Setmana sis: Zona zàping, Barbie’s Dreamhouse & Ken’s Mojo Dojo Casa House
Hola a tots i totes, and happy dijous (Thursday in Catalan)!
Sí, ya sé (I already know) that the blog is supposed to come out on Wednesdays—pero dame un respiro (give me a break). I was observing the local holiday.
Okay, in all seriousness, I spent the weekend observing the holiday with a trip to la Costa Brava, a beautiful stretch of coastline in upper Catalunya—or, more specifically (for all you geographically inclined personas out there), I was in Sant Antoni de Calonge.
And no, this wasn’t another wild Delia solo adventure. This was a fully organized trip with my host family to their second apartment for four days. I left Saturday morning and came back early Wednesday morning—just in time for class.
Yes, I did have to miss class on Monday. But it was totally worth it: the notes are online, and we’re given three absences. Plus, I already studied very similar material in May in my art class, so I doubt anything revolutionary happened on Monday when they discussed arte románico vs gótico. Spoiler alert: it’s not that exciting. Just a bunch of Cristos in red robes doing what looks like odd yoga poses, knees bent, barefoot, flashing some gang signs and holding a book in Latin.
Anyway, let’s rewind to last miércoles. I took a trip to Tarragona with CIEE (the study abroad program), which is about a 1.5-hour bus ride away. We visited some Roman ruins. I should add that the entire tour was in English—from a guide who had never given the tour in English before. The number of times he said “Sorry, I usually do this in Spanish or Catalan” was… a lot.
Honestly, I would’ve preferred and probably understood more if it had been in Spanish. But like I said last week, very few students here speak Spanish proficiently—if at all. For context: I’m in the only class offered in Spanish, and there are only five other girls. Two are native speakers, one knows very little Spanish, and the other two are around my level.
I often wonder if Spanish hablantes (speakers) feel that way about me. Like, how hard am I to understand? How bad is my accent? Do they secretly wish I’d just speak in English? I mean, I always let people speak to me in whatever language they prefer—Spanish, English, a veces Catalán (I’m surprisingly picking it up)—but I prefer Spanish. Sometimes it’s honestly harder to listen when people speak English with a thick accent. Like, if I don’t understand the Spanish, that’s on me. But if I don’t understand the English… I guess that’s still on me, but maybe also a tiny bit on them. And I’d never want to be that person who’s just like, “What??” Because I get how hard it is to speak in a second (or third) language.
Speaking of English, I had quite the culture shock during this past finde. My host family brought along two of their son’s friends, and on Tuesday, they invited the friends’ parents to join us. One of the families was originally from England, and they started speaking to me in English.
Now, I don’t know what happened to my brain—maybe it was the four days of Spanish-only mode (my host families don’t speak much English, beyond some basic phrases)—but when I wanted to speak English, my brain was still thinking in Spanish.
But when I want to speak Spanish, I usually think about the idea in English, then try to express it in Spanish. It doesn’t feel like direct translation—on a good day, the Spanish just kind of pops into my head—but the thinking still happens in English. So I don’t know what was happening that day. It felt like I didn’t know how to speak English! And obviously, I do, as this blog post proves. I don’t have this issue when I call my family. Maybe it was because they were British?
Another thing I’d never really thought about before: how English is spoken at home in Spanish-speaking countries, and how that affects accents. Like, I had been speaking Spanish to this kid all weekend, and then his parents showed up, he opened his mouth, and BAM—the most British English you’ve ever heard. I didn’t even register it as English at first.
It really makes you realize that accents come from parents. So I guess if a kid grows up in the U.S. speaking Spanish at home with parents from Spain, they probably have a Spanish accent. But what if one parent is from Spain and the other from, say, the Dominican Republic? Are they going to use vosotros? So many linguistic experiments could be done here!
The sister was even more interesting. I think she was about five. She spoke English really well and also Catalan—but not Spanish. That’s wild. Imagine being born somewhere where you speak one language at home, another at school, and your country operates in yet another language. Like, what?! I can’t even imagine.
I guess the kids in my other host family had something similar going on. They went to a bilingual school taught in Spanish and English—and they took French and German as foreign languages.
In a way, that makes me feel worse about my occasionally trashy Spanish, but also weirdly hopeful. So many times, learning another language feels impossible. But then you meet these multilingual kids and think—okay, maybe I can do this.
I mean, I definitely know enough Spanish to get around the country. Now it’s just about refining it for social and professional settings. And hey—I’ve got six more weeks to turn things around and really put the pedal to the metal.
I can’t believe this Saturday marks the halfway point of my time here. It feels like I just arrived in Barcelona yesterday—and Spain itself only moments ago. Honestly, it hurts a lot, because once you hit that halfway mark, you’re always thinking about the end. And I’ve been thinking about the end since I left Toledo.
Now, by “thinking about the end,” I don’t mean, “Oh my god, I can’t wait to jump on a plane, hit the nearest Starbucks, order a venti frappuccino with extra whipped cream and caramel, grab a cake pop, then swing by McDonald’s for a giant hamburger.” (I’m trying to write something super-American here, and failing.) I mean the kind of looming, impending-doom thinking where I can’t imagine life in the States anymore. I can’t imagine starting my day without an espresso, or enjoying lunch around 2:30 p.m. It’s hard to remember what it’s like to stroll down the street and understand 100 percent of what’s being said. It’s odd. And I’m certainly not excited to return to a tiny shoebox of a room with terrible food… and no air conditioning. But hey, after the 45 °C heat of Seville, I’ll be ready for it. (I say this from the comfort of a giant, air-conditioned couch in Barcelona.)
Eventually the long hot tour ended with free time to explore. But it was a million degrees out, I was melting, and the town was tiny with almost nothing to do. I hate to call it a tourist trap, because it does host Roman ruins with real historical significance in Spain’s—and the Roman Empire’s—history. But once you tour the ruins (which, honestly, aren’t as gorgeous as many you’d find in Italy), there’s not much left.
CIEE recommended we hit the beach, but Barcelona is all beach, and I was already headed there for the weekend—so I left my traje de baño behind. After my unsuccessful stroll (concluded with a subpar Coke but an excellent pain au chocolat), I finally made it down to the shore. The beach there is literally wedged against a mountainside—fun going down, less fun climbing back up. I ended up napping on my backpack for about thirty minutes. Gotta love a good siesta… definitely not as satisfying back in the States.
Thursday: first day of class. It was boring—very boring—so I’ll spare you the thrilling details. But I did make a trip to Mercadona for lunch supplies (since lunch isn’t provided, I’m fending for myself). I bought:
- A loaf of bread (which the older niño in the casa accidentally ate—yes, the whole baguette)
- An 8-pack of yogurt
- Frambuesas (raspberries)
- A premade tortilla
Sounds like a thirty-dollar haul, right? Nope—nine euros total. The baguette was just €0.50, so I’m not too mad he ate it. As they say, you can’t cry over eaten bread. But the tortilla was a letdown—even for a tortilla lover like me. It was half-raw inside, like they forgot to cook it. I’ve eaten it twice (it’s supposed to last four days), but I’m tossing it today—it’s been a week, and I don’t think I can stomach more of it.
On the bright side, the other two daily meals in the casa are fantastic. That night we had an amazing squash soup—I hope it makes a repeat appearance. The food here is so much better than back home. Still no daily bread like I was promised in the States (clearly based on a 19-year-old boy demolishing an entire baguette), but whatever. Maybe my new lunch strategy will be “buy a baguette, label it with my name in bold, and make sandwiches.”
Friday: field trip to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya. We checked out the arte romántico and gótico. I’ve definitely seen better art—but the building itself is a stunner, like a palace on a hill with panoramic views of Barcelona. Fair warning: you will climb many stairs.
Back at the casa, I was greeted by not one, but two more dogs who all look like “Cookie.” I was working on my bed when one dog wandered in and I called, “Cookie?” Then two more appeared, and I was like, “Which one is Cookie?!” It turns out they’re siblings: the big one is the boy, the smaller two are girls. The other two pups belong to my host-mom’s parents, who were over for lunch that day. Surprise bonus: I was offered lunch—thankfully—for the best hamburger of my life. Who knew the secret to the perfect burger was studying abroad in Spain?
Following an awesome lunch, I was invited to go to the centro comercial (basically a mall) with my host mom and her mom, who was on the hunt for a dress for her 50th wedding anniversary. And while we definitely have very different definitions of what’s de moda (in fashion), it was super fun going to all the shops and seeing the colorful and very extra clothing.
We went to some higher-end stores, so the clothes were definitely pricier than the cheap ones I’ve written about before, but in the end we made our way over to Zara. And once again, I was surprised by how reasonable the prices were. Before I leave Barcelona, I have to go to one of the largest Zaras in Spain—and maybe in the world—right here in the city. (Apparently, the one in Madrid is bigger, but who cares.)
Saturday, we headed to the beach.
It was honestly kind of a weird experience. Imagine being invited on vacation by strangers, not knowing the plan, who else is coming, or even when you’re leaving. But all in all—it was fun. A little boring at times, because let’s be real: how many days and hours can you realistically spend just rotating between beach and pool? I did, however, get a tennis lesson, despite my pleading against it. Because, as anyone who knows me will know, I can’t for the life of me play sports that involve hitting a ball. My hand eye coordination is lacking. Many balls were hit over the fence… behind me.
It was definitely a different kind of family vacation than I’m used to. In my family, when we go on vacation, we actually spend time together as a family. This was more like: kids hang with their friends; adults hang with their friends… and I was just kind of floating somewhere in the middle. Sometimes I’d get pushed toward the 11-year-olds’ group, and other times toward the adults. My host parents couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t want to play the “slam-the-soccer-ball-at-people” pool game—aka So pa poh (no idea how you spell it).
The rules? Get in a circle, pass the ball twice, and then on the third pass, try to slam it at someone as hard as you can. If they catch it, you’re out. If not, congrats—you’ve just given them a concussion. Seems… fun?
Honestly, the whole trip felt very unregulated by typical U.S. standards. For example, the pool rules sign just showed a cartoon person showering and then had big red Xs over food and music. So apparently running on the deck, diving headfirst, and wrestling in the deep end were fair game.
As a lifeguard, I was losing my mind. Not only do I know the statistics on head, neck, and spine injuries, but I’ve done the backboard-and-head-stabilization rescue more than once. There were no adults watching the kids in the pool or even at the beach, where they swam far out, way over their heads. It was chaos.
And then… there were the fireworks.
Did I mention this was all during a holiday weekend? It was San Juan, a Catalan holiday celebrating the start of summer—which apparently means an ungodly amount of fireworks.
And no, I’m not talking about some organized, city-sponsored show. I mean that apparently in Spain, it’s legal to buy what I’d consider professional-grade fireworks—like the kind that launch into the sky and explode. So Tuesday night consisted of all the children of Catalunya running around with lighters and bags of fireworks. I am not exaggerating.
There was no organization. No safety talk. Just pure noise and chaos. Honestly, most of the fireworks didn’t even do anything cool—they just made loud banging noises that shook your soul. I was terrified. As a kid, I was never allowed near fireworks. On the rare occasion my family bought the Walmart ones, my dad would be the only one allowed to light them, and my mom would walk around making sure everyone stood at least 20 feet away.
But in Spain? It’s just little kids with fire and explosives. There was one point where one of the rocket-style fireworks didn’t launch correctly and exploded on the ground. It caught a bush on fire, and suddenly people were running around trying to find water so the whole bosque wouldn’t go up in flames—while the neighbors yelled at the kids like they had done the exact same thing the day before. (They had.)
In case you’re wondering where I was during this disaster waiting to happen, I was very calmly seated at the outdoor table where we were eating homemade pizza and coca (a traditional San Juan dessert), just waiting for the inevitable accident. I felt like I was in the opening scene of a safety PSA. There are so many firework injuries in the U.S.—people losing fingers and hands—and I was ready. I even hid under the bench at one point.
Eventually, I’d had enough and retreated inside to hang out with the dog, which was way more fun than dodging exploding fireworks. Thankfully, no one got hurt. And the dog and I had a great time watching TV together.
Honestly? 10/10 would choose the dog over the fireworks again.
During my beach/pool time, I proceeded to get pretty cooked. Now, I’m not saying sunburned—because in my definition of sunburn, there are blisters and peeling skin involved (luckily, something I’ve never experienced)—but I definitely got pretty red on the back on día uno at the pool.
To make matters worse, my sunscreen broke. How it broke? I couldn’t tell you. Maybe a mix of the aerosol can sitting in the direct sun or getting clogged? IDK—I’m not a mechanical engineer.
Anyway, that left me using my host family’s sunscreen for the next three days. It wasn’t aerosol (I don’t think they have those in Spain); it was more of a spray bottle that you have to rub in. I didn’t do a great job and got even redder. After that, I gave up and decided to swim in a shirt. I was probably the only person on the beach wearing a shirt—rash guards apparently haven’t made it to the Spanish beach scene—but for me and the health of my skin, it was worth it.
One surprising aspect of the beach was the general lack of clothing. I mean, I had heard that in Europe there are beaches where women go topless—but I wasn’t exactly ready for my host mom to just rip off her shirt like it was nothing. But she wasn’t alone. I definitely stood out more in my T-shirt than the topless women.
Now, it’s not like all the women were topless—the majority wore tops—but there was a solid number who didn’t. I don’t have a problem with it. Honestly, it makes sense.
And to answer the question I know you’re all wondering (because it was the first thing my mom asked me before I even finished the story): no, I didn’t participate in the topless swimming. But it definitely changed my perspective on swimsuit-wearing.
I’ve always had a bathing suit policy. There are one-piece (not the kind that don’t involve tops!) and two-piece occasions: one-piece for school events, family parties, and swim meets; two-piece for fun. But I’m abandoning that policy because, you know what? If some Spanish women can wander the beach with no shirt, I can certainly wear a two-piece.
So I guess you could call it empowering. Like, who actually cares what you wear to the beach? I don’t. You don’t need a certain body to wear a certain type of swimsuit. You do you. If you want to swim without a shirt—go for it. One-piece? Go for it. Two-piece? Absolutely. Too much energy is wasted worrying about what other people think or what the internet says is “swimsuit-ready.” Who cares? I sure don’t.
(And don’t worry—I went through all the pictures and removed any with topless people.)
I definitely enjoyed the beach, though. Like the rest of the holiday, it came with some interesting practices—like tons of kids climbing rocks and my host family deciding to place our towels way up on them.
At the beach, we met up with some fellow vecinos (one of whom is a triathlete), and I went on a swim with them because word had gotten out that I’m a triatleta. Apparently, my host dad is doing his first triathlon in October with my host mom’s brother (who came up for a visit on Monday). I even did a bit of impromptu swim coaching from a paddleboard while my host mom paddled alongside them. The brother was very funny. We even got into some US politics talk and a little about my home university. It turns out that my host parents did a little stalking about Princeton. They wanted to know if I was going to Princeton because I had money or if I was smart. And yes, they asked point blank just like that. Obviously, it is because I’m rich… (wink, wink). I told them, of course, that it was because I was smart and the brother proceeded to take a picture with me because he was convinced that I was going to be the future presidenta de los estados Unidos. Well, I have no interest in that so let’s hope not. I loved the nickname the had for the current president naranjito. It’s so cute and funny. They were like “you don’t call him that in the states?” and I was like something like that, but it just hits better in Spanish.
I probably gave them some questionable advice, though—swimming has a very technical vocabulary that I’ve mastered in English but definitely lack in Spanish. Like, ¿Cómo se dice “Your kick is not very efficient because your knees are bending too much because your hips are sinking”? IDK. And unfortunately, there was no Google Translate out on the paddleboard.
The water was so clear. I got to go snorkeling and saw all kinds of fish and marine plants—it was absolutely gorgeous. The water was cooler than in Valencia, but I acclimated with time.
Another part of the trip I absolutely loved was the outdoor couch on the balcony with a TV. I took some very good naps in the shade of that balcón, with a lovely viento flowing through. Ugh, that was the life.
I take back what I said last week about Pablo and his perfect Salamanca apartment—because in the dream apartment of Delia, this amazing balcony couch definitely exists. Perfect for naps, reading, Netflix at night with a view of the mountains and twinkling lights from the houses, and of course… hanging up wet towels.
But the best part of the trip was Sant Joan, when we made a little fire in a ceramic bowl with candles and herbs, and wrote wishes for the year. It was super cute and wholesome—definitely something I want to bring back to the States and incorporate into my life.
At first, I wasn’t sure if it was part of the holiday or just something my host mom made up—we were the only people in the apartment complex writing down wishes and throwing them into a fire. Apparently, the holiday has to do with brujas (witches), which in this context I was told just means intelligent women, with no negative connotation.
A quick Google confirmed that the wish-writing tradition is actually legit. It also told me that jumping over fire is a way to “cleanse the spirit,” which definitely clarified what I saw later that night—little children being encouraged by their parents to jump over lit fireworks.
I personally did not take part, as I may or may not have a traumatic childhood memory involving a campfire in New Hampshire and a young Delia trying to be like Jack who jumped over the candlestick—but in my case, it was a blazing New Hampshire fire. Let’s just say it ended in many bandages and burns. So… no fire-jumping for me.
Remember how I said I had no idea when this vacation was ending? That was 100% true. I thought we were leaving Tuesday—but it kept changing. At one point, I was told I’d have to take a bus. Then it was Monday. Then finally, at 11 p.m. Tuesday night, it was confirmed that I’d be waking up at 6 a.m. to drive back with my host dad for my 10 a.m. class.
I assumed everyone was coming, but nope—it was just me, my host dad, and one of the kid’s friends. Just one. He must have lost a bet or something. I’m pretty sure my host dad had to drive back again for the rest of the family, since we only brought one car and my host mom took a bus up—so there’s no way they all got back with the luggage unless he went back for them. They arrived home around 9:30 p.m. Tuesday night, so… yeah, that tracks.
But like I said, it was a vacation where you didn’t know the people, didn’t know the plan, and didn’t know when you were leaving. An experience everyone should try once in their life.
Wednesday was a big wake-up call—quite literally—with the 6:30 a.m. departure and the 10 a.m. class that was a struggle to sit through, especially since two of the kids in class had to give their presentations.
Let me start by saying: these presentations were supposed to be 10 minutes long. They ended up being like… four. I kid you not—20 percent of the grade was “give a presentation that is 10 minutes long,” yet the professor had no timer, no clock, nothing, and said they did a fantastic job.
To be fair, we were basically given two days to throw together a 10-minute presentation on a topic we had no clue about—many of which were bizarre to begin with. I tried to be strategic and picked what I thought was an easier topic, because I literally threw this presentation together the day before, in one afternoon.
Should I have practiced it a little more? Yes, definitely. But there were no points for not reading directly off a notecard, and I for sure wasn’t going to spend all night memorizing it after spending so many hours making it.
It turned out okay, because I definitely hit all the requirements from the rubric—and unlike the others, mine was actually 10 minutes and had more than four slides.
Weirdest presentation ever. There were no questions. Like, there are always questions. I’ve never given a presentation in English or Spanish where there weren’t any questions. Nada. And it wasn’t just me—none of the four people who went before me asked if there were questions either.
Part of our grade was being able to answer questions. Instead, the students before me just wrote out a list of questions for the class to answer. I did the same, because I wasn’t sure if it was something the professor had said on Monday. I made sure to expand on those questions and basically answer them myself.
But seriously—no questions? I mean, I’m not that upset. I actually find the question section of presentations kind of dumb. Like, what are you really going to ask me about? What could you possibly want to know from a 10-minute presentation that’s definitely not going to show up on a final or a project?
Anyway, I’ve definitely messed up the timeline for this blog because the first presentations were on Wednesday and mine was Thursday. But moving on with Wednesday:
After class, I was so exhausted and hot from the ridiculous weather that I finally decided to head to Starbucks, expecting it to be cheaper—like it was in Toledo.
Well, that iced Frappuccino I was craving will be my last. Because while it may be called a Frappuccino here, there was no coffee in it. It was more like a milkshake—minus the ice cream and thickness.
Oh, and it was more expensive than a Frappuccino in the U.S.
If I had water in my mouth when the barista told me the price, I might have spit it in his face. Oh. My. God. It was expensive.
Plus, the guy got my name wrong. IDK how you get Natalia from Delia, especially when I said it in Spanish—where, in my opinion, there can’t be spelling mistakes because every letter makes the right sound.
That is one benefit of… I guess we can call it “assimilation”—any time someone reads my name off a paper here, it’s always correct. No awkward pause. No “If I mispronounce this, please correct me” disclaimer. Just Delia.
Okay, technically it’s the Spanish version—Dell-lee-ah—but it’s basically my name at this point. I introduce myself that way. My host families say it that way. They’ve never met Deel-ee-uh, just Dell-lee-ah.
I know some people are touchy about name pronunciation, but my take is: if I’m in Spain, I’m going to say it the Spanish way. When I’m in America, I’ll say it the American way (minus in Spanish class, of course).
It’s just like any other name. Like when I speak Spanish, I don’t say “Starbucks,” I say Estarbooks—because that’s the Spanish way.
That said, I think it’s totally cool if someone keeps their original pronunciation or says “Starbucks” in Spain. You do you. Just know that every time you say “Starbucks,” people know you’re American.
The rest of the day was full of presentation prep—unfortunately, not fueled by caffeine from my overpriced Frappuccino—so I crashed around 6 p.m. for a very long and very deserved nap.
I should add that when we returned to the casa, it was an absolute disaster—as my host dad would put it—since the 19-year-old niño had stayed home for most of the weekend, apparently living out his full Ken Mojo Dojo Casa House fantasy.
There were boxing gloves on the floor, a punching bag in the middle of the room, trash overflowing, dirt all over the bathroom, and more. It was like a teenage guy locker room had exploded—complete with a smell eerily reminiscent of the boys’ bricks at Pomfret.
Gross.
A far cry from the Barbie Dreamhouse paradise that was the beach apartment.
We had dinner and then watched Zona Zàping, which is basically a Catalan TV show with awesome theme music (I’ll try to link it), filled with funny accident videos. You know—the ones where people fall off treadmills or jump into pools and miss? That kind of stuff. It was funny, but I definitely didn’t last as long as the rest of the family.
Me going to bed at 11:30 is early to them. I always hear them talking when my host mom walks in late from theater practice or something, like: “Oh, is Delia already asleep?” Yes. Yes, I am. I have school tomorrow!
My favorite part of the day is definitely the mornings. I think it’s so sweet that my host dad gets up every morning 30 minutes before everyone else to make breakfast, and then goes around waking up his wife and kids.
I don’t get a wake-up call, luckily—but I do set my alarm around that time so I can eat with them. I love walking into the kitchen and hearing, “Buenos días, Toledo!”
The “Toledo” part is because, as I mentioned last week, I bought a Toledo shirt and have been wearing it as a pajama shirt (I need to do laundry). I think it’s starting to jokingly bother my host parents, who’ve said more than once that they’re going to buy me a shirt that says Barcelona with a giant Catalan flag.
But honestly, I like the Toledo shirt because 1) it’s the cleanest shirt I have left, and 2) it’s so soft. Like, ridiculously soft. And the fact that it was only 10 euros somehow makes it even softer. Usually the cheap shirts are that stiff, scratchy cotton—but this one’s a winner.
That finally brings us to today—Thursday—where I had class, gave my presentation, went to the store, and finally bought soap.
Yes, my travel-sized soaps and toothpaste from the U.S. lasted almost six weeks. The problem was that all the options at the store were giant soaps. Like, I wanted something small, yet for two euros you got what felt like a gallon of body soap.
Now, I can’t be lugging three gallons of soap down to Sevilla, and I’m definitely not bringing it home. Considering that a travel-size soap lasted me six weeks, I imagine there will be a lot of this stuff left.
Good thing it was cheap—and basically the same price as the travel stuff.
Minus the conditioner.
IDK why it was so hard to find conditioner in Spain. At one point I was in the store Googling whether conditioner even exists here because I absolutely could not find it.
I still didn’t find normal conditioner and ended up with some odd leave-in-for-three-minutes-then-wash-it-off product. But I need conditioner. I kid you not—there was a whole wall of shampoo and no conditioner. It was bizarre.
Another thing I noticed: the lack of separation between men’s and women’s soaps. In the U.S., you’ve got one side of the aisle filled with rose scents and pink bottles, and the other side smells like pinecones, motor oil, and insecurity.
But here—at least in the two stores I went to, Mercadona and Primaprix—soap was just… soap. I saw some pink bottles, sure, but there were definitely no “axe” explosions of masculinity.
I also walked out with a salad (because I couldn’t stand to eat that terrible tortilla again) and a chocolate bar (because I aim to try a new Spanish snack or food every time I go to the súper).
The rest of the day has just been chilling and writing this. I’ve got so much writing in my future, since part of this fun class I’m in involves writing a 10–12 page paper in Spanish, not double-spaced, about something related to the class.
Now might be a bad time to mention that the longest paper I’ve ever written in Spanish was about two pages—double-spaced. But this is what I get for basically begging my Spanish prof last semester to let me write a 10-page paper.
Well, I got what I wished for. And now I have to write about art.
Ughhhhhhhhhhhh. Qué triste.
Now for some palabras de la semana!
I have so many, because I had so many new experiences I hadn’t done in Spanish before:
- Morder: To bite — Cookie no muerde. Well, maybe “bite” isn’t the right word. More like “teething.”
- La turquesa: The ocean.
- Patear: To kick.
- Alcanzar: To reach.
- La quemadura de sol: Sunburn… note to self: buy new sunscreen.
- Jubilada: Retired — for when you tell your host family you’re a triathlete and they invite you on a long swim with the neighbors. I am so tired and sore… wish I had this word.
- La nevera: OK, still confused on this one because I thought frigo meant fridge. Now I officially know three words for fridge. Great use of my brain space.
- Gaviota: Seagull.
- Da igual: It doesn’t matter — used con mucha frecuencia in the casa.
- Rociar: To spray — for when your sunscreen stops working.
- La pajita: Straw (for a beverage).
- Familia anfitriona: Host family— I keep forgetting this one and realized I never actually learned it in the first place.
Catalan words!
Because yes, I’m picking some of this up too:
- Un, dos, tres, quatre, cinc, sis: Numbers!
- Transport: Transportation.
- Adéu: Bye.
- Bon dia: Good morning.
- Bona tarda: Good afternoon.
- Si us plau: Please.
So, Mom and Dad, hear me out: mom knows some French, and Dad knows some Spanish… so if we combine your powers and sign you up for some Catalan classes, you could totally have the base for a new language. You could move to Spain! Sounds like a plan to me.
Fun fact about Catalan: they use articles like “the” and “a” with people’s names—something we don’t do in English or Spanish.
This habit has spilled over into their Spanish, so when they speak Spanish to me, I sometimes hear “la Delia” or “la Cookie.”
At first, I thought I was losing my mind, but now I know—it’s just the effects of la convivencia between two languages.
It’s beautiful.
OK, that’s all for this week—as somehow el finde is already upon us again and I have absolutely no plans (well… besides a draft of that research paper). Maybe Andorra? France? IDK. I’ve got my homework for the night.
Oh, one last thing… we are at 19 mercadonas!
Nos vemos el próximo,
Happy to hear your trip is turning out better then first reported. Hope you have gotten a new suitcase! Also glad to hear you are keeping your top on at the beach! Love Gram