About that produce thing...

Really wasn't kidding.

I'm getting old

To fulfill the culture portion of my "North American Language and Culture Assistant" job description, an English teacher in the 5th and 6th year classes and I decided that it would be a good idea to give short presentations each week in class on an aspect of American life.

To you know, counterweigh things.

Benalmádena, and indeed the entire Costa del Sol of Málaga, in Southern Spain, is host to an astounding number of British expats. A 2005 survey indicated that the number of registered British citizens in Andalucia is 63,472. Most live on the coast in Málaga.

In my school, a large number of blond kids, who stand out against the darker Spanish kids like the protagonist of that hit 1995 movie Powder, are enrolled.

Anyone remember this movie?

Myself, being blond and Anglophone, am therefore obviously British.

Can you spot the foreign children in this photo?

In my presentation today I included at the end a brief list of awesome things the United States has created. This list included things such as cowboys, the moon landing, Hollywood, Google, jeans, and hip hop.

I took advantage of the hip hop slide to show a photo of some b boys and to put on Changes by Tupac, because I'm so hip hop. ...And because none of the kids would notice that I put on a video that drops the N-word in school.

I was expecting the standard "Ahhhhh!" gasp of approval that comes with putting on a cool song. But it never came.

IT NEVER CAME.

The kids were sitting there, oblivious. "Do you know that song?" I asked.

"What song... Oh that rap one? Nah," they countered.

They just sealed their fate. Week 2 in my presentations reminding the kids that I'm not English will cover American music. And there WILL be a quiz.

The Hand that Feeds: A blogular tribute to the company that single-handedly nourishes me

I live in a student apartment. Three other girls, two from Córdoba province and one from Jerez de la Frontera, and myself split our lovely abode. Being from a more developed "food culture," Spanish students are privileged when it comes to their nourishment. Their diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, bread, cured meats, etc. are supplemented with individually frozen portions of happiness. Spanish mothers send their offspring back to the city with tons of tupperwares of home-cooked meals. These dishes include stews, lentils, meat with potatoes, migas, seasoned fillets of chicken, even snails. Since most people in Spain come home from work or school around 2 for lunch, these tupperwares are taken out in the morning and left to thaw and then heated up upon arrival home. How's that for a TV dinner?

A prime specimen in our chest freezer, overflow from the regular freezer.

One very smart mommy puts her food in recycled milk containers!

My mother, and father for that fact, happens to be one of the best cooks in the world. (Whose isn't?) But alas, Kristen is too far away to send me little home cooked meals. Therefore, I rely on the closest substitute I can:

Photo of Mercadona plant outside of Sevilla.

I am lucky enough to be living by a Mercadona. Whilst Jackie and Eric were listing of the benefits and detriments of their new apartments in Madrid and Sevilla, respectively, they both had pretty damn near the top of their list the fact that they had to shop at Dia, the poor man's Mercadona.

Mercadona's house brand is Hacendado. I buy pretty much every single product that Hacendado fabricates.

Hacendado is Spanish for "Christ-how-do-they-have-all-the-products-that-I-want-and-why-does-it-cost-so-much-less-than-all-the-real-brands-like-for-christ's-sake-la-lechera-yogurt-is-so-damn-expensive-who-the-hell-would-buy-that-with-the-Merca-brand-right-here."

Roughly translated, of course.

All Hacendado.

Another tidbit about the ins and outs of Mercadona, from a linguistic standpoint. Learning Spanish in Andalucía makes a strong impression on the way one pronounces their words, to say the least. Listening to this dialect day in and day out for about a year and a half has caused me to permanently cut all d's out of the 'ado' endings of words, and for that matter the whole last syllable of a lot of words. It's hot out, I don't feel like pronouncing.

Therefore, when I grab my enourmous reusable plastic shopping bags, I inform my roommates and whoever else happens to be in the vicinity, "Bueno, me voy a la Merca. Alguien necesita algo?"  which means, "I'm going to the distribution center of happiness and nourishment. In order to be helpful those around me, I am offering to buy you any product that you might need from the great provider, granted it is not bulky. And no valuepacks of milk. You haul that shit back on your own."

Again, roughly translated.

Laura and Rocio never fail to snicker.

"Haha mira la guiri. Ha dicho ´la merca´ en vez de Mercadona. Qué graciosa!" roughly translated as "You've been here too long to not know which words are shortened and which words aren't, but not quite long enough to create your own slang words in Spanish. You are a constant source of joy and amusement, and can you get me a pack of gum from the store, the minty kind, here's a euro."

Anywho, this whole post arose because I am hungry yet I'm on a Merca detox. As I am going on vacation on Thursday with Joseca to the north of Spain (can't wait!!), I refuse to go grocery shopping until I get back. As I have an overload of dried legumes, pasta, non-perishables, etc., I last week declared that I would not go to the Merca until I eat the food I already had. Today I decided this does not include fruit and vegetables, so I went to get a bit of produce. But other than that my diet has consisted of way to many dried things that I boil and then add other things to make them taste better.

I will return to Málaga next Wednesday with tons of photos from Northland adventures. I'll post after I raid the Merca, clearly.

Sharpening the weapons: Part four in an occasional series of observations on the Spanish public school system

It must be razor sharp. Razor sharp or the job will be difficult. A blunt instrument is not acceptable in our line of work. Nope, sharper. Test it with your finger. Can it draw blood just by touching it? Good, now you're ready. 

The kiddos, as previously mentioned, have an unhealthy obsession with coloring. They take it very seriously. On Monday, as it was Valentine's Day, we of course made Valentine's Day cards. One little boy, Juan Luis, in 2nd year even gave one to a little girl, Carlota, that he has a little crush on. She blushed. It was so cute.

Cuteness aside, the creation of such serious items is serious business which requires seriously sharp instruments. For example, this:

 or this:

are clearly unfit for duty. Look at that point. Shameful. You couldn't dot a lowercase cursive j with that. It would look like an accent mark. And that crayon? How am I supposed to draw the pollen centers of these flowers with that? HOW? TELL ME GODDAMMIT!!

The kids require something like this:

and this:

Look at those points. One quick jab in the jugular or the eye and you are finished.

I can appreciate the satisfying feeling of writing on a nice crisp piece of A4-sized white recycled paper as much as the next girl, but I also know there are limits. If I am shading an entire piece of paper blue over which I will draw stars or flowers or telephones or whatever, you don't need a sharp crayon. Turn it on it's side and press hard.

As a teacher, I struggle with the kids need for surgical-quality office supplies. Mainly because the only means of achieving these sharp points is this:

One old-fashioned plastic box with a razor blade, screw, and a hole. These pencil sharpeners are also notorious for making points that fall off two seconds after you sharpen it. Which of course means another trip up to sharpen your pencil.

Also, only one sharpener per classroom.

This one-per-classroom thing would make sense on paper, since only one child could come up to the trash can to sharpen their instrument at a time. In practice, however, it creates longer lines than a discoteca on a Saturday night. I imagine the kids are thinking this:

"Hmmm, I've written three whole words already, including my name; this tip is getting a little dull. I should sharpen it before continuing. Aw crap, there are already 7 kids waiting for the sharpener. The teacher said a maximum of two at a time, but she's all the way over there. Hey! My buddy Antonio is up there! I haven't seen him in like 9 whole minutes! I have something urgent to tell him. I have to tell him that my dad is going to Antequera tomorrow to see my grandma because she has a cold from all this rain and that he might bring back 90 bags of extra produce they have and maybe we can pawn off 73 lemons on that blond girl who comes to my house to speak all those nonsense words in English or whatever at me. Yeah, this is urgent. I'm going to get up..."

And another gets in line.

This goes until I turn around and notice the gaggle of children congregating in the front of the room (which you cannot do by the bathroom on an airplane anymore, something those kids should learn lest an incognito fire marshal were to be aboard their next U.S.-bound flight).


"HEY! One, two, three, four, five, SIX niños. Laura, Juanmi, Marimar, Victoria, y Miguel a tus sitios. Sólo puede salir UN niño a sacar punta a la vez!"

I have many a schoolday thought of what would be the ultimate solution to these minor crowd control issues, and if I had a means of obtaining this item, which I have never seen in Spain, and the money to buy it, I would become a golden goddess in the teacher's lounge.

 BAM! Problem solved.

Dropping Perspective: Part one in an occasional series about how much I love my life

Jackie calls in a hurry.

Jackie in Segovia, one of the most photogenic people ever.

"Well I was looking at skyscanner, and even typing in cualquier sitio it was at least 150 euro from Sevilla to wherever. Even to Milan," she said, making clear her opinion about any Ryanair destination that would be more than 100 euro roundtrip.

"I know," I continued, rifling through my cabinet looking for any food that didn't require cooking. "It's holy week, tickets to go anywhere would be expensive. Look, Eric and I found tickets to Oslo for 150 ida y vuelta from Málaga. But Scandinavia is so expensive that it would end up costing more anyways."

Options in my cabinet since my no-Mercadona-until-I-have-to resolution (more on that later) are limited. Only options: Cruzcampo and digestive biscuits. Dinner is served.

"Look, Eric and I were talking about going to southern Portugal after the processions. We could spend a few days near Faro on the beach. That, or to Cadiz for a while and then hop over," I explained, pouring a beer. "We wouldn't even have to rent a car if we planned it well."

"It would be better in terms of money..." Jackie said. She was warming to the idea. Spending February in Madrid makes any beach look like a paradise.

"Yeah, and I would love to get back to Portugal. Okay, well we can hammer out the details on email and then Skype about final plans." I hammered the lid back on the glass bottle of Cruzcampo, wondering if that conserves more carbonation by having a lid on it or loses more by the violent act of reapplying the lid. I stick it in the fridge by the milk boxes. A pink box of desnatada, or skim milk, that is Laura's, and a pale green one of semidesnatada, or 1%, which is mine.

"Okay, sounds great, talk to you later."

Jackie hangs up. I put my phone in my pocket. I put the cookies back in the empty Colacao container so they don't go stale, realizing beer and cookies were never a winning combination.

I drop some perpective: my biggest compromise is spending Spring break in southern Spain and Portugal rather than on a weeklong holiday elsewhere in Europe.

Perspective dropped. I am a lucky one.

The New Americans

When I was younger, probably somewhere around this glorious age of 15/16:

Just look at that angst.

my family and I spent some time in Australia. At that time, with both the Bush administration and my horrible awkward teenage years in full gear, I had a real love/hate relationship with telling people that I was American. Mostly a hate relationship. It's great to be from a country that has had such importance and such a powerful influence, but that also means that people, for better or for worse, will have a strong impression of you before you even open your mouth.

Despite the fact that Australians are some of the nicest, coolest people you will ever meet, I used to get in little tiffs with people who badmouthed Americans or were critical of us. Childish at best, mean at worst. It was a tough time. I remember a substitute teacher I had for an International Relations class made some off-the-cuff comment about how her country's influence, she was English, could not be bought, unlike the United States. I stood up, furious, and made a scene, saying that she was wrong and shouldn't be talking that way because she was a teacher and I was offended, etc. She told me to get a thicker skin. The whole thing, looking back on it, is kind of embarrassing. Whether she was right or wrong for saying that, getting up and yelling is the worst way to try to get your point across.

Flash forward to 2011.

The majority of young Americans I have met who live and work abroad are interesting, consciencious, mature people. Most of them are really interested in learning about where they are and about other cultures. Most are self-sufficient and independent. Most spend more time listening to others than they do talking. Most of them I am proud to call compatriots. Yes, there are your drunken study abroad idiots and morons on vacation, but the fellow teachers or volunteers or students or workers I have met in Spain and elsewhere are great people.

Today, having some delicious seafood in the center, the waiter was talking about a group of Dutch kids who had been there who were in a tuna, or a group of musicians from a University that are sort of like wandering minstrals.

Tradition from the middle ages.

Asking what city they were from, he replied, "Mastreeck." with his Andaluz accent.

"Maastrich!" I repeated, comment that my dad has had several post-doc students from there.

"Ah, is that where you are from?" he said, giving my blond hair a once-over.

"No, she's American."

Yes, and pretty proud of it.


Now, oh readers, it's true that:
everybody has their own set of stereotypes and personal experiences.
it is impossible to generalize about an entire nation of people.
there are exceptions to every rule.

But I would say that a big lesson I learned from when I was 15 to now is that when abroad you represent your country and yourself as best you can. For me, I'm pretty happy with the image us Andalucía teacher folk are giving off these days and am proud to count myself in that group.

The Scarlet Letter: Part three in an occasional series of observations on Spanish public schools

The letter went out last week.

You know, the letter to the parents.

I proofread the English translations so that all the parents would be informed, even those who don't speak Spanish.

It's important news. Critical, really, to the functioning of the school.

Scary head lice man! (Artist's rendering)

It's lice!!!

Public elementary schools, with all the kids crowded in groups of thirty and hanging their coats side by side at the back of the room and wrestling on the patio during recess and whispering secrets with their heads really close to your ear provide an optimal breeding ground for head lice to thrive, like Boulder, Colorado is for hippies. Or Portland, Oregon is for hipsters.

When I first found out, my reaction was threefold.

1. How do you say lice in Spanish? (It's piojo.)
2. Maybe I could teach the kids that lice has an irregular plural form. As in one louse, two lice. Or one foot, two feet. Or one cactus, two cacti. That idea was scratched (get it! haha).

Lastly, and most importantly:
3. Where are they? Because they better not be in the classes I'm in.

The usual suspects. But look how cute they are!

I casually began to ask questions and observe attendance levels in the classrooms. Rumors are everywhere. I don't want to be hasty in branding any class or student in particular with a scarlet letter, but I refuse to get lice.

I never had lice as a child and I'm not breaking my record now. The idea of a 23-year-old going to the pharmacy to get lice shampoo would indicate either that I'm dirty or I'm the teen mother of a child who is dirty, as I look to young to be a teacher. Additionally, I always go to the same pharmacy, for everything. They recognize me. I'm not going in there for lice shampoo.

Luckily, it was determined that the lice were probably in the 3rd year classes, though I'm suspicious because there were quite a few 1st years missing last week. I spent the week keeping my distance as best I could from the kids and their hair. So far I've made it lice free, but another bug did get me.

The Spanish Influenza!!

Well, not actually the flu, just a cold and sore throat that I blame on a combination of changing temperatures and working in an elementary school, a bigger haven for germs than Torremolinos is for gay people. (It's fun making comparisons! Try it out below in the comments section if you so desire!)

I've been recuperating at home for a few days, and missed two days of work. The reason being is that the most common cold medicine is a beast called Frenadol.

The entire family of Frenadol products.

Frenadol is a powder you mix with water to create a pale-orange concoction that you take like a shot of tequila, because of how bitter and acidic it is. It's hard to decide if it's better to be sick or to take Frenedol. It leaves me sleepy, hazy, and unable to focus on anything. Sometimes when I walk it feels like I'm floating. Therefore, when I woke up this morning and took a Frenadol, I knew I wouldn't make it to work today. So here I am, updating my blog in a Frenedol-induced drugged state, as drugged as Hunter S. Thomson was when he wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas!

....sorry about that, that was a stretch. It's the Frenedol talking. I promise a better entry soon.

Fringe benefits

As an auxiliar, I am burdened with a 12-hour workweek. While this does not include commute or much of the preparation time, it does leave an auxiliar with a large chunk of free time. When I have too much free time, I have found, I tend to watch a lot of reruns of The Office, and as the fine line between hunger and boredom blurs, I dedicate myself to eating ever more ridiculous foods, like oreos with whipped cream or something. (I really am a fat kid.)

Most auxiliars balance the free time to money ratio with clases particulares, or private English classes. With the Spanish economy in shambles, these classes are easy to find, as workers want to remain competitive and parents want their children to be well-educated. This year I have classes with both adults (hi Fernando!) and children. Classes are a great way to get teaching practice, and over the past year I've actually come to like them. One of the best benefits, however, are the moms.

Mom Benefit 1: Beverages and snacks
As it is unspeakable to have a guest in the house without offering them some sort of hot beverage or juice and a candy or cookie, they prepare elaborate coffee setups; trays with sugar, saccharine, water, juice, coffee, espresso, milk, etc. The mother of a little boy I have for class learned how to approximate American coffee using her espresso machine. After the requisite drink and chocolates (so much for cutting back on junk after New Years...), they continue making dinner, and my stomach starts grumbling when the smell of home cooked meals wafts into the room at 8:00 p.m.

Mom Benefit 2: Someone works in the campo
With many people in Spain still working on farms or living in the country, the families of my students almost always have a relative nearby who is harvesting some sort of produce. When they have produce to spare, which is a lot of the time, they will bring some to their city-dwelling relatives or will send them home from a weekend visit with 90 pounds of kiwi or something. This, obviously, is way to much for a normal-sized family to eat before it goes bad. Solution? Send the teacher home with a bag. Over the past year I've received huge bags of avocado, lemons, chirimoyo, and enough oranges to fill my kitchen ten times over. We had guacamole at least 3 times this past week.This is an awesome benefit, as fresh-squeezed orange juice from recently-picked Andalucían oranges is sooooooo good, and prevents scurvy!

Mom Benefit 3: Gifting and regifting
The holiday season just passed, and it is common to buy a small gift for people, as it is in the States. Of course the mothers never forget the americanas. This year a mother got me a set of body washes, lotions, and purfumes, which were even organic! That same mother in January then regifted to me a set of red and pink and orange striped mugs and spoons the family has received because they didn't "go" with her new kitchen decor and plates. As our kitchen decor is in the "this was free or was formerly part of a set but 3 of the cups broke so now it's just these ones" style, I gladly took them. Also, they for some reason match my comforter cover exactly. They must be from Carrefour...

Mom Benefit 4: A comerrrr
I have most of my classes in the evenings, which means that the moms are getting dinner ready for the family. Perhaps the best thing about mothers everywhere is their delicious, delicious food. I hope one day when I am a grandma the grandkids will be pumped to come over to my house because I'll stuff them with good food and then get tipsy at 7 p.m. on whiskey mixed with water and start telling funny stories about the stupid stuff their parents did. The mothers, knowing you are far from home, assume that you are subsisting on kebab and frozen pizza, and will occasionally express concern, exclaming "Mira qué seca está! La pobre... tan lejos..."

They will then set out on making another portion of whatever slice of heaven they are making. Today, for example, I got this wrapped up in tin foil and placed in a bag to take home.

Croquetas de pollo caseras, jamón serrano, limonada recién exprimida, y migas.

She also sent a hunk of vanilla cake. All but the migas, which I made, and the lemonade, which is from lemons sent by another mom, were from her. So good. Spanish people are very generous, a great quality, and something I hope to learn from.

A big cheers to moms everywhere!