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Jugo de Piña

It was my third week in Spain, and I still felt hopelessly out of place. I had studied Spanish for three years in school, but when I stepped off the plane in Madrid I was in a completely different world. No amount of classroom work could have prepared me for this.

I struggled even in asking directions. The first person I asked spoke with an accent that left me baffled. I could pick out a few words, but not enough to help me get where I needed to go. When it was clear to him that I wasn't following, he tried his second language—French.

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