So I decided I would try to process this whole Sevilla thing. Finally, right?
I arrived in Spain in the beginning of September, with an idea in mind of what to expect. After all, I had spent three weeks in Spain a few years back with my family and I had studied abroad in Italy before. Comprehension was not a problem at all, and I felt fairly comfortable with my Spanish. I was used to being away from home for extended periods of time, and I was actually in Spain less time than I would have had I been at Mt. Holyoke. I was confident that this was going to be an easy experience.
Grace and I arrived in Madrid and conquered the city. I remembered everything and got us around the first few days with little problem. Around September 9th we arrived in Sevilla for our orientation. That went well and I made friends quickly. We didn’t know what was in store for us, but we knew we had to stick it out together if we wanted to make it through. We began to plan trips and realized our budgets weren’t as large as we had hoped. Oh well, I guess that extra trip to Segovia wasn’t going to happen, but that was okay because we were in Sevilla, having fun, and that was all that mattered.
My host señora seemed nice. After the first week or two I stopped using my dictionary for common words and only pulled it out when I was in desperate need. Our intensive session began, and I quickly saw that it was the heat, not the class, that was intense. We went out at night (at 11pm – early for the Spaniards) and slept our siesta during the day. I was well adjusted. Or so I thought…
About six or seven weeks into the program I began to fall apart. Deep down I knew the reason, but I didn’t want to admit it. I was trying to detach from Sevilla before I became too attached to it. Too many times I have lost friends to timelines, and I figured that if I didn’t establish a real bond to the city that I would maybe make it out without any of the pain this time. The weather was getting colder and I was beginning to realize that only a small number of my friends would be there when I returned for the spring semester. I missed Mt. Holyoke and my friends there. I even missed the academic load, and was feeling useless in Sevilla with barely any academic work in comparison to Mt. Holyoke. What I didn’t realize is that I was doing a hell of a lot of work, just not academic. I was trying to survive in a foreign country, where I couldn’t talk to my family every day, nor could I ever speak with my friends from the States. There wasn’t a 24 hour convenient store, nor was there a Target, and they didn’t have sour cream. The Mexican food was the worst attempt ever and I was going crazy hearing so many racist and sexist remarks on a day to day basis. I convinced myself that I didn’t like Spain, and found the culture differences to be my scapegoat.
Meanwhile I was enjoying all of my classes, and connecting with my professors. I was learning immense amounts, despite the fact that I wasn’t doing as much writing as I would have had I been at Mt. Holyoke. I was reading book and book after book, and for once enjoying poetry. I was watching Spanish films almost every week and learning about intercultural communication. I was in a class with a professor that I really found to be extraordinary, and I felt that we would become close.
I went home for Christmas, and decided to wait for as long as I could to go back to Spain. When I returned to Sevilla on February 7th, I was the last person in my program to arrive – out of about 500 students. Ha! That will show them! Clearly this was not the right choice for me. But as the semester began and the all-year students really bonded, I started to feel like maybe this was the right choice. I was surrounded by amazing friends, and I had the best roommate I could ever ask for. On top of that, she was from California! It was surely meant to be. I decided that I better not waste the semester bumming around and hating Sevilla, so instead I dove back into it. Maybe this would be a better survival strategy.
A friend and I started taking Sevillanas classes, and although we didn’t keep with it the whole semester, it really helped me to understand the dance and I learned the basics of the first part. We started going to a flamenco bar in Triana at night where all the locals hang out; I fell in love. It was amazing and I could stand there in one place in the smoky, tight-squeezed room for hours and just watch them. We also tried to spend some time walking around every weekend to better appreciate the city. We went to a few museums, spent time sitting by the river Guadalquivir, and peeking into churches. I traveled to different parts of Spain and was getting a good feel for the country. It was April before I knew it and Semana Santa was in full blow. I went with some friends to watch the pasos for ten hours straight, and then hopped on a plane to Italy for five days. I ended up getting really sick, but it was well worth it. I loved Semana Santa! While many people felt overwhelmed by so much religion, I found it inspiring. Seeing the Virgins being carried between the streets was amazing; the devotion of the people was clear.
While all this was happening, my friends still thought I hated Sevilla and my life there, when secretly I was thoroughly enjoying it. My professor Magdalena and I were becoming fast friends. We’ve gone through a lot of the same stuff and so we could easily relate to one another. I began to walk home with her every day after class, and a couple of days a week we had lunch together. Soon enough we were planning out our week long trip to Zahara during Feria. It ended up being everything I could have asked for and more. It was such a special time of bonding and soul-sharing. I began to feel at peace with Spain. Maybe it was being in a pueblo far from Sevilla, or being by the ocean, or being with someone who actually cares for you and not just a señora who is paid to feed you crappy sandwiches. It was that week when I realized that I really did love Spain, and that I should have expressed it earlier.
Although my house overlooked the Feria, I decided to skip out on most of it. I had watched them set it up for months and looked forward to it, and yet I ended up only spending a few hours at it. I didn’t dance, nor did I go into a caseta. Sometimes when I think about it I regret not having participated more in such an important week for Sevilla, but I know I will go back one year for Feria, and maybe this time I will buy a traje de gitana and learn las sevillanas completely before I go.
And I never made it to Portugal or Morocco even though they were only a few hours away. And la Iglesia de la Macarena was closed when I tried to go. And I only went to el Museo de Bellas Artes once – for twenty minutes for my Intensive Session class – even though I love the art in it. And I only went to the Alcazar the week before I left. And I didn’t do a lot of other things that I had hoped to do.
But I did a lot of things I hadn’t expected to do. I made friends with people from all over the United States. I learned to like poetry. I found a new favorite book, and read it eight times. I was told I write better than some Spaniards. I learned more than I could have ever imagined about myself and I pushed my boundaries completely. And most important, I found a new mentor who ended up becoming one of my best friends.
So now as I sit here listening to the soothing, flamenco-fusion voice of Alba Molina singing softly, “caminando por la calle, yo te vi” and realize that while it’s truly been one hell of a ride, Sevilla is part of me now, and that is something that no one can take away. No one will ever be able to completely understand this feeling, even those who went through it with me. “Te quiero mucho y pido sin cesar que no me dejes ya que te encontré. Pues voy a amarte siempre, voy a amarte.”
NO8DO
Sevilla, no me ha dejado.
