Is it weird or stereotypical that I connect riding a train with Harry Potter? Only having ever ridden on a train once, it was quite an eye-opener to experience traveling from Madrid to Oviedo by train. There were about 25 platforms (such as Platform 9 and 10, but not 9 and ¾), and I was surprised by how much it felt like an airport. We had to find our schedule on the board, see which platform we were on, go through security and everything.
It’s also crazy how nice the trains are, and I wasn’t even in first class, unlike my Madrid companions. Right after we started traveling, they played a movie and when it was over they played television on the screens.
Typical to my nature, I fell asleep about 45 minutes into the ride, and was only awake for about the last half an hour. But in the short time I was awake, I got to see a lot of beautiful countryside. Near Madrid, Spain is pretty flat. Not Illinois flat, but not mountains either. As we got further north, you could see the mountains in the distance and they were green and beautiful and majestic.
Next time I woke up, we were in those mountains. Occasionally there would be a house set up amongst the hills, and I have to wonder how someone lives all the way out there. There never really appeared to be roads, and there was lot of space from house to house. It was also odd, maybe just to me, how long the tunnels we went through were. We would go into a tunnel and seem to just stay there, and it would 5 or more minutes before we were back outdoors.
Once we arrived in Oviedo, I had to grab my luggage and make my way to the pick-up area. I was incredibly nervous for this. I had arranged on the phone with my host mother that she would pick me up at 4. I kept repeating myself “domingo a las cuatro.” I could only hope that she would actually be there. When I came out to the waiting area, there were several people there with signs for other names I recognized from my group, but not my own name. As I’m looking around, a short, older woman comes up to me and says “Kathleen Rudd?” Despite the typical mispronunciation (“Rude”), I knew she was looking for me, and as she started chatting away in Spanish way faster than I could understand, we went outside to catch a taxi.
Her name is Merce (sounds sort of like Mercy, but shorter), and she is an incredibly sweet, older woman. She lives in a cute little apartment only a few blocks from the University, and when we got there, I met her brother, Carlos, who I think lives with her some of all of the time.
Here’s a picture of my room. She said they painted it just for me.
After I got settled and unpacked, she made me dinner. I wasn’t incredibly hungry, but ate as much of the salad, chicken, and pasta she gave me as I could to be polite. Still, when I was finished, she asked me if I didn’t like it and what I did like so she could make me something I’d eat. I tried to explain that I did enjoy it (the chicken really was good) and that she didn’t need to go out of her way. Hopefully, I didn’t insult her too much.
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