“Now you are Spanish!”

My new friend Javi yelled this into my ear Friday night, in the middle of a bar in downtown Madrid, while we danced arm-in-arm with a group of Spanish chicos and chicas (girls and boys), singing songs in a language I’m starting to learn, little by little (poco a poco). The bar was called “Mamá no lo sabe” — “Mother doesn’t know.”

What I didn’t know was why Javi chose that moment to tell me, “Now you are Spanish!” But it felt good. Damn good.

There’s always an adjustment when you move somewhere new, especially when that somewhere is an ocean away from your home continent, from the country that people here call “Ooh-sa.” (In my school, I’ve led multiple classes in chants of “U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A!” until they learn to say it correctly.)

When I first arrived here about a month ago, I had no phone or Internet access and needed to meet up with two Canadians in the Madrid airport so we could take a shuttle to our hostel together. Not knowing much Spanish made things a million times easier … Not. But Vicky and Sergio somehow found me, and we all arrived safely at Hostel One Centro, where we had to carry our bags up four flights of stairs that seemed like 20.

My original reservation at Hostel One was for one bed in a two-bed room for two nights. I ended up moving from there to a four-bed room, then to a six-bed one, and staying for over a week. And part of me wishes I had moved in permanently.

You see, Hostel One Centro might as well have been called “Hostel One Fiesta.” (Hostel One Party.) Because during our time there, that’s exactly what it was. One night, a group of Slovenians celebrated their last evening there. The next, some Serbians and Australians moved in. It was like an international revolving door, and half the people who walked in were interesting, awesome, and friends. A number of people in my program were staying there, so it was great for bonding. We were all searching for apartments (an agonizing process with many hilarious moments) during the days and enjoying Madrid during the nights. I hope to stay in contact with a number of people from the Hostel One Days. They were some of the best of times.

Eventually, after hours of phone calls, apartment visits, and two down-payments on places we ended up not taking, we signed a lease for an apartment (¨piso¨). Four of us inhabit a groovy pad on Calle Fuencarral: Nate and Claire, who attended the University of South Carolina together (the “other” Carolina), Kris, from Philadelphia, and Yours Truly. We pay a decent amount per month, but the joint boasts a spacious living room and kitchen, along with a balcony that overlooks Quevedo Plaza and our metro (subway) station. Three guys and one girl certainly makes for an interesting dynamic, but we’re all live-and-let-live types.

Before arriving, I was very unsure about my level of Spanish, what teaching would be like, and what I would be teaching because our program told us precious little about what to expect. Along with many others, apparently, I emailed the program coordinators before the trip with all my concerns, and they replied with a mass email that basically said, ¨Relax! Once you get here, everything will be fine.¨And for the most part, they were right.

Conversing in Spanish definitely proved tough at first, especially since everyone speaks (in my eyes) as if they´re being paid on a words-per-minute basis. Pero durante el mes pasado, mi español ha mejorado mucho. (¨But during the past month, my Spanish has improved greatly.¨) Although the native-speakers´conversations still confuse me often, I am able to more or less converse when spoken to without losing too much in translation. Also, during my after-school English classes, I´ve surprised myself with my ability to say things in English and then translate them rather accurately into Spanish. It´s like learning and teaching simultaneously – killing dos aves with one stone.

And teaching rocks. School started on October 1st, and it’s been an incredible first month. Most of the auxiliares (the title for people doing my program) work Monday-Thursday, but I work Tuesday-Friday, arising daily between 6:00-6:30 a.m. That´s right: I, Nocturnal Sam, have been waking up at the crack of middle-age-normal-o’clock and leaving for the metro around 7:30.

The Spanish public transportation system is a godsend. I ride three different subway lines a single stop each before arriving at the Moncloa bus station in the northwest section of Madrid. From there, the 8:00 a.m. bus takes me to Alpedrete, 35-40 minutes northwest of the city. The ride to Alpedrete feels like something out of a movie — breathtaking vistas (views) of sunrise over the Pedriza mountain range, cada día (every day). My morning bus rides allow me to think, read, and write, and to practice my Spanish with other teachers from my school.

My school — C.E.I.P. Santa Quiteria — educates children of pre-school and elementary-school ages. I teach two different classes of fourth-graders once a week each and two classes of five-year-olds twice a week each, but I spend the majority of my time with two different classes of third-graders. The third-graders speak English the best because they have been in the bilingual program for three years now, the fourth-graders missed the chance to enter the program by a year. (If only their parents could´ve waited a little longer.)

With the students, my friend Justin — the other auxiliar — and I speak English exclusively. Most of the kids have no idea that we can understand them. In some ways, it would be great to speak Spanish with them, but then they wouldn´t be forced to use their English with us.

With the teachers, we speak Spanish … except for the times when we teach them swear words, toilet humor, sexual innuendos and other tidbits of American vocabulary that must be understood by any English-speaker-to-be. (More to come on these conversations in a subsequent post.)

Right now, I want to post this so people have some idea what I´m up to, in general, across the Atlantic. Stay tuned to the Life in Spain section for updates about more specific and exciting adventures.

Coming full circle: Why did Javi say to me, “Now you are Spanish!” the other night?

I’m not sure, but it probably had something to do with the fact that the adjustment phase has transitioned into a new one, one of assimilation — poco a poco. Every day that passes here makes me feel a bit more comfortable, a bit less like a tourist, a bit closer to understanding this not-so-foreign land.

Will I ever be truly Spanish? Of course not. Too much American blood courses through these veins, and I’m more interested in being a citizen of the world than swearing by one flag or another.

Still, hearing those words — “Now you are Spanish!” — at a bar whose name means “Mother Doesn’t Know,” dancing among strangers who welcomed me into their midst, enjoying the moment without a thought to past or future … I can’t really describe it.

But it felt damn good.

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