"A computer in every classroom" and a statue of Cervantes in every city

Last Wednesday, CRA Valle de Bullaque, the school where I work, was given a very special honor: our humble cole (their nickname of endearment for colegio, the word for school) was to be made the place where the president of the region of Castilla-La Mancha, José María Barreda, would officially inagurate his campaign to place a new computer into every classroom throughout the region (note: both links are in Spanish). Needless to say, it was quite the event with much pomp, circumstance, and politiking. But before any of that could get underway, organized preparations were called for so that the school, already situated in a new and attractive building, could be made all the more so with, among other things, decorative hands and feet colored in by students and professors alike that adorned and scaled the perimeter of the halls next to signs that read "avanzamos juntos" and "growing together" (my personal, much thought about figurative translation for it).

The president was also to come into three classes in the school during his visit, each in a different wing of the building: one in the infantil wing (the pre-schoolers), one in the primer ciclo (first or second grade), and one in tercer ciclo (fifth or sixth grade), and I was to be in the second grade class, playing a game of Simon Says with the kids. Qué suerte tengo yo, ¿eh? (what luck, eh?)

The day before Barreda came, I went up to the class to explain and practice the game with them. I never imagined how difficult it would be to explain in English, much less explain it in Spanish, but I came prepared with notes on how I would do so and thankfully Zorida, the teacher, assisted my explanations very well.

Equally providential, the kids enjoyed the game -- as kids will any game I suppose -- and the following day, the "lesson" went off without a hitch... for me at least . It seemed that with all the excitement of having the president there... and the press... and their cameras and bright lights and all -- it was all too much for some of the kids who instead of following me just stared out dumbfounded at the whole production around us. It was still very cute and fun to be a part of. Check out this link to get a taste for how it went down.

After the day's very exciting and a bit over-stimulating proceedings -- including a fantastic tapas spread for the professors past and present of the cole -- I headed to Madrid to celebrate the Yom Kippur holiday with one of the congregations there, and also to enjoy some possible weekend excursioning. Thus, not only did I pass a day or two in Madrid, but I also broke the Yom Kippur fast on medieval-style treats in Alcalá de Henares during a festival honoring the birthday of Miguel de Cervantes of Don Quijote fame, and spent Saturday in Toledo with another friend from UMD before coming back yesterday to do laundry, clean my room, and return to the quotidian flow of life once more.

Speaking more or less of Cervantes, this man seems to be a bigger deal here in Spain than George Washington is in the United States, because he is adored and celebrated in every town in this country. At least, that is, in Madrid and in Castilla-La Mancha where there is a statue of the laureate, a plaza in his name, or both. And no two statues are the same. In Alcalá de Henares, his birthplace, he stands magestically on a pillar, plumed feather pen in hand; in Toledo he stands tall and lean, book under his bronzed arm, looking out at the masses that come up the steep city street; and in Ciudad Real, peculiarly enough, he is seated in a lavish chair... just chillin' it would appear. It's very funny.

Finally, a word on Toledo before I sign off. Once the capital of the Spanish empire, Toledo still commands a sort of royal splendor and continues to tempt and inspire many a traveler, both local and foreign alike to its gates. Our bus ride into town was preceded and escorted in by a substantial downpour, but thankfully by the time we left the bus at the Plaza de Zocodover the rains had subsided, and by lunchtime the sun had even begun to make its way through the clouds. I highly recommend it to anyone staying for a few days in Madrid or the surrounding area, but then again, I would also recommend that you come see me while you're around.

I leave you with some photos taken of my last week's adventures. Nos vemos!

-Nick

(the above photos from l to r: statues of Cervantes in Alcalá and in Toledo)

the tapas spread from Wednesday's luncheon

Justin engages a bakery merchant in Alcalá

the best Don Quijote impersonator I ever did see

the best Sancho Panza impersonator i ever did see (comes with free sheepskin flask!)

views from Toledo: inside an old convent turned museum and from one of the many wonderful hilltop vistas

THIS. IS. TOLEDO!!!

a little color in a town of weathered stone

from the Museo Sefardí (Museum of Judeo-Spanish History)

Luck of the Irish . . . in Spain

When leaving the country for a year, certain items of business should never be left to chance. For example, flight details. In my case, neglecting to check my itinerary and arriving three hours late to the airport, thus missing my flight to Madrid, served as a fitting start to my first two weeks in Spain. During this time, many of my initial plans and expectations were turned on their head, a fact for which, ironically, I now feel grateful.

The unexpected turn of events began in Madrid, where, as a result of my original blunder, I had a layover that lasted five hours instead of 45 minutes. After I'd circled the terminal for the sixth time to keep myself awake, a girl with two carry-ones bigger than mine approached me to ask if I wasn't teaching English in Spain for the year like her. (She had heard me speaking English on the plane and seen the size of my bags.) As it turned out, Christine, as she was called, was headed to Seville, too. We were not participating in the same program but our responsibilities as "English conversation assistants" in our respective Andalucian towns were essentially the same. The five hours flew by as she and I shared her last remaining Snickers bar, while exchanging photos, stories, and thoughts about the future.

Originally, I'd planned to arrive in Seville at nine in the morning and take a bus straight to Cadiz, my ultimate destination where, armed with a stack of ads I'd printed from various websites, I would immediately begin the dreaded apartment-hunt. Buy by the time we made it to Seville, it was already dark and I had not slept or eaten in almost 24 hours. Christine invited me stay in the four-star hotel where she and all of the participants of her cushy for-profit program had reservations. I hesitated, imagining the most attractive-sounding and affordable apartment in Cadiz being snatched by a more responsible ERASMUS student while I slept between silk sheets in Seville. Then I realized that this was my chance to see one of the most romantic cities in Spain and accepted Christine's offer.

After I had bathed in a sparkling white bathtub lined with intricate blue and yellow Spanish tiles and Christine had fulfilled her duty of Skyping her boyfriend in Texas, we got dressed and headed to the most central part of town: el Barrio de Santa Cruz. Once we'd scoped out a few of the tapas bars teeming along the narrow cobblestone streets, we decided that one seemed as good as any and sat down at the next free table we saw. Here I found the exception to my own rule, that a spur of the moment decision always guarantees a rewarding adventure. The tapas we ordered--vegetable croquetas, plain cold roasted peppers, pork with an underwhelming chile sauce, olives and somewhat stale bread--did nothing to wow us. Consulting the guide book beforehand probably would have helped. Still, we both enjoyed the ambience created by the people crowding into a small space, some standing at chest-high tables, enjoying each other's company, if not the mediocre food.

After dinner, we walked to the Cathedral, a mammoth medieval wonder lit from all angles by warm, dewy lights. Then, exhausted, we headed home pausing every so often to observe a particularly popular tapas bar or beautiful building facade. Back in our hotel room, we collapsed into bed and slept for nearly twelve hours -- another blessing I couldn't fully appreciated until I'd arrived in Cadiz, where I found the act of sleeping nearly impossible.

The Cathedral in Seville

   Christine from Texas in Seville

Casa Caracol is a small hostel in the center of Cadiz, run by a rowdy interational bunch of Brits, Aussies, and Kiwis. The guests I met hailed from all over the Western world (Italy, France, Austria, Argentina, Germany, America, and Ireland) and seemed much more interested in getting to know each other than in getting a good night's sleep. The common space and kitchen, which in the worst design for a hostel I've ever seen, opened directly onto the five bedrooms, hummed at all hours with foreign languages. With sleep out of the question, I resigned myself to the never-ending party. And, looking back, it's a good thing I did, since it was there that I met Shane and Aoife, an Irish couple my age who've filled my time in Spain so far with unexpected pleasure.

With three of my Irish friends before a homemade dinner at 2PM ;

left to right, me, Aoife, Joe, and Shane

Obviously blessed with the luck of the Irish, Shane and Aoife (a Gaelic name, pronounced Eefa) found a beautiful apartment on la Playa Victoria, the greatest beach in Cadiz, before the end of their second day in Casa Caracol. I, on the other hand, discovered that all of the extra preparation I'd done before arriving was completely for naught. Since I had arrived on the first day of the academic calendar, nearly every posting I'd printed back in the States had been snapped up by someone else already. It was clearly going to take much longer than I'd expected to find a free room in a shared flat, much less on that I liked. Shane and Aoife offered to put me up in their new place for a much more reasonable price than Casa Caracol, until I found a place. And thus began my week of Spanish-Irish immersion.

  The view from Shane and Aoife's balcony

What could such a thing involve? First, big dinners at two in the afternoon, siestas, swims in the ocean located yards away from where we slept, drinks on the balcony at sunset, all the Spanish music we had on our iPods, outings to the weekend botellones or public, outdoor BYOB parties where even the police can be found with a beer in hand. And for the Irish component, remembering that shyte means shit, turd, third, and aubergine, eggplant, trying to defend all the bad my country has done the world in the eyes of foreigners, becoming familiar with Irish music, humor, and drinking games, and acquiring comebacks for repartees you would never hear in America, such as "Cheers, big ears," "No prob, big nob."

Who would have thought that, by coming to Spain, I'd make Irish friends and gain a new-found interest in Ireland? If missing my flight and choosing Casa Caracol as a place to rest my head were big mistakes, I've forgotten it already. For me, the satisfaction of a good plan can't rival the joy of a chance encounter, especially when it's the result of an apparent miscalculation (or missed flight). Maybe it's just the Andalucian's easy-going way rubbing off on me, but here in Spain, I've learned that wrong turns rarely lead to dead ends and very often to pots of gold.

Dylan Moran, one of my favorite Irish delights:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wl_Lacg5m3g&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Up7rG-Wzxnw&feature=related

(a taste of the shyte I get on a daily basis)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdrVkPBy5nw

On being a foreigner

As an auxiliar de conversación one of the necessary steps is obtaining your NIE, número de identificación de extranjeros, or your foreigner´s ID number. In order to do this, I have spent the past 5 hours in the oficina de extranjeros in Murcia.

Let me start from the beginning...

We left Águilas at 12:00 yesterday and arrived in Lorca, a city on the way to the regional capital of Murcia. In Lorca we stopped by the police station to see if we could get our NIE there, and we were redirected to the bus station and to Murcia. In Murcia we arrived at the ¨foreigner´s office¨ around 3:00 and were told that we had the wrong form and to come back the next day to wait in line to drop off the new form.

We stopped by a kebab restaurant next door to get some grub and we heard a woman screaming at the office. Everyone raced to the window to see the cops grabbing this Moroccan woman by the hair and beating her on the street. We still don´t know why exactly, except that in Spain Moroccans are treated much like Mexicans are in the United States: the high rates of immigration from Northern Africa has caused a sort of phobia of them. This did not make me feel comfortable about returning the following day.

Since we hadn´t planned on staying the night, I had to call up a friend so my two roommates and I could crash at her apartment. We got up this morning, stopped by the office of the program coordinator to get a new (and correct) version of a paper we thought was necessary for this whole process. Afterwards we headed back to the foreigner´s office for round two. The line to drop off the application was two blocks long, full of Bolivians, Ecuadorians, Moroccans and Algerians. When I finally arrived at the end of the line, of course they told me I should have gone through a different two-hour line, the one where you request your Student Resident´s Card. So I headed to line #2 and waited another hour. When I got to the end of this line, they of course told me that, no, in fact I should go back to the first line. Trying really hard not to cry I explained my situation in another way and they gave me a number and told me to take a seat in the waiting room. Line #3, except with seats. After another hour or two of waiting, our number was up. The man who took us informed us that we needed to get two more documents and come back to complete the process. Then, we´ll supposedly go back to Lorca and be done with it. When I asked him for his name as a reference for the next time we came back he told me, ¨we all work together, everyone here will tell you the same as I.¨ Viva España.

Ciudad Real: The Manchego Living

Hello! Here I am again, back at the portátil (laptop computer) for another fun-filled entry on the goings-on in Castilla-La Mancha. I like to think I've mostly settled in to the way of life here in the Castillan meseta region, but, of course, some things still seem very foreign to me.

A perfect example would be in everyday food and diet practices. Particiularly

interesting is this business of enjoying a later-in-the-day, two and three course luncheon and thus only holding a very brief milk and toast breakfast at the start of the day, and a short, apertif of an evening meal around 10. Not that I disparage this Spanish routine, rather I enjoy it quite heartily-- the Spanish are really quite adroit in their culinary leanings and craftsmanship-- it's just that from a purely ideological standpoint it clashes with my in-borne desires to have a big bowl of cereal in the morning, a nice-sized sandwich at lunch, and a proper dinner with salad and hearty main dish at night. Left to my own devices then, I usually come home from school by 3 and prepare myself a nice sandwich with cream cheese, lettuce, tomato, what have you or a tuna melt and at dinner, another light and simple meal. My Spanish roommates are beginning to think that everything I eat is the same.

That said, I reiterate that I reeeeeeally like the food here. Especially the tapas-ing (o decirlo en español, tapear). These little morsels of food are not always so little. They can range from sizes as acceptable for accompanying any beer, wine, or any other drink you may like to enjoy, to sizes and complexities that rival starter salads or even the most innocent looking of entrees. And many people here, either at

lunchtime or dinnertime, can be seen at the numerous tapas bars in town, dipping in for a bit of food and conversation, and then floating over to another neighboring bar, sometimes only just next door to the one they were just in. If done right, you may spend your entire, very gracious three-hour siesta time frame (from roughly 2:00 PM on through 5 or 5:30) tapeando y chatting with amigos.

And in Ciudad Real, that way of dining is very affordable. As two of my English friends and I were looking around city center the other day for somewhere to take in a nice lunch, we noticed that proper entrees on most lunch menus cost about the same as three decent-sized tapas dishes (called raciones). What's more, in Ciudad Real, as in many other towns like in throughout Spain, you can get one ración free with the purchase of a drink (usually the house beer, or caña, but sometimes any soda or juice drink as well).

Suffice to say, I won't die for want of food here. Nor, it happily appears, from want of ice cream, which is in good supply here in town. Most anyone who knows me knows of my obsession, nay, endless love of ice cream, and so it is no wonder that I should take just a few moments here to speak of its wonder and Spanish permutations.

There are two homemade ice cream joints in the city, both within a 10 minute's walk from my apartment, and both with distinct enough personalities to make me begin to see just how much of an ice cream connoisseur I have actually become. The first, Farggi, serves ice cream that has a very American look and texture to it. However, with offerings like nata con almendra chocolateada or avellana de piamonte and the flavor to match, there is no doubt about its very euro-italian roots and taste. The other, Helados Moran, is clearly ice cream in the Italian gelato mindset, where both the texture, choices, and flavors are carefully chosen, beautifully concieved, and wonderfully executed. Both are exceptional places to grab a cup or cone, though sadly-- unlike in Argentina-- neither offer the option of selecting two flavors for the price of one nor the luxury of bringing home a custom-chosen combination of flavors. These being the only fallbacks, both Farggi and Moran bring delight to anyone looking for a good afternoon or evening treat for relatively little cost.

....ah... I seem to have stumbled on to quite the tangent, haven't I? (and now I really want some ice cream).

Well, now that I've thoroughly saciated your need for any and all information regarding at least the Manchego dining customs and then some, I'll stop here and offer a few photos to show you what's been taking up my time here besides just food-related issues. hehe.

Chau for now, y ¡salud!

-Nick

The view of Calle de Mata from my apartment on the 8th floor

... and another by sunset

Regional hero of Castilla-La Mancha, Don Quijote

La Plaza de Constitución, near the central post office in town

Statue in the Plaza Mayor of the founder of the city and once great King of Spain, Rey Alfonso X el Sabio

At noon each day, figures of Quijote, his friend Sancho, and their creator Cervantes appear from a clock tower in the Plaza Mayor.

On suffering a linguistic identity crisis

So, I’ve been in Spain for a week and a half and already I’m suffering a linguistic identity crisis. Here’s the deal:

In Spring 2007 I spent a semester in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where I learned to speak in a mangled version of castellano porteño. My Spanish took on an Italian lilt and all of my y’s and ll’s began sounding like a sh. I adopted the voseo. Expressions such as “¡Qué quilombo!” and “Mira, vos…” insinuated their way into my daily conversations. When I was hurried I was “apurrada” and when something was annoying “me dio bronca.” I wrote with a “biombe” and got water from the “canilla.” You get the point.

Upon my return to the States, many of these linguistic habits stuck. New ones, however, were added, thanks to my Peruvian roommate. Since it seemed a bit odd outside of Argentine company to call something cool “bárbaro,” I took on the more generic Latin American “chévere.” From time to time I called my “almuerzo” a “lonche.” I'm sure that there were others that I didn't realize at the time.

Now in Spain, even the most basic daily tasks are confusing linguistic experiences. At the grocery store, peaches are “melocotones,” peanuts are “cacahuetes,” and potatoes are “patadas.” My computer is an “ordenador” and my cell phone is a “móvil.” When I want to travel, I need to take a “bus.” I should say "adios," not "chau," when I leave a store.

This is not to say that these words, or in fact most of the vocabulary I’ve encountered is unfamiliar to me, since I learned most of it in high school. Neither do I find it unpleasant. But having become accustomed to using certain colloquialisms and pronunciations, I’m finding it difficult to find firm footing on this different linguistic terrain.

The question is, how do I proceed? Do I dig my heels in and refuse to budge from those Latin American linguistic habits I hold dear, or do I change for the sake of being better understood or of respecting the local linguistic culture?

My instincts tell me that I do not want to change, but sadly I think that it is somewhat unavoidable, at least on certain fronts. As someone learning Spanish as a second language, my vocabulary and pronunciation is a hodgepodge of regional dialects and styles. My habits, not as deeply ingrained as they would be for a native speaker, are transitory: they come and go depending on the particular environment I’m in at the time. Also, like the Scotsman who toned down his Glaswegian when talking to Americans and Aussies, perhaps it is only common courtesy for me to do what I can to make myself more easily understood.

In the end, though I feel attached to Argentine Spanish and would very much like to maintain it, I have to admit that since I’m still learning the language, I am vulnerable to a slow but steady process of Peninsular infiltration, perhaps equally by force as by consent. Nevertheless, my Latin American allegiances still strong, I will not go down without a fight. So, dear friends, to cheer myself up until next time, I think I’ll read a Samanta Schweblin story and find myself some really good facturas.

For a great Argentinean-Spanish (read: Argentine Spanish to Peninsular Spanish) dictionary, check out this website.

Aguilas

Just one more thing, I swear: photos of Aguilas, including my apartment.

Exploring Madrid

Not to overcrowd this blog, but I've seen and done so much I wanted to share.

To start with, on Tuesday I did a self-guided tour of Madrid with some other girls on the program. We started at one end of Madrid, Calle O'Donnell, where our hotel was, and ended up on the other side at the Palacio Real, or the Royal Palace. Our first stop was the Parque del Retiro, sort of like Madrid's Central Park. They have a large man-made lake called an estanque as well as the only statue to the devil and a crystal palace. Next we stopped by the Prado museum, which houses Spanish greats like Goya and Velasquez. After that we got hungry so we headed up to the trendy Sol district in the center of Madrid and stopped for churros and chocolate, basically a cup of thick hot chocolate and some sweet fried bread that you dip in it. We continued on to the Plaza Mayor, the largest plaza in Madrid, and the Palacio Real before getting tired out and heading back.

The Hotel Convencion where the Spanish government housed us was excellent. They served us breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day we were there, including highlights like steak and potatoes and chocolate mousse. Yum! On Wednesday we had orientation, which was long, boring, and uneventful, except for my learning that I am now in a different school than I had originally thought.

Afterwards I went out with some new friends I had made this week. Our original plan was to go on a pub crawl but we ended up going to an awesome Cuban bar in the Sol district, though not before walking down the puta calle (need I translate?). Prostitution is legal in Spain, and there were tons of women and girls of all ages pushing their wares. One even offerred a free preview to a potential customer right in front of us! After the shock wore off it just made me really sad to see so many beautiful young girls who had to resort to that.

On a more pleasant note, today I finally made it to my town. I arrived around 8:30 at night, so I can't see much, but my apartment is great. It smells a little odd but it is spacious and has marble or granite floors, a living room, dining room, kitchen, laundry room, two full bathrooms, and three bedrooms. I get the big bedroom because it's pink (lucky me!) and my own bathroom, so no cleaning up after messy boys. I walked down to the water with Brandon, one of my roommates, and put my feet in the Mediterranean Sea for the first time. The water is cool but warm enough to swim in tomorrow. I can't wait! We walked around town checking things out and getting our bearings and then had a nice (late) dinner of tapas at a great local restaurant, sitting on a mosaic-covered table outside on the steps of a street-turned-dining room. And better yet, I get free wi-fi from my balcony so I can update you all about my adventures! To see pictures check out my facebook photo album.

Until next time,

Laurita