(Granada, land that I dream about)
(It's a love song about Granada)
It’s been 6 months since I got back from Spain. And I felt I should write something about it. Something deep and meaningful. Something demonstrating personal growth. This is why you should study abroad. Do you see how my soul has gotten better? Do you see the experiences I’ve had?
And that’s a part of it, too. A big part of it. Because I still speak of Spain. Of rain and lisped c’s and cathedrals that scrape at skies and cobblestoned streets. Accounting for myself as part of larger, American framework. Recognizing myself as an American, as I spoke to Spaniards in el seseo and asked them not to judge me for being fascinated by their squished little shops and strange clothing and colorful bills.
I’m remembering walking in la Capilla Real and staring at that marbled mausoleum and thinking that Catholics have the best way of demonstrating their fascination with the Divine. I’m remembering tucking my hands into the pockets of my Target hoody as I looked at graffiti. I’m remembering sitting in a cramped bar with my French housemate after he’d had too many beers, sipping my sparkling cider and choking on cigarette smoke. I’m remembering eating fish stew in the hostel with Chris from Massachusetts, who looked like Squints from The Sandlot and told me about living in a cottage with an Italian family.
And I’m remembering that other people haven’t had these experiences. That other people might not ever have these experiences.
I’m missing Spain a little bit right now. Missing UHT milk that never goes back. And grocery-store flan. And products with labels written in Spanish, French, and Portuguese. And Spaniards with nonsensical English T-shirts (‘Hicktown’ ‘Pick One Love Juicy’ ‘Kiss my Heart’). And Buildings older than the United States. And professors that ask you to turn in assignments whenever. And Spanish. And kebabs and kebab pizza. And Arab shops—these the most, probably.
And I recognize that this is nostalgia. Because I remember, as well, laying in my bed and crying because I felt lonely and misunderstood and frustrated with the cultural difference. I’m remembering racism. And the siesta. And the expense of living in the country. And having to be representative of an entire nation. And clinging to the American exchange students in my classes, who understood my need to speak in English and talk about politics and my desire for corn tortillas. I’m rembering the confrontation that came with acknowledging that I was less Mexican than I had hoped.
But it’s been six months. That’s long enough for me to want to go back. To feel restless when I look over old photographs and read over old blog posts and recall the happenings of this year as the end of December approaches.
It really is an amazing country. Truly. And I believe one that everyone should go to.
And study abroad is an amazing opportunity. For language learning. For independence (no one’s there to help you fill out your student information or find your way if you get lost). For cultural interaction. For self-discovery. For growth.
And I am glad to be the United States. But I think I fell a little bit in love with Spain, and I think I’ll always have the memory of existence within this other nation to contrast with my experience here.
And it might be annoying. I suspect, often, that it is. But Spain is still so vivid. Enough for me to recall it whenever a point of comparison presents itself. Whenever a professor brings it up. Whenever a music video mentions it. Whenever people speak of Europe.
But ultimately, I think, that’s probably one of the final stages of this whole ‘study abroad’ experience. And, if that’s the case, hooray. If not, well no one ever accused me of being normal.
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