Day 43
Monday
It’s nice knowing that even the people who can’t afford to have an “it’s a Monday morning” Monday morning have them. It’s 7:14am. I’m sitting on a chair on the train and we have not departed. Something is wrong. I wish it were the fact that I’m on a train at that hour, but alas no, that’s what’s right. The official schedule mandates that we depart Malaga Centro at 7:10am. Here we are, zooming off to nowhere at 7:14am. And then a small man in a black coat I could have sworn I saw smoking a cigarette above ground by the tunnel entrance dashes by me into the driver’s car and we hear a rushed, “Tren con destino Álora” (Train going to Álora) resound through the speakers. And off we go. Delightful. The poor train, tethered to Spanish time, even if it is ready to go, just like me.
Once I’m in Álora I have a delightful time noticing small town quirks as I walk to my school. For anyone that has a small child that walks to school or has seen an elementary school 10 minutes before the school day begins knows very well the role of the Crossing Guard. In America the Crossing Guard has a bit of an inflated idea about their position (granted they are keeping our children safe, of great importance yes, but come on, the blinky lights are already making the drivers go 25 mph. you could be blind, hit a child and still stop before you even began to roll over his baby toe.). The American Crossing Guard dashes out into traffic, usually adorned with a vest of blinding vibrancy, so as to shock drivers into stopping. The more elite have a whistle which they use to signal the children to commence crossing the street. And the culmination of their post is their body movement; they have mastered the erect scarecrow stance. Both arms outstretched, as if they were holding up walls on either side, feet outspread like a power ranger ready to defend an attack, with their head pivoting left right left right left right, eyeing any indication of an inching car. And finally the encore, the wave to the cars. Once the children have safely reached the other side, the Crossing Guard exits the crosswalk with a vigorous hand wave to the presumably ignorant cars to commence driving if it wasn’t obvious that it is clear. The Spanish crossing guards could learn a thing or two from the American Crossing Guards. I’ll tell you why. As I waited in a group of Spanish students to cross the street to go to school I marveled at the guards LACK of performance. A half hearted glance to the right, and he steps out into the street. Steps out. As in 1 step. He puts his right hand out, like he were swatting at hip height grass and nods his head ever so slightly for the kids to walk, which was needless because half of them are so reckless to assume cars just stop at the drop of a dime for them, so they just go, and before even half the group is across the Guard is back to his side, leaning against his car. And he probably gets paid a pretty penny for that lackadaisical effort. As I trudged on I wanted to say, “Look, it’s too bad that you find your work so emasculating. But it’s your job. My kids may make me insane, but I’d rather be yelling at them in class than crying over them at their funeral. Do your damn job. And get a brighter vest. Navy blue draws no attention. And no I don’t care if you don’t think florescent yellow isn’t a becoming color on you.”
The rest of the day proceeded with more Turkey Day talks, more disgusted faces when I tell them about green beans. And even more disbelief when I tell them we eat dinner at 6pm. I have 8 year olds telling me they eat dinner at 8, 9 or 10 pm. And they say I’m crazy for a 6pm dinner. Why eat at 10 pm and go to bed at 10:30pm?? I have this crazy idea that food is FUEL for the body, and that the body needs fuel to survive. Don’t feed me right before I go to bed, I can pass out just fine on my own. But hell yes, feed me before I go for a run or try and do my homework. Again, point Katie for living on her own.
It’s 3:30pm and I’m off the train and off to the bus station to catch a ride out to teach English in another town at 5pm. But I’m dragging. And I mean dragging. It’s like the 10 am and 4 pm slump are hitting me at once. So I reach into my back pocket and pull out the precious 1.10 Euros that I save for emergencies. And I step up to Dunkin’ Coffee (NO, not Dunkin’ Donuts, even though they have those, this is Dunkin’ Coffee) and ask for an espresso. Double shot. Understanding the bags under my eyes and big backpack lugging me down the coffee lady hands me 2 sugar packets instead of one as I go. And I’m off. Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And I keep going through English class through salsa class through checking emails and right on through till 1am when I can’t fall asleep even though my body is whipped. Damn you double shot, you did well, you did too well.
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