A Long-ish Update on Several New Developments in Spanishland

One of the funny things about living in pretty much any country other than the United States is that after your first couple of weeks, you feel like you are losing weight. It’s wonderful to pull on a pair of freshly-laundered slacks and have them seem a bit saggier than the last time you wore them. Back home, this is direct proof that your waist, butt, and thighs are a bit smaller than they were before. However, if you are skeptical about this, you should be. Because your waist, butt, and thighs probably aren’t any smaller. Yes, your pants are looser, but that is just a side-effect of wearing them, washing them, and then hanging them up to dry rather than tossing them into a dryer, which shrinks clothes back down to their former size. In all the countries I have visited, I have noticed a remarkable lack of clothes dryers. Maybe they just haven’t caught on in other parts of the world like they did in the US. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who still uses their clothesline regularly in the States. Well, in the South anyway. My apartment’s lack of a dryer has resulted in me not being able to wear any of my dress pants now, because however professional and put-together I may look up top, I always end up busting a sag down below. Unfortunate. I did buy a cheap black belt today at the Chino store near my apartment. It has little pewter skulls and crossbones imbedded into the “genuine leather” (doubtful). It was the best I could find without having to waltz down to H&M and coughing up probably 15€ or so. I’m gonna give it a try tomorrow, and see if the new pirate belt can rescue my forlorn slacks.

Do you remember from an earlier blog how I described the suspicious didgeridoo sounds that occasionally came floating through the walls in my old apartment? Well, apparently I am a magnet for musicians because my new apartment is right next door to a classical flautist. To be more specific, my bedroom shares a wall with the room where the flautist practices. Your probably thinking, “Classical flute music? Quite an improvement from BBBUUUUAAAAAAA!” (That was a didgeridoo sound, obviously) And you would be right, in one respect. However, the didgeridooist didn’t play that often. This stinking flautist plays for hours every day. HOURS! In a row. Without stopping. He is quite persistent in getting every song perfect. I have heard his music so often that I could probably play the songs myself. So I am forced to crank up the Jimmy Buffett or Julieta Venegas whenever he gets going to drown him out.

My classes are still going well, and I am getting better and better at teaching as the weeks pass. However, like love, English class is a battlefield. By this I mean that you can’t win ‘em all. Especially when it comes to small children. Let me offer up one example of glorious defeat at the hands of a six-year-old. Last week, I had a class with Sofia, a really cute little girl from a high-society family. The class started ok, with a quick rendition of “Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes” because the topic of the day was body parts. I had several fun activities planned out that had worked well with my other two six-year-old demon children, so I thought my lesson plan was foolproof. Sofia should have been a piece of cake. For some reason, this day she refused to let one word of English come out of her mouth. Actually, she pretty much didn’t say anything at all, except “¿Cuántos minutos faltan?” which, roughly translated, means, “When the heck are you gonna get out of my house so I can go watch TV?” Unfortunately, that started about 10 minutes into the hour-long lesson. She wouldn’t listen to anything I said or even sit in her chair. She kept crawling under the table, hiding from me, and then jumping up and running out of the room. By minute 30, I was desperate. So I decided to try and get her to color a picture. I told her, in Spanish (she refused to respond to English), that she could draw whatever she wanted, as long as she sat still. I was paranoid that her mother would see her running around like a hoodlum and fire me for being such a crappy teacher. She finally complied and I gave her a blank sheet of paper and some markers. I sat beside her to draw my own picture, and drew her name in the middle of my paper. Then she took my paper and went to work on it herself. Here’s what resulted: Sofia, mama, and Fatima (the housekeeper) written, circled, and connected to the word buena (meaning good). Underneath all that, she wrote my name, circled it, and lovingly connected it to the word tonta (meaning stupid or foolish). Cute, huh? Just when I thought she was done insulting me, the little brat took it a bit further. She proceeded to turn her circled name into a shoe, my circled name into an ant, and said she was stepping on me. Lovely. Well, I refuse to let my feelings be hurt by a little snot-nosed six-year-old princess, so I busted out Mean Ginny. That’s right. I know it’s hard to believe that I can be mean, but desperate times call for desperate (and probably unethical) measures. I threatened her with hellfire and brimstone (meaning I told her I was going to talk to her mother), snarled a little bit, started packing up my stuff, and then ignored her for the rest of the class. This week, I am still at a loss for what to prepare. Any ideas for an English lesson that I teach to a little girl who hates me?

I bought a copy of Hot English magazine the other day, which is especially for learners of English. It comes with a CD and is full of lots of interesting stories and random tidbits of information. I learned a lot from reading it myself. Did you know that if you chew gum while chopping onions, your eyes won’t water? That’s right. Also, the issue that I purchased was the “Gangster” issue, so I learned a lot of bloody things about that notorious underworld which my boyfriend wants to join. Heck, this issue has proved so useful, that I might cough up another 5,15 euros for a copy of next month. (Yes, I used a comma rather than a period on purpose; that’s the way they write numbers here.)

I really enjoy going to the supermercado and buying my own groceries. That is one of the finest pleasures I take from living on my own. However, lately the language barrier has been a bit of a problem in the market, leading me to make a few unfortunate purchases. For example, I really like green olives and they are abundant here in Spain. So I bought a big jar of them. And now I know that “rellena de anchoa” means “filled with anchovies.” I gave them to Charo, my roommate. And bitter orange jelly? Yup, I accidently bought that too. It was such a pretty orange color, and I thought I was buying peach jelly. Not so. It’s still on my shelf in the fridge, just taking up space. I will probably end up throwing it away. Sad to waste food, but I don’t have a dog to feed it to here. All I have is a plant. And it’s dying. Hey, I am still new at this whole “adult” thing. It’s harder than it looks.

Last night, Joaquin informed me that we have talked for over 14 hours on Skype lately. He seemed surprised. For me, I wish it was 400. I would gladly give up whole nights of sleep to chatear about nothing. I realize that makes me sound like a loser, but it’s the best remedy I have found so far for depression. Not that I am depressed that much. Just sometimes. It is really hard being away from everything familiar and everyone you love. I would like to interject here that my parents are wonderful! They bought me a plane ticket to come home for Thanksgiving! So I will be spending the holiday with the whole family plus Joaquin in Panama City! The thought of missing a week’s worth of work and possible pissing off some clients hasn’t fazed my excitement one bit. Whatever trouble I might get into is totally worth it. I would wiggle my way out of anything for the chance to see everyone in a month! I am good at wiggling. In both senses of the word…

Of Grapes, And The Stuff That Can Be Made From Them...

Yesterday was the great annual Canterbury wine extravaganza, also known as the Vendimia Grape Harvest. Surprisingly most people were on time to meet at the office at 8:30 in the morning. I say surprisingly because the night before was spent at a Russian restaurant for our end-of-class dinner, and our hard-working and responsible group of English teachers knocked off about 4 bottles of vodka and several more of red wine. The next morning, none the worse for wear, we all took a bus to San Martín de Valdeiglesias, a 12th century Crusader town, about an hour outside of Madrid, and then the bus driver dumped us on the side of the road so we could walk to our first destination of the day- the vineyard of Manolo, a local grape-grower. Armed with steak knives and paint buckets, we divided into teams of two, and then each team set off down a row of vines, cutting off the bunches of grapes from each plant and then moving along to the next one in our row. Megan was my partner, and we were just having a good time, talking, eating handfuls of grapes, and moving along at a nice pace. We didn't realize it at first, but when we finally looked up from our work to take a short break, we saw that we were smoking all the other teams. They were barely half-way along their rows and we were almost to the end of ours! The two of us must have some sort of speedy grape-harvesting gene that we've never tapped into before. Maybe we had migrant worker ancestors or something. Anyway, when the time came to finish up and head back to the bus, we were half-way along our second line, and no other team had even finished their first. Glorious victory! Not that we were officially racing or anything, but it felt nice to be recognized for doing a good job. Until the ever-popular Johnny B decided to act like he was part of our team and stole our sunshine. He got a hug from Manolo and invited to his house. Manolo even offered Johnny his own bed to sleep in, as long as his wife wasn't in it...

After we washed our sticky fingers and got back on the bus, we headed to the local town bodega, or winery, called Don Alvaro de Luna, to see how wine is made. I have never been in a factory that actually smelled good, but this whole place smelled AMAZING. After a brief tour of the building (see Vendimia Grape Harvest photo album) we entered the last room, and discovered a veritable appetizer feast laid out before us and quite a few bottles of different kinds of wine for us to taste. Honestly, I am not a huge fan of wine, but I kept my duty as a devout student of culture and forced a few swigs down my throat. The red one was pretty rough, but the pink one was ok. I didn't even try the white one because, in my limited experience, white wine tends to taste like a mixture of vinegar and vomit. The vast majority of the other teachers on the trip would disagree with me wholeheartedly. Quite a few lushes in this bunch. In less than five minutes, the bottles were empty and everyone was getting happy. I got happy when one of the workers gave me a few corks to take home. Then, already full from the appetizers and heading toward a local farm for a barbeque, everyone climbed back onto the bus, and off we went towards our third destination of the day.

Again dumped on the side of the highway, we took about 10 minute hike to a small farm in the countryside. It was such a beautiful location (again, see pictures) and such a beautiful day for a barbeque. The sun was shining and a warm breeze was blowing, and there were lots of things to explore. Mom and Dad, I think we should have our next family reunion out there. What do you think? Anyway, several local musicians were playing some nice guitar music and there were copious amounts of sangria for everyone to indulge in, so the party got off to a promising start. The food consisted of different types of sausages, rice, salad, baguettes, garbanzo beans, green beans, white figs, and watermelon. Turns out the most delicious sausage was blood sausage, but the name didn't deter me from eating about five of them. Everyone was getting good and drunk (except me, of course) so I decided to take a nap. What I wouldn't have given for two trees and a hammock! I stretched out on the ground with my backpack for a pillow, and closed my eyes. With the sun on my face and the dried animal feces that it turned out I was laying on being nice and comfy, I almost fell asleep. I very well would have if some hippy Spaniard hadn't decided to bring out his flute and play some improv with an accompanying bongo. It was probably the worst music I have ever heard. Music, what a joke. Imagine a ten-year old who just learned to play the scales on his flute and is practicing them, when all of a sudden, a giant bumble bee flies into the end of his flute. The resulting squeak and frantic blowing of air and pushing of buttons to eject the bee is exactly what this man sounded like while playing his groovy improv. Needless to say, it was a rude awakening from my dream-like state. The rest of the party followed with some good flamenco music (after our favorite flautist decided he had done enough damage), a bit of dancing, and more drinking. When 8:00pm rolled around and we were informed that if we weren't back on the bus in fifteen minutes, we would have to walk home, the party broke up and we collected our things and headed back down the road. We were sad to go, but it had been such a full day that we were tired and most were drunk, and everyone knew it was time to head out. On the way back to Madrid, I got chatted up by the both drunk and high guitar player who entertained us at the beginning of the party, and spent the next hour leaning away from him and supplying short and vague answers to his very philosophical questions. So there you go Joaquin, I guess I do get hit on sometimes. But they have to be drunkenly obvious for me to realize it. So...that was my day as a grape-harvesting, wine-tasting, blood sausage-eating Spaniard wannabe. Chalk it up as one of my favorite days so far!