Mother of God.

December 20, 2011 by · 20 Comments

I have a lot of “Ooooh Guiri” moments. You know, when I do something SO American, I wonder how I’ve survived four years living outside of the Grand Old Republic. Something along the lines of saying swear words when there are other unknown English speakers around, like drinking in churches at a small town fair (wait, that wasn’t me), like telling a bouncer we didn’t want to go to his bar because it smelled like onions (wait, that wasn’t me either).

En fin, my “Oooh Guiri” moments are like dumb blonde moments.

Today was no exception. Faced with no grading to do, a clean house and a good night’s sleep behind me (grandma!), I chose to  being all Christmas-y. My first stop was to Plaza Nueva and the city’s Nativity Scene.

Housed in the salmon-pink palace that dominates the square, the city’s official belén tells the story of the annunciation, birth of Christ and the adoration of the Magi. Using fancy lighting, adobe-looking villages, figurines and constructing the entire town of Bethlehem, the most important moments of young Christ’s life are immortalized. With the diorama comes the line that wraps around the building up towards Plaza del Salvador.

Christa and I had little to do, so we marched towards the camel-ridden zoco in Encarnación before continuing onto an artisan market in a tucked-away plaza in Macarena. I badly needed cash, so my next stop had to be the Ronda Histórica, a busy road that rings the center of the city. The stream of people in front of the home of Sevilla’s most important virgin (oh, and this song) made me scratch my head, so I took out my money, got in line and stood on tip toe to see how much longer I’d have to wait to see baby Jesus again.

Within ten minutes, I had entered the iron gates in the small patio directly in front of the basilica. As one of Seville’s oldest depictions of the Virgin Mother, she’s the patroness of bullfighters and highly revered in Seville. Her procession on Maudy Thursday draws revelers during the wee hours of the morning as she is paraded from her temple along the Ronda to the Cathedral and back. I stated in my bucketlist that I’d like to see her in her basilica, but I happened to choose her feast day to do it. #Ooohguiri

On the right side of the wide, wooden doors, we queued in a perfectly straight line, while others from the hermandad, the term used to describe the religious brotherhoods, passed through the left side. Nuns filled the courtyard, passing cans of Lemon Fanta to several small children in line. I noticed the Virgin was not above the altar in an exalted place as she usually is in other churches. Brothers shouted, “Senores, colaboren con nosotros en la Loteria de Navidad! Decimos a 25 euros!” The Virgen’s distraught face graced the flimsy strips of paper I’d liken to a 50-50 lottery.

I entered the basilica, shivering as I stepped out of the sun, and made the sign of the cross as my Catholic grandmother taught me. As my confirmation saint is Lucia, I spotted her easily and made a mental recollection to find a donation box as I normally do. Girls with piercings and boys in track suits passed by, tears in their eyes. As I passed the small chapels and got closer to the front, I realized the Virgin was on the ground and people were passing in front of her. I had inadvertently come on December 18th, the Feast Day of Su Santísima Virgen de la Esperanza de la Macarena, and was in line to perform the Besamanos, or hand kissing, of the Virgin.

Moral dilemma: Do I kiss the hand of a wooden and cloth statue who I am sworn to dislike because I much prefer the Virgen de la Esperanza de Triana? Or do I look like an asshole and get out of line?

I chose to stay in, already preparing a speech to give Cait over the phone (I’m pretty sure she has an estampilla of La Macarena in her wallet). As we crept closer, her crown of stars and five red roses, a gift from the bullfighter Joey the Little Chicken Joselito el Gallo, came into view and people began weeping. Green gown flowing behind her up the steps to the altar, she stood just a bit taller than I do, but without real legs, I doubt that was her real height.

When it was my turn, toes touching the plush red carpet, I took my place between two altar boys with hair gelled to perfection. The señora in front of me’s lip quivered as she knelt down, kissed one of the only actual parts of the Virgen (most venerated images only have the face, neck, arms and hands, while the rest if a cloth dummy), finishing by making a sign of the cross and having her husband snap a picture.

I looked her dead in the face. She somehow seemed to have a softer expression than the one I’d seen emblazoned on reliefs, azulejos, keychains and tattoos. Her hand was outstretched, and I could see where people had been kissing her for the last 80 years – the plaster had worn right through to the wood. After the señora took her photo, the altarboy wiped down the hand with a damp cloth, and it was my turn.

I left quickly, nearly calling Cait before I’d even crossed the threshold. I didn’t know how to make sense of the whole thing, especially because I consider this whole Semana Santa thing to be a violation of that commandment that says you shouldn’t worship idols, but I couldn’t stop laughing at my Guiri Moment.

Her response to my giggles? “Oh, Jesus Christ. I mean Mother of Jesus Christ.”

Filed Under: America, culture shock, guiri atope, Hey Macarena!, Holy Week, living abroad, OOPS, religion, Seville, typical Spanish · Tagged: , ,

Big words from tiny humans

March 16, 2011 by · 2 Comments

Since I work at a Catholic school, I’ve been asked to pray with the kids in English. I tried Hail Mary once (diosss, it’s Spain, who else would I pray to?), and the Lord’s Prayer a few times, but the kids seem to like Johnny Appleseed better.

So, every morning after the Hello! song, we sit down and pray, just like I did before snacktime at Girl Scouts. Today, the class charlatón stood up afterwards and said, “Miss Cat, did you know that there was a really big wave in a really far away country named Japan and a lot of kids lost their toys and their mommies? Can we pray to God for them?”

To a nation that sees little natural disaster and to minds so small, I didn’t expect them to know anything. I let Nico get away with chattering the rest of the hour. Pretty might words from a little teeny person.

for ways to help relief efforts in Japan, check out Matador’s guide to donations.

Filed Under: Hey Macarena!, religion, teach abroad, TEFL ·

Feliz, Feliz en tu día!

November 25, 2010 by · 2 Comments

Today I had on one of those struggle faces. One of those “Don’t-bug-me-or-stand-in-front-of-the-coffee-machine-as-I’m-tired” faces that Refu always points out with a jolly, Seño, tienes mala carilla!

I was tired, overwhelmed by pulling off three Thanksgiving parties for 155 picky children and dreading the workday when Almudena approached me.

“Cat!” she called out from halfway down the hall, “It’s your saint day, felicidades!” with a big kiss for both cheeks. Almudena is the Religion Department chair and always on top of the Saint’s calendar. I made a mental note to buy a small cake for merienda, as is customary on your santo.

As a Catholic, I can name several saints, the century of their coronation and what they are famous for. But when it comes to remembering their feast days, I didn’t even know my own. I had to explain to Almudena that, in my confirmation, I chose Lucy (Lucía in Spanish, one of my favorite names), so I would technically celebrate on December 13th. Nonsense! She proclaimed, we should sing to you!

Saint days in Spain are like half birthdays. You get sung to, your parents bring treats to school. But as Spain is utterly Catholic (without being so), Gonzalo in three years also announced it was his saint and his parents were cooking him a special dinner. Some children are named for the saint whose feast day they’re born on, or some to a special family saint prayed to frequently. I, for one, named my dearfully departed bike Juan Bosco because I christened him on January 31st. There are patrons of cities, professions, and even American States! But since Kike’s family doesn’t celebrate it (though I know it’s July 13th), I have never gotten into the tradition until I came to a religious school to teach and have to recognize children with this song:

Almudena swung my arms while singing it and I laughed for once, not embarrassed but thrilled to have someone think of me on my special day.

Filed Under: culture shock, guiri atope, holidays, religion, Spain ·

Choque de Cultura

August 13, 2010 by · 1 Comment
“We´re going to baptize her with a bottle of Cruzcampo beer!” Alfonso said, mimicking the action over his three-month old baby, Luna. I tried to keep quiet, letting out on of those awkward, “I feel reaaaaallly uncomfortable and the language barrier is ever-present” giggles.
Alfonso has not married his girlfriend, Susana. Both are good friends of Kike, and that’s why he’s been asked to be the padrino, or godfather.

In Spain, religion is taking seriously. Ceramic virgins grace every mantle, kids are given Catholic names and every bar is named Saint This or Saint That. Religion brings pilgrims to Sevilla to see the field where the Divine Pastor appeared to Saint Isidore, religion relegates that shops be closed Sundays (one of my biggest complaints about Spain) and this Catholic religion fills the streets of penitent worshippers during Holy Week, garnering money and providing scenes such as this one:

When I first started dating Kike, everyone at his base was abuzz with the sheer fact that I was NOT Spanish. The priest of the base’s chapel even asked, “Is she at least Catholic?” And recently, I had an interview with an Opus Dei kindergarten where the only question that followed, “Did you find the school alright?,  was “Are you a practicing Catholic?” Religion unites Spaniards in the same way that language and love of paella does.
I am Catholic, so seeing the crying virgins and bloody Christs is normal. Religious I am not – I haven´t been to mass in well over two years, mostly because I was overwhelmed and felt stupid for not knowing the prayers and hymns in Spanish, but I would dare not say I didn´t believe.

That’s why Alfonso´s comment rubbed me the wrong way. You don’t want to get married? It’s your life. You don’t want to formally baptize your daughter? Who am I to say anything?

I put the question to Kike, he with the opinion about everything. Turns out, Susana and Alfonso wanted to baptize Luna in a beautiful chapel in the Triana neighborhood, Santa Ana. The priest asked if they were married. They said no. He then asked if the godparents, Kike and Susana´s cousin, Ana, were confirmed. They responded that the godfather was, and the godmother not. Exit new parents.

On the contrary, religion is sometimes laughed at. It´s common to say, “Me cago en Díos,” which literally means, “I shit on God.” Tell me how something so sacred to 45 million people (ok, I´m generalizing), can be relinquished to such a vulgar way to say, oh, shit. It´s laughable, really.

Tradition is deep-rooted in Spain, and as a foreigner, I feel like I´ve had to navigate these subtle differences with a lot of grace and precaution. I have the luck of being of the same denomination, but imagine the darling Turkish girl who worked with me last year. She flat-out refused to try ham on her toast, garnering lots of heckles from our coworkers. But it´s her religion that doesn´t allow it! If Sevilla were to build a mosque within the city limits, Sevillanos would have a field day picketing, swearing and doing everything in their power to prevent the groundbreaking. It would be an abomination, they´d say.

And since Alfonso and Susana can’t baptize their baby as they wish, well, they´re just going to have lunch at the pool.

And it’s not just those big, heavy issues – it’s everyday little things that I feel are off-limits. Eating lentejas or cereal for dinner – no can do. Leaving the air on at night? Don’t tell me your Spanish abuelita never told you that doing so will give you a cold. And leave it to my friend Stacy to point out all the intricacy of having a baby as an American woman in Spain.

The Spanish culture, with all of its caveats and contrasts, amazes and amuses me. But don’t let me tell you I never thought it was weird.

Filed Under: Andalucia, religion ·

18 May

May 23, 2010 by · 2 Comments

If there are two typically Spanish things, it’s futbol and fiesta.

If you’re lucky, they both happen the same day. May 18th, if you’re a Sevillano, may very well have been one of the best days of your life. Here’s a play-by-play of last Wednesday:
7:15 – Wake up to shouts of, “QUE VIVA LA BLANCA PALOMA!” Or, long live the white dove! and the subsequent release of cannons. The mass of the Virgen del Rocio, or Virgen of the Dew, starts promptly at that hour. I was at Kike’s house, so I covered the pillow with my head and tried to sleep it off.
The pilgrimage to El Rocio, a beautiful and famous hermitage in the middle of Southern Spain’s famous national park, happens every Wednesday before pentecost in both Triana and Olivares. Around here, most girls are named for the famous virgins, and I have no shortage of friends and students named after the white dove, Rocio. Faithful followers rent of by big trailers, spruce them up with pictures of the Virgin and brightly-colored flowers, and make a long trek on foot towards the hermitage, a journey of 67 kilometres. People come in droves to see the simpecado, a gold-laden statue of the Virgin, passed around on Pentecost Sunday.
8:00 – Grabbing Juan Bosco, I set off for the long way home. Instead of cutting through the center and through Triana, I was relegated to practically the highway because the entire Police force of Seville was directing traffic. The carretas, the trailers which carry the pilgrims, had completely clogged San Jacinto. I quickly got dressed amidst cracks of whips sticks and more cannon booming.

8:50 – From my table besides the window in La Sonata, I ate my tostada and had my coffee listening to tambourines tingle. Women in short flamenco dresses with stiff leather boots and men sporting straw hats emblazoned with their hermandad stood around smoking, greeting friends and making sure they had everything together. Many wore green and white (the colors of Triana) braided necklaces bearing a round, silver image of the virgin. Triana and Olivares joined about ten other hermandades that day in camino to the Aldea de El Rocio, as the small municipality is called, and it is among one of the most famous. Sevillanas played and the hermanos filled the streets. I walked to the bus stop and watched carretas join a long line, all numbered, waiting for the official salida at 11am. Sadly, the simpecado, which is often pulled by bulls, had not left.

Most people make the trip to El Rocio on foot, choosing to sleep in the fields at night and leave the trailers for storing food and drink and taking refuge during inclement weather. Rocieras, another version of Sevillanas, keep the troops motivated, and some go on horseback or carry the carretas with tractors.

9:50 – The bus driver pulled into the first stop in Olivares and said, this is as far as we can go. I was easily a 15-minute walk from school, with heels and with treats for my students, so I trucked along the town’s main street until I ran into the trailers. Olivares’s hermandad is also well-known, but the carretas are simple, pulled by tractors and briming with smartly-dressed Olivarenas who waved to the people gathered on street corners and on balconies as if it were their maiden voyage. Since school had been cancelled for the first two hours, I met a few of my compis in front of the hermandad’s church, Nuestra Senora de las Nieves, and watched the remainder of the parade go by.

A carreta leaves Olivares, in front of the hermandad rociera’s chapel

10:30 – Two of my students, Rocio and her cousin Carmela, were missing from my first class, and even though I had a few days left, they had already said goodbye to me. The rest of the school day was fairly normal: classes, private lessons, and by the time I left Jaime and Maria’s, I was exhausted and feeling stressed.

10 pm – I arrived to Kike’s house exasperated and with three boxes of brownies still to make. I was greeted in the plaza with shouts of ATLEEEEEEETI and VIVA ER BETI! Sevilla FC and Atletico Madrid were duking it out that night for the championship of the Copa del Rey. Kike watched while I poured over boxed brownies with scant cooking supplies. Sevilla won 2-0, and I could have cared less. The city of Sevilla, however, did care, and car honking, screaming and red and white fireworks continued until 3am.

Pff, I’d take siestas over virgins any day.

For a video of the salida of the Virgen from her temple, click here

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Filed Under: Andalucia, religion, Rocio · Tagged:
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