This weekend, I said hola to not only Barcelona, but new faces and fears, as well.
I am completely and wholeheartedly afraid of people. I’m serious. If you were to ask me my biggest fear, it would not be heights or spiders or ghosts. Ever since I was little, the thing that gave me the most anxiety was other human beings. I think it’s because they’re so unpredictable. You can fall from heights, spiders bite, ghosts go, “boo!” But humans, you never ever know what they’re going to do next. They can be kind to you or they could be the most hateful thing you have ever encountered, and all you can do it trust that they won’t be the latter.
This week in Barcelona has been the most educational week we’ve had yet. In Italy, I feel pretty well acquainted with the culture. I understand the language, I speak it, I’m getting the hang of the timing of things and how people interact with others. I feel comfortable.
Barcelona, however, has been a wake up call. The last time I took Spanish was over 5 years ago. And though I took it for 4 years, for some reason, the only words that stuck with me were zapatos (shoes), pantalones (pants) and hola (you should know this one, c’mon). Obviously these are not the most beneficial words for three white American females navigating the streets of Spain. I don’t even think we have used the former two words yet. Therefore, it was a bit of a hurdle to figure out the metro, the buses, and how to get from point a to point b.
Once we managed to get the hang of the city, we were thrown into the hustle and bustle of a purely Spanish-speaking metropolis. I assumed the culture would be at least somewhat similar to Italy, but I was pretty decently wrong. Where Italy is relaxed and calm, Barcelona is hustle and bustle. Where Italy is “enjoy your food,” Barcelona is “is this to go?” When Italy says rest, Barcelona tells us to move faster. However, the crowds of people who didn’t speak my language or fit the image that I so insensitively pictured was definitely my biggest struggle this weekend. Or so I thought... and then, we arrived at our hostel.
Quick disclaimer: mom, you might want to stop reading here, because I don’t want to freak you out. Just know, we were soooo safe and I knew that the number to the police was 211 in Spain!
We assumed our room would be private, but due to a slight and unfortunate mishap with our booking, to our GREAT surprise upon opening our door, that was not the case. In fact, we were sharing the room! With 3 grown men! Who didn’t speak English! And smoked literally 10 cigarettes every half hour on the hour! To say I was uneasy was an understatement. Here I was, sleeping (the most vulnerable I felt I could be) in a room with strangers who had access to my room, my things, and myself at any point. I automatically assumed since they were strangers that they were evil and hell-bent on ungodly and depraved intentions (which honestly, is better than being aloof in my opinion, but still).
I resolved to myself that I would not be sleeping in that room that evening, however due to ANOTHER unfortunate situation (AKA, it’s Carnevale and they had already booked our private room), that would not be happening.
With the idea that a bed with a curtain that blocked me from the strangers sleeping in my room was better than the streets, we had no other choice but to sleep in our hostel.
I won’t get into it, but I will tell you I’m glad we stayed where we did. It turns out, we actually made some cool friends. We enjoyed tapas with three Greeks named - i kid you not - Demetrius, Demetrius, and Antonios (or Demetrius, Jimmy, and Tony for us uncultured folk who can’t roll our tongues). Our friends from the hostel were software developers living in Barcelona and staying in the hostel until they found a place to live. We shared stories, we learned a lot about each other’s cultures, and we spoke politics (I’ve been asked about trump and the death penalty and guns more than I care to admit). We talked about America and Greece and Barcelona and what makes us different and what makes us the same, and by the end of the night, I actually felt safer in my little hostel in Barcelona than I would staying in a hotel in New York.
While I don’t think we will be staying in a hostel again soon (I really could have done without the smoking and the semi-community showers and full-community bathrooms) (also I am pretty sure my mother will forbid if after she reads this post), I really am honestly grateful for this trip. I was forced to give strangers a chance when I would have not been otherwise. I was shown that sometimes, the most eye-opening relationships are forged from unorthodox situations. I was forced to understand that while strangers are unpredictable, sometimes they surprise you in a good way, and new cultures are just that: new, which is not synonymous with “wrong” or “scary.”
I also really do feel like I’ve learned a lot about my place in the world as an American and as a traveler in contrast and in comparison to the rest of the world. Sometimes us Americans like to feel like we are the almighty: what we say goes, we can do whatever we want, our culture is THE culture. Our way or the highway. I appreciated listening to other inputs that differed from my own, input that tells me that a lot of the times, that’s not always the case. Input that tells me to shove my ethnocentricity.
I am grateful I was forced to meet new people and learn about how we are the same and how we are different - something I never would have even thought about in a classroom in America. This week, instead of being fearful of abnormality or difference, I am grateful for new people in new places.
Ciao for now.
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