My roommate tells me I look at the ground too much when I’m walking, which is probably true. Just the other day I remarked to her, “Look at the hills behind those houses in the distance!” She raised an eyebrow and said, “You haven’t noticed them? I saw them the first day and we’ve been here for five weeks!”
Even so, as we gathered in our host mother’s front hall with our valises, our manteaux and our gants for a week-long vacation to Barcelona, Spain, I didn’t fail to notice des flocons de neige that were starting to float past the window.
“J’espère qu’il n’y aura pas de retards!” our host mother told us as we donned our shoes, referring to the possible delays that we might experience at the bus station because of the snow. We reluctantly said our goodbyes and after thirty minutes of battling gusty winds and brushing off the frozen flakes settling on our heads, we finally reached the Cours Mirabeau, where the snow had already significantly accumulated. Giant icicles were forming on the moss-covered fountains in the center of the street. It was impossible to look at the sky without getting a face full of the falling powder. Thus it was probably for this reason, combined with my penchant for staring at the ground, that I managed to find seven cents par terre before we reached the bus station: a two-centime euro piece and a five-centime piece nestled in the newborn snow. I decided to take it as a good omen.
Once on the Eurolines bus, which happily managed to depart on time, my roommate and I found that the time passed rather quickly. We each had books to read and settled in for the long ride. There were few passengers on the bus with us, but even so it took me a few hours before I realized that two men, probably brothers, sitting in the back were chatting away not in French, but in Spanish! A true sign that we were en voyage to Spain.
Halfway through the evening, the jingle of a cell phone pierced the white noise of the bus that had been lulling us to sleep. How fitting, I remember thinking. A bit of Spanish music to accompany us on our journey to Spain! After a few more seconds of listening to the ringtone, however, I realized that what I was hearing was not the sounds of traditional Spanish music but rather the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean. An American major motion picture, mind you. I rolled my eyes as one of the brothers conversing in Spanish cut off the theme with a jovial “Bueno!”
Needless to say, it was apparent the moment we stepped foot on Spanish soil that American culture had invaded Barcelona, Spain’s second most-populated city. A McDonalds, Burger King, or KFC was located on almost every block, and our dear old friend Starbucks was indeed on every street corner. Seems the Spanish like their triple grande non-fat vanilla lattes just as much as we Americans do.
However Americanized coffee isn’t the only thing the Spanish have taken a liking to. When I ventured into a “supermercat” to buy a half-dozen eggs and a loaf of bread, the friendly storeowner took pity on my apparent cluelessness, handed me a rolling shopping basket, and asked me where I was from. Hesitantly, I responded with “the United States.” His face remained blank, so I amended my reply with an intelligent “uhh… America?” Instantly his face lit up and he exclaimed, “Ohhh, Obama!” I’m thankful he didn’t let loose an enthusiastic “McDonalds!” It’s a relief to know our country is recognized for its politics, even though it seems that the only thing that has pervaded every continent on this planet is our cuisine, which is somewhat lacking, to say the least.
What was more boggling was the stereotyped notion of America that two students from Indonesia held who we met at the youth hostel. They were astounded that we hadn’t heard of Eurotrip or American Pie, two American movies that apparently top the list of worst trashy films ever made. But then again, our knowledge of Indonesia wasn’t much better. All I could think of at that moment was that the tag on the shirt I was currently wearing claimed, “Made in Indonesia.” How’s that for a stereotype? Thankfully, I told my brain to keep my mouth shut.
As it turns out, the two students were eager to chat while we ate watery soup at the kitchen table, so we related that it was our first time staying in a hostel, and that it had gone very well so far save for a few minor mishaps, one of them involving another hostel resident named Patrick. T’en fais pas, Patrick has no idea what happened, but both my roommate and I would like to keep it that way. When Patrick and his girlfriend came in our shared four-person dormitory at 3:30 in the morning, I wouldn’t have noticed their presence at all except for about half an hour later, a sound like a leaf blower was coming from the direction of Patrick’s pillow. The snoring was so loud that I got up to go sleep on the couch outside, but even in the hallway I could still hear it. Talk about sawing logs! My roommate couldn’t sleep either, so at 6 AM we numbly ate a little breakfast, shoved some ear plugs in our ears and tried to salvage a shipwreck of a night’s sleep.
The Indonesian students were very sympathetic, since they too had spent several sleepless nights in hostels before. One of them reassured us, “Ah yes, the snorkeling makes it very hard to sleep.” I glanced at my roommate and we shared a suppressed grin. After a week in a country where I hadn’t the slightest idea of what anyone was saying, I was grateful that these two students spoke English and that we were able to enjoy a few hours company with them. On the bus ride home I realized that I felt honored to speak a language that is quickly becoming widespread and universally known, as it afforded us the opportunity to have numerous conversations with a variety of interesting and diverse people on our trip. In order to benefit fully from all the people I meet and all the sights I see here in Europe, I will have to keep my eyes off the ground in the future, pointed skyward, and ready for anything.
valises: suitcases
manteaux: coats
gants: gloves
des flocons de neige: snowflakes
J’espère qu’il n’y aura pas de retards: I hope there won't be any delays
par terre: on the ground
t'en fais pas: don't worry
Even so, as we gathered in our host mother’s front hall with our valises, our manteaux and our gants for a week-long vacation to Barcelona, Spain, I didn’t fail to notice des flocons de neige that were starting to float past the window.
“J’espère qu’il n’y aura pas de retards!” our host mother told us as we donned our shoes, referring to the possible delays that we might experience at the bus station because of the snow. We reluctantly said our goodbyes and after thirty minutes of battling gusty winds and brushing off the frozen flakes settling on our heads, we finally reached the Cours Mirabeau, where the snow had already significantly accumulated. Giant icicles were forming on the moss-covered fountains in the center of the street. It was impossible to look at the sky without getting a face full of the falling powder. Thus it was probably for this reason, combined with my penchant for staring at the ground, that I managed to find seven cents par terre before we reached the bus station: a two-centime euro piece and a five-centime piece nestled in the newborn snow. I decided to take it as a good omen.
Once on the Eurolines bus, which happily managed to depart on time, my roommate and I found that the time passed rather quickly. We each had books to read and settled in for the long ride. There were few passengers on the bus with us, but even so it took me a few hours before I realized that two men, probably brothers, sitting in the back were chatting away not in French, but in Spanish! A true sign that we were en voyage to Spain.
Halfway through the evening, the jingle of a cell phone pierced the white noise of the bus that had been lulling us to sleep. How fitting, I remember thinking. A bit of Spanish music to accompany us on our journey to Spain! After a few more seconds of listening to the ringtone, however, I realized that what I was hearing was not the sounds of traditional Spanish music but rather the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean. An American major motion picture, mind you. I rolled my eyes as one of the brothers conversing in Spanish cut off the theme with a jovial “Bueno!”
Needless to say, it was apparent the moment we stepped foot on Spanish soil that American culture had invaded Barcelona, Spain’s second most-populated city. A McDonalds, Burger King, or KFC was located on almost every block, and our dear old friend Starbucks was indeed on every street corner. Seems the Spanish like their triple grande non-fat vanilla lattes just as much as we Americans do.
However Americanized coffee isn’t the only thing the Spanish have taken a liking to. When I ventured into a “supermercat” to buy a half-dozen eggs and a loaf of bread, the friendly storeowner took pity on my apparent cluelessness, handed me a rolling shopping basket, and asked me where I was from. Hesitantly, I responded with “the United States.” His face remained blank, so I amended my reply with an intelligent “uhh… America?” Instantly his face lit up and he exclaimed, “Ohhh, Obama!” I’m thankful he didn’t let loose an enthusiastic “McDonalds!” It’s a relief to know our country is recognized for its politics, even though it seems that the only thing that has pervaded every continent on this planet is our cuisine, which is somewhat lacking, to say the least.
What was more boggling was the stereotyped notion of America that two students from Indonesia held who we met at the youth hostel. They were astounded that we hadn’t heard of Eurotrip or American Pie, two American movies that apparently top the list of worst trashy films ever made. But then again, our knowledge of Indonesia wasn’t much better. All I could think of at that moment was that the tag on the shirt I was currently wearing claimed, “Made in Indonesia.” How’s that for a stereotype? Thankfully, I told my brain to keep my mouth shut.
As it turns out, the two students were eager to chat while we ate watery soup at the kitchen table, so we related that it was our first time staying in a hostel, and that it had gone very well so far save for a few minor mishaps, one of them involving another hostel resident named Patrick. T’en fais pas, Patrick has no idea what happened, but both my roommate and I would like to keep it that way. When Patrick and his girlfriend came in our shared four-person dormitory at 3:30 in the morning, I wouldn’t have noticed their presence at all except for about half an hour later, a sound like a leaf blower was coming from the direction of Patrick’s pillow. The snoring was so loud that I got up to go sleep on the couch outside, but even in the hallway I could still hear it. Talk about sawing logs! My roommate couldn’t sleep either, so at 6 AM we numbly ate a little breakfast, shoved some ear plugs in our ears and tried to salvage a shipwreck of a night’s sleep.
The Indonesian students were very sympathetic, since they too had spent several sleepless nights in hostels before. One of them reassured us, “Ah yes, the snorkeling makes it very hard to sleep.” I glanced at my roommate and we shared a suppressed grin. After a week in a country where I hadn’t the slightest idea of what anyone was saying, I was grateful that these two students spoke English and that we were able to enjoy a few hours company with them. On the bus ride home I realized that I felt honored to speak a language that is quickly becoming widespread and universally known, as it afforded us the opportunity to have numerous conversations with a variety of interesting and diverse people on our trip. In order to benefit fully from all the people I meet and all the sights I see here in Europe, I will have to keep my eyes off the ground in the future, pointed skyward, and ready for anything.
valises: suitcases
manteaux: coats
gants: gloves
des flocons de neige: snowflakes
J’espère qu’il n’y aura pas de retards: I hope there won't be any delays
par terre: on the ground
t'en fais pas: don't worry