Closer than you think

The phrase "Estamos en crisis" is a constant refrain in Spanish life. The economic crisis is on everyone's lips, as an explanation ("We can't take the bilingual kids on their exchange trip to Holland this year because of the crisis"), an excuse (for everything from why this particular bar is empty tonight to why the kids didn't get the PS3 they wanted for Christmas), even a New Years' goal (particularly poignantly, several of my 9 year old students said they hoped the crisis would end when I asked about their hopes for 2013.)  There's no question that Spain is having a rough time of it right now. Aside from the constant talk, new unemployment statistics are published seemingly every week, the most recent number quoted as near 40% under age 30. Walking downtown, at least a third of the shops are empty.

But, conversely, that means 70% of the shops are occupied, and they're often full of shoppers. The tapas bars are hopping most nights, and the trains sell out on long weekends. For a foreigner living on a modest but sufficient stipend, it's easy to feel like the crisis is a mythical creature, something difficult but abstract and distant. No trip to Holland, no PS3, the occasional empty bar-- sure, things could be better, but that doesn't sound that bad, right?

The same can be said for the school where I work. To my untrained eye, everything and everyone appears comfortably middle class. Sure, I was advised to ask students where they'd like to travel instead of where they've traveled, for fear of making them feel bad about their life experience. Sure, there are limits for photocopying, and whiteboard markers are meted out like gold bars. But everyone appears to be doing okay; not too rich, not too poor.

Except then there's today, at a meeting with the music teacher to discuss our classes for the coming weeks. We sat down and were about to begin when there was a knock on the door. He excused himself; I waited 5, 10, almost 15 minutes. I admit to looking at my watch, fidgeting, getting impatient. As an auxiliar, it's easy to feel that people don't respect your time and effort. Many fellow auxiliars have expressed their frustration to me about classes changed at the last second, negating hours of preparation; about classes cancelled without warning, rendering lengthy commutes unnecessary.

But when the teacher came back inside, he had a perturbed look on his face and explained that he was talking with some of the other teachers. "You know," he said, "There are some kids in this school with families who are doing really poorly under the current economy. I mean really poorly-- including students that go some days without eating. Imagine that you have to pay 380 euros rent every month and you're making 400 euros. What are you going to do? What are you going to eat?" He shook his head.

"You think about people going hungry in Africa or in India. But right here? Right next door? It's a terrible feeling to know people are living this way here. So we're thinking about trying to come together as teachers to at least give the kids a meal at school."

I finished my meeting and went to the grocery store behind the school, and as I filled my cart I couldn't stop thinking about those kids. I'm sure they're trying so hard to seem like everything is "normal"-- and, by and large, it's working, at least to my uneducated eye. I decided right there in the produce aisle that the next time I get irritated with a daydreaming student, I'll check myself: maybe he or she has a growling stomach, maybe he or she slept poorly last night with no heat. The crisis is here, now, and no assumptions and appearances can take away that reality.

Of course, maybe that distracted student is just a teenager being a teenager. After all, kids don't need any help getting distracted. But I figure, did a little extra compassion ever hurt anyone? I think that's what I can take away from this: there isn't any good way for me to directly help these kids and their families (although if this school meal plan materializes, I'll probably participate), but compassion and an open mind are some things I can bring to the table.

It had been awhile since I'd gone grocery shopping, so I was loaded down with food walking home, so much so that I had to stop a few times to rest. I often think about how lucky I am to be here, but I don't think about how lucky I am, period.

The big news is here!

 Midsummer bonfire at the cathedral in Segova-- just one of the photos you'll see and locations you'll learn about at 48 Horas

I'm so excited to finally be able to share with you all that 'big news' I mentioned a few weeks back. This weekend we finally unveiled months of work/organization/planning. I am super psyched to announce a new online travel blog-magazine (blogazine?), 48 Horas, which looks to help travelers and expats explore Spain in bite-sized pieces. We've got a pretty awesome staff living all over the country, ready to share their expertise and personal adventures about life in Spain. The site will feature articles on 48-hour adventures in various Spanish locales, plus spotlights of our writers' favorite hidden haunts, great pictures, and our favorite personal adventure stories. I think this could be awesome.

Check it out, and tell your friends! We're at www.48-horas.com 

The trilingual's dilemma, part 2

I spent last weekend in Granada, an ancient Andaluz city that's famous for its mazelike ancient neighborhoods and rollicking nightlife, all watched over by a thousand-year old military/palace complex (the world-famous Alhambra.) I went with my good friend, Hannah, and besides the obligatory overwhelmingly gorgeous Alhambra visit, we spent the weekend exploring the old city's nooks and crannies and taking advantage of Granada's tapas bars, which rival Linares in their scope, diversity, and low prices.

On Saturday night, we were walking along yet another narrow cobblestone alley, from one bar to another, and Hannah asked me a question. I'm not sure what the question was, and really in this context it's unimportant; the important thing is that I didn't know the answer. So, my answer to her was: "Not an idea."

Of course, "Not an idea" is a phrase that could conceivably occur somewhere in the English language. Any given object-- be it table, computer, sneaker, or apple-- is, in fact, "not an idea." One might even use it to say that something is a foolish prospect. "Try to drive on Storrow Drive between 5:30 PM and 6? That is totally not an idea." But as an answer to a question someone asked you? It hardly makes sense.

In Spanish, however, "ni idea" (which actually translates to "not even one idea") is a perfectly acceptable answer to a question you don't know the answer-- and herein lies my current trilingual problem. As I mark 1.5 years living abroad in Spain, I find my languages mixing and melding in an entirely unexpected way. I speak English and Spanish about 40% to 60%, respectively, in my daily life (varying depending on who I'm meeting for tapas, which classes I'm teaching, how many hours I'm at school that day, etc.) But I am finding that after prolonged exposure to Spanish on an every-day basis, my English is altering. I'm not sure if I want to call it thinking in Spanish because I still am aware of English words in my thoughts, but it certainly appears that my mother tongue conversation is being filtered in some way through a Spaniard neighborhood in my brain.

The incident in the Granada alleyway was far from the first time something like this has happen: I've caught myself saying "I hope we have luck tonight!" (which translates directly from the Spanish "tener suerte") or using the phrase "to put yourself in contact with [someone]" (which sounds almost right in English but is still just the tiniest bit off.) And I'm not the only one. I've heard Hannah do it a few times, and about a month ago during a visit to Madrid, my American friend Thomas referred to some future visitors as "coming in car." This is clearly a common, if little-noticed, side effect of linguistic immersion.

Long time readers of this blog have followed my progress in Chinese and my Spanish beginnings. In 2010, I wrote about starting to identify as a "trilingual" as I struggled to rescusitate my middle-school level Spanish skills during six weeks in Guadalajara, Mexico. Last fall, I wrote about the balancing act between the two and the decision I made to put Chinese aside and focus on Spanish. And almost six (!!) years ago I wrote here about the strange melange of Chinese and English our study abroad group developed together, using the word that came to us first, regardless of language-- "Pass me the kuaizi [chopsticks]," for example.

 That last phenomenon of language-mixing comes close to what I'm talking about now, but it's never developed this far before. I've code switched (I wrote here about the first time I couldn't remember the English word for "ski lift," only the Chinese-- lan che), but I've never noticed my mother tongue being filtered by some other force. It feels the strangest because it doesn't feel like anything at all. Only suddenly, I find my words and phrasings (which, as a writer, are not small parts of me) strangely altered-- speaking the way I've always spoken and the way I've never spoken all at once.

It makes me wonder what else is being reconfigured. I've written here before that in anthropology circles, it's a widely accepted idea that culture is language. If the language making my basic linguistic decisions right now is Spanish-- a language that has 10 words for various cuts of pig and types of pork-- what does that say about me as a Jew? Does my power of idiom and wordplay stay the same, and if not why not? Do I have the same sense of humor? Will I write the same way if I don't speak the same way? Basically: does my changed grammar change me?

Big announcement coming!

It's too early for a formal announcement, but I'd like to give you all a little teaser: I've been working with several friends and acquaintances for the last few months, and our work is going to come to fruition shortly. Our new project (which has to do with Spain exploration and adventures) will have its launch in the next couple of weeks! For now, you can follow our brand new twitter, @48HorasMag.

Can't wait to share more about this with all of you!

Worth a thousand words 1: Sevilla

A few entries ago, I mentioned that during this fall I visited the Andaluz cities of Sevilla and Cadiz; I also mentioned that in the course of those visits I managed to lose my camera. I'm sorry to report that that means the photos of my lovely Sevillana and Gaditano adventures are lost-- however it presents me with an opportunity, as well. It's a common theme in literary criticism that the best kind of writing is that which is so descriptive that you feel 'right there in the moment' with the author. I'm choosing to pair that with the old truism "A picture is worth a thousand words." My challenge to myself: use my photo-less state to bring you into the loveliest moments of these two trips with just my words. Let's see if I can do it. This entry: some images from Sevilla.


I.

We walk the crooked streets of old Sevilla, and small details leap out to meet us: a bar in a shady square, offering orange wine sticky-sweet under pastel umbrellas; a jewel-toned shrine to Maria tucked in a corner; a deserted fountain where ladies once gathered water, now carpeted with dead leaves and plastic wrappers. The weather is strange, prone to sudden downpours. We come upon a small plaza sprouted with three wrought-iron crosses of various size, barely an opening in the warren of alleyways. The rain comes swiftly, with barely a warning whisper, and we duck into the nearest bar, our breath steaming. Inside, happy hoards celebrate some birthday; the full-figured barmaid asks if we'd like to come in. We demur, wait out the deluge. As we exit, I notice a sign: 'Hoy, a las 11:00, flamenco en vivo' (today at 11:00'-- live flamenco.)

We wander, crossing the river, stopping for tapas, then find ourselves again by the three iron crosses. The concert has already started, two men singing, their fingers a blur over guitar strings. There's a crowd along the bar, curving their hands in that hollow flamenco clap or standing in big-eyed tourist awe. The musicians raise their voices in a harmony so sweet it almost reaches the tastebuds; they sing melodies that loop in and out of one another playfully. Some songs are harsh and full of passion; others are joyful and exultant. The waitress hands me a beer. I taste hops and soaring notes.

The hours pass. The tourists leave, and the musicians retire to a backroom, motioning for those that remain to follow. Here, the mood is more casual. One woman in the audience gets up to sing, her voice and eyes steady. After, two of her friends get up to dance sevillanas, eye contact intense and steps careful, circling one another, spinning and whirling with practiced feet. One of the guitarists takes a break to dance, as well-- his spine incredibly erect, his arms arced above him. His eyes stay locked with those of his partner, the waves of her long, dark hair brushing his back as they turn and turn, the force between them almost visible. The clock strikes 2, then 3. The night transports my exhaustion somewhere outside the bounds of this bar, now quiet save for the sound of a single guitar.

II.

I'm here visiting Teresa, who lives in Plaza El Salvador, one of the oldest, busiest plazas in all of old Sevilla with her grandmother and sister. The stones of the plaza, dark gray and deeply grooved, tell stories of centuries' worth of footsteps. It's the first house I've ever visited with an elevator: like a New York townhouse, it stretches upward instead of outward. The rooms are lovely and well furnished, but the best part is also the highest: two balconies that face the Sevillana sky in all its tints of blue, yellow, and purple gray. From here, you see that the house is actually part of the massive church next door; from here you look down into the interior courtyard, lined with trees. There one night, perhaps, people might gather to hear a Semana Santa band practicing off season, the brassy tones intermingling with many voices chatting over cheap beer. The domes of the church rise on both sides like mountain tops, and when the bells chime the air vibrates; it sings.

Another side, another balcony. From here you look down directly into the plaza, where people are gathered almost any time of day or evening, any day of the week, crowding into the rickety wooden tables to drink glasses of port or tinto de verano (red wine and lemonade) and snack on bowls of corn nuts or kettle-boiled potato chips. From here one sees the larger patterns of never-ceasing movement, streams of people coming and going in a constant low boil of drinks finished, stories told, strollers maneuvered through the fray-- all accompanied by the quiet roar of many voices. To one side, a scattering of people sit on the church steps, finishing their drinks and whiling away the day (or the night); from here they look like kettle chip crumbs. Beyond them: the technicolor facades of 1920s Sevilla, then the elegant curves and angles of the city's rooftops, fading away in all directions.

III
Amid more Sunday downpours, we visit the Real Alcazar, Sevillas Moorish Palace answer to Granada's Alhambra. Short on time, we wander through a jungle garden, lush and green and steaming. We toe elaborate tiling; the walls are a curling, almost undulating vision of lacelike Arab  plasterwork. The sun bounces merrily off white walls, matching the graceful arches and the curving streams of fountains--one to each chamber-- that whisper a susurrus under so many green leaves. We turn left here, right there, delighting in the surprise each new room brings. Here, an array of ceramic tiles dating back 700 years; there a groom and bride, taking pictures nestled under the twisted boughs of ancient trees--her Ugg boots peeking out from layers of frothy gown as she struggles to keep her dress off the muddy ground. We walk down a ramp, then down again to the old baths, where cream-colored archways are made whole in the reflection of a perfectly still silver pool. To walk in this garden is to be engulfed in another time.

Another downpour, out of the clear sky, the falling water--strong as a shower--strafed with brilliant flares of sunlight. My legs ache, so I take advantage of the sudden cataract, sitting down cross-legged under the eaves of some kind of garden cottage (even such a simple structure is elaborately carved, tiled blue and green and yellow, iced with gold, fit for a king.) Just as suddenly: a cat appears, long-haired, dark, impossibly proud. He pads fluidly around the corner and sits in my lap without a pause, surveying the soaking sun. We sit together in the shaded shelter of the eaves. The cat squints, licks his paw, eyes me nonchalantly. It's as if he was expecting me; it's as if I never left.

Inaugurations

Last night I arrived home late from a weekend away in the coastal town of Almeria. Hannah (the same American friend who cooked Thanksgiving dinner with me) and I caught the bus from the train station into town, feeling weary after a long, sunny day whizzing around the stunning Cabo de Gata, a wild national park full of desert mountains and crashing waves. It was late, and the bus was empty save for us, the driver, and one other rider, a young guy who looked like he was probably arriving for another week at the technical university here.

The hum of the radio provided a pleasant white noise background for the first few minutes of the ride into town, but then I caught the words 'la casa blanca' in a news report--the White House-- and heard a recording of President Obama taking the oath of office earlier in the day. I turned to Hannah in surprise. "Was that today!?" I exclaimed; "Man, I totally forgot!"

For just a moment, I was transported to the east coast of Australia. Four years ago yesterday, I was just starting my trip around the world. I stopped for a few days in Elliot Heads, a small town huddled around a sandy strip of blue water, famous for its relaxed RV community and nesting sea turtles. The second night I stayed awake late, walking the beach looking for laying mothers under a sky I described in this blog as 'incandescent' with stars. The next day, I went into the town's small general store to buy breakfast and found the front page of the local paper festooned with Obama's face. I remember feeling a strange surge of emotion: pride at my country's step forward, plus the sudden weight of distance, the importance of all those things, large and small, happening while I was asleep.

Yesterday, four years later, I felt that same weight, as well as another pull, one of time. It's hard to believe that four years have elapsed since the beginning of my 2009 trip. And thinking about President Obama and his new beginning has me considering everything I've 'inaugurated' in the last four years: new friendships, new jobs, new apartments, new languages. These four years have taken me to more than 30 countries (just typing that feels momentous.) They've brought me incredible adventures (snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, dancing with Aztecs at the equinox, and visiting Stonehenge just to name a few.) I've produced radio segments that aired on more than 20 radio stations in the USA. I've had articles optioned for translation and international publication. I've grown comfortable speaking another language on a daily basis. Who knows when I'll have another four years likes these?

Even further, who knows where I'll be for the next inauguration? Will I have to be reminded of the news in some other radio broadcast in a language I'm still learning? Will I wake to find the new important face on some strange newspaper's front page? What new adventures will I have faced? What new challenges will I be navigating? What new friends will I have made? It's easy to forget that, really, every day is an inauguration.

The importance of Expat Thanksgiving

I'll admit that even by lax Andalucian standards (with the strange exception of the bus schedule, I've found the southern Spanish stereotype regarding tardiness to be fairly accurate), this entry comes a bit late. It's even later than it might have been, because once we passed the New Year I had serious misgivings about posting at all. But who knows where I might be or what I might be thinking about Thanksgiving next year? I'd like to take a "better late than never, better properly written than slapdash" philosophy to this blog. So: onward!

I've spent a few holidays abroad in my time-- July 4th in China (2007), Greece (2009), or Spain (2012). Christmas in Spain (2009, 2010), England (2011), and Ireland (2012.) My birthday in Italy (2009 and 2012) and Spain/Germany (2011.) Thanksgiving in France (2009) and Spain (2011)-- and again this year. Each celebration abroad mixes the familiar and the new in an exciting way, and I've deeply enjoyed sharing elements of my favorite traditions (whether they be Independence Day s'mores or latkes on Hannukah) with new friends that have already taught me a great deal.

French Thanksgiving in 2009 was a magical affair: it took place in a borrowed apartment in Normandy stocked full of couchsurfers from Cherbourg and stuffed to the gills with instant mashed potatoes, chicken from the village rotisserie, and homemade Norman apple pie (more like a tart by American standards.) Last year's Palentino Thanksgiving was equally full of newness and excitement, as well as a dear friend who came to visit. She brought with her canned cranberry sauce, stuffing mix, and more instant mashed potatoes-- as well as a contagious love for the holiday that added spark to the proceedings.

Then, in what seemed like a blink, November came around again, bringing with it my third Thanksgiving outside US borders. For 2012, I arranged an elaborate meal with Hannah, a new American friend in Linares. We invited several Spanish (and two Polish) friends, who in turn invited their friends, and in the end we had a total of 12 people sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner! It was a little bit of an overwhelming prospect, but with determination and a dollop of team work we were able to produce a menu that included: an apple pie, two pumpkin pies, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, stuffing, graving, salad, and cranberry sauce (my pride and joy, concocted using reconstituted dried cranberries and--incredibly deliciously--an entire pomegranate.)

The results of a great deal of hard work! (Mostly Hannah's)

The day itself was full of happy, crowded chaos, exactly as a Thanksgiving should be. The invited throng trickled in starting around 3 PM--for once Spanish dining times coincided with American traditions-- just as Hannah and I were putting the finishing touches on the menu. The pies, which we had baked the previous night, were set to cool on the porch; the chickens were just coming out of the oven. We enlisted the cheerfully-complaining help of Maria and Jose to carve them and Polish Zeb to put some elbow grease into the mashed potatoes. Drinks were poured, places were set, the menu was translated among three languages, and we all sat down to a lip-smacking, multilingual, multicultural feast. (Of course, beforehand, Hannah and I insisted on following the time-honored tradition of saying something you're thankful for.)

The assembled Thanksgiving crew, before the meal

A complete Thanksgiving plate--even with cranberry sauce!

The meal was a total success. The conversation was peppered with compliments on the food (most of which our friends had never tried before) and a butchered/simplified version of the Thanksgiving story; the pumpkin pie, gravy, and cranberry sauce were particular hits. After a solid afternoon of eating and cleaning up, I even had a chance to take the customary post-Thanksgiving nap (here again Spanish and American traditions intersected.) I drowsed happily, thinking of people at home doing the same.

And here's the thing: it wasn't just people at home. In the coming days I saw pictures of expat friends all over the world celebrating. One in Beijing posted photos of a complicated Western-style spread; an acquaintance working for an NGO in Sudan took to his blog to describe in detail the effort of procuring a scrawny African chicken, getting it butchered, and preparing it for his feast. The next day, another NGO-worker, this one on the island of East Timor, posted pictures on Facebook of herself sharing a cooked, honeyed squash with a neighbor. There were no turkeys to be found, she said-- this was the closest she could approximate. Other friends throughout Spain sent anecdotes about the best way to make cranberry sauce (that's where I got the tip about using dried cranberries) or adventures adapting to Basque palates. It seemed like every expat I knew was going to extraordinary lengths to celebrate Thanksgiving, and it got me thinking--why are we so compelled to bring these American customs abroad, and what so is so specifically powerful about Thanksgiving?

I believe our expat Thanksgiving celebrations reflect our experiences living abroad as a whole. We spend most of the year immersed in otherness, a constant newness I personally find exciting and fresh,  exotic and educational. Over time, we adopt some of that newness as our own. Before my experience living in Spain, I couldn't imagine eating dinner outside of my family's customary 6:15-7:30 window. Now the thought of life without a mid-day siesta, eating dinner before 9 (or, God forbid, the senior citizen early bird special), forgoing tapas or tortilla (Spanish omelette) is horrifying; the idea of being able to go grocery shopping or do other normal errands on a Sunday seems absurd. I don't know how long it will take me to stop saying "hasta luego" at the end of every conversation or "perdona" when I bump into someone in the street. All of these very Spanish things have become an important part of me, Alissa-in-2013.

I think Thanksgiving maintains its power even over slowly-adapting expat lives because of its near universality within the US. American Indians apart, every family has a Thanksgiving ritual (even if, as in some cases, it's a lack of ritual). The holiday follows the powerful narrative of "becoming American"-- anyone can take part, regardless of religion, creed, or race; whether there's quinoa in the stuffing, curry on the turkey, or no turkey at all. Our memories of these days each year-whether they include elaborate cooking or family squabbles or beer and football or long drives or quiet time on the couch-- are something we can use as a marker, to remind us of who we were before we became our expat selves. And that makes Thanksgiving something that we can share back with the people who make our new lives abroad so rich. Thanksgiving means that we can say, if only for one day-- here, you've taught me so much about new music, new traditions, new tastes. Let me show you a little about where I'm from. Let me remind myself.


The glorious pies, against their very Spanish tiled "azulejo" background: maybe the epitome of what Expat Thanksgiving can mean





Evidence of a successful day