Something about the food

Before arriving in Spain I had the impression I would be eating the richest foods with the best flavors. I let the idea of spicy Mexican food take over and substitute what I might find in Spain. However, in Spain you will not find the same kinds of foods you do in Mexico, regardless of sharing the same language.

Now I think back to life back home and wonder to myself why I thought the food would be similar? Had I ever even eaten traditional Spanish cuisine? The answer is no, one hundred times over. I thought Mexican food had an infusion and influence of Spanish food. Now I wonder where the Mexican cuisine originates from, because I’m not finding it in Spain.

Where is the spice and the flavor of the Mexican food I love? During the 1500s when the Spanish conquistadors invaded Mexico they introduced new things into the diet like olive oil, chicken, pigs, cattle, wheat, almonds, and more. I guess I assumed with the Spanish influence over Spain, maybe that influence would go both ways?

My host mother is originally from Spain and one night we bonded over our love for Mexican food. We talked about the mole and the spicy flavors. I wasn’t about to be rude and blurt out how Spanish food has no flavor, but I have a feeling she would agree. She cooks all her food from scratch, but yet it still lacks the flavor. She tells me because of the climate spicy peppers don’t grow here; so all the peppers are sweet.

Not only the blandness shocks me, but also the amount of pork products consumed in Spain. I thought that seafood would take pertinence over ham living so close to the ocean, but that’s not the case. Living with a particular family may influence the ham in take, but in my case ham is a priority.

I don’t think I’ve ever consumed so much pork in my entire life. Yet these observations have only been made in the Basque Country of Spain. Are there spicy peppers growing in the south of Spain? Maybe seafood is more important in other places along the coast. Maybe my household is not a good representation for the flavors of Spain. I’m basing these stereotypes on food in Spain on my own experience, nothing else.

One time in Brussels

Getting of the plane was like an icicle forming over my body. I had landed in Brussels. It was late, dark, and cold but I could see the familiar white blanket coating the ground. It was my first time seeing snow on the ground in Europe.

The air was familiar. Dry and cold, not damp and cold like it is here in Bilbao. The kind of cold that's dry and takes your breath away when you first walk out the door. It's like those early mornings driving to the mountain for a day of skiing and riding and the moment you step out of the warm car the dry air goes right up your nose and chills you to the bone.

Cold it was, but it felt like home. No more of that dank, humid, cold air. A day like that on the slopes is a regrettable day for skiing. Once you're dampness soaks through to your skin nothing reverses that kind of coldness. Not even hot chocolate breaks.

But at last, I felt at home in the bitterness and cold. Miles away from anyone I knew, miles away from hearing Spanish, something felt right about the air. And the waffles, and the chocolate something felt right about those too.

Eating a real chocolate truffle is unlike any other chocolate experience. The light and powdery exterior gently touches your lips, leaving you with a slight chalky feel in your mouth. Except as soon as the truffle has settled on to your tongue the creamy, soft, and smooth center take over your taste buds. The chocolate nearly melts in your mouth, completely ridding the chalky feeling. Buying these tasty treats was the interesting part.

Not knowing a lick of French, I started blankly at the everyone I encountered speaking French in Belgium. Struggling to make Spanish sound like French, mixed with pointing, and lots of hand movement usually got the point across. It got me chocolate at least. I left Brussels with three bags of truffles. I couldn't resist in spreading the cheer of this amazing chocolate experience. I am however resisting to open these bags on a daily basis, otherwise the cheer will be spread right to own stomach.

Cultural differences

In stores, on the streets, and in schools this very old language of Euskara is kept alive in Bilbao. Brand names are printed in both Euskara and Spanish. Streets and signs are interchanged between the two languages, and in schools the children are taught Euskara, Spanish, and English.

Yesterday I had my first tutoring session with an 11 year-old boy named Iñigo. His parents hired me to hold a conversation class with him that will eventually prepare him for an English proficiency exam.

In our first hour session I learned a lot about his lifestyle here in Spain. As he talked to me about his school, his summers, and his free time I couldn't help but think how different my childhood was. He talked to me about his structured school, and on Fridays he goes to what he calls, The Academy where students practice English all afternoon.

When we talked about his summer vacations, he told me about going to camp. I was excited to hear about what kids to at summer camp here in Spain, but he told me he goes to a camp to learn English. He said all his friends go to camp to learn English for one month in the summer.

This surprised me, such structure in a child's life. Three languages in school. Fridays dedicated to The Academy for English. When I was young I was free, childhood was practically careless. There was no worry in the world, and summers where for soaking up the sun and playing at the beach.

I figured with the slow and intermittent work day of the Spanish culture, the children would be just as care free, maybe even lazy. That's not the case. The work ethic of this child was greater than anything I've ever seen. Childhood in America is a past time of when things were easy. Peter Pan didn't want to grow up for a reason.

Childhood here doesn't seem easy. On top of my one hour session with Iñigo, a French tutor also comes to his house once a week. At 11 years-old so much structure seems unnatural. What happened to summer camps with swimming and archery? It seems odd to me a culture with afternoon naps, stress the education of young children so much. 

Day in the life

The soft charm from my iPod woke me from my sleep. One eye at a time I slowly came back to the real world and awoke to a dark room. The shades were drawn making the room a black abyss. Once I flicked the lights on there was no turning back. To make the transition from lying to standing a bit easier I took a moment to paw through my email and Facebook from the convenience of my own bed.

I washed away the sleepiness from my face and moved in to the kitchen for breakfast. Sometimes I've been quite surprised to see eggs, ham, and toast; but this morning I resort to the cereal in the pantry. I took my first spoonful of cereal and could smell the slight sourness of bad milk. I immediately put my nose into the bowl and decided it wasn't worth it--dumped it out.

Still very determined to eat breakfast I went back into the fridge for the second carton of milk and when I put my nose to the opening my stomach turned again. There was no way all the milk in this house was bad. If I was reading the dates right, it was good until March.

That's were it struck me--good until March? This is not milk, I honestly thought. However, it tasted normal, which I found out after I calmed down enough to try it. Come to find out the process of pasteurizing the milk is different and milk can be kept unrefrigerated until it's opened. Smells weird, tastes good. No more questions I will just have to have to accept it.

After too much time spent pondering the milk, I hurry out the door to the metro. I put my headphones in and scan my iPod and select the playlist my boyfriend put together for me before I left home. I turn it up as I walk to the metro, letting the heavy beats of rap and hip hop fill my head. A sound I rarely hear in Spain.

Memories of home, and friends fill my head but I allow it because it doesn't make me sad. I suddenly feel the urge to dance along to the music playing in my ears but I know that it just wouldn't be socially acceptable. So I don't. I let the comfort of the music from home sing to me and smile to myself and wait as the train makes it's way to the platform.

At first sight

At the moment of arrival in Spain everything about my life changed, even if it’s just for the next five months. There were so many sensations I could not explain. Everything was new, from the sound of Spanish at every waking moment to the feel of the detailed cobble stoned sidewalks underneath my feet.

Throughout life, there have been so many small things that my senses have naturally adjusted to and thus become internalized. It’s like when someone comes to your house for the first time and they notice something that on a daily basis, you often forget or ignore.

In the house I grew up in, from the time I was born until I was 17 years old, my kitchen suggested we lived on a cow farm (which we do not). My mother had always collected kitchen items that were cow themed. Black and white cows were even hand-painted on the walls creating a boarder along the entire kitchen.

When people came to my house for the first time, the sight was new and they were shocked. However, it seemed quite normal to me, I was so accustomed to having dozens of cows painted on my walls paired with matching cow accessories.

There is a feeling that is similar when you go to a new country. The newcomer doesn’t know what to expect and the ones who are so used to their own environment don’t take the time to help you—possibly they just don’t see why one would need help.

Coming to this strange and foreign land has opened my eyes for maybe the first time. People live differently than I do, very differently. The way I see people interacting, greeting one another, and enjoying their free time—it’s not the same as where I’m from.

Getting off the metro in the evenings, the squares are mobbed with people of all ages. Kids are playing in the park, parents are eating tapas near by, and young people are drinking in the streets. People are not social in their homes; it’s a very public affair.

Geographically this is just not possible where I am from. This kind of socialization in the streets, running from bar to bar isn’t just strange it would be quite frowned upon. Drinking, socializing, and playing in the streets is considered loitering. If I were to walk around the streets of my beloved college town with all my friends, drinks in hand we would surely get arrested.