Posts in Expat Life
Expat Problems: 6 stages of repatriation

Coming home after a period of time living abroad isn’t always easy. Things aren’t the same as you remember. You aren’t even the same. Finding your place again when everyone and everything has moved on can make readjusting to your new old life seem a little bit like learning to walk again. Plus there’s the emotional toll of leaving behind new friends and abandoning what had become your new normal. To make matters worse, unlike many other major life transitions, repatriation doesn’t always come with its fair share of support and understanding. The opportunity to live in a foreign country is often seen as just that – an opportunity. Something that you’re lucky or blessed to be able to do. On one hand, that’s true, but like any other self-initiated, out-of-the-norm endeavor (e.g., going back to school, changing careers, becoming a parent) it’s also a matter of sacrifice, risk and day-to-day struggle.

Yet, to friends and family back home (and thanks in part to that steady stream of stunning photos in exotic locales on your Facebook and Instagram feeds) you’ve been living on vacay for the past few months or years. And since 'coming back from vacation' isn’t exactly a struggle, you may be left to navigate re-entry back to 'the real world' on your own.

I’ve been through the repatriation process twice now – actually, you could say that I’m still going through it – and while I don’t claim to have the science of it all figured out, I felt compelled to share my own process of dealing with and ultimately triumphing over the repatriation blues.

6 Stages of Repatriation

Reverse Culture Shock

From the moment you step off the plane, everything about your home country seems familiar, but in an eerily unfamiliar way. It’s like you’re in The Truman Show or The Matrix. You recognize it all, yet it all seems just… a little… off. Things that you once took for granted as completely normal are now shocking, weird, amusing or maybe even offensive to you.

In my first two weeks back in the US, I had the following moments of reverse culture shock:

At the airport, waiting on my bags:  

Why is everyone so fat and poorly dressed?


When greeting old and new friends:

Must remember to shake hands, NOT double-cheek kiss. I almost made out with that guy just now.


Shopping for groceries:

Gawd, it’s expensive here. I mean, $8 for a bottle of wine… and it’s not even good!?


Catching up on TV shows:

Seriously? Is EVERY commercial on TV for a prescription drug?


Getting behind the wheel for the first few times:

Wow. Atlanta drivers exhibit a LOT of aggression.


At any given moment on any given day:

This feels suspiciously comfortable. What is all this knowing where I’m going and understanding what everyone around me is talking about?


Even though seeing an old place through new eyes may initially be disorienting, eventually your vision adjusts and things begin to appear a bit more normal.  It may take a while, but it will happen.


Mourning / Loss

Once the excitement of being home and the disorientation of reverse culture shock start to fade, a new feeling may settle in. It may come on as just a bit of a funk or it may swell into full-blown depression. For me, this stage was much like the aftermath of an amicable breakup.

At the start, it was all too raw and tender. I’d be prone to spontaneous outbursts of tears, complete with shaking my fists at the heavens wailing, “WHYYYYYYYYY!!!?? Why can’t we be together anymore? Why did I have to leave you so soon? We were just getting to know each other! Will I ever see you again?”

Even after the initial pain had dulled and I found myself only thinking of my long lost other home maybe once a day – I couldn’t bear to look at pictures of the place. The images brought back too many emotions, too much of that feeling of loss. I couldn’t stand to hear anyone else speak about my host country or talk about what they knew of my once-beloved. When others told of their trysts with my ex – whether good or bad – I’d invariably think to myself, “But you don’t know it like I do. You can’t possibly. It was mine! All mine!”

Melodramatic? Yes. But true nonetheless. The feeling of grief that I experienced on returning the US, I found out, was common for many returning expats. Expats interviewed by the Wall Street Journal described their own feelings of loss as: “a punch in the gut,” and, “like having somebody dying.” Though I didn’t know that my feelings were common, I did know that they’d have to pass eventually. I remembered an old rule-of-thumb I’d heard ages ago about how long it took to get over an old flame. According to this completely water-tight scientific rule, it takes one week per each month of the relationship to get over post-breakup heartbreak. I tried to use this as a point of solace as the days on the calendar crawled by.

expat repatriation blues heartbreak grief mourning or loss


Comparison / Nostalgia

“It’s 11 o’clock here. If it were 11 o’clock there I’d be....”

“What I wouldn’t give for a churro or a cortado or some boquerones right now.”

“The eggs here are nothing like the ones I could get at the stores in Spain.”

 “You know what I never had to worry about there? Mass shootings.”

This stage could be part of the mourning and loss stage or it could be a separate stage all its own. This is when you begin comparing even the smallest details of your daily life with your life in that other place. And invariably, your old life is always much, much better than your new life back home. Or, at least, that’s how you’re remembering it now.

Suddenly, all of the little things that used to absolutely irritate me about living in Spain were forgotten. I could only remember her virtues. While America, my home country, suddenly appeared to be riddled with flaws. In my mind, I was only verbally registering all these little humdrum things that I’d taken for granted while living in Spain, things that now had value since I no longer had them. But I’m sure I sounded like I was constantly kvetching. Either way, friends and family are likely to find you insufferable during this stage. Some may even let you know it.


Isolation / Withdrawal

You think nobody wants to listen, so you cut them off. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t speak to anyone. You’re starting to feel like you can’t talk about anything that happened to you in that other place. You think you’re only sharing tidbits about what’s been your daily life for the past months or years, but you know all other people hear is you bragging – yet again – about how awesome your time abroad was. Your friends all talk about what’s been going on in their worlds for the time you’ve been away. Parties they went to. Dates they’ve been on. Jokes they’ve shared. You don’t think they’re bragging. But you do feel like you keep walking in on the middle of a conversation where you have no idea what anyone’s talking about, yet you’re still expected to follow along. So instead of going out, you’d rather stay at home and Skype or Whatsapp with friends from that other place, or watch movies in your host country’s language. Or, if you’re lucky enough to know another former expat, you’ll only hang with them.

In small doses, a bit of isolation can be good. It gives you time to examine your own thoughts and feelings, take a break from the sensory overload and recharge your batteries. But too much isolation and withdrawal can be detrimental, so it’s important to keep up with regular social activities, even if it’s only with one or two close friends.

expat repatriation blues depression


You don’t want to forget or discard all those memories you made, the lessons you learned, all the beautiful people and places you saw during your expat life, but you know that you can’t keep living in the past. Sharing stories with friends isn’t going over like you expect it, so you begin to think of different ways to capture and honor your experiences. Creative projects like writing, scrapbooks, and films are good ways to preserve your travel experiences. Speaking engagements at local schools or clubs offer opportunities to share your travel stories to more receptive audiences. Even speaking with a therapist can be a much-needed outlet for your memories and emotions. The most important thing is that you find a suitable medium that lets you express the highs and lows of your expat experience in a way that can be appreciated over and over again, not forgotten.



In the final stage, you recognize that you don’t have to completely abandon everything about your old life in order to adjust to your new life. You begin to adapt the things you gained from your expat experiences or things that you miss about your life in your former host country to new contexts and your new locale. For me, cooking has always been a passion. After my return from Spain, I began cooking more and new dishes in my kitchen – not just Spanish tortillas and paellas, but dishes I’d eaten at restaurants and in homes that were German, Ghanaian, Moroccan. After getting used to a daily bike commute in Spain, I began biking more upon my return to Atlanta. I noticed that I was now able to understand every single word of the Spanish conversations that I overheard when I was shopping at the farmer’s market or paying a visit to my favorite Mexican taquería. I was even unafraid to reply back in Spanish (something that used to make me nervous). I felt like I had gained a superpower! One that would allow me to engage with the world and its inhabitants in ways that I couldn’t have done before. All of a sudden, I started to feel less sad that I didn’t have Spain in my life anymore, I was simply grateful to have had it. For weeks, the lack of it was all I could think about, all I could focus on. Now it felt like a playful streak of color in my hair. Something that added just a little pop of interest to my backstory.

And in the end, that’s what each expat experience is. It’s an extra patch on your personal quilt, a new sworl in your uniquely patterned self. You have been irreversibly changed by it. And you will carry it with you always.

expat repatriation blues integrating

What was your experience returning home after living abroad? Did you find the transition challenging or did you have no difficulty at all adjusting to life back home? What helped you cope with the repatriation blues?




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30 essential spanish transition words and phrases for everyday conversations

The difference between mastering Spanish vocabulary and grammar and being able to hold a fluid, casual conversation in Spanish is quite vast. That's because - just like in English - a lot of the nuance and fluidity in a conversation is due just as much to little, seemingly meaningless words as it is to vocabulary and proper verb conjugation. These little 'meaningless' words and phrases are also known as linking words or transition words. As a native English speaker, I had no idea just how important they were until I realized that I had no idea how to say them in my host country’s language. A fact which often left me frustrated and frequently caused me to either: 1) come to a dead stop mid-sentence, or 2) simply insert the English word in place of the Spanish word I didn't know, leaving whoever was listening to me totally confused or amused.

To spare you and your listeners the same amusing confusion and frustration, I decided to compile a list of 30 essential Spanish words that helped me take my conversations from stilted to fluid.

30 Essential Spanish Transition Words and Phrases

  1. Aunque – even though, although
  2. Además – furthermore, in addition to
  3. Mientras - meanwhile
  4. Por lo menos – at least
  5. Entonces - then
  6. Pues - well
  7. Como – like, as
  8. Al principio; al final/por ultimo – to start, in the first place; to finish, in the end
  9. Desde luego - of course, certainly
  10. Ya / todavía – yet, already / still
  11. Asi que; por lo tanto – that’s why; for that reason
  12. Por si acaso – in case
  13. Lo/la que sea; donde sea; cuando sea; cualquier – whatever; wherever; whenever; whichever
  14. Por ejemplo – for example
  15. Sobre todos – above all, especially
  16. Por fin – finally
  17. Un rato, un ratito - A little while
  18. Luego – next, then
  19. De repente - suddenly
  20. Sino - rather, but, instead
  21. Apenas de – barely
  22. De todas formas, de todas maneras – in any case
  23. Por otro lado – on the other hand
  24. Sin embargo – nonetheless
  25. De hecho – in fact
  26. Pues nada, venga – anyway…
  27. Sabes – y’know
  28. Es que – honestly, I have no translation for this one, but it’s one of those non-meaning albeit ubiquitous conversational words like ‘like’ in English. As in, “Like, so are we gonna go to the movies, or maybe, like, get some food, cuz I’m, like, hungry as hell.”
  29. A ver – let’s see
  30. Qué va – no way! I dun beleevit. Yeah, right.

Of course, the list above isn't a comprehensive collection of all  Spanish transition words - click here and here for more.


What are some Spanish transition words and phrases that you've found useful? Share them in the comments!


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Black in Spain: Clearing My US Customs

Reading Summary:

Checked Baggage

Back in the US, I have developed a sort of shorthand when it comes to recognizing the many faux pas, microagressions, and downright blatant acts of racism that may occur at any given moment on any given day. After a lifetime of experiencing them, the form and structure they take are familiar, they seldom vary. I am rarely taken off guard. Like finding my keys in the bottom of my purse, I’m skilled at detecting American racism not by sight, but by the sound of it, the feel of it.

"...many times, because of my own filters – I interpret something as racist that really isn’t or, at least, isn’t very racist. This has often created a disturbing sense of disorientation."

Here in Spain, though, the structures, the patterns are different. Much like the language itself uses different sentence structures and verb forms – the acts of racism or colorism that I experience are of an almost entirely different composition. For all but the most blatant occurrences, I often don’t recognize that they’ve happened until after they’ve happened. And many times, because of my own filters – I interpret something as racist that really isn’t or, at least, isn’t very racist. This has often created a disturbing sense of disorientation. I second guess my own emotional reactions, my shorthand no longer serves. I regularly try to remind myself to assume the position of an observer; recording and noting these occurrences, becoming more conscious, more aware of the subtle variations in understanding and interpretation.

Language plays a big role in the need for this adjustment. Even the words used to describe my flesh, my race, my skin color are words that would make me cringe, then lash out if I heard something even close to them being said in the US. Negra. Which literally means, black. Morena – which can either mean dark-haired or dark-skinned. When I hear them said aloud in public, I often have to quash an instant and conditioned fight-or-flight response that initially surfaces; an instinct developed after generations of hearing words that describe my skin color come from the mouths of people who don’t share that color. An instinct that comes from knowing that this particular speaker-subject combination usually either spells awkwardness or trouble.

Almost every time I go clothes shopping here, I am likely to catch a snippet of conversation between other shoppers discussing some article of clothing. For me and my black American ears, the words that most frequently penetrate through the background buzz of a crowded store is, ‘las negras’. My ears involuntarily perk up. Are they… talking about… me? I doubt that they are. But… they could be. If I were in the US, I’d never pause my shopping to try and decipher if the shoppers next to me were discussing black blouses or black people. Mainly because it would be unlikely to hear a non-black person in the US saying out loud in public, ‘I like the black ones,’ to actually refer to a black person. In Spain, it’s quite possible that you could hear this language being used to describe either shirts or people. So, because I am here, I pause and listen for a moment, even though I realize that if they are talking about people and not blouses, I’m the only one in earshot who’ll think anything of it.

Of course, there are the times when no translation is needed; when there is no mistaking exactly what is happening. Like the time I was walking down a busy Barcelona street at night with another black person and passed a young 20-something-year-old woman. I couldn’t tell if she was Spanish or not, but I did hear a heavy accent when she turned in our direction and shouted out, “Nigger!” with a look of vicious glee, as we walked by.

black in spain - cheked baggage
black in spain - cheked baggage

During my first Semana Santa, I was travelling through Seville with another black American friend.  On our way back from a very pleasant dinner, we got stuck in a crowd of people who’d gathered to watch one of the many religious processions happening during Holy Week. Unable to move either forward or backward, we found ourselves unintentionally positioned in front of a group of seated spectators. A few of them were extremely displeased that we were blocking their view, and began to spew disparaging remarks at us. “Negras! Jillipollas!” (roughly equivalent to, ‘black assholes!’) they grumbled loudly enough for us to hear.

My friend tried apologizing in Spanish, explaining that we couldn’t even budge. After a while, a space opened up and I attempted to move further along down the sidewalk. I was blocked by a middle-aged Spanish man, who, after letting a stream of other people (all white) pass by, repositioned himself so that I couldn’t pass. Fed up, I turned myself sideways and forcefully nudged past him, rubbing against his arm in the process. He snatched back his arm, produced a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to vigorously wipe the place on his forearm where my touch had apparently soiled him. The surrealness of the whole scene was underscored by the imposing, heavily adorned statue of Jesus slowly passing by above our heads, a look of resigned sorrow plastered upon his face.

"I felt slightly sorry for these clearly ignorant people, and concluded that I was simply better than them, if not on the basis of my external color, then on the basis of my internal character. Of course, this reaction was as problematic as the expected one."

In both of these incidents, it was clear to me that the perpetrator’s intent was to somehow make me feel inferior, to make sure that I knew that they knew that I was less than them because of my skin color. But, as is often my tendency, I responded contrarily. Instead of feeling denigrated or even really angry, I noticed a mixed feeling that was 1 part pity and 2 parts superiority beginning to grow within me. I felt slightly sorry for these clearly ignorant people, and concluded that I was simply better than them, if not on the basis of my external color, then on the basis of my internal character. Of course, this reaction was as problematic as the expected one. I developed the tendency of walking around town with my headphones always in – preferring a soundtrack of 90s ‘conscious’ rap to the possibility of overhearing comments on my appearance as I passed. I noticed myself scowling, looking down my nose, or shaking my head at Spaniards I passed in the street who I thought looked at me disapprovingly. I was disengaging in a way that was making me feel even more alienated than any racial slur could have. I resolved to check my own internal prejudices as much as I could. Perhaps, I thought, instead of distancing myself from these ‘others’, I should focus my efforts on finding and connecting with other others like me.

Too much pride was pulling me into the dark side.
Too much pride was pulling me into the dark side.

All my skinfolk ain't my kinfolk

Before I moved to Spain, I lived in Atlanta for over 16 years. As of the 2010 census, Atlanta’s population was 54% black. I was born and raised in Macon, Georgia, where black people make up over 65% of the population. I attended an HBCU (Historically Black College / University) for my undergraduate degree, and the neighborhood I lived in before moving abroad was roughly 95% black.

Suffice it to say, I’m not only very accustomed to, but I also like being around black people.

However, I’m also quite accustomed to working, living with, and getting to know people of other races and cultures. Whether in corporate or educational settings, I’ve often been the only or one of few black or brown people in the mix, yet I’ve always adapted easily to any environment, regardless of the demographic makeup. So, the idea of living in Spain where I knew I’d be one of relatively few black people didn’t faze me. Still, I, like many black Americans and other expats who’ve lived apart from their own for weeks and months, tend to actively seek out others who look like me. My interactions with other black people from across the Diaspora while living in Spain – black Latinos, black Europeans, and black Africans – have been an interesting study not only in our cultural similarities and differences, but also in how we are viewed by the racial majority here, as well as how we view each other. Whenever I’ve either proactively engaged with or actively acknowledged another black person that I encounter here in Spain, I usually find that they’re either:

  1. Not willing or able to engage with me – often because of cultural or language differences that limit or prohibit communication,
  2. Willing to engage with me, but only to ‘profit’ from me in some way – either men hitting on me, someone trying to sell me something (from umbrellas, to drugs, to ‘tours’, etc.),
  3. Or, willing to engage me on regular, friendly terms – in some instances, this only happens after we’ve quickly moved past the other 2 phases above.

After several months of living in Ciudad Real, a smallish town in the interior of Spain with very few black people among its inhabitants, I remembered joking to some of my American friends that the ayuntamiento or the policia local must have warned all the brown people in town not to get too friendly with one another while living here. I’d even developed a faux slogan for the town:

Ciudad Real. Where even the black people don’t like black people.

My friends and I laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. Yet, after months of getting the same chilly treatment – avoided eye contact, un-returned salutations – from brown folks I passed on the streets, I started to wonder if it wasn’t such a ridiculous notion after all.

The one tentative friendship I managed to develop was with Eduardo, a black Cuban who’d lived in the area for roughly 7 years. “Los negros en este ciudad estan en conflicto,” he told me, in an attempt to explain why I felt that other black Latinos in town were dismissive of my attempts to be friendly or engaging. I wasn’t sure exactly what they were in conflict about. Eduardo didn’t explain further. After a while, I wondered if the internal conflict that Eduardo alluded to was similar to the conflict that I’d observed in some black Americans when deciding whether to engage with certain black people in Europe – specifically, Africans.

In one of the online travel groups that I’m a member of – one that targets black travelers – another member, a black American, recently asked for advice on where to find other black people in Barcelona. He clarified his request by specifying that he was interested in meeting black Europeans. Since I know that there are tons of Africans to be seen on the streets of Barcelona, I found it a bit odd that the request for other black people specifically left them out of the equation.

It occurred to me that there seems to be an unspoken rule among black Americans (in addition to many Spaniards and other expats in Spain), that one simply does not make friends with Africans. And even though I don’t tend to follow that unspoken rule, it’s not until I find myself in the company of another American that I realize how unusual I am. In fact, sometimes I feel like I have a guilty secret. A thing I should probably not confess if I don’t want to be looked at as strange, misguided, or even a little crazy by my fellow brown countrymen. But I confess it anyway, because I often forget to be self-conscious until someone reminds me. Like the time I received an unexpected reaction from a well-traveled American friend visiting me in Spain, when I casually mentioned:

“Yeah, so, I went to dinner with this Ghanaian friend of mine the other day….”

Her head snapped in my direction, her facial expression a mixture of incredulity, disapproval and concern.

“You actually went out with him?”

Or the reaction from another American visitor, when we were in a small bar-slash-club in the center of Naples. When 2 African guys approached us to dance, she shooed them away and later referred to them as “those 2 ugly dark Africans!”

For my part, I make friends with Africans for several reasons, most of them entirely selfish.  As I mentioned earlier, I like black people – our way of being, our easy laughter and joking even when things aren’t always that good. The way we walk as if there is music playing just for us. Our style – the way we adorn ourselves – jewelry, colors, hair. There’s a comfort in the familiarity of appearance and mannerisms of black people that relaxes me, puts me at ease. I like hearing patois and pidgin as much as I like hearing street slang and Southern drawls from back home. And then, of course, there’s the food.

My African friends here in Spain have fed me often and each time, it has given me a taste of home, especially since a lot of my Southern culinary and cultural roots presumably have their origins in West Africa. My African friends know how to properly fry up a fish. I don’t have to explain to them what okra is or why I miss it so. When they put a plate of chicken yassa, jollof rice, thiboudienne, black-eyed peas or huge slices of summer-sweet watermelon on the table in front of me, I see, smell, and taste traces of home – both the America that I know and the Africa that I’ve imagined as one of her orphaned offspring. When the sounds of azonto, kizombo, West African hip hop, or South African house music coming out of their speakers sets off an impromptu dance party, I find myself remembering blue lights in the basement, slow-dragging at the supper club, and backyard booty-shake contests from back home. I pause my bobbing and two-stepping only long enough to think, ‘how can I not want to be around all of this?’

My African friends have also helped me learn the language of this country that we both live in. Some of them speak very little English, so Spanish is the only language we have in common. Many of them came to Spain without knowing very much Spanish, but have mastered it in a few short years. They introduce me to new Spanish words and phrases I haven’t heard; are patient when I struggle with the vocabulary and verb tenses, or ask them to explain things I don’t understand. I also listen to them speak amongst themselves in their native tongues, occasionally asking them the meanings of words I hear them repeat often in their conversations. Because of this, I now know how to distinguish the sounds of Wolof, Mandinka, and Hausa, and can even say a scant few words in each.

"...despite the many cultural similarities that my African and black Latino colleagues and I share, and our ability to bridge the language gap that often exists between us, it isn’t always easy to surmount the other gaps that separate us..."

One of my most memorable, albeit short, friendships with African expats in Europe was with a Senegalese and Ghanaian duo that my friends – another black American and a white Italian – and I met on a trip to southern Portugal. We met the Senegalese half of the duo by chance, at a bus stop. After failing to communicate in English and Spanish (which he didn’t speak) and Portuguese (which he spoke, but we didn’t), we resorted to – of all things – Italian. As it turned out, he had lived in Italy for several years, and was pretty fluent. After showing us around town, paying our train fare and introducing us to his Ghanaian friend – who, thankfully, spoke English and Portuguese, and happily shuttled us around town in his car – we shared drinks, a home-cooked meal, and sat up all night telling stories to each other; each of us speaking in a different language that at least one other person at the table could translate to the others.

Yet, despite the many cultural similarities that my African and black Latino colleagues and I share, and our ability to bridge the language gap that often exists between us, it isn’t always easy to surmount the other gaps that separate us and make us regard each other with as much unfamiliarity as the native residents of our host country often regard us both. These gaps are sometimes due to gender, or our relative socioeconomic status, but more often they’re attributable to a little blue booklet known as an American passport.

In a beachside restaurant in Malaga, I am having an early dinner with my Ghanaian friend. The sand and waves aren’t quite enchanting enough to offset the peculiar happenings closer to our table. Throughout the meal, the wait staff speaks almost exclusively to me. Our waiter conspicuously places both the check and the change in front of me, even though my friend pays the tab. While we’re dining, a waiter shows an elderly couple one of the last available tables on the outdoor terrace – it’s directly next to ours. The woman in the couple glances at the table, then scowls disappointedly in our direction and asks loudly and incredulously, “AQUI?”

Weeks later, I head out to one of the most popular clubs in central Malaga with a motley group of friends – 1 white Italian guy, 1 mixed-raced French girl and 2 West African guys. At the door, there’s a bit of a delay as the bouncer brusquely asks for, then takes his time thoroughly examining the IDs of the 2 West African gents. The rest of us simply exchange confused looks, wondering (yet knowing) why none of us was even given half a glance before being allowed to pass into the club.

In Ciudad Real, Eduardo – my black Cuban friend – and I are exiting a salsa club in the center of town. Just a few paces beyond the club, we pass 2 local police officers headed in the other direction. All of a sudden, they stop and question Eduardo for his documentation. He produces his papers. One of the cops rudely snatches his documents, and starts peppering him with questions. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, unidentified and unquestioned, watching as the tension starts to build. The more the cop questions, the more upset Eduardo gets. Soon, the rude cop escalates things. He grabs Eduardo’s arm and shoves him against a wall nearby before starting to pat him down. Realizing this all-too-familiar scene, I whip out my phone and start recording the incident with my camera. Rude cop finally pays attention to me. He comes over, snatches my phone and barks at me that it’s illegal to record the police (at that time, it isn’t). Reluctantly, I pocket my phone. Rude cop returns to harassing Eduardo. His partner stands silently in front of me, looking a bit embarrassed. “Is this how it works in your country? Is this what your job is?” I ask him, frustrated and angry at the whole ordeal. After a few more moments of shaking Eduardo down, rude cop has enough, and lets us go.

When we discuss this incident later, Eduardo will say that things are different for me – because I’m a woman and because I’m American. I’d like to say it’s not true, but I know that it is. I even take advantage of it sometimes. Like when I notice someone eyeing me with that ‘untrustworthy immigrant’ look, I speak English loudly in their presence to command a little additional respect from them. It almost always works. When I present my passport at airport checkpoints, I smugly relish in the slight bit of surprise I sometimes see on the attendant’s face. I know that I can pass more freely into certain spaces – restaurants, shops, people’s homes – because I am an American, and therefore assumed to be an expat with financial means, not an immigrant with financial needs. I am aware of the privilege that my passport bestows on me in this place, and of how it can not only distinguish but also alienate me from other black people living here.

black in spain - US passport
black in spain - US passport

Eres mas toubabo.” (You’re more like a white person). This, from a Barcelona-based Senegalese friend of mine who is explaining – in less subtle terms – why my experience as a black person in Spain is often different from his. I’m pissed at his choice of words. Growing up, I would often get teased by other black Americans for ‘acting white’ or ‘talking white’, so I’m definitely not pleased to be confronted with the same accusation years later and halfway around the world. He continues, assuaging my anger by explaining in greater detail. As a black person born and raised in America, he says, I understand and am more familiar with European values and social norms than he is or ever will be. While we may both see differences between our cultures and Spanish culture, for me, the differences are subtle, while for him they are comparatively vast. Even though he’s lived in Spain for years, he’s prone to saying, “This is not my way of life.”

Langston Hughes, one of the first black Americans to travel extensively in Spain made note of his own experiences interacting with other black and brown people in the country. During the Spanish Civil War, Hughes, a poet and journalist, worked as a war correspondent for 6 months in 1937. During his time in Spain, Hughes drew several parallels between fascism in Spain and racism back in the US. And in one poem, Letter from Spain to Alabama, Hughes uses a fictional encounter to share both his confusion at seeing black Africans fighting on the side of the fascist regime and the difficulty of bridging language and cultural gaps with his would-be kin. Decades later, I find traces of my own experience in his words.

Letter from Spain to Alabama, by Langston Hughes

We captured a wounded Moor today. He was just as dark as me. I said, Boy, what you been doin' here Fightin' against the free?

He answered something in a language I couldn't understand But somebody told me he was sayin' They nabbed him in his land

And made him join the fascist armyAnd come across to Spain And he said he had a feelin' He'd never get back home again.

He said he had a feelin' This whole thing wasn't right. He said he didn't know The folks he had to fight.

And as he lay there dying In a village we had taken, I looked across to Africa And seed foundations shakin'.

Cause if a free Spain wins this war,The colonies, too, are free - - Then something wonderful'll happen To them Moors as dark as me.

I said, I guess that's why old England And I reckon Italy, too, Is afraid to let a workers' Spain Be too good to me and you - -

Cause they got slaves in Africa - - And they don't want ‘em to be free. Listen, Moorish prisoner, hell! Here, shake hands with me!

I knelt down there beside him, And I took his hand - - But the wounded Moor was dyin' And he didn't understand.

There are no Black Americans

I am walking past the cluster of bars that line one side of Plaza Merced in central Malaga. A group of gregarious young men shout out as I pass by them,


I snicker to myself, shake my head and keep walking.


Nope. I shake my head again.


It appears that I am not the only one here who occasionally struggles to reconcile my Americanness with my new environment. Often, when I introduce myself to other people here, the question is asked, “De donde eres?” (Where are you from?)  With my typical response being, “Soy Americana.” (I’m American.)

On more occasions than I can count, my answer has been received with a mixture of surprise and slight disbelief. The person I’m speaking to either repeats the word, as if to confirm that they’ve heard me correctly,


…or, I’m peppered with more questions to help the listener clarify my response.

Such as when a Cuban guy sitting next to me at a bar queries, “Pero, tus origenes…?” (But, your origins?) Or when my new roommate presses, “Pero, que mezcla tienes?” (But, what mix do you have?) Or even the European guy who I bumped into at a rooftop BBQ in a hostel who accepted the fact that I was American, but not too American, since he was convinced that my grandmother must have been a slave from Africa. I calmly assured him with as much shade as humanly possible that my grandmother was born in the 1930s. I resisted the urge to append the statement with ‘dumbass’, choosing to punctuate the sentence with a look that conveyed the same sentiment.

I, too, sing America.
I, too, sing America.

In fact, the only reason my grandmother even entered into the conversation is because I’ve developed a boilerplate response to the persisting questions about my being a full-blooded American. When I’m ready to put a quick end to the questioning, I simply respond. “Mi madre es Americana, y la madre de mi madre es Americana, asi que, soy Americana.” (My mother is American, my mother’s mother is American, so for that reason, I’m American.)

Even though many internationally known film stars and popular music icons are clearly both black and American, even though the President of the United States and his family are all black Americans, for some reason, it’s hard for some Spaniards and other Europeans to easily accept that there’s one standing right in front of them. But if I’m honest, sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that I’m American.


“Kisha, is it true that the police shoot black people in the US?”

This question comes from one of my students during an English conversation class when I’m encouraging them to ask me about life in the US. Lately, the news from home has been filled with images of police brutality and excessive gun violence by law officers against unarmed black people. Images and commentary surrounding the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and Freddie Gray, the related non-violent protests and the violent Baltimore riots have made their way all the way over to Spain. My students are shocked at the graphic nature of it all, they can’t seem to believe that the police can actually kill citizens without any real punishment.

Even my other black associates here in Spain – who are used to being profiled, harassed or occasionally mistreated by the police, confess that the situation is far more severe in America.  As Eduardo says to me, “I may be treated differently or badly here due to the color of my skin, but I’m not going to be killed because of it.” I can’t help but think that maybe one of the reasons many Spaniards find it hard to believe that there are black Americans, is because our own country doesn’t treat us or make us feel like we’re Americans.

For this reason, I don’t always feel the nostalgia or the tender longing for my home country that my brown kin from other parts of the world do. When my Senegalese friend speaks of home, how he wants to go back there, and how simple life is – even though it can also be tough – I almost envy his longing. When my Cuban friend speaks of spending days at the beach, catching and eating huge fresh fish right out of the ocean, having anyone open the door of their home to you for a bite to eat, a drink, a little dancing… I am more than a little jealous – even though we both know that Cuba, at least politically speaking, ain’t no island paradise.

The place that I do have longings and nostalgia for is actually something of a non-place; a sub-category of America known as black America. I long for the taste of my (and other) grandma’s food – sweet potato pie, cornbread, mac-and-cheese, collards – and that of the black people from my region – fried okra, gumbo, shrimp and grits, low country boil. I desperately miss the sound of Southern-speak on the streets of my steadily gentrifying black neighborhood, rubbing elbows with the elders at the neighborhood grocery store. Even the not-as-familiar but still recognizable and treasured sounds of my colored cousins from other parts of black America – the ‘over-hoard’ pronunciation of the LA homeys, the mellifluous bravado of black New Yorkers, the in-between-north-and-south speech patterns of folks from the Mid-Atlantic and Midwest. But this, I realize, is different from missing America herself. I have no wistful yearnings for her purple mountains majesty or her fruited plains. I, like many black Americans, regard my home country with a double-mindedness. Yes, I am from there. But, I am also not. That is, the American identity as it is most often portrayed both within and outside of my native land, is not my identity. This is something that seems uniquely different from the relationships that others in the diaspora have with their countries of origin. Even though their color may be different from others in their home country, their culture – language, history, music, cuisine – is almost completely shared. As a black American, I have always known that I exist as part of 2 cultures. My history has its own month. My music has its own stations. My literature has its own shelves in the bookstore or library. My cuisine – which I consider to be the only truly American cuisine, found nowhere else in the world – is not commercialized and widely recognized around the globe as American. The larger American culture – that of fast food, football, movie stars, and big cars, and the culture of black America – that of gospel, hip-hop, and soul food are not consumed domestically nor exported under the same label of 100% American, even though both of them are.

And so while I occasionally flaunt my Americanness – the passport, the perfect English – as a badge of privilege, I, like “los negros en este ciudad,” am conflicted about my American identity. When I say, “I’m American,” I sometimes feel the need to affix an asterisk to the end of the statement.

The eloquent black American actor, singer, civil rights activist, and occasional expat Paul Robeson sums up the feeling rather nicely. When asked by an interviewer, “Do you still feel American?” Robeson responds:

“I would say that unquestionably I am an American – born there… upon the backs of my people was developed the primary wealth of America…. There’s a lot of America that belongs to me yet. But just like a Scottish American is proud of being from Scotland, I’m proud for being African…. So I would say today, that I’m an American who is infinitely prouder to be of African descent. No question about it. No question about it. I’m an Afro-American and I don’t use the word American ever loosely again.”


Black in Spain is a series of essays and first-hand accounts of my experience living, working, and travelling as an African-American woman in Spain. My observations on race, color, and culture in Spain are meant to inform and enlighten as well as highlight the differences between the "black experience" in Spain and the US.

Read the other posts in the series now:

Black in Spain - Icons and Images

Branded Identity

I remember the first time I saw the bottle. My eyes widened in surprise, and I let out a half-sigh, half-chuckle sound.

“You gotta be f***in’ kidding me.”

I briefly wondered if my roommate had stashed the bottle of rum under the counter, way in the back, with the label turned to the wall by sheer coincidence or because she was trying to be culturally sensitive. Or… maybe it was because she knew how much I liked rum.

Either way, I wasn’t expecting to see the brand name and image on the bottle.


Above the bold, block print was the image of a black woman’s face and decolletage in profile. The woman looked like she was from colonial (read: slavery) times – she was wearing a brightly colored tignon-like sash around her cropped curly hair, complemented by ethnic-looking gold hoop earrings and a chunky beaded necklace. Her pouty lips were only slightly lighter than the color of the bright red beads around her neck.

black in spain - image of negrita rum
black in spain - image of negrita rum

I held the bottle in my hands, close to my face, examining the image, then the name, then the image again. I shook my head and chuckled once more.

“Welcome to Spain,” I said aloud to myself.

This would not be the first time that I would find myself bemused, perplexed or completely shocked at an image or representation of a black figure in this country.

"Prior warning never really prepares you for the moment when you’re face-to-face with an image that... is, at best, an inappropriate caricature, and, at worst, completely racist."

As a going-away present, one of my friends had given me the book Kinky Gazpacho, the memoirs of a black American woman who had lived and studied in Spain on multiple occasions. I remembered the author’s mention of some of the more disturbing racial images she had come across during her time in the country, so I wasn’t completely taken unawares or unprepared to experience such imagery in Spain. But as I searched my memory of the images discussed in the novel, I didn’t recall her mentioning this one. And even if she had, prior warning never really prepares you for the moment when you’re face-to-face with an image that everything you’ve ever been taught tells you is, at best, an inappropriate caricature, and, at worst, completely racist.

I’m standing in the convenience store, transfixed, struggling to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I’m feeling. I swivel my head around from one side to the other, hoping to spy someone else who is just as shocked and appalled as I am at the image I’m standing directly in front of. There isn’t anyone, of course. I am the only one here that is even remotely concerned or paying any attention to this figure. If anything, the few people in the store may be beginning to wonder why this tall brown woman has been staring at a candy display for so long. After mumbling a few ‘hhwwhat the f*cks’ and ‘is this real’s under my breath, I realize that there is only one thing I can do. I slip my hand into my bag and retrieve my phone, position myself in front of the image, and snap a picture. If it’s still there when I look at my phone later, I’ll know I’m not crazy and that this shit really did just happen.

The image – a bald, chocolate-colored infantile figure with bulging eyes, grotesquely exaggerated smiling red lips and a perfectly round mid-section – is the well-known icon of the ubiquitous Spanish candy, Conguitos.  It’s not only seen on packages of the candy – where the little chocolate figure is usually pictured with one hand on his hip and the other giving the thumbs-up sign (in older versions of the image, he was holding a spear) – but also in 3D in-store displays that use the protruding belly of the little Congo man as a container for small packets of the popular chocolate treats. These displays are usually located right at the front of the store, next to the impulse buys and the cash register. Which is handy, since this common placement of the figure has given me frequent opportunities to examine it up close and be completely, head-shakingly shocked and appalled at it… just like the very first time.

black in spain - conguitos candy
black in spain - conguitos candy

While the image of the woman on the bottle of Negrita is one that could be considered questionably racist, in my mind, there’s no question at all that the Conguito mascot – the Spanish equivalent of a tar baby –  is about as racist an image as there could be.

If the little Negrita and the little Conguito were the only racially offensive product images I’d come across during my time in Spain, I might not be as baffled or concerned. Yet, there have been more. Many more. Cola Cao – an extremely popular breakfast beverage (similar to Nesquik in the US) – features as its brand image a pair of black people – 1 woman, 1 man – hauling baskets filled to the brim with cacao pods set against a backdrop of what is, presumably, a chocolate plantation. The sugar packets produced by the Ciudad Real-based company Cafes Barrenengoa, which would show up alongside my coffee at roughly 1/3 of the cafeterías around town, were imprinted with an image of a smiling, black-faced, bug-eyed, red-lipped little man dressed in all white and posed in ‘I’m a little teapot’ fashion pouring a thin stream of coffee into a cartoon cup on the other end of the packet.

black in spain - cafes barrenengoa
black in spain - cafes barrenengoa

Then, there was that one inexplicable inanimate image that I encountered on a trip with a local friend to his small village just outside of Valladolid. I entered a tiny neighborhood bar with 2 other Spanish associates. Before we were well inside, I spotted the statue on the far side of the room, in a corner under an unused television. It was the figure of a young boy, black-faced, red-lipped, and barefoot. He was clad in a simple green jacket with too-short sleeves and plain brown short pants, a straw hat placed atop his kinky, sculpted hair. He sat looking absently at the floor in front of him, a docile smile plastered on his lips, his hands neatly folded in his lap, his legs crossed at the ankles. I drew an instant parallel between this figure and the racist American images of Little Black Sambo or pickaninnies. But. Why was it here? Given that the bar and its few patrons were quite likely relatives of my host (he’d already mentioned that he was related to almost everyone in the tiny village), I refrained from questioning the bar’s owner or my associates about the statue, not wanting to bring tension into an otherwise tranquil weekend getaway. Instead, I satisfied myself with another picture, another documented piece of evidence regarding Spain’s troubling depictions of black people.

black in spain - pickaninny statue valladolid
black in spain - pickaninny statue valladolid

Still, if these corporate-sponsored, mute, and unmoving depictions were the only ones I’d encountered while living here, I might be able to convince myself that these images are simply leftover, untouched relics from a distant past that no one has bothered to update (though other companies with racist brand images have successfully done so). That, even if there is widespread, complacent acceptance of such inappropriateness, surely no living, breathing person in today’s Spain would actively perpetrate or stand in support of such imagery. Of course, that was not to be the case.

What's Behind the Mask?

In the weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays, you see them everywhere. The Reyes Magos, or Three Wise Kings, those legendary Biblical figures who are said to have traveled from distant lands bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to present to the newborn baby Jesus. Since the Middle Ages, one of those wise kings has been depicted as a black man, a representation of the ancient Christian kingdom of Ethiopia in East Africa. In Spain, the Reyes Magos are much more popular than Santa Claus or Papa Noel. Whereas in the States you have actors who dress up as that jolly old man who brings gifts to kids, In Spain, the actors dress as the Three Kings. They make appearances at schools, churches, and local functions. Proud parents and smiling children line up for a photo with the kings just like kids in the US wait to have their picture taken with Old St. Nick. And when it comes to the black king, most often, a black actor isn’t cast to play the part. Instead, it’s far more common to see a Spanish actor wearing blackface portraying the role of Baltasar, the black wise man. Though I was spared from seeing any real-life blackface versions of Baltasar with my own eyes, friends who lived in other parts of Spain would send me pics of the painted wise man showing up in their town squares, their schools. I could only shake my head. It was at least a small comfort to see and hear that, in some cases, organizers of Three Kings appearances actually went to the trouble of finding a black actor to play the role of a black person – a novel concept.

black in spain - blackface reyes magos
black in spain - blackface reyes magos

Months later, I would experience my first Carnival, and, with it, more examples of everyday people – most of them young – dressed up in blackface. In Spain, the entire Carnival celebration is a time for absurdity and lampooning. Large choral groups perform in parades and at concert halls, singing scathingly humorous songs that make fun of the government, political officials, historical figures, society as a whole. Meanwhile, on the streets and squares of almost every Spanish city, groups of friends who have spent weeks planning and selecting elaborate matching costumes, show them off at huge, public, alcohol-fueled gatherings that last all day and all night. Among the myriad of costumes I saw in both Cadiz and Miguelturra, there were at least a handful that relied on the use of blackface to achieve their full effect, but one of them in particular stood out. As I rounded a corner near the main square in Miguelturra, with my black Cuban friend in tow, my gaze immediately fixed on the guy hanging with his friends outside the nearest bar. His costume was basic – a pair of large googly eyes, huge plastic red lips, and a big, curly afro wig affixed to the outside of a pitch black stocking that was covering his face. Just a moment after I saw him, he saw us. I could tell because he snatched the black stocking-mask up over his head quickly.  The mask off, his own face was sporting a look like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. This action was more disturbing for me than the mask itself. It was an act of confession. An admission by this man that he knew his costume was racially insensitive, offensive, unacceptable. But he was only willing to make such an admission if there happened to be someone there who could call him on it. It’s one thing to do something racially insensitive or offensive and claim ignorance; it’s an entirely different thing to do it with full knowledge that it’s wrong and potentially hurtful. Was there no other cute, amusing, or creative costume this guy could have come up with without relying on racial stereotypes that even he knew was wrong?

One of several 'blackfaced' Carnival goers seen in Spain
One of several 'blackfaced' Carnival goers seen in Spain

Throughout the week-long Carnival celebration, I saw many Spaniards dressed as fictional characters, animals, religious figures, even cross-dressing, but I saw no other cultural or racial stereotypes-as-costume. This is not to say that there weren’t any – only that I didn’t see them.

"...when it comes to denigrating racial stereotypes in Spain, it seems that blacks are just a bit more fair game than others."

After the seemingly endless partying of Carnival week was over, and I’d returned to my regular classroom and private English lessons, those troubling images stayed on my mind, and I struggled to make sense of them. One of my private students at the time was a 17-year-old, very bright, well-spoken and critically thinking Spanish young man. Since both his level of English and his level of critical analysis were quite high, we’d often spend our lessons watching Ted Talks, discussing abstract concepts, social issues, and the like. During our first lesson after Carnival, we both traded stories of our festival experiences. I shared with him my observations of people dressed in blackface – including the one guy who acted as if he was caught red-handed – and asked his opinion on it, specifically, what he’d say to people who might interpret it as racist. To my surprise, he seemed a little defensive. He explained that, for Spaniards, wearing blackface during Carnival isn’t racist. That it’s the one period of the year when people get to let off steam, and make a mockery of the world around them. That when it comes to mockery, everyone – including black people – is fair game. I chose not to press the subject further – it was, after all, an English lesson not a lesson on racial perceptions. Yet, when I remembered the lack of Carnival costumes mocking other races or ethnicities, I couldn’t help but think that, when it comes to denigrating racial stereotypes in Spain, it seems that blacks are just a bit more fair game than others.

After months of being confronted by these images of black people, I found that I was still surprised, still questioning. How does a so-called modern society still quietly tolerate and vocally celebrate this kind of imagery so blatantly and out in the open? Where’s the public outcry? Where’s the independent criticism? What year is it? Why is Spain so very stuck in the past when it comes to issues of race?

To understand and find an answer to these questions, I decided to take a step back and try to examine Spanish culture itself. I wanted to find out where these images originated from, and why they still persisted so openly today. Baltasar Fra Molinero’s thorough examination of the representation of blacks in Spain in art, literature, and theater at the start of the European colonial era does much to explain the present-day media images and public perceptions of black people, not only in Spain, but in western civilization as a whole.

These excerpts from his 1995 book, La imagen de los negros en la España del Siglo de Oro, shed light on the characterization of black features and humanity in early Spanish media:

“…ciertas características biológicas externas (piel, pelo, nariz, boca) pasaron a convertirse en marca o significante de la condición social de esclavitud. De ahí se pasó a una consideración moral: su inferioridad social empezó a verse como inferioridad natural. De esa forma el color negro de la piel adquirió un nuevo sentido: los negros no eran humanos completamente. El nuevo significado de piel negra pasó a ser el de la brutalidad y la inferioridad.”

“Certain external biological characteristics (skin, hair, nose, mouth) became trademarks or symbols of the social condition of enslavement. From there, it came to be a moral consideration: the social inferiority of blacks began to be seen as natural inferiority. In this manner, black skin acquired a new meaning: blacks were not completely human. The new meaning of black skin came to be that of brutishness and inferiority.”

“La risa y el tono humorístico fueron las respuestas literarias a la esclavitud de los negros, que eran representados como seres graciosos e inocentes. En palabras del crítico Lemuel Johnson:”

Laughter and a humoristic tone were the literary responses to the enslavement of blacks, who were represented like cute and innocent beings. In the words of the critic Lemuel Johnson:

There is nonetheless, a tolerant mockery in these representations. One might almost say benign, were it possible for an essentially malignant historical process to be so described. “

Molinero even recognizes that the racist tropes of Spain’s Golden Era are not just a thing of the past:

“Siguen vigentes hoy en la literatura, el cine, y la television: negros graciosos e infantiles, mulatas que invitan a sexualidad prohibida, negros santos de alma blanca y defensores del statu quo del Imperio…”

“[These images] still persist today in literature, film, and television: cute and childlike black men, mixed-race women who entice with a forbidden sexuality, saintly negros with white souls and defenders of the status quo of the Empire….”

Worth a Thousand Words

"As we’ve seen recently in the US with the Confederate flag... images, icons and symbols are visible indicators of what ideas and interpretations are buried in the hearts and minds of a people. "

Images and icons are cultural shorthand. They encapsulate what we think, how we feel, who we are as a culture and a society with little need for words to explain them. Their continued use over time – decades, generations, centuries – give them deeper meaning, makes them more entrenched as symbols of something that no longer needs to be said, thought about, examined. The image eventually becomes the words, it replaces the need for thought, it blurs critical examination. As we’ve seen recently in the US with the Confederate flag in South Carolina, images, icons and symbols are visible indicators of what ideas and interpretations are buried in the hearts and minds of a people. Their continued existence or their change or removal signifies where a culture or society is in their ability to self-examine and acknowledge that some images that we would like to pass off as a benign piece of history, are anything but that.

'black sambo' figurine on display in a vintage curiosity shop - Malaga
'black sambo' figurine on display in a vintage curiosity shop - Malaga

In the collective consciousness of the Spanish people, images of black racial stereotypes represent the persistent, though often under-the-radar idea that the black person is a cartoon character, a not-quite-person whose differences require exaggeration to ensure that there is little confusion about his status in the society -  that of the ‘other’ who is as grotesque as he is exotic. Even in a modern economic environment where products like rum, sugar, and chocolate are no longer produced through a system of forced labor – some of the images associated with these products in Spain still favor the depiction of the black person as a happily content slave.

black in spain - cola cao
black in spain - cola cao

Even a black American head of state like Michelle Obama is not safe from the Spanish tendency to caricature black people as the exotic slave. In August 2012, the Spanish indie mag, Fuera del Serie caused international controversy – perhaps intentionally – by featuring a cover photo of Michelle Obama’s visage superimposed on the image of a slave woman with an exposed breast alongside the title, “Michelle Se Come A Obama” (Michelle Is Eating Obama). The magazine contended that the image, and the accompanying article, titled, “Michelle Tataranieta De Esclava, Duena De America” (Michelle: Granddaughter of a Slave, First Lady of America), was intended as a tribute to the First Lady – a nod to both her American slave ancestry and an examination on how she’d been able to “seduce” the American public into liking her even more than they liked her husband. Of all of the associations, images, and terminology to use to highlight the pedigree and accomplishments of Michelle Obama, it seems… odd that slavery, seduction, and a vague reference to cannibalism would top the list.

michelle obama - spain magazine cover
michelle obama - spain magazine cover

Not all of the troubling depictions of black people in Spain are linked to the country’s legacy of African enslavement, however. On a rare evening when I decide to join my 3 Spanish roommates and a few of their friends in the salon for some TV watching, the hugely popular Spanish sitcom, La Que Sea Vecina comes on. In this episode, one of the recurring male characters meets a lady for a blind date in an expensive restaurant. Unable to pay the tab, the guy snatches the unattended purse of another woman dining nearby. When the victim returns from the bathroom and finds her purse missing, she asks the couple if they saw anything. The blind date woman – who witnessed her beau’s pilfering – quickly covers for him and replies that it was, “un hombre moreno vestido en un traje” (a black man wearing a suit). I involuntarily smack my head. My roommates and friends react neither to the character’s statement nor to my reaction, but there is a palpable tension, a pregnant silence in the room. At the next commercial break, I excuse myself so I can go to my room and make better use of my time by catching up on some work.

As I walk down the hallway, I think to myself, “Well, at least he was wearing a suit.”

Black in Spain is a series of essays and first-hand accounts of my experience living, working, and travelling as an African-American woman in Spain. My observations on race, color, and culture in Spain are meant to inform and enlighten as well as highlight the differences between the "black experience" in Spain and the US.

Read the other posts in the series now:

Black in Spain - What’s In a Name?


It’s a Friday night, and I’m at one of my favorite tapas bars in Ciudad Real – a place where I usually go alone. Tonight, though, I’ve invited some new friends to join me for a couple of quick rounds there. As is usual for the start of the weekend, the place is packed to overflowing. We order our first round, drink and eat and chat as much as we can over the din from the crowd of Spanish folks inside. A few minutes later, I go to the bar and order a second round for myself. When my tapa comes out a little while later, the bartender isn’t able to make eye contact with me since I have my back turned talking to my friends. He shouts to get my attention. But it isn’t until after a few shouts that I finally hear him. “La morena! La morena!

black in spain - what did you call me
black in spain - what did you call me

Given the fact that I am, indeed, the only morena in the place, I know he means me. I retrieve my tapa and rejoin my friends, chuckling a little at the incident and commenting to them how that was so very particular to Spain. A bartender in the US would never shout out, “Black girl! Black girl!” My comment is meant to be a lighthearted, amusing observation like all of us expats regularly make when we observe a particularly Spanish practice or custom. However, the one non-American in our foursome seems not to take it this way. The Romanian girl, who has been living in Spain for several years, appears to have her feathers ruffled by my comment. “No,” she says, shaking her head strongly. “They mean that for your hair. It’s about your hair color.”

“Uhhh… no,” I begin, “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t referring to my hair color.” “Yes, yes! Morena means brown-haired. They call me rubia.”

I could see how she’d be confused. She was right, Spaniards do use morena and rubia to refer to someone’s hair color. But, only if you’re white. The term morena, I explained, was used both ways. It could mean either brown-haired or brown-skinned.

“No, no!” she persists. “You’re wrong. It’s only about hair.” At this point, I’m beginning to get my feathers ruffled. I mean, why would I make this up? Does this twenty-something year old Romanian girl really think she is about to school me on what the word that has regularly been applied to me in a very specific manner for over a year now means?

She goes on. “I have experienced it!” She insists. “Oh. Well, then.” I quip sarcastically. “Yeah. You’re probably right. You probably DO know more about what it’s like being a black person in Spain than I do. So, sure. You got it.”

We go back and forth a couple more times. The Romanian girl digging in her heels about the hair-color-only usage of the term. Me continuing my sarcastic retorts telling her that, yes, I was sure she was right because I couldn’t possibly have any idea what I was talking about.

Later, at another bar, I see the opportunity to ask for a second opinion. The bartender at this place is quite friendly with us, as we frequent the bar often, and he stops over several times to chat with us throughout the night. Just before closing, we each order a drink. I happen to choose a drink called La Morenita – a rum cocktail. When the bartender stops over, I ask him, “Can you answer a question for us?” “Sure,” he replies. The word morena, does it refer to someone’s hair color? “Yes,” he confirms. “Does it also” – I pause to look at the Romanian girl – “Refer to...” and let the sentence hang unfinished. The bartender takes his cue and completes the phrase. “Color de piel? (Skin color?) Siiiii….” he drones as if to say, of course.

The Romanian looks dissatisfied. She shakes her head as if she still doesn’t want to accept his answer.

Adjusting the Color

[su_pullquote align="right"]"When moving to a new country, there are tons of cultural adjustments and considerations one has to make…. But... there was one I had never even considered. What do I call myself here?"

African-American, black, colored, negro. All of these terms are familiar to me. They have been used to describe my features, my race, my people – both in the past and present – in the country I call home. When moving to a new country, there are tons of cultural adjustments and considerations one has to make, many of which I was prepared for when I decided to move to Spain. But of all of those I had given thought to – the food, the language, the way of life – there was one I had never even considered. What do I call myself here?

Two of my early attempts at literal translations proved both confusing and frustrating. The first came when I was having a casual chat with a potential roommate – an Egyptian guy – in San Pedro de Alcantara. I don’t recall exactly what we were speaking about – maybe I was telling him something about life back in Atlanta – but I do remember that I used the word negro to refer to black people. He stopped me short. “No,” he said. “We don’t say that. It’s not nice. It’s better to say moreno.” Oh. I stood corrected. Feeling an alien sort of embarrassment at being scolded by someone else for the language I’d chosen to use to refer to myself.

The second instance was when I was teaching a lesson on jazz to my bilingual students in music class. A part of the text we were reading and translating mentioned something about notable African-American musicians. I thought this would be a good opportunity to help them understand what the word meant. I pointed to myself, “I’m African-American.” “Whaaat?” My students responded with shock and surprise. I was shocked and surprised at their response. What did they think I was? Where did they think this brown skin and kinky hair came from? It wasn’t until much later that I realized that my students’ shock came from them misunderstanding that the term African-American implied that I was actually African, and had just grown up in America.


Moros y Negros

And then there’s that peculiar Spanish term that’s neither moreno nor negro. Moro, which literally translates to Moor, is a Spanish word denoting certain people of color that – when I first encountered it – left me feeling more angry than confused. It was my first full day in the town I’d be teaching in, and I was walking around familiarizing myself with the area, when I saw the scrawled graffiti on the wall of an empty little plaza – the image of a faded red swastika with the words ‘No Moros’ emblazoned over it. Previously, I – like many other black Americans – assumed that the term Moor was synonymous with Africans, and therefore with black people. So, naturally, I was not only pissed but also a little concerned about where I’d landed when I saw that bit of racist wall art. [su_pullquote align="right"]"Since sorting out the variants of Spanish racial terminology… I’ve heard all of them used in different situations by different kinds of people. In some instances, I can even get a feel for how racially clued-in or clueless a person is by which terms they use."[/su_pullquote]Since then, I’ve discovered that, for Spaniards, there’s a distinction between moros and morenos, or, negros. This excerpt from Baltasar Fra Molinero’s 1995 book entitled, La Imagen de los Negros en la España del Siglo de Oro (The Image of Blacks in Golden Age Spain), succinctly explains the difference:

"Negros" eran los africanos que no eran "moros." Esta clasificación ya venía de antiguo. Los nombres usados para referirse a los esclavos negros--etíopes, negros, morenos, prietos, pardos--reflejaban en mayor o menor medida ciertas tensiones ideológicas…. Había que crear una teoría del género humano que los incluyese, pero que los diferenciase también. Los tonos de pigmentación distintos se convierten todos en uno solo, el "color negro”….” “Negros” were Africans that weren’t “moros”. This classification came from older times. The names used to refer to black slaves – etíopes, negros, morenos, prietos, pardos – reflected in greater or lesser measure certain ideological forces…. There was the need to create a theory of the human species that included them (blacks), but that differentiated them as well. The distinct tones of pigmentation were all transformed into a single one, the ‘color black’….”

In short, moros are Africans, but they’re the Africans that aren’t visibly denoted as black, e.g., Egyptians, Moroccans, Arabs, etc.

Since sorting out the variants of Spanish racial terminology that could and could not be applied to myself, I’ve heard all of them used in different situations by different kinds of people. In some instances, I can even get a feel for how racially clued-in or clueless a person is by which terms they use. Like the one Spanish gent in Ciudad Real that I struck up a conversation with on a biking trail. He used negra, and explained that it was because he used to date a black girl and she preferred it. Or the woman who was sitting next to me and my visiting cousin in a bar, talking in none-too-quiet tones to her friend about how she liked – here she silently pointed to her own non-black skin, presumably out of respect for the two lovely morenas within earshot – but not subsaharianos. My black Cuban associate, Eduardo, would use both negro and moreno interchangeably. And my latest roommate, when recommending a barber to our other roommate – a curly-haired Italian guy – assured him that the barber would be able to do a good job with his hair because he was, “un moro de Marueco.”

As for myself, I’ve adopted a kind of double vocabulary about race much like I do in America – I prefer to use 1 term (negra) when I’m around others who are like me, and another (morena) when in mixed company.

And when it comes to bartenders in crowded tapas bars, I generally tend to let them know my name early on, so we avoid any future complications.

black in spain - what do you call a black person
black in spain - what do you call a black person


Black in Spain is a series of essays and first-hand accounts of my experience living, working, and travelling as an African-American woman in Spain. My observations on race, color, and culture in Spain are meant to inform and enlighten as well as highlight the differences between the "black experience" in Spain and the US.

Read the other posts in the series now:

Black In Spain

So, what’s it like there? I heard that Spain isn’t a good place for black people. I heard that Spanish guys loooove black women! I heard that Spain is one of the most racist countries in Europe.

The questions come from many places. Family back home. Friends of friends who are considering travelling here. Acquaintances on social media. And every time I get the questions, I always wish I could answer simply. No. Spain isn’t a good place for black people. Yes. Spanish men love black women. Yes. Spain is one of the most racist countries in Europe. But, I can’t. There’s too much nuance, too many instances and experiences that I’ve had that both confirm and negate those statements. So, instead of a definitive answer, I reply with the equivalent of ‘It depends’, or ‘Yes, but,’ then expound on that neither-here-nor-there answer as best I can for the audience that I’m speaking to.

As with any country, the topic of race in Spain is a complex one that has many facets and requires a more-than-surface-level exploration to even begin to formulate any definitive conclusions.

“Being black in Spain is hard sometimes,” I say with a sigh.

“How so?” My friend Annie replies.

We’re sitting on a bench in a park in central Malaga, sharing a bottle of cava. I take a sip from my little plastic cup before responding.

“Welll…” I begin, “First, there are the stares. Which honestly, aren’t always that bad, but it can take some getting used to.”

In the brief space of time before I continue, my mind flits to several incidents, tiny little moments, and curious occurrences that I’ve experienced in my now almost 10 months living on the Iberian peninsula. How do I summarize all of these things to Annie in a casual conversation? How do I recount those myriad moments that have either curdled my blood or left me shaking my head in bemusement? I decide not to go into it all right now. It’s a gloriously sunny day, I’m beginning to feel the effects of the cava, and I don’t want to ruin either my sunshine- or champagne- buzz with heavy talk. I quickly sum up my previous statement about the stares with some observations on times when I felt I was stared at rudely, and others when I felt it was out of admiration or curiosity. I get the feeling that Annie gets my feeling of not wanting to go much deeper into the subject, and, soon, we switch to more situation-appropriate topics.

Over the next few days, however, my exchange with Annie comes back to mind often. How would I sum up the experience of being a black American in this country? I realize it’s an important part of my cultural immersion and exchange to make note of such sociological differences, and to analyze them both critically (as a student of culture) and personally (as a black woman with my own story to tell). So, I decided to start not only being more aware of these moments, but also to start taking notes on the experiences that I’ve had so far.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing first-hand observations and experiences with the concepts of race, color, and culture that I’ve gathered during my time in Spain. In doing so, I hope to shed some more light on a subject that – in my opinion – warrants a more in-depth examination, especially in light of recent incidents regarding race and police brutality against black people back in the United States.

One of the many cries of frustration that I’ve heard from my brown-skinned kin from back home in the aftermath of these racially-charged incidents has been ‘maybe it’s time to leave the US behind’, or similar statements that paint the non-US experience as a more suitable one for black people. I hope that my experience as an African-American living in Spain reveals that issues of color and race aren’t exclusively American, and that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the pond.

Black in Spain is a series of essays and first-hand accounts of my experience living, working, and travelling as an African-American woman in Spain. My observations on race, color, and culture in Spain are meant to inform and enlighten as well as highlight the differences between the "black experience" in Spain and the US.

Read the other posts in the series now:

Black In Spain - The Exotic Beauty

La Guapa Morena

“Que guapas morenas!” the guy from the beachside restaurant shouts in our direction. My friend Dominique and I turn toward him, smile, and simultaneously issue a coquettish reply of “Graciaaaaas!” We’re on our way back to my place after hanging out at the beach in Marbella for a few hours on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A few paces later, I turn to Dominique and remark, “You know if some random dude had shouted that to us in the States we wouldn’t be thanking him, we’d be looking for a fight!” We both laughed at the ironic truth in that statement. If we were back home in Atlanta, and a white guy exclaimed, “How pretty you two black girls are!” as we passed, our response would be markedly different.

In general, Spanish men (and quite a few women) are openly appreciative of attractive ladies they see on the streets. In my orientation class when I first arrived here, our coordinator even dedicated a section of her presentation to warning us about piropos, or catcalls, that the ladies in our group were likely to experience from men on the streets. Since that time, I’ve noticed that there’s a distinction made when a piropo or sentiment of attraction is directed toward a black or brown girl. Even the simple usage of the more specific morenas versus chicas or just plain “que guapas” to express admiration demonstrates that there’s some ‘other’ lens I’m being viewed through as a brown-skinned girl. The first time I got such a comment was on a solo trip to Barcelona about a month after I’d arrived in Spain. A 20-ish something guy passed me walking in the other direction, smiled and nodded his head with the look of someone appreciating a nice painting or a souped-up automobile. He mumbled loudly enough for me to hear, “Que buena esa morena,” before continuing on his way. At my age, I know how to appreciate a genuine, non-creepy compliment, so I quickly smiled in his direction without halting my stride. Still, every time I hear the sentiment echoed on the streets of Spain, I wonder to myself if the equivalent in English would translate to that dreaded not-quite-compliment, “She’s cute… for a black girl.”

Stares, shouts, comments, are par for the course on the streets of Spain.
Stares, shouts, comments, are par for the course on the streets of Spain.

Don’t Fetishize Me, Bro

"To the collector, you are one-dimensional item. Everything of value or interest about you is tied up in the color of your skin, the texture of your hair, and the mythology surrounding them both." 

Of course, there have been several instances when the ‘guapa morena’ comment hasn’t been so welcome. Take, for instance, the guy who I encountered on one of my first trips to the local library in Ciudad Real. Only minutes after introducing himself to me, and telling me how guapa he thought I was, he asked me for a kiss. I was completely taken aback and more than a little creeped-out by the incident, and when I recounted it later to a friend – a Spanish man – he explained that it was rather common for some Spanish men to assume that a brown-skinned girl equals easy prey. He went on to explain that most of the black women in Spain have immigrated from Latin America or Africa, and some of those who are experiencing financial problems or looking for a way to remain in the country permanently are eager to accept the advances of almost any Spaniard if it means financial security or the promise of becoming a Spanish citizen. For this reason, some Spanish guys will test the waters, so to speak, to see how much they can get away with when meeting a morena.

Then there are those who take their brown-skin attraction in a slightly different direction. I call them ‘collectors’. They – both men and women – are intrigued by the rareness of black flesh. To them, what is rare is seen as more interesting. And the person who’s able to possess a rare thing for themselves is made more interesting as a result. The having of this rare object then, is something of a status symbol for the collector, even if the having is only temporary. To the collector, you are one-dimensional item. Everything of value or interest about you is tied up in the color of your skin, the texture of your hair, and the mythology surrounding them both. Ironically, this pretty much makes the collector the bizarro version of your garden variety racist, for whom everything odious and worthless about you is based on your skin color and its associated mythos.

It doesn’t take long to identify a collector. He or she will probably lead with something that specifically refers to your race. They may even confide in you – completely unsolicited and out of the blue – the fact that they’ve always wanted to ‘be with’ a black girl or have mulatto children. While you’re struggling to put your eyes back into your head from the ridiculousness of such a remark, the collector will probably be leaning in to get an appreciative stroke of your skin or tug at your hair, or quite possibly even commenting lasciviously on another black person passing nearby, completely oblivious to the fact that they are creeping you all the way the f**k out.

The Mouths of Babes

“Mommy, that man has black skin!”

I involuntarily snap my head in the direction the voice came from, and wrinkle my face up at the little girl’s overly loud comment. We are at a seaside resort in southern Spain – a place heavily populated with both Spanish and non-Spanish holiday makers from other parts of Europe. Among the rest of the crowd tanning on the nearby shore, playing in the pool and sipping cocktails at the bar, my friend – a native of Senegal and a longtime resident of Spain – and I are the only brown faces (and bodies) in sight.

The little girl who made the comment looks to be about 7 or 8 years old. From her accent, it sounds like she’s from the UK, where I assume that she would have had more exposure to black people than a girl of her age from Spain. Why, then was it so novel, so unusual to see a person with ‘black skin’ that she felt compelled to blurt it out in public? Why had her mom who was sheepishly grinning in our direction and hurrying her little one along before she could say anything else –  not yet trained her that blurting out such a thing in public wasn’t exactly appropriate? Meanwhile, my friend, who’s probably well accustomed to receiving such comments and stares, is completely unfazed. He smiles and waves at the little one while I brood silently in the background.

Days later, when I’m reflecting on this incident, it occurs to me that this little kid was no different than many full-grown Spaniards I’ve encountered that momentarily lose their cool and some of their senses when they see a black person – saying and doing something that leaves the unaccustomed (like me) frowning and wondering, “What the f**k?”, while those who are used to these outbursts (like my Senegalese friend), simply offer a patronizing smile and the equivalent of, “Awwww… Bless your heart!”


Can I Touch It?

It’s Christmas season in Spain. Even though I’m missing family time and the Christmas traditions I’m accustomed to back in the US, I’m still enjoying my first Christmas in my host country. I’ve finished checking off the last of the gift recipients on my relatively short Christmas list, and I’m looking for the finishing touches to put on the gifts that I need to wrap and deliver to local friends in Ciudad Real before the long winter break.

I ducked into the little store thinking they would definitely have the gift ribbon I was looking for. It was, after all, a chino*, and chinos carry at least 4 of everything ever made. As I was preparing to check out, the Spanish girl working in the store who'd helped me find the ribbon remarked to the Chinese lady behind the counter, “Que guapa, no?” (Isn’t she pretty?) “Si! Es guapa!” the other woman enthusiastically replied, smiling in my direction. I thanked them both profusely. Before I could finish my 'gracias', La China (the Chinese lady) recounted in her heavily accented Spanish that she used to work in a neighborhood in nearby Toledo where there were other girls... here she paused to rub the skin on the back of my hand to indicate what kind of girls they were. She said that she loved seeing them, and whenever they would come in to shop or talk, she would rub their skin. Here, she paused to stroke my hand again. “Muy suave!” (very smooth!) she beamed, then suggested the Spanish girl have a go. “Siiiii...” La Española replied in awe, after stroking the back of my hand for herself. “Que suave!!” By now, my eyes were as big as saucers, my brow furrowed, and my smile a tentative, bemused one. “Como un bebe,” (like a baby) La China continued, smiling brightly with confirmation of her knowledge. As I handed her the coins for the ribbon, she couldn't resist one more stroke. The transaction complete, I hurriedly stuffed the ribbon in my bag, managed to bumble out another 'gracias' and a 'feliz navidad', then swiftly pivoted and exited the twilight zone.

"As a black person living in a country like Spain where the population is largely homogenous – at least in outward appearance – it’s not an uncommon occurrence to find out that you’ve instantly become a walking museum exhibit."

In Spain, and there’s a sort of no-holds-barred, ‘I’m not even gonna question if you’re ok with this because I know you’re ok with this’ aspect to the commenting on and touching of black skin and hair that is markedly different from the US. Here, complete strangers feel no qualm about remarking loudly about your ‘different’ features or even getting in a quick pet. Like the one time, when I was walking through a crowded club in Malaga, and a woman I passed yelled out over the din of the party, “I like your hair!” Then proceeded to shove her hands into my picked-out ‘fro just before asking if she could touch it. Or like an entirely different chino incident, when I was perusing the aisles for some household necessity, and another shopper – a middle-aged Spanish woman – decided to grab a few of my braid extensions and marvel aloud at how they got that way, how long it must have taken to do them, and what sort of material they were made of. Part of this uninhibited touching is cultural – Spaniards have a completely different concept of personal space than Americans. That is to say, by American standards, Spaniards don’t really have a concept of personal space. Close-talking, double-cheek kissing, resting a hand on a shoulder or back while conversing with someone – all of these are interpersonal conventions that might make the average American feel uncomfortable.

As a black person living in a country like Spain where the population is largely homogenous – at least in outward appearance – it’s not an uncommon occurrence to find out that you’ve instantly become a walking museum exhibit. For many, you’re one of the few chances they have to get an up-close look – or touch – of this rarely-seen specimen that is a black person. Does that mean it’s ok for someone to breach your personal space for a rub of your skin or a grab at your hair? No. But it does help explain why it’s happening. Why you’re being stared at on the street, in the grocery store, on the metro. Yes, even now, in the 21st century, where black people are more prominent in international media than ever before, and you’d think that the sight of a black person walking down the street minding their own business wouldn’t cause a stir.

"Can I touch it?"
"Can I touch it?"

Yet, if I’m completely honest, I can’t gloss over the fact that I’ve experienced some unwanted touches from my fellow countrymen in the United States. Particularly when it comes to my hair. The fact that I wear my hair natural and often change the style it’s in, has frequently sparked interest from co-workers and associates, to the point where they can’t resist a touch. Usually though, this kind of uninvited touching only happens with people whom I share space with regularly or have known for a period of time. And even then, the social norms regarding personal space in America makes them do so with a bit of timidity and hesitation that seems fitting for putting your hands on someone without explicit permission.

[su_pullquote align="right"]I often find myself torn between feeling weirded out and feeling honored and appreciated in a way that I’d never be on my home turf. [/su_pullquote]I also have to admit that sometimes it feels damned good to be positively noticed for the color of your skin. Back home in Atlanta, there are so many beautiful men and women of color of every shape, size, and type that I would scarcely garner a second glance on the streets. Being good-looking and black isn’t really worth commenting on when damned near everyone around you is good-looking and black. So, after each of these experiences, I often find myself torn between feeling weirded out and feeling honored and appreciated in a way that I’d never be on my home turf. After many months of being guapa’d and groped in public and private, I’ve finally learned to take it all in stride, and more often than not I have a laugh at it – if only to myself.

Case in point: one afternoon, late in the school year, one of my Spanish roommates knocks on my bedroom door. She wants to introduce me to some family members who are visiting. After greeting them, my roommate’s mom says, as sweet as she can, ‘Me gusta tu color’ (I like your color).

What I think is…

What? This old thing?

Girl… you better get a good look while ya can! I’m about to hop in the shower!

Ya sure? Cuz, ehhh… I dunno… I was thinking of changing it.

Oh. I… like… yours… too?

I’ve been growing it since birth.

But, what I say is:


* Throughout Spain, a chino is a one-stop-shop or convenience store that sells a wide array of household goods, snacks, and personal items for a very low price. They are almost invariably owned and operated by Chinese immigrants – hence the fitting, albeit politically incorrect, name.


Black in Spain is a series of essays and first-hand accounts of my experience living, working, and travelling as an African-American woman in Spain. My observations on race, color, and culture in Spain are meant to inform and enlighten as well as highlight the differences between the "black experience" in Spain and the US.

Read the other posts in the series now:

How I Lost over 15 Pounds While Living in Spain (and Eating Everything!)

Wow! You look great!Hey skinny lady!

Who’s that in the picture?

It almost never fails. Every time I post a pic of myself on Facebook or some other social media outlet, these are the comments I get from friends and family back home. Since first moving to Spain for a 6-month stint in 2014, and after living here for almost another 8 months, I’ve lost quite a bit of weight. I’ve never been one to track my weight (scales, schmales), so I’m not exactly sure how much I’ve lost (that 15lbs in the title was really just a guesstimate); but I do know that not only have I dropped a couple of dress sizes, I also feel a lot better about my body – the way it looks, feels, and how it serves me as I go about my daily business. And get this: I’ve never once been to the gym.


Before I have you thinking that I’ve slimmed down to the point of having no body issues at all, let me tell you: I’ve still got quite a little pooch going on, I still have minor anxiety sporting a two-piece on a beach full of super-fit Europeans, and, at over 35 years old, I’ve got bits that are jiggling and swaying way more than they ever did (or should). Still, more often than not, I like what I see looking back at me when I look in the mirror, and I know for certain that it has a lot to do with abandoning my American eating and living habits and adopting a more Spanish or European lifestyle. Namely:


Smaller restaurant portions

Though I eat all the things I try to avoid when eating out at home – like taters, bread, and pasta – and I drink like there’s no tomorrow, I’ve still managed to shed pounds. Part of this is because the amount of these things that I consume in a sitting is much less than what I’d consume in the States. The US is notorious for its ridiculous portion sizes. If you order a meal for one in a typical US dining establishment, you’re usually presented with enough food for 2 people. Ditto for drinks – especially sodas and beers. Here in Spain, the tradition of tapas – or small plates of food that are meant to be eaten in a few bites – makes it easy to have a filling meal with lots of variety, yet not overeat. One of my favorite Spanish portion control options is the caña – which is basically a half-sized serving of beer. Even when I go out and have multiple rounds of beers, I’m still only drinking half as much as I would if I did the same in the States.


Several small meals a day

My typical daily eating pattern in Spain goes something like this…

For breakfast (before 11am): Coffee and/or water.

Post-breakfast / Pre-lunch (between 11am and 2pm): A piece of fruit or, occasionally, a small pastry or slice of Spanish tortilla.

For lunch (between 2 and 3pm): A quick, home-cooked meal like a pasta dish, a big salad, or a meat-and-veggie dish.

Post-lunch: A piece of fruit or two for an after-lunch dessert or snack.

For dinner (between 8 and 10pm): A couple of rounds of drinks and accompanying free tapas or another quick, home-cooked meal.

I’ve adopted this pattern of eating after observing and eventually falling in line with the way I’ve seen the folks around me eat. The concept of eating several small meals a day isn’t unique to Spain. In fact, most nutritionists and weight loss experts in the US recommend this method of eating. Still, it isn’t the norm for the average American. We’ve been indoctrinated with the idea that you should eat ‘3 square meals’ a day – a hearty breakfast, a hearty lunch, and an especially hearty dinner – and that’s pretty much how I used to eat back home (with the exception of the hearty breakfast). Here, lunch – not dinner – is often the biggest meal of the day, which leaves plenty of time to burn off the calories before settling in for the evening.

A glimpse at typical Spanish eating habits.
A glimpse at typical Spanish eating habits.

Lunch at home

You’ve probably heard of the Spanish siesta – that 2-3 hour lull in the middle of the day where everything shuts down and people go home to take a nap. While not everyone actually takes a nap during that time, almost everyone I know goes home for a home-cooked lunch. Having that large block of time to go home, prepare a healthy meal, eat it like a normal human (versus inhaling it like a vacuum cleaner), and let it digest a bit before heading back to work, is a luxury that I wish I had in the US. At home, I would barely have time to stuff some chicken fingers and fries (or a similarly unhealthy option) from the downstairs food court into my gullet before heading off to a meeting or rushing to meet an end-of-day deadline. Even on the days when I did go for a healthier lunch option, it was often more expensive to do so, and I’d end up resorting to the cheaper, less healthy lunch the very next day.


Coffee done right

Coffee is a known metabolism booster, and can help you burn extra calories IF you drink it the right way. What’s the right way? Well, ditching all the milk and sugar (I’m lookin’ at you, Starbucks), and drinking a small amount of black coffee or coffee with very little milk and sugar (like my beloved cortado) is a start. Also, it’s typical in Spain to have a coffee directly after or between meals, which is just when your body benefits from an extra boost of metabolism to help burn off the food you recently consumed.

The cortado - a shot of espresso with just a little touch of steamed milk. Sugar optional.
The cortado - a shot of espresso with just a little touch of steamed milk. Sugar optional.

Shared meals

In Spain, especially in smaller cities like the one I live in, eating is not a solo sport. Meals are meant to be shared – with friends, family members, coworkers, roommates. When you go out to eat with a group, it’s typical for everyone to share from common plates or to share bites of their individually ordered dish with everyone else at the table. At first, I turned my nose up at this practice. But… I want all my food for myself! But, I’m still hungry! But over time, I’ve adjusted. I’ve even noticed that the slower pace of eating in a group setting, helps me feel more full with less food.  I’ve also noticed that Spaniards tend to share snack foods with folks around them. Whenever one of my colleagues has what we Americans would consider a single serving bag of chips or a similar snack, they always end up offering away at least a third of it to others, or eating about half and saving the rest for another time.

Sharing is caring. And better for your waistline.
Sharing is caring. And better for your waistline.


When I lived in the States, my work kept me sitting at a desk for multiple hours a day. After work, I’d walk 2 minutes to get in my car and drive home, where I’d often do more work sitting at a computer, before cooking dinner and watching TV or reading for a couple of hours before bed. Even if I ran errands in the neighborhood – like going to the grocery store that’s literally at the end of my street – it meant getting into my car and driving there. In the US, walking is often seen as a hardship or something that the less fortunate (i.e., those who can’t afford cars) do. The combination of a car-centric culture, and sprawling cities and neighborhoods, make walking for anything other than intentional exercise either unfashionable or implausible.

To put things in perspective, the entire country of Spain is smaller than the state of Texas (in square miles). The lack of sprawl makes walking a lot more feasible. Neighborhoods are designed so that you have almost everything you need within walking distance of your home – grocery stores, banks, schools, retail shops, personal services. And you’re not seen as odd or less fortunate if you walk everywhere, because almost everyone else – from infant to elderly – is walking too.


Water, water, everywhere

Because of all the walking I do, and because of a personal commitment to myself to consume more water, I almost always have a bottle of water on hand. I keep a 5L bottle of water in my room by my bedside, so I can not only track roughly how much water I drink a day, but also so I never have to go far to get it.



This is probably the single most influential factor in my weight loss. At the beginning of this school year, one of the professors at my high school was kind enough to loan me a bike to use during my time here. It just so happens that this bike is the oldest specimen of 2-wheeled locomotion ever known to man. It’s also a fixed gear, and it can leave my legs feeling like jelly even when riding on relatively flat terrain. Still, it’s a more efficient mode of transportation than walking, and I ride my rusty steed everywhere – to school, to the grocery store, to the park, to the library. I usually spend around 30-40 minutes biking each day, which isn’t a lot, but it’s definitely made a lot of difference.

My rusty steed - who I've affectionately nicknamed Roci, after Don Quijote's mule of a horse.
My rusty steed - who I've affectionately nicknamed Roci, after Don Quijote's mule of a horse.

Easy access to healthy, cheap ingredients

Within a 3-5 minute walk in any direction from my apartment, I have a least 4 independently owned fresh fruit/veggie stands, and 2-3 chain grocery stores. The selection of produce in either of those outlets is generally less varied than what I’d find in the US, but the price and the quality is significantly better. And the fact that they’re so close and right in front of my face, makes it easier for me to grab a healthy snack versus the fast food that I’d normally go for back home.

My favorite neighborhood fruteria - cheap, fresh, seasonal produce a stone's throw away from my place
My favorite neighborhood fruteria - cheap, fresh, seasonal produce a stone's throw away from my place

Fast food as an occasional treat

In the US, fast food is convenience food. Don’t have time to cook? Forgot to pack a healthy lunch? No problem. Just stop by one of the dozen fast food restaurants you’re sure to pass on your way to and from home and pick up an extremely high-calorie, extremely low cost meal. Fast food is so widely available and frequently consumed in the US, it could almost be considered its own food group. While I wasn’t a frequent consumer of fast food at home, I certainly ate my fair share of quick-serve lunches at work, and my go-to snack when on the run was an order of french fries from the nearest Chik-Fil-A or McDonald’s. Here, a trip to a fast food outlet is seen as a treat – something you do every once in a while as a special outing for the kids or yourself. And the prices reflect that. Going to Mickey D’s, KFC or Burger King is often an expensive proposition – a combo meal can run from 5 to 7 euros, and there’s rarely, if ever, a dollar menu. There are also fewer fast food locations to choose from. You almost have to go out of your way to get to one, and you’ll have to pass several cheaper, considerably healthier options to do so.

Now, are any of the above behaviors impossible to duplicate in the US? Absolutely not. Am I suggesting that there are no overweight or obese Spaniards? Nope. In either country, individual health and body weight are often a reflection of the daily lifestyle choices we make. But due to cultural norms, I think it’s more difficult to make these choices and stick to them on a regular basis back home in the US of A. As my time in Spain comes to an end, I often worry if I’ll be able to hold on to these healthy habits that I’ve picked up in my host country. I like to think that it’ll be easy, but I’m not 100% sure. For my own sake, and for the sake of my Facebook photo admirers, I certainly hope so. :)

Have you noticed any positive body changes during your travels or time living abroad? What do you think was behind it? Have you been able to stick to your healthy habits after returning to your home country?

Share your feedback in the comments!

how to cope when you hate your host country

Living in a different country isn't always sunshine and roses. Sometimes the experience is a complete emotional rollercoaster. One moment, you're all thrilled and tickled with the newness of it all - the sights and sounds, the new people you're meeting, all the fun you're having. The next moment, something happens that throws you for a loop, knocks you on your ass, and literally leaves you cursing the ground you stand on. Most times, though, the good experiences outweigh the bad, and the bad experiences just turn into funny stories that you share with friends over drinks. But sometimes,  the bad feelings don't just blow over. Sometimes everything about your host country works your last effing nerve. Sometimes the potent combination of: being isolated from family and friends, not speaking the language, confusing cultural differences, climactic anomalies and missing 'normal' food becomes way too much to bear. And as the days and weeks pass without any sign of your situation improving, you find yourself seriously wondering if you should just call it quits, pack up and go back home where you belong.


Since I've actually experienced the scenario above (and talked myself out of a one-way plane ticket home), I thought I'd share some suggestions for dealing with the post-honeymoon phase; or, as i like to call it: 'a survival guide for expats who've considered repatriation when the novelty wasn't enuf'.

7 Ways to Cope When You Hate Your Host Country

Don’t lash out

Often, the reception you get from the locals in your host country can feel less than hospitable. It can be tempting and sometimes, warranted, to fight fire with fire, picking a fight with anyone who rubs you the wrong way. Fighting the good fight day in and day out, however, quickly becomes exhausting. You're constantly on edge, waiting for the next person to 'make your day'. You'll end up wearing yourself down long before you wear them down.  My advice: even if you’re getting bad energy from people, resist the urge to give it back. At least not too harshly. In short, throwing shade is cool. Throwing epithets and punches, not so much.


Don’t clam up

 I get it. You hate the place, so obviously you want to limit your exposure to it. But becoming a recluse solves nothing. Find places that you enjoy going to - bookstores, cafes, parks, libraries, movie theaters - and make it a regular habit to visit them. If you haven't found your social group yet and feel shy about going out alone, go to restaurants and bars during off-peak hours, when you're less likely to be surrounded by couples and families. Sign up for a class or join a gym.  If you do end up taking some time to be a recluse, that's ok. Just try not to let it linger for too long.


Take a step back

Remove yourself as a participant in the daily expat struggles that you encounter.  Become an observer instead. Imagine that you are there to explore, compare, and document, as an anthropologist, journalist, artist, historian. Treat this experience as your work or project. Approach your time abroad this way and you’ll be less likely to get emotionally riled when frustrating things happen. Even if you do get riled, at least you’ll have a productive outlet for your emotions.



Stay connected

Stay in touch with people back home. Especially those who are good listeners, or make you laugh. Join online groups or communities (some of my faves: Black Americans Living Abroad

Solo Women Travelers, Bellas Morenas de Espana), where you can share with other people who can relate to the experiences you're going through. Look for local gatherings or groups to join - especially those where you're likely to find other expats. Check Couchsurfing, and to see if there are active groups in your area.



Plug in

I'm not usually an advocate of binge-watching tv, but as an expat, it may not be as easy or feasible (due to language barriers or telecommunications issues) to watch your favorite programs from back home. Scheduling time to catch up is a good distraction from expat woes.



Maybe it’s your city or region that doesn't agree with you? Explore other parts of the country, or find cheap ways to travel to nearby countries.



Get a job

Occupy your time? Make money? This one's a no brainer. Find side jobs based in your home country that you can do remotely from your host country. Check Craigslist, ODesk, and other freelance job sites for opportunities. Giving private English lessons is another good money-making option that works for almost anyone, since native speakers are usually highly prized non-English-speaking countries.


Remember the reason

Why’d you want to move to another country in the first place? Is that reason still valid? Have you strayed from your original goal? Do you need to set a new goal to help motivate you?

What are some ways that you've battled the expat blues? How do you know when it's time to throw in the towel and head back home? Share your thoughts in the comments!

spanish word of the day: cojones

The things you learn on roadtrips. On a recent one with some Spanish friends, I learned just how important cojones are to Spanish people.

It happened just after we passed Toledo heading southbound. Tio Pepe blurted out from the back seat, "Tocame los cojones! Que me voy a Bargas! Y si no me los toca... a Menasalbas!"


While my three Spanish compadres were laughing among themselves, I was once again left scratching my head at some vulgar Spanish expression whose meaning completely escaped me.From what I could gather from Pepe's explanation,  the expression had something to do with two towns we'd passed - Bargas and Menasalbas - south of Toledo. I'd never heard of those towns before, but I'd heard plenty of expressions using that oh-so-familiar Spanish word for testicles.

"Spanish people talk about cojones a lot," I intimated to my friends.

They all agreed. Eager to impress upon me just how essential cojones are to Castellano, my travel companions took the opportunity to school me on several uses and variants of the word. And I took notes. Here are some of my favorites:

    • que cojones...?  - used as part of a rhetorical question, as in, 'que cojones es esto (what the hell is this)?


    • hasta los cojones  - (to have had it) up to here; to be fed up. Literal translation: up to the balls.


    • acojonante - fabulous, amazing.


    • vas como los cojones de los galgos - used when someone lags behind. A galgo is a Spanish greyound. Approximate translation: you're moving like greyhounds' balls.


    • par de cojones - when someone is brave or fearless they are said to have a par de cojones or to have done something con dos cojones. Literal translation: a pair of balls.


    • cojonudo - awesome, amazing, great


    • cojonazos (aka, huevasos) - guy who is henpecked, or a guy who sits around 'tocando sus cojones' (touching his balls / doing nothing) all day.


    • un cojon - a whole lot. (e.g., 'te quiero un cojon')


    • mil pares de cojones - with a lot of force, effort, or difficult. Literal translation: A thousand pairs of balls.


And that's just a short list. Turns out there are dozens more uses for the word cojones in Spain. Which means that cojones could quite possibly be the most versatile word ever.

spanish word of the day: rematar

Rematar. (verb) - To close out, to wrap up, to finish off.

Popped in to my favorite tapas bar to grab a quick snack before heading to the library. Greeted the bartender with an, "Hola, Que tal?"

He replied, "Rematando la manana."

"Ohhh...siii," I responded. Then thought to myself, confusedly, 'But. But. It's 3:30 pm!"

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spanish word of the day: rastas

Rastas. (noun) dreadlocks.

In Spain they say ‘rastas’ instead of dreadlocks. Imagine my surprise when arranging to meet someone new for the first time, and they send me a text saying they’ll be the one ‘con rastas’ (with rastas), and when I show up, I’m like… “Oh. It’s just you by yourself.... Nice hair.”
friend request

I sensed there was something a bit strange about the fellow when he sat at the communal table where I was seated. Something about his constant fidgeting and frequent sighing caused my spidey-senses to tingle. But I still wasn’t quite prepared for the interaction that was about to unfold.

“Hola,” he half-whispered.
I whispered a greeting in reply, “Hola,” then attempted to turn my attention back to my laptop. He didn’t take the hint.
 “Eres Dominicana?”
‘Ah, well,’ I thought. The library was getting ready to close for the evening, so I guess I should start wrapping up my work anyway. There’s no harm in engaging this dude in a little small talk.
“No. Americana.”
“Pero, AmericanaAmericana?”
Uh, yeah, homey. From the grand ol’ US of A, born and raised.
By now, I was just trying to think of a way to politely end the conversation with this guy so I could go on about my business. My spidey-senses were tingling even stronger now. Something about the way he was looking at me – like a sickly wolf in need of a quick meal – made me want to exit this scene immediately.
“Eres muy guapaaa…” creepy library dude continued.
I issued a curt, “Gracias.”
“Can I have your phone number?”
Wait. What? That just came out of nowhere.
“Noooo,” I resisted. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Here in Spain?”
“Yes,” I lied. “He lives in Madrid.”
“Ohhhh…” creepy guy replied, despondently.
Ok. I thought. That should shut this dude down. I was sadly mistaken.
“Tienes Facebook?” At this, creepy dude stood up and walked around to my side of the table where, by chance, I had my Facebook account pulled up on my screen.
“Uhhh, si.” I muttered awkwardly. Momentarily taken aback by the sudden proximity of this guy.
“Send me a friend request,” he urged, and began spelling his name for me to look him up on the social media site.
Thinking I could just send the request and cancel it later, and that this would be the quickest way to get rid of this guy, I typed in his name and clicked the ‘Add Friend’ button.
Instead of just returning to his seat, creepy library guy decided to up the creep factor to 10.
“Can I have a kiss?”
Ok. That’s it dude. I’m done being nice.
I scowled back at him, “No!”
“Why not? Your boyfriend won’t see!”
Is this dude serious? We are in the middle of the public library and he’s doing this sh*t!? I felt my face begin to grow hot with anger. God, I wish I knew how to effortlessly cuss someone out in Spanish. In the midst of my mounting rage, I make a silent side-note to brush up on my Spanish swear words and phrases.
Instead of cussing, I give him a look that needs no translation. My left eyebrow sharply raised, my right eye squinting at him like he might actually be insane, my nose wrinkled up like I can literally smell the BS he’s dishing out, and the corners of my mouth pulling downward into a mama-don’t-take-no-mess frown. In any language, this face means, “Look MF, if you don’t back away from me quick fast and in a hurry, I’m gonna smack the taste out of your mouth.”
Message delivered.
Creepy library dude backs away and returns to the other side of the table with a sheepish grin on his face. “Lo siento, Lo siento,” he whispers and begins gathering his things to make his exit. After all his stuff is in hand, he turns to leave, but not before whispering, “Hasta luego.”
I issue a grunt and another scowl in reply.
That uncomfortable moment over, I realize that the library is going to be closing in only a few more minutes. Not wanting to chance running into this creepy guy outside of the library, I wait until the last possible moment to pack up my things and leave. But before I do, I return to Facebook and click the link.


Cancel Request.
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spanish word of the day: abrigar

Abrigar. (verb) To bundle up. To protect oneself from the cold.

As I was leaving the apartment with my bike, I ran into my elderly neighbor, Sr. Braulio.

"Vas en bici?" He asked, looking a little dubious. (Are you going by bike?)

"Siiii," I replied. Then followed with, "Tengo mis guantes, mi bufonda..." (I got my gloves, my scarf...)

"Ahh..." He responded. "Hay que abrigar!"(Ya gotta bundle up!)

estoy harta (i'm fed up)
Living in a small Spanish town is hard. Harder than I thought. I can’t believe it’s been 4 months, and I still struggle with being here. Still. I mean, I’m usually a pretty adaptable person, so I’m kind of shocked that I haven’t successfully done so here. I feel like almost every moment is a struggle. Nothing comes easily. Nothing is without a little bit of pain, inconvenience, or the unexpected element of surprise. I feel like I’ve been being (or trying to be) mentally and physically tough the entire time I’ve been here. And I don’t think I want to keep it up anymore. Or at least… I need to take a break from this sh*t.
Today, I left the bike behind at the house and walked to school instead. I got to school about 30 minutes late for my first class. I had no excuse other than, I couldn’t make it. That’s it. For my evening class, I showed up about 5 minutes late, and I flat out told the teacher – I’m totally unprepared today. She told me to go home. I did. This is what I call radical self-care tinged with a little bit of, ‘Yo. Eff this sh*t’.
Living alone was probably not the best decision after all, so I’ve started looking for a new apartment – with roommates. I spent time at the instituto this morning contacting the few shared apartments I found online last night. This evening, they both called back. I’ll be going to take a look at them tomorrow. Hopefully, at least one of them will feel like a better situation than I’m in right now. God, I hope so. I really need an improvement – just for my state of mind. I’m starting to feel so mentally worn down and raw-edged. Like, anything could make me cry these days. What kinda thug cries at the drop of a hat?
I watched two movies this weekend about folks locked down in solitary confinement. One was a movie with Kevin Bacon (who did his thing in the role, I might add) as a petty criminal who’d been in solitary in Alcatraz for 3 years in the 1930s. The other was the biopic about Ruben Hurricane Carter starring Denzel. Both felt like my life right now. Mumbling to myself, laughing to myself, entertaining myself with my own vivid daydreams and imaginings. Plus, something that Denzel-as-Ruben said in the movie really stuck with me. I just gotta focus on doing the time. Not on when I’ll get out, not on what my life used to be like in some other place. Just doing the time.
So far, I’ve done 4 months. I’d been thinking that I had 5 more months to go, and that there was no way in hell or on God’s green earth that I could possibly do another 5 months like this. But, then, all of a sudden I realized that the end of May is only a little more than 3 months away (I did start the program late, after all). 90 days doesn’t seem nearly as bad as 5 months. Maybe I can make it. Maybe.
I’m tired of fighting the cold
I’m tired of fighting the bike
I’m tired of fighting my schedule
I’m tired of fighting my shower
I’m tired of fighting my coffee maker
I’m tired of fighting my bed
I’m tired of the internet being so damned slow. Slow? No. slow would be an improvement
I’m tired of not having a DVD player
I’m tired of watching the same damned TV shows every damned day
I’m tired of the same crappy movies on Paramount channel
I’m tired of the cold
I’m tired of being sick
I’m sick of waiting a week for my clothes to dry
I’m sick of not having any clothes to wear
I’m sick of going shopping for clothes only to realize that I’m not made like a Spanish woman. (Yes, this dress is very nice. But where do my boobs go?)
I’m sick of going to the library
I’m sick of going to my evening class
I’m sick of this town
No. I’m over this town
I’m over these people who live here and the way they walk (Seriously? Can you f*ckin’ move, please?)
I’m over my students acting like slack-jawed yokels some days (What’s up with that? Think, dammit!)
I’m over this cold
I’m over this sh*tty ass food. Like, really, can I get one decent restaurant that either doesn’t have the same tired ass tapas that EVERY other restaurant has, OR isn’t ridiculously overpriced!? The f*ck?
I’m over positive self-talk. I’m over trying to convince myself that I can do this, that I got this, that I can make it if I just try. No. Enough of that. Today, it’s just me, my screwface, and hip-hop blaring through my headphones as I stomp-walk through the streets of Ciudad Real.
I can try again… tomorrow.

****** UPDATE; Since I first penned these thoughts almost a month ago, things have changed considerably. That apartment and those roommates I was hunting for? Found 'em. I now live with 3 other ladies of varying ages. It feels nice to no longer have only myself to talk to, and to have other living, breathing humans to share the details of my day with. I've even made some connections with other Americans living in town, and we meet fairly regularly to share tapas, drinks, laughter, and stories of expat life.

That cold that I was so very sick of? The new apartment has much better heating, and the seemingly neverending winter in my little Spanish town has magically transformed into spring - almost overnight. This means that I've been able to reunite with my rusty old bike that one of my coworkers loaned me. Now that I no longer have to abrigarme every day, I can actually enjoy the sometimes-challenging ride through town on my way to school or to run errands. I even catch myself humming or singing little tunes as I pedal through the streets - a much better use of my vocal chords than the under-my-breath curses that I used to emit.

That terrible Internet connection that forced me to go to use the wifi at the public library, where I was often prey for creepy library stalkers... it is no more. The wifi in my new place is about as strong as it gets. So, not only can I get more writing work done in the comfort of my own room, I can also watch a variety of TV programs and movies that just weren't available to me before. And sometimes, when I am just sitting in my room, enjoying the relative softness of my new bed, or watching the sunlight stream in through the window, I hear the lilting sounds of my neighbor practicing the flute (thankfully, he or she is pretty damned good!) or the bells from the nearby cathedral chiming the hour... and I smile, and say a little prayer of thanks.

Through all of this, I've realized (or been reminded) that making a mid-course correction isn't the same as failing; that suffering isn't necessary, that when going through something that you know is making you stronger and more resilient, you still have the right and the power to say when you've reached your limit.

And that sometimes, 'eff this sh*t', is exactly the right answer.

A little reminder I wrote to myself and kept on my bedside table when I decided to stop struggling.
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spanish word of the day: caber

Caber (verb) - to fit, to have room for.

As is my usual habit on Thursdays, I go have a coffee and a churrito in the cafeteria at school after my first and only class of the day. Today, the churritos weren't yet ready when I arrived and ordered my coffee. The guy who runs the cafeteria set out a mini muffin for me to eat while the churritos finished cooking.

"Oh, no..." I protested, "Yo puedo esperar por el churrito." (I can wait for the churrito.)

"Tu eres grande," he replied. "Te cabe!" (You're big. You have room for it!)


how do you say 'mercury retrograde' in spanish?
Maybe it was ‘cause Mercury was in retrograde. But yesterday was rough. Much harder than it needed to be. It started out well enough. My 2 classes at the high school where I teach English went well. The students were engaged – which is all I can really ask for most days.
But then I realized that I’d booked 2 private lessons back-to-back that day and hadn’t allowed myself enough time to get between the 2 locations. No worries, I thought. I’ll just ask the first student if we can shorten the lesson to 30 minutes. Since it’s our first class, we’ll just use it as a ‘getting to know you / setting expectations’ meeting and I won’t charge for it. That’ll leave me enough time to bike to the nearby bus stop, tie up Roci, and catch the 5:15 bus to the next town for my 2nd lesson. I got this.
Except, I didn’t had this. Not at all.
My first class ended up being a little further than I’d originally expected, but I still made it to the lesson on time, and had a good chat with both the parents and the teenaged son I was to tutor. Although I did feel the son was a little undercover flirty with me. Who suggests that we can “sometimes meet in your bedroom” because you have a computer in there?
Anyhow, I ended the chat right on time, and as I was preparing to leave, the mom offered to give me a ride to my next place. I was just about to accept when I realized that I’d need Roci when I got back if I was gonna make it to my 7:00 class at the Escuela de Idiomas on time. If I left her at their house, she’d be too far from where the bus would drop me. “Nah, I’ll be ok,” I told her, and set off to catch my bus.

My First Big Mistake

There was some after-school traffic that delayed me a little bit, so I wasn’t exactly sure how I was doing on time when I pulled up to the bus stop and saw a bus there, getting ready to close its doors and pull off. “Is that my bus? No, that can’t be my bus. Is it?” I signaled to the driver to open the door. Slightly out of breath, I managed to ask him if this was the bus I should take if I needed to be in Miguelturra by 5:30. He seemed to indicate that this was probably the best one. But when I asked if he would wait a minute – since I still needed to tie up Roci – he told me he was leaving right away. The next bus would be along at 5:15, he said. Oh! I thought. That’s the bus I wanted anyway. I’m good!
Except, I weren’t good. Not at all.
I quickly tied up Roci, and settled in on the bench to wait, eyeballing the 2 Ferrero Rochers that my 1st student had given me. I imagined enjoying them later as a delicious reward for successfully completing all my running around for the day, and even earning some extra cash in the process. I silently patted myself on the back. Look at me, getting things done, making things happen. That’s alright! Go me!
A few minutes later, the bus pulls up, I pay my fare, have a seat and we take off. After a few stops, I notice that it’s about 5:26, and we’re nowhere near my stop yet. Why is this driver taking so long? C’mon. Let’s move it! After a few more stops, I prepare myself to exit. I’d sent a quick message to my student’s mom letting her know that the bus was running a little behind, but I was on my way. After yet a few more stops, I realized I no longer had any idea where I was. I had never seen these buildings or streets on my route before. I’d been paying attention the whole time, surely I hadn’t missed my stop? Then it dawned on me.
Joder. I’ve taken the wrong bus.
There are 2 busses that go to Miguelturra, but only 1 of them stops near my student’s house. I, obviously, was not on that bus today. I got up, walked to the bus driver, and asked him if I could get off somewhere and get back to my stop. He suggested I get off at the next stop, but was pretty vague about how exactly I could walk from there to my intended destination (I just love it when Spanish people say, take this street, walk to the end, and then ask somebody else. HUH? Dem ain’t directions!). I got off, and headed in the direction he suggested. I asked the first people I passed – two older ladies – how I could get to Parque del Sol, right across the street from where I was going. Their response clued me in to just how off-the-mark I was. Heads thrown back in mock tribulation, hands gesturing and waving that I would need to walk, and walk, and then walk some more, perhaps to the end of the earth, perhaps until the end of time until I got to my destination. I thanked them kindly for the specificity of their response, and trudged on. After a few paces, I realized that I needed to abort this mission. If I had to walk as far as the ladies had said, I’d pretty much have to turn right back around to catch the next bus by the time I got there. There would be no time for a lesson. Which also meant, there would be no extra cash in my pocket today.

My Second Big Mistake

I made an about face then set off to look for a bus stop where I could catch the bus headed in the opposite direction. I found the stop, checked the schedule, seeing that I’d probably just missed the bus (unless it was running late) going back to Ciudad Real, and had almost 30 minutes before the next one. I waited for a few minutes to see if the bus was, in fact, running late. At 10 minutes past its scheduled time, I gave up waiting and battling the cold and wind, and sought refuge in a bar a few blocks away. I needed something to warm my bones quickly. I ordered a shot of rum. After finishing, I reached into my wallet and discovered my second major mistake of the day. I’d been expecting to get cash from my lesson, but since that hadn’t happened, I now only had enough money to pay for the shot I’d ordered with a few spare coins left over. I had no way to pay for the bus. No problem. I thought. There’s still plenty of time before the bus comes, I’m sure I can find a cajero nearby.
As my sitcom-life would have it, however, there was no cajero nearby. I ended up walking almost 15 cold, frustrating, muttering-angrily-to-myself minutes to the town center until I found one and extracted money. Luckily, there was a bus stop right across the street, and a few minutes later a bus came along, and I headed back to Ciudad Real. With nothing to show for it, I might add. Actually, with less to show for it, given the money spent on 2 bus trips and 1 rum.
Well, at least I’d make it to my 7:00 class on time. I got back to town, reclaimed Roci and headed to the Escuela de Idiomas, pulling up a full 5 minutes before my class was to start. When I arrived at the classroom, the door was closed. An unusual sight, since my students are usually coming back from a break when I arrive, and the door is always open. I peeked in the little porthole-shaped window. The class looked fully engaged in some activity. I lightly tapped on the door and peeked my head in, getting the attention of the lead teacher. “Oh, hi, Kisha!” she smiled and hurried over to me. “Do you need me today?” I asked. “Welll… not really,” she replied. Of course. I should have seen that coming.
Feeling more than a little defeated at my overwhelming lack of accomplishment for the day, I collected Roci one last time, and headed home to sulk it off. I reached my piso, de-bundled myself, and tossed my bag on the couch. Reaching in to extract my laptop, my finger brushed across something unfamiliar. It was the Ferrero Rocher from earlier.
“Well…” I sighed to myself, “…at least the day wasn’t a total loss.”
livin' la vida monja
Part of me feels like I need to make excuses for my little apartment. It has no oven, I have to pass through the kitchen to get through the bathroom, and the small floorplan poses some interesting storage challenges. But honestly, I love the place. It’s kind of funny, because I’ve been reading articles and watching videos about the so-called ‘tiny house’ movement in the US for the past couple of years, and I told myself that if I ever had the chance to have my own tiny house, I’d jump on it in a heartbeat. It seems like my wish has come true, even though not exactly in the way that I expected. 
Before leaving the US this time, I had to shed a lot of stuff. I got rid of tons of clothes, sold off some things and donated others. I even sold my car. At first, the process of shedding so much made me really anxious, but after it was all said and done, I felt amazingly light. It even felt like I’d cleared up some extra storage in my mind. It occurred to me that each thing that I owned not only occupied a physical space in my life, but also took up virtual space in my mind. Since I had to remember where everything was, even if it wasn’t in plain sight or used every day, there was always a space or a spot on a mental map that it occupied which helped me locate it when I needed to. Getting rid of all those things meant I no longer had to remember them. I could clear out those mental references and fill that space with something more important, or just leave it blank for now.
My new apartment is located just around the corner from a convent, and the street it’s on is called ‘Inmaculada Concepcíon’. For those reasons, I’ve started referring to it as my nun’s cell. Since my goal this go ‘round is to focus more on productive solitary activities – namely writing – I think my pisito is just what I need right now, and it brings me a great deal of joy cooking a basic meal, reading or watching TV on the couch, or just soaking up the sun while sitting in front of the window.

espere tu turno, gracias.
I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories from other auxiliares in other parts of Spain about the process of applying for and obtaining a NIE, or numero de identificacion para extranjeros. Basically, it’s like a social security number for foreigners. My own appointment for my NIE was scheduled for a Thursday in my 2nd full week in Ciudad Real. A woman who works with the auxiliars in my province sent me an email asking if I’d like to join a group of other auxiliars whom she’d be helping with the process on that day. All I had to do in advance was fill out my application form (which was in Spanish). She suggested that I have one of the teachers at my school help me with it.
So it was that I found myself in the teachers’ lounge a couple of days before my appointment, looking for someone to help me with the application. I had just been introduced to Emilio, a retired profe in the school’s English department, who happened to be onsite that day. Apparently Emilio stops by every once in a while to visit and chat with the other English profes, even though he no longer works there. With his British mannerisms and his Mr. Rogers countenance, I figured he was just the right person to ask to help me with the task. I was right. He gladly accepted my request, and slowly walked me through each field on the form, making sure I understood exactly what I needed to enter in order to complete it correctly. After we’d finished, he asked me where my Thursday appointment was. I gave him the name of the location that I thought I had to go to, but I wasn’t sure I was remembering it exactly correctly. Emilio was sure I was mistaken. I thought harder. No, I was sure that was the place. I went to the computer and printed out the email I’d received, and showed him the address and building name. Emilio remained unconvinced. He seemed certain that the lady coordinating the meeting didn’t know what she was talking about. I was certain that I had only asked Emilio to help me with the application, so I wasn’t exactly keen on him ‘helping’ me figure out where I already knew I needed to go two days later. But this gray-haired gentleman had already accepted his charge, and would not be swayed. Before I knew it, he had gallantly snatched up my completed application, and was signaling me to follow him. I tried resisting – politely, but firmly. ‘No, I think I’ll just wait to go with the others on Thursday. Maybe that will be best.’ Emilio scoffed. This shit was going down, and it was going down now. 
Dismayed, but hopeful, I quickly asked my knight in cable knit cardigan what I should bring with me. He advised me to bring all the documentation and identification I had. Before I could quickly gather my folder that contained everything, Emilio was already heading out of the lounge. I followed, clutching my folder to my chest, still not sure how his helping me with my application had turned into this impromptu, unsolicited expedition.
Despite his advanced years, Emilio moved swiftly. I had worn the wrong shoes today, and found it a little difficult to keep up with his long, loping strides. We made our way out of the school, down the block and across the street to a different foreign registration office. Emilio strode in, stopping briefly to ask the security guard which doorway we needed to pass through. The guard motioned to the left, but also seemed to indicate that the waiting area – where other people with appointments were seated – was on the right. I was pretty sure that our expedition would be a bust since we had no appointment whatsoever. Emilio glanced towards the closed office doors, but ended up heading toward the waiting area. We copped a couple of chairs, and waited – me, nervously wondering if Emilio was being just a little too cavalier; Emilio, tapping his foot somewhat impatiently. We waited for a couple of minutes, and when someone from the office on the other side of the hall stuck their head into the waiting area, Emilio pounced. He sprang up from his chair, and crossed the large room in two quick strides, his index finger held up in an authoritative attention-getting gesture. I sat quietly, my eyes slightly bugged, waiting for what would come next. In a few moments, Emilio peeked his head back into the waiting room. He motioned for me to join him. I tried to ignore the stares of the other extranjeros who were patiently waiting their turn. I’m sure they were thinking, “Who the hell are these two? Why do they get to jump the line?” Ok, maybe they weren’t thinking that, but I knew that’s what I would be thinking if I were them.
On the other side of the hallway, Emilio motioned for me to have a seat at a desk where a middle-aged official-looking woman was seated. She started asking me for my paperwork, and entering my details into a computer. Emilio sat next to me calmly watching the process, chiming in to help me out if there was something the woman asked that I didn’t quite understand. Once the lady had finished her questions and tip-tapping into the computer, she ripped off one of the pages of the triplicate form, and then told Emilio that I needed to go to a nearby bank to pay the application fee, then come back to finalize the process. Emilio seemed slightly exasperated at the inefficiency of that procedure, but he rose and exited, and again, I found myself scurrying to catch up to him.
Outside, Emilio paused for a moment to explain the bank-paying step to me in English. He said I should go there now and get it out of the way. I explained that I had only brought my folder, not my wallet, and would have to go back over to the school first before heading to the bank. He glanced at his watch, seemed to calculate that that would take too much time, then waved away the idea altogether. “That’s ok,” he said. “We can go now,” Then he set off again. I cursed myself for at least the third time in the last 30 minutes for picking these shoes today. I did a halfway decent job of keeping pace with Emilio as we made our way to the bank. We entered, then waited for the clerk to finish with one other customer. Then Emilio approached and stated our business. The clerk seemed annoyed. Apparently, they only handled this type of transaction during certain hours. We were well outside of that timeframe. Emilio didn’t bat an eyelash. The clerk started processing the transaction. Emilio casually tossed down the 10 euro payment on the desk like he was throwing down his gauntlet. I was glad the clerk had chosen not to deny him.
Emilio. Waits for no one. 
Once the transaction was finished, we walked back to the foreign registration office and showed the office-lady the receipt. She loudly applied an official stamp, and de repente, I had my NIE. It had taken less than an hour. I thanked the office-lady, and we left. When we were outside of the building once again, Emilio made me repeat to him what I needed to do next. I repeated the instructions the office-lady had given me. I needed to call the police office and request a cita previa to apply for my tarjeta de residencia. On the day of my appointment, I needed to bring specific paperwork and forms of ID, etc., etc.

Emilio seemed satisfied with my answer. He mentioned that since it was a little past lunchtime, he needed to head home now. I thanked him profusely for his help that day, explaining that I couldn’t believe how quick and easy the process had been. I headed back to school, still a little bit bewildered by the whole incident, while my hero turned in the other direction and strode off into the sunset. Well, not really, it was still only afternoon. 
toto, we’re not in marbella anymore

Adjusting to a new place can be hard. And, though the process has only just begun for me, I think that adjusting to Ciudad Real will definitely present some challenges, mainly because I can’t help but compare it to my stint in Marbella. So far, there have been a few things that have stood out as being distinctly different than my previous experience living in Spain. Not all of them are bad differences, but they’re certainly noticeable. Here are a few:

  • They don’t speak Spanish here. I found out this little fact when one of the teachers at my school complimented me on my speaking. To my surprise, she didn’t say, “Hablas español muy bien,” instead I got, “Hablas castellano muy bien.” In my head, I gave her the ‘whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?’ face, but on the outside, I kindly thanked her and went on with our conversation. Of course, castellano and español are exactly the same thing, but since we’re in Castilla La-Mancha, I guess that’s what they prefer to call it here. Also there are some words they use here that I never heard in Andalucía. For instance, instead of saying ‘mira’or ‘mira eso’ (look at this / check this out), they say ‘fijate’. The first time I had someone say it to me, I thought I was being asked to fix something. They also use ‘metalico’ instead of (or, in addition to) ‘efectivo’ to mean cash. I’m not sure if that one is specific to this region, but I’m pretty sure I’ve only heard it Ciudad Real.
  • It’s flat – One of the first things I noticed when I was doing my initial explorations around Ciudad Real was how flat the landscape was. In Marbella / Málaga, I was situated between the sea and the mountains, so there were lots of hills and steep inclines. The good thing about this is that the flatness makes getting around on foot a lot easier and less tiring. However, it might not be best for keeping my buns and thighs tight – a nice side effect of my daily walking commute in Marbella.
  • It’s super dry – Technically, Ciudad Real is in the middle of the desert. Unlike Eliza Doolittle’s song would suggest, there is very little rain in the plain in Spain. The reverse was true in Marbella. Proximity to the sea meant high humidity, and also a short lifetime for clothes to dry. But being a long-time resident of Atlanta, humidity is something I’m very accustomed to. Here, I’ve already seen the effect the dry climate can have on my hair, skin, and mucous membranes. That family-sized jar of shea butter I brought along probably won’t last me ‘til spring. And I frequently tote a little bottle of saline spray to keep my nasal passages from drying out and leaving me with achy sinuses.
You got it wrong, boo.

Update: Though the atmosphere is generally dry, since I originally penned  this post, I've seen lots more rain. In fact, it's probably rained as many times here in the last month and a half, than it did my entire 6 months in Marbella. Sorry, 'Liza. I take it all back.

  • The local vegetable is pork – Seriously, these people luuuuuv some pig meat! I’ve already had a few restaurant meals where pork was served for each course. In fact, on a recent tapas excursion with Pablo (Juana’s husband) and some of his friends, a plate of pig ears showed up on the table. I shared with the group that people in the South have an expression that we eat everything on the pig from ‘the rooter to the tooter’. It seems Pablo was already familiar with the concept, as the manchegos have a similar expression. I can say, however, that the quality of the pork here is amazing – I’ve had some cuts (particularly presa iberica) that were extremely tender, juicy, and flavorful without being overly porky (that’s a scientific term, ya know).
  • Nobody takes the bus. Well, not nobody. But when I think back to Marbella, I recall how the bus was almost full every day with locals, seasonal residents, and tourists of all ages. I’ve only taken the bus twice in Ciudad Real, and the only other people on there were either very elderly or riding along with a small child. Plus, the buses seem to take these long, circuitous routes that makes them the least efficient mode of transportation for getting around town.
  •  It’s small. Like, really small – If I have my ‘marching on Selma’ strut on, I can pretty much get from one side of town to the other on foot in about 30-35 minutes. This would explain why hardly anyone takes the bus.
  • It’s cold. Like, really cold – My first couple of weeks here were actually unseasonably warm. In late October, temperatures reached highs of around 70 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, with lows in the 60s. However, since Halloween, all that has changed. Unlike Marbella where winter spelled more rain than true cold and lasted for all of about 45 days, I can already tell that, here, there will be winter. Cold as a witch’s tit winter. It’s already been down in the upper 30s a couple of nights. And I’ve already realized that my assortment of blazers which served me well in the south, won’t stand much of a chance against these temps.
  •  There is a famine of beauty. Remember when I shared that the abundance of natural beauty was one of the most amazing things about Spain during my previous stint? Umm… yeah. Not quite the case here in Ciudad Real. Strangely enough, this is one of the few Spanish towns that I’ve been to that doesn’t have a casco antiguo – or historic quarter – with beautiful old buildings and charming cobblestone streets. Nope, Ciudad Real is surprisingly regular. Architecturally speaking, there isn’t much to look at. And since, as I mentioned, it’s in the middle of the desert, the surrounding landscape doesn’t immediately grab the eye. I don’t doubt that are some breathtaking views and scenes to see here, but for now, it looks like I’m gonna have to work a bit harder to find them.

From Wikipedia entry on Don Quixote, “La Mancha is a region of Spain, but mancha (Spanish word) means spot, mark, stain. Translators such as John Ormsby have declared La Mancha to be one of the most desertlike, unremarkable regions of Spain, the least romantic and fanciful place that one would imagine as the home of a courageous knight.

  • The stares. Dear god, the stares! Now, I’m used to being one of a relative few brown faces in a Spanish town. As such, I’m also used to getting the occasional stare from passersby on the street – it happened on several occasions in both Marbella and Málaga. Spanish people from other parts of the country are also known for openly staring at almost anyone – I’ve just chalked it up as a cultural difference. However, while staring was noticeable in Marbella and Málaga, I never felt it was excessive. It’s a totally different story here in Ciudad Real. During the roughly 20-minute walk from my flat to my school, I’m sure to receive no less than 10 blatant (like, stop in your tracks, squinch up your face, forget to chew your gum) stares from people I pass on the street, or even people passing by in cars. At first, I took it with the same bemused attitude that I did when I lived in Andalucía. But as the days have passed, the stares have kept coming. It’s a bit unnerving at times. Nothing makes you feel more like a stranger – or even like an unwelcome guest – than people looking at you strangely all day long. And I know it’s not just my own self-consciousness, as I’ve had some of my new friends comment on – and even apologize for – the excessive staring that they notice when they’re walking along with me. While I think it’s noble and sweet of my new friends to take some responsibility for what I perceive as the rudeness of their fellow countrymen, I know it’s not something that’s going to change anytime soon. Because Ciudad Real is such a small, largely homogenous town, I’m probably going to keep getting stared at, and I’m going to have to keep not taking it personally. I’ve taken to walking around with my headphones on to help insulate myself from that feeling of ‘otherness'. I realize that some of the stares are simply curiosity, some are even complimentary, but most are because many of the people here have never ever left their home town or region, so they’re not used to seeing different people, and some of those may not even like seeing different people. I was talking to a friend of Pablo’s recently – an over 30-year-old woman who is una manchega, born and raised in the area. We were talking about how much we both loved Barcelona. She ultimately revealed that her first time visiting the city (which is only about 3 or so hours away by train) was this past summer. I was completely shocked! How do you live in a country this small for all your life and never visit what is arguably its most popular city? Of course, I know similar people in my hometown of Macon and even people from Atlanta who’ve never travelled further than a neighboring state. But I think it surprises me even more here in Spain, given how easy and relatively affordable it is to travel from one region to another. Still, I knew well enough not to stare at her for it.