Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  But if I can barely mumble a coherent word in Spanish, how the hell am I going to pass, much less slay, classes that cover sophisticated economic theory— classes taught in one hundred percent Spanish? I doubt even the best, most dedicated tutor can teach me to speak an entire language in a handful of months.

  The taxi driver is waiting.

  “Um,” I say again, my voice wavering. “Por favor, voy a…um…quatro, no, no, catorce…”

  The driver turns around and offers a small smile of sympathy. He nods at the scrap in my hand, and with a sigh of relief I pass it to him.

  “Gracias,” I say. “Muchisimas, muchisimas gracias.”

  He turns back, looks down at the address. “Ah, vale. Veinte, veinticinco minutos con el trafico.”

  That I understand. Twenty, twenty-five minutes with the traffic.

  Okay.

  I settle back in my seat, let out a breath. Okay. I look forward to twenty-five minutes of relative peace, before I face the second trial of my study abroad adventure: meeting my señora. I have been warned she speaks “little to no English.”

  Just the thought of it makes my stomach clench. Social situations can stress me out—I’m an introvert—and I know interacting with my substitute mom who can only communicate in Spanish is going to take my anxiety to a whole new level. I want to be gracious, and kind; I want her to like me. None of those things will happen if I can’t speak her language.

  The driver fights our sputtering taxi into gear. We lurch into traffic, the driver zipping in between cars and mopeds with stupid speed. A tiny blue lighter slides across the dashboard. He snatches it, tucking it into his shirtfront pocket; the pack of cigarettes he keeps there crinkles as he does it.

  He does not put on his seatbelt. I take that as a sign that I should definitely put on mine.

  My first sight of Madrid is disappointing. We pass through dreary suburbs at lightning speed, faceless building after faceless building whizzing past, a blurry weave of grey and beige. Between buildings, I catch glimpses of the countryside. It is arid, desert-like with pops of intense, eucalyptus green—exactly how I imagined it when I read Don Quixote. The sky is hazy with heat.

  The wind, warm, blares through the window. It feels good. Growing up in the South, I am used to hot weather. But I didn’t realize how much I took air conditioning— sweet, sweet air conditioning—for granted.

  Looking out the window, I notice that everything is a little different here. The cars, for one thing, are tiny, dinged up and dirty; not a shiny SUV in sight. The people driving them have slightly different haircuts, they wear a slightly different style clothing; their expressions of road rage are startlingly vibrant to my American eyes. The highway itself is clean and orderly, the pavement several shades darker than at home.

  The suburbs eventually crowd into a city. My heart pops around in my chest. Mostly because we are getting closer to my señora’s apartment, and I’m already stressed about what I’m going to say.

  But my heart also works double time because excitement is peeking around the great mass of my anxiety. Madrid is huge— and this part is beautiful. The taxi slows down as we run into traffic, giving me a chance to gawk as we inch further toward city center.

  It’s not gritty, like New York, or shiny and new, like Atlanta. Madrid is gorgeously old; I can see its age in the zigzag of its streets, in the mishmash of Gothic and Mediterranean and Belle Epoque architecture. The mid-afternoon light softens corners and gilds trees. Beautifully dressed people stroll along the sidewalks, puffing on cigarettes or chatting on their phones. My eyes move over the trim, broad-shouldered profiles of the guys we pass—Madrileños. They are the “holy shit” variety of gorgeous.

  But as delicious as they look, I wouldn’t touch these dudes with a ten-foot pole. After suffering through my first real heartbreak last semester, followed by a string of disappointing hookups that I hoped would lead to something but never did, I need a win. And falling for a hot Spanish dude who, if he even likes me back, I’ll have to leave in five months’ time is definitely not a win.

  I’ve been so close to romance, to that happily ever after, before. And then I had to let it—let him—go after one semester. It hurt like hell.

  I definitely don’t want to go through that again.

  I want a guy who’s going to be around for coffee in the morning and dinner dates at night.

  I want a guy who’s going to be around for a long, long time. Maybe forever. And by virtue of their hotness, their geographical location, and their seriously superior Spanish skills, these Madrileños are definitely not forever material.

  It’s intimidating, Madrid, but already I’m picking up on its easy energy, the sense of promise that hangs in the air. If I can ever manage to utter a complete sentence in grammatically correct Spanish, I think I’ll like it here.

  After weaving in and out of traffic, we make a turn and zoom up a smaller street. I strain my neck to look up at the stately white apartment buildings we pass. The neighborhood looks nice. Very nice. The bustle and noise of the city recedes the further we move up the street, until at last the driver darts into an open parking spot in front of a blue paneled door.

  I brace my hand on the back of his seat to keep from lurching forward.

  “Aqui.” The driver points out the window. “Calle de Villanueva, numero catorce.”

  Oh God.

  I’m here.

  My home for the next six months. Whether I’m a gringo or not, I’m here, four thousand miles from home. There is no turning back.

  The driver motions to the meter, and I dig my monopoly-sized Euro bills out of my wallet. My mind races as I try to calculate the tip. Shit, there are no single bills; I’d forgotten the Euro dollar is a coin.

  Shit shit shit.

  My hands are shaking again, and I end up shoving an enormous tip into the guy’s hand because my brain isn’t working and I feel like I’m about to burst into tears. He grins and hops out of the car, helping me with my enormous suitcase.

  He drops it at the door. I say thanks in halting Spanish, and he speeds away, muffler coughing in protest.

  I glance down at the scrap of paper he placed in my palm. Calle de Villanueva, 14, second floor. I look up at the door. I am so nervous I feel sick.

  But the sun is hot on my head and shoulders, the heat from the pavement radiating up my legs. I probably look like a hot mess, and smell like one too. I can’t remember ever being so exhausted; I need a siesta, stat.

  I push the door open, dragging my suitcase behind me. Its wheels clack against the marble floor. The air in the small, shadowed foyer is cool; it feels like jumping into a pool after that sweaty cab ride.

  There is a quaint, fragile-looking elevator in the middle of the room. I slide back the Titanic-esque gate, and barely manage to squeeze into the elevator beside my suitcase. I press the button; after a minute the elevator jerks into motion, moving slowly, slowly, to the second floor.

  And all of a sudden—three airports, four awful airplane meals, and eighteen hours after I left home—I am staring down my señora’s door.

  Swallowing my heart, I knock.

  I hear the rut-tut-tut of a dog’s nails against the floorboards; a bark, a woman’s voice; and then the door opens, revealing a petite blond woman with kind brown eyes. There’s a frazzled look about her, or maybe I just think that because she’s trying—and failing—to hold back a giant German shepherd by his collar.

  “Chiquitin!” she implores. “No, Chiquitin, no!”

  But Chiquitin gets the better of her, wrangling from her grasp. He pounces on me, teeth nicking my chin. I let out an embarrassing sound, something between “hola” and a strangled cry for help.

  No one told me there would be a dog. A mean, employed-by-the-department-of-corrections dog.

  My señora starts to holler, and eventually she manages to wrestle Chiquitin away from me. He barks, she slaps. I wonder if I’m going to faint.

  Then she turns to me.

  �
�Vivian?” she asks, smiling. It sounds like Vee-vee-an when she says it. I kinda like it. I wonder if I can ever hope to live up to this exotic version of myself.

  I manage a smile. “Si. Me llama Vivian. Um. I’m. Uh. Encantada, Senora.”

  I think that’s how you say “nice to meet you.” I think.

  I hope.

  She manages to wedge back the dog, and steps out into the foyer to give me a hug. A quick kiss kiss on each cheek, and she pulls away, introducing herself as Stella. She picks up pretty quickly on the fact that my Spanish isn’t so great. She speaks slowly, using hand gestures. I appreciate her kindness.

  The following hour is a blur. After locking Chiquitin in a bedroom, Stella shows me around her apartment. It is lovely, dressed up without being stuffy. The floor, wood parquet lovingly marred by generations of use, creaks as we move through each room: a small kitchen—no oven!—a pretty bathroom, a well-worn living room with couches huddled around a TV.

  There is no air conditioning in any of the rooms. It’s got to be close to one hundred degrees outside.

  I try to engage Stella in conversation. I want to let her know how much I love her apartment, how much I appreciate her hospitality. But I’m really feeling the jet lag now, and my brain seems to short-circuit anytime I need to say something. Either I can’t think of anything to say at all, or I do but I can’t remember how to translate it into Spanish.

  I end up using dumbed-down phrases that make me sound like a total tool. “Que bella!” (I’m pretty sure that’s Italian, but whatever); “muchas gracias”; “es preciosa” (“it is precious” or maybe “it is pretty”) Gah!

  By the time the tour ends and Stella shows me to my room, I want to die of embarrassment. Exhaustion, too. She asks if I’m hungry, if I’d like anything—maybe a glass of wine to celebrate my arrival?

  I decline as politely as I am able, which is to say, not well at all. Stella leaves me to unpack, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I look around the small guest room. It is spare, but cozy. A pair of huge casement windows are thrown open onto a silent courtyard. It is so damn hot in here I can hardly stand it.

  I dig my phone out of my backpack and fall onto the trundle bed. I call my parents, and when my mom answers the phone—she sounds relieved, excited to hear from me—a lump forms in my throat. She asks about my flight, and about Stella. I rush her off the phone, telling her I need to unpack; telling her yes, Mom, really, I’m okay, just tired.

  I set the phone on the desk beside the bed and fall back onto the pillows. I should unpack, I should set up my computer to proofread my econ take-home before I turn it in tomorrow, I should take Stella up on that glass of wine.

  I cry instead. I turn my head away from the heat of the window and let the tears roll down my temples, soaking the pillow.

  I let the homesickness roll over me, a great stone weight that settles on my chest. Even though I’ve been away at college for the past two years, I’m pretty close with my family. I love going home for breaks and holidays; love not having to wear shoes in my own shower; love sleeping in my own bed in my own room. Most of all I love hanging with my mom and my dad and my brother, the four of us slurping mom’s Sunday night spaghetti and meatballs around the well-worn kitchen table. Because home—we live in Charlotte—is less than a two-hour drive from campus, I rarely go more than a month without seeing my family.

  But other than Mom and Dad’s potential visit to Spain around Thanksgiving, I have no plans to see them the entire six months I’ll be here in Madrid.

  Six months.

  How in the world am I going to make it six months here?

  And how am I going to pass my classes if I can’t speak the damn language?

  Vivian

  Later That Evening

  I crack open an eye. For a minute I forget where I am.

  I am sticky with sweat, the heat of the room swelling around me. I take it as a sign I had a good, PTFO-style nap.

  Light—less ardent now, more golden—slants through the windows. It is unfamiliar, this kind of light, and so pretty. I can hear the dull whine of a blow dryer through an open window across the courtyard. People getting ready to go out on a Saturday night.

  It’s Saturday, August 29. The Saturday I’ve been looking forward to for my entire college career.

  The Saturday I land in Madrid.

  It comes back to me in a rush—the flight, the fraught cab ride, Stella and Chiquitin, no! and the weight of my homesickness. I don’t know what to feel first.

  My hair rustles against the pillow as I turn my head to look at the mattress set flush against mine. Maddie, my roommate for the semester, is going to laugh when she sees it. Our marital bed. She doesn’t land until tomorrow morning; I can’t wait for her to get here. Not only because she speaks fluent Spanish—she spent a summer in Colombia during high school—but also because she’s one of my besties for the resties. We met freshman year, when we lived two doors down from each another in the same dorm. Mads is not only an excellent person, but she’s funny as hell, too. I have no doubt she’ll make me laugh off my homesickness over an enormous jug of Spanish wine.

  My phone vibrates on the desk beside the bed. It’s a text from my friend, Katie—a sorority sister who is also doing Meryton in Madrid this semester – asking if I’d like to meet up later tonight at a bar. A couple of people in our program are getting together for our first night out in the city.

  A spark of excitement catches in my chest. We’ve all heard about Spain’s ridiculous nightlife. The eight-level discoteca—sounds so seventies, I know—the clubs that stay open until six, seven in the morning, revelers rubbing elbows on the Metro with men in suits headed to the office. Our program director back at Meryton told us our señoras will not only tolerate us stumbling home at 6 a.m., they expect it. “It’s part of the Spanish cultural experience,” she’d said.

  A cultural experience I am all too glad to partake in. Being twenty years old in the States is kind of a bummer, considering I can’t even get into a bar. But here? I can get into a bar, and for the first official time I can order an official drink.

  Pretty exciting stuff.

  Besides. I’m sure seeing some familiar faces will help alleviate my homesickness. I can’t help wishing I were back home at my parents’ house tonight, grilling out in their backyard.

  I suck in a breath at a violent stab of longing. Oh, America, I’ve barely been gone a day and already I miss you like crazy! I will myself to blink back the tears. There are friends to see, and sangria to be had. No time for more crying.

  An hour later, I emerge from my room, dressed to impress. I have a feeling the clothes I wear for a night out in Durham are a lot different from what people wear to dance in a discoteca in Madrid, but I give it the old college try.

  I hear Stella in the kitchen down the hall. Just as I turn in that direction, a tut-tut-tut sounds behind me. I simultaneously break out in a sweat and into a run, but Chiquitin, that wily bastard, is already on me. He nips at my bare heels, causing me to teeter on my wedges. My hands scrape at the walls for balance as I make an awkward run for it. I must look like the too-stupid-to-live heroine from a horror movie, but I don’t care. The last thing I need right now is a prison dog taking a juicy chunk out of my ass.

  Stella must hear my distress, because she comes flying out of the kitchen, hissing admonishments at Chiquitin. He, in turn, merely nips at me harder, until Stella yanks him away and throws him behind a closed door.

  Wiping her brow, she turns to me and apologizes for her dog’s behavior. She is speaking quickly, and I only catch about half of what she’s saying. I focus so hard on translating that when it’s my turn to speak, I haven’t thought of a response in English, much less in coherent Spanish. So I resort to my dufus-like pantomime of her beautiful language, stuttering something about “un perro” (a dog) and “no te preocupes” (don’t worry about it).

  It’s traumatizing. Somehow I convey to Stella that I’m going out with fri
ends. She smiles, and tells me not to worry about getting home too early; just use the key she gave me, I am free to come and go as I please. And, oh!, here is her cell phone number, in case I need anything or there’s an emergency.

  The second my feet hit the sidewalk outside, the hand that’s been squeezing my heart relaxes. I hate having nothing to say in a conversation; it’s like being caught with my pants down. I have to work on my Spanish. Otherwise I’m going to give myself a heart attack trying to say thanks for this delicious dinner to my señora.

  It’s still hot, but the afternoon has faded to a beautiful evening. This is my favorite time of day—these hours just before dark, when the air cools and the light is bruised shades of orange and purple and blue, potent with possibility.

  Sometimes I think the anticipation of the night ahead is even sweeter than the night itself.

  Maybe it’s the way Madrid smells. It just smells…different. I can’t explain it. It’s a combination of scents—the heat of the sidewalk, the yeasty smell of bread, diesel—that permeates everything. It’s not unpleasant; it just gives Madrid a very distinct sense of place. It’s a constant reminder that I’m in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home. There’s something very old-world about the smell, ancient, even. Occasionally, when I walk over a grate or manhole, it gets potently medieval.

  I try to play it cool and look like I know where I’m going, but I end up glancing at the map on my phone every ten seconds anyway. I grew up in the ‘burbs, and Meryton’s campus is in the middle of a medium-ish-sized town, so this city thing is new to me; I’m more than a little intimidated by the buzz of traffic and people that surround me. Eventually I manage to hail a cab. It’s easier this time around. I merely need to say the name of the bar and then we’re zooming through the city.

  The driver lets me out at the mouth of a long, wide alley. It’s throbbing with people and sound. Young, attractive Madrileños, their skin glowing with a fine sheet of sweat, spill out from bars and gather around quaint café tables; I can hear the scrape of metal chairs against the cobblestones. The driver motions to the alley, and says something about a bar on the left.