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.

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.

The Blind Man's Vision

Everyone has stereotypes. The lazy American. The stern German. The pretentious Brit. The rude Frenchman. The loud, lazy, hairy Spaniard who can’t give directions to save his life. Of course these are huge generalizations, maybe occasionally helpful for traveling to one of these countries and understanding the social atmosphere, but more often than not, they are very inaccurate and unreliable at predicting the character of a particular individual. Except maybe the bad directions part.

Its true. Spaniards really can not give good directions. You ask somewhere where la plaza is, they say go left. You end up more lost, ask another person, and they say go right. Finally you end up even farther from home. If its a really bad day you might stumble right on into Portugal without even knowing it. 

But this particular day wasn’t about giving reliable directions, but more about standing up and offering assistance. A blind man, traveling to the clinic for the blind right across from my building (thank goodness its for the blind and not for the deaf because I change in front of my window every morning), was struggling to get around one of those temporary fences they use to block construction areas. It was in the middle of the sidewalk, just placed there this morning, and thus was even tripping up people with their full visual faculties. Admittedly I tripped over it moments after this happened...

So he’s stammering along, feeling with his cane. He’s clearly confused, as I’m sure he walks this path often and has never encountered this strange object in his way. I opened my mouth to say ‘derrecha senor’, but someone had beaten me to it. The worker at a nearby store had left his post behind the cash register, leaving a long line of confused and frustrated shoppers, to help this man out. He told him ‘left! no, no, right! I meant right! right! keep going, okay now you can walk forward’. Not the worst directions I’ve ever seen a Spaniard give.

But it wasn’t the quality of the directions that mattered. It was that someone would so willingly leave their post to help someone else in need. So maybe these stereotypes have some kernels of truth to them. They must if they exist. While its important to remember they are unreliable and scarcely correct in explaining the character of an individual - perhaps what Spaniards lack in directional skills they make up for in social consciousness, and respect for elders and persons with disabilities. And then maybe the ‘lazy’ American, the ‘stern’ German, the ‘pretentious’ Brit, and even the ‘rude’ Frenchmen have equally redeeming qualities. Maybe you just need to open your eyes (or ears!), [and your mind] a little more to find those qualities. 

The Best Way to Learn (or Improve) Your Spanish

The best way to learn spanish? American high school classes? Don’t get me started... Rosetta Stone? Flashcards? Complete immersion in Spain without ever having studied it? Maybe that last one is a close second. But no, I’m convinced that the best way to learn Spanish is to eavesdrop on the middle school students on my bus ride home. 

Unorthodox, I’ll admit. But many people agree listening to children speak a language is far more helpful than their adult counterparts who already know the slang and have deep rooted accents. Not to mention Spaniard’s tendency to speak as fast as they can. I think its the national sport. Fast Speaking. Or as Max would say, ‘Machine-Gun-Kelly’ speaking. Fortunately, comprehension is my strongpoint. I can understand most of what people say to me, assuming they recognize I’m not participating in their national sport, but I can’t produce half of it. I understand words in context, or upon hearing them, that I would never be able to say on demand. This is why listening to, and internalizing, slower, clearer speech is really helpful because you can repeat it in your head and try to repeat it out loud (later when no ones around).

Today I was on my bus home, headphones in. I’m in the zone, trying to get some reading done. But the unmistakeable laughter of 12 year-old girls penetrated my headphones and I had no choice but to listen to their gossip and giggling. Finally I gave up trying to fight it and became enthralled in their story. I’m not proud of it, but it happened. AND it improved my confidence in understanding Spanish. 

At this point I’m feeling a little like Charlie, from Always Sunny in Philadelphia. For those of you who don’t know who I’m talking about look up and episode of the show called ‘Underage Drinking’. For those of you who DO know what I’m talking about, ‘This is classic Tammy...’

So this one girl was talking to her friend about some boy, que guapo! She went on and on about his clothes, his hair blah blah blah. Then who gets on at the next stop? I would guess it was that boy. She proceeded to slink down as far as she could in her chair to avoid being seen. I think the boy saw her, but we’re talking about sixth graders here, he wasn’t about to walk over and drop some smooth pick-up line on her. (Although maybe that would have been beneficent for both my learning and entertainment purposes)

A few stops later the two girls creep off the train, still trying to stay hidden. The boy and his friend, who were standing, now took over the girls’ empty seats in front of me. This could not have been scripted better. Now the boy is sitting there talking to his friend about the girls hair, and how she was mean to him that day. 

Middle school love.

Maybe one day they’ll hold hands or something. Share an awkward kiss... Who knows... But that’s not the point. The point is, if you want to improve your Spanish, just take out the headphones and listen to some middle schoolers vent about their coming of age experiences. You’ll learn a lot, maybe a little more than you care to. But you’ll also probably be quite entertained. Just try to contain your laughter. 

My New Year´s Reolution

Write blogs more often. Boom, I already started.

How New is the New Year?

This is my first blog of the New Year, and it could be my last. It’s embarrassing but true- I´m from Boston yet I´ve never been snowboarding, and this weekend were going on the Suffolk sponsored Ski trip in the Pyrenees mountains that divide Spain and France. I was thinking a hill might be more appropriate for my first time, but I guess a mountain will be more, hm, exciting? Plus that’s kind of my style, living in Spain without ever having taken a Spanish class, snowboarding down a mountain without having gone down a hill. I can hear my mom´s concerned sigh as I sit here writing this. Relax mom, I´ll be fine. (It’s amazing- she manages to embarrass me from 3000 miles away- but that´s a good mother I guess)

Since it’s a New Year I figure might as well start it off with a new experience like snowboarding. But a lot more comes with the New Year, new classes, new people, new hobbies, and new realizations. For example, I´m realizing that somewhere in the last couple months I´ve forgotten how to spell ‘embarrass’. Or maybe I just never knew? Isn´t there another ‘e’ in there somewhere? I really thought so… But moving on…

As things change, for example the new influx of students here at campus, it’s important to recognize the things that stay the same. The couches are still just as comfy in the common room. The teachers are just as lively. The Spanish ‘grannies’ still like to use all 50 seconds allotted to them to cross the smallest of streets, all the while making sure you can´t even dream of getting around them. The Peruvian flute bands which pop out of nowhere on the train, fully equipped; infinitely pulling instruments out of a teeny bag. They´re like the clown car of bags, they can carry a whole band around in one of those things.

                But even the things that stay the same are perceived differently in a new light, a new year. The city itself. It has the same aura, the same smell, yet it feels different. I don´t feel like I´m dreaming anymore. I’m not on vacation. I’m not starting a new chapter of my life, I’m simply living it. The key difference- this time when the plane’s tires hit the asphalt of the runway with that terrible jolt upward I didn´t think, ‘okay, let´s do this’. I thought ‘I´m finally home’.

                That´s it. A new year. New people. New things. New perceptions. Same city. Just now, its home.

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!