Next Adventure, First Week of Classes

     After a summer of skedaddling around the US to see some of the people I was pining for while in Urumbamba,  I embarked on my last big traveling adventure for a while, a semester studying abroad in Madrid, Spain. Upon arrival at our four bedroom (although modest) city apartment Annie (my roommate) and I introduced ourselves to our host mother, Maria Jesus, host father Blas (a butcher), and host sister Aitana, who is our age and full of sage advice regarding Spanish malls, teens, culture, and men. The next day we arose at 7 (1 in the morning American time) to attend an orientation where we were harangued for 3 days with salient facts regarding the culture, as well as admonitions against all of the bad things that we could possibly do in Madrid, as well as the world. The embassy was also kind enough to visit and outline what we should do in case of an international emergency, but ended with the final note that if we were to land in jail they could not get us out, but would visit every ninety days upon request. 
       After two weeks of being abroad, classes finally began. More harrowing than taking four classes in a foreign language was registration, which opened at 8:30 a.m. and was first-come-first-serve. Feeling ambitious as well as apprehensive about not getting the classes we wanted, Annie and I arrived at the school at 6:30 a.m. only to find that we were 21 and 22 on the list of eager beavers who were already there, the earliest who had trekked to the school in the wee hours of the morning and arrived at 3:30 a.m. 
      As Duke students, we have three classes in Spanish with only other Duke students, and one taken with the local Spanish university members. Five minutes into our university class and the differences were already striking. We had been carefully instructed in our hours of orientation about proper classroom etiquette. While stretching in class is viewed as a sign of disrespect, eating is prohibited. We Americans were also confronted on our first day with an elevated sense of fashion and wisps of cigarette smoke that none of us possessed. The class was (and is) clearly delineated between Americans and Spaniards- we arrived early and crowded nervously into the front desks, while the natives arrived on time and sat in the back. 
     The professor strolled in, and we collectively leaned forward in a futile attempt to understand everything she said, as well as in hopes of displaying our obvious respect for her. She talked for a bit, and upon mentioning something about Abercrombie finally opening a store in Spain (it was an advertising course), and the room erupted. The Americans sat in silence as the students in the back spoke excitedly to each other. We waited for the uproar to cease but it didn't; they talked and talked and talked while we waited for the teacher to get angry, or at least shush them. Instead, she stood patiently in front of the room until it died down a bit ad she began to speak again. After this happened a few times, it was apparent that this was a norm, for this class at least. I no longer felt like our (American) refusal to always dress nicely for class or to refrain from consuming a meal during a Powerpoint rendered us disrespectful students, but rather that it was interesting how the Spanish education system cherishes such different rules from our own. Hopefully we will soon be able to navigate these new rules gracefully and without the obvious and defining air of gringos.