Blogette: The Storyteller and the Gypsy

In the last eight days, we’ve traveled twice by train to Cordoba. This is the place in Spain that speaks to my soul, and I know exactly why. It’s because of the wildly beautiful, haunting Mezquita: an eighth century mosque with a fourteenth century cathedral embedded in its center. It’s because of the evocative Sinogoga, the only one in Spain which today remains substantially intact after the Jews were expelled in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella … yes, the same year Christopher Columbus sailed to the New World. It’s because of the archaeological museum, which houses not only Roman and Visigothic ruins, but proto-historical artifacts (defined as “end of the second millennium to the second century BC”) like the stunning stone and bronze ex-votos (sculpted offerings of personal gratitude to the gods) which mesmerized me today.

And it’s because of the people who live in Cordoba, two of them in particular: the storyteller and the gypsy.

The storyteller was in the museum, relating a tale in Spanish from A Thousand and One Arabian Nights to an entranced group of children. He was dressed in a long, white robe and a purple turban, and was such a gifted, enthusiastic raconteur that Bill and I lingered to listen to him. He had only one prop … a “genie” oil lamp … but he spoke in voices and added startling sound effects so that we understood which story he was telling. My heart aching, I wished that Cooper had been there to sit amongst the children. I wished my advisor, Dr. Francis, who is a fabulous yarn-spinner in his own right, had been there. But, alas, they were not, and all too soon his story had ended.

I first saw the gypsy when we were in Cordoba last weekend. She was sitting on the cobblestone street outside the Sinagoga with her three children, begging. I emptied my wallet then, giving her everything I had, which was only coins. Friday, on our second trip to Cordoba, I saw her on four separate occasions during the day. The first time, I felt annoyed. She approached me, plaintively, and I wagged my finger at her, chiding, “I gave you money last week!” Bill and I walked on and I told him, “It’s just not the same the second time.” But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her face and her voice were deeply compelling.

The next time I saw the gypsy, I clandestinely snapped a picture as we were walking down the street. She was nursing her youngest child while she appealed to the passersby, but I gave her nothing. When we turned the corner, I stopped to see the photograph. My memory card was full, however, and the image was not on it. Oh well, I thought, and walked on.

Despite the joy we felt while exploring the streets of Cordoba, I could not stop thinking about the gypsy woman. I kept mulling things over in my mind. She gets up in the morning and goes to work doing the only thing she can do with her three children in tow. I went to work for years doing the only thing I knew. How are we different? She takes care of her children; I took care of mine. It’s only luck or opportunity or fortune or karma that she is on the street begging, and I am driving around Jacksonville in a BMW.

So we went back to the Sinagoga after lunch on Friday, looking for her. That time, I gave her five Euros in trade for her photograph. She thanked me in a language I didn’t understand then and can’t identify now. Her children thanked me. When I saw her for the fourth time she recognized me and begged for more money … or maybe she just thanked me again. I don’t really know.

I told Bill on Saturday morning that I had to find her again before we left Cordoba, and he understood. That afternoon, after we visited the museum and wandered through the narrow, medieval streets, we returned to the Sinagoga but she wasn’t there. I was crestfallen. “Wait,” Bill said. “She’ll be here when the Sinagoga reopens at 3:30.” So we lingered in the stifling heat for half an hour, listening to a man in the lane playing flamenco music and Led Zepplin on his guitar.

At 3:25, she appeared. By then, I saw her as beautiful. I pressed my back against the stone wall to watch while she parked her ragged stroller and sat down on the edge of the street, laying her toddler across her lap while she changed his diaper. That was different. Last weekend, he had no diaper. Bill and I watched as tourist after tourist walked by her, indifferent to her entreaties, her children crouched beside her. After a couple of minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I asked Bill to walk with me. Approaching her, I knelt down in the street, handing her ten Euros. Her children began jumping up and down and the gypsy grasped my hand and kissed it. I was horrified by her deference. “No,” I said, “I just want to buy your photograph.”

I snapped one, and then her children posed for a second photo. As I knelt there, the baby wrapped his arms around my neck. I could smell him and I didn’t really want the children to touch me, an admission that shames me. I handed the woman another ten Euro bill. She tried to kiss my hand again but I pulled it away from her; understanding, she reached out to me instead. She pressed her cheek against mine, murmuring unidentifiable words in her soft voice. We kissed each other and I began to weep. She broke my heart. I have so much, and she has so little.

It matters not to me if she is practiced in her craft. Before I became a student, I was certainly practiced in mine. We do what we must to survive. The gypsy mother in Cordoba does not know that with her begging, she has made me want to be a better woman (my apologies to Jack Nicholson's character in As Good as it Gets).

The Boss

I hate gender stereotypes, I really do. I shy away from Women’s Studies or writing academic papers from a “woman’s perspective” because it seems so trite. In a social situation, I secretly mourn when the men end up on one side of the room and the women gather on the other. It makes me want to leave the party.

But my husband has posted a challenge on his blog (http://www.kbcuz.blogspot.com/ and if you haven't read it, please stop right now and check it out) to which I am forced to respond.

So … Men are Closed and Women are Open.

Why in god’s name would I want to sit here in our apartment in Sevilla with the doors and windows hermetically sealed, cave-like, shivering in an artificial and chemically-created blast of iced air? Outside, the sky is crystal blue: swallows are flying and calling … cathedral bells are tolling crazily … passionate Spaniards are shouting, fighting and cooing in the street just below our balcony.

It’s so alive outside!

I know it’s hot … I recognize 100 degrees. Sometimes I want to turn on the air conditioner too. But I view the air conditioner as my slave, and men (well, at least the ones I know well) view it as The Boss. “Close the door! The Air Conditioner is on!” “Why are you opening the window? Don’t you know the Air Conditioner is on??”

Yes, I know. And frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

If it were up to me, I’d cycle the air on and off just exactly as I wanted. I’d open the doors and windows when I felt like it, and close them up to cool things off when I felt like it. I don’t mind being hot, in fact, I like it. Sometimes I like the languid feeling of shimmering heat, lazily watching an iced tea … or gin and tonic … frost and sweat on the table next to me. But mostly, I like the feeling of being open, open to the air and the sounds and the possibilities.

I don’t really think this is because I’m a woman; I think it’s just because I’m Karen.

And so we will continue to struggle together to find a compromise, although I don’t think my sweetheart will ever really understand that, for me, it’s more than just an issue of temperature. It’s an issue of sensory opportunity.

Mi espanol chupa

This is a mini-blogette, just long enough to express dismay that my Spanish es horible.

I thought it would improve while I'm here but, sadly, that does not appear to be happening. Here is why:

1) In the archivo, I am transcribing handwritten 16th century Spanish into modern, typed Spanish. This is called paleography. Sixteenth century Spanish as written by a scribe is difficult: abbreviated, spelled creatively, and archaic. My paleography has vastly improved; I am transcribing 10 to 15 pages per day. My reading comprehension, however, has only moderately improved because I am spending most of my time and energy working on interpretation, not translation.

2) I am now beyond humiliation when attempting to speak Spanish to native Spanish speakers. It's really true that Sevillanos don't speak English. Seriously. Although Bill and I traveled in Turkey for three weeks without a single word of Turkish under our belts, encountering absolutely no one who didn't speak English, this is not true in Spain. In Spain, people speak ... Spanish.

(This actually reminds me of home, where many people are resentful of Spanish-speakers who don't try to learn English, and complain that our ATMs now ask if one wants to conduct business in English or Spanish. But I digress.)

I gamely try to speak Spanish whereever we go, but my vocabulary is severely restricted. For ejample, I admit that I was forced to say to a pharmicist "Por favor, necesito cotton balls." I am currently the queen of Spanglish, and while that might be kind of funny, it's not going to help me get into a Ph.D. program.

3) Spanish people have one of two reactions to my attempts to speak to them in their language:

• Incomprehension and a blank stare.
• Comprehension followed by a burst of warp-speed Spanish in response.

4) I haven't yet worked up the energy to drill Spanish vocabulary, which is clearly what I need to do. I'm hoping that this public confession will shame me into carving at least 30 minutes out of each day to do so. I brought my Spanish I and II flash cards with me ... now all I need to do is play with them!

Blogette: Funny potato chips

I don't know why it amuses me to see the different flavors of Lay's potato chips sold in other countries, but it does. I found these in a tourist shop in Guadelupe this weekend:

This afternoon, I ran across a really unusual flavor at El Corte Ingles, the local supermarket (I had to buy these):

And look at the flavor I stumbled across two years ago when we were in Cappadocia, Turkey!

Cookie Nuns

I thought I would blog every day, but it's just impossible. There is too much going on in Spain; my mind is saturated not only with historical sights, but with a new language and culture. The days in the archivo are fabulous but they're long, and mentally taxing. I'm slogging through a book for my independent study in religion, helping Billy keep up with the housework and laundry, and doing the long-distance bookkeeping. I think perhaps I'd better try writing blogettes instead.

So here's one.

We drove to Extremadura in western Spain on Thursday with the intention of visiting three medieval towns (we made it to two). Bill and I stayed in the Parador de Trujillo: a 16th century monastery which has been modernized and converted into a hotel. Right next door to the parador is the Convento de Santa Clara ... an order which describes itself as concepcionistas and Franciscanas. The nuns are dulce artesans. That is, they bake homemade sweets and sell them to the public.

The convent

An icon in the convent's lobby

I discovered the convent quite by accident on Friday morning; its doors were open, so I slipped inside. The lobby was quiet and serene, but I was a little surprised to see a brightly-lit showcase with cookies and tarts on display. They weren't inexpensive: most of the items were €6 to €10. But this was a religious house of women ... alluring to me, and mysterious. I wanted to buy something.

After careful consideration (the sweets were little works of art), I chose "Pastas de Sacristan," which look like thick sugar cookies, and have an almond in the center.

The cookies were €6, so I fumbled in my bag until I found the proper bills and coins (those darn €1 and €2 coins are a bit of a challenge if I'm not wearing my glasses). I wasn't entirely sure what to do next but as I glanced around, I noticed a turnstile in the corner, and a doorbell next to it. I put the money in the turnstile and rang the bell.

Only a few seconds passed before I heard a woman say "Digame!" ("Tell me!") I confess I was a bit disappointed. I had hoped to hear a breathy, ethereal voice softly sing a response: "In the name of the Blessed Virgin of Santa Clara, please tell me what you would like me to sell you." But she just sounded like an impatient store clerk.

The turnstile is constructed in such a way that one never sees who is on the other side. The device turned, and my money disappeared. I heard the invisible nun's shoes click on the stone floor as she walked away, and a minute or two later, I heard her return. The turnstile turned again, and I found twelve fat cookies in a plastic bag.

Billy doesn't really care for the cookies, which taste only faintly of almond and lemon. But I think they're delicious. And although the invisible nun didn't sing sweetly, I envision her as a beautiful, otherworldly woman who baked a blessing of heavenly love into the sweets.