This past week and a half started off with good luck and continued rolling. Late for my first day of classes in my new (and way improved) Spanish school, I fidgeted with my pen at the bus stop. A lady pulled up.
"¿Anyone going to Moncloa?" she asked in Spanish. I was. So was another guy. She needed to pick up at least one person to be able to use the carpool lane. I got a free quick ride, arrived early to Sol (where my school is), ate a nice second breakfast, came to class a few minutes early, and got the best seat in the class (second row, far left).
Later on that week, I went to Alberto´s mom Eloisa´s house. For the first time, I really followed the conversation through and through. Before, I had made sure to have a prominent role in any conversation so that, if I needed someone to define or repeat words, I wouldn´t be interrupting. This time, I sat back and listened, to see if I could. The conversation centered around the question of whether women´s equality, while just, had made family interactions more complicated. I caught the drift, I caught the nuances, and I caught the details, almost as if I were listening to a dinner conversation back in Santa Monica.
Lately, I´ve been going out a lot more frequently to the Madrid bars during weekdays, but last weekend, after months of clubbing and bar-hopping, I had my first stay-at-home movie night. My Venezuelan friends live in Spain, and I came over to their house with a few others to play basketball and watch Jarhead. (Speaking of which...kind of a mediocre movie.)
It was a journey to get there, though. Their house is even more in the suburbs than my host family´s. I overshot, and ended up hitchhiking a ride with José, a shy Spanish guy who wore braces and, as if inspired by the improvements made to his own mouth by the orthodontic correction, was studying to be an orthodontist!
The Monday after the weekend, I had an interview for a teaching job at an English school called Tutordidact. Victoria, the friend who had recommended I apply for a job at Tutordidact, was coincidentally at the school before my interview.
"Nervous?" she asked.
"Cold as ice," I said.
Yeah right. But I got the job! The school provides the clients and the resources -- the books, photo-copiers, and folders -- but from there basically gives teachers full independence. It´s what I need right now: the full reign and responsibility that will make me get good at teaching quickly backed up by resources and experienced teachers with good advice. My first permanent client is the director of a company that owns multiple golf courses. (And if that weren´t intimidating enough...he´s a beginner, in my opinion the hardest type of student to teach.) And I´m substitute teaching Victoria´s classes (she´s in Canada for Christmas) -- two groups at a renewable energy company.
This weekend, Victoria, Steffen, Erika, Victor, Cesar, and I went to Ávila. We had been to Segovia about a month before, and Segovia had been beautiful and incredible, with an intact Roman aqueduct, a castle that looked straight out of Disneyland, and a gorgeous Cathedral. We expected Ávila to be similar, and it was nice, but basically all it has is a very old city wall.
Through all this, I´m still giving lessons to Oscar, the coolest Madrileño I´ve ever met. At this point, we split our time between paid classes, conducted mostly in English, and chilling, conducted mostly in Spanish. At first, this arrangement was a little awkward. Friendship and business don´t naturally mix. But I now just stop counting hours when the lessons seem to have ended and the chilling sessions seem to have begun. And the truth is, I´ve probably learned as much Spanish culture and slang from him as he´s learned English from me.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Borders
This post would not be complete if I didn´t say something about my new life long love, so I´ll start with her. She´s got curves, and she´s beautiful. I ride her nearly daily, sometimes nightly, and always ever so rightly. (She´s usually on bottom). She likes to go fast, which is good, because I do too.
I bought her second-hand at Dak-Tak, perhaps the only skateboard shop in Madrid. The best €70 I ever spent - riding that board through the streets of Madrid fulfills fantasies.
Britney, a good friend here, left for Canada. It was a sad night, though we made it a good one (we being Britney, her Swedish friend named Daniel, and me). We went to my favorite bar, a cidrería called "El Tigre" in Chueca, the gay neighborhood, where giant tapas (free food that comes when you buy drinks) nicely set off good cider and dead moose on the walls. From there, we went to another gay bar, and after that a jamming jazz club.
The fun night was interrupted by a reality check. While in the second bar of the night, I decided to get a breath of fresh air outside. On the plaza, shady-looking group asked me if I had a light. I didn´t, but they started chatting with me. I take any chance I can to talk in Spanish, so I chatted back. One guy asked me where I was from.
"California," I said.
"¡California!" he said. "¡Fútbol, sí!"
"That doesn´t really make sense," I remember thinking. "Sí," I said, non-commital.
He started demonstrating a football tackle on me. "I guess he meant American football," I thought, but still, I was a little weirded out. Plus, his friends were muttering, "No, Pedro, no hagas..."
Then he reached into my back pocket. Thankfully, my valuables were in my front pockets, and all I had in my back pocket was a "Calvin and Hobbes" cutout from a newspaper I´d been reading (actually, pretty valuable).
"¿Que haces, cabrón?" I yelled. (What are you doing, motherfucker?). I tore the newspaper from his hands.
"Broma, broma, broma," they said. (Jokes.)
I looked at them. Bewilderment mixed with growing anger as I realized what had happened. I went back into the bar, and we split. I was still fuming until we got to the jazz club.
At the metro, Britney and I parted ways. It was really a sad moment. She was the first good friend in Spain to leave.
Members of the Basque separatist terrorist group ETA shot down two Civil Guards members. One died immediately, and the severely wounded one died days later never having left his coma.
The two major parties united to demonstrate against terrorism, although the public split into pro-Zapatero and anti-Zapatero divisiveness (Zapatero is Spain´s President). There were smaller daily reminders, too; I was on the subway when it stopped for five minutes to honor the men killed.
Watching the TV reports the next day, my host dad Alberto saw Ibarretxe, the President of el País Vasco (the Basque Country), at the demonstration honoring the policeman who died.
"That´s good of him," he said in Spanish.
"Because even if he is a Basque nationalist, he still is against terrorism?" I asked.
"Yes," Alberto said.
Ibarretxe is trying to hold an independence referendum in 2008. Alberto and I began talking about the referendum.
"It would be unfair to have an election now, when ETA makes it dangerous to campaign against independence, but if there were no violence, wouldn´t it be better to hold the referendum?" I asked. "In Canada, Quebec holds referendums on independence, and I think there´s a lot less strife partly because Quebec´s citizens have the power to choose their autonomy."
Firstly, he answered, the referendum would probably fail right now, but Basque students read history books with blatant separatist bias, so sooner or later a majority in the Basque country will want to separate. The area has been part of Spain for centuries, and before Ferdinand the Catholic married Isabella of Castile, it was part of Aragon, but the textbooks stress the separate race and language. So eventually, a referendum would be more than an exercise of the power to choose -- it would make separation a reality.
"Okay," he continued in Spanish. "Besides the fact that it´s unconstitutional, that it´s illegal -- so, above the law, in high moral thinking -- is the referendum a good idea? Well, where does the Basque Country start and end? There are three parts -- Gipuzkoa, Bizkaia and Araba. And one is more Basque than others. And who should vote? How about the people who have fled because of ETA? Should they be left out?"
In talking about nationalism, I hadn´t really considered how important that point was. Borders are arbitrary, and that means self-determination is messy. Borders rarely capture the whole situation.
I wrote about my pride for the US in the last blog post, but there´s some contradiction feeling pride for a country that only has to do with me by chance -- born by chance within arbitrary borders.
Really, my pride for America is irrational, an emotional pull from wherever I come from. It´s similar to my love for California, for Los Angeles, for Santa Monica, even for Harvard-Westlake, recognizing its many flaws. And I think that irrational love is good, a force that gives cultures power to stick around, stay signifcant, and keep their variety.
It´s good only to a point, though. Eventually, love for the place you come from can separate you from where you didn´t, and at that point it´s good to remember that where you come from is a made up name with made up borders. Until then, it´s good to celebrate.
I bought her second-hand at Dak-Tak, perhaps the only skateboard shop in Madrid. The best €70 I ever spent - riding that board through the streets of Madrid fulfills fantasies.
Britney, a good friend here, left for Canada. It was a sad night, though we made it a good one (we being Britney, her Swedish friend named Daniel, and me). We went to my favorite bar, a cidrería called "El Tigre" in Chueca, the gay neighborhood, where giant tapas (free food that comes when you buy drinks) nicely set off good cider and dead moose on the walls. From there, we went to another gay bar, and after that a jamming jazz club.
The fun night was interrupted by a reality check. While in the second bar of the night, I decided to get a breath of fresh air outside. On the plaza, shady-looking group asked me if I had a light. I didn´t, but they started chatting with me. I take any chance I can to talk in Spanish, so I chatted back. One guy asked me where I was from.
"California," I said.
"¡California!" he said. "¡Fútbol, sí!"
"That doesn´t really make sense," I remember thinking. "Sí," I said, non-commital.
He started demonstrating a football tackle on me. "I guess he meant American football," I thought, but still, I was a little weirded out. Plus, his friends were muttering, "No, Pedro, no hagas..."
Then he reached into my back pocket. Thankfully, my valuables were in my front pockets, and all I had in my back pocket was a "Calvin and Hobbes" cutout from a newspaper I´d been reading (actually, pretty valuable).
"¿Que haces, cabrón?" I yelled. (What are you doing, motherfucker?). I tore the newspaper from his hands.
"Broma, broma, broma," they said. (Jokes.)
I looked at them. Bewilderment mixed with growing anger as I realized what had happened. I went back into the bar, and we split. I was still fuming until we got to the jazz club.
At the metro, Britney and I parted ways. It was really a sad moment. She was the first good friend in Spain to leave.
Members of the Basque separatist terrorist group ETA shot down two Civil Guards members. One died immediately, and the severely wounded one died days later never having left his coma.
The two major parties united to demonstrate against terrorism, although the public split into pro-Zapatero and anti-Zapatero divisiveness (Zapatero is Spain´s President). There were smaller daily reminders, too; I was on the subway when it stopped for five minutes to honor the men killed.
Watching the TV reports the next day, my host dad Alberto saw Ibarretxe, the President of el País Vasco (the Basque Country), at the demonstration honoring the policeman who died.
"That´s good of him," he said in Spanish.
"Because even if he is a Basque nationalist, he still is against terrorism?" I asked.
"Yes," Alberto said.
Ibarretxe is trying to hold an independence referendum in 2008. Alberto and I began talking about the referendum.
"It would be unfair to have an election now, when ETA makes it dangerous to campaign against independence, but if there were no violence, wouldn´t it be better to hold the referendum?" I asked. "In Canada, Quebec holds referendums on independence, and I think there´s a lot less strife partly because Quebec´s citizens have the power to choose their autonomy."
Firstly, he answered, the referendum would probably fail right now, but Basque students read history books with blatant separatist bias, so sooner or later a majority in the Basque country will want to separate. The area has been part of Spain for centuries, and before Ferdinand the Catholic married Isabella of Castile, it was part of Aragon, but the textbooks stress the separate race and language. So eventually, a referendum would be more than an exercise of the power to choose -- it would make separation a reality.
"Okay," he continued in Spanish. "Besides the fact that it´s unconstitutional, that it´s illegal -- so, above the law, in high moral thinking -- is the referendum a good idea? Well, where does the Basque Country start and end? There are three parts -- Gipuzkoa, Bizkaia and Araba. And one is more Basque than others. And who should vote? How about the people who have fled because of ETA? Should they be left out?"
In talking about nationalism, I hadn´t really considered how important that point was. Borders are arbitrary, and that means self-determination is messy. Borders rarely capture the whole situation.
I wrote about my pride for the US in the last blog post, but there´s some contradiction feeling pride for a country that only has to do with me by chance -- born by chance within arbitrary borders.
Really, my pride for America is irrational, an emotional pull from wherever I come from. It´s similar to my love for California, for Los Angeles, for Santa Monica, even for Harvard-Westlake, recognizing its many flaws. And I think that irrational love is good, a force that gives cultures power to stick around, stay signifcant, and keep their variety.
It´s good only to a point, though. Eventually, love for the place you come from can separate you from where you didn´t, and at that point it´s good to remember that where you come from is a made up name with made up borders. Until then, it´s good to celebrate.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Identity by contrast
I was getting some copas (drinks) with my German friend Steffen and his Canadian friend Danielle. Never having met her before, I asked her where she was from.
"New Brunswick," she said.
"Oh, is that right above Maine?" (I took a lucky stab, knowing that at least some of Canada has gotta be above Maine.)
"Yeah!" she said. "Do you know Canadian geography?"
"Not really," I answered. She pulled out a map that she had drawn for someone else. "Wait, let me try to draw what I do know," I said. I knew Quebec, Ontario and British Columbia.
"We´re you neighbor!" she said disapprovingly. "How do you know only four provinces?" She gave me the others.
"Well, do you know every state in America?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Wow."
"We had to learn the states and capitals in school," she said. "Americans don´t take the trouble to learn because they´re too egotistical. No offense."
"Maybe it´s because America is a bigger player on the world stage," I said. "Do you know every province in France'" I asked Steffen. "And do you know every province in Russia?" I asked Danielle.
"Russia isn´t our neighbor."
"They´re your neighbor to the west."
"There´s an ocean separating us."
I didn´t press the point.
"Do you know who our Prime Minister is?" she asked.
I tried to think. "I know he´s conservative," I said, cringing. That´s one I should have known.
"Steven Harper," she said smugly. "He´s the reason we´re in Afghanistan."
"Oh," I said. "So, do you, um, support that decision?" It was pretty clear she didn´t.
"No, I don´t. Canada´s role has always been as peacekeeper. We shouldn´t be fighting."
I asked her why there was a difference between fighting for peace and handing out food for peace (or whatever it is she meant by "peacekeeping" -- some people mean fighting). If both create peace...
She buckled a little there. "The point is, we shouldn´t be fighting the US´s wars," she said. "Especially one as pointless as Afghanistan." I raised an eyebrow or two. I´ll be the first to say that the poppy, heroine, warlord, and violence ridden country is in trouble, but I think we had a good purpose.
"America just wants the oil," she said. That´s a line I hear a lot.
-- Except -- alarm bells were going off in my head -- it didn´t make sense in a conversation about Afghanistan. I had caught her in an outright falsity.
Usually, I try to respond reasonably to this kind of rhetoric and explain that, while neither war has been what I would consider a net good for the world, America, or the countries themselves, America did not intend the chaos and bloodbath. Except -- here I could be a bit more pithy.
"Afghanistan doesn´t have oil," I said.
She paused. Even she recognized that she´d made a mistake. "Well, America just wants to control the Middle East situation," she said.
"Let´s not conflate Iraq and Afghanistan," I said, not letting go of the huge error.
"The problem is that we don´t know why we´re in there," she said. "It was never clear."
I flipped a little.
"A terrorist organization called Al-Qaeda killed 3000 people," I said. "Afghanistan´s government, the Taliban, was protecting them. The US went in with a UN resolution to take out a government that was protecting a group that killed 3000 of our citizens. What´s unclear about that?"
My voice was level, but I stared at her like she was crazy.
She offered this pitiful explanation:
"Well, unless you´re super-political, it´s hard to know what´s going on." (That´s the way the brain works, I almost said; you need to expend effort to learn. But I kept quiet.) "We just get the news that yet another Canadian has died."
"Well, you want peace," I said. "A lot of Afghanistanis have died. But most didn´t die during the invasion. Most died after, in the chaos, and this is even more true for Iraq. The chaos might be our fault, but taking Canada -- or Germany, for that matter -- out of Afghanistan will just create more chaos and bloodbath."
Later, after she had caught the metro back to her house, Steven and I had another copa.
"I got really angry," I said. "It´s been a while since I got that angry in a discussion about politics."
"Yeah," he said. "Everyone´s entitled to their own opinion."
Had I been unfair? I wondered. Had I not given her opinion a fair hearing?
No. I had been TOTALLY fair.
"Sure, of course. But her story was wrong," I said. "She says oil, and that positively can´t be the reason. What happened on September 11 is pretty clearly the reason. So to try to make it seem like it was something else -- it´s a little disrespectful to the 3000 people who died."
"Yeah, and also, the fact that the US went in the a UN resolution is very important," he said.
"That´s true too," I said. "Here´s the thing. I think it would have been better if I had stayed calm. But I also think I was totally justified to be angry."
A few nights later, I was out again with Steffen, this time at O´Neils, an Irish bar in Sol. We met a German girl and a girl from Northern Ireland.
The anti-American attacks came again, hot and heavy.
There are 3 types of anti-America attacks.
1. The US has done bad stuff in the past.
2. The US is doing bad stuff now.
3. The US treats their own poor badly.
This lovely bar conversation saw all three.
The first US beef came up in the form of past US support for Saddaam and the Taliban. I explained that, while the support was probably a bad idea, looking back now with 20-20 hindsight is unfair when the USSR seemed so mighty and dangerous back then. (And moreover, if we go back far enough, every group has a legitimate complaint about another group. Germany doesn´t have such a clean record from the ´40s. England, France, Spain and Italy were careless colonizers. I could go on.)
Obviously, the second US beef came up. It always does, when we´re fighting two wars, one without a UN resolution. Both wars had good intentions, I said, as I usually do. I also honestly said that I was part of the Iraq protests.
The third came up in the form of our healthcare system, our welfare system. our slums, and our response to Katrina. I agreed that changes needed to be made to the healthcare system. I tentatively agreed that our welfare system could be more comprehensive, but I cautioned against welfare systems that were so "comprehensive" that they took away the incentive to work. By the time we (they) got to slums and Katrina, I was spent.
I used to say that I wasn´t patriotic. The heavy symbolism put me off -- the flag-waving, the group expressions of allegiance to the flag and the republic for which it stands, "One Nation, under God" -- and that kind of patriotism still makes uncomfortable.
But while I continue to push against the group shows of loyalty through symbols, by the most basic definition of patriotism, I am patriotic. I am proud of my country.
As far as I can tell, we are the oldest continuous democracy still in existence. We have a free press, we have freedom of religion, and we are largely free to speak our minds. We are go-getters and innovators. Slums be damned: of the countries our population size or larger (there are only two others), we have the highest standard of living and the most equality of wealth. We are still the land of opportunity, with the most immigrants in the world. We have absorbed more than 20 million legal immigrants over the past quarter-century.
America has caused a lot of bad, and we still do. But I think that, all in all, America is a force for good. And I am proud to be part of that force.
"New Brunswick," she said.
"Oh, is that right above Maine?" (I took a lucky stab, knowing that at least some of Canada has gotta be above Maine.)
"Yeah!" she said. "Do you know Canadian geography?"
"Not really," I answered. She pulled out a map that she had drawn for someone else. "Wait, let me try to draw what I do know," I said. I knew Quebec, Ontario and British Columbia.
"We´re you neighbor!" she said disapprovingly. "How do you know only four provinces?" She gave me the others.
"Well, do you know every state in America?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Wow."
"We had to learn the states and capitals in school," she said. "Americans don´t take the trouble to learn because they´re too egotistical. No offense."
"Maybe it´s because America is a bigger player on the world stage," I said. "Do you know every province in France'" I asked Steffen. "And do you know every province in Russia?" I asked Danielle.
"Russia isn´t our neighbor."
"They´re your neighbor to the west."
"There´s an ocean separating us."
I didn´t press the point.
"Do you know who our Prime Minister is?" she asked.
I tried to think. "I know he´s conservative," I said, cringing. That´s one I should have known.
"Steven Harper," she said smugly. "He´s the reason we´re in Afghanistan."
"Oh," I said. "So, do you, um, support that decision?" It was pretty clear she didn´t.
"No, I don´t. Canada´s role has always been as peacekeeper. We shouldn´t be fighting."
I asked her why there was a difference between fighting for peace and handing out food for peace (or whatever it is she meant by "peacekeeping" -- some people mean fighting). If both create peace...
She buckled a little there. "The point is, we shouldn´t be fighting the US´s wars," she said. "Especially one as pointless as Afghanistan." I raised an eyebrow or two. I´ll be the first to say that the poppy, heroine, warlord, and violence ridden country is in trouble, but I think we had a good purpose.
"America just wants the oil," she said. That´s a line I hear a lot.
-- Except -- alarm bells were going off in my head -- it didn´t make sense in a conversation about Afghanistan. I had caught her in an outright falsity.
Usually, I try to respond reasonably to this kind of rhetoric and explain that, while neither war has been what I would consider a net good for the world, America, or the countries themselves, America did not intend the chaos and bloodbath. Except -- here I could be a bit more pithy.
"Afghanistan doesn´t have oil," I said.
She paused. Even she recognized that she´d made a mistake. "Well, America just wants to control the Middle East situation," she said.
"Let´s not conflate Iraq and Afghanistan," I said, not letting go of the huge error.
"The problem is that we don´t know why we´re in there," she said. "It was never clear."
I flipped a little.
"A terrorist organization called Al-Qaeda killed 3000 people," I said. "Afghanistan´s government, the Taliban, was protecting them. The US went in with a UN resolution to take out a government that was protecting a group that killed 3000 of our citizens. What´s unclear about that?"
My voice was level, but I stared at her like she was crazy.
She offered this pitiful explanation:
"Well, unless you´re super-political, it´s hard to know what´s going on." (That´s the way the brain works, I almost said; you need to expend effort to learn. But I kept quiet.) "We just get the news that yet another Canadian has died."
"Well, you want peace," I said. "A lot of Afghanistanis have died. But most didn´t die during the invasion. Most died after, in the chaos, and this is even more true for Iraq. The chaos might be our fault, but taking Canada -- or Germany, for that matter -- out of Afghanistan will just create more chaos and bloodbath."
Later, after she had caught the metro back to her house, Steven and I had another copa.
"I got really angry," I said. "It´s been a while since I got that angry in a discussion about politics."
"Yeah," he said. "Everyone´s entitled to their own opinion."
Had I been unfair? I wondered. Had I not given her opinion a fair hearing?
No. I had been TOTALLY fair.
"Sure, of course. But her story was wrong," I said. "She says oil, and that positively can´t be the reason. What happened on September 11 is pretty clearly the reason. So to try to make it seem like it was something else -- it´s a little disrespectful to the 3000 people who died."
"Yeah, and also, the fact that the US went in the a UN resolution is very important," he said.
"That´s true too," I said. "Here´s the thing. I think it would have been better if I had stayed calm. But I also think I was totally justified to be angry."
A few nights later, I was out again with Steffen, this time at O´Neils, an Irish bar in Sol. We met a German girl and a girl from Northern Ireland.
The anti-American attacks came again, hot and heavy.
There are 3 types of anti-America attacks.
1. The US has done bad stuff in the past.
2. The US is doing bad stuff now.
3. The US treats their own poor badly.
This lovely bar conversation saw all three.
The first US beef came up in the form of past US support for Saddaam and the Taliban. I explained that, while the support was probably a bad idea, looking back now with 20-20 hindsight is unfair when the USSR seemed so mighty and dangerous back then. (And moreover, if we go back far enough, every group has a legitimate complaint about another group. Germany doesn´t have such a clean record from the ´40s. England, France, Spain and Italy were careless colonizers. I could go on.)
Obviously, the second US beef came up. It always does, when we´re fighting two wars, one without a UN resolution. Both wars had good intentions, I said, as I usually do. I also honestly said that I was part of the Iraq protests.
The third came up in the form of our healthcare system, our welfare system. our slums, and our response to Katrina. I agreed that changes needed to be made to the healthcare system. I tentatively agreed that our welfare system could be more comprehensive, but I cautioned against welfare systems that were so "comprehensive" that they took away the incentive to work. By the time we (they) got to slums and Katrina, I was spent.
I used to say that I wasn´t patriotic. The heavy symbolism put me off -- the flag-waving, the group expressions of allegiance to the flag and the republic for which it stands, "One Nation, under God" -- and that kind of patriotism still makes uncomfortable.
But while I continue to push against the group shows of loyalty through symbols, by the most basic definition of patriotism, I am patriotic. I am proud of my country.
As far as I can tell, we are the oldest continuous democracy still in existence. We have a free press, we have freedom of religion, and we are largely free to speak our minds. We are go-getters and innovators. Slums be damned: of the countries our population size or larger (there are only two others), we have the highest standard of living and the most equality of wealth. We are still the land of opportunity, with the most immigrants in the world. We have absorbed more than 20 million legal immigrants over the past quarter-century.
America has caused a lot of bad, and we still do. But I think that, all in all, America is a force for good. And I am proud to be part of that force.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Back "home"
Stepping back onto the Madrid Metro, I felt a strange mix of familiarity and homesickness. I had been on these metro lines almost every day for two months, I knew this city far better than any that I had visited back in the US, I was excited to sleep in my "own" bed for the first time in two weeks, and I couldn´t wait to see my "family" again.
But the two week visit was one of the best of my life. Every city brought me to people I loved, most of whom I hadn´t seen since the end of June and all whom I hadn´t seen since the end of July.
On the metro, I took the 8 from the airport, transferring at Nuevos Ministerios onto the 6, running on auto-pilot through stations I know well. It was a stark contrast to the New York and Boston subway systems, where, no matter how simple my route, I asked for directions every time. I love knowing that I´ve mastered Madrid to the point that it´s my city away from LA, but I already miss the people waiting to meet me at the end of those unfamiliar United States underground rides.
Seeing my host family -- Eva, Alberto, Margie, Hector, and Dario -- was wonderful. We got right back into the swing of things.
I gave English lessons to Dario and Hector, and Alberto and Eva gave me a Spanish politics lesson. They have given me a first-rate education on Spanish current events (and American cinema, too -- they know more about movies than their Los Angeles host son -- it´s a little embarrassing), and the night I came back they updated me on the latest. The biggest news, and the most bizzarre, was an incident at an Iberoamerican conference (Spanish and Latin American leaders summit). Spanish President José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero was giving a speech, when Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez began interrupting him to call former Spanish President José María Aznar a Fascist. After multiple interruptions, the King of Spain asked, "¿Por qué no te callas?" In English: Why don´t you shut up? Usually, the King is supposed to sit above it all, the perfect diplomat...This time, he lost his temper.
It seems as though Chavez was looking for a fight, because tensions have exploded way out of control considering how small the incident was. Chavez wants Spain to apologize for crimes it committed when it had colonies in Latin America. And he and the South American leaders who are his allies have threatened to penalize Spanish companies.
Gifts that I´d brought from the states went over well. A Red Sox hat for Alberto (after I pretty much exhausted him day after day during the playoffs with Red Sox status updates), a scarf for Eva, a stuffed Schnauzer for Margie (well, for her daughter), and baseball gloves for Hector and Dario (the next night, Dario -- just 3 years old -- and I played catch!).
I got in Thursday. Friday and Saturday night, I went to a jazz club with a friend from Germany and my Venezuelan friends. The music really caught the best of this gap year so far -- the freedom, the unpredictablility, and the roaring ´20s night-lifestyle all rolled into one.
But the two week visit was one of the best of my life. Every city brought me to people I loved, most of whom I hadn´t seen since the end of June and all whom I hadn´t seen since the end of July.
On the metro, I took the 8 from the airport, transferring at Nuevos Ministerios onto the 6, running on auto-pilot through stations I know well. It was a stark contrast to the New York and Boston subway systems, where, no matter how simple my route, I asked for directions every time. I love knowing that I´ve mastered Madrid to the point that it´s my city away from LA, but I already miss the people waiting to meet me at the end of those unfamiliar United States underground rides.
Seeing my host family -- Eva, Alberto, Margie, Hector, and Dario -- was wonderful. We got right back into the swing of things.
I gave English lessons to Dario and Hector, and Alberto and Eva gave me a Spanish politics lesson. They have given me a first-rate education on Spanish current events (and American cinema, too -- they know more about movies than their Los Angeles host son -- it´s a little embarrassing), and the night I came back they updated me on the latest. The biggest news, and the most bizzarre, was an incident at an Iberoamerican conference (Spanish and Latin American leaders summit). Spanish President José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero was giving a speech, when Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez began interrupting him to call former Spanish President José María Aznar a Fascist. After multiple interruptions, the King of Spain asked, "¿Por qué no te callas?" In English: Why don´t you shut up? Usually, the King is supposed to sit above it all, the perfect diplomat...This time, he lost his temper.
It seems as though Chavez was looking for a fight, because tensions have exploded way out of control considering how small the incident was. Chavez wants Spain to apologize for crimes it committed when it had colonies in Latin America. And he and the South American leaders who are his allies have threatened to penalize Spanish companies.
Gifts that I´d brought from the states went over well. A Red Sox hat for Alberto (after I pretty much exhausted him day after day during the playoffs with Red Sox status updates), a scarf for Eva, a stuffed Schnauzer for Margie (well, for her daughter), and baseball gloves for Hector and Dario (the next night, Dario -- just 3 years old -- and I played catch!).
I got in Thursday. Friday and Saturday night, I went to a jazz club with a friend from Germany and my Venezuelan friends. The music really caught the best of this gap year so far -- the freedom, the unpredictablility, and the roaring ´20s night-lifestyle all rolled into one.
Monday, October 29, 2007
In honor of the greatest baseball team of this millenium
I know I said no more posts, but the Sox won the Series. C´mon!
I actually got to see Game 3. As far as I know, I was at one of two bars in all of Madrid showing the game. It started at 2:30 AM, and I went to bed as my family was waking up. But nice game. Dice-K (Japanese import, starting pitcher) had two RBIs, which is one more than either ARod or Derek Jeter can boast.
But enough gloating.
Hector and Dario had me guilt-tripping all over myself tonight. "Quiero que no te vayas." "Por favor, quedate aquí." Hector drew me a picture, and Dario came into my room as I was packing to distract me with his airplanes.
Both had their own ways of saying goodbye. Hector played the "No I love you more" game, showing off his knowledge of outer space with, "Well, I love you from here to the galaxy!" Dario, on the other hand, tried to play with my heart. "No te quiero," he said. (I don´t love you.) "Pues, sí yo te quiero," he said, trying to get a rise out of me. (Well, I actually do love you.) He switched it back and forth a few more times. I assured them I´d only be gone two weeks.
I actually got to see Game 3. As far as I know, I was at one of two bars in all of Madrid showing the game. It started at 2:30 AM, and I went to bed as my family was waking up. But nice game. Dice-K (Japanese import, starting pitcher) had two RBIs, which is one more than either ARod or Derek Jeter can boast.
But enough gloating.
Hector and Dario had me guilt-tripping all over myself tonight. "Quiero que no te vayas." "Por favor, quedate aquí." Hector drew me a picture, and Dario came into my room as I was packing to distract me with his airplanes.
Both had their own ways of saying goodbye. Hector played the "No I love you more" game, showing off his knowledge of outer space with, "Well, I love you from here to the galaxy!" Dario, on the other hand, tried to play with my heart. "No te quiero," he said. (I don´t love you.) "Pues, sí yo te quiero," he said, trying to get a rise out of me. (Well, I actually do love you.) He switched it back and forth a few more times. I assured them I´d only be gone two weeks.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
"Dude, I think he´s doing the dice thing too much." "That´s all he´s got."
It´s been awhile. I´ll give the footnotes.
The night after I saw Toronto lose to Real Madrid, I went clubbing with Britney, a girl from Canada and Austria, Erica, a girl from the US and Venezuela, and the Madrileños who I had watched the game with. It was good to combine groups.
If I knew how to dance, I might understand the attraction of a nightclub. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to dance, and my usual itinerary in a nightclub can only reasonably be stretched so long. I get a drink and chat a little, if the grating techno isn´t too loud.
Usually, I come into a club with a just slightly unrealistic idea of how incredible my dancing is, so at first I dance seriously. Crip-walk. Michael Jackson spin move this girl once taught me. A casual moonwalk, somewhere in the song. Something dreidel-like with the hands. I think I´m pretty cool, but eventually (a minute into the second song), I don´t know any more moves. I improvise, but I look more like I´m spazzing out than doing anything intentional.
At this point, it´s time to reference the part in "Knocked up" when Seth Rogen repeatedly does a dice-throwing routine to cover up for his lack of dancing ability. (Amazing how closely art imitates real life.) The dice-throwing routine leads to the ever-useful sprinkler routine. If you´re with cool people, they get into the imitations, and this kind of thing can last for a while. The night with Britney, Erica, and the Madrileños saw the lawn-mower, the shopper, the race-car-driver, and countless other classics.
Eventually, I can get into the dancing a little bit, even the non-jokey dancing. But one of the two best parts of a club is the sitting down and chatting...In other words, something that could be done much more easily at a bar.
The club is a similar but less intense version of a semi-formal afterparty. Clubbing is a weekly event, at least, so kids aren´t trying to pack a whole school-year´s worth of partying into one night. There´s more dancing, and less, um, promiscuousness (I´ll leave it at that). The biggest difference, though, is that people don´t know each other. At the nightclub, the friends you come with are usually the friends you stay with. The people on the dance floor might as well be eating lunch with their group at a restaurant -- that´s how little interaction there is between groups. At an afterparty, you´ll say hello to almost everyone you see, and interact with almost everyone you say hello to. Then again, you probably won´t meet anyone new at an afterparty. At a club, you meet tons of people, which is the other really good part of a club.
But to me, bar-hopping is the most enjoyable way to spend a night out. The two best parts of clubbing, chatting and meeting new people, are easier, better, and more fun in a bar. So there, clubbing.
I used to doubt the idea that children learn languages more easily than adults. The evidence often given, that a five year old speaks better Spanish than someone who has taken five years of Spanish classes in school, is a totally unfair comparison. The five-year-old is immersed, a situation clearly better than classes.
After about two month´s worth of teaching, I still have those doubts, but children clearly have some advantages. Pronunciation is the biggest. Hector (five years old) and Dario (three) can, on the first try, repeat a word back to me with nearly 100% correct pronunciation. Oscar, a Madrileño to whom I give private lessons, cannot eliminate his accent when pronouncing words even on the third or fourth try. And he often lapses back into his Castilian-tinted pronunciation if I ask for the word later in the lesson.
But my adult students seem to learn more quickly than the children I teach. They know how to concentrate on memorizing, which is a big part of learning a language. Adults have the same kind of advantage over children that they would if they were studying law, or biology, or history -- they know how to deal with lots of information, prioritize it, and memorize it.
That said, I am sometimes amazed with what Dario and Hector have internalized, such as Dario knowing a word I´ve taught only once or Hector picking up on the difference between "here" and "there." It could just be a matter of expectations -- I expect more of the adults I teach, so I am less blown away when they make these same kinds of leaps. But I feel a difference. The adults memorize words and concepts. The children internalize them. The adults will have to actively transform the memorization into second-nature, possibly in an immersion, as I am doing now. The children already operate as if the second language is second nature. Steffen, a German I know, learned English as a child, and now, after never being immersed in an English-speaking country, speaks perfect English. He learned it and internalized it at the same time. You can see that same-time learning happening in Dario and Hector. They use English words in otherwise Spanish sentences. "Quiero mi red car, por favor." It´s fascinating, and also really cute.
This post will be the last for two weeks, as I am taking a two-week trip to the states! I won a journalism award for an article I wrote last year, and the original reason I´m coming is for the journalism conference and awards ceremony (Harvard-Westlake is being unbelievably generous, helping me to get to Philadelphia, where the journalism conference is being held). As this trip will probably be my only time in the US this year, I decided to extend the time a little bit. The Vasquez´s, the family I´m staying with and teaching the kids in, said two weeks off would be fine. I´ll see friends, my grandparents, and my mom and her boyfriend Bill, who were coincidentally already coming to New York the weekend before the journalism conference. In two weeks, I´ll be back in Madrid, hopefully without missing a beat. But for now, the gap year´s on a two-week hiatus, and so is the blog.
The night after I saw Toronto lose to Real Madrid, I went clubbing with Britney, a girl from Canada and Austria, Erica, a girl from the US and Venezuela, and the Madrileños who I had watched the game with. It was good to combine groups.
If I knew how to dance, I might understand the attraction of a nightclub. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to dance, and my usual itinerary in a nightclub can only reasonably be stretched so long. I get a drink and chat a little, if the grating techno isn´t too loud.
Usually, I come into a club with a just slightly unrealistic idea of how incredible my dancing is, so at first I dance seriously. Crip-walk. Michael Jackson spin move this girl once taught me. A casual moonwalk, somewhere in the song. Something dreidel-like with the hands. I think I´m pretty cool, but eventually (a minute into the second song), I don´t know any more moves. I improvise, but I look more like I´m spazzing out than doing anything intentional.
At this point, it´s time to reference the part in "Knocked up" when Seth Rogen repeatedly does a dice-throwing routine to cover up for his lack of dancing ability. (Amazing how closely art imitates real life.) The dice-throwing routine leads to the ever-useful sprinkler routine. If you´re with cool people, they get into the imitations, and this kind of thing can last for a while. The night with Britney, Erica, and the Madrileños saw the lawn-mower, the shopper, the race-car-driver, and countless other classics.
Eventually, I can get into the dancing a little bit, even the non-jokey dancing. But one of the two best parts of a club is the sitting down and chatting...In other words, something that could be done much more easily at a bar.
The club is a similar but less intense version of a semi-formal afterparty. Clubbing is a weekly event, at least, so kids aren´t trying to pack a whole school-year´s worth of partying into one night. There´s more dancing, and less, um, promiscuousness (I´ll leave it at that). The biggest difference, though, is that people don´t know each other. At the nightclub, the friends you come with are usually the friends you stay with. The people on the dance floor might as well be eating lunch with their group at a restaurant -- that´s how little interaction there is between groups. At an afterparty, you´ll say hello to almost everyone you see, and interact with almost everyone you say hello to. Then again, you probably won´t meet anyone new at an afterparty. At a club, you meet tons of people, which is the other really good part of a club.
But to me, bar-hopping is the most enjoyable way to spend a night out. The two best parts of clubbing, chatting and meeting new people, are easier, better, and more fun in a bar. So there, clubbing.
I used to doubt the idea that children learn languages more easily than adults. The evidence often given, that a five year old speaks better Spanish than someone who has taken five years of Spanish classes in school, is a totally unfair comparison. The five-year-old is immersed, a situation clearly better than classes.
After about two month´s worth of teaching, I still have those doubts, but children clearly have some advantages. Pronunciation is the biggest. Hector (five years old) and Dario (three) can, on the first try, repeat a word back to me with nearly 100% correct pronunciation. Oscar, a Madrileño to whom I give private lessons, cannot eliminate his accent when pronouncing words even on the third or fourth try. And he often lapses back into his Castilian-tinted pronunciation if I ask for the word later in the lesson.
But my adult students seem to learn more quickly than the children I teach. They know how to concentrate on memorizing, which is a big part of learning a language. Adults have the same kind of advantage over children that they would if they were studying law, or biology, or history -- they know how to deal with lots of information, prioritize it, and memorize it.
That said, I am sometimes amazed with what Dario and Hector have internalized, such as Dario knowing a word I´ve taught only once or Hector picking up on the difference between "here" and "there." It could just be a matter of expectations -- I expect more of the adults I teach, so I am less blown away when they make these same kinds of leaps. But I feel a difference. The adults memorize words and concepts. The children internalize them. The adults will have to actively transform the memorization into second-nature, possibly in an immersion, as I am doing now. The children already operate as if the second language is second nature. Steffen, a German I know, learned English as a child, and now, after never being immersed in an English-speaking country, speaks perfect English. He learned it and internalized it at the same time. You can see that same-time learning happening in Dario and Hector. They use English words in otherwise Spanish sentences. "Quiero mi red car, por favor." It´s fascinating, and also really cute.
This post will be the last for two weeks, as I am taking a two-week trip to the states! I won a journalism award for an article I wrote last year, and the original reason I´m coming is for the journalism conference and awards ceremony (Harvard-Westlake is being unbelievably generous, helping me to get to Philadelphia, where the journalism conference is being held). As this trip will probably be my only time in the US this year, I decided to extend the time a little bit. The Vasquez´s, the family I´m staying with and teaching the kids in, said two weeks off would be fine. I´ll see friends, my grandparents, and my mom and her boyfriend Bill, who were coincidentally already coming to New York the weekend before the journalism conference. In two weeks, I´ll be back in Madrid, hopefully without missing a beat. But for now, the gap year´s on a two-week hiatus, and so is the blog.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The NBA gets worldly
A Madrileño who I met on the town´s basketball court a few days ago invited me to watch the big game tonight with him and a few friends. The big game pitted the NBA´s own Toronto Raptors against the Spanish league´s Real Madrid.
Three guesses who won?
Go with the logical answer and you´ll be wrong every time.
Real Madrid beat the Raptors.
The final score was 104-103, but the numbers were a little closer than reality, as Toronto hit a meaningless three at the last second.
To be fair, the Raptors were missing their biggest star, Chris Bosh. Still, an NBA team losing to a Spanish league team?
Gut instinct says that´s unprecedented.
It´s not so unprecedented. Just this month the Memphis Grizzlies lost a close one to Unicaja 102-99. (Both Memphis and Toronto have two players each from Spain. Like Yao Ming´s Rockets, huge in China, these teams are big draws here.) And last year, the Philadelphia 76ers lost 104-99 to Sant Jordi (see Memphis link).
It´s not all bad news for the NBA, though. After their loss at Unicaja, Memphis dismantled the Spanish League team Estudiantes later in the month.
Also, these are pre-season games, so even when the NBA teams do field full line-ups, the players aren´t going full-bore.
But Spain has proven something basic -- its teams are competitive with at least the middle of the NBA pack.
Tonight, three Spanish boys crowded around a TV where national pride hung in the balance. And all across Madrid, all across Spain, similar scenes played out around other TVs.
Imagine the market for the NBA if it that N for "National" became an "I." Imagine the excitement that kind of expansion would create back here in the states, and all around the world.
Why not?
Three guesses who won?
Go with the logical answer and you´ll be wrong every time.
Real Madrid beat the Raptors.
The final score was 104-103, but the numbers were a little closer than reality, as Toronto hit a meaningless three at the last second.
To be fair, the Raptors were missing their biggest star, Chris Bosh. Still, an NBA team losing to a Spanish league team?
Gut instinct says that´s unprecedented.
It´s not so unprecedented. Just this month the Memphis Grizzlies lost a close one to Unicaja 102-99. (Both Memphis and Toronto have two players each from Spain. Like Yao Ming´s Rockets, huge in China, these teams are big draws here.) And last year, the Philadelphia 76ers lost 104-99 to Sant Jordi (see Memphis link).
It´s not all bad news for the NBA, though. After their loss at Unicaja, Memphis dismantled the Spanish League team Estudiantes later in the month.
Also, these are pre-season games, so even when the NBA teams do field full line-ups, the players aren´t going full-bore.
But Spain has proven something basic -- its teams are competitive with at least the middle of the NBA pack.
Tonight, three Spanish boys crowded around a TV where national pride hung in the balance. And all across Madrid, all across Spain, similar scenes played out around other TVs.
Imagine the market for the NBA if it that N for "National" became an "I." Imagine the excitement that kind of expansion would create back here in the states, and all around the world.
Why not?
Monday, October 8, 2007
What´s up? What´s up? We don´t have houses
Housing is a big issue in Madrid. Half of "kids" under 35 still live with their parents, and the average age of "emancipation" is even higher in Madrid. Part of the reason is culture, but another part is the ridiculously high price of reasonable living in Spain (say the Madrileños I met at the protest).
The President is trying to encourage citizens to rent more. That wasn´t enough for the protesters.
They waved Cuban flags (in an exercise of stupidity that reminded me of the immigrants rights marchers waving Mexican flags) and Republic of Spain flags (the Republic that existed before Franco was moderate-left, not Communist, but Republicans allied with Communist to fight Franco´s Nationalists in the Civil War, so the flag has become a symbol of Communism).
The protesters wanted the government to build low-cost housing. That well-intentioned idea would probably do harm, in my opinion. The US government has undertaken such projects -- they usually become the worst areas of any neighborhood (ever heard Dr. Dre rap about living in "The Projects"?). No one really owns the homes, and, without real ownership, the buildings are neglected.
The protesters also talked about government fixing of rent rates. Pretty short-sighted. That kind of move would discourage home-owners from renting their homes, so those that did benefit from lower prices would be a lucky few. Most people would be worse off.
The protesters best idea was embodied in a sign that read "Casas sin gente y tú sin casa - acaba €speculación." (In English: "Houses without people and you without a house - end speculation.") The protesters´ suggestion was to impose high taxes on owners of houses without people living in them. Seems interesting. If you think that maximizing living space serves more good for society than speculation, even if to maximize the space you need to interfere with market forces, this tax is for you. It encourages owners to use their houses as homes.
The protest itself was fun. Protesters met at la Puerta de Sol (imagine the Santa Monica Promenade in downtown LA). I estimate about 3,000 people were there, and another few thousand watched. I chanted along with everyone else. "¿Qué pasa, qué pasa? ¡No tenemos casa!" (English: "What´s up, what´s up? We don´t have houses!")
I´ve been meeting a lot of people, most through the Spanish school. About half are Germans, a country that has the best combination of high population, proximity to Spain, and tradition of learning languages other their own (unlike, say, France). The other half are Dutch, Austrian, Canadian, and French. And I meet locals, too, mostly on the bus or the metro.
Nightlife is often bar-hopping. This Saturday, though, I persuaded the people I was with that we needed to hang out in the forest near my house. Exploring the forest - that´s nightlife.
The President is trying to encourage citizens to rent more. That wasn´t enough for the protesters.
They waved Cuban flags (in an exercise of stupidity that reminded me of the immigrants rights marchers waving Mexican flags) and Republic of Spain flags (the Republic that existed before Franco was moderate-left, not Communist, but Republicans allied with Communist to fight Franco´s Nationalists in the Civil War, so the flag has become a symbol of Communism).
The protesters wanted the government to build low-cost housing. That well-intentioned idea would probably do harm, in my opinion. The US government has undertaken such projects -- they usually become the worst areas of any neighborhood (ever heard Dr. Dre rap about living in "The Projects"?). No one really owns the homes, and, without real ownership, the buildings are neglected.
The protesters also talked about government fixing of rent rates. Pretty short-sighted. That kind of move would discourage home-owners from renting their homes, so those that did benefit from lower prices would be a lucky few. Most people would be worse off.
The protesters best idea was embodied in a sign that read "Casas sin gente y tú sin casa - acaba €speculación." (In English: "Houses without people and you without a house - end speculation.") The protesters´ suggestion was to impose high taxes on owners of houses without people living in them. Seems interesting. If you think that maximizing living space serves more good for society than speculation, even if to maximize the space you need to interfere with market forces, this tax is for you. It encourages owners to use their houses as homes.
The protest itself was fun. Protesters met at la Puerta de Sol (imagine the Santa Monica Promenade in downtown LA). I estimate about 3,000 people were there, and another few thousand watched. I chanted along with everyone else. "¿Qué pasa, qué pasa? ¡No tenemos casa!" (English: "What´s up, what´s up? We don´t have houses!")
I´ve been meeting a lot of people, most through the Spanish school. About half are Germans, a country that has the best combination of high population, proximity to Spain, and tradition of learning languages other their own (unlike, say, France). The other half are Dutch, Austrian, Canadian, and French. And I meet locals, too, mostly on the bus or the metro.
Nightlife is often bar-hopping. This Saturday, though, I persuaded the people I was with that we needed to hang out in the forest near my house. Exploring the forest - that´s nightlife.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Special deals and Harry Potter
The waitress asked what we wanted to drink.
"Agua," I said, and two of the girls followed suit. The third girl wanted a Thai cocktail.
"Might as well go big if you´re gonna pay for water anyway," she explained.
My internal Jiminy Cricket discusses some issues of morality with me, but his passion is making sure I´m cheap. When he heard the quip about water, he went so crazy I thought he´d had a run-in with my internal woodpecker, who tries to eat him from time to time.
"What? We´re paying for water?" I asked.
"Yeah, you have to," another girl said. "I mean, I guess it´s reasonable, ´cuz it comes in bottles."
"We´re getting bottled water?" I asked.
"Yeah, that´s, like, what you get," she said.
I turned to the waitress.
"¿Venga, podemos tener agua del grifo?" I asked.
"¿Como en una jarra?" she asked.
I asked my Canadian and Austrian friends, all of whom were just starting to learn Spanish, whether they wanted bottled water or regular water. They wanted regular water, if it was available.
"Sí, en una jarra," I said to the waitress. (Yes, a jug of water.)
I tried not to look smug as the waiter left the table.
But c´mon. I´m getting special deals in restaurants!
And I just finished my first full book in Spanish -- Harry Potter 1!
So I´m feeling like this whole bilingual thing´s coming along!
---
At a small English as a Foreign Lanuage school today, the director offered me a job paying 22€ per hour, three hours a week. I nearly started singing in her office. Then she told me the hours. They wanted me from 5:00 to 6:30 on Tuesday and Thursday, and I´m already tutoring Hector and Dario then.
Aaaahhhhhhhhh!!! I could have been up 66€ for just three hours of work, weekly!
---
Another Spanish weekend. Today, I went to bed at 7am, the exact same time that I woke up yesterday.
"Agua," I said, and two of the girls followed suit. The third girl wanted a Thai cocktail.
"Might as well go big if you´re gonna pay for water anyway," she explained.
My internal Jiminy Cricket discusses some issues of morality with me, but his passion is making sure I´m cheap. When he heard the quip about water, he went so crazy I thought he´d had a run-in with my internal woodpecker, who tries to eat him from time to time.
"What? We´re paying for water?" I asked.
"Yeah, you have to," another girl said. "I mean, I guess it´s reasonable, ´cuz it comes in bottles."
"We´re getting bottled water?" I asked.
"Yeah, that´s, like, what you get," she said.
I turned to the waitress.
"¿Venga, podemos tener agua del grifo?" I asked.
"¿Como en una jarra?" she asked.
I asked my Canadian and Austrian friends, all of whom were just starting to learn Spanish, whether they wanted bottled water or regular water. They wanted regular water, if it was available.
"Sí, en una jarra," I said to the waitress. (Yes, a jug of water.)
I tried not to look smug as the waiter left the table.
But c´mon. I´m getting special deals in restaurants!
And I just finished my first full book in Spanish -- Harry Potter 1!
So I´m feeling like this whole bilingual thing´s coming along!
---
At a small English as a Foreign Lanuage school today, the director offered me a job paying 22€ per hour, three hours a week. I nearly started singing in her office. Then she told me the hours. They wanted me from 5:00 to 6:30 on Tuesday and Thursday, and I´m already tutoring Hector and Dario then.
Aaaahhhhhhhhh!!! I could have been up 66€ for just three hours of work, weekly!
---
Another Spanish weekend. Today, I went to bed at 7am, the exact same time that I woke up yesterday.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
A religious experience at the Templo de Debod
On Fridays, my Spanish school takes a "cultural tour." The director of the school majored in art history, he told me when I signed up for courses, so he knows his Spanish stuff. He gives a stand-up comedy act in Spanish around every sight we see.This Friday, we saw the royal gardens. Each one is the same story, of kings trying to one-up the kings before them, usually their own fathers, by building bigger and grander gardens.
The most interesting sight was a statue outside the front gardens of Felipe IV riding his horse. His father had commissioned a similar statue in which he rode a horse "a pasello" (trotting along). That statue now sits in a plaza I stumbled across just last night.
The most interesting sight was a statue outside the front gardens of Felipe IV riding his horse. His father had commissioned a similar statue in which he rode a horse "a pasello" (trotting along). That statue now sits in a plaza I stumbled across just last night.
Like father, like son, but flashier. Felipe IV wanted a statue of himself riding "a caballo" (galloping), and he wanted it at the front of the main palace´s royal gardens.
The artist he commissioned didn´t know how to build a statue of a galloping horse. The two legs in the back would be the only legs touching the ground, and the front of the statue would fall forward. He called on Galileo Galilee and Diego Velázquez to help him, and the all-star cast came up with a design that stands to this day, filling the back with solid iron and making the front hollow.
---Later that Friday, I made my first money in Spain, giving a two-hour English lesson. Oscar, the student, was 10 years older than me. He ordered us Chinese food, and we spoke in English and Spanish.
He works in food distribution, so he often goes to China, mostly to buy canned mushrooms. The reason he wants to learn English? To speak to the Chinese!
I laughed. No, he was serious.
A testament to the importance of English in business around the world.
When I came home, Dario and Hector were driving Margie mad. Margie opened the door for me, said a quick hola, and ran after Hector, who had chocolate smeared all around his mouth for reasons I still don´t know. I could tell I was in for a hard lesson.
I started off with a picture book, and the lesson was began smoothly. They named the words they knew. I gave them the words they didn´t, and they repeated them.
After about five minutes, though, Hector started saying "sufey" after every word. It´s a common joke. Hector thinks it´s hilarious, as does Dario, who idolizes him.
I usually pretend that they´re making an honest mistake. "No, that´s not right," I said. "What is it?" As long as they know the word, I´m okay with them adding "sufey."
Then Dario inexplicably spit in the book. "No, Dario, that´s not okay," I said. He spit again, and then Hector spit in the book. "What are you guys doing?" I asked, taken aback. "Go to the bathroom, get towels, and clean this up." I led them to the bathroom, and we cleaned up the book.
Time to move on to songs, I thought. But before the first song finished, Hector kicked Dario in the mouth. Utterly shocked, I scolded Hector. I decided to take the lessons outside to release some energy.
Hector and I threw a ball around. At one point, though, the ball fell onto the second-floor balcony.
"Oh, we´ll have to go get it," I said.
As I unlocked the door to the balcony, I saw a ladder leading up to the third story. As the door swung open, Hector bolted to the ladder, not even feigning interest in getting the ball. I caught him, barely, grabbing him by the ankle.
Meanwhile, Dario ambled out and chilled. I concentrated on Hector, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Dario trying to turn a giant water faucet.
"Lucky it´s rusted over," I thought.
I turned my attention back to Hector. He was almost bawling. "¡Quiero, quiero, quiero ver la calle!" he screamed in an absurdly high-pitched voice. ("I want to see the street!")
Suddenly, water burst out of the faucet, drenching Dario. In twenty minutes, they were going to a birthday party for their dad´s colleague´s son.
"Dario, no!" I yelled. I turned off the faucet as Hector raced up the ladder to ver la calle.
Margie changed Dario´s clothes, I retrieved Hector kicking and screaming from the porch, and Hector and Dario proved once and for all how ridiculous, hilarious, and crazy Spanish kids can be.
---
Last night, (Saturday), Madrid hosted "La noche en blanco."
Riga (Latvia) and Rome have already hosted the festival and Paris and Brussels are set to host it as well, but it felt especially Madrid.
Almost the whole city stayed open through the night, which meant business as usual for many businesses. Also, museums stayed open, and small art exhibitions and music shows lined the streets.
I strolled the streets with Carol, a friend from Germany who I met at the Spanish school. Two hour lines at the museums drove Carrrrroh (the correct pronunciation of her name) and I away from the big stuff and towards three music shows and two art exhibitions.
At the Templo de Debod, I had a religious experience. I was watching Fátima Miranda, which the program said would make you ask, "¿Dondé estoy?" ("Where am I?").
Rain was falling as hard as hail, and the wind shook the trees and churned up the water around the temple. At first, I didn´t realize that the music was a human voice. I saw a woman onstage, carrying a clay pot on her head. I soon realized she was singing, something between an Indian spiritual and a wolf howling at the moon. We arrived at a calmer part of the song. Soon, she was almost shrieking, and then something between Bjork and Sigur Ros, and then, she fell silent, and the blue lights dimmed. The audience went crazy.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Private concert
The world has voted, and it has voted for the Red Sox. (I define the world as the readers of this blog who voted. You guys mean the world to me.) The poll answered the vague question, Red Sox or Yankees? Whether the question meant coolness, likelihood of reaching playoffs, or, um something else -- that was up to the reader! The Red Sox handily beat the Yankees, who garnered less votes than those who resent baseball´s affect on our youth. The Yankees supporters can at least brag that they are as numerous as those who voted "C´mon, Tamba Bay, all the way," and "I´m all abute Toronto."
So, to the beloved Red Sox -- congratulations. Now please, please, don´t collapse.
Spanish classes started today. The school is tiny, 80 students, and with that smallness comes quite personal attention. Yesterday, when I signed up, the director of the school personally drove me to the sister school at which I´d be taking my classes.
I´m in the high-level group. The class has seven students, and three were absent today. In addition to my amiable Chilean teacher, my classmates are Bulgarian, German, Dutch, and French. Not one comes from an English-speaking country, which is great. Claudia, the teacher, conducts the class in Spanish from start to finish.
While I was on the way to classes, my train car got a private concert. In England, they called it busking. People play for money in the underground halls or on the metro trains themselves. Something like the Promenade, but no freakshows, and better quality. The violinists, singers, and guitarists almost always play beautifully.
Today, on the train, two men entered, mumbled something in Spanish, and took out their microphone, speaker system, and flute. They had a CD playing behind them, drums and backup vocals.
They sounded CD-quality, playing without missing a note. I wondered whether they were lip-syncing and lip-fluting. But then, the flautist put away his flute, and I could hear the whoosh of air as he took it from his mouth. He started shaking maracas, and the shakes lined up with the sounds. Then, after the maraca chorus, he took out a wooden harmonica, and I could again hear that whoosh that proved the playing was real. They were moving, really getting into their music.
I wondered how they made money, thinking that perhaps they sang for fun, out of the kindness of their hearts. The rest of the train car seemed unaffected, as if they were used to the good show. I must have stood out, with my wide stupid joyful grin. But then they finished their second song, mumbled something in Spanish again, and went around the train car. Half the car, maybe more, gave change. I left at the next stop, and saw them in the next car.
So, to the beloved Red Sox -- congratulations. Now please, please, don´t collapse.
Spanish classes started today. The school is tiny, 80 students, and with that smallness comes quite personal attention. Yesterday, when I signed up, the director of the school personally drove me to the sister school at which I´d be taking my classes.
I´m in the high-level group. The class has seven students, and three were absent today. In addition to my amiable Chilean teacher, my classmates are Bulgarian, German, Dutch, and French. Not one comes from an English-speaking country, which is great. Claudia, the teacher, conducts the class in Spanish from start to finish.
While I was on the way to classes, my train car got a private concert. In England, they called it busking. People play for money in the underground halls or on the metro trains themselves. Something like the Promenade, but no freakshows, and better quality. The violinists, singers, and guitarists almost always play beautifully.
Today, on the train, two men entered, mumbled something in Spanish, and took out their microphone, speaker system, and flute. They had a CD playing behind them, drums and backup vocals.
They sounded CD-quality, playing without missing a note. I wondered whether they were lip-syncing and lip-fluting. But then, the flautist put away his flute, and I could hear the whoosh of air as he took it from his mouth. He started shaking maracas, and the shakes lined up with the sounds. Then, after the maraca chorus, he took out a wooden harmonica, and I could again hear that whoosh that proved the playing was real. They were moving, really getting into their music.
I wondered how they made money, thinking that perhaps they sang for fun, out of the kindness of their hearts. The rest of the train car seemed unaffected, as if they were used to the good show. I must have stood out, with my wide stupid joyful grin. But then they finished their second song, mumbled something in Spanish again, and went around the train car. Half the car, maybe more, gave change. I left at the next stop, and saw them in the next car.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The extraordinary human body
The body can do extraordinary things on two cokes and a red bull. It can hit the bars at midnight, hop clubs later on, dance until 6am, eat a churros and chocolate breakfast at 7am, and head home at eight. It can wake up on the bus ride home just long enough to get off at the right stop, it can make the five minute walk to the house, and it can climb up the stairs into bed. It can´t take the time to shower, but it can undress, pull back the bed covers, and set the alarm for four in the afternoon.
I woke up at four in the afternoon and hit the snooze, getting out of bed at around 5pm. Hector and Dario´s birthday party started at eight. Spain´s basketball team´s victory against Greece in the Eurobasket semi-finals was the night´s main event. Then, the parents opened the piñata (they pull a drawstring and the piñata breaks, a far less exhilarating show than our homerun-derby-like tradition), Eva (the mom) and I handed out cake, and the family brought out the presents. My toy trucks went over damn well.
I woke up at four in the afternoon and hit the snooze, getting out of bed at around 5pm. Hector and Dario´s birthday party started at eight. Spain´s basketball team´s victory against Greece in the Eurobasket semi-finals was the night´s main event. Then, the parents opened the piñata (they pull a drawstring and the piñata breaks, a far less exhilarating show than our homerun-derby-like tradition), Eva (the mom) and I handed out cake, and the family brought out the presents. My toy trucks went over damn well.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Games of chance
I went job-hunting today in the small main street in Majadahonda. Restaurants, variety shops, haircutters, a hotel, and one place offering English lessons.
Getting a job is like the college process: it´s mysterious what they´re looking for. Some places reject off the bat; others, like the Toll Gate in England, hire off the bat. I got no hires today, but between those who express interest -- a few restaurants, one variety shop, the hotel, and the place offering English lessons -- and the ones that gave a flat "no," my pitch didn´t vary very much. (Maybe the reason is as simple as that some need and others don´t.)
The single-store shops where the owner is present -- those are gold. Otherwise, it´s a game of craps.
Getting a job is like the college process: it´s mysterious what they´re looking for. Some places reject off the bat; others, like the Toll Gate in England, hire off the bat. I got no hires today, but between those who express interest -- a few restaurants, one variety shop, the hotel, and the place offering English lessons -- and the ones that gave a flat "no," my pitch didn´t vary very much. (Maybe the reason is as simple as that some need and others don´t.)
The single-store shops where the owner is present -- those are gold. Otherwise, it´s a game of craps.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Pure Spanish, all the way
"Are the Spanish different than you expected?" my host father asked in Spanish on our man-date of pizza and beer en route to renting a movie for the rest of the family.
"They´re more direct," I answered in Spanish. "I expected the relaxed, exotic Mediterranean type. Maybe that´s more true in Southern Spain than in Madrid."
"Yes, definitely," he nodded.
"And the Spanish are louder, too," I said.
He agreed. The Spanish are loud.
"I like how direct they are," I said. "But the Spanish always think they´re right."
Once, I explained, I had been chatting with a woman about her son. In mid-conversation, out of nowhere, she locked into my eyes and said forcefully, "My Spanish is pure. Pure. You should listen to me"
Alberto, my host father, wondered what she had even meant by "pure Spanish." What did she mean?
They don´t always think they´re right. On average, though, they´re more cocksure than the Californians I´ve met.
You can see some of that hyper-confidence in my kids, especially in the logic used when they don´t get their way.
"I want the whole bag of M&Ms," Hector, the five-year old, said.
"You can have half the bag," said Margie, my host family´s live-in nanny.
"I said THE WHOLE BAG!" (Margie must have misunderstood.)
Or how about:
"Why did you throw sand at your brother?" I asked, when we were in the garden on a short break from English lessons.
"Porque sí."
In English, that´s "Because yes."
And two girls from this program with whom I´ve been chilling both say the same things about their children, right down to the "Porque sí."
Still, I love these kids. Hector and Dario (the three-year-old) are adorable, and they like learning English.
To ask to start lessons, they say "Quiero jugar inglés." "I want to play English." It´s so cute.
At their ages, the lessons are a bit like play. They sing songs from the texbook´s CD -- ("My name´s Cookie, Cookie the Cat, say hello to Cookie, hello hello hello"). They draw in the coloring book section of the textbooks (we review each object that they color in, so they learn vocabulary). We examine toys and objects around the room (I pick up the toy dinosaur and introduce "teeth," "hands," "tongue," etc.). And, we play games (for example, to learn colors, a form of the game "red light, yellow light, green light").
Meanwhile, this Saturday, Hector and Dario are having a joint birthday party. I hope I don´t fall asleep -- the "going away party" for one of the girls in the program is this Friday, so we´re clubbing all night. It´s a bit ridiculous. After traveling 6000 miles, I´m mostly hanging out with Californians. Thankfully, I´ll be saved by an aspect of the Spanish I did know to expect, an appreciation for the siesta.
"They´re more direct," I answered in Spanish. "I expected the relaxed, exotic Mediterranean type. Maybe that´s more true in Southern Spain than in Madrid."
"Yes, definitely," he nodded.
"And the Spanish are louder, too," I said.
He agreed. The Spanish are loud.
"I like how direct they are," I said. "But the Spanish always think they´re right."
Once, I explained, I had been chatting with a woman about her son. In mid-conversation, out of nowhere, she locked into my eyes and said forcefully, "My Spanish is pure. Pure. You should listen to me"
Alberto, my host father, wondered what she had even meant by "pure Spanish." What did she mean?
They don´t always think they´re right. On average, though, they´re more cocksure than the Californians I´ve met.
You can see some of that hyper-confidence in my kids, especially in the logic used when they don´t get their way.
"I want the whole bag of M&Ms," Hector, the five-year old, said.
"You can have half the bag," said Margie, my host family´s live-in nanny.
"I said THE WHOLE BAG!" (Margie must have misunderstood.)
Or how about:
"Why did you throw sand at your brother?" I asked, when we were in the garden on a short break from English lessons.
"Porque sí."
In English, that´s "Because yes."
And two girls from this program with whom I´ve been chilling both say the same things about their children, right down to the "Porque sí."
Still, I love these kids. Hector and Dario (the three-year-old) are adorable, and they like learning English.
To ask to start lessons, they say "Quiero jugar inglés." "I want to play English." It´s so cute.
At their ages, the lessons are a bit like play. They sing songs from the texbook´s CD -- ("My name´s Cookie, Cookie the Cat, say hello to Cookie, hello hello hello"). They draw in the coloring book section of the textbooks (we review each object that they color in, so they learn vocabulary). We examine toys and objects around the room (I pick up the toy dinosaur and introduce "teeth," "hands," "tongue," etc.). And, we play games (for example, to learn colors, a form of the game "red light, yellow light, green light").
Meanwhile, this Saturday, Hector and Dario are having a joint birthday party. I hope I don´t fall asleep -- the "going away party" for one of the girls in the program is this Friday, so we´re clubbing all night. It´s a bit ridiculous. After traveling 6000 miles, I´m mostly hanging out with Californians. Thankfully, I´ll be saved by an aspect of the Spanish I did know to expect, an appreciation for the siesta.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Slave and Master Recruitment Officer, or just a con artist?
Here´s an email I got a few days ago from a man named “Kenneth”:
I searched through a web and i confirmed that you are a teacher so i will want to bring it to your awareness that my son will be coming to madrid in sept(15st-30th) . So i need you to help me teach him.His name is Sam, and He will be coming to your house for 1 hour each day for two weeks from monday-friday. So i will want you to let me know your availability and your charge per hour
In a blog post subsequently deleted to make room for this fuller explanation, I said the email sounded more like a “thinly veiled slave and master recruitment ad” than a request for a tutor. Still, explaining that "I need money like eggs need rosemary,” I responded positively:
Hi Kenneth,
I would be happy to help you teach your son. In terms of availability, I am free until 1pm and from 2:30pm to 4pm. What works for you?
In terms of location, I don´t have a house to offer because I am staying with a host family (not my own family), and I can´t offer their house as a base of my own teaching. Is there another place we could meet? Perhaps a quiet coffee shop?
I charge 15 Euros per hour for one-on-one lessons, but I am flexible in terms of payment. By the way, if you would like to speak to me by telephone, my number is (34) 693 254 667.
Thank you,
Andrew
The response was strange:
Greetings Thanks very much for the mail.That is okay with me.So for ten lessons ,it will be 150euro. He will come along with his text books and all necessary accessories,i am from the United Kingdom.I hope i will be able to trust you with my money,since this requires honesty and transparency.I have an associate of mine owing me the sum of 2500euro,i will instruct him to write out the cheque to you,so when you receive it you will have to deduct 150euro the cost for ten lessons and send the remaining funds to person who will be taking care of my son during his staying in the State.The remaining funds sent to him,will be for his feeding and other commissions.So if this is understandable i will want you to get back to me with the following in formations of where the check will be sent to. name in full address in full city state zip code country contact phone number Looking forward to read for you
Let´s count the ways he´s telegraphing a scam:
1. He says he´s from the UK, but writes like he is an army general with shrapnel in his head.
2. Why wouldn't he send me the 150E and the remainder directly to the person who will be taking care of his son?
3. He did not respond at all to my comment that I can´t use my house to teach.
4. His salutation is pretty form-letter. Doesn´t even bother to use my name…
5. And, speaking of names, this email came from a different address. “Kenneth” became “Mathew” in the blink of an email. No explanation!
His plan was probably to give me a bounced check and leave me down 2,300E by the time the dust settled.
I thought it might be fun to turn the tables and take this guy for a ride (without giving him any accurate information), but I decided to play things safe:
Hi Mathew, I´m sorry, but I will not be able to tutor your son due to time constraints I had not foreseen. Thank you for the offer, and I´m sorry I could not be of more help.
Thank you,
Andrew
Eggs don´t need rosemary that badly.
I searched through a web and i confirmed that you are a teacher so i will want to bring it to your awareness that my son will be coming to madrid in sept(15st-30th) . So i need you to help me teach him.His name is Sam, and He will be coming to your house for 1 hour each day for two weeks from monday-friday. So i will want you to let me know your availability and your charge per hour
In a blog post subsequently deleted to make room for this fuller explanation, I said the email sounded more like a “thinly veiled slave and master recruitment ad” than a request for a tutor. Still, explaining that "I need money like eggs need rosemary,” I responded positively:
Hi Kenneth,
I would be happy to help you teach your son. In terms of availability, I am free until 1pm and from 2:30pm to 4pm. What works for you?
In terms of location, I don´t have a house to offer because I am staying with a host family (not my own family), and I can´t offer their house as a base of my own teaching. Is there another place we could meet? Perhaps a quiet coffee shop?
I charge 15 Euros per hour for one-on-one lessons, but I am flexible in terms of payment. By the way, if you would like to speak to me by telephone, my number is (34) 693 254 667.
Thank you,
Andrew
The response was strange:
Greetings Thanks very much for the mail.That is okay with me.So for ten lessons ,it will be 150euro. He will come along with his text books and all necessary accessories,i am from the United Kingdom.I hope i will be able to trust you with my money,since this requires honesty and transparency.I have an associate of mine owing me the sum of 2500euro,i will instruct him to write out the cheque to you,so when you receive it you will have to deduct 150euro the cost for ten lessons and send the remaining funds to person who will be taking care of my son during his staying in the State.The remaining funds sent to him,will be for his feeding and other commissions.So if this is understandable i will want you to get back to me with the following in formations of where the check will be sent to. name in full address in full city state zip code country contact phone number Looking forward to read for you
Let´s count the ways he´s telegraphing a scam:
1. He says he´s from the UK, but writes like he is an army general with shrapnel in his head.
2. Why wouldn't he send me the 150E and the remainder directly to the person who will be taking care of his son?
3. He did not respond at all to my comment that I can´t use my house to teach.
4. His salutation is pretty form-letter. Doesn´t even bother to use my name…
5. And, speaking of names, this email came from a different address. “Kenneth” became “Mathew” in the blink of an email. No explanation!
His plan was probably to give me a bounced check and leave me down 2,300E by the time the dust settled.
I thought it might be fun to turn the tables and take this guy for a ride (without giving him any accurate information), but I decided to play things safe:
Hi Mathew, I´m sorry, but I will not be able to tutor your son due to time constraints I had not foreseen. Thank you for the offer, and I´m sorry I could not be of more help.
Thank you,
Andrew
Eggs don´t need rosemary that badly.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Leaving the English woods for the Spanish city
Just a few days after everyone was settling into the first week or two of college, I was also in transition, heading back to Spain.
In my last week in England, I went camping with Naomi (the friend I was staying with), her best friend, Olivia, and her best friend´s boyfriend, Nathan. Naomi and Olivia knew of a random field about an hour out of London. Though they knew the location, they had no idea who owned it. We guessed it was a farmer´s fallow field, but who knows? We went hiking, played cards and scrabble, built a camp fire, and roasted marshmallows.
I told Jimmy that I had been accepted into a prestigious program in Spain but would be back in three months, and, to my utter shock, he told me that I would probably be able to have my job back when I returned.
Leaving was sad, especially saying goodbye to Naomi, Olivia, and Nathan. (And to my gruff but loveable employer.)
A two hour plane trip landed me in Madrid. I walked through the same terminal of the same airport where the Eurotrip began, and I really felt the deja vu and nostalgia.
I´m tutoring English again, but with a program behind me, as well as valuable experience from tutoring in Santander. The kids here are much younger than in Santander, three and five years old, so the "textbooks" I bought are heavy on songs and coloring in, which makes the teaching easier.
What´s more, I don´t have any responsibility to babysit the kids, and the fact that I can concentrate on teaching makes it easier for me to play that role and that role alone during lessons, and for the kids to see me as the teacher. They even call me "Professor"! The days up until 5pm and after 8pm are mine.
I hope to get a job in the mornings and afternoons, probably in Madrid, which by bus is 20 minutes away from Majadohanda, where I live. I can work in a shop or restaurant, or I can teach English. I´d prefer to go the shop/restaurant route, so that I will be speaking in Spanish, but I may end up teaching a lot of English. An ad I put up on Craigslist for English lessons received a response from a dude who wants a tutor, and I´m meeting him tomorrow. And an English teaching center I visited to buy books offered me the possibility of a job. And a guy I met in Santander who works for a competing English teaching center has also said he may be able to get me a job. It would be really cool to be a waiter, charming tables in Spanish, but teaching has its plusses too. I´ll see how things go, take the teaching jobs that come while I ask around restaurants and shops.
By the way, I´m back to the old Spanish number: 011 34 693 254 667.
In my last week in England, I went camping with Naomi (the friend I was staying with), her best friend, Olivia, and her best friend´s boyfriend, Nathan. Naomi and Olivia knew of a random field about an hour out of London. Though they knew the location, they had no idea who owned it. We guessed it was a farmer´s fallow field, but who knows? We went hiking, played cards and scrabble, built a camp fire, and roasted marshmallows.
I told Jimmy that I had been accepted into a prestigious program in Spain but would be back in three months, and, to my utter shock, he told me that I would probably be able to have my job back when I returned.
Leaving was sad, especially saying goodbye to Naomi, Olivia, and Nathan. (And to my gruff but loveable employer.)
A two hour plane trip landed me in Madrid. I walked through the same terminal of the same airport where the Eurotrip began, and I really felt the deja vu and nostalgia.
I´m tutoring English again, but with a program behind me, as well as valuable experience from tutoring in Santander. The kids here are much younger than in Santander, three and five years old, so the "textbooks" I bought are heavy on songs and coloring in, which makes the teaching easier.
What´s more, I don´t have any responsibility to babysit the kids, and the fact that I can concentrate on teaching makes it easier for me to play that role and that role alone during lessons, and for the kids to see me as the teacher. They even call me "Professor"! The days up until 5pm and after 8pm are mine.
I hope to get a job in the mornings and afternoons, probably in Madrid, which by bus is 20 minutes away from Majadohanda, where I live. I can work in a shop or restaurant, or I can teach English. I´d prefer to go the shop/restaurant route, so that I will be speaking in Spanish, but I may end up teaching a lot of English. An ad I put up on Craigslist for English lessons received a response from a dude who wants a tutor, and I´m meeting him tomorrow. And an English teaching center I visited to buy books offered me the possibility of a job. And a guy I met in Santander who works for a competing English teaching center has also said he may be able to get me a job. It would be really cool to be a waiter, charming tables in Spanish, but teaching has its plusses too. I´ll see how things go, take the teaching jobs that come while I ask around restaurants and shops.
By the way, I´m back to the old Spanish number: 011 34 693 254 667.
Friday, August 24, 2007
A new tutoring gig
Two days ago, a program I was in placed me in a family as a tutor (three hours a day on weekdays) in a small town right outside of Madrid. At the beginning of September, I'll be back in Spain!
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
My new job and methadone fix
New British number: 011447856025643.
A two hour plane trip across the continent left me in London at 10pm, where my Mom's best friend (who lives in London) picked me up and brought me home.
The next day, I woke up late, got some breakfast, and went back to sleep. I woke up around 1 or 2pm and went out to get lunch. The first breakfast/brunch shop I entered was a bit too expensive, but I saw a "Waitress wanted" sign in the window.
"Can I help you?" a guy in the back asked.
I was about to leave, and I almost said no thanks.
"Yeah, I know I'm not a woman, but would you be interested in hiring me as a waiter?" I asked.
"We want someone for weekends," the guy in the back said. "Does that work for you?"
"I could do weekends," I said.
"Okay. Come here tomorrow for training," he said gruffly.
"Okay," I said.
"What is your name?"
"Andrew."
"Okay. Nice to meet you."
"And -- sorry -- what's your name?" I asked.
"Jimmy," he said, with great intensity.
I left, pretending to be casual. When I was out of earshot of the restaurant, I started singing in the London rain. I couldn't believe my luck. When I told Vega (my Mom's best friend) and Naomi (Vega's younger daughter, about my age, who I have known for almost all my life), they couldn't believe it either. Kids here spend three to four weeks job-hunting, they said. Last summer, Alese (Vega's older daughter) spent three weeks before she found a waitering job at a bar, and Naomi spent three weeks before she decided that babysitting was the better way to go. I pulled down a job on my first day, on my first trip out of the house, when I was looking for lunch, not work. The best part is that I was doing laundry that day, and almost everything was in the wash, so I came to ask for work in flip-flops and sweats.
I wondered whether my luck had been too good to be true. Had "Jimmy" had been a customer playing a prank?
My fears seemed prophetic when I came for "training" the next day around 9am.
"Who's Jimmy?" the woman behind the counter asked.
I said he seemed like the manager or the owner, and that he had given me a waitering job.
"Was he fat?" she asked.
"No," I told her.
"Okay, wait until Susana comes," she said.
A half hour later, Susana also didn't know who Jimmy was.
I was getting worried, until Susana had a revelation.
"Was he thin, kind of Turkish looking?" she asked.
I said he was.
"Ah! Mossaud!" she said. "He's telling people his name's Jimmy because he thinks it sounds more Western."
...
I kid you not.
The day was smooth sailing from there. Mossaud/Jimmy came in around 11 and recognized me. I was already working. Mostly, I am a waiter. I also toweled down tables, polished glasses, made drinks, and cleaned the bathroom. But by far the most fun part of the job is waitering.
And, as if this wildly lucky gig couldn't get better, Mossaud/Jimmy told me that he might soon need someone for weekdays. I might have a full-time job here!
Meanwhile, chilling with Naomi and her friends has been great. Yesterday, six or seven of us went to a pub for the night. (And now I have fully experienced British culture.)
More importantly, Naomi has Scrubs Season 1 on DVD. We watched an episode, and I was a drug addict getting my fix.
A two hour plane trip across the continent left me in London at 10pm, where my Mom's best friend (who lives in London) picked me up and brought me home.
The next day, I woke up late, got some breakfast, and went back to sleep. I woke up around 1 or 2pm and went out to get lunch. The first breakfast/brunch shop I entered was a bit too expensive, but I saw a "Waitress wanted" sign in the window.
"Can I help you?" a guy in the back asked.
I was about to leave, and I almost said no thanks.
"Yeah, I know I'm not a woman, but would you be interested in hiring me as a waiter?" I asked.
"We want someone for weekends," the guy in the back said. "Does that work for you?"
"I could do weekends," I said.
"Okay. Come here tomorrow for training," he said gruffly.
"Okay," I said.
"What is your name?"
"Andrew."
"Okay. Nice to meet you."
"And -- sorry -- what's your name?" I asked.
"Jimmy," he said, with great intensity.
I left, pretending to be casual. When I was out of earshot of the restaurant, I started singing in the London rain. I couldn't believe my luck. When I told Vega (my Mom's best friend) and Naomi (Vega's younger daughter, about my age, who I have known for almost all my life), they couldn't believe it either. Kids here spend three to four weeks job-hunting, they said. Last summer, Alese (Vega's older daughter) spent three weeks before she found a waitering job at a bar, and Naomi spent three weeks before she decided that babysitting was the better way to go. I pulled down a job on my first day, on my first trip out of the house, when I was looking for lunch, not work. The best part is that I was doing laundry that day, and almost everything was in the wash, so I came to ask for work in flip-flops and sweats.
I wondered whether my luck had been too good to be true. Had "Jimmy" had been a customer playing a prank?
My fears seemed prophetic when I came for "training" the next day around 9am.
"Who's Jimmy?" the woman behind the counter asked.
I said he seemed like the manager or the owner, and that he had given me a waitering job.
"Was he fat?" she asked.
"No," I told her.
"Okay, wait until Susana comes," she said.
A half hour later, Susana also didn't know who Jimmy was.
I was getting worried, until Susana had a revelation.
"Was he thin, kind of Turkish looking?" she asked.
I said he was.
"Ah! Mossaud!" she said. "He's telling people his name's Jimmy because he thinks it sounds more Western."
...
I kid you not.
The day was smooth sailing from there. Mossaud/Jimmy came in around 11 and recognized me. I was already working. Mostly, I am a waiter. I also toweled down tables, polished glasses, made drinks, and cleaned the bathroom. But by far the most fun part of the job is waitering.
And, as if this wildly lucky gig couldn't get better, Mossaud/Jimmy told me that he might soon need someone for weekdays. I might have a full-time job here!
Meanwhile, chilling with Naomi and her friends has been great. Yesterday, six or seven of us went to a pub for the night. (And now I have fully experienced British culture.)
More importantly, Naomi has Scrubs Season 1 on DVD. We watched an episode, and I was a drug addict getting my fix.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Moving out
I had a job that was just too good to be true. A few days ago, reality struck home.
When I was hired, there was a provision that half-way through, we would evaluate the situation, and, if one party was unhappy, end the tutoring early. That´s what happened.
Manolo told me that his and Jorge´s exteneded family was coming in, and one of the family members needed my bed. The next day, I asked him for the real reason.
Manolo felt that Jorge wasn´t learning quickly enough, and, on the 16th, a trained English Professor will start teaching Jorge for an hour a day. Although Manolo brought up legit errors I made, I felt fairly good after the talk, because every error was a direct result of my inexperience in teaching -- I don´t have the training that the English Professor will have.
I should have written down what I was saying, spoken more slowly when I spoke in English, employed repetition more, bought a lesson book and established a lesson plan, and initiated more basic conversation in English. These are mistakes I won´t make next time.
Also, as a broad lesson, I know now to check in with the client/employer often. In this case, I would have known to get a lesson book, write words down, etc.
I was scared when I got sacked. Not only had I been relying on staying with Manolo, but I thought I was golden in terms of how I was doing. It was a left jab in a boxing match -- not as powerful as a punch from the right, but so much worse because you didn´t see it coming. I was getting along with the hotel staff, the hotel director (who also lived with me), Manolo, and even Jorge when we were outside of lessons. People-wise, I was good. It was my inexperience in teaching that did me in.
But, like most unexpected events, this one carried a silver lining, because tomorrow I go to England to stay with my friend Naomi. I probably would not have been able to go to England at all if I didn´t go now, and I´m excited to go.
When I was hired, there was a provision that half-way through, we would evaluate the situation, and, if one party was unhappy, end the tutoring early. That´s what happened.
Manolo told me that his and Jorge´s exteneded family was coming in, and one of the family members needed my bed. The next day, I asked him for the real reason.
Manolo felt that Jorge wasn´t learning quickly enough, and, on the 16th, a trained English Professor will start teaching Jorge for an hour a day. Although Manolo brought up legit errors I made, I felt fairly good after the talk, because every error was a direct result of my inexperience in teaching -- I don´t have the training that the English Professor will have.
I should have written down what I was saying, spoken more slowly when I spoke in English, employed repetition more, bought a lesson book and established a lesson plan, and initiated more basic conversation in English. These are mistakes I won´t make next time.
Also, as a broad lesson, I know now to check in with the client/employer often. In this case, I would have known to get a lesson book, write words down, etc.
I was scared when I got sacked. Not only had I been relying on staying with Manolo, but I thought I was golden in terms of how I was doing. It was a left jab in a boxing match -- not as powerful as a punch from the right, but so much worse because you didn´t see it coming. I was getting along with the hotel staff, the hotel director (who also lived with me), Manolo, and even Jorge when we were outside of lessons. People-wise, I was good. It was my inexperience in teaching that did me in.
But, like most unexpected events, this one carried a silver lining, because tomorrow I go to England to stay with my friend Naomi. I probably would not have been able to go to England at all if I didn´t go now, and I´m excited to go.
Friday, August 10, 2007
My stint as a professional wrestler
I may be going bar-hopping with some local Cantabria kids tomorrow. Caranceja is a tiny town, so if I stand out in the plaza for any extended period of time (say, making phone calls), I am usually sure to see someone I know. One of the kids I met at the party, named Jorge, saw me two nights ago and invited me to a house to chill with some friends. Everyone said they had met me at the party, and I knew none of them except my homie Jorge. It was surreal, like I was on the Truman Show. I literally didn´t know them, and they were irked when I asked their names. But they got over it, and we may go into Cabezon de la Sal tomorrow and bar-hop.
Taking care of Jorge is easy. We play sports. His favorite show is ¨Prison Cut,¨ which is what they call WWE here, so we re-enact wrestling fights. He is the Undertaker and I am whoever he says I am.
Teaching Jorge English ridiculously hard. When we are chilling, he speaks in Spanish, which is a sure way not to learn English. I speak in English, and then repeat my sentence in Spanish, because he becomes frustrated when I say things that he does not understand. And, when we are in lessons, he periodically asks me how long until we finish the lesson. He really just wants to go back to sleep or go outside and play. Today, the lesson went especially badly. I was giving sentences for him to write, and the first two went well. Then, I told him to write ¨I started to pet the dog.¨ Something about the sentence confused him, and he refused to write it. I asked him what he did not understand.
¨No lo he dado,¨ he said.
¨I don´t know what that means,¨ I said.
¨No lo he dado.¨
¨No puedo ayudarte se no me explicas,¨ I said. I can´t help you if you don´t explain to me.
¨No lo he dado,¨ he said.
¨¿Que´ cenifica?¨ I asked. What does that mean?
Angrily, he wrote ¨No lo he dado¨ in big letters on the sheet.
Later, I learned that the meaning. ¨I haven´t learned it.¨ It killed me.
An hour later, we watched Prison Cut, re-enacted it, and everything was fine.
Thank God.
Whoa, fireworks are shooting off outside the window. This is crazy. As a general rule, cannons fire at random times during the day here. I used to think it was official, but now I think that people just take the initiative. Noise is no thang. Parties blare across the town until 3 am. Less regulation than in the US, I guess.
And now, for my favorite topic...separatism!
Miguel (the father of the family in Olot that we stayed with on the Eurotrip) had said that Cataluña was rich, and that Spain took more money from it than it gave back. Manolo (Jorge´s dad) unintentionally confirmed this fact when we were chatting. His justification:
¨There are richer areas and there are poorer areas,¨ he said in Spanish. ¨Cataluña is one of the rich areas, and they don´t want to help the poor areas. They want the rich to get richer and the poor to get poorer.¨
But then he admitted that the area with the greatest tax surplus is Madrid.
¨The people who make the tax laws give their area the most money!¨ I said. ¨A conflict of interest, no?¨
He agreed, but I must tread softly. These independence movements stir the Spanish up. Manolo swears that if Cataluña split away, the Spanish would mount a widespread and effective boycott (not a state-sponsored embargo, but a grass-roots informal boycott). For this reason, he believes a split would be bad for Spain and Cataluña.
I tend to disagree. For Spain, yes. For Cataluña, no. First of all, Cataluña would sell to the rest of Europe. Second of all, the boycott would collapse. People buy the products with the best value, and if Cataluña makes products most efficiently, and my sense is that they do, Spain will buy them, even from an independent Cataluña.
So, yes, Spain will be hurt. Cataluña sounds like one of Spain´s major engines of industry. How unfortunate for Spain.
The truth is -- and I keep this truth quiet, because people here really care about keeping Spain unified -- that I have quite a bit of sympathy for the Cataluñan separatist movement. They have their own culture and language, and, for this reason, Spain´s extraction of wealth from Cataluña seems more like a colonizer abusing a colony than a country getting help from its ¨richer area.¨
I know less about the Basque separatists. The Basque area was once rich, but it is now poor. Manolo says that the ETA (a Basque separatist terrorist group) is to blame. They demand money from businessmen, and refusals result in deaths. So businessmen leave. Also, the terrorism dries up tourism, which was once a major industry for the Basque area.
In the Basque area, big changes may be afoot. For the first time since Spain became a democracy, in 1978, the governor in Navarra is a Basque nationalist. (Navarra is one of several Basque provinces.) Zapatero, Spain´s President, is up in arms. Miguel (the hotel director and the guy in whose house I am staying) decries Spain´s decentralization of power.
¨In the US,¨ he said in Spanish, ¨the states are of a federation. The central government has power.¨
That is the second time that someone has compared Spain´s power-sharing system to that of the US. Both times, the comparison favored the system in the US. Comically, the comparison given to me by Miguel the Olot father framed the US as better than Spain because it gave its separate states power to make their own laws, while the comparison given by Miguel the hotel director framed the US as better than Spain because its central government held the important reins of power.
And in America, the streets are paved with gold...
Taking care of Jorge is easy. We play sports. His favorite show is ¨Prison Cut,¨ which is what they call WWE here, so we re-enact wrestling fights. He is the Undertaker and I am whoever he says I am.
Teaching Jorge English ridiculously hard. When we are chilling, he speaks in Spanish, which is a sure way not to learn English. I speak in English, and then repeat my sentence in Spanish, because he becomes frustrated when I say things that he does not understand. And, when we are in lessons, he periodically asks me how long until we finish the lesson. He really just wants to go back to sleep or go outside and play. Today, the lesson went especially badly. I was giving sentences for him to write, and the first two went well. Then, I told him to write ¨I started to pet the dog.¨ Something about the sentence confused him, and he refused to write it. I asked him what he did not understand.
¨No lo he dado,¨ he said.
¨I don´t know what that means,¨ I said.
¨No lo he dado.¨
¨No puedo ayudarte se no me explicas,¨ I said. I can´t help you if you don´t explain to me.
¨No lo he dado,¨ he said.
¨¿Que´ cenifica?¨ I asked. What does that mean?
Angrily, he wrote ¨No lo he dado¨ in big letters on the sheet.
Later, I learned that the meaning. ¨I haven´t learned it.¨ It killed me.
An hour later, we watched Prison Cut, re-enacted it, and everything was fine.
Thank God.
Whoa, fireworks are shooting off outside the window. This is crazy. As a general rule, cannons fire at random times during the day here. I used to think it was official, but now I think that people just take the initiative. Noise is no thang. Parties blare across the town until 3 am. Less regulation than in the US, I guess.
And now, for my favorite topic...separatism!
Miguel (the father of the family in Olot that we stayed with on the Eurotrip) had said that Cataluña was rich, and that Spain took more money from it than it gave back. Manolo (Jorge´s dad) unintentionally confirmed this fact when we were chatting. His justification:
¨There are richer areas and there are poorer areas,¨ he said in Spanish. ¨Cataluña is one of the rich areas, and they don´t want to help the poor areas. They want the rich to get richer and the poor to get poorer.¨
But then he admitted that the area with the greatest tax surplus is Madrid.
¨The people who make the tax laws give their area the most money!¨ I said. ¨A conflict of interest, no?¨
He agreed, but I must tread softly. These independence movements stir the Spanish up. Manolo swears that if Cataluña split away, the Spanish would mount a widespread and effective boycott (not a state-sponsored embargo, but a grass-roots informal boycott). For this reason, he believes a split would be bad for Spain and Cataluña.
I tend to disagree. For Spain, yes. For Cataluña, no. First of all, Cataluña would sell to the rest of Europe. Second of all, the boycott would collapse. People buy the products with the best value, and if Cataluña makes products most efficiently, and my sense is that they do, Spain will buy them, even from an independent Cataluña.
So, yes, Spain will be hurt. Cataluña sounds like one of Spain´s major engines of industry. How unfortunate for Spain.
The truth is -- and I keep this truth quiet, because people here really care about keeping Spain unified -- that I have quite a bit of sympathy for the Cataluñan separatist movement. They have their own culture and language, and, for this reason, Spain´s extraction of wealth from Cataluña seems more like a colonizer abusing a colony than a country getting help from its ¨richer area.¨
I know less about the Basque separatists. The Basque area was once rich, but it is now poor. Manolo says that the ETA (a Basque separatist terrorist group) is to blame. They demand money from businessmen, and refusals result in deaths. So businessmen leave. Also, the terrorism dries up tourism, which was once a major industry for the Basque area.
In the Basque area, big changes may be afoot. For the first time since Spain became a democracy, in 1978, the governor in Navarra is a Basque nationalist. (Navarra is one of several Basque provinces.) Zapatero, Spain´s President, is up in arms. Miguel (the hotel director and the guy in whose house I am staying) decries Spain´s decentralization of power.
¨In the US,¨ he said in Spanish, ¨the states are of a federation. The central government has power.¨
That is the second time that someone has compared Spain´s power-sharing system to that of the US. Both times, the comparison favored the system in the US. Comically, the comparison given to me by Miguel the Olot father framed the US as better than Spain because it gave its separate states power to make their own laws, while the comparison given by Miguel the hotel director framed the US as better than Spain because its central government held the important reins of power.
And in America, the streets are paved with gold...
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Tutoring for the wealthy
Traveling from Amsterdam to Santander was a little more complicated than from Nice to Amsterdam. It was supposed to be 22 hours, and ended up being 25 after I arrived too late at my last stop to catch the first bus and had to wait a few hours for the next.
On the way, I hit Paris for a two hour layover. I asked a taxi driver to take me to the Eifel Tower and then to my next station. In broken English, Pierrey (he said to call him PY) ended up giving me a guided tour of the most beautiful city I have visited. Maybe I´ll be there again sometime this year.
Seven different trains, four countries (Netherlands, Belgium, France, Spain) and 25 hours after I left Amsterdam, I was in Santander for the first of my job gap year. I am taking care of a boy and teaching English to him. It felt good to be back in Spain. Familiar, as if Amsterdam had been vacation but Spain was almost like home.
Jorge, the boy I´m tutoring, is the son of the owner of a hotel, whose name is Manolo. The hotel is small but extremely posh, converted from a 17th century palace. I sleep in a house next to the hotel, and it´s just as nice. I have my own queen-size bed, my own bathroom, my own bureau, my own beautiful windows looking out over the courtyard and the two-hole golf course...it takes a little getting used to after life in hostels. I also eat with the family for breakfast and lunch, so in addition to my beautiful room I get delicious board. To see the hotel, go to http://www.palaciocaranceja.com/.
When I met Jorge and Manolo in Santander´s bus station, Jorge hugged me, yelling, ¨¡Mi amigo!¨ He´s outgoing, easy-going, and loves sports, so he´s basically perfect. Well, he hates lessons, but it´s the summer and I can´t really blame him. But if anyone has ideas for making grammar fun, send me the love.
Manolo is great as well. He´s amazingly generous -- for example, he takes me out to lunch even when Jorge is off somewhere else, and he rented a surfboard for me when he took Jorge, Jorge´s friend Javier, me, and himself to the beach. Also, he´s a really cool guy. I sit shotgun on car rides, and we shoot the breaze, the three most common topics being differences between Spain and the US, the Cataluñian and Basque independence movements, and life back home. He speaks in broken English, and I help him, and I speak in my medium-level Spanish, and he helps me.
The house in which I´m staying is actually Miguel´s. He is the hotel director, and he´s one of those gruff older men who uses playful physical violence to show their love, such as punching people lightly on the shoulder. The first night, I thanked him profusely (and quite genuinely) for giving me such beautiful living arrangements in his house. Ever since, he´s loved me and offers me beer at all hours.
The hotel, Palacio de Caranceja, is about 45 minutes by train from Santander, which is the nearest big city. Caranceja, while small, is also fun. On my second night in town, the community was holding a fiesta. Think block party, but one that starts at eight and goes until three in the morning (the kids and adults left around one, and the teenagers stayed until the end). Local taxes pay for it, so it´s pretty legit, with a DJ, a steam cannon, a foam machine, and food. It was held on the main plaza, and almost the whole town (I´m guessing about 150 people) showed up. Being American made me a celebrity, and by the end of the night I had met lots of kids. At three, I was dancing in the foam along with the other 15 of us who were still there. The DJ called last song, but when it ended, everyone pounded the stage, chanting ¨Otro, otro, otro¨ (another, another, another). The DJ played one more, and when it ended, people pounded and chanted again. This time, the DJs were really packing up, so they threw random CDs out to the crowd to appease us. I came home wet from the foam, hung my clothes up, and hit the sack happy.
And the next day, I played soccer with some of the kids I met at the party. My team lost 2-1, but I wasn´t half-bad.
I´m lucky to have found this job. I put an ad up on Craigslist offering English tutoring for room and board. Manolo called me offering amazing room, amazing board, and 300 Euros. Lucky is an understatement. This is the best, most comfortable way I could have started my gap year. The job ends in August, and I only wish it would last longer.
Oh, by the way, I have a new telephone number! This one is my permanent Spanish number: 011 34 693 254 667.
On the way, I hit Paris for a two hour layover. I asked a taxi driver to take me to the Eifel Tower and then to my next station. In broken English, Pierrey (he said to call him PY) ended up giving me a guided tour of the most beautiful city I have visited. Maybe I´ll be there again sometime this year.
Seven different trains, four countries (Netherlands, Belgium, France, Spain) and 25 hours after I left Amsterdam, I was in Santander for the first of my job gap year. I am taking care of a boy and teaching English to him. It felt good to be back in Spain. Familiar, as if Amsterdam had been vacation but Spain was almost like home.
Jorge, the boy I´m tutoring, is the son of the owner of a hotel, whose name is Manolo. The hotel is small but extremely posh, converted from a 17th century palace. I sleep in a house next to the hotel, and it´s just as nice. I have my own queen-size bed, my own bathroom, my own bureau, my own beautiful windows looking out over the courtyard and the two-hole golf course...it takes a little getting used to after life in hostels. I also eat with the family for breakfast and lunch, so in addition to my beautiful room I get delicious board. To see the hotel, go to http://www.palaciocaranceja.com/.
When I met Jorge and Manolo in Santander´s bus station, Jorge hugged me, yelling, ¨¡Mi amigo!¨ He´s outgoing, easy-going, and loves sports, so he´s basically perfect. Well, he hates lessons, but it´s the summer and I can´t really blame him. But if anyone has ideas for making grammar fun, send me the love.
Manolo is great as well. He´s amazingly generous -- for example, he takes me out to lunch even when Jorge is off somewhere else, and he rented a surfboard for me when he took Jorge, Jorge´s friend Javier, me, and himself to the beach. Also, he´s a really cool guy. I sit shotgun on car rides, and we shoot the breaze, the three most common topics being differences between Spain and the US, the Cataluñian and Basque independence movements, and life back home. He speaks in broken English, and I help him, and I speak in my medium-level Spanish, and he helps me.
The house in which I´m staying is actually Miguel´s. He is the hotel director, and he´s one of those gruff older men who uses playful physical violence to show their love, such as punching people lightly on the shoulder. The first night, I thanked him profusely (and quite genuinely) for giving me such beautiful living arrangements in his house. Ever since, he´s loved me and offers me beer at all hours.
The hotel, Palacio de Caranceja, is about 45 minutes by train from Santander, which is the nearest big city. Caranceja, while small, is also fun. On my second night in town, the community was holding a fiesta. Think block party, but one that starts at eight and goes until three in the morning (the kids and adults left around one, and the teenagers stayed until the end). Local taxes pay for it, so it´s pretty legit, with a DJ, a steam cannon, a foam machine, and food. It was held on the main plaza, and almost the whole town (I´m guessing about 150 people) showed up. Being American made me a celebrity, and by the end of the night I had met lots of kids. At three, I was dancing in the foam along with the other 15 of us who were still there. The DJ called last song, but when it ended, everyone pounded the stage, chanting ¨Otro, otro, otro¨ (another, another, another). The DJ played one more, and when it ended, people pounded and chanted again. This time, the DJs were really packing up, so they threw random CDs out to the crowd to appease us. I came home wet from the foam, hung my clothes up, and hit the sack happy.
And the next day, I played soccer with some of the kids I met at the party. My team lost 2-1, but I wasn´t half-bad.
I´m lucky to have found this job. I put an ad up on Craigslist offering English tutoring for room and board. Manolo called me offering amazing room, amazing board, and 300 Euros. Lucky is an understatement. This is the best, most comfortable way I could have started my gap year. The job ends in August, and I only wish it would last longer.
Oh, by the way, I have a new telephone number! This one is my permanent Spanish number: 011 34 693 254 667.
Monday, August 6, 2007
A coffee break
I apologize for falling off the map. I swear I will be more active than I was this week.
Amsterdam was Sam and John´s last stop, the Eurotrip´s big finish.
Amsterdam is well-known for being 1) a beautiful cosmopolitan city and 2) a city where you can legally buy weed.
Actually, Holland´s marijuana laws are complex and contradictory. ¨Coffee-shops¨ can hold a given amount of weed and hash and sell those products legally. Citizens can grow up to three marijuana plants in their home (or it might be five). But no one can grow more than that, which means the farmers break the law when they grow marijuana to sell to coffee-shops. And, according to a few different locals, Holland enforces its law against growing weed in large amounts. Farmers go to jail while sellers stay in business.
The rationale behind allowing coffee-shops to sell is that the sale and use of marijuana is inevitable, no matter how hard we fight a war on drugs. Criminalizing it costs money and doesn´t work. Regulating it saves or makes money (through taxes) and makes safer a dangerous situation.
In my opinion, this rationale holds water in Holland as well as the United States, and I think that the United States should legalize and regulate the sale of marijuana (but I would love to hear your comments, especially if you feel differently).
Eric and Raffi were coincidentally staying in our hotel. We chilled with them a lot.
The Van Gogh museum, the Rijt museum. Really great food. Especially on the last day, when Sam´s dad and John´s dad each treated us to a meal (they didn´t fly out to Europe; they reimbursed Sam and John). We went crazy on an Argentinian lunch (140 euros) and an Indonesian dinner (180).
The Red Light district was insane. Woman stood in windows like manicans selling their bodies like clothes. Some shake that thang, some jiggle their whole bodies as if on three cans of red bull, some stand casually and make eye-contact, some tap the glass and motion passers-by to buy their services, some do their make-up. Some are men who look like women, and they stand under blue lights. (None of us bought anything, not even from the women.)
Eric knew where Anne Frank´s house was, and it turned out to be the most underrated attraction in Europe. It was the second-best site I saw (Gaudi´s insane buildings in Barcelona being the best). It was not the house in which she grew up, but instead her family´s hiding place. We saw the front part, normal, unremarkable. The bookcase that once covered the door to the annex had been pulled out, and we walked through the back of the house where Anne Frank, her family, another family, and a single man hid for over two years. The holocaust is often hard to emotionally comprehend, but it was real inside the hiding place. It put you in the hiders´ mindset, as if you were hiding, as if you were the one in danger. By the way, if you haven´t read her diary, read it. It´s easy and the love story is great.
John and I jogged along the canals every morning. Amsterdam really is a beautiful city. It´s sort of a dreamland. Cars are squeezed to the sides of the road by bikes, which are everywhere - the city is home to more bikes than people. The people are absurdly nice and helpful. The canals are wonderful. And in Amsterdam, much that should be legal - because it happens anyway when it is not -- is legal and regulated.
(And yes, the coffee-shops make good coffee.)
Amsterdam was Sam and John´s last stop, the Eurotrip´s big finish.
Amsterdam is well-known for being 1) a beautiful cosmopolitan city and 2) a city where you can legally buy weed.
Actually, Holland´s marijuana laws are complex and contradictory. ¨Coffee-shops¨ can hold a given amount of weed and hash and sell those products legally. Citizens can grow up to three marijuana plants in their home (or it might be five). But no one can grow more than that, which means the farmers break the law when they grow marijuana to sell to coffee-shops. And, according to a few different locals, Holland enforces its law against growing weed in large amounts. Farmers go to jail while sellers stay in business.
The rationale behind allowing coffee-shops to sell is that the sale and use of marijuana is inevitable, no matter how hard we fight a war on drugs. Criminalizing it costs money and doesn´t work. Regulating it saves or makes money (through taxes) and makes safer a dangerous situation.
In my opinion, this rationale holds water in Holland as well as the United States, and I think that the United States should legalize and regulate the sale of marijuana (but I would love to hear your comments, especially if you feel differently).
Eric and Raffi were coincidentally staying in our hotel. We chilled with them a lot.
The Van Gogh museum, the Rijt museum. Really great food. Especially on the last day, when Sam´s dad and John´s dad each treated us to a meal (they didn´t fly out to Europe; they reimbursed Sam and John). We went crazy on an Argentinian lunch (140 euros) and an Indonesian dinner (180).
The Red Light district was insane. Woman stood in windows like manicans selling their bodies like clothes. Some shake that thang, some jiggle their whole bodies as if on three cans of red bull, some stand casually and make eye-contact, some tap the glass and motion passers-by to buy their services, some do their make-up. Some are men who look like women, and they stand under blue lights. (None of us bought anything, not even from the women.)
Eric knew where Anne Frank´s house was, and it turned out to be the most underrated attraction in Europe. It was the second-best site I saw (Gaudi´s insane buildings in Barcelona being the best). It was not the house in which she grew up, but instead her family´s hiding place. We saw the front part, normal, unremarkable. The bookcase that once covered the door to the annex had been pulled out, and we walked through the back of the house where Anne Frank, her family, another family, and a single man hid for over two years. The holocaust is often hard to emotionally comprehend, but it was real inside the hiding place. It put you in the hiders´ mindset, as if you were hiding, as if you were the one in danger. By the way, if you haven´t read her diary, read it. It´s easy and the love story is great.
John and I jogged along the canals every morning. Amsterdam really is a beautiful city. It´s sort of a dreamland. Cars are squeezed to the sides of the road by bikes, which are everywhere - the city is home to more bikes than people. The people are absurdly nice and helpful. The canals are wonderful. And in Amsterdam, much that should be legal - because it happens anyway when it is not -- is legal and regulated.
(And yes, the coffee-shops make good coffee.)
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
An introduction to separatism
I'm in Nice, typing on a French keyboard where the a is q, the m is a comma, the w is z, and the punctuation is impossible. Beqr zith ,e.
I actually wrote the Barcelona post from Nice, and after that city but before this one we went to Olot, a small town in the northeast of France. We stayed for three nights with a family that two years ago was Johns host family.
We got the small Spanish town experience, nights out with Johns host sisters friends to the parks, the bars, and the forest (its a really cool forest).
The family was great. The daughter, Miriam, seemed to know everyone in the town and all the hot bars. She is our age and going to go to college in Barcelona. The son, Arnou, played Nintendo Wi with us. The Mom, Montse, made us huge lunches, including a ridiculously good paella. The Dad, Miguel, was the Patriarch of the Family. When he came home, everyone gathered around him, waiting to hug him, kiss him, and ask how his day was.
John's description of their typical family scene was dead-on. Montse and Miguel are in the kitchen. Montse is on the phone, replying, "Vale, vale, vale, vale, vale, vale" ("vale" means "okay"). Miguel is at the table, smoking a cigar and eating from a plate stacked with ham.
One time during lunch, the family poured wine into a jug with a straw-like spigot at the top. Then, they used the jug to pour wine into their mouth through the spigot. Montse and Miriam held it close to their mouths, as if waterfalling a bottle of water. King Miguel held the jug a foot from his face, pouring the wine into his mouth like one of those fountain-statues we saw around Spain, like a Viking celebrating after a battle.
Later on in the lunch, Miguel asked Sam why he was eating so little.
"I have a small appetite," Sam said in Spanish.
"At 10 in the morning, we eat," Miguel said in Spanish. "At noon, we eat." "At four, we eat." "At seven, we eat." "At 10, we eat." "And at 12, we fuck."
So that´s Miguel, the coolest dad in western Europe. He was also serious and passionate about the need for Cataluña (the area in Spain in which he lives) to get its independence.
One night, I came home early, sick. Miguel made me some tea.
We made small talk for a minute.
"No estàs en España," he said. In English: You are not in Spain.
I was confused for a second, before I realized what he meant.
"Estoy en Cataluña?" I said.
"Si, en Cataluña!" he bellowed.
We spent the next hour and a half discussing Cataluña's struggle for independence from Spain. The language barrier presented a significant obstacle to full comprehension, so I might have misunderstood some of what he said. But I got the gist.
Cataluña is a part of Spain in the northwest that includes Barcelona, Spain's second largest city. The people in Cataluña speak Catalan as well as Castillian (what we think of as Spanish), and Catalan is more like French or Italian than it is like Spanish. The culture is supposedly different, too.
Cataluña, according to Miguel, is the engine of Spain. He said that the two places of greatest industry and business are Cataluña and the Basque country (the other area in Spain where there is a major separatism movement) and that greater Spain screws these two areas by extracting far more wealth than it gives back.
I told him that California suffers a similar fate, with the national government pulling out more money than it puts in.
He replied that to help the rest of the country would be okay, but that Cataluña was being hung. He put his hands around his neck so that I would understand. That Cataluña was being castrated. He made a chopping gesture, again to help me understand.
"And," he said in Spanish, "In the US, states can make their own laws."
I said that the freedom was not absolute, giving the issue of abortion as an example of the national government going above the states. He replied that the United States was still far less unitary than Spain. He presented the American states' differing execution laws as an example of laws in American states that differ far more than laws in Spanish provinces do.
The money issue and Cataluña's inability to make its own laws were important, but Miguel was most angry about what he perceived as larger Spain's disrespect for Cataluña.
I told him what Elena had said in Barcelona about Cataluña's separatist movement: in a globalizing world, separatism hurts efficiency.
"Si, tiene razón, he said. "Pero quiero unión con respeto," In English: Yes, that's a reasonable argument, but I want a union with respect.
He gave me a lesson in Cataluñan history. Cataluña once extended into France and Valencia (Spain's third-largest city), and the islands of Mallorca, Minorca, and Ibiza were part of Cataluña. All of that territory was lost when Spain forced a unification.
To an extent, I sympathise with Cataluña's separatists, if all of what Miguel says is true, especially about the unfair financial situation. But I buck against it, too. At some point in the conversation, I remarked on the sadness of the separatists' situation, saying they fought over sovereignty instead of issues that could create progress.
"But we are fighting for progress," Miguel said in Spanish.
And I guess many of the fights in America are no better. Fights over gay rights, abortion, stem cells, religion in daily life, flag-burning, and other sexy issues distract from the conditions that will have a far larger effect on our standards of living, such as how to protect the environment and what our foreign policy should be.
I asked why Cataluña didn't unite with the Basques in the national government to gain more rights for the provinces, especially over taxation. Larger Spain would still have a majority, Miguel said. So Cataluñans call for separation.
Still, they fight peacefully. By this time, Montse was in the kitchen, making a new batch of tea. She agreed, saying that Cataluña would be persistent but would not make violence. In the Basque country, some separatists are terrorists.
"Better to educate," Miguel said. "Better to educate American students who come to live with us."
In Nice, we have lived the high life on the cheap. We are staying with family friends of John's family (the family knows Sam and me as well).
They are incredible, giving us a living room in which to sleep, taking us out to fancy, delicious dinners, holding guided tours of Nice, inviting us along with them to a friend's house on top of a hill overlooking Nice and St. Jean (a neighboring city), and bringing us to all the hot beaches.
Nice is a beautiful, vibrant town surrounded by the Mediterranean and Roman ruins. We have relaxed in preparation for Amsterdam and loved it.
Tonight, we get on a night train to the Netherlands. Soon, I'll be writing from across the continent.
I actually wrote the Barcelona post from Nice, and after that city but before this one we went to Olot, a small town in the northeast of France. We stayed for three nights with a family that two years ago was Johns host family.
We got the small Spanish town experience, nights out with Johns host sisters friends to the parks, the bars, and the forest (its a really cool forest).
The family was great. The daughter, Miriam, seemed to know everyone in the town and all the hot bars. She is our age and going to go to college in Barcelona. The son, Arnou, played Nintendo Wi with us. The Mom, Montse, made us huge lunches, including a ridiculously good paella. The Dad, Miguel, was the Patriarch of the Family. When he came home, everyone gathered around him, waiting to hug him, kiss him, and ask how his day was.
John's description of their typical family scene was dead-on. Montse and Miguel are in the kitchen. Montse is on the phone, replying, "Vale, vale, vale, vale, vale, vale" ("vale" means "okay"). Miguel is at the table, smoking a cigar and eating from a plate stacked with ham.
One time during lunch, the family poured wine into a jug with a straw-like spigot at the top. Then, they used the jug to pour wine into their mouth through the spigot. Montse and Miriam held it close to their mouths, as if waterfalling a bottle of water. King Miguel held the jug a foot from his face, pouring the wine into his mouth like one of those fountain-statues we saw around Spain, like a Viking celebrating after a battle.
Later on in the lunch, Miguel asked Sam why he was eating so little.
"I have a small appetite," Sam said in Spanish.
"At 10 in the morning, we eat," Miguel said in Spanish. "At noon, we eat." "At four, we eat." "At seven, we eat." "At 10, we eat." "And at 12, we fuck."
So that´s Miguel, the coolest dad in western Europe. He was also serious and passionate about the need for Cataluña (the area in Spain in which he lives) to get its independence.
One night, I came home early, sick. Miguel made me some tea.
We made small talk for a minute.
"No estàs en España," he said. In English: You are not in Spain.
I was confused for a second, before I realized what he meant.
"Estoy en Cataluña?" I said.
"Si, en Cataluña!" he bellowed.
We spent the next hour and a half discussing Cataluña's struggle for independence from Spain. The language barrier presented a significant obstacle to full comprehension, so I might have misunderstood some of what he said. But I got the gist.
Cataluña is a part of Spain in the northwest that includes Barcelona, Spain's second largest city. The people in Cataluña speak Catalan as well as Castillian (what we think of as Spanish), and Catalan is more like French or Italian than it is like Spanish. The culture is supposedly different, too.
Cataluña, according to Miguel, is the engine of Spain. He said that the two places of greatest industry and business are Cataluña and the Basque country (the other area in Spain where there is a major separatism movement) and that greater Spain screws these two areas by extracting far more wealth than it gives back.
I told him that California suffers a similar fate, with the national government pulling out more money than it puts in.
He replied that to help the rest of the country would be okay, but that Cataluña was being hung. He put his hands around his neck so that I would understand. That Cataluña was being castrated. He made a chopping gesture, again to help me understand.
"And," he said in Spanish, "In the US, states can make their own laws."
I said that the freedom was not absolute, giving the issue of abortion as an example of the national government going above the states. He replied that the United States was still far less unitary than Spain. He presented the American states' differing execution laws as an example of laws in American states that differ far more than laws in Spanish provinces do.
The money issue and Cataluña's inability to make its own laws were important, but Miguel was most angry about what he perceived as larger Spain's disrespect for Cataluña.
I told him what Elena had said in Barcelona about Cataluña's separatist movement: in a globalizing world, separatism hurts efficiency.
"Si, tiene razón, he said. "Pero quiero unión con respeto," In English: Yes, that's a reasonable argument, but I want a union with respect.
He gave me a lesson in Cataluñan history. Cataluña once extended into France and Valencia (Spain's third-largest city), and the islands of Mallorca, Minorca, and Ibiza were part of Cataluña. All of that territory was lost when Spain forced a unification.
To an extent, I sympathise with Cataluña's separatists, if all of what Miguel says is true, especially about the unfair financial situation. But I buck against it, too. At some point in the conversation, I remarked on the sadness of the separatists' situation, saying they fought over sovereignty instead of issues that could create progress.
"But we are fighting for progress," Miguel said in Spanish.
And I guess many of the fights in America are no better. Fights over gay rights, abortion, stem cells, religion in daily life, flag-burning, and other sexy issues distract from the conditions that will have a far larger effect on our standards of living, such as how to protect the environment and what our foreign policy should be.
I asked why Cataluña didn't unite with the Basques in the national government to gain more rights for the provinces, especially over taxation. Larger Spain would still have a majority, Miguel said. So Cataluñans call for separation.
Still, they fight peacefully. By this time, Montse was in the kitchen, making a new batch of tea. She agreed, saying that Cataluña would be persistent but would not make violence. In the Basque country, some separatists are terrorists.
"Better to educate," Miguel said. "Better to educate American students who come to live with us."
In Nice, we have lived the high life on the cheap. We are staying with family friends of John's family (the family knows Sam and me as well).
They are incredible, giving us a living room in which to sleep, taking us out to fancy, delicious dinners, holding guided tours of Nice, inviting us along with them to a friend's house on top of a hill overlooking Nice and St. Jean (a neighboring city), and bringing us to all the hot beaches.
Nice is a beautiful, vibrant town surrounded by the Mediterranean and Roman ruins. We have relaxed in preparation for Amsterdam and loved it.
Tonight, we get on a night train to the Netherlands. Soon, I'll be writing from across the continent.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Prostitution evasion methods
Barcelona! It was crazy!
Too crazy to go chronologically. Barcelona will be better conveyed by a video montage that captured our time there.
This is the point where I would cue the video montage. But I don't have a camera. Or sound. Or audio-visual editing capabilities.
Cue the description of the Barcelona video montage:
The first day.
Cut to the first moment we stepped out of the metro station, our warm welcome to Barcelona:
It's broad daylight, abut 6 pm. An obese man walks around La Ramblas naked. We don´t know why.
Cut to dinner with Carmen, the Barcelona woman with whom we fell in love when we met her in Granada:
No sound. Just the Beatles "With a little help from my friends" playing over stills of us eating.
Cut to Sam and me exploring the nightlife:
I exit the hostel. A girl looking about a year younger than me grabs my arm and asks if I would like a handjob. I decline. In the nightclub, Greenday's American Idiot is playing to a mostly American crowd, and the crowd, for unknown reasons, is loving it.
The next day.
We met up with John's friend Edward and Edward's French-speaking friend JB. We head to the beach. At the beach, the camera gets a helicopter shot of Edward, JB and I swimming out to the rocks.
Later that night, John uses his Spanish to sweettalk our way into Shoko, a big, classy club on the beach, for free. The video´s narrator remarks how amazing it is for two well-dressed French and three badly-dressed Americans, all male, to get into a club for free.
Cut to the prostitute-saturated walk back to the hostel:
The prostitutes are aggressive. Some come up to you in twos are threes. About a third leave when you nod your head or say, "No." Most persist.
"Why 'No'?"
"We don't want anything."
"You don't want a good time?"
"No."
"I wasn't talking to you," one said to me. "I was talking to your friend."
"He doesn't want anything either," I said.
"I want to suck your dick," she told John.
"Well I don't want you to suck my dick," he explained.
They're tactics are pretty consistent, but some got creative.
"Hey funnyboy!" one said to Sam. I guess when being obvious fails, try abject meanness?
The third day.
Cut to shots of us looking at the buildings designed by Guadi. Best art I have ever seen.
Cut to dinner at my Dad's friend Elena's huge, ridiculously nice Barcelona pad, with a pond in the back by the patio:
More still shots of us eating, with the Sound of Music's "My Favorite Things" playing as mood music.
Cut to the walk back to the hostels after clubbing:
Earlier in the day, John and I had decided to have some fun with the prostitutes at their expense (and without paying for any of their services). John wanted to tell them he was a gay dancer. I wanted to tell them I was a journalist for the International Herald Tribune. (Each fulfilling our own fantasies, I guess.)
John came home around 3:30, a little too late for the prostitutes. But I headed home with Sam around 2:30, prime time.
The first prostitute made the subtle choice of miming oral sex and asking, "Sucka Sucka?"
I whipped out my...moleskin note pad and pen. I smiled broadly. She seemed confused.
"Hi, I'm Thomas Seercy from the Barcelona branch of the International Herald Tribune. We're doing a story on prostitution in Barcelona, and I'm wondering if I can get an interview."
She took a moment to register that I really meant "interview," then walked away without a word.
It worked 10 out of 10 times, the last prostitute summarizing the attitudes of the other ones with an amiable "Fuck you." They want anonymity, I guess. They really flinched at the word "prostitution." Perhaps they try not to see it that way.
The next day, we left on a train for Olot, a small town where John knows a family. It's amazing how easily we can hop cities. From Madrid, in the center of Spain, to Malaga, in the southeast, and eventually to Olot, in the northwest.
Too crazy to go chronologically. Barcelona will be better conveyed by a video montage that captured our time there.
This is the point where I would cue the video montage. But I don't have a camera. Or sound. Or audio-visual editing capabilities.
Cue the description of the Barcelona video montage:
The first day.
Cut to the first moment we stepped out of the metro station, our warm welcome to Barcelona:
It's broad daylight, abut 6 pm. An obese man walks around La Ramblas naked. We don´t know why.
Cut to dinner with Carmen, the Barcelona woman with whom we fell in love when we met her in Granada:
No sound. Just the Beatles "With a little help from my friends" playing over stills of us eating.
Cut to Sam and me exploring the nightlife:
I exit the hostel. A girl looking about a year younger than me grabs my arm and asks if I would like a handjob. I decline. In the nightclub, Greenday's American Idiot is playing to a mostly American crowd, and the crowd, for unknown reasons, is loving it.
The next day.
We met up with John's friend Edward and Edward's French-speaking friend JB. We head to the beach. At the beach, the camera gets a helicopter shot of Edward, JB and I swimming out to the rocks.
Later that night, John uses his Spanish to sweettalk our way into Shoko, a big, classy club on the beach, for free. The video´s narrator remarks how amazing it is for two well-dressed French and three badly-dressed Americans, all male, to get into a club for free.
Cut to the prostitute-saturated walk back to the hostel:
The prostitutes are aggressive. Some come up to you in twos are threes. About a third leave when you nod your head or say, "No." Most persist.
"Why 'No'?"
"We don't want anything."
"You don't want a good time?"
"No."
"I wasn't talking to you," one said to me. "I was talking to your friend."
"He doesn't want anything either," I said.
"I want to suck your dick," she told John.
"Well I don't want you to suck my dick," he explained.
They're tactics are pretty consistent, but some got creative.
"Hey funnyboy!" one said to Sam. I guess when being obvious fails, try abject meanness?
The third day.
Cut to shots of us looking at the buildings designed by Guadi. Best art I have ever seen.
Cut to dinner at my Dad's friend Elena's huge, ridiculously nice Barcelona pad, with a pond in the back by the patio:
More still shots of us eating, with the Sound of Music's "My Favorite Things" playing as mood music.
Cut to the walk back to the hostels after clubbing:
Earlier in the day, John and I had decided to have some fun with the prostitutes at their expense (and without paying for any of their services). John wanted to tell them he was a gay dancer. I wanted to tell them I was a journalist for the International Herald Tribune. (Each fulfilling our own fantasies, I guess.)
John came home around 3:30, a little too late for the prostitutes. But I headed home with Sam around 2:30, prime time.
The first prostitute made the subtle choice of miming oral sex and asking, "Sucka Sucka?"
I whipped out my...moleskin note pad and pen. I smiled broadly. She seemed confused.
"Hi, I'm Thomas Seercy from the Barcelona branch of the International Herald Tribune. We're doing a story on prostitution in Barcelona, and I'm wondering if I can get an interview."
She took a moment to register that I really meant "interview," then walked away without a word.
It worked 10 out of 10 times, the last prostitute summarizing the attitudes of the other ones with an amiable "Fuck you." They want anonymity, I guess. They really flinched at the word "prostitution." Perhaps they try not to see it that way.
The next day, we left on a train for Olot, a small town where John knows a family. It's amazing how easily we can hop cities. From Madrid, in the center of Spain, to Malaga, in the southeast, and eventually to Olot, in the northwest.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
An in-depth education on walruses
I have a cell phone! The number is 693272366. Dial 011 to become international. Spain´s country code is 34. All that put together: 011 34 693272366.
I actually got the cell phone the same day I posted the last blog post but later in the day. That day, we saw Ocean´s 13 in in Spanish. Baffling. Anyone (who understood the dialogue) care to explain the need for a fake FBI agent? Or a fake nose on Matt Damon´s character? Or for George Clooney and Brad Pitt to go shopping for matching parkas together?
After the movie, Sam and I looked for a club or a bar. We stumbled into a pretty sketchy area of Valencia. Even though it was only 1:30 a.m., we had trouble finding anything still open. The first place we entered was called ¨Mel´s Bar.¨I opened the door. The lights were dim. The bar was almost empty, and no music was playing. A bartender stood around doing nothing, a lady sat on a stool near the back, and another lady, this one a bit thick, stood in the front. As we opened the door, she stared suggestively at us and danced to the lack of music, waving her hips.
¨What do you want,¨she asked.
¨Nothing. Lo siento.¨
We scrambled back out the door.
The next club we went into: The lights were dim. The bar was almost empty, and no music was playing. A bartender stood around doing nothing, and two men who looked like bouncers but weren´t guarding anything stood up front. Two ladies were at the bar. Neither had a drink.
One of the bouncers raised his eyebrow, as if to ask, ¨Which one do you want?¨
¨You don´t want!¨ I said, my Spanish failing me a bit. "Goodbye!¨I said, my Spanish failing me a bit.
Amazingly, the third ¨bar¨was another identical prostitution house. What´s with Valencia?
Finally, back in our quarter of the city again, we found a salsa bar (which was cool, but no one was dancing) and another regular bar. In these bars, the ¨employees¨were bartenders. We were glad.
Still, we had just as much fun not finding a normal bar as we did when we actually found one. That´s the great thing about traveling with friends, totally independent of authority of almost any kind. The normally fun experiences are great. We´ve loved bar-hopping, going to clubs, seeing the Alhambra, visiting the Prado...But we´ve also loved the smaller things that we´d take for granted back home. Here, even the small things are new. The activities that would be part of daily life, were we back home, are exhilarating to do now that we´re exploring. We were amped to eat breakfast when we went to the giant farmers market that Valencia made out of an old cathedral . Each day is an adventure. Finding the route to the beach or the clubs is a big deal, like we´re hiking through the city and finding a way down the mountain. We celebrate when we find an especially good restaurant because not only are we eating well, but also because we are successful adventurers. Even mistakes are fun. Accidentally stumbling into prostitution houses is part of the exploration. We are completely on our own, exploring totally unknown cities together.
The next day, we woke up late, went to the park, had more candy than we could handle, and chilled. We actually found clubs that night, and they were pretty insane. None of them have cover charges, so we just go in and out as we please.
The next day, we woke up early (11 am) to go to the Valencia Arts and Sciences museum, which is supposed to be the biggest science museum in Europe. We thought it was good, not incredible.
Then we entered the Arctic part of the aquarium, where we saw walruses having sex.
Walruses.
Having sex.
Best museum ever.
In the night, we went to a bullfight with Jack and Ruby, two people we´d met back in Granada, and Ruby´s cousin Abby, who lives in Valencia.
Jack is a character. He´s ridiculously British, about our age, with a fast, dry, typically British wit. When we met before the bullfight, he pulled us along to the season´s ticket section.
¨Yeah, Ruby´s dad is a real bullfighting aficionado, so we have one season´s ticket,¨ he said. ¨But we only have one. Guards will come up to us before the fight and ask to see our tickets. Just wave your hands like you´re baffled and say, ´No habla espanol,´and they´ll go, ´Pfff,´and leave.¨
The event we saw was actually a prelim to the real Tuesday night bullfight. Here, young boys our age who are not yet legit matadors show their stuff against untrained bulls. Then, the bulls that will fight on Tuesday are paraded around.
The fight was interesting. I wasn´t rooting for either side, and yet I was on the edge of my seat.
First, some men in green and pink costumes tease the bull by waving around pink and yellow capes, letting him charge, and moving out of the way. Then, picadores step into the ring, egg the bull on, juke his charge, and stick small spears into his back. Then, the matador enters, teases the bull some more, this time with a red cape, and then, at the end, jukes the bull´s charge and sticks a sword into his spinal chord.
The bullfight felt like a tradition to be respected. Much of the fight was ceremony. A man on a horse came out at the beginning to ¨clear the crowd¨from the ring, even though there was no one in the ring. Everyone who interacted with the bull was in full costume.
The bullfight was thrilling. It had the acrobatics and grace of a dance. It had the primal fighting you´d expect from an action movie. Its competitors stretched their athletic ability in a manner you might see at a sports match.
Against my respect for the tradition and the fight´s ability to rivet me, I felt sorry for the bull. I didn´t root for it to hurt the humans, but I didn´t root for the humans to win, either. I felt horrible when the picadores tricked the bull and stuck him with spears. And, during the first slaughter, the bull died slowly. At the end, he stumbled a bit. Then, like a dog going to sleep, he sat down on its hooves. I imagined him trying to rest from a patently unfair fight. It was a fight he didn´t understand.
Someone came out and pulled his ear. He jerked up. They stuck him again with a sword, and he died. A horse came out and dragged the bull away.
I can´t speak for anyone but myself, but to me it was too brutal to be enthralling.
We went out for drinks with Jack, Ruby, and Abby. Then Sam and John hit the sack, and I went out on the town with Abby and her sketch Valencian friends.
Today, we actually got train tickets (Barcelona) in advance this time. See? we´re getting better at traveling every day.
I actually got the cell phone the same day I posted the last blog post but later in the day. That day, we saw Ocean´s 13 in in Spanish. Baffling. Anyone (who understood the dialogue) care to explain the need for a fake FBI agent? Or a fake nose on Matt Damon´s character? Or for George Clooney and Brad Pitt to go shopping for matching parkas together?
After the movie, Sam and I looked for a club or a bar. We stumbled into a pretty sketchy area of Valencia. Even though it was only 1:30 a.m., we had trouble finding anything still open. The first place we entered was called ¨Mel´s Bar.¨I opened the door. The lights were dim. The bar was almost empty, and no music was playing. A bartender stood around doing nothing, a lady sat on a stool near the back, and another lady, this one a bit thick, stood in the front. As we opened the door, she stared suggestively at us and danced to the lack of music, waving her hips.
¨What do you want,¨she asked.
¨Nothing. Lo siento.¨
We scrambled back out the door.
The next club we went into: The lights were dim. The bar was almost empty, and no music was playing. A bartender stood around doing nothing, and two men who looked like bouncers but weren´t guarding anything stood up front. Two ladies were at the bar. Neither had a drink.
One of the bouncers raised his eyebrow, as if to ask, ¨Which one do you want?¨
¨You don´t want!¨ I said, my Spanish failing me a bit. "Goodbye!¨I said, my Spanish failing me a bit.
Amazingly, the third ¨bar¨was another identical prostitution house. What´s with Valencia?
Finally, back in our quarter of the city again, we found a salsa bar (which was cool, but no one was dancing) and another regular bar. In these bars, the ¨employees¨were bartenders. We were glad.
Still, we had just as much fun not finding a normal bar as we did when we actually found one. That´s the great thing about traveling with friends, totally independent of authority of almost any kind. The normally fun experiences are great. We´ve loved bar-hopping, going to clubs, seeing the Alhambra, visiting the Prado...But we´ve also loved the smaller things that we´d take for granted back home. Here, even the small things are new. The activities that would be part of daily life, were we back home, are exhilarating to do now that we´re exploring. We were amped to eat breakfast when we went to the giant farmers market that Valencia made out of an old cathedral . Each day is an adventure. Finding the route to the beach or the clubs is a big deal, like we´re hiking through the city and finding a way down the mountain. We celebrate when we find an especially good restaurant because not only are we eating well, but also because we are successful adventurers. Even mistakes are fun. Accidentally stumbling into prostitution houses is part of the exploration. We are completely on our own, exploring totally unknown cities together.
The next day, we woke up late, went to the park, had more candy than we could handle, and chilled. We actually found clubs that night, and they were pretty insane. None of them have cover charges, so we just go in and out as we please.
The next day, we woke up early (11 am) to go to the Valencia Arts and Sciences museum, which is supposed to be the biggest science museum in Europe. We thought it was good, not incredible.
Then we entered the Arctic part of the aquarium, where we saw walruses having sex.
Walruses.
Having sex.
Best museum ever.
In the night, we went to a bullfight with Jack and Ruby, two people we´d met back in Granada, and Ruby´s cousin Abby, who lives in Valencia.
Jack is a character. He´s ridiculously British, about our age, with a fast, dry, typically British wit. When we met before the bullfight, he pulled us along to the season´s ticket section.
¨Yeah, Ruby´s dad is a real bullfighting aficionado, so we have one season´s ticket,¨ he said. ¨But we only have one. Guards will come up to us before the fight and ask to see our tickets. Just wave your hands like you´re baffled and say, ´No habla espanol,´and they´ll go, ´Pfff,´and leave.¨
The event we saw was actually a prelim to the real Tuesday night bullfight. Here, young boys our age who are not yet legit matadors show their stuff against untrained bulls. Then, the bulls that will fight on Tuesday are paraded around.
The fight was interesting. I wasn´t rooting for either side, and yet I was on the edge of my seat.
First, some men in green and pink costumes tease the bull by waving around pink and yellow capes, letting him charge, and moving out of the way. Then, picadores step into the ring, egg the bull on, juke his charge, and stick small spears into his back. Then, the matador enters, teases the bull some more, this time with a red cape, and then, at the end, jukes the bull´s charge and sticks a sword into his spinal chord.
The bullfight felt like a tradition to be respected. Much of the fight was ceremony. A man on a horse came out at the beginning to ¨clear the crowd¨from the ring, even though there was no one in the ring. Everyone who interacted with the bull was in full costume.
The bullfight was thrilling. It had the acrobatics and grace of a dance. It had the primal fighting you´d expect from an action movie. Its competitors stretched their athletic ability in a manner you might see at a sports match.
Against my respect for the tradition and the fight´s ability to rivet me, I felt sorry for the bull. I didn´t root for it to hurt the humans, but I didn´t root for the humans to win, either. I felt horrible when the picadores tricked the bull and stuck him with spears. And, during the first slaughter, the bull died slowly. At the end, he stumbled a bit. Then, like a dog going to sleep, he sat down on its hooves. I imagined him trying to rest from a patently unfair fight. It was a fight he didn´t understand.
Someone came out and pulled his ear. He jerked up. They stuck him again with a sword, and he died. A horse came out and dragged the bull away.
I can´t speak for anyone but myself, but to me it was too brutal to be enthralling.
We went out for drinks with Jack, Ruby, and Abby. Then Sam and John hit the sack, and I went out on the town with Abby and her sketch Valencian friends.
Today, we actually got train tickets (Barcelona) in advance this time. See? we´re getting better at traveling every day.
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