What One Week in Spain Taught Me About Resilience
You wouldn’t think seven days in a Mediterranean paradise would teach you much about the art of resilience. However, in the past week, I have learned a lot about just that.
Two days ago, my wallet was stolen.
First of all, I’m fine. After 48 hours, I can safely say that I will be able to exit the country and comfortably complete my study abroad program in Spain, which is more than most can say after having their purse stolen. There was nothing in my purse except for the wallet — a true miracle, since anyone who knows me knows I almost never pack light.
The irony of this tragedy is something I couldn’t help but laugh at (even through tears at the time.) It happened in a coffee shop around the corner from my host family’s house. I’d been trying a new coffee shop every day as a way of slowly acquainting myself with the variety of neighborhoods in this diverse city. This was the first coffee shop I’d tried in my area, the Ruzafa district, also known as one of the hippest neighborhoods in the city. It is Instagram-worthy. It is safe. At least I thought so.
So, I did what I always do in New York. I put my backpack on the floor, leaning on my leg so I would feel if it moved.
I sat down outside the café, cappuccino in hand, and settled down to write this blog post — the basic, “Hello, I’m in Spain, here’s a window into my exotic dream life, etc.” Experiencing my usual dread of the blank page, however, I decided I would call my mom. I pulled out my headphones and chatted, probably too loudly, to her over FaceTime. It was my first time talking to her since I had arrived in Spain and I needed her to know I was thriving in this new space.
I might as well have had “tourist” written across my shirt.
I remember telling her I’d been inspired by the fashionable women in Spain to buy a new dress. I remember telling her that not speaking the language in a city where very few speak fluent English was a challenge, but I was happy for the many opportunities to practice my Spanish. I remember telling her I was really starting to settle into a routine in my study-abroad program. What I don’t remember is a young guy riding on an electric scooter scooping up my backpack without even slowing down. I barely even saw the scooter at all.
Obviously, there are a lot of things I would change about the day, but that’s not what this post is about. Suffice it to say anyone traveling in this city, a city which, as I later heard, is notorious for situations like these, should take everything above as a lesson in what NOT to do.
A man ran over to my table and began speaking to me in loud, rapid Spanish. I recited my usual speech informing him that I did not speak Spanish. He then explained in perfect English that someone had taken my bag. I saw one of the baristas running in the direction the scooter had gone, but it was practically pointless. I hung up the phone (sorry, mom).
The rest of that afternoon, once meant to be spent quietly writing this blog post, turned into a flurry of calls, both to the police and to Carmine, the kind man who witnessed everything that happened and reported it to the police for me in Spanish. I learned quickly that if you cry just enough in a café you’ll be fed unlimited croissants, and that the Ruzafa police are almost entirely unable to speak English. I can understand why not, there seems to be virtually no need to speak English in Valencia, but this proved challenging when I tried to ask questions like, “How do I get to the police station?” and, “How do I file a police report?” It became an even more pressing issue when they decided it would be easier to drive me to the police station and flirted with me through the partition in a mix of broken English and Spanish throughout the ride (there was a lot of “nice eyes!” and winking involved).
I was moved to a room with two Tunisian boys and given a number to call to file a police report in English. I filed the report to an automated voice, cursing under my breath all the while (to the great amusement of my new Tunisian friends), then moved to another room to sign the report, and then left the station. I was in an entirely unknown part of town — a 25-minute walk from my host family’s house, according to Google Maps.
I collapsed on a bench and cried over FaceTime to my mom for ten minutes as soon as I was within sight of home. I clutched my computer bag close, half assuming the infamous “scooter boy” would come back for that, too.
So much for buying a new dress.
When I saw Carmine sitting on the sidewalk on my walk home from the police station, I stopped to thank him profusely for everything he’d done to help me that day. After a quick, “de nada,” he launched into a long speech on how the restaurant behind us belonged to him. It is a tapas restaurant opening this week. He told me he would give me free tapas if I came on opening night. I promised I would.
I’ve noticed a distinct difference in the reactions of Americans and the reactions of Spaniards to my wallet story. When I tell my American friends and family, their reaction completely reflects my own. I hear, “How embarrassing!,” “You’ve learned a good lesson,” or, the classic, “Wow, that is the worst.” However, when people at the café realized what happened and wandered over to my table of soggy, tear-stained croissants, they lead with constructive questions such as, “Have you blocked your cards?,” “Do you need money to get home?,” and, “Do you want me to help you translate when the police arrive?” Even when I, red-faced, had to confess to my host mother that her keys were in my stolen backpack, her reaction was, shrugging, “It happens. You cannot control it.”
My host mother told my roommates and me a story the other night. When she was 19, something she was cooking exploded in her face, giving her second-degree burns. Her wounds were not healed until after she’d spent weeks in the hospital. However, instead of using this experience as an excuse to hide away in fear and insecurity in years to follow, she put herself in the running for Miss Spain and won.
“Spanish women are very resilient,” she said. “I turned my bad experience into something good.”
In America, we are often tempted to see the laid-back lifestyle, the “siesta-culture,” of the Spanish as shameless carelessness or even laziness. This, I think, is a grave misinterpretation. The fact that people here don’t immediately shame the victim or thief, pour over what could have gone differently, or resort to melodramatics in a case like this, does not make them “careless.” In fact, I’ve found the lack of unreasonably high expectations or idealized plans in this environment leaves room for a profound flexibility — a resilience — that manifests itself in circumstances like my small tragedy. It makes Spaniards some of the calmest, efficient, and good-natured problem-solvers I have ever encountered.
Since the day I lost my wallet, I’ve bought a new backpack with some money lent to me from my study abroad program. It’s yellow, so I’ll never lose it, and the color makes me happy. I’ve booked a trip to Alicante for the weekend, promising to Venmo my friends as soon as my card comes in the mail. Other than that, I’ve been living the least materialistic few days of my life and, surprisingly, being totally okay.
Resilience, sometimes, is not stubbornly refusing to let change into your life. Resilience is understanding that life will change and having the guts to adapt. It is interrupting your afternoon coffee to help a stranger, it is becoming Miss Spain after suffering second-degree burns, and it is, for me, figuring out how to live wallet-less for the next four weeks in Spain.
Thank you, Spain, for making me okay with that.
