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.

¿Cómo se dice "jazz"?

Now, I don't claim to be an expert on jazz. But I've taken a few classes, I've been in a jazz band, and I think I've listened to enough of it to at least appreciate good jazz... and distiguish it from the terrible. The other night we walked into what many (multiple guide books) consider to be THE place for jazz in Madrid: Cafe Populart. Despite being absolutely packed, it was nice to get into a relatively inexpensive place with and be surrounded by people in their 20's who appreciate this kind of music. And then the band came on.

Besides being far too old to be playing gigs for the young madrileno crowds, what I heard was non-musical. The tenor had sheet music, the drummer's 16 bar solo was just him tapping his sticks together, and they all played like a middle schoolers learning their scales are. We were appalled. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, we stayed for one more song only to hear it deteriorate further. I couldn't believe that these people were getting paid. But the one thing that made it worse was the audience's reaction: people were jamming out, doing that terrible white-person groovy dance, and I'm pretty sure I was being grinded on from behind by an Australian tourist who excitedly convulsed in my personal bubble to the spectacularly crappy beats. Everyone loved it and everyone thought it was jazz. We left.

It was a disgusting display of music and afterward I just kept thinking how outright offended I was. The one thing I can claim to be genuinely American here is jazz and that's probably why I felt so defensive. I'm sure a Spaniard would be equally disgusted if he came to Flamenco studio in Connecticut and saw some born and raised New Englanders trying to do a dance obviously meant for a different culture with a different history. But I really didn't think that jazz was that hard to understand and considered it, before that night, something of a universal in the music world. And if you're a paid musician, you certainly should know what you're doing and where your music comes from. But then why did everyone LOVE that performance? Is the only reason jazz doesn't function outside the U.S. that it's too far away from its roots? What makes it so typical of our culture that a non-American audience can't distiguish between the good and the bad? Or was everyone there just faking enjoyment because hey, if you don't appreciate this music, you're probably not cultured?

I really thought there there was something universal about music---that everyone could at least agree with what sounds decent (logical chord progressions, for God's sake) as opposed to a hodge podge of attempts at Miles and Coltrane and notes on a piano. I've never felt more snotty in my life and felt terrible for bashing on a group that looked like they enjoyed what they were doing. And I understand that I'm probably reeking of a holier than thou attitude. But I was just suprised and dissappointed and still very confused.

Also the Spanish do not understand nor like baseball one bit. Apparently it's too "Latin American." Maybe some things are best left on the other side of the world anyways.

Finding Refuge

I feel like I might be over-using this phrase, but "falling in love again" really is the only accurate way to describe so many of my experiences here. Today, my renewed love showed up at el Centro de Acogida a Refugiados.

My suprevisor had minimal work for me (a rarity) and needed to speak to a former resident for awhile so I moved into the waiting room and read a few articles discussing the mortgage issue in Spain. Thrilling, yes. Shortly after (and to my good fortune), my two buddies from Sri Lanka came downstairs to say hi. We chatted for awhile and I felt relieved and happy to hear them talk about how great they were adapting to the center. Waiting for the receptionist to fill out their paperwork, Jose (the center's security guard) and I began teaching them Spanish swear words and pick-up lines. At one point the director of the center came out and asked us to keep it down because we were laughing so hard at Thilaksan's confusion about "colega". While we were still giggling over "joder, macho" and "que pasa, cabron?" one of the young mothers brought down her 8-month-old baby to pass around and I spent a good hour taking turns my Palestinian friend, Yassir playing peek-a-boo and kissing the baby's fat little cheeks. As I headed back to Ruben's office, Ahram (my Irani companion who speaks perfect English and strangely enough loves Michael Moore) approached me with a question. He explained that he was having issues communicating with the director of the carpentry courses and needed me to talk to her for him. I called up the course site, translated the conversation back for him, and was soon offered to be taken out for drinks for being so helpful.

Today solidified my feelings for my internship---how much I love every single person living and working there, how much they've affected me, and (I can only hope) how much I've affected them. Even writing this, I can't help but insert "my friend _____" when talking about each one just because I feel that much a part of their lives. It's like I have a wonderful new extended family of 92 residents and 33 coworkers.

Having spent the majority of my work day socializing with the residents and the workers in the lobby, I walked back into Ruben's office feeling confident and content. As I opened the door, there sat Yolima and her brother--both refugees from Colombia and both nearly in tears. Yolima might be my favorite woman in the center. Intelligent and extremely friendly, I chat with her nearly every day after she waddles out of the elevator, already into her third trimester of pregnancy. She's constantly carrying a giant encyclopedia of medical terminology. Though she was a praticing doctor back in Colombia some of her diploma work doesn't transfer here so she's forced to study. With the exception of today, she's never without a smile.

As my boss explained to me later, Yolima was having problems proving the legitimacy of her flight from Colombia to Spain with the Office of Asylum. Colombians in general have the most difficult time passing the final stage of admission into asylum. Eighty percent of the refugees in the center come from Colombia, the majority if not all of them affected directly by the violence caused by FARC guerillas. FARC is the longest running Marxist-based millitant movement, though it has lost nearly all its political character now-a-days and certainly the support of the common people. Since 1964 they've bombed, murdered, kidnapped, extorted, hijacked and dealt with unbelievable amounts of cocaine (mostly to finance their campaigns) in the jungles of Colombia. The fact is that Spain receives so many Colombian immigrants fleeing for the same reason makes people like Yolima seem just like another statistic. In fact, that's exactly what the government treats them as: a number. When their case is reviewed by the Ministry of Immigration and Emmigration, Colombians are often clumped together as "just another FARC case" and, if nothing seems extremely out of the ordinary, they are usually dismissed with a vote of "desfavorable." According to the Genova Convention, "general violence"---events like seeing your cousin killed before your eyes, watching your father blackmailed into paying taxes to terrorists, ---does not count as a legitimate excuse to solicit asylim. If Yolima, a vibrant and capable woman who is willing to earn her living and contribute to Spanish society, cannot find support in a developed and rather generous country like Spain, then there's little hope for everyone trapped in Colombia.

A little choked up on the metro ride to school, I took something extremely positive away from my encounter with my favorite Colombian. For once in my academic career, I think I've found something I would love to dedicate my life to: helping the Yassirs, Ahrams, and Yolimas of the world.

For lack of a better word

As Annie and I sat on her bed watching season two of The Office and inevitably cracking up every thirty seconds, our host Mom walked in and asked us about the show. I described the setting, the basic premise, etc. but told her that really the show revolves around the hilarious character interactions. So I tried explaining Michael Scott’s character to her. And I couldn’t. “He is…um, pues…él es…awkward?”

I realized at that moment that the Spanish vocabulary is missing one of my favorite adjectives of all time. “Uncomfortable,” in a physical sense, just doesn’t quite cut it. “Clumsy,” as the literal derivation from torpe, is most often used in describing a person but again: it just doesn’t work. And for the situations that Michael always finds himself in, the Spanish use what can be most accurately translated as “embarrassing.” For awhile I thought that I couldn’t have felt more disconnected from Spanish culture. So much of the humor (and even a few people) that I appreciate and love stems directly from this word.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that “awkward” doesn’t even exist in Madrid. The fact is that Spaniards don’t even allow the opportunity for an awkward situation to manifest. The language itself, based on commands rather than requests, couldn’t be more forward: “Give me your ID number… Leave that folder there… Bring me some water, waiter!” If there’s a slight lull in the conversation, my co-worker will turn to me and ask why I’m so quiet. Tired? Not understanding? Both? Even a question like that is considered a courtesy rather than impoliteness. In a Spanish discussion, being “politically correct” is considered beating around the bush—if you’re avoiding a specific phrase, then you’re not articulating yourself accurately. Even personal tensions and individual conflicts are always verbalized between people. And if it doesn’t get resolved, the Spanish start to yell (one thing I learned quickly with my time here: they don’t get awkward, they get angry). The people here are direct, forward, and communicative. And if you chose to create an awkward situation (either through cultural ignorance or simply because you weren’t following the conversation), they will be sure to call you out on it—which, surprisingly, isn’t even awkward in itself.

This communicative nature of the Spaniards transcends the culture and permeates so much of what I’m going to miss about Madrid. Obviously there are plenty of people I miss from the states and trivial things like oatmeal or popcorn; but with only one month left on the other side of the world, I already find myself compiling a laundry list of the distinctly Spanish things I’ll miss: late Sunday lunches of Thanksgiving-like proportions (in both the number of guests and the number of plates), chatty and candid coffee breaks with my co-workers, greeting and saying good-bye to everyone in the room, and simply the warmth of every single person I’ve met. The openness of my host family, the inclusiveness of my coworkers, and the hospitality of complete strangers really has made my time here extraordinary.

When I finally return to the U.S., I hope that I can retain some of those characteristics I’ve adopted and grown to love: to always maintain that Spanish frame of mind, to tell someone exactly what I’m thinking, to tell someone exactly how I feel about them… and perhaps I’ll retain enough of the language as well and still be able to strike up a conversation months from now with a Spaniard, if I have the fortune of running into one. And hopefully I won’t come across as inarticulate or…well, awkward.

They are who we thought they were!

I arrived in Paris greeted by every Parisian stereotype imaginable: French women with skinny jeans rode around on bicycles with baskets, little old ladies walked curly-haired white dogs up and down the sidewalks, and everyone had a baguette in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Not to mention that the general disdain for Americans, or at least the English language, was palpable. But French is an impossible language, especially for someone who has never been exposed. And even when I tried to communicate (“Café au lait, s'il vous plait?”) I was promptly answered in English with, “Anything else, ma’am?” and a look that said, “Don’t even try. You just look dumb.”

So surrounded by foils of Frenchmen, I decided to explore all the stereotypes of Paris as possible. Frankly, after visiting the classic monuments and discovering others that I didn’t know even existed, the French have every right to be snooty. Paris boasts the most extraordinary architecture (thanks in part to Napoleon who boasted an extraordinarily huge ego) and the city is brimming with artistry and culture in every facet. The Eiffel Tower, the Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame… everything is exactly as impressive (if not more) as how you’ve ever imagined it. And I’m not even going to start with the food since I could write an entire blog dedicated to every portion I ate. All I can say is I highly recommend the croissants, baguettes, cheese, wine, crepes, pastries, and onion soup.

The language barrier (though completely distinct and not nearly as challenging as the one in Croatia) did help me realize just how comfortable I am with Spanish. In one instance, as I was sitting in a café looking over the Paris guidebook and waiting for Emily to come out of her internship, a man leaned over from the table next to me and asked me something in French. Instinctively I replied, “No hablo frances,” only realizing after I had spoken that this man looked very Spanish. We ended up chatting for forty minutes and I discovered he was from Lima (and lived right by the university I attended) and now lives in Madrid. Small world.

Face painting in the park on Easter with Emily’s internship (an NGO dedicated to promoting children’s rights) expanded my French vocabulary significantly from just ordering off of a menu. It now includes a strong command of “Je ne parle pas français” and popular face painting choices like “l’unicorn” and “l’chat.” With my limited communication abilities, my miming skills reached a whole new level. In one instance, a little French girl sat down in front of me and excitedly said: “L’chien! L’chien!” I stared back at her, trying to get her to point out the animal on the paper with the design choices. Not knowing even how to say “What do you want?” I would tap the paper repeatedly saying, “Eh? Eh?” Obviously disgusted by my lack of French and what could have possibly been mistaken as slight mental retardation, the girl crossed her arms and said, “Woof, woof.” Ah HA! Merci! Woof woof it is.

I have to admit: the one time when I was convinced of something other than the French stereotype was going out with Emily’s co-workers. They were nothing short of incredibly hospitable and always made sure I felt comfortable and welcome, despite obviously only being able to speak to them in English. Perhaps it’s the tourism that wears on the rest of the city; God knows I’d be sick of English if I had to deal with it every day. But talking to real French people about real French things (like their undying love for the movie Ratatouille) maybe changed my mind a bit about the French. Maybe.

But even in the airport, waiting for my flight to Madrid and surrounded by Madrileños, I felt so much better. And I could tell just by hanging out in Paris with Emily, who is such a friendly and open person, that she is most certainly Spanish and belongs in Madrid. In the terminal, someone asked me where I was from and after finding out I was American, she was actually interested in having a conversation about it. There’s a sincere kindness that radiates from the Spanish that I felt lacking in Parisians. Despite physically sticking out in the city and the occasional cat-call that follows, the people in Madrid make me so much more comfortable. And I am all the more comfortable knowing that I can talk about more than just baguettes and unicorns.

My Blind Date with Croatia

As our plane passed over the shimmering water of the Adriatic Sea sparkled with that unbelievable blue that you find on a Greek postcard, my heart caught in my throat: I was in love. Coming into this vacation I didn’t even know the basic essentials about Croatia—all I came prepared with was the knowledge that they did not speak English, were not on the Euro, and that we’d gotten an apartment on the water. So when I finally did catch a glimpse of my home for the next few days, my stomach fluttered and I could not stop smiling. If love at first sight existed, surely this was it.

Our bus ride into the city of Split was full of longing looks out the window and several comments of: “Wow, are we really here?” Split is an offset “Mediterranean-style” town free from the international spotlight of Mediterranean tourism. In fact, that’s what made our journey to the apartment so interesting. Still unable to come to grips with the reality of where we were and realizing that yes, the view from everywhere is just that amazing, we soon discovered a slight imperfection in this gorgeous country: public transportation. Amanda, Rebecca, and I set off to try to decipher the Croatian bus system and maybe find our where the hell our apartment was. Yet even though our supposedly half hour bus ride turned into a two hour ordeal where we unknowingly passed our apartment three times and ended up having to walk along the highway for a kilometer with luggage and all, I found myself willing to forgive Croatia’s initial flaw. Because even though we were all worried and lost and had no way of communicating with the bus driver, I was still grinning. And upon stepping into the apartment, all three of us forgot about the entire thing… Set right against a private marina on the sea, we found ourselves in a marble-floored, spacious apartment with a modern kitchen and an indescribable view from the balcony (all of which cost $100 a person for four nights). About half my pictures from our vacation were taken every time I stepped through our glass doors out onto the porch. Every time I woke up in the morning and every time we came into the apartment, I could never get over its beauty. It always just seemed a little too good to be true.

Saturday we explored the flea market and “Old Town” of Split (side note: we were staying about forty minutes outside of Split in Sumpetar which was ultimately worth it in the end and made us masters of the transportation system by the end of our stay). The night after, we discovered a small pizza bar along the water with a hostess who spoke English (YES!) and enjoyed a few domestic beers and a shrimp and muscle pizza. The rest of the days and evenings were spent with no internet, phone, or computer lounging, exploring, dipping our feet into the sea, and generally soaking up everything that was around us. Walking back along the beach at night, looking up at the stars, seeing the clear outline of a cloud from the Milky Way, and hearing the waves crash up against the apartment, I couldn’t help but think of how lucky I was. And despite having to work at the relationship in the beginning, I knew that I had to come back to visit some day. From the moment we met, Croatia stole my heart and kept me smiling until the very end.

Hasta el fin de marzo!

I'm packing/celebrating the end of midterms as we speak. I pretty much dominated my last exam today so my biggest test right now is trying to decide between boots or tennis shoes (Paris might be drizzly...) and whether or not I should bring a bathing suit for the Adriatic Sea (that may be a little too optimistic even for me)
For those of you who may be out of the loop, here are my travel plans for Semana Santa:
Croatia: March 14th-18th
Paris: March 19th-24th
[with Rebecca and Emily, respectively]
I'm looking forward to it, to say the least :)

Perhaps the greatest combination of events, people, and places known to man

This weekend I spent rediscovering and inevitibly falling in love all over again with Madrid. I hosted two of my closest friends, Emily (who is studying abroad in Paris this semester) and Rebecca (studying abroad in Brighton, England) for three days in the city. Luck would have it that Emily's cousins live twenty-minutes walking from my apartment and Rebecca's hostel was situated conveniently in between the two. We spent the days wandering the city, goofing around in museums, and relaxing in the park. The evenings were filled with Flamenco, a trip to the ballet, and laughter over wine and tapas. I could say without a doubt that the best time spent here in Madrid was the last few days.

And while the luxury of sharing one of my favorite places in the world with two of my favorite people in the world was undeniably comforting, I felt homesick for the first time during my stay in Madrid. Even though I've felt so at ease in this city in the last two months, those two girls reminded me that there's something beyond the energy of Madrid and the european lifestyle that I left behind in the states--something that maybe I had forgotten about.

It's one thing living on the other side of the country from one group of friends or the other for half the year; I know that in Washington, I've got friends like Rebecca (hell, I could see her in Massachusetts if I wanted to) and in Boston, I've got friends like Emily. But here...here I miss everyone. I'm completely separated from the friends I grew up with, the indescribably fantastic people at BU, and my family at home. In no way could I ever recreate the friendships that I have at home abroad. There's this tiny connection between the madrileños and myself that's missing and will always be missing. And it's something that can only be bridged by the people you've grown up with, the people you've gone to school with, the people who know exactly where you come from (geographically or otherwise). I'm having the time of my life and I'm creating all these wonderful experiences but you know, it's just THAT much better when you're sharing it with the people you really love.

So I just wanted to say, hey--I miss you and I love you.

A weeks worth of Barcelona in two days

Barcelona is famous for three things: the inspirational architecture of Antonio Gaudi, nightlife rivaled by no other city in the world, and a stunning beach. In the span of 26 hours, we had hit up all three.

To start off the adventure, we headed to Barcelona’s cathedral on Friday at dusk. It had a realistic flow of energy that I hadn’t experienced in the other cathedrals. People were actually using the cathedral for its practical purposes and the cloister was a literal arboretum. A tier of red candles lit by patrons scattered the inside of the church and I lit a candle for Michaela. I couldn’t help but think of her in a place like this, how much she would appreciate it, how I wouldn’t be here at all in Madrid if it hadn’t been for that wonderful girl… It was cathartic and beautiful and I cried a little as I lit it.

We woke up bright and early on Saturday to beat the lines at Barcelona’s most inspiring piece of architecture: La Sagrada Familia [all the pictures in this post are of La Sagrada Familia; for the rest of Barcelona, scroll down to the next post]. Still under construction, this project of Antonio Gaudi (who died in the 1920s and never lived to see it finished) is undoubtedly the most amazing building I have set foot in. I almost don’t want to post the pictures because it simply does not do it justice. The finished cathedral will seat 13,000 and have 12 towers to represent the Disciples of Christ. Each façade of the building is a depiction of a portion of the life of Christ: the Nativity, the Glory, and the Passion. I took the elevator to the top of one of the finished towers and from there could I really begin to appreciate the detail of Gaudi’s work; even the points of the towers were incredibly ornate with fruits and doves circling the spires.

After La Sagrada Familia, we decided to see the rest of Gaudi’s work around the city and took a walking tour of his apartment, La Pedrera whose rooftop might be even more impressive than its interior. One short metro ride later, we hiked the steps up to Park Güell, another Gaudi work, and sat the world’s longest bench for a picnic lunch.

Wasting no time (surely we would have time to sit and/or sleep when we were back in Madrid), we toured the Museum of Picasso and I saw for the first time his ink and pencil works, which might now be my favorite. Nearing the end of the day, the girls and I tried to go to the observatory on Montjuïc to watch the sunset but by the time we reached the station, the tram up to the top had closed. We caught a bus, hoping it lead to the top of the mountain but to our dismay took a downhill route immediately after we boarded. As we stood worriedly on the bus, watching the sun begin to fall over the hills, we heard the sound of classical music blaring over the speakers. Turning the corner, we stumbled across Spain’s greatest water show at the Plaza de España. We ran off the bus and caught the last forty-five minutes of lights and fountains in sync to a few soundtracks by John Williams.

After dinner (duck with plum sauce and brie…mmm), we found a discoteca, danced until 4:30, and decided only at that point that maybe our feet needed a break. Our goal had been to stay up and watch the sunrise on the Mediterranean but after our incredibly busy day (I think we had sat down a total of an hour the entire day, including meals), we decided it would be best to go back to the hostel, get four solid hours of sleep, and head over to the beach before we had to catch our flight in the early afternoon. I only wish we had found more time in the trip to spend on the sand—the Mediterranean itself was dazzling and weather could not have been more perfect. I ended one of the greatest weekends of my life on the shore of the sea with five wonderful girls underneath the Spanish sun. And even with a test that I haven’t studied for and a paper that haven’t been touched looming this week, I feel the best I have this trip. Spain just keeps getting better and better.

A note on nationalism: the Catalunya problem

La Mar

Park Guell
Looking out from Park Guell

I arrived in Barcelona not being able to read any of the signs. Some of the words were strangely anglicized while others left me baffled as to how to even attempt to pronounce them. I had stepped into another country located within the borders of Spain. Though Spanish (which, technically speaking, is called Castellano) is mandatory as the official language of the country, Catalán is the first language of Barcelona without a question. Spain’s four main regions have developed distinct dialects ever since the establishment of separate kingdoms within "Spainish" borders after the inquisition. Yet no other region has struggled more with its identity than the northeast region of Spain. Catalunya itself was declared an autonomous community after the new Spanish constitution was written post-Franco in 1975 with Barcelona as the capital. Here you can also find the largest population of immigrants in all of Spain—a controversial issue no matter what region you’re from.

One of the staff at the hostel, Miguel, a native to Barcelona and a speaker of both Castellano and Catalán, explained his personal perspective of the dual identity. As one of the richest areas of the country, in both resources and tourism, the majority of the people in Catalunya feel that they should be entitled to more independence. Paying taxes to finance other areas of the country that look down on them for “butchering the perfectly good language of Castellano” is not their idea of an autonomous region or of a government working toward bettering Catalunya. If Catalunya were ever to secede from Spain and form its own autonomous body, Miguel explained to us that he would most definitely raise his children as Catalonians. Catalán is so much more than just a language: it’s an entirely different culture so distinct from the entirety of Spain and so misrepresented and disrespected from the rest of the country that it’s hard not to see why they would want their independence. It’s for this reason, more than anything, that Spain refuses to recognize the independence of Kosovo. For them, it’s a mockery of the integrity of the state. How can a region within the state secede without the consensus of the government? And though they are culturally and ethnically different, can the people of a small region like Kosovo or Catalunya really maintain itself?

I don’t know what the answer is but something has to be changed with Catalunya. The politics in Spain refuse to do anything concrete about their desire for independence. They fight the terrorism that stems from this problem but not the source. Presidential elections are March 9th and while the focus has most certainly been on the economy, there are masses of people holding signed petitions in the street of Barcelona, hoping for something other than what they have: an identity. One thing’s for certain: Spanish politics are stubborn enough to let this issue boil until it explodes and I can’t see anything changing in the near future.

Fracaso: n. failure

[The photos here correspond to the Sevilla post but I wanted to make sure everyone could see that I updated them]

I came into work today a little apprehensive. Yesterday, as my supervisor rushed off to his all-day meeting, he pointed to a mountain of paperwork that he had left for me to do and I was about 4% sure how to do it. The funding petition for the children’s schoolbooks and matriculation was due soon and I had to complete the forms with the identification numbers, school address, etc. for all the families in the center. From a foreigner's point of view, Spain has a rather complicated schooling system so registering a 16-year-old for classes was tougher than it seemed. After placing a few girls in “Bachiller 2” and still unsure as to exactly what that meant, I wrote a little note to Ruben on the stack of forms explaining my confusion, wondering if I had done them correctly. Tasks completed: 0 out of 1.

My favorite man from the Congo had to pay for the matriculation into his basic Spanish course. So we headed over to the bank to fill out a money transfer slip. Once we arrived at Caja Madrid, everything that could’ve gotten lost in translation did because a) he didn’t have the money, b) didn’t even have a bank account there, and c) didn’t think he should have to pay in the first place. Have I mentioned he only speaks French? Tasks completed: 0 out of 2.

Several files and organizational errors later (tasks completed 0 out of God knows how many), I found myself in the office trying to decipher the frantic words one of the newest Palestinian refugees.

“Doctor meeting?”
“No, you don’t have one yet. Do you need one? Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes you need one or yes you are okay?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“No. No…wait.”
“Meeting?”
“What?”

I ran upstairs to get my other Palestinian, more English-capable compañero and after a half hour of mimicking and gesticulating, we got the new guy an appointment for Thursday to help his head cold. I really hope that’s what he needed...

So I ended up leaving my boss’ desk with a clutter of sticky notes with “Lo siento, pero…” and “I couldn’t find…” and the feeling that I hadn’t done anything right. I couldn’t help but think that I wasn’t as fluent as I had thought and how competently I could do my job if only this internship were in English.

Today I came into the office fully expecting a “did you really understand what I was saying?” talk by my supervisor. Immediately when I walked in, Ruben looked up and said, “Hey, good morning! I got your notes. We’ll talk about that in a bit. Let’s go get a coffee.” Yes! Let's! Needless to say, it definitely relaxed me. Chatting over coffee with my coworkers once or twice a week is one of my favorites. Considering the political climate we’re in, the discussion usually revolves around Spanish and American politics or simply the usual office gossip (and I have most certainly managed the vocab for these conversations). Confidence boost +5. To top it all off, upon returning to the office, my boss told me that the funds for the matriculation were taken care of and that I wouldn’t need to come in Wednesday and Thursday because he’ll be at a conference.

The timing could not have been more perfect. Just when I thought I was failing, I get a break. Just when the 7:45am commute was wearing me down, I get a vacation. And just when midterms begin to peak around the corner, I get to sleep in tomorrow. Perfect. There’s nothing I want more than to continue feeling excited and thrilled every day I come into work. I'm glad that just when I start getting frustrated, everything completely turns around. It’s amazing how things work out in the end.

On that note, most of my free time will be spent studying for my exams (or surfing the internet/writing blogs). I refuse to acknowledge that I am halfway through my semester here so I will just write off these exams as a bump in the road before my travels to Barcelona at the end of the month—and that might just be the next blog-worthy, interesting thing I do…we’ll see.

Sevilla, sin camera

My honeymoon with Madrid was wearing off a bit—a combination of working diligently at my internship, an unfortunate turn of the weather, and a significant amount of outside stress was bringing me off my Spanish high. So I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time to take a vacation from my vacation. The one thing I could’ve asked for was my camera. I tend to forget at least one significant item every time I travel; at least it’s never been my medication, passport/ID, or money. But this time it was pretty substantial and I kept kicking myself over it only because Sevilla is one of the most photographic and visually stunning places I have seen.

Located in southern Spain, Sevilla (Seville in English) is a sunny and vibrant traditional Spanish city with a backdrop of palm trees, orange groves, and honest-to-god castles. The city earns its fame as the birthplace of bullfighting, tapas, flamenco, and the actual flamenco guitar. I’m proud to say I tasted a little of all four in my thirty-six hours in the city.

Like much of Spain, Sevilla is not without its Muslim/Christian architectural mix, known as mudejar. La cathedral de Sevilla, the third largest in the world, was built upon a visible Roman foundation (a layer of stones with Latin inscriptions), with Arabic architecture scattered throughout the traditionally Gothic walls and ceilings. On the top of the cathedral’s impressive tower stands el giraldillo, a bronze, fifteen-foot weathervane visible from nearly any point around the city. The surrounding areas are scattered with the most eccentric collection of native flora. Alcázar, the gardens, fountains, and palaces of the nobility that used to call Sevilla home, houses row upon row of orange trees made all the more surreal by the surrounding cascades of water and wondering peacocks.

Apart from the majesty of the city’s center, one of my favorite sights was the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza, Spain’s most spectacular bullring. After taking a tour and learning about its long and established history (including the obscene number of bulls that die each year in Spain for the sport: 40,000), I at least can now appreciate bullfighting as a cultural art form. I will, however, be one of the few tourists to not participate in the spectacle. In my opinion, no matter how you dress it up (in this case, as a stylish matador in the middle of a huge arena), I’m not too thrilled about watching any animal suffer and die for an hour for sport.

All of Sevilla was unbelievably breathtaking, relaxing, and overwhelmingly “Spanish” ...and here I was without a camera. But for once in my journeys around Spain, I was not so preoccupied with what I was capturing on film as I was with what I was absorbing at the moment. I found myself a little more appreciative of my surroundings. Indeed, Sevilla is the most stunning place I’ve seen thus far so it was easy to be captivated by its charm. But its beauty was only magnified by the fact that I wasn’t looking through the shutter half the time.

I did, however, manage to tag along with a couple of generous friends of mine who took some solo shots of me around the city. Photos are forthcoming and I’ll add some more to this entry after Wednesday.

The Spanish Flu

I woke up with a fever Friday morning. After trying to explain to the maid that she didn’t need to make my bed because I still wanted to sleep in it, I decided it was better to get up, shower, and watch three hours of The Office [side note: maids are as common as tapas and sangria in Madrid and the majority of them are immigrants from South America. Lina refuses to acknowledge that I am actually trying to speak Spanish with her]. Besides feeling rather terrible, I realized I was out of fresh episodes to enjoy. *Sigh* Life is rough.

I ended up going out that night anyways just to escape from the house. We found an amazing vegetarian restaurant and it turned out to be just what I needed. Though I have minimal complaints about the food here (on the contrary, I’ve found multiple amazing dishes), the one qualm I have is the amount of meat they eat, ham especially. Passing the jamonerias (how the hell does that translate? Ham shop?) on the street, their walls lined with hanging pig parts, makes me want to gag. So even though it seemed like a regular salad, my meal sin carne was one of the greatest things I’ve eaten thus far. Afterward we ended the night at a game bar, playing Taboo for two hours, and drinking chocolate milkshakes. I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better night to aid my recovery.

So even on my worst days here, I’ve felt amazing. And besides the first three days without sleep on this trip, I have yet to feel homesick. That isn’t to say that I don’t miss Seattle or Boston or all the people that come with them, but I feel absolutely comfortable living in this city. I’ll admit that it helps having a host mom who packs me a bocadillo for lunch during the week, does my laundry on the weekends, and prepares home-cooked Spanish food; in that sense, I’m a little more than pampered but none-the-less appreciative. I do, however, feel comfortably independent in my daily and nightly activities: commuting to and from work and school, navigating around the city (with or without a map), discovering my own favorite bars, restaurants and clubs, and above all else communicating with the people around me. I know it’s only been a month but I can imagine myself never leaving [or if that’s too harsh, I can see myself returning to Spain to work for another year after graduating]. I don’t think I can ever grow sick of Madrid.

This is also why I’m so grateful to have studied abroad in Peru last summer. “Uncomfortable” is definitely the adjective of choice to describe my stay in that country. Perhaps it was the pervasive poverty, accompanied by an inescapable guilt of being “wealthy” and American; perhaps it was simply because I was the “first blonde in this town in two centuries!” to have set foot there, as one old man eagerly pointed out in Ayacucho; then again, it could have been the physical discomfort of being without a hot shower, not being able to drink tap water or eat raw vegetables, and finding yourself scared to walk around by yourself after the sun sets. In fact, it was a strong combination of everything. But now that I’ve spent a sufficient amount of time here in the more “developed” of the Spanish-speaking countries, it’s difficult to think about the majority of the world’s population who live like the Peruvians do. And while the European stock market has been hit hard recently, and some people are losing 10% of their pensions, and the cost of living is rising at a ridiculous pace, people on the other side of the world who speak nearly the exact same dialect are struggling to find food and healthcare and shelter and the ability to survive. Two million children are working in the streets in Lima to help support their families and thousands of women in Ayacucho are still looking for their loved ones who were kidnapped or simply disappeared during the campaign of Sendero Luminoso in the 1980’s and 90’s. There’s so much that the Spanish and the Latin American populations share in common but they are literally worlds apart.

So tonight I’m going to hop on the oh-so-convenient Metro, head out to a bar, and go see some live music that will ultimately get reimbursed by BU. And I will probably pass the group of Peruvian street performers that hang out in La Puerta del Sol and I think I’ll give them an extra Euro tonight. I’ll try to remind myself that even in America the majority of the population will never experience something as life-changing as this, either because they don’t have the opportunity or they’re content in making comfortable decisions within the comfortable borders of the United States. At least for me, it took traveling to the other side of the world to finally become comfortable with taking risks in life. And I remain forever grateful for the ability to take them.

A blonde and a redhead walk into a Mosque...

I was really proud of the post I was typing up. It was a deep and thoughtful cultural analysis of the American misconceptions of the Muslim religion. And then blogspot deleted my draft. That's what I get for trying to be insightful. It was so cathartic that I can't even re-type it. Take my word for it that it would have been good. So instead I'm going to revert back to my old day-by-day detailing of what has been happening this week:

I found a great Spanish jazz bar Friday night (0r rather Lonely Planet found it for me and I highlighted the entry in my "Guide to Spain" book) and decided that Spanish jazz would be worth the pricey admission. The set, however, was entirely American covers. The girls and I were a little disappointed at first but the pianist ended up being one of the greatest instrumentalists I have ever seen live. Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" never sounded so fast, so Latin, and so good.

Before the Carnaval parade yesterday, my friend Rebecca and I found ourselves with a few hours to kill so we headed over to the Islamic Cultural Center located in Madrid's largest mosque. Amalia (the professor of the history of Spanish culture and what my dad claims looks like the Spanish Elaine Benes) recommended we go visit to really appreciate the Muslim influence in Spain. The center is free and all that was required was that the women enter with covered heads.

Upon entering the building, I instantly knew we didn't belong there. Every step I took felt sacrilegious. I had no right as a white American girl to enter a Muslim place of worship just to "see what it was about." Visibly uncomfortable and trepid, Rebecca and I were soon approached by Seif, a recent immigrant from Egypt. In broken Castellano mixed with English and Arabic, he said we looked nervous and that we should sit down with him for awhile. He asked us our names and where we were from and after finding out we were American, he exclaimed: "Ah, you are Taliban, yes?" I turned considerably whiter and stuttered for a moment when Rebecca leaned over and reminded me that Taliban was the plural for "student." Ah. Taliban. Yes, we were Taliban and boy was I relieved.

Seif had fled from Egypt only a few days prior and arrived in Madrid on the 31st of January. I couldn't help but wonder if he knew about the Center de Acogida a Refugiados, if he would end up seeking asylum, and if one day, perhaps, I would be accompanying him around the city to get a social security number and a health card...

He reached into one of his plastic bags (his worldly possessions amounted to a bag of food, a few notebooks, and a passport) and pulled out a twig. Breaking it in half, he explained, "This is for clean, Miswak. 1,500 years from the Prophet Mohammed." Seif carefully groomed the sinews and placing the fibrous section on his teeth, he demonstrated the century-old and method of brushing your teeth [see above photo]. He placed the other half in my hand and said it would last me the entirety of the 3 months I had in Madrid. What do you say to that? "Shukran," I smiled. "De nada," said Seif.

He took us on a walking tour of the center and told us we were free to enter the Mosque. Even though the sign said "all visitor welcome" we saw no women inside and had noticed a "women's entrance" sign around the corner. Erring on the side of caution, we slipped off our shoes and lingered in the doorway for a few minutes, admiring the elaborate interior to the mosque, and decided it was time to head out.

As we shook hands (shaking hands? I'm so used to the two-sided kiss now), Seif reminded us that we were always welcome back. "This is a Muslim place but we forget that we share the same God." I had forgotten. All the tension I had felt walking into the mosque was entirely self-imposed. I had every intention of ostracizing myself from a culture I knew nothing about even before I set foot inside or talked to someone like Seif. And here I thought I was so culturally aware, well-traveled, and open-minded. I still have a lot to learn over here.

PS Carnaval is everything Halloween in the U.S. should be. Why should we only get to wear our costumes for one day??

That was the year I was introduced to Chinese Turkey (and Flamenco)

I'm a big fan of cultural commonalities. People will always complain about the state of the government and a kid will enjoy running through the park at the pigeons (or insert native bird here) in any country. Having lived here even for only a few weeks, I've really come to appreciate anything that more than one culture can agree on as a universal for humanity. So what does any family of four do on a Sunday when the markets are too busy? Order take out.

Nothing is lost in translation between American and Spanish Chinese food, or rather everything is lost in translation between authentic Chinese food and take out. I had American-Chinese spring rolls, mongolian beef, almond chicken, sweet and sour pork, and fried rice. And as I always do in the U.S., I felt similarly disgusting afterward. This was, however, the first time I did not follow my MSG laced meal with a fortune cookie. It probably would've been a terrible Spanish proverb about globalization and conformity anyways.

Saturday in the early afternoon we headed over to el Palacio Royal. Every single room I walked into left me breathless. And I became more breathless (?) as I continued the tour. King Felipe had a thing for clocks and one of them was the most amazing life-size statue of Chronos, god of time, balancing a time piece on his shoulders. Apparently he had mandated that the palace be constructed four times bigger than it's present size; it only made it to 241 rooms--what a shame.

I put my Spanish fluidity to the test and called a very small and very Spanish tablao bar that same night to book us reservations to see a flamenco performance. Not only was this less touristy but we avoided the nasty 30 euro cover charge that the larger venues tag on. We managed to get the last few tables and found ourselves in an extremely intimate atmosphere surrounded by only locals. The performance itself was, as the Spanish say, FENOMENAL. Wow. It was so graceful and hard and dirty and rhythmic. I can't even pick out the right adjectives. Stompy seems an appropriate one too. Fue espactaculoso.

I don't think I've ever had more productive weekends than I have in Spain. Even after a night at the flamenco bar, I pledged to wake up early and meet my friend at El Rastro, Europe's largest flea market. After noon it's almost impossible to navigate with the multitude of people that flow into the streets near La Latina every Sunday. I wound up with some awesome souvenirs at some awesome prices. I even bargained a bit with a women who was shocked to say the least that I knew Spanish and that I knew that this particular purse was not worth 14 Euros.

This week is the beginning of Carnaval. I have no idea what to expect in Madrid. I've been told that cross-dressing is encouraged and clothing is optional.