Throughout my four months abroad, I have a finite allotment of time put aside from classes. I have two weeks of break during the semester: one for Semana Santa, or Holy Week, leading up to Easter Sunday and then another for Feria de Abril, or the April Fair, which is the biggest celebration of the year in Spain.
These two weeks are considered the most important weeks for the city of Seville, mainly based on the one-of-a-kind traditions and culture that are special to Southern Spain.
When I dreamed of going abroad, every weekend was packed with a different city, as I thought of experiencing the jet-set life.
After living here for almost three months now, I see the dream was only supposed to be a dream. The reality of the situation is so much better.
Although I have absolutely loved the trips I have made, I have also enjoyed becoming fully immersed in the Spanish culture. I can now carry a decent conversation in the language and watch the evening news and understand nine out of ten things expressed in the stories.
This would be impossible if I wasn’t forced to practice Spanish living in a home stay or didn’t make the effort to learn about the culture around me with an objective eye.
This past week I traveled to Italy, which fulfilled one of my childhood dreams: visiting Rome, Florence and Venice.
I purposely left for Semana Santa — partly because I valued travel more than immersion of culture for the week and partly because I was initially scared of the customs of the traditional week.
Starting the week before Easter, the streets are packed with visitors from around the world wanting to see the pasos, or alters, that are carried by specially selected men throughout the city, followed by processions from each individual church.
This tradition is held in almost all cities within Spain, but Seville is known to have the most elaborate processions.
The thing that freaked me out initially is the traditional outfit of the selected members of each brotherhood that participate in each procession. Dressed in penitential robes, boys and men as young as 5 years old wear full-length cloaks with matching hooded masks with a point on top.
To be selected into the procession is considered one of the holiest and purest of honors. This is exactly where the Ku Klux Klan derived its traditional outfit as well.
When I arrived in Spain, the image of a completely covered man in a pointed hood was prevalent on every corner I turned, as it appeared on objects from candy to children’s toys. This symbol here is considered such a pure and precious object, unlike in the United States, where it is tainted and full of hate.
Living in southern Indiana, I have had more than one occurrence with members of the KKK, so it made me sadly uncomfortable to see these images constantly. I was frightened at the thought of seeing actual people walking the streets I walk on everyday and wearing these outfits that have such a bad connotation in my head.
Due to the attacks in Brussels, my trip in Italy was cut short, and I ended up returning home a day earlier than expected. Friday evening, I went out with a friend to explore the trail of pasos and overcome my fear that the acts of others had instilled in my mind.
It was such a beautiful sight. The fifty men carrying the pasos, accompanied by people of all ages holding candles and wooden crosses, walking in uniform in front of a band made the experience captivating.
I don’t regret taking my trip to Italy at all, but I wish there was a situation where I could have equally experienced both opportunities. The beauty of culture is found everywhere, but I just don’t know the next time I will be living in southern Spain to experience this kind of immersion.
In two weeks, Feria starts, and I have already adjusted my travel plans to be in town for the entire festival. I am on the search for a flamenco dress, the traditional outfit for the week.
I can’t believe I only have six short weeks left of this adventure. Who knows what awaits me in the time I have left.
