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...