Journal from Spain #4 - Where I Now Live

The best way to describe my flat, to fully capture the charm and grace and social circumstance, is to simply state that I live with some dudes.

Six dudes (the one from LA included) share a kitchen, three bathrooms, a sofa-TV nook, and little else. I'm occasionally amazed how fiercely and naturally my flatmates maintain completely separate lives. For such cramped quarters, the silence is peculiar - if we were a family, it'd be damning. One night, in my first week at 7 Vallehermoso, I scribbled in my notebook journal these apt words: "maybe my flatmates are dead."

But it's really more like a long, deep sleep: most of the day, they are inaccessible, but if chanced upon at the right time, they exhibit the bright cheeriness only the well-rested know. Meet Pedro, a smiling guy with a government job who is expert at correcting my Spanish without liquefying my ego. Go Pedro!

Juan's also pretty cool. He sports a ponytail reaching to the small of his back, and quadrangular glasses that provoke an intellectual affect while also keeping my attention from drifting back towards the hair. Juan hails from Spain's northern coast and he packed for his stay in Madrid a spot of old fashioned Spanish racism. Juan has not attacked my Judaism in any way, but he has offered his fair share of opinion regarding Arabs, the Portuguese, Colombian attempts at speaking Spanish, southern Spanish attempts at speaking Spanish, and the general immigrant community. When Juan starts up a conversation about Judaism, he proceeds with the overly gracious tones of someone a little too conscious of someone else's differences. "So . . . you are Jewish." (Always a good start.) "You know, in Spain, everyone is also a little Jewish. When you left, most of you stayed behind, and so, you know, there's Jewish there." --"Really Juan, hmm. Tell me, Juan, do you have Jewish roots?" "Oh, no - not me. In the north we don't do that." Juan enjoys cooking calamari, and I enjoy watching him. It's sort of like making onion rings out of space alien meat.

While Juan and I get along, and occasionally meet for some Spanish TV, Paulo and Juan are in the midst of an extended falling out. Paulo (not to be confused with Pedro) is my closest ally - in other words, he speaks the best English. A Brazillian, an immigrant, and a native speaker of Portugese, Paulo ranks low on Juan's list of pure things. I have no idea what exactly transpired, but despite the extroverted warmth and friendliness of both parties, each warned me about the other, using terms like "real jerk" and hand motions that connote a quick and necessary sweeping away.

In any event, Paulo is finishing up his degree in marketing, which he pursued at universities in Florida, Rome, and Madrid. Although he curses too much for my taste, he has a kind soul and a sincere desire to help me get by in Spain. It was Paulo that informed me of fiesta season in Pamplona - the subject of a future post - and Paulo that pointed out a neighborhood coffee bar with exceptional AC. Apart from his aspiring career in marketing, Paulo also serves as my personal Shabbos goy, a task performed with equal parts curiosity and care. If in on a Friday night, he regularly pokes his head out the balcony, seeing if its time to go downstairs and let me in the building. When I first told him that I could not carry my keys on the Sabbath, Paulo thought up this solution himself. "I'd have you call me first," he explained, "but if you can't carry your keys, you probably can't carry your phone."

This is not what I expected. When my school offered the option of a "shared student apartment", we clearly had different understandings of the terms "shared" and "student." For one, I expected students studying with me at the language school, peers in both age group and current life goal (learning Spanish). Instead, I found students in the socio-economic sense of the word (although young professionals would be more precise), with little in common with me or eachother. My vision of group living, therefore, was likewise way off. I expected an affable crew, struggling together with life in a big new city. Think taking turns making dinner (how I longed for the Kosher conversation: "So I can't eat with you, but I can help clean up . . . "), sharing the metro ride to school each morning, and late night attempts to draw me away from my studies - "Ben, you've been at it all day," she'd say, teasing me with her French accent, "do come out with us and have a good time." Unfortunately, no such dialogue has since taken place, and the closest thing to female interaction in my apartment occurred when I discovered pink striped underwear hung up to dry. No, I don't have a secret female flatmate; yes, European men wear the strangest things.

In any event, I'm still quite happy with the place: there's little I can do to change things and I certainly didn't come to Spain in order to mourn. And of course, the apartment has its fair share of charms. I live within easy walking distance of the shul, two kosher markets, and a delicious Spanish-kosher bakery. Across the street sit a late night mini-grocer and a fully-stocked supermarket. The neighborhood, Chamberi, is a middle-class area experiencing a fashionable renaissance: young couples walk giant dogs, sidewalk cafes host large, boisterous parties and each building has a different color scheme for its balconies. It's a beautiful place to live.

Which is exactly what I've been endeavoring to do. I arrived without my main suitcase*, an absence which left me emotionally unsettled, disconnected - I entered the apartment without any signs of my past. In a way, the last two weeks have been an adventure in settling in. Every day I get slightly more acquainted with my room, my flat, and my neighborhood. Every day I develop more and more ambitious cooking plans. Actually, my menu serves as a fair symbol of the settling-in process; when I managed my first deli sandwich (on a fresh whole wheat bagguette, with lettuce, tomato, and dijon mustard), I nearly cried - I felt the mix of accomplishment and domesticity usually reserved for birthing a child or remodeling a kitchen. Last night's olive, tomato, and Swiss cheese omelette was equaly emotional. Addressing the entire Spanish nation, I lifted the half melted plastic fork towards my mouth and proudly announced: "I have cooked; I have conquered."

It's funny: when planning this summer, the top priority was finding a group experience. (What can I say, I miss camp, OK.) I enjoy living with people my age, a piece of a cohesive and dynamic social unit. While I did not find such an experience in Spain, I certainly found adventure. I realized that the "need" caused by my disappointing year in YU was not quite what I thought. What is so consistently and powefully hitting the spot this summer is not good times with many friends, but quiet beach mornings in the company of one, midnight strolls through a European capital, and making small talk with a guy named Paulo from Brazil.




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*A son who truly loves his parents knows when to tell them everything is fine, the flight was perfect. (The bag arrived later that week.)