disimular

disimular = to hide, conceal

Alternate definition: Something I should have done with my creative writing notebook. I left it open on my bed after writing a haiku for April 26th (we are supposed to have written something for every day) and my senora READ it. She just came in to my room apologizing for reading my "journal," but justifying herself in that she loves poetry and saw it open on my bed... I'm not mad or anything, I actually think it's pretty funny, because I'm very sure she read:

La flor morada,
flotando en la piscina
de sangre oscura.

Meaning:
The purple flower,
floating in the pool
of dark blood.

She was saying how "fuerte" (strong) my poetry was and she told her husband and blah blah. But honestly I wrote it just to fill space, not to express the deep corners of my soul. So now she thinks I'm a brooding American writing poetry inspired by Spain. Like Washington Irving or Hemingway. But things didn't end there:

Later, my padre comes in carrying these three books in awful condition...they had clearly been through a lot. He proceeds to tell me how he adores poetry, and back in the immediate years following the Civil War (known as the "years of hunger"), the only thing that got him and his family through the tough times was poetry. Specifically, Walt Whitman, who had written two of the books in his hands. The third book, which was in the worst condition with burn marks and a largely detached cover, was an anthology of Miguel Hernandez poems, a poet who was killed during the civil war. He wrote anti-Franco poetry. My padre proceeded to mark a few poems that I should read, and gave me the book.

Don't get me wrong, I think all of the history is really interesting! It's just that I'm not a HUGE poetry fan and now I have to pretend to be. But there are worse things in life...

I am enjoying my new homestay. My life is certainly...stranger here. My madre has an energy pyramid that keeps the energy of the house in balance, and I just walked in on her sitting in her chair and staring at an asian person (who was also just sitting) for minutes. I think she is "meditating." She also said we don't have to lock the doors because her spiritual guide will keep us safe... I suggested we lock them "por si acaso."

My padre is a good guy. He tells a lot of jokes. I understand maybe 40% of them, but I laugh at all of them.

Also, it has approached the time of year when it gets INCREDIBLY HOT. I'm talking upper 90s, and it's only May! And it gets to 115 in the summer. But not to fear! The Sevillanos have a way to defend themselves. Nope, it's not air conditioning. Nope, it's not opening the windows (which would actually let more heat in). They lock all of the windows and pull down the shades. During the summer, nobody leaves their house until 10pm, when the sun sets. I think they'd do well with a zombie apocalypse.

la chinche

chinche = Bedbugs. I know what you're thinking: AHHH!!!

It was the Friday night of Feria (I'll explain what that is in a later entry). Matt and I were coming home relatively early for Spanish time, 4:00 AM or so. We walked into our stifling hot bedroom, and all we wanted to do was watch the 201st episode of South Park to see how the controversy unwound. As I sat on my bed, the familiar red and white floral bedspread wrinkling under me, I noticed some movement in the corner of my eye. It was a brown, round and small bug, about the size of a pinky fingernail. I had a feeling of what it was immediately. The culmination of dozens of itchy bites, smelly cream, allergy pills, and hours spent in the dermatologists office was defiantly staring me in the face. I killed it and compared it to pictures online, and my fear was confirmed: BEDBUG.

That disgusting discovery basically changed my entire experience in Spain. It set off a chain of events that eventually lead to the permanent relocation to a new homestay. So now I live in a completely different part of town with completely different people. And I know you're dying to know, how is my new life?

Well, very different. I have my own room now. I squeeze my own orange juice in the mornings. I don't have to ask my señora to turn on the water heater before I shower anymore. I EAT VEGETABLES!

I live with an elderly couple in their 60s. They seem very nice and very active. I didn't realize how much my ex-señora (now that's a strange term) just sat around until I met these people! Yes, they watch TV, but they always have friends coming over ,or they are always leaving the house for one thing or another. Also they like sports a lot. So I have to pretend to care about Federer and Nadal's progress or whether Barcelona won the soccer game or not. I guess there are worse things in the world.

However, they're not completely sports-driven. Today, my señora began to blast the choral part to Mozart's Requiem, and I naturally freaked out, ran in the room, and began to blab about how I love that song and I sing in the chorus at the University! She responded "How nice! Classical music is my weakness!" She's cute.

But what would moving into a new home be without making an ass of myself? I thought I would be nice and try to wash the dish I used, so I turned on the faucet. Now, the faucet has two knobs, just like in the US, except they both expel cold water. The water pressure was a lot stronger than I'm used to, so I splashed a little bit of water on the countertop. The water felt cold, so I turned the right knob to turn it down. Little did I know that I had previously turned the left knob, so turning the right knob made things worse. Way worse. Water began splashing everywhere, covering the entire half of the kitchen in water and soaking me to the bones. When I tried to help clean up, my señora chastised me and said "No! I'll do it! I can do it better!" Well, not having to mop? Okay by me.

But the best part of this new home? No more bug bites!

empollar

empollar = to cram (for an exam)

I know I haven't updated this blog in a while. I've been busy!

Anyway, I had an in-class essay today in my History of Iberoamerica class, and I naturally didn't start studying until this morning. So I had to cram. My señora began to make fun of me, saying that I am the first student she's ever seen who's studied before June.

It was at that moment that I realized I may be taking my work too seriously. I honestly thought that I was being a rebel, the badass who does not start studying until the morning of a test. But to not study at all? That would be crazy, right?

Apparently not. Well I got to the "comentario," as my professor called it and received the exam with one question on it. Only problem: there was no question on it. It just had the citation of a 40-page reading on our syllabus. I asked my professor (an extreme socialist who believes the rich should be taxed until they make the same amount as the poor) what the question was, and he just pointed at the article title. I guessed we were supposed to write everything we knew about that article, but, as I'm sure you readers have guessed, that was the ONE article I hadn't read. I had literally no idea what it was about, and began to write random facts about Latin America. Looks like I should have studied.

The class itself is pretty interesting, if not awkward at times. The United States' has had a very...tumultuous...paternal presence in Latin America, and it makes me a little uncomfortable sometimes to hear about how America "robbed the Panama canal from the columbians," or "forced Nicaragua into an external debt." It's one thing to hear about these events from an American professor, a comrade in criticizing the evil past of our country. But hearing it from a foreign professor turns it into an America-bashing session, leaving me to hide my head as I take notes as he stares at the American students in the classroom. Sometimes I want to stand up and shout that I APOLOGIZE ON BEHALF OF MY COUNTRY PLEASE DON'T HATE ME. Learning about the Spanish-American War from the Spanish perspective gave me the same feeling.

I feel like it's good for me, though. It's super humbling to be placed out of your element like that, and it really forces you to see the consequences of war and imperialism. The key is not to continuously bash our country into the present (even though we may be doing similar things in the Middle East...), but to look at our misdeeds, learn from them, and try not to repeat them.

Bajarse al moro

bajarse al moro = visit Morocco. Literally, it means "go down to the moors."

("Bajarse al moro" is also the name of a 1988 play about these Spanish teenagers who go to Morocco in the 80s. I just bought it and am really excited to read it!)

I went to Morocco via ferry this past weekend. I visited Tangier, Tetuan and Chefchauen, and in case you know nothing about Moroccan geography, Tangier is the only "city" of these three, and Tetuan and Chauen are villages in the Rif Mountains.

Now, this was a trip of many firsts: first time to Africa, first time in a third-world country, first time in an Islamic country... and I'd have to say that despite less than ideal bathroom conditions (i.e. a hole in the ground), a slight drinking-tap-water scare (don't worry, no diarrhea for me!), and a lack of free time, I was rather pleased with the country itself.

Firstly, Moroccan food is delicious. The dishes I had (especially cous cous) were incredibly flavorful and filling. Also, the attitude about eating was great: They just put a giant plate on the table and everyone digs in.

The country has some beautiful sights. Particularly surprising to me was the green countryside. There were trees and grass covering rolling hills, which is not something I'd normally picture in Africa. My favorite city was Chefchauen, with its faded blue and white buildings left over from the Jews. There was running water all over the city, too. And when I say running water, I don't mean pipes and plumbing; I mean literally waterfalls leading to water running down the street and washing the citizens' feet.


Above is a picture of a part of Chefchauen with watefalls and people avoiding walking in the water. I don't have too many other photos of the city and people because they don't like having their picture taken, which makes sense. I wouldn't want to have tourists gawking at me and taking pictures like I'm an animal in a zoo.

I'm glad I went on this trip. It was loaded with new experiences; it was definitely very weird to look up at a sign and not even recognize the alphabet, let alone what it is saying. Also, there were people trying to sell you things around every corner, from hashish to mandolins to freshly plucked chickens (still had their heads on, thank God). I bought a wool rug for 10 euro, after an embarrassing attempt to haggle in which he pulled out his receipts to show me it costs him 8 euro to make it.

Oh, and I made a new friend:

Ganga

ganga = bargain

I learned this word in Creative Writing today. Our professor asked us to write poetry using a list of random words people had written before class, and "ganga" was one of them. Then he asked us to write a poem that rhymed, and used "bufanda, ganga, and cucaracha." Here's what I wrote:

La sucia bufanda
Ya está de ganga
Porque en su lana
Vive una cucaracha

I thought I was funny. No one else did.

He also asked us to write a few sentences about our impressions of Sevilla thus far. I was at a loss for words. I get asked this question a lot by just about every Spaniard I meet, and I never know how to answer.

I know why they ask me. They want to hear the awe-struck way everyone describes the Andalusian city: maravillosa! Every report I've ever heard of Sevilla has been of a romantic and charming city with the scent of fresh oranges in the air and a constant soundtrack of children's laughter. But this just describes the tourists' Sevilla; the ideal city of that Amazing Week in May.

The orange aroma that floats in Real Sevilla is mixed with the smell of churros, car exhaust, dog shit, expensive perfume, and fresh rain. The noises of children's laughter is often supplemented by the chastising "Coño!" of madres, car horns, dropped s's, and foreign tongues. I realize I have ended my honeymoon phase; I no longer feel the need to photograph every traffic sign or pig's leg hanging above a bar. I've entered a phase in which I see the real Sevilla for all it is, benefits and faults, but rather than idolize them as quirks, I am beginning to live with and appreciate them. This place is really starting to feel like home.

But, as for the aforementioned question, the one every person who studies abroad is asked, I don't think it's possible to answer in a few sentences. Sevilla is so many things: picturesque, rainy, accommodating, sleepy, musical, unintelligible, expensive, friendly, creepy, y mucho más. It's hard to articulate in English, let alone Spanish.

So how do I respond?
I laugh nervously and say, "Me...gustan... las...palmeras" (I like the palm trees).

Coger

coger = in Spain, "to take" (classes, for example) or "to get". In Latin America however... I'll let you look that one up.

Classes in the university have started this week, and that's literally been the only thing on my mind since then. I am currently "shopping" for different classes, trying to find interesting subject matter taught by professors who speak clearly and who do more than sit at their desk. Easy, right? Hah.

Before I get to the professors, I'd like to describe the university. One of the coolest things about Cornell is how old some places are. University of Seville blows it out of the water. (That photo is of a fountain in one of the many courtyards). The History/Philology departments are in the old tobacco factory, which was built in the 18th century and is the setting for Bizet's Carmen. History oozes out of the cracks; it's remarkable. But don't worry, I shan't "confuse the smell of old buildings with learning." (BryanPoints to whomever can name what I am quoting)

That also means that it is impossible to navigate. Rooms are eclectically numbered with a mix of roman numerals and regular numbers. Asking directions is usually fruitless:

“Perdón, dónde está aula XXII?”

“lmvadfnwdocmgwedfinhgytzjnxop” -intense gesticulation-

“Repite, por favor, con más despacio”

“LMVADFNWDOCMGWEDFINHGYTZJNXOP” -more intense gesticulation-

Most people don't know how to slow down their speech. But (un)luckily, I stumbled into a high-security area and the security guard--after patting me down like a potential threat--pointed me in the right direction.

Now, on to classes. I have visited: Escritura Creativa (keeper), Historia del Cine (maybe too hard), Lope de Vega (definitely no), Espana Actual (not this section) , America Prehispanica (way too hard), Historia Contemporanea de Andalucia (unbearably awkward), Espana Actual (better professor), Historia contemporanea de Iberoamerica (maybe), Antropologia de la Salud (not sure), Relaciones Internacionales del siglo XX (really boring)

Yes, that is a lot.

Just a note: the professor for Prehispanic America (which is really interesting--aztecs and incas and such) speaks way too quickly. So quickly that even he admits that he talks fast. To understand what I mean, turn on Univision. Press fast forward once. Now imagine them talking without saying any s's. Welcome to that class.

One really interesting thing about some of these classes are the students. Most Spanish students are unbelievably cliquey (they have known these people since kindergarten, after all), but I have met a bunch of people from other European countries. I bonded with this French girl in my America Prehispanica class over our non-ability to understand fluent Spanish. It's cool how the only way we can communicate is through a language neither of us has completely 100% mastered.

Anyway, I am going to try to take Neuroethology (possibly the only class that can earn me some useful credit) tomorrow, which is in a completely different building and requires a bus to get to. Wish me luck.

Viejo Verde

un viejo verde = a sketchy old man

They are everywhere. And girls aren't the only ones who have to watch out for them!

A couple weeks ago, a few friends and I went out for the first time in Triana, my barrio (neighborhood). We went to a bar and got a few beers. So, after I ordered, we stood by the bar and this old man who was sitting there eating peanuts grabbed my arm. I looked at him, and he said, in Spanish:
"You! You're from around here, not like your friends!" -spits peanuts at me-
"No..."
"Then where are you from? Madrid?" -more peanuts-
"No, the United States"
"But you look so Spanish!" -even more cacahuetes-
"Thanks..."

Then I walked away.

20 minutes later, he walked up to us again, and we had the same exact conversation. Then he began to tell me how pretty my friend was and other stuff I did not really understand. One peanut shower and many awkward laughs later, we left.

I guess I do look sort of Spanish. I am short and dark-haired, after all. Wait until they see me with my long hair. But I don't know...You'd think my big Jew Nose would give me away! A lot of Spaniards mistake me for a native. I get stopped on the street by people wanting directions twice a day, and they always look surprised when I talk to them like a three year old. Some talk to me in English, but I just ignore them and pursue in Spanish.

El botellón

botellón = a big pregaming session that takes place on the streets. You usually bring your own alcohol and just drink with everyone outside.

Yes, I went to a botellón this past weekend, and yes, it was pretty fun. I wish there had been more Spaniards there, though. Practically everyone was American; I don't know how to escape them! The most contact we had with a drunk Spanish person was when some belligerent guy came up to me, hugged me, and garbled some intelligible Spanish in my face. Then he proceeded to take a full wine bottle from one of the girls on my program and smash it on the ground.

The night life here is pretty crazy. Firstly, people don't go out until midnight, at the earliest. You can usually start the night off at a botellón or a bar. As the weather gets warmer (it's already pretty warm--60 degrees every day and about 50 degrees at night), more and more Spanish people seem to come out of hiding. And everyone gets a drink in a bar and hangs out in the street. You can go bar-hopping too, if you wish.

After you get tired of the bars, or sometimes the bars close, you can head over to a discoteca and dance forever. People usually stay out until 7am and go to breakfast afterwards! I can't handle that yet. Once it hits 5am, I transform into a sloth, and need to head home. (Although, churros con chocolate are amazing at that time too.)

I've been having trouble meeting Spanish people. My total count of young Spanish people I've met is: 3. Oscar and two of his friends. Wooo. I'm sure this will improve once University classes start next week. (!)

El brasero

el brasero = a heating device placed underneath a table, underneath blankets. When the blankets are lifted, you can put your feet near the heat and warm yourself up. My "madre" (the woman whose house I'm living in) uses it frequently.

Why?

Because the homes here do not have central heating and are designed to stay very cool to make the summers tolerable. As a result, it is always colder inside my house than outside... a weird sensation in the Winter. I'm forced to wear pajama pants to bed and slippers when I walk around. If I had a bathrobe I'd pretend to be Hugh Hefner.

My apartment is nothing like the Playboy mansion, however. Shocking, I know. It is anything but. A euphemism for it might be "quaintly crowded." It consists of two bedrooms: one for me and my roommate, the other for my madre and her 22-year old son, Oscar. Yeah, they share a bedroom.

Then there is the tiny bathroom that we all share with a 2-square-foot shower and a pull-chain toilet. There is also a modest kitchen, a living/dining room, and a TV room. Each room seems smaller than it actually is because they are cluttered with items--broken computers, old flat screen TVs, frames of family photos, clocks that have long since run their course, tacky trinkets from who knows where, worn-out books, and more.

I think Oscar may have had a job fixing computers. Now he just sleeps all day and plays video games all night. He is part of the "generación ni-ni," which means he "ni trabaja ni estudia," or doesn't work or study. It is something like 15% of kids ages 16-25. Most are not motivated to get a job or go to school, so they live at home with their parents. (It is actually very common for Spanish people to live with their parents until they get in a serious relationship or get married, so it could last a while...)

Curiously, "Generación ni-ni" is also the name of an MTV Real World-esque show. I haven't figured out what it's really about yet.

Bienvenidos!

Bienvenidos, or welcome!, to Bryan's study abroad blog.

I have been in Sevilla, Spain for three weeks now, and I feel it is about time to make a study abroad blog.

I know what you're thinking:
"ANOTHER study abroad blog?"
"Whatever!"
"What do I care what some dumb American student does in Spain?"
"BORING"

But before you close your browser, please note that this one is different! This will be educational! (Feel free to close this window now.)

I'll blog about what I do here, but in each entry I'll include a Spanish word that I've learned along the way. It's more fun than Muzzy!

The name of this blog means "A Mischievous Boy in Spain," and it comes from the days when Nelly, my Ecuadorian housekeeper, used to call me--and, incidentally, my dog bengie--travieso. Obviously this lent itself to a very easy blog title.

That's it for now; I'll blog my real first entry later today. I hope you enjoy reading. Hasta luego!