2008 Woodie Awards
Familes are different, no matter the translation
Erica Carroll '08
Issue date: 9/21/06 Section: Portfolio
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As I made my way through the Seville airport, I did my best to avoid women in outlandish polka dot dresses who were contestants for Miss Spain 2006 and were handing out jars of olives to arriving passengers.
I knew I was in Spain, but despite the outlandish polka dots, it didn't yet feel foreign to me. Never having been abroad before, I was fully prepared to be overwhelmed from the start-and by more than just polka dots. I read all the travel guides and literature about the culture shock prior to my departure, but as we left the airport and made our way toward the center of the city, I naively felt nothing but excitement. The idyllic setting of my first night was surreal-walking around the cobblestone streets near my hotel and listening to a street performer play the guitar for the passersby.
It may have been the jet lag, or the distraction of lost luggage or, most likely, the fact that I was in a bubble, surrounded by other American students for my first 48 hours in Seville, but I felt as though I had bypassed the adjustment period and was already well on my way to becoming fully comfortable with Spanish culture. That is, of course, until I met my señora.
In order to highlight the fact that the majority of us would not be living with families per se, with a mom, dad, 1.5 kids, and some sort of pet, the coordinator chose an assignment at random to read aloud: "This one is in the barrio of Triana. There's a señora, her daughter Dolores, who's 34 years old, and a cat."
As it turned out, the example given to us was my host family.
The next day, our señoras were supposed to pick us up by 11:30 a.m. I wound up being one of the last three people left, leaving the hotel around 1:00 p.m. By that point, I was so nervous that I couldn't decide if I wanted my señora to come or not. I'm pretty sure that the moment they called my name was the point at which I lost all ability to speak any Spanish beyond sí and vale, OK.
Concha, my señora, is an older woman. Though she is a half a foot shorter than me, at first sight she was the most imposing figure I'd ever seen. Bypassing me, she turned to my orientation guide the moment we were introduced and asked if I spoke Spanish. Embarrassed by my lack of ability and my nerves, I felt this kind of start did not bode well for our future together.
I knew I was in Spain, but despite the outlandish polka dots, it didn't yet feel foreign to me. Never having been abroad before, I was fully prepared to be overwhelmed from the start-and by more than just polka dots. I read all the travel guides and literature about the culture shock prior to my departure, but as we left the airport and made our way toward the center of the city, I naively felt nothing but excitement. The idyllic setting of my first night was surreal-walking around the cobblestone streets near my hotel and listening to a street performer play the guitar for the passersby.
It may have been the jet lag, or the distraction of lost luggage or, most likely, the fact that I was in a bubble, surrounded by other American students for my first 48 hours in Seville, but I felt as though I had bypassed the adjustment period and was already well on my way to becoming fully comfortable with Spanish culture. That is, of course, until I met my señora.
In order to highlight the fact that the majority of us would not be living with families per se, with a mom, dad, 1.5 kids, and some sort of pet, the coordinator chose an assignment at random to read aloud: "This one is in the barrio of Triana. There's a señora, her daughter Dolores, who's 34 years old, and a cat."
As it turned out, the example given to us was my host family.
The next day, our señoras were supposed to pick us up by 11:30 a.m. I wound up being one of the last three people left, leaving the hotel around 1:00 p.m. By that point, I was so nervous that I couldn't decide if I wanted my señora to come or not. I'm pretty sure that the moment they called my name was the point at which I lost all ability to speak any Spanish beyond sí and vale, OK.
Concha, my señora, is an older woman. Though she is a half a foot shorter than me, at first sight she was the most imposing figure I'd ever seen. Bypassing me, she turned to my orientation guide the moment we were introduced and asked if I spoke Spanish. Embarrassed by my lack of ability and my nerves, I felt this kind of start did not bode well for our future together.