Decoration Differences

Today, with the ample free time that Sunday always brings, I took some photos of the Christmas decorations I mentioned in my last post. 

 The three wise men climbing in through someone's window (they don't use the chimney).

Three little Papa Noëls imitating the three wise men.

Santa just hanging in there.

Dinners, Decorations, and Dr. Seuss

This is normally the time of year for snowy shopping trips, cutting down a Christmas tree, and slowly building a pile of presents as packages come in from relatives. But there's no snow here and I have yet to see a cut-your-own Christmas tree farm. As I found in Holland, most elements of the Christmas season are far from universal. Spain is no different.

In these last few weeks before the holiday break, I'm reading my classes Dr. Seuss' classic How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Despite its use of strange and made-up words, it seems to hold their attention, and I think the story's message is generally understood. Even such a simple story is not without cultural hiccups, however. To help explain why the Grinch hates Christmas morning (the noise, noise, noise, noise!), I asked one of my fourth grade classes what time they get up on Christmas morning. The teacher had warned me that they still believe in Santa Claus, so I naturally expected them to be among the Christmas early risers that the Grinch hates so much. When one student said she gets up at two, I assumed she was just extremely eager - until I realized she meant two in the afternoon!

The explanation for this lack of interest in Christmas morning is the celebration of the Epiphany on January 5. Apparently many households here celebrate Christmas with a large meal and a family gathering, but the presents wait until after New Year's to be opened. In addition to Santa Claus decorations, it is quite common to see images of the three wise men. I suppose it makes sense, as they were the original gift-bearers.

Christmas decorations are equally popular here. However, since there seem to be no stand-alone houses in Logroño, people decorate their balconies. The most entertaining decoration I've seen is one of Santa Claus climbing a rope ladder up over the balcony. In keeping with what I wrote above, you can also have the three wise men climb over if you like. According to the stories here, the three wise men bring presents in through the window (but Papa Noël comes through the chimney...which most people don't have. No wonder they get their presents at the Epiphany.)

For me, Christmas means lots of holiday dinners, a happy consequence of not being a poor student anymore. My housemates and I are having one on Thursday, followed by a work dinner on Friday, and one with our landlord on Saturday, which actually conflicts with a dinner that my friends from basketball are having. Is this why people get stressed at Christmas?

This won't be my last post before Christmas, but I hope everybody is enjoying themselves as 2010 winds down. 

Back in the UK

This past weekend was a long one in Spain - holidays on Monday and Wednesday mean Tuesday is free as well. I'm still not entirely clear as to which holidays they were, but all of us enjoyed the five-day weekend (six in my case). I used the extra time to pay a visit to my brother Jesse in Cambridge, where he is wrapping up a term on exchange from Yale.

Logroño is reasonably well-connected by bus and train to the rest of Spain, but getting out of the Iberian peninsula is a bit of a challenge. That's why I left it until this long weekend to go visit Jesse. My journey to London took the better part of a day. I began at 1.30 AM on Friday, hoping to sleep on the bus to the airport. After some confusion over my seat (each ticket has a bus number and a seat number, even though there was only one bus), I was heartily entertained by the one stop we made in snowy Soria. Our bus was visibly full, yet upwards of ten new ticket holders rushed onboard before realizing there was nowhere to sit. They all checked their tickets for the bus number, as we had done in Logroño, and found they were on number 8, the correct one. After some grumbling from the new arrivals in the aisle, we heard the driver's voice shout from outside: "Bueno, ¡hay otro ocho!" (Okay, there's another number 8!) Being 3 AM, the sheer insanity of this disorganization was entertaining rather than frustrating.

Upon reaching Madrid-Barajas Airport, I checked in and lined up to board my Ryanair flight to London Gatwick. At the exact time it was meant to depart, it was announced that it had been delayed for two hours. Gatwick airport had been closed due to weather for two days, so a two-hour delay was not unexpected. Once we finally took off, the pilot announced that he still didn't know if we'd be landing at Gatwick or Stansted because of the snow at Gatwick. As it turned out, we landed at Stansted, but I avoided the fate of many other travelers from Barajas that day - the Spanish air traffic controllers went on strike later that afternoon. I just made it out of the country.

While in London, I used a tube day pass to visit some places that I remembered, and some I hadn't seen - Abbey Road Studios, London Bridge, Harrod's, Southwark - and also had the misfortune of encountering bed bugs at my hostel. Rest assured, they have been dealt with mercilessly.
                                
A tourist taking a picture of the crosswalk on the cover of Abbey Road.

Jesse and I met at Embankment station on Saturday to head to Twickenham to watch Barbarian FC play South Africa (rugby, if you're confused). On the way, I had my first celebrity sighting - British TV personality Dara O'Briain was walking by Waterloo station. I guess that's one advantage of living in a big city.

The rugby game was fantastic. Barbarian FC (also called Baa-Baas) is an invitational team made up of players from all over the world. In rugby, that basically means tons of players from Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa, a few Europeans, and one Pacific Islander. The Barbarians traditionally face one of the southern hemisphere sides that come to tour Europe in November, and this year, it was defending world champions South Africa (the Springboks). Barbarians won 26-20, and much of the action was in our end, which was a treat. It was a fantastic atmosphere, with plenty of South African expats in the stands screaming "Go Bokke!" in their unique accents. Although not as crowded or as competitive as an international match, it was a privilege to watch the Barbarians play their exciting brand of running rugby. The crowd loudly voiced its disapproval every time either team chose to kick a penalty rather than run it.

 Ma'a Nonu: All Black, Barbarian, and all-around awesome rugby player.

Jesse and I met up with Jeff, a friend from the ISC who is now there as a staff member, and headed up to Cambridge later that evening. After church the following morning, Jesse gave me a tour of several Cambridge colleges. Later, I visited my friend Renad, who is currently doing his Masters at the university. I was continually struck by the amount of history, money, and power that Cambridge possesses. One of Renad's professors used to be Richard Nixon's chief of staff, and one of the students at his college counts Facebook's Eduardo Saverin among his friends. Few of the colleges have not produced a world-famous graduate - Newton, Darwin, Keynes, Sacha Baron Cohen, and Monty Python being just a few examples. Cambridge has produced more Nobel prize winners than any other educational institution, though its 800-year existence does give it a distinct advantage.

Isaac Newton.

Jesse Zink (and Charles Darwin).

One of the simplest pleasures of being in the UK was being immersed in my native language again. Jesse and I went to two movies while I was in Cambridge, neither of which I could see in English in Logroño. It was also quite a treat to watch Spanish people try to negotiate the fallout of our flight being diverted in English. Part of me pitied them, but part of me was enjoying seeing the shoe on the other foot. None of them seemed to have real trouble, anyway.

The return trip was uneventful and went exactly as planned. The only surprise was the change in weather - Madrid was 15°C upon my arrival, and Logroño is about the same. It is not often that I get the privilege of wearing sandals in December, but I do enjoy it.

Pedestrians and Phalanxes

The more time I spend in Spain, the more I notice the little things. The one that I've been noticing most recently is the way people walk here. In North America, it's generally understood that you stay to the right any time you're walking where people might also be going the other way. In Britain, I've found it's the same for the left side, which matches their road system. In Spain, they drive on the right, but they walk pretty much wherever they want. While hiding from the rain in San Sebastian, Eric and I watched where people walked for about 5 minutes. There was no distinct pattern, but the middle of the sidewalk was a popular spot, and people's paths do not necessarily follow straight lines, either.

Rain makes things even more interesting. As was the case in Holland, people here prefer umbrellas to raincoats. Unlike Holland, people here tend to be on the short side. Combine short people, umbrellas, and irregular walking patterns, and the eyes of anyone over 5'8" are consistently at risk of being poked. Perhaps most disturbing is the way many people have no sense that they are inconveniencing anyone else. I almost began applauding when a few people raised their umbrellas as they passed other people.

Another complicating factor in this mix is the presence of senior citizens. Logroño has a very visible elderly population, and from what I can tell, they are generally pretty independent. It's common to see elderly couples out for a walk together, or groups in cafés playing cards, or friends sitting in the park. It is also normal for women to walk arm-in-arm, which is hardly noticeable when they're young and can move relatively quickly. However, when multiple generations of mothers and daughters want to walk together, it evokes images of a Greek phalanx moving down the sidewalk. On the other hand, I suppose I'd rather see too many elderly people out walking than too few - so maybe I'll stick to biking for now.

Beauty and the Basques

This weekend, Megan, Eric, and I decided to take a quick overnight trip to San Sebastian, which is about two hours north of us. It's one of the most important cities in the Basque region, although not the biggest (Bilbao) or the capital (Vitoria). If Bilbao is the region's industrial and financial center, San Sebastian is its cultural center (much like the relationship between Edinburgh and Glasgow or Amsterdam and Rotterdam).

In any case, San Sebastian is known for its food and the best pintxos in the world. I was more taken by its natural beauty, however - the beaches look fantastic even when it's too cold to swim, and the surrounding mountains seem to wall off the rest of the world. Although the weather reminded me of the rainy coastal climates of Holland and England (and cities like Seattle, Vancouver, and Halifax), I am sure I will be returning to San Sebastian. Hopefully the weather will be more conducive to swimming when I do.

Until then, here are some photos from this weekend's visit.

Visits and Variations

I'm currently enjoying a visit from my mother, and there is no better way to feel at home than to have a guest who is even less familiar with the place you're in. It seems Mom had planned to survive her trip through England, France, and Spain using only her knowledge of English and French. It worked until she crossed the Pyrenees. Needless to say, I have been translating conversations for the first time in my life. There is no better way to feel fluent (or at least of advanced intermediate capabilities).

The main event thus far has been our visit to my school in Albelda, where Mom was VERY popular. Being an enterprising young gent, I used her presence as a way to liven up the class...while simultaneously allowing her to do much of what would have been my job. I was learning as well, however - I've never seen the preschoolers as well-behaved as they were today. If only I could figure out how Mom did it.

Outside of class, however, was my first real test as a translator. Many of the teachers in my schools do not speak English, although more can than are willing to admit it. Language barriers have never stopped my mother, though, and before long, I found myself mediating a conversation about one of my coworker's retirement plans (they involved a 50-foot yacht and the Mediterranean Sea).

One secret I've learned in my experiences abroad is the importance of using visitors as couriers. And Mom has performed that role admirably, as I now have in my possession a copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Cat in the Hat. One of my major struggles here has been my inability to connect with children, but Dr. Seuss can turn anyone into a kid. Seriously, who can say "Fiffer-Feffer-Feff" without sounding (and feeling) like a child?

This week has been the first where I have really started to feel at home here, as well as feeling confident with my Spanish. But minor cultural differences continue to arise, to which I can only say IGTJHTDIH: I guess that's just how they do it here. Here's a few little challenges:

- I've begun playing basketball once a week. Part of the reason I wanted to find somewhere to play is that my knowledge of basketball is probably greater than any other sport, so it would be a good way to feel a little more at home. It has served to do that, but not without a few hiccups. When I first stepped on the court, the first question I was asked was "¿Qué zona?" (Which zone?) I timidly asked if we might not consider playing man-to-man defense, but in the end I covered the area they pointed to. I can honestly say that I had never played zone defense before coming here.

- Spanish people do not, as a general rule, comprehend sarcasm. While enjoying the company of some new friends in my living room a couple of weeks ago, someone suggested a card game. I enthusiastically agreed and fetched a deck of cards. The dealer asked if I wanted to be dealt in. Thinking the answer was obvious, I sarcastically replied "no." Moments later, I was surprised to find cards in front of my neighbors, but not me. IGTJHTDIH.

- Another, more positive difference in communication is the directness of both the people and the language. When Spanish people answer the phone, you hear one of four phrases: "Dime", "Digame", "¿Sí?", or "Hola." The first two literally translate as "tell me," which doesn't really fit in English, but imagine someone saying "What?" or "Talk" when they answered the phone. It's about that polite. The language does not lend itself to equivocation or subtlety. This directness allows me to be pretty harsh in my choice of words, but it also limits the degree of emotion I can express (as if my Spanish skills didn't already do that).

Barriers and Bicycles

Even for people who have never been immersed in a language other than their own, the term "language barrier" is commonly understood to refer to the difficulties that arise when two people with no common language attempt to communicate. Using that phrase hints at the frustration and annoyance that arises from such a situation, but not its tangible consequences. I got a taste of those consequences last week.

After taking my bike out three times, I found that the cable to shift the rear gears had worn away and my bike was stuck at its most difficult speed. I had heard one good review of the bike shop down the street, and walked in with my bike and my housemate Megan (moral and linguistic support). As soon as the ornery man behind the cash saw my bike, he uttered a combination of sounds that I couldn't make head or tail of. But his hand gestures seemed to indicate a problem with the front wheel. In a much slower combination of sounds, I tried to explain that I needed a new gear cable. But the man kept pointing at the front wheel, and soon the younger repair guy came over to help translate (not into English, you understand, just into different Spanish). He was pointing at the front wheel too.

Megan made out that there had been some sort of serious impact to the frame that needed to repaired. The bike had been riding fine apart from the gearing issue, so I finally said, "¿Entiendes que el problema está aguí, sí?" (you understand that the problem is here, right?) while pointing to where the cable should have been. Both men seemed to understand, but continued to talk about this other problem they had spotted. Now, mechanic talk can confuse me even in my native language, but I can usually bluff my way through it and get an idea of what I'm up against. It's much harder to bluff in another language. Knowing that my problem was relatively simple and in good hands, I didn't raise any more questions and nodded my assent when they said the repairs would cost about €45. At least the bike would be in better shape, I figured.

Upon my return the following evening, the repair guy explained that they hadn't had the part necessary but he'd done what he could, so the cost would only be €8. I was pleased at the price reduction, but quickly noticed that there was no new cable for the gears. I asked about this, and the man looked surprised. The resulting conversation has stuck with me:
Repair Guy: "Ah, ¿quieres otro cable?" (Ah, you want another cable?)
Me: "Sí." (Yes.)
Repair Guy: "¿Lo quieres comprar y tú lo pones?" (You want to buy it and put it on yourself?)
Me: "No, que tú lo pones." (No, I want you to put it on.)

Why we couldn't have said those four simple sentences the previous day, I still do not understand. Perhaps it was because I didn't know the Spanish word for cable was simply...cable (KAH-blay). As it turned out, I returned half an hour later and the cable was replaced. I still have no idea what the original repairs were.

Strolling on a Sunny Saturday

Today my housemate Eric and I used our wide-open Saturday to hike up a mountain north of the River Ebro and take some photos. My previous hikes had taken me south of town, so I was glad for the change of direction. In fact, this very mountain had caught my eye on an earlier stroll along the river, as I photographed a few weeks ago.

For the hiking aficionados among you, this hike goes backwards along the Camino de Santiago, while my previous hikes have followed the same trail on the other side of town (in the right direction). It took us through more sedate parts of town before going up into a very small Gypsy village. I'm not actually sure if the people inhabiting the village were Gypsies, but it definitely had some characteristics of shantytowns. More striking than the worn-down houses were the dogs, which every house seemed to have in abundance. And not the cute, friendly kind, but the angry kind that lead children to fear dogs for life. Fortunately, the existence of the Camino seems to have encouraged the neighbors to keep their dogs tied up. I guess they're still working on teaching them not to bark angrily every time somebody walks by.

After running the gauntlet of well-defended houses, the path entered a series of vineyards and climbed fairly steeply to a large, flat summit. The views were enjoyable, particularly in the sun, and I could see the peak that I had reached on other hikes to the south. More impressive were the mountains of Álava to the north, the first tangible border of Basque country. Enjoy the photos below.

Pintxos and Pigs

Most people who know me are aware that I rarely tire of the subject of food, whether eating or discussing it (although preferably more of the former). Much like Roger Ebert does with movies, I can find something good in almost anything I eat - maybe not "two thumbs up!" worth, but something enjoyable nonetheless. So of course, one of Spain's primary attractions for me was the promise of its food. And it has not let me down.

Many areas I've visited have one or two dishes for which they are primarily known, at least to my knowledge: haggis in Scotland, schnitzel in Germany, waffles in Belgium, tagine and couscous in Morocco, pasta and pizza in Italy, etc. If you had to name a similar dish for Spain, it would probably be paella. Essentially a shellfish stirfry over yellow rice, paella is known as the Spanish national dish. But somebody clearly forgot to tell Riojans.

Spain's cuisine is as unique as each of its autonomous communities. I suppose this is true for every country I mentioned above, but it has been most glaringly obvious to me here. The one restaurant I have seen advertising its paella was undoubtedly a tourist trap, of which there are precious few in Logroño. Indeed, Logroño doesn't seem to have many sit-down restaurants of any kind. Instead, it is packed with bar/cafés - which almost always have both names on them - and tapas bars. But even tapas, another type of dining typically associated with this country, are not called that here. Because of La Rioja's proximity to the Basque region, Riojan tapas are called by their Basque name "pintxos", which is pronounced pinchos (and occasionally spelled that way). Most pintxo bars only offer one or two food items to simplify their menu and distinguish themselves from similar institutions.

Perhaps the most universal element of Spanish cuisine that I've seen is jamón serrano, which is the large, cured legs of ham that can be found in almost any bar or restaurant. I have seen these everywhere I've been in Spain, and I would be willing to bet that pig is the most consumed animal in this country, although meat is generally very popular. At the small supermarket near my apartment, one can purchase a full rabbit (eyes included, fur and innards removed) or a pig's head. It is quite a reality check to be strolling through your grocery store and see a smiling little pig's face looking up at you from the meat counter.  

At the risk of scaring away vegetarian readers and boring the rest, I'll leave you to enjoy the above picture of jamón serrano legs for sale in Barcelona. And let me also add that none of the best things I've eaten here have included red meat. But there will be more - much more - on gastronomic issues later.

Last week was my first regular week at either of my schools - or as regular as it could be, considering it began with a long weekend. It was nice to be able to recognize some familiar faces among the staff and students, although names still elude me for the most part. Two stand out, however - David and Ana. Both are teachers in Albelda de Iregua, the more distant of my two schools. Our daily commute to and from the school was the highlight of my week. Being a language enthusiast, the language barrier here is a constant frustration. However, David and Ana both speak English at about the level that I speak Spanish, meaning we go back and forth between English and Spanish (with Spanish getting the upper hand) to make conversations work. The fact that I can use the word "conversation" to describe how we talk is remarkable in itself, because I have had precious few actual conversations with Spanish people thus far. It helps that both David and Ana have well-developed senses of humor.

This week has also helped clarify exactly what my duties are. Now working in Alberite, I have been giving presentations (with the aid of Powerpoint) about topics that I know a lot about and the students know little about (such as Canada and Halloween). It allows me to play on the differences I have with the students, and certainly does wonders for my patriotism. Even better, there is very little risk of running out of material, especially when it comes down to explaining the concept of poutine - Spanish has no word for gravy, so the explanation is always at least 5 minutes long.

Regarding my life outside of school, I recently bought a bicycle. It should give me greater freedom to roam the area, although I will need to get used to riding drop-down handlebars. I found it on a craigslist-esque website, and the man I bought it from was surprised when he met me to find that I wasn't black (his words). I don't want to delve into the racist undertones of that statement, especially as he said it in a language in which I am far from fluent, but I was a little taken aback. There were no more such comments afterwards, although he was absolutely staggered that I didn't haggle with him. Once he had shown me everything (and given me a pump and a water bottle), I pulled out my wallet and he literally took a step backwards. After he said he would make a point of remembering this extraordinary event, I rode the bike home in short stretches, as the street layout here is still a bit of a mystery to me.

Finally, as this week has been marked by small but significant developments in my life here, I offer these small but significant tidbits of difference between North America and Spain:

- Double first names are common here, with José Luis, Maria Jesús (how holy can you get?), José Ramon, and Miguel Ángel being just a few examples that I have encountered.

- A different language means different accepted abbreviations: instead of Maria Jesús, you can write Ma. Jesús, much as we occasionally see Wm. for William. Also, as we write Bros. for Brothers, Spanish people write Hnos. for Hermanos.

- Bread is purchased every day in baguette form, rather than kept for multiple days in sliced loaves. I haven't looked in anyone's shopping bags, but a yard-long baguette is hard to conceal (and even harder to fit in the bread box).

This past weekend was a long one (hence why I'm writing about it on Wednesday). Tuesday was a national holiday, and I spent Monday applying for my residence permit, which meant today was the first time I'd been to either of my placements since last Thursday.

All the free time has meant I've been doing some exploring, entirely on foot. On Sunday I did a small hike with two friends. Logroño itself is relatively flat, owing to its location on the Rio Ebro. But the area around the city is hilly or mountainous, depending on where you come from. That makes it easy to do a fairly significant hike in the space of an afternoon. Although we spent more of the walk getting in and out of the city, we did see two golden eagles (we think) right up close, and got acquainted with the clay-like terrain around here, which makes more of a difference to such a hike than I expected.

Yesterday I went for a walk along the Ebro, which connects two major parks in Logroño. Although this walk never left the city, it actually emphasized how small the city is - or how large the landscapes are around here. The other side of the river was, in parts, simply mountains/hills. The river itself played host to a number of bird species, none of which I can really identify - although there was one heron, it was not a great blue, which is the only kind I've seen before. But the walk was very relaxing and certainly served its function of filling the time interestingly.

One of a pair of golden eagles we saw. They were much closer than the picture reveals.

The heron that I can't identify.

One of the mountains/hills across the Ebro from Logroño. Again, it's much more impressive in person.

Today I met more of my classes and had a fairly productive session with first-graders. Good thing, because tomorrow I'm dealing with preschoolers. There are new challenges every day.

Although it's unrelated to anything else, I must mention that this morning I saw a pickup truck that was filled with sheep. It's an odd feeling to be walking down a city street and to suddenly hear the sound of sheep bleating. Tomorrow will struggle to match that for a morning pickup - but I'm sure it will find a way.

As of about 12.00 today, my greatest source of stress thus far is gone - I have found an apartment! And not a minute too soon, as the room I was staying in had been rented for the weekend. My room is in an apartment with three other people, two of whom are in my program (one of whom I had met at our meeting on Wednesday) and one of whom is a dentist originally from a village in the southeast of La Rioja. Now that I have what I've been waiting for, I think it's time to give the readers of this blog what they've been waiting for - photos!

 These are views from my bedroom window. There will be more to come, as I have very little planned for this weekend.

Blue Eyes and the Big Lebowski

My days continue to be filled with new challenges. Yesterday saw my first visit to Albelda de Iregua, the second school in which I will be working. José Luis (the Jefe de Estudios in Alberite) gave me a ride and told me about his experiences in the United States, particularly how overwhelmed he was when he stepped out of Grand Central Station in New York. He then helped me get acquainted at the school and took me to Albelda's Cajarioja to open my bank account (using the Alberite school's address). This country seems to have more banks than the Sahara has grains of sand - I haven't counted, but here's a few names to give you a taste: Caja Laboral, Caja Rural de Soria, Caja Rural de Burgos, Caja España, Caixa Catalunya, Banco Popular and BBVA. Cajarioja is the regional bank (as you can probably guess) and has branches in both towns in which I will be working, so I guess it's as good a choice as any other.

Apart from opening a bank account, searching for an apartment (many good leads, no results yet), and going to a meeting with others from my program, my days have been filled meeting the students. Although I generally don't enjoy the company of children, things have gone well so far because of the curiosity they have for me. I never imagined that blue eyes could be such a conversation starter! Indeed, the best exchange I have yet had with a student was this:
Me: "Does anybody have a question for me?"
Student: "Your eyes are beautiful!"
Me: "That's not a question."
Oh, I am so cruel.

I always talk about the weather in Canada, because the first picture I show is one of a frozen Lake Nipissing. Today I made the specific comparison between La Rioja and North Bay, and watched the kids' expressions change as I wrote how low the temperature gets in North Bay during the winter. Some kids were still excited by the idea of experiencing it, but I have to say that I am generally doing very little to boost Canada's tourist industry.

Another question that almost always gets asked is which soccer team I prefer: Real Madrid or FC Barcelona? I can probably relate to this question more than any other, as I undoubtedly would have asked a Spanish language assistant if they liked the Red Sox when I was that age. My response varies between "I don't like either, but I do like players on both" to "I won't answer for fear of starting a fight."

Today I had my first experience in a first-grade classroom, which was entertaining. Since they are not proficient enough in English to ask questions, I did more watching and listening than speaking. But I have to say, children that young really are a breed apart. Monica, the instructor, is absolutely brilliant at controlling them, which is saying quite a bit when the mere mention of a rabbit can inspire one student to hop up and down with his hands held as rabbit ears, and another to hop up and down slapping himself in the face (I guess he just had to be different). Needless to say, this was the class in which my presence drew the least curiosity.

Perhaps to put it all in perspective, once I leave the classroom, I become a student myself - of the Spanish language. Trying to understand another language is like reading a really boring book - you really have to apply yourself to gather any meaning, unlike in English, which I can understand whether I want to or not. And much like reading a dull book, I occasionally find myself thinking of other things, and today, I reminded myself of a scene from the Big Lebowski:
Walter: "Were you listening to the dude's story, Donny?"
Donny: "No."
Walter: "Then you have no frame of reference here, Donny. You're like a child that wanders into a movie and wonders..."(the dude interrupts here)
I'm just worried that now every time I find myself not paying attention to a conversation in Spanish, I'll think, "Jody, you're out of your element!"

Apologies to those who haven't seen the Big Lebowski.

Information Overload

All three of my long-term experiences abroad have begun with a stage that I have named information overload, although it is far more than that. Because so much essential information is being thrown at you simultaneously, the hours go by like days and the days seem endless. That I have barely been here two days is astonishing from my point of view. Here's an explanation of why it feels that way.

Yesterday I rode to Haro in the morning with Ana and Begoña, the music teacher. I was introduced to many of the teachers and staff as Beatriz showed me around the school, which took some time, as it has 700 students and the facilities to match. As a point of reference, I went to high school in Northampton with around 800 students. After spending the first hour of school on my tour, I helped out in a class taught by Begoña - another English teacher, not the music teacher from the morning's ride. Soon after, I found that the school had gotten a call from Pilar, the woman in Logroño who coordinates my program. Apparently, another participant had decided not to come, and there is an English woman in the program who lives in Haro with her Spanish husband. Pilar was wondering if I would mind very much switching to two schools in two small towns nearer to Logroño so this English woman could work and live in the same town. Cue the sound of a record being stopped suddenly.

Obviously, there wasn't much I could do to hold my spot in Haro. All I had in my favor was the friends I had made in the less than 24-hour period I had been here. The other ambassador had the fact that she lived in the town, and in the context, it made absolutely no sense for her to commute past Logroño every day while I searched for a place to live in Haro (Logroño has a far more active rental market, as it has a university). But roots grow quickly during the information overload stage.

I spent the rest of the school day in Haro, helping out in one of Ana's classes and one of Begoña's. Beatriz made arrangements for me to go to Alberite tomorrow, which is the first of the two towns in which I will be working. I then caught a ride back to Logroño with Beatriz and two other teachers before coming back to my hotel room and collapsing for a long nap.

So today, the whole introductory process began anew. I caught a ride with Susana, the lone English teacher at the school in Alberite and Laura, one of the school's special education teachers. After helping out in one of Susana's classes, I was handed over to José Luis, the school's Jefe de Estudios (side note: I don't think we have this position in North American schools - it's the person who coordinates all the academics). He and Susana worked out my schedule - looks as though I'll have some late starts and Fridays off, so good news there.

José Luis then "took me under his wing," so to speak, giving me a tour and making some suggestions about housing and transport, as well as arranging my transport for tomorrow to Albelda de Iregua, the other town in which I'll be working. As it turns out, José Luis is something of an American sports fanatic, even interested in our form of football. Fortunately, he likes the Patriots, so we had plenty to talk about after last night's win against the Dolphins.

The really frustrating thing is that I now have to repeat this process tomorrow in Albelda. I will be alternating weeks between the two towns, and I have yet to even visit one of them. Establishing a routine here is going to be a routine breaker in itself. But again, that's a statement made after 48 hours here. The information overload stage is characterized by the necessity of establishing a routine from almost nothing. It feels as though every new piece of information completely changes your life, when in fact it is actually helping to establish your life in a new place. My key to survival? Latching-on points, or arrangements with other people to ensure I always have someone to lead me around. Meanwhile, I need to pursue a place to live and a bank account independently (and have already begun to do so, albeit somewhat timidly).

As I said, this is far more than information overload - it's also responsibility overload. And that is why the first 48 hours felt like a year here (and in Maastricht, and at the ISC).     

How I Spent My 23rd Birthday

Saturday, October 2nd was an important day for two reasons: it was my 23rd birthday, and it was the day I left for Spain. After two days of packing and preparations after getting my visa, my parents and I made a long trip to Toronto's Pearson Airport to put me on my flight to Barcelona. It was tough to celebrate my birthday while driving, but it was worth the sacrifice to finally be turning my long-hypothetical occupation into a reality.

As much as I like traveling, I really do not enjoy flying. The planning process is frustrating, the restrictions are limiting, and something about airports and airplanes gives my head a funny feeling. I attribute it to lack of oxygen. In any case, I was not just traveling, but MOVING to another country, which entails various issues with customs as well. I was pretty wound up, to say the least. Having said that, things did go very smoothly.

The flight was unremarkable, but let me remark about it anyway. After a delay at the gate - some minor repairs - we left about an hour late. Somehow we still made it on time, which shows you how much discount airlines pad their schedules. Once in the air, I found myself still too on edge to sleep, so I did my best to enjoy Grown Ups and Iron Man 2. I specifically did not put my headset on for Letters to Juliet, but the screen was so bright I ended up watching most of it anyway. I don't think sound would have added anything to the story that I didn't gather from the images. One positive about the flight that I didn't acknowledge until afterwards was the absence of crying babies.

The final stress test was passport control, where I was entering with the visa for which I had paid $125 and waited one month. I guess being on a plane full of tourists has its advantages - the customs agent simply stamped my passport with a visitor visa and didn't even look at the student visa filling up page 12. It was a bit frustrating to have it be ignored after all that, but in the end the lack of hassle was worth it.

I took a train from the airport to Barcelona-Sants Estacio - one of the city's major train stations - bought my ticket to Logroño and pondered what to do with myself for a few hours. I revisited the sites of my previous arrival in Barcelona. Like last time, I had not slept. Unlike last time, I was not ill or suffering from the theft of my wallet. I strolled past the police station where I had reported the robbery, then took the subway to the Plaça Catalunya and took a look at the Canadian consulate that saved my bacon (pun intended). And then I wandered down La Rambla, passing the first of many Western Union offices that I would use last summer to get money from my parents after losing my wallet. After an hour that reminded me why I was so happy NOT to be staying in Barcelona with its army of tourists, I returned to the train station and boarded my four-hour train to Logroño.

Boarding Spanish trains is like boarding North American planes used to be. There's a long line waiting to get on, attendants check your ticket, and you need to pass your bags through an x-ray. Once on the train, however, Renfe (the Spanish national train company) employees are a rare sight. Although I did not have much space to myself, my sleep deprivation ensured that I couldn't keep my head up for more than a few minutes at a stretch. The countryside looked a bit like the American Southwest looks in pictures - which is probably why the spaghetti Western film genre began. It was a stark reminder of how different this place was to anywhere I had lived before.

Beatriz and Ana, two of my English-teaching coworkers, greeted me at the Logroño train station. I haven't asked how they knew it was me yet, but I imagine a ratty t-shirt, a baseball cap, and tons of luggage were a pretty dead giveaway. They helped me find a place to stay for the night and later I went out for a small dinner with Ana and her boyfriend Anibal, who doesn't speak English (but is quite aware of the comparisons his name raises with Hannibal Lecter).

As it turns out, there are quite a number of other language ambassadors in Haro, the town in which I will be teaching, two of whom are there to teach French and the rest English. It seems most people live in Logroño and commute, which I regard as a bit of a shame, but convenience may demand that I do it as well. In any case, I am off to Haro for the first time tomorrow to see the school and meet the faculty. From what Beatriz and Ana have told me, they have never had someone from my program before, so the standards are as low as can be, which is exactly how I would have preferred it.

The waiting is over! After 5 calls to the consulate (at least) and one blog post about how long I had to wait, my visa arrived in today's mail. My month of laziness has come to a close.

Now it's time to book the flight (already done), contact my school in La Rioja (already done), and pack (not even started). Even before leaving, I know of one hiccup that could be disastrous - the general strike in Spain. Apparently transit of almost all kinds is very hard to come by at the moment, so I'll just have to hope the strikers have made their point by the time I arrive.

My thrilled expression upon receiving my visa. I look slightly devious.

There will be more news to report before long. Thanks for reading.

Bureaucracy Inaction

You may be wondering why it's taken me so long to write a second post. The short answer is that I don't have my visa yet and am thus still writing this from North America. But you didn't go to all the trouble of checking my blog just to get the short answer.

My acceptance into this program happened somewhat strangely. After applying in the spring, I was put on the waiting list. By August, I had basically given up hope when I received an urgent email saying that there were still spots to be filled and to reply immediately if I wanted one. I had thought that sending an application was enough to send that message, but I replied instantly. (As it turns out, the email was due to them having empty spots in regions that no one had listed in their preferences - I guess no one wanted to go to or had heard of La Rioja).

Soon after, I got the acceptance message and began to prepare my visa application. I submitted it at the beginning of September, where I was told to call back in two weeks. It being September, they said, meant that student visas like mine might begin to get rushed through.

Since then, everything seems to have stalled. Firstly, I sent in the wrong application form and had to send in the correct one - the program manual had given a link to an out-of-date form. Secondly, at the two-week mark, the person at the consulate wondered why they had told me to call after two weeks - student visas usually take up to five weeks.

Every call since then has met with the same result. As it turns out, the application needs to be sent to Madrid to be approved. This, of course, begs the question: Why couldn't I just send the application to Madrid and eliminate the "middle man?" I think the answer comes down to sheer bureaucracy. One arm of the Spanish government has selected me for the position, while another won't let me arrive on time because of its own modus operandi.

In any case, I refuse to feel guilty for arriving late (which looks like a certainty now). The waiting, however, is frustrating. Not knowing when my visa will arrive means I can't make plans for more than a few days ahead, which effectively pins me down at my parents' house until it arrives. So if you're wondering why I haven't been posting anything, that's why - there's very little to report.

On a less interesting note, I am getting better at making (and eating) homemade pizza, as well as watching DVDs until my eyes fall out. Part of me feels like I deserve this period of utter laziness, as I never really had the chance to do so after finishing classes in April, but most of me really wants to hop on a flight to Spain as soon as possible.

Welcome!

And thank you for reading my blog. This is intended to be a record of my doings for the benefit of those who are interested. I have previously sent mass emails, but the stress of writing a long message, attaching photos, and waiting for it to send now seem too much of a hassle.

But enough of the reasons, what about the doings?

In a matter of weeks, I will be departing North America for the third time in four years to take up a position as an English teaching assistant in the town of Haro, La Rioja, Spain. I still have many questions to ask (most importantly - when will my visa arrive?), and I assume you probably have even more. Here are a few answers that I already know:

Where exactly will you be working?
Instead of states or provinces, as in the USA and Canada, Spain has autonomous communities. I'm not sure of the details, but each one has a fair amount of decision-making power, as the name hints. Some autonomous communities contain multiple provinces, but the one in which I will be working, La Rioja, does not. It is one of the smallest autonomous communities in the country. Its capital is Logroño, which is only a little bit larger than Kingston, ON, where I went to university (about 150,000 people). However, I will be working (and hopefully living) in the town of Haro, which is 40 km northwest of the capital and contains about 12,000 inhabitants.

What is it near that the average North American might have heard of?
Don't lie, this was the next question on your mind. La Rioja, being so tiny, is near plenty of places that are on the "tourist circuit," as travel books like to call it. To the north is País Vasco, which is Spanish for Basque Country. I'm already planning a blog post called "Noisy Neighbors," since the Basques are well-known for their unique identity and separatist movement. If you've never heard of them, the Basques are a group of people that has been living in northeastern Spain and southwestern France for longer than human records can tell. They have their own language, cuisine, laws, sports (you might have heard of jai alai), and now, autonomous community.
      To the west and south of La Rioja is Castilla y Léon, which I believe was one of the two kingdoms that were joined when Isabella and Ferdinand tied the knot in the 15th century. It is one of the larger autonomous communities.
      To the east is the autonomous community of Navarra, which is home to the city of Pamplona, famous for its festival of San Fermín. That's where they block off the streets to create a channel and run bulls through it for eight days in July. Sometimes people run in front of the bulls. I'm not planning to be one of them.

What is La Rioja known for?
One word: wine. La Rioja is home to red wines that are famous enough that I recognize the name from a few casual walks through the Spanish wine section at the LCBO (before rushing off to the cold beer section). Haro is the center of Riojan wine country, and every July sees the annual Batalla del Vino - the wine battle. There are pictures. Look it up. Not being a wine connoisseur, I plan to enjoy some of the area's less famous specialties, such as its natural surroundings - seven rivers run through La Rioja, all tributaries of the Ebro, which runs down to the Mediterranean. This seems to have created some fantastic hiking trails and decent fishing, both of which I plan to check out.

How did you get this position, Jody?
Every year, the Spanish government hires 1500-2000 native English speakers from North America to be English TAs in their public schools for 12-15 hours per week. They receive a stipend and the program is actually a continuing education grant rather than a job. Placement is based on preference by autonomous community, although I was put in La Rioja because I declared my willingness to work anywhere in Spain after my preferred regions filled their spots.

What exactly will you be doing?
I'm still asking myself this question. I do know that the school at which I will be teaching is a primary school, and I have a history of disliking young kids. The plus side is that if I can make this year a success, it sets a good precedent for a teaching career (gasp! don't say that word!).

That's what I know so far. For now, I'm waiting on my visa and making tentative plans to stop off at Oktoberfest in Munich before starting training in Madrid at the end of the month. Because, you know, Europe is basically one big country.

Now I'm off to hide, because every European I know is going to chase me down with pitchforks for that last remark.