Upon arriving in Bilbao, one of our trip advisors repeatedly warned us to accept and embrace the differences in Spanish culture instead of focusing on the comforts of home that we wish had followed us to Europe. At the time, I did not take this advice seriously as I could not imagine having any trouble adjusting to what I perceived to be small differences in daily life. It was not until I stumbled through another week in Spain that I learned, as Kelsey (mi amiga nueva) so eloquently describes, “Nothing in this country is normal.”
Kelsey and my first wake-up call to the Spanish way of life came when we began our (fruitless) search for coffee. I have still not adjusted to the time difference here, and if you do not inject caffeine in to my veins within ten minutes of my waking, then you cannot hold me accountable for any wreckage that ensues thereafter. Kelsey and I believed that “un café con leche” would do the trick, until we were given tiny little teacups (which appear to me to be nothing more than misplaced toys, which would perhaps be more suitable as decoration in a child’s dollhouse) with a drop of coffee at the bottom, topped off with a swirl of milk. The barista served me my coffee, turned away, asked me how it tasted, and was truly amused (and moderately appalled) when he noticed my cup was empty and that I was asking for another teacup’s worth.
Upon chatting with some locals, we were told that a “Café Americano” can be requested, but that the barista will most likely laugh at you, as most Spaniards consider American coffee to be nothing more than water. I am learning to take smaller sips from my baby mugs, but we all know that patience is not exactly my strong point. Also, iced coffee is a rarity and you should not expect it to be readily available to you. No, not even at that McDonalds in the top floor of the mall, so save yourself the embarrassment of being that uncultured American in a city full of delicious food and drink who sprints to the front of the line in the most Americanized fast-food joint on the planet.
The most popular drink here in the Basque Country, without question, is called a “Kalimotxo,” which consists of equal parts red wine and Coca-Cola. “No hay fiesta sin Kalimotxo,” our teachers insist. I really do not have words to describe this regional phenomenon. Please use your imagination as to its taste, as well as to its possible effect on your body, mind, and waistline.
Fish is one of the most commonly prepared dishes here, and is a popular option listed on many restaurants’ “Menu del Día,” which consists of your choice of three courses for lunch –the biggest and most time-consuming meal here. Because the food in the dorms is stomach-churning at best, Jen, Kelsey and I were beyond ready to go into the city and try some of the amazing food for which Bilbao is known. Jen wanted to experience the Basque culture, and opted for the seafood as her main course. When her food arrived, she was served one entire fish (head, tail, eyes, bones, scales and all) on a plate with a few feeble green beans scattered around it. After the surrounding lunch tables identified the three of us as American tourists upon witnessing our simultaneous outbursts of shrill screams of absolute terror, the three of us could not stop laughing for the rest of the meal. Jen was a good sport about it, but she stuck mostly to her dessert and white wine. Later, some locals told me that if I was not eating and enjoying the eyes of the fish, then I did not know what I was doing in Bilbao.
Dinner is served much later here than it is at home, usually between 8:30 and 10:00. The “cool” kids come to dinner around 9:15. Needless to say, we aren’t those cool kids. As if we do not stand out enough, the ravenous American students in my dorm and I line up in front of the cafeteria doors starting at 8:20.
One of the only ways we make it from lunch to dinner is by participating in the Spanish “siesta,” wherein almost every store and many restaurants close down between the hours of 1:30 and 5:00. It is a myth that Spaniards actually go to sleep during this time. It is a time reserved mostly for eating a long and relaxing lunch, visiting with family, and walking around with friends. But, we often do not join the Spaniards in this leisurely social time, as you will find most of the international students happily asleep in their beds during these hours. Not only are we not used to the time change, but the amount of food we have to eat during lunch to carry us through until dinner is enough to put anyone in to a temporary coma.
If I do manage to sleep off my lunchtime binge, I sometimes awake from my nap and take a run along la ría that runs through the city. On a particularly hot day, I did not think twice when I put on my athletic shorts and headed down the river. When I came across my first stoplight and was bombarded by the relentless honking of every passing car, it became clear rather quickly that women do not run in shorts here. In fact, I rarely see women running at all. It is also not customary to look at anyone in the eyes if you pass them while walking (or running, in this case), as it is considered flirtatious and forward. I am still having trouble finding an appropriate place to rest my gaze while navigating the highly populated path along the river. I usually stare straight down at the ground and hope that my blonde hair is not too shiny on that particular day. “Rubias” are rare here in Spain, so it is another easy way for anyone who sees me to immediately identify me as someone who does not belong. That, along with the inappropriate running shorts, along with the countless number of men laughing at me when they think I am hitting on them when I accidentally make eye contact with one of them and, instinctively, throw them one of my awkward half-smiles.
Also, sweat pants are not a cultural norm here. Thank goodness I was warned not to roll out of bed and head to class in my sweats. You can generally tell if someone is Spanish or American because all of the Spanish girls dress as if they have personal stylists dressing them and are en route to a high-fashion photo shoot. Even if I leave my bedroom feeling like I have finally pulled together a decent outfit, the second I find myself standing next to a Spanish girl, I remember that I look like an eleven year old who got dressed in the dark. Us Americans have given up on the weekends and have begun wearing our pajamas to the dining hall. We know: we aren’t cool.
Ice does not exist here. Nor do straws. Nor does air conditioning, nor do dryers for your clothes. We are all learning how wasteful and spoiled Americans are about the simplest of things. Spain has all of their trash receptacles separated into at least three containers (paper, plastic, waste, etc). The escalators do not start moving quickly until someone passes the censor and steps on to the stairs, because if no one is on the escalator then it moves at snail’s pace to conserve energy. A room never remains lit if there is no one left in it.
So, even though nothing in this country seems “normal” to someone who has never left the United States in her life, I am slowly learning to not only adapt to the Spanish way of life, but to love its slower pace and its focus on the important things in life. Spaniards take their time. They wake up later. They are often late in arriving places, but it doesn’t matter. Their families matter. Friends visit, eat, and walk around with each other during the siesta every afternoon. Spain loves its wine and its food, and yet the vast majority of its people are very fit and live long and healthy lives filled with evenings spent laughing with their loved ones at any of the cafes that line the streets. There are public parks everywhere, and kids run around kicking soccer balls while dogs without leashes trot happily around them. The city is alive.
Before the one and only Rebecca Drake left for her summer travels in Europe, she noted that she found it unnerving that The United States of America’s country code is “01.” Seeing as I had never left the country nor did I know what a country code was, she explained that it was the number you had to press if you were trying to communicate with someone via telephone in a country that was different from that of the country you were calling. I tried to rationalize on the behalf of the United States, thinking that Rebecca was confused and that you always had to press “01” if you were not in your home country and wanted to call your home line. Or, perhaps the country codes were assigned alphabetically and that somehow Afghanistan and Algeria were skipped over and the list had to start with us, A for America, at “01.” But that is not the case. So often, as Americans, we think of America as the first or the best or the only, the most “normal,” because America is what we are used to seeing every day. Well, Spain’s country code is “34,” and I think that just might be my new lucky number.
Minor victories of the week include ordering a delicious vanilla pastry (with no fish eyes involved), having my first taste of Spanish sangria in an older neighborhood of Bilbao called Casco Viejo, and making a couple new local friends in town who have promised to show us the ropes. Major victories include exploring the beautiful Guggenheim Museum and booking my trip for our October break. Stay tuned!
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| We are confused by the palm trees. |
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| View from my window. |
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| La Ría, with the Guggenheim Museum on the right. |
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| "El Puppy" in front of the Guggenheim. |
