I have noticed a trend that on Fridays my body is a bit stiffer than normal.  My legs are a tad bit bruised and my knees skinned up a bit.  I have a near-blister on the top of my right foot from wearing crappy, beach flip flops that I don’t mind destroying.  This week (because of the rain, I’m guessing) I found one bug bite on my left leg.  Walking bare foot in the sand, I also must have touched something weird because I have an irritated splotch of skin on my right, inner heel.  At lunch today, I found tiny bruises scattered across both my inner forearms arms (like big, blue freckles) and a small irritation turned bruise on my left, inner forearm arm.  Why do I share all these details with you, you’re wondering?  The details that don’t include hangovers or enlarged livers like the rest of my team from all the beers that get downed post-game before we close up the bar?   The details from this week only, skipping on the series of bike incidents last week that included me hitting a moving car?   Because of dedication, that’s why.  Dedication to beach volleyball.  That’s right, beach volleyball.  I just joined a team that my second-cousin captains and, though we’re only 3/10ths of the way through the season, the fun and stories from Thursday nights are only just beginning…

I am sure most of you don’t want to hear it, but I have been pleasantly surprised to find that I am not always cold here like I am at home.  (In Spanish there’s a term for this, ‘frilajera,’ but there isn’t really a good English translation for the word. ) Even in summer or buildings where the rest of the room is sweating the pounds off, I have managed to be cool or just comfortable.  I just assumed it was something with how my body distributed heat or a biological defect that will forever be a part of my sweater-filled life, but Madrid has proven me wrong.

In the last week alone, I can think of at least three times where I was stripping layers off or changing from long sleeves into one of the few t-shirts I actually brought with me.  This really is remarkable, considering I am frequently chastised for not taking my coat off when I come inside simply because I need the extra warmth.

I am a firm believer in the spirit-lifting qualities of sunshine and blue skies.  They make pictures more beautiful and travel in all forms easier.  (I know this way too well from my adventures these past months.)  The parks are full of people looking for a place to enjoy the weather and the restaurants get more business with their street side tables.  Of course, energy costs are less and less harmful.  The windows are open so houses and buildings have fresh air circulating and at night the cool air is perfect for sleeping without waking-up stuffy.  It may come as a surprise to some, but there was a study about how the air was actually cleaner in a hospital with the windows open than all the fancy technological systems trying to do the same thing.  Nature trumps all again.

Despite my pale skin and greasy, smelly sunscreen filled childhood, I am a self-declared sun lover.  I do realize that my argument is a bit pointless, though, because we can’t all go out and buy some sunshine from our local hardware store to get all these benefits, but I can rave about it and sing John Denver, can’t I?

Maybe it’s because Madrid’s heat is a different kind of heat than Philly, Michigan, Minnesota, Chicago (all the places I have lived)?  A rational thought might be that I am a bit closer to the equator (by about 1 degree) or the heat is drier (drought is a huge problem here).  Or perhaps because my temperature is more constant throughout the day from being in rooms with the windows open all the time instead of going into freezing air-conditioned buildings and back outside.  I do not know, but I appreciate the warm sunshine (I haven’t seen snow in a long time; all the storms came after I left for Spain) and I am glad to know that one less should-be-normal function of my body works.

A few days ago I was in a small office supplies store looking for a gift for my host sister’s birthday.  I explained to the clerk as best as I could what she liked and her role as an architecture college student to see what suggestions he could offer me.  “Of course, but can you do me a favor first?” he humbly asks as he slides an order form across the glass display cabinet counter to me.  “Can you help me translate this to English? The man is from Germany and can’t understand Spanish.”

Since it was only small words and notes as would be expected on an order form, I had no trouble translating it.  There was just one key word that I double checked in my precious electronic dictionary to be sure that I didn’t write the wrong thing.  He was very grateful and I felt very honored to help; it was one of those Good Samaritan moments.  Of course, the rest of the interaction went well and she just opened her gift a few hours ago–loved it.

When he was writing my receipt I saw him take off 1.5€ which I wrongly assumed was for translating and almost waved my student discount away, but this still highlights the value of knowing English.  We all are really lucky (it is luck because who gets to choose where they are born?) to know English, and better yet, it’s our first language so it was easy and “free” to learn.  No matter where any of us travels in the world, we will be able to communicate with the people or find someone who can without much difficulty.  If you can read, write, or speak English you’re set.

Part of it is due to our ignorance and refusal to learn more languages so the rest of the world has to adapt to us.  English is the language used for politics and business, it makes the world go and is the key to many people’s livelihood in non-English speaking countries. Many countries (including Spain) start teaching English at a very young age, a subject taught and considered with as much importance as Math or Reading in the US–unlike the  elective(read: excuse to have a party in light of the language’s cultural traditions) language classes I started taking in middle school.   Though Mandarin may be spoken by more people, good luck trying to use those skills to decipher a Latin-based text. I’m jealous of their national attempt to make their citizens (children, specifically) at least bilingual.

What started out as using my host sister’s birthday as an excuse for family to get together to celebrate, eat Spanish food (e.g. tortilla espanola, creamy cheese that despite smelling strongly and distinctly of feet everyone but me adored, crusty bread, shrimp with heads and legs still attached, thinly sliced meat from some part of a pig), share some laughs, and drink, turned into singing old Spanish songs acapella and then a crazy dance party.

From 9pm to 2:30am we had either an iPod, computer playlist, CD, or latin/Spanish music videos blaring as we danced in their living room with all the chairs (there were about 15 of us) and table pushed aside. First it was the classic flamenco music, then modern flamenco, then to today’s dance music (thumpa-thumpa songs, as my dad calls them) and Spanish rap with a bit of Latin pop thrown in here and there. (I didn’t know the words to Bailamos it was ALL in Spanish.)

Computer speakers turned into an iPod speaker dock to some rig to get the surround-sound stereo speakers going. Don’t worry, we kind of turned it down a little bit at 12pm to respect the neighbors…but then some other song came on everyone loved and, well, we were all betting that one of the neighbors was going to call or come knocking. (We live in flat in an apartment-like building.) I was impressed some of the younger kids could sleep through it. My host dad was dancing like I don’t even know what, trying all night to reel in people still sitting down to dance with him and whomever else was boogying.

It took me a while to muster up the guts to join them, but once I was up I didn’t go back down. While the two other students also living with me left around 11:30/12 to go out to clubs, I stuck around with the aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins to dance the night away Spanish style.

Somehow I got the idea in my head that studying abroad would be all fun and games, that classes and life outside of Penn would be less complicated and less stressful.  WRONG.  I didn’t formally think of it this way, but in the back of my head I had conceived a bit of this idea.

I have still managed to be just as busy, if not more so than at school. Things that I never thought would take up time constantly butt their way into my life. Staying in contact with friends and family with the time change, homework (which I, of course, always find some way to put it off or get too absorbed in the assignment and spend an unnecessary amount of time on a small thing). exploring Madrid, planning other adventures (bane of my existence right now), meeting new people, finishing up summer applications (why didn’t I do them before I left like I promised myself), spending time with my host family, discovering new foods and neighborhoods, still working at my job at school via the internet, and overall navigation in a foreign (in all senses of the word) world–it is truly exhausting, not to mention the little mishaps from not being able to understand everything people say to you (and, boy, is it mentally draining focusing on Spanish-talk for more than an hour or two).

Why must I have the desire to do it all?

Spain has made me mean.  I can’t do my favorite pastime of walking down the street and smiling at people I literally cross paths with.  Why can’t I, you ask?  Your mouth still works the same way on the other side of the Atlantic, right?  Smiles and kind gestures are part of the vocabulary of the “universal language,” so what’s the big deal?

Though these points are all technically true, an unexpected grin from a stranger on the street is not received with a surprised smile in return or a ‘how do you do’ nod of the head.  No, for the most part I get people that look right through more or, if I’m being too liberal with my sharing of good-cheer, I get a sneaky look from a man pausing for a moment from his work for a ‘hola bonita.’

Nope, thanks, I’ll pass on the smiles.  My red hair and pale skin are enough of an indicator that I am an outsider, so there’s no need to draw any more attention to myself.

Now I walk the 15-minutes to class with brisk determination, looking only through oncoming human traffic and never at them.  I feel so mean and like such a cold, unfeeling, miserable person weaving in and out of pedestrians.  I miss the high I get from making those split-second connections with another wandering pair of eyes or the shared moment of empathy and compassion with the woman whose frazzled hair and lopsided handbags indicate the end of a day that just won’t end, eyes and aching feet wishing only to be home.  If only my smile could mean something.

I asked her to be honest and tell me if I was the stereotypical Penn girl. She–being from a smaller Philadelphia university and of a personality type that’s not afraid to tell the truth–responded with:

“Yes, but you do realize there are many different kinds of ‘Penn girls.’ You strike me as one who wants to save the world, open up an orphanage or do some sort of non-profit social work.” I grin. “And I bet you get up at like 6 in the morning to go jogging.” Now I’m laughing.

How’d she read me so well? It’s only been a week and we don’t even spend that much time together, despite living only a few feet away. Regardless, I’ll take it. Stereotypes are in someone’s favor, for once.

After a series of odd problems with shoes, glasses, gift cards, traveler’s cheques, and cellphones during my last week in the States, I was hoping this random surge of bad luck would not jump on the plane and ride along in the seat next to me. Sure enough, it seems to have stayed home.

When my uncle dropped me off at the airport, there was only one person in the American Airlines check-in area. Being the chatty/social/often-too-nosy person that I am, I asked her where she was flying to. “Madrid,” she tells me. “No way! I’m going there, too! To study abroad?” “No, I go to school there.” “Ooh, I see. What school do you attend? I am just going abroad for the semester at this really small university that you’ve probably never heard of.” “I go to SLU, St. Louis University.” You’ve got to be kidding me. What are the chances of that? Good luck, here I come! Adios USA.

We hopped on the plane to Chicago and waited together for the 6 hour layover, taking turns watching each other’s bags so we could go to the bathroom without lugging them all into the tiny, “public bathroom”-clean stalls. I asked a million questions, per usual, and she gladly guided me in the right direction. I can’t even remember what I asked her, but it was really nice meeting someone who already knew the campus and the school.

I should add that we were transferring onto the SLU sponsored “group flight” to Madrid, so the gate quickly filled up with girls clad in Uggs and North Face jackets, squealing when they saw someone they hadn’t seen since before Break and chatting about matching leopard-print luggage sets or how heavy their bags were. It was like a giant, caddy slumber party. Ugh. I’m not sure what type of student I was expecting, but I was glad to hear the girl from SLU-Madrid assure me that these girls were the “home campus” girls that gave all the Americans visiting the school a bad reputation. “Trust me, not everyone at school is like this.”

With that steady streamline of advice in my head, I confidently boarded the plane to Madrid. She was sitting in a different section than I was, so I was on my own for the next 8 hours, hoping that I wouldn’t have to make conversation about Gucci bags or the legality of buying alcohol in Spain. Again, luck strikes.

While the other students harried the flight attendants about changing seats to be near a friend or to squish huge carry-ons into the overhead compartments, I found myself sitting in a window seat next to a hip, older woman. She was reading Angels and Demons (in Spanish) and, to complement her bleached-blonde hair, wearing a chic, checkered newsboy cap, black cargo pants and layered black tank tops with fringed seams all around–obviously a Spaniard. Phew. I whipped out the best Spanish I could and we talked on-and-off throughout the flight. There were times when neither of us understood the other and I did a lot of head-nodding, despite not knowing what the heck she was talking about, but it was good.

“Enjoy your stay. You’re going to love Madrid,” she told me time and time again. I could understand that much of it. I’m sure I sounded like a fool, mixing tenses and dangling modifiers here and there, blushing when I didn’t understand or realized that my pronunciation was confusing her; but at one point she went as far to comment that my “Spanish is very good.” If you say so...I’ll take that.

Adele then guided me through the (empty at 7am) newly-remodeled airport, flawlessly passing through Customs (the guy didn’t even look at me or ask a single question as he granted me entrance and stamped my passport) and retrieving our bags from these nifty conveyor belts that used some sort of sensor to detect if there was a bag in the way on the carousel before pushing the luggage onto it. Although they definitely looked like they had a long journey with their roughed-up fabric and dirty sides, my bags all arrived without any sign of being searched. (I was very worried about the needles and such setting off the detectors and I hardly was able to get the things closed, so I wouldn’t want to be the guy who has to try to put it all back together.) And the security in Philly was also uneventful with 13 bottles of liquid insulin and a host of electronics not causing any trouble, though my pump triggered the alarm and a “female assist” as usual.

Now the only other worry I had was finding my host family. Had I actually bought the group flight ticket (and paid about $400 more), I would have been guaranteed a seat on the bus from the airport to campus, where I’d meet my family. Instead, I was told that “if there was room” on the bus, I could come on, else I’d be left standing at the corner to wave down a cab that hopefully would cost less than the 30 Euros that I brought with me. Well, based on the theme of this post, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my host dad was actually waiting for me (and two other girls I didn’t know at that point from the group flight) just outside of baggage claim. Wahoo!

I did the typical Spanish greeting of one kiss on each cheek (or maybe it’s supposed to be to the air–still not sure about that one yet) and the four of us wheeled over to the parking garage. Now let me paint the scene for you: one 4-door Saab sedan + 3 girls studying abroad for 4 months + their corresponding luggage (i.e. 4 big rolling suitcases, 3 duffle bags, 3 backpacks, 2 handbags) = slight problem.

Since the other girls either don’t speak Spanish at all or haven’t studied it for at least 4 year, I did my best to translate and figure out what was going on. My host dad was so nervous about meeting us that he initially lost his car in the parking garage, but I think he also realized this “equation” was not in his favor. “We’re going to have to get a cab for these extra bags,” he explained after only being able to fit 3 bags in the trunk (which you normally think of has holding the bulk of everything). “I want you all to come with me so I can show you around the city and we’ll have the bags meet us at the apartment.” That certainly sounded interesting and nothing short of quite complicated.

The three of us looked at each other questionably. None of us wanted to part with our luggage in such a sketchy way, but it wasn’t looking good. Well, we started handing him bags to fill the cab and he stacked three on top of each other in the middle backseat. “I’ll hold this in my lap and if we put this under our feet and that in the front seat…” We fit, though I couldn’t see anything but luggage or tell which direction he was pointing when he gave us the tour. Oh well. We survived, no thanks to that bad luck in the States. Hello Spain, here I come! I think I’m going to like it here!