Where to?: It's cool dude, we get it, we're hip, we're with it

Another orientation done. Check.

Thursday was the ~~open bar~~ orientation for auxiliars working in Malaga province. Every year they haul us all out to a vocational high school in the city and talk at us for three hours about health insurance and the foreigner's office and how to get a bank account and what is the bilingual initiative. A bit dry.

But, then they TOTALLY redeem themselves.

That vocational high school has a school of hospitality where kids who want to work as chefs, waiters, or in tourism learn how to pour a good glass of sherry, serve up paella to hungry guiris, and make sure that my hand always has a full glass of something in it. So, we file into their adjoining restaurant space where the free drinks and tapa massacre takes place. Also, there's an 80's cover band. Whoever plans orientation sure knows their audience.

Totally unrelated photo of Portimao, Portugal.

The Gonskis and I, knowing how it went down last year, canceled our evening plans and got to it. We started conversing with a lovely older gentleman who was one of the organizers. Over tiny plates of paella he was telling us about his recent retirement from working in the school system, his neighborhood, Mercadona, etc.

All was fine, but something was off. He was speaking slowly, clearly. Each R and every S was enunciated. No cutting out of D's. "He must be slowing himself down for us," I thought. "I hope it is clear at this point in the conversation that we've been here a while, we can fend for ourselves in Andaluz."

The slow, even rhythm continued.

"How odd, none of the other presenters slowed down at all for us when they were speaking. I mean, us Andalucian people are going to have to get used to the accent really quick anyways, might as well get started now."

At this point the man, midway through a glass of wine, informed us that he had been in Malaga for 16 years. His origin: Basque. Nope, not talking at us like we didn't understand, just a northerner.