Musings

A selection of thoughts, some about Spain and some not, in no particular order:

Why is it that so many of the public restrooms in Spain don't have toilet seats?  For the life of me I can't think of a logical explanation.  Surely they aren't getting stolen...

Teaching is really hard.  I have a great respect for the people who can do it well and a new-found appreciation of the caliber of teaching I have received my entire life.  It's been a pleasure.

I really really wish I'd never quit playing soccer.  Such a great game.  I'll always love baseball the most, but there's something about soccer--whether it's the elegance, the huge, green, screen-capturing field, or its ubiquity here--that I adore.

On the other hand, I miss American sports.  Yes, I can still follow everything here as closely as I ever could, but it's different when you're the only one interested.  I miss being surrounding by that interest.  Sports are the single greatest conversation piece of all time, at least for males--I miss having that connection, even though I do know enough about soccer to carry on a conversation.

I am continually astonished by my apartment's ability to be colder than the street outside; it's not an experience I ever want to repeat without the aid of A/C.

I'm considerably more outgoing when I'm traveling or abroad; I would never talk to an American just because they're American at home.

How does anyone anywhere find smoking enjoyable?

Travelers/backpackers have got to be one of the most amiable and decent groups of people in world.

If you ever go to Istanbul, stay in Tulip Guesthouse.  The staff there were the absolute best I've ever come across anywhere and everything else was top notch as well.  A great place.

What, exactly, is the lure of "going out" at night?  This one's been bothering me for some time.  Maybe it's because I don't like to dance (that probably is why), but I really cannot stand nightclubs.  Anywhere where you have to overpay for drinks and have difficulty moving more than eight inches doesn't really strike the right chords with me.

Alright, gotta go.  Big soccer game tonight: Barcelona v. Arsenal in the Champions League quarterfinals.

One other note: pictures are now, finally, posted.  Go to http://picasaweb.google.com/home?hl=es&tab=wq
choose an album, and enjoy. 

When in Huelva

Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my long absence from this, my own blog.  To tell you the truth, I just haven't felt like writing.  Also, life hasn't been that exciting here; I go to school, I come home, do one of the several flavors of nothing I have access to, and then start the cycle over again.  To encapsulate my last post-now life, I've been bored and confused and uncertain.

Partly it's my fault.  I've been feeling depressed lately, and I've let the depression get the better of me and keep me from doing things.  This can't happen.  Huelva isn't the most exciting place in the world, but there are still things to do--go to the gym, go to a soccer game (which I did do yesterday, actually; Recreativo Huelva sucks, but it was a fun time), explore places I haven't been--and I just haven't been doing them.  An adage that I like is, "only boring people get bored."  This is not wholly true--adages rarely are--but it does highlight an important principle; namely, that we are in control of what we do each day.  Bill Watterson comments on the same principle in Calvin and Hobbes: Calvin is outside looking for something "weird" and, upon finding nothing, heads into the house to get Hobbes and bursts back out the front door, saying, "If there's no weirdness around, we'll just have to make some!"  That should be my viewpoint.  It goes back, as do so many things, to attitude; change that and I change my boredom.

I'm also worried about next year.  I have no idea what I'll do.  I could do this program again; returning auxiliares get location preference, so I could go where I want.  But I'm sick of being separated from my friends and loved ones back home, even though this job really is an awesome opportunity.  I could go to Korea, which is like this program but I'd work more (in my current view, a good thing) and actually lead classes.  It also pays really well and has great benefits, and I need some money so I can go to grad school.  But Korea has all the same downsides of Spain plus some more; I'd be there longer, it's farther away, I don't know the culture or the language at all.  I could also go find a job in the US, maybe even in Grand Rapids.  But one of my friends, who has recently moved across the country for grad school, said something which resonated with me.  He had a choice between Northwestern and Cal-Berkeley and chose Cal.  I asked him why and he listed a few reasons, like Cal being slightly better for the field he was entering.  But mostly, he said, "(I) don't want to be the type of person that can't leave home."  I don't want to be that person either.  I didn't get a chance to go away for college, so this is my chance.  One year doesn't seem to me like enough, either; I need more time away.  But at the same time, I miss my friends and girlfriend and the familiarity of the place I've grown up with.

What makes this urgent is that I have to start thinking about this now.  That's the thing about the future; it never takes as long as you'd think to become the present.  And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bid adieu to the café Viva la Chocolate, my favorite rumination spot in Huelva, which is closing due to issues with the landlord (if anyone's counting, this is the second café which has played a formative role in my life that is closing due to landlord issues--R.I.P. Four Friends) and which I will miss far more than I think they know.  I'll try to write more frequently in the future.

Mistakes were made

I'm going to stop the recap of Switzerland there, because frankly we didn't do much the rest of the time and I'm starting to get way too behind on my updates, for which I apologize.  In brief, the last day we took a train from Basel (where we had gone the day before) to Strasbourg, France, which was unbeknownst to us the Christmas Capital of the European Union.  As such, there were festive decorations and tons of Christmas lights lacing the city, which also held France's tallest cathedral.  The cathedral was spectacular; my second favorite of all time (after the Kolner Dom in Cologne, Germany) and we had a good time wandering around the city, but I must now jump to more immediate matters.  For the next few posts I will be going in reverse chronological order.

The 24 hour clock.  It is used by many European countries, including Spain (though notably, as we shall see in a moment, not by the UK), and by the United States military, but other than my time spent living in Spain I have never lived in world run by army time.  As such, when I first arrived to Spain in October, I set my newly acquired phone to 12 hour time for purposes of familiarity.  It was a costly decision.

But I get ahead of myself.  This weekend marked the one year anniversary for me and my girlfriend, and as she was (is) in Spain, I thought it would be fun to go to London to see Les Miserables, which is on it's 25th Anniversary tour.  We left at 22:15 (10:15) Thursday night from Seville and got to London very late.  The next day consisted of doing some basic touristy things which I had failed to get to in my other visit to London; notably, seeing Westminster Abbey and walking around the Houses of Parliament.  Both were amazing; Westminster in particular was like having one foot in Britain's present and one in its long, rich past.  Seeing the actual tomb and effigy of Elizabeth I and the place where the likes of Geoffrey Chaucer and Issac Newton are buried was overwhelming.

The next day was Les Mis day.  We saw the Tower of London in the morning and then headed off to the play at night.  It was stunning; I know the music so well that sometimes I forgot how much actually seeing the performance enhances the music, but it really does.  In our show the unsung heroes were the lighting and effects people: some of the scenes were pure perfection thanks to the understated brilliance of the techies.  Among the actors, all were good (obviously; it's a London West End production), but the older characters really stole the show: Valjean, Javert, and the Thenardiérs, although Enjolras was also excellent.  Seeing Les Mis in London has been a dream of mine since first seeing it in high school and I was glad for the chance to see it and to give the same chance to Elaine, who loves the play but had only ever seen her high school perform it.  A great evening, all in all.

We had been pretty busy for two days, so we decided that Sunday was more of a down day; a day to relax before returning to Spain.  We went to church in the morning at the smaller church next to Westminster and then headed to Baker Street, home of the fictional but legendary Sherlock Holmes.  All that remained then was to head back to our nearby hostel and collect our bags for the Tube ride to London Heathrow.  We left the hostel at 4, giving ourselves an hour on the train and two hours in the airport before our 7:15 flight.

About halfway through the ride, at 4:45, as I stood idly by the doors looking out the window, it occurred to me that I hadn't looked at the tickets in a while.  I unzipped my bag and got out the tickets, double-checking our departure time.  Sure enough, the tickets (for the Spanish budget airline Vueling) showed a salida with the following numbers in the following order: 7:15.  Only problem was, there was a 1 before that first 7.  That made the departure time 5:15, better known as in a half-hour.

At the next station, I hurtled out of the train car and called for a taxi, but the second we got in I knew there was no chance.  It was a 20 minute drive to Heathrow from where we were.  But we hung tight until we got to the airport, when I bolted out the side of the car and did some youtube-level free running through the airport to the Vueling desk.  Too late.  The plane was leaving the gate as I got to the desk.  We had no chance.

It is amazing how seemingly insignificant decisions have such a dramatic effect on life.  If I set my phone on 24 hour time, we make that flight.  If the UK uses 24 hour time, we make that flight.  If I check the tickets that morning, we make that flight.  Even if I check the tickets when we were leaving the hostel to get on the train, we probably make that flight (there is a significantly faster train that also goes to Gatwick).  If we book a non-Spanish airline, we make that flight.

But we missed the flight.  I have missed a plane once before, but the circumstances this time were completely different.  To begin with, I was not near where I was living (as I was with the other), so I was faced with the costly and unavoidable decision of buying another ticket for the following day.  I was also not alone this time; I was travelling with my girlfriend, who was taking an extremely intensive daily class that was about to start its last week and for all she knew, she had to be there or she would fail the class.  I also had school the next day.  And London is far more expensive than Valencia.

So followed several hours at the Heathrow airport internet terminal, trying to find some way to get back to Spain in the relatively near future for less than a small fortune.  We eventually found a flight from London Gatwick--the second London airport--to Málaga for an amount I could swallow.  The flight left at 6:30 the next morning.  We took a coach to Gatwick and after a night's very deep but incredibly short sleep, boarded our flight to Málaga, from which we took another coach to Sevilla, where Elaine went home (her teacher, thank goodness, was merciful, as were mine) and I took yet another coach to Huelva and finally, after an exhausting 25 hours of traveling, got home around 5:00.  Which is to say, 17:00.

Given all the circumstances, things turned out okay.  Nothing except my bank account suffered any lasting damage and we still enjoyed our time in London.  Little things caused my mistake, but little things also got us through the ordeal: cookies and ice cream from Aunt Millie's, kind taxi drivers and Spanish airport officials, and a hitchless travel day the next day kept us sane and even happy, which is more than I could have asked.

Traveling.  I know, right?

Skiing in Switzerland

The following day, Tuesday, dawned... warm.  Everyone had been covered in snow the first day we were in Interlaken, but over the next 48 hours the temperatures climbed and the snow melted until there were only scattered patches of snow.  But we were told that there was still snow up on the mountain and were damned if the weather was going to stop us from skiing.  Clutching our skis and wearing our boots, gloves, coats, snow pants, and goggles (all rented), we stumped over to the train station.  We were going skiing by train.  What an authentic experience.  It quickly became less authentic when the twenty or so Asian tourists on board our train car wanted their picture taken with the two real life skiers, but still.  The atmosphere endured.

The train dropped us off at the foot of a cable car, which hoisted us to the top of what I now believe to be Mannlichen (with an umlaut over the "a").  Unfortunately all of the pictures of that day are Becca's camera, so I cannot share any right now, but eventually I hope to be able to, mainly because my prose can only be so descriptive.  Suffice to say that it was phenomenal--arguably the most naturally beautiful place I've ever been, and I've been to Glacier National Park, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Galápagos Islands.

(Did that sound arrogant?)

Anyway, yeah; it was pretty.  But we weren't there just to marvel at the ridiculous scenery--we were there to do the skiing equivalent of shred the mountain.

But here's the thing; the mountain didn't want to be shredded.  It saw the two Americans coming into town and fortified itself with a topsheet of ice that glazed the hill like a caramelizer.  Those of you familiar with skiing  in warmer temperatures are no doubt familiar with this phenomenon; when snow becomes sleet and ice and greatly increases the degree of difficulty.  I've been skiing many times in my life, and this was absolutely the worst snow I've ever skied on.  There was nothing for the skis to cut into, so turning and stopping became processes instead of events.  I'm a pretty good skier--not great, but I can hold my own (to quote Tom Cruise)--and these hills, 2s, 3s and 4s out of a possible 5, were giving me all I could handle.  On more than one occasion I had the thought, "Geez, if I don't this exactly right, I could die."  I wasn't taking undue risks, you understand, wasn't trying to bomb any of the hills (which surely would have resulted in death), just trying to weave my way down the mountain at a sufficiently timely yet safe pace.

This isn't to say I didn't enjoy myself; I had the time of my life.  Living in Michigan doesn't make for the most difficult skiing and it was nice to be challenged again on the slopes.  The vistas were breathtaking and neither of us really cared that the skiing itself wasn't ideal; we were in the Alps, that was what counted.  I checked off two of my oldest bucket list items--ski in the Alps and ride a gondola for skiing purposes--in one day.  Except for the hour and a half in the middle of the day when I lost my wallet, I had a marvelous time.  Even the wallet turned out better than I possibly could have hoped; we went down to where I thought it might have fallen out and it was there.  How often does that happen?  There were never any lines at the lifts, the restaurant at the top was not more expensive than the rest of the country, and when we got tired we rode the gondola all the way down to the town of Grindelwald and back to the top.  It took an hour.  It was a great day.

Once more to the breach

How do you know you need to start blogging again?  When your girlfriend, who has been been blogging about her now 10 day-old Spanish experience, has almost as many posts as you do.

My sources tell me that when we left our intrepid heroes they had just finished jetting down an Alpine slope at 9:00 PM. That fearful task finished, we headed back to our hostel where, if memory serves, we spent the entire evening watching movies in the hostel's movie lounge.  It was great hostel.

(See, this is why you shouldn't wait so long to write blog entries; you forget the exact details, which of course can provide a springing-off point for discussions on other matters.  Don't do what I do)

Skiing was on our agenda in the near future, but we had decided to wait another day to ski on the North American-based assumption that going mid-week would lessen the crowds.  More on this later.  Monday therefore became the day that we would see Lucerne, the picturesque Swiss city next to Lake Lucerne and nestled in among a ring of mountains.  Though not particularly significant for anything much, it looked pretty in pictures and had a really old wooden covered bridge (a lot older than Ada's).  We booked the tickets.

Continuing what would be a vacation-long trend, the weather sucked; it was misting and 40 degrees the whole time we were in Lucerne; Becca and I joked, not un-seriously, that it was the worst possible weather for walking around a city.  The rain couldn't altogether destroy Lucerne's undeniable charm, however; it is indeed a very pretty city, with big, old, Victorian-looking buildings lining the river which divides the city and a quaint old city with murals covering the walls of plazas.  At the top of the hill which slanted up away from the river was the old city wall, and climbing up to them provided a great view of the city.  I love looking out over European cities; the humanity is so much more evident.  You can see all the rooftops of the buildings where there are clotheslines or deck chairs or old furniture or some combination of totally different stuff.  It's like a tiny, tiny window into the city that you don't see from the H&M discount rack or the overpriced restaurant booth.

After ascending to the wall, we descended down to the banks of the river and I stared down through the crystal-clear water while Becca let her inner artist talk her into taking pictures of swans.  The water in Switzerland is unbelievably clear.  When we were up in the mountains a few days before there were water fountains, outside in the street, feeding directly from the mountain streams.  Great country?  I say so.

But even great countries have Christmas markets, which is where we ended up next.  That's actually not fair; I have a certain fondness for Christmas markets, mostly because I like happy things and Christmas is a happy time filled with happy souvenirs.  In keeping with the season, I bought two small hand-carved wooden angels which had slipped past the Swiss embargo on reasonably priced items, and we headed back in the direction of the old city to eat dinner and then board our train back to Interlaken.  We wanted to get back early enough to get a good night's sleep; it's not every day that you get to fulfill a life-long dream, and the Alps weren't going to ski themselves.

Swiss Recap

Well, I'm back, to Huelva and to the blog.  Sorry for the long hiatus, but more than that I'm sorry for the sappy, smarmy previous post.  Hallmark on Line 1.

Anyway, Switzerland rocked.  I had a great time, although there was plenty of factors conspiring against my enjoyment of the country and my activities.  Firstly, and by far most unpleasantly, I arrived in Basel on Thursday with the beginnings of a crippling stomach flu, probably the worst bout I've ever had.  I'm usually pretty resistant to things affecting the stomach, but this one found a weakness (I think it was a small thermal exhaust port, just below the main port) and boy, oh boy did it exploit it.  I spent the night shivering and sweating in alternating vigorous sequences, punctuated by frequent visits to the bathroom, which mercifully was both right next door and out of the room where everyone was sleeping.

I awoke having purged every conceivable substance from every part of my digestive system but still sick; indeed, even sicker than the day before.  The stomach problems were marginally better--though probably because I ingested things far more carefully than the day before--but I felt miserable.  I must have been running a pretty legit fever, because I was absolutely freezing, despite knowing that the hostel was warm and being dressed in several layers.  I had absolutely no strength to do anything except sit and try to keep warm and conserve energy for the five minute walk to the train station to meet my friend, who was getting in later that day.  It turned out to be more like an hour wait, as I sat in a cafe feeling like I was about to keel over and tried in vain to keep warm.  I can only imagine how I looked when Becca first saw me.  She says not well, which I'm guessing is something of an understatement.  I know I felt like the walking dead, though I'll have to watch Shaun of the Dead again to tell you whether I looked like it too.

Fortunately, the arrival of Becca helped matters, as my health was improving due to the passage of time and medication I purchased at the Basel Bahnhof health center (which, incidentally, is indicated by a green cross, which I found ironic in the homeland of the Red Cross).  Becca helped too, as she served both as a distraction from my symptoms and a provider of some comfort (she brought me soup and a Powerade, which counted for comfort food in my state).  By the time our train departed for Interlaken, I was feeling better, though still not well.  But I had at last reached the on-ramp to the road to recovery and had someone to talk to now, so overall the world was a much better place than had seemed possible 24 hours previous.

We got to Interlaken at night, walked to our hostel (Backpackers Villa Sonnehof--highly recommended) and basically just crashed for the night.  It was quite a sight in the morning, therefore, to wake up to a snow-covered vista of mountains and trees and blue sky--Alpine in the truest sense of the term.  That first day, Saturday, was mostly spent just wandering the town of Interlaken and the neighboring one of Unterseen, soaking in the sights and, in my case, enjoying be able to be outside and do things again.  Because it was the weekend, the Christmas market was set up in Interlaken's main section.  It was a very good Christmas market, the kind that makes you appreciate the holidays rather than wrinkle your nose at them.  The market was rife with Christmas and Swiss things--Nativity wood carvings, Swiss chocolate, Swiss Army knives, clothing, etc--but also a great deal else, notably a lot of food and drinks.  "Market" isn't really the right word; it was for like a festival.  There were people everywhere eating, drinking, and just generally enjoying being in such a beautiful country during such an eventful time of year.  I myself, still not close to recovered from my stomach bug, couldn't help but indulge in a waffle covered in Apfelmus (applesauce.  It makes sense if you think about it) and mushrooms grilled and wrapped in bacon, not exactly the simple flavors and proteins that my recovering system probably wanted.  I don't regret it, though; both, particularly the waffle, were excellent.

For Sunday, we signed up to go night sledding, which is exactly what it sounds like.  Well, not exactly, because when most of us think of sledding we think of a moderately sized, wide slope that goes straight from top to bottom.  The Swiss version of sledding is more hearty: winding down a course in the mountains with no steering apparatus other than our own weight and our feet.  And it was night, and the course was not lighted.  Our instructor told us the following: "There are no lights on the course--that's why it's called night sledding.  But you can see a contrast between darker and lighter.  The light is the course.  The dark is trees and ledges.  Steer away from the dark."  And with those sage words ringing in our ears, we pushed off down the mountain.  Weaving around hairpin turns and trying to avoid the drop-offs, I couldn't help but wonder how Calvin had the capacity to have all those deep conversations with Hobbes while careening down hills on his toboggan.  But then again, his rides usually ended prematurely.  I preferred to stay in one piece, even if it was at the expense of wisdom.  Besides, I'd already flaunted that by signing up.

So, like characters out of a Marie McSwigan novel, we raced downhill on our plastic chariots, pile-ups and traffic jams common.  I actually turned out to be pretty good at it (I would be good at night sledding; such a universally applicable skill, that is), so I was able to avoid most of the pile-ups and build up speed.  Moose, our guide, stopped us right before the end to tell us that the last bit was really steep but emptied out into a road, so we had to stop quickly at the bottom (honestly, how quickly would that be made illegal in the US?  One week?).  After jetting down the hill and avoiding the the mass of people coming up behind, Becca and I took some pictures with some Australians we'd met during the evening to commemorate the night sledding experience and then headed off for cheese fondue and free beer at the mountain restaurant.

This is probably as good a segue as I can find for talking about Australians.  You see, they deserve a segue.  I  love Australians; in all the traveling I've done, mainly in Europe but also in other places, I have never met an Australian I didn't like.  They have been without exception affable, outgoing, laid-back, funny, and generally pleasant to be around.  These Australians were no different--I just enjoy being in their company.  We met an Australian couple in our hostel in Madrid that was really nice and another couple when I was traveling during Spring Break last year that let us use their train passes.  I'm sure there are Australians whose company I would not enjoy--one Kenneth Alfred Ham comes to mind--but I haven't met them.  And I've been to Australia.  So Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.

Oh, and as the cherry on top: the two Australians we met were Ellie and Libby.  Libby's last name is Hogan, which makes her the niece of Paul Hogan, who is according to Wikipedia, "an Australian actor, comedian, film producer, and screen writer best known for his acting role as Crocodile Dundee."  That's right;  Crocodile Dundee is her uncle.  This is real life, people.  You can't make this stuff up.  Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.


On that note, we will conclude chapter one of My Adventures in Switzerland.  Read the next one to find out about my encounter with Roger Federer's wife.




(Is he joking?)

Attitude

Today was my last day in Huelva until Sunday the 12th.  Suffice it to say I'm glad to be getting away.  Typically the day that one leaves for a vacation is a good day--particularly for me, who loves traveling--but I was not so lucky.  In school a miscommunication over when I am leaving for Christmas Break led to a teacher reaming me out, in Spanish, in front of a second grade class.  I felt terrible--I had no intention of leaving before school ended unless I got the okay from the teachers, and they said it was okay.  Or at least I thought they did.  Apparently this teacher thought that I meant I would be leaving on Friday the 24th rather than Friday the 17th.  She accused me of showing "total lack of respect."  That really got things off on a good foot.  I then found out that I wouldn't get paid by the school until mid-December and possibly later, which means that I'll have to spend dollars instead of euros in Switzerland (not a country, as you may know, known for it's bargain basement pricing).  Then I got home to find out that the package sent from home containing my ski clothing hadn't arrived, which meant I would have to spend more of those American dollars (which are mercifully doing well against the European currencies at the moment) on renting everything from snow pants to a hat to gloves along with skis and boots.  Then, as the cherry on top, I missed my bus to Sevilla.

I am not a person who loses it easily, and I've definitely been closer at other times in my life than I was then--even other times in the past few months.  But watching the 4:00 bus pull out of its platform while I stood and clutched the ticket, unsure of which bus was mine, did not do wonders for my already fragile emotional state at that moment.  I went back to the ticket window and asked the woman there if she could exchange my ticket for 5:00 (thank goodness for frequent departures).  She could not, but told me to go talk to the bus station manager.  I couldn't find him.  I came back and just wanted to buy another ticket, but she told me that all he had to do was sign it and re-gave me directions to his office.  I couldn't find him again.  I found a bench, too ashamed to go back to the ticket window, and just sat, feeling sorry for myself about my crappy day.

You know, because that's so healthy.  My US cell phone has a banner which I have set to say "Attitude" so every time I open my phone (my Spanish one, alas, does not have a banner) I'm reminded of the quote by Charles Swindoll, who I recently (read: 30 seconds ago) learned was an American clergyman and writer.  The quote goes like this: "The more I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life.  Attitude, to me, is more important than facts.  It is more important that the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do.  It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill.  It will make or break a company... a church... a home.  The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day.  We cannot change the past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way.  We cannot change the inevitable.  The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I respond to it."


Anyone who knows me well knows me that I'm a sucker for quotes.  This may be my favorite quote ever.  It's so eternally applicable, whether the Tigers just lost in a particularly heart-breaking manner, Ryan Air just inflexible-d you out of a trip to Rome, your boss is being unfair... or you're sulking on a paint fume-enveloped bench in the Huelva bus station.

I don't know what exactly triggered it, but I thought of that quote as I sat there in my poison cloud.  Feeling sorry for yourself gets you nowhere.  I know; I've seen me do it.  A minute later I stood up to have another look for the station manager.  Lo and behold, the door was right in front of me (in my defense, it was perfectly camouflaged with the wall).  The manager wasn't there, so I went back to the ticket booth and talked to the woman again, who gave me an exasperated but genuine smile as she stamped my ticket for the 4:00, making it valid for the 5:00.  Then I had a piece of apple tart in the bus station cafeteria.  The world always looks better after desert.

So here I sit, in my friends' piso in Sevilla, about to turn in for my early flight tomorrow.  I'm once again excited for Switzerland.  I just hope RyanAir doesn't lose my suitcase.

November 25th

Well, another week is over, and a week from now I'll be in Switzerland. Two weeks from now I'll be in Switzerland (and, later in the day, Málaga). In three weeks I'll be in Grand Rapids. It'll be an eventful December, that's for sure. To tell the truth, I'm pretty excited about getting out of Huelva; I've come to the realization that spending consecutive weekends here isn't good for me. There's just not enough to do on weekends other than go out at night, which is not my favorite thing in the world. But it's okay, since this current weekend will be the last one I spend in Huelva until mid-January, so I think I can make it. Anyway, this weekend was fairly uneventful. Indeed, too much so, since it was Thanksgiving in the US (a top three holiday for me) and it isn't celebrated here. You can't even find cranberries, which are unequivocally the best part of Thanksgiving. I made stuffing yesterday to remind myself that it was Thanksgiving season, but it's not quite the same without the smorgesbord of other food to complement it. But Thanksgiving is as much about the action as the food (part of the reason it's so great), so without further ado, here is a list of things I'm thankful for at the moment:

The auxiliares program: put frankly, this experience has been more difficult than I anticipated, but nevertheless I'm extremely grateful for this opportunity to get real world experience in another country with a decent salary and the chance to explore Spain and Europe.  So, thank you, Spanish Ministry of Education.

My girlfriend: for putting up with this long-distance crap.  It sucks, but I'm extremely grateful that she agrees that it's worth the effort.  Thank you, Elaine.

My parents: for encouraging me to do this.  Not every parent would be so supportive of their son's desire to go try his hand at the real world in a foreign country.  Thanks, Mom and Dad.

My brother: for starting and enjoying college so far.  Congratulations, Ben, and I'm glad you're having fun.  Remember, the things you learn at the Taco Bell drive-thru at 3:00 are just as important as the things you learn in class.  But that doesn't mean class isn't important.  Study hard and keep up the good work in Chimes; you're a good writer.

The Dyno League: a fantasy baseball league which has kept me connected with my former house and has fostered hundreds of online conversations already.  And this is only year 2.  Thank you, dyno league and it's members, especially the commissioners and Brett Veltema for trading me pick 1.2 and Adam Dunn for Buster Posey and Garrett Jones' expiring contract.

Pedro del Valle, my Spanish roommate: for being really cool and for helping us deal with the myriad problems our piso has had.  It's been invaluable, having a Spaniard here to help out.

Whoever owns the Jazztel Wireless WiFi network: for leaving it unprotected, allowing me to steal internet for the two months that we haven't had internet.  You made my life infinitely easier.

My host family and Becca, my friend who's doing the same program in the north: for being my safety nets in Spain.  I will be visiting the former again at least twice and going with the latter to Switzerland.  Life here would be worse if you weren't here.

The good producers of 30 Rock: for entertaining me unceasingly.  22 Emmy nominations was too few.

And finally,

All of you who put up with my ramblings:  I like writing, and I like writing even more when I know that the product's being read.  Hopefully it's a symbiotic relationship, but at the very least it's good for me to keep writing.  So thank you, all of you, for reading this.  Here's to hoping you keep humoring me.

A Brief Story of Time

Having only recently completed 17 years of school in my life, I fashion myself something of an expert on the modern day classroom.  In elementary school there are posters lining the walls showing everything from a map of the world to multiplication tables to the different kinds of living things.  In middle school things change a bit--there are still posters, but they are more academic and less cartoony in nature: maybe the internal organs of the body or a border showing Pi to 300 digits.  In high school the rooms are much more subject-centric: a periodic table in the chemistry classroom, a poster for the Shakespeare festival in Stratford, campaign signs from elections dating back to Eisenhower.  In college there is usually very little: some pulldown maps or an advertisement or a semester abroad are among the only things you'll find in a university classroom.

One thing all of these rooms have, however, is a clock on the wall.  Any student will tell you that Einstein didn't really discover anything: anyone who has sat in a 78 degree math classroom on a beautiful May day already understands the theory of relativity: the time the minute hand takes to reach the next hash mark seeming to in a stroke double the length of recorded history, amorphous students splayed out on their desks begging silently for the class to be over... watching the clock is a time-honored tradition of the American student.

Not so in Spain.  As far as I can tell, not a single room in my school, with the probable exception of the principal's and secretary's offices, has a clock.  There isn't even a bell, except for one at the beginning and end of the day (which, well we are on the subject, is not so much a bell as an air raid siren that appears to be a relic of the Civil War) and to signify lunch break.  In between these events, time is largely a subjective notion: classes begin and end loosely on the hour, but it's really up to the teachers.  I've had classes start on the :20 and end on the :10.  For someone who has grown up in the regimented, time-driven schools of the US (and probably, although this is just a guess, much of the developed world), it's somewhat unnerving.

The lack of clocks in my Spanish classroom is a microcosm of the Spanish life in general and the Andalusian life in particular.  Everything--from governmental procedures to work days to walking--is done at a more relaxed level than life in the US.  Annoying?  Assuredly, at times, like when people need to get their temporary citizenship card and the man issuing them goes on coffee breaks every half-hour.  I also don't recommend trying to walk anywhere fast; it's an exercise in frustration.

On the other hand, there is something to be said for stopping and smelling the roses.  Indeed, one could argue that there is everything to be said for it.  I mentioned in a previous post that my host brother Joan is 26, doesn't have a job, and is living at home with his parents.  And yet no one, neither him nor them, are unhappy in the least with the arrangement.  One time, after comida, I was talking with them about the family and I asked them what Joan was doing in what I realized afterwards was a sort of conspiratorial undertone.  Rosa looked at me for a second and said, "¡hombre, está disfrutando la vida!" or, more colloquially (and in English), "he's living the dream!"  And who am I to argue?  Great food, free board and room (note the order) in a beautiful town on the Mediterranean, sees his girlfriend frequently; he clearly is living the dream.

Spain, while undeniably a first world country, is still not among the world leaders in commerce or economy.  Some experts have suggested that Spain's more relaxed lifestyle may play a part in their continued second-tier economic power status (and dropping).  To this I say: maybe they're right.  maybe they are slightly less rich and influential because their banks close at 2 (a tremendous annoyance, by the way) and they take a long break in the middle of the day.  BUT, but but but but, who cares?  They're enjoying themselves.  Who are we to tell them to speed up when we really need to slow down.

Denia and everything after, part 2

Hello, and welcome back.  I hope you've all been fed and watered.  I certainly was when I was in Denia.

Rosa, my host mamá, is a delightful person; funny, easy to talk to, and she corrects me non-judgmentally on my Spanish errors.  She's also the finest cook in continental Europe.  French, Italian, African, Spanish... there is no cuisine which she has not mastered.  Seriously, the last time I was in Spain, I walked home from school everyday anticipating the mid-day comida the way the GOP anticipated the latest midterms: I knew it was going to be good.  The question was how good. Unfortunately, here our comparison ends, because not once in the years since have I looked back and wished I'd eaten a different comida.  

The first day I got there, she made a giant, sumptuous lasagna dish, complete with the traditional Spanish side of bread and more bread.  Additionally, Lorenzo (my papá) is a wine salesman, so it's safe to say that we dine well at la casa Hernández Colomér.  For desert, there was a large bowl of mandarinas, which are tangerines and not mandarin oranges, as the name would indicate.  Either way, though, the province of Valencia is one of the best places in the world to find good citrus, and this was, according to Rosa and Lorenzo, a particularly good batch.  They were not wrong.  I had perhaps three after comida, as well as several later that night.  In all, in the two days that I was there, I bet I probably ate 15 or more tangerines. They kept asking me if I wanted any and I kept wanting some--what was gonna do?  Not eat them?

After comida the rest of the family--Rosa, Lorenzo, and my two host siblings, Joan (pronounced Jew-an and a guy's name), who is 26 and Angelina, who is 31--bedded down for a traditional siesta while I galavanted about online, enjoying a stable internet connection.  Rosa and Lorenzo differ a little from the traditional family in that they have 3 children (the oldest lives by himself in Palma): the average Spanish family has somewhere between 1 and 2.  And don't be fooled by the kids' ages and think that they're lazy freeloaders; Joan just got his degree in computer science and Angels has a full degree as well, although I don't remember exactly what in--something related to tourism.  No, both Joan and Angels are fully qualified for work; it's just that, I don't know if you've heard, but there's been a recent economic downturn, and Spain has been one of the nations hardest hit.  They don't have jobs because there aren't jobs to be had.  In the meantime, both are living at home, which, given their mother's cooking, seems like a wise move.

After her siesta, Rosa and I went and had coffee with Ana, the mamá of my friend Matt.  I really enjoyed talking with her; learning about what she'd been up to since we left, if she'd had any contact with Matt, how the year after us had gone, and above all, about Calvin moving it's Spain program.  Ana and Rosa discussed the decision--a difficult one considering Calvin's almost 30 years of connection to Denia and the familial relationships that have been built, both with families and with the pueblo--with Rosa firmly of the opinion that it was better for the students to move it and Ana wavering somewhere in between knowing that and talking about how hard it would be for many families.  Time will tell; there are positives and negatives to the decision, but I think ultimately things will work out fine in Oviedo, Asturias, the site of the new program.  But my heart will always be in Denia.

I wandered around with my friend for a while after that, becoming reacquainted with Denia after our absence. It was a gorgeous night--clear, warm, and very little wind, a rarity--and I was extremely content to be back.  I felt... tranquil.  It isn't a feeling I've experienced very much since coming to Spain the second time around.

We spent a few hours exploring Denia and the seaside, but eventually, both of us exhausted from getting up early and not getting much sleep, went back to our pisos, had dinner, and went to bed.

The next day was a typical lazy Saturday in Spain; wake up, have a light breakfast (apple pastry, a few mandarinas, coffee) and go for a long walk.  Rosa and Lorenzo are currently taking care of their oldest son's dog and have since I was there in 2009, so we took him (Maximiliano) on a long walk out to the end of the pier, getting back just in time for Rosa to start cooking the paella, our comida for the day.  For those of you who think you've had good paella, don't waste your breath.  As paella is a Valencian speciality and Rosa is the best cook in la Comunidad Valenciana (it being a part of continental Europe) and Lorenzo had prepared a special wine for the occasion, we dined like kings.  We followed it with more mandarinas.  I believe by that time some mandarina farmers must have been alerted that I was in the province, because the bowl was full again.  Gluttony?  Maybe.  But I had to eat them, cuz it's rude to say no, right?

It was the same drill for the family after comida, sleep off the food, but I had an appointment to keep.  I went to meet my friend at Café Gormand, one of my favorite haunts in Spring 2009.  I had a delightful Summer Night tea and desert while we planned our upcoming trip to Switzerland (about which surely much more anon).  I won't ruin the details for you, but our trip centers around Interlaken, the extreme sports capital of Switzerland.  It'll be a good time.

That evening, after dinner, we met up again and went to watch the Barcelona soccer game.  Upon the end of the match, after Barce had won 3-1, we walked out by the beach and just enjoyed being there for a while.  The posse of drunk teenagers nearby only slightly marred the beautiful sky and the beautiful sea.  We were leaving the next day.  We had to soak in enough to hold us over until our next visit.

I woke up early-ish the next morning, 7:30, because my train left at 8:20.  Rosa got up with me and Lorenzo also rose to say goodbye.  I promised them I'd visit again, which I will, and, one last mandarina in hand, I headed out the door.

 (Actually it was two.)

The train to Alicante, where my flight departed from, is two things: slow and beautiful.  It takes a winding, scenic route through the hills of the region and follows the coast line for much of the ride as well.  I love the ride; it's like an extended preview of the region of Alicante and a little glimpse into all the towns along the way.  I count among my favorite stops Calpe and Paradís.  But it is assuredly slow; it takes nearly three hours to go 100 km, from Denia to Alicante.  The bus is moderately faster (or considerably faster, if you are fortunate enough to get the express bus), but I have this thing where I hate buses, so if I have time I will avoid them.  Plus the train is cheaper and more comfortable.

My RyanAir flight left on time from Alicante and landed in Sevilla at about 2:55 local time.  I stepped out of the plane into a steady rainfall.  The sunny days of Denia were gone for now. Back to the real world.

Denia and everything after

I couldn't wait to leave for Denia last Thursday.  I didn't even want to go to class.  Fortunately, I didn't have to, because one of my teachers was sick all week, relieving me sixty percent of my weekly class.  Naturally, however, I had three classes on Thursday with the teacher who wasn't sick, so after a full day Thursday I dashed home to quickly pack my backpack and batten down my room's hatches for a weekend away.  Eighty minutes' hasty  work allowed me to get the bus station just in time to catch the three o'clock bus to Sevilla.

I arrived at the airport early, some two hours before my flight was scheduled to leave (which is actually when they tell you to get there, but seriously, who does that?).  I was flying with the winged bus that is RyanAir, and having had all too much experience with them in the past, I wanted to make sure every t was crossed and i was dotted (there's a 5 pound fine if they're not) before passing through security, the Point of No Return.  So I got my boarding pass stamped (if you pass through security without having done this, you are not permitted to fly, despite holding a perfectly good boarding pass and passport in your hand.  I speak from personal experience.), went through security without incident, and a few hours later, boarded my RyanAir Boeing 737-800 with service to Valencia.

The Home Backpackers Hostel, where I checked in to in Valencia, is the same hostel I stayed at the only other time I stayed in a hostel there--when RyanAir told me passport and boarding pass weren't enough for me to go to Rome.  It's a nice place--clean, cheap, comfortable, with all the amenities you expect from  a hostel (free wifi, towel provided) and some you don't (full kitchen and lounge).  I have a certain affinity for it because I was homeless and it took me in, so it felt good going back.  After checking in, I found my friend, who had arrived a few hours earlier, and we went out for tapas.  I had apples and hummus (take that, tradition tapas stereotypes!) and a glass of the house Bordeaux.  It was very enjoyable; to see my friend, to be back in la Comunidad Valenciana, and to be going to Denia the next day.

And go we did.  The 8:30 bus from Valencia landed us in Denia at 10:30, just in time for mid-morning coffee with our respective host families.  The weather was perfect; between 65 and 70 and brilliant sunny.  As I made the suddenly familiar walk to el piso de mis padres, at 5 Pintor Victoria, I couldn't keep a wide smile off my face.  My time studying in Spain had more than it's share of difficulty, but for none of that was Denia at fault.  I love Denia--adore it immeasurably--and if I found a job there, any job at all that could support me, I would be there in a heartbeat.  It has so much to offer: mountains on one side, Mediterranean to the other, excellent food, remarkable weather, the most fiestas of any city in Spain (true).

It also has Rosa and Lorenzo, who were waiting for me at the elevator door when I stepped out onto their--my--floor, setting the stage for a brief but joyous reunion.  Within minutes, I was inside and having coffee with Rosa, feeling like I'd never left.

(END Part 1)

It's getting late and I have to go to bed, but the second part of this post is coming tomorrow.  My headline-writing skills are probably a little rusty, but I'll attempt a teaser to the second part:

"Part two of Orlebeke's 'Denia and everything after' filled with food, fun"

Don't know if it's technically in AP style.  Stephen always knew that better than me.

Settling in

Today marks the 6th week that I've been in Spain.  It's been fast at some times and utterly slow at others, but finally, finally I feel like I'm settling in to some sort of a weekly routine; a rhythm, if you will.  I go to school, I swim, I prepare tutoring, I tutor, I come home.  With a few breaks in there, of course, when I stop at home to eat, check email, etc.  Then, after I get home, I chat with the housemates for a while, make something to eat, and eat it while watching 30 Rock on my computer.

It's nice to know, more or less, what's ahead of me the next day.  I'm all for spontaneity, but I like it on my terms, not on the world's terms.  No, I now know my route to school quite well and how long it takes me to get there.  I know which classes are the bad classes and which are the good classes, and I know which kids are the good and bad ones in each of those classes.  I'm starting to learn what my fellow teachers expect of me (although since this is the school's first year having an auxiliar, a lot of what I do is just go along for the ride until they need me for something) and starting, at an even more basic level, to learn how to get through the students.  It really is unfortunate that I have no education background, because I feel like I'm learning on the fly things I could have learned student teaching a few years ago.  I mean, given the amount of organization I've seen out of the Spanish government regarding this program, I don't think they could organize a birthday party, yet alone a complicated interview procedure for overseas, English-speaking students.  It's far too much to ask of the Spanish Ministry of Education.  Having said that, I did get paid today, so I guess I can't get on their case too much.

But seriously, November promises good things for me.  First, I'm going back to Denia this coming weekend to visit my family from when I studied there (Spring 2009), which I'm really, really excited for.  Just the thought of sitting down to comida with Rosa and Lorenzo makes me feel warmer (and fuller) inside.  Similarly, the sound of Rosa singing sweet songs to the dog while she cooks and cleans makes me yearn to return permanently to the apartment on the calle Pintor Victoria.  I can't wait to go back to all those places I frequented a few years ago--Café Gormánd, Cíber Denia, the beach, Marqués de Campo, maybe stop by the UNED to say hi my old professors... everything.  It's gonna be great.

After that weekend, back to Huelva for another few weeks of the same--teaching, pool, tutor, home--with a possible trip to Portugal mixed in one of the weekends.  It's just so close.  It'd be a shame not to.  Then, in early December, I've got a long, more-than-a-week trip to Switzerland, which promises to be excellent.  I'm really looking forward to that trip.  We (my friend and I) are planning on going to Interlaken, which is extremely naturally beautiful and, apparently, the extreme sports centre (I'm in Europe) of Switzerland.  Hang-gliding through the Alps is a possibility, as is skiing and (for a less modest fee) skydiving.  We'll see how wide my purse-strings will open.  But whether I spend a lot of money or a little, it'll be fun.  My entire life I've had a fascination with Switzerland; for a brief period in middle school it was my most desired country to visit.  And now I can.  It's great to grow up.

(and sucky.  But that's getting far too philosophical for right now.  Let's move on)

So yeah, my life is settling down for the moment; not too much on my plate other than what I've already mentioned.  Soon after getting back from Switzerland I leave for Christmas and home, so December will be a whirlwind, but until then it's Fresh Prince time: chillin' out, maxin, relaxing all cool, shooting some fútbols outside the school.  We should get our own internet soon, barring the inevitable but unforeseen difficulties which have thus far impeded our quest.  So we'll see.  But either way, life here is slowing down for me.  Which is exactly what it wanted to happen.  You let down your guard, and it lulls you into a lifestyle of long meals, late mornings, and plentiful breaks.  Sounds fine to me.

Piso Problems

I'm told that not all apartments are as problematic as ours.  For the sake of everyone who lives in this country, I hope not.  Hardly a day has passed that we haven't had a technician of some kind or other in our piso, poking around in the apartment's guts.  Usually he's in the kitchen, but sometimes he'll switch it up and go to the bathroom or the living room or the laundry room.  Since I've lived here, we've had problems with, in chronological order, the oven, the shower, the hot water heater, the phone line (which we need to get internet), the phone line again, the other shower, the hot water heater again, the plumbing in general, and the washing machine.  The other shower and phone line have yet to be fixed and the second hot water heater problem left us bereft of hot water for almost a week.  That's not even to mention the various small annoyances, i.e. the sliders have no curtains on them, the door doesn't shut well, the shades on my bedroom window are really finicky, the tables are all unbalanced... I could go on.

I won't lie; I'm used to a pretty comfortable lifestyle.  I like things to be comfortable.  But I can deal with less comfort. What I have the hardest time dealing with is when pivotal things that should always work--hot water, washing machine--don't.  Partially it's my fault; I neglected to ask enough questions when we were moving in and made assumptions that I should have just asked about, particularly in regards to the phone line.  But I did not anticipate that hot water itself would be a problem; perhaps the price, but not the availability.  By the same token, I saw that there was a phone line when we first examined the apartment; what I (and my landlord) didn't expect was that it was cut right outside the door (for what reason I cannot imagine).

Fortunately--extremely fortunately--we have a good landlord who lives close by, so he, and Pedro, have been able to help out a lot fixing all the problems.  Should it have been taken care of before he rented it to us?  Of course.  But I don't think he's trying to screw us.  Our apartment belonged to our landlord's mother until she died (creepy, I know) and it's been un-lived-in for two years, which is part of the problem; nothing had been checked for a long time before we moved in.  

Thank goodness for Javier (our landlord) and Pedro.  I think I probably could deal with the problems by myself, but it would be a huge hassle and much more diffficult and frankly, when it comes to those things, I'm way more interested in fixing the problem than practicing my Spanish.  There's time for that after I shower and put on clean clothes.

Weekend trips

One of the nicest things about the program I'm taking part in--which, by the way, is called auxiliares norteamericanos and is run by the Spanish Ministry of Education--is the amount of free time we have.  I'm only under contract to work 12 hours a week at the school, which means I have a lot time outside of school to do what ever suits my fancy, whether it's tutoring to earn some extra money or joining a local club or group to practice Spanish.  Moreover, the 12 hour work week is spread out over 4 days, which in turn means that we have a three day weekend every weekend.  This arrangement greatly facilitates weekend trips, and while you usually can't go anywhere really far away, there's plenty to explore around here.  The second weekend Pedro was living with us he drove us to the Sierra, a mountainous region about equidistant from Sevilla and Huelva.  The countryside was gorgeous; plains turned into rolling, tree-covered hills, which eventually turned into small mountains, dotted with the occasional pueblo. Our destination, Cortegana, was known for the 14th century castle perched on a rocky hilltop overlooking the village, but we passed through other villages with claims to fame as well; Jabugo, for its ham; Aracena, for its caves; Almonaster, for its mosque.  We didn't have time to stop, but I would have loved to have explored each of them.

Which isn't to say that Cortegana was very nice in itself; it was, particularly the castle.  It had obviously been restored since it was built--it was in far too good a shape for something almost 700 years old--but it had been restored quite well and I didn't mind.  The castle provided great views of Cortegana and the surrounding area, which looked even more quaint with the sun setting around it.  After descending from the castle, we went to a little restaurant in one of the main squares and had some very tasty traditional Spanish fare: pizza and Coke.  I apologize for nothing.
The following weekend I went to Sevilla for the first time and explored the city, which was a lot of fun.  Sevilla is a really interesting city with a lot of historical significance, probably why every study abroad in Spain program on earth has students there.  Seriously, depending on where you are in the city, I bet there are more English speakers than Spanish speakers in a given area.  But that aside, the city has a lot to offer.  I didn't actually go into anything, just wandered around in the streets, but everything I saw was very impressive.  Standing out in my Sevilla once-over was la Giralda, the immense and soaring cathedral whose lone tower is the tallest point in the city, and the Plaza de España, a massive semi-circle of two-story pillared façades with a huge tower on either end.  The Plaza de España in particular was a revelation for me, because I'd heard about la Giralda and its immensity before.  The Plaza, however, was something completely new to me, whether because it was never mentioned in high school Spanish or because I didn't pay close enough attention I have no idea.
This past weekend I went to Cádiz and Gibraltar, both really cool places that I didn't get to enjoy fully due to bad planning.  Located on a narrow spit of land reaching out into the Atlantic, Cádiz was originally founded by the Phonecians sometime before 1000 BC, making it the oldest continuously inhabited city in Western Europe.  The old city has a rich and eventful past; from being Hannibal's Iberian capital to a prestigious city in the Roman Empire (there is a Roman theatre dating from the first century BC) to the home of the Spanish treasure fleets (and, consequently, a target for foreign nations and pirates), much of Western Europe's history has passed through Cádiz.  It certainly has the feel of an old city, though I confess I wouldn't have guess that it is as old as it is.  The narrow, winding streets and brick sea walls reminded me more of San Juan than anything else.  But a city can't exist for as long as Cádiz has without reinventing itself a few times, and so it has been there; even now, a glance down the beach reveals the high-rise apartments and condos in the new section of the city.  But that aside, I definitely liked Cádiz and would love to go back to enjoy the justly famous beaches as more than window dressing.

The next day, yesterday, was... frustrating.  I took a bus from Cádiz to Gibraltar at 10:15 and got to Gibraltar at 1.  The last bus for Sevilla left at 4, so I had less than three hours to explore all of Gibraltar.  It was not nearly--not even close--to enough.  All I had time to do was walk out to the Europa Point lighthouse on the tip of the peninsula, which was really cool, but there are other things to do in Gibraltar, like the monkeys which live up on the rock and the old siege tunnels and a huge Victorian-era cliff gun (not to mention that the whole thing is British), that I missed out on because I had to be on the bus by 4.  It was totally my fault for not planning better, and I probably should have gone to Gibraltar the day before and done Cadiz on Sunday (because there are later trains and buses from there to Sevilla).  So it was really my doing.  But the upshot of the weekend was that I got incredibly sick of buses and busing, so much so that my goal now is to do anything and everything to avoid long distance bus travel.  Hopefully that will include renting a car, which based on what I've seen, is really the best way to see the closer portions of Spain.

So after all that, here I am back in Huelva, preparing to begin another week. I have no idea what I'm doing in school this week.  I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

Life with a harpoon fisherman

It didn't take long for us to get some responses to the extra roommate ad we put out.  One of our potential suitors introduced himself as Australian and a lot of fun, "like an enjoyable drink."  As much I unabashedly love Australians, we crossed him off the list fairly quickly.  The next email was more promising; the guy's name was Pedro and in a very direct, cleanly written message he told us he was clean, a non-smoker, and had shared apartments with foreigners in the past, all things we wanted to hear.  The only red flag was that he was thirty, which seemed old for someone to be sharing an apartment with three 22 year olds.  Nevertheless, we agreed to meet him and show him the apartment.  My phone number had been the one on the ad, so I was the one who went down to meet him and walk him back to the piso.  

I arrived slightly early to our meeting spot and looked around for someone who seemed like a Pedro.  Within seconds, I saw a guy coming up to me.  ¿Eres Andreu? Pedro asked.  We exchanged greetings and walked back to the piso together, when I learned a little bit about what he does with his life.  He works on a boat in the port doing repair and maintenance work, but he also goes to school part-time and fishes recreationally.  I found out that he was only a semester away from graduating from university.

I had also forgotten how adulthood works in Spain.  A 30 year old here acts more like a 23 or 24 year old in the United States, and Pedro was no different.  The night after he had moved in with us, he went out at 1:30 in the morning and didn't get back until noon the next day.  The Spanish nightlife is unbelievable.  I don't know how they do it; it's so beyond me.  

But age differences aside, Pedro has turned out to be an awesome roommate.  He is, true to his message, very clean and never smoked (he has since told me that he has smoked one cigarette in his life) and is a genuinely nice person.  In addition to the benefit of having a Spanish speaker in the house to help us with our Spanish, we gained the not-inconsiderable advantage of having a native living companion to deal with the elements of Spanish household business that we didn't know or had some difficulty handling, i.e. changing the butane can when it ran out of gas (which powers our hot water heater) and dealing with any technicians.  This was both easier for us and made it a great deal harder to take advantage of us.  He is also, on top of everything else, quite a good cook.  His first weekend in our piso, he cooked me a fish he'd caught the week before.  

Sorry, did I say caught?  I meant shot with a harpoon.  It's an easy mistake.

I want you to summon up every image that you have of amateur fishing--lazy sunday afternoons, floppy hat shading the eyes as you take a nap in the twelve foot dinghy, etc.  Toss them aside; they have no place in this discussion.  Now summon all the images you have of commerical/professional fishing--huge nets hauling in loads of fish (or crabs; thank you, Deadliest Catch) among 20 foot seas, Glen Andrews' 10 minute battle with a giant bass that you saw last Saturday morning on ESPN, whatever.  Throw them all away.  What Pedro does makes them like toddlers picking through a tide pool.

Why?  Notice that all these types of fishing, whether amateur or professional, have one thing in common; they wait for the fish to come to them.  Not Pedro.  He straps on a wetsuit and mask, grabs his four foot long harpoon, squeezes into his flippers, and hunts the damn fish on their own turf.  He falls out of the boat, dives down to more than 70 feet below the surface, and woe betide any fish foolish enough to get within range of his harpoon.  Oh, and he does all this without oxygen; he just holds his breath for 3 minutes.  He's not shooting guppies, either; he got one, a grouper, that weighed 200 pounds.

What'd you say? What's that leaning against the door jamb?  Oh, that's just my roommate's harpoon gun.  No no, it's real, I swear.  What?  No, of course he's not a whaler like Captain Ahab.  Ahad stayed on the ship when he hunted his catch.  Pansy.

So yeah, Pedro's pretty cool.  We all like him and he likes us. He cooks, he cleans, and he helps us practice Spanish.

And I don't know if I mentioned this, but he's a harpoon fisherman.

Being an adult, Spanish style

 I am not someone with a great deal of real world experience, MTV or otherwise.  I spent a semester in Spain, but I lived with a host family that catered to my every need.  I lived off-campus for two years independently, but knew I could always count on support, fiscal and otherwise, if I needed it.  Other than my semester abroad, I have never lived outside of a three square mile area in my hometown.  My college was largely paid for by my parents, and the rest was loans. I have, by and large, had the silver spoon in my mouth my whole life.

It was, therefore, something of a change to have to start a life in Spain.  I had an apartment and roommates, which was a great start, but there was a great deal that I had to adjust to.  Things that are taking for granted back home--cheap hot water, no heating, no driers, and different groceries are a few of the things which reminded me that I wasn't in the US of A anymore.  I spent a semester here before, which somewhat lessened the shock for me and put me in a better spot than my roommates, but actually taking care of a Spanish apartment was something wholly different to me.

One of the first things I did after moving in was go grocery shopping.  To get an idea of what it was like, picture an American grocery store--D&W, say--then give the whole store a little twist.  The store (the one I go to is called Carrefour) is largely the same, but everything is just a little off, not quite what I'm used to.  You weigh the produce differently.  There are not Ritz crackers, but there are ones that look (and taste) exactly like them.  Milk isn't in the dairy section.  Peanut butter, one of my staples, is 4 euros(!).  There are no tabloids in the checkout aisle (unforgivable).  As everyone knows, the first shopping trip is always controlled chaos.  Now ladle in a serious portion of Spanishness and I'm surprised I made it out without forgetting a bag.

My shopping done, I began preparing to deal with Spanish children the next day.  I wasn't actually doing anything concrete, just psyching myself up for the experience.  Spanish kids are notoriously misbehaved, and my classes were no exception.  I can't know for certain, but there is not way that my class was that loud when we were in elementary school.  One story in particular always sticks in my mind, a story told by my study abroad professor before we left.  She said that she had once seen a Spanish child drawing on the wall with a marker and the kid's mother following along behind him with a can of paint, covering up the drawings.  If behavior like that is tolerated, small wonder the kids misbehave in the classroom.  

All that aside, I liked my school, both the teachers and the kids.  The teachers were very nice, offering to show me around Huelva and helping me get acclimated to the school and city (I found out my principal had been waiting for me at the train station the day I arrived because he thought I was coming in by train), and the students seemed to regard me as some sort of incredible novelty and are exuberantly nice.  Loud, but nice nonetheless.

So my Spanish life was in full swing.  We had hot water (after a day without it), we had a fully functional shower, I had successfully converted the den into my bedroom, and I was starting to hear from people about private English lessons.  We had it all--except a solid grasp on Spanish.  Because I was living with two Americans, we spoke English in the apartment, so my Spanish practice was limited to outside settings, like school and restaurants and the like.  I needed to speak more Spanish.  Both my housemates were in agreement, and one of them put out an ad for a Spanish-speaking roommate, preferably a Spanish one.  All of us felt pretty good about our life in Spain at that point, but we all agreed that having a Spanish roommate would make it even better.  All we could do was hope that someone would call. 

The Turning of the Tide

Having spent a miserable night in the hotel, I got up the next morning and prepared myself for my first day of school.  One of the things I had done before I turned in the night before was to grab a map and find my way to my school.  Mercifully, it was fairly close to the hotel: only about an 8 minute walk from door to door.  I had no way of contacting my school, so it was anyone's guess what time school started.  I had set my alarm for 7:10, assuming an 8:00 start time seemed a safe guess.  It was, therefore, an unpleasant shock to wake up at 8:15. Cursing my life and my situation, I got up and hurriedly showered and put on whatever cleanish clothes I could find amongst the jumbled mess that filled my two suitcases.  Having missed the 8:00 start time, I readjusted my sights for the 9, assuming that if school had already started, I could claim, truthfully, that I had no idea what time school started and had had to guess.  But excuses aside, it wasn't really the way I wanted to begin a new job.

Threading my way past pedestrians and around cars, I got to school at about 8:55, not knowing what to expect. In this case, however, luck was on my side: school in fact did not start until 9:00, a great relief to me.  I entered the school through what looked like the front door and found the administration offices.  Peering uncertainly around, I stuck my head into a few offices and was about to ask someone what to do when a woman came up to me and said, "¿eres Andreu?"  Sí, era Andreu, and I was gratified that I was in fact supposed to be there and people were expecting me (up to that point only suspected).  The woman, who turned out to be the secretary, introduced me to the principal José Antonio, with whom I had exchanged a few emails before I left.  He showed me around the school and introduced me in turn to the teachers with whom I would be working, Gema and Charo.  Both were very nice, although in different ways: Gema is younger and acted more my age and Charo is older and more a "typical" teacher, but both were very nice.

I spent most of that day feeling my way through the classes.  C.E.I.P. Reyes Católicos is a primary school, so I was in classrooms of younger kids my first day.  Younger kids are not my favorite thing in the world, and I realized during the course of the day that I would have to amend my attitude and demeanor around them if I wanted to do the job well, but on the other hand all the kids seemed nice, if loud and misbehaved.  It promised to be an interesting semester.

After school that day I went back to the hotel and then spent my day exploring the city.  Huelva is considerably bigger than Denia, the town I stayed in during my semester abroad, and it took a lot longer to figure out where the city center is, where the main streets are, etc. than it did in Denia.  By the end of the day, though, I had managed to sketch a rough outline of the city in my head, at least enough to get by on. What I still didn't have were friends or somewhere to call home.  I liked the hotel, but it wasn't cheap and, though I had enough money so that I didn't have to really worry, I didn't want to spend more on lodging than I had to.  I had already paid for another night in the hotel, but later that day I went back to the hostel to see if they had beds available.  Sure enough, they did, for half the price of the hotel. the best price I was going to get in Huelva.  I booked a room and made preparations to move there the next day.

Have I mentioned I love hostels?  When I was in Spain the first time I stayed in several hostels, and every one I stayed at I had a great experience, whether it was hanging out with other people in the hostels or enjoying the amenities of the hostel.  This experience was no different.  The hostel itself was fine; a few more hidden fees than I liked to see, but the beds were comfortable enough and the showers were outstanding.  But it's the people that really make the difference.  I was walking through the lobby of the hostel in the evening of my first night there when I heard, for only the third time since I'd arrived in Huelva, someone speaking English.  It was a girl Skyping with her family.  I went over to her, introduced myself, and said I'd heard her speaking English, something that would draw raised eyebrows in the United States but was totally acceptable given the situation we were in.  The girl's name was Mira and she was from New Hampshire.  She was my first contact and first friend in Spain. We went out for tapas that night, and the next night met up with some friends who Mira had met through a facebook group.  Everyone was very friendly and we all went out for drinks and tapas and conversation, and I finally felt like I had something to stand on in my adopted home.

The next day, Mira and I and one of the girls I had met the previous night, Kristine, went apartment hunting.  Sometime between checking into the hostel and meeting Mira, I had bought a cell phone, and we used that to call the numbers of people whose apartments were for rent.  So we walked around the city, peering up at the apartment buildings around us, eyes searching for se alquila signs, any of which could end our search and give us a home.  But it wasn't until 5:30 in the afternoon that we found a piso which we liked. We had met the owner in the street under it earlier and he promised to show it to us later that afternoon.  We walked up to the second floor apartment, intensely weary after a day of apartment hunting, and immediately felt at home.  It had a big kitchen, three good-sized bedrooms, and a huge living room with a wrap-around balcony. All of us knew more or less at the same time that this was somewhere we could live.  The owner offered it to us at the stated price of 600 euros and we accepted.  We moved our luggage in the next morning.

Forty-eight hours before I had nothing but myself and my stuff.  I now had friends, an apartment, a job, and some grasp of the city. In retrospect, it's amazing how fast things turned around for me.  But I guess that's the m.o. in a new place; take risks, make decisions, and trust that it'll work out.  Laying in bed that night, I was still a little uneasy about what I was doing, but it was a far cry from the bus ride from Madrid.  I'm here.  I don't really know where I am or what I'm doing, but I will.  Let's do this.

The first days

I meant to take the 8:00 bus from Madrid, which would get me to Huelva with enough time to find a hostel, get to know the city a little, and hopefully meet some people.  But I slept badly--Madrid is among the world leaders in noise pollution and my bed was on the second floor, right next to the window--and dawdled a little bit at the hostel, so by the time the taxi (once burned, and so forth) dropped me off at la Estación Sur it was 7:58.  As I got to the ticket booth, praying it would leave late, I saw the 8:00 Madrid-Huelva bus disappear from the departures board.  I have two full-size suitcases and extremely full backpack.  I am tired, I haven't eaten breakfast, and I am marooned in the Madrid bus station for three hours, until the next bus leaves at 11.  I'm standing in the middle of the station, wearing the backpack, a hand on each suitcase, watching the swirl of motion around me like one of those artsy scenes in modern movies where life seems to be passing the main character by.  To be honest, I kind of felt that way too.

Thank God for baggage checks.  Turns out the bus station was willing to hold on to my stuff, relieving me of their burden until the bus left--for a small fee of course, but when one is in dire straits, it's amazing the financial lengths to which one is willing to go (much like the time I paid twenty euro for a bottle of contact solution on the Champs-Elysées, but that is another story).  So, free of the luggage for a while, I went to the café, had an overpriced and underwhelming breakfast sandwich and Coke (judge if you must; it was cheap).  I passed the next threeish hours listening to my ipod, reading, and glancing at the departure board to see if my bus had arrived yet.  About a half-hour before departure time, it pulled in.  I closed my book, retrieved my luggage, flung it into the belly of the bus, and settling in for the seven hour trip to my temporary home.

I once endured a five hour bus ride back from Cedar Point on a bus whose air conditioning was broken and whose seats were uncomfortable, witnessing my friend throwing up the whole way back into the bus toilet.  This trip was worse.  Not because of the fault of Socibus, the coach company: they were perfectly competent and, as coaches go, reasonably comfortable.  No, it was me; a combination of missing the morning bus, regret about the location I had chosen, uncertainty about what the hell I was going to do when I got there, and hanging above it all the million dollar question: "what if I'm not cut out for this?"  That bus ride, and the rest of that day, was undeniably one of the worst periods of my life.

It wasn't the uncertainty about where I would stay and where I would live that was killer, though it was daunting.  But I know I can handle situations like that.  It was the loneliness.  I missed my girlfriend, I missed my friends, I missed my family, but most of all, I just wanted there to be someone, anyone, who I knew.  Later, after I'd met people, I couldn't help but think about the book and movie Into the Wild, in which the main character leaves it all behind and goes, alone, to the wilderness of Alaska.  I barely made it to Huelva, and all I had to contend with were quiet alarm clocks and interminable bus rides.

We rolled in to Huelva, at long last, at 6:30 PM.  I was tired from the long bus ride and feeling sorry for myself, but I nevertheless hitched up my bags, shouldered my backpack, and... found another taxi.  I poured my bags and myself into the taxi and said to the taxi driver, "take me somewhere cheap where I can sleep."  He  took me Huelva's sizable hostel.  I wearily exited the taxi and went to ask the concierge if there were any beds in the 200-bed hostel available.  Imagine my surprise when he said no.  So I returned to the taxi and asked for the next best thing: a cheap hotel.  There turned out to be one very nearby, the Hotel Virgen de la Cinta.  And so it was in a private double room, paying twice what I'd hoped to pay, that I spent my first night in Huelva.  I tossed my suitcases onto the second of the room's twin beds, read Psalm 139, and cried myself to sleep.

Inaugural (and long delayed) post

First of all, welcome. I am delighted that you can make it.

That's the opening to one of my favorite books, Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.  But even though I can't claim the first few lines as mine, they are fitting for this as well.  I thank all of you for bearing with my sporadic morsels of news over the last few weeks as I arrived in Spain, arrived in Huelva, and got settled.  But settled I am, so now it's time for an encapsulation of my two plus weeks here in Europe, starting with my time in Madrid

The flight from Chicago went fine; other than the person in front of me, who reclined her seat eight minutes after takeoff and didn't unrecline until we arrived in Spain, it was comfortable enough.  I unfortunately didn't sleep at all.  I could have been awake for 72 hours in a row before that flight and it wouldn't have mattered; if I'm not laying down, I'm not falling asleep.  So, after about four hours of futility, I gave up on the notion and read a Spanish newspaper to reacclimate myself with the language.  It had been a long time, far too long, since I had been exposed to any sort of real Spanish and I was (and still am) nervous about how much I'd forgotten.  

We landed right on schedule in Madrid: 7:40 AM local time.  I gathered up my suitcases from the baggage carousel and waited for my friend's plane, which had been delayed in JFK.  Fortunately, it hadn't been delayed that long, and after a brief wait we found each other and headed for our hostel: Hostel One Centro, right next to the Puerta del Sol.

Like trickle-down economics, taking the metro to the hostel seemed like a good idea at the time; it saved money and dropped us off really close to the hostel's front door.  In the end, it turned out to be far more complicated and annoying than it looked and in the end was a terrible idea--also like trickle-down economics.  Trying to navigate a major metro system while dragging two suitcases and carrying a backpack is, and this may not come as a surprise, a very bad idea.  It's like wearing a sign that says, "I'm a tourist and vulnerable to theft."  Turns out some people can read that sign; my friend's wallet was stolen right out of her (zipped) purse.  Not the most auspicious start to 8 months in Spain.

Having had my wallet stolen in Spain the last time I was here, I know the feeling; having no money in a foreign country is a bad situation.  But the guy who ran our hostel was very nice and very sympathetic and let us delay payment until our last night, so she had some chance to get some money (the reservations were in her name and under her card).  In the meantime, I paid for what I could with the assurance that I would be reimbursed soon, which I was.  Thank goodness for Western Union money transfer and international cell phones.

I spent most of our first day in a half-asleep stupor, trying to stay awake long enough to get over the jet lag.  In this I succeeded, though it was a very long day.  But after twelve hours of sleep I woke up refreshed, and we passed a much more enjoyable day and evening generally exploring Madrid and its magnificent park, El Parque de Retiro.  We found a nice cafe in a mini-plaza that had deals on drinks and had three glasses of wine for six euro, after which we returned to the hostel and hung out with our Australian friends who we'd met there.

The next day was September 29, an innocuous date on the calendar that was anything but in Madrid.  Due to the tenuous economic situation that Spain, and to a lesser degree the rest of Europe, finds itself in, conflicts between workers and employers have become more rancorous lately as life for the former has been harder as the latter make cuts and drat unpopular regulations to try to stay afloat.  It came to a climax on the 29th.  Some organizations have reported that as much as 70% of Spain's work force went on strike.  I can't say exactly how many people were striking, but I can say that those who were were loud, destructive, and passionate about being loud and destructive.  I tried to use an ATM later in the day only to find that it had been spray-painted and smashed to the point of uselessness.  Moreover, the center of the huelga (strike) was in the Puerta del Sol, not more than 100 yards from our hostel, so we saw and heard everything.  An interesting day to be in Spain.  

The strike notwithstanding, we visited a modern art museum essentially for the sole purpose of seeing Picasso's justly famous Guernica.  I was reminded again, while strolling through the museum, how much modern artists can get away with.  An entire room was devoted to a pile of tires.  Another piece was simply a framed blue field (which was in fact my favorite piece in the museum for a while because, even if I didn't understand it, I like blue).  Fortunately for us and the Museo Reina Sofia, Guernica is worth the modest price of admission; an impressively  large and fascinating painting by one of Spain's all-time greats.

After the museum, we returned to the park and savored the peace for a while.  A Thai supper and a few glasses of sangria later, we returned to the hostel early to pack up and leave the next morning, me for Huelva, her for her orientation and then, a few days later, Zaragoza.  The prologue to my Spanish adventure was nearing its end.  I had no idea what would be in Chapter 1.