The first week: from horror to happiness
We stood by awkwardly as the driver loaded our suitcases into the back of the car. “Gracias,” we said, one by one, before piling into the vehicle. When he turned on the radio, rapidfire Spanish filled the empty air. Perhaps sensing that we were uncomfortable, he adjusted the dial, and Jason Derulo lyrics – in English – radiated from the speakers. We spoke mostly in our native tongue, save for a few awkward questions directed at our escort. One by one, we were brought to our host families.
Nothing could have prepared me for the shock I would face when meeting my host mother. One minute, I was speaking fluent English with a group of other American students; the next, I was being simultaneously kissed and barraged with questions by a woman who didn’t speak a word of my language. Jetlagged and filled with a growing sense of dread, I froze. “Ashley, hablas español? No hablo inglés.” My host mother gripped my shoulders tightly and searched my eyes for understanding. At this moment, it became clear to me that it was sink or swim. “Un poquito, pero puedo hablar más de lo que comprender. Estoy muy cansada.” My mother seemed satisfied, and immediately tried to reassure me. “Vale, no te preocupes. Puedes descansar hoy.” She took me by one limp hand and led me from room to room, fumbling with keys to show me how each lock worked.
I ate silently in her kitchen, feeling unable to muster a word from either of the languages that I had worked so hard to master. After lunch, I fled to my room, where I flopped onto my bed and immediately initiated a series of panicked texts and phone calls to my English-speaking family and friends back home. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t do this. I wouldn’t survive, never mind enjoy myself. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to pretend I was in my bed in International Village. The oppressive heat outside, over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, only contributed to the overwhelming sense of suffocation.
That afternoon, we met at our new school for an orientative walk and gymkhana (a type of scavenger hunt). To my surprise, I understood every word spilling out of our guide’s mouth. Around each corner was something unexpected and beautiful: La Feria del Libro en Plaza Nueva, bailadores drawing an audience en la Avenida de la Constitución, and la Catedral de Sevilla overlooking the entire city. After the tour, we roamed the streets of Sevilla, looking for answers to our gymkhana questions – or alternatively, friendly locals who might be willing to provide us with the information we needed. The first person we approached was an older gentleman. Not only did he tell us what we needed to know about el Archivo General de Indias, but he also gave us a brief history lesson. The next man we approached, a waiter, was unfamiliar with the street we were asking about. However, instead of sending us on our way, he disappeared to consult a friend and returned with a map. With each stranger we approached, a small sense of hope blossomed within me. My Spanish wasn’t entirely unintelligible – I was capable of meaningful interactions with the locals. Maybe I could be happy here.
During this orientation and every day since, two themes have permeated every one of my interactions with this city: beauty and happiness. The attention to detail here is incredible. Saturday night, I went out to tapas with some new friends. As we sipped on our tinto de verano, someone pointed out that even the underside of the window was carefully sculpted. The walk from my host family’s house to the language school is a thirty-five minute feast for the senses: the cool breeze rustling the palms outside my room, the maze of sky-high buildings in every hue imaginable, the sun glittering on the gentle green surface of the Guadalquivir, the rhythmic click of hooves on pavement.
On Saturday morning, I passed by an outdoor restaurant on my way to meet some friends. The tables were full, their occupants still laughing heartily and nursing alcoholic beverages – and it was eight o’clock in the morning! Later this weekend, we paid a visit to the feria de Jerez, where men and women alike flaunted their Sunday best, purchased pitchers of rebujito (a traditional feria drink made with white wine and Sprite), and danced for hours on end. Despite the political and economic difficulties that Spain is currently facing, I suspect that you would be hard-pressed to find a pessimistic Andalucían. The smiles and laid-back energy of this region are contagious, and the underlying philosophy is one worth adopting: Why condemn yourself to misery when you can commit to walking in the sun? 
