My senora and I

Julianne Ross, an undergraduate at Harvard University, spent the fall semester studying in Madrid as part of the Hamilton College Academic Year in Spain program.

By Julianne Ross

MADRID -- I was anxious after dinner. I sat at our tiny kitchen table, munching on the strange combination of nacho cheese Doritos and store-bought guacamole that my host mom, Loli, had placed in front of me. Under her watchful eyes I already had cleaned my plate of the pork loin smothered in salt and the french fries she had served me for dinner ("They're healthy!" she insisted. "I used olive oil!").

Loli was busy digging through her box of old maps, hotel brochures, and business cards with the phone numbers of men who had taken a liking to her during her travels throughout Europe in the years after her husband passed away. I fidgeted restlessly, fully aware that I had a lot more Don Quijote to read before class the next morning, and that once Loli started talking, there would be no stopping her. She began by showing me photos of different monuments, saying I should visit this cathedral, or eat at this restaurant. She handed me a picture of a hotel in Rome where the overly flirtatious owner had asked her to dinner. Another in Belgium, where her mastery of French had gotten her a room upgrade. When the phone rang and interrupted our conversation I made my escape, scurrying back to my bedroom with a big pile of outdated city guides in my hand.


Things have changed a lot since my first day here, when
my host mother rearranged practically everything I had
unpacked in my room.

It was just the two of us living together in her small but beautifully kept apartment in the heart of Madrid. However, even after three months it was still difficult to get past the rapid-fire speech and lack of enunciation that characterized the chatter of my senora. My Spanish was  still so rudimentary that I couldn't contribute much more to our conversations than the occasional stilted attempt at expressing my interest or gratitude. Though I couldn't understand everything that she said I knew she liked having me there to talk to. I could tell by the way she called me carina (darling) whenever I came home. Or by the way she would leave the hallway light on whenever I went out, so that when I came in and shut it off she would know I was back safely. Or by the way I often found little pieces of dark chocolate or marzipan tucked in with the sandwich she packed me for lunch.

Despite my linguistic inability to hold up my end of an intelligent conversation, I could tell our  relationship was growing. At first our interactions were the awkward formalities that one would expect after being plopped down to live under someone else's roof in a foreign country. During my second week in Spain I even burst into tears in front of the housing director of my study abroad program, crying out, "There's no cereal!" (Looking back, I'd like to think that my anguish over this lack of cornflakes was more an expression of my trouble adjusting to a new culture, rather than the whine of a spoiled college student unable to deal with the slightest deviation from her way of life back home.) It took me a week to get up the courage to ask for the breakfast food I craved. One morning I clumsily spit it out. "Loli, I really love toast and jam, but would it be possible to have cereal for breakfast, if that's not too much trouble for you?" (Actually, given my level of Spanish I think what I said was, "I like hot bread but can I take cereals to eat please and thank you?") The next day there was a box of cereal waiting for me on the table.

Our relationship deepened from there. Over our two meals a day together she would tell me stories about her son, his scheming ex-wife, and her two youngest grandchildren. Whenever she went shopping she was always eager to show me the things she picked up: a shiny new handbag for herself, Hannah Montana pajamas for the little girl, a big gray sweatshirt for the boy (he was in a serious, muted-colors-only phase).

Loli has forced me to reevaluate my preconceived image of a Spanish senora. I learned that in addition to her devotion to her family and her passion for keeping her apartment spotless, she  is a very independent and opinionated woman. There were many meals over which she inundated me with information about the political struggles of modern Spain, as well as her ideology regarding everything from abortion to bull-fighting.

It was only toward the end of my time in her home, after a feeling of trust had grown between us, that she began to speak to me about her sadness at the sudden loss of her beloved husband many years earlier, and also of the profound sense of liberation that followed. She had grown up in the time of the dictator Franco and married young, but after the passing of her husband she found herself left with grown children and a democratic Spain, and was suddenly faced with a freedom she had never known. She began to travel, sometimes with girlfriends, but more often than not she packed up a suitcase and went gallivanting on her own. It was about these trips around the world that she most liked to talk to me, because she wanted me, and all the bright-eyed Americans who came to call her apartment home every year, to travel, too.

Things have changed a lot since my first day here, when she rearranged practically everything I had unpacked. I frantically tried to figure out where she could possibly have hidden every single pair of shoes I owned, but I eventually found them all, efficiently placed out of sight. I quickly learned to make my bed every morning and to keep my room tidy. I adjusted to the higher energy costs in Spain; I shut the light off every time I left a room and never allowed myself more than five-minute showers. But I never stopped wondering what she really thought of me, too often sitting in my room with my face buried in my laptop. It wasn't that I didn't want to communicate; I only wished that my Spanish were better, so that I could hold up my end of the conversation and feel more like a host daughter and less like a sullen teenager. But of all my experiences in Spain, this was the one that changed me the most. I liked it there, living with a grandma. Who called me carina and folded my underwear.

To learn how you can blog for Passport, e-mail Lydia Rebac at lrebac@globe.com.