Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Second Semester Student

There are a lot of differences between the first and second semesters spent abroad. Second semester you can´t help but feel a littler wiser, a little more informed, a little more comfortable in Madrid. First semester you feel like there´s an inside joke everyone gets except for you.
In Madrid they play a game. Here´s how it goes: Person A walks on to the train, and persons B, C, D, E, F, G (and so on...) stare. They analyze your shoes, your posture, your clothes, your soul. We were told Spaniards are curious people- but the first time you get the metro-staredown its a bit uncomfortable. Its all in good spirits, I´m sure, yet you feel a little on the outside.
By the next stop, or for many of us the next semester, you get participate in the game on the winning team. You watch the poor outsider get on the metro, unsure if its even the right train. They look around, trying to read the complex map, while the old Spaniards, thinking they´re sly, silently observe this odd specimen in front of them.
There are more unspoken rules of the game in the Madrid Metro. Perhaps king of all- walk on the left, stand on the right. I´m talking of course about the golden rule of escalators, cherished and strictly followed by all self repecting madrilenos. Those who dare defy the rule are subject to fiery looks of disapproval, taps on the shoulder, and curt ´perdona!´s. I myself experienced some harsh reprimanding for not being aware of the unspoken rule of all rules.
Yet this is the beauty of being a second semester student: I walk down the escalator this morning, down the left side of course, and politely ask the extanjero standing in front of me to move. Confuzzled, he quickly shuffled to the right, allowing me to pass only to see another stander just a few steps down. I decided, rather than being rude, to simply stand for the remainder of the ride, turning around to see the looks on the witnesses´faces. One woman, clearly from Madrid, gave me a laugh and an agreeing shake of the head, acknowledging what she must have thought was my deep pain and frustration with this person not knowing how the escalator works.
She leaned down and said something to me in Spanish with a laugh. I nodded my head, agreeing and laughing (even though I didn´t understand a word). But I´m quite sure it was something meant only for another madrileno.
I felt at home.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

The Friend Zone

Back in the States I work in a restaurant, and one of the biggest differences in Spain is how the service industry is run. In the United States the waiter is at your beck and call, a slave to your tip-discretion, sweating, running, using a fake, overly friendly tone to talk to the table. In Spain, its like teenage mindgames. They pretend they don’t see, and if they see you, they don’t want to. Should we call them over? Do they even know we’re here? are common questions.

 The thing is, its not as bad as it sounds- because once you get to know a place, and prove you’ll go back time and time again despite being ignored and seemingly unwillingly served (probably the wrong thing if your Spanish is as bad as mine), they treat you like their best friend. Its like an endurance test, but once you get past the test it great. You walk in the door feeling like a celebrity. You get a loud, enthusiastic welcoming, usually accompanied by an overly friendly invasion of your personal bubble.



Last night I think we finally hit the friendly-zone at the restaurant across the street from our apartment. We walk by it all the time and we’ve gone in a handful of times before. Luckily the chef, the quintessential Spanish chef, (round, plump, hairy, and uber-friendly) smokes more than he cooks, so he’s always out front when we walk by to engage us in some small talk. Although half the time we don’t know what he’s saying, more due to his accent and speed then his language, we laugh when he laughs, smile when he smiles, and try to squeeze his hand as hard as he squeezes ours when he shakes hands.


 Apparently it’s paid off.


So we walk into the restaurant which looks like no one is working at it. We stand next to the podium that says, please wait to be seated. Standing awkwardly for a few seconds we decided to just b-line for the bar stools and have a seat. That we did, and just as we were sitting down we hear a loud authoritative voice. Great, I thought, they’re really going to be mad we sat ourselves. Instead I turn around to see the chef, in all his mustache-y glory, with a big smile and an extended hand. So we have a couple of laughs and before we know it we’re looking at a plate of complimentary chips with some sweet salsa. They were SO good we inhaled them. So the Chef, walking by and seeing the empty plate, assumes we’d like some more. 
Now in Spain “Spicy” does not exist. If you want spicy, go to Taco Bell. That’s honestly your best bet. So when he asks me if I like spicy, of course! I love spicy food, and it didn’t occur to me that it would even be moderately spicy. 

Next thing I know theres a small bowl of bright red salsa, filled with seeds, sitting in front of me, and a circle of anxious waiters waiting to see the look on my face when I try it. Yet I’m still not believing that anything in Spain could possibly make my mouth burn the way it did. So with a smile I took a big scoop and chomped right down. 

“Not too spicy, right?” He asks, sarcastically.

“No, no” I say, before it actually hits me.
Everyone knew when it hit me. My eyes popped out and I had that concerned look that only the person who eats too much spicy food has on their face. We all shared a laugh, and I made sure to take minuscule dips after that, although I couldn’t just abandon it for fear of offending my new over- zealous friend. 

Luckily they brought us some frozen drink to quell the burning before we left, we shared another laugh, and its sure that we’ll be going back there, although with a little more caution. So if you find yourself in one of these Spanish restaurant mind games, stick with it. It’ll pay off.