Arrival

August 31

The flight from England and the first day in Granada were an absolute whirlwind. We left the hotel at 3:45am and I was exhausted from the lack of sleep (among other things). We stepped out of the bus in the sweltering heat (I was to find out later that the heat was not sweltering at all, only slightly sweltering for the citizens of Granada). We all nervously milled about waiting for our host mothers to scoop us up. We looked like children at a bus stop on the first day of school and that was exactly how I felt.

My host mother’s name is Sebí, she’s a tiny nurturing little Spaniard originally from Cadíz. As I was looking like death warmed over, she was eager to help. She offered to wheel my suitcase for a while, a suitcase that easily outweighed her and was almost as tall as she was. When she felt the weight, she laughed and gave it right back.

Upon arrival at Casa de Sebí, she started force-feeding me a heaping bowl of spaghetti. I couldn’t help but make the connection between the thick, orange meaty sauce and what was churning about in my own stomach. That though accompanied by the true nausea I was feeling allowed me but a handful of bites. Sebí seemed disappointed that I didn’t eat Spaghetti Mountain. Not just disappointed, disappointed in me, as though the content of my character was directly related to the capacity of my stomach. In any case, she let me shower and take a nap. Up until this point I thought I was doing quite well. England was a blast, somehow I remained with my group with my belongings intact and I even held my own in a Spanish conversation with a real live Spaniard. But when I laid down for my nap it all hit me. I had no friends, I barely spoke the language, I wasn’t hungry, I missed my girlfriend, and above all I was sweating profusely. I wasn’t sweating because I had played an intense game of ultimate Frisbee or because I had finished desodding a lawn; I was lying down in a bed. It was this thought, the idea that I was going to be an inarticulate, lonely, sweaty mess for four months that brought on the tears. I whimpered in the fetal position for about 15 minutes and fell asleep. And I mean asleep asleep, not a cozy little cat nap, I’m talking multiple REM cycles. I woke up somewhat refreshed and somewhat more secure. I was still worried the worst was yet to come as far as homesickness goes. I was just going to have to wait and see.

Hasta luego,

Erik