 | I pick at my itchy scabs. Sniffle. Cough. The last few days of camp, although undoubtedly much more enjoyable than the first two week period, were a bit rough as I was inflicted with a strain of Spanish Ebola which was transmitted through the sweaty kids and ridiculously large insects that swarmed the mountains. It was with a twinge of regret that I said goodbye to the sobbing children (I giggled at the dramatics) and boarded the bus to go home. My entire head was a throbbing mass, my bruised and scabbed arm still stiff, my spider-bitten legs only now returning to normal size. I put my head between my legs as the bus zipped happily around the steep, narrow mountain roads. To my left and right children and camp counselors alike threw up. iPedro was busy singing me into a Zen state where none of these physical ailments existed. The Dramamine that I had taken threw its arms up in exasperation. |
Thus I returned to Madrid after a month-long technology exile. During my month I slept a lot, taught a lot, and hated and loved an equal number of children and monitors. Camp was highly enjoyable once we got into the swing of things, though the old hills of Madrid surely were a welcome sight. As we came in view of the city, I happily smiled, mainly because my hacker friend Tyler gave me a program that, upon arrival in Madrid, located and provided me with internet signal within my apartment. The only trick is that Cathy and I have to precariously hang my computer out the window to receive said signal. My heart skips beats. Circus folk don't live with this kind of tension.
Tomorrow begins our month-long teaching course, promised to be both difficult and ridiculously intense. We pack our lunches and go back to school shopping for glue, scissors, paper, and other child-related accoutrements. We prepare out first day's homework and discuss the answers. I cheat and look in the back of the book.
