When I first got off the plane in Granada, Spain, I wanted nothing more than to head back to America. My luggage was lost somewhere, soaring across the sky toward Japan for all I knew; I was tired, I missed home, and I could not understand a word my Spanish host family was saying to me.
Well, I now have my luggage (turns out it was only hanging out in Madrid since the airline broke it), am more rested (kind of), and no longer dream about flying back across the Atlantic. Understanding my host family continues to be a problem.
So far, my comprehension has certainly improved during my two weeks here, but I still have a long way to go. This became very evident about a week and a half ago when my host sister, Azahara, invited me to her 21st birthday party.
She had been talking about having a party with her cousins and a few friends for several days, and at dinner one Wednesday night, she decided to hold this party on the upcoming Friday. She then invited me to join her.
Her and my host mother, Mari, planned everything that night: who to invite, what food to make, what time people should come over. According to my understanding of this conversation, Azahara, her family, her friends, and I were going to be eating quiche and tiramisu at our house around 10 p.m. on Friday.
Unfortunately for me, my understanding of conversations here in Granada cannot be trusted.
Friday night at 10 p.m. arrived and sure enough, cousins started arriving at the door. I was ready to party, and only a little nervous about being surrounded by a lot of Spanish people for the whole night. I was very confused, however, when Azahara instructed me to pick up some food and bring it to the car.
Because I couldn’t find the right words to ask what the heck was going on, I just went with it. I continued to go with it all the way across town, up to her friend’s apartment, and through a pitcher of sangria and a lot of tiramisu.
When Azahara finally started talking about leaving at 2 a.m., I decided I had simply misunderstood where the party was taking place; if only it had been that simple.
However, when we got outside the apartment complex and started walking in the opposite direction of our house I realized I had missed something yet again. Feeling like I had had enough surprises for one night, I asked Azahara where we were going.
“To the discoteca!” she replied, as if it that should have been obvious.
I couldn’t walk back by myself in the middle of the night, so my only choice was to go with it yet again. This time, I went with it half way across town and into an over-crowded discoteca until 5 a.m. It was then that I knew I had to put my foot down.
“What time do these places usually close?” I asked tentatively.
“Around six or seven,” Azahara replied nonchalantly.
Azahara and her friends seemed content to dance until the sun came up, but I wanted to cry because my feet hurt. At home, I would have been waking up in two hours after an ideal eight hours of sleep. Here, I had to walk around the city with the other UNH students at ten the next morning (or should I say, that morning).
Luckily, when I told Azahara this, she understood, and called our host mom, who happily got out of bed, drove across town, and picked us up at the discoteca. It was the perfect, surprising end to a very surprising night.
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