Bring a paella

There is to be no flamenco the week after I return from Dublin because it's the "week of women;" my teacher, also a marriage counselor and advocate for abused women, is running many of the events. At flamenco tonight she read out the schedule. One event, listed as 10 am to 6pm, provoked indignant shouts from my fellow dancers. "When would we eat?!" they asked. Maria Jose, my teacher, looked up in annoyance. "I was just about to get to that." She continued reading. "This event is limited to 100 participants. All participants should bring a paella to supply the lunch-time meal." Hilary, who had accompanied me to rehearsal, and I looked at each other in surprise. 100 paellas? Seems like there will be more than enough yellow rice to go around...

It's a small town after all

My friend Hilary, who teaches English in Paris, is currently visiting me. Our worklives are similar, our homelives not. She has constant access to internet, constant access to English bookstores, constant access to foods from around the world. I: do not. I felt a little country-bumpkin as I eagerly pointed out the features of Arcos: "Here's the bakery--it's fantastic" (I bought a croissant; obviously biased, Hilary decided not to sample something her own town is renowned for, though I swear these croissants are just as good), "This is the main street...well, the street," "Here's the Italian restaurant. Italian! Can you believe it?" In truth, Arcos--at 30,000 residents--is not such a tiny town. And it has everything I need: organic vegetables, yoga, flamenco classes, a fantastic bakery and an adorable wireless cafe. Sometimes, though, it's small-town character is more obvious.

Hilary, Patra, and I had just exited the adorable wireless cafe en route to a flamenco class when we saw a familiar face: Antonio, our landlord. Although Antonio is a little crazy, spits on us unintentionally, is difficult to understand, and keeps asking about our marriage prospects (still thinking we're going to settle in Arcos indefinitely), we were glad to see him. Our shower hasn't been the most trustworthy when it comes to hot water, and we wanted to ask Antonio to check it out. After a few awkward minutes of spittle-filled communication, we reached an agreement about when Antonio would come by. We continued walking. To Patra and me, this sort of meeting is unsurprising, almost necessary for getting business done (we originally got our apartment by unintentionally running into Antonio's wife Angela in the street an hour after she'd shown it to us). To Hilary, the chance encounter was nothing short of extraordinary. "Wow," she said. "This really is a small town."

I speak their language

Not Spanish (well, I try). No, I'm becoming fluent in the language of young children. The other night I walked into my flamenco class--held in the back of a bar--and started putting on my shoes. A boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old, walked up to me and stuck out his tongue, perhaps thinking to intimidate me. I stuck my tongue back out at him. He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded in approval. He held out a piece of gum; "for me?" I asked. He nodded again. I could see the conclusion in his eyes: I'd passed his test, and thus was aptly rewarded.

I love Arcos in the springtime

In Arcos, as in most of southern Spain, there are 5 seasons: Fall from Oct-Nov; Winter from Dec-Jan; Spring from Feb-April; Summer in May, June, and Sept; and Unbearable Heat in July and August. I am lucky in that I will experience all these seasons except UH, which I designate as such only from stories of heat waves at 4 in the morning upwards of 120 degrees Fahrenheit. I am also lucky in that, being February, Patra and I have decided that spring has officially arrived.

Spring is unmistakable, though the name of the month we're in catches me by surprise (I think now of the snow storm that canceled classes at Dartmouth on Valentine's just two years ago; my Valentine's this year will be considerably warmer). The air is calm, birds and bugs have returned, laundry dries within a few hours. Laundry is, now, my way of classifying the weather: calculating variables such as cloud cover, length of daylight, strength of the sun's heat, wind force (can't be too windy; two weeks ago the wind was so strong it blew down the line I'd just hung my clothes on), moisture content in the air, likeliness of rain. Over the past few months--the winter months--laundry was an infrequent possibility. Now I sit on my terrace for hours, storks passing by overhead, bright banners of laundry drying on terraces below...yes, spring has definitely arrived.

The girl with two novios

For all those stressed about upcoming Valentine's celebrations, either lonely at the lack of a significant other or wondering just how to remind a beloved that they are truly loved, imagine how much easier things were when you were a child. When everyone in school decorated brown paper bags with red hearts and doilies, and teachers mandated that if you were to pass out any cards at all you had to have enough for everyone. Moreover, the whole question of significant others takes on different meaning through the eyes of a child.

After gym class the other day, my second-graders were lining up to go inside. Divided by an invisible barrier, the boys stayed to the front of the line discussing the merits of Real Madrid versus FC Barcelona while the girls sniffed at the kiddie-perfume they'd dabbed on to their wrists at the back of the line. As we waited for the bell to ring, Javi-the-gym-teacher reminded the kids that Valentine's was coming up. Two boys wanted to let Javi know about their girlfriend--singular (nuestra novia). Javi and I expressed shock.
"You both have the same girlfriend?"
The boys shrugged their shoulders. "Sure, why not?" They were good friends and shared many other things in their lives--juice boxes, crayons--so why not a girlfriend?
"Well, who is it?" Javi asked.
"Andrea," they said.
Javi and I went to the back of the line where Andrea was twirling her hair unsuspectingly. He asked if she knew she had two boyfriends. She said she didn't, though she seemed unfazed by the idea that two of the boys in class would have put forth the idea. Javi and I went to the front of the line again.
"Andrea says she has no boyfriend," Javi asserted to the young Romeos. They shrugged again.
"She's wrong," they said. "We are her boyfriends."

Bread Sins

"Lunch" is provided for the teachers at my school during recess. Due to the Spanish eating schedule (no food at the beginning of the day, a piece of toast with coffee at 10:00 am, a large family meal at 3 pm, and a dinner meal at 10 pm) lunch consists solely of toasted bread and hot drinks. Every school day at 11:30 am, there is a rush on the one toaster in the teachers' lounge, which is inconveniently placed in the corner of the room, on top of the microwave (to which there is a similar rush for heated milk, coffee, and water for tea).

One day last fall I decided to forgo the long wait, and buttered a piece of un-toasted bread. The looks my actions were met with were completely horrified. Bread, un-toasted? How could someone consume such filth? I might as well have been eating an uncooked piece of meat, still dripping blood (on second thought, that might have been more acceptable). After that experience I never consumed another piece of un-toasted bread, at least not while anyone was looking.

Yesterday I stayed at school after lunch to plan a lesson and avoid the rainstorm outside. The butter, jelly, and pate that are offered as toppings for toast had all been put away in the refrigerator, but the bread was still out. I placed a slice in the toaster. When it was done I didn't want to be a nuisance and dirty up a just-washed knife, so I began to munch away on my piece of toast. Once again: looks of horror. "Why are you eating a piece of dry toast?!" cried one teacher, while another quickly assured me that there was still butter and jelly available (implying: for the love of God, just put something on your bread!) I sighed and walked to the fridge.

In the future, I will remember to prepare my bread properly or face the consequences. I can only imagine what must be said about me: "that foreign girl, wherever she's from, sure is a weird one. You'll never guess what she was eating today!"

The flamenco affair

I've been attending a flamenco class since October in "bulerias," a class that's more of a gossip session for elderly women in town than one dedicated to learning flamenco. We've been doing the same 30-second routine since, well, October. Thus, when Patra and I saw a notice for a new flamenco class in town, we jumped at the chance to learn some new steps. This class focuses on "tangos" (which has nothing to do with the Argentinian partner dance). And, since the tangos class is Monday/Wednesday and my bulerias class is Tuesdays/Thursday, I thought it wouldn't hurt anyone to do both at once.

In my bulerias class this evening, I had my shoes on already and decided to practice a step from the tangos class during a break (the bulerias class is ostensibly 6-8, though we start around 6:15 at the earliest, take at least one 10-minute smoke break, and rarely get out later than 7:45). My teacher saw me do a small turn and called out "Shenna! Where'd you learn that?" Caught! Cheating! So I sort of shrugged my shoulders and feigned innocence. "Oh," she rationalized, "your friend [Patra] must have taught it to you. No?" To which I said, "ummm...si!" I didn't want her to know I'd been seeing someone else...