To Portugal we go!

We start at the sun and go left.

Next week is a week off in Málaga schools, so we find ourselves in the position of being footloose, fancy-free, and in a convenient spot to do a little poking around the neighborhood.

Our fellow teacher friends Becca and Bradley had been planning a trip to Morocco...until the protests started there.  Probably good for Moroccans, but bad for Becca and Bradley's dreams of camel-trekking through the desert.  So we collectively put our heads together, and thought:  ROAD TRIP!

And so, to Portugal we go, from the south all the way up through the north, along the coast, and we're hoping to take a jaunt around northern Spain in the Galicia region, seeing as we're up there.

I plan on taking a kickin' playlist ("Tiny Dancer" by Elton John is a must-have on any road trip, in my book, and it must be sung at the very top of the lungs), plenty of road snacks (Spanish-style though of course, ham-flavored potato chips anyone?), and of course my trusty camera La Rebel.

Since we're taking a car and don't have to cram everything into a single backpack, I'm also bringing along some blogging equipment, so I'll keep you updated intermittently while we're on the road.  And, of course, pictures will be a-comin', so stay tuned!  I'm sure there will be some interesting stories, especially seeing as how none of us have driven a car in at least six months, none of us have driven stick shift in a few years, and we don't speak Portuguese.  No sweat, I'm sure.

Peanut Butter and Salsa

This week is the week schools in Málaga celebrate the home town culture.  The school schedules are chock-full of cultural activities, and The Mister's teachers asked if he could bring in some American food as a little cultural demonstration for his 7th and 8th graders.

We thought, and thought, and thought.  The food needed to fit within strict guidelines: be 1.) available in Spain, 2.) not super expensive - the school gave us a budget of 10 euros, 3.) be individual-serving friendly, i.e. doesn't require forks and plates, 4.) not require too much prep work, and 5.) be sufficiently American. Tall order, no?

We took peanut butter and salsa.  I mean, we didn't serve them together.  But we served peanut butter and crackers, and chips and salsa.  The kids went nuts.  

First, we had to explain what these two foreign concepts are and what salsa even IS. They were a bit nervous to try the foods at first - they kept furrowing eyebrows and saying, "now WHAT is this again?!".  They were also pretty worried that the salsa would be spicy (it wasn't in the slightest), because Spaniards, bless their hearts, generally can't handle anything spicier than black pepper without crying out for agua. 

But once they had their first bites, we were off to the races and it turned into something like feeding time in the shark tank.  I'd say the peanut butter had about an 85% success rate, and the ones who didn't like it were mostly walking around moving their mouths around saying "it's just so sticky."  The salsa had about a 104% success rate.  In the end, all that was left was a trail of chips.

An afternoon in Marbella

Last Saturday I got an email from my Spanish friend Beatriz (of salsa dancing fame) that said "Hola! Salva and I are going to check out Marbella tomorrow...you and The Mister want to come? Pick you up at 3."  I like getting those kinds of emails.

Marbella is a beautiful little coastal town/overdeveloped touristy nightmare, depending on how full your cup is. The shape of the earth itself is lovely - long sandy beaches circled in on three sides by green mountains.  But it's taken its allotment of pretty land and filled it with British tourists, British ice cream parlors, British yachts, British pubs, and the odd Burger King thrown in here or there for good measure (I really love the Brits, by the way, and I don't hold it against them - it's the same thing we Americans have done to Cancún, among other places). There is also a marina that is full to bursting with yachts proudly waving the Union Jack while their owners shop at the nearby designer stores.  It's basically your full-on nightmare.  

But it's a half hour drive down the Mediterranean coast and we were going with friends, so what's not to like?

Observe:

Apparently Michelle Obama got in the action recently?

"I've got an idea! Let's take this street and make it look just like England!" 

"The Spaniards wouldn't like that, now would they, you bloody wanker? I've got a better plan - let's make it look like IRELAND. We can still have our pub but they'll get the dirty looks"

There was a Lamborghini...next to a Jaguar...next to a Ferrari.

Salva decided to take the unexpected option: steal the '88 Fiat!

I found a Spanish boat!

Ahh, this is what we came for.

The Spanishness has its star moment.

And so does a seagull.

Let's sweat the small stuff: Grocery bags

 When you're in a different culture, the really big differences like language and drinking age and political attitudes are easy to take in stride, because you see them coming from a mile away and you know what to expect.  But the best parts of being knee-deep in another world are the tiny differences, the things that the natives don't even notice, like the erasers and the constant conversion calculations.  And Spain is swimming with this stuff just like everywhere else, and every once in a while I'll tell you about it because some of it is kind of funny.  We'll call the series "Let's sweat the small stuff", okay?

Today we're going to talk about ...duh duh duh...grocery bagging!  This isn't just a Spanish custom, it's a wider European thing, but do you know that a.) getting free plastic grocery bags and b.) getting your groceries bagged for you are c.) both seen here as pretty odd? Some stores will give out bags for free, but in general they go for around 1 to 5 cents, and they get tacked on to your bill at the end.  I don't know if it's an environmental measure or just being thrifty, but either way reusable grocery bags are way fashionable around here. (Another reason for the cloth bag phenomenon is that most people walk to the store instead of driving - I don't even know when I've seen a regular grocery store have a parking lot? - and reusable bags are much sturdier to carry food home in than plastic ones).

Also, you have to bag your groceries yourself, which is really weird the first time you go to the grocery store and you can't figure out why everyone is staring at you rather icily while you look helplessly at the cashier, who has already moved onto the next customer. The etiquette is to start bagging as they ring you up, not waiting to pay first.  Once you've paid, it's your responsibility to get out of there as fast as humanly possible, since the next person now has place of honor at the bagging station. When The Mister and I have a big grocery store trip, we coordinate the bagging like we're organizing the winter Olympics.  He's all, Okay, you start bagging while I pay and then I will help and when the backpack's full take this other bag and make sure to put the bread and eggs on top. And I'm all, Roger that, over and out, charlie tango foxtrot.  And then he gives me a weird look. And I say, what? I was just trying to get into the spirit. And he rolls his eyes. And he says, Pay attention. Go go go! And then I salute him.

I think this post just jumped the shark, so I'll sign off for now.

Charlie tango foxtrot.

P.S. The picture accompanying this post is actually a terrible example of the you-bag principle, because clearly the market vendor is handing me a bag that is already full.  But it was the only picture I had with grocery bags, so we'll just have to pretend.

Happy weekend!

Sometimes people tell me that there aren't enough pictures of me on my blog. To those people: here you go. You're welcome.  (Also, The Mister feels that in order to accurately assess my likeness to Shakira there must be a photograph. What do you think?)

Some people also said, where was the Valentine's Day post? And I say, hmph, Valentine's Schmalentine's.  I don't need a special day.  When it comes to husbands, The Mister is totally boss. He is the cheese to my macaroni.  I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but him. (Name that movie?).  Plus I blog all the time about how much I adore that man, see for example here, here and here (the latter, my sister Hannah informs me, is one of her favorite all-time posts).  

Next week I'll be introducing a new! blog! series! 

(oooh, get excited)

The Shakira comment made up for the ego bruise

I should have known it was going to be a funny day at work when one of my five-year-olds approached me this morning, looked up at me with her big crinkly brown eyes and said "my mom says you look just like Shakira."

That is not true, by the way.  I do not look like Shakira. My look is slightly less...Latina pop star.  But I'm not saying I hated the comment, is all.  I might even give that mom a hug when I see her next.

So then my second graders are learning how to tell time in English.  They learn the British system, so I have to get used to them saying "half past eleven" and "quarter till five" with their little accents. The effect is precious but annoying, since the North American (look how inclusive I am! Canadians, you can come too) way of telling time is much more intuitive: twelve fifteen. One forty three. Six thirty two.

The problem came when their curriculum helpfully illustrated the time with little pictures of what children should be doing at that time of day.  Eight o'clock, have breakfast. Four o'clock, have tea (warned you it was British).  The world stopped when the children read that they were supposed to have lunch at twelve o'clock. "Have lunch at 12!" they chortled. "TWELVE!"

"They really mean it" I explained, "it isn't a mistake.  In my country also we have lunch at 12 too, not at 2 or 3 like here in Spain."

For a moment there was incredulous silence.  

And then someone snickered.

And then side-splitting, falling-off-the-chair laughter.  "TWELVE O'CLOCK!" they gasped between guffaws, "IF YOU EAT LUNCH AT 12 O'CLOCK THEN WHAT DO YOU GET UP AT LIKE 3 A.M. OR SOMETHING?!"

I looked at the heaving crowd rather grimly, thinking to myself that this was going to go nuclear when I they get to the picture that says dinner is at five o'clock.

I wish you could've been there to see it, I really do.  The insults rained down.  Everyone should have the experience of being openly ridiculed by a group of seven-year olds that eat dinner at 10 o'clock.

It's good for the soul.

Madrid in Pictures, Part 2

Today, a few more pictures from our time in Madrid. On Sunday we went to a food market/restaurant just off Plaza Mayor that had an eye-popping selection of fresh seafood for a landlocked city.  It was Sunday at 3-ish - prime lunch hour in Spain - and it was packed with families and groups of friends drinking wine and eating big slabs of fresh fish.

After we took a swing around the market we headed to the Palacio Real, Spain's royal palace.  We took a little tour, which was alright, but then a guard told me that King Juan Carlos doesn't even live there, and really, what's the point of all that? It was a neat place though, decorated in the same tapestry-and-brocade style that is de rigeur for European royal palaces.  I feel pretty sure that at some point in the past, the elite interior decorators of Europe got together and were like, "look, we'll save ourselves a lot of time and effort if we just make one basic decoration scheme and then Pierre can put it in Versailles, Wolfgang can put it in Shönbrunn, Francisco can do Palacio Real, and Harry you take Buckingham Palace.  They'll never know the difference."

I couldn't resist taking this photograph because I don't think I've ever seen the famous King Ferdinand of Ferdinand and Isabella fame looking quite so wimpy.  Look at that 'stache. It screams "someone please pick me for dodgeball. Pleasepleaseplease.  No? Well fine then, all the Jews OUT."  Tsk, tsk Ferdinand.

Madrid in Pictures, Part 1 of 2

So we had a good time in Madrid this past weekend.  The LSAT felt like it went pretty well, although you can never really tell with that punk test.  The LSAT is like a terrible best friend, the kind that is nice to your face but talks about you behind your back - you can think that you and the LSAT are friends, and put in lots of quality time together, and in the end you can still end up with a knife in your back, looking stupid and feeling tricked.  So cross your fingers, eh?

After the test we wanted to celebrate having survived, and we knew just the place to do it.  There was a faux 50s'-style American diner right across the street from our hotel that was advertising DELICIOUS HAMBURGERS SHAKES FRIES, and one of the benefits about already living in Spain is that I felt absolutely no guilt helping myself a nice juicy burger instead of some more culturally relevant Spanish food.  I eat Spanish food all the time, but I haven't had a burger like that since last summer (we definitely don't have food like that in Málaga), and let me tell you it was DELICIOUS.

Usually "American" restaurants in Spain feature totally un-American things like pizza with tuna and corn or something like that.  This one was a pretty great imitation though - right down to the glass sugar shakers with the aluminum slot to pour out - quintessentially American stuff right there.  So authentic feeling that it was really weird to be greeted by a cheery "Hola! Cuántos soís?" and to see the menu try to explain a Cobb salad in Spanish.

This leads me, however, to my chief complaint against Madrid.  Madrid is a pretty city, quite European feeling in a generic sort of way, but the whole effect was a little...vanilla.  It didn't feel nearly Spanish enough to me.  Where were the chestnut roasters on the street corners?  Where were the street vendors selling flowers? Nothing even closed for siesta.

My first three blocks walking in Madrid, I had seen a Burger King, a McDonald's, two Starbucks, a Bridgestone tire store and a FedEx truck.  Don't get me wrong, I liked the city overall, but I don't think I'll be adding it to my list of favorites because it felt too taken over by the multinational corporate chain city snatchers.  It felt like I could have been anywhere in Europe, in any city, and I missed the Spanishness, because jiminy christmas I love the Spanishness.  I really do.

But see? It was pretty anyway.

Do you think he lost a bet?

After The Mister and I got back from Naples a few weeks ago, The Mister has been pestering me to write a more in-depth article about the pizza wars.  I deferred at first, saying that writing an article about how good the pizza was would only make me want to eat more of it, which I can't, so it would ultimately be a frustrating exercise. Which turned out to be a little bit true.

But I digress.

Finally The Mister won out, and I sat down and pounded out a little ditty on our single-minded dedication to finding excellent pizza in Naples.  When I finished, I sent it over to Backpacking Matt because his blog specializes in detail-oriented articles like that.  And you know what? He published it today.

Should you so desire, you can read the piece here.

As for the above photograph, I just thought you might enjoy it. It was taken yesterday afternoon at Plaza Mayor in Madrid. You are not missing any context.  It was as random and sensationally eccentric as it comes across. You'll have to forgive the shaky picture quality, as I snapped this one surreptitiously while holding the camera at my waist.

To be honest, I don't think I'm ready for that jelly.

To Madrid

Headed off to Madrid today to take this dang test and finally see the capital of this fine country.

Be back Monday with one huge item checked of my cosmic to-do list and stories and pictures of our time in the north.

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.

Longfellow, Shakespeare, and me

Today The Mister and I were lazing around, luxuriating in just having completed our second-to-last practice LSAT ever, when I asked him what I should blog about today.  He got a gleam in his eye like he always does right before he says something mischievous (which, if you know The Mister, is pretty much about 93% of the time), and he said he thought I should write a poem about this house (house pictured above) that we saw while on a walk today.  

A poem.

Me.

But, he asked, and I cannot deny him what is in my power to give.

For your consideration:

Old house

How nice you look

And so very blue

Like a smurf.

Or Mountain Blast Powerade.

Or, if that isn't your liking, how about this one:

Door.

Lovely, weathered, sun-bleached.

You open in the middle.

That does not seem convenient.

Unless your inhabitants are very skinny.

No?  Try this.

Textured walls.

They look pretty.

But they are tricky to swat flies on.

All poems copyright to moi, all rights reserved.  Dedicated with utmost affection and a mischievous twinkle, to The Mister.

In which I engage in armchair philosophy and find a use for an out-of-focus picture

LSAT, Round 2, because I have a death wish

This coming weekend The Mister and I are hopping a plane to Madrid to take the LSAT (Law School Admissions Test  or Legally Sanctioned Authorized Torture, depending on whether you have a sense of humor or not) (and you do, I know you do.)

We've been studying for weeks, but I haven't really blogged about it because it's boring. Nobody wants to hear details of someone else's academic head-beating, and especially not when it's the second time - that's right, I took it one time before and underperformed.  And by "underperformed" I mean that I scored ten points lower than my practice average, which, trust me, is wretched.

Anyway, the point of this entire tangent has been to tell you that there is not a single pencil sold in the whole of the Kingdom of Spain (totally it's official name) that has an attached eraser.  Spaniards prefer to write with one utensil and erase with a separate one.  The erasers here are not even pink and rectangular like in the States, they are white and square.  And the pencils are not orange, they are black with yellow stripes. And, as mentioned, eraserless.

Now I can rest for the day, knowing that I've provided you all the vital cultural information and hard-hitting reporting you've come to expect from this blog.

Sarah reporting from Málaga, Spain.  Back to you, Tom. Over and out.

How do you follow that?

I think you all have surmised by now that I have married a rock star.

I mean, did you see his post yesterday? And the picture with the green pen writing? That kind of had me chuckling for hours, I am not going to lie.

So the question is, how do you follow that up?

I decided to pull a photograph randomly from my computer archives, since my photography might, might *ahem* have an edge over The Mister's iPhone camera work.

And here is what I found:  Hebron, the West Bank.  Deserted marketplace, the only customer (vendor?) being this lonely donkey.  March 2010.

And that's all I have to say about that (I'm channelling Forrest Gump here).

Have a great weekend!

The Mister gets taken to school

I know this isn't the photographic quality you all have come to expect.  But this is what you get when I blog, so tough luck.

The Mister here.

As a disclaimer before continuing with this post, I would like to point out that Spaniards on the whole have been unbelievably friendly, helpful, and welcoming.  And as for my experience described below, I'm not positive that it was meant seriously or as a joke.  Possibly a mix of the two.  Anyways, I digress.

Upon walking into the staff room at my school, opening my shoulder bag (NOT a man purse, despite what Sarah thinks.  No really, it's just a laptop bag.  Don't listen to her.) and finding myself without my trusty #2 hexagonal pencil, no rounds here thank you, with the extra cap eraser on top (you know the kind, they become necessary because the eraser that comes attached to the pencil is designed to last approximately 0.3 seconds), I took immediate action.

Not yet having intimately familiarized myself enough with my surroundings to know where the school supplies are kept, I did the obvious and spoke to the person nearest to me.  I told her, in an extremely polite manner, that, alas, I had forgotten my pencil and asked if she would be kind enough to tell me where I could find another.  She didn't immediately respond, but instead gave me a quizzical look, which left me wondering if I had completely murdered my Spanish when I spoke to her, but I dismissed that outright since I had definitely been thinking about what I was going to say for like 5 minutes before I even said anything.

She looked at me for so long that I began to think that maybe I had accidentally spoken to her in English without thinking about it.  Finally there was movement.  She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow, and said, "Look, wait here", and walked out of the room with purpose.  I was a little surprised, and still not even sure if she understood me, so I continued on to the next closest person and asked him if he knew where I could find a pencil.  He promptly produced one from his bag, I thanked him, sat down, and started writing.

A few minutes later the woman I had first spoken to came marching back into the room with her hands full.  I immediately hid my newfound pencil in my pocket and stood up to meet her halfway.  She motioned and told me to stay seated.  She came right up to the table where I was sitting and put down the objects in her hand one at a time while saying, "Look, here you have a red pen, a pencil, another pen, an eraser, and a roll of tape.  Now you've got everything you could possibly need, so never ask me for anything ever again".

I was too stunned to do anything except say thank you and then continue looking stunned.  I'm choosing to believe that she has a very dry sense of humor and meant it as a joke, but we haven't spoken since, so I'm not really sure.  

Either way, I've got a red pen, which every teacher needs, especially one teaching English in Spain, AND one of those sweet pens that has four different color pens inside it, including green.  I mean, where else can you find a green pen?  I definitely came out the winner.

Extra sharp is the only way to go

I love extra sharp cheddar cheese.  I eat it straight.  Who needs a cracker to get in the way? That only dilutes the flavor.

Guess what you can't really get in Spain?

Extra sharp cheddar cheese.

(of course)

So, when my parents came out, they put a frozen block of cheddar in their suitcases, thinking that they could get here to Spain before it completely thawed out and spoiled.

And they were right!

You can't imagine my level of joy.

I sliced it into four hunks: one to eat now and three for the freezer, to be pulled out each month.

I don't want to feel so weird here - if you were out of your country and didn't have access to all your normal favorites, what's the thing you would most want someone to smuggle to you?

The pros win on both counts

A bracelet present I got from my student Lucía today

Today I just missed my bus.

I was on my way to work, and I saw it pull away just as I ran up.  Brutal.

Pros of public transportation: no hassle of owning and maintaining a car.

Cons: They set the schedule, not you.

So I ran into my first grade class five minutes late, a little out of breath.  The children all turned to me as I came in, shouting hello and delighted to have any distraction so they could stop listening to the teacher.

"Sarah's just a bit late" the teacher soothed, trying to shush the students.

"Well, of course she is!" one little boy cried out, indignant at the apparent insensitivity of his classmates, "she came all the way from the UNITED STATES!"

And he was totally serious.

Cons of teaching children: they are loud, unruly and not nearly discreet enough about bathroom matters.

Pros: stories like that.