The modernist traveler

As I delved into studying for my last final exam in Madrid, the sticky June heat begging me to take a walk outside, I realized how little I knew about my 20th century Spanish literature course. Where was I when these terms were introduced? Who the hell are these people with long names and a prolific writing background?! Needless to say, early June was spent indoors at a tiny desk. I learned the meaning of "cramming" in Spain.

Since my brain had spent most of my studying time memorizing miniscule facts, I decided it was time to take a look at the bigger picture. I thought I knew what modernism was, but did I really? There was only one way to find out: Wikipedia.

I made my way to the "Modernist literature" page (in English, because I'd become lazy from the summer heat). One passage really whirred around in my cabeza:

"For the first-time reader, modernist writing can seem frustrating to understand because of the use of a fragmented style and a lack of conciseness. Furthermore the plot, characters and themes of the text are not always presented in a linear way" (Wikipedia).

Wikipedia (of all things) stirred a sense of familiarity within me as I read. The anxieties and frustrations I faced during the first few months in Spain resurfaced as I scanned the first sentence: "For the first-time reader, modernist writing can seem frustrating to understand because of the use of a fragmented style and a lack of conciseness." In my mind, the word "reader" could have been substituted with "traveler".

Life was certainly "fragmented" at the beginning of my journey: rushing to turn in visa forms, figuring out which classes I wouldn't fail, speaking in broken Spanish. I compartmentalized all of these stressful, emotionally draining experiences so that I wouldn't be overwhelmed by the feat of making a home for myself in a new country. As I worked towards each one, my confidence as a traveler fortified. I'd hit my stride.

However, in Madrid, I certainly experienced "a lack of conciseness", testing that confidence. Nothing was short and to the point for the foreigners in la capital. Trying to order a public transportation pass and understanding the university were some of the many ordeals I ran into as an extranjera. Each was an extensive process that gave me a surge of empowerment each trudge I took towards the police department after my phone was pick-pocketed. From every lengthy and painful experience I had in Madrid, I gained more self-respect. I went out, with aplomb, to tackle the rest of the many travel problems I would face.

Each issue I saw as a challenge. Every grueling process I perceived as a way to make me a more flexible and well-rounded person. None of it really mattered. I could run off to Ireland or Morocco at a moment's notice, and I was grateful for every second I was abroad. However, I never forgot my first home in California.

It was as if I existed in separate timelines while I was abroad (à la 'Community'). It's like Wikipedia says: "The plot, characters and themes of the text are not always presented in a linear way." In a very Modernist fashion, the plot and characters of my life were in separate locations and time zones, but I lived in both. In one timeline, I was jetting off to different countries every other weekend, crammed into a tiny airplane whose airline sucked every bit of money it could from its patrons. Anything to keep me moving and seeing different places. I fell in love with that starving traveler lifestyle. I made two-day friends, week-long friends and lifelong friends all within the span of a year. New inside jokes were hatched, café con leche traditions were made, ambitions were scrawled out in a tiny notebook as I hoped that writing them down would make them feel more attainable. All my friends in this timeline wanted to venture out into unfamiliarity, just as I did.

In the other, more comfortable timeline,  I was at home in California, sitting in my chaotic Berkeley apartment while nerding-out on 19th century literature. I met my Cal friends at a cool new place to get happy hour, talking about how being an "adult" sucks. I held my dog while watching some cheesy reality show with my dad in my parents' house. I was driving to get frozen yogurt with my mom, laughing about a funny thing my sister had said. I was visiting my brother at his new university, wishing him well on his first year of college and making sure his dorm room is chick-friendly ("No, you can't get the lava lamp.")

Before I left, I worried about missing these key moments in California. In reality, I didn't miss a thing. I was in these two timelines, living two lives in a completely non-linear way. I felt as if by going abroad, my community merely expanded; it didn't shift from one country to another. I still partly live in Madrid, wandering the barrios, looking for a tapas place to start out the night with my friends. My feet still pound the pavement that Cervantes walked on in the 16th century. I still attempt to make jokes in Spanish (usually failing) while eating chocolate neopolitanas in the university cafeteria.

I exist in two different environments, and I could never have done so if I hadn't taken the plunge and touched down in Spain that fateful August day last year. To future travelers that have anxiety about leaving their friends and family behind as they live in a different country, just remember: you have the opportunity to be a Modernist traveler. You can forge your own non-linear, long-winded, fragmented world. You can carve two lives for yourself, and I suggest you do just that. You won't regret it.

Class of 2013

I never imagined I would be watching my friends at Cal graduate on my Facebook newsfeed, but here I am, viewing images of familiar faces in navy caps doning their perfectly groomed heads pass my eyes on a computer screen.

If anyone knows me, they understand that I am not the super-hyper cheerleader saying "Go Bears" at every little chance I get. However, I do get surges of pride for my university when I see some random European wearing a Cal shirt (to whom I yell "Go Bears" and who stares at me like I just insulted his family). I feel an unexpected pangs of excitement when I hear that our team has won something-or-other. When I meet someone in Europe that also goes to Berkeley, I do the traditional "ohmygodIgotheretoo" battle cry.

I never thought I'd feel emotional at seeing everyone I know (and don't know) parading across my Facebook newsfeed in their caps and gowns. But I actually do. I sort of wish that I was in that crowd of sweaty anonymous students, waiting in anticipation for three hours for my name to be called.

More than my twinges of jealousy, I feel bouts of pride for my fellow seniors. We more-or-less went through the same baby steps it took to reach this giant leap, from those god-awful G.E.'s to those that introduced us to one of our new passions. We've all navigated from the confusing first week on campus to the confusing first week of REAL ADULT LIFE. We all had a difficult time imagining this day four years ago, but it smacked us in the face.

I am currently pouring over notes, not quite done with my undergraduate career. I'm still nervously anticipating my exams, not quite feeling like a graduating senior. I'm planning my summer Eastern Europe trip, stressing over visas and hostels, and - oh, yeah - worrying about what I'm going to do be doing to get cash so I can eat. In other words, I'm feeling as disoriented as a freshman navigating the halls of Dwinelle (which I eventually mastered, thank you very much!).

But seeing you all in your graduation robes has given me the inner-strength to push through these grueling Spanish exams because I know how hard you have all worked. The ceremonies you are experiencing now are beautiful, grandiose symbols of that perseverance. My only piece of advice to you would be to travel as much and as often as you possibly can. You really don't need much advice; you will be the ones giving life tips to those less experienced, and you will be damn good at it.

Dear Class of 2013, I am so incredibly proud of you all. Now, go have a beer at the Bear's Lair for me.

Taking a turn about town

"Dar una vuelta" is one of my favorite Spanish phrases. Literally translated, it means "to give a turn" and is used to say "to take a walk." My principal pastime in Madrid is to take a turn because I am convinced it is the best way that a person truly becomes familiar with the city in which they live.

I've taken the metro since the beginning, and it makes me feel suffocated. I become a sardine, shoved into these tiny tubes under the ground. I always feel as if I'm missing something up above the concrete because I'm stuck in between two gossiping old ladies on a stuffy subway car.

Don't get me wrong, the metro system is phenomenal in Madrid. I can get nearly anywhere on the train, but it's not as fulfilling as I would like it to be. If I need to get somewhere via transportation, I prefer taking the bus so I can catch some vitamin D through the windows.

Walking is by far the most gratifying mode of transportation there is in my Spanish city. Now that the weather does not blast me with freezing air and sprinkles of water, I can truly enjoy a nice "turn" about the neighborhood without complaining about the cold.

I've been able to see things to which I was blind when I was fighting the below-freezing weather. There's that gorgeous Gaudí-like building just a few blocks away from my apartment and the beautiful view from el Templo de Debod that overlooks part of the city.

One of my grand pet peeves is seeing young foreigners walking around plugged into their iPods, drowning out the sounds of the city. If this is how they always walk through Madrid, they will not understand much about the musicality of the town. There's this intense rhythm that drives Madrid day-by-day. It's cyclical and picks up tempo as it gets later in the afternoon, evening and night.

It disturbs me how people must constantly be doing something while walking by themselves, whether they are listening to music or texting. Unplug, relax and don't be afraid to get lost by yourself. If you're  attached to ear buds listening to the grand art of Pitbull, you will never actually see and feel the city you're in as it is meant to be seen and felt. Become a local by simply integrating yourself and making yourself a part of the beat of the town.

Vulnerable

Standing in front of a group of scrutinizing eyes, delivering a presentation in a foreign language is one of the most uncomfortable experiences a person can have. My first exposición was yesterday, and, much like a stomach flu, I felt absolutely horrible during and directly after the incident. Students were whispering, tittering and giggling as I attempted to conjugate verbs and make my sentences coherent. Did I have something in my teeth? Did I say something idiotic? Probably.

Who knows what came out of my mouth? The most important thing for me was that it made sense. I was so nervous that I didn't even look at my notes. I just babbled on for ten minutes (at the time, I was sure it was an hour). Afterward, the teacher looked at me with pity: "I know it must be hard with the language and everything." I felt myself turning burgundy. Though she meant well, the comment made me feel like the idiot in a class full of geniuses. I wanted to bury my head in my arms at my desk.

When I sat back down, I turned to an American classmate, Denise, and I grimaced in emotional pain. She smiled and commented that I did really well. I brushed it off as comforting words and continued to sulk.

I stayed in the same classroom, being forced to face the teacher for another class period (she teaches two out of three classes I take).  Another American friend, Alexis, came to the classroom, setting her books down next to us. Denise told her about my presentation, saying I did well."She didn't even use notes," Denise added.

That made me reevaluate my performance; maybe I actually did well for a foreign student. Maybe being too nervous to read off my notes actually demonstrates how far my Spanish has come since August, when I arrived in Spain. I could analyze a piece of literature off the cuff in a foreign language! Who knew I'd ever be able to do that?

Basically, now I have to work on seeing the progress I've been making since I've lived in Spain. I usually only see the mistakes I make, but it's time for me to consider my improvements because whether I see it or not, they exist. During the next presentation I give, I'll be sure to look at my performance from an objective viewpoint and hold my head high afterwards rather than hide it in my hands.

Magic

When you're a child, you believe in fairies. In enchantments. In happily-ever-after. In magic.

As you age, the world becomes much faster and there is less room for imagination. Everything runs past you in a blur because you're racing to get to the next checkpoint. "I can't wait for my vacation. I just need this busy time at work to be over. Then, I'll be happy."

But you're not. You get stuck in the cycle of looking forward to something instead of looking at what's going on around you.

This past week in Rome, I rediscovered how my world looked through the rose-colored lenses I had as a kid.

I arrived in the Eternal City in a taxi, bags under my eyes and mascara smudged on my face as a result of the nap I had on the plane. Scooting my little RyanAir-approved bag along the gravel, I came across the most stately, gorgeous house I'd ever seen in real life. The Latin writing on the outside made it all the more impressive. I looked at the house number, and indeed it was the residence of my friend, Marco, with whom I was to stay.

The inside was more grandiose. I proceeded inside to meet the family that inhabited this gorgeous estate. Though Marco's parents didn't speak English, they are some of the warmest people I know and welcomed me into their home, no questions asked. They loved to make their own wine and pasta. I couldn't stop smiling because of how they included me, even though I don't speak Italian. I've never felt so comfortable in someone else's house. I felt like a kid again, going to a "play date" for the first time.

Marco lives right in the middle of the historical area, walking distance away from the Coliseum and Circus Maximus. I couldn't believe his life. He grew up among ruins and history. I grew up in good 'ole C-Town, but its main "historical landmark" is the water tower. There's no comparison.

Marco showed me around the city, mentioning historical tidbits along the way. As I marveled the antiquity of my surroundings, he laughed at my awe-stricken face. We got along well, just like when two kids split the two-stick popsicles on a hot summer day. I realized how simple things such as sharing food could bring people closer together.

Seeing all the famous landmarks in Rome made me feel as if I were thrown into a picture-book; all the photos I'd seen and history I'd read about came to life in front of me. Each landmark became a tangible object, and the only comparison that could come to my mind was that of a child visiting Disneyland for the first time. All that excitement and wonder flooded back to my mind, stirring my imagination in a way that I am not able to describe in a blog entry.

You'll just have to experience it, my dear friends. Then you'll feel the complete and utter happiness that only travel and childhood can bring. You can discover magic again.

Just get on a plane and go.

My new apartment

Me, entertaining myself.

Home

Being away from Madrid for nine days was, for lack of a better word, odd.

Everything in California felt familiar. The smell of my sheets fresh out of the dryer (oh, how I had missed having a dryer). The sound of my dog barking when there's a knock on the door. The hugs from my family members. It all stayed strong in my memory.

However, these memories are now mixed with those from Madrid, my second home. And I really do feel that I've found my niche here. Almost every Monday and Tuesday, my favorite Madrid ladies and I sit outside the school cafeteria to eat lunch, talking about politics, complaining about boys, laughing loudly as we crack jokes like the wise-asses we are. They smoke and I drink coffee after coffee, shaking with a caffeine overload. Ordering café con leche has become my own version of smoking cigarettes.

When we have lunch all together, talking about anything that pops up in our heads, I feel as comfortable as I do in my childhood house. I've never had two homes before, but things change as I age.

Upon the arrival of the new year, I've been thinking about where I will call "home" next. I've just signed up to take a TEFL class so I can teach English abroad. My goal is to teach in Brazil, the land of unknown family members and a beautiful language.

Hopefully, I'll be able to find myself a third home.

In love

After all this travel, I have fallen in love with humankind. While there are some individuals that cause me to waver in that love, as a whole, I’m smitten.

I’m in love with the idea of being able to communicate with simple gestures: With a touch to say I'm sorry, two kisses on each cheek to say hello, a hug to say I missed you, a smile to thank someone. All without saying one word.

Because in reality, words are nothing without expression of the face and body. That said, I'm in love with learning new words. There's beauty in language and in the ability to communicate with another person using man-made rules about how you can utilize your voice.

I’m in love with discovering new places. I’ve fallen in love with things I don’t know, I can’t explain, I can’t see.

I have absolutely no idea  what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.
All I know is that I don’t want to know. I’m in love with not knowing.

I'll be home for Christmas

Being home for the holidays after living in Spain for four months has really thrown me off.

First of all: the airport. Arriving in the LAX airport for my layover was one of the strangest experiences I’ve had in California. I stepped off the plane with wild hair and raccoon eyes, desperate for a giant glass of water and a Tylenol to calm the fever I’d acquired en route.

All around me, I heard English. “Thank you!” “Where is the baggage claim?” “Don’t push me!” I felt like I was in an alternative universe where my accent actually fit in.

Someone pointed me in the direction of Customs, and I replied (without thinking) with a sincere “gracias.” Of course…

I found myself comparing the United States lifestyle with the Spanish lifestyle more than ever as I went about everyday things in my city. How would a person speaking Spanish say that? Why are we eating so early? Why are the bars closing at 2 am?!

It’s wonderful to have the chance to come back home and be with my family during the holidays. However, I really do miss the Spanish culture and language. I miss meeting new people every day and getting to hear their stories. I long to be able to go out on a Tuesday to drink a caña with friends from totally different cultures. But at the same time, I want to be with my beloved family and friends for which I am heartsick when I’m in Spain.

I’m the epitome of torn.

Back from hiatus

I just came back from Geneva and Annecy, two very different cities in two different countries. In other words, I just arrived back to the "real" world of Madrid after a vacation in a perfect, picturesque snow globe.

The winter wonderland was aesthetically beautiful, and it really couldn't have gotten more idealistic. I traveled with my friend Brittany who is from the same study abroad program as I am. As we waddled off the plane with our 5-7 layers of sweaters and tights, we were greeted by snowflakes bigger than any we've ever seen. They resembled those that I cut out in my first grade art classes.

Wandering the streets of Geneva, Brittany and I noticed that there was little warmth (both literal and figurative) in the city. Most people kept to themselves. Christmas decorations were few and far-between. The stores were nearly empty. I never really felt comfortable touring the area; I always had the feeling that I was intruding on someone's bleak, lonely holiday. Where were the fake reindeer?  The strands-upon-strands of little lights? The Santa cookies?

However, the lack of cheerfulness in Geneva was counteracted by the adorableness that is Annecy, France. I knew instantly that I liked it better than Geneva because as we stumbled off the bus, we landed straight in a scene from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I thought I'd get to see all the misfit toys wandering around (to my dismay, I never did). There were strings of colorful lights strewn about the square that surrounded the train station. Usually, I'm not a person that feels giddy upon seeing a giant fake snowflake stuck to a window while "Jingle Bells" plays on constant repeat in every shop. But there was something about Annecy that made me want to sing carols in exchange for hot chocolate. Maybe it was the friendly nature of the people in the coffee shops. Maybe it was the perfect placement of the snowfall, adorning each rooftop in a perfect, blindingly white blanket. Maybe it was just the hot-mulled wine... Yeah, probably the wine.

The day we arrived, Brittany and I took the bus to our quaint hostel, which greeted us with quirky posters and cartoon drawings on the wall. Our room, which we shared with a sweet Korean girl that was traveling alone, had a poster on the wall: "What NOT to say to your boyfriend." Most of their tips were kind of a given, to be honest ("Don't say, 'I'm pregnant...just kidding.'")

It was difficult to leave an adorable town to head back to Geneva, but we managed. After a lovely night at the freezing Geneva airport, we made it back to Madrid Sunday morning. Never have I ever been more excited to hear people speak Spanish.

As cheesy as it seems, I felt like I was back home.

P.S. You can't imagine the power of that nap I had after I got back to my apartment...

A new focus

Seven a.m. is just too damn early and too cold. My down comforter envelops me in two different types of warmth, like hot mulled wine when the alcohol kicks in. I slip the sheets off my shivering body and scoot the cat, Gala, out of the bathroom to get ready in peace.
Then I remember: The metro workers are on strike today. I’ll be late.
I swallow my oatmeal with fury as I shoo Gala away from the sandwich I have made for lunch. Hat, shoes, coat, scarf, keys – go.
Pounding the pavement outside my apartment, avoiding cobblestone, I dash towards the center of town to hail a taxi. I can’t miss my first class. Worry runs through my mind a few more times as I’m bounding towards La Puerta del Sol, ribbons of frost whipping my bloodless face. I spot a cab that says LIBRE and raise my hand to it. The car pulls up to me in haste.
Buenas, I say as I swing the door open, rushing every movement. I glance in the rearview mirror. The driver is a cheery, middle-aged man with cheeks I can only describe as jolly. Rosy and smiling, he mentions that it is very cold outside. I agree, and I add that I’m from California, so I’m not accustomed to the below-freezing weather this time of year.

The conversation vacillates back and forth easily and without pause. It starts with the weather, flows to schoolwork, which leads to why I’m here, and eventually turns to a topical discussion about society as a whole in California compared to Madrid. We talk about vagabonds, Roman ruins, travel, poetry, New York, hippies, and it goes on.

Now, I haven’t been feeling incredibly encouraged about my Spanish conversation abilities lately, but in this conversation, I feel confident and self-assured. Though his accent is thick and he cuts many words short, I can understand and follow the discussion with ease.

When I arrive at school, he thanks me for the rich conversation and tells me that I am a girl with a lot of personality. When I try to thank him for that comment, he says, “It’s not something you need to thank me for. It’s something you either have or you don’t.”

I hand him the money and thank him again, wishing him a good day.

I realize my worries about being late have melted. Being late one day to class is not part of the so-called “big picture.” It’s a spot on my windshield that I can easily sweep away. Good conversations in Spanish with strangers are part of the reason why I am here. I want to experience the culture and empathize with the population here.

I am surely to remember these moments more than tests, papers, or lectures. I’m here to expand my outlook, and that’s just what I’m doing.

Roadblocks

Learning a foreign language in the United States is like riding a bike with training wheels. In my case, I rocked a tricycle for about ten years. I'd go to class at my tiny all-girls' school, learn and recite grammar rules, and then innocently skip off to my next class, letting Spanish words escape my mind as I walked.

To put it mildly, those ten years of classes were incredibly deceiving. When I arrived in Spain, it was like someone took off my training wheels without warning and let me go (Still haven't forgotten that day, Dad). I thought I already knew how to ride a bike! I was coasting with the best of them!

Without those two extra wheels, I'm flat-out struggling. I'm forgetting words that I've known for years, mixing up verb tenses, butchering subject-verb agreements... It makes me wonder how I ever did well in my Spanish classes at Cal.

In my current state, I'm alternating between frustration and hope. Maybe I can get through a long sentence without stumbling or pausing to think. Or maybe I should have worked harder back in my college classes instead of taking advantage of the fact that my professors did not really care much about grammar or correct phraseology. This mental war with myself is exhausting, but I need to keep pushing through so I can get to the next stage of learning.

The light at the end of the tunnel: The more times I wipe the dirt off my scraped knees, the more I ignore the fear of falling, the closer I get to being able to ride a two-wheeler.

Mythbusters

Before arriving, I talked to innumerable people about Spain: the culture, the people, the nightlife, the food, and the list goes on. I've made a little list of my own. Here goes...

Things I heard about Spain that haven't proved true:

• Shorts are unacceptable here. This is fiction - every Spaniard and their mother wears shorts. It's hot as Hades, so the Daisy Dukes are on parade.
• They don't wear high heels. Wrong! Despite the cobblestone, many ladies rock the pumps on the way to a discoteca.
• Spaniards are fascinated with blonds. Hah! Has not been the case with this blond. Plus, I've seen a lot of blond Spanish people.

Things that I heard about Spain that are certainly true:

• HAM! On, with, and in everything.
• Many Spanish men are short. I feel a bit like a WNBA player.
• They are in love with California. I just hope I get serenaded with "California Girls" one of these days. Sounds like my kind of night.

Hasta luego!

A strange sleeping pattern

My eyes don't shut when I want them to.

It's currently 1:16 a.m. in Madrid and I can't sleep. Naturally, I flip my computer open to see what's going on in the world of my American loved ones. Here I am, scanning the ever-superficial Facebook newsfeed, struggling to intake segment of life in los Estados Unidos.

Every time I do this, however, I ask myself, Why? I'm in a completely different country in another corner of the world. Why am I resorting to Facebook to pacify my homesickness? It doesn't do anything other than blind me to what I have right here in this culturally rich city.

Reading updates about family and friends at home is instant gratification, but it can't fill the void that moving away from home leaves. In order to soften the homesick feeling, I should focus on creating a life and identity here, in the moment. Instead of looking upon the past and smiling at memories, I need to embrace the right now with courage in my step.

Maybe my eyes don't shut when I want them to because I need to keep them open. Perhaps it's necessary that I keep my eyes peeled in order to identify any opportunity that presents itself.

I suppose I should sleep with one eye open just in case a once-in-a-lifetime experience threatens to pass me by.

Artwork at El Museo de la Reina Sofía

New apartment!

El primer fin de semana

Code switching from English to Spanish is fairly disorienting, similar to the feeling I get when I leave a movie theater and the daylight pierces my eyes as they adjust. My mind also must adapt and I feel like I literally have to change a language setting in my brain in order to communicate with Spanish people. My goal for this year is to be able to transition seamlessly between the two languages without flipping the on and off switch. I'm hoping that'll happen in time, but for now, I'm embracing this language barrier as a step outside of my comfort zone.

Today I had the pleasure of exploring the downtown area (La puerta del sol) by myself because I had an appointment to check out an apartment in a barrio nearby. This solo trip allowed me to really get to know the city that I will be calling home for the next 10 months. Everything about it feels perfectly novel; the people, the food, the customs all seem beautiful in all their newness. My heart is full with the prospect of complete immersion in this culture.

I visited the apartment and met a young Spanish man wearing faux crocs that was very patient as I explained my situation in painfully broken Spanish. I definitely made some silly errors; I was trying to say "If you want me to move in" but I ended up saying "If you love me..." (Si me quieres...). Talk about awkward.

Long story short, I'm going to put the deposit down tomorrow after classes. Here is the neighborhood and surrounding areas of the piso: