Without any better idea of where to start, I've decided to post an old essay I wrote that has evolved into the open-minded outlook I strive to achieve on a daily basis.  The paper, titled none other than "Seeing Through My Nose," began as a tongue-and-cheek english paper my junior year of high school, then through many modifications, became a college essay, and now serves as a starting point for what I hope will develop into a prolific blog.  The original essay...

10/28/06
Seeing through my Nose

Pardon my French, but I speak pure English: with no accent and MLA approved. Therefore, when informed by a friend from France that I speak English through my nose, I…well honestly I had to ask him to repeat himself. The remark bewildered me, a Connecticut Nutmegger, so I responded as any immersion student in such a predicament would do: I switched languages. We were in Barcelona, living together in a small, urban apartment, and when someone comments on my smile, I reflexively close my mouth. Thus, I inquired of him in Spanish, revealing my surprise at the unanticipated criticism, “Do you believe you have an accent when you speak English?” His immediate retort: “uh…no.” I couldn’t believe his egotism- he truly thought he spoke pure English.

Perhaps a Frenchman and an American casually chatting in Spain about each other’s accents seems somewhat unusual, but compared with the actions of the ten other occupants of the apartment, coming from Spain, France, Sweden, and the United States, the French student and I were simply the norm. Our host mother, in particular, had a bizarre outlook on life: since she couldn’t travel, why not bring the world to her apartment? I happen to believe the best way to truly experience Spanish culture requires living with a flamenco dancer, and thus at my request the Study Abroad director selected Mati “La Galleguita” Jimenez to be, as she so cynically put it, “[our] mother for the next four weeks.” At least 65 years old and pushing five feet tall while standing on the longer of her uneven legs, I cannot imagine a woman who appears any less like a flamenco dancer. Waddling toward my American roommate, Brian, and me when we arrived in the Barcelona airport, the handicapped Mati made her introduction and then quickly ushered us to her flashy red Peugeot. When we arrived at and entered the apartment, Mati led us to the almost-too-cozy living room where the motley crew of occupants stood with beaming smiles on their faces, as the United States’ National Anthem played loudly in the background.

I don’t intend to make my family life in Connecticut sound tranquil and uneventful, for I have 10 year-old twin sisters whose high decibel levels never cease to both amaze and irritate me, but I had never participated in a truly chaotic experience until I lived with the Jimenezes in the heart of Barcelona. I had crashed headfirst into a cultural barrier of endless commotion and a serious lack of privacy, since, accustomed to American society, I had an inherent need for personal space. At first, the language barrier didn’t help much either, until a couple of days into the trip when Mati’s husband Enrique tried to communicate with the French guys in Barcelona’s native language, Catalán. Even among our four languages, three with the same origins as Catalán, we, the six students of the apartment, could not manage to decipher a word Enrique said. Ironically, having formerly segregated ourselves in the apartment by language, our common inability to speak Catalán ultimately brought us together.

I’ve already discussed the presence of French students, but I have yet neglected to mention the two Swedish girls and the aura of mystery they added to the household’s remarkable potpourri: far stranger than the French guys. Like us, they were in Spain for a study abroad program, yet they attended classes only once a week for all of three hours. They ate and slept in the apartment, but otherwise they were out doing “touristy stuff,” as they described it. Curiously, they ate breakfast with us in the morning and then slept until dinner, when they’d eat and then leave for the night. One of them had a strong distaste for interacting with people of other cultures so the girls would often quarrel when planning their daily, or more accurately, nightly, activities. Their taste for food, however, topped the peculiarity scale. Mati’s mayonnaise salad, a salad that would make even England’s most fanatical chips lover cringe, proved to be their favorite meal and they consistently devoured it like candy. They even refused to eat any fried food Mati cooked, a vast majority of the dinner entrees, while the rest of us tried not to cringe in an effort to be polite.

In retrospect, I imagine only a minor legality separated the apartment from a boarding house, but I loved it, with the French and Swedish students, Mati, Enrique, and their children and grandchildren despite the absurdity of the situation-- perhaps because of that very ridiculousness. I know because I realized, while refuting the notion that I speak through my nose, that I have habits equally as idiosyncratic as those of my peers in the apartment. I drink my coffee black, while their Café con Leche is so strong that without milk it would be nearly impossible to consume; I take long showers, while the European’s high utility bills encourage them to conserve water. To the surprise of everyone I’ve ever met, I dislike pasta, while pasta is a staple to many people around the world. Perhaps I even speak with an accent. Maybe I was the ignorant one, and he, well he actually asked me to repeat myself a few times so he could decipher my words.