Oh Say Can You Sí

"Obama ist mein Kandidat” reads the newspaper in the stands. I’ve stopped to visit a friend in Berlin on my way to Madrid, and all around me these words are emblazoned above a photo of Hillary Clinton. “Man, I hope he wins for a couple of reasons,” I think, convinced my experience with Europeans would hinge upon his victory.

Upon my arrival in Spain, I followed the election eagerly, like so many around the world. But for the time being, it’s just far-off news. What’s been put in front of my face steals my attention: the graffiti on the walls of the Political Science Facultad at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. It is mostly ugly, and come to think of it, the walls themselves, in addition to most structural features located therein, are pretty ugly.

My classes began at 6:30 p.m., so I would typically approach its hulking, rectangular silhouette in the nighttime. Perhaps I’d slip into the cafeteria first. On my left would be a poster of a young man name Carlos, admonishing its readers to “Continue the Fight.” The poster presumably depicts Carlos Javier Palomino, a young anti-fascist stabbed to death by a member of the extreme right on his way to a protest in a subway station the year prior. Continuing to scan the walls, I’d catch some of the building’s finer graffiti: cartoon people riding along on conveyor belts on their way to prison, for example. All around me would be smoke and chatter, as scarf-clad brunettes sipped the famous corn syrup-free European Coke, cafés con leche, or the beer on tap. After doing my best to participate nonchalantly in one of these activities for a while, I’d slink off to class, a few minutes too early.

If one is willing to sacrifice respiratory health, meeting Spaniards is exponentially easier. I learned this my very first day, when I met Patricia. As we both waited in class, long before the professor would arrive, she invited me into the hallway for a smoke. Patricia’s severe face was framed by long dreadlocks, and her baggy outfit announced that she probably had more important concerns than clothes. Fumbling around for a lighter, we exchanged the usual first-time banter. “I’m from the States, live in Massachusetts but grew up in California, took a few Spanish classes, am an Obama fan, and study Social Studies (Inevitably, ‘¿Qué es eso?’).” She was in her fifth and final year of studies and spent much of her time working in a battered women’s shelter. Our exchange was cut short by the professor’s arrival, and I sighed in relief because my pathetic hand-rolled cigarette had gone out and I wasn’t about to ask for the lighter again. My relief was brief. I embarked on the first of many biweekly white-knuckle rides, in which my alarmingly Zach Braff-esque professor managed to make his lectures sound like a single ninety-minute long Spanish word.

Fast-forward a few months to Election Day, although it was already evening in the brightly lit classroom. The professor bustled in, characteristically tardy, and turned to me, the only American. He exchanged some thoughts about the election, saying that I must be excited, asking if I’d voted. His speedy mumbling had become much more intelligible to me at this point, but I was still sweating a little from the attention.

“And the electoral system? It just doesn’t make any sense.” He offered a series of condescending observations as I squirmed in my seat. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

“Well, um, a few states have adopted proportional systems?” I began feebly, trying to keep track of all his complaints, but by then he had lost interest.

I was indignant. For the first time in my life, I was an indignant American! I was wholly caught up in the election fervor, and his snarky attitude, usually not much worse than my own, was completely unacceptable under the circumstances. A few of my already few classmates gave me commiserating looks as I coped with these new feelings, which led me to watch CNN on my laptop all night (and maybe also tear up while watching the acceptance speech with my American flatmates at the breakfast table the next morning).

Now it is the last day of class. I am shivering outside the behemoth shadow of the Facultad with friends and classmates from Spain, Mexico, Italy, and Virginia. We are waiting for the bus and talking politics again, this time about Mexican elections and the trouble the foreigners are in for not having packed. Though we’ve come here with the wildly different frames of reference you’d expect from such an assortment, and even when my left is someone else’s right we have a lot to say to each other these days.

The prevailing attitude toward the United States has ridden the familiar roller coaster over the course of the semester, with more scowls when the economy took a dive and more chummy pats on the back when Obama turned the country blue. A man in Morocco even did me the courtesy of reciting the first minute of one of Obama’s primary victory speeches when he found out I was American (he may have also wanted us to eat dinner at his stall).

But here and now, neither the news nor the “prevailing opinion” are any matter. We promise to visit Carlos in Mexico sometime in the hazy future. My bus pulls up, and the farewell confusion sets in. Spaniards kiss twice. I still attempt a hug. We fumble through our affectionate gestures of choice, and I wave a gloved hand as my bus rattles away from the monstrous building for the last time.