A sigh of hope against the setting sun

Day 3

High: Meeting Gema and being welcomed by the most amazing staff and world’s (well, second to my adorable cousins) cutest children
Low: Finding out that there is something worse than waiting at a DMV in Northern VA, it’s called the Spanish Police.
NMDM (No me digas moment): Meeting UVA students studying in Valencia at my hostel. Really? REALLY?? After meeting a UVA kid in Morocco on a tour of the Sahara Desert, I should have seen this one coming.

He is standing there, his mouth his moving and I hear sounds rushing out at me. In his eyes sits the expectation that I comprehend what he is saying. I fight the nodding of my head which makes my mouth burst, “sí, sí” as if I even had a hope of interpreting the vocal waterfall he is emitting, that’s now flooding my brain. My restive, furled brow caught his eye, as did my nervous habit of biting my lip, he paused, “me entiende?”(Do you understand?) He asked me….I paused sputtering for words. Finally I managed to burst “no, no, de verdad, no, es que, tu accento, pues, es muy dicil, para mi” (no no, actually, it’s that, your accent is really hard to understand). He just laughed and I shook with that nervous laugh we’ve all seen from someone stuck in the spotlight, a rigid shake, more breathy, with darting eyes, than a genuine expression of comedic relief. “Vamos al director, ellla habla ingles” (let’s go meet the director, she talks English) English, the brain, I’m certain, is trained on picking up words that act as life jackets in desperate situations, English, yes yes, please bring me to the woman who speaks my language.

And so began my first day at school.

Wandering the quaint country school, Los Llanos, of Álora, Málaga, I met the small classes of boisterous Spanish children. Gema, the director of the bilingual program, deserves a golden halo for being my angel. Let me explain. In the south of Spain, they think that pronouncing the “s’ at the end of any word is just simply excessive, a waste of time they don’t have (so says the café culture, where they just sit and take café/te all afternoon). For those of you unfamiliar with languages or linguistics, you wouldn’t think this would be much of a problem, it might be akin to me using slang, “yep. Way cool. Sounds sweet. I dig it. Gnarly, etc” But no, no, in Spanish it’s a bit more complicated.

An example: we are in class talking about pets. The teacher asks me, “Tienes tres gatos?” But pronounces it “Tiene tre gato?” with out those crucial three ‘s’’s I don’t realize she’s a) talking to me, b) asking the # and c) don’t even pick up the fact she is talking about gatos (cats). The kids laugh, and she tries again, saying the ‘s’ which only delights the kids more. She is being dramatic actually saying the whole word. Dio(s) Mio(s).

They say, give me a week and I’ll understand what seems to me a choppy dialect, almost like an Italian with a stuttering problem. Right…

If nothing else, the kids have certainly livened up my days. Before I would sit and prepare grad school apps, or apt hunt. But now I’m getting bracelets as gifts after recess or being interrogated by the 3rd grade boys if I have “novio” (boyfriend). They have no shame. And it makes me blush.

Aside from totally forgetting the beso introduction, and sticking my hand out to greet the teachers, making it remarkably awkward, I’m going to risk it, I’m excited about my school. I think (fingers crossed!) it could be…..GREAT.

And just to make sure that you know that life isn’t always sunny in Malaga, there is something worse than the DMV in Spain. It’s the police department. If you thought waiting to renew your drivers license in NOVA was bad, let me just tell you what it’s like to wait for your residence card. 3.5 hours. Yep. Outside. I’ve decided that in Spain, you’re never actually productive, but that doesn’t matter, what does matter is how close you come to trying to be productive. The police department clearly doesn’t give a shit about even the idea of efficiency. So, having hauled ass from school, I make it to the looong line at the department by 4pm. It’s only at 7:40pm that I reach the door, FINALLY, I thought, I’m IN! I ask for the office for residency cards, and the officer frowns, asking if that’s really what I’m there for. I smile; I actually had a successful exchange of words. Then he dropped the bomb. They only gave out such cards from 9am-2pm. I’d have to come back tomorrow. Oh and by the way, people start lining up outside at 6am, so I’d better arrive early. No I did not punch him (or myself in the face) although tempting. No I did not bolt through the security gate and demand a card. No I did not collapse in tears. I took one of those eyes closed deep breaths with clenched jaw we’ve all taken at some point and muttered “gracia” (no ‘s’ no more time for me to waste) turned on my heels and methodically marched out, looking anywhere but at the faces that mocked my stupidity, having just heard my story while waiting in line.

But in Spain, your day doesn’t end at 8pm. Back at my hostel I meet 2 girls from UVA (I mean, REALLY??? Yes, Davey, that just happened.) who just so happen to be studying aboard in Valencia, at the same program I was part of. Such a small world. Or rather, UVA is too damn big.

Either way, I delighted in splurging on English conversation, only skipping out when I started to feel too American and comfortable again. So here I sit in my favorite little nook at Café con Libro, drinking overpriced tea and a ‘handmade’ mug, in Plaza Merced, debating how dangerous my walk home might be at 11pm.

But it’s worth it.

As I was walking “home” after the hairy police fiasco, the sun was setting against my back, making the palm trees dark shadow, back lit by an enormous ball of orange. The gazing clouds overhead blushed pink and reds, watching the day descend. There’s a beauty to this place, I’m coming into my own here and I think if Malaga and I can reach a truce, we might just have a lovely time.

Again, as was the case yesterday, and will be tomorrow, I LOVE YOU ALL and miss you!
Besos, kt