As I step uncertainly through the doors beyond the Nothing to Declare lane, a catholicity of stimuli greets my senses. A sea of earth-toned faces of various gradations waits eagerly. Arab North Africans, dark-haired Andalucianos, and fair-skinned Vascos mix with expectant German and American tourists, completing a cultural mosaic. The dry, crisp smell of winter hits my nose, making it tingle slightly. I think I am already engulfed, when suddenly I hear it: the deep, sonorous music of words. 

    It slides off tongues quickly, but consciously, pointedly. It lacks the song-like sprightliness of Swiss-French and the sharp, long tones of Swiss-German. Dialogue now has a smooth, rich molasses quality; it clings to the ears like the lingering aftertaste of a robust red wine on an attune palate.

   “Querida mía, hace mucho tiempo.”
   “Hola guapa, que tal?”
   “Como fue tu viaje cariño?” 
   I am inundated, overwhelmed, enraptured.

    In Salamanca, Spain, I was una americana to the Spaniards, “so Euro” to the Americans, and to the three Gabonese in the entire city, I was une Camerounaise—une belle café au lait, that they would gladly bring home to Mom and Dad. My identity shifted constantly, based on the story I told people. When I felt like being adventurous, I laid it all out—a ten-minute saga describing my Cameroonian origins and upbringing, my current dual residency in Geneva and Providence, and the fact that I now simultaneously call three continents home.

    Other times, surrounded by scrutinizing Spaniards who claimed “hablas muy bien para una americana,” I claimed Boston as my home turf, although I have never lived there, and neither of my parents are from there. Given my time at Brown University, only fifty short minutes from the city, and the many summers I escaped Cameroon to find solace in Boston’s commercialized downtown districts, I figured I could make this slight breach of the truth. Mom often attested that she was from Boston when questioned. Although she was born in Georgia and lived most of her life outside North America, “Boston is the place where I spent the most time within the U.S.” she would justify. Calling it my own didn’t seem too far-fetched, I decided. —

    When I felt like being exotic, I snobbily expounded on my life in Geneva with tales of Gruyère and Vacherin fondue savored with Chasselas wine, indulgent soirees at expensive Swiss night clubs, and daytrips through the Alps. With these slightly fictionalized accounts, I dazzled the Americans, coloring their pre-existing fantasies of Europe as a bastion for cultural and gastronomic excellence.

    But encountering sub-Saharan Africans in Salamanca made me squirm.

    “Mais, tu parles français avec un accent américain? Et la langue de ton pere?“ they would ask, as if my seventeen years in Cameroon and native Cameroonian father guaranteed that I would speak French and the language of my father’s ethnic group perfectly. The backlog of memories from my upbringing in an isolated international, largely American, community in the heart of Yaoundé would stream before me, strangling my tongue. I didn’t speak perfect French, or my father’s Bamileke language, because  we spoke English at home. And so that was my final answer.

    Whenever I came into contact with Cameroonians the realization that I was half-white often emerged amid these heated cultural discussions, often followed by a barrage of professions of love and marriage proposals.  To these I simply answered no, in Spanish, the language that helped erase some of the societal barriers that threatened to separate us extranjeros. Most often it served to unite us across cultures, creeds and colors in our new country.

    As I grappled with my identity, for perhaps the first time since freshman year—when I was encouraged to associate and self-identify based on my race—I  had to recall my personal mission for my study abroad. My desire to experience Spain was the primary objective, and although this understanding would be colored by culture and identity, I would not allow these issues to obfuscate that goal.

    The truth is that I am an amalgamation of all these cultures, each subsequent experience in my life shedding a little piece of itself into my collective identity. Pooled together, these seemingly disparate parts have become the all-encompassing me.

  ***

    It has been three months since my American comrades and I have hit Iberian soil, and tonight we have begun yet another noche de fiesta.

   We sashay along, Marlboro Lights in hand, teeth tinged blue by cheap Ribero wine, swaying to the music in our heads. Passing by O’Hares we laugh at the American mini-circles of exclusion, holding the walls for balance against the turbulent forces of legal drinking. We smirk at the Spaniards calling out their piropos to us with that sensually slurred manner, undoubtedly attributable to the calimocho we have all been drinking for hours. I am sloppily reflecting on the lewd, wine-savoring stereotypical Castellanos before us, the kind we hear about from politically correct northeastern American tourists returning from their first European vacations, utterly scandalized. And then, puzzlingly, I am gripped by something.   

    There is something all too familiar about los Castellanos, both men and women. It is an indescribable, amorphous passion for life that one cannot fully describe and must simply be experienced. It is something that many Americans are removed from in their commercialized, commoditized lives-on-the-go and something many Europeans tend to regard as inappropriately effusive in societies where emotions are expressed through a veil of reservation.

    It is a fervor that reminds me of the countless celebratory, makossa music-infused Cameroonian nights, garnished with bitter plums, ndolé greens and rice, topped off with palm wine. I remember the numerous troops of joggers who would trot by our school in Yaoundé singing in harmonious tones almost unaware of their beautiful sound; the creativity of the little boys in my quartier, who would use metal and rubber from old flip-flops to create trucks and cars to play with. I am taken back to the cries that would shake the valley when a goal was made or missed during a Cameroonian football game and the pride with which Cameroonians embrace their culture—seeking out occasions to speak their native tongues, wearing their traditional clothes in cultures of suffocating uniformity and commercialism, gaining simple happiness by meeting other Africans in foreign lands, and artfully recreating customs and traditions through music, food, and art. The Cameroonian and African zest for life is something that I had never seen reproduced so powerfully in any other country.

    But Spain embraces its own customs as fervently and passionately as Cameroonians. I was taken aback each time I observed the multitude of older men sitting in plazas sipping on cafes con leche and tortilla espanola while reading El País; the way the city shuts down at two p.m. and everyone goes home for the sacred family lunch, followed by the religiously-observed cena six hours later; the constant responses of no pasa nada and tranquila which categorize the Spanish mentality; the tapas bars and vinotecas bursting with people eating, conversing, watching their favorite teams battle it out in La Liga, and of course the passionate, drunken uprisings upon each potentially goal-resulting flick of the foot. This lifestyle, and the way los Castellanos embrace it, strikes a deep chord in me; it resonates and harmonizes with the other facets of my identity. It is as if somehow a piece of Cameroon has nuzzled its way into mi Salamanca, this tiny diverse town.
   

     Mom always remarked on the dancing at parties thrown by her African friends. People were never shy; everyone was extremely outgoing and eager to move. Whereas at parties sponsored by her white American friends, people had to be pried off their chairs and lured to the dance floor, or jostled out of their comfortable chatting circles after one too many beers. This memory comes to me as I sit at the bar at Capitoleum, surrounded by eager Castellanos trying to chat up my friends and me. I am amused. As a short, dark-haired Andaluciano approaches me, I smile. He thinks I’m flirting with him, but I’m really smiling at the memory, lifted from the rest,  rising to the forefront of my mind. “Anímate, be alive,” he encourages. He is aggressive, nearly knocking me off my chair with his forceful, tugging hands. As we rise and join the stream of dancers, I lose myself in exuberance.

Glossary

Spanish terms:

“Querida mía, hace mucho tiempo.” – Darling, it has been awhile.
“Hola guapa, que tal?” – Hello gorgeous, how are you?
“Como fue tu viaje cariño?”  – How was your trip, sweetie?
Una Americana – an American woman
“Hablas muy bien para una Americana” – You speak Spanish well for an American woman
Extranjeros – foreigners
Piropos – cat calls and flirtatious comments
Calimocho – typical Spanish drink made of beer and red wine
Los Castellanos – Spanish people
Cafes con leche – coffee with milk
Tortilla Espanola – Spanish dish made of eggs, onions and potatoes
El País – Spanish periodical
Cena – dinner
No pasa nada/tranquila – don’t worry about it
Vinotecas – wine bars
Salamanca – small town in Central-West part of Spain

French terms:

Une Camerounaise – a Cameroonian woman
Une belle café au lait – a beautiful coffee with milk
Gruyère and Vacherin – two types of cheeses native to Switzerland
Chasselas wine – typical Swiss wine often eaten with fondue
“Mais, tu parles français avec un accent américain? Et la langue de ton pere?” – But you speak French with an American accent. And what about your father’s language?
Bamileke – Language spoken by the Bamileke people of Western Cameroon
Makossa – type of music popular in Cameroon
Ndolé – Cameroonian dish made of greens and bits of beef
Quartier – neighborhood

In The Fray Contributor