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...