Mijas

This past weekend we took a little day trip with our fellow teaching friends Becca and Bradley.  Mijas is about an hour up the coast, and it's a lovely little place, very quaint, that's known for its famous donkey taxis.



(Remember how The Mister hates horses? Donkeys are pretty close to horses. He informed me that they are implicated by association.  So, unfortunately, I was the only one of the two of us who were charmed by the burro taxis.)





The day was chilly and a little hazy, so after we'd walked around the whole town, which took about 45 minutes, we took the only other course available to us: getting a beer and some tapas.  Then we walked around a little more, checked out some caves that we heard about from the tourist information office and found out that they were sort of like very rocky walk-in closets. Not exactly stalactites or any of that.  So we tapas-hopped the rest of the afternoon, which is not a bad way to spend a day.

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 Mister tackles life in Spain

Hi, I'm The Mister.

I've posted on here before, many years ago, but that was before I became known as The Mister. I hope that this is the first of many blog posts, in which I tackle subjects dear to my heart.

Living in Spain has definitely been interesting so far and hard to express in a blog post. I thought that a pro and con bullet list might be a good way to quickly summarize.

Pro: People are very nice and are eager to help. They love to converse, so asking someone for help seems to be looked upon as another opportunity for conversation.

Con: The downside to this is that asking for directions to the nearest bus stop can take a few minutes rather than seconds, and then you have to pick out the directions from the rest of the conversation.

Pro: The bus system is very comprehensive and can get you to within a few blocks of just about every point in the city. It is also cheap and timely (for the most part).

Con: The bus system might be a little too comprehensive, especially at first, and as referenced in an earlier blog post, looking at the map for the first time can be a little scary. Especially for someone who is red-green colorblind like myself, it's a little difficult to follow all the different twists and turns of a specific line as it weaves its way among the other similarly colored lines.

Pro: Getting water with your meal costs $1.50. Getting a soda costs $1.50. A beer, $1.50. A glass of wine is also $1.50. Given those prices, which would you lean towards?

Exactly.

Con: None known.

Pro: The weather is gorgeous and the streets are walkable, so walking everywhere is both expected and wonderful (at least when it's not raining!).

Con: Dog poop. Seriously. It's everywhere, and adds a little suspense to walking around. Keep your head on a swivel.

Pro: The beach.

I'll end on a high note. See you next time!

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.

She always wears colorful neck scarves because she is a fashion plate

Now signing autographs

At the end of each class period I give my students five minutes of time to ask me any question they want, provided that they ask me in English.  They usually wind their faces all up really tight, concentrating with the force of Zeus, and then spit out something like "I like cats?"

"Do you like cats", I have to remind them, and they nod vigorously, beaming, glad that I am smart enough to conjugate it properly.

So today in one class a little boy asked me if I have any pets.  I do not, in fact - it's one of my failings as a human being (depending on who you ask) that I am, in fact, not particularly fond of domestic animals.  But these kids had just spent a few weeks on some pet-related vocabulary, so I talked about my parent's dog.  

"What ees the name?"

"Do you like play catch?" (i.e. does she like to play catch)

"She have yellow hair?"

So I wrote her name on the board and we talked about her habits and looks for the next several minutes. 

The problem is that this dog, my parent's dog, is a pretty little thing and very much the diva already.

Now she can add "I'm huge in Spain" to her resume.

So shhh. Nobody tell her.

It's better to keep her in the dark.

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.

I hoped it would be fall and it really is

About a month ago exactly, we had a week to go before we left Phoenix.  It was inching toward the middle of September, and it was still devilishly hot.  I remember turning to The Mister after a particularly sweaty week of moving and declaring, "oh I hope it will be fall in Spain".

And you know what? It is fall here.  70s and sunny, with rain showers scattered in, which to a Phoenix resident is like saying that Santa Claus has been let loose.

Today The Mister and I went on a beach picnic with a few friends of ours.  The weather was sunny and bright at first, and then when gray storm clouds rolled in over the sea, we fled to our apartment all together and played cards and music the rest of the evening.  Because it's fall.  And that's what people do in the fall.

As a side note, yesterday in the store I found cinnamon.  And now it's really autumn.

You better believe I had some longhenberry juice

Well hello there.

I hope your weekend was nice. Mine was filled with faux-Oktoberfests (Málaga imitates Deutschland), walks on the beach, and getting caught in a lovely warm fall rainshower.

To cap off the awesomeness, you want to know what The Mister and I did today?

We went here:

And you know what? The Swedish cultural colonialism felt soooooo good.

I didn't even mind.

{P.S.} Do you think Sweden is basically a glacier that is full of super-stylish, modern people, or do you think they look at IKEA's success and think "oh my gosh, who even buys that crap?".  Because the USA's biggest cultural export in the 1990's was...Baywatch.  And that's kind of really embarrassing. But you know, other countries think we are all over that show and must be really proud of it, when in reality we are pretending that the only people that ever liked Hasselhoff were the Germans. Which is true. But beside the point.

The sequel: I regret to inform you that Gwyneth won in the end

Yeah, yeah, you win, you're awesome, okay, whatever.

I believe I have already documented my love/hate relationship with Gwyneth Paltrow and the annoying/awesome fact that she speaks practically perfect Castilian Spanish. Before you read this post, you should probably read that one first, seeing as this is basically the sequel.

Here's what went down:

Two weeks ago. We had been in Spain about four hours.  Stumbled off the plane, dragged suitcases in the rain to our hostel, looked around wildly for something to eat.  A kind but rather mangy-looking Brit that we found in our hostel took us a few blocks down the street and pointed to a restaurant.

There, he said.  There, you will find good food and cheap beer. (We were on board).

So we sat down, ordered chicken, because chicken is possibly the most universal food, and when you have just recently tumbled out of a plane you are not in the mood for experiments. The waiter smiled at us condescendingly, because we were breaking code by eating dinner at 7, and only non-Spaniards would be so lame as to eat dinner before 9.

So he brought out the chicken, and we lifted our tired heads to begin eating.  We cut open our chicken pieces - beautifully grilled golden brown chicken - and looked inside.

Raw.

Totally, completely raw.

Raw like sashimi.

And in my tired, hazy, jet-lagged stupor, I summoned up the Spanish words that I knew exactly how to say because I had heard Gwyneth say it, right on those dang "Spain: On the Road Again" episodes.  Resigned, I summoned the waiter.

"Es tan crudo," I lamented.  It's very raw.

So in the end, after a year and a half of more or less intensely studying Spanish, the first Spanish sentence of any real significance that I uttered in my new home country was taught to me by that dratted Gwyneth Paltrow, to whom I apparently owe my well-cooked chicken, after the waiter, who understood me perfectly, threw it back on the grill.

And that, my friends, is how Gwyneth and karma won in the end.

They let me write for them and that is pretty brave when you think about it

I was excited when the guys over at Sketchee Creative asked me to write a guest post for them on photography.  So I did what anyone else would do - I said yes.

Hop on over and check it out here!

And if you're having a good day and you're feeling extra special nice, leave a comment for them so they invite me back sometime!

A beachy, sangria-y kind of day

Today was our program orientation - isn't it nice that it's the week AFTER school started?

The Ministry of Education was lovely and threw a big bash though, so that made up for it.  They spend a few hours going over our health care information, our general guidelines and all that, and then they took us to another room and kept the tapas and sangria flowing for hours and hours.  They hired a band that had mullets and short shorts, and how can you not dance to a band like that?

I would like to take a moment to point out that this part-ay took place at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. La vida española, indeed.

When it was over a group of us walked down to the beach and took our shoes off and let the cool water run over our danced-out feet.  We stayed until the sun was setting in the western sky, and walked home, tired but happy, and with new friends.

Overall, a good day.

The greenery made the walk worth it

Today I began teaching at my other school (I've been assigned to two schools to split time evenly between them) and all went well.  I also bought a Spanish version of Ritz crackers, took my first actual siesta where The Mister and I sacked out for an hour after lunch, and had enough internet problems to necessitate changing internet providers, an errand which required walking back and forth to the store twice, meaning four walks through the lush little park near our house.  And one twilight walk looking out over the sea.

Now, a very Spanish dinner of chorizo sausage, cheese, bread and olives.  And store-brand wine that I bought for under two euros that actually tastes pretty good.

(I call it two-buck Carlos.)

My day: Chicken soup and giggly children

Me and my mama, courtesy of The Mister

Today is my mom's birthday.  I wish I could be there with her to celebrate, but alas Spain is too far away to make the drive.  So in honor of her, The Mister and I cooked up some chicken soup, split a baguette, and had a home-style meal á la mama.  Hopefully she felt the love.

Today was the second day of school and my first real day of work.  Friday I took a tour and said hi to everybody, but today I started my class rotations.  I have  a few teachers that I shadow throughout the day so that I'm never in a classroom alone, and the kids continue to contemplate me as if I were a bright fish in a tank.

I don't know how I'm ever going to keep them all straight, these little darlings, because their names all seem to be María or Juan Carlos, except for one boy whose name is Nacho, which, let's be honest, is so über-awesome that it's almost inspiring.  It makes me want to write a sonnet.

But anyway, on Mondays I have two classes of five year olds, whose English is mercifully better than that of the older kids, and two classes of second grade.  The little ones are enthusiastic and bouncy, shouting "RED!" "YELLOW!" and thrilled to have an appreciative audience for their English. "LOOK AT ME!" they shout, standing and sitting in rapid succession on their brightly colored plastic chairs, "I SIT DOWN!"  

They are adorable, and very noisy, and they gape at me when I pretend I don't understand their Spanish.  Only English, I tell them.  I don't understand. Then they squint their whole faces up really hard, as if the key to concentration is in facial compression, and spit out a few words in heavily accented English. 

The older ones are harder, because they've learned to be shy.  Being shy, I've learned, is pretty much at complete odds with learning a new language.  You pretty much have to reach down inside, locate your inner extrovert, and drag her out kicking and screaming so that SHE can talk to people and learn while YOU sit your bashful unilingual self in the corner.  You just have to talk to people a lot, and make mountains of mistakes, and tell them that it's totally okay to correct you because you're trying to learn.  Spaniards, at least, are really nice about it.

Today was the first day of school!

For me anyway.  Those poor kiddies have been there for a few weeks already, but  I get to stroll in late, leave early, and skip class on occasion because I am a teacher now.  I think I can get used to this.

My first day went entirely better than expected, considering that I hadn't heard a peep from my school and I showed up this morning just hoping they would know who I was. Here is a summary of the information I has ahead of time: a phone number (didn't work), an email address (didn't work) and an address (I did actually come find it before today...just to be sure it really existed).  I didn't really know what time to be there, so I just went for it and decided that 9 a.m. was a nice, round number, and it all worked out okay, so, you know, c'est la vie, right?

But once they figured out who I was and why I was there,  my fellow teachers were super friendly and excited to meet a real, live American.  Foreigners are common around here, and they flock here in the summer for the beach, but the English-speaking ones are generally of the UK variety, and Americans are as rare around these parts as nude beaches in Utah.

I got a little tour around the school, which is bright and airy and very new, and is decorated with childlike artwork and vibrantly colored posters encouraging the children to be good citizens - in short, it looked and felt exactly like any other elementary school in the whole western world.  Only in this one, the lunchroom chatter is in Spanish!

The children were incredibly excited to see me, and when the other teacher announced that I was going to teach them English and that I was from the US, there was a general uproar, and one little girl clapped her hands in astonished delight.  Several kids mouths dropped open in a Home Alone, Macauley Caulkin-esque kind of way that was adorable and pretty endearing.

I got to meet the English teachers, and after a few minutes chatting they confessed ruefully that my Spanish was definitely better than their English, which unfortunately is probably true.  The Mister reports similar things from his school, which is a high school - the English teachers are very kind and friendly but nearly completely unable to understand his English, so Spanish works better.  Eeek.

The Mister had a chance to stand in front of his new class while they asked him a few questions.  In their halting English, they asked him the following vital, hard-hitting questions:

"Which is your team, Barcelona or Madrid?"

(He reports that when he said that he likes "Barca", the entire classroom absolutely erupted: half triumphant yells and team chants, and the other half (the Madrid half, one presumes) in jeers and slurs, which is spunky and kind of awesome.  The Mister reports that it took at least five minutes for the room to return to normal.)

"Do you like Twilight?"

(To which he responded "Team Edward".  And now let's all observe a moment of silence for those poor Spanish teen girls who have fallen in love with their new English teacher that is blonde and American and exotic.  He's taken, chicas.)

"Do you listen to Just Beiber?"

(To which he responded succinctly "No."  Aaaaaand...they fell back out of love.)

And, in a moment absolutely unrelated to this post, I will leave you for the weekend with this picture of us in outrageous outfits (thanks, Tara) because I can. Because it's mablog.