Splat: Part four in an occasional series about how much I love my life

Today is perfect. I woke up, got out the door on time, drove with Talia along the Autovía del Mediterráneo, wedged between the sage-dotted mountains and the sea, got to school, high fived an entire class of second graders, and discovered that all 3 of my classes that I had today were canceled due to field day.

I calmly got my jacket, collected my things, and sprinted full speed out the door. I waited at the bus stop in the pueblo. Everything was pale green, every breath of air was orange blossoms, every house was blinding white in the sun. It was the kind of spring day that makes you forget that winter ever existed.

The train curved back along a sparkling, cerulean Mediterranean sea. I got off in the center of the city. I walked slowly to the number 20 bus stop. All the flower stands were open: La Nuria, La Rubia, Florestería Andalucía. The hundred-year-old trees lining the Alameda, all getting a trim to prepare for Semana Santa, threw deep speckled shadows on the street below. I stood in line for the bus. I had my face in the sun, my eyes closed. Perfectly tranquil in the middle of Málaga, when



SPLAT.



Bird poop made a direct hit on my shoulder.

I knew it was still a perfect day, because when I turned around to the lady behind me, already reaching in her bag for a tissue, we both exploded in cheek-hurting, bellyaching laughter.

Myths and Facts about guiri skin in Spain

Hi, my name is Troy McClure, you may remember me from such educational comedy films as "Mandatory Sexual Harassment Video Made in 1983" or "Let's Get Awkward: 7th Grade Sex Ed Film."

Now that the Spring weather is upon us here in Málaga, you may find yourself wondering about how your guiri friends are coping. Surely they must be scared about skin cancer. Their blue eyes are less able to cope with the sun, would sunglasses be an appropriate gift? Can't guiri people wait until June to get in the water like normal people?

Well don't worry, Spaniard! The answer to these questions, and so much more, will be covered in this short educational film!

Myth: All guiri people get sunburned. (See also: guirigamba.)

Fact: Some guiri people, notably those of Germanic, Italian, or certain Nordic heritages, have skin with golden, rather than red, undertones. This means that their skin, much like yours, may actually become tan with gradual, safe exposure to the sun. Others may utilize tools at their disposal, such as sunscreen, hats, umbrellas, or simply staying out of direct sun during the hours of 10 to 2, to prevent sunburn. Other guiri people may be of African, Middle Eastern, Southeast Asian, or South American origin, and possess skin that may be equal to, or darker than yours. Millions of guiri families enjoy the beaches in Spain every year without the harmful effects of sunburn, and you can too!

Myth: All guiri men of a certain age walk around town shirtless and in short-shorts.

Fact: Many men do in fact use their holiday time to promenade down the boardwalk with their beer belly out for all to admire. However, after months of soul-crushing Nordic winter, it is normal that they'd want to get off the 4 sealskin jackets and 14 pairs of socks that you wear all winter. Try it! It can be fun!

Myth: Socks and sandels are the height of fashion in Northern Europe.

Fact: No, it's not. Questionable fashion exists everywhere. (See also: soccer mullets, diaper jeans, adult onesies, and wearing leggings as pants.) 

Myth: It's sunny and you have blue eyes! You'll go blind! Here, take my sunglasses.

Fact: While it is polite to show concern for your guiri friends, they will be fine in the sun, just as they have been for the past 23 years of their life. If they need to shield their eyes from the sun, many will provide their own sunglasses!

Myth: Guiri people go swimming in like, January. What's wrong with you, aren't you cold?

Fact: People who live in colder climes are able to swim comfortably in cooler waters. Not living next to the Mediterranean year round, taking the plunge is taking advantage of their vacation time. However, there are limits (see also: Norweigans and January and shrinkage.)

Myth: To me, it's freezing. But compared to where you come from, this must be tropical!

Fact: Many people live in places that are as warm or, wait for it, warmer, than Andalucia. For example, here:

These people may actually find the November to March wintery, rainy season as excessive, and come from places like Arizona or Florida, where one can sunbathe on Christmas!

I'm Troy McClure, and I hope that with a little bit of knowledge, guiris and Spaniards can both enjoy Spain's privileged climate and beautiful beaches this Spring season! See you next time!

The incredible fluidity of time

Earlier this year I bought an alarm clock at Ikea. It's yellow. It ticks.

It was the single heaviest thing in my room. I could lift it easily, but it weighed on me all the time.

When I went home for Christmas, it felt like I brought a whole extra bag of weight with me. Time. Always thinking about it. Too much. Too little. Too fast. Too slow. This year has flown by at times, has dragged at times, has slowed to a stop and then has went running by. The flow of time seems amplified by the fact that I love being in Spain, but I have limited time. I feel like I'm dancing but cannot find the beat, always moving just before or just after.

At Christmas I was getting desperate, knowing that this was my second year through the government and I'd have to find another way to stay if I could. I moped all morning. I got productive in the afternoon and scoured the internet for any sort of job that would hire Americans. I lost hope. I raked all of the brittle brown leaves out of the yard, raising and dropping my arms methodically to release some of the energy. I looked again for any options. I cried. I poured a big glass of wine. I talked to my dad. I took a long, slow walk around the neighborhood, not really seeing anything. I put the TV on but got drowned in my thoughts. I went to bed with my head spinning, my arms aching, and the clock ticked in perfect rhythm.

I applied to CIEE. Time slowed to a crawl as I waited to hear back. Days dripped by, melting slowly into night. I felt like I could hear the grains of sand falling through the hourglass. My time here was growing short.

I was accepted to CIEE. I was in my room, checking my application. When I saw the word "accepted" I felt like I had just jumped off a cliff into the ocean. Suddenly I couldn't hear anything, just the sound of the water and my own pulse. Just the sensation of weightlessness. Time absolutely stopped.

With the pressure off about what to do next year and how to parse together a job and a visa to try to stay here, I can relax and enjoy the spring. I no longer listen to the songs of birds with anguish, hearing them more as a warning call that I will have to leave soon. I can sit in the sunshine and have a drink with friends and not feel like it's the last supper. I have a whole new calendar to fill.

Time seems to have returned to it's same old rhythm. One tick, two ticks, three ticks. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. School, gym, friends. The passing of days seems even, rational. I have a weight off of me that has been pressing down since December.

I've made peace with my little yellow clock.

Spring weekend: Part three in an occasional series about how much I love my life

The winter weather has broken, which meant the weekend looked something like this:

Azahar, or orange blossoms. Their perfumes is over the whole city.

El Pimpi.

La Malagueta.

Calamaritos fritos.

Espetos de sardinas, a Málaga tradition.

Rosado a la brasa.

Same fish, 15 minutes later.

It's hard to believe I live here sometimes.

Back at it

I chose Andalucía so I could learn how to dance. When I was in Tucson, I took flamenco dance classes for years and loved it. I loved the music. I loved how hard it was. I loved how my feet hurt in the morning when I stepped out of bed. I loved getting new shoes for every Christmas. I loved performing. I was getting decent at it. So I chose Andalucía to get really into it.

When I used to dance in college.

Málaga, however, does not spill over with flamenco schools the way Sevilla or Jerez do. I tried one teacher. The class was painfully easy and she didn't seem to understand that non-Spanish people can and want to dance for real. I tried another. The intermediate class was full of girls who had been going to the dance conservatory for years. She was brutal and I left after each class frustrated, walking down the street to wait at the frigid bus stop and wonder why I couldn't just get it, like everyone else. By the end of the year I wasn't dancing and I wasn't happy about it.

This year I started with a new teacher. He was great. The level was right where I needed, the classes were difficult but not impossible. My atrophied leg muscles were woken up after a long sleep. I counted blisters with a smile. The only problem? The classes were Saturday mornings across town. It takes an hour to get there on the bus, and I hate waking up.

So after returning to Spain after the new year, I kind of let classes slide. I was traveling, or had gone out the night before, or just didn't want to haul all the way out there. Last week, I decided that enough was enough. I went to bed and set my alarm to get up and go to class.

The next morning at 10 a.m. the alarm woke Joseca and I up. Shit. I needed to get up at 9. I wasn't going to make it. Joseca offered to take me on the motorcycle, which would make an hour bus ride into a 10-minute trip. I agreed and got up to shower. I came back in, frustrated. I didn't want to make him go all the way out there. I didn't want to go.

"You know, before I got the moto, if I wanted to go anywhere I had to walk all the way down the hill and catch the bus. And when I came back I had to walk all the way back up," he said. "If you don't want to go to class then don't go. It's not work, it's a hobby, and you don't have to be there. But don't say you're not going to go because of me. Don't say you won't go because it's far. Es lo que hay, es lo que te toca hacer si quieres ir a clase."

It is what it is, he said, it's what you have to do if you want to go to class.

I remember my dad telling me about when he was young and working on a boat in the North Sea, off of Scotland. He was doing some mundane task like washing something and rushed through it. The captain came around and saw it. "If you aren't going to do it well, don't bother doing it at all," he said, walking off looking annoyed. My dad said that those words really stuck with him and really affected his life. It stuck with me too.

I jumped up, put the coffee on, showered, threw my stuff in a bag and José took me to class.

The first day back is rough. My feet are killing me, my legs are soft and don't obey me. My weight isn't under me. They put together the second half of a seguiriya and almost an entire bulería. I'm way behind. But it felt so good to get back there. To work and sweat and remember how to move my arms and listen really closely to the rhythm and contratiempos. This week was even better. I'm excited to be back in class and am excited that I'm so excited to be back.

I don't want to be the kind of person that always makes excuses. A lazy person. Someone who doesn't follow through. Sometimes it takes another person telling you the way things are to get you moving again, literally and figuratively.



In other flamenco news, this Wednesday I have tickets to see Arcángel, the singer I saw for the first time back in October or so. He is coming again to Málaga as part of a program that the Agencia Andaluza del Flamenco puts together every year called Flamenco Viene del Sur. It´s about ten shows that are put on in the major cities of Andalucía. I went last year to about five. A few were exceptional, a few were experimental, one was weird, but all were interesting.

There is also a series called Jueves Flamenco that they are putting on each Thursday in the Auditorio Diputación. The shows are 4 euro each and are pretty good.

Here is the program for Flamenco Viene del Sur this year in Málaga. If anyone is interested in seeing any of them let me know!

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

"Ok Ok Fernando! My turn!"

I jump up out of my chair and take my spot center-stage in the play room. Fernando, my 5-year-old student sits down on the tiny chairs by the tiny desk and grabs the red crayon to mark down my points. I'm always red.

"Ok, you have to say the toy and then I do the motion," I explain, grabbing his right hand so that he stops picking at the spiderman tattoo on his left hand.

It's the final round of the grand challenge. The superbowl of the "you say the word in English and I make some ridiculous pantomime and hope that the neighbors outside aren't watching but that's okay because you laugh every time I make a funny face" game. Cue drumroll. The action begins.

Eskootair! (Sssssssssssscooter, Fernando. Say it with me, sssscooter.) I slide my left foot on the ground, propelling my imaginary scooter. He marks down a point.

Bike! I grab the handlebars and peddle by. Another point.

Kite! I hold on tight to an invisible string and make wind sounds. Another point.

Ummmmmm....... Doll! He makes a disgusted face at girl toys, even though I tell him his Toy Story 3 Woodie is actually a doll. He doesn't believe me. I rock a baby in my arms. Another point.

Ball! Soccer game, I score a goal. I cheer. Another point.

Eskatebor. (Not eskatboar. Sssssssssssskateboard. Mira mi boca, asi. Sssssssskateboard.) I skate Bart Simpson style. Another point.

I have reached the tipping point in the game. It's best out of three. He has won one round and I have won one. He has one more point than I in the final round. I throw the game.

Ball! I pretend to contemplate for a minute. I make the doll gesture and a "I'm not sure this is right" face.

"NOOOOOOOOO! WOMMM WOMMMM!!! He ganado! He ganado! I ween! I ween!"

I hope he doesn't notice that the scores of the games are always the same. I start packing up my things and he throws out this one liner:

"Ugh but Cler, how do you know so many words in English?!"

C2 exam? I´ll show you a language exam

Last Thursday I was telling my French teacher, Marie, the exciting news that I get another year in Andalucía (still freaking out by the way). Marie, who also came to Mlaga as an auxiliar as well, though of French, has ended up staying. She speaks a very impressive Spanish, enough so that I was questioning whether she was really a native French speaker during our first class. Her accent is impeccable. I was telling her that now that I have another year, I can really get down to studying French. I'd like to get an intermediate level, B1 in the European language level system, so that the year after next I could have the option of teaching in France. Because the only thing that's cooler than being bilingual is being trilingual. Marie had just found out that she passed the C2 language exam in Spanish, very impressive, since that indicates that there is no language barrier. I dream of passing the C2.

"But be careful, they really try to trip you up in the exam," she said. "They for example will put a question in the double negative, so it really doesn't test your understanding of the language, it's hard."

"It's a test to figure out if you know how to take the test," I said, looking longingly at the little pieces of cake she put out on the table.

Sidenote: Some French stereotypes are true, for example Marie always has delicious little cakes or truffles out. Also if any listening exercise we do deals with breakfast, I can almost always guess coffee and croissant and be correct.


"It is. When I got to the test room, the woman wouldn't answer any of my questions about the test," she continued. "I tried to ask something and she just looked at me. She asked if I had prepared for the exam and I said I hadn't, I just didn't have time, you know? She was shocked. 'How do you not prepare for the exam?'" she mimicked, shooting her eyebrows up in mock surprise. "I just didn't, I had classes. You don't have time to look at the questions before the listening section, either."

She got an 88 percent or something. A really really good score. 

Sidenote: Passing the C2 exam without studying for that test is like acing your final exam hungover without bothering to look if it's an essay test or multiple choice. That is knowing your stuff.

Fast forward, Friday night was Joseca, Claire, Chinese food, couch, and Carnavales de Cádiz on Canalsur, among other things that don't being with the letter C.

Carnavales de Cádiz.

Carnavales de Cádiz is a famous carnival celebration right here in Andalucía. Never having gone, I made the rookie mistake of thinking it was just costumes, alcohol, and some Jesus, but I was sadly misinformed. Flipping on Canalsur, we tuned into the finals of the Carnival music group contest, held each year in the Gran Teatro Falla, in Cádiz.

Nothing like American idol. Blows So You Think You Can Dance out of the water. Way better than Britain's Got Talent.

Competing groups create intricate costumes and sets, they write songs whose lyrics are searing social commentary, satire, and really funny all at the same time. The music is perfect. The skits are SNL-in-it's-glory-days funny. The groups are either Comparsas, Chirigotas, Cuartetos, or Coros (really giving the C key a workout today). The groups range in size from big coros to medium-sized comparsas and chirigotas, to 4-person cuartetos. A lot of the lyrics glorify Andalucía and Cádiz in particular.

The songs of the Comparsas tend to focus more on social commentary and satire. For example this year there was an awesome song criticizing unemployment, another criticizing ETA violence, and another saying that they wish the world could be as diverse as the playground at recess. Chirigotas tend to be less serious, making fun of horrible programs on TV like Salvame Deluxe or Shakira's musical atrocity Waka Waka. Coros are very large groups. Cuartetos have a short theater part in addition to songs. All of them in the finals were breathtaking.

Here is the Comparsa winner for this year, "Juana la Loca." This song is about a gay couple and the church, questioning the church's concept of love.

Here's the chirigota winner, a group called "Ricas y Maduras" which can be translated either normally or in a perverted way.

It was really cool to watch the groups and their incredible performances. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time, not because of the awesomeness of the performances, but because I was struggling to understand things.

After a year and a half or so in Spain, I consider myself to speak Spanish pretty well. I studied like crazy when I first got here, I had TV and roommates and friends and boyfriend and movies and books and newspapers and work and shopping and everything in Spanish, I did everything I could so that by the time a few months had gone by I didn't end each day mentally exhausted from translating all the time. Now that I have even more time, I was thinking about taking the C2 exam to really prove to myself that I learned everything I could here. But now after talking with Marie, I wonder if the exam really is worth it. Why do I need it?

If I am going to test my Spanish, I want to tune into, or be at (!), Carnavales next year and laugh when everyone else does at the jokes in the chirigotas. I want the hair on my arm stand on end when I listen to the lyrics of the comparsas. I want to listen to the commentary from the crowd. I want to understand the references the cuartetos make. I want to make snarky remarks to those in my immediate listening area. I want to be in awe at how insanely creative and true their songs are.
   
That is being bilingual.

Northlands

Another semana blanca success story. Last week Joseca and I went to the north of Spain for a few days to have a look about. I shall now represent this voyage pictorally, through these pictures:

Day 1: We flew to Santander. We both agreed that Santander can best be described as "agradable" or "pleasant." We did see a really awesome jazz show and ate some excellent chorizo a la sidra.

Santander jazz.

The next day in Santander we picked up our rental car, which we promptly dubbed EL CISNE GRIS in reference to my amazing cinematographical (yay English!) insights on the movie El Cisne Negro, aka Black Swan.

Champion.

Then we headed west following the coast. We stopped in Santillana del Mar (quaint and rustic), Llanes (entire city under construction but with a really pretty coastal grassy area), Cangas de Onís (beautiful town with a cool Roman bridge) and then headed to Las Arenas de Cabrales in the Picos de Europa mountain range to spend the night. Las Arenas was really beautiful, really small, and really calm. The hotel and hotel owner also seemed really creepy, but just turned out to be eccentric.

Árboles de amor in Llanes. The branches grow together!
Insert  your own metaphor here.

Llanes.

Old sidra bottles in Cangas. Sidra is aerated before serving either through a bottle
like this or by holding the bottle up by your head and pouring. Makes a mess.

The next day we drove to Bilbao via Panes (bought very necessary umbrellas from a man who assured us they were quality, not like the "crap they sell in the mercadillo"), and Laredo (Joseca hates this town, it was pretty but rained in our faces about 97 percent of the time we were there. Plus there were delicious steak restaurants everywhere but we couldn't afford it. Wet and steakless.)

Bilbao was surprisingly different than I expected. I heard the north was almost always rainy and gray, but Bilbao seemed to brighten up the grayness by painting their buildings vibrant colors and having enough cool architecture and building and culture for a city three times its size.

We stayed in a hostel decorated in the insane-asylum-chic school of decor. It looked like a crime scene. But it was cheap, had a hot shower and the door locked. That's all I ask for.

Panes church shows the typical building style in the north:
stone, gray, green, and wet.

Guggenheim Bilbao and the famous spider statue by Louise Bourgeois entitled "Mama."
Must suck to be that guy's mom.

Bilbao waterfront. There are prettier ones, but I don't have photos.

After a night of pintxos (Northern Spain's tapas) we drove to San Sebastian. Along the way we stopped in Mundaka (stunning fishing and surfing village) and Gernika (of Picasso fame.)

Gernika's 1937 bombing by German and Italian air forces was a major attack in the Spanish civil war and inspired Picasso's famous painting. Gernika is also referred to as the spiritual homeland of Basque independence. In the past the Basque assembly was held in Gernika under the town's huge oak trees. The tree is now a symbol of Basque independence.

Mundaka.

Mundaka.

Gernika's famous oak tree.

Basque independence propaganda in Gernika.

San Sebastian was my favorite place on the trip. We stayed for two nights in a hostel right off the main square that used to be a plaza de toros. We ate. We drank. We ambled. We went to Hondarribia and then came back because there is not much there. The city is very pretty, it has your standard stone and moss and rain look to it but with the bonus of the Sea of Cantabria slamming against the coast and shooting water up towards the sky.

The pintxos in San Sebastian were amazing. Pintxos seem to me to be a similar concept to tapas in the fact that they are small portions of awesome food that you eat with drinks, but all other Spanish people deny that they are similar. They are different. In a bar the cold pintxos are normally put out buffet style on the bar, and there is a menu of hot pintxos written somewhere. You go to the bar, order your drink, then the bartender hands you a plate, which you fill with whatever strikes your fancy. When you have all your things you show him the plate, he marks down what you had, and then you order anything hot you want. It's a fantastic business strategy, because if anyone sets out delicious food and hands me an empty plate, they are coming out of that situation winning. In San Sebastian I tried eels, a traditional Basque food, though now they are made of "sea things" not real eels, because they are overfished. We also ate tuna, chorizo, mango, foie, squid, cod, quail eggs, tortilla, and a lot of other things.

Our hostel in San Sebastian.

PINTXOS!

Time to head back to Malaga.

The last day we made an epic return journey to Malaga. The north, as everyone says, is indeed very different from the south. The food, the weather, the accent, the cities, the buildings, the people, it's almost like being in a different country. If you have the chance to get to Northern Spain, go. And bring an empty plate.

Good News: Part two in an occasional series about how much I love my life

After returning home from a great trip up to the north of Spain with Joseca, I came home and checked the status of my application for a third year of teaching in Andalucía. My stalking payed off.

Application Status: Admitted (3/1/11) 

Which means I have successfully completed the triple whammy of turning this:

Málaga school year calender '09 '10

into this:

2009 - 2010

2010 - 2011

(Calender of Málaga 2011 - 2012 school year should go here but does not yet exist. Use your imagination benevolently and think of a calender full of colored vacation days.) 


Normally the Spanish government lets you have 2 years maximum, but a private American company, CIEE, allows you to apply for a third year provided that you meet their requirements. They are responsible for a number of auxiliar positions in Andalucia. Applicants pay a program fee which covers an orientation, travel insurance, assistants with visa things, optional Spanish classes, and other things that would have been great my first year but kind of redundant in my third year. But I will be getting another year at my same job working for the Junta in a bilingual public school.

I have been really worried these past months from Christmas break onward about the upcoming year. After much thinking, perhaps even reflecting (what a pretentious word), I couldn't produce a single desire to leave Spain yet. I'm not finished here yet. I have more Spanish to learn. I have to be a better teacher. I have to continue my relationship and friendships. I have to keep up with my French and private classes and flamenco and volunteer and tapa outings and everything. I have to travel around Eastern Europe. This is the first time I'll be in an apartment or house of my own for more than one year. I'm thinking about going to Ikea right now and buying decorations for the walls because I'll be here long enough to make it worth it. It just isn't right to leave now. I love my life here and am so excited about it I'm updating my blog at 4 in the morning because I'm too excited to sleep. 

Which means that I am staying in Andalucía, hopefully in Málaga though I don't know yet, for another year as an English teacher! This is exactly what I wanted to happen, my best case scenario for next year, and it came just as the cherry on top of a fantastic week. Love love love love it.