Why Are You in Spain?

Ah, the question. The question. I ask it a lot of others; they in turn ask it of me. I love and hate this question, because I love knowing other people’s stories, but I have no idea how to answer it without starting off on some ten-minute-long storytelling session, leaving my questioner with his/her mouth agape and mind reeling by it all.

So, let me just ask you, readers:

Why are you here?

Now that I’ve asked that, I can tell you why I’m here. As it says on my about page, I came to learn Spanish. I stayed for a boy. Mainly.

Would it shock you to know I kinda sorta hated study abroad? I was old enough not to get homesick, but I still did. I did not like living in a teeny-tiny room in an old nunnery with walls so thin you could hear your roommate typing late at night. I didn’t like having to wash my clothes in the shower because the laundry room charged upwards of $10 a load. (This was back when the one euro equaled something like $1.50.) I didn’t like feeling as if it were impossible to make friends except for drinking buddies and intercambios who weren’t really interested in hanging out with me after hours. I didn’t like seeing my bank account drain slowly down to almost nothing.

But I did like learning Spanish. I did like that, and so I dove in headfirst, as much as I could. I got another intercambio because one just wasn’t enough. I spoke to all the waiters in Spanish, even if they insisted on speaking to me in English (the bastards). I studied vigorously, even when all of my classmates were basically taking a semester off. I traveled as much as my budget would allow. I learned to love red wine, olives, and tortilla de patata.

But there was so much I didn’t know at the end of my stay! I didn’t know how to tapear, I hadn’t mastered the subjunctive, I had never had a real Spanish friend that I could text and ask to hang out with. This bothered me. I went back for my senior year unsure of the future and what would happen after May 2009.

As senior year wore on, I had a decision to make—find a job or go back to Spain? I chose Spain, specifically Salamanca. I was excited to experience a new side of Spain, to live in my own apartment, and meet Spaniards. Oh yeah, and improve my Spanish.

I got back to Spain in September 2009, a year and three months after I’d left Toledo. A few days later, I met Mario. He came to the door of the place I was interning, and I was unintentionally rude to his friend and him, but he still went out to dinner with us. The next day, I pretty much asked him out, and the rest was history. My mother waited patiently by the computer to hear updates about this guy I talked about all the time, even though she’d warned me not to fall in love with any Spaniard (only because that could keep me far away from her). Oops! I was head over heels after a few weeks. After a month, I met the family. After three, I was ready to stay indefinitely, if it meant we could be together.

Staying in Spain is not an easy task for many reasons. There’s bureaucracy. There’s homesickness. There’s cultural differences that drive me crazy at times. There’s times when I get so sick of Spanish, of struggling to find the word that I just want to scream, pack my suitcase, and get on the next plane to Chicago. Get me outta here! Mario knows this more than anyone. Luckily, although he wouldn’t feel the same way, he sympathizes as best he can.

There are some expats that love Spain much more than I do (although, don’t get me wrong, I do love it), and they’d stay forever if it were up to them, boyfriend / girlfriend / husband / wife / lover or not. I wouldn’t, though. If not for this husband of mine, I’d be in the States, where my family is, where my friends are, where my history is. Living in another country wears on me, and I’d love to be able to just hop in my car and drive to my parents’, but right now it’s just not possible.

Right now we’re here; right now this is our home. It may not be for forever. That’s okay. When I married a Spaniard, I gave up that right to certainty about where home is. Home is here. Home is there. Home is Zamora, it’s Crawfordsville, it’s Bloomington, it’s Salamanca. It’s Spain and it’s the US. That’s why I’m here.

What about you?

2011—To Spain and Back Again

I started 2011 in good old Indiana—my home, my high school stomping ground, the place I always feel the most me.

Even if it does entail a little snow.

The Spanish American

Don’t get me wrong – I’m pretty American in a lot senses. I love air conditioning and convenience and free refills. Yes, please. But today I got to thinkin’ (now that phrase right there, it’s pretty American)…there are some parts of me that are more Spanish. I guess it’s pretty hard to avoid, after having lived there for over a year total. And as I thought some more, I realized a lot of them had to do with food. Yes, food. I like food – buying it, cooking it, smelling it, tasting it, eating it. Yum. I like feeding others, as my boyfriend can attest to. In many ways, Spain just does food well. One point for them.

Olives. Before Spain, I hated olives. Now, I shudder just thinking of my ignorance. Olives, who can hate them? (And yes, I know, sadly many do.) They’re briny, salty bites of goodness, and they have a pit, called the hueso, bone, in Spanish. They’re the perfect bar food, and you can’t deny it’s fun to spear them with toothpicks. They complement any good salad wonderfully. Plus, they’re cheap in Spain (when they’re in season). I could get a kilo (2.2 pounds) for two euros at my local frutería. Not bad, not bad at all. I like green and black, but my favorite were las pardas, the dark brown ones.

Along those same lines, olive oil. Olive oil is so rich, fatty, full of goodness. You can fry things in it (the cheap kind), or if it’s the good kind, drizzle it on absolutely everything: bread, cooked vegetables, salads. I love nothing better than a nice salad with a soft-boiled egg and good, strong extra virgin olive oil. It is heaven. Mario loves his breakfast of bread (baguette-style), honey, and olive oil. Oh yeah, and his English breakfast tea. That too.

Red wine. Oh, red wine. Before going to Spain, I was truly ignorant of this delicacy. I totally count it as a fruit serving now, don’t worry. I would happily drink 3 Buck Chuck and not understand that I was downing glass after glass of acrid, unpalatable swill. Never again. Mario’s parents almost always had a glass of wine with lunch and, through them, and their non-cheap-wine-buying ways, I learned to appreciate new tastes. I found my new favorite go-to wine: Elias Mora. It’s the perfect not too expensive wine – ripe, rich, and fruity. It’s a dark ruby-red and a pleasure to drink. Now, I’m no wine snob. The most expensive wine I’ve ever had was just a few days ago, and it was, indeed, amazing, but it was only $30. So don’t take me for a pija (snob in Spain Spanish).

Eating dinner late (but only on the weekends). During the week, I’d prefer to eat around 7 or 8, but I love eating late on the weekends. There’s something so sophisticated about dining after dark. It makes it seem more fun and it’s a better excuse to get dressed up. Plus, I would feel weird eating tapas before at least 8:30 PM. I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t agree. Heck, Mario doesn’t really! If I get hungry, I’ll just eat something beforehand and try to wait, sometimes unsuccessfully.

Paseando. Like I said in a previous post, paseando is an ingrained part of the Spanish lifestyle and I really like. I also like having the ability to walk places in a short amount of time. Mario will meet his friends and leave 3 minutes before he’s supposed to be there. Now, this is only possible in smaller cities and towns, but still, it’s so refreshing. These types of ladies are omnipresent, too, which is a bonus.

Recycling. At least from my experience, people rock at recycling. Plus, it’s just easier. These sorts of recycling bins are about every other block, super easy to find, and convenient, as people have to take their trash to gray bin anyway. Why wouldn’t you recycle? I love it, especially because it seems as though Mario’s family recycles everything. Not to mention there’s just not as much plastic waste because you have to pay for your bags.

So. In what ways are you more Spanish (or other culture)? In what ways are you so. totally. American.?

Why I’m Not Cool Enough for Reverse Culture Shock

• Culture shock – n., the feeling of disorientation experienced by someone who is suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes.
• Reverse culture shock – n., the culture shock an individual experiences upon returning to their home country after living abroad.

You may hear me talk a lot about culture shock. I’ve been through my fair share, involving a variety of different circumstances and customs – manners, eating hours, eating habits, the gym, familial relations, etc. When I was preparing for to go to Toledo in 2008, they gave us loads of materials having to do with culture shock, including a diagram similar to the following one. I’ve studied the diagram again and again and I still don’t think I’ve ever gone through these stages, at least in order. And, at least to me, it’s frustrating. Am I that abnormal? Everyone else experiences this stages, at least to some degree, or so it seems.

• I’ve never went through the so-called “honeymoon stage,” wherein everything is new, interesting, and exciting. WTF? I want it, yet realistically I know it’s no longer possible. When I first arrived in Spain, everything was scary and I was homesick. Right away. Add jet lag to that and you get a miserable Kaley who spent way too much time in a tiny room that smelled of rust.
• At stage 5 on this diagram, it says: “You see the host as your new home and don’t wish to depart or leave new friends.” Nope. Nope, I always want to depart…I have friends here. I mean, the love of my life is here, but still, I want to leave. Why is this?
• As far as stage 6, yes, I am always excited to return home.
• In stage 7, it says you may feel “frustrated, angry, or lonely because friends and family don’t understand what you experienced and how you changed. You miss the host culture…” No. No, my parents try to understand as best they can and, honestly, I don’t care if my friends and family don’t “get” it. I don’t expect them to get everything anyway. We are different. Weird fact, I know.
• I hope I do do number 9, incorporating what I learn(ed) into my new life and career.

But still, reverse culture shock? What is that? And why am I not cool enough to have it?!

America, here I come. In 8 days. No culture shock for me.

(Disclaimer: my one “shock” could be that I refuse to eat lunch any earlier than 1:30 and dinner before 8. I can’t do it.)