Last Day at School

Today was my last day of school. I think back to my last days of school in the States. As a kid, searching for that guy I´d had a crush  to ask him to sign my yearbook. Already smelling the sunblock and chlorine. Thinking about kickball in the street, sweet iced tea and no homework. As a teacher, no more Johnny in my class, who grated on my nerves all year. No more papers to grade. No more hopeless feelings that we´ll get paid more and the parents will understand. And now, my last day here in a Spanish school. There were some big differences this year. I had no more obligations to the school other than teaching the language portion of the class, and even those I never had complete control over. No cafeteria duty, parents to deal with, faculty meetings, car duty, papers to grade or curriculum to abide by. The children were much less disciplined and younger than I am used to at the middle school level. The principal spoke no English, so I had no communication with him. I only worked from 10 to 2 every day, and had several breaks in between where I could leave, get a coffee, or just walk around town. The language barrier caused some problems, as it was difficult if the teacher stepped out and the kids got rowdy. Other times, it made some students shine that otherwise wouldn´t. If anything, as far as teaching goes, this year has definitely sparked in interest in teaching the elementary grades, especially 4th or 5th. They are still excited to learn. They don´t give you hugs and stickers anymore, but they´re excited. You can reach them, which is one thing I struggled with while teaching middle school. I learned I love the English language, and language in general. I picked up a lot of Spanish along the way, but hearing a language and understanding it is a lot different than speaking it fluently and grammatically correct. I know now I will pursue Spanish further, in the university or possibly teaching ESL. I learned I definitely want to return to the university for a masters. And here, I felt like such a good teacher. So many of the activities I brought in they had never heard of or tried. They have limited access to technology, and work much out of the text and workbook. They´d never thrown a ball around to review. Played tic tac toe with vocabulary. Had the students stand up in the middle of class to reengage them. In some ways, America is much further ahead in education than Spain. When I left, the kids clung to my legs and my bilingual coordinator brought me into the office with another teacher and the jefe (boss). It was bittersweet saying goodbye. I probably will never see this school, these teachers, these students, again. But I hope I have sparked some interest in the English language for them, made them aware of a bigger world, opened the door to a new culture. You don´t have to live in Spain for a year to learn about another language or culture. But you do have to be aware that you´re not the only ones in this world, and learning, and being open, will help you understand more. About who you are, and who everyone else is, and how you´re all connected.

 1st Grade

2nd Crazy Grade

3rd Grade

4th Grade

6th Grade

A Day in the Campo

Only in Spain do you get invited to go out to the campo after school and go cherry picking. I accompanied a teacher friend out to her pueblo of Carcabuey, the next town down from Priego. It only has a few thousand people, and as you can imagine, my presence there was stuff for the daily papers. I joined her and her father at their family´s huerta, which is similar to a house but with no rooms. Many families in these pueblos have land in the campo (country) and they grow crops or group there for family gatherings. We picked cherries from one of her father´s fifteen trees. One in the bag, one in my mouth. And so it went. The cherries, large and dark like an old bottle of cabernet, were the best Í´d ever had.  She then took me on a small hike that resulted in a six hour excursion. We hiked up to the top of the town where we visited a church that housed their beloved saint, Maria de la Castillo.There were crutches, pictures, and notes tacked to the wall surrounding her: survival stories, because they´d believed. I lit a candle and made a prayer. On the walk down I noticed a small crevice where there were bundles of picked wildflowers. Children bring them every day, she said, because this is the place where one day long ago, Jesus appeared. We continued to the Carbario, which is like a walkway all the way around town. We passed thirteen crosses, where the families go to pray the Stations of the Cross and reflect during Semana Santa. We visited the one farmacia, a cafe where we sipped on cafes and ate little chocolate cakes, the one school, the births that belong to her family where they get fresh mountain water, and stopped for a visit at her family home. It reminded me of all the times I used to go romping around in the backyard of my old house in Meadow Hollow. How I used to pretend the big tree that had fallen during Hurricane Hugo way back in the woods was really the home of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan, and how I used to stuff a bag with a banana and a book and go there. An adventure, just waiting. Carcabuey is this, an adventure, just waiting. Having ridden through it only in the autobus, I thought it was no more than just a little sleepy pueblo, and often wondered why people would want to live there. If you take time to get to know a place, and the people there, you´ll see, every town has a little touch of Peter Pan. You have to give it a chance. And just go pick cherries.

Every End is a New Beginning.

It’s my last week here. Yesterday, I started packing my bags. Going through all the things I’ve acquired in a year. A ticket stub from the Louvre, tea cups from Morocco, the clothes “I just had to have” that I never wore. Feeling a million different ways at once.

I think:  This is the last time I will have to hang my laundry. Back to the world of dryers. This is the last time I will buy my apples from my favorite fruteria. Will she miss me?  This is the last time I will make the 20 minute walk to school. This is the last time I will venture out at 7pm and be greeted by the people of Priego with all their families out for the nightly paseo. This is the last time.

But wait. I still have so many things I want to do. I want to go to a bullfight. I want to cheer at a Barca futbol match. I want to see the terraces in Cordoba. I want to eat paella in Valencia. I want to learn flamenco. I want to drink Rioja in Madrid. I want to take a Spanish class. Time, it just moves along without you knowing and you wake up one day and realize, this is the end.

But is it? Maybe this is just the beginning for me.

Today, during an all too engaging lesson on the Stone Age, in walks two of my 5th grade students with a bouquet of flowers bigger than they were. I was so moved by this gesture. And, I happen to love flowers.

My 1st graders made me a beautiful book. “Te Quiero Medebeth” they wrote. I love you too, guys.

Break a Leg.

The scripts were written. George Washington’s wig firmly in place. The Statue of Liberty’s torch in hand. All 50 stars filled in on the flag.

I have been helping organize a series of 10 short skits on America. Today was Language Day. France, the United Kingdon, and the U.S.A. were represented. I don’t know that they pronounced all the words correctly, we had one giggling fit, and the White House lost her lines minutes before the production. But despite all the craziness, the kids really loved dressing up and getting to go out in front of their school. I got a huge kick out of it. And I’m not being biased here, but come on people. Of course the U.S.A. was the best. Check it out:

The First Thanksgiving

George Washington

The Statue of Liberty

The Eagle

Me & The Eiffel Tower

5th Grade

“Music is What Feelings Sound Like”

I adore Latin music. It’s all about love, and heat, and emotion. Like country, minus the heat part.  Los Rebuitos “Bonito Final”. Lo Nuestro “Fondo Flamenco”. Alejandro Sanz “Nuestro Amor Sera Leyenda”. Miguel Bose “Estuve a Pundo”. Much of the time I can’t understand the words. It’s hard enough trying to understand an Andalucian right in front of you let alone someone singing, with the words slurred and on top of that they’re so good looking it’s distracting. But it doesn’t matter, Latin music is more of a feeling. You just want to dance to it. And anyone who knows me knows I was cursed with the two left feet Hendery gene. If you say dance right, I usually dance left. But not the Spanish, no, they move to salsa, and merengue, and tango. They hear a single line from a song and their hips start moving in ways I didn’t know possible. I continue to pray that their talent will someday rub off on me.

I think about all the music I’ve used in the classroom this year. Songs are a great way to pique students’ interests I think, but they’re even better for students of another language. They’re catchy and fun and they get to see me being silly, which they all just seem to love. Some of the songs I’ve sung this year:

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes: an oldie but goodie. My first graders love it. Although on the second verse, it gets a little more complicated and most touch their nose when the song calls for mouth, but I pretend not to notice.

The Hokey Pokey- difficult for them to understand. Maybe because the Hokey Pokey isn’t even a real word?

Evaporation- I got to act like a raindrop.  Hurray.

Days of the Week, to the tune of the Adams Family- They put special emphasis on the ending, du-nuh-nuh clap clap.

The Month Song- made this one up. They always forgot June. Don’t they know it’s the most important month out there? Hint: B-day quickly approaching.

Turkey in my Tummy- complete with hand movements

Happy Birthday- the teachers sing this for every student’s birthday, then give them a kiss on the cheek

Es Navidad!

If this whole teaching thing doesn’t work out, I’d say I have a future in the music biz. Turkey in my Tummy, with a Latin twist. Watch out Taylor Swift.

Festival of the Pueblos

I visited 50 countries in one day.

I smelled sizzling barbecue  in Uruguay, was hypnotized by a belly dancer in Egypt, and watched a 5 piece band pull off an effortless number in between minute swigs of Pilsner in Germany.  All in one day.

La Feria de los Pueblos is a festival held in Fuenigorla, Malaga every year. It lasts for about a week and draws the local crowd just as much as the visitors, so you get a mix of high heel  fast talking and faster drinking Spaniards right along with the camera toting choco wearing tourists. Makes for an interesting crowd.

It seems like every weekend, since spring arrived, there is a feria somewhere in Andalucia. The Spanish truly love getting out in the sun, enjoying a good drink, and socializing. There was the festival of the porches in Cordoba, where each home competes for the best decorated terrace. And there’s the huge feria in Sevilla every April where families put up tents and share food and watch flamenco and listen to Spanish guitar. I just visited my friend Sarah in Adra, Almeria where they had a feria of the goats and hundreds of goats were rushed through the town. Later, drinking commenced. And in Priego we just had our own Medieval festival with food, birds on display, and arts and crafts to purchase.

La Feria de los Pueblos outmatched all the others for me, though, because it represents life outside of Spain. The festival is home to 50 other countries, all who have their own caseta- like a small house almost- with pictures and artifacts, food, dancing, and music. The sun had no mercy, so I took it upon myself to try a homemade Mojito. That cooled things down a bit. I watched beautifully dressed young girls, no more than 8 years old, in Mexican traditional dresses posing like little models. Entire pigs strung up between wooden pulls over a fire pit in Argentina. Gold cups, mint tea and little cakes in Morocco. Pharoahs and even a chance to win a trip in Egypt. (I didn’t win). Witnessed the average American donning an I love Guiness hat and making a fool of himself in Ireland.

Amidst all these countries, here we were, half a million people halfway across the world, sharing in good food, music, dance and celebration. Nothing like a good mojito to take down the blinders and make you realize, hey. We’re not so different after all.

El Menu del Dia

In the window of every bar in Priego, you’ll see a proudly posted sign: “Caracoles Aqui!!” Could it be a new pastry? Maybe a new drink? A quick minute to the Spanish dictionary. Oh no. These Priegoans are excited about snails. My roommate got invited to dine on the slippery little guys. She learned that there are people whose job is to actually go out “panning” for snails. Brush the dirt off and sprinkle the salt on. Always the salt…

The Spanish love their salt. Among other popular foods here:

tapas- the tradition of ordering several small plates and sharing them- one of my favorite parts of the Spanish culture

cafe con leche- basically an espresso with milk- this is my favorite drink in the morning

tortilla espanola- a quiche-like pie of egg, potato, onion, and lots of oil. Most Spaniards here actually save the excess oil after cooking, pour it back into the bottle and use it again. I mean I’m all for recycling.

pinchos- a mixture of nuts and sunflower seeds

gazpacho- a cold tomato based soup, but I like salmorejo even more- like gazpacho but thicker. It’s best in Cordoba, or on the beach in Estepona.

olives- being surrounded by olive trees as far as the eye can see, I can understand how this became a staple favorite. Many of my students’ parents pick olives and cherries and bottle them for work.

empananas- little pouches of bread stuffed with vegetables, chicken, or sometimes they’re sweet with candied fruit and sugar

tostada- my favorite breakfast- thick toasted french bread with a spread of tomate paste, olive oil, and salt. You will find this in every Spanish bar, cafe, or restaurant you visit.

corquettas- fried balls. If they sound bad, that’s cause they are.

bocadillos- the Spanish sandwich. Every day at 11:30 mystudents have recreo and they all pull out their little aluminum wrapped sandwich, usually filled with ham or tuna. They don’t eat “real” lunch until 2 or 230.

churros- fried bread that you ever so slightly dip in a taza of hot milky chocolate, making sure to fill every crevice with the dark gooey greatness

dulce de leche- a caramelish topping added to crepes or sometimes icecream and other desserts

nutella- their version of peanut butter. But if you ask me, you can’t put a questionable chocolate flavored cream in a jar and call it peanut butter. Where’s the justice?

vino, always vino, and beers like Cruzcampo or my favorite,  Alhambra of which you can find the men in the bus station drinking along with shots at the ripe hour of 9am

JAMON

At a dinner party the other day my friend was offered cow’s tongue discretely housing egg and ham. Always finding a way to add that ham.

paella- a dish that origniated in Valencia. It’s rice, saffron, veggies, and usually shrimp or meat.

I miss Mexican food at Mi Pueblo along with a Dos Equis  that comes out piping hot before you’ve even made a dent in the chip bowl. Crunchy peanut butter. Black bean burgers. Blueberries. Pancakes with bananas and real syrup. Mini bag popcorn. English muffins. Cottage cheese. Black beans. Macaroni and cheese, the kind my mom used to make with the bread crumbs on top.

It’s true that living in a pueblo I have limited access to food. You can find so many different things in the larger cities like Granada and Malaga.  And they certainly don’t cater to vegetarians. But since being here I have learned to cook more, and to be a little more creative. This isn’t to say I’m not looking forward to having an oven again. I can smell the chocolate chip cookies now.

And the tradition the Spaniards have of sitting for hours over food and drink is one I love, because it reminds me of dinner with my own family. Mom yelling up the stairs. Smells wafting up. Talking over each other. Dad telling a story that I come just short of believing.  And they don’t do coffee to go. You will get a strange look if you ask for it “para llevar”.   If you can’t sit to chat, you don’t stop for coffee. I like that.

Time for the small things. Food, and talk, and family. Which, when you really think about it, are the biggest things of all.

Under the Spanish Sun

It’s got windsurfing. 

Hiking trails that stop off at a point where if you look down, you see the whole of the city. And there it is. The Plaza de Toros- my first bullfight. We listen to the crowd jeering. I try to understand the dance.

There’s English, if you want it.

Fresh fish cooking on makeshift boat grills.

A great Italian restaurant hidden in the hills that serves the best chilled wine and has a house singer who will sing the song from Grease right alongside Spanish ballads. We sing like we’re the only ones in the room.

An international festival, where as you stroll past all the market booths, you start to feel a stir in the air. Then you smell it. Empanadas and sizzling churizo sausage and sweet dulce leche. We stop and drink Moroccan tea from little gold cups.

It’s a woman singing opera in the middle of Plaza de Constitution.

A boardwalk that stretches down the beach streaming with little cafes, sunbathers and runners.

Shopping.

It’s a halfway between the Costa del Sol and all its many tourists while still maintaining its authenticity.

If nothing else, it’s a day at the beach under the Spanish sun.

Malaga.

Nerja, Costa del Sol

This little town was described as “a perennial favorite for those who want an alternative to the brash Costal del Sol.” I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was traveling solo this time, so maybe this “little town” was just what I needed.

I had a few days free to travel, so I rode first to Granada, then transferred to another bus in the direction of the town of Nerja. The bus took me up through winding mountains dotted with wildflowers and alongside tiny little white washed beach towns. They call them white washed towns because all the homes and buildings are white up atop the hills.

The bus dropped me off at more of a stop than a station. After walking the wrong way for 15 minutes, my backpack and bad- idea- to- bring- bag- of- fruit getting heavier by the minute, I stopped for directions at a churro place. Something about churros, they just welcome you in. The kind man steered me in the opposite direction to my hostel. Why is it that for me, what I see on the map is actually a direct opposite of where I should be going? I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to righfully interpret a map. Just part of who I am I guess. Thank god for people in my life like my Indian chief sister Molly who doesn’t even need a silly piece of paper to guide her in her travels- she was born with an inner compass. Right there imbedded in her brain.

My hostel actually turned out to be more of a bed and breakfast than a hostel. It only housed 9 rooms, and was comfortable and airy. I befriended the cleaning woman, Christina. These people are key to survival in a foreign country- they know all the best local spots. (She also didn’t tell the manager when I later lost my keys- see- it pays to be “in”).

I spent the days walking to the beach, renting out a chair and reading. I made my way through Life of Pi and am almost done with Sapphires and Garlic.  You don’t realize how beautiful a book is until you can’t find them in your own language. I walked the windy streets and found a great place to get hot tea, and a not so great place for Mexican (no one does it better than in the States). I looked out over the Balcon de Europa and watched the fisherman drag their boats in with the day’s catch and haul it into the local restaurants. There was a guy trying to make it rich by making huge bubbles with a rope. An accordian player playing sad music along the shore line. Women walking freely with no bathing suit tops. (I have yet to do this, but it’s very common here). The sound of British English filtering through the Bon Iver and the Dave Matthews in my ears, as many tourists from England vacation here. The rows of icecream and bracelets and cafes to entice the traveler.

There are also underground caves to explore, dating back over 5 million years old, although I was a little disappointed to see they were complete with signs and steps and even a picture they take of you upon entry. Not really much to “explore”. I hate that, when a beautiful part of nature is taken over and made to be all organized. Why can’t it remain, like it was, left to be discovered on its own?

My days in Nerja were quiet. No crazy stories to tell. Not even much of a sun burn to complain about.

Just back to the basics.

Semana Santa

I had spent the whole week talking up Easter bunnies and egg hunts. I hard boiled 40 eggs and scavenged the Internet for recipes on how to make homemade dye and hid chocolate eggs in the classrooms.

I didn’t know it then. Not till later.

Every town in Spain celebrates Holy Week a little differently. In Malaga, the city pardons a single prisoner from the local jail every year to signify the act of forgiveness. A neighboring pueblo puts on a fair. In my town, Priegoans make hornazos, a bread shaped like a hen with an egg inside, which they hold up as the crucifixion is being carried into the town center. There are processions every night beginning as early as Palm Sunday.

Men and women clad in robes and pointy hats process through the main streets of the city. These robes resemble those of the Ku Klux Klan, and can be really odd (ok, creepy) to see at first.  

Some wear chains tied to their feet that scrrraaaapppee as they shuffle past. There are drums. Pulsing, a steady rhythm, and I feel the vibration as they walk past. Incense pricks my nose.

Then there are the statues. Men called Nazarenos carry immense pasos on their shoulders. The pasos are adorned with statues of saints. I see heavy gold and bright flowers and white candles. Wax decorates the street. The statues are lifelike and hundreds of years old and cared for by the Nazarenos, who can best be described as a brotherhood. They walk a steady pace, left right, left right, left right. At some point it looks like a paso is going to fall. I hold my breath. When they get back on track the crowd applauds. I can see the sweat in their eyes through the tiny hole slits. They only stop when they hear the chime of the bell.

At one point, during a silent procession, I hear a woman singing. It’s a saeta. They used to be spontaneous outburts of song from women on balconies, but nowadays they are usually planned. The Nazarenos pause for the remainder of the song, and for the first time since being here, I know it doesn’t matter that I can’t understand the words.

The crowd stands on the sidewalks. Grannies and stockinged mothers and little kids on their father’s shoulders as they explain, “Eso es oro, esta es Jesus…” and the kids listen, sucking on sunflower seeds with their big eyes and wandering.

Come as you please. Some leave and get a drink or a bite to eat. Some follow the procession as they move down the street. At one point, a bystander yells out, “Viva la Santo de Priego!” and the whole crowd in unison responds, “Viva!”

People return from wherever they have been and stop wherever they are going for Semana Santa. For Spain, this is a holiday still about religion. It’s tradition and family and forgiveness.  You feel like you’re part of something bigger, like you’re watching a real life play, and you get to participate simply by watching.

What I didn’t know, before coming here, is that I was missing out. I had gone to this play every year, but I hadn’t really followed the story. It’s like I’d fallen asleep in the middle and only woke up for the standing ovation.

America has a tendency to get carried away, myself included, and sometimes not for the better. We get so lost under wrapping paper and big floppy bonnets and BBQ that we forget why a holiday even exists. I love how Spain puts the serious back. How they don’t forget. How they don’t just go to church on Sunday and pack up their Sunday Best until next year. Yes, their churches are outdated and need a little modernizing. No, most don’t go to church every Sunday, or any Sunday for that matter. Yes, they drink and smoke and sometimes cut work to be in the sun.

But. When it comes to this, they just get it. Viva.