¡Hola a todos y todas y feliz miércoles! Delia Bousquet aquí, from the comforts of my just-cleaned habitación (no, I didn’t clean it—my host family has a lady who comes and cleans every martes), post-examen parcial (midterm), ready to unpack some stories of the week.
But first, we have some—let’s say—sectional pieces I’d like to start with that haven’t found their way into other blogs about Spain and life. ¡Disfrútalos!
Baños, Aseos, WC: What is going on with the Spanish Bathroom?
I guess I’ll start by saying there is nothing wrong with the Spanish bathroom—though they are imposible to find in public. Hence my El Corte Inglés hack or just going to a bar with a bathroom.
Still, they’re consistently different, and I’m not sure why. First of all, let’s talk about la ducha (the shower). The first aspecto one will notice is the absence of the famous cortinas de ducha (shower curtains). Instead, you’ll find glass—and lots of it. Think a see-through glass box.
Second is the difference in the actual shower head or la alcachofa de la ducha (I’m never going to remember that one). Many times, you’ll find two: one being a weird—what I’m going to call—rain situation with the shower head on the ceiling, and the other being a handheld shower head, with the ability to interchange.
The second main difference is the váter (what an odd word) or the toilet itself. They look very different from those in the U.S., and you’re not going to find a handle—instead, you’ll find a button, often two. The amount of water inside the váter is also drastically different from the U.S., with barely any water inside.
Bidets are also quite common in Spain, though I’ve only seen one in two of the hotels I’ve stayed at and in one host family casa. To quote my roommate from the CIEE Cádiz trip: “Wait, we have two toilets?” No. No, we don’t.
The final point I’ll mention, and by far the most annoying… the light switches are outside the bathroom. Why? I just don’t get it. Who is thinking about turning on the lights while standing in the hallway?!
On a more public bathroom note: I’d definitely say the cleanliness of public restrooms in Spain is far below that of America. In the U.S., you can usually find a clean public restroom with relative ease. Well, it’s just not a priority here in Spain like it is in the U.S. They’re dirty, often lacking soap, toilet paper, paper towels, etc. It’s giving porta potty—but put inside.
Cosas extrañas (weird things) that are insignificant but I have never mentioned
There are like a million of these, but I’ll leave you with a few to avoid this becoming a twenty-page blog.
The first is the elevators—or ascensores. They’re small, and you have to physically open a door to use them. It’s odd.
The second is alcohol and ID’s. I’ve never been ID’ed in Spain, considering it was just two years ago that TSA thought I would be able to go through the 12-and-under lane—after they let the entirety of my class through the regular line before me. It’s odd, considering how serious IDs are in the U.S., with everyone looking under 40 needing to be ID’ed. Why is it that serious?
Next, the stop signs. They say stop in english. Why? Stop isn’t spanish.
Fourthly, chocolate. It is way different. In the US I would never buy a straight up chocolate bar to eat. But that Spanish Mercadona chocolate hits differently. I don’t even know how to explain it.
The orange juice. Why don’t we have orange juice machines in the US? I don’t think I’ll be able to drink it ever again in the US.
Finally, the ice. It’s huge. You ask for an ice cube and you’re basically getting the iceberg that sank the Titanic. Is it better to have bigger ice or a bunch of small pieces? An interesting scientific experiment indeed.
My Big Idea for a Spanish Class
OK, so maybe this could never happen at the university level… but perhaps for a high school class: Improv pero en español.
I feel like the true essence of speaking Spanish in Spain is being thrown into the most ridiculous situations and navigating your way out of them one oración at a time. Isn’t that what improv is in a nutshell?
And while I definitely have the humor worked out in English—and not to brag, also this Espanglish thing we’ve got going on here on the blog—it’s just so hard to apply it to Spanish. It was actually one of my goals for the year: become funny en español. I don’t think we’re there yet… pero I did get some laughs this past weekend when, at the store, a lady offered me a bag for the two bags I was purchasing. I was like: ¿una bolsa para bolsas? A bag for bags?
I can’t fully take credit for the epiphany, as I did see something similar in a documentary I randomly watched yesterday about immigrants to Canada learning French full-time for six months. It was great because it was a documentary in French with Spanish subtitles, so I got my Spanish work in, while the English speakers got their French work in. Win-win.
Better yet: what about a stand-up comedy class? That seems scholarly enough—writing scripts, doing crowd work, throwing in a novel or two (you know, to make it more academic, like Spanish Food 101).
Book ideas to justify the class:
- Monólogos del club de la comedia
- El humor en la literatura española contemporánea by Amparo Medina-Bocos
- Cuerpos, géneros e identidades en el teatro español actual
I’ll start writing the syllabus 😉
But could we make it a 300-level? I still need two more for the minor.
Siesta and Otros Secretos of Surviving the Heat
Respeta la siesta—or for all you angloparlantes, respect the nap.
Now, siesta is not just any nap you take at any point in the day. The siesta is between the hours of (according to Google) 2 to 5—though I’d say more of a 3–5 situation. This isn’t just a “people being lazy” thing. This is a necessity.
Let me tell y’all, you do not—under any circumstances—want to be fuera (outside) between the hours of 3 and 5 in Sevilla. It’s hot… hotter than hot. To give you some context: it’s currently 12:30 and 31°C out, with a projected peak of 39°C (aka 102°F). You do not want to be outside for that.
Además, lunch is the biggest meal of the day—and trust me, you want a nap after that. Especially if you have a host mom like mine who makes you like two tons of food every meal. Every day I say I’m going to be productive or do something during siesta, and I kid you not, yesterday I slept for three hours (it was a crazy weekend).
Plus, who’s out and about during siesta? The tourists. Which makes it the prime hour to get robbed. (Though I’m not too worried about getting robbed in Sevilla—it’s pretty tranquil here.)
Thoughts of the Other Americans
For eleven weeks now, you all have had the privilege of hearing my takes on Spain. And while I think my opinions are great and all, I do recognize that my experience isn’t the defining Spain experience.
As a few of the people in my course have said, “Delia is the only one of us that would pass as Spanish”—and it’s kind of true. The diversity in Spain is lacking on many accounts, and I’ve seen it with my very own eyes. I walk into a cafetería and I’m always greeted in Spanish, while I can’t say the same for some of my other friends.
And obviously, as you already know, I’m basically the help desk at Atocha, airports, and buses—the one that abuelas want to chat with and tell how crazy the bus driver is. I think, for the most part, it’s fair to say I fit the part (especially when I throw on those giant sunglasses, grab an abanico, and wear some colorful pants)… well, until I actually open la boca and they hear this wack Spanish of mine.
But por eso, I’ve compiled a few other observations and opinions from my friends para compartir with all of you.
The Sevilla Stare
This was explained to me as strangers on buses or on the street just full-on staring at you. Even past that point of awkward eye contact—where they know you know they’re staring—and they just keep going.
Waving Across the Street
No one waves when cars stop. It’s just expected. One person told me she continued to wave at first, but has since stopped because she felt like she was being super American.
Cleanliness
This amiga told me she frequently sees people coughing into their hands and not washing them after using the baños. Her (great) comparison? “They act like my littles at day care.”
By the way—super cool chica who wants to be a high school Spanish teacher! I couldn’t even imagine it (although my senior superlative… that I rejected… was “most likely to come back to Pomfret and teach”). But good for her.
Lighter Food
I totally agree with this one. You eat a meal, and it’s light—not the kind of “I just had a McDonald’s hamburger or literally any food from the ROMA dining hall and feel like I’m going to throw up” kind of thing.
Though, this idea came with a negative: this person said, “It’s so annoying because I’m always hungry after.” I’ve never had that experience, but like I said, everyone has different experiences—and they’re all valid.
Spaniard Love
I can’t say I entirely understood this one, but from how it was explained to me by one of the amigas, Spaniard love is different from American love. It’s stronger, and there’s more emphasis on family and relationships.
I get the family and friends part—but I wouldn’t say that automatically makes love stronger. I think it just reflects different cultural values. Americans could stand to learn how to share some of their love/obsession for work with their families.
Thoughts and Reflecciones on My Español
Obviamente, I came to Spain to improve my Spanish. And while we’re still two weeks away from my final blog post about Spain, this week has been full of reflections about el español—especially because I got, what we call here, Englished for the first time all summer. And then again. And again. (Clearly, I was having a rough week.)
The first time was at my usual coffee shop—which definitely wasn’t my fault because my Spanish was great—but I had started going there with friends and speaking English, so I think they thought they were being helpful.
The second time was at the hotel in Málaga when I was checking out. They started in English, but we quickly switched to Spanish.
Finally—and probably the worst—on the train back from Málaga, I was in my seat and this couple comes up and demands that I switch seats so they can sit together. For some reason, I was completely lost. So they started speaking (might I add, terrible) English to me. I don’t know how you can just demand someone switch seats—especially considering my original seat was better—but I complied to be a nice person.
Pues nada, my Spanish has definitely improved since being here in Spain… just in every way I didn’t really want it to.
What I really wanted was to come back from Spain able to speak Spanish with ease—like the words just feeling right in la boca. That didn’t really happen.
Can I understand spoken Spanish really well now? Sí. Sometimes I even forget that my class is in Spanish when I zone out, because I can understand everything.
Can I write better? Also yes.
I don’t know how or why—since I really haven’t written that much compared to the normal semester—but I have become quite speedy. And not to brag, I think I’m a pretty good texter now.
How I can type Spanish fast but not speak it is beyond my comprehension. I think I need like… a coach (because the brain’s a muscle, right?), or I don’t even know, maybe a doctor to figure out what the heck is wrong with my brain.
It’s not like I wasn’t trying to talk in Spain—it’s just that, surprisingly, outside of class the opportunities were hard to come by, besides obviously ordering food.
Host families that don’t eat with me? Check.
Host families that watch movies during dinner? Check.
Host families that are never home? Check.
It’s not my fault.
On the other hand, I guess I have my work cut out for me this coming semester. You’re going to find me at the language tables three days a week trying to get this—let’s call it problema—sorted out.
Because I can’t be the person who writes, reads, listens… but doesn’t speak. Especially as a talker—it’s who I am.
So if you know Spanish or want to learn Spanish and want a chatting buddy… llámame por favor, because I have a lot of chatting to do. Fully serious on that one—I need to find people to chat with. Especially after Spain. I have tons of stories. It could be fun.
But in all seriousness: while I haven’t been chatting it up for hours on end, chatting has happened. And I think something Spain gave me—something the U.S. couldn’t—was just the confidence to talk or raise my hand with zero plan for what I was going to say.
I’d like to think Spain brought out the best version of Delia. Or should I say Dell-leee-ahhh (who, might I add, is much cooler and more fun than boring old Deal-lee-ahh).
This section sounded a little more profound when I was on the train from Málaga, but… it is what it
Now onto the week!
We left off last week with a cliffhanger about a big bucket-list activity: going to the movies for free with CIEE.
The movie was… drumroll please… Superman.
No, not Superhombre… just Superman.
Which is probably the worst possible movie they could’ve picked—for three different reasons:
Uno: It was an English movie dubbed in Spanish. Aka the worst way to watch a movie. I spent years learning Spanish so I could finally see Spanish movies in Spanish—not an English movie in Spanish.
(Side note: last week I mentioned watching Happy Gilmore in Spanish. Well… the second one came out this past week. Might’ve been the worst movie I’ve seen in my life. Sprinkling in famous people and sticking others in insane asylums is not a movie.)
Dos: I hate superhero movies. There is no plot. The good people have some problema and just beat up the bad people until it’s solved. Again, that’s not a plot—that’s just violence.
I knew Superman was going to win from minute 0. Plus, they’re not believable. Isn’t the whole point of a movie to have some thread that pulls you along thinking, this could be real?
And let’s be honest: superhero movies perpetuate toxic masculinity. Think about it—most superheroes are men, and there’s always the side-chick damsel-in-distress trope.
Harriger, Jennifer A., et al. “With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility: A Content Analysis of Masculinity Themes in Superhero Movies.” Psychology of Men & Masculinities, vol. 23, no. 4, 23 June 2022, pp. 353–361. https://doi.org/10.1037/men0000398
Tres: The movie was 2.5 hours long. Which is so long when you really don’t want to be at the movies.
But we got free popcorn, candy, drinks, and entry—so I can’t complain too much. Especially while sipping on an ice-cold Orange Fanta Naranja.
I wish I could bring it back to the U.S.—it’s so good!
Earlier on that Wednesday, for class we went to some conventos (aka convents). No, we weren’t converting to Catholicism—we went to try some of their dulces de convento, which is an assortment of baked goods they make to support the renovations of the convent.
Now, these convents were serious. And I’m not talking about the nuns my parents sent me to after elementary school so I could read better than everyone else. These nuns were on another level. You couldn’t even see them because they’re not allowed to have contact with the outside world.
Por eso, they have what’s called a torno—basically a lazy Susan setup—where they hide behind it and spin your order out to you.
It’s a very “you must be in the know” type of operation. Some of these convents are literally holes in the wall with little information or advertising. They also speak in code.
Step 1: You walk up and say “hola” or “buenos días.”
Step 2: The nun says, “Ave María Purísima.”
Step 3: You must respond, “Sin pecado concebida.”
According to our lovely ChatGPT translator:
- Ave María Purísima — “Hail Mary Most Pure”
- Sin pecado concebida — “Conceived without sin”
It’s frequently used when entering confession. “Basically, it sets a holy and respectful tone at the beginning of confession. Think of it as the spiritual equivalent of knocking politely on Heaven’s office door before discussing your spiritual tax fraud.”
So what do they say at confession in the U.S.? I’m curious… but also not Catholic.
Anyway, the dulces were… subpar. Not that I was expecting much from a literal hole in the wall that definitely hasn’t heard of high fructose corn syrup.
(Just kidding. The U.S. can keep its high fructose corn syrup. What even makes it high? Is there a low fructose corn syrup? Someone explain.)
Thursday’s class was odd.
For a class about food, we seem to do everything except talk about food. Do we list off a lot of food, like los musulmanes comían dátiles, arroz y aceite de oliva (with accompanying pictures)? Yes.
But when we’re not listing food, we’re doing the oddest stuff. Like, we went on an hour-long walk around town—supposedly to see how the three religions cohabitated in Sevilla.
There wasn’t a lot to see… and there certainly wasn’t a giant sign reading “JEWISH NEIGHBORHOOD” or any little ceramic menorahs like in Toledo. But it was pretty and a great excuse to explore more of Sevilla.
Relevant to my education? No.
More fun than vocab 101? Absolutely.
That evening, I headed to Triana for the feria (fair) with a few kids from the program, including Terra (we’ve agreed to a name-drop). She’s the one studying like four different languages that I told you about.
There was this event happening from a boat where people (men) tried to run across a long wooden pole—possibly greased?—to grab a flag at the end. It was honestly very entertaining.
Along the river, there were also a bunch of tents set up. We thought maybe they’d be vendors, but it turned out every single one had a bar inside! So, naturally, we sat down, got some drinks, and had a good chat.
Now, I know I was hating on sangría last week for being cheap, bad-quality wine… but I can get behind tinto de verano (which, side note, I still don’t understand why it’s not tinto del verano since verano is masculine—but whatever). It’s cheap, refreshing, and doesn’t taste like it has 100,000 grams of sugar in it. What more could you ask for?
That brings us to Friday!
We had class. I honestly have no recollection of what we did—probably talked more about the three cultures of Spain durante la Edad Media. I won’t bore y’all with that.
Post-class, I had a fun little adventure with Terra. We took a long walk to a supermarket so she could stock up on snacks and food to stash at her host family’s house. We also stopped at a bazar, where we had a field day checking out all the random stuff they had.
This was actually one of the nicer bazares I’ve been to—with an actual organization system and stuff not just shoved in trash bags.
I walked out with a much-needed new maleta—and it’s purple! (My favorite color.)
It’s too bad Terra wasn’t taking pictures, because I fought for this purple suitcase. It was buried behind like five others, stuck in a corner, hidden behind a wall in the display window. But it was purple—so I had to fight for it.
Fear not because Terra took some great pics for next week’s blog on some other Terra and Delia adventures!
Post-adventure and siesta, I typed up my second resumen (essay is too generous a word for what it is) of the four I have for this class.
I also did some serious planning for my weekend in Málaga and Caminito del Rey. One difficulty of going off into the mountains and relying on public transport is just how little information is out there.
It got to the point where I had to ask ChatGPT—and I kid you not, it gave me like five different answers. I hope that foreshadows the mess that transportation ended up being…
Saturday, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to walk the 45 minutes to the train station. After last week’s battle with the buses, I figured it would just be easier to walk. One aspect I failed to consider? It was pitch black out (thanks, German time). But it was okay — plenty of people were on their way back from the club at that hour.
I arrived at the train station, which—unlike the bus station—had coffee places galore, which was great, because it was still only 6-something. The train was late, but I made it on with no problems. One aspect I did forget? I had booked the slow Media Distancia train. The stupidest thing Renfe offers. It’s slow and takes about a bajillion hours to get anywhere because it stops at every tiny station in the country.
So when the train made its first stop just ten minutes from my house—at 7:30 AM—I was fuming. I could’ve slept in and avoided the whole long, creepy walk through the dark.
Another unexpected twist: I realized mid-ride that the train would actually be stopping at the very stop I needed. Now, what do I mean by that? My original plan was to take the train from Sevilla to Málaga, and then take another train to El Caminito del Rey (a one-hour ride that only runs every three hours). But when I saw we were stopping at El Chorro–Caminito del Rey, I thought, “Okay, an opportunity to save time and money!”
What I didn’t consider was that this meant getting dropped off in the middle of nowhere at 9:30 AM… with no food options… and my tour wasn’t until 3:00 PM. All I had was a sad little stack of breakfast cookies, which I had already started eating (for, you guessed it, breakfast).
Next issue: the train drops you off at the end of the Caminito del Rey hike, and you need to get to the start. The internet said it was walkable. With plenty of time and an ambitious walking spirit, I plugged it into Google and set off. I made it about 2.5 kilometers before realizing I was on the Caminito del Rey trail itself — and couldn’t continue. It’s a one-way hike that you need a ticket and a helmet to enter.
So I had to walk all the way back to the train station and figure out another method.
Tell me, Google, why would you suggest the way to get to the entrance of the Caminito del Rey is taking the Caminito del Rey? One of your worst moments.
That left me with one option: the bus. There were a bunch of buses at the station, and I had no idea which were for tour groups and which were public. I saw one labeled “Public Andalusian Bus,” and since Google had said there was a public bus, I pulled out my bus card and boarded.
Well. Why they labeled the private shuttle bus as a public bus is beyond me. The driver kicked me off and sent me to a little shack to buy a ticket. Turns out (I discovered hours later) that I had already purchased this bus ticket when I booked my hike — I was just supposed to know that the barcoded ticket included it.
But eventually, I made it to the entrance around 11:30. I was hoping for some kind of bench situation, but had to settle for a tiny cliff at a small overlook to sit on for the next three hours. It was hot. And boring. But I got through a few chapters of my new fiction audiobook, Native Tongue, and offered to take some Christmas card–worthy family photos while snacking on my cookies.
The hike itself was absolutely gorgeous.
Unfortunately, I had to take the guided tour because, when I bought tickets five days before, all the regular ones were sold out. Did I need to hear about all the geology, the rock formations, and how the horizontal lines became vertical due to tectonic shifts? No. But I did the tour in Spanish, so I’ll count it as language practice.
Oh, and the tour company had a little color-coded helmet segregation system. English speakers got blue helmets; Spanish speakers got gray. I wore that gray casco proudly. Although, the guide did ask if I was Italian — which was fair, since I happened to be standing next to a big group of Italians.
I was honestly a little sad I had to do the day alone. The pictures would’ve been so much better if I’d had a friend or—better yet—family with me. Family never complains about endless photo requests, and it’s usually them (mostly my dad) insisting, “Let me take your picture!”
Still, I managed to get some decent shots in selfie mode, even as the guide rushed us through the tour. I would’ve preferred a more leisurely walk, especially with those views.
After the tour, I hopped on the train for the one-hour ride to Málaga, where I was greeted by—hands down—the best train station I’ve seen this entire trip: María Zambrano. A train station in the middle of a mall, complete with a Mercadona. (That brings us to 34! Soon to be 35, because I’ve promised Terra a Mercadona lesson and the official Delia Bousquet tour. Tickets now available here:
(Yes, the link works)
I know I should’ve gone out and tried some local cuisine, but after a long day outside fueled only by cookies, a 7:30 PM Mercadona dinner just made sense. And honestly? It was extremely satisfying.
I checked into my hotel, turned on every light possible, took a long shower, cranked the AC to Arctic levels, called my mom, enjoyed my Mercadona meal, and even finished watching Happy Gilmore II.
Now, let me talk about this hotel. It was technically a residencia for university students that doubles as a hotel during summer—and after staying there, I have serious complaints about American dorms. Is this why Spanish parents send their kids to U.S. colleges? As punishment?
This room had a huge bed (bigger than any bed I’ve had all summer), a private bathroom with a shower, a massive fridge, microwave, a desk, a cushioned spinny chair (!!!), a TV, real plates and utensils… and it was spacious. Compare that to my Princeton dorm: no AC, smaller room, shared between two people. Like, come on. Could we not just give students one cushioned chair? And maybe turn some of those awkward small doubles into singles with the new residential college space?
Also, Princeton, attic dorms don’t count as proper housing. My first room in Blair Hall had a slanted ceiling, and I lost track of how many times I hit my head in the four weeks I lived there.
The next day brought more chaos—surprise, surprise, it was bus-related.
Google Maps led me to the wrong side of the street for my bus stop, so naturally, I got on the bus going in the wrong direction. Luckily, I was only five stops from the end of the line, so I figured I’d just ride it out and hop off once the direction flipped. Apparently that was not acceptable.
The bus driver saw it as a perfect opportunity to lecture me on the Málaga bus system. And yes, I had to pay again. Which is ridiculous because I never got off the bus! We even drove past the stop I was supposed to board at—and let me tell you, there was no sign. No markings. How was I supposed to know there was an invisible bus stop there?
Eventually, I made it to the centro of Málaga, where I found a cute breakfast spot (overrun by English tourists, of course). I went because the reviews said it had the best coffee in Málaga—and they weren’t wrong.
I swear, the barista’s whole energy changed the moment I started speaking Spanish. He went from exhausted and mildly annoyed to happy and chatty in seconds. It was like I made his whole day.
The coffee? Amazing. Like a hug in a cup. Rich, thick, with actual substance—not that watered-down stuff I had in Sevilla the other week. I also ordered a jamón and avocado toast, which was salt-heavy but seriously good.
After breakfast, I spent the day wandering around Málaga: explored the centro, climbed a massive hill to check out some kind of palace situation, saw some Roman ruins (because of course it’s always about the Romans), and strolled along the beach. Though, full disclosure: the beach walk was short-lived because it was basically made of shells and rocks. Not ideal.
All this walking, unfortunately, had to be done without my signature Birkenstocks. Which meant, by later that evening—and especially the next day—my whole body felt like I’d been hit by a truck.
I don’t know what kind of magic is in those sandals, but my Birkenstocks are the only reason my knees and feet survive. I wish I could run a marathon in them. But, alas, sneakers were required for the Caminito del Rey. And my body paid the price.
At 3:30, I boarded my train—iced coffee in hand—and set off back to Sevilla. That’s when the seat-switching situation began. Spain’s coffee is honestly hit or miss when it comes to caffeine, but this one was strong. Like, sprint-laps-up-and-down-the-train-car strong. I channeled all that energy into texting 50 different people and making plans for my upcoming three weeks at home.
A good portion of my messages were to my brother, Tyler, who—for most of our lives—has never wanted to do fun activities with me. I’ve spent many summers going places alone because friends are either traveling or living too far away. But suddenly, we have a list of like ten different things we want to do together. Maybe it’s because I’ve been away for 11 weeks, or maybe it’s finally hitting him that he’s about to start college. Either way, Tyler 2.0 is emerging—and I’m here for it. We’re talking fashion advice (from me), clothes shopping (approved by him), and now… actual activities.
Also, let’s not forget: I gave up my car insurance this summer because I wasn’t going to be using it and don’t drive enough during the school year to make it worth it. Which means: Tyler is now my designated driver. Use that college-bound sibling energy wisely.
When I got back to the casa, I went to open my bedroom door… and surprise! It wouldn’t open. This might be a bad time to mention that, on the interior side, the door handle had gotten a little loose and started coming unscrewed. I pushed it back into place before I left for Málaga and figured it’d be fine.
Spoiler: it was not fine.
Ten minutes later, what I thought was an empty house suddenly turned into a clown car of people appearing out of nowhere and gathering around my jammed bedroom door. The older son grabbed a tool kit and started hitting the handle—with a screwdriver (yes, hitting, not screwing). Then they called like five different people. One of them was an abuelo, and I swear I kept hearing “policía,” which really threw me. For a stuck door?
An hour later, Abuelo came to the rescue and successfully opened the door. (It finally got properly fixed today—Tuesday—by Mapfre, which I thought was just an insurance company, but apparently they also fix doors?)
Side note: what my host family didn’t realize is that I come from a family of fixers. When something breaks—the car, the house, the well—we don’t call anyone. We fix it. Honestly, I probably could have handled that door with some tools and a YouTube video, but that felt like overstepping. So I stood back and let them do their “call the policía” thing.
Ok wait—realization—I just figured it out. It wasn’t policía, it was póliza. As in, insurance policy. OHHHH. That makes way more sense.
Monday and today (Tuesday) were a drag, mostly because we had our midterm today. Which meant Monday was for studying—and a “casual” three-hour nap (that has since been repeated today). I kid you not, every time I wake up from these naps, I fully think it’s the next day and I’ve missed class.
The worst part of the exam? The sheer amount of memorization. Our professor wanted us to know everything—every date, every vocab word, all the Latin. I wrote “Ietalum” and “prandium” at least a hundred times trying to drill them into my brain. Neither of them even showed up on the exam.
And speaking of the exam… it might’ve been one of the stupidest ones I’ve taken in my life. Well—after the multiple-choice art exam. This one was five paragraph responses and one “essay,” I guess you could call it. There was no guidance on how long anything needed to be. The “essay” instructions literally just said, “develop on these ideas.” Perdona, qué?
Out of the six “questions,” only two were actual questions. The rest? Complete nonsense. One prompt was literally: “El ayuno de las culturas.” What am I supposed to do with that? That’s not a question. There’s no verb. It’s just a phrase. Or another: “Comida sagrada, afrodisíaca, prohibida y medicinal.” That’s a list, not a prompt. What do you want from me?
It’s not like I didn’t know the content—I totally BS’d my way through some solid paragraphs—but still. There were no word counts, no clear expectations. I finished in about 40 minutes: two pages for the essay, two pages for the five mini-essays, and grammar didn’t even count. But I waited outside the classroom for another 20 minutes before the next person finished. Then, after a full 40 minutes, the prof popped out and said, “I changed my mind—we’re not having class after.”
The test didn’t seem hard, but the way everyone else took forever makes me wonder if they were submitting doctoral theses. I mean, I do write quickly, and maybe that’s the difference—especially since some of these students just learned what the subjunctive is like two weeks ago. So yeah, maybe my answers were basic, filled with cookie-cutter Spanish and a couple of fancy conectores… but at least they were done.
And that was the week. Pretty chill, I suppose, considering I haven’t gone over ten pages yet. But I’m trying to hold back on all that gushy, reflective stuff for next week and the week after. I already know I’ll be crying on that last night—because while I’ve only been here for 11 weeks, Spain has become my second home, more so than any other place (well, besides my actual home).
Every CIEE program starts with that little comfort-zone diagram and tells us we’re supposed to be in the “yellow zone,” pushing ourselves. But to me, 11 weeks later, Spain feels less like a challenge and more like a long-lost friend—someone I’ve known my whole life but just recently caught up with.
Or maybe, to continue that romance metaphor I started way back in Princeton in Spain, this whole experience started as frantic puppy love. Everything was urgent and chaotic, like a song you love but don’t quite know the lyrics to yet. A love so eager it runs into glass doors and apologizes for being too much afterward.
But with time, Spain and I became like a happy old couple. Just chilling. Taking our three-hour siestas. Not a care in the world. We both knew the lyrics by then—could look into each other’s eyes and instantly know what the other was thinking.
And now we’re in the final weeks—like one of those movies where the spouse is diagnosed with terminal cancer and the couple decides to see the world in a month (cough cough, Córdoba on Saturday, Santiago de Compostela on Sunday).
They say it takes 90 days to build a habit, and while I’m leaving on day 87, I think it’s fair to say that habits—and culture—have been formed. And I’m seriously going to miss the wild weekend adventures, the Mercadona scavenger hunts, the orange Fanta, the jamón, the tortilla (okay, I’ll stop listing food), the persianas, and so much more.
To my final week in Spain: may you be the most fun of them all, filled with all my favorites.
I’m going to stop now before I start crying.
Nos vemos el próximo—
for the last blog in Spain. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
Palabras de la Semana
Doblar – I thought I had all the laundry vocab down… until my host mom asked if I doblo ropa in the U.S. What a question. What else would I do? Throw it in a drawer like a barbarian?
Surtido – Assorted. Like a surtido de dulces — a mysterious mix of finger-shaped candy that probably shouldn’t all be in the same bag but are anyway.
Gasa – I thought this was some kind of pattern, but turns out it’s gauze — like the stuff you put on wounds, not a fashion statement. Why my host mom called my skirt gauze confuses me.
Vapear – We had a full-on debate about how to say vape in Spanish. My confident suggestion of “vap-ayy” was tragically wrong. It’s just vapear. Still not sure how to say just “a vape” though. (¿Un vapeador? ¿Un vapo?) We were trying to make fun of Spanish teens destroying their lungs.
Manejado – Handled. As in, “todo está manejado.” Under control. Or so they say.
Alquilarse – To rent. Like an apartment. Or a bike.
Pata Negra – Literally “black hoof.” A label for top-quality Iberian ham (jamón ibérico). Expensive. Delicious. Dangerous.
Falda-pantalón – Skort. The clothing equivalent of “why choose?” A skirt in the front, party (aka shorts) in the back.
Quejarse – To complain. A useful verb. Especially when the Wi-Fi goes out or the jamón serrano is too salty.
Derretirse – To melt. Like cheese. Or me in the Spanish sun.
Bajarse – To get off (like a bus). But how? Bajar means “to go down”… so how did this turn into “get off the train”? Language is wild.
El arándano – Cranberry. Or sometimes blueberry. Depends on the day. Or the translator.
Adivinar – To guess. Like when you’re trying to figure out if arándano is cranberry or blueberry.
El picaporte – Doorknob. A word you don’t realize you need until you’re locked out of your room.
Flojo – Loose. Or lazy. Or chill. Or all three. Great word.
WHAT A WHIRLWIND OF A TRIP! An experience you’ll never forget and the photos to remember it by.