Home Sweet (Spanish) Home

My decision to move pisos was rewarded this weekend when Neivar invited me to come to her hometown, since she had to return to vote in the presidential election. The whole time I’ve been here I’ve been hoping to spend time with a Spanish family, and I got my wish less than a week after knowing my new roommate!

Neivar lives in a coastal town called La Linea, five minutes from Gibraltar. Neivar, Victor (her boyfriend) and I drove there on Friday night and surprised her parents at home. I don’t think I could have handpicked a better family to visit. Neivar’s mom, dad, and younger sister are so animated, friendly, and generous, and they made me feel right at home.

The weekend, like most things typically Spanish, involved a lot of lounging. Both nights we stayed out until 8 am, then slept until 2. We would wake up to a delicious lunch, spend over an hour at the table chatting, and then lounge some more. (I’ve never been more relaxed in my life than I have been in Spain. I would say it’s adding years to my life, but then staying out till 8 a.m. probably cancels that out).

Both nights after staying out until the wee hours, Neivar’s mom would come pick us up with the car, wearing her bathrobe and slippers. I couldn’t believe it—she got out of bed both nights (mornings, I guess) just to pick up her partying daughter and friends. And what’s more, when we got in the car there was absolutely no complaining—on the contrary, she seemed thrilled when Neivar would relay to her the nights’ events. The two of them would be chatting away in the front seat as the sun was rising, and instead of being annoyed that she had to shlep us around, Inma seemed genuinely joyful that us crazy youth had such a great time. 

This same sort of thing happened after we went shopping. Neivar, her sister Coraima, and I went to a great department store where I got about ten things, including boots, for 65 euros. When we got home, Neivar and Coraima rushed into the kitchen with all their new merchandise to show their mom. Inma told me excitedly, “Jenny, go show me your things too!!” So we all sat around the table showing her our new bags, boots, pijamas and more, while she would exclaim at each new thing, “Ooooh!! Está buenisimo!” or “Está guapisimo!” (Both mean “How pretty! How great!”) I literally wanted to cry at how cute this scene was. It was great to be with a family—and such a fun and generous family, at that—after traveling solo for three months.

Neivar’s friends were equally entertaining. It’s funny how halfway around the world in an entirely different country, guys will be guys just the same as in Santa Barbara or San Anselmo. They were constantly cracking jokes, laughing, dancing, and including me like I had been in their friend group my whole life. It also doesn’t hurt that my Spanish comes to me more easily after a beer or two, so I had no problem communicating with them and even making jokes of my own! Another great thing about Spanish culture: It’s completely acceptable here for guys to hug each other, kiss hello, and in general be way more touchy-feely than in America. It’s nice that guys can express their friendship just like girls, without everyone immediately labeling them as gay.

Victor and Me

The whole group of friends

I am constantly being embarrassed in Spain, whether through public speaking, lack of cultural knowledge, mistaking the greetings, or just generally not having a clue about what’s going on. This weekend proved no different, as I stood out like a black sheep in the discoteca. Girls and guys alike were dancing, but very differently from the way you see at home. Let’s be honest, the American style of grinding requires no talent. But here, people are salsa-ing and spinning and shaking with such skill. I can generally get by ok in Granada since the discotecas are jam-packed. But in a small town like La Linea, there’s room to dance—a little too much room. I sucked up my pride and made a general fool out of myself, but wasn’t too embarrassed since I was with friends. But then some random guy asked me to dance (they actually ask here, instead of just grabbing you from behind like back home!!) and I felt obliged to say yes. About ten seconds in I realized that my hips just can’t move the way Spanish dancing demands, and I had to tell him, in broken Spanish over blasting music, that it was just not going to happen. (Victor told me later—of course, after the fact—that accepting a stranger’s request to dance here means you’re interested in making out with them. Great!! I guess it’s good that I had to cut it short.)

I probably learned more Spanish in one weekend with Neivar’s family and friends than I have in three months in Spain. For the first time since being here I was completely immersed in the language (apart from Neivar’s few attempts to practice her English before her upcoming trip to London), since I wasn’t with any California friends. It’s both an exciting and isolating feeling, and I can’t wait for the day when I can fully participate in a second language. I will say that for the most part I love learning Spanish, but at times this process is very painful. There are many moments when I end up feeling like a little puppy or ten-year-old girl. Since I don’t always know what’s going on, people resort to giving me directions like, “Jenny, come here.” “Jenny, sit.” “Jenny, wait here for 5 minutes and we’ll be right back.” It’s a little hard because I’m so used to being a chatterbox and knowing exactly what’s going on all the time, but I end up staying quiet because my thoughts can’t yet be expressed entirely effectively. Oh well, at least I’m giving someone’s ears a break!

            It was one of the best weekend’s I’ve had here, and I’m definitely going to have to take up her mom’s offer in the near future—“Jenny, vente cuando quieras!” (Come back whenever you want!)