As it was...

Here I am trying to sum up my entire Spanish experience in a single blog post. It’s a little more than daunting. And for someone who spent four months trying to master a language, I feel strangely inarticulate.

A little over three months after my semester abroad. I find it even more appropriate now to exam myself (or at least that’s how I justify my procrastination of updating). As the days, weeks, and months passed after returning to the U.S., I noticed the immediate effects of my European withdrawal: the commonplace of my comfortable American lifestyle steadily brought me down from my four-month Spanish high. After only two weeks back, I noticed that the sun didn’t shine as brightly in Washington (figuratively and literally--honestly, is it that much to ask for a summer above 60 degrees?). I no longer experienced life with a fresh and novel perspective; the joy of discovering new streets, cities, and worlds, the awe-inspiring moments of exploring foreign cathedrals, and the thrill of meeting new people was nonexistent and fading into distant memory upon my return to the suburbs of Seattle.

What really kept me from writing this final post was fear…fear of examining myself and my experience after so many months had passed following my stay in Madrid (let’s pause for a moment: can I just say here how happy I am to have accidentally typed “después” instead of “after” in that sentence?). I was afraid of discovering that I’d lost “that feeling” I had while abroad, that I’d lost my confidence in myself, the secure feeling of knowing where I was going in life and how I was going to change the world, and most importantly that I had begun to forget my conviction in what made me happy…

As I re-read my posts, trying to pin-point exactly how this experience has changed me, I can‘t help but smile. And it’s the same smile I wore for four months while I was overseas. Maybe it’s the flamenco in the CD-ROM or the slideshow of photos I‘m browsing through as I type, but I’m flooded with “that feeling” all over again. Reading about my chronological development through all of my blog postings has really reminded me just how much I’ve kept from that experience and how much I’ve grown.

I had the rare opportunity of spending four months away from my comfort zone, from the very environment I find myself in right now. And maybe only then, set against the background of a foreign place, could I truly examine myself. I spent multiple entries analyzing and comparing the places I visited, the people I met, the food I ate…and at the end of the day, I was really verbalizing what made me happy and what I value in life.

So though some of my memories have blurred around the edges, fundamental things will never change about that experience and about the young woman that triumphantly emerged from it. My own beliefs were reaffirmed and those I had no idea existed surfaced and articulated themselves. A collage of moments pieced together have allowed me to grow over the last year, even outside the Spanish borders: sitting in Notre Dame for an hour, contemplating spirituality; sharing a plate of steaming paella with several generous friends and family and fully appreciating communal, Spanish love; gazing down upon Machu Picchu and learning to embrace the present and enjoy the moment; speaking with dozens of people from every walk of life and realizing that we aren‘t so different…

Beyond my personal growth, I’ve come to realize how little I know about the world, how much there is left to explore, and how important it is to maintain that sense of humility throughout life. My faith in humanity remains infallible and is only reaffirmed by every single person I met while abroad. My compassion for the human condition has increased a thousand fold and my desire to better it is all the more concrete. I couldn’t be more grateful to gain so much from my time abroad.

But what I’m most grateful for was the foresight to realize how incredible this journey of mine was as I was living it. I lived every moment in the moment, as it was meant to be lived. Looking over the past, the present has never looked so beautiful. And in that sense, I don’t really need a final blog to summarize what I’ve been through.

I developed a simple philosophy for traveling during my time abroad and for the moment when I returned: “Take something with you and leave something behind.” Hopefully I can return there, to either Madrid or some other equally enlightening place that will reveal yet another unknown element about myself or humanity. Until then, I’ll continue to live purposefully, passionately, and graciously like los madrileños, mis compañeros, mi familia, …como era en España.
As it was in Spain.

Family Matters

After spending the last two weeks in the comforts of my American home, I thought I would dig through my previous blog notes and post a few things that were left unposted—both to document a few more important moments during my time abroad and to provide me with some much-needed nostalgia of my amazing experience.

Perhaps the one person who made me the most comfortable while in Madrid was my host mom, Ana. I was lucky enough to receive the continual support from my mother back in the states while enjoying the motherly attention of this wonderful woman in Spain. [Ironically enough I spent Spanish Mother’s Day (May 4th) with my host mom and Mother’s Day in the U.S. with my American mom]. Though she was paid for providing me with food and shelter, Ana was the best combination of tenant, mother and friend. She respected me as a young adult, every boundary of privacy and liberty you could ever want as a twenty-something. At the same time, I was a girl whose laundry was washed, dried, and folded and who could grab her sack lunch off the kitchen counter before catching the metro. On weekends when guests came over for a late and hearty lunch, I was expected to set the table with Gonzalo—a menial task that I couldn’t possibly tell her how much that made me feel at home. The mornings leading up to one of my excursions around Europe, I would find a sandwich with snacks waiting for me on the table with a little sticky note inside—“Que lo pases bien, Stephanie,”—wishing me well on my travels. Sitting on the couch watching daytime soap operas, Ana would reach into her private stash of chocolate and offer me a square, because cada día hay que comerlo. That cold day in February when I woke up with a fever was the moment I realized how much of a mom Ana had become for me—attentively, she brought me a damp washcloth and pressed it against my forehead as any caring and concerned woman would do for su hija. She adopted me as her daughter as much as I adopted her as my mother and I couldn’t have loved her more for it.

Not once was I homesick staying with the Villamor family. In some ways, it was because of how similar they were to what I had left behind in the states. I left my Spanish family only to find myself with their American counterparts: a mom who comes home from work and just wants to watch her shows and who becomes a bit flustered and dissatisfied with the size of their living space; a brother who is just exercising his independence and who will be graduating from high school in no time; the constant bickering between mother and brother over why the dog hasn’t gone for its walk yet and por el amor de Dios, get off the computer because you’ve been playing games for two hours; a Dad who inevitably sides with the mother but can at least sympathize with his son whose disorganized room is never up to par. Subtle differences will still go noticed and what I consider normal will be replaced by what I considered normal. I will trade Wednesday nights of watching House dubbed in Spanish for reruns of The Office and large weekend lunches for Sunday morning family brunch.

It was their striking differences, however, that enamored me with my familia española. The things that I came to appreciate while living in the Villamor household—the value of family, the sanctity of traditions, the importance of togetherness—I know I will translate into a family of my own in the future. I had a life-changing experience in Spain, made all the more incredible and memorable because of my stay with them. And every time I experienced something amazing, I returned back to our apartment at Joaquín María Lopez, No. 28 and shared my world with my family over dinner while they shared theirs with me. And even though I’ve lived in a suburban house in Washington for nearly sixteen years, I feel as if I did a lot of growing up in Madrid with Ana, Pepo, Gonzalo and our dog, Caña.

Menos de 3 dias

In the panicky last 72 hours of my stay in Madrid, I’ve reverted back to my original state of tourism, trying frantically to capture the novelty of everything that has now become so familiar. It’s literally impossible to convey the normalcy of my day on film, but that’s no surprise. However, I have yet to give up on this endeavor and continue to take pictures of what invariably turn out as lack-luster photos of tree-lined streets and buildings.

At this point I’m cherishing my excitement to return to the states; I know it will soon evaporate once the boredom and commonness of home takes over if not sooner (i.e. when I have to spend one unfortunate night in and around JFK). My desire to go home could stem directly from my looming last final exam, after which the reality might hit so hard that I’ll be wishing I actually had more tests left just to afford me more time here. The conflicting feelings of never wanting to leave Madrid and wanting desperately to get back to the U.S. has brought me to the point of not even knowing what to feel. I’m neither sad nor anxious nor heartbroken…at least for now.

There are irreplaceable things that I have always missed from the states—things that won’t change regardless of the amount of time I spend abroad—and it’s an eclectic mix of the abstract and the concrete: a tolerance of diversity, the facilities and desire to recycle, breakfast (for God’s sake, people), just to name a few. And for once it will be nice to live in a culture where blonde is a norm and staring is impolite. There are so many aspects of Spanish culture that I’d love to duplicate in the states, so much of the language that I would love to impossibly incorporate into our own (joder has inevitably ingrained itself in my vocabulary). Por lo menos, I know that I’m bringing back two bottles of Spanish wine, thousands of photos, and a better understanding of myself.

But I’d still like to continue to share my experience up until I set foot on U.S. soil. And as of this moment, I have yet to (nor am I able to) say goodbye to the place I’ve called home for four months. Until then, here are some more pictures, a little video of my last flamenco show (though the sound quality is terrible and is best viewed with the volume way down), and perhaps one of my last cool, calm and collected blog entries.

El Centro de Acogida a Refugiados -- CAR de Vallecas

It started off as a normal work day—the way that I would’ve wanted it to end. Ruben decided to test me one last time and asked me to finish all the economic aid for the month. Two hours and forty-five signatures later, he smiled when I handed the completed forms to him: “Your grade just went up! You realize no other student has gotten to do this before, yes?” I had realized that. As special as this experience had been for me, it was nice to think that it was something special for Ruben too, that a student like me would come along with an extreme passion for her job and doing things well. Soon after, Ana, myself, Ruben, Auri and Luis [pictured left to right] headed out one final time to our favorite dingy bar for un café.

When we got back to the center, Ruben sat me down and read my student evaluation aloud to me, verbalizing everything I had done well over the semester. He turned to me and personally thanked me for working so diligently. I told him that honestly, it was a pleasure just to be able to come into work every day. I wrote down Ruben’s contact info (the man gave me his home address, home phone, and cell number!). As I started to write the Center’s address and stopped myself short, smiling. How could I ever forget it? I’ve written it down on a million social security applications, repeated it hundreds of times to the employees at the health center, and turned right on Calle Luis Buñuel from the metro stop every Monday through Thursday for the last four months. So even after hearing all those wonderful praises from Ruben, I felt pretty composed. Then he asked me how I felt about my internship with him.
And I started to cry.

Luckily I had written a letter which I promptly dug out of my bag as tears rolled down my cheeks. But even having had articulated what I felt on paper, what could I possibly say to quantify this experience? How can I tell this man and everyone else in the center, just how much they’ve changed me as a person? Even now I still have trouble placing my emotions—I’m incredibly sad to be leaving behind certain people (mostly residents) that I’m certain I will never see again. I’m shocked that four months passed so quickly and that I became so comfortable with my surroundings there. But more than anything I feel utterly indebted and grateful to the individuals I’ve met and the people I’ve worked with.

To have the pleasure of one person in this world changing your life is a blessing. To have 92 residents and 33 coworkers dramatically affect who you are as a person is something wonderfully unique to my situation. What still amazes me is how much one individual story of loss or triumph affected my view of the world; how someone’s struggle to escape their country changed my outlook on life; how someone’s welcoming and grateful smile made my work day that much better… Nothing could’ve prepared me for yesterday. No one could’ve told me how much this internship under the guidance of one incredibly generous and trusting boss could change my life the way it did. That they would put so much responsibility and faith on one American girl amazes me. And now she finally feels like an adult, like someone with a purpose and a goal and a desire to change the world around her.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my family, the people I’ve cared about on so many different levels for the last four months. I still can’t find words and I may never be able to find the appropriate ones to express how grateful I am and how much this has impacted me. But as I prepare to leave Spain, the most important consolation I have from this experience is that, like so many refugees who have walked through our doors, I’ll always have a home in CAR de Vallecas.

Segovia, Malaga, and Reality

I had the fortune of spending the entire weekend in two completely distinct yet fundamentally Spanish provinces: Castilla y Leon and Andalucia. Segovia, a city to the north and located in the former of the two provinces, is a beautiful historical mountain town, set against an impresive 2,000-year-old Roman aquaduct and home to the castle that inspired Sleeping Beauty. The weather was lovely, the arcitecture impressive, and the pastries incredible. The girls and I had the fortune of trying Tarta de Ponche, a pastry encased in sugary dough with three layers of rum cake, pumpkin filling, and toasted marshmallow. Later we drove up to La Granja, the royal family's vacation palace nestled in the woods and surrounded by fountains. Throw in a rollercoaster and this could've been a trip to Disneyland.

Wasting absolutely no time this weekend, I woke up at 4:45am the next morning and my roommate and I caught a plane to Malaga, a southern coastal city on the Mediterranean facing the African coast. Though Annie and I had planned to spend the entirety of the weekend on the beach, we found a nice castle, a fortress, and an enchanting cathedral to explore in the city... that isn't to say we didn't take full advantage of the location/spend at least four hours on the beach each day. Again, the food was fabulous--but that's to be expected of Spain by now--and I came back content and a slightly darker shade of white (off white?).

But now reality is hitting. And it's hitting hard. I've been sucker-punched into the real world: classes end this week, finals start next Monday, the final day of my internship is Wednesday, and I leave Madrid, Spain, Europe in ten days. Yo aluncino, de verdad. I really can't believe it. So while usually these posts try to provide some sort of cultural commentary on the places I've been, the only thing I can think about is the place I'll be going soon: home. I'm both so excited to return to the states and practically devasted to leave behind the people I love here. There's no way that I could ever duplicate this experience, nor would I want to. It's just I'd like to experience it all just a little longer...

Being my own boss

I’m continuously amazed by the amount of responsibility I’m allowed at my internship. That’s why I was shocked to hear that I would be “taking over” as interim social worker at the center while Ruben was gone for two days. Now that knew how to do everything that the social worker does, Ruben explained, he could trust me to do it on my own and do it well. Thrilled to be given the opportunity, my first day alone in the office was satisfying and productive. I spent all of Tuesday full of confidence as I filtered through paperwork, updated files, spoke with a few newly-moved in residents, and prepared registration forms for Wednesday.

Today I strutted into the office, mentally prepared to effectively take my boss’ place for the day and beaming with pride that he had the confidence in me to think that I would be capable. I was excited for the interview I had with the new refugee, a man from Sri Lanka named Raymond who spoke enough English to not need a translator. This was the only task of the social worker I had never done on my own. Up until today, I had always observed Ruben conducting the interviews. I would sit contently in the chair to his right, taking notes on this essential process from the sideline, fascinated by the background stories I heard. Now it was my turn to sit in the boss’ chair, record the vital details of one man’s flight from violence, and turn it into a logical report to be sent off to lawyers and ministry officials.

When Raymond entered my/Ruben’s office with his bundle of papers tucked under his arms, my confidence began to drain. I began by posing the most basic questions (name, birthday, family members, etc.) which should be the part of the interview meant to relax the interviewee. Despite only having to write down simple facts and being able to look over at my guideline of questions to following, I became nervous—nervous that I was not being authoritative enough, nervous that I did not look like I knew what I was doing, and above all else, nervous that the man across from me was looking at me with the same doubts running through his head. I felt inexperienced and extremely under-qualified. I was far too professionally immature and young to be handling a job of this magnitude, where the well-being of one person is solely in your hands. One crucial piece of information missing from the report could make or break this man’s chances of asylum in the country. Suddenly my boss’ twelve years experience was dauntingly apparent. Everything I felt lacking in this interview I recalled from all the ones I had seen him breeze through time and time again: the fluidity of his inquiries, the questions he poses that lead to just the right answers, the way he eased the new refugees into divulging painful moments about the flight from their countries… Well, I had to at least appear like I was in charge, I told myself. I asked Raymond how old he was. “Twenty-one,” he replied. I glanced down at his asylum document to confirm his birthday: January 7th, 1987. My birthday.

Realizing we were the exact same age, I felt instantly younger than him. This “man” sitting across from me had run through the bullets of the Tamil Tigers terrorist group to escape from his village; this man had been persecuted by the Sri Lankan army and kidnapped; this man was forced to grow up and face a reality that no one should face. Really I’m just a student pretending to sit in a big person’s and do a big person’s job and try to wrap my head around real world issues and life and death situations. One day I’ll get there and make a difference and do adult things—and today probably helped me take me one step closer. To say that my experience at the Center for Refugees is humbling does no justice to my internship. To say that I’ve grown from this experience barely scratches the surface. To say that I’ve grown up, that I’m an adult and ready for an adult-like job is far from reality. But it’s one-hundred percent true to say that I’m blessed to be where I am in life.

British Aftertaste

Over a bowl of lentils and chorizo, my host mom turned to me today at lunch and asked me if I enjoyed the food in England. I told her that it was much of what I expected and on the whole not-so-thrilling. Pepo, my host dad, gave me the logical explanation to the infamy of British food: “The reason English food doesn’t have a flavor is because the English people don’t have a flavor. And the only thing they do well there is marmalade but even those oranges come from Spain!”

I’ll admit: that’s more than partly true. If England were characterized by its food, it would be a bit on the bland side. Personally, I ate hot cereal (i.e. OATMEAL. YES.) for breakfast every single day and I couldn’t have been happier. Maybe I should’ve passed on the meat pies for lunch, but I made up for it by drinking a few pints of what could not have been further from the watery swill that the Spanish call cerveza. But whatever the hell “English flavor” may be it couldn't just include flavorless meats and gravies... it would have to also include so many other cultures—the huge population of first-generation immigrants who own their own authentic restaurants and a spirit of entrepreneurship not found in many other countries beside the U.S. and certainly not in Spain. I can say that I had the best Indian food and some delicious after-midnight kebabs while in Brighton. Logically speaking, the epitome of “Spanish flavor” would be ham and red wine. Though they love their seafood (and boy, do they ever do it well), I’m pretty sure a madrileño would not survive a week without a ration of pig and a glass of vino tinto.

Food aside, Rebecca could not be having a more distinct experience from me abroad. While I live with the Spanish mirror image of my American family, with prepared meals and clean laundry, and head off to work four days a week, Rebecca shares a flat with five other English students on the University of Sussex campus. However the language difference, while the most glaringly obvious distinction, is nonetheless the most significant difference between our programs. And it was not more obvious than when hanging out with Rebecca’s friends.

The British are hilarious. So while they may be lacking in the bold and refreshing frankness of the Spanish, but they’re sure a hell of a lot funnier. I have never gotten along better with ten complete strangers in my life. They reminded me so much of my Washingtonian friends (sharp wit and laid back attitude) that I could not help but feel at home. [Side note: Rebecca, Amanda and I almost peed ourselves laughing when we found out that the Brits pronounce urinal “ur-EYE-nal.” As Rebecca and I are considerably accent neutral from a U.S. standpoint, they had little ammunition to make fun of us and moved on to Amanda’s southern “Britney Spears” voice. We decided it would be best to “take a piss on” someone else for awhile, since Amanda seemed extremely offended by that parallel. After I imitated a pretty thick and scarily accurate Long-Island Janis-from-Friends accent, everyone decided, both the Americans and the British at the table, that New Yorkers are the most detrimental to the image of the general American populous.]

After getting past the hour-long pronunciation debate of “tomato, tomahto” I felt like these guys were my childhood friends, that I had grown up sharing the same jokes and favorite movies and that maybe, somewhere deep down, I had a little British in me. And while they weren’t overly inviting and hands-on like the Spanish, I needed no encouragement to instantly connect with them. Just when I thought I had adapted the essence of Spanish culture and conformed to Spanish lifestyle, I realize how British I am at heart. One weekend is certainly not enough time to judge an entire country (though honestly, isn’t that what I’ve been doing this entire semester?) but I felt like I fit right in. While the Spanish are in-your-face and pungent, I think I actually prefer a dry and subtle flavor.