Hitting the Spot

Okay, okay, I’ll admit.  It has been a while since I’ve updated my blog.  The reason, however, is that I have been a pretty busy bee.  We’ll talk about that later, haha.  Since we last spoke:

To celebrate my arrival in Spain, I decided to go out on my very first Friday night.  Walking through the neighborhood around my apartment, I found a little Mexican cantina offering cheap margaritas, of which I had one.  Then, feeling a little bit more filling to talk to people in Spanish (alcohol:  the un-inhibitor), I slipped into a little café called “The Owl,” where a lovely gentleman was kind enough to deal with my poor Spanish, and then buy my drink.

The following day, Monica and I were going to go get me a cell phone (to avoid getting lost with no means of communication, like my first day).  But, first, she had to do some errands, so I accompanied her.  I should point out that by this time I was still not used to Spain’s awkward eating schedule (if I haven’t outlined it before:  breakfast at 8, lunch at 2, dinner at 9), and was already pretty much starving when we left to do her errands.

But, alas, the cell phone store was in sight.  It couldn’t be too long, I figured.  Well, I figured wrong.  Due to some error on their part, they were unable to activate the phones.  We stood in the store for a little over two hours, before they finally told us we’d have to come back the next day.  I was pretty sure a black hole was forming in my stomach, and that it was about to suck in the entire universe.

So, at 5pm, we started our walk back home.  I was spying restaurants along the side of the main road we were walking down, but nothing that at this point I could understand.  And then I saw it.  There it was.  Two humps and a valley.  That sweet, beautiful, golden letter, perched against a red Colorado sunset.  I had found a McDonald’s.

I quickly blurted out something to the effect of, “You go home, I can find my way from here, I’m going to eat.”  Monica looked at her watch and said, “Seth, it’s only four hours before dinner!”  because to her 5pm is a very awkward time to eat dinner, haha.  I proceeded to tell her that if I didn’t eat, I wouldn’t survive the walk back home (purposely dramatic, mind you).  I walked inside to find the coolest freaking McDonald’s I’d ever seen.  You think those McCafé-style McDonald’s back home are cool, the one with all the dark colors and Starbucks atmosphere?  You should try it Spain-style.  Anywho.  I stood in line for quite some time, trying to figure out their weird, weird menu.  I got my food, searched for a place to sit down, and opened my present.  Maybe it was lingering stress from travel, or stress from being in a foreign place and understanding roughly fifty percent of it all, or just the stress of the day.  But, whatever it was, that was the most emotional Big Mac I’ve ever had.

My unrequited love for fast food aside, I met with all of the international students the following Sunday.  There is Sam (NY), Catherine (NY), Kathryn (Chicago), Francesco (Chicago), Emily (Toronto), Marinke (Holland), Julius (Germany), Jon (France), and me.  They’re all pretty cool.  The next day was the first day of classes, which meant a placement test followed by boring rules and regulations.  I was placed in the upper level (yay!) and have been going through classes now for three weeks.  Our last class is next Friday, then a five day break, and then big-boy school.

Alright, so, with as much as I talked about not understanding anything earlier, I should talk about how much I actually do.  On the day I first got here, I estimated to myself that I understood about 50 or 60% of what Monica and Matthew said, and 0% of what the people said on TV.  About a week later, thinking of my estimate, I reevaluated myself at 80% of what Monica and Matthew said, and 25% of the TV.  About two weeks later (now), I understand 100% of what Monica and Matthew say, and a significantly large majority of the TV.  If that isn’t progress, then I don’t know what is.  I’m not saying this to brag (I don’t really know how effective bragging about language learning would be… lol), but I’m simply saying that I am quite impressed by just how effective hurtling your body into a foreign environment can be.

But, Seth, have you made any Spanish friends?  Why, now that you mention it, I have!  Met through a friend of a friend, I now have a Spanish friend named Fermín.  He and I went to a café one night and chatted for a few hours.  He is from Andalucía, the southern region of Spain—which, like in the United States, makes him far, far, far more difficult to understand, haha.  However, we managed to talk about a thousand different things in one night, and understanding him is getting easier and easier.  To flip the tables a bit, we actually got lunch yesterday (at T.G.I. Friday’s, of all places), and he tried to speak entirely in English the whole time.  It was amusing, until I realized that that was what I sounded like to him.  Haha.

But wait, there’s more!  While going to class, going to bars, and making friends definitely describes the Madrileño lifestyle, we can’t forget the city itself!  I have been to the Prado Museum, one of Europe’s largest and prestigious art museums (along with the Louvre and the National Gallery); I went to the Royal Palace, where some of the most important kings of Spain have lived, although none in the past two hundred years; I went on a walking tour of the historic part of Madrid, which definitely beats the heck out of Downtown Little Rock; and I traveled to the town of Segovia, about an hour away, and saw another awesome castle that kings used to live in.  Pictures of all of this can be found on my Facebook, if you haven’t seen them already.

Well, if you aren’t bored of reading about me in Spain yet, then . . . read all that again, ‘cause I’m about to see what I can scrounge up for lunch.  Upon saying that, I realized that the time here is 2pm.  I guess it doesn’t take too long to get accustomed to an entirely different lifestyle, even down to something as basic as when our bodies want to eat.  Cool!

Nos vemos,

Seth Ancil Allen

Day One! (And Two)

Hola a todos, ¡les extraño mucho!

Alright, that’s about enough Spanish for me, haha.

I’m situated at the desk in my new room in Madrid, in the apartment of my new host family—Mónica, and her son, Matthew.  I’ve been here for a day and a half, and yet not much has happened.  Allow me to explain why.

Traveling went off without too many hitches, so to speak.  I didn’t have any problems with flying—except that apparently my right ear doesn’t like to pop between the altitudes of 25,000 and 10,000 feet, resulting in ten minutes of rather excruciating discomfort.  At least it doesn’t have to happen again for five months, right?

The airports were fun.  At least, DFW was.  I bought a pretzel, some ibuprofen (^ ears), and a massage that cost way too much, haha.  Heathrow had very poor signage, all I’m gonna say.

Once I touched down in Spain, I went through the intricate maze of queuing necessary to get through the gate, customs, and baggage claim, before finally taking my first steps onto Spanish soil (see the images below)!  There, I stood about for a few minutes, quite frankly afraid to talk to anybody.  No one was making ugly faces or carrying weapons or anything, but I’m still pretty much terrified of having to communicate in Spanish.  Anywho, amid my standing around, I realized that I had no idea what the address was to my host family’s apartment.  After about five more minutes, I finally gathered the courage to ask somebody if there were any public computers with Internet access.  They didn’t know, but I was certain there had to be—so I wandered around inside the airport until I found one and got the address.  I proceeded outside to get a taxi.

Now, the taxi driver insisted on speaking English, despite his very small vocabulary.  He offered various tour-related remarks as we passed popular places in Spain.  Overall, it was a pretty decent, if not expensive, taxi ride—except, as I found out later, he took me to the wrong place.

He got pretty close, I’ll give him that.  But, “pretty close” for a foreigner in a new city, carrying three large pieces of luggage, on an apparently high-traffic (vehicle and pedestrian) street, was quite distressing.  After knocking on four doors in the wrong building, I walked back downstairs to the ground level to gather my thoughts.  I had no cell phone, no computer, no internet for that matter, and no idea where building 76 was.  I knocked on three more doors asking to borrow their computers, but to no avail.

I wandered back outside, albeit clumsily (luggage is not made for navigating through doorways).  I tried one more building and four more doors, but again failed to find the apartment I was looking for.  I sat down on a bench, deciding which person in the crowd to ask for help.  I felt it would be awkward to ask someone at the front of a crowd (everyone else would be watching and listening), or to ask someone at the end of a crowd (everyone else would turn around when I flagged them down).  So, I waited for a decent-looking loner, and asked if there was a cyber café nearby.  She directed me to an office supply store with a workcenter, where I paid a few euros to use their internet.

I drew myself a map of the surrounding area, and wrote down the phone number of the accommodation agency I booked with.  The clerk at the counter instructed that there was a payphone outside, but that I wasn’t allowed to use her phone.  The payphone luckily accepted Visa cards, but unfortunately not mine, for some reason.  So, I stumbled around the streets for a bit until I found another viable building.  After going to the appropriate floor, knocking on the wrong door, and getting another unfriendly response, I returned downstairs and asked the clerk to use his phone.

My call to the accommodation agency was entirely unhelpful.  They told me that they were sorry, but that they had apparently given me the wrong address.  The correct address, they said, was 73, not 76 (I had just seen 76 written in an email sent to me by them and by the lady who lives there).  They refused to help me any further until I checked building 73.  So, with all of my luggage, I walked another city block and crossed the street, trying to find 73.  Once I did, I again got to the right floor, knocked on the wrong door, and got nobody nice.

At this point I should mention how exhausted I was, having been awake for 30 hours straight, not having eaten in about six hours, and having to carry around said luggage.

Anyways, unable to find anyone else who would let me use their phone, I crossed the street and walked the block again to use the clerk’s telephone.  I dialed the agency once again. 

They apologized, and said that they had never told me 73.  I told them the name of the woman who did, to which their response was simply an apology.  They kept telling me that, “Mónica is waiting for you right now, in building 76.  Where are you?  Go to building 76.”  Finally, I had had it, and yelled into the phone, “I have been telling you—I can NOT find building 76.  I understand what you are saying, but I can … not … find it.”

Mónica, they said, was apparently on the other line.  After connecting me to her, she informed me that I was actually less than a hundred feet from her building.  She offered to come down to the street level to meet me—a bargain I was more than willing to accept.

Upon seeing me, she ran up and gave me a large hug.  Upon seeing her, I gave her an even larger hug.  I tried to briefly explain the mishaps of the last two hours, but it was quite difficult in Spanish.  We went upstairs to her apartment—which, as I’m sure you’re dying to know how I couldn’t find it, it was above several stores, and was not marked as being building 76—where she and I got to know each other a little.

She is a very nice woman, who appears to have a lot of experience with taking in American foreigners.  She and her eleven year old son affirmed that I spoke much better Spanish than some of their previous co-inhabitants, which, although flattering, makes me fear for the others’ first experience.   I quite enjoy their company, although I can only understand about 70% of what they say.  Her son, Matthew, is bilingual, and pretty much only likes to speak to me in English.  After a quick reprimand from his mother, he’ll return to Spanish, and I’ll wish he would go back to English, haha.

Instead of going straight to bed, which I really really wanted to do, I stayed up with them for several hours until 9pm.  Then, running on 36 hours of consciousness, I hit the hay, and hit it hard.  I woke up 20 hours later, at 5pm.  Talk about a wasted day.  I haven’t slept that long in my life, but God it felt good.  I showered, unpacked my things, and hit the street below the apartment for some shopping—thankfully, without the luggage.

My trip along the streets was successful, although you don’t really need to say or hear a word when all you are doing is buying things.  I came back home, watched some TV with the family, ate a delicious grilled ham and cheese sandwich and my leftovers from last night (chicken carbonara!).

I still can’t understand 90% of what is being said on TV, but Mónica and Matthew are quite sure that by the time I leave, I will be speaking and listening as quickly as they do.  At this point in time, that seems a bit of a stretch.  But, then again, I suppose that’s what is supposed to happen:  my mind, my vocabulary, and my confidence are all supposed to stretch.

And, with this deliciously coffee-flavored Coca Cola (try it if you haven’t!), I bid a toast to the art of stretching.

To stretching!

Seth Ancil Allen

Pictures Reel 1

Flight over Canada

The awesome buffet-style seating that my fellow flyer and I created.  ;)

From the very back of the plane.  One of four sections.

Sunrise over London.

Madrid!

My first view of Spain!

M y very first steps on Spanish soil!  :)

Days Go By

Good evening!

So much has been done since my last post, and yet it feels like so little.  Anything, I suppose, seems little when framed against the large block of time ahead of me.  I can barely step outside without certain thoughts creeping into my head—like, “four more days,” “three more days,” and “two more days.”  Days until what?  Until I leave?  Like looking up at the sky in Spain will be any different?  Not likely.

Other things will be, though.  Spending the night with grandparents, talking about our lives and politics; swinging by another grandmother’s house and being sedated by stories from the Depression; raiding a pizza buffet, laughing at a chick flick, and losing at Scrabble with my mom.  Those will be different.

A friend reminds me that that is only for a while.  I will soon come back, and will likely have similar feelings upon leaving that country, too.  I guess we’re just funny that way.

Anywho, my luggage is (mostly) all packed.  I’ve got a personal bag, and overhead suitcase, and a mammoth-sized bag to be checked at the airport.  And, I found it surprisingly hard to fill all of those.  What do you bring to a foreign country for five months?  I’ve got clothes, important documents, small electronics (laptop, camera, MP3 player), toothbrush, an electricity converter . . . and that’s about it.  I deeefinitely feel like I’m missing something.  Or, a lot of somethings.  I guess I’ll find out exactly what once I’m there.  Yeah, that’s a good policy.

So, now packed, I go to sleep.  Tomorrow, I wake up and hug my mother goodbye.  I drive to my dad’s house, where he is cooking me an old family specialty, I finish packing, and I go to sleep.  When I wake up, I’m airport-bound.

I’ll check in soon,

Seth Ancil Allen

One Week to Go

Good day, anyone reading!

Yesterday (well, still today for me) marks the final week of my 244-month marathon of living in the United States.  Talk about exciting!  Let me be the first to tell you, it has been rough.  There were times when I was certain that I wasn't going to make it.  After all, there is only so much good ol' Southern charm and general American tomfoolery that one can stand before the sharp desire to expatriate sets in.

All joking aside, I figure the first post of this blog should do a bit of explaining.  (I presume anybody that follows this blog will already know the situation, and for those that do, humor me here.)

My name is Seth Ancil Allen.  I am a Spanish major at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, with a minor in Secondary Education.  Consider me a Peggy Hill, but a bit more masculine (only slightly so).  My plans to study abroad in college began in high school, and through a five-semester long ordeal of planning, I find myself headed to glorious Spain in just six days.

In order to document this trip, I will keep this blog well-stocked with posts, pictures, and musings about my activities abroad.  Maybe I'm doing this for posterity, for the sake of invoking nostalgia in the future version of myself; or, maybe I just feel like the adventures of an awkward guy in a country whose language he barely speaks will make for a good read.  Maybe a little bit of both.

This blog will probably not be updated daily.  After all, who really wants to read:

        --02/17/2012, 8:08pm  ...  Oh man, I totally almost got hit by a bus today.  I hate buses LOL!
          --02/17/2012, 8:14pm  ...  So I was sitting on a park bench and I saw this dog.  I couldn't help but wonder if the dog spoke Spanish or English.
          --02/17/2012, 8:21pm  ...  Okay, so I'm pretty sure the dog doesn't speak English...

Instead, posts will probably come every few days or so.  Yeah, is that vague enough for you?

So, now that all of the formalities are out of the way, how about a recap of what I've been doing?  As I said before, today was exactly 7 days before I leave.  How did I spend it?  I woke up, drove to a cell phone store to play with all the Droids I can't afford (apparently they weren't the droids I was looking for), took my mom out to a Mexican restaurant, did some laundry, did some shopping, watched a movie with my mom, got on Tumblr, checked my Facebook, read the news.  In essence:  the same things I do every day.  The same things I'll likely do every day until the final day when I step on a plane.  It's a little bit strange to look only a week ahead, and to know how much my life is going to change in only a few hundred hours.  And how am I preparing for it?  By doing what I always do, every day, like it isn't even going to happen.

I've always been one to face nervousness only when absolutely necessary (that is, when whatever is making me nervous is already happening).  Nevertheless I'll admit to experiencing pangs of sadness at unexpected intervals as the departure day draws nearer.  The people I'll miss, the people I'll meet, and all of those other melodramatic cliches associated with traveling, swirl around and cause all sorts of trouble in my head.

That is, until it comes time to do something else--like go out to eat with my dad, or call to confirm my flight reservations, or pick out which clothes are going in my suitcase and which are waiting in storage for five months.  Or, until I have to go to bed, which, coincidentally, I have to do now.

Until next time,
Seth Ancil Allen