Emily Dickinson may have had some sound advice when she wrote, "there is no frigate like a book,?but for me to get a good handle on a place, nothing beats living out the real experience. Don�t get me wrong; when I was younger I loved reading, and whiled away many a lazy afternoon reading a staple of youth culture�Choose Your Own Adventure Books. Now that I�m a twenty-something, the adventures are more real and need to be chosen more carefully. But that doesn�t make them any less exciting.
Take my senior year in college. With most of the required courses for two majors under my belt, a real aversion to campus food, and the �real world��i.e. grad school or a full-time job�staring at me with both barrels loaded, I was in the mood for a little change. So I decided to hop across the pond for a semester abroad in Spain. The adventure I was in for was not unlike those books of my childhood, as I was about to learn. Move lock, stock and barrel to a Universidad de Alcal? near Madrid...turn to page 42.
Arriving in a foreign country and leaving everything familiar behind was really a trip. Everyone talks about culture shock, but this was crazy. First of all, there�s the obvious language barrier. But beyond that there�s the oppressive heat, arid landscape, myriad mosquitoes at night, and shady food to get used to. Things you take for granted in the States take incommensurable amounts of time in Spain. For example, I have spent: over an hour to get online and check email; four hours picking up a few food items at the market; a half a day washing laundry by hand and waiting for it to dry; two full days for laundry when the campus laundromat does it. The list goes on. And then the realization that nothing is open during the middle of the day for siesta just about tops things off. At least there�s the late night marcha, or party scene, to drown my sorrows. As all exuberant foreign exchange students learn, it begins around 1 a.m. and lasts anywhere up to noon. Stay out all night at a Madrid nightclub...turn to page 33.
The morning after an all-night rave can be a bit tragic. After wolfing down some greasy churros and chocolate�a Spanish equivalent to donuts, and a good hangover food�the key is to keep my eyes open long enough to make it to Atocha, the train station, in just enough time to collapse into the seat and fall asleep. Not to worry though, this won�t offend the other passengers, as the only two things to do on public transportation in Spain are sleep and read. Since I choose the former, though, my reading for Monday�s class will have to wait...turn to page 65.
Sitting at my desk, I have to pay close attention for three long hours, as the professor lectures on about T?ies, a little-known (for good reason) Catalan artist. At any moment he might call on me from a little card bearing my name, photo, and passport number, to ask what is man�s condition in the universe. But the bright side is that after only several classes, a paper and an exam, my work for the course is over. This means one thing�midterm break. Although I should rest up a little after finals week and catch up on sleep, I decide to travel...turn to page 24.
In Spain, there are many ways to travel, and most everybody uses most of them quite often, if not daily. The public transportation network is vast and fairly reasonably priced, so flexible travel plans are not a problem. I learn this when six friends and I arrive at Charmartin one evening, backpacks loaded to the hilt, only to find our train �completo;?booked to capacity. A quick change of plans and an overnight train ride later, we arrive in Galicia, a region of Spain that�s actually green, has good food, and friendly people. Other spur-of-the-moment travel decisions bring me to such random places as Oporto, Portugal, and Gibraltar, which is akin to a giant theme park, complete with its own play money, cable cars and monkeys. It�s side trips like these that really enrich the experience of being in a foreign country, because I actually get out and interact with the natives much more. And I meet some really nice folks. Like Luis Castro, a seventy-something going-on-twenty who chatted with a group of friends and me for two hours after taking our photo, and Pilar, who is a really nice elderly lady with a really big dog, and whose pension I slept at in Sevilla. She was difficult to get away from since she was so cute and talked incessantly. And she gave me medicine for my cold�a communal bug that seemed to cycle around the residence as soon as fall hit. Her kindness was much appreciated, as I could have also tried to go to the pharmacy...turn to page 39.
Walking into a pharmacy in Madrid for the first time was slightly harrowing. Learning another language is a funny kind of a thing since in high school and college courses you are bashed with irregular verbs until you ooze them from every pore, but you race through the sections on seemingly more important things, like what to say in the pharmacy. So anyway, after stammering some poorly-constructed sentences about the ailment, the pharmacist came back with two boxes of entirely the wrong thing. Try again. What�s quite different with this situation is I can order narcotics, granted my knowledge of Spanish improves, without a prescription. But this availability doesn�t extend to other realms of Spanish life. For example, at last count, Champion, the supermarket in town, boasted a whole three types of soap. When your apartment�s laundry room consists of a sink and a clothesline, you at least want your body to smell pretty. Maybe that�s the reason Spaniards smell so wonderfully...turn to page 22.
On trains, plains and autovias, two smells are sure to greet you when in Spain. The first is body odor, and the second, smoke (although a variety of other pungent smells lurk around every corner). We already know the cause of the former, but the latter is thanks to another cultural peculiarity of Spain. In enclosed spaces, almost everywhere you look, you see �No fumar?(�No Smoking? signs, invariably shrouded by a plume of smoke from a nearby cigarette. This speaks to the way in which Spaniards view regulations and authority figures. The point is they wholly ignore them. Another favorite image I have is that of a group of people, having disembarked a train, running directly across the tracks past a sign saying mutely �No crucen las v?s?(�Don�t cross the tracks?. It�s quite comical. Stare at the funny natives...turn to page 55.
Wherever you go, and whatever you do in Spain, you can always rest assured that someone is watching. I don�t doubt that George Orwell probably got the idea for Big Brother in 1984 while serving his stint in the Spanish Civil War. Because Spaniards just love to look, gawk, gaze, gape, and just plain old stare, at everyone around them. In the case of men observing members of the opposite sex, this kind of activity is often accompanied by whistles, hissing, and piropos, a form of instant pick-up that really has no direct translation. So, in short, Spain is definitely not for paranoiacs, because, yes, they are after you. But that�s not to say that Spaniards mean harm by keeping a well-trained peeper attached to your person. I�ve actually found it to be helpful if you drop something, or if you do something wrong. In such cases, there is always somebody�though more often than not, an elderly man�to set you straight. It can also be a way to meet people. Win a staring contest with the locals...turn to page 71.
On a trip with some friends to El Escorial, a monolithic library/museum for the monarchy near Madrid, we struck up a conversation with some Ecuadorian immigrants after they eyed us getting off the train. Although it was a rainy, cold evening, and El Escorial ended up being closed, the couple opened up to us and their story was heartwarming. They had left their children at home with grandparents and crossed the ocean to seek better work, and were trying to inch their way up the social ladder in Spain. To pass the time before catching a train home, we stopped in at a bar for a bite to eat, and were treated to the warmest welcome possible. Not only was the food great and the atmosphere homey, but the bartender sent us off after regaling us on the merits of Spanish wine and bestowing upon us a bottle of Rioja, and a 1956 Cognac from his cellars. Spain is different.
So, as I sit in my dimly lit flat and muse on Spanish idiosyncrasies, sipping a cup of hot Cola Cao�a frothy chocolate drink that almost rivals the ubiquitous strong coffee in Spain�I question my time here and wonder whether it was worthwhile. And the answer I arrive at is an overwhelming �yes.? Without all the annoyances, the inconveniences, the embarrassing moments of cultural difference, I would not have anything to show for my experience abroad. Moments like making new acquaintances, exalting in Spain�s victory at a football match, seeing your first bullfight or flamenco tablao, or even little things like people-watching in a town�s plaza and sipping Sangria with the blaring Spanish sun beating down on you, make a study abroad worthwhile. And I hope that many more surprises await in my remaining time here. May the adventure continue!