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!

Orientation: Getting to Barcelona

After a few hours of listlessly wandering Heathrow, the gate number for my rebooked flight (I did indeed miss my connection) was finally posted, and right next to it a bit of red text flashed, "gate closing". I didn't have time to ask any one if it was a mistake so I just sprinted through the terminal, hoping to get there before my plane left without me. Red-faced and flustered, I arrived at my gate only to find that I was the first passanger ready to board. I decided not to question my good fortune, and half an hour later I was on my way.

I woke up from my nap to the sound of the captian announcing our decent into Barcelona. I looked out my window, and I could see the jagged pyrenees just breaking the cloud line. For the first time in days, I was excited.

My excitement, however, vanished when, upon arriving at the airport, no one was there to pick me up. Immediately I thought of the movie Taken... I was being trafficked! That was the only explanation, and at any minute I would be kidnapped. I tried to use a pay phone, but I didn't have the proper change. I looked around one last time, just to be sure...
and there, finalmente, stood a friendly looking man with a sign that read "Interhispania" - my study abroad program!

Javier greeted me and proceeded to load my things into a car. Then we were off to the youth hostel where I would meet the rest of the students. While talking with Javier in the care, I became aware of an imporant survival fact: while in Barcelona, your favorite soccer team is, naturally, Barcelona.

When I arrived at the hostel my program coordinator showed me to a room I would share with seven other girls. After he left they all came in, and upon seeing me, became confused. "I don't think there's any room.." one of them cautiously told me. Yeah, no kidding, I thought, looking around, trying to find a bit of floor beneath the tangle of clothes and suitcases. "Yeah, it seems cramped, " I replied. "No - there's no bed for you," Drat. So, I went back to the lobby where my coordinator told me to go to another room that was occupied by seven Germans and a lone American from Southern Illinois. Same issue. I went back down, and spoke with him, trying to convince him that I really didn't have a bed. In the end, I lucked out. He had to book another room, and I landed myself in a spacious, private double.


That night I went out to a tapas bar with some of the German girls I met in my second room.
They were all very nice, and shocked that I spoke a bit of their own language. They bombarded me with questions, "How did you learn German?" "Where are you from?" "Where are your parents from?" "What is your school like?" etc, all in a very pragmatic way. It was nice to talk to them, especially because they seemed genuinely interested, and pretty relaxed.

We got back to the hostel by twelve am, and I went to bed comforted; I was here, and I could actually speak a lot more than I had anticipated. I felt confident and tired, the perfect combination to induce a deep, restful sleep.

Leaving Home

At 7:30, I said goodbye to my family for the last time. We sat an an airport restaurant and I scarfed down the last fresh vegetables I'd be likely to get for 12 hours. My sister gave me a card and my brother gave me a hug, and I couldn't help but try to prolong the moment. They waved to me as I passed through security. I expected to hear the call for boarding at any minute, but it has been hours, and I am still sitting in the terminal, waiting for my flight.

Initially, a delay of two hours was announced, due to bad weather. Then, a further delay was announced, pushing my 8:00 pm departure to 11:45, and making my connection from London to Barcelona a virtual impossibility. The second delay, we were told, was due to the fact that the plane had been struck by lightening. I should be panicking, but I'm not. Airports always make me feel independent. Sitting by the gate, I feel like I'm at the threshold of the world, and, despite the formal bustle and sustained chaos that is unique to such a setting, I actually enjoy the atmosphere. And it's really not that bad, especially when, according to the television in the corner, the Celtics are winning.

I'll take that as a good omen.