Me llamo Laura

Normally, turning 22 years old is fairly insignificant as far as birthdays go. However, I’m using my twenty-second birthday to inaugurate the alteration of my identity.

When I studied abroad in Santiago, Chile, I quickly found out that Hailey does not translate very well into Spanish. Upon every Spanish introduction, I had to repeat my name at least twice for anyone to understand what I had just said. Having these types of interactions on a daily basis got a little old and a bit frustrating, to say the least. Additionally, Hailey pronounced in Spanish sounded more like “Hi-lee” or even “I-lee” (since the “h” is silent). With this less than endearing experience under my belt, I have considered over the past few months what it would be like to go by my first name, Laura. All of my documents are under Laura Hailey Carmichael, and going by Laura would make things much simpler. Plus, Laura translates to Spanish well. Hailey does not.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, I have made the switch. I have started introducing myself as Laura when I meet people. Now that I’ve made up my mind, it’s been relatively easy to respond “Me llamo Laura” when people ask for my name in Spanish. However, I’m still having trouble keeping this rule when introducing myself to people in English. What can I say? Trying to change the automatic response to perhaps the most common question in any language is a tough habit to break.

Lately, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to introduce myself as Laura, because I’m starting to meet more people and actually make friends. Since Sunday, I’ve really been testing myself in my identity crisis. On Sunday, Sarah and I met up with two different auxiliaries (teaching assistants)—one I had met in the hostel and the other we met through another connection—and today was Day 1 of our orientation session. When I exited the Metro Oporto early this chilly morning, I could easily pick out the Americans walking in small groups down the street towards our meeting location. We followed the hand-made signs for direction; they were pieces of white computer paper with the word “Auxiliares” scribbled on it and an arrow underneath. I think it’s the perfect symbol to embody our orientation.

I’ve been to a number of orientations in my day, but this one may have been the most inefficient, ineffective, and useless one of them all. Because I’ve been given the inside scoop on everything-auxiliare from Carolina Thur de Koos (a 2007 Furman grad who did this program last year), I’ve been able to have answers to the 1000s of questions that come with moving to a new country and a new job. Also, Carolina has provided me with valuable tips and suggestions already worth their weight in gold—such as great restaurants in Madrid and travel tips. Unfortunately, the 500-600 other auxiliaries did not have their personal liaison to help calm nerves and provide helpful and useful information. So, thank you, Carolina, for giving me the information about banking, purchasing cell phones, finding housing, getting paid, using medical insurance, paying taxes, obtaining a residency card, y muchas otras cosas beforehand. I had quite a leg up on my journey to Spain!

Graduating from college and moving into the real world is a tough transition, but graduating from college and having to deal with the "real world responsibilities" in a foreign country and non-native tongue is another thing entirely. Me encanta. (I love it.)

The Best Birthday Present Ever

Some people get extremely excited about an approaching birthday. Others who are more modest tend to play it down. This past week, I’ve been dreading that it would be a birthday to remember for reasons other than celebration.

After Sarah and I accepted the fact that we would not be able to rent an apartment in the area we wanted for less than a year, we resigned ourselves to the new task of searching for individual rooms to rent in shared apartments. We scoured the internet for hours on Wednesday, and I made a list of at least 15 different rooms that seemed like decent possibilities. I made some more phone calls, sent more emails, and set up appointments for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to check out potential pisos and their available rooms.

On Thursday morning, I woke up early (again) and set off for a new part Madrid that I had not yet explored. I plotted out the right metro stops to take me to the Salamanca district, just north of Retiro Park, and I walked around the neighborhood of the piso where I had an appointment. I was delighted to find lots of great restaurants, shops, and other amenities, such as several Metro accesses and bus stops. I found out that there were several metro stations nearby of at least three different lines, and I was only one or two stops from my school’s metro stop. Plus, I discovered the H&M, El Corte Inglés, and a great supermarket were blocks away from my final destination. Salamanca is a clean, upper-end, safe residential neighborhood, and I enjoyed strolling through the paseos and calles taking in the fact that this could potentially be my barrio.

At 10:00 AM on the dot, I pressed the piso call button and notified the owner I was there. A buzz preceded my entrance into the marble hallway. A woman with an arm full of groceries scurried past me and reached the cast-iron elevator first. We made small talk as we waited for the antique-looking elevator to make its way down, and Josefina (my new best friend) showed me how to open the iron gate and then how to push the double French-style doors to get inside the elevator. As she exited the elevator on the 6th floor, she gave me an open invitation to visit her whenever I wanted. How nice, I thought, would it be to have friendly neighbors…

Jittery from the small shot of coffee that I took at breakfast in the hostel 2 hours prior, I couldn’t stand still as I waited for the elevator to make it up one more level to the 7th floor, and I pushed open the door with a little more force than necessary. As I approached the white door in the center on the left, it swung open and a middle-aged woman wearing a nice suit with swanky matching shoes stood in the doorway. “¿Angela?” I asked. “Sí, pasa por favor.” She moved aside to let me in, and showed me to the first room at the front of the short hallway. Angela gave me a tour of the piso. She has two rooms available for rent. There’s one bathroom for all three roommates, a rather large kitchen (equipped with oven, stove, microwave, dishwasher, washer, and fridge—which is the max amount of kitchen appliances you find in Spain), and a lovely little salon (living room), complete with TV and aesthetically pleasing bookshelves. We sat down in the salon and Angela told me her requirements: la tranquilidad, el respeto, y la limpieza. Tranquility (calm conduct), respect (for everyone and their living space), and cleanliness (keeping things orderly and in their place). Angela said that after meeting me, she said that I seemed to be an acceptable roommate, and she offered it to me on the spot. I jumped at this incredible opportunity without hesitation.

In order to seal the deal, I had to return to my hostel to grab copies of my passport, my work documents (proof that I have a job in Spain that’ll pay me regularly), and la plata para la fianza de 2 meses (my 2 months of rent down payment… in cash). I literally sprinted back to my hostel, and I was literally jumping for joy through the streets and through the metro corridors (the jitters hadn’t abated as I waited on the metro either). By 2:00 this afternoon, I returned to my new place of residence, signed my contract, forked over enough cash to make me cringe, and experienced feelings that surpass description—although relief, joyful gratitude, and complete satisfaction are close substitutes.

Since I am the first of two renters, I could choose my room. I picked the one with the desk. I have a single bed (with new sheets and comforter) and more drawer and shelf space than I’ll ever need here. My piso has Wi-fi (yay for wireless internet) and my rent is actually incredibly inexpensive for this neighborhood—and it’s the exact price that I was counting on in my budget. Angela is a 40 year old commercial business lawyer from Peru, and she has dual citizenship in Peru and Spain. I told her about studying in Chile, and my passion for South American cultures… I think we’ve already bonded over our love of South America. She seems like a brilliant, well put-together, sophisticated woman, and although I am a bit intimidated by her, I’m excited about having at least one roommate speaking Spanish, and I’m simply elated to have a room to call my own and a piso to call mi casa for the next nine months!

And now, I think I’ll celebrate my birthday… el 26 de septiembre

School of Rock

Imagine how you felt on your first day of school when you were in second grade, and you may be able to understand how I felt this morning. I visited my school, El Colegio Cuidad de Roma, this morning, and I can not be more excited about my job. My school ROCKS! The director of the bilingual program, Carmen, gave me a tour of the small building, and she introduced me to almost the entire staff along the way. With each encounter came warm smiles and kisses on both cheeks. Some teachers know English and greeted me with a rough “It’s nice to meet you,” while others used the Spanish, “Encantado.” I had never given much thought about the staff that I will be working with until today, and I can already tell that the staff at Cuidad de Roma is friendly, helpful, and eager to know you. I also learned that there are three other teaching assistants ("axiliares de conversación") at the school, and all of them are returning for a second year. I guess the job and the school are just too good to turn down.

I made friends with a new 2nd grade teacher, Natalia, during the break in the teachers lounge. She told me that the school has a stellar reputation among madrileños, and we should both consider ourselves very lucky to be working there. Natlalia is young (I’m guessing late 20s), and I think we’ve bonded already during our conversation over our cups of tea & coffee, a pear, and some churros. I look forward to getting to know her better.

I sat in on a 1st grade class for half an hour with Sra. Raquel. She spoke in English almost the entire time, and the kids seemed to follow along without much trouble. The children were absolutely adorable. When little girl sitting in the tiny desk chair next to me touched my earrings, I asked, “¿Te gusta?” She nodded and replied, “¿Hablas castellano?” When I let on that I did speak Spanish, she whispered across the desks to her amiga, telling her that I knew Spanish too. It was precious.

Although I still don’t know my class schedule (Pilar, a larger woman who also spoke English, explained to me that she’s having issues with the schedules this year and hasn’t made them yet) or what grades I’ll be working with, I can’t complain a bit. My colegio is a well respected, well run, and well taught school, and I’m thrilled about my job for the coming year.

This past Sunday, Sarah and I took our Sunday drive, Spanish-style, before relaxing in Retiro (see previous post). We took a train from the Madrid Atocha station to Alcalá de Henares (a 35 minute ride) and walked another 10 minutes to the Alacalá bus stop. There we hopped on the bus to Camarma de Esteruelas (a 12 minute ride). This is the commute that Sarah will take to reach her school in Camarma. And hopefully, the address of our new home won’t add to it too much (we’re still working on that)!

We’re still living in the hostel and we’re still hunting for the piso. . .

First Impressions in Retiro

Madrid is a city full of life, a mixture of people mingling through the wide paseos and the narrow calles. Thus far, what I have enjoyed most about being here is people watching. Since we have to do a lot of waiting in between piso-appointments, Sarah and I have spent many hours doing just that. On Saturday evening, we sat on a hill next to the Prado Museum for a time, and on Sunday evening, we spent several hours in Retiro Park, moving from park bench to stone steps and back to park bench, simply to watch all the passersby. Observing the wide range of fashion and styles has been amusing, and we have taken note of those signature pieces that our own wardrobes lack. Personally, I lack the following when it comes to young adult European trends: skinny jeans, scarves, vests, flats of various styles, handbags, and jewelry. Ok… I’m not blending in so well just yet and I have a little work to do. Hopefully, I’ll get there when I’m not living out of my hostel locker.

Going to Retiro Park on a cool fall Sunday afternoon is almost better than going to the zoo. At any given time, a biker, a runner, a kid on roller skates or roller blades will be sure to pass in front of you. Friends sit on benches or on fountain edges chatting animatedly. Small children running ahead of their parents announce their presence with shrills of laughter. Babies in strollers stare with wide eyes at the multitude of sights and sounds in their nearby surroundings. Once in a while, you’ll see a couple making out in the grass or tucked away in the woods, not too far off the path. Tourists walk through with their cameras around their necks (yes, the stereotype still stands). Couples fill dozens of small row boats that float haphazardly through the murky water of Retiro’s central lake. Street performers draw small crowds with their frivolous antics and ridiculous costumes. You name it, and you can probably find it in Retiro. Sarah and I even ran into a Furman junior studying abroad in Madrid, Denise Frohlich (well, she was the one doing the running… we were sitting on a bench). For those who have studied much Latin American culture, you would have enjoyed the Columbian Cumbia dance practice that we stumbled upon by follow the irresistible drum beats. Speaking of drums, for those fans of the Asheville drum circle, you would probably be as excited as I was when we came across Retiro’s competing drum circles (note the plural) in Retiro. My point in saying all this is that El Parque de Buen Retiro is the place to be on Sundays.

Piso Hunting Is No Picnic

Ever since we arrived in Madrid, Sarah and I have focused all out energy into finding un piso (an apartment) to rent. This, my friends, is easier said than done. Finding housing in Madrid at this time of year is cutthroat with rapid turnover from available to not-available.

Let me explain how it works:
1. Search through numerous listings on popular internet sites, such as SegundaMano and Idealista (Madrid’s version of Craig’s List)
2. Narrow your search by having an area of town in mind (aka, know a district and its various barrios)—You might have to walk all around that district to get a good feel of exactly where you want to live
3. Call the number listed next to the piso when you see something promising(this bring a whole new meaning to “cold calls”), because contact through email is not nearly as reliable
4. Ask in your rusty Spanish (with a non-Castilian accent) if the piso in question is available and if you can see it as soon as possible; pray that the unnamed speaker understood you and that you interpreted correctly what they said in response
5. Travel to the correct neighborhood and locate the piso before it’s time to meet the proprietor or the realtor showing it
6. Tour the piso and ask questions about amenities, price, gastos (utilities), a/c, etc.
7. Leave the piso either completely disheartened, content but wary, or temporarily elated

After experiencing this process five times in three days, we found the perfect piso on Saturday. When we contacted the proprietor, Lola, and told her we wanted to rent her piso, she explained that we had to go to the realtor agency to sign our contract. Since business hours are crazy in Spain, we were told we had to wait until Monday. And so we waited.

Shenning & I arrived found the correct realtor agency early this morning, took our ticket, and waited for our number to be called. I looked around at the other customers, hoping that none of them wanted the same apartment as us. Finally, our number was called and we approached the desk to explain what we wanted. The agent explained we needed passport copies (we already had those with us) and work contracts (I suppose to prove we’re going to earn enough to pay rent). Unfortunately, we did not have those with us. Frustrated and even more anxious, we commuted back to our hostel via Metro, grabbed what we needed, located a copy store, and returned almost two hours later to the agency. Again, we waited for our number and were assisted by the same man as before. Long story shorter: He told us that since we want to rent this apartment for only 9 months, instead of a full year, the agency will need time to decide if they can lease the apartment to us. He took down all our information and told us that they will contact us within (?) a week.

What had hoped to be a joyful day seems to have only left us with more stress, anxiety, and pressure to secure an apartment before we start teaching on October 1st (also the last day of our hostel reservations). But don’t get me wrong, Sarah and I haven’t worked so tirelessly to find an apartment that we haven’t taken the time to enjoy the city. Madrid is quite marvelous, which I’ll most certainly comment on later. For now, your prayers and support would mean the world to us as we seek to end this torturous uncertainty.

After all, I’d rather not be a nomad forever.

The Life of a Nomad

Sarah Henning (also known as Shenning) is my partner in crime, my número uno, my fellow American, my Chi Omega sister, my English-speaking companion, and my Furman friend who has also signed up for this Spanish journey. Over the past few days, we have shared some unique and interesting experiences here in Madrid. We are staying in the Mad Hostel (http://www.madhostel.com/index.php), which is located in the center of the city. Shenning and I share a bunk bed, and our small bright room has two other sets of bunks; we’ve already had almost a dozen other roommates since arriving on Wednesday. So far, we have shared our room with a petite Belgian girl, a young Mexican dude, a Mystery girl (we never saw her awake), an Irish bloke, a couple of U.S. soldiers on break from their Berlin post, a party-loving Brazilian woman, and an English guy in town to skydive for the weekend. We have to use a common bathroom, but after living in college dorms and camp cabins, I don’t mind sharing a bathroom with other guests.

Mad Hostel's common room has benches and seats for people to hang out, and that's where breakfast is offered. We get internet down there, but I don't like to stay too long, because smoking is allowed in that part of our hostel. I'm getting a sore throat from second-hand smoke... I think I've got the black lung, Pop. A small kitchen sits off to the side, and Sarah and I have prepared our dinners in that cramped little room the past few nights. Europe's MTV blares the latest international hits or features American reality shows dubbed in Spanish.

While it’s neat to meet people from all over, it’s a challenge when living with people you don’t know. Everyone is on a different schedule (in Madrid, partiers don’t come home until 6 A.M.), and Sarah & I have kept a schedule that differs than the average hostel guest visiting the city that doesn’t sleep. Tip-toeing around at night or in the mornings is not the preferred way to conduct daily routines, especially as we struggle to pull our belongings out of our lockers as quietly as possible while everyone else is sleeping. Sleep is tough to come by here in the Mad Hostel room 101. Our room has an open window to the street, just above the hostel entrance, and we hear everything that goes on in the surrounding blocks at every hour of the day. I love it when the trash man comes after 12:30 A.M., sounding like a junk yard just blew up by my window.

Although we hold a two-week residence here at the Mad Hostel, Sarah and I consider ourselves as living the life of nomads. Hostel life in general is nomadic. New people from all over the world flow in and out of our hostel, shuffling through with their overstuffed backpacks and old, worn clothing. But we’re not here for the normal hostel-guest purposes (that’ll come later). We’re in searching of something. We’re searching to find an end to this temporary lodging. We’re searching for an apartment to rent.

The Trek Over

On Tuesday, my parents dropped me off at the Atlanta airport, the start of a journey that has already surpassed my expectations. Around the fifth hour of my eight-hour flight to Frankfurt, Germany, I woke up from a short snooze. Even though I had an aisle seat and two empty seats on my right, I twisted and turned but couldn’t fall back into the blissful sleep that provides temporary relief to long hours of travel. I soon began to feel a little nauseous and broke out in a sweat. Things weren’t looking so good, and given my past history, I had a feeling I was in for a ride of a different sort. I frantically mashed the attendant call button and anxiously awaited for the flight attendant to come to my aid. A young German woman (I flew Lufthansa) kneeled by my side and whispered quietly how she could assist me. “I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I think I’m about to faint. May I just lie down?” I pointed to the aisle, and the started lady nodded her head and began to help me from my seat. And that was all I remember.

I woke up from my fainting spell to find my body prostrate in the aisle. The first flight attendant was cradling my head in her hands (later a pillow offered support), another attendant was holding my legs up in the air and massaging my calves (to get the blood flowing), and a third hovered behind her. The cabin lights had been off for hours, and the women all spoke in hushed German above my head about how to handle my dilemma. The other passengers sitting nearby were awake and staring at me as if I had leprosy. The attendants brought me coke and water to help bring me back to life. After about ten or fifteen minutes of resting not-so-inconspicuously on the plane floor, I was given the ok to be moved to the Business class. Luckily, I was only five or six rows deep in the economy class and the escorted service to my seat wasn’t too difficult to manage. I was shown to a seat in the empty section, someone reclined my seat for me, another propped up my feet, and someone else threw a blanket over me. The first flight attendant who came to my rescue sat beside me for a while. I spent the remaining two hours of my flight resting in my reclining seat, covered with blankets, and sipping from the juices and water brought to me. I think I’ve discovered an almost guaranteed way to upgrade your plane ticket!

I made it through both the Frankfurt and Madrid airports easily enough and around 4:00 PM on Wednesday, Sarah and I were happily reunited. Then we caught a cab to the MAD HOSTEL . . .

How do you prepare for a year in Spain?

My clothes rest quietly in my brother’s room, waiting, it seems, for the time to be placed carefully and with much thought in the luggage that will take them to places they’ve never visited. My passport, recently adorned with the crucial stamp of an accepted VISA, resides with other important documents in my desk drawer, also preparing for the vital role it will play in my life over the next ten months. With my “things” in order, I’m taking the final steps to assuring my head and my heart are as equally prepared.

Over the past few weeks, I have been studying maps of Spain and of Madrid. I’m creating my own crash-course Spanish lessons to get a quick review of the language and to polish my more-than-a-little-rusty speaking skills. Brain exercises, I guess you’d call them. I’m on the verge of embarking a brand new adventure, completely emerging myself in a culture, a country, and a city that I only know in theory.

Furman Spanish professor (and Associate Academic Dean) Dr. Linda Bartlett has asked me to share my experiences with her Spanish literature class this fall semester. The Spanish major in me is excited about keeping an academic focus on my Spanish ventures, and the Communication Studies major side of me is thrilled to tailor my blog to a particular theme. (Of course, I expect to recount tales that may lack in any academic relevance…) Nonetheless, I’m hoping to offer a deeper insight into Spain, its culture, its tradition, its values, and its people.

José Martínez Ruiz is a famous Spanish author of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His penname is Azorín, the name of one of his own characters, and he dubbed a small group of like-minded writers and thinkers of his time “la generación del 98.” Los noventayochistas (Miguel de Unamuno, Pío Baroja, Ramiro de Maeztu, Antonio Machado, and Azorín) wrote about their concerns of Spain at the turn of the century. For many, an extreme apathy towards progress of the Modern Era seemed to call for the scrutiny of the very soul of Spain (el alma de España), which was in dire need of definition and resurrection.

In his essay “España invisible,” Azorín discusses the multiplicity of Spain and ponders over how the foreigner (that’s me!) views the country. “¿Qué impresión—piensa mi amigo—les producirá España?” Spain, Azorín argues, has such a vibrant diversity of character, geographic landscapes, and appeal, but everything is united under lo essencial y lo spiritual, the spiritual essence of Spain. “La España que de puro visible no se ve,” he writes. The true Spain can not be seen, rather it must be felt.

How does an outsider discover el alma de España? How can a foreigner move beyond the superficial and into the spiritual realm in order to understand what lies behind the ancient facades? What is eternally Spanish?

I don’t know… yet.