Padres nuevos

New padres

We call our Spanish host parents our padres to differentiate them from our real parents. But that's what they are: parents. Anabel left for Vienna yesterday. I miss her. I liked our routine. Her parents are here now and everything is different. It's hard to get used to, I don't know what is appropriate or anything like that. Also the food is different, I have to keep a smile on those adorable little faces.

My mom (my real mom) said I'm a stubborn eater. If I decided I don't like something, I won't eat it. Even if I'm hungry. Even if everyone else says it tastes delicious and it's starting to smell good. No matter what, I wouldn't eat it. Now I don't know whether I've just opened myself to more foods, or whether it's something about these cute little old Spanish people, but I've turned that stubbornness onto myself, for better or worse. So now, when she points to the blood sausage, I pick up a piece of black, spongy meat. And even though I'd rather let a spider crawl up my hand than eat it, I stick it in my mouth and chew. And I look right in her eyes and smile. (Don't ask me what it tasted like, I don't think my tongue touched it, and even if it had, I was concentrating too hard on not thinking about the ingredients).

There are only three weeks left. Two weeks of classes. I can do all the work I still need to do, I can be late for class because I have to stay in and eat breakfast. I hope the rain stops so I can enjoy the last of my time here. I hope the British Airways strike gets resolved before I have to fly back to New York, and that damn volcano shuts up. On the bright side, my cough is almost gone!