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.