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.