Everybody Else Is Doing It!

Having joined the craze a few months back, I still find myself amazed that I only have 13 friendsters in the universe -- although my third degree friends total at some ridiculously high number soaring through the thousands. I want more! Pout pout [stick out bottom lip and frown].

Down Souf

The prop plane buzzes angrily and knocks its way through the thin clouds. Sometimes it drops a few feet, but it steadily climbs. The man next to me is bothersome. I wipe my face, sweaty and sick with Amurrikan germs that my Spanish body had lived without for four months. A bit of an oddysey, a little journey back home. When the plane lands, my parents are waiting there, right where I left them. Valdosta.

Amurrika

My friend Sarah and I, in imitation of George W. Bush, have decided to refer to our native country as Amurrika. We wake up early and visit the Amurrikan Embassy to register to vote absentee for the November Elections. I teach English. After so much talking about it, you would think that a return to the States wouldn't be a big deal at all. I forgot that it had been four months since I was here, and four months is a considerable amount of time. I hold the dollar bills with disbelief, amazed at how long the money seems to me. The coins feel thin and fragile in my hand. Who is Ashlee Simpson? I hang awkwardly in the balance between Spain and America, not quite belonging to either one right now; a cultural mishmash. Being home doesn't quite feel like home as it did, but not necessarily in a negative way. Everything seems new and different. I visit Wal-Mart and local tex-mex restaurants. I eat pizza and watch MTV. American Life 101.

Culture Shock

this is what i come home to?

Passing Customs

I always cringe a little inside when I pass through customs, wary that they'll check my passport a little too closely or decide to root through my luggage, sniffing out contraband like badgers. Not that I have contraband, and not that there is anything too tricky about my passport, but the fear is that I'll be caught breaking a mini-law that I had no idea of breaking. Is this Snickers bar food? Do I declare it on my customs form? What does this section over "goods acquired while abroad" truly mean? Can I leave it blank because I don't feel like filling it out?

Two Paupers in a Pod

Cathy and I have slowly yet oh-so surely come to the conclusion that neither one of us have money. We are considering the various options at hand: Cathy, being a legal EU citizen, toys with getting a job at Burger King or McDonalds. Being illegal for the time being, my only options are drug dealer or prostitute, forcing me down a further path of illegality. One shining ray of hope emerges in this dark and penniless times, however: we stumble across a ridiculously cheap supermarket and are able to continue eating. We swim in seas of 30 cent pasta, 60 cent loaves of bread and 40 cent bags of chips, hoping to stay afloat till our jobs kick in.

Reaching That Decision

I almost didn't want to call because I was so nervous. I sent an email early that morning and waited all afternoon to hear back from Catja. I finally picked up the phone and dialled the numbers. I said yes to an extra year in Spain, yes to working for them, yes to the weirdness that will accompany such a long stay in my adopted country. An important decision. As I hung up the phone, I wavered between worrying that I had made a fatal mistake and laughing at the excitement of it all. My stomach turned itself over in knots of nervousness and happiness, unable to decide which was more appropriate.

Big Decisions

The woman in front of me, Catja from American Language Academy, gives me three options. In one of those options, I'm set on my heels with no job from them. In another, I'm allowed to work illegally, although from the grimace she produces, that's not a pleasant thought for anyone. The last one is the most surprising: she offers me a work visa. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. Where's the catch? The inevitable catch is, indeed, a big one. After months of paperwork, I'll be allowed to start work in January, which means that it would be pointless (among other things) for me to return to the States in June when I've only been working for about 4 months. If I accept this visa, it means an extra year in Spain. This is an amazing offer, and parts of me are jumping for joy at the thought of a legal, extended stay in Spain. Isn't this what I've wanted for so many years? Other parts of me are scared. This decision means a big change of short-term plans and postponing Doctoral studies. How much do I want to be here as opposed to there? Catja laughs softly, realizing that it is a huge decision for me. She gives me the weekend to think it over.

Forgive Me!

So I don't know who actually reads this and how often, but I realize I've been a bit slack about keeping this updated. All of that is going to change, I say determinedly, and cross my fingers. In the meantime, I sleep in, play Legend of Zelda and read science fiction-fantasy books in an effort to conserve money. I can't spend it if I don't leave my house. My room is beginning to look like I'm holding hostages.

Working Hard or Hardly Working?

I stopped setting my alarm clock days ago. After one or two days of studious job-searching, I threw myself onto my bed and sighed heartily. I turned over and stared up at the ceiling, coming to terms with a very solid fact: I am used to getting what I want. I hate looking for jobs, I hate not having things go according to my plans. This is a minor character flaw of mine, perhaps, but maybe it's helped to push me to strive for better and bigger things. At this moment, stuck in the double bed and not moving anytime soon, I want things to be a lot easier than they are. Where are the work visas that were supposed to rain from the sky upon completion of my CELTA course? Cathy fares a thousand times better, being a British citizen and a snazzy teacher. The second day of her search she lands an interview at a prestigious academy, three days later she's hired by another prestigious academy, our very own International House. Our mole, our delightful CELTA professor Neil, told her to turn in her CV and he'd sprinkle fairy dust on everyone to get her way. Poof! She's hired! No amount of fairy dust can give me access to that, though: although from top to bottom International House sings my praises, no one is willing to hire a work paper-less American. I turn over on the bed and decide to go looking for more jobs tomorrow. Or the next day.