Act like a vampire, dress like a pirate.

Every Thursday at around 5 PM (Spain Peninsular time), I breathe a sigh of relief. I have made it through four days of classes at the elementary school, three hours of class with the Catholic school kids and several hours of private lessons. I have managed to run before class, get myself to countless buses on time and find available bicis to get me to those buses and back home. I, like many language assistants in this town, have made it through another week. And then on Thursdays, just a little past 'around five' I remember that the next three days are full of nothing. Nothing to get up for, no buses to catch and no need for a watch. My three-day weekends are the complete antithesis of my four-day work weeks. And the breath after that sigh of relief is a shallow gasp of air caused by the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There is nothing more terrifying than having absolutely nothing to do (idle hands = devil's workshop).

Luckily, Spain always comes up with something. Take two weekends ago, for example. Friday started off as it usually does; I got up at 10, went running, made lunch, etc. My eye was sort of bothering me, but I thought it was just from swimming the day before. Maybe my goggles let in too much chlorinated water. But on Saturday it was clear that that was not the case. My eyelid was swollen, the white of my eye was more of a shade of pink and I have never felt such an aversion to daylight. Oh, how wonderful it must be to be a pirate and get to shield your eye from that burning ball of fire in the sky. Why had I never noticed how bright it was before?

It was pretty clear that this problem needed to be addressed as soon as possible. Since it was October 29th, I probably could have gotten away with dressing like a pirate for a few days, but I ran the risk of a few days turning into many years if I didn't get my eye looked at ASAP (after I went running).

Since it was Saturday, all of the medical clinics were closed. I would have to go to 'urgencias'. Unfortunately, I didn't have my insurance card yet. We (the language assistants) were told that if we had a problem before we got the cards, we should just go to a certain hospital and tell them that we were a language assistant and didn't have our insurance card yet and they'd just let you in. From what I heard, this was not the case. You needed your card number, at least. So I e-mailed/called all of the contacts I could find: the two people at the language assistant office, the emergency contact, my school bilingual coordinator, etc. No one answered. It was the weekend, after all. A long holiday weekend, to be exact. I posted a comment on the language assistant Facebook page, asking if anyone knew what to do. I also called some past students from the language school last year asking them what to do. They urged me to go to the public clinic and get treated. They said that that clinic had to help everyone, whether or not they had insurance.

So I went and explained my situation. I got on the waiting list and sat in one of the waiting rooms. It looked like most people had been there awhile. As I sat I started feeling like I was in the wrong place. At our language assistant meeting they had told us to go to the private hospital, because we had private insurance. Since I didn't have the private insurance number I was hesitant to go, but as I sat in the waiting room dreaming of the times when I didn't mind sitting in a room with the lights on, I thought maybe it was worth a try to go to the private hospital. I spoke to the lady at the reception desk again. She told me I could leave, but I had to tell the nurses. So I went to the nurses and I told them I was leaving. 'Just go,' they said. You don't need to tell us, '¡vete!' So I went. I told my No-Insurance-Card story to the other hospital. They told me they couldn't help me without my insurance card number. I pleaded with them. I told them we were told to come to that hospital and tell them we were language assistants and they would help us. They made some phone calls, talked to some people in the clinic and somehow, I got in!


About 20 minutes later I was called in to see the doctor. He asked me some questions, looked at my eye, told me there was a piece of plastic in it, took it out, prescribed an antibiotic and sent me on my way. I felt like a new woman. I couldn't help but notice how nice it was to have the sun shining on my face so late in October. I went to the pharmacy, got the antibiotics and went on with the rest of my 'nothing' days.


Then, the following Thursday, at around 2 PM I got a call from the first hospital telling me their records showed I was there from 4 PM to 11 PM and they needed my insurance number to process the visit appropriately. I tried to explain the situation, but was told that the records did not reflect my account of the happenings of that day so I would need to come into the hospital and fill out a request for a copy of the doctor's notes for my visit. The notes that would surely not exist because I didn't see a doctor at that hospital.

But there way no getting out of following this protocol. So the next day (my 'nothing Friday') I headed to the hospital (again) to fill out the form. To make a long story slightly shorter, I'll just tell you that I filled out the form, talked to several people (at least four of whom I heard explain that I didn't speak Spanish well), including one doctor who was convinced I needed an English translator. And while he was explaining to this supposed English speaker what I needed know, I got really annoyed and interrupted. I told him that I understood the situation and rephrased, in my own non-Spanish speaking words, what it was he wanted the translator to tell me. Luckily, whatever I managed to say convinced the doctor that I did, in fact, understand and he released the translator. It wasn't that I didn't understand it was that I didn't feel the need to waste anymore of my time (or anyone else's) on a situation that was clearly going to lead to a dead end. There were going to be no doctor's notes because no doctor saw me. So I kept asking questions, trying to get the situation solved that day (and got in a little extra Spanish conversation practice). Although I had the slip from the other hospital with the date and time on it, I was told that it didn't prove anything. They didn't even want to look at it. My alibi did not hold up in this court of law. The doctor's report of the other hospital was irrelevant to the case. That was a completely different hospital and anything that I did there had nothing to do with what happened here.

I simply had to go through the regular procedure to fix this issue. The next step was to wait for the call telling me they received the doctor's notes from my visit at this hospital. I would need to come back to the hospital and pick them up and take them to the insurance department (down the hall) so they could process the claim. (It was not possible to have them sent there as it was a different department. I had to come in person.) And in the case that there are no doctor's notes because I wasn't seen by a doctor at this hospital? I was told I still had to come in and pick up a paper that said there was nothing in my file. And so I went home and waited for the call.


The following Thursday I got the call. They said that the situation had been resolved. The End. Kind of a surprise ending, huh?


As far as teaching stories go, the best one I have happened in the after-school English class. Two students went a little out of control with a black marker when coloring their worksheet so they wanted to start over with a new sheet. I told them I didn't have any more copies, that they would have to work with the one they had. I attempted to fix the mistake they had made. But they were not satisfied. They wanted to have a prettier picture. They begged me to let them go and make a copy. I told them if they could ask me in correct English, I would let them go to the office and make a copy. So they asked the wise third-grader how to say 'May I make a photocopy?' in English. I'm not sure what he told them to say but what they said to me was neither English nor Spanish. I could make out no words. They tried again, but to no avail. Just when I thought they had given up, they called me over to their desks. They showed me a bracelet (made out of pop-tops and ribbon) and asked me if I liked it. I said, 'Yes, it's beautiful.' They told me I could have it if I let them make a photocopy. I tried it on and said that it was too small. They insisted it was a perfect fit, but I was not sold. They begged me to reconsider, but I didn't cave. And so they worked with the worksheets they had.


And for those of you who don't have Facebook:


- I was walking into school one morning and I heard a little girl explain to her mother that I was the language assistant at the school this year. 'Ella es inglesa-americana.' (She is (British) English-American.)


- In one of my private classes I had the students listen to a song. 'It's by the Beatles,' I said. They stared at me blankly. 'The Beatles? George, Paul, John, Ringo? The band from the 60's? No?' They assured me they had never heard of such a group.


Lastly, I recently found some great trails/areas to run in Sevilla. They are .75 and 1.5 miles from home. The closest one, the Charco de la Pava, is usually pretty empty, except for a few people biking around it and the soccer games going on in the center of it.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to Charco de la Pava.

Charco de la Pava- 2 miles around.

The other trail goes on for 4 miles in one direction and I don't know how far (yet) in the other direction. So far I've encountered a few other runners, walkers, cyclists, fisherman, horses and one car on this trail.

Ignore the brown water. Look for the trail.

 The Plans for the trail. 

Kind of a boring blog ending, huh?

Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo

Two and a half weeks ago I arrived in Spain. I took the airport bus to the (good ol') Prado bus stop where my friend and new roommate, Megan, was waiting to assist me in transporting my things to our new home on the other side of the Guadalquivir river. One metro ride, three tenths of a mile walk and four flights of stairs (no elevator) later, we were home. After unpacking for a few minutes, I accompanied Megan to Alcalá (de Guadaíra) where she was going to class and I was going to run. I made it six miles with heat and sun and jetlag and then I headed back to Sevilla, where I tried to sleep, but failed. So I unpacked and tried to convince myself that I had really had gone home for the summer and was now back in Spain. And I had a lot to do now that I was here.

First on the list: get necessary documents together for renewing my Spanish identity card. The necessary documents included a copy of every page of my passport, so I went to a copistería (=Kinko's, but just a type of store, not a chain, not corporate and there are actually more of them than Kinko's. Also, you can't make your own copies; it's full service). I was the first in line, but when I told the copy guy that I needed a copy of every page of my passport he said I was going to have to wait while he tended to the other two people in the store. He answered his cell phone, flirted with the one girl, helped the other woman and eventually got around to making my copies for me. For whatever reason he charged me only 60 cents. I'm going to tell all my friends that need copies of every page in their passport to go there.

Next, I had to hand in those photocopies to the correct extranjero office. It took maybe thirty seconds to hand them in. It will take approximately three months before I have to go in for appointment number two and then who knows how long before I actually receive my card. I'll keep you posted.

Third on the list was buying random things like sheets for my bed, weights ('cause I need big muscles to intimidate the small children) and groceries. I also wanted to sign up for Spanish classes, get a gym membership (for when it is rainy and when I want to swim), get a library card and sign up for two races (A FREE night race in Sevilla and the 10K(ish) race in Alcalá (that I ran last year). I was not able to sign up for Spanish classes again because I was not able to register within the registration period. No, online registration was not an option. You had to travel to the registration office, take a number and wait. The two times I went they were out of numbers (aka they only serve x number per day and that number was already there waiting). The third time I went was the day after registration was closed and I asked if I could register anyway (since I registered late last semester) but I was told I would have to wait until February. Actually it was more like:
"Registration was open in the beginning of September. Where have you been?"
"The US"
"Well, that's not our problem."

The gym search continues because I don't want to pay $100 (I did the conversion for you) every month to use the gym when I know perfectly well I won't go that often nor do I have that kind of money. Getting a library card might have been one of the easiest things on my to-do list. I went in, filled out a form, waited until someone felt like helping me and they entered my information into the computer and handed me a card. And I had only slight problems signing up for the races: I got lost going to register for the night one, but eventually found the Olympic Stadium where registration was taking place. Make all the jokes you want about how an Olympic Stadium must be hard to find but I insist that it was. You don't know....you weren't there! (As in the Friends episode after the one where Monica get stung by a jellyfish). Registering for the Alcalá race was no problem. I have experience with that.

The bank payment step in the Alcalá race registration.

The last thing I did was sign up for a Sevici card. It's the card that lets you rent bikes around the city to get you places faster. I signed up online, paid the yearly 25€ fee with my credit card and waited for my card to show up in the mail.

The Sevici card came in the mail just a few days later. I saw it in the mailbox as I was leaving for the night race. I decided to try it out right away. The race started at 10 PM and it was an 11.9 KM (~7.4 miles) race, which meant I would probably finish a little after 11 and would have just a few minutes to make it to the bus stop and catch the last bus of the night by 11:20. If I missed the bus my options were walking home, finding and then paying for a taxi or biking home. I thought biking sounded like my best bet. So I grabbed a bike and headed off to the start line. I wasn't exactly sure where I was going or where I could leave the bike, but I thought I could figure it out. I made it to the race area and found a place to park the bike, but since it was my first experience with returning a bike, I was having a hard time getting it back into the bike holder. I asked a fellow bike parker to help me, but he couldn't get it to go in either. So I asked the policeman that was nearby and he tried to give me instructions on how to do it. After a few tries it clicked in. Now the thing about the bikes is that after you pay your yearly subscription, you can ride them anywhere for free for the first half hour. After that you have to pay a small fee. Well, because I didn't know where I was going and had trouble parking it, I ended up using the bike for 40 minutes. That was 10 minutes over the free limit, so a 50¢ charge was placed on my account. Before I could use another bike I had to pay the 50 cents. Although I signed up with a credit card, they wouldn't just charge it. I had to have the card with me and pay at the machine/bike station or pay online. Since I was running a race, I didn't have a credit card on me. This left my options for getting home to walking or getting on that last bus.

The race had 23,000+ participants so we running like packed sardines the whole time. If you can even say we were running. My 10:00/mile pace was not my normal racing pace. It got me to the finish line behind schedule. I had no chance to take the bus. And so, because I could and because I had to, I ran the 3 miles back home. And the first thing I did when I got home was to pay the 50¢ charge (plus a little extra in case it happens again, I'll be covered).

On Sunday morning Megan, Katerina and I went to Cádiz to spend a day at the beach. The bus from Sevilla was a little sketchy as the transmission seemed to be on the fritz. You could tell because it lurched into the parking space at the bus station. There were discussions between the driver and another worker and we ultimately did leave in the lurching bus but we only went as far as the other bus station on the other side of Sevilla, where there was a fully functioning bus waiting to take us all the way to Cádiz. The beach in Cádiz was pretty windy and sand was blowing everywhere but we found an abandoned, beached boat to shield us from the sand tornado and enjoyed a few hours of sun.

School started on Monday. I was placed in an elementary school in Alcalá del Río, a pueblo 30 minutes north of Sevilla (by car. By bus- an hour). I'll be working with kids ages 4 to 12, but mostly the younger kids because I'm really good at singing songs like 'One little, two little, three little _______ (fill in your noun here. The kids said 'elephant', but I don't)'. The teachers seem really nice, even the ones that aren't part of the bilingual program. They've been trying out their English on me and telling asking me questions about the sports teams in the US. The 4th and 6th graders asked me questions about my favorite things like, what's your favorite color, food, sport, piece of clothing, etc. I was also asked (in Spanish) several times if I spoke Spanish to which I replied 'No.' It's not a lie. I really don't speak that much Spanish. But several of the quick ones could tell by my eyes that I understood what they were saying, for the most part. Among my favorite questions were: How old are you? (To which I answered 84 and they pondered it for awhile.), Where is your favorite restaurant to eat hamburgers, McDonald's or Burger King? (To which I had to answer that I didn't eat hamburgers.), Do you like football? (I had to clarify if he meant soccer or NFL football. It didn't occur to me at the time that the answer was the same either way.) and my favorite, Will you speak to us in American?

My first impression of the classes is that the students are so loud and never shut up and that it is a miracle that they learn anything at all. At one point I was so overwhelmed with all the talking and the volume of this talking that I just stopped and stared, lost and mystified. One of the students asked why I wasn't answering any questions. The teacher answered that they were too loud and all talking at once so I couldn't hear anything or speak. Spaniards are highly skilled in conversations like this. I've seen it in action before. Everyone will talk at once yet somehow they still hear each other and carry on coherent conversations without ever having a moment of silence. It's amazing, but it takes practice to master a skill like that. Apparently school is a great place to acquire this skill. I hope I can improve in the next 8 months.

My other job is in Alcalá de Guadaíra on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3:30-5. I'm teaching English in an after school program to kids in 1st through 3rd grade. It's an hour and a half class after their regular school day. Needless to say, it's going to be a challenge. The students are getting a strong grasp on what 'Be quiet, please', 'Sit down' and 'No, you can't go to the bathroom, you just went to the bathroom' mean. On the first day one little boy drew all over a desk (in pencil, luckily), two kids made paper airplanes, two girls glued two erasers to a ruler and danced around the room and one told me he was bored. The second day I had 30 kids because the other teacher was gone. When a student brought up a worksheet a fellow classmate had scribbled all over and informed me that he wasn't doing his work I said, 'I don't care. If he doesn't want to learn English, it's not my problem.' As long as he was scribbling on the paper and not on the desk this time, I was happy. This job is definitely out of my comfort zone, challenging, and exhausting but that's why I think it might be good for me.

In the rest of my free time I want to take on more private lessons. I am searching for adults to teach because I may go on child English lesson overload.

The last big event of the past two weeks was the race in Alcalá (El Naranjo).

Me in the El Naranjo race last year.

I took a bike to the bus stop at 7 AM on Saturday, rode the bus to Alcalá, walked the 1.5 miles to the start line and discovered that I was mistaken about the day of the race. I went running in Alcalá anyway, took the bus home and did it all over again on Sunday morning. This time there really was a race. And, as expected, I came back to Sevilla with a sack of onions, a sack of potatoes, an orange, two apples, a t-shirt, a granola bar, a sports drink and a can of Coca-Cola Light. Totally worth the 6€ and two trips to Alcalá for all that. Also, I asked the bartender ('cause of course there is a bar at the race) if there were any extra race posters that I could have. He took the one off the wall, removed the tape, rolled it up, wrapped a napkin around it to protect it, taped the napkin on with the old tape and handed it to me. Wasn't that nice? Finally, Megan and I have something to hang on our bare walls. And we can count more than just the flowers on the wall (which doesn't bother me at all).

The poster, all wrapped up by the Spanish bartender.

This year's El Naranjo t-shirt.

The CliffsNotes version is always better than the actual book.

It just occurred to me that I have neglected to include copious amounts of information in this blog. I never wrote about the Feria in Sevilla or Alcalá, my last days in Spain, how I came back and how I am currently writing this from my piso in Sevilla. It sounds like a daunting task right now (much like my scrapbook from my 2001 study abroad trip has been for the past decade. I'll finish it one of these days though.) Consider this the CliffsNotes version of Spain May 2011- September 2011.

So, back in May I was walking out of school one day and by chance got invited to the Feria de Sevilla by one of my students, who had a casesta. (You go to feria to eat, drink, dance and possibly dress in a gypsy dress or suit). Here are the photos:

At the portada with students and an author (Chris Stewart).

The Portada

Inside the caseta

Some of the food: tortilla española, anchovies,
jamón ibérico & some other fish.

Part of the menu

Rebujito (Manzanilla with Sprite)

The Feria by day

I also went to the Feria in Alcalá (in June). I had a dress but will not be publishing any of the photos. A student was nice enough to lend me said dress but I felt uncomfortable and out of place in its shoulder pads and turquoise with white polka dot print. It crossed my mind that maybe the students had a dare as to whether or not I would actually wear it. Well, I did. And if I wear one again next year, it will be one that I purchase myself.

Clarisse and little Macarena

The Portada in Alcalá.

Then I spent a few more weeks in Spain hanging out, waiting to take my Spanish test on the 27th and feeling lucky I was getting out before it got any hotter.

The weather forcast for the week I left.

We may or may not have been on bottle #2, but it
was definitely before the bar.

Saying goodbye to Shaelyn the night before I left.

The morning I left I pulled my two big suitcases and two travel bags a couple blocks to the spot where there were always taxis waiting.

 Please proceed to the taxi at the front of the chain o' taxis.

I was having trouble maneuvering the bags and just as I got to the crosswalk that would lead me up to the taxi, my bag piling system fell apart and the bags toppled over and onto the street. The taxi drivers, who were standing outside their cars talking, didn't move. I picked them up, repositioned them, crossed the street and greeted the drivers. I don't remember exactly what I said first, but I know the driver asked me where I was going. Although an answer like 'to the prom' crossed my mind, I was choking back tears and could barely produce the word 'aeropuerto' so I kept the sarcasm to myself. (Besides I have no idea how to say 'prom' in Spanish). I was ready to go home, but that didn't make it easy to leave.

My flight took me from Sevilla to Lisbon, where I had a one hour lay-over. It just so happened that our plane arrived in Lisbon on hour late. As a result I, along with other passengers on a slightly later flight to NY, was escorted to the customs line before the rest of the plane (we didn't get to go through the line any faster, but we got to the line faster). Then I literally RAN through the terminal (with my two travel bags) to the gate that was at the very far end of the terminal. I was running and carrying a backpack and another bag that together probably weighed 50 pounds (or at least seemed like it) and the flight attendant was standing at the gate, flagging me in and saying 'Hurry!'. I'm not sure what it was about my actions that led her to believe I was not taking the fact that my flight to the US was leaving NOW seriously, but I once again kept my sarcastic comments to myself, knowing they wouldn't increase my chances of having the plane wait for me. I got on the plane and found my seat just before they shut the cabin door. Upon arrival in NJ I discovered that one of my suitcases had not made the plane (but miraculously the other one did). Then I left security, got my ticket to Milwaukee, got soft serve ice cream, went through security again and waited for the flight to board.

Once I got home I felt like I never left, except that I had missed out on the births and growing of many friends' children and one nephew, to all of whom photos and e-mails just don't do justice. I was glad to be home and happy to see everyone in person. Man, I missed you guys. I appreciated the reminder of the people that are always behind me. I am a lucky girl.

(These are just SOME of the people. The rest of you somehow escaped the camera.)

But absence makes the heart grow fonder so you'll find me once again in Spain. And you'll find a diversion from work at this website again. (Although I'm pretty sure that viewing my website still counts as a work-related task if you work at CB.)

Who says you can't go home?

The airline, actually. My original ticket brought me home on the 1st of June, but that was A. too soon to pack up and move out and B. not a good day to go home if I wanted to finish my Spanish class and take the final exams (oral and written). That lead me to change the date of my ticket to July 6th. But soon as June arrived, so did the thought, 'I want to go home'. Nothing was wrong, nothing happened, I do not have any particularly pressing business at home but for the first time I can remember in Spain: Round 5, I simply want to go home. You might be thinking one of the following:

1. That's nice.
2. Perfect timing because you are coming home soon.
3. You've been in a foreign country for 9 months, it makes sense. There's no need to explain.

I will explain anyway, even though you might be thinking #3. Things have changed a bit in the past week: my job here is done, Clarisse went home, Megan went home, my Spanish class is over (except for the tests) and the sun has switched to the rotisserie lamp setting. If I wasn't bored before, I certainly am now. All this free time gives me more time to think about how I miss my car, having money, Dairy Queen, popcorn/caramel corn from St.Paul/Minneapolis, the ability to say exactly what I want to say and just plain feeling like myself. I feel younger here because I have fewer responsibilities and because I lose a lot of my personality without the ability to make sarcastic comments. I'm taken back to a time when I was younger and sweeter and spoke in simpler sentences (and thus wasn't as hilarious). Also, without someone to talk to it is harder to be yourself or to act normal when talking. Although I spoke English in class, it's not the same type of English I use in the US. And when speaking Spanish I concentrate on trying to make coherent sentences that give the general gist of what I am trying to convey. Some days I just hope that what I am saying IS Spanish. I'm looking forward to going home and having more grammatically sophisticated conversations. And maybe even ones that include slang. I'll be able to say things like 'check it', 'shut the front door' and 'for shizzle'.

Thus, I came to the conclusion that I needed to change my ticket again. I convinced myself that my Spanish isn't at a high enough level to pass the oral exam, so I might as well go home. Besides, an oral exam on the 1st of July when the class ends on June 8th is a large span of time. You've gotta want or need that grade/half a certificate in level B2 to stay that long. I don't, so going home early just made sense.

Unfortunately, many people want to travel to the US in June, so it's hard to switch your ticket, unless, of course you want to fly first class. I would love to fly first class but I would not love to pay for it. As a result I will remain here in Spain for a bit longer. (My remaining roommate doesn't like goodbyes so he said he wasn't going to say it; he was just going to act like the day I left was any other day and that I would be home when he got home. I said told him that since that was the case I wasn't going to tell him when I was leaving, maybe that will make it easier on everyone. And that's why I am not writing the date in this blog...at least for now. So don't ask me.)

And so I am here in Spain biding my time, drinking my wine until the big day rolls around. And then the search for a job commences.

As a side note, I actually enjoyed being on hold with TAP airlines when I was making these changes. I loved the song and the sound of Portuguese. I was almost disappointed each time the agent picked up. I highly recommend calling them and waiting on hold for a few minutes when you have some free time.

Here was the most exciting part of my week thus far. I saw a bright light out my window at about 12 AM that I had never seen before. Turns out it was the moon:

There is a lunar eclipse tonight. Don't bother looking for it yourself. It's not visible in the US. Aren't I lucky that I'm not home yet?

Missy says, I'm going away to Spain when I get my money saved...I'm gonna start tomorrow...

You may or may not know the history of my relationship with Spain. To get a full picture, I think I need to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start): 8th grade, South Park Middle School, 13 years old.

As you can probably tell, I'm actually 14 in this picture.

I was finally an 8th grader and therefore finally able to take Spanish as an elective course. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about Spanish and so, when we were learning to conjugate verbs, I was annoyed that we weren't learning the 'vosotros' form.
      -"Señorita Hansen, why aren't we learning the vosotros form?"
      -"Because they only use it in Spain and you'll probably never go to Spain."
      -"Why is it in the book then?"
      -"Just so you are aware that it exists."
      -"Well, I'm going to Spain, so I think we should learn it."
      -"Well, if you know the other verb forms you'll easily pick it up when you're there."

Challenge accepted, lady. I'll learn the verb forms you deem worthy for Spanish class and then I'll go to Spain and tell you how easy it is to pick up the last one. Then we'll see if you or the book is right about what we need to learn in Spanish class. (Honestly though, I heard the same story from all of my Spanish teachers: You don't need to know it. You'll never go to Spain.)

I sure did prove them wrong. I took 4 years of Spanish class and then headed off to 'vosotrosland'. In the summer of 1998, I took a two-week trip to Spain with Nacel Open Door. I have no idea how I heard about this organization or the program. Nor do I remember the application process. But I know I went.

You might think that taking a trip like this seems normal, given my fascination with the Spanish language, but you know me (at least I think that is why you are reading this) and my personality did not match that of the stereotypical high school exchange student. You wouldn't have used words like 'flexible', 'laid-back', 'open' or 'social' to describe me, so the fact that I went and that I went without knowing anyone else in the program is quite astonishing. But despite these truths I really, really wanted to go. I was so interested in Spanish that I was able to forget (if only temporarily) that I was petrified to leave my comfort zone.

During the first week of this excursion, I lived with a family in Barcelona. I remember opening my suitcase in my room at their house and discovering that my Bath and Body Works spray bottle perfume had exploded during the journey. Everything I brought was drenched with this scent. When I smell that perfume now, it takes me right back to Barcelona. Anyway, the family had a son, Ricardo, who was about my age and showed me around the city. The most embarrassing part of my time in Barcelona was when I went out with Ricardo and his friends. He introduced me to them and I had no idea how to do the 'dos besos' greetings. For some reason I thought you actually kissed the person on the cheek. After his friend turned completely red, I figured I'd made a mistake. I also remember that my bedroom was at the end of the hall and that I had a hard time adjusting to the 7 hour time difference. I can still hear the host mother's heels clicking down the marble floor, stopping when they reached my room and hearing her voice calling, 'Meliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssa- levántate' (my name was really drawn out and sweet and the 'get up' part was more demanding).

The second week of the trip the Americans reunited and spent the week traveling to Madrid, Cordoba, Sevilla and Toledo (I think, I'd have to look at the pictures to be sure). As much as I wanted to go and as lucky as I was to be there, I made myself miserable. I wanted to go home the entire time. In fact, I still remember one of the other students telling me, "I will never forget how much you wanted to go home." Why I wanted to go home, I don't know. It certainly wasn't that I was bored or that I didn't make friends with the other students on the trip. In fact, we all got along and we kept in touch for a little while after the trip (as best we could in the pre-Facebook days of our youth). The problem was that I was having fun, but was constantly telling myself that I wanted to go home. While taking a photo of the Alhambra I was thinking 'I want to go home.' While touring the 16th century cathedral of Sevilla, I was thinking, 'When do I get to go home?' While drinking wine at 16 years old I was thinking, 'How many days do I have left here?' I was doing and seeing all these amazing things, but during all of it a broken record (you remember what records are, right?) in my head was playing, 'home, home, home'. I had no idea how to shut it off.

Fast forward to 2001, when I was planning my study abroad experience. I was going abroad for several reasons (here they are, in no particular order):

1. As a Spanish major you have two options: study abroad for one semester or, as a less desirable alternative (in the eyes of the Department of Spanish and Portuguese), take all of your classes in Spanish one semester. I chose option A because the student loan rates were so low that I thought I'd barely notice the extra 10-15 grand added to the my student loan bill.
2. I thought it would be a good way to learn Spanish (maybe even the Vosotros form!)
3. I wanted a second chance. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go abroad without the 'home' soundtrack playing in my head.

And so I packed my bags and was off to Spain a second time, once again without a friend to use as a security blanket and still lacking most of the stereotypical traits of a study abroad candidate.

But it didn't matter. I ended up with an incredibly caring and welcoming host family as well as an amazing, hilarious, fun roommate and traveling companions/friends. I have never in my life laughed as much as I did during that three month period in Spain (thanks to Anna, Meaghan and Kelly. Those ladies are hilarious, especially when we are all together.). We had a TON of fun, but I most of the time I wasn't relaxed. The broken record played continuously in my head during all of the fun and traveling, 'Minnesota, Minnesota, Minnesota...' I counted down the days until I would be back in Minnesota, freezing my butt off. (I didn't (freeze my butt off) in Spain because Anna and I had a heater in our room and down comforters on our beds. Kelly and Meaghan- remind me again what you had to keep warm when you slept on your bunk bed...). My friends, being the good friends that they are, only heckled me about my nervousness/anxiety a tiny bit and only took a few photos as evidence/fodder for future heckling (There's the famous Nerja 'rolling suitcase on the beach story,' which unfortunately I cannot retell because (as a coping mechanism) I've blocked most of it from my memory. I fear the others have not.)

2001 Sevilla, Spain with Miguel Angel ('the Mig') and Loli.

And when I returned to Minnesota in the middle of the freezing cold winter and I told my Spain tales to others (when I 'Spained a yarn', if you will), I neglected to include that I was nervous and anxious the whole time I was there. I also conveniently forgot to mention how relieved I was when January finally rolled around and I got to go home. Don't get me wrong, I had fun, I was glad that I went and I was proud of myself for going outside of my comfort zone. However, like so much of my life, I yearned for more. I reflected on this trip as having gone to the pool and just dipped my toes into the water. I wanted to go to the pool, do a cannonball into the water and start swimming (you know how I love to swim. Jennifer will tell you about how I used to be on a swim team).

The third time I set foot on Spanish soil, was in 2002. I took a week-long summer trip (with Renée) to visit my host family. The first six days were relaxing. I set a personal record for the tannest I've ever been. The downside of the trip (besides increasing my risk of skin cancer), was that I was mugged (at knifepoint) on one of the last days we were there. We subsequently spent some quality time at the Spanish police station. We chatted with two multi-tasking officers who simultaneously asked questions, listened to our story and filled out a police report while smoking a cigarette. Unfortunately their hard work was in vain because my purse was never recovered. Apparently it was the first violent crime to have ever occurred in this beach town. (I was honored, really.) I didn't blame Spain. After all, things like that happen everywhere and I knew we could have made better decisions. However, after that I wasn't in a big hurry to get back.

And so time passed. I spent two more years in college and following graduation I spent three years working a temporary job in the morning M-F. In addition, I spent every weekend and some evenings working at the Nicollet Island Inn. Then, in 2006 (not 2005, Shunter) I got a job at CaringBridge (and continued to work weekends at the Nic). CaringBridge was (is) a fantastic organization with fantastic people, who also happen to be the majority of the readers of this blog. (Get back to work you guys. Seriously. A website doesn't run itself...). I was working during this time, but not necessarily living.

And Spain kept calling me. (Which was annoying because I was supposed to be answering phone calls from people who had questions about the website.) I ignored the call for awhile, but at one point, a particularly stressful period at CB, I took inventory of my life. I'd worked at the same restaurant for 10 years, I'd spent four years giving thousands of people help with their password and telling them how to enter a website name (NO SPACES), my friends were all getting married and having babies and I was about to turn 30. And when I thought about the future I had a panic attack. I saw myself working two jobs, hanging out with my married friends when I could and taking a yearly week-long vacation. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that except that I knew that there was something else I wanted to do before I lived that life; something on my bucket list that kept getting pushed further and further towards the bottom. Something that I simply could not remove without actually doing it.

This life ambition stemmed from an e-mail I received in 2004 from the U of MN Department of Spanish and Portuguese. It encouraged recent graduates to apply for a 'paid' Teaching English Abroad program in Spain. I wanted to do it. I knew I wanted to do it. And so I kept the e-mail in a safe place: my inbox. And I stared at it for 5 years. Every time I checked my UMN mail- it was there waiting for me. But I always had an excuse not to apply: I need to save more money, I need to get more work experience, I need to learn Spanish (no really, my Spanish was not up to par for a Spanish major), I'm too old, etc. After five years I finally realized that no combination or quantity of excuses could outweigh the simple fact that my heart was telling me to go.

Before I made any final decisions, I took one more trip to Spain in September of 2009. I went with Rachel, who, ironically, started Spanish class in 8th grade at South Park Middle School the very same day I did. We had different teachers, but I'm sure she didn't learn the vosotros form either. Anyway, in Spain we visited my host family in Castilleja de la Cuesta, a town just outside Sevilla and then toured Sevilla, Granada and Nerja. It gave me the opportunity to fill in the last few pages of the travel journal I had kept back in 2001 and to realize that I really needed to take a good, hard, thorough look at my inbox.

After five years of staring at the e-mail, I made a move. I went to the website to apply, but it wouldn't work. I kept getting an error message saying that the page was insecure and if I entered it I should promptly bend over, put my head between my legs and kiss my ass goodbye. Some people might take that as a sign that it just wasn't meant to be. But at this point, I was determined. If the door was closed, I'd look for a window, but I was getting OUT. The open window turned out to be a study abroad organization I'd heard about when I was in Spain in 2001: CIEE. The program almost the same, except that rather than being assigned to any part of Spain, you would only be assigned to Andalucía (southern Spain). Also, they charged a fee for their orientation and assistance upon arrival abroad. But if I wanted to go, it was what I needed to do.

It was an arduous application process that included several trips to the doctor (for vaccinations and a physical), 6 passport photos (I went to three different Walgreens so I wouldn't look suspicious), background checks and fingerprints at the St. Paul and Minneapolis jails and two overnight trips to Chicago (please read that carefully). With my 'to-do' list full of check marks, I quit my jobs, packed my bags and headed back to Spain by myself (again). I went in search of the ability to relax a little and to learn to speak Spanish (including the vosotros form).

Even before I left my 'relaxing a little' goal wasn't going well. A short while after I getting my school placement information, I e-mailed the school twice (once in English and once in what I wanted to be Spanish) asking about where to live and freaking out about whether or not there was a place for me to run there. Rafa and Manolo both responded to my e-mails. Manolo told me that one of the teachers was looking for two roommates to share a three-bedroom piso. He said the French language assistant was probably going to live there, so that left one room open for me. Somehow I got said teacher's e-mail and e-mailed him what I'm sure was an anxious, poorly written (in Spanish) e-mail. I cringe at the thought of what I said or how I came off in that e-mail. (As a matter of fact, if you still have those e-mails, José, I won't be mad if you delete them.) As of 'press time' for this entry, I haven't been able to go back and re-read any of the e-mails I sent at that time. Partly because I don't want to know how bad my Spanish was (not that it has improved all that much, but still...) and partly because I'm sure I sounded like an anxious, uptight, running-crazy American. And the truth hurts (especially in written form). I also haven't been able to reread my first blog entries. I cringe at the thought of some of the things I wrote and I have a strong desire to delete the entries entirely. But for now, I will leave them.

Anyway, back to the point: as usual, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. I thought maybe I'd gotten so lucky on my first two (major) trips to Spain that surely something about this trip would go terribly wrong. Nope. This (school) year was absolutely perfect. Here's why: Alcalá has an incredible trail system for running (which is of the utmost importance for me, as you know). Next, if I had hand-picked the people I had to work with at school and live with in Alcalá I would have picked the same people. I could not find better roommates/friends than Clarisse and José. They are not only clean and responsible, they are also a hoot. (Por cierto compañeros de piso míos- This is not 'goodbye'. I will see you both again. It might be in Spain, it might be in Martinique, it might be in the US, or it might be in Canada, but mark my words, we will all see each other again. And I will speak Spanish. And you will be amazed.)

Clarisse

Manolo, José and Raúl.

I could also not find better co-auxiliares and good friends than Megan and Shaelyn. They can always make me laugh and best of all- they are Midwestern girls (so there's a good chance I will see them again, back in the states)! I could not find more genuine, kind, amusing teachers and staff than those at the school in Alcalá. I wish that I could put into words what an incredible bunch of people they are. They were always there if we (the auxiliares) needed anything: help, advice, an explanation about Spanish culture, etc. I regret that both my English and my Spanish are too poor to say what I really want to say. I only hope they can tell by my actions and the few emotions that I showed that I had an incredible, superb, extraordinary year in Alcalá and it was the people that made it so incredible.

I could not find better students than the ones here in Alcalá (well, maybe a few...). In general, they are  extremely motivated, as well as being humorous, creative and, most of the time, attentive when I was 'teaching'. This school year plain and simply cannot be topped. I'm not sure what I did right in life that got to spend eight months with such awesome people and in such a good location (maybe I was a saint in a past life), but I'm so, so thankful that I did. (Corny? Yes. But true? Indeed.)


(Put on your clam diggers and get out your shovels, people, this is about to get deep). On the outside, traveling to Spain was (and still is) about setting out to do something and finishing it. I said I wanted to learn to speak Spanish and I'll be damned if I stop until I do. It's the same mentality I have for running: I said I was going to run this half marathon and though it may be 90 degrees, my foot may be bleeding, I'm limping, I'm thirsty, and I feel sick, I WILL NOT STOP until I cross the finish line (unless my shoe is untied; safety first). I will finish what I started.

My subconscious, however, knew that wanting to go to Spain was about more than just having an interest in Spanish and definitely about more than proving teachers wrong (although under certain circumstances that would be all the motivation I would need). The reasons I wanted to be in Spain, whether I knew it or not, are and always have been: to see things from a different perspective (to realize that all the little things I worried about back at home were silly and insignificant, the world is too huge to focus on those things), to challenge myself (go outside my comfort zone and grow and learn) and to find myself/gain the confidence I've always lacked. And it's much harder than I thought it would be. The problem for me is that Spanish (or any foreign language) is everything I love and hate all rolled into one; it's something that has a pattern and a definite answer but it is also something that, in order to be really good at it you need to:
A.) talk-to use it---A LOT.
B.) you need to make a lot of mistakes and
C.) you need to not be afraid to make a fool of yourself.

These are all of my greatest fears: talking, making mistakes and making a fool of myself. Unfortunately, if I can't overcome these fears, I can't finish what I set out to do, I can't change/grow and can't I do what I've been wanting to do since 8th grade.

Too bad I figured this out so late (or maybe I just accepted it so late) and it is what I am struggling with now.  Is it too late to jump in the water? Because I just realized that I can swim...

Punta Umbrella

Since there was neither English class nor Spanish class during Semana Santa (and then some), I talked myself in to taking a trip. Unfortunately things like hotel rooms have to be booked in advance, especially during a holiday week. And by 'in advance' I mean that their booking must precede the release of the weather forecast for the days of travel, so at least 10 days prior to departure. That means that I had already booked the hotel when the weather people announced that as far as they could tell the rain was going to start on Saturday and possibly end at some time in the future, but not in the 10 days following that Saturday. I hoped they were wrong. (They weren't.)

I took a bus to Huelva and from there another bus to Punta Umbría. It was about an hour from Sevilla to Huelva and another half hour to Punta Umbria.

The hotel was basically across the street from the bus station in Punta Umbría, which was very convenient. After I checked in I tried to walk around the 'downtown' area, but it started to rain, so I didn't get far. That was pretty much how it went the entire three days that I was there. And the Internet didn't work for me, so I had to hang out the window to get the signal from the second floor's server.

My hotel is in the background.

The hotel room, AKA where I spent my beach vacation.

I didn't do anything really, but here is what I saw through the rain:

The Town Hall

A clever store name

La ría.

This area is a garden, not a 'shitter' for dogs. (I'm not a
professional translator, but you get the idea.)

A snail on the rainy sidewalk.

The last day I was there it was sunny, but really windy. I went and sat at the beach for awhile anyway, just to say that I was there.

For those of you that can't make it to the beach: