The hardest part of being a teacher

I'm including this picture because it's of Tarifa, and Tarifa is one of the windiest places on the planet. Get it? Wind?

Confirmed: The hardest part of being a teacher is pretending not to notice when someone farts in class.

It happened yesterday. 9:23 a.m., science class. Twenty six halfway inert fifth graders. The class was silent and drowsy, listening to me drone on in English/jibberish about arachnids and arthropods. At one point I paused, midsentence, to write something on the chalkboard. 

All was quiet.

Then, it happened.

A loud, deep ripping sound rent the air. I dropped the chalk. All eyelids flew open. Wide open.

Immediately the air was electric with suspicion. The children swiveled their heads, eyes narrowed, hunting down the guilty party. He wasn't hard to find.

He sat bolt upright, frozen to his chair, with his mouth open in surprise and his eyebrows arched halfway up his forehead in shock. 

A titter escaped. Then a giggle. Then the tide broke loose, and the guffaws began and the whole room was rollicking with mirth. Slapping each other's backs, heads thrown back, arms holding sides to prevent them from splitting. I was standing at the board still, trying madly not to laugh more than was absolutely physically necessary. It was after all a stupendously loud fart, and I am only human.

The guilty party finally unfroze. The first thing to move were his eyes which started darting from side to side and then he finally turned his head, blinking rapidly in wonder at our reaction.

Yeah, kid, I thought, I think we noticed.

The kids were still howling and the joke showed no signs of getting old.

For the sake of the poor kid, someone had to do something. I cleared my throat, and tried to pretend my laughs were actually coughs, in a performance that convinced no one.

"Uh, so as I was saying, spiders have eight legs..."

Pablo raised his hand. 

"Yes, Pablo?"  I was relieved for an interruption.

The gleeful response: "Carlos threw a fart."

And then I gave up and laughed really, really hard.

God bless warm climates

It doesn't really feel like Christmas.

Baelo Claudia

Roman ruins. Destroyed second century A.D. Cádiz province, Spain, October 2011.

Time Lapse

A non-profound thanks

   

Today I am thankful for you because you are nice.

Yes, you.

I have proof.

Last week I posted this picture:

And you all were too nice to be all *cough cough*  uhh, Sarah, why did you take a picture of a girl putting her hair in a ponytail with a Coke in the foreground?

That photo was an outtake. For what it's worth, this was the photo that should have gone up.

See? I told you. Nice.

Thanksgiving

The Champ. Propped shut.

Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is the best holiday. We cook up a storm, we gather together, we feel thankful. My mom makes her famous pumpkin cheesecake. What's not to love?

Thanksgiving is, I think, one of the most American things on the planet. Spaniards have seen it all through a glass screen in some way or another  - the Thanksgiving episodes on Friends, in movies, and in books, but they don't understand any of it. They are both fascinated and mystified.

Why the turkey? (It's delicious).

Does everyone eat a turkey? (Yes.)

Who do you say thank you to and why? (Everyone. Because it's that time of year.)

Anyway, last year here in Málaga my friend Claire brought down the house with a full-on Thanksgiving dinner.  This year I am happy to report that she outdid herself. We invited some people, she invited some people, and together there were fifteen of us. Three of us were Americans - Claire, The Mister and me - which basically meant that we invited twelve people to dinner who were deeply skeptical of the concept of a pie (or any dessert for that matter) made out of pumpkin. And I was in charge of dessert.

The night went off without a hitch though, despite it raining cats and dogs, which is somewhat of a Málaga Thanksgiving tradition. Claire looked all over town to find a whole turkey to roast, finally finding one at her corner butcher, who was really curious to know what a tiny blonde girl would want in a turkey as big as she is. Then--stop drinking your coffee here lest you spew it all over your computer screen--she roasted it in her toaster oven. Because she doesn't have an actual oven. And it turned out beautifully. She not only roasted a turkey in a toaster oven, she successfully roasted a turkey in a toaster oven. If that doesn't merit applause, well then I don't know what does.

She also make green bean casserole (no French's fried onions or cream of mushroom soup here in España, ladies and gents. We are talking mixing flour and milk to make a creamy mushroom sauce, frying the onions in oil until crispy, et cetera), stuffing from scratch (two kinds!), mashed potatoes, carrots in honey butter, macaroni and cheese, and gravy from the turkey drippings.

Once the Spaniards were certain they weren't going to be hungry again for a week, we brought out dessert, which was my domain. I made two pumpkin pies (no canned pumpkin or ready-made pie crusts available in Spain, so I bought and carved pumpkins, scooped out the flesh, and rolled out pie dough. For full context, that is usually not my scene.), apple pie and a dulce de leche cake with browned butter cream cheese cinnamon frosting. The latter is not exactly Thanksgiving-y, but we were the only ones that knew that and I was in the baking zone.

The Spaniards loved the meal, although they were divided on the cranberry sauce. They swooned over the desserts, and I'm happy to report that we had about a 100% conversion rate from the pumpkin-in-pie?-that-is-disgusting-who-are-you-people category to the oh-geez-that-was-delicious-fine-I-take-it-back team. During the meal we all went around and said something we were thankful for, and it felt so odd, so American and homey, to be sitting around a table with friends saying things we're thankful for, and yet so foreign because nobody was speaking English and it was only comfort food to the three of us Americans.

I sadly don't really have good photos of the night to share. I was sous chef number one for a fifteen-person dinner party and frankly I didn't have the hands to spare, so I didn't take any of the following pictures, but they were on my camera in the morning:

The partial spread at some early phase of cooking.

The Mister carving the turkey. He had a ring of people around him like paparazzi at a movie premiere, and they were all taking pictures. It was awesome. It's a real live American! Cutting a Thanksgiving turkey! I'm telling my grandkids that I saw this!

Claire and I in full-on preparation mode. And by that I mean that we have forks in hand, a beer on the counter and a pot that looks like it's about to boil over. Looks about right.

  

Momentous occasions

Two momentous things happened this weekend:

1. Spain elected a new prime minister, Mariano Rajoy (I can't shake the feeling that someone named Mariano is destined for greatness)

Here are my sub-bullet points on this subject:

• Remember my Spanish election 101 post a few weeks ago? I correctly predicted that the conservative Partido Popular would carry the election. Which wasn't such a feat considering that everyone, even the other party, also knew they would cream the opposition.
• Turns out it was the biggest, most lopsided defeat for the Socialists since...well...ever. At least since this country has been a full democracy. The takeaway: when you preside over Great Depression-level economic chaos (and try to pretend like nothing is wrong for a long time after the evidence is staring you in the face, looking at you Señor Zapatero), people start boiling tar in pots and looking around darkly for feathers.
• When I say Great Depression, I don't say it lightly: overall employment is at 22.6%, the highest in the European Union, and unemployment among 18-24 year-olds is an eye-popping 46%.  Those are pretty dire numbers. 
• For a good general (albeit slightly American-centric) overview of what's up in Spain, check out this CNN article. The Economist also has a decent take, as they usually do.
• Election day in Spain has none of the ceremony of its American cousin. We Americans like flags and bunting and balloons, and we are enthusiastic confetti-throwers. Especially if the flags, bunting, balloons and confetti are all red, white and blue (another part of the American code: red, white and blue is always said in that order: red, white and blue. White blue and red? Blue, white and red? No no and no.) If it isn't, well, it doesn't belong on election day, does it?
• I imagine it will take a couple days to take down the election ads on billboards and such around town. It's sad to see Rubalcaba (the decided non-winner) next to a sign proudly declaring "Pelea por lo que quieres" which means "fight for what you want" when actually, they did fight for what they wanted thankyouverymuch, and actually it turns out that what they wanted was whatever was the exact opposite of you. Rough. 

I've followed the election, but despite my snarkiness, I'm neutral over the outcome. I'm on the side of the woman in a recent cartoon in a Spanish newspaper: a man turns off his television, which is showing the official candidate debate. 

"So," he asks his wife, "who do you think will be the next leader of Spain?" 

She grimaces.

"Angela Merkel."

Momentous thing #2: Thanksgiving came early to Spain.

Sub-bullet points coming tomorrow (mwahaha).  To keep you on your toes, noodle over this question: is it possible to cook a whole turkey in a toaster oven? Yes or no?  Answer coming mañana.

    

Don't forget to look up occasionally

I was walking around Málaga the other day with my friend Claire, who has the distinction of being the only other user of the one English bookshelf at the public library. If a book I want isn't there, I know it's on Claire's nightstand, and sometimes we've found things each other have left in the books, like bookmarks and papers and such. We should pass notes in secret code, I think.

Anyway, we were just wandering around shooting the breeze when we came to a little side street. Claire brightened up. "This is one of my favorite streets in Málaga," she confided. "Sometimes I come out of my way just to walk down this street because it makes me happy."

I looked around.

"What's special about this street?" I wondered. Cute, but at first glance not any different from the maze of cute streets in all directions.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Look up."

And then the street charmed me like a tween girl at a Robert Pattinson meet-and-greet.

Across one of the rails connecting both sides of the narrow street, someone had made little statues of acrobatic little people. There's a tightrope walker, a somersaulter, a backbend girl, and then another little guy who just looks a bit confused. 

I learned two things: 1.) Side streets are better with a dose of whimsy, and 2.) Look up.

Also, for bonus points, the same artist (or so it seems) put a little bench on the street for people to sit and ponder his skyward creation.

 

I think I shall try some pickled herring

Trip booked: Stockholm, Sweden. First week of December.

Checklist includes:

long johns

thick socks

insanity

In a nerd-a-riffic twist, the Nobel Prizes will be awarded that week in Stockholm and the prize winners are giving free lectures open to the public. I am not sure whether I'm more excited over this or, you know, being in Scandinavia for the first time. The physics lecture is called "Observing the Accelerating Expansion of the Universe through Observations of Distant Supernovae" which gets my little nerd heart pitter-pattering. I told my mom that I was excited about attending. "That sounds great,"she said skeptically, "...for you." And then she laughed.

So, tell me a.) Have you been to Sweden? and b.) If so, what should I do while I'm there? 

I'm glad I was wrong

I wanted to stay in my pajamas and read my book on the couch.

"No," The Mister declared, "you are coming with me and it will be worth it."

And he led me down into the city, through the trees and past the chestnut-roasting stand. We crossed the street in front of the horse-drawn carriages that the tourists inexplicably adore and arrived at a fancy hotel. We went up the elevator, all the way to the rooftop, and walked out and breathed in. There it was, there it all was, the sunset and the city and the sea and the cathedral all in one dusk-colored panorama.

He was right. It was worth it.

   

Return of El Caganer

Remember what I told you last year about a very special Spanish Christmas tradition? (Special as in special.) It's baaaaack.

According to this little notice in the paper the other day (the front page no less!), that lucky someone with the dubious honor of being el caganer (literally--there's no way to make this sound more posh--the sh**ter) is Lionel Messi, soccer player extraordinaire.

I'm sure his mother is very proud.

(again, if you are gaping at this with no idea why we are talking about Christmas and poo and a guy named Lionel, read this then come back)

No refills

Want to know another cultural difference between America and the rest of the world?

Here, when you order a soda in a retaurant, this is what you get:

The only soda fountains are in McDonald's.

A "refill" looks like this:

And when it's gone, it's gone. Time to order (and pay for) another bottle.

Ah, real free refills, I kind of miss you.

  

Shrimp, Spanish style

Step 1: Dump enough sea salt in a saute pan to create a nice comfy bed for the shrimp. Don't be shy.

Step 2: Turn up heat as high as it will go.

Step 3: Lay shrimp on salt.

Step 4: Let the salt burn, smoke and blacken while it imparts a deliciously smoky flavor to the shrimp.

Step 5: Open the window.

Step 6: Make sure the shrimp have parts that are browned and crusty, that's where the flavor is. 

Step 7: Take off the shrimp heads (sorry to my fellow squeamish Americans, but they are de rigeur in Europe) 

Step 8: Consume with gusto.

Perritos calientes

*Important note: I apologize for the rather sub-par photography in this post. These photos were taken directly following the Epic Flamenco Flop of '11 and I don't think my senses were functioning properly quite yet.*

Went out for tapas the other night and this is what the waiter surprised us with:

They are what they look like: hot dogs.  Oh so culturally relevant.

At least the sangria was Spanish.

Let's talk elections

Picture quality is of the iPhone style, sorry about that. 

Today I want to talk about the upcoming election.

Oh lordy, not that election, please no.  Let's talk about the Spanish general election, coming up on November 20th. Spaniards will get to pick a new prime minister and get some new faces in parliament too.

Here's the rundown: Candidates have two weeks to campaign (!!!) (are you listening America? I said two weeks!). The two main parties in Spain are the center-right Partido Popular (known colloquially as the PP) and the incumbent leftist Spanish Socialist Worker's Party (the PSOE, its Spanish acronym, or the Socialistas).

Up for the Socialistas is Alfredo Perez Rubalcaba, and in the PP corner we have challenger Mariano Rajoy. Rubalcaba has a cooler last name while Mr. Mariano takes the lead in the first-name category, don't you think?

Anyway, the center-right PP is expected to win by a huge margin, both in the parliamentary and prime minister divisions. This seems reasonably fair, given as the Socialistas are in power at the moment and during the current economic crisis they have been about as useful as a hole in the head. Spain's unemployment hovers around 22%, Madrid is thisfreakingclose to finding itself on the EU bailout list, and things aren't looking good for a long while to come. Arguably things would be bad no matter who's running the government, but nonetheless it's always more comforting to find a specific group to blame. Sometimes it's even true.

The debate was on the night before last, and it's the only face-to-face meeting that the candidates have.  It felt more serious than an American political debate, which is as full of strutting peacocks as a petting zoo. Here the candidates sat down at a plain table in a plain studio, with no glitzy decorations or layers of makeup, and they talked for a couple hours straight. Now, politicians are politicians anywhere in the world, so they talked a fair bit of nonsense and seemed at one point to be engaging in a high-stakes game to see who could lie with a straighter face, but still it was refreshing.

It's an interesting time to be in Spain. The euro zone is crumbling, and Spain is at the bottom of the dog pile. Things just keep getting worse, and the newspapers are full of angst and apocalypse.

Will things get better with the election? Probably not. But with a guy named Mariano at the helm, anything's possible.

The flamenco flop.

Last night The Mister, my friend Claire and I went to a flamenco show at the cool old theater in town, the one Antonio Banderas sometimes makes a showing in.  It wasn't one of those touristy polka-dotted-skirts kind of flamenco shows, but the good authentic kind. The dancers were local and the three of us were rather conspicuous as the only non-Spaniards in the place (a good sign).

The theater was beautiful for the occasion, all lit up like a Christmas tree, and everyone was prepared in their fancy clothes. 

Lights dimmed, curtain went up.

As soon as the first note sounded, it was obvious that something had gone badly awry. The singers sounded like - I hate to use this cliché, but there's no way around it - they sounded like a pack of wild cats. Yowling and screechy and sharp as cheddar cheese.  The sound mixer guy must have been drunk during rehearsal (or perhaps there wasn't a rehearsal?) and the sound volume was cranked so high that everyone's voices blended together in one unbearably shrill howl.

I started giggling. I couldn't help it. It sounded so awful. I put my hand over my mouth. I tried to ignore The Mister's elbow digging in my side because I knew if I made eye contact I'd go over the edge.

At the end of the first song, the audience sighed in relief. Old people were shaking their heads and muttering. The man to my left looked like he'd just eaten a whole lemon.

In the silence between the tepid applause and the start of the next song, a man in our aisle yelled "Baja el sonido!" which means "turn down the sound!"  It was like the first raindrop of a downpour. Every old person in the house suddenly started yelling some version of LOWER THE MOTHERLOVING VOLUME POR FAVOR. 

I slid down in my seat and gulped air, trying to hold myself together. Why are things so much funnier when you're not supposed to laugh?

The music started blaring again and the singers resumed their screaming, blithely unaware of the audience's pain. They probably thought that everyone was yelling compliments. Everyone groaned.  The woman next to me scowled at the stage and brought both hands up to cover her ears.

And that's when I lost it.

At the end, Claire was worried that I would think the fifteen euro ticket fee was a waste since the show was decidedly sub-par.

No way, I told her. I would pay fifteen euros for a belly laugh any day.

I would and I did.

Spain, land of paradox

If you learn nothing else from this blog, let it be this: that you really ought to conquer a good plate of paella in your life. Real paella that is, paella valenciana, with rabbit and chorizo sausage and crack cocaine. Avoid the fishy, soupy ones they'll sometimes try to serve you here in the South, and go for the real thing, even if it's just at a particularly ambitious Spanish restaurant in Boise. You won't regret it.

Modern Spain is a bit like its famous dish; sparklingly, astoundingly good in parts, a disappointing mess in others. The stereotypes are true, to a point--it really is the land of siestas and bullfights, flamenco and whitewashed pueblos sloping gently into the glittering Mediterranean, flowery hillsides and everlasting sunshine. But it's also a land of crippling inefficiency, apathy, racism, graffiti, underemployment, under education, and worst of all, insufferably awful bread.

Seriously, it's a mystery how they've managed to live in such close quarters with the French all these years and not pick up a single tip to make a passable baguette.

It's a country of paradox, as I suppose all living things when examined up close. There's romance and prejudice, passion and profound malaise, weeks of sunshine and floods of torrential rain.

The United States from afar looks different than it does up close, like a good Monet. It's a brash, headstrong young country, pulsing with vitality and a vigorousness that's unseemly to our more stately European sisters. The fearsome dowagers of the Old World eye us a little askance, drawing in their skirts as we strut by, astounded by our youthful impetuousness, our manic, frightening energy and our mischievousness in hoodwinking them into occasionally disreputable schemes.

From the orange grove to my basket

The countryside outside of Málaga, just inside the province of Cádiz, is filled with bulls and orange groves. I know that sounds like an odd combination, but I'm telling the truth - drive through there and it's all grazing bulls, orange groves, then more grazing bulls and more orange groves. Since we were there last week, our friends Pilar and Juan took us to her grandfather's patch of land to pick oranges.

We learned the proper way to pick them - there's a little secret. It's called girar y tirar, which in Spanish means "twist and pull," because if you pull without twisting the peel will break. 

When we had picked a whole crate we realized the surprise was on us because Pilar gave us all the oranges to take home, all three thousand kilos or so, and now we are supplied through the winter.  They are perfectly tart and sweet and juicy. I know, because I tried them. In the orchard. While I was supposed to be picking. I have trouble staying on task when food is involved in the chores.

  

Also, as if The Mister weren't cool enough -- he sings, he plays guitar, he's got a dimple in his right cheek that could stop traffic -- he can also juggle. Some people get all the cards.

Dreaming of sunshine

It's a rainy, cold day on the Costa del Sol - the kind of day that makes you wish you owned an umbrella that didn't turn inside out at the faintest sea breeze (can you tell I had umbrella troubles today?). So in honor of blue skies and sunshine, here are a few more images from our weekend in the countryside.

One, two, three

Today I wanted to share three really special photos with you.

Number 1:

This is the biggest snail I have ever seen. If you are French, kindly try to restrain yourself from thinking about its culinary value - you're freaking the rest of us out.

 

Number 2:

 This sign? Really? Someone thought up this sign, and then a committee of other people greenlit the project, and then someone painted it and stuck it in the ground. This is groupthink at its sordid best. It reminds me an awful lot of this glorious signage, though, and that makes me smile.

 

Number 3:

I am in love with these tiles. I saw them last Sunday on the side of a little house in a little pueblo on a narrow little street. Everything about the setting was impossibly cute. I want to frame this photo.