Back to School

From the appearance of all recent blogposts, I’ve been spending my time gallivanting about Spain and Europe: The Basque Country, La Rioja, Rome, Segovia, Barcelona, Amsterdam, Toledo. Since Trevor left, though, I’ve been holing up in Madrid. The ganas I’ve had for traveling (tener ganas = one of the Spanish phrases that won’t translate literally, but means to want or desire) have succumbed to what will probably be a short lived aversion to planes, trains and autobuses.

Madrid as seen from Casa del Campo

After all, a lot of exciting things will be happening at IES Máximo Trueba in the next few months, and I want to be ready. My segundos will be participating in a pen pal exchange with the Spanish I classes at Baseline Middle School in South Haven. (If you happen to be a Baseline parent who’s stumbled upon this news: you’re not behind the times. Parent letters will be arriving soon.) Though the kids really want to stick to email and facebook friending of their new “pen friends” (my school used to belong to the British Council’s program in Spain, which means that I learn all sorts of fun Britishisms on a daily basis), some of them have never written an actual letter, and their teachers and I want to make that happen.

My cuartos are going to be reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, which means I get to give a lesson on the Great Depression. We’ll be comparing it to the economic crisis of today of which the kids are very aware. A friend’s class of first years wrote New Year’s resolutions recently, the top resolution being to save money. When the auxiliar asked them why that made the top of the list, one of the kids exclaimed, “¡Mujer! ¿No sabes que estamos en una crisis?” (Woman! Don’t you know we’re in a crisis?)

I’m also going over the cuartos writing assignments from the holidays with them individually, which has been fun. I have a nerdy obsession with correcting grammar, and I haven’t had a chance to get to know these students outside of the larger class. I’m enjoying learning about their lives outside of school: some ice skate, some ski, and some like to make up stories about romantic interests and then confess their fictitious nature to the auxiliar.

My favorite hours of the week are when I pull out small groups of the bachilleratos from their English classes to work on speaking exercises. I love my segundos, but they’re in that stage where they constantly question everything the teacher tells them. I adore the cuartos, though some of them have a too cool for school air about them. My bachilleratos, though, have gotten over all of that, and will wholeheartedly participate in whatever crazy speaking activity I’ve found for them that week. My favorite so far has been an idea I found online that I explained to them as they got to class: “We’re all on a ship at sea, but it’s going down, and it can’t hold all of us. In order to save as many people as possible, we’ve got to vote some people off. We’re going to go around, and you have to explain why you should stay on the ship. Then we’ll all take a vote, and one person will leave. And if you get voted off, don’t worry too much - we’ll give you a life jacket.” The kids got totally creative and came up with love triangles, political scandals and impressive careers with which they formed alliances and made enemies.

It helps that I heard through the grapevine of the other auxiliar who also pulls them out of class that “the bachilleratos tell me they like your activities better.” It made my day when one of the kids told me himself that the one hour every third week when his group sees me is his favorite class. I’ve realized since coming back to school that I depend on that positive feedback because, if I’m completely honest, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m making it up as I go with the help and guidance of my coordinator, teachers and fellow auxiliares. I wasn’t an education major and am certainly not qualified to be teaching lessons on ancient and medieval history or the fractional distillation of crude oil, both of which I’ve done (the science lesson completely on my own) in the past few months. Half of my time at school I feel like I’ve prepared for the wrong thing, which is something that would be fixed if the schools actually wrote syllabi or lesson plans.

My role, though, isn’t to overhaul the school system. I’m here to support the students. At the same time, I’m learning to be more flexible, to go with the moment rather than the plans. I can do it now. Before break I hated to walk into a thirty student classroom and have the teacher hand me a sheet, “Here, teach them this,” with no advance warning. Now, the results might not be the prettiest, but the initial moment of panic is gone.

A week ago I was convinced that I could be completely happy returning to the US right then, but now I’m remembering how much I’ve still got to look forward to. Besides school activities, a few more trips loom on the horizon: the midterm Fulbright grantee meeting in Pamplona in March, possibly a jaunt to Belgium around then as well, spring break riding in Portugal with Alex, a bachelorette party in Salamanca that I probably told Leah we’d throw her the instant I learned she was engaged at orientation back in September, hopefully Valencia and Asturias as the weather warms up and Andalucía again (Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla) before I come home in July.

Plus we auxiliares are planning to throw are students a prom at the end of the year. So very American (they don’t typically have school dances), but so much fun.

Travels with Trevor

The day after my family flew home, I made another predawn trip to the airport to find Trevor. Though when we’d met, I’d already been drafting my Fulbright application essays, it still seems a bit too good to be true that I get both Trev and Spain, and both at the same time? Tengo mucho suerte, and I hope not to to take it for granted.

We take it easy our first day, since we’ll be traveling the next morning, and get sandwiches at Cien Montaditos as an introduction to chorizo, jamón and tortilla española. Then we brave the neighborhood shops and their mid-holiday sales in search of forgotten sundries before stepping into Tipos Infames, a bookstore, café and wine bar. As we enter, Trevor thinks he recognizes someone. “Is that...?” It is indeed Janel, fellow Fulbrighter, friend and former pisomate, who has also paused from playing tour guide for her visiting family to tomar unos cafés con leche. We sit with them for awhile, catching up on travel stories and comparing cameras, cars and sound equipment.

The next morning we’re back at the airport and Barcelona bound on Trevor’s first experience with European bargain airlines, thus we land in Girona (which Ryanair claims is Barcelona) and catch a bus to the city, Trevor engrossed in capturing the countryside of Cataluña with his new Christmas camera. Unfortunately, after we arrive, drop our bags, and are enjoying a filling brunch of footlong bocadillos de tortilla, the shutter sticks and simply will not open despite all attempts at troubleshooting. Undeterred, we set off for Montjuic, a hillside park armed with my camera.

Our climb up Monjuic proves an exercise in pubic transportation: the metro to the funicular to the cable car. We spend the afternoon wandering the castle we find at the top, admiring the views, and guessing at when and what the fortress would have protected, since the vague information we find says little. For dinner, we find Trevor his first of many kebaps. Meat roasted on a spit, served in a pita with sauces, lettuce and tomato, döner kebap is fast food only better.

The next day, surprisingly warm, we explore Barceloneta, the former fishing village of Barcelona. Sand sculpture artists work the beaches, and kids play on a rope climbing structure while adults work out on the outdoor gym equipment, and we lounge on a modern artsy bench. On our way out of the neighborhood, we grab lunch (mejillones en salsa marinera and a caprese salad), and make our way through the park near where we’re staying. That night we make our way towards Las Ramblas, grabbing pizza on an outdoor terraza and drinks at Cactus Bar, where Trevor has the bartender convinced that he can speak Spanish. We find Café de la Opera for chocolate con churros, and find ecstasy at first bite.

But Trevor’s concerned we don’t know the real Barcelona, so the next day, we rent bikes. What better way to get to know a city than weaving between its traffic and its pedestrians, praying to neither be run over nor run anyone over? To be fair, Barcelona has a better bike culture than Madrid. It has viable bike paths and even bikes that residents can grab from bike racks sprinkled throughout the city. However, though our bikes wear classic ding-a-ling bells, they really need a horn. Bells merely say, “Hi, I’m behind you, please move over.” A horn is needed to say, “No, REALLY. You’re in the middle of the bike path. MOVE.”

Despite near misses on my part, we have no accidents, and make our first stop at the Sagrada Familia, the church Antonio Gaudí designed that has been in construction since the late nineteenth century. We find it touristier than expected with a pricey entrance fee, so we stick to checking out the facade. Then we wind our way back through Barceloneta, around the port and up the hill of Montjuic. By sunset, we’ve reached the Olympic Village, and begun our way back down for more kebap and more churros.

We’re flying to Amsterdam the next day, this time on EasyJet, the other cheap airline, and get stuck on the runway for two hours with a fuel leak and a screaming baby. By the time we get to the Netherlands, I’m hungry, tired, coming down with a cold and not enamored of our hostel, which lacks the charm of the place we stayed in Barcelona for the same price or just a bit more. But we only have two days here, and I don’t want to waste my time complaining, so we go out for lunch, stopping at the first cafe we find for sandwiches of brie with apples and caramelized onions and chicken, bacon and other equally delicious toppings. The mint tea with honey I order to soothe my throat arrives, and it’s fresh stalks of mint in hot water, exactly what I need. It’s cold, so we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening exploring, popping into places when we get too chilly: a cheese shop with free samples, a cafe for some much needed caffeine, pastry stands in one of the squares, a bar with a cute little loft in the top. When we almost fall asleep on their couch, we know it’s time to take a break.

We both lament the fact that we only have two nights in Amsterdam. Our last day, we aim to see it all, again renting bikes. Amsterdam, at least, is meant for bikers. We begin the day with hearty Dutch pancakes with soft, savory bacon and apple slices cooked into them. Orders of the day: more pastries, more tea. We pedal down some tranquil canal-side streets, through some crowded thoroughfares, eventually searching for a Dutch dinner. Those we question on the streets seem a bit hesitant. “Dutch food, hmmm, no one here goes out to eat Dutch food. It’s quite basic.” Finally, though, we meet a woman who points us toward Moeders’: traditional food in a kitschy dining room covered in pictures of mothers. Hodgepodge and spare ribs fill us up, and make the seemingly endless bike trip through the cold on an empty stomach that proceeded the meal all worth it. And by some strange miracle, Trevor’s camera shutter has opened today, and the camera is cooperative once again.

But vacations only last so long, and I have to be back at school on Tuesday, so we fly back to Madrid. The Amsterdam Airport is the one that finally confiscates the bottle of mousse I’ve been traveling with. I wouldn’t mind as much if only they sold travel size bottles of mousse for the curly haired. As it is, I’m forced to either smuggle contraband sizes of liquids through security, pay as much as the flight itself to check a bag, or live with frizzy hair for the duration of my travels. (A side note: I know of someone who unintentionally made it onto a flight and through security at the Vatican with a decent sized pocket knife. It would seem prudent that security checkpoints might focus more on improving their metal detectors and less on swiping hair products.)

When I see Madrid from the air, it feels like home. For the next few days, Trevor gets to see my life here. We partake in a wine and cheese night at the piso of a couple other Fulbright friends, wander the parks as the wintry weather has finally warmed up slightly, share roast chicken, Spanish side dishes and cider with a few other friends, eat our way through the Mercado San Miguel, go out for tapas. And he comes to school with me one day, joining in my cuarto and segundo English classes. The cuartos ask questions about American universities, engineering, politics. The segundos are a bit rowdier, and the teacher decides that introducing Trevor as my boyfriend would be too much. Instead, she presents him as “a special guest here from the United States to observe your behavior, so please be polite.” Eventually, the kids see through it. (This week, the first time I’ve got them on their own, they ask me, “Did that boy, what’s his name, go back to Boston?” “Trevor? Yes.” “Oh, poor Emily.” “I know...it’s sad. But do you know what would make me happy? If we could all be reading this story nicely together when your teacher gets back.” Surprisingly it keeps them quiet for a bit.)

The day before Trevor leaves we make a trip to Toledo, 45 minutes outside of the city by bus, thinking it would be nice to have a quieter day away from Madrid. I don’t expect Trevor to love the town as much as he does. He’s in awe that towns like Toledo actually exist full of sword shops, marzipan, Medieval accoutrements, and narrow roads that lead to the top of hills with views overlooking tiled roofs and a river. We end up catching the very last bus back.

Our last day, while Trevor’s in the bathroom, I check on his flight, just to make sure we know where to go in the airport, and realize that the plane leaves two hours earlier than originally supposed, which means we should have left already. For a minute I consider not saying anything. Would it get us one more day together? But no, we throw his stuff in his bags, race for the metro, and somehow he makes the flight. It’s back to skype convos and email for another few months.

(All pics are Trevor's. It's nice to travel with someone else who can play photographer and navigator for awhile.)

A Very Belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

In the five weeks that have passed since my last post, I’ve made six trips to Madrid’s airport. To begin, two days before Christmas, I met Mom, Dad, Cory and Andrew at the airport, and showed them about Madrid in the holiday hustle and bustle.

Their flight got in early in the morning, and though they had barely slept on the way over, we dropped off suitcases at my apartment and wandered out to the Christmas markets scattered about the city before a mid-afternoon lunch of cider accompanied by chicken roasted in more cider, chorizo, cheese, olives and bread at Casa Mingo. Lunch and a lack of sleep necessitated a siesta, so we headed back to check the parents into the room they rented in my building and rest. We ventured out again for a dinner of montaditos, itty bitty sandwiches with a variety of fillings.

We filled the next day with touristy sights: a tour of the Plaza de Toros, glimpses of the Royal Palace and Cathedral (unfortunately both closed for official ceremony), a quick turn about the Archeology Museum and an hour or so in the Prado. We covered a lot of it on foot, as Madrid is bien communicado. For as large as it is, Madrid’s quite walkable, but that may just be my perspective. I’ve been here for awhile so I’m used to getting around on foot. Unless something’s quite far out, if it’s not a straight shot on the metro, if I have to switch lines, I tend to avoid the trains. Even accustomed to making my way en pie, I haven’t raced about the city that much since piso-searching at the beginning. Needless to say, everybody crashed at the end of the day, though after a break, I took Cory to Malasaña for a couple of 21st birthday drinks.

We spent Christmas Eve morning in Madrid’s Wax Museum, a pretty sweet collection of historical, political, literary and celebrity figures. Afterwards, we lunched on tapas in La Latina and finished last minute Christmas shopping in el Corte Inglés. We planned to get birthday pastries in La Mayorquina in the afternoon, but as they closed early, we found a bakery near my apartment and got a delicious cake for dessert after dinner.

Christmas Day we got up to open stockings. Santa found Spain, it seems, despite airline luggage restrictions and the fact that Spaniards typically exchange gifts on Epiphany with the Three Kings bringing the presents. We went to the Christmas service at the Anglican church near me and enjoyed Christmas dinner in a restaurant near Atocha.

The day after Christmas found us back at the airport, this time bound for Rome. At this point, Dad began to question our travels, “Somehow, I’m not sure how I got here.” A valid question, though one I wouldn’t find myself asking for another two weeks. After settling into our apartment on the Piazza Barberini, we went out for dinner: pizza and pasta, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and basil, focaccia bread, all served by an Alec Baldwin lookalike.

The next few days blurred together ruins and history and delicious food. A day at the Coliseum, another at the Roman Forum, gelato, the next at the Vatican with the Basilica and a tour of the museums from a pushy guide with a dry sense of humor who elbows everyone out of our way, pastries. We slowed down a bit to amble from the Spanish Steps to the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon. Our last day in Rome, New Year’s Eve passed even more slowly, with walks through the Villa Borghese and homemade dinner in our flat.

The New Year opened with fireworks flashing just outside our window and exploding beyond the rooftops of the plaza, champagne bottles popping in the streets below. On our way back to Madrid in the morning, the rest of Rome still seemed asleep or at least indoors. For once, the streets were nearly empty.

Back in Madrid, we had just finished dinner when we learned that Grandma had passed away. The doctors had diagnosed her with cancer not even two months before, and if anyone could have overcome such a diagnosis with spirit alone, it would have been her. She’s greatly missed, and I’m grateful that the family was as together as we could have been when we found out.

We spent the next day, a somber foggy Sunday, in Segovia until we’d exhausted our patience for ancient architecture, castles, aqueducts and monasteries. The next morning we were back at the airport and had to say goodbye until July, when I’ll get back to Michigan, most likely sin dinero y buscando trabajo. Though we (mostly) got along during and definitely enjoyed the two weeks we spent very much together, crammed into small living spaces (which we probably haven’t done since our motorhome trip out west after I graduated high school), and though we miss each other, it will be an interesting adjustment when I move back home for a few months after Spain. For now though, it’s a few more months of Skype.