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.