Ando feliz y con tenis

So much has happened since the last time I wrote. At the time, I was looking forward to the taller de poesía and searching for clases particulares, extra tutoring to offer on the side.

The taller de poesía fell through. I showed up for the class on the first night, Valentine’s Day, asked the chica in the oficina where I should go, and she frowned in concern. “You didn’t get our email?” Obviously not. “The class has been cancelled. We’re planning to offer it again in April though if you’re still interested.” So on my way back, I stopped at a bookstore and indulged in books that ended up costing far less than the class would have. I fully support buying Valentine’s presents for oneself, though my official Valentine’s / Christmas present arrived in the office last week, which meant that everyone got to admire the pictures Trevor took of our trip.

The cancellation of the poetry class disappointed me, but I’m having far better luck with clases particulares. One of my co-auxiliares at school had been giving classes to the lengua teacher’s kids and their friends, but decided it was too much with her already busy schedule and asked me to take them. Between staying the extra time in Boadilla and the commute to and from the city, it makes for a twelve hour Wednesday, but it pays decently, and last week I finally found the charm in Boadilla.

I’ve realized that I keep comparing teaching in Madrid to my studies in Mexico, and the two simply don't correlate. Perhaps they’d be similar if I’d stayed in Mexico City, but otherwise I’m comparing life in a capital to life in more suburban areas. The fact is I’m just not enamored of Madrid.

Definitely not Madrid.

In that way Boadilla is more like Querétaro. Though I do prefer living in Madrid, Madrid, after spending an entire sunny warm day in the suburb and discovering the cute cafes with terrazas where one can sit outside and take a coffee (Spanglishism intentional) and the park where the storks nest behind what appears to be an abandoned hacienda, I can appreciate it for what it is (and I wish I’d had my camera on me). Yes, it’s an hour away from the movida of Madrid, but it’s lovely in its own right. I’m glad I realized this, as I’ll be giving extra classes in the suburbs three nights a week.

This week will be crazy busy, as we’ve got Global Classrooms with the third year students on Tuesday and Wednesday. Fulbrights at the participating schools get to run the conference (the international version of Model UN). I'll be director of a UN General Assembly convening to discuss the trafficking of wild animals. You’ll get to hear all about it in the next blog post.

Things seem to be falling back into place here. Maybe it took admitting aloud last weekend that I’ve caught myself contemplating how I’m going to pack my suitcases to get back to the US, wondering to myself which flats are simply going to be too worn to be worth lugging back, which shirts I’ve had since freshman year of college I can toss. The Fulbright friend I acknowledged this to said she’d been doing the same. I wouldn’t have confessed to it except that she had announced that she was ready to go back, looked straight at me, and said, “You are too, aren’t you?”

Not quite, though I am looking forward to returning in July, and since it’s been warm for the past week, I’ve packed my sweaters and peacoat into my big suitcase to leave with Trevor. Unfortunately I’m going to have to pull them back out again according to the weatherman.

The fact that things are once again picking up here keeps me from spending too much time thinking about what’s going to come next, what happens in July and beyond. The day I got my Valentine’s box in the mail, I also received my first ever academic rejection from the one grad program I actually applied to for next year, and surprisingly it didn’t bother me. I had applied because it’s a great school (that you’ve probably never heard of anyway), but in retrospect, my goals don’t fully align with the program’s objectives. I needed someone else to tell me that.

I appreciate those outside voices who keep me grounded. The people I’ve needed throughout this transition to Spain and back have largely been my other American friends here. Getting to know them, travel with them, work with them has been the most rewarding part of the ETA program. I’m glad that we’re together in the inbetweenness that is living abroad and the uncertainties of this post-college/pre-(what most people call)-real-life stage.

That said, it’s still great to keep in touch with old friends from home.

Sticky

Just as the US faced the last batch of snow storms, the weather here in Madrid turned slightly spring-y. It’s enough to make a girl want to run in Retiro to combat the effects of wintry hibernations, Italian pasta and gelato, Dutch pancakes and pastries, and Iberian ham and vino. Unfortunately, the city lies under a nasty cloud of pollution at the moment. Last week as I attempted a short jog, I found myself unable to breathe, and a bit preoccupated (that’s “worried,” for those of you who don’t speak middle school Spanglish). Was I just too stressed to calm down and breathe? I didn’t think so.

I haven’t been up to much of anything lately, which would imply that there was little to worry me. I mean, I’m only actually working 16 or so hours a week, plus prep time, of course, but that’s still not much, even if you add the two hour round trip daily commute. But I don't like to feel like I'm just sitting around either.

Spring brings strawberries sold by the kilo and wrapped up in a paper cornucopia

I have too much free time now that my Spanish class ended and I’ve given up on Vespa dreams. (Having not even gotten close to taking the theoretical tests, by July I’d have run out of the time, money and patience necessary to actually get to the point of zipping about the city en moto.) It's time to get busy again. What to do with the five or so months I’ve still got in Madrid? Why, enroll in a poetry workshop in Spanish! Offer private English lessons in the afternoons! Turn Sunday knitting sessions into a book group as well!

I have my first taller de poesía tomorrow. I’m confronting the ways in which poetry intimidates me. This class, Lenguajes poéticos en el límite: la mirada y la música (Poetic language at its limit: gaze and music) assures us would-be poets that the end goal isn’t that we become poets or even produce poems. Our objetivo is to approach the poetic with absolute attention. I can do that at least, even in Spanish.

After posting a couple announcements online, I’ve got a few takers for private English lessons and a language exchange to work on my own Spanish. (The man who offered to exchange massage for English lessons, however, will simply have to find someone else.) I should be able to cement a schedule for those this week.

The other two chicas tejeras and I, three TAs who meet in cafes about the city to knit on Sundays when we’re not traveling, miss intelligent literary discussion (not that I don’t love reading Holes with the segundos and trying to convince them of its fabulousness), so we’re setting up our own little reading group. Next week, Hannah can teach us to make socks while we chat about the short story “Todos tienen premio, todos” by Mexican author Emiliano Pérez Cruz.

In honor of all the literary and language activities coming up and Valentine’s Day tomorrow, I’ll share with you one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets, Brenda Shaughnessy's “One Love Story, Eight Takes," which you can find here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182961. Do check it out. It offers so much no matter how you read it.

“Do sweets soothe pain or simply make it stick?” Shaughnessy asks. “Which is the worst! So much technology / and no fix for sticky if you can’t taste it.” In my downtime, I’ve spent a lot of time with my computer, searching for the balance between living my Spanish life and keeping in touch with my vida estadounidense. It’s difficult to separate the two after all, especially as I have no intention of staying on for another year. In July, I’ll be back in Michigan. Spain is only a temporary home.

Spring in Spain, though, means soccer, sunshine and strawberries. Stickiness still left to taste here, and still left to write back about. As Shaughnessy remarks: “You must stack stories from the foundation up. / From the sad heart and the feet tired of supporting it. / Language is architecture, after all, not an air capsule, / not a hang glide. This is real life.” So it is, and it’s much better if it’s shared, even if that means spending as much time on Skype as in the streets of Madrid. It also demands attention and groundedness “[b]ecause no one unbuilds meticulously / and meticulously is what allows hearing.” I’m hoping to find that in my new activities.

Feliz día de San Valentín, happy Valentine´s Day, however you want to say it. I’m particularly fond of the Mexican version: feliz día de amor y amistad, happy day of love and friendship.

Spring also brings new haircuts, this one not entirely intentional. It's growing on me though.