The Best Night Ever

There's something nice about teaching the Intensive classes, which meet every day for an hour and a half over the course of a month. I have three students who have been with me on this system since October, a full five months of my peculiar Southern blend of English. One of the troopers who has stuck with me is Nacho. Since Nacho is becoming a policeman, and fighting for the cause of justice requires taking some weird Police Academy courses, he's moving to a less intensive class on different days. After a full day of studying clichés in English (It takes all sorts / No pain no gain / You can say that again!), we went out on Friday as a sort of goodbye for him.

What followed was intense fun packaged into three hours. At the students' request, we spoke Spanish, and I got to show off my wine-drinking abilities to all. On my second glass of red I forgot I was American and my tongue was loosed from all performance anxiety. I busted out my subjunctive, some imperfect, and when things got really crazy, the past subjunctive followed by the conditional. Step back! My accent was a bit heavy with Catalan, which the students picked up on and ribbed me for. I flubbed my lines a few times, but I was unstoppable. The students who had never heard me speak Spanish before were impressed.

We headed over to Alfredo's Barbacoa, a "North American style" restaurant and had hamburgers. Over dinner, we continued to speak Spanish and enjoy ourselves, making a four-course meal out of the "traditional" North American cuisine placed before us (think cheesecake, french fries, corn on the cob). Towards the end of the meal I noticed this young boy, about 10 years old, with a pierced eyebrow and bottom lip sitting at the table next to us. Showing my small-town roots, I was immediately scandalized and began to whisper about him to everyone at the table. They were less fazed by such BigCity-ness, and one of the students leans in and says in English, "Dean, it takes all sorts." We laughed the rest of the night.

The Ugly Side Of Southern Pride

Now, I like my deep-fried South as much as the next Southern boy, but I don't think I've ever ruminated so deeply on the "sweet smelling savour" of the cotton fields or the "Christian Southern Gentlemen" and their "Ladies Fair." In my South, these ladies fair skipped school with their christian gents to hang out at the Expo, an agricultural fair and the source of considerable hullabaloo, and were introduced to Strawberry-Flavored Chewing Tabacco. Because obviously, them ladies fair gotta have something to spit.

It just seems a bit hyperbolic to prattle on so about the mythical South. Yeah, the culture is different and I'm all about those wonderful differences, but I haven't sipped a mint julep on the veranda with my Ma and Pa, wearing my Sunday finest and waiting for our boys to get back from the War, in ages. Y'all.

The Quote that started the rant (from an anonymous website).

"When I consider Southern Poetry, the soft breeze of grace and majesty of the Old South comes back, like a long ago paradise of flowers, cotton fields, hanging trees and song birds, a sweet smelling savour. Christian Southern Gentlemen and their Ladies Fair, their majestic columned plantation homes; happy children playing before them. But I am reminded also of Confederate Warriors suited for battle, in long grey lines, defending our Southern homeland. Southern Poetry allows me to relive as it were, our history, heritage and culture, like a weary warrior returning for a respite from the ravages of war, but for a moment, return to the splender, grace and the nobility, a collective memory buried deep within the heart of the South."

Dreaming My Dreams

Lately my dreams have taken on a sort of apocalyptic bend, most likely fueled by late-night potato chip and chocolate binges. Right before bed. In the latest installment, I had magic powers (recurring theme) and was charged with the task of vanquishing zombies. They had found their way into my home and I was forced to attack them with bolts of lightning shot from my hands. They began to overpower me, so I figured out how to stop time. By doing this, I could calmly walk up to each individual zombie and rip its heart out. Of course, now that I had frozen everyone I couldn't tell who was a zombie and who was not. Subsequently, I maimed a ton of innocent bystanders.

I know what you're thinking, and I promise I will NEVER eat a whole bar of chocolate 10 seconds before bedtime again.

But sometimes my dreams include people I know, most frequently those that I haven't talked to in a long time. When I wake up from these dreams, I immediately think of ways that I can contact this person. Are they in trouble? Has this been a psychic call from across the seas? Normally I answer these questions by rolling over and vowing to not eat any more of those weird ham-flavored potato chips. Nevertheless, if you get a random email from me in the next few days where I describe one of these dreams that you had the misfortune of participating in, just humor me and go with the madness.

Snow Day

I woke up yesterday morning to a blanket of snow covering all the skyscrapers and sleepy madrileños [people from Madrid]. As this was a semi-rare occurrence, no one knew what to do. Old ladies wore galoshes and trundled by me under cover of gigantic umbrellas. I found myself phone-photographing everything with amazed eyes. Why didn't two years at Syracuse harden me to this?

Today's headline in the paper, subtitled for your enjoyment:

madrid freaks out at snow, and it ain't over yet

Upper-Intermediate English, 6:00-7:30

In response to the question, "So what exactly is a sensible breakfast?"
Carolina, to my right. No hestitation. "Jews."

God's chosen people, now a part of your balanced diet.

Thinking Of Home

Main Entry: home 1 one's place of residence 2 the social unit formed by a family living together 3 a familiar or usual setting: congenial environment: the focus of one's domestic attention: home is where the heart is 4 a place of origin: one's own country

A bit clichéd to pull from the dictionary to organize my thoughts, but writing a blog is a far cry from writing my Master's thesis (God bless its 85 pages of pain). I've been thinking about home today, and the meaning of being home. It's such a versatile little world, and capable of stirring up such intense meaning. Webster's Online Dictionary busted out with 42 entries for it, varying in depth. My favorite of those listed above is the robotic "Focus of one's domestic attention." It sounds so C3P0.

As usual, I digress. The end result of my thinking is the following stray thought: is it wrong that I use the same word for Valdosta, my apartment in Madrid, my family's house, the structure of the building where I reside, and anywhere with my significant other? Shouldn't there be some kind of marker to spell out what's more or less important? Should we say "residence" and reserve "home" for more emotional meanings? And why does "domicile" and "habitat" sound so National Geographic?

Pestering ideas, but relevant. For so long, Madrid was tied up to this knot of hope in my heart, with the idea that one day I would be back in the place where I had felt the happiest in my young life. So by what complex chain of emotions has Madrid stopped feeling like my home and become a different thing? How can a place suddenly drop off the radar of emotions?

So many silly rhetorical questions that I suppose one more can't possible hurt. Is home a destination? Because at times home feels like a place I'm drifting towards slowly, a place to lie down and rest; other times it's what I've left as I set out on some journey, leaving behind what I'm not sure I'll ever see again.

Simpsons: There's Something About Marrying

Patty: I'm, I'm gay. You're not disappointed, are you?
Marge: Oh no, no no, no I'm just um, surprised!
Homer: Yeah, big surprise. Hey Marge, Here's another bomb. I like beer! AHAHAHAHA!

I know you were all holding your breath.

Things That Make It Worthwhile

Baguettes, when they're warm and so crunchy that you're afraid that the roof of your mouth is going to start bleeding.

Sunday mornings, knowing that you have a whole day of nothing to do.

iPedro.

Having a conversation with good friend Alberto or some other Spaniard and actually proving that I can be intelligent, well-read, even funny in a language that is not my own.

Caller ID and knowledge of the telephone number at work.

The notes that Travis left me around my house, hidden in the weirdest places.

Dehydrated strawberries.

A Note For My Bosses, Whom I Hope Will Never Read This

Stop calling my cellphone. I refuse to answer because I know it's you and because I know that you, Sneaky Sallies all, will ask me to perform an unpaid substitution. You have tricked me once, and my guard is up and I'm on to your Tricky Trick ways. You're not going to leave a voicemail because you are aware that if I knew the reason you were calling, I would definitely not call you back. You want me to think this is an emergency, that one of my classes has been happily cancelled.

I will be fooled no longer!

An English Teacher

The Reviews are in, and they're mixed. Even though I had already scratched out every single student's face from the yearbook of my mind and despite the fact that I barely find the will to drag myself to work every Monday and Wednesday, my 8:00AM class seems determined to right these wrongs. More writing? More grammar? Make the class more difficult? For some reason I don't think that this is what Chita Rivera was singing about with such gusto and longing. All I know is that these ladies better buckle down on Monday and get ready for some serious GRIZAMMAR, gangsta style. Past Perfect. Non-identifying relative clauses. Boo-yah.

Cue The Violins, iPedro

Dropping Travis off at the airport, watching him go through the metal detector about fifty times before he is finally forced to strip himself of his belt, his shoes, and the assorted paraphernalia he is unwisely carrying through the gates. Bad is watching someone drift away from you and powerless to cross into the protected area without a boarding card. Worse is watching this person drift away, drift back into sight, drift away, and drift again into your vision minus his shoes before he finally gets lost in the multitude of people traveling away from you.

The V-Day Post

I've been thinking about Valentine's Day and all of those that are near us, or not as near as we would like. I've always loved Valentine's Day because it was something that we celebrated as a family; my father bringing home stuffed animals and mountains of chocolate, fostering addictions to food and attention that none of us would ever grow out of. Right now Travis is watching Will & Grace while I prepare this post; in a few moments we'll be headed to the park to take photos and wander around. The sun is shining outside and every once in a while a breeze floats in. Here's hoping that your day is just as warm, and that you feel as loved as that. Happy Valentine's Day.

More from the Village Voice love letters.

Dear Ben,
I miss you so much and I think about living with you all the time—lately it's been the idea of sharing a bed, the idea that no matter how busy our days are, we'll get to sleep next to each other every night. I got used to it when we lived in San Francisco, but now I think about waking up in the middle of the night beside your body, snuggling up to you after a bad dream or resting just a fingertip on your shoulder when it was hot.

Maybe some days we'll set the alarm early and snuggle half-awake, maybe some nights we'll stay up late to make love in the dark. Other times we'll sleep like we're dead, but our bodies will know we're near each other and sleep the better for it. Going to bed is when I miss you most, when it's easiest to pretend you're there—close my eyes and feel your chest pressing against my back and your arm wrapping around me. When we first started sleeping together you used to push down on my head with your chin, our knees and elbows were always in the wrong place, I never felt comfortable relaxing the weight of my head into your arm. But now we fit together like puzzle pieces, and that's one thing we've never forgotten. However mad or unhappy we are, we can always share a bed, whether it be above the kitchen in a rickety college house, two mattresses on the floor of your dorm room, the tiny bed that seemed all springs at the little inn where we arrived at 10 to be the only guests, facing away from each other in sleeping bags on your friend's roommate's bed in L.A. . . . . There's nothing like sleeping next to you.

Love, Helen

Familiarity

Is it bad that I've been sitting on the couch with Travis for three days now, watching reruns of Will & Grace? I've tried my best to show him the sights (we walked by the Prado and everything) but I find that the most comfortable, comforting thing is to curl up on the couch and watch something we've always watched together. Why is the familiar so achingly wonderful? But don't get the wrong impression, as we actually have done quite a bit of walking and seeing palaces, city squares, parks, and mountains. We've also done a lot in the way of eating during his visit, which is something I'm quite proud of; my stomach virus had taken away my hunger and my will to live, but miracles have happened and I'm eating everything but doorknobs again. I must be stopped.

A Rainbow of Hope

Of course it was raining as I stood in line, though by pressing hard against the wall I could avoid the shower and maintain my place from scary Latin Line-Cutters. Of course it was cold, but I had thoughtfully worn my Big Puffy Jacket and had my iPod cranked up to avoid talking to the jabbering lady behind me in line. I held my passport and various papers that will make me legal and waited for the policemen to allow us passage into the haven of the station. A continuing stream of immigrants walked by me and found their prospective places in line, each holding their shiny, colored passports. We were a multi-colored line of people far away from their homes, facing the police station and wondering what happens next.

Terrorism Rearing Its Squinty-Eyed Head

I'm okay. Some of my co-workers teach right there, but had left the building 30 minutes before. ETA mindlessly continues to destroy its chances of achieving political separation from Spain. Do they really think this will make the Spanish federal government give them autonomy?

Powerful car bomb explodes in Madrid

What Doesn't Kill Makes You Stronger

Things have been a little quiet on my end, as I spent the majority of this weekend curled up into a ball wondering where I had caught this wild new strain of the Ebola virus. I've been cold and shivering, had a headache, the sniffles and wicked stomach cramps. After two consecutive days of Olympic-class sleeping, I finally seem to have passed the worst part of the virus (in more ways than one) and am now sipping on chamomile tea, courtesy of friend Peter from Catalan class. My stomach still periodically holds a revolt and sends me scurrying to the bathroom. But enough of that talk.

In work news, I have been given an EXTRA CLASS (capitalization equals indignation) for the next two weeks. This infuriates me, because I thought that my schedule problems were over and that we had ushered in a newer, happier time in Spain; I'm also upset because this directly takes time away from what I can spend with Travis, who is flying in for a short weekend. And Valentine's Day! What a catch.

And even in my sickness I had been stomping around being indignant about this extra class silliness, but I'm currently trying a new Zen approach to this and accepting these two weeks as some kind of karmic balance for all the negative things I've said about the company. By the way, I've read about a ton of people who write blogs who say stupid stuff about their bosses and their places of employment, and are subsequently FIRED. I will never mention again either the name of the company or anyone there.

But if they try to give me one more class, the gloves are coming off.

Love Letters from the Village Voice

Valentine's Day is coming up, and the Village Voice has presented us a very sweet valentine in the form of love letters written by random readers. I've taken the liberty of pulling one of the more remarkable excerpts.

dear you:
(you should read this letter alone, sitting down, with a glass of water.) (you should read this when nobody is home, sitting on your bed, in a bedroom I've never been in, but have just glimpsed, with your drawings on the walls.) (dear you, you should read this with me next to you on the bed in your bedroom, you should read this with me just barely touching you, with all of our winter clothes still on, sweater to sweater—my orange one to your blue. dear you. I hope you will read this with me beside you, my tension contained and diffused through my body, so that I take off my sweater to prove an unconscious point to you, look up at you, as I have before, for a signal from your hand. dear. it is my great wish that you will read this as I try to cross my legs for you, and you, still reading, steady my thigh with your hand, hold it as if I'd made you a present of it. I hope you will read this letter. turning towards me. you should read it just before your glasses are off. you should read it just before. you should read it just before i am trying to make as much skin touch you as i can, because i want and need you finally, yes. you should read this right before every time i've ever looked at you and loved you and not said it, and held it in and bit my lip, gets concentrated in these hips of mine, who are dying to say it:) now, now, now, now, now, now and i do, yes, love you. —a.e.b.s.

Juan Por Dios Dos

I got my haircut at way-too-trendy-for-you-so-don't-even-think-about-it Juan Por Dios! again this morning. My attempts to shmooze with the locals are endless.

I skipped Catalan class (the shame!) yesterday in order to get more of my papers in order. I didn't realize the amount of hassle and shiny circus hoops I would be forced to jump through when I signed on for a Spanish visa. This most recent bit of silliness has forced me to register as a resident of Spain, which Cathy and I complied with. After about 5 minutes of sheer panic, as we realized that we had inadvertently written down the wrong apartment letter, we were bequeathed the title of Residents in an apartment we do not reside in. Meanwhile I'm just waiting for the government to track me down, read this blog, and send out a squadron of Immigrant Police. Next Monday is my official date for the Second-To-Last Thing I Have To Do For My Visa, which is have a meeting and request a foreigner's card. This meeting has prompted the haircut; there's more chance for southern charm to do its magic (and Spaniards are susceptible, in case you are wondering) if it doesn't look like a pomeranian is squatting on my head.

House Decorating

Hope the newish layout is pleasant. I promised myself I would leave the color scheme alone for at least a few months, but I can't help but adding a little touches that make the place more home-y (isn't he a clown?). I've also almost finished transferring all the old content and putting the old website to sleep. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.