Lesson from Abroad

Over the course of spending a semester in a non-English speaking country, my friends and I have continually operated under the assumption that no one can understand the inappropriate things we say in public places. Given the prevalence of bilingualism in Europe, as well as the universally comprehensible hand signals that often accompany our stare-provoking dialogue, this is probably a naive postulate.

Still, we happily reject reality in favor of the kind of loud and enthusiastic discussion previously banished to whispers and closed doors. As an equation of maximum togetherness and minimal responsibility has only amplified everyone’s general openness, my study abroad experience has proven to be as educationally enriching as the brochures promised. While my host mother still looks to my roommate to translate my garbled Spanish, and overzealous inebriation has occasionally impacted my class attendance, I will be returning to the United States with an evolved and enriched sense of the sexual dilemmas plaguing the Duke community.

For example, a friend recently recounted an evening in a Paris restaurant, during which her group tried to come terms with the significant percentage of the female population that still favors spitting over swallowing. While she described their projectile reenactments and experiments with cups in an effort to demonstrate spitting’s inherent awkwardness, I was more scandalized by the question as a matter of discussion. If girls were out there spitting, did this mean that Elvis was still alive and the moon landing was really a hoax? In my attempts to respect the personal preferences of my diverse readership (which, I concede, is mainly members of my boyfriend’s fraternity), I will go on record as saying the decision to spit or swallow is a private decision every girl has the right to make for herself.

But really. Spitting’s ineffectiveness at confronting the problem of taste as well as its provocation of extreme awkwardness had led me to believe that the practice had become obsolete. I guess studying abroad really will lead you to confront some of your core beliefs.

In living outside the comfort zone of my home country, I’ve also gained a newfound respect for the psychological and emotional consequences of mouth molestation. Just as we assumed that the Spaniards around us were immune to our lewd conversations, my friends also determined that casual make-out sessions would be viewed simply as an American eccentricity and therefore produce no future consequences. Side effects of such assumptions, however, can lead to aggressive phone-stalking by short British men in scarves, cell phone theft and hickeys of no conceivable (or memorable) origin. If there is no such thing as safe sex, there is also no such thing as a harmless man in a scarf if he can understand the words “call me back” in your voicemail message.

In cases in which too much drinking has led to too much talking and speaking English in public has felt like a secret code, I’ve learned about the diversity of internet porn, the best cosmetics to use as lube and why cockblocking is actually not a laughing matter. Four months in a foreign country can start to feel like life on a desert island and when the ship goes down, the truth comes out. The next time you’ll here from me, I’ll be back on Durham’s side of the Atlantic, once again in the world of public decency and discretion, or at least in as decent a world as Duke will ever be.  I sign off now from Madrid, the commencement of an unexpected education.