family back in the States. (Sorry about that.)
So that’s why I set aside this afternoon to write. Even though I enter into occasional periods of denial, I am a journaling addict—nearly twelve years in the making. When I don’t journal, the reflective part of me is missing. Actually, I’ve concluded that it isn’t exactly missing, but rather trailing a few days (at least) behind trying to collect and contain my experiences and thoughts so that I can recall them when I finally obey its incessant reminders and sit down to journal (or blog, in this case). I need to journal to create a mental map of my experiences so that I know where I’ve been and (hopefully) have a little better idea of where I’m going. Even if I don’t read it later, there’s something therapeutic and brain-stimulating about journaling.
That’s especially true of my experience here, because I’m living, reading, writing, communicating, journaling, praying, and thinking almost exclusively in Spanish. (If that sentence made you smile, it’s because you know me well enough to know that the experience of living in Spanish is so wonderful that at times I am overcome with a joy that starts deep within and overflows into a smile that I can’t hide—even though in the interest of cultural sensitivity, while walking the streets I generally adopt the smile-less face of the Spaniards.) But as much as I love it, it’s difficult. While I haven’t gone to bed with the headache that I remember having by the end of a day of translating while in Mexico with YLP in 2006, at times it is still very apparent to me that Spanish is not my native tongue.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not all here, because I lack the vocabulary to think about the things that usually occupy my mind when I walk places on my own. I got excited last week when I found the Metaphysics books in the Philosophy section at the public library, but as soon as I did so I laughed at myself. That subject matter was difficult enough for me last semester in English. As if I could understand discussions about the nature of “being” in Spanish!
The first Saturday that I was here we went on a tour of some of the more famous places within walking distance of our school. As we did so, I talked to our guide Enrique, who is studying business at the University. He told me that most Spaniards are very career-oriented when selecting their field of study (The concept of a “liberal arts” education doesn’t exist here, and law is the most popular ‘carrera’), which is understandable considering that the unemployment rate is already nearly 19% and the demographic of young college graduates is especially suffering. So when he found out that I’m studying Philosophy he (naturally) asked me why. “Oh dear,” I thought. That question is difficult enough for me to answer in English. I managed to say something about how I enjoy thinking, asking questions and exploring issues of ultimate significance, which many people never even consider. However, I’m confident that it sounded even less eloquent in Spanish as we walked the streets of our tour. Experiences like that make times like this (i.e., thinking in English) feel a bit like I’m a submarine coming up for some much needed fresh air with which my brain can function at full capacity.
On that tour we walked past the third largest (and oldest) Gothic Catedrál in Europe with its famous bell tower the ‘Giralda’ (which was constructed as the minaret of an expansive mosque by the Almohades in 1198), the twelfth century defensive ‘Torre de Oro’ alongside the Guadalquivir river, the Alcázar (also from the twelfth century, and which still serves as a residence for the royal family when they’re in town—as they were when we tried to visit it this past Friday), the Archive of the Indies (a museum which houses correspondence between Christopher Columbus and King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella), the Plaza de España (a stunning architectural gem [seriously—do a Google Image search to see it for yourself] constructed for the 1929 Ibero-American World Expo, along with many attractive buildings which represent each of the countries of Latin America), the Jewish quarters, and numerous expansive gardens. Since I walk past many of those places several times a week since then, the initial ‘wow’ affect has worn off a bit and they have become landmarks rather than tour destinations. But it’s still cool that I get to live here surrounded by so much beautiful, historic architecture.
But enough rambling. I’m not sure I’ve even said anything of significance yet. (I think my writing style is better suited for 19th century prose than for a blog.) So what have I experienced in the last three weeks? (Whew. Why do I ask myself such difficult questions?) Well, some of it was like reliving my first semester of college. Except this time instead of adjusting to life in a dorm, learning in a classroom, eating (almost) whenever and whatever I wanted, and being “a part of something,” I’ve adjusted to living in a house, having comparatively little homework, eating on a (very different) schedule, and at times feeling very much alone.
My roommate Nicole (from Cornerstone University) and I live with Rosa (54) and her son Juan (26) in an apartment which consists of a kitchen, dining/living room, bathroom, and three bedrooms. Rosa’s nephew José Maria recently got a job in Sevilla and moved here from Cadiz, so he stays here with us some of the time while he’s looking for an apartment. Her daughter (also Rosa, 32) lives a ‘pueblo’ a short distance outside of the city with her husband José (a police officer), son Samuel (pronounced “SamuEHL”—3 ½), and daughter Nuria (nearly 4 months). They visit about once a week, but we aren’t always here when they visit.
Rosa provides us with three meals a day. Breakfast (8:00 am, later on the weekends) is the same every day: café con leche (or mint tea, in my case) and toast. I usually eat one-two pieces of an ‘andaluza’ (think miniature loaf of French bread) with peach marmalade or olive oil. (If we’re not going to be home for a meal, Rosa packs us a ‘bocadillo,’ which is a loaf of that same bread with ham or a few slices of salami.) I’ve taken to packing a piece of bread and a Clementine to eat during my mid-morning break at 11:00 am to appease my stomach and convince it that it can last until our 3:00 pm lunch after school. Sometimes I do the same in the afternoons at about 6:00 pm, to tide myself over until dinner at 9:30 pm. I’m slowly getting accustomed to the meal times, but it’s still a bit strange to me to go through the first seven hours of the day on a few pieces of toast and eat a large meal two hours before going to bed. Let’s just say that I have had ample experience with being hungry, which I’ve tried to use as a personal illustration of what it means to hunger after God.
I’m keeping a list of the dishes that Rosa serves us, because there’s no other way that I’d remember what they’re called. And in case you’re wondering, it’s not at all like Mexican food; we have a lot of soups, lentils, garbanzo beans, pasta, potatoes, green beans, fish, some chicken, tortillas (which are like omelets and called “Francesa” when they’re plain and “Española” when they’re made with potatoes), a basket of bread at every meal (which I love), and lots of fried foods (ham, cheese, and many different types of fish) on the side. One of the girls in Acento told us that her señora was concerned when she didn’t eat very much of the fried food. “Don’t worry,” she told her, “You won’t get fat. I fry everything in olive oil.” That they do. But all the same, my roommate and I have exchanged many knowing glances and smirks while sitting on our beds doing homework and listening to Rosa prepare “algo frito” for dinner.
As for feeling alone. . . Since one of my primary goals for this semester is to learn to Spanish well enough to “live” in it, I determined before I arrived that I would only speak English when absolutely necessary. I made that decision in part because I had heard from previous participants that many students speak English among themselves as well as in the classrooms (even though we all sign a contract that we will only speak Spanish in the school). I figure that if I don’t know how to say something in Spanish, I should at least try so that I can learn to express myself more fully in the language. It can be taxing (cf. my philosophy experience above), but I’m generally up for the challenge.
The unanticipated challenge has turned out to be getting to know students within Acento. Since I only speak Spanish, I have a difficult communicating with those who are unwilling to do so. I did not foresee how difficult it would be to get to know less-than-advanced students. When one has to work to form sentences, the small talk that’s a natural part of getting to know someone is limited, to say the least. I’ve had many bilingual conversations (me speaking Spanish with a student who answers in English), but they can be quite frustrating. I feel socially awkward for sticking to my principles, and the other person usually either switches to Spanish or moves onto another conversation.
In addition, it’s been somewhat difficult to find a place where I “belong” here. It’s not culturally acceptable to have friends over to your house; everyone goes out to cafés, bars, ‘discotecas,’ or just walks around the city. My blisters have turned to calluses as evidence that I’ve mastered the art of walking through the city. But since I’m abiding by the Life Together Covenant (LTC), I avoid the drinking crowd (not that it interests me in the first place). And since I hate to spend money on unnecessary things, I avoid cafés unless I need Wi-Fi on the weekend. At times trying to live by my principles of Español, the LTC, and parsimony creates more pressure than I care to bear and I wonder if I’ll be forced to choose between friendships and principles.
But then another weekend arrives, and I thank God profusely for my church here.
The first week that we were here I brought home the list of Protestant churches in Sevilla which the from the back of Acento’s handbook with the intention of figuring out how to get to a church in ‘Los Pajaritos,’ a poor area in East Sevilla. My señora discouraged us from going to a church so far away and in a far-less-than-well-to-do neighborhood, so we took her advice and her directions to another evangelical church. The next morning we—my roommate and Megan, Chelsea, Emily, & Angela, four other girls who live nearby—set off for this church an hour before it started. We should have arrived at least 20 minutes early, but somehow we ended up walking parallel to the river when I thought we were headed toward it and arrived 45 minutes late. When we finally found the street and I heard singing wafting through the doorway I was convinced that there could be no sweeter sound in the entire world.
We waited in the patio until they finished singing, and then were ushered to some chairs which they added in front in the space where the musicians had been. We felt like quite the spectacle sitting up front of the congregation of 150 or so dark heads, especially when the pastor publicly welcomed us from the pulpit. But the greeting was sincere, the atmosphere affectionate, and the message challenging. The congregation is almost all immigrants from Central and South America who have found in each other the family, friends, and community which they left behind in their home countries. They epitomize the warm Latino culture, lively and passionate worship of Jesucristo, generosity, and candid honesty which I usually associated with Spanish. Nellie (32, from Honduras) introduced herself and invited us to their Friday night ‘Grupo de Café,’ which I have attended since. Adriana (34, from Argentina) asked us to visit the English class which she teaches every Tuesday and Thursday to give her students some conversation practice with native speakers. Since then I’ve gotten to know Jorge (Argentina), José (Sevilla), Juan Francisco (Ecuador), Denny and Veronica (Dominican Republic), Juan (Bolivia) and his girlfriend Conny (Germany), Lupe and Carmen (sisters from Bolivia), and many others.
Spending time with them has given me a new, living and vibrant perspective on what the body of Christ looks like. I love it that I could walk into this church and instantly have the most important thing in common with these people whom I had never before met. I hadn’t anticipated how refreshing it would be to be around Christians, especially Christians who are sincerely passionate about seeking Jesus. It’s beautiful.
Sevilla is undoubtedly the most secular environment that I have ever lived in. The people certainly have a Catholic heritage, but for the vast majority of them it means nothing more than a cultural reference point and an annual tradition of celebrating Semana Santa (Holy Week) in an illustrious way. Almost all of the streets and plazas of Triana (the neighborhood in which I live) are named for Virgins, and beautiful cathedrals are a common sight. But a cultural heritage in no way constitutes a personal relationship with the Divine. It has made me wonder, as I did in Egypt, “What does God want?” It’s more than constructing beautiful buildings, naming children after holy people, giving money and time to good causes, showing up for a weekly service, and praying when it looks good and we remember to do so.
“What does God want?”
Our hearts.
And then I ask myself, “Have I given him mine?”
Well yes, of course. I “prayed the prayer” when I was five, rededicated my life to Jesus when I was twelve, and have sought to grow closer to him ever since.
But there´s more to it than that. I´m learning from them what it means to worship sincerely, to live a life focused on Jesus. I´m convinced it´s not a coincidence that such a vibrant church is thriving here in such a secular environment. Since it´s neither normal nor easy to live as a Christian here, those who do actually do. There´s something about living in as a minority which makes true Christians cling to it even more fiercely. And that´s what I´m learning to do.
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