The Accidental "Se" and Other Accidents

In recent light, the title for my blog has become rather ironic and needed a few clarifying words that were added to the description of my blog. Indeed, my feet-- or my ankle to be more specific--may be doing a little more wandering than it probably should.

Let me elucidate this with a little Spanish lesson.

My high school Spanish teacher jokingly explained that the Spanish do not enjoy taking responsibility for the things accidental or unplanned and have managed to fit this into their grammar. Hence, the accidental “se.”

In Spanish, you don't lose your homework. Oh no, your homework got lost... but you may have been involved. You did not crash the car. The car crashed... and you may have been involved.

Let's go with the car example. The normal English-speaking-Spanish-learning person would translate “I crashed the car” as “Choqué el carro.” But no. Why would you crash a car, perfect, wonderful you? Indeed, there is no need to conjugate the verb “chocar” for the “yo” (I) form. Instead, the accidental “se” makes it so the verb agrees with the object rather than the subject, rendering the translation as such: “Se me chocó el carro.”

This way, it appears as though the car did the crashing, not you... which is the truth, right? You were only invovled.

The point to this roundabout explanation? Se me romperion un tendón y un ligamento en el tobillo. A tendon and a ligament in my ankle broke... I may have been involved.

I have a knack for spraining/rolling my ankle. The first time was in 8th grade when I rolled it during a basketball game. Naturally, I went and hiked on it for a week in Yosemite. The subsequent years did not help: I sprained it again from skim boarding, then from going around a corner to fast, then from stepping in a pothole, then from stepping on a golf ball, and then from getting hit by a field hockey ball. Naturally, after that, I played field hockey on it for a weekend tournament.

That gives us a grand total of six sprains in six years.

After awhile, I figured that the swelling in my ankle was just scar tissue. The pain was minimal, but after the last sprain, things started to go downhill. My ankle and foot cracked all the time. I would get stiff really easily or have shooting pains up my leg. But I played hockey on my ankle and it seemed fine (if a bit more swollen), so I figured that's just how it was.

My dear mother, being the wonderful, albeit worrisome (aka mommy-ish) person that she is, made me an appointment with a foot doctor just to check and make sure everything was alright.

The doctor first looked at me like I was crazy as I re-told this story and then fiddled with my foot for a bit. His consensus was that the swelling was a ganglion cyst caused by trauma to one of the tendons that runs on the underside of my ankle-- the cyst is just a build up from fluid released during trauma to a tendon. It would be fixed by a minor surgery to drain the cyst and I would be back on my feet in a day. But just to be sure, he ordered an MRI to check for further tendon/ligament damage, because that would be a much more invasive procedure to reattach everything-- I would be looking at a 4-6 week recovery.

I convinced myself quite well that it was probably just a cyst. After all, who walks around with torn ligaments and tendons for six years without being in massive pain?

Well, apparently me.

Anyway, as it turns out, I have a pretty large cyst-- about 3 square centimeters-- and then a burst tendon on the underside of my ankle and a snapped ligament on the top of my ankle. I believe I can thank my high pain tolerance for preventing me from exploding. Thank you, genetics.

For reference, I probably destroyed by peroneus brevis tendon and my anterior talofibular ligament.

Because of the extensive recovery time required for the procedure I need, it will be postponed until next summer. That means coming straight home from Spain after finals at the end of June, going right into surgery, not being able to work at camp, probably having physical therapy, and then maybe not playing field hockey in the fall. I'm really bummed, considering I really wanted to stay in Europe and travel, having a big kid desk job sucks, and field hockey is like my second family at school.

So what does that mean while I'm in Spain? My doctor suggested good walking shoes and to be careful while walking on cobblestones. I will probably become very familiar with reading pain medicine bottles in Spanish. And I will wear an ankle brace most of the time. So, these wandering feet will do as much wandering as they can.

Making Sense of the Nonsensical

Well, in my defense, my last post was during Dead Week of my winter quarter at UCSB and as I said, I was quite dead. Dead tired, that is. Naturally, I thought it was an excellent time to design my blog and languish over fonts and background colors. I blame my darling roommate, Audra. (She's going to Granada, Spain for the year! Click here for her blog.)

But anyway, that was March and now it is July. Plane tickets were purchased about a week ago (leaving August 16!) I just had my visa appointment at the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco a few days ago. I am still recovering from that. More on my visa in my next post, which will probably be titled "Student Visas and Other Four Letter Words."

This post is to explain... well, everything. Okay, not everything because there are mysteries of the universe that should probably stay mysteries. I guess I want to explain my new love affair with Barcelona and this blog.

But first, the basics. My name is Courtney and I just finished up my second year at the University of California, Santa Barbara, where I am a Literature major. For my junior year, I will be studying abroad at la Universitat de Barcelona in Spain. And I'm really, really excited.

The origins of this blog come from two things: 1) my darling roommate who, like me, adores to find interesting ways to procrastinate, and 2) my dear mother. Person #1 was worried that I had not taken a break from studying in the past two hours. Person #2 was just plain worried. I do love my mommy. In all likelihood, she will read this within the month or so and smack me on the back of my head. I will probably get two smacks for saying that she'll smack me. Anyway, Mother requires communication to assure her that I am alive and well. Me? I tend to get a little caught up in my own world and then forget to make that reassuring phone call. To add to the dilemma, an ocean and a 9 hour time different will make things extra tricky.

Hence, the blog. I'm going to try to write often enough to assure my mother (and the rest of my amazing, supportive family) that yes, I am doing quite well. Also, friends and family are going to be interested in knowing what I'm up to and so this blog simplifies the process of keeping everyone in the loop. Additionally, I love writing-- it always has felt natural to me and so this blog is more like a public journal to chronicle my adventures in Barcelona.

So, that brings on the next question: why Barcelona?

It all started in middle school when I began learning Spanish in seventh grade. Having an older sister who had begun taking the language made it easy to pick up on things. I knew key phrases before I even walked into the first day of class, such as "¡Hola! ¿Cómo te llamas? Me llamo Courtney. ¿Dónde está la estufa?" (Translation: Hello! What's your name? I'm Courtney. Where's the stove?) I picked up on the language very quickly and began to dream about going to Spain one day.

I passed the Spanish Language AP test in my senior year (thank you Señor Arévalo, you are a god amongst Spanish teachers) and began to continue taking Spanish at UCSB. I always said I was going to study abroad in Spain during my junior year, so I took the classes I needed to keep on track for my degree and then in my sophomore year, I applied to study abroad through the Educational Abroad Program (EAP) at UCSB.

I almost got talked into studying in Mexico, but my wanderlust to travel Europe overcame me. Spain it was. With my fairly extensive knowledge of the language, only three cities offered me the complete immersion I desired: Granada, Madrid, and Barcelona.

Granada was the cheapest of the three cities (which isn't saying much, considering a UC education and going to Europe is not cheap). However, it reminded me a little much of Santa Barbara: quiet college town near the ocean. Well, Granada is not really that close to the ocean and has the Alhambra (a super cool Moorish palace), but I craved a large city. Which of course, terrified my mother because she thinks I completely lack directional skills. So, that left Madrid and Barcelona.

Madrid: the heart of Spain, full of amazing old architecture, museums galore, and the soul of Castilian culture. Barcelona: the rebels of Spain with their Catalonian culture, bustling ports, sleepy ramblas, the modernist art of Gaudí, and the glorious nightlife that puts New York City (the city that never sleeps) to shame.

Something about Barcelona arrested my attention. In hindsight, I may have been subconsciously influenced by the beautiful descriptions of Barcelona in the book "La sombra del viento" (The Shadow of the Wind) by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. But I was up for the challenges that going to Barcelona presented. Barcelona is a part of Catalonia, the northeast corner of Spain that has a culture radically different and contrary to the Castilian culture of the rest of Spain. They even have their own language, Catalán, that the locals speak-- it's an interesting mix of Spainsh, Italian, and French. This rich and diverse culture peaked my interest and is an obstacle that I will happily conquer. This spring I even took a class on Catalán language to begin hammering down a few key phrases and some basic cultural knowledge.

And now, it's just a waiting game. I have my plane tickets, I'm waiting on my visa, and I'm just working and spending time with friends and family until I leave. Yes, I'll be home for Christmas. Then yes, I'm going back for another six months. (At least...) To bide my time, I am currently reading "Barcelona" by Robert Hughes, which explains the culture and history of "the most un-Spanish city in Spain." What I have discovered so far is that my extended family and the Catalans already have some things in common: a fascination with poop.

So until next time, my friends and readers, Menja be i cagar fort, i no tingues por de la mort. Eat well and shit strongly, and you will have no fear of death.