Kaitlyn Chriswell • Spain
Sometimes in foreign countries you think you know what’s going on, but you really have no clue. This is the story of how I found out there’s a difference between what the dictionary definition of a word, and what a word can really mean.
Do you remember those two friends I made over lunch last week? If not, read this! So, I started to make plans with them earlier this week. One nice thing about being in Spain is that not everyone is attached to their cell phone like it’s life support. It’s truly a freeing concept. It is also a pain in the butt, because it can take a day, or two, or three for people to respond to your texts. Needless to say, this cultural phenomenon complicates the process of making plans with “amigos”.
So, I text them both on the same day, with the same general message asking what they’re up to this week. Once they finally get around to responding, we start to make plans. It strikes me as a little odd that they are talking about different days to get together, but I chalk it up to a mistake, and decide it doesn’t matter which day they choose because I have no plans anyway. Then, I’m increasingly more confused by the fact that they seem to be suggesting different plans on these different days. No worries, I’m sure I’ll have fun no matter what we decide to do. I notice the “besos” at the end of their text messages, but Spaniards greet each other with a kiss on each cheek. Maybe it’s normal in text messages too. I look back at my received texts and have an epiphany…neither guy has mentioned the other friend. Not once. Could this be? No. Well maybe they thought? No. I couldn’t possibly have just agreed to go on two separate dates with these Spaniards who are friends.
As it turns out, that’s exactly what I did. It really was an honest mistake! Think about it in English. How do you know if you’re “going out” to have a good time with a friend, or “going out” with someone on a date? It’s all in the intonation and the context clues. I know the word for date in Spanish! However, I realize now that isn’t helpful because no one is ever going to be that blunt. The real meanings of “salir” (to go out) or “quedar” (used conversationally to mean “meet up”) were lost on me. Thus, two dates.
So far, I’ve only gone on one of them. If you’re ever in Madrid, you should definitely check out the Calle Cava de San Miguel. It’s a street close to the city center that has a ton of “mesones” (casual restaurants) to get tapas. I’d suggest doing what we did; take a walk down the street and only try one tapa in each place. They usually have a specialty dish they’re most famous for, and many of the places are named after the dish you should try. Did I mention my date had the accordion player at one of the tapas bars serenade me? He thought it was funny how my very white face turned very red when embarrassed.
First, an important development: I realized this week that I have unknowingly been eating flan since arriving at my home stay (gasp!). Every student who ever took a Spanish class in middle or high school understands why I am shocked. Language classes are known for having holiday parties, and at my school, we often got extra credit for providing a Spanish-themed snack. Flan was a dish that showed up every time, and no one ever ate it. Basically, it’s a type of custard, and there really is nothing wrong with flan. Maybe it was the way 13-15 year olds prepared it that made the texture a little questionable and the flavor unappetizing…I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that upon arriving in Madrid, I never expected to eat flan. I would find five months of alternative desserts. That is, until I saw the packaging and realized one of the custards my host mom has been packing in my lunches is flan.
Which brings me to the second important development of the week: Spanish amigos. It’s Wednesday and I’m sitting outside eating my lunch. I’ve never been one to worry about appearances, so yes, I’m sitting alone in the middle of the quad. I see two guys having a picnic, and turn back to my own lunch, zoning out. I hear people speaking Spanish, but since this is Spain, it doesn’t phase me. Then I hear, clearly, “¡Oye, tía!” (the equivalent of “Hey, dude!” referring to a girl), and realize that the two picnic guys had been talking to me in Spanish, and I hadn’t heard a single word they said. Good start. I’m flustered because they’re speaking quickly, using slang I have to think about to translate, and all of the sudden, they pause like I’m supposed to answer them.
Oh geez. What’s the last thing I heard? Something about “liar” (pronounced: lee-ar). Wait, doesn’t that mean to roll? Roll what? I think they’re smoking. I don’t smoke. I don’t like smoke. Wow, I need to answer them. What if that’s not what they said? Is my face turning red? They’re being nice to me, maybe I should go sit there to eat. Or maybe they’re being creepy. Why is there not a class on determining creepiness level in Spanish? I think I’ll just shake my head no. They look confused…I’ll just say “no, gracias” a few times. Okay, phew.
I finish my lunch and realize I still have two hours to kill before class. I can’t just continue to sit in the middle of the quad with nothing to do. I have two options: move to a less conspicuous location or go talk to them. Mental pep talk: You can do this. You have to move either way, so you might as well try and make friends. Go on. Really? You can’t stay here all day. Just move already! So, I went to go sit down with them, and we talked for an hour and a half. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I made my first Spanish amigos. We even have plans for this week!
At this point, you might be wondering, has Kaitlyn lost her mind from speaking so much Spanish? What in the world do these stories have to do with each other? And why do I care what she eats? Here is the connection: frame of mind. I now have proof that with the right mentality, I can enjoy the most unexpected things (eating a previously unapproachable food or awkwardly making friends at school). So, my mantra while in Spain will be to put myself out there, and try everything once (within reason).
I’d like to dedicate this blog post to our seminar professor, Estela, whose refrain during this first week was “Cuando hablo con vosotros, hablo como Forrest Gump” (When I speak with you all, I speak like Forrest Gump). But life in Spain isn’t like a box of chocolates, it’s like a cup of flan.
For those of you who were unaware, I do not look like a Spaniard. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that all Spanish people look alike. There is definitely a fair amount of variation, but they also share a base of common characteristics that allow people to identify someone as “español” o “española”. With my blond hair and (super) pale skin, I stick out like, well, like a white girl in Spain. Even some of the Asian kids from my program have a better time blending in since there is a decent-size Asian community in Madrid. I don’t have a huge problem with being the “blanca” and the “rubia” in Spain, though. I have come to accept people’s curiosity about my nationality as normal. Like the two people on the Metro a few days ago who didn’t know I spoke Spanish and spent 5 minutes debating where I was from (the girl was vehement I was from England and the guy was more skeptical, betting Canada). Not even for a moment did they think I was Spanish, and they both agreed I must speak English, even if they couldn’t agree on my country of origin. Did I mention they hadn’t heard me say a word?
Yesterday I witnessed two opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of Spanish people’s views on foreigners. For the most part, people have been really nice to me (although they tend to be nicer when I’m with my host mom). However, there is a fair amount of, if not racism, then stereotyping, in Spain. When I was on my way to the Parque del Retiro (http://the195.com/northwestern/2012/01/22/madrid-trumps-new-york-city/), two women got on the bus. It seemed one of them knew a woman sitting near myself, so I moved to the window seat in case she wanted to sit near her friend. The first woman sat in the seat behind her friend and the second woman to get on the bus sat behind me. As soon as I moved over, the first woman began saying, loudly, a whirlwind of phrases about Spain and what is normal here. Her refrain was always, “¡Estamos en España! ¡Aquí, usamos la boca, no la fuerza!” (“We’re in Spain! Here, we use our mouths, not force!”). Her rant lasted about 5 minutes, until she got off the bus. I could understand her words, but I was still confused as to why she was saying it because I hadn’t seen anything that could provoke such a reaction. I couldn’t tell if the woman was addressing me, or the woman behind me, so after she got off, I asked. It turns out that the woman behind me was Latin American and that the rant was aimed at her for waving her arm to flag down the bus (something I have seen many Spaniards do). A friend later told me that there are many immigrants from Latin America in Spain, and they aren’t always treated with respect. In fact, they are more often confronted with discrimination. The public broadside of this woman stands in stark contrast to the genial grandpa who sat and talked to me for 40 minutes in a Starbucks later that day because I was sitting alone, waiting for a friend.
I am definitely treated differently in Spain. As a novelty, almost. Everywhere I go, the question lingers, “¿De dónde eres?” – “Where are you from?” Even if no one asks, I know people are thinking about it, from the cashier at a local café, to the two kids in the park, the security guard in the department store, and the people in my apartment building. The grandpa at Starbucks happily announced for everyone who was wondering,“¡Es americana!” (“She’s American!”). We’ll see how my first day of classes with Spanish students and professors goes tomorrow… hopefully they’ll remember my name and not just my country of origin.
I wake up Saturday morning after a relaxed Friday night of tortilla española and sangria with friends and realize I have exactly 0 things that need to be done for the day. I can’t even tell you what a wonderful feeling it is (rubbing it in just a little). I decided to meet a few friends at the Parque de Buen Retiro in the center of Madrid. It takes me just over 30 minutes on the bus to get there from my apartment near the north of Madrid, although most of the other students are much closer. We first went to the park during our three-day program orientation and Ray, the program director, compared the Retiro to Central Park in New York. Maybe I’m biased, but I think when you look at the photos, you’ll see that the Retiro is everything Central Park is missing. It is truly a huge, well-maintained green space with historical relevance in the middle of a bustling capital city. On weekends, it is populated with families walking, biking, or rollerblading (a very popular choice here). There are beautiful fountains and exquisite statues, but what will caught my attention the most was the variety of shows and activities spread throughout the park: a jazz saxophone soloist, children’s puppet show, drum circle, guy making large bubbles for children to pop, street vendors, artists, and more. My friends and I stayed in the park for hours, walking around and exploring all it had to offer. Did I mention I took my coat off because the weather was so nice? I’ll stop bragging about the sun and blue skies and let you see for yourselves. Read the captions to learn a little about the park!
On the plus side, I didn’t burn down the apartment. I didn’t even set off the fire alarm, I swear! However, I may have had a mishap with the microwave. I will admit, technology is not my strong suit, and technology, when combined with cooking, definitely has disastrous possibilities. I must take after my Papa (my mom’s dad), who once put his coffee in the microwave with the sugar spoon still in the mug. I will never forget the look on both our faces when we saw the zap of “lightning” inside the microwave.
Maybe I should back up a little, though. To give you some context, today is my second day living with Leticia, the 68-year-old woman who has been so kind to open her apartment to me. When we arrived Thursday, all the students in my program stayed two nights at a hotel in the tourist sector of Madrid, but we moved into our home stays early Saturday afternoon. I quickly discovered that I would love Leticia. Why? She used to own a catering business with one of her friends, and she still caters desserts every week to certain local restaurants. What, exactly, does this mean for my daily life? For those of you know don’t know me well enough yet, perhaps my own mom has phrased it best; “We never have to worry about Kaitlyn becoming anorexic. She loves food too much.” Basically, this was the home stay arranged in heaven.
Today, I came back from a group meeting around 3pm and found that Leticia wasn’t here, but, she had left me lunch already prepared in the kitchen. When I say “already prepared” I literally mean that all I had to do was put one plate in the microwave, but apparently that was too much to ask. I looked at the plastic lid she left on top of the pasta and thought to myself, “I wonder if this is microwave-safe…” The lid said (in 5 languages) not to put it on the grill, but I wasn’t putting it on the grill, just in the microwave. At this point, I probably should have realized that both grills and microwaves share the common factor of “heat,” but that didn’t cross my mind. Instead, I placed the plate of food and lid in the microwave, only to discover 2 minutes later that it smelled strange. Alas, the smell of burning plastic. My hope is that Leticia will never know because I opened a bunch of windows and aired out the smell. Also, there are no burn marks on the plastic lid. She still isn’t home, so this is to be continued…(update: she hasn’t mentioned anything. She could just be being nice though).
In other news, while there was a girl who left her passport on the plane, it wasn’t me! It was my roommate (at the hotel), Leah, who apparently also lacks common sense, occasionally. Great minds room together! My biggest problem thus far hasn’t been with microwaves or passports. I think Spain’s national slogan should be “You think you know jet-lag? Ha! Try ours!” For those of you unfamiliar with jet-lag, here are the typical symptoms: sleeping at odd times, being wide awake in the middle of the night, lacking energy when you need it most, feeling hungry or full when it is not socially acceptable to be either. Adjusting to life in Madrid combines all these normal difficulties with a completely new time schedule. A day in the life of a Spaniard: wake up at 10am (if you’re an early riser), eat a light breakfast (read: coffee and some cookies), eat lunch at 3 or 3:30pm, eat dinner any time between 9:30-11pm, then if you’re young, leave around 1am to go out to the clubs, return some time before 6am on the búho (nighttime “owl”) bus. Repeat.
Coming soon: Kaitlyn’s first attempt at this schedule of a “normal Spaniard”.
To understand where I’m going over the next five months, it’s probably best you know where I’ve been the past nineteen years.
I’m from Small Town, U.S.A. I was raised on a healthy balance of country music and playing outdoors. The produce in my house comes from my friends’ farms, and I pop my popcorn on the cob (I swear, it’s possible!). I love playing sports, just beware I’m a little competitive. I root for the underdogs and never leave before the game is over (my hometown teams are the Buffalo Sabres and the Buffalo Bills). I’m a magnet for socially awkward situations, but that’s why my friends love me. I always have a funny story to share, and I’m not shy about divulging the details.
Why Madrid? Why now?
I’ve traveled to other countries but never stayed long enough to immerse myself in another culture. At Northwestern, I’m a Spanish and Political Science major who has developed a fascination with national security and immigration issues. In Madrid, I’ll study at the Autónoma with Spanish students and professors and live with a Spanish woman named Leticia. It will be one of the best experiences of my life, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride! It’s sure to be full of accidental humor and purposeful fun! In the words of Herb Brooks, “Great moments…are born from great opportunities…This is your time. Now go out there and take it.”
