Madrid 1981

It was January 1981. Ronald Reagan had just succeeded Jimmy Carter as the 40th President of the United States. After 444 days in captivity, the US hostages in Iran were set free. In Ireland, the first DeLorean automobile rolled off the assembly line. The Western World was abuzz with the news that Prince Charles was taking a bride. And I was going to Spain.

Since Shakib's arrival, I have been flooded with memories of my own study abroad program during my junior year at Marquette University. What I remember most about the weeks immediately preceding and following my departure for Spain is how unreal it all felt. Surely I would wake up and find it had all been a dream.

I knew of no one from Nipomo, CA, population 3000, where I'd grown up, who had ever studied at a university abroad. One of 5 children, 3 of whom were in college, I was completely dependent on academic scholarships, loans and a small work-study check to pay my tuition and living expenses. As I made my preparations to leave for Madrid over the Christmas holiday, I was sure that The Fates would soon intervene and set me straight: Madrid was a fantasy, too expensive, too far away, impossible for the likes of me.

Even as I winged my way over the Atlantic on that eastbound DC-10, I could not fully grok what was about to happen. I was going to live and study in Madrid. It was early 1981, a mere 5 years post-Franco, and I was on my way to another world.

The Spanish people were just waking up to the freedom and responsibility that comes with being a democratic monarchy. In Madrid, I experienced a myriad of cultural, political and societal differences including very different standards for female dress and behavior. I witnessed an attempted military coup. I got a new perspective on my own country and its place among nations. And I learned to honor, appreciate and embrace the societal expectations, the foods, the siestas, the fiestas, and many other facets of Spanish life so much that, once back in the US, I longed to return to Spain.

And I learned the language. Although I had been studying Spanish since the 5th grade, I do not easily pick up languages. But after 10 years of Spanish classes (I was now a Spanish major), my reading and writing were good enough that I could recognize many authors by their style.

My expressive and receptive language skills were another matter. They sucked. Fear of looking bad had always kept me from speaking up in class, and I now found myself at the Universidad Complutense with professors who arrived 10 minutes late for a 60 minute class, rushed through their lectures, and spoke not one word of English.

It was do or die. So I did.

I learned to take notes without translating, letting the words flow through me onto the page. I learned to jump into rowdy political discussions at the family dinner table or over tapas and beer in neighborhood bars. And I learned to negotiate with my señora (landlady) about such touchy subjects as the toilet paper supply and the length of my showers.

All of us American students were starved for contact with family and friends. This was pre-Internet and the cost of international calls far exceeded my meager budget. Therefore, every letter from home was like manna from heaven. ("Letters, we've got letters...")

I was 4 years older than Shakib is now. I had lived 2000 miles from my family home for over 2 years -- attending school in Milwaukee -- which was almost as much of a culture shock for a girl from the central California coast as Madrid would prove to be.

The many adventures and lessons learned were worth the anxiety and intermittent homesickness. Still I remember the fear: Would I like the foods? Would I get lost? Would I say the wrong thing and be misunderstood? Would I make friends? Would I offend someone? Would I fail my classes? Would I make the most of this amazing opportunity?

Contemplating my own experiences at age 21 magnifies my appreciation for 17-year-old Shakib who had never spent a single night away from home before leaving for India 6 weeks ago; Shakib whose English reading and writing scores - like mine - are much higher than his scores for speaking and listening; Shakib who is not - as I was - participating in a program run by and for his countrymen but must fully integrate into a US high school; Shakib who greets each day with a smile on his face and courage in his heart.