Shaking the Dust

One year of teaching in Spain completed.

At last.

Sometimes I wonder if the best part about getting a job is the prospect of quitting it. While my time here has given me that "broadened experience" often tagged on past unpleasantries, I can't say that teaching English has added to my career path beyond the scope of elimination. One year of bipolar paychecks, inundation of the subterranean, and stupe-faced communication has left me ready to shake the dust off my feet and walk to the next town. And I'm 23 days off from doing just that.

The good news is that the hard part is over. Last week I sprinted from my last class to the airport to tour Holland with Sarah. We were in Amsterdam for the big Dutch disappointment, biked across dikes in Middelberg, rode to a cheese farm, and took a spin through the forest. I ate some variation of Apple Pie at least 5 times, and often just sat and stared at the green. Compared to the desert country of Spain(people say there is a river here, but few have actually seen it), the Netherlands is...well...opposite. Natural space, living space, English speakers, good desserts, good cheese, good beer, waterways, bicycles, good weather...etcetera. Needless to say, I had a great time.

I attended my last service at Iglesia Presbyteriana on Sunday, and now I've nothing left but to wait for my traveling buddies to arrive on Wednesday. Until then, I'm sweating myself to sleep and drinking in all the final neighborly squabbles that invariably invade my room day after day. All by myself.

With all of my friends gone to various places, I find myself all alone these last days in Madrid. If it weren't for the inefficiency of everything Spanish, I might be getting bored. Fortunately, due to everything taking double the allotted time proportions, I'm finding even the simplest tasks will completely exhaust my hourly resources.

That being said, I'd better go and begin one of my menial tasks before the detergent companies go on strike, the oven explodes, or the impending dilapidation of my building and/or present seat finally reaches its culmination.

Que pasa...

As you can tell, the last over-a-month period has been quite busy. In fact, I don't actually have time to write this.
Therefore.
Here are some dry-boned facts dreadfully wanting in relish.

At the moment I find myself between goodbye periods. Dear little Ginny left us almost a month ago, and her presence has been greatly missed. She finished up her contract (which I'm positive I've never even signed), handed me her remaining box of sugar cubes and lesson plans, and ran to the airport without looking back...which is how most of us intend to exit this dear country. For as delightful and exotic as life in Spain has been from time to time, I have reached the point where all I want to do is drive an over-sized, ozone-destructive S.U.V. down some McDonald's-lined 8 lane city-street to land in some seedy barbecue pit restaurant, where I can refill my coke a dozen times and pay my 5 dollar bill with a final "Y'all come back now!" trailing me out into the hot Southern air. And maybe even paste my gums with a big sticky slice of Apple Pie. Essentially, I want to eat myself back into America.

In a week and a half, Tim will also be leaving us...knocking down our friend group to a total of 3. Soon to be followed by Sarah, and eventually...finally...myself. And my eagerness grows daily. In fact, one morning, while Mallory was visiting, I woke up and decided that July 30th was too distant of a date, and moved my ticket to the 23rd. So, while that only means I'll be pestering Mallory in NYC with my company for even longer, I won't have the former prospect of spending a week and a half in Madrid by myself wondering why.

Before I leave, I have a trip to Holland to look forward to. I'll fly out immediately upon the end of the school term, to insure no possibilities of teaching beyond June 20th. And when I come back, Chuck, JP and Chris will be here for what looks like the beginnings of a great trip. I still need to do a lot of things, however, like attain my teaching certificate...apparently that is a mere formality here in Spain...and probably a great deal of things I've forgotten, that will surface the day before I leave.

But...que sera.

My Spanglish is phenomenal. I haven't said anything properly in either Spanish or English in over a month. I stepped on my earphones twice, and now must either read or risk losing a metallic speaker cover in my ear canal for the sake of a tune. The weather is cold and cloudy...still, and I might get to cook an octopus this weekend...?

Judging by my latest trend in blog entries, I don't know when I'll get back to my next update...but, until then...

Un saludo.

How to Get a Jorge to Eat a Pear

This weekend I had the, what I would ordinarily call "opportunity," but because the word bespeaks of promise, future and like words of good connotation, I now refer to as the "experience," to work at an English camp for young Spanish tykes. Rather than give a roll-call of the Guillermo's and Lucia's present, I present you with the work-in-progress...

"How to get a Jorge to Eat a Pear."

ACT 1
Jorge: I don't want this pear!
Spanish Counselor: You don't want the pear?! Why don't you want the pear? Pears are delicious! And these are especially good. They come from the organic farm in Uceda and they're so juicy and full of--
Jorge: I don't want this pear! I want yogurt!
Spanish Counselor: Dear, we don't have any yogurt. Look at all the other children, dear. They're eating their pears and look how happy they are. Take a bite, they're so--
Jorge: I don't want it! I don't want it! I don't want it!
Spanish Counselor: --full of flavor and vitamins. You have to stay healthy and if you don't eat it you'll get sick, and when you go outside with your wet hair you won't have the defenses to stay well and then you can't play soccer and you'll have to eat chicken broth...
Jorge: No!
(Exit Jorge to the pantry to steal chocolate)

ACT 2
Jorge: I don't want this pear!
American Counselor: I don't care. Eat it.
Jorge: But I don't like pears! I'm allergic to them, and I want yogurt!
American Counselor: That's fantastic. Now sit down and eat the pear.
Jorge: But I just want--
American Counselor: I don't give a @$#% what you want, I just know if you don't sit down and eat that pear you won't eat til you get home, and as it's only Friday and you're friends are too selfish to share, you'd better eat that pear.
(A blank stare from Jorge, who's understood nothing save the negatory expression on his counselor's face. He takes a few cowering bites until the counselor tells him to sweep the cafeteria)

I have a few holes to fill, but eventually the counselors all go home and so does Jorge, all with no tears shed and cold, bitter resentment engraved on their faces.

Semana Santa

It's almost April.

I suppose it's customary to now exclaim with a slap of my knee and eyes wide with surprise how "I can't believe it's almost April!"...but I find myself too tired to thus express myself at the moment, and in fact have felt the coming of the Spring shifting and trying to sit comfortably on my shoulders for some time now. While of course the coming of the flowers, warm temperatures and extra sunshine excites anticipation in all of us at this time of year, this new season invariably introduces the age-old question for us young people of "And now what?" With such a weighty interrogatory looming behind every buttercup nodding in the soft breeze, therefore, I approach this new season with a degree of hesitant expectation.

Perhaps you are curious to know the answer to such a demanding question? Likewise am I. Unfortunately at this time I have nothing satisfactory to proffer, save a few yet-to-be-pursued ideas most certainly lacking in Spanish pupils and grammar supplements.

I have had the opportunity to rest from the aforementioned duties for a bit, as this week is the Semana Santa, or Holy Week, in Spain. Cate, her friend Ellen, and I traveled down to Granada and Sevilla for the first 3 days of the week, which places are said to be the prime locations for the week's events. Every night beginning around 9, streets are lined with spectators munching on baked potatoes or the traditional "Torrijas," essentially a honey saturated French Toast, eagerly awaiting the various processions to pass through. While each procession represents a certain facet or stage of the Holy Week, to this foreign, American eye, the essence of these night long productions is lots of men in purple, red, or black KKK outfits holding candles or supporting massive silver-plated platforms, topped off with weeping Mary's and crucifixes. Followed by a Spanish brass marching band and resounding percussion, all combines for quite a spectacular production, varying in degrees of enjoyment, depending on one's taste for religious statues and hooded men.

The last two or three weeks have been marked by the delightful visits of Maria from Sweden and Dave and Hillary from my very own Memphis, Tennessee. It's been wonderful to have my various worlds collide and see family, along with passing nearly all of March so quickly that...do I dare say it?

I surrender. I can hardly believe it's almost April...

Slouching Towards March

Well, faithful readers, the month of February has almost passed in the same manner as many February's before. My friends and I had a typical American Valentine's Day party: high in glucose, entirely female, and painfully short on rose bouquets and coquetries. The temperature is beginning to rise, little by little, making me more willing to face the elements for nighttime entertainment and even take an occasional walk. This month has been a mostly uneventful one, though that has allowed me to get to know the people in my church a little more and even try out a Bible study Saturday nights. It's all in Spanish, so often the practice of analysis is trumped by mere attempt to comprehend, but at the very least it is good to be in the company of believers of my generation. They can be few and far between here in Spain.

Perhaps that is one thing that I have come to appreciate here in a way I didn't before, is the presence of the church. In Memphis and Clemson, it is fairly easy to work in retail, barbecue with the neighbors and go out at night without leaving the comfort of Christian company. While these easily-accessed relationships may tend to the extreme of indeed never engaging the outside world, there is great encouragement to be found in such constant companionship, which constancy is more of a scarcity in Madrid. The benefit of the day-to-day immersion in this everyday world where God is an estranged and hardly thought of entity, nonetheless, is that the moments of fellowship and worship become increasingly sweet. Thus I find myself looking forward, not only to sleeping in late and going out on the weekend, but the prospect of sitting among the small but genuine assembly of Iglesia Cristiana Presbyteriana Reformada. I'm not sure if that's the exact order of it for, as you can see, they certainly haven't fallen behind in denomination title specifications.

Looking ahead, however, I have great reason for excitement with the prospect of two visits. Next week my friend Maria, a Swedish lass I met in South Africa and consequently haven't seen since, will be visiting Madrid. Then the following weekend, Brother Dave and Sister-in-Law Hillary cross the big pond to visit for a week as well. With Semana Santa, or Holy Week, soon following, I expect to have a smashing 3 weeks to make up for the slow and steady plod of the last two months.

Until then...back to the grindstone.

Mucho Muco

I must confess that I have been waiting for something particularly interesting about which to write this new blog, but have arrived to the conclusion that it may be some time before such an occasion presents itself. The reason I've deduced this is the continual, pesty and residual presence of the Madrileno cold. I suppose that in our general latitude, this is the usual season to expect a few sniffley noses, soar throats and slight temperatures. In Madrid, however, it is quite common for the cold to last an entire month, with the end of the recovery period officially finalized upon the contraction of the next months flavor of strain. Journalists say that this year's symptom's have been particularly vicious, as the runny noses and losses of voice have been accompanied by upset stomaches and indigestion. So while we do our best to drink lots of tea and oranges, most of us are home blowing our noses and keeping close proximity to the bathroom for the months of January and February.

Other than various students mocking by nasal-clogged speech, classes are going smoothly. I dyed my hair a dark brown and, according to my blunt students, "look very pale." The sanitation strike did eventually end, with the conclusion of Christmas holidays. It's just a guess, but I imagine this particular strike is realized annually between the 20th of December and the 6th of January. Overall, therefore, for those who may consider traveling to Spain, perhaps January is not the wisest choice.

Until better days...

A Trashy New Year

One nearly missed overseas flight and 2 lost luggage cases later, I finally find myself back in cold and windy Madrid. I arrived New Year's Day and resumed my seat upon the Metro, only to find this seat to be surprisingly filthy. After a quick waltz to my next stop it didn't take long to guess that, indeed, the sanitation union has gone on strike. While the writer's strike has robbed us all of quality entertainment, the sanitation strike has left a putrid odor hovering over the transportation system along with all of the banana peels, moldy newspapers and rusty cans that caused it.

Despite this new addition, I did enjoy the New Years and manage to stay awake throughout the festivities. Accompanied by Ginny, her mother, and her friend, I squeezed through a crowd of sparkled wigs and hats toward the American rock bursting out of the city center, Plaza del Sol. Keeping a safe distance from the mob center and after coercing a police officer to open our Champagne, we waited in the chill for the clock to strike 12. At this hour, it is customary to eat 1 grape for every chime, a seemingly easy feat that actually requires a degree of dexterity, resulting in many participants extended chug rather than deliberate ingestion of the fruit. After the golden globe dropped, I mushed myself into the metro and began 2008 with a long snooze.

Until I begin teaching again, I suppose I will continue hiding under the warmth of my covers and reading my new selection of stories. Spending time in Memphis was a fantastic break and it was wonderful seeing many of you again, though unfortunately it has rendered me disinclined to labor, howsoever rested I may be.

Enjoy the holidays, those who have any left, and Feliz Ano de Madrid!

Addendum: Melinda Hoehn visited the house of Biz an unrecorded period of time in October and was never given due credit, to her disappointment. Therefore, Mrs. Hoehn, receive your recognition.