I can’t even say I’m in culture shock. I feel just distanced from reality, glazing over the intensity of how my life just changed.
Yesterday, I was on summer vacation in New York fighting over how to fill a suitcase with my mother. Now, she’s 6 hours behind me and an ocean away. I’ve boarded an overnight flight, landed in Madrid, switched planes, and floated down to Sevilla. I don’t feel like we landed and boom, estoy aqui, ready to take on the challenge.
I make small talk with my host mother, Ana, and my roommate Courteney. By three seconds, its established that my name is actually Estefania, and Courteney, she’ll have to get a new name too (picked at lunch – Maria. Classic.). Truth is, I have no clue what she is telling me – I think her friend went to her beach and her neighbor just kissed me on both cheeks and took my bag. (Now, I know her ‘neighbor’ is her son and his name is Manuel not Miguel and he speak a good English he learn in Inglaterra and Florida.)
It was raining when we landed. In fact, it’s still raining. Funny, because I was told it NEVER rains here. And Mom Ana and Manuel also say it never rains here. But, it’s wet.
So, while I have now thoroughly discussed the fact that its raining, I’m from Nueva York, and I am ‘vegeteriana,’ I’m really become some OCD space cadet. I’m counting street signs through the car window and mosaic tiles in the driveway. Â This out-of-it mode started from the packing but I noticed how weird I felt when all I could think about on the plane was how cool the clouds looked. Air looks different here. You can see it and taste it and smell it and on a humid day like this, you can touch it.
I’m a thousand miles from home doing something so totally awesome and all I can think about is air? At lunch, we were watching the news while enjoying a spinach and chickpea dish with spanish omelette and the never-ending orange soda, and the only sentence I could say was “Libya doesn’t look very fun.” Great conversationalist, I am. The Spaniards seem to think all Americans have a fascination with and an adoration of McDonalds. Which is most severely butchered by the Andalusian lisp.
There are an insane amount of details I could share. Tiny stories that make up this ‘experience’ so far. Like how I battled the hot water heater in the shower and how great brushing my teeth felt after a million plane hours. Or how I fell onto some girl’s suitcase because I, at 5’2.75″ cannot carry 5 bags at once. Or how conveniently euros fit in my wallet. Or how I still don’t know if Manuel is that guy’s name and where his bedroom is. Or how incredibly happy I am to be here. Or how nothing has hit me still. It just seems like a really weird dream.
All I know is its all a blur and this blog is the closest way to capture at least snippets of it.
The pictures are tiny bits of home sweet home, the cutest little most beautifulest house of ornate decor of clutter, but tidy. One day when it doesn’t rain, you’ll get a better view. Maybe I’ll even know what street I live on by then. The only thing that makes this feel like home is a wretched dog screeching to the rain. Basically Irene all over again. Except now I have power – if I can just figure out how these adapters work…