I’m staying in Spain over the holidays. Seeing family and friends would be so refreshing, but I’m sticking with my immersion. Unfortunately, the Spaniards I know (the young teachers) have gone home to see their families. On the other hand, my choir connections are serving me well. The younger family members of the Moms and Grandfathers I sing with are coming to town, so I won't be alone.
From the outset, I should just say that Christmas is celebrated a little differently here. It sounds obvious, but a forewarning is due. Back home, Christmas is a pretty peaceful, if not boring day. For the kids with their new toys it can be pretty exciting, but as you get older, the new toys are less enticing and what you really want to do is see friends. But, it seems taboo to call them to go out, so you wait until the 26th when you can continue as normal.
In Spain, Santa Claus doesn’t come around on Christmas. So back when you were seven and wondering how he could possibly make it to every house in one night, (even if you understood that the time zones could give him an edge) he skipped Spain. The presents don’t come until the 5th of January, and they’re not in St. Nick’s pack, it’s the wise men that bring them. So since the boys and the girls aren’t over-eagerly trying to sleep in anticipation of presents, they’re out at the nightclubs and bars. That’s right. As was explained to me, Christmas Eve is celebrated pretty much like New Year’s Eve in Spain.
After the midnight mass I meet Joaquim and Fran, the sons of a singing mom, and we head to a small bar where they are reunited with childhood friends. I’m introduced to too many people, drinks are shared, and good times are had. But I simply don’t have the staying power for an all-night party like the Spaniards do. By 5 in the morning, I’ve had me fun and I’m ready for bed. I curiously ask what times the others thought they would be turning in. 6? 7? Yeah, of course, it's Christmas. 9? 10? I never got a solid answer. Only shrugs and indifferent expressions that told me they would go home when they were finally tired, and from the looks of it, that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
I haven’t been posting quite as often as I’d set out to, and I’d like to fix that. With my time off I plan to put up at least a couple more entries, and then to continue more regularly in the New Year. I do enjoy writing, but I’m still hesitant about the blogging space. I feel exposed. I’m not exactly the person you’d see competing to get on a cheap TV show. And on the other hand, I didn’t even know if there were readers. That was, until my posting waned. I’ve been pleasantly surprised with requests to keep blogging. It really makes a difference. So please, leave a comment once in a while so I know you’re reading.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
There's Life Outside Your Apartment
About two weeks ago I was feeling down about my efforts to get involved and push my language skills. I had fallen into a comfortable groove: I was content with my job and my free time (much of it more or less internal (cooking, reading, exercising)), but I needed something of a kick in the pants to get out of the routine and into new situations. Sure it is nice to have a free afternoon to relax at home, but sometimes you just have to realize “There’s Life Outside Your Apartment” –Ave Q (I thought this show was funny while I was in college, but from the far side I appreciate each song in a new way).
So I set out on foot one afternoon, no particular goal in mind, just to see what’s out there. Just before marching out of town (carefree wandering can’t last too long in a town that could fit inside a smaller cornfield) I found my way into one of the last cafébars where I tried (barely) to start conversation with the only two patrons who were chatting in mumbled Andaluz with the bartender. As I left, I wondered if I had really gained anything useful from sitting in a café by myself. I could have made my own cup of coffee (and refilled it!) and saved myself a buck. I told myself it was worthwhile, despite lacking any evidence, and began home. En route, I poked my nose around a bit, peering into the ubiquitous cafébars and figuring out which ones were populated by the English folks and which belonged to the Spanish, building a mental schema of the town. Some of my students were playing a game of pool in one; a sign advertising “Latin Dancing Lessons” decorated the door of another. Okay, here’s a chance to get out there, to meet some locals. The beginner lessons are on Monday. I marked my calendar.
Content with something to show for my afternoon, I continued up the hill to my piso. Around a familiar corner, I saw a prominent sign I had never noticed: Escuela Municipal de Musica. Hmmm. I wonder what happens there? It was about 7 or 8 and the sun was already down, so I was surprised to see people inside as I approached. Sigue I told myself, and I continued right on inside. I could hear some beginning flutists and pianists filling the air with what could marginally be called music, when I was approached by a woman with a big head of frazzled, curly hair. Moment of truth.
I find it’s best to spit something out as soon as possible when trying to speak a foreign language. This strategy doesn’t make it any easier, but if I get it in my head that I’m going to speak correctly, time stretches out and I freeze up. I can’t come up with anything. Usually all that is understood from my first words is that I don’t speak very much Spanish, so there’s no point in overthinking it. Once I’ve convinced them that I’m clueless but that I’m going to keep talking anyways, I can usually slip some significant words into my babbling and eventually convey a message. If nothing else, my transmission attempts end with my unfortunate communication partner at least understanding that they are going to have to dumb it down for me, and that’s enough.
Anyways, I came away understanding that I could sign up for private instrument lessons for just 20 euros a month and that there was a band and a choir that I could join for free. Guay. These were the opportunities that I wasn’t going to find in my relaxing afternoons at the apartment.
Two weeks later I’ve been to my first piano lesson, two lenguaje classes (and let me just say that while music is often thought to be a universal language, somehow the Spanish music lenguaje seems to be at odds with the theory I’ve learned at home) and I’ve found my place in the back row of the Albox choir. At last, I found a way to Americanize the tranquil life I had been enjoying so much.
*The dance lessons flopped. I returned on Monday, but peering through the beads (many shops prefer this relic from the 70’s to a front door for a reason that I haven’t quite yet figured out) I could see that the three elderly English couples, while probably perfectly friendly, were not the folks I had come to Spain to meet.
So I set out on foot one afternoon, no particular goal in mind, just to see what’s out there. Just before marching out of town (carefree wandering can’t last too long in a town that could fit inside a smaller cornfield) I found my way into one of the last cafébars where I tried (barely) to start conversation with the only two patrons who were chatting in mumbled Andaluz with the bartender. As I left, I wondered if I had really gained anything useful from sitting in a café by myself. I could have made my own cup of coffee (and refilled it!) and saved myself a buck. I told myself it was worthwhile, despite lacking any evidence, and began home. En route, I poked my nose around a bit, peering into the ubiquitous cafébars and figuring out which ones were populated by the English folks and which belonged to the Spanish, building a mental schema of the town. Some of my students were playing a game of pool in one; a sign advertising “Latin Dancing Lessons” decorated the door of another. Okay, here’s a chance to get out there, to meet some locals. The beginner lessons are on Monday. I marked my calendar.
Content with something to show for my afternoon, I continued up the hill to my piso. Around a familiar corner, I saw a prominent sign I had never noticed: Escuela Municipal de Musica. Hmmm. I wonder what happens there? It was about 7 or 8 and the sun was already down, so I was surprised to see people inside as I approached. Sigue I told myself, and I continued right on inside. I could hear some beginning flutists and pianists filling the air with what could marginally be called music, when I was approached by a woman with a big head of frazzled, curly hair. Moment of truth.
I find it’s best to spit something out as soon as possible when trying to speak a foreign language. This strategy doesn’t make it any easier, but if I get it in my head that I’m going to speak correctly, time stretches out and I freeze up. I can’t come up with anything. Usually all that is understood from my first words is that I don’t speak very much Spanish, so there’s no point in overthinking it. Once I’ve convinced them that I’m clueless but that I’m going to keep talking anyways, I can usually slip some significant words into my babbling and eventually convey a message. If nothing else, my transmission attempts end with my unfortunate communication partner at least understanding that they are going to have to dumb it down for me, and that’s enough.
Anyways, I came away understanding that I could sign up for private instrument lessons for just 20 euros a month and that there was a band and a choir that I could join for free. Guay. These were the opportunities that I wasn’t going to find in my relaxing afternoons at the apartment.
Two weeks later I’ve been to my first piano lesson, two lenguaje classes (and let me just say that while music is often thought to be a universal language, somehow the Spanish music lenguaje seems to be at odds with the theory I’ve learned at home) and I’ve found my place in the back row of the Albox choir. At last, I found a way to Americanize the tranquil life I had been enjoying so much.
*The dance lessons flopped. I returned on Monday, but peering through the beads (many shops prefer this relic from the 70’s to a front door for a reason that I haven’t quite yet figured out) I could see that the three elderly English couples, while probably perfectly friendly, were not the folks I had come to Spain to meet.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Weekend in Granada
Man, this thing can really get away from me. It’s already been a week and a half since Granada. On the drive home my mind was awhirl with ideas enough for a book, but they just kind of stewed and never made it into text, until now I guess.
First, by the time I got to Granada it was already worth the trip. As an NHRI counselor, I learned the value of car time for conversations, and that is no less true in Spanish. I communicate in the apartment with Frenk, my ride to Granada, but it is always in a very functional, goal-directed manner (Have you had dinner? Are you done in the bathroom? What time are you going to the gym?) In the car, I had her trapped—a 2.5 hour private Spanish lesson. And I got to know so much better to boot.
She’s a real person. So many of the people I end up meeting here are so simplistic, so easily characterized and predictable. They like pop music, movies and TV, they like drinking and smoking, they find nothing wrong with blantent sex appeal and simple fatty, salty sweet junk food. Frenk is cool. We talked about the problems in the school, and without being able to pinpoint a central cause, respect, motivation, uninspiring curuclum and the classroom environment have made it so that many of her high school students haven’t read much of anything, can’t spell many common words, and simply haven’t developed an ability to think for themselves. Modernity. She had been a vegetarian before, and many of her friends work on a gardening co-op, sharing the work of growing their own vegetables. She’s a big reader, and probably could be considered somewhat of a environmental hippy. So she’s cool.
Then, Granada. Man, I need to make effort get out more because Albox just isn't Spain. My short weekend was so full of new experiences and memories that I just can’t hope to describe them all here. We’ll take a summary tour, and then if you’re interested, you can ask me about it later.
I stayed in the Albayzín, a historic neighborhood across from the Alhambra and filled with Arabic teashops and all kinds of neat clothes. Seriously, I thought it might be time to reinvent my style.
At the hostel (a din of foreigners, English-speaking foreigners) I signed up for a tour with a wacky English fellow where I ended up meeting a group of world-travelers.
Over tapas after the walk, a group of us decided to get together that night to watch the sunset from the caves over the Albayzín (where our guide recommended the girls spend some time if they were looking for a boyfriend with a dog and a van). Yep caves. And people live in them. Not like Fred Flintstone or Conan, these folks have electricity and running water in their hillside dugouts. So 8 of us, after much deliberation about whether or not we would be too late to see the the sunset, were in fact too late to see the sunset. But we wandered up to the caves anyways. Fun.
Sunday was my day to see the Alhambra, and I decided to head up there with Ewa, a tired-out medical resident from Poland. She was sweet, but I could tell she was dreading her return to a pretty hectic lifestyle. Still, we enjoyed the day in the palaces and gardens of old Moorish kings.
Here’s where things get interesting: at about 5:00, I get a text from Frenk saying that the bus route I was planning on taking to her town doesn’t run on Sunday nights. I had planned on staying with her and leaving at the crack o’ dawn so she would be back for her 8:15 classes, but now she was suggesting that I take a cab. Not exactly my idea of a buck well spent. At this point I needed: a place to stay and a ride to Albox. I didn’t want to spend anymore dinero than I needed to, as I figured I was pretty much done with my trip. A 30 or 40 Euro taxi ride could do the job, but I had a couple of ideas up my sleeve.
It so happened that my neighbor Charlotte was also in Granada this weekend and staying with friends. She had class tomorrow too, so perhaps she could help me out. At the end of a short phone call I hadn't solved either problems, but we did have plans to meet for a coffee at 9:00 (2 notes: phones here charge by the minute so people tend to be quite brief, and Charlotte and I speak in my (still) limited Spanish.) So I relax, no need to worry, surely I will get everything sorted out over a cup of Joe.
Earlier in the weekend I sat down with my guidebook and marked interesting restaurants, cafés, bars etc. on my map so I would know the best spots to hit when the opportunity arose. All weekend I hadn’t had a chance to try them out, so I decided that this three-hour window would be a nice chance to treat myself to a good meal.
Well, the first couple of restaurants were closed (Ah, it was only 6:00, way too early for dinner. Try back at 8:30 I learned from a hotel lobby) So I instead set out for Anaïs Café, described as “a bar for bookworms with a penchant for imbibing, literary evenings and tarot readings, as well as mindless fun.” Nearby I found an unmentioned but seemingly good enough “Bohemian Jazz Café”, but the Anaïs Café eluded me. Some combination of the desire to complete what I had set out to do and a curiosity to figure out with that description actually meant kept me searching. Eventually I learned that: 1. The name had changed, 2. It was now in a new location, which ultimately proved to be 3. closed. So back to the good enough Jazz Café. And it was:
I made it to the appointed mall on time to meet Charlotte, and I was practicing my Spanish explanation of what I needed when she arrived with her friends. As I followed them upstairs, I explained too good-heartedly what a pickle I had found myself in, and apparently wasn’t conveying the message that I needed her help. Before getting anything sorted out we ended up in a pretty loud bar. As I tried again to explain my position, Charlotte confusedly asked if I perhaps needed a coffee. No! I thought tomar un café meant we were going to settle down and chat about our weekends in a coffee shop, I didn’t come to the bar because I was wanted coffee!
Eventually, she agreed that maybe I should call Roberto and ask for a ride, and she gave me his number. Busy. Busy. Aargh! At this point I should mention that I have my traveling backpack with me, and as I enter and leave the bar the security guards are giving me the strangest looks. Okay, so maybe I should go look for a taxi for Huétor Santillán? Try once more.
Success! "No problem" he says, "sure." Okay, so a place to stay. Veronica. She studied in Sevilla with me, and I happened to know she was living in something of a convent with 8 University students. "Sure," she says. As she tries to explain where she lives (and my battery light is blinking dangerously at me, I like living on the edge) my eyes scramble over the map. "Okay, so it’s a street parallel to Calle Reyes Catolicos?" At last, they strike the name they're looking for, and one of my earlier markings pops out. "Do you know the Rincón de Michael Landon? Yes? Let’s meet there."
This has got to be my favorite detail of the weekend. After much tribulation, the fact that this little “nook” plays a role in guiding me through still makes me laugh. How could this gem not make it to my map: “In the midst of Granada’s student life, this funny bar is dedicated to retro kitsch and the bizarrely cult star of The Little House on the Prairie.”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Relaxing life in Albox
My approach to this year is a bit different than many of my fellow teachers. In Sevilla, our conversation often drifted to travel plans, and nearly everyone intends to see as much as they can. Don’t want to waste an opportunity. How can you pass on the 20-euro fare to see Madrid, Valencia, or Barcelona? Not to mention the 40-euro Ryanair ticket to Morroco, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Greece, Poland, the UK, Scandinavia, and on, and on, and on. . .
I guess my outlook is a bit different. I came here to sink into my community, to learn about the culture by participating in it, and above all, to slow down. While this experience doesn’t lend itself to the same kind of exciting stories, it instead maintains a subtle pleasantness. Certainly I can’t claim to have conquered something as vague and non-distinct as “participating in the culture” and I honestly have a long way to go before I’ve “sunk into the community”, but I can unequivocally say I have enjoyed slowing down.
My work schedule, while a bit flexible and unpredictable, bears no resemblance to what I might be doing were I in the US. True, I’ll have teachers asking me to join their next class, sans-preparation, when I’m just about to head home, but at the end of the week, I’ve rarely been at the school more than twenty hours, and of those, only about 8-12 actually in class. And so more than anything, I’ve loved having time to read, to cook, to sleep without an alarm, to sign up for Yoga and Judo classes, and to do it all without careful planning or scheduling. (Yeah, I guess I am bragging.) Advice to manage stress by squeezing an extra “stress-relieving” activity into an already overbooked day has always struck me as a bit odd.
So I’m planning to spend most of my time here in Albox whether or not it has the historical castles, cathedrals, gardens, the nightclubs or the movies (it does not). That said, I don’t have to go and be an extremist about it. In fact, I've just returned from my first weekend trip, Granada. Stories forthcoming.
I guess my outlook is a bit different. I came here to sink into my community, to learn about the culture by participating in it, and above all, to slow down. While this experience doesn’t lend itself to the same kind of exciting stories, it instead maintains a subtle pleasantness. Certainly I can’t claim to have conquered something as vague and non-distinct as “participating in the culture” and I honestly have a long way to go before I’ve “sunk into the community”, but I can unequivocally say I have enjoyed slowing down.
My work schedule, while a bit flexible and unpredictable, bears no resemblance to what I might be doing were I in the US. True, I’ll have teachers asking me to join their next class, sans-preparation, when I’m just about to head home, but at the end of the week, I’ve rarely been at the school more than twenty hours, and of those, only about 8-12 actually in class. And so more than anything, I’ve loved having time to read, to cook, to sleep without an alarm, to sign up for Yoga and Judo classes, and to do it all without careful planning or scheduling. (Yeah, I guess I am bragging.) Advice to manage stress by squeezing an extra “stress-relieving” activity into an already overbooked day has always struck me as a bit odd.
So I’m planning to spend most of my time here in Albox whether or not it has the historical castles, cathedrals, gardens, the nightclubs or the movies (it does not). That said, I don’t have to go and be an extremist about it. In fact, I've just returned from my first weekend trip, Granada. Stories forthcoming.
Yum
A few of the results from my time in the kitchen:
Taking pictures of food is too easy. I decided to keep track of my experiments as a rookie cook, but it turns out that pictures can look great regardless of the actual flavor.
Taking pictures of food is too easy. I decided to keep track of my experiments as a rookie cook, but it turns out that pictures can look great regardless of the actual flavor.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A Long Saturday
So I’m still new to this whole blogging thing and I’m trying to find the balance between what I want to say and what I want to leave out. I spend a lot more time thinking about things that I could write than I actually spend writing. I feel a bit limited because I haven’t explained many of the background details that provide the context for my stories. But I feel like simply disclosing all the boring details could really drive this blog into the ground. I want to keep it interesting. Of course blogging is a bit narcissistic to it’s core and I feel a bit foolish going on and on about myself, but I’d like the goal here to be improving my writing, learning to open up a bit more, and of course sharing experiences to (hopefully) curious readers.
Let’s start with last Saturday. I went to the English folks’ boot sale (where I’m sure my friend Katie could “sale her wares”) to see if I could track down a bicycle. Albox is near enough to the Mediterranean that I could get to the beach in a couple hours if I had a bike, but on my feet, forget it. It’s also connected to other small towns through hilly, relatively quiet roadways that might make for nice cycling trips. Something cheap, perhaps an old bike that someone’s kid or husband no longer uses, could meet my needs at the right price. So the boot sale seemed about as good a place as any to start.
My instructions were as follows: it’s by the international café; just keep going straight and you can’t miss it. That phrase is one of my peeves. I’m not particularly good with directions, and I’ve found that, you can’t miss it, has less to do with how easy it is to find, and more to do with the guide’s desire to get back to what they were doing. I wasn’t exactly certain which road I was supposed to be on, or in which direction, but because my advisor was tired of giving instructions, he felt he could terminate his lesson by urging me to “keep going” on a vaguely defined road until I found it.
No worries, I wasn’t in a particular hurry and had nothing pressing for the rest of the weekend, so with an orange, an apple and half a water bottle I was wandering out of Albox towards where I considered that this boot sale could potentially be. I should also point out that those who gave me directions were consistently surprised that I did not possess a car and would instead be walking.
Albox slowly evaporated behind me, the mechanic shops and hardware stores growing further and further apart until I was walking along a lonely, country highway. Sure enough, it was the correct one, though I did turn back at one point convinced I had likely gone too far. A brief conversation made clear that I was on the correct road, just another half an hour or so to the boot sale.
When I got there, it looked something like this:
I came away with a load of cheap English books, a fair prize for my effort. I was getting a bit hungry, but the café international had few offerings that appealed to me more than a meal I might prepare for myself back home, so I decided I could make the return journey without a meal. But before I left, saw a poster advertising a giant paella as part of a festival in Arboleas, the next town down the highway. I hadn’t tried real paella yet, and this seemed to be as good a way as any to spend my afternoon. So I asked for what were only partially understood directions, and set out once again, this time with a bit less clarity. Definitely turn right, go pass the red house, and then something about the riverbed and keep going. A bit hazy at the end, but I should be able to find it.
Well what should have taken about an hour took nearly three, and at several times I considered whether I’d be better off turning back for home fueled by my remaining fruit. Ultimately, I was rather counting on the sustenance from the paella to make the return journey and I ended up stumbling into town before I totally lost hope.
And this is what a giant paella looks like:
I was happy to sit for a bit, to loosen my shoes as blisters were developing on my heel. Eventually I summoned my strength and set out on my return journey. Charlotte had called while I was eating, and her friend Laura (who worked as I do at the school last year) had arrived in Albox. When I returned I would come across the hall to say hello to the two of them.
Of course I did make it back, but not without weary legs, tired feet, and worst of all, a deserved sunburn. Though I’m usually quite conscientious with sunscreen, I had had no problems with the sun in all of my days in Sevilla, and after all, it was October. Well maybe my skin’s tolerance for the sun was improving, but it was no match for that day’s hike, and I was feeling it.
I crossed the hall to say hello and enjoyed hearing about the past year in Albox. We ate and they told me of their plans for the night. With some local friends, they would be going to a fair in a nearby town that night (setting out at 12:30 or so) and invited me to join in. We split for a while so they could get ready.
Back in my room I flipped and flopped. I was tired and could have fallen asleep on the spot at 9:30. I knew my body needed rest to deal with the tired muscles and burned skin. But here was an opportunity to get out of Albox, to see a cultural activity and to spend some time with two new friends. And perhaps to meet some locals. Against my better judgment, I made a pot of coffee and committed to the Spanish nightlife.
I crossed the hall to find the two nearly ready, but the plans had changed. Our Spanish friends, the ones with the cars who would drive us to the fair, had a football game that was just starting and we would wait until it finished before setting off. Okay, I thought, sitting and watching will require less energy than walking around a fair and being at a party, I can handle this.
Around 2:30 or so, when the game was over, we loaded up in the car. I was a bit confused as the plans had changed again, but I followed the girls. I understood that we were now going to the beach for a “botellón” or an informal outdoor party. Looking back I clearly should have spoken up and figured out exactly what we were up to, but not exactly sure how to explain my desire, I kept quite and followed along.
As we drove I learned we were headed to a discoteca, not a botellón, which I did want to see before I left Spain, but I had no pressing desire to check off that night. No matter, however, at this point there was no turning back. Spanish nightlife is notorious for going all night long, and I figured I ought to at least give it a try.
But once will probably be enough for me. I was exhausted. It was too loud to really communicate with anyone, and I really could only speculate when we would be returning and I would be able to crash. I tried at times to reset my mindset and enjoy the time, but that was pretty fruitless. Suffice to say, the hours between when we arrived and when we finally left dragged trudgingly in my mind.
When I did at long last find my bed, I quickly fell into the most effortless sleep imaginable. The sensation was altogether unique, more like a decision to stand up, or to touch my nose than the passive, thoughtless route to sleep.
I had made some mistakes that day. I should have done a better job reading my senses and recognizing what was in my best interest. I should have known that I simply didn’t have the energy to stay out all night. I should have realized the commitment I was making (but never at any one point, made) by staying silent in the car. Well, chalk another one up to character-building experience.
Let’s start with last Saturday. I went to the English folks’ boot sale (where I’m sure my friend Katie could “sale her wares”) to see if I could track down a bicycle. Albox is near enough to the Mediterranean that I could get to the beach in a couple hours if I had a bike, but on my feet, forget it. It’s also connected to other small towns through hilly, relatively quiet roadways that might make for nice cycling trips. Something cheap, perhaps an old bike that someone’s kid or husband no longer uses, could meet my needs at the right price. So the boot sale seemed about as good a place as any to start.
My instructions were as follows: it’s by the international café; just keep going straight and you can’t miss it. That phrase is one of my peeves. I’m not particularly good with directions, and I’ve found that, you can’t miss it, has less to do with how easy it is to find, and more to do with the guide’s desire to get back to what they were doing. I wasn’t exactly certain which road I was supposed to be on, or in which direction, but because my advisor was tired of giving instructions, he felt he could terminate his lesson by urging me to “keep going” on a vaguely defined road until I found it.
No worries, I wasn’t in a particular hurry and had nothing pressing for the rest of the weekend, so with an orange, an apple and half a water bottle I was wandering out of Albox towards where I considered that this boot sale could potentially be. I should also point out that those who gave me directions were consistently surprised that I did not possess a car and would instead be walking.
Albox slowly evaporated behind me, the mechanic shops and hardware stores growing further and further apart until I was walking along a lonely, country highway. Sure enough, it was the correct one, though I did turn back at one point convinced I had likely gone too far. A brief conversation made clear that I was on the correct road, just another half an hour or so to the boot sale.
When I got there, it looked something like this:
I came away with a load of cheap English books, a fair prize for my effort. I was getting a bit hungry, but the café international had few offerings that appealed to me more than a meal I might prepare for myself back home, so I decided I could make the return journey without a meal. But before I left, saw a poster advertising a giant paella as part of a festival in Arboleas, the next town down the highway. I hadn’t tried real paella yet, and this seemed to be as good a way as any to spend my afternoon. So I asked for what were only partially understood directions, and set out once again, this time with a bit less clarity. Definitely turn right, go pass the red house, and then something about the riverbed and keep going. A bit hazy at the end, but I should be able to find it.
Well what should have taken about an hour took nearly three, and at several times I considered whether I’d be better off turning back for home fueled by my remaining fruit. Ultimately, I was rather counting on the sustenance from the paella to make the return journey and I ended up stumbling into town before I totally lost hope.
And this is what a giant paella looks like:
I was happy to sit for a bit, to loosen my shoes as blisters were developing on my heel. Eventually I summoned my strength and set out on my return journey. Charlotte had called while I was eating, and her friend Laura (who worked as I do at the school last year) had arrived in Albox. When I returned I would come across the hall to say hello to the two of them.
Of course I did make it back, but not without weary legs, tired feet, and worst of all, a deserved sunburn. Though I’m usually quite conscientious with sunscreen, I had had no problems with the sun in all of my days in Sevilla, and after all, it was October. Well maybe my skin’s tolerance for the sun was improving, but it was no match for that day’s hike, and I was feeling it.
I crossed the hall to say hello and enjoyed hearing about the past year in Albox. We ate and they told me of their plans for the night. With some local friends, they would be going to a fair in a nearby town that night (setting out at 12:30 or so) and invited me to join in. We split for a while so they could get ready.
Back in my room I flipped and flopped. I was tired and could have fallen asleep on the spot at 9:30. I knew my body needed rest to deal with the tired muscles and burned skin. But here was an opportunity to get out of Albox, to see a cultural activity and to spend some time with two new friends. And perhaps to meet some locals. Against my better judgment, I made a pot of coffee and committed to the Spanish nightlife.
I crossed the hall to find the two nearly ready, but the plans had changed. Our Spanish friends, the ones with the cars who would drive us to the fair, had a football game that was just starting and we would wait until it finished before setting off. Okay, I thought, sitting and watching will require less energy than walking around a fair and being at a party, I can handle this.
Around 2:30 or so, when the game was over, we loaded up in the car. I was a bit confused as the plans had changed again, but I followed the girls. I understood that we were now going to the beach for a “botellón” or an informal outdoor party. Looking back I clearly should have spoken up and figured out exactly what we were up to, but not exactly sure how to explain my desire, I kept quite and followed along.
As we drove I learned we were headed to a discoteca, not a botellón, which I did want to see before I left Spain, but I had no pressing desire to check off that night. No matter, however, at this point there was no turning back. Spanish nightlife is notorious for going all night long, and I figured I ought to at least give it a try.
But once will probably be enough for me. I was exhausted. It was too loud to really communicate with anyone, and I really could only speculate when we would be returning and I would be able to crash. I tried at times to reset my mindset and enjoy the time, but that was pretty fruitless. Suffice to say, the hours between when we arrived and when we finally left dragged trudgingly in my mind.
When I did at long last find my bed, I quickly fell into the most effortless sleep imaginable. The sensation was altogether unique, more like a decision to stand up, or to touch my nose than the passive, thoughtless route to sleep.
I had made some mistakes that day. I should have done a better job reading my senses and recognizing what was in my best interest. I should have known that I simply didn’t have the energy to stay out all night. I should have realized the commitment I was making (but never at any one point, made) by staying silent in the car. Well, chalk another one up to character-building experience.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Mi Piso
So I keep putting off updates because I had imagined telling stories that I don't have time to tell. But the blog is getting so stale that I want to get a least something up to catch you up a bit.
So I had 5 days to look for an apartment. I wasted the first 2 days without much to show because everything was closed up on the weekend. I just knew that I wanted to live with Spaniards, that was pretty much my only requirement. Any uncertainty I had had vanished when on my first trip to my school. It was at the end of the day so everyone, teachers and students alike, was rushing out the doors. I just kept introducing myself to everyone that passed by: "Hi, my name is Drew, I'm going to be an English assistant here. I'm looking for a place to stay." José, a teacher I now work with on Wednesdays and Thursdays offered to open up his place to me on the spot. He had a three-bedroom apartment to himself. He would later be sharing it with his girlfriend, so I couldn't stay their permanently, but I could stay there until I found a place. In an instant, I was relieved.
I passed on the offer at the moment because I still had 2 days left in the Hotel, and was planning to come back to the school to continue my search the next day. I showed up early and continued my incessant introduction until about noon when two of the younger teachers approached me and said "So you're looking for a place? You can stay with us." and the search was over. I looked at 0 other apartments, I did no haggling or research. It was obvious that this was going to be my only opportunity to live with teacher from my school, and such a good opportunity it is.
So after school I left with Frenc, Jesús and Javier, crossed the street and entered my 2nd floor apartment for the first time. My first impression, was that it was big, and that it was clean. Frenc had made lunch, which we shared, and then Jesús drove me to the hotel to pick up my bags. After unpacking, exhausted, I crashed in my new bed and thought about how quickly everything had fallen into place. I was, more or less, ready for the year ahead.
So I had 5 days to look for an apartment. I wasted the first 2 days without much to show because everything was closed up on the weekend. I just knew that I wanted to live with Spaniards, that was pretty much my only requirement. Any uncertainty I had had vanished when on my first trip to my school. It was at the end of the day so everyone, teachers and students alike, was rushing out the doors. I just kept introducing myself to everyone that passed by: "Hi, my name is Drew, I'm going to be an English assistant here. I'm looking for a place to stay." José, a teacher I now work with on Wednesdays and Thursdays offered to open up his place to me on the spot. He had a three-bedroom apartment to himself. He would later be sharing it with his girlfriend, so I couldn't stay their permanently, but I could stay there until I found a place. In an instant, I was relieved.
I passed on the offer at the moment because I still had 2 days left in the Hotel, and was planning to come back to the school to continue my search the next day. I showed up early and continued my incessant introduction until about noon when two of the younger teachers approached me and said "So you're looking for a place? You can stay with us." and the search was over. I looked at 0 other apartments, I did no haggling or research. It was obvious that this was going to be my only opportunity to live with teacher from my school, and such a good opportunity it is.
So after school I left with Frenc, Jesús and Javier, crossed the street and entered my 2nd floor apartment for the first time. My first impression, was that it was big, and that it was clean. Frenc had made lunch, which we shared, and then Jesús drove me to the hotel to pick up my bags. After unpacking, exhausted, I crashed in my new bed and thought about how quickly everything had fallen into place. I was, more or less, ready for the year ahead.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Arrival in Albox
So here I am in Albox. I actually got here on Saturday, but the last week of classes in Sevilla and the first week here have been a whirlwind of activity and I just haven’t had time to get my thoughts together. As I’ve been wandering around town, waiting on busses or looking through grocery stores my mind works through what could be great posts, but by the time I get to a computer and have access to the web I always seem to be out of energy. Many things have been changing rapidly, but I’m coming to a place where I can relax and breathe, and I suppose I’ll gradually write through some of the pent-up experiences.
I was reluctant to leave the familiarity of Sevilla: the family I had been living, eating and learning with, new friends with their unique backgrounds and reasons for being here, and the structured learning of the classroom, but Albox is going to be great. Of the 300 folks who are participating in the same program through CIEE, only two of us are lucky enough to be here.
On Saturday Alex and I arrived to our pueblo in the afternoon. All of the shops were closed up and the streets were empty. We thought it was the typically 3-hour lunch break, which it technically was, but in little old Albox, things wouldn’t open up again until Monday morning. Our program had provided us with 5 days of lodging at the local hotel, what would hopefully be sufficient time to find a place to live. So my excitement waned a bit as the weekend crept by without much activity or opportunities to find an apartment. I was really set on living with local Spaniards and excited to have a little more independence (and a kitchen), but certainly anxious as well.
On the map the town is built around a river, but in reality a rambla divides the city. In this dried out riverbed I saw some playing an informal, muddy game of soccer (due to the rain), more watching and cheering, and others more or less tailgating in a makeshift parking lot. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any to meet some new people, so I wandered down, waited around, and soon was speaking with what turned out to be Albox’s Ecuadorian population. They’re there every weekend playing, eating, drinking, and enjoying life. Once I passed through the threshold of awkardness, I had made my in for the night.
If I seem upbeat, it’s because the apartment search is over, I’ve seen my school and met some colleagues, and I’ve got a good idea about the government paperwork that lies ahead of me. But I leave those stories for another day. With pictures.
I was reluctant to leave the familiarity of Sevilla: the family I had been living, eating and learning with, new friends with their unique backgrounds and reasons for being here, and the structured learning of the classroom, but Albox is going to be great. Of the 300 folks who are participating in the same program through CIEE, only two of us are lucky enough to be here.
On Saturday Alex and I arrived to our pueblo in the afternoon. All of the shops were closed up and the streets were empty. We thought it was the typically 3-hour lunch break, which it technically was, but in little old Albox, things wouldn’t open up again until Monday morning. Our program had provided us with 5 days of lodging at the local hotel, what would hopefully be sufficient time to find a place to live. So my excitement waned a bit as the weekend crept by without much activity or opportunities to find an apartment. I was really set on living with local Spaniards and excited to have a little more independence (and a kitchen), but certainly anxious as well.
On the map the town is built around a river, but in reality a rambla divides the city. In this dried out riverbed I saw some playing an informal, muddy game of soccer (due to the rain), more watching and cheering, and others more or less tailgating in a makeshift parking lot. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any to meet some new people, so I wandered down, waited around, and soon was speaking with what turned out to be Albox’s Ecuadorian population. They’re there every weekend playing, eating, drinking, and enjoying life. Once I passed through the threshold of awkardness, I had made my in for the night.
If I seem upbeat, it’s because the apartment search is over, I’ve seen my school and met some colleagues, and I’ve got a good idea about the government paperwork that lies ahead of me. But I leave those stories for another day. With pictures.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Intercambio
Meet Sofia,
my one-to-one intercambio partner. Basically we each have something that the other wants, so we meet to share our unique talents. Specifically I have the very interesting and exotic ability to speak English, and she Spanish. I was a little surprised that the school would set me up on what are essentially dates with a high school girl, but that might have stemmed from the fact that my name is uncommon, and often mistaken for a woman's. You know, like Drew Barrymore.
She is probably at a much higher level than I am, but we each have our own styles which makes it a little easier for us to speak in Spanish. I'm a babbler. I may not know what I'm talking about, and I am unequivically demonstrating my lack of understanding of Spanish grammar, but I'm talking! Because she has some sense of shame about her improper language usage she comes off as a bit more timid.
We divide our time together into two chunks and chat over a coffee or ice cream cup. (I've finally found a manageable drink, café con leche. Because the espresso is so strong, the diminishing effect of the milk rounds it off to more or less the same strength as American filtered coffee. (On my search for a drink larger than a thimble, tea struck me as a viable alternative. The pot I was served could have fit inside the cup. I should have taken a picture because I'm not ordering that again.)) I learn just as much when we are practicing English. It makes me think about the relationship between the two languages and the difficulty translating some ideas. If I make no regard for her Spanish level I speak in a way that is very hard to understand. If I think in a sort of Spanish/English mix, I can follow the way she translates my speech. Basically, I'm learning to speak a Spanish-structured English. This will be an essential skill for working with English language learners.
Pablo and I watched a movie together last night. I've pretty much been avoiding Spanish media because it is usually a bit over my head, both too fast and too colloquial. We had agreed to watch Transformers, but once I realized it was a pirated copy I knew that meant no subtitles. I insisted that we change the movie because I just wouldn't understand what was going on. We picked Billy Elliot instead, and I was sufficiently able to follow along. Having Pablo to confirm my understanding of the plot was most helpful. Frustratingly, every movie I've watched in Spanish deliberately creates discrepancies between the the audio and subtitles. It seems reasonable to give the voice actors and the typist the same script, but I swear one of them is meticulously using a thesaurus.
I was speaking with Javier last night about Health Care in Spain. He had no idea that health care was not provided by the government in the US. Even as a foreigner he can get coverage here for free. My attempt to explain why some people would prefer less government and more personal responsibility was a failure. To him, it was no different than education. He asked "If I were poor, could my kids not go to school?" I have yet to talk with a Spaniard who doesn't feel the same way (not that I often offer the subject). The differences in socially polite conversation are striking. For the most part, in Nebraska you can expect people to respond favorably to skepticism of government and you might keep your liberal leanings to yourself, whereas here the opposite is true, such a position seems selfish and antisocial, literally inexplicable (at least with my level of Spanish).
my one-to-one intercambio partner. Basically we each have something that the other wants, so we meet to share our unique talents. Specifically I have the very interesting and exotic ability to speak English, and she Spanish. I was a little surprised that the school would set me up on what are essentially dates with a high school girl, but that might have stemmed from the fact that my name is uncommon, and often mistaken for a woman's. You know, like Drew Barrymore.
She is probably at a much higher level than I am, but we each have our own styles which makes it a little easier for us to speak in Spanish. I'm a babbler. I may not know what I'm talking about, and I am unequivically demonstrating my lack of understanding of Spanish grammar, but I'm talking! Because she has some sense of shame about her improper language usage she comes off as a bit more timid.
We divide our time together into two chunks and chat over a coffee or ice cream cup. (I've finally found a manageable drink, café con leche. Because the espresso is so strong, the diminishing effect of the milk rounds it off to more or less the same strength as American filtered coffee. (On my search for a drink larger than a thimble, tea struck me as a viable alternative. The pot I was served could have fit inside the cup. I should have taken a picture because I'm not ordering that again.)) I learn just as much when we are practicing English. It makes me think about the relationship between the two languages and the difficulty translating some ideas. If I make no regard for her Spanish level I speak in a way that is very hard to understand. If I think in a sort of Spanish/English mix, I can follow the way she translates my speech. Basically, I'm learning to speak a Spanish-structured English. This will be an essential skill for working with English language learners.
Pablo and I watched a movie together last night. I've pretty much been avoiding Spanish media because it is usually a bit over my head, both too fast and too colloquial. We had agreed to watch Transformers, but once I realized it was a pirated copy I knew that meant no subtitles. I insisted that we change the movie because I just wouldn't understand what was going on. We picked Billy Elliot instead, and I was sufficiently able to follow along. Having Pablo to confirm my understanding of the plot was most helpful. Frustratingly, every movie I've watched in Spanish deliberately creates discrepancies between the the audio and subtitles. It seems reasonable to give the voice actors and the typist the same script, but I swear one of them is meticulously using a thesaurus.
I was speaking with Javier last night about Health Care in Spain. He had no idea that health care was not provided by the government in the US. Even as a foreigner he can get coverage here for free. My attempt to explain why some people would prefer less government and more personal responsibility was a failure. To him, it was no different than education. He asked "If I were poor, could my kids not go to school?" I have yet to talk with a Spaniard who doesn't feel the same way (not that I often offer the subject). The differences in socially polite conversation are striking. For the most part, in Nebraska you can expect people to respond favorably to skepticism of government and you might keep your liberal leanings to yourself, whereas here the opposite is true, such a position seems selfish and antisocial, literally inexplicable (at least with my level of Spanish).
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Two weeks in
Time is moving so quickly here in Spain. I feel more at home day by day, but a recent trip to Almeria (the province where I will be working) to complete some legal paperwork (which turned out to be a miserable failure) made clear that everything will be changing in couple of weeks as I move out of my homestay, finish my classes, and say goodbye to many new friends.
Right now, with the aforementioned luxuries, I am having an absolute blast. The daily schedule is largely wide open, with just enough structure to make fun plans. Everyone at the school, whether they are from Germany, Japan or Turkey, also wants to meet interesting and exotic people, so there is always something to do.
This is from Maude's going away party (She's actually taking the photo). The classes at CLIC, our language school, are changing every week so you can come and go according to your own schedule. In the picture we are enjoying tinto de verano while waiting for the tapas, the small appetizers that everyone shares when you go out. The other guy is my roomate Michael. For some reason this program is more appealing to women. Which is just fine.
Right now, with the aforementioned luxuries, I am having an absolute blast. The daily schedule is largely wide open, with just enough structure to make fun plans. Everyone at the school, whether they are from Germany, Japan or Turkey, also wants to meet interesting and exotic people, so there is always something to do.
This is from Maude's going away party (She's actually taking the photo). The classes at CLIC, our language school, are changing every week so you can come and go according to your own schedule. In the picture we are enjoying tinto de verano while waiting for the tapas, the small appetizers that everyone shares when you go out. The other guy is my roomate Michael. For some reason this program is more appealing to women. Which is just fine.
Monday, September 7, 2009
La biblioteca
I found the library today with Pablo and it is exactly the place I have been looking for since I got here. Priority number one is to learn Spanish, and as I've learned from a variety of sources, I needed to be learning from a variety of sources. I need to be listening, speaking, reading, writing, studying, and thinking in Spanish. I have a lot of opportunities to listen, but when I don't understand I zone out. Speaking is great, but I find myself running is a very limited loop. What I need is a good place for some consecrated studying. Readin' n' Writin'
The heat and the constant layer of sweat that rests on my skin makes it difficult to concentrate in our apartment, so I have made a couple attempts at local coffee shops. I walk by one called the Café de Indias on my way to school, but they unforgivably lack that which should be central to any coffee shop, that is, black coffee. It was the same in New Zealand; the world outside of the US has apparently moved beyond the filter and now makes everything with espresso. And in Spain, the Americano tall is about 4 oz, not the mug I like to milk as I work through my notes or a good book. I'm half tempted to wander into one of the three Starbucks on the 6 blocks of the main avenue I walk everyday just to soak in their air conditioning and the familiarity of a large cuppa joe.
But the library. It's air conditioned, it's quiet, and there are books. Wildly exceeds my requirements.
So we encounter a couple of our classmate on the way and end up sitting together. There are like 8 of us (4 familiar, 4 strangers) around this little workstation, but there are probably 100s of people working quietly overall, so the tone is obviously set, no talking.
I had picked up this elementary level, abridged version of a Spanish classic about a three-pointed hat and have been muscling through without catching every (nearly any) details (major plot points). After feeling both satisfied that I had turned to the final page, and pathetic for truly grasping very little, I took the quiz in the back of the book and not only did better than I thought, but also filled in some gaps (like that some of the new names that kept popping up weren't always new people) and thought I might gain from a second reading. Back to page one.
With a clear layout of the story, and a much more thorough reading style, I approached the third or fourth page with unfamiliar certainty. I knew that the ugly man was cutting the grapes off the vine by the wheat mill! And a little later, I after understanding the simplest little spat, I laughed out loud. Which, was a little inappropriate for the setting. Meredith, who was sitting next to me, gave me a look and just had to know what was so funny. So I told her:
So there's this man, who works at the flour mill, and he's really ugly right? and um, he has like this really beautiful wife. Oh, and he's got a hunch. He's a hunch back. Okay. So then there's this other guy. Right, he works for the government okay? And he's ugly too. And so the husband and the wife are talking about the guy from the government, and the husband think the guy also likes the wife. But she tells him not to get jealous because she is committed, even though he has this unsightly hunch. In fact, she loves him for the hunch. And then he delivers the punch line, that the government worker has a bigger hunch than him.
She wasn't impressed either.
The heat and the constant layer of sweat that rests on my skin makes it difficult to concentrate in our apartment, so I have made a couple attempts at local coffee shops. I walk by one called the Café de Indias on my way to school, but they unforgivably lack that which should be central to any coffee shop, that is, black coffee. It was the same in New Zealand; the world outside of the US has apparently moved beyond the filter and now makes everything with espresso. And in Spain, the Americano tall is about 4 oz, not the mug I like to milk as I work through my notes or a good book. I'm half tempted to wander into one of the three Starbucks on the 6 blocks of the main avenue I walk everyday just to soak in their air conditioning and the familiarity of a large cuppa joe.
But the library. It's air conditioned, it's quiet, and there are books. Wildly exceeds my requirements.
So we encounter a couple of our classmate on the way and end up sitting together. There are like 8 of us (4 familiar, 4 strangers) around this little workstation, but there are probably 100s of people working quietly overall, so the tone is obviously set, no talking.
I had picked up this elementary level, abridged version of a Spanish classic about a three-pointed hat and have been muscling through without catching every (nearly any) details (major plot points). After feeling both satisfied that I had turned to the final page, and pathetic for truly grasping very little, I took the quiz in the back of the book and not only did better than I thought, but also filled in some gaps (like that some of the new names that kept popping up weren't always new people) and thought I might gain from a second reading. Back to page one.
With a clear layout of the story, and a much more thorough reading style, I approached the third or fourth page with unfamiliar certainty. I knew that the ugly man was cutting the grapes off the vine by the wheat mill! And a little later, I after understanding the simplest little spat, I laughed out loud. Which, was a little inappropriate for the setting. Meredith, who was sitting next to me, gave me a look and just had to know what was so funny. So I told her:
So there's this man, who works at the flour mill, and he's really ugly right? and um, he has like this really beautiful wife. Oh, and he's got a hunch. He's a hunch back. Okay. So then there's this other guy. Right, he works for the government okay? And he's ugly too. And so the husband and the wife are talking about the guy from the government, and the husband think the guy also likes the wife. But she tells him not to get jealous because she is committed, even though he has this unsightly hunch. In fact, she loves him for the hunch. And then he delivers the punch line, that the government worker has a bigger hunch than him.
She wasn't impressed either.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The year ahead
Hi folks, I know I promised a blog and I fully intend to deliver. There have already been many stories worth sharing, and I am sure there will be more in the year to come. I want to get things started by laying out what I will be doing in my adventure ahead.
I’ve been interested in learning languages ever since living with Tomo, a Japanese international student, in college. While we lived together I was fascinated and inspired by his experience living abroad, and the community of international students sharing the experience of learning English.
So I decided that I could do something like that. I picked Spanish equally for its convenience, as I have some background with it, and its practicality in the US. And here I am. I have been in Seville, Spain for about a week and I am living with a local family. Roll call in our house includes: our Señora, the mother and matriarch of this brigade who will stop at nothing to make sure we have enough to eat; Pablo, the 17-year-old son who is interested in soccer, women, and spending time with his friends in the streets; Javier, a unrelated 30-year-old border who is currently out of work, but never in a bad mood; Michael, another recent college grad from Texas who will also soon be a language and culture assistant; and of course, Me.
Starting in October, I will be living in a small town called Albox in the province of Almería. I have a job through the regional government (the Junta de Andalucía) to bring American culture and language to the Spanish classrooms. I’ll be helping high school teachers make lesson plans in English, share American culture with the class, and demonstrate the American accent in classroom activities.
Since my job will be less than full-time (and the wages only enough to meet the minimum requirement to fill out visa paperwork, in a word, low) I also plan to give individual English lessons.
In the year ahead I plan to write about some of the differences between American and Spanish culture, the process of learning Spanish, the Spanish school system, some of my funnier experiences.
I’ve been interested in learning languages ever since living with Tomo, a Japanese international student, in college. While we lived together I was fascinated and inspired by his experience living abroad, and the community of international students sharing the experience of learning English.
So I decided that I could do something like that. I picked Spanish equally for its convenience, as I have some background with it, and its practicality in the US. And here I am. I have been in Seville, Spain for about a week and I am living with a local family. Roll call in our house includes: our Señora, the mother and matriarch of this brigade who will stop at nothing to make sure we have enough to eat; Pablo, the 17-year-old son who is interested in soccer, women, and spending time with his friends in the streets; Javier, a unrelated 30-year-old border who is currently out of work, but never in a bad mood; Michael, another recent college grad from Texas who will also soon be a language and culture assistant; and of course, Me.
Starting in October, I will be living in a small town called Albox in the province of Almería. I have a job through the regional government (the Junta de Andalucía) to bring American culture and language to the Spanish classrooms. I’ll be helping high school teachers make lesson plans in English, share American culture with the class, and demonstrate the American accent in classroom activities.
Since my job will be less than full-time (and the wages only enough to meet the minimum requirement to fill out visa paperwork, in a word, low) I also plan to give individual English lessons.
In the year ahead I plan to write about some of the differences between American and Spanish culture, the process of learning Spanish, the Spanish school system, some of my funnier experiences.
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