Fui a los toros

La corrida de toros was like nothing I have ever experienced. Anyone could probably guess that considering we no longer live in a time in which animals are sacrificed in a public gathering (That is always the word used in Spanish, sacrificar, to recognize meaningful loss). However, la corrida is much more than a spectacle of the matador’s skill followed by a gory death.
 

When the first bull entered the ring, bolting toward the matador on his knees, the crowd shushed in unison; this first moment was powerful in its seriousness. Everyone in the ring showed great respect for this huge animal, including the golden matador who faced him from the ground. The matador artfully guided the bull within inches of his body, as the untrained bull expressed its most instinctual actions. Next, two other matadors came out on horses, who were covered in a heavy protective garment and blindfold. The bull rams into a horse, as he most naturally wants to do, often coming close to picking up this other amazingly strong creature with his weaponry of horns.

There are other men in the bull ring who historically help the matador and at this time place two sticks with hooks on one end in the bull’s back; Judy said that for the two-ton animal this feels something like an ear-piercing. In this particular round, the bull knocked down one man as he tried to attach the THINGS and cornered him on the ground. The matador and OTHERS took some moments to attract the bull’s attention with their capes, and only acted in this way. At this point my hand was over my mouth, eyes wide-open, and I couldn’t believe what was happening. I couldn’t and still cannot describe the emotions I felt during these first minutes, as they came and went faster and with more intensity than I could recognize.

The man was pulled from the ring and the performance continued. The matador took hold of his red cape and sword and faced the bull alone in the sandy circle. The crowd shushed again. The matador beautifully and masterfully guided the bull with his cape, showcasing the animal’s strength and power with each movement as much as his own bravery and grace.

Somehow this dance of death becomes greater than man versus beast. Like poetry, it is at once so real and so unbelievable that the audience is in awe of its beauty. At once, the drama honors the art of the matador and the nature of the bull. This is no spectacle of sport; there are no venders selling popcorn down the aisles, no member of the crowd is here to party. All eyes are on the two masters of their instincts with upmost respect. “Olé,” chanted by the crowd in acknowledgement of a skillful dance, comes from Allah as praise.

After these honorable minutes of interaction, the matador calls once more to the bull, pulling his cape across the ground next to his body and drives his sword into the back of the charging bull, an within moments he dies. La corrida feels like a thousand years in one evening. I felt every emotion I can name. I observed the history of humankind in sequence with the expressions of modern humanity. I saw death respected as a part of life and a crowd brave enough to honor an animal’s sacrifice for the benefit of mankind.

This might seem an attempt to justify cruelty. It may be impossible to believe otherwise without having such an experience or you may believe otherwise regardless. Nonetheless, I have interpreted this procession as a respectful acknowledgement of man’s place in the world. It is rational to regard humankind as the highest group on the food chain or as the most valuable species in nature; it would be difficult to argue otherwise if you are gaining anything (meat, leather, labor) at the expense of an animal. Judy is a vegetarian with two exceptions: she eats a type of pork because she loves it, and she will eat bull because they are treated better and live longer than any other animal raised for livestock. The idea of sacrifice that is so deeply rooted in the history of humanity has value in that it forces us to acknowledge the circles of life that are natural and inevitable as well as those which we as intelligent beings have created.

Instinct

Last night at my program center, a woman came to present about las corridas de toros-- bull fights. Being such an important part of Spanish culture, I had decided to attend a bull fight having accepted the fact that I would hate it. I figured this talk would help me understand this spectacle and learn its history. To my surprise, I left Judy´s nearly 2-hour presentation with a whole new perspective.

She began with a story about attending her first corrida, where she vomited in histeria when the matador killed the bull with his sword. My eyes opened like deer´s. Judy left the stadium promising never to return to the bullring and returned to California where she lived as a Spanish teacher. Wanting still to be informed of this Spanish tradition, she came across a book by John Fulton, the only American to ever have become a Spainsh matador, and from there was intrigued. John Fulton was many other things-- an actor, a storyteller, and among them, an artist.

Judy continued animatedly with her story; she moved to Sevilla and visited John's art gallery often. One lucky night, she was introduced to him and one thing led to another... She volunteered in his gallery and in four summers they fell in love. Or as she told it, it took him four summers. As Judy moved around the room, showing us props and telling us these intertwining stories about how she fell in love with corrida de toros and also with John, I found myself intrigued. She spoke all over the place, jumping from history to irrelevant antidotes: in ancient times hunters would paint members of the bovine family (the bull's ancestors) on cave ceilings and tap them with the tips of their swords for luck; matadors "dress on the left" because they always sacrifice the bill right-handed. (I´ll leave it up to you to learn that expression.) The word used in Spanish is always sacrificar, to remain conscious of the purpose behind ending an animal's life.

I never thought I'd be convinced that there is ever a reason to kill an animal in this way, and I'm not quite sure I am. But in Judy's talk I learned the facts. These bulls are treated extremely well and cared for during their lives, and live longer for this reason. They are not trained to fight; it is a bull's natural instinct to charge anything that moves. The horned beast has throughout history been represented in rituals for renewed life. (In fact, it's where we got the word 'horny' from.)

I thought about the bull's natural instinct, as a member of the world in its most natural state. Ernest Hemingway describes bullfighting as ´´the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.´´ The romantic notion of a heroic matador controlling a beast has never attracted my praise. But there is greatness in the idea of honoring the immensity of a life cycle, which as much as we try to ignore the fact, includes death. It truly is a grounding idea, even a spiritual act, to acknowledge death in its most honest performance; a respectful act of opening one's eyes to the end of a life as it follows it's most natural instinct. I began to see this tradition as I imagine the ancients viewed the world: as a cycle of life forms, which are greatly respected as equal members of the universe. I am still quite torn about the morality of this spectacle of Spanish tradition, but my eyes are open to the values of sacrifice and honor that are rooted in humanity´s history.

The bull´s instinct is to charge (and not towards red, as we often believe, but toward any moving thing). The human´s instinct is to run away. It is poetic irony to place man and animal in a place where one is fighting all instint to survive and the other is expressing its purest instinct. I believe we owe great respect to our instincts, and the instincts of all beings; I am attending a bull fight on Sunday in Sevilla to see the very famous matador Manzanares.

Watermelon lens

As I sat at the table after lunch today while my hermanitos finished their watermelon, I thought about how differently they treat me than my host parents do. I think this is universal, that around the world, kids have this amazing gift that allows them to treat others equally, without judgment or criticism. They don't yet wear the lenses that life makes for us, the ones that cause us to see the world like a soldier views a battlefield. My host parents are kind, and patient enough to have someone in their home who can barely understand what they´re saying. But I can´t help but wonder how they see me. As a stranger eating and sleeping in their home? as a part of the family? as a means of income? as a means of cultural experience? Beyond my place in their home, how do they view me as a member of society? I am a tourist at some level, but also a student. Am I more of a child, or am I considered an adult? As a young woman, what is my place in respect to my señor or any other man in Spain?

This was, and is, all very exhausting to think about, and as I watched the boys eat their sandilla, laughing and unable to sit still, I thought about how much easier it is to make a stand in this world, rather than trying to find your place. It seems that we´re all trying to figure out where we fit in, what our role is in life, how we should act as a man or a woman or a child or an elder or... it goes on forever. And forever, we could learn how to be correct. But say we´re thrown into a new country, where we barely speak the language and we live with people we don´t know and can´t understand because of that language barrier. What good did all that correctness lead to? We now have no idea who we are.

So I found myself faced with two options: (1) to observe and observe until I learn my role in Spanish society. This seemed frutile. Forever, I could try to learn how to be correct. Navigating through this path of understanding my place here, at every turn I saw myself hitting a wall, where one identity clashed with another. My desire to understand Spanish culture propels me to observe and learn the customs and act unlike an oblivious American imposing on valuable traditions. But without being myself, how can I expect to learn anything at all?

Option (2): crush my fear of being wrong. I never expected to be right, about how to speak, how to eat... but I find myself in this limbo that isn´t moving me forward.

I picked up my camara today, for the first time since I´ve been in Sevilla. I was uninspired or not in a rush or whatever the reason, it sat on my dresser. Today, my professor took us to the Cathedral of Seville, the biggest Gothic cathedral in the world. He told us about the bell tower, and how it was used for telling time, warning of danger, announcing the weather. He told us about the religious history and the fountains in which people cleansed themselves before ceremonies. I kept my ears open and my lens down, trying to retain what I could from a lecture in Spanish. But as the tour progressed, and we took breaks from discussion to look around, I crouched and angled my non-zoom lens to capture the beauty inside the high ceilings of the old building. After the tour with my professor, I climbed up the tower to see Sevilla from above, and with every click became more inspired by what I saw.

I brought one lens with me on this journey: a 50mm plastic lens that forces me to physically move to get a shot I desire, and often I can´t get far enough away to capture everything I want. But there is something magnificant about this restraint, as I am limited to the contents of a tiny frame. And with this restriction today, I realized that my own lens had become too big. Yes, I have learned much along this adventure, and yes I am proud and amazed by the perspective I´ve gained. But with too big of a lens, I was missing the little things. I was missing the beauty.

Kids have an amazing gift: to see the world through a very small lens. It is one that allows them to take what´s in front of them and just accept it. As I grow and take in this grand world and all the cultures and people within it, I hope to hold onto the child within me and never foget to appreciate a tiny frame of beauty.

South Pop

We departed Sevilla yesterday afternoon, 5 friends of less than a week, Isla Cristina-bound. Our 46€ tickets got us two nights at South Pop music festival, transportation to and from the venue, and camping-- quite a deal for a weekend trip in Spain.  After we settled into our campsite (which consists of a High School Musical blanket, a sleeping bag, and a backpack with all our belongings), we made our way to the festival grounds: one stage in a small, cement arena-- a perfect setting for an intimate concert series.

And that it was. We watched an Irish alternative rock group Delorentos as the festival-goers were still arriving. We took a break for dinner down the street, where one of our friend's host-brother ordered a series of tapas. It seemed we had every type of seafood under the sea: shrimp, swordfish, octipus, squid, tuna. Spain loves its pescados, and being right on the beach they were fresh and delicious. We came back for Herman Dune, a French duo with a folk sound and some serious guitar and vocal moments. Their songs were on the slower side and quite moving. It is an interesting feeling, being in a country of which I'm learning the language, understanding the lyrics amongst a crowd of people who may not (All the artists we saw performed in English, and probably knew less Spanish than we do). We are inevitably having completely different experiences and sharing the same space, creating a singular vibe.

That experience was even stronger during the last show of the night, for which we decided to stand front-row. Best decision yet. WhoMadeWho from Copenhagen put on an incredible performance, and we danced our hearts out. The whole stadium was on their feet, clearly feeling as alive as we were. One of my first observations in Europe was the translation of emotion when language becomes obsolete. There are so many ways we can communicate with one another, creating and sharing the same feelings, inspired by the same art. Dancing to the same beat: it sounds like such a cliche. But don't they all, the little wonders of life?

Like watching the sunrise. I did that this morning. (As comfortable as I was on our blanket, cold and using my backpack as a pillow, camping has its way of making me ready for the day.) The sun was bright orange-red coming up from behind the hills. I looked at it for a long time, straight at it, as it was just cloudy enough not to blind me. I don't know the last time I thought about the sun for minutes at a time; it really is beautiful.

I'm having my cafe con leche, waiting for my friends to wake up (get up), and listening to a morning show in Spanish that's playing inside the cafe. The morning air is fresh, a nice break from the dense heat that peaks in the evening. Today will be a day at the beach and some exploration of Isla Cristina until the festival begins again tonight. The birds here have a distinct tune, and the sound of waves crashing lies beneath all the comotion of a day. We are always surrounded by Spanish, whether we can understand it or not; but we are also immersed in the sounds that everyone feels despite their native tongue. I think it's those universal experiences that remind me we are all connected.

Still waiting... I'm at the beaching watching a father and kids set sail from the shore. The waves are crashing in front of me, making a sound that never, ever gets old, only better with time. The only hint of division between the sky and the sea is the collection of speckles on the water from the sun. The sky gets bluer and the air is getting warmer as this family prepares their takeoff. It is a timely process that I imagine will be well worth the procedure; in fact I assume the reward in part comes from completing each step patiently and proudly. This must be so, as the children are helping when they can and calmly waiting for their departure. I've gone sailing before, with my dad and sister. I loved being out at sea, feeling the wind and seeing one color for miles around.

Turn, push, jump in. And they're off. At peace.

Balancing act

My first instinct is to write this in Spanish. That must be a good sign! Every day I feel more confident in my speaking abilities (although sometimes by the end of the day, I can't think of any words-- English or Spanish). And each day I feel more comfortable walking around this home into which I moved less than a week ago. I had a minor nervous breakdown the other morning. After my first day of classes-- which for these next three weeks are intensive language courses, not the most thrilling of subjects-- I had lunch with my host family, the most plentiful and important meal of the day; I took my siesta, returned for dinner, and met a new friend for gelato and homework. It was a good day. To spare the details that make me sound, even to me, as if I'm not grateful to live here, I will summarize that I have restrictions which are considered conservative in Spanish culture. Finishing dinner at 10:30 or later, you can find Spaniards of all ages out on the streets, eating tapas, kids running around... To miss out on night life in Spain would be to completely misunderstand Spanish culture. That is to say when I stayed out with friends on my first night in Sevilla, a Wednesday, and went home at 3am, we were the first ones leaving.

So in yearning for the truest grasp of culture, and hopefully not in vain, my miniature nervous breakdown was lit by a curfew.

In my American way, adjusting to the eating habits of Spain has been a challenge. Breakfast for me consists of toast and coffee; traditionally these are interchangeable with hot chocolate or tea and yogurt or an apple... Anyway it's a light meal. Lunch comes in the afternoon, around 2:30, and includes two to three courses. I love these meals, made with fresh and in-season ingredients. I know for certain that being a vegetarian in Spain would be nearly impossible without cooking for oneself; I'm satisfied with this, as seafood is an adored and scrumptious commodity. In most households, la señora prepares and serves each course of the meal and cleans up afterward. I've struggled to find a balance between offering to help and being rude, and try to learn about and remind myself that this is the culture. Sweet, fresh fruit makes dessert, and it shocks me when the kids try to refuse it. An important value though here is that children eat what they are given and aren't really asked for input; I like this aspect. Culture is interesting because we can try to understand it, yet it is rare that we have the opportunity to be in it enough to have a wholesome perspective. And when we look at other cultures through the lens of our own, it is difficult not to make judgments or misinterpret. It's a strange balancing act that requires immersion as well as the acknowledgment that you are inevitably in no position to understand.

So I try to embrace that in other cultures, the aim is not to be full all the time; mission accomplished well before almuerzo. By dinner, hungry again, I am tired from the heat that comes late in the afternoon (hence the greatness of siesta) and have a small meal. Los niños are rambunctious but eventually go to bed; I am excited to make cupcakes for the twins' ninth birthday in a couple weeks. There is no word for cupcake in Spanish.

Rewind. I don't want you to worry about my nervous breakdown. I sat down yesterday and took to my journal. I remembered advice from two people: when I was younger, my stepmom told me that writing positive thoughts instead of negative thoughts at the end of the day helps you sleep better; in Paris, I met a girl who told me that whether she likes a person or not, she always appreciates someone who makes her feel her emotions. I came to realize that whether my hidden expectations would be met or not didn't matter, for whatever the outcome of this semester will be, it will have nothing to do with what I predicted. Furthermore, I think my expectations will prevent me from receiving all that the universe wants to give me during this adventure. So I convinced myself. And I must say that I feel better already.

A perfect pothole

My writing has slowed. My pace has slowed. My patience has been tested as much as my Spanish. These last few days in Sevilla have been different than I expected... Maybe that's where I went wrong, having expectations. I tried not to, but that's a difficult feat when thinking about the next four months of my life.
My travels around France and Bruges prepared me for this experience in some ways. I know not to look for water fountains and how to get by with a language barrier; I learned how to get around without a taxi, how to become comfortable around new people quickly; I learned how to sit back and recognize cultural differences without shouting about them, sounding like an ignorant American tourist. I'd like to think I've learned these lessons at least. But as for my fellow study-abroaders, coming from costly private colleges and apparently sheltered lifestyles, I can't say the same.

Against all my might and knowledge I think about this every time we are sheeped onto tour buses like a horde of yakking bystanders. (If you're surprised by the negativity and detail of my metaphor, join my club.) But although I seem upset by this, I see the silver linings. First, despite the disconnection that exists between me and most, not even all, of the other students in my program, I am happy to be aware of my interaction with Sevilla as a tourist. Secondly, I am taking in this experience as an individual, rather than, as I expect my reaction would be during my first time in Europe, grabbing a buddy for dear life. I don't mean to condemn the friendships surely forming around me or diminish their values. And I'm not suggesting I'll be facing this semester in solitude. I just mean that I found a wonderful peace and reward in taking in such a grand experience personally, without others to sway interpretation.

Now whether I'm better off having learned these truths about myself is debatable. I think I would be in a more blissful place without these thoughts on my mind. I've learned that I'm a nervous eater, for instance. Despite the fact that I can't wait for this anxiety to pass, however, you can tell by my whirling thoughts and long-lived partiality to worrying that I've never been one for easy bliss.

So I'm dragging you with me, making you wait patiently through this transition into mi vida Sevillana. I plan to move beyond this awkward stage soon, my classes beginning tomorrow and meeting the rest of my host family this afternoon. I plan to absorb the culture and gems of Sevilla once I get a grip on my crazy mind, but you'll have to suffer through it with me.

I can tell you this though: the food is delicious.

En Sevilla

My arrival. It's funny, my definition of arrival has changed since the beginning of my travels. I flew into Sevilla two days ago from Toulouse, France. I travelled cheaply to Hotel Bécquer, where I would meet a fellow Spanish and philosophy double-major from Allegheny. She serendipitously met a girl from another Spanish studies program on her long flight here, so I quickly became friends with two cool girls whom I'm excited to share my semester with. For them, having arrived the night before, being in Sevilla was beginning to soak in. The girls who swarmed us the next day for the start of Orientation we're in a state of surreality from what I could tell, jet-lagged and not yet realizing just where they would be for the next four months. My arrival in Sevilla was a different experience than either of these, as I have at some level gotten used to arriving in a new European city and quickly, like a trained sponge, soaking in my surroundings, having conquered the stage of dreamy disbelief. My arrivals Bruges and Carcassone and my second in Paris were full of excitement from an incredible combination of knowing and not knowing what was in store for me.

But my arrival in Sevilla was different. Yes, my plane landed in a new country and yes, I had to tell myself "I'm here"... But it was tainted inescapable milestones that I would be facing, this time in a structured program alongside newer travelers than even I, which in some ways was quite daunting. I'm not saying this taint wasn't like stained glass, like that in the windows at Basilique Saint Denis, light-altering but beautiful. This new type of anxiety really grounded my emotions in the best and worst way. These moment ahead of me, like meeting the family that would be sharing their home with me for months; living in a city for an extended period of time with most of my Spanish-speaking skill borne in high school (any student can tell you how reassuring that is(n't)); learning the customs of Spain and how not to have 'tourist' written on my forehead. Of all the new obstacles that await me now, the most surprising cause for my anxiety has been the thing most meant for comfort: being in a structured program in which everyone is more or less experiencing the same feelings. While I'm confident that soon I will have a bond with many students here for the semester, there's an ironic sense of overwhelm coming from the program's guidance. After building armor to defeat the forces of lone travel, my new place as a student with a slight itinerary and environment of structure is causing some serious apprehension. It's amazing how quickly we adapt to our environments and our lifestyles.

But as I said, it's a tint of beauty, for I think that after the wondrous trek that was my August, it's time to reunite with the incredible reality that is Sevilla. I wrote during my travels that being open minded to a situation can only bring satisfying results. Being in this program gives me access to many opportunities that would otherwise be unavailable to an out-of-the-know traveler like myself. My arrival has been a significant adjustment, more so than I had expected. But it's one that makes my experience in Sevilla my own, special so that the unexpected becomes the sacred treasure.