The Return

Walking out of the airport, Valencia greeted me with a breeze of 70 degree fresh air. Before I knew it I was muttering the all too familiar phrase, Los torres de serranos por favor. As I sat in the taxi I formed a list of the three most important things on my mind:

 A shower, a siesta, and a cafe con leche.

The journey from Orlando to Chicago to Madrid and then finally Valencia had been long and tiresome, but none of that, including missing my connecting flight to Valencia and sitting behind two young kids who felt as tired and irritated as I did, without the ability to mask their emotions, and comprehend the complexities of airplane etiquette, could damper my spirits.

Feeling the affects of a combination of sleep deprivation, hunger, and dehydration, I truly felt as though I was dreaming during the taxi ride. A dream I have dreamt many times before, of seeing the Torres once again, of ringing that unforgettable buzzer and the sound of the unmistakable click. A small step through the wooden door hidden in the frame of the grand entrance brought me into the center.
The FSU Valencia study center.
The building I had said goodbye to seven months prior.
The building that I had sworn to visit, when someday in my future, I had enough time and money to return.
The building that had started to fade from my memory.
My old home.

The rush of emotions were overshadowed by distractions. Greeting the staff, my old family. Meeting new staff members and early student arrivals, the beginnings of my new family. Luggage had to be dealt with. New students had to exchange money, find their hostels, and store their bags.

A blur of movement, nodding, Spanish.

I was sitting in the room. Not my room. A room of two friends. Why was I in their room? Where were they? Why can't I have my old room? This room sucks. Who has my room? Why bunk beds? Which bathroom? Who is my roommate? Which desk? Which closet? Why?

I left the room, left the apartment. No decisions made. I didn't want that room. Was this a joke? That isn't my apartment. I live in the strange downstairs of Top Shelf with the bathroom too small to turn around, the mini fridge blocking the only sensible entrance, and the balcony with a perfect view of the Torres. I go up a steeper, extra flight of stairs to go down a dangerous, spiraling flight of tile stairs. That is where my room is.

In the elevator it hit me. This isn't about you. You didn't pay for this. You don't get to choose. You are an employee. Your placement in the center is not of comfort, but of strategy. Your room is very accessible, your old room isn't. This is your room. You are in Valencia. You are back.

Adapt.

I am sitting on a tiny stool. The affects of long travels and jet lag on my shoulders. The menu is different yet very familiar. It was not Wednesday. Why was I in here?
I give my name with my order, or at least the version of my name I give in situations like this. Keep it short and simple Fred. She looks confused, "Fren?" Sí. It was close enough. I should have used a funny name like We used to. Barbara Streisand. George Washington. Mike Hunt.

New students join the table. They see on the menu the same strange combination of words that I saw a year ago. The search for familiar words like pollo, queso, y salsa are hindered by the discovery of words like  chorrizo, ternera, jamón Iberica, y cordero. The semester long game of Montadito testing begins. Like an assortment of chocolates without the cheat sheet.

I stop by my chino. I want to say hi to my chino guy. It is not him. Who is this? He barely mumbles an audible hasta luego, which sounds like twaygo. 


The familiar battling the unfamiliar.

Adapt.

I join Cati to the airport. I have to be mature. I have to set an alarm. I have to be ready, on time.

Cafe con leche saves the day.


I have to greet students. They don't know me. They are jet lagged. They need a shower, siesta, and a cafe con leche, I know. They are worried about their lost luggage, contacting their parents, trying to act natural in this strange place. Some are openly excited, all are tired.

The attempt at learning names begins, which soon becomes a blur of Megans, Eriks, Thomas's. That can wait, the names will come. We will be family.

Seven hours in the Valencia airport. I was starting to feel like Victor Navorski.

Cati and I return with the last group just in time for Ignacio's introduction meeting. I look around. Students are nodding off, some half listening. They are tired.
The walk to dinner is basic, Virgen, Reina, y Ayuntamiento. It is simple. Three plazas. Now everyone knows.
No they don't. They are tired. They talk loudly. They block the path. They walk too slow. They get stuck behind Walkers. They step into streets blindly. They trip over small black pillars. They wear colors that are too bright. They don't notice the Chino. Finnegans goes unseen. The plazas mean nothing. The cathedral is just a big building. Virgen has a smooth ground. The center of Ayuntamiento has a Christmas tree, no explosions, no Falla.

We were the same. I was the same. How do I tell them? Don't be so American. You need to be Valencianos.

It was only the first night.

They will Adapt.
I will Adapt.