Culture Shock

I stepped off the plane in Chicago and it was instant. The arrival in America is a bit of a shock as you dive right back in the world in which you grew up. All around me I heard the strong southern drawl and for the first time in a year, nothing but English. I wanted to put my hands to my ears to drown out the sound of incessant conversation. I felt like I was being forced into the private lives of others. My first instinct was annoyance, thinking that Americans are as loud and obnoxious as people say they are. Why do they think I would care about their lives? Then I realized that my judgments were entirely unfounded. I could simply understand everything they were saying around me without any conscious effort on my own; a feeling that I had grown unaccustomed to. The truth is that people were quite friendly and it felt good to be around such a mélange of accents.

The next stop was Colorado; the time to visit with old friends and dear family. Things just weren’t as seamlessly smooth as they once had been. Before I left I could read other Americans better and flow with the natural rhythm of the States. Suddenly I found myself not leaning in for a hug, rather leaning in to kiss someone’s cheek. At the supermarket I looked down for the cheapest items when in fact the organization in America is quite unique. But I had only hours to readjust to the US before I flew off to what seemed like yet again another country, LA.

After a decent night’s sleep, my friend Marina and I flew off to LA. My wardrobe seemed entirely insufficient and people could spot at first glance that we “weren’t from around there”. That was fine with us since the people that were seemed to use to be…unique. As we strolled down Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, or spotted the Hollywood sign in the distance I took it all in; for this is the America that the people around the world know. The movie stars, the wide boulevards, the shopping, the In and Out burgers, the eclectic styles, we saw it all. Tourists in our own country.

Rock stars in Hollywood

Home Sweet Home

After LA it was much easier. Like riding a bicycle I began to flow within the culture around me as if I had never left. My time in the States seemed like a whirlwind at times; so many friendly faces to see, catching up to be done, so much to recount to one another, plans for the future to arrange. And like a whirlwind it soon blew past and I was once again flying over the Atlantic, speaking French with the couple seated beside me. I felt…home.

Flying into Madrid felt like flying back to my own country. I entered the airport with much more confidence. I understood the world around me, the metro, the language. It was a drastic change from the year before. I let my feet carry me to my favorite sites of Madrid, wandering through the roses, stopping for a café and getting caught up in a technical conversation about the internet that was far over my head in Spanish. Luckily my skills at pretending like I am following are well tuned.

My time in Madrid was brief but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for one more night in Benavente. Oh the feeling of stepping out of the bus station in Benavente! I can hardly put it into words. I took a deep breath and caught a familiar scent in the air that I had never noted before. I saw familiar faces strolling down the street and walked familiar paths. That night I did the same circuit of town that I had walked several times before. Benavente is not a big place thus it is easy to run into old friends. We stayed up late into the night (well not too late for the Spaniards) filling in the last three months of everyones’ lives. I found that my Spanish was still strong, I could still hold my own in a conversation and it was easier than ever. I had missed the tapas, the wine and this language over the summer and I took in every moment I could. I realized over the course of the night that I had become close these people without even realizing it and found myself wishing I had a little more time to get to know people that I had overlooked. But my time in Benavente had come to an end and so in the morning I headed to Palencia to visit one more dear friend, pick up my suitcase, and prepare for my imminent move.

I arrived at my friend’s apartment armed with a handheld luggage scale and mentally prepared for the worst. I was faced with a challenge. The airline I was taking to France allowed 1 checked bag weighing up to 20k every extra kilo being 12 Euros more and one carry on, no weight limit but able to fit into the little things at the airport. I went up to the basement to weigh my bag; I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had. I looked, 50 it said. I just about fainted. It was worse than I’d thought. How was I going to get 30 k to France and still have money to survive? My friend and I searched frantically for a solution, then I looked more closely. 50 lBS is 23 kilos. Bon, 3 kilos I can do.

The next morning I dressed in my pjs, jeans, skirt and multiple shirts. My pockets were filled with electronics, and anything that would fit. My book I would hold and pretend to be reading at every moment. And thus I checked a bag weighing 20.5 kilos and barely survived the heart attack the pounds/kilogram change almost caused. Thus I put on 3 kilos in Spain.

I arrived overheated and exhausted in France where a familiar face awaited me. Soon my large bag was back in my possession and my layers of extra weight were returned to the suitcase. And thus I dropped 3 kilos in France.

It was here that my new adventure would commence. I headed to Montpellier nervous and ready to rid myself of my heavy bags. As I approached the house of the fellow teacher, who offered to host me while I looked for a place of my own, I felt the familiar worries settled into my heart. Try as I might I could not suppress the doubt that was simmering within. What if they don’t like me? What if I take the wrong bus? What if I packed too much? What if, what if… My worries were assuaged the second I entered the door, my doubt and timidity hid itself well behind an autopilot I’ve built up within myself. I made myself at home and engaged them in conversation flowing smoothly between French and English.

Then I had to pee. I tried to recall the quick tour I had been given and walked immediately to the shower. Nope, no toilet in there. I paced back and forth down the hall before throwing in the towel and asking for help. Where was it you ask? In the laundry room of course!

I enjoyed my time in their home immensely. Every meal was the paradigm of French to me. They took me to see the wild flamingos that have existed here forever yet that I’d never heard of, they showed me around the beautiful Montpellier and they gave me the freedom to explore on my own.

I went out with the Couch Surfing group of Montpellier which turned into an unforgettable adventure. I arrived at the house of a stranger unaware of what to expect. In less than an hour I would be trying to help fit a large cardboard boat down a small spiral staircase, and take the same boat across town in a small city tram. Why you ask? Well to race it against other cardboard boats of course!

Though short-lived, my time in Montpellier was memorable and left me hungry for more. Now I am in the charming small town of Lodève. But more on that later.

A bientôt!