I'm writing this from a couch in Boston, in front of a television on which the Patriots game is playing, while my aunt is in the kitchen, roasting pork chops and steamed vegetables. Hello, America! :)
There's so much to say; I can barely write. You know what I mean?
Well, before I left Barcelona, I took a four-day trip to Rome, by myself. I thought it'd be lonely, walking around one of the world's most romantic cities, completely alone. But as it turns out, I'm better company than I thought... and I wasn't quite alone.
The best part of Rome wasn't the Vatican, or the Colosseum, or even the Sistine Chapel — although all of these amazing sights left me speechless. The best part was seeing these world wonders and realizing that in the face of all this physical, tangible beauty, nothing elicited the same feeling of warmth and awe that I've felt around the people I love. These buildings — the greatest testaments of man's ability to build and create — were nothing compared to the way Love has made me and the people around me completely new.
My time in Boston has been relaxing, rewarding, and lovely so far. My aunt has already helped me see the best is yet to come, and that I have nothing to be afraid of, coming back home.
I guess I should explain. I was a little bit afraid of coming home. It's always weird when people tell you you've changed, even if they mean it in a good way. And it's also really cool, when the people who know you best can help you see things that you can't on your own. So I was scared, I guess. Of hearing those things and not knowing what to expect. But my aunt has been more encouraging, uplifting, and reassuring than I could ever ask for... she's really cool. so here I am, US! Home. Well, in the country at least.
So here's to being home. Here's to the end of this blog, I guess. Here's to the end of one of the most difficult and rewarding adventures of my life.
And here's to the beginning of all the adventures to come.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
No pasa nada
"No pasa nada" is a phrase used in Spanish that's similar to the English "Don't worry about it" or literally, "Nothing happened" — you use it when someone apologizes for bumping into you on the metro, or when life surprises you with a seemingly less-than-pleasant experience. I'm not sure if I'm using it correctly, but over the past few weeks Genevieve and I have adapted it as a new way to say "Hakuna Matata."
I realize I haven't blogged in awhile, and for the two of you who actually read this, I'm sorry! I'm sure the past month has been miserable without having to muddle through my ramblings and word-barf. Ha, ha. Well, for my own sake, I realized I haven't been writing very much about what has actually "pasado" in my life, so here is a terrible attempt at summarizing the past few weeks:
Marrakech & Amzimiz, Morocco
Whisked from the noise of Barcelona to the bustle of Marrakech. I don't speak Arabic. Rode camels, bartered for scarves, etc. etc. While in Mararkech, we spent time with Moroccan university students, who seemed excited to practice their English. That's one thing too: everywhere we go, everyone is trying to learn English. Realized how incredibly blessed we are to simply be born in an English-speaking country. Proof of how our lives are not necessarily up to us.
We had facilitated discussions with a professor of English and several other university students, about our perceptions of Islam and about their perceptions of the West. One of the first questions we were asked was "Why don't Americans like Muslims?" Most of us were speechless. I then remembered all of the heated comments and discussions that arose after September 11th, and for the most part, barely any of them referenced individuals as being responsible for the attacks — nearly everyone blamed Islam. How did we get there? When did we start thinking it was right to blame an entire group of people for something done by a few? The professor came prepared with handouts explaining the Koran and highlighting verses that specifically instruct Muslims not to commit violent acts. I was struck, not by the verses, but by the fact that he was so prepared to defend himself, his faith, and his people to us. Ready to defend himself. When was the last time you walked into a room ready to defend yourself against a group of people who you thought hated you? I admired his bravery and his willingness to show us what he believed. I also realized that he would most likely never have an opportunity like that if he were in the US. Land of the free, right.
The trip to Amzmiz was an entirely different experience. We stayed with a family in a village, where we didn't have running water, heat, or eating utensils (well, our host family eventually brought us spoons because we were such an embarrassment when we tried to use our hands and failed). I had never been to a developing country before — and I know everyone says this, and I can't blame them — my eyes were yanked open. What! The conditions in which these people lived made the Tenderloin look like a five-star resort; and the people that lived there seemed so much happier than most people I know in the States. Humbling, in several ways — and I was only there for four days. We take trips like this all the time, visiting developing countries, helping when we can, hoping something changes — and I realized that no matter how much time we spend there, we have an escape that they don't — we can always go home. We can always go back to the States. Even if we never do, we always have that option. I will never be humbled enough in that way.
Being there just reminded me how much we really need Jesus - how much more liberated and joyful we are in confronting our need, instead of denying it. How many of us chose to be born in the US? How many of us chose to be born with two arms, two legs, free of diseases? How many of us chose to have friends that love us? My guess is, none of us. Why do we waste so much time pretending to be self-sufficient, when we are anything but? Why do we take so much pride in doing things ourselves, when in the long run we do absolutely nothing alone? I struggle with this all the time — since I was little, I was always trying to prove to [in reality, no one because no one cares] someone, somewhere — that I can take care of myself. Who was/am I kidding? It was only when I stopped "leaning on my own understanding" and being like, "God - I can't do anything. Help!" that my perspective & heart changed. How can you attribute your entire world, your entire view and attitude about life, changing — how can you attribute that to anything but something that is BIGGER than this world? BIGGER than this life?
See? I ramble. But all with good intent, I hope.
Like I said, Morocco was eye-opening — and I say that warily, because I was there for four days — I can only imagine how grounding and humbling it would be to be there longer...
It was cool that our host sister shared many of the same interests with us. She told us about a crush she has on this boy, and that she wants to marry him and is really excited about her wedding. That's what I'm talking about, everybody! EVERYONE wants to fall in love, whether you live in the States or a small mountain village in Morocco. Love is pretty darn universal. :)
Sevilla & Granada
Was a really fantastic weekend, just filled with laughter and seeing an old friend that I haven't seen in in nearly two years or something. You know how it is, when you hang out with friends from high school, and you can't help but be a little (or a lot) like you were back then? It was cool to see him and remember who I was freshman year in college and realize that I might not even be friends with that girl now — but also, that some of the best parts of me (that sometimes only best friends can bring out :)) are still fully intact and kickin.
I feel silly & blessed.
I started this adventure with a solo trip to Madrid, Spain and I'm ending it with a solo trip to Rome, Italy.
I'm thinking of it as my weekend getaway with myself to relax, reflect, and adventure before the tumult and emotion of saying goodbye to the life I've made here begins... I really will miss this place.
I realize I haven't blogged in awhile, and for the two of you who actually read this, I'm sorry! I'm sure the past month has been miserable without having to muddle through my ramblings and word-barf. Ha, ha. Well, for my own sake, I realized I haven't been writing very much about what has actually "pasado" in my life, so here is a terrible attempt at summarizing the past few weeks:
Marrakech & Amzimiz, Morocco
Whisked from the noise of Barcelona to the bustle of Marrakech. I don't speak Arabic. Rode camels, bartered for scarves, etc. etc. While in Mararkech, we spent time with Moroccan university students, who seemed excited to practice their English. That's one thing too: everywhere we go, everyone is trying to learn English. Realized how incredibly blessed we are to simply be born in an English-speaking country. Proof of how our lives are not necessarily up to us.
We had facilitated discussions with a professor of English and several other university students, about our perceptions of Islam and about their perceptions of the West. One of the first questions we were asked was "Why don't Americans like Muslims?" Most of us were speechless. I then remembered all of the heated comments and discussions that arose after September 11th, and for the most part, barely any of them referenced individuals as being responsible for the attacks — nearly everyone blamed Islam. How did we get there? When did we start thinking it was right to blame an entire group of people for something done by a few? The professor came prepared with handouts explaining the Koran and highlighting verses that specifically instruct Muslims not to commit violent acts. I was struck, not by the verses, but by the fact that he was so prepared to defend himself, his faith, and his people to us. Ready to defend himself. When was the last time you walked into a room ready to defend yourself against a group of people who you thought hated you? I admired his bravery and his willingness to show us what he believed. I also realized that he would most likely never have an opportunity like that if he were in the US. Land of the free, right.
The trip to Amzmiz was an entirely different experience. We stayed with a family in a village, where we didn't have running water, heat, or eating utensils (well, our host family eventually brought us spoons because we were such an embarrassment when we tried to use our hands and failed). I had never been to a developing country before — and I know everyone says this, and I can't blame them — my eyes were yanked open. What! The conditions in which these people lived made the Tenderloin look like a five-star resort; and the people that lived there seemed so much happier than most people I know in the States. Humbling, in several ways — and I was only there for four days. We take trips like this all the time, visiting developing countries, helping when we can, hoping something changes — and I realized that no matter how much time we spend there, we have an escape that they don't — we can always go home. We can always go back to the States. Even if we never do, we always have that option. I will never be humbled enough in that way.
Being there just reminded me how much we really need Jesus - how much more liberated and joyful we are in confronting our need, instead of denying it. How many of us chose to be born in the US? How many of us chose to be born with two arms, two legs, free of diseases? How many of us chose to have friends that love us? My guess is, none of us. Why do we waste so much time pretending to be self-sufficient, when we are anything but? Why do we take so much pride in doing things ourselves, when in the long run we do absolutely nothing alone? I struggle with this all the time — since I was little, I was always trying to prove to [in reality, no one because no one cares] someone, somewhere — that I can take care of myself. Who was/am I kidding? It was only when I stopped "leaning on my own understanding" and being like, "God - I can't do anything. Help!" that my perspective & heart changed. How can you attribute your entire world, your entire view and attitude about life, changing — how can you attribute that to anything but something that is BIGGER than this world? BIGGER than this life?
See? I ramble. But all with good intent, I hope.
Like I said, Morocco was eye-opening — and I say that warily, because I was there for four days — I can only imagine how grounding and humbling it would be to be there longer...
It was cool that our host sister shared many of the same interests with us. She told us about a crush she has on this boy, and that she wants to marry him and is really excited about her wedding. That's what I'm talking about, everybody! EVERYONE wants to fall in love, whether you live in the States or a small mountain village in Morocco. Love is pretty darn universal. :)
Sevilla & Granada
Was a really fantastic weekend, just filled with laughter and seeing an old friend that I haven't seen in in nearly two years or something. You know how it is, when you hang out with friends from high school, and you can't help but be a little (or a lot) like you were back then? It was cool to see him and remember who I was freshman year in college and realize that I might not even be friends with that girl now — but also, that some of the best parts of me (that sometimes only best friends can bring out :)) are still fully intact and kickin.
I feel silly & blessed.
I started this adventure with a solo trip to Madrid, Spain and I'm ending it with a solo trip to Rome, Italy.
I'm thinking of it as my weekend getaway with myself to relax, reflect, and adventure before the tumult and emotion of saying goodbye to the life I've made here begins... I really will miss this place.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Almost
Taking in as much Barcelona as I can these last couple of weeks.
Who knew these crowded city streets could be so beautiful?
Blessed.
Who knew these crowded city streets could be so beautiful?
Blessed.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Quinoa Doppelkeks
 |
| My new favorite snack |
Since it's midterm/finals season, and I've watched all the most recent episodes of Pretty Little Liars, I've had to find other methods of procrastination. I'm at the point in my life where I can trick myself into believing in my own productivity if I find something substantial to do, which as of late, has been looking into internships for the summer.
There are a variety of teaching programs for college students, but the one that I'd really like to do is the most sought-after internship of its kind in the nation (of course it is, sigh) — and it scares the poop out of me (figuratively!).
Here we go again, a set of "tell me about yourself" personal statements in which we must produce the perfect set of 500 words that will accurately represent our personalities, philosophies, dreams, and struggles, all to be filed into a grueling three-month-long process, passed through several sets of hands across several states, and finally culminate in rejection — or the scarier alternative... acceptance.
I'm not making this too dramatic, am I? I threw myself so willingly into the college name-game in high school that I'm hesitant to want something this badly again. So much for grace under pressure.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
We got spirit, yes we do -- we've got spirit, ¿y tú?
The school system here is different. Very, very different. Today Genevieve came to class with me to talk about tennis and the sports culture in America. One very big difference between our schools in the States and the schools in Spain is the array of extracurriculars offered. Here, some students play sports recreationally, some play music, some dance -- but hardly any of them do these activities with their classmates. For them, school is a building with classrooms. For us, school becomes our second home. As Genevieve and I began to explain why sports and other extracurriculars are so prevalent in American high schools, I began to realize how fortunate I have been to experience such a strong community base at such a young age.
Aaaand cue shameless bragging rights: my high school had more school spirit than any other high school I've encountered. Period. Even at leadership conferences, which by their very nature are filled with high schoolers trying to PROVE that their school has more spirit than others, our school has always been the loudest, the brightest, the most madly in love with this incredibly abstract concept of "school spirit" that we've inhaled since the first day of freshman year. At my school, we bled green and gold. We rallied, screamed, played pranks on rival schools, marched through the streets, all in the name of our fierce mascot leader - Otis, the Scot.
Needless to say, we also won MaxPreps "Most Spirited School in the Nation" award in 2008.
You get the picture. We were spirited. We may not have had the best sports teams, or the highest grades, but man, could we get a crowd going. To this day, even having been to the big name sports games, I have never experienced anything like walking through the hallways during Homecoming Week, each student wired and sleep-deprived, anxious for Friday's big assembly. If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch the video.
Working in a high school here feels so odd. The hallway walls are bare, despite being a public school without uniforms I have yet to see any sports team clothing, any club sweatshirts, any sign of students belonging to a group that does something they love. I realized how much I miss it, and how important it is to have a vibrant community life beyond academics for students, especially at that age.
I write about this, by the way, beyond the perspective of a cheerleader; for the most part, honestly, it was through my other experiences in high school that I experienced this really diverse sense of community. In high school, working with the clubs that I did allowed me to see something very, very rare for teenagers; well, for people in general: people coming together -- being excited together -- despite their interests, backgrounds, preconceptions of the other. I know, could there be any more cheese in that statement? All jokes aside, I can't begin to describe how cool it was to see our class projects come together -- we had the class all-stars work on the skit, and the artistic kids work on the backdrop, other kids just came to help put the set together, and everyone did their part just belting their hearts out for the class songs. It was truly magnificent, how well we all just meshed, even when some of us could barely stand to be in the same room as the others.
Being on sports teams and being involved in clubs, and really experiencing school spirit teaches us to work beyond ourselves. Running with a team -- really running, together -- teaches us that our actions are hopelessly interlaced with those of the people around us. We are taught through school spirit that "man is not an island," that ideas really can bring people together, even something as intangible and transient as high school spirit. We are taught that when fighting for the same cause, when bleeding the same blood, our time, our effort, and our lives play irreplaceable roles in the world. We, in some ways, are taught to believe in magic.
And if not through love, we still shared a common ground with people who didn't want to cheer for our high school: we absolutely hated our rival school. :)
One girl asked, "How did you have time to do that many sports and do your homework?" I answered, "You're asking the wrong person... I didn't sleep in high school."
On that note, I'm off to my literature class, the one that sparked my last post. Despite feeling under the weather, I am determined to stay awake and attentive. Wish me luck.
Aaaand cue shameless bragging rights: my high school had more school spirit than any other high school I've encountered. Period. Even at leadership conferences, which by their very nature are filled with high schoolers trying to PROVE that their school has more spirit than others, our school has always been the loudest, the brightest, the most madly in love with this incredibly abstract concept of "school spirit" that we've inhaled since the first day of freshman year. At my school, we bled green and gold. We rallied, screamed, played pranks on rival schools, marched through the streets, all in the name of our fierce mascot leader - Otis, the Scot.
 |
| That's mah BOY! |
Needless to say, we also won MaxPreps "Most Spirited School in the Nation" award in 2008.
You get the picture. We were spirited. We may not have had the best sports teams, or the highest grades, but man, could we get a crowd going. To this day, even having been to the big name sports games, I have never experienced anything like walking through the hallways during Homecoming Week, each student wired and sleep-deprived, anxious for Friday's big assembly. If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch the video.
Working in a high school here feels so odd. The hallway walls are bare, despite being a public school without uniforms I have yet to see any sports team clothing, any club sweatshirts, any sign of students belonging to a group that does something they love. I realized how much I miss it, and how important it is to have a vibrant community life beyond academics for students, especially at that age.
I write about this, by the way, beyond the perspective of a cheerleader; for the most part, honestly, it was through my other experiences in high school that I experienced this really diverse sense of community. In high school, working with the clubs that I did allowed me to see something very, very rare for teenagers; well, for people in general: people coming together -- being excited together -- despite their interests, backgrounds, preconceptions of the other. I know, could there be any more cheese in that statement? All jokes aside, I can't begin to describe how cool it was to see our class projects come together -- we had the class all-stars work on the skit, and the artistic kids work on the backdrop, other kids just came to help put the set together, and everyone did their part just belting their hearts out for the class songs. It was truly magnificent, how well we all just meshed, even when some of us could barely stand to be in the same room as the others.
Being on sports teams and being involved in clubs, and really experiencing school spirit teaches us to work beyond ourselves. Running with a team -- really running, together -- teaches us that our actions are hopelessly interlaced with those of the people around us. We are taught through school spirit that "man is not an island," that ideas really can bring people together, even something as intangible and transient as high school spirit. We are taught that when fighting for the same cause, when bleeding the same blood, our time, our effort, and our lives play irreplaceable roles in the world. We, in some ways, are taught to believe in magic.
And if not through love, we still shared a common ground with people who didn't want to cheer for our high school: we absolutely hated our rival school. :)
One girl asked, "How did you have time to do that many sports and do your homework?" I answered, "You're asking the wrong person... I didn't sleep in high school."
On that note, I'm off to my literature class, the one that sparked my last post. Despite feeling under the weather, I am determined to stay awake and attentive. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
On Food, in Valencia
From For Whom the Bell Tolls:
"We ate in pavilions on the sand. Pastries made of cooked and shredded fish and red and green peppers and small nuts like grains of rice. Pastries delicate and flaky and the fish of a richness that was incredible. Prawns fresh from the sea sprinkled with lime juice. They were pink and sweet and there were four bites to a prawn. Of those we ate many. Then we ate paella with fresh sea food, clams in their shells, mussels, crayfish, and small eels. Then we ate even smaller eels alone cooked in oil and as tiny as bean sprouts and curled in all directions and so tender they disappeared in the mouth without chewing. All the time drinking a white wine, cold, light, and good at thirty centimos the bottle. And for an end, melon. That is the home of the melon...
The melon of Castile is for self abuse. The melon of Valencia for eating. When I think of those melons long as one's arm, green like the sea and crisp and juicy to cut and sweeter than the early morning in summer. Aye, when I think of those smallest eels, tiny, delicate and in mounds on the plate. Also the beer in pitchers all through the afternoon, the beer sweating in its coldness in pitchers the size of water jugs."
Mmmm.
- Hemingway
"We ate in pavilions on the sand. Pastries made of cooked and shredded fish and red and green peppers and small nuts like grains of rice. Pastries delicate and flaky and the fish of a richness that was incredible. Prawns fresh from the sea sprinkled with lime juice. They were pink and sweet and there were four bites to a prawn. Of those we ate many. Then we ate paella with fresh sea food, clams in their shells, mussels, crayfish, and small eels. Then we ate even smaller eels alone cooked in oil and as tiny as bean sprouts and curled in all directions and so tender they disappeared in the mouth without chewing. All the time drinking a white wine, cold, light, and good at thirty centimos the bottle. And for an end, melon. That is the home of the melon...
The melon of Castile is for self abuse. The melon of Valencia for eating. When I think of those melons long as one's arm, green like the sea and crisp and juicy to cut and sweeter than the early morning in summer. Aye, when I think of those smallest eels, tiny, delicate and in mounds on the plate. Also the beer in pitchers all through the afternoon, the beer sweating in its coldness in pitchers the size of water jugs."
Mmmm.
- Hemingway
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Me, the Student, Teacher, Student-Teacher
Today I was confronted with two experiences that were both strikingly different and also, somewhat parallel. Still sorting out a sort of bombardment of thoughts that attacked me on the metro ride home...
Well first of all, today was the first day in which I taught three full lessons without any other teacher supervising or contributing. I've been anticipating this day for awhile now, and for once was eager to wake up at 6am and start the day by strapping on my newly-purchased "teacher shoes" and reviewing the day's lesson plan — a cultural lesson on Halloween customs, as well as a guided story-writing activity, and an opportunity for students to discuss their own customs around this time of the year.
The day went beautifully — all of the students laughed at my stupid jokes, and seemed to find everything I presented to them comical, if not enriching. And I've never seen a group of high-schoolers so excited about Mad Libs before. Some of my favorite moments occurred in the last group I taught — a class which is often the most difficult for me to teach; there are about ten boys and three girls in the group — and we veered off topic quite a bit, but our tangents led us to a really good discussion about education policy and The English Standard. It was also really rewarding to see one of the students, who had always struck me as someone who didn't care too much for school, fervently defend public education and its benefits. Really, really cool.
I took the metro from the high school to my own classes, pleased and warm from the morning's rewarding work, and couldn't stop thinking about how much I had underestimated the good nature of my students without realizing it. It's easy for them to goof off in class when I'm around, not just because of my inexperience and tendency to let things slide, but mainly because of my sheer inability to understand Catalan, allowing them the luxury of side chatter and "jokes behind the teacher's back" that I have no access to... but I'm seeing how quickly I have jumped into defense, without needing to... more on that later.
Switching gears, after work I put on my student hat and made my way to one of my favorite literature classes, a class in which I truly enjoy the reading we're assigned and look forward to attending. Like I have so often in my classes at my home university, and like I do so often during many random occasions (e.g. movies, lectures, bus rides), I fell asleep. I just fell asleep. I wasn't even bored! I just felt my eyelids getting heavier, and I gave in. Some people don't struggle with this, I know, but I can't explain enough how hard it is for me to fight my eyelids sometimes. I really, really can't. I have never fallen asleep in class on purpose, but clearly my body doesn't really care about my intentions. I just fell asleep. I woke up ten minutes later, as my professor had paused the movie we were watching, and like always, I felt the burn of the moment's shame creep up my neck and into my cheeks, my heart racing from the realization of my blunder. I will never get used to that feeling. Blech. I shuffled things around on my desk, took a drink from my water bottle, shoved a piece of gum in my mouth, twiddled my pen around and took notes feverishly — anything to stay awake and be attentive. It might seem foolish to try and garner sympathy for my own obvious neglect to let my body rest, but if you don't know me, you have to understand — I, and the rest of my family for that matter, probably have some mild case of narcolepsy/am making up for years of sleep debt that I've racked up since age 11. We just fall asleep. Everywhere. No idea why, can't help it, no matter how good our sleeping habits are during the week.
Needless to say, my professor pulled me aside after class and said, "Falling asleep in class is absolutely unacceptable. Absolutely." She spoke harshly, talking with her hands and making slicing motions in the air, adding emphasis to the second "absolutely." I hurriedly tried to mumble an apology, but she cut me off saying, "Next time, I will ask you to leave. It is completely disrespectful, and I will not tolerate this sort of behavior." Again, I tried to explain myself (which failed mostly because I don't have any real excuse other than that my body SUCKS), but she interjected saying, "Just do what you need to do. Drink coffee, get more sleep, whatever. You can go now."
I packed up my things and left as quickly as I should, and for some reason, felt the undeniable sting of tears swell behind my eyes. How ridiculous! Was I really going to cry about this? Professors at my university back home have commented on my sleeping habits before, and not once had I reacted as strongly as I was now! As the swell of emotion calmed, I realized why I had felt so offended. Keep in mind, that I am a words-person. I care about words. It was that word — disrespect — that wrecked me.
My professor had deemed me as disrespectful, a term that implied I didn't care about the class, I wasn't considerate enough, that I had been careless in my actions. Okay, I know, a tsunami of conclusions from one comment — but as a student, and a student who cares a great deal about that class, I felt helpless and misjudged. I care! I wanted to scream. I care about this class! I couldn't stand the idea of a professor that I'd respected so much thinking that I wasn't the least bit interested in the class. I made ten thousand mental notes to drink five shots of espresso before I ever enter that classroom again. Then, I made a note to never assume of my future students what was assumed of me today.
As a teacher of high school students, sometimes you're called upon to make certain disciplinary decisions, decisions that are intended to not only shape your students' behavior, but hopefully their character in the long run. The teacher's guidebook says that we should never tolerate behavior like sleeping in class, that it is (as my professor said) disrespectful and unacceptable. We should respond immediately and correct the behavior.
The Book that I try to live by, the one that says we must live in love, says that behavior doesn't matter nearly as much as identity.
When I think about it, the people in my life that have been the most influential, the people whose principles I want to live by, are the people who have believed the best of me, even if they haven't seen it. The friends and the family who have responded to my qualms by saying, "Joanne, you don't have to worry about that. I know who you are." Isn't that what we all want? For the best parts of us to be understood and known? For our identity to be prioritized before our behavior?
Translating this to the classroom, I hope to always make my students believe the best in themselves. This starts with me revising my disciplinary policy. I think I saw teaching in two camps — the teachers who are good with classroom management and the ones who aren't. I had always sorted myself into the latter, seeing as I usually run away from most conflict, and tend to put fun before productivity. I'm seeing now that there are ways to discipline without attacking the students' character, without embarrassing them, without making them feel guilty or less-admirable because of their behavior.
Rather, I hope that I can approach them with servitude first — assuming the best until proven otherwise, making sure they feel free and safe in the classroom before they feel threatened about "breaking rules." If a student falls asleep in class habitually (well, I can already relate to this one too well), I will not consider it as a move of disrespect, but first be concerned with how the hell they're doing. If they're not getting enough sleep at home, then something needs to change. God knows I needed someone in high school telling me to do less and sleep more. If a student is habitually late, or always disrupting class, I should be helping with the why before I hound them for the what.
The conversations I had with my students today proved that students really do rise to the challenge when it's presented to them. If I hold students to a certain standard, and make "good" classroom behavior and work performance as the norm, then "bad" classroom behavior is not a punishable act, but simply a deviation from the standard that might need to be improved. Reflecting on my own reaction to one of my teachers also taught me that there are better ways to teach than to simply "correct." As teachers, we must have servants' hearts. We must put the students first. After all, that's why we signed up for this whole gig, right?
So enough with the worrying about what I'm going to do in the classroom. I've got to shift focus to who is in the classroom. And also, drink more coffee on Tuesday/Thursdays.
Well first of all, today was the first day in which I taught three full lessons without any other teacher supervising or contributing. I've been anticipating this day for awhile now, and for once was eager to wake up at 6am and start the day by strapping on my newly-purchased "teacher shoes" and reviewing the day's lesson plan — a cultural lesson on Halloween customs, as well as a guided story-writing activity, and an opportunity for students to discuss their own customs around this time of the year.
The day went beautifully — all of the students laughed at my stupid jokes, and seemed to find everything I presented to them comical, if not enriching. And I've never seen a group of high-schoolers so excited about Mad Libs before. Some of my favorite moments occurred in the last group I taught — a class which is often the most difficult for me to teach; there are about ten boys and three girls in the group — and we veered off topic quite a bit, but our tangents led us to a really good discussion about education policy and The English Standard. It was also really rewarding to see one of the students, who had always struck me as someone who didn't care too much for school, fervently defend public education and its benefits. Really, really cool.
I took the metro from the high school to my own classes, pleased and warm from the morning's rewarding work, and couldn't stop thinking about how much I had underestimated the good nature of my students without realizing it. It's easy for them to goof off in class when I'm around, not just because of my inexperience and tendency to let things slide, but mainly because of my sheer inability to understand Catalan, allowing them the luxury of side chatter and "jokes behind the teacher's back" that I have no access to... but I'm seeing how quickly I have jumped into defense, without needing to... more on that later.
Switching gears, after work I put on my student hat and made my way to one of my favorite literature classes, a class in which I truly enjoy the reading we're assigned and look forward to attending. Like I have so often in my classes at my home university, and like I do so often during many random occasions (e.g. movies, lectures, bus rides), I fell asleep. I just fell asleep. I wasn't even bored! I just felt my eyelids getting heavier, and I gave in. Some people don't struggle with this, I know, but I can't explain enough how hard it is for me to fight my eyelids sometimes. I really, really can't. I have never fallen asleep in class on purpose, but clearly my body doesn't really care about my intentions. I just fell asleep. I woke up ten minutes later, as my professor had paused the movie we were watching, and like always, I felt the burn of the moment's shame creep up my neck and into my cheeks, my heart racing from the realization of my blunder. I will never get used to that feeling. Blech. I shuffled things around on my desk, took a drink from my water bottle, shoved a piece of gum in my mouth, twiddled my pen around and took notes feverishly — anything to stay awake and be attentive. It might seem foolish to try and garner sympathy for my own obvious neglect to let my body rest, but if you don't know me, you have to understand — I, and the rest of my family for that matter, probably have some mild case of narcolepsy/am making up for years of sleep debt that I've racked up since age 11. We just fall asleep. Everywhere. No idea why, can't help it, no matter how good our sleeping habits are during the week.
Needless to say, my professor pulled me aside after class and said, "Falling asleep in class is absolutely unacceptable. Absolutely." She spoke harshly, talking with her hands and making slicing motions in the air, adding emphasis to the second "absolutely." I hurriedly tried to mumble an apology, but she cut me off saying, "Next time, I will ask you to leave. It is completely disrespectful, and I will not tolerate this sort of behavior." Again, I tried to explain myself (which failed mostly because I don't have any real excuse other than that my body SUCKS), but she interjected saying, "Just do what you need to do. Drink coffee, get more sleep, whatever. You can go now."
I packed up my things and left as quickly as I should, and for some reason, felt the undeniable sting of tears swell behind my eyes. How ridiculous! Was I really going to cry about this? Professors at my university back home have commented on my sleeping habits before, and not once had I reacted as strongly as I was now! As the swell of emotion calmed, I realized why I had felt so offended. Keep in mind, that I am a words-person. I care about words. It was that word — disrespect — that wrecked me.
My professor had deemed me as disrespectful, a term that implied I didn't care about the class, I wasn't considerate enough, that I had been careless in my actions. Okay, I know, a tsunami of conclusions from one comment — but as a student, and a student who cares a great deal about that class, I felt helpless and misjudged. I care! I wanted to scream. I care about this class! I couldn't stand the idea of a professor that I'd respected so much thinking that I wasn't the least bit interested in the class. I made ten thousand mental notes to drink five shots of espresso before I ever enter that classroom again. Then, I made a note to never assume of my future students what was assumed of me today.
As a teacher of high school students, sometimes you're called upon to make certain disciplinary decisions, decisions that are intended to not only shape your students' behavior, but hopefully their character in the long run. The teacher's guidebook says that we should never tolerate behavior like sleeping in class, that it is (as my professor said) disrespectful and unacceptable. We should respond immediately and correct the behavior.
The Book that I try to live by, the one that says we must live in love, says that behavior doesn't matter nearly as much as identity.
When I think about it, the people in my life that have been the most influential, the people whose principles I want to live by, are the people who have believed the best of me, even if they haven't seen it. The friends and the family who have responded to my qualms by saying, "Joanne, you don't have to worry about that. I know who you are." Isn't that what we all want? For the best parts of us to be understood and known? For our identity to be prioritized before our behavior?
Translating this to the classroom, I hope to always make my students believe the best in themselves. This starts with me revising my disciplinary policy. I think I saw teaching in two camps — the teachers who are good with classroom management and the ones who aren't. I had always sorted myself into the latter, seeing as I usually run away from most conflict, and tend to put fun before productivity. I'm seeing now that there are ways to discipline without attacking the students' character, without embarrassing them, without making them feel guilty or less-admirable because of their behavior.
Rather, I hope that I can approach them with servitude first — assuming the best until proven otherwise, making sure they feel free and safe in the classroom before they feel threatened about "breaking rules." If a student falls asleep in class habitually (well, I can already relate to this one too well), I will not consider it as a move of disrespect, but first be concerned with how the hell they're doing. If they're not getting enough sleep at home, then something needs to change. God knows I needed someone in high school telling me to do less and sleep more. If a student is habitually late, or always disrupting class, I should be helping with the why before I hound them for the what.
The conversations I had with my students today proved that students really do rise to the challenge when it's presented to them. If I hold students to a certain standard, and make "good" classroom behavior and work performance as the norm, then "bad" classroom behavior is not a punishable act, but simply a deviation from the standard that might need to be improved. Reflecting on my own reaction to one of my teachers also taught me that there are better ways to teach than to simply "correct." As teachers, we must have servants' hearts. We must put the students first. After all, that's why we signed up for this whole gig, right?
So enough with the worrying about what I'm going to do in the classroom. I've got to shift focus to who is in the classroom. And also, drink more coffee on Tuesday/Thursdays.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Notes
I'm going to Valencia tomorrow & I like teaching a lot & I'm excited to see more castles & I'm loving Spain more and more every day & I love fall.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Je ne parle pas Français (Nantes!)
I had to look up that phrase to figure out how to spell it. French is SO difficult to read.
My body's begging for a good five hour nap right now, but I have to blog before I forget everything.
Gen and I went to Nantes this weekend to see our friends Nico and Scotty. Really good people. Nantes reminds me of Seattle in the fall. Foggy mornings, brisk, clear skies. Fresh, fresh air. I've missed it.
I also wish that I had learned French alongside Spanish. If it weren't for Nico and Scotty helping Genevieve and I with every single interaction, we probably wouldn't have survived the weekend...
Nantes is cute, and quaint, and how I imagined France. Everyone is beautiful. Maybe I say that about every place I visit in Europe. So let's try and be more precise (like French! Oh my gosh – French is so, so, so precise — they have different ways of saying "yes" depending on what you're saying "yes" to. So cool.) Everyone in France is stylish, trendy, fashion-forward...ahh!
Didn't see too many colors though.
So this is what I write like with three hours of sleep.
Skyped with Alvaro last night which was really really nice! Forgot what it was like to have Alvaro and Scotty in the same room (sort of). Geezers.
Ate crepes and galettes, which were amazing. Learned some new French food words.
Danced for a short time with a French man named Alexis who then tried to nibble on my ear (???) Scotty told me to take it as a compliment. I'm not too sure about that.
The university in Nantes looks very similar to University of Washington.
Nico cooks very well. He made us AMAZING hot chocolate and coffee.
Gen and I ate a lot of sugar this weekend. Straight up sugar cubes. And red bull.
The gala was really cool — like a really, really extravagant prom. Scotty taught us how to dance salsa, and since he's really good, he makes all of us look good. Bwhaha. Videos coming up soon, maybe.
It was cool to see some of the places where Scotty spent his time abroad in Nantes. It's funny to think that I might be giving the same sort of tour to someone when I come back to Barcelona in a few years (wishful thinking).
Made new friends Justine and Aurelie, whose name sounds a bit like "Oh, really?" Scotty gets a good laugh out of that.
They made us the cutest little dinner with heart plates and cucumber sandwiches, and wine with little sugar candies stuck on the sides of the glasses. Yum.
My new heels slaughtered my feet at the gala. Danced to good hits from the early 2000s. Lol.
I think I still have red bull flowing through my veins because I can't seem to work up enough fatigue for a nap, but I know know know that I need one.
This weekend was really really nice. I hope to go to France again sometime. I'd also really like to learn French. and Portuguese.
Sang "I Will Survive" twice this weekend. Maybe again tonight.
Also, booked a flight to Boston before I head back to Seattle. Looking forward to seeing the East coast; it's been awhile.
Check my facebook for photos. Dahhhhhh.
My body's begging for a good five hour nap right now, but I have to blog before I forget everything.
Gen and I went to Nantes this weekend to see our friends Nico and Scotty. Really good people. Nantes reminds me of Seattle in the fall. Foggy mornings, brisk, clear skies. Fresh, fresh air. I've missed it.
I also wish that I had learned French alongside Spanish. If it weren't for Nico and Scotty helping Genevieve and I with every single interaction, we probably wouldn't have survived the weekend...
Nantes is cute, and quaint, and how I imagined France. Everyone is beautiful. Maybe I say that about every place I visit in Europe. So let's try and be more precise (like French! Oh my gosh – French is so, so, so precise — they have different ways of saying "yes" depending on what you're saying "yes" to. So cool.) Everyone in France is stylish, trendy, fashion-forward...ahh!
Didn't see too many colors though.
So this is what I write like with three hours of sleep.
Skyped with Alvaro last night which was really really nice! Forgot what it was like to have Alvaro and Scotty in the same room (sort of). Geezers.
Ate crepes and galettes, which were amazing. Learned some new French food words.
Danced for a short time with a French man named Alexis who then tried to nibble on my ear (???) Scotty told me to take it as a compliment. I'm not too sure about that.
The university in Nantes looks very similar to University of Washington.
Nico cooks very well. He made us AMAZING hot chocolate and coffee.
Gen and I ate a lot of sugar this weekend. Straight up sugar cubes. And red bull.
The gala was really cool — like a really, really extravagant prom. Scotty taught us how to dance salsa, and since he's really good, he makes all of us look good. Bwhaha. Videos coming up soon, maybe.
It was cool to see some of the places where Scotty spent his time abroad in Nantes. It's funny to think that I might be giving the same sort of tour to someone when I come back to Barcelona in a few years (wishful thinking).
Made new friends Justine and Aurelie, whose name sounds a bit like "Oh, really?" Scotty gets a good laugh out of that.
They made us the cutest little dinner with heart plates and cucumber sandwiches, and wine with little sugar candies stuck on the sides of the glasses. Yum.
My new heels slaughtered my feet at the gala. Danced to good hits from the early 2000s. Lol.
I think I still have red bull flowing through my veins because I can't seem to work up enough fatigue for a nap, but I know know know that I need one.
This weekend was really really nice. I hope to go to France again sometime. I'd also really like to learn French. and Portuguese.
Sang "I Will Survive" twice this weekend. Maybe again tonight.
Also, booked a flight to Boston before I head back to Seattle. Looking forward to seeing the East coast; it's been awhile.
Check my facebook for photos. Dahhhhhh.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Porto, Portugal
You are
red-tiled roofs, clouds
a city that stretches sleepily up and down
sunsets over riverboats rippling through the Douro
hills, endless hills of stone jutting in all directions
crowded 3-am sidewalk sitting,
coin pendants and street vendors,
the smell of sweet wine and salt and beer,
small stores, small restaurants,
big hearts,
warmth and poetry and eating too much
and loving too much,
You have completely enchanted me.
Until we meet again,
I will carry with me your hearty strum.
red-tiled roofs, clouds
a city that stretches sleepily up and down
sunsets over riverboats rippling through the Douro
hills, endless hills of stone jutting in all directions
crowded 3-am sidewalk sitting,
coin pendants and street vendors,
the smell of sweet wine and salt and beer,
small stores, small restaurants,
big hearts,
warmth and poetry and eating too much
and loving too much,
You have completely enchanted me.
Until we meet again,
I will carry with me your hearty strum.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
One month
One month has passed, and I'm becoming accustomed to all the small, silly things about my new home,
like the way the children's clothing store near school smells like lilacs and vanilla and cleaning supplies,
and that one wiggly stone block that always gets me when I exit the Metro,
and the lurch of the subway stopping, passengers swaying, unfazed by the wails and hisses of the subway doors beeping shut,
the half-bored, half-anticipating stare down a semi-empty street before J-walking in the city,
the screaming school bell and the sound of papers and pencils being shoved into backpacks (I hear this now from the front of the classroom),
the putrid sewage/vomit smell on the western end of Rda St Pere,
and the clean, familiar smell of poorly roasted beans and defrosted baked goods in the Starbucks on the eastern end;
the way time lulls and flows, even when I'm late — the way I walk beside it and with it, never cheating my way out of its gentle hold,
the way my legs feel at the end of the day, worn and strong from hiking up city staircases and home from the beach,
the gritty gravel of Barceloneta and its almost-sand, the tang of the Mediterranean in my hair,
the greasy smell of ham shops,
the way the patatas fritas - french fries - here melt in your mouth like bars of crisp, crisp gold spun soft by gypsies,
the roar of motorcycles and Vespas,
the near-death thrill, the no-mercy approach of those driving them;
the smell of pine nuts and olive oil that greets me when I arrive at home,
the stunting embarrassment of forgetting words in languages I once knew,
the warm blush that creeps back into my lips when I remember;
the soft "besitos" on each side of my cheek from a new friend,
the harsh smacks of "besos" from my homestay mother,
the aggravated cries of the 8-child family that lives upstairs,
the smell of linen and soap on laundry days,
the way my seat creaks at the latest hours of the night,
the way my fingers clack on the keyboard, marking prints in yesterday's skin oils,
the way it feels to write about a home that was not home...
like the way the children's clothing store near school smells like lilacs and vanilla and cleaning supplies,
and that one wiggly stone block that always gets me when I exit the Metro,
and the lurch of the subway stopping, passengers swaying, unfazed by the wails and hisses of the subway doors beeping shut,
the half-bored, half-anticipating stare down a semi-empty street before J-walking in the city,
the screaming school bell and the sound of papers and pencils being shoved into backpacks (I hear this now from the front of the classroom),
the putrid sewage/vomit smell on the western end of Rda St Pere,
and the clean, familiar smell of poorly roasted beans and defrosted baked goods in the Starbucks on the eastern end;
the way time lulls and flows, even when I'm late — the way I walk beside it and with it, never cheating my way out of its gentle hold,
the way my legs feel at the end of the day, worn and strong from hiking up city staircases and home from the beach,
the gritty gravel of Barceloneta and its almost-sand, the tang of the Mediterranean in my hair,
the greasy smell of ham shops,
the way the patatas fritas - french fries - here melt in your mouth like bars of crisp, crisp gold spun soft by gypsies,
the roar of motorcycles and Vespas,
the near-death thrill, the no-mercy approach of those driving them;
the smell of pine nuts and olive oil that greets me when I arrive at home,
the stunting embarrassment of forgetting words in languages I once knew,
the warm blush that creeps back into my lips when I remember;
the soft "besitos" on each side of my cheek from a new friend,
the harsh smacks of "besos" from my homestay mother,
the aggravated cries of the 8-child family that lives upstairs,
the smell of linen and soap on laundry days,
the way my seat creaks at the latest hours of the night,
the way my fingers clack on the keyboard, marking prints in yesterday's skin oils,
the way it feels to write about a home that was not home...
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Secundaria
Last week I started my teaching internship at a Catalan secondary school (high school). Right away, I realized my strengths and weaknesses in teaching are quite different from what I originally thought. (I am always thinking of myself in boxes and grids!) Initially, I was worried about how I would be in the disciplinary realm -- past relationships have taught me that I tend to err on the side of passivity and "niceness" to the extent of being a welcome mat -- but I've found that in the classroom, assertiveness, demanding attention comes easily. It makes things a little more fun when the class is rowdy, anyway, and when all else fails, I like to start off class with a little yoga to get their blood flowing and their minds centered. Maybe that wouldn't fly in some schools, but here they seem to be more lax about structure.
That might be one of the most interesting things I'm learning here -- how to operate "synchronously." I could bore you with quoting some literature from one of my seminars, but I'll give you the Cliff Notes version: essentially, there are two different ways in which we operate/"manage" time. The first is "sequential," a mode which we tend to prefer in the States, as well as in the UK. People who operate in this mode prefer order and sequence. For example, when waiting in line at a butcher's shop, one would commonly find a policy of "first come, first serve" -- we're all familiar with this, right? Take a number, have a seat, and wait your turn. In countries like Italy, Spain, and many Asian countries, however, people tend to operate in a "synchronous" mode, meaning they complete tasks parallel to each other, often times working on several tasks at once, even if it means abandoning order. In an Italian butcher shop, for example, one might find the butcher unwrapping salami for one customer's order, then calling out "Who else for salami?" then completing those orders before those who may have arrived first. Different methods of "productivity" -- different senses of time.
I think I've always had a natural inclination to work synchronously, and I know my family does, but it's interesting to realize how much I have adapted to a sequential lifestyle, and how much I've had to because of the way we perceive time in America. We plan, we have "pathways" and schedules. None of which are bad things! In Spain you won't know the times and locations of your fall classes until a week or two beforehand, but everyone is used to working that way, so they don't expect anything else. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if our university in the States waited until mid-September to confirm our class schedules?
I have friends at both extremes of the spectrum and everywhere in between... so now I can better understand how unhinging it can be for some people when I show up 10 minutes late. At the same time, I have come to value and deeply respect the sense of elastic time I 've found here, especially in the workplace. Here, being "late" is not necessarily inconsiderate, but rather, accepted with 1)the understanding that one can be late because s/he simply had something else to do that took more time than expected, 2)gratitude for the 10-15 minutes of free time spent waiting , and/or 3)no further thought! After all, "being late" is a relative term, isn't it?
I don't know -- maybe it's nearly impossible to function well in the US without sticking to a schedule, without planning ahead all the time... but I will miss this -- this general acceptance of allowing for spontaneity, allowing for life to go as IT has planned, and not as we try to mold it. It's liberating, isn't it? To relinquish control of something of which we had no ownership in the first place? I like it here, I like it a lot.
That might be one of the most interesting things I'm learning here -- how to operate "synchronously." I could bore you with quoting some literature from one of my seminars, but I'll give you the Cliff Notes version: essentially, there are two different ways in which we operate/"manage" time. The first is "sequential," a mode which we tend to prefer in the States, as well as in the UK. People who operate in this mode prefer order and sequence. For example, when waiting in line at a butcher's shop, one would commonly find a policy of "first come, first serve" -- we're all familiar with this, right? Take a number, have a seat, and wait your turn. In countries like Italy, Spain, and many Asian countries, however, people tend to operate in a "synchronous" mode, meaning they complete tasks parallel to each other, often times working on several tasks at once, even if it means abandoning order. In an Italian butcher shop, for example, one might find the butcher unwrapping salami for one customer's order, then calling out "Who else for salami?" then completing those orders before those who may have arrived first. Different methods of "productivity" -- different senses of time.
I think I've always had a natural inclination to work synchronously, and I know my family does, but it's interesting to realize how much I have adapted to a sequential lifestyle, and how much I've had to because of the way we perceive time in America. We plan, we have "pathways" and schedules. None of which are bad things! In Spain you won't know the times and locations of your fall classes until a week or two beforehand, but everyone is used to working that way, so they don't expect anything else. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if our university in the States waited until mid-September to confirm our class schedules?
I have friends at both extremes of the spectrum and everywhere in between... so now I can better understand how unhinging it can be for some people when I show up 10 minutes late. At the same time, I have come to value and deeply respect the sense of elastic time I 've found here, especially in the workplace. Here, being "late" is not necessarily inconsiderate, but rather, accepted with 1)the understanding that one can be late because s/he simply had something else to do that took more time than expected, 2)gratitude for the 10-15 minutes of free time spent waiting , and/or 3)no further thought! After all, "being late" is a relative term, isn't it?
I don't know -- maybe it's nearly impossible to function well in the US without sticking to a schedule, without planning ahead all the time... but I will miss this -- this general acceptance of allowing for spontaneity, allowing for life to go as IT has planned, and not as we try to mold it. It's liberating, isn't it? To relinquish control of something of which we had no ownership in the first place? I like it here, I like it a lot.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Braving the Coast
"Costa Brava" doesn't actually mean "brave coast," but I liked the sound of the title. It means "wild coast" which is probably the best way to describe this weekend.
All of us piled into charter buses and traveled to Costa Brava. We visited Girona, Figueres, and Collioure, spending our time sightseeing, lounging, and enjoying the Mediterranean.
Pictures say more than words, so if you'd like to know about the trip, visit my Facebook. A few highlights/noteworthy things:
- I do not know how to speak French, at all. The trip to Nantes will be interesting...
- The Mediterranean Sea is so, so salty; after diving in, my eyeballs felt like they were going to shrivel up and die
- Finally got to see the Spain I had imagined — narrow streets, tranquility, and endless beaches
- Danced, a lot a lot a lot.
- So many siestas on the bus
- Didn't even order a crepe while in French Catalonia! Regrets.
- Dali is amazing - went to the museum and am still in awe
- Uploading photos...now.... oy vay
Clearly, I'm feeling a bit lazy with this post... on another note, today the kiddos back at school start classes! Welcome to your first day, Broncos!
All of us piled into charter buses and traveled to Costa Brava. We visited Girona, Figueres, and Collioure, spending our time sightseeing, lounging, and enjoying the Mediterranean.
Pictures say more than words, so if you'd like to know about the trip, visit my Facebook. A few highlights/noteworthy things:
- I do not know how to speak French, at all. The trip to Nantes will be interesting...
- The Mediterranean Sea is so, so salty; after diving in, my eyeballs felt like they were going to shrivel up and die
- Finally got to see the Spain I had imagined — narrow streets, tranquility, and endless beaches
- Danced, a lot a lot a lot.
- So many siestas on the bus
- Didn't even order a crepe while in French Catalonia! Regrets.
- Dali is amazing - went to the museum and am still in awe
- Uploading photos...now.... oy vay
Clearly, I'm feeling a bit lazy with this post... on another note, today the kiddos back at school start classes! Welcome to your first day, Broncos!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Refreshed
 |
| View from our balcony - our new favorite study spot! |
Thank God for Genevieve.
I am finally settling into a routine here (I forget that it's already been two-and-a-half weeks!), and today was the first day I've been here and haven't spent a single euro (pronounced here "eh-woo-row"), which is usually very difficult for me (I'm so easily romanced by hand-braided bracelets, petite sandwiches, and other unnecessary things sold by street vendors), but I'm finding that I like the challenge of saving money more than I actually like spending it. Well, for now at least.
I finished my homework before 6pm (gasp!), probably because I felt so energized after my 3 hour siesta (YES!). Of all cultural differences, one I appreciate the most is the Spaniards' sense of time. I can't emphasize enough how fantastic it is. One of my instructors, when marveling at the thought of us bringing coffee and lunch to class and eating it while participating said,
"I don't know how you can do it! Take notes and eat at the same time? I would go crazy!... [here] We like to give each moment its own time. There's a time for lunch, there's a time for work."
So when the hottest hours of the day creep upon us (about noon to three in the afternoon), we retire to the nearest park, or beach, or home, to rest before the second half of the day. Here it feels like we have two days in twenty-four hours! It's absolutely marvelous. When I return for the winter quarter, I've already promised myself to cut out "busyness" and make time for people, and leisure, and exercise, and spontaneity. I've wondered what it is sometimes, that made me so energetic in high school, despite being busy all the time, and I think it's that for the most part, I was usually doing something I cared a lot about. I'd like to start doing that again (well, I tried last quarter and ended up doing too many things about which I cared a lot) — so maybe this go around, I'd like to try doing less in general, and make more time for coffee with friends, and walking, and sitting... and feeling refreshed.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Night Notes
Went to a ballet tonight, it was amazing - El Lago de Las Cisnes (Swan Lake), wow.
Going to International Church tomorrow, hopefully it's a good fit.
Tired beyond reason, only in Spain would a ballet start at 10pm ......
Great night, good friends, love Farggi ice cream/gelato/yogurt, especially the people who work there.. teehee.
Okay, Goodnight!
Going to International Church tomorrow, hopefully it's a good fit.
Tired beyond reason, only in Spain would a ballet start at 10pm ......
Great night, good friends, love Farggi ice cream/gelato/yogurt, especially the people who work there.. teehee.
Okay, Goodnight!
Homage to Catalonia
From Orwell's Homage to Catalonia:
"A Spaniard's generosity, in the ordinary sense of the word, is almost embarrassing. If you ask him for a cigarette he will force the whole packet upon you. And beyond this there is generosity in a deeper sense, a real largeness of spirit, which I have met with again and again in the most unpromising circumstances..."
Friday, September 9, 2011
¡Vamos a la playa!
We did it. Today, Genevieve and I ventured past the big-city borders and found ourselves in the tiny, coastal town of Sitges (pronounced Seet-jess). Right after we stepped off the train, both of us said some version of, "Finally, we've arrived in Spain."
This is how we had imagined Spain — small stucco buildings, red clay roofs, narrow winding alleys, tiny art galleries and cafés — ah! Sitges is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Plus, Gen and I have done a good job of being over-prepared travelers (well-worn maps as proof of this), so today we were more than willing to give ourselves brownie points for being spontaneous! Yay, us!
Also, today people thought we were Spanish. COOL.
After our Spanish language classes, we hopped on one of the R2 trains, still uncertain if we were in the right place at the right time, bearing backpacks on our bellies like we were pregnant with textbooks. Better safe than sorry — did you know that Barcelona is the number one city in the world for pickpocketers? As the train chugged down the Spanish coastline, Barcelona's towering skyscrapers faded into endless stretches of hillsides and ocean — well, sea, I guess... and a voice came on through the P.A. announcing we had arrived at Sitges.
Like I said, we were awestruck for a few moments. After wandering toward the beach, we contemplated staying in a hostel for the night (ooh! spontaneous!) but after ringing three doorbells (one of which we couldn't figure out how to operate, hmm... tourists, anyone?) and being rejected all three times, we felt sweaty, frustrated, and then encountered a small spiritual revelation, experiencing firsthand something like what Mary and Joseph must have felt (bulging backpack-bellies and all). Talk about resilience.
Clearly without the same stamina as Josef y María, we decided to feed our aching stomachs and splurge on the "Menú del Día" at Café Raymundo. After an enormous meal, we lived the Spanish dream: we walked a couple blocks to the beach, changed into swimsuits*, and slept for a few hours, waking up just before sunset. One of my top 5 siestas so far.
*Okay, so one thing we quickly learned about the beaches in Spain — it's quite normal for women to go topless (that's why all these gorgeous Spanish women don't have tan lines!). I hadn't worn my bathing suit under my clothes, so I had to change ... on the beach. I brought a skirt and looser shirt with me, so I managed to worm into my swimsuit, but I received quite a few weird looks; I'm sure they were all thinking, "Why doesn't she just take her clothes off?" Eh. I'm not sure if I'm going to be assimilating to the beach culture here anytime soon...
Okay. It's a little bit late.
Photos, here we go:
This is how we had imagined Spain — small stucco buildings, red clay roofs, narrow winding alleys, tiny art galleries and cafés — ah! Sitges is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Plus, Gen and I have done a good job of being over-prepared travelers (well-worn maps as proof of this), so today we were more than willing to give ourselves brownie points for being spontaneous! Yay, us!
Also, today people thought we were Spanish. COOL.
After our Spanish language classes, we hopped on one of the R2 trains, still uncertain if we were in the right place at the right time, bearing backpacks on our bellies like we were pregnant with textbooks. Better safe than sorry — did you know that Barcelona is the number one city in the world for pickpocketers? As the train chugged down the Spanish coastline, Barcelona's towering skyscrapers faded into endless stretches of hillsides and ocean — well, sea, I guess... and a voice came on through the P.A. announcing we had arrived at Sitges.
Like I said, we were awestruck for a few moments. After wandering toward the beach, we contemplated staying in a hostel for the night (ooh! spontaneous!) but after ringing three doorbells (one of which we couldn't figure out how to operate, hmm... tourists, anyone?) and being rejected all three times, we felt sweaty, frustrated, and then encountered a small spiritual revelation, experiencing firsthand something like what Mary and Joseph must have felt (bulging backpack-bellies and all). Talk about resilience.
Clearly without the same stamina as Josef y María, we decided to feed our aching stomachs and splurge on the "Menú del Día" at Café Raymundo. After an enormous meal, we lived the Spanish dream: we walked a couple blocks to the beach, changed into swimsuits*, and slept for a few hours, waking up just before sunset. One of my top 5 siestas so far.
*Okay, so one thing we quickly learned about the beaches in Spain — it's quite normal for women to go topless (that's why all these gorgeous Spanish women don't have tan lines!). I hadn't worn my bathing suit under my clothes, so I had to change ... on the beach. I brought a skirt and looser shirt with me, so I managed to worm into my swimsuit, but I received quite a few weird looks; I'm sure they were all thinking, "Why doesn't she just take her clothes off?" Eh. I'm not sure if I'm going to be assimilating to the beach culture here anytime soon...
Okay. It's a little bit late.
Photos, here we go:
Steak and potatoes. Delicious. Sort of American, I thought, but maybe not. Also, they don't eat fries with ketchup here. We're weird, I guess.
One of many cathedrals along the coast.
Crema Catalan — a famous "postre" (dessert) in Catalonia, similar to Creme Brulee, but made with less sugar. ¡A mi me encanta!
Monday, September 5, 2011
Grinding
No, not the dirty kind.
If you follow Gen's blog, you know that as a symptom of Being-Thrust-Into-A-Foreign-Land-itis she developed a bit of a jaw problem grinding her teeth at night. I've found myself with a similar problem, although I don't think it comes from anxiety or nervousness, but rather, restlessness.
There is so much to do in Barcelona. Wander down any street, and you're bound to find something or someone new, interesting, and different from its American counterpart (if it has one). So why the restlessness? I'm craving a real adventure, I think.
For the past few days, all of us from the program with which I'm studying have clustered together (naturally), traveling in big groups and visiting all the same places — all of which has been fun and a great way to bond with each other.
But something in me wants to venture away from the comfort of speaking in English and really get to know Barcelona. After all, if I wanted to learn how to improve my English, I would have stayed in the States. The only trouble is, the most popular area for meeting people at night also happens to be the most dangerous part of town (go figure). So, as a young female college student in a foreign country, it's certainly not a good idea for me to go wandering around at night. Yep. I know Mom. I won't... Sigh.
So what to do now? My homestay mom just fed Jacqueline and I a day-and-a-half's worth of food — pesto pasta, pan con tomate, ensalada, chorizo, and nectarina. Wow. I will be full for two days. We're sitting on our beds, full and lazy, and thinking about our plans for the night.
We've been to a couple clubs, which were exactly what you'd expect from a frequented big-city-disco tech — glamorous, loud, and trendy — and we've had a really good time; but the horrendous Euro-USD exchange rate has rendered me unable to keep visiting places like that all the time. There are a few local bars that are fun, especially for a night out with a small group, but again, I'd like to stray away from the study-abroad-summer-camp feel and get to know the city on my own! How am I supposed to do that, without you know... risking my life?
If you follow Gen's blog, you know that as a symptom of Being-Thrust-Into-A-Foreign-Land-itis she developed a bit of a jaw problem grinding her teeth at night. I've found myself with a similar problem, although I don't think it comes from anxiety or nervousness, but rather, restlessness.
There is so much to do in Barcelona. Wander down any street, and you're bound to find something or someone new, interesting, and different from its American counterpart (if it has one). So why the restlessness? I'm craving a real adventure, I think.
For the past few days, all of us from the program with which I'm studying have clustered together (naturally), traveling in big groups and visiting all the same places — all of which has been fun and a great way to bond with each other.
But something in me wants to venture away from the comfort of speaking in English and really get to know Barcelona. After all, if I wanted to learn how to improve my English, I would have stayed in the States. The only trouble is, the most popular area for meeting people at night also happens to be the most dangerous part of town (go figure). So, as a young female college student in a foreign country, it's certainly not a good idea for me to go wandering around at night. Yep. I know Mom. I won't... Sigh.
So what to do now? My homestay mom just fed Jacqueline and I a day-and-a-half's worth of food — pesto pasta, pan con tomate, ensalada, chorizo, and nectarina. Wow. I will be full for two days. We're sitting on our beds, full and lazy, and thinking about our plans for the night.
We've been to a couple clubs, which were exactly what you'd expect from a frequented big-city-disco tech — glamorous, loud, and trendy — and we've had a really good time; but the horrendous Euro-USD exchange rate has rendered me unable to keep visiting places like that all the time. There are a few local bars that are fun, especially for a night out with a small group, but again, I'd like to stray away from the study-abroad-summer-camp feel and get to know the city on my own! How am I supposed to do that, without you know... risking my life?
Friday, September 2, 2011
Humedad
It is very, very humid in Barcelona. It's going to take awhile to get used to this. Also, I just spent 36€ on toiletries. Sigh. El Corte Ingles, what a rip-off. I just learned that the home in which I'm staying is in one of the richer neighborhoods of Barcelona (ooh-la-la!), which has its perks (quiet, safe, great accommodations), but quite a few downfalls — one being that I can barely afford shampoo here. Yikes.
I had a number of things I wanted to blog about and am in a bit of a hurry, so this will be more scattered than I'd like.
Is it too soon to say I prefer Madrid to Barcelona? Is it too soon to say I feel almost homesick for Madrid? There, the nights feel warmer (and less humid), the streets feel cleaner; it's as if the city isn't trying to be exciting and just appeared, out of nowhere in all its vivacity and gorgeousness. Also, I wish I could have spent more time with the new friends I made at the Madrid hostel — our conversations were unlike most I've had, mainly because of multiple intersecting language barriers; with company from such different backgrounds, we found ourselves laughing at the smallest mispronunciations, the most subtle hand gesture (well, subtle to the Italians, not so subtle to the rest of us), and now I find myself a little bit awkward when trying to strike up conversations in English (there are just too many possibilities for real, lasting blunders). Maybe when we find ourselves with such a limited arsenal of words, we can laugh easier because we are free to abandon cultural constructs of "appropriateness" and "manners," instead we are permitted to just enjoy each other's human presence... and enjoy words without having to read their meaning too carefully. I like words.
I love kissing both cheeks in greeting and farewell! I think it is one of many customs we Americans should adapt. We are so spatially paranoid — one person bumps into us on the street without an apology and our automatic response is offense. Here, although people seem to be much more closed than in the Pacific Northwest, personal bubbles are much smaller, and much more fluid. People must think I'm crazy for apologizing so often simply for nudging them with my giant purse on the metro...
The cathedrals here are beautiful. I have visited three so far and have not stepped into a single one without being moved — we just don't do worship like that anymore. To think, people must have spent decades, sometimes centuries, creating these gigantic paintings, carving tiny details into archways, inscribing Scripture on walls, all in worship, all in honor of God. Amazing. Just amazing.
Ah, I had more to say, but I have to attend the study abroad program's welcome ceremony, so adios for now....
I had a number of things I wanted to blog about and am in a bit of a hurry, so this will be more scattered than I'd like.
Is it too soon to say I prefer Madrid to Barcelona? Is it too soon to say I feel almost homesick for Madrid? There, the nights feel warmer (and less humid), the streets feel cleaner; it's as if the city isn't trying to be exciting and just appeared, out of nowhere in all its vivacity and gorgeousness. Also, I wish I could have spent more time with the new friends I made at the Madrid hostel — our conversations were unlike most I've had, mainly because of multiple intersecting language barriers; with company from such different backgrounds, we found ourselves laughing at the smallest mispronunciations, the most subtle hand gesture (well, subtle to the Italians, not so subtle to the rest of us), and now I find myself a little bit awkward when trying to strike up conversations in English (there are just too many possibilities for real, lasting blunders). Maybe when we find ourselves with such a limited arsenal of words, we can laugh easier because we are free to abandon cultural constructs of "appropriateness" and "manners," instead we are permitted to just enjoy each other's human presence... and enjoy words without having to read their meaning too carefully. I like words.
I love kissing both cheeks in greeting and farewell! I think it is one of many customs we Americans should adapt. We are so spatially paranoid — one person bumps into us on the street without an apology and our automatic response is offense. Here, although people seem to be much more closed than in the Pacific Northwest, personal bubbles are much smaller, and much more fluid. People must think I'm crazy for apologizing so often simply for nudging them with my giant purse on the metro...
The cathedrals here are beautiful. I have visited three so far and have not stepped into a single one without being moved — we just don't do worship like that anymore. To think, people must have spent decades, sometimes centuries, creating these gigantic paintings, carving tiny details into archways, inscribing Scripture on walls, all in worship, all in honor of God. Amazing. Just amazing.
Ah, I had more to say, but I have to attend the study abroad program's welcome ceremony, so adios for now....
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Bullets
- So so so so tired
- Hola, Barcelona
- Great host mom
- Cositas
- So humid
- Forgot shampoo
- Far from Genevieve
- Unlimited metro pass
- Will write about: cathedrals
- Will write about: the people
- Will write about: modern art
- feels like summer camp
- I could sleep for days
- Okay
- Vale
- Vale
- Bien.
- Hola, Barcelona
- Great host mom
- Cositas
- So humid
- Forgot shampoo
- Far from Genevieve
- Unlimited metro pass
- Will write about: cathedrals
- Will write about: the people
- Will write about: modern art
- feels like summer camp
- I could sleep for days
- Okay
- Vale
- Vale
- Bien.
Monday, August 29, 2011
A few fears conquered
Fear #1: Being alone.
Instead of continuing to wander the streets of Madrid by my lonesome (like I had the first night), I decided to take advantage of the hostel in which I'm staying; it has a vibrant social atmosphere, and I've made quite a few traveling friends just by sitting on my bed and talking. Although I thought I had myself pinned down as that adventurous-solo-gypsy type — a type that probably doesn't even exist — I've been humbled quite a bit by my initial loneliness, and have realized that all of these new experiences are much, much better when shared.
That said, I have made several friends, from New York, Los Angeles, Korea, Australia, Germany, and France. It's been awesome, to say the least. Even my new Australian friend and I have found fun cultural differences to laugh about. New Aussie slang I learned yesterday: "crash-hot." The American equivalent of "crash-hot" is something like "really cool" or "tight" or "bomb."
Fear #2: Language barrier.
Todo está bien. I spent most of my first three days here with an Argentinian woman who spoke about ten words of English. I can now call her friend. We've exchanged life stories, laughed about mistranslations, and have bridged many gaps in the past few days, including those of language, culture, and age. Qué bonita, ¿no?
I can speak Spanish! I can do it!
Fear #3: Starvation/not using my money wisely.
As it figures, most travelers who stay in hostels are also very interested in simultaneously saving money and experiencing culture (Who'da thunk?) So although I've eaten some very tasty food in the last few days — okay fine, I'll take a moment to describe it (that's for you, Lex):
Meal 1: Scared-touristy cop out meal, as I'd like to think it. I ordered a "cappuccino italiano" and a "panini Italy" from a popular chain here called "Café y Té." It wasn't very exotic, or filling, and I experienced my first tourist blunder by misunderstanding when I was expected to pay, resulting in the waitress tapping the checkbook angrily and repeating "Paga ahora. Ahora paga. Paga ahora." Oops.
Meal 2, 5, 8: Breakfast at the hostel, which consists of instant coffee (Yuck, but now I'm used to it), some toast, and "Cocoa Flakes" (of which I'm still very suspicious...). But I've never been much of an early breakfast person anyway, and I've found myself waking up much earlier here than I do normally.
Meal 3: Delicious espresso from Café y Té. In the States when one orders espresso at Starbucks, one usually receives a "solo" or "doppio" (one shot or two shots). Here, when one orders espresso (only 1.50€, by the way!) one receives 8 oz. of steaming hot espresso (about 4 shots or so). YUM. My new friends who don't even like coffee loved it. Qué rica.
A few moments later, I had pizza from an Italian restaurant that was pretty good, but the real highlight of the meal was the sangria. I had a bit of sangria in the States before I left, and that was pretty strong and tasty, but the sangria here was refreshing, mellow, and had a delicious clean-aftertaste. Mmmmm.
Meal 4: Hopefully my first and last pricey meal of the trip. We went to a tapas bar and for 18€ ordered two cold tapas, two hot tapas, beer or wine, bread, and a seafood appetizer (that we were unable to identify, but tasted delicious!) The hot tapas were AMAZING... a tender cut of pork topped with soft cheese, and a mini hamburger made out of seasoned ham (crazy, right), onions, and red pepper. The cold tapas were... not as pleasant. I think one of them was just blended raw seafood topped with a sliver of salmon. Yep. Overall, though, the meal was amazing!
Later on we went to a small, newly-opened bar in the La Latina neighborhood and I had one of the best mint mojitos I've ever tasted! Amazing!
I'm getting tired, as you probably are, of describing every dish, so the Cliff Notes version of my food diary is as follows: the next two days were filled with some of the best cheap and healthy food I've ever had — unseasoned ham and cheese, grilled chicken breast, salad, Turkish-prepared chicken with barbecue sauce, a flan-cheese dessert covered with raspberry sauce, and a delicious hamburger for only 4.50€! That's what's up.
Like I was saying, although I've eaten very good food recently, I need to take a hint from my Argentinian friend and learn how to eat a lot for a little — eating at the right times is key... more on that later perhaps.
Fear #4: Actually enjoying a bullfight.
If you know me well, you know that I like really bad horror movies, like Saw and Hostel. So I hope you can understand, although I've never ever ever enjoyed the idea of any creature suffering from a slow, torturous death, there is something about those really bad, soft-gore films that is fascinating. That said, I was really hoping I didn't feel the same way about "la corrida de toros" — it sounded horrible to me! But then again, so do Saw and Hostel to most people, right?
So as it turns out, I really do not enjoy bullfights. About 2/3 of the stadium left after the first round (there are six, total); I saw quite a few children who left crying. I'm glad to say that was my first and last bullfight. My opinion is this: bullfights should be made illegal. No creature deserves that sort of death, (if you need details to understand, Google it yourself; I can't bear to describe the process right after writing several paragraphs about food) despite any cultural/traditional importance.
That said (I really need a new transition word), I can certainly see from where the tradition comes, and why some fight to keep it. For example, at the bullfight that we attended, there was one matador who was clearly young, and clearly very entertaining. He made incredibly risky movements, some of which led the bull only a couple inches away from the matador's body. He made lots of passes in front of his body, whereas many of the matadors we observed made passes behind them, hiding the cloth from the bull. The crowd roared with approval when he made one of these passes. The majority of the crowd, mind you, seemed to be tourists. One older man, seated a couple rows behind us, however, did not like this matador. (This man seemed to know a great deal about bullfights, because he kept calling to the matadors to make certain moves throughout the entire fight.) And to this particular matador, the older man kept yelling (in Spanish), "Put your chin down! Respect the bull! Respect the bull!" I began to understand...
In front of the Plaza de Toros there is a statue on which the words are inscribed, "When a bull dies, an angel is made." From what I know about historical Spanish attitudes/culture, the Spaniards were once a people known for their daring, their passion, their tragedy. It's clear in their proverbs, their literature, their philosophy, that much of what it meant (and might still mean) to be Spanish is to have a constant awareness of one's finitude, one's ability to die within the next day, the next hour, the next moment! With this in mind, I can see how there was a time when a good bullfight may have seemed like one of the most beautiful events in the world — perhaps when done well, a bullfight was akin to a dance, a dance between both beast and man, a dance between beast and death, and a dance between man and his looming mortality. Perhaps when done well, a bullfight represented a sort of understanding between man and beast...a sort of all-too-choreographed last hurrah before the bull accepted its death and kneeled, not to man, but to its true master... Death.
But we could continue romanticizing this for a while. When it comes down to it, it really is one of the present day's most well-known and real examples of animal cruelty. Barcelona outlawed bullfights some time ago; I think it's time Madrid does the same.
It's 1:59am here, and I'm ready to crash despite being able to hear voices, street performers, and police sirens from my hostel room (good thing I lived near Bellomy the last two years). Tomorrow, if I find the time, I'll tell you about Toledo. ¡Nos hablemos pronto!
Instead of continuing to wander the streets of Madrid by my lonesome (like I had the first night), I decided to take advantage of the hostel in which I'm staying; it has a vibrant social atmosphere, and I've made quite a few traveling friends just by sitting on my bed and talking. Although I thought I had myself pinned down as that adventurous-solo-gypsy type — a type that probably doesn't even exist — I've been humbled quite a bit by my initial loneliness, and have realized that all of these new experiences are much, much better when shared.
That said, I have made several friends, from New York, Los Angeles, Korea, Australia, Germany, and France. It's been awesome, to say the least. Even my new Australian friend and I have found fun cultural differences to laugh about. New Aussie slang I learned yesterday: "crash-hot." The American equivalent of "crash-hot" is something like "really cool" or "tight" or "bomb."
Fear #2: Language barrier.
Todo está bien. I spent most of my first three days here with an Argentinian woman who spoke about ten words of English. I can now call her friend. We've exchanged life stories, laughed about mistranslations, and have bridged many gaps in the past few days, including those of language, culture, and age. Qué bonita, ¿no?
I can speak Spanish! I can do it!
Fear #3: Starvation/not using my money wisely.
As it figures, most travelers who stay in hostels are also very interested in simultaneously saving money and experiencing culture (Who'da thunk?) So although I've eaten some very tasty food in the last few days — okay fine, I'll take a moment to describe it (that's for you, Lex):
Meal 1: Scared-touristy cop out meal, as I'd like to think it. I ordered a "cappuccino italiano" and a "panini Italy" from a popular chain here called "Café y Té." It wasn't very exotic, or filling, and I experienced my first tourist blunder by misunderstanding when I was expected to pay, resulting in the waitress tapping the checkbook angrily and repeating "Paga ahora. Ahora paga. Paga ahora." Oops.
Meal 2, 5, 8: Breakfast at the hostel, which consists of instant coffee (Yuck, but now I'm used to it), some toast, and "Cocoa Flakes" (of which I'm still very suspicious...). But I've never been much of an early breakfast person anyway, and I've found myself waking up much earlier here than I do normally.
Meal 3: Delicious espresso from Café y Té. In the States when one orders espresso at Starbucks, one usually receives a "solo" or "doppio" (one shot or two shots). Here, when one orders espresso (only 1.50€, by the way!) one receives 8 oz. of steaming hot espresso (about 4 shots or so). YUM. My new friends who don't even like coffee loved it. Qué rica.
A few moments later, I had pizza from an Italian restaurant that was pretty good, but the real highlight of the meal was the sangria. I had a bit of sangria in the States before I left, and that was pretty strong and tasty, but the sangria here was refreshing, mellow, and had a delicious clean-aftertaste. Mmmmm.
Meal 4: Hopefully my first and last pricey meal of the trip. We went to a tapas bar and for 18€ ordered two cold tapas, two hot tapas, beer or wine, bread, and a seafood appetizer (that we were unable to identify, but tasted delicious!) The hot tapas were AMAZING... a tender cut of pork topped with soft cheese, and a mini hamburger made out of seasoned ham (crazy, right), onions, and red pepper. The cold tapas were... not as pleasant. I think one of them was just blended raw seafood topped with a sliver of salmon. Yep. Overall, though, the meal was amazing!
Later on we went to a small, newly-opened bar in the La Latina neighborhood and I had one of the best mint mojitos I've ever tasted! Amazing!
I'm getting tired, as you probably are, of describing every dish, so the Cliff Notes version of my food diary is as follows: the next two days were filled with some of the best cheap and healthy food I've ever had — unseasoned ham and cheese, grilled chicken breast, salad, Turkish-prepared chicken with barbecue sauce, a flan-cheese dessert covered with raspberry sauce, and a delicious hamburger for only 4.50€! That's what's up.
Like I was saying, although I've eaten very good food recently, I need to take a hint from my Argentinian friend and learn how to eat a lot for a little — eating at the right times is key... more on that later perhaps.
Fear #4: Actually enjoying a bullfight.
If you know me well, you know that I like really bad horror movies, like Saw and Hostel. So I hope you can understand, although I've never ever ever enjoyed the idea of any creature suffering from a slow, torturous death, there is something about those really bad, soft-gore films that is fascinating. That said, I was really hoping I didn't feel the same way about "la corrida de toros" — it sounded horrible to me! But then again, so do Saw and Hostel to most people, right?
So as it turns out, I really do not enjoy bullfights. About 2/3 of the stadium left after the first round (there are six, total); I saw quite a few children who left crying. I'm glad to say that was my first and last bullfight. My opinion is this: bullfights should be made illegal. No creature deserves that sort of death, (if you need details to understand, Google it yourself; I can't bear to describe the process right after writing several paragraphs about food) despite any cultural/traditional importance.
That said (I really need a new transition word), I can certainly see from where the tradition comes, and why some fight to keep it. For example, at the bullfight that we attended, there was one matador who was clearly young, and clearly very entertaining. He made incredibly risky movements, some of which led the bull only a couple inches away from the matador's body. He made lots of passes in front of his body, whereas many of the matadors we observed made passes behind them, hiding the cloth from the bull. The crowd roared with approval when he made one of these passes. The majority of the crowd, mind you, seemed to be tourists. One older man, seated a couple rows behind us, however, did not like this matador. (This man seemed to know a great deal about bullfights, because he kept calling to the matadors to make certain moves throughout the entire fight.) And to this particular matador, the older man kept yelling (in Spanish), "Put your chin down! Respect the bull! Respect the bull!" I began to understand...
In front of the Plaza de Toros there is a statue on which the words are inscribed, "When a bull dies, an angel is made." From what I know about historical Spanish attitudes/culture, the Spaniards were once a people known for their daring, their passion, their tragedy. It's clear in their proverbs, their literature, their philosophy, that much of what it meant (and might still mean) to be Spanish is to have a constant awareness of one's finitude, one's ability to die within the next day, the next hour, the next moment! With this in mind, I can see how there was a time when a good bullfight may have seemed like one of the most beautiful events in the world — perhaps when done well, a bullfight was akin to a dance, a dance between both beast and man, a dance between beast and death, and a dance between man and his looming mortality. Perhaps when done well, a bullfight represented a sort of understanding between man and beast...a sort of all-too-choreographed last hurrah before the bull accepted its death and kneeled, not to man, but to its true master... Death.
But we could continue romanticizing this for a while. When it comes down to it, it really is one of the present day's most well-known and real examples of animal cruelty. Barcelona outlawed bullfights some time ago; I think it's time Madrid does the same.
It's 1:59am here, and I'm ready to crash despite being able to hear voices, street performers, and police sirens from my hostel room (good thing I lived near Bellomy the last two years). Tomorrow, if I find the time, I'll tell you about Toledo. ¡Nos hablemos pronto!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Bienvenidos a Madrid
The transition from the Pacific Northwest to Frankfurt was probably the strangest. I like the Germans, I like how infrequently everyone smiles. That said, I'm still glad I'm studying abroad in Spain.
Everything feels warm here, and I'm not just talking about the weather. Everyone here seems to laugh louder, to touch more, to kiss more often. And why not? The nights are cozy. I know everyone told me not to wander around by myself at night, but umm... I'm sorry - I did. And got lost, of course. Despite what I've heard, and despite my paranoia of pickpocketing, I felt fine for the three hours that I wandered around Madrid. Kids were running around the streets around midnight, street performers were just starting their shows around 11pm — this is my kind of town!
It was a bit lonely though. I know, this whole thing was supposed to be an adventure that way, but seeing all the couples (I've deduced that everyone here is in love. Seriously. Everyone. And if they're not, they're about to be.) drinking sangria and toasting to the night made me wish I had been a bit less hasty in my decision to purchase a ticket for this solo trip.
It's funny how hard it is for me to wake up slow here. I was jolted awake by the sun this morning, and will probably be taking full advantage of my first siesta in Spain.
Thankfully, I just met a fellow traveler from the States who might join me on my excursions today. I think I'll head to el Museo del Prado and el mercado de san miguel (it's this crowded indoor market filled with stands where you can taste different wines, cheeses, and tapas. Que linda, ¿no?)
Ha, and maybe I need to develop a better instinct to stay away from strangers, but yesterday I received my first "Ay mami, que linda!" call from a street vendor, and it was surprisingly not as creepy as I thought it would be...
Gotta head to breakfast soon. Free breakfast at the hostel, yay!
Everything feels warm here, and I'm not just talking about the weather. Everyone here seems to laugh louder, to touch more, to kiss more often. And why not? The nights are cozy. I know everyone told me not to wander around by myself at night, but umm... I'm sorry - I did. And got lost, of course. Despite what I've heard, and despite my paranoia of pickpocketing, I felt fine for the three hours that I wandered around Madrid. Kids were running around the streets around midnight, street performers were just starting their shows around 11pm — this is my kind of town!
It was a bit lonely though. I know, this whole thing was supposed to be an adventure that way, but seeing all the couples (I've deduced that everyone here is in love. Seriously. Everyone. And if they're not, they're about to be.) drinking sangria and toasting to the night made me wish I had been a bit less hasty in my decision to purchase a ticket for this solo trip.
It's funny how hard it is for me to wake up slow here. I was jolted awake by the sun this morning, and will probably be taking full advantage of my first siesta in Spain.
Thankfully, I just met a fellow traveler from the States who might join me on my excursions today. I think I'll head to el Museo del Prado and el mercado de san miguel (it's this crowded indoor market filled with stands where you can taste different wines, cheeses, and tapas. Que linda, ¿no?)
Ha, and maybe I need to develop a better instinct to stay away from strangers, but yesterday I received my first "Ay mami, que linda!" call from a street vendor, and it was surprisingly not as creepy as I thought it would be...
Gotta head to breakfast soon. Free breakfast at the hostel, yay!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The world spins madly
I am always like this at airports. Sleep-deprived, over-fed, a bit insecure, and excited.
Last night was perfect and wonderful and I can't believe how many beautiful people are in my life. Wow. Wow. Wow.
Clearly not the most eloquent right now. There's a woman next to me speaking Spanish to her husband. I'm thrilled to understand. I think over the summer I've tried to give myself the illusion that I can't speak any Spanish to make things exciting... but okay, I guess my Spanish is better than I thought. One of those things, you know...
Miss all of you/can't wait for the next step in this adventure!
*Also- German children are really cute.
**Also- I'm definitely flying to Frankfurt, not Luxembourg.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Star trek reruns
1 day, 16 hours, and 52 minutes until I board a plane to Luxembourg, then to Madrid. Wow.
I'm sitting in my living room trying to remember what I've forgotten to pack, but so far all I've really done is watch two gameshows ("Are you smarter than a 5th grader?" and "Don't Forget the Lyrics") and am now watching... Star Trek.
I was never really into Star Trek so I have no idea what's going on. My head hurts a little bit. I made an "Hola, España" playlist, but because of this weird mood I'm in, I have a feeling my song selections won't be as hopeful and excited as I want them to be. Most glaring example: I put Damien Rice "Animals Were Gone" as the first track and Bright Eyes as the second. I will make adjustments in the morning.
For now, I should probably get some rest before "Tonight's Big Party" (that reminds me, I should put Dolour on my iPhone! I haven't listened to them in a long, long time!). I can't wait to see everyone! I especially do not want to say goodbye to two of my friends. This will probably be the last time I see one of them before he falls in love with some French girl and decides to move there forever. Same goes for one of my girl friends, who will probably jet off to ________, fall in love, and stay there forever. I guess the only solution is for me to fall in love, too. Then we can all get married by the Mediterranean Sea, or something.
Time to sleep.
I'm sitting in my living room trying to remember what I've forgotten to pack, but so far all I've really done is watch two gameshows ("Are you smarter than a 5th grader?" and "Don't Forget the Lyrics") and am now watching... Star Trek.
I was never really into Star Trek so I have no idea what's going on. My head hurts a little bit. I made an "Hola, España" playlist, but because of this weird mood I'm in, I have a feeling my song selections won't be as hopeful and excited as I want them to be. Most glaring example: I put Damien Rice "Animals Were Gone" as the first track and Bright Eyes as the second. I will make adjustments in the morning.
For now, I should probably get some rest before "Tonight's Big Party" (that reminds me, I should put Dolour on my iPhone! I haven't listened to them in a long, long time!). I can't wait to see everyone! I especially do not want to say goodbye to two of my friends. This will probably be the last time I see one of them before he falls in love with some French girl and decides to move there forever. Same goes for one of my girl friends, who will probably jet off to ________, fall in love, and stay there forever. I guess the only solution is for me to fall in love, too. Then we can all get married by the Mediterranean Sea, or something.
Time to sleep.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Giddiness
I just spoke with my host mom, Señora Antonia. Her name is Maria Antonia (Ma is the notation used for the first name "Maria," which is so common in Spain that women usually go by their middle names.) She was so sweet, and so reassuring! She kept saying "un abrazo grande" (a big hug) over and over, and telling me to let my mom know that I will be very safe and very content. Apparently we will be staying in an apartment only 7 minutes away from the program center, which is awesome for for me and my roommate Jacqueline - we get to sleep in!
As far as packing goes, Señora Antonia told me I didn't need to bring a towel, which was good news. However, insofar as putting actual pieces of clothing in my luggage, I haven't made any progress since the last post... Wish me luck.
As far as packing goes, Señora Antonia told me I didn't need to bring a towel, which was good news. However, insofar as putting actual pieces of clothing in my luggage, I haven't made any progress since the last post... Wish me luck.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
(Sort of) packing
Who cares, right?
"I don't mean, to seem like I care about material things, like a social status/All I need are four walls and adobe slabs..."
Nonetheless, I am still one of the worst packers in the world. Hmm. My friend Maya and I always make fun of/resonate with the girls in the movies that carry lots of things, all at once. You know the ones we're talking about, the girls in the romantic comedies who always seem to be carrying lots of boxes/pastries/books in their hands, and always happen to run headfirst into the leading male character at the perfect time. And all in one instance of box-breaking/book-dropping/pastry-flopping, she wins both the heart of the audience...and the main man. Yeah, what? I wish that were real life. I'd probably be falling in love all the time. Truth is, carrying lots of things just makes you sweat and wish you had more arm strength so you wouldn't have to ask that random dude at the airport if he can help you lift your luggage off the conveyor belt thing in the baggage claim.
I vow to avoid that problem as best as possible, hopefully by packing light. Here is my progress so far:
Friday, August 19, 2011
Classes, and other things of relative importance...
I received my final class schedule. Man. This is going to be a fun trip.
MWF (Mornings): Advanced Spanish Grammar & Usage
TTh:
MWF (Mornings): Advanced Spanish Grammar & Usage
TTh:
- (Morning) Internship Seminar
- (Afternoon) Spanish and English Voices of the Civil War
- In this class, we'll be taking field trips to bomb shelters and Orwell's Barcelona. Yes. That would be Orwell, comma, George. (AHHHHHHH!)
- The full title is "Spanish and English Voices of the Civil War in Literature, Film, and Drama" - meaning... we get to watch films and plays for homework!
- Also, I have never been much of a history buff, so I'm excited to see how I'll be challenged in this class...
- (Evening) Understanding Photography
- Yes. A photography class. In Barcelona. Yes. This is real life.
Blessed, overwhelmed, and in good spirits. (Ha, and if you read my other blog and see the post from earlier this evening, the chipper tone of this one might seem strange). Also, today I bought a small point-and-shoot to use when I want to keep the Praying Mantis (my giant DSLR) away from sneaky fingers. This little guy, who I have —well, as of now— affectionately named "Quixote," is compact, light, and acts almost like an SLR, which is amazing. It has this customizable control ring around the lens that allows users to control whichever functions they use most in an efficient, intuitive way that I have never encountered in a point-and-shoot! Qué fabuloso, ¿no?
As you may see, half of my Spanish vocabulary is comprised of English cognates, some of which are probably very, very false and could get me into a lot of trouble abroad. Let's work on that.
While planning for this incredible four-month adventure, I had almost forgotten to plan for the next few days ahead. Before I leave, I'll be hosting a little "Goodbye, Summer" get-together, and have yet to plan the evening's menu... I was planning on tacos, but serving Tex-Mex at a pre-Spain departure party seems a bit wrong, doesn't it?
Here are a few of the first photos I've taken with Quixote, unedited:
As you may see, half of my Spanish vocabulary is comprised of English cognates, some of which are probably very, very false and could get me into a lot of trouble abroad. Let's work on that.
While planning for this incredible four-month adventure, I had almost forgotten to plan for the next few days ahead. Before I leave, I'll be hosting a little "Goodbye, Summer" get-together, and have yet to plan the evening's menu... I was planning on tacos, but serving Tex-Mex at a pre-Spain departure party seems a bit wrong, doesn't it?
Here are a few of the first photos I've taken with Quixote, unedited:
How AWESOME is that depth of field?
Fish-eye effect. Woohoo!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A bit of a red flag...
Part of what initially attracted me to Spanish culture (and European culture in general, I guess), was its affinity for nighttime, its casual lean toward the later parts of the day, its nonchalant shrug in response to life's chaos, its tendency to say, "Eh. I think I'll nap instead. Or sit by the seaside and write. Or have a glass of wine with a good friend." I discovered what a "siesta" was, I learned about Spanish mealtimes (lunch takes place around 1:30-2:30, dinner around 9pm or later), and thought, "Finally, a place where I belong!"
But recently, despite my usual habits of day-sleeping and night-embracing, I've found myself exhausted by 10pm, withered and creaky from the day's wear and tear. Who AM I? What happened to me? Man cannot survive on bread and espresso doppio alone! (Should I have said "man and woman"? Are people upset with me now?)
I must adjust my schedule. I must get back to normal. I must regain my love for the night. I must. Stay. Awake.
*After titling this post, I immediately imagined myself as a Spanish bull, trapped in the ring, chasing after my death as a man in an embroidered vest yells, "Toro! Toro! Toro!". And in my head, I charge immediately. I race toward my last breath. I plunge headfirst into a haze of blood and tears. A potential metaphor for the first, terrifying, lonely part of the trip, perhaps? Just kidding. Maybe a little too morbid? Sorry... I do that sometimes.
But recently, despite my usual habits of day-sleeping and night-embracing, I've found myself exhausted by 10pm, withered and creaky from the day's wear and tear. Who AM I? What happened to me? Man cannot survive on bread and espresso doppio alone! (Should I have said "man and woman"? Are people upset with me now?)
I must adjust my schedule. I must get back to normal. I must regain my love for the night. I must. Stay. Awake.
*After titling this post, I immediately imagined myself as a Spanish bull, trapped in the ring, chasing after my death as a man in an embroidered vest yells, "Toro! Toro! Toro!". And in my head, I charge immediately. I race toward my last breath. I plunge headfirst into a haze of blood and tears. A potential metaphor for the first, terrifying, lonely part of the trip, perhaps? Just kidding. Maybe a little too morbid? Sorry... I do that sometimes.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Counting down...
There are fifteen days between now and my departure for Madrid. The reality of this trip is finally beginning to hit me, and as much as I hate admitting it, I'm in panic mode — I didn't realize there was so much to do beforehand! I've been spending so much time reading travel guides and drawing out maps for myself, that I had forgotten about practical things, like ordering more contact lenses, figuring out how to get an international data plan for my phone, let alone mentally/emotionally preparing for my first week, virtually alone in a foreign country. I can't wait!
So little time, so much to do...
Oh, but welcome! Here it is! A travel blog! This blog is where I will be documenting my experiences abroad. I also plan on updating my other blog (http://northonlynorth.blogspot.com) with bits and pieces of writing during the trip, but this is where I'll be keeping you, lovely friends and family, informed about my daily life/whereabouts while in Europe. If you want an easier way to get updates without having to go through the hassle of typing in a web address (Mom, talking to you), click the "Join this site" button, on the right side of the page, and you will receive updates whenever I create a new post! That's all for now.
So little time, so much to do...
Oh, but welcome! Here it is! A travel blog! This blog is where I will be documenting my experiences abroad. I also plan on updating my other blog (http://northonlynorth.blogspot.com) with bits and pieces of writing during the trip, but this is where I'll be keeping you, lovely friends and family, informed about my daily life/whereabouts while in Europe. If you want an easier way to get updates without having to go through the hassle of typing in a web address (Mom, talking to you), click the "Join this site" button, on the right side of the page, and you will receive updates whenever I create a new post! That's all for now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)