As my father told me stories about his misadventures as a pilot in the 70’s, my own trip seemed like a story of his and not something I was hours from experiencing for myself. It wasn’t until we arrived at the doors where security told him to turn around that it hit me—I was leaving for a foreign country where I barely knew the language, and knew n one. I was not a risk-taker, nor did I have any idea why I decided to move to Spain for the summer. But I could not be weak—I needed my father to be proud of me, so I turned and walked through the doors, not turning back for fear he would see the tears running down my cheeks. Forcing the fear down, I walked forward—numb, cold, and unaware of where I was going.
I slept most of the flight, woken only when a couple returning home from their New York honeymoon decided to speak to me about my plans. They took great glee in informing me that ‘no one in Spain spoke English’, and that the food would ‘make me sick’. At this point, fear and the Hooter’s wings from the night before decided to take their toll on me. Rather than excitedly watch as I entered my adventure, I was ushered quickly off the flight and raced to the bathroom. Even customs simply waved me though, and when I felt well enough to exit, I had no idea where I was. Buckling up, I whispered to myself ‘here goes nothing’ and asked the nearest guard donde esta la punta de encuentros, at which point he pointed at an exit, looking confused at my butchered Spanish.
Upon finding the departure point, I sat low in a comfortable chair, caught between nodding off and trying to stay awake and find more Americans before the bus Madrid, bound for my new home in Salamanca seven hours later. As the hours slowly moved on, a few of us tentatively introduced ourselves and took turns napping while the others watched our belongings and went on food runs. Our bodies desperately tried to acclimate to the changes in time, location, food, and comfort as we boarded the public bus for Salamanca.
As we left the airport, we were crammed into the bus like sardines. The summer of 2006 brought a heat wave with temperatures reaching 45 degrees Celsius was hitting, and combined with seats with less leg room than a budget airlines’, we were passing out from a mix of heat and absolute exhaustion despite the scenery outside. By the time we arrived in Salamanca it was nearing dark, and we were suddenly awakened by the life of the city. We watched in awe as lights and colors flowed by, framed by the ‘old world’ backgrounds of cathedrals and European architecture. Upon arriving at our hotel, we had another burst of culture shock—the elevator didn’t work, there was no air conditioning, and our rooms contained nothing but two beds, a table, and televisions that got no channels. As we went downstairs for dinner and to meet our classmates, we were given warm milk and ham- a staple in every single meal our host program fed us.
Despite wanting to go out and celebrate the fact that we were independent, in another country, and legal to drink we decided against going out the first night as we had orientation and classes starting before sunrise the next morning. Lying in bed that night with the windows open in hopes of a breeze to cool me down, I wondered about what would happen next, and if I was ready. As I fell asleep, I listened to the music created by the buzzing of flies and the laughter of drunken revelers outside mixed with the playing of mariachi bands in the distance, and hoped.
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