I have always enjoyed Spanish classes at Northwestern, which consist of 55 minutes of awkward and highly entertaining dialogue as the 15 students sitting around the table struggle to properly use the subjunctive and indicative tenses while trying to give of the impression that they memorized the new vocabulary words for the week. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during my first two years in Evanston, I would always walk out of University Hall with a goofy smile on my face, refreshed and ready to continue my day.

Now, in Buenos Aires, my entire life is Spanish class, and unfortunately, the happy-go-lucky feeling did not get on the plane with me in January.

Every day, I struggle to remember colloquialisms, grammatical rules, and the masculinity or femininity of words while I am taking a class at the gym, discussing an article in my seminar, or chatting with my host family at dinner. I know I have (nearly) all the tools I need to master this language, but when it comes time to open my mouth, only the most simplistic form of Spanish comes out. If I want to use a more complex verb tense, I have to think and my audience has to wait. As for listening comprehension, I have found that when I try to pay attention, all I hear is gibberish, and when I let my mind and ears relax, I understand things like a native.

As a result of these difficulties, my confidence in my Spanish level fluctuates as much, and is as unpredictable as, the weather in the era of climate change. At the start of the day, I can feel like every word I hear is from an entirely alien language, and by the end of the day I can feel as if I am fluent. While I do not necessarily enjoy this rollercoaster ride, I do appreciate the good moments, and I try to muster the strength to move past the bad ones.

For now, I am just grateful for the little specks of hope: not having to repeat myself when telling the bus driver my stop, following the rapid bantering between my sisters and parents at the dinner table, understanding the joke that my professor makes during class. While these instances of my “post-Spanish class high” are short lived, they are helping me stay focused on my overall progress rather than worrying about the numerous bumps along the way.

As my host-dad, Ignacio, says with a sense of determination and a fist pump, “Adelante!”