Madrid, Port of Entry to el Paraíso de Fútbol

I moved to Madrid at the end of September 2010 -- about ten months ago and about six years since I last studied Spanish -- with little functional speaking ability and even less cultural or geographic knowledge besides a) at some point, some tourists run away from bulls in some city, b) something called 'tapas' is tasty, c) people eat a lot of eggs but not for breakfast, d) women are pretty e) a place called the Alhambra is stunning and f) everyone likes fútbol.

I soon realized that trying to fit into a new culture with a different language is an often confidence-shattering endeavor in which subtle gestures, expressions or smirks can kill a good vibe.

Although it may seem trivial, one such expression, I call it The Quizzical Look, was the worst moment of my day. The Quizzical Look is an absent-minded but obvious display of incomprehension and pity. You may have received it from a professor during a class in which you stammered comments in a desperate attempt to raise your participation grade. You may have received it from a pretentious music fan as you amateurishly reviewed your favorite album or from a know-it-all sports nut when you tried to break down an NFL offense. Whatever the antecedent, TQL is universal: The listener cocks their head slightly, leans closer, purses their lips, squints and furrows their brow as if trying sooo hard to understand the nonsense fleeing your head. Normally, the person who delivers the exaggerated “You’re babbling and sound like an idiot” expression does not mean any harm — they do not consider the implications or affect of their facial contortion — but the look is truly disheartening and makes me want to stop trying.

Yet, overcoming a series of embarrassing experiences forces one to find perspective and adopt aplomb-repair strategies. So, whenever I feel discouraged after receiving TQL as I butcher the pronunciation of the letters R and RR, I remind myself I have learned un montón de cosas since I first emerged from the Metro soaked with sweat, dragging 90 lbs. of luggage and wandering aimlessly because I couldn't understand the responses from the passersby whom I asked for directions.

Back to the aforementioned things I actually knew before I was so frequently and thoroughly humbled. I was pumped about b, c and d, curious about e, indifferent to a and most excited for f -- fútbol. Of course I would miss Eli Manning and the Giants, miss the NHL Playoffs and even miss the ever-failing Mets, but like Joseph Gordon Levitt getting over Zooey Deschanel by running into Minka Kelly at the end of 500 Days of Summer, Jason Segel upgrading from Sarah Marshall to Mila Kunis and the plot of every other romance film ever, something better was on its way.

I was about to immerse myself in Iniesta-Cup-clinching, Diego-Forlán-Golden-Ball-winning, Gerard-Pique-hammered-on-a-parade-float soccer paradise.

My love for soccer became my best tool for adapting to Spanish culture. Each day, I learned more sentence structures and slang by reading the commuter tabloid sports sections in the morning and Marca.com (The ESPN of Spain) articles and user comments in the evening. I learned how to swear by listening to the jaded "sufridores" (sufferers) cursing Atlético de Madrid's shaky defense. I learned about the weird web of political ideology and sports fandom, which helped me begin to understand some Spanish social issues, politics and the transition from Fascism to modernity.

Most importantly, I always had some way to talk to and connect with people, whether they were the third graders wearing full Spain national team kits, including socks and cleats, in my English classes or the drunk guys at the bar calling me Guti because I have long blonde hair and posing around me for photos.

This year I have watched games at Atleti's Vicente Calderon stadium, Real Madrid's Santiago Bernabeu, FC Porto's Estadio de Dragao and Barcelona's Camp Nou as well as a ton of bares, tabernas, cervecerías and other spots that cram the calles of Madrid and offer cheap beer, a basket of sunflower seeds and a TV screen on which Cristiano Ronaldo overpowers otherwise unflappable defenders for an hour and a half.

In two days I return to New Jersey (true home of Villarreal's star striker/Italian turncoat Guiseppe Rossi -- another important conversation starter) and I'm excited to watch Thierry Henry at Red Bull Arena to juggle with my brother in the frontyard while trying to impress joggers and to write and create art for this website.

Outside Camp Nou in Barcelona with my tall friend Aaron.