forays in deep spain: mérida

It’s 5:30 a.m. on Monday morning and it’s cold.

I’m in Mérida again, connecting from Santiago de Compostela to Don Benito. Myself and a dozen or so other travelers are huddled by the vending machines, counting the minutes until the bus station opens, dreaming of the warm coffee we will hold between our hands.

I should be filling the empty hour with studying for my driving test (it’s on Friday, madre mía) but I can’t disconnect from my immediate surroundings, freezing as I am in Mérida. My mind tries to wander away, but the stiffness of my fingers and the drippy-ness of my nose keep pulling it rudely back to Mérida, 5:30 am, Monday morning.

What I wouldn’t do for a 24-hr Starbucks.

Since I am both mentally and physically stuck in Mérida for the immediate future, I shall indulge in blogging about this Roman city and the afternoon I spent here last Wednesday.

Mérida (a corruption of the Latin Augusta Emerita) was the capital of the Roman province of Lusitania, which stretched across Extremadura into Portugal (hence the etymology of the prefix “luso-, ” which in today’s language stands for all things Portuguese; i.e. lusophone = someone who speaks Portuguese). Its modern credentials are that it is the capital of Extremadura, but somehow that isn’t quite as impressive.

I arrived from sunny Don Benito to find Mérida shrouded in mist and mystery. Manolo, the security guard who gave me an oxidized coin and a tour of the sites (he was that bored) sighed that my photos would have been better on a clear day. I didn’t mind. It doesn’t take too much imagination to reconstruct Mérida of 25 BC in your head, but with the mist covering for the missing roads and chucks of wall, it would have been impossible not to.

The variety and conservation was impressive, but it was the sheer quantity of ruins that blew me away. I stepped out of the bus station and found myself face-to-face with the roman bridge, reflected perfectly in the still waters of the Guadiana. I crossed into what looked like the modern town. But here’s the thing: modern Mérida is only just larger than the ancient roman city. I was wandering distractedly along a Christmas-lit street when all of a sudden – BAM, ancient forum. Took a sideways glance in the shopping district – BAM, temple to Diana. BAM roman circus. BAM aqueduct. Bit ridiculous really – but in a marvelous way.

Manolo, my security guard friend, explained the impossibility of escaping Mérida’s Roman heritage. “You start digging the foundations for a house,” he told me, “And you end up with enough stuff to open a museum.” There are active digs all over the place – he showed me a half-buried pot behind the theatre, recently uncovered and waiting to be removed.

The highlight is, without doubt, the theatre and adjoining villas. The theatre is undeniably grand, and all the more wonderful for still being in use. The annual summer theatre fest sees the classics (of the Roman sort, with some Shakespeare tragedies thrown in for good measure) played out against the two-story, marble-pillar-ed, statue-adorned backdrop.

A trek past some funny-looking latrines, a wide well, and the amphitheatre took us to la casa del anfiteatro. The lucky folks who lived next door to the gladiators’ arena left behind colourful mosaics, the best-preserved of which is this gleeful grape-treading scene (the little naked dude on the ladder looks like he’s already had a goblet or two...)

And so I spent my afternoon in Mérida, combining Roman sightseeing with piping-hot roasted chestnuts, Christmas window-shopping, and a café cortado overlooking the river.

It’s 6:30 a.m. on Monday morning and it’s still cold – but the hour has been whiled away and the cafeteria looks like it may be opening.

I think I’ll be okay now.

More of Mérida here.

the pilgrimage

Santiago de Compostela is made more beautiful by rain. The Christmas lights strung between arcaded buildings catch the mist, disperse, glow. The narrow streets in the old town glisten. Green moss grows in the details of the Cathedral façade.

My journey was not along the Camino de Santiago, the route through France and Northern Spain taken by pilgrims since the Middle Ages. An 11-hour bus ride took me from Mérida in Extremadura, north through Castilla-Leon, and west into Galícia, where I wound overnight through Verin, Ourense, Vigo and Pontevedra before arriving in Santiago on Thursday morning. I did not share the pilgrims' path, but I did share their destination: the Cathedral of Saint James the Apostle.

There is something so stunning about the jumble of styles, the immensity of the building, its crown of five (five!) bell towers. I lost myself happily in the wiggles on the gate, the dissymmetry of the façade, the tiers and tiers of columns. Just inside is the Pórtico de Gloria, the original west front, which now stands inside the main doors of the cathedral. In the center stands a sculpted column where pilgrims offer a prayer of thanks with their hand pressed into the roots of the tree under the saint. The five deep finger prints, worn into the solid marble, are a testament to the millions who have ended their pilgrimage this way.

Beyond the Cathedral, Santiago is a charming city, small, but designed for good living. R and I happened upon a neat photography exhibition by chance, and on Saturday, when we turned up for tickets at Teatro Principal, all 4oo seats were sold -- it warms my heart to think of full theatres and any city that has them wins my admiration. This region is famous for its silversmiths and I am taking away a beautiful ring set with a the black stone azabache (a gift to myself) and red-coral earrings (a gift from F and R). The old city is entirely pedestrianized and is crammed with hot-chocolate cafés, basement bars and tiny restaurants, which are turned crammed with gallegos and on this holiday weekend, tourists.

Galician cuisine is somewhat legendary itself, comprising a mind-boggling array of sea critters and things in shells. The dish I had heard the most stories about was the pulpo, or octopus, served in olive oil and sprinkled with grainy salt and paprika. It's hard to pick a favourite between the fried calamari, grilled prawns, tuna empanada, the shrimp and mushroom revuelto -- but at gunpoint I'd pick the vieira a horno, that yummy thing sitting so prettily in the scallop shell, the symbol of St James. And I'd have to spare a word for the dense bread -- sigh -- a far cry from the fluffy, white, easily dried out thing that abounds in Don Benito.
I heartily recommend a visit to this corner of the Iberian Peninsula (although you are unlikely to have hosts as generous and hospitable as mine... :) ). It is so different from the image Spain uses to sell itself to tourists -- bulls, flamenco and ole ole -- and for that reason so much more worth visiting. The home of the Iberian celts is a magic land of rolling hills, legends, bagpipes, witches and omens....
...and I return to Extremadura completely under its spell.

In the tiny bars that fill Santiago's old city, coins glint from the walls. I make a wish and jam my own penny into a crevice at Casa das Cruchas...

More photos here.

forays in deep spain: cáceres

Extremadura is unequivocally and unapologetically Spanish. This is not Galícia, or Pais Vasco, or Cataluña -- there are no competing linguistic or national identities here. This is the birthplace of the conquistadors, the home of jamón serrano, where people still siesta and pictures of los reyes are hung proudly in public offices, in no danger of being burned in street protests.

Bienvenida a España Profunda, they told me when I first arrived -- Welcome to Deep Spain.

Extremadura is probably unjustly left off most tourist's itineraries. Goodness knows it probably wouldn't have made it on mine -- which is why I am making the most of this wrinkle in fate by nodding to portrait of the kings in the office at school every morning, sleeping as many siestas as my schedule allows, eating plenty of jamón, and hitting up every conquistador town in the area.

This morning I wound through tiny towns and fields of sheep to Cáceres: provincial capital, university town, and almost perfectly preserved walled city of Roman, Moorish, and conquistador-funded wonders.

The walls and several adobe towers are mostly Moorish, with a few of the arched entrance ways dating back to Roman times. Within lies a maze of narrow, uneven cobblestone streets, Gothic churches (each bell tower with its own family of storks), heavily restored Arab remains (the Cáceres museum is housed what was the Alcázar and includes a cute patio and the arched aljibe, or cistern), and solares built in the 15th century by (rich) returning conquistadors. I walked along happily on what was a sunny but crisp morning (high of 12 today), running my fingers along the jagged walls, photographing flowers and following cats.

One of the cats led me to the Casa Árabe, a private museum born of one man's excavations and renovations in his Moorish home. It's neat -- complete with its own cistern, small courtyard and basement steam bath that also served to heat the main bedroom. It's also profoundly odd, including, among other things, tourism posters (circa 1970) from Egypt and letters and photographs from the Iraqi ambassador to Spain.

Cáceres is nice outside of the walls, too. It's small, but it's a city -- which was refreshing. There are wide, tree-lined avenues, pedestrianized shopping streets and a theatre (on now: a concert series called 'Cáceres Sounds Like Portugal' with headliners Dulce Pontes and Camané). It feels like a world away from Don Benito -- but it's only and hour and a bit on the bus, which means I'll probably find excuses to venture that way throughout the year.

One conquistador town down...
....the rest of Deep Spain to discover.

more photos at http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2174774&l=c48fa&id=13604199

my year 'off'

You probably think I'm taking a year off.

I mean, most people do.

A year off. A break. Something different, something better, more fun, less stressful.

Sounds enviable -- can I have one?

This year doesn't have much to do with what that little tag-a-long "off" connotes. I may be doing something different than what I was doing before, but since I opted not to do a victory lap that was sort of inevitable. It is not better, or more fun, or less stressful. Just different.

My problem may be semantic. What am I supposed to be taking a year off from? A career? A degree? A carefully crafted plan for the future? I didn't have those things to begin with.

What then -- life?

As far as I can tell, this is life -- or as life-like as the rest of it has been. It's not exactly radical for me to be engulfed by someone else's culture or expect to have to pick up my bags and leave in the foreseeable future. In my mental mailbox there is always an eviction notice -- if not in someone else's handwriting, then in my own.

The end of this Spain stint won't be a resumption, even if it is a return (to Montreal...to school...?) It'll be a set change, just like this one.

There is no intermission in this show.

déjà vu

One of the decisive factors in the Spain-France decision was proximity to Portugal. The possibility of hopping on a bus in Don Benito and hopping off a few hours later in Lisbon tipped the scales in favour of Spain. And so, when the All-Saints'-Day long weekend rolled around at the beginning of November, it was to Lisbon I hopped.

These two lovely ladies took up the invitation to stay at my parents' place. (I call it my parents' house but that's really just a cover for the building's secret identity as a B&B.)

A and I left from Spain on Wednesday after school; J flew in from Paris on Friday morning.

I couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu. The combination of the absurdly warm weather (24 degrees every day...!) and tour-guiding threw me back to my summer of visitors. We hit up the main spots -- Belém, Chiado and the Baixa, Bairro Alto, the Castle and Alfama, my grandmother's house in Alenquer.

We soaked up plenty of the famed Lisbon light -- at its most beautiful at the cloister and tower in Belém. We walked by the bar in bairro alto were I spent so many nights with my Portuguese class friends, had coffee and pastries at the café around the corner, ate at the usual restaurant in the park.


But it wasn't all replay. A and I spent a chilly evening washing down roast chestnuts with agua pé in a beautifully restored country house belonging to friends of my cousin. We satisfied our hunger for the arts with a visit to the newest contemporary art gallery and box seats at Lisbon's opera house for Portuguese choreographer Olga Roriz's current show (and photographed ourselves in the theatre washroom, in gleeful silliness).

Even the streets I know had some surprises for us. We walked into a film shoot on our way to one of the downtown lookouts. We found a nifty little store where the guy behind the counter made us fun earings. A friend, P, took us to a delicious vegetarian restaurant for dinner (that's two, #1!).

It was a familiar weekend -- cozy, comfortable, calming. Fragments of home: hanging out with J, being pampered by my grandmother, coffee with old friends, a room that will always be mine (at least until my parents get tired of me).

Fancy that, me feeling at home somewhere....

More photos here.

ode to surogran

It's been four months since I had a reliable internet connection...or paid for one. I composed this ditty to pay homage to my most recent mystery internet provider.

It may be silly, but it's silly in rhyme. Horatian ode rhyme.

Ahem.

ODE TO SUROGRAN

Before the day I first found you
I wondered how I would survive.
I sat on my new couch (it’s blue,
With green and yellow pillows, five)
And felt so far from all the rest,
From all the folks I care about.
No chance to talk or even chat!
No news or fun at my behest!!
It’s then my lips began to pout.
No friend nearby my head to pat.

I opened then the balcony door
And stepped outside to get some sun,
Remembered that we are too poor
(installation costs a tonne).
Who needs all that stuff anyways?
Do I need facebook and gmail?
Is this why the laptop was bought?
There are other ways to spend my days.
Instead of sitting down to wail,
I’ll listen to iTunes, I thought.

I brought a chair and my laptop,
Clicked on my name to start her up.
A window opened and went POP!
Connect? For real? I re-checked...yup...
A network found, called SUR-O-GRAN!!!
I now rely on the signal you send –
From where it comes, who knows? No clue!
No matter, though, I’m still your fan.
Dear SUROGRAN, my wireless friend...
I dedicate this ode to you!

I hang out the balcony from my bedroom while my roommate balances her laptop on the clothesline on the living room balcony.
The neighbours wonder about us.

true or false?

Here are ten statements about me. Some of them are true, and some of them are false.
Can you guess which sentences are true and which sentences are false?

1. THIS IS A REAL CLASSROOM ACTIVITY.

True, sort of. The sentences I actually used were things like "I am 27 years old," "I have two sisters," "I lived in the desert"... that sort of thing. By the way, if you are one of my siblings, my niece or nephew, my roomies or students from Chile, there are a few hundred Spanish teenagers who have seen your photograph. I hope you don't mind.

2. I WILL NEVER TIRE OF TALKING ABOUT MYSELF.

False, false and false again. By the end of next week I will have done this same introductory activity with 22 different classes. I don't know how many times I can explain that I studied theatre at university, or that I love traveling, or that in Montreal it can be -40 degrees in the winter (although that last one does buy me some respect).

3. NINTH GRADERS LOVE ME.

Faaaaalse. Ugh. I don't know what it is about this age group, but even in Chile I had a hard time connecting with them. I momentarily impressed one class this week with photos of me riding a camel and the view from Cristo Rei in Rio, but the attention didn't last very long. I'm trying to remember what it felt like to be in grade 9 -- it was a turbulent time, wasn't it? I'm not sure how to keep them focused, short of occasionally turning a cartwheel down the center aisle.

4. ELEVENTH GRADERS LOVE ME.

True. And I like teaching them, too. They don't necessarily speak better English, but they generally are less antsy than the younger kids. Willing to hear what I have to say, at least.

Oh, and I have admirers. One eleventh grade boy ran into me in the hall the other day and said, "I love it." Not "you" or "your class," just it. I'm still not sure what he meant, but it was cute.

5. I WORK 12 HOURS A WEEK.

False. That was the initial plan, 12 contact hours a week. But realistically I am in school from 8:30 to 13:30, Tuesdays through Fridays. The other 8 hours are sucked up in recesses, random hour-long holes in my schedule, coffee breaks with other teachers, making photocopies, trying to get the computer to work, printing activity sheets. I take my prep home with me, too. And because I am still figuring how to do all of this, I usually think up several activities for one class, mull over which one is the best for a few hours, and then go back to the first one I had thought of. All this try to be fun is causing a lot of agony.

6. I AM LOOKING FOR ADDITIONAL WORK.

False! I thought I would, you know, put some posters up around town and see if I could hook some students for private lessons. No need! More students have come running than I have hours for. I do 4 hours a week of extra-help after-school classes at one of the schools where I work, as well as a handful of private classes with toddlers, kids and one adult. Keeping busy...

7. TEACHING IS HARD WORK.

Man, is this one true...! The most challenging thing is managing a class of almost 30 kids with hugely different levels. Some are able to understand most of what I say, sustain conversation, even express opinions. Others stare at me the entire period, blinking back in confusion whenever I ask them something. If anyone has any good ideas about how to make things easy enough for the majority of the students without boring the smart kids out of their minds...I'm open to suggestions.

8. I SPEAK ENGLISH.

True, in theory. In practice (or practise), I speak in a possibly familiar but mostly unintelligible garble to the kids who have learned English out of their British textbooks. This week I was leading an exercise focused on describing people's physical appearance. This was a review of what the class had done the previous day with their regular teacher. I asked a girl in the back a very simple question, along the lines of "What colour hair does Katy have?" At least it would have been simple, had I said "What colour hair has Katy got?" Much to the confusion of my students, I avoid the word 'got' at all costs, probably as a result of a grade 7 language arts teacher who prohibited its use. In British English, at least in the spoken variant taught here, got is everywhere. She's got a boyfriend, have you got any pets, Sophie hasn't got a red shirt. I suppose I spoke this way in my Al Khubairat British School days, but it just seems ugly to me now.

9. 'S' IS A SILENT LETTER.

FALSE -- but you wouldn't know it. No one pronounces the final 's' here in Spanish or English. Makes it difficult to convince kids who are used to saying adio (adios, goodbye) and do (dos, two) that the final 's' in sentences like 'what's your name?' is important.

10. I AM GOING TO BE A GOOD TEACHER.

TBD. No guarantees yet, but here's to hoping...

just another spanish sunday (ooooo, ooo)

It is 2 pm. I am dazed, weakened from lack of sleep. My nostrils burn from hours of second-hand smoke and my eyes are dry because I haven't put in my contacts yet.

I am GROGGY.

Last night was my first botellón. It is somewhat akin to the drinking in the park/parking lot phenomenon Ontarians have described to me so fondly...but with less sneakiness. It is, at least in Don Benito, a totally legitimate weekend activity, enjoyed by the underage crowd (yes, I saw some of my students) as well as people who could afford to drink elsewhere (my landlord and his buddies, who took us out). In other parts of Spain the cops would have shut down the drinking in public, but here they canton the parking lot in front of the cinema/leisure complex and keep watch.

It is technically illegal to sell alcohol after 10pm, but there is one unmarked door on calle Ancha that is in the botellón business. We arrived at midnight and started the tiresome business of trying to keep track of a dozen names, professions and home towns. When the group had collected, everyone threw in five euros and the botellón of rum was purchased. Because my sinuses are up to their usual shenanigans I opted out, and marched towards the parking lot brandishing my ice tea.

The botellón functions by zones. The kids I teach are at one end, grinding to the reggaeton blasting from the sound systems in their cars. The crowd gets older (if not more mature) as you go along. We found a spot on the grass, laid the bottles and bags of ice on the ground, and proceeded to socialize.

We stood around sipping drinks and making small talk for a good three hours. I got kudos for my Spanish and answered innumerable questions about Montreal, university, teaching English, the UAE and the Portuguese. In turn I learned about being a cop in Madrid, studying at the uni town of Cáceres, the places I should visit, and how Don Benito (where I live) is better than Villanueva de la Serena (where I work). It's not a glamourous event (you have to be careful not to surprise the people peeing behind your car) but it is a good way to meet people. It's a cheap night out and a pleasant one, at least while the weather holds up.

At 4 am we were starting to feel the chill so we wandered into the bar-restaurant-cinema complex Las Cumbres and bumped along to very loud house music until they finally turned the lights on at 6 am. By then I was dead tired, not just because my entire respiratory system was screaming (I feel like I am the only non-smoker in this entire country), but also from the effort of following quick, slang group conversations all night.

Today is for lazing, recovering, detoxing. It's all quiet out now, but in the afternoon people will emerge for a last coffee or drink before the long weekend is up. I will be dutifully studying road signs and prepping classes. Just another Spanish Sunday...

feliz día de la Hispanidad

I don't work Mondays so all of my weekends are long, but this is the first official long weekend of the school year. Today is the Spanish national holiday, celebrated on the exact date Columbus set foot in the Americas. In addition, today Don Benito celebrates its patroness, la Virgen de las Cruces, in the traditional festival know as la Velá.

10 days ago, they brought the statue of la Virgen down from her grotto about 7 kms out of town. Since then the doors of the church of Santiago have been thrown open every day for various religious observances. Today they walk her back to her mountain grotto and eat, drink and party under her watch.


Last night after my driving class (did I mention I'm getting my license?) we joined the rest of Don Benito in the main plaza. We didn't really know what was going on, but everyone else was clearly waiting for something to happen. We settled at the only empty table to be found and ordered our cañas.
It happened as the church bells struck . The heavy wooden doors of the church creaked open, the crowd hushed, beers were put down and everyone stood. Then out she came, followed by the bishop and surrounded by flowers. There was hooting and applause, which sent all the birds flying from their perches in the plaza trees (there are an exceptional number of birds in this town, did I mention that?).
The bishop said a prayer, the band played, and they set the statue on a stand at the back of the stage so she could watch over the folklore dancing. Those of us on the esplanadas sat and returned to our beer and chips.

After a few dances and a costume change, the band started up again and they carried the Virgen back inside. The bars stools temporarily became church pews as we all stood and clapped thunderously until they closed the doors behind her.

Today they take her back to her grotto, and the romaria goes with her. We'll probably follow in the evening to partake in the hoopla -- as visitors in her town it's only right to pay her homage.

adaptability

I answered a question about Canadian eating habits last week. My student stared back at me. "Only?" she said. She stumbled over the English words to explain that she has breakfast at 8am, a snack at noon, lunch at 3pm, another snack after siesta at 5pm, and dinner at 10:30pm, before bed. "Five comidas!"

Not to mention the plate of meatballs or fries or olives or peanuts that come free with your pre/post dinner beer.

Or the coffee and churros the teacher who is getting married buys for his colleagues.

It's no wonder that she thinks Canadians don't eat enough.

I have happily adapted myself to my new circumstances. Not that I had much choice in the matter -- I leave for school at 8am and don't return until 2pm. There is no cafeteria (or lunch break for that matter) at school, just a snack bar that makes its money selling coffee to the teachers and bocadillos (sandwiches on mini-baguettes) to the students.

At 2pm I start thinking about lunch. As several previous North American assistants were careful to warn me, you have to COOK in Spain. None of this prepared food business -- you have to go through the whole thing yourself, from buying 'ingredients' to washing the dishes. And all of that -- who knew -- takes time.

(I laughed all three times former assistants made this disclaimer -- it was less of a newsflash about Spain and more of a revelation about American lifestyles, but to their credit they were just trying to be helpful.)

By 3pm I am eating, usually in front of the news. The time the news is on is always a good way to establish the standard meal times (at noon in Montreal, at 1pm in Portugal, at 3 here). After a bit I switch to channel four where there are possibly three episodes of Friends, dubbed in Spanish for my personal entertainment.

Then I doze.

There's not much else to do -- all the shops closed at 2pm and I'm usually quite tired.

At 5pm the streets start to bustle again. And if you think just because I'm in a small city there is no bustle, think again. I have to fight my way past prams and bicycles to make it to the grocery store or close enough to admire shoes. Entire families and packs of children turn out until about 9pm, when the stores close.

I stroll home with the rest, just in time to get settled and start working on that 10:30pm dinner.

This, as my American friend and I commented over our breakfast of churros and hot chocolate, is adaptability.

the thing about federalism

If one state machinery is complicated, two are a real doozy. It's really amazing that anything gets done at all in federal systems.

At our meeting with representatives of the regional government (Junta de Extremadura) in Madrid, we were given detailed directions as to the legal errands we had to run. They even distributed letters addressed to the head of the foreigners' office and the bank signed by the head of the Junta, in the hopes that we might have a smoother ride down the rocky road that is the Spanish bureaucracy.

It was this very letter that piqued the temper of the man sitting opposite me at police station (where the foreigners' office is located). You see, the regional government is my employer. They need certain legal documents to be able to pay me, namely a NEI (Foreigner's ID number). However, it is the Foreigners' Office run by the Ministry of the Interior (aka the federal government) that issues said number. As would be expected, these two organisms do not communicate as often or well as they should. Apparently I had been sent to ask for something that takes three weeks to process and must be sent to the provincial capital, Badajoz. Not only that but the Junta had given me the wrong forms and neglected to inform me that I would also need to take a rent contract -- something that is not signed for leases of less than one year. What they should have asked us to do was register with our local office, pay the 7 euros fee, and be issued a certificate and NIE on the spot.

The federal government employee rambled on in faster than normal Spanish (!!) about 'those guys' at the Junta, their attempts to circumvent procedure, and their lack of understanding about the purpose of various forms and documents. Luckily I had local company (my landlord drove me around in the big fat thundershower that was Monday) and he weeded out what was important from the ramble -- mainly that I had to take a form to the bank, pay a fee, bring the form back to the office, and finally retrieve my certificate.

Two days later I have an apartment, a NIE, a checking account, and have sent in the necessary documents so that the moolah from the Junta will find its way to the bank.

My status in Spain is totally regularized.

The thing about federalism is that it's complicated. Federal and regional governments are always butting heads even when they mean to work towards the same objective. And so with the federal and provincial governments complaining about each other and Ibarretxe setting dates for a Basque referendum, it's almost like moving to Canada all over again...

instant assistants

When I described this programme to a friend in Lisbon, he predicted it would be another Erasmus (the European uni exchange programme). And indeed, as I joined the thousand or so other assistants in a conference room at the Hotel Convención, I decided he was right. There were Belgians, Italians, Germans, French, Brits, Irish, New Zealanders, Australians and Canadians, here for a year to assist in French, Italian, German and English classrooms around the country.

And we are only the half of the total assistants in Spain this year.

There are all sorts of different people here. Most of us are 'recent' university graduates -- except the Brits who are in the third year of Spanish degrees and are spending a year abroad to fulfill course requirements. Some people are testing the teaching profession, most are just here for an adventure. It's a good deal. The pay is peanuts, but when you are in a small city or town, you can live on peanuts. Work is twelve hours a week, with a very clearly defined role as an assistant and not a teacher (which absolves us of much responsibility and tedium).

Our orientation course included several modules, from confusing diagrams of the education system to tips on surviving the bureaucracy involved in legalizing our stay here. The best part of the whole thing was this video, part of the lecture on foreign language teaching methodology.



What I found most interesting was the philosophy that justifies forking over so much cash to a corps of untrained young people whose one CV point is 'native speaker'. There are so many reasons to learn a foreign language -- people want to learn Italian or French because they are 'beautiful', or Spanish because they want to travel in Latin America, or Arabic because are interested in the region. But when it comes to English the motives are more practical -- I need it for my job, my studies, for a better job, for better studies. It is not so much about accessing another culture, it's economic. Even those of us who went to Chile had a sense of our project as social justice, providing kids from marginal communities with tools that might enable them to move closer to the center.

Not that all that isn't important. It's all fine and dandy...but it makes for a different classroom dynamic.

The fellow from the Ministry of Education who spoke to this point framed our work as an integral part of creating a common European intellectual space. Learning a language has one very clear function -- to communicate with others. And communication in the sense of learning, sharing, understanding. Sounds pretty, doesn't it? It's kind of refreshing to have a cultural objective. And I find the idea of working towards integration by promoting learning and communication (rather than homogenization) rather motivating.

Of course this is all talk. But I happen to think talk, particularly how we chose to articulate our objectives, is important. And so I appreciated learning about the European framework for language learning and so forth. I'm kind of a nerd that way.

The last activity was a meeting with representatives from our Autonomous Regions, in my case, Extremadura. Lots of interesting tid-bits. Since 2000, kids have English from the age of two, in day care. There are 3o bilingual schools in the region, that sound like a Spanish version of French Immersion. And apparently every classroom in the region is outfitted with one computer per two students -- literally, like in every classroom there is a computer at each desk of two. And they run some linux system which they call linex because they are clever that way. All fascinating stuff.

And so, after very long day of being talked at, the Ministry of Education let us loose.

"Ta-dah," the ministry worker said to himself as we spiraled out from Madrid.

"Instant assistants."

mi primer día

I always forget my toothbrush. I did last week when I went to visit my cousin at her uni town, Leiria. I wasn't overly upset about it -- I bought a fabulous pink toothbrush that has been brightening my spirits as well as my teeth ever since. I did, however, make a mental note NOT to leave for Spain without my new toothbrush. Yesterday I caught myself packing both old and new toothbrush. Just in time -- I left one at home as a back-up for the next one I forget. I think I was already on the plane when I realized that I had forgotten the toothpaste.

...

I very nearly ran into three different street-sweepers today, which I think means two things: (1) I am even more disoriented than usual when I haven't had much sleep, and (2) Madrid is clean. I've only seen a corner of this sprawling city, but so far I am suitably impressed. I didn't leave my hostel this afternoon until about 14.30, by which point I was so weak with hunger (and from lugging my stupid suitcase up metro stairs) that it was about all I could do to stumble past BK into 'Istanbul' where an Indian guy served me an 'authentic doner kebab'. It wasn't very good but it made me feel better anyways. My hostel is on calle Arenal for those of you who may know Madrid, right in the middle of town. I wandered towards and then down Gran Vía, oogling books and shoes along the way. Staved off impulses and bought only a Spanish sim card for my mobile. This part of town (Madrid de las Austrias, says my guidebook) is quite grand, in the early 20th century architecture grand old European capital kind of way.

By 5-ish I was starting to crash -- and the 30 degree heat was making me feel miserable that my sandals hadn't made the under-20-kilos-suitcase cut. It was then that I stumbled into Retiro, where I promptly napped under a tree. Woke up an hour later feeling much better and watched ducks and rowboats on the lake. What a beautiful park -- and I only saw one corner of it.

Finally made it back to Plaza Santa Ana for a beer. I have now heard the guy on his accordion play 'Those Were the Days' twice. It's almost 8 pm. The plazas (and that's what this city seems to be, plaza after plaza after plaza) are full of people. Children zooming around on roller blades and chucking balls, lots of beer drinking and tapas eating. There is no indication that anyone is going anywhere...but, hey, I still have toothpaste to buy.

I was so floored by this window display, I had to photograph it. See the pillow with the pig in the back??

The lake in Retiro.

Look at me, I'm voluptuous!

Plaza Mayor in full twilight glory.

following my star

Road trips and geography lessons have given me ample opportunities to contemplate maps of this knobbly peninsula on the western end of Europe. But because of the overtly Portuguese nature of those road trips and geography lessons, my mental map of Iberia is a bit skewed. In other words, Portugal is there – the major cities (and villages), rivers, monuments of my memories – in my imagination’s equivalent of technicolour. Spain, on the other hand, is exactly as I see it on the weather report every night: the undifferentiated gray blobs of Galicia to the North and…uh, those other regions to the East.

Even I find it stupidly amazing that I have never gone across the border, in so many years of extended stays in Portugal. We’re a skinny country after all – no matter where you are, nuestros hermanos are only ever a couple hours away.

I stared at those letters offering me jobs as a language assistant – one from the Academie de Paris-Versailles, the other from the Direccion Regional de Educacion de Extremadura – for two tummy-twisting weeks. Then one August evening, while watching the weather report, I finally recognized the Spanish offer for what it was.

The Ministry of Education and Culture was holding out the crayons to colour in the grays of my mental map.

And we all know I’ve never been able to resist a new pack of crayons.

So I accepted, at the very last minute, the offer to spend 8 months in a city none of my Spanish or Portuguese friends had ever heard of in the least visited region of Spain. From October 1^st to May 30^th I’ll be working twelve hours a week at two high schools in the fair city of Villanueva de la Serena (pop 20,000) in the region of Extremadura. I fly to Madrid next Tuesday (25^th) for a short orientation course, then hop on a bus to my newest Iberian adventure.

A series of coincidences and lucky breaks have since confirmed that I made the right decision.

- Several bureaucratic stars have aligned and I should (cross body parts of your choosing here) have my European health insurance by next week.

- After technical difficulties buying my ticket online, Vueling rightly refunded the 7 euro service fee I was charged for having to purchase my ticket over the phone (sounds like an insignificant amount, but it’s the principle of the thing – and 7 euros was one-fifth of the ticket price!).

- One of my classmates from my summer course in Lisbon (who happens to be an art teacher from Madrid) has already arranged to see a play with me when I am in town.

- While hanging out with my Portuguese class buddies one night in Bairro Alto I met a guy, randomly at a bar, FROM VILLANUEVA. He went to one of the schools I will be teaching at. He imparted all sorts of wisdom, from things to do in town to which teachers to hang out with.

- I made contact with the assistant whose shoes I am filling, whose overall enthusiasm is contagious. He suggested I look for an apartment in Don Benito, the livelier city next door to Villanueva.

- And then, out of nowhere, I received an e-mail from some woman looking for a roommate for an American girl she has hired to work at her daycare in Don Benito. So while she is finding me and my mystery roommate a place to live, I am relaxing on the beach.

I explain all of this to my cousin Adélia as we watch the sun dip towards the ocean from what I am deciding is my new favourite terrace.

She puts her expresso down and leans far back in her chair for emphasis. “Bolas, a tua estrelinha está mesmo forte! I think I’ve had a fair bit of luck in my life, but your star is shining very brightly indeed.”

She’s right. Minus the small inconveniences of life (having unwittingly demagnetized my debit card, for instance) things seem to be going my way. It would be irresponsible to fly in the face of such luck. As long as this little star of mine deigns to shine, I’d better follow it.

And so with much gusto and reckless optimism, into the grey blob I go!

pants on fire

My grandmother calls me every night at about 9 PM. “Olá querida, where are you?” Never how I am, always where. By 9 PM it’s dark and if I’m out she panics. Such is her agony when I concede that I am outside the safety perimeter of my home that I have started lying to her.

When she called on Monday I was in the mall. I didn’t think I could mask the obnoxious shopping noises, so I admitted that I was indeed out, but that I wasn’t very far from home and would be returning shortly. By ‘shortly’ I meant, of course, after the 9:30 PM showing of Hairspray. Not that I go to the movies much, especially not alone, but I don’t think I know anyone yet in Lisbon who loves me enough to be deceived into watching a musical without irreparable damage to our friendship.

“But aren’t you afraid of being KIDNAPPED?” by grandmother gasped between exclamations to the Divine.

Not robbed, not raped…kidnapped.

Well, if I thought my granddaughter was 6 I’d be afraid if she were out alone after 9 PM, too.

Yesterday I was home at 9 PM, chomping down on dinner (what I ate for dinner is always the second question, by the way). But yesterday after wishing me luck and happiness, which is usually the signal that our 30 seconds are up, she rambled on for a bit about how we have to earn our good luck. Along the lines of “if you’re wandering the streets alone after dark you DESERVE to be kidnapped.”

I think she might be catching on.

The Good Life

Today is the 7th of September.

It's been a long time (pre-pre-school?) since September has signified anything beyond stationary, schedules, sandwiches...school.

Even though I still have almost three weeks of my summer holidays left, the back-to-school/work vibe in the air has prompted some reflection of what the last few months have meant to me.

I can't say I have done anything particularly productive since I took my American Foreign Policy exam at the end of May. Not that it was all fun and games. In June there was the kuffufle of moving and goodbyes, in July there were visitors and general anxiety about what to do in the fall, in August there was my class at the Faculty of Letters and the longest exam I have ever written.

Strangely those aren't the things that will mark the past few months. It's been a summer of...well...summer. Countless hours sitting on patios, with friends, alone, in the beautiful afternoon sun or the midnight heat of summer. Plays, concerts, museums, photo exhibits, fairs...and so many books. Like I haven't read in years. Compulsively, then not at all. From cover to cover, several at once, poetry, scripts, blogs, novels, travel guides...in full polyglot glory. More coffee than I have ever consumed in my life, without a doubt.

I wrote letters to people I could have e-mailed. I revisited views I could have photographed. I sat on buses for an hour to have coffee when I could have gone around the corner. I went around the corner -- I am there now. There were perfect beach days -- I have a real tan. There were also shitty beach days -- I got rained on in my bikini.

This must be The Good Life.

There are boring days, too. Days when my parents make me crazy, when I'm tired of my own company, when I have watched so many episodes of House that I don't even get excited when Wilson wears his McGill sweatshirt.

What there hasn't been is more significant that what there has been. There hasn't been a lot of stress. Or schedules. Or deadlines. I can't remember the last time I felt rushed.

I think I needed the reminder that there is an alternative to the hectic rhythm of life I took to be natural. These past few months -- particularly the last two and a bit -- have been exactly what I needed. I doubt I'll get to do this again for a long time -- retirement maybe. I am trying to learn that living the good life doesn't mean cramming everything I love and believe to be good into a limited schedule.

I just hope I remember how good it feels to have no greater immediate ambition than to find the coffee I know is waiting for me and finish my book on Lisbon theatre in the First Republic, with an eye on the river that looks more like a sea, sitting in the gold of the September sun...

popular misperceptions

In the mornings the kids splash in the waves while the mothers and grandmothers run their errands and sweep the sand that we bring home every day. By 1 pm the sun is unbearable; lunch is on the table when we get home. At 1:30 we're already digesting. It is essential that lunch be consumed quickly so that we can be in the water again by 4:30.

Don't follow the logic? I don't really get it either.

In Portugal it is universally held that you can only go swimming three hours after a meal -- unless of course it's fish, in which case you get a half-hour knocked off on account of the 'lighter' meal.

I've been mystified by this rule for years. In Abu Dhabi our swimming teacher taught us to wait half an hour before diving in. Now, I know that we Portuguese eat well, but are our digestive systems really that much more meticulous (or just slower?) than everyone else's?

The agony of the three-hour wait is a trial of childhood. You're six, seven, thirteen. You've beat your brother at cards, built a sand castle and played raquet ball. Sweat is pouring down your back and your face is flushed from the heat. You're running out of ideas, the cool waves are rolling up towards you -- and you're stuck under the umbrella, prisoner to the pork chop you ate two hours ago.

This gem of popular wisdom is of uncertain origins -- which I suppose is normally the way with wives' tales. The difference is that people honestly believe this very hokey rule to be based in scientific fact. People will tell you they read it 'somewhere', heard some 'expert' say it on TV, or simply that it is something that 'everyone' knows. And goodness knows that 'everyone' from 'somewhere' is always right!

I don't know anyone who was or is allowed to swim the normal half-hour or hour after eating. As I am writing this my little cousin Beatriz is bouncing around impatiently, stopping to check someone's watch every few minutes.

This isn't popular wisdom, it's popular misperception. I know that. I'm intelligent. Well-informed. After all, my parents spent thousands of dollars for McGill to make me a critical thinker.

And yet I find myself waiting for the hands to tick to six at the bottom of my watch. Some habits are beyond the power of logic to change....

8:50 AM

8:50 AM. I step off the bus, onto the pavement in front of the Faculty of Letters. It's a moderately imposing construction, built in the new imperialist style of the 1960s (a favourite of many European dictators I'm told). The facade is low and wide, with steps leading to the faux columns. Around the doors are engravings of some of literature and mythology's greats -- a rotund priest from early Portuguese satires, Hamlet and his skull, some Greek dudes I would probably recognize if I had taken that Mythology course at McGill.

I walk through the main building to get to class. It's organized around courtyards -- the one to the right has a bar/cafe and a pond with little fish. The one of the right is a leafy garden with old concrete benches. We have classes in a separate building which is known as the 'The New Pavilion' (and has been, for several decades).

8:55 AM. I stroll into classroom #8, turn on the lights, drop my bag, and open the windows. I sit in my usual spot at the corner in the square u-shaped desk arrangement. I look at the courtyard and daydream. Behind the New Pavilion is the Letters library, an actually new-ish building filled with books on linguistics and literature. It is the opposite of everything McLennan is. The shelves are low enough that you can see over them and there are plenty of windows. Although the resulting lack of claustrophobia is nice, it did make realize just how many books McGill has. For example: I continue not to know what the maximum amount of books you can take out at McGill is -- and I've had twenty-some out at once before. I found out on my very first visit that the limit here is FOUR. I had to leave the others behind for another day. And I only get these ones for a week. I can't imagine trying to pump out a term paper!

9:03 AM. Hidemi strolls in. She's been in Portugal for a year but her punctuality hasn't been totally destroyed yet. Petra is next, at 9:05. By 9:12 most everyone has arrived, with one notable exception. At 9:15 on the dot, like every other day, the professor walks in. Today he sat down, looked at his watch and apologized for the tardiness with a jolly "Sometimes, you know, it just happens!" I had to fight back laughter; I think I audibly smirked.

9:30 AM. After Walter has asked his daily question, recorded meticulously on his little note pad, we start working. We review homework, discuss articles, learn grammar.

10:45 AM. Grammar is hard work. We take a break. Some people go to check their e-mail, most of us sit at the cafe outside with coffee and treats. We sit at a table that is half in the sun and half in the shade. Sun for me, Petra, Brais; Shade for Hidemi, Fatima and the Prof. The gallant galego who says he has a hard time peeling himself out of bed finally makes it to school and throws back a dark shot of expresso.

11:15 AM. No one is terribly concerned that we are still outside. The others wander back from the lab and pull up chairs. We talk about everything from Timor to bullfights. Time passes quickly -- with the rockets, as you might say in Portuguese.

11:30 AM. If it's Tuesday or Friday, it's culture time. So far we have learned about physical geography, human geography, listened to music and seen dozens of photographs.

1:00 PM. It's gotten very warm in little un-air-conditioned #8, so we leave on time. It's not polite to keep you late, our professor tells us. I involuntarily smirk, again.

---

Next morning, 9 AM. I am, once again, alone with my punctuality.

Can't help thinking that someone else is getting the last smirk.

doing penance

On Wednesday, Lisbon got out of town. Picked up and left, just like that.

I can’t blame her. The mercury in the thermometers is bubbling towards 40 and the ocean breeze doesn’t make it this far inland.

Wednesday, you’ll recall, was August 1^st – a day revered by many Lisboetas as The Day to Skip Town for a Month of Summer Holidays. It’s a yearly migration as faithfully observed as July 1^st Moving Day in Montreal. For one month each year Lisbon is abandoned by its inhabitants, left at the mercy of the cameras and fanny packs that fill in the gaps in Europe’s Most Charming Capital!

As everyone else who could was heading towards friendlier sun and lazier days, I was trundling in a half-empty 31 bus towards the un-air-conditioned classrooms of the University of Lisbon’s Faculty of Letters. Lisbon’s August visitors include a particular subset of students, of whom I am part. A hundred or so people, from places as varied as Morocco, China and India have given up their Augusts to the dangerously seductive Portuguese Language. Dangerous because her pronunciation is treacherous, her spelling deceiving and her grammar obscene. Seductive because – well, the reasons are many. Each of the eight students in my superior class has their own. Some, like the art instructor from Madrid or the German teacher from Italy, have made Portugal an annual vacation spot. A few, including a dark and handsome laywer from Galicia and a Czech girl, are on Erasmus hangovers – university students who came for a semester and never left. One girl from Macau is on a scholarship to learn the language, earn her law degree, and go back home to make sense of the legal system the Portuguese left behind in that former colony.

I’m there to do penance.

Like the other Portuguese kids in Abu Dhabi – we were only a handful – I was subject to weekly language classes. I whined my way through a decade of Portuguese lessons, through six tenses of verb conjugation (and I was getting off easy, there are more), memorization of royal dynasties (including each King’s nickname), and countless compositions (usually finished on the way to class). I finally whined my way out in grade 12, but by then enough of it had sunk in.

When my professor called roll on the first day he laughed when he got to me. Between the overflow of consonants that is Petra’s Czech name and the difficult transliteration of Hidemi’s Japanese name, my three very run-of-the-mill Portuguese names must looked a bit out of place. I have Portuguese stamped all over my face, my accent, my ID – I couldn’t pretend to be something else if I tried.

I don’t feel out of place, though. It’s all a bit déjà vu – rules I once knew, blanks I once filled, questions I once answered. Over the years the grammar I once knew has been replaced by a very hazy sense of things ‘sounding right’ – which is not always good enough. I’ve been impressed by how well my classmates speak. And they’re forcing me to stop eating my vowels and explain the bizarre proverbs and idiomatic expressions that I’ve inherited from my mother. Most of them have excellent grammar, product of university-level drills in the stuff I’ve learned – incorrectly – from the way that people speak. At the end of the four weeks we will all take the DUPLE – the universally recognized test of Portuguese as a second language. Because I have a bit of an edge, I hope to kick its butt. Then my penance will be complete.

blistered

I love my all-stars. I’m not usually attracted to particular brands of shoes or clothing, but I’ve been loyal to Converse since high school. I love them because they are flat and light – usually a good combination for city walking.

But not this city.

From the impossibly narrow passages of Alfama to the broad symmetry of the baixa, Lisbon’s streets have a lot of character. They also have a lot of stones. Roads, sidewalks, plazas, patios, garden pathways – all cobblestones. The black-and-white diamonds, arranged in wide waves downtown or with a simple border just outside my door, are part of the city’s charm.

The variety of calçada patterns can be enjoyed with the eyes, but the rich variety in tilt and texture – that is a story only your soles can tell. If you haven’t gotten a stiletto stuck in a crack, stubbed a toe on a corner or gotten blisters through your all-stars, you haven’t walked the city enough.

Somewhere along the line (at cobble stone no. 23587001 or something) someone got tired of sanding those buggers down – and the subsequent centuries of being stepped on haven’t helped. And so while the cobblestones are beautiful to see, they do not do beautiful things to your feet.

That’s why I’m at home this morning, nursing my blisters with some self-indulgent blog writing. Raw flesh aside, my urban hike was most enjoyable. My morning caffeine must of kicked in after I finished reading the paper at a café in Areeiro – I decided to walk to my next destination despite the fact that it didn’t really look that close on the map.

So I strolled along the Northern edge of Lisbon, stopping to admire ­Campo Pequeno, the Moorish-style arena where men in colourful suits stick pokey-things in understandably upset bulls. A few blocks down is the Universidade Nova de Lisboa’s faculty of social sciences. I poked around in the library where I laughed at seeing TV Paul’s International Order and the Future of World Politics (you remember the green book from POLI 244) in a display case. Poor Portuguese political science students! I am a native English speaker, TV Paul was my professor…and I still didn’t enjoy wading through that book.

My actual destination was the Calouste Gulbenkien Foundation’s gardens and museum. Gulbenkien was an Armenian (born in Istanbul) oil mogul, who spent his riches buying out the Hermitage after the 1917 Russian Revolution (among others). He was living in England in WWII when the British remembered he was Turkish and kicked him out. Portugal essentially bid out the rest of Europe to acquire Gulbenkien and his collections.

(If you're wondering about the picture, I followed the arrows to "...")

I would say that my visit was worth several times over what it cost me – except that as a student I got in for free (yes ISIC card!). It was a museum of utterly manageable size, small rooms dedicated to Egyptian, Roman, Greek, East Asian, Islamic and European art.

My favourite was the Islamic Art. There were gorgeous silk coats from the Safavid period in Persia (18^th cent.), mosque lamps from when the Mameluks had run of Egypt, and – Ipek – the most stunning Turkish tiles from Iznik (16^th cent). There was one panel in turquoise and cobalt that has helped me understand Ipek’s penchant for blues...

There were plenty of other neat things – illuminated scripts from the Armenian Church, an enormous twelve-panel Chinese screen, an ornate grandfather clock ticking at today’s time, long Persian rugs. There was a sizeable collection of European paintings – Monet, Renoir, Manet in the French collection. My favourite was the last piece, “Painter Brown and his Family” by Boldoni. It was so captivating – looked like a candid photograph. Brown in the center, mid-stride, his daughter and wife behind, the daughter caught in the beginnings of a smile, the wife only half in the frame. There was probably a full fourth of the canvas that didn’t have anything in it all. It was totally asymmetric and all in dark browns and greys and blacks – and yet was so pleasing to me.

Culture makes me hungry, so I sat by the lake (the museum is in a garden) and ate my lunch with the ducks. I didn’t feed them, but many other children did. I had never seen a fish fight (and beat) a duck for a crumb of bread before...

I was ready for a nap in the shade of a treeso I walked down town (but up a hill) to Parque Eduardo VII which has one of the best views of the city. I never got my nap though – my (current) friend and (former) serial summer fling Bruno called and I ended up going for drinks and then dinner with him and his girlfriend.

By the time I was dropped at my door I had been out of the house for about 13 hours and my feet were in the state that motivated this entry.

All in a day’s tourism – at least in this city.