Tag Archives: Salamanca

Why Are You in Spain?

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.

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.

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.

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.

What about you?

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On the Road to Salamanca

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The bus rumbled along the highway, dusk quickly approaching. We sat side by side, our fingers curled together, leaving the day behind us. Weary but content, we sat in silence, the silence of two people who have everything to say to each other, but not necessarily at that moment. It had been a long day: up early to catch a morning bus, a long walk around town as they wind bit at our cheeks and hands, a hearty lunch, and all of the things that go along with meeting someone, someone special, for the very first time. By that point, I was exhausted but we glanced at each other and smiled with a sigh.

The evening sun tinged the horizon amaranth, gold, and orange. I grasped his hand, searching for the words I wanted, needed, to say to him. I hadn’t picked out a special place or time to say them, hadn’t analyzed my feelings, hadn’t thought about his reaction. I only knew that I loved him. And so I told him—there, in the bus, speeding along the A-66 towards Salamanca: “Te quiero.”

I didn’t start learning Spanish for love. I did it out of curiosity, because I needed a language to complete my high-school degree, because it was what was expected of me. But I mastered it for other reasons: it challenged me, it made me think about the world differently, it allowed me to see into the soul of another nation, of another people. I mastered it in the end because of Mario, because for him I stayed here, because for him I made my second home in Spain, because for him I packed up my whole life and changed it forever when I told him, standing in front of our friends and family in a church built in the 13th century, right in the heart of Zamora: “Sí, quiero.”

Yes, I do. I do promise to love you, to be there for you, to remember the important things for you. For you I will overcome the frustration that I sometimes feel when I can’t think of the right word, when I can’t remember the proper phrasing. Yes, I do.

My motivation for learning Spanish has varied over the years, but my one constant has been love. Some may consider it cliché to say that love makes you do crazy things, and it is, a bit. But love can also make you do daring things, things you would never have had the chance to do had you not bitten the bullet, got right back on the horse after it threw you off, and said to life and learning, “Sí, quiero.”

On the day we were married, the priest—a friend of Mario’s—talked to us and all our guests about love. Moving to another country for someone? he said with an intensity shining in his dark-brown eyes. That’s love. That’s love, friends.

Learning a language is frustrating. The first part is enthralling, when you learn by leaps and bounds, huge gulps of knowledge. But then comes the slow part, when you feel as though you’re dreaming about running, desperately trying to move your legs faster, but you just can’t. It’s a slow slog; it can seem fruitless. I know this feeling all too well. I still struggle with fast speech and gender; I still slip up almost every time I open my mouth. But with Mario there, and his family alongside him, I see the purpose. Without him—without them—I’d haven given up already.

Here’s to learning a language for love, whether it be love for a significant other, for a husband or a wife, for the little English-learning children who attend your local elementary schools, for a fellow church member, for the person who lives down your street. Learn a language for a love, and learn it for a lifetime.

This entry is a part of Kaplan’s Inspire Language Learning Blogger Competition. I’m not that interested in winning a Macbook, but I am interested in sharing my story. After October 29, you’ll be able to vote for me on their Facebook page if you so choose. Thanks, readers.

Learn English with Kaplan

Also, please visit Vaya Madrid—I’ve just had my first article published: Tales of a Transplant.

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.

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?

Say Hello to my Mother: Guest Post

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Before I let my mother take the reins, I’d just like to say that I hounded her to do this, and she finally obliged. She wants to be crazy rich and famous, so naturally that means she’ll get her start on Y Mucho Más. You may not realize this, but I’m, like, totally famous. (NOT.)

Here’s Donna. (You may also wish to read this entry, because she’s great.)

Funny how it seems like just yesterday we drove to Chicago to take Kaley to O’Hare airport for her first international flight. She was studying abroad in Toledo, Spain, for the spring semester of her junior year in college. She was so excited. I was jealous but happy for her. I loved the thought of going to Europe and living and studying in another culture. My friends and fellow parents often comment on how it seems that just one generation made the difference in the popular trend of traveling abroad. When I was growing up, it was rare for anyone unmarried or below the age of thirty (old enough to pay for an expensive trip on their own) to study abroad or even travel to another country.

As we said our goodbyes, Kaley never looked back. Her dad and I (especially her dad) had a few tears. I knew I was going to miss my daughter and she too would miss us. She was ready to go and experience the world. I was ready too, because I hoped she would learn to appreciate home.

Kaley made friends quickly, but in some of her early phone calls, she expressed her feelings of loneliness. Once we made definite plans for her father and I to travel to Spain during her “spring break,” she had something to look forward to and quickly acclimated herself to Spanish living. Our Skype discussions were filled with tales of travel and late night escapades. She told us that Spaniards ate dinner late and stayed out late. We found out it was definitely true on our first visit to Spain.

We flew to Spain during Holy Week (the week before Easter). We had the best tour guide, one named Kaley. I bragged that she was so good at Spanish and I insisted she was fluent. She adamantly argued with me that she was not, but two years when later we went back to Spain … she agreed with me that she was indeed fluent in Spanish.

In the late spring of her senior year of college, Kaley accepted an internship with a mission-based group in Salamanca, Spain. She was ready to return to Spain and live for the entire year. In early September we again drove her to Chicago with a one-way flight to Spain. She had insisted she wasn’t coming home for Christmas, as it was too expensive. By the time December rolled around, she had changed her mind and booked a ticket to be with her family during the holidays. We didn’t object too much.

In late September during one of our Skype visits, Kaley informed me that she “accidentally” flirted with a guy. She stated, “I don’t know what to do about it.” She wasn’t supposed to be dating anyone during the internship, per the rules of her workplace. I thought she sounded genuinely concerned that she broke the rules. However, she later was rather pleased that she had broken the rule. In a few short weeks she called to say she was dating this awesome, cute Spanish guy. She was swooning over the phone. As I am a mom, I quickly warned her that dating someone from another country could become very complicated. I think she reverted back to being a teenager at that moment. She exclaimed, ”Oh Mom, that is silly, it is just the same as dating someone in the US.” My response was to quietly say a prayer, as I had always done as I watched her grow up. I asked God to bless whatever was in His will and please don’t break my little girl’s heart. God must have had Mario in His plan because two years later he’s stuck around.

Still here, two years later.

Kaley has spent about two years off and on in Spain. There have been ups and downs. She has been homesick, she has spent more time in the Madrid airport than anyone should have to, and she’s learned to live without the things she loves here in the States. She has been taken into and loved by a wonderful Spanish man and his family. She has learned to cook delicious Spanish food. She has traveled to many places in Europe and learned to appreciate the wonderful history and culture of Spain and the rest of Europe.

This culture includes cheese. Lots of cheese.

As I contemplate the future, I know that Kaley is in good hands. She loves her Spanish family and cannot say enough good things about them. I feel good when I know Kaley has “parents” in Spain. Jesús and Pepita worry about her when I’m not there to do it [Kaley: and cook for me too!]. When she is not in Spain, she misses them like she would miss her family if she were away from them. I want to thank Kaley for bringing Mario into our family. It wouldn’t be the same without him. We feel like we have gained a son as well as a new country.

(Sorry so blurry.)

L-R: Mario, Jesús (Mario’s dad), Randy (my dad), Pepita (Mario’s mom), Carol (my grandma), Donna (my mom), Richard (my grandpa), me

4 Reasons Why I Love Castilla y León (And Why You Should Too)

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I am still a member of the Spain auxiliares’ group on Facebook. Why? Good question. I like to take a peek in there every now and then, as the discussion can get entertaining. The latest comment thread I read (it was from November, I think) was highlights and how some poor girl was willing to travel “anywhere” to get them done correctly. I couldn’t really identify, as I’ve never really dyed my hair (that time with a slightly reddish-brown shade doesn’t count; it was barely noticeable), but it was an amusing thread nonetheless.

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.

The Language We Speak

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Inspired by Rachel’s post, First Language Limits, I got to thinking. (I do that sometimes, you see.)

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.

Two Years Ago

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Two years ago…

I got on a plane in Chicago, IL.

I played a game of basketball on a warm Saturday afternoon in September. (My team won.)

I asked a boy for his number.

We met at 10 o’clock “debajo del reloj,” the place in Salamanca where everybody meets.

We drank a glass of wine at an Irish “pub,” Molly Malone’s.

I spilled said wine all over the table. He told me, “No pasa nada,” the first in a long line of No pasa nadas.

He texted me the next day to go get coffee. I was taking a siesta and my reply was delayed. But when I did get the message, I hopped out of bed and got there as fast as my legs would carry me.

We took a trip to the top of the Salamanca cathedrals. This was the first photo he ever took of me.

A few days later, after numerous late night meetings, we decided we were a we. Since that date, October 1, 2009, it’s always been about him and me, me and him, us.

Silly

Culinarily inclined

Travelers (in so many senses of the word)

Natural

With a future so bright, we gotta wear shades. Or at least I do.

Two of a kind

Inseparable

True to one another. Good to the last drop.

Happy two years, mi amor.

P.S. See you so soon!

My 7 Links

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I’ve gotten better at understanding the secret of getting comments and/or viewers. But still, sometimes I wish people would appreciate some of my more undervalued work (as I see it, anyway). Thus, when Gillian nominated me for TripBase’s Seven Links Project, I was rather excited to re-post a few of my more interesting posts.

As Katie says on her post, “The idea is simple: bloggers publish 7 links from their blog to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again.”

So without further ado, here are my seven:

My most beautiful post – Lucky. I don’t think I have a post with great pictures. I was without a camera for a long while and I just don’t have the patience to take good pictures with my trusty old point and shoot. Thus, I selected my most beautiful post because it was about the most beautiful person I know. (I know. Sappy.) I also don’t think this post about my mother is half bad either.
My most popular post – How to Dress Like a Spaniard.According to my site statistics, this post has gotten the most views. Not surprisingly, I get many hits from search terms such as “how to dress like a spaniard” and “dress like a spaniard.” I hope I helped. Personally, I prefer my Lululemon yoga shorts.
My most controversial post – 15 Rules to Thrive in Spain. I think I probably wrote this right after one of my rather OCD roommates chastised me for using her spoon. No, that is not a typo, she was mad at me for using a spoon I found in the cutlery drawer. So, Spaniards, if I admit I wrote this post partly of out frustration, will you forgive me? And perhaps admit a few of these things are true. If I were a more popular blogger, this post probably would have elicited more than a few disdainful remarks. I imagine most of my offended readers kept their cutting comments to themselves. I think Mario even politely disagreed with a few of them.
My most helpful post – Tapeando.
Americans just do not understand or appreciate the art of tapas. People say to me, “But aren’t you hungry after a dinner of just snacks?” I want to a) scream, b) roll my eyes, and c) direct them to this post ASAP. Luckily for you, you can read it before you say anything annoying. Also, I miss going for tapas like nobody’s business.
A post whose success surprised me – Piropos.I wrote this on a whim, and partly out of frustration. I also thought it might make me sound a bit stuck up. Like, here’s this girl complaining about men complimenting her. White Girl Problems, anyone? But it turns out that a lot of women who visit Spain and, hey, those who live there experience this on a weekly, if not daily, basis. I like how many of us also recognize that someday that flow of piropos is gonna stop, and we might be a bit sad.
A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved – About Study Abroad.I wrote this because I feel like study abroad could be a really, really good thing. Learning a new language, learning about a new culture, branching out, living in an unknown place? All good things, things that stretch us and make us grow. However, I see so many American students in Spain just partying and/or traveling to another country every weekend. Don’t get me wrong, traveling is good, but I think true cultural immersion is a much loftier (albeit more difficult) goal.
The post I am most proud of – Champions – And It’s Not a Dream. I really enjoyed writing this post, and I still find its language beautiful. I hope you don’t think that makes me stuck up.

You’re supposed to nominate other bloggers, so I’m nominating you guys (gals?):

I hope you enjoyed my seven links (or re-enjoyed them for some of my more longtime readers)!

What I Miss

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I am so happy to be home. There is nothing like my home in the summer – green grass, cookouts, margaritas made by my Uncle Steve (which we drink on the porch), sunsets, fireworks (even if I don’t like them), walks at twilight, humidity (ugh!), and more. I wouldn’t rather be any place else. However, having been home for almost a month, and having spent the last few days in Texas, I realize there are a few things I miss.

No, not El Escorial specifically. Rather, I miss beautiful scenery of centuries-old buildings. The U.S. is the toddler of the world, having only existed for 200-some years. Spain has universities that were established half a millennia before the United States. Now that’s old! I miss stepping out of my house, walking five minutes, and seeing a Romanesque church built in 1400. I miss every town having its very own Plaza Mayor. I especially miss Salamanca’s.

Ah, dando un paseo - taking a walk/stroll. Around 6 or 7 PM nightly, you can count on a large majority of the people you know to be out doing this very thing. Mario’s parents usually see at least 10 people they know. If you can cross the main street, Santa Clara, without seeing anyone you know, you’re basically no one in Zamora. You will see all types of people out strolling along the main thoroughfare: grandparents with babies, parents with babies in elaborate strollers, parents holding toddlers’ hands, teenagers laughing with their friends, old men with their hands clasped behind their back, old ladies gossiping, elderly women with their hand firmly grasping their husbands’ elbows – all kinds. This just doesn’t happen here, even if you do live in a town where strolling is possible.

Fútbol. I don’t always enjoy watching it on TV, but I love the excuse it gives people to get together, drink, and eat. It doesn’t hurt that when Mario’s friends get together, the food is good - no potato chips and soda here. Nah, we roll with empanada, salad, chorizo, jamón, tortilla de patata, and we can’t forget the always delicious red wine! I also don’t mind that soccer players are, ahem, attractive (a lot of times).

This guy. Yeah, I kinda miss him. By the way, anyone have a job for a cuatrilingual Spaniard (Spanish, English, French, and German)? He’s really smart, has three degrees, and, uh, just hire him! You won’t regret it.

Walking Towards

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People ask, “How do you know?” Well, I knew I liked him, really liked him, in an instant. But how? It’s an easy test.

Call him. Tell him to meet you in a spot, a public one, with lots of people. Agree to meet at a certain time, but go there five minutes after the scheduled meeting time (ten if he tends to run late too). Enter the room (or the plaza, the hall, as the case may be). Locate him. Keep your eyes on him. Try not to smile.

Can you do it? Can you walk toward him, toward this person without a smile creeping, albeit unwittingly, onto your face? Does your pulse quicken (even if just the tiniest bit)? Do you feel more beautiful? Does walking away not even seem like the world’s remotest possibility?

You’ll know.

P.S. Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor is perfect for this test.

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20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31

Kaley…& Más