El Confusión, Profesor Romero, y Los Viejos Sociales

I woke up this morning – late for school, as usual – and it was the strangest feeling having to rush down the sidewalks of a foreign country to be in a classroom on time.  And the fact that my biological clock was saying, “It’s June and it’s eight o’clock in the morning – go back to bed,” was not helping one bit.  I got to the school in the nick of time only to hear from the receptionist – let’s call her Sally – that I was not signed up to start the course that week.  She sent her apologies.  Refusing to give up my dream of learning Spanish (and getting school credit), I went ahead to the second floor instead of the first floor where Sally had directed my complaint and I took an oral placement test from a teacher on that floor, where she placed me according to my speaking ability.  This woman was far more willing to help than the first, and she guaranteed that she would make arrangements so that I could get all of my hours. After the confusion had passed and I felt assured that we weren’t being ripped off, my mom and I ate a real Spanish breakfast, since I had missed the beginning of the first class anyway. At the café, the waitress spoke in Catalán, so I just asked for “su favorito” and hoped for the best.  I received a short of stiff bread with ham on it (that was more like some impenetrable superbacon) and some jugo de naranja to drink – they don’t like ice in Europe.  I guess that just like in America, there are good and bad restaurants in Spain, and now we can eliminate one from our list of possibilities.

 

When I returned to class, the only teenager, not knowing a sole, I was greeted by a room of smiling international faces.  I sat next to a middle-aged woman from Russia who spoke Russian fluently and Spanish surprisingly well, but not a lick of English.  The others in the room represented the whole world, it seemed: there were two young men from Germany (one looked just like that guy from Nickelback), a young woman from Canada, a hilarious couple from Iran, a pretty  girl from Argentina, and a quiet girl from Sweden.  And of course there was me, the American.  That class went swimmingly, Spanish being the unifying language between all of us so we were forced to use it; there was not a word of English spoken. 

 

After that class, there was a brief “orientation” given by a muscular Brazilian man who wore a shirt two sizes too small.  It turns out that this was no orientation, but rather some sort of social hour in which flyers for bars, clubs, and discotecas.  Whoops!  I tried to blend in with the over-eighteen crowd in the room but when the sign-up sheet for a Wednesday night (strange night to party, right?) invitation to POSH – Dwayne G. House of Rock and Hip-hop, I unfortunately had to pass the clipboard on to the next guy.  Everyone looked at me; I explained my age.  Cricket, cricket.  It might have been the most awkward and drawn-out three seconds of silence I have ever experienced, and I heard whispers in the back of the room, “¿Qué pasó?” “Es un bebé.”  Besides that, though, they were all extremely friendly.

 

I returned to class, where another series of uncomfortable events unfolded. There was a new teacher, Señor Romero, and he liked to make fun of Americans.  Oh and even better, remember the guy that I attempted to pass the clipboard to minutes earlier?  He was in my class, and he sat right next to me.  And then I had to ask him for a pencil, which I forgot.  His name was Gabriel and he was from Sweden.  Next to him was a man from Turkey who wore sunglasses indoors; next to him was a woman from Germany who seemed perfectly normal; next to her was a sweet blonde couple from Moscow, Russia; next to them was, as Señor Romero put it, “some punk kid” with red curly hair, a name of Patrick and an “I♥Ireland” t-shirt. Can you guess where he’s from?  The class turned out to be not only educational, but highly entertaining.  Señor Romero asked series of questions about our hometowns, and I didn’t realize until after I told him about Houston that I sounded like a lazy and wasteful American, much to the entertainment of Patrick, who didn’t seem so active or industrious himself.  Some of the questions asked (in Spanish of course): Are you in Barcelona for your job; how much does it cost to rent an apartment where you live; do you walk or bike or take the bus to work?  I answered honestly in Spanish.  I was here on vacation; I know the apartments are not cheap; I don’t take any of those to work because I don’t work, but I do take a car to school.  “¿Cada día?” my teacher was taken aback.  Yes, of course I take a car everyday, why would he ask that? “Sí, Señor.” The class sighed simultaneously and said, “Oh, America!”

 

After my productive day of Spanish my mother and I were ravenous, so we headed out to an early dinner, only to find that virtually every restaurant in the city was closed and would not open until 20:30 (8:30 PM to Americans), as it was typical for Spaniards to dine this late.  However we stopped at a giant market, ordered in Spanish, and enjoyed some fruit that was able to sustain us until dinner.  As we sat on a bench and people-watched, my mom pointed out the noticeably large number of elderly out for walks throughout Paseo de Grácia, unlike back home. “Here, the elderly like to be social and active.  It’s a shame that in America we like to trap them in nursing homes.”  And she was right.  I looked over at the bench across the street and saw several elderly men and women, socializing like schoolchildren.  I’m beginning to like the mentality of the Spaniards, for the most part.  Whoops it’s getting late.  I never realize what time it is with military time.  I have school tomorrow, and I don’t want to disappoint Señor Romero by falling asleep in class. ¡Hasta mañana!