Over the past twelve months, I have been told on numerous occasions that nothing can truly prepare you for what lies ahead. However, no matter how many times somebody tells you that the future will never be what you expect it to, every time a pot hole appears, you still turn back bemused and ask yourself: Where did all that come from?! Despite the fact that as Erasmus students we have had countless meetings and endless amounts of yawn inducing advice, when I arrived in Spain to start my pinnacle year abroad, I still found myself aghast, confused and frightfully unprepared.
Having set my phone to Spanish, my facebook account to Spanish and had finally ploughed through a couple Harry Potter books translated into Spanish, I felt that when I arrived in the land of sangria and siestas, I would be feeling pretty confident about my language acquisition. The last time I was this wrong about something was when I thought fallatio was some kind of cheese. A few hours after arriving in Spain I found myself already reaching for the phrase book to plunder through the simplest of tasks such as asking where the bus station was, when the next train was due or more worryingly, how much something was. Rather than reeling off sentences I had learnt back in the days when my most distinct physical feature was acne that spread like damp, I stuttered and stumbled to the point where hand gestures became my best friend. However, I knew I had reached the peak of my humiliation when the Spanish ‘hombre’ looked at me with pity, tilted his head to the side and said, ‘Do you speak English?’ At this point I was not sure if he was asking me so that he could engage in an English conversation or to question my general ability to speak any language at all. The situation then became more demoralising when a 5 year old boy came screeching past speaking perfect Spanish. I’m aware that it was the little runt’s first language, but for how fast and eloquently he spoke, for all I knew he was discussing the BP oil crisis whilst picking his nose. I wish I could say the language barrier slowly started to come down during the first frightening hours of being in the place where rain apparently falls mainly on the plain but alas it got worse. For the next 72 hours my language inadequacy plunged me into numerous situations such as:
• Convincing a man I had got into the country without any form of identification. For some reason him asking for my documents did not register as him asking for my passport. (“No I don’t have any documents!” “I’m sorry what?!”)
• Having to physically point and yell over the counter at ‘English Breakfast Tea’ because my accent was (still is) a farce.
• Hanging up on landlords out of fright because apparently taking directions is just all too much.
• Noting down street names and directions so hideously incorrect, it causes us all to take a 30 minute detour and the landlady actually having to come find us in the city because, oddly, the apartment was not located at the cathedral.
• Looking at the hostel manager so blankly he eventually shakes his head and walks away probably muttering something about the ‘bloody English’.
Now that a couple months have passed I’ve found myself no longer worrying about language acquisition (as success is quite clearly futile) but rather dealing with the cultural differences. Before I arrived I was not at all aware of my ‘British-ness’ so to speak. Craving tea was normality, queuing in a proper manner was innate and a pint was a regular measurement when one asks for a beer. All such British character traits have now been rigorously tested. When I first ventured into a Cafe, in the world of bulls and matadors, to order my favourite beverage, not only did I appear to have asked for a cup of poison but it was also a peculiarity (apparently) to ask for cold milk with it. A few weeks prior, asking for a cup of tea was such a regular occurrence I did not think that I would have to list any sort of criteria whatsoever. Nevertheless, I found myself considering whether I wanted my tea hot or cold, green or brown and whether I even wanted cow juice along with it. By the time I was finished I felt like an old age pensioner experiencing Starbucks for the first time, not realising that coffee in the twenty first century now came in different varieties of size and flavour.
My inability to function in day to day scenarios does not stop there. On my first venture to a Spanish supermarket, I unknowingly affirmed to owning one of the store cards only to look up properly to find the shop assistant with her hand out, looking somewhat bewildered. To this, I could only respond with an awkward grimace and a shifty glance around the vicinity expecting a translator to pop up any minute to help me with such a predicament; needless to say nobody came to aid so I was left to blush in front of a queue of fellow shoppers venomously staring at me as I was quite clearly delaying their siesta. Thankfully, the poor woman at the cashier realised communication with me was fruitless so just carried on waving a bag at me and pointing at the price on the screen, being aware that the only way to get any sense out of me was treating me like a fridge had been repeatedly dropped on my head as a child. As a shuffled away with multiple English products in hand (finding Weetabix was a particular triumph) I realised that regardless of whether or not I had delayed their siesta, the venomous shoppers were still staring; but not just in the shop, oh no, but in the entire city.
Wherever I walk, no matter much I keep my head down, I have realised that staring is not the activity that is deemed as rude in England but is somewhat an art form in the land of flamenco and castanets. I’m still not sure if it is because I am walking around with a sign saying ‘Foreigner’, or because my hair is blonde as the sun or indeed because I still stroll around the city with a vacant stare that can only be achieved by being lost; either way, no matter how much I glare back I will still turn the corner and fervently look for something on my face, shoe, arse or anything that will justify the look of disconcertion. The fact of the matter is that with a new country and a new culture brings new morals and unspoken rules; a concept that people had warned me about but I apparently chose not to believe. Whilst an English gentleman may offer to buy me a drink in a bar, a Spanish gentleman would rather just order me a drink and watch me pay for it. Whilst it is normal to hold the door open for the person behind you in England, from my experience across the pond would rather watch the door hit you. And indeed, whilst English people diligently queue in silence, in other cultures, they would rather move straight past you regardless of whether you have waited twenty minutes.
However, despite the fact that I’ve ardently ranted about the very country I’ve inhabited for the past three months, curiously, I do not want this year to end. I still may be completely useless at attending classes, utterly hopeless at conjugating verbs and I may be frightfully and atrociously inept at adapting to a different culture (with the exception of appreciating siestas). But all this aside, I still grin like a maniac when I remember that I live in Spain and trust me, I realise I am one lucky puta de madre.
