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BY TIFFANY LIAO

In print | Published January 29, 2009

My fellow Swarthmoreans, I decided to write this column because I know at least half of my friends maintain our friendship because of the ego boost they gain watching me stumble into awkward situation after awkward situation. Aware of the fragility of Swarthmore egos everywhere, I decided to open up my cringe-worthy life to all of you as well.

For the next few weeks, join in the divertido and let me regale you with daily adventures (as long as they don’t interrupt the siesta), sage observations on la vida cotidiana in Madrid (eh, 50/50 chance) and awkward situations (a guarantee) which will only be compounded by my inability to express myself properly in Spanish.

First impression? Madrid is a beautiful city with a mix of gorgeously ornate old architecture and glimmering streamlined department stores. So far, I’ve traveled to Andalucía and gawked at the white-washed pueblos and towering cathedrals, “learned” to “flamenco,” made amigos nuevos and watched a series of perfect sunsets on a beach in Nerja. Oh, there is also currently a crippling food shortage in Spain right now because I have EATEN ALL OF THE FOOD IN SPAIN. De verdad, hombre, put down the Sharples paella because it’s all a lie.

In my upcoming columns, I’ll spend more time on discussing actually living in Spain, but for my inaugural column, I’ll focus on something a lot more familiar to y’all: being Swawkward in Spain. In the weeks leading up to Madrid, my primary worry was about the incoming culture shock, especially having been warned by other students about race relations in Spain. That is, when I wasn’t worried about whether I would sit next to someone attractive on the plane. (Why, you ask? The last time I fell asleep on a plane, I only woke up when I felt something dripping on my shoulder. It was my own drool.)

Oddly enough, it wasn’t being Asian American in Spain that caused the greatest culture shock. (Although, I swear, the next person that hoots konichiwa at me, I will punch them in the esophagus. Or, you know, smile hesitantly and nod. Damn my constant need to please).

Instead, the biggest adjustment is how completely socially adept madrileños are. My skin hasn’t crawled over the awkwardness of a situation once since I’ve been here. There isn’t even a word in Spanish for “awkward,” the closest approximation being “torpe” or clumsy. Although just because a word doesn’t exist in Spanish doesn’t mean the thing doesn’t occur — “sketchy” being a perfect example. Even after I supplied Marcos, a madrileño, with a bevy of examples of awkward situations while discreetly declining to mention the major role I played in most of them, he wrinkled his brow and asked, “Like … a shy person?” No, Marcos. Not … even … close.

Of course, being who I am, soon I schooled Marcos in the way of the awkward. While talking to my new Spanish bestie, I became so animated that the piece of gum I was chewing flew out and then, jesús, stuck in my hair. Slightly panicking, I blanked and deferred to my default reservoir of social maneuvers. Only to find that Swarthmore had fully laid waste to them. So, instead of throwing away the masticated chicle from my hair, I somehow decided the best way to deal with the situation was to take the gum out of my hair, put it back in my mouth and keep talking like nothing happened. To his credit, I only noticed the faintest trace of alarm in Marcos’ eyes as he watched me gamely continue chewing on a piece of gum that I’m fairly certain still had a hair hanging from it. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.

Honestly, though, the thing that has incurred the largest number of awkward situations is the Spanish practice of dos besos. I’m sure many of you know this, but the standard manner of greeting and saying goodbye between a Spanish chico and chica, or two chicas is “dar dos besos”: a quick air kiss on each side of the cheek. This is regardless of age or intimacy of relationship. In general, the concept of personal space doesn’t really exist in Spain. Upon meeting me, Spanish people will jovially grab my neck or waist (or culo … but that’s another story) and speak right into my ear. At first, it was a little disconcerting speaking to someone when I was constantly aware that our eyeballs were a millimeter away from touching.

Because Rick Steves® told me, I knew about dos besos and was a little nervous about such an ostensibly intimate act with a stranger. Let me preface: My family is Taiwanese. Not to generalize, but we don’t touch. Ever. We love each other, but we prefer to show this through cursory shoulder grazes we pass off as hugs.

Mostly, my greatest fear was that I would somehow misaim my puckered lips and make contact with the face or even worse, the lips, of a professor or friend. Thus, I developed a way of dos besos that involves me swinging my head in a wide semi circle towards each cheek, all the while making firmly non-flirty eye contact that reassures that, hombre, I am not trying to make out with you. This worked pretty well for my first few introductions.

Of course, I didn’t factor in what happens during dos besos when, gee, I really wouldn’t mind making out with you. The first time it happened with the son of the Señora I live with, I could feel my face flaming during the entire process and damned if I didn’t almost giggle afterwards. Basically, while José kept chatting to me, I was already calculating how much this lowered my purity score. I’m happy to say, however, that I’m slowly beginning to grow accustomed to and even enjoy the friendliness of dos besos. It’s a nice way of establishing a good rapport from the beginning and sure beats a finger waggle for a goodbye.

In fact, generally, I have found navigating in Spain (both literally and figuratively) surprisingly smooth. I have even managed to make my first Spanish pun. (“Como fue la playa?” “Ah, fue MAR-avillosa!” There’s another one involving penis and pasta which I won’t mention here, but I’m sure you can figure it out with some www.wordreference.com-ing.) This was a relief for someone who regularly unleashes an intimidating arsenal of horrible puns on innocent bystanders.

In my upcoming columns, I promise to show you Madrid and Spain though the eyes of an awkward but very earnest Swattie. And, thanks to an illuminating conversation with a pack of Andalucían boys over kebabs, you will all soon learn how to proposition a tío or tía buenísimo/a with just a few simple culinary sex metaphors. Taluego, Swatties!

Tiffany is a junior. She can be reached at tliao1@swarthmore.edu.

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