I missed my American culture and nuances. Spaniards are not nearly as sarcastic as liberal Jews from the northeast, like myself. My jokes came off as mean or inappropriate. I had no one to talk about the latest episode of “Arrested Development” with. Hardly anybody could understand the comedic genius of Richard Pryor and no one shared my love for horrible American reality TV. I started calling home more often, talking with my friends, and Juan grew resentful. He said I never laughed with him the way that I did with my friends. I could feel his disapproving gaze as I spoke with them for hours on the phone, trying to fill this void I felt while I was living with him.

I absolutely love Spanish culture. I fell in love with flamenco music, with Paco de Lucia and Camaron de la Isla. I still think to this day that Spain is the most beautiful country I have ever laid eyes on. Juan and I traveled all over the country, from the lush green mountains of Asturias in the north to the bright-white desert cliffs of Almeria on the Mediterranean Sea. I love Spanish people and the richness of their language. I eventually learned the slang and would try my best to speak like a Madrileño,but I knew deep down that I would never really belong, and I wasn’t sure if that was what I actually wanted.

By the fourth year, Spain was in its own horrible recession. Unemployment was at 25 percent, and if young Spaniards couldn’t land a job, there wasn’t much chance for an American journalist without official paperwork to find work. Madrid lost its vigor. The streets of La Latina were no longer filled with people enjoying themselves and praising life every weekend. A gloominess set in and I knew I had to go back home. I missed my family, my friends, my way of expressing myself. It was an incredible adventure but it had come to an end.

The day Juan dropped me off at the airport, with my bags stuffed with the memories of my Spanish life over the past four years, was one of the saddest days I’ll ever experience. We cried and said “Te quiero” and that we would see each other again soon. In the back of our minds, we knew it was probably the last time we would ever look into each other’s faces.

It’s been almost two years since I moved back to the States. Now living in New York City, I still perk up and get excited every time I hear Spanish (which is everywhere in New York). Despite how much I miss Madrid at times, I don’t regret leaving. Some people can move to a new country and despite the language and cultural difference, they can make a life for themselves. That’s exactly what my parents did when we left the Soviet Union in 1991. But they had to leave. There was no future there, and despite the people they left behind, there was little remorse or feelings of patriotism. It’s not that I feel particularly patriotic to the United States, but I feel loyal towards how its culture helped shaped who I am. I’m attached to how my friends laugh when I make a joke, or to how I can freely and openly communicate without hesitation.

And it doesn’t hurt that I can order a chicken sandwich without blushing.

Curated by Erbe
Original Article