Padel

I felt my heart warm a bit when Patricia turned on the television and I saw my dear friend Miley Cyrus making an announcement in spanish on Disney Channel. However, Spanish Disney Channel isn't just American actors dubbed in Spanish. They have their own shows too, like my personal favorite, Patito Feo (Ugly Duckling). Imagine a performing arts school in Argentina called Pretty Land, full best friends, worst enemies, seduction, tears, laughter, and random dance-offs, and you've got Patito Feo. Most days, after the girls and I get home from school, we do our homework and have a snack, but as soon as Patito Feo comes on we drop everything. I am becoming quite the fan. I've already learned one of the dances from the show (to my slight chagrin). On the weekends, however, there is no Patito Feo, so my family passes the time at the Padel Club.

From what little I know about tennis and squash, padel seems to be a cross between the two. It's played with racquets made of styrofoam (or something) two or three inches thick, and a tennis ball in what looks like a tennis court. Four people on two teams occupy the court at a time, hitting the ball to the other side. If it hits the opposite wall before hitting the ground, it's a point against the serving team. If it hits the ground and bounces off the wall, a player must hit it back to the serving team, otherwise it's a point for them. Under no circumstances may you touch the net, and you can let the ball bounce once before returning it. In any case, they only play padel in Spain and Argentina, but it's very popular here.

Last weekend the local league championships took place at my family's padel club, so I accompanied them to watch. After an hour or so, I realized that this was much more a social event than anything, and that this sport was representative of the very essence of the Spanish bourgeoisie. Everyone playing was a business man, his kid, or possibly (though not probably) his wife. They all had multiple racquets, and their kids wore jackets with the names of the best padel players, etc. After the matches, everyone headed to the cafe to schmooze for hours on end. This was when I wished there were more matches to watch. In the cafe, my host sisters went off with their friends from school, and not wanting to be a tag along, I sat myself down with the adults, who, of course, began to smoke. The women, either in their sports garb or their sunday best, gossiped with each other or talked about their children, and the men joked with each other and argued about who should have won the previous match.

Carlos, my host father, noticed I looked a little bored. He took me over to the bar and told me to order a bocadillo and something to drink. So I asked for lomo, a popular thin slice of grilled meat eaten on a plain piece of bread, and a water. Upon mentioning "agua", Carlos started laughing, nudged my shoulder, and asked, "No, really, what do you want to drink?" To be quite honest, I truly wanted a glass of water. So that's what I said, but he insisted that I get something "better". He didn't give in until after I tried a sip of his cerveza y limon, beer with lemon soda. I had to make a conscious effort not to spit it out onto the floor. Not wanting to lie, I nodded my head and commented, "dulce,". Sweet.

We headed back over to the table. When I sat down I saw a new face had joined the group; he was a tall, stalky man, with a stubbly face and dark hair that swept across his face just above his eyes. He noticed me when I sat down, and said in a Portuguese accent, "Hello!" Carlos had told him I was an exchange student, and that I was playing soccer. We talked a bit, and as it happened, this guy used to play defense for Portugal. He quit, though, years ago when he met his wife and moved here, to Salamanca. He asked me if I was making friends. "Yes," I told him hesitantly, "but it's a little difficult". He nodded his head, and said slowly in rather broken English, "The people here are very closed. When I came here, no one was interested in me. Not until I started to playing padel," he added. "It's much more than a game." And with that, he got up and joined another party.

So what do padel and Patito Feo have to do with culture? I'm beginning to think of them like golf and Gossip Girl. People go to the padel club to catch up with their friends, to show off their new car, or to play a match with their boss. People watch Patito Feo because that kind of social turmoil doesn't exist in real life. Sounds pretty much like America. But there are some distinctions. For example, Patito Feo is about the equivalent of Gossip Girl, with sexual innuendos abound, but it's shown on Disney Channel, which leads me to the assumption that parents of younger children are less concerned about that than they are in the US. This assumption is also strengthened by some of the jokes my host parents tell at the dinner table.

In general it seems like here, everyone is a lot less judgmental about people enjoying themselves. You just told a really inappropriate joke in front of your eleven-year old... But it was really funny. You just smoked four cigarettes in half an hour... But you enjoyed it. You just ate a plate full of cholesterol... but it tasted good. I see these things, and I make judgments, but other people are a lot more laid back, and don't even notice. They don't have a lot of the social stigma that we do in the United States, and in a way, it's refreshing.

(ps, hi liz!)

Enferma

"Puedes probar si tengo fiebre?" I asked Vega, a girl who sits next to me in our History class. She put her hand on my forehead and told me yes, she thought I felt warm, and that I should go to the secretary. Celeste, one of her friends, said she'd go with me.

We walked in and I timidly told one of the secretaries that I felt bad. She put her hand to my head and said she didn't think I had a fever. Then a thin blonde woman came over. She did the same thing and retorted that I definitely had a fever. Then my math teacher happened to walk in. She also took the liberty of feeling my head. According to her, I didn't have a fever. Finally the first secretary produced a thermometer, ending the argument - for the time being.

In another room, I sat down and Celeste turned the thermometer on. She handed it to me and I stuck it under my tongue. Suddenly she looked bothered, and grabbed the thermometer from my mouth. "No, no, no," she said. "Ponla en tu axila!" Put it in your armpit. Oh. Gross. I sheepishly took back the thermometer and stuck in under my armpit, thinking of all the other armpits this thermometer had been in... When it beeped I checked the number. 45.6 degrees, roughly 115 degrees Farenheit. I was dead. We tried again, but didn't get a viable number. So, we went back to the secretary's office where the blonde woman announced that I needed to go home anyway, and that she was calling my family. Half an hour later Fonsey, my host mother, showed up. She asked me what was wrong and I told her I had a fever, and a minute later the first secretary popped her head through the window to tell her I didn't. In any case, Fonsey was taking me to the doctor.

Half an hour later I walked into an airy room with opera coming from the stereo in the corner. The doctor, a tall man with a gentle manner, began poking and prodding me in the usual way. After a few minutes he told me that my stomach hurt because I was stressed and that my throat was red and inflamed, though I hadn't complained about anything other than feeling feverish (for some reason he didn't check my temperature). He gave me a prescription for three different medicines. Fonsey and I thanked him and left, and as we walked down the street to pick up my medicine, I burst into tears. I certainly wasn't sad, but I was frustrated. All I knew was that I was burning and freezing and I wanted to go to sleep.

We arrived at Fonsey's parents house a little later. Fonsey had offered to take me all the way home, but she had work to do in the city, and in a few hours she'd have to pick up the girls from school, so I said I could sleep there for a few hours. I headed straight to the guest room, but just as I was pulling back the covers, Fonsey took me by the arm into the kitchen. She insisted that I had to eat something, sat me down, and put a bowl of macaroni and plate of chicken in front of me. "No, no puedo," I told her. My stomach hurt, I was queasy, and chicken and macaroni were the last things I could hold down. I tried to get up, but she stood behind my chair. Finally we agreed on a piece of bread and a banana, though I threw most of the bread away while she wasn't looking. After I finished I made my way back towards the guest room, desperate to get warm and to get some sleep.

I had one leg under the covers when Fonsey exclaimed, "No, no, no! Necesitas pijamas!" Pajamas? Not wanting to argue more, I waited by the bed - the beautiful, warm bed - as she rummaged through her parents' room for something for me to sleep in. Finally, she came back with what looked like her father's night shirt. Ok, I thought. Why not. Exhausted, I put on the shirt and then my fleece. Again, I tried to get into bed, but not before Fonsey stopped me. "You can't wear your fleece," she told me in Spanish. "You'll get too hot." I didn't bother protesting. She took my hand and told me that if I needed anything, I should call her. She left, I put my fleece back on, and I crawled under a heap of covers.

If I have learned anything from getting sick in Spain, it is that people hover. If there is something wrong, its everyone's business, and everyone has an opinion. I also learned that, if my host mother is any indication of the majority of Spanish mothers, the Spanish mother is very loving, but adamant. It was reassuring to know that Fonsey was so concerned, but I still felt homesick, wishing my mom was there to give me a bottle of gingerale, tell me I didn't have to eat right now, and let me sleep in whatever clothes I wanted.

El Futbol

On Sunday, I woke up at 6, much to the shock of my host family, to get on a bus with the entire Navega Femenino B equipo del futbol. All of the girls are high school age, and love to play. We waited outside the entrance to our home field, Navega, for the bus to arrive. We were going to Burgos, a city known to tourists for it's fantastic cathedral, and to Spaniards for it's frigid temperatures. Unbeknownst to most foreigners, many of Spain's provinces experience winters comparable to those of the US Mid Atlantic region - cold, but not quite as dramatic as it gets in New England. All of the girls wore their red parkas, paid for by one of the team's multiple sponsors. Each girl also had in tow a red sports bag, sweatshirt, and jersey. Theirs is one of the best teams around, and only last week they beat the second best team in the league.

Unfortunately, I am not allowed to play yet because FIFA recently changed their rules, mandating that minors who aren't citizens of the EU are not allowed to compete in league games. However, watching from the stands was still a blast. Everyone's parents and friends were there, and one guy brought a megaphone through which he sang patriotically every time we scored a goal, or did anything laudable. On the field and in the stands, everyone participated zealously.

Aside from the energy and the fanfare, I noticed during that game how differently they play here. While at home, we always hear coaches saying "keep in on the ground" and "possession, possession, possession," here they have a different take. Of course, solid passes and strategy are key, but everything is bigger. Rather than weaving a ball up the field with ten quick, consecutive passes, they might just send it and have their striker take a whack at it. And when I say whack I mean something of a missile. They also have fantastic footwork in general, which makes their less conservative style effective. The most remarkable thing about how they play, however, is how much fun they have - all the time. In practice, in the locker rooms, and on the field, everyone is always joking, laughing, and loving what they're doing.

And the game in Burgos was pretty much the same. Only this time they lost. For a couple minutes following the game, everyone was pretty quiet. But after we ate a quick lunch and got back on the bus, it was as if nothing had happened. We spent the rest of the ride taking photos and listening to music, until the girls started telling jokes. When they ran out, they demanded that I tell one. This, as you can imagine, was quite the challenge. I tried translating, "How do you make a tissue dance? - Put a little boogie in it!", but realized that it only works in English. After that massive fail, they insisted that I try another, sure that I must know something funny. I thought for a while, and finally came up with a translation for a few dumb blonde jokes - and these went over much better. The parents at the front of the bus heard us laughing and told us to tell them too - and that's how we spent the rest of the ride, telling jokes and playing games with everyone (PS to you O'landers... we played Kyle's number game - I had everyone stumped forever).

The next day Elena, one of the girls from the team, struck up a conversation with me on Tuenti (Spanish facebook!) and invited me to meet up with her and some other girls from the team in the Plaza Mayor. Pumped to get to know the team a bit better, I showed up at 5 under the big clock at the front of the plaza. We walked around for a while, they taught me bad words or palabrotas, and did some shopping. We went to Zara (pronounced Thara) one of the most popular stores in Spain. We went to Estradivarius, a shop with loads of clothes for clubbing - sequined pants and what have you.

After going to a few more stores, Elena asked if I wanted to see the university. I agreed, excited to see the second oldest university in Europe. On the way we passed by the cathedral. It's carvings and gargoyles reminded me of Emma.

A carving of an astronaut reflected the light hearted spirit of the people here. Next we passed la Casa de las Conchas, one of the city's oldest buildings. On the outside, its covered in stone shells, hence it's name - the House of Shells. Legend has it that there's money inside of each shell.

Finally we arrived at the university. The facade was also covered in carvings, and Soraya told me to find the frog. A little confused, I looked and looked, and finally on top of a skull I spotted a little stone frog. "Now you have good luck!" she told me. In the meantime, night had fallen and the wind had picked up. That was our cue to go home. So I met Carlos at the end of the pedestrian zone and at 8:30 turned in for the night.

Bob Marley

Carnaval takes place 40 days before Easter every year. In some parts of Spain they go all out - parades, fiestas in the street, music, costumes, the works. And, similar to Halloween, everyone dresses up. That's why Lili invited me to her house after school para comer. After we ate, she said she would show me a shop where I could get a costume for this weekend. She and her best friend are going as Mario and Luigi. I figured I would look for something a little less conspicuous, like a mouse. Any way, we were just about to go when Carmen called. After a minute or so Lili hung up and said we would leave in five minutes. I changed out of my skirt and into my sweatpants because it had started to snow. Lili told me to leave my stuff and then grabbed my arm and said we were off to find a puppy. Confused, I thought to myself, Just go with it.

When we arrived at Carmen's door, Lili was bouncing with excitement. As we climbed the stairs she explained to me in English, "Alberto is our best friend. It is his birthday, so we are giving him a puppy! We have to go the the perrera." When I asked her what a perrera was, she replied, "a dog supermarket." I got it.

We got to the kennel, but it was closed. So they called the owner of a litter advertised online. He met us an hour later, outside of a supermarket no less. With him, he brought two tiny black cocker-spaniels. They were probably two of the most adorable dogs I'd ever seen. They picked one, paid the man, and then we went back to Carmen's house. We were only there a few minutes before everyone got ready to head over to Alberto's house to bring him his surprise, which, in the meantime, had been named Bob Marley.

On our way out, I asked Lili if we had time to go back to her house to grab my back pack. "Ayy, no, no tenemos tiempo!" she replied. It looked like I wouldn't be able to find a costume today after all. I told her Carlos could pick me up in about 10 minutes, and that she should just bring my back pack to school tomorrow. We stepped outside and she, Bob Marley in hand, pointed me in the direction of the building where Carlos told me he would wait. "Dame un besito," she said, and she kissed my cheek and followed the rest of the group to Alberto's house.

A few minutes later, Carlos pulled up. I jumped in the front seat. After we drove for a minute he asked me where my skirt was. I told him I forgot it. In Spanish, he replied, "Must have been some party," and laughed at me the whole way home.

The next morning I went to school in sweatpants. After explaining a few times why I wasn't wearing my skirt, I was relieved when Lili finally showed up. She put my bag down, exclaiming, "que pesada!" and I grabbed my skirt to change into before my first class, English.

"I don now what the raisin jou all have a such a bad grades is. Is cause jou never stahdy!"

This is what our English teacher said before she began to read off everyone's grade. "Alberto, Gonzalo, all correct. Caroline - on the listening you missed one." What? No. I speak English much better than her. She must have made a mistake. And all of a sudden, I was more the arrogant American than I had ever been before. I argued with her, saying that the word to describe the men hiding in the dark room was obviously "anxious" as opposed to her answer, "relaxed"; but to no avail.

In the end I let it be, comforted by the fact that I was the only one in class who could decipher the lyrics to Just Walk Away by Celine Dion. Just as I began to calm down, Dona Marta announced that it should be easy to understand Celine Dion, especially because she's from Canada and not the United States. I wondered if she didn't mean to offend me by insinuating that Can-eh-dians speak English better than Americans. And this from a teacher wearing leather pants.

Anyway, as they say here, no pasa nada. Whatever. I've got more important things to worry about, like soccer.

jamon and la discoteca

Saturday afternoon, I stood in the kitchen watching my host parents cook. They were making a traditional Spanish dish - a thick broth made with chick peas, potatoes, carrots, chorizo, and very fine pasta. Chorizo and other forms of ham are very important in Salamanca, and the people here take lots of pride in the quality of their world renowned jamon. Juan Carlos told me all about the process of making chorizo. From what I could tell, chorizo is made of meat hung to dry for months in the cold air of the mountains of northern Spain. He told me about other variations of jamon, and then uncovered a whole pig leg and began to shave it.

When we sat down to eat, Patricia immediately asked me, "So what are you going to wear tonight?" Oh right. I was going out with the girls in my class for the first time that night. Unfazed, I answered probably vaqueros and a v-neck. Everyone looked at me for a minute, as if deciding whether or not to tell me I had a sign on my forehead that read "stupid". I felt my face grow warmer as Patricia began to explain to me the importance of fashion here. Then Fonsey quoted Coco Chanel while describing what I should wear. It was worse when I brought them upstairs to look in my closet, and all they found were jeans, a few skirts, and a bunch of v-necks and tank tops. Every female in the house ransacked her things to find something suitable for me to wear. They put me in a black skirt, pantyhose, button up shirt, with two long strands of beads around my neck, and knee high black boots. "Si no te gusta, dimelo," Fonsey told me. To tell the truth, a was really too shocked to say much of anything at all. I couldn't even remember the last time I wore panty-hose.

After much deliberation, I finally emerged, ready leave, in jeans and a blue v-neck. I was already nervous, and I thought it would be better if I just wore what I wanted. And, as it turned out, we were all pretty off-target about what I should wear anyway.

I got to Carmen's house at around 8:30. It was a large flat, taking up the entire second floor of her building, and smack dab in the center of the Plaza Mayor and Salamanca night life. I knocked on her door and a minute later, Carmen greeted us in Stilettos, a black feathered mini-skirt, and a bedazzled tank-top. "Ok, ok come in! If you need the bathroom it's down tha howl and then we can do jour make-ahp." Ok. Sure.

Fonsey asked Carmen's mother around what time we would be back. "Oh, normally the girls go out until 2 or 3," Hearing this, I could already feel myself getting tired. I said good-bye to Fonsey, and the night began.

After putting me in heels and doing my hair, Carmen decided we were ready to go. So we went out, got a bite to eat with a few other girls, and then met everyone else outside. They were all decked out - heels, scarves, sequins, everything - and ready to hit the discotec. We got there and the bouncer let us all go through. Once in side, all the smoke made it a little hard to get my bearings, as did the strobe lights and the pounding music and all the dancing crazies. I felt like I had stepped through a time portal and I was in a Michael Jackson music video. It was pretty awesome. Only, when I came out, every item of clothing on my body reeked of tobacco.

Ten minutes before 1, I met Carlos outside, and he took me home. I was a lot more tired than I had anticipated, and after telling them the basic gist of the night, I was more than ready to get to bed.

On Monday, everything felt different. All of the girls talked to me more, and, for the first time since I got here, a couple of the boys in my class decided to try and talk to me too. Now they all slow down when they can tell I don't understand something, and even math is getting a bit easier. All in all, my first week has ended pretty well.

There's a first time for everything

I opened the door to a standing ovation. Don Francisco smiled and then exclaimed, "Sientense!" from the front of the room, and twenty-five students, all clad in gray and crimson, fell silent and sat down. There was one free desk in the row closest to the door and I, with my nose down, made my way over. Then suddenly, as if I were not there at all, class began and proceeded as usual. While I had been able to converse pretty well with my host family, this was a whole new ball game. I had no idea what was going on, and what was worse, I had the wrong books so I couldn't even read along. Finally, class ended. Don Francisco (the students know him as Cicso) called me to the front of the room and introduced himself; "H-hi. I'm... Frank,". In Spanish, I replied "Mucho gusto", and look of outrage washed over "Frank's" face. "You mean you speak Spanish?" he asked me in his own tongue. "Claro!" I replied, a little confused. His face relaxed and I realized he was joking (I think), and he told me to go with the other girls. Just as I was about to ask which girls he meant, Carmen, a petite thing who wore the same skirt as me, though curiously shorter, heavy eyeliner and her long black hair in a half pony tail, grabbed my arm and said, "Come, eat with us!"

Relieved to have someone to go with during the meal break (remember, the Spanish eat five times a day), I tagged along with her and her friends as they headed for a cafe a block away from our school. As soon as we were out of the gates, she pulled out a lighter and asked me, "Quieres fumar?" A little shocked, I politely declined, and watched as each of the five girls pulled cigarettes out of their pockets. I decided not to judge them too harshly; after all, I didn't know anybody else, and this seemed to be the norm. We crossed the street and went into a cafe hazy with smoke. There, Carmen ordered me a small plate of fried meat topped with fluffy cheese, and kindly refused to let me pay. I was a little unsure about it, but I remembered one of Carson's rules: eat the food. So, I ate it. And consequently, I decided that the next day, I would try something else.

On the way back to school, one of the girls, Maria, told me that their grade was the one that organized all the parties and such. She said that on Saturday we were going out and that I should come too. It was the first time that day that I felt like I might have a chance at making some friends, and I was, inwardly, ecstatic.

We got back to el cole just in time for our next class: el inglés. I sat in a desk next to Carmen and Dona Maria passed out an article titled Washington DC: the White House. I perused the attached worksheet, bemused by the questions the students had to answer:

1) Which is the poorest state in America? (Answer: Mississippi)

2) What is the purpose of the East Wing? (Answer: reception area and office space)

3)What activities can be done in the gardens of the White House? (Answer: gardening, basketball, swimming, running.) *Dona Maria told the students to note that Michelle Obama has an organic garden.

I suppressed a giggle upon reading the last question, and I had to wonder why on earth they were learning this crap. I was an American, and I didn't even know the answers. A moment later, my patronizing thoughts were interrupted by Dona Maria pointing at a group of boys, saying, "Shutahp. Shuthap, shutahp, jou are actin like mowrons." I was a little shocked. But I remembered that here they have an entirely different approach to learning, and the teachers are entitled to treat a class as they will. And, in her defense, they had been throwing things at each other and using what sounded like a farm animal app on someone's iPhone.

The rest of the day was pretty similar: we would all stand when a teacher entered the room, sit when they told us, and then listen to them alternate between lecturing and reprimanding. At the end of class all the students would get up and mingle. During one of these short breaks between classes, a boy came up to me and asked me if I liked hamburgers. I knew it would happen eventually, but being associated with such a stereotype took me by surprise. I laughed, and answered, "no, no me gusta". Then I went back to observing everyone. They all seemed pretty comfortable with each other - a girl would playfully bonk another on the head, or maybe go up to a boy and casually kiss him on the cheek. It was definitely different.

Soccer, however, was pretty much the same. Except for the locker rooms. I left school at 6 pm, when Patricia and Natalia normally get out, and headed over to Navega, the soccer field. I briefly met the coaches before getting right into practice with the other girls. They were fast and had much better foot skills than me, but I recognized most of their drills and pretty much understood what to do. After practice, we all headed back to the locker rooms to get our things and leave. Or so I thought. As soon as the door was closed, I was in a room full of naked people. And they didn't seem to be in much hurry, either. They just sat around, talking, laughing, texting, stark naked. Allison, the other American exchange student practicing at Navega, shot me an awkward glance. Feeling too uncomfortable to strike up a conversation with any of the other girls, I shouted "Hasta mañana!" and made a b-line for the door.

El Primer Dia con la Familia de Acogida

Carson, our program coordinator, dressed in slim black slacks, black leather shoes, and a fitted pinstriped oxford. Upon beginning our orientation, he told us he'd lived in Spain for four years, deciding to do so after he did a homestay in the Canary Islands as a high school junior. He then passionately proceeded to go through the rules:

1) DON'T RIDE MOTORCYLCES (he added emphasis with multiple finger wags, just to make sure the message got across to the Germans and Austrians as well)

2) Don't drink alcohol (well, unless you are with your host family, or at dinner, or at a restaurant...)

3) Try the food.

4) Go to school (we were all on student visas)

Then, he explained some cultural norms - directness in conversation, late nights, a "different approach" to privacy, lots of food, and, above all, the importance of the Spanish mother. He described the home as the kingdom and the mother was the queen. We were to leave the doors to our rooms open unless we were changing; it's important to show that you welcome the company of any family member, especially the mother - it is, after all, her house.

After arriving in Salamanca and meeting my host family - Natalia, 11 years; Patricia, 14 years; Fonsy and Juan Carlos, my host parents, - I noticed many, many differences in their day to day lives. First of all, they eat five times a day, starting with a light breakfast, el desayuno. Then, mid morning, they have a snack. Then they eat a light lunch, el almuerzo, and at around 2, everyone stops for el comer, the most important meal of the day. A few hours later it's time for la cena, or dinner. Juan Carlos made crepes for dinner on my first night.

There are a few other differences I've noticed aside from food (though, most customs here seem to revolve around eating). For example, getting up at 6:30 to go for a run is practically unheard of - probably due to the fact that most people don't eat dinner before 9:00 or 10:00. While at lunch with my host parents, Miguel, a family friend, told me that it's more probable to find people coming home at 7 am than to find them leaving the house. Another huge difference I've noticed is that every time you greet someone (friend, sibling, stranger), you kiss them on both cheeks. Every time.

Now, it's around 11:30 (23:26 - 12 = 11:26) and my host parents are both awake, but Natalia and Patricia have gone to bed. I have my first day of school and soccer tomorrow. So far my time has been fantastic, and I have a feeling school isn't going to change that. Wish me luck!