I let the loose strap of my purse slide off my shoulder and fall to the ground with a “thud” as I pass through the threshold of my room. In one swift motion I slip off my boat shoes and dive head first onto my bed as if I were attempting to win a belly flop contest at a summer pool party. As I reach for my computer I notice a new addition to my room, an air freshener. Estoy constipado, meaning, “I’m stuffed up”, leaving me without the ability to smell. I look around my room, searching for the cause of the smell that required the air freshener. Unlike the stereotypical European, I shower way more than once a week. I hear a knock at my door and the turning metal of the handle as my se�ora enters telling me my lunch is on the table. Then she walks the four steps to the other side of my room, pointing to the open window, which had previous been closed when I left this morning, and proceeds to tell me that my room smells like leather, or the fake leather that is my $20 Target purse still laying on the floor. She then grabs the air freshener, telling me that she put it in my room to help get rid of this “smell” and ends her monologue by showing me, by turning the top of the liquid air freshener clockwise, how to open and close it. Who needs a manual when you have a demonstration!

As she turns the corner out of my room, and out of sight, I bury my head into the pillow lying next to me and burst into laughter, the fake feathers muffling the sound. After regaining control I stand, neatly pull down on my now wrinkled tank top, take a deep breath and compose myself as I begin the walk to the table.  My se�ora must have restocked her supply of shrimp, as I have lost count of the number of days in the last week we have had shrimp with pasta or rice for lunch. At this point I have given up on attempting to devein the shrimp and have become accustomed to simply eat what is given to me and never asking the name of the mystery meat on my plate. I haven’t taken two bites of my lunch when my se�ora walks toward the table, my pair of bright red pants in hand. According to her they are too wrinkled to acceptably wear outside of the house, so she informs me  that she will iron them. I thank her and when she returns with my wrinkle free pants she stops, staring at them as if it were the Mona Lisa, and finally exclaims, “I really like the red pants! I like your entire wardrobe, you have good taste.” Then follows with a question whose meaning I’m still not entirely sure. “Do you or your mom buy your clothes?” Did she mean in terms of money who buys them, or is she asking if my mother is the one responsible for the style in my wardrobe. I’m not sure about in Spain, but I have been dressing myself for quite a few years now. Unsure, really, of how to answer, I choose to respond with, “both,” as I feel it is the safest. I turn back towards my plate and quickly return to my cooling food as she scurries into a closet nearby.

Before I know it, she returns to the table holding a pair of new shoes, the same pair of new shoes she has showed me on more than one occasion since she bought them less than a week ago. They appear to be made of a black suede material and are in a sort of clog shape. Then she begins listing all of the reasons she prefers to buy more expensive shoes that are of better quality over those less expensive and continues into a rant about the lack of quality in the clothing sold in Spain. More than once she speaks highly of the superior cotton of which our clothing in America is made. I didn’t want to tell her that most of the clothing I had was most likely made in a country other than the US.

Luckily for me my se�ora prefers quality over quantity, as she happily pulled out of the closet every pair of shoes she currently owns, bringing each pair over to the table for me to feel their different materials. Afterward she tells me how much they cost in an effort to prove her previous point even more. I’m not sure I even remember what the last pair of shoes I bought looks like, let alone how much I spent on them. In between shoes I engulf huge bites of my lunch in an effort not to let this meal take three hours. After the shoes come purses. This time she adds where they where she bought them and from whom gave her one as a gift. I tighten my lips, fighting back the large smile growing on my face in an effort not to disrespectfully burst into laughter at this humorous situation.

After the fashion show of accessories, my se�ora joins me with a plate at the table. Just when I think normal conversation will resume she looks toward me and politely orders, “You need to change your deodorant, it’s ruining your clothes!” I almost spit out my mouth full of shrimp at the shear randomness of her desire. Still attempting to keep in the shrimp, and with question, I nod my head and respond with closed lips, “mhhm”. It’s as if she had rehearsed bullet points on the topic like I was going to break out in an argument defending my Spanish deodorant. Her opening statement concluded with the recommendation that I buy the brand of deodorant she uses, explaining that it is perfect for sensitive skin. I’m unsure if the sensitive skin aspect is supposed to be a selling point for me or not. The last time I checked, my armpits weren’t sensitive to her disapproval of their choice of cover-up.

The door of the apartment opens, interrupting my se�ora’s thoughts as she brings to the table her bottle of deodorant to show me, and in walks my se�or. After his greeting he heads to the back of the apartment to use the restroom, door wide open, as usual. It seems, after speaking with friends in other homestays, it is more common for the Spanish individual to use the bathroom with the door open than closed. Thankfully, with the exception of my se�or accidentally walking in on me in the shower and one of the Belgium girls swinging open the closed door of the bathroom this morning while I was brushing me teeth, I have luckily been exempted from the awkwardness that can occur when five practically strangers share the same bathroom.

When my se�or joins us at the table he asks what I did this morning. After relaying my time, spent sun bathing in a tank top while reading a book by the river, my se�ora points out the newly acquired red tint to my face. And then it happened… I made my first joke in Spanish. Telling them that I was out there because I needed to work on my tan so I didn’t stick out so much here with such white skin. I clear my plate and walk away from the table as their laughter fades. And the day is only half over, I think as I smile at the thought of what my life has become. 

Location: Seville, Spain