I know I have long left Spain, but I miss it all the same. This is something I wrote about a memory I have from my trip to Seville last May. I hope you enjoy it.
The heat in Seville was ridiculous. It absorbed so much of my attention that I found it difficult to absorb all the uniqueness of the beautiful city I was experiencing. The other exchange students felt the same way; our north european bodies had still not become accustomed to the sweltering weather in the eight months we had already spent in various parts of Spain. Barcelona, my home city for the year, had similar humidity levels, but so far I hadn't experienced such severe temperatures thrust into the combination. Moreover, it was three in the afternoon, the time of day when all the sensible and laid-back Spaniards were taking a nice siesta. In the past months we had learned to be hardcore tourists. We weren't the kind of tourists you can spot from a mile away, having their picture taken in front of every mildly interesting object around, contemplating a map for a few seconds before asking someone for directions in English, and going to see the bullfight just because, stereotypically, that's what you do in Seville. We were the kind of tourists who wanted to absorb the environment and its intriguing culture. We had long overcome embarrassment and worked to master the Spanish language, practically vowing not to speak our native language from the moment we left orientation to 10 months later, when we would be forced to board various planes and return home after what seemed like a time capsule of unreality, where we had been trapped in a place of bliss and excitement, wonder and love.
This is what the Spanish culture was, and still is, to me. It was the easy going attitude of the people and their loving nature made that it so easy to fall in love with everyone. Sometimes it was just the principle of the thing. At my American school, no one goes around greeting each other by saying "you beautiful, wonderful person you!" Yet in Spain, it wasn't uncommon to walk into class and have a friend say good morning with a string of wonderful adjectives about yourself that make you feel so good inside. It was the languages, both Spanish and Catalan in Barcelona, that flowed so freely and captivated me. Sometimes I would forget to speak, so mesmerized by just listening to the way the words rolled off their tongues. The ultimate joy was when at some point of this cultural journey, I could understand most everything, which allowed me to grow and evolve so much more in becoming a part of their world. It was the music, which was present everywhere. The street musicians dominated in major cities. There were several regulars in Barcelona that I saw so often that their music became a rhythm in my life. However, every street held something new, and just by turning a corner a new musician could be standing in your path, providing just the crescendo you needed in your life that day.
I encountered one such musician in Seville that day. During three minutes of my day I was oblivious to the heat, sucked into the mind and heart of this man. He played music that gave me goosebumps, that made me feel a feeling that swept throughout my entire body, that made my heart feel like it had swollen up. His mesmerizing guitar playing was one reason, but the lyrics he sang combined with his strong, sweetly trembling voice had captivated my attention. A few from our group had gone ahead, but most of us stayed back to hear the remainder of the song. When the man was finished we clapped loudly, and when most of the crowd had subsided I went up to him and told him that I had very much enjoyed his performance. He nodded and as he opened his mouth into a wide grin he said, "Gracias, guapa! Es el duende." This seemed an odd time to learn a new vocabulary word, but I really didn't know what he meant by "duende". I asked him to explain. The man told me that the arts in Spain are based on this principle of duende. Bullfighting, flamenco, painting, and music are all arts connected with the soul. In turn, duende is what connects you. It is what you feel in response to music or another art. It makes you feel sorrow, happiness, melancholy, or ecstasy. It gives you the chills, makes tears swell up in your eyes, or makes you smile.
I realized that was exactly what I had felt before, when I first heard the man making music with his guitar, voice, and soul. Although the word duende does not exist in English, duende is what I feel when I listen to an amazing song for the first time, experience an unforgettable concert, analyze the lyrics of a Bob Dylan song, play a beautiful melody, reach a high note, or hear a child sing a song I have taught them.
That moment was special to me, for it was then that I discovered that there is a word for the feeling I live for.
The heat in Seville was ridiculous. It absorbed so much of my attention that I found it difficult to absorb all the uniqueness of the beautiful city I was experiencing. The other exchange students felt the same way; our north european bodies had still not become accustomed to the sweltering weather in the eight months we had already spent in various parts of Spain. Barcelona, my home city for the year, had similar humidity levels, but so far I hadn't experienced such severe temperatures thrust into the combination. Moreover, it was three in the afternoon, the time of day when all the sensible and laid-back Spaniards were taking a nice siesta. In the past months we had learned to be hardcore tourists. We weren't the kind of tourists you can spot from a mile away, having their picture taken in front of every mildly interesting object around, contemplating a map for a few seconds before asking someone for directions in English, and going to see the bullfight just because, stereotypically, that's what you do in Seville. We were the kind of tourists who wanted to absorb the environment and its intriguing culture. We had long overcome embarrassment and worked to master the Spanish language, practically vowing not to speak our native language from the moment we left orientation to 10 months later, when we would be forced to board various planes and return home after what seemed like a time capsule of unreality, where we had been trapped in a place of bliss and excitement, wonder and love.
This is what the Spanish culture was, and still is, to me. It was the easy going attitude of the people and their loving nature made that it so easy to fall in love with everyone. Sometimes it was just the principle of the thing. At my American school, no one goes around greeting each other by saying "you beautiful, wonderful person you!" Yet in Spain, it wasn't uncommon to walk into class and have a friend say good morning with a string of wonderful adjectives about yourself that make you feel so good inside. It was the languages, both Spanish and Catalan in Barcelona, that flowed so freely and captivated me. Sometimes I would forget to speak, so mesmerized by just listening to the way the words rolled off their tongues. The ultimate joy was when at some point of this cultural journey, I could understand most everything, which allowed me to grow and evolve so much more in becoming a part of their world. It was the music, which was present everywhere. The street musicians dominated in major cities. There were several regulars in Barcelona that I saw so often that their music became a rhythm in my life. However, every street held something new, and just by turning a corner a new musician could be standing in your path, providing just the crescendo you needed in your life that day.
I encountered one such musician in Seville that day. During three minutes of my day I was oblivious to the heat, sucked into the mind and heart of this man. He played music that gave me goosebumps, that made me feel a feeling that swept throughout my entire body, that made my heart feel like it had swollen up. His mesmerizing guitar playing was one reason, but the lyrics he sang combined with his strong, sweetly trembling voice had captivated my attention. A few from our group had gone ahead, but most of us stayed back to hear the remainder of the song. When the man was finished we clapped loudly, and when most of the crowd had subsided I went up to him and told him that I had very much enjoyed his performance. He nodded and as he opened his mouth into a wide grin he said, "Gracias, guapa! Es el duende." This seemed an odd time to learn a new vocabulary word, but I really didn't know what he meant by "duende". I asked him to explain. The man told me that the arts in Spain are based on this principle of duende. Bullfighting, flamenco, painting, and music are all arts connected with the soul. In turn, duende is what connects you. It is what you feel in response to music or another art. It makes you feel sorrow, happiness, melancholy, or ecstasy. It gives you the chills, makes tears swell up in your eyes, or makes you smile.
I realized that was exactly what I had felt before, when I first heard the man making music with his guitar, voice, and soul. Although the word duende does not exist in English, duende is what I feel when I listen to an amazing song for the first time, experience an unforgettable concert, analyze the lyrics of a Bob Dylan song, play a beautiful melody, reach a high note, or hear a child sing a song I have taught them.
That moment was special to me, for it was then that I discovered that there is a word for the feeling I live for.
