In Madrid, out on the town:
At school:
Mar 7, 2011
Feb 14, 2011
Not Just on Valentine's Day...
“The Lord says that there is nothing that you can do that would make Him love you more there is also nothing you can do that would make Him love you less. He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you, because that is what He is like, it is His nature to love, and you will always be the beloved. And His love is unchanging, and He loves you 100%, He won’t love you any better when you become better. He loves you 100% right now, and even if you have no plans to become better, He will still love you 100%; because He loves you, because that’s the way that He is, and even if you don’t want to change, He will love you 100%. Even if you have no plans to walk with Him, He will love you 100%, because that’s his nature. He loves all the way all the time. His love is unchanging. What will change says the Lord is your ability to receive my love, and this evening I want to cram some more of that ability inside you. So I challenge you says the Lord, open your heart to me, open your heart to me and you will receive more of my love than you’ve ever experience before, I dare you says the Lord, come on, open you heart to me, give me your heart, give me whatever your obstacle is, I’ll take it, I’ll remove it out of the way, because I love you as you are right now. I love you 100% as you are right this moment. I love you as you are, so be loved. You are the beloved, it is your job says the Lord, to be loved outrageously, it is why I chose you, and it is why I set my love upon you, that you would live as one who is outrageously loved. That you would receive a radical love, so radical it will blow all your parodies of what you think love is. And know says the Lord, I will love you outrageously all the days of your life, because I don’t know how to be any different, this is who I am, and this is who I will always be, this is the I Am that I promised you, I am He that loves you outrageously. And you may love me back with the love that I give you; you may love Me back outrageously, with the outrageous love that I bestow upon you. And know this says the Lord you can only love Me as much as you love yourself. So My love comes this evening to set you free from yourself, to set you free from how you see yourself. To set you free from the smallness of your own thinking about yourself, My love comes to set you free from rejection, and from shame, and from low self-esteem, and from despair and from abuse. Because when I look at you says the Lord, I see something that I love, and I see someone that I can love outrageously. And I have so much to bestow upon you, so much to give you, so many places to take you in My heart, but you can’t go there unless you allow Me to love you. And my love for you, will break every barrier, bring every wall crashing down, and know this says the Lord, My love damages fear, My love hates fear My love will fight fear it will fight fear in you it will fight fear around you, and if you have fear this evening says the Lord, then know that you have a treat in store, because My perfect love casts out fear, there is no fear where I am present, because My love casts out fear. Beloved, you are My beloved, you are My beloved, and in My love I want you to feel good about yourself.”
-Graham Cook, “Inheritance”
Happy "You Are Loved" Day!
-Graham Cook, “Inheritance”
Happy "You Are Loved" Day!
Feb 2, 2011
All the Little Children
A few days ago, in my 2nd session of infantil, the class bad boy (we'll call him "Javier"), sat at my feet for story time. Normally, I'm surrounded by the girls in the class. They constantly play with my hair, reach up to hold my hand or give me stickers. The boys rarely sit with me, and certainly not Javier.
The first thing I noticed was his hair -- his jet black hair had white flecks speckling the top. My mind automatically thought the worst... "He probably has something crawling around in there, too!" This inner monologue made me gasp aloud, ashamed, and Javier turned around and looked at me with curious, wide, dark eyes. I smiled back at that perplexed face, suddenly feeling nothing but warmth toward him. He grinned, having realized that I was okay, and he was in the clear. Then he faced forward again and pushed his head back between my legs, so that his cheeks were even with my knees. Something inside of me jumped, giddy, at this sudden offering of trust. The other children watched me and him carefully, gauging my reaction. I slowly started to sway my knees side-to-side, his face caught in between. He laughed at this game. Then I noticed his smell. Tears prickled in my eyes as I continued rocking him left to right, and I looked around at the other children. Neat smocks. Clean hair. Why hadn't I noticed before? He sat that way, his warm little body between my feet, for five minutes or more, the best behaved I'd ever seen him.
When it was time for the children to return to their tables to color, I asked the two teachers in the classroom, "Javier?" I didn't know what else to say. Their faces grew stony. They proceeded to tell stories of infamous siblings (also unattended), horrible parent-teacher conferences, and "gypsy ways".
My eyes filled with tears again. The week before, I had lost my patience for the first time and had told him harshly, "Javier! Just sit down!" I had spat out his harsh name, the "j" a hacking, guttural "h" sound. He had probably only caught the word "sit," but my meaning had been perfectly clear. My face and voice needed no translation. Students had been all around me, shouting, "Teeeacher teeeacher! Feeenished!" and waving worksheets in my face, while Javier had been throwing crayons and making another child cry. He had deserved to be reprimanded, I realized that, but now I knew a little bit more about his situation. Why he needed attention, be it positive or negative.
When the class ended, and I quietly shut the door behind me, I couldn't shake the image of an expectant, quiet Javier sitting at my feet. I didn't notice a teacher walking toward me in the hall until she stopped me, catching me mid-thought.
"Que paso?" she asked.
"Javier," I stated.
"Oh..." she said softly, squeezing my shoulder with a smile before continuing down the hall.
In one of my favorite books, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning retells the story in Mark of Jesus stopping during one of his journeys to bless the children. Now, I'm not Mother Teresa, but I do believe that I have the same Love inside of me, ready to be given, no strings attached. Everyday, I have the personal choice of whether or not to respond to those around me out of love and grace. Should I give others what they deserve? Do I favor the best behaved? Do I kiss the dirty child's cheek, too? What if things get icky? What if I'm pushed outside of my happy, safe bubble? I want to share a passage from this book that came to my mind after my encounter with "Javier":
Mark records that a group of parents, who obviously sensed something of God's love in Jesus, wanted Him to bless their little ones. The irritated disciples, fatigued by the long day's journey on foot from Capernaum to the district of Judea and the far side of the Jordan, attempted to shoo away the children. Jesus became visibly upset and silenced the Twelve with a withering glance. Mark notes carefully that Jesus picked them up one by one, cradled them, and gave each of them His blessing.
My friend Robert Frost comments:
I am so glad Jesus didn't suggest they group all the children together for a sort of general blessing because he was tired. Instead he took time to hold each child close to his heart and to earnestly pray for them all...then they joyfully scampered off to bed. One is tenderly reminded of a beautiful messianic passage from the prophets. "He will feed his flock like a shepherd, he will gather the lambs in his arms, he will carry them in his bosom, and will gently lead those that have their young" (Isaiah 40:11). I think there is a lesson here for anyone who would seek to set any kind of false condition concerning just who should be the recipients of God's grace. He blessed them all.
I'm sure I'll continue to be challenged by what I encounter at my schools. I will lose my patience. I will see more situations that will make me want to go home, throw myself on the bed, weep into my pillow and shake my fists because the world isn't fair! Thank goodness, though, that we have ALL been "recipients of God's grace"! Put a Javier in my path. I want to become so weak to myself and my selfish desires, so small, and my comfort zone to grow so large that the ever-strong Love within me will simply flow out to each and every one.
Mark 10:13-16 (NIV)
The Little Children and Jesus
13 People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. 14 When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
The first thing I noticed was his hair -- his jet black hair had white flecks speckling the top. My mind automatically thought the worst... "He probably has something crawling around in there, too!" This inner monologue made me gasp aloud, ashamed, and Javier turned around and looked at me with curious, wide, dark eyes. I smiled back at that perplexed face, suddenly feeling nothing but warmth toward him. He grinned, having realized that I was okay, and he was in the clear. Then he faced forward again and pushed his head back between my legs, so that his cheeks were even with my knees. Something inside of me jumped, giddy, at this sudden offering of trust. The other children watched me and him carefully, gauging my reaction. I slowly started to sway my knees side-to-side, his face caught in between. He laughed at this game. Then I noticed his smell. Tears prickled in my eyes as I continued rocking him left to right, and I looked around at the other children. Neat smocks. Clean hair. Why hadn't I noticed before? He sat that way, his warm little body between my feet, for five minutes or more, the best behaved I'd ever seen him.
When it was time for the children to return to their tables to color, I asked the two teachers in the classroom, "Javier?" I didn't know what else to say. Their faces grew stony. They proceeded to tell stories of infamous siblings (also unattended), horrible parent-teacher conferences, and "gypsy ways".
My eyes filled with tears again. The week before, I had lost my patience for the first time and had told him harshly, "Javier! Just sit down!" I had spat out his harsh name, the "j" a hacking, guttural "h" sound. He had probably only caught the word "sit," but my meaning had been perfectly clear. My face and voice needed no translation. Students had been all around me, shouting, "Teeeacher teeeacher! Feeenished!" and waving worksheets in my face, while Javier had been throwing crayons and making another child cry. He had deserved to be reprimanded, I realized that, but now I knew a little bit more about his situation. Why he needed attention, be it positive or negative.
When the class ended, and I quietly shut the door behind me, I couldn't shake the image of an expectant, quiet Javier sitting at my feet. I didn't notice a teacher walking toward me in the hall until she stopped me, catching me mid-thought.
"Que paso?" she asked.
"Javier," I stated.
"Oh..." she said softly, squeezing my shoulder with a smile before continuing down the hall.
In one of my favorite books, The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning retells the story in Mark of Jesus stopping during one of his journeys to bless the children. Now, I'm not Mother Teresa, but I do believe that I have the same Love inside of me, ready to be given, no strings attached. Everyday, I have the personal choice of whether or not to respond to those around me out of love and grace. Should I give others what they deserve? Do I favor the best behaved? Do I kiss the dirty child's cheek, too? What if things get icky? What if I'm pushed outside of my happy, safe bubble? I want to share a passage from this book that came to my mind after my encounter with "Javier":
Mark records that a group of parents, who obviously sensed something of God's love in Jesus, wanted Him to bless their little ones. The irritated disciples, fatigued by the long day's journey on foot from Capernaum to the district of Judea and the far side of the Jordan, attempted to shoo away the children. Jesus became visibly upset and silenced the Twelve with a withering glance. Mark notes carefully that Jesus picked them up one by one, cradled them, and gave each of them His blessing.
My friend Robert Frost comments:
I am so glad Jesus didn't suggest they group all the children together for a sort of general blessing because he was tired. Instead he took time to hold each child close to his heart and to earnestly pray for them all...then they joyfully scampered off to bed. One is tenderly reminded of a beautiful messianic passage from the prophets. "He will feed his flock like a shepherd, he will gather the lambs in his arms, he will carry them in his bosom, and will gently lead those that have their young" (Isaiah 40:11). I think there is a lesson here for anyone who would seek to set any kind of false condition concerning just who should be the recipients of God's grace. He blessed them all.
I'm sure I'll continue to be challenged by what I encounter at my schools. I will lose my patience. I will see more situations that will make me want to go home, throw myself on the bed, weep into my pillow and shake my fists because the world isn't fair! Thank goodness, though, that we have ALL been "recipients of God's grace"! Put a Javier in my path. I want to become so weak to myself and my selfish desires, so small, and my comfort zone to grow so large that the ever-strong Love within me will simply flow out to each and every one.
Mark 10:13-16 (NIV)
The Little Children and Jesus
13 People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. 14 When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
Feb 1, 2011
City vs. Country
You are so young; you stand before beginnings. I would like to beg you, dear friend, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer ...
Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Right now, I'm sitting in the computer lab at my city school, my ears filled with the sounds of children shouting and teachers gossiping in their impossibly-quick Spanish. I sit here, mulling over the same decision that's been on my mind for the past few months -- am I coming back next year? Do I want to teach these children, in this country, for two years of my life? And, if so...which school will I choose? If I decide to renew, I must fill out the paperwork this month and pick one school in which to remain. The latter decision, to me, looms just as large as the former, more general question of whether or not to return at all.
I work in two, very different schools. My Monday-Tuesday school, the city school, is in a low socioeconomic area of Madrid, full of Moroccan immigrants and the occasional ¨gypsy¨. The school is twice the size of my country school, with two homerooms for each grade level, and a staff of 25 or so people. The scenery: a drab apartment complex with concrete sidewalks littered with dog droppings, surrounded by tall, graffitied walls.
My Wednesday-Thursday school, in contrast, is in a quiet village, nestled in a forest of pine trees and large, white tile homes (supposedly belonging to some of Spain's top military brass). This school has only one class per grade level, and the staff is like a small family. I tutor the secretary and headmaster's respective sons once a week and carpool with the Deputy of Studies with whom I practice my Spanish while she practices her English. During those car rides, I smile as the rolling hills swallow my view of the skyscrapers and smog. I smile at the sight of stork nests, tractors, the occasional cyclist and the sun warming my face through the windshield. I love the feeling of leaving the city in the mornings as the sun rises and then returning to such a cool, urban landscape as the stars come out. Without a doubt, I prefer the "feeling" I get from my country school. I admit, it's my comfort zone -- the manageable size, a more intimate group of co-workers...and, it´s in the country! (I am a farm girl, after all.)
There are other factors to consider other than setting, of course:
At my city school, the other assistant, a good friend of mine, had to return home and has been replaced today by a new guy from the States. At my country school, I work with two other girls, both Irish and hilarious. We're thick as thieves.
At my city school, I eat lunch with a mixed group of five teachers and mostly listen to their forced conversations. At my country school, I eat lunch with about ten other women teachers, and we swap stories about students and giggle over guys.
My city school is at the end of a metro line that has a stop three blocks from my house. My country school is about 25 kilometers south of the city, which means a metro and car ride.
But what about the children at each school? What about the work I do? The teaching?
The children at both schools are equally lovable and unforgettable. How can I choose to leave half of them? I simply can't make my decision based on which children are sweeter. They're all wonderful to me.
There is a noticeable difference, though, between their behavior at the city school vs. the country school. It probably won't influence my decision, but I think this observation is worth sharing: The city school children (unfortunately, living up to a stereotype) are more violent. No doubt about it. Daily, I break up fights. I'm talkin' about 1st graders shoving, kicking and slapping each other because they want to be 1st (or even last) in line. Anything to be special or get what they want. Last week, I spoke in Spanish to children for the 1st time when two boys got in an all-out brawl over who's last in line. I separated them, and as they squirmed to reach the other, I told them in my most serious voice that they knew better than this, and no, I didn't care who'd started it. The looks on their faces, after the initial shock of my speaking Spanish, was replaced by a look of confusion. Why can't you push back after being pushed? These children live in an environment where they must take what they want, morals aside. The city school students snatch erasers, pencils and toys from nother classmates without a thought. They need/want it, so what's the problem? This...culture, I guess, has been weighing heavily on my mind and heart recently. I love these kids so much, the angels and the little demons. (Maybe I'll give more thought to this topic later, in another post.)
So now I'm left with the actual work aspect. At my city school, I come into the classroom (infantil, 1st or 2nd grade), stand beside the teacher and continue the lesson in their class and activity books. The teachers are kind of winging it, therefore, so am I. But it works, somehow! Just today, a teacher complimented me on how, when I see that the children aren't getting something, I regroup and change how I present the data. I can change my teaching tactics fluidly. The teacher then nudged me and said, "You're gonna be a teacher, no?" I blushed, laughed and said, "Oh, gosh, one would hope not!" Then we both laughed. But that's why I like this school... it provides me the opportunity to get my feet wet, so to say. I present the day's topic, answer questions, dish out some necessary discipline, sometimes make mini lessons and even correct work in class alongside the teacher. I teach science, English and PE, and I've found that I enjoy teaching all of these subjects. I simply like being in a classroom. I've always loved being a student, and a teacher certainly is a student, too (no?).
At my country school, I go into all the classrooms, 1st-6th grade. I rarely, though, teach. (One 2nd grade teacher, Toni, is really good about letting me read part of the lesson to the children and allowing me to interact with the class as a whole. Other than her class, nada.) 95% of the time, I enter the classroom, walk straight to the back and sit at a table, pull out my folder of British English exam questions, and work my way down the roster of children, a pair at a time. Each pair sits with me and answers the same, mind-numbing questions such as "What's your name?", "Where do you live?", "Have you got any pets?" (crazy British English...it's "Do you have any pets?" but don't get me started!) and "What are you wearing today?" Sorry, but hearing them describe their school uniform (which never changes, duh!) 25x a day, everyday, gets kind of old. Yet, the children need this drilling to pass an exam in May. Ironically, I have realized that my city school's children actually are mastering English quicker than the country school children, who are drilled daily by native speakers. Perhaps the organic interaction of teacher-to-student holds their attention better; they're truly learning, and not just memorizing? I'm not sure, but the fact that my 2nd graders at my city school have better English than the 4th graders at my country school makes me chuckle out of frustration and confusion.
It looks like I've got a loooot of things to think about...
Jan 25, 2011
What's Popular in Madrid
Over a year ago (wow, how time flies!), I wrote a post entitled "What's Popular in Peru" (http://djwthisside.blogspot.com/2009/09/whats-popular-in-peru.html). Now that I've been living in Madrid for over 4 months, I want to create the Spanish version. Let's begin with...
Music:
1. "We No Speak Americano" by Yolanda Be Cool - During our 1st month here, Nicole kept telling me, "I hate that Moroccan-sounding song they always play here!" I would ask her, "Which song?" wondering how she could identify the song as Moroccan. Did it sound Arabic? She'd reply, "I dunno. The one they always play at the clubs. It's annoying and makes the same high-pitched noise over and over." I would laugh at her then because I doubted the song was specifically Moroccan (sorry, Nicole). I assumed it was techno. I ended up being correct because, several days later, Nicole shouted to me in a bar, "This is the song!" I laughed again while nodding my head to the absurdly-catchy techno tune. This song was played all autumn, an Australian techno remake of a 1950s Italian song. Check it out here:
2. What's on the radio in America - I didn't realize when I left the States that the same music would be waiting for me here. I don't need to look at my iTunes Store Charts to know what's the Top 10 in the States because it's what is popular here, too!
3. Kiss FM (pronounced Kees Eh-feh Eh-meh)- I listen to this radio station - based out of Madrid - every Wednesday and Thursday during my car ride to my school in the country. This station plays a 50/50 mix of music in Spanish and English, which I appreciate. Their song selection, though, must consist of about 50 songs because at the same time every week, I usually hear the same group of songs. Songs like "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, "New York" by Alicia Keys, lots of Shakira and "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay. I like these songs, but, come on! Let's invest in some new tracks!
Clothes:
1. Boots - For girls here, boots are a necessity. Whether they are knee-high, Ugg knock-offs or ankle boots with skinny jeans tucked inside, you can bet 90% of the women around you are wearing boots. The only clothing item I've purchased in Spain are my fabulous black boots. Very smart buy.
2. Neutrals - Blah, Spain. BLAH. Couldn't you branch out a little? Try some color? Neutral scarves, coats, shoes, pants...everything, from top to bottom, lacks color! And you mix your neutrals, too! Forget the words of wisdom from mothers in the American South. Apparently, it's perfectly fine to wear brown, black, gray and navy together. A few "mix your neutrals" days are fine by me, every now and then. Really. It's quite fashionable. But everyday with every neutral in your outfit, to me, is just lazy. My 1st few weeks in Madrid, I thought, "European = tacky." Now, I'm less harsh on Spanish fashion, but I still can't get used to being the only colored M&M in the metro car's pack of brown. (Side note: Sometimes, people don't wear neutrals. They may have a Purple Day instead, and every article of clothing on their body is some shade of purple. Lord, help us.)
3. Coats - Women, stop with the long 'n puffy coats. After you've had a baby in Spain, you will be the only people with any body fat because the rest of the population smokes or hasn't had a kid or both. Even though you may have picked smoking back up, you shouldn't have bought that coat just yet...
4. Scarves - Also fashionable with the middle school skater kids in the States, everyone here wears the scarves that are more like a handkerchief. You make a triangle in front of your neck, take the two ends behind your neck, cross them and let them hang down in the front, like this:
I caved in and bought Savannah one for Christmas. But hers was purdy!
Hair:
1. Girls - You must have, in the words of my fellow auxiliary, Jeanette, "The straight-across, china doll, four-year old bangs." Most girls keep their hair a gorgeous, natural, espresso brown, but some venture into the dangerous bleaching zone. I always stand out with my long, naturally light-colored, no-bangs (or fringe, for my British friends) hair.
2. Guys - Dudes, just because Ronaldo (Pause: If you, Dear Reader, don't know who he is, just Google "soccer." He's who you'll see.) has a gelled mo-hawk, that doesn't mean you should, too. Not everyone can pull off metro-sexual. From my 1st graders to guys in their 30s, they're spiking up their hair in the middle of their head, and it ends up looking more greasy than attractive. Or, the males choose the classic rattail. Lovely. Even better is when they decide to make that rattail one big dreadlock. Perfect, chicos. Exactly what I had hoped for in a Spanish man. *sigh of disappointment*
3. Old women - Purple hair. Wine-colored hair. Red hair. All signs that you should stop buying a box at the grocery store and go to a salon. Or just go au naturale, please. Gray is better than Easter-egg lavender anytime.
Transportation:
1. Vehicles - Europe = tiny cars. Like Smart cars. Nicole, with her F150 sitting in her driveway at home in Maryland, squeals every time she sees a dinky pickup truck here. They're that rare.
2. The Metro - The best way to get around Madrid. I love the Metro! It's clean, reliable, easy to figure out, and ideal for people-watching. There are also taxis in the city, usually utilized after the metro closes around 1:45a. If you find yourself out 'n about like a typical Madrileño on the weekends, these are always around...or, you could just do what they do and wait for the 1st morning metro at 6. Whew.
and, finally,
Food: I had high hopes for Spain's gastronomy when I arrived. I had read the week before my departure in Newsweek that Spain was ranked #1 in the WORLD for food. Wow! Then I got here and started to buy what I could afford, meaning cereal, veggies, sandwich makings, and soup. The few times I go out to eat, the most I'll pay for a meal is 20€, but normally I stick to 10€. Here, though, is the food you´ll find everywhere you go:
1. Bread - It's a white, French loaf. Gets old reeeally quickly, especially when you prefer whole grain. Dang, I'm such a picky American!
2. Paella - Eh. Find it at a good restaurant and not at a chain.
3. Bready, cakey things - Spain loves these things, whether it's a plain cupcake muffin thingy with no icing, a croissant (with or without chocolate chips), donuts or Little Debbie-like foods. There's an entire grocery store aisle devoted to these, as well as digestive biscuits (*gag gag¨*) and tostadas.
4. Churros con chocolate - Right on, Spain.
5. Meat - It's everywhere!
a) Ham - Entire pig legs hang from hooks in many store and restaurant fronts. It's awesome...if you're a ham lover.
b) Weird stuff - The reason why I eat mostly soups, fresh fruit and veggies when I bring my lunch to school. I don't particularly enjoy Spain's wide meat selection like its people does. Blood sausage on toast? Calamari in its own ink? That durn ham leg? I've tried it all, liked most of it, but wouldn't eat it most meals like some people do here.
That's about it for now. I hope you're as amused by some of these bits of Spanish culture as I am! Ciao xoxoxo
Music:
1. "We No Speak Americano" by Yolanda Be Cool - During our 1st month here, Nicole kept telling me, "I hate that Moroccan-sounding song they always play here!" I would ask her, "Which song?" wondering how she could identify the song as Moroccan. Did it sound Arabic? She'd reply, "I dunno. The one they always play at the clubs. It's annoying and makes the same high-pitched noise over and over." I would laugh at her then because I doubted the song was specifically Moroccan (sorry, Nicole). I assumed it was techno. I ended up being correct because, several days later, Nicole shouted to me in a bar, "This is the song!" I laughed again while nodding my head to the absurdly-catchy techno tune. This song was played all autumn, an Australian techno remake of a 1950s Italian song. Check it out here:
2. What's on the radio in America - I didn't realize when I left the States that the same music would be waiting for me here. I don't need to look at my iTunes Store Charts to know what's the Top 10 in the States because it's what is popular here, too!
3. Kiss FM (pronounced Kees Eh-feh Eh-meh)- I listen to this radio station - based out of Madrid - every Wednesday and Thursday during my car ride to my school in the country. This station plays a 50/50 mix of music in Spanish and English, which I appreciate. Their song selection, though, must consist of about 50 songs because at the same time every week, I usually hear the same group of songs. Songs like "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, "New York" by Alicia Keys, lots of Shakira and "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay. I like these songs, but, come on! Let's invest in some new tracks!
Clothes:
1. Boots - For girls here, boots are a necessity. Whether they are knee-high, Ugg knock-offs or ankle boots with skinny jeans tucked inside, you can bet 90% of the women around you are wearing boots. The only clothing item I've purchased in Spain are my fabulous black boots. Very smart buy.
2. Neutrals - Blah, Spain. BLAH. Couldn't you branch out a little? Try some color? Neutral scarves, coats, shoes, pants...everything, from top to bottom, lacks color! And you mix your neutrals, too! Forget the words of wisdom from mothers in the American South. Apparently, it's perfectly fine to wear brown, black, gray and navy together. A few "mix your neutrals" days are fine by me, every now and then. Really. It's quite fashionable. But everyday with every neutral in your outfit, to me, is just lazy. My 1st few weeks in Madrid, I thought, "European = tacky." Now, I'm less harsh on Spanish fashion, but I still can't get used to being the only colored M&M in the metro car's pack of brown. (Side note: Sometimes, people don't wear neutrals. They may have a Purple Day instead, and every article of clothing on their body is some shade of purple. Lord, help us.)
3. Coats - Women, stop with the long 'n puffy coats. After you've had a baby in Spain, you will be the only people with any body fat because the rest of the population smokes or hasn't had a kid or both. Even though you may have picked smoking back up, you shouldn't have bought that coat just yet...
4. Scarves - Also fashionable with the middle school skater kids in the States, everyone here wears the scarves that are more like a handkerchief. You make a triangle in front of your neck, take the two ends behind your neck, cross them and let them hang down in the front, like this:
I caved in and bought Savannah one for Christmas. But hers was purdy!
Hair:
1. Girls - You must have, in the words of my fellow auxiliary, Jeanette, "The straight-across, china doll, four-year old bangs." Most girls keep their hair a gorgeous, natural, espresso brown, but some venture into the dangerous bleaching zone. I always stand out with my long, naturally light-colored, no-bangs (or fringe, for my British friends) hair.
2. Guys - Dudes, just because Ronaldo (Pause: If you, Dear Reader, don't know who he is, just Google "soccer." He's who you'll see.) has a gelled mo-hawk, that doesn't mean you should, too. Not everyone can pull off metro-sexual. From my 1st graders to guys in their 30s, they're spiking up their hair in the middle of their head, and it ends up looking more greasy than attractive. Or, the males choose the classic rattail. Lovely. Even better is when they decide to make that rattail one big dreadlock. Perfect, chicos. Exactly what I had hoped for in a Spanish man. *sigh of disappointment*
3. Old women - Purple hair. Wine-colored hair. Red hair. All signs that you should stop buying a box at the grocery store and go to a salon. Or just go au naturale, please. Gray is better than Easter-egg lavender anytime.
Transportation:
1. Vehicles - Europe = tiny cars. Like Smart cars. Nicole, with her F150 sitting in her driveway at home in Maryland, squeals every time she sees a dinky pickup truck here. They're that rare.
2. The Metro - The best way to get around Madrid. I love the Metro! It's clean, reliable, easy to figure out, and ideal for people-watching. There are also taxis in the city, usually utilized after the metro closes around 1:45a. If you find yourself out 'n about like a typical Madrileño on the weekends, these are always around...or, you could just do what they do and wait for the 1st morning metro at 6. Whew.
and, finally,
Food: I had high hopes for Spain's gastronomy when I arrived. I had read the week before my departure in Newsweek that Spain was ranked #1 in the WORLD for food. Wow! Then I got here and started to buy what I could afford, meaning cereal, veggies, sandwich makings, and soup. The few times I go out to eat, the most I'll pay for a meal is 20€, but normally I stick to 10€. Here, though, is the food you´ll find everywhere you go:
1. Bread - It's a white, French loaf. Gets old reeeally quickly, especially when you prefer whole grain. Dang, I'm such a picky American!
2. Paella - Eh. Find it at a good restaurant and not at a chain.
3. Bready, cakey things - Spain loves these things, whether it's a plain cupcake muffin thingy with no icing, a croissant (with or without chocolate chips), donuts or Little Debbie-like foods. There's an entire grocery store aisle devoted to these, as well as digestive biscuits (*gag gag¨*) and tostadas.
4. Churros con chocolate - Right on, Spain.
5. Meat - It's everywhere!
a) Ham - Entire pig legs hang from hooks in many store and restaurant fronts. It's awesome...if you're a ham lover.
b) Weird stuff - The reason why I eat mostly soups, fresh fruit and veggies when I bring my lunch to school. I don't particularly enjoy Spain's wide meat selection like its people does. Blood sausage on toast? Calamari in its own ink? That durn ham leg? I've tried it all, liked most of it, but wouldn't eat it most meals like some people do here.
That's about it for now. I hope you're as amused by some of these bits of Spanish culture as I am! Ciao xoxoxo
Jan 24, 2011
One of My Favorite Poems
Mrs Midas by Carol Ann Duffy
It was late September. I'd just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
then with my fingers wiped the other's glass like a brow.
He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.
Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way
the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky,
but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked
a pear from a branch - we grew Fondante d'Automne -
and it sat in his palm like a light bulb. On.
I thought to myself, Is he putting fairy lights in the tree?
He came into the house. The doorknobs gleamed.
He drew the blinds. You know the mind; I thought of
the Field of the Cloth of Gold and of Miss Macready.
He sat in that chair like a king on a burnished throne.
The look on his face was strange, wild, vain. I said,
What in the name of God is going on? He started to laugh.
I served up the meal. For starters, corn on the cob.
Within seconds he was spitting out the teeth of the rich.
He toyed with his spoon, then mine, then with the knives, the forks.
He asked where was the wine. I poured with shaking hand,
a fragrent, bone-dry white from Italy, then watched
as he picked up the glass, goblet, golden chalice, drank.
It was then that I started to scream. He sank to his knees.
After we had both calmed down, I finished the wine
on my own, hearing him out. I made him sit
on the other side of the room and keep his hands to himself.
I locked the cat in the cellar. I moved the phone.
The toilet I didn't mind. I couldn't believe my ears:
how he'd had a wish. Look, we all have wishes; granted.
But who has wishes granted? Him. Do you know about gold?
It feeds no one; aurum, soft, untarnishable; slakes
no thirst. He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced,
as the blue flame played on its luteous stem. At least,
I said, you'll be able to give up smoking for good.
Seperate beds. In fact, I put a chair against my door,
near petrified. He was below, turning the spare room
into the tomb of Tutankhamun. You see, we were passionate then,
in those halcyon days; unwrapping each other, rapidly,
like presents, fast food. But now I feared his honeyed embrace,
the kiss that would turn my lips to a work of art.
And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live
with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore
his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue
like a precious latch, its amber eyes
holding their pupils like flies. My dream-milk
burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.
So he had to move out. We'd a caravan
in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up
under cover of dark. He sat in the back.
And then I came home, the women who married the fool
who wished for gold. At first I visited, odd times,
parking the car a good way off, then walking.
You knew you were getting close. Golden trout
on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch,
a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints,
glistening next to the river's path. He was thin,
delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan
from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.
What gets me now is not the idiocy or greed
but lack of thought for me. Pure selfishness. I sold
the contents of the house and came down here.
I think of him in certain lights, dawn, late afternoon,
and once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. I miss most,
even now, his hands, his warm hands on my skin, his touch.
It was late September. I'd just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
then with my fingers wiped the other's glass like a brow.
He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.
Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way
the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky,
but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked
a pear from a branch - we grew Fondante d'Automne -
and it sat in his palm like a light bulb. On.
I thought to myself, Is he putting fairy lights in the tree?
He came into the house. The doorknobs gleamed.
He drew the blinds. You know the mind; I thought of
the Field of the Cloth of Gold and of Miss Macready.
He sat in that chair like a king on a burnished throne.
The look on his face was strange, wild, vain. I said,
What in the name of God is going on? He started to laugh.
I served up the meal. For starters, corn on the cob.
Within seconds he was spitting out the teeth of the rich.
He toyed with his spoon, then mine, then with the knives, the forks.
He asked where was the wine. I poured with shaking hand,
a fragrent, bone-dry white from Italy, then watched
as he picked up the glass, goblet, golden chalice, drank.
It was then that I started to scream. He sank to his knees.
After we had both calmed down, I finished the wine
on my own, hearing him out. I made him sit
on the other side of the room and keep his hands to himself.
I locked the cat in the cellar. I moved the phone.
The toilet I didn't mind. I couldn't believe my ears:
how he'd had a wish. Look, we all have wishes; granted.
But who has wishes granted? Him. Do you know about gold?
It feeds no one; aurum, soft, untarnishable; slakes
no thirst. He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced,
as the blue flame played on its luteous stem. At least,
I said, you'll be able to give up smoking for good.
Seperate beds. In fact, I put a chair against my door,
near petrified. He was below, turning the spare room
into the tomb of Tutankhamun. You see, we were passionate then,
in those halcyon days; unwrapping each other, rapidly,
like presents, fast food. But now I feared his honeyed embrace,
the kiss that would turn my lips to a work of art.
And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live
with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore
his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue
like a precious latch, its amber eyes
holding their pupils like flies. My dream-milk
burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.
So he had to move out. We'd a caravan
in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up
under cover of dark. He sat in the back.
And then I came home, the women who married the fool
who wished for gold. At first I visited, odd times,
parking the car a good way off, then walking.
You knew you were getting close. Golden trout
on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch,
a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints,
glistening next to the river's path. He was thin,
delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan
from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.
What gets me now is not the idiocy or greed
but lack of thought for me. Pure selfishness. I sold
the contents of the house and came down here.
I think of him in certain lights, dawn, late afternoon,
and once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. I miss most,
even now, his hands, his warm hands on my skin, his touch.
Jan 12, 2011
Hugs and a Fist Pound
The winter darkness outside at 7:30a and a chilly apartment turn typically chipper, morning person me into a sluggish grump the mornings I have to wake up for school. As I leave my apartment and walk to the metro, I think, I'm living in a pretty neat place...but, dang, why am I up so early? All I want is to crawl back into my warm bed and shut the black-out curtains. On the metro to my school, I squint under the fluorescent lights, attempting to read my book (in English) or watch the news (in Spanish) so I don't fall back asleep, lulled by the rocking train. Eventually, I exit the car, climb several stories of stairs, and I walk to my school. Once I'm near, I begin to hear the shouts and laughter of children. Now I know why I'm awake at the crack of dawn. Mr(s). Grinch goes away for good.
At my Monday-Tuesday school, in the south of the city, I teach preschool, 1st and 2nd grade. Mondays always begin in infantil, so whatever grogginess I feel before entering this class, brimming with wide-eyed four-year-olds, leaves at the door. Many times, I'm greeted with a collective shout of my name, "Debon!" One tiny tot will grab their chair and place it on the reading carpet and sit down right beside it, he or she smiling up at me. I carefully work my way to my seat while the children grab at my legs and reach up to touch me. Nothing like an adoring crowd to make you feel like a rock star! The child to my immediate left and right encircle my left and right leg with their arms in tree-hugger fashion. Some others leap up for a kiss before their teacher joins the circle. How can I stay grumpy? They still have downy baby hair, for goodness sake! I read them a story in my librarian's voice and sing ridiculous songs with ridiculously dramatic motions. They look at me like I'm their favorite person in the whole wide world. The girls with their braids and bows say shyly, "Tu eres guapa." I reply with a big smile, "No, YOU are beautiful!" while reaching to give their little hand a squeeze.
Afterward, I leave the preschool hall and go to the 1st and 2nd grade hall, where the kids are just as sweet, but less like babies. I teach them about photosynthesis, the parts of the body, and the water cycle. But the best part (even though I love teaching) are the hugs! As they file past me in the hall, most can't resist breaking away to give me a hard squeeze around my legs. (Remember, their heads only come up to my waist!) Some will look up with smiles and laugh while saying my name. Some are serious huggers, holding me so tight that I start to lose my balance. Some children's hugs are so sweet and memorable that I'll list them here -
Virginia - A tiny dark-haired, dark-eyed girl in the 1st grade. Her glasses magnify her eyes to where they look like saucers on her tiny face. She never speaks in class unless called on, and even then she whispers the answer to herself. Since I've learned her name (and all the other children's), when I tell her "hello" in the hall, she will break from the group and give me a strong, silent hug.
Ionut (pronounced ee-o-noot) - A platinum blond-haired boy with striking blue eyes. His head has got to be bigger than mine, but he's so short! He's the loving type with all teachers. He grins once he sees you, shouts out your name, and will hug you until he gets in trouble -- in the middle of PE, science class, or when the line has moved on down the hall. He also insists on you leaning down, so he can kiss your cheek.
Wendy - in my 2nd grade class, I always play with her beaded, braided hair. She's a little...uh...fluffy, and she always wears a puffy coat. Her hugs are like hugging a cloud, and she, too, will get in trouble for giving long hugs. She also likes to wave at me randomly in class. The first few times this happened, I was reading aloud in science class, and I mistook this gesture for a question. When I asked her, "Yes?", she just shrugged and smiled.
Alejandro- a sassy little African boy, I loved him from the start. The day we met in his 1st grade class, I sang Lady Gaga's "Alejandro" to him each time he passed by. He'd scowl at me, stick out his tongue, then later catch my eye and laugh. He can be really bad - I mean, punching, pitching a fit, or flinging insults in Spanish - but, for some reason, I find it endearing. When he's not shoving someone, pouting, or crying after being pushed back (for once), he's sneaking over to hug me.
Rebecca and Rosa - at my Wednesday-Thursday school outside of the city, I teach all grades. In the 6th grade, my oldest group, these two girls are new to the class, and have never spoken English before, putting them five years behind the rest of their classmates. They are also grownier than most (as we say in the South). They dress like they're in their 20s, and when I have conversation practice with them ("What is your name?" "Where are you from?"), they insist on asking me what I do on the weekends, what bars I go to, and how can I sing just like Lady Gaga? Despite them being 13 going on 30, they always greet me with big hugs and will stroke my hair, comment on my outfit and beg for it to be their turn to talk with me. They always pout like my preschoolers when I can't speak with them.
infantil - these preschool classes deserve their own hug category. It's always en masse, causing me to stagger and sway. 25 little faces smiling up at you, saying in Spanish "you are beautiful" and "I love you" will undoubtedly brighten your day.
1A @ La Maranosa - This 1st grade class at my country school has five little girls who always tell me, "I love you!" in English every time they see me. If I have class with them, they get in trouble for getting out of their seats to hug me at random times.
And finally...
The bad boys - I give everyone fist pounds...when they're filling past me in the hall, when I congratulate them on completing a class assignment correctly, or just because I think I'm cool. These fist pounds obviously have gotten me on the good side of the bad kids (mostly boys) because now even they break from line to hug me. Just today, one "bad" boy in the 1st grade purposefully went to the back of the line, where I was walking. He looked up at me, smiled, held out his hand, and we walked with our hands linked, arms swinging to and fro between us, the entire way to the gym.
At my Monday-Tuesday school, in the south of the city, I teach preschool, 1st and 2nd grade. Mondays always begin in infantil, so whatever grogginess I feel before entering this class, brimming with wide-eyed four-year-olds, leaves at the door. Many times, I'm greeted with a collective shout of my name, "Debon!" One tiny tot will grab their chair and place it on the reading carpet and sit down right beside it, he or she smiling up at me. I carefully work my way to my seat while the children grab at my legs and reach up to touch me. Nothing like an adoring crowd to make you feel like a rock star! The child to my immediate left and right encircle my left and right leg with their arms in tree-hugger fashion. Some others leap up for a kiss before their teacher joins the circle. How can I stay grumpy? They still have downy baby hair, for goodness sake! I read them a story in my librarian's voice and sing ridiculous songs with ridiculously dramatic motions. They look at me like I'm their favorite person in the whole wide world. The girls with their braids and bows say shyly, "Tu eres guapa." I reply with a big smile, "No, YOU are beautiful!" while reaching to give their little hand a squeeze.
Afterward, I leave the preschool hall and go to the 1st and 2nd grade hall, where the kids are just as sweet, but less like babies. I teach them about photosynthesis, the parts of the body, and the water cycle. But the best part (even though I love teaching) are the hugs! As they file past me in the hall, most can't resist breaking away to give me a hard squeeze around my legs. (Remember, their heads only come up to my waist!) Some will look up with smiles and laugh while saying my name. Some are serious huggers, holding me so tight that I start to lose my balance. Some children's hugs are so sweet and memorable that I'll list them here -
Virginia - A tiny dark-haired, dark-eyed girl in the 1st grade. Her glasses magnify her eyes to where they look like saucers on her tiny face. She never speaks in class unless called on, and even then she whispers the answer to herself. Since I've learned her name (and all the other children's), when I tell her "hello" in the hall, she will break from the group and give me a strong, silent hug.
Ionut (pronounced ee-o-noot) - A platinum blond-haired boy with striking blue eyes. His head has got to be bigger than mine, but he's so short! He's the loving type with all teachers. He grins once he sees you, shouts out your name, and will hug you until he gets in trouble -- in the middle of PE, science class, or when the line has moved on down the hall. He also insists on you leaning down, so he can kiss your cheek.
Wendy - in my 2nd grade class, I always play with her beaded, braided hair. She's a little...uh...fluffy, and she always wears a puffy coat. Her hugs are like hugging a cloud, and she, too, will get in trouble for giving long hugs. She also likes to wave at me randomly in class. The first few times this happened, I was reading aloud in science class, and I mistook this gesture for a question. When I asked her, "Yes?", she just shrugged and smiled.
Alejandro- a sassy little African boy, I loved him from the start. The day we met in his 1st grade class, I sang Lady Gaga's "Alejandro" to him each time he passed by. He'd scowl at me, stick out his tongue, then later catch my eye and laugh. He can be really bad - I mean, punching, pitching a fit, or flinging insults in Spanish - but, for some reason, I find it endearing. When he's not shoving someone, pouting, or crying after being pushed back (for once), he's sneaking over to hug me.
Rebecca and Rosa - at my Wednesday-Thursday school outside of the city, I teach all grades. In the 6th grade, my oldest group, these two girls are new to the class, and have never spoken English before, putting them five years behind the rest of their classmates. They are also grownier than most (as we say in the South). They dress like they're in their 20s, and when I have conversation practice with them ("What is your name?" "Where are you from?"), they insist on asking me what I do on the weekends, what bars I go to, and how can I sing just like Lady Gaga? Despite them being 13 going on 30, they always greet me with big hugs and will stroke my hair, comment on my outfit and beg for it to be their turn to talk with me. They always pout like my preschoolers when I can't speak with them.
infantil - these preschool classes deserve their own hug category. It's always en masse, causing me to stagger and sway. 25 little faces smiling up at you, saying in Spanish "you are beautiful" and "I love you" will undoubtedly brighten your day.
1A @ La Maranosa - This 1st grade class at my country school has five little girls who always tell me, "I love you!" in English every time they see me. If I have class with them, they get in trouble for getting out of their seats to hug me at random times.
And finally...
The bad boys - I give everyone fist pounds...when they're filling past me in the hall, when I congratulate them on completing a class assignment correctly, or just because I think I'm cool. These fist pounds obviously have gotten me on the good side of the bad kids (mostly boys) because now even they break from line to hug me. Just today, one "bad" boy in the 1st grade purposefully went to the back of the line, where I was walking. He looked up at me, smiled, held out his hand, and we walked with our hands linked, arms swinging to and fro between us, the entire way to the gym.
Dec 19, 2010
Pouring in Portugal
For the long weekend at the beginning of December (called the "puente" which means "bridge"...don't ask), Nicole, Abigail and I took a bus to Lisbon, Portugal. We left Madrid a rainy Sunday morning and arrived in Lisbon around 6p. To keep this post short 'n sweet, I'll make a list of pros and cons of our trip. Also, check out the slideshow below!
Lisbon Pros:
1. Lots of waterfront property
2. Trolleys (since the city is hill after hill after hill)
3. Belem Tower, Jeronimo's Monastery and St. George's Castle
4. Neat waterfront park with Oceanarium and cable cars
5. Locals know more English than Spanish
6. Great transportation system in general: bus, trolleys, metro and train
7. Two awesome bridges that cross over from wherever Portugal to Lisbon. The Vasco de Gama bridge took at least five minutes to cross. At times, it felt like we were crossing the ocean itself!
8. Super Bock beer
9. Beautiful men everywhere (I thought that's how SPAIN would be. But no.)
10. Wonderful hostel-apartment thingy with the sweetest staff, full kitchen, and in a great part of town (http://www.hostelworld.com/hosteldetails.php/Albergo-Odisseo-Old-Albergo-Olisipo/Lisbon/17935)
...and my friends by my side when the Lisbon Cons hit full-force.
Lisbon Cons:
1. Deluge the 1st night = ruined camera, iPod, cell phone, soaked money and crucial documents :(
2. Other than bacalao (cool!), the food reminded me a lot of Peru, which I'm obviously still sick of. Think french fries, white rice and red meat with little seasoning. None of which I eat on a regular basis, let alone all together on the same plate.
3. Rain the entire time = gray photos and blah mood
4. Not being able to meet up with Abby the 1st day for the Oceanarium, trolley and cable car ride
5. New boots, necessary for rain + soaked tennis shoes + cobble stone streets = footsore
6. No gifts/souvenirs to be found at the recommended street market since they sold the same cheap scarves, bags and earrings you can find in Spain
7. Realizing each time my hand shot down to my bag to grab my camera that it was broken
8. The loooong bus ride to and from with way too many stops and detours (sin iPod)
9. Santander, my Spanish bank, refusing to take my card in their Portugal banks
10. Too little time to give Lisbon a fair chance!
Lisbon Pros:
1. Lots of waterfront property
2. Trolleys (since the city is hill after hill after hill)
3. Belem Tower, Jeronimo's Monastery and St. George's Castle
4. Neat waterfront park with Oceanarium and cable cars
5. Locals know more English than Spanish
6. Great transportation system in general: bus, trolleys, metro and train
7. Two awesome bridges that cross over from wherever Portugal to Lisbon. The Vasco de Gama bridge took at least five minutes to cross. At times, it felt like we were crossing the ocean itself!
8. Super Bock beer
9. Beautiful men everywhere (I thought that's how SPAIN would be. But no.)
10. Wonderful hostel-apartment thingy with the sweetest staff, full kitchen, and in a great part of town (http://www.hostelworld.com/hosteldetails.php/Albergo-Odisseo-Old-Albergo-Olisipo/Lisbon/17935)
...and my friends by my side when the Lisbon Cons hit full-force.
Lisbon Cons:
1. Deluge the 1st night = ruined camera, iPod, cell phone, soaked money and crucial documents :(
2. Other than bacalao (cool!), the food reminded me a lot of Peru, which I'm obviously still sick of. Think french fries, white rice and red meat with little seasoning. None of which I eat on a regular basis, let alone all together on the same plate.
3. Rain the entire time = gray photos and blah mood
4. Not being able to meet up with Abby the 1st day for the Oceanarium, trolley and cable car ride
5. New boots, necessary for rain + soaked tennis shoes + cobble stone streets = footsore
6. No gifts/souvenirs to be found at the recommended street market since they sold the same cheap scarves, bags and earrings you can find in Spain
7. Realizing each time my hand shot down to my bag to grab my camera that it was broken
8. The loooong bus ride to and from with way too many stops and detours (sin iPod)
9. Santander, my Spanish bank, refusing to take my card in their Portugal banks
10. Too little time to give Lisbon a fair chance!
Dec 12, 2010
Long Weekend Part II: Sevilla
It's been a long time coming, but here are just a few of the pictures I took in Sevilla.
So far, this sunny city with its broad, tree-lined streets has been my favorite city in Spain. If the Ministry of Education let me pick my placement city next year (and not only the region), Sevilla would be it! The tapas was amazing, the flamenco was mesmerizing, the monuments were breathtaking, the pace was slow and the climate...perfect. While in Peru, I found myself loving the cities that reminded me of Charleston, SC -- sunny, relaxed cities, with bright-colored buildings with white trim, lots of churches and parks, and palm trees. The cities in Peru like this, for me, were Trujillo and my hometown, Arequipa. My Charleston in Spain (and it's way cooler, sorry SC)...is Sevilla. I can't wait for an excuse to go back!!
So far, this sunny city with its broad, tree-lined streets has been my favorite city in Spain. If the Ministry of Education let me pick my placement city next year (and not only the region), Sevilla would be it! The tapas was amazing, the flamenco was mesmerizing, the monuments were breathtaking, the pace was slow and the climate...perfect. While in Peru, I found myself loving the cities that reminded me of Charleston, SC -- sunny, relaxed cities, with bright-colored buildings with white trim, lots of churches and parks, and palm trees. The cities in Peru like this, for me, were Trujillo and my hometown, Arequipa. My Charleston in Spain (and it's way cooler, sorry SC)...is Sevilla. I can't wait for an excuse to go back!!
Dec 3, 2010
For Soulful Struts down Gran Via
It's scarf, hat and mittens weather. The sky is a perfect robin's egg blue. Snow whispered threats, but the wind blew it away, revealing the mountains long lost behind the skyscrapers and smog.
I'll go for a walk.
The concrete and walls of windows will blind me with pearly light. The cold will numb my nose, cramp my lungs, and sting my cheeks. There will be static -- in my hair, crackling in my sweater and coat, between my finger and the metal door handle. But I feel like walking with purpose to anywhere.
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