My Spain experience couldn't be complete without an overwhelming display of Spanish patriotism, and since facism is thankfully a thing of the past, the World Cup provided a perfect opportunity to display the red and gold. Each stage of the tournament that Spain miraculously passed was greeted with progressively larger parties and growing excitement. Block parties, cars blaring their horns, the reaction was unreal. And that was before the final, and really, there are no words. I know this is a blog, and writing (i.e. WORDS) are key, but...there's no way to explain. Luckily for me, although my memory of the World Cup win has no transcript, I do have several blurry photographs and also a movie! Way to go, past Abi. I’m not calling it ground-breaking journalism, but I will say that I did an ok job of documenting a singular moment in my life (yes, it WAS that big) and in the history of Spain (because we all know…never gonna happen again). The pictures and video are from the bar where we anxiously watched the game, and there are several from Cibeles, a central plaza where there were big screen TVs set up. The sheer quantity of people was incredible, and while I thought that was a one-time deal, it was only amplified the next day, when the Spanish team rolled through in a make-shift parade. I saw that from my living room and the television because the government begged people to stay home after a certain hour. There was no room for people. It was like a giant amoeba with a hundred thousand heads. Or maybe...a giant prophetic octopus with a hundred thousand little sucker things? No, because everybody knows that prophetic octopus don't exist (Cue X-Files music).
To say that you're unemployed, you say you're between jobs. When you graduate college, you're between school and work. Sometimes, you're just between. I realize that to use the word "between," to make grammatical sense, you need to have two nouns. However, I have decided that grammar is overrated, because I just feel between. Am I between jobs? Maybe. Between school and a job? I guess. Between places? Countries? Continents? Languages? All of those things could be true. So, instead of trying to explain my situation, I'm just going to say that I'm between. I'm not sure where I'm going, or what I'll be doing, but it'll be a change. Between describes my state perfectly, and quite honestly, it sounds better than lost, confused, or even dazed. Transitioning just sounds silly. So I'm sticking with between. Abi, what are you doing? What are your plans? I'm between. Between what? Everything. Clear, concise, and perfect.
It's happening in South Africa, the world's best athletes are there right now, and so are a swarm of angry bees...it's the World Cup! And in Spain, it may as well be a national holiday, because no one is really paying attention to anything else (like the painfully slow collapse of the economy). When there's a game that involves Spain, this city shuts down. It's 4 pm, do you know where your Spaniards are? In a bar, at home, wherever there's a TV. In banks, they bring in televisions so that they can watch the game, if they fall during work hours. And somehow, in this soccer/football crazed nation, Spain has yet to earn its first point (USA=2 points. Go figure). I wouldn't say the mood is dour, but there is a certain nervousness in the air. After all, Spain is one of the favorites. You can't be a favorite and lose to the Swiss. Puh-lease. So today, when Spain plays Honduras, I plan to be right there cheering on El Rojo. Why? Because the US isn't going to win (unless all the other teams suddenly come down with a short-lived but debilitating stomach virus), and if Spain wins, there will be a party. Not just any party. A party to end all parties. A let's jump in the fountain and run around like small children party. And that sounds like something I want to see. And if they don't win, everyone will start paying attention to the economy, and no one wants that.
Drinking all day is not socially acceptable...in America. Unless you're at barbecue, spending all day in the sun hanging out and kicking back copas would be considered an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. It's not a normal Sunday. However. This blog is about Spain, and as I am American, this is my perspective on all things Spanish, including the Sunday tradition of peeling yourself out of bed on Sunday morning (let's be honest, afternoon) and plopping yourself down on a terrace to drown your hangover with an ice-cold beverage. Many of us don't make it to La Latina, which is the place to be, since it's far and we're lazy. For those who do, as I did today, it is truly wonderful. After starting the morning off at the Reina Sofia Museum at the Photo España exhibition (a photography festival that takes over the city's museums and galleries the month of June), we headed south to La Latina, hoping for a spot in the sun. After a little bit of wandering down Calle Cava Baja (where there aren't any terraces, but a lot of fantastic tapas bars), we scaled the stairs of El Viajero and scored a spot on the roof. After all the stairs, we were clearly hungry, so we proceeded to eat sepia a la plancha (grilled octopus) and drink tintos de verano (red wine mixed with lemon Fanta) for the majority of the day. I've got the sunburn to prove it. Exhausted after so much exertion, we, along with all the other madrileños crawl our way back to our apartments, curling into bed and falling asleep, full, tan, and slightly buzzed. Oh, Sunday.
It's now June, the last month of my contract for this year and the end of my stay in a Spanish school. And no, I do not have anything planned for next year. But this isn't about next year, it's about my school. Stay with the subject. So anyway. This is the moment I have been looking forward to and dreading all year. Looking forward to it because it's the beginning of summer, and dreading it because it's the beginning of unemployment. Yikes. And while I imagined I would have a lot of feelings, I didn't think I would miss working in preschool, i.e. the children. That may be a terrible thing to say, but at least I'm being honest. Working with children is exhausting. "Abi, can I go to the bathroom? I have boogers! Look at my shoes! I HAVE TO PEEEEEEE!!" And so on. So I was surprised to find that I feel a little sad leaving those buggers. I will miss the little ones singing Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" to themselves, and telling me that "Me duele la tummy!" They are adorable despite themselves. And they are quite a self-esteem booster. Everyday, I'm told how pretty I am. And then hugged. I feel that doesn't happen in the workplace. I'm not ready to leave preschool!!
Hanging out with Americans here in Madrid feels like cheating, since the real reason we all came to Madrid was to learn Spanish. And of course, when put together, we all speak in English. Well, to a careless bystander, it may sound like English. But, all of us know that we have infused our English with little Spanish ticks or slips into Spanish grammar. It's not something we do knowingly, but rather, with so much switching between the two systems, our mouths and brains slip into familiar patterns...in the wrong moments. The speaker of these ticks has no idea, however, until someone points out, "Do you know what you just said?" For example, Give me a lost call ("una llamada perdida"= a missed call). What's your direction? ("tu dirección"= your address). Yesternight, I didn't sleeped. ("anoche"= last night; and sleeped...I hadn't had coffee that day). For where do you go out in Madrid? (¿Por dónde sales en Madrid?=Where do you go out in Madrid?). These are the ones that come to recent memory, but I'm sure there are plenty more, both intentional and accidental. We'll go tapaearing, maybe grab some cañas and bocadillos if we still have hunger, y a ver, does anyone have the hour?
If you've ever tried to learn a language, you're probably familiar with language podcasts. Who hasn't thought, I have a long commute in the subway/car/bus, and I can use this time in a productive way to better myself as a human being? So, you download some free podcasts, put them on your iPod, and begin to speak to yourself on the public transportation system. Depending on what language, this almost always guarantees you a certain amount of space (Arabic=the MOST space and the most nervous looks). Having a fair amount of experience with Spanish and French podcasts, I thought I knew what to expect when I downloaded some in Arabic. In varying levels of difficulty, the speakers would discuss daily situations like going to a restaurant or to the gym, and perhaps some current events that reflected a certain cultural aspect. I asked a friend who listens to a German podcast what the set up was like, and she told me there is always someone ordering beer. Work situation? Someone orders a beer. Discussion with a family member? That probably involves a beer, at least in German. You've gotta know your priorities. Well. I've been listening to these Arabic podcasts for some time, and I've gotta say, the situations are getting progressively more bizarre. It started out with a conversation about how one of the speakers was a fast eater and one was a slow eater. The next one was about a child asking for a piece (...of something) from his mother. The next one (and final one, that I have patience for), blows them all out of the water. Here is the transcript, no exagerations: Title: Please Don't Praise Me A: You are generous, good, and intelligent. B: Please don't praise me, because I think that the devil will get inside my head and make me think that I'm better than other people. A: Modest! I understand that with Arabic, the different dialects make it a difficult language to teach, and it is inseparable, really, from political and emotional charged discussions/diatribes relating to Islam and relations between the Near East and West. I get that. However. How is that a beginner Arabic conversation?? What happened to counting? Can a girl get a podcast about ordering some food in a restaurant?
rience couldn't be complete without an overwhelming display of Spanish patriotism, and since facism is thankfully a thing of the past, the World Cup provided a perfect opportunity to display the red and gold. Each stage of the tournament that Spain miraculously passed was greeted with progressively larger parties and growing excitement. Block parties, cars blaring their horns, the reaction was unreal. And that was before the final, and really, there are no words. I know this is a blog, and writing (i.e. WOR
DS) are key, but...there's no way to explain. Luckily for me, although my memory of the World Cup win has no transcript, I do have several blurry photographs and also a movie! Way to go, past Abi. I’m not calling it ground-breaking journalism, but I will say that I did an ok job of documenting a singular moment in my life (yes, it WAS that big) and in the history of Spain (because we all know…never gonna happen again). The pictures and video are from the bar where we anxiously watched the game, and there are several from Cibeles, a central plaza where there were big screen TVs set up. The sheer quantity of people was incredible, and while I thought that was a one-time deal, it was only amplified the next day, when the Spanish team rolled through in a make-shift parade. I saw that from my living room and the television because the government begged people to stay home after a certain hour. There was no room for people. It was like a giant amoeba with a hundred thousand heads. Or maybe...a giant prophetic octopus with a hundred thousand little sucker things? No, because everybody knows that prophetic octopus don't exist (Cue X-Files music).
