Travel diary: How I found acceptance in a Spanish hospital

Avid travelers wear the title of “wanderer” like a badge of honor.

I know I do – I never completely related to my peers in my small Nebraska hometown. My brain was always dreaming, always scheming for ways to create the life I wanted – and that didn’t include Nebraska.

I fell in love with Spain as a teen – the architecture and culture drew me in with its passionate allure and never let go. It seemed only natural that I’d spend a semester studying there.

I sent for my student visa, packed my bags and traveled to the Alhambra-lined horizon of Granada, Spain, in early 2004.

“You’re living with Senora Cordon,” the director told me as we arrived one rainy January night. My host mother — a plump Spanish woman with perfectly-coifed blond hair and dozens of leopard-print scarves – was genuinely interested in my well-being. So far, so good.

My elation soon turned into a routine of class, class and more class. The school, an offshoot of the Universidad de Granada, was filled with American students — not exactly the multicultural experience I envisioned.

[Photo: Flickr/*CezCze* (off-line)]
I started to feel isolated — I wasn’t connecting with fellow students, a problem I chalked up to being shy. Many of my classmates partied nightly; I opted for shopping at El Corte Ingles.

I was unhappy – sad that my experience wasn’t turning into the supreme adventure I envisioned, sad that I was wasting the opportunity.

Sad until I woke up one morning with a decision: I had to make the most of my time in Spain and find a way to connect with the country. I soon happened on a volunteer opportunity with Hospital Materno Infantil Virgen de las Nieves, a dusty and run-down hospital perched high above Granada.

The hospital treated children with cancer and it was our job to entertain them. Each Tuesday I made the 30-minute walk and took the elevator up several floors until I was greeted by young laughter. Language barriers kept us from fluently communicating, but tea sets and toy trucks had a way of bridging the gap.

The young faces were familiar each week – until my final visit. A new boy, tiny and timid, stood out.

I felt an immediate connection to him and we spent much of the hour-long session coloring. Afterward, I walked into the hallway as he followed. His parents were in the hallway and I immediately recognized them as Gitanos, or Gypsies with Romani ancestry. Gitanos are generally not well liked, thanks to their lingering reputation as pickpockets – so that explained some of his playroom apprehension.

He walked over and whispered something to his parents and they looked at me with wide-eyes and shy smiles. I returned the smile and their appreciation.

Walking home that night I realized something: We’re all searching for acceptance, no matter what language we speak or customs we follow. I found acceptance from that small family.

Do I feel completely accepted now?

No, but that’s why I travel: I end up finding a piece of myself in each place I visit.