To All The Cities I’ve Loved Before

After avoiding writing this blog post for some time, I return to my keyboard today for Round 2, with the goal of sharing something that expresses “what the last 6 years in London has meant to me”. From previous experience, personal growth over the last couple of years, and a general desire to want to remember how I felt during certain periods of my life, I know it’s important to take time out after a significant life event or the closing of a chapter to process. So why do I avoid it so much? My hypothesis is this: reflecting on the past forces humans to think about the good, the bad, and the ugly – all at once; there are obvious risks involved in doing this. For example, if we relive the memory of the “good” the past brought us, the blissful moments spent in pure happiness and joy could prove difficult to relive, resulting in inevitable nostalgia and foreshadowing a bleak future. If we relive the memory of the “bad”, we may inadvertently go back to the dark place that we were once in (and finally mustered the courage to slowly creep out of). Or perhaps, reminiscing on the “ugly” would lead us to a path of resentment, where hatred and anger resurface, causing further pain and blocking progression towards the future. How do we avoid all of this? Don’t reflect, duh. Sure that’s the easy thing to do, but we all know perhaps not the most fruitful.

So, as I prepared for my fourth international move a couple of weeks back, you would think I had hacked a way to “make it work” – cracked the code, solved the mystery, found the secret passage out, become more efficient (I am a Consultant, after all) in finding a way to remember & reflect without inflicting any of the side effects on me in the process. With that secret sauce to success, some sort of concoction or formula that was tried and tested, I could make the upcoming transition, at least mentally, from London to Shanghai seamless – because surely the fourth time you go through the same type of big life event, you know what the process will be like…right? I kept wracking my brain to think of the “international move checklist” I could (or should) have started to prepare from previous times that I had moved:

• Meet up with friends?
• Give away books and clothes?
• Finish off the restaurant bucket list?
• Relive the good, bad and the ugly (and remember it for the reflection later on)?
• Etc. etc. etc…

But it didn’t seem to work. Why on earth could I not remember the Rules of Cross-Continental Shifting? Well, dear friend, I think it’s because moving across time zones is a bit like dating – every person (or city) you encounter comes with its own experience – you either have chemistry (or you don’t), maybe you work well for a bit and then drift apart, perhaps you start off in an intense way and then realize you’re stifling each other as individuals and it’s time to let go. And though each of these relationships can teach you important life lessons – about yourself, the other and the world around you both – none of those lessons can protect you from what the future holds in the next relationship; it just isn’t completely transferrable in process or preparation for the next one.

Similarly, the experiences I’ve had in each of the cities I’ve lived over the past 28 years has required its own headspace and mindset as well as time and place in my life. Despite this, I’ve held a significant memory of each city I’ve shared some time with – much like we do in relationships – leading me to my conclusion: I choose to date cities over people. So, in breaking up with London and starting a new relationship with Shanghai, what are my reflections?

Ah, well when you put it that way, that is a much easier question to answer. In finding my muse, I can reflect more easily on what London has meant to me, in the context of my other city relationships. And so, in true Lara Jean fashion, I choose to share my thoughts by writing letters: “To All the Cities I’ve Loved Before”. For me to fully understand what London has meant over the last 6 years, we must go all the way back to Washington, D.C. And why, you ask? Well, you see, D.C. was my first…

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To: Washington, D.C., USA – My First, True Love
Dear D.C.,

I wanted to survive in your world. You may not have known it, but you were where I first realized I was a city girl. You taught me so much over our time together – from finally appreciating that there are other forms of commuting than driving, to learning the art of walking for fun rather than exercise. You showed me that healthy food didn’t have to taste bad and even gave me the foresight into how friendships could be global in nature but still stay strong years later.

We had four, blissful years together – which came with its ups and downs, of course – but I felt we parted ways with each one being grateful and humbled by the experience of meeting one another. You helped me grow into a confident, young woman and were the first to not only tell me that I had a bright future but also start to show me what I could do with all the fire and potential I had built up inside. When I met you, I was homeless, confused, and didn’t know if I could fend for myself. Despite all of this, you took me in and showed me that I could embrace my previously labeled flaws by reinventing them into Survivor Scars. Over time, these scars represented both my ability to survive, as well as thrive, both in our relationship and in the outside world. Both were initially completely new, foreign, and out of my comfort zone, to say the least – but you made them feel like a place I could rest safely at night.

When things got tough between us, I found myself resenting you for not fulfilling the needs and expectations I started to create for our relationship. Even if I didn’t explicitly say it at the time, it was important to me that we took some time away to regroup and see what life was like without each other, and I’m grateful for the six months we took apart, so I could see what else was out there for me. In the end, it meant I could come back to you and appreciate what we had together and what else I could give to us. Looking back, I think our time together was special for several reasons: I was young, naïve, and ready to learn and grow; you were older, confident and had been in several relationships. But all this meant you knew what I needed and how to take care of me whilst giving me my independence to explore who I wanted to be in the world. And through this, we kept an open mind and saw each other for what we truly were becoming at the time.

Most importantly, though, we knew our relationship was ephemeral, and though the end of University marked the end of our time together, you will always have a special place in my heart. And if you ever wonder, “Why me?” well the answer was always so simple: Because you saw me when I was invisible. * Thanks for being my first, true love, D.C. – you opened my eyes to the joy that love could bring, and I am forever grateful.

Yours truly,
Noreen

*Quote from Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries

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To: Madrid, Spain – My Summer Love
Querida Madrid,

I wanted to be immersed in your world. I will never forget the first time we met – I was lost in an alley, only to be suddenly greeted by a vociferous gentleman, whom I later found out was my host dad. Being in your presence on our first walking date together, I found myself in awe of all that you could offer, but at the same time, I was dismissive – I was still heartbroken and angry with D.C. and couldn’t see beyond that. Over time, our chemistry spurred a need for me to know more about you, and it was obvious we were both happy with each other in the moment; nothing else mattered. You were my American-girl-goes-to-Europe-and-falls-in-love rom com story that everyone wanted – and I got to have whilst abroad for the first time.

Though I was initially turned off by how different we were to one another and had never anticipated us to be friends, let alone lovers, I later realized that you helped me discover a part of my personal identity that I didn’t fully appreciate before – my religion. And though your faith continues to be different from my own, you gave me the chance to explore this with you, not once but twice, when we were together.

In you, I realized the love I still had within me to give to D.C., and though it was time for me to go back to see that through 6 months later, a little part of me always wondered: what would happen if we truly pursued something together in the long-term? In all honesty, it’s why I kept seeing you every time I was nearby, to see if I strongly felt one way or another, to see if there was ever the urge to commit wholeheartedly to making “us” work. But when we last met in November 2018, things with London were getting a bit better, and it was then that I knew – our differences, albeit blissfully ignored by both of us when together, were still there and would never fully be reconcilable, neither by each other nor by the outside world. Just because we loved each other didn’t mean we were compatible. And that’s when I let go of the idea of “us” being anything more than a distant memory – because I know what the rom coms say: you can’t lose something you never had to begin with…*

Con todo mi corazon,
Nora

*Quote from Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy In 10 Days

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To: Amaan, Jordan – My Almost Lover
Ya Habibi Al Urdun,

I wanted to admire the beauty of your world. Oh, where do I even begin? Fairuz always had the perfect words to describe your beauty, your elegance, your hospitality – you always had it all, and everyone always knew. Though I could never attempt to praise you the way Fairuz does, one of the things I continue to love the most about you is your passion and zest for life and all its wonders.

Our time together was brief, yet cherished, and we always knew this was going to be the case. I am most happy in knowing, though, that we made the most of it from the day I arrived in your arms. In you, I learned that it’s okay to spend time reliving my youth, enjoying life’s daily pleasures, and living in the moment as each one passes by. You taught me that finding myself is part of the process of self-discovery, rather than the fall of it, and that just because all good things must come to an end, doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them whilst they are still happening.

We shared so many special memories – late night drives to Shawarma Asa3g, Eid festivities in your backyard, meeting people that became friends and friends that became family, and starting the weekend on Thursday’s, as per the Arabic saying. I would have never seen the light and hope that the Middle East offers if it was not for your openness and honesty. In four, short weeks, you convinced me of a lifetime of love that we could have together. And Insha’Allah, one day, we will reunite again to finish our love story. It may not be fully written, but it will never be lost for me, because I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.

Ya’atek al afiya ya habibi,
Nura3yn

*Quote from Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail

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To: London, UK – My Love-Hate Lover
Dearest London,

I wanted to prove I could stick it out in your world. Writing to you is always the hardest, because even though I grew the most in our relationship, you also caused me the most pain. I remember when I visited you for the first time on a weekend trip, I remember thinking, “Great city. Would never want to live in it.”. Maybe it was that sentiment that stuck with me as I begrudgingly came to you 2.5 years after that encounter, in the pursuit of something completely different than what you had to offer. In some ways, being with you during my mid-20’s was both a blessing and a curse, because it gave me the chance to go through every emotion I could with you: excitement at what was going to come, anger at what our relationship had become, loneliness when you made sure the first thing people saw in me was my American accent rather than what my voice could bring to the table, and hope that I could turn it all around before I finally left you for good. When I had had enough, you retaliated with the bitter cold, gloom & doom (sometimes in one go). At one point, the abuse became too much to handle: physical I endured, emotional I conceded, mental I despaired, and psychological – I just couldn’t bear.

After D.C. showed me how to use love to survive, Madrid reminded me I always had the choice to be loved, and Amman loved me unconditionally and with open arms, you continued to disappoint. But all the previous relationships I had been in taught me something I carried with me into ours – resilience. When you fought, I fought harder. When you told me I was anxious or depressed, I sought help. When you left me alone, I found friends. When you told me I had to stay, I decided it was time to finally go. And at each step of the way, I persevered, with or without you by my side.

There was a lot I hated about you, but I soon realized I didn’t need to hate you to love myself – and so, I did. I hated it when you made me cry, but I chose to laugh with myself instead. I hated it when you gave me gloom and despair, but I decided the cold never bothered me anyway. I hated it when you made me stay longer than I wanted, but I chose to make the most of the days we had together instead. And today, I can honestly say that although I hated you for all that you did, I still love that I had the chance to learn from each experience in the end.

So, as I finally seek freedom from you and leave you (at least for now), I want to let you know that I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. And I know that even though you will always be cold and gloomy, there will always be a part of you that hates to love me, too.

With all my love,
Noreen

*Quote from Julia Stiles in Ten Things I Hate About You

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To: Shanghai, China – What Is Love?
Zūn Jìng De Shanghai,

I know we just met, but I want to be myself in our world. Aside from that, the rest is still unwritten. So, let’s get started, shall we?

From Royal Throne to Royal Palace: Hiatus Edition

It’s been two months since I’ve started my program at the Institute of Ismaili Studies, working toward’s a Master’s and a Certificate in the Graduate Program on Islamic Studies and Humanities (GPISH), and I have to say, it has been one hell of a ride thus far. I had my first all-nighter experience this past week, followed by a presentation I failed, only to be called out in class by a professor who didn’t think my work had any value to the topic of discussion. Talk about the trials and tribulations of going to Grad School. I didn’t necessarily expect the experience to be the same as college, but I also knew it would be easier for me to make the transition to the UK Higher Education system, relative to my Eastern-educated peers. Then, I remembered that (like many of my peers back home) I am a procrastinator by nature. The worst part of this was not realizing this, but rather realizing that not everyone else a procrastinator, too.

Academics aside, making the transition to London has been just as great of a challenge as I feared it would be. Having gone to college in a place where 90% of the population was white, brand loyalty reigns the entire campus, and American social norms cause great conformity. I’ve spent the past 21 years of my life adapting to the lifestyle I found around me, assuming this is the way the world works. Boy, was I wrong. The transition to this specific niche within London is nothing like I’ve ever expected. All my life, I grew up with the notion that expressing too much brown culture was not valued or accepted, and I truly believed the best way to assimilate to the American-Pakistani culture was by balancing both within a majority-American environment. This all came crashing down when I found myself at the Institute, in an area where the prevalent Indo-Pak culture reigns any signs of British etiquette holding weight. I’ve got to applaud the UK on it’s successful inclusion of all ethnicities and diverse backgrounds–even places like Camden Market will have a Peruvian, Ethiopian, and Malaysian stand all in a row, which is something hard to come by, even in as metropolitan of a city as DC. However, this comes at the expense of assimilation to a British culture. Sure, British imperialism swept over half of the world as we know it today, but in the process, did the UK forget to create its own identity in adopting those of all of the countries it sought out? I’m not exactly sure, but I think Diwali on Trafalgar Square might be able to help answer that question…

In all candor, I’ve seen some pretty awesome stuff here in the past two months, and despite the god-awful damp and cold treachery of a climate London brings with it, running into Benedict Cumberbatch at the London Film Festival, eating at Dishoom for half-price, attending a Georgetown Alumni Welcome Happy Hour, wandering the streets of Spitafields Market on a Saturday afternoon, or even sitting at the TimberYard coffee shop in Shoreditch on a Friday afternoon have all been experiences I’m happy to have had taken on and hope to share with friends in the upcoming months. My own set of friends have been made here in London, none of which happen to be British, and it seems like every day makes it harder to interact with people outside of the GPISH Program. In addition, seeing the heightened tensions of clashing cultures, the waxing curiosities of my already too-close-for-comfort peers, and the perpetual, never-ending mountains of readings have all made me wish London could just hold on for an extra second or two. The city has got so much to offer, and it all happens simultaneously, leaving me feeling like I can’t keep up. I thought I didn’t want to live where Whitney from The Hills had to juggle love, work, and school? Indeed, this isn’t New York City–then why does it feel like that’s exactly what I signed up for?

Having had enough of the buzz and no white friends to confide in (American, British, or otherwise), I decided to utilize the reading week given in the middle of each term to clear my head and refocus my energy by trying to find what I love and who I am as a person, not a person in a particular city. So, I came to the city that challenged that very part of me to its core–Madrid. Visiting my host family here for five days, I knew this was a place where I could be left alone with my own thoughts and let them come to a fruition of their own. At first, I wasn’t exactly sure how I would react to being back in Madrid, as the city and I left on good but compromised terms. Coming back to the city, however, brought back such sweet memories and made me realize the inherent value it gave me without asking for much in return. Sure, I cried the moment I realized some days would suck and there was nothing I could do about it, because this was my new home. But I also came to terms with this fact, until I was uprooted from it again and consoled by a change, in typical nomad fashion.

No, this reconvening with the city was different, though, as it reminded me of how I spent countless hours with my friend Esteban on the metro, talking about nothing and everything all at once, or how I used to run through my neighborhood of Salamanca on the Upper East side of Madrid in the spring months to take advantage of the beautifully mesmerizing weather. The smell, the people, the movement–it all suited my pace at the moment and was a sweet, fading memory that came back to life. And I was happy it was there, ready for it to stay with me for the next five days I had to rekindle with the city.

This past weekend in particular has been everything I’ve dreamed for the past two months. Saturday morning I woke up after an 11 hour slumber, ate breakfast with my host family, walked around the city and bought a sweater from C&A, had lunch with the family, drank my usual 4pm espresso and watched a movie that led me to fall into a cat nap (as is Saturday custom in the Gonzalez De Frutos Gomez household), showered, went to dinner at VIPS (the Spanish version of Five Guys) with my host sister, watched another movie, and was in bed from all of the day’s activities by 1am. It was the perfect Saturday, and everything I had wanted from Madrid for the weekend. Leisure and family were two of the most important things I was missing from London, and here it was in Madrid, waiting for me to come and appreciate it.

Sunday has been a similar day, finding Spanish customs to recognize and appreciate for the perspective they bring. At the Indian restaurant my host parents took me to today, I listened to Indian food being ordered with Spanish conceptions of food “give me those empanada appetizers (aka samosas)” and “let’s pair it with some of those spinach pieces (aka pakoras)”. The best part: when I mastered the art of eating Indian food with Spanish etiquette, using my naan de queso (cheese naan) as a scooper for eating Palak (Spinach) curry and rice, instead of the method by which I eat the meal itself.

Pictured above: Lunch at an Indian restaurant with my Spanish host family in October in Madrid.

Having to re-teach and re-learn a lot of my Spanish, these past couple of days have been both a relief and a realization of how much more flexible I’ve become towards accepting new cultures and backgrounds since I studied abroad. Although I was ready to leave Madrid when I did, looking back on the experience I am so thankful I was given the opportunity to be forced into an entirely new culture. Spain made me more appreciative of life, family, friends, and the culmination of those with personal goals, work/school balance, and what culture I want to create a family in for the future. It took me coming back here to be thankful of everything this city has taught me, and I’m hopeful that my time away from London will bring me to a similar conclusion. But for now, the struggle to find a home in this city lingers, and coming back to Heathrow only brings with it the same newfound anxiety, worry, and treachery it did back in mid-August. The only difference? It’s getting colder, and Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is indeed on the horizon.

Two’s A Crowd, Three’s A Party…Until They All Fall Down.

If we consider the wise words above by Andy Warhol to hold true, then the pueblicito (little town) named Consuegras that 88-year-old Antonio lives in with his four chickens, three goats, and one horse definitely charts itself proudly on the map of being deemed a party town. If you count the chickens, goats, and lonesome horse then you might even get enough of a population to hold elections for a mayor, soon. In this Spanish rural village located in the outskirts of Madrid, Antonio may be in the running to rule this pueblo, as he is considered the oldest member of this village and the only person who has lived in Consuegras for his entire life, but he wouldn’t accept the challenge at governing a town now. “I like to live and do things by myself,” he said to me in one of the thickest countryside Spanish accents I have ever heard,“and anyway, we don’t need a mayor…we do just fine helping each other out.” His old age doesn’t help project his voice when speaking to me, nor my short-lived life in Madrid as an accentuated Spanish-speaker to catch everything he says and understand it well. Often times, I nervously laugh in response, as one does when it’s futile to continue attempting to understand what someone else says, and my host father Jacobo’s younger sister Petusa saves the day every hour or so by helping repeat what Antonio is saying in slower and louder Spanish.

Okay, but really: exactly how many people live in this “little” village? Antonio’s older niece Margarita, a 65-year-old or so nurse that lives about an hour away from her uncle in a larger town named Segovia, tells me there are a full eight people that live in Consuegras (if you count la casa rural (the farmhouse) where an elderly couple live), although they are technically outside of the town limits to be considered a part of Consuegras. “Sometimes the number drops to six people in the winter, when the weather gets bad and you don’t have many crops to rely on.” In the summer time, folks that have rented homes here come by for the weekend, but kids have stopped living here about eleven years ago, and it is mainly the elderly that tend to the land and care for the village. I ask Antonio if he knows the names of each of the members in this pueblicito, and he tells me he would be a bad resident if he didn’t. He lists off each member without hesitating, then follows up by proudly telling me the names of his farm animals as well. Antonio may walk with a crane and have lost half of his teeth, but neither of those could stop him from beating me in a 5k run around this village or recite from memory information like the names of his chickens and village members.

Today is a special day in Consuegras because it is the Día del Festivo del San Antonio, meaning the festival of the patron saint in this town. Every year, Antonio graces this day with his village-wide famous cordero, a delicious lamb that is cooked in a dome, wooden-fired oven sitting right inside the elderly man’s house. Margarita tells me her uncle woke up at 6am this morning to begin preparing the lamb, having cut it last night and hanging it to dry overnight so the skin would become hard and be easier to peel off later on. This morning, Antonio cut the one and a half month old animal into four parts and placed each quarter of the animal on a large plate that he then put in a large oven, which occupied a third of the entire house. Antonio sits in a chair and has been tending to the lamb for fifteen-minute intervals for the past six hours. It’s a long, hard job to make the meat warm and tender to perfection, but Antonio does it every time there is a special occasion in the town, and Margarita mentions that this special occasion can be anything from a birthday to a wedding, and obviously the annual Día del Festivo de San Antonio, summing up to a total of ten times per year.

When my host family invited me to come to Consuegras for the day, I squealed of excitement and immediately accepted, not even knowing what or who Consuegras was. Jacobo later explained me to me his relationship with Antonio: when he was about thirteen months old, Jacobo’s mother was summoned to Consuegras to teach the children of the surrounding villages, about 50 students in total at the time. She was la maestra (the teacher) and stayed in Consuegras for about a year and a half before leaving to go back to her hometown of Segovia when she was pregnant again with who is now tía (aunt) Petusa, Jacobo’s younger sister. During that time, she formed a great bond with the people living in the village and became close friends with Antonio, a young lad at the time. Ever since then, Jacobo’s mother would return each summer with her kids to visit Antonio and Consuegras, and they have remained in contact ever since. Although Jacobo’s mother passed away eleven years ago, their family has remained very close to Antonio and has always had a special place for Consuegras in their hearts, so much so that they come back every year to celebrate the Festival of the Saint Antonio and eat the best lamb in the world.

In total, sixteen members were in attendance at Antonio’s house, making for quite a bustling little village that Saturday afternoon. After lunch, we all sat outside and enjoyed the cool breeze, warmth of the Spanish sun, and beautiful scenery that the village had to offer. After chatting with various members of the family, I finally got a chance to sit down with Antonio for a bit and ask him about life, although aunt Petusa helped me translate a bit. He was a feisty man of sorts, ready to tackle on anything and anyone who came his way and very protective of the place he called home. Yet, he was also the most loving grandfather in the world, and after about ten minutes of talking to him, he mentioned I should consider staying in Consuegras if I don’t have much going on back home. “How old are you, pretty girl? Doesn’t matter. There is a great priest here, I’m sure you could marry him and stay here. He’s quite young and a handsome lad.” Antonio started laughing, as I nervously imitated his response by laughing too, and I thought he was serious before his niece mentioned that priests couldn’t get married so Antonio was only poking fun, to which he reiterated that living in his little pueblicito was a whole-hearted offer. Thankfully, my host mother saved me by mentioned I was to return to the US in a couple of weeks, and the two of us chatted some more about “home on the range.”

Suddenly, Antonio looked at his niece Margarita and told her that he needed to get going, as it was his time to get ready for the procession that evening at 7pm. I looked at my watch: it was 5:38pm. Margarita told her uncle to calm down, as he would have plenty of time to get ready and look super guapo (handsome). At 6pm, Antonio stood up and escorted himself to his bedroom, to which Margarita finally decided to get up and lend him a hand in preparing his clothes for the procession. The church bells rang 7pm, and soon, tons of children, adults, and elderly people all filed through the main street in the village to head towards the church and begin the official procession. The patron saint was carried out as Margarita told me they would take it all around the village (which takes about fifteen minutes in total) and then begin dancing la jota, a popular footwork-based dance of the town and northern Spain, similar to what flamenco is to the southern half of the country. The procession flew by and children dressed in red and black long skirts began dancing and cheering along the tiny alleys of the village. Thirty people had come in total, which Margarita said was a great turnout for the year. It wasn’t everyday you see this many people in such a small, rural town, and soon we saw Antonio proudly standing at the front of the procession and leading the festivities, walking cane in hand and all.

The festivities came to a close, and the goodbye’s filtered in. I hugged and thanked Antonio and Margarita for all of their hospitality and love that day, letting them know I would never forget such an incredibly beautiful town, as my host family and I filed back into our van and headed back for Madrid. We arrived back into the city at around 10pm, but the sun still hadn’t set, letting me hold onto the lingering memories of such a sweet family living in a rural Spanish village that I would hope to never forget.

The experience was indeed unforgettable, although I am sure ten years down the road I would forget it, but that was not what I carried with me on the hour-long drive home. What I did know was that no matter how much I hoped to never forget Antonio, Margarita, or the little village of Consuegras, it’s charm had made my world that much smaller and my insights that much larger. And that’s all I really hoped to seek out from my study abroad experience. I didn’t necessarily want to fall in love, climb the social ladder, or even assimilate myself into a new culture. All I really wanted from this experience this entire time was to be humbled, to be grateful for all that I have been given, and to remember that there are people out there with less than myself who live happier than I could ever be. That’s what makes this experience worth it, and I think it was a lesson waiting to be found in the little pueblicito of Consuegras.

Antonio taught me more about life that day that I could have ever sought out myself, and to him, I was eternally thankful. Meeting him had indeed made my world just a bit smaller and my experience in Spain that much more meaningful, and no amount of thank you’s would be able to convey that. En fin, you may forget the story, but you’ll never forget the lesson. Although I do hope I never forget this special day in little, tiny Consuegras, I know my outlook on life has been ever so slightly changed, giving me the courage to keep seeking out the road less traveled. That is inevitably what we all seek for: a path that differentiates us from others, makes us our own person, and widens our world to encompass more of our external environment each time. In Spain, it’s never adios, always hasta luego (see you later). So as I reach back home to Madrid this evening, I can only say hasta luego, Consuegras. Until next time, when my world will hopefully be even smaller and my insights even larger than they are today…

Goodbye, My Almost Lover

End of yet another week at Complutense, followed up ahead by a final group session with all of the Georgetown program students in Madrid this semester and a Goodbye dinner in the evening for the Spanish mentors and us. Having just gotten out of my Islam in Spain final, I was in full throttle finals mode, thinking about all of the work I have left ahead of me. It was quite an ironic situation though because the next day, I was headed on a three-day vacation to Barcelona, only to come back to Madrid and study like crazy for another three days and rock my remaining finals. As I could only respond to the situation I had put myself into with “Well, that’s Spain for ya” and almost laughed at how I would have already dropped out of Georgetown had I casually planned a weekend trip during such an important time in the semester, I walked into the Facultad de Geografía y Historia and sat down in the second row of classroom B-16.

The powerpoint titled, “Reverse Culture Shock” finally revealed why we were here. After all, I needed to get home, shower, get ready, and head back out for the Goodbye dinner at 9pm right after this meeting. I hoped it wouldn’t last too long, although I knew I was only kidding myself once I read the first reflection activity we would be doing. Our coordinator Ani began talking about logistical things to keep in mind as the semester came to a close: closing bank accounts, getting letters of recommendation from professors, deciding whether or not to pay for the Metro pass for the month of June. All good things to keep in mind, until she put up a slide titled, “Reflection On Your Study Abroad Experience.” Crap. I didn’t really want to reflect, I just wanted to get back to the U S of A and do stupid things with my friends again. The last thing I wanted to do was reflect on how great of an experience Spain had been, particularly because throughout the past four months, the one thing I had learned was that everyone tells you you’ll love study abroad meanwhile almost everyone also leaves out the fact that you’re going to have some god awful days mixed in. I knew my answer of how my semester had been when people would ask me upon my return to the US: enriching and eventful. Neither of those responses was false by any means. My experience had indeed made my world smaller and my insights bigger, and it was indeed filled with a series of various events. Was studying abroad the best experience I ever had in my entire life, and did I wish I could go back and do it all over again immediately instead of returning home? Not exactly. I had indeed learned a lot though, and I wouldn’t forget to add that it was non-academic enrichment I had gained overseas.

I was relieved when Ani started us off slowly by asking us to write down three things we liked and disliked about both Spain and the US. This was easy; this I could do. I thought the dislike section of Spain would be easy enough, as waking up and dragging myself to the University was an act of God I pursued every morning, four days in a row. Even my day off every Monday couldn’t diminish the pain of this venture. Once I would arrive campus, I often times held my breath to subside prospects of getting lung cancer via the second-hand smoke of my fellow Complutense peers (read: EVERYONE AT SCHOOL), although needing to respire every once in a while pervaded this from ever being fully accomplished. What did I like about Spain? Well, the public transportation is indeed terrific, the people are quite kind, and the proximity of everything is a major draw. On the other hand, the diet consists of too many too carbs for my digestive system, it’s far away from my friends whom understand and love me even if I do not consume alcohol, and the politicized nature of my University adds to the repugnance I feel for it. The list seemed pretty balanced in all honesty, and I easily flew through the things I loved about the US, until I got to the things I disliked about the United States. Disliked? I had never really thought about it, to be frank. I knew what I loved, obviously: hamburgers, the ease of the language, and the sense of home and community I had found in both my hometown and DC where I attend school, but what didn’t I like about home? Everything is far away—that’s one. The pressure of day-to-day life is definitely another. I sat staring at my paper for a full ten seconds, cursing this exercise because I already knew the lesson, and my yearning to get back to the United States soon began to be challenged by the country that was as close my comfort zone as Spanish futbol is to American football. Thankfully, Ani saved me by announcing it was time to share, and I was convinced that although this exercise would prove I will indeed miss Europe, I could still proudly state that I would not experience any culture shock back home. Ani flew through the activity, when we shifted to a topic that did indeed make me uneasy: saying our goodbyes.

Who was I going to say goodbye to? I would see all of my new Georgetown friends in the fall, I didn’t really have any Spanish friends at Complutense, and my host family had their own vacation planned for as soon as I headed out. It’s not that I didn’t like Spain, but there wasn’t really anyone here who would miss me, whereas I already had a Facebook thread going with all of my Georgetown friends ready to have dinner and froyo upon my arrival back to DC. I’m sure I would miss things about Spain when I got back to the states, but goodbye? No one really cared about my departure here. Everyone’s lives would continue on like normal after I left, and I didn’t expect anything more from them in that regard.

At the Goodbye dinner that evening, I met up with Isabel and Gemma, two of my closest Spanish mentors, and girls I had come to love as my own sisters throughout the past semester. We all gave our program coordinators Ani and Miky a thank-you gift for all they had done for us, and they made a speech giving us their best wishes in our lives. It finally hit me. In our lives? No ‘see you next semester’ or ‘we’ll catch you back at Georgetown’, just a simple ‘have a great life’. It certified the sheer uncertainty of never seeing the two people that had answered every painful question, corrected every broken Spanish phrase I attempted to mutter through, and genuinely gave me the same bit of love and encouragement that I have received from my parents throughout these past four months. As one of our classmates mentioned at the dinner, these two women had become my “guardian angels”, the people that kept me sane in a city and country that was completely different than my upbringing, and they had done it all with no expectation of anything in return. Isabel and Gemma had befriended me with no intention or purpose, just the hope that I would receive and share their company in laughter and jokes about Spain. And after four months of assimilating my entire life into this new culture, thanks to all of them and every madrileño I had every met, all I could say was goodbye? It didn’t seem right, because I hadn’t given them anything in return, until a friend had mentioned something I had never once thought of: I had offered myself as someone who dared venture through it all.

These past four months have been an experience in its purest sense. Jumping on a plane to Spain, the land of alcohol and jamón ibérico (Iberian ham) was no joke for a brown, Muslim girl that doesn’t partake in the very things that make this country exist to its residents. It has been rough, and not every day has been great. In fact, there were many days where I missed home like none other and just wanted to sit in my room and cry, as I saw what my life could have been like had I stayed in the US through all of the Facebook photos, graduation invitations, and events being planned right in front of my eyes. All the weddings, the graduations, the concerts, the nights out, the classes, the new people, the family I had built at Georgetown—I had missed a great deal throughout my time in Madrid, that is for sure. But finally, the ‘goodbye’s’ were what made me examine the glass half full: I had learned SO incredibly much about myself. I am indeed a homebody, I enjoy traveling with a plan, I still do not find interest in partaking among and within activities including alcohol, I prefer a few close friends to various acquaintances, my family’s support and love keeps me going at the toughest times, and I am still and will always be on my world-wide search to find the best frozen yogurt in the entire world (clue: involves self-serve and chocolate).

When talking to a friend of mine named Esteban on the trip, I began feeding off of his experience, one filled with many obstacles and a tough story, about the struggles of living in Spain, and I had come to the conclusion that I didn’t enjoy my study abroad experience, wishing I could get out of here ASAP. Yet, talking to another friend on the trip named Allison gave me greater insight. She told me that you don’t really begin to miss a place until it has an end date. Once she bought her ticket back to the US, the feeling of leaving finally settled in, and she began to really appreciate Spain for what it had to offer. I think the Goodbye dinner did it for me, reminding me of all the things I will be saying goodbye to and have indeed enjoyed being a part of for the past four months, and despite the fact that it has had its ups and downs, learning in non-academic ways has indeed made my world smaller and my insights greater. I’m not done reflecting yet, but I think there is value in recognizing that what makes an experience like study abroad so great is not just the good days, but also the bad ones. No one comes back and tells you about the days they just missed peanut butter or played Spanish Scrabble for two hours with their host family on a Friday night instead of going out, but these thoughts and experiences shape your study abroad experience just as much as the wanderlust travels, the cultural outings, and the friends you make in an Irish Pub in downtown Madrid along the way.

This isn’t the official goodbye to Madrid, since I’ve still got a month long-run with this big, bad city, but I must indeed credit it now for teaching me how to love: a city, a person, an experience, or a fleeting thought. And although I did not fall in love with Madrid, reflecting on my time here has gotten me closer. It was my friend, my enemy, my confidante, my betrayer, my greatest gift, and sometimes even my worst nightmare, and through all of that, I can say that this place has indeed become my almost lover. So thanks, Madrid—here’s to you, kid. And may there be many more to come just like you.

It’s Our Party, We Can Say What We Want To

Having lived in the nation’s capital for the past three years, I can safely say I am in the running for being one of the most non-politically involved citizens in Washington, DC. From dodging both the College Democrats and College Republicans campus club organizations to regretfully informing my friends that I coincidentally have WAY too much homework to watch the State of the Union address every year, and even getting through the Georgetown University Student Association (GUSA) yearly student body campaign elections without so much as a vote, I would say I have done a pretty good job of scraping by the minimum amount of knowledge needed for any political debate. What’s the minimum, you ask? Well, learning about the Affordable Care Act, better known as Obamacare, is my version of the least I need to know about politics. And why, you ask? Simple. Being a Health Care Management and Policy major at Georgetown, my professors require this much knowledge of politics to pass their final exams each semester.

When speaking to former study abroad students about what to expect from my semester in Spain, many told me that I would need to begin reading El Pais, the Spanish newspaper, because Spaniards are extremely politically informed, on both the national and international level, and they enjoy expressing their political beliefs in a group setting whenever possible. Unfortunately, my division from this hot button topic derived from this very thought process: I did not like expressing my political beliefs, not because I thought they were incorrect by any means, but because I think that my political beliefs are much like my religious ones—my own and things I believe in and don’t need to defend or justify to others. No one should be able to tell me my personal beliefs are wrong, for whatever reason, and in my opinion, a political debate will not sway my personal decision of what political party I reside with—so why bother? Don’t get me wrong, I think political discussions are entirely too fruitful and teach us about the role of civic society, personal duty, and national history on a level far beyond my comprehension. Yet, most political “discussions” often turn into debates, and for this, I have little patience.

So, coming to Spain was difficult on various levels, and this only added to the pressure I felt from others to know more about the current political environment of my country. After all, I was a personal ambassador of the United States of America (bet no one tells you that when you go on your spring break vacation to Cancun, Mexico). At the Universidad Complutense in Madrid (UCM), I also attend two classes in the Department of Political Sciences and Sociology (political atmosphere: liberal) at a satellite campus known as Somosaguas, which is also home to the Department of Law (political atmosphere: conservative), which seemed to further the need to know something about US politics. Yet, of course, I knew none of this on my first day of class, when I turned the corner and embarked on a hallway filled with cigarette smoke, dreadlocks, and “Abortion is a right” signs. Somosaguas was as liberal of a university as it could get, and knowing I would spend 10 hours a week for the next five months here, I inevitably decided to learn something about Spain’s political system, if not my own country’s.

At Somosaguas, many students openly express their political beliefs and are eagerly awaiting to hear the contrary, mainly because it will start a debate. This puts a lot of pressure on a girl that doesn’t really speak Spanish (me) and doesn’t know what the prevailing political systems are in Europe (me), or even how they differ from America, (clue: still me). This put me in a precarious situation, so when I grabbed a coffee with a Spanish friend from my Sociology of Exclusion and Crime class one day, I was in for a treat when he popped the question: “So, what do you think about Obamacare? Do you like socialized healthcare?” It wasn’t the first time I had been asked this question, yet I knew this kid wasn’t really interested in my response. He didn’t care about whether or not I was a Republican or a Democrat. He was more interested in how democratic I was, because to Spaniards, even the most liberal, left wing American citizen barely reaches the threshold to qualify as a Conservative in Europe, and since all the university students in Somosaguas are pretty liberal, he wanted to know with how conservative of a girl he was working with.

Throughout my classes and in my home stay family, I began learning about Francisco Franco’s dictatorship after the Spanish Civil War in 1936 until his death in 1975, which marked Spain’s era as a national, democratic political system. I continued to pick up and learn pieces of the Spanish political history, along with its biases from each person that tried explaining it to me, and my growing knowledge was again put to the test a couple weeks later at Somosaguas. Walking into my Anthropology of Religion class, I decided to read my Spanish literature book until my professor showed up. Class started at 1pm (meaning 1:10pm), but when I glanced at my watch, I realized it was now 1:28pm. Georgetown has an unspoken, fifteen-minute rule: if the Professor doesn’t show up in the first fifteen minutes of class, you leave. I was hoping someone would soon mention Spain’s XYZ minute-rule, but instead, my thoughts were interrupted by a classmate that barged in and proclaimed, “A Christian anti-abortion association is here to talk trash to us; Monica is downstairs watching!” Within seconds, half of my class rushed downstairs to watch the spectacle, while the other half discussed the news that had just been passed along.

Monica is my professor’s first name. Apparently, she was downstairs watching an anti-abortion association speak to Somosaguas students about the conservative, Christian belief on abortion (remember, political atmosphere of this school: liberal), explaining her absence from class. As one would presume, the conservative organization’s presence was not entirely welcome. What angered a classmate of mine the most, she later stated in the discussion we had following the incident, was the flyers they brought supporting their ideas. “It’s like an insult to us. You think you can come onto our campus and impose your ideas like that? We will not accept that, and you better bet your ass I will say something!” The rest of the class followed in rage, and even the Professor later stated her agreement with the students, mentioning that her personal versus professional reaction was the only thing keeping her from fighting the association (although other students didn’t hesitate responding in a similar manner).

I didn’t understand. In the US, some of my best friends were Republicans, and although I didn’t necessarily agree with them, I wholeheartedly believed they had the right to free speech, to say whatever they felt in an open discourse, without the fear of getting physically assaulted for their personal beliefs. Although this was not the case at Somosaguas, another international student in my class asked what I was thinking at the moment, mentioning that she didn’t think violence was the answer to the issue. One boy, clearly fed up with the international student’s vision of an idealistic peace between ideologically different political parties, stood up to contest. He told the girl, “They didn’t come here to talk about their ideas. They brought pamphlets, and they came to the Political Science department, for God’s sake. They had the intention of fighting us; we just followed through, and you can’t say we are wrong for reacting that way.” Sure you can, I thought, but didn’t dare say it in that politically perturbed environment. After class, he told everyone to sit down for a minute, as the class had to vote on something else—the huelga next week.

In Spanish, a huelga is a strike, and at UCM, it is voted on by a student union that decides whether or not they want to protest against a strongly held belief that is in opposition of the government, to the point where they will refuse to go to class for a set number of days to show their discontent. The night before, all students participate in a lock-in, where they prepare materials for the huelga. The morning of, they line up outside of each entrance to various department buildings and physically prevent or verbally abuse students, faculty, and staff that attempt to enter the buildings. A year-abroad international student added that last semester’s huelga lasted for two weeks, with students fighting for sanitation workers’ higher wages. In protest and rage, student burned trashcans and blocked all streets throughout the campus, threw paper and other trash in the hallways, and even resorted to peeing in public areas to demonstrate the hard labor of sanitation workers. This semester’s huelga was in protest of the government’s reduction in student scholarships for public universities, known as becas. When someone first told me about the issue, I had to laugh. These students were paying 2,000 Euros per year for tuition, and they thought that was a lot? Georgetown’s $60,000 a year would have launched them into cardiac arrest immediately, much less even an attempt at a huelga, and they were crying about 2,000 Euros? It made no sense to me, but I also wasn’t about to protest a potential five-day weekend. Wednesday and Thursday were official strike days, but Somosaguas was looking at Tuesday through Friday, which was to be voted on right now. 

“Anyone against coming to class next week?” asked the boy in my class, waiting a full two seconds for any traitors. No one raised his hand, obviously. “Well then, it’s settled. Have a great week off guys.” The professor had jetted out the door by now and almost reached the other end of the hallway by the time I got outside. It seemed that many professors were reacting in a similar fashion after hearing about the strike, so when I asked a student in my Spanish literature class about it later that day, she explained, “The professors aren’t going to be in favor or against the strike because they get paid by the government. They have to show up to class either way. If they don’t come to class, they get a salary cut in their paycheck. So even if they’re on our side, they don’t ever state their opinion out loud.”

It stunned me, to be honest. The power that these students had, in coming together and speaking up against an issue that they believed so strongly in, that they would go as far as to compete with the natural order of the entire public university school system? In the US, we would call this chaos and immediately launch a police force to arrest the individuals or force them to protest quietly in a given, public area. Furthermore, the students probably wouldn’t have even skipped class in the first place, for fear of what they would miss. And for two days? Forget it. Here, though, it seemed so easy, so normal to rebel. “Why wouldn’t we?” was the mentality, and my two extra days off of school meant I was most definitely on the side of the students.

That Friday, I spoke to a friend from my religious community named Gabriel, who also attends Somosaguas, about the strike, and we inevitably launched into a discussion about the various political parties in Europe. Through our conversation, I learned that the American perspective of the Conservative Party aligns a bit to the left of what is moderate in Europe (if the scale ranged from left: liberal to right: conservative). This means that our conservative is actually liberal to Europeans? It was so weird, but I was soon too engulfed in Gabriel’s explanation of European politics to think about the irony of the situation. He continued by explaining that Europe’s left wing involves (moving from least liberal to most): Liberal, Socialist, then Communism. Wait….communism? I thought that was conservative! “No. Super conservative is like a dictatorship,” responded Gabriel, half amazed at how much I didn’t know about something as simple as politics. So basically, communism is super left, and dictatorship is super right. But aren’t they essentially the same thing?

After almost two hours of discussion, I learned that political parties in Europe form a circle, rather than the typical line spectrum we perceive between liberal and conservative. At the top of the circle lies the divide between left and right, where Communism is on the left and dictatorship on the right; in the middle towards the bottom, the Moderates. The left half of the circle is liberal, whereas the right half, conservative. Dictatorship and Communism lie close to one another on the circle at the top, yet represent two completely different ideologies; I had to go home and draw myself a map to have it all make sense.

And after all of that, I considered myself a politics expert, a guru if you will. Genuinely, friends, if a student in the School of Nursing and Health Studies can learn that much, the next natural course of action would be for me to run for President of the United States of America. And imagine what all I could do with everything I know about Obamacare, too…#presidentialcampaign2016?

Weekends In Madrid: Mythbusters Edition

You know you’ve all heard about it—the constant drinking culture, siestas (the Spanish word for ‘naps’) every afternoon, clubs all night—but have you ever wondered what rumors about the Spanish culture are indeed true? Have no fear; this post will hopefully solve all of the puzzling pieces. I even threw in some more Spanish phrases that I’ve caught onto and amuse me (just for kicks). But most importantly, it all reveals something great about Spaniards–the motivation and drive to do exactly what they want.

Weekdays:

The weekday timetable in Spain is quite continuous, albeit slower than that in the US. Most Spaniards, including my host family, wake up around 6:30am. I “indulge” myself in this dreaded ritual every Tuesday and Wednesday for my 8:30am class, a whole two hours beforehand. Yes, friends, one-hour transport time is indeed a fact. Waking up at 6:30am means downstairs at 7am for breakfast. The entire process of eating breakfast takes about twenty minutes or so, as a solid ten-minute prep time is necessary. Out the door at 7:30am to catch the Metro, Spain’s public transportation system. Although some journeys can take only about 30 minutes, it’s always good to allocate some buffer time. Walking to the metro and getting from the stop to your destination takes another 10-12 minutes as well, so planning ahead is crucial for a Type A personality like myself.

The quintessential Spaniard works from 8:30am-2:00pm or so. Then, he will get a lunch break for about 2 hours. Seems crazy, I know, but eating lunch at home is also normal. My host dad Jacobo, for example, is an ophthalmologist at a local city hospital, so he typically comes home around 3pm, and then begins what he calls the obligatory post-lunch ritual of the day: coffee and chocolate while reading the newspaper (fact). The little kick of espresso in the mid-afternoon helps balance the huge meals during lunch and gets him ready to head back to the hospital by 4pm to finish off the day, which will end around 7pm. This timeframe is normal for those who prefer to take their midday lunch break at home, while others may work straight from 8:30am-4pm and eat a late lunch after work, as my host mom Mercedes does.

In the case of Jacobo, coming home around 7:30pm or so leaves about a solid hour and some change until dinner. He has a schedule to fill this hour: Tennis on Tuesdays, Golf on Fridays, grocery shopping on Wednesdays, errands some of the other days, you get the idea. Showering before dinner is normal, and something I had to get used to again after my three years at Georgetown where I would shower when I was dirty, whether it was 2am or 4:30pm. 9pm means dinner time in the Frutos de Gonzalez household, and this wonderful ritual lasts until about 10pm. Kids will come home around 5:45pm and do homework, shower, and then have dinner, so that after food comes…[another siesta? (MYTH)]–TV time!

Ah, how admired the TV is in Spain! Not just for futból games, but also Spanish telenovelas (soap operas), American episode series (MasterChef and Breaking Bad are the top hits in the house right now), or even some good ‘old Clint Eastwood, my host dad’s favorite actor. TV relaxes the mind, purifies the soul, and means lying on the couch and doing an absolute nothing for about an hour. 11pm means lights out for the kiddies, because they get back up at 7am to do the school thing again, and the parents head off with them because 7 hours and some midday espresso are all one needs to get through the weekdays. But the weekends? Oh, those are a different story…

Weekends: Young Blood Style

The weekend pattern of events means party all day and night–MYTH. It actually depends on whether or not you are a jóven (youngster) or a parent with a family and obligations. If the latter, as in the case of my host parents, weekend mornings consist of golf lessons en el campo (literally, the meadow, but this means the golf course) with the kids, then home around 2 or 3pm for family lunch, to go upstairs and do that TV thing around 4pm with some coffee and dessert. This is where your looming questions finally get answered, because yes, this awkward time between lunch and dinner calls for some piece and quiet in the living room, which inevitably leads to the ever-known Spanish naps known as siestas—fact. From about 5pm-7pm, napping is allowed, and even encouraged, in the home, as it is fairly silent and if sleeping is not done, then homework is (so obviously, I opt for the nap when given a choice).

But wouldn’t sleeping after lunch put you into a deep slumber? Well, this is where the Spaniards have it all figured out, because remember that obligatory shot-of-espresso ritual before nap time? It prevents Spaniards from falling into too deep of a sleep. And by 7:30pm, the house is a ruckus again with kids shouting, parents running around the house, and more TV being watched. 9pm rolls around with all of the chaos, and look at that—it’s time for dinner! Saturday night movies are common in my house, so if my host sister Marina doesn’t salir por la noche (go out for the night), she sometimes participates. Dinner with family friends, theater shows, and other day trips are obviously scattered throughout various weekends as well, but this is what a traditional weekend in my Spanish home looks like.

Naturally, the college kids don’t follow this sequence of events on the weekends. Sure, they live at home and commute to school, which is very different than many private universities in the US, but does that mean they don’t go out? MYTH. Indeed, the contrary is true. Friday nights, after school and dinner at 9pm, most Spaniards will shower, get ready, and head out around midnight. Meeting up with friends at a bar is the norm, as everyone will go bar hopping with tapas (finger foods, essentially) for about an hour or so. Before the metro closes at 1:30am, a destination is chosen, and everyone will head off to the club for the evening. Most clubs open around 1am, but jovenes start to file in around 2am or 3am, and it’s common that the clubs will not close until about 6am. So, Spanish youngsters will follow suit and typically stay out until 6am, not because they particularly like to wait for Last Call, but because that’s when the Metro opens again, and who really wants to pay 12-15 Euros to get home when you can just wait for the Metro and get back home for free? Getting home puts you at about 7am, which is—you guessed it—is breakfast time! The quintessential young madrileño will finish off his night right with breakfast and head to bed around 7:30am, to wake up around 2:30 or 3pm, just in time for–you guessed it, lunch! Sometimes, they’ll even participate in the parent-version weekend ritual of lunch, TV, siesta, and dinner, to get ready and head back out for the night if they just didn’t get their fill the night before.

Now this is definitely the epitome of Spanish weekends; most students don’t actually do this often because they have exams to study for, papers to write, family to hang out with, and so on with the duties and obligations of a normal person. But if anyone ever asks you to take them out for what a true local would do out on the town, just know madrileña style is always a safe bet for an eventful evening..and morning.

What I find the most important to note from this entire schpeel on how Spaniards live their lives is not the uniqueness of their never-ending nightlife or the importance of a mid-day espresso (although I have learned both of these lessons and more from my host family). Rather, I think the most important lesson comes from the idea that these individuals are able to do exactly what they want in order to live their lives to the fullest. Don’t like that sport and would rather drink coffee with your friends on a Tuesday afternoon? Do it. Don’t want to go out and prefer staying home with your parents on a Saturday night? Totally acceptable. I don’t mean to say that these actions are not the norm in the US, but I think often times, I find myself at least, facing the dilemma of doing what I think I want, what I actually want, and what I have to do. The last of these is often the path I choose when making decisions, but this also leads to jealousy or unhappiness because someone else naturally does what I would have really wanted to do myself. In other cases, doing what I think I want may lead to not liking it, and the fear of failure often undercuts embarking on this option often. In the end, though, doing what I actually want also seems to have its drawbacks, as we all know I will not get to be a Gates Millennium Scholar anymore, no matter how badly I might want it.

A friend of mine recently read me a speech she was writing for her upcoming graduation. While trying to formulate her thoughts, we spoke about what advice she wanted to convey to her senior class the last time they would all be together. She mentioned that she wanted to remind them to do what they wanted to do in their lives and not wait around for other people to take up the chances of following their own passions. “So many times, people end up doing what is best for them, but the problem with that is that it leaves them unhappy,” she said. I thought about this, remembering all the times I had previously heard the same advice and pushed it aside because of fear. That’s so hard in theory, I always told myself. You can’t just follow your passions all the time, because then you’ll end up broke. It’s not something the idealists like to hear, but since I am a realist, I didn’t mind being the one to say it. Yet, her words finally made sense. Being in Spain, I have learned what doing what you want really means, and it’s not just skipping three Tuesday classes to go to London for the weekend or staying out until 5am when you have a 9am conference call the next morning, it’s about doing what you want to do because you know it’s what you want. And that’s the toughest part–figuring out what you want, while still believing you won’t fail while looking for it.

Throughout my time here, I have tried my hardest to be more open and do what I think I might have wanted to, to only find out I no longer want to do it and wish I could back out. Sometimes, this isn’t possible because of uncontrollable factors, but something that a good friend here told me was that a lot of times, no harm no foul. If it doesn’t kill someone, it’s okay to say no. And most of the time, people understand because they know you’re not passionate about it anymore.

When I look back at the madrileño way of life on something as simple as how to enjoy the weekend, I realize how easy it is to do what you want and say no when you don’t. All of my life, I have been trained to do what is best for me, what will get me the best job, what my trajectory should be based on those of my close competitors, and I often times forget how it is the little things that do indeed make us happy. Don’t want to go out for the weekend? I shouldn’t, just because I am in Spain and feel like I need to be out “enjoying” life. Tired and don’t want to meet up with that friend I said I would? Tell the truth, apologize, and find another time; she will understand. I don’t have to follow my passion or do what I want in the largest sense of it all to make my life my own, but rather fulfill the smallest of my personal desires to make the most of my experience. Some people are meant to be social, others find the same fulfillment in curling up on the couch and watching Los Misterios de Laura, a Spanish version of Nancy Drew, with the good ‘ole fam. It’s not always about following your passion in something huge, like your career, but just choosing to eat a sandwich on a Tuesday afternoon instead of a salad because you’re craving it more. ‘Doing what you want’ has various faces to its name, and I do have to say that it took a couple of “typical madrileña weekends” for me to understand something as simple as this.

Today, I want to quit the FOMO (fear of missing out) feeling and enjoy hanging out with my host family, because those are the people I truly love and want to get to know more throughout the two months I have left here. Traveling has been an amazing experience, and I have wholeheartedly enjoyed it, but this family is only mine for six months, while the world awaits me even when I am thirty and bored with my job. So, step one of doing what I want: skipping out on a trip to Morocco for the five day weekend and staying at home. The host fam will actually be gone on vacation, but that’s okay. Because I will do something else that I have really wanted to do: become a true local and see the hidden treasures of Madrid. There is still so much left to see and such little time remaining, and next weekend, I plan to do what I want, by myself, to make this experience my own and not Facebook’s.

A Cornucopia of Troubles

Confession: I have had so much to write about in the past two or so weeks that I haven’t written at all, simply because it is often times a lot easier to just jot down phrases or words that remind me of how I feel or what happened that day, rather than express it in a prose-style. In an attempt to update you all on everything, I’ve effortfully created some headlines that illustrate small events that have made me think, “Gotta tell the future study abroad kids about that.” So future Georgetown in Madrid folks, this one’s for you:

The Maid’s Iron(y)

I’ve been fortunate enough to live in a three-story house for my home stay residence. The majority of the kids in our program are in apartments, simply because that’s where the majority of Spaniards live. My host family comprises of the following people: my environmental biologist host-mother, ophthalmologist host-father, and three siblings (an 18-year-old sister studying medicine and twins brothers that are 14). In addition, our household has a maid named Leonila from Bolivia that helps cook and clean throughout the week. She’s worked in the position for about 7 years now and often tells me stories about how she wants to go back to Bolivia, where her five kids (ranging in ages from 17-27) live. Despite her wishes, she can’t buy the plane ticket back because what would be her savings is always sent back to Bolivia at the end of each month to support her family. Her husband abandoned their family after her fifth child was born, marrying a woman he had an affair with during Leonila’s last pregnancy. Leonila helped me find shampoo at a place calles Juteco the first week I was here. She also feeds me delicious meals, so really she’s key to the study abroad journey I’ve had thus far. And you know what they say, the maid always knows everything.

Skinny Legs, Straightforward Men, and Pasapalabra: Spanish Class–Real World Style

Colloquialisms here have been one of the toughest adjustments, mainly because Spaniards like to use every word that no Latin American country would even attempt to use, making my seven years of Spanish class almost useless. Que tal (what’s up?) receives the response ‘bien’ (good) versus the usual ‘nada’ that “not much” would translate to in English. My host mom often asks me if I have to madrugar instead of ‘levantar pronto’ (wake up early), and if the answer is no (which it rarely is by the way), fenomenal or genial replaces the ‘muy bien’ my high school teacher Señora Padilla taught me my junior year. If I need to be excused? Perdona. You didn’t catch the bus on time? No pasa nada (no big deal). Which stop do you need to take now? Da igual (it’s the same). Looking for the filler word, an equivalent to ‘like’ in Spanish? This one is a bit tricky, because it’s something you will never actually learn. The phrase is ‘o sea que’ (pronounced oh-saw-kay). Okay, ending it on an easy note: Need to use the restroom? The ever-known baño is still replaced by los aseos or los servicios. Even that I couldn’t get right.

When my host brother is being silly and doesn’t come down to eat? ¡Que tonterilla, Juanito. Anda–a cenar! (Translation: Don’t be silly, Juan. Come on–time for dinner!) Juan thinks the American government is inútil by the way, but when his mom interrupts his politically incorrect insults about fat Americans, his mom finally tells him to shut it and comments, Que pesado, en serio… (you’re so annoying–imagine your mom saying that to you at the dinner table). Oh, but no colloquial phrase beats the most commonly used, ubiquitous expression of Spain: the ever-lived vale.

Vale deserves its own paragraph, because it serves as an affirmative, an acquiescence, a call to arms, or even just what it means: a simple ‘okay’. Just put it in the dishwasher, vale? Vale, that’s just how it goes. Come on I know that’s not the truth, vale vale vale. So how do you respond to vale? Well, with a vale, of course! Just close the door on your way out, vale? Vale, ciao! If you don’t say vale, you haven’t heard me or you’ve pretended to ignore me, both of which are unfavorable. Thus, vale never really means what it should mean, except it ends up meaning everything it could mean–vale?

All You Need Is Thread

With my South Asian roots, I grew up threading my eyebrows. This isn’t really an issue when you live in the suburbs of Atlanta, where there is a fairly large South Asian population and over a million places to get your eyebrows done (I mean, really, your best friend’s mom probably knows how to do them if you’re really in a pinch). Washington, DC made this process a tad bit more expensive, but DuPont Threading had gotten me through the past three years, and I was grateful. But the ultimate question was: how many South Asians live in Madrid, Spain and can do my eyebrows for a reasonable price? Sure I could go to Sephora, where they would charge me 30 euros (almost 45 Green Washington’s in the US), but let’s face it–even paying 20 in DuPont Circle, DC was killing me. And so, the search began.

I found a place in Puerta del Sol (which I recently heard someone refer to as the “downtown” of Madrid) and paid a steep 18 euros the first time I had to get my eyebrows done. A week later, I was back on Google, searching “eyebrow threading Madrid” with little unopened links remaining. So, I got creative–depilar (depluck), hilo (thread), and cera (wax) were new Spanish vocabulary words I had learned, leading me to a new place I tried today in Sol that ended up charging me even more than the other South Asian lady that knew she was ripping me off. I even played the “we’re from the same origin” card–with no luck.

As I walked home from Sol, I came across a store called “Indian Store: Jewelry and Antiques”. Entering, I encountered an elder man that probably never did his eyebrows, but I dared ask in Spanish anyway: I know this is a weird question, but do you know of a place I could get my eyebrows done here? Thankfully, he spoke English. The man, Khan Sahib from Peshawar, Pakistan, recommended a place nearby. I called to make sure the prices weren’t exorbitant the next time I tried going. Eleven euros. No sale here, but definitely the cheapest I had seen thus far, so I bookmarked the website I found online and have it saved for my pre-Easter break European adventure preparation. Khan Sahib also says to let Neena know he recommended me to go to her; that way she won’t charge me extra. Maybe I should get him a palmera one day to say thanks…

From the Palm(era) of my Hand

What’s a palmera you ask? Well, it’s only the most delicious bollería (pastry) you will ever eat in your life. Shaped like a heart, the palmera comes in a couple of different variations: white chocolate, chocolate, and glazed. It’s an unspoken rule that you always get the chocolate one, because it is obviously the best, but I also get them because of the following reasons:

1. They cost 0.80 euros at the Cafeteria at school ($1 when you convert, but remember, these guys are huge).
2. They satiate my daily chocolate craving.
3. They pair greatly with a café con leche (two espresso shots + hot milk is called coffee here–and tastes A LOT better than an americano (half coffee, half water), which is what we Americans perceive to be normal coffee).
4. It’s the cheapest lunch in the world.

Yes, I am now known as the girl who eats a palmera for lunch every afternoon. Everyone from my Georgetown study abroad friends Esteban and Teresa to my host mom is aware of this fact, and also somewhat disgusted, but mainly confused about why it is I get this loving pastry as a meal every day (no pun intended). Well friends, for the above mentioned reasons. And trust me folks, when you land in Madrid and find normally-sized portions that cost more than their converted US dollars, consume an overwhelming amount of bread with each meal, and fail to secure any late night fast food to subside your cravings you too will endeavor in the daily palmera ritual.

The Sunday that Cured the Hangover

Truth be told, everyone lies to you if they say that by the third week, they are still in love with their study abroad ‘adventures’. At some point, the “I just want to eat a McChicken and watch Suits” phase kicks in, and you start to miss your friends, family, and fast pace more than ever. Since I had been warned about this phase, I immediately recognized it when it crept up on me about the second week of classes. I walked onto campus and saw the same graffiti-covered walls that wanted to “Be Liberated of All Authority and Fascism!”, had given up on trying to make new Spanish friends, and began wishing to only eat in solitude when my lungs almost collapsed because of the chain smokers in the hallway pervading my entry to obtain that little piece of heaven I find every afternoon for lunch: The Palmera. All I could think was, “God, I just wish I could stand in front of Healy Hall and appreciate it that much more right now.” I wasn’t myself, I was even more pessimistic than realistic now, and I knew it was coming, so I let it be.

Sunday, I decided to go to the local flea market by myself, where I purchased a ring (which broke by the time I got home) and a pair of owl earrings for one euro. Then, I spent some time in Sol, where I enjoyed the sun and read my “Islam in Spain” book, after which I traveled back and took a nap, showered, did some homework, and just really enjoyed the day leisurely. It was so great, and I thought, “Well, this is it. This is the Sunday that’s going to cure all of the days I’ve been sad and irritated.” 

Only I think I wished it were that easy. That Sunday was only accompanied by an annoying Monday of homework, an even more frustrating Tuesday of 10 hours of class, a Wednesday that started later and felt like it hadn’t, and a Thursday that left me tired and hopeless. It’s kind of sucky, ya know. To think that you have come all the way here to embrace a new opportunity, a new culture, and all you can think about is home. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because at the end of the five months, you have an expiration date in the country that’s hosting you. You will eventually pack up, selfishly take all of your cool memories with you, and leave the city for good. So why should anyone open their arms up to you? Awful thought, isn’t it? And that’s where I’m at now. Friendless, frustrated, and frantically hoping for a magical carpet to take me away and inspire me back into the honeymoon phase I was in when I first came to Madrid–but it doesn’t work that way.

Goodbye My Almost Friend

In my opinion, loneness takes a new toll in a country where language barriers prevent making new friends quickly. It’s taken me a good portion of my college career to understand and master the art of Small Talk, and to learn it all over again in a language that I can’t even think in? Talk about hard as crap.

Even traveling, the thing I hoped to master through this experience has been difficult, because contrary to the nomadic traveler’s way of life, I find myself needing a partner to travel with. I actually hadn’t imagined going to another country without someone else, as strange as it sounds. So what do you do when people aren’t really interested in going to the Museum, Cathedral, and Chocolate Shop with you? What happens when all of your other friends prefer going out while in another city or country? You don’t want to leave them, because let’s face it, you don’t know where the hell you are and wouldn’t dare risk going off on your own, yet you are also tired of being in this Irish pub for four hours when you could be doing the exact same thing back home. Well, I chose to stay. And think. About how much I am not like the people I’m around.

Pretty sucky, I know, but I think that’s what they mean when they say, “You learn about yourself when you’re abroad.” (Sneak peek: I learned I don’t like drinking while I am abroad. Why? Well, simple. I don’t drink.) So what I wouldn’t do out on the streets of Washington, DC, I sure as hell would not enjoy doing on the streets of Cadiz, Spain. But that’s not the only thing I learned when I went to Cadiz a couple of weekends back for the Carnaval (the NOLA Mardi Gras of Spain). I also learned a couple of other things through a conversation that I had with Julian, a friend who came along on the trip with me:

a) I still need to loosen up and take risks. I am extremely guarded and afraid to be vulnerable, mainly because I have been taught to be responsible to the point where I must take the mother role in the group. This serves me well in some circumstances, but also limits me when I have an experience like in Madrid, where I get to be a kid and just play. It’s hard for me to do that when I have responsibilities that lurk over me: taxes to file, roads to find, classes to sign up for, fun to have. Wait, fun to have? That shouldn’t be on a list of things to do; it should be innate. And that’s something I have to learn, and not just learn to do it, but also how to do it. Which leads me to think that traveling by myself may not be such a ridiculous thought…

b) I often find the negatives in myself, but find a hard time noting the positives. I can be outspoken, controlling, detail-oriented, but all of these traits are looked at with a negative connotation. Julian says to truly love yourself, you have to start looking in the mirror and tell yourself “I love you” and mean it.  That’s the hard part. So, I tried it when I got back home after chatting with him, and I couldn’t do it. If I can’t even say ‘I love you’ to myself, how do I expect someone else to do the same?

 

Change of Pace:

After a philosophical discussion with myself on who I am, what this experience both should and does mean to me, etcetera, I think I will end with a little thing I like to call, “Things I Wish I Had Known (about Study Abroad and Spain)”:

1. Consider your daily expenses. If I had known that a normal Menu of the Day costs 14 euros, I probably would have thought twice about coming to Europe. It’s too similar to the US and a lot more expensive because of the conversion rate. Sure, it’s cool to travel all around Europe, but you tend to do what’s known and overrated, rather than find hidden gems in the favella-filled slums of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (not to mention Rio is MUCH cheaper, and you could probably feed yourself for $5 a day).

2. Look at the University you’ll be attending. I didn’t consider this before I came, but my classes were much more difficult to find because Complutense en Madrid doesn’t have a Theology department, when I’m trying to fulfill two theology requirements for Georgetown this semester. I figured they would have something, but that’s led me to take a class I don’t particularly enjoy and another that ends far past my siesta time. Think about what classes you need to take when you’re abroad, and make sure your host University offers that subject widely…but actually.

3. Buy a small converter, but don’t bring your extension cord. The converter I currently have is pretty big, considering it works for the US, UK, Europe, and Asia. The downside? I can’t really lug it around in my book-bag at school, which can be troublesome when my Macbook Pro dies at 1pm and I have a two hour break from 3pm-5pm with nothing to do. A friend recommended bringing an extension cord, so you can hook up the converter to that and use a ton of outlets–smart idea, right? Incorrect. The first time I tried this, I blew out the circuit in my house and my host cousin had to reset it (embarrassing). It’s too much voltage being carried at one time and probably won’t work (unless you are in a dorm).

4. Walmarts and Targets do not exist here, but rather specialty stores. Like any other country, Spain has its brand name stores, too. So I’ll go ahead and give you a head start on some of them:

–Need folders for class? There’s a stationary store. Carlín is the most popular and is a chain found pretty much all around.
–Bras? Lingerie store. Women’s Secret is what its called, similar to a Victoria’s secret, but not as sultry (and no semi-annual sale).
–Haircut? Barber shop. Marco Aldany is a good chain, and they have 10 euro haircut promotions sometimes.
–Shampoo, Razors, Body Wash? Toiletries Store. Juteco, another chain that is literally found everywhere.
–Wanna go to something similar to a Panera Bread? The higher-end fast food places include: VIPS (coffee, although they also serve meals), Café y Té, Lizarran, 100 Montaditos (50 cent sandwiches every Monday–go or be forever poor).
–Need to check out a book that you don’t want to buy for class? Theres a library in every building at Complutense, as well as in every neighborhood in Madrid.

Although this is by no means a complete list, it helps you get started. The best advice I can give though is the following: know that you will lose money, get lost, miss your friends, want peanut butter, and the list goes on. But at the end of the day, knowing these things is different from accepting them. I knew these things would be obstacles in my study abroad experience. Now, I am just hoping I can accept them and assimilate into it as best as possible. Wish me luck.

There is one thing that I do enjoy about Madrid: it is always really sunny here…

First Days Always Suck.

*Note: This post was written on February 17th, 2014. I forgot to post it up previously, although the events that occurred refer to the above stated date.

Though I didn’t necessarily have high expectations for the day, I must say that my first official day of classes at the Universidad de Complutense in Madrid (UCM) (and let’s not leave out the additional 45-minute commute to the satellite Somosaguas campus) have collectively been nothing short of a tiring, confusing, and elongated Tuesday. Starting out the day with my alarm set and ready to wake me up at 6:30am, a feat I hadn’t had to overcome since my high school days, my body immediately internalized the rude awakening by cursing me with the signature mark of sleep deprivation: the ever-hollow under-eye circles. Six weeks of waking up after the sun had actually risen made me want to crawl back into bed that much more this cloudy, February morning. Alas, I got dressed and proceeded to start my day with a hearty breakfast of sorts, knowing I wouldn’t be back in my safe-haven home until late that evening.

Let me elaborate a bit on this so-called “filling” breakfast: the most important meal of the day isn’t in Spain what its name implies in the US. No (turkey) bacon is served, scrambled eggs are savored only at dinner in the typical Spanish dish tortilla de patata (eggs with potatoes and onions sandwiched inside), and I am pretty sure hash browns don’t even exist on the Iberian Peninsula. No friends, my hearty breakfast consisted of the following: a freshly squeezed orange juice called zumo de naranja; a slice of French bread with butter; milk and Nesquick with three ridiculously good cookies (which my host brother has told me the name of upwards of seven million times, but I still can never remember; and fresh-cut fruit. Sounds like a lot, right? Only by 10am, I was starving again. Breakfast isn’t typically large here, mainly because Spaniards like to save their appetite for lunch and dinner, more important meals for them. So, I packed an extra mandarina for the road and headed off for the day’s adventures.

Being the overachiever academic scholar I am (or maybe due to the fact that I am seriously directionally challenged), I had already scoped out my 8:30am class location. Throughout my week of orientation, I had effectively learned the single most important strategy to get through classes: FIND SPANISH FRIENDS. Our coordinator Ani had made this very clear, stating these students are already matriculated in the class, so they get announcements we won’t be receiving, like class location changes or the Professor’s online version of lectures and notes. I had even thought of a million dumb questions to ask: Is this XYZ class? (Duh, that is why I ended up here.) Are you all in the same year? (The students here all study in the same facultad, or department, so they are essentially a cohort, making this an obvious yes.) Have you heard anything about this Professor? (It’s pretty much almost always hearsay, so this could be a good topic of conversation for a hot second. Their response is usually noncommittal, though.) I arrived at the door of “Cultural Anthropology”, waiting to ask the first person I saw one of the above-planned questions. Getting to class a full 20 minutes beforehand, I met a girl from England in the Erasmus program, a study-abroad exchange designed for European Union college students. Well, great. I try SO hard to find a Spaniard and attempt 1 has been a failure so far.

Several other students filter in, and after a couple of questions in Spanish, we almost always begin talking in English, either because it is easier than Spanish or because it’s the native language of the next person I am speaking to. Wait–this doesn’t make sense. How is EVERYONE in Cultural Anthropology an international student? I look at my watch, and it’s now 8:42am. There is an implied ten-minute rule to each class, so granted the class was only supposed to have started two minutes ago, but it still seemed strange that no Spaniards had presented themselves yet. I began to look for a bulletin board, where class location changes are sometimes posted. Ani had warned me about this before, and it wasn’t good…

After a brave soul questioned the Secretary downstairs about our class, fifteen international students made their way to another building, up a treacherous flight of stairs, and entered in the classroom we were supposed to be in at exactly 9:02am. An entire twenty minutes late to my first class? This would be interesting. We walked in, and the Professor had already begun speaking about the final exam. Even better–I hadn’t even made it in before she was wishing me out. Thankfully, it was a first-year intro course, so the Professor spoke slowly and even put up a powerpoint for reference. She explained something about us needing to be in groups for some project. Okay, I thought, second shot at finding some Spanish friends. I could indeed directly translate what the Professor was saying in my head, but synthesizing the information was a whole different ballgame. She wrote some names on the board, which I interpreted as lectures needing to be read for the next day, and stated, “Five to ten minutes to form groups.” All of a sudden: a fiasco. Students were running around, asking questions and finding their friends to discuss what they needed to do next. Then, writing followed on scraps of paper. What the hell was going on?

The second most important thing I have learned while I have been here: every person carries a distinct personality with them when they speak another language. The quiet one; the leader; the okay-with-being-lost; the hating-my-life-because-I-am-in-class; the daydreamer; the can-I-just-copy-your-notes; the follower; the aggressive soul; the question-asker; etc. I decided to take on the role of “Poor International Girl Who Is Lost and Needs Help To Find Her Way Through Life.” It had effectively worked for this long, so I tapped the kid in front of me and politely asked him to explain what was going on. He (pitying me) explained: the names on the board corresponded to last names of students in the class. We had to find at least three or four students with a last name in the same category as ours (A-M or N-Z, the letters I had written down thinking they were lectures to read) and write down our their names; we would be doing prácticas together. Thanking him, I next asked if I could be in his group. He looked to his friend, who was taking care of forming their tribe. Sorry, we already have our group formed! Dammit. Attempt #2: fail.

I proceeded to walk around the room, proudly using the vosotros form to indicate “you all” and asking if students in the class had found their group members. Each one of the groups I had tried to reach out to either belonged to the other last name category or had already formed the members in their group. The English girl I had first met followed me throughout this entire endeavor, glad I was doing most of the talking and she could just hop on and make us a lonely double needing friends. Still no luck. Finally, the English girl walked back to the Professor, saying it would be easier to let her know we didn’t have a group and hoped that she could find us someone. At that moment, the professor called time and told us to sit in our seats. She stated she would help us find a group, so we headed back.

“Who doesn’t have a group? You girls? Come up to the front of the room.” Jesus Christ. I trotted my way up to the front, pitying myself as the lame international student that couldn’t find even one Spanish friend. Nobody liked me, and it gave me a horrid flashback of my lonely elementary school years. Another international student I had met earlier also didn’t have a group yet, and she also came to stand with us. The Professor paired up my English counterpart and I with an older Spanish woman sitting in the front row, who seemed like she was coming back to school after many years. We exchanged email addresses and headed back to our seats. Three international, native-English students and an elderly woman in one group? I immediately resolved that I would now bomb this final project, with our fourth member’s native-Spanish being our only saving grace. On the other hand, my English “friend” seemed delighted.

Class ended, and I tapped the girl in front of me to ask for clarification on the timings for class tomorrow. This was my third and final shot at making at least one connection to a Spaniard. She explained how the class was set up: Tuesdays were theory and Wednesdays application of class material. Tomorrow, I needed to be in class at 9:30am instead of 8:30, since my name started in the latter half of the alphabet. “Thanks so much, you kind soul! It’s kind of hard to hear the Professor, ya know since I’m an international student, so I can comprehend but not interpret what the professor is saying, if that makes sense.” I almost definitely said whatever I could think of at the moment, hoping to keep her engaged in my conversation for a couple of extra seconds.

“Are you all in your first year? Oh, so you’re studying Philology?” No shit, Sherlock, this class is in the Department of Philology. I threw out everything I had prepared, wishing she would be interested in anything I had to say. Finally, a glimmer of hope appeared. “Yeah don’t worry, it’s not gonna be too bad. If you have any questions, just let me know. My name is Ana.” Ana. Success! I got a name, and in my book, that was a new friend for sure. “Thanks so much! I am Noreen. Nice to meet you! See ya tomorrow, Ana!” But Ana was in the first half of the alphabet, so actually I would see her next Tuesday, and I actually never saw her again. It didn’t matter to me at the moment though; at least I got a name, and I headed to give the Professor my matriculation card.

One class down, two to go.

Getting the directions to the satellite campus, I then left UCM to head to Somosaguas for my Anthropology of Religion class at 1pm. Plenty of time in between to sit and Facebook, which slipped me back into the world of English. I found my class and entered a bit early, as I saw some kids filtering in at about quarter til 1. The professor walked in at 1:10pm (meaning she was actually on time, based on the Rule of Implied 10). A short woman that looked similar to Spinelli from Recess (the tough-looking girl with black hair and bulging eyes) walked in and immediately launched into an explanation of the theoretical underpinnings of belief and its anthropological roots in the European society from the 16th century. Okay, seriously: WHAT. This woman made absolutely no sense, and I was completely lost. Thankfully, I met two girls named Lorena and Lola, who were kind enough to introduce themselves and offered to give me the professor’s online notes until I got access to the information for myself.

Finally, I headed off to my last class that day: Sociology of Exclusion and Crime. I had heard this professor was good from a previous study abroad student, so I honestly had high hopes: always shows up late, super funny, loves Americans, no homework were among the list of traits to describe the class structure. I walked in with Esteban, a good friend I made in the Georgetown in Madrid study abroad program, and sat down. Five minutes until 5, the Professor strolled in (class started at 4:30pm, by the way). The professor talked a mile a minute, making me want to hate my life all over again. But I got the key words down: No final. No mandatory assignments. No longer than an hour for class (this particular class ended at 6:30pm, but the Professor stated it would never be so on his watch). Although I was a bit apprehensive about understanding him, Esteban’s Mexican roots and bilingual speaking skills in Spanish and English would let me know of anything major I missed, so I decided to stick with the course.

At the end of it all, Esteban and I went home via metro, and I collapsed onto my bed upon entering the house. If this is what school is going to be like everyday, count me out folks, because I could not handle it all. Let’s just all hope tomorrow goes better…

Sweater Weather

During my first week of formal orientation in Madrid, our Georgetown on-site coordinator Ani delivered a series of workshops to explore different themes we may come across in the next five months: cultural differences, Spanish colloquialisms, individualistic versus collectivistic nations and their values, etc. It seemed that many of the people in our program had lost some interest by the time Ani presented the third and final workshop, titled “Intercultural Competencies II,” seeing as the number of doodle drawings had exponentially increased by that Friday afternoon. I, on the other hand, was prepared and ready to attack intercultural differences by the bullhorn (pun intended). Ani presented the topic by showing us a slide on pre and post-journey culture shock with the following chart:

The “Culture Shock W” graphic, as displayed on the Study Away Programs website by Missouri State University.

It was obvious that Step 1 was set in motion, as my first week had been filled with museum trips, tall apartment buildings, and pictures along the way. Although I recognized the other steps were important and probably pertained to some students studying abroad, my invincible “It Won’t Happen To Me” judgment clouded comprehension of the remaining steps, and I immediately jumped to Step 9 as my personal trajectory of this so-called “culture shock” process.

It’s fair to say that Invincible Me didn’t last very long in Madrid, as I spent that weekend at home and couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that I missed my friends and family back home. I Facebooked, Skyped, and FaceTimed more than was probably healthy for the time being, mainly because reconnecting with who and what I am in DC made me the most comfortable. Saturday night, I talked to my best friend at Georgetown and proceeded to call it a night at a whopping 11:30pm. I couldn’t even out-do my 14-year-old host brothers, who were only in the early stages of making their homemade water bottle rifle by the time I was out cold, not even having yet prepared their planned target for the evening–Mr. Potato: a round little fellow with two red thumbtacks for eyes.

The next week started off worse. Classes were a mess (Note to friends at Georgetown: thank your lucky stars for MyAccess), zero Spanish friends had been made, and the awful cafeteria food at school cleaned me out of cash sooner than I expected, leaving me both poor and hungry in “a foreign land where I don’t even speak the language” (this also became my catch phrase when something remotely went wrong). My breaking point came about that Thursday though, with an unwelcoming encounter from the teller where I opened a Spanish bank account. A third of the way through our conversation where I desperately tried to explain in awful Spanish that I needed to transfer money, she decided it would be a better use of her time to make weekend plans and proceeded to call up a friend to charlar con, literally meaning “chat with” in Spanish. Tid bits of me “eavesdropping” in on her conversation have been provided below, although I don’t necessarily think I had any other choice after being shushed twice.

“Well I think the blue skirt will be too fancy for just drinks.”

Her friend disagrees.

“Uf, don’t even mention that tio (dude) from last weekend–¡Que horror!” 

The friend doesn’t think he is horrifically unattractive, although she knows he was a bit aggressive in getting the teller’s attention at the bar, which reminds me that I would love some of her attention at the moment…

“Let’s make sure we hit up Antonio, too. But maybe forget to invite his girlfriend. Could make for a more interesting night, ya know…”  

The friend hesitantly laughs, suddenly remembers she is also at work and has customers she really wants to attend to–or that aliens have just attacked her–and promises to call back in a few. Thank God for the aliens.

It wasn’t the blue skirt, the dude from last weekend, or Antonio’s girlfriend that bothered me, but rather the fact that I was entrusting my entire semester’s worth of hard-earned money to a woman who had no interest in serving me with anything more than a begrudging look. Was this normal here? As soon as I left, the graffiti-covered buildings explaining that “Anarchy is the government of the future” could no longer receive the same touristy- oh-that’s-an-interesting-perspective-look it had the first time I walked by it. Lo and behold, gray clouds above my head gave Madrid’s weather gods the signal to rain on the Newbie, reminding me to never forget my umbrella on a day it was forecasted to chispar (drizzle), because school was no longer a 7-minute walk, but rather a 45-minute walk, metro, and bus journey now.

Step 2 had officially been set into motion. Step 3 was only minutes away, as I spent the second weekend attempting to help my friend with her pending college trials and tribulations, wishing the entire time I could be 2,000 miles closer and take her for some frozen yogurt on M Street, a window shopping-spree at Buffalo Exchange, or some good ‘ole girl talk at the Waterfront instead of just saying, “You do what feels right, and I’ll love you either way!” Everything just sucked for a little while, and I was losing too much precious time to just let it for a little while this time. PSA for all those who have wondered: pictures of the glorious study abroad adventures immediately upon arrival are somewhat deceiving, and although I had mastered the art of deception at that point, I felt as though it needed to become time to really enjoy the activities I endeavored in.

Before arriving here, I had thankfully been in contact with a woman who belonged to the same religious community as myself in Madrid. Growing up in Atlanta, I was surrounded by a community of approximately 2,000 people that practiced the same Shia sect of Islam called Ismailism. Known collectively as Ismailis, I had thankfully found a smaller community in DC of about 450 people, seven of whom also shared the Georgetown campus with me and made the transition that much smoother my freshman year. Religion had subconsciously been extremely important in my life, and I figured maybe that was the personal connection to Madrid I needed. That Friday night, I decided to attend prayer services in Madrid, convincing myself that if this couldn’t make me feel better, I would call it quits and accept my doom to loneliness until June without complaints (dramatic, I know, just stick with me here).

Stepping into the Madrid Jamatkhana (name for the place of worship), I immediately felt like I was at home–literally and figuratively. Comprised of about twelve members, services were held at the home of the eldest members in the room. The woman with whom I had previously spoken was one of the leaders of the services, as well as the daughter of the elderly couple, along with her sons and their cousins that attended. After the services ended, I spoke with the older of her two sons, a senior at the same University I am attending. Both him and his younger brother had studied abroad in Bulgaria and spoke fluent English, for which I was extremely thankful and could finally spare making a fool of myself for once.

Going home that night, I felt the safest I had ever felt in the past three weeks, and it was then I realized the power of religious and community in my life. Why was it that the people in my program, with whom I have been going to school for three years and spent so much time, couldn’t give me the security I instantly felt by sitting with this family for a mere two hours? It was a strange occurrence, couldn’t be explained by anyone, and yet was just what I needed to feel like I could make Madrid my home, rather than just letting it host me for some months. Later that night, I spoke with my mother about my insights, hoping she could provide some explanation. Although her so-called logic didn’t make any sense, negating her theories helped me create my own, which I attempt to explain below:

To me, Ismailism as a religious tradition believes in Allah as an Eternal, Supreme Being that contains the Nur (light) within Him. Ismailis (followers of this sect) each have a piece of that Nur within them, making them hold a piece of Allah’s light in their souls, which they will one day return to Allah when they pass away and are reunited with Him. Because it is a belief that each Ismaili has the Nur of Allah within him, meeting this group of Ismailis connected me with Allah’s light once again. It gave me the security, stability, and compassion of Allah and His Kindness, reminding me that He is indeed everywhere and always watching over me. I saw the Nur of Allah in this family like I had never seen anything before, and I can honestly say they helped me not only become closer to the city, but also reconnect with my faith.

It was at that moment that I felt like I could indeed conquer Madrid now. Step 4 had been finally set in motion, and I was ready to finally make this experience worthwhile for me, and not just my Facebook friends.

Remember Who You Are

Sitting on the final leg of my journey from Pakistan to Madrid and two hours into the eight-hour flight, I am now fully convinced that the poor young lad sitting a seat away from me hates my guts. Not because I am the annoying window seat passenger that continuously gets up to use the restroom every thirty minutes or so, or even because I keep falling asleep on him, but because, by this point, I have had four separate breakdown incidents where I have willingly sobbed to my heart’s content. The tears were hard to hold back when I was with my parents, but I managed for the most part. Now, though, the time had come. I was alone and in my own world, where I could do pretty much anything I wanted and no one would care because no one knew me well enough to ask if I was okay. And to be honest, I liked it that way just fine.

Three weeks ago, Salima tried to explain to me how people that carried a lot of emotion “worked.” I sheepishly asked her this after her boyfriend Shaq had made what I categorized as a cheesy statement, without recognizing that he meant it wholeheartedly. Salima later told me that she used to think the same way I did until she met Shaq and had to understand the way he thought. It’s still a bit hard for me to comprehend, but something she said stuck: “People like you and me deal with things that hurt us by thinking about them logically and making ourselves believe it works out. We basically lie to ourselves because we aren’t strong enough to let ourselves break down; Shaq doesn’t think like that. He believes that sometimes things just suck and you have to let them for a bit.” Things just suck and you have to let them? It made no sense to me until she explained that it actually makes him stronger because he allows himself to hit rock bottom and then builds himself back up. He embraces vulnerability, and that’s what makes him so strong. I envied it for a second, then reasoned my way out of it, just like my logical self should have—until now.

For the past couple of months, I had successfully avoided having to think about going to Pakistan and seeing my parents. I figured not letting the emotion get to me would be easier, and this led to me not being at all excited to visit the so-called Motherland and reunite with my parents. Time apart also let me forget the little things: how our family would all sit together to eat and share food made by the best cook in the world (obviously, my mom), play card games when the electricity would fail us once again, or listen to my parents’ stories about their struggle to come to America. Looking back, I realize that I sectioned my life into parts, instead of intertwining the events that simultaneously happened. I thought of it like this: nine months of school, days of summer months to intern while nights and weekends to hang out with friends or go out, sporadic breaks to reconnect with friends, Skype calls to remember my parents, and on and on, rather than trying to understand these events as a part of my everyday existence. These past three weeks, I had to section off a part of my life again, but I think this time it needed to be done for me to understand how much I’ve neglected connecting with my parents. I’ll deny it until I die, but the truth is, I haven’t been wanting to connect because I knew it would make me vulnerable again, full of emotion, and that’s exactly what happened. This time, it was different though because I finally understood why it was okay to be full of emotion—it humbles me.

Talking to my parents about all of the things that they’ve gone through to get me where I am today has made me love them even more. Today, I am a Pakistani-American girl that lives in the nation’s capital and attends one of the most prestigious institutions in the nation, while being given extraordinary opportunities to engage with other intellectuals on a level that the girls back in Pakistan can’t even fathom. It’s unfortunate that these opportunities don’t come their way, and it disheartens me until I realize that, without my parents sacrificing their lives for me to be here in the US, I would have been that very girl, and the very thought frightens me every single time. Being back in Pakistan has reminded me of how much I genuinely love and cherish my parents for all that they have done for me and lets me know that soon, I will be given the chance repay them for the sacrifices they’ve made. It doesn’t mean I have to pity them, or attempt to be half of the people they are, but just remember who I am, where I come from, and what my purpose is in that regard.

As I left the Karachi airport early this morning, I hugged my mom and remembered all of the great memories my family has made these past three weeks. Then, she said something to me that I had always known but never internalized until that very moment. [Translated from Urdu] She said: “Our house was bright again while you and your sister were here. It will be so quiet and lonely without you two. I will miss you dearly and always pray for you.” Typing, reading, or even thinking these words bring tears to my eyes every time because I could feel the emotional pain she carried when she said that. She is Shaq, feeling every emotion and letting it tear her down, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it but hug her and let it be. It wasn’t this that tore me apart though; it was hugging my dad. When I went to say goodbye to him, his voice cracked, and he began sobbing. The man I knew to be so stern, so logical, and the least filled with emotion had erupted in tears. That was when I knew that leaving sucked, and I just had to let it for a little while.

As I blow my nose for maybe the sixth or seventh time on this flight to Madrid, I thank the young man next to me for continuing to write in his journal, eat his food, and do him without asking me if I am okay, mainly because I am not but I finally know what it means to just let something suck for a little while. Language barriers between him and myself could also prevent him from asking, but nonetheless, it is nice to just sit and write and cry. I presume that Madrid will be filled with its own struggles, adventures, and encounters once I land, which should, and most likely will, consume much of my time for the first couple of weeks I am there. I am indeed excited to take advantage of what the city, country, and region has to offer—I just now know to do what I want while remembering who I am, where I come from, and what my purpose is in that regard.