April 11: Got Culture Shock

It’s my second night in Spain if you count the horrible night I spent waiting for a bus in Alicante and I’m all by myself in this pretty big house lying in bed and every weird sound from outside (I hope from outside) is really standing out so I’ll write to whoever’s reading this thing in order to distract myself.

You wouldn’t believe this place. I didn’t believe this place, or this village either, because I just assume that globalism has essentially flattened everything out into a homogenous gllob, give or take a few details which keep the tourist industry up and running. But I actually think I’m experiencing a bit of culture shock. It’s so different here. I’m staying, as I said, in a farmhouse (which is a term for the square model house that we associate with Spanish architecture I think – well, I’ll check that out) and it’s up in a hill, nestled in with I’d say twenty or so other homes which make up the “town” I’m in.

It’s on the Southeast coast of Spain in a super remote area apparently – far more remote than I had expected even though this area isn’t even mentioned in Lonely Planet. My bus from Alicante only went to the larger town of Vera and the guy driving for the public transit system that links the connecting small villages had no clue where my village was. After being nice enough to stop at a store and ask around, he got me close, but not that close. He dumped me on the side of the highway and said I was only 2 km from where I wanted to be. Not the case, and it’s very hilly and backroady here.

My suitcase is the WORST – I’m so irritated with myself for not doing the whole backpacking thing and for taking seriously like 14 kgs worth of books with me. So I’m trying to walk up hills with my suitcase and my two overflowing annoying bags and it’s really dangerous with the narrow roads and the vehicles coming at me both ways. I felt like depositing books like Gogol’s “Dead Souls” and Soloveitchek’s “Lonely Man of Faith” etc at each 5 pace on the side of the highway but I had suffered their weight thus far so I kept on trucking. I ended up accepting a ride from a really nice man, which I shouldn’t have done, I know, but I could tell by his face that he was nice. Not by his words because no one speaks English here. I promise, mom. My chances were actually higher that I’d be hit by a car than be slaughtered by this stranger and I was so sore and sleep deprived that I just did it – and it turned out fine. I kept saying “Soy perdido” to him, thinking that I was thanking him by saying “I was scared” but when I was safe in my house I thought back to this and realized that it would have translated to “I am scared,” which was a very poor way of thanking the man.

Anyways, I wonder if I can add a sound or video clip on here? I’ll try to. If anyone knows how to do it, let me know. Because the sounds that come through my window say it all for the new environment I’m in: roosters crow like crazy for an hour, then shut up for awhile, then start up again; goats are bleeting; chickens, of course, are part of the sound sensation, though I don’t mind them, they’re quiet; and there seem to be a lot of dogs in this village and they have quiet the little social network. If one little old abuela walks past where dog A is leashed to his house on the bottom of the hill, for instance, it’s like that scene from 101 Dalmations. My mind hasn’t blanked out the sounds of crickets yet. Francesco, the eighty-year old head of the town, is my neighbour, and his grandkids run just below my house playing their games. My house is almost at the very top of the incline and the sounds come at my house. I think part of what creates this strange cacophony is that that the homes are made of concrete and clay/stone and are laid out on the hill in such a way that our sounds echo off one another. You wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from anyone in this place.

I’m not very happy here yet. The language barrier is really hard to deal with. The Spanish people that I have dealt with so far all seem so impatient with me when I can only communicate with them in my really bad Spanish, which is sorely based on a one-term Spanish class I took 4 years ago. It makes sense. One bus driver was mad at me for something and was yelling in my face and I had no idea what he was saying. It was scary. I didn’t know if he was being cruel or fair. Also, it seems that many of the people only rarely come across someone who can’t speak their language. Many will keep on rattling on in long sentences to me after I’ve already said “No comprendo Espanol. Los siento” in response to like the last 5 things they have said to me – and they seem irritated at me anew each time I have to say that to them again. I can’t even explain how frustrating it is. I feel like I’m always being impolite and a nuisance.

And every small thing is just extremely different. The air, for instance, is so heady with the smell of rosemary that it’s giving me a pretty bad headache. Funny coming from the smog of Toronto and then London, but it’s true. Psychologically I think it’s wonderful, but my body is repulsed by it. Even items of food that are part of our daily staples in Canada like milk, pasta, cheese, etc, are tinted with a different flavour – and coming to me all at once, rather than in the small doses that make me love this stuff in Canada, it’s making my stomach hurt.

These are all things that I’m going to value once I get acclimated but it is hitting me all at once today and I am finding it overbearing. I’m suffering culture shock, which I hadn’t factored in. Basically it’s just a bit scary being here alone when everything around me is remote and I can’t communicate with strangers, let alone with a travel companion who cares about me. Nobody here cares about me! I don’t know why I came here alone, seriously, except I guess so I can write. Does any one want to fly and meet me here? Wahh. Well, just the first night blues and now they’re duly recorded. I give myself 3 days until I’m gushing! The good thing is that my isolation should help me get some writing done.