Estoy aquí, con las cingüeñas y mis pensamientos

I’ve been in Spain for less than 48 hours, and I’m already feeling relatively comfortable, although I don’t expect it to last.

The flight was not too bad. The most exciting part was toward the end of the flight to Madrid. I looked out the window, past the man next to me who works for the World Bank who took 50 pictures of the sunrise over the Atlantic, and saw the Spanish landscape, which was notably different from America. Middle America is full of plots in definite geometric shapes, rigid lines and perfect circles. Spain’s plots are wavy and unsure. It was obvious symbolism: America is predictable and familiar, whereas Spain is foreign and made me feel unsure of myself. It wasn’t a good omen.

When I got off the plane, I realized the toll that 24 hours of travel takes (I left Los Angeles at 9:00am Friday and arrived around 9:00am on Saturday in Madrid). But I was instantly struck with a mini-panic attack when I stepped on the jetway. The head of my program, Miguél Ángel, sent me an e-mail a week ago, telling me that I had to call him to pick me up after I got my bags in Madrid. And of course I freaked out. I would have to find a pay phone (which you can’t find in the US anymore, but they’re pretty much all over Alcalá), use a different currency, figure out how to use the pay phone from the Spanish instructions, and then, of course, speak in Spanish to Miguél Ángel, after which I was supposed to understand everything he told me, including where to meet him, which was not going to happen. I was pretty much dead.

I got my bags with no problem, and operated the pay phone without trouble, unlike the other abroad Americans, who were looking around with concern like puppies waiting for attention from a kind passerby, who turned out to be me. But I spoke to Miguél Ángel and couldn’t understand most of what he said, even though I kept responding, “¡Sí, sí, sí!” He corrected me when I called him “Miguél Ángel.” Ángel was one of his apellidos, or last names, and not his second first name, as I thought, like Mary Jane or Carol Ann. I stopped really listening after that. I had shamed myself.

He asked, “¿Entiendes todo? Vamos a unirte a fuera de la cinta de equipaje.” “¡Sí, sí, sí!” But really, all I understood was “a fuera de” which meant “outside of.” So, I went outside of the baggage claim, and saw many people with signs for other people. One sign read, in big block letters, GRIFFIN, so I approached him, but then I saw, in much smaller letters, MRS., above my name. I wasn’t fazed; this wouldn’t be the first time someone mistook me for a woman. But the man holding the sign was too seedy to be my Miguél. So I went outside of the airport. The first road was especially for taxis, but even so, I waited for a good ten minutes, wearing the same look the other American abroadees at the pay phones wore. I crossed the street and walked down the main road, looking in parked cars at unsuspecting strangers. Then I freaked out. It was at least fifteen minutes since I talked to Miguél, and he had told me he would get there in five. So I ran back into the terminal, sweating bullets, and jogged right past Miguél and Mayte, the head of the other program in Madrid. “¿Griffin?” he yelled at me as I sprinted by. I turned around, shamed again, and now with a sweaty red face, and said, “¡Sí, sí, sí!” But this time I was sure. And I felt even more relieved when we went to retrieve the other Tufts students from their terminal. Familiar faces.

But the flight had seriously taken it out of me, and I was too tired to absorb much else on my first day. We took a bus to Alcalá de Henares, and arrived at the university. We ate an enormous lunch (la comida) of pasta alfredo with bacon, roast chicken with potatoes, and caramel flan. I was stuffed and tired, but I had to sit through three orientation meetings about classes and our families. After the meetings, which lasted three hours, I returned to my room with my roommate and we both fell asleep immediately, missing the night of tapas with the other students.

We fell asleep at 8:00pm, and I woke up at 4:30am. I tossed and turned for an hour, thinking about everything, doubting everything, worried that I had already slipped into culture shock. I can’t speak this damn language. I can’t understand half of what these people are telling me. Nothing here is comfortable, including this damn bed. But it was all fleeting, and I thought about Logan, and my parents who were so excited for me, and my friends who were all so supportive and hopeful, and the video that Lucy and Hannah made that made me laugh the night before. It was all okay. I slept until 8:30am, about 12 hours. Not bad.

Today, we walked through Alcalá. The first thing I noticed, aside from the gorgeous churches and university buildings, and classic European streets, were the birds. There are thousands of storks lining the roofs of Alcalá’s buildings, especially those around the Universidad de Alcalá. Cingüeñas. And I thought it was fitting. Storks bring babies, and we’re all babies here, as Andrew so eloquently put it in broken Spanish. Las cingüeñas delivered us here, and they’re staying to watch over us from the roofs, making sure we’re safe. I felt better after that, knowing that someone was looking out for me in Alcalá. Especially when they have proxies in Miguél and Mayte, two of the sweetest, most patient people I’ve met in Spain. Then again, I’ve met five people.

After a “practical trip” through Alcalá, and after we all realized how small it really is, we had a half hour to kill before la comida. The group of Tufts student walked back through the center of town, through La Plaza de Cervantes and down Calle de Mayor. Today was the carnival for San Antonio, and the plaza was filled with horses, who filled the streets with sweet sounds of hoof on cobblestone and awful smells.

And just as all of us were becoming comfortable with each other (or more comfortable using Spanish around each other, because Tufts students always get along) we were taken away by our host families. My host mother, Pilar, is a mother and grandmother, and her son Símon is a thirtysomething still living at home. Her daughter, Sara, is in Cuba with her husband, Michan, and their two year-old son, Alan. Pilar made a beautiful dinner of jamón ibérico, chicken consommé, and tortilla de patatas con insalata. All of it was delicious, and I faked my way through a conversation with her about Obama, Cuban politics, and her thoughts about growing older, from the births of her two children to her grandson. But it seems as though she likes me. I smile a lot, and I hope that helps. I add a little of my own here and there (about my many parents, about Logan, about sQ!, about beatboxing, etc.) to show her that I’m not a smiling mute. But I’m still scared. I wish I were still with my Alcalá-Tufts friends, and at the same time I’m glad I’m away from them tonight. We were slipping into English whenever we left Miguél and Mayte, even though we’re supposed to speak Spanish all the time. After 48 hours, I feel a bit more confident with the language. Today, I understood everything Miguél and the other program heads said (Mayte, the activities director Sergio, and the families coordinator Angelines), but Pilar speaks with such speed and colloquial gusto, it’s difficult to catch everything. It’s a beautiful apartment in the middle of the city. Five minutes walk from the trenes, one minute from the autobuses, three minutes from the Universidad. See? I’m already in the Spanish mood. If I write any more, I’ll lose it.