This is something I wrote for a class...thought it sort of applyed to my overall Blog theme...
There is a pinging sound, and then a clicking noise, several clicking noises, as several seatbelts are unbelted. The air smells old and stale and is really making me sick. I open my eyes slowly and glance warily around. I have slept well the whole way here, and am not ready to relinquish my seat. I peek over at the man next to me. We nod at each other, half-smile. We didn’t have much to say to each other on the eight-hour flight. Mostly because of the language barrier, I think.
People are filling the aisles, reaching into overhead compartments, impatient to get off this plane. For the most part, no one is speaking—it is only 7 a.m. here, 1 a.m. in Chicago, where we took off from. It was 5 p.m. then. Eight hours ago.
The lights seem dim in the airport; the ceiling is high with some sort of yellow tube-like structure arcing overhead. Everything is glass. I follow the crowd. The baggage claim is a wake-up call with fluorescent lights and announcements blaring through the speakers in two or three languages. I see a woman with a sign: “SLU-Madrid.” That’s me. I feel relieved, and breathe out tension I didn’t realize I was carrying. There’s a small crowd gathered around her. I walk over, still dazed. She checks me in and says “Grab your bags. Then go through the doors to the meeting point. Most of the host families will be waiting there.” I go through the door, dragging large suitcases. There is a line of students, all with puffy, sleepy faces and more people with “SLU” signs. It’s chilly in here, and I realize that the entire far wall is missing, covered by large pieces of tarp. You can see big piles of rubble between the gaps in the plastic tarps. Someone tells me, “Left over from the bombings. They haven’t rebuilt much yet.”
The students around me are getting picked up, and few remain. I make idle small talk with a couple of girls, we sit on the cold dusty floor and go over the basics. None of us are interested in the conversation; we are all glancing around, sizing up the people walking through the airport, wondering if one of them is here for us. A tiny woman in an overbearing animal print fur coat is making a bee line for the woman with the “SLU” sign. She begins talking in very loud, very fast Spanish. She is extremely angry about something. The woman with the sign gestures me over. The small woman-- significantly shorter than me, and I am a mere 5’2’’-- is still shouting and gesturing wildly. “This is Maria, your Señora. Don’t worry, she’s mad at us, not you. She says she thought we would send a cab for her when it was time. If you have any problems, call the school. But you won’t.”
I can only look at her. The small Spanish woman and the school assistant exchange a few more heated Spanish words, and then my Señora, Maria, is off, she has reached for one of my bags and is heading toward the exit, a clear plastic sheet with security holding it back for people to go in and out. I catch up to her, trying to take the suitcase from her. She is speaking Spanish at me, eyeing me as she walks briskly. She steps out into the cool, January morning, and opens the door of a cab. We get in. She wants to know where I’m from, and I tell her, “Indiana.” Never heard of it, she says, and I try a new approach. Near Chicago, I tell her. Relatively near Chicago, at least. She’s heard of Chicago. We try to make more small talk, but I am tired, and frightened, and don’t speak Spanish all that well, anyway.
“No entienda mucha español,” she tells the cab driver. They laugh. She doesn’t understand much Spanish. I look at her. I understood that, I tell her with my eyes. Later, because justice exists, it will be her who doesn’t understand, and karma will have gotten its’ revenge. Her son, who has gotten a job in London, and speaks perfect English, will be home on a visit. We will all be sitting around the breakfast table in Maria’s tiny apartment, and he will be telling us of his adventures in Europe. He tells us he has a pot dealer in Amsterdam, who ships him the “good stuff” on a regular basis. “You can’t get that stuff anywhere else,” he tells us. “Get your pot in Amsterdam. I have for years now.” We laugh uneasily. Maria is beaming at him, so proud he is speaking English with the American girls. Her son! He has a job in London, did you know? A business man in London. “Don’t worry,” he tells us, “She doesn’t understand English.” He looks over at her and smiles. She pats his hand, so proud of her son.
We are now driving downtown, and I watch out the window as shop signs go by and see people strolling around. No one hurries in Madrid. The cab pulls to a stop, finally, in front of a building with a black iron door and Maria and I get out. Her hair is perfectly curled on her head. “Frío, frío frío,” she has been saying this all along. It is cold, but not compared to where I’m coming from. She pulls the collar of the atrocious coat closer. At the door, she hands me a key. It is large and old fashioned, very heavy. She opens the door for me then shows me what to do. Push all the way in, turn once, pull out and turn the key three full clicks. She wants me to practice, but after a couple of tries, she opens it herself and leads me to the kitchen. There is a small kitchen table taking up most of the space. No dishwasher, but there is a small washing machine in the corner. A large animal leg is sitting across the counter.
I wriggle into a chair that is pressed between the oven and the table. She sits across from me with a cup of coffee. She pours a handful of what looks like dog food into her coffee, stirs, takes a sip, and makes a face. “Es mal. Terible!” She says. I am not at all surprised. She continues drinking the sludgy liquid while I look on, horrified. She asks me if I have had breakfast. I say no, and she reaches into a cabinet, pulling out two boxes of cereal. What looks like corn flakes and a fiber cereal. The dog food. She pours me some cornflakes, and returns to the table. For the next five months, we will sit at this table together, along with my other roommates, every morning, and I will eat cornflakes.
I am tempted to put my head in my arms right there on the table and fall asleep, but she is asking me what I like to eat. We play a guessing game, where she names a food and I say “Si” or “No.” Sometimes, to show off, I will say “mas o menos” or “a veces.” Sometimes I say “No entiendo” when I don’t know what the food is. Where are my roommates? I ask her. “The other girls had afternoon flights.” She shows me computer print outs of their pictures. The other girls. Las otras niñas. She calls us all that, like she has forgotten our names when we leave a room. “Niña!” She will shout at me. “Bring me your laundry! Tell las otras niñas I am doing laundry today” or “La otra niña stayed out late last night. What was she doing?” I don’t know which of the other girls she is referring to, so I ask. She appears confused. “La otra!” I respond “No sé.” I don’t know. This, along with “No entiendo,” will be the foundation of most of María’s and I’s conversations. Through the first few weeks, it is all I know how to say, and it is the truth: I don’t know. I don’t know, quite often, because I can’t understand. Later, these phrases are a great way to avoid questions I don’t feel like answering. You can’t argue with someone that says they don’t understand the language.
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