Shielded from the cool Spanish air by a thin glass windowpane, my beleaguered body lies very still, fast asleep. Or possibly dead. It's hard to tell from this angle. After a night with nothing to do but drink pitchers of sangria and dance with beautiful Castilian women, I am forced to sleep for many, many hours on end. Suddenly, I am rudely awoken by the irresistible aroma of authentic Valencian paella, prompting me to crawl out of bed and chow down an enormous 3 p.m. lunch. Such is the trying lifestyle of study abroad.
All sarcasm aside, my first two weeks in Valencia, Spain, have kick-started a culturally enriching experience replete with excitement, wonder and, of course, confusion. The confusion began before I even arrived - the moment I found out I would be living with a host mother named Charo and her 27-year-old son, Nacho Grande. Upon arrival to their city apartment, my presumption that I would be dwelling in the casa of a Rucker Park street baller and a life-size Taco Bell Combo No. 4, was quickly proven wrong. Apparently Charo is a common nickname for Rosario, and Nacho is short for Ignacio. Go figure.
My Spanish is pretty good and all, but that doesn't mean I'm immune to the occasional mistake in conversation. For example, practically the first thing my madre asked me and my roommate upon entering her home was, "
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