Village Idiot

The best news I have to share is that I no longer come home to an empty house. I live in a new apartment now, with a woman named Fina, and she has been a dream. The secretary at school told me she knew of someone looking for a roommate, so I got in touch with her just shy of immediately. We get along great, and she has a wealth of patience with me and my lacking vocabulary.

On my way out to the grocery store yesterday, I asked Fina if she needed anything. She asked for 'ciruelas,' which was a totally foreign word to me. I stared blankly, so she said they were "para el baño," or for the bathroom. Okay, so our bathroom is hands-down the best smelling part of the apartment. It's like stepping off the plane in Hawaii in there. Without a clue as to how it retains that scent, I asked if the ciruelas were for the smell, waving my hand in front of my face. I was thinking she whipped up some kind concoction to keep that holy room fresh, but I was wrong. (I noticed a Febreeze plug-in later.) She did her best to not look at me like I was a prize idiot, and said, "No, son para hacer caca." Things that help you take a shit. Then I got it: prunes. She wanted me to pick up some prunes. Just one example of the enormous obstacles I tackle every day.

I had lunch at my coordinator's house last week, where I met Manolo's (my coordinator's husband) sister and her husband who live in Córdoba. I spent most of the meal asking questions about everyone's recent vacation, pretty much opening up the conversation to topics that had already been discussed, but that my keen ears hadn't been able to pick up the first time around. Clara, my coordinator's daughter, was talking about her trip to Granada and how they had stayed in a house in the mountains outside of the city. About five minutes later, I asked her where they stayed in Granada, and realized, too late, that she was repeating herself.

While sipping coffee after our meal, Manolo's brother-in-law asked me what I thought was "How is life in Andalucía?" I was confused by this, because his wife had asked me a similar question at the table a little while earlier, and I had said I was very content with life in the south of Spain. So, as I ramble on in response to his question, everyone seems a little baffled, and Marú (my coordinator) waits until I get to the end of a cookie-cutter reply about how I love Andalucía to tell me what he'd really asked. Correction: "How was I doing with the language in Andalucía?" As if he even needed an answer after that, I said it was a bit of a struggle for me, that every person's accent provides a distinct challenge. We all laughed a little and then Manolo leans over to tell me that I remind him of his old, deaf father; I absorb small bits and pieces of conversation, and when someone addresses me directly, I blather on about a different topic that has little to no relevance. I gotta say, it's a pretty fair assessment. Most days I feel like a ninety-year-old battling with dementia.

At times when I can hardly form a clear thought, I become all too-aware of the plea in a person's eyes, begging me to just spit out something--anything--coherent. A good day is when I have two or three interactions where I come off with just a little bit of grace. Someone giving me a compliment on my Spanish can be encouraging, but it's best when both parties have something to laugh about. Immersing oneself in a language is totally fucking absurd. There is plenty to laugh at.

One of the girls I give English lessons to harasses me constantly about my clumsy Spanish. Instead of shooting back about her heinous pronunciation, I have to laugh at myself so that she can follow my example as we stumble through our respective second languages together. You might say we see each other as equals now. Which, obviously, makes her my new best friend. She is nine, I am twenty-two, and her parents pay me to come over and, essentially, play for two hours a week.

This brings me to my final conclusion: I am an awful teacher. Luckily, I am a good enough student to recognize that now, rather than, say, ten years from now, fully credentialed, while teaching PEMDAS to a room full of sixth-graders. I guess I'll continue to parade on in blissful ignorance of my life's calling for... ever.

I'm good, Ma.

Time for me to move out. Moving in was without obstacles, the rent was all too reasonable, and the location ideal. I forgot about the gaping potholes that one eventually and inevitably falls into while living in a foreign country. This particular pothole, a misunderstanding between my landlords and I, was revealed when Verna came along to collect November rent. Instead of accepting the 200 euro I had pulled from the bank that day, Verna diplomatically handed me a post-it note with the details of my rent, which totalled 348 euro. The rest of the story is irrelevant--negotiations ensued, and I am bowing out in hopes of moving in with other people.

I'm not sure why I really thought I was cut out for living alone. I like being alone about half as much as I like being with other people. It may be a gamble finding a compatible compañero de casa, but it's one I am more than willing to take. Now it is just a matter of shopping around town for an available bedroom. Puente Geníl is not craigslist-savvy, and why would it be? It is a waste of time looking for a flat behind the mask of the Internet, when one can take it to the streets. I have spent the past weekend hunting down people who are rumored to have an open room. One such rumor is that there are a pair of English girls, who teach at a local language school, that have an open room. Without the faintest idea of either of these girls' names, I swept into the language school dropped my name and phone number with the school's secretary, pleading with her to pass it along. She cringed, I'm sure from the pungent smell of my desperation. As of now, these English girls are my only lead.

In other news, I will not be granted an ATM card from my bank, Caja Sur, until I have my foreigner's card (the acquisition of which is a nightmare not worth detailing), which will not be ready until December. Withdrawing and depositing money has become a long, drawn out affair, comparable to being held captive at the DMV on a late afternoon the Friday before a holiday weekend. I have been to the bank three times in the last five days. This has taken its toll on me, eroding at my sense of self, and at times I have felt unable to feel any joy for hours on end. During a particularly worrisome Skype chat with my mom, she ultimately suggested a short-term dosage of antidepressants. Refusing to take her seriously, I immediately resolved to stay as far away from Caja Sur as I possibly can. Since then, things have been better.

School is my favorite part of the day, the best time of the week. As of now, I prefer Monday mornings to Friday afternoons. The students are wonderful, even when they are total hyenas and refuse to let class move forward. I do hate to reject their friend requests on facebook and tuentí (another social networking site, very popular in Spain), both because I want to be liked and because I want to see their pictures, and read their walls. I constantly have to remind myself that this behavior would be considered inappropriate.

I have been bringing in music to class, such as Halloween-themed anthems at the end of October, and Beatles songs to accompany their History of Rock & Roll lesson, and have gotten some valuable feedback. The students unanimously prefer Justin Beiber (well, the girls, anyway), Katy Perry (kids erupt into California Gurlz whenever I mention my home state, or when pointed to on a map in a Geography lesson), and several boys have stopped me in the hallways to suggest I bring in some Simple Plan next time.

It's hard for me to be patient these days, because I so look forward to the end of December when Brendan will come to visit! I have been slowly crafting plans to venture around other parts of Andalucía, Portugal, and France while he's here. I can't wait.

first impressions.

I made it. I found an apartment. I have a mobile phone. I've met the teachers. I've been exercising my Spanish, forcing my tongue to adjust all over again, rolling 'r's, dropping 's's. I've explored Puente Geníl--via walks with intention, running to the outskirts, or simply meandering and taking in the sights. Physically, I am settled, but in all other areas, I'm a mess.

Puente Geníl is small, with a population of about 35,000, full of people who are warm and welcoming. The town is situated on a slope of sorts, and the bottom of the hill is referred to as 'barrio bajo,' or the old neighborhood, and on top is 'barrio arriba,' the more recently developed part of Puente Geníl--new money, if you will. My house is situated in between the two neighborhoods. I'm renting the bottom half of a house owned and occupied by a fellow teacher at my school. Verna is a very nice man, accommodating and helpful, but words constantly speed through his lips, making him intimidating to talk to. He and I have aptly stumbled through conversations without any major obstacles. No contract was involved when I moved in; I may not have a rental agreement, per se, but I do have a handy little receipt of payment scribbled, unsigned, on a post-it note. Verna has come to my door bearing extra blankets and heaters, which are rendered unneccesary given the 80 degree weather, but the efforts are greatly appreciated.

None of the small tasks I've accomplished, such as acquisition of a bank account or phone calls made inquiring about potential apartments, would have been so easy without the help of Marú, my coordinator and generous hostess for the first week I was here. Her kids, Clara and Jesús, were there to collect me when I disembarked the train from Madrid. (Sidenote: I originally missed my stop, as I waited to verify for certain that I was in the right place. In the 65 seconds it took to gather my bags, the doors to the train closed and we were off again. You could imagine that this was a very chaotic time for me, emotionally. Fortunately, when I got to Málaga, assuming I would have to find shelter for the night, the train staff put me on the next train headed back to Puente Geníl, fo' free. Much appreciated.) Clara is a fellow teacher (of English) at Manuel Reina, and she was a wonderful sight to see after my debacle. Clara is beautiful, seriously stunning, both inside and out. I cannot describe how wonderful she has been since I've arrived--she translates for me, is patient with my Spanish, smiles and laughs at my less-than-humorous remarks, and understands the hindering nature of culture shock. What a blessing she has been.

Marú, Manuel, Clara and Jesús make up the most wonderful family I could have hoped to meet. Marú is the bilingual director at school and the sweetest woman on earth. Naturally maternal, such a comfort to be around. When I'm tired of talking, she lets my brain rest, in peace and quiet, while giving me tasks in the kitchen to assist with the next meal. She is also a fabulous cook. There was not one thing that came out of her kitchen that I did not eat. She has inspired me to cook well for myself, and gave me some necessary advice and counsel before I moved in to my place. I have found a lot of solace and therapy in my kitchen, all alone in my old, grand apartment.

Manuel (nickname Manolo) is an architect, and somewhat of a big wig around Puente Geníl. He knows everyone, or everyone knows him, as he has built a lot of the recent structures around town. He's very critical of Puente Geníl, and Spain on the whole, both involved and resentful of politics at local and national levels. He always makes jokes that I have trouble understanding, but his laugh is infectious, and Marú and Clara do their best to translate. He has great presence. (For those who know him, he reminds me of Norm Bensky. Such a good man.) I like to think that him and I created a bond initially because we both spill all over ourselves during meals. This surprises him every day, anew. Sometimes he'll apply a makeshift bib, trying to avoid the inevitable, but it proves useless time and time again. I love him. He has this bird, Crispín, who talks and whistles and imitates him perfectly. Crispín has an affinity for mimicking the phone ringing, followed by Manolo answering "Diga," as well as whistling old songs. I took a good look at this bird, curious about its alarmingly dead-on impression of Manolo, and I notice that the thing looks slow, almost ancient. Manolo says he's 46 years old! His father brought Crispín back from Africa when he was just a child. I was stunned. The thing is still kickin'. He even bobs his head up and down, dances around like a spring chicken.

Jesús is a student of architecture in Sevilla. I have yet to spend too much time with him, but he is a really nice guy and clearly really smart. He's 26, the baby of the family. He comes home on weekends here and there, as he has a car, and it's always nice to see him. Everyone has astounded me with their general goodness. They have really made me feel at home. I still go over to eat lunch with them, to share pastries with Manolo, and say hello to Crispín and their two gorgeous dogs, who don't care how clumsily I speak Spanish.

School is interesting--I only work twelve hours a week. I get paid 700 euros a month, about the equivalent of 1000 dollars. I'm working in a high school, which encompasses a wider range of ages, as I'm working with 12 to 15 year-olds, primarily. I rotate between math, social science, and music classes. The school is bilingual, meaning, ideally, 30% of all the curriculum is taught in English. Only one of the teachers who I've worked with speaks a fair amount of English, hence why I am here. I'm supposed to create English activities and lesson plans that supplement what the kids are already learning in Spanish. I've only delved into the material a little bit, but I think it will be fun. Brushing up on my math--thank God, I've got a handle on foundational stuff. Rather, thank Mr. Allen. I knew the hell that was seventh- and eighth-grade math would pay off someday.

In reference to the disaster I'm experiencing mentally, I am unsettled by my new life; it's full of free time, lots of it spent to myself, and I'm worried about the size of Puente, probably unjustly worried what it will offer in the next nine months. It's been almost five years since I've lived in a town this size, and I forgot all about the feeling of whispers, of gossip swirling around you. At this point in the game, I would really like to lean on Brendan, on my friends back home, and my family. Instead, I am forced to reach out to people I barely know, and find strength in myself. Homesickness is taking a toll. Clara has been introducing me to her friends, who I am getting to know and like. There are two other auxiliars, or language assistants, who are both American, and they have been great support. I may feel alone, but I am not. It's not an easy thing to accept. I just want to fast-forward to December, to that time when the ice has melted, when things feel familiar at last. I'm still looking for the short cut that will get me there.