STUDY ABROAD IN BARCELONA—
My host mom traces the Barcelona skyline with her finger. I pick out a few words: las casas, las montañas and el sol. My host mom doesn’t speak a word of English, and I’ve never taken a class in Spanish. Still, I can understand the intentions in her words. The sun is washed out in the bleak gray of the morning, but a golden light is emerging around the edges of the mountains and the apartment-style homes that compose the city. I string together a few words that roughly translate to “I go the mountains today.” It’s a beautiful day for a hike.
Despite the missing articles and stumbling awkwardness of my speech, my Spanish has improved immensely since I first stepped out of the taxi with my luggage in hand. There’s a particular anxiety that comes with being absolutely clueless, of being the ignorant foreigner. Standing outside of my new apartment building, the door locked and no key in hand, I felt the weight of my displacement in my chest.
I have the kind of anxiety that makes me vomit, that makes my heart race and that makes it hard to breathe. I choked back the rising panic in my throat and called my Spanish RA. Her English was broken, and I thumbed through my English-Spanish dictionary trying to explain that I was locked out of my apartment. Cleary I failed to communicate when she responded with: “Okay, call me when you get inside” and ended the call.
I stood on the street, feeling hopeless, when a passing man noticed my distress. He didn’t speak English, but after I pointed frantically for a few moments, he understood my predicament and opened the door for me. We live in the same building; I haven’t seen him since.
Living in Spain has forced me into a position in which communication is a privilege that I must work towards rather than a right. I can’t tell my host mom how much I appreciate her cooking or explain to her that I’ve never met a cat as loud and affectionate as her Gordi. The simplicity of “muchas gracias” becomes tedious. Her rich life as a former model contorts into simple phrases with every “¿puedes repetir, por favor?” and “no comprendo” that I say.
Barcelona’s native language is Catalan, a fact that complicates my journey in the city. The Spanish that I learn isn’t always applicable. Fish in Spanish is pescado – in Catalan, peix.
At the same time, there’s a striking thrill embedded in the discovery. I’ve ordered randomly off of menus that I couldn’t read, and I’ve lost myself in the winding streets because I couldn’t fathom the markings on the street signs into words.
One Friday night, I walk with a group of French college students who are studying abroad in Spain, learning Catalan and Spanish just as I am. They speak heavily-accented but decent English, and for this reason, I’ve banded with them, tired of confusing myself and others with my Spanish.
When the clock strikes midnight, they toss their champagne bottles in the air and chant in French. A moment later, they switch back to an English riddled with awkward phrasing.
Today I ask for one “café con leche.” I say it so boldly and quickly that the waitress understands me the first time. There’s so much satisfaction in communicating successfully. But even if this brief conversation hadn’t gone well, I think there’s just as much freedom in unabashedly failing.
