The bliss of solitude

Have you ever been in a changing room with two mirrors on parallel walls? That's a bit what Córdoba's Mezquita is like.

I'd been putting off seeing the Mezquita because everyone kept telling me how incredible it is, and I belong to that jaded, nothing-new-under-the-sun generation that thinks it knows everything. In other words, I had low expectations. Besides, I'd seen plenty of photographs of its iconic red-and-yellow arches, and I wasn't too impressed.

But photos of the arches don't give perspective, and no image can recreate the feel of a space. And to me, that's what the Mezquita is about. All those enormous, repeating arches in the vast room of the Mezquita make you feel minuscule. The emphasis is on nature; though some of the stone is painted, most of the geometric carvings bring out the natural beauty of the rock. The building has a great deal of natural light as well.

The low point of the Mezquita is the assortment of Catholic art, which might be quite beautiful in a medieval cathedral but looks very out-of-place in the ancient, minimalist building. Whereas the Arabic writing and designs are gold-gilded or have a smidge of silver, the Catholic areas display piles of pure-gold artifacts, like the lair of a really tacky dragon.

There's also a slab of stone carved with a large number of names. Beneath the names, the stone reads:
Sacerdotes diocesanos que dieron su vida por Cristo en la persecucion religiosa 1936-1939*

This "religious persecution" was the Spanish Civil War.

*"Diocesan priests who gave their lives for Christ in the religious persecution from 1936-1939"

Spanish home births.

Today, a woman invited me to a nacimiento, which, being the boss at Spanish that I am, I immediately knew to mean birth.

"Interesting!" I exclaimed. "I've never seen one before."

"Never?" she asked.

"No..."

"It's in my house," she told me. "It's going to be sometime in late December."

Oh, I said to myself, she must be a midwife! "Are births often in houses here?" I asked.

"Yes, a fair amount," she replied. "And in churches, of course."

Churches? I thought, puzzled.

"You're living in Córdoba, right?" she asked. I nodded, and she continued, "Keep an eye out for signs. Some houses enter in competitions."

That was when I realized that nacimiento means a nativity scene.

AWKWARD.

WARNING: Vaguely political content ahead.

Yesterday I experienced, for the second time in my life, what it's like to be the only American in a group of Europeans watching a Michael Moore documentary.

It's not a nice feeling.

In the US, I can appreciate Michael Moore because he's completely up-front about his bias, and if you sift through it you find interesting information and hear the voices of people you otherwise probably would never talk to in your day-to-day life. Sure, I wince at some of the generalizations and sure, I have some pretty heavy criticism, but if Fox News can have the motto, "Fair and Balanced," there's no reason someone like Michael Moore can't make documentaries in which he honestly states his personal beliefs.

But watching Bowling for Columbine in my "Imperio, diversidad y globalización en el mundo de habla inglés" class was just uncomfortable.

If you're watching one of his movies with an American audience, you can shake your head and wince at all the stupid stuff that goes on in our country. You get it. You've met people like that. You know what it's like. But as I was watching it at the Universidad de Córdoba, all I could think was, "Oh boy, more American stereotypes confirmed." Every proud gun-owner going on about shooting burglars (or building bombs) was another tally mark against my country in my classmates' eyes, or at least, that's what my paranoid imagination leads me to believe.

Then the professor stopped the movie to talk with us about how diverse the US is and how every state is different and has its own culture, and not all Americans support the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan... and then my conscience kicked in and I wanted to say, "Our country as a whole supports these things, though. Collectively, we're guilty."

I don't want people from outside the US to get the impression that it's one big mess of violence and belligerence. But sometimes I see it that way myself.

Trick or treat

Halloween has never been a part of Spanish tradition, but it's gained popularity in recent years-- American and British influence, I guess.

I'm teaching English at a secondary school in the province of Seville. On Friday, my 12-to-15-year-old students brought in pumpkin cookies, pumpkin cakes, and jack-o-lanterns. Each student wanted me to try his or her baked goods, and since I work with five classes, I ended up feeling a little ill.

They had prepared a poem, a politer version of "Trick or treat/Smell my feet/Give me something good to eat," which they then recited to me in exchange for candy (provided their pronunciation was good enough).

The jack-o-lanterns were very creative. Pumpkins aren't extremely common in Spain, so some students improvised with watermelons or other gourds. One student spray-painted his pumpkin gold. At the end of the day, some of the pumpkins were abandoned, so I brought two of them home (one of which now belongs to my landlord's daughter, who was looking for one).

One of the girls told me that she would be having a Halloween party that weekend. Guests would come dressed in all black or all white. They'd watch scary movies.

On Saturday night, Henri drove to Córdoba from the international airport in Madrid. It took about five hours; it was around 2 AM when he finally found the train station. He had initially wanted to drive straight to my apartment, but I insisted that he arrive at a big landmark because Córdoba is such a confusing city by car. It's lucky I put my foot down; he had to stop and ask for directions several times.

We managed to find free parking in Ciudad Jardín, a half-hour walk from my studio.

At the market on Sunday, Henri introduced me to a food whose name I can't remember-- a kind of nut that's marinated like olives. It's roughly the size of my thumbnail, yellow in color, and is a rounded-square shape. It's coated in thin skin like that of a chickpea, and you have to bite a hole in the skin and pop it out to eat it.

Other than Henri and myself, only two people showed up to my philosophy class on Monday. Today, Tuesday, is All Saints' Day, and there are no classes. Our professor, after a half-hour lecture, took us out for coffee.

Photos

Food

Being vegetarian kind of limits my dietary options here, not that I expected anything different. I'd love to be out and about and trying all the different foods Córdoba has to offer, but unfortunately most of the meals center around meat.

I live on my own and cook my own meals, so the meat-based local specialties haven't been a problem in that sense. Still, my cultural immersion is less than it would be if I were an omnivore. Food is very important here.

But I haven't been completely cut off from Spanish cuisine. Thankfully, if I go out with friends I can always have a tortilla or some salmorejo.

I had my first Spanish tortilla-- a potato omelet rather than a flour or corn flatbread-- in the United States, where a friend of mine who'd lived in Granada prepared me the recipe her host-mom had served her. Although I usually despise onions, they gave the dish flavor. I was happy to try it again in Spain, first at a friend's house and later at a bar where it was served in a bocadillo. More on that later.

Salmorejo, a creamy vegetable spread similar to gazpacho, is a specialty of Córdoba. It's served with bread and has a rich, garlicky taste. I tried it with some Spanish friends, who, although appalled by my vegetarianism, wanted me to get a taste (har har) of Córdoba. It was free with my order of tinto de verano, a red wine mixed with lemon soda. Tinto de verano is great because it doesn't taste like red wine at all, and red wine is gross.

I have also tried the vegetarian version of a third Spanish dish, paella. It's rice-based, with bits of vegetables in it. It's tasty and filling, but probably too much work for me to make myself. Were vegetarian paella more readily available, I would still stick to salmorejo and tortillas.

My friend Margaux changed my life by introducing me to Cien Montaditos (which also has a location in Florida!!!!!). Every Wednesday, this crowded bar serves bocadillos and drinks for only one euro. Bocadillos are essentially tiny sandwiches that are filled with everything from hot dogs to chocolate. My favorite is the four cheese option.

There's also a place here called Duffin Dagels. Something tells me they might have been very slightly inspired by a certain American business. Also, donuts don't exist. They're called DUFFINS, duh.

The little things

-The Andalucia accent (or maybe just Spain Spanish in general) frequently omits letters. My landlord (who has been incredibly kind to me and has told me about all the major sites to visit) told me to check out what sounded like "Medina Saura." Turns out it's Medina Azahara. Another example of this is "hasta luego," which is pronounced here as "aluego."

-Most of the pigeons are white. I guess the gray ones can't survive the heat.

-I see about the same number of fathers with strollers as mothers.

-In class today, a student commented that people from Andalucia don't value their accent/language. I guess the accent is stigmatized.

-People just let their dogs wander the street without supervision.

-Like in Boston, there are trees scattered around the city. Unlike in Boston, they're not maples. They're orange and clementine trees. The fruit is mostly still green though.

Greekenomics

When Greece suffers, Spain suffers. And, in spite of its bailout, Greece is miserable.

You can see the effects in Cordoba. Well, I assume that's what I'm seeing. I've never been to Spain during good economic times, but there are a lot of people begging for money. Women, mostly. Sometimes with children in their arms.

But in the tourist district, you can't tell how bad things are. Shop after shop is filled with beautiful silver jewelry, and in the early afternoon the area is flooded with people going in and out of stores.

In an un-Keynesian move, Spain's government has begun to take austerity measures, privatizing a number of previously socialized services such as airports and the lottery. And in spite of-- or, more likely, because of-- the over 20 percent unemployment rate, it has cut back unemployment benefits.

The Spanish people aren't just taking this lying down. All the flyer-posting locations contain fliers for political meetings and protests (I'm not counting "Zombie March: Cordoba" as a protest, but I thought it was interesting that it exists here, too). Thursday night, when some friends and I were in the central plaza, a march went right past us, chanting, "¿Que pasa? ¿Que pasa? ¡Que no tenemos casa!" ("What's going on? What's going on? We don't have houses!). They were marching under all sorts of banners, from a hammer and sickle to an Anarchist flag. We followed them to a nearby square where the group formed a circle and a number of people spoke. The Spanish was a bit fast for me, but one thing I understood: the alliance between the different political groups present was very strained. They were united for that particular cause, but the Anarchists stayed with the Anarchists, the Socialists with the Socialists.

The speakers also discussed media censorship. I hadn't realized that was still an issue in Spain. I'd like to figure out to what extent it is, but I'll save that for a later date.

Plagiarism, science, and smoking breaks

So far, in addition to rants about the Bologna process, my classes here have all had two things in common: lengthy first lessons that involve defining whatever subject we're studying ("What is anthropology? How is it different from sociology? What does it have in common with psychology?"), and strict lectures on plagiarism.

Mount Holyoke is pretty anti-plagiarism, of course, but generally the professors don't spend a great amount of time defining it. Here, on the other hand, one of my classes was completely devoted to laying out 1) what plagiarism is, 2) how to cite properly, and 3) what the penalty for plagiarism would be (a zero in the class... which honestly isn't very harsh at all). At first I thought it was silly, but he informed us that last year, almost half his students plagiarized-- one even plagiarized an essay the professor himself had written.

At first my assumption was that this was a Spanish thing, but now I find it more likely that it's because of the nature of the school. A school with tiny classes, like Mount Holyoke, is probably going to have a lot less plagiarism than a larger school.* Large universities in the United States definitely have plagiarism woes.

One real cultural difference I've met with, though, is the definition of science. I'm not clear what the Spanish definition is, but it includes History. I'd like to learn more about why that is at some point.

I'm also not accustomed to my professors taking smoking breaks. One student informed me that two years ago they'd just smoke in class, but that's been banned.

All my professors seem wonderful so far. But it's definitely a different system.

*I'm not actually certain that UCo is larger, but the classes are.

Markets and siestas

Yesterday, for the first time since my arrival in Córdoba, I left the historic district and entered the modern one. This was not too difficult, since it's about three streets from my house, which is right along the border.

My reason for leaving the familiar historic district was to visit El Arenal, Córdoba's Sunday market. I wound up getting a little lost (as I've mentioned before, Google Maps isn't the most effective thing ever in Spain) and arrived at the market at around 1:30, half an hour before the start of the siesta.

I was expecting a long street market like La Batte, the Belgian market that stretches on forever (I only succeeded in walking the length of La Batte twice in the two years I lived in Belgium). Instead, El Arenal was much smaller and square-shaped. The goods were more or less what I'd expected: fruits and vegetables of varying quality, pickled goods, intimates, and knockoff clothes. The one stand that really caught my attention sold pretty abstract paintings for prices as low as 15 Euros, but the thought of lugging a canvas back with me didn't appeal to me. I did not walk all the way around the market because I'd arrived so late-- I wanted to get back before siesta began.

Supposedly the crime rate is higher during the siesta, but that's not the real reason you should stay off the streets. The Spanish siesta isn't just a cute tradition, it's a necessity. In the morning, before 10, Córdoba is actually a little cool; you can get away with a very light jacket, although you'll regret it as the hours progress. But by noon the heat has really set in, and at 2 it's absolutely brutal. A twenty-minute walk, like the one ahead of me yesterday, feels like an hour.

The other reason it's a good idea to take a siesta is that Spanish people stay up really, really late. If you're living somewhere where noises from the street are audible, you have to adopt Spanish hours to a certain extent. Sufficient sleep demands an afternoon nap.

"¡Es la mierda!!"

Over the past two days, I attended the first of each of my classes. Much like at Mount Holyoke, we mostly just went over the syllabus.

I am by no means the only international student in my classes. Among the countries represented in my Social Anthropology class are Korea, Italy, and Belgium (Flanders), and my Philosophy class is mostly international students, four of them from Germany.

One phrase kept popping up again and again in all my classes. It caught my attention because I thought, at first, that the professors were saying "Wallonia," that is, the region of Belgium my paternal grandmother was from. By the second or third time, I caught on: "Bolonia."

The Bologna Process is an agreement between a number of European countries to streamline their higher education, so that, for instance, someone with a degree from a French university can bring that degree to Germany and still get a job. It also requires universities in countries that have agreed to it to abide by certain standards.

The professors at my university are less than thrilled by this. One of them declared, "Bolonia es la mierda!" He said that the only purpose of Spain's compliance to Bologna is to save money-- one change is the shift from 5-year "licenciatura" programs to 4-year "grados." "They want us to sap our students of their intelligence," he said, "so I'm going to teach you how to pretend you're less intelligent than you are." My impression is that many professors write up syllabi compliant with the standards, then teach whatever they'd originally intended to.

It's not just professors that are upset with Bologna. Not too far from my apartment is graffiti which reads, "Con Bolonia mas tasas menos becas"-- "With Bologna, more taxes and fewer scholarships."

I wonder how much of the anti-Bologna feeling is provoked by the very real issues Bologna creates, and how much is part of a wider, anti-European-Integration sentiment. Recently, Spanish paper ABC (I don't think it's the same as our abc News) began an article on Greece's economy with the sentence, "All of Europe is sick of hearing people talk about the big Greek tragedy that threatens to undermine the foundations of the common European project." It's not exactly brilliant journalism, but it does show that there's more to the Bologna Process than a few disgruntled academics. It's Part of the Broader Context™ of European integration.

Planes, trains, and pain-in-the-butt directions.

Landing is my favorite part of flying-- I like watching the odd patches of color transform into fields, lawns, and towns. I only wish it had been light out when I arrived in Madrid.

Or maybe I don't. What I saw was beautiful-- a vast darkness, interrupted by sparse patches of light. But I was wondering what Spain would be like, and I didn't find much in the way of answers from the view.

On the train to Córdoba, I received a different perspective on Spain. We drove through long stretches of countryside, often completely flat. That threw me off a little, what with being from New England, Land of the Mountains. The fields were all yellow, no green in sight.

But once we got a little south, the landscape began to change. Soon there were hills, and, if not lush green pastures, then at least a number of pretty green bushes being harvested for something or other.

When I reached the station at Córdoba Central, it was 34 degrees Celsius (93.2 degrees F). My landlord, who had kindly offered to meet me at the station, helped me get my bags into his car and took me to my new home.

On the way over, he offered me trivia about Spain in general and Córdoba in particular. He explained that in spite of being a Romance Language, Spanish draws many words from Arabic due to its role in the Moorish Empire. He also informed me that the Córdoba accent would probably be easier for me to understand than northern Spanish accents because many of the boats that left for the Americas departed from Andalucia, so American Spanish draws more from Southern dialects.

My apartment is smack in between the Historic district and the Modern district. As he turned onto a street that was so narrow it required us to pull in the car mirrors, my landlord laughingly explained that while the Moors were good architects, they had not anticipated the invention of the automobile.

Many of the streets here are like that. It's a bad city for cars, but rather than create pedestrian-only walkways, the city allows cars to pass on streets too narrow to accommodate both a car and a pedestrian. Since there's no parking, often people will just park in the middle of the street for 10 or 15 minutes. A line of honking cars forms until the car owner unabashedly returns.

This was what my landlord did when showing me my apartment, which is on a street too narrow for Google Maps Street View. It's a cute place with all the necessities: a bed, a desk, a basic kitchen, and, of course, internet. It's got two French windows. One is the door, and the other leads to an extremely small balcony, only large enough to stand on. There's a lot of natural lighting, which I will be taking advantage of to save on the electric bill. :-)

After unpacking the year's worth of supplies that I'd managed to cram into one carry-on and one checked bag, I decided it might be time to get some food to sustain me for the next few days. Luckily, I'd already Googled and written out directions to a nearby grocery store that would also be able to cover my school supplies and minor furnishing needs. Unluckily, navigating Córdoba is a lot more difficult than Google Maps would have you believe. Three times I ventured into the unknown in my quest for El Corte Ingles, and I have yet to encounter the store.

To blame for this trouble is the nasty little beast known as the Plaza. My Google Maps directions read, "Take a right on Plaza de Regina. Take a left onto Calle de Regina." So when I came across a square with a bunch of "Plaza Regina" and "Cafe Regina" signs everywhere, I took a left onto the street labeled "Calle Regina."

It turns out that Calle Regina actually went part of the way across the square before making a right angle and continuing in a different direction. To top it off, the plaza itself didn't cover the entire square but was in fact limited to one key intersection.

Although I figured out what I'd done wrong, I gave up at the second plaza I encountered. I'd already seen a few food suppliers along the way, and while they didn't have all the items I required, they'd do.*

Córdoba is the kind of city where, while searching for a grocery store, one can stumble across some ancient Roman ruins just chillin' in the middle of the city. With the sun beating down on me I didn't stay long, but I'll definitely be going back.

Thus concludes my first day in Córdoba.


*For 24 euros (about 33 USD), I managed to buy 4 potatoes, 2 bananas, a large jug of lemonade, a large mango/papaya smoothie, two soda cans, vermicelli (rice noodles), cheese, soap, a 12-pack of toilet paper, a dozen eggs, milk, sugar, 2 kilos of apples, 250 ml extra-virgin olive oil, and 4 yogurts. I know you're not here to read my shopping list, but I was pretty happy with how cheap it all was.