Blunders

Humans are not perfect, and making mistakes are universal. Fortunately for all us humans blunders do not discriminate and we all are subjected to one at any point in time!

Usually our biggest mistakes are our own fault and can usually be accounted for no one but ourselves. To this I say, moving to a foreign country should be my best chance at messing up on the regular. I'm learning as I go, and making mistakes has been the way I've had to learn on my own.

In the beginning of the semester I traveled to Lisbon, Portugal for the carnival weekend. I booked my flight almost a month in advance with Iberia. Traveling with Iberia is usually easy, you can check in at the desk, no need to print out your ticket before hand or stuff your purse into your carry-on.

Perhaps it was because I knew I didn't have to print my boarding pass ahead of time, maybe it was because I was too excited to travel, whatever the reason, I didn't check my flight information before I left Spain. Correction, I didn't check the way my return flight because I was too concerned about getting there. But now I realize I would much rather get back!

After a fabulous warm weekend in Lisbon, I get to the airport and hand the man behind the counter my passport to check-in, and after what seemed like forever he told me he could not find my name in the system. Not only was my name not on the same flight as my two companions I was traveling with, but I was not on any flight that day.

My heart dropped into my stomach. What the hell had I done? No, what had they done? I was convinced it was there mistake, not mine. They told me I needed to get my confirmation number for my flight so we could correct the mistake. Since I had taken the time to put that information anywhere, I was running around the airport trying to find wifi. After failing at that, we found a computer lab and printing station where my heart was pounding as I was logging into my email account.

When I finally saw the flight information my heart dropped again, even further. Instead of booking a flight home for Tuesday, I had booked it for the following Thursday. All I could think about was the fact I was going to be stuck in Lisbon for two more days by myself (which is actually horrifying considering the amount of creepy men and drug offers I got).

However, to my relief and $50 euros later I was able to change my flight for later that day. I said goodbye to my two other friends and waited in the airport for another couple of hours, still jittery from all the nerves I had about not getting home.

From that instance on, I've double, triple checked everything and now I always write flight information down as well. Live and learn, sometimes it sucks, but I know I'll never make that mistake again.

A tid bit of history

Over spring break I was fortunate enough to have my mother come visit me for the full duration of Semana Santa. We spent time locally here in Bilbao and Getxo, as well as traveled to Madrid, Granada, and Malaga.

We made sure to work in a good portion of culture into all of our destinations including visiting museums, historic sites, and tasting traditional foods. I was surprised about all the new information I was learning about Spain, and I even learned something new about the town I live in. I've been here four months now, walked on the path along the Gexto pier countless times, and never once stopped to look at the informative panels along the promenade.

So while I was tying my shoe, my mother began to read aloud one of these panels; come to find out the large and luxurious looking homes along the water are mansions from the late 20th and early 19th century. Walking along the path, you can take your own self guided tour and read about each of the mansions individually.

These mansions started popping up along the coastline, and Getxo became a destination for the rich to have summer homes. Closing my eyes and imagining the mansions without the modern day buildings was like a scene from The Great Gatsby. I could picture it so well, almost feeling reminiscent of the Newport Mansions in Rhode Island. 

As we walked along, we learned that the creme de la creme of architects in Bizkaia region we being brought in to design these mansions. Styles range from traditional English, eclectic, to chalets. On this stroll, which is called Muelle de Las Arenas, you will find the architecture becomes more ornate with each mansion. I can just imagine that during era of these mansions, money was no object to the rich and fortunate owners. The crafted and detailed mansions look incomparable to the modern day apartments which now fill in the gaps between these amazing 20th century structures.

Comida

Food is fuel, and in every culture this is true. However, just like it is in America, Europeans use food more than just for fuel. We eat because it tastes good, and because we are hungry. We also to pass time and for something to do, and sometimes we eat because it joins our friends and family around one table. I find the presence and importance of food is different in Spain then what I'm used to back home. I'm not used getting food shoved in my face and shoveled onto my plate, even if I tell you I'm not that hungry. It's like my host family doesn't understand the concept of eating more will equal weighing more. I suppose this is also a difference in Spain and the rest of Europe as well. At home, if you're not hungry, don't eat. In Spain, if you're around the table you are hungry. In the United States there is so much pressure and importance on health (or trying to maintain health) and we feel this pressure every day. In our magazines, news, movies, television and other media outlets it's common to see good looking, thin, and often active people in the center of attention.

In the States I also believe there is a big stress on going to the gym and being active, where here in Spain when I go for runs my host mother always exclaims, "que deportista," which means something like, "how athletic." I even heard the same phrase when I took the stairs to the 5th floor to tutor my neighbor's son. In my opinion, I'm not active here. Although I walk everywhere, and run many days of the week, I feel soft, out of shape and quite weak.

I love food but I also love the gym. Here my love of food is outweighing most other activities. Eating is engraved into the social life of Spaniards, and I really have no will to say no. I live with a Spanish family, and the woman of the house feeds me like I'm a teenage boy. Today I got home around noon and ate lunch, and now, not even two hours later my host mother is summoning me for lunch. Since this is such a social setting, I feel like I cannot refuse. Most of the time it's the meals that bring us together. I might not be hungry, but I feel like I have to sit down and eat, so here I go.

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.