Where do I begin?
O lo es “como” empiezo? (or is it how?) I could not possibly squeeze in all
cuentos during my 21 hour day of travelling. Or is it a day of travelling for 21 hours? All of this
pensando en español has made me question my abilities as a competent citizen of the English speaking world.
Porque yo sé no existar en el mundo de español. Lets begin with the day.
Hoy es sábado, el ocho de septiembre (I had to reference my watch before placing here)
y es las nueve menos doce. What have I done in the past four days?
Pues, I am so glad you asked. (
Este es porqué tú estás aquí, no? Bale, continuámanos…)
Primero, I would like to address the fact that I am running on two hours of sleep and haven’t been submerged in formal language exchange since high school…
hace cuatro años que estaba en escuela secundaria. So, I have been in for quite a treat.
Entonces, what is it like being in the program? Oh, my! What would I do
sin el programa? The program has saved
mi vida. I arrived into Sevilla airport on a small Dutch plane where the two stewards looked like they had been extracted from a Dutch coffee shop, placed in “traditional” Dutch attire, which, to Americans, looks like circus clothing (the green color of a recycling bin marked the solid base of the vest (yes, I say they make vests…but, espera) and pants (matching pants…with a matching vest…) with an accented long sleeve shirt laden with entropic designs of circles, both large and small, squiggles, and triangles. The whole flight is a blur como the majority of the past couple days. But, once the plane safely absorbed the concrete of the Spanish runway, I felt subdued.
Pensaba, “Estoy aquí? Sí. Estoy aquí!”
Overly aware of my blatant American
ser de forma, in my most practiced speech, requested to be taken to the Hotel Hesperia.
Sin embargo, with the established confirmation of driving along Spanish soil, I felt no different; rather, I felt better.
The theme of the last four days has been, for many of you that have immersed yourself abroad already know, “where do I belong?”
If you want the answer to the question immediately, you are forewarned : DON’T LEAVE=
NO SALGAS. It isn’t a quick answer and if you can’t find it in a country where you know what to expect as far as culture, geography, and, most importantly, how to participate in communicating clearly, then, you most likely won’t be able to find it in a situation where you are constantly reestablishing your grasp on what we understand to be “daily life.”
Lassitude has been the name of my game. I arrived late to orientation and was immediately shuffled into the dining room to join my fellow Americans in a welcome dinner. Before I was able to join the eager faces, I dropped off my luggage in my room, where, to my surprise, there was already luggage…wait for it…two sets of luggage in a room with a maximum occupancy limit of 2…maybe 2.5 average size
personas.
"Awesome.”
Downstairs, we had been separated into groups according to our respective
ciudades. With little time to absorb my surroundings, I hastily plopped into my chair and struggled to maintain face while my fellow attendees took the liberty of an atmosphere marked by sleep deprivation and low patience levels to reveal their life stories. As my plates were brought to me by an overly abrasive serving staff, with a pseudo “This American Life” podcast on in the background, I couldn’t help thinking that I had imagined something different. I had imagined the temperate summer nights where the night is illuminated not by the moon, but by the energy of
jóvenes under street lamps
por calles estrechas hablando, bebiendo, y tal vez, bailando. My rude awakening wasn’t shocking as much as it was a process of acceptance that maybe this American route of gradual integration is necessary to adapt…
And I can say with
confianza that it is.
The first night en Sevilla, we went on a tour of our neighborhoods. My tour guide was Danny—-imagine a smaller, skinnier version of Adam Levine, with Spanish roots, and a better smile. Oh, yes, it’s possible.
Pero, más guapo, aunque menos alto. He enthusiastically bopped along, maintaining a ten pace lead, while we all slowly dragged behind along the foreign streets of a Spanish speaking country amidst the omnipotent sun. The sun here does not inflict a soul crushing sensation, as you would expect the hottest city in all of Europa to achieve. Rather, it is stimulating—your pores do not sweat, they ooze. The heat wave acts as a blanket of both discomfort and strength—you feel uncomfortable, but you are in constant renegotiation with your subconscious, feeding your will power and wending along a path of reappropriation. Your enlivened pores stimulate your other senses, involuntarily absorbing your surroundings and, thus, inducing a perpetual cycle of Spanish stimulation—Spanish sun, Spanish buildings, y,
no olvides, los españoles.
Después de nuestra gira, we stopped for tapas. The bar was small with a rustic atmosphere emanating from the authenticity of the oak foundation, with a narrow staircase and old, judgmental Spaniards. The rooms are separated by bedroom doors that fit four mesas to a room. Claro, the Americans occupied a whole room and unintentionally proclaimed themselves as Spanish—drinking sangria (which is probably the most American and least Spanish thing to do) and ordering
demasiada comida como croquettes, pollo con almaderenas, y mucho más. Entonces, we went to a flamenco show. It was my first time seeing the flamenco, but I had read a lot about
la duende por Frederico Garcia Lorca antes de había llegado. So, I was excited to see all he had discussed on the subject of the tragic artistry employed by the singers, dancers, and guitarists involved in
el flamenco. I cannot recreate with words what I saw—my attempt would be a disservice to a raw beauty that can only be remedied through steps and sounds.
There is so much more to say and reflect upon. All in all, I can say that this is going to be a long two weeks in Sevilla. The Spanish day lasts forever, which, for Americans is good, because it allows us to do more things. But, that is not the custom in Spain—the time is not for work,
lo es para descansar (to rest).
Pues, I have a lot left to learn and reteach myself in terms of speaking. In Spain, everyone is very friendly and willing to talk, but, lately, the Intel processor that is my brain has malfunctioned and the Spanish language program is out of order. I think with sleep, I will regain clarity and once again, be able to discuss all that is necessary.
Words to the wise for future participants:
1) BRING YOUR DEBIT CARD. Don’t let your dad convince you that you the possibility of being robbed is a guarantee and you will never see your American money again. Your dad is scamming you and you will be left stranded without funding (this happened to some poor soul…not me…I would never let a thing as important as money be left behind in America…no soy como una Americana tanta).
2) BE PATIENT. On all accounts. This applies to every single part of your new life and your desire to maintain your old life. Let things develop—relationships, the language, and your familiarity with places, names, and things. When you become discouraged, you miss out on experiences that will benefit you in the long run. Por ejemplo, I was given my keys by mi padre español. But, claro, we had to practice using them because when you live in a foreign country, you regress to the age of a 5-year old…a low functioning 6-year old on a good day (those kids that still wear Velcro shoes and color outside the lines—that’s me ahora). The door to the piso was easy—in and out like in the Estados Unidos. Pero, la puerta abajo no era difícil…era imposible. We spent a good twenty minutes en la calle cuando estaba tratando abrir la puerta con mi llave (on the street trying to open the door with my key). This is what a language barrier breeds—inappropriately lengthy endeavors como este. Also, be prepared not to talk to your family… I know you THINK you are prepared for it…but, you aren’t. For those on the West Coast, the time difference is 9 hours…that’s a day’s difference. Not only that, the timing is opposite, so when you are settling down to talk, your parents are getting up, shoving food down their throat while they drive over and above the speed limit to get to their meetings on time. America caters to routine; Spain caters to cualquier quiere, siempre que lo desee (what you want, whenever you want). Here we don’t rush, we waddle—things get done…eventually. Pues, enjoy them while they last.
3) BE CONFIDENT. You are not here for a personality makeover or otherwise. You are here to expand your identity—when you are changing, you are growing. But, it does not happen all at once. The stages are long and hard. I can only understand half of what is being said to me and for the most part, it takes me a minute to respond. A MINUTE. I am intimidatingly gawked at while I process, in my weakened and sleep deprived brain, a quickly spoken language that only makes sense to me on paper. But, if I don’t keep trying, I will never get there. And if I don’t believe I can, then I won’t either. I will keep you updated on this step because I have heard it is inevitable, but it is also a prolonged stage…It hasn’t even been 7 days and I am frustrated with not speaking as well as I should be.
4) MAKE AMERICAN FRIENDS. Okay, so, I know I constantly dis my kind on this blog, but, you gotta understand, Americans in España have a bad rep. Every time I tell a Spaniard my name, ellos me responden con :
“OH! Como Courtney Love?!”Y, les decía, “Ni hablar!” (No way!) Circling back to the point of this section, until you can fully convey thoughts and feelings in a seemingly endless stream (my goal for an approximate duration: 10 minutes) you need people. My homestay family is fabulous. Within the first five minutes, I was placed back-to-back with
mi padre español to measure our difference in height. Of course, the response to the differential was in centimeters, but, there was no interim
sin comodo. I have already been told that I am a part of the family. They are FASCINATED/ frustrated by how slowly I consume food… But, they really want to help me learn and grow. They really care.
Mi padre español offered to take me to
la plaza Salvador la noche pasada y claro te decía “Sí, por favor” because I am still very uncomfortable due to a lack of familiarity with my surroundings.
Pues, we took his little Spanish moto (like in the Lizzie McGuire movie [a shout out I find necessary to my age group])
por las calles estrechas to the plaza. In Spain, the plazas are open courtyards where there are random high-top tables soliciting jóvenes to congregate and converse from around 11pm hasta 3 o 4am. Luckily, I have made a lot of friends so far in the short time I’ve been here that have offered lots of support, stories, and witticisms. It’s survival mode.
Mi pseudo hermano mayor me decía,”We live together and die alone.” (Yes, he was quoting Lost while wearing a t-shirt with a pirate skull on it…talk about being an American…).
But lo es verdad. />
Un punto final,
EVERYONE IS REALLY NICE. I had to open a Spanish bank account…I have never even opened an American bank account. I assumed I was going to be talked into becoming a non-resident organ donor and buying a puppy all while just trying to open an account. To my surprise, Augusto spoke English and took the longer route, to benefit my pocketbook in the long run. He gave me his card and offered his services, for either banking or otherwise, if/when in need. SAY WHAT?! No way…That would have never happened in America. And if it did, you would have to call a 1-800 # and be consulted with a laundry list of automated voice response options to endure before you even speak to a teller. Which, by the time it happens, you have either resolved the problem yourself or you have to rush out to a prior commitment. />
In closing, I was born in Spain. The lifestyle (a little sleep here, a little sleep there), the food (except for the pizza con atún I had last night…yes, pizza with canned tuna)
, the people (tell it like it is), and the traditional and natural beauty of the true state of a place (not replicas of model homes, the redundancy of chains, and countless lung clogging and air masking vehicles to waste your life away in)
are all facets of Sevilla that don’t feel foreign, but comforting. It feels like I just came back from a very long trip and once I unpack all my language tools, I will resettle into the life I was intended to fulfill. 
