Final Post: Homecoming

I'm writing this post exactly one year after I left for Spain: August 24th. I’ve been back in the U.S. for almost three weeks now. Door-to-door travel from Granada to San Anselmo took 30 hours, but everything went perfectly smoothly and I was rewarded at the end by a burrito with all the fixings that my very wise parents brought to the airport.

My feelings were mixed as I left Granada. I was itching to get out of there by the end, since only one friend was left in the city and temperatures surpassed 100 every day. But I didn’t know if I was ready to come back home, after having just completed the most amazing month traveling through Europe. I almost envisioned myself purposefully missing my flight and setting up camp in an entirely new country next year—Study Abroad Round 2—but I dutifully boarded (and was grateful for doing so when I saw the list of amazing comedies to choose from on the plane).

Day after day I kept waiting for the reverse culture shock to set in. Sure, I didn’t study in a remote village without electricity or even a third world country, but surely I would feel some difference being back! Not the case. Upon arriving home I felt that I had been gone a solid three days. 72 hours. And I still feel that way, three weeks later. Nothing feels altered, nothing feels foreign. Granada seems like a distant memory. Looking back, though, I felt hardly any culture shock when I first moved to Spain either, even while others were struggling with homesickness or changed schedules or language barriers. Which either means I’m an insensitive freak or adaptable. I’ll go with the second.

I don’t talk about my experience very much, as people usually skim the surface with general questions like “how was it?” and then change the topic. I don’t mind, though. I know what Spain did for me and I don’t really find the need or desire to express it to everyone—anyway, they can just read my blog! I have been trying to speak Spanish a lot with bilingual friends or people I meet around here, although 100% of encounters have started with the other party commenting on my thick southern Spanish accent. Little by little I might have to lose the lisp, the ‘vosotros,’ and maybe add some of those dropped –s’s back in so people don’t ask me to clarify. But I’ll always speak grana’ino at heart.

I haven’t spent a summer at home since I started college, and although I had strong reservations about staying five weeks here after Spain, I have to say I’m loving it. Catching up with old friends, running or hiking every day, enjoying 75° weather in SUMMER. . . . why did I ever leave Marin in the first place? And great news, I just went to the dentist and I still don’t have any cavities, even after a year of chino candy, gelato, sweet sangria and a manual toothbrush. Here’s to good genes.

In a job application I recently filled out, I was asked to explain how EAP changed me. Here’s my answer, and hopefully it sums up my experience well. Thanks for following the blog; it’s been so much fun updating it, even though I’ll probably read it years from now and think what an idiot I sounded like in so many posts: “Today we went to 6,123 rounds of tapas and beer. Spain is just sooooo great!!”

How did your experience abroad change you?

After being back in the U.S. for only two weeks, I notice that I got a little tanner from that strong Spanish sun, a little wider from a year’s worth of tapas, a little more stylish after being stared down at one too many times while wearing yoga pants to class. But luckily the changes go far deeper. Studying abroad gave me a new perspective on being the underdog academically, struggling to write college-level papers during the first semester when my vocabulary was perhaps that of a grade-schooler. My time spent there changed me linguistically, as I can now add Spanish to my repertoire of fluent languages. It strengthened me emotionally, as I’ve never been on my own in a foreign country for such an extended period of time.

But what I’m most excited to explore are my changed ways of thinking and behaving after spending the best year of my life in a southern Spanish city. My will to become fluent made me more outgoing, as I would start conversations with anyone I could, simply to practice: a new father holding his baby girl in Plaza Bib-Rambla; taxi drivers with such strong Southern accents that even my best Spanish friends had trouble understanding; my history professor during office hours, who seemed more inclined to discuss the best tapas bars rather than exam papers. I made such good friends with a pair of elderly women while listening to street music in Barcelona that they insisted on getting my U.S. telephone number so they could call me at Christmas. I lowered my guard and let a swarm of strangers into my life, and in return I improved my language skills, my appreciation for Spanish culture, and my sociability, What once would seem like impossible risks, like couchsurfing or hiking 70 miles through Northern Spain alone, turned into incredible possibilities to converse and make new connections with people from all over.

I learned what it is to be a part of two cultures, and to let myself blend into the new one while maintaining much of the original. After the initial shock of entering such a laid-back lifestyle—no more student clubs, no part-time job, even the classes were much less demanding—I found new ways to become involved, like tutoring two little boys in English twice a week, and helping a policeman pass his English oral exam. But after a few months in Spain, it became clear that the typical American way of thinking—that if you’re not moving, then you’re a waste of space—simply doesn’t apply. I came to appreciate the beauty in slowing down and spending 3 hours drinking a coffee with friends, or taking a siesta during the middle of the day if I felt so inclined. The culture is brimming with this rich social tradition, one that places such importance on family that stores close for a three-hour lunch break. I will be forever grateful for my time in Granada for infusing me with some of these same values.

But perhaps more than anything, studying abroad made me more self-assured. More assured that I can in fact successfully negotiate electric bills, final exam topics, and missed trains in a foreign language. More assured that leaving one home always means I’ll find another. And now back at home, more confident than ever that I am finally studying the right major at UCSB, after trying out several subjects and interests over the past two years. Every day in Granada I was challenged and inspired to improve my language skills and put them to good use. The linguistics nerd inside of me enjoyed even a professor’s droning monologue because it meant that I could fixate on how and why and when he paired certain words together. Each time I would successfully employ a new idiom or the subjunctive tense I would internally celebrate, as though I had just done something much more significant than produce a phrase that actually made sense. 

I know now that the relationship between language and culture truly inspires me. My time in Spain steered me toward my true academic passion after spending the better part of my education succeeding academically but without any direction. As I enter my senior year and think about what comes next, this new direction couldn’t come at a more opportune time. 

Buen Camino

      I first heard about El Camino de Santiago from one of my language professors during the month-long immersion program in September. He told us about the 800 kilometer pilgrimage across northern Spain, starting in the French Pyranneas and ending in Santiago de Compostela, in north-west Spain. The Pilgrimage is over 1,000 years old, and originally the trek was done by Catholics to visit the Cathedral where Apostle St. James' remains are supposedly buried. Nowadays anyone can do it, not just believers, and hundreds of thousands of pilgrims make the hike every year, for all different reasons, from all different countries, and starting at all different points along the route.
      Ever since September I thought about possibly doing the Camino, and I decided to hike the last five stages in July as a way to conclude my year. I'm in no way religious, but I wanted to do something challenging--both physically, by walking 110 kilometers, but also mentally and emotionally, by doing it by myself and reflecting on my year. One thing I knew for sure was that I would never be alone, since you meet so many pilgrims along the way.
       I tried to do as much research as I could for the trip via internet and word of mouth, but I really had no idea what to expect (and I also refused to spend 30 euros on a guidebook for five short days). But like I said, on the Camino you're never alone, and on the bus ride to Sarria I met my first fellow pilgrim, Luis. He struck me as pretty eccentric but very friendly, and he explained to me how the hostels work along the way (there are public and private hostels at each town along the Camino), to always follow the yellow arrows that mark the trail, and the general code of conduct (including wishing "Buen Camino!" to every pilgrim you pass). He told me to trust people but not too much ("There are still bastards out there, like the ones who stole my boots") and to not worry about anything, because "There's always help on the Camino" (as he points to the sky--I guess for five days I should try my best to remain from scoffing at such religious remarks). I really started to trust Luis and think of him as a wise guide for the Camino, possibly a great companion to walk and exchange life lessons with for the next week--until he abruptly told me he must leave me now to "buscarme la vida," as he rubbed his finger frantically under his nose. Ok, so the first pilgrim I meet on the Camino, this supposedly ancient show of faith and what is to many a sacred experience, turns out to be a crack addict. So I'm left alone again on the sizzling streets of Sarria, my only acquaintance unwilling to pay five euros on a hostel but dishing out his last cash for drugs. I wonder, will all the pilgrims be this...er....unhinged? Perhaps the Camino attracts a specific kind of person?
       I'm happy to report that my next week hiking through Galicia was one of the best experiences of my life. I'm so grateful that I did it alone, because it enabled me to branch out, meet all sorts of amazing people, and be in charge and worry about only myself. From the moment I checked into a hostel that first day, before even having walked more than a few hundred meters from the bus stop, I met new and interesting and amazing people from all over the world. The Camino atmosphere was like the first month of Freshman year of college, where everyone is so nice and outgoing and eager to meet new people. But it's even better than that, because you're not just meeting 18-year-old Californians who want to party, but rather math professors from Barcelona and entire families from Valencia and psychiatrists from Philadelphia and eccentric Danish men who seem to speak entirely in jokes. You meet 12-year-old girls and 70-year-old grandfathers hiking 30 kilometers a day. You meet newlyweds and widows and couples that met and fell in love while walking to Santiago (and you hope to repeat their romance story). In five days of walking I laughed more and got closer to some near-strangers than I could have imagined before setting out on the trek, and vastly improved my Spanish from spending 24/7 with people from all over the Peninsula.

Dinner in Sarria the first night before walking. Friends Pierre, Charlie, and Jean.

     Most days on the Camino were similar: Wake up around 5:30 and start hiking at 6 while it's still dark. Catch the sunrise over beautiful rolling hills and green pastures. Stop at a bar after about two hours for a coffee and a stamp on your pilgrim passport, and wish "Buen Camino" to everyone who passes. Admire the beautiful scenery and, in my case, try to avoid stepping on the massive slugs that are all too common in Galicia's wet landscape. Reach the next town and hostel around noon or one, after walking between 20-30 kilometers (12-18 miles). Marvel at how forty bunk beds manage to cram themselves into just one room, and thank Saint James himself for the sweet relief of a shower and flip flops. Ingest about a billion calories for lunch and pretend that's how many you just burned in six hours of hiking, then try to take a siesta if you're not as unlucky as me, who, for two nights in a row, got placed in the bunk right next to the infamous snorer. (Number One topic of conversation on the Camino: how snorers should do us all a favor and stay home.) In the afternoon, after hand-washing your clothes, meet up at the town's sometimes only bar and drink beers and laugh until your soreness begins to dull. Bed around 10, trying to reach REM sleep before the snorer roars up.

Heading out the first day

Catching the sunrise

Trail between Sarria and Portomarín

Beautiful countryside

And more beautiful countryside

Follow the yellow arrows

     The Camino was like a cultural snapshot. You could almost tell where someone was from just by their habits. My fellow Americans were either drinking beer and dreaming about a plate of barbecued ribs instead of the monotony of Spanish food (my Texan friend), or cheerfully encouraging everyone and offering friendly hugs and thumbs-ups. (I feel like when Americans don't know what a social situation calls for, we just result to hugging). The Italians would stop at literally every café en route to have an espresso. The Spaniards would walk in jolly hoards, singing and cheering and jumping on each others backs as though it was not a holy pilgrimage but rather a frat party. The Danes discussed taxes and health care, and the French had a lit cigarette in hand even as they hulled their loads 25 kilometers over steep terrain, as though clean lungs were perhaps not so important when hiking seven hours a day.
        I would say the most challenging part for me on the Camino, more than blisters or sore hamstrings or lugging 25 pounds on my back, was knowing that any coffee break or hostel night could be the last time I see these people who I became such friends with. Since hardly anyone brings a phone on the Camino (added weight!), if someone decides to go a few more kilometers that day it could mean you are separated for the rest of the journey. And since I live about 6,000 miles away, it's not so easy to meet up with these people any old day for lunch. Luckily, however, it seemed to always work out that I ran into people (sometimes too frequently, to the point where we would say over 10 goodbyes "just in case"), and by the end I felt satisfied with the farewells.

      I say I absolutely loved the Camino, but I would do some things differently if I were to do it again (and I hope to!). Due to circumstances of traveling beforehand in Switzerland and Sweden, my pack was ridiculously too heavy--twice the recommended weight. I knew I would be going out in Switzerland and Sweden, and I think a nightclub would be likely to reject me if I showed up in running shoes and a Hanes V-neck, so I brought along some fancier flats. At the end of my trip I would be spending a few days in the inferno of Southern Granada, so I packed 2 dresses. My dad has instilled in me the dangers of sun exposure, perhaps too much so, to the point where I brought along not just one but three tubes of sunscreen, and couldn't get myself to dispose of any because sunscreen is so unreasonably expensive. I also had a purse inside my backpack, which in and of itself probably weighs a fifth of the recommended weight, because I couldn't walk the streets of Lugano or Stockholm with an entire backpacking pack to hold my wallet, unbrella, camera, etc. To top it off, Cecile's grandmother in Switzerland founded a make-up company and her house was brimming with free samples. I knew I would have to carry everything I took on my back, but offering free make-up to a girl is something like offering a slice of pizza to Ghandi. (The irony of all this is that I had everything I didn't need and nothing that I did--like a sleeping bag, flashlight, vaseline for feet, blister kit....what an unprepared pilgrim).
     Anyway, by the second day my friend Juan nicknamed me "Barbie Pilgrim," as I put on a dress after the shower and was also forced to wear my fancy flats since I lost my flip flops on the bus. I refrained from touching up with mascara, but by the end of the trip I was answering just as frequently to "Barbie" as to "Jenny." I got the last laugh, however, when we all went out to celebrate our last night in Santiago and all the girls were begging me for a splash of concealer and some eyeliner. Barbie Pilgrim always wins.

My friend Juan, giver of nicknames

      When we finally reached Santiago I was filled with mixed emotions. As I didn't start anywhere near the beginning (doing the Camino for the last 5 days almost feels like cheating), I didn't have this overwhelming sense of accomplishment or relief at having had arrived. As I'm not religious, I wasn't floored by the fact that I had reached an apostle's ancient remains. Instead, it really hit me that my incredible year, topped off by this incredible journey and incredible new friends, was fast coming to a close. I couldn't think of a better way to say goodbye to my new home.

Friends Jorge and Rosa in front of the Cathedral

My Valencian family

The incredible Cathedral

       That night me and some friends checked into a pensión (pure luxury after the hostels) and I explored the beautiful city of Santiago de Compostela. For dinner a small group of us went out to tapas and it was perfect closure to the Camino, spending time with the people whom I'd gotten closest to: my adopted Valencian family, siblings Juan and Amanda and mom Amanda; Rosa; and Jorge. They all proceeded to tell me how impressed they were that someone my age chose to do the Camino alone and mom Amanda called me "un ángel de una hija" (an angel of a child). I almost cried.
      Later that night there was a DJ in the huge plaza and we all pretended like walking hundreds of kilometers and sleeping in hostels didn't leave us severely sleep deprived at all. The next morning we realized that no amount of coffee could replace a week's lack of sleep, and after bidding a very sad farewell in the airport to the Valencian family, I boarded a plane to Southern Spain and stayed with my friend Javi for two days, where I'm pretty sure I slept more than 75% of the visit.

Plaza party

Gorgeous view overlooking Santiago

Asturias

       On Tuesday morning after an awful night's sleep at the Barcelona airport (it never occurred to me that they do all their noisy maintenance and cleaning at night), I took a very short flight to the northern coast of Spain, to the small province of Asturias. Once again I enjoyed the surprises of traveling alone, since it really makes me more outgoing and open to talking to random strangers. I met a very nice man named Pepe on the flight, and at the end he even offered me a ride in his company car, but unfortunately I was headed in the opposite direction. I had planned to visit the tiny fishing town of Cudillero, according to my guidebook "the most precious fishing town in all of Spain," so I bid Pepe farewell with two kisses and then tried to figure out how I would get to this little village, since there is no direct bus from the airport. Without a bus, or any clue on how to reach the main road to try and hitch-hike, I was forced to splurge on a taxi, which would cost 25 euros, but since I was really excited to see Cudillero after all my Google Image searches, I decided to pay it. It turned out to be a great decision because the taxi driver and I immediately hit it off. He was so friendly and told me all about his five years living in New York City, and how his appointment to renew his visa was the day after 9/11 so he was forced to move back to Spain. When he dropped me off twenty minutes later in Cudillero, we told each other we would meet again one day in the U.S. Then he slashed the price five euros and told me to use the money to enjoy a delicious breakfast during my morning in Cudillero. It seems like this whole trip I just keep being awed time and time again by the great people I meet. 

        Cudillero lived up to all my expectations. Since I arrived early in the morning there was hardly anyone out, so I climbed the narrow staircases carved into the hillsides and enjoyed the feeling of having the whole sleepy village to myself. Lonely Planet really hit the mark on this one--I'd say Cudillero was the most precious town I've been to in my whole year in Spain, with its colored buildings dotting the hillside, twisting staircases leading to hobbit-sized doors and houses, and the magnificent Atlantic in the background. 

        Of course, no matter how cute the town was, I ran out of things to do after two hours so I caught a bus to Gijón, the largest city in Asturias (still only the size of Granada), where I planned to Couchsurf that night. I was greeted by my host Guiller in his piso and then went out on my own to explore the twon and beach for a few hours. I got lucky with perfect weather--it's very rare to have a dry and cloudless day in Northern Spain. 

      I came back to the piso and had a long talk in Spanish with Guiller. I can't explain how refreshing it is to speak and hear Spanish outside of Andalucia. I suppose it's good that I'm learning it in a place where even Spaniards say they need to live in the South for three years before they can fully understand a conversation in the Andalucian dialect, because this way when I travel outside of the region I feel like I was born speaking Spanish. I don't have to ask "¿Cómo?" every second or hope that my fake laughs will convince people that I'm understanding. 

        Guiller and I went to share a bottle of Asturias' famous cider after, but since I was so exhausted from barely sleeping in the airport, we turned in early (but not before he generously cooked me dinner!). The next day I was catching a very early morning bus to Sarria, Galicia (very north-west Spain), to start the Camino de Santiago. 

The hillside of Cudillero 

Lighthouse in Cudillero

Barcelona (again)

          I arrived in Barcelona Sunday evening and checked in to the hostel I reserved, which could not have been more of a shock coming from the beautiful, comfortable home in Sweden--or coming from literally anywhere sanitary, in fact. The place didn't even have a sign on the entrance, so some other backpackers and I were wandering around aimlessly for a good 15 minutes before finding the right door. The beds were nauseating, and without going into too much graphic detail about the place, suffice it to say that the mattress above mine had blood stains on it. I would have rather gone out dirty than take a shower in that place, so I locked all my stuff up and wandered around the city until I was tired enough to fall asleep without worrying about staff infections or bedbugs, and then woke up early the next morning to get the hell out.
         I only had one full day in Barcelona, but since I had already done all the tourist things when I came in February, it was very relaxing. I was reminded of how much I loved the city as I wandered the Barrio de Gracia, Barrio Gotico and Montjuic, and although I thought I would feel really lonely after coming from such great company in Sweden, I really enjoyed the solitude. I did almost get robbed by a plot of fake police asking for my identification, but luckily I sort of awkwardly stumbled away, not quite sure at the time if I was smartly avoiding pick-pocketers or comitting a crime by running from the cops.
         The best part of the day came that night, when I was sitting peacefully in front of the Cathedral listening to street music, and I started chatting with two very elderly ladies next to me. They immediately told me to come closer and we entered into a very long and animated conversation. I cannot adequately describe how adorable Maita and Isa were--two sisters (probably over age 90) born in Andalucia but living in Barcelona, with the most amazing sense of humor. Every time I mentioned that I had been studying in Granada but was returning to California in two weeks (a topic that resurfaced frequently due to Maita's apparent memory loss), Maita would hit me on the shoulder and exclaim, "Pues yo voy contigo!! Tú te quedas aqui con mi familia y yo me mudo allí con la tuya!" (Well I'll go with you! You stay here with my family and I'll move there with yours!) It seemed like a perfect plan to me too.
        The three of us hung out on the bench for some time, talking and laughing like a group of high-schoolers instead of a tourist and two senile old women. It was quite frankly one of the most fun conversations I've had in Spanish so far, as they had me cracking up the whole time, especially when a couple walked by holding hands and Maita nearly lost it because of their height difference (the man was probably 6' 6'' and the woman 5' 2''). "Madre mía I don't even want to think how that couple shares a bed at night! She's barely bigger than the pillow and he's probably spilling over the edge!" She continued on to comment on their probable sex life, this tiny little religious woman who had just come out of mass, and she had me in absolute hysterics.
         Unfortunately the time came to say goodbye as I had to head for the airport, and I was also eager to escape before Maita forgot once again why and where I was headed in an airplane. But before I left the ladies insisted on getting my U.S. phone number so they could call me on Christmas!! That simply melted my heart completely. I'm not sure they realize they're phone bill will probably be more than their monthly pension if they choose to call me, but it's Ok because poor Maita will surely forget our conversation anyway.

New best friends: Isa, Maita and me