text: Going Native Although it was the first week of September, the official college classes had not begun for the 38 study abroad students from the Buckeye State. Alcalá de Henares was but a train ride from the medieval city of Toledo, but 4,000 long, heartbreaking miles from its sister city in Ohio. Although the experienced program director Jimena could attempt to cover her grays, her years of leading the program allowed her to detect the aroma of homesickness with the acuity of a truffle-searching Lagotto Romagnolo. “Roberto,” Jimena called out to the familiar graduate student in her finely-tuned accented English, “I want you to take this girl under your wings.” “What do you mean?” “She’s homesick,” Jimena explained while adding an exaggerated guttural quality to the letter H. “She’s already talking about going back home. You’ve got to convince her to stay.” Roberto had learned the ropes two years earlier as a green undergraduate student under the tutelage of this same wise program director. Of course, back in the States, his friends called him Robby, but in the Iberian Peninsula he had transformed into a sort of native alter ego--Roberto. Robby had been an insecure bumpkin in the fall of 1988, however, by the time he left Spain that following spring, he had soaked up the language, the culture, and the habits of any young Spaniard. His language became peppered with the best Spanish curse words and he could cluck his tongue to nonverbally reject another’s proposition as if he had been born in Madrid. Brooke stood out as a foreigner from the instant she exited the TWA flight at Barajas Airport. Her pallid skin barely contrasted with the bright white t-shirt she sported that day. As she stood nervously in the Plaza de Cervantes, her beige shorts were hiked up high and her long, pinkish legs drew attention away from her round noggin. Anticipating her three months in a foreign land, she had her regular beautician trim her sandy locks short enough to require minimal maintenance until her scheduled return to The United States of America on December 21. “Brooke,” Roberto voiced her name loudly to assure that he was targeting the correct student. Her blue eyes shot towards the slinger of names and she rushed to Roberto. “ Sí ,” she eagerly answered in her nascent second tongue as she looked directly at Roberto. “You and your roommate are coming with me,” Roberto laid out the details of the day trip to Madrid. As a seasoned veteran of the Madrid scene, Roberto would lead four girls through the streets, show them the sights, and acclimate them to the capital before meeting up with the larger group in the early evening. Once they were in the city, the four ducklings followed their leader through La Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor. Roberto whipped out the nostalgia card and droned on about his days in those very sites. He noticed that Brooke tended to pull up the rear, avoided most communication with her classmates, and appeared to be mentally distant. “What’s wrong with your roommate?” Roberto frankly asked Lizzy. “She won’t give it a chance,” Lizzy replied instantly, “She wants to go home and I really wouldn’t mind if she did.” “Not on my watch,” Roberto stated although Lizzy seemed unimpressed. As they reached the northwest corner of Plaza Mayor, Roberto ushered the unsuspecting female students into Casa Rua, a traditional joint with fried squid rings in the window. Jimena had handed each graduate student 2,000 pesetas and Roberto decided that a round of draft beers and five squid sandwiches would come in well under that budget. The leader of the pack ordered without asking input from the others. “I’m not eating that!” Brooke exclaimed preemptively as she watched the scowling barman shovel warm seafood rings into five hard buns. “Just try it,” Roberto instructed her and the other skeptics, “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.” Twenty minutes later, three half-eaten squid sandwiches remained perched sadly on the counter as Roberto paid the bill. He had been tempted to finish off the delicacy himself but decided against the gluttonous act. The five students exited the establishment intending to head towards the Royal Palace where they would meet the rest of the group. “ Vámonos, ” Roberto motioned to his understudies as the effect of one round of beer compelled them to want more. “Roberto,” Lizzy forwardly asked, “can we get another beer?” He stopped abruptly and would have looked at his wristwatch had he not fallen into the habit of not wearing it. Nobody was ever on time in Spain, so he had left his watch in a drawer in Ohio. “Great idea.” They entered the closest pub and the party began to take off. “I’m not old enough to drink legally in Ohio,” another disciple named Sandra mentioned. “This is great. No fake ID and everything’s so cheap.” “I’m not much of a drinker,” Brooke commented while tepidly retrieving her first sip and subsequently removing the foam from her lip with a thin paper napkin. “Just throw it on the floor,” Roberto instructed Brooke in proper Madrid bar etiquette. She refused, crumpled the used napkin, and placed it delicately on the table next to her tulip glass. Although she disobeyed his directive, the mere fact that the first glass of draft beer had loosened her tongue warmed Roberto’s heart. He felt he was nearing a breakthrough. As the other four chatted in English around a high table, Roberto excused himself momentarily, plunked some coins in a machine, and retrieved a fresh pack of Fortuna cigarettes. “Oh, you smoke,” Brooke looked at Roberto with disapproving eyes as he pulled out an orange lighter and lit up his first filtered stick. In polite Spanish fashion, he offered smokes to the rest but only Lizzy accepted the proposal. “Brooke,” Lizzy exhaled a stream of smoke upwards, “maybe you haven’t noticed, but everybody smokes here.” “Well I can’t stand it,” she replied, “and that’s another reason I hate this country.” Roberto and Lizzy looked at each other and he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment that they would have to team up if they were going to convince the prudish American student that studying in Spain was going to be the time of her life. With the beers, tapas had been placed in front of them. “Free food,” Roberto haled, “You can’t beat that!” “I don’t like olives.” “They don’t always give you olives.” “I don’t like any Spanish food,” Brooke countered, “I’m dying for a cheeseburger.” The absence of a wristwatch did not mean that they could spend all afternoon drinking in the center of Madrid and Roberto quickly asked the barman for the time, paid the bill, and they exited back into the blinding early September sun. Roberto’s plan had not been fulfilled, but persistency had always been a hallmark of his personality. He enlisted Lizzy to continue to loosen up her roommate. “Don’t leave her out. When you go out with your friends this weekend, make sure to take her with you.” Lizzy failed to mount a protest but her facial features communicated her passive unwillingness to include her roommate in any of her plans. *** April 28 th fell on a Sunday in 1991. Roberto and his roommate had spent their last weekend in Alcalá de Henares enjoying themselves as much as possible in the bars and discos in what had become their hometown. The academic year abroad had come complete with its ups and downs. The Gulf War broke out in January, the dollar tanked against the peseta, and an overall malaise hung in the air. Nonetheless, the three dozen study abroad participants and esteemed faculty and staff would gather on that Sunday night at a fancy restaurant to say their official goodbyes. A traditional musical group would play while everyone downed copious amounts of red wine from earthenware pitchers. The food was spectacular but an afterthought as the melancholy feelings of the end of the study abroad experience were upon them. Potentially, some of these undergrads would return for grad school, but for the great majority, this was their last hurrah in Spain. In such a large group, there were cliques and a particular division between graduate and undergraduate students. After Roberto’s initial mission to relieve Brooke of her homesickness, he had not followed up on her progress. He had discovered that she did not return to Ohio in December, but rather, she did what most one-semester students wish to do--stay for the entire academic year. Deep inside, Roberto felt that he had accomplished something. The tuna finished playing their traditional music and the group prepared themselves to continue the party in the streets of Alcalá. Brooke sought out her graduate student mentor, took him by the hand, and they entered into the adjacent patio area. “Roberto,” she looked directly into his eyes as she finished her final glass of wine, “I wanted to thank you.” “For what?” He feigned ignorance. He was keenly aware of the situation but he wanted to hear it in her words. “For making me want to stay in Spain. I was this close to going home.” A smile beamed across her face as she measured the distance with her right hand. Although her American physical traits continued to make her stand out as a foreigner, she had changed. Her style was different. She had begun to dress with a European touch. It was difficult to pinpoint, but she had been transformed from that scared American that arrived in Spain eight months earlier. Roberto experienced a slight melting of his heart as she confirmed his good deed. She initiated a hug and their eyes welled slightly with tears that would never breach their lids. The embrace lasted a mere fifteen seconds and they found themselves awkwardly alone on the patio. “I’m glad you stayed,” Roberto eventually uttered. “I had a feeling you would.” Brooke reached into her bag, pulled out a nearly empty pack of Fortuna, and silently offered him a cigarette. They chuckled as they exhaled. They had both gone native.