Last day in Spain

We had just seen Natalia’s final ballet performance and were heading home when it hit me; this was my last night in Salamanca with the Lopez family. As we drove by the library, I was reminded of the countless hours I had spent there studying. Most days Allison went too, and we would help each other out, exchange stories, and give each other a little break from the constant strain of thinking outside your own language. We drove by Navega (the soccer field) and I remembered the countless practices I had there, and all of the crazy girls on the team. They all signed a team picture for me, saying they were sad I had to leave, that they would always remember me, referencing inside jokes and what not. We passed Cristina’s house where I would eat lunch with her and her father almost everyday after school. I remembered sleeping over at her house after some great nights with her and her friends, and playing soccer through the hallways with her little brother, Victor. I had thought I would be fine, that I would be happy to go home, but in that moment, driving back to their house, our house, for the last time, I found myself questioning what “home” meant to me.

When we reached the house, Carlos noticed that I wasn’t exactly peppy, and in an attempt to distract me, he said, “Ven a ver mis tomates!” “Come see my tomatoes!” You wouldn’t think that tomatoes would trigger any sort of emotional response, but for one reason or another, remembering Carlos tending to his tiny tomatoes that had now grown around 6 inches really got me. I started bawling, much to Carlos’ bewilderment. I came around a few minutes later and we started making dinner: crepes, the same meal we had my very first night in Salamanca. I felt better during dinner – joking and talking about the day with my family like always. As everyone finished up, I remembered the gift I had for them. “ESPERAD!” I shouted before anyone could get up. I sprinted upstairs to get the little wooden hippopotamus I bought one day in el Rastro (an outdoor flee market) along with a letter I typed up.

When I came back down, they insisted that I read them the letter out loud, which I hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t until I read the words I had written out loud that they took meaning, and so began the waterworks once again. Later, even though I didn’t feel like it, Fonsey and Carlos insisted that I go out with my friends one last time, so at 1 am after we’d taken a photo all together, had quite enough crying for one year, and eaten our full of crepes, Carlos drove me into town where I met up with Allison and some soccer friends for the last time.

It ended up being one long night. We sang, we danced, and we enjoyed where we were until five in the morning, two hours before our train would leave from Salamanca to Barcelona. I stopped at the house to pick up my bags and change, and then I was off.

Allison and I spent the first half of the train ride teary-eyed and reminiscent, and the second half sleepy. We arrived in Barcelona nine hours later, met up with the rest of the exchange students, told stories each other stories, and spent our last night looked back on five beautiful months of challenge, learning, and discovery in Spain.

Last few days

The last few days have been a bit of a blur; I've been in an out of school, taking the necessary final exams and leaving out the global exams that some high achievers take to raise their grade. Don't get me wrong, I would do it if it didn't entail studying the entire year's worth of course material for each of my 10 academic subjects here. I've been heading to the gym more and more, trying to train for my bike trip across Europe with the few spin classes offered there. Allison (the other American from my program) and I went to our team dinner and last practice, which finally brought a sense of reality to me: we are leaving. And it doesn't seem like it, but my five months in Spain are coming to a close.
With only two days left, I think about how fast it has gone by. It's been such a ride - going from the slowest month of my life, not understanding anything, struggling constantly, always surrounded by people yet feeling more isolated than ever - to the fastest four months, making new friends, learning to think in a different way, studying for nearly impossible tests, and playing soccer with the craziest girls I have ever known. I am still unsure about how I feel about going home though. Of course I want to go back to my family. But now I have something to think about that I did not fully anticipate; I am also leaving my family.
Much more than I could have predicted, I have become part of my "host" family. I realized this a few weeks ago when I just stopped saying "host" before "sisters" to refer to Patricia and Natalia, and everyone knew exactly who I was talking about. I remember my first night here. People always say that when you bring a puppy home, the first night you are supposed to leave it alone, let it get it's bearings. Fonsey and Carlos were all smiles, and I was like Patricia and Natalia's new puppy. They were so interested in me, and were clearly holding back, afraid they might scare or startle me. What a contrast from how we've grown. Now we argue, hit each other, laugh together, insult each other, and do nearly everything together, like siblings. My relationship with the girls is what has taught me more than anything about life here, but I'm not an observer, or the observed anymore. I'm an active agent in the family, even in the school community - which is definitely something I never expected.
It makes it harder packing up my room knowing that now, I have finally made a little place for myself. What's more, I can't even figure out how to pack. But that is a different story, and I will be sure to let you know when I finally get it sorted out.

Family, community

So one of the coolest things about Spanish culture is that everyone does everything together. Whether you're 8 or 95, if there's a party, chances are you're out with the entire family, dancing and singing and making a bit of mayhem. I have experienced this many times with my host family - in Valencia, where we all (host parents, 11 and 14year old sisters, older family friends, cousins) stayed out together until well after 3 am, and again last night in a fiesta del pueblo, which is basically a big party that they throw during the summer even in the smallest little towns.
Initially we didn't even know it was going on, but while we were eating dinner at around 11:30, we heard music, and decided that we should go check it out. So off we went - me, Patricia, Carlos, and his friend Miguel - looking for the source of the music. We finally found it on a little street in the middle of the pueblo where there was a ginormous stage set up and a band singing tangos and paso dobles and merengues. Miguel, as usual, headed directly to the bar, and Patricia and I started dancing. She taught me paso doble and I taught her to waltz. The whole thing was just awesome though - there were tiny kids running around, old couples dancing how they were taught to in the forties, college kids dancing like they were never taught, and middle aged guys belting it out, copa or drink in hand. There was alcohol, there was dancing, there was great music, but there wasn't the separation between groups that we experience so often in the States.

Here there is a very different philosophy about family and community. It's not something you do once a week on "family game night", or on Sunday in church. You live with your family, and you live with your community - and that includes both when you work and when you play. People in Spain don't tend to move much - they stay put, because where they were born is where their friends and family are. Why would they need to move? Everything they need is right here. And this makes it so that even in a town like Salamanca, with 150,000 people, everyone knows EVERYONE. As a matter of fact, it's more than likely that you buy your produce from your neighbor and work for your cousin's wife's father. Later, when you go out de fiesta, you'll see a bunch of people you work with, so you'll stop and go for tapas and maybe hit a few bars with them. The next day in the morning you have to stop by your brother's house to pick up some files for work, but since you're going in that direction, you might as well stop by your parent's house for lunch since it's on the same street anyway. And this is just a normal day.
Here they don't sacrifice relationships for work or success. Living with your friends and with your family isn't something that takes effort. It's just part of life, and a really wonderful part, that so many of us in America don't experience in the same way. There may be a lot about Spain that I just don't get - but the most important things they do better than anyone.

Real Madrid – FC Barcelona

The second Barcelona-Madrid game was approaching, and a quiet tension consumed the nation. Kids made bets with each other in school and wore their team colors all week long. The night befote the big game, that quiet tension turned into roaring pep-rallies in the street. Every time Madrid and Barca play each other, it’s the battle of the titans; Yankees vs. Red Sox, Giants vs. Patriots. Everyone takes a side, and the night of the game, there’s not a single bar that’s not packed past it’s legal capacity.

Historically, Real Madrid is the better team. Since the 50’s Madrid has won 31 championships, while FC Barcelona has won 19. Together, the two teams dominate Spain’s BBVA Liga, with Ronaldo on one side and Messi on the other. Barcelona is poised to win La Liga, but both teams moved on to the UEFA Champion’s League.

The fan sphere of most teams is generally geographic, so since Salamanca is close to Madrid, we have a load of hard-core Madrid fans. It’s to the point where people don’t even care who’s playing; they’re for whoever beats Barcelona. When Barcelona lost to Inter Milan in the Champion’s League, the kids in school got even crazier than normal. The typical chair tossing turned into desk tossing. People got into screaming matches in the middle of class. Kike brought in an Italian flag with him, but Gonzalo snapped it over his leg. For most kids, it’s just about what team they like better. But for a lot of adults, it goes futrher than the game, or proximity to Madrid or Barcelona. One of Spain’s larger political issues is also reflected in team loyalty.

“Maybe Messi is the best,” Carlos told me, “and this year Barca has a good team (well, good enough). But the problem I have with Barca is that for them, it’s not just about the game.”

Carlos was referencing the Barca motto: more than a team. In the north of Spain, there’s a pretty potent separatist movement that is most clearly illustrated by the bilingual city of Barcelona, where they speak Catalan, an entirely different language, as well as proper Spanish. When I was in Barcelona, the first thing I noticed was that I didn’t understand any of the signs. Even understanding Spanish, navigating Barcelona, or taking advantage of its resources (schools, libraries, museums), is really difficult.

After talking with Carlos, I thought about how I would feel if there were a city in the US that I would be excluded from because I couldn’t speak the language, in my very own country. On the other hand, I also thought about what it would be like to be part of a tiny minority that is constantly being pressured to assimilate to the larger culture, and thereby forfeit it’s own. This is the conflict that every Madrid-Barca game represents, and Spaniards have no problem taking sides.

“And that is why I am for Madrid.”

Santander

“Quieres ir a Santander este fin de?” Fonsey asked me one Thursday morning. “Sure,” I replied, excited to have the chance to experience yet another region of Spain. Santander, she told me, is the hometown of one of the more wealthy banking families in Spain (I immediately pictured the Santander bank logo) and lies in the north, a little west of Bilbao and not far at all from the coast. Carmen and Rafa, good friends of my host parents, live there, and had invited us all to visit for the long weekend. As Fonsey was explaining to me, Carlos walked into the kichten. “A ti te gustara Santander,” You will like Santander, he told me. “We’re going to go to the natural zoo and see the prehistoric caves at Altamira.” He continued to tell me about giant holes that served as natural cages for elephants and giraffes, and prehistoric cave paintings. The more they told me, the more I looked forward to going. The drive would be over three hours, and I would inevitably be stuck in the middle again (Carlos and Fonsey in the front, the girls on either side of me) but I wouldn’t mind. I packed my bag, and the next day after school ended, we were off.

Santander is the quintessential Spanish town. The mountains make up in vegetation what they lack in altitude, and all of the buildings are made of quarried stone, most of which probably dates back hundreds of years, if not more. As we drove through the valleys, I found my self reminded of Williamstown in the spring.

Rafa and Carmen live in a large brick house with the traditional Spanish terra-cotta roof. On either side of their house are giant fields, behind which continue endless cow pastures and vegetable patches. When we finally got there they welcomed us in to their beautiful renovated farmhouse. Before heading to bed, we ate a large dinner together, which happened to include cow stomach. I tried to think of a way to get out of trying it, but in the end I just went for it. It was sort of chewy. Though discouraged by the cow stomach, I was still hungry, so I took an empanada from the plate in the middle of the table.

“Caroline!!” Patricia shouted, outraged and shocked. I looked up with a questioning glance.

“Que?”

“Nunca con tus dedos!!!” Never with your fingers!!! Suddenly embarrassed, I felt my cheeks turn red. I mean, I didn’t think it was a big deal, as empanadas are as much a finger food as pigs in a blanket, but maybe the rules were different since we were in someone else’s house. I was about to take another one when I saw Carlos’ hand going in for the same one. I pulled away, and shot an annoyed look at Patricia. She smiled, almost viciously, and I was reminded of the first time I ate at her grandparents’ house.

Her grandparents, two cousins, Patricia, Carlos and I were all seated around the table in the living room, serving our selves macaroni. As always, there was a bar of bread sitting on the corner of the table. Carlos grabbed it, ripped off a piece, and put it on the table next to his plate (in Spain bread goes on the table cloth, not on plates). He offered me the bread, so I took it and did the same. I looked up to find him staring at me in disbelief.

“What?” I asked him.

“Caroline,” he said in a low voice, “with your knife, not your hands, for the love of God.”

“But you just…”

“Yes, but I’m family!!”

I nervously searched his face, looking for a sign that he was joking. About five seconds later he burst into a legitimate giggle fit, pleased at having deceived the unknowing American (for the umpteenth time).

Like father, like daughter.

The next day, Carmen and Rafa took us to see more of Cantabria. We drove for miles along the coast. It could have been a bmw commercial it was so picturesque; a winding road, brilliant sun, sharp cliffs that drop directly down to an azure ocean. Better yet, I could have been driving right along where Prince Eric found Ariel lying on the beach.

At around three we headed into a small town to eat lunch. We went to a restaurant where they were serving paella – one of the most traditional Spanish foods. The last time I had paella it had been cooked in a giant vat the size of a roomy kiddie pool. I didn’t expect the same thing at a nice restaurant, but it was pretty close. They wheeled out a huge cast iron pan and then continued to shovel paella on to our plates. That was probably my favorite part of the day, until I had to stop eating. That’s always a bit of an issue. As soon as you stop eating, people start serving you more (whether you like it or not) and commanding you to eat. It’s like peer-pressure, but with adults. The bull-fights aren’t the only reason Spain’s national animal is the bull.

We got home a few hours later. I was headed straight to the guest room to take the siesta I had been daydreaming about for hours, but the girls had other plans. “Let’s go on an adbent-hur,” Natalia said to me. No sooner had I said no than she and Patricia were dragging me outside. I would have complained, but as soon as I got outside, I was game. The sun was starting to set and everything was golden, even the moths flying around in the tall grass. Natalia pulled me towards the hedge surrounding the yard, and jumped through. She poked her head out and said, “come own! Here we can go to Narnia!” I laughed and ran through.

A few minutes later we came to a little road, and since it was light out, we followed it. Patricia started to sing Party in the USA, and I was obliged to join in. We stopped suddenly though when we came upon a pen full of bulls, toros. “OHW MAY GOT! We have to fid dem!!” So I ended up pulling up crab grass by the roots next to the pen. Patricia was especially fond of a bull with blue eyes, a white tuft of hair on top of his head, and an disproportionally large nose.

It started to get dark so we headed home, walking beneath a bower of old trees covered in Spanish moss. I thought we might have been lost, but right as I was about to say something, we saw the end of Rafa and Carmen’s driveway. We raced each other back, and so ended our last day in Santander.

Semana Santa, Part 2

The first week of vacation I spent at home with the girls. As the days got sunnier, we started hanging out up on the mesa. Natalia was the one who first showed me the mesa around a month ago. She and Patricia took me on a bike ride to show me around their pueblo, and we ended up on a little dirt road, heading to the highest accessible point in the village. As we got further from our development, the houses started to look more rustic, more like how I imagined a little village in Spain would look.

We turned down a little street, passing the corner store and a little market. Laundry was hung out side the windows of the short houses that lined the streets. As the street turned to dirt, the buildings that lined it turned to pastures. Soon we were heading up a steep hill, at the top of which was a sand soccer pitch. Behind the field, there was yet another hill, although we would have to carry our bikes up this one. Natalia and I raced up it, ignoring Patricia’s protests. We got ourselves and our bikes to the top of the hill, and I was delighted at what I saw: a rocky footpath leading to who-knows-where. I looked over my should to see Patricia clambering up the hill behind us, disinclined to wait alone at the bottom.

As soon as Patricia made it up, Natalia took off down the trail, shouting “Oh my god – dis is going to be the best adventer hever!” The girls had decided before we left to speak only in English. Patricia and I followed. The trail skirted the edge of the mesa, and soon opened up to one of the most gorgeous views I have seen. The edge of the trail was made of cliff-like rock faces, jutting out every once in a while. I could see a little tree growing on far side of the mesa. Behind it rose ginormous snow-covered mountains in the distance.

One afternoon we went up to the mesa to play soccer with Natalia's best friend, Alvaro. The pitch was enclosed by a chicken wire fence, behind which rose tall, rather oddly placed bushes. Behind them we could hear the sounds of other children playing.

- “OYE!!!” Natalia shouted to them. “QUEREIS JUGAR CON NOSOTROS?” Want to play with us? We waited for a response from the shrubbery.

-“QUE SOIS HIJOS DE PUTAS!” You guys are sons of bitches! Wait. What? “TU PADRE ERA UN CABRON, Y TU MADRE ERA UNA PROSTITUTA!” Your father was an a**-f*****-b****, and your mother was a prostitute. And that was how a war of insults began, a group of slightly dirty children emerging from behind the greenery. One of them, a girl who looked to be about 7, had the voice of the chain smoker, and began to make fun of my Colgate Univ. sweatshirt.

- “Por que llevas esta sudadera de pasta de dientes?” Why are you wearing a toothpaste sweater?

-“Es una Universidad,” I replied.

-“NO ME IMPORTA, INGLESA!!” I DON'T CARE, ENGLISH GIRL. To that, Natalia stuck up for me. “Ella no es inglesa, es Americana, bonita,” She's not English, she's American, honey. That riled the little thing up even more, and she began to screech out swear word after another, past the point of sounding like a lunatic. Patricia and Natalia however returned them, and with relish. Finally, I made the executive decision to leave. On the walk home, I asked them why they didn’t just ignore those kids.

-“Porque si alguien te insultas, hay que insultarle!” Because if someone insults you, you have to insult them back. Of course. "Pero no digas nada a nuestros padres..." But don't say anything to our parents... And that was the lesson I learned over spring break.

Semana Santa, Part 1

Here, the equivalent of spring break is Semana Santa (Holy Week), or the last week of Lent before Easter. On Palm Sunday (the day of Jesus' death), there are huge processions in every city, and the next week all the kids get out of school. The weekend of Palm Sunday my real family came to visit me. I had never been so homesick before, so it was so nice to finally see them after two months. We hung out with my host family, wandered around Salamanca, and watched Salamanca's Palm Sunday procession.

The first night was a little awkward; we invited my host family out to this trendy restaurant called la Hoja, and I failed to properly translate the menu. We ended up accidentally ordering a seven course meal rather than the normal three. The first three plates were pretty difficult to sit through, as the only people who were having a fluid conversation were Natalia, who is 11 and speaks pretty good English, and my little sister Kia, who's also 11. A glass of wine and another course later the adults were finally starting to warm up. It was like they were all planes and I was the control tower; everything they said had to go through me. So, I spent the night translating from Spanish to English and vice versa. Of course I didn't make the connection that my mom and my host mom both spoke French until the next day at lunch.

When they finally figured it out, we were sitting in slightly smokey (but bearable) authentic Spanish restaurant, eating one of the most typical foods of Salamanca: cocido. It's made with these tiny short noodles and garbanzo beans. First you eat some of the soup in your bowl to make room. Then you fill the space you just made with carrots, potato, chorizo, chicken, and beef. I giggled to myself when Fonsey insisted that my mom try a piece of lard on bread. My mom kept trying to refused, but Fonsey passed it to her anyway, and not wanting to offend, she took it. A little later a thought occurred to me, because I'd been getting tired of translating. "Mom, don't you speak French??" She replied yes. "Dude! Fonsey speaks French too!" and that started a whole new thing. Now I only had to worry about translating for Carlos and Mr. Saleh, both of whom had been cracking jokes the entire time (Carlos about his mafia-like business and Mr. Saleh about terrorists). I was slightly annoyed with Carlos; he knew enough English to tell me mom things like, "Oh Caroline - so sad - only drink and smoke, never study! never comes home!" but he needed me to translate his other jokes.

The next day my family and I barely had to eat, we were still so full from the previous two days, so we passed the time wandering through the church of San Esteban, the Cathedral, and watching the Palm Sunday procession. This was something to see. When I first saw the people in the their white robes, pointed hats and face masks, I was immediately reminded of the Ku Klux Klan. Then second thing I thought of was New Moon. Because this was really similar to what was happening in that little village in Italy when Edward went to go provoke the Volturi: a very religious, robe donned mob. While they were both religious festivals, the contrast between this procession (really a funeral march) and the parade of falleras bringing flower to the Virgin was astounding.

That night we went to my family's house, and I showed my family around. To get back at Carlos, I showed them the basement first. "This is where I sleep," I told them. "Sometimes they give me a blanket."

We went back upstairs for snacks (though no one was really hungry) and eventually said good-bye. I had school in the morning and my family had a flight home at 6 am. It was really hard to say good-bye, only having been able to see them for three days, but at the same time I realized that I only had three months left. Yes - I was sad to see them go, and wished they could have stayed, but I might as well enjoy the time I have left here, because it's not too long, and I will see my family again soon enough.