Impressed that my students knew a bit about American politics, I tried to explain the commonalities between the two -- questions of taxes and limitations on government -- while their teacher commented on the Tea Party’s opposition to Obama’s health care plan.
Politics aside, since I last wrote, I’ve had my own independence movement of sorts.
Last weekend I celebrated my 23rd birthday by making my first solo trip ever. I had never traveled by myself without at least knowing someone at my destination or having a group to meet up with, but having discovered the existence of the Real Escuela de Artes Ecuestres (the Royal School of Equestrian Arts) in Jerez de la Frontera, Andalucía and the fact that their monthly exhibition was to take place on my birthday, the time appeared ripe. My guidebook had few suggestions for non-horsey entertainment, and I’d yet to meet any horse people in the city, so alone I went.
Though it started off with a night spent sleeping on the floor in the Barajas airport, I had a thoroughly enjoyable trip. I arrived in Jerez early Friday morning, dropped my stuff at the hotel, picked up a map, ate the best toast ever in a bar full of old Spanish men, and set off in search of the caballos. I got to the Escuela just as they started a video on the history of the horse in Spain. Afterwards, the group was to tour the facilities, visit the museums, watch the morning training sessions, wander through the stables, maybe pet a few horses.
I’m not certain we were supposed to touch the horses, though, as I don’t speak German. For some reason, the German speaking guide was the first to take a tour group, and it seemed that we were all supposed to follow, so I explained to another guide that I only spoke English and Spanish.
“You can still join the rest of the group,” he assured me.
“No, really. I don’t understand ANY German.”
Another girl by herself had the same complaint.
“Well, you two can wait for a Spanish or English speaking group, or you can go by yourselves. It’s pretty self-explanatory,” said the guide.
So we decided to tour on our own. I had thought the other girl looked familiar, and it turned out that we’d not only been on the same flight sitting across the aisle from each other, but we’d bumped into each other at the hotel that morning. In fact, though I spent most of the flight sleeping with my scarf wrapped around my head to block out the light, I had opened my eyes for a moment, noticed her horse-print bag, considered talking to her, and then fallen back asleep.
She was from Colombia, and also living in Madrid this year while studying communications. A dressage rider, she had spent the two months prior to her arrival in Spain riding bull fighting horses in Portugal. She had also found out about the exhibition and, not knowing anyone else whom it would interest, decided to come alone.
We checked out the museums and watched the training sessions, and decided to grab lunch before seeing the rest of the city. We ended up accompanying each other to visit churches, a sherry bodega (Jerez is the Spanish word for sherry), the cathedral, a couple mercados and a flamenco show.
Saturday we toured the Alcázar, a castle the Moors built and the Christians later adopted (Andalucía has a lot of Arab history, and most Spanish words beginning in “al” are Arabic in origin). Then we returned to the Escuela for the exhibition (no pics allowed, but YouTube “Como bailan los caballos andaluces” for a taste of it). Our question: Is watching the show more impressive when you’re a horse person and understand the precision involved in everything or when you’re not a horse person and don’t? Either way, I found the show captivating.
My new friend left for Sevilla to meet up with a friend from Colombia who’s there studying to become a bullfighter, and I hopped a train to Cadiz Sunday morning. I’d missed water, missed being ten minutes away from the lake, and I enjoyed exploring the port town alone. It was the most relaxing Sunday I’ve had in Spain. I suppose I could have been preparing lessons for the week. I could have been doing my Spanish homework or studying traffic laws. Instead I was watching fishermen cast off the old city walls, wandering through fortresses that had been protecting the city since the 16th or 17th century, observing the seagulls flying overhead and cats sunbathing on the rocks near the ocean, and climbing up the tallest tower in the city to take in the view.
I needed the break before this week. I’ve been taking on more at school as I settle into my role, and it’s definitely filling my days. I also moved into my own studio on Tuesday.
Before arriving in Madrid, I had thought about living on my own here. I’d only ever lived with my family, roommates or host families, never sola. I had set up a few appointments to see studios around the city when I got here, and adored the first one I saw, but felt that the landlady was pressuring me to commit too quickly on my second day in the city and let it go, also realizing that I knew almost no one here and didn’t want to isolate myself.
I happened to glance at idealista, the Spanish rental site, on Halloween morning just to see what was out there two months after my own housing search and saw that first studio was available again. Now I’ve got friends. Now I’ve got a life here. Now seemed like the time to go get it.
So now I’m living right off the metro line that takes me to the MetroLigero to get to Boadilla. I’m surrounded by clothing stores I will never be able to buy anything in if I want to pay my rent. There’s a lovely vinoteca/librería a few blocks away. Most of all though, I’ve got my own space, tiny as the studio is: pequeñito, pequeñito as I keep describing it to people here. It does have a futon for guests or, if you prefer, some of the floors of the building are hostals that rent apartments by the day. Consider that an invitation.
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