I am not living your Spanish dream over here, whatever that may be.
In fact, what I am living is a life like any other, just with different sets of advantages and disadvantages, challenges and rewards, anxieties and excitement. I work, I worry, and I struggle. I also see aspects of my much-dreamed-of European life starting to happen.
As such, since the American election, when friends back there have told me they think of being over here, I have often said I can happily talk them into it or out of it.
But the above paragraph contains an important shift, and one which I barely had to think about: America is “back there.” They aren’t friends “back home,” but friends back in a place where I used to live. That’s a fundamental change, highly focused by the election, which colors my experience of all the details I am experiencing over here.
Two recent sketches from my life here do well to show what I am talking about.
In one, I went with a group of 8 or so AA friends from the local English-speaking group — an incredibly important base of social, personal, spiritual contact and also technical help in building a Spanish life — to see one of our fellows appear in a theater troupe. I took the Metro with a couple of people, met up with the rest of them, and found myself surrounded by American and English expats (the theater was in English) and remembering that I’m in a city of six million people, to which people have been moving for many years, and there are communities within the community, friends of friends, entire spans of lifestyle and culture that I can tap into.
The plays were delightful, and there was a real sense of togetherness in support of our member. And I got a chance to chat with some AAs for longer than usual. And then, emerging from my local Metro station on the way home, I remembered that I needed eggs and bread for the next morning, so I just popped into the grocery store, grabbed what I needed, and meandered down the narrow streets to home, passing bars and cafes and little plazas filled with people out enjoying the evening.
In the second, I experience a fairly routine health situation, almost certainly caused by stress: I haven’t taken a proper, normal shit in a few weeks. In the States, I would simply call the doctor and say, “What do you think?” But imagine, if you will, that it is impossible to speak with your doctor’s office — in my case, because I won’t understand what they are saying in return. So begin to turn the wheels of anxiety. Do I need translation help? Does anyone there speak English? How do I get an appointment if I need one? How do appointments even work? What does my insurance cover?
So you try to do as much of this by email as you can, but at some point the phone rings, and it’s the medical group calling to confirm your appointment, but you’re not sure what they’re saying, so it gets frustrating, and they are busy and frustrated — probably not as much as you think, but still — and then your head chatter starts and you understand even less of what they’re saying. Then at some point you realize they are reading out numbers, which is probably date, time and location, so you just ask if an email is coming and figure you’ll just read that when you have time to sort it out. And then you have to find the hospital, check in, not understand much of what that person says, and have a conversation with a doctor who doesn’t know your history or speak English, and hope you don’t get dinged for a big bill or something — and that you someday manage to shit normally again. Or you have to bother some friend of yours to go with me and help.
So, to the first scenario you can add: walking to a neighborhood theater to see classical music; taking a bus an hour to pine-filled mountains for a hike with friends; flying two hours (for $100) to Florence to see an old friend; taking a train to Seville to see a soccer game; exploring all the nooks and crannies of your new city; experiencing tiny moments of connection with local people; realizing they are not constantly obsessed with the unfolding political disaster in America; or any other part of the European Dream Life you may be carrying around in your head.
And, to the second, you may add: fearing Spanish numbers on your phone; getting the wrong haircut because you don’t say something right; standing outside the bakery trying to remember how to say “half a loaf” and hoping there are no follow-up questions; realizing only later what somebody was actually trying to say to you; the ongoing fear that you are a pain in someone’s ass; seeing a protest against people like you paying rent like yours for an apartment like yours; hoping nobody on the Metro tries to start a conversation with you; and, in my case, coming home to an apartment filled with somebody else’s furniture and having nobody to discuss your day with.
And so, while living a Spanish life, I continue to dream of a future Spain. Some day, I remind myself, I will know what they are saying, and how it works, and my apartment will feel like a home. “Getting by” will give way to conversations and connections. I will have real, and possibly actually Spanish, friends. Perhaps even a date or two. The troubles will ease, and the advantages will expand.
Until then, it’s a lot of damn work. And fun. It is a life, not a dream, but I will keep stumbling towards the European life I have long dreamed of.