Your Guess is Better than Mine

It's been a long time since I've sat down and written something that wasn't a list. Well, I did write what could be called a long-winded love letter to my best friend who left for the Peace Corps in Mali, but other than that: lists. Occasionally, my lists can be thorough enough to encapsulate small brainstorms that I've whipped up, such as "Write about work?," or how about "A blog post about bilingual education?," or "Blog post written in Spanish for friends in Puente Geníl?" Always with a question mark. Always. Just reminding me, in case I'd forgotten while racking my brain for things to write about, of my crippling self-doubt.

But here I am. I have a blog, and although it had a very specific, all-too-common purpose (She's teaching English! Abroad! Alone! in Spain!) I'm deciding the platform works for me, if only for the ease of being able to dive in and bang out something to externalize my thoughts. The title hasn't changed, but my circumstances have. I don't know what direction to take my work, or what career path I will fit into; and in the same vein, I don't know what I want this blog to be. But, I have been told that the only way to 'find a path' is to keep working, keep making, keep doing whatever makes you feel like a living, breathing non-waste-of-space-piece-of-shit. So this is me, trying not to be attached to the likely shitty outcome. Yeah, I'll admit, these paragraphs are dismal. But they're not artificial. These are my feelings here, people.

Until next time (and hopefully with a more focused approach),

Morrigan

Out like a Lamb

February was a whirlwind of a month. So was March, seeing it is about to come to a close. After a trip to the States (by which I mean one in particular, Oregon) coming back to Puente Geníl was, again, an adjustment. Two weeks sans speaking Spanish threw a wrench into my bilingual brain. Fortunately, I have now regained my ability to communicate without committing some wacky grammatical error. Last week one of my co-workers, in passing, asked me how the trip was, and if all was well with my family. Instead of saying my parents were very good, I said they were very sexually attractive. We immediately parted ways. I patted myself on the back in consolation.

Additionally, after being welcomed home so warmly in Portland, returning to my "home" of a mere six months left me feeling jilted. Luckily, I got my girl here Fina to look after me and fix me up with a couple glasses of vino when the going gets tough. The weather is nothing short of fantastic, so we can make good on the barbecue we've been planning since January. We have the terrace to ourselves, a prime spot for grilling and getting some sun.

The teachers I work with may be the warmest people I know. I was happy to be back in the staff room, drinking cafe con leches and talking about some such student's heinous behavior, or Clint Eastwood, or plans for summer vacations. I have felt so much support from them after my two week hiatus, from which I jumped right into giving exams.

Giving oral exams to Spanish kids on topics other than their personal habits, and daily routines has proven to be difficult. Somehow, any topic I introduce, be it global warming or Jazz music, is brought back to what time they brushed their teeth this morning and at what time they'll be taking a shower later.

It's frustrating because, for many of these kids, the material we use in the bilingual program is over their heads in terms of content. In Social Studies class, we'll read from the text together, then dissect each sentence down to the last suffix and the most obvious of cognates. It's as if our languages don't share an alphabet. The content of our history book would be appropriate for 14-year-old English speakers, but not for ESL students of the same age. It would be a godsend if the book we used was geared for use in a bilingual classroom.

In other news, I cannot get the 16-year-olds (seniors in high school, if you will) to stop saying 'fuck' in class. "But haven't you heard that song, 'Fuck You?'" This is what they ask me after I've scolded them for the eighth time. Semana Santa (Easter week) is around the corner, which has filled these kids with a national pride so fierce, that they burst out in song and dance (well, clapping) at any given moment. Why? Because they're all Catholic and they all like to get WILD at Easter. It's like we're permanently on the brink of a botellón (for those who don't know, a botellón is a social activity among Spain’s youth, who gather in public areas to consume alcohol as an alternative to going to a bar). I feel like I'm being punished for my years of taunting Mr. Nielsen, the notoriously floundering substitute teacher at my high school. If you're reading, though I'm sure you're not, I'm so sorry, Mr. Nielsen. I'd like to give a shout out to the humbling efforts of teachers who manage not to blush or stumble at the mercy of trouble-making, cat-calling, grey-hair-doling teenagers.

Andalucía is well on its way into Spring. For that I am joyous. But. My grandmother passed away on Tuesday and I wish more than anything that I could be with my family this week. I had hoped that I wouldn't be so far away when this time came. Así es la vida. I am honoring her memory here in Spain, although in my mind I'm in California holding my mother close. To my wonderful grandmother, who I will always remember as the most vivacious woman in the room.

Fake It til You Make It

It is nearing the end of January, but this post starts a month back, at the end of December. December 24th, Brendan, at long last, made it to Spain. Safe and sound and I don't know if I've ever been so thrilled in my life. We had a great time traveling to Lyon and back to Puente Geníl, despite small disasters that we encountered on our path. I took the train to Madrid, met him at the airport on Christmas eve, and we spent the whole of Christmas Day perusing the city which was bright, cold, and generally dead. We strolled around, had coffee and pastries at the open market, later had lunch, and then entered into Parque del Retiro, where I would shortly sit down, set my purse at my back, and never see it again. Merry Christmas and mad props to the sly ass dude who managed to get a camera, an iPhone, and more than 200 euros in cash, all in one fell swoop. The situation left me royally devastated, but, what can you do? Cry, chalk up your losses, and thank God that you are still in possession of your passport.

Flash forward to the flight to Lyon, Brendan and I booking it to the tram (which will take us into the city; think the MAX), scrambling out of the baggage area with our carry-ons like trophies, while everyone else swarms the carousel. We are the first to purchase our tram tickets, and when we see a train pull up on the tracks, we run full-speed to hop on. The epitome of proud, efficient Americans. Our lack of French had yet to hinder us, and we are far ahead of our compatriots from the flight, so we're feeling good. Really good. That is, until the ticket collector on the train asks for our tickets, takes a glance and says, "No, no, these are not tickets..." Ten minutes panting on the tram before we learned that it was not the tram, but, in fact, a high-speed expressway train headed straight to Paris. If I could, I would post a picture of what Brendan's face looked like at that moment, only to give you a visual demonstration of our mutual feeling of defeat. Luckily, this situation was easily remedied by the generous ticket collector, who found us seats, didn't charge us for train-fare, and walked us to rail that would take us back to Lyon. He was nothing short of a guardian angel. And a good reminder to always pay it forward.

Lyon was fantastic from there on out. It was so good to see Nich and spend five days hanging out, grabbing tuna and egg sandwiches on baguettes, walking around the city, drinking and playing in the cold weather. Nich is teaching English at a school in Lyon, essentially in the twin program of the one I'm doing in Spain. He took us to the enormous park that doubles as a zoo, where we watched the elephants dance, and the flamingos perch. I ate French food like it was going out of style (which it is definitely not). We had a late night fire where we overlooked the city lights and drank wine alongside Nich playing the accordion... I wish I could go back.

I brought Brendan back to Puente Geníl on New Year's and we had a week to spend before he was due back to Portland, back to real life. I was so sad to see him go, I thought I truly couldn't stay here for the next five months, in this temporary job, with new friends who I'd only known for three months, in this small pond of a town... I was pining to go home. After he left, it took me a week to pick up my sad bones, and make a game-changing decision to embrace where I'm at, while I'm here.

Since the new semester has started, I've been great. I now have a new class on the side that is an English exam prep course for high school students, and it's been invigorating. I choose our activities and and timetables, actually grade papers, and get to engage with the students on a more personal level. They are well prepared and at a higher level than my other students, they understand English, and are there because they want to be improve. And, on their off days, they are grab-assing, cocky high school seniors who are too cool to care, and the only way to make them pay attention is to humiliate them in front of their friends. This is all fine, because I am spending more time prepping for class and scheming how to get their attention, instead of thinking about home in my off time. I've keeping busy, and I'm grateful for it.

The rest of my month has been spent switching up my exercise, between the public pool, running, and illegal downloads of different workout tapes. My mom sent me a Christmas box, which has enabled me to take on American baking projects that involve brown sugar and vanilla extract, neither of which I could find before. I've spent quite a bit of time with Fina, who I might classify as my best friend/mother figure in Spain. Her boyfriend Juan has spent a couple weekends here and we've spent lots of time on the couch, watching scary American movies in Spanish, eating each others' kitchen experiments, and laughing through the obstacles of the language barrier. Fina and Juan both like to travel, so they are learning English in order to communicate on a more international level. They're going to Moscow in August, where they're going to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway to Peking. I have plans to rope them in to coming to the States, but they're playing pretty hard to get right now. Fina's got this notion that the US is the focal point of all that's wrong with the world and capitalism and blah blah... I try not to pay attention when she gets like this. I don't know where she gets these crazy, leftist ideas... she might as well wear a sign around her neck that says, I Will Love Portland, Oregon, and I Don't Even Know It.

I spent a couple of beautiful days on the beach in Cádiz, with friends from my flight disaster to Palma de Mallorca. This was in January, the Monday of the whole year. And I spent a weekend on the beach. Shoot me. Sophie, who lives in Cádiz, and I are taking a trip to Zaragoza and Bilbao in a couple of weeks. I'm so excited to go to Basque Country, I cannot wait.

As for other plans... I am trying to hop on board a ski trip that the school has planned for the end of March. We'll go to the Sierra Nevadas for four or five days and hit the slopes, professors and students alike. Sounds like a shit show, but I really hope I can go. Other than that, I am making a trip back to the States for two weeks! Call me crazy, I just can't go too much longer without a dose of the homeland. Portland, a weekend in Seattle... Hope to see you all there.

Farewell, January!

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.