So I think it’s probably fitting that all my post titles be in Spanish from now on, which will be annoying to those who don’t know any Spanish and super fun for those who do!
But anyway, hi! Finally! It’s been a while.
I made it to Santander intact about a week and a half ago, and after a missed flight, a stay at a swank beachside hotel, getting settled in with the host family, the start of classes, a trip to three other little Spanish cities, and dropping my new camera numerous times and wanting to cry about it, I finally got a little time to splog (let’s lowercase it from now on like “tweet” and act like it’s so good a verb that we need to pretend like it’s part of the English lexicon). Internet access isn’t readily available for me, so updates might be coming a little less frequently than I hoped, but we’ll see. (Incidentally, that swank beachside hotel had no internet but did have free Spanish porn, which I guess is just kind of how Europeans roll.)
So ready for some updates? Of course you are. ¡Claro que sí! (Prepare yourselves for lessons like that; I predict they’ll be coming alllll summer.)
Now, I know no one likes boring airport stories about missing flights and blah blah blah, but yes, the trip began with a missed connection to Santander through Madrid that was preceded by frantic, unnecessary running. Luckily, I’d found some program pals on the way from Dallas to Madrid with whom to scramble and yell “perdón!” (or “¡perdón!” in Spanish) as people strolled along slowly in front of us on those flat escalator thingys. Group of American tourists making its European debut with shouts and confusion and shoving and general loudness? Done and DONE.
But after making it to Santander and staying in the fancy Hotel Chiqui (pronounced “cheeky” — I spent the whole time trying to come up with a good pun but got nothing; tell me if you have better luck) for a night, our host families came to pick us up the next day. After much anxiety — keep in mind that I’ve never really carried on long conversations in Spanish — I met María Josefa, who is a sweet retired lady who likes to go to the beach and do tai chi and is not at all a man, as the name “José” that people from the program provided me before I left led me to believe. María, who goes by “Pepa” for some reason that I still don’t really know, lives in an adorable, meticulous little Spanish apartment with incredible views of the bay of Santander during the day and of the city during the night. It really is beautiful, and it’s in the city’s restaurant district, which means it sits among streets of little Spanish cafes and bars. It’s kind of like Under the Tuscan Sun, except not in Tuscany. Or Italy. And also not a horrible movie. Just kidding. I’ve never seen Under the Tuscan Sun. I’m sure it’s great.
I have pictures but don’t really know how to work this upload thing on WordPress yet. Again, I’m 70.
But anyway, Pepa has a 21-year-old son, Miguel, who talks fast and whom I never really see and with whom I have yet to bond (it’ll happen; I can feel it), but the living situation so far has been very nice. And perhaps best of all, I’ve proven to be quite adept at carrying on full conversations in Spanish in non-classroom settings, if I do say so myself! I understand my host mom about 85% of the time and tend to only feel stupid and lost when I struggle with vocabulary (does anyone know how to say “eggplant” in Spanish? My guess is no) and some with speed, especially when they’re talking with their mouths full or something like that. But in general, using the language has been fun, and I feel enriched — and only sometimes stupid — after each conversation, which is progress, right?
Also: the food. Spanish food isn’t quite as exotic as some might think. In fact, it’s pretty tame for other-side-of-the-world cuisine. Staples include bread, ham, cheese, bread, fried things, ham, cheese, bread, fried coatings, cheese, bread and fried cheese and bread. No, not really — my host mom makes lots of delicious stuff, a lot of it pretty healthy. But that wasn’t entirely an exaggeration: The carb intake can be incredibly high and the vegetable intake quite low, and it’s no wonder I’ve seen Spaniards walking out of the little grocery stores with bags of Activia.
Oh and remember how last time I was joking about weird timetables? While adjusting to the Spanish meal schedule of consuming the biggest meal of the day around 2 or 3 and a light dinner at 10 or 11 hasn’t been too difficult, I didn’t realize that it doesn’t get dark here until about 11. Am I stupid for not knowing that things like that happen outside of the North Pole?
Anyway, more talk of timetables and carbs and class and Spaniards and international awkwardness soon. It’s 6 p.m. here, which, bearing in mind the Spanish schedule, means it’s time for breakfast or something.
Sploggy 