El amor y su audiencia

When I was little, my parents encouraged my brothers and I to bring books to business dinners as entertainment. That may explain why I don’t watch TV regularly, although more likely, all the activities I did played a part. I don’t even watch many movies. I love a good story, but typically stick to my books. Therefore, of all the Spanish habits I’ve had to embrace, the most difficult has possibly been the tendency to sit and watchtelenovelas all day long. Manuela loves her dramas- and though I follow the plot, I find myself constantly in a state of unease. I feel as though I am invading the characters’ privacy, and their constant struggles just make me tense. I tend to retreat to my room.

Equally as perturbing has been the constant public displays of affection. At Georgetown, I started a long list of obnoxious instances of PDA. This includes, but is not limited to: the Lau 2 cubicles, the archway in Red Square, Reiss Science Building (who knew science could cause such a distraction), and in Gaston Hall during Yom Kippur services (note: prayer is also an aphrodisiac). They bother me, these displays. I could psychoanalyze as to why this is the case, but it’s neither here nor there.

Spain is a PDA-nation to the extreme.

It’s everywhere, literally. When you walk from your apartment into the courtyard, along the street, next to the panadería, at the churros stand, on the bridge, in the university building, and my personal favorite: on a single moving bike. I cannot escape it, and as with the telenovelas, I just want to look away.

I won’t even start on my comments about Spanish men. Maybe with Sunday, when a man approached me and spouted rapid-fire Spanish at me. I thought he was asking for directions. No, he wanted me to get a drink with him. Or, the man with the piercing who approached me and instead of giving me the traditional double-kiss on the cheek simply forwent convention and licked my cheek. Yes, licked it. There is an alternative to PDA: it’s called chocolate. And frankly, it is a welcome alternative. Spanish men are most definitely the friendly sort. Really, most of the ones I’ve met are phenomenal, yet there are those occasions… I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit nervous walking by myself, even with headphones on.

Sometimes, even I forget I was born and raised in the South. Southerners are friendly, but they can be incredibly private and prim. Talking sex is taboo. Life is what goes on behind closed doors. Here, that is not the case. Someone might have a child but is still unmarried, so he still lives with the padres, even at the age of thirty. I watched a “Judge Judy” type show that yesterday featured a 26-year who refused to work or go to school and his mother finally threw him out of the house. I’ve seen arguments on the street. I’ve seen breakups. And I’ve seen a whole lot of macking. It seems like life here is sort of its own bizarre telenovela. While it somewhat offends my Southern sensibilities, I’m growing used to it… sort of. I do have an appreciation for what it suggests about the Spaniards: a sense of openness and lack of shamefacedness. There’s no embarrassment about things that, frankly, are universally experienced—anger, sadness, love, you name it. They don’t care who is watching, and they don’t care if they are the spectators to someone else’s trials and tribulations. So here’s to four months of me attempting to remove the Southern mantle of primness and learning to not flinch as I see couples stroll with their hands in each others’ pockets. Though, I will continue to add to my list of interesting displays…