Barriers to entry

Barriers are obstacles that often emphasize differences. Language barriers do the same, but in a cultural context. The language barriers I’ve experienced in the past five days have just emphasized my awkwardness.

The first, I’ll say, was not exactly my error.

The second was one hundred percent my error.

The first incident occurred last weekend in the City of Lights. Take note, this is not in Spain, but in France. So I don’t feel completely dense about my language slip because my French vocabulary is limited to “bonjour”, “au revoir” and “merci”.

You can add the special French phrase I had to learn for our trip to Paris: “Je suis allergique aux noix.” This means, “I’m allergic to nuts.” Kind of important when you leave the Epipen for your allergy in Madrid …

So upon arriving in Paris last weekend, five friends and I were immediately tempted with Paris’ savory national delicacy: crêpes. Crêperies lined the streets and pumped out alluring aromas of freshly made pancakes. Crêpe stands could be found outside of every major tourist attraction we visited: The Louvre, Cathédrale Notre Dame, Seine River, Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Each boasted photos of crêpes stuffed with fruit and drizzled in chocolate that made all of our mouths water.

Our will power only carried us until 5 p.m.

Exhausted from walking all day, we made our way to one of the several crêpe places near the Louvre. The waiter greeted us with both “bonjour” and “hello”, then handed us the menu. Everyone wanted to sample the crêpes with Nutella made famous in Paris.

I would have loved to jump on the cultural bandwagon, but Nutella is 13 percent hazelnut. The last thing on my list of places to visit in Paris was the emergency room.

There was one flavor listed below Nutella: Calvado. Calvado was not included in my French vocab, so I pointed to the menu and asked the waiter what it meant.

“Brown-dee,” he said.

“Brownie?” I repeated.

“Oui, uh, yes.”

Scrap the Nutella, I wanted a brownie crêpe! And so did everyone else. We went around the table excitedly asking for these calvados.

Next thing we knew the waiter returned with six glasses of amber-colored liquid.

Does this come with the crêpes? we wondered.

We each took a whiff, then a sip, and then choked.

“This is brandy,” my friend said.

Not brownie. Damn.

I went up to the bar and managed to communicate to the waiter through a series of hand gestures and pointing to phrases in my Traveler’s Phrase Book that six giggly girls would probably not come into a crêperie on a Friday afternoon pining for a drink with an alcohol content of 60 percent.

Me with my apple brandy crepes. Yum?

He looked at me angrily and dumped the brandy we’d already sampled back into the bottle.

Then we reordered our crêpes: five Nutella crêpes and one crêpe calvado.

If I couldn’t eat the Nutella and if I could’t have my brownie, may as well try the crêpe doused in apple brandy. Play it off like you knew all along it was alcohol, you just wanted it on a crêpe.

It burned. But at least I had a little pride left.

***

The second language barrier incident of the week left me with no pride.

I’ve been trying to make some more Spanish friends and get involved in the community, so when the priest announced last Sunday an event to which “all are invited” I jumped on the chance. Yesterday at 8 p.m., I went to the Church expecting some kind of prayer service or lecture, some kind of cool community thing.

I sat down in a pew amidst old women clad nicely in slacks and fur coats. There were a few people my age in the corner, but they gave me strange looks.

This isn’t very friendly, I thought.

Then the priest entered. “Welcome,” he said. “We gather here this evening to commemorate the life of our sister Fernanda.”

Who the heck is Fernanda!?

Whoever she was, I had walked into her funeral.

Upon realizing my folly I let out an audible giggle. People looked. You can’t laugh at a funeral! So I made a run for it as soon as the congregation stood up.

How embarrassing! But it makes a good story.

Sorry, Fernanda.

 

The Brew not so by-you

I am trying, trying, trying to find a café I can study in… because I love a dull hum of voices around me, some inciting musical beat, buzzing coffee grinders and colored lights. It’s extra stimulation for me. Basically, I miss the Brew Bayou and am trying to find its Madrid counterpart.

But here, people don’t really study in cafes, or in public for that matter. So I get lots of strange looks when I sit down with my café con leche and open up my back pack. (Large purses are more “de moda” than bulky gray backpacks.) I get even stranger looks when I pull out a notebook. (Students here take notes on plain white computer paper.) And it’s even worse when I bust out the MacBook. (Apple = AMERICAN!)

But whatever. I’m used to it.

There was one time I brought my homework to an antique-looking café by my house. But then I realized it was more like an after-work joint for 50-something men to chain smoke and shoot whiskey than a Brew Bayou.

Today I went to Isolée, a café I read about in my Time Out Madrid city guide. They described it as a coffee bar where the young and trendy make use of the WiFi.

I’m young! I’m trendy (minus the backpack) and I really need WiFi for my homework! Isoée it is!

I came. I saw. And I’m not going back until I’m 35, have a cosmopolitan job, and can taste the difference between bottled waters.

Isolee is not just a coffee bar, but also a fashion, beauty, book, music and home accessory vendor. They sell faddish Pumas, espresso makers and MP3 players.

Café-goers dressed sleekly in black tone with the décor: Walls are white with large stripes of gray and black. Floors are black. Tables and chairs are white, and each have a shiny silver plate that says “Design Edition Isolée.”

My acid orange shirt was rather blinding in that atmosphere.

I did order a café solo con hielo (iced coffee), because it was a beautiful day and I was hot from my walk all the way to Chueca … but when I sat down I realized the WiFi connection didn’t work and that I couldn’t see the beautiful day out of the windows anyways. They had black and white squares painted on them, and ugly mannequins with Isolée-brand clothing blocked my view to the garden plaza outside.

So I downed my drink and asked the waiter with the gelled black hair and eyeliner for la cuenta. He gave me the up-down with the eyes and returned quickly with the check.

Then I skedaddled to the plaza outside to eat the sandwich I’d packed. Isolée serves petit garden salads on square glass platters. You can’t bring your own food into a place like that.

So, I lacked a little tact today. Big deal. I guess I’ll just wait till next semester to leech off MUWireless and bring my own turkey sandwich to the Brew.

And I’ll just go to the library tomorrow.

Check out Isolee’s Web site here.

 

La Historia de Nuestra Universidad

Last Wednesday I went to an exhibit at El Centro Cultural Conde Duque in Madrid called “La Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de Madrid en La Segunda República.”  The “facultad” is the building at the Universidad de Complutense where the Marquette en Madrid program is based, and “La Segunda República” was the Spanish government formed in the 1930s before the Spanish Civil War.  It was a liberal government for its time, one that allowed women to vote, attend college and hold their own jobs.  

The University’s story actually started before the Second Republic.  King Alfonso XII decided that Spain needed a modern University with a large campus, similar to those in the United States.  When Alfonso abdicated the throne, the Republic continued the University’s construction.  The architects looked to Berkeley and Harvard’s campuses, and also to Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs,  for inspiration.  The campus was incredibly modern for its time, and so was the educational system.  International students were attracted to the University, and a study abroad program was created.  A group of women from Smith college were the first American students at la Universidad de Complutense.  Complutense students could study abroad as well.  At the exhibit we met a woman who attended the university during the 1930s, and had gone on an “Ancient Civilizations” class cruise through the Mediterranean!  

The exhibit ended on a somber note.  The campus became a battleground during the Spanish Civil War.  The Filosofía y Letras building was used as a fort by the International Brigades that volunteered to help the Republicans (those who supported the Second Republic) as they fought off the Nationalists (Francisco Franco’s supporters).   The building was destroyed, along with hundreds of books that were used to barricade the windows.  We know how the story ends:  Franco won the war and instated a dictatorship that would last until the 1970s.  Though the Facultad was rebuilt, many of the aspects that made the university so modern and unique disappeared along with the Second Republic.  

I was surprised to find that the building that I have been studying in for over a month played such a major role in Spanish history.  Today the walls are covered in graffiti and students buy Heineken in the cafeteria between classes, but I can imagine it before the war, with brand new desks and stained glass windows, and I feel as if I’m carrying on a tradition that started long before I was born.  

 

What a copout

I must say a month is far too long to go between blog posts. But I will say that my lack of blogging is not due to lethargy, nor forgetfulness, nor discontent with my experience in Madrid.

I haven’t been blogging simply because the words I write for this Web site are in English.

Ending the day with English seems like a complete copout after going all day speaking Spanish. And it feels strange to switch into English mode.

Even right now it’s taking me longer to form coherent sentences because I’ve begun to think (slowly) in Spanish. Not to say my Spanish is anywhere near where it should be at this point, but I can definitely feel the transition. My dreams are in Spanglish. Yesterday I caught myself switching to Spanish mid-sentence in an e-mail to my roommate. I had two-hour-long conversation about politics with my host family and understood most of it. Slowly…

But I’m realizing that if I really want to learn this language I’m going to have to work at it. We’ve been here five weeks now. The first three I copped out fairly often and used English to talk with Marquette friends here in Madrid. I spent far too much time on Facebook and had my computer at my side at all times.

Now I’m reading one of the Spanish newspapers, El Mundo, each day and writing down words and phrases in a little notebook. I study the words while I’m on the Metro going to class or out for the evening. (Fashion magazines are actually quite helpful because there are pictures.) I sit down and watch TV. American movies are dubbed in Spanish. (Last week we watched Señor y Señora Smith with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.) I listen to the radio, EuropaFM. (That station is kind of cheating because it supplements Spanish pop songs with English songs by Rihanna and Red Hot Chili Peppers, but that’s sort of difficult to avoid … pop culture is pretty much steered by America…)

And some days are harder than others… like when I respond to questions with completely unrelated answers… kind of like today when my host brother asked if I would heat up our lunch in the microwave and I answered that answered that no, I hadn’t eaten yet (or something like that). And then there was that time I said the word “banana” with a Spanish accent instead of actually saying the Spanish word for banana (that was embarrassing). Oh yes, I often make my host family crinkle their brows because they can’t understand what I’m trying to say. But it’s coming.

So the take home message is this: I feel like I’m giving in or giving up if I write in English after trying so hard all day to learn Spanish.

I’ll try to blog in English as much as my conscience allows. I still owe a lot of stories about my host family my daily routine and exciting travels. One day soon. But now I’m going to read El Mundo.

 

Sevilla, Andalucía

I am back in Madrid after spending my long weekend in Toledo and Seville.  I traveled to Toledo by high speed train in 25 minutes, but the bus ride to Seville was 6 and a half hours.  The trip was well worth it, though.  Seville is exactly what comes to mind when I think of Spain.  Orange trees line the streets, buildings are painted in bright colors, people dance flamenco in the streets, and it was WARM.  

I’m sorry to everyone back in Wisconsin, this will make you incredibly jealous, but it was 72 degrees in Seville.  

The city is also very bike-friendly– we rented bikes and rode along the Guadalquivir River and through el Parque María Luisa and la Plaza de España.  Later on we also toured the Cathedral (the 3rd largest in the world and the supposed resting place of Christopher Columbus) and the Alcázar, a palace that King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofía still use when they travel to Seville.  The accommodations there are likely better than those of our hostel, which was lacking one window pane and a decent shower.  Its redeeming feature was the rooftop terrace with a perfect view of the Cathedral tower, la Giralda.  And one bed cost only 11 euro per night!  Plenty of money left over for helado and sangria…cuando en Sevilla!

 

Soxiled © Megan Wholey 2009

My first few days living with my señora, Emmy, have been an adjustment. Not bad by any means, just different. Today I spent an extra hour confined to my bedroom, because I couldn’t find a pair of socks or slippers to wear in the house, thus, I was soxiled. No matter, there was toast, tea, and orange juice waiting for me when I emerged.

 

‘The Moment’ Madrid style

 

Students gather at the Hotel InterContinental for Obama inauguration.

 

Flags wave and cameras flash as Obama takes the stage.

We strolled up to the Hotel InterContinental on Tuesday not expecting to see police cars and bomb-sniffing dogs.

 

 

But with hundreds of Americans in a single space to watch the inauguration of the man who is supposed to restore faith in a crumbling world power, there’s got to be security.

Hundreds of American jovenes, or young people, gathered that day to watch what CNN dubbed “The Moment”: the historic inaugural ceremony of Barack Obama.

Cameras from the Spanish media greeted us as we entered the ballroom. Tables of celebratory champagne and good ole American-style Cheetos and potato chips tempted us as we walked further inside. A projection screen stood tall against the back wall. On it we saw CNN’s overhead shots of the sea of people stretched two miles across the National Mall to the Lincoln Memorial.

We Marquette students situated ourselves on the floor near the projection screen. An important looking man pulled up chairs for three wrinkled Spanish-speaking old women behind us, and the remaining viewers crammed themselves like sardines into the ballroom.

Students gather at the Hotel InterContinental for Obama inauguration.

Flags wave, cameras flash as Obama takes the stage.
I was overwhelmed with American pride.

Although Democrats Abroad sponsored the event, it didn’t seem to matter whether we were liberals or conservatives. We were gathered as students of history to take part in the story itself.

At the first glimpse of Obama on screen, the crowd erupted in cheers. American flags and “Yes We Can” posters waved furiously from the hands of impatient viewers. Cameras flashed, and the moment began.

I’ve talked with some Spaniards who think Obama is the savior of the modern world. I’ve talked with others who think our nation is so inherently wasteful and persistently ethnocentric that no president can change our attitudes or our global presence.

“The world has changed,” Obama said in his speech. “We must change with it.”

Two days after the inauguration, Obama’s face still plasters the front cover of every major newspaper, and even some of the Universidad papers. His message of responsibility and mutual respect has clearly struck a chord in common humanity.

It’s not to say Obama is immunized from foreign criticism, the Spanish media has done plenty of that. It is, however, to say that just as we can come together as Americans living in Madrid, we can come together as a global community. But that responsibility doesn’t lie with Barack Obama. It lies with us.

 

Choque Cultural = Culture shock

Obviously my vocabulary has increased, but I’m still trying to adapt to the culture. It’s very easy to forget you are in Madrid. It’s a beautiful city, like most I have seen, and it is very accomodating for English speaking visitors. I sometimes get lost in that aspect until I take a look around and realize it’s the little things that make it special. It wasn’t until I gave my dinner waiter a big smile and a waive that I realized I have a lot to learn. Apparently, Spanish culture tells us that smiling at strangers either means you are dumb or trying to hit on them…would have been good to know at the time. The spanish people in general seem to be very blunt and sarcasm, which is usually my language, is hard to pick up. Hoping to keep learning these helpful hints and more…

 

Jamón Jamón

 

el Museo del Jamón

I have been in Madrid for almost a week now, and I find it necessary to simplify my thoughts by writing about one topic at a time. The category that seems to be most difficult for us Americans to wrap our heads around is la comida, or Spanish food. The first difference is meal times. The Spanish eat lunch around 2:30 p.m. and dinner close to 9:00, which is quite a change from the States, where any nutritionist will tell you to eat five small meals a day, and not to eat right before you go to sleep.

 

Secondly, the Spaniards have no qualms about hanging full pigs from the ceiling as a method of storage, and many restaurants display full fish and tentacles in their windows as to entice people walking by. Ham is unavoidable in Spain. I learned that its status as a national symbol dates back to the Inquisition, when the Muslims and Jews had to prove their conversion to Christianity (both religions prohibit the eating of pork.) I wonder if there were any vegetarians during the fifteenth century.

 

The Spanish use olive oil more often than butter, and desert is either a very small portion of flan or helado (ice cream) or fruit. They also seem to eat a lot of white bread, rice and potatoes, but I suppose this is canceled out by the quantity of walking madrileños do, because I have seen muchos hombres that wear tighter jeans than I do. Maybe the US should take note!

 

Let it snow, but not here!

This snowman is quite patriotic.

We woke our first morning in Madrid to a lovely coating of the very thing we all left Milwaukee to escape: snow.

As the white fluff filled in the cracks of the cobblestone streets, most Madrileños had no idea what was going on. They put chains on car tires and even stopped flights to and from Barajas International Airport. A whole 6 centimeters (about 2.5 inches) of snow was enough to shut down the entire city.

According to the International Herald Tribune, Madrid hadn’t seen that much snow since 2001. Some people I talked with said it had been 10, even 20, years.

Such a petty snowfall doesn’t break my Minnesota spirit. But when you’ve accidentally left your coat at the airport, the cold does.

I layered a sweater, sweatshirt and a North Face fleece (just so I could scream AMERICAN even louder) and went outside with the group to take the bus to la Universidad Complutense for orientation.

The Madrileños walked even faster than usual, but with scarves wrapped around their down-turned faces. Some walked arm-in-arm so as not to slip. Many carried umbrellas. Middle-aged and sophisticated-looking people threw snowballs at each other and laughed at such a novel idea of fun.

And then there were the snowmen — or should I say, “snow heaps”?

Brooke and me with a Spanish snow heap, but this one's actually pretty good!

Many Madrileños attempted to make snowmen, complete with carrot noses and pebble eyes. But few had mastered the technique of rolling the snow into evenly shaped balls. They mostly just packed it together into a giant mass that looked more like a pyramid than a body.

That’s when we Marquette students laughed and felt a bit more at home in such a foreign country.