A sad tale

Let me preface the following pathetic tale with a little disclaimer: I was terribly homesick last Friday, which was my first day in Don Benito. It was my first day without the great friends I’d made at orientation, and I was trying to come to terms with the fact that Don Benito is by no means Madrid. Anyway, I went to the Mercadona around the corner from my house to buy some food.

It didn’t go well. Blame it on emotions. 

For starters, I wasn’t familiar with hardly any of the brands or foods, so I had no idea what to buy. I didn’t know where things were or what they were called. I wandered up and down the same aisles five or six times, staring blankly at the shelves. I couldn’t find milk anywhere. I closely examined the products in the refrigerated section. I found some juices and a common drink here that I compare to liquefied yogurt, but I couldn’t spot milk. After several minutes and some tears (I managed to keep the tears contained in my eyes), I remembered that milk isn’t refrigerated here. I went to a different aisle and found what I thought looked like milk, but the packaging didn’t explicitly say what the product was. Keep in mind that milk doesn’t come in the translucent plastic cartons like it does in the States. It’s in opaque cardboard cartons here, and the tricky thing is that other drinks also come in similar opaque containers. I grabbed a carton that I figured must contain milk, and I continued on. I realized a couple of days ago when I pulled the milk out of my fridge for breakfast that I had purchased specially fortified milk for young children. At least I’ll have strong bones.

At Mercadona, I was craving fruit, so I put some apples in a bag, placed them in my basket and headed to the checkout. When the cashier pulled them out, she was confused by my stupidity, and I was confused by her confusion. This would’ve been quite the confusion-infused stalemate if a fellow auxiliar hadn’t been with me. The auxiliar explained that I had to weigh the fruit myself before taking it to the front (I’m sure you have to do that in some American stores, but I just couldn’t understand the explanation in Spanish). I surrendered and told the cashier I no longer wanted the apples.

Then it came time to take the products I did buy to my apartment. By then, I had no confidence in my Spanish or my ability to shop in this foreign land. The cashier was asking me if I wanted “bolsas” (bags), but I couldn’t understand her (the accent here in Extremadura is incredibly thick, like an accent in Texas or West Virginia). The auxiliar explained that there’s a charge for plastic grocery bags here, and the cashiers generally assume you don’t need them. Discouraged, I told the lady I wanted bags, and I walked out of the store with my head down.

Needless to say, I went home and cried. 

Things are better now (not that it takes much to be better than that). 

Buenas tardes, 

Teresa