Yo no ti entendo a tu: The Language Barrier

The other night I was trying to tell José something funny that happened over the phone. You know when you first wake up in the morning and someone is trying to get some really complicated information out of you before you've had a cup of coffee? Yeah, it was like that.

My Spanish has Bombed over the summer. Capital B.

All of July at an English camp surrounded by fellow compatriots and all of August and half of September at home. The only sprinkling of Spanish has been a week I came back to Malaga before heading home and talking with José via internet. I had grand plans of studying and practicing and all of that, but ya know.....Eh. Willpower has never been my forte.

Does this look like a group that practices their Spanish conversation? No sir.
This is a group that practices their right to bitch over cold beers in 'merican.

Now that I'm back I've got to get back on the bandwagon and practice. I want to take the C2 exam in May so I need to get my formal Spanish in particular up to speed. Which means I am resurrecting my little notebooks.

That's right, coven of witches was somewhere in a
newspaper. Maybe they were talking about The View.

My first year I would obsessively read newspapers and underline the words I didn't know. Then I'd look them up and write them in these little red notebooks. Through this method you learn great words like superávit (surplus), cebada (barley), or séquito (retinue, a King's entourage), which are obviously crucial. I also translated newspapers and old copies of Newsweek my mom sent me. I was on a mission.

I <3 vocab.

Another, much better, reason to take up studying more aggressively is to further erase the language barrier between José and I.

Mi José, back when he was an extra in Casablanca.

The person I am in one language, more talkative or secure in English or more reserved and sometimes downright shy in Spanish, changes. Even the hand gestures and facial expressions, the tics and tones, shift. Case in point: look at Mediterranean gestures when talking about an annoying neighbor/cousin/coworker versus an American.

It makes you wonder what your relationship would be like if we didn't come from where we do or speak what we speak. We speak mostly in Spanish, but I love to hear him in English. The words and the order offer more of an insight into what he's thinking. You often can learn lots about another language by listening to a native speaker talk in English. Plus I love talking to him period, I love his voice in any language.

Mostly, I just want to talk with José and be completely sure that it's me coming through. If that isn't motivation to learn then I don't know what is.

In which the protagonist grows. Literally.

I am finally back in Málaga! Flying into Málaga is beautiful. You fly close over the olive and oxide colored mountains that surround the city and then make a dramatic touch down in front of the sea. Then you get off the plane and José is there waiting for you and it is the best feeling ever.

Now that I'm back I am working on getting things set up, cleaning, organizing private classes and volunteering and the Teacher Mentoring Program. And removing the pounds packed on by the evil combination of Gredos camp food, mom's delicious food, car travel rather than foot travel, and the ability of American food companies to sneak high-fructose corn syrup into every food product (Oops, I guess it's "corn sugar" now. Sorry about that Corn Refiners Association.) Mostly, however, it was my own fault.

At least in the US we have a variety of products to cover up with.

Wizard in the corner?

In Spain I don't have these options. Mostly because I haven't given up on life to the point where wearing pajamas all day sounds fine. Guess I'll just do this the old way.

Guess this whole "walking" thing is more complicated than I remember. These Europeans seem to be good at it though.

So you're apartment hunting in Malaga...

Mazel Tov. You are one of the lucky people who will be auxiliaring in Malaga this year.

Out of a pure desire for blog traffic to help others I made a map of the neighborhoods of Malaga where auxiliares might want to apartment hunt. I hope this map increases the number of people who follow my blog helps future auxiliars in their search for a place to stay. You're welcome from the bottom of my cold, black heart.

Malaga Map

Note: I am not an expert at Malaga. This map is based on my own brilliant humble take on where are some good places to live. I welcome any suggestions in the comment section and will gladly call you an idiot who doesn't know anything take them into account.

Tamales: A Visual Journey

Last weekend tamale stocks at the Conrad cabana were replenished and we hope they last until Christmas. This holiday is also known as when Claire comes home to make tamales again. It's a self-perpetuating cycle.

On Sunday, I cracked out the tamale recipe and got going.

Ye olde chile-stained recipe book.

I am indeed aware I am caucasian, but my dad is from New Mexico and has a need for tamales and chile that approaches addiction. Yes, it is lame that I still refer to the recipe, but I only do them twice a year and don't have the extended family with me to ease the manual labor of them. Earns me the right to consult the lard-to-masa levels, says I.

Step one: boil pork butt for one million hours until it gives up the will to live and dissolves. Add a whole bunch of chile and garlic.

Mana from heaven.

Step two: Go buy lard, act like you're not a fat ass buying lard and avoid direct eye contact with the checkout kid. Mix that up with some tamale flour mix stuff, add hot water, and get in their with your fingers.

Masa harina.

Get some dried corn leaves and steep 'em, steep em good so they're all nice and soft like.

Corn leaves.

Then, smash some of that dough onto them corn leaves. Add the maximum amount of pork you can shove in there, as really, tamales are just vectors to get chile-spiced pork down your gullet.

Roll that up like a big, fat, pungent, sweet smelling....legal cigarette.

Tie it down with some string or some pieces of corn husk.

Then lather...

Everyone in the sauna!

Rinse...

Stack it up.

Repeat...

Mt. Tamal.

Love me some tamales.

Ef

After 2 years of extreme commuting (TLC show anyone?), this piece of news pops out.

Linkity Link Link

I raise a big fat martini toast to all the times I have hauled ass with my coffee cup and school stuff down from the number 20 bus stop in front of the Corte Ingles, past the huge never-ending metro construction pit, hordes of calmly commuting, smoking Spanish employees, old men in old man bars cracking their 8 am beers, down the 1738 flights of stairs to cram money in the RENFE machine for a ticket just to hear the beeps of death and the rush of wind as the train pulls away down the coast.

So, so punctual when I am so, so tardy.

On a positive note, my commute got significantly shorter this year, which is directly proportional to the amount of nap time I get between school and private classes. Victory is mine, RENFE, victory is mine.

Day turned around by phone calls

Feeling better. Love these people:

Solitary

Going to camp and then returning home for summer to see family is great, but rounding month two away from José, friends and any social interaction with people my own age is brutal.