The Laugh

Wow its been awhile. Time sure does fly. Being in Spain has been a little like summer- camp with classes. Before I left I was a little nervous, feeling like I might miss out on good times at home- but now I don’t want to leave. Just like summer camp. Like my mom likes to tell my friends, “OH, he used to cry when we dropped him off at camp ‘cause he didn’t want to go, then again when we picked him up ‘cause he didn’t want to leave”. Thanks mom. At least this time I can say I’m not crying. And I’ll be back soon...

A lot has happened since my last post- but my mind is so jumbled. That time is all a blur of late nights falling asleep on books, early morning aggression towards my alarm, and coffee to keep me going. My spanish classes / ‘get-made-fun-of-for-my-bad-spanish’ times / dinners in my host family are numbered. I’m beginning to feel bad about leaving my host family- it seems like 3 months is the perfect amount of time to really start calling a place home. Just when I was getting comfortable...

So one night at our ‘dinner’, which is also our Spanish class, my roommate Max and I were doing the usual; stuffing our faces only to be told to eat more by our host-mother Mercedes, straining my ears to understand what she’s saying, and stuttering largely incoherent responses. This particular night we were eating, para el segundo plato, espaghettis con jamon y salsa de queso. If you’re hungry reading this like I am writing this you might be drooling... like I am... So we’re enjoying the food, talking, laughing at our broken spanish and funny mistakes. Max mentions how good the pasta is while serving himself some more, scraping the last out of the large bowl. Mercedes says it happens to be Anna’s favorite. Good thing Anna wasn’t there so we didn’t have to share...

Right? Minutes later we hear a key turn in the door. Max and I know what happened right away, and our concerned eye contact tells the whole story. Anna slowly opens the door and walks into the kitchen. Max’s face is an expressive mixture of shock, guilt, and the loud, prolonged screaming of an obscenity I need not write here. You can imagine. We look at each other awkwardly as Anna walks into her room off the kitchen to drop off her stuff. We wait like death-row inmates, sure of her return looking for her favorite pasta. 

The sound of the door shutting behind her was complimented by a long sigh of relief from each Max and I. Mercedes by now noticed our concern and certainly heard our sigh. She explained she only cooked for us because she knew Anna would eat before coming home. When we explained our thought process to her she could not stop laughing. I wish I could describe the sound of her laugh but its just too funny to express in writing. Use your imagination though, a lot of imagination, and you’ll probably get close. 

She laughs a lot actually. I’m going to kind of miss it, even though most of the time its at me for unknowingly saying something ridiculous in Spanish. She has been a great host mother and I can’t wait to see her next semester. She even bought us scarves as going away presents. Somehow I couldn’t find one I liked in three months of looking, but I really like the one she got me. 

I mentioned I’m NOT crying right? Not yet... Hopefully I can hang in there the next three days.

P.S. One final left!

Pressure (Cooker)

Today my host mother bought a new pressure cooker. A year or so ago my mom made the same mistake. The results: strikingly similar. Upon her first usage each struggled intensely with the apparatus, laughing, yelling, contemplating throwing it as far as they could. Apparently these things drive you mad in any and every language.

The scene was one right out of a sitcom. How many Spaniards does it take to work a pressure cooker? is running through my head as Mercedes, Pedro, and Borja all toil over the futuristic looking cube like male models at a computer (*see here). Pure confusion, frustration with hints of laughter at their own inabilities. Fingers frantically push buttons to no avail. The constant beep of little electronic buttons is the only sound that interrupts the fragile and lighthearted tension. 

What starts as excitement for a new device quickly turns to frustration and loathing at the thing. We’ve all had the feeling of a strenuous struggle, painstakingly straining ourselves to rip that extra tough plastic they package things in these days. Upon failure frustrations leads to disdain, and disdain to a cognizance of the futility of both your efforts and your anger. This glass case of emotion boils past capacity (ironically, much like a pressure cooker)- exploding into laughter at the absurdity of the level of anger you were just seconds ago at. 

Finally we figure it out. A simple solution of course- the twist of a knob. It was no surprise the dish was burnt, and no disappointment either. We were prepared by this point for everything to go as horribly as possible. 

Or maybe the laughter we got from the whole situation outweighs the value of the chewy dessert that could have been. 

P.S. When I asked her where she bought it she said it was a gift, not to her, but a re-gifted gift originally for someone else... If you ask me they got so frustrated with it they did the right thing- they gave it away.

Metro Music

The Metro in Madrid is a funny place. The early morning trains are full of business people and people just finishing their business from the night before. Usually the latter are falling asleep in between each station (yes, you know what I’m talking about- we all do it- and if you haven’t done it you’ve seen it). The afternoon is full  of people going to and from siesta, getting their kids from and back to school, shuffling in and out of train cars in accelerated blurs.
 The night time you can only imagine.
 But no matter what time of day no one is free from surprise subjugation to one of Madrid’s many charms. Sometimes you see them coming. They’re pulling their little amps on a bundled up stroller. They make eye contact with a sly smile that suggests they know something you don’t, but in fact you do see the wire coming from the stroller all the way into a slender microphone interred in their sleeve. Often times you don’t even see them coming. You run onto a crowded train just before the door closes, safely reserve a spot leaning on the opposite door, and just as you begin a conversation with the person next to you-

The glare from the brass instrument catches your eye just before the music reaches your ears. The notes fill the small amount of empty spaces between all the people in the train. Everyone turns to see where the music is coming from. It might be a whole band, each person equipped with a flute or a bongo or a microphone. It might be just one old man, weary and worn, blowing with all his soul into an equally worn brass horn. 

Accordions, guitars, glasses with water in them- whatever the instrument these people bring a little life to the city. A certain intangible essence. But just as quickly as they appeared, furtively dragging their equipment behind them, they’ve slipped out the last door, quickly hustling to the next train car to make another ten or twenty cents. Or maybe to bring a little more life to the otherwise often bland commute.  

What Not to Do in Paris

What not to do in Paris? Seems like a simple enough question. Most travel guides you’ll read will try to convince you of all the things you need to do in Paris. The Eiffel Tower, The Lourve, The Bastille etc... All that is great, but my experience in Paris this past weekend left me with a few, some funny and some not, shall we say, suggestions of things to NOT do in Paris. 

Number 1. Don’t fly into Beauvais Airport. I was convinced RyanAir would get me the cheapest tickets, and they did, however not including the 30 euro ticket for the two hour bus ride into the city. The bus ride was longer than the flight, and for less I could’ve just flown into one of the more central airports.   

Number 2. Don’t stay out all night before your six AM flight. This may lead to an uncomfortable plane ride, and if you’re not of the college age it may leave you bed-ridden for your first day- such a waste. Of course if you are young and can handle “burning the candle at both ends”, as my mom would say, best of luck to you. Just make sure to prepare for exhaustion and drink lots of water. (*See number 6) 

Number 3. Don’t expect Spanish prices. Everything in Paris is twice as expensive as in Spain. You could go out for a coffee and end up spending your child’s college fund. Be careful. *Nice side effect- upon your return to Madrid the prices here will look great. You’ll have the urge to buy everything on the menu because it will seem so cheap. A bottle of water for under five euro!? Lets get three- why not?

Number 4. Don’t wait until the night of her tenth birthday to give your little sister that scarf you bought her for her birthday- its cold out, and she just keeps stealing your dads. (True story)

Number 5. Don’t assume people fall into the stereotype of a French person, but don’t expect them not to either. I encountered a few people who may fit nicely into the stereotype many Americans hold true of French people- rude, pompous, and arrogant. But the vast majority of people just walked right by me without so much as a word. Its the few bad apples that make the whole pie easy to classify as bad- but really you just eat around them if you will. Also, when I got back I ran into a nice French woman in the metro who was looking for directions. Her Spanish was worse than mine! It was a great feeling... But I helped her on her way and so maybe that earned me some French brownie points of some sort. Like now when I go to France I get a free pass from people’s harshness for a day. Like I said, don’t assume someones going to be rude, but don’t take it personally or be surprised when they are in fact quite rude, with their hot coffee breath just lingering in your face while you try to figure out what in the world they are yelling about (in French). 

Number 6. When you feel a little nauseous from the plane and the bus and the strong coffee, make sure to drink lots of water. That being said, make sure the water you’re throwing back like there’s no tomorrow isn’t from the tap. Turns out drinking non-potable tap water for two days straight doesn’t make you feel better- actually it makes you feel much more sick than you may have been in the first place. This I discovered the hard way. But at least it was really funny when my dad casually mentioned at dinner you can’t drink the tap water in Paris. Bing! A lightbulb went off in my head. Not much more can be said about the absurd irony of drinking bad water unknowingly because you felt sick. But I still want to know, what came first? Did I feel sick from drinking the water? Or did I drink the water because I felt sick thus becoming more sick? The world will never know... 

I’m going back to Paris in a couple weeks and you can bet I’ll be bringing some bottles of water for the trip. 

La Buenissima Noche

Its Sunday night. I really just want to stay in my bed. I’ve got some work to do, but mostly I’m exhausted. Just completely spent. Cue the phone ringing- my friend Michelle on the other end of the line saying she found a Jazz bar close to us that doesn’t have a cover charge. Semi-reluctantly, skeptical of my own strength, I get up and start getting dressed. My body is tired, but my mind is smarter- he knows he’s in Madrid, and if not now, when?

We meet up around 11, the music starts at 11:30. So we hustle to the metro station even though its only one stop. But when we get inside the metro station not only is it the wrong line, meaning we’ll have to switch trains, but there is a nine minute wait for the next one. Bad hit. So we decide to take a walk.

It was only about 12 blocks there, a nice walk actually, down a big street with ornate facades and wonderful architecture. There was the occasional crumbling building on a corner, the walls covered in generations of pasted-on ads, cemented together by decades of decaying glue, forming an accordion of theatre, soft drink, and film ads. Finally we get there, just a little after 1130, only to find out- there is indeed a cover charge! We each purposely only brought four euros to avoid excessive spending, and its six a piece to get in. Bad hit number two. And we’re only on the fourth paragraph...  

So far this night has been a pretty big disappointment, and I’m feeling a little like crawling back up those 12 blocks and back upstairs into my welcoming bed. I can almost hear it calling my name. 

But, we agree its not the end of the world and dip into a bar around the corner for some drinks and snacks. We sat and laughed and talked for awhile before we decided it was late enough that maybe we should head to the metro before it closes at 1:30. She heads in to use the bathroom before we go and as I’m sitting there, a lone American with my backwards Red Sox hat on, I heard English. This isn’t some extremely rare discovery in Madrid, but it is always a surprise. I can tell the people speaking are Americans and I decide to go talk to them. Turns out they are Americans living here teaching english as a second language. They make a modest monthly salary and are really doing what us college students are doing- getting by on as little as possible and having all the fun in the world doing it. 

So the four of us sit and chat for awhile- about our experiences in Spain, the best parts, the worst parts, traveling in Europe, living in the big city etc... Its always fun to find other Americans in Madrid and compare our experiences, especially with older kids who are here with a job because they have a different view of the city.

But Michelle and I remember we need to make the metro in just a few minutes so we say goodnight and head back towards the metro. 

We haven’t taken more than 20 steps from the bar before I hear more English, but this time it was more intriguing- quieter and more personal. It was a sly remark about my Red Sox hat I was wearing so proudly, rendered with a proud chuckle. I turn around instinctively to see a short man, worn and tired looking, clutching a gin and tonic in one hand, and smoking a cigarette aggressively with the other. I can’t remember exactly what he said- but he sparked a friendly conversation and we got to talking. No two of his teeth were parallel, his hat was crooked, his stance was off balance, even his cigarette came out of his mouth at a crooked angle. Nothing about this guy was a clean-cut 90 degree angle. But there was something intriguing about him. He had an air of a mad scientist, like he knew something we didn’t. 

He asked me a question that seemed a little random, but soon made perfect sense. “Leo, you play any instruments?”. I answered yes, I play the guitar. Bad hit number three and you’ll see why soon... In fact I can’t read music, I don’t know what a key is, and my talent goes about as far as a few youtube videos. Nonetheless, something drove me to answer yes... Remember, if not now, when?

Soon it became clear he, now known to us as Norm, was the lead singer and trombone player for the band that was headlining that night. We told him the whole story of our failed attempt to get in and he let out one of his trademark creepy yet friendly chuckles as he pulled his wallet out to give us a couple VIP passes for entrance and free drinks. Wow, we thought, who could’ve guessed something like THAT would happen to us tonight!? Little did we know there was more to come...

We took those little red passes in our hands graciously and walked up towards the door. This time the bouncer didn’t even look us in the eye as he opened the door for us- particularly invitingly. We crammed into the crowded club, shouldering past people left and right. We finally got a perfect spot five feet from the stage, with the bar to lean on. We sat like kings on those barstools, proud of our accomplishment by association, and ready to enjoy the night with the feeling of that little red VIP ticket burning a hole in our pockets.

Soon Norm and his band took the stage. He introduced himself to the crowd in Spanish, surprising considering his seemingly native english. This guy never ceases to bewilder. They fumbled with equipment and wires for about ten minutes before starting, but once they did it was sweet, soulful, and symphonic. There’s something about jazz on a Sunday night. The suave sounding horns with the calm, funky, consistent drums, and of course, the upright bass player, cool and collected slapping along to the beat, blending deep, popping tones into the mix. They played one song and there was a pause. A deadly pause.

“Where’s my man Leo at? Leo you in the crowd?”

The microphone must have been broken. Was that my name? 

“Leo, come up here and play guitar with us my man!” 

Next thing I knew I was being ushered onto the stage. My feet weren’t moving but my body was getting closer to the stage. Now I’m standing on the stage. Or my body is at least. A guitar is being tossed around my neck. The crowd looks a lot bigger now. 50 people multiply, looking like thousands. The only face I recognize is Michelle’s, smiling and encouraging.

Reality cruelly snaps back when Norm asks me what I can play. 

“Uh, nothing really” I manage to choke up.

“Nothing!? What is it with you Bostonians?” He says, turning to the crowd, “ you guys are always lying!” 

I couldn’t bring myself to speak anymore out of sheer nervousness, but I began to play what I could. Simple scales that I thought might go well with some jazz-funk vibes. 

“So now you’ve lied twice he said! You can play!”

And with that it started. They played around my very limited riffs, but I was right on time and it was exhilarating. There was an aura in the room that now clouds my memory with a shiny gold light. Maybe it was the reflection of his brass trombone, but I just don’t know. My body isn’t even a concern at this point. I’m a consciousness floating above the stage, watching Norm blow air through his crooked teeth, and seeing the same air come out the other end of the trombone in the form of magical musical notes. I see the bass player, eyes closed, face swaying, grimacing with the coarse enjoyment of the dull, earthly tones. The drummer is looking upward, keeping perfect time, looking almost relaxed. Then there’s me, the nervous first grader on the first day of school, and I’m sure I looked ridiculous. 

All this lasted half a second. Then it was over. I was off the stage, back in my body, embarrassed- but overflowing with adrenaline.

The night lasted a couple more hours before I climbed up the stairs into my apartment to collapse on my bed in a sleepy euphoria. I slept like a baby that night, completely drained of any adrenaline and energy I once had. But the memory of that night will be with me for the rest of my life, and its nights like those that make my experience at Suffolk Madrid so different from the rigid classic concept of a college education. It was just one of those nights that is worth 1,000 freshman English classes. I mean, if not now, when?  

Las Calabazas

Its seems like everyone and their mother is getting ready for Halloween. This past weekend, “halloweekend”, Madrid looked like a wasteland of witches, zombies, etc. if you were out past midnight. Kids from 16 to 30 were all dressed up, packed in the calles like sardines, drinking and having a good time. I love how Halloween isn’t really until Tuesday, but any excuse for a party is a good excuse in my book. 

So today we decided we ought to get in the spirit, and how better to do that than to buy some pumpkins and carve them to pieces before we smash them because we have nowhere to put them? Nothing! So thats exactly what we did. We each got a nice looking pumpkin, brought them to the park where we proceeded to butcher them- adding grimaces and mean-muggin’ eyebrows, shocked mouths, and odd noses. Everyone who walked by was fascinated at the mad group of silly Americans, speaking english and making voodoo dolls out of pumpkins or something. Do people not carve pumpkins in Spain? I honestly don’t know... 

The children in particular were fascinated, and a group of 4 or 5 kids no older than 10 or 11 worked up the courage to ask for one. Naturally we decided we could spare one, probably the ugliest one- so of course it was mine that went to the kids. They were mesmerized, unwilling to share the pumpkin as if it was the magic lantern in Aladdin. But they didn’t know what to do with it! Take it home? Put a candle in it and leave it on the front porch as a fun, festive decoration? No, let’s smash it, seemed to be the consensus. Coincidental too, considering that was exactly what we were planning to do with ours... 

Unfortunately they ran off arguing over the pumpkin before we could see what became of it. But I think its safe to say that one suffered the same fate as ours- being smashed to pieces by the cruel realities of gravity. Of course the pumpkins pain is worth the (shockingly high) level of entertainment that we got from carving and smashing them.. 

Of course before we smashed ours we sat them on a bench to be admired by passers-by. One child on a tricycle nearly refused to continue on his voyage because he was so enthralled by the silly orange faces looking back at him. Joggers tripped over their own confusion as they double-took, not sure what they were seeing. Were their eyes deceiving them? Or were there really 4 little orange faces staring back at them, unchanging and bold. 

5 hours later and my hands are still sticky with pumpkin goo, but my mind still full of the surprised faces of the children walking by the faces, flabbergasted, and of course, the instant of impact as the smiling little face of the pumpkin hits the hard, cold ground, getting a firsthand lesson on Sir Isaac Newton, and exploding into a thousand pieces with a pleasant and dull pop. 

How To Kill a Mocking (Stereotype)

In high school I often found myself asking myself, usually in unison with many of my peers, why am I learning this? It was never made clear to me for which instance in my life I would need to know how many neutrons argon has, or what the square root of i is. I will say the the subject I found to be the most irrelevant and obsolete in high school had come to my aide more than I would have imagined. I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the (minimal) Latin I picked up in high school and how it has helped me with English and now, Spanish. Regardless, in high school, sitting there staring at the clock wondering why it could possibly matter that agricola, agricolae is actually a masculine noun, I could have been much more proficient knowing exactly how this subject would be useful in life. 

In college its a little different. The first day my political science professor told us he knew that most of us would be bored by his (obligatory) class on the European Union. Of course I think most people find the class absolutely fascinating since the professor is so dynamic and charismatic. The material is interesting too because we see it everyday actually living in Europe. Everyday I learn something I see it later that day, or it comes up in the news. For example, Spain joined the EU in 1986, I look at my Abono (my metro pass) and the Metro in Spain was built the same year. Coincidence? I think not... but thats actually besides the point. The point is that he told us his goal in teaching us about the European Union. He told us a little anecdote about his first day in a college lecture class. His teacher, a man he greatly admired, posed a question he expected no one to know- and sure enough the room was silent. But, he timidly rose his hand and offered an answer. He turned out to be right and won the professors reciprocated respect and admiration. He described the feeling with the smile of a seven year old boy taking over his face and his passion communicated the point as well as his words. He explained that he is teaching us X so that someday we will have that feeling. Some far away day, maybe in Madrid, we’ll remember that the European Parliament is the only institution directly elected when we overhear a conversation in a bar. Of course the Spaniard or Frenchmen who are discussing it will assume we’re Americans, completely ignorant of European politics. But, at the last moment, we’ll offer our knowledge, and feel proud that we knew something even a European citizen didn’t. Who’s the ignorant American now? He added that maybe we’ll even impress someone enough to buy us a drink.

I guess its really a combination of being in Europe and having that explained to me, but the simple knowledge of why I’m learning what I’m learning (and its not just for bar conversations), has made me much more intrigued in my subjects. Having a passionate professor who really cares not only about what he is teaching, but also about the success of his students and our interest in the material, is exceptionally catalyzing for engaged learning. 

My only problem is that I got these teachers first term of my freshman year and now every teacher I have from here will have a hard time meeting the standard. In other words they’ve set the bar high, but this is a trivial concern. 

El Ping Pong Blog

I’ve been in Spain about two months now and I have felt virtually no homesickness. Many of my peers have had moments of missing someone or something from home, but I think in general the things Spain has to offer (and schoolwork of course!) are enough to keep most of us occupied enough that we don’t even think of home very often. Yet not feeling homesick doesn’t mean that familiar things from home aren’t soothing. This I realized today...

The past week has been dominated by a blur of studying and midterms. I’m not one to stress, but there is some inevitable stress that comes with taking one of two tests that will constitute the majority of your final grade. In any case- I’m glad to be done with them and I think I even did pretty well. Well, we’ll see when I get them back...

Anyways today we had a meeting for the freshman. It was right after class and I was frustrated because I hadn’t eaten all day. But being such a good student I went ( to the the mandatory meeting), and we talked about our experiences to date in Madrid- whats been good whats not so good. I found my brain completely void of negative experiences here even though I know I’ve had bad moments. I guess my brain just overrides those memories with all the good ones. Anyways by the end of the meeting I was ready to scream and run out of there I was so hungry- but luckily I stayed. Because after- there was pizza. SO much pizza. And it may have just been my emotions running wild since I was so hungry- but that was the first America style pizza I had had here and it was exhilarating. The melting cheese all over my hands, and of course the excessive amounts of grease reminded me quite fondly of the states. And although I didn’t miss home, I was very comfortable thinking of it. That was familiar thing number one... 

Number two is something I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned already- the ping pong table at school. Ping Pong is one of those sports (yes, sports) that I always forget I love. And actually you’d have to drag me away from the table to get me to stop playing. Its so satisfying to get a good rally going- almost therapeutic (not for the students in class listening of course- but for me.)

Today I was playing my usually partner- an Indian man named Kahan. He is an exceptionally brilliant man in many areas, including ping pong. In fact to this day I’m yet to beat him, although I’ve gotten close a few times. On this particular occasion he happened to beat my my more than twice my score. But besides the embarrassment I really appreciated a little taste of America to take my mind of midterms. That table is like a little American oasis from stress and work; the only thing that matters is that little white ball.

The point of this little story is that I’ve discovered a capacity to think fondly of and appreciate little pieces of American culture without actually longing to go back to it. This is because I know one day I’ll be back where I come from, and I’ll be missing Madrid. So for now I’ll just enjoy my time in Spain while it lasts, and cross that bridge when I come to it. (Although if they have ping pong and greasy pizza here I don’t see why I ever have to go back... Sorry Mom!) 

La Comida

Every restaurant in Spain is required by law to have available a menu del dia, including a first plate, a second plate, a drink, bread, and dessert. I’m not sure it had to be as serious as an actual legally binding law, but i like it. Best law ever.

So naturally my friends and I have a favorite spot to go to. Well we have a few- one in each neighborhood that were often in. But the one we go to most often is about a twenty minute walk from our house, or 5 minutes on the train. Worth every second. And the walk back is a convenient workout, necessary after how much food we get. We know the waiters and bartenders and they know us, but our lingual abilities only overlap in a very small little sliver of Spanglish. We struggle to find out what the menu is today, since it changes everyday. Recently we’ve given up, realizing all the food is amazing, and taken to a new game. 

Here’s how it works. 1. Close your eyes. 2. Point to the menu. 3. Eat what is put in front of you. That’s it. Simple. Everybody wins. In general we try to get different things, butchering the pronunciation as we order them. Every now and then one of us gets something particularly interesting; most recently, tripe. For those who are like me and have never seen that word before I believe its cow stomach? I knew Spain would be an adventure- but cow stomach? Did not see that coming.

Needless to say it was delicious. But my favorite guess ever turned out to be a big plate of grilled ribs with onions and peppers. Just could not have been happier when she walked outside and put that plate in front of me. Smiling from ear to ear. 

There are two servers in particular who we’ve befriended. A man who speaks very good english (but he’s a Yankee’s fan so we don’t talk much), and a woman who speaks no english. She laughs every time we show up- in a friendly way of course- and gets us menus with a big grin on her face. I can hear her now “Que tal chicos!? Dime!”

By the time the second plate comes out I’m full. And dessert? Forget it. I usually get coffee instead just to help digest the foodbaby I have. And that twenty minute walk home? Yeah that can wait an hour...

So you can see how a quick lunch turns into a feast fit for kings. And two hours later you’re sitting there in a euphoria, with no plans, and no need to go anywhere. 

PS. Just kidding- Yankees fans are people too... 

Santiago de Compestela

This past weekend I went on one of Suffolk University’s excursions to the northwest corner of Spain, the region of Galicia. Galicia, and the town of Santiago de Compestela in particular, is a special place. There they have their own dialect- a sort of Spanish-Portuguese hybrid, and their own rich history. But this is not quite where the story begins...

Sitting in my kitchen a few days before I was leaving for Galicia an argument broke out at dinner. I told my host mother I was going away this weekend, and where I was going. Pedro, my oldest brother told me the bus ride could be as long as ten horas. My sister Anna insisted this was ridiculous- it would only be seis horas, mas o menos. Borja, my other brother, said no, no it depended on traffic (I think), it could be nueve, o diez. Mercedes laughed and said authoritatively that it could certainly be only about ocho horas. While the four of them argued their logic the Spanish language dissolved into something more basic - human language. I could have very well been sitting in my kitchen at home taking part in the same frivolous argument with my biological siblings. It was amazing how without understanding the language itself I understood the entire dynamic of the conversation as if it was in my mother tongue. 

So I had everyone register official guesses and as it turned out my host mother was closest. The ride was eight hours. 

We left school at midnight Friday morning. The first thing I noticed when we arrived was the familiar charming humidity of the air, particularly crisp as the sun rose in a firery blaze over a grassy green hill. I felt at home. We ventured up a series of windy and narrow cobble stone streets into the old part of the city- the medieval part. Colorful crenellated banners spanned the width of the street in a festive atmosphere. The city was alive. Blacksmiths were hard at work- sweaty and dirty despite the fact it was only nine in the morning. Vendors aggressively tried to sell their souvenirs, mostly seashells and walking sticks- the traditional symbols of the pilgrimage that ends in this city. People choose a method of transportation and come primarily from France through the terrain of northern Spain to see the Cathedral of Saint James in Santiago. Yes, it is a long walk. And although I didn’t do the pilgrimage myself I can say it must be well worth the spectacle. 

The Cathedral of Santiago de Compestela is daunting. Its massive and ornate, and we had the opportunity to climb up countless stairs and take a tour of the roof. The sun was beating down on us and I regretted wearing all black- but the panoramic view was priceless. How many times have you walked across the roof of a cathedral built nearly ten centuries ago? From that high you can see, but not hear, the hustle bustle you were just moments walking through. The breeze blows in your face and there’s a tranquil silence. 

Back in the streets modern day pilgrims are all around you. Not with funny hats and buckled shoes like most Americans picture them- but with bandanas and backpacks and walking sticks and seashells, glistening with sweat from the unrelenting midday sun. Their hands are calloused and dirty- they look like they’ve just walked hundred of miles, and many of them have. The markets are bustling- crowded with throngs of people buying fresh cheese, cured meats, spices, and died fabrics. There’s a certain medieval charm, a liveliness in the air. 

Of course this region has more to offer than the cathedral- and that is, chiefly, seafood. We dined like kings in the town that evening- with fresh ensalada de pulpo (octopus salad), and fried calamari. One afternoon for lunch I had amazing fish, the name of which I would know if I spoke Spanish. Then that night, I had wood-fire barbecued ribs in the heart of the old town. The man who served them to me looked a little medieval chopping them with a blunt axe and wiping the sweat off his brow with his other hand, but they tasted amazing. 

This trip was amazing because if history isn’t your thing maybe you would appreciate the artistically astounding architecture of the cathedral. And if architecture isn’t you thing maybe you’d just like the food. And if food isn’t your thing I don’t know what to tell you- except that maybe our trip to the beach would make up for that. It was a packed weekend, and after eight hours on that bus I was ready to sleep in my own bed before class monday morning. But despite how tired I was it took me some time to fall asleep with all these thoughts rolling around in my brain about how many more little cities like that there are to see in Spain. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m going to see them all... 

¿Somos Diferentes?

Spain has a lot to offer, and when I think of Madrid the first thing that comes to mind isn’t exactly a classroom. Sure the Plaza Mayor, the parks, and the discos are classrooms in their own right, although they’re probably not what my parents were envisioning. In any case there came a point when I remembered that classes are also a large part of this experience. Luckily I even remembered just in time to actually make it to my first class- on a Monday at 2:15 in the afternoon. Rough life I know... Viva El Leo.

But if you’re thinking the leisurely timing of the classes degrades any intellectual value you’re mistaken. You can imagine my face when I walk into my first class, Cultural Diversity and Human Needs, not really knowing what exactly that entails, and am told by a man with a red beard, “I’m supposed to teach you guys about cultural diversity, but in fact I’m going to teach you that no such thing exists.” It was a daunting statement. Of course there exists diversity in our cultures, I thought. Look at all the things we do differently. A kid from the Democratic Republic of Congo has certainly had a different cultural upbringing than I, right? Perplexity turns to concentration, concentration to contemplation and contemplation to fascination. A few classes later and I’m fully enthralled. I’m convinced my professor is an intellectual genius. I hang on every word he says. I use one hand to write as fast as I can everything he’s saying and the other to hold my jaw up at the amazement of what he’s actually saying.

  He went on to explain that in the scope of our evolution humans have only been so separated for a minuscule amount of time. So if we have only spent 0.1% of our time apart, how different can we be? Sure we do things differently in our customs, rituals, and beliefs, but at the end of the day aren’t these all just manifestations of the same basic human desires? 

Yeah, heavy stuff.

So here’s little old me just trying to see the world- thinking I’ve already got my particular paradigm all figured out- and I get two of the best teachers Suffolk University has to offer blasting me with new information and ideas that change how I perceive the whole world. They are admirable and inspirational gadflies, probably without knowing, always provoking analysis, reflection, and contemplation. Everyday my eyes open a little more to the world around me. I guess thats college. 

I was, of course, going somewhere with all this... Sitting in the park with all my friends the other day we came to a comical realization. We often go to that very same park and sit in the very same grassy patch and watch the very same four elderly  Spaniards playing the very same, and very foreign, card game. They’re actually quite hilarious to watch- shouting and laughing being all the while unrelenting with their little determined scowls. There’s one woman and three men. It is very clear who’s the boss. On this particular day we stayed at the park after dark, and without our noticing the four elderly people morphed into six or eight young people, about our age, just loitering, lingering over a bunch of bottles of beer and bumping the bass on a boom box. It was funny because as differently as they appeared, they were nothing more than younger versions of the people we had seen earlier, yelling and laughing, pushing each other around with facades of grimaces. In that sense they seemed no different at all, just younger people with the same desires as the older people; to socialize with each other, play some games, and have some laughs. Of course this is when Professor Greenan pops into my head with his affable Irish accent. I came to the realization (also in an Irish accent for some reason- funny how that happens) that not only are these kids no different from the older people who sat in their place hours before, they’re no different than the kids back in the United States sitting on their couches in their dorm rooms doing the same things. 

So maybe it is true that the only differences humans have are the ways in which we manifest our desires. The music might be different, the card game might be different, the setting and the type of drink might be different, but the basic human desire for socialization is the same. We all yearn the simple pleasure of a place to sit with our friends and laugh. Of course if this is true, why do we stratify ourselves so much; emphasizing differences and denying similarities? Maybe in the coming days- which are sure to test our generation- we can remember these similarities more than our frivolous differences, the emphasis of which has plagued the generations of those before us. 

Imagine (Day 1)

Imagine waking up in a different bed, in a different room, in a different house, in a different country. You don’t speak the language. You don’t recognize the smells, the food. You cant even figure out how to flush the toilet. I’ve been doing these things a lot lately. Sounds scary, right? But whats more scary: imagine you’re loving every moment of it. If you’re like me you love trying new food, smelling different smells, and making yourself look like a fool trying to speak broken spanish (or “Spanglish”) to passersby. 

Rewind a couple weeks to the terrified kid I was- waiting at the Suffolk University Madrid campus, feeling a little like an orphan, waiting for my new mother to pick me up and take me home. I had a case of anxiety like you read about. What if she doesn’t speak any english? What if she’s evil!? Luckily only the former is true... As a matter of fact, its only two weeks later and I can’t imagine having another host mother. She makes AMAZING food, she does my laundry, changes my sheets, and even doubles as a Spanish teacher at dinner! (I told her she should be getting a professor´s salary from the school) She never gets frustrated with my shockingly poor level of Spanish, and is always willing to repeat and speak more slowly. What’s more, I have three more siblings to my collection (not to mention another yappy dog my mom would melt for). Their names are Borja, Pedro, and Anna, and although their english is limited, it is much better than my Spanish, and is helpful not only for translating, but for finding a cheap little bar to go to at night, which museums and parks are the most fun, and even which dessert their mother makes the best (and which to avoid). 

So after a couple hours of feeling a little like an outsider intruding upon this family’s life I already felt like a part of it. Their constant barrage of engaging conversation and hospitality made assimilation quick, easy, and relatively painless process. And so here I am, only 2 weeks into a new culture, waking up in a different bed, in a different room, in a different house, in a different country- and I couldn’t be more content. 

PS. If you’re wondering, yes, I did figure out how to flush the toilet.