Letter From Spain

17 Days Until I Move to San Diego

As I continue packing and going through old papers, I keep coming across stories and letters I wrote -- in some cases decades ago -- and saved.

Among these are a series of letters I wrote my parents from Salamanca, Spain, when I was 17 years old. I spent six weeks living and studying there with a group run by Phillips Academy, Andover.

Though I learned a lot of Spanish, it was not a particularly good time. Our group was led by a shrewish Guatemalan teacher from Andover named Señora Piana. She saw to it that every moment of our time was spent either in class, on a bus, or touring ancient cathedrals, which is not really how you want to spend your summer vacation when you're a teenager, away from your parents, in a fabulous European city.

Piana was such an overbearing bitch that even the Spanish families with whom we lived made fun of her. One family nicknamed her "La Tecla," which translates as "the piano key." It's hard to explain why that was funny, but it was.

Beyond Piana, I just wasn't that crazy about the other kids in my group, and the feeling was mutual. It was a long, lonely summer for me, made worse by the fact that the previous summer I had gone on a teen bike trip through New England with American Youth Hostels with some of the greatest people I had ever met.

Coincidentally, I was just Facebooked the day before yesterday by three fellow bike trippers, one of whom posted a photo of us from the trip:

That's me at 16, in the front row, center.

(In front of us is Mike, our college-age leader. Who I now realize was a total hottie.)

We had bought the jackets and ties at a church rummage sale, and wore them constantly, even when riding our bikes.

Finally, I was unfortunate enough on the Spain trip to have been placed in a less-than-ideal living situation, with the Gutierrez family of La Avenida Portugal.

Even given all that background, I'm not sure any of you will find the following letter at all interesting. But here goes:

7/18/88 9:34 a.m.

¡Hola, mi familia!

Right now it's 4:34 a.m. in Amagansett, and while you're sleeping soundly, I'm sitting in grammar class. I just had to write and update you on a few things:

First of all, on Friday, after I mailed the letter I had written you, I finally got Mom's first letter with Laura's enclosed. Thanks -- glad to know you're all enjoying an exciting summer in Ama. Since I couldn't get my mail on Saturday, I expect quite a few letters. (Oops -- Sr. Perdrero just called on me and I had no idea what he was asking.)

The bad news is that I'm living with a crazy man. The son, Luis, who's 25, is an absolute ogre. I never really liked him before, right? I mean, I always thought it a bit strange that he chases his mother around the house, trying to kiss her, screaming, "Mami!," and that after 15 days of living here, he asked me, "¿Cómo te llamas?" (What's your name?)

Last night he totally blew up, though. It seems he wants to move out of his parents house (at the tender age of 25) and, as far as I could translate, they'll be damned if they're going to pay for his apartment -- it's not like he has a job or anything -- he's just a perpetual student.

So he starts screaming at his parents at the top of his lungs, throwing things around the house, and calling his mother such lovely names as "puta" -- probably the worst word in the Spanish language -- literally means "whore." And then calling his father "cabrón," an even worse word which literally means "goat" but is used as an insult to mean "a man who is being cuckolded." Meanwhile, I was sitting in my room pretending to do my homework and actually looking up words in my Spanish-English dictionary.

After about 20 minutes, I decided it was time for me to leave. I quickly mumbled something to Sra. Gutierrez about meeting an amiga -- she looked all too glad that I was exiting the madhouse. As I was getting on the elevator, I heard Luis bellow louder than ever -- it seems he was waiting for me to leave so he could cut out the Mr. Nice Guy Act.

I walked to my friend Nicole's house -- the same house where Dana Cimiluca stayed. The parents there love me simply because I know Dana -- he is the cat's pajamas to them. They're giving me letters and presents to bring back to him.

Anyway I stayed there chatting with them and Nicole until about 12 a.m. They are so nice. They asked me to move out of "La Casa del Hombre Malo" (The House of the Bad Man") and move in with them. I'd love it, but Piana would never go with it -- we can't live in a house with another American (especially not one of the opposite sex!).

I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. I know if I told Ms. Piana, she'd move me to another house. But it's not like I'm miserable -- the parents treat me OK -- (not anywhere as nice as Nicole's parents, but what can you do?). She's a good cook -- I have my own room -- I have a great view, etc. But then again, the thought of two more weeks with Charles Manson does not exactly thrill me. I think if Luis's antics continue, I will get myself moved. I just don't want to make any premature decisions.

Right now I'm sitting in culture class -- this week's lecturer is an expert in politics and is almost as stimulating as the first week's guy. But not to worry. I was informed by Sr. Perdrero, my professor, that there will be no culture questions on the final. (This is contrary to what Piana keeps telling us -- but Sr. Perdrero insists that it is the teacher's option whether to put culture on the exam or not. He deems the lecture useless to students who aren't fluent, and therefore opts for no questions.) This pleases me quite a bit.

Speaking of Perdrero, he's turned out to be a really great guy. I think he sees himself as a really hip dude -- he's always inviting us to have a drink with him, and on Friday he treated the entire class to coffee at a nearby cafe in between classes. He's also written a book of short stories -- the other day he handed out a paperback copy of it to each of us. We thought it was free, but when he wrote "1.000 pts" on the board (about $8.00), it became clear that he expected payment.

Now, as much as I like him, I'm not about to pay $8.00 for his book. So, when he wasn't looking, I casually returned it to his desk. I guess I started a chain reaction because soon, there was a stack of books on his desk. Oh well -- I hope he still likes us.

During the break, I went to get mail -- only to find there was none. What's with this family, anyway? You think one letter is enough? WRONG! I want more.

I better wrap this up. I'll write letters until about the 24th, and then I think it will be useless. Remember -- I leave here in 12 days, but then I have four days in Madrid.

Hope everything is well with you all.

I love you and miss you.

Adam

P.S. I hope you've appreciated all these long letters.

Not bad for a 17-year-old, no? It strikes me now that a blog is really just a substitute for letter-writing, a pursuit that disappeared for most of us with the advent of the Internet.

And as with my family, I never hear back from most of you.

Homo out. ♥

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