Sometimes it's Hard to Swallow

An article by a recent graduate describing her experience in Madrid

Moving to Spain to teach English after graduation was such a random decision in some ways. And yet, it is the easiest one that I have ever made. Teaching in Madrid is definitely a challenge, and it is definitely not what I had expected: it is so much better than that. From my ragged university apartment in CollegeTown, USA, I imagined myself having intelligent fluent Spanish conversation over a sophisticated wine at the end of a day teaching high level grammar in my very cute new heels. Instead, I have learned that learning Spanish is a humbling, hard, hilarious process that requires tenacity and an ability to laugh at yourself in public. I have learned that a cheap pitcher of sangria will suffice to kill an entire afternoon happily. I have learned that high level grammar sometimes must take a back seat to explaining that "let's get on with it" and "let's get it on" are not, despite all appearances, interchangeable phrasal verbs in a business meeting. And to my utter shock, I have learned that giving up stilettos is a small price to pay for walking in cobblestone plazas.

"It is literally impossible for the human body to walk and swallow food at the same time. It is undisputed."
My out-spoken American spirit, my cocky 21-year-old arrogance, my innate argumentative tendency, and my thousands upon thousands of experiences that could prove this statement wrong all begged me to argue. But as I sat there before the powerful commercial executive whose Hugo Boss stilettos cost more money than the cash points in Spain would allow me to withdraw per day, I felt like a small child being reprimanded for eating cookies before supper. So instead of responding that this ignorant assumption was based on childhood indoctrination of Spanish culture, I said, "Do you understand the difference between undisputed and undisputable? Both are adjectives, but you use them in different situations."

As an English major, I placed strong importance on context clues. When I was ten years old, I remember filling in the standardized test bubble confidently when it came to these exercises concerning words that were too big for me to know. Therefore, when I saw the sign pulse peaton over the button under a "walk/don't walk" traffic sign in Madrid, I was proud to be able to extract the meaning. Obviously, the sign should be translated "push button." This became my new favorite word, and I said it often, as my Spanish teacher said that practice was paramount in becoming fluent in Spanish. I informed random employees of my company while waiting for the elevator that I had pressed the peaton. Once encased in the big metal doors, I kindly asked them which peaton I should push. People would often observe me strangely, but I brushed it off as admiration. I took every opportunity to show the Spanish world that I was not another stupid American: I was trying very hard to use their language! This went on for some time, maybe up to six months. Then one day, I was walking under the bright Castilian sun through yet another cluster of roadwork in the center of Madrid. It was very difficult to see where exactly the pedestrians should walk, until I saw the sign over the cleared pathway with a sign of a little walking man on it. My context-clue-skills were sending me red flags as soon as I read the sign. It said: Peatones, por aqui.

Anyone who has taken the leap to move to a foreign country can tell you about the waves of homesickness that wash over you after the big event. But the ones who stay in their new habitat can also tell you that intimidating storms eventually ease into the ebb and flow of normal life. For me (and most of the English teachers with whom I have conferenced about this phenomenon), the progression is as follows:

The first stage of the move is generally euphoric. Everything is new and exciting, and challenges are just obstacles waiting to be hurdled. Then the novelty of Mañana Country begins to wear off as does the appetite for tortilla. This is replaced by a deep longing for a clothes dryer. As one begins to notice all of the tiny new inconvenient issues, the hollow yearning for family and familiarity are compounded with a distinct "what-have-I-done?" mantra being chanted in the recesses of the mind. So, if you find yourself in this position, take heart. If you can get through this phase, you are golden. Like the first cigarette-less crisis, endurance can bear very sweet fruit.

After I had gotten through the excited, disappointed, frustrated, and finally the why-does-the-mail-take-so-long phases, the sun came out (as it always does) and dried my tears (and clothes). I settled into a more stable phase of everyday ups and downs and appreciated Madrid for the amazing city that it is.

This stability was somewhat challenged for me on April 16th, the day of the Virginia Tech shootings. When you graduate from high school in a small college town in which the first day of hunting season is the day that 50% of the young men skip school, you never expect to move to a capital city in Europe and see images of that town on the front page of the newspaper on your way out of the metro. As the flood of emails, phone calls, and text messages came pouring in from family and friends who live, work, and study on that campus, I had never felt further from home.

When I walked into my first class the next morning, I dreaded the discussion about gun control in the United States that was sure to ensue. Instead, my students have saved the front page article for me, in case I didn't know yet. "We are sorry," they said simply as they kissed me on the cheek. The next class was the same… and then the next. Offers to let me use office phones to call the United States, cups of coffee, and suggestions that I cancel class were all refused as I fought back my surprise about their interest.

And then, my doorman, a very sweet and gentle grandfatherly gentleman with a tendency to be very involved in the personal lives of the inhabitants, stopped me on the way into my flat. He had noticed that most of my mail was postmarked "Virginia" and wanted to offer me his condolences and ask about my friends who so faithfully send letters and postcards. My eyes involuntarily filled as I told him in my very best Spanglish that I believed them all to be fine. And then he hugged me. "Mi hija," he said comfortingly.

I smiled at him awkwardly and hit the button for the elevator. As I wished that the lift - like all things Spanish - would move a tiny bit faster, I suddenly realized how incredibly lucky I was to live in a foreign country, surrounded by people who know and care about my life, regardless of my origin. The thing is, the world is a very small place. And even living in a land where raw ham legs hung in the windows with care, it is possible to be very much at home.

Alaina Garret