Meet My Good Friend, Culture Shock

                When I told the story about meeting Ana Maria and getting to her apartment, I left out a very important detail.  Ana Maria lives on the second floor, which is actually the third as they start with zero when they count the floors in a building.  Olivia and I were carrying our luggage, filled with clothes and shoes to last us four months.  We walked into the building and began to climb the stairs.  Why climb the stairs with 60 pounds of luggage? Because our building does not have an elevator; they are not very common here in Spain.  So we dragged our luggage up forty stairs (I counted the next time we went down) and arrived at the apartment sweating and panting for breath.  I know there are many apartment buildings in the US that do not have elevators.  However, literally everything in my life has changed in one week, and I am having trouble distinguishing what is normal.  Everything feels weird and different right now.   

                A true difference between here and the US (unlike the elevator thing) is the food and the schedule.  This was something I mentally prepared myself for, and therefore am actually handling pretty well.  The food that Ana Maria makes is, for the most part, absolutely delicious.  She makes one kind of soup from vegetables and oatmeal that has changed my life.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t that drastic.  It definitely changed my opinion on vegetables and oatmeal.  The one thing I could not stomach was the pickled beets and hardboiled egg salad.  Enough said on that, yes?  I don’t think I have to explain my distaste.  As for the meal schedule, I have not had much trouble adjusting.  It is nice to have your big meal in the middle of the day, and then a light meal for dinner.  Plus, I have learned to take advantage of siesta.  Who doesn’t love a nap in the middle of the day?

                The lock on the door to the apartment is impossible to figure out.  The key is shaped weirdly and works differently than the keys I have ever used.  Every time Olivia and I leave the apartment and then try and get back in, disaster ensues.  Ana Maria always ends up having to let us in, and then starts to explain that it is very easy to use the key.  Then she says “Dos veces chicas, dos veces” because you are supposed to turn the key twice, which by the way we know.  I have no idea why we can’t make the stupid key work, but if I don’t figure it out soon, I may end up having a mental breakdown. 

                In Spain, everybody wears slippers when they are in the house.  Basically any other option (shoes, barefoot) is considered rude.  So Olivia and I spent two days searching for inexpensive slippers to wear when we are in the house.  As for regular shoes, and everything else that falls into fashion category, Europe is way ahead.  All of the women here dress to kill, and my wardrobe could not scream “American” any louder.  I have never been so self conscience about my clothes in my life.  Yesterday a few of the girls in the program and I went out shopping.  For some reason, I decided to try and buy another pair of jeans.  I will be in therapy for twenty years after that.  Sizes run very differently here. 

                The biggest and most obvious difference: the language.  I understand almost everything that is said to me in Spanish.  The ability to respond is the problem.  I feel like an absolutely moron, and I honestly sound like one.  I cannot remember a time when I was unable to communicate what I was thinking.  It is honestly the most frustrating feeling in the world.  Many times while trying to talk to Ana Maria, I have felt the overwhelming urge to just cry. 

                Although literally everything feels different and weird, these are the things that are currently really frustrating me.  To you they may seem small, but when you combine them with everything else, you end up with a permanent feeling of “out of placeness”.  It is hard to explain culture shock; I didn’t even believe it existed until I got here.  Even the changes I am enjoying, such as siesta, contribute the out of placeness feeling.  I feel disconnected from home and everything that is familiar to me.  But it is impossible to feel connected to life here because I haven’t even been here a week.  The apartment I am staying in isn’t mine, the traditions and habits of the people here aren’t mine, and the language isn’t mine.  I know it will pass.  Everybody who has been through this before me insists that this feeling passes.  As for right now, I suppose I am some sort of limbo.  I am caught between my old, familiar life, and the life I have chosen to be thrown into.