Hasta luego, España

Tomorrow morning we'll be getting on the plane and leaving this lovely place.  I'm sad that the adventure is over but I'm also already excited about the next one. Also, I'm excited to sink my teeth into a Chipotle burrito. And to not have to wake up every morning and check the paper to make sure the currency in my wallet is still worth something.

I'll miss the fruit market, and fresh persimmons, and paella and Manchego cheese. I'll miss Claire and my friends, my students at school and their grubby adoring little hugs. I'll miss the beach being outside my front door, and I'll miss the nighttime walks along the waves with The Mister. I'll miss the everlasting sunny weather and siesta and the way the shops are closed on Sundays.

But after all the adventures over the last two years, after Italy and Jordan and France and Scotland and Ireland and Morocco and Portugal and Sweden and all the rest, I have come to this timeless conclusion:

There's no place like home.

Photos from the archives

The view from my living room window on a rare cloudy day.

Sunset.

I'll miss this - fresh food delivered straight from the fields.

Typical

January 14th, 2012

Málaga

Taken on a walk with The Mister 

(while hungry).

  

Málaga, how I will miss you.

It's almost pack-up time here in Málaga.  This weekend we leave for Sierra de Gredos, where we'll be working in a summer camp for the month of July.  After that, we'll have a few more adventures (as of yet they are mostly unknown), including a trip back to the United States, before returning to Málaga in late September to start another year.

I shall blog through it all, and if I were allowed to say "daresay" in casual conversation in 2011, then I would say that I daresay it will be a fun summer.

And the verdict is...

The results are in, the votes have been tallied, and the future is clear...

Your next American Idol iiiissssss...

Oops, sorry there, I was having some Ryan Seacrest flashbacks. By the way, does anyone still watch that show anymore? With Simon gone? Isn't that like The Apprentice without The Donald? Speaking of The Donald, I saw a picture of him recently and I am sorry to say that if he came to Spain there is a 67% probability that his hair would start a new trend. Spanish men love questionable hair styles. Don't believe me? Mullets are considered high fashion in some circles, for the love of Pete.

Okay, I have stalled enough:

The Mister and I have decided to go to

 Málaga!

(after I wrote that I realized that it looks like the name of the town isn't Málaga but Málaga!, which I decided to keep because every girl needs a little panache every now and again.)

The biggest reason we decided to stay put is because we like our friends. Making friends cross-culturally and cross-lingually (totally not a word) can be pretty tricky, and we lucked out like Kate Middleton. Wiping all that away to start fresh in a new city felt a little premature after only a year, and we weren't ready to jump ship yet.

The second biggest reason, is because, uh, this is where we live:

And not to be braggy here but I think you will all understand why I'm not in a hurry to pack up and call it a day.

I think it's a she

I love living by the sea.

I love the way it reflects the sky and predicts the weather - a calm sea means a decent day tomorrow; a choppy sea and trouble is coming.  When a rainstorm rolls in the waves crash so loud we can hear them while we're in bed, and the rhythmic rush of water on sand is as mesmerizing to us as it's been to humans for millenia.

Maybe the best thing though about living next to the sea is that we can go there anytime we want, and especially at times when we're the only ones there.  

I think I love it best at night.  During daylight, the perimeters of the sea are graciously granted to people - sunbathers and fishermen and snorkelers.  At twilight, the water reclaims itself and draws its skirts in, and at night the ocean belongs only to itself.

Being on the beach at night is strange and it feels a little out of context, because for so many of us beaches mean sultry air and bright sunbleached afternoons. It's quiet at night, with no one else in sight, and the only sound is the water itself, sighing and restless.

I feel like a voyeur,  like I'm peeking in on some secret show after hours, when I'm down there on a chilly night, looking at the reflections on the water and skipping rocks when the waves are calm.

Lovely.

Málaga has it's own microclimate so I can't speak for the rest of Spain

"The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain" - name that musical!

(Incidentally, it has been considered by a few to be one of my great failings as a human being that I've never been a fan of musicals, so I won't exactly be crushed if you fail this test.)

The weather in Málaga is, in general, one of its selling points. The climate here is very similar to San Diego - warm, fairly humid summers, and mild winters.  We get lots of sunshine in general (this part of Spain is known as the Costa del Sol - the coast of the sun) and a really cold January day is maybe 57 or 58 degrees, the warm ones topping out around 70. Not too shabby.

This winter and last, however, have been setting records for rain.  I was nervous about having good weather when my mama-in-law came in December and then again last week when my parents were here.  Both times, I pleaded with Málaga to show off her good side with her pretty blue skies and her sweet little ocean breezes.  The first time she showed me exactly where to shove my request with dark, forbidding days and bone-chilling dampness.  The second time, she rather haughtily provided hurricane-ish winds that took your breath away, and flipped me the bird with cold, scudding clouds.  (I am pretty sure Málaga does not like being told how to conduct her weather business, just as a helpful aside to those who might be considering asking.)

Ah, weather, she is a fickle mistress.

Come with me to the fútbol game. You'll like it.

Picture by Seracat

Last night was Spain's Super Bowl.

Spaniards feel the way about soccer that Americans do about chicken: it's good for you, easily available, and universally liked. So, when the two biggest Spanish teams get together and play, it's kind of a big deal.  This year, it also happened that the two are ranked 1 and 2 in the league, they each have a star player that is emblematic of the whole team, and they are both really, really good.

Barcelona versus Madrid. The Spanish press dubbed the game El Clásico, and it was destined to be one for the ages, or so they said.

Come with me to watch, won't you? You shouldn't miss this experience.

The first thing you notice is that the small pub you are in is humming with anticipation. It's packed, and there's only standing room, because you got there 2 minutes after kickoff and apparently Spaniards can be on time for something, given a strong enough incentive. You are about to get a master's education in Spanish profanity.  When the other team misbehaves by throwing elbows or punches, which they do with alarming frequency,  the old men around you in the bar question the marital status of each player's parents and the general level of morality of his mother.


Quickly, it becomes apparent that you are standing on the wrong side of the bar - you are standing with the Madrid fans, who apparently keep separate company from the Barca fans, where you belong. No matter, because after the first few minutes it is obvious that Barca is taking the tar out of Madrid. Shots of Cristiano Ronaldo looking distressed keep appearing on the screen, prompting jeers from the viewing crowd. "At least he's handsome, since he's mierda at soccer", they snicker. You are listening, since this is your only commentary - you have given up on trying to follow the television announcer within minutes.  His Spanish is ultra-fast and undulating, and the pitch and speed directly correlates with the relative excitement of the game. At the end, when Barcelona scores the fifth and final goal in a 5-0 shutout, you think that he must almost be passing out from excitement and lack of oxygen.


A 5-0 shutout is hardly the makings of a classic game, but you are not disappointed, because the good guys won. You put on your coat with the rest of the crowd and head out into the pouring rain, satisfied that you at least will not forget this one anytime soon.

Thanksgiving, Spanish-style

Foggy windows and wet hair for the big storm. 

Yes, siree, I had some Thanksgiving turkey this year.

We had to brave quasi-hurricane conditions, and got soaking wet in the process, but it was totally worth it.

As I mentioned, my friend Claire volunteered to host a big dinner - she roasted a turkey and even made green bean casserole from scratch. This being Spain, I must confess that there was also a fair amount of sangria in the house. We were about half and half Americans and Spaniards, and most spoke a good amount of both languages, so the conversation twisted and rolled in Spanish and English, sometimes even in the same sentence.

After the last piece of stuffing had been eaten, we broke out the cards and played a few boisterous rounds, learning the names in Spanish for suits of a card deck in the process. So, you see, it was educational too.

Here are a few pictures. There would be more if I didn't have such camera-shy friends (all who attended except Nandi, I'm looking at you).

"Hola, dahhling, can you believe there will also be macaroni and cheese?!"

Our hostess Claire, doing last minute checks.  

Why is stuffing called "stuffing" when it should be called "sweet manna of the gods"?

COME TO MAMA.

"Did you just see Sarah KISS her stuffing?!"

Oh, and this fishing boat probably brought in my lunch the other day

Today we forgot about siesta.

In the first time in a long time, The Mister and I, rookies that we are, attempted to run a few errands between the hours of 2 and 5.

Of course, that got shut down right away.

So instead, we walked to the beach, and found some swings on a wooden swingset that's a little creaky with the salt water. We swung, and looked at the clouds floating overhead, and guessed what they looked like.  I definitely saw a werewolf howling at the moon, but The Mister heard that and just started cracking Twilight jokes. Punk.

It occurred to us that yesterday marked the completion of our first two months in Málaga. What a wacky, wild ride it's been so far.

And, as always, more to come!

I used to go fishing with my grandpa, too

El Tintero

I hope you had a fine weekend. We certainly did. Flamenco show, coffees with Spanish friends, late-night Dominoes pizza. 

*cough*

Yeah sorry, one thing doesn't belong, right? But they just opened up a Dominoes in town, and there are LIMITED TIME OFFERS, well, we folded like lawn chairs. What else can I say?

So, Sunday we set out to atone for our sins.  We kept hearing about this great restaurant in the next little town, El Palo.  This restaurant, El Tintero, is famous for some of the best seafood on the coast. 

It was a bright, sunshiny Sunday, and so we set out on foot.  Google Maps estimated one hour walking time, which is a fairly standard walk for us here now, and didn't bother us in the least.  Right on the boardwalk the whole way.

One hour and forty five minutes later, we were there. Thanks, Google.

This restaurant is super cool because you don't order from a menu - instead, waiters wander around with plates of food, calling out items like at an auction - "arroz! arroz! pulpo a la gallega!", and you flag down the dishes you want.  When you've had your fill, they count how many plates you've had and you pay up.  Rather charming, and oozing with character.

As for the food - well I'll let the pictures speak for themselves:

Salt-encrusted shrimp - heads still attached, as is standard Euro-style

Paella, apple of my eye

My favorite one of the day: pulpo frito - fried octopus

Lobster so fresh I swear there was a little seawater on the plate

The pitchers of beer made the two-hour walk home feel a little shorter

I would be well on my way to being European now if only I liked tuna in everything

Classic Europe

First off, welcome to anyone hopping over from travelblogs.com!  They featured my blog yesterday, (oh my gosh I always seem to leave off a letter when I'm hyperlinking - will you forgive me this once if I just leave it?).  On a side note, I like their use of the phrase "hatch a plan" in my blog description, and I think I am going to start slipping it into everyday conversation, i.e. "What are you up to at the moment?" "Oh me? I am hatching a plan to go to the grocery store."  It has a nice ring.

The Mister, I am happy to say, is much better, after I hatched a plan (see?) for him involving Tylenol, about 8 collective gallons of water, tea and 7-Up, and the fourth Harry Potter movie. He is now resting and hatching a plan (okay, I'm done) to use his sickness to soften me into watching The Matrix with him. Just between you and me, I see right through him.

I am also proud to announce that I have reached a milestone in this adventure called "living in Europe" - have crossed the invisible barrier, if you will.

*Drum roll please*

 I got my first ride on a moto last night.


Oh yes, I did.

I gave some private English classes to a family from my school, and afterwards the dad gave me a helmet and asked me if I minded getting a ride home on his Vespa.  I was jazzed. I did have to confess to him, rather embarrassingly, that it was my very first time on one, because I was a little worried that if I did not, I would sit down and wrap my arms around his waist and he would be shocked, thinking, "is this girl trying to HIT ON ME? Why isn't she USING THE HANDLES?" or something to that effect. So I thought that all things considered, it was better to confess my naivete and get a full tutorial than risk doing it wrong (in a possibly disastrous way), you know?

Oh, and the ride was everything I thought it would be. It was so Europe. Narrow cobblestone streets with the streetlights flying by, viewing the world through a Vespa helmet. Perfect.



Also a note: My button for Africa posts on the sidebar is now working.  Oops, didn't realize it had been broken.

Your Questions Parte Dos

Part 2!


How is the language barrier?
Once we got past the twin hurdles of finding an apartment and getting our foreign resident papers at the Spanish consulate, the language barrier has been not too bad at all.  We speak decent Spanish at this point and it's getting better every day, and I'm at the point where if I don't know how to say a word, I can talk my way around it like in that game Taboo. I was trying to say the word for "spread" the other day, and I didn't know it, so I just said "you know, that word for when you put the butter on bread with a knife". And they knew exactly what I was talking about.


What's the best part about living there versus visiting?
It's easy to love a place after being there for a week, or ten days.  But I don't think you really can start getting the feel for a place until you've been there at least a month.  There are experiences available to a resident that wouldn't really be possible for a tourist, because you have to speak Spanish and know some locals. I love being able to really dive into this town, and find favorite restaurants and tapas places, and local basketball courts and to have my baker and my market.  Also, I love the language, and so the ability to really immerse myself in Spanish for a long period of time is pretty awesome in my book.


What would surprise me most about Spaniards?
You know, one thing that I think is surprising is that Spaniards are not nearly as homogenous and as swarthy as we think they are. I used to think of Spaniards as looking more Mediterranean, with olive complexions and brown hair across the board.  Not so.  I have students that are brown haired of course, but I also have a fair amount of blondes, and and curly redheads, and Spaniards of Asian and African descent.  There are Spaniards with freckles, and blue eyes, and this surprised me a little bit.  It's still a little weird hearing a little blonde-haired green-eyed kiddo unleash a string of fluent Castilian Spanish, but I'm getting used to it.


What foods are you most excited to have daily access to in Spain? 
I think I've mentioned it before, but, geez louise, the olives here are worthy of a parade. The bread here is also freshly baked and always good.  And - you're going to have to trust me on this one - berenjenas con miel - fried eggplant crisps drizzled in honey or molasses.  They are SO good. If I could pull off the whole kissing-my-fingers-like-an-Italian-chef thing, I totally would.


Has The Mister got a new guitar yet? 
The Mister is hoping to find one inexpensively, which means that he will probably get a guitar around the time Lindsay Lohan takes her convent vows. Le sigh.


Have you started learning flamenco yet?
Not yet! But my friend Claire let me know of a class around town, so watch out Shakira, these hips don't lie either.


Did YOU pass the Legolas dork test?
Are you kidding? I love those movies. Of course I failed.

Questions and Answers, Part Uno

Q; What do you eat?  A: This.

Alrighty! Well last week I asked you all to throw your questions my way, and you did! Part I here, Part II coming tomorrow.  I think I answered them all.



What's your typical day like? 
Wake up around 8ish.  Still pitch black outside.  Daylight Savings Time, pretty please come soon.  Roll out of bed, get dressed, grab a piece of fruit or some pan de leche (a sweet bread) to eat on my way to the bus stop. I take the bus to school, which takes about 25 minutes.  I don't mind the ride - I either listen to Spanish podcasts or, if  can snag a copy, I read the daily paper that's free on the bus.

My day can go one of two ways.  I split time between two schools - two days at one school, two days at the other.  These schools are sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - the angel and devil.  If I'm at the good school, the next few hours fly by as I play with kids and try to chat them up in English.  If I go to the other school, the next few hours drag as I clean out supply closets, correct the teacher's pitiful English, and speak almost exclusively Spanish to the children because otherwise they don't understand a word I say.

After school I come home, maybe stopping at the market on the way, and start making lunch. This is the big meal of the day, and we usually eat it between 2 and 3.  So I'll make pasta, or soup, or anything you can reasonably make on a stove.  Then, siesta until 5 or so.


After that, we either: run errands, play basketball, walk on the beach, hang out with friends, read books, walk in the park, and so on and so forth.  A very light dinner around 9, if we eat one at all.  Sometimes we'll go out for tapas around 7 or so, and we have a little tapas place on the beach that is small and friendly and cheap - a good combination.  A little of this, a little of that.  Then we sack out around 11 or so, sometimes later.


How do you get to work? 
I walk 5 minutes to the bus stop, and then catch a bus for about 25 minutes.  Then another  5 minutes on that end to walk to school. In general for getting around town, we walk everywhere. Already a 45-minute walk isn't feeling particularly long.  But for longer distances, the bus works wonders.  Once we figured the dang thing out.


Do you really eat dinner at 9pm? 
Yes, really.  Small breakfast at 9ish, Big lunch at 2ish, then dinner is around 9 and usually consists of the following: wine, crackers, cheese, chorizo (Spanish sausage), fruit, and olives. Very light, nothing prepared.  Restaurants here don't even open for lunch until 2, and then they close from 4:30 until the dinner crowd comes at 8 or 9. So if you're hungry at 6:30 like a good American, you're totally out of luck. Luckily it's pretty easy to get adjusted to the new time schedule, and after the first week my stomach was used to it.  Now I love it!


Is it as beautiful as I think it is? 
Yes, yes yes.  And no, a little bit.  Yes because this is the south of Spain, and the green hills slope into the sky-colored Mediterranean, and the sun shines on the white stucco houses, and horse's hooves clatter on the cobblestones. Yes because there are pomegranate trees heavy with fruit, and the fragrance of jasmine floats from the trees, and yes because there is a cathedral and a castle that look comfy and care-worn from the centuries of rain and sunshine.  And no, a little bit too, because in Europe there are still dumpsters, and seedy parts of town, and ugly graffiti on concrete tunnel walls. It is lovely, but it's a real place, and it has its charm and its scars, just like everything else.

Scenes from a Work Day

I think a vital part of a teacher's job, no matter where they are in the world, is making photocopies.  I was in the copy room today, shooting the breeze with another teacher and waiting my turn, when the machine choked and stuttered to a halt. "Does it need more paper?,"I asked, since I was blocking the paper shelf.  "No," she said, with a sardonic smile, "it needs a vacation."

______________________

Octubre is October in Spanish.  The teacher kept saying Octiember.  I cleared my throat. "actually, it's October" I whispered.  She turned and wrote on the chalkboard "Octuber," and beamed at me.

______________________

Another teacher. Another classroom. Another day.  "The United States is where Sarah comes from," she explains. "One part of the United States speaks English, and the other part speaks Spanish. Sarah comes from the English speaking part."  Um, no.  Just....wrong.

______________________

I'm in a supply room with another teacher.  A small boy comes running in from the hallway, bursting with excitement. "ACABO DE HACER CACA!" he announces to me. What? I look to the teacher for guidance.  She mimes sitting on an imaginary toilet, and makes a fake...uh...bathroom noise.  Oh. Oh. Caca. I get it.  He is telling me that he just pooped.  "Que bueno" I say weakly.  Good job.

______________________

Oh, and this is just the beginning.

I say big, you say grande

There is one thing Europeans always seem to say about their first time experiencing the United States - everything in the U.S. is so much bigger than at home.  The food, the landscapes, the houses, the people even.

Conversely, as an American in Europe, sometimes I feel as if I am in a sort of shrunken hobbit-sized land, where everything is about 2/3 scale.  A large drink at McDonald's comes in a smaller cup than a Happy Meal kid's drink at home. Cars are hatchbacks, smart cars or Vespas - very few minivans, pickup trucks or SUVs. The elevator in my apartment building fits four (thin) adults in a very tight squeeze and is only really made for two at a time. Houses are smaller and cozy, and there is no cultural stigma to families living in apartments, unlike the States where apartments are generally reserved for the young or unambitious.

It makes Europe seem so small and quaint compared with the generous expansiveness of the American landscape, and it lends an air of the exotic to life here. The Mister says he's all cool with the whole "small" thing and that it's fine and dandy until he wants a fistful of ketchup packets with his french fries instead of the one that's the usual serving. He reasons that if he's in a place that's serving french fries with ketchup packets, it's almost like a little America anyway, and I'd venture to say that he is at least a little bit right.



Don't forget! I'll be doing another FAQ soon, so if you have any questions for me (or The Mister) about life in Spain or whatever you like, leave a comment on the post!

Castles and Questions

Mi ciudad, from the top of the hill.  I earned this picture.

Today dawned bright and sunny, and slightly on the fall-ish side.  A perfect day for a *cough* hike.

Okay, here's the thing. I hate hiking. The Mister loathes hiking almost as much as he loathes horses. We will walk 6 or 7 miles a day around town and not break a sweat, but strap on athletic shoes and call it a hike and I faint with dread.

So there's this castle on this hill behind my house.  Here is the castle:



It's mostly a series of cobblestoned switchbacks to get to the top, but frankly this hill is pretty steep, and so I'm going to go ahead and call it a hike, because its my blog and I can cry if I want to.

The 360 panoramic view of the sea, the hills, the whitewashed pueblo towns, and the city were so very Spanish.

Defending the castle from invaders. The Mister said I looked almost as talented as Legolas.  If you understand that joke, I regret to inform you that you are a dork. 

At the top of the castle tower - The Mister channeling Jacob MacIntyre

And now - the important stuff! I've gotten a lot of emails lately with questions about living in Spain, teaching English, being abroad, daily life here, and all that jazz.  Methinks it's time to do FAQs again! If you have any questions regarding any of the above, or who I think will win the World Series, leave a comment (or email me) and I'll attend to it shortly.

The stress is worth it

It finally feels like we're settling in to life here.  The first few weeks are all about getting your feet under you and, quite literally, a roof over your head.  Trying to figure out how exactly to get an apartment, pay your utility bill, open a bank account, menu plan, and navigate public transportation all combines to make a  soupy mixture of  equal parts absurdity, hilarity, and stress.  Not angry kind of stress, but the rolling-my-eyes-because-I-can't-imagine-how-many-ways-in-which-this-could-go-wrong kind of stress.

But now we have these things worked out, more or less, and it's all coming together like individual fibers weaving into a strong rope.

It's felt incredibly nice to relax, lay back, and inhale Spain.  The smells - fresh baking bread, salty sea air and a faint whiff of tobacco.  The sights - palm trees waving gently in the sunshine, white stucco walls with black wrought-iron rails over the windows, exploding with flowers and color.  The feel - adventure, spontaneity, intrigue.

I am enchanted by this new home.

I like it when people are easy breezy

I'll admit that it's easier to be in a good mood when you live here.

Today I was walking out of my apartment building, in pursuit of my little neighborhood market across the street.  I have been engaging in a playful flirtation with Andalucía's famed green olives, and I think it's getting serious.

So there I was, breezing out in pursuit of olives when a small, pleasantly plump grandmother waved me over. She was on her way into the building, and she was rolling behind her a little suitcase filled with groceries, the exact same type of suitcase that seems to be standard issue for all European women over the age of 65. "Niña," she asked politely, her face creasing into a smile, "can you help me up the stairs, please?"

Of course I said yes, and we bumped along up the steps, her making polite conversation and telling me how kind I am to help her.  When the task was complete she embraced me, kissed me on both cheeks, and called me a darling little niña.

I tell this story for one reason: nearly without exception, every single person I have met so far in Spain has truly been this nice.  Unlike their northern neighbors the French, who are infamous for being a bit prickly, and their Mediterranean cousins the Italians, who can be known to be a bit...unscrupulous, the Spanish are about as nice as they come.  Friendly, engaging, helpful.  

More than once I've asked for directions to a stranger on the street and had them walk along with me the first few blocks to get me started.  Unfailingly, the Spanish are enthusiastic about my Spanish and compliment me on language skills way more than is probably merited.  The Mister and I already know the names of a lot of the small business proprietors on our street and they recognize me in my little food market as la americana.  My butcher smiles in greeting when I walk up to the counter and waits for me to tell him what exactly I have in mind for my meat, whether soup or stir-fry or baked, so that he can pick the appropriate cut, since I don't know the cuts of meat in Spanish yet. This isn't a special-price-for-you-my-friend culture either, and cheating someone by overcharging for a dinner or taxi ride is bad form.  

So here's to you, los españoles. World champions of soccer, and good-natured to boot.