Epic Fail Party of Four?

As my friends and I hopped onto the Picadilly Line at around 6:15pm, headed for Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3, and 5, I knew we were cutting it close. Even though London is one of the biggest cities in Europe, it’s not nearly as fast-paced as most U.S. cities. So it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise to us when our train showed up at Heathrow about 10 minutes before our 7:50pm flight was about to take off. We still ran, suitcases packed for Paris in tow, to the check-in desk. But of course there was no way we were going to get through any of the lines in time. Silly Americans. Granted we’re all amateurs at international travel. Still, we should have given ourselves time.

It just goes to show that after a month of being in the U.K., we’re still not totally adjusted. The last time I was at Heathrow, I was quite peeved because my flight had to wait over an hour to retrieve our luggage because of “severe” weather conditions. It was snowing, which doesn’t happen often in London, but it wasn’t even accumulating. Still, it was enough to make every flight that had just landed in Heathrow wait a ridiculously long time. When we finally did get our luggage, our airport shuttle was also a bit delayed. Go figure. To top it off, when we finally got to our flat, I turned on the BBC to find that every five minutes or so, they would go back to reporting on how badly the weather was affecting commuters. I couldn’t resist laughing.

My flat is situated right in the middle of the Farringdon area, which is known for being trendy, with interesting shops, pubs, and nightlife to choose from. In a place like that, I don’t feel one bit like a tourist.

In a way, coming to England feels like starting at a new college all over again, at least from a social perspective. I’m in an apartment building full of students that are all in the same program, going through the same feeling of displacement and excitement, which of course means we are all becoming fast friends. I have four roommates in the apartment: two from the University of Pittsburgh, one from the University of Minnesota, and another fellow UMass student. There are also a bunch of students here from SUNY Buffalo, and a scattered few from other schools.

Of course, with our first weekend quickly approaching and the semester not officially in gear, we decided to check all of the “trendiness” that the Farringdon area supposedly had to offer. We quickly decided which pubs were our favorites, and designated the Farringdon Grille as the best place to go for good late-night food. It was all fun from then on, at least until Monday rolled around…

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Siesta Super-Fan

I am a huge fan of siestas, better known as naps. My mom, past roommates, and teachers can all vouch for that. If I had to choose my three favorite activities they would go as follows: watching Jeopardy, doing crossword puzzles, and napping. Those three particular selections may not make me seem like a barrel of fun, but you would be surprised. Regardless, being the big “napper” that I am, Spain is undoubtedly the perfect study-abroad spot for me.

Monday through Friday, rain or shine, everything in Valencia closes from 2 p.m. until 5 p.m. I’m talking shops, many stores, businesses, you name it. At first I thought that it was pretty inconvenient, right?  Wrong. The strange timing is precisely what makes “the siesta” the most incredible daily occurrence ever. It’s as if the people of Spain are encouraging me to nap regularly. Needless to say, I’m not fighting the system.

A few people have told me I may have a thyroid problem because of how much I nap. Others have asked me if I’m on a daily drowsy medicine. I appreciate the concern but, no. I don’t take sedatives and my doctor said I’m good to go. I’m merely embracing a long-held Spanish tradition.

A few weeks ago in my Spanish culture class the teacher opened the floor up to random questions. I asked her about the siesta and the following are the basic facts that I got out of her response.

The Spanish climate is typically warm, especially in the southernmost areas. (Of course, right now cities like Madrid are inundated with snow.) Siestas originally began so that the Spanish field workers could escape the brutal heat during the hottest hours of the day. Although, yes, agriculture is still a major component of the lifestyle here, it’s not what has kept the siesta alive for all these years.

The most likely reasons: when we would typically eat lunch, Spanish people sit down to a decently sized meal that more resembles our dinner and will usually last for a longer period of time. The second reason, Spaniards go out much later than Americans, and, in turn, stay out much later. Taking time out of the day to go home, eat for a while, then take an afternoon nap is essential to stay in step with the Spanish day.

Over the years the siesta has slowly been fading away, with more and more businesses staying open during the afternoon hours. Walking around Valencia during the afternoon, I’ll see a few coffee shops open and a grocery store or two. Other than that, it’s decently quiet. Imagine what it would be like if everything in Amherst closed from 2 p.m. until 5 p.m. everyday.

What I presumed would be a problematic three hours is now my favorite part of the day. It took a while to realize that, yes; the banks will close everyday at 2 no matter how many times I try to swipe my card to get in. Other than that, I love having all my classes in the morning and then being totally free in the afternoon. If it weren’t for the siesta I wouldn’t be able adjust to how late Spaniards stay up. 

It’s really stressful, as you can imagine, having to keep up with this rigorous sleeping schedule.

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Spanish Cuisine: Hot Dogs?

Living with a host family has many great benefits, one of them being that you’re given three meals a day. My host mother is a wonderful cook. Over the course of the past month we’ve enjoyed many typical Spanish dishes such as paella, jamon cocinado, and potato tortilla. Our “senora” makes it a point to incorporate protein, fruit and vegetables into every plate.

Before coming here I was pretty closed-minded about food. It was difficult for me to try something new and I’d always revert back to the old standbys. Here, in Spain, I’ve branched out and I’m finding that there’s a lot more out there than buffalo wings and tuna sandwiches. Most Spanish dishes are made with a few key ingredients like onions, potatoes, and eggs. Eggs are a major part of the typical Spanish meal. Ever since I was young, I could never stomach an egg by itself. Never in my life has this been an issue for me…until now.

Here in Valencia I’m living with a wonderful host mother from Argentina. She’s great. She laughs at my lame Spanish jokes and serves us wine with every dinner. She prepares us three meals a day and usually these meals are well balanced and delicious. But whether it’s for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, there’s usually an egg or two present on the plate. I would always push the egg aside and eat around it, sometimes feeling that this was rude of me. Not only did this mean that a good amount of eggs were going to waste due to my distaste, but also my senora might have begun to think that her eggs were poorly made. Rather than ignoring the eggs that lurked on many a dish of mine, I made the tragic mistake of telling my host mother that I really just don’t enjoy eating eggs. That’s when it all began.

Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely enjoy a hot dog. Whether it’s at a Sox game or at a barbeque over the summer, hot dogs are great. This situation is something altogether different. On every plate where there would usually be eggs, I now find hot dogs. Not just one hot dog, but rather three or four. There is never a bun or ketchup or mustard present. It’s just the boiled hot dogs, lined neatly on a side dish.  For breakfast yesterday I was given four hot dogs. I’m guessing these hot dogs are meant to replace the nutritional value I’m losing by not consuming the lovely eggs. Two nights ago, for dinner, I had three hot dogs mixed into my lentil soup. Three days ago, for lunch, I was given four hot dogs with my macaroni. Regardless, I’ve started counting. Just this week alone I’ve been given a total of 18 hot dogs while my housemates sat down to eat eggs and cereal.

I don’t want to come off as ungrateful, because I’m not. The intentions behind the hot dogs are entirely good but the effects of the hot dogs, having now become a major part of my daily diet, are taking a toll on me physically and mentally. Not only do I now have to join a Spanish gym, but I also have to scheme up some way of telling this wonderful host mother that I dislike hot dogs as well. I can only imagine what they will be replaced with.

This is not meant to deter potential study abroad students from living with a host family. It’s merely a warning. Voice your likes and dislikes upon arrival as to avoid any awkward situations that may arise. I didn’t see this coming, I doubt I could have. Luckily, I feel comfortable enough to tell my host mother that the hot dogs just really aren’t working out for me and my diet.

It’s all a part of the process, assimilating into a new culture. There are going to be ups and downs, awkward situations and comfortable ones. But after being here for a month, I feel at home.  It’s alright if I have to eat a few more hot dogs than expected.

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A Whole New World

It has been an interesting two weeks. Spain is nothing like I thought it would be, and everything I imagined at the same time. After I arrived in the city of Oviedo, which lies in the Northwestern part of the country, I couldn’t help but wonder what I got myself into.

At about 11 p.m. January 10, 2010, I hopped off the bus—that I spent five hours on from Madrid—to my new home. I grabbed a cab, rode to an apartment 10 minutes down the road, unloaded my belongings and pushed the intercom for apartment 4D. “Hola,” I said nervously. And before I could utter another word, a loud “Venga,” (come) came back to me followed by the buzzing of the door.

I hesitantly took the elevator to the fourth (or fifth for those in the U.S.) floor. My soon to be roommate and good friend, Taylor, was already standing in the doorway, a nervous expression on her face. Our “madre” ushered us into the house, shut the door, and began to speak Spanish so quickly it was almost indecipherable. We were given a quick tour of the small and homey apartment. After a few minutes of basic explanations, she left us to our rooms.

As I sat alone on my twin bed, I tried to take in my surroundings. “I’m in Spain,” I thought. “I’m not going to be back in the states for another five months. Wow.” Images of family and friends replayed in my mind as my head hit the pillow and I slowly drifted to sleep.

The next week went by in a blur. I began classes, got orientated with friends and my environment and ventured out into the city to experience the night life.

Everything is different here—the food, the customs, the style. Looking your best is a must if you want to blend in with the locals, and of course speaking Spanish is a necessity as no one in the area can speak English. Not once have I seen someone wearing sweatpants, something I shamefully sport on Sundays, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of fashionistas. Even the guys look prettier than me on occasions, and that’s saying something.

I was happy to see that people here like to party. La calle mon, the street where all the bars are located, is always hopping during the weekend. Bar and club promoters offer free “chupitos” (shots) to those who pass by, and pop music (usually from the U.S.) blares from speakers of nearby establishments. However, in Spain, the party doesn’t begin until around 2 a.m. and lasts until the sun comes up. Needless to say, many “siestas” (naps) are necessary.

The week played out well, and I went to bed Sunday night feeling content with my new home. Little did I know what would await me the next morning…

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