Patra and I went to a concert tonight held at once of the two main cathedrals, La Catedral de San Pedro. We tried to convince Erika, Patra’s friend who has been visiting this past week, to go with us.
“What kind of concert is it?” Erika asked.
“We don’t know,” we responded.
“Oh…then why do you want to go?”
“Because it’s a concert! And it’s happening here! An event in Arcos AT NIGHT!”
She wasn’t convinced. Patra and I shrugged our shoulders. We were still extremely excited that something was going on in our own little town and, what’s more, it was happening five minutes from our apartment (no hike to the side of town for us!) We wandered over to the cathedral in the light rain, orange light brightening up the dark old buildings; the town was certainly Halloween-atmospheric.
Inside the cathedral, Patra and I recognized at least a dozen people. Teachers from both of our schools had showed up, and the other English language-assistants in town were there. After waving and giving double-kisses all around, we felt suddenly that Arcos was indeed our town, that we were no longer foreigners. We took our seats and gazed up at the ornate ornamentation of the nave, this being the first time we’d been inside the cathedral. Inside gold-leaf embellishments were paintings of saints and angels. Near the ceiling a statue of Jesus stood helping a small child. Below this statue, and directly above the altar, was a statue of Peter, looking perhaps somewhat perplexed and abashed at his central location in this cathedral. I’ve heard that the two cathedrals in Arcos once asked the Vatican which would be recognized as the official cathedral of the town. The Vatican sent its response: La Catedral de Santa Maria. The parishioners of San Pedro were so upset that they removed any signs of Mary from their own cathedral (contemplate that for a second: Catholics without Mary!) and to this day they pray to Peter, the Mother of God.
The concert, to my disappointment, had nothing to do with Halloween. Of course, this shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise, but I was hoping the music might be in a more minor key. The good news, though, is that it turned out to be a choral mass, mostly Mozart, which meant that I had sung at least one of the pieces before. I talked to the director afterward and he invited me to join the choir right away, overjoyed at the thought of one more alto. I happily accepted; while Arcos was masquerading on Halloween as a happening town, and Saint Peter stood uncomfortable in his eternal costume as the Mother of God, I was finally able to imagine myself in a role I’m already familiar with: a singer. So, if you’re in Arcos on the night of December 16th, hit up the choir concert! It’s gonna be hopping…
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Snow country
Winter has suddenly descended upon Spain. On the evening news: Swirling snow in the mountainous regions, snow in front of doorways, snow impeding slow-moving cars…and Spaniards in t-shirts looking out of their windows in surprise.
My reaction to the newfound chill in Arcos: I thought this country was supposed to warm!
Spaniards’ response: We did too!
My reaction to the newfound chill in Arcos: I thought this country was supposed to warm!
Spaniards’ response: We did too!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Christians and the Pagans
In preparation for this week, I was listening through a CD I brought with me of Halloween songs, stories, and sound effects appropriate for children. The only song that seemed like it could work was “Dem bones,” since the third-graders are working on parts of the body (the head bone’s connected to the what bone, children?) But I wasn’t so sure about the line “Oh, hear the word of the Lord.” I know my kids have “religion” class (learning the tenets of Catholicism), but I didn’t want to step on any toes.
Today with the sixth-graders, however, I got a little clearer on Spanish understanding of religion. I was reading aloud a description of the history of Halloween, which began with a section on the pagans’ role in the inception of the holiday. Lola, the teacher, questioned the students if they knew what “pagans” were. They didn’t. They weren’t familiar with the word in Spanish, either.
“Pagans don’t believe in God,” Lola explained in English. “Christians and Pagans—they are opposite words.”
“Uhhh, ‘opposite’?” I thought, feeling my politically-correct self cringe.
“You understand the meaning of ‘Christian’?” Lola asked. “Christian is Catholic, catolico, you know?”
Luckily, I’d been forewarned about this assumption, that Christianity and Catholicism are one and the same, so no major cringing there.
“And God, you know the meaning of God?” Lola asked, unintentionally philosophical.
The children looked on, blankly.
“You pray? You pray to God?” Lola asked, pressing her hands together in prayer.
A child raised his hand: “Ahh, fantasma!”—the word for ghost. (Not, incidentally, the word they would use for the ‘holy ghost’).
Lola got slightly exasperated. “Not ‘ghost,” God! Dios! I can’t believe you don’t know the word God!”
I suppose “Oh, hear the word of the Lord,” wouldn’t have upset any public-school administrators in this country…
Today with the sixth-graders, however, I got a little clearer on Spanish understanding of religion. I was reading aloud a description of the history of Halloween, which began with a section on the pagans’ role in the inception of the holiday. Lola, the teacher, questioned the students if they knew what “pagans” were. They didn’t. They weren’t familiar with the word in Spanish, either.
“Pagans don’t believe in God,” Lola explained in English. “Christians and Pagans—they are opposite words.”
“Uhhh, ‘opposite’?” I thought, feeling my politically-correct self cringe.
“You understand the meaning of ‘Christian’?” Lola asked. “Christian is Catholic, catolico, you know?”
Luckily, I’d been forewarned about this assumption, that Christianity and Catholicism are one and the same, so no major cringing there.
“And God, you know the meaning of God?” Lola asked, unintentionally philosophical.
The children looked on, blankly.
“You pray? You pray to God?” Lola asked, pressing her hands together in prayer.
A child raised his hand: “Ahh, fantasma!”—the word for ghost. (Not, incidentally, the word they would use for the ‘holy ghost’).
Lola got slightly exasperated. “Not ‘ghost,” God! Dios! I can’t believe you don’t know the word God!”
I suppose “Oh, hear the word of the Lord,” wouldn’t have upset any public-school administrators in this country…
Monday, October 27, 2008
La Policia?
I was on the phone when Antonio, our landlord, came to our apartment to fix a light. I let him in and, after a brief salutation, went to my room to talk. I heard Antonio speaking in the kitchen; I assumed he was calling his son Francisco, who sometimes comes by to help Antonio fix things. A few minutes later I wandered into my living room to find two men in police outfits—black boots pulled up over black pants, black jackets with reflective vests, and “Policia” visors.
“La policia?” I exclaimed. There was a split-second when I tried to think of anything I might have possibly done wrong. After that moment of panic, the policemen turned to me, smiling.
“I’m his son,” one of them said to me, gesturing to Antonio.
That was comforting, but didn’t actually explain why they were in my apartment in full riot-gear. They provided no further explanation, but left soon thereafter.
“Antonio!” I said, after they were gone, “That was quite a surprise!”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “I have two sons.”
“La policia?” I exclaimed. There was a split-second when I tried to think of anything I might have possibly done wrong. After that moment of panic, the policemen turned to me, smiling.
“I’m his son,” one of them said to me, gesturing to Antonio.
That was comforting, but didn’t actually explain why they were in my apartment in full riot-gear. They provided no further explanation, but left soon thereafter.
“Antonio!” I said, after they were gone, “That was quite a surprise!”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “I have two sons.”
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Wild Cats of Cádiz
Another early morning: Patra and I once again try to obtain our residency cards.
We took the 7:15 am bus to Cádiz, the capital city of our province; also, the oldest city in Europe. “Cádiz?” you might say, “But I’ve never even heard of Cádiz! How can that be the oldest city in Europe?”
Perhaps you’ve heard of Hercules? Legend has it Cádiz was founded by Hercules when he parted Europe and Africa at the strait of Gibraltar. No big deal. History would have you believe the Phoencians founded Cádiz in 1100 AC (what does that mean? My map’s information says AC instead of AD or BC. Damn these Brits!) I prefer the Herculean version. Also, a guy on his way to India (known to us as Christopher Columbus) set sail from Cádiz in 1492. Needless to say, Cádiz has had an important place in history.
Back to our own epic journey, though. Just as the sky began to fill with light, our bus crossed the long bridge to Cádiz (surrounded by water on three sides). We stopped at a seemingly random intersection and several people got off. Thinking of last week’s stop in the middle of nowhere, I grew nervous (to quote our prez: “Fool me once…don’t fool me again!”) As we pulled away I saw a street name, Avenida Jose Leon de Carranza, which rang a bell. A few blocks later when the bus stopped again, I looked anxiously at Patra. “I think we get off here,” I said. She frowned, but followed my lead. Only after we disembarked did I remember the actual street name where we were supposed to get off: Avenida Ramon de Carranza. Once again, this burst of inspiration occurred as the bus was pulling away. This time, though, we were no longer on it. Oops.
We reoriented ourselves—luckily we’d both printed maps of the city beforehand—and started walking briskly up a main street. It was only a little after eight a.m. when we began walking, and thus my mistake wasn’t too costly; we arrived at the correct office at a quarter to nine, still fifteen minutes before it would even open. I was feeling hopeful; there were only a few other people in the office ahead of us. Also, in the past week, I made several more copies of just about every document ever given to me having anything to do with Spain: I made copies of our apartment lease, my Spanish bank account information, the page in my passport with an exit stamp from Mexico (what does that have to do with Spain? Nothing! But you never know…). We were Prepared.
At a few minutes past nine, Patra and I sat down with two immigration officers and pulled out our application sheets. They shook their heads. “No,” they said. Wrong sheet. I had a minor heart attack.
They handed us new forms, which we filled out as quickly as possibly in the office. This was fairly easy to do since the new form asked for EXACTLY THE SAME INFORMATION as the form we had first presented. Oh, except we had to check a box on this one indicating that we were the ones studying/working in Spain, not the relative of a person studying in Spain. Which is, I’m sure, extremely important.
Having filled out our new documents, we raced out of the building to find a place to make a single copy (of course, they couldn’t just give us two identical sheets to fill out). Finding the place to make copies closed, we entered a store in which we saw copy machines. The copy machines, as it turned out, were not for the general public since the store was actually an office, but a woman there took pity on us and made one copy each of our application forms. We hurried back to the immigration office and had to wait behind two or three people who had showed up since we’d left.
In that time, I noticed a poster on the wall with smiling people of different ethnicities pointing at the camera. The inscription read “Somos inmigrantes, como tu!” (We are immigrants, just like you!) I have yet to verify this, but I think Spain is fairly lenient about immigration. In the past two decades or so, it has become a popular destination for immigrants now that it’s generally recognized as a first-world country. The sign seemed cheery enough, but I felt a little indignant. “Me? An immigrant?” Oh right, I was at the immigration office…still, it felt strange to be identified with a word that is certainly loaded in the US.
Once again, we sat down with the immigration officers. This time, everything went smoothly. They took one copy each of: our application forms, our two letters from the Andalusian government explaining our work situation, and the information and visa pages of our passports. Five pieces of paper in all. We left the office relieved, but weighed down by the extra hundred or so unnecessary copies we still had.
After a quick croissant at a nearby café to celebrate our soon-to-be legality, Patra and I parted ways. She left for Seville by train to meet up with a friend, and I wandered the streets of Cádiz. Past the ruins of a Roman amphitheater, past the yellow-domed cathedral that you’re sure to see first in a google-image search of the city. Here I was walking along the coastal wall, large boulders on the ocean-side to fend off the tides. The sun was out, palm trees lined the sidewalk, I was feeling successful…and something started to smell fishy. Not a huge surprise, since I was next to the ocean and, up ahead of me, several fishermen cast their lines into the water. But then I looked down: the rocks below the wall were crawling with cats. And just ahead: a man down among the cats, setting out water and food. He left a trail of empty tinfoil—greasy with the remains of fish—and satisfied cats.
As infestations go, this one didn’t seem too bad. Not as cute as an infestation of koala bears certainly, but nothing like rats. I continued down the walkway toward the beach. After the land ends, a path along a breakwater continues out to the ruins of a castle on a tiny island. I took out my camera and framed the shot with cats in the foreground. After taking two pictures, I realize one scrawny black cat was advancing on me with eyes flashing. One black cat might not have been able to do much, but a herd of several hundred? I know what happened to catwoman; I’m not interested in superpowers. I continued on to the beach to stick my toes in the Atlantic once more.
On the way back from the beach, I saw the cat-man catapult himself from the rocks below onto the dividing wall. He walked off as though there was nothing unusual about the company he’d been keeping for the past hour or more. A lone cat sat on wrong side of the wall, the side reserved for people. As he passed it, I wondered if there would be some recognition between the cat and the hand that feeds it, but no. I wondered: does he name them? Does he love them? Perhaps this city inspires men to do to crazy things, things that can be hard from which to divine meaning: to divide land masses, to conquer what’s beyond the horizon, to tame a starving mass of clawed animals into submission.
Cats watch me warily...also, the ruins of a castle in the ocean as background
The cathedral of Cádiz...can you spot any cats in the foreground?
The cathedral from the front
We took the 7:15 am bus to Cádiz, the capital city of our province; also, the oldest city in Europe. “Cádiz?” you might say, “But I’ve never even heard of Cádiz! How can that be the oldest city in Europe?”
Perhaps you’ve heard of Hercules? Legend has it Cádiz was founded by Hercules when he parted Europe and Africa at the strait of Gibraltar. No big deal. History would have you believe the Phoencians founded Cádiz in 1100 AC (what does that mean? My map’s information says AC instead of AD or BC. Damn these Brits!) I prefer the Herculean version. Also, a guy on his way to India (known to us as Christopher Columbus) set sail from Cádiz in 1492. Needless to say, Cádiz has had an important place in history.
Back to our own epic journey, though. Just as the sky began to fill with light, our bus crossed the long bridge to Cádiz (surrounded by water on three sides). We stopped at a seemingly random intersection and several people got off. Thinking of last week’s stop in the middle of nowhere, I grew nervous (to quote our prez: “Fool me once…don’t fool me again!”) As we pulled away I saw a street name, Avenida Jose Leon de Carranza, which rang a bell. A few blocks later when the bus stopped again, I looked anxiously at Patra. “I think we get off here,” I said. She frowned, but followed my lead. Only after we disembarked did I remember the actual street name where we were supposed to get off: Avenida Ramon de Carranza. Once again, this burst of inspiration occurred as the bus was pulling away. This time, though, we were no longer on it. Oops.
We reoriented ourselves—luckily we’d both printed maps of the city beforehand—and started walking briskly up a main street. It was only a little after eight a.m. when we began walking, and thus my mistake wasn’t too costly; we arrived at the correct office at a quarter to nine, still fifteen minutes before it would even open. I was feeling hopeful; there were only a few other people in the office ahead of us. Also, in the past week, I made several more copies of just about every document ever given to me having anything to do with Spain: I made copies of our apartment lease, my Spanish bank account information, the page in my passport with an exit stamp from Mexico (what does that have to do with Spain? Nothing! But you never know…). We were Prepared.
At a few minutes past nine, Patra and I sat down with two immigration officers and pulled out our application sheets. They shook their heads. “No,” they said. Wrong sheet. I had a minor heart attack.
They handed us new forms, which we filled out as quickly as possibly in the office. This was fairly easy to do since the new form asked for EXACTLY THE SAME INFORMATION as the form we had first presented. Oh, except we had to check a box on this one indicating that we were the ones studying/working in Spain, not the relative of a person studying in Spain. Which is, I’m sure, extremely important.
Having filled out our new documents, we raced out of the building to find a place to make a single copy (of course, they couldn’t just give us two identical sheets to fill out). Finding the place to make copies closed, we entered a store in which we saw copy machines. The copy machines, as it turned out, were not for the general public since the store was actually an office, but a woman there took pity on us and made one copy each of our application forms. We hurried back to the immigration office and had to wait behind two or three people who had showed up since we’d left.
In that time, I noticed a poster on the wall with smiling people of different ethnicities pointing at the camera. The inscription read “Somos inmigrantes, como tu!” (We are immigrants, just like you!) I have yet to verify this, but I think Spain is fairly lenient about immigration. In the past two decades or so, it has become a popular destination for immigrants now that it’s generally recognized as a first-world country. The sign seemed cheery enough, but I felt a little indignant. “Me? An immigrant?” Oh right, I was at the immigration office…still, it felt strange to be identified with a word that is certainly loaded in the US.
Once again, we sat down with the immigration officers. This time, everything went smoothly. They took one copy each of: our application forms, our two letters from the Andalusian government explaining our work situation, and the information and visa pages of our passports. Five pieces of paper in all. We left the office relieved, but weighed down by the extra hundred or so unnecessary copies we still had.
After a quick croissant at a nearby café to celebrate our soon-to-be legality, Patra and I parted ways. She left for Seville by train to meet up with a friend, and I wandered the streets of Cádiz. Past the ruins of a Roman amphitheater, past the yellow-domed cathedral that you’re sure to see first in a google-image search of the city. Here I was walking along the coastal wall, large boulders on the ocean-side to fend off the tides. The sun was out, palm trees lined the sidewalk, I was feeling successful…and something started to smell fishy. Not a huge surprise, since I was next to the ocean and, up ahead of me, several fishermen cast their lines into the water. But then I looked down: the rocks below the wall were crawling with cats. And just ahead: a man down among the cats, setting out water and food. He left a trail of empty tinfoil—greasy with the remains of fish—and satisfied cats.
As infestations go, this one didn’t seem too bad. Not as cute as an infestation of koala bears certainly, but nothing like rats. I continued down the walkway toward the beach. After the land ends, a path along a breakwater continues out to the ruins of a castle on a tiny island. I took out my camera and framed the shot with cats in the foreground. After taking two pictures, I realize one scrawny black cat was advancing on me with eyes flashing. One black cat might not have been able to do much, but a herd of several hundred? I know what happened to catwoman; I’m not interested in superpowers. I continued on to the beach to stick my toes in the Atlantic once more.
On the way back from the beach, I saw the cat-man catapult himself from the rocks below onto the dividing wall. He walked off as though there was nothing unusual about the company he’d been keeping for the past hour or more. A lone cat sat on wrong side of the wall, the side reserved for people. As he passed it, I wondered if there would be some recognition between the cat and the hand that feeds it, but no. I wondered: does he name them? Does he love them? Perhaps this city inspires men to do to crazy things, things that can be hard from which to divine meaning: to divide land masses, to conquer what’s beyond the horizon, to tame a starving mass of clawed animals into submission.
Cats watch me warily...also, the ruins of a castle in the ocean as background
The cathedral of Cádiz...can you spot any cats in the foreground?
The cathedral from the front
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Garrrborr
Last night I had dinner with a few other Americans in town, a Canadian, a Brit, and three Spaniards. One of the Spaniards, a gym teacher at my school, wanted to tell me the activity he was planning for this morning.
“We use garrrborr,” he said to me.
“Kickball?” I guessed.
“No,” he said, “garrrrrrrborrrr.”
“Garrrborrr?” I said, “You mean…cardboard?”
“Yes! Carrd-borrd!”
“Why did you say it so strangely at first?” I asked.
“When I want to be understood by Americans,” he explained, “I don’t open my mouth as much. I just speak lazy.”
“We use garrrborr,” he said to me.
“Kickball?” I guessed.
“No,” he said, “garrrrrrrborrrr.”
“Garrrborrr?” I said, “You mean…cardboard?”
“Yes! Carrd-borrd!”
“Why did you say it so strangely at first?” I asked.
“When I want to be understood by Americans,” he explained, “I don’t open my mouth as much. I just speak lazy.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
To the beat of their own drummers
And even more perfect: a flamenco class is held Tuesdays and Thursdays in the same school building as the yoga class. The class is mostly middle-aged women, who start dancing and moving their hands however they want when the mood strikes them. During breaks, one will start snapping and stamping her feet and move to the center of the room to perform who-knows-what steps. Then she’ll move back to cries of “ole!” and the next will move forward to do her own dance. Either that, or the instructor will put on “sevillanas” music at the breaks, which is a dance that the Andalusians learn from infancy (there are sevillanas classes at my school for children aged five and older). It is not a difficult dance, but, since all the women know the steps already, I have not yet seen it broken down into its separate parts and therefore do not know how to do it. The women seem to consider this a moral shortcoming of mine. They drag me into the dance at every break, ignoring my refusals, thinking that I’ll get it if they just keep yelling numbers at me and pointing at their right or left foot while stomping away, or yelling at me to turn a few seconds too late every time so that I always run into someone. Luckily, I pick up the flamenco steps pretty quickly so I feel decently competent the majority of the time.
And, what’s more, little Maggie-the-Brit comes to watch us; the Spanish women adore her, pinch at her cheeks, pull off her little pink sandals and exclaim about their cuteness and slip them back on her feet. If only I could be as unfazed by this gaggle of Spanish women as Maggie is…
And, what’s more, little Maggie-the-Brit comes to watch us; the Spanish women adore her, pinch at her cheeks, pull off her little pink sandals and exclaim about their cuteness and slip them back on her feet. If only I could be as unfazed by this gaggle of Spanish women as Maggie is…
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
yo-GA, yo-GA, yo-GA
I have found a yoga class. What’s more, it’s right across the street from my apartment. It’s held in an elementary school, a gorgeous old building with a small square plaza in the center surrounded by white arches. The school is an awesome combination of old and new; a basketball hoop hangs in the corner of a corridor bordering the plaza and bright plastic desks are enveloped in white-tiled halls.
The instructor is a British woman, Emma, who moved here with her husband and now owns a guesthouse nearby. She led the class in a combination of English and Spanish, refreshing my vocabulary for parts of the body. A dove flapped by as we were in the warrior pose, the poetry of which was not lost on me (Spain never ceases to present poetry as reality, or vice versa).
And running around us as we held our poses was Emma’s four-year-old daughter Maggie, an adorable little creature with bright blonde hair and a British accent (it should not surprise me that a child of British parents would speak with a British accent, and yet it still seems so unbelievably precious). I thought back to yoga class that I fell in love with this summer, held in a heated studio, blocked off from the noises of Grand Ave by the instructors’ jazzed-up background music. This, completely different, seemed even more perfect.
The instructor is a British woman, Emma, who moved here with her husband and now owns a guesthouse nearby. She led the class in a combination of English and Spanish, refreshing my vocabulary for parts of the body. A dove flapped by as we were in the warrior pose, the poetry of which was not lost on me (Spain never ceases to present poetry as reality, or vice versa).
And running around us as we held our poses was Emma’s four-year-old daughter Maggie, an adorable little creature with bright blonde hair and a British accent (it should not surprise me that a child of British parents would speak with a British accent, and yet it still seems so unbelievably precious). I thought back to yoga class that I fell in love with this summer, held in a heated studio, blocked off from the noises of Grand Ave by the instructors’ jazzed-up background music. This, completely different, seemed even more perfect.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Night and Day
Some of my students have an interesting grasp on geography. This morning, one girl asked me if it was nighttime in my pueblo at that moment. I said yes, excited by her understanding that other parts of the world exist in different time zones.
“Then,” she reasoned, “you must be very tired.”
“Then,” she reasoned, “you must be very tired.”
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Kodak Moments
This town likes to take advantage of all the times I don’t have my camera with me. Living in between the two main cathedrals of Arcos, I have now seen elderly people carrying gigantic, ornate silver chalices and purple velvet banners through the streets several times. I suppose they want to get the silver polished before the Christmas season…
Then this afternoon I was in the Plaza del Cabildo, the beautiful heart of the old town, with a gorgeous view off the cliff. I had been sitting in the plaza for a while, reading and writing and listening to the multilingual babble of tourists. I headed back to my apartment down a narrow winding street and, rounding a corner, suddenly came across a group of several dozen Spaniards in their late twenties all dressed up in tuxedoes and ball gowns. None was an obvious bride, the men outnumbered the women at least two to one, and they seemed fairly nonchalant about their dressed-up-ness. I felt as though I’d come across a herd of giraffes, not only because they seemed so out of place, but also because there was nowhere for me to go to escape the incoming tide; I feel like giraffes are a type of animal who wouldn’t go out of their way to hurt you, but would just as easily kick you aside if need be. I found a shallow doorway to protect myself in, and the Spaniards strolled past, seemingly unaware of my presence or my narrow escape from the high-heeled herd. After they passed, I ran back to get my camera and returned to the Plaza del Cabildo not five minutes later. The Spaniards were nowhere to be found, and nowhere to be heard. The party had moved on, and I was left—as I so often am in this town—bewildered and once more reminding myself to always have a camera on hand.
Then this afternoon I was in the Plaza del Cabildo, the beautiful heart of the old town, with a gorgeous view off the cliff. I had been sitting in the plaza for a while, reading and writing and listening to the multilingual babble of tourists. I headed back to my apartment down a narrow winding street and, rounding a corner, suddenly came across a group of several dozen Spaniards in their late twenties all dressed up in tuxedoes and ball gowns. None was an obvious bride, the men outnumbered the women at least two to one, and they seemed fairly nonchalant about their dressed-up-ness. I felt as though I’d come across a herd of giraffes, not only because they seemed so out of place, but also because there was nowhere for me to go to escape the incoming tide; I feel like giraffes are a type of animal who wouldn’t go out of their way to hurt you, but would just as easily kick you aside if need be. I found a shallow doorway to protect myself in, and the Spaniards strolled past, seemingly unaware of my presence or my narrow escape from the high-heeled herd. After they passed, I ran back to get my camera and returned to the Plaza del Cabildo not five minutes later. The Spaniards were nowhere to be found, and nowhere to be heard. The party had moved on, and I was left—as I so often am in this town—bewildered and once more reminding myself to always have a camera on hand.
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Sea, The Sea!
Today was an early day, as Patra and I set off to obtain residency cards. This must be done at an Oficina de Extranjería (immigration office), of which there are only two in the province of Cádiz. It also must be done within thirty days of your arrival in Spain; I had been here 20 days already and Patra was at something like 23. We chose to go to the office in El Puerto de Santa Maria, a town on the beach with a reputation for being awesome. The bus to Puerto, though, left at 7:20 in the morning so we were up much earlier to get ready and make it to the station on time. Luckily, this time we didn’t have to walk in a downpour. It was somewhat eerie to walk in Arcos while still dark, though, as the white town is awash in an orange glow from streetlamps at night.
Once on the bus, we traveled west toward the Atlantic. The moon was like an overripe winter melon in the sky, rotting at the bottom. Mist clung to the fields; lone farmhouses stood as though without foundations.
From this dreamlike beginning, the industrial entrance of Puerto was a shock. The bus stopped by an unimpressive bus shelter just before a busy roundabout. Expecting an actual station, I didn’t get out of my seat. “Jenna,” Patra said, “This is our stop.” I got off the bus with grave misgivings. We scanned the map at the bus shelter for Avenida de la Constitución, where we were supposed to find the office, but couldn’t find the name anywhere. We asked a woman seated at the shelter; she said she may have heard of the street, but she really couldn’t be sure. We went across the street to the train station and asked for directions there. Following those directions, we ended up ten minutes away at Avenida Diputación. The man hadn’t understood us. We looked at the map in Patra’s guidebook, also lacking Constitución. We decided we would walk in the general direction of the historic part of town, since there was, at least, a tourism office where we could hopefully get a better map of the town.
It was nine-thirty when we arrived at the tourism office, which didn’t open until ten. There were women directly inside the office and we poked our heads in as politely as possible to ask if they could just give us one map. “We open at ten,” they said abruptly, then shut the door. We asked a woman on the street if she knew where Constitución was. Her eyes opened wide. She told us it was possible to walk, but very long and complicated. Downtrodden, we went to a café and ate croissants until ten. Back at the tourism office, a much friendlier man showed us maps of the town and pointed out all the highlights, as well as a ferry we could take to a neighboring town if we wanted. Desperate to get to the immigration office, we thanked him and asked if he could just show us how to get to Constitución. He pointed it out—maybe five or six blocks from where we were. Neither long, nor complicated.
We arrived at the office a little after ten; already the waiting room was filling up. I recognized one girl from our orientation in Sevilla and she told us that this office required you to have a copy of your every page in your passport, as well as extra copies of your information and visa pages, and any other pages with stamps on them. Flustered, we hurried out of the office and to a nearby copy center. Back at the immigration office a few minutes later and several pounds more paperweight in our bags, we found that six or seven people had showed up since we left, thus surpassing us in line. We sat down to wait, like all the rest, for the one woman handling all of our cases.
After about an hour, the girl we knew was called in to the office. She emerged, triumphant, twenty minutes later. We congratulated her, feeling all the more closer to our own eventual success. We did sudokus to pass the time, read up on the news from the US in Spanish, and kept counting down the people until it would be our turn. In Spain, you don’t take a number or sit in line. You enter a room, ask “Quién es el último?” (Who’s the last one?) and keep track of the line in your head. This system, for the most part, works just fine. Also, you become more aware of everyone around you, begin to put them in a hierarchy based on their timeliness.
It was getting close to our turn, when the one woman handling immigration cases decided to take a lunch break. This was deflating, but I still had hope. There were three people ahead of us. If each one took twenty minutes, and the woman came back by twelve-twenty, then we would definitely get a chance to give her our paperwork. I felt bad—but also a little smug—about the people who were showing up just now. They had no chance of getting into her office before two, when she would close for the day. The woman came back from lunch at about twelve-fifteen and we were back in business. One appointment before ours lasted only five minutes. When we were finally next in line, I told Patra that I had been getting nervous, but at least now we had nothing to worry about. No coming back to Puerto for us!
We entered the caseworker’s office, sat down. I pulled out my application form and handed it to her. She looked over it for a few moments, then said, “You live in Arcos?” I confirmed this, thinking maybe she would say something about how beautiful the town is. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t process your papers. You have to go to the office in Cádiz.” I felt slightly comforted by the fact that she used the phrase “Lo siento” for us. This is taught to Americans as the equivalent for “I’m sorry,” but it’s much stronger than the casual way we sometimes use our own apologetic phrase, much more full of regret. At least, I thought, she wasn’t just a jerk.
Patra and I left the office. We’d waited for over two hours just to be turned away. What’s more, we hadn’t been aware that there would be any division between who has to get their cards processed in Cádiz or Puerto.
At least, we agreed, it was a beautiful day. And we were exploring a new town, albeit what we saw the most of was the inside of a government office. Walking past a fruit store, Patra stopped in for a pomegranate to cheer herself up. My consolation was the ocean. It was easy enough to find, just a few blocks from the immigration office. Past hibiscus bushes and dunes, we came upon a wide expanse of beach. We rolled up our pants and took off our shoes and felt the sand give way beneath our toes. We wandered to the water’s edge and waded in. As soon as the first wave slide over my feet, I felt completely rejuvenated. So the day didn’t go as we had planned. So we will have to go to Cádiz next Friday, our last possible day to register for our residency cards. None of that mattered when I realized that I am alive, I am living in Spain, and the ocean is just forty-five minutes away from my cliff-top town. The day once again became dreamlike, and this time it wasn’t interrupted.
(My feet in the Atlantic! At last!)
Once on the bus, we traveled west toward the Atlantic. The moon was like an overripe winter melon in the sky, rotting at the bottom. Mist clung to the fields; lone farmhouses stood as though without foundations.
From this dreamlike beginning, the industrial entrance of Puerto was a shock. The bus stopped by an unimpressive bus shelter just before a busy roundabout. Expecting an actual station, I didn’t get out of my seat. “Jenna,” Patra said, “This is our stop.” I got off the bus with grave misgivings. We scanned the map at the bus shelter for Avenida de la Constitución, where we were supposed to find the office, but couldn’t find the name anywhere. We asked a woman seated at the shelter; she said she may have heard of the street, but she really couldn’t be sure. We went across the street to the train station and asked for directions there. Following those directions, we ended up ten minutes away at Avenida Diputación. The man hadn’t understood us. We looked at the map in Patra’s guidebook, also lacking Constitución. We decided we would walk in the general direction of the historic part of town, since there was, at least, a tourism office where we could hopefully get a better map of the town.
It was nine-thirty when we arrived at the tourism office, which didn’t open until ten. There were women directly inside the office and we poked our heads in as politely as possible to ask if they could just give us one map. “We open at ten,” they said abruptly, then shut the door. We asked a woman on the street if she knew where Constitución was. Her eyes opened wide. She told us it was possible to walk, but very long and complicated. Downtrodden, we went to a café and ate croissants until ten. Back at the tourism office, a much friendlier man showed us maps of the town and pointed out all the highlights, as well as a ferry we could take to a neighboring town if we wanted. Desperate to get to the immigration office, we thanked him and asked if he could just show us how to get to Constitución. He pointed it out—maybe five or six blocks from where we were. Neither long, nor complicated.
We arrived at the office a little after ten; already the waiting room was filling up. I recognized one girl from our orientation in Sevilla and she told us that this office required you to have a copy of your every page in your passport, as well as extra copies of your information and visa pages, and any other pages with stamps on them. Flustered, we hurried out of the office and to a nearby copy center. Back at the immigration office a few minutes later and several pounds more paperweight in our bags, we found that six or seven people had showed up since we left, thus surpassing us in line. We sat down to wait, like all the rest, for the one woman handling all of our cases.
After about an hour, the girl we knew was called in to the office. She emerged, triumphant, twenty minutes later. We congratulated her, feeling all the more closer to our own eventual success. We did sudokus to pass the time, read up on the news from the US in Spanish, and kept counting down the people until it would be our turn. In Spain, you don’t take a number or sit in line. You enter a room, ask “Quién es el último?” (Who’s the last one?) and keep track of the line in your head. This system, for the most part, works just fine. Also, you become more aware of everyone around you, begin to put them in a hierarchy based on their timeliness.
It was getting close to our turn, when the one woman handling immigration cases decided to take a lunch break. This was deflating, but I still had hope. There were three people ahead of us. If each one took twenty minutes, and the woman came back by twelve-twenty, then we would definitely get a chance to give her our paperwork. I felt bad—but also a little smug—about the people who were showing up just now. They had no chance of getting into her office before two, when she would close for the day. The woman came back from lunch at about twelve-fifteen and we were back in business. One appointment before ours lasted only five minutes. When we were finally next in line, I told Patra that I had been getting nervous, but at least now we had nothing to worry about. No coming back to Puerto for us!
We entered the caseworker’s office, sat down. I pulled out my application form and handed it to her. She looked over it for a few moments, then said, “You live in Arcos?” I confirmed this, thinking maybe she would say something about how beautiful the town is. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t process your papers. You have to go to the office in Cádiz.” I felt slightly comforted by the fact that she used the phrase “Lo siento” for us. This is taught to Americans as the equivalent for “I’m sorry,” but it’s much stronger than the casual way we sometimes use our own apologetic phrase, much more full of regret. At least, I thought, she wasn’t just a jerk.
Patra and I left the office. We’d waited for over two hours just to be turned away. What’s more, we hadn’t been aware that there would be any division between who has to get their cards processed in Cádiz or Puerto.
At least, we agreed, it was a beautiful day. And we were exploring a new town, albeit what we saw the most of was the inside of a government office. Walking past a fruit store, Patra stopped in for a pomegranate to cheer herself up. My consolation was the ocean. It was easy enough to find, just a few blocks from the immigration office. Past hibiscus bushes and dunes, we came upon a wide expanse of beach. We rolled up our pants and took off our shoes and felt the sand give way beneath our toes. We wandered to the water’s edge and waded in. As soon as the first wave slide over my feet, I felt completely rejuvenated. So the day didn’t go as we had planned. So we will have to go to Cádiz next Friday, our last possible day to register for our residency cards. None of that mattered when I realized that I am alive, I am living in Spain, and the ocean is just forty-five minutes away from my cliff-top town. The day once again became dreamlike, and this time it wasn’t interrupted.
(My feet in the Atlantic! At last!)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Rock, paper, scissors, bing-bong fuera!
Thursday, my first gym class with the second-graders. I am amazed at how often children fall down. Running seems to be a generally new concept for these seven-year-olds. Tag becomes a violent sport, though the contact involved is between victim and asphalt below. Knees are scuffed, hands scraped, and yet the children get back up with smiles even larger than before they fell.
After tag is rock-paper-scissors, which the gym teacher tells me is good for working their arm muscles (in Spain you hide your hand behind your back, then punch it forward). I learn the Spanish words--Piedra-papel-tijera, bing-bong-fuera!--and teach the children the English words. First I teach a group of four children. Then four more add themselves on. Then a few more, and a few more, until I have a circle of twenty-five children around me, the rock-hands pounding the scissor-hands, the scissor-hands chopping at the paper-hands, the paper-hands grabbing the rock-hands, and the fire-hands incinerating them all. Fabulous chaos ensues. It is the happiest classroom moment I´ve yet had.
After tag is rock-paper-scissors, which the gym teacher tells me is good for working their arm muscles (in Spain you hide your hand behind your back, then punch it forward). I learn the Spanish words--Piedra-papel-tijera, bing-bong-fuera!--and teach the children the English words. First I teach a group of four children. Then four more add themselves on. Then a few more, and a few more, until I have a circle of twenty-five children around me, the rock-hands pounding the scissor-hands, the scissor-hands chopping at the paper-hands, the paper-hands grabbing the rock-hands, and the fire-hands incinerating them all. Fabulous chaos ensues. It is the happiest classroom moment I´ve yet had.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Se llama copla
Apologies to those fans of American Idol, but I´ve never counted myself amongst your ranks. I think AI, and most of its international doppelganagers, encourages spectacularly crappy singing and gives untold masses inflated hopes about their own blah voices. Admittedly, some of the contestants over the years have been good, but what´s the point of adding one more wailing voice to the overly electronic and uninspired music that is so popular today?
That being said, I love the Andalusian version,"Se llama copla" (copla being the word for traditional flamenco songs). The contestants are given a flamenco song every week to work on, and perform it complete with frilly dresses, flamenco hand movements, and voices that waver so much I expect them to actually burst out in tears at any moment. And after each one sings, the other contestants stand to applaud and stamp out a flamenco beat perfectly in unison with each other.
The fun part is that, "Se llama copla" being specifically Andalusian, small towns have taken on contestants as their personal cause. In Arcos, I have seen several window signs promoting a female contestant named Rocío and reminding passersby to vote for her on Saturday nights. In Puerto de Santa María, a town on the ocean, the signs are all for Nico. I can only imagine a Minnesotan version in which St. Paul would back Sven, Duluth would fight for Lena. But what would they sing?
In one of our orientation sessions about Spanish culture, the instructor talked about different understandings of time. In the United States, we reward innovation, always look toward and plan for the future. Spaniards, in general, concentrate more on the past, on keeping alive traditions and remembering roots. Therefore, the contestants on "Se llama copla," all of them in their mid- to late-twenties, are familiar with and already love the flamenco songs with which they´re presented every week. I must admit, I am jealous of their heritage, jealous of traditions that date back centuries. Meanwhile, on American Idol, contestants sing "classics" from the 1980s...
That being said, I love the Andalusian version,"Se llama copla" (copla being the word for traditional flamenco songs). The contestants are given a flamenco song every week to work on, and perform it complete with frilly dresses, flamenco hand movements, and voices that waver so much I expect them to actually burst out in tears at any moment. And after each one sings, the other contestants stand to applaud and stamp out a flamenco beat perfectly in unison with each other.
The fun part is that, "Se llama copla" being specifically Andalusian, small towns have taken on contestants as their personal cause. In Arcos, I have seen several window signs promoting a female contestant named Rocío and reminding passersby to vote for her on Saturday nights. In Puerto de Santa María, a town on the ocean, the signs are all for Nico. I can only imagine a Minnesotan version in which St. Paul would back Sven, Duluth would fight for Lena. But what would they sing?
In one of our orientation sessions about Spanish culture, the instructor talked about different understandings of time. In the United States, we reward innovation, always look toward and plan for the future. Spaniards, in general, concentrate more on the past, on keeping alive traditions and remembering roots. Therefore, the contestants on "Se llama copla," all of them in their mid- to late-twenties, are familiar with and already love the flamenco songs with which they´re presented every week. I must admit, I am jealous of their heritage, jealous of traditions that date back centuries. Meanwhile, on American Idol, contestants sing "classics" from the 1980s...
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
And we named them and it was...good?
The sixth grade English teacher and I decided to rename the children. For all the Franciscos, Antonios, and Mari-Carmens, we chose good, solid, English names. "Frank, Anthony, Mary," we wrote, crossing off their names in the attendance book.
Presenting the names in class, however, led to mixed results. Some of the children beamed at their new names (especially, I must say with pride, the girl who became Jennifer); others made faces when I told them how their new names were spelled (Sergio, who became Sean, was confused at how S-e sounded like S-h...I shrugged my shoulders). I chose the name "Hannah" for the Fátima in each of the sixth grade classes, thinking the vowels, at least, were similar. I doubted the children would be familiar with the name, showing my ignorance for the widespread effects of popular current American culture. As soon as I spoke the name Hannah, children in both classes erupted with cries of "Montana! Hannah Montana! Hannnnnnah Montannnnnna!!!!!!" (If you don´t know who that is, consider yourself lucky). The two Fátimas, both somewhat shy, blushed with the attention. I hoped they at least were Hannah Montana fans.
A José in one of the classes became Josh, since we already had a Joseph (José María) and a Joe (José Juan). This time there were yells of "Josh Bush! Josh Bush!" With a Spanish accent, Josh and George do indeed sound pretty much the same. While trying to explain that the two names sound very different to English speakers, I did at least feel glad that the Spanish children were aware of Americans other than a teenaged Disney star.*
Meanwhile, my own name constantly confuses well-meaning Spaniards. The most common pronunciation is something like "Chain-a" or "Chen-a" (really not too far off). In flamenco class, however, one woman decided that my name is "Sana" because that was easier than what I was trying to tell her. Perhaps I will revert back to the name I was given in my second-grade Spanish class. From now on, I´ll tell everyone to call me Juanita. Juanita Lafín.
*I can´t say I´m any better at being culturally aware. While Barack Obama makes the evening news in Spain for campaigning in red states, I am just now learning the names of the Spanish president and Spanish celebrities. Although I scored points with the sixth-graders for telling them my favorite soccer team is Real Madrid (the only Spanish team I could think of), I had to go with David Beckham when they asked me my favorite player. Well, he used to play for Real Madrid...
Presenting the names in class, however, led to mixed results. Some of the children beamed at their new names (especially, I must say with pride, the girl who became Jennifer); others made faces when I told them how their new names were spelled (Sergio, who became Sean, was confused at how S-e sounded like S-h...I shrugged my shoulders). I chose the name "Hannah" for the Fátima in each of the sixth grade classes, thinking the vowels, at least, were similar. I doubted the children would be familiar with the name, showing my ignorance for the widespread effects of popular current American culture. As soon as I spoke the name Hannah, children in both classes erupted with cries of "Montana! Hannah Montana! Hannnnnnah Montannnnnna!!!!!!" (If you don´t know who that is, consider yourself lucky). The two Fátimas, both somewhat shy, blushed with the attention. I hoped they at least were Hannah Montana fans.
A José in one of the classes became Josh, since we already had a Joseph (José María) and a Joe (José Juan). This time there were yells of "Josh Bush! Josh Bush!" With a Spanish accent, Josh and George do indeed sound pretty much the same. While trying to explain that the two names sound very different to English speakers, I did at least feel glad that the Spanish children were aware of Americans other than a teenaged Disney star.*
Meanwhile, my own name constantly confuses well-meaning Spaniards. The most common pronunciation is something like "Chain-a" or "Chen-a" (really not too far off). In flamenco class, however, one woman decided that my name is "Sana" because that was easier than what I was trying to tell her. Perhaps I will revert back to the name I was given in my second-grade Spanish class. From now on, I´ll tell everyone to call me Juanita. Juanita Lafín.
*I can´t say I´m any better at being culturally aware. While Barack Obama makes the evening news in Spain for campaigning in red states, I am just now learning the names of the Spanish president and Spanish celebrities. Although I scored points with the sixth-graders for telling them my favorite soccer team is Real Madrid (the only Spanish team I could think of), I had to go with David Beckham when they asked me my favorite player. Well, he used to play for Real Madrid...
Monday, October 13, 2008
Closed Mondays
My dad often wears a T-shirt from the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (or is it the Walker, Dad?), the front of which says simply, "Closed Mondays." This is true of the MIA, that it is closed on Mondays, but people often assume this to be a personal slogan of my father´s. They nod their heads in agreement, say "Totally, Dude, me too," give him the thumbs-up.
The T-shirt would be very appropriate in Arcos. Okay, I understand the Spaniards like their siestas and thus everything is closed between about 2 and 5 pm. I don´t mind a little afternoon downtime either. And I understand that Spain is historically very Catholic and thus everything is closed on Sundays. That´s all right, I can prepare for the upcoming school-week on Sundays. But I get hungry by Monday! On Mondays I want to start the week off with fresh vegetables and a new loaf of bread! The supermarkets simply shrug their shoulders. "Eh," they say, "Come back Tuesday."
The T-shirt would be very appropriate in Arcos. Okay, I understand the Spaniards like their siestas and thus everything is closed between about 2 and 5 pm. I don´t mind a little afternoon downtime either. And I understand that Spain is historically very Catholic and thus everything is closed on Sundays. That´s all right, I can prepare for the upcoming school-week on Sundays. But I get hungry by Monday! On Mondays I want to start the week off with fresh vegetables and a new loaf of bread! The supermarkets simply shrug their shoulders. "Eh," they say, "Come back Tuesday."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Green grapes
I was eating grapes for breakfast this morning. They were incredible, much better than any grapes I´ve ever had in the US--juicier, sweet like plums, yet still obviously grape-like. They also have seeds.
This led me to a question: Are the grapes in Spain simply superior, or are they better because they have seeds? And then: What do we sacrifice in the United States for the sake of efficiency?
This led me to a question: Are the grapes in Spain simply superior, or are they better because they have seeds? And then: What do we sacrifice in the United States for the sake of efficiency?
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Rain, Dance
Yesterday I went grocery shopping in Barrio Bajo (Lower Neighborhood, ie, downhill from my apartment on the cliff). I got lost coming home, the advantage of living on a cliff, however, is that as long as I was walking upfill I knew I was pretty much going in the right direction.
The disadvantage of living on a cliff becomes apparent during rainstorms. When it rains lightly, the stones in the paths become slick and dangerous. When there´s a downpour, like today, the town turns into a whitewater-rafting course.
Patra and I discovered this as we tried to navigate our way to the bus station. We were determined to get to Jerez de la Frontera, a near-by town, to try out a flamenco class, and thus we set out with one raincoat (mine) and one umbrella (hers). Almost immediately my feet were completely soaked, due in no small part to the small river that rushed past our front door. We were to find--and cross--several more rivers speeding downhill, shooting around corners, spraying off of the tops of buildings. Only when we were just over halfway to the bus station (normally about a twenty-minute walk) did we remember we could have taken a taxi. Ah well, we thought, on with the adventure.
When we were just two blocks from the bus station, albeit two blocks uphill, we came to a flume (formerly a street) with mud at least six inches deep coursing its way downhill. Patra and I looked down at our shoes. We did not want to cross here. We skirted the river down along the sidewalk, looking for a shallower and narrower place to ford. Some of the mud-river spilled onto the sidewalk and sprayed up in fountains when it met with streetlights. A few frantic Spaniards were tipping an old picnic table own to fend off the muddy water from flooding their store.
Finally we found a spot where the river was only two or three feet wide and went for it. Luckily, neither of us slipped or splashed a large stream of mud up onto ourselves. We made it to the bus station with a few minues to spare, and began wringing out our sopping clothing as disapproving Spaniards looked on ("Why didn´t you drive?" they asked, and, "Why did you walk in such a storm?")
It was not raining in Jerez, though we saw acres of flooded fields on the way. We looked for dry clothes to buy for our flamenco lesson, but there are a few trends in Spanish fashion that we are not yet used to (more on that later), and we didn´t find anything quite right.
The flamenco class was in a lovely studio owned by a man named Antonio, nicknamed Ël Pipa,¨who has festooned the place with posters and larger-than-life still shots from performances he´s done. At noon, when the class started, there were five of us; Patra and I were hopeful that Antonio would make the class a little easier, knowing that two-fifths of it was just beginning. As we started the warm-up--balletic arm-movements and the classic flamenco hand-movement known as "la flor," or "the flower"--two more women came in with a nie- or ten-year-old boy, who I assumed was just a son accompanying his mother for lack of anything better to do. They all went off to change and were soon back. Antonio nodded, and gestured toward the little boy, Cristian. Cristian came to the middle of the room and continued the warm-up while Antonio looked on.
Shit. This kid was good. As was everyone else around us.
I began to realize HOW good when we started the footwork. Imagine how fast you could possibly make your feet go, then speed that up, oh I don´t know, a hundred times. That´s what we were contending with, trying to learn from. It was almost impossible to learn the steps by watching anyone´s feet because they were moving too fast. Patra and I fumbled around for the next hour and a half, picking up only the parts that didn´t deal with moving our feet. At the end, Antonio "El Pipa" came over to tell us that he thought we´d had a good class. This assessment was based mainly on the fact that at no point during the two hours had we sat down. I guess that´s good (the most important part of learning something is the magnitude of one´s desire to learn?) but I´m still not sure if that means I learned anything.
As I rode the bus back to Arcos I imagined one of those montages that occur in just about every movie ever made about sports, where the protagonist (or team under the coaching of the protagonist) starts out miserably, unable to catch the football or winded after a lap around the field. Then come the shots of practices after dark, rehearsals with bloodied limbs, running in the rain, always looking determined.
I guess, in our montage, we´ve already got the rain scene.
The disadvantage of living on a cliff becomes apparent during rainstorms. When it rains lightly, the stones in the paths become slick and dangerous. When there´s a downpour, like today, the town turns into a whitewater-rafting course.
Patra and I discovered this as we tried to navigate our way to the bus station. We were determined to get to Jerez de la Frontera, a near-by town, to try out a flamenco class, and thus we set out with one raincoat (mine) and one umbrella (hers). Almost immediately my feet were completely soaked, due in no small part to the small river that rushed past our front door. We were to find--and cross--several more rivers speeding downhill, shooting around corners, spraying off of the tops of buildings. Only when we were just over halfway to the bus station (normally about a twenty-minute walk) did we remember we could have taken a taxi. Ah well, we thought, on with the adventure.
When we were just two blocks from the bus station, albeit two blocks uphill, we came to a flume (formerly a street) with mud at least six inches deep coursing its way downhill. Patra and I looked down at our shoes. We did not want to cross here. We skirted the river down along the sidewalk, looking for a shallower and narrower place to ford. Some of the mud-river spilled onto the sidewalk and sprayed up in fountains when it met with streetlights. A few frantic Spaniards were tipping an old picnic table own to fend off the muddy water from flooding their store.
Finally we found a spot where the river was only two or three feet wide and went for it. Luckily, neither of us slipped or splashed a large stream of mud up onto ourselves. We made it to the bus station with a few minues to spare, and began wringing out our sopping clothing as disapproving Spaniards looked on ("Why didn´t you drive?" they asked, and, "Why did you walk in such a storm?")
It was not raining in Jerez, though we saw acres of flooded fields on the way. We looked for dry clothes to buy for our flamenco lesson, but there are a few trends in Spanish fashion that we are not yet used to (more on that later), and we didn´t find anything quite right.
The flamenco class was in a lovely studio owned by a man named Antonio, nicknamed Ël Pipa,¨who has festooned the place with posters and larger-than-life still shots from performances he´s done. At noon, when the class started, there were five of us; Patra and I were hopeful that Antonio would make the class a little easier, knowing that two-fifths of it was just beginning. As we started the warm-up--balletic arm-movements and the classic flamenco hand-movement known as "la flor," or "the flower"--two more women came in with a nie- or ten-year-old boy, who I assumed was just a son accompanying his mother for lack of anything better to do. They all went off to change and were soon back. Antonio nodded, and gestured toward the little boy, Cristian. Cristian came to the middle of the room and continued the warm-up while Antonio looked on.
Shit. This kid was good. As was everyone else around us.
I began to realize HOW good when we started the footwork. Imagine how fast you could possibly make your feet go, then speed that up, oh I don´t know, a hundred times. That´s what we were contending with, trying to learn from. It was almost impossible to learn the steps by watching anyone´s feet because they were moving too fast. Patra and I fumbled around for the next hour and a half, picking up only the parts that didn´t deal with moving our feet. At the end, Antonio "El Pipa" came over to tell us that he thought we´d had a good class. This assessment was based mainly on the fact that at no point during the two hours had we sat down. I guess that´s good (the most important part of learning something is the magnitude of one´s desire to learn?) but I´m still not sure if that means I learned anything.
As I rode the bus back to Arcos I imagined one of those montages that occur in just about every movie ever made about sports, where the protagonist (or team under the coaching of the protagonist) starts out miserably, unable to catch the football or winded after a lap around the field. Then come the shots of practices after dark, rehearsals with bloodied limbs, running in the rain, always looking determined.
I guess, in our montage, we´ve already got the rain scene.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Spain Day
The Spanish love their holidays.
Today as I walked home from school, I heard music coming from the Plaza del Cabildo, one of the best look-out spots in town. I wandered up that way to find women dancing flamenco, free wine and tapas in tented booths, and antique cars around the perimeter. While sampling the free wine and storing away free fruit for later, I found out that today is "Tourism Day" in Arcos. I might have seen a few tourists, but the majority of the people in the plaza seemed to be Arcenses (the demonym for people of Arcos), all chattering, butting each other out of the way for the food, dancing in the center whether or not they were in full flamenco regalia.
Now I have a four-day weekend, already having every Friday off from school. On Monday, Spain celebrates Spain Day and therefore none of the schools or businesses will be open (as far as I can tell). I can´t wait to see what Arcos comes up with for THAT celebration.
Today as I walked home from school, I heard music coming from the Plaza del Cabildo, one of the best look-out spots in town. I wandered up that way to find women dancing flamenco, free wine and tapas in tented booths, and antique cars around the perimeter. While sampling the free wine and storing away free fruit for later, I found out that today is "Tourism Day" in Arcos. I might have seen a few tourists, but the majority of the people in the plaza seemed to be Arcenses (the demonym for people of Arcos), all chattering, butting each other out of the way for the food, dancing in the center whether or not they were in full flamenco regalia.
Now I have a four-day weekend, already having every Friday off from school. On Monday, Spain celebrates Spain Day and therefore none of the schools or businesses will be open (as far as I can tell). I can´t wait to see what Arcos comes up with for THAT celebration.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The British are coming!
During orientation in Sevilla, there was one session in which a Spanish woman told us to “be careful with your American words.” The Spanish prefer their English learning to be done in the Royal British tradition, which I say is complete bollocks. Today at school I realized more than ever the difference between American and British English.
My sixth grade English classes were working on school subjects and school utensils. Lola, the teacher, encouraged the children to shout out vocabulary they already knew to get them started. For school subjects, the children said: “English! History! Maths!” I thought Lola would correct them, but she wrote that plural up on that board like it was completely normal. I wondered if I should say something, and then I saw that their book also had it written as a plural. I held my tongue. I guess “mathematics” is plural, so why not the shortened form? Well, because it sounds ridiculous.
Then we moved on to utensils. Again: “Pen! Book! Pencil! Book! Rubber!” That one made me cringe. Sure, these kids probably won’t travel to the United States any time soon and ask for an eraser in the stores, but if they did they would get some VERY weird looks.
So we know vocabulary is different. Not a huge deal. But then at the break time, I was in the teacher’s lounge talking to a woman named Inma who has a very strong British accent. Her English is so good I was lured into thinking she actually was British until later, when she launched into a rapid Spanish conversation with coworkers. She asked me about my education and I told her I “majored in English.” She looked completely lost. I explained that a major is like a concentration, specialization, main area of study, whatever. She nodded, but still looked very concerned.
“I just don’t understand,” she said, “why you would study English. Where is the job in that?” She looked extremely flustered.
“Well, for instance, I’m, you know, teaching English. This year.” I hoped that would make some sense to her, but it didn’t.
“But afterward?”
“My concentration was in Creative Writing…”
She finally looked relieved. “Ah, so you’ll be a journalist or something like that.”
“…Yes. Yes. I want to be a journalist.” I left it at that.
I forget sometimes how uncommon the American system of liberal arts universities is. I felt grateful, though, that we are not required to decide what we want to do with the rest of our lives when we are only 12 or 14 or even 16. Hurrah for the American allegiance to a lifetime of being noncommittal! If I’d had to choose a career when I was in elementary school, perhaps I would have chosen to be a maths teacher. And, in other countries, that’s not something you can just rubber out.
My sixth grade English classes were working on school subjects and school utensils. Lola, the teacher, encouraged the children to shout out vocabulary they already knew to get them started. For school subjects, the children said: “English! History! Maths!” I thought Lola would correct them, but she wrote that plural up on that board like it was completely normal. I wondered if I should say something, and then I saw that their book also had it written as a plural. I held my tongue. I guess “mathematics” is plural, so why not the shortened form? Well, because it sounds ridiculous.
Then we moved on to utensils. Again: “Pen! Book! Pencil! Book! Rubber!” That one made me cringe. Sure, these kids probably won’t travel to the United States any time soon and ask for an eraser in the stores, but if they did they would get some VERY weird looks.
So we know vocabulary is different. Not a huge deal. But then at the break time, I was in the teacher’s lounge talking to a woman named Inma who has a very strong British accent. Her English is so good I was lured into thinking she actually was British until later, when she launched into a rapid Spanish conversation with coworkers. She asked me about my education and I told her I “majored in English.” She looked completely lost. I explained that a major is like a concentration, specialization, main area of study, whatever. She nodded, but still looked very concerned.
“I just don’t understand,” she said, “why you would study English. Where is the job in that?” She looked extremely flustered.
“Well, for instance, I’m, you know, teaching English. This year.” I hoped that would make some sense to her, but it didn’t.
“But afterward?”
“My concentration was in Creative Writing…”
She finally looked relieved. “Ah, so you’ll be a journalist or something like that.”
“…Yes. Yes. I want to be a journalist.” I left it at that.
I forget sometimes how uncommon the American system of liberal arts universities is. I felt grateful, though, that we are not required to decide what we want to do with the rest of our lives when we are only 12 or 14 or even 16. Hurrah for the American allegiance to a lifetime of being noncommittal! If I’d had to choose a career when I was in elementary school, perhaps I would have chosen to be a maths teacher. And, in other countries, that’s not something you can just rubber out.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Primeras las guapas
I have become slightly more accustomed to Spanish catcalls. Now that I’m living in Arcos, however, I often think to myself “I might be your son’s/niece’s/friend’s schoolteacher” when someone makes a comment in the street. Not that the comments are particularly rude. Usually they consist solely of the word “guapa” (pretty girl) or slight variations (I heard “guapaguapaguapaguapaguapa” the other day).
In school today, I noted that the boys might be conditioned from a very early age. As it was my first day, I came into classes and introduced myself, and then the children asked me questions that they’d been practicing.
In a fifth grade class:
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Jenna.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“My favorite color is green.”
And then, from a little boy in the back:
“What’s your telephone number?”
“Uh….”
I said it anyway to them practice with hearing how numbers are pronounced. At least a few wrote it down.
In a sixth grade class, I entered the room, told them my name was Jenna, and a little boy shouted out “Jenna, princesa!” There were many questions of the “What’s your favorite….” variety. Nothing too scandalous. One boy did ask me if I was married, though. At the end of the class, he came over to me, shook my hand, and said, “Pleased to meet you” while batting his eyes. 22 is a little old for a 12-year-old, buddy.
All in all, though, it was a great first day. I loved the students and my coworkers are extremely friendly. I was feeling totally happy as I walked home from the school, hardly noticing anyone else passing in the street. As I was walking up a tiny sidewalk, a man on a motorcycle was coming down and had to stop to let me by. I smiled at him in thanks and he replied, “Primeras las guapas.” The English equivalent might be “Ladies first,” though usually that isn’t used in a salacious tone. I suppose “Beauties first” is a more accurate translation. But hey, if it means I get right-of-way on the sidewalk, or a few more boys will pay attention in class, I guess I’m okay with that.
In school today, I noted that the boys might be conditioned from a very early age. As it was my first day, I came into classes and introduced myself, and then the children asked me questions that they’d been practicing.
In a fifth grade class:
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Jenna.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“My favorite color is green.”
And then, from a little boy in the back:
“What’s your telephone number?”
“Uh….”
I said it anyway to them practice with hearing how numbers are pronounced. At least a few wrote it down.
In a sixth grade class, I entered the room, told them my name was Jenna, and a little boy shouted out “Jenna, princesa!” There were many questions of the “What’s your favorite….” variety. Nothing too scandalous. One boy did ask me if I was married, though. At the end of the class, he came over to me, shook my hand, and said, “Pleased to meet you” while batting his eyes. 22 is a little old for a 12-year-old, buddy.
All in all, though, it was a great first day. I loved the students and my coworkers are extremely friendly. I was feeling totally happy as I walked home from the school, hardly noticing anyone else passing in the street. As I was walking up a tiny sidewalk, a man on a motorcycle was coming down and had to stop to let me by. I smiled at him in thanks and he replied, “Primeras las guapas.” The English equivalent might be “Ladies first,” though usually that isn’t used in a salacious tone. I suppose “Beauties first” is a more accurate translation. But hey, if it means I get right-of-way on the sidewalk, or a few more boys will pay attention in class, I guess I’m okay with that.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
In the street of the vaults
The problem with having built up such a romanticized notion of Arcos before coming is not only that I seek out quintessential—or perhaps stereotypical—Spanish places and experiences, but that the town so eagerly provides (the motto of Arcos, in fact, is something like “Where dreams become reality”). I say this is a problem because, when it comes to apartments, my roommate Patra and I were looking for something very specific. We didn’t just want an apartment, no. You can live in an apartment anywhere. We wanted an apartment building with plants in the entryway, azulejo tile up the stairs, a beautiful view, and a neighborhood that would remind us every day that we were somewhere different. No matter if our daily walk to school is thirty to forty minutes long and definitely uphill both ways.
The moment we walked into the apartment on Calle Bóvedas, we immediately felt at home. There were plants, tile, a family on the first floor with a little white dog named Blanquito, a red roof-top terrace with a stunning view of the lake, mountains, and bell towers of Arcos’ cathedrals. Our apartment has floor to ceiling windows, barred in by distinctly Spain ironwork and uniquely vaulted ceilings that I’m sure my architect dad will appreciate (I’ll send you a picture soon, Dad!)
The benefit of living in a smallish town is that we saw the apartment, went to see another few, and decided that we were happiest with the first. By the time we’d made our decision, Angela, the woman who’d shown us the first apartment, had left her home (which she also showed us). We talked to her son briefly, who gave us Angela's number on a piece of paper from a pad distributed by Viagra. Then we wandered back into town to get something to eat and happened to run into Angela on the way. We pretty much made our deal there, in the middle of the street, next to a cathedral several hundred years old.
Today we met with Antonio, Angela’s husband and our landlord, to sign the contract. He seemed to be delighted by the fact that Patra has dark hair and I have light hair, calling us “la luna y el sol” (sun and the moon) and “la rubia y la morena” (the blonde and the brunette, more or less). Then he proceeded to discuss our marital prospects for the next hour or so (including his disappointment that his son was already engaged, thus making him unavailable to us) before finally letting us start to move things in.
But now it’s ours for the next eight months, our own beautiful piece of Spanish architecture, a home that is both our dream and our reality.
The moment we walked into the apartment on Calle Bóvedas, we immediately felt at home. There were plants, tile, a family on the first floor with a little white dog named Blanquito, a red roof-top terrace with a stunning view of the lake, mountains, and bell towers of Arcos’ cathedrals. Our apartment has floor to ceiling windows, barred in by distinctly Spain ironwork and uniquely vaulted ceilings that I’m sure my architect dad will appreciate (I’ll send you a picture soon, Dad!)
The benefit of living in a smallish town is that we saw the apartment, went to see another few, and decided that we were happiest with the first. By the time we’d made our decision, Angela, the woman who’d shown us the first apartment, had left her home (which she also showed us). We talked to her son briefly, who gave us Angela's number on a piece of paper from a pad distributed by Viagra. Then we wandered back into town to get something to eat and happened to run into Angela on the way. We pretty much made our deal there, in the middle of the street, next to a cathedral several hundred years old.
Today we met with Antonio, Angela’s husband and our landlord, to sign the contract. He seemed to be delighted by the fact that Patra has dark hair and I have light hair, calling us “la luna y el sol” (sun and the moon) and “la rubia y la morena” (the blonde and the brunette, more or less). Then he proceeded to discuss our marital prospects for the next hour or so (including his disappointment that his son was already engaged, thus making him unavailable to us) before finally letting us start to move things in.
But now it’s ours for the next eight months, our own beautiful piece of Spanish architecture, a home that is both our dream and our reality.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
I've got friends in high places
From www.casacampana.com:
“Local legend has it that Arcos de la Frontera was founded around the time of the great biblical flood and was built originally by King Briga, Noah's grandson, some 2000 years before Christ.
On the same site the Romans later founded the town of Arcobriga, a name which derives from the Latin word 'Arx-Arcis', meaning high fortress.
Following the Roman age, the Moorish period is considered the most important in the history of Arcos de la Frontera (the Moors called it Medina Ar-Kosch) during which the town was incorporated into a kingdom of Spain called the Caliphate of Córdoba.
During the 13th century the site occupied a decisive and dangerous position on the border between the Moors and the Christians, hence the suffix 'de la Frontera' ('of the Frontier'). Ferdinand III, who was then the King of León and Castille, took control of the town and changed its name from Medina Ar-Kosch to Arcos de la Frontera, a name it has kept since then.”
As you can see from this historical information, everyone wants to be in Arcos. And why do they want to be in Arcos? Because of it’s strategic location of being perched high on a cliff. And what does that mean for me? Sore leg muscles. I have yet to find a horizontal street in town. Good for defending territory against the Moors, bad for flip-flops.
“Local legend has it that Arcos de la Frontera was founded around the time of the great biblical flood and was built originally by King Briga, Noah's grandson, some 2000 years before Christ.
On the same site the Romans later founded the town of Arcobriga, a name which derives from the Latin word 'Arx-Arcis', meaning high fortress.
Following the Roman age, the Moorish period is considered the most important in the history of Arcos de la Frontera (the Moors called it Medina Ar-Kosch) during which the town was incorporated into a kingdom of Spain called the Caliphate of Córdoba.
During the 13th century the site occupied a decisive and dangerous position on the border between the Moors and the Christians, hence the suffix 'de la Frontera' ('of the Frontier'). Ferdinand III, who was then the King of León and Castille, took control of the town and changed its name from Medina Ar-Kosch to Arcos de la Frontera, a name it has kept since then.”
As you can see from this historical information, everyone wants to be in Arcos. And why do they want to be in Arcos? Because of it’s strategic location of being perched high on a cliff. And what does that mean for me? Sore leg muscles. I have yet to find a horizontal street in town. Good for defending territory against the Moors, bad for flip-flops.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Cliffhanger
I've never been on a blind date, but I felt today as though I was in the same type of situation.
I boarded a bus in Sevilla bound for Arcos and sat anxiously as the bus meandered through other small white towns on the way. First came the town of Espera, which translates to "wait" or "hope," both of which I was doing at that moment: waiting and hoping for something better. Nothing against Espera, but it's tiny and the school's playground that we passed was pretty run-down. I wouldn't want to teach kids with low morale due to rusted monkey bars. Espera did have a nice fountain, though; I'll give it that.
Next we passed through Bornos. Also white, also nestled into a hillside. Some nice horses but no castle. Once again, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be spending the next 8 months of my life there.
Which is where my metaphor somewhat falls apart. On an actual blind date you have the option of fleeing the scene when you realize the guy wearing the red rose in his lapel was once the kid who peed his pants after he was assigned to be your square dance partner. Or, if you're on the American TV show, Roger Lodge will make fun of you for a half hour, but then you're free.
Really, my situation was more of an arranged marriage. I'd seen pictures, but I hadn't yet fallen in love and was worried that perhaps I never would. That is, would I like Arco's personality? Would it be too honest or too laidback or too stuck in its ways?
To be honest, when I saw Arcos I was somewhat disappointed. The majestic view is from the south and we were arriving from the north. I'd been nourishing myself on grandiose and romanticized views of the town (fueled mainly by this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it1okjvUu0U) and the reality of its appearance just didn't seem to match up to my expectations. A problem, since I'd been going on appearance alone (like finding out Prince-Arranged-Marriage-Charming has a tooth missing when he first smiles at you--too many metaphors?) As the bus neared, I kept thinking "Maybe this isn't it? No, this is definitely it. Maybe not? No, there's the castle. This is definitely it."
The road we followed wrapped around the western side of Arcos and the more dramatic side of the cliff began to come into view (okay, so Prince-Arcos-Charming might be missing a tooth, but if you look at the right angle, you can't even tell. Actually, his teeth are pretty white...). I felt excited again.
Now I'm in Hotel Los Olivos, in a private room with a terrace that overlooks the view to the south. I can imagine the Rock of Gibraltar out there past the stretches of windmills, and Morocco just beyond that. The breeze blows Mediterranean sea salt through my hair. I'm beginning to think I could love this place, even with any flaws I may soon find. Or maybe it will really be perfect, as the guidebooks advertise.
Maybe I'll find out my Prince Arcos-de-la-Frontera is great at talking about his feelings.
The view from my hotel room's terrace
I boarded a bus in Sevilla bound for Arcos and sat anxiously as the bus meandered through other small white towns on the way. First came the town of Espera, which translates to "wait" or "hope," both of which I was doing at that moment: waiting and hoping for something better. Nothing against Espera, but it's tiny and the school's playground that we passed was pretty run-down. I wouldn't want to teach kids with low morale due to rusted monkey bars. Espera did have a nice fountain, though; I'll give it that.
Next we passed through Bornos. Also white, also nestled into a hillside. Some nice horses but no castle. Once again, I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be spending the next 8 months of my life there.
Which is where my metaphor somewhat falls apart. On an actual blind date you have the option of fleeing the scene when you realize the guy wearing the red rose in his lapel was once the kid who peed his pants after he was assigned to be your square dance partner. Or, if you're on the American TV show, Roger Lodge will make fun of you for a half hour, but then you're free.
Really, my situation was more of an arranged marriage. I'd seen pictures, but I hadn't yet fallen in love and was worried that perhaps I never would. That is, would I like Arco's personality? Would it be too honest or too laidback or too stuck in its ways?
To be honest, when I saw Arcos I was somewhat disappointed. The majestic view is from the south and we were arriving from the north. I'd been nourishing myself on grandiose and romanticized views of the town (fueled mainly by this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it1okjvUu0U) and the reality of its appearance just didn't seem to match up to my expectations. A problem, since I'd been going on appearance alone (like finding out Prince-Arranged-Marriage-Charming has a tooth missing when he first smiles at you--too many metaphors?) As the bus neared, I kept thinking "Maybe this isn't it? No, this is definitely it. Maybe not? No, there's the castle. This is definitely it."
The road we followed wrapped around the western side of Arcos and the more dramatic side of the cliff began to come into view (okay, so Prince-Arcos-Charming might be missing a tooth, but if you look at the right angle, you can't even tell. Actually, his teeth are pretty white...). I felt excited again.
Now I'm in Hotel Los Olivos, in a private room with a terrace that overlooks the view to the south. I can imagine the Rock of Gibraltar out there past the stretches of windmills, and Morocco just beyond that. The breeze blows Mediterranean sea salt through my hair. I'm beginning to think I could love this place, even with any flaws I may soon find. Or maybe it will really be perfect, as the guidebooks advertise.
Maybe I'll find out my Prince Arcos-de-la-Frontera is great at talking about his feelings.
The view from my hotel room's terrace
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Goodbye to Sevilla
1. At dinner tonight we learned that the horn players and drummers from the other night actually were practicing for Semana Santa. Apparently, they start practicing when they are very young, and then THEY JUST DON’T STOP. Ever.
2. Also at dinner, we asked for tap water to drink. I hadn't known the term for this, but my friend said it was "agua de grifa." Thus, I asked the waiter for agua de grifa.
"Not here," he said, smiling a little too widely. Red flag.
"What did I just say?" I asked him (he spoke fairly good English).
"Marijuana water."
Note: The correct term is "agua de grifo."
3. The Plaza de España is muy muy bonita:
4. Mis chicas Sevillanas: Patra, Colleen, y yo
2. Also at dinner, we asked for tap water to drink. I hadn't known the term for this, but my friend said it was "agua de grifa." Thus, I asked the waiter for agua de grifa.
"Not here," he said, smiling a little too widely. Red flag.
"What did I just say?" I asked him (he spoke fairly good English).
"Marijuana water."
Note: The correct term is "agua de grifo."
3. The Plaza de España is muy muy bonita:
4. Mis chicas Sevillanas: Patra, Colleen, y yo
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Inside the fortress
Sometimes in life you encounter something very beautiful, so beautiful that you interpose a camera lens between you and the experience in front of you. Whether this captures the memory of the experience forever or negates the possibility of that experience is debatable. For me, picture taking can become frantic when every turn presents an incredible new scene, as though digital memory is more important or long lasting than sensory memory. Today, though, I couldn’t help myself; I took something like 60 pictures. For your consideration: the Alcázar of Sevilla.
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