As I made my way through Barajas International Airport and came down the final escalator, I noticed the taxi cabs just outside the automatic glass doors. The cars were painted white with a diagonal red stripe crossing the front passenger side door. Just as I had imagined them and, more practically, just as I had read in the travel guide.
Just then a man of roughly 50 came up to me and asked where I needed to go. “Eloy Gonzalo 23,” I said trying not to sound too American. “Ay, de acuredo. El centro.” I nodded not having a clue as to what he meant. Just as he went to grab my bag and head back up the escalator, I got smart. “What color is your car?” I mustered in Spanish. “Negro” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said, as I dutifully took my bag from him, and headed back down the stairs.
Sure, he could have driven a private car for clients, but I was not going to take any chances.
On the way to the apartment near the center of the city, I noticed a familiar site. There was graffiti under many of the overpasses. This place was seemingly less and less foreign. It said to me: Welcome to Madrid, a city of 4 million by the turn of the millennium, nearly a half a world away.
When I arrived at Eloy Gonzalo 23, I was impressed by the charming stairway and tiny elevator inside the building where I would live. The elevator paled in comparison to the tremendous size of our elevators in the United States. In the States one can fit several bicycles in a building’s elevator. While in Spain, one would be lucky to fit a small dog in the space. Teresa, my host mother, was there when I arrived. She took my bag and said “Bienvenidos.”
After I explained a little bit about my trip in my non-native Spanish, she explained to me that she had lived in Madrid with her husband and two daughters for twenty years but that she was from Seville. Seville was her home.
I had arrived in the afternoon just in time for siesta. Teresa offered me a snack—a late breakfast of tea and day-old bread—“pan y te.” This was my first taste of the Spanish baguette.
After breakfast, Teresa showed me to my room for siesta. I was too tired to unpack. As I lay my head on my pillow, I realized that I was completely exhausted. But I did think about what a whirlwind the trip itself had been. As much as I reflected on the past, I looked toward the future.
There was so much I wanted out of Madrid—out of Spain. This was the Old World and study abroad was an open invitation to discover the culture, history and art that lurked around every corner. Immersion was my goal and I was fortunate to be staying with a host family that was generous of heart and of spirit. Not to mention that my host mother was a fabulous cook!
As I went about life in Madrid, doing errands and other day-to-day things, I noticed that American music seemed ubiquitous. All of the clubs, bars and Cortes Ingleses were filled with American music. There were American movies, tv shows and so many other forms of entertainment that were so decidedly American.
I wanted to see something outside of all of this. I felt like such a tourist. If I had a dollar for every time I found myself in a McDonalds, I would be one wealthy woman. It was too easy to escape things Spanish and I wanted something very different.
One night I watched a movie with my host family called, Leaving Las Vegas. It is a sympathetic look at a romantic relationship between an alcoholic gambler and a prostitute. My host family was less than sympathetic. For Teresa, the story was too indulgent. The two protagonists were losing themselves in their vices, sex and alcohol, and deserved no pity. “Americans are infants,” she noted. For Teresa, this movie made a broader statement about Americans, our weaknesses and our tastes.
I was so deeply conflicted. I did not fully understand Teresa’s comment. Certainly within the context of the story I could follow her reasoning, but why the broader judgment? It would take getting to know my host family and getting a bit closer to the Madrid I did not know. I knew that there was something missing.
One day, after lunch, one of my host sisters, who was the same age as me, took me aside and told me that my life was going to change. I had only known her for a few days, but we had similar ideas on many issues. I wanted to hear what she had to say.
“You know, you’re just like the last young woman we had here.” Never reserved with her opinions, she went on, “Reticent, reserved, timid.” She smiled widely and I could tell she was well-meaning even if I was horrified. “Your life will change here in the next few weeks. You’ll be out late, you’ll drink, you’ll make new friends.“
How I longed for a change and how I hoped her prophecy would come true.
It was my first Friday night in Spain and I had the apartment to myself. I greeted the evening with great anticipation and even greater apprehension. I paced the length of the short hallway, taking deep breaths, wondering how I managed to get myself invited to a group outing outside of our orientation schedule. I guess someone in the group had warmed up to me.
At least it was only a short metro ride down to the center of the city—down to Puerta del Sol. I listened to The Roots play, “Things Fall Apart” on my Discman, hoping the group’s songs would inspire me, settle me down. Before I left I put on a touch too much make-up. I must have checked the mirror a half a dozen times on my way out of the door.
Upon entering one of the many bars in Puerta del Sol, I spotted Amy. We entered the bar and met the group.
We were a small group, which made conversation easy. First we discussed the host families we were staying with. After only a week with our hosts, there were some startling revelations: Joey noted, “My hosts don’t do any cooking.” “My host mother is uncleanly,” said another. Silently I realized that what I experienced with my host family was relative peace and happiness. No one seemed to notice that I had not chimed in to complain.
The group of other American students from Duke University brought out a side of me I had never experienced before. I indulged a more adventurous, wilder side. This was the first of many reunions that would occur in Salamanca, Barcelona, Toledo and other cities in Spain for our group.
The next morning, the adventure took its toll. I had a terrible headache. My host sister said there would be drinking; she failed to mention that I would get sick— a startling oversight.
Key to Spanish culture was the nightlife. Everyone engaged in “la marcha” once in a while. It was not uncommon to leave the house at 12 am and return at 6 or 7 in the morning. This starts at a young age. For kids of 16 or 17, it wasn’t uncommon to go out in groups for dancing and merriment. Being social is critical to Spanish life.
I was quite a shy person, but I loved this about Spain. Whereas I was coddled in my shyness at Brown, in Spain, I was thrust out into the light and forced to face my fears head on. The trip to Spain and what happened there form a fundamental part of who I am.
