(9, 10, etc.) — Famous Last Words: first days in Madrid, last days in English

The girl from L.A., sitting overly erect at the end of the lunch table, is treading all over her vowels; every English word bends over backwards to make itself “looooong,” and “NAAAAAY-sal.” It’s almost too much, now that Madrid has forced us into a new accent, into a new language. It’s almost too much, because American English seems indiscreet; it’s almost too much, because when she stops shaking her gold-bangled wrist at no one, she says “gracias” to the waiter, and it tumbles out as: “GRASSY-ass.”

Carl has long flown: we hugged our bleary, early morning goodbyes at the Metro stop under my hostel. The Metro air was heavy with the scent of hot metal, of scuffed rubber, of well-rubbed plastic; an assault on your nose at 8:00AM. A hug, maybe a handshake, and he whipped around the corner. There was no practical joke moment; no mistakes—from what I hear, he is back at Stanford; he is home.

And so, for the next six days, I tried to mummify myself; tried to spend as little as I could, tried to sleep too much, tried to hold myself ready for the arrival of 50 StanfordKids. And then Madrid, the capricious wondertown, took me along for the ride. Without realizing what I was doing, I finished all the big museums, I began to memorize El Centro, I found myself taking root in my neighborhood. I picked a restaurante, I order ‘the usual’, I don’t eat on gringo-time, I thank the waiter (Pepe) with “GRATH-iahhh.”

It feels normal, now. That’s all I can say.

As I write this, the language ban begins in one hour. The pocket dictionaries are out. Phones are switching languages. Last questions — “what does equivocar mean?” — have the desperate edge of the linguistic refugee. And I have to say: this note has been very difficult to write. I have re-typed almost every sentence, because English feels like someone else’s car: familiar, but only because the rules are known. It’s not my car anymore; it’s not quite my language. Whatever magic I found in these sounds is gone, replaced with the local contempt for anything that doesn’t slur.

To my friends, and my family: “good luck with Fall! I’ll see you soon!”—because really, it’s not going to be long before the program ends. Not too long before I go back to street signs, and a full work day, and the muted efficiency that is rolling off of these freshly American students. Today my isolation in Madrid ends: in one hour, we will gather for the “primer reunión,” and the Iron Curtain will fall. Or something.

To my friends, and my family: “nos vemos; suerte, y adios.”