The only sound that can be heard in the stillness of this Sunday afternoon is the Spanish wind blowing in from the sea. It seems strange to me that the whole country is frozen in time for one day a week. Everything stops. Stores are closed, restaurant tables taken in from the sidewalk, families alone to themselves for the day. It’s just one example of the “Spanish Life.” Take everything as it comes. Don’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow, just enjoy today. But don’t enjoy it too strenuously! Take time to rest. Conserve your energy for the night, when you can let your hair down and forget any remaining cares. These seem to me, an outsider, to be the underlying ideas of Spanish culture. I wish that I could do more than pretend to them. I will forever be an American looking in, trying to understand and fit in where I can, but never fully succeeding.
This wind, though. This wind is new to me. It blows as if a storm was just a moment away, but no rain ever comes. It’s going to be cold in the winter; one of the drawbacks of living on the coast. I remember wind in Málaga, but not like this. Although maybe it’s been lost in my memory; it’s been over two years since I lived there.
I wish this entry, my first, could be more upbeat; could be funny, entertaining and light. But so far my primary experience here has been loneliness. I came here thinking that the third time would surely be easier than the first, even than the second. In reality, I think my past experiences have made it more apparent to me just how little I know about this country and how far I have to go before I will ever feel like I belong.
The first time, everything was new. I was allowed, expected, to be wide-eyed and confused. This time – this time I thought I would have a certain comfort level already established that would make things easier. True, I know how the little things work now. I know that siesta is from two until five; I know that I have to weigh my own fruit in the supermarket; I know that the Spanish never split checks or give doggie bags in restaurants. But I had forgotten the feeling of walking down a street and having all eyes turn to you, silently, or sometimes audibly, asking, why are you here? Sometimes it’s friendly, other times it’s not, but always that feeling of separation is there. I don’t think it ever really goes away, although it’s possible to adapt and become unaware. It just takes time. Eventually, I’ll adjust, I’ll feel comfortable here again, and I’ll be able to enjoy this incredible experience, this incredible country. I know this. For now, though, as I look out the window of my Spanish piso on a quiet Sunday afternoon, with eight long months stretched out before me, I just feel alone, sad, and a little bit lost.
People usually describe their time abroad with words like “amazing,” “wonderful,” “eye-opening.” All are accurate descriptions of the time as a whole; but I think that there’s room for other adjectives as well, darker ones, such as, “difficult,” “frustrating” and “lonely.” This entry is just a tiny window into those unhappy adjectives; hopefully I can give an account of the sunny ones next time.
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