Goodbye to Guadalupe

We hugged tightly as the taxi pulled up. She got in, waving every two seconds, and when the taxi pulled away, she beat the back window's glass in mock despair. I laughed momentarily, but soon frowned. When will I get to see her again? Our paths, twined together for two years in Syracuse, now wind through unknown territory. She goes back to a country she's not sure she wants to be in, with a new husband looking for a job in the general vicinity of the United States. I search for a job in Spain and a Doctoral program in the North. I think over cold winters in Syracuse, sharing offices and lives with each other. I guess part of growing up and moving on means leaving moments like those behind as warm memories, and moving on to the next step. I will miss her.

If...?

If you were to perform in the circus, what would you do?

Preparations for Camp

I rapid fire questions about our summer camp to Cathy every spare moment. In return, Cathy is oddly tight-lipped and cryptic with her answers. The other day she said, "There are so many things that I could tell you about, but you can find them out when you get there." I eyed her warily. How much has she hidden from me? I was unaware that sneaky Cathy was trained by the CIA in diverting unwanted attention. The fact that I'm truly nervous teaching younger children is only now starting to dawn on me. It is also a new subject, for that matter; I may be a native speaker of English, but I've definitely never taught it before. I don't know how I string together these sentences, I don't know what each word in a sentence is called! I imagine myself in front of the kids, gaping when they ask a hard question. But these are just nerves. If I survived two unsupervised years teaching at a University, I can definitely get by in a summer English camp and an August intensive course. I have been reading my books and doing my homework for the course like a diligent student, searching for tricks and hints that might make camp a little less frightening.

A Mendicutti Sighting

I saw him before he saw me. He was just walking along the road in front of International House. Without a chauffeur! No paparazzi, no crazy fans trailing him! My heart skipped a beat, and I, in headphones and trying my best to dissimulate my excitement, strolled right past him. That's Eduardo Mendicutti! I wrote my master's thesis over one of his books! To a young literary student who has just gotten his Master's degree, seeing an author is like seeing a rock star. I began to string sentences together in my head. "I have to address him formally. I'll lie and tell him I've loved everything he's written." I turned around and ogled at him for a moment, both of us still walking down the street. "I want to give him my thesis. Why don't I have a copy of my thesis with me at all times for emergencies??" I took out my headphones, practicing what I would say. When I finally worked up the nerve to turn around and address him, he had gone, had taken a right where I took a left and was now halfway down the street. I watched my rock star's bald house bob in and out of the crowd. I considered running after him and asking directions, tripping him. Anything to stall him. In the end, I put my headphones back in. It wasn't meant to be, not today. If I see him again, that's when I'll know that I have to talk to him. Give me one more chance, Mendicutti.

International House

I dropped the money off somewhat regretfully. Having just paid a huge sum to International House Madrid, I am placing all my hopes in their harsh, English-teaching hands. I'm going to need to earn that money back with interest upon graduating from the CELTA course in August. That said, it's a very good thing that we leave for camp at the beginning of July; Cathy and I are both running out of money incredibly fast. According to Cathy, who has taught at the camp before, all of our expenses will be taken care of, effectively staving off utter bankruptcy for a month or two. Cathy also brought up the idea of doing some individual classes in September while we're looking for jobs; that way we can finance our rock and roll lifestyles.

Rebeca

Cathy and I have begun to watch a Mexican soap opera named Rebeca. It's tremendously overdramatic; in the first 10 minutes, we had seen every major character cry at least once. Whereas I can live without seeing the show, Cathy now needs it like heroin. A daily dose of Rebeca.

English Homework

I sit down with the booklet from International House. It is explaining to me the details of the August Intensive course. My excitement is quelled somewhat as I read what some of its former participants have to say about the course: "I will never take anything labeled 'intensive' again." "Is there any way you could make this course less demanding?" "I would recommend it, but only to people who know how to work hard." The fact that the directors at International House placed these quotes in its own booklet makes me grimace. Are they flaunting this? Are they happy that it's so hard? I set worries aside as I realize that I just finished a two year Master's degree. This August course will last a month, but it surely can't be anything I haven't handled before, after two years of university shenanigans.

I skip past the rest of the introductory pages to get to my homework assignments, tasks that all students must do before the first day. Happily, I find these somewhat easy. I am a budding grammatician. I am king of all English speakers.

Comings and Goings

Weeks after the American premiere, Harry Potter finally deigns to show his face in sunny Spain. I am beyond indignant. Cathy refuses to accompany me, as she saw the movie back home before making her way to Madrid. All she seems to remember is that it was very long.

María and Claudia departed this morning at 6.00 am, lightly tapping on the door to the living room so I could lock the door behind them. They head to Salamanca for the day, then onward to the northern province of Galicia, to meet up with another friend. Cathy and I had gotten rather used to the girls, and now we sit around wondering what to do next. We explain to each other our day's plans slowly, thinking them through as if they require a great deal of attention and thought. After moments of pondering I say, "I think I'm going to the English bookstore today. And then I'll check my email at the internet café." These are the lazy days of summer.

To keep the customs agents questioning, I've pretty much decided to head to London at the end of this month, where they'll stamp my passport and allow me three more worry-free and legal months in Madrid. My jaunt to London will help set the months in order -- so that now, when my three month tourist visa expires, it will be September, a month when it's quite possible that I have to go back to the States to get my work visa anyway (this will depend on what kind of job I'm able to get. My fingers are crossed for the legal kind of job, above all). Afterwards, it will be another three months until December, when I would likely go home for Christmas anyway. I am an outlaw, above the laws of the European Union. I am an American Zorro, swashbuckling my way through customs.

Visitors

María and Claudia have been here a few days now. Their collective luggage swarms my bedroom and I move into the living room. They sleep late and recount their Spanish travels to Cathy and I. In the meantime, we do our best to show them around our fair city, although after the second day both Cathy and I are at a loss as to what to do next. Luckily both girls seem content with watching movies and eating at the outside cafés that have only recently sprung up across Madrid. The weather is on our side; after weeks of traveling through the dirty South (of Spain), Claudia and María are amazed at the balmy breeze of the capital.

We take them to a flamenco-ballet show, which is a very weird combination of two utterly different dance styles. After having seen a true flamenco show two days before, Cathy and I sort of believed that we were going to become two dance aficionados, theater-going critics with discerning eyes. We nearly fell asleep during the show, as good as it was. While leaving the theater, out of earshot of our two visitors, Cathy whispered, "I think I'm quite done with dance for a while." I hastily nodded in agreement.

Building The Shrine

for the love of mraz

Casa Camuñas

The waitress sat down on Cathy's armrest. Her eyes were fixed on Claudia and María, who had just told her that they are from Mexico. She fired question after question about their country. "What's it like? How's life in Monterrey?" Neglecting all other customers, she revealed that she has in fact fallen in love with a Mexican man. "He's got huge, Mexican chipmunk cheeks," she says delicately, "and a bit of a gut. But he's treats me so nice." She later reveals, amid scandalized gasps from the four of us, that she has a Spanish boyfriend. Her Mexican has a girlfriend as well. "I hope she's ugly" she said, pouting. In a final twist to the storyline, she revealed that he's leaving for Mexico at the end of the month. She fret over this for a moment, thinking that perhaps she'll run away with him. We almost forget that we had ordered food.

Guada ♥ Brian

Today I took the stifling bus into the city of Badajoz [population 120,000], a medium-size city on the outskirts of Spanish civilization. I met up with María and Claudia, two friends who will be staying with me in Madrid for a few days as part of their Summer Spanish Adventure. Guadalupe, a good friend from Syracuse, got married at approximately 9.00 pm today with only minor bumps, largely from the groom's inability to comprehend the entire ceremony. The wedding was Catholic, which I think added to the general confusion radiating from the American participants. Brian's mother was thrust into the front, seated next to Guadalupe as the Godmother of the Bride (or something like that), nodding vaguely when the priest glanced her way in the off chance that he was actually directing something at her. Brian did quite well, feigning total comprehension of everything. His vows were spoken in English and hers in Spanish. It was a beautiful ceremony.

Afterwards, around 10.00, we headed to the reception ceremony. In true Spanish fashion, we started eating at around midnight and didn't finish until about 2.00 am. Children scampered about, playing tag. The party descended into the depths of the hotel's discotheque, where Claudia, María and I held out until 4.00 am. We were among the first guests to leave. 10-year olds tirelessly waved goodbye as we made our way back to the hostal.

Ikea

As promised to myself before, and unbeknownst to her, a return trip to Ikea was high on my list of "Things to do Upon Arrival of Cathy." We blissfully walked around for two hours in the Swedish furniture store, yay-ing and nay-ing each other's purchases. Do we really need a giant porcupine-shaped footstool? Probably not. Most of our time in Ikea was spent deciphering Swedish slowly, like two historiographers charting maps in some lost civilization of home designers with impeccable taste. Now, if faced with exile or travels within Sweden, I can safely point out the nearest drawer. We returned from Ikea bustling with design ideas for our rooms and fresh color schemes to match.

Afterwards, we went grocery shopping. Cathy, apparently a nuclear physicist in her home country of Northern Ireland, figured out how to operate the oven this morning with only a few singed arm hairs. We ate frozen pizza today for lunch, smug in the joy of having dominated all electrical appliances in the house. We also briefly discussed the schedule for the rest of the summer: in June, we will leave for the southeast of Spain (Murcia), where we will be English professors in a Spanish summer camp. The ages of the children at the camp will be from 7-15, a bit of a scary prospect for me as I've gotten really used to the idea of teaching university-age students. Cathy talked of scaling mini-mountains and swimming in forgotten lakes in the countryside. I asked her if I could bring books instead.

Mmmmm, gazpacho

definitely one of those this will put hair on your chest drinks

True Confessions of a Spanish Television Junkie

I have intensely studied Spanish television for the past week and half, and I now present my detailed report and analysis of Spanish daytime television to the cybercommunity:

1. Yellow Journalism runs rampant. I'm talking six or seven TV shows all in the style of Hard Copy or Entertainment Tonight. The "reporters" on this show do nothing more than run after famous people and tell their secrets. It's disconcerting to watch, if not oddly mesmerizing.
2. There is nothing wrong with female nudity. Boobies are everywhere.
3. If it works in another country, maybe it'll work here, too. Two of the most watched shows in Spain are "The House of your dreams" (a scary reality show so like Big Brother that it should indeed be called Big Brother), and Fear Factor. This is not to say that the Spanish copies from us, as they had the television show Big Brother long before we did, but there does seem to be a liberal amount of idea swapping.
4. These folk like their news. Be it celebrity news, sports news, news about the country, or global news, a Spanish pastime is gathering around in a circle and screaming obscenities at each other for different points of view. Half the time while I'm watching these shows I'm vaguely wondering if some of the participants are going to come to blows. I've seen people kicked off news shows for being too violent. People being kicked off news shows. We're not talking the WWF. News shows.

Setting Up the House

After a few days of endless bore broken only by the books I have devoured feverishly, I decided to purchase a new television and DVD player. The television, after being miraculously heaved through the teeming masses to get to my very, very far-away apartment, refused to work. It could play DVDs, and it would allow me to play my videogames, but it stubbornly refused to give me any basic cable. We fought for a few days before I threw in the towel. I only recently went to the store where I purchased it and was informed that I have to program the TV. What is this madness?

But the TV is hardly my only robotic arch nemesis here. Yesterday the washing machine and I had a bitter duel. After a very long study of its front panel, with 30 buttons, dials, and knobs, I cracked the code and got it to turn on. Upon finishing, however, it locked my clean clothes inside and refused to let them go. I kicked and screamed. Worse still, I could see my clean clothes, my shirts pressed up against the glass like multicolored hostages. I turned the washing machine off and sat in defeated silence for a few minutes. Reluctantly, the machine made a CLICK and set the hostages free.

Now if I could only figure out the gas oven.

The Daily Grind

The heat slowly rises in the streets. I open my windows, regretting the addition of creaky elevator sounds and noisy sickly neighbors. The man one floor up opens his window and hacks all night loudly, coughing and spitting up. I want to call the hospital for him. Surely this is not healthy. Someone turns their television up loudly. The elevator crawls creakily up to the fifth floor and lazily finds its way back down. Who could need to ride the elevator at one in the morning? Why doesn't this man take some cough medicine?

So, one full week away from Cathy's arrival, I sit in my apartment and listen to these noises for lack of anything better to do. The day before, I sat at the table in my new apartment and planned the following week out with great care, so as not to have too much excitement in one day. What if I did everything in two days? What would I possibly do for the following six? No, like the true obsessive-compulsive that I pretend to be, I scribbled the days down and took great care to assign to them two Very Fun Activities per day. Some of these activities aren't really that fun, but anything that gets me out of the apartment is a good thing. I've read two books already and watched as much Spanish basic cable as I can stomach. These people have a fondness for news and talk shows that I can barely match.

I'm hoping that this week passes by quickly, and that Cathy gets here soon so I can finally have a breathing soul to talk to. My Spanish friends curl up into their exams and I busy myself with supermarket excursions. Once Cathy gets here, however, I'll probably miss these lazy days, each painstakingly planned by my overzealous head. Probably.