Desde el Rincon de Navidad

Plazas draped in netted domes of colored lights.
Markets full of vendors selling nativity scenes and whoopie cushions in mass.
Roasted Chestnuts, Sweet Potatoes and Corn on every corner.

At last, Christmas has hit Madrid.

My own Piso 2 Puerta 6 even has a little decoration. Our Christmas corner is fully decked with a Poinsettia, table cloth, flashy tensile, and a crumbling remaining slice of Panettonne (which our fellow Italian has deemed "fake"). There is even an ambiance of candlelight, as only one surviving light remains in our overhead candelabras--- and when the computer is turned on, you can almost see.

I am, however, quite excited to come home. After a bout of the Madridian "gripe," which robbed me of my ability to correct pronunciation and bound me to the couch with the final Harry Potter book, I am ready for a rest. I am slightly concerned that the airport dogs will be sicked upon me for various illegalities, and I'm not sure I can request prayers for such deserved anxieties, so hopefully I will slide under the radar. I fly out the 13th, so any last requests should be submitted immediately.
Note: No room remains for nude beaches, Spanish women or tapas bars.

I realized today that I have been here for over 4 months, and overall it has been a pleasant experience. Much of the romance of living in Europe gets lost in the everyday humdrum of laborsome toil. However, it has certainly been challenging to teach at all levels and learn a new language. While I often feel a bit incompetent, I am learning a good deal, and at times I even enjoy the work.

As classes slow down due to holiday impatience in both students and teacher, and as the metros swell with people and packages, I will now bid adieu to this blog for 2007. Thank you all for your interest and comments, and I look forward to greeting many of you soon in English, barbecue-roasted, Wal-Mart bombarded and peanut-butter filled...Memphis.

Feliz Navidad y Ano Nuevo!

This Old House

At the moment I am sitting in the den with partially frozen fingers and toes, listening to the sound of my laundry, as it drips large, steady drops of water into a plastic blue bucket in the bathroom. While I have commented previously upon such details as the cozy size of my apartment and various, exotic night critters, the coming of the winter season compels me into yet another season of reflection upon my itty-bitty living space.

Thus far the winter has been relatively mild, however this weekend the weather took a turn into the frigidly cold. In Madrid, the most bitter aspect of winter is always the wind, which quickly turns a delightfully chilly day into a test of endurance. In building 9, therefore, we have made use of our portable Callifaction Unit. This little box on wheels provides surprisingly substantial warmth for the den in our apartment, with a few provisions.

1. Use of Callifaction Unit must never coincide with the consumption of toast or instant macaroni and cheese, or instant power failure will ensue. For like reasons, one must also never...never wash one's clothes in warmth. One may either have clean clothes or warm toes, but never the two.

2. It is recommended that when said unit is in use, that one close all doors, especially that connecting the kitchen to the den. Not only does it defend against the temptation to prepare the delicious, yet forbidden, snack of jam and toast, but it also guards against the conveniently placed window vent. For yet to be determined reasons, the already unsealed kitchen window has been deprived of a large square of glass and replaced with a fresh, cool vent allowing Jack Frost and all his friends to come and go as they please at any time of day. Therefore to help out natural laws of nature, do please close the kitchen door upon awaking the warming unit.

The only other mechanical oddity of which I know is responsible for drippy clothes in the bathroom this very moment. This washing machine, which has been deemed "The Never-Ending Story" by Ruben, is so called due to its rigorous washing process. While some loads take a typical 40 minutes, it has been known to wash a dirty batch of garments for up to 3 hours. On cold days it is not particularly inclined to spin water from soaking garments, and on randomly selected days it prefers to leave the soap and water inside as well.

But I suppose these are trifling concerns, as I have just taken up more classes which allow for little time at home. The new classes are business classes, and I now spend up to 7 hours in transit. While the heating may be accompanied by a smelly, drunk stranger, the Metro provides reliable warming service from 6 a.m. until 1:30 a.m., every day of the week.

Tres Mes

Well, it's getting cold in Madrid and even colder in the apartment. But no worries, we have heating. A 12 by 30 inch device that sometimes works and almost heats one room. I'm really looking forward to January.

This month marks the first full month of teaching and the arrival of the first paycheck. I will travel to 3 different companies, which will all hand over a little wad of crisp cash to be placed in some sort of bed cushion or underwear drawer bank. No stubs. No receipts. No tax? Yet to figure out that one.

Indeed much of the novelty has worn off. The cute little 6 year olds are now mentally slow but hyperactive nuisances by whom I must earn a buck, so confirming the suspicion that I might not want to teach children. I still like the adults, though I'm not sure I teach them anything, but they seem to have a good time.

This week is Halloween. While American kids ask for candy, Spanish children go to doors and ask for money. Smart little whips. One of my students said she usually makes 30 Euros in one night. So Halloween officially provides more hourly income than the teaching English profession. In America it’s the trash-men who outstrip the educator in salary, so…do what you want with that.

But this month has been filled with Memphian visitors. The lovely Mr. and Mrs. Butler made an appearance and showed Spain what it means to have a good time. Also Melinda from work came with tidings from the world of law. So it has been a busy and American doused month, which has been exactly what I needed coming on month three of life in Spain.

Un Paraiso

This week starts the beginning of a full schedule of English classes. I start off the day teaching 40 some-odd year old businessmen how to string together information they studied 2 decades ago. Then I segue into the pre-school class and repeat nursery rhymes and Disney episodes until I can't take it anymore... and once I've reached that point, I have to finish the remaining hour and 20 minutes of class, at which point I am safe to go home. I have a few conversational classes sprinkled in between on odd days, for a grand total of 15.5 hours of teaching a week. And surprisingly this is enough to pay rent and a couple of kit-kats, so I am finally able to let out a sigh of relief...unless I get the flu which affects 70% of people in Madrid and I can't work for a month with no compensation...

At this time it would be appropriate to put out an advertisement for English in Madrid to any native speaking males, for a couple of reasons. I'll begin with a fellow teacher's testimony, who, after showing up to "teach the most beautiful woman [he'd] ever seen," voluntarily extended free lessons an hour and a half after class dismissed; with eyes glazed, he said, "I can't believe I'm getting paid for this." So the clientèle is...diverse. The second reason being that it is an ideal setup for the "non-communicative male." While barely communicating with others in the native language and communicating even less with those whom you teach, it is possible to pass several days without saying much more than commentary on the weather, state of hunger and the occasional pangs of laughter during a daily viewing of the television. Combined with the topless beaches..."Un Paraiso."

However, I must begin my early schedule of teaching in the morning (which is comparable to teaching at 6 in the morning in the States)...so, until next time.

Takin' It To The Streets

It's a long time coming, but come Monday, I will be an officially certified English as a Foreign Language Professor. Which signifies the initiation of several things...

With an EFL certificate begins a new found poverty. At the moment I am raking in figures in the double digits, almost paying off a half portion of my room, but conservatively limiting me to a 2 inch parameter around my bed. From which comes the theme for October, Takin it to the streets. But this prospect does not concern me as much today, due to the discovery that a local bar serves the famous Doner Kebaps all day, drinks and tapas in the evening, and breakfast the following morning. If one doesn't sleep, the absence of a bed is...trivial.

An EFL certificate also ensures the unavoidable acquisition of English as a Sense of Humor. Whether we're in class or at a city-wide fiesta, we English teachers inevitably find ourselves congratulating one another on excellent usage of present Perfect tense or challenging one another's usage of Future Continuous. To extend this unfortunate hobby into the realm of the hilarious can only mean one thing...EFL certification. I attribute it to delirium resulting from being overly infused with English grammar...but then again, I'm quite proud of that gerund which I just formulated.

Aside from the certificate, I have begun to glean some teaching experience. So far I can summarize my attempts as artful practices of aversion. While I thought that teaching my native tongue would be the easiest thing to start off with, I am finding in fact that Mama was right...those who can do can't teach. But, I will not be intimidated by my surprising lack of grammar knowledge and explanatory skills...instead I have discovered the universally useful line of "We'll look at that in the next class."

As this next week begins, I will make an effort not to take it to the streets, since I happen to like my living situation, and look for yet more employment.

All of this and I have forgotten that I still have yet to take my test for certification...but nothing...a mere formality.

La Tomatina and the Grand Tour

Much has happened since I last wrote, so I won't bother to use flowery language for this entry.

La Tomatina was more and less than I expected. Thousands of people, crammed like slimy worms in a bottle of diced tomatoes into a tiny alley in an obscure town in Spain. Perfecto. The tomatoes, sangria, flying flip-flops and body fumes circulating from one sweaty body to the next was, of course, quite exciting. The most memorable part was the resulting fear from the trucks driving down the street, when I wondered if I would perish by truck wheel or being crushed by a neighboring tomato festival participant. But my new found friend Ginny, all the way from "just north of Birmingham," and I survived to tell the story.

This past weekend a friend from Holland came to visit, and I finally conquered all of Madrid. Tapas, Flamenco, Spanish art, calamare bocadillos...we saw and ate it all. The good news is that I will now make an excellent tour guide. The bad news is that eventually I may find these things all a bit boring.

This week I taught my first practice class in English, and it went well, I think. I will have a video tape soon and can see how bad it actually was. Classes are interesting, and its nice to meet 25 new people and to be learning how to teach finally. This week my roomates also returned, so I am not living by myself any more. They are good people and are very patient with my horrible espanol.

That's all for now.

Luego.

Abuelas

And now we come to the part of the story where Biz confesses her stupidity. Once upon a time, Biz created a blog entitled "Viejas," a simple title with a Spanish flare intended to reveal the content of its entries pertaining to "Travels." As her roomate has informed her, however, a slight jmulbnig of letters has resulted in a blog which translates to "Old Women."

However, not to be set back, I have discovered that the title is in fact quite suitable for encompassing my life here, for my teacher has informed me that I am, by Spanish standards, a Grandmother. While a history of knitting and Jane Austen novels may prove I'm a grandmother by all standards, I thought the accusation a bit unjust. I stay awake until 2 and wake up at 9, I go out a few times a week, and I have only been to one Museum thus far. However, as I began to look around, I noticed that all the old people were out until 2 as well, along with small children, and when I wake up at 9, I'm the only non-cane assisted pedestrian headed to the grocery store.

The final blow, however, is the hour and condition in which I tried my first Porras. Porras, like Churros, are slightly sweet fried pastries which one dips in the most dark, thick and tantalizing cup of chocolate in which I've ever indulged. For most Spaniards, it is the only way to wrap up a long night of Sangria, at approximately 6 a.m., and certainly not before. Porras are not a dessert, dear friends, but the beginning of a long road to recovery; one's condition determines the amount of Purras, Churros and cups of chocolate prescribed. By deductive reasoning you may conclude that, with the other old fogeys, I gobbled my goodies before the clock struck 12 and am at this moment still having visions of Purras dancing in my head.

Next week my antique habits will only increase, for Cate and I start class for Teacher training alongside finishing up our Spanish course. We'll be in class from 9:30 in the morning until 8 at night, but may be adventuresome and hop on a bus to La Tomatina for a smathering of rotten tomatoes from local Valencianos.

Until next time, adios Viejos and Viejas, and a big kiss from Grandma.

Tidbits

The past week has passed quite tranquilly. Cate found an apartment and moved in Friday, and though she comes over often, I have had too much quality time already with Spanish game shows and soap operas. But for the next few weeks while my roommates vacation, I suppose this will be the norm. I have been able to read a good amount, and I recently purchased a Spanish translation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. After reading the first chapter 4 times, I think I finally advanced to a Third grade reading level...

Having the apartment to myself has allowed me the pleasure of observing the workings of this little habitation. The apartment complex is an old building with rooms wrapping around a small public patio/open space for drying clothes, and which has great and/or terrible acoustic qualities, depending on your perception. The morning typically begins with my neighbor blasting his Latino ballads through the central patio area in the building. But one can only have a certain degree of annoyance, because he truly loves his music. I know he loves it, because he cannot bear to keep it to himself, and generously shares it with us until his lids finally droop around 4 the next morning. Not to be outdone, however, another generous neighbor locks his child in this central patio, with the latino music, during meals, naptime, and in general periods of unhappiness. I have not yet decided which background music is more...enjoyable.

I have also begun to do a little cooking at home. While cooking can often be a cathartic activity at the end of the day, I must confess that at the moment it fills me with fear. While a gas stove is a bit of an adjustment, a gas oven is terrifying. The simple task of heating a frozen pizza involves skimming a lighter over the bottom surface of the oven, waiting for that fatal moment when a cloud of blue flame consumes the lower portion of your arm. I tricked Cate into lighting it for me tonight, but I do not think she will volunteer for the next lighting of the torch.

This past Sunday Cate and I found a wonderful little church in Southern Madrid. We walked in a little late to what was supposed to be an English speaking church, but was entirely in Spanish. After the service, we were greeted by every member and treated to homemade empanadas. Two really sweet teenage girls talked to us for an hour, and overall, we were blown away by the immediate friendliness of this body of people.

Other than the centipedes which haunt the kitchen sink and the overabundance of meat pastes in this country, this week passes without much astir.

Besos

Kisses to all of you who have been praying for housing for me, because Friday I was finally able to move into a room of my own. If my room at college was a shoebox, then the room I inhabit now is more of a cigarette case. Besides an itty-bitty living space, there is a nice den with a tv and pull out couch, for anyone who wants to visit ;), kitchen and bathroom. I share the apartment with a Columbian ex-pat named Alejandra and an Italian-Spanish fellow whose name I know not and whom I have not yet met. Alejandra is very helpful, speaks English, and has taken Cate and I under her wing. Cate is still looking for an apartment and it is quite a grueling process. Our little Spanish skills make it difficult even to ask questions or understand answers, and we walk miles and miles in the wrong directions for lack of direction sense and just about any other type of sense. And then at the end of the day, we are just goldilocks with apartments that are too small, too large, and waiting for one that is juuuust right. But Alejandra is allowing Cate to stay in an empty room for a month or so while we look for something suitable, so that is a nice relief from hostal fees.

But let me not digress from the title of this blog, which is besos. I'm sure my family knows how much I dote on the American habit of hugging. Since a child, my hugs involve arms rigidly at my side, eyes glaring into the distance, and bottom lip spilling over in contempt. While Spain provides a relief from this tradition, it introduces the newer and even more invasive greeting of besos. I had avoided the salutation for the most part, until Cate and I had our second day of Spanish class. After an outing in the mountains with our teacher, our session ended with the farewell of kiss on the right cheek, kiss on the left. I have had Europeans explain this custom as completely friendly, and I'm sure in time that I will get used to it. But, thus far, I do observe that men are not quite as methodical with one another as they are with women in this sticky hello.

I must say that it was quite a warm greeting this morning, however, when Cate and I attended our first Spanish church. The church was a Presbyterian church of about 12 or 13 people, and we had to use our rudimentary skils, once again, to try and get to know a nice taxi driver who was very patient and nice to us. Leaving early because of a prior appointment came as a relief, however, due to many factors. I believe most of you understand the difficulty of evading the sunday morning sand man, but i believe this difficulty is intensified when one cannot understand the sermon at all. Added to a hot and sticky room and waking up 3 hours prior to a regular schedule, I barely escaped collapsing in my chair 10 feet from the pastor.

Touring through the local supermarkets has provided some diversion: beer in a plastic 2 litre bottle, meat pastes and unrefrigerated boxed milk are only a few of the interesting items. The rumor about a shocking absence of peanut butter is true, along with any items for cooking Mexican. But if I miss these items, the Fruteria located just next to my apartment has provided a welcome surprise of the most deliciously juicy peaches. I do not intend to make all you Southerners jealous, who might not have even tasted this delectable fruit all summer...but...well...yes I do :)

Please pray for an apartment for Cate that is cheap and comfortable, and that our Spanish would continue to improve, and, most importantly, that the besos stay on the cheek ;).

Gracias (Gro-the-as, as the Castillians say)

Tapas- No Mas, Por Favor

No more tapas for me. Not knowing the language has continued to be problematic at the dinner hour. Cate and I, being the well organized and wise individuals that we are, decided to go to Toledo for a couple of days because the hostals were cheaper and and had a few extra days off. In a poorly planned strategy to avoid the tedious process of apartment searching, we chose a hostel-inferno on the third floor in Toledo during the hottest part of the summer. Sleeping was impossible. Perhaps it would have been better if we could have found some tasty items to consume. But, being bold, I declared I would be adventurous and point and shoot at the menu. A fun way to experience culture? Only if you aren´t hungry. My dish was squishy, garlicky and of a badly pungent flavor. Cate´s meat had a decent lettuce leaf, but we aren´t sure the swine was ever cooked. I was convinced that I had ordered a lamb utter or something similar, but fortunately, I found out today, it was only mollejas-pig brain. I just hope it doesn´t affect my own. Unfortunately we did not see many of the religious sights associated with Toledo, but it is a short trip away, so we plan to return when it is cooler and we can bear to walk around.

As for now, I am enrolled in Spanish class and enjoying it very much. Friday we have class in the mountains at a cafe- quite a treat. I plan to sign a housing contract tomorrow or the next day, and right now am enjoying my last days of watching Spanish dubbed soap operas on the television at the hostal.

I enjoy all of your commentaries; I´m always happy to provide a new forum for my siblings to verbally destroy one another with their witty derisions...also glad to see that Joel´s Spanish has already far exceeded my own...in a manner of speaking...

Besos de Madrid!

¿Ingles Por Favor?

Well we are finally here, in the lovely city of Madrid.

The flight over was the best flight I´ve had yet. From Miami to Madrid, the plane was underbooked and, consequently, I had to occupy two seats all by myself...that, or I accidentally bought a large man´s airfare...either way, I was comfortable but still could not sleep due to poor timing of a coffee break and, no doubt, anticipation.

Located in a quiet University district, our hostel is clean and offers free breakfast. The first night we went out to eat and pointed at random items on the menu for lack of understanding Spanish names for food. Cate ended up with soup; I, however, was served a spicy pot of chicken niblets that seemed naked without a tortilla and lettuce. Afterward, we went out with some French fellows, Spanish chicas and a South African. I tried the Sangria (red wine mixed with fruit juice) and may have found a new favorite drink. After trying to communicate with the Spanish ladies, however, Cate and I have decided to sign up for a Spanish course of some sort, so we don´t have to rely on our teaching skills to produce English speaking friends.

Orientation was today and boring, but free breakfast, and now we are beginning the great housing search. Right now we have found an apartment for 290 with furnishing and kitchen, but some sort of bunk bed I think, so we are still looking elsewhere.

Thanks to all who have been praying for the trip and all its details. I´m grateful that this trip has been smooth and an less jarring than South Africa, and God has certainly provided for the things I have been anxious about.

Other than that, I´m really excited to be here and can´t wait to get started!

Hello all,

In a few days I will be leaving behind Memphis and the world of cubicles and invoices for Madrid, a city of late nights and long siestas, with a little work smathered in between.

The first few weeks will likely be full of confusion and excitement. My friend Cate (coming from Greenville, South Carolina, another English Major at Clemson, and one of 5 sisters in the Raff family) will arrive a few hours after me, and thereby join me in the pursuit of housing and work, or, if need be, purchase of a guitar and a tin cup so that we may accomplish both at the nearest subway station.

I hope you enjoy reading about a little life in Spain, and will keep me in your prayers as I enter this new phase.