has landed me in Seville. Originally this seemingly random trip wasn't to be so random, with me heading down to Andalusia (will be using this yucky anglicised spelling as authorised by Wikipedia) to experience the birthplace of many so-called Spanish icons and just generally have a good time during Semana Santa. The latter was a motive for me coming here but eventually proved to be my undoing as I could find no beds in Granada or Córdoba later this week. No problem, will be heading north to Lisbon instead!
The two days here have confirmed Seville's second place in my list of so-far visited Spanish cities, which means it's above Barcelona and behind Valencia, which is by default unpassable. Even though it might be as touristy as B-town during Semana Santa, this place has culture bursting from it. Seeing Parc Guell, the Sagrada Família and all of Gaudí's masterpieces is a fantastic experience if expensive. However with Seville architectural charms know no bounds; you only need to look up to see something Moorish and definitely moreish. Almost every bar I have stepped into here carries the distinct tiling. The seseo stands out here whilst I seldom got addressed in Catalan in Barça (okay, it's not the same, but you get my drift).
When I arrived I was dead set on seeing a flamenco performance, without castanets. I could have seen one in Barça, indeed bars were adorned with performance ads and souvenir shops carried the characteristic young girl's dress. But I waited until today: flamenco is seen outside Spain as Spanish, a national musical genre. Tourists and migrants from the south have used the nation-state of Spain to put an Andalusian gem in Catalan heartland. In reality this nation-state the only thing making flamenco Spanish. I wouldn't dream of paying to see flamenco anywhere other than down saaf, much like I wouldn't speak Galician in Valencia or expect anyone in Extremadura to know what a fallera looks like.
But I'd eat a crepe anywhere in France; Breton they may be, but stronger the French national identity also is. /yoda On a visit of my housemate's (also French) friend he was to buy his sister a souvenir; she had specified "algo de España", which means fallera models and Valencia-branded crockery were rejected in favour of a glass with an Osborne bull on it. I admit to ignorantly wrinkling my nose thinking "typical French" given the two countries' completely different attitudes toward regional identity. Makes you think, though.
The flamenco was awesome by the way. To Lisbon!
Tuesday 19 April 2011
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Currently
the weather is good. I'm in Spain though so any Brit could expect it. The strawberries are out already and it's only April. Cold soup at lunchtime. Novelties abound.
Living abroad is strange. What once was too exciting to fathom becomes regular. That foreign numberplate you were looking out for on the M11 is now all around you, any eager ears pricked up in Camden to hear the odd bit of Spanish from teenage tourists now require no effort, and the occasional day where you can leave the house in but a tee in spring is no longer occasional, but an expected norm. Even boarding an aeroplane, the most thrilling of the thrilling, loses something after Ryanair cabin crew refuse to take a breath in between their umpteen attempts to sell you something on your umpteenth flight.
Does it become mundane though? If you're like me and you haven't until now been thinking about how best to use time outside the very little amount of hours spent in class, maybe. If you're also like me and remain enthralled on every step taken on the busy Valencian streets, maybe not. Shop windows. Traffic signs. Police cars. The way paving stones are arranged on the street. Palm trees. Elegant cream-coloured balconied buildings. All different. Yet the creators of these are people that do it neither worse or better, just different, right down to their communication with each other.
Still, not much time remains to benefit from all of this. Opportunities to sit down, drink a cortado and read Sartre or Cortázar, or alternatively to head to the beach and murder the feet hopelessly trying to play football, are numbered. One thing is certain: I need to read, listen, speak and write as much as possible, in any language. Next year is going to be the biggest task of my life in terms of personal maturity: securing the good degree. Not only for practical purposes; if I succeed I will know that I can live more organised than I am used to.
The work starts now.
Living abroad is strange. What once was too exciting to fathom becomes regular. That foreign numberplate you were looking out for on the M11 is now all around you, any eager ears pricked up in Camden to hear the odd bit of Spanish from teenage tourists now require no effort, and the occasional day where you can leave the house in but a tee in spring is no longer occasional, but an expected norm. Even boarding an aeroplane, the most thrilling of the thrilling, loses something after Ryanair cabin crew refuse to take a breath in between their umpteen attempts to sell you something on your umpteenth flight.
Does it become mundane though? If you're like me and you haven't until now been thinking about how best to use time outside the very little amount of hours spent in class, maybe. If you're also like me and remain enthralled on every step taken on the busy Valencian streets, maybe not. Shop windows. Traffic signs. Police cars. The way paving stones are arranged on the street. Palm trees. Elegant cream-coloured balconied buildings. All different. Yet the creators of these are people that do it neither worse or better, just different, right down to their communication with each other.
Still, not much time remains to benefit from all of this. Opportunities to sit down, drink a cortado and read Sartre or Cortázar, or alternatively to head to the beach and murder the feet hopelessly trying to play football, are numbered. One thing is certain: I need to read, listen, speak and write as much as possible, in any language. Next year is going to be the biggest task of my life in terms of personal maturity: securing the good degree. Not only for practical purposes; if I succeed I will know that I can live more organised than I am used to.
The work starts now.
Thursday 31 March 2011
Renaissance
After a year of no-show I have decided to return to the humble weblog. The answer to any question as to why I stopped is simple and succinct: laziness. The answer as to why I've come back, however, is much more complicated. A will to end the laziness. A will to write more to remain on my toes for my final university year. A will to think and open my mind more. I could go on. The next post will actually contain relevant material.
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