Today was my last day teaching in the pueblos! In honor of this special occasion, I’ve written an ode* to the seven villages I called mine this year.
*note: I recognize this is not an up-to-code ode. Uruñuela, Huércanos, Alesanco, Hormilla, Tricio, Arenzana (de abajo) and Camprovín too One school, seven villages, six carpools to remember I wondered if I’d ever get sick of the car-ride view The answer is no – never I spent my days trying to recall Is it an A Week or B Week? Wait what class should I be in? I got it right, but sometimes was forgotten anyway – the gall! Each village is unique, with distinct personalities hasta el fin Yet somehow in every village I was greeted every day: “HEH-LLO TEEEECHAIR HOW ARE YOU TODAY” “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” “I’MFINETHANKYOUANDYOU?” And somehow to this final week they still say: “France?” — “NO! England?” Ineffective? Who knows. It’s the life of an ETA. Alesanco, my first day I thought to myself “what luck! These kids are the best” The little ones pronounce their words well – hooray! The older ones are quick, but like to test I told myself “if this is the worst village, I’m set” Throughout the year you stayed my top All the challenges we gave, you met Even when a food unit meant guessing my allergies – stop!!! And when a recipe for “crepes” Ended up being more like pancakes Also, your arguing with the textbook should be kept on tapes In Hormilla, I took pictures from the top of the hill One for each season: winter, spring, summer, and fall I used to come weekly, until My schedule changed and I hardly came at all I spent Halloween here wearing an orange trash bag And then a red one for the Christmas show Inexplicably, I taught math, which made me want to gag With so few kids, there was always more than enough teachers in tow The bus home really does exist Schedule for 12:20, but arrives at 12:40, it’s hard to miss Just don’t try to pay with 20 euro or the driver will be pissed Mornings in Arenzana (de abajo) were always relaxed Five sweet students came every day Whether due to the hour or the weather, your responses were tacit And yes “relaxed” and “tacit” rhyme when said their way Suddenly students became more than double Ever taught a 3-year-old and a 12-year-old at the same time? Plus eight other students ages sprinkled within? It’s trouble I learned differentiation and basically became a mime One of my favorite stories: Free, unmarked wine handed the fence over without worries Wine country: I shouldn’t be surprised in these territories Afternoons in Camprovín captured my heart Five of you in one tiny room from 5 to 12-years-old I knew I loved you from the start Halfway through we got 3 new students who broke the mold Just months later it was back to the original five Upon my arrival, I had to be prepared You always greeted me with a great cry: “YORDAN!!!” Then sprinted at me – I was almost scared! But I love the hugs that followed – my day made that much better We played a lot of hangman and you guessed every letter Though sometimes you depended on your resident translator Tricio, it’s famous for its races — of snails! My first through third graders interrupted lessons: “In-jus-ticia — man-i-fest-ación” Whenever I left I heard the tales: While I was there they were messin’ But whenever I was away they wanted me back My fourth through sixth graders, my political activists: “Trump, or the other???” “Her name is Clinton” “So the other!!!” *thumbs up* Whose questions were almost like an attack But for English conversation, the questions were a catalyst The 3 through 5 year-olds were ever eager to dance and sing And while I’ll miss all of Tricio, here’s the thing In the local bar, coffee and tortilla de patata were king Huércanos, oh Huércanos you had me confused If I could give you an award It would be the most improved Your English skills always moved forward I liked recess at your school That is, until winter came then stayed the rest of the year I learned jump-rope songs, it was cool A first grader, always asking for more fruit, never insincere Most recently, thank you for the goodbye party Your goodbyes (in English) were even hearty I’m going to miss you fully, not just partly And, finally, Uruñuela – can you pronounce it? I can! I think… So many classes, my schedule barely fit More students too, we couldn’t even blink Here were the only students I saw weekly 3 through 5-year-olds who’s favorite feeling was “I’M HURT” Before throwing themselves onto the floor briefly I taught music here, basically without laws This school was always in a rush, nearly overrun Days ended before I felt they’d begun And before I knew it, the school year was done One school, seven villages “You’re going to have the MOST unique experience” Sometimes it took a lot of diligence Sometimes I just had to appreciate the difference The schedule taught me about plasticity Even so the hours sometimes made me fret We deal with occasional lack of electricity And far more commonly, a lack of internet I still, would always choose you, dear CRA of Najerilla The opposite of bourgeois One school, seven villages I would never change ya
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You think I would know by now that it is ridiculous to make plans for the future. In high school, I was part of a four-year leadership program, which, at our graduation, we were each given a word engraved on a rock to represent who we are. My word was “trust” because I had “learned to trust the process”. For someone who owns a rock with the word “TRUST” engraved on it, I still have serious trust issues with The Process. Alas. Maybe you could say there’s always more to learn. But I digress.
Not two weeks after posting the blog in which I wrote “but I’m not going to stay for another year” I received an email from Fulbright asking for applications to a new program that they’re opening up in the Canary Islands. We had five days to decide if we wanted to apply and we applied on the contingency that if we were given the job, we had to take it – AKA there was no option of saying “no” if we were accepted. I don’t think there is much I hate more than having to commit fully to something that can’t or won’t be fully committed to me. However, after a few panicked phone calls to my parents and a couple messy essay drafts, I had applied. That was late February. Since then, I’ve felt completely paralyzed. I didn’t want to make travel plans and I couldn’t make summer plans. I didn’t want to buy long term food products because I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to use them all. I didn’t know how to make my month/3-month/6-month/1-year goals without knowing whether I’d have to tailor them to being in Spain or in Santa Barbara. I didn’t know how to talk to my family because even while I was traveling and having adventures one can only have if they work in the seven villages, I knew the conversation would just revert back to not having heard about next year (because of me, not them). I didn’t want to blog because I didn’t know what to say. My thoughts have been mainly fixated on the uncertain future. Now, I know you’re all saying “Jordan, you’re 23, of course your future is uncertain” but despite everything, I want to have a plan. Because the Canaries program is new, there were many bureaucratic steps that had to be taken care of, and the Spanish bureaucracy is not known for operating quickly. The more time that went by, the more tortuous it felt and the more I realized that I did not want to leave Spain at all. I hated watching the calendar tick down to June 15th and it felt like each day was going faster than the one before. I knew that each one was bringing me closer to the day I was supposed to leave this place. I realized that I’ve felt more at home in Logroño more quickly than nearly anywhere else I’ve lived and that I can’t imagine not being in this country for longer. I was even considering other ways to stay here (you can imagine my Google history, I’m sure). Then, finally, a week or so ago, I got an email around 6 o’clock congratulating me for renewing my Fulbright grant as a teaching assistant for the new program in the Canary Islands. I get to stay in Spain. I’ll live on an island (I don’t know which yet) where the weather will most likely be warm and I can run year round. The Canary Islands are actually closer to Africa than Europe, but nonetheless, I’ll get to continue my Spanish adventure. Regardless, this is my blog to do two and a half things:
When I made my list of countries I wanted to visit while living in Spain, Croatia (Dubrovnik and Split) was second to Amsterdam on my list. I’d gone back and forth on when and if to go and finally, after being unable to sleep due to lack of certainty (see forthcoming blog), I finally snapped and at 2:30am on a weekday night, I booked my tickets for a weekend that the villages had days off on Monday and Tuesday. I knew my friends wouldn’t have the days off, so I settled on Dubrovnik for the walls and made my solo trip to the Dalmatian Coast happen.
Anticipating my trip, the weather was looking very bleak. Well – very bleak for a coastal destination. It was supposed to rain the entire time and be in the low 60s. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed already – I’ve had pretty bad luck for weather while traveling this year. On top of that, I was having issues with both flights I’d booked and I was not 100% confident that I’d be able to get on my flights. Keeping with tradition, I boarded a late afternoon bus (after trying snails for the first time, yum!) and got to Barcelona just before midnight. I got a train to the airport, helped two young people from Norway navigate Barcelona public transportation, and then plopped down outside the check-in counter. I FaceTimed my parents for nearly an hour before realizing the airport wifi had cut out and I’d accidentally been using data and then quickly hung up to contemplate my seemingly ill-fated trip. I went in search of an outlet to charge up my phone and unfortunately only found one next to a sleeping traveler with some of the worst B.O. I’ve ever experienced. I know no one smells great while traveling and you can’t control some things, but good gosh. I held my breath and dealt with it for as long as I could (a couple hours) without sleeping until I could go check-in. Luckily, I checked-in without any issues and soon boarded my plane only to instantly fall into the oblivion of air-travel sleep until I woke up an hour and a half or so later to the announcement we’d be landing soon. Looking out the window to the Dalmatian Coast, I knew I was in for something different. The islands reminded me just a little bit of flying into the Galapagos, but the land reminded me more of Costa Rica or something else completely different. I have a list of countries I’ve visited, but I only add the country after I’ve really felt like I’ve been there. Sometimes, this takes a few days, but with Croatia, it was immediate. And, oh yeah, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. I made it to the Old Town where I was staying and in a combination of exhausted awe, I stumbled through the walls following the careful directions of my hostel. No one was at the counter of the hostel when I arrived, but the wifi password was on the board, so I settled myself on the couch with a complementary map and began to plot out my day. Eventually someone came and told me I’d be in an annex building (which I was assured was great) and checked me in, telling my my room would be ready in a few hours and that I was welcome to leave my stuff and then come back. My first order of business was food. The guy at the hostel recommended a breakfast place and then walked me there (I may have a rant blog coming about this, so let it be known here that this seemingly innocently kind gesture was not that). At breakfast, I plotted the rest of my day and filled up on food. My plan for the weekend: Saturday (arrival day) – do a fort outside the walls, explore inside the walls including the Rector’s Palace and the Franciscan Pharmacy, walk the walls (but around the time they closed so less people would be there), and, if time, go to Lokrum Island, which was just a ferry ride away. Sunday – day trip through the hostel to Bosnia and Herzegovina. Monday – day trip through the hostel to Montenegro or one to some islands off of Dubrovnik depending on the weather. Tuesday – morning exploration of the Old Town (or whatever I still needed to do) and then get to the airport for my 3pm flight. Doable I thought. Very doable. I’d just need to power through my day. And so I did. I explored Old Town Dubrovnik, found the fort outside the city walls and enjoyed the view from there. I found the Franciscan Pharmacy (out of my budget to go into) and the Rector’s Palace (closed for renovations!) and then got on a ferry to take me to nearby Lokrum Island, where I hiked further than I thought with less water and sunscreen than I should have had to get to ruins of a fort that overlooked the Old Town. I then hiked back down and marveled at more ruins as well as the peacocks that strut freely around the island. Eventually, I found myself a place among the jagged rocks to enjoy the sea. I sat there and wrote in my journal for awhile before dipping my toes in the water and going in search of the “Dead Sea” of Lokrum. I found it – it was beautiful – and was deterred from swimming by a sign about a poisonous plant that lived in the mini-lake. (Well, not quite. I actually didn’t swim because I was still carrying around most of my stuff and hadn’t known to bring my bathing suit, but alas). After nearly stepping on a half-burrowed peacock and a quick selfie with another one, I boarded the ferry in the hopes my room at the hostel would be ready and I could change before taking on the walls of the city. Luckily, my room was ready. After getting cleaned up, I hung out for a little bit as I’d been told by TripAdvisor and savvy friends that I should either hike the walls as they closed or as they opened to avoid crowds. I heard they took an hour to walk, but I assumed I’d stop and take far too many photos, so an hour and 45 minutes before they closed, I purchased my ticket for the walls everyone was talking about. They did not disappoint. I spent nearly the entire hour and forty-five minutes up there, taking in the sights of the city and of the sea and marveling at the sheer architectural feat and symbolism that the walls represented. I was completely in awe. It doesn’t hurt that I felt very much in Game of Thrones without actually being in Game of Thrones. Walking the walls was, to me, the perfect analogy of traveling alone. It was perfect, because I got to walk at my own pace, stop anywhere and everywhere I wanted, and was able to get lost in my meditative contemplations. On the other hand, there was no one to make jokes with, to chat at the more boring parts of the walls, to ask unanswerable questions about the wall etc. There was also no one to trade off taking pictures with which meant taking awkward selfies or talking to strangers. I did both (don’t worry Mom, a bunch of photos with me in them are coming your way). However, as the sun began to sink, lighting the entire city up in gold, I simply stopped and sat on the stone wall to soak up the beauty of Croatia and of being alone. After descending from the wall, I stopped at a burger place I’d heard was good. (Yes yes yes I hear you all complaining about how I’m not eating local food, but I was not ready to deal with the gluten/nightshade/dairy/etc. free thing yet.) The burger was great and the server was incredibly nice, even when I tried to ask for my burger without a bun and he had no idea what to do. We settled with “Just leave the bun on and I won’t eat it *smile*” and then him bringing the spread they usually put on the bun on the side for me and just leaving the bottom bun on, I assume because he didn’t want the meat to touch the plate, which is very kind. After dinner, the hostel was hosting a craft beer event and I thought a) a beer won’t hurt me [please note: this is me literally half an hour after negotiating the bun off of a hamburger] and b) it was a good opportunity to meet cool people. Meet cool people I did, fend off creepy hostel volunteers I did, stay up too late? I did that too. The following morning, I found that whether it was the gluten, a lack of water, too much sun or something else altogether, something had happened, and I was definitely not well enough to go outside, let alone go on the day trip to Bosnia-Herzegovina I had set up. Luckily, the people who organized the day trip allowed me to go the following day without any extra fees. But that’s how I lost a day in Croatia. My lost day showed me another big drawback of traveling alone. Being too sick to leave my hostel in Croatia was so lonely. On top of that, my phone had decided to stop working in the ways you want a phone to work, especially while abroad. No calling, no data, nothing except photos and wifi. (Update: I’m back in Spain now and it’s still not quite working properly, woohoo). Anyway, I’d been sick the Wednesday before leaving for Croatia and it was so crappy on Sunday that I looked up flights back to Spain for that day or Monday morning. I soon realized that was dumb, that I would feel better, and worst-case scenario, there was probably a hospital nearby. I resolved to have a sip of water mixed with a hydration dissolvable I’d luckily brought with me (thanks Mom!) and a bite of banana every hour. Every hour turned into every half hour turned into every couple minutes until both the water and banana were gone. By then I was at least well enough to go to a grocery store to find something else palatable. Though I’d basically slept all day Sunday, I went to bed early hoping I’d feel 100% for Monday’s day trip. On Monday, I did, in fact, feel better. If not 100%, at least well enough to go on the day trip. I picked up more bananas from the grocery store and brought along my trusty apples with almond butter – knowing I could at least eat those things. Upon getting on the bus, I realized once again exactly how lucky I am to be a native English speaker. Obviously, I’ve noticed this in past travels, but it really struck me this time. We had to hand our guide our passports, so she could make sure we could all cross the Croatian/Bosnian border and the stack of passports was brightly colored with different nations. There were people from the Czech Republic, from Mexico, from Brazil, and from a handful of English speaking countries. She began talking and I couldn’t stop thinking about how I hadn’t even asked if the tour would be in English, I’d just assumed it would be. I never – or hardly ever – have to think about if I’ll understand the tour I’m taking. As we began our trip, I listened (in English) and learned about the Dalmatian coast – about history, politics, agriculture, exports, and anecdotes. I learned that Bosnia-Herzegovina actually cuts right through Croatia in order to touch the Adriatic Sea. That means that if you travel in bus from Dubrovnik to any other part of Croatia, you have to bring your passport. Woah! After an hour or so of driving, we reached the border of Croatia. Croatia is part of the EU, so it was a big border, with serious security and a well-built building to pass through. It didn’t take long, and we were told we’d get our passports back after the second border (the one into Bosnia-Herzegovina). Literally seconds later, we rolled to a stop in front of a small trailer with a puppy-looking German-shepherd laying belly up in the sun. I guess that’s the difference between an EU border and a non-EU border… Soon enough my passport was back in my hand with a fresh new stamp adorning the pages. Question – why does every border control put the stamps on the same page?? Spread them out for goodness sake. Anyway, not far after the border, we made our first stop in Ravnov (really just a pit-stop) and then continued on our way to Pocitelj. As we approached Pocitelj, we were told that their strawberries were delicious. Even though it was a quick stop, a couple of my new hostel friends and I scurried to the top of the hill to get a view from the fortress over the river and of the mosque. It was well worth it, and I was even able to get back down in order to buy a little container of fresh-as-heck strawberries for 1 euro. I’m from California and those were the best strawberries I’ve ever had. Half an hour later, we arrived to our main destination of the day: Mostar. Mostar is famous for a couple reasons. Primarily, there’s a stunning bridge that was originally built in the 1500s, but was rebuilt in the early 2000s after it was destroyed in the war. Unfortunately, because the city had always been filled with people of all religions, it made the war particularly brutal there. Our Mostar tour guide doesn’t have records of her first grade, second grade, or third grade because she had to stay in her basement for those three years to avoid the snipers. In 1993, the bridge was bombed, a blow to morale and to any sense of unity. The bridge was rebuilt by 2004 and it has again become famous for the men who choose to jump off of it into the freezing river beneath to prove their manhood. The tradition is less about impressing women now, and it’s equally terrifying to watch (at least if you don’t like heights/edges) as it is fascinating. In Mostar, we followed our Bosnian tour guide around for an hour hearing about the city and the country where unemployment is 44%. Bosnia-Herzegovina is easily one of the most beautiful – if not THE most beautiful – countries I have ever been to and it was beyond heartbreaking to think about the atrocities committed there. I stood in front of bombed out buildings while our guide commented on the former Yugoslavia and the complications with the current government. The stark contrast between the beauty of the country and the horror of the war was jarring. After the tour, we were free to explore the city as we wished, which for me and my hostel buddies meant getting cheap food with a stunning view of the bridge, finding (and enjoying) Bosnian coffee, searching for souvenirs for our respective collections, and going down to the river to feel how cold it was. The time went all too quickly and before long, we were back on the bus to Dubrovnik. I was wired from the thick Bosnian coffee, so I listened to podcasts and tried to commit the passing landscapes to memory. Back in Dubrovnik on my last evening and the following morning, I wandered around Old Town some more while doing some spectacular people watching before finally saying goodbye to one of my new favorite countries, where, despite the forecast, it did not rain a drop and I was woefully wrongly prepared. I’ve actually got a conspiracy theory going that the Croatian government convinced the weather people to lie to detract tourists. Regardless, I truly hope I get to come back some day and spend even more time on the Dalmatian Coast. Between meeting and spending time with rad new people, being sick, and choosing exactly what I wanted to do and when I wanted to do it, this trip showed me the very best and worst of solo travel. I promised myself I would blog at least every month, and I intend to keep that promise, so as April comes to a close, I thought I’d get my most recent thoughts out there. I have a bunch of silly teaching stories I’m accumulating, adventures from new cities, and a deeper dive into my own town, but I haven’t been able to write any of those recently. In part because my future (or at least my next year) feels more and more uncertain and as I wait to hear back from things, I’ve felt completely frozen. Between my frustration with the uncertainty of my future and the dread that fills me every time I think of leaving Spain in June, I’ve been thinking more and more about what I’m grateful for right now and this year.
I have to start with how my year started, which is with Fulbright for giving me this opportunity (I promise I’m not pandering here, and I assure you I have my frustrations as I do with most institutions). One of the best days of my life will forever be the one where I got the email notifying me of my Fulbright grant. I have learned more about myself and about the world than would have been possible otherwise. Fulbright has opened new worlds to me and I will be forever grateful. I am also beyond grateful for my family. For every 3am text I send (their time), for FaceTimes where I don’t really have anything to say, but want to keep talking anyway, for not freaking out when I send pictures of allergy swollen eyes and for helping me figure out solutions from over 5,000 miles away, for accepting my globetrotting ways without question and for loving me through it all. I am always reminded of how lucky I am to have a family who loves and supports me the way mine does. I also can’t imagine my year without my friends from home. Friends who’ve texted out of the blue or taken time to Skype or FaceTime with me, making me feel a little closer to home. I’ve also been one of the luckiest people alive because of all of the friends and family who have actually made it out to visit me this year. I marked the first half of my time here by who was visiting. It got me through the tougher days and nothing has thrilled me more than sharing a city I love with people I love. It means the world to me that people travel from across the world to come see a little bit of Northern Spain with me. Speaking of little bits of Northern Spain, despite the frigid-nearly-seven-month winter, I’m grateful for this little place called Logroño. I’ve lived in many cities in different states, and there are few places where I feel as at home as I do when I walk the familiar streets of Logroño or when my bus rounds the corner back into the city. I felt this way nearly instantly upon arriving in September, but I’ve only now begun to appreciate exactly how special that is. Plus, as I was told before coming and then repeatedly when I arrived “it feels like a small town, but it has everything.” What could be better? With Spring coming, I run along the river and can’t believe how lucky I got to have been placed in the city that, when I read the name on the Fulbright email and consequently googled it, I thought to myself “jeez, should I really do this???” I’ll add here that I’m also grateful to be in the seven villages. These last two weeks have been tougher than usual, with inefficiencies and wasted time that makes me want to pull my hair out and teaching classes without teachers who speak English. As I said at the beginning, I’m working on a blog that turns all of these frustrating stories into the hopefully funny anecdotes I will look back on. Still, even with the difficulties, I do love the villages and am grateful for my unique experience in them. In those villages, I’m grateful for the teachers I work with who were patient with me as I learned how to be a more effective teaching assistant and who continue to be patient when I make mistakes and who help me communicate to students who often literally have zero idea of anything I’m saying. I’m also grateful for the students for similar reasons. Shout out to the kids who still asked me my name this week and who still think I’m from France or England. Beyond location and support from home, I can honestly say I don’t know if I would have made it without the friends I’ve made here. The fact that the people I talk to the most are people I didn’t know existed nine months ago never ceases to amaze me. They’ve been there, to be completely cliché, for the lowest lows and highest highs and I couldn’t be more grateful that. I’m grateful for small things too, like technology and podcasts which keep me informed and entertained in a dire world. For good food and wine and for locals who show you how to find both. For the days where I feel *almost* Spanish and think in Spanish without effort. For a living space that feels comfortable, safe, and friendly. And I could go on, but I will spare you. Mainly, and sorry to get so sappy, I’m grateful for this opportunity. I’ll be frustrated when I get an email tomorrow saying I have to wait yet another week to know what my next year may hold, but there’s zero question in my mind that it’s worth it. How could it not be with all the good happening here?? Okay, it’s nearly 3am (my time) so I’ll call it quits on my sentimentality and hopefully get you some funny/adventure/misadventure stories soon. This is not a blog about my Fulbright experience beyond a brief portion at the beginning about what it’s like to watch your country fall apart from afar, so for you one enthusiastic future Fulbrighter who scoured the web to find this blog, you may want to skip ahead. This blog is more of a “Jordan’s unsolicited thoughts” blog. Keeping up with news from the United States is probably less hard than I thought it would be. However, I care about the news and make a big effort to ensure I know at least a little of what’s going on. At the same time, all of my news intake does not tell me how it actually is in the United States. I don’t know how it feels to be there, and I’m always delving into headlines to figure out how serious the story is and what it actually means on the ground. I was actually able to use the notifications from Trump’s tweets (I follow @RealPressSecBot as to not give Trump the satisfaction of another follow) as a signal for when it was an appropriate time to text my parents while they lived in Florida, so at least his tweets were useful for something. Being abroad is tricky right now, feeling disconnected from politics at home, still expected to represent them, and for me at least, a sense of guilt for not being there to offer substantial help. It’s with that that I delve in my topic of today: the school walk out. When I first heard about these walk outs (and the march on the 24th) I’ve never felt more proud of our country, more confident in our future, or more jealous not to be in high school right now. I know I graduated 5 years ago and am no longer relevant on the high school scene, which usually I’m grateful for, but what I would’ve done to be a part of something like this. My heart swelled as I started to see the images of students holding hands, walking out, marching to implore the adults of our country to keep them safe. As soon as I saw images of the walk out, I saw the image – as I’m sure you have – of the “Walk UP not OUT” sign. My initial reaction was confusion, because it was coming from conservative people I know and was obviously against the walk out, but I didn’t see why. The family of a victim of the Columbine massacre have actually spent their lives post-Columbine-massacre encouraging high school students to be more inclusive and kind through their organization, Rachel’s Challenge, and I couldn’t imagine them being against this walk out. Their organization actually came to my very cliquey high school and I loved the idea. The idea that someone is against the walk out because they believe people should just be kinder baffles me. And not just because there are a bunch of issues with the narrative that if you had just said hi to that person, they wouldn’t have done that. It’s victim blaming, it’s simplistic, and it looks at this massive structural and institutional problem like it’s a person-by-person issue. Moreover, you can both walk out and walk up, it’s not mutually exclusive. It honestly feels like a weak conservative talking point meant to sound positive and sturdy while really being flimsy and unnecessary. Some background: as I said, I loved the idea that Rachel’s Challenge had introduced. I wanted implemented widely. As someone who was new a lot, and especially being new in a town where everyone has known each other since diapers, like Santa Barbara, it was really hard. I felt left out a lot. I would’ve loved for someone to reach out and was always so grateful to feel included at all. And I did my best to make other people feel included. I am *so* onboard with walking up to people. However, it’s not to prevent someone from being a school shooter, it’s to be a decent human being. And if, for some reason, you genuinely feel uncomfortable with a situation, it’s not your responsibility. There were two situations for me, remarkably similar but at schools thousands of miles apart, where someone that I often saw alone or with just one other person reached out to me online. At first it was fine – I wanted to be inclusive and to make friends – but in both cases they ended up making me feel uncomfortable, one more explicitly than the other. They were both men and I knew enough about violence against women and other sh*tty things you have to deal with as a girl to know that I did not want to, nor should I have, put myself in a situation that made me uncomfortable and potentially physically unsafe. If one of these boys had ended up shooting up the school, I would have felt horrible (obviously for many reasons) but also because I would’ve felt like it was my fault. In fact, when I found the Isla Vista shooter’s YouTube channel and realized where he liked to walk was where I ran all the time I kid you not, my first thought was “what if I’d passed him walking and not smiled at him. I should’ve smiled at him.” Of course, this is hugely self-centered and I know this goes beyond guns into gender, but it is nonetheless true. And when 98% of mass shooting have been committed by men, gender dynamics are going to be involved. It was not my fault that the Isla Vista shooter did what he did, nor was it the fault of any of the girls who turned him down. It was not the fault of students in Columbine and it was not the fault of the students in Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School or any shooting in between or since. The problem is complicated, but certainly is because of easy access to weapons and a culture where “being a man” means being physically tough, getting women, not showing emotions and more. The problem clearly is NOT just because students didn’t walk up to a lonely student and the problem will not be solved simply by resolving to be nicer. I think we SHOULD be nicer, but that is not the problem. Parts of the problem are intense gender norms and very easy access to weapons. Thus, IT IS NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE TO DO BOTH. To walk out and walk up. I know, I know, it is a WONDER how one could POSSIBLY both walk out of class during a national walkout to ask the government to please do more and do better, and then also go back to school (which they will) and be nicer to everyone and make an effort to get to know more people, some of which might not have many friends. These students have every right to walk out and I am SO proud of them. I assure you this movement is building comradery and solidarity and it would be doing much better if people didn’t try to undermine it by suggesting you can’t make an extra effort to be kind while you stand up for the rights of millions of students. Walk OUT. Walk UP. You can do both, they’re different actions for different reasons. Every time I walk into the schools I teach in here in Spain, I think about the teachers I know in the United States and am simultaneously grateful for them and grateful I’m not them. Still, I think about how I’d possibly hide the kids in our bare classrooms. I think about how these kids have never worried about a shooting in their schools. I think about these kids marching in the streets if they did feel unsafe and how hard that would be to watch, knowing it was a necessity for their lives. Worst of all, I think about empty desks that had students in them the day before. Thankfully, that’s not a reality for the villages I teach in in Spain. It is a reality for every school in the United States. So students who cannot vote yet, who do not have much purchasing power, who can’t legally enlist in the military and potentially volunteer to die for our country, have to make our massive government respond to them through walking out, or risk dying involuntarily. That is completely different from being nicer to people. And it’s really not that hard to do both. Of all the new experiences I figured I'd have when I agreed to do a Fulbright year in Spain, running a half marathon wasn't one of them. And yet, here I am, first official half-marathon under my belt as of yesterday. Let me start by laying out the race. The race went from one town, Nájera, to another, Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It was on El Camino Santiago, or The Way of Sant James, which is a mecca for hikers and worshippers alike. The pilgrimage goes from France to the part of Spain above Portugal. It runs through Logroño and La Rioja and is deeply rooted in the identity of this place. Not only does the Camino go through Nájera and Santo Domingo, it's in the same area as the villages I teach in and I knew the Camino goes through one of my villages, so I was excited to run by places I work everyday. Though the race started in Nájera, I had to go to Santo Domingo first to pick up my race packet prior to 10am. Then, at 10am, the runners who needed a ride were bused to Nájera for the 11am start of the race. I have to say, between the complications of getting where I needed to be and trying to figure out where to leave the stuff I needed, I have an extra appreciation for access to a personal vehicle. There's the layout. Now, my story in four parts. Part 1, The Tale of Two Sunday Mornings: The only bus that got me to Santo Domingo in time left at 7:30. I wasn’t thrilled about that, but it was the only thing I could do. When I reached my bus, I was confused because there was someone sitting in essentially the jump seat, blocking my entrance. I approached and he clumsily tried to let me pass telling me not to worry, he was the co-bus driver. I was super confused and he kept calling me María, which made me think of Tristan on Gilmore Girls calling Rory "Mary" in Season 1. It took me far too long to realize that this guy was drunk and that the two people laughing a few seats back were his slightly less drunk friends. And thus, the quiet bus ride listening to music I had imagined turned quickly into an absurd bus ride with three guys my age, who I soon found out had not gone to sleep yet and were still drunk because they'd been out all night, as is typical in Spain. (Today I found out the 7am bus is the drunk bus, which is still wild to me). No matter how many times they asked my name or how many times I pronounced "Jordan", none of them could repeat it in any semblance of my name. They couldn't believe I was running a half marathon, so I had to explain that about 50 times, at which point the drunkest told me he was a runner too and could run with me (his friends quickly told me he hadn't run since high school). He then proceeded to ask me if I'd get a drink with him after my race. I told him I would if he could keep up with me in the half. The entire hour bus ride was spent in conversations like this, the drunkest stumbling around the bus telling the bus driver that he could drive us, trying to say phrases in English he presumably learned in elementary school, and finding different ways to try to hit on me. One of his more sober friends was very apologetic, which allowed me to laugh off the whole situation and enjoy the absurdity that was the 7am bus in Spain. Still, I couldn't quite get over the differences in our two days. In mine, I'd gone to bed at 10:30 the night before and woken up at 6:30 to race 13.1 miles at 11am. In theirs, they probably hadn't gone out until midnight and had been at discos and clubs until they caught the 7am bus to get home. Both have their merits, for sure, but I'm not sure that those worlds are meant to collide so directly. Part 2, The race: In Santo Domingo, I had orange juice in a café, got my race packet, asked the officials if there was a bag drop, was told it was in Nájera and that they’d bring all the stuff to the finish line. I was silently grateful that I hadn’t packed anything important that I couldn’t carry, because sometimes the no pasa nada attitude of Spain drips into institutions that, in my American view, should really be organized better. (I ended up being wrong about this, the bag pickup operation was flawless). Regardless, my superhero of a friend, Ali, was coming to watch the end of the race, so I’d given her food, slippers, clean socks, and other warm clothes should my other stuff not make it to the end. And with that, I got on the bus. As soon as I got off the bus there was a truck where people were setting their bags (numbered with our race numbers). I briefly wondered why we’d bothered carrying our stuff all the way here on the bus, but alas. I followed everyone into a café where there was a working bathroom and space for people to get situated. I assumed the race was starting outside of the café because everyone was there. That was until about 10 minutes before the race started, when everyone seemed to get up and leave at once. Had I known how big the race actually was, I would have been a little more skeptical, but for all I knew, this crowd of people could have been it. I followed everyone out and luckily was roped into taking a group’s picture. There were some older gentlemen in the group who thought it was unbelievable that an American (two, actually, but they didn’t know that) were running in their race. I had to explain that I actually did live in Logroño, but they kept saying how brave I was to do this alone. Why is it so brave? I wondered, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. These guys were able to explain that the race started further inside the town, so, with 8 minutes to the start, I jogged at least half a mile to the square. I met up with Coco, the fulbrighter who had told me about the race, and realized that the start was into a tiny, narrow, cobble-stoned street so common in these parts of Spain. I was warned by a teacher Coco works with that it was a hilly course, and then the gun went off! Which for us, meant nothing, we could barely move sideways, let alone forward. Finally, we were moving a little bit and crossed the start line aaaand immediately started going uphill. I was laughing at myself, in disbelief that this was starting a) uphill and b) with nowhere to move. After about two kilometers – and yes racing a half marathon measured in kilometers seems infinitely worse when you’re used to miles – the crowd thinned enough that I could move into my own space. After another kilometer, the blisters I’d so carefully taped began to burn. This was going to be fun. The Camino is mainly packed dirt. Some of the trail is rocky, some muddy because of recent rain, and a little bit is on pavement, but most was granulated, packed dirt between vineyards. And by gosh the views were stunning. Vineyard after vineyard, starting to turn green and in the background, stark white mountains, completely and perfectly covered in snow. It was a beautiful feeling, to be on the Camino for my first half marathon. It was also special, because as I mentioned before, I was passing by villages I teach in and knew we should actually pass through one of them. However, as we got closer, I realized we weren't going to go through it. I was disappointed, but mostly confused. How could we be doing the Camino and not go through this village? Today I was teaching in that village and asked the teacher I work with about it. She told me that when the Camino became popularized 50 years ago, they asked the towns it went through to pay a fee for the infrastructure and accommodations. Azofra, the town the Camino (and our race) actually went through, did not want to pay. Alesanco, the town I teach in, on the other hand, was more than willing to pay and was only a mile away. Thus, the original Camino, and our race, took the original path, whereas the Camino people do now, goes through the path carved by towns who were willing to pay. But back to the race. In the couple villages we went through, people cheered for us. There were also a few people who had found spots throughout the isolated parts to cheer too, so that was always helpful. It was so fun for me to hear what it's like to be cheered on in Spain, as that's an experience I've only had in the US, in English. I'm going to come back to this in part 3, but the main cheers are "ánimo" "venga" "corre" and "campeón". Although special shout out to the person who told me, at kilometer 10 (not halfway through) that we were almost there... Good thing I knew better. Despite the beautiful scenery and encouraging onlookers, it was insanely windy. It was so windy that I’d pick up my foot and the wind would blow it behind my other foot – nearly tripping me up. It was also very hilly. At the half way point, the worst time in the race, there was a hill that went for a mile and every time you thought you could see the top, it would just keep going up. Many of my dad’s sayings popped into my head like “what goes up must come down” and “a hill is just a flat surface on an incline” to which my head argued back “well it doesn’t necessarily come back down when the start and finish are different towns” and “that’s a ridiculous saying”. Still, my dad ran a 2:19:00 marathon, so I wasn’t one to argue with his sayings. During the race, I'd go from trying not to smile and feeling like I was gliding while mentally preparing myself for my next half marathon to realizing how much my glutes and legs hurt and generally not being sure if I'd make it. I realize now this probably went with whether I was going up or down hill. But alas. Just as I was realizing there was a normal distance left (3.1 miles to be exact) and feeling good, I looked ahead to see another massive hill. By the top of the hill we were just over the 17 kilometer point (remember, this is 21 kilometers) so we weren’t close enough to be done, but we'd run enough of it that it felt like we were basically done. Plus at the top of that hill, you could see the spire of the church that marked the ending. I tried to kick into another gear while reminding myself I still had a couple miles left. And I did! For about a mile, until I arrived to the town where the race ended and was not sure if I could complete the last mile. Still, I did. I came around the corner, saw the finish line, and heard them announcing the arrival of "Yordan Yenkins". Despite the conditions and travel weirdness and blisters and lack of preparation and on and on, I did it. And I loved it. I’m eager to do another one, hopefully with at least a little training and a little less wind, but either way, that's probably my favorite distance I've ever done. Part 3, media-maratón is a feminine word: Now, to the title of my post. As most of you know, Spanish has feminine and masculine words, and "media-maratón" (half marathon) is a feminine word. I want to acknowledge here that there are a lot of problems with masculine/feminine vocabulary and what it does for people who are gender non-conforming or transgender as well as for gender stereotypes, even when the words have nothing to do with whatever it means to be masculine or feminine. However, my day felt very gendered from the very beginning. The boys on the bus were funny, but they were also annoying and wouldn't have done what they did if I were a guy. They wouldn't have asked me repeatedly to stand up so they could see if I had a runner's body, they wouldn't have asked for my number, they wouldn't have said they could keep up with me, they wouldn't have told me they loved me. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet I have to convince men that I was really going to run one. And then even before the race, I noticed how few women there were. I know competitive running for women is less popular here, but I see women running when I run in Logroño and I was not prepared for the disparity between men and women. Of the 600 half-marathon runners, 84 were women. That's 14%. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet only 14% of people running it were women. While I was running, I saw about 5 women. And while a lot of the men were chill and normal about the race, I saw a few too many guys let men pass them without any problem, then would see me coming to pass them and speed up so that I wouldn't. For me, it was whatever, I'd either pass them now or pass them later because I was clearly going faster, but it was stupid nonetheless. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet men more than double my age didn't want a girl to pass them. And then there was the cheering. This was the best part of there not being many women, but it was also sad. People in the villages we passed or those who'd hiked up to parts of the Camino to watch us run would cheer the normal things: "¡ánimo!" "¡venga!" But often when they saw me coming, people would get extra excited. "¡CAMPEONA!" (female version of champion) or "MIRA, ESA CHICA!" "look! That girl" even "puta chica!!" Which, as it was said by a woman, I'm hoping it's nicer than it would be in Ecuador. People were excited, and surprised, to see a woman up where I was in the race, or maybe in the race at all. It was such a complicated feeling, to be in the middle of something I was doing just because I loved it and to feel like I was representing a HUGE thing. Media-maratón is a feminine word, and yet it was surprising to see a woman running it. But then, there is always hope. Remember, as this was about the distance and not the speed, I was not exactly whipping by those viewing and thus could hear their conversations. Towards the outskirts of one village, there was a small crowd of people cheering who got excited to see me, a woman, coming along. I was both appreciating the support and still feeling the disbelief of how shocking my presence was, when I saw a mom lean down to her probably four-year-old daughter and say "See? Women can do this too!" Which, naturally, just about made me cry, except that I still had a job to finish and there was no time for tears. Instead, I let it motivate me. How many girls are out there who feel like they can't do something men dominate in? Media-maratón is a feminine word, and here's to the next generation of female half (and full) marathon runners. And finally, Part 4, Post race: Naturally, after a half-marathon in La Rioja, they give you free wine. To be precise, they give you one delicious sandwich that was just some of the best bread ever with amazing chorizo inside, and then they give you a wine glass with two vouchers for you to pick which wines you wanted to try. Wine was about the last thing I wanted, but it was also free, and, when in Rioja... I tried to eat and drink some other stuff before hopping on the bus with Ali to head back to Logroño. Once home I told myself I'd nap real quick then go get a pizza (I would've killed for a burrito or a hamburger, but it was Sunday and everything was closed – not that I could've found a good burrito or burger anyway). However, after a nearly two-hour nap I couldn't imagine getting out of bed let alone out of my house. Thankfully, I have the best friends in the world, and Ali came over and made pasta for me. It took me two hours to have a couple pieces of popcorn, an apple, and maybe half a cup of spaghetti, but once I had that down, I was feeling better and ready for real sleep. Today I feel totally better, minus my entire body, which is oh-so sore and only getting worse. Still, I wouldn't change it for the world. I hope to sign up for another one when I can. And hopefully one day, I'll make it a full marathon, because, hey, that can be a feminine word too. This is an interesting time in my cultural adjustment and this blog has been tricky to write because my feelings and opinions keep changing. I'm halfway through the actual grant period, which puts me in the place of, as I mentioned in my Salamanca blog, knowing how fast everything will go, but also thinking, "woah, can I do what I just did again?" I know that the second half is not just a repeat of the first half, but it is tempting to look at it that way. I feel like I didn't let myself miss anything from home (besides the initial homesickness) because I knew it was a loooong time before I'd be back, because, in a shocker to everyone: I didn't like Florida that much anyway, and because, for a few months starting in mid-October, I did not know where I would be going "home" to. Now I know I'll be flying back to California when I do decide to go back stateside. Santa Barbara has a lot more for me to miss than Florida and with that knowledge and more leniency on my own end, I've been having more moments of looking forward to the little things about getting home, like kitchen appliances I’m used to, weather that I can run in happily year-round, or even watching a TV show with my parents. These moments aren't sad for me, and I don't think they're necessarily bad, but I do have to remind myself that it's another four months before my grant ends and up to six (yikes I hadn't typed that out before and that sounds really long) before I'm back in the U.S. Still, it reminds me to take advantage of the time I have left and I always try to bring it back to what I'm grateful for right here and right now. I know when I go home I'll miss Spain – and not just for the cheap and delicious pastries.
As far as the Spanish side of life, I automatically felt pretty comfortable in Spain as I wrote about in my first adjustment blog, but I've noticed the ways I feel more and more comfortable. I know my favorite cafés and how to navigate the city in order to hit as few red lights as possible while I'm running. I've found new trails and places to eat. I've found my favorite churro vendor and have gone there enough that the couple who own it call me "La Americanita" which is either "the small American" or just an endearing term for an American... They always tell me to come to them if I need anything, sometimes give me free churros, and always make fresh churros just for me. Even when I'm not buying churros, I'll stop by to chat with them. It is one of my favorite things about living in Logroño. I understand nearly everything I hear in Spanish even when it's just snippets of conversation passing by on the street, and most of the time, I don't have too much trouble communicating. I still like Spain, I am still happy here, I am still content here, and I am still trying to take advantage of every moment I have here. Although, since it's nearly Spring, I'll tell you now: no, I'm not going to stay for another year. I do hope one day I can move back to Europe to live here for real, but we shall see. The things that have bothered me over the past five months about Spain are absolutely bothering me more than they were originally, as I was warned. Can people just walk a little faster please? Why is the train system so much more expensive than the rest of Europe? Planning around leaving out of Madrid or Barcelona is annoying. Haven't we decided smoking is bad for everyone? Can I please go grocery shopping on Sunday? Do I have to keep begging for the check or can I get out of the restaurant? And, yes, PASA SOMETHING SOMETIMES. My house is almost always cold and I've apparently been using various appliances wrong this whole time. My biggest frustration is that the longer I'm here, the more frustrated I get when I can't say exactly what I want to say in Spanish. My problem is that I want to both be culturally accurate and also articulate what I want to say with the nuances that I would in English, but as I keep telling my students, use the words you have and the meaning will come just fine. Most of these are dealt easily with a deep breath, some gratitude, and/or a good sense of self-deprecating humor. Also buying a space heater. I should've done that months ago. I also keep working on a balance of immersion and doing what's best for me and I think that's working okay. I have some stories that deserve their own blog, but I'll end this one with a couple of my favorite cultural exchange/adjustment anecdotes: Food: Often when the school day ends, I have to hang out for an extra hour or so with the teachers until they can take me home. Usually I bring my computer and a snack so I can be productive while I'm there and not be too hangry to run once I got home. My snack options have increased tenfold since my parents visited, especially because of the massive pack of mini almond butters my mom brought with her. Almond butter is rare here and I’d been missing my go-to apple and almond butter snack. Once I finally went grocery shopping and had apples, I excitedly brought my almond butter packs and an apple to munch on after school. I didn’t think anything of it as I pulled out my snack and put in my headphones to listen to a podcast since the occasionally messy snack makes it hard to eat and work at the same time. Engrossed in The Axe Files, I didn’t notice the teacher’s curious and skeptical looks at me until she got my attention by asking me a question. I pulled out my earbuds and said, “sorry, what?” “What are you EATING?” She responded. I was shocked! It was only the most typical snack on the planet – or so I thought. She followed up quickly asking if it was toffee and I explained about the almond butter and how kids in the U.S. often have apples or celery and peanut butter and how yummy, but also healthy of a snack it was. I wouldn’t say the teacher was appalled – but she definitely couldn’t believe what I was eating. I told her she had to try it and I’m still hoping she will and then tell me what she thinks. Spanish: Two weeks or so ago I was coming back to my apartment as someone else was trying to get in. She was about my age and I figured she might be there for the gathering my flatmate was having in honor of her last weekend in Logroño. I asked if this person was trying to get in and she explained that she couldn’t figure out which number to buzz. I asked if she was there for my flatmate’s gathering and she said yes, so I explained I lived there too and I could just let her in. As we walked up the stairs we introduced ourselves and talked about the confusion of the numbering on our apartment. This is all in Spanish, of course. When we got inside my apartment, I went to my room to change while my flatmate’s friend went to hang out with the other people there. Eventually I joined them and was introduced to everyone, including my flatmate’s Czech friend. My flatmate told me I should talk to her Czech friend in English because it was easier for her. I responded in English and the girl that I had helped get in the building suddenly interrupted, in Spanish, “WHAT?! You’re not from here?” I responded, “No?” And then, in a beautiful moment she gasped, “I thought you were Spanish!” I could’ve died on the spot I was so thrilled. I’m used to people here assuming I’m Spanish until I open my mouth, but I have officially been mistaken for Spanish AFTER talking and though it has only happened twice (once later that night), I feel wayyyy too pumped about it. And I promise she was completely sober, this isn’t the drunk googles version of speaking and hearing Spanish. :) And there we go. Today it has been exactly five months since I started teaching, a little over five months since I arrived in Spain, and even though my co-teacher forgot about me today and I waited at the carpool spot for half an hour before I got the call saying they'd forgotten to pick me up and were already at the village, I'd say overall things are going okay. I worked on a better alliterative title, but this is all I got.
Quick note: I do have my second cultural adjustment blog written (finally), but then Santander happened and I had to write this story first. I'll post the adjustment blog in the next couple days, I promise. I was not necessarily planning on blogging about my trip to Santander, but sometimes stories just happen upon you. Some background: Santander is a coastal city in the Cantabria region of Spain. My friend (throwback to my blog about Majorca) had been au-pairing there during the Fall and though I'd never made it out to visit her, I still wanted to see the city. Plus, I hadn't spent time in Cantabria and I want to visit every region of Spain if I can. It's only a 4-hour bus ride, so I figured this weekend would be an easy time to go if I left Thursday night and returned Saturday so that I would have Sunday to do things like actually work plus some blogs. Alison hopped on board with my plan and eventually Hildie as well as another Fulbrighter in Rioja, Jackie, decided to come as well. The four of us arrived in Santander and made our way up a big hill to the Airbnb we had picked specifically because it was cheap enough for each of us would have our own bed while still being close to the main part of town. I, for one, was mainly looking forward to being warm for two days. My apartment in Logroño is always cold and I was ready for guilt-free heat inside the apartment! I knew that it would be rainy outside, but not as cold as Logroño, so overall, I thought it would be just fine. When we got to the Airbnb, we were met by our lovely host, who let us into the apartment and showed us everything we would need. One of those things, naturally, was the heat. We turned it on and moved into the living room to make a plan of action for the evening and for our two days in Santander. After a few minutes Alison asked if the heat was on, so I went and checked. It had turned off. I turned it back on and went back into the living room. A couple of minutes later it had shut off again and Alison went to fix it. No dice. I tried again as well to no avail and shot a quick text to the host, hoping she could help. We'd decided we were just going to grab pizza and watch a movie in the apartment that night, so we went to pick up our pizza and crossed our fingers that the host would respond ASAP. By the time we got back from picking up our pizza, the host told us she was on her way over to try to fix it. Unfortunately, she couldn't figure out what was wrong and no one was answering her calls. We were stuck in the cold for the night. We bundled up under blankets while we watched Stick It and then went to bed wearing all of our layers – Hildie and I sharing a bed to stay as warm as possible. The next morning, we got ready in the frigid apartment. After we left for the day and the host told us someone would be coming to look at the heating in the afternoon. Excellent, I thought, at least tonight we'd be warm. Santander is a lovely city. A fire burned it all down in the mid-20th century, so though the buildings are not old, there is a certain dignity and charm to the city. We did the typical things, including a city look-out and visiting the palace and the contemporary art museum that juts out over the ocean, where we watched a storm rumble in through the giant glass windows of the top floor. My favorite part was being by the ocean again, something that never ceases to make me feel at home. It even stayed dry for us for most of the day! After Mexican food for lunch and other adventures, we settled in a coffee shop to play games while we waited out siesta. After siesta, we visited a couple places that had been closed, then sought out the place we had picked for dinner – supposedly the best burgers and craft beer in town. However, when we arrived, we found out that not only did it not open for half an hour, that it was already totally booked for the night and we wouldn't be able to eat there. Meanwhile, the Airbnb host had texted me that the heater needed a new part that she wouldn't be able to get until Tuesday. I was, to put it mildly, frustrated with the situation, and also pretty bummed about not being able to go to the dinner place we had picked, so as we mulled over potential dinner options on the street, I impatiently suggested we just go into the funny bar we had stopped outside of and get a drink until we knew where to go. Though I'd suggested it out of annoyance, it turned out to be a pretty good move. We ordered our drinks and chatted with the bartender (it was only 7:30pm so we were the only customers). He was so nice and gave us a bunch of suggestions for dinner (I tried not to be too salty when his first suggestion was the one we'd been turned away from) and even told us the names of his friends who worked at the restaurants and told us to tell them that we were friends with him. We stayed in that bar for what I think was a really long time, but time in bars are always a little strange, so it could have been a lot shorter than I'm thinking. (And I only had one beer, so it's not a question of alcohol intake). Edu (the bartender) had sent us in the direction of a purportedly good restaurant, but we stopped at a different one because it advertised burgers and that ended up being pretty delicious. In classic Spain fashion, we asked for the check three times before Jackie just got up and paid at the counter, and then we trudged back up the hill to our freezing Airbnb. I'd probably only gotten more upset about the whole heating situation, especially because the host refused to consider giving us a discount and I believe I may have told the crew at one point that I was going to give the Airbnb a one-star rating... The host had kindly bought us a space heater, but regardless, I felt cheated by the whole situation. We all gathered in the living room, closed the door, put the heater on full blast, and began to play games. And, miraculously, the heater worked superbly. The rest of the flat was still freezing, but the little enclosed living room, was perfectly comfortable. We played games well into the night and when we finally went to sleep, we put the heater in Alison and Jackie's room as Hildie and I could share the same bed again for warmth. It still wasn't ideal, I was still cold, we still had to share beds/spaces, we still couldn't shower with warm water, but I went to bed so happy, thinking about how lucky I was to have friends who would stay up until 3am just to play cards and who make me laugh as hard as they do. By then, I'd also reconsidered my whole "one-star rating" attitude, I promise. The next day, I woke up after a very weird and vivid dream featuring David Blaine performing a stunt in Santander, but me accidentally getting in the way of it all because I insisted on taking the stairs instead of an elevator-typed-thing – that's a strange tangent into Jordan's sub-conscious – anyway, I woke up still cold, but still happy. We packed up and left for a quick café breakfast before dashing through the pouring rain to make it to our bus home. While Santander was not exactly what I wanted or planned for, it ended up being a great trip. And best of all, I realized that space heaters are not only highly effective, but also are wayyy cheaper than I thought. As soon as we got home, Jackie and I walked to the walmart-esque store of Logroño and purchased ourselves space heaters. It may even have been my best purchase of Spain. I was in the middle of my blog about cultural adjustment on being halfway through my Fulbright experience when I arrived in Salamanca for Fulbright’s Mid-Year Seminar. The Mid-Year Seminar is where all of the Fulbright grantees and scholars meet for three days of sessions, presentations, eating, and chatting. I had been hesitating to write my cultural adjustment blog in part because it was not technically halfway through until last Thursday and in part because I was in a little bit of a funk the week before the seminar. Now that mid-year is over, I feel like my feelings on cultural adjustment have changed a bit (and I’m out of my funk), but I also feel like mid-year needs its own blog, so this first, then I’ll write about adjustment. I’m practiced at delayed gratification, if you couldn’t tell.
Because of the distance from Rioja to Salamanca, the Rioja Fulbrighters left Tuesday afternoon to arrive in Salamanca by midnight. Mid-Year didn’t start until 1pm on Wednesday, so we were able to get settled, explore the city or sleep (or, if you’re me, plan the rest of your weekends from February through June) and get ready for the seminar. Wednesday afternoon we were greeted by the commission with a gift bag that included a huge jar of honey, and sugar covered almonds. The seminar was off to a good start. It was a strange and surreal and wonderful feeling to be again surrounded by tons people more or less my own age who spoke my own language and who have common interests that lead to deep conversations or just ones where you can vent and trade stories without having to over-explain what you do in the first place or that you’re so grateful for the opportunity despite the challenges. They get it and they’re interested and interesting. I’ve been out of college for a little over a year now and this is the closest I’ve felt to that time since I graduated. I realized how much I’ve missed academic stimulation and a huge group of people with common goals. Salamanca is a beautiful city. It boasts one of the oldest and longest running university in Europe and the history of the architecture is rich and filled with fascinating snippets of history, like how the red painted writing on the city walls used to be written in blood and how they call it the golden city which was never more clear than walking around in pre-sunset light. I made sure to look up for the architecture, Dad, don’t worry. So it was with this backdrop that we shared ideas, complained, felt enlightened and at times overwhelmed, were constantly reminded that we only have four and a half months left (or conversely, that holy crap we still have four and a half months left), and generally enjoyed ourselves. I was able to both meet new people and catch up with friends I made at orientation. On Wednesday we started with a group photo, a welcome (or “opening ceremonies” which I could not help but feel disappointed in that they were not as exciting as those of the Olympics), moved onto a lunch where I think my ten-person table went through at least six bottles of wine and then we moved on to the first presentations. The presentations were interesting, but I did find myself debating heartily with the final presenter for a good half hour after he finished. At that point we had the talent show, where we saw everything from Stepping to stand-up to songs from teaching assistants in other regions. The Rioja crew successfully completed our rendition of The Fresh TAs of La Rioja (to the tune of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air) with our wine bottles in hand. After that, we were free to choose our own dinner and the night ended for me playing darts in the basement of an Irish Pub. Not bad, in my mind. The following day started with a breakout session on (for teaching assistants) how things were going in the classroom. We’d been warned to try not to complain the whole time and instead focus on solutions. I was dubious about how productive this would be, especially because I’d spent a lot of time at orientation hearing that my situation was just going to be different, but it ended up being fabulous. I loved hearing about everyone’s school situations and the differences between and within regions. We then proceeded to sit through many presentations, with one break for coffee and another for a long lunch (which I slept through). We got another break before our cocktail party where we filled up on appetizers and more wine and met Fulbright alumni and chatted with people from the commission. It turns out I’ve become either infamous or famous because of my seven villages situation, and by the end of the conference, I was often given a wary side-eye before whoever I was talking to would say “are you the one in seven schools/villages?” and then proceed to tell me about how whenever they complain in their respective regions they would say “well at least I’m not the one in seven!” This never ceased to make me laugh. Hey, I told you my experience wasn’t the norm. I’ll say this forever, but: everyone has their own challenges and benefits and mine is no exception, it is just a very different type of pro/con situation than other school placements. Friday was a little more relaxed. I moderated a conversation about cultural adjustment (ironic because I’ve been putting off my own reflections, I know) and then we had a few more sessions before our closing ceremonies (also not to Olympic standards). We finished the day with lunch all together and then a guided walking tour of the city. From the astronaut and ice cream to the cathedral and the frog, we made sure to find all of the touristy quirks of the beautiful city of Salamanca. The conference ended Friday, but Fulbright covered our Friday night hotel stay if we wanted, so a bunch of people stayed and we were able to take advantage of more time exploring the city, including craft beer, an awesome used bookshop, a street with cheap dinner options called, I kid you not, “Van Dick” or “Van Dyck” Street depending on which sign you looked at, and even a couple of new piercings (not on me, don’t worry fam). A bunch of people, including myself, stayed in various hostels and airbnbs on Saturday night and that takes me through to today, Sunday, where I now sit on a train speeding backwards towards Logroño. I mean, I assume the train is going forwards, but my seat is going backwards. As I head home now, for the first time it’s hitting me that this is going to end eventually, and I’m sad about that. Regardless, tomorrow I start teaching again. I feel like I’m failing in a lot of ways in the classroom, that the kids aren’t understanding as much as I’d like them to and that my lesson plans are often ineffective and not that fun for my students, but I feel more prepared to try to make positive changes that might just make life easier for me and better for my students. It was a sleep deprived four days, but thankfully Fulbright isn’t stingy with their coffee or food and I made it through somehow feeling refreshed despite the tug of sleep on my eyes. In no surprise to anyone, teaching is not always bundles of fun. It can be great when the students are engaged or at least want to try to understand, but a lot of the time, that is not the case. Each teaching assistant has their own challenges with their school(s) and mine is no exception. My schedule has changed at least three times now and I'm finally just beginning to remember the most recent schedule, which seems to be sticking. The way it works now is still on the A/B rotation, but now I go to the two biggest schools once a week, so it works like this (these are the village names FYI):
A Week: Monday I go to Alesanco, Tuesday to Uruñuela, Wednesday to Arenzana and Camprovín, and Thursday to Huércanos B Week: Monday to Tricio, Tuesday to Hormilla, Wednesday to Huércanos, and Thursday to Uruñuela In Huércanos and Uruñuela I teach different grades on A week days and B week days. The biggest change is that there are no students that I see every week, whereas before I saw the students in Hormilla, Arenzana, and Camprovín every week. I see most students every two weeks and I see some students only once a month. This makes it very tricky to build relationships with students – even tricky to remember their names at times. Many of them are only starting to remember MY name because of how infrequently I’m there. Another issue is that it’s hard to build on any lesson I teach because they never remember what we did last time. I’m about to do a mini unit on Black History over a couple of weeks and I have no idea how that’s going to go. My new schedule also means I help teach math. This puts me in a pickle (and not the good kind) because math isn’t a bilingual subject, but I’m not really supposed to speak in Spanish with students nor do I feel comfortable with math lingo in Spanish. But alas, it's working out. Finally, the new schedule also means there are more hours that I’m at the schools while not teaching – essentially the schedule is less efficient. Hours spent at the school and not teaching are normal, but the inefficiency kills me, especially because I had a taste of a very efficient schedule. Still, I bring my computer and try to make the most of it. As far as what I usually teach, a lot of my lessons are about American culture. Usually I have the whole hour to do my lesson plan, even though that’s not technically my job, because it’s what makes the most sense with my rotating schedule and because I teach at least two grade levels at once, but up to all six. I only have a little idea of what they’re studying in their normal English classes because the infrequency of my time there and the differences between villages. Their English level is very low, so I do my best to keep things simple, but interesting. A couple students are really into American culture, which always makes it better, but most don’t really care. A few have to be reminded every lesson that I’m from the U.S. and not from England. And a couple students still insist that I’m French. In general, the kids receive far less discipline than in the U.S. and it is a constant battle of getting respect and trying to have them enjoy class/English. I’m not supposed to discipline the students, but I also need to have some kind of classroom management or else all hell would break loose (I would know, it has happened). And as I mentioned in my first blog about teaching, boundaries and norms are very different than in the U.S. I see examples of this all of the time. Often I think it is good for the kids, like how teachers will hug their students and give them straightforward answers about things we skirt in the U.S., but there are times that make me feel a little more skeptical. My least favorite example of the differences in norms occurs in one of my "infantil" (three-year-olds to five-year-olds) classes, where they're allowed to pick a short YouTube clip or song at the end of class as long as it's in English. One class always chooses songs that, for me at 23, I sometimes feel weird listening to, let alone watching the music-video. They like Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, and this band called GM5 that consists of 10-year-old girls singing about the boys they love. It’s not my decision, but I think the hardest part is watching little girls watch how women are consistently portrayed in every music video they choose. I want girls to see that they can be whatever they want, and that it definitely doesn't need to be connected to the way boys see them. Plus, they're five!! Anyway... Those are the times that it is toughest to try not to make a judgement and instead to think about the benefits of the different culture. Okay, so there are my complaints. Let me tell you some anecdotes that never fail to make me smile, or at least think “Oh, Spain” 1. Different kinds of fruit and/or vegetables get delivered to the schools every week. I LOVE this. I also get to eat the fruit, but I mainly love that the students are getting healthy snacks at school. One time I did find worms in my half eaten clementine, so that was not as great. I quickly stopped eating and downed a coke, my remedy for all stomach ailments in my post-Ecuador world. I figure if coke can take the rust off a penny, it can darn sure rid my stomach of any potential worms*. (*I know this isn't actually true, but let me have my peace of mind please). 2. Students got their flu vaccines not only during the school day, but at school. “Socialized medicine, I guess” as my mom said. Anyway, the best part was that I was with the 1st and 2nd graders when they were getting back from receiving their shots from traveling nurse (there's no nurse regularly at the villages). First the boys came back. Most were sobbing, or at least crying and moaning and holding their hands over their arms as though they’d sustained a mortal wound. Then some of the girls started to come back. Each one of them skipped in happily, laughing and chatting. I always want to laugh or hit someone when I hear that boys are tougher than girls, but I almost wish I had this filmed so I could show anyone who doubted these inconsolable boys and carefree girls after suffering the same affliction. **note: I love that the boys could and felt safe expressing their emotions. We gave them candy and told them it was okay. They were and are allowed to cry, that’s the point of feminism. But goodness if I hear another person say that girls are inherently weaker... 3. The day after winter break, I was driving with the teacher I was with for that day and as we began approaching the village, the air filled with the stench of fertilizer. Now, don’t get me wrong, I actually love the smell of manure (blame the ranch), but this was a little much. It was a sulfur-y mix that made me want to puke. I hope we were just passing through something, but as we parked and got out of the car, the stink only became worse. We laughed and compared Spanish and English words about the smell, and then hurried into the building. When we made it inside, the first thing we noticed was that it was dark. As it turns out, not only was it some mulching day, but also our electricity had stopped working. Early January, no heat, no light, and obviously, no internet. Half way through the day it started turning on and off every couple of minutes, thrusting us into light and sending us running for the heaters. But it would only last a minute and, sure enough, the heat and light would pop back up and it would be dark and cold again. This has happened a couple times in various villages, but that day was the worst without question. 4. If you're friends with me on Facebook, you may have already seen this story, but alas. I did a lesson on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day in the U.S. and I finished by having the students come up with their own resolutions. In one class of 3rd through 4th graders, I had been getting generic answers like "end bullying" and "love everyone" and had been pushing them to tell me specific steps they could take in their everyday lives to make those things happen. Eventually I came to one student who is always eager to please, but who answered me "end racism." Naturally I challenged him to think about what he could do to help achieve world peace and he concentrated for a minute, thinking really hard and then, eyes lighting up, said "kill Trump!" I'm pretty sure my chin literally dropped to the floor before recovering so that we could talk about why killing someone doesn't end the ideas they spread. As I said on Facebook, it has really stuck with me that in a tiny town (there are a total of about 20 kids in the entire village) in the North of Spain, the first thing my student thought of for ending racism was to kill the United States President. [and now that the FBI is probably reading this blog, hi FBI! I promise there is no threat here!] 5. The other day, I opened the door to one of the infantil classrooms only to find one dog and one wolf running at me. It turns out that it was two dogs, but still. The teacher had just decided to bring her pets that day. I can’t complain, because I’d never say no to being able to hang out with dogs, but, oh Spain, that you can bring your dog to school. My mind automatically raced to “do any of the kids have allergies? What if a dog bites a kid?” And you know what? As much as it would never fly in the US, it’s cool here and everyone seemed happy about it. 6. Part of the students' textbook is cultural stories and early on, there was a story about the first person to climb Mt. Everest. One of my students did not believe what the textbook said and kept trying to argue with me that there was no way Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay had been the first, because they were too young etc. I told him to look up the story when he got home and to tell me when I'm back in two weeks. He always forgets, but every time he sees me he makes a point to try to argue about it (and is even trying in English now!). It makes me smile every time. 7. One of Muslim girls in one of my villages was really sad that the Three Wisemen never brought her gifts. Here they have the Three Wisemen bring gifts instead of Santa. This year, the girl wrote a long letter to the Three Wisemen asking them to please bring her something. Her teacher read this and was obviously sad because this student clearly wanted to be included in something all the other kids had. So over winter break, the teacher got her a little present, wrapped it, wrote that it was from the Three Wisemen, and hid it in the school. When the student mentioned that even though she’d written a letter and that the Three Wisemen still hadn’t brought her anything, the teacher asked if she had checked in the school and all of the 1st and 2nd graders went on a hunt to help find this one student’s gift. The student was totally shocked when she found it, and I was nearly in tears! For the teacher to allow just a little bit of magic in the world of kids who don't have a lot is so special. And none of the kids complained about not getting a present, they all understood that they had received their presents at their homes. It was so heartwarming. I have to cut it off there because every time I come back to edit this, more stories come to mind. So read this knowing that these are really only a couple of my adventures and misadventures. I'll do my best to keep writing down the absurd and silly moments and maybe will periodically share them on here. We're about to reach the halfway point of our teaching (congrats everyone!) and for just that occasion I have a second cultural adjustment blog half written (see what I did there?). However, we're headed to our Fulbright mid-year conference in Salamanca this week, so we'll see when I get what done. As I keep promising, eventually there will be more blogs to come. |
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November 2018
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