Fact: Universities in Europe look approximately 20 times more legitimate than colleges stateside. Scientists have explained this statistic by the increased cool value of the architecture, the ancientness of everything, and the sweet wooden desks that look like they came from ye ol’ days of yore. Because they did.
Downside? No air conditioning.
Either way, it was nothing like I had pictured in my mind. Stone arches, large wooden doors, open quads—it’s hard to describe the atmosphere, but it has an official, old European university feel to it (because it is both old and European), as if history never left the place and kept growing as the flocks of students entered and exited its wide doors.
Our first day of classes was Wednesday the 24th and we took the bus to the campus. During that week, UB (la Universitat de Barcelona) was openly solely for us. The rest of Europe was on vacations and the university doesn’t normally begin registration until September. So, we got put in the super old rooms… which was neat, but like I said, no air conditioning. A 1.5 L water bottle and a fan were small consolations, but our teachers were excited to be with us and seemed to be blessed with endless amounts of patience. There is a huge range in language abilities, from people who struggled through six years of language classes to native Spanish speakers. All the professors teach at the UB and are doing their utmost to get us prepared for real classes with host country students. For now, UB has its California/Illinois invasion from Monday to Thursday, 9 am to 2 pm.
We take Gramática y Composición (grammar and composition), Catalán, Cultura (which is really more like a history/literature class), and Conversación. My favorite professor is definitely my Cultura professor, dearest Marcelino. He is super excited about the material he is teaching and explains everything so eloquently that I wish I could just sit and listen instead of frantically taking notes as he plows through interesting facts and odd historical anecdotes. He told us that his earlier classes seemed a bit sleepy and said he was worried that he was boring us, causing us all to protest that he was not. We proceeded to ask him many questions to make sure that he knew we were interested. I really wanted to take a class with him once real classes start, but he’s teaching some advanced analytical literature class that he informed us would be a bit over our heads. Pouty face.
But I suppose people want to know what it’s like studying abroad. You know, the actual studying part.
In the US, and especially at UCSB, one can totally get away with wearing pajamas to class. In Spain, it’s a lot more formal and you wear your normal street clothes, which tend to be slightly more formal that what we wear in the US. It’s not okay to eat or drink in class, except for water. You do not stretch. You do not yawn. You do not show up late or leave early. Professors will call you out on anything they deem wrong. In general, they are more aggressive and hands-off than professors in the US. However, this is just what the professors themselves have told us. I’ll have to see if this proves true when I start classes with the host country students.
After classes on Wednesday, I began searching for my piso. Piso literally means a flat or a floor, but it can also refer to an apartment in Spain. Most buildings are occupied by people who own the piso and the pisos collectively make a community. However, you pay rent to the owner of the piso rather than a landlord. From what I’ve seen so far, landlords don’t really exist because most people don’t own a complete building of pisos.
During ILP (Intensive Language Program), we stay at the Collegi Major Sant Jordi (or the “residencia,” as we call it) but after it ends in three weeks, we move out into our own place in the city. Most people look for an open habitación (room) in a piso, while others have decided to stay with a señora who acts as a sort of mommy and does the cooking and cleaning as long as you live by her rules. Both have their merits, but I knew I wanted to live in a piso with people who were natives or had been in Spain for a long time. I also knew I wanted a piso in which the people who lived there were more like a family, rather than just coming to the piso to sleep. There are a number of different neighborhoods or barrios (barri in Catalán) in Barcelona and I wanted to live in the Sagrada Família or Gràcia barrios because they are well-connected to transportation, have a lot of young people, and are clean and quiet.
Even though it was the first week of ILP, people were already e-mailing piso owners to. We all used the website loquo.com, which is essentially the Spanish Craig’s List. On Wednesday, I e-mailed a bunch of pisos that seemed to have what I was looking for and gave a description of myself before asking a few questions.
I seriously felt like I was trying to propose to someone. The general gist of my proposal was: “I’m fun, but a dedicated student. I’m young, but mature for my age. I want somewhere quiet to stay, but not somewhere boring. Love me, adopt me, please pick meeeeee!!!!” Okay, the last sentence was not in there, but that’s what I felt like shouting.
On Thursday the 25th I went to visit my first piso after class. It was in Gràcia rather than Sagrada Família, so it was a bit further away than I expected. I was running a bit late, but Abel, the owner of the piso, said it wasn’t a big deal and buzzed me in when I arrived. He greeted me at the door with a wide smile and immediately invited me in, telling me to walk around like it was my own apartment. He showed me into what would be my room and it was smaller than I had expected. He was showing me the closets, which were quite ample and I said that it would be plenty of room, considering my personal belongings could pretty much fit into two suitcases.
“Excellent!” he said. And then jokingly, “You can always sleep in the closet.”
“Like Harry Potter?” I asked.
I know, I’m a nerd. I was completely going out on a limb, hoping that he would not think I was some silly American girl. So, I was completely floored when he said, “Or it could be like Narnia!”
Cue jaw dropping to the floor. Pretty much from that moment, I was sold. Abel’s warm, welcoming personality brightened up the little kitchen, eclectic living room, and bathroom shared by three people (the other roommate was Carla from Mexico who had been living in Barcelona for a year). However, the highlight was the outdoor patio. They had couches and awnings and there were already people out there, just chit chatting in the shade. The girl currently living in the room I was seeking was Italian and she poured me a cup of espresso and we all talked for the next 45 minutes about everything under the sun. They sent me out the door with an apple for the road and a skip in my step.
After that, nothing could compare. The next piso was nicer and cheaper, but as soon as the guy opened the door, I knew it wasn’t the sort of vibe I was looking for. The inhabitants of the piso worked and lead separate lives and I wanted a little more camaraderie. I saw another piso on Thursday owned by a Nicaraguan couple and while it was nice, it still couldn’t match up to my feelings about that first piso. Abel told me he would let me know by Saturday morning if they would take me, so I kept my fingers crossed.
Meanwhile on Friday (the only Friday we had class), Gemma, our coordinator for UC EAP in Spain, gave us The Talk. She told us to be careful, that it was our first weekend in Barcelona, and that we had all year to party hard, so there was no need to cram it into two days. She urged us to avoid the discotecas in El Raval while we were still so new to the city and suggested instead to stick to more cultural events, like the Festa de Sants (Sants neighborhood festival). Although a number of people did not listen and felt like we were being nagged, Gemma was absolutely right.
To be honest, the speech was directed at the Santa Barbara kids because all of them (us?) think they know how to party, but Isla Vista is not Barcelona. Barcelona is bigger, with people from all walks of life. There are drug addicts, pickpockets, and people who specifically prey on young tourists. The reality is that we are new here and most of the time don’t know where we are going and that’s just asking for trouble. It’s super important to have fun, but you can’t have fun in a hospital. That’s my theory, anyway.
By Friday afternoon, I was already twiddling my thumbs. What if Abel didn’t like me as I thought we had clicked? What if I had to start my search all over? What if he liked someone better? What if no one wants a 20-year-old American girl with good intentions and a dorky attitude to live with them? Why is this happening to me???
Luckily, I was spared from much more agony because I received a call on Friday afternoon from Abel, saying that I was their favorite person who had expressed interest in the piso and that he would like me to come live with him and Carla. I was over the moon as he told me how no one else had the same qualities as me and he felt like we would get along as roommates awesomely. I put down my reserve for the room on Saturday.
There are moments when I have doubts: What if I rushed into this? What if there’s something better out there? Should I have looked at other places? But then I find all these fears are washed away when Abel greets me at the door or when I am sitting on the patio, enjoying the Barcelona summer sun. Additionally, Abel is a bartender so he has connections. I’m going to be so popular.
So, it feels like everything is coming together. I’ve gotten quite lucky because it’s now the third and last week of ILP and some people have really struggled to find a piso that they like. I have settled in very well in Barcelona. On the way back from the metro, I was walking on the Avinguda Diagonal (one of the main roads that cut through Barcelona) and I found myself stepping on crunchy leaves. This is something I would do at home, so it must mean that I feel at home here. I even totally called the freak rainstorm we had that Friday afternoon because it felt the same way as in California before a thunderstorm, when the air is heavy and sticky.
Oh, and I hit a milestone: I remembered to not walk over the metro vents while wearing a skirt and instead went around it. It’s about the small victories, right?
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