8 min. read
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| University of Alcalá de Henares campus entrance (c) Mauro Lima |
My ambitions to attend the Congress start a whole year beforehand at a conference in León, at which I co-present with my supervisor, Brigitta. We become cheerfully acquainted with a larger-than-life Congolese academic, Reggie, based in Spain for decades. On dropping us off at Madrid to catch our plane, he mentions he’s also planning a colloquium in the autumn of 2025. Brigitta and I are both initially enthused. The conference in León has been enchanting, more like a working holiday than purely business. I look forward to more of the same the following year. In the end, Brigitta’s extremely busy schedule will not allow her participation.
As the months elapse, other conference opportunities come and go. I submit papers for several, with Reggie’s not far from my mind. Still, I have my doubts. Whilst the congress is promoted as a multilingual gathering (French, English, Spanish), it seems heavily Hispanophone. I question if my Anglophone paper would be a good fit. I also have plans to visit my sister in Japan to celebrate her birthday around the same period. I wonder if the scheduling will be too tight.
I submit my abstract for ICALCS at the last minute, the deadline having already been extended. I only half-expect my paper to be accepted. To my surprise, the response is prompt and positive. I supplement my personal contribution with what little external funding remains to subsidise my travel.
A week in Spain will be a way to ease myself back into European life after a wistful few weeks in the Far East. Organising my participation ahead of the conference isn’t straightforward. My cognisance of Spanish has long evaporated, not having studied it since secondary school. I have some limited reading comprehension thanks to residue knowledge, and my familiarity with other romance languages. The ICALCS organisational team have little to no English. Fortunately, one team member, Manuela speaks fluent French. I’ll discover later that she’s half-Marseillaise. She ends up being my ICALCS liaison pre-travel.
Take off for Madrid is a mere few days after I return from Tokyo. My outbound journey to Spain is already off to a ropey start, with Brussels Airport still subject to hair-raising delays one whole month after a cyber-attack that affects most of my travel during that period.
A few days beforehand, the manager of the recommended university-campus based accommodation sends an email summarily announcing that the last night of my reservation is cancelled. Given that this has been arranged months in advance, I don’t take kindly to this last minute change. I’m even more peeved to discover the manager cancelled all ICALCS-related bookings for the same date in favour of another conference party. It’s unprofessional to say the least, unethical even. Typical Spain, says one irritated fellow guest Maurice, a facetious Bajan academic that I’ll befriend during the congress, who's in the same predicament.
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| Alcalá de Henares (c) Sergey Konstantinov |
A direct bus from Terminal 2 of Adolfo-Suárez Airport deposits me near the gates of the University of Alcalá de Henares. On arriving at the campus, a day before the conference begins, Reggie greets me congenial as ever, and introduces me to his multilingual team. He explains alternative lodging will cost double the price. It’s a busy season in Madrid. This begins a litany of small disappointments that characterise much of the week.
The accommodation is old — like a less-glamorous riad—but clean, functional and value for money. Breakfast is included. Unconsciously, I’m expecting a standard continental breakfast; a selection of cereals as a minimum. In the end, calling it ‘breakfast’ is a stretch. More like a hot drink and one mediocre pastry. For dietary balance and my waistline, I can’t eat like this every day. I skip out on the morning meal the rest of the week. Considering that conference registration isn’t cheap, the catering options are minimal and not very healthy. The alternatives are not that economical, even with the congress discount. I ask the student assistants the way to the local supermarket and stock up for the week for not much more than the price of the conference lunch. Alas, I find out too late that, bar a fridge and microwave, the hotel kitchen has no cooking facilities or utensils. I have to improvise.
The weather is also less optimistic than I anticipate. I periodically check the forecast the weeks ahead of travel. Sunny intervals everyday with an average of 23 degrees Celsius. I simply re-pack some of the summer wardrobe I took to Japan. I don’t even bother with an umbrella. With my limited luggage allowance, it’s one less thing to carry. I’ll soon regret that decision. Whilst my first day in Madrid is temperate, the rest of the week is occasionally cooler and wetter than for which I’m prepared.
First world problems, I suppose.
The biggest challenge of the week is linguistic. Spanish is the working language of the congress, almost exclusively. To the extent that I wonder why my paper was ever accepted. When I ask Reggie if there’ll be interpretation, it’s an unequivocal ‘no’.
My default outside of English is French. If it involves interaction in another romance language, my brain switches to my so-so Portuguese. No hablo español, becomes my catchphrase for the week.
It wasn’t merely in my imagination that the conference was advertised as trilingual. Other participants (with whom I have languages in common) confirm they had the same expectation. Somewhere along the line, the linguistic policy changed.
I struggle to communicate with one of the main organisers, Lucia. At the tapas-based social on the first night, she approaches me apologising in memorised English. I ask why. I don’t speak English. Lucia claims to have a bit of Portuguese. Hmm. Not enough apparently for us to communicate with some fluidity. It’s particularly an issue given she’s responsible for arranging alternative accommodation for my last night.
I usually do well in even unfamiliar social settings but the language barrier is making me nervous. It helps that, having not eaten all day, I’m famished and can busy myself with the dishes brought out by the kitchen staff at regular intervals. (I’m not usually zealous for tapas – or for Spanish cuisine in general – but I’m hungry enough not to split hairs).
On the other hand, I don’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons. I have a torturous conversation with an exclusively Hispanophone guest. The poor man tries to ask me questions about my studies in a belaboured mix of French, Spanish and English. I can’t wait to liberate us both from this awkward exchange. I eventually find some Anglophones and Francophones in attendance.
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| (c) Carlos Perales |
I’m approached by a bilingual Spanish-American professor, over from the US, as well as a native Hispanophone academic who has studiously acquired the Yorkshire-inflected English accent she picked up when based in the UK. (I find that there’s a certain kind of continental European academic who, in an attempt to set themselves apart amongst those who have mastered English as a second language, affect an authentic-sounding British accent. I’m told by non-native speakers that it is more difficult to acquire than the more common transatlantic variety. I’m always impressed by the aptitude of aforementioned 'faux' Brits but there’s a part of me that wishes I’d keep my admiration to myself. I suspect that’s the desired effect.)
I also finally meet Manuela in the flesh. A few of these multilingual exchanges save the evening for me. Struggling with fatigue and my belly properly satiated, I beg off early to the hotel.
The conference itself is an uphill struggling. The programme is jam-packed, lasting almost 12-hours per day for most of the congress. The schedule is so full, I have the impression that every abstract submitted was accepted.
There are multiple round tables, plenaries and parallel panels with four or five speakers at a time. I understand enough Spanish to know that they cover themes that would be of great interest. I dutifully show up for some but I can’t follow the vast majority of it. The endeavour itself is tiring. I use the time instead to work on my own presentation and other academic tasks. Nevertheless, I greatly miss participating in the interactive moments. I'll feel on the edge of the congress the whole week.
Annetta, a sympathetic bilingual academic from Costa Rica, wonders out loud why there is no interpretation. There’d be students willing to do it for the credit, she reasons.
From what I gather, I’m the only participant who is not proficient in Spanish.
It wouldn’t be worth it for just me, I counter. On the contrary, says Annetta. There’s another academic (a compatriot of Nigerian extraction of which I’ll hear much but never meet) who’s not Hispanophone. Neither does he speak French. I feel for him. There are many Francophone Africans in attendance, including of course, the man of the hour, Reggie. With the exception of the occasional Lusophone I come across, having French in common with other participants is a saving grace. That, and seeing familiar faces from the León conference who speak English, such as Maria-Teresa and Clarissa.
My proficiency in French spares me from being completely anti-social between sessions. Reggie jokes that I’ll learn Spanish by force. Having lost the love for the language a long time ago, this experience is not endearing me it. I’m so used to academia being dominated by English, it’s humbling being in the linguistic minority.
When the effort of trying to decipher academic Spanish gets too much, there are plenty of romantic-looking streets to explore or a tranquil church sanctuary to disappear into. So much the better, given the patchy weather. The rain only adds to the romanticism.
The congress itself is extremely diverse. Hardly surprising, considering Reggie’s strong views about white academics potentially monopolising Afrodescendant-related studies. There is still quite a lot of that during the conference. You know the coup: Caucasian academics wearing Dashikis and Dutch wax, seemingly turning Afrodescendant-related studies into a cottage industry - that kind of thing. However, true to Reggie’s word, the congress in large part reflects the core demographic. There’s even a photo montage amidst the conference literature, dedicated to all the Afrodescendant women taking part and/or behind the scenes.
The congress is much larger than the 2024 conference at León where Reggie and I first met. On one hand, it’s heartening to see so much participation from across the Hispanophone world and beyond. Each day, I seem to come across more and more participants. At the same time, it lacks the intimacy of a smaller gathering. Many a time, my mind will drift nostalgically back to León, autumn 2024.
Part II... coming soon
Soundtrack: Play This Song (single) by Mariah Carey & Anderson .Paak, Red Moon (single) by Tom Misch, Without You (single) by Larse feat. Obi Franky, I Hope That We Never Fit In (single) by Peter & Kerry, Technicolour (single) by Joya Mooi & Ric Wilson
