International Superstar: Biebs without Borders

Written at the beginning of February, posted in the middle of March, I'm on a Spanish schedule give me a break!!.....

So here I was, thinking that I didn´t have anything in common with Spanish girls in fourth grade (called cuarto curso here). And then, as fate would have it, little Maria brought in a little purple Justin Beiber booklet.  Did you know that the Beibs´s favorite color is purple and that he wears it to every concert? I didn´t, but I learned it from this extremely didactic Spanish Beiber booklet.  Included were Justin Beiber trading cards.  I almost asked for one.  Maybe I will tomorrow.  This booklet, may I add, is interactive and includes quotations from the Beibs himself and fill in the blank activities for the reader.  These features are designed to make the reader or jealous onlookers feel like they are somewhat a part of the Beibs´ life, or perhaps even feel like they are almost conversing with him.  It´s all in Spanish, but I will try to loosely translate some for you.  In relation to ¨My Favorite Girl,¨ if you don´t know this song listen to it now, a quote said ¨I enjoy meeting all different types of girls and no matter where I am or what I am doing I try to meet as many of you out there as possible.¨  There was also a writing activity on this particular page where you are supposed to list something, but for the love of Justin Beiber I cannot remember what at the moment.  I´m sure someone will bring one tomorrow and I´ll have a look because I´m sure you´re dying to know.

I hope you don´t take away from this short story that the Beibs is only taking over elementary schools because this movement is much more than that.  I have heard ¨Baby¨ in numerous clubs.  In one called ¨Malafama,¨ it came directly after a flamenco song.  I also heard it while in line to buy a sandwich at the mall.  Also, my former roommate, Paolo an Italian, went to buy posters for his room and came to the conclusion that there is something seriously wrong with the world when he cannot find a Rolling Stones poster but five of Justin Beiber.  My Spanish friends thought it was hilarious that he was nominated for a BET award.  Well they didn´t at first because they have no idea what BET is, but after I explained it to them they then laughed, leading me to the conclusion that they thought it was funny.  This is multi- national, people.  I really respect the Beibs.  Not just any ol´16 year old Canadian kid with surfer hair who wears purple all the time can take over the world and win over the hip hop community.  It takes someone really special.

In other news, I made a big long to do list at school today during my free hour, which I never have but the kids were taking a test so I was on the loose because my English speaking-ness was not needed.  I was all pumped to be productive during the day, and I came home to grab my laptop and get started on some of the technological stuff on my list. I was greeted by Chicho when I opened the door, who is practically never home and he asked me if I wanted to eat lunch with him.  How could I refuse? So we dined on stuffed eggplant and empanadas, bread and guacomole spread made from avocados that he picked himself on the ¨campo¨ at our table with a view of the cathedral.  And then we listened to a bunch of different country´s national anthems, followed by the ¨tallegrini,¨ a typical Italian dance.  Way better than my to do list.

The Few, The Strong, The Proud- Part 2

Anyone who has not been in Sevilla during Semana Santa has no idea how I felt for a brief period of time on Saturday night.  I think most people could probably identify with how I felt that afternoon- happy and extremely full. I slept most of the way to Sevilla, and when I woke up we were passing right by where April, Lucy, Derrick, I, and many other unfortunate Tar Heel souls were posted up with María Jose Sanchez de Córdoba for a long period of time.  We passed by all my old stomping grounds and were driving happily through the historic center to drop her cousin off, when we were stopped suddenly.  ¨What are they doing?¨ asked Claire.  I was afraid to look.  I knew deep down in my heart what they were doing.  I had a feeling it was a bunch of Spanish men with a big board on their back.  And that is exactly what it was.  A Semana Santa paso, practicing.  I just can´t EVER get away.  That week will haunt me forever.  You don´t know what it´s like to be in Sevilla and be trapped by Jesus and the Virgin Mary with no escape route.  And I'm not talking about Catholicism, either.  I´m talking huge replicas with candles, hundreds of people walking behind them, and moving at .0000000000000002 miles per hour due to the fact that they are incredibly heavy and being carried by men on their shoulders.  I was trapped many times that fateful week in April 2009, and here I was trapped again in March 2001.  To a lesser extent, yet all the same feelings started coming back to me.  ¨Maybe it´ll turn on that next street up there,¨ said Claire.  Poor, innocent Claire.  I informed her that that was the beauty of Semana Santa.  You always hope they´ll turn and that you can continue on with your day...but they never do.  However, this one magically did.  Maybe it´s just because they were practicing.  If it was the real thing, I feel confident they would have gone exactly where we needed to and make our drive 13 times longer. At least.

The few, the strong, the proud.  Not just the Marines, but also Americans who have survived Sevilla´s Semana Santa.

Saturday, March 12: Lunch in the Campo- Part I

Mirian (Spanish), Claire (American) and I went to eat lunch at Mirian´s grandmother´s house in Ejica in ¨the campo,¨ a.k.a the middle of nowhere.  After driving on a 2 lane road for what seemed like forever, we met Mirian´s Dad and his girlfriend at a gas station to follow them to the exact spot in the middle of nowhere where the abuela´s house was located.  The girlfriend insisted on driving Mirian´s car because the dirt path to the house was so waterlogged from all the rain that day that she was worried.  We obliged and relocated to her Dad´s car to bumble down the gravel for what really seemed like forever, and finally arrived at a huge barn-like house filled with a milling multitude of Spaniards.  We had dropped in on a family reunion.  Literally, her dad´s cousin was in town from Denmark and everyone came to say good-bye before she went back.  

Now, when we arrived at the barn filled with Spaniards, Mirian´s car and her Dad´s girlfriend still were not in sight on the dirt path.  I had left my sweater and my jacket in her car.  Anyone who has not encountered a Spanish adult woman, we´ll say over the age of 27 for our specific purposes, may not understand how big of a deal it is for to this demographic if someone is NOT wearing a jacket when outside at any time during any month that has the letter ¨r.¨ Being March, heavy jackets are necessary.  No matter if the sun is shining and it is 75 F and you live at the beach, you will be looked at like you are crazy by these women if you are not wearing a jacket.  

I entered this family reunion, where 15 plus women in this demographic were seated, wearing a short sleeved dress.  Oops.  I knew I should have waited for Mirian´s car to arrive.  I heard murmurs of ¨well in some places in the US they just don´t consider this cold¨ and ¨oh my she´s dressed for summer.¨  One aunt actually came up and told me to take her jacket. I tried to convince these people that I had not one, but TWO jackets on the way, but to no avail.  No one believed me until I actually put them on, which was about 15 minutes later when the car finally made it all the way down the dirt path alive.  That was (pretty much) the end of that, minus a few ¨So are you warmer now?¨ comments later.

The family had started eating lunch at 3, and we got there at around 4:45.  This is for lunch, remember.  I was almost even marginally slightly worried in the car that there might not be much food left when we got there.  Within 5 seconds of sitting down, we had sausage, cheese, “cocido” which is a type of stew, deviled eggs sitting atop a vegetable medley, spinach dip with “picos” for dipping, some sort of spinach carrot pastry, and shrimp sitting in front of us.  Not to worry, the croquetas were heating up in the oven and came out shortly after.  After we stuffed ourselves until we could eat no more, the dessert table was unvield.  So we proceeded to sample, sample being a delicate word for eat copious amounts of,  tiramassu, chestnuts in some sort of yummy sauce, lemon flan, a random “tarta” that Claire described as tasting like cologne, and butter cookies.  The drink choices, by the way, included whisky, “vino dulce,” coke, and red wine throughout the day.  I mean, they were just downing whisky with lunch.  After dessert(s), we took a walk down the path winding around their acres of crops and past the hens and dogs to watch the sun set with Mirian’s dad.  When we came back, they were making more food.  So naturally we ate it.  We didn´t want to be rude. And then we went to visit Mirian’s mother in Sevilla.