I’ve been in Spain nearly two months, which means I haven’t gotten a haircut in over two months. With long hair, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but with short hair it feels huge. I brought my own hair trimming scissors and straight comb to try to keep my hair at bay, but honestly that only does so much. I could keep hair out of my eyes and keep my “sideburn” pieces from growing too far down my face, but I had NO idea how to keep the back under control. I’d trim the ends blindly, but I’m pretty sure it was beginning to look like a strange misshapen mullet by the time this week rolled around.
Knowing the hair situation was doing down at a rapid pace, I promised myself (when I was in Portugal) that I would get it cut the week after my Majorca trip. However, I was absolutely dreading it. I hate getting my hair cut when it’s short. It’s an hour of pained miscommunication, small talk, attempts at descriptions and photos and closing my eyes half the time telling myself “it won’t look like that when it’s done” only to finish and be shocked at how short it is, even though that’s exactly what I want. It’s very stressful and that’s from my experiences in America, where I’m speaking my first language to someone else who speaks English as their first language and both of us know the words for ways of cutting hair. I was sure I was doomed in Spain. I’ve also had my fair share of bad cuts since cutting my hair short and I’d heard some horror stories of Spanish salons. Regardless, I knew I’d either have to suck it up or go through 9 months of an awkward growing out stage that I don’t necessarily want to do anyway. Again following the advice of Fulbright (thanks Fulbright!), I had noticed one of the teachers at the villages I teach in has a pixie cut, so I figured I’d just ask her when I saw her. I made this plan two weeks ago and for two weeks I didn’t see her. I couldn’t remember which village we overlapped in and was only 70% sure of her name. Finally, I caved and texted another teacher Wednesday night, asking if she knew who I was talking about and if she was okay passing along her number. This teacher was happy to do it and even told me how to ask my question in Spanish. I texted the teacher with the pixie cut and she responded, explaining what the salon was called, where it was, asked me to ask her if I had any questions, and even offered to come with me. I thanked her (as profusely as I could in Spanish) and told her I’d call to set up an appointment. I was worried I would not actually call to set up an appointment, because I don’t love making phone calls in English, let alone Spanish, but when I told the teacher I’d be working with on Thursday (the one who had passed along the info to me), she told me she’d drop me off there after work. As it turns out, everyone in the Thursday carpool at this village needed to be dropped off near the salon, so two male teachers and I hopped out of the car at a round-about off of the highway and we began to walk together. One asked where I was going and I explained but couldn’t remember the name of the place. He said he basically lived in one (he lives right about it) and when he said the name I knew it was the one, so he told me he’d walk with me there. The second guy asked him if that was where he got his hair cut and the first one responded (I’ve translated from Spanish): “Me?! No! It’s a super modern place, I go in there and I’ll come out with green hair!” That didn’t inspire a ton of confidence in me, but I also figured my short cut is very modern for Logroño standards and maybe it would be a good thing. Sure enough, when I walked in, there were all kinds of hairstyles happening. I made an appointment for the next day and hoped for the best. On Friday, I walked in 10 minutes before my appointment time and they told me to hang out in the “ladies waiting room” but didn’t specify where. There was a man in a salon chair to my left and a woman in a salon chair to my right, so I walked to the right and saw a couch. I sat there hoping I didn’t go to the wrong place. 15 minutes after my scheduled appointment time, someone came and directed me to the shampoo station. After washing my hair, I was transferred to another chair, but also to a different stylist. That’s fine, I thought, this is normal. I opened with my tag-line of “mi español es mas o menos” (my Spanish is so-so) so she’d know it wasn’t my first language as people really do tend to assume I’m from here. She asked where I was from and I said the US and she said “mi ingles is fatal!” Which means her English is terrible, so with that auspicious start to our communication, I used the words I’d googled about getting your hair cut in Spain and showed her a picture. She asked me some other questions to which I responded with a blank face and then she told me we’d get started and go from there. Great, I thought. Eventually I told her about my co-worker at the villages and she knew exactly who I was talking about and got really excited, so I had to explain that I loved the back of her hair but styled the front of mine differently, but I didn’t know how much came across correctly, so again I just had to sit back and wait. At one point, she asked me how short I wanted it and I was explaining that I wanted the front a little longer than in the picture I showed, but still short in the back and I think she must have asked about the sides, but I didn’t totally understand, so I shrugged and tried to say that we’d get there when we got there. She looked pretty concerned and said, (translated by me) “I just… I don’t know how to say this… but... you will look like a mushroom.” I was both mortified and trying not to crack up. I explained that I did not want it to look like a mushroom and that I trusted her, but that we would talk about it as we went along. She seemed relieved that I wouldn’t walk out with a bowl cut and onwards we went. A couple times throughout the cut, she and another stylist switched off doing another woman’s hair, which was very strange to me, but hey, what works works. During the dreaded small talk, the stylist asked what state I was from and I decided to keep it simple and say California, both stylists looked at me aghast and said (translated) “What are you doing HERE?!” So I got to explain how much I like Logroño and that I’m actually from a bunch of places so it’s fine. Besides that, and the difficulties explaining the cut I wanted, I was a little grateful for the language barrier, just because I don’t *love* small talk. Though maybe not talking was not the best, because it gave me time to focus on the cut and realize that more hair than I thought I had was falling to the floor and oh my god my ears will be so exposed and crap how much is coming off the sides?? I kept trying to smile at the stylist when we made eye-contact so that she didn’t think I was freaking out (even though I was) and I was extremely grateful when eventually she moved to the front of my hair and I could close my eyes as if I was just trying to keep the stray hair out. Worst case scenario, I told myself, would be that I’d try to trim it up myself and that, best of all, hair always grows back. Throughout the cut I kept rearranging my hair the way I’d eventually style it myself and I think that helped a lot, because she was able to make some adjustments as they became necessary. At the end, she washed my hair again and then styled it (but just a little bit). It was perfect. It’s probably one of the best cuts I’ve gotten with my short hair, if I do say so myself. It was hugely relieving and one of those moments where I could hear my dad saying “You know Jordan, there are a lot of problems in my life I’ve never had.” Alas, here is to continuing to learn that it is all going to be okay. I will definitely go back there for the next cut and am absolutely thrilled to take one worry off of my list. Other quick updates: 1. I’ve been visiting bodegas (wineries) over the past few weeks, so eventually I’ll probably do a big blog about wineries here 2. Almond Breeze sells cappuccino almond milk here in Spain, and now I’m not sure I can come back to America 3. If I touch my dish washer and sink at the same time, I get an electric shock. I thought at first it may be because I had my headphones in and then because I still had my watch on – but no, I tested it with and without various electronics and it shocked me every time. I may not have been wearing shoes, but I think I should stop testing it… 4. I still have not used the oven :)
8 Comments
Warning: long blog ahead!
Walking down the street of Palma de Majorca accompanied by three older Spanish gentlemen who were waving their arms and calling out to a shop a couple streets away, while Cassidy and Olivia laughed about how ridiculous we looked, I couldn't help but wonder how we got there. So now I’m going to write that story down. It all started with a friend request and a pending message on Facebook. I recognized the name because I’d heard about Olivia for years from various friends who all were sure we’d get along famously, but somehow, we’d never actually met. When I opened her message, I was delighted to hear that she was spending this Fall as an au-pair in Northern Spain. We quickly began to plan a trip to meet and were delighted when our mutual friend, Cassidy, texted to say she’d be joining us for a week in Spain at the end of October. Majorca is one of the Balearic Islands off of the coast of Spain. The flights to get there are about 20 euros out of Barcelona and it would most likely still be warm enough to enjoy the beach, so it seemed like a no-brainer choice of destination. I knew at the time I planned this I would have just traveled to Portugal the weekend before, but hey, what’s living in a new place if you don’t travel constantly? I did not necessarily regret this decision by the time Thursday rolled around, but I was exhausted and had suddenly started to feel ill. To be honest, I was going to call this blog “Traveling While Allergic” but decided against it. I tried to sleep on the train, but that didn’t help. After arriving and introducing Cassidy and Olivia to döner kababs (a staple of European cuisine for me), we went to bed past midnight. Our thirty-minute plane ride to Majorca was leaving at 7am, which meant only a couple hours of shut-eye before beginning our travels. We were able to change and leave our stuff at our Airbnb despite having arrived long before check-in, but we couldn’t stay, so we prepared to go to a café to plan our short 48 hours in Majorca. We went through guide books and suggestions from friends and came up with a rough but lengthy outline of what we wanted to do – prioritized – obviously. Despite our exhaustion and the fact that my entire body was aching, off we went to the Majorca Cathedral. The twenty-minute walk GoogleMaps promised was a no-go for our travel-weary selves, so we opted for what seemed like a simple bus solution. We went to the wrong bus stop. Four times. Eventually we made it to the right stop, but then the bus didn’t come for about 20+ minutes. Cassidy, with her amazing sleeping skills, fell asleep at the bus stop while Olivia and I kept an eye out for her and for the bus. When the bus did arrive, it took us a whooping three minutes away to our destination spot. Inside the cathedral, I promptly sat on the pews and told them that this is where I’d be if I was needed. The cathedral truly was stunning. I don’t usually like old churches because they feel oppressive to me. I just start thinking about all of the people killed in the name of the church and all of the peasants who gave so much of their very little money so that the church could gild everything in gold and it makes me uncomfortable, but I don’t feel that way about Goudí’s work. He uses bright stained-glass windows with geometric patterns and earthy feeling décor. We had come right when the light was streaming through the largest stained-glass window, so one side of the cathedral was covered in rainbow light. It was breathtaking. I sat there staring at the light until I heard my phone buzz – the airbnb host telling us that our apartment was ready early and we could get in if we wanted. I found Cassidy and Olivia and we decided we’d go back, sleep, and then come back for the palace, museums, gelato, and other things on our list. The walk to the airbnb took a mere 7-minute walk despite the fact we’d come from almost exactly the same location and it was uphill. Who knows, GoogleMaps, who knows. Though sleeping helped, I still didn’t feel 100%, but again, we only had so much time in Majorca, so off we left for first an incredible lunch of fried goat cheese on bread with caramelized onions, salads etc. (Thanks to Hildie for that insanely amazing suggestion [Gustar, if anyone else is going to Palma de Majorca]), and then to a palace, gelato, some Arabian baths, and to the beach for sunset. By the end of the day, everything was cast in golden light and the peace and warm water did wonders for my still ill self. Neither Cassidy nor Olivia had had paella yet and as we were in a beach town, we could not leave that out. So for dinner, we found a place that seemed to serve authentic paella and were greeted by a slowly speaking but enthusiastic host who gave us all our options. We chose their special paella, which was a mixed seafood and meat one. Knowing that there are sometimes legumes (often peas) in paella, I decided to check with him just in case – telling him I was allergic. He assured me there was not and we awaited our food excitedly. When the paella came, it was swarming with peas. But whatever, I thought, I’ve picked peas out of things my whole life so NBD (that’s “No Big Deal” in case you were wondering Grammy). Plus, if I eat an odd pea here or there my stomach doesn’t usually hurt too badly. I have a tendency to care a little less about allergies than I probably should. To make my blasé attitude an even worse decision, my stomach had already been hurting the way it does when I’ve eaten something I’m allergic to for the past day and a half. So, I really shouldn’t have risked it. But I did. I went on eating around peas, trying to figure out stray pieces of meat, looking at Cassidy for guidance on how to crack crabs and eat lobster, all of the glory that is eating paella. Until, that is, I encountered a big fat bean. A big fat white bean to be precise. I told myself there was NO WAY it was a lupin (i.e. chocho bean for those Ecua folks) because it looked a little different. I told myself to chill out and just eat around those too. I told myself it would be fine. So I continued on, picking more and more out until I picked up a half eaten white bean with my fork. The other half could have been cut up somewhere in the bottom of the paella, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I stopped eating, pretty disappointed in myself. Eventually I googled what bean it was, and sure enough, it was my second worst enemy of Ecuador: the lupin bean. It’s hard to travel with allergies. I am always grateful that my allergies aren’t severe because of how hard it is to make sure what you’re getting doesn’t have what you’re allergic to in it. I obviously don’t have experience with other allergens, so this could be true of a lot of them, but I know for me what’s really tricky is that though “legumes” are what I’m allergic to, few people know everything that counts as a legume. I mean, hell, sometimes I have to check. But that means when I’m listing my allergies to anyone it’s like “I’m allergic to all legumes, so: peanuts, lentils, beans, peas, soy…” and I haven’t had to say “lupin” because my understanding was that they were only ever used in Ecuador. Then saying all of those things, I just feel really high maintenance plus my reaction to most of those is just an upset stomach (aside from the lupin beans) so sometimes I just forgo saying them. It’s hard and it’s frustrating because I want to trust that what I’m being given doesn’t have what I’m allergic to – especially when I ask – but I don’t trust it and I don’t like asking and sometimes when I ask, people freak out and essentially tell me I can’t eat anything. Or they tell me I can’t eat tree nuts, even though I can, and it’s all just annoying. But alas. I now have all of the legumes I could think of written down in my phone in Spanish and English, in case I’m ever concerned. Cassidy and Olivia really enjoyed their paella though, so that definitely made it worth it. We went home and went to sleep to prepare for our trip to another side of the island the next day and I told myself that if I still felt as bad as I did then the following day, I would go to a pharmacy. In the morning, we got tickets for an old-style train/tram that would take us to a mountain town called Sóller. It’s a very cool train ride, I definitely recommend it if you’re ever on Majorca. When we arrived, we ate breakfast at a DELICIOUS café (it’s called Frau – go there if you’re ever in Sóller) and then we walked around the outdoor market. Well- Cassidy and Olivia walked around the market – I sat on a bench and watched young dads practice their skateboarding skills. We had also bought tickets for an old tram that would take us down a small town by the water called Puerto de Sóller, which is famous for fighting off pirates who came to the island a while ago, thereby becoming the defenders of Majorca. Puerto de Sóller was gorgeous and more what the three of us had been imagining Palma would be like (we had not realized it was a huge city) so it was wonderful to spend time in a small beach town. I had been feeling progressively worse throughout the day, so I sat on the pier on a bench while Cassidy and Olivia explored the town (thank goodness Olivia had brought headphones and lent them to me, it definitely saved the day). Once they came back, we sat at a restaurant that had its allergens labeled and I ordered my go-to comfort food of tortilla de patata (plain, please!) and we enjoyed views of the port while we ate. Cassidy and Olivia went to get gelato before boarding the tram back to Sóller (and I knew I really wasn’t feeling well when I could barely eat my tortilla and wasn’t interested in gelato), but it was on the tram that the gem of the trip occurred. The three of us ended up sitting across the aisle from three Spanish gentlemen and they struck up a conversation with us. They were fascinating. They have 9 other siblings (a total of 11 boys and 1 girl in their family). They were very fatherly, bordering on grandfatherly, so it was comforting to talk with them. One of them had been bitten by a shark when he was little and had the scars to prove it. Eventually we found out that one of them actually lived in Palma, and I, considering all the advice I’d received from Fulbright when moving to Logroño about asking locals for doctors and such, decided I’d ask if he knew a good pharmacy or a private doctor that would be open when we got back. And sure enough, who was a pharmacist? None other than his wife! They were suddenly very concerned about me, asking what was wrong and how bad I felt. They asked which train we were on going back from Sóller to Palma and told us they’d stay with us because they were on the same train. They even told us they’d walk us to the pharmacy (which was “muy muy cerca!” (Very very close!) to the train station) when we returned to Palma. In moments where you’re not feeling well and you just want to be taken care of, three grandfather-esque men doing whatever they could to make sure I was okay made me want to cry with relief. They were complete strangers, from a different country, who spoke a different language, but they were ready to take care of the random American girl on the train. Throughout the train ride, anytime we stopped (and I was listening to hymns and trying to sleep) I’d hear “YORDAN! ¿COMO TE LLEVES?” Or “JORDANA, ¿HAS AUGMENTADA?” (essentially, how are you doing/do you feel better?) Which I thought was very sweet, and I’d respond with a head bobble because I wanted to feel better and sleeping was helping, but yeah, I still did not feel great. When we got off the train, the one who lived in Palma came up and checked my forehead then my cheek, then put his hand around the back of my head and told me they’d take care of me. (And he called me “reina” which is a term of endearment) and even though usually the last thing I’d want is a stranger touching me and calling me names dads call their daughters, I felt so cared for. Then, in a very strange parade – the six of us: three 22-year-old blonde (ish) American girls walked with three older Spanish gentlemen through the streets of Palma, as stated at the beginning of this very long blog. Once we were within site of the pharmacy, the three brothers began waving their arms like crazy and yelling hello to the one man’s wife. When we walked in, she clearly knew we were coming and had the exasperated air of a wife whose husband brings home stray puppies all the time. She would take care of it, but he was a little absurd. She felt my throat, asked about my stomach, and listened to my long list of allergies before giving me some antibiotics and something for my stomach. Now, my very strong preference would have been to research the medications and then take them if I felt okay about them, but before I could even process what was happening, the man who lived in Palma had already popped open the pills and was demanding water for me to take them. He even tried to get his wife to grind them up (“como los niños!” [like you do for little kids!] because my tonsils were so close to touching, but I quickly just swallowed the pills so as to not make even more of a scene than we already were. [note: Cassidy has a photo of this going down, I’ll see if she can send it to me]. Once all of this was done and I’d been given directions for the medicine, the men asked us if we wanted to go get sandwiches and coffee with them and we declined politely, thanking them for all their help, but telling them I needed to rest. They each sweetly gave us the classic Spanish cheek kisses and told me to get better. I stopped by a grocery store to get applesauce and a smoothie drink and then we went home. Though I was feeling better, it was still hard to walk a lot without stomach pains, so I stayed in while Cassidy and Olivia went out to enjoy their last night in Majorca. By the train home to Logroño the next day, I was feeling better, whatever I’d eaten had gone through my system. I was so grateful to have spent the weekend with friends from home and enjoyed island living for a couple of days. I was also very happy to be headed home. It has been a week now and I’m feeling recharged from all of my travels! Plus I got my first Spanish haircut, so there may be a forthcoming blog about that, as well as some general teaching updates J To fully understand this week’s blog post, I need to tell you about the comedian John Mulaney. Watch his stuff is on Netflix. Anyway, in one of his stand-up routines, he is talking about how he doesn’t particularly love babies and especially how babies will suddenly point at you, at which point he says, “and I do not care for that sh*t AT ALL.” Ali and I have taken to saying that to one another when things in Spain aren’t going the way we expected. It is with that same tone of humor, slight displeasure, but overall confidence that things are actually okay, that I write about our misadventures in Portugal. Despite all of the warnings not to, before coming to Spain I romantically planned my quick weekends away to other countries (or at least other parts of Spain) because, hey, you’re in Europe, isn’t it easy? Maaaaybe not so easy, but certainly an adventure, as I learned in my first trip outside of Spain this past weekend. What a whirlwind. I’m already ready to go back and spend more time there, soaking in the Portuguese tiles, nata, and sun. But let me tell you a little more. While Logroño is sold as “near everything!” the reality is that to get to places outside of Spain, and some inside of it, you have to go through Madrid or Barcelona, which means tacking on another 4-6 hour bus ride to your plans. We ended up having two days: Friday the 13th of October and then Saturday. Before arriving, we’d set up a tour on Saturday that would get us to 5+ destinations without depending on public transportation that limits location and timing. Friday was our open day. We went into it with a loose plan: Tower of Belem, eat Nata (the traditional dessert of Lisbon), explore the “pink street” and other tiled streets of Lisbon, get to the beach by early afternoon OR go to the tile museum, and then enjoy a seafood dinner. I try really hard not to be superstitious because I know it’s absurd and doesn’t have any logic to it. Plus, in Latin American countries (and Spain too I’ve since found out) the “unlucky day” is Tuesday the 13th, so Friday the 13th shouldn’t matter here, right? After this Friday, I’m not so sure. Between a friend’s wallet getting stolen, another friend falling into the ocean (she’s okay), and more, we didn’t do anything close to what we had planned. For my part, I loved the Tower of Belem and was even met some people who had a daughter that had gone to Pitzer while I was there. The views from the top of the tower were pretty unbeatable and I enjoyed being back on the ocean. History felt very close, especially down in the prison cells. By the time we left the tower, we heard my friend’s wallet had been stolen, but there wasn’t much we could do to help, so we went on to eating the nata. Nata is heaven. It’s actually a croissant typed crust with a custard center, but don’t let that material exterior fool you, it’s heaven. At Pateis de Belem, the true location of origin, they give you powdered sugar and cinnamon to put on top. I would eat that any day. By the time we were headed back into Lisbon, our friend was still at the police station working on a police report for her stolen wallet and it was mid-afternoon. Then I had something I needed to take care of back at the hostel. Beach, tile museum, cool streets and seafood did not happen. Pizza by the kilogram (also why isn’t that a thing in the US?) and bed early was more what we needed. As unexpectedly badly as Friday went, Saturday went unexpectedly well. Our driver, the champion of all tour guides Paolo, showed up and it turned out just to be a tour for our group, so we would be able to do exactly what we wanted and take the time we wanted to do it. Our first stop was a Moorish Castle in Sintra where I realized that my outfit choice of a dress had been a questionable decision when I’d packed the week before. It’s windy in the hills and castles of Portugal. I hereby apologize to all tourists who accidentally saw my underwear. Anyway… The castle was stunning though and from it we could see our next destination: the Pena Palace. The Pena Palace is a gorgeous yellow, orange/red, and tiled edifice with more Moorish influences that always manage to take my breath away. We explored around there for a while, taking a tour of inside the palace where the bedrooms and dining rooms were set up as they would have been. But the tile is really the thing that got me. I am pretty obsessed with the Portuguese tiles and Pena Palace had them all over. From the floor to the walls, each room had a unique tile pattern with vibrant colors. Eventually we got hungry and had to move on, so Paolo took us down to the beach to get food. Unfortunately for us, there was a wedding about to start at the first beach, so the one restaurant wasn’t about to serve a gaggle of Americans. After taking some pictures and soaking up the home-y feeling of the beach (for me), we sought food elsewhere. Naturally, before we found food we had to stop by an infamous lookout point where Paolo warned us seriously not to jump the fence because a couple had died last year and the drop was steep etc. No problem for me, I just stayed fifty feet away. It really was pretty, but I can already feel my palms starting to sweat as I attempt to describe the way the cliffs dropped into the ocean. After that, we finally stopped for food. My friend and I ordered shrimp to share and then I got a side of what I thought was bread and cheese. We waited for what seemed like forever before our various seafood dishes arrived. As it turns out, we had not ordered shrimp, and the creatures that were presented to us on a plate of butter and seasoning were staring at us with their dead black eyes. We looked at each other briefly in horror and began to mutter to one another about what was going on with the food until we realized that our friend across the table was hearing all of our ridiculous thoughts. The, prawns I think?, were delicious, but boy oh boy I was not anticipating digging through eyes and either brains or poop to get to it. On the other hand, my bread and cheese ended up being grilled cheese, so that was pretty nice. Paolo stopped in his hometown of Cascáis and encouraged us to get “the best ice cream in the world”, which we all readily agreed to. I will say, it was pretty darn good. Despite having booked our tour from 9-5, Paolo took us to every place we could want to go and let us stay as long as we wanted and we ended up getting back after 7. I’d wanted to go to a food market called The Time Out Market, which purportedly curates the best food of Lisbon and puts it in one convenient location, and while we’d heard it was more expensive, we decided we’d just check it out in case. It. Was. So. Cool. It wasn’t any more expensive than the other stuff we’d been eating and it was all so delicious. From sushi to octopus rice and then desserts, everything was incredible. I even sucked it up and tried the famous Lisbon cherry liquor when it was offered free of charge by the Brazilian bar tender who had also studied politics. I’m still going to stick to my beer or wine, but it was worth trying. At the Time Out Market, I was also able to meet up with a friend of mine from Pitzer who is taking the semester to travel abroad, so obviously is doing some pretty cool things. We finished the night with more gelato before preparing to head back to Spain on a bus where the air conditioning ceased to work in the back and then got in so late that we missed our second bus to Logroño and got in way later than we had wanted. All-in-all, travel doesn’t go how you want it to. Sometimes it goes better and you get to enjoy the intricacy and beauty of Portuguese tiles for hours at a time while frolicking through streets and seeing every possible tourist location. Other times everything goes wrong and your food has eyes and your bus is too hot and gets in late, and, as John Mulaney would say, “I do not care for that sh*t AT ALL.” Either way, I loved my weekend in Portugal and am looking forward to future trips (the next one is starting in t-minus 46 hours!) This is the blog I’ve been looking forward to writing the least, but knew I should write the most: adjustment. I know adjustment can go up and down and all around, so my plan is to write it a blog about it a couple times throughout the year. I’m writing this because it’s easy to gloss over the hard parts of things while blogging or posting on social media. People want pictures of you thriving at gorgeous castles and exotic beaches, not of you crying on your bed. And it’s not just that that’s what other people want, it’s what you want to post too, because who are you if you’re sad in Europe and not enjoying your chance to be abroad? I fell into that trap in Ecuador and don’t want to do it again, especially on the off-chance someone is reading this because they’re considering having a similar adventure. I want to keep it real. However, I’ll say it now and I’ll say it again, my adjustment is none-other that my own, everyone will be different blah blah blah. In many ways Spain has been easier to adjust to than Ecuador was for me (actually in pretty much all ways) so I’ve almost been hesitant to write this blog because it’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But let’s start at the beginning. Before leaving to study Ecuador, Pitzer students had to do this little preparation guide, which I believe the government set up for Peace Corps volunteers. Never mind that peace corps volunteers are there for two years versus our measly 5 and a half months, we had to do it anyway. I don’t remember much about the online orientation except the figure about cultural adjustment. I studied it for so long that I basically had it memorized. The graph is included because explaining it was really not working for me. Nearly every moment of feeling uneasy in Ecuador I thought to myself “okay, this is probably the initial downturn” and then later “this might be when you’re supposed to be really not doing well” but I was in constant anticipation of the big drop off. How unbearable would it be? Would I make it through? This wasn’t helped by the fact that I never had an initial excitement period in Ecuador. All-in-all, this was a terrible way to live. I decided, in going to Spain, I would do my best to not think about this cultural adjustment curve at all. I’d write my own. That being said, I unfortunately memorized the curve two years ago, so I can’t completely erase it from my brain. I got to Spain, had about 20 minutes on the bus where I was excited for my new adventure, and then it all went downhill. I’d be lying if I didn’t ask myself how my initial excitement period had, again, disappeared before arriving. This time I was a little wiser though and told myself there would be tons of ups and downs and to not get too caught up in what some random cultural adjustment curve had to say about it. So pretty much my whole first day traveling to Logroño I wanted to cry. I chalked it up to exhaustion and definitely cried a bit the first night, as I wrote about before. The second day, I made it through without actually crying, though I did feel pretty homesick. The next day, Friday, I went out to help Nelli set up her phone and bank account, but had more or less taken antibiotics on an empty stomach, so I had to sprint out of a store because I was sure I was going to throw up. I didn’t, because let’s be honest, I’d barely eaten anything for three days, but nothing makes you cry and want your mom more than dry-heaving throughout the streets of Spain until you make it back to your Airbnb. Luckily, we met up with more Fulbrighters for lunch that day and one of the first thing one said when our mentor asked what we’d done so far was “sit in my hotel and cry” and I instantly felt better. I was not the only one crying and missing home. Friday proceeded without incident, and I thought I was doing really well until I moved into my apartment on Saturday. For whatever reason, seeing my stuff made me super homesick. Then I couldn’t get through lunch without crying. I literally sat in a restaurant with two people I’d known for a total of two days and cried into my pasta while strangers looked on with pity and the waiter tried to mostly ignore it. I missed my own food, my normal schedule, my family, my dog, I even had a brief moment where I felt a kinship with Florida – though that dissipated rapidly. On Sunday Nelli and I left for Madrid and again, I couldn’t make it through our dinner. I couldn’t eat anything, I felt weak and terrible, and once we made it back to our hostel, I sat on the bed, crying, and texted my mom. My mom had just posted a photo of me during a cross country race, looking very tough and almost to the finish line, from my freshman year of high school (a disaster of a year) with this caption: “I love this photo of Jordan Jenkins. It captures her spirit, focus and determination. This was freshman year in High School 8 years ago. She fought fear that whole year having transferred from small Principia to huge public Grandview- but this is how she always responds - with courage, freedom and trust. Thinking of her this morning as she begins a wonderful new stage. I know she'll handle all that comes at her with the same qualities that brought her to this point. Love you, inconceivable.” This just made me cry more because I felt like I wasn’t living up to whoever that person was. I texted my mom (couldn’t call because of the lack of wifi) that I wasn’t sure I could make it through the year. What if I kept feeling this bad? What if I continued to not be able to eat? That definitely was not sustainable. I told myself that if I still felt as bad and sad as I did then in two months, I would consider my options. I was already ashamed and embarrassed and disappointed in myself – Fulbright had clearly chosen wrong when they picked me, someone else should be there. My first host family in Ecuador was right about me. I wasn’t tough enough. I wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t do it. Finally, I finished crying (and finished the smoothie that Nelli made sure we found for me, she is a saint for dealing with all of this) and went to bed. Aaaand, it’s been three weeks since then and I haven’t cried once (except when I found baby carrots at the grocery store and nearly cried with joy). In my mind, I picture those whiteboards from companies that say, “it has been 21 days since our last accident.” I can only barely begin to describe the difference. I am happy here, I am content here, I feel like I belong here. I am making friends, going on adventures, I feel safe. I like my apartment and my two apartment-mates. I like my school(s) and the teachers I work with. I like that I’m slowly learning and re-learning Spain Spanish. I’m lucky because I don’t stand out as being “other” as much in Spain, I know what a big impact that can make. Though at first all I wanted was a set schedule, I’m now looking for every adventure that comes my way because I don’t want to get set in mundane daily work, not looking forward to the next day. There are still times I feel sad or homesick. This morning I woke up and didn’t get out of bed for forty minutes because I really just wanted a hug from my mom (and for those of you who don’t know this already, I really don't like touching people often so that’s kind of a big deal). Or I needed my dad to barge in and say, “so are you running today or what?” I did eventually get up to run and felt better pretty quickly thereafter. I’ve learned this time that it’s okay to have moments of homesickness or sadness. They will go away, in the meantime, get up and do something. Even if it means writing a blog alone with music I like, watching Netflix, going to a café, or meeting up with friends. Most of the time, though, I don’t feel sad or homesick. Half of the time, if you asked me, I’d tell you I’d love to stay another year if I could. (Though you should ask me this in the Spring, we’ll see how I feel then). Maybe this is the promised “emotional high point” and I’ll come crashing down, but I’m not going to anticipate that. I do know there are things I don’t like and am adjusting to still (like how everything is closed in the middle of the day and on Sundays, grocery store layouts DO NOT make sense, sometimes I really just don’t understand what people are saying and can’t articulate the precise language I want to use, people stare at me when I run, etc.), but overall, I’m so very happy. *I know I’m posting this on the day of the massive shooting in Las Vegas. My love and thoughts go out to all affected. I urge everyone to remember that action is prayer.
Now, for a very different tone: No pasa nada is pervasive phrase that encapsulates much of the laid back Spanish attitude. It doesn’t have a direct translation in English, but essentially it means “it’s all good”/“no worries”/“it’s chill” all rolled into one. I’ve appreciated this saying because it’s very forgiving and goes hand in hand with the “tranquila” (chill, you’re good) and usually makes me feel like less of an idiot when I mess up some cultural norm – like forget to do the two cheek kisses or can’t describe what I need in Spanish. The teachers I work with also use it when students mess up so that the kids don’t get stressed-out or worried about a mistake – instead they can just focus on the next thing or getting the original thing right. However, there are times that make it fully evident that I have not fully adapted to the “no pasa nada” lifestyle. This weekend some of my friends and I joined other teaching assistants and students who are studying abroad at University of La Rioja on a trip organized by the University. Here is the exact transcription of the event description (which, yes, was written in English): “We were told that some people wanted to visit Clavijo and…wish granted! On Saturday (30th) we will be meeting in “Monumento al Labrador” beneath the statue at 10:50am. Please be punctual since we will have to take a bus. The price is a single urban ticket to buy on the bus, usually around 1 euro. Half of the trip will be on the bus and the other half walking (around 50 min, it is not a well connected town). Please, bring your own food.” Let’s recap: 10:50am, be punctual. Around 1 euro [each way]. 50 minute walk. Bring food. To prepare, on Friday I went a bought a bunch of snacks because I know how hungry I get and also I figured I could share in case people didn’t bring their own and I prepared for the following morning: I’d wear my running shoes, athletic tights, an athletic tank top and athletic long sleeve for layers, and then pack a fleece and my rain jacket for additional coverage. When I arrived to the base of the statue ten minutes early, I greeted my friends and told them all about my abundance of snacks (including juice boxes) in case they needed anything. I have since been dubbed “mom-scout.” Significantly after 10:50 (ahem “be punctual”) the “leaders” of the trip finally emerged and led us to our bus-stop where we waited long enough for each of us to get coffees and pastries at a nearby café. The bus cost 1.55 euros, so there was major blockage as each person, armed with a one euro coin, had to dig through their coin purses to produce the proper amount for their ticket. We were on the bus no more than 20 minutes when a loud whistle alerted us that our huge group was supposed to get off. On the ground again, the leaders told us to buy whatever we needed at a grocery store across the street, so we waited once again while people purchased last minute snacks. Finally, we began our “50 minute walk”. We went through the small town and directly into vineyards. It was beautiful and we were excited, but quickly we began to wonder where the castle was. There was nothing within what we considered 50 minute walking distance, only jagged mountains in the distance so we asked where we were going. Sure enough, that spiky mountaintop we were seeing in the distance was actually the pointy tips of the old castle. My friends and I looked at each other with some skepticism, but what we were going to do about it at that point? Onward and upward we went. Our walk soon became a straight up hike and, finally, after ALMOST TWO HOURS, Ali and I (who were yards ahead of anyone else) made it to the park at the bottom of the castle. Both of us like hiking and had been prepared with sneakers and hiking gear, but not everyone had been so lucky. We ate our snacks as people from our group joined us steadily. Once everyone had rested and eaten and questioned our “guide” thoroughly — he, as it turns out, had never done this trip before — we turned into the village to make our way to the actual castle. I was stoked because I haven’t been to many castles. We walked up the path leading to the entrance and with great anticipation I walked towards the archway. I walked through the door and almost ran directly into the barrier shielding you from the cliffs below. Yeah, so the castle was less of a castle and more of a couple walls left of one. We’d just hiked two hours to see a pretty cool old wall. It was still beautiful, and the views of the vineyards below were stunning, but it definitely wasn’t the castle you dream about going to when you romantically plan your trip to Europe. But, I love being outside and hiking in mountains with gorgeous views and fun people, so no pasa nada, right? There wasn’t too much to do at the castle besides take pictures so that you can show your family and friends you are indeed soaking up Europe and then sit and imagine what the castle looked like when people lived there, so before too long a few of my friends walked down to the little village to find a bathroom. We found a little café with an adorable elderly gentleman who kept telling us he couldn’t understand our Spanish and did we know that the Spanish language was invented right here in Rioja and also to please eat the peanuts. Before long we heard the now signature whistle that meant we needed to group up. It was getting late and we figured we could begin our long trek back to the town that could get us to Logroño. But apparently, there’s also ruins of a monastery nearby. I checked with the leader and he said it would only be 20 minutes out of our way and then 40 minutes back, to which I responded if he meant 40 minutes there and 80 back due to the fact that our original walk had been double what we’d been told. He said he was sure this time and dubiously I followed him. These ruins were also cool to see. Especially since I was actually expecting ruins. It was an overcast day in Rioja, so the red stone really stood out against the green grass and the gray sky. I was able to meet some more teaching assistants, students, and Spaniards. Though the path was much steeper, I don’t think it took me 20 minutes to get down and it definitely didn’t take 40 to go up. When we all made it back to the little village, we sat and took yet another coffee break. At this point I was a little irritated because it past five and I knew that we still had a long walk ahead of us. I guess since we’re adults we technically could have left, but alas. After a loooong coffee (or beer for some) break, we got back on the road. Again, Ali and I had little tolerance for even moderate speeds of walking, so we ended up ahead again, but this time we had a German guy named Claas (“Claas, like First Class” as he said) with us. The three of us chatted about the pitfalls of slow walking and disorganized outings and made the LONG HIKE (not a 50 minute walk) back more enjoyable. When we arrived to the village, fairly exhausted from having hiked 15 miles in the Spanish countryside and mountains, and checked the bus schedule, we found we’d missed the bus by four minutes and that the next one wouldn’t arrive for nearly two hours. While this was “no pasa nada” for many, a few of us were not about it. (Or, as I say “yes, pasa everything”). I began checking my phone to see how long it would take to walk to Logroño while Claas quickly figured out that if we walked twenty minutes to the next town, we could get on a bus right away. Claas led the way and our small group made it no problem to the next town and onto the bus and back to Logroño. To recap: our “50 minute walk” ended up being an over 15 mile hike and the whole outing took a whooping 9.5 hours. Despite all of this, I am so grateful I went. I wouldn’t have known how to do it on my own. I was able to bond with friends, make new friends, and spend a full day out in the mountains of Spain. The castle and the monastery were lovely and historic – as I said, it not what I pictured for my first castle of this year, but at the end of the day, that isn’t what mattered. I’m still sore from the 15+ miles, but still smiling from the incredulous looks and silly jokes my friends and I shared over our grand adventure that was not at all as advertised. At the end of the day, despite feeling like I’ve been adapting well to the Spanish way, I am clearly not made for the complete “no pasa nada” attitude quite yet, but I’m hoping I’ll get there. |
AuthorWelcome to the blog portion of my blog Archives
November 2018
Categories |