The Chair recognizes the delegation from...

Last week in Madrid, to much applause and praise, the terceros (third years) from the comunidad’s bilingual schools tackled the world’s problems at the annual Global Classrooms conference. At our school, fellow Fulbright Hannah had been preparing her students for this moment since October, teaching them parliamentary procedure, how to write position papers and resolutions, and the rules of professional dress. Twenty of us Fulbrights from the original ten bilingual schools had also been meeting periodically to learn how to staff the dais of each committee room, as we would be running the conference ourselves.

Tuesday afternoon we took the students to the Asamblea de Madrid, where the comunidad’s legislature gathers, for the opening ceremony. For security reasons, schools had to arrive an hour early, and as we waited in the cold, Hannah’s students sized up the competition.

“They’re so much older than us! Look at them!”

Of course they weren’t. The students just weren’t used to seeing themselves or their peers dressed in suits and ties, sensible heels and knee-length skirts.

“Look at yourselves,” we told them. “You look just as grown-up and professional as they do.”

At the Asamblea, representatives from the various organizations that support Global Classrooms each year welcomed all of us. A woman from the consejería de educación spoke first, followed by María Jesús Pablos, Spain’s Fulbright Director, and Alan Solomont, US Ambassador to Spain.

Check out TeleMadrid's report!

My only criticism is about what the Ambassador's Spanish opening and conveys about the current state of language education in the US. I realize that English dominates as the language of business and diplomacy, but still, with the number of Spanish speaking individuals in the US, wouldn’t you want to send someone who can speak the language to represent our country? It worked well in his message to the kids, though. He knows firsthand how difficult it is to present your opinions in a language that isn’t your own, the students’ task throughout the conference. These fifteen year olds’ English level, however, blows away the Ambassador’s Spanish.

On Wednesday everyone gathered at CRIF Las Acacias, where we’ve had our jornadas de formación. Today, though, five rooms were set up as different UN plenaries. Three committees represented the General Assembly in order to explore solutions to the trafficking of wild animals, while the other two committees represented UNICEF and examined the problem of children in armed conflict. Four Fulbrights in each room played the role of chair (responsible for running debate), director (responsible for approving and assisting with resolution writing), rapporteur (responsible for timing, calling roll and counting votes), and staff (responsible for passing notes between delegations and ensuring that all notes were on topic - no flirty letters or requests for phone numbers!) I was director of GA 3.

Once our Chair banged her gavel and called the meeting to order, the delegations passionately educated each other on their countries’ positions on the issue (Wild animal trafficking is the third most profitable illegal trade.) and the resources they felt they could contribute to the collaborative effort to end the practice. After about half of the countries had presented their opening remarks on the speaker’s list, one of the delegations moved for a moderated caucus and the debate took off.

I had feared that in a full day with three two hour long debate sessions the students would run out of things to contribute. Nothing could have been more wrong. From one of the representatives of Denmark who continually ran over the set speaking time by talking as he sat down to the girl in Pakistan’s delegation whose voice took on an authoritative tone with each comment or question she directed at the others, from quick raising of placards during moderated caucuses to the frantic resolution writing during unmoderated caucuses, these kids were on.

I had also worried that the kids would focus too much on the competitive aspect of the conference and forget that we really sought cooperation between the delegations. Again, totally unfounded concern. The delegations quickly sought alliances and worked together amazingly well (until tempers flared slightly at the very end of the long day when we reached the actual voting on resolutions).

Selecting the delegations to receive awards from each committee turned out to be more challenging than I had anticipated. Each room awarded Best Delegation, two Honorable Mentions, Most Motivated and Best Position Paper (which had been selected in advance from the papers students had submitted prior to the competition). Ultimately and unfortunately, the awards selection proves more political than simply presenting certificates to the solidest delegations. The rule this year was that each of the ten schools had to get at least two awards, which is supposed to even the playing field so that the more economically disadvantaged schools receive just as much recognition as the pijo schools. I understand the motivation behind this; however, when our committee received our “corrected” list of award recipients, our chair and I fought to adjust the changes that had been made. No one who had been in our room for debate, especially the students, would have understood had the delegation who had been bumped from our list not received an award. We managed to reach an acceptable compromise, though even at that, there simply weren’t enough awards to recognize the huge achievements the students accomplished throughout the conference.

At the closing ceremonies in the Asamblea, the students were once again lavished with greatly deserved praise. As I watched the delegations go up for their awards, I pictured my segundos taking their places next year, all dressed up and on their best behavior. On their more mischievous days, I leave class repeating to myself: “Someday they will grow up. Someday they will be interesting, amazing, engaged people.” My students are so smart, but they have no attention span, which leads to trouble. It takes a challenge to get them to focus; next year’s Global Classrooms might be just what they need.

Check out more pics at the Embassy website: http://www.flickr.com/photos/usembassymadrid/sets/72157626187324098/show/.

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.

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.

Pintxos, Vinos y Paisajes: El País Vasco y La Rioja

Thank you, Spain, for one day work weeks. As this past Monday was Spanish Constitution Day and Wednesday was the Day of the Immaculate Conception, I had a six day block off of work, and took advantage of the fact to fly to the northern coast of Spain with three other Fulbright friends. We left Madrid last Thursday night, remarking on the fact that no one else was yet flying out, what with the long weekend. Oh well, we figured. They must be leaving Friday. And so it was. Por suerte, though, we got out of Madrid the night before the air traffic controllers went on strike. The others were left with cancelled flights until the military took over the airport and forced the controllers to go back to work.

We had no idea all of this was happening back in the city, as we were happily wandering the streets of Bilbao, despite the rain and wind and moments of hail. Highlights include:

-the Guggenheim Museum for its architecture and modern art exhibits

-a market along the river with delicious cheeses and grilled meats

Snapping pics of the spider outside the Guggenheim

We planned to couchsurf as much of the trip as possible, as Janel and Leah had gushed on its benefits: it’s cheap, you get to meet people from the city you’re visiting, and it’s really pretty safe, especially if you’re traveling with other people. In Bilbao Janel and I stayed just outside of the city in Trapagarán with a lovely engineering student who has actually been to South Haven. She’s the first Spaniard (well, Basque) I’ve met who has visited Michigan. (OK, so it was on her way to Canada - flights were cheaper into Chicago so she and her boyfriend camped their way up the coast of Lake Michigan, but still.) And she wants to make the trip again, so I’m hoping to return the hospitality.

After Bilbao, we took a bus to San Sebastian - Donostia, where I learned to love mushrooms. Before, I would eat them, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to do so. In San Sebastian, lunch was volovanes de champis al foie and dinner was a series of pintxos (Northern Spain’s version of tapas, little munchies to enjoy with una copa o caña), my favorites being a stack of grilled mushrooms with the obligatory Spanish ham on bread and a stuffed mushroom topped with a fried quail egg.

Fancy pintxos

Though we stayed in a hotel in SS, while pintxo hopping we met a group of couchsurfers from the city, and one of them offered to show us around Hondoarribia, a fishing village nearby, the next day. We ended up spending the day driving up and down the coast, getting all the way up to Biarritz in France, and enjoying an amazing meal in a cider house in the middle of nowhere. We ordered crab stuffed peppers, a shrimp dish, and a slab of steak to share, and the cook (being our guide’s brother-in-law) sent us out appetizers of ham (of course) and foie with honey and butter. Delicious. We left stuffed.

Hondoarribia

On our way from SS to Logroño, we met up with Sam and Leah’s next couchsurfer and spent a day wandering Vitoria, the capital of País Vasco, where I had my only bad moment of the entire trip, and spent an hour with the worst abdominal pain of my life curled up on the floor of a spare exhibit room in the art museum. Luckily Leah had 600 mg pills of ibuprofen on her. (This is what Spanish pharmacies sell you when you ask for ibuprofen -- sure, it’s a bit much for your general aches and pains maybe, but great to have on hand for emergencies such as this.) After making sure I wasn’t dying, the other girls got to tour the museum, and by the time it closed for siesta, I was well enough to walk around, and it was warm enough to eat ice cream in a plaza.

Murals in Vitoria: Libertad de expresión. Libros y escuelas. (Freedom of expression. Books and schools.)

When we got into Logroño, we went out for wine (as La Rioja is known for its vineyards, and one of our couchsurfer’s pisomates is studying to become a wine expert) and more pintxos. We toured a bodega the next day and tasted their wines, but we’d had better the night before.

Can you see the vineyard through the window behind me? Beautiful.

That night our couchsurfer and her other pisomates, on study abroad from Poland, wanted to take Janel and I out to show us all of the best bars in Logroño, and made us promise to taste calimocho, red wine mixed with Coke. By no means am I a food or beverage snob, but no. Just say no. Spanish wine on its own is far better and just as cheap. And after a packed six days of traveling, Janel and I didn’t last long out with the girls.

We had an earlyish bus to catch back to Bilbao in the morning, and spent a lazy afternoon there eating and tomando café before making our flight back to Madrid. We even made it to the airport with enough time to switch to an earlier flight.

And now I’m trying to check off my to-do list all of the things I want to get done before my family gets here in 11 days! That’s six more days of teaching, and one more weekend. I’ve got a place for them to stay in my building, and we’ll spend Cory’s birthday and Christmas in Madrid before going to Rome. Then the day after they leave, Trevor gets here, and we’ll be off to Barcelona and Amsterdam before I go back to school. I’m going to be spending a lot more time in the airport.