It’s been two weeks too long since I last saw the love of my life. I dream constantly about her liberating ocean breezes, the sleepless nights with her filled with the buzz of drunken conversations, her superfluously portioned three-course meals, the heladerías in her every nook and cranny…
The way to describe this feeling isn’t even just nostalgia, but rather, Spainsickness. Here are a few symptoms to diagnose yourself:
You accidentally respond “vale”
And you just get puzzled looks or glances shot at you that suggest you’re crazy.
You’d say yes to a game of football with friends
Then you realize it wouldn’t be on the fiery sand embedded with surprise rocks. Just on luscious green grass. Now what fun is that?
You go to a carnival not for the stuffed animal prizes
Because you want the good stuff—where are the prizes of whole jamón? And the freshly fried churros swaddled in strawberry cream?
You don’t even bother to wander to the frozen treats section of the grocery store anymore
It’s not even worth it because no bonbon, sundae, sandwich, Popsicle, or cone will get you as excited as that bola en cucurucho from the helado stand.
You buy an ice cream cone even though you’re not hungry
And even though you already know that nothing can compare. It’s become a habit. An obsession. An addiction. You know the addiction flees once you see that the helado here doesn’t melt within five seconds while you’re trying to take a picture and the chocolate cones here aren’t dipped in chocolate fudge, yet old habits break hard.
You play reggaeton on repeat
Because that was usually your night: reggaeton after reggaeton into the madrugada when all the music starts to sound the same and you don't know what your limbs are doing.
You search random words on YouTube to try to find that song
You never knew what it was called and you couldn’t decipher the words since they sang too fast. Filled with regret that you didn’t ask when you had the chance, your Google suggestions are now all in Spanish.
You plan to order a glass of wine with dinner
But it doesn’t come as cheap as an ice cream cone anymore. Not to mention you might not be of legal age to drink wine here anyway.
You want to buy a bottle of wine
But the stores here don’t sell it as cheap as a liter water bottle. And again, not to mention you might not be of legal age to drink wine here.
Instead, you order a Coke
But you end up ordering it as “una Coca-Cola” because that was the automated response for a drink (when you weren’t feeling wine).
You smile at the sight of mayonnaise even if you absolutely detest it
Because seeing it reminds you of how many times you had to remember how to ask, “Tiene mayonesa?” to make sure they didn’t over-smear it—or put any at all.
You catch yourself pronounthing a soft “c” with a lisp
You told yourself you wouldn’t adopt their acthent, but now here we are!
You sit in a plaza feeling empty inside
Where are the mobs of middle-schoolers carrying bottles of Coke and rum and wine? Where are the happy drunks you trip over when they sit in circles and sing? The shattered glass from dropped drinks and the half-finished liquor left unattended? My duck friend?!
You want to go to the beach to tan
But you know you’re not going to be able to escape torso tan lines. Why? It’s not legal anymore to be topless female on a public beach. I know, ridiculous.
Vale, maybe these symptoms are geared more towards the northern coastal province of Cantabria. I can’t generalize everything to all of Spain, but you have an idea of which quirks you miss from your home-away-from-home.
Pues, how do you treat Spainsickness? The panacea: Book your next flight. ¡Buen viaje!
