Day 20
A lesson for future home buyers: Location location location. Living in the middle of downtown makes for an easy commute to fun local hangouts, but it’s a grizzly commute to the Land of Zzzzzs. And so if you’re not part of the local gang that roams the streets at 3am causing havoc, you’re an idiot to buy a place that lies along their prowl. I am the village idiot.
It’s at least 4am and the screams of an angry Spanish woman are treading upon what dreams I might have been having. Momentarily disoriented I remember I’m in Malaga, living above the downtown square, and it’s the early hours of Saturday, so it’s probably some drunken mayhem that’s ringing in my head, invading my dark room, shaking my blankets, causing my eyelids to quake in resistance of opening to investigate. Sleep pulls me back into its dark arms, but still the angry woman’s rants sound as background noise. My unconscious mind fed up with this woman making noise at a sacred hour of the day, my dreaming body yells to my roommate, “What is she screaming about?” as if I could address her issue. “Books!” he yells! And the conversation ends. Clearly my pre-occupation with finding a library is seeping into my dreams in an odd way.
Whatever annoyance I carry over into my waking hours is dissipated by the drizzling rain hushing the streets, drawing the hours of sleeping in on to early afternoon napping. Unable to sit on my terrace I peer out from my doorway, watching the rooftops lounge in their morning bath. A frigid wash I’m glad to escape. I stick my toes out and they catch drops that slide along the chipped ridges of toe nail polish that’s fallen away on the many days spent trekking through the city.
My roommate, the epitome of a European metrosexual, is busy scrubbing our piso down, not letting the inside of our piso escape the washing the rest of the city is begrudgingly receiving. He follows me from the bathroom to the kitchen, asking if I’m done using the space, chasing my footsteps with our yellow mop. I’m eventually cordoned off in my room, the rest of the place drying from his meticulous scrubbing. No, this isn’t his normal Saturday morning routine. (Wouldn’t it be nice if it was?? Ha-ha.) He’s decided we should throw a “house”-warming party tonight. He asked me a few days ago if I would mind and I laughed and said of course not, but as he was my only friend I joked that I hope he wouldn’t stand me up. So it was decided he’d deal with the guest list, as well with the issue of decorating the piso. Given our tight budgets and tiny space, he did better than Martha Stewart at Thanksgiving sprucing up our place drawing together feature IKEA pieces and the occasional dumpster dive find. If you come to visit I openly take no credit for how our piso looks, my only input was “yes, that painting looks straight.” It’s been delightful to live with someone who is so concerned with making our living space look like real people actually live there. But to be honest, I have to work rather hard at genuinely caring about our piso. I have my terrace. And the piso isn’t really home, so I’m not concerned if the cups have stripes or spots, or it the blanket is hung with horizontal or vertical stripes. So I jump through the hoops, reveling in his passion, sweeping my apathy under the rug, because he has so much fun fixing our piso up. Needless to say, when people arrived, they thought our piso was pretty sweet.
But he had to wait for the compliments. The shindig was scheduled to start at 9pm, but we didn’t expect anyone until at least 9:30pm. It’s Europe; it’s rude to come early. Pacing the piso, changing the playlist and taking long sips of his beer he asks where everyone is…the clock tower has rung to let us know its 10pm and we’re still home alone. It’s 10:30pm and he goes hunting down our friend that lives down the street. He says he’s “on his way.” As Chris comes back up he looks at me and says, “God, we’re so lame. No one is coming.” And I whip, “No, you’re the lame one. You invited everyone.” It takes a second, but then he laughs, picking up on my sarcastic nudge to get him to relax.
Minutes later his friend from Malaga drops by, but he detains her in the hall, she’s smoking. The ONLY rule we have in our apartment is NO SMOKING. (Take note potential visitors!) He makes her wait in the hall as she finishes her cigarette. At this point I’m cracking up inside because the ONLY guest we have we aren’t letting in because she’s breaking the ONLY rule we have. I wonder if we should even bother with a Christmas Party in our piso with our luck so far.
She has to head to work (because it’s normal to work after 10pm here) and like clockwork other friends come. 3 leggy Spaniards trot in, courting mini-faldas (mini-skirts) and movie worthy makeup. I already feel like the black sheep in Spain, so it doesn’t help when the cream of the Spanish crop pop in batting their long lashes exuding sex appeal. Strike the score to “Katie feels like the frumpy American with her tongue tied” and put it on repeat. Beauty is intimidating in any form, be it in a mountain, or women with legs as long as the Eiffel Tower. When other Americans come invisible language lines are drawn in the air, the kitchen fostering Sangria and Spanish while the living room is saturated with beer and English. I’m awkwardly in the hall between the two, not sure which group to join, so I’m like the fish that sucks the wall of the fish tank, totally aware of what’s going on in the tank, in their own world, but also intent on understanding another world, sucking hard on the glass to try and break through the interference impeding comprehension.
Eventually there is a feeling in the air that all has been said. None it is time to go out. “No’ vamo’!” the Spanish girls yell. Everyone is on board and they look at me and question in a declarative manner, “You are coming with us. Yes.” I stammer something like sure sure, the fish letting go of the wall, hoping to breathe in the water. They tell the others that I’m just going to change out of my sweater and THEN “no’ vamo’!” Right I thought, change out of my sweater I thought was “chullo” (cool). They tell me something sleeveless because it is hot hot hot in the clubs, lots of people. Nodding sure, I retreat to my room and stare down my closet as I know so many other women have done, thinking, “I have nothing to wear.” All the potential options hide their heads, shirking shyly, not sure about going out. I find something, dragging a black tank top out of the closet. If black isn’t a safe bet then I’m a goner. It’s almost 1am, and the rest of the city is dressed and ready, already out.
In Spain you don’t go into a club, you make.an.entrance. The darkness of the night floods the club, but hypnotizing lights fly across the room, searching out the beautiful bodies, and when it chooses you to illuminate, don’t miss the moment, before the night blinks you back into oblivion catch every eye, and draw their breaths short with each step. Of course the Spanish girls know the club and they wave us in. Faking my best look of confidence, I tag along, they’ve grabbed my hand to make sure I’m not lost in the crowd and its Legs Legs Legs Legs, hair swishing, lashes blinking, high heels clicking. I can only gaze in wonder at the beauties that pull me along like their bashful little sister. My eyes follow them as the rest of the club is caught in their allure, their perfume turning heads. They have made their entrance. And the little ugly duckling that I feel like, shuffles a foot shorter, lacking a sexy hair swing, and 3 less layers of makeup behind in their trail of wonder. Like the sun clearing the sky of clouds, they make room in a corner by tables to dance. I sigh, finally, we can dance. My favorite part. But then I see eyes watching our group. And I remember that I’m the kid that spent more time on the volleyball court staring down an opponent and in the library staring down a book than I did staring down myself in the mirror mastering the art of looking sexy. My limbs lock up and I forget how to dance. By some stoke of luck a reggaeton song that I play exhaustively on my ipod reverberates in the club and I fight the urge to clam up. And then the girls make me drop my jaw. They start doing the chicken dance. I being to nervously giggle, asking “what are you doing?” and they say “baile del pollo!..how you say…dance of chicken?”” and I nod in laughter. The Beyonce personalities are dropped and they are goofing around on the dance floor, doing the chicken dance or spoofs of other moves, making my nerves melt away. They ask if I’m having fun and I grin like a fool and say, “finally, finally, yes.” Beauty that can laugh at itself, what a relief. And against all odds, I feel like part of the gang.
When everyone is exhausted enough that we’re all sinking into the plushy seats and cigarettes are lit, making smoke signals of retreat from the dance floor we decide to call it a night. As we walk out into the street I feel rain falling. And I think of T.S. Eliot who said, “We shall not cease from our exploration And at the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.” In my exhausted revelry I’m no longer walking the cold street of the screaming woman of my dreams, but floating up and up and up, sent home by besos of good bye from my … friends.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
If only there were more diabetics in the world, Halloween wouldn't be so popular
Day 19
There are good ideas (like going to Spain for instance) and then there are good ideas (like having a haunted house classroom party). With the encouragement that “it would mean so much to the kids if you came” I said that I would LOVE to come in on Friday and help run the haunted house classroom at school on my day off. Really though, it sounded much more exciting than the boring to-do lists I had plastered on my lap top like sticky note wallpaper.
At 7:30am on Friday morning I began to realize what a good idea this had been. A mean power walk to the train station got the blood going and I was back on board, thinking that a Friday Halloween party would be awesome. Missing the bus in Álora tempered the good spirits, but didn’t kill them. I’m not that meek. It didn’t matter that I was ½ hour late to school after waiting for the next bus because the teacher of the 9am English class had decided that the classroom Gema, Meri and I had set up wasn’t worthwhile. Partook in some eerie thumb-twindingly, occasionally crossing my fingers that the next teacher would come at 10am. The room must have been overly enchanting because the kids were out of control when they bounced in at 10:05am. There were only 3 games to play but I felt like I was in charge of the entire Middle East military operation, trying to divide them into groups, have 1 group bob for apples while not drowning or falling in the bucket, while instructing another to reach into containers and guess the body part inside without them passing out in fear because the cauliflower was much to brain like for their taste, and monitoring witch hat musical chairs, that was more like demolish your neighbor before they demolish you and win. Four hours of classes came through and by then end I didn’t know what I was yelling anymore, but it didn’t matter because the kids didn’t listen to Spanish or English. I wanted to ask if they’d all just eaten their trick or treat bag of candy because every single one was one the most demonic sugar high I’d seen.
Like the stroke of midnight when Cinderella gets to run home, the end of the day bell rings, and I’m free. But before I go I make sure to work out a bit of the day’s frustration by tearing the room down. All my frustration with the RUDE RUDE RUDE RUDE RUDE Spanish children was channeled into ripping the newspaper off the windows, the trash bags off the walls, the spiders from the chalkboard and the ghosts from the doors. Such satisfaction in putting away the witches’ hats and chucking the smelly cauliflower brain. I know that I’ve ridiculed my sister, J, for her odd habit of cleaning her room when she gets stressed, but I’m throwing up my white flag, god it felt GOOD to have that damn haunted house room clean. The same does not apply to my room at home
It never fails to amaze me how tired those kids make me, because I fell asleep on the train, again. Luckily I’m the last stop, so I can usually count on a friendly tap on the shoulder by the security guard if I haven’t roused myself by then.
Being so tired I only want to do what comes easily. And so here I find myself, feet propped up on the guard rail of my tiny terrace, with a steaming cup of honey filled tea, writing to you all, imagining us all together, talking about our week. And then the Cathedral bells ring 10pm, but it’s only 9:57pm, the only thing in Spain to be early. It’s chilly so I bid goodnight to the city lit with street lamps and restaurants bustling to serve their late night customers, having said my part about the day, I think I’ll go give my bed some much needed attention, it hasn’t liked me getting up so early every day.
Deep breaths and joyous laughter for the magical season, I hope you’ve all chosen a costume for the big day.
There are good ideas (like going to Spain for instance) and then there are good ideas (like having a haunted house classroom party). With the encouragement that “it would mean so much to the kids if you came” I said that I would LOVE to come in on Friday and help run the haunted house classroom at school on my day off. Really though, it sounded much more exciting than the boring to-do lists I had plastered on my lap top like sticky note wallpaper.
At 7:30am on Friday morning I began to realize what a good idea this had been. A mean power walk to the train station got the blood going and I was back on board, thinking that a Friday Halloween party would be awesome. Missing the bus in Álora tempered the good spirits, but didn’t kill them. I’m not that meek. It didn’t matter that I was ½ hour late to school after waiting for the next bus because the teacher of the 9am English class had decided that the classroom Gema, Meri and I had set up wasn’t worthwhile. Partook in some eerie thumb-twindingly, occasionally crossing my fingers that the next teacher would come at 10am. The room must have been overly enchanting because the kids were out of control when they bounced in at 10:05am. There were only 3 games to play but I felt like I was in charge of the entire Middle East military operation, trying to divide them into groups, have 1 group bob for apples while not drowning or falling in the bucket, while instructing another to reach into containers and guess the body part inside without them passing out in fear because the cauliflower was much to brain like for their taste, and monitoring witch hat musical chairs, that was more like demolish your neighbor before they demolish you and win. Four hours of classes came through and by then end I didn’t know what I was yelling anymore, but it didn’t matter because the kids didn’t listen to Spanish or English. I wanted to ask if they’d all just eaten their trick or treat bag of candy because every single one was one the most demonic sugar high I’d seen.
Like the stroke of midnight when Cinderella gets to run home, the end of the day bell rings, and I’m free. But before I go I make sure to work out a bit of the day’s frustration by tearing the room down. All my frustration with the RUDE RUDE RUDE RUDE RUDE Spanish children was channeled into ripping the newspaper off the windows, the trash bags off the walls, the spiders from the chalkboard and the ghosts from the doors. Such satisfaction in putting away the witches’ hats and chucking the smelly cauliflower brain. I know that I’ve ridiculed my sister, J, for her odd habit of cleaning her room when she gets stressed, but I’m throwing up my white flag, god it felt GOOD to have that damn haunted house room clean. The same does not apply to my room at home
It never fails to amaze me how tired those kids make me, because I fell asleep on the train, again. Luckily I’m the last stop, so I can usually count on a friendly tap on the shoulder by the security guard if I haven’t roused myself by then.
Being so tired I only want to do what comes easily. And so here I find myself, feet propped up on the guard rail of my tiny terrace, with a steaming cup of honey filled tea, writing to you all, imagining us all together, talking about our week. And then the Cathedral bells ring 10pm, but it’s only 9:57pm, the only thing in Spain to be early. It’s chilly so I bid goodnight to the city lit with street lamps and restaurants bustling to serve their late night customers, having said my part about the day, I think I’ll go give my bed some much needed attention, it hasn’t liked me getting up so early every day.
Deep breaths and joyous laughter for the magical season, I hope you’ve all chosen a costume for the big day.
E is for Earn it Little Ms.Extranjera
Day 18
Off on what has now become my weekly jaunt to the Police Department to check to make sure the Spanish Bureaucracy is truly chugging at maximum inefficiency, I stumble onto the street with the other crepuscular zombies of Malaga, wandering purposefully on autopilot. On my last visit to the Police I was told to go to the Office of the Extranjero (Foreigner) because my file was missing 1 little ‘fact’ that they could not disclose, but rather the salon blonde secretary scribbled a long list of sloppy numbers on a tiny note card and instructed me to give it to the secretary at the other office, “she’d understand”. I may not know Spanish perfectly, but I know bull shit when I hear it. Right, I thought, surely this must be a code message for “want to get coffee at 2?” I was imagining the scene in my head; the woman reads the note, makes a quick phone call to her secretary friend, drums her fingers across her computer key board feigning productivity and then say that the office is closed for a siesta. Come back next week.
So none of that happened, hallelujah, but it could have. Instead I had the joy of standing outside the gates of the Office of the Foreigner for 1 hour before I could get in. I felt like I was a prisoner awaiting processing. The foreigner’s office had high walls preventing peeping noses to peer into the belly of the building they were anxiously waiting to enter. Black gates stood sentry at the entrance, casting long shadows down the guard’s face. It was silent except for some quick questions between people waiting around. Occasionally the guard would come out and yell for the next 4 people, scolding those who tried to sneak through as the invisible 5th. The guard had a close resemblance to Elmer Fudd, a deep grimace and a finicky demeanor, slightly edgy, just waiting for someone to jump the fence. There were clusters of people in dark layers, stomping around to keep warm in the cold October morning, lines of people stretched around the sides of the buildings, smoke curling up from their cigarette butts as if they were a line of train cars, at an idle stop.
The magic of an ipod is that it lets your eyes roam wherever they want, as if they were given a free pass because your ears can’t hear the sounds of the outside world. So ear buds in and eyeballs out on patrol. Some primetime people watching when you are with all the immigrants of Spain. My favorite game was to try and guess where people were from, make up a lengthy back story about how they swam to the rock of Gibraltar, snuck aboard a cruise ship, ate ice-cream and waffle cones to stay alive, and then swam up on the beach of Malaga like any old tourist going out to the beach for a beer. Grabbing what they could see from sleeping or swimming sunbathers they assembled a hodgepodge of clothes , vests layered over US Steelers shirts, big black jackets hang over jeans that hold their breath over the floor, gripping the ankle, and dresses that resembled spandex quilts. And now, bedecked in their scrappy identities they were applying for a Spanish residency.
When I did get in, they spit me right back out, off to the police they said, finding that small fact was perturbingly quick! And I walked with a bounce in my step, I’m going to the PD, and I’m gonna get my residence card! Scurried in and wah-bam. The secretary told me I was missing A LOT. I smiled and said that couldn’t be possible because the LAST 2 TIMES I had come I only lacked a photocopy of my passport, which I now have 2 of. I think the angel on her right shoulder must have clotheslined the devil on her left shoulder somehow, because she said, “I’m going to make this really quick and easy for you then.” THANK YOU RANDOM NICE SPANISH LADY! She wrote the list and then gave me the ticket to heaven, a note that said, “NO FILA, KATHERINE” which means = NO WAITING IN LINE FOR MS. KATHERINE” 2 hours later, I walk out with my NIE. Whoop! But 40 days from now I have to go back and get my Residence Card, or else I’m deported…..which may not be so bad depending on how the next month goes….hehe.
Later I treat myself to some fun, I head to the central market where life is pulsing and bright with just picked color. Shirking from the fish aisles I high tail it to the fruits and veggies, making sure I stop by the odd pickled things stand, squirming as I look at buckets of pickled eggplant, olives, cucumbers, and other odd greenish produce. I cock my head in wonder at the people buying bags of the smelly pickled produce, what could you possibly need 1 kilo of pickled eggplant for?
Heading home with a bushel of bananas I dream of the hordes of peanut butter and banana sandwiches I will soon devour since the lovely mama and papa have just shipped me some good organic creamy goodness. Swooning in a PB coma I felt a siesta was in order after lunch. Not sure the Spanish would approve of peanut butter when there is ham to be eaten, but I have a feeling Spain would have patted me on the back for taking a nap.
Because my roommate’s still at work, the piso is quiet. So I sleep like a baby because all the rest of Spain is out for the count too. When I awake there’s even time for me to go peek at the ocean before it gets dark. It’s much to cold to go swimming, so I smile through my layers as the cool ocean winds come up to tousle my messy bed head hair. While it is often miserable to be here alone, on days like this I love the freedom of being unattached. I’m fluid; wandering through the city and along the beach like a breeze so subtle you don’t even feel it, much less see it. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the world, waiting for her to catch notice of me and grab me in her arms asking where I’ve been all this time, then throwing me back into the mix of people that I love.
Best day off yet.
Peace and love my darlings. I hope it was a “NO FILA” day for you too ;)
Off on what has now become my weekly jaunt to the Police Department to check to make sure the Spanish Bureaucracy is truly chugging at maximum inefficiency, I stumble onto the street with the other crepuscular zombies of Malaga, wandering purposefully on autopilot. On my last visit to the Police I was told to go to the Office of the Extranjero (Foreigner) because my file was missing 1 little ‘fact’ that they could not disclose, but rather the salon blonde secretary scribbled a long list of sloppy numbers on a tiny note card and instructed me to give it to the secretary at the other office, “she’d understand”. I may not know Spanish perfectly, but I know bull shit when I hear it. Right, I thought, surely this must be a code message for “want to get coffee at 2?” I was imagining the scene in my head; the woman reads the note, makes a quick phone call to her secretary friend, drums her fingers across her computer key board feigning productivity and then say that the office is closed for a siesta. Come back next week.
So none of that happened, hallelujah, but it could have. Instead I had the joy of standing outside the gates of the Office of the Foreigner for 1 hour before I could get in. I felt like I was a prisoner awaiting processing. The foreigner’s office had high walls preventing peeping noses to peer into the belly of the building they were anxiously waiting to enter. Black gates stood sentry at the entrance, casting long shadows down the guard’s face. It was silent except for some quick questions between people waiting around. Occasionally the guard would come out and yell for the next 4 people, scolding those who tried to sneak through as the invisible 5th. The guard had a close resemblance to Elmer Fudd, a deep grimace and a finicky demeanor, slightly edgy, just waiting for someone to jump the fence. There were clusters of people in dark layers, stomping around to keep warm in the cold October morning, lines of people stretched around the sides of the buildings, smoke curling up from their cigarette butts as if they were a line of train cars, at an idle stop.
The magic of an ipod is that it lets your eyes roam wherever they want, as if they were given a free pass because your ears can’t hear the sounds of the outside world. So ear buds in and eyeballs out on patrol. Some primetime people watching when you are with all the immigrants of Spain. My favorite game was to try and guess where people were from, make up a lengthy back story about how they swam to the rock of Gibraltar, snuck aboard a cruise ship, ate ice-cream and waffle cones to stay alive, and then swam up on the beach of Malaga like any old tourist going out to the beach for a beer. Grabbing what they could see from sleeping or swimming sunbathers they assembled a hodgepodge of clothes , vests layered over US Steelers shirts, big black jackets hang over jeans that hold their breath over the floor, gripping the ankle, and dresses that resembled spandex quilts. And now, bedecked in their scrappy identities they were applying for a Spanish residency.
When I did get in, they spit me right back out, off to the police they said, finding that small fact was perturbingly quick! And I walked with a bounce in my step, I’m going to the PD, and I’m gonna get my residence card! Scurried in and wah-bam. The secretary told me I was missing A LOT. I smiled and said that couldn’t be possible because the LAST 2 TIMES I had come I only lacked a photocopy of my passport, which I now have 2 of. I think the angel on her right shoulder must have clotheslined the devil on her left shoulder somehow, because she said, “I’m going to make this really quick and easy for you then.” THANK YOU RANDOM NICE SPANISH LADY! She wrote the list and then gave me the ticket to heaven, a note that said, “NO FILA, KATHERINE” which means = NO WAITING IN LINE FOR MS. KATHERINE” 2 hours later, I walk out with my NIE. Whoop! But 40 days from now I have to go back and get my Residence Card, or else I’m deported…..which may not be so bad depending on how the next month goes….hehe.
Later I treat myself to some fun, I head to the central market where life is pulsing and bright with just picked color. Shirking from the fish aisles I high tail it to the fruits and veggies, making sure I stop by the odd pickled things stand, squirming as I look at buckets of pickled eggplant, olives, cucumbers, and other odd greenish produce. I cock my head in wonder at the people buying bags of the smelly pickled produce, what could you possibly need 1 kilo of pickled eggplant for?
Heading home with a bushel of bananas I dream of the hordes of peanut butter and banana sandwiches I will soon devour since the lovely mama and papa have just shipped me some good organic creamy goodness. Swooning in a PB coma I felt a siesta was in order after lunch. Not sure the Spanish would approve of peanut butter when there is ham to be eaten, but I have a feeling Spain would have patted me on the back for taking a nap.
Because my roommate’s still at work, the piso is quiet. So I sleep like a baby because all the rest of Spain is out for the count too. When I awake there’s even time for me to go peek at the ocean before it gets dark. It’s much to cold to go swimming, so I smile through my layers as the cool ocean winds come up to tousle my messy bed head hair. While it is often miserable to be here alone, on days like this I love the freedom of being unattached. I’m fluid; wandering through the city and along the beach like a breeze so subtle you don’t even feel it, much less see it. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the world, waiting for her to catch notice of me and grab me in her arms asking where I’ve been all this time, then throwing me back into the mix of people that I love.
Best day off yet.
Peace and love my darlings. I hope it was a “NO FILA” day for you too ;)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Hump Day and it's all down hill from here
Day 17
Wednesdays are oddly productive. I teach the 6th graders and the 4th graders. It’s amazing how much you can do when the children have an ounce of control over their ability to focus. And holy mackerel, they actually understand me when I speak English. Granted I still get blank stares when I talk, but when I call them out and ask them a question they can answer it, most of the time. I love Wednesdays because I actually feel like I’ve done something and the kids have actually learned something. I’ve discovered that my level of productivity is directly inverse to the number of times I have to yell BE QUIET! SIT DOWN! As well, Wednesdays are a treat because I get to teach with Meri. She speaks English with the most precious British accent. I feel like an ogre grunting in my American English, teaching the kids my course pronunciation. Sometimes for fun I slip into a British accent, but none of them can tell a difference. To them it’s all foreign English. But Meri is a delight for more than just her accent. She can be ruthless in class. She has the typical brazen tongue of a Spanish woman who has something she wants to say. We’ll be in front of the class and the kids will have just butchered a reading aloud activity and she’ll turn to me and say in a normal voice, “They are just horrible. They can’t speak it at all. This really is the worst class.” And I just hold back the laughter that bubbles up, all the while thinking, did she just say that right in front of their faces?? And the best part about these exclamations is that they occur almost everyday. “That was just terrible” “they’ll never learn.” She is so outspoken and I love it. They’re not really that bad, but hey, they’re only 12 years old after all.
An oddity I’d like to share with you. I want to ask this young man who stands at the traffic light at the end of the Paseo del Parque (at the end of the central gardens) and juggles during the red light in front of the waiting cars. No one really takes much notice of him, only to count down when they can run him down when they get a green, hopefully squashing his eye-sore-orange pins. He drops the pins EVERY TIME. He is there everyday. I’ve made it a habit to check because he fascinates me. He never gets better. But everyday, there he is, running out into the traffic to juggle. And he never asks for money either. I can’t understand it…not enough love at home? I also often think, that is the lamest way to get an adreniline rush- I’m going to go drop pins in front of stopped cars! YEAH! Like slumbering bowling balls, the cars idle, apathetic to the young man’s charades. And like gutter balls that have no desire to hit the pins, the cars slowly rev their engines, bypassing the young man as he scampers out of the way at the last minute, grasping for the slippery pins. Its Spain…I learn to just stop asking questions.
And a funny story from the teacher’s lounge the other day. I was “chatting” (exchanging for the most part mutually understood words) with another professor who is a professional triathlete, talking about the run we both did on Sunday. He asked how I did and I said decided to play it modest and said, “Just okay. I was stuck behind a LOT of people. So I was pretty slow.” He proceeded to ask my time and I said, “__:_’ {insert my time, with a few minutes shaved off to make myself look better :) } The only polite thing was to ask him how he did. He sputtered, “Fatal fatal!” and I laughed and said, “Okay, okay, what does fatal for YOU mean?” with a face of disgust he spit out “34 minutes.” I doubled over in laughter and he said, “See I told you that was bad. I wasn’t even in the back; I was up in the front line with the professionals and still went that slow.” I looked up and said, “No, no, you ran VERY FAST. MUCH faster than me. I think it’s funny that you think you’re slow.” If a 5:30 mile is slow, I might as well have log rolled my way to the finish line because either way I was slower than slow. If slow had a slow younger sister that was me. I’m sure he thought, “Did she walk it with her eyes shut?” and then he so kindly offered to go on a run with me after school one day. In Álora, which I had previously decided, loosely translated meant “big ass climb.” I laughed and said I’d be his water girl and run with him while he walked to cool down. I’d save him from performing CPR on me, even though people give besos all the time in Spain, I think doing mouth to mouth resuscitation when I have a cardiac arrest trying to keep up with him might be a bit to much even for a Spaniard.
And before I go, I must say, I HAVE THE BEST FAMILY EVER! THANK YOU MOM AND DAD!! Got to give them credit where credit is due. I may be on the Costa del Sol, but it’s COLD at night… only my mom whose also cold 24/7 would send me Halloween socks to keep me warm in my bed. :) I love you both. Fly the coop of that empty nest and let’s burn some euro on some café and bon bons.
Not to shun the rest of my loving fan base, I adore you all as well. But you didn’t send me pumpkin socks and DARK chocolate dark enough to almost be a straight cacao bean.
Love to you all!
Wednesdays are oddly productive. I teach the 6th graders and the 4th graders. It’s amazing how much you can do when the children have an ounce of control over their ability to focus. And holy mackerel, they actually understand me when I speak English. Granted I still get blank stares when I talk, but when I call them out and ask them a question they can answer it, most of the time. I love Wednesdays because I actually feel like I’ve done something and the kids have actually learned something. I’ve discovered that my level of productivity is directly inverse to the number of times I have to yell BE QUIET! SIT DOWN! As well, Wednesdays are a treat because I get to teach with Meri. She speaks English with the most precious British accent. I feel like an ogre grunting in my American English, teaching the kids my course pronunciation. Sometimes for fun I slip into a British accent, but none of them can tell a difference. To them it’s all foreign English. But Meri is a delight for more than just her accent. She can be ruthless in class. She has the typical brazen tongue of a Spanish woman who has something she wants to say. We’ll be in front of the class and the kids will have just butchered a reading aloud activity and she’ll turn to me and say in a normal voice, “They are just horrible. They can’t speak it at all. This really is the worst class.” And I just hold back the laughter that bubbles up, all the while thinking, did she just say that right in front of their faces?? And the best part about these exclamations is that they occur almost everyday. “That was just terrible” “they’ll never learn.” She is so outspoken and I love it. They’re not really that bad, but hey, they’re only 12 years old after all.
An oddity I’d like to share with you. I want to ask this young man who stands at the traffic light at the end of the Paseo del Parque (at the end of the central gardens) and juggles during the red light in front of the waiting cars. No one really takes much notice of him, only to count down when they can run him down when they get a green, hopefully squashing his eye-sore-orange pins. He drops the pins EVERY TIME. He is there everyday. I’ve made it a habit to check because he fascinates me. He never gets better. But everyday, there he is, running out into the traffic to juggle. And he never asks for money either. I can’t understand it…not enough love at home? I also often think, that is the lamest way to get an adreniline rush- I’m going to go drop pins in front of stopped cars! YEAH! Like slumbering bowling balls, the cars idle, apathetic to the young man’s charades. And like gutter balls that have no desire to hit the pins, the cars slowly rev their engines, bypassing the young man as he scampers out of the way at the last minute, grasping for the slippery pins. Its Spain…I learn to just stop asking questions.
And a funny story from the teacher’s lounge the other day. I was “chatting” (exchanging for the most part mutually understood words) with another professor who is a professional triathlete, talking about the run we both did on Sunday. He asked how I did and I said decided to play it modest and said, “Just okay. I was stuck behind a LOT of people. So I was pretty slow.” He proceeded to ask my time and I said, “__:_’ {insert my time, with a few minutes shaved off to make myself look better :) } The only polite thing was to ask him how he did. He sputtered, “Fatal fatal!” and I laughed and said, “Okay, okay, what does fatal for YOU mean?” with a face of disgust he spit out “34 minutes.” I doubled over in laughter and he said, “See I told you that was bad. I wasn’t even in the back; I was up in the front line with the professionals and still went that slow.” I looked up and said, “No, no, you ran VERY FAST. MUCH faster than me. I think it’s funny that you think you’re slow.” If a 5:30 mile is slow, I might as well have log rolled my way to the finish line because either way I was slower than slow. If slow had a slow younger sister that was me. I’m sure he thought, “Did she walk it with her eyes shut?” and then he so kindly offered to go on a run with me after school one day. In Álora, which I had previously decided, loosely translated meant “big ass climb.” I laughed and said I’d be his water girl and run with him while he walked to cool down. I’d save him from performing CPR on me, even though people give besos all the time in Spain, I think doing mouth to mouth resuscitation when I have a cardiac arrest trying to keep up with him might be a bit to much even for a Spaniard.
And before I go, I must say, I HAVE THE BEST FAMILY EVER! THANK YOU MOM AND DAD!! Got to give them credit where credit is due. I may be on the Costa del Sol, but it’s COLD at night… only my mom whose also cold 24/7 would send me Halloween socks to keep me warm in my bed. :) I love you both. Fly the coop of that empty nest and let’s burn some euro on some café and bon bons.
Not to shun the rest of my loving fan base, I adore you all as well. But you didn’t send me pumpkin socks and DARK chocolate dark enough to almost be a straight cacao bean.
Love to you all!
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Ya Esta. (I've had it)
Day 16
I am the eye of the storm.
An island of tranquility. Buddha’s soul sister. The crouching tiger. The bonsai tree. The Zen garden. Nirvana incarnate. I’m like a plucked hen, you can’t ruffle my feathers.
I’ve reached this wildly popular and greatly desired place of peacefulness more or less by avoiding all possible encounters involving conflict and sly tactics of passive aggressiveness. The pen is mightier than the sword, but the sarcastic tongue slays all. All this is to say I’ve come to my Zen state by the back door. I did not conquer any other overwhelming passions of anger, wrath, greed, desire or lust, but rather said, yes yes those are nice, but let’s get to the point – Om. But why would my backward path matter? Let me ask a question first, how many of you have seen me mad, really mad? I should only see 4 hands raised (ahem, Katie Riedel family). I’ve managed to stay a cool cucumber, which has done wonders for my cortisol levels, but has left me like a sleeper bomb, ready to explode at any minute because my anger centers haven’t been deactivated. So today, when the class 4th grade B pushed me to my last nerves, I was lock jaw mad, I had stopped breathing and instead began to steam through my head I was so hot with anger. They rapscallions refused to sit and listen, despite my ardent commands in English and Spanish. What energy wasn’t directed at not screaming at them was used to keep me from running out of the classroom, throwing my hands in the air and saying, “it’s all for not! These children can NOT be taught!!” my thoughts were haywire and as I slammed my laptop shut, ending the presentation I was doing I stood up, legs like a race track with adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Sit down. Be quiet. NOW!” finally caught their attention. I had had it. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had been this mad. Devils, all of them. In that moment I could have sworn that I was never that bad in 4th grade, that no American child was that bad. (Mom, now is not the time to beg to differ ;) They only serve to intensify the mockery I feel most days I come to teach. Their disrespect echoes in the words they yell, stifling my demands for silence in apathetic chaos. A final shot is fired from my mouth, “SILENCE.” And with that I walk out of the classroom. I’ve had it with the head teacher being “too busy” to teach her own class. I’m not even allowed to be left alone in the classroom, but as I was waiting and waiting for the head teacher to show up I thought, what the heck, I can teach 1 class, at least! How wrong I was. Fleeing to find the only other woman in the building who gets shit done, if you excuse my French, I knocked on Gema’s door and said, “Una preguntita, ahora mismo, por favor.” She scampered out because I’m sure the flush of wrath upon my face is a sight to be seen. Explaining the straights I was caught in she immediately began to walk down the hall with the assuredness of a mother who is off to find her child who’s done wrong. For some reason I think the phrase, “Oh no they dinnit” (say it fast and angry) is fitting here.
And who would we find standing in front of the class asking where Senorita Katie is – only the head teacher who I was supposed to be team-teaching with. Flashing apologetic eyes to Gema and small gracias’s I approached the newly appeared teacher. She dared to ask how they had behaving, tacking on the admonishment “bien, sí?” I gave her my infamous passive aggressive smile and with the grin of a jackal said, “Oh no no no. Son Horrrrribles”, rolling my ‘r’ like a tidal wave of anger. And then socking a passive aggressive response back to my side, she said, “Well, you only have 10 more minutes, yes? Perhaps you can finish up and hopefully they’ll be better.” Sinking into a deep breath, drawing up that Zen bullshit I say I believe, I said with subtle cynicism, “Well, sure. Of course. That sounds great.” She gave a parting “callénse” (quiet quiet!) and fled off to more important administrative things. (Granted this is a public school, but don’t you parents sleep better at night knowing the state hires only the best of teachers, dedicated to your child, respectful of the tax dollars you pay?) Perhaps we should examine the selection process or pay our overworked and underappreciated teachers more money so they actually have an incentive, if the incentive to help kids is not enough, to do the work their post requires.
Rather upset with myself for not having cultivated my powers of invisibility or apparition, I was stuck with more or less 25 pairs of dis-interested eyes looking in my direction or elsewhere in ADD. Suddenly in a caustic smile I said, “Well, since you don’t want to respect me, I will make you do something boring.” All in English, till I could gather my calm. Then I said it in Spanish. And we made Halloween cards. That’s right, haunted house, spiders, zombies, full moons; I made them draw it all. I was so tempted to make them copy the line “Katie Riedel has suffered a flagrant affront to her character. I, ______ (Name of student) _____, shall immediately rectify my insidious comportment of late by kissing the ground she walks on, being thus preoccupied with kissing the ground, incapable of emitting trite interruptions and subsequently mocking her still tenuous position in the classroom because even the mango is not as wonderful as she. I sincerely apologize.” I figured they’d complain of hand cramps in 1 minute if we did this. So scrapped it.
The rest of the day passed as a water bug skims over a lake. It was a breeze. It was punctuated by silly moments of pronunciation mishaps; “pumpkin” is said “pooompkin.” And I sigh into a smile, ‘bien bien” because at least they care to try.
I think it’s good to have days like this one. I might find myself seated on a precariously high horse if I wasn’t humbled every now and then by the hooligans. But what I really want to ask Spain is, “When does rookie imitation end?” It’s fine by me if you want to b e nice now, promise I won’t tell anybody. “ :)
Sending you a calm “Om”
Lovingly missing my quiet ones, woo
I am the eye of the storm.
An island of tranquility. Buddha’s soul sister. The crouching tiger. The bonsai tree. The Zen garden. Nirvana incarnate. I’m like a plucked hen, you can’t ruffle my feathers.
I’ve reached this wildly popular and greatly desired place of peacefulness more or less by avoiding all possible encounters involving conflict and sly tactics of passive aggressiveness. The pen is mightier than the sword, but the sarcastic tongue slays all. All this is to say I’ve come to my Zen state by the back door. I did not conquer any other overwhelming passions of anger, wrath, greed, desire or lust, but rather said, yes yes those are nice, but let’s get to the point – Om. But why would my backward path matter? Let me ask a question first, how many of you have seen me mad, really mad? I should only see 4 hands raised (ahem, Katie Riedel family). I’ve managed to stay a cool cucumber, which has done wonders for my cortisol levels, but has left me like a sleeper bomb, ready to explode at any minute because my anger centers haven’t been deactivated. So today, when the class 4th grade B pushed me to my last nerves, I was lock jaw mad, I had stopped breathing and instead began to steam through my head I was so hot with anger. They rapscallions refused to sit and listen, despite my ardent commands in English and Spanish. What energy wasn’t directed at not screaming at them was used to keep me from running out of the classroom, throwing my hands in the air and saying, “it’s all for not! These children can NOT be taught!!” my thoughts were haywire and as I slammed my laptop shut, ending the presentation I was doing I stood up, legs like a race track with adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Sit down. Be quiet. NOW!” finally caught their attention. I had had it. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had been this mad. Devils, all of them. In that moment I could have sworn that I was never that bad in 4th grade, that no American child was that bad. (Mom, now is not the time to beg to differ ;) They only serve to intensify the mockery I feel most days I come to teach. Their disrespect echoes in the words they yell, stifling my demands for silence in apathetic chaos. A final shot is fired from my mouth, “SILENCE.” And with that I walk out of the classroom. I’ve had it with the head teacher being “too busy” to teach her own class. I’m not even allowed to be left alone in the classroom, but as I was waiting and waiting for the head teacher to show up I thought, what the heck, I can teach 1 class, at least! How wrong I was. Fleeing to find the only other woman in the building who gets shit done, if you excuse my French, I knocked on Gema’s door and said, “Una preguntita, ahora mismo, por favor.” She scampered out because I’m sure the flush of wrath upon my face is a sight to be seen. Explaining the straights I was caught in she immediately began to walk down the hall with the assuredness of a mother who is off to find her child who’s done wrong. For some reason I think the phrase, “Oh no they dinnit” (say it fast and angry) is fitting here.
And who would we find standing in front of the class asking where Senorita Katie is – only the head teacher who I was supposed to be team-teaching with. Flashing apologetic eyes to Gema and small gracias’s I approached the newly appeared teacher. She dared to ask how they had behaving, tacking on the admonishment “bien, sí?” I gave her my infamous passive aggressive smile and with the grin of a jackal said, “Oh no no no. Son Horrrrribles”, rolling my ‘r’ like a tidal wave of anger. And then socking a passive aggressive response back to my side, she said, “Well, you only have 10 more minutes, yes? Perhaps you can finish up and hopefully they’ll be better.” Sinking into a deep breath, drawing up that Zen bullshit I say I believe, I said with subtle cynicism, “Well, sure. Of course. That sounds great.” She gave a parting “callénse” (quiet quiet!) and fled off to more important administrative things. (Granted this is a public school, but don’t you parents sleep better at night knowing the state hires only the best of teachers, dedicated to your child, respectful of the tax dollars you pay?) Perhaps we should examine the selection process or pay our overworked and underappreciated teachers more money so they actually have an incentive, if the incentive to help kids is not enough, to do the work their post requires.
Rather upset with myself for not having cultivated my powers of invisibility or apparition, I was stuck with more or less 25 pairs of dis-interested eyes looking in my direction or elsewhere in ADD. Suddenly in a caustic smile I said, “Well, since you don’t want to respect me, I will make you do something boring.” All in English, till I could gather my calm. Then I said it in Spanish. And we made Halloween cards. That’s right, haunted house, spiders, zombies, full moons; I made them draw it all. I was so tempted to make them copy the line “Katie Riedel has suffered a flagrant affront to her character. I, ______ (Name of student) _____, shall immediately rectify my insidious comportment of late by kissing the ground she walks on, being thus preoccupied with kissing the ground, incapable of emitting trite interruptions and subsequently mocking her still tenuous position in the classroom because even the mango is not as wonderful as she. I sincerely apologize.” I figured they’d complain of hand cramps in 1 minute if we did this. So scrapped it.
The rest of the day passed as a water bug skims over a lake. It was a breeze. It was punctuated by silly moments of pronunciation mishaps; “pumpkin” is said “pooompkin.” And I sigh into a smile, ‘bien bien” because at least they care to try.
I think it’s good to have days like this one. I might find myself seated on a precariously high horse if I wasn’t humbled every now and then by the hooligans. But what I really want to ask Spain is, “When does rookie imitation end?” It’s fine by me if you want to b e nice now, promise I won’t tell anybody. “ :)
Sending you a calm “Om”
Lovingly missing my quiet ones, woo
Stop. That. Train.
Day 15
Either I walk slower than I think or the streets have secretly gotten longer. This morning was a heart attack and a half. Here, the Spanish colloquialism is fitting, “Fatal fatal fatal!”
It’s 7:30am and I shoot up out of bed. I decide in a daze that I can’t smell that bad, skip the shower. It’s too cold in my piso anyways, why add needless suffering to my day? Somehow when one is in a rush, they move slower. I dropped my contacts in the sink. I spilled my water bottle. I put my shirt on inside out. And then I left my cell phone on my bed. 7:52 the maelstrom that is Katie is flying down the stairs all the while thinking…15 minutes that’s all I need. Easily make the 8:10 train.
Fast forward. 8:07 Am. I’m about to cross the last street and I see the time on a clock. I dodge traffic and haul it down the tunnel, forget grabbing the free daily newspaper. 8:08 Am. I’m at the ticket machine. To save money I’ve started to use only my credit card. First card is rejected. Gahhhhhhhhh. Mortal crisis. 2nd card is rejected. WHAAAAAAaat? 3rd card is rejected. GAHHHHHh. I’ve only got 2.50 euro in my picket. Not nearly enough for a 4.40 ticket. I think I’ll just by a 1 way ticket. Yes, but fool, no, how are you going to get home? Meanwhile the train makes anxious beeping sounds. I frantically try my 1st card again, it works. Looking like a disheveled clothesline ripped from 1 wall, with my backpack swinging precariously from my elbow, my jacket flaying off my shoulder, my scarf caught in the wild back pack swinging from my elbow, my 3 cards in my left hand like a fan and my beloved 2 way ticket in my right. To hell with decorum, I’ve already started yelling at the deaf train, “No no no don’t go!!” I must have run down stairs because somehow I didn’t fall on my face. The doors of the train close on my nose. So like any American I start pounding on the doors, ferociously pressing the dormant “abrir” button (open button) “NO NONOONO don’t go don’t go” echoes through the tunnel. The conductor obviously woke up on the right side of the bed because he opened the doors for me. I collapse inside, breathing like a bull having just escaped from the ring, sweating like a kid caught without their homework, pulsing with more adrenaline than a Gatorade commercial. I have already jumped over the thought “hallelujah I made the train. I will make it to work on time. I will not be fired. I will not be kicked out of Spain. PHEW! Thank you God, Baby Jesus, Buddha, Allah, etc etc” I’m only thinking bathroom. Now. How I managed to not pee in my pants that whole time, I’ll never know. (J, this is most like attributed to the fact I was not born with a bladder the size of a kiwi seed, as you were. You would not have made it to the ticket kiosk. My body has adapted to the traveling life, my organs have created more space for my bladder, a pancreas is useless, as are the appendix. Remove them and you shall endure. Or suffer the pains of natural selection, weakling.)
I know you must be asking, wasn’t it just yesterday that Katie claimed to be an early riser, and loved to greet the day? What baloney? In my defense I have an excuse.
But let me begin with high school.
Those of you who knew me back in my younger years can attest to the fact that I most assuredly wasn’t the most popular girl in school. I admit it. It’s okay; I’ve reconciled my dorky past. I thought it was cool to have the braces/glasses duo. I’ve come along way, but still a rose by any other name is still a rose, eh? So some how, the least popular girl managed to become room mates with the most popular guy in Spain. Granted, he’s got 1 year of experience living in Malaga already, but the boy knows how to make a social network like nobody’s business. After I let it slip that I was looking for a place to dance salsa he said he’d take me to a place where he knew they gave lessons. It just so happened to be Sunday night at 11:30pm. And that was if they started early. So I said to hell with sleep, I need to dance. Off we went to Sala Gold, at the early hour of 11pm. Spain has a different circadian rhythm…I’ll never adjust. Fighting back yawns with waves of excitement we moseyed on in. it seemed like he knew everyone. The guy handing out flyers outside, the guy at the door, the guy at the bar, some of the people there to dance. It made me realize how grateful I was to have a friend with me. My clamshell tendency would have kicked into high gear and I would have scurried home, overwhelmed. But with Chris and our other friend, Ron (another English teacher), we checked out the place before the lessons got going.
When the lessons did get going, it was just like all the ‘salsa’ lessons across Europe. Young conservative girls want to learn to break out of their shells and dance something sexy. Guys just want to impress their girlfriend, or get a girl friend. So really, the lessons are more of a Madonna-esque / crunk dance sequence. Lots of hips, lots of shaking, lots of arm movement. Nothing quite like I practice. So I follow with modest interest, not really impressed with the teachers (who are actually very good dancers). I’m eager to leave before awkward beginner dancing happens, so the three of us head for the door. It’s 1am and I’m passed out. Little did I know in 6.5 hours I’d be racing for the door.
It’s the week before Halloween, so we’ve started a pretty comprehensive Halloween program. The kids are all made to practice the phrase “trick or treat’ for the party we’ll be having on Friday. I give a little PowerPoint on Halloween in the USA to all my classes and it’s funny to see what I’ve stopped questioning because I’m caught in the ebb and flow of American culture. The kids didn’t know you could wear anything, they only thought you were allowed to wear scary costumes. They all couldn’t stop laughing at how odd Frankenstein looked. I guess a man with green skin and bolts on his head is a bit out of the ordinary. The concept of jack-o-lantern seemed to escape them completely. Why carve a huge pumpkin? Why are your pumpkins huge? Why a face? I think pumpkins are beautiful, not scary. Fine fine fine. And so we muddle through a discussion of what they’ll dress up as, and they tell me how they throw eggs at doors of people who don’t give them candy. (A subtle hint to not be stingy with them, eh?) We laugh and pronounce ‘superstitious’ again and again. Then Debbie Downer speaks up and says her mom does not allow her to dress up because they do not believe in supersitions or ghosts. So I have to talk about how important it is that we are all respectful of different beliefs, and that it is everyone’s choice to participate or not. We should not judge or say mean things about other people ok? (When all I want to do is tell her and every other parent who doesn’t let their kids read harry potter is its FANTASY! For fun! They are using their imagination. Don’t make childhood so heavy.)
Parting note, I just finished Slaugherhouse-5, a real page turner by Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. if you’ve never flipped through it before, I urge you to throw in your backpack/purse/briefcase/man purse/fanny pack and dig into it. The humor of the psychologically unstable is tragically comical. It rings with a snappy witticism, talking about the tougher things in life, somehow able to get into them under the veil of satire. And it’s especially timely for the USA when we have so many soldiers coming home from Afghanistan, Iraq and other Middle Eastern fronts; PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is the latent disease of the veterans. I’m inspired by Aunt P’s work to help them (Keep it up!!! You are helping so many people!) and I hope that maybe by reading this book we can all better understand the great work that still needs to be done to help war vets (and while we tackle the effects of war, we should also slide back to consider the cause…power and violence). And consider what we let the government shield us from. As the book will tell you, Dresden was by far a worse bombing than EITHER Hiroshima or Nagasaki. But the Dresden bombing has never earned a spot in any of the history books I read in school. Now I ask myself, why?
Spontaneous thematic turn at the end there. “So it goes.”
May you always have peace in your soul and love in your heart.
Either I walk slower than I think or the streets have secretly gotten longer. This morning was a heart attack and a half. Here, the Spanish colloquialism is fitting, “Fatal fatal fatal!”
It’s 7:30am and I shoot up out of bed. I decide in a daze that I can’t smell that bad, skip the shower. It’s too cold in my piso anyways, why add needless suffering to my day? Somehow when one is in a rush, they move slower. I dropped my contacts in the sink. I spilled my water bottle. I put my shirt on inside out. And then I left my cell phone on my bed. 7:52 the maelstrom that is Katie is flying down the stairs all the while thinking…15 minutes that’s all I need. Easily make the 8:10 train.
Fast forward. 8:07 Am. I’m about to cross the last street and I see the time on a clock. I dodge traffic and haul it down the tunnel, forget grabbing the free daily newspaper. 8:08 Am. I’m at the ticket machine. To save money I’ve started to use only my credit card. First card is rejected. Gahhhhhhhhh. Mortal crisis. 2nd card is rejected. WHAAAAAAaat? 3rd card is rejected. GAHHHHHh. I’ve only got 2.50 euro in my picket. Not nearly enough for a 4.40 ticket. I think I’ll just by a 1 way ticket. Yes, but fool, no, how are you going to get home? Meanwhile the train makes anxious beeping sounds. I frantically try my 1st card again, it works. Looking like a disheveled clothesline ripped from 1 wall, with my backpack swinging precariously from my elbow, my jacket flaying off my shoulder, my scarf caught in the wild back pack swinging from my elbow, my 3 cards in my left hand like a fan and my beloved 2 way ticket in my right. To hell with decorum, I’ve already started yelling at the deaf train, “No no no don’t go!!” I must have run down stairs because somehow I didn’t fall on my face. The doors of the train close on my nose. So like any American I start pounding on the doors, ferociously pressing the dormant “abrir” button (open button) “NO NONOONO don’t go don’t go” echoes through the tunnel. The conductor obviously woke up on the right side of the bed because he opened the doors for me. I collapse inside, breathing like a bull having just escaped from the ring, sweating like a kid caught without their homework, pulsing with more adrenaline than a Gatorade commercial. I have already jumped over the thought “hallelujah I made the train. I will make it to work on time. I will not be fired. I will not be kicked out of Spain. PHEW! Thank you God, Baby Jesus, Buddha, Allah, etc etc” I’m only thinking bathroom. Now. How I managed to not pee in my pants that whole time, I’ll never know. (J, this is most like attributed to the fact I was not born with a bladder the size of a kiwi seed, as you were. You would not have made it to the ticket kiosk. My body has adapted to the traveling life, my organs have created more space for my bladder, a pancreas is useless, as are the appendix. Remove them and you shall endure. Or suffer the pains of natural selection, weakling.)
I know you must be asking, wasn’t it just yesterday that Katie claimed to be an early riser, and loved to greet the day? What baloney? In my defense I have an excuse.
But let me begin with high school.
Those of you who knew me back in my younger years can attest to the fact that I most assuredly wasn’t the most popular girl in school. I admit it. It’s okay; I’ve reconciled my dorky past. I thought it was cool to have the braces/glasses duo. I’ve come along way, but still a rose by any other name is still a rose, eh? So some how, the least popular girl managed to become room mates with the most popular guy in Spain. Granted, he’s got 1 year of experience living in Malaga already, but the boy knows how to make a social network like nobody’s business. After I let it slip that I was looking for a place to dance salsa he said he’d take me to a place where he knew they gave lessons. It just so happened to be Sunday night at 11:30pm. And that was if they started early. So I said to hell with sleep, I need to dance. Off we went to Sala Gold, at the early hour of 11pm. Spain has a different circadian rhythm…I’ll never adjust. Fighting back yawns with waves of excitement we moseyed on in. it seemed like he knew everyone. The guy handing out flyers outside, the guy at the door, the guy at the bar, some of the people there to dance. It made me realize how grateful I was to have a friend with me. My clamshell tendency would have kicked into high gear and I would have scurried home, overwhelmed. But with Chris and our other friend, Ron (another English teacher), we checked out the place before the lessons got going.
When the lessons did get going, it was just like all the ‘salsa’ lessons across Europe. Young conservative girls want to learn to break out of their shells and dance something sexy. Guys just want to impress their girlfriend, or get a girl friend. So really, the lessons are more of a Madonna-esque / crunk dance sequence. Lots of hips, lots of shaking, lots of arm movement. Nothing quite like I practice. So I follow with modest interest, not really impressed with the teachers (who are actually very good dancers). I’m eager to leave before awkward beginner dancing happens, so the three of us head for the door. It’s 1am and I’m passed out. Little did I know in 6.5 hours I’d be racing for the door.
It’s the week before Halloween, so we’ve started a pretty comprehensive Halloween program. The kids are all made to practice the phrase “trick or treat’ for the party we’ll be having on Friday. I give a little PowerPoint on Halloween in the USA to all my classes and it’s funny to see what I’ve stopped questioning because I’m caught in the ebb and flow of American culture. The kids didn’t know you could wear anything, they only thought you were allowed to wear scary costumes. They all couldn’t stop laughing at how odd Frankenstein looked. I guess a man with green skin and bolts on his head is a bit out of the ordinary. The concept of jack-o-lantern seemed to escape them completely. Why carve a huge pumpkin? Why are your pumpkins huge? Why a face? I think pumpkins are beautiful, not scary. Fine fine fine. And so we muddle through a discussion of what they’ll dress up as, and they tell me how they throw eggs at doors of people who don’t give them candy. (A subtle hint to not be stingy with them, eh?) We laugh and pronounce ‘superstitious’ again and again. Then Debbie Downer speaks up and says her mom does not allow her to dress up because they do not believe in supersitions or ghosts. So I have to talk about how important it is that we are all respectful of different beliefs, and that it is everyone’s choice to participate or not. We should not judge or say mean things about other people ok? (When all I want to do is tell her and every other parent who doesn’t let their kids read harry potter is its FANTASY! For fun! They are using their imagination. Don’t make childhood so heavy.)
Parting note, I just finished Slaugherhouse-5, a real page turner by Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. if you’ve never flipped through it before, I urge you to throw in your backpack/purse/briefcase/man purse/fanny pack and dig into it. The humor of the psychologically unstable is tragically comical. It rings with a snappy witticism, talking about the tougher things in life, somehow able to get into them under the veil of satire. And it’s especially timely for the USA when we have so many soldiers coming home from Afghanistan, Iraq and other Middle Eastern fronts; PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is the latent disease of the veterans. I’m inspired by Aunt P’s work to help them (Keep it up!!! You are helping so many people!) and I hope that maybe by reading this book we can all better understand the great work that still needs to be done to help war vets (and while we tackle the effects of war, we should also slide back to consider the cause…power and violence). And consider what we let the government shield us from. As the book will tell you, Dresden was by far a worse bombing than EITHER Hiroshima or Nagasaki. But the Dresden bombing has never earned a spot in any of the history books I read in school. Now I ask myself, why?
Spontaneous thematic turn at the end there. “So it goes.”
May you always have peace in your soul and love in your heart.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wait, you're a Spainard and you run? Wait, you wear spandex? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL THIS DAMN TIME?
Day 14
I don’t even know where to begin…there’s just so much to say.
I’m a night time exercise promise maker. (And don’t you dare laugh, because I know you are too) It always sounds so good to say, yep, I’ll rise with the sun at 6am, get in some hardy calisthenics and be ready to greet the world with an endorphin filled body. Somewhere in REM this exuberance is lost in the cycles of sleep, and converted into lethargic abhorrence for any movement more than rolling over to snooze the alarm. Suddenly thoughts swarm the brain….no, you should rest. Remember you were up late last night? Or no, this is Sunday, it’s holy. Stay in bed. Or the kicker…I’ll go for a run later, promise. All lies. The pillow and the bed and the blankets and the warmth seep into your brain through some secret process of osmosis. Needless to say, this morning at 8am I was the slug who was lamenting her terrible decision to “get to know the city and the people better” by signing up for the Carrera Urbana that would take those closet exercisers of Spain through a scenic loop of the center of town out to the University and back. Having told my roommate that I was going to do it, a bit of staunch pride pulled my booty out of bed and slipped my feet into my sneaks. And I was off…not with a bang, but at least I was moving towards the start line.
And it was SO worth it. No, not for the scenic run. I can get lost and incidentally find beautiful places. It was worth it for the clothes. Only in Spain can a 12 year old boy walk out in green spandex shorts and a running tank and NOT be made fun of. Only because all the rest of his friends are wearing them too. For any guy that has done Bike & Build and has been stared down because of their rather tight attire, suffer no more, Europe is on board with spandex. Lord knows they may not actually break a sweat “exercising” but you better believe that they’ve got the gear to make them look professional. I made sure to get there early to people watch. It was a gold mine. (As an anthropologist I (as other anthro nerds like myself) get a real kick out of people watching. In fact, we try and convince other people to pay us to do it). Spandex of every length – full pants, cute capris, all the way up to the spandex underwear (I had a terrible PTSD flashback of my high school track days…oooooo those underwear shorts we had to wear!! I’ll never recover). Everyone was in some super classy sportswear top or had donned their local athletic club shirt. 45 minutes before the start I begin some hardcore spying. I peruse the local area. Runners sit at cafes, drinking café con leches. No surprise. They’re impervious to caffeine. (Interesting note…2 old men sitting at a café drinking Beer at 9:15am.hmmm a bit early to start, eh? Or perhaps they just never called it a night). Or my favorite sighting…those who think it wise to begin some serious warm-up 45 minutes before the race start…even though it’s only a 10k. The guy who starts at one wall and dashes across the plaza to the fountain does a drunken spin and hauls it back to the wall like a newly born horse. The intense leg swings are going on at another corner. Either he’s loosening up his hips or he’s doing a splendid job of drawing attention to high bright yellow and green kicks. And then there’s my kind of folk. They just popped a squat and said to hell with a warm up, its 9am, my wife signed me up for this damn thing because of too many churros after work and now I’m wearing spandex and she’s blaring Shakira on her ipod. I don’t know if I should be surprised or not, but there’s quite a large number of couples at the start. I’m going to look up the divorce rate here…maybe the secret of a healthy relationship. Go run your stress out together.
As we are running I start to get kind of upset. I keep thinking, where the heck are all you runners during the week when I get the strangest and most judging of looks from all of freaking Spain for even thinking that donning shorts and sneakers and going for a jog along the beach would be a reasonable thing?
But on the other hand, I’m excited because I keep thinking; finally I’ve found my kind of people. Up early, outside, wearing spandex, suffering, but loving it. Perhaps you’re thinking as I was, FRIENDS. Yes, Katie could actually make a friend. This could be the day…it turned out a bit differently. Creepy guy with lamb chops comes up to me and asks me why I don’t have my number pinned to my shirt. In my nicest cold shoulder voice I say I do not have safety pins. (Gosh, how did those slip my mind when writing up my packing list?) And then he asked how they’ll know if I’m allowed to be here. I smiled and say “Hombre. Es carrera GRATIS.” (Translated…you dumb shit, it’s a free race, open to the public. They don’t give a rat’s ass if I’m official.) By then he knows I’m not Spanish (because I pronounce ALL my letters…novel idea). So we do the normal jumping through hoops. Yes, I’m not from here. USA. No, not NYC. Washington DC. Much lamer. Yes I’m here to teach English. Well, as long as they have class, I’ll be here. Yep, I love Spain. Yep it’s way better than the USA. So I throw the questions back, a farcical interest shines in my smile. So he thinks it’s a good idea for me to have his email because his phone battery has died. He says we should ‘tomar algo’ (go for coffee) and practice English and Spanish because he speaks ‘very little’ English. Great idea I say. Ball in my court. I jot down his email, juanquieremucho@.... What a gem. “Juan wants a lot” I’ve just befriended a soul-less materialist. Match.com couldn’t have done a better job. The dilemma, tell him now or later that I’ll be raising our children as Buddhists?? I decide I’ll save that for the honeymoon and flash him a super genuine smile telling him I’ll email him. But now, he’s got to go to work at the airport, as TSA security. I’m such a lucky girl; I even got a guy with a job. The bastard who tells me my face lotion exceeds size limit and must throw it out. Somehow that email address never got saved…hmm..Those fickle touch screens. But as my parents would probably have told me, good job girl, getting out there, playing the field. Baby steps.
Oh, and I got a free quick dry shirt. (Because I’m secretly a soul-less materialist when it’s to my advantage)
Post race I went out to explore a new outdoor market I’d discovered in my wandering. At this market people make a profession out of dumpster diving. They sell it all. Cell phones. Cups. Books. Pillows. Shoes. Purses. CDs. Cassettes. Clothes. Jewelry. Sink faucets. Coffee makers. Bowls. Mirrors. Shopping cart wheels. Action figures. Everything you’ve thrown out, they’re selling back to you for 1 euro. I investigate the labyrinth of stands. Staring down boot vendors with ardent desire. Smelling bagged spices with odd labels. Plugging my ears by the man yelling that he’s selling 2 kilos of chestnuts for 2 euro. Not only are the goods being sold a hodge podge mix, but so are the people selling the diverse wares. Spain is not a huge proponent of cultural diversity, sadly. More often than not, it’s white white white brown hair brown hair brown hair people that are next to you at the stop light. But here in the market, all the immigrants have surfaced to create a tent city of second hand shops selling second experiences. They speak a fusion of languages. Spanish, English, French, Arabic, German, and a handful of African tongues. It’s such a treat for my eyes to gaze upon such diversity. I love the colors, the style of hair, the clothing, and the languages. I smile at the man squatting over his blanket covered with small trinkets because by his foot is a large Moroccan teapot, hovering over a small tea cup. Nothing here is concerned with being glamorous, with being lavish, with being overwhelming Spanish. Yes, they are loud. But only because they want to be taken note of, they have collected the remnants of Spain, piled it on the side of the river and created a livelihood out of it. Living at the margin they pack it with what spills over from the center, adding it to the culture and customs they already have. I feel rejuvenated. And I know where I’m going the minute I get my first pack check
Sundays here are slow….but I’m learning to appreciate that they are a leisurely and relaxing slow. Long walks in the park. Long sits at the café, just sitting. Long naps on the beach. A long while spent just breathing. I was able to sit and stare out at the Mediterranean, trying to make it sink in that I was staring at an ocean, but I couldn’t. But I did marvel at the wonderfully calming effects of a cool ocean breeze. The waves carried the salty wind over the dunes to me, running through my hair as I sat on bench (not so unlike having mom run her fingers through your hair, the desirable head scratch).
But in the silence I missed all the voices I could be talking with. So I send you a day full of loving thoughts and wishes that you are happy. Thank you for being with me today, it was so comforting to know a friend was at my side on the bench by the beach.
All my love.
Now go outside and take a deep breath.
I don’t even know where to begin…there’s just so much to say.
I’m a night time exercise promise maker. (And don’t you dare laugh, because I know you are too) It always sounds so good to say, yep, I’ll rise with the sun at 6am, get in some hardy calisthenics and be ready to greet the world with an endorphin filled body. Somewhere in REM this exuberance is lost in the cycles of sleep, and converted into lethargic abhorrence for any movement more than rolling over to snooze the alarm. Suddenly thoughts swarm the brain….no, you should rest. Remember you were up late last night? Or no, this is Sunday, it’s holy. Stay in bed. Or the kicker…I’ll go for a run later, promise. All lies. The pillow and the bed and the blankets and the warmth seep into your brain through some secret process of osmosis. Needless to say, this morning at 8am I was the slug who was lamenting her terrible decision to “get to know the city and the people better” by signing up for the Carrera Urbana that would take those closet exercisers of Spain through a scenic loop of the center of town out to the University and back. Having told my roommate that I was going to do it, a bit of staunch pride pulled my booty out of bed and slipped my feet into my sneaks. And I was off…not with a bang, but at least I was moving towards the start line.
And it was SO worth it. No, not for the scenic run. I can get lost and incidentally find beautiful places. It was worth it for the clothes. Only in Spain can a 12 year old boy walk out in green spandex shorts and a running tank and NOT be made fun of. Only because all the rest of his friends are wearing them too. For any guy that has done Bike & Build and has been stared down because of their rather tight attire, suffer no more, Europe is on board with spandex. Lord knows they may not actually break a sweat “exercising” but you better believe that they’ve got the gear to make them look professional. I made sure to get there early to people watch. It was a gold mine. (As an anthropologist I (as other anthro nerds like myself) get a real kick out of people watching. In fact, we try and convince other people to pay us to do it). Spandex of every length – full pants, cute capris, all the way up to the spandex underwear (I had a terrible PTSD flashback of my high school track days…oooooo those underwear shorts we had to wear!! I’ll never recover). Everyone was in some super classy sportswear top or had donned their local athletic club shirt. 45 minutes before the start I begin some hardcore spying. I peruse the local area. Runners sit at cafes, drinking café con leches. No surprise. They’re impervious to caffeine. (Interesting note…2 old men sitting at a café drinking Beer at 9:15am.hmmm a bit early to start, eh? Or perhaps they just never called it a night). Or my favorite sighting…those who think it wise to begin some serious warm-up 45 minutes before the race start…even though it’s only a 10k. The guy who starts at one wall and dashes across the plaza to the fountain does a drunken spin and hauls it back to the wall like a newly born horse. The intense leg swings are going on at another corner. Either he’s loosening up his hips or he’s doing a splendid job of drawing attention to high bright yellow and green kicks. And then there’s my kind of folk. They just popped a squat and said to hell with a warm up, its 9am, my wife signed me up for this damn thing because of too many churros after work and now I’m wearing spandex and she’s blaring Shakira on her ipod. I don’t know if I should be surprised or not, but there’s quite a large number of couples at the start. I’m going to look up the divorce rate here…maybe the secret of a healthy relationship. Go run your stress out together.
As we are running I start to get kind of upset. I keep thinking, where the heck are all you runners during the week when I get the strangest and most judging of looks from all of freaking Spain for even thinking that donning shorts and sneakers and going for a jog along the beach would be a reasonable thing?
But on the other hand, I’m excited because I keep thinking; finally I’ve found my kind of people. Up early, outside, wearing spandex, suffering, but loving it. Perhaps you’re thinking as I was, FRIENDS. Yes, Katie could actually make a friend. This could be the day…it turned out a bit differently. Creepy guy with lamb chops comes up to me and asks me why I don’t have my number pinned to my shirt. In my nicest cold shoulder voice I say I do not have safety pins. (Gosh, how did those slip my mind when writing up my packing list?) And then he asked how they’ll know if I’m allowed to be here. I smiled and say “Hombre. Es carrera GRATIS.” (Translated…you dumb shit, it’s a free race, open to the public. They don’t give a rat’s ass if I’m official.) By then he knows I’m not Spanish (because I pronounce ALL my letters…novel idea). So we do the normal jumping through hoops. Yes, I’m not from here. USA. No, not NYC. Washington DC. Much lamer. Yes I’m here to teach English. Well, as long as they have class, I’ll be here. Yep, I love Spain. Yep it’s way better than the USA. So I throw the questions back, a farcical interest shines in my smile. So he thinks it’s a good idea for me to have his email because his phone battery has died. He says we should ‘tomar algo’ (go for coffee) and practice English and Spanish because he speaks ‘very little’ English. Great idea I say. Ball in my court. I jot down his email, juanquieremucho@.... What a gem. “Juan wants a lot” I’ve just befriended a soul-less materialist. Match.com couldn’t have done a better job. The dilemma, tell him now or later that I’ll be raising our children as Buddhists?? I decide I’ll save that for the honeymoon and flash him a super genuine smile telling him I’ll email him. But now, he’s got to go to work at the airport, as TSA security. I’m such a lucky girl; I even got a guy with a job. The bastard who tells me my face lotion exceeds size limit and must throw it out. Somehow that email address never got saved…hmm..Those fickle touch screens. But as my parents would probably have told me, good job girl, getting out there, playing the field. Baby steps.
Oh, and I got a free quick dry shirt. (Because I’m secretly a soul-less materialist when it’s to my advantage)
Post race I went out to explore a new outdoor market I’d discovered in my wandering. At this market people make a profession out of dumpster diving. They sell it all. Cell phones. Cups. Books. Pillows. Shoes. Purses. CDs. Cassettes. Clothes. Jewelry. Sink faucets. Coffee makers. Bowls. Mirrors. Shopping cart wheels. Action figures. Everything you’ve thrown out, they’re selling back to you for 1 euro. I investigate the labyrinth of stands. Staring down boot vendors with ardent desire. Smelling bagged spices with odd labels. Plugging my ears by the man yelling that he’s selling 2 kilos of chestnuts for 2 euro. Not only are the goods being sold a hodge podge mix, but so are the people selling the diverse wares. Spain is not a huge proponent of cultural diversity, sadly. More often than not, it’s white white white brown hair brown hair brown hair people that are next to you at the stop light. But here in the market, all the immigrants have surfaced to create a tent city of second hand shops selling second experiences. They speak a fusion of languages. Spanish, English, French, Arabic, German, and a handful of African tongues. It’s such a treat for my eyes to gaze upon such diversity. I love the colors, the style of hair, the clothing, and the languages. I smile at the man squatting over his blanket covered with small trinkets because by his foot is a large Moroccan teapot, hovering over a small tea cup. Nothing here is concerned with being glamorous, with being lavish, with being overwhelming Spanish. Yes, they are loud. But only because they want to be taken note of, they have collected the remnants of Spain, piled it on the side of the river and created a livelihood out of it. Living at the margin they pack it with what spills over from the center, adding it to the culture and customs they already have. I feel rejuvenated. And I know where I’m going the minute I get my first pack check
Sundays here are slow….but I’m learning to appreciate that they are a leisurely and relaxing slow. Long walks in the park. Long sits at the café, just sitting. Long naps on the beach. A long while spent just breathing. I was able to sit and stare out at the Mediterranean, trying to make it sink in that I was staring at an ocean, but I couldn’t. But I did marvel at the wonderfully calming effects of a cool ocean breeze. The waves carried the salty wind over the dunes to me, running through my hair as I sat on bench (not so unlike having mom run her fingers through your hair, the desirable head scratch).
But in the silence I missed all the voices I could be talking with. So I send you a day full of loving thoughts and wishes that you are happy. Thank you for being with me today, it was so comforting to know a friend was at my side on the bench by the beach.
All my love.
Now go outside and take a deep breath.
Luggard Cumulous Tourists
Day 13
It was an “mmmmm…no, just stay in bed” day. The clouds turned a cold shoulder to the city, hording the sunshine for themselves. Lackadaisical street cleaners lumbered down empty streets dousing the sleepy gray stone with icy water. The wet wash made it seem that a rain storm had just passed through even though the clouds hadn’t let a drop fall. Still hung over from late night partying or having just gone to bed because of late night into early morning partying, much of the city kept doors tightly shut and windows like crossed arms, protecting the people inside from intrusion of sound or light. Even with such a moody start, I find it unthinkable to waste the day.
Perusing the city in the morning you meet the rare early rising Spaniard. I like these people. They are quiet, they are modest, the move slowly (or remarkably fast) and they are so kind. The trash men help me sort my garbage, teaching me that all of it is ‘organicos’ but my orange juice box is ‘papel’, wishing me a good day. The market lady lets me pick out my own apples and gives me a free bag to put them in. The men working on the tile in our building cheer for Valencia after reading my t-shirt, saying that’s a good Espanola (I secretly smile, even though I may rag on Spaniards ALL the time). Shops are just opening; the Chinos spin the sign and beg the world to come shop. They sit quietly at the register and let me nose around. And they smile and nod again and again when I say ‘hasta luego.” The beach is free of boisterous children and pestering tourists. Seated by fishing poles standing like soldiers at attention the fishermen eye the bobbing lines a fair ways out in the Mediterranean. At the beach side cafes folks of all types sit to drink a café con leche with a bonbon. The sun hasn’t been let out of its prison of clouds to wake the rest of Malaga, so for now, it’s just me all bundled up and the quieter side of Spain.
After 4 years of incessant chaos and never ending to-do lists, I find these slow days abounding with free time to be curious creatures. They make me anxious, but I’m learning (well, trying to learn) to ease into them. An overwhelming desire for more activities for things to do keeps rising up and I keep telling myself to appreciate the slow days while I have them…but that’s easier said than done.
It was an “mmmmm…no, just stay in bed” day. The clouds turned a cold shoulder to the city, hording the sunshine for themselves. Lackadaisical street cleaners lumbered down empty streets dousing the sleepy gray stone with icy water. The wet wash made it seem that a rain storm had just passed through even though the clouds hadn’t let a drop fall. Still hung over from late night partying or having just gone to bed because of late night into early morning partying, much of the city kept doors tightly shut and windows like crossed arms, protecting the people inside from intrusion of sound or light. Even with such a moody start, I find it unthinkable to waste the day.
Perusing the city in the morning you meet the rare early rising Spaniard. I like these people. They are quiet, they are modest, the move slowly (or remarkably fast) and they are so kind. The trash men help me sort my garbage, teaching me that all of it is ‘organicos’ but my orange juice box is ‘papel’, wishing me a good day. The market lady lets me pick out my own apples and gives me a free bag to put them in. The men working on the tile in our building cheer for Valencia after reading my t-shirt, saying that’s a good Espanola (I secretly smile, even though I may rag on Spaniards ALL the time). Shops are just opening; the Chinos spin the sign and beg the world to come shop. They sit quietly at the register and let me nose around. And they smile and nod again and again when I say ‘hasta luego.” The beach is free of boisterous children and pestering tourists. Seated by fishing poles standing like soldiers at attention the fishermen eye the bobbing lines a fair ways out in the Mediterranean. At the beach side cafes folks of all types sit to drink a café con leche with a bonbon. The sun hasn’t been let out of its prison of clouds to wake the rest of Malaga, so for now, it’s just me all bundled up and the quieter side of Spain.
After 4 years of incessant chaos and never ending to-do lists, I find these slow days abounding with free time to be curious creatures. They make me anxious, but I’m learning (well, trying to learn) to ease into them. An overwhelming desire for more activities for things to do keeps rising up and I keep telling myself to appreciate the slow days while I have them…but that’s easier said than done.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Circuitous Coincidence
Day 12
Wandering is an art. But everyone is a critic, so it’s more popularly known as getting lost. Today was proof that wandering can be a fulfilling act, lifting my nose from the map, abandoning the search for the right way and letting curiosity have its way. Meandering look for the garbage bins I saw behind our apartment a building with doors thrown open and splashes of color brimming in bins. Stuffing the bag of garbage in the nearest bin I could find I high tailed it over to investigate what looked to be a market. Dodging the usual ham legs hanging from the ceiling and fish scattered on icy blocks, my heart reached out in joy towards the bins of fruit, my eyes jumping across apples to oranges settling longingly on mangos and persimmons. Adrenaline urging me on I round the corner, pleasantly surprised my plump tomatoes and slender cucumbers nestled by potatoes and bushels of herbs. I’m tickled with every glance. The Plaza de Merced Market. Hopefully today is the first of many visits.
I may or may not have purposely wandered my over to the Rose garden again… but I felt I should get centered and inundated with tranquility before heading to the Police HQ.
Subtly employing Foucauldian techniques of centralizing control the USA has streamlined bureaucracy so that it almost runs itself. Standardization, professionalism and uniform modus operendii’s have made America one the most efficient countries in the world. Spain couldn’t care less about efficiency. The police head quarters put people in a queue outside that moves at the speed a hermit crab must crawl across the ocean floor going against strong rip tides. This is to say, I wait 2 hours, and maybe gain an inch. Today though, I jumped the line using the old “I’m not cutting, just going to ask a question” line and plead with puppy eyes to be let in to get my residence card. Slam dunk. I’m in. but not so quick you dumb American girl. My entrance to the building only lets me wait in an even longer line for extranjeros (foreigners). …. Long long story languishingly short…Spain didn’t have all my information in its archaic system. I’m instructed to go to another building and give them the handwritten note from the Police, fill out a lot of forms, go make copies of everything, AND THEN, come back to the police and play the wait in line until your eye twitch causes an aneurysm. Then you don’t have to worry about extending your visa because you’ll ask to be shipped back to America where they actually work normal days and the doctor would actually be in to treat your life threatening disease. Because lord knows if I tried to go to a Spanish hospital to treat my anuresym they’d tell me they close mid-day for a coffee and siesta. Come back after 5pm and we’ll make you fill out forms is all they’d tell me. Sunglasses go on and I clench back tears of frustration.
Wander back to my favorite café for some wifi connection. I tap into the everlasting Ethernet and load up on some feel good emails from home. They know me so well at the café by now the waiter just brings me the green tea with honey, no sugar packet. It’s just me and him, its 3pm, siesta time for the rest of the world. A lovely escape from Spain while I’m still in Spain.
Later wandering after sunset leads me along Paseo del parque and I incidentally discover the hot hangout for the pre-teen Spain crowd. Awkward hand holding and gaggles of girls litter the benches and steps. Bike riders, skate boarder wreak mayhem amongst the flows of pedestrians on their way to the main drag. Who wouldn’t love to be young in the city? Expectation and anticipation lights their eyes and I can only wonder what they must be thinking. So I wander into their thoughts, leaving my own, letting my brow unfurl, and the energy of the night guide my step. I end up back at my apartment, even though part of me is still sitting at the edge of Spanish culture, peering tentatively into the mystery of its ways.
Wandering is an art. As I traverse Spain I’m opening up little by little, so it might wander its way into my heart.
peace & love my friends.
Wandering is an art. But everyone is a critic, so it’s more popularly known as getting lost. Today was proof that wandering can be a fulfilling act, lifting my nose from the map, abandoning the search for the right way and letting curiosity have its way. Meandering look for the garbage bins I saw behind our apartment a building with doors thrown open and splashes of color brimming in bins. Stuffing the bag of garbage in the nearest bin I could find I high tailed it over to investigate what looked to be a market. Dodging the usual ham legs hanging from the ceiling and fish scattered on icy blocks, my heart reached out in joy towards the bins of fruit, my eyes jumping across apples to oranges settling longingly on mangos and persimmons. Adrenaline urging me on I round the corner, pleasantly surprised my plump tomatoes and slender cucumbers nestled by potatoes and bushels of herbs. I’m tickled with every glance. The Plaza de Merced Market. Hopefully today is the first of many visits.
I may or may not have purposely wandered my over to the Rose garden again… but I felt I should get centered and inundated with tranquility before heading to the Police HQ.
Subtly employing Foucauldian techniques of centralizing control the USA has streamlined bureaucracy so that it almost runs itself. Standardization, professionalism and uniform modus operendii’s have made America one the most efficient countries in the world. Spain couldn’t care less about efficiency. The police head quarters put people in a queue outside that moves at the speed a hermit crab must crawl across the ocean floor going against strong rip tides. This is to say, I wait 2 hours, and maybe gain an inch. Today though, I jumped the line using the old “I’m not cutting, just going to ask a question” line and plead with puppy eyes to be let in to get my residence card. Slam dunk. I’m in. but not so quick you dumb American girl. My entrance to the building only lets me wait in an even longer line for extranjeros (foreigners). …. Long long story languishingly short…Spain didn’t have all my information in its archaic system. I’m instructed to go to another building and give them the handwritten note from the Police, fill out a lot of forms, go make copies of everything, AND THEN, come back to the police and play the wait in line until your eye twitch causes an aneurysm. Then you don’t have to worry about extending your visa because you’ll ask to be shipped back to America where they actually work normal days and the doctor would actually be in to treat your life threatening disease. Because lord knows if I tried to go to a Spanish hospital to treat my anuresym they’d tell me they close mid-day for a coffee and siesta. Come back after 5pm and we’ll make you fill out forms is all they’d tell me. Sunglasses go on and I clench back tears of frustration.
Wander back to my favorite café for some wifi connection. I tap into the everlasting Ethernet and load up on some feel good emails from home. They know me so well at the café by now the waiter just brings me the green tea with honey, no sugar packet. It’s just me and him, its 3pm, siesta time for the rest of the world. A lovely escape from Spain while I’m still in Spain.
Later wandering after sunset leads me along Paseo del parque and I incidentally discover the hot hangout for the pre-teen Spain crowd. Awkward hand holding and gaggles of girls litter the benches and steps. Bike riders, skate boarder wreak mayhem amongst the flows of pedestrians on their way to the main drag. Who wouldn’t love to be young in the city? Expectation and anticipation lights their eyes and I can only wonder what they must be thinking. So I wander into their thoughts, leaving my own, letting my brow unfurl, and the energy of the night guide my step. I end up back at my apartment, even though part of me is still sitting at the edge of Spanish culture, peering tentatively into the mystery of its ways.
Wandering is an art. As I traverse Spain I’m opening up little by little, so it might wander its way into my heart.
peace & love my friends.
Friday, October 22, 2010
You have a day off you say? Go get locked in your apartment!
Day 11
First day off of work since I came…weird. The city has a very different feel at 10am, when I tentatively emerged from our penthouse…having had a taste of late morning from my balcony; I went out to immerse myself in it. The rose garden, as beautiful as ever. The gardens busy with its attendants. Buses idling, waiting for tardy school kids or late starters heading to work. Taxis hurried with usual haste, eager to spot the interested nod of the head by pedestrians weary of the walk. Small shops attended to the old ladies who come out for their daily patrol of the neighborhood. Small talk in small shops spills out into the small streets and small greetings pass amongst the city getting into its afternoon groove. The sun languidly arches overhead, making the dash between sun spots through shadows a chilly gateway.
I head back to the apartment to gather my things to go to the Police Station to finally get my temporary residence card (so I can get paid!). I’m all ready to go and I get to the door to head out and it’s locked. Normally this is not a problem. The door is just being a door. What it should do. But my key won’t open it. My pounding pleas won’t make it budge. I’m stuck in my penthouse with no way to escape. I feel oddly like Repunzel, only with no long hair to throw down to save myself. I wonder if this is an omen that I should just go back to bed, I’m not meant to do anything today. My roommate is at work, hopelessly out of reach. So I give a ring to our landlady, using the last precious seconds on my phone. She laughs at the predicament and promises to hurry over….and as you should all know by now, Spanish time works a bit different. About 35 minutes later she releases me, promising to fix the lock. In the meantime we just shouldn’t lock the door…right….but it’s Spain, no pasa nada. We’re the only ones here. And I’m so poor there really isn’t anything worth stealing…even my cool technology is broken (damn camera lens malfunction).
It’s about 2pm and it’s take 2 at the day. I decide to wander through the grocery store making long winded diatribes about the Spanish cuisine (which does not cater to vegetarians) as I drag my cart behind me. (In Spain their baskets have wheels, so you can roll it. Convenient really. But it always brings to mind an image of a mother dragging her child to get a vaccine, right mama? Or reminds me of the times we dragged our dog into the tub to get washed.) Spanish grocery stores are a thing all of their own. Ham hangs from ceilings, allowing for a generous deli section, a spaciously frigid seafood section squats in the back corner, a bread section who’s wafting scents of butter and just cooked rolls would make you weak at the knees lounges to one side, and in the middle are pallets of fried tomatoes. My first visit in Spain taught me that besides olive oil and salt, the other main cooking ingredient is fried tomatoes. Why, I have no idea. Fried tomatoes with onions. Fried tomatoes with garlic. Roasted tomatoes. Name brands. Off brands. Cans. Jars. Packets. Any variety, in any form, in any container. Just as it comes in every form, it can go in everything. Everything. So of course I buy a jar, for kicks. I won’t put it on my cereal, but hey, pasta is cheap, so it looks like it might just be a spaghetti night. I wander down the olive aisle. Because they have an olive aisle. I figure I might as well look at all the green olives and all the black olives and make a soft scowl with a wrinkled nose at them. I shall not buy you. Money is better spent on the next aisle. The baked goods aisle. Europe can bake. You say mom’s American apple pie and I say a 12 pack of chocolate filled croissants for 2 euro. They have donuts, waffles, croissants, cookies, loaves, muffins and more. Most of it is catered to a younger population, so the “estrella” (star) cookies have characters on them, for example. I’m convinced all the same, cool character or not. A chocolate filled croissant tastes just as good whether or not SpongeBob’s face lovely wraps the dessert. They’re on sale. Two please. As I check out my eyeball approach seems to have overestimated the size of my back pack and the endurance of my arm strength. I stuff my pack with my booty and haul it out of the store to drop the goods at home. Normally leaving a grocery store would not be a momentous event (unless you’re like my family and you ask yourself, how did I end up convincing my self that I needed all of this stuff??) but today it was. I looked left and I looked right to cross the street. Then I looked left again. And I stared left….and left….the coruscating Mediterranean Ocean stretched out in a blinding shimmer. Weighed down in awe and Mercodona bounty, I could hardly believe that at 3pm, on the step of the grocery store I was staring at the Mediterranean. Sure the walk back sucked and I had so much back sweat I had to change shirts, but I got to see the Mediterranean. I can’t say it enough, the Mediterranean. I still can’t believe it. (disclaimer though….it’s not crystal clear in Málaga, it looks deceptively just like the Atlantic we see off the coast of Nags Head…)
After some hard core Skype sessions (sooo good to see your faces!!!) I moseyed home to the penthouse to find the roommate in some intense interior decorating project. He was hanging some epic Moroccan blankets in the living room, having already scattered pictures of Spanish cultural icons through out the piso. It was starting to look like someone was living here…not just squatting. I contributed helpful advice, such as, ‘yes, that looks straight” and let him do his thing to make our crib look AWESOME. I failed to plan ahead and bring things to decorate with as he so wisely did. I don’t know if any of you have suffered this, but because I know this isn’t home, I already have a home, I’m having a rather difficult time mustering the interest and motivation to make this apartment a special place. My friends and my family aren’t here, so I know I’m not meant to be here for long. But it doesn’t mean it’s not fun to see a guy try and spruce up the place. He’s got good taste, so I plan on leaving it in his hands, for now. My room meanwhile has a monkish asceticism to it. I’m enjoying it though. It’s refreshing to have few items and even less clutter. Having biked across the USA with only 1 bag to call as my own, I know how much I really need. (Thank you B&B). I’m finding the city of Malaga and the experience of living abroad overwhelming enough, so it’s a gratifying to have extra space to decompress in.
Speaking of decompression, I’m looking for some more good reads. If you’ve read anything that really stuck with you or you thought about for a while after, or just had a really good time getting through, please send me the title. I’ve got some time to kill on my commutes and always like a good book. And yes, I’ll read fiction/non-fiction/sci-fi/ mystery/academic works/scientific works/essays/poems/short stories or anything else you can think of. And yes, English is my preferred language for pleasure reading.
Party time, it’s the end of the week. Hope you all make it to Saturday with some energy left to kick back and have fun.
Peace and immense love. woo
First day off of work since I came…weird. The city has a very different feel at 10am, when I tentatively emerged from our penthouse…having had a taste of late morning from my balcony; I went out to immerse myself in it. The rose garden, as beautiful as ever. The gardens busy with its attendants. Buses idling, waiting for tardy school kids or late starters heading to work. Taxis hurried with usual haste, eager to spot the interested nod of the head by pedestrians weary of the walk. Small shops attended to the old ladies who come out for their daily patrol of the neighborhood. Small talk in small shops spills out into the small streets and small greetings pass amongst the city getting into its afternoon groove. The sun languidly arches overhead, making the dash between sun spots through shadows a chilly gateway.
I head back to the apartment to gather my things to go to the Police Station to finally get my temporary residence card (so I can get paid!). I’m all ready to go and I get to the door to head out and it’s locked. Normally this is not a problem. The door is just being a door. What it should do. But my key won’t open it. My pounding pleas won’t make it budge. I’m stuck in my penthouse with no way to escape. I feel oddly like Repunzel, only with no long hair to throw down to save myself. I wonder if this is an omen that I should just go back to bed, I’m not meant to do anything today. My roommate is at work, hopelessly out of reach. So I give a ring to our landlady, using the last precious seconds on my phone. She laughs at the predicament and promises to hurry over….and as you should all know by now, Spanish time works a bit different. About 35 minutes later she releases me, promising to fix the lock. In the meantime we just shouldn’t lock the door…right….but it’s Spain, no pasa nada. We’re the only ones here. And I’m so poor there really isn’t anything worth stealing…even my cool technology is broken (damn camera lens malfunction).
It’s about 2pm and it’s take 2 at the day. I decide to wander through the grocery store making long winded diatribes about the Spanish cuisine (which does not cater to vegetarians) as I drag my cart behind me. (In Spain their baskets have wheels, so you can roll it. Convenient really. But it always brings to mind an image of a mother dragging her child to get a vaccine, right mama? Or reminds me of the times we dragged our dog into the tub to get washed.) Spanish grocery stores are a thing all of their own. Ham hangs from ceilings, allowing for a generous deli section, a spaciously frigid seafood section squats in the back corner, a bread section who’s wafting scents of butter and just cooked rolls would make you weak at the knees lounges to one side, and in the middle are pallets of fried tomatoes. My first visit in Spain taught me that besides olive oil and salt, the other main cooking ingredient is fried tomatoes. Why, I have no idea. Fried tomatoes with onions. Fried tomatoes with garlic. Roasted tomatoes. Name brands. Off brands. Cans. Jars. Packets. Any variety, in any form, in any container. Just as it comes in every form, it can go in everything. Everything. So of course I buy a jar, for kicks. I won’t put it on my cereal, but hey, pasta is cheap, so it looks like it might just be a spaghetti night. I wander down the olive aisle. Because they have an olive aisle. I figure I might as well look at all the green olives and all the black olives and make a soft scowl with a wrinkled nose at them. I shall not buy you. Money is better spent on the next aisle. The baked goods aisle. Europe can bake. You say mom’s American apple pie and I say a 12 pack of chocolate filled croissants for 2 euro. They have donuts, waffles, croissants, cookies, loaves, muffins and more. Most of it is catered to a younger population, so the “estrella” (star) cookies have characters on them, for example. I’m convinced all the same, cool character or not. A chocolate filled croissant tastes just as good whether or not SpongeBob’s face lovely wraps the dessert. They’re on sale. Two please. As I check out my eyeball approach seems to have overestimated the size of my back pack and the endurance of my arm strength. I stuff my pack with my booty and haul it out of the store to drop the goods at home. Normally leaving a grocery store would not be a momentous event (unless you’re like my family and you ask yourself, how did I end up convincing my self that I needed all of this stuff??) but today it was. I looked left and I looked right to cross the street. Then I looked left again. And I stared left….and left….the coruscating Mediterranean Ocean stretched out in a blinding shimmer. Weighed down in awe and Mercodona bounty, I could hardly believe that at 3pm, on the step of the grocery store I was staring at the Mediterranean. Sure the walk back sucked and I had so much back sweat I had to change shirts, but I got to see the Mediterranean. I can’t say it enough, the Mediterranean. I still can’t believe it. (disclaimer though….it’s not crystal clear in Málaga, it looks deceptively just like the Atlantic we see off the coast of Nags Head…)
After some hard core Skype sessions (sooo good to see your faces!!!) I moseyed home to the penthouse to find the roommate in some intense interior decorating project. He was hanging some epic Moroccan blankets in the living room, having already scattered pictures of Spanish cultural icons through out the piso. It was starting to look like someone was living here…not just squatting. I contributed helpful advice, such as, ‘yes, that looks straight” and let him do his thing to make our crib look AWESOME. I failed to plan ahead and bring things to decorate with as he so wisely did. I don’t know if any of you have suffered this, but because I know this isn’t home, I already have a home, I’m having a rather difficult time mustering the interest and motivation to make this apartment a special place. My friends and my family aren’t here, so I know I’m not meant to be here for long. But it doesn’t mean it’s not fun to see a guy try and spruce up the place. He’s got good taste, so I plan on leaving it in his hands, for now. My room meanwhile has a monkish asceticism to it. I’m enjoying it though. It’s refreshing to have few items and even less clutter. Having biked across the USA with only 1 bag to call as my own, I know how much I really need. (Thank you B&B). I’m finding the city of Malaga and the experience of living abroad overwhelming enough, so it’s a gratifying to have extra space to decompress in.
Speaking of decompression, I’m looking for some more good reads. If you’ve read anything that really stuck with you or you thought about for a while after, or just had a really good time getting through, please send me the title. I’ve got some time to kill on my commutes and always like a good book. And yes, I’ll read fiction/non-fiction/sci-fi/ mystery/academic works/scientific works/essays/poems/short stories or anything else you can think of. And yes, English is my preferred language for pleasure reading.
Party time, it’s the end of the week. Hope you all make it to Saturday with some energy left to kick back and have fun.
Peace and immense love. woo
Thursday, October 21, 2010
You can't blow your smoke on me here Spain!
Day 10
I don’t know the direct translation of the word “Álora” (the city where my school is located) but I’m pretty sure it more or less translates into “big ass climb.” I tried a new route today, since the bus decided to leave early today…again…wtf with Spanish time…and I’m pretty sure the Rocky Mountains in Colorado don’t have roads this steep. I honestly had to stop and laugh at how terrible it was. Talk about a serious lack of urban planning. Even better was the fact that google maps failed to account for small town streets that aren’t labeled because everyone already knows where they live or the fact that names change, just whenever. So my cute directions were kaput. I stopped and asked a lady who looked to be walking with purpose in her step just how to get to Avda Pablo Ruiz Picasso, she gave me the usual Spanish euphemism for ‘holy shit’ which is ‘oooooofffff’ and a heavy hand shake and said, “oye, muy muy lejo lejo” (listen, it’s very very far) and then guided me with the simplest of directions, “Go up.” And I did, up and up and up, till I could see my school and walked down and down and down. Rookie mistake.
Since Wednesday is my last day of work at school, it feels a bit like a Friday…that big deep breath feeling hanging at the end of the bell sounding at 2pm. So I’ve got lighter things to share, yesterday’s post was a bit heavy.
When teaching the 5 years old today the teacher asked them to think of countries that speak English to guess where I might be from…lord only knows how they construe the world in their tiny minds because here were some of their answers “England…France…Germany…Spain…Spain…Germany” but the gem of the day was the little girl in tight pink spandex pants who shouted “china!”
Later, in the hallway while I was waiting for the change of classes to finish, 2 moody 6th graders walked by and muttered with a darting glance at me (well, darting is too generous, they were not polite, they blatantly stared) “Ella se parece a Justin Bieber” (She looks just like Justin Bieber). Ooooooo…..that cut deep. Real deep. I immediately ruffled my pixie cut and pushed it far far out of my eyes just to make sure I did have the angsty teen pop star curtain of hair covering my eyes.
Never let it be said that Spaniards aren’t as tough as nails. After a rather unproductive class with the 5th graders, the other English teacher and I had to report to the head teacher their bad behavior. So while the demonic class stood in line waiting to go to lunch, the head teacher stood at the door, staring them down while he asked us who had behaved the worst. He said, “Please select the two or three that were particularly bad.” If you’ve never seen 25 sets of eyes widen at once, it’s quite an experience. Luckily the other teacher jumped to answer before me because lord knows I’d never survive the rest of the year if I became the teacher that ratted out the bad kids, and she said, “We can’t pick out just one, because they were all just terrible.” And with that, we saved their necks. We’ll see how they behave next week. Too bad the girls who called me Justin Bieber weren’t there, oooo because I would have called them out faster than steaming hot espresso burns the tongue.
There’s the famous phrase, A mother knows best. But I must beg to differ. Sometimes a mom is out of her mind. I have in mind one specific mother. It’s the mother who decided to enroll her Hungarian 6th grader at Los Llanos, when he speaks neither Spanish nor English. The gym teacher pulled me into his classroom as I was going to my next class and asked me what language they speak in Hungary, I just laughed and said I would suppose, Hungarian? No one could figure out how to communicate with him. We spent the day miming with him, acting out the charade of school. The poor boy, surrounded by boisterous Spaniards and not understanding a word of what they were shouting at him. What was his mother thinking sending him here??? I felt slightly better about my troubles understanding the Andalucian accent…hehe.
Buddha had a mango tree. I have a rose garden. I’ve finally found the green to this city. Finding the blue was easy, I just walked south and was confronted with the Mediterranean Ocean. But finding the gardens was worth the wait. With my first step in my nose eagerly breathes in the gentle fragrance that saturates the air. A street heavy with traffic flows behind me, but in front of me only wafts the softest of floral essences. Like enjoying dark chocolate, you must go slowly, savoring each note, each moment. Stepping with care my eyes caress the petals that recline against each other, their sweet smell inviting me to linger longer. Red roses, pink roses, yellow roses, orange roses, coral roses, white roses, PURPLE roses. So many colors, all attended too as if they were kings. I feel at peace sitting on the bench with such quiet friends around me. Loving tranquility. I see old Spanish men on other benches doing the same, meditating in the shade, breathing the divine air. An inner smile can’t but help to shine, I’ve finally found time to just stop and smell the roses. Bet Justin Bieber can’t say the same.
I don’t know the direct translation of the word “Álora” (the city where my school is located) but I’m pretty sure it more or less translates into “big ass climb.” I tried a new route today, since the bus decided to leave early today…again…wtf with Spanish time…and I’m pretty sure the Rocky Mountains in Colorado don’t have roads this steep. I honestly had to stop and laugh at how terrible it was. Talk about a serious lack of urban planning. Even better was the fact that google maps failed to account for small town streets that aren’t labeled because everyone already knows where they live or the fact that names change, just whenever. So my cute directions were kaput. I stopped and asked a lady who looked to be walking with purpose in her step just how to get to Avda Pablo Ruiz Picasso, she gave me the usual Spanish euphemism for ‘holy shit’ which is ‘oooooofffff’ and a heavy hand shake and said, “oye, muy muy lejo lejo” (listen, it’s very very far) and then guided me with the simplest of directions, “Go up.” And I did, up and up and up, till I could see my school and walked down and down and down. Rookie mistake.
Since Wednesday is my last day of work at school, it feels a bit like a Friday…that big deep breath feeling hanging at the end of the bell sounding at 2pm. So I’ve got lighter things to share, yesterday’s post was a bit heavy.
When teaching the 5 years old today the teacher asked them to think of countries that speak English to guess where I might be from…lord only knows how they construe the world in their tiny minds because here were some of their answers “England…France…Germany…Spain…Spain…Germany” but the gem of the day was the little girl in tight pink spandex pants who shouted “china!”
Later, in the hallway while I was waiting for the change of classes to finish, 2 moody 6th graders walked by and muttered with a darting glance at me (well, darting is too generous, they were not polite, they blatantly stared) “Ella se parece a Justin Bieber” (She looks just like Justin Bieber). Ooooooo…..that cut deep. Real deep. I immediately ruffled my pixie cut and pushed it far far out of my eyes just to make sure I did have the angsty teen pop star curtain of hair covering my eyes.
Never let it be said that Spaniards aren’t as tough as nails. After a rather unproductive class with the 5th graders, the other English teacher and I had to report to the head teacher their bad behavior. So while the demonic class stood in line waiting to go to lunch, the head teacher stood at the door, staring them down while he asked us who had behaved the worst. He said, “Please select the two or three that were particularly bad.” If you’ve never seen 25 sets of eyes widen at once, it’s quite an experience. Luckily the other teacher jumped to answer before me because lord knows I’d never survive the rest of the year if I became the teacher that ratted out the bad kids, and she said, “We can’t pick out just one, because they were all just terrible.” And with that, we saved their necks. We’ll see how they behave next week. Too bad the girls who called me Justin Bieber weren’t there, oooo because I would have called them out faster than steaming hot espresso burns the tongue.
There’s the famous phrase, A mother knows best. But I must beg to differ. Sometimes a mom is out of her mind. I have in mind one specific mother. It’s the mother who decided to enroll her Hungarian 6th grader at Los Llanos, when he speaks neither Spanish nor English. The gym teacher pulled me into his classroom as I was going to my next class and asked me what language they speak in Hungary, I just laughed and said I would suppose, Hungarian? No one could figure out how to communicate with him. We spent the day miming with him, acting out the charade of school. The poor boy, surrounded by boisterous Spaniards and not understanding a word of what they were shouting at him. What was his mother thinking sending him here??? I felt slightly better about my troubles understanding the Andalucian accent…hehe.
Buddha had a mango tree. I have a rose garden. I’ve finally found the green to this city. Finding the blue was easy, I just walked south and was confronted with the Mediterranean Ocean. But finding the gardens was worth the wait. With my first step in my nose eagerly breathes in the gentle fragrance that saturates the air. A street heavy with traffic flows behind me, but in front of me only wafts the softest of floral essences. Like enjoying dark chocolate, you must go slowly, savoring each note, each moment. Stepping with care my eyes caress the petals that recline against each other, their sweet smell inviting me to linger longer. Red roses, pink roses, yellow roses, orange roses, coral roses, white roses, PURPLE roses. So many colors, all attended too as if they were kings. I feel at peace sitting on the bench with such quiet friends around me. Loving tranquility. I see old Spanish men on other benches doing the same, meditating in the shade, breathing the divine air. An inner smile can’t but help to shine, I’ve finally found time to just stop and smell the roses. Bet Justin Bieber can’t say the same.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Namaste: I honor the light within YOU
Day 9
An interesting activity I encourage you to do with your children: Ask them to draw a monster. And see what they imagine. In 1st grade today we were learning about the body (I have 1 head. I have 2 arms, etc) and the Spanish teacher instructed them to use the parts they knew and draw a monster. As we waited for their creations to manifest themselves on paper in scratches of color, my mind wandered, wondering, why do we imagine someone with only 1 arm to be a monster? Or someone with 3 legs? I realized we were indirectly doing a lesson on what constituted humanity, while incidentally insulting the entire disabled population. Not too P.C. But, it’s also curious that a monster is created out of disparate human body parts. A monster is a mutation of the normal body. But still there is the trace of humanity at its core.
Humanity, subjectivity and the Self are all hotspots for me in Anthropology, provoking questions and ruminations, drawing me back to grad school. Someone once questioned why I thought studying humanity, subjectivity as well as humanitarian rights was pressing and urgent, wasn’t the environmental crisis bigger, wasn’t the war in the middle east more explosive? I could have answer yes to all of those questions. But I didn’t. Understanding humanity and the self is the utmost important thing we can teach the children. If we can erase the fallacious boundaries dividing the human from the inhuman we can rid the world of atrocities such as the Holocaust, genocide, prejudice, racial profiling, hate crimes, and caste systems that demonize lower classes. Accepting the other, not just understanding the other begins at the point in which one can recognize a common humanity.
I’m in a class with 6 year olds teaching them about themselves and about what it is to be human. Their parents and their grandparents lived during an era when Franco dictated who was deserving of humanity. Millions disappeared from the streets, taken by the secret police. It’s a history few Spaniards care to talk about. Why is it important that I begin with something so basic as the Self with these children? An understanding of the Self can engender an understanding of the Other, as I said before. And if they can learn to lovingly gaze upon other people, different from themselves, then the temptation to emphasize the differences between them and to criminalize such differences will abate. Franco would never be able to manipulate the minds of the people, much like Hitler, the understanding of humanity was firmly rooted in the people’s minds. There would be no prejudices to play off of, no marginalized group to target, because the children would have grown up to become adults who wholly understand humanity, and know that being a Spaniard is where it begins , not where it ends.
And so to relish the sound of a communal laughter, we played the hokey pokey.
I can’t emphasize enough how much the inability to effectively communicate impedes one’s confidence and general mental state. It is so easy to slip into a foul mood here, because I can’t understand a word of the conversation at break time or because the kids don’t understand my English or my Spanish for that matter. So much of the day a feeling of discontentment hangs over me. I’m never sure if the kids have actually learned anything, if I used the time productively and if they even cared about what I said. But today I had a moment that almost made me cry. One of my beloved 1st graders came running up to me in the teacher’s lounge after school, dragging he mother behind her. Her mother, a bit out of breath, smiled and said that her daughter had excitedly insisted that she meet me. She told me her daughter absolutely loves English, she practices it at home all the time, teaching her young sister and that she has had so much fun in class with me. I tried to stammer in Spanish something grateful and celebratory of her wonderful daughter, but was so off guard I wasn’t sure if I said “Ella es muy lista” or “Ella está muy lista” (She is very smart or She is very ready)…but I managed to say something that made the mom smile and blush, saying that yes, she was proud of her hardworking daughter. “Muchas gracias” is a phrase I’ve overused here and so luckily it’s always at the tip of my tongue. I chased the pair away with my many thanks, glad she was doing so well in school. This moment reminded me that you really never know the effect you have on another. And it makes me a convert for life to the religion of The Power of Positive Thinking. I will go to class believing they are learning, that I am teaching them well, and that they are becoming better English speakers.
I encourage you all, if someone has done something to make you happy, or help you out, please tell them how it affected you. It can make such a difference. And also, never give up the hope that what you are doing matters. Make sure your life is worth while. You decided your level of fulfillment. For me, that means showing up to each class with extra energy and abounding positivity because I know that the kids will eventually understand me, and I know that I am the foundation from which they will build their fluency. I’m part of their journey and I will make sure they remember the time we walked and learned together.
There are many of you who are indelibly in my thoughts (and influencing my decisions) because of what you said or what you did, when you didn’t have to. And I want you to know that.
Peace and so much love.
An interesting activity I encourage you to do with your children: Ask them to draw a monster. And see what they imagine. In 1st grade today we were learning about the body (I have 1 head. I have 2 arms, etc) and the Spanish teacher instructed them to use the parts they knew and draw a monster. As we waited for their creations to manifest themselves on paper in scratches of color, my mind wandered, wondering, why do we imagine someone with only 1 arm to be a monster? Or someone with 3 legs? I realized we were indirectly doing a lesson on what constituted humanity, while incidentally insulting the entire disabled population. Not too P.C. But, it’s also curious that a monster is created out of disparate human body parts. A monster is a mutation of the normal body. But still there is the trace of humanity at its core.
Humanity, subjectivity and the Self are all hotspots for me in Anthropology, provoking questions and ruminations, drawing me back to grad school. Someone once questioned why I thought studying humanity, subjectivity as well as humanitarian rights was pressing and urgent, wasn’t the environmental crisis bigger, wasn’t the war in the middle east more explosive? I could have answer yes to all of those questions. But I didn’t. Understanding humanity and the self is the utmost important thing we can teach the children. If we can erase the fallacious boundaries dividing the human from the inhuman we can rid the world of atrocities such as the Holocaust, genocide, prejudice, racial profiling, hate crimes, and caste systems that demonize lower classes. Accepting the other, not just understanding the other begins at the point in which one can recognize a common humanity.
I’m in a class with 6 year olds teaching them about themselves and about what it is to be human. Their parents and their grandparents lived during an era when Franco dictated who was deserving of humanity. Millions disappeared from the streets, taken by the secret police. It’s a history few Spaniards care to talk about. Why is it important that I begin with something so basic as the Self with these children? An understanding of the Self can engender an understanding of the Other, as I said before. And if they can learn to lovingly gaze upon other people, different from themselves, then the temptation to emphasize the differences between them and to criminalize such differences will abate. Franco would never be able to manipulate the minds of the people, much like Hitler, the understanding of humanity was firmly rooted in the people’s minds. There would be no prejudices to play off of, no marginalized group to target, because the children would have grown up to become adults who wholly understand humanity, and know that being a Spaniard is where it begins , not where it ends.
And so to relish the sound of a communal laughter, we played the hokey pokey.
I can’t emphasize enough how much the inability to effectively communicate impedes one’s confidence and general mental state. It is so easy to slip into a foul mood here, because I can’t understand a word of the conversation at break time or because the kids don’t understand my English or my Spanish for that matter. So much of the day a feeling of discontentment hangs over me. I’m never sure if the kids have actually learned anything, if I used the time productively and if they even cared about what I said. But today I had a moment that almost made me cry. One of my beloved 1st graders came running up to me in the teacher’s lounge after school, dragging he mother behind her. Her mother, a bit out of breath, smiled and said that her daughter had excitedly insisted that she meet me. She told me her daughter absolutely loves English, she practices it at home all the time, teaching her young sister and that she has had so much fun in class with me. I tried to stammer in Spanish something grateful and celebratory of her wonderful daughter, but was so off guard I wasn’t sure if I said “Ella es muy lista” or “Ella está muy lista” (She is very smart or She is very ready)…but I managed to say something that made the mom smile and blush, saying that yes, she was proud of her hardworking daughter. “Muchas gracias” is a phrase I’ve overused here and so luckily it’s always at the tip of my tongue. I chased the pair away with my many thanks, glad she was doing so well in school. This moment reminded me that you really never know the effect you have on another. And it makes me a convert for life to the religion of The Power of Positive Thinking. I will go to class believing they are learning, that I am teaching them well, and that they are becoming better English speakers.
I encourage you all, if someone has done something to make you happy, or help you out, please tell them how it affected you. It can make such a difference. And also, never give up the hope that what you are doing matters. Make sure your life is worth while. You decided your level of fulfillment. For me, that means showing up to each class with extra energy and abounding positivity because I know that the kids will eventually understand me, and I know that I am the foundation from which they will build their fluency. I’m part of their journey and I will make sure they remember the time we walked and learned together.
There are many of you who are indelibly in my thoughts (and influencing my decisions) because of what you said or what you did, when you didn’t have to. And I want you to know that.
Peace and so much love.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Piso! Piso! Piso! Piso!
Day 8
Greeting the day with a devious grin because I would soon be free of my hostel cell and relaxing in my penthouse apartment, I tromped off to the train for another day of work. I’ve learned to always be at the train station at least 10 minutes early because some days the conductor really doesn’t feel like following the schedule, like Friday after noon when we left at 2:54pm (schedule says we roll out at 2:58) or this morning when we peeled out at 8:03 (not 8:10am). Amongst other things, Spain keeps a very special sense of time. (Xavi, since you said you read my blog, you have to agree, right? Haha!) I would love to see a study done that finds out the source of the Spanish mood swings (I want to leave now, so I shall leave. I want to take a siesta now, so I shall close the city for mid day….)
Today was filled with more introductions, the usual blank stares to my schpeal “My name is Katie. I am 23 years old. I love to ride my bike. I love mangos. My favorite color is green.” We make modest gains in English, 1 day at a time. They rarely remember what I’ve said 1 minute ago, which makes me wonder how any of us actually learn a language. I mean Jesus Christ, I get to the 24th kid and he’s heard me ask EVERY OTHER STUDENT “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” and when I ask him the same damn thing, he freezes, completely confounded, giving me a stare that says, “You really expect me to have any idea about what you just said??” So I answer for him, “My name is….” And ask him to repeat it, meanwhile the rest of the class is in chaos, running around, yelling, screaming, shouting, drawing on tables and my trite lesson on introductions goes out the window because all we do in this school is tell the kids to be quiet, calm down, listen, listen, listen, and stop! I’m trying really hard to remember if I was that bad as a child, or if my class mates were such troublemakers, but I only have memories of quiet classrooms, somewhat well behaved kids, and rather productive days. I welcome any one to tell me differently. I’d love to hear what your experiences have been like in the classroom with the various temperaments of the children.
Jumping to the highlight of the day: I moved into my apartment!
Arriving at 8:25pm for our 8:30 appointment, the landlord asks where I’ve been because she’s a very busy lady and has to get this show on the road. I clench my jaw and stay the oh so tempting roll of my eyeballs. Another example of how unique Spanish time can be. Perhaps if I wasn’t so exhausted from my long day I would have been slightly ruffled by the landlady announcing we’d be the only ones living in the building. Creepy, right? Or rather, much potential for a house party… ;)
The nature of life in Europe is centered on movement, mobility and change. People travel for work, for holidays, for school, for the weekend. Populations migrate across borders, brushing aside the idea that a border, a mountain chain, or a body of water could be an impediment. There isn’t much of the ‘American dream’ here, no great desire to be a ‘self-made man’ when you can rent what a self-made man would struggle to pull together for 240 euro a month. It’s a dream to walk into an already furnished apartment. For as many times as I moved during college and I’ve helped my family move, there is no greater torture than trying to fit a 4 foot wide couch through a door frame 3 ft and 10 inches wide and if you actually manage to squeeze it through the door without losing fingers (or all your cool) there is of course, the winding staircase to tackle, which one can only hope has at least one tight corner, at which shouts of ‘PIVOT PIVOT PIVOT!” “I AM PIVOTING, YOU NEED TO PUSH!” speckle the beloved couch. All I had to do was haul my 2 pieces of luggage up. You all can hate me now.
A description seems fitting:
It has 2 bedrooms, one living room (for those who wish to co-habitate with few things and few-er people), 1 small kitchen, 1 large bathroom oddly enough, and 3 terraces (all are really standing room only (and only if you suck it in). It’s right behind the Plaza de Merced, in the Historic Center, overlooking a pedestrian street, with a magnificent view of the Cathedral tower. It’s lovely. And I hesitate to say I love it. It’s not even be 24 hours. Soon the kinks will pop up. Until then, it is such a great feeling to know I don’t have to go home to a hostel.
I’m reading Siddhartha by Hesse, trying to learn how to become at peace with Spain and create a zone of tranquility in my room. Zen. Nirvana. Getting some new mantras and trying to get some good vibes going on in my new space. Meanwhile, my flat mate caters to a different religion, that of IKEA. He thinks the curtains are ugly.
Greeting the day with a devious grin because I would soon be free of my hostel cell and relaxing in my penthouse apartment, I tromped off to the train for another day of work. I’ve learned to always be at the train station at least 10 minutes early because some days the conductor really doesn’t feel like following the schedule, like Friday after noon when we left at 2:54pm (schedule says we roll out at 2:58) or this morning when we peeled out at 8:03 (not 8:10am). Amongst other things, Spain keeps a very special sense of time. (Xavi, since you said you read my blog, you have to agree, right? Haha!) I would love to see a study done that finds out the source of the Spanish mood swings (I want to leave now, so I shall leave. I want to take a siesta now, so I shall close the city for mid day….)
Today was filled with more introductions, the usual blank stares to my schpeal “My name is Katie. I am 23 years old. I love to ride my bike. I love mangos. My favorite color is green.” We make modest gains in English, 1 day at a time. They rarely remember what I’ve said 1 minute ago, which makes me wonder how any of us actually learn a language. I mean Jesus Christ, I get to the 24th kid and he’s heard me ask EVERY OTHER STUDENT “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” and when I ask him the same damn thing, he freezes, completely confounded, giving me a stare that says, “You really expect me to have any idea about what you just said??” So I answer for him, “My name is….” And ask him to repeat it, meanwhile the rest of the class is in chaos, running around, yelling, screaming, shouting, drawing on tables and my trite lesson on introductions goes out the window because all we do in this school is tell the kids to be quiet, calm down, listen, listen, listen, and stop! I’m trying really hard to remember if I was that bad as a child, or if my class mates were such troublemakers, but I only have memories of quiet classrooms, somewhat well behaved kids, and rather productive days. I welcome any one to tell me differently. I’d love to hear what your experiences have been like in the classroom with the various temperaments of the children.
Jumping to the highlight of the day: I moved into my apartment!
Arriving at 8:25pm for our 8:30 appointment, the landlord asks where I’ve been because she’s a very busy lady and has to get this show on the road. I clench my jaw and stay the oh so tempting roll of my eyeballs. Another example of how unique Spanish time can be. Perhaps if I wasn’t so exhausted from my long day I would have been slightly ruffled by the landlady announcing we’d be the only ones living in the building. Creepy, right? Or rather, much potential for a house party… ;)
The nature of life in Europe is centered on movement, mobility and change. People travel for work, for holidays, for school, for the weekend. Populations migrate across borders, brushing aside the idea that a border, a mountain chain, or a body of water could be an impediment. There isn’t much of the ‘American dream’ here, no great desire to be a ‘self-made man’ when you can rent what a self-made man would struggle to pull together for 240 euro a month. It’s a dream to walk into an already furnished apartment. For as many times as I moved during college and I’ve helped my family move, there is no greater torture than trying to fit a 4 foot wide couch through a door frame 3 ft and 10 inches wide and if you actually manage to squeeze it through the door without losing fingers (or all your cool) there is of course, the winding staircase to tackle, which one can only hope has at least one tight corner, at which shouts of ‘PIVOT PIVOT PIVOT!” “I AM PIVOTING, YOU NEED TO PUSH!” speckle the beloved couch. All I had to do was haul my 2 pieces of luggage up. You all can hate me now.
A description seems fitting:
It has 2 bedrooms, one living room (for those who wish to co-habitate with few things and few-er people), 1 small kitchen, 1 large bathroom oddly enough, and 3 terraces (all are really standing room only (and only if you suck it in). It’s right behind the Plaza de Merced, in the Historic Center, overlooking a pedestrian street, with a magnificent view of the Cathedral tower. It’s lovely. And I hesitate to say I love it. It’s not even be 24 hours. Soon the kinks will pop up. Until then, it is such a great feeling to know I don’t have to go home to a hostel.
I’m reading Siddhartha by Hesse, trying to learn how to become at peace with Spain and create a zone of tranquility in my room. Zen. Nirvana. Getting some new mantras and trying to get some good vibes going on in my new space. Meanwhile, my flat mate caters to a different religion, that of IKEA. He thinks the curtains are ugly.
Monday, October 18, 2010
23: The age of fluency
Day 7
High: 23!!!
High #2: All your emails/messages/notes
Low: Not being able to give you all proper hugs
It’s official. I’m fluent. I’ve crossed the line, joining the millions of those hard workers lucky enough to call themselves BI-lingual. How can I be so sure of this so called bi-linguality, you ask? It’s only been 1 week, perhaps I’m just cocky. No no, I assure you, I did not throw down the flag, the holy grail of signs appeared to me last night. I cannot refute the truth. I DREAMT IN SPANISH. Yes, I was there, in my body, and Spanish words I clearly understood came out of MY mouth and yes, I was very much understood by Carmen. Holy mackerel it was insane. It started out a rather mundane dream; I was walking the halls of my school with the principal, the ever fashionable, always well-spoken, supremely compassionate Carmen. We were walking from the teacher’s longue, having ‘tomado un café” (drinking a coffee/espresso…because that’s what we do here) and we began to converse about my new apartment. She threw out a question about my new digs and faster than spit fire I answered the Espanola in her own language. Thus began my 1st dream in Spanish. As we were walking up the steps, my dreaming body detained by dream body, exclaiming softly at first, “whoa, you’re dreaming in Spanish.” Then louder, “Whoa! You’re dreaming in Spanish!” then euphoric “WHOOOOOAAAAAAAA YOU ARE DREAMING IN SPANISH. IN SPANISH! HA! SPANISH!” all this ruckus woke my dreaming body and I snapped into a sitting position (eh, lounging really, my hostel bed sags, you physically cannot contort yourself to sit properly) and I said, “Katie, you are much too tired to scrounge around for your journal now, no, keep your eyes closed. Just remember to remind yourself in the morning that you FINALLY dreamed in Spanish. Don’t forget- it was you, Carmen and Spanish.” Of course, I forgot the next morning, but later that day in the forest, it subconscious rose up in agony of being forgotten and I was alit with the epiphany that I actually did speak in Spanish in my dream. Hence, I’m fluent. You can deny it if you like, but studies have proven, those who dream in Spanish, are fluent. And no, I’m not the exception to the rule.
I won’t say a thing more until I’ve said this. THANK YOU! So many of you reached out and sent me notes to congratulate me on another year and to send your love. It meant the world to me. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there to take your call or Skype, I didn’t want to cry in front of you because it really touched me. It’s been a week here, but it feels like a year. And it’s amazing how quickly and just how heavy loneliness can weigh on you. I felt like I had a thousand hands dragging away that big cloud of loneliness that just wouldn’t let me be. While it would have been better to have you here, I felt so loved, just the same. I am so lucky to have such friends, I don’t know how I was chosen to be so blessed, but I’ve taken note and I’m trying to spread all that love back around.
In lieu of being with my favorite people (i.e. YOU) I went chestnut picking. My fellow teacher/boss Gema (my savior here, I really can’t say this enough), invited me on Friday to go with her and her friend. I really should give the back story so you can better understand the context of this whole adventure. As I was running out of class to get to my next one on Friday Gema called out to me, “Wait. I am going to pick chestnuts on Sunday. Would you like to come?” Feeling like that girl, the one who always sat alone at lunch, who just dug in the dirt at recess and did extra homework for fun, I was overwhelmed by the invitation and blurted a stammering affirmation, “Yes, yes, I’d love to.” Gema smiled saying that was great. 10:30 am on Sunday she’d pick me up at Corte Ingles. Now here is all I didn’t hear in not asking ANY details. We’d be going to the mountains, so I should wear sturdy shoes and warm layers. We’d be eating lunch, I should bring a bocadillo. We’d be stepping on chestnuts, do not wear flip flops or you’ll get pricked. We’ll be spending the afternoon just chatting with local friends, be sure to charge your phone and bring a sweater as well as money for un café. We’ll be returning late afternoon, so be sure you’ve already done your laundry and any other chores you had to do. Not that any store is open anyway though. Yep, somehow none of that got through… which only makes this story better.
We ended up walking 4km to the top of the mountain (fyi sporty shoes with no support do excellent on long hikes). We ended up crunching what looked like sea urchins with our feet (fyi boots schoomts, do it barefoot or in sporty shoes with no support), in the shadows of the mountain (really a t-shirt will suffice, just hunt with greater vigor if you want to stay warm, do some wind sprints and soon you’ll be sweating). After accruing a huge bag of chestnuts we decided it was lunch time. So down to the bottom to eat the lunch I didn’t know to pack. Luckily I was with teachers, and they always think of everything (it’s true) and she had an extra lunch packed for me. Again, why gema is an angel. Then we spent the next 4 hours just chatting with her friends, digging into the best damn cake I’ve ever had. Lord I don’t know how they did it, but yuuuuuuuuum. It was amazing to see a group of friends that truly enjoyed each other’s company just pass the time, relishing each moment, without an ounce of anxiety about the time. It baffled me. I racked my brain to remember the last time I’d seen that….still racking my brain. They also came equipped with some pretty cute kids. I’ll tell you what any moms and dads out there; a forest is the BEST playground. Endless things to explore, investigate and discover. At that point in the day though I felt like an English sponge, overly saturated with Spanish. I couldn’t process it anymore. So I just tuned out and hoped they wouldn’t ask me anything. Just listening to the sounds of Spanish as it rose and fall, jumping between mouths was so sensual. A wonderful way to spend the day. I was so touched that I had been invited to be part of this gathering. I may gripe a LOT about Spain, but it knows how to do some things right, and being present for friends and family, enjoying good friends, good food and good conversation (not necessarily in that order) is their forte.
So my wonderful friends visit me and let me take you to good places to eat, enjoying your company and relishing in all the stories you have to share with me. Because as wonderful as the day in the forest was, all those faces merely reminded me of yours, the ones I’ve been missing.
So before I start tearing up, I’m going off to do laundry. Tomorrow is a big day. Move in day.
High: 23!!!
High #2: All your emails/messages/notes
Low: Not being able to give you all proper hugs
It’s official. I’m fluent. I’ve crossed the line, joining the millions of those hard workers lucky enough to call themselves BI-lingual. How can I be so sure of this so called bi-linguality, you ask? It’s only been 1 week, perhaps I’m just cocky. No no, I assure you, I did not throw down the flag, the holy grail of signs appeared to me last night. I cannot refute the truth. I DREAMT IN SPANISH. Yes, I was there, in my body, and Spanish words I clearly understood came out of MY mouth and yes, I was very much understood by Carmen. Holy mackerel it was insane. It started out a rather mundane dream; I was walking the halls of my school with the principal, the ever fashionable, always well-spoken, supremely compassionate Carmen. We were walking from the teacher’s longue, having ‘tomado un café” (drinking a coffee/espresso…because that’s what we do here) and we began to converse about my new apartment. She threw out a question about my new digs and faster than spit fire I answered the Espanola in her own language. Thus began my 1st dream in Spanish. As we were walking up the steps, my dreaming body detained by dream body, exclaiming softly at first, “whoa, you’re dreaming in Spanish.” Then louder, “Whoa! You’re dreaming in Spanish!” then euphoric “WHOOOOOAAAAAAAA YOU ARE DREAMING IN SPANISH. IN SPANISH! HA! SPANISH!” all this ruckus woke my dreaming body and I snapped into a sitting position (eh, lounging really, my hostel bed sags, you physically cannot contort yourself to sit properly) and I said, “Katie, you are much too tired to scrounge around for your journal now, no, keep your eyes closed. Just remember to remind yourself in the morning that you FINALLY dreamed in Spanish. Don’t forget- it was you, Carmen and Spanish.” Of course, I forgot the next morning, but later that day in the forest, it subconscious rose up in agony of being forgotten and I was alit with the epiphany that I actually did speak in Spanish in my dream. Hence, I’m fluent. You can deny it if you like, but studies have proven, those who dream in Spanish, are fluent. And no, I’m not the exception to the rule.
I won’t say a thing more until I’ve said this. THANK YOU! So many of you reached out and sent me notes to congratulate me on another year and to send your love. It meant the world to me. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there to take your call or Skype, I didn’t want to cry in front of you because it really touched me. It’s been a week here, but it feels like a year. And it’s amazing how quickly and just how heavy loneliness can weigh on you. I felt like I had a thousand hands dragging away that big cloud of loneliness that just wouldn’t let me be. While it would have been better to have you here, I felt so loved, just the same. I am so lucky to have such friends, I don’t know how I was chosen to be so blessed, but I’ve taken note and I’m trying to spread all that love back around.
In lieu of being with my favorite people (i.e. YOU) I went chestnut picking. My fellow teacher/boss Gema (my savior here, I really can’t say this enough), invited me on Friday to go with her and her friend. I really should give the back story so you can better understand the context of this whole adventure. As I was running out of class to get to my next one on Friday Gema called out to me, “Wait. I am going to pick chestnuts on Sunday. Would you like to come?” Feeling like that girl, the one who always sat alone at lunch, who just dug in the dirt at recess and did extra homework for fun, I was overwhelmed by the invitation and blurted a stammering affirmation, “Yes, yes, I’d love to.” Gema smiled saying that was great. 10:30 am on Sunday she’d pick me up at Corte Ingles. Now here is all I didn’t hear in not asking ANY details. We’d be going to the mountains, so I should wear sturdy shoes and warm layers. We’d be eating lunch, I should bring a bocadillo. We’d be stepping on chestnuts, do not wear flip flops or you’ll get pricked. We’ll be spending the afternoon just chatting with local friends, be sure to charge your phone and bring a sweater as well as money for un café. We’ll be returning late afternoon, so be sure you’ve already done your laundry and any other chores you had to do. Not that any store is open anyway though. Yep, somehow none of that got through… which only makes this story better.
We ended up walking 4km to the top of the mountain (fyi sporty shoes with no support do excellent on long hikes). We ended up crunching what looked like sea urchins with our feet (fyi boots schoomts, do it barefoot or in sporty shoes with no support), in the shadows of the mountain (really a t-shirt will suffice, just hunt with greater vigor if you want to stay warm, do some wind sprints and soon you’ll be sweating). After accruing a huge bag of chestnuts we decided it was lunch time. So down to the bottom to eat the lunch I didn’t know to pack. Luckily I was with teachers, and they always think of everything (it’s true) and she had an extra lunch packed for me. Again, why gema is an angel. Then we spent the next 4 hours just chatting with her friends, digging into the best damn cake I’ve ever had. Lord I don’t know how they did it, but yuuuuuuuuum. It was amazing to see a group of friends that truly enjoyed each other’s company just pass the time, relishing each moment, without an ounce of anxiety about the time. It baffled me. I racked my brain to remember the last time I’d seen that….still racking my brain. They also came equipped with some pretty cute kids. I’ll tell you what any moms and dads out there; a forest is the BEST playground. Endless things to explore, investigate and discover. At that point in the day though I felt like an English sponge, overly saturated with Spanish. I couldn’t process it anymore. So I just tuned out and hoped they wouldn’t ask me anything. Just listening to the sounds of Spanish as it rose and fall, jumping between mouths was so sensual. A wonderful way to spend the day. I was so touched that I had been invited to be part of this gathering. I may gripe a LOT about Spain, but it knows how to do some things right, and being present for friends and family, enjoying good friends, good food and good conversation (not necessarily in that order) is their forte.
So my wonderful friends visit me and let me take you to good places to eat, enjoying your company and relishing in all the stories you have to share with me. Because as wonderful as the day in the forest was, all those faces merely reminded me of yours, the ones I’ve been missing.
So before I start tearing up, I’m going off to do laundry. Tomorrow is a big day. Move in day.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Penthouse, what?!! yeah. Now I have a floor for you all to crash on :)
Day 6
High: FOUND AN APARTMENT!
Low: Lonely, bahumbug
NMDM: I actually might have a place to live..ha!
Not being an Espanola, everything is “QuE FaTAL!” (How terrible!!) I try to keep up an effervescent euphoria that ranges from a simmering contentment to overflowing glee. So my new take at this whole Spain thing involves scrapping any thing that could appear as a bad omen and JUST looking at it all with naïve positivity…we’ll see how it goes.
So on my 1st Saturday
- I was not disturbingly woken up insanely early at 7 by the French couple getting it on in the room below, I was abruptly reminded to stop snoozing and get my day going, ASAP.
- I did not waste 1 hour walking to the Police dept and back only to find out that they do NOT give out residence cards on Saturday. No, no, I had a lovely early morning jaunt, really only solidifying my knowledge of the ghetto of Malaga if you will, knowledge I will store away and most likely never use.
- No I did not waste 10 euro at Corte Ingles buying things for activities with my kdis on Monday. I invested in Spanish culture, preparing to buy my kids’ love.
- I FOUND AN APARTMENT. There is NO down side.
- I have no friends and nothing to do because I have no money and sure as hell am not going to just sit all alone on the beach. No, rather, I had plenty of time to apply for grad school! How lucky am I, to be friendless and so productive!
One thing I adore about Europe is the allure of the streets at night. Many people fail to understand why (and how) a European can be out at all hours, even into the early hours of morning. I think that anyone could be convinced to toss the idea of sleep in the garbage and just peruse the city, if they walked the main drag, alit with street lights, bustling with people eating dinner, vendors selling useless knick knacks, taxis crowding for attention and people caught in various stages of life welking, running, strolling or minglihng on the streets. I just walked the city, soaking up the lively night life. Really, the city is a different creature at night, requiring a different way of moving, of talking, of even looking at a person.
Today’s journal will end here, because the day was long on ruminating, but short on acting. I would like to recommend “Everything Is Illuminated” for anyone looking for an attention grabbing (and holding) read, that will tickle you pink, but catch you wiping your eyes at other moments. It’s also better for the more adult audiences because of some subject matter.
With all my love,
I’m off to my little closet in my little hostel
High: FOUND AN APARTMENT!
Low: Lonely, bahumbug
NMDM: I actually might have a place to live..ha!
Not being an Espanola, everything is “QuE FaTAL!” (How terrible!!) I try to keep up an effervescent euphoria that ranges from a simmering contentment to overflowing glee. So my new take at this whole Spain thing involves scrapping any thing that could appear as a bad omen and JUST looking at it all with naïve positivity…we’ll see how it goes.
So on my 1st Saturday
- I was not disturbingly woken up insanely early at 7 by the French couple getting it on in the room below, I was abruptly reminded to stop snoozing and get my day going, ASAP.
- I did not waste 1 hour walking to the Police dept and back only to find out that they do NOT give out residence cards on Saturday. No, no, I had a lovely early morning jaunt, really only solidifying my knowledge of the ghetto of Malaga if you will, knowledge I will store away and most likely never use.
- No I did not waste 10 euro at Corte Ingles buying things for activities with my kdis on Monday. I invested in Spanish culture, preparing to buy my kids’ love.
- I FOUND AN APARTMENT. There is NO down side.
- I have no friends and nothing to do because I have no money and sure as hell am not going to just sit all alone on the beach. No, rather, I had plenty of time to apply for grad school! How lucky am I, to be friendless and so productive!
One thing I adore about Europe is the allure of the streets at night. Many people fail to understand why (and how) a European can be out at all hours, even into the early hours of morning. I think that anyone could be convinced to toss the idea of sleep in the garbage and just peruse the city, if they walked the main drag, alit with street lights, bustling with people eating dinner, vendors selling useless knick knacks, taxis crowding for attention and people caught in various stages of life welking, running, strolling or minglihng on the streets. I just walked the city, soaking up the lively night life. Really, the city is a different creature at night, requiring a different way of moving, of talking, of even looking at a person.
Today’s journal will end here, because the day was long on ruminating, but short on acting. I would like to recommend “Everything Is Illuminated” for anyone looking for an attention grabbing (and holding) read, that will tickle you pink, but catch you wiping your eyes at other moments. It’s also better for the more adult audiences because of some subject matter.
With all my love,
I’m off to my little closet in my little hostel
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Toe Wiggling Fun
Day 5
High: Wiggling my toes with the 6 year olds and watching them try to pat their heads and rub their tummies at the same time.
Low: less than exuberantly thinking-TGIF-…eh…lack of friends, lack of housing, not too much celebrate with the stellar crowd of me, myself, and I.
NMDM: The 14:58pm train decided to leave at 14:54pm today…interesting…very interesting. Yet another example of just how special Spanish time is. (and why this little American is always a step ahead being 10 minutes early, expect when she’s not and she oversleeps 2 hours)
I feel slightly like Tom Hank’s character in Cast Away, scratching lines in stone to mark the passing day with each blog. Day 5, Friday. I hesitate to say TGIF. Days feel like years, I can’t believe it’s been a whole hand's worth of moments of exhaustion, fear, relief, elation, anxiety, anger, frustration, frustration, frustration, and joy. And still no apartment, which is beginning to weigh rather heavily because I’ve got 2 days left in my hostel. Miracles happen, right?
But onto lighter things, because really, I’m in the Costa de Sol and I spent the day with albeit rowdy and LOUD children, they are still endearingly charming and melt my heart speaking English laced with the softest Spanish accent (brother is brudder, cousin is coooseen), saying hi to me, the senorita Inglesa (still refusing to believe that I’m American even though I tell them it’s an ‘eraser’ NOT a ‘rubber’ and it’s a tomato, not a tomahto).
the school day is only 9am-2pm, eat your heart out of that schedule NOVA kids, we got gipped eh?, which means it flashes by in moments, moments of hardwork, moments of laughter, of admonishment, of pleading, of laughing, and rolling my eyes. Helping Rosa with 1st grade today we learned about the body. Pulling out an obvious American game we played head, shoulders, knees and toes, or rather “haad, shouler, knee, touuu” and when I took my shoe off to show them how my toes wiggled they just about died with laughter. You must understand, decorum is primary here. The children are constantly reminded to “siéntate bien” “sit properly” feet on the floor; butt in the seat, back straight. So to remove your shoe and flail your leg in the arm was not in the least in good decorum. So you better believe I had about 20 6-year olds wiggle their toes at me.
It’s funny what you learn when you don’t know much of a language. Since the kids really only know a handful of questions, they all know about the same 10 things about me.
1. My name is Katie.
2. I am 22 years old.
3. I am from the United States. I live near Washington DC (here I draw the White House in the air, and say Obama , smile and nod)
4. I have 1 younger sister.
5. I have 1 younger brother.
6. My favorite color is green.
7. My favorite food, mango.
8. I used to have 1 pet, a dog.
9. My favorite animal…varies with each class…
10. I love to ride my bike.
As far as they care, that’s all there is to know about me. Oh and they all seem to add, “You have short hair” which impels me to remind them that that is a statement, not a question they’re asking me. And no, I did not add it as a fact because it is rather obvious, just look at me. Which is why I also did not alert them that I am a girl, I have blue eyes, I have 2 legs, etc etc etc.
I know that there must be some trite phrase about expectations, but my brain is fried from the stress of being a foreigner, overworking my internal translator mechanism, so you should just substitute it here --> “______________” I’ll add the pertinent commentary. I thought teaching in the class would be the hardest, but while it’s clearly a challenge, it’s also exceedingly enjoyable. Granted half the time I’m faced with blank stares, so like a foreigner I just say it again, but louder (ha-ha, no no, we make it work, I’m just kidding) once I get a groove I know I’ll love the classroom because I’m already starting to feel a bit more comfortable at the forefront. But I never expected interacting with the other teachers to be so ….well…awkward. The majority only speak Spanish, which is wonderful because it means I get to practice A LOT, but it also makes the ‘break time’ we have from 11:30-12pm when the kids run around like hooligans on mountain dew sugar highs a bit tense. When the teachers get together they relax the language, using familiar colloquialisms, speaking faster than a rattle snake bites, laughing and bantering louder than the next. Now before I start to sound too “woe me” I must defend them and say they all invite me to “tomar un café” (come have coffee!) with great emotion, asking how I am repeatedly, if I’ve found a place to live, generally investing genuine sincerity in my presence. This throws me right to cloud 9. For now the 30 minutes pass painfully slow, I edge around conversations, feeling like the white elephant in the room. Good news though, my nervous laugh (most of you know what I’m talking about…it’s the one a bit too high pitched and I look like I just slammed my finger in the door) has relaxed into my normal guffaw (I hope more of you know this one). Trying to be center of Zen, peace, calm, happiness…and all that good stuff. If nothing else I’ve almost stopped grimacing after the first sip of espresso, it still almost burns my tongue off and detains my heart beat, but my face sure doesn’t show it. I feel like its rookie initiation into Spanish culture…every teacher in the room wondering, can she handle it?? Well hell yeah, like grandpa says, “Don’t let the bastards get you down!” and with enough sugar to give me a cavity just by smelling it, I’ve beat them at their own game. We’ll see if the caffeine shakes ever go away…
Before I sign off, I want to let you know that this morning I took some video of my commute to work and the stunning area around my school. Pappa-son (yes you daddy) shall soon be recruited to help me figure out how to share this with my many followers (yes, I know who you are my special friends and I love you for not forgetting me!) hopefully you’ll be enraptured with the views and tickled with my ever so witty commentary.
I LOVE YOU ALL! And yep, still miss you as crazily as Spanish 8 years released for recess after throwing down a chocolate shake in 30 seconds flat.
High: Wiggling my toes with the 6 year olds and watching them try to pat their heads and rub their tummies at the same time.
Low: less than exuberantly thinking-TGIF-…eh…lack of friends, lack of housing, not too much celebrate with the stellar crowd of me, myself, and I.
NMDM: The 14:58pm train decided to leave at 14:54pm today…interesting…very interesting. Yet another example of just how special Spanish time is. (and why this little American is always a step ahead being 10 minutes early, expect when she’s not and she oversleeps 2 hours)
I feel slightly like Tom Hank’s character in Cast Away, scratching lines in stone to mark the passing day with each blog. Day 5, Friday. I hesitate to say TGIF. Days feel like years, I can’t believe it’s been a whole hand's worth of moments of exhaustion, fear, relief, elation, anxiety, anger, frustration, frustration, frustration, and joy. And still no apartment, which is beginning to weigh rather heavily because I’ve got 2 days left in my hostel. Miracles happen, right?
But onto lighter things, because really, I’m in the Costa de Sol and I spent the day with albeit rowdy and LOUD children, they are still endearingly charming and melt my heart speaking English laced with the softest Spanish accent (brother is brudder, cousin is coooseen), saying hi to me, the senorita Inglesa (still refusing to believe that I’m American even though I tell them it’s an ‘eraser’ NOT a ‘rubber’ and it’s a tomato, not a tomahto).
the school day is only 9am-2pm, eat your heart out of that schedule NOVA kids, we got gipped eh?, which means it flashes by in moments, moments of hardwork, moments of laughter, of admonishment, of pleading, of laughing, and rolling my eyes. Helping Rosa with 1st grade today we learned about the body. Pulling out an obvious American game we played head, shoulders, knees and toes, or rather “haad, shouler, knee, touuu” and when I took my shoe off to show them how my toes wiggled they just about died with laughter. You must understand, decorum is primary here. The children are constantly reminded to “siéntate bien” “sit properly” feet on the floor; butt in the seat, back straight. So to remove your shoe and flail your leg in the arm was not in the least in good decorum. So you better believe I had about 20 6-year olds wiggle their toes at me.
It’s funny what you learn when you don’t know much of a language. Since the kids really only know a handful of questions, they all know about the same 10 things about me.
1. My name is Katie.
2. I am 22 years old.
3. I am from the United States. I live near Washington DC (here I draw the White House in the air, and say Obama , smile and nod)
4. I have 1 younger sister.
5. I have 1 younger brother.
6. My favorite color is green.
7. My favorite food, mango.
8. I used to have 1 pet, a dog.
9. My favorite animal…varies with each class…
10. I love to ride my bike.
As far as they care, that’s all there is to know about me. Oh and they all seem to add, “You have short hair” which impels me to remind them that that is a statement, not a question they’re asking me. And no, I did not add it as a fact because it is rather obvious, just look at me. Which is why I also did not alert them that I am a girl, I have blue eyes, I have 2 legs, etc etc etc.
I know that there must be some trite phrase about expectations, but my brain is fried from the stress of being a foreigner, overworking my internal translator mechanism, so you should just substitute it here --> “______________” I’ll add the pertinent commentary. I thought teaching in the class would be the hardest, but while it’s clearly a challenge, it’s also exceedingly enjoyable. Granted half the time I’m faced with blank stares, so like a foreigner I just say it again, but louder (ha-ha, no no, we make it work, I’m just kidding) once I get a groove I know I’ll love the classroom because I’m already starting to feel a bit more comfortable at the forefront. But I never expected interacting with the other teachers to be so ….well…awkward. The majority only speak Spanish, which is wonderful because it means I get to practice A LOT, but it also makes the ‘break time’ we have from 11:30-12pm when the kids run around like hooligans on mountain dew sugar highs a bit tense. When the teachers get together they relax the language, using familiar colloquialisms, speaking faster than a rattle snake bites, laughing and bantering louder than the next. Now before I start to sound too “woe me” I must defend them and say they all invite me to “tomar un café” (come have coffee!) with great emotion, asking how I am repeatedly, if I’ve found a place to live, generally investing genuine sincerity in my presence. This throws me right to cloud 9. For now the 30 minutes pass painfully slow, I edge around conversations, feeling like the white elephant in the room. Good news though, my nervous laugh (most of you know what I’m talking about…it’s the one a bit too high pitched and I look like I just slammed my finger in the door) has relaxed into my normal guffaw (I hope more of you know this one). Trying to be center of Zen, peace, calm, happiness…and all that good stuff. If nothing else I’ve almost stopped grimacing after the first sip of espresso, it still almost burns my tongue off and detains my heart beat, but my face sure doesn’t show it. I feel like its rookie initiation into Spanish culture…every teacher in the room wondering, can she handle it?? Well hell yeah, like grandpa says, “Don’t let the bastards get you down!” and with enough sugar to give me a cavity just by smelling it, I’ve beat them at their own game. We’ll see if the caffeine shakes ever go away…
Before I sign off, I want to let you know that this morning I took some video of my commute to work and the stunning area around my school. Pappa-son (yes you daddy) shall soon be recruited to help me figure out how to share this with my many followers (yes, I know who you are my special friends and I love you for not forgetting me!) hopefully you’ll be enraptured with the views and tickled with my ever so witty commentary.
I LOVE YOU ALL! And yep, still miss you as crazily as Spanish 8 years released for recess after throwing down a chocolate shake in 30 seconds flat.
Friday, October 15, 2010
SOoooooooooooooooooooooooo Late.
Day 4
High: Discovering free wifi in the train station, muahahaha
Low: Discovering no free seating, no open outlets and limited connectivity to said wifi. So I guess the real low is recognizing I’m Not as clever as I thought.
NMDM: Spanish children only raise their pointer finger to answer questions
Dane Cook has a bit on oversleeping. Nothing could more appropriately sum up my experience this morning than his cry, “5 hours! I overslept by 5 hours! There is NO excuse for that. NONE.” Granted, I didn’t oversleep by 5 hours, only by 1 ½. I sunk into my pillow when my eyes registered 8:01am. Damn it. 9 minutes to shower and haul ass to the train station to catch my ride. My second day and I was already messing up big. I did what any of us would do. I just lay in bed, considering the many ways in which they might kick me out of the school, would they yell in Spanish or English, knowing that I’d be so overwhelmed by their accent and the speed of their insults that I wouldn’t be scathed, so English would really cut much deeper. But then I went back to the moment of fight or flight, I thought, no, there Must be some excuse good enough for being 2 hours late. Then I learned, while I am not a test taker at anytime before 9am (thank you GREs) I am verry creative in excuses. It did not help my case though that my phone still did not work, so I couldn’t even call the school and let them know I was coming chock full of juicy stories of hostel evictions, muggings on the train, random toilet floods, hobo phone stealers, discovery of rare blood disease, fugue, etc.
So I casually hopped on the 9:40am train, having plenty of time to kick myself in the butt and get ready for a later departure. Since everything in Spain is “Que fatal!” (Oh, how terrible!) They didn’t even listen to half of my blubbering excuses and assuring me that it was fine that I was late, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I felt guilty relief.
I’ll tell you something else though. The rest of Malaga has nothing on the 3rd graders at Los Llanos. I walk in, ridiculously late and they saw, “la senorita viene” (the young lady is here!) and then burst into the English dialogue they’ve been practicing to train themselves on how to properly do an introduction in English, I’m blown away as they yell in unison, “Hello! How are you? I’m fine thank you! How are you? I’m fine thank you? (high 5 your neighbor)” they don’t bother waiting for my answer, that’s not the point of the exercise, they see by my smile I’m overjoyed to be with them, and they glow right back so proud they speak like the Inglesa (British girl, still working on getting them to understand that I’m American, not British, doesn’t quite stick in their minds because they’ve never met an American. For now, I’m relishing my faux European status)
Today was full of more classroom tours, stopping in to teach/learn to teach with Esmerelda, or Mery as she prefers. I got to gab about myself, very very slowly. Repeating, “My favorite color is green” and doing some serious body language pointing to my shirt, my waterbottle and my notebook to get the point across. They asked the normal picky questions, “Do you have a car?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “How old are you?” “Why are you scared of horses?” Even the more rural Spaniards clearly have their social agenda in the forefront of their minds.
Later we got to see a demonstration of the food of the nearby Guadalhorce Valley. All the kids donned chef’s hats and then went to shop tomatoes, kiwi, watermelon and mango, to name a few. I grabbed Gema, my saving grace, and had her tell me the words of all the food in Spanish. As we stepped back to watch the kids interact with the mayor of Álora, who had come for the presentation, I noticed that when the children raised their hands to answer a question they only put their point finger up in the arm, none of them dared to put their whole hand up, much like children in the USA do. I was baffled and asked Gema if she could explain it. Always with answers she said that the arm raised with the palm open looks too much like a Nazi salute. Since the era of Franco is still very fresh in the national memory of Spain the children have been taught to raise their finger so as not to appear as if they were saluting Franco or Hitler. It’s interesting that the Ministry of Education began the program of language assistants, bringing foreigners into the classroom to help teach, because they already seem to be dedicated to eliminating the memory of Franco and Nazism. As Gema said to me, “I’m glad you asked because I never thought about why we did that.” If Spain is invested in changing for the better, where does the move to be more conscious of their history begin (or rather the ramifications)? I only ask because while they love my English, I think they really just love having a younger teacher around who really doesn’t have the right to punish them. I bring in the games and take away the boring lesson books. But the handful of international students who speak English have already told Gema that they refuse to help her speak English and are tightlipped when we do anything bi-lingual. It’s almost as if a slip of an English word would cause them to lose their friends, expelled because they broken the code of Spanish nationalism, used the language of the enemy, of the British and the Americans. While some things have changed for the better in Spain, clearly, the ramifications of Franco’s regime can be seen in the behavior of the children. I’m not even sure where to begin addressing it, or if I’m even if a position to address it as the foreigner.
I hope to soon post videos or pictures of my school and the commute to Álora because it is magnificent. White washed building flowing like white hot lava in the Mediterranean sun down the mountain sides. Clouds like plumes of smoke hang with puffed chest over the valley. As I precariously wind my way down the road to the train station, in glimpses I catch breathtaking views of the countryside. I know many of us use a long drive to clear our heads or calm down or think through something, I think that any of us could reach a sort of nirvana, free of stress or worry by cruising through the interior of Spain.
Back to the apartment hunt …..this time with Cristóbal, another (alumni) language assistant. Maybe two will have better luck than one. He pointed out the best place for tapas and the coolest place to get a view of all of Málaga (WHICH MEANS YOU SHOULD VISIT, BECAUSE I ACTUALLY KNOW USEFUL THINGS NOW ) It was reassuring to speak to someone who’s already lived in Málaga and has a year of experience teaching English in their back pocket. Even though I already knew I’d get a routine and everything would settle down and life would get into a familiar flow, it felt really good to have someone else tell me that…but then again, where would any of us be if we actually took our own advice?
I love you all and miss you!!
Spanish phrase of the day: Vaya castaña! [You just fell flat on your face!] ….not that I did…hehe
High: Discovering free wifi in the train station, muahahaha
Low: Discovering no free seating, no open outlets and limited connectivity to said wifi. So I guess the real low is recognizing I’m Not as clever as I thought.
NMDM: Spanish children only raise their pointer finger to answer questions
Dane Cook has a bit on oversleeping. Nothing could more appropriately sum up my experience this morning than his cry, “5 hours! I overslept by 5 hours! There is NO excuse for that. NONE.” Granted, I didn’t oversleep by 5 hours, only by 1 ½. I sunk into my pillow when my eyes registered 8:01am. Damn it. 9 minutes to shower and haul ass to the train station to catch my ride. My second day and I was already messing up big. I did what any of us would do. I just lay in bed, considering the many ways in which they might kick me out of the school, would they yell in Spanish or English, knowing that I’d be so overwhelmed by their accent and the speed of their insults that I wouldn’t be scathed, so English would really cut much deeper. But then I went back to the moment of fight or flight, I thought, no, there Must be some excuse good enough for being 2 hours late. Then I learned, while I am not a test taker at anytime before 9am (thank you GREs) I am verry creative in excuses. It did not help my case though that my phone still did not work, so I couldn’t even call the school and let them know I was coming chock full of juicy stories of hostel evictions, muggings on the train, random toilet floods, hobo phone stealers, discovery of rare blood disease, fugue, etc.
So I casually hopped on the 9:40am train, having plenty of time to kick myself in the butt and get ready for a later departure. Since everything in Spain is “Que fatal!” (Oh, how terrible!) They didn’t even listen to half of my blubbering excuses and assuring me that it was fine that I was late, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I felt guilty relief.
I’ll tell you something else though. The rest of Malaga has nothing on the 3rd graders at Los Llanos. I walk in, ridiculously late and they saw, “la senorita viene” (the young lady is here!) and then burst into the English dialogue they’ve been practicing to train themselves on how to properly do an introduction in English, I’m blown away as they yell in unison, “Hello! How are you? I’m fine thank you! How are you? I’m fine thank you? (high 5 your neighbor)” they don’t bother waiting for my answer, that’s not the point of the exercise, they see by my smile I’m overjoyed to be with them, and they glow right back so proud they speak like the Inglesa (British girl, still working on getting them to understand that I’m American, not British, doesn’t quite stick in their minds because they’ve never met an American. For now, I’m relishing my faux European status)
Today was full of more classroom tours, stopping in to teach/learn to teach with Esmerelda, or Mery as she prefers. I got to gab about myself, very very slowly. Repeating, “My favorite color is green” and doing some serious body language pointing to my shirt, my waterbottle and my notebook to get the point across. They asked the normal picky questions, “Do you have a car?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “How old are you?” “Why are you scared of horses?” Even the more rural Spaniards clearly have their social agenda in the forefront of their minds.
Later we got to see a demonstration of the food of the nearby Guadalhorce Valley. All the kids donned chef’s hats and then went to shop tomatoes, kiwi, watermelon and mango, to name a few. I grabbed Gema, my saving grace, and had her tell me the words of all the food in Spanish. As we stepped back to watch the kids interact with the mayor of Álora, who had come for the presentation, I noticed that when the children raised their hands to answer a question they only put their point finger up in the arm, none of them dared to put their whole hand up, much like children in the USA do. I was baffled and asked Gema if she could explain it. Always with answers she said that the arm raised with the palm open looks too much like a Nazi salute. Since the era of Franco is still very fresh in the national memory of Spain the children have been taught to raise their finger so as not to appear as if they were saluting Franco or Hitler. It’s interesting that the Ministry of Education began the program of language assistants, bringing foreigners into the classroom to help teach, because they already seem to be dedicated to eliminating the memory of Franco and Nazism. As Gema said to me, “I’m glad you asked because I never thought about why we did that.” If Spain is invested in changing for the better, where does the move to be more conscious of their history begin (or rather the ramifications)? I only ask because while they love my English, I think they really just love having a younger teacher around who really doesn’t have the right to punish them. I bring in the games and take away the boring lesson books. But the handful of international students who speak English have already told Gema that they refuse to help her speak English and are tightlipped when we do anything bi-lingual. It’s almost as if a slip of an English word would cause them to lose their friends, expelled because they broken the code of Spanish nationalism, used the language of the enemy, of the British and the Americans. While some things have changed for the better in Spain, clearly, the ramifications of Franco’s regime can be seen in the behavior of the children. I’m not even sure where to begin addressing it, or if I’m even if a position to address it as the foreigner.
I hope to soon post videos or pictures of my school and the commute to Álora because it is magnificent. White washed building flowing like white hot lava in the Mediterranean sun down the mountain sides. Clouds like plumes of smoke hang with puffed chest over the valley. As I precariously wind my way down the road to the train station, in glimpses I catch breathtaking views of the countryside. I know many of us use a long drive to clear our heads or calm down or think through something, I think that any of us could reach a sort of nirvana, free of stress or worry by cruising through the interior of Spain.
Back to the apartment hunt …..this time with Cristóbal, another (alumni) language assistant. Maybe two will have better luck than one. He pointed out the best place for tapas and the coolest place to get a view of all of Málaga (WHICH MEANS YOU SHOULD VISIT, BECAUSE I ACTUALLY KNOW USEFUL THINGS NOW ) It was reassuring to speak to someone who’s already lived in Málaga and has a year of experience teaching English in their back pocket. Even though I already knew I’d get a routine and everything would settle down and life would get into a familiar flow, it felt really good to have someone else tell me that…but then again, where would any of us be if we actually took our own advice?
I love you all and miss you!!
Spanish phrase of the day: Vaya castaña! [You just fell flat on your face!] ….not that I did…hehe
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