Bilbao, Spain

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I realized I haven't given any updates about where I'm heading in two months, but there are several!

As I mentioned before, I was accepted to be an English Language Assistant (Auxiliar de Conversación)  through the Spanish Ministry of Education, back in May. About a month later I found out my exact placement would be in a middle school in my first-choice city, Bilbao! The city doesn't ring a bell for many people the way Madrid or Barcelona does (although with the addition of the Guggenheim Museum, it's becoming more well-known), but Bilbao is actually the biggest city in all of Basque Country. It's funny: my Lonely Planet guidebook of Spain writes, "Bilbao had a tough upbringing. Growing up in an environment of heavy industry and industrial wastelands, it was abused for years by those in power and had to work hard to get anywhere. . . . at heart it remains a hard-working and, physically, rather ugly town, but it's one that has real character." Not quite the ringing endorsement! No wonder it doesn't enjoy the same tourist throngs as Granada or Sevilla. But in my three-hour visit last year, there was something about Bilbao that stole my heart, and I was lucky enough to be given the chance to explore all its "industrial character" more this coming year.

Here's the thing, though: Basque Country is a bilingual region. The two official languages there are Spanish and Basque (Euskera). Euskera looks absolutely nothing like Spanish, and in fact, is thought to be unrelated to any other language alive today (and also thought to be the very first language in Europe). Having studied Linguistics, I should be thrilled at the chance to immerse myself in Euskera, but in reality I'm experiencing more of a give me a break, full-of-dread attitude. I thought I'd finally be able to hit the ground running being fluent in Spanish, but once again I'll be lost in a new language. Of course I knew this before I applied to live in Basque Country, and most everyone there will still speak to me in Spanish, but still--sort of discouraging.

I emailed the school and got a response from the director, Tontxu (yes, that's Euskera--try pronouncing it). He seemed so warm and welcoming, telling me that their middle school is small and simple, and--wait for it--almost all the students have chosen to study in Euskera, not Spanish. (Students have a choice in Basque Country, and most actually opt for Spanish, since it's clearly the smart economic choice--I guess these kids are real mavericks). "I'm sure you'll be learning a bit of Euskera this year!" he delights in telling me. My God, I can't wait--such a useful language, spoken by an entire handful of people in one tiny pocket of the globe. But maybe I can return to the U.S. and get a job in the State Department, since they probably don't have many applicants from bilingual English-Basque speakers.

But my apprehension of the language pales in comparison to my excitement (mixed with some nerves!) Last time I moved to Spain, I went with one of my best friends, as well as 50 other Californians. We stayed in dorms for a month as we acclimated to our new surroundings. This time, though, I'll just be thrown into the mix--which is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. I'll need to find an apartment in the first couple days I'm there, and maybe beg some poor, unsuspecting university students to be my friends. But I have a feeling I'll have more support than I think: Tontxu tells me that his oldest daughter has offered to meet with me and help with an apartment search one day, and that Tontxu himself will greet me when I arrive and explain everything from how to get a bus pass (heart melting), to when and where to show up on the first day of work. When I ask about a dress code for teachers, he tells me, "Dress however you like. There are practically no rules here--for us, or the students." My favorite part of his emails are his closings, in which he signs off with "un abrazo" (a hug). The warmth just emanates from the screen, and makes me feel that somehow--even though I'll know no one, have nowhere to stay, be lost in the language and have no idea how to make English sound engaging to a room full of restless middle-schoolers--I'll be able to make it work.

parent trap

Since moving back home after graduating from college in June, I've noticed a swift and unsettling change. One day I'm living on the beach at UC Santa Barbara, riding to class on my cruiser without a helmet. Next thing you know, I'm trading in flip-flops for orthotics, sipping warm milk in place of wine, and listening to NPR.

How did I let this happen? At school, I downed coffee on weeknights, and Coors on weekends. But rooming with my parents again has changed me from care-free senior to senior citizen. I now take all advice about my health as if it came straight from the AARP. The potential for skin cancer never seemed too menacing when I was sunbathing on the bluffs in Southern California, but a week with the parental roommates warning me against UV rays and picking at their sun spots, I’m now donning my mom’s straw hat—and worse, thinking I look good in it!

I eat a half-pint of blueberries daily for the anti-oxidants; a few servings of lentils for all that fiber; and have started popping multi-vitamins again. Magnesium deficiency is nothing to toy with, as I’ve learned from Web M.D.

But I shouldn’t complain about this alternative lifestyle. I haven't been hungover since graduation, and reading the news everyday is oddly illuminating. My parents and I have taken to eating every dinner on the back deck, where my mother never misses an opportunity to exclaim over her new flowerbeds. I take two-hour hikes with my mom in the morning, and then two-hour naps in the afternoon, to compensate for the effort. Plus, the more I do with her, the more she treats me to iced lattes.

I still see the social value of a night out with twenty-somethings at a dive bar. I even still long for that cute leather purse on Pinterest—so my old self hasn’t completely fallen by the wayside. And I know there's an expiration date on my time here, as I’ll be moving to Spain to teach English in September. I worry that before then, though, the practical draw of a fanny pack will be too much to resist, and I'll have officially aged thirty years, just by living two months at home.

Me and the roomies--and there's that hat I sometimes borrow!

Update: This post appeared as a radio segment on KQED's 'Perspectives' on July 30, 2013. Click here to listen! 

New York

Here's a little summary of last week's fantastic trip to New York. Maddy and I went as a three-tiered celebration: for her 22nd birthday, our graduation from UCSB, and to visit our sisters, who both live there. We were sweating profusely in 98% humidity the whole time, so were not inclined to snap pictures at every moment, but here are a few highlights:

hella smoke

Photo credit: Paul Chinn, The Chronicle

Yesterday's news story about a South Korean airplane crashing upon landing at San Francisco Airport was tragic, and confirmed all my worst fears about flying. It will take the remaining two months I have until Spain to garner enough courage to get on a flight. What's more, my best friend is about to take off from SFO to China and later South Korea, the two locations the flight originated from. 

I just landed at SFO five days ago, returning from a trip to New York. The man seated next to me made fun of me for crossing my fingers on take-off and landing, but you can never be too sure.

The contents of the news story were of course upsetting, but I couldn't help smiling at this one bit of linguistic relief, nestled into a quote from an airline mechanic:  

"It landed straight, then went to the side and then all you saw was hella smoke coming off it," he said. 

You know the story takes place in Northern California when the term "hella" finds its way into formal journalism.  Everyone reading this from Southern California will cringe at both the contents of the news article, and the use of such a widely loathed term. 

assorted accomodations

If only.

A love of travel comes with the question of where to stay. Ideally, I would have friends all over the world who would open their houses for a few nights, which has happened on some occasions and always proves for the best trips. Or I would be able to afford the above penthouse. The following is my slightly more realistic account of where I've stayed during some past adventures: