[Body] Language

I have encountered many people on my travels through Europe for the past few months. The fact that not everybody speaks perfect English or Spanish (myself included), makes for some great conversations filled with hand-motions and repetition and guessing. There are universal motions for taking a picture, for saying 'excuse me' and 'thank you', as well as showing anger. Even if you are spoken to in a different language, tonal clues and facial expressions clearly express whether someone is hitting on you or trying to tell you a car is coming and you better move.

I was thinking about language barriers this Pentecost weekend as I attended mass in the mountains on the local parish excursion. Whether or not my reader is religious, the biblical story behind Pentecost is prevalent today for the global world. Pretty much, the Holy Spirit came down from the heavens to give the disciples courage to spread Jesus' message of love around the world. The disciples found themselves able to communicate to everybody around the world this message of love. Who knows if they actually were able to speak in 6,500 different languages (the so-called count as of 1996) or if they were just able to communicate through a more powerful method: that of actions. And that's true today, albeit many people know basic English, I have found a lot of people understand the language of love even better.

In the first month in Madrid, I was having a hard time practicing my Spanish enough. I spoke Spanish at home with the lady I lived with, Rosa. But my classes were with Americans, and mostly Californians. That's cool and all, but I needed some Spanish friends. Well I emailed the director and she connected me with a Spanish student that was looking to practice her English. Laura and I had a great time talking about not much and switching back and forth between our two native tongues. A few times when I would be explaining something and she would get lost, or visa-versa, we just laughed it off. We had a few great double dates with Meeka and Nerea too- picture below. Quite a cuatro, I must say:


Other situations have arouse as well, from carrying a dog down metro stairs, to having a police escort from one town to the next. A more difficult situation was getting directions in Athens to a hostel. Picture Spanish-speaking Californians intending to interpret an Italian-speaking Greek man. Somehow it worked.

The most propelling 'lost in translation' experience was in Southern France with my parents and my sister. We were on our way from Lourdes in southern France to a beach town in Spain (Salou, just below Barcelona). We had a heavy 8 hour drive ahead of us. Two hours in, we were stalled because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named put the wrong gasoline in our rental car at a gas station outside of Toulousse. Fortunately, we found someone to help us at the gas station, but our young towman didn't speak any English. Neither did anybody at the relatively-nearby mechanic shop. Somehow we were able to communicate three vital things: how to pay, how to get back to the freeway, and how grateful we were for their help. It was quite entertaining watching my dad in the front seat of the pick-up truck trying to communicate with the French man with gestures and expressions. Though the French man didn't understand anything, I think he got the point that my dad felt quite silly about the whole thing. Here's some body language for ya:





I have learned that hugs and smiles can mean more than anything I can say in English or Spanish. I have just arrived in Sevilla a couple weeks ago. In southern Spain, their dialect of Spanish is completely different. They 'swallow' the 's' and drop the end of words. I could go on and on about the slight differences, but you'll just have to wait until I get back to California to hear it all. But in the first weeks here, I found that smiles and kisses on both cheeks made up for my awkward accent and long-winded responses. Another challenge is teaching Spanish to French-speaking immigrants, which is especially difficult when you are not fluent yourself. Really, what I'd like to say, is that as silly as I can feel speaking with Spanish kids in the classroom, with immigrants that can't catch my accent, and with nuns with thick Andalusian accents, we are all communicating in one language, that of love.

Last thing: The 94-year-old nun, Sister Angustia tells some great stories. I can't always understand her, but her smile and excitement in her eyes makes me laugh at her jokes even when I don't know what she said. I find myself doing that all too frequently. With that said, cheers to [body] language!

Futbol, how I miss you

It's quite an ironic statement to make, as I am in Europe where football/soccer is more popular than, well, everything. I came to Spain with the intention of playing everyday but that hasn't quite happened.

In Madrid, my friend and fellow football-lover told me of a cool field in the middle of my favorite park. We decided to see if we could find a pick-up game to join in. As two girls, we are used to being welcomed with only a slight hesitation into a pick-up game if we are playing at Underhill in Berkeley. But this time was the contrast- the french men said their numbers were already enough and they had no room for us. It was clearly an excuse to avoid having two girls play with them.

That was my first lesson about football in Spain- the game is more important than girls. The next lesson I learned was with a conversation with a Northern Spain gentleman who tactfully told me that the only girls on his co-ed football team were not straight. Football in Europe is equivalent to American football; it's a man's game. For the past few months I have seen football games all over Spain and Europe; rarely do I see a girl playing. It's not that girls can't play, they just don't do so very often. The above, combined with traveling and other distractions, has made a ball a distant, long-lost friend to my left foot. The last time I went this long without playing soccer was when I was recovering from my knee surgery. This time, not as painful.

I am not complaining because what my life has lacked in football, I have made up in dancing, an equally important element in my life. I have finished my semester in Madrid and I traveled Europe for a month (including two crazy weeks with my parents). So finally I arrive in Sevilla, beginning my summer volunteer program. And guess what? At night from my window, I have a great view of a summer football league. With the fresh air and after a hard day's work, it's a great place to look up to the moon, look down to the cement-field, and wind down with a cup of tea...to an intense, enthralling football game. This field is at the end of the neighborhood, on the side of the freeway, and my window has the best view.

It's a bitter-sweet injection of soccer adrenaline for me, because I find it very peaceful to watch, but it also makes my feet itch to play. Then again, these guys are really good, and I am sure I am pretty rusty at this point. For now, I am enjoying the view of the unsuspecting football field at the end of Vasco de Gama Street, even if the games endure way past my bedtime and I have to wear earplugs to drown out the noise.