A Delegate of Sorts

By Grace Carballo ‘17

Last weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of representing the good old US of A, along with my roommate, as a delegate of sorts, if you will, at a 150-person, super exclusive fiesta about 40 minutes from Madrid hosted by an affluent friend of my host brother. Mind you, I didn’t ever participate in Model UN or even take the course when it was available to me sophomore year of high school (I took Comparative Religions instead because I wanted to open my mind and also because there were so many field trips), but I think after hearing how well I mingled, you may be willing to overlook my lack of qualifications.

Victor, my host brother, told my roommate, Caroline, and I about the party a week beforehand after we asked him yet again to hang out. I definitely said something really articulate along the lines of “Me gustan las fiestas” in response, but that’s just the social butterfly in me, ready to stretch my wings and fly.

Como siempre (like always), I had my fair share of follow-up questions, namely what should we wear, especially given my USC background, where a party without a theme occurs at about the same frequency as lunar eclipses. In an effort to calm us, Victor explained this mansion party would just be a “typical American party”. I immediately gave myself an internal pat on the back for my pre-planned Fourth of July outfit until he continued, “just wear a swimsuit.”

I didn’t think much about the upcoming social event of the century, aside from when Victor knocked on my door and asked for 15 euros from each of us (everyone on the list had paid), because our program had a weeklong excursion to Andalucía,

which I have a lot of positive things to say about in both English AND Spanish (cuz I’m improving), but for now, debes esperar (wait).

When we got back from Andalucía, I was tired and not feeling well at all, but I knew I couldn’t miss this cultural experience. Plus, I’d already paid for it and my spirit animal is a stingy old bat so not about to let that go to waste. 

We found Victor and asked him when we should be ready to leave (“before 9 PM”), what to bring (“un bocadillo del jamón, toothbrush, and a towel”), and then I told him I’m a vegetarian (“vale, un bocadillo de tofú”), and then we asked why a toothbrush (“so you can brush your teeth before you sleep”), and then I started sweating anxiously and asked when we’d be back (“I don’t know, do you have an appointment tomorrow?”), and then I tried to think of a reason to be back at a reasonable hour, like 6 AM, and then I thought, “Who have I become that 6 AM is a reasonable hour to return home?” and then I thought, “Dios Mío, I’m totally madrileña” and then Caroline and I went to our rooms to nap before the party. She succeeded at this goal but I lay awake trying to pump myself up for the night ahead.

But my interior monologue got in the way and I couldn’t help but thinking responsible things and I figured it would be good to have a nice chat, mom to mom, with Carmen, my host mom. This is not the first time I have come to her with my fears. My first weekend, before the clubs, I told her I was afraid and she proceeded to explain to me that our neighborhood is safe at all hours, to come back whenever I wanted, and it was silly to be afraid. This was not what I had expected and certainly not the “Why don’t you stay in instead and play a board game with me?” I had hoped for.

I should’ve known this Typical American Party conversation would go similarly: I asked her if she knew Victor’s friend hosting and she didn’t because she hadn’t asked him but said all his friends are very nice. And then I told her I’m afraid and she laughed and asked why. And then I told her that I was sick and not sure I could go because I ate some raw vegetables in Andalucia and my stomach was not loving them, and she told me that wasn’t possible because the water and food is safe there, just it tastes better in Madrid.

Carmen is the definition of a cool mom and with her encouragement, on behalf of my country, I knew I must go to the fiesta.

Victor came by to check our progress and I asked him what sort of pajamas I should bring and he laughed, probably nervously about the toll I may take on his social status, and insisted that we not bring pajamas to this shindig because that is weird.

We loaded up the car with Marta, her boyfriend, Caroline, and I, with Victor as driver. I sat in the back, though in retrospect, I think I tried to call shotgun and then fumbled on the translation and explanation.

Like the unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, I knew I could handle anything that came my way if I just took it in ten second increments. Luckily, I did not need to use this coping mechanism during the one hour or so drive because the radio played a confusing mix of show-tunes and rap, almost all in English, and I was trying to figure out if this was normal or some sort of omen.

Victor ate a container of Ben & Jerry’s while driving without a spoon and it was fascinating to watch and how I intend to prepare for every future party.

The party was in a gated community but Victor knew the guard and assured us, when we got to the car-filled street, that we were definitely on the 150 person guest list. “150 amigos nuevos!” I said, once more setting unrealistic goals for myself (I thought I’d be fluent by now. Maybe even queen).

Victor told us to leave our phones in the car, which was a good idea in that I didn’t lose my phone, but a terrible idea in that I have only memories of the gala and you can’t post memories on snapchat…yet. (I’d like to formally declare patent pending on that idea if that’s how that works). When we got to the house, the man working the entrance asked us for our names and Victor introduced himself and then Caroline and I, except he introduced us as “Americana Uno y Americana Dos”. And I was the latter, which was kind of a double slap in the face because I’ve lived with him longer. 

We felt a little better about the name thing when Victor also didn’t know the name of his best friend’s girlfriend of 10 months, Lorena. She, Caroline, and I became a trio and she quickly became our favorite person there. 

We danced, and we sang, and had a really, really good time. All in all, I am very pleased with how the night went, especially given my hesitation initially. My one regret is that I never found the dog that lives in the mansion and I know for a fact there was one because it had a dog house/mansion of its own and it was very well-made.

We were able to practice our Spanish a lot, especially because everyone thought it was so cool that we were Americana 1 and Americana 2.  What with the D.J.’s loud tunes and my exhausted state, I couldn’t hear everything people were saying to me so I opted for a “No entiendo pero estoy de acuerdo”/“I don’t understand but I agree” approach which got great responses. Spanish Grace sure is agreeable and low-maintenance, huh?