This work written by Zach Claywell. Reproduction requests or general questions should be directed to Zach Claywell care of Zach Claywell at yahoo dot com.

            I woke up in the tiny room.  The bed was barely big enough to hold me.  A small sink and a mirror stood on the wall an arm’s reach from my sleeping position.  I had borrowed a pen from the innkeeper and had written a letter to no one in particular on the back of a copy of my passport.  I made a mental note to return the pen as I got dressed.  I walked downstairs.  I was in Motilla, Spain.

            I had been in Spain a week and had four more to go.  I ate, breathed, slept and swam in Spanish.  This by no means meant I understood what I was eating, what I was breathing, where I was sleeping or when to go swimming.  Everyday I was required to wake up in a country where I knew no one and interact with new people in a language I barely understood.  I loved it.

            Being in such a foreign environment can be difficult for some.  However, I relished the opportunity to learn new things and meet new people.  By the end of my trip I felt comfortable talking to strangers in semi-fluent Spanish; though by then almost no one in Calatayud, where I spent my next four weeks, was a stranger.

But this weekend trip to Motilla during my first week in Spain was humbling.  I was being led around the fair town of Motilla by my new friend Samuel who had to explain very, very slowly what was going to happen.

            “I will meet you in the restaurant of the hotel at six, okay?” he’d say in Spanish.

            “Okay okay! Good!” I’d respond, “What time?”

            “I will meet you at six,” he said slower.

            “Okay okay! Good!” I’d respond, “Where will you be?”

            He put his hand on my shoulder and explained as clearly and slowly as he could that he would be at the restaurant at six.

            “Oooooh!” I said with a tone of realization.  “But...,” I asked hesitatingly, “what time will you be there?”

In my letter I thanked Samuel for being so patient.  I put the letter in my bag.  I returned the pen to the innkeeper downstairs and ordered an orange juice.  We were driving back to my host mother’s home in Calatayud.  My trip was over and there was a new set of friends to make in the next town.  I stood, contemplating how difficult it would be to learn the language and assimilate into the culture.  I smiled at the empty glass.

“Ready?” asked my host mother.

I was.

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