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.)
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