Category Archives: study abroad

Why Are You in Spain?

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Ah, the question. The question. I ask it a lot of others; they in turn ask it of me. I love and hate this question, because I love knowing other people’s stories, but I have no idea how to answer it without starting off on some ten-minute-long storytelling session, leaving my questioner with his/her mouth agape and mind reeling by it all.

So, let me just ask you, readers:

Why are you here?

Now that I’ve asked that, I can tell you why I’m here. As it says on my about page, I came to learn Spanish. I stayed for a boy. Mainly.

Would it shock you to know I kinda sorta hated study abroad? I was old enough not to get homesick, but I still did. I did not like living in a teeny-tiny room in an old nunnery with walls so thin you could hear your roommate typing late at night. I didn’t like having to wash my clothes in the shower because the laundry room charged upwards of $10 a load. (This was back when the one euro equaled something like $1.50.) I didn’t like feeling as if it were impossible to make friends except for drinking buddies and intercambios who weren’t really interested in hanging out with me after hours. I didn’t like seeing my bank account drain slowly down to almost nothing.

But I did like learning Spanish. I did like that, and so I dove in headfirst, as much as I could. I got another intercambio because one just wasn’t enough. I spoke to all the waiters in Spanish, even if they insisted on speaking to me in English (the bastards). I studied vigorously, even when all of my classmates were basically taking a semester off. I traveled as much as my budget would allow. I learned to love red wine, olives, and tortilla de patata.

But there was so much I didn’t know at the end of my stay! I didn’t know how to tapear, I hadn’t mastered the subjunctive, I had never had a real Spanish friend that I could text and ask to hang out with. This bothered me. I went back for my senior year unsure of the future and what would happen after May 2009.

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As senior year wore on, I had a decision to make—find a job or go back to Spain? I chose Spain, specifically Salamanca. I was excited to experience a new side of Spain, to live in my own apartment, and meet Spaniards. Oh yeah, and improve my Spanish.

I got back to Spain in September 2009, a year and three months after I’d left Toledo. A few days later, I met Mario. He came to the door of the place I was interning, and I was unintentionally rude to his friend and him, but he still went out to dinner with us. The next day, I pretty much asked him out, and the rest was history. My mother waited patiently by the computer to hear updates about this guy I talked about all the time, even though she’d warned me not to fall in love with any Spaniard (only because that could keep me far away from her). Oops! I was head over heels after a few weeks. After a month, I met the family. After three, I was ready to stay indefinitely, if it meant we could be together.

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Staying in Spain is not an easy task for many reasons. There’s bureaucracy. There’s homesickness. There’s cultural differences that drive me crazy at times. There’s times when I get so sick of Spanish, of struggling to find the word that I just want to scream, pack my suitcase, and get on the next plane to Chicago. Get me outta here! Mario knows this more than anyone. Luckily, although he wouldn’t feel the same way, he sympathizes as best he can.

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There are some expats that love Spain much more than I do (although, don’t get me wrong, I do love it), and they’d stay forever if it were up to them, boyfriend / girlfriend / husband / wife / lover or not. I wouldn’t, though. If not for this husband of mine, I’d be in the States, where my family is, where my friends are, where my history is. Living in another country wears on me, and I’d love to be able to just hop in my car and drive to my parents’, but right now it’s just not possible.

Right now we’re here; right now this is our home. It may not be for forever. That’s okay. When I married a Spaniard, I gave up that right to certainty about where home is. Home is here. Home is there. Home is Zamora, it’s Crawfordsville, it’s Bloomington, it’s Salamanca. It’s Spain and it’s the US. That’s why I’m here.

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What about you?

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Learning to Live in Spain

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Have you all read my interview over on Expats Blog? If not, head on over to read my interview and leave a comment on my profile page if you’re so inclined.

Other people to visit: Erik, Erin, Hamatha, Lauren, Cat, and Christine.

One of the questions I was asked in my interview was “If you could pick one piece of advice to anyone moving here, what would it be?” It’s a difficult question for me, because I’m not one to give advice, at least not without advising you to take whatever I say with a large grain of salt. You see, everyone is different, and I don’t think my experience is the only one, or that you’re like me, or anything of the sort.

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Maybe you don’t like garlic. But why would you come to Spain then?

But when I first came to Spain, to study abroad in Toledo in 2008, I was very unprepared for what was ahead of me. I was excited to travel and to see Europe, but I had no idea how it would be to live in a culture that is like your own but unlike it in so many subtle ways. Perhaps it’s silly for me to say that it might be less shocking to go somewhere in Asia or Africa, because at least then you’d be expecting big culture shocks.

I had to learn to live in another culture, a culture that feels more and more familiar every day, but that will never be truly my own. I had to learn to embrace it for what it is—and not what I wish it could be. I had to learn to stop blaming Spain or Spaniards in general when something went wrong.

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They’re not so bad, Spaniards

Right now I’m tetchy about the numerous and unending strikes—huelgas—in Spain. So far we’ve had three transportation strikes, a general strike, a health-care workers’ strike, and now we’re set for an Iberia (the airline company) strike for Christmastime. I understand that things are tough in Spain right now, but messing with my Christmas plans? Understandably, I’m irked. Everyone needs to be home for Christmas (if they want to), am I right?

Before this year, I would have readily and easily placed the blame on Spain or Spaniards in general, forgetting that many Spaniards don’t agree with the strikes and dislike them as much as I do. In the past, I would have let that negativity overwhelm me and color my view of Spain for a good long time. But this year, this year I’m trying something new and difficult: not placing the big bad blame on Spain. Someone’s to blame, sure. But nothing bad has even happened yet!

Learning to live in another country is easy for some, not so easy for others (me). It has taken me four years, but I’m finally getting the message: you’re in Spain, Spain’s not home, and that’s just fine. Take it as it is. After all, we all know: Spain is different.

Student, Auxiliar, Expat

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Do you remember study abroad? I’ve talked about it often, if only because it was the beginning of so many things (good, bad, and neutral) for me. It was the first time I set foot in Spain; it was the first time I felt overwhelmed by the idea of becoming fluent in another language; it was the first time I truly embraced my Americanness.

At La Fundación José Ortega y Gasset in 2008.

The next stage for me was being a Conversation and Language Assistant, una auxiliar de conversación. Being a C&LA was different than being a student. I had responsibilities other than studying. I had more bills to pay. I had to deal with a lot more bureaucracy (although not as much as some people).I felt much more alone than I had as a study abroad student, surrounded by scores of other naïve Americans like me. But still there was a built-in group of people I could make friends with, my fellow C&LAs in Zamora, where I was located. Together, we found common ground in complaining about the lack of respect shown by our students, being the token Americans everywhere we went, and laughing about the abundance of zapaterías (shoe stores).

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Now I find myself about to embark on a different sort of journey—one without a set end date, without a built-in group of fellow Americans, without a sense of surety. Daunting is a word that comes to mind. Sometimes I see the new(er) C&LAs and their blogs describe their countless trips, how they see Spain—and I see myself in them, but back in 2009. And obviously 2009 was not that long ago; I’m not saying that I’m infinitely more mature than them or anything of the sort. I’m only saying that we’re always changing, and I’ve changed since then, I’ve been altered by the transient nature of life.

My time in Spain has gone from student life to auxiliar life, to life life. No longer am I thinking, “Just until June” or “I can’t do that, because I’ll be gone by then.” Instead I’m thinking of work permits and marriage licenses and in-law dilemmas. I’m thinking of buying furniture and settling down and sending boxes across the Atlantic Ocean because when did I get this much stuff?

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It’s all his fault. Mario’s, that is.

Perhaps the more seasoned expats will smirk at me and my naïveté. Perhaps they’ll feel a bit of sympathy because I don’t know what I’m getting myself into (and I suppose I only have the faintest idea!). Perhaps they’ll view me with nostalgia—they remember their beginnings too, their first trembling steps into the “real world.” I cannot say how, in a few years (or decades), I’ll view the Kaley of 2012. I can only hope that the me of today will not allow herself to be intimidated, to say no, to live a fear-driven life.

Let’s go.

Of Little Significance

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Have you ever met someone who’s profoundly affected you and then lost contact? Of course you have; we all have. But there are probably dozens more people that—after all’s said and done—ended up as not-that-important. You know, the person you meet on the train or the airplane and have a fun conversation with, but soon forget about, except for every once in a while when you think, Hmm, I wonder what happened to her.

In Spain, I’ve had loads of those sorts of encounters:

  • The Korean lady who ran an alimentación shop in Toledo. Study abroad isn’t really about studying, in case you haven’t heard. Inside the walls of Toledo, there wasn’t even a Carrefour or Eroski, so we did all our late-night shopping there, buying liters of Mahou or boxes of Don Simón sangría.
  • Pablo, a Spaniard, who studied in Cologne. Pablo chose la Fundación José Ortega y Gasset (which we affectionately referred to as “The Fund,” pronounced with the long Spanish “u”) to stay during a vacation. I can’t even remember why anymore. We lived in a renovated convent, and, while it was located in a rather idyllic place, it was still a dorm. We talked about politics (why we had reelected George Bush and whether Obama would be elected), Spanish food, and studying. I don’t remember much else.

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A view from my room.

  • My first intercambio, Carlos. We were a true intercambio—we spoke one hour in English and one in Spanish. Always. He gave me my first insights into the true Spain, not just the idealized version I had read about in books.
  • My Spanish teacher in Salamanca. I can’t remember her name anymore. She at first thought I was horrific at Spanish, but soon realized I am just shy. She finally coaxed it out of me. When she heard I was dating a Spaniard, she told me, “¡Qué bien! Es la mejor manera de aprender un idioma.” Or something like that. I finished my classes with her and never saw her again, except once—through a window. She smiled knowingly, the kind of smile where you realize you don’t have much to say to the other person, but you had indeed shared something.
  • The waiters at this certain bar in Zamora. It was close to my house, comfortable, and free wifi. (Remember, in Spain it’s pronounced wee-fee.) I would usually head there in the late evening, grab una copa de Elías Mora for the ridiculously good price of 2€, and settle down for a nice Skype date (but maybe not as often as my mother would have liked).

People come and go; I’ve come and gone from several different places. We all change, and in some ways we all stay the same. I’m still me, after all. It’s jarring to think of these people, people I laughed with, ate with, talked with … existing somewhere out there without me. They live and go on. So do I.

Do you have these sorts of people in—well, out of—your life?

Bilingual

18 Replies

When I first went to Spain in the spring of 2008, I expected to come back “fluent,” whatever that means. I thought being in a Spanish-speaking country automatically equaled fluency. How wrong I was.

 

Study abroad didn’t do a whole lot for my Spanish skills. Honestly, they were a lot of English speakers and English speaking is just too easy. I had intercambios, conversation exchange partners, but that was only a few times per week and language immersion requires more than that.

I came back home with better Spanish skills, but nowhere near fluent. My senior year was spent wanting more. I was frustrated by the lack of Spanish opportunities in Indiana. I decided to go back.

By chance, when I went back in September, I met this boy.

He happens to speak perfect Spanish, too. Weird coincidence as he’s Spanish, huh? He really is the reason for my level of Spanish today. Whenever I have a “doubt,” as they say in Spanish, I ask him. He’s like my own personal WordReference in the flesh,  but I can actually touch him, see him, talk to him, listen to him.

I have improved 100% in the last few years. This is due to a combination of reasons: hard work, luck, ability, environment…but the number one reason? His name is Mario. His unending patience with me is “to blame.” Time with native speakers is often the key. Well, Mario is my native speaker. He is unendingly patient, unendingly willing to answer the questions that arise as I read the newspaper. I cannot be more grateful for that.

I often get nervous when I speak Spanish. It’s part of my personality. But sometimes, just once in a while, my Spanish seems flawless, my accent non-existent. Who do I owe this to? Mario. Speaking to him, listening to him, asking him hundreds of questions…all those things helped me to be the Spanish speaker I am today. Thanks, love. I promise to help you achieve this in English, although it will be nowhere near as much work. Your English is already pretty flawless. After all, in London, you had to be the interpeter….that English English was so confusing.

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About Study Abroad

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I owe a lot to my study abroad experience.

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This whole “Spain thing,” if you will, started about three years ago in the fall of 2007, when I took the first steps toward applying to a program in Toledo, Spain. I had been studying Spanish since I was a 15 year-old sophomore in high school. From the very beginning, I loved it – Spanish, that is. In school, we learned Latin American Spanish, didn’t even bother with a verb form called vosotros, the second person plural. (It’s like our “you guys.”) The teachers scoffed, telling us, “You’ll never use it.” Well, they were right – in something like 95% of the cases. The other 5% of us did need it. My friend Lauren went to Spain in the summer of 2007, half a year before me. She certainly needed it. She had to learn the Spanish pronunciation, slang, vocabulary.

I’d no desire whatsoever to go to Latin America. If you look at this post, you’ll see that, unfortunately, on the coolness scale, Europe ranks low. “It is also important that you understand the study abroad ranking system.  Europe/Australia form the base level, then Asia, then South America, and finally the trump card of studying abroad in Tibet.  Then there is the conversation killer of studying abroad in Africa.” Yeah, I obviously did not care. I had always dreamed of Spain, its ancient cathedrals and winding streets, its Castilian allure. (I later learned about the ham.) So, Spain it was. Before my arrival, I had dreams of fluency, millions of Spanish friends, and a ticket back after graduation. I’d no idea most study abroad programs are designed for two things: travel and partying.

Travel: It’s nice if your daddy’s rich because, my dear, if not, your weekends will be spent in relative solitude. You see, all the other students have money enough to travel (almost) every weekend. They’ll go to Rome to eat gelato, Paris to climb the Eiffel Tower, London to mock the Palace guards, Prague to seem oh so Bohemian, and Amsterdam to discreetly (or not so discreetly) smoke pot in a “coffee” shop. I went to Lisbon one weekend and was shocked at the cost. Traveling to and from the airports is what kills you. It’s the unexpected, lurking cost that sneaks up behind you, wraps its bony fingers around your mouth, and silently chokes you. So, the best thing is if Daddy gives you $10,000 upfront.

Partying: Did you know the drinking age is lower in Europe? There is alcohol, and lots of it. In Spain, there is even the phenomenon known as botellón, where the collge/high school age students gather outside to drink out of 2-liter Fanta bottles mixed with cheap vodka or whisky. Since school is easy (usually), partying happens. And when I say happens, I am implying a conscious effort to party 5 days out of the week. You are in Europe, for God’s sake. Drink until you can’t see straight -it’s only natural. Plus, it perpetuates the ugly American stereotype and we can’t have that dying out, now can we?

But really. The main problem with studying abroad is the lack of contact with the local culture. It seems quite silly. You are in another country and yet you hang out with Americans. You can see them any day, walking along your campus’ tree-lined pathways. But you choose, time and again, to spend time with people who don’t speak the target language and aren’t that interesting anyway. This, I believe, is study abroad’s fundamental problem. We try to make students stay with families, but this system fails too. In Spain, the families are paid, naturally, and many do it for the money, not to introduce a foreign student into the local culture. It’s a shame, really, because knowing one Spaniard intimately can get you in the back door of Spain. (I do love Rick Steves.)

So, how do we solve this? I don’t really know. It’s frightening enough to put 20 year-olds in a foreign culture with 30 other companions. To put them somewhere completely alone? I don’t think it would work. But there has to be another way.

Alternately, you could just do what I did. Find a significant other. Best way to learn a language and a culture.

Bilingual Babies

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If you are one of my friends/family, you’ve probably (okay, so almost definitely) heard me mention my desire for bilingual babies. Let me start at the beginning (a very good place to start) …

In the spring of 2008, I found myself in Toledo, Spain. Toledo was a lovely city, but a bit on the boring side, once you saw all the pretty views and hiked on the Don Quijote trail once or twice. My friend came to Spain to visit me, and off we went to another city you might recognize: BARCELONA! I don’t know what it is exactly about Barcelona that attracts so many people.

Perhaps it’s its wonderful outdoors market:

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Perhaps it’s the enchanting and still unfinished Sagrada Familia:

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Perhaps it’s the beautiful Parc Güell

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Yes, I was genuinely happy to be in a new city, full of twists and turns and new adventures around every corner. And I do mean things I’d never experienced. Including getting my passport stolen. To make a long story short, my traveling companion and I were both a bit silly and naive, and we left my purse inside his backpack. The thief took the purse, but not the backpack. There was no money, only an iPod, an American cell phone, and my PASSPORT. Yes, that last one stung quite a bit.

To rectify the situation, I went to the American embassy in Madrid. To be honest, I was in the best of moods. I was cranky and desperate to get a replacement passport before my parents came and we jetted off to Paris. (HELLO, City of Lights.) But then something happened that changed me forever.

A woman walked in. Trailing behind her were two little girls with blond curls, about 2 and 4 years old. A tall man brought up the ear, his brown frizzy hair clearly unkempt. The woman was almost obviously Spanish (in the very best way): short, thin, skinny jeans, quality boots. She was all business, ready to get in and out as fast as humanly possible, an attitude with which I sympathized completely. Her little girls were shunted off to the play area, where the embassy had tried to make it easier on harried parents by setting out story books, blocks, and other such things. The little girls were very good. “¡Mira, mira, mami!” said the littlest one, hoping to catch her mother’s attention. Her mother, deep in conversation with an employee, didn’t turn. So, the little girl did what any little girl would do in such a situation: she turned to her daddy. “Look, Daddy! Look!” He, who was not talking, turned to her, give her a big grin, and praised her ability to stack blocks (or something of the sort).

At first, I was unsure of what had just happened. She was 2; there was no way she had learned such things in school, as she probably had never gone to school yet. But, but…how did she learn English then? And then it dawned upon me: her father, the tall, lanky one, was American. It was clear as mud. She was 2 and she was bilingual. I could almost feel my heart skip a beat.

WANT.

I have not always been a kid person. In fact, I don’t think all babies are cute, and most aren’t until they’re around 4 months. (To all mothers: this is just an opinion.) But I knew right then and there that having bilingual babies will make my little budding philologist heart so very happy. Now, to find a Spanish boy…

Addendum: I got the replacement and visited Paris with my parents just about a week later. But I did not, could not, forget about the bilingual babies.

Why Did You Go?

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I was born in Podunk, Indiana. I love my hometown, but it’s not worldly. I grew up sheltered and went to college at a small, private Christian school. After a year, I realized such an environment was counterintuitive to my own ideals. I decided to go to Indiana University Bloomington. It was a great place, full of local food, ethnic restaurants, and diversity. It was still in Indiana, but it was honestly the best place for me. I blossomed there. In the spring of 2008, I went to study abroad in Toledo, Spain.

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It was a life-changing experience. I loved speaking Spanish, being on my own, experiencing new things. I admit, I was a bit homesick, a fact to which my mother can readily attest. Yet I knew there was something, however deep down the sentiment might have been.

I came back and spent my senior year thinking of my future and Spain. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I desperately wanted to improve my Spanish and learn to survive on my own. So, I decided to do an internship in Salamanca in the fall of 2009. I moved there, knowing no one, and started to work.

Unfortunately, the internship didn’t work out. But my relationship with Spain did. I met Mario. I fell in love. I got way better at Spanish. I went through an ordeal that no one should go through. I still came back. I applied for a job through the Spanish government and they said YES.

I thank you, Spain, for being a country that still accepts me, even if I try to enter without any good reason. I thank you for producing Mario. I thank you for jamón serrano. I thank you for good red wine.

I’m returning. I don’t think I’ll regret it.