Usually I am very good at guessing how someone’s voice will sound on first impression.  I think our brains have evolved over time to make judgment based on visual clues.  Little kids speak in different tones and volumes than adults or pubescent boys.  It’s just something I feel we are all accidentally trained in.

But, boy, was I wrong.  These skills were practically worthless abroad.  Somehow the combination of hearing foreign languages and new “types” of people threw me off.  So many times I was caught off-guard thinking, for example, that male panelist should have a lower pitched voice or child playing on the street should be shriekier.

Perhaps the new voices come from variations in food or physical build.  Certainly a part of it is cultural in that we repeat the inflections we hear and certain societal figures are supposed to vocally emphasize certain traits (e.g. slow, rolling wisdom of a grandparent or un-contained excitement of a parent over a child’s achievement).  And you’ll have to trust me that all this is more than accents and attitudes.  The best analogy I can think of is when you listen to a band for years and then find their newly released album is so different it’s hardly recognizable.  My ears enjoyed the shock in discovering new “instruments.”

For many people, going abroad is a chance to flee from the problems at home or to let loose and find their true self.  For me, I think it’s important to point out that it was not the party of a lifetime nor a frantic rush for self-definition.  I did get a break from my rigmarole at Penn, yes, but it wasn’t all fun and games.  Instead of stretching my mind in lectures on who-knows-what, I was faced with daily challenges of a personal and intimate nature.  I realized the importance of having the option to simply pick up my phone on a whim to talk to a friend or family member, resolving uncertainties and filling in that solitude that so often encapsulated me.

The simplest conclusion, of course, is that I can survive in unknown worlds where I don’t speak the language or even have a clue of what I am doing.  I will miss the adventures I wrapped myself in while doing even the most mundane things and the pride of knowing I actually understood what that guy said to me in Spanish.

The semester wasn’t a search for my identity, either.  I didn’t get my nipple pierced and a tattoo, go skydiving, or push the lower drinking age (18) to the limits.  Of course, I have changed (and who couldn’t have?), but not so much that you couldn’t recognize me.  I came abroad with a strong foundation of who I am, so there was not a whole lot of room to leave a strong impression.

I came completely open to becoming a new person, adopting all the latest trends and customs (I wish I was comfortable doing the double-cheek kiss here; it is a much better greeting than a handshake or awkward whatever), even finding a European boyfriend but it just didn’t happen like that.  Perhaps it was more a search for my “purpose” than identity.

The topic of “identity” was actually something we frequently discussed in class.  Over and over again in my Art History, Spanish Literature, and Spanish History courses the theme of what defines a country or specific cultural identity came up.  Profound poets, powerful politicians, and awe-inspiring artists across the centuries have debated this question and one of the main conclusions has always been the landscape.  Each environment is ideal for certain types of trees and foliage that would die or grow differently else where, making the scenery the only un-replicable characteristic of a country.  Language can shift, architecture can be mimicked, foods can be traded and meals accommodated but you certainly can’t move forests or mountains that have been there from the beginning of the Earth.

And it really is true.  After visiting so many places images start to blur, but if you zoom out to the natural scene you begin to see that only in the UK are there so many shades of green, in Madrid the arid land, huge trees in Sweden, and rolling hills in Italy (and this is all a generalization, as I am sure even more technical names can be assigned).  I would bet that if you plopped a world traveler down in any country and asked him to declare where he is, it would be quite easy to do just from the landscape.

What’s funny is that all these other non-landscape traits are exactly what reveal the identity of a foreign traveler.  Americans are easy to pick out with their t-shirts and jeans with baseball caps or Uggs with a fleece jacket or Abercrombie apparel.  But even the traits of an Italian or Spaniard or Russian became very apparent as the semester passed and I traveled more.  Without knowing the language, I could still sound out its origin.  Dress codes and mannerisms are all quite different, so putting all the variables together and doing a bit of people watching on the streets makes to a fun guessing game.  It’s funny thinking that I acquired the skill of distinguishing Europeans.

Of course, other people did the same to me and mostly identified me as an outsider.  Many were polite enough to ask where I was from, to which I half-rolled my eyes at the obviousness that I am American.  I didn’t think of doing this until the end, but I think it would have been interesting to ask the inquirer which country it looked like I was from.  Only in Germany and the UK did my facial structure and red hair, respectively, allow me to blend in and be mistaken as an insider.

I had never before thought so much about what it means to be an American or even “who I am.”  The closest association I have had would be the whole Midwestern-Southern-Eastern-West Coast distinguishing in the US, but even that was superficial in comparison.  It’s not as clear as a racial difference, either, because I can distantly relate to being the four strands of European-ness in my family and therefore imagine myself as not entirely American.  If it seems kind of murky, that’s right; it’s kind of a jumble of emotions and thoughts in my head, but hopefully this at least points out some of the questions that could only have been raised from being abroad.

Europe is the land where squirrels are replaced by pigeons and where status is no longer reflected in the whiteness of your picket fence or how lush your lawn is. Most of the time, exploring this land was like walking around without glasses on, surrounded by blurriness. You try to make intuitive guesses at what you are seeing and where you should be heading, but are mostly still confused. It’s like living as Mr. Magoo. But even with that handicap, it is truly amazing how much you can understand without actually understanding. You go with your gut navigating streets and put your senses to work. You always hope either logic or luck will be on your side, and fortunately for me, that was usually the case.

Since my scenery was constantly changing and so different from the US, I was anticipating just as much change to have passed at home. I am so accustomed to spotting minute differences that when I looked at my house with the same scrutiny, I was able to quickly discover the smallest alterations. Subconsciously, though, I was quite surprised at how little really changed. At the pace I was going, I was expecting to find purple trees growing or something drastically different from when I left to compare to my prior immersion.

I would say that I have a pretty good sense of direction, but one of the hardest things was following directions from a stranger on the street. Following the pointed finger can only get you so far and remembering a series of street names in another language is almost impossible. They end up being just another vocabulary word I need to memorize on top of so many more. Normally I would rely on that mental image that is somehow conjured to associate even the most obscure words in English but street names are so unfamiliar and out of context that I would have to ask for help again at each step of the way.I remember getting particularly lost in the “teeny-tiny” pueblo of Cuenca outside Madrid trying to find the bus station so I wouldn’t be stranded there over night during the festivities of Semana Santa. I still have no idea how to get to the station, but if it weren’t for my repeated inquiries–5 within one hour of travel, 30 minutes of which was “detoured”–I would never have made it home. I probably would have been better equipped with a map (inquiry number 3) but don’t fool yourself into thinking maps solve all problems. One shopkeeper (number 4) even walked a few blocks with me and nearly all of them told “todo recto!” which meant nothing to me then, but I now know (and won’t forget) that is the entirely unhelpful and ambiguous direction to “keep going straight!” Moral of the story: always be willing to ask for help and even more willing to give it to the weary traveler.

Being in Spain is not like living in some third-world country or even another planet, so there are a lot of things in common in terms of brands, values, and personalities. But, of course, there are some differences–not all are uniquely Spanish, but just new to me. Some are just city life versus my suburban upbringing. Most variations were easy to adjust to, but there are certainly some I never got used to over my four months there. After taking oodles of notes, I am excited to present the multiple part, quite extensive observations on How to be a Spaniard. Your preparation includes information on How Spaniards Do It, Say It, Eat It, and Live It. In just a few hours you will know practically everything there is to know, so click on those links, read on and study hard.

My original intention was to do mini-posts or to update the individual pages (you can always find them in the note running along the right gutter of the blog) as I learned about these things, but that didn’t exactly workout as planned. Instead, I let the notes accumulate in a giant Word doc that I have just now finished sifting through. (What a big weight off my chest.) Almost every little item on the list has a story behind it, so feel free to ask or let your imagination do the explaining.