Zamora

Lili had been so excited all week, and wouldn't stop talking about it. "She named him Javier! Javi! I just want to eat him up," she told my one day in class. "Do you want to come see him with me this weekend? My cousin lives in Zamora - you could see another town!" So I told her sure, I'd go with her to meet her cousin and her new baby.

We ate at her house after school - pasta, pork chops, bread, and natillas. Natillas is this delicious desert, sort of like vanilla pudding or custard - but better. Then we changed out of our uniforms and got ready to head out. I loaded up my bag with the necessities: wallet, camera, cell phone, bike bottle. Upon putting my water bottle in my bag, Lili asked me why I was bringing it. "Because I'll get thirsty," I replied.

"But you can just buy a water bottle," she answered. I tried to explain to her the importance of proper hydration, but she told me drinking water was bad for you. I suppressed a laugh.

By bus, Zamora is about 45 minutes from Salamanca. About half way through the ride I began to regret bringing my bike bottle, because in Spain the busses don't have bathrooms. Suffice it to say it was a very long 45 minutes.

When we arrived in Zamora, a town of roughly 75,000 inhabitants, one of Lili's cousins picked us up. I introduced myself and we soon got into a discussion about running and marathons, and I was really pleased to meet someone else in Spain who liked to run.

From what I could see from the drive, Zamora was much smaller than Salamanca. It was certainly similar though. When we passed by the cathedral, I was reminded that every Spanish town has a cathedral which is always the highest building. To facilitate this, cathedrals are generally situated on hills. We drove towards the outskirts of town and came into an organization not too dissimilar from my own - though not quite so much like Little Winging (we even have a deserted playground reminiscent of dementors).

The house we pulled up to looked like a ginger bread house - tall and narrow, with mediterranean style roofing and white windows. We walked inside and Lili's cousin called us in to the living room. I walked in to find her breast feeding her baby, and I found myself unsure of what to do. So I just smiled and introduced myself, and apparently it didn't bother her at all that I was a complete stranger, and that she was breast feeding her baby right in front of me. Then Lili ran in and sat down right next to the new mom and her tiny baby, ready smother him as soon as he was finished nursing. We all talked for a while, snacking on strawberries, and in the middle of our conversation, the cousin who drove us here remarked that I spoke very well. I thanked him, and laughed, thinking to myself, if I spoke that well I wouldn't be failing Spanish Language and Literature right now. As the conversation went on however, I noticed that I actually knew what we were talking about, and wasn't just pretending to understand, as I sometimes do.

Lili had been holding the baby, Javier, and gave him back to his mom. I watched with some interest, mostly bewildered by how small he was. His mother asked me if I wanted to hold him. "Yo? No, no, gracias," I replied, but she began handing him to me anyway. She insisted, so I awkwardly took the tiny person into my hands. I didn't know how to hold him, so I just made sure his head was up. He started to whine and I knew it was my fault, so I promptly gave him back. I was impressed by the softness with which his mother picked him up, and couldn't help but note

Lili had wanted to show me around Zamora, so we thanked them and left. We walked through the cobbled streets and passed by churches and monuments, all the while singing American songs we both knew.

After a few hours of exploring, we were both starving. But I would much rather go hungry than do what Lili asked me to do.

"I can't do that!" I retorted. "I'm American!!"

"But I'm hungry," Lili protested, pushing me toward a group of boys walking our way.

"Why don't you ask them?" I complained.

"Because I'm Spanish!" Sure, use that home court advantage, I thought bitterly.

Suddenly I was alone in front of three strange boys, all taller and older than me, expectantly waiting for the lost foreigner to say something.

"Hola," I glanced back at Lili, gave her the coldest look I could muster, and reluctantly proceeded. "Sabes donde hay un McDonalds?" Sometimes people ask me if I'm from England, or France, but I cringed with the knowledge that as soon as I uttered the word "McDonalds" these boys knew I was American. They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and one of them replied in English, despite the fact that I had asked in Spanish, "that way" and pointed down the street.

Lili and I walked for a while, but after fifteen minutes she let up her search for McDonalds and we settled for a Telepizza instead. I ordered the same thing one would have at a McDonalds: a cheese burger. But while I had loathed the idea of going to a McDonalds, I had fewer objections to eating the same ketchup slathered, luke-warm pickle topped, greasy cheeseburger at Telepizza. Because here, I wouldn't be associated with any stereotype. Sure, maybe I was filling one: all Americans eat fast food. But had I gone to McDonald's, it would have been like bleaching my hair platinum blonde and then purposefully failing a test. This was a little better, because here - while I was still failing the test (let's call it proper nutrition, Ch. 1) - at least I wasn't contributing the rather shameful association between McDonald's and Americans.