Always the last to know...

I’m living in a haze of misunderstanding, and it’s not always due to my lack of fluency in Spanish. One of the phrases I have heard most often in my school is, “Oh, no one told you?” This has been followed with endings such as “…that we’re having a party tomorrow?” “…that we don’t have class?” “…that we don’t have school on Monday?” etc etc. Sometimes it turns out to be a nice surprise: I found out that I don’t have my weekly English conversation time with teachers tomorrow since they’re having a fish fry instead (and thus I can use the class I already planned for them for next week).

Sometimes, though, it’s more of a panic-inducing surprise, like when I went outside today to meet up with Ana, whom I assist in her first-grade English classes. Instead of Ana standing at the front of the line, Javi-the-gym-teacher was there.

“Where’s Ana?” I asked.
“Not here,” he said, shrugging (the implicit message: “no one told you?”).
“Oh…so are you doing P.E. with them now?”
“No. You are the teacher! You will do the English lesson!”
“WHAT?!”

Luckily Javi stayed with me for the whole hour, because my Spanish is definitely not good enough to control a roomful of screaming five-year-olds. The first few minutes were a little scary, though, because Javi kept asking me where different supplies were in the classroom—teacher’s book, CD for listening exercises, flashcards—and I didn’t know. But we found all these things, and soon got the kids on track (the nice thing about five-year-olds: activities need not be very difficult to keep them entertained; they spend their days counting, coloring, gluing, and singing). By the end of class we were having so much [educational] fun I almost didn’t want to leave. With all my frustration of feeling constantly out of the Spanish loop, being with the first-graders is the best reminder of why I love this place and this job so much.

Who knew eggs could be so vicious?

This is a menu from a restaurant near my apartment, Meson Don Fernando. There's Spanish on the left and English on the right to cater to tourists..once again, I doubt a native English speaker was used as an advisor. Here are some of my favorite translations:

"Table of bread with tomato"
"Cheese of sheep old man"
"Croquettes of the grandmother"
"In a mess (untidy) of pudding rice"

AND the winner:
"Attacked of fantasy of mushrooms of ham Iberian"

Note: the dishes, respectively, are a bread basket, aged sheeps' cheese, croquettes (done, I'm assuming with a recipe from someone's grandmother), something like a stir-fry, and scrambled eggs. Scrambled=attacked? I'm not sure where the fantasy comes in...

Childrens' Rights Day

Today, all the third graders of Arcos got together to celebrate "Childrens' Rights Day." This meant painting a banner (Juan Apresa's banner was painted hurriedly the day before, mainly by teachers--including yours truly), and playing games to demonstrate different rights.

Javi, the gym teacher, and I ran the Africa station. We put the kids in small groups to create Tanagram puzzles; one of the children was supposed to cover their eyes with a blindfold (which, of course, no one had) and the other children had to guide the "blind" child in putting together the puzzle. The game was pretty wack, and much more difficult than anyone had anticipated. At least, maybe, it taught the kids that they should help those less fortunate than themselves...The wackness of the game gave me plenty of time to take pictures, though. Without further ado, here are some of my adorable 3rd-graders:


Our Africa banner: I painted the two A's and the F!

One of my favorites, Alejandro in the yellow shirt; he reminds me of the mouse in Cinderella that's joins the mouse posse at the beginning of the movie

The kids join together in a big circle to sing; also, the China station

Two of my favorites in the front: Jose Manuel and Jesus (Jesus is in "the Animal" shirt)

One of my third grade classes. Adorable!

Que vistas mas bonitas...

In the absence of news, I give you views:

A view of the Arcos cliff from down near the bus station

The castle and Cathedral of Santa Maria in the background

View of the Cathedral of San Pedro from my terrace

View of the lake and mountains beyond from my terrace

Practicing my buleria steps on the terrace

Daily News and the Palace of Time

And now, dear readers, I must tell you about “Daily News” a.k.a. The Bane of My Existence for the Past Month. Basically, “Daily News” is a comedic play written in English. However, whether “Daily News” can be qualified as a play, a comedy, or written in English are all up for debate. I would say it’s none of the above.

I was introduced to this masterpiece [of idiocy and poor grammar] soon after I arrived at my school in October. At first I was excited, hearing that I would be going to a play in Jerez with the sixth-graders AND the play would be in English! However, as soon as we started explaining the plot and reading through it, I realized that the play, in a word, sucks. The following week, to my dismay, I found out the fifth-graders were going, too, so I would have to work on the play in THOSE classes as well. Just last week, as the fifth-grade teacher and I were listening to the last few scenes on the CD, she turned to me.

“This is really bad, isn’t it?” She said, shaking her head.
“Yes…it’s pretty awful. They obviously didn’t use a native speaker as an advisor.”
“And such a shame, considering how many plays they could have chosen.”
“Yeah…” (inside my head: OH MY GOD, OBVIOUSLY, AHHHHHH, I KNOW).
“Well, that’s the Spanish way. They just wrote it themselves and it turned out terribly.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t too keen on going. The other day during lunch-break, however, I was talking to the principal about it. “Well,” she said, “You could go with the sixth-graders; they’re going to the Alcazar of Jerez afterward.” My eyes lit up. “Or,” she continued, “You could go with the fifth-graders. They’re going to a…how do you say…a museum. With clocks. There are a lot of clocks! Some old…some new.” I think she could see how fast my smile faded. “Maybe you would like the Alcazar better,” she said, and I nodded with relief.

Even with the prospect of seeing another alcazar (the word for fortress; though some are more famous, like the Alcazar of Sevilla, they are prevalent throughout Andalucia), I still was a little apprehensive about the horror of sitting through “Daily News.” At least, I reminded myself, after today I would never have to hear about it again.

After a bus ride to Jerez filled with excitement (which I gauged by the amount of screaming and picture taking done by the kids), we got to the theater, which was really just a school hosting the play for several bilingual classes. We got seated and the lights went down. There was so much screaming that they waited a few extra minutes for the students to calm down before starting the play; when they realized the kids wouldn’t stop screaming, they just started the play anyway. An unexpected dance routine opened the act, which made me hopeful. Then a sign was brought out, reading “Daily New,” and I lost hope. Retrospectively, I think there was once an ‘s’ on that sign, but it fell or broke off, and they figured the Spanish schoolchildren wouldn’t know or care about the difference.

As the play went along, I found myself actually entertained. This was a mixture of enjoying random songs, dances, and fight scenes that the actors added (definitely not in the entertainment-is-low-on-my-priority-list script) and just witnessing the general ridiculousness of the play live. Permit me to give you the briefest of summaries: there are 4 characters who work at a news station. The boss, Alfie, is in love with Chloe and thus has given her the job of chief news presenter, thereby taking the job away from Rupert (described as a “talented immigrant”), who is jealous. Chaos and comedy ensue! Oh, and the fourth character? An amorphous assistant named Jack, so amorphous that the director of today’s version changed this character to Jacqueline without having to make any further changes to the play.

Afterward, the kids asked me who my favorite character was and I said Chloe, mainly because the actress was the only native English speaker (in a play where the characters all criticize Rupert for his “terrible English”—pot kettle black?) and thus she was the most natural with the dialogue. The kids all agreed and one little boy told me he was in love with her, which was unsurprising given that the actress was tall, blonde, and very pretty (a moment of vanity: one of the girls said I looked like her. I definitely do not, but maybe to a young, undiscerning Spanish girl, all American blondes look the same). Also, the actress wore a very tight dress with slits up the side and pranced around in very high heels (and—could it get any campier?—at one point she walked slo-mo across the stage with a fan blowing her hair back…and then she did it again). Consequences: At least one eleven-year-old fell in love; several Spanish teachers deemed the play “inappropriate.”

We walked through the streets of Jerez to the Alcazar, a 12th century fortress built by the ruling Muslims of the day. We saw the Mezquita (the chapel), the gardens, the Arab baths. It was a fine Alcazar, but I guess I’ve just become an Alcazar snob. After visiting the one in Sevilla, anyone would be. There was one cool part, though. The guide brought us to the front entrance of the fortress, which was, as expected, a ginormous arched opening where once a huge wooden door hung. BUT, that wasn’t the door to the exterior. No. A fairly narrow winding corridor led to the outside door. Would-be conquerors would first have to get through that door; if they used a battering ram it would run into stone just a few feet beyond the opening, and if they tried to charge in on horses afterward, the horses would be similarly smashed against stone. Defenders had plenty of opportunities to pour boiling liquids, rocks, or arrows on their heads once they were in the corridor. Also, the entire fortress and city of Jerez was surrounded by a high wall made out of local rock. This being fairly arid land, the wall blended in to its environment well, and most conquering armies wouldn’t have realized a city was there until the defenders were already well aware of their presence (and firing arrows). Thus, the Alcazar was a stronghold for many centuries.

Even for an Alcazar snob like me, I was impressed by the history we were surrounded by. I thought of those poor fifth-graders who were surrounded by…clocks. Back on the bus and leaving Jerez, though, a saw a sign for the “Museo de Relojes” (Clock Museum), and in bigger script above that, another title: “El Palacio del Tiempo.” Literal translation: The Palace of Time. Sure of their own mastery, Spaniards write plays in languages they might not fully know, and give the most grandiose of titles of the most banal of places. The truth is, it’s easy to understand why they are so proud, with all the ingenious architecture and beauty that covers the landscape, where the idea behind single door is both revolutionarily brilliant yet utterly simple in construction. If only they weren’t too proud to put on Tennessee Williams plays…

Our elections=the world's elections

No matter how you feel about the results of the elections, let me assure you that Spain (and most of the world, I believe) is ECSTATIC.

On Halloween night I speaking to a woman at a bar and as soon as she heard I was American, she immediately made sure I had voted. She said to me, "Spaniards feel like your elections are our elections. This year, there's so much excitement and hope."

On All Souls Day, I talked to a British woman, who expressed the same sentiments. "The United States, for better or worse, is still the leader of the free world; we're all looking forward to your elections," she told me. She, as well as all the Spaniards I talked to over the past week or so, were sure Obama's lead in the polls meant a definite win. With all to consider, such as the results of the past two presidential elections and possibilities of a McCain resurgence on election day, I told them not to be surprised or disappointed if things didn't turn out as they wanted or expected.

Yesterday, I arrived at school dressed in blue and white, and told my students that the day was extremely important in my country. Some of the students knew why, and knew the names of the candidates. Two of my fifth-grade boys called me over at one point to share an Obama cheer they had come up with. I finished my day in nervous anticipation of the results, which would not come until the early hours of my morning.

At 5 am I woke up suddenly, grasping desperately for my cell phone (perhaps telepathically sensing news?) Five minutes later, a friend in Minnesota called me. He had been watching the results, but told me he couldn't watch anymore. My heart, still half-asleep, was beating wildly. He couldn't watch anymore because the liquor stores were closing soon...and he had to buy champagne. I went out into our darkened living room where Erika was sleeping. I woke her to tell her the news, and we checked NYTimes on her Blackberry. McCain had just conceded the race. Patra came out into the living room, having heard our exclamations. We turned on our seventies-era TV around 6 am just as Barack Obama was walking onstage to give his acceptance speech. Straining our ears to catch his words underneath the Spanish translation, we were filled with joy. After he was done speaking, Spanish political commentators and news presenters tried hard to hide their grins as they repeated the news and showed clips of watch-parties throughout the world--Madrid, New York, Seattle, Kenya, Paris--all filled with people jumping, shouting, crying, hugging, singing, dancing.

Today, I feel proud to be an American.

The Flamenco Project

Before I left home, I got an information sheet about my school, CEIP Maestro Juan Apresa (CEIP stands for Colegio de Educacion Infantil y Primaria…I trust you can translate all those words pretty easily), including contact information and a tiny blurb about Arcos. At the bottom there was a line titled “special information;” following this designation was “This school has a flamenco project.” This, as might not surprise you, was exciting for me. But what would a “flamenco project” entail?

As it turns out, almost no one at Juan Apresa is completely sure either. Most of the teachers have little knowledge or interest in flamenco; one teacher told me she actually has a strong dislike for flamenco singing (I nodded politely, meanwhile thinking, “Are you kidding me, lady? This stuff is incredible!”) The flamenco project is basically a pet project of one teacher, Paco, whose passion happens to be all things flamenco. Paco is an elderly man—old enough, in fact, that he should be retired by Spanish regulations. He stays on at Juan Apresa simply because he enjoys teaching and because he wants to impart his love of flamenco to his students. He has set up flamenco guitar lessons after school for interested students and is teaching his fifth-graders the different categories of flamenco songs (I got overwhelmed by looking at his worksheet of classifications—there were at least forty different types of flamenco music listed).

Today, though, was a special treat. Or, at least, a special treat for Paco and me and perhaps a few of those students who are as in love with flamenco as we are. Paco invited a guitarist and singer to come perform for the fifth- and sixth- graders. I sat in the back, completely enthralled (and, at times, half-heartedly admonishing noisy students, though I doubt the look of utter joy on my face did much to intimidate them or assert my authority). The singer was a woman in her late twenties who was very beautiful as she was introducing songs, but whose face contorted with pain when she began singing. She also incorporated all the flamenco hand movements and general body language with her singing. After a half hour of Jenna-paradise, the woman announced that they were about to perform their last song. This was to be, she said, a “buleria.” She sang, she sang, and then…she danced. She got up and did the buleria steps. And I recognized them. She did the llamada, and I recognized it, the signature buleria “tiro-tan” as my dance teacher calls it, and I knew it, and the entrance and the exit…the whole sequence was familiar to me. I was beyond excited. Why? Because I am not a dancer. I am not a person who knows much about flamenco. But this was something, a small piece of the enormous puzzle of Andalusian culture that I now know how to place.

All Souls

Once again, the whole town congregated in one place today, so Patra and I naturally had to be there; this time we convinced Erika to go along. Under forbidding gray skies, the three of us made our way down from the old town, up past the new town, and into the municipal cemetery. Families were flocking through the gates with flowers in hand, or purchasing bouquets from the extensive supply being sold outside.

Inside, the space around the white tombs burst with color and noise. Hundreds of Spaniards had come to clean the headstones of their ancestors and leave red, white, purple carnations, lilies, roses. I felt a little guilty at being a tourist of sorts at this personal ceremony of remembrance, and the camera I had brought with me certainly did not come out of my bag. However, the general atmosphere seemed more joyful than sad—I saw three of my students, and they all waved at me and grinned hugely. We felt somber at the far end of the cemetery, though, where hundreds of spaces wait for bodies to fill them (caskets here, as in most of Europe, are stored aboveground). We noticed that a few of the slots had been very recently filled—as recently as October 23rd—and the families who came to visit were understandably more freshly grieving. The rain started then, and we left that quiet part of the cemetery to once again enter the bustling aisles of the dead—people pushing and praying and saying hello to neighbors and cleaning and arranging flowers. We didn’t exactly belong, but we felt lucky to be accepted as part of the mass.