*Note: This post was written on February 17th, 2014. I forgot to post it up previously, although the events that occurred refer to the above stated date.
Though I didn’t necessarily have high expectations for the day, I must say that my first official day of classes at the Universidad de Complutense in Madrid (UCM) (and let’s not leave out the additional 45-minute commute to the satellite Somosaguas campus) have collectively been nothing short of a tiring, confusing, and elongated Tuesday. Starting out the day with my alarm set and ready to wake me up at 6:30am, a feat I hadn’t had to overcome since my high school days, my body immediately internalized the rude awakening by cursing me with the signature mark of sleep deprivation: the ever-hollow under-eye circles. Six weeks of waking up after the sun had actually risen made me want to crawl back into bed that much more this cloudy, February morning. Alas, I got dressed and proceeded to start my day with a hearty breakfast of sorts, knowing I wouldn’t be back in my safe-haven home until late that evening.
Let me elaborate a bit on this so-called “filling” breakfast: the most important meal of the day isn’t in Spain what its name implies in the US. No (turkey) bacon is served, scrambled eggs are savored only at dinner in the typical Spanish dish tortilla de patata (eggs with potatoes and onions sandwiched inside), and I am pretty sure hash browns don’t even exist on the Iberian Peninsula. No friends, my hearty breakfast consisted of the following: a freshly squeezed orange juice called zumo de naranja; a slice of French bread with butter; milk and Nesquick with three ridiculously good cookies (which my host brother has told me the name of upwards of seven million times, but I still can never remember; and fresh-cut fruit. Sounds like a lot, right? Only by 10am, I was starving again. Breakfast isn’t typically large here, mainly because Spaniards like to save their appetite for lunch and dinner, more important meals for them. So, I packed an extra mandarina for the road and headed off for the day’s adventures.
Being the overachiever academic scholar I am (or maybe due to the fact that I am seriously directionally challenged), I had already scoped out my 8:30am class location. Throughout my week of orientation, I had effectively learned the single most important strategy to get through classes: FIND SPANISH FRIENDS. Our coordinator Ani had made this very clear, stating these students are already matriculated in the class, so they get announcements we won’t be receiving, like class location changes or the Professor’s online version of lectures and notes. I had even thought of a million dumb questions to ask: Is this XYZ class? (Duh, that is why I ended up here.) Are you all in the same year? (The students here all study in the same facultad, or department, so they are essentially a cohort, making this an obvious yes.) Have you heard anything about this Professor? (It’s pretty much almost always hearsay, so this could be a good topic of conversation for a hot second. Their response is usually noncommittal, though.) I arrived at the door of “Cultural Anthropology”, waiting to ask the first person I saw one of the above-planned questions. Getting to class a full 20 minutes beforehand, I met a girl from England in the Erasmus program, a study-abroad exchange designed for European Union college students. Well, great. I try SO hard to find a Spaniard and attempt 1 has been a failure so far.
Several other students filter in, and after a couple of questions in Spanish, we almost always begin talking in English, either because it is easier than Spanish or because it’s the native language of the next person I am speaking to. Wait–this doesn’t make sense. How is EVERYONE in Cultural Anthropology an international student? I look at my watch, and it’s now 8:42am. There is an implied ten-minute rule to each class, so granted the class was only supposed to have started two minutes ago, but it still seemed strange that no Spaniards had presented themselves yet. I began to look for a bulletin board, where class location changes are sometimes posted. Ani had warned me about this before, and it wasn’t good…
After a brave soul questioned the Secretary downstairs about our class, fifteen international students made their way to another building, up a treacherous flight of stairs, and entered in the classroom we were supposed to be in at exactly 9:02am. An entire twenty minutes late to my first class? This would be interesting. We walked in, and the Professor had already begun speaking about the final exam. Even better–I hadn’t even made it in before she was wishing me out. Thankfully, it was a first-year intro course, so the Professor spoke slowly and even put up a powerpoint for reference. She explained something about us needing to be in groups for some project. Okay, I thought, second shot at finding some Spanish friends. I could indeed directly translate what the Professor was saying in my head, but synthesizing the information was a whole different ballgame. She wrote some names on the board, which I interpreted as lectures needing to be read for the next day, and stated, “Five to ten minutes to form groups.” All of a sudden: a fiasco. Students were running around, asking questions and finding their friends to discuss what they needed to do next. Then, writing followed on scraps of paper. What the hell was going on?
The second most important thing I have learned while I have been here: every person carries a distinct personality with them when they speak another language. The quiet one; the leader; the okay-with-being-lost; the hating-my-life-because-I-am-in-class; the daydreamer; the can-I-just-copy-your-notes; the follower; the aggressive soul; the question-asker; etc. I decided to take on the role of “Poor International Girl Who Is Lost and Needs Help To Find Her Way Through Life.” It had effectively worked for this long, so I tapped the kid in front of me and politely asked him to explain what was going on. He (pitying me) explained: the names on the board corresponded to last names of students in the class. We had to find at least three or four students with a last name in the same category as ours (A-M or N-Z, the letters I had written down thinking they were lectures to read) and write down our their names; we would be doing prácticas together. Thanking him, I next asked if I could be in his group. He looked to his friend, who was taking care of forming their tribe. Sorry, we already have our group formed! Dammit. Attempt #2: fail.
I proceeded to walk around the room, proudly using the vosotros form to indicate “you all” and asking if students in the class had found their group members. Each one of the groups I had tried to reach out to either belonged to the other last name category or had already formed the members in their group. The English girl I had first met followed me throughout this entire endeavor, glad I was doing most of the talking and she could just hop on and make us a lonely double needing friends. Still no luck. Finally, the English girl walked back to the Professor, saying it would be easier to let her know we didn’t have a group and hoped that she could find us someone. At that moment, the professor called time and told us to sit in our seats. She stated she would help us find a group, so we headed back.
“Who doesn’t have a group? You girls? Come up to the front of the room.” Jesus Christ. I trotted my way up to the front, pitying myself as the lame international student that couldn’t find even one Spanish friend. Nobody liked me, and it gave me a horrid flashback of my lonely elementary school years. Another international student I had met earlier also didn’t have a group yet, and she also came to stand with us. The Professor paired up my English counterpart and I with an older Spanish woman sitting in the front row, who seemed like she was coming back to school after many years. We exchanged email addresses and headed back to our seats. Three international, native-English students and an elderly woman in one group? I immediately resolved that I would now bomb this final project, with our fourth member’s native-Spanish being our only saving grace. On the other hand, my English “friend” seemed delighted.
Class ended, and I tapped the girl in front of me to ask for clarification on the timings for class tomorrow. This was my third and final shot at making at least one connection to a Spaniard. She explained how the class was set up: Tuesdays were theory and Wednesdays application of class material. Tomorrow, I needed to be in class at 9:30am instead of 8:30, since my name started in the latter half of the alphabet. “Thanks so much, you kind soul! It’s kind of hard to hear the Professor, ya know since I’m an international student, so I can comprehend but not interpret what the professor is saying, if that makes sense.” I almost definitely said whatever I could think of at the moment, hoping to keep her engaged in my conversation for a couple of extra seconds.
“Are you all in your first year? Oh, so you’re studying Philology?” No shit, Sherlock, this class is in the Department of Philology. I threw out everything I had prepared, wishing she would be interested in anything I had to say. Finally, a glimmer of hope appeared. “Yeah don’t worry, it’s not gonna be too bad. If you have any questions, just let me know. My name is Ana.” Ana. Success! I got a name, and in my book, that was a new friend for sure. “Thanks so much! I am Noreen. Nice to meet you! See ya tomorrow, Ana!” But Ana was in the first half of the alphabet, so actually I would see her next Tuesday, and I actually never saw her again. It didn’t matter to me at the moment though; at least I got a name, and I headed to give the Professor my matriculation card.
One class down, two to go.
Getting the directions to the satellite campus, I then left UCM to head to Somosaguas for my Anthropology of Religion class at 1pm. Plenty of time in between to sit and Facebook, which slipped me back into the world of English. I found my class and entered a bit early, as I saw some kids filtering in at about quarter til 1. The professor walked in at 1:10pm (meaning she was actually on time, based on the Rule of Implied 10). A short woman that looked similar to Spinelli from Recess (the tough-looking girl with black hair and bulging eyes) walked in and immediately launched into an explanation of the theoretical underpinnings of belief and its anthropological roots in the European society from the 16th century. Okay, seriously: WHAT. This woman made absolutely no sense, and I was completely lost. Thankfully, I met two girls named Lorena and Lola, who were kind enough to introduce themselves and offered to give me the professor’s online notes until I got access to the information for myself.
Finally, I headed off to my last class that day: Sociology of Exclusion and Crime. I had heard this professor was good from a previous study abroad student, so I honestly had high hopes: always shows up late, super funny, loves Americans, no homework were among the list of traits to describe the class structure. I walked in with Esteban, a good friend I made in the Georgetown in Madrid study abroad program, and sat down. Five minutes until 5, the Professor strolled in (class started at 4:30pm, by the way). The professor talked a mile a minute, making me want to hate my life all over again. But I got the key words down: No final. No mandatory assignments. No longer than an hour for class (this particular class ended at 6:30pm, but the Professor stated it would never be so on his watch). Although I was a bit apprehensive about understanding him, Esteban’s Mexican roots and bilingual speaking skills in Spanish and English would let me know of anything major I missed, so I decided to stick with the course.
At the end of it all, Esteban and I went home via metro, and I collapsed onto my bed upon entering the house. If this is what school is going to be like everyday, count me out folks, because I could not handle it all. Let’s just all hope tomorrow goes better…
