When the West Meets the West

In the past month and a half that I’ve been in Spain, I’ve come to notice the huge influence the United States and much of the Americas have on current Spanish culture. Before coming to Spain, I had studied theories of globalization but I never thought it would have this strong of a presence in Spain.

Globalization has been defined as “the increasing global integration of economies, information technology, the spread of global popular culture, and other forms of human interaction (Lieber & Weisberg, 2002, p. 274).” Basically, the theory of globalization has been used to describe the global exchanges that occur between countries. While Lieber and Weisberg’s (2002) definition does include “the spreading of global popular culture and other forms of human interaction”, this phenomenon has been historically associated with global commerce and business trade (Poon, 2008). Even in the realm of cultural globalization, the concentration has been on the spreading of cultures from first world countries (such as the United States and Western Europe) to third world countries (such as Africa and parts of Asia) or from the west to the rest. But before now, I had never really thought of the globalization exchange that occurs when the west, meets the west.

Being in Spain has really cemented for me how large of an influence the exchange of culture has on globalization rather than simply geography and economics. Everything from the music, the clothing, the movies and the food has all been influenced in some shape or form by American culture. In fact, the presence of American culture within this country is so strong that I, in all honesty, could travel to Spain as a U.S. tourist for about two weeks and (if I actively tried) rarely if ever come in contact with Spanish culture. For example, on my way to my hotel from the airport, I could stop by the mall and pick me up a new outfit from one of the several of U.S. stores in the mall. After my trip to the mall I could stop at Pizza Hut, KFC, McDonalds or Tony Roma (one of the most popular restaurants in Spain) and pick me up a good old American cheeseburger with bacon and French fries (which are now American too, in case you weren’t aware). Then I could go to my hotel, speak to the desk clerk in English, pull some money from the ATM with ease because it too is in English (I’ve been to 3 ATMs and you have to actively change the language to Spanish because the default is English even when you use your Spanish banking account) and sit on the couch and enjoy all of my favorite sitcoms from the States.

Yes, as you probably have already guessed, the majority of the sitcoms on television in Spain are U.S. American imports (such as Scrubs, The Simpsons, The Office, Family Guy, American Dad, etc.) that have been dubbed in Spanish. This means that as someone who speaks English, I can change the audio settings on the television with a click of a button and be right back in Texas. In fact the only time that I’ve actually watched television in Spanish is when I watch novellas (or Spanish soap operas) during the day and from what I’ve been told many of them are Latin American imports.

This issue goes beyond the language, food and television and filters into all of Spain’s media. In the month and a half that I’ve been in Spain, I’ve only heard Spanish music from Spanish artists on maybe five occasions. It’s important to note that each of those times I was in the company of someone over the age of 35. All of my younger friends listen to top 40’s music from the U.S., much of which they have downloaded off the internet. I think the thing that amazes me most is that even though they know all of the words to the songs, none of them actually know what the song is about. Every time I’m in the car with someone, they ask me to translate the music for them. I think one of the most shocking incidents for me was when I was in the car with some of my friends and they were asking me to tell them what the song lyrics meant to an Eminem song. I knew the song but didn’t know all of the lyrics and they were feeding each line of the song to me word for word for me to translate. They had made it a point to memorize every word that this man had said because someone on MTV told them it was cool but they had no earthly clue what he was saying.

I am in no way making fun of or condemning my friends (and other Spaniards) for their attraction to American culture. After watching the television, listening to the radio and seeing some of the movies imported from the U.S., I can understand their attraction. Not only is U.S. culture being plastered all over Spain, but it’s very one sided. The media’s presentation of U.S. culture is sweeter than candy from the Willy Wonka factory.

With the exception of the occasional bad press in the news, U.S. culture is painted within Spanish media as a place of dreams where everyone is rich, blonde and happy. The American dream is alive and well in Spain and almost every young person I’ve come in contact with dreams of one day going to California and living the life they see on television. They have no idea that the odds of that happening are slim to none because everything they see in the media tells them that they have just as much of a chance as Miley Cyrus. One of my co-workers explained it best when he said that for Spaniards, (U.S.) America is like one big movie that they watch over and over again because U.S. culture is constantly being presented to them through the media.

No, there is nothing wrong with the exchange of cultures. In fact, cultural exchange and intergroup dialogue (especially on the interpersonal level) can be imperative to cultural understanding, the decrease of prejudice and alliance building (DeTurk, 2006). Yet, in this case the exchange of American culture with Spanish culture isn’t an exchange at all: It’s more of a takeover. I mean, when was the last time any of us in the U.S. actually experienced something that could be identified as uniquely (non-Mexican/Latin American) Spanish?

The Lesson I Learned from a One Eyed Security Guard

This week was a major holiday in Spain. It was Dia De Pillar, which is a Saint's Day, and just so happens to be my host mother's saint and namesake. As with holidays in the U.S. everything is pretty much shut down, with the exception of the malls and movie theaters. I had 5 whole days off from work and decided to live it up...CAN WE SAY SHOPPING!!!!

My host mother and I decided to take advantage of the day off and go shopping for some winter clothes before the start of the season. Shopping was going great. I was finding a lot of deals and I got everything on my list. Even though I had everything I needed, I couldn't pass up the chance to go to H&M. For those of you who don't know, H&M is the mecca of shopping. Basically H&M was created to show case popular trends from top designers at everyday prices. Unlike other stores, they have trends for every woman. Their clothes run in sizes from 0-20, which is rare. Unfortunately, they do not have stores in all of the United States so I have made it a goal to stock up on as much as I can while I'm here.

Anyhoo, after lunch at McDonalds (it was the only place that wasn't packed)I went into my store and I started marveling at the sales rack. My host mother began thumbing through some of the pieces and I decided to go to another part of the store.

After a while I started feeling like someone was following me. I turned around and sure enough there was this female security guard tailing me. Not only was she following me but when I looked back at her she would give me this glaring look.

If you don't know anything else about me, you should know that I don't tolerate things like this. BOY WAS I HOT!!!! I was so angry that out of all the people in the store she started following me. All of a sudden visions of Martin Luther King swarmed my head and I decided to do something about it.

I turned around and started following her! Yes, I followed her through the store and gave her glaring looks like she was giving me. You better believe that this woman had the nerve to be glaring back at me the whole time which made me even madder. I followed her for a good 10 minutes until my host mother came and got me.

Once my host mother came up to me the lady went to another part of the store and I dropped the situation. My host mother and I continued shopping until it was time to pay. I bet you can't guess who was waiting for us at the register...YES THIS MEAN OLD SECUIRTY GUARD.

I could see her glaring at me out of the corner of my eye and I decided that enough was enough and I was going to say something. This time she was close enough for me to see her face to face. So I turned around, opened my mouth....

And then turned back around in embarrassment. The lady wasn't glaring at me...she just had something wrong with her eye. From what it looked like she had a deformity.

I have never in my life felt so bad. Granted she was following around the store but I was making faces at her not knowing that her eye was just like that.

So the moral of this story is_______________________________________.....

Honestly I'm still trying to figure it out but until I do I will be sure not to pick anymore fights with one eyed security women. Definetly not my brightest moment.... Oh well you live and you learn....

LOL,
Mitzi

P.S. Feel free to leave your moral....

Not your ordinary school

I have officially completed my first week of teaching and I can’t help but notice drastic differences in the way school is run in Mentrida and the way schools are run in the U.S.

The School Day

A typical school day is only five hours. It’s not 8 hours like the schools in the states. Every day school begins at 9 a.m. and ends at 2 p.m. In the mornings, children come to school somewhere between 8:45 and 9:00 a.m. (most of them later than earlier). Once the children arrive, they go straight to class.

Breakfast is not served before school like it is in the states. Most (if not all) of the children are feed at home before they arrive. It is typical that at least one parent (usually mothers but also some fathers) does not work during the day in this town and therefore, children eat breakfast at home. Pillar (my host mother) told me that they tried last year to give the children breakfast at school but since most of the children did not come, they stopped doing it. Once the children arrive at the school, the lessons begin. What is taught on that day depends on the day of the week and each teacher’s schedule.

Around noon, all of the classes take a break for “almuerzo” and recess. Almuerzo, loosely translated, means lunch but it’s nothing like the lunches we have in American primary schools. Almuerzo is more like a snack children have during recess. Each child is responsible for bringing its own snack. From what I’ve seen, this can range from a sandwich and a soda to a piece of fruit and a yogurt smoothie. After each child finishes their snack, they are free to play for an hour.

What a sight it is to watch the children scarf down their snack and then rush off to the playground. Once they are on the playground, all bets are off. On my first day of almuerzo, I almost had a heart attack! The kids were running around, screaming, jumping up and down and in all, acting like crazy people. It was pure chaos. At one point, a group of kids were running in (literal) circles around me and I felt like I was in a propaganda video for corporal punishment.

You have to understand my distress. This is unheard of in the states. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a child play at their school let alone run around screaming while the teachers stand and watch from a far. Oh that’s another thing I had never seen before: All the adults were so calm and I, at every second, wanted to rush out and say no, stop that, don’t do that. They just stood their ground and only intervened in truly dangerous situations. I thought they were crazy! Then, I realized why the teachers were so calm. Once we returned to class, the children were calm and ready to work. It was as if they had released all their demons and were ready to be normal children again. I am now all for the hour craziness if it means that we have four hours of peace with the children.

After almuerzo, the students return to class for about two hours before leaving to go home. This is my favorite part of the day. Every day, around 1:30 I take my place at the window to watch the children leave. Yes I am happy to see the children leave, but not for the reasons you may think.

The majority of children are picked up by their parents at this time. Can I tell you how beautiful this is? In the afternoon, the “parent pickup children” are lined up in front of the gates and then the magic happens. Once their name is called, each child rush into their parents’ arms as the parents kiss them and swing them around while both child and parent smile from ear to ear and laughter fills the air. I am not over exaggerating when I say that EVERY child who is picked up by their parent does this. Can you believe it? When I first saw it, I thought to myself, no this has to be staged. But I was wrong. Every day the same thing has happened. I have never in my life seen so many happy children at once. Every time I see this, I wish there was a way I could bottle this up and spread all around the schools in my neighborhood back home. Usually in the states when school ends, you see children rushing off to get on buses or hop into cars. You rarely see little one’s rushing to hug and kiss their parents. This had always been so normal to me but after seeing the alternative it no longer seems right.

The rest of the children are split into two groups: Those in the after school program and those who ride the bus home. The children who are in the after school program are taken to the cafeteria where they eat what we would consider “lunch” for about two hours. Now I put lunch in quotes because, once again, this is nothing like the lunches our kids get in the U.S. No, they don’t eat stale pizza and hamburgers. These kids get a home cooked, three course meal. Lunch for the students typically includes soup or salad, a main course and dessert. Last Thursday, the children had a vegetable puree soup with drumsticks, salad, French bread, yogurt and a piece of fruit. How yummy! Jamie Oliver would be proud. After “lunch” they play on the play ground until they are picked up.

The last group of children ride the bus home. There is only one bus for these children but it’s not the big yellow buses that we are used to in the states. These children are picked up in a big, fancy charter bus that the parents pay $10 a month for them to ride, which can be pretty expensive if you have more than one child.

The School

This school is massive. There are four, two-story buildings as well as an annex and portables that house the children. Can you believe that they still don’t have enough space? In retrospect, I would guess that it would be the same size as a large, public elementary school in the states but this isn’t a big city. Mentrida has approximately 4,001 people in it (I’m the one, LOL).

The reason why this school is so big is that it houses a lot of grades (and children). In Spain, primary school is from ages 2 1/2-12. This translates to grades Pre-school to 6th in the states. I don’t know exactly how many kids there are in the school but I know that there are a lot and I have the pleasure of working with ALL of them since I am the only conversation teacher in my town. Yes, I have the task of learning about 500 names (including the staff) over the next year. And yes, I have to learn (and remember) each Lucia, David, Raquel, Emma and Jose because their little hearts break when I don’t remember them. (Trust me; it’s actually a lot more fun than it sounds.)

The Staff
The staff is much more laid back in Spanish public schools. Everyone is known by their first name. The children don’t call us Ms. or Mr. Surname. Even the principle is known by his first name.

On my first day, I tried to have all the kids call me by my last name (which would be normal in the states) and all of the teacher’s looked at me like I was crazy and introduced me as Mitzi to their classrooms. Now, the little one’s call me teacher but the older one’s call me Mitzi.

Most of the teachers are in their early 20’s and 30’s. The majority of the support staff (i.e. the administration, the cleaning crew, etc.) is older. Some of the Americans that I met during training informed me that it was normal for the teachers to be younger in the smaller towns. Most often smaller towns have a deficit of teachers and therefore the universities send teachers who aren’t certified yet out to smaller towns to do their student teaching.

There are approximately 3 primary teachers in every grade (a total of 27 teachers), 8 language teachers who float from class to class reinforcing that day’s lesson in a foreign language (usually English), 2 (or 3) infant assistants, 2(or 3) special education tutors and 2 P.E. coaches who teach P.E. as well as relieve the primary teachers during breaks.

There is one more thing that I would like to point out: Unlike American public schools, the teachers do not have dress codes. My first day in Mentrida, the principle came and picked me up from the airport in jeans and a polo shirt. I thought he hadn’t gone to school that day and didn’t think twice about it. While we were having lunch I asked him what should I wear to the school and he said whatever you want. What I’m wearing today is my usual (jeans, a collar shirt and dress shoes) but you can wear what you want. Silly me, I packed all of my business casual outfits thinking we had to dress up. I would like to be clear about something, though, even though the teacher’s are casual, they are VERY fashion forward. Most of them are young, 20 something women and therefore they follow the trends. I was laughing to myself the other day because when I walked into the teacher’s lounge looked like a foot shoot for vogue. I love it! Now I dress laid back but I make sure to be as fashionable as possible. The only thing that surprised me more than this was the P.E. teachers.

The one thing I did find to be hilarious is that out of all the differences I found, one thing remained the same: The P.E. teachers. Even though the homeroom and language teachers dress differently than home room teacher’s in the states, the P.E. teachers looked exactly the same as the one’s we have in the U.S. They totally rock the Sue Sylvester. The two P.E. teachers we have on campus wear wind pants, a tee-shirt, tennis shoes and their whistle every day. I guess some things are universal after all.

Well that’s all of my observations so far. I will be sure to keep you all posted on anything else I learn while at work.

Desde la boca de un hombre borracho

Last Friday was technically my first day of work, although, I didn’t really do much. Fridays are usually my day off and because my first day of work was on a Friday, I just went in to go over my schedule for the next week and see the kids before they left the school.

On my way home from work, I stopped by the neighborhood park to take pictures. While I was taking pictures an elderly man came up to me and said:

“Take my picture, sweetheart. I want you to remember me always. “

I had seen him around the town a couple of times before so, I saw no harm in taking his picture. Plus, there were a bunch of people around and I was two feet away from the school so I knew I would be safe. He proceeded to sit down on a piece of rock shaped cement and he posed for the picture. After I took it he asked to see it. So I showed it to him and he told me,

“Take another of me, but don’t make me look so old this time.”

So I took another picture of him and showed it to him. Then he said to me,

“My sweet heart will you give me a kiss?”

Now I had seen this scene play out many times on 6th street (in Austin Texas). I could tell from his stumbled speech that he had a little something extra with his morning coffee so I cautiously turned around and said,

“See you later.”

Unfortunately that was not good enough for him. So he said,

“No! Where are you going? Why are you leaving me, my dear?”

I told him,

“I need to go home to eat lunch.”

The man’s face lit up when I told him this and his tone changed.

Man: Oh so you live here?
Me: Yes I am the new English conversation teacher.
Man: Oh yes, my grandson told me about you.
Me: Yes I met many of the children already.

(Now I just want to let you all know, before you start worrying about my safety, that there that I was keeping a very safe distance from this man at this point.)

Man: Yes my grandson came home and told me the other day, and forgive me for saying this, these are his words not mine, My grandson came home and told me, “ Abuelo, tenemos una Negra en el collegio”.

Now normally, I would have brushed this off. Loosely translated, his grandson told him that they had a black woman at the school. In most people’s eyes, this was harmless. Yet, there was something about his need to apologize before telling me these words that really caught me off guard.

For as long as I’ve been speaking Spanish I’ve know that in Spanish speaking cultures, you are know by your features. If you are fat, then someone who is greeting you may say “hola gordita.” If you are skinny, it is customary for someone to say “hola flaca.” It is no different with skin color.

I am well aware that when a person sees me in passing, the first thing he or she may notice about me is that I’m a black woman. Surprise! I’ve know that since I was a child. I’m also well aware that this is even more paramount in a town of 4,001 (since I moved in) people with only 1 black family.

Since the day that I came into the town I’ve been “La Negrita” or the young black girl. When I went to Costa Rica, I was “La Negrita.” Even in San Antonio, I have been “ La Negrita” from time to time. Yet, none of this ever bothered me as much as it did today.

The thing that really caught me off guard was the fact that this man not only felt the need to apologize before calling me una Negra but he placed the blame on his grandson. The reason why it caught me off guard was because for as long as I’ve know these words, I have been told that to be called una Negra is an endearing term. It doesn’t have the same meaning as the N-word does in the United States. It’s simply a way for people to get your attention if they don’t know your know or a way to describe you in conversation. If this is true, then why did he feel the need to apologize? I mean, who apologizes when they say something nice?

Suddenly my world was changed. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always lived by the philosophy that a drunk man tells more truths than a sober man, but does this saying hold true in this situation? If so, what does this man’s slip of the tongue really mean?

On the walk home I started thinking about all the times I had allowed people to refer to me as Negra or Negrita. Then, with great guilt, I thought of the times I used these terms to describe other Black women in conversation. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had, for all these years, allowed people to degrade me under the assumption that these terms were endearing? Even worse, I started to wonder had I innocently degraded others? I was sick!

When my host brother came home, I told him what happened and asked him the significance of these terms. He explained to me (as so many have before) that these terms were only meant to describe. He added that yes, they can have a negative connotation if said a certain way but the majority of people who use these terms are not being prejudice. They are simply calling out one of your features. He proceeded to tell me that this is the same as me being able to call him “Blanco” (or white); it would not mean anything.

In the back of my mind though, I couldn’t agree with him because 1) I wouldn’t refer to him as a Blanco or call him “Blanco” in passing, I would use his name and 2) even beyond the surface I would have to argue that because he is white, me calling him Blanco does not have the same meaning as him calling me a Negra or Negrita because the histories behind those words and the people they represent are totally different. For the past four days I’ve been having this debate with my fellow Spaniards and they all agree with my host brother but I want to open this conversation up to you guys. Was this simply a miss understanding or

is Negra the new N-word?

Pelusa La Gata

I would like to introduce you to my little sister Pelusa. Pelusa is one years old. She is one of two pets that my host family currently has. The other is an 8 year old dog named Carnelo.

One week ago, Pelusa's mother died. Also, all of her brothers a sisters died during their birth, so she is the only one left of " la familia Gato." Before you pull out your tissues, I have to tell you that this has not stopped Pelusa from being a rambunchious, fun loving, creature. As you can probably imagine, she personifies the role of a "little sister" and takes this title very seriously, no matter how much I protest.

(In case you were wondering, those black spots on her face and arms aren't natural. Yesterday Pelusa decided to mess with Carnelo and sought refugee on the newly painted fence. LOL)

Pelusa and I currently have a love hate relationship. As some of you may know, I am allergic to cats (and dogs). My host family is doing a really good job of keeping the animals away from me as much as possible because they understand how difficult it can be for someone with asthma and allergies to live with pets.

Carnelo, the family pooch, understands this. He spends all of his days outside protecting the family from birds and bugs. Ocassionaly he sniffs around me and whines for me to pick him up but when I say "afuera" (go away) he quickly obeys. Pelusa, on the other hand, does not seem to understand my condition.

Pelsua is in love with me! No this is not an over exaggeration. Every where I go, Pelusa is hiding two steps behind me, waiting patiently for the day that I will reach down and touch her. It's almost like she thinks that my screaming and yelling at her is just a front for my true feelings. Nothing phases her.

Pelusa's goal, since the day I came into the house, has been to make me love her as much as she loves me. Even when I go in a room and close a the door to keep her away, she sits and bangs her head against the door until I come out or someone comes and gets her. The other night it was so bad that my host mother had to get out of bed and lock Pelusa in the restroom for fear that she would knock her brains out.

For the last three days Pelsua and i have been playing this exhausting game of "who is the fastest". There are two phases to this game:

Phase one is a test of sheer running ability. When she sees me coming, she gets into her hunting position and takes off running to my door. The goal of this phase is for Pelusa to try and beat me into my room before I close the door.

Although there have been a few injuries (mainly on the part of Pelusa's head being caught in the door) this part of the game is the easiest. I am the current victor of phase one.

The second phase is a test of flight and sheer strenght. When I go into the living room to sit down, she takes a few laps around the room and then pretends like she's going to lay down on the floor. As soon as I get comfortable on the couch, Pelusa leaps into the air, heading straight toward me. The goal of this phase is for Pelusa to land in or as close to my lap as possible. Almost like a kitty version of shot put.

My host mother's pillows have proven to be the perfect weapon during this phase, but alas, Pelusa usually wins.

Even though Pelusa is a pain, I have to admit that the chiquita is growing on me. She most definetly has the Puss and boots syndrome: When ever I yell at her she just sits and looks at me with her big beautiful eyes until I fall to putty. What can I say, I'm a sucker for pretty babies!

Pelusa: 4, Mitzi: 3

¿Quien es tu?

I have been in Spain for two days now. Things have already been eventful. On my first day in Mentrida, I ran into “La Loca,” or, from what I have persumed, the designated “town crazy.” As you can probably guess, our meeting was anything but dull.

When the prinicpal of my school came to pick me up from the aiport, he took me to a local restaurant to have lunch (or comida). In case you didn´t know, there are four meals in Spain: “desayuno, almuerzo, comida y cenar.” Desayuno is breakfast. This usually takes place around 8 or 9 in the morning. I woke up too late today to actually experience desayuno but when I do, I will be sure to report what the customary desayuno consists of.

Almuerzo is a snack that you have before lunch. This happens around 11 or 12 in the afternoon. Comida is lunch. This meal tends to be one of the biggest meals of the day and usually happens around 1 or 2 p.m. Finally, cena is dinner which is pretty simple and it happens around 8 or 9 p.m. Last night, for cenar, me and my host family had french bread and a few pieces of meat (one of them was bacon, the other was a tasty piece of pork that looked like a mix of ham and salami).

Contrary to popular belief, comida is not the time that everyone has a siesta. Actually, I´ve heard from some of the locals that siesta isn´t really observed in this town. Yes, things close earlier but there isn´t necessarily a time when people take a long break and then return to work. People usually eat lunch for an hour and either 1) leave for the day or 2) go to lunch for an hour and return to work. My work day ends at 1 p.m. Monday through Thursday. At 1 p.m. everyone eats lunch at the school and then we all go home.

Now that I´ve covered that, I can tell you about my ¨comida¨experience con “La Loca.” Once again, my director took me out to a local restaurant during comida my first day in Mentrida. As soon as I hit the door all eyes were on me, but thankfully no one approached me with any questions. In a way, I had expected there to be some confusion because of the previous research I had done on the town. Even still, my pricincipal warned me on the way to Mentrida from the airport. He light heartedly mentioned that people would be staring and wondering “ what he was doing with una negrita (or young black girl)”. Of course, I laughed it off because I had expected that there would be some curiosity but it seems that I underestimated some of the locals or ,I should say, one in particular.

Once we were seated, my director ordered the customary wine and gaseon (which is carbonated water mixed with wine to make it taste more like champagne). Then, he excused himself to go to the restroom and wash his hands. As soon as he left the table, an older woman came up to me. As you can imagine she was a little fiesty thing. I should have know something was about to happen when I first saw her tiny frame and huge, nose scrunching glasses.

As soon as the coast was clear, she walked over to me, peeped over her glasess and uttered, “¿quien es tu (who are you)?” From there, the questions started coming. It was like a speed marathon.

She wanted to know who I was, if I had married the director, where I was living, who I was living with, what was I doing in the town, etc, etc., etc. I could tell from her line of questioning that she had made it her personal goal to find out who exactly I was. Being that I was nervous and my spainsh is weak compared to theirs, she quickly became frustrated with my simple answers and immediately started in on my director when he came back to the table. Once they started going back and forth, I awkwardly sat in my seat, watching as they talked about me. Thankfully, they talked very fast and I didn´t know exactly what they were saying. Judging from both of their expressions, It was better that I didn´t comprehend all of it.

After she finally left, I told my director the things she had said and he assured me not to worry about her because she was “La Loca,” or the crazy lady. Outside of “La Loca” everyone has been pretty nice, but I have a feeling that this isn´t the last I have seen of “La Loca”.

Lluego Amores,
Mitzi

8 months….what was I thinking?

So I am about six days from my departure to Spain and I am terrified… Yes terrified… like puking, calling my friends at 5 a.m. crying, begging them to reassure me that I’m doing the right thing, terrified. (I can’t believe I just admitted that but we’re all friends now so here goes…)

I know that you all are probably thinking the same thing that everyone has been telling me since the terrified set in about two days ago: What is there to be terrified about? This is a once in a lifetime experience, a new chapter, new start, new________ (fill in our favorite adjective); but that “new” is exactly what scares me.

For the last couple of years I’ve been hopping in my car, getting on planes and traveling where ever my old, beat up suitcases would take me. This time it all feels different. This time, I’m not just a passive traveler sight seeing my way around the country until my money runs out. For eight months, I will be a transplant in the Spanish society. That means that as a transplant, I will (for the first time) be immersed in the culture: taking in the smells, the moments, the faces and not just passively saying hello.

I want you to, just for a second, think about what this REALLY means. In a literal sense, when someone has something transplanted into their body, it’s usually a foreign object that (in most cases) is meant to save their lives. Once that thing is transplanted into the host body (whether it be a new heart, a kidney, etc.) one of two things can happen: either the ‘new’ part can take effect and mold into the body or the body can reject it and the organ is removed.

In a figurative sense, I will (for 8 months) become a part of the culture, the food the dancing, the people, the good and the bad. More importantly, for 8 months Spain will become a part of me. I will no longer be the 10 year old girl vowing to visit that far away land. I will, for all purposes, be a temporary resident in a new country starting over. Like a literal transplant I will never be able to remove this experience and it could, very well save my life or at least change it from now on. Whatever happens, whether good or bad, I will never be able to take this moment back. I know that sounds really weighty and dramatic but

for the last four months I have fallen in love with this country that I’ve never been to; a place that I have dreamt of my whole life and with that comes a WHOLE LOT of expectation.

In all honesty, I think thing that scares me most isn’t that I’m going to go there and hate it and never want to go back. I mean its Europe, millions of people travel there every year so there has to be SOMETHING good about the country. No, my fear is that I will fall head-over-heels with Spain (as all of my friends and family have already predicted) and not want to come back. If I may continue to be honest, that is exactly where the terror comes from: What if I get there, love it and become one of those people that never comes back? What if this becomes more than just a onetime experience? And worse yet, what if I come back, live my life in Texas (as I did before) but continually yearn for that 8 months I spent in Spain? Then what?

Yes I know I am making this all more complicated than it has to be. The simple fix would be to stop thinking about the things and just take in the experience for what it is. Yes that would be the simple fix but is life really that simple?