On the eve of my big move to Spain, my Fulbright adventure, I envisioned a picturesque Spanish life for myself. I saw myself sitting in a quaint cafe, drinking café con leche and writing poetic prose in my worn-out black notebook. I envisioned myself gaining Spanish fluency with the ease of getting back on the bike after years of letting the dust collect on its frame. I saw myself making Spanish friends, with whom I’d drink vino on terrazas, discussing Spanish politics and the ways we as people are different, but also the same.
In reality, it took months for me to feel okay just walking outside of my apartment. Every time I took a step out onto the street, anxiety punched me in the gut. The culture shock, exacerbated by the language barrier, hit hard. In Barcelona, almost everyone speaks English (and Castilian Spanish and Catalan); but in Madrid—a working city more than a tourist destination— the only way you can live, much less thrive, is by speaking and understanding Spanish. Since my Spanish had been lying dormant for five years, every encounter seemed like a battle. I’d have to psych myself up to speak to the representative at the bank or even order a cup of coffee. I’d mentally prepare a prewritten dialogue, and if the conversation went off-script, I’d panic.
For my first few months in Spain, I’d often take refuge on the terraza of my fifth-floor apartment. I’d sit out on the balcony during the time of day when the sky eases itself into twilight, dipping perfectly in temperature and brightness. I’d look out onto the old, picturesque rooftops that reminded me of the city’s romance. Down there, I might be an outsider, a gringa. But up here, untainted beauty welcomed me with open arms.
After three months of slowly but surely easing myself into Spanish life, one caña and tapa at a time, I made an active choice to put myself out there. I forced myself to start conversations with Spanish people whenever I could—in my school’s teachers lounge, at bars with friends, and even while waiting for my clothes to dry in the laundromat. I found that, with a little effort, I could form small yet meaningful bonds with people, giving me more confidence and a sense of home in this city.
Even if you master the Castilian dialect—where the z’s and c’s sound more like a “th” lisp—the social language might be difficult for an 
American to understand, as the cultural differences are at times subtle while other times stark. Minor cultural differences include: eating lunch at 3 p.m. and dinner at 10; giving two besos on alternating cheeks whenever meeting someone, be it your best friend or someone you’re meeting for the first time; rushing to the bank (or any other bureaucratic institution) before it closes for the day at 3 in the afternoon; and, my favorite, playing countless games of “chicken” on the sidewalk, which, as far as I can make out, is a free-for-all with no code of etiquette.
Some of the larger cultural differences can be summed up with Spain's seemingly favorite phrase: no pasa nada. It has varied and frequent functions. You’re a half-hour late to work in the morning? No pasa nada. You’re a little late handing in your really important government form that you need to stay in the country? No pasa nada... . You’re stressed out by all of the things you need to do? No pasa nada. Relax.
While walking down Travesía de los Cabestreros in Madrid’s Lavapiés neighborhood, I stumbled upon a handwritten sign. It read, “La vida es hobby o trabajo?”—or, is life a job or a hobby? Perhaps the most critical difference between Spanish and American ideologies resides in our varying answers to this question. While it seems that many Americans live to work, the Spanish seem to do the opposite: Many work only so much as the job requires, so as to get home to their friends and families as soon as possible. Many value their relationships above all things and would gladly be late to a work function if that meant finishing up a meaningful conversation with a loved one. While my fast-paced, efficiency-minded personality often criticizes the seeming lack of organization or promptness in my Spanish peers, in many ways I’m impressed by their ability to prioritize what really matters in life.
Undoubtedly, though, the Spanish are wracked by their own set of problems. My high school students often speak uneasily about the future of Spain, whose economy has been struggling for several years. While American children often have a quick, enthusiastic answer to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, my students often profess a fear, even a self-doubt, about their own future. They answer instead, “Whatever job I can make money doing.”
While they are (rightfully) concerned with things that are out of their immediate control—the government, the economy—many españoles know how to take things easy. From the consumption of simple, unprocessed foods to long walks after a large lunch, they seem know how to keep calm and live well.
And this relaxed lifestyle is contagious. For the first time in years, I let myself roam a city without a destination in mind. I go to bed without anxiety about the work I have to do tomorrow, because, quite honestly, I had a good day today. I couldn’t help but let myself become transformed by this place. Because there’s a lot to learn from these compassionate, bold, resilient, and lovable people.
—Kelsey R. Hughes
Kelsey R. Hughes is a Pitt alumna who graduated in spring 2014 with majors in English Writing and English literature, and a minor in Sociology. Some of her works can be seen in Pitt Magazine, h magazine, and The Pitt News. In 2014, she won first prize in the Writer’s Café / Prosody Nonfiction contest. She currently lives in Madrid on an English Teaching Assistantship (ETA) Fulbright scholarship.