The Adaptation

I close my eyes and feel the rush of emotion. Extreme excitement. The feeling that is almost too much to bare. The feeling that I have pushed back and tried not to think about since I received the phone call. The feeling that comes when people get me talking about next semester.
I am going back.
I picture the Torres, la Plaza  de la Virgen, la Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, and the study center. I envision my old room, my old apartment, my old bathroom. I see the staff but not the students, instead a mass of strange people, new people. I don't want to but I have to, We are not there anymore. They will be there. I have to be ready for what is to come.
Again, I try to push back the thoughts and emotions. I need to get some sleep, I leave in the morning.

I sit in an empty row in the Chicago airport. Thirty minutes until boarding. I have my water, book, and boarding pass. I look around and see Americans, most of them about my age. Spaniards are sprinkled amongst them looking annoyed. They are loud. They are laughing, talking, and shouting. They are taking pictures. They are excited.
On my last flight I sat next to two of them. They giggled, took pictures, and talked loudly. They asked questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes was unmistakable. They were excited.
I board the plane with the mix of study abroad students embarking on the adventure of the lifetime, along with Spaniards returning home. I was exactly in these American's shoes a year ago. Was I that loud? Was I that obvious? Was I that excited?
How many of them are scared? Nervous about this big new world without their parents and closest friends to hold their hands. What do they expect? I wouldn't know what to say if I was asked that a year ago. Nothing would have prepared me for a semester in Valencia no matter how many people explained the insides and out of it.
I sit down next to three of them. They giggle, take pictures, and talk loudly. They ask questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes is unmistakable. They are excited.

I am at the top of the Torres looking over the beautiful city. There are five of us, two of which are program assistants. They were still sleeping. They were meant to be here. It is 2PM.
They partied like Americans. I partied like an American. The pre-gaming starting at six or even earlier. Leaving the center at 1AM after being told to be quieter multiple times by the night staff, I take them to Radio City. It is big enough to handle them. They are loud. They yell orders of their favorite drink, they drop glasses, they are misunderstood. They are eyed by Spaniards.
Talking, drinking, noise.
We are sitting in Ghecko. They are talking to each other, making small steps towards the strong friendships that will form. They are judging each other whether they want to or not. They are assuming they don't like each other. They are assuming they do like each other.
Dancing, drinking, noise.
The stories flow through the center. He woke up where? She threw up on who? Are the Kabobs good? The center comes alive about 5PM. Where do I eat? Pan de Queso. What do I get? Bola de espinacas. What is it? Delicioso. Where do I get ____? Chino. What is the plan for tonight? No sé exactamente. 


Many were smart. The seven hour pre-game turned into a three hour pre-game. Even so, the next night was worse. They hated the night front desk staff whom I felt bad for. It is damn near impossible to tame a pack of fifty or more highly intoxicated American college students. Apartment six became a club. Spaniards in the street were invited up. The front desk staff had to escort them out of the lobby, not with ease.

The place was a wreck, apartments were damaged and dirty. An accidental hole in the red leather. These are our couches, this is our home. The hole couldn't have said it better. Something had to be done. The alcohol had to go. The ban was placed.

They will learn. It was only the third night.

They were excited.

The Adaptation was beginning.

The plethora of items in the Chino were realized. The walk to Consum was memorized. The phrase la Cuenta por favor was vocalized. Los Torres were recognized.

The independent and adventurous explored the city. They took in the smells, the sights, the names. La Plaza de la Virgen became a place with a fountain and a cathedral, not just a complicated phrase spoken too fast for comfort. Cheque stickers were located, with a promise to return to the restaurants another day. A promise that may be soon forgotten when favorites are discovered.
El Mercado Central was revealed, with the jaw-dropping sights and smells. La Plaza de la Reina became the place where 100 Mondatidos, Finnegans and MacDonalds are located.
The rooftop, skybox, and Moroccan Happy Hour were founded. 
A daily pattern was slowly forming. 


The Adaptation was beginning. 


My Adaptation was beginning. 


I got the names down sooner than I thought. It was easy, I was one of them. I cheated off of Facebook, the study center's list of names accompanied by pictures of faces, and by asking other students. 
My fading cognitive map of Valencia began to clear with the side streets and alleys becoming more familiar. The culture of Valencia was a refreshing blast to my dulled, re-Americanized mind. 
My re-Americanized mind that left my full wallet in my back pocket. 
The mind that carried my entire wallet out with me late at night. 
That trusted turning my back to a man in the street. 
That was punished sufficiently for its ignorance. 
That will have to borrow from Ignacio and his center until the credit cards can be replaced. The mind that reminded me that I was one of them. Although I may look at them with critical eyes, and laugh at their blind actions, I am just as guilty. 


I promised that I would do better. 
I walked across town to the police station. A place I had never been to before. I found the Biblioteca de Valencia that I will be spending time at weekly. I only had to check the map once, but did so discreetly. No one knew I was lost. 
I front pocketed my wallet, the small wallet I should have been carrying. The wallet that Santa thoughtfully got me. 
I took the bus to El Corte Inglés. I flagged it down as it approached. I ignored the seats. I kept my balance. I scanned the crowd of old people. I didn't miss my stop. I spoke Spanish with a man in the store. I walked home without trouble. 
The walk was inspiring. I carried a mental dialogue in Spanish. I made a promise to meet more Valencianos. To speak more Spanish. To not let this semester slip by. 


I played fútbol. Or at least tried. 


It was undeniable. 
They were Adapting.
I was Adapting.