It’s one of those nights where, even at 1am, the heat settles so thick in your bedroom that you can’t possibly imagine going to sleep, yet you can’t remember ever wanting anything more. The temperature outside is far more desirable than the oppressive heat indoors—a heat so sticky and unpleasant that I don’t want any parts of my body to touch each other, or even the sheets. The night is only made bearable by the occasional breeze wafting through my huge open window. Unfortunately, by having both panes of glass swung back, I have a full-on view into a number of rooms in the apartment building across the street, making me all too conscious of my own visibility.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed in my dorm room at Madrid’s Residencia Nebrija (our temporary housing during Orientation for all Fulbright English Teaching Assistants in Spain), I’m hidden from view of any night-(pr)owls across the small street. Although the Metro has supposedly stopped running at this hour, noise of nearby car and foot traffic, along with muffled Spanish conversations, still manage to waft up to my 5th story window. Perhaps some of the close-sounding dialogue actually echoes through the radiator, as I’ve only heard men’s voices and this is technically a male dorm (another Fulbright student I met earlier this evening told me, “If you see a girl in the Residencia, she’s probably with the Fulbright.”)
So far, I’ve only met other white female Fulbright ETAs. While I hope this is not an accurate cross-section of the group, I can’t help but think it probably is. Of the 7 of us I know after tonight, only 3 of us haven’t previously studied in a Spanish-speaking country, and one of those is Cathy (a romance languages major from Carlton who speaks French and Italian, yet “feels most comfortable with academic Spanish”), so she doesn’t really count, and the other girl studied in Florence and went to Brown, so I figure that all adds up to leaving me way back in their dust, alone.
I do already feel like I’m learning more vocabulary, which is where I desperately need a refresher. However, this does not yet make me much of a confident speaker, as my level is still a bit below conversational. I mean, if “conversational” could consist of me asking “getting to know you” questions and nodding with a smile, then sure, mark me down, but even when the other person (let’s say, a native Madrileño) slows down their (incredibly fast) speech, I don’t know what half of their words mean, and they still have that indecipherable lisp. I read in my awesome Lonely Planet Spanish Phrasebook the myth of an old Spanish king speaking with a lisp, and all of his country’s residents copying him out of respect, but as myths go, apparently this one isn’t true either.
Anyway, I do at least feel like I can say basic things in Spanish, even if I consistently mess them up. For instance, I told the older couple sitting in the row ahead of me on my flight from Frankfurt to Madrid, “Hace muy [should definitely be ‘mucho’] frio!” Luckily they ignored my pathetic grammar mistake in their desire to wholeheartedly agree with me (using the proper sentence structure, and even repeating the “mucho” several times—it really was that cold). Unluckily, they somehow thought it was all right to continue speaking to me in Spanish, so I had no choice but to promptly curl up in my two empty seats and fall asleep for the remainder of the flight. Actually that’s not entirely true, as I asked the stewardess for a blanket (in English, because why would I remember a word like that in Spanish?) and then moved back a bit to sprawl across one of the many empty five-seat middle rows.
Another awesome Day 1 interaction came when I wanted to check into the Residencia. A boy probably about my age, but of ambiguous nationality (I mean, what American would wear a “Venice Beach” t-shirt? Then again, what Spaniard?) sat near the elevator, where the friendly woman had greeted me in Spanish and then told me, I thought, to follow her. Tragically, because of my massive amounts of all-weather clothing stuffed into six thousand pieces of luggage, I did not make it up the few stairs in time to see where the receptionist had gone. My attempts to a) decipher whether the guy was part of the Fulbright program, and b) figure out where my new friend had disappeared to went something like this: I mutter, “Where did she go?” under my breath and glance at him; he doesn’t move. A little louder, I say, “De dónde ella?” which of course translates beautifully into, “Where is she from?” The Californian? boy, obviously confused, points at the reception desk (true, this is from whence she came), and I, dripping with sweat and exhausted, blurt out, “Yeah, I know, but she told me to follow her...”
So really, I’m doing pretty well with the whole language thing. I mean, I was at a little bit of a loss in the Frankfurt airport earlier (interjection: it is now 2am, and a large truck is power-washing la Calle de Cea Bermúdez. My only question: Why not? [Alison]), but perhaps that was due to the fact that I didn’t know if it was more appropriate to guess at a friendly greeting in German (“Guten tag,” anyone?) or just smile as big as possible and act confused (I opted for the latter, but it was no act). Apparently I missed my chance to ask as soon as I got off the plane where I was supposed to head to catch my final flight, and instead had to figure this out while trekking literally all around two entirely empty (read: super creepy) terminals, go through Customs and Security and find out my new gate number. (Speaking of security: No shoes off in Franky. And is it really true that ALL your electronics have to be “separated” out of your bag into another bin? I’m not talking laptop—I always take that out—but the faux-sympathetic German man scouring my carry-on just to find my external hard drive wanted every plug-able item out.)
Random update: It is now 2:10am, and my door just unlatched and creaked open... presumably from the wind, but how? Why am I still dying of heat prostration? Additionally, the traffic noise has mysteriously just increased exponentially.
Despite my fairly ridiculous Frankfurt layover, the rest of my travels were thankfully rather uneventful and easy. From Chicago to Frank, I watched two bad movies set in Greece (“My Life in Ruins” and “Mamma Mia!”) and now have a burning desire to travel there, yet never have to watch those films again. On the Metro from Barajas Airport to the Residencia, I made friends with a nice Australian dude who helped me carry my luggage during a mutual transfer stop (surprisingly, I saw him again later, but, even more surprisingly, I did not say hi). Attempting to exit at my stop, I accidentally jammed my large suitcase in the turnstile, and another kind stranger, this one of the Spanish-speaking variety, helped me wedge it free as he calmly muttered, “El lado” (obviously I knew by that point that we needed to turn it on its side, as it was certainly not fitting through otherwise, but I appreciated the opportunity to refresh my vocab memory).
Another pleasant surprise came when I emerged from underground at the Islas Filipinas Metro stop, and realized that the Residencia was somehow immediately kitty-corner from me. This may be the only time Google Maps has ever failed me, but the thrill of not having to walk the anticipated 2.5 more blocks with the heaviest suitcases ever was so great that I forgive everyone in Silicon Valley immediately (...that’s where Google offices are, right guys?).
Because I’d discovered that Adrienne’s Italian cell phone somehow still had minutes left on it, I was able to find out via texts that Cathy’s room was right next to mine. After finally actually meeting in person, we made a new friend, Cherie, who is on a Fulbright ETA too, but will be teaching in Valencia. The three of us went out to explore the city, stopping at a really neat apartment Cathy had found on CraigsList, an Internet café, and a tasty tapas-style restaurant where I ate my first of what is sure to be at-least-once-a-day Spanish tortillas (a delicious, awkwardly cold omelet with potatoes and onions inside). The man behind the counter fell in love with all three of us, bringing us extra bread (with cheese tooth-picked on top for me [I think he felt bad that I couldn’t eat much on the menu], and some sort of bacon-tasting pate for the others). Thank goodness I was able to impress him later with my extensive knowledge of his native language—“El cheque, por favor...? Or, uh, el cuento..?” To which he kindly responded, “La cuenta! Sí!”—and I could once again practice what I’m really getting good at: the smile, nod, and “Gra-thy-as” (only occasionally with the lisp, though—don’t get TOO crazy). As a punishment for my final faux pas (forgetting to tip, despite the extreme generosity), I went home reeking of cigarette smoke from the Spaniard and Argentine at the table next to us blatantly attempting to understand our English conversations all evening.
All in all, an amazing first day. I promise, I actually mean that seriously. I love everyone I’ve met so far on the program and really, in Madrid as a whole. Of course that’s not surprising, but I think it’s going to be an incredible year. Once the temperature cools down and I get over this weird jet-lag, I’m sure I’ll be able to think much more clearly, and Spanish words will just start flowing like the Big Horn River in Thermopolis (preferably at its early-summer, disaster-causing speed).
