I Look Spanish... Until I Open My Mouth

Please treat the date of this post as a warning that I may be posting on Saturdays as often as Fridays.  Forgive me in advance.  This week, my excuse of choice is that I’ve been sickish since Thursday and it’s incredibly hot here.

Spain is incredible.  The people here have a sense of community that I haven’t witnessed anywhere else.  Policemen help old men to their seats at soccer matches.  Random people strike up conversations on the metro.  Café owners politely tolerate the broken Spanish of a young woman who just wants a chocolate croissant, dammit.

Yes, the last one is about me.  I consider this week a success because I wasn’t pickpocketed, kicked out of my house, or lost beyond repair.  When I converse in Spanish, I have to be intensely focused, to the extent that it affects my facial expressions—my host mom said “you’re normally so serious, but when you smile, your whole face lights up,” except the way she said it was much more poetic because it was in Spanish.  Around my new friends, I’m always cracking jokes and smiling.  Apparently Spanish “Raquel” has to be more timid and serious since she has no clue what’s going on.

Bola

But I’m learning new words and phrases quickly.  And I have two cats here to comfort me when I feel down.  Their names are Bola (“Ball”) and Teo (“Theo”), and this morning I woke up to Bola licking my face, which would probably bother most people.  I found it altogether comforting.

But now, more info on what’s happened so far.  Traveling on Monday took 20 hours, which meant I arrived in Madrid exhausted and unprepared to start a new day.  Of course, the Spanish made no consideration for me when they chose their time zone.  Newport Beach: 12AM; Madrid: 9AM.  Gracias, dickbags.  Just kidding, I love Madridleños.

Thankfully, we stayed in a hotel the first night.  Meeting my host mom in the state I was in would have been bad.  After resting during the day, we met for a walking tour and a dinner in which some girls drank considerably too much wine and got embarrassingly loud.  Otherwise the first day passed without incident.  I came here pessimistic about the people that are studying alongside me, but I’ve made some good friends already, particularly a junior named Ryan, who speaks almost-fluent Spanish.  Our conversations are half spent discussing the abundance of attractive men here, and half spent correcting my Spanish.

I know I’m tempting fate by saying this, but this summer I’ve had really good luck with everything; my dad says I’ve been living the “gilded life,” or something like that.  It’s followed me to Spain thus far—I’m the only student living in a house (versus apartment), which is pretty awesome.  I’m also only two metro stops away from the school, making my commute a mere 30 minutes from start to finish.  It must be good karma. 

The view from my room at 8:30 PM. It stays light here super late.

The house is adorable, and I’m in love with my host mom, Pilar.  I also live across the hall from a 22-year-old Russian model named Paula, which I’m hoping will convince people to want to visit me in order to gawk at her, which is a horrible way to capitalize on my situation, but I haven’t devised a better plan yet.  She’s in Russia right now, learning how to paint from her grandpa.  My host mom told me a story about her, and while my Spanish is not good enough to know this with certainty, I think Paula was in a porno.  She either accidentally signed a contract in French, then backed out when she learned what she'd signed, or she actually went through with it.  Regardless, it’s a pretty interesting story.

Wednesday was this week’s most exciting day, because we (1) found out our schedule of trips and (2) went to a football/soccer game. 

Part 1: I am going on an 8 day trip to Barcelona, Tarragona, and Mallorca next Tuesday; day trips to Toledo and “wine country” (not sure where that is) in September; 6 days in Italy at the end of September; 5 days in Istanbul at the end of October.  I’m super excited for the trips, particularly Italy, where we’ll be visiting Rome and the Amalfi Coast, including Naples and Pompeii. 

Kevin & I at the soccer game.

Part 2: The football match, wow wow wow.  Consider how much Derek likes hockey, and if you don’t know how much Derek likes hockey, then imagine a young man who would kill his friends to watch the Stanley Cup if they stood in his way.  Now multiply that fiery enthusiasm (pun intended, click the link and let me explain in a moment) by 50,000, and you’ll get an idea of what the football match was like.  The fire picture (did you click the link?) was taken by another girl on my trip—it was outside the stadium, with hundreds of people bellowing war cries and singing loudly.  The air was full of tension, enthusiasm, and energy, and I sipped my diet Coke while navigating through the immense crowd with Ryan, magically avoided being robbed.  During the game, everyone cheered as if their life depended on it.  Passion for soccer in Spain is amplified by the undermining political significance—Madrid was playing Barcelona, and you may or may not be familiar with the fact that Barcelona wants to be independent from Spain.  There were cops everywhere with riot helmets on their belts, and we were patted down as we entered.  But it wasn’t scary.  The cops were really nice—only in Spain (or only outside America) can you catch policemen texting, putting their arms around each other, and carefully helping the aforementioned old man to his seat.  It was endearing.

My only complaints are the heat and the risk of being pickpocketed.  It’s not as bad today, but earlier this week I was sweating while lying in bed, entirely still.  And water here is so expensive (think 400 euros/$530 per month), so I haven’t been showering every day.  I did get to go swimming yesterday, which was incredibly refreshing.  And I’m slowly picking up tricks to avoid the worst of the heat—because there is no fan in my room, and no AC in the house except a small fan in the kitchen that Pilar leaves off 95% of the time.  The Spanish are tough cookies.

At a cafe, where a kid got his backpack stolen with his passport, laptop, keys, money.  No good.

Thus begins my Spanish adventure.  My first advice column for AmWord, one of AU’s magazines, will be published next Wednesday.  If you or any of your friends have problems, real or fictional (the problems, not the friends), I would love to answer them—the column is, by nature, entirely submission-based.  Send them to one of my emails or amwordmag@gmail.com.

I look forward to reading about your adventures, and miss you all.

-Rachael

P.S.  Two things that happen to be two of Derek’s favorite things.  First off, this Spongebob sign is posted in the bathroom of my school.  Spongebob appearing in a college bathroom in the U.S.: random.  Spongebob appearing in a college bathroom in Spain: astronomically flabbergasting.

Second off, I found out this week that the surname of Frodo and Bilbo of the Lord of the Rings is Bolson instead of Baggins in Spain, which amused me.  Bolsa is "bag" in Spanish, so it's perfect.  Now I want to find out if Dumbledore has a different name here.  I’m considering starting a collection of Sorcerer’s Stone books from around the world, because that would be pretty badass—Philosopher’s Stone in the UK, Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal in Spain, to name the two I know.  We’ll see.