Living & Arts

Spanish habits: hot milk, olives and mullets, oh my!

In print | March 19, 2009

I study in Madrid under the Hamilton College program, which maintains a strict Spanish-only policy at all times. While I realize the rule might not sound ideal to all, the fact is that my Spanish has improved more in two months than it ever has in the past four — okay, six (seven) years. While I am delighted to converse in Spanish without throwing in an apologetic wince afterward for the bewildered addressee, speaking Spanish all the time has started to mess with the only language I really know down to its little semantic roots —inglés (although that certainly doesn’t stop me from loudly and irresponsibly claiming fluency in any number of languages). Recently, when I traveled to Berlin, I was more then a little perturbed to find myself uttering phrases like, “How much cost a sandwich?” or “Did you pass the day well?”

Spurred by this, I began noting in conveniently bolded list fashion what ways the Spanish way of life has changed me, and one way it definitely has not. Below, I have enumerated Spanish customs to which I have responded with a hearty “Sí, señor!” and one in which I declare, “Hombre, no!”
¡Guapa!: In Spain, it is common to call nearly all females, typically those who are younger than you, “guapa” or “beautiful.” Teens say it to one another, shopkeepers to customers, professors to students and so on. Its frequent use has left it with pretty much no connotation at all (unless, of course, you add connotation with creepy I-am-touching-your-body-with-my-eyes stares) but I still enjoy the friendliness it engenders. That and my cripplingly low self-esteem needs all the lovin’ it can get, even if that lovin’ is from a store clerk nervously watching me devastate the local supermercado’s supply of flan.

Bar none: I have really come to love frequenting bars here, mostly for the friendly and frequently noisy ambience it provides as I wordreference.com the crap out of my latest essay. While I think bars are regarded as pick-up sites in the States (I am not sure as I am underage and have never attempted to illegally enter with any permutation of a forged identification an establishment at which alcohol is being served), the bars here are completely stigma-free. People enter into the bars at all hours of the day for una copa as an afternoon snack or even to take something for breakfast. There isn’t anything like a typical barfly here either. Walking into a bar on a normal weekday night, I expect to find everyone from an abuela to a gaggle of teens to a family of eight loudly enjoying a refreshing caña of cerveza.

Milking it: I am not big on milk to begin with (likely why my knee joints sound like old Velcro ripping every time I bend down), but I actually get a little queasy thinking about warm milk. I think what grosses me out is that the temperature reminds me I am drinking what is effectively cow juice. However, my first morning here, my Señora generously offered me a very American breakfast of cereal and milk (Normally Spaniards grab a bread roll with olive oil). Only the milk was piping hot. Ignoring the images of udders squirting fresh cow juice into my bowl, I took a bite and loved it. My only regret now is that I’ll have to spend more time in the Sharples serving area microwaving my milk in the mornings — unfortunate because I have calculated that for roughly every minute I am there, the probability of having an awkward encounter increases at a distressing 67 percent rate.

Olive you!: This is seriously the chief ingredient in most Spanish foods (well, this and meat). Since it is used as a light salad dressing, a marinade for bacalao or lo que sea, I’ve grown fond of the taste and the fragrant smell and come to expect a bottle of it next to my plate at meals. With my hazy but hasty nutritional expertise, I have declared regular consumption of this oil the reason for why my sixty-year old Señora looks like Lindsay Lohan’s younger sister. I also cite the olive oil for why she is able to eschew the siesta and spend those hours bustling around the house, admirably ignoring the deafening snores emitting from my room.

Salud: People in Spain nearly never respond when someone sneezes. Compared to the lightning fast way in which Americans hurry to reassure me that my soul has not just slingshotted out of my left nostril, I still feel like something is missing when I begin my seasonal nose trumpeting and am met with blank stares even as I splatter them with brain matter rocketing from my nose. Luckily, my slight feeling of discomfort has been smothered by my conformity and apathy, ensuring that now I have joined the legions of the un-Salud!ers.

The Mullet: Madrileños are, as a whole, fashion-forward people, with nary a raggedy jean or a hoodie in sight — unless of course, it’s a statement. Even when I actually try and put on my Swarthmore finest of non-elasticized pants, I can barely pass muster. However, one highly popular trend that boggles my mind is the Mullet. Many an otherwise attractive man or (oh yes) woman has sported the scourge of the 80s, cascading curls down the back and all. The worst of the breed is surely the Mohawk Mullet, in which the head is shaved save for a narrow strip of gelled hair that spills over the shoulder in a truly chilling sight. The frequency with which I spy these Mullets has raised enough ire that I regularly fight the urge to become a vigilante superhero named Mullet Maimer and run through the metro shaving off mullets.

Tiffany is a junior. You can reach her at tliao1@swarthmore.edu.