some clips of Spain

I leave for Spain six weeks from today. Hopefully that's just enough time to make me thoroughly sick of living at home--as for now, I've grown rather attached to family dinners. However, having the couch permanently attached to my ass might make it difficult to catch my flight. We shall see.

The plus side of leaving relatively soon is that I'll have something to blog about. I can only squeeze anecdotes out of these glorious yet monotonous days for so long. (Anyone want to hear about my stroll around the block yesterday??)

In the meantime, here is a little video about Spain that I thought was rather adorable. The first section is where I'll be, Basque Country. It features food, wine and greenery--three very compelling reasons to head over. Oh, and the goats! The video helped remind me that I'll be returning to a lovely country. (And sometimes I need a little reminding. I went to my visa appointment the other day, and without looking at me, the Spanish attendant growled, "Let's get this over with. I have a lot to do and I can't be here all day." All this, after I hand over $160 in cash just to gain entry into her country!)

Bilbao, Spain

Source

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.

I've come full-circle

Here is a picture of me when I was little. Yes, I'm the one on the right.

Photo Credit: Maddi Wachs

These are the visible details: I had glasses, liked to eat (messily), and was raised by parents who didn't know how to dress or accessorize a girl.

What is not pictured was my odd obsession for office supplies and fake education. For one of my youngish birthdays, my friend Laura (middle)--with the obvious help of her mom--bought me a box filled with every kind of office supply imaginable: sticky notes, whiteboard and pens, clips, notebooks, binders, mini staplers and tape dispensers. . . . It was Office Depot, compacted. After witnessing such euphoria upon opening this present, my parents must have been more than a touch concerned for how I'd turn out.

With these newfound supplies, I opened my own schoolhouse in my bedroom. I created the persona of Ms. Basil, teacher and dictator by profession (and lover of herbs...?). I subjected my sister and mother to spelling and math, and found it necessary to criticize my 3-years-elder sister on her addition. It was not uncommon in this one-bedroom schoolhouse for the lessons to end in tears, as I found it utterly disrespectful that my mom and sister should talk amongst themselves instead of listen to my explanation on the correct spelling of "though." I'm sure these classes were the rare exception when my dad was glad to have a grueling commute and workday--anything to avoid the wrath of Ms. Basil.

But those early years proved formative. I opened my inbox today and found out my placement as a teacher's assistant in Spain: Zorroza Secondary School, Bilbao. How ironic that Ms. Basil will be making a comeback, though this time hopefully without the use of corporal punishment that my mom and sister fell victim to.

spanish customer service

Today I called the Spanish consulate in San Francisco because I had a question about the visa process. The clerk's short response to my inquiry: 

"I don't know. Send an email." *click*

Spain! How could I forget about your top-notch customer service? About the time when I stood in line at Zara for ten minutes without being helped while your employees discussed dinner with their boyfriends! How excited I am to return to the land where bus drivers could make me tear up with one harsh glance; where grocery store clerks made me feel like I should instantly deport myself; where waiters acted like it was a catastrophe that I asked for water.

But Spain, your unwillingness to help does not deter me. I will get my visa one way or another. I will return to your country and I'll put a smile on, even as it takes you one month to install my internet and another three for my landlord to fix the electrical outlets.

Source.

P.S. Sometimes, to remember that good people still exist, I call the customer service line for my U.S. bank. They have mastered the art of faking that they love and cherish you. I wish I could be friends with some Charles Schwab employees in real life.

here we go again....

I found out today that my future is not hopeless, that I will not be living in my childhood room forever, that I won't have to become a maid: I officially received a spot as a North American Language and Culture Ambassador in Spain. It's a fancy term for what is essentially a teacher's assistant position in a bilingual elementary or middle school. I applied way back in January, and Spain's delightful government has held true to their time-honored tradition of sluggishness. The deadline was pushed back three times, but they FINALLY gave us placements!

I'll be heading to Basque Country in the north, my first choice. As much as I fell in love with Granada last year, I wanted a change of pace, and northern Spain (and Basque Country in particular, for political and cultural regions) is almost like an entirely separate country. The food, weather, landscape, and people are all remarkably different.

San Sebastián, no wonder everyone loves you

Honestly, when I was studying abroad I was loving (almost) every minute of it, but I never thought I would be back to Spain semi-permanently. A year of siestas and tapas was great, but I didn't see myself working or settling there. But Spain's Ministry of Education entices North Americans with an English assistant position of just 12 hours a week, a stipend that is certainly enough to live on, and a sure-fire way to secure a European visa (and delay the 9-5 American cubicle for a year or two). It's an opportunity to work (quarter-time!), travel and continue to study Spanish. From reading several blogs from veterans of the program, I know it won't be a bed of roses. As expected, this is due to Spain's general lack of organization, translating into a program that is said to be less than seamless (sometimes payment is even months delayed! Ugh.) But the more I think about moving back, the more excited I get. A second time around means less culture shock, less language barriers, and more opportunity to make the most of it. I loved Basque Country when I visited it last May with my family, and I'm so thrilled to have the opportunity to get to know it as well as I knew Granada.

I also plan on focusing more on blogging while over there, and making more consistant and polished posts. I'm proud of my first Spain blog, but let's admit, many of the posts read something like, "OMGGGGGG lovvvvvving Spain right now, free tapas are soooo good! Also we stayed out till 7 a.m. at the discoteca, how cool are we and how crazy is this country????" So one goal while in Spain is to grow with my writing. (That said, don't expect a Pulitzer Prize :)

P.S. Check out my post from Basque Country, from my Spain blog. We didn't do much more than lay on beaches and eat (which is obviously why I want to go back).

lost in translation: that cursed pause

           I posted recently about the importance of punctuation in writing, lest Grandpa should unfortunately be eaten at the writer's expense. As I found out during one particularly awkward moment in Spain, the placement of commas is also extremely important in speech. With the addition of a pause (in my case, I was wracking my brain for the right Spanish word), I managed to insult someone I had only met a few weeks prior. Instead of saying Feliz cumpleaños retrasado, or Happy belated birthday, I slipped in that cursed comma, Feliz cumpleaños, retrasado, and ended up turning beet red when my friend later told me that what I actually said, thanks to that deceivingly small pause, was Happy birthday, retard.It all became clear why the addressee didn't seem too grateful for my nice wishes. Timing really is everything. (And no wonder I wasn't drowning in a sea of Spanish friends :)

lost in translation: forgetting English

Yowza I have not posted a Lost in Translation piece in a while! Remember what they are even about? (Hint: My experience learning Spanish abroad.)

Once I got into a steady rhythm of speaking Spanish everyday, sometimes my English would come out muddled. Since Spanish has a much smaller vocabulary than English, many times the words that stuck in its lexicon happen to be cognates of English’s fancier word bank. This means that at times I sounded like a very classy Brit when I would directly translate back from Spanish into English. “I’m enchanted to meet you,” “Would you like to take a coffee on the terrace?” “I’m going to pass a small while reading now,” or, “I’m absolutely enamored of this Zara top.”

I always took this as a great sign—my foreign language was conquering my native one!—but sometimes my backwards translations would have consequences, like when I exclaimed to my friend Luc one day, “Professor Antonio just assigned us a 20-page-paper due in a week. He molests me so much sometimes!” 

lost in translation: an odd shop

In Granada, and in Spanish-speaking places in general, they have lots of “rías.”

There’s the panadería, the bread shop.

            The frutería, the fruit shop.

            The carnicería, the meat shop.

            The ferretería, the hardware shop.

            The peluquería, the barber shop.

But the most famous neighborhood in Cordoba, with its winding cobblestone streets and historic monuments, is called the judería.

      ….the Jew shop?

Judería in Cordoba

lost in translation: is cussing a grammatical category?

          There came a moment during my stay in Spain, probably around January or so, when I realized I knew 20 different ways to cuss somebody out but was still gesturing to mops and frying pans with a meager “esto” (‘this’). At times it would be valuable to consider a home-stay with a kosher working mother rather than learning Spanish from your college-age roommates, who seem to think that “coño” is an acceptable replacement for any sort of personal pronoun. 

lost in translation: hassling

Spain’s got a more relaxed take on sexual harassment. Catcalls are as common as cigarette smoke there (which one is more unpleasant?), and sometimes wearing heels out is more uncomfortable due to the ensuing comments than the physical pain. (I’ve even received catcalls from women as I’ve passed by, which is not to illustrate that I was looking particularly well-groomed that day but rather that anything goes.) Ninety-five percent of the time you want to bury your face or shout at these hasslers, “You misogynist pig! In the U.S. you could be sued!” But then there’s that five percent, usually on those mornings when you return from the discoteca at 8 a.m. with beer on your dress and hair that’s less than prom-day perfect. It’s those times, when you still get an “ehhh, guapa!” (hey, pretty girl) that the only reasonable reaction that comes to mind is, “Bless his little heart.”

lost in translation: compliments

Literally every Spaniard I met during my year abroad, and this is no exaggeration, complimented my Spanish.

Wait, don’t roll your eyes and stop reading! Hear me out!

At first I was elated. I thought, after two weeks of being in that country, “Dayummm, I’m on fire here!” But then I started picking up on something. These comments didn’t follow long conversations that exhibited my skilled control over verb conjugations or the subjunctive tense (which, at that time, was not skilled at all, but more like a guessing game). More often than not they didn’t even follow what can be considered conversations at all! Here are some scenarios that exemplify my point:

            #1: In the dining hall, asking the chef for more coffee. “Más café, por favor.” Más is probably learned in the first week of Spanish class, right after sí, no, and me llamo Jenny. Café is a cognate. And if you travel to Spain without knowing how to say “por favor,” your manners and upbringing will be questioned. But the chef overlooked all these tid-bits and expressed his amazement at my masterful handle on the language.

            #2. Madrid bus station, 2 hours after arriving in Spain. Me: “Uno a Granada, por favor.” Attendant: “You speak really great Spanish!” He must have brushed aside the fact that he could have understood the destination of my desired ticket merely from the name of the city. (Looking back, I don’t know if I should be more shocked that he complimented this juvenile level of Spanish or that he smiled and made a compliment at all. Customer Service in Spain is not the warmest).

#3. My all-time favorite, buying sheets at a department store. This is when I knew that this complimentary trend was more automatic than heartfelt. I say one word, one tiny four-letter word, and accompany it with a gesture: “¿Pago?” I ask as I point to the cash register. The salesman explodes with a massive grin and a whopping, “WOW! You speak such great Spanish! How long have you been in Granada?!?”

It was then that I shed my false ego and realized that if someone would compliment my language level after hearing only one word, they were clearly overdoing the praise and most likely just trying to flatter me into buying more sheets. 

lost in translation: journal romance

Many times in Granada I would sit by myself and read or people-watch in my favorite plaza. It was always full of Granadino families, the kids racing around while their parents shared a beer. Most times I sat close enough to the bar tables to shamelessly eavesdrop—anything in the name of learning Spanish! On one particular day I was reading some notes for school when two little kids ran up and started playing right next to me. I pretended to keep reading but was really listening to them the whole time, which they might have picked up on since I didn’t turn a single page for a full fifteen minutes.

I remember this conversation so vividly because it was a perfect snapshot of childhood, no matter what culture. The little boy and girl were playing tag and teasing each other, and then sat neatly on the bench so the boy could explain to the girl a present she had just received, but didn’t know how to use: a journal. The boy said, in the cutest little Andalucian accent, “It’s a diary, Ana. It’s for writing down all your secrets. See, this is where you write what day it is, always at the top. And then this is where you write everything that you’re thinking.”

The girl looked up and said mischievously, “I can write about you in there!” (Leave it to a five-year-old to tell the truth about love.) They immediately both shrieked with laughter, cackling like crazy people, and then the girl threw down the diary and they resumed chasing each other around the plaza. Enough romance, it was tag time again.

I looked around to see if all this was actually being filmed for a childhood flashback scene in a rom-com, but it was a truly organic exchange. I hope these kids marry each other in 20 years and I can come eavesdrop on their wedding vows. 

Plaza Bib-Rambla, where the magic happens.

(Photo: aloasis.com)

lost in translation: she's probably not a cougar

When I first got to Granada I noticed a startling phenomenon. People were saying “tío” and “tía” in almost every sentence, which I learned in school to mean “uncle” and “aunt.” I thought to myself, what is wrong with this country? Why is everyone interrelated? I know they say Latin families tend to be large, but this is verging on ridiculous….

Turns out “tío” means dude, mate, or guy. So if you travel to Spain, keep in mind that one ten-year-old boy calling another “tío” does not necessarily imply that his father’s sister likes them young.  

lost in translation: biggest regret

Bear with me while I kick off this series on a somber note: my biggest regret.

           My biggest regret in my language learning process was that I didn’t record myself speaking Spanish before I first moved to Spain. I had taken seven years of Spanish and had lived in Nicaragua with a family for one month, but by no means was I fluent. During my time in Spain it was difficult to notice if I was improving my Spanish, because day-to-day conversations blend together and I was learning at such a gradual and consistent pace. Sort of the way you don’t realize you’re putting on weight, but then your friends, who haven’t seen you in a really long time, take one look at you and are like, That girl really let loose, eh? Anyway the same goes for learning a language. Which is why my biggest recommendation to anyone going abroad is: take a before-and-after shot. Or, in this case, recording. That way you can hear yourself talking in a hybrid valley-girl/Spanish accent or confusing gender and referring to yourself as a man. It will be very hilarious and oh-so-gratifying to look back on your progress.