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.
