The easiest way to sum up the wave of feelings I've had here is to describe my relationship with Spanish food.
It begins much the way standard "culture shock" does - with excitement about all the new possibilities and opportunities in the host country. Chocolate and churros all the time! The world's best oranges grown nearby!
And, for a while, that's what it was. I rejoiced in trying all the new foods presented to me: Croquettes and Spanish tortilla - an omelet with potatoes, not a flour cake in the Mexican sense of the word - were culinary adventures to be enjoyed.
Once I got used to the food, however, the second stage, a relationship of almost anger, set in. Along with "Oh my God, why won't someone speak to me in English?!" and "Why is no one ever on time?!" came "I would kill for a turkey sandwich right now."
Other members of my program and I would compare the meals our señoras had prepared, becoming visibly jealous over reports of salads, particularly when they included more than iceberg lettuce, oil and vinegar. Vegetables, other than potatoes and beans, aren't common in Spanish cooking. Anything that arrived grilled, baked or not covered in a heavy, oily sauce was also given high marks.
After a few weeks of usually fruitless hunts for former staples of my diet like baby carrots and peanut butter, I grew to accept the food. Just as I got used to making my everyday dealings in Spanish, despite the frequent frustrations experienced by both myself and whatever poor soul had to deal with my occasionally mangled excuse for the language, I grew to accept Spanish food. I accepted my usual lunch of chorizo on white bread and days with far less produce than I would like.
Now, however, as my time in Spain draws to a close, I'm having conflicting feelings toward Spanish food and, consequently, Spanish culture. I know I'll never again have as good a tortilla as my señora makes, nor will the paella in the States ever taste as amazing as it does here. And I know I'll never again live in a city with as much amazing art as Madrid can claim, nor is it likely my nights out will begin at 11 p.m. and end around 6 a.m.
Yet as I try and make the most of my last few weeks here, I'm increasingly excited about going home to a land of Diet Coke (Coke Light isn't the same, no matter what anyone tells you), pretzels and readily available bad Chinese food. I'm thrilled that I will soon be back in the land of culture as high as the Smithsonian and Kennedy Center and as low as "America's Next Top Model."
Whether I ultimately yearn to return to the land of ham and paella remains to be seen, but, undoubtedly, any future culture shock will be reflected in my attitudes toward food.
