Being an adult, Spanish style

 I am not someone with a great deal of real world experience, MTV or otherwise.  I spent a semester in Spain, but I lived with a host family that catered to my every need.  I lived off-campus for two years independently, but knew I could always count on support, fiscal and otherwise, if I needed it.  Other than my semester abroad, I have never lived outside of a three square mile area in my hometown.  My college was largely paid for by my parents, and the rest was loans. I have, by and large, had the silver spoon in my mouth my whole life.

It was, therefore, something of a change to have to start a life in Spain.  I had an apartment and roommates, which was a great start, but there was a great deal that I had to adjust to.  Things that are taking for granted back home--cheap hot water, no heating, no driers, and different groceries are a few of the things which reminded me that I wasn't in the US of A anymore.  I spent a semester here before, which somewhat lessened the shock for me and put me in a better spot than my roommates, but actually taking care of a Spanish apartment was something wholly different to me.

One of the first things I did after moving in was go grocery shopping.  To get an idea of what it was like, picture an American grocery store--D&W, say--then give the whole store a little twist.  The store (the one I go to is called Carrefour) is largely the same, but everything is just a little off, not quite what I'm used to.  You weigh the produce differently.  There are not Ritz crackers, but there are ones that look (and taste) exactly like them.  Milk isn't in the dairy section.  Peanut butter, one of my staples, is 4 euros(!).  There are no tabloids in the checkout aisle (unforgivable).  As everyone knows, the first shopping trip is always controlled chaos.  Now ladle in a serious portion of Spanishness and I'm surprised I made it out without forgetting a bag.

My shopping done, I began preparing to deal with Spanish children the next day.  I wasn't actually doing anything concrete, just psyching myself up for the experience.  Spanish kids are notoriously misbehaved, and my classes were no exception.  I can't know for certain, but there is not way that my class was that loud when we were in elementary school.  One story in particular always sticks in my mind, a story told by my study abroad professor before we left.  She said that she had once seen a Spanish child drawing on the wall with a marker and the kid's mother following along behind him with a can of paint, covering up the drawings.  If behavior like that is tolerated, small wonder the kids misbehave in the classroom.  

All that aside, I liked my school, both the teachers and the kids.  The teachers were very nice, offering to show me around Huelva and helping me get acclimated to the school and city (I found out my principal had been waiting for me at the train station the day I arrived because he thought I was coming in by train), and the students seemed to regard me as some sort of incredible novelty and are exuberantly nice.  Loud, but nice nonetheless.

So my Spanish life was in full swing.  We had hot water (after a day without it), we had a fully functional shower, I had successfully converted the den into my bedroom, and I was starting to hear from people about private English lessons.  We had it all--except a solid grasp on Spanish.  Because I was living with two Americans, we spoke English in the apartment, so my Spanish practice was limited to outside settings, like school and restaurants and the like.  I needed to speak more Spanish.  Both my housemates were in agreement, and one of them put out an ad for a Spanish-speaking roommate, preferably a Spanish one.  All of us felt pretty good about our life in Spain at that point, but we all agreed that having a Spanish roommate would make it even better.  All we could do was hope that someone would call.