Things I Will Not Miss

I leave Spain on Friday. Though I will be glad to see my family and friends again, leaving Arcos will be like ripping out a small piece of my heart. Thus, to make myself feel better, I’ve compiled a list of things I will NOT miss.

1. Having to wait for a day that is warm, sunny, and dry enough to do laundry (this day having to correspond to a day I wasn’t in school).
2. For that matter, the laundry machine and the long process of getting its door open (this involved a small silver spoon—the laundry spoon—that we used to jimmy the catch)
3. The ants that have taken over the apartment floor, coupled with the fact that I now sleep on the floor due to a broken bed-frame.
4. Relying on a small and inefficient gas tank for hot showers—and then hoping they’re not TOO hot.
5. Dubbed movies.
6. Trying to avoid bird poop while passing underneath the flying buttresses of St. Mary’s on the way to school (thereby avoiding being the object of ridicule)
7. Not understanding people a lot of the time.
8. Having a terrible internet connection.
9. The creepy guy.
10. The gray cat upstairs and how he’s always on the terrace when I’m wearing black clothes.
11. The piercing bark of the dog downstairs (and his young owner calling out “Blanky!” at all hours).
12. The construction that started just outside my window.
13. Feeling like an outsider.
14. Carrying groceries up the hill.

Um, I think that's it. Meaning that everything else currently in my life I am either slightly indifferent to or will desperately miss. Writing this list has only made me more aware of what I WILL miss. Shoot.

Wouldn't it be lovering

I've often rolled my eyes at the poor English blazoned on Spaniards' t-shirts. Then recently I noticed one t-shirt that I thought was an inadvertently clever mistake. The t-shirt says, "Think Green," in large letters and underneath it has an alternate 3 R's: reduce, refuse, recycle. I've seen the t-shirt enough times now, though, to think that "refuse" was intentional. Either way, I approve.

But I saw one sweatshirt that takes the cake in that it's so absolutely bizarre you can't even imagine what message someone was trying to get across. I wrote it down because it was impossible to remember the sequence of words. Here, I give it to you verbatim: "Ever body lovering her so we all love."

Ghetto Blaster

Speaking of carrying a radio through town, I came across a surprising translation in my pocket English-Spanish dictionary: on the English side, I found the term "Ghetto Blaster." I'm not sure how that's necessary enough in the English language to beat out other missing words (HarperCollins considers it more important than seahorse, gargoyle, and woodchuck, for instance). So never fear, when you want to quickly reference the outdated and perhaps offensive term "ghetto blaster," just turn to page 386 and find its Spanish translation, "un cassette portatil de gran tamano."

Dublin: Rethinking our Drinking

In a city where half the pedestrians you see are carrying a musical instrument, a city with four Nobel laureates thus far (impressive for its relative size) and connections to hundreds of other incredible writers, it was surprising to Hilary and me that advertising in the great city of Dublin has not lived up to the musicality or poetry it is so famous for.

We noticed this on our first night in Dublin when we went to a pub after dinner. Our Lonely Planet guide asserted that the pub, Dawson Lounge, was the smallest pub we would find in the city. Dawson Lounge itself was shooting for grander recognition, but employed Irish modesty in its slogan: "Probably the smallest pub in the world." Probably? Perched on stools in the tiny, green-carpeted pub, Hilary and I agreed that there could indeed be a smaller pub in, say, Malaysia. The owners of Dawson Lounge simply couldn't know. Better to be truthful than exaggerate your own superlative status. Still, we couldn't help but think that the word "probably" in an advertising slogan is probably not the best tactic.

The next day, while walking around the city, we ran into several small clumps of people carrying signs proclaiming, "Official dispute." Nothing surlier than the word "dispute," that's for sure. I couldn't tell you who was actually disputing, either, though it was clear they were upset over the current financial crisis. As though someone had made the choice to send the world into an economic tailspin, but would now reverse the process once they saw these sock-it-to-'em slogans: "Tax the rich, not the lower-paid," "Stop top bankers from putting their hands in our pockets," and "You do the maths" (okay, the last one was actually a sign for a bagel shop, but that UK "maths" gets me every time). It seemed as though the protesters were trying to light a fire with damp wood; if only they knew to add a spark! And change the wood.

Finally, we found a slogan both memorable and to the point: "Rethinking our drinking." This phrase is at the center of a national campaign that, unsurprisingly, encourages Irish citizens to change their habits of imbibing. Unfortunately, we didn't find any of the supporting phrases to have as much zing or memorability. And, while the website drinkaware.ie calls it a "hard-hitting campaign," we spent more time being confused than being roused to action.

After rethinking, Hilary and I decided to do some drinking; we spent an afternoon in the Guinness storehouse, which is really just a huge interactive advertisement for the drink. No slogans necessary: I was thirsty for Guinness the whole time. However, when we came to the advertising section of the tour (a history of Guinness campaigns) we were left wanting when we read what was obviously meant to be an impressive story. Two advertising executives were locked in a hotel until they came up with something stunning. After three days they emerged with one word: Genius. Hilary and I scratched our heads. Sure, "genius" is a good word for Guinness--they share so many letters! But how did it take these execs three days?

On our last full day in Dublin, Hilary and I bought ourselves green scarves before heading off to a pub ("The Bleeding Horse"--makes you thirsty for a pint, right? But of what?) We'd been excited for the upcoming rugby match since we'd checked in on Wednesday and our receptionist told us the town would be "jammers" for the game. The match was between Ireland and England and we were pumped to root green. Our spirits were only slightly dampened by a large banner proclaiming: "It's about being the best rugby team in the six nations." Why not "It's about winning!" or "It's all about Ireland"? Anything, really. Anything you could say without having to refill on breath. In any case, we made it to the Bleeding Horse, cheered Ireland on to victory, and enjoyed pints of Guinness with the crowd. Genius.

Hilary and I enjoy pints at the Guinness Gravity Bar; shamrocks were etched into the foam of these free pints!

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...

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…

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.”

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