Span Fam 101

It's been far too long since I've written and I was starting to experience serious blog withdrawal: shaking hands, foaming mouth, the works.

I've been back from break for a week now and am impatiently awaiting my boyfriend Matt's portion of our supposed-to-be joint blog post about fall break. However, apparently artistic genius comes to him much slower than it comes to me (What can I say? I'm a natural). So, as much as it pains me to divert from chronological order, the drug that is my blog is calling and I just gotta write, man. More on fall break later.

I have been here about two months now and I think it is about time I write about my Spanish family. First and foremost, they are great. I love them and I am fortunate that they are who I was placed with. Let's go from youngest to oldest.

Pablo.

Pablo is eleven years old. He is a small, wiry kid with a lot of pent up, squirming energy. When he was born, he didn't get enough oxygen to his brain and as a result, his behavior is more akin to that of a five year old. I have no idea how medically accurate this explanation from my host mother is, partially due to my own ignorance in this area and also due to my consistent inability to understand complex ideas in Spanish.

But in any case, it does explain a good deal. While Pablo does have the occasional tantrum, mainly he likes to ask me what time it is in Wisconsin and what my favorite types of foods are. And really, I think that these conversations are severely lacking in everyday adult life. Who doesn't like to discuss the different brands of cereals? I'm particularly fond of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He is sweet and I enjoy his company.

Antonio.

Antonio is fifteen and when we first spoke, I would have bet my life that he was speaking Italian or Portuguese or maybe some language he made up. He speaks so fast that I'm not even sure his lips move. We have, needless to say, made great strides in our relationship. He is the only one in the family who laughs at me, which I think is totally appropriate. A lot of the time, I have no idea what is going on and I would hope someone was getting some amusement out of it. Antonio seems older than his age, but maybe it's just because he wears some stylin' thick-framed glasses.

Jesus.

Jesus is seventeen and he is gone most of the time. His mom always says that he is at soccer practice but I don't think even Cristiano Ronaldo plays that much (Please note the Spanish soccer player reference). I'm sure the kid is pulling a fast one on her.

Cristina.

Cristina is twenty-three. When I heard there would be someone near my age in the house, I was nervous and excited. I really, shamelessly, wanted her to like me - and I her. As far as I can tell, and we should remember that my Spanish social skills are that of an eight year old, we are getting along really well. The first time we had a real conversation, we spent the better part of it exchanging swear words in our own languages. She is the first Spanish person I've talked to and actually been able to express a good amount about myself. It's nice to be able to show someone here some scraps of my personality, to prove that it does in fact exist beneath the language barrier.

Child five.

Yes, that's right. I do not know her name. I didn't know she existed until a month ago. Here is what I know: Number five does not live here but she comes here to do her laundry. She is the oldest and is getting married in August. I have also met her fiancee and do not know his name either. I have searched the house for clues as to what her name is but haven't been able to find anything. Maria? Monica? Maribel? I know that this is inexcusable and that I should have asked right away. But the fact is, I didn't and too much time has passed and now I will never know. I avoid mentioning her at all costs. So far, this is going well.

Paqui.

Paqui, a nickname for Francisca, is my host mother. She is a few inches shy of five feet and what she lacks for in height, she makes up for in sass. She could talk, and I could listen to her talk, for hours. I once told her I sometimes have difficulty sleeping and her face lit up and she ran from the room without explanation. She came back with a poster that she had taken from the hospital she works at. It was titled "Tips for a Good Night's Sleep." She then went on to explain in great length each of the points. 1. Love yourself. 2. Be content ... Of course, I asked her to make me a copy.

But for all her enthusiasm, I can tell that she is tired. She works all the time to support herself and her five children. It has to be beyond difficult and I don't think that I could do it. Plus, on top of all that, she's got a perpetually hungry American lurking around, speaking much too slowly and adding to the never ending laundry pile. I keep asking her to let me help around the house, but she just scoffs at me, shaking her head and throwing her arms out at the ridiculousness of the idea. Someday, I hope someone cuts her a break. I can't imagine anyone more deserving.

When everyone is here, this house is loud. When it is time to eat, Paqui screams down the hallway for me. Cristina is always on her cell phone. Someone smokes secretly in the bathroom. Antonio and Jesus both sing loudly and off key down the hallway. Right now, someone is blasting Thriller in the other room. It is chaotic but comfortable. I like being here with them and I will miss them when I'm gone.