Day 80
Wednesday
“Did you see the new boy?” Arabella asked me mid-worksheet in the middle of practicing the short ‘o’ sound.
“No! I didn’t know there was a new boy.” I replied.
“Well, there is, in 6th grade B and all the girls are all over him. And he’s goth.” She haughtily informed me.
“Really? Goth? Wow.” I said before she cut in,
“Yes, he’s from Barcelona.”
“And do you like him?’ I inquired.
“Oh well, I don’t know, he’s goth.” (And Arabella is a sweet British 6th grader).
And that was that. I knew that there was a strange energy in the school today. Everyone was unusually chatty and excited. There was a new boy. All my little country bumpkin kids couldn’t believe they’d got a classmate from the big city, Barça.
Heading off to 6th grade B right after I was excited to meet the new student, as I’ve always felt an unusual affinity for Barcelona. I didn’t even have to try and find him. The minute I walked in I could spot him. Sporting a fashion hair cut, with a huge swath of hair swept across his baby face hiding rebellious brown eyes. I quickly found out as almost all of the girls tried to introduce him at once that his name was Antonio. I laughed and welcomed him to class, knowing that we’d get nothing done. 11 pairs of eyes were locked in on that poor boy, all smitten. And I could only chuckle to myself as I asked them to open their activity books to correct their homework; I so easily remembered how it felt to have a new kid at school, such excitement at having the quotidian social network thrown askew. But I got a funny new perspective as a teacher this time around. No longer was my main concern his degree of cute-ness, but rather, would he make my hour in English hellish or amicable. To my great luck he spoke little English, which made him gun-shy about speaking up or acting out. Which meant the rest of the class was a bit more inclined to be productive.
Trading the new boy for the slow boy I went to 4th grade where there is the most endearing boy, Juanfro, who is slightly autistic and mentally challenged (is that is the going P.C term?) in Spain they integrate all of the children, so the special needs children are seated next to the valedictorian, regardless of their learning styles or inability to follow the material. And so Juanfro is seated in the front row, with a daydreamer smile painted on his face as he rocks, waiting for someone to notice him and direct him to an activity. And so today, while the class was taking a test, Juanfro, who never takes the tests, was pulled up to the teacher’s desk so Gema could show him his coloring activity. The scene that followed almost made me cry. A quick preface – most of the special needs children are treated terribly, mocked by their classmates and berated by their teachers.
Gema had sketched a popular cartoon character and had written down the colors his different body parts were to be colored in English. As she was reviewing the cartoon, in such a gentle manner, sweetly asking, “Juanfro, look at his big ears. What color are his ears?” And he would tap the page, caressing the ears, begging the tickle to recall the secret color of the ears. Gema had written the word ‘red’ in the ears and she asked him again, “Juanfro, look at his big ears (and she touches his ears) what color are his ears? What color is red?” And behind Gema sits Sapo, a small boy who’s more interested in Gema and Juanfro than the test. He waves a red crayon to help Juanfro guess what red means. Juanfro catches the signal wave and giggles “Rojo! (red)” “Good Juanfro, good! The ears are red, rojo. Now look at his big feet, what color are his feet?” And again Sapo waves a bright blue crayon and Juanfro eagerly shouts “Blue!” “Yes Juanfro yes! Blue! Now look at his hands, what color are his hands?” A yellow crayon hails his attention floating over Gema’s head and Juanfro jumps up, “yellow!” And Gema is elated, “Yes very very good! Yellow!” By now more eyes have departed from the test page and wandered up the scene at the front of the class, stifled giggles peppered the room as Sapo waved the crayon for Juanfro. Teacher’s say they have eyes in the back of their head, so I’m sure Gema knew Sapo was acting as a secret aide, but she let it be and let Juanfro light up with joy at guessing all the colors and Sapo just smiled and nodded his head in encouragement. I was filled with so much hope in humanity in that moment. I said that I believe in the age of innocence, and I do, but more than that, I believe in the constancy of kindness. It’s in all my students; I just love when it rises to the occasion. And what’s more, it was the random act of kindness that made me melt. Isn’t it true, the unexpected, unsolicited, freely given kindness of another is the most precious gift one can receive. Organic grace is one of the small miracles of sociality.
Loving kindness….how to put that in a lesson plan?
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Spanning the Spectrum
Day 79
Tuesday
I believe in the age of innocence. It is 1st grade. They’re so adorable to the point that even if they have mis-behaved they’re so darn cute your mean face just melts away the minute their big eyes widen in fear of punishment. And they love freely and extravagantly. It was the class hug I received when I peeked into 1st grade A at 10am for English that made me a believer in the age of innocence. One smile and one “Seño! (teacher)” gleefully screeched aroused the room and before my grin stretched ear to ear I was wrapped by little arms in an enormous group hug that was more like a leg hug because the short darlings really didn’t reach higher than my hips. And so of course we had fun in class. They told me about their toys, completely forgetting we had learned about toys before the break. Regardless of their reversion to monolinguism I was in a good mood, we played games and I assume they re-learned something.
4th grade was a different story. I don’t believe in hating anything, that is simply wasted energy. So I won’t say I hate 4th grade B, but rather say, what a wonderful challenge they are presenting me with. Dare I say that they are IMPOSSIBLE to teach, yes I do. Having failed to hold their attention as I tried to teach them science English I decided to scrap the science game plan for an impromptu lesson on RESPECT. As we waited in the hall for the monitor to open the door to 4th grade B the students told me “perdon” (sorry) for being so rude before break when I walked out of the classroom for the principal and said I refused to continue teaching the class on my own because of their vile behavior. I was hoping their apologies meant they had changed for the better…but alas, change is slow. Very slow. Still carrying a chip on my shoulder towards them I had my ice queen face on and walked into the classroom and wrote in huge letters on the board ‘RESPECT.’ And waited for them to remember I was the teacher and they were the students. The principal had kindly sent an aide to sit in the class with me (instead of coming herself as she should). I began to ask them what they thought respect meant and for the next hour we struggled through defining respect, discussing who we respect and why. Then I assigned them homework (big mistake). I asked them to write a 2 page essay on Respect. As if I were a full moon, the pack of wolves that was the class began to howl at me, ‘2 pages? 2 pages?” unable to believe that I would dare ask that much of them. Still pissed as hell at them I said, “If one more person asks me if it is really 2 pages, I will double it to 4 pages.” And told them to begin immediately. As expected, they didn’t begin. They roamed the class, they taunted classmates, they laughed loudly and they all asked to go to the bathroom. In between my demands for silence I laughed with the aide sitting with me, she noted, “they really haven’t realized why they’re learning about respect, have they?” “No, no, they still don’t get it” I said, disappointed. 12:59:59 I shouted that I wanted the homework next week and I fled, 1 hour done.
I wonder if I could get an ex-Marine to come be my aide, I think he’d be rather effective in disciplinary techniques and teaching respect.
; )
Tuesday
I believe in the age of innocence. It is 1st grade. They’re so adorable to the point that even if they have mis-behaved they’re so darn cute your mean face just melts away the minute their big eyes widen in fear of punishment. And they love freely and extravagantly. It was the class hug I received when I peeked into 1st grade A at 10am for English that made me a believer in the age of innocence. One smile and one “Seño! (teacher)” gleefully screeched aroused the room and before my grin stretched ear to ear I was wrapped by little arms in an enormous group hug that was more like a leg hug because the short darlings really didn’t reach higher than my hips. And so of course we had fun in class. They told me about their toys, completely forgetting we had learned about toys before the break. Regardless of their reversion to monolinguism I was in a good mood, we played games and I assume they re-learned something.
4th grade was a different story. I don’t believe in hating anything, that is simply wasted energy. So I won’t say I hate 4th grade B, but rather say, what a wonderful challenge they are presenting me with. Dare I say that they are IMPOSSIBLE to teach, yes I do. Having failed to hold their attention as I tried to teach them science English I decided to scrap the science game plan for an impromptu lesson on RESPECT. As we waited in the hall for the monitor to open the door to 4th grade B the students told me “perdon” (sorry) for being so rude before break when I walked out of the classroom for the principal and said I refused to continue teaching the class on my own because of their vile behavior. I was hoping their apologies meant they had changed for the better…but alas, change is slow. Very slow. Still carrying a chip on my shoulder towards them I had my ice queen face on and walked into the classroom and wrote in huge letters on the board ‘RESPECT.’ And waited for them to remember I was the teacher and they were the students. The principal had kindly sent an aide to sit in the class with me (instead of coming herself as she should). I began to ask them what they thought respect meant and for the next hour we struggled through defining respect, discussing who we respect and why. Then I assigned them homework (big mistake). I asked them to write a 2 page essay on Respect. As if I were a full moon, the pack of wolves that was the class began to howl at me, ‘2 pages? 2 pages?” unable to believe that I would dare ask that much of them. Still pissed as hell at them I said, “If one more person asks me if it is really 2 pages, I will double it to 4 pages.” And told them to begin immediately. As expected, they didn’t begin. They roamed the class, they taunted classmates, they laughed loudly and they all asked to go to the bathroom. In between my demands for silence I laughed with the aide sitting with me, she noted, “they really haven’t realized why they’re learning about respect, have they?” “No, no, they still don’t get it” I said, disappointed. 12:59:59 I shouted that I wanted the homework next week and I fled, 1 hour done.
I wonder if I could get an ex-Marine to come be my aide, I think he’d be rather effective in disciplinary techniques and teaching respect.
; )
Wha-Bam.
Day 78
Monday
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.
Pair that long sound with a subtle shake of the head and you’ve summed up my Monday. The process of getting back into the groove is almost as hard as getting the groove in the first place. With no sun to tempt you out of bed at 6am motivation really becomes a matter of intrinsic capability. Can you will yourself to get up? Luckily I wasn’t the only one out of whack. The rest of my school and my students were also a bit stiff. Over the break the internet in our school broke down, the heat we’d wished they’d put in never came (not that it ever will), and all the students forgot English and the basic act of sitting still. So it’s 9am and I’m staring out at a sea of second graders bundled up like delicate glassware to be shipped on horse and cart across a gravel road. Once stripped down to their stylish little sweaters and gym pants the day began, or rather, the story telling began. I had forgotten the urgency with which a child must tell their teacher about all they did and all the gifts they received for Christmas. It was odd to be on the receiving end of the stories; I had forgotten how important the act of re-telling was. And it made me wonder what I chose to tell my colleges and my friends about my break and what I heard when they spoke to me about their vacations. With my colleagues there was a lot of “oh, nothing special. Had a nice dinner with the family. Opened gifts, really the usual.” But with children everything was intensely hyperbolic. The got the COOLEST video game or the most AWESOME legos or the PRETTIEST doll. When do adults lose that high octane energy for life? Why was dinner not STUPENDOUS? Why did we not think the break was MAGICAL? And if we do think these things, why don’t we say it?
And why worry about getting back into the groove when being out of the groove was STELLAR?
I thought it appropriate to show the town plaque, 2 horses battling in mid-air. The normal need not always be normal.
Monday
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.
Pair that long sound with a subtle shake of the head and you’ve summed up my Monday. The process of getting back into the groove is almost as hard as getting the groove in the first place. With no sun to tempt you out of bed at 6am motivation really becomes a matter of intrinsic capability. Can you will yourself to get up? Luckily I wasn’t the only one out of whack. The rest of my school and my students were also a bit stiff. Over the break the internet in our school broke down, the heat we’d wished they’d put in never came (not that it ever will), and all the students forgot English and the basic act of sitting still. So it’s 9am and I’m staring out at a sea of second graders bundled up like delicate glassware to be shipped on horse and cart across a gravel road. Once stripped down to their stylish little sweaters and gym pants the day began, or rather, the story telling began. I had forgotten the urgency with which a child must tell their teacher about all they did and all the gifts they received for Christmas. It was odd to be on the receiving end of the stories; I had forgotten how important the act of re-telling was. And it made me wonder what I chose to tell my colleges and my friends about my break and what I heard when they spoke to me about their vacations. With my colleagues there was a lot of “oh, nothing special. Had a nice dinner with the family. Opened gifts, really the usual.” But with children everything was intensely hyperbolic. The got the COOLEST video game or the most AWESOME legos or the PRETTIEST doll. When do adults lose that high octane energy for life? Why was dinner not STUPENDOUS? Why did we not think the break was MAGICAL? And if we do think these things, why don’t we say it?
And why worry about getting back into the groove when being out of the groove was STELLAR?
I thought it appropriate to show the town plaque, 2 horses battling in mid-air. The normal need not always be normal.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Mental Funk
Cotidian malaise
makes opaque
the light of
being alive.
Until the minds eye
looks inside-
sharp with longing
for release
and breathes
out
- Let Be -
till slowly
the fog condenses
and the clouds fall as rain
and the water feeds the fountain
of the spirit
flowing with a
rejuvenated passion.
.......
My apologies for being away for so long, thank you to everyone who checked in, eager for updates and found none. Mental Funk of 2011 is subsiding and my words are slowly being coaxed back out into the world by a gentle urgency of hope for happiness in a place full of faces earning my trust and moments begging for intimate laughter.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
What nerve.
Day 76
Saturday
January 8, 2011 Katie Riedel wears a t-shirt while walking around Malaga.
And walks barefoot on the beach.
Slowly coming back to (another) life.
Saturday
January 8, 2011 Katie Riedel wears a t-shirt while walking around Malaga.
And walks barefoot on the beach.
Slowly coming back to (another) life.
Monday, January 17, 2011
T.G.I.F
Day 75
Friday
Spain may poke fun at me, Spain may prod at my patience, Spain may push me to my wit’s ends, but it can’t deport me. I’m officially a legal short term resident. TGIF has taken on a new meaning – Thank God I’m on File. And apparently I’m a student. (The ever quick study of life shall I say, ha!)
The actual moment of obtaining my legality was less momentous than I had hoped for. After tromping through a rain storm (having overslept and turned off my alarm) I ran for the Comiseria (Police HQ) like a bat out of hell. One should never show up late to life. But as no one, no one, leaves their homes in the rain, I was the only one in the ‘extranjero’ (foreigner) line, which allowed me to simply waltz into the office (a waltz which normally played out to the tune of 2 grueling hours), flash my passport (which was of course taunted, ‘que joven!” (Whoa, look how young you were!) “yes yes I know. Yes, those are braces on my teeth. Yes, I did grow up, thank you.) and a little card was pulled out of a file and subsequently stuffed into my wallet. I can’t say I feel much different, even though I get a distinct pleasure asking for the ‘student’ discount at places. And getting it when I flash my student ID.
The rest of the day passed in that swirly mess of jet lag semi consciousness. I meandered thorough the market, so relieved to be back in the farmer’s market and out of Giant/Costco/Wal-Mart. But the rain sent my spirit back inside, back to bed. Jet lag ravishes me. I don’t even have the energy to be a bump on a log.
I wonder when the day will come when I can use my frequent flyer miles not to upgrade to first class, but to upgrade to a jet lag free arrival.
Friday
Spain may poke fun at me, Spain may prod at my patience, Spain may push me to my wit’s ends, but it can’t deport me. I’m officially a legal short term resident. TGIF has taken on a new meaning – Thank God I’m on File. And apparently I’m a student. (The ever quick study of life shall I say, ha!)
The actual moment of obtaining my legality was less momentous than I had hoped for. After tromping through a rain storm (having overslept and turned off my alarm) I ran for the Comiseria (Police HQ) like a bat out of hell. One should never show up late to life. But as no one, no one, leaves their homes in the rain, I was the only one in the ‘extranjero’ (foreigner) line, which allowed me to simply waltz into the office (a waltz which normally played out to the tune of 2 grueling hours), flash my passport (which was of course taunted, ‘que joven!” (Whoa, look how young you were!) “yes yes I know. Yes, those are braces on my teeth. Yes, I did grow up, thank you.) and a little card was pulled out of a file and subsequently stuffed into my wallet. I can’t say I feel much different, even though I get a distinct pleasure asking for the ‘student’ discount at places. And getting it when I flash my student ID.
The rest of the day passed in that swirly mess of jet lag semi consciousness. I meandered thorough the market, so relieved to be back in the farmer’s market and out of Giant/Costco/Wal-Mart. But the rain sent my spirit back inside, back to bed. Jet lag ravishes me. I don’t even have the energy to be a bump on a log.
I wonder when the day will come when I can use my frequent flyer miles not to upgrade to first class, but to upgrade to a jet lag free arrival.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Volver
Day 74
Thursday
I have NEVER enjoyed any flight I have ever taken. I have always suffered looking out above the sea of clouds in great anxiety that we might plummet back down through them to Earth. I am one of those people who simply hate to fly.
But there is ONE exception - my flight I took back to Malaga. I flew business class and I’ve never been treated better. This one shining moment of peace, relaxation and delight amidst the countless nail biters is all due to the best uncle in the world- UNCLE SCOTTY D!
THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH UNCLE SCOTT! I AM FOREVER INDEBTED TO YOU!! BEST. FLIGHT. EVER. EVER. EVER.
It was an overwhelming experience of luxury; I was ill prepared to soak it all up. The flight attendant showed me to my seat and as I was about to climb into the mammoth couch they had assigned me she asked if she couldn’t hang up my coat for me. I paused, I didn’t even know they had closets on planes, “No, but thank you, I think I’ll hang on to it for now.” (You never know when you’ll need to get up and go. Best to keep your things close, right?) Not being able to take my coat the attendant brought me a glass, yes a glass of water. Lounging back into my seat I was swimming in extra space. What I shall describe next passed in a dream like manner, with the most wonderful friend seated next to me, Mike, the auditor who calls the world his home because he travels 90% of the year. Complimentary blankets warmed us; headphones connected us to a storehouse of videos and music while complimentary toiletries kept us fresh. Warmed nuts were placed ‘bed’side for our munching enjoyment, until the first course was served on plates, real live plates. Not having much of an appetite for the odd Italian tasting green bean and pinto bean salad like entrée I tried to give the tray back to the flight attendant when she came back around and she looked at me with great concern, “Are you not going to have your hot plate ma’am’?” “Oh dear, I get a hot plate?” I retorted. “Of course, you didn’t think that little thing is all we would give you? Hahaha” “Well, with companies cutting budgets, I wasn’t sure, I was about to dig into the PB sandwiches I packed just in case. Haha” She just shook her head and laughed and took away my plate, advising me to keep my tray. She traded the icky vegetables for a delightful Indian meal of cous cous and malasaa and an eggplant dish. And it tasted like real food. After dessert of ice-cream drizzled with coffee liqueur they came around with tea. And more importantly my dear attendant came by to show me how to fully extend my seat so I could sleep. Yes I actually slept on a flight. Didn’t know anyone actually could. I felt like I was at some odd sleep over, chatting with Mike about prostitution and the CPA exam, with intermittent marathon sessions of The Office. Nearing landing I was given a friendly reminder that I had a 20 minute window to use the restroom and freshen up, only to find breakfast awaiting me when I returned. People say you can’t buy happiness, well, I tell you what, maybe not, but you sure can buy Princess Treatment. Landing in Zurich I gave myself a pat on the back for resisting the urge to curl up in fetal position on the floor, the swarthy space of floor in front of my seat.
Needless to say the connecting flight from Zurich to Malaga was more a kin to the transport of cattle in a compact truck.
Landing in Malaga and just walking out…and knowing where to walk out to was surreal. A remarkably more positive experience than my first landing. I laughed as I walked by the Info Desk, don’t need a map this time.
I walked back into Malaga, back into the city with odd store hours and wild night life and dead pig legs hanging everywhere, and took a hard hit by some jet lag.
Attempting to fight off the tiger like attack of exhaustion I took a forced march jaunt along the beach. My senses too dulled with desire to sleep, I half heartedly took in the sunshine, the beach, the ocean and the breeze. On the return trip back to my bed a small yellow butterfly popped into view and floated over my right shoulder up to the palm trees chirping with parrots. And in the moment the exhaustion fell from my face and a smile appeared what a small miracle with grace greater than its passing size. (A telltale sign of the rising vernal crescendo?)
And with that I slept for 13 hours straight.
Thursday
I have NEVER enjoyed any flight I have ever taken. I have always suffered looking out above the sea of clouds in great anxiety that we might plummet back down through them to Earth. I am one of those people who simply hate to fly.
But there is ONE exception - my flight I took back to Malaga. I flew business class and I’ve never been treated better. This one shining moment of peace, relaxation and delight amidst the countless nail biters is all due to the best uncle in the world- UNCLE SCOTTY D!
THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH UNCLE SCOTT! I AM FOREVER INDEBTED TO YOU!! BEST. FLIGHT. EVER. EVER. EVER.
It was an overwhelming experience of luxury; I was ill prepared to soak it all up. The flight attendant showed me to my seat and as I was about to climb into the mammoth couch they had assigned me she asked if she couldn’t hang up my coat for me. I paused, I didn’t even know they had closets on planes, “No, but thank you, I think I’ll hang on to it for now.” (You never know when you’ll need to get up and go. Best to keep your things close, right?) Not being able to take my coat the attendant brought me a glass, yes a glass of water. Lounging back into my seat I was swimming in extra space. What I shall describe next passed in a dream like manner, with the most wonderful friend seated next to me, Mike, the auditor who calls the world his home because he travels 90% of the year. Complimentary blankets warmed us; headphones connected us to a storehouse of videos and music while complimentary toiletries kept us fresh. Warmed nuts were placed ‘bed’side for our munching enjoyment, until the first course was served on plates, real live plates. Not having much of an appetite for the odd Italian tasting green bean and pinto bean salad like entrée I tried to give the tray back to the flight attendant when she came back around and she looked at me with great concern, “Are you not going to have your hot plate ma’am’?” “Oh dear, I get a hot plate?” I retorted. “Of course, you didn’t think that little thing is all we would give you? Hahaha” “Well, with companies cutting budgets, I wasn’t sure, I was about to dig into the PB sandwiches I packed just in case. Haha” She just shook her head and laughed and took away my plate, advising me to keep my tray. She traded the icky vegetables for a delightful Indian meal of cous cous and malasaa and an eggplant dish. And it tasted like real food. After dessert of ice-cream drizzled with coffee liqueur they came around with tea. And more importantly my dear attendant came by to show me how to fully extend my seat so I could sleep. Yes I actually slept on a flight. Didn’t know anyone actually could. I felt like I was at some odd sleep over, chatting with Mike about prostitution and the CPA exam, with intermittent marathon sessions of The Office. Nearing landing I was given a friendly reminder that I had a 20 minute window to use the restroom and freshen up, only to find breakfast awaiting me when I returned. People say you can’t buy happiness, well, I tell you what, maybe not, but you sure can buy Princess Treatment. Landing in Zurich I gave myself a pat on the back for resisting the urge to curl up in fetal position on the floor, the swarthy space of floor in front of my seat.
Needless to say the connecting flight from Zurich to Malaga was more a kin to the transport of cattle in a compact truck.
Landing in Malaga and just walking out…and knowing where to walk out to was surreal. A remarkably more positive experience than my first landing. I laughed as I walked by the Info Desk, don’t need a map this time.
I walked back into Malaga, back into the city with odd store hours and wild night life and dead pig legs hanging everywhere, and took a hard hit by some jet lag.
Attempting to fight off the tiger like attack of exhaustion I took a forced march jaunt along the beach. My senses too dulled with desire to sleep, I half heartedly took in the sunshine, the beach, the ocean and the breeze. On the return trip back to my bed a small yellow butterfly popped into view and floated over my right shoulder up to the palm trees chirping with parrots. And in the moment the exhaustion fell from my face and a smile appeared what a small miracle with grace greater than its passing size. (A telltale sign of the rising vernal crescendo?)
And with that I slept for 13 hours straight.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Affront
Day 72
Tuesday
The sound of my alarm certainly does not motivate me to get out of bed, but neither does the sound of rain. Especially a thunderstorm at 6am. Why do I want to fight my toothbrush, my bed hair, my wardrobe, and the weather? I really don’t. But I get up anyways and trudge out the door, zipped up tight, walking fast. By the time I reach the train station the rain has subsided and I had the rare opportunity to see a thunderstorm passing onward while another storm grumbled from behind, flanking the dark clouds from the far right. Delightful, the changing of the guards. Not daring to disappoint, the next round is just as nasty as the last, but thankfully I’m watching the drops wisp off the windows of the high speed train, only able to enjoy its drenching upon dis-embarkment. Álora is a mystical pueblo. It is in the mountains so it is either very cold or very hot. The bizarre location is boasts in the mountains, yet near the sea gives it variable temperatures. When the rain stopped an odd fog rose from the ground, almost like a hovering cloud of humidity. It made me wonder if the clouds were too tired to rise any higher, content to pool around the tops of mountains or if the mountains pushed out such proud chests to pierce the puffs of rippling white. Didn’t matter which really, the view stopped the reel of negativity going off in your mind about wet shoes, wet pants, wet jacket and a long day of work ahead. But then again, it would be my last day of work. Tomorrow morning I’d fly home
Soak me through and through Málaga, but you can’t hold on to me.
When I say America, You say....Bob Esponja?
Day 71
Monday
Here in Spain, I’ve found that some cultural icons will never translate, but what is even more curious to me are the icons that do. Sponge Bob, Hannah Montana, Michael Jackson, Kanye,McDonalds, Burger King, Dunkin Donuts and Disney are wildly popular. Their faces stare at me from the t-shirts of my students, peek out of pencil pouches, spin by on backpacks, and even hover over me on umbrellas. But when I tried and explain the story of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer my students who hadn’t already tuned me out only shook their head in confusion, “But why wouldn’t the other reindeer let Rudolph play?” Clearly we haven’t covered the chapter on diversity and equality. So during the ‘arts and crafts’ activity with a holiday spin to it I had the kids make Rudolph, and despite my entreaty to give him a bright red nose, they all colored reindeer with green faces and purple noses, brown faces and brown noses, yellow faces and brown noses, but rarely a red nose. They didn’t seem too hooked on tradition. Which fascinated me because I was glued to the TV screen watching old Rudolph re-runs or I was having a blast singing songs about Rudolph at school. The other teachers patted me on the back and said it was a good idea and as I stared at the wall at the back of the classroom sighing with a frown because they didn’t look at all like my example nor like the real Rudolph. Part of me (my terribly cynical side) just wanted to laugh, thinking “Well Katie, you certainly got in the diversity education you thought they were missing. Look at all those colorful reindeer. Not a single one looks like another.”
Later that night, during my private tutoring session I thought I’d give Rudolph another go with my rather bright 5 year olds. Turns out only one of them decided to show up, so Natalia and I had a lovely time coloring in reindeer, Santa and Christmas trees. She didn’t care much for Rudolph either; she just wanted to chat about what she was getting for Christmas. We had some nice girl talk, granted all of the English was done on my part and all the Spanish on her part, not quite what they’re paying me to do, but at 6pm on a Monday night, you shoot the moon and ask the boss to call you out on it because you’re done.
I love how the kids ruffle my best laid plans and my ‘wondrous’ activity crashes and burns while my back up warm up is a hit. I won’t give up on those untranslatable icons yet though. Especially when my experience of the English language is tied to those icons, when I grew up talking about Rudolph and his ostracization (granted as a 7yr old I probably said ‘his loneliness and the bully reindeer’) but really, my memories of English are rich with the cultural spread of the land. And I keep thinking, they’d like English so much better if only they could play with English speaking children. What they’d learn! I’m afraid my dialect is one of nostalgia, lost in abstract context and rumination, lacking the lightness and spontaneity of youthful discovery.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Stacato
Day 70
Sunday
I’ll never know what synapse goes off in our brains that tells us we need to wake up NOW and makes us shoot up in bed, like a mouse trap somehow set off. 10:27am. My brain fires and I’m awake. At some point at 8am I turned off my alarm, through some power of unconscious manipulation of my cell phone. Rubbing my eyes that weren’t quite ready to snap open quite as fast as they did, I cock my head and ask, “Really, really, really Spain?! A marching band on a Sunday morning?” The ruckus I had been quite certain was the featured background tune of my slumbering dreams was in fact a live marching band procession cruising down my street to the Teatro I live next to. Peeling back my doors, always anxious that someone might see me in my slovenly PJs, not quite up to par for public viewing, I peek out over my terrace, and marching along in an endless line for visual and auditory verification are all of the marching bands of Malaga, happily tooting or pounding away. Deciding it best to get some contacts in to really make sense of what was going on I head to the bathroom. Suddenly I see the central light to the apartment building shine through our exhaust window of sorts, which can only mean one thing; Sandy is on her way up. Chris and I had said that one of our friend’s moms could stay in Chris’s room since he’d left early and she’d be visiting her daughter for Christmas. Now when our friend had said her mom would be coming on Sunday I just assumed she meant Sunday afternoon…but apparently Sandy meant Sunday morning. Holy Hell. I got on some real person clothes right quick and tried to look awake and cheery to meet them. Damn bed head hair gave me away. And plus mom’s always know if you’ve just woken up. And they read straight through lies anyways.
While Sandy settled in I decided to head out for a quick walk to let her chat with her daughter and get the schedule of the day set. So I popped out and sat around watching the marching bands, anxiously smoothing down the damn cowlicks of my stupid short hair. After a period I thought would be polite I wandered back up, and found poor Sandy passed out with jet lag. I decided this would be a great match. The lady likes to nap.
Later when she did wake up, it was remarkable fun to chat with her about her impressions of Spain. Living with a guy is fine (actually preferable at times less drama, less emotions, easy decision makers, less fights) but I miss that ‘girl talk time.’ And so Sandy and I got into it. She popped open a Diet Coke and made me promise to not tell her daughter she was drinking it while I burned my tongue on some green tea a la half a honey bottle. God it was good to have a girl around. I’m a chatty Cathy by nature, so I was such a relief to my chatter box personality to have someone to talk with. But she didn’t last long; jet lag does that to a person. Gives them zombie like energy levels. They peak at odd hours (like 1pm-4pm) then crash for 13 hours straight. And so my new flat mate and I struck up an odd albeit, but lovely relationship of sleeping and talking, with our preferred beverages in hand.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Procrastinators Don't Always Lose.
Day 69
Saturday
Having racked up 23 years as a professional procrastinator I should have seen this coming. Its 9:24am on Saturday and at 9:30 I have to teach an English class. I thought I’d be sneaky and just play “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” from Netflix via my laptop. Having already set up my Netflix account and checking to be sure the movie was there I went to bed feeling confident about my plans. Well, right before I was supposed to leave I decided to go ahead and load the video so all I had to do was press play when I got there. Didn’t quite work out. Netflix doesn’t air movies overseas. 6 minutes till class starts I madly google Christmas movies. Disney’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ is the only kid friendly flick I can find. Running through the rain, only to have to back track and get my rent, because after all I am tutoring my landlord’s kid I arrive 15 minutes late. My landlord laughed and said she thought I’d partied too hard the night before and overslept. Handing over the rent money I assured her that my daily 6:30am alarm for school during the week had pretty much cured me from ever sleeping past 9am.
As I began to head to the playroom where I hold the lesson my landlord let me know that her youngest was sick with the flu and then led me to her to just say hi (and prove how sick she was??). All the while I’m thinking, thank you, thank you so much Mrs. Landlord, for bringing me into your home with a sick child. If you get me sick before I go home, and I can’t fly because I’m in bed with the flu, there’s going to be words.
I really didn’t have to worry about the failure of Netflix because the kid’s English was good enough that the actually understood the movie, ergo, they couldn’t pay attention to it, nor stay seated for 5 straight minutes. At their request we powered down the movie and just made snowflakes for an hour, while chatting about what they were going to for Christmas and 3 Kings.
And as I said goodbye, I smiled saying, “I’ll see you next year, I’m going home to my country!”
Saturday
Having racked up 23 years as a professional procrastinator I should have seen this coming. Its 9:24am on Saturday and at 9:30 I have to teach an English class. I thought I’d be sneaky and just play “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” from Netflix via my laptop. Having already set up my Netflix account and checking to be sure the movie was there I went to bed feeling confident about my plans. Well, right before I was supposed to leave I decided to go ahead and load the video so all I had to do was press play when I got there. Didn’t quite work out. Netflix doesn’t air movies overseas. 6 minutes till class starts I madly google Christmas movies. Disney’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ is the only kid friendly flick I can find. Running through the rain, only to have to back track and get my rent, because after all I am tutoring my landlord’s kid I arrive 15 minutes late. My landlord laughed and said she thought I’d partied too hard the night before and overslept. Handing over the rent money I assured her that my daily 6:30am alarm for school during the week had pretty much cured me from ever sleeping past 9am.
As I began to head to the playroom where I hold the lesson my landlord let me know that her youngest was sick with the flu and then led me to her to just say hi (and prove how sick she was??). All the while I’m thinking, thank you, thank you so much Mrs. Landlord, for bringing me into your home with a sick child. If you get me sick before I go home, and I can’t fly because I’m in bed with the flu, there’s going to be words.
I really didn’t have to worry about the failure of Netflix because the kid’s English was good enough that the actually understood the movie, ergo, they couldn’t pay attention to it, nor stay seated for 5 straight minutes. At their request we powered down the movie and just made snowflakes for an hour, while chatting about what they were going to for Christmas and 3 Kings.
And as I said goodbye, I smiled saying, “I’ll see you next year, I’m going home to my country!”
The Office Christmas Party
Day 68
Friday
Incredulous. That was the face I wore all day. I wished I had Dorothy’s ruby red slippers, not because I wanted to go home, I just wanted to click my heels together and know whether I was dreaming or in reality. Even if the day was real, I wonder how I was lucky enough to join such a fantastical reality.
In Spain, just like in America, the Friday before Winter Break is scrapped, teachers put in movies, kids play games, recess stretches out into the late afternoon and rules melt away as the heaters pump holiday warmth through the building. Spain likes to celebrate the futility of education during the holidays a bit differently. And boy did I feel like a kid at Christmas.
Those plushy buses with lean back seats and TV screens to dull the eyes during a long ride pulled up to Los Llanos (my school) at 9:30 am and the general chaos of children, like a bundle of thread unspun itself, lines of classes filing into the 5 buses. Descending from the mountains we head for the nearest city, with the only shopping mall in a 30 mile radius. Propping my knees up on the seat ahead of me like I did all those years ago as a bus-riding student, it felt odd to be the authority figure, I didn’t have my best friend next to me to chat with, I couldn’t really read my book, nor could I just zone out and stare out the window. Rather, I was in the back, patrolling the rows with my stern gaze, hollering the driver to stop when poor Albert puked 10 minutes in the ride (the roads are ridiculously curvy, but still, 10 minutes into the ride is way too soon for anyone to puke). I’m sure dear old Antonio felt sorry for me, dealing with pukers and girls passing around illegal chewing gum, so he wandered back to sit with me on one of his tours. A local to Álora, he knew the country side well. He pointed out to the mountains and said he imagined Northern California must look something like Álora, only without Hollywood. I laughed and said that I was actually just reminiscing about my summer in Northern California and all the verdant green countryside, Álora had made me surprisingly nostalgic. He then got a devious smile and asked me what I thought the names of the mountains were. I shook my head, clueless. He said, “Acha.” And proceeded to tell me how the mountains used to be used as posts to send messages in the form of smoke signals to neighboring pueblos in the case of an emergency. I told him that didn’t sound so different from the American Indians in my country and to my great surprise he knew all the different tribes, their respective locales and customs. And so, Antonio and I chatted amicably the whole way to the shopping center in Coin, the gentle old professor who knew the history of the world, only pausing occasionally to teach the bus full of 5th and 6th graders new songs to sing. Riding through the valleys of Álora, ringing with the voices of the youth of Spain, while smiling at the stories of the oldest professor, I recalled Edie Turner (one of my most life changing Anthro professors) and knew that she’d see the communitas in it all, and tell me that I was part of that communitas, finally.
Arriving in Coin, we shuttled lines of energetic kids to the movie theater to see the latest Narnia. It was quite a field trip, all expenses paid into the theater, including a popcorn and soda. Which in retrospect might have been a bad idea for 80+ children. We overran the theater, not only taking all the seats, but with our voices, our trash and our visits to the bathroom during the film. None of the teachers were really excited about seeing Narnia, they were just glad that it counted as a work day when all they did was say “yes, you may go to the bathroom” and sit quietly in the dark. Sitting next to my new best friends, Antonio and Antonia (the oldest professors in the school, both who will retire at the end of the year; funny side note – Antonia is trying to set me up with her youngest (32yrs old, ahem) son who is a fireman, who just can’t seem to find the right girl, hahaha), Narnia was a metaphorically appropriate movie for the moment. Recognizing the end of childhood and moving into adulthood, saying goodbyes, and guarding memories. I certainly didn’t cry, but it made me a bit more pensive then most kids movies do. I soon lost all pensiveness because upon arriving back at the school at 2:15pm, the annual Teacher’s Christmas party began. And I was completely unprepared for what ensued. And I loved it.
Catching a ride with one of the bi-lingual teachers (my pseudo-mom/girl who’s got my back in Spain) Meri, we went to a local bar to hang out with the other professors until the principals got off work at 3:30pm for lunch. The owner of the local organic farm (who supplies our school with food for lunch) was at the bar and more or less acted as the host of the party. Buying everyone his organic wine and rounds of local beer, we chatted and drank. (Note- while I encourage everyone to eat organic, I do NOT encourage the imbibing of organic wine. It is loathsome. It acts more as a vomit inducing liquid than happy hour fun). Not having adjusted to Spanish time (and not being interested in adjusting for that matter) I was starving by 3pm and drunk off some eco-friendly wine that tasted like fermented laundry detergent. Meri, ever prudent, had fanta, while encouraging me to have another class of a local wine. By the time I had turned 5 shades more red than a blushing bride, the group decided to head to the restaurant where the Christmas Party Luncheon would be held. Meri and I waltzed in (I say waltz because we indeed did waltz, not sure I could have walked a straight line if an officer asked me) and the principal (who’s being paid to be nice to me, I know it) reaches out to greet me with besos and hands me a glass of beer. Great. Just what I need. And when are you allowed to say no to your boss? Meri sticks with me, bless her heart, knowing I’m already out of place because of the language and about an age gap of at least 15 years, so we chat with the gym teacher about an incident that happened the other day. He and Meri were laughing and by the time I understood what they were talking about, I was too stunned to add anything to the conversation, besides a few moments of brighter blushing and nervous laughter. Apparently the other day one of the girls had started her period during recess and her best friend had screamed out that she was dying and was bleeding to death. The poor girl thought she had internal bleeding and was about to keel over. So the gym teacher (obviously a male) rushed her inside, while assuring her that she was not dying, rather she was very much alive, and that Meri, her teacher would explain everything. I remember standing in the restaurant and having this exact thought “I’m drinking beer, in Spain, and talking about menstruation with the gym teacher. What the fuck?” But being tipsy already, it didn’t seem too outlandish. After the mandatory meet and greet time period was up we all sat around a Harry Potter style table, extending the length of the restaurant and began “La Comida” (the meal).
To start, olives, roasted almonds, chips, bread, and wine. (And water at my request).
Followed by a plate of Iberian Ham. (Polite smile and wave of the hand, amidst whispers of ‘she’s a vegetarian, yes, vegetarian, only eats salad.’)
Followed by a platter of cheese (at the request of the (most ironically) vegetarian professor next to me.)
Followed by a head of lettuce split four ways, like a star, swirling in olive oil and vinegar, dashed with cloves of garlic and pimiento. (Being the vegetarian, I was offered by everyone if I’d like their salad because they didn’t want it. After eating 3 people’s salad I had to joke that even a veg. could get sick of lettuce)
Followed by a rice, shrimp, pimiento dish, wearing a cape of red sauce (didn’t touch this, smelled fishy)
Followed by deep friend eggplant drizzled in honey. (Despite the deep fry yuckiness, it was delightful; my taste buds did not expect to like this.)
Followed by a HUGE plate of revuelto (like a scrambled eggs with mixed veggies thrown in with veggies on the side). (I had to ask them to put this in a doggy bag for me, which they literally threw in a bag haha, because NO ONE takes home leftovers, because I was stuffed by the time the main course of revuelto came. Note-everyone else at some sort of filet/steak/ham/chicken/fish platter)
Followed by dessert…a cornucopia of cakes and flans and ice-cream.
Followed by café (espresso or cappuccino)
Followed by a liqueur chuppito (a shot)
Followed by a round of water
Followed by a chuppito
Followed by smoking (not me).
Followed by the obligatory last minute café.
Followed by a farewell chupito.
All through this mayhem there was singing, talking, screaming, changing of seats, sharing of food, laughing uncontrollably and demanding of more wine. I had never been to a Christmas party of this caliber. And the whole time I was seated by the professor that taught the 3 year olds (who as he said, didn’t like beer, but yes, he was still a man.) and Meri. Hilarious juxtaposition, to be seated with the most conservative sober Spaniards of all, while la Vida Espanola raged around us. 7 hours after this all began Meri drove me home at 9:15pm. Before I get out of her car though she hands me a gift which makes me beam. She bought me a pair of magnificent earrings (big and dangly, apparently my style is pretty easy to take note of) along with a card that said, Dear Katie, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! All the best, Meri (hilarious in light of the fact that that was the message I had all my students write in their own xmas cards they gave out to their classmates). Full of food, merriment and FRIENDSHIP, I wandered back to my piso, delightfully tired.
Then at 10:15pm I get a call from my boss who tells me that all the professors decided to ditch Álora and head into the city and I should join them at the bar they had flocked to. And so I joined my colleagues and my boss for dancing and drinks. Nervous as hell at first, never having partied with my superiors, but soon let loose when one of my favorite teachers, Janire bought me a drink and had me stand with her because she had just had major surgery and couldn’t walk. I loosened up even more when she tried to dance by putting one crutch overhead and knocked the decorative surfboard off the wall onto all our colleagues dancing.
I couldn’t imagine any of this happening in the USA. Even though I gripe about Spain, it is so invested in creating and sustaining community and I have a great respect for that. Especially because it has invited me to be part of that community. The human spirit is alive and well in Spain. And it looks to you.
Friday
Incredulous. That was the face I wore all day. I wished I had Dorothy’s ruby red slippers, not because I wanted to go home, I just wanted to click my heels together and know whether I was dreaming or in reality. Even if the day was real, I wonder how I was lucky enough to join such a fantastical reality.
In Spain, just like in America, the Friday before Winter Break is scrapped, teachers put in movies, kids play games, recess stretches out into the late afternoon and rules melt away as the heaters pump holiday warmth through the building. Spain likes to celebrate the futility of education during the holidays a bit differently. And boy did I feel like a kid at Christmas.
Those plushy buses with lean back seats and TV screens to dull the eyes during a long ride pulled up to Los Llanos (my school) at 9:30 am and the general chaos of children, like a bundle of thread unspun itself, lines of classes filing into the 5 buses. Descending from the mountains we head for the nearest city, with the only shopping mall in a 30 mile radius. Propping my knees up on the seat ahead of me like I did all those years ago as a bus-riding student, it felt odd to be the authority figure, I didn’t have my best friend next to me to chat with, I couldn’t really read my book, nor could I just zone out and stare out the window. Rather, I was in the back, patrolling the rows with my stern gaze, hollering the driver to stop when poor Albert puked 10 minutes in the ride (the roads are ridiculously curvy, but still, 10 minutes into the ride is way too soon for anyone to puke). I’m sure dear old Antonio felt sorry for me, dealing with pukers and girls passing around illegal chewing gum, so he wandered back to sit with me on one of his tours. A local to Álora, he knew the country side well. He pointed out to the mountains and said he imagined Northern California must look something like Álora, only without Hollywood. I laughed and said that I was actually just reminiscing about my summer in Northern California and all the verdant green countryside, Álora had made me surprisingly nostalgic. He then got a devious smile and asked me what I thought the names of the mountains were. I shook my head, clueless. He said, “Acha.” And proceeded to tell me how the mountains used to be used as posts to send messages in the form of smoke signals to neighboring pueblos in the case of an emergency. I told him that didn’t sound so different from the American Indians in my country and to my great surprise he knew all the different tribes, their respective locales and customs. And so, Antonio and I chatted amicably the whole way to the shopping center in Coin, the gentle old professor who knew the history of the world, only pausing occasionally to teach the bus full of 5th and 6th graders new songs to sing. Riding through the valleys of Álora, ringing with the voices of the youth of Spain, while smiling at the stories of the oldest professor, I recalled Edie Turner (one of my most life changing Anthro professors) and knew that she’d see the communitas in it all, and tell me that I was part of that communitas, finally.
Arriving in Coin, we shuttled lines of energetic kids to the movie theater to see the latest Narnia. It was quite a field trip, all expenses paid into the theater, including a popcorn and soda. Which in retrospect might have been a bad idea for 80+ children. We overran the theater, not only taking all the seats, but with our voices, our trash and our visits to the bathroom during the film. None of the teachers were really excited about seeing Narnia, they were just glad that it counted as a work day when all they did was say “yes, you may go to the bathroom” and sit quietly in the dark. Sitting next to my new best friends, Antonio and Antonia (the oldest professors in the school, both who will retire at the end of the year; funny side note – Antonia is trying to set me up with her youngest (32yrs old, ahem) son who is a fireman, who just can’t seem to find the right girl, hahaha), Narnia was a metaphorically appropriate movie for the moment. Recognizing the end of childhood and moving into adulthood, saying goodbyes, and guarding memories. I certainly didn’t cry, but it made me a bit more pensive then most kids movies do. I soon lost all pensiveness because upon arriving back at the school at 2:15pm, the annual Teacher’s Christmas party began. And I was completely unprepared for what ensued. And I loved it.
Catching a ride with one of the bi-lingual teachers (my pseudo-mom/girl who’s got my back in Spain) Meri, we went to a local bar to hang out with the other professors until the principals got off work at 3:30pm for lunch. The owner of the local organic farm (who supplies our school with food for lunch) was at the bar and more or less acted as the host of the party. Buying everyone his organic wine and rounds of local beer, we chatted and drank. (Note- while I encourage everyone to eat organic, I do NOT encourage the imbibing of organic wine. It is loathsome. It acts more as a vomit inducing liquid than happy hour fun). Not having adjusted to Spanish time (and not being interested in adjusting for that matter) I was starving by 3pm and drunk off some eco-friendly wine that tasted like fermented laundry detergent. Meri, ever prudent, had fanta, while encouraging me to have another class of a local wine. By the time I had turned 5 shades more red than a blushing bride, the group decided to head to the restaurant where the Christmas Party Luncheon would be held. Meri and I waltzed in (I say waltz because we indeed did waltz, not sure I could have walked a straight line if an officer asked me) and the principal (who’s being paid to be nice to me, I know it) reaches out to greet me with besos and hands me a glass of beer. Great. Just what I need. And when are you allowed to say no to your boss? Meri sticks with me, bless her heart, knowing I’m already out of place because of the language and about an age gap of at least 15 years, so we chat with the gym teacher about an incident that happened the other day. He and Meri were laughing and by the time I understood what they were talking about, I was too stunned to add anything to the conversation, besides a few moments of brighter blushing and nervous laughter. Apparently the other day one of the girls had started her period during recess and her best friend had screamed out that she was dying and was bleeding to death. The poor girl thought she had internal bleeding and was about to keel over. So the gym teacher (obviously a male) rushed her inside, while assuring her that she was not dying, rather she was very much alive, and that Meri, her teacher would explain everything. I remember standing in the restaurant and having this exact thought “I’m drinking beer, in Spain, and talking about menstruation with the gym teacher. What the fuck?” But being tipsy already, it didn’t seem too outlandish. After the mandatory meet and greet time period was up we all sat around a Harry Potter style table, extending the length of the restaurant and began “La Comida” (the meal).
To start, olives, roasted almonds, chips, bread, and wine. (And water at my request).
Followed by a plate of Iberian Ham. (Polite smile and wave of the hand, amidst whispers of ‘she’s a vegetarian, yes, vegetarian, only eats salad.’)
Followed by a platter of cheese (at the request of the (most ironically) vegetarian professor next to me.)
Followed by a head of lettuce split four ways, like a star, swirling in olive oil and vinegar, dashed with cloves of garlic and pimiento. (Being the vegetarian, I was offered by everyone if I’d like their salad because they didn’t want it. After eating 3 people’s salad I had to joke that even a veg. could get sick of lettuce)
Followed by a rice, shrimp, pimiento dish, wearing a cape of red sauce (didn’t touch this, smelled fishy)
Followed by deep friend eggplant drizzled in honey. (Despite the deep fry yuckiness, it was delightful; my taste buds did not expect to like this.)
Followed by a HUGE plate of revuelto (like a scrambled eggs with mixed veggies thrown in with veggies on the side). (I had to ask them to put this in a doggy bag for me, which they literally threw in a bag haha, because NO ONE takes home leftovers, because I was stuffed by the time the main course of revuelto came. Note-everyone else at some sort of filet/steak/ham/chicken/fish platter)
Followed by dessert…a cornucopia of cakes and flans and ice-cream.
Followed by café (espresso or cappuccino)
Followed by a liqueur chuppito (a shot)
Followed by a round of water
Followed by a chuppito
Followed by smoking (not me).
Followed by the obligatory last minute café.
Followed by a farewell chupito.
All through this mayhem there was singing, talking, screaming, changing of seats, sharing of food, laughing uncontrollably and demanding of more wine. I had never been to a Christmas party of this caliber. And the whole time I was seated by the professor that taught the 3 year olds (who as he said, didn’t like beer, but yes, he was still a man.) and Meri. Hilarious juxtaposition, to be seated with the most conservative sober Spaniards of all, while la Vida Espanola raged around us. 7 hours after this all began Meri drove me home at 9:15pm. Before I get out of her car though she hands me a gift which makes me beam. She bought me a pair of magnificent earrings (big and dangly, apparently my style is pretty easy to take note of) along with a card that said, Dear Katie, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! All the best, Meri (hilarious in light of the fact that that was the message I had all my students write in their own xmas cards they gave out to their classmates). Full of food, merriment and FRIENDSHIP, I wandered back to my piso, delightfully tired.
Then at 10:15pm I get a call from my boss who tells me that all the professors decided to ditch Álora and head into the city and I should join them at the bar they had flocked to. And so I joined my colleagues and my boss for dancing and drinks. Nervous as hell at first, never having partied with my superiors, but soon let loose when one of my favorite teachers, Janire bought me a drink and had me stand with her because she had just had major surgery and couldn’t walk. I loosened up even more when she tried to dance by putting one crutch overhead and knocked the decorative surfboard off the wall onto all our colleagues dancing.
I couldn’t imagine any of this happening in the USA. Even though I gripe about Spain, it is so invested in creating and sustaining community and I have a great respect for that. Especially because it has invited me to be part of that community. The human spirit is alive and well in Spain. And it looks to you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)