Day 67
Thursday
Sometimes one good thing happens during the day and because it is so good it seems like it is the only thing that happened. Thursday was all about and only about the box from Mom. Having skyped with me in one of my more morose moments after the breaking of the foot incident she took pity on her eldest (and undoubtedly favorite) child and had my cousins who just so happened to be spending the weekend with them draw me some feel better pictures. Moms seem to have a special way of knowing just what will make you smile and forgot the bad parts of life. Ripping into the box I saw my Birkenstocks sticking out. Not that it was warm enough to wear them, but it was so good to be reminded of my tree-hugger ways, being stuck in a city of divas. Then came snowflakes decorated with smiles by Carter and Ellie and wonderfully colored out side of the lines pictures of Mickey Mouse and other more original works that we shall just call ‘abstract.’ Besides the holistic dark chocolate my mom even threw in some deliciously lip smacking good cookies. I know that the rest of the day was slow and lonely. But the box with the card covered in a picture of the Northern Lights was the best re-charge I’ve had in a while. Like Pandora’s box erupting with reminders of those who love me and are thinking of me I let the warmth flow out and out and out and up into my heart till I was so light with joy that I floated above the bad memories of the week, of the loneliness I was trudging through and the city I couldn’t seem to befriend. I only wish I could have boxed up all that joy and marked the box return to sender so my family could know just how much I love them and feel my gratitude as intensely I as wish they could.
My day didn’t need to be any more special than it already was, but as I was on my way out of my landlord’s house after tutoring her children, she caught my arm and said, “I want you to know, Andres’ teacher called a parent/teacher meeting 2 weeks early to discuss Andres’ participation in class [here I take a HUGE gulp]. She said that he is finally talking in class in English and has stopped being very quiet and speaking only in Spanish. I told the teacher that he has a new American tutor and even though she speaks with a different accent, she is helping him. The teacher agreed, you are making him more confident.” Thank god my Spanish isn’t fluent because I was at a loss for how to gush my overwhelming joy and thanks. I managed to mutter how glad I was to hear that Andres was participating and that what I really hope to teach my students is how to be confident in another language, regardless of their level and to always be motivated to try. I also added something about how smart her son was; really he has a knack for languages and all things that moms like to hear. :)
I had forgotten how wonderful it is to be validated myself. As a teacher, you tend to focus on validating your students, but when it comes back around to you, it certainly puts a smile on your face. Because as I often tell my students, I already know English, it’s YOU that needs to practice and learn it. So let’s go! (And I meanwhile need to practice being the teacher.)
Monday, December 20, 2010
The Sharpening of Teeth
Day 66
Wednesday
Wednesdays tend to have a special flair to them. I spend most of the day with one of my favorite teachers, Meri. As a Libra, I seek balance and Meri is a perfect counterpart to my personality and teaching style. I hesitate to say that she is my opposite, I think that’s too dark of a picture to paint her in, but she certainly has a different way about her. She is the teacher who types up the outline for the day and prints 2 copies, 1 for her desk and 1 for me, in case I didn’t get the email on Sunday about the week’s schedule. She keeps her books separated in individual cases, following the activity book to the T. Class runs smoothly, always, like a mom who’s been braiding her daughter’s hair for years on end, Meri hardly sweats about the task at hand, pulling in the students and demanding their coherent and controlled participation, weaving dialogue, writing and listening into a beautifully done class. She hands me her perfectly cut cards and I get to act them out, she hands me the sentences the kids must know and I turn them into a game between teams. That’s how we work. Like a mullet. She’s all business and I’m all fun. But together, we make a rather presentable team.
Following classes with Meri I run off to my private lessons with my 5 year olds. And more often than not I wish I could bring Meri with me. She is blessed with the ability to stare a child into submission and silence a room with the sharp point of a word. I tend to smile too much and my Spanish isn’t sharp enough to quiet anyone, it rather elicits raised eyebrows. Sergio today decided to counsel me on my teaching tactics. He began by asking me in Spanish, after I had given them their homework, if I speak Spanish. I looked at him puzzled and replied in Spanish, “Ummm Sergio, you’ve known me for a month. And you’ve heard me speak quite a bit of Spanish. Besides, what language am I speaking now?” He didn’t seem to mind my rebuke and said, “I think you should learn Spanish before you teach us English.” I laughed and said “You’re just upset I gave you homework. But seriously, remember buddy, you, me and Natalia are a team, we’re learning from each other. I’m here in Spain to learn your language and teach you mine. So next week, how about you are nicer to me? Okay?” I like to think his eye roll and head shake meant yes. I’m always put off my insults coming from 5 year olds. I never know what to do with them. They’re always (for the most part) innocent comments, really just being honest, but I much rather prefer how the adults humor my grammar mistakes and nod like they understand me even though I’ve just said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I forgot you to carry you all the money of the rent.”
And I laugh now thinking what Meri might have said to Sergio and his snide comment. She probably would have said, “Sergio if you cannot say that to me in English I do not have time to listen to your charade. Raise your hand and use the appropriate language and I will in turn respond to you. If I find it worthy of a response.”
She knows the art of cutting into someone, not actually cutting them down, but like a punch to the gut that winds you because it came out of nowhere, Meri makes you think about what you did and what you’re about to do. What a powerful gift that is, to be able to motivate another to fully consider their actions.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as Meri, but I’m not too worried. Being her opposite, I prefer another route. I encourage my students to act with the best of intentions, with an open heart and in loving kindness. Like little Buddhas having reached nirvana, they can only do good. And speak beautiful English.
Wednesday
Wednesdays tend to have a special flair to them. I spend most of the day with one of my favorite teachers, Meri. As a Libra, I seek balance and Meri is a perfect counterpart to my personality and teaching style. I hesitate to say that she is my opposite, I think that’s too dark of a picture to paint her in, but she certainly has a different way about her. She is the teacher who types up the outline for the day and prints 2 copies, 1 for her desk and 1 for me, in case I didn’t get the email on Sunday about the week’s schedule. She keeps her books separated in individual cases, following the activity book to the T. Class runs smoothly, always, like a mom who’s been braiding her daughter’s hair for years on end, Meri hardly sweats about the task at hand, pulling in the students and demanding their coherent and controlled participation, weaving dialogue, writing and listening into a beautifully done class. She hands me her perfectly cut cards and I get to act them out, she hands me the sentences the kids must know and I turn them into a game between teams. That’s how we work. Like a mullet. She’s all business and I’m all fun. But together, we make a rather presentable team.
Following classes with Meri I run off to my private lessons with my 5 year olds. And more often than not I wish I could bring Meri with me. She is blessed with the ability to stare a child into submission and silence a room with the sharp point of a word. I tend to smile too much and my Spanish isn’t sharp enough to quiet anyone, it rather elicits raised eyebrows. Sergio today decided to counsel me on my teaching tactics. He began by asking me in Spanish, after I had given them their homework, if I speak Spanish. I looked at him puzzled and replied in Spanish, “Ummm Sergio, you’ve known me for a month. And you’ve heard me speak quite a bit of Spanish. Besides, what language am I speaking now?” He didn’t seem to mind my rebuke and said, “I think you should learn Spanish before you teach us English.” I laughed and said “You’re just upset I gave you homework. But seriously, remember buddy, you, me and Natalia are a team, we’re learning from each other. I’m here in Spain to learn your language and teach you mine. So next week, how about you are nicer to me? Okay?” I like to think his eye roll and head shake meant yes. I’m always put off my insults coming from 5 year olds. I never know what to do with them. They’re always (for the most part) innocent comments, really just being honest, but I much rather prefer how the adults humor my grammar mistakes and nod like they understand me even though I’ve just said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I forgot you to carry you all the money of the rent.”
And I laugh now thinking what Meri might have said to Sergio and his snide comment. She probably would have said, “Sergio if you cannot say that to me in English I do not have time to listen to your charade. Raise your hand and use the appropriate language and I will in turn respond to you. If I find it worthy of a response.”
She knows the art of cutting into someone, not actually cutting them down, but like a punch to the gut that winds you because it came out of nowhere, Meri makes you think about what you did and what you’re about to do. What a powerful gift that is, to be able to motivate another to fully consider their actions.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as Meri, but I’m not too worried. Being her opposite, I prefer another route. I encourage my students to act with the best of intentions, with an open heart and in loving kindness. Like little Buddhas having reached nirvana, they can only do good. And speak beautiful English.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I (in this moment) L O V E (with all my heart) Y O U .
Day 65
Tuesday
Fickle.
That’s the only word that fits. Children are fickle.
I walk into 1st grade A and the little munchkins are studiously seated in their desks, feigning serious work. I close the door behind me and all heads look up. Then little feet are pushing little chairs back and little legs are standing up and a little crowd is gathering around me in a mosh pit hug. Grabbing no higher than my hips the children scream “HELLO Seño!!” They say people in love have a special glow, but people who are loved have a special glow as well. I was blushing a furious red and laughing, while patting heads and giving all the children a good morning welcome. Silly new teacher me thinks that this is a good sign, they’ll want to do English today. But something occurs between the time they stop hugging me and returning to their seats that makes them oblivious to my directions, disinterested in my lesson and over active, running around the classroom. Within 20 minutes the special hug has worn off and I’m almost hoarse from yelling over them to please be quiet and color their Christmas cards quietly. And then they come up and say they don’t know what else to color or that their hand is tired of coloring. Pulling a smile out of my back pocket I instruct them to the board where I’ve drawn copious examples of winter scenes and encourage them to make their hands stronger, just try coloring softly. But within 5 minutes I know the activity has gone kaput. They’re not interested and they’re not interested in my making them interested.
By the end of the day I’ve gotten savvier to the ways of the wicked youngsters. I’m the fun teacher. I bring games and silly dances. The other teachers bring worksheets and tests. So when 3rd grade A starts to chant, “no te vayas no te vayas!” (don’t go! Don’t go!) after one of the teacher says that I will be leaving for the USA and this will be my last class, I laugh and wish they meant it in earnest (I like to think they did), but back the teacher up when she tells them to hush, no matter if I stay or go, they can’t chant all class long, they’re going to have the test today. I laugh when their chant melts away into an “awwww, no no no” admonishing the test.
And as I walk down to the train station after school I keep thinking, what have I done to earn the love of the children? And then I think, how is it that children love so quickly, so freely, so rashly and so suddenly? I stand by my assertion that children are fickle, but when they’re certain they love you, they show you.
In a show of my own, open hearted fickleness, I love you. May these words warm your hearts and may the sentiment wrap around you like the hug I send to you now!
Tuesday
Fickle.
That’s the only word that fits. Children are fickle.
I walk into 1st grade A and the little munchkins are studiously seated in their desks, feigning serious work. I close the door behind me and all heads look up. Then little feet are pushing little chairs back and little legs are standing up and a little crowd is gathering around me in a mosh pit hug. Grabbing no higher than my hips the children scream “HELLO Seño!!” They say people in love have a special glow, but people who are loved have a special glow as well. I was blushing a furious red and laughing, while patting heads and giving all the children a good morning welcome. Silly new teacher me thinks that this is a good sign, they’ll want to do English today. But something occurs between the time they stop hugging me and returning to their seats that makes them oblivious to my directions, disinterested in my lesson and over active, running around the classroom. Within 20 minutes the special hug has worn off and I’m almost hoarse from yelling over them to please be quiet and color their Christmas cards quietly. And then they come up and say they don’t know what else to color or that their hand is tired of coloring. Pulling a smile out of my back pocket I instruct them to the board where I’ve drawn copious examples of winter scenes and encourage them to make their hands stronger, just try coloring softly. But within 5 minutes I know the activity has gone kaput. They’re not interested and they’re not interested in my making them interested.
By the end of the day I’ve gotten savvier to the ways of the wicked youngsters. I’m the fun teacher. I bring games and silly dances. The other teachers bring worksheets and tests. So when 3rd grade A starts to chant, “no te vayas no te vayas!” (don’t go! Don’t go!) after one of the teacher says that I will be leaving for the USA and this will be my last class, I laugh and wish they meant it in earnest (I like to think they did), but back the teacher up when she tells them to hush, no matter if I stay or go, they can’t chant all class long, they’re going to have the test today. I laugh when their chant melts away into an “awwww, no no no” admonishing the test.
And as I walk down to the train station after school I keep thinking, what have I done to earn the love of the children? And then I think, how is it that children love so quickly, so freely, so rashly and so suddenly? I stand by my assertion that children are fickle, but when they’re certain they love you, they show you.
In a show of my own, open hearted fickleness, I love you. May these words warm your hearts and may the sentiment wrap around you like the hug I send to you now!
My Own Great Expectations.
Day 64
Monday
Not even the moonlight dared tread the weathered concrete, timidly awaiting the tardy approach of the sun at 7am. Beating the sun to the day, I was out to catch the early train, having eagerly awaited Monday morning for the past week and a half, desperate to work. I anxiously checked and re-checked the time, to make sure I wasn’t late, but also to make sure I wasn’t too early. As eager as I might have been to get to work, I wasn’t willing to get to the train station an hour early; sleep would take priority in that case. Monday morning commutes are always a bit disconcerting to my circadian rhythm. Not because it’s Monday morning per se, but because I wake up and its dark, I take the train through the dark countryside, knowing cities on the hill sides only by the blanketed constellation it alights in cascading patterns over the undulating land, and I arrive in Álora, and walk to school in the dark, when it is easily almost 8:30am. I have a slight feeling of excitement as I journey, as if I were a spy, out before the world knew my mission, on a secret operation. No one is at the school either. I’m 30 minutes early, much too early for any one else to arrive. They’ll all come in about 30 minutes, just in time for school to start in 30 minutes. I break out Dickens, “Great Expectations” and get ready for the day to get itself in gear.
But nothing goes like I’d thought it would. Even doing the most simple of activities took an irritatingly complicated turn. The students, clearly one track minded, couldn’t understand the letters I wrote on the board, unable to decipher my code of “Merry Christmas” Asking them what was confusing a student ran to the board and pointed to my ‘r’. “What letter is that?” they asked. Wrinkling my brow in disappointment and earnest exasperation I said, “an ‘r’” Of course. The teacher scurried up and said I had to write the ‘r’ as a cursive ‘r’ otherwise they wouldn’t know what letter it was. Pausing to breathe and discompose my face of disbelief, I chuckled and said, “Ok. But do you mean to tell me that they haven’t understood what I’ve written for the past 2 and half months?? And as well, how do they get along reading anything printed, last I checked my ‘r’ looked remarkably similar to the ‘r’ in books, newspapers and anything printed off a computer. Perhaps we should make this a learning moment and leave my ‘r’s so they’ll learn what ‘American’ writing looks like?” the teacher probably didn’t understand anything I had said because in my building irritation, my rhythm sped up and I was running through my words like a baseball shattering a window pane. Then a pause settled in between the gaze between me and the teacher and the audience of curious 1st graders. And then the teacher said, “Perhaps it is best that you write the ‘r’ as cursive.” I laughed and erased the message and wrote it in capital letters.
Escaping to a different type of crowd later that night, some friends and I went to the anniversary celebration of a local club. The waitresses wandered the crowd carrying plates of finger food, cheese, ham things, tiny bocadillos, small flans and small PB sandwiches. We toasted champagne that seemed to be hemorrhaging grenadine and celebrated my flat mate’s last night in Malaga before he left to go home for the holiday break. Proudly parading his self declared “swooping v-neck” sweater, I could only laugh at his fashion forwardness and the faux-glamour of the club. What a Monday, such great expectations…
Monday
Not even the moonlight dared tread the weathered concrete, timidly awaiting the tardy approach of the sun at 7am. Beating the sun to the day, I was out to catch the early train, having eagerly awaited Monday morning for the past week and a half, desperate to work. I anxiously checked and re-checked the time, to make sure I wasn’t late, but also to make sure I wasn’t too early. As eager as I might have been to get to work, I wasn’t willing to get to the train station an hour early; sleep would take priority in that case. Monday morning commutes are always a bit disconcerting to my circadian rhythm. Not because it’s Monday morning per se, but because I wake up and its dark, I take the train through the dark countryside, knowing cities on the hill sides only by the blanketed constellation it alights in cascading patterns over the undulating land, and I arrive in Álora, and walk to school in the dark, when it is easily almost 8:30am. I have a slight feeling of excitement as I journey, as if I were a spy, out before the world knew my mission, on a secret operation. No one is at the school either. I’m 30 minutes early, much too early for any one else to arrive. They’ll all come in about 30 minutes, just in time for school to start in 30 minutes. I break out Dickens, “Great Expectations” and get ready for the day to get itself in gear.
But nothing goes like I’d thought it would. Even doing the most simple of activities took an irritatingly complicated turn. The students, clearly one track minded, couldn’t understand the letters I wrote on the board, unable to decipher my code of “Merry Christmas” Asking them what was confusing a student ran to the board and pointed to my ‘r’. “What letter is that?” they asked. Wrinkling my brow in disappointment and earnest exasperation I said, “an ‘r’” Of course. The teacher scurried up and said I had to write the ‘r’ as a cursive ‘r’ otherwise they wouldn’t know what letter it was. Pausing to breathe and discompose my face of disbelief, I chuckled and said, “Ok. But do you mean to tell me that they haven’t understood what I’ve written for the past 2 and half months?? And as well, how do they get along reading anything printed, last I checked my ‘r’ looked remarkably similar to the ‘r’ in books, newspapers and anything printed off a computer. Perhaps we should make this a learning moment and leave my ‘r’s so they’ll learn what ‘American’ writing looks like?” the teacher probably didn’t understand anything I had said because in my building irritation, my rhythm sped up and I was running through my words like a baseball shattering a window pane. Then a pause settled in between the gaze between me and the teacher and the audience of curious 1st graders. And then the teacher said, “Perhaps it is best that you write the ‘r’ as cursive.” I laughed and erased the message and wrote it in capital letters.
Escaping to a different type of crowd later that night, some friends and I went to the anniversary celebration of a local club. The waitresses wandered the crowd carrying plates of finger food, cheese, ham things, tiny bocadillos, small flans and small PB sandwiches. We toasted champagne that seemed to be hemorrhaging grenadine and celebrated my flat mate’s last night in Malaga before he left to go home for the holiday break. Proudly parading his self declared “swooping v-neck” sweater, I could only laugh at his fashion forwardness and the faux-glamour of the club. What a Monday, such great expectations…
Saturday, December 18, 2010
~
Day 63
Sunday
Some days are lonely.
Some days you are alone.
But some days you don’t notice the space surrounding the solitary “I”
Some days you are the only one floating in the pool.
Some days you are the only one on the bench reading.
Some days you are the only one walking the Rose Garden.
Some days you are the only one on the terrace watching the sunset.
Some days you flow through life, through the spaces and places of life, embodiment is forgotten.
Some days you slip out of the “I”
Some days you leave behind the crutches
And on those days without form, without structure, without support from the ‘you’ or the world or crutches…you fly.
Freedom is found in the breath, finally free of its burden.
Sunday
Some days are lonely.
Some days you are alone.
But some days you don’t notice the space surrounding the solitary “I”
Some days you are the only one floating in the pool.
Some days you are the only one on the bench reading.
Some days you are the only one walking the Rose Garden.
Some days you are the only one on the terrace watching the sunset.
Some days you flow through life, through the spaces and places of life, embodiment is forgotten.
Some days you slip out of the “I”
Some days you leave behind the crutches
And on those days without form, without structure, without support from the ‘you’ or the world or crutches…you fly.
Freedom is found in the breath, finally free of its burden.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Beauty is in the small moments--- the snowflake and the wink
Day 62
Saturday
Never having been a 10 year old Spanish child myself, not even in past lives, I rarely have a good feeling on what games will be a hit and what ones will be a miss. Usually I’m off. But I wagered that every child would love to cut out snowflakes. When is snow not enchanting? Finally hit the target. My landlord had asked me to start teaching her children English on Saturday mornings as well as Thursday evenings, which I gladly acquiesced to, willing to do most anything for 15 euro at this stage of great poverty in my life. The minute I opened up my hacked to pieces folded up sheet and revealed the snowflake I had cut, the children were hooked. I couldn’t fold the paper fast enough for them to cut. We made a blizzard of paper snow in the room, taping it to the walls of their playroom, imagining it to be a winter wonderland. As I left, the mother stopped me and said, it’s wonderful that you can come Saturday mornings because today was the first day the cleaning lady was able to clean the house without the kids driving her up the freshly dusted wall. Because the cleaning lady works faster without the kids bothering her, I end up paying her less!! I laughed and nodded thinking, darn it, moms are so much smarter than we give them credit for.
Heading to the grocery store with my freshly pocketed 15 euro I was on a mission to buy us toilet paper before everything closed on Sunday and we were stuck till Monday. As I got in line to check out, wishing for a nap, the man behind me spoke up to the cashier who had begun to ring me up. He said, ‘she’ll pay for all my things.’ The Cashier, confused at first, quickly caught on, and laughed and said, ‘does she know this?” and the old man waved off the question saying, of course of course, she said she wanted to! And I laughed and said, well, whether or not I want to, it looks like you have more than 15 euro worth of food. I’m too young to be buying nice things like you! And then I joked, I think that this men meant to say, HE”D be covering my things. This got the old man chuckling and said, what’s wrong with the youth these days! Not willing to help the elderly.” I grabbed my bag of toilet paper and laughed, waving as I said bye, and he said, next week, next week, maybe you’ll be richer then??
I’m always eagerly anticipating the next way an angel will appear to me…be it in a 5 year old making snowflakes with me or Poppop coming up and teasing me. Hope you all feel my presence because I think about you more often than you know. Sending you my loving energy!
Saturday
Never having been a 10 year old Spanish child myself, not even in past lives, I rarely have a good feeling on what games will be a hit and what ones will be a miss. Usually I’m off. But I wagered that every child would love to cut out snowflakes. When is snow not enchanting? Finally hit the target. My landlord had asked me to start teaching her children English on Saturday mornings as well as Thursday evenings, which I gladly acquiesced to, willing to do most anything for 15 euro at this stage of great poverty in my life. The minute I opened up my hacked to pieces folded up sheet and revealed the snowflake I had cut, the children were hooked. I couldn’t fold the paper fast enough for them to cut. We made a blizzard of paper snow in the room, taping it to the walls of their playroom, imagining it to be a winter wonderland. As I left, the mother stopped me and said, it’s wonderful that you can come Saturday mornings because today was the first day the cleaning lady was able to clean the house without the kids driving her up the freshly dusted wall. Because the cleaning lady works faster without the kids bothering her, I end up paying her less!! I laughed and nodded thinking, darn it, moms are so much smarter than we give them credit for.
Heading to the grocery store with my freshly pocketed 15 euro I was on a mission to buy us toilet paper before everything closed on Sunday and we were stuck till Monday. As I got in line to check out, wishing for a nap, the man behind me spoke up to the cashier who had begun to ring me up. He said, ‘she’ll pay for all my things.’ The Cashier, confused at first, quickly caught on, and laughed and said, ‘does she know this?” and the old man waved off the question saying, of course of course, she said she wanted to! And I laughed and said, well, whether or not I want to, it looks like you have more than 15 euro worth of food. I’m too young to be buying nice things like you! And then I joked, I think that this men meant to say, HE”D be covering my things. This got the old man chuckling and said, what’s wrong with the youth these days! Not willing to help the elderly.” I grabbed my bag of toilet paper and laughed, waving as I said bye, and he said, next week, next week, maybe you’ll be richer then??
I’m always eagerly anticipating the next way an angel will appear to me…be it in a 5 year old making snowflakes with me or Poppop coming up and teasing me. Hope you all feel my presence because I think about you more often than you know. Sending you my loving energy!
“Little by little one walks far”
Day 61
Friday
“Hija! Cuando te vi en esta calle, pensaba pobrecita, ella no sabe nadar. Entonces, cuando te vi pa’lla pensó, ella es campeona!! Venga hija, venga!”
It’s nice to still be able to surprise people.
Standing dripping wet, an old man with a grin as wide as the pool was deep had tapped my arm, wanting to speak with me. I thought, oh geez, great, did I accidentally take his lane? Did I take his floaty toy? Did I not properly exit the pool? What harassment would I endure?? Instead he shook his head, flabbergasted and then sputtered, with wet lips and wisps of grey spraying me with drops of freshly chlorinated water as his head tossed in amazement, said, “My girl, when I saw you in this lane, I thought, poor girl, she doesn’t know how to swim. But then, when I saw you over there in that lane, I thought, wow, she’s a champion, well done!” I just laughed as he hobbled off right and I hobbled off left, saying that I liked to change up my routine when I could. Aqua jogging has become my new favorite hobby. I snap a big ole green float around my waist and bob up and down the lane, mimicking the fastest racers, pretending to round the last 100 meters as I came down the lane, flying in slow motion. Going in slow motion in the lane where it was a 50/50 chance whether the person next to you had either a full set of teeth or full head of hair (never both). I’d bounce off the wall to circle back down the lane while the wrinkled, not from water, but from life, bodies, held on for dear life, catching their wise old breaths. Being the anomoly of activity in the lane, I suppose I looked odd. It certainly earned me smiles from the old ladies and men, being so chipper in the slow lane. But it also gave me a wonderful hidden vantage point from which to watch the rest of the aquatic drama. No one bothers to look at the slow lane; they all know we swim slowly. No use watching, they rarely make progress. So I could do my slow motion laps while watching the clearly apathetic to her job life guard instead flirt with the boy who clearly comes to the pool not to swim laps but to drown in her love struck gaze. They chat, he swims a lap. Maybe 2. She selects the best fins and brings them over to him. He says something funny and she blushes as red as the cross on her shirt. She sits down, he swims a lap. They chat. And I look around to see how many people have drowned. None yet. I wouldn’t like anyone to drown, but I would like to spitefully point out to her that she should earn her pay and spend her hours staring down her little lover. The rest of us would like some attention too. You never can tell when a cramp will hit and you’re out of luck. But I don’t worry; I’m in the slow lane, with a floaty around my waist. Safe in my invisibility. But then later, tiring of my incognito slowness, I meander under lane divisions and swim a few laps, daring my foot to start hurting in zero pressure water. And I’m good, but after using crutches for the past week my arms are aching and beg me to relax into a gentle back float. I acquiesce because I know someone has to crutch it home and these arms are about to mutiny.
And then I with about the grace of a fish walking on land, get out of the pool and am stopped by the grandfather who calls me his campeona. And just as I surprised him, he surprised me. What gentle kindness. And you better believe the arms of a campeona were able to crutch home. It’s nice when people remind you of the strength you forgot you had all along…
A Peruvian proverb:
Little by little, one goes far.
Friday
“Hija! Cuando te vi en esta calle, pensaba pobrecita, ella no sabe nadar. Entonces, cuando te vi pa’lla pensó, ella es campeona!! Venga hija, venga!”
It’s nice to still be able to surprise people.
Standing dripping wet, an old man with a grin as wide as the pool was deep had tapped my arm, wanting to speak with me. I thought, oh geez, great, did I accidentally take his lane? Did I take his floaty toy? Did I not properly exit the pool? What harassment would I endure?? Instead he shook his head, flabbergasted and then sputtered, with wet lips and wisps of grey spraying me with drops of freshly chlorinated water as his head tossed in amazement, said, “My girl, when I saw you in this lane, I thought, poor girl, she doesn’t know how to swim. But then, when I saw you over there in that lane, I thought, wow, she’s a champion, well done!” I just laughed as he hobbled off right and I hobbled off left, saying that I liked to change up my routine when I could. Aqua jogging has become my new favorite hobby. I snap a big ole green float around my waist and bob up and down the lane, mimicking the fastest racers, pretending to round the last 100 meters as I came down the lane, flying in slow motion. Going in slow motion in the lane where it was a 50/50 chance whether the person next to you had either a full set of teeth or full head of hair (never both). I’d bounce off the wall to circle back down the lane while the wrinkled, not from water, but from life, bodies, held on for dear life, catching their wise old breaths. Being the anomoly of activity in the lane, I suppose I looked odd. It certainly earned me smiles from the old ladies and men, being so chipper in the slow lane. But it also gave me a wonderful hidden vantage point from which to watch the rest of the aquatic drama. No one bothers to look at the slow lane; they all know we swim slowly. No use watching, they rarely make progress. So I could do my slow motion laps while watching the clearly apathetic to her job life guard instead flirt with the boy who clearly comes to the pool not to swim laps but to drown in her love struck gaze. They chat, he swims a lap. Maybe 2. She selects the best fins and brings them over to him. He says something funny and she blushes as red as the cross on her shirt. She sits down, he swims a lap. They chat. And I look around to see how many people have drowned. None yet. I wouldn’t like anyone to drown, but I would like to spitefully point out to her that she should earn her pay and spend her hours staring down her little lover. The rest of us would like some attention too. You never can tell when a cramp will hit and you’re out of luck. But I don’t worry; I’m in the slow lane, with a floaty around my waist. Safe in my invisibility. But then later, tiring of my incognito slowness, I meander under lane divisions and swim a few laps, daring my foot to start hurting in zero pressure water. And I’m good, but after using crutches for the past week my arms are aching and beg me to relax into a gentle back float. I acquiesce because I know someone has to crutch it home and these arms are about to mutiny.
And then I with about the grace of a fish walking on land, get out of the pool and am stopped by the grandfather who calls me his campeona. And just as I surprised him, he surprised me. What gentle kindness. And you better believe the arms of a campeona were able to crutch home. It’s nice when people remind you of the strength you forgot you had all along…
A Peruvian proverb:
Little by little, one goes far.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Full Circle
Day 60
Thursday
Some days have a short and (bitterly un-)sweet sentiment. Today was one of those days.
Fuck this.
A false flash of hope had me thinking I didn’t need crutches, and then my foot screamed in pain, denying any ability to walk. Back to hobbling around, now at least in new sneakers, hypothetically more supportive, but the promise of feeling like I’m walking on clouds must have been just for the shoes on display. I felt like a leaden bob, hopping up and down with each right foot, left foot and 2 crutches; right foot, left foot and 2 crutches, etc…hands smarting from holding onto the only thing keeping me going. Arms clawing at my shoulders, begging me to stop this insane march.
But sometimes life has a beautiful way of coming full circle. Here I was, stuck in Spain, perfectly miserable at my unfulfilling teaching position and hobbling through cobblestone and high heeled beauties, shrinking deeper and deeper into the shell of myself, hung between metal poles clicking in my hands, having been brought here because of the children who needed to learn English. They gave me a ticket here and led me to the very place where I would be most miserable. Then I went to teach English to my land lord’s children and I hobbled out a rejuvenated soul. Those darn kids made me smile, made me laugh and dared me to marvel at their innocence and sincerity. And so the very thing I found myself cursing is the only thing that keeps me going. I hurry home to look up new games we can play and plan for our next class, noting that we need to practice “Rock, Paper, Scissors” more because they keep forgetting to use scissors.
And as I write this, thinking about coming full circle I think about T.S. Eliot…
We shall never cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Am I coming back to myself, having explored the multiplicity of ways of being and the ceaseless sunshine of a child’s smiles? Am I coming back having explored adulthood to know my inner child? I’m not sure, but this slightly smiley feeling I’m snuggling with in my thick sweater and cup of tea has me thinking I just might be…
Thursday
Some days have a short and (bitterly un-)sweet sentiment. Today was one of those days.
Fuck this.
A false flash of hope had me thinking I didn’t need crutches, and then my foot screamed in pain, denying any ability to walk. Back to hobbling around, now at least in new sneakers, hypothetically more supportive, but the promise of feeling like I’m walking on clouds must have been just for the shoes on display. I felt like a leaden bob, hopping up and down with each right foot, left foot and 2 crutches; right foot, left foot and 2 crutches, etc…hands smarting from holding onto the only thing keeping me going. Arms clawing at my shoulders, begging me to stop this insane march.
But sometimes life has a beautiful way of coming full circle. Here I was, stuck in Spain, perfectly miserable at my unfulfilling teaching position and hobbling through cobblestone and high heeled beauties, shrinking deeper and deeper into the shell of myself, hung between metal poles clicking in my hands, having been brought here because of the children who needed to learn English. They gave me a ticket here and led me to the very place where I would be most miserable. Then I went to teach English to my land lord’s children and I hobbled out a rejuvenated soul. Those darn kids made me smile, made me laugh and dared me to marvel at their innocence and sincerity. And so the very thing I found myself cursing is the only thing that keeps me going. I hurry home to look up new games we can play and plan for our next class, noting that we need to practice “Rock, Paper, Scissors” more because they keep forgetting to use scissors.
And as I write this, thinking about coming full circle I think about T.S. Eliot…
We shall never cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Am I coming back to myself, having explored the multiplicity of ways of being and the ceaseless sunshine of a child’s smiles? Am I coming back having explored adulthood to know my inner child? I’m not sure, but this slightly smiley feeling I’m snuggling with in my thick sweater and cup of tea has me thinking I just might be…
MUCHA MIERDA!!
To all the college/ grad school kids out there, nose to the grindstone, MUCHA MIERDA! Sure, google that and it'll say, "Much Shit" which is a direct translation, yes, but in CONTEXT in SPAIN it means GOOD LUCK!
Kick some finals butt!
Kick some finals butt!
At the disjunct of language
Day 59
Wednesday
My work week has been undercut by two conveniently placed national holidays and a precious (and Crisis-inducing) tradition of ‘puente’ (if a holiday falls on a Thursday or a Tuesday, the day in between the holiday and the weekend is subsumed into the holiday and the Puente creates a 3 day weekend. So a holiday on Monday bridged over to the holiday on Wednesday. And so, in honor of being injured and out of work, I went to see Harry Potter, in Castellano, which is like reading Emily Dickinson in Russian. It just cannot be translated. We all go to see Harry Potter because we want to hear Ron’s adorable whining accent and Hermione’s high pitched squeals of intellectual delight and swoon over the newly grownup Harry horcrux broodings. It didn’t begin well when I couldn’t stop laughing at the supposedly morbidly serious opening scene, in fits over the terrible job at dubbing, mainly evident because the shot was so close to the actor you could read his lips, mouthing the English words, while a Castellano translation spoke over the man’s empty sound. Luckily I’m an HP fan for life and have already the series, at least once, and so it made little difference that I couldn’t listen 5 minutes without giggling, I knew what had happened, what was happening, what would happen and what, according to the book, should happen.
And lordy, why did I have to cry real tears at the end? Some things carry weight in any language, why are there some emotions we can never escape, that we can never keep at bay because they are above language itself? I’m not sure, but I do know that the best part of the movie was the end, when all was silent. No English, no Castellano, just humanity.
Wednesday
My work week has been undercut by two conveniently placed national holidays and a precious (and Crisis-inducing) tradition of ‘puente’ (if a holiday falls on a Thursday or a Tuesday, the day in between the holiday and the weekend is subsumed into the holiday and the Puente creates a 3 day weekend. So a holiday on Monday bridged over to the holiday on Wednesday. And so, in honor of being injured and out of work, I went to see Harry Potter, in Castellano, which is like reading Emily Dickinson in Russian. It just cannot be translated. We all go to see Harry Potter because we want to hear Ron’s adorable whining accent and Hermione’s high pitched squeals of intellectual delight and swoon over the newly grownup Harry horcrux broodings. It didn’t begin well when I couldn’t stop laughing at the supposedly morbidly serious opening scene, in fits over the terrible job at dubbing, mainly evident because the shot was so close to the actor you could read his lips, mouthing the English words, while a Castellano translation spoke over the man’s empty sound. Luckily I’m an HP fan for life and have already the series, at least once, and so it made little difference that I couldn’t listen 5 minutes without giggling, I knew what had happened, what was happening, what would happen and what, according to the book, should happen.
And lordy, why did I have to cry real tears at the end? Some things carry weight in any language, why are there some emotions we can never escape, that we can never keep at bay because they are above language itself? I’m not sure, but I do know that the best part of the movie was the end, when all was silent. No English, no Castellano, just humanity.
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Grinches of Spain Hearts' Swell...Por Fin
Day 58
Tuesday
In previous posts I’ve noted a lack of courteous kindness from Spaniards. I’ve realized why I’ve never seen it before, at least until today that is. I was never deserving of it. As a regular extranjera, I’m just bumbling along, no sympathy, no kindness needed. But the minute I’m the meek extranjera navigating crowds of people, narrow sidewalks and wobbly cobblestone streets the rare compassionate Spaniard rises to the occasion and fate smiles upon me. Heading out for a jaunt in the late morning the delivery men were still out on their rounds, dropping off produce to restaurants, bread to cafes and milk to heladerias. As I rounded the corner a kindly delivery man with his cart just recently emptied of its contents beckoned to me to hop on, promising me that he’ll carry me where ever I needed to go. That makes me blush and chuckle; I’m not used to having anyone notice me on the street.
Still all smiley by the time I reach the market I decide it’s worth it to pay a little bit extra and go to the more expensive vendor because she’s an old and gloriously wrinkled dame who greets me as “mi Reina” (my queen) and asks me what I’d like, telling me stories about all the vegetables around her and what a good decision it is to buy a kilo of plums before I’m really even sure I like plums. Giving me my change she wishes me a beautiful day and to get better. And I hobble off out of the chaos, happy to have been a grandchild again.
Eventually though the happiness wears off and your arms get really sore from crutches and the blisters on your hands start to scream. And soon I turn into a begrudging bitch who curses the mobility of others under her breath. That’s right old woman with a cane, pass me going up hill, that’s fine cyclist, I wasn’t interested in crossing the street in one piece, no worries children, please run through my legs and get tangled in my crutches, please please don’t hold that door open for me, I’ll just slam my body into it to open it. And then, there I stand on one foot in my sour puss mood about to fall into the pool to do my beloved aqua jogging, I look down to ask the man if he doesn’t mind splitting the lane with me and my green buoyed self and he smiles and enthusiastically says, “Venga! Venga! Hombre, claro!” (Come on in, come on in! Dude, of course!) And he waves the nub of his arm at me to hop in before he starts off again on another lap. And I’m slammed with a reality check. A one armed man is swimming laps around me, happily, and I’ve got an attitude about some crutches wearing me out. Lacking grace, but full of humility I tumbled into the pool and began a hodgepodge jog, embarrassed to my toes for being so ungrateful for the mobility I still had. So, just as I did on Bike and Build when I promised myself I’d never complain again about head winds because at least I still had a body full of life to face the winds, I promised to never complain about my crutch-status. And I’ll tell you what, a few endorphins, long awaited, and made that promise pretty easy to keep the rest of the day.
Later that night, being at home more often than not lately, I had the chance to witness a daily ritual more intensely than ever before. From my terrace I have the great luck to see the tallest tower of the Cathedral. It’s a majestic presence rising above the horizon of stucco roofs and cable dishes. Its beauty is undeniable during the day, but at night its beauty is jaw dropping. It’s tawny bricks are alit with an antique orange glow that makes it seem as if a fire were alit inside, shimmering off the dusty bricks in an arrogant display of splendor. Being so close I not only see the Cathedral, but I also hear it. Every hour, on the hour. And every half hour on the half hour. But at 6pm, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it chimes all of its bells, not just its usual solitary bell, every 15 minutes. So at 6, 6:15, 6:30 and 7pm, the city is held captive by a 4 minute concert of chiming. Stepping out onto my terrace at 6:30, curious as to whether time had begun to fly and it was really 9pm, because of the third chime, I stared out over the houses to the Cathedral and stared in horror at the chiming of the bells. I felt as if I was staring at a crucified body shaking in spasms of death. The bells rolled over themselves, again and again, flipping upside down, like eyes rolling back into the head of the Cathedral, sounding an eerie chorus of bells, rising and falling. Dark purple storm clouds nestled in close to see what was a matter. Ominously framed by dark masses, the tall orange tower with bells rolling back and back and back was a terrifying scene, only to occur again at 6:45 and again at 7pm. By then I could look no more. It was the strangest experience to stand and watch the bells roar inside the darkly lit tower, I felt like an auspicious stranger, spying on a secret event, not able to look away, but not wanting to be caught looking any longer. The grotesque beauty of it all held me in awe.
Tuesday
In previous posts I’ve noted a lack of courteous kindness from Spaniards. I’ve realized why I’ve never seen it before, at least until today that is. I was never deserving of it. As a regular extranjera, I’m just bumbling along, no sympathy, no kindness needed. But the minute I’m the meek extranjera navigating crowds of people, narrow sidewalks and wobbly cobblestone streets the rare compassionate Spaniard rises to the occasion and fate smiles upon me. Heading out for a jaunt in the late morning the delivery men were still out on their rounds, dropping off produce to restaurants, bread to cafes and milk to heladerias. As I rounded the corner a kindly delivery man with his cart just recently emptied of its contents beckoned to me to hop on, promising me that he’ll carry me where ever I needed to go. That makes me blush and chuckle; I’m not used to having anyone notice me on the street.
Still all smiley by the time I reach the market I decide it’s worth it to pay a little bit extra and go to the more expensive vendor because she’s an old and gloriously wrinkled dame who greets me as “mi Reina” (my queen) and asks me what I’d like, telling me stories about all the vegetables around her and what a good decision it is to buy a kilo of plums before I’m really even sure I like plums. Giving me my change she wishes me a beautiful day and to get better. And I hobble off out of the chaos, happy to have been a grandchild again.
Eventually though the happiness wears off and your arms get really sore from crutches and the blisters on your hands start to scream. And soon I turn into a begrudging bitch who curses the mobility of others under her breath. That’s right old woman with a cane, pass me going up hill, that’s fine cyclist, I wasn’t interested in crossing the street in one piece, no worries children, please run through my legs and get tangled in my crutches, please please don’t hold that door open for me, I’ll just slam my body into it to open it. And then, there I stand on one foot in my sour puss mood about to fall into the pool to do my beloved aqua jogging, I look down to ask the man if he doesn’t mind splitting the lane with me and my green buoyed self and he smiles and enthusiastically says, “Venga! Venga! Hombre, claro!” (Come on in, come on in! Dude, of course!) And he waves the nub of his arm at me to hop in before he starts off again on another lap. And I’m slammed with a reality check. A one armed man is swimming laps around me, happily, and I’ve got an attitude about some crutches wearing me out. Lacking grace, but full of humility I tumbled into the pool and began a hodgepodge jog, embarrassed to my toes for being so ungrateful for the mobility I still had. So, just as I did on Bike and Build when I promised myself I’d never complain again about head winds because at least I still had a body full of life to face the winds, I promised to never complain about my crutch-status. And I’ll tell you what, a few endorphins, long awaited, and made that promise pretty easy to keep the rest of the day.
Later that night, being at home more often than not lately, I had the chance to witness a daily ritual more intensely than ever before. From my terrace I have the great luck to see the tallest tower of the Cathedral. It’s a majestic presence rising above the horizon of stucco roofs and cable dishes. Its beauty is undeniable during the day, but at night its beauty is jaw dropping. It’s tawny bricks are alit with an antique orange glow that makes it seem as if a fire were alit inside, shimmering off the dusty bricks in an arrogant display of splendor. Being so close I not only see the Cathedral, but I also hear it. Every hour, on the hour. And every half hour on the half hour. But at 6pm, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it chimes all of its bells, not just its usual solitary bell, every 15 minutes. So at 6, 6:15, 6:30 and 7pm, the city is held captive by a 4 minute concert of chiming. Stepping out onto my terrace at 6:30, curious as to whether time had begun to fly and it was really 9pm, because of the third chime, I stared out over the houses to the Cathedral and stared in horror at the chiming of the bells. I felt as if I was staring at a crucified body shaking in spasms of death. The bells rolled over themselves, again and again, flipping upside down, like eyes rolling back into the head of the Cathedral, sounding an eerie chorus of bells, rising and falling. Dark purple storm clouds nestled in close to see what was a matter. Ominously framed by dark masses, the tall orange tower with bells rolling back and back and back was a terrifying scene, only to occur again at 6:45 and again at 7pm. By then I could look no more. It was the strangest experience to stand and watch the bells roar inside the darkly lit tower, I felt like an auspicious stranger, spying on a secret event, not able to look away, but not wanting to be caught looking any longer. The grotesque beauty of it all held me in awe.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Theatrically Business Savvy
Day 57
Monday
It’s a National Holiday, again, in Spain. Everyone and their dog is at home cooking up a 3 hour lunch and taking a 4 hour siesta. The only one out working is the beloved Traffic Light Juggler. Watching him I think that Spain would do well to learn a lesson from him.
He conveniently works at the traffic light I have to pass by on my way back from the beach after watching the sunset, so whenever I head to the beach before dusk, I’m guaranteed a short performance on my way back. I was tickled to see him today especially because he’s getting smarter. Not better, just smarter. He still drops the pins after 2 rounds, but now he’s got GLOW IN THE DARK pins. Smarty pants has now extended his working hours. The darkness no longer a curtain falling on his shoddy show, but an invitation for eccentric adaptation. Maybe Spain should take note, ADAPT, CHANGE, FIND A WAY TO MAKE IT WORK. Ahem you’re in CRISIS. I don’t recommend more ‘puentes’ between holidays and weekends. I don’t recommend the siesta closing of stores from 2-5pm. I don’t recommend charging 30euro for a t-shirt. I recommend glow in the dark pins.
Funny thing is, the juggler man never asks for money. He doesn’t bring a hat that he leaves out on the street, he doesn’t beg at the cars. He just juggles.
Monday
It’s a National Holiday, again, in Spain. Everyone and their dog is at home cooking up a 3 hour lunch and taking a 4 hour siesta. The only one out working is the beloved Traffic Light Juggler. Watching him I think that Spain would do well to learn a lesson from him.
He conveniently works at the traffic light I have to pass by on my way back from the beach after watching the sunset, so whenever I head to the beach before dusk, I’m guaranteed a short performance on my way back. I was tickled to see him today especially because he’s getting smarter. Not better, just smarter. He still drops the pins after 2 rounds, but now he’s got GLOW IN THE DARK pins. Smarty pants has now extended his working hours. The darkness no longer a curtain falling on his shoddy show, but an invitation for eccentric adaptation. Maybe Spain should take note, ADAPT, CHANGE, FIND A WAY TO MAKE IT WORK. Ahem you’re in CRISIS. I don’t recommend more ‘puentes’ between holidays and weekends. I don’t recommend the siesta closing of stores from 2-5pm. I don’t recommend charging 30euro for a t-shirt. I recommend glow in the dark pins.
Funny thing is, the juggler man never asks for money. He doesn’t bring a hat that he leaves out on the street, he doesn’t beg at the cars. He just juggles.
Extranjero Communitas
Day 56
Sunday
Just to test the limits of the logical I decided to go for a hobble before it started to rain. Desperation to leave my flat drove me out. Making it to the beach I felt safe that the rain clouds were just brooding hens, guarding the wealth of rain beneath their plumes, not ready to let rain fall any time soon. But like the cocky rooster I was wrong and paid the price for my strut. Having to admit to myself that I in fact was not so dexterous as to be able to use two arms for two crutches and juggle an umbrella with my invisible third arm, I trekked on in the rain. I think that if Miserable were to have a poster child, in that moment I took the crown. The saddest little Paddington Bear, hobbling along in a soggy yellow pea coat dragging the bum foot along for the aquatic slog back home. And then through the rain I hear, “Katie? Katie?! What happened?” (In English, which made it weirder because I had to think, who do I know here that speaks English??). And it was Shay, another Language Assistant who I had met at a Halloween Dinner Party she had hosted. We were what I’d call casual acquaintances, but being fellow English speakers in a foreign country completely out of place, casual acquaintances is code for secret allies. Hurrying over to me with her out of town boyfriend she popped her umbrella over my head and asked me what happened to cause me to be on crutches. So I related the supremely embarrassing story of slipping on marble steps in wet flip flops. The wonderful soul that she is asked what she could do to help, immediately asking me if she could go grocery shopping for me, at least. And then offered to get me a cab home. All the while I felt a secret stab of guilt for having thought it not worth it to find American friends because I was in Spain after all, I should be searching out Spanish friends…and here she comes gracing me with kindness.
Then, later that night when I went back out for a hobble after the rain subsided and I had dried up like a Caucasian raisin I ran into the owner of a local café that serves me the same cheap Mercadona brand tea that I buy for myself at my flat. He is a German German if you know what I mean. He walks with stout legs and his chest stuck out as if his spine were the back bone of the letter B and he stood for Burly. We met at the Spanish birthday party BBQ and became friends, as foreigners seem to do when not in their mother country. We had a delightful exchange that made me laugh as I crutched home afterwards. An American girl was talking in Spanish to a German man. In Spain. Glorious. And knowing what it is to be alone and on your own he as well immediately offered to “do what I needed to do” roughly translated. In his darling Spanish, which is still after 6 years living here rather rudimentary, continued to ask me if I had people to “do my things for me” saying he would be the person to do my things for me if I had no person to do my things for me. I’m going to assume he meant, grocery shopping, but I loved his unsure phrase, ‘your things.” Assuring him that I would get by and thanking him profusely I began to depart when he said, “You come to my café. We sit you down and put your foot up and you are not bothered. Yes, yes, That is good.” I just laughed and said that would be wonderful.
And after all that, I think about my anthropology teacher, the marvelous old soul, Edie Turner and her theory of Communitas. The theory that investigates what creates, sustains, and develops community. And I know she’s smile at the communitas of foreigners watching out for each other in a country that tells you to go buy your own crutches.
Sunday
Just to test the limits of the logical I decided to go for a hobble before it started to rain. Desperation to leave my flat drove me out. Making it to the beach I felt safe that the rain clouds were just brooding hens, guarding the wealth of rain beneath their plumes, not ready to let rain fall any time soon. But like the cocky rooster I was wrong and paid the price for my strut. Having to admit to myself that I in fact was not so dexterous as to be able to use two arms for two crutches and juggle an umbrella with my invisible third arm, I trekked on in the rain. I think that if Miserable were to have a poster child, in that moment I took the crown. The saddest little Paddington Bear, hobbling along in a soggy yellow pea coat dragging the bum foot along for the aquatic slog back home. And then through the rain I hear, “Katie? Katie?! What happened?” (In English, which made it weirder because I had to think, who do I know here that speaks English??). And it was Shay, another Language Assistant who I had met at a Halloween Dinner Party she had hosted. We were what I’d call casual acquaintances, but being fellow English speakers in a foreign country completely out of place, casual acquaintances is code for secret allies. Hurrying over to me with her out of town boyfriend she popped her umbrella over my head and asked me what happened to cause me to be on crutches. So I related the supremely embarrassing story of slipping on marble steps in wet flip flops. The wonderful soul that she is asked what she could do to help, immediately asking me if she could go grocery shopping for me, at least. And then offered to get me a cab home. All the while I felt a secret stab of guilt for having thought it not worth it to find American friends because I was in Spain after all, I should be searching out Spanish friends…and here she comes gracing me with kindness.
Then, later that night when I went back out for a hobble after the rain subsided and I had dried up like a Caucasian raisin I ran into the owner of a local café that serves me the same cheap Mercadona brand tea that I buy for myself at my flat. He is a German German if you know what I mean. He walks with stout legs and his chest stuck out as if his spine were the back bone of the letter B and he stood for Burly. We met at the Spanish birthday party BBQ and became friends, as foreigners seem to do when not in their mother country. We had a delightful exchange that made me laugh as I crutched home afterwards. An American girl was talking in Spanish to a German man. In Spain. Glorious. And knowing what it is to be alone and on your own he as well immediately offered to “do what I needed to do” roughly translated. In his darling Spanish, which is still after 6 years living here rather rudimentary, continued to ask me if I had people to “do my things for me” saying he would be the person to do my things for me if I had no person to do my things for me. I’m going to assume he meant, grocery shopping, but I loved his unsure phrase, ‘your things.” Assuring him that I would get by and thanking him profusely I began to depart when he said, “You come to my café. We sit you down and put your foot up and you are not bothered. Yes, yes, That is good.” I just laughed and said that would be wonderful.
And after all that, I think about my anthropology teacher, the marvelous old soul, Edie Turner and her theory of Communitas. The theory that investigates what creates, sustains, and develops community. And I know she’s smile at the communitas of foreigners watching out for each other in a country that tells you to go buy your own crutches.
The Rumination of (My) Darkness
Day 55
Saturday
Slowing down is not my M.O. Considering I thought the perfect way to celebrate my graduation from the grips of UVA was to bike across the country and build homes, I can’t say I’m handling the pace of life on crutches with the grace I wish I could muster. So much for my concern about where I would go and what I would do during my weeklong vacation, the hobbling situation seems to have resolved that quite nicely. Trip to the grocery store, 2 hours. Walk to the beach (not including walking along the beach) 1.5 hours. Etc. So I have the lovely opportunity to fill my time traveling from place to place. I won’t keep up the Debbie Downer attitude because that doesn’t encourage me to get out of bed everyday, knowing a whole lot of hobbling awaits me. Rather, here I’ll glorify the tortoise. Life in slow motion. We’ve made a movement to support Slow Food, why not support Slow Life.
Broken tiles. White and red. In an alternating checkered pattern. The middle row is loose. That is what I’ve been tripping over all the late mornings I hustle to work on the main street to the train.
Parrots hide in the palm trees on the beach. I’ve always run by the palm trees, never loitering long enough to actually hear their song. But on one of my many breathers on my beach walk they serenaded me, while I unclenched my hands from the silly stilts.
Aqua jogging. Heavy pendulum limbs swing in alternating calibration, moving slower than time. Racing through my void of suspended motion and mechanical movement I see rampant glances between the life guard and a young boy, flying faster than a heart beat. Watching love happen again and again and again at each sight.
The allure of the slow life…when your own motion falls away, other bodies take on captivating brilliance, when your own light dims, the light of others falls in stark relief on your path. More than light and more than bodies traverse your void, furtive glances, exhalations of exhaustion, the bite of a nervous lip and the song of a hidden bird jump out at you from your dark center. And life takes on a day dream like quality. The dormant body housing the circus of the mind and the intrusion of fantasy sparked by life experience.
Thank you for shining the illuminating warmth of love and compassion on me :)
Saturday
Slowing down is not my M.O. Considering I thought the perfect way to celebrate my graduation from the grips of UVA was to bike across the country and build homes, I can’t say I’m handling the pace of life on crutches with the grace I wish I could muster. So much for my concern about where I would go and what I would do during my weeklong vacation, the hobbling situation seems to have resolved that quite nicely. Trip to the grocery store, 2 hours. Walk to the beach (not including walking along the beach) 1.5 hours. Etc. So I have the lovely opportunity to fill my time traveling from place to place. I won’t keep up the Debbie Downer attitude because that doesn’t encourage me to get out of bed everyday, knowing a whole lot of hobbling awaits me. Rather, here I’ll glorify the tortoise. Life in slow motion. We’ve made a movement to support Slow Food, why not support Slow Life.
Broken tiles. White and red. In an alternating checkered pattern. The middle row is loose. That is what I’ve been tripping over all the late mornings I hustle to work on the main street to the train.
Parrots hide in the palm trees on the beach. I’ve always run by the palm trees, never loitering long enough to actually hear their song. But on one of my many breathers on my beach walk they serenaded me, while I unclenched my hands from the silly stilts.
Aqua jogging. Heavy pendulum limbs swing in alternating calibration, moving slower than time. Racing through my void of suspended motion and mechanical movement I see rampant glances between the life guard and a young boy, flying faster than a heart beat. Watching love happen again and again and again at each sight.
The allure of the slow life…when your own motion falls away, other bodies take on captivating brilliance, when your own light dims, the light of others falls in stark relief on your path. More than light and more than bodies traverse your void, furtive glances, exhalations of exhaustion, the bite of a nervous lip and the song of a hidden bird jump out at you from your dark center. And life takes on a day dream like quality. The dormant body housing the circus of the mind and the intrusion of fantasy sparked by life experience.
Thank you for shining the illuminating warmth of love and compassion on me :)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Beyond the big picture...
Day 53
Thursday
LIFE.
With only 4 letters and 1 syllable you wouldn’t think it could be such a heavy thing. But lately I find that when I use the word I get caught in a grim Big Picture with that somber syllable beating a solemn echo. In the silence between the sounds come hasty fatalistic conclusions composed by a mind panicking by this new rhythm. Life used to be l i g h t and up beat, Katie bouncing through life loving the daily dance. But a change in mobility, an addition of metallic limbs and the music stops. Walking with crutches in a city is a challenge I hope no one else has to experience. Especially a tourist hot spot. The tiny streets (at times with wonderfully uneven cobble stone) allow for few people, much less people walking with 2 crutches. But just when I’m deafened by the depressing change little voices break in and remind me to be light.
I can’t say technology and I have a very chummy relationship. My father can attest to our tumultuous relationship over the years (problems with Wifi more fickle than a picky eater, dropping my ipod in the toilet, managing to cause my phone to freeze and the occasional apocolyptic computer crash). BUT for all the grudges I hold against all things electronic, it finally cut me some slack and became an endearing enabler. I had the pleasure of skyping with my little cousins, Carter and Ellie just after they woke up. I was chatting with the parentals when little voices chirped up in the background, “Good morning Uncle Rob” and my parents spun around to see two little onsie clad munchkins sleepy eyed and messy bed-headed. Following my parents cue they wished me a “Good morning Katie woo!” Carter proceeded to regale me with a piano concert featuring Jingle Bells and a dance accompaniment by his little sister. I can’t say the rest of the day I had much reason to smile but that little moment kept me smile hours later.
And it reminded me to celebrate my luck in being so loved. While I’d have plenty of time to sulk about a broken foot, I also had the chance to be a witness to innocence and grace. What a rare opportunity. So fighting off the bad moods I’m smiling, knowing that I am so blessed in endless small ways.
Thursday
LIFE.
With only 4 letters and 1 syllable you wouldn’t think it could be such a heavy thing. But lately I find that when I use the word I get caught in a grim Big Picture with that somber syllable beating a solemn echo. In the silence between the sounds come hasty fatalistic conclusions composed by a mind panicking by this new rhythm. Life used to be l i g h t and up beat, Katie bouncing through life loving the daily dance. But a change in mobility, an addition of metallic limbs and the music stops. Walking with crutches in a city is a challenge I hope no one else has to experience. Especially a tourist hot spot. The tiny streets (at times with wonderfully uneven cobble stone) allow for few people, much less people walking with 2 crutches. But just when I’m deafened by the depressing change little voices break in and remind me to be light.
I can’t say technology and I have a very chummy relationship. My father can attest to our tumultuous relationship over the years (problems with Wifi more fickle than a picky eater, dropping my ipod in the toilet, managing to cause my phone to freeze and the occasional apocolyptic computer crash). BUT for all the grudges I hold against all things electronic, it finally cut me some slack and became an endearing enabler. I had the pleasure of skyping with my little cousins, Carter and Ellie just after they woke up. I was chatting with the parentals when little voices chirped up in the background, “Good morning Uncle Rob” and my parents spun around to see two little onsie clad munchkins sleepy eyed and messy bed-headed. Following my parents cue they wished me a “Good morning Katie woo!” Carter proceeded to regale me with a piano concert featuring Jingle Bells and a dance accompaniment by his little sister. I can’t say the rest of the day I had much reason to smile but that little moment kept me smile hours later.
And it reminded me to celebrate my luck in being so loved. While I’d have plenty of time to sulk about a broken foot, I also had the chance to be a witness to innocence and grace. What a rare opportunity. So fighting off the bad moods I’m smiling, knowing that I am so blessed in endless small ways.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Why YES, it indeed DOES hurt when you viciously poke me there.
Day 52
Wednesday
Some how December snuck up on me. By my calculations November never actually flew by, but like a leaf turning colors overnight it suddenly was a new month. And with the new season came new problems.
Before 6th grade A the teacher pulled me aside to warn me of the new student joining the school. She cautioned me to keep my distance because the girl was reputed to be violent. I nodded in a worried manner and we went on with class, the girl raising no trouble. (Probably because we pulled in an extra aid just to monitor the class). Afterwards during the break the teacher disclosed more details about the violent new student. Apparently at her last school she had poisoned the water of her classmates and teacher with bleach. (And I thought, Jesus Christ, I’m just the assistant teacher, I don’t want to die doing this job!!!! My benefits aren’t good enough to cover fatal injuries.) Quite a ripple in the day.
Sneaking through rain drops I scampered off to teacher my darling 5 year olds English after school. Natalia, the angel and the smart one, as always was on point, lecturing Sergio on all that he had missed by being absent on Monday. Sergio, the blond bad boy, took little of her chatter, mocking both Natalia and I, only blushing when I put him on the spot and demanded that if he had so much to say he might as well sing the English Alphabet for us if he wanted to be dramatic. He got to G and mumbled sounds looking at his feet like they might pick up the tune and carry on for his failing tongue.
Earlier I had the opportunity to air my complaints with the Spanish bureaucracy, specifically the Office of the Foreigner and the Police HQ. I figured, hell, I haven’t visited the hospital, let’s go see how the ER works, and see if it’s worse than in the USA. A funny little pain had popped up in my left foot since I fell off my stairs at my flat (if you didn’t know, wet flip flops on marble steps do NOT have traction. Yes you will slip, and no you can’t just walk carefully). So a week later that little pain was making me sweat with pain. Hobbling over to the ER at 8pm the man at the front desk said to me that it was a private clinic and not just anyone could ask to see a doctor (such people skills, I’m sure he must have years of experience in the public sector). “Ya, yo sé” (uh, yeah, I know) I glibly responded and whipped out my insurance card that was my golden ticket into the clinic. He smirked and took my card and my information and gave me a number, which I’m sure he shuffled to the VERY BOTTOM of the list and told me to go wait in the waiting room and listen for my number. Grrrrrrreat. The thing about being in pain is it makes any amount of time seem like a lifetime. 2.5 hours later I was sure it was 6am and they’d forgotten about me. But no, as they called me back to the Doctor’s office (1 of 4 doctors there for consultation) I saw the minute hand hanging languidly at 30 after 10pm. I slumped into the chair at the doctor’s desk while she gabbed on the phone about a little girl who accidentally swallowed all her mom’s hypertension pills (so much for privacy, eh?) and had to come to the hospital to make her throw it all up. When the doctor hung up she looked up at me through heavily eye lined eyes (purple) and said, “dime” (tell me!) Stuttering the response I had been crafting for the past 2 hours I told her how my foot was killing me and I feared a broken bone. She gave it a quick look over and said, “Hmm, swollen. Are you pregnant? No, good, let’s do an x-ray.” She pulled a wheel chair around, told me to sit and tossed my backpack into my lap as I grabbed my boot off the chair before she wheeled me out to the x-ray room. Left like an old woman in the retirement home I dawdled in the x-ray room waiting for the technician to come (really a finely run machine this hospital is). When the tech came she took a moment to say hi to her dad and little brother who had just randomly decided to stop by after dinner at 10:45pm to say hi. Then she told me to sit on the table, put my foot on the x-ray film and bam bam took two pictures before I had time to holler at her, ARE YOU CRAZY??? YOU JUST ZAPPED ME WITH A ZILLION PARTICLES OF RADIATION!! FORGET ABOUT A BROKEN FOOT, NOW I’M GOING TO DIE OF RADIATION POISONING!! YOU NEED TO BE BEHIND A WALL TO PROTECT YOURSELF AND I NEED ONE OF THOSE RADIATION REPELLANT GUARDS WE HAVE IN THE USA! DID YOU REALLY JUST DO THAT? Yes she did. And wheeled me back out to the waiting room, rolling me into a chair and then turning me so my back faced the TV and I enjoyed the entrancing view of the beige wall instead. What tact those hospital people have. So 20 minutes later the doc after having apparently seriously considering my x-rays decided it wasn’t broken, but might break if I wasn’t careful. She had an old man do a pretty shoddy job of wrapping my foot and gave me this advice: take ibuprofen, don’t take the wrap off for a week, and don’t walk on it. And go buy crutches. With that she wheeled me out to the waiting room with a fat wrapped foot that wouldn’t fit into my boot and asked who I came with. “Soy sola” (I’m alone) I snapped, peeved at my long night and incompetent care. She looked at me like I was crazy asking, “How will you get home?” I told her I’ve managed on my own for the past 2 months, I’m sure I’ll figure something out for 1 more night. Last I checked taxis ran all night. That hurdle really isn’t so big and bad as you might think Doc. So dropping me at the door with a wrapped foot and my boot in hand, I hopped out into the night, flailing my thumb at the row of taxis while another finger was itching to jump up and let the hospital know what I really thought of it. But it was midnight and I was too tired to put up a fight. I decided the next time I go to the hospital I’ll make sure to have a bleeding gash so they’d take me immediately and get me set. No more 4 hour waits and hodge podge wrap jobs.
Seems life wanted to throw me a curve ball. Well, I’m up to bat and I might strike out, but I’ll see the game to its end.
(As I write this retrospectively, I had no idea what I was in for).
Wishing you mobility and wholeness.
And radiation free days.
Wednesday
Some how December snuck up on me. By my calculations November never actually flew by, but like a leaf turning colors overnight it suddenly was a new month. And with the new season came new problems.
Before 6th grade A the teacher pulled me aside to warn me of the new student joining the school. She cautioned me to keep my distance because the girl was reputed to be violent. I nodded in a worried manner and we went on with class, the girl raising no trouble. (Probably because we pulled in an extra aid just to monitor the class). Afterwards during the break the teacher disclosed more details about the violent new student. Apparently at her last school she had poisoned the water of her classmates and teacher with bleach. (And I thought, Jesus Christ, I’m just the assistant teacher, I don’t want to die doing this job!!!! My benefits aren’t good enough to cover fatal injuries.) Quite a ripple in the day.
Sneaking through rain drops I scampered off to teacher my darling 5 year olds English after school. Natalia, the angel and the smart one, as always was on point, lecturing Sergio on all that he had missed by being absent on Monday. Sergio, the blond bad boy, took little of her chatter, mocking both Natalia and I, only blushing when I put him on the spot and demanded that if he had so much to say he might as well sing the English Alphabet for us if he wanted to be dramatic. He got to G and mumbled sounds looking at his feet like they might pick up the tune and carry on for his failing tongue.
Earlier I had the opportunity to air my complaints with the Spanish bureaucracy, specifically the Office of the Foreigner and the Police HQ. I figured, hell, I haven’t visited the hospital, let’s go see how the ER works, and see if it’s worse than in the USA. A funny little pain had popped up in my left foot since I fell off my stairs at my flat (if you didn’t know, wet flip flops on marble steps do NOT have traction. Yes you will slip, and no you can’t just walk carefully). So a week later that little pain was making me sweat with pain. Hobbling over to the ER at 8pm the man at the front desk said to me that it was a private clinic and not just anyone could ask to see a doctor (such people skills, I’m sure he must have years of experience in the public sector). “Ya, yo sé” (uh, yeah, I know) I glibly responded and whipped out my insurance card that was my golden ticket into the clinic. He smirked and took my card and my information and gave me a number, which I’m sure he shuffled to the VERY BOTTOM of the list and told me to go wait in the waiting room and listen for my number. Grrrrrrreat. The thing about being in pain is it makes any amount of time seem like a lifetime. 2.5 hours later I was sure it was 6am and they’d forgotten about me. But no, as they called me back to the Doctor’s office (1 of 4 doctors there for consultation) I saw the minute hand hanging languidly at 30 after 10pm. I slumped into the chair at the doctor’s desk while she gabbed on the phone about a little girl who accidentally swallowed all her mom’s hypertension pills (so much for privacy, eh?) and had to come to the hospital to make her throw it all up. When the doctor hung up she looked up at me through heavily eye lined eyes (purple) and said, “dime” (tell me!) Stuttering the response I had been crafting for the past 2 hours I told her how my foot was killing me and I feared a broken bone. She gave it a quick look over and said, “Hmm, swollen. Are you pregnant? No, good, let’s do an x-ray.” She pulled a wheel chair around, told me to sit and tossed my backpack into my lap as I grabbed my boot off the chair before she wheeled me out to the x-ray room. Left like an old woman in the retirement home I dawdled in the x-ray room waiting for the technician to come (really a finely run machine this hospital is). When the tech came she took a moment to say hi to her dad and little brother who had just randomly decided to stop by after dinner at 10:45pm to say hi. Then she told me to sit on the table, put my foot on the x-ray film and bam bam took two pictures before I had time to holler at her, ARE YOU CRAZY??? YOU JUST ZAPPED ME WITH A ZILLION PARTICLES OF RADIATION!! FORGET ABOUT A BROKEN FOOT, NOW I’M GOING TO DIE OF RADIATION POISONING!! YOU NEED TO BE BEHIND A WALL TO PROTECT YOURSELF AND I NEED ONE OF THOSE RADIATION REPELLANT GUARDS WE HAVE IN THE USA! DID YOU REALLY JUST DO THAT? Yes she did. And wheeled me back out to the waiting room, rolling me into a chair and then turning me so my back faced the TV and I enjoyed the entrancing view of the beige wall instead. What tact those hospital people have. So 20 minutes later the doc after having apparently seriously considering my x-rays decided it wasn’t broken, but might break if I wasn’t careful. She had an old man do a pretty shoddy job of wrapping my foot and gave me this advice: take ibuprofen, don’t take the wrap off for a week, and don’t walk on it. And go buy crutches. With that she wheeled me out to the waiting room with a fat wrapped foot that wouldn’t fit into my boot and asked who I came with. “Soy sola” (I’m alone) I snapped, peeved at my long night and incompetent care. She looked at me like I was crazy asking, “How will you get home?” I told her I’ve managed on my own for the past 2 months, I’m sure I’ll figure something out for 1 more night. Last I checked taxis ran all night. That hurdle really isn’t so big and bad as you might think Doc. So dropping me at the door with a wrapped foot and my boot in hand, I hopped out into the night, flailing my thumb at the row of taxis while another finger was itching to jump up and let the hospital know what I really thought of it. But it was midnight and I was too tired to put up a fight. I decided the next time I go to the hospital I’ll make sure to have a bleeding gash so they’d take me immediately and get me set. No more 4 hour waits and hodge podge wrap jobs.
Seems life wanted to throw me a curve ball. Well, I’m up to bat and I might strike out, but I’ll see the game to its end.
(As I write this retrospectively, I had no idea what I was in for).
Wishing you mobility and wholeness.
And radiation free days.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
59 more minutes to go...
Day 51
Tuesday
Kanye West is not someone I would call a good speaker. Too many public slip ups and outbursts to be respected. But he has one song, while granted it is a riff off of a cliché saying, that you can bop your head to in affirmation of the truth he raps. The title escapes me but the line is “that don’t kill me can only make me stronger.” This sentiment can arguably be applied to any situation in life, but I’d like to apply it to 4th grade A Science Class. It’s the joy of my week, to open up a 4th grade science book, staring down the head teacher busy on her iphone in the back of the classroom, and ask the English incompetent students to join me in a rousing good time of bi-lingual education. Last week we drew plants and talked about the photosynthesis cycle, which was awesome! Me scrambling to pronounce for the first time concepts like carbon dioxide, mitochondria, glucose and photosynthesis in Spanish and then writing the English words on the board while the class went haywire, taking it upon themselves to do their best at ignoring me. Needless to say I couldn’t wait for 1pm to roll around on Tuesday to dance this dance with them again. Facing the facts that the class couldn’t speak baby English, I concluded it useless to carry on talking about concepts such as photosynthesis when I couldn’t say the words in Spanish and they rolled their eyes at my English. Back to the basics. General health. I mean I went allllllll the way back. La salud. Alright kids, this is the body. Let’s talk about what good health is. Baby concepts in baby language. And somehow we scraped by and talked about good health, they were supposed to learn about heart rate and how it corresponds to general health, but the only thing I’m sure they’ll take away from my lesson was how they got to jog in class for 1 minute. It might have been counter-intuitive to get the already chronically ADD class even more riled up by jogging in class, but anyone that understands the concept “fill up the time” will nod in understanding, a 1 minute jog can easily be turned into a 5 minute activity. You have to explain they will jog in place for 1 minute. Then you must demonstrate jogging in place. Then you have them stand. Then you say go. Then you say stop after 5 seconds when they’ve already forgotten what jogging IN PLACE means and have begun to do shuttle races across the room colliding into desks. Then you must yell and have them sit down, which takes time because they are scattered like marbles. Then you must yell and jog in place and ask repeatedly what is not understood by IN PLACE. Then you must demonstrate jogging that is NOT IN PLACE so they can more clearly see their mistake. It’s complicated you know. Then you must say stand. And wait for the serious pause to settle in so they know you mean business. Then you say go. And you wait 1 minute (or more if you feel like realllly filling time :) and then you say stop and have them sit down, but that takes time because of course they take jogging in place to really mean run around the class room like a mad bee is on your tail. Once they are done laughing at the mundane activity and how crazy it was to (gasp!) jog IN CLASS you yell more and more and then try and coalesce it into a learning moment and have them count their pulse. But you don’t dare use your own as an example because it’s so high it might indicate high cholesterol or hypertension or just chronic fed-up-ness with Spanish children. Hopefully they’ve copied down the chart and the vocab from the board (as you stated to upstart Israel who demanded to know if they had to do the ‘copying thing again’ “Why yes Israel, we are doing the copying thing again because you still seemed to not have mastered it. I thought it best to give you more practice. I invite you to copy what I’ve written on the board, I promise I’m not here to just waste your time with a silly language like English). And if there’s time, but there never is, you end with your cute little conclusion that ties it all together and drives home the important point- GOOD HEALTH. (Now stop eating all that disgusting ham and start eating your vegetables).
Good riddance.
Tuesday
Kanye West is not someone I would call a good speaker. Too many public slip ups and outbursts to be respected. But he has one song, while granted it is a riff off of a cliché saying, that you can bop your head to in affirmation of the truth he raps. The title escapes me but the line is “that don’t kill me can only make me stronger.” This sentiment can arguably be applied to any situation in life, but I’d like to apply it to 4th grade A Science Class. It’s the joy of my week, to open up a 4th grade science book, staring down the head teacher busy on her iphone in the back of the classroom, and ask the English incompetent students to join me in a rousing good time of bi-lingual education. Last week we drew plants and talked about the photosynthesis cycle, which was awesome! Me scrambling to pronounce for the first time concepts like carbon dioxide, mitochondria, glucose and photosynthesis in Spanish and then writing the English words on the board while the class went haywire, taking it upon themselves to do their best at ignoring me. Needless to say I couldn’t wait for 1pm to roll around on Tuesday to dance this dance with them again. Facing the facts that the class couldn’t speak baby English, I concluded it useless to carry on talking about concepts such as photosynthesis when I couldn’t say the words in Spanish and they rolled their eyes at my English. Back to the basics. General health. I mean I went allllllll the way back. La salud. Alright kids, this is the body. Let’s talk about what good health is. Baby concepts in baby language. And somehow we scraped by and talked about good health, they were supposed to learn about heart rate and how it corresponds to general health, but the only thing I’m sure they’ll take away from my lesson was how they got to jog in class for 1 minute. It might have been counter-intuitive to get the already chronically ADD class even more riled up by jogging in class, but anyone that understands the concept “fill up the time” will nod in understanding, a 1 minute jog can easily be turned into a 5 minute activity. You have to explain they will jog in place for 1 minute. Then you must demonstrate jogging in place. Then you have them stand. Then you say go. Then you say stop after 5 seconds when they’ve already forgotten what jogging IN PLACE means and have begun to do shuttle races across the room colliding into desks. Then you must yell and have them sit down, which takes time because they are scattered like marbles. Then you must yell and jog in place and ask repeatedly what is not understood by IN PLACE. Then you must demonstrate jogging that is NOT IN PLACE so they can more clearly see their mistake. It’s complicated you know. Then you must say stand. And wait for the serious pause to settle in so they know you mean business. Then you say go. And you wait 1 minute (or more if you feel like realllly filling time :) and then you say stop and have them sit down, but that takes time because of course they take jogging in place to really mean run around the class room like a mad bee is on your tail. Once they are done laughing at the mundane activity and how crazy it was to (gasp!) jog IN CLASS you yell more and more and then try and coalesce it into a learning moment and have them count their pulse. But you don’t dare use your own as an example because it’s so high it might indicate high cholesterol or hypertension or just chronic fed-up-ness with Spanish children. Hopefully they’ve copied down the chart and the vocab from the board (as you stated to upstart Israel who demanded to know if they had to do the ‘copying thing again’ “Why yes Israel, we are doing the copying thing again because you still seemed to not have mastered it. I thought it best to give you more practice. I invite you to copy what I’ve written on the board, I promise I’m not here to just waste your time with a silly language like English). And if there’s time, but there never is, you end with your cute little conclusion that ties it all together and drives home the important point- GOOD HEALTH. (Now stop eating all that disgusting ham and start eating your vegetables).
Good riddance.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDPA!!
Correction to the title and intro and closing of the last post, it was supposed to read: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPPPPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDPA!!
[sorry it's late as well, I need a new Editorial team it seems]
[sorry it's late as well, I need a new Editorial team it seems]
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Galloping Gimmies
Day 50
Monday
Sometimes I reckon the weather in Malaga to be a privileged child, raising a fit when winter weather nudges the warm weather aside for colder, darker days. And so it’s Monday and Malaga doesn’t like the “frigid” 50 degree weather and so it brings out its rain clouds and tears into the land with sheets of rain. I’m no longer hostile to the abrupt turn of the weather as I was before. I’ve come to appreciate how efficient the rain makes me. I walk where I need to go, I don’t worry about impulse shopping or procrastinating window shopping, I’m all business when it’s wet.
It seems that only 50% of my students share this sentiment of rainy day efficiency because in all of my classes at least 10 students were absent (and the biggest class I teach is 22). Any teacher with a day of experience would have thrown in the chalk and declared it a movie day, not wanting to have to re-teach the day’s lesson to all the clearly un-intrinsically motivated pupils. But as my school does not have central heating, it obviously does not have TVs in every classroom, so I teach.
On my walk home I laughed at the new crosswalk light they’ve put in by the Corte Ingles in an attempt to control rampant pedestrian traffic. It’s a friendly little green teenage boy with baggy pants and hunchbacked swagger who is schlepping it in place. When pedestrians should be wary that the time is almost up for them to cross the schlep becomes a frantic spasm, the green boy becomes a strobe light of panic. I laugh and wait for one more round just so I can remember how I should look right before I get hit by an impatient car.
But all this matters little because in Spain the ONLY thing of importance began at 9pm. The Madrid Real vs. Barcelona Fútbol game. The other American teachers and I went to one of the clubs that had been converted into a game viewing bar of sorts to check out the big deal. I held strong to my Barca ties, the newest member of the team being David Villa, my heart throb of Valencia’s futbol team when I was studying there. My roommate, ever my opposite was beaming in his Madrid jersey, confidant that he’d be patting me on the back saying how Barca tried its best, but couldn’t muster enough to beat the best team in the world. 2 hours and 5 goals later I was laughing at my roommate asking if he wanted me to wait for him while he changed out of his jersey in the bathroom before we went out in public. It was a rousing game, with even better headlines the next day, chronicling the trouncing of Madrid by Barca.
And I wonder- why is football or baseball America’s pastime?? I can’t say I agree with Spain on anything, but that futbol is the superior sport I’ll fall in line behind.
Monday
Sometimes I reckon the weather in Malaga to be a privileged child, raising a fit when winter weather nudges the warm weather aside for colder, darker days. And so it’s Monday and Malaga doesn’t like the “frigid” 50 degree weather and so it brings out its rain clouds and tears into the land with sheets of rain. I’m no longer hostile to the abrupt turn of the weather as I was before. I’ve come to appreciate how efficient the rain makes me. I walk where I need to go, I don’t worry about impulse shopping or procrastinating window shopping, I’m all business when it’s wet.
It seems that only 50% of my students share this sentiment of rainy day efficiency because in all of my classes at least 10 students were absent (and the biggest class I teach is 22). Any teacher with a day of experience would have thrown in the chalk and declared it a movie day, not wanting to have to re-teach the day’s lesson to all the clearly un-intrinsically motivated pupils. But as my school does not have central heating, it obviously does not have TVs in every classroom, so I teach.
On my walk home I laughed at the new crosswalk light they’ve put in by the Corte Ingles in an attempt to control rampant pedestrian traffic. It’s a friendly little green teenage boy with baggy pants and hunchbacked swagger who is schlepping it in place. When pedestrians should be wary that the time is almost up for them to cross the schlep becomes a frantic spasm, the green boy becomes a strobe light of panic. I laugh and wait for one more round just so I can remember how I should look right before I get hit by an impatient car.
But all this matters little because in Spain the ONLY thing of importance began at 9pm. The Madrid Real vs. Barcelona Fútbol game. The other American teachers and I went to one of the clubs that had been converted into a game viewing bar of sorts to check out the big deal. I held strong to my Barca ties, the newest member of the team being David Villa, my heart throb of Valencia’s futbol team when I was studying there. My roommate, ever my opposite was beaming in his Madrid jersey, confidant that he’d be patting me on the back saying how Barca tried its best, but couldn’t muster enough to beat the best team in the world. 2 hours and 5 goals later I was laughing at my roommate asking if he wanted me to wait for him while he changed out of his jersey in the bathroom before we went out in public. It was a rousing game, with even better headlines the next day, chronicling the trouncing of Madrid by Barca.
And I wonder- why is football or baseball America’s pastime?? I can’t say I agree with Spain on anything, but that futbol is the superior sport I’ll fall in line behind.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Looking at you kid
Day 49
Sunday
Stores close on Sundays so that the workers might have a day to spend with their family. Which means Sunday is the prime day for people watching. The pool of pedestrians you can blatantly stare at almost doubles. Balloon vendors camp out in the middle of the main drag. Christmas vendors line the street selling knick knacks and odds and ends to decorate with. Street performers here their clashing coins in pockets and flock to Calle Larios to exploit the spectators with young children. Tarot card readers set up tables with the promise of a good fortune (without foreseeing their own poor business profit) and jewelry designers twiddle away at earrings and bracelets to add to their mildly creative display arrayed on blankets lining the street. The icecream shop has a savvy business owner who’s decided to buck tradition to beat the crisis, his doors are thrown open and draw children in with parents at the end of their desperate pull. It’s one of those magical sunny days that make you smile before you even realize that you’re smiling. There isn’t a bench open because everyone is soaking up the perfect day. I stroll up Calle Larios having spent a fair amount of time people watching at the beach and ocean meditating myself, and I pass by the Viking street performer who I see every day on my walk home from class. And he winks at me. And I find my smile exploding across my face. He knows I know the charade. Just another day at work for him, but he’s caught me at my favorite game- staring at the world through the kaleidoscope of my imagination.
Sunday
Stores close on Sundays so that the workers might have a day to spend with their family. Which means Sunday is the prime day for people watching. The pool of pedestrians you can blatantly stare at almost doubles. Balloon vendors camp out in the middle of the main drag. Christmas vendors line the street selling knick knacks and odds and ends to decorate with. Street performers here their clashing coins in pockets and flock to Calle Larios to exploit the spectators with young children. Tarot card readers set up tables with the promise of a good fortune (without foreseeing their own poor business profit) and jewelry designers twiddle away at earrings and bracelets to add to their mildly creative display arrayed on blankets lining the street. The icecream shop has a savvy business owner who’s decided to buck tradition to beat the crisis, his doors are thrown open and draw children in with parents at the end of their desperate pull. It’s one of those magical sunny days that make you smile before you even realize that you’re smiling. There isn’t a bench open because everyone is soaking up the perfect day. I stroll up Calle Larios having spent a fair amount of time people watching at the beach and ocean meditating myself, and I pass by the Viking street performer who I see every day on my walk home from class. And he winks at me. And I find my smile exploding across my face. He knows I know the charade. Just another day at work for him, but he’s caught me at my favorite game- staring at the world through the kaleidoscope of my imagination.
Two Takes on Tradition
Day 48
Saturday
Even the rain clouds love the Costa del Sol so much they want to come back. But this morning, finally waking up feeling like the ‘old Katie’ I have a “let’s give ‘em hell” attitude. It will not be rainy and miserable on the first day I feel like a human after being sick. Laughing at the rain drops as they started to fall I just zip up my jacket and run into the gale strength head winds and let my smile wick the water away. There’s something insanely energizing about running in the rain. Every part of your body is on high alert and every step another adventure- dodging puddles, leaping crevices, and ducking beneath dry overhangs. I don’t care if people stare because I’m running or because I’m smiling as I run in the rain. It feels so good to move.
Later that day I head off to a birthday party BBQ. Can’t say I really knew the invitee really well, but I sure as hell was interested in what a Spanish BBQ might look like. So I tromped off into the torrential rains, getting my usual lost and adding significant time to my expected arrival time, but it doesn’t matter, my arriving 2 hours late was right on time, it’s Spain, half the party was still on its way. Since it was raining the BBQ had moved inside the flat, the kitchen now the hangout area, with a small grill sizzling 4 chorizos at a time. People picked at bread and pounded cheap beer while they awaited their chorizos. I can’t say I really followed much of the conversation because they we’re all Information Technology or Robotics majors at the University. I caught some fascinating tidbits about reconfiguring heaters and jokes about electrons and mis-wiring something or another, but did the required smile, laugh and nod at appropriate moments, feigning both interest and comprehension.
Venturing on to more socially awkward moments I went to an American Thanksgiving Dinner hosted by some other English teachers in Malaga. Being too poor for a turkey we had chicken and being too poor we had pasta. Everyone else brought some other version of poor man’s food (white bread, whipped mashed potatoes from a box, sliced veggies, salad, etc.) Luckily one of the girls there is quite handy in the kitchen and whipped up some meeeeeeeean sweet potato casserole and pumpkin pie. She saved the dinner as most of the money was channeled into buy equally cheap wine. We chatted casually in English, laughing about the expected cultural differences, raving about the sweet potatoes, and I like to think reveling in the miraculous ambience- relaxed and enjoyable. A rare combination in Spain for a foreigner. While it wasn’t like any turkey day dinner I’ve ever had I was so grateful for it in its unique way. It made me think of other times when people wore warm smiles and laughed freely. The group was from all over the USA but we all knew how to do Thanksgiving and what a blessing to finally be in the company of people whose mannerisms you could read and anticipate and take part in a ritual you knew by heart. Sure, I’ll always stand by my affirmation that the new and the foreign is alluring, but mmhhh there is something about the familiarity of tradition that brings a deep contentment to your face and sits deep in your soul.
I said that I was grateful for the middle road with all its bumps and mundane stretches, but I’m more grateful for all of who you bring that road to life, who take part in the little routines, the rituals, the traditions and who are such a blessing in my life, granting me the miracle of knowing what it is to love and be loved.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR YOU.
Even though you’re always here with me, I still miss you.
Saturday
Even the rain clouds love the Costa del Sol so much they want to come back. But this morning, finally waking up feeling like the ‘old Katie’ I have a “let’s give ‘em hell” attitude. It will not be rainy and miserable on the first day I feel like a human after being sick. Laughing at the rain drops as they started to fall I just zip up my jacket and run into the gale strength head winds and let my smile wick the water away. There’s something insanely energizing about running in the rain. Every part of your body is on high alert and every step another adventure- dodging puddles, leaping crevices, and ducking beneath dry overhangs. I don’t care if people stare because I’m running or because I’m smiling as I run in the rain. It feels so good to move.
Later that day I head off to a birthday party BBQ. Can’t say I really knew the invitee really well, but I sure as hell was interested in what a Spanish BBQ might look like. So I tromped off into the torrential rains, getting my usual lost and adding significant time to my expected arrival time, but it doesn’t matter, my arriving 2 hours late was right on time, it’s Spain, half the party was still on its way. Since it was raining the BBQ had moved inside the flat, the kitchen now the hangout area, with a small grill sizzling 4 chorizos at a time. People picked at bread and pounded cheap beer while they awaited their chorizos. I can’t say I really followed much of the conversation because they we’re all Information Technology or Robotics majors at the University. I caught some fascinating tidbits about reconfiguring heaters and jokes about electrons and mis-wiring something or another, but did the required smile, laugh and nod at appropriate moments, feigning both interest and comprehension.
Venturing on to more socially awkward moments I went to an American Thanksgiving Dinner hosted by some other English teachers in Malaga. Being too poor for a turkey we had chicken and being too poor we had pasta. Everyone else brought some other version of poor man’s food (white bread, whipped mashed potatoes from a box, sliced veggies, salad, etc.) Luckily one of the girls there is quite handy in the kitchen and whipped up some meeeeeeeean sweet potato casserole and pumpkin pie. She saved the dinner as most of the money was channeled into buy equally cheap wine. We chatted casually in English, laughing about the expected cultural differences, raving about the sweet potatoes, and I like to think reveling in the miraculous ambience- relaxed and enjoyable. A rare combination in Spain for a foreigner. While it wasn’t like any turkey day dinner I’ve ever had I was so grateful for it in its unique way. It made me think of other times when people wore warm smiles and laughed freely. The group was from all over the USA but we all knew how to do Thanksgiving and what a blessing to finally be in the company of people whose mannerisms you could read and anticipate and take part in a ritual you knew by heart. Sure, I’ll always stand by my affirmation that the new and the foreign is alluring, but mmhhh there is something about the familiarity of tradition that brings a deep contentment to your face and sits deep in your soul.
I said that I was grateful for the middle road with all its bumps and mundane stretches, but I’m more grateful for all of who you bring that road to life, who take part in the little routines, the rituals, the traditions and who are such a blessing in my life, granting me the miracle of knowing what it is to love and be loved.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR YOU.
Even though you’re always here with me, I still miss you.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
What did I just agree to exactly?
Day 47
Friday.
Inching back into life I don’t say TGIF! But rather, MehIF. No longer wiped out from walking down my stairs I can officially resume my status as human being, but with limited productivity. I get a shower in (score) and a stellar walk on the beach.
The big news happened when my landlord decided to stop by (only after she swears she calls me, funny thing though, my phone must screen her calls for me because they never appear). She asks me if I’m free on Thursday afternoons. Of course I think the worst immediately. We broke something. I didn’t pay the right amount. We’re going to be kicked out. No, no, what she says is even more intense. She wants me to teach her son English. And promises to pay big bucks. My ears chirp up at the sound of money deals being made and my tongue walks out to greet them before I’ve had time to properly process it all. I say YES YES YES. Only afterwards do I have buyer’s regret. Land lord’s son. LANDLORD! What if I mess up? What if I teach something wrong? What if her son hates me? Who knows what she’ll do to the electric bill if I don’t do a good job teaching her son.
Nothing like a little anxiety to get the system up and running though.
Friday.
Inching back into life I don’t say TGIF! But rather, MehIF. No longer wiped out from walking down my stairs I can officially resume my status as human being, but with limited productivity. I get a shower in (score) and a stellar walk on the beach.
The big news happened when my landlord decided to stop by (only after she swears she calls me, funny thing though, my phone must screen her calls for me because they never appear). She asks me if I’m free on Thursday afternoons. Of course I think the worst immediately. We broke something. I didn’t pay the right amount. We’re going to be kicked out. No, no, what she says is even more intense. She wants me to teach her son English. And promises to pay big bucks. My ears chirp up at the sound of money deals being made and my tongue walks out to greet them before I’ve had time to properly process it all. I say YES YES YES. Only afterwards do I have buyer’s regret. Land lord’s son. LANDLORD! What if I mess up? What if I teach something wrong? What if her son hates me? Who knows what she’ll do to the electric bill if I don’t do a good job teaching her son.
Nothing like a little anxiety to get the system up and running though.
I am grateful for...normalcy.
Day 46
Thursday
Being a cup half full kinda girl it was the best timing possible that I got the flu full force Wednesday night, so I could be bedridden all Thursday. Having no big family dinner to attend, no one to see, nothing to cook and no country to celebrate the day with, it really wasn’t too troublesome to only want to eat crackers and drink liters of soup. Wasn’t missing much more than I would if I felt tip top.
Another perk of being ill is taking Spanish medicine. After the snappy pharmacist freaked on me for not knowing the word ‘mucus’ in Spanish (really though, when does that word come up in Spanish 1/2/or 3 partner conversations during the final exam?? No we don’t practice asking, “What does your mucus look like?” Back off white coat drug dealer, ok?) I walked out smiling because I had a bag of meds for only 5euro. It’s always interesting to encounter a new way of doing something you’ve done a different way all your life. Give me Dayquil and I know what to do. Bottle or pills, easy as pie. But opening the box of Spanish medicine I’m confronted by oddly shaped packets and I don’t know exactly what to do with them or how to take them. Bending to logic, I read the directions, oohhh, put in water. Duh. A magic elixir. The minute it passes down my throat I feel a subtle burst of energy; even though I’m still convinced I’m drinking Tang. But the placebo effect has been proven to work. I can’t wait till 6 hours passes and I can drink another packet.
It’s one of those lazy days when you’re too tired from doing nothing to do something. But it allows plenty of time for a longing to feel normal again to set in. sitting as miserable as mold on a bag of week old bread, I’m a bump on the bench watching the sunset thinking of all the times I griped about the ‘problems’ with normal. How stupid of me. I guess it’s appropriate to reflect on this day and to give thanks for the middle road. It’s wonderful when we zoom up on those miraculous highs of life, but really it’s the moments spent clawing to get back to that middle path that give the ‘nothing to write home about days’ their glory. And oh how I wished I felt normal.
I’d feel odd wishing you all the most normal of days, but in context of this piece I hope you’ll understand what I really mean.
May to day be nothing special and may that be wonderful.
(What if the quotidian were that satisfying?)
Happy Thanksgiving to you all!
[¡Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias!]
Thursday
Being a cup half full kinda girl it was the best timing possible that I got the flu full force Wednesday night, so I could be bedridden all Thursday. Having no big family dinner to attend, no one to see, nothing to cook and no country to celebrate the day with, it really wasn’t too troublesome to only want to eat crackers and drink liters of soup. Wasn’t missing much more than I would if I felt tip top.
Another perk of being ill is taking Spanish medicine. After the snappy pharmacist freaked on me for not knowing the word ‘mucus’ in Spanish (really though, when does that word come up in Spanish 1/2/or 3 partner conversations during the final exam?? No we don’t practice asking, “What does your mucus look like?” Back off white coat drug dealer, ok?) I walked out smiling because I had a bag of meds for only 5euro. It’s always interesting to encounter a new way of doing something you’ve done a different way all your life. Give me Dayquil and I know what to do. Bottle or pills, easy as pie. But opening the box of Spanish medicine I’m confronted by oddly shaped packets and I don’t know exactly what to do with them or how to take them. Bending to logic, I read the directions, oohhh, put in water. Duh. A magic elixir. The minute it passes down my throat I feel a subtle burst of energy; even though I’m still convinced I’m drinking Tang. But the placebo effect has been proven to work. I can’t wait till 6 hours passes and I can drink another packet.
It’s one of those lazy days when you’re too tired from doing nothing to do something. But it allows plenty of time for a longing to feel normal again to set in. sitting as miserable as mold on a bag of week old bread, I’m a bump on the bench watching the sunset thinking of all the times I griped about the ‘problems’ with normal. How stupid of me. I guess it’s appropriate to reflect on this day and to give thanks for the middle road. It’s wonderful when we zoom up on those miraculous highs of life, but really it’s the moments spent clawing to get back to that middle path that give the ‘nothing to write home about days’ their glory. And oh how I wished I felt normal.
I’d feel odd wishing you all the most normal of days, but in context of this piece I hope you’ll understand what I really mean.
May to day be nothing special and may that be wonderful.
(What if the quotidian were that satisfying?)
Happy Thanksgiving to you all!
[¡Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias!]
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