Sangria, Siestas and Senoritas

I stared blankly at my empty North Face pack for a good five minutes. What do you bring with you to a foreign country, where you are going to spend two solid months living with a family you¹ve never met? My mind was racing with this and about a thousand other questions. Two months isn¹t a day at the beach. Damn, it could be a lifetime when you are on your own. That¹s sixty-two days of what could possibly be total isolation. Okay maybe I am working this up a little too much, but I think nervousness is an acceptable feeling at this point. Especially knowing that my flight leaves in twelve hours and I haven¹t packed a thing. Finally I started rampaging my drawers‹underwear, socks, two pairs of shorts, and three pairs of jeans or do I only need two. Better bring three to be safe. Then I threw in about six t-shirts, some nicer button ups and four pairs of shoes. The green pack looked suffocated, but I was able to zip it up using a little bit of elbow grease. Next, I bent my knees with my back towards the abnormally large piece of luggage, squeezing my arms through the straps and then attempted to stand straight up. That didn¹t go to well. Immediately my body was lying horizontally on top of a backpack that resembled a wounded animal. I remember once hearing that when you are traveling, especially when it involves hiking with a pack, take out everything you plan to bring and cut it down by half. I did just that, it was painful to say goodbye to some of the wardrobe, but it made for a much more comfortable travel companion. After about seven hours of sleep or should I call it rest because of the anxiety and anticipation clouding my cranium, I found myself squeezed between two businessmen on a British Airway flight destined to Europe. Just my luck, a ten-hour trip overseas and I am in the middle seat, in the middle aisle in the middle of the airplane. However, I didn¹t fret because I had two little blue friends in my right pocket given to me as a gift from a dear doctor friend. I awoke nine hours and forty-five minutes later to an intercom voice welcoming the passengers to London while ³God Save the Queen² played in my head. I was able to catch a connecting flight on an old Iberian airplane quickly to Madrid, where I then proceeded through customs with ease. Stepping out the glass doors of the airport a thought encountered me while dozens of new languages flew through the air. What was my sole purpose of this life-changing event I was about to embark on? Sure my primary reason was to study at a university, but it went beyond that. Was this a pilgrimage (not of the religious type) or maybe I was here to find myself? As my mind daydreamed I felt a hand brisk by my back left pocket. What theŠ..did I just get goosed? No, some Gypsy tried to snatch the wallet of an unsuspecting tourist. Luckily it was safely snuggled in the front pocket of my Levis. No more mind wandering for me, I have to keep my guard on. The bus ride to the town of Salamanca was a short one, just about two-hours, but it lacked the invention of air-conditioning. Sweat drizzled down my face as I tried to catch as much of landscape as possible outside the cloudy windows. Truthfully the ride resembled much like the one I take all the time down I-35 from Austin to Dallas. Endless pastures of dead grass and dirty land blanketed the earth. Every now and then a ranch would pop up with a couple of horses grazing or tanning in the hot Iberian sun. My eyes started to sting from the sweat dripping into them and a feeling of nausea entered my body. I knew it was the nervousness kicking in again because I was getting closer and closer to my final destination. The day and a half of traveling with airplane food also probably mixed into that equation somewhere. As the bus exited the endless highway and moved towards what appeared to be civilization, I grabbed a small journal out of my pack. It had been a good year since I studied Spanish and I was about to be greeted by my future Spanish mother who spoke no English. In my journal I wrote out a small paragraph that I had been rehearsing upon my arrival. It read: Hola. Me llamo Garret. Soy de Tejas. Estoy muy emocionado sobre mi viaje en Espana. Quiero aprender mucho informacion sobre su cultura. Muchas gracias. I practiced my introduction a couple more times before we finally came to a complete stop at the bus station. Exiting the hot box I saw an older women standing no more than five feet tall holding a small sign with my name on it. Was this my limo driver or my senora? I knew it was her and took a deep breath as I walked towards the lady. With a big smile I started to say my lines: Hola. Me llamo Garret. Soy de Tejas. Esoy muy..uh..estoy muy..uh.uh..ummmŠ Shit, I butchered that one I thought to myself. She just started to laugh, not the making fun of kind, but a gentle giggle of good spirits that expressed gratitude of one attempting to try something new. A smile cracked over my once shaky face because I knew my adventure had just begun. During the cab ride to my new home I gawked at the beautiful sandstone buildings that filled the city. The architecture here was so old and amazing. People filled the streets and sidewalks, talking, shopping and walking in no hurry at all. The bright sun was still blazing down, but the air was dry without a trace of that torturous Texas humidity. The taxi pulled up to an apartment building that stood about seven stories high. I lugged my pack out of the trunk and followed my new mom like a puppy on a leash. She led me into a small elevator that held three people maximum which was a tight squeeze with this small green child clinching to my shoulders. An unfamiliar scent filled the flat when we entered. She pointed towards the first door on the right, still not saying a word to me, which I quickly discovered was my room. It was a small room with two twin beds, a wooden armoire and an antique desk. A single lamp illuminated the tranquil dark space. Then the inevitable began; my first real Spanish conversation. I struggled to get sentences out and constantly mixed words between Spanish and English. However, as the dialogue increased so did my memory. I started to remember vocabulary and conjugations, and with the help of hand gestures was able to get by. Towards the end of our talk I was able to tell her that I was extremely tired and she forced me to partake in my first siesta. I quickly adjusted to my new bed, closed my heavy eyes and fell asleep to Salsa music playing out of a stereo in a nearby window. The loud noise of a door shutting awoke me from my deep slumber. I was feeling very groggy thinking that I had just slept through a whole night. I looked at my watch seeing that it had only been a couple of hours since I first went off into the dream world. My bedroom door started to quietly creep open and a shadow hung over the tile floor of the bedroom created by the hallway light. In a familiar language a guys voice quietly said, ³Hello, are you up buddy?² In a raspy voice I responded in a language that would not fit into the categories of English or Spanish, ³ Yeahmmhmm.² The kid introduced himself as Nick from Cali and he was my going to be my roommate for the summer. Nick was the stereotypical blond hair, blue-eyed bonafied surfer dude from San Diego. He had arrived about two weeks ahead and insured to me that he had already grown accustomed to the Spanish lifestyle. I liked the guy even with his cocky West Coast attitude. Nick forced me out of my bed and said it was time to get acquainted with Salamanca, Spain. I threw on my clothes, took one last yawn and was ready to hit the streets with my new amigo. The first question he asked me as we exited the apartment was, ³Have you tried the Sangria yet?² He saw the blank expression on my face and cracked a California smile. ³Follow me bro,² he laughed and led me into a bar about two blocks away from the house. I took a deep breath as we entered the musky Spanish bar. Jazz music played over the dozen or so conversations occurring in the place. I sat down at a table next to the window while Nick ordered two glasses of sangria in a crisp, clean Spanish accent. Jealousy hit over me because of this gringos ability to communicate so smoothly with the bartender. He approached the table and handed me a dark red glass filled with fruit. Sipping the new drink, my lips puckered as my taste buds accepted the foreign flavor. I could definitely get used to this. Then to my surprise two Spanish girls sitting at a table across the room advanced towards us. One had dark, beautiful skin and brown hair and the other was blonde with deep blue eyes. In one of the girl¹s hands was what appeared to be a joint. They asked about our whereabouts, of course Nick did the talking and I just smiled, and then took a seat at our table. The girl lit her rolled cigarette which didn¹t smell at all like tobacco or marijuana. My roommate informed me that it was hash, something I had never tried. She passed it to me after she puffed on it. Raising the paper to my mouth I inhaled deeply, keeping my grin and thought again that I could definitely get used to this as my mind floated into that euphoric universe.