I joined the 2011–2012 auxiliares’ group back when I was still in Spain. I don’t live there currently, nor do I wish to sound arrogant, but I do know a thing or two about Spain. (Reasons include: study abroad in 2008, internship in 2009, being detained in the airport due to visa issues in 2010, chilling with Mario in Salamanca in 2010 for three months, and a year teaching English in Zamora [from 2010–2011].) Sometimes I felt qualified to answer their questions, so I did. When I was first applying, the group wasn’t that active, and I had approximately a zillionquestions, many of which I just had to find out about on the job.

One thing I notice(d), though, is the lack of love for some regions of Spain. Okay, I get it—you want to live on the beach in Málaga, walk Las Ramblas in Barcelona, eat the best pintxos of your life in País Vasco, live la vida madrileña in Madrid … I do understand.

But why no love for Extremadura? None for Castilla-La Mancha? Or, nearest and dearest to my Spanish-American heart, Castilla y León? I found these questions puzzling—still do. I know, I know: they aren’t glamorous and they aren’t near the airport and you most definitely cannot spend Carnaval on the beach like you can (supposedly) in Cádiz*. But I want you to know that, if you choose one of these regions (or other lesser known ones), there’s no reason you can’t have the best year of your life. Here’s why I love Castilla y León (and why you should too).

• The Spanish spoken there is, they say, “pure.” Now, let’s not get into linguistic debates about this because I know all accents have merit and if you can understand a Gaditano, you can understand anyone. But I’ll tell you one thing—these people speak like the people you hear on TV, the news announcers, the academics. I love the accent. (Mario has the best one.) I love the ceceo and leísmo. What’s more, this accent has become the neutral Spanish accent to me, much like the General American Accent is neutral to me in English. I know there’s technically no neutral, but to me, it’s the norm. And I like it.
• The food. Sure, San Sebastián gets all the good press with good reason. The food there is astonishingly good. Nonetheless, I believe wholeheartedly in the value of a good Castilian meal. I don’t mean what you get in a bar when you’re having a coffee—this is often rather hit or miss. What I mean is the food you get in someone’s home, someone who has taken the time to lovingly prepare a hearty, delicious, and almost always healthy meal. Mario’s mother, my suegra, is a marvelous cook. Her food is, without fail, fresh, delicious, homemade, and (most importantly to any good Spanish woman over fifty) filling. I can’t get through one plate without her asking me if I want more. There usually have to be two denials before she’ll stop asking. She’s introduced me to lentejas, cocido, patatas a la importancia, pescado a la plancha, solomillo adobado, aceitadas, roscón de reyes, pan de queso, menestra, potaje de garbanzos, natillas con un toque de limón, and many more. (Not to mention homemade salchichón, which is my favorite thing. Ever.)

There’s also meat and potatoes—more my dad’s style

• The Scenery. There’s much to be said about Barcelona, Madrid, and Galicia (all gorgeous places in their own right), but I’m partial to my adopted home in Spain (no duh, right?). I love Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor, Zamora’s old Roman bridge, Ávila’s Lord of the Rings-style wall, Segovia’s aqueduct. I love the ancient feeling of it all, and this feeling was no strong than whehn I saw the Roman statue of Romulus and Remus in Segovia. Just thinking of the Romans—the Romans!—being there millennia ago gave me goose bumps.

• The Heart of Spain. Spain has been stereotyped as the land of bullfights, flamenco dancers, sun, and beaches. When the average person (not Hispanophiles) thinks of Spain, Castilla y León is probably not what comes to their mind. That’s okay because I truly believe what the Lonely Planet says when it states that CyL is “Spain without the stereotypes.” It may not be a place you go expecting to be wowed—and you probably won’t gasp in amazement too often—but it’s a place that will give you a peek into the heart of Spain. This heart of Spain is growing ever older, ever feebler with each passing year, and I fear that much of its everyday magic will soon be lost, forever hidden in the annals of the great libraries. Every year, it seems, there are fewer births—there are few children on the playgrounds, yet the park benches are full of ancianos. They too are a window to the Spain’s soul, a soul found everywhere, but, for me, most vividly in Castilla y León.

If my grandma can do it, so can you.

You should visit.

First day in Spain. Ever.

I went to Spain for the first time as a very naïve junior in college. I had just turned twenty-one. I knew virtually nothing about Spain (or at least it seems that way to me now). Without rambling any further, I’d like to tell Kaley (age twenty-one) what Kaley (age twenty-five) has to say.

• Life in Spain is just that: life. It may be life in Europe, but you still have to do your laundry, write papers, and go grocery shopping.
• You will walk. A lot. In the U.S., walking distances longer than to and from your car, especially in winter, is not common. This will change. You will walk everywhere—in the pouring rain, in dreadful heat, when you’re tired, when you’re not, when you are hung over, when you’ve got a caffeine withdrawal headache … you will walk.
• You will make embarrassing mistakes. You will make mistakes that are not embarrassing as well. Live; learn; deal with it.
• You will eat a lot of pork products. It’s really unavoidable.
• You will feel frustrated and realize your Spanish has a long way to go. This is okay. This is normal. Embrace it, and realize that the only place to go is up. A note: you will not be fluent by the end of your study abroad journey unless you left for Spain with an absurdly high level. This too is just fine.
• You will feel like a foreigner. Um, you area foreigner. Yes, you—all 5’11”, pale, freckled, American-faced you. You aren’t Spanish, and people might automatically switch to English when they hear your accent.
• You will be homesick at times. You might just be more homesick than other people. This does not make you weak or lame or any of those other negative words that haunt you as you try to fall asleep. You may struggle at times—with the language, with the culture, with the schedule—but you will come out stronger on the other end.
• You will feel disconnected from home. Life, like it or not, will go on without you. Your parents will buy new furniture. Your former roommate will bond with someone new. Your car may not be around when you get home. (Yes, this happened to me in 2009. Blame my brother.) You may get on Facebook and ask yourself, Who are these people?
• You will worry about money. Yes, some people will travel every weekend—London, Rome, Paris, Greece, Morocco, Lisbon. Save your money. Travel where you have always dreamed of going. Remember that there is value in staying home, visiting your bar, walking the streets of your new (albeit temporary) home.
• You will go home and feel nostalgic. When you return, whether or not you experience reverse culture shock, you will remember how you felt. You will remember the smell of incense in the cathedral, the taste of tinto de verano, the sight of Toledo across the river, the feel of your scratchy comforter as you fell asleep in a city older than your own country. You will listen to songs that make you cry, remembering what you had there, realizing you’ll never get that back. Be okay with this, this nostalgia of yours. It’s fine to miss it.

Life goes on, but you’ll remember.

Entry written because I’m totally nostalgic right now. Please forgive me.

You see, although having a blog is inherently narcissistic (in that I enjoy getting positive feedback, interacting with other bloggers, and knowing that somewhere out there someone’s reading), I don’t tell you everything. Surprise! Although I may seem like a chronic oversharer, I promise – there are people out there way worse than me.

I’m working a nine-to-five job, balancing work with relationships and trying to not gain forty pounds from my desk job. I’m slowly memorizing the Chicago Manual of Style. I’m learning whether the verb should be lie, lay, laid, or lain. (Yes, it does exist.) I’m trying to keep my apartment clean and my kitten from biting my legs.

He did this on purpose to look innocent. He is not.

But, if you know me, there are always a million things swirling around in the back of my mind. The future, you see, is still up in the air. We’re waiting on a few things. While we’re waiting, I’m here; he’s there. We talk every day – we Skype, chat, email, text, Facebook…you name it, we use it.

Kelly wrote this great post about technology and study abroad – its pluses and minuses. I could say the same for the Internet and my What Ifs. I get sucked into the vortex of the Internet and emerge, hours later, starving and wondering just how I got started down this series of tubes.

You may now understand my lack of writing. I want to tell you, but I also am afraid of putting myself out there, getting too personal, and – you know – looking like a fool in the end.

So, if you ever want to know more (and I understand that you might), please email me: kalhendr[at]gmail[dot]com. I’m more than willing to dish over Gmail. Or add me on Facebook. You can see all the sappy, lovey dovey photos that you always seem to be searching for.

***

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. They grew up in separate countries, speaking different languages, and eating very distinct foods. In September 2009, the girl flew to Spain, not suspecting that she was going to meet someone who would change her life—someone who would lead her into a life of crime.

The face of pure evil

But meet they did, and they soon spent every possible moment together, spotting each other on his way to class and her way to work, eating pinchos during their breaks, waking up early to sip coffee/tea in smoky bars. They fell in love and had their first kiss in front of la fachada de la universidad, a famous sport normally occupied by plentiful amounts of tourists, but he, familiar with the pedestrian traffic patterns in Salamanca, knew just when to take her there.

It all sounds so romantic—and indeed it was. But it was also forbidden.

Photo taken on an illegal trip to his hometown, Zamora.

The girl worked for a Christian campus ministry started in the United States with branches all over the world and, of course, Salamanca. The ministry had said they frowned on their new interns (for that was what she was) dating anyone, but most especially students.

Now, please don’t misinterpret her. She hadn’t meant to fall in love. As with all the best love stories, it had simply happened. And now she was helpless. But, being the good girl that she had always been, she wrote him a letter telling him they had to be “just friends,” at least for the time being.

That didn’t last very long.

It was impossible for her to stay away from him. But their relationship was an illicit one. Thus, the two devised ways to meet: in little-known coffee shops, in back alley restaurants, in small city parks. Her lunch break was practically the only free time she had to breathe, and she spent it in hiding. He did, too, if only because his feelings for her were much the same. This hiding thing…well, it could feel so different each day—from exciting to nerve-wracking to annoying to scary. She was always afraid of being caught, always had her eye on the door in case they were somehow peeking in on them.

After a while, she couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t just the forbidden relationship—it was the constant pressure, the you-screwed-up, the feeling as though she no longer had any time to herself. She had to quit.

So she did. She felt free for the first time in months. She was able to return home for Christmas with a weight lifted off her shoulders, free to bask in the warm glow of a new relationship with her friends and family surrounding her.

***

Quite obviously, that girl was me. That boy was Mario. Érase una vez…we were criminals. We couldn’t be out in the open, that happy, smiling couple for which I think my blog is known (for better or for worse).

I wrote this because I wanted you to know that, even if Mario and I seem like a too-happy, too-perfect lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy couple—we started out as criminals. I disobeyed a silly rule to be with him.

Best decision ever.

Totally, deliriously happy. Pardon my crazy face.

So I’m very happy to introduce my first ever (!) guest post from my friend, Melanie. Melanie, like me, is in a relationship with a Spaniard. What’s distinguishes her from most of my friends who are in relationships with Spaniards is that she and her husband live in the U.S. In Texas, to be exact. Thus, she has a unique perspective – one that I think we don’t get to hear a lot about in my corner of the blog world. Anyway, I’ll let her take over from here.

—

Whether it is marriage that has strengthened your commitment to your foreign partner or some other less formal arrangement, continuing a bilingual/bicultural relationship may not be as easy or the same as first starting one. After learning how to deal with and coming to enjoy each other’s similarities and differences in the beginning of a relationship, here are a few tips for a continued rich personal and cultural experience for you both:

Customs

Embrace each other’s cultures wherever you live: do not let where you live dictate the extent to which you appreciate each other’s cultures. For example, I find it extremely endearing that at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, Spaniards individually greet and wish each other “Happy New Year” with two kisses. On the other hand, I also appreciate the way that celebrating birthdays is a little bit more fun and special in the US with birthday cake, presents, and parties (customs I haven’t noticed as much in Spain). Enjoy each other’s traditions by following them wherever you are. It may make your partner feel special that you remembered something significant from his or her culture and brought it to life in your own.

Turrones

Food and Drink

While it’s easy to compare whose country may have better cuisine, my advice is that it’s better not to make the contrast because this battle will never end! Instead, enjoy both countries’ gastronomy by learning each other’s family recipes or purchasing cookbooks (I personally recommend Culinaria Spain, edited by Marion Trutter for those interested in Spanish dishes). Wherever you live, make an effort to cook each other’s favorite dishes. For example, it is my personal goal to always learn a new recipe from my mother-in-law every time we see each other. Making these dishes later keeps my husband happy.

Tortilla de Patata

People and Travel

While you may have enjoyed visiting your partner’s pueblo the first few times around, remember that a person’s hometown is always special to him or her. Even if going back to visit a small town on numerous occasions isn’t as exciting as packing up to go on a cruise or other exotic vacation, try to enjoy the experience through your partner’s eyes, childhood, and relationships. Learn new phrases from in-laws. Ask your partner to take you to one of his or her favorite childhood spots – whether it be a hangout, school, look-out point, etc. There will most likely be a story that goes along with the ride. And remember, most importantly, that family members and friends will always be happy to see you whenever you go back to each other’s hometowns. I always ask my husband to take me to the Mirador de Cáceres because the sights are that beautiful!

La Parte Antigua de Cáceres

Enjoy the journey

You may not know where you will live in a few months, next year, or for the rest of your life with your partner. That’s okay. Remember to enjoy where you live in the moment, and know that you are probably there for a justifiable reason: job, family, health, etc. It’s easy to become anxious thinking about the future and how this whole bicultural-bilingual relationship will work out. But being too focused on the future can impede moments shared together focused on building understanding and deepening that cross-cultural love that brought you together in the first place. Remember that several simple moments of joy can add up to an overall rich and happy life.

—

Thanks, Melanie!

Even if it does entail a little snow.

In January, I returned to Zamora, where my high school students still refused to speak to me in English. Not long thereafter, though, Mario and I were off to Belgium.

Although bitterly cold, it was a magical place full of chocolate, waffles, moules-frites, and French. Luckily, Mario speaks French. (Why can’t I speak four languages?!)

February went by slowly, especially as I was now living in Zamora instead of Salamanca, far away from my studious, always-has-his-nose-in-a-book boyfriend. My 30-minute walk to class could seem interminable. As I had received a Kindle, though, I walked to class reading. My fingers nearly froze off a few times!

March meant heading off to what Mario and his cousins referred to as a primada, a play off the Spanish word for cousins, primos. We headed to a casa rural, a rather common thing to do amongst groups of friends. Our casa was located in Gredos in Ávila.

A cousin with the kids: A Sergio and two Marías.

We explored a cave.

Visited a castle. You know, typical Spain stuff.

Like a fairytale wonderland.

And, of course, made jokes about smoking “el porro.” (Note: one is smoking a cigarette, one is “smoking” some straw, and the other one isn’t smoking at all.)

April brought sunshine and the first hints of warmth back to the mesetas of Castilla y León. Oh, and my parents stepped foot onto Spanish soil for the second time. My grandparents came along for the ride. And what a ride it was.

We were “those people” who take photos while our waiter stands and watches.

We visited Segovia and saw the castle.

We couldn’t not see the aqueduct. My grandma brought along our local paper.

Next came the coastal town of San Sebastián, home to some of the worlds best pintxos and food.

Grandma learned how to sit on benches like any good Spaniard.

We even got some hiking in.

Next came Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor with my favorite guy in the whole world.

We met the parents, too. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Mario’s parents don’t speak English; my parents don’t speak Spanish. Mario and I were the intermediaries. Nonetheless, they hit it off. My dad even hugged them at the end of the trip – not really something Spanish people do, but it worked.

Next came Semana Santa, my first in Zamora. I got to see what it was like to be a member of a cofradía.

Los dos hermanos.

It’s not as frightening as it looks.

In June, Mario and I headed to a wedding held in the most gorgeous place.

And yes, I’m one inch taller than Mario, but with my high heels I am an Amazon woman.

We drank and ate lots of pork products. Claro, hombre.

(L-R) Víctor, Jesús, Pepita, Mario…and me!

Oh yeah, and we went to London. Typical American, that’s me.

Mario took me to a hummus restaurant. The man gets me.

Finally, on June 15, I headed to Madrid, cried a ton, and boarded a plane. Landing in Indianapolis felt surreal. It’s become normal by now, but I still think about how, this time last year, I was an international. Now I’m just me, not foreign or different.

I helped my brother and his fiancee move to Houston, TX.

And celebrated the good ole USofA.

Went to a baby shower for my dear cousin, who now has a gorgeous baby girl.

We shared some of the world’s most delicious wine…in my humble opinion.

I started a temporary job teaching English to ESL students in my hometown. It was fine, but I needed more—namely, insurance.

My dog dressed up for Halloween. This is obviously important in my end-of-the-year recap.

In October, however, I was anticipating the arrival of none other than…Mario, of course! My blog posts dropped to about zero as I spent 24/7 with him.

He learned about “American rugby” from my dad. Yes, Indiana does suck at football, why do you ask?

We introduced him to the art of tailgating with pulled pork sandwiches, a vegetable tray, chips and salsa, guacamole, and mojitos. Living large.

He learned what the real sport is in Indiana – basketball. Hoosier basketball. Purdue does not matter.

He’s an expert at roasting hot dogs now.

We got to be all lovey dovey, too

When Mario left, I started a new job back in my hometown. I was lonely, so I got a kitty. His name is Sheldon.

Bazinga!

I don’t have the Christmas photos at my disposal, but it was spent at home with my mother and father, brother, and his fiancee, Colleen. We made hot buttered rum, played Scattergories, exchanged presents, and saw a nice snowfall. All in all, a good holiday spent with great people.

In 2011, I was blessed. I went from Indiana to Spain to Belgium to Spain to London to Indiana to Texas to Indiana. I was in four countries and lived in four cities (Zamora, Salamanca, Crawfordsville, and now Bloomington). Mario visited me and was able to experience Halloween, football, tailgating, mojitos, and Thanksgiving. We ran many miles together and shared many glasses of (red) wine. He’s gone, and of course I miss him, but it’s a good kind of missing, knowing we’ll be back together soon enough and that we have our whole lives to be together, to annoy the other one, to make dinner together, and to watch The Penguins of Madagascar while laughing until we cry.

2011 was a hard year at times, but it it came with a lot of growth. Living in another country is not usually easy, and when it is, you’re lucky. I struggled at times, but came out better on the other side. I realized a lot of things when I came home, too—namely, that I can survive anywhere. I can and I have and I will again someday. Whatever the future brings for that Spanish boy of mine and me, I’m fine with it. I just know that we’ll be together and we’ll fight these battles together.

And if it takes me cursing in two languages, so be it.

Psst – some of my favorite posts from 2011:

• How to Dress Like a Spaniard
• Communication in a Bilingual Relationship
• How Going to a New Country Can Change Your Tastes
• Reasons (Never) to Date a Foreigner
• Spanish, Outside the Classroom
• You Want Me to Eat THAT?
• Why You Should Have a Spanish Mother-in-Law

And maybe my favorite post: Very Little. Check it out!

1. Papa Americano – In this post, Erik talks about his ringtone (“We No Speak Americano” by Yolanda Be Cool) and why it fascinates his daughter, Nora. Erik lives in Colindres in the north of Spain with his wife and, of course, Nora – the cutest bilingual toddler you’ll see today.

2. Trullas, Aguinaldos, and Villancicos, Oh My! – This post, by Ashlee, is about Christmas in Puerto Rico – and how they do it better. Any Christmas that involves la playa is fine by me. (I hate cold weather.) Oh, and she gets listed in the Spain category because she spent a year in Galicia teaching English and still gets a lot of practice speaking Spanish in Puerto Rico.

3. 10 Travel Spain Blogs to Watch in 2012 – Will is a prolific blogger and who “left his 9-5 London lifestyle in [the] last half of 2011 to learn Spanish to fluency and figure out what to see in Spain while living on the cheap.” His blog, My Spanish Adventure, is just that, but not without keeping it real.

4. Not Hemingway’s Spain – Basically, if you want to know about Spain, read this whole website. I’ve already bookmarked a few entries (on jamón, soccer, and the lottery) so that my relatives can get to know Spain better without me having to yammer on for half an hour.

5. Happy Holidays from Me & The Glutton Club – Marti Kilpatrick is a writer and cook living in San Sebastían, Spain. She gets to see a lot of restaurant life from the inside and where better to be but the restaurant capital of the world?In this video, she and her friends at The Glutton Club make American-style cookies. Who can help but love them? She has a great feature, Tapa Tuesdays, in which she features a new pintxo. And in San Sebastían, there is always something new to eat.

Happy reading!

I often end up directing him to Urban Dictionary for any and all slang definitions. In the past, I’ve directed him to it for the following definitions:

• No dice
• Smarmy
• Natch
• Podunk
• Dagnabbit
• Step your game up
• Boom shakalaka
• Home slice
• Fogey
• Cabin fever

How did I find all these? I looked them up in GChat, so you know they’re legitimate. I seriously had all these conversations with Mario. It’s fine; he’s learning exactly what Shit Girls Say.

[Source]

But one of the best ones came today. We were chatting like normal, sharing stupid videos, and being all mushy. (We’re good at all of those.) Then, out of almost nowhere, Mario shares something.

Mario:my brother learnt the phrase “get loose” de la canción

me:hahahahahahahah

Mario:porque apareció en un capítulo de…

me: TBBT? [Side note: TBBT = The Big Bang Theory, a show with which Mario is obsessed.] omg you have me dying. i want to remember that always.

Mario:almost

The Simpsons

me:“my brother learnt the phrase ‘get loose’ de la canción.” i am writing that down

Mario:I have just realized why you are dying

I mixed Espainish and Engrish without knowing

is that it?

me:no. it’s just hilarious that your brother learned that phrase.

THAT phrase

Mario:oooh. doesn’t it mean “relax” or something similar?

me:normally

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=get%20loose

see #2

Mario: ooh

So, another perk of dating a foreigner. Your Tuesday night GChat sessions might just turn out with a lesson on the phrase “get loose.”

Plus or minus? You be the judge.

**Stuff Mario Says titled as it is because my mother reads this blog.

I love language and thinking about how it affects everything. Some have argued that language is the window through which we see the world and, although the theory is debatable, I like to read about it and wonder how others experience the world.

Image taken from this great article on how language may influence the way we see the world.

For instance, English lacks a strong subjunctive tense. Yes, you should say “I wish I were (an Oscar Mayer Weiner),” but many people say instead “I wish I was.” Now, in Spanish, the subjunctive is ever-present and quite difficult to master. I do it right 95% of the time, but I sometimes get stumped. I don’t get why you wouldn’t use it with “fingir” (to pretend), but you don’t. After years of rote memorization, I finally get it. But explain it? Uhh…

Anyway, tangent over. I started off this entry wanting to talk about language and how it affects us – particularly, Mario and me. Mario and I met in Spain. I was learning Spanish. (Still am! Amazing how it’s a lifelong process!) I asked him to speak to me only in Spanish. He agreed, as his English really didn’t need that much improving. The only thing he has gotten from me is slang. You’re welcome.

It didn’t last long. When I’m frustrated, the words pour out in English. I think I sound more eloquent in English, surer of what I want to express. They are poor excuses, to be sure, but our relationship was affected by our switch from Spanish to Spanglish. To this day, our relationship is a mishmash of languages.

From September 2009 to February 2011 to the present – Spanglish.

Sometimes, a whole conversation is conducted in one language with nary a word in the other. Sometimes, we abruptly switch. All it takes is him or me to start speaking the other language – the other will follow suit. Sometimes, we insert whole phrases or words in the other language. For example:

• Eres muy cute. (Am I the only one who hates using “mono” for “cute”?)
• Te I love you.
• We had eggs, jamón, salchichón y queso. Some words just have to be in Spanish. Ham? Not nearly the same as jamón.
• Vamos a ver una peli en el movie theater.

You know, normal stuff. I’m not really sure if this affects us, but it does expand our vocabularies. Plus, it’s way useful to be able to converse in another language so people can’t understand. After I’ve been around Mario for a while, I sometimes switch to another language with my mom or my friend Hilary so the other people can’t understand, forgetting that, um, neither can my mother or Hilary. Ooooops, Spanglish is getting to me.

So, if you don’t mind, tell me about your bilingual relationships, what you think of them if you don’t have one, and whether you think language affects how we see the world or if that’s all just a bunch of rubbish.

[Source]

But puente has another meaning. It’s something like a three-day weekend. In Britain, apparently, it’s called a “bank holiday.”

Here’s how it works. Say you have a national or regional holiday on a Tuesday (like our Fourth of July, for instance). It doesn’t really make sense to work on Monday, am I right? Only instead of you having take a personal day/vacation day, it’s pretty much given to you. Yay! You bridged that gap, didn’t you? Plus, not only are there national holidays, there are regional ones too. April 23, for example, is El Día de Castilla y León, Castilla y Leon Day.

[Source]

These days are usually full of tradition, but there’s a lot of traveling, too. After all, why not take advantage of “free” vacation days?

[Source]

I really liked this last year because we had a great year for puentes. El Día de la Constitución (Constitution Day) is on December 6. La Inmaculada Concepción (Immaculate Conception) is held on December 8. Last year, those days were Monday and Wednesday, respectively. That meant, of course, a five-day weekend! A lot of auxiliares didn’t work on Fridays either so they basically didn’t have to work that week. (I, unfortunately, had to work Fridays.)

So if you like vacations and days off, puentes are pretty awesome. The thing is, though, they’re not so good for productivity. (I mean, it makes sense.) And Spain’s economic situation isn’t the best. (Read: 5.4 million unemployed people, 23% of the active population.)

The president-elect, one Mariano Rajoy, has stated that he will eliminate the puentes and instead move the bank holidays to Mondays. This is obviously a drastic measure, especially because lots of people travel during puentes. These people could argue (and some have!) that the hotel industry, which includes restaurants (la hostelería), will lose business. Who knows, really?

Will this be the end of the puente? Do you think this will help or not?

Hey, I’m just glad I got my puente-ing in when I could.

Volleyball team my senior year

If my high school English teacher taught me anything, it’s that nostalgic writing is inane – sappy, full of clichés, and not worth my time. It’s hard, though, because I’m a nostalgic person.

I miss things a lot.

Certain things can bring me back to a specific time period – Edy’s frozen yogurt makes me think of my senior year of high school, the smell of cheap beer reminds me of the time I turned 21 (my first time in a bar, mind you), Christmas lights bring to mind decades of Christmas past…you know what I mean. All it takes is one bite, one smell, one glimpse…and I’m off thinking, reminiscing, even pining for that time in my life. I forget the hard parts: the nights I spent homesick, how I didn’t feel “good” enough, the people who weren’t so nice to me. I focus instead on the happy memory, the one that stayed with me.

So, right now, pardon me, but I miss Spain.

I don’t necessarily miss the country itself – the bureaucracy, the flat lands of Castille, the way every trip to another city involves visiting one of three things (a church, a castle, or a bridge), but I do miss it. Just like I missed here when I was there. I wonder sometimes if, because I’ve chosen a somewhat international life, I will always be missing someone or something. I think the answer is a resounding yes. My life will be full of the words “I miss you” or, alternately, “Te echo de menos.”

After all, every email I write to Mario when he’s away contains those words. Every phone call is peppered with little moments of oh, how I wish she/he were here instead of there. I will go out with friends and spend my time thinking about whether he would or would not like this drink/this food/this place/these people. Not that I’ll ever really know, but I think about it anyway.

When I was in Spain, I could only remember the good things about home – the convenience of driving, the friends and family, understanding everything that was said, not feeling like a foreigner. I forgot the fact that driving everywhere makes me chubby, that speaking and improving in Spanish leaves me with a feeling of accomplishment, that feeling like a foreigner can sometimes be fun.

No, I don’t want to go out and see the bull. Thanks.

So, forgive me if you will. I’m a bit nostalgic these days. And always.

You can come back now.

Or I can go there. Either one.

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Darren Cummings / AP

I once wrote an entry about the things I’ve had to explain to Mario. It included things like tailgating, “that guy,” and 4-H.

There are plenty of Spanish concepts that Mario’s had to explain to me – la matanza, “¿Quién es la última?”, wedding etiquette, how Spanish high schools used to be structured, and why Spanish women are so intent that I not catch a cold.

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One thing he never had to explain was soccer. It was obvious.

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In some ways, I hope that basketball is the same for him. Hoosier basketball, that is. Is there any other kind?

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When you grow up in Indiana…

• Football is fine, baseball’s okay, but basketball’s king.
• The movie Hoosiers is mandatory viewing.
• People like to complain about the good old days, before class basketball.
• There are high school gyms that seat over 9,000 people. High school.
• James Naismith said Indiana’s the center of basketball and you know, without a doubt, that it’s true.
• There are two seasons in Indiana. They are basketball season and getting ready for basketball season.
• Players cite their reasons for coming to IU as “This is Indiana.” As they say in Spanish: “Y punto.”
• You may not like sports, but you have to appreciate the magic in the atmosphere, the feeling that anything is possible, that hard work can get you anywhere – even to a national championship.

When I first informed Mario that people in my state like college ball better than professional, he was surprised – I mean, isn’t the level higher at the professional level? And obviously it is. That’s why they’re the pros.

But what he came to learn (what we all come to learn here) is that there is nothing like the cream and crimson, the squeak of shoes on the court, screaming your fight song, watching the last minute three-pointer fall softly in the net, rushing the court with 30,000 of your closest friends…

In short, there’s nothing like IU.

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Truth.

Disclaimer: I may be a bit biased.

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I used to hate red wine.

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(I used to be pretty awful at Spanish.) I mean, I took high school Spanish and majored in it. Yet I was still pretty damn bad. How does that work?

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No, but seriously. I was so terrible at Spanish. How does that work?

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Now, however…

I love olives. If you’re in Spain, please go to a bar now. Order some aceitunas pardas. Eat. Enjoy. Thank me later.

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Now, I love red wine. I especially love me some Elías Mora.

Go to Zamora. Go to any wine shop. Any. Find some wine, preferably Elías Mora. You won’t regret it. It was probably one of the wines that convinced me just how good wine can be.

I never have.

I’m actually better at Spanish. (Mario helps a lot.)

Plus, he’s cute.

I can converse with almost anyone, understand almost anyone, and even understand the majority of a soccer broadcast. (¡Hala Madrid!) For me, that’s pretty impressive. Being bilingual ain’t easy.

At the risk of being cliché, how has moving to another country (even if just for a year) influenced you? Do you like that influence?

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Bloomington, as described by Business Week, is the “quintessential college town.” It’s a small town, main up of mainly undergraduates and grad students. Home to IU basketball, a Tibetan cultural center and dozens of ethnic restaurants, it’s a great place to be if you’re in Indiana.

It’s also where I went to college. I even got a degree!

I love it. I’m all moved in and ready to start a new job on Monday as an editor. You know, what I do for fun. It should be a pretty good job. Not to mention, one of my favorite people works there!

Hilary! (Or as my dad likes to call her, “Hills”!) We were roommates in college and, although a few inches shorter and way more outgoing, we’re similar – like good food, dancing, chatting, and both our significant others are foreign (hahaha)! Two peas in a pod, I tell ya.

The nice new apartment and being closer to Hilary all make the sting of Mario leaving a bit less painful. Not much, but still.

Any little bit helps.

Hey, when are you coming back? Any time now, any time now.

I started again when I went to Spain. I don’t even remember anything about this blog. It must have been bad. I wasn’t into it and didn’t think my life was “interesting enough” to blog about. I must not have understood blogging because I now think of interesting in a very different light.

My last blogging attempt finally “stuck,” if you will.

Although the header of my blog is outdated (An American Girl in Spain), I still blog. I still feel like people care and I, in turn, care about them. This is why I’d recommend it to anyone.

I also recommend snow angels.

Benefits of blogging:

• “Meeting” and actually meeting other bloggers – Seriously, a lot of bloggers are really damn cool. Plus, they share your experience and, in small town, Indiana that’s not likely. Blogging can introduce you to some really cool people.
• “Meeting” other non-bloggers - I often get emails from people who are considering a move to Spain or starting a blog or dating a Spaniard or learning a new language. I love this! Please, please, please email me because I love hearing from you.
• Learning new things - If not for certain bloggers, I would never have known about certain travel web sites, the availability of oatmeal in Spain, or how to empadronarme. Thanks.
• Not feeling alone - It’s easy to think you’re the only one who has ever struggled with a certain issue (a bilingual relationship, distance, bureaucracy, etc.), but it’s not true. I now know so many people that have undergone the same things as I have.
• Entertainment factor - It’s fun to read new expats’ blogs and realize, hey, I’ve been there! And I can help! Also, pretty pictures. Who doesn’t like those?

What about you? Why do or don’t you blog?

I’m sad.

I know we’ll see each other again, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

If you’ve ever been in a long distance relationship, then you get it. A little bit at least. Until you’ve been in a cross-cultural, bilingual, LDR…you don’t quite. That’s okay, though. I don’t fully get others’ situations either. I just mean, blahhh, I get jealous of others who live only two hours away from each other and can drive there for the weekend. I cannot drive to Spain, no many how many hours there are in a weekend.

But as I say to Mario (and to myself, so I will believe it), we’ll be together in the end. It’s only right.

Right?

Totally.

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When I first went to Spain, I really had no idea what Spanish food was like. Sure, I’d read about jamón and tortilla de patata, but I had much more experience with Mexican food. In case you didn’t know (or live in another country), Mexican food (or at least our Americanized version of it) is quite popular here – it seems as though every small town has its own Mexican restaurant. At least one.

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In 2008, while studying in Toledo, I didn’t have that many homemade Spanish dishes. Sure, I ate in our school cafeteria, but the most popular foods there were paella, tortilla, and bread with olive oil. Good stuff to be sure, but I never had what would soon come to be one of my favorite Spanish dishes – lentejas.

Lentejas means “lentils.” But as a dish, it’s more like “lentil stew.” I know, I know, it doesn’t sound super appetizing. But believe me, it is. Especially if made by a certain Spanish lady with a knack for cooking (yes, Mario’s mother). It doesn’t even look that great. But appearances can be deceiving.

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A nice bowl of lentejas (served as a primer plato almost always) is a warm, comforting dish to eat during the winter. (Heck, I’d eat even in the boiling hot Spanish summer.) Like any dish that originated in the kitchens of yesteryear, it varies from home to home. I emailed Mario’s mother, Pepita, to ask her how hers are made. This is her reply:

Lentejas estofadas

Se ponen en remojo unas horas antes (8 horas, aproximadamente). Cuando se pongan a hervir se retira esta agua y se lavan un poco. Se parte zanahoria, puerro o cebolla (pueden ser las dos a la vez).
Las cantidades dependen del tamaño y de la cantidad de lentejas. O sea, según veas.

Se ponen en una  cazuela a hervir todos los ingredientes citados, las lentejas y se le añade una hoja de laurel, un diente de ajo entero, un chorro de aceite, sal y un poquito de pimentón. Es opcional ponerle un trozo de chorizo, o de costillas de cerdo…

Y cuando estén cocidas… se apaga, y ¡a comer!.

Lentil Stew

Soak the lentils for a few hours (approximately 8). When it’s time to cook them, remove the excess water and rinse the lentils. Chop up some carrots and leeks/onions (or both at once, if you like). The amount of carrots and leeks/onions depends on the amount of lentils and the size of the vegetables. That is, however you like them.

Put all the above ingredients into a pot to boil. Add a bay leaf, a whole clove of garlic, a splash of olive oil, and a dash of paprika. You can also add some chorizo or even pork chops.

And when they’re done cooking…it’s time to eat!

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It’s just too bad that, unlike any good Spanish cook, I don’t have a Thermomix (pronounced “ter-moh-miiiix”).

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