A Thanksgiving Post

              Last year, in London, I had my first “expat” Thanksgiving.  In the week leading up to it, I hadn’t thought about the holiday at all, so it surprised me when on that November Thursday I woke up and felt depressed.  After not feeling the slightest bit homesick for the first 3 months I had been away, I was suddenly attacked by a strong need to be in Colorado watching football and eating turkey.  Instead, my London Thanksgiving celebration involved heating up some store-bought mashed potatoes and turkey in the microwave for an early dinner before working a 5-close shift at the pub.

            Anyway, after that experience I resolutely decided that I would make my second Thanksgiving abroad infinitely better in order to make up for the last one.  And now, a year later, I think I actually managed to do it!

            This entire week has felt very Thanksgiving-y and festive. Even though I didn’t have any days off, it still seemed like a bit of a break since I taught my classes using holiday-themed activities that were fun for both the students and for me.  A lot of the students had never heard the story of Thanksgiving, so they enjoyed learning about the history of the Pilgrims and the Native Americans.  We also had conversations about what we were thankful about (varying from the very concrete, e.g. “my computer”, to some more thoughtful answers like “universal healthcare” or abstract ideas like “hope”) which were interesting to listen to.  In my youngest class we drew “handprint turkeys” and then used them to decorate the walls.

            All of these classes got me in the mood for the real Thanksgiving celebration that Álvaro and I had planned with some of our friends.  Since it’s not a holiday here, we decided to celebrate on Friday instead of Thursday so that everyone would be able to relax and enjoy the dinner.  We ordered a turkey from the market and then assigned everyone a typical dish to bring. Álvaro and I were hosting the dinner, so we were in charge of the turkey and the stuffing. Since I had never attempted to cook a turkey before, I was a bit nervous.  This nervousness only increased yesterday morning when Álvaro returned from the market with a massive 7 kg bag of turkey. All of the women at the market had tried giving him advice on how to cook it (inject it with wine, let it cook for 9 hours, cover it with tocino/bacon, etc.) but we decided to put our faith in my Betty Crocker cookbook. 

              Making the stuffing was simple enough, but actually stuffing the turkey required a bit of time and thought.  Luckily the cookbook had detailed diagrams of where to put the stuffing and how to maneuver the various limbs of the turkey.  However, since we didn’t have all of the correct equipment, we were forced to resort to my sewing kit in order to stitch various parts of the turkey together.  It was quite the strange ordeal.  When the turkey was finally stuffed and roughly approximated the picture in the book we stuck it in the oven (thankfully it fit, but only barely) and left it to cook until the guests arrived.  In the meantime I masterminded finding American football streaming online and connected it to the tv in order to set the atmosphere (and so that I could watch the Nebraska game, of course).

            At 9 o’clock people started arriving for dinner. Although we were celebrating an American holiday, we were eating according to the Spanish schedule.  Everyone crowded into the kitchen for the celebratory moment of taking the turkey out of the oven.  The smell of meat and spices filled the kitchen, wetting everyone’s appetite and the turkey itself with a roasted-brown color that looked amazing. Miraculously, without a meat thermometer and with all of our hodgepodge sewing the turkey turned out perfectly. 

           We carved it and then brought it to the table along with all the food everyone had brought. It was quite the feast with stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, broccoli, cranberry sauce, corn bread, pumpkin pie and several bottles of wine and lambrusco. Everyone seemed to have the impression that it’s an American tradition for each person to say something that they are thankful for before starting the dinner (though I don’t believe I have ever done this before), so we jokingly went around the table saying thanks before diving into the food. For a dinner made by seven Spaniards and only one American, it actually all tasted very traditionally American and of course very delicious!

      

 So my second Thanksgiving abroad turned out to be a complete success, clearly surpassing the first one.  Even though it is a holiday that makes me miss home and my family, I am so thankful that I have met such wonderful people here in Salamanca with whom I could spend this holiday and share this great American tradition. I can only hope that next year’s Thanksgiving is as good as this year’s!

A month of teaching

Before coming to Spain this year, despite being blindly excited, I was very nervous about the whole teaching side of things.  Sure I had done some volunteer work in a Chicago high school and led a couple of creative writing classes, but I’d never done any ESL teaching or led a full class myself.  Furthermore, I knew that the orientation for my program in Spain was badly timed, meaning that I would be teaching for approximately two weeks before receiving any sort of guidance.  I tried to calm my nerves by reminding myself that I was only going to be a teaching assistant, not a teacher; that I would just be helping out without a lot of pressure…

Fast-forward to September 19, my first day in the classroom. I had already met most of the English department at the school, but still didn’t have a schedule or a clear idea of what exactly I was going to be doing.  The department told me to drop by during the mid-morning break to collect my schedule, so I came expecting a relaxed day. Instead, she greeted me with the chaos of “we still don’t have a schedule for you” subsequently followed by “so you can just give my two afternoon classes today.”  Panic. 

I’m sure they weren’t the best classes these students had ever had, but I did manage to create a shaky dialogue of questions and answers that took up the two class hours. Although it was unexpected and slightly terrifying, I managed to survive my first day of teaching. The rest of the week passed pretty similarly. The department still hadn’t been able to decide on a schedule for me, so I basically would just show up at the school in the morning and then go with whatever teacher wanted me.  Since I knew I would be presenting myself, I could roughly prepare, but without knowing the level of the students beforehand, it still involved a lot of spontaneity and guesswork.

After managing to get through the first week, I was given a schedule. I teach 12 different groups of students over the course of the week so that the maximum amount of students can have contact with a native speaker. This breaks down to two classes of ESO 2(Obligatory Secondary Education, I’ll devote another post to explaining the Spanish education system), two classes of ESO 4, 6 classes of Bachillerato, and 2 adult evening classes.  I understand the logic behind this plan, but part of me would prefer more hours with fewer groups so that I could develop a closer relationship with the students. On the plus side, having 12 different classes means that I can reuse the activities that I prepare for class. Yes, the activities that I prepare. Although my schedule became solidified, no sort of teaching guidance or order came with it. My second week, beginning my set schedule, I was glad that I had prepared a few conversation activities “just in case” because in each of my classes the teachers gave me complete free reign and control. Most of them briefly introduced me and then sat in the classroom with the students; a couple even went so far as to leave the class completely. 

Honestly though, after the initial shock of being on my own to prepare and give 12 hours of class a week wore off, I couldn’t be happier with the situation in the school.  The amount of independence and responsibility I have is a bit scary, but in the end it means I have an incredible opportunity to practice teaching and to learn this year.  With a skill like teaching, obviously theory is an important component, but in the end what counts the most is time in the classroom to practice. So, the more responsibility they give me, the more I’m going to learn, and, in the end, the better it is for me.

Furthermore, although they aren’t there to mentor me, all the teachers (not only in the English department, but in the entire school) have treated me wonderfully.  We often chat in the sala de profesores between classes and everyday during the 30 minute mid-day break we go to the cafeteria where I can drink my café cortado while learning more about all of the teachers, about Spain, and of course gossiping a bit about the students. It is a fantastic environment to work in since everyone has been kind, generous and understanding towards me. Plus, it’s a great opportunity to practice my Spanish!  

I’m don’t want to over-generalize too quickly, but my first impressions of high school teaching in Spain are very positive.  After spending most of last year with a constant, often isolating pressure to be researching and writing, I am enjoying switching to this sort of lifestyle that combines the stability of a routine with the excitement of actively preparing something new everyday. Moreover, it’s motivating to work with teenagers and teach them skills that really could help them get ahead after graduation and to maybe even have the power to change their world perspective, if only just a little bit.  And even on days when I feel frustrated with the students or with my own teaching ability, the school itself is such a great community that I never get too down on myself. Maybe in time I’ll miss the academic university world, but for the moment I couldn’t be happier.

Ferias Charras

I’ve now been in Spain for almost 2 weeks without writing. As this is allegedly a blog about Spain it would be hard to excuse myself for putting off posting much longer.

 I arrived in Salamanca just in the middle of the “ferias” and “fiestas” which are basically a celebration of the patron saint of the city.  However, while there are a few religious notes – a procession and a (somewhat unfortunate looking) massive virgin on the posters and booklets advertising the ferias – the fiestas are much more about celebrating Charro* culture, enjoying good food and drink, and socializing in the streets for a couple weeks.

  

The most notable visible traces of the festivals are the “casetas” which line many of the streets and plazas in the city.  Basically, restaurants put together little stands outside where they sell one or two cheap specialty pinchos and drinks. It’s a fun way to try a lot of great Spanish food and drink. However, it is extremely popular and, especially at night, it can be quite a task to wade through the sea of people to get something to eat, let alone to find a place to eat it.  It’s great fun while it lasts, but there’s definitely good reason why it only comes around for 2 weeks out of the year.

Some of these reflect the specialties of the restaurants themselves while others celebrate food from different regions of Spain; for example, earlier this week I had some incredible calamari from an Andalucian caseta (I don’t know what it is, but it’s an absolute fact that calamari ALWAYS tastes better in Spain) and then walked a few meters next door for some chorizo and cider from the Asturian caseta. I think most people who have travelled a bit in Spain realize that there are some really big differences between the regions. This was very evident when looking at these two casetas side by side. The Asturian caseta was playing celtic music and had pictures of snowy mountain ranges and brown bears, while the Andalucian caseta was playing loud flamenco music and had women in eccentric brightly coloured dresses dancing Sevillanas. The atmosphere was so different that if I didn’t know any better, I would’ve assumed they were representing two separate countries.

It’s always fun to see the incredible diversity of climate and culture that exists in Spain but, as I am living in Salamanca, the cultural traditions of this area particularly interest me.  Outside of Spain, when most people think of Spanish dance and music, Flamenco is what comes to mind. But in Salamanca Flamenco is not very popular, nor native to the region. There is, though, a very interesting type of folkdance that has been part of Charro history and culture for hundreds of years: Las Charradas.  Las Charradas have actually been around for so long that no one is entirely sure where they originated. There is some speculation that they were brought from Eastern Europe by Indoeuropean tribes in 900 BC, centuries before the Romanization of Spain.  Because of these ancient origins the music and dance is very simple; one or two people who play the drum with one hand and then the recorder with the other generally make all the music. They are accompanied by a dance of pairs in which the dancers face each other without touching and perform a repetitive, complementary moves with their feet and ankles.  Additionally, to complement this footwork, the female dancer makes delicate hand movements and the male dancer, with raised arms, performs energetic hand movements that are the aesthetic center of the dance.  Often the male dancer plays castanets as he makes these movements and therefore also contributes to the music of the Charrada as he dances it.

Las charradas are a folk tradition that are not particularly popular anymore in Salamanca; but during the ferias they become briefly revived as a celebration of Salamanca’s long history and rich cultural tradition. In the plaza mayor there have been hours and hours of Charradas with both the players and the dancers dressed in gorgeous, elaborate traditional costumes. And at night, some of the older generations are inspired enough by the music to line up in pairs and dance themselves in the plaza.

Anyway, they might not be the most complicated or the most glamorous dances to come out of Spain, but they have a certain encanto and I’ve enjoyed listening to and watching them in the Plaza over the past week.  There’s something almost surreal, enchanting and very special about watching a cultural tradition that has been passed down and kept in Salamanca since before the Romans.

(If you want to see more charradas, check them out here and here)

*Saying something is “Charro” is basically a way of saying it is from Salamanca. 

Impressions

Generally I think travelling is the best thing in the world a person can do. Seeing new cultures and different ways of life tends to induce a positive widening of perspective. But not always. There are also dangers involved in travelling: the risk that the mind and heart respond too forcefully to first impressions and shut off to new experiences.  Think this is especially a risk when people try to do too much too fast (and I am definitely guilty of this; it’s impossible not to succumb to it at some point).  If you spend 2 days in a foreign country, for example, there’s a lot of luck involved in what kind of impression you take away. If it rains for the 2 days you’re in London, it’s only natural that it validates your stereotypes and you come away convinced that is a bleak, grey, rainy city.  If you go for 2 lovely sunny days when the streets have a vibrant atmosphere and the parks are full of people, you come away with a completely different picture.  

Similarly, the people you interact with during your travels shape your vision of the country and this too is a question of luck. Generally during a short trip you only have contact with a few locals – usually at a hotel, at restaurants, and maybe at museums. A couple of bad experiences with these few people can easily completely color your whole vision of the country; it’s easy to succumb to generalizations based on these limited interactions; Spanish people are all rude, French are all anti-American and so on. Whereas a series of good interactions can equally skew your point of view into thinking that the Spanish or the French are the loveliest people in the world. This is a bit rambling, but I just want to stress how significant gut reactions and surface impressions are in most facets of life, but particularly when travelling.

            Although I tend to attribute these weighty, skewed impressions to brief trips, right now, despite having lived in London for a year, I am suffering under their influence.  I only have 1 day left and am in grave danger of leaving the city with a sense of loathing because my last impressions are so overpoweringly negative. I keep rationally trying to remind myself how beautiful the city is and how much I’ve enjoyed it. I attempt to recreate my romantic idealizations of literary, cultural, historic, cosmopolitan, modern, perfect London. But to no avail. 

The last month has been a bit rough, but the last week has been nearly unforgiveable. It started bleak and has only been getting bleaker. I thought I would write some trite, upbeat little post about packing up my life or closing this chapter of an adventure or some other crap like that. But I absolutely cannot bring myself to be positive; attempting to get closure to my life here has been an absolute fucking nightmare.  All week I’ve been calling and emailing my letting agency in an attempt to figure out how to get my deposit back and how to complete the logistics of my move out. And they have literally, completely ignored me. I even went to their office in an attempt to get some personal attention and was turned away by the receptionist who said, “If you emailed, I’m sure Leanne has it. But she’ll call you before we close today.” Of course there was no call.  I’m beginning to hate this “Leanne”, whoever she is. On top of this, I had to close my bank account and, for some absolutely ridiculous reason, was forced to go to four different branches (all over the city and in the pouring rain, no less) before managing to find one that would even talk to me about my international account.

            Then, as I’ve been clearing out my basement flat, it has devolved from my cute little home into something absolutely horrific and unliveable. After not seeing any bugs all year, the last week it has been crawling with massive terrifying-looking spiders. Plus with all the rain, the walls are beginning to become damp and cracked. Today was the final straw when I removed some wallpaper from behind my bed to find that the wall was soaked and now inhabited by mold, bugs, and who knows what else. And, of course, it only made matters worse that I discovered this in the dim light of evening (made especially dark since, b/c of water damage, only one light now works in my whole apartment) and while I was trapped inside my apartment (b/c it is pouring outside and the drain is clogged, so that the area between my front door and the stairs in an impassable lake).  Today was apparently the worst day ever to move out.  The only thing I’m thankful for is that Alvaro was here with me to help; otherwise I might have had a nervous breakdown and died alone in a dark, spider-filled basement….(or not…but that’s about what it felt like)

Finally I did manage to move out all of my things and escape (using my duvet as a makeshift bridge to cross the lake). I’m staying in a hotel tonight since the apartment had to be emptied and professionally cleaned tomorrow morning.  After my terrible day I was so looking forward to coming to a nice clean hotel room where I could spread out and relax. My heart sank when I saw the room. Although it is clean, it is also one of the smallest hotel rooms I have ever seen. And small by London standards is miniscule by the standards of the rest of the world. There is barely room for my suitcases let alone my boyfriend and me. Anytime we want to open the door, open the “closet” or go into the bathroom we have to move suitcases out of the way.  And, as I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic, any hope for relaxation has completely gone out the window.

Anyway. That is my rant. These are unfortunately my last impressions of London: dark, damp, dirty, cramped, inefficient, unfriendly, full of spiders.  I am completely aware that this is not the “real” London and that most of my time here has been fantastic. However, last impressions have a significant impact and seem to have erased an entire year of sunny days and positive impressions from my immediate memory.  Despite attempts to maintain a balanced perspective of the city, it has been obliterated by the dark cloud of these last few days. At the moment I could not be happier to be getting out of here.

(P.S. I tried to post this last night, but my bad luck continued and my Internet connection in the hotel completely disappeared. Only 25 hours left in this city, so hopefully I’ll manage to get out without further issues...) 

Beyond the Holy Grail

Inspired by the dwindling time I have left in the UK, here’s another British-themed post…

For better or for worse, the first thing that comes to mind when most Americans think of British comedy is Monty Python. Well, at least it’s the first thing I think of since I’m a huge fan of the hilarious absurdity that is "The Pythons". From watching The Holy Grail with my dad as a kid, to curling up with episodes of Flying Circus whenever I was feeling sad or homesick in Mexico, they never fail to brighten my mood and make me laugh.

However, there’s clearly a lot more to British comedy. A great side effect of living in the UK this year has been exposure to some new shows that I probably never would have seen back in the states. Some of these contemporary comedies might even be able to give Monty Python a run for its money!  So let me just mention my top 4 standouts:

 

4. The Inbetweeners: The show revolves around a group of friends: 4 incurably uncool and awkward suburban teenage guys. Not exactly a new premise, but it’s well done. It’s also more in-your-face, uncensored, raunchy and explicit than anything comparable, which keeps things interesting. There’s not really an overarching narrative, but every episode involves some ridiculous experience that captures high school in all its hilarious, painfully uncomfortable, cringe-worthily ridiculous glory. This is in no way high comedy, however it is laugh-out-loud funny. Also a great way to learn British slang that you never ever should need (or want) to use.  

3. The Armstrong and Miller Show: A very random sketch comedy show performed by two British comedians (not surprisingly named Alexander Armstrong and Ben Miller).  They pack an amazing range of hilarity into each show, combining satiric social comedy and absolute absurdity with a brilliant balance. Here are two great parodies of teachers that some of my fellow auxiliares might enjoy:  Clip 1, Clip 2

2. Little Britain: A great comedy composed of short character sketches. Comedians David Walliams and Matt Lucas play a variety of absurd, exaggerated characters that parody of all sorts of British people. There’s no way of describing them that does it any justice, so I’ll just link to a few clips so you can get a sense of the style: Clip 1, Clip 2, Clip 3. It’s a show that grows on you over time; a lot of the characters recur in every episode, so the more you see the funnier it gets.  There’s also a Little Britain USA that basically transplants versions of the same characters into the States and is also pretty quality.

     1.    Peep Show. Best. Show. Ever. Period. You absolutely must watch this. Not only is this series hilarious, it’s actually witty, smart humor. The show follows Mark and Jeremy, two very opposite roommates in their late-twenties/ early-thirties. Mark is awkward, cynical, and responsible, while Jeremy is perpetually unemployed, naïve, and energetic. They both end up being really funny, endearing characters. What makes the show really clever and interesting, though, it that it is shot from their point of view. So basically you see exactly what the characters are seeing. And, instead of just hearing them speak, you can also hear what they are thinking. It’s really different style from anything I’ve seen and incredibly addictive, so check it out: Clip 1, Clip 2.   

(Also worth a look is another sketch comedy show done by the same pair of actors, David Mitchell and Robert Webb. It's called That Mitchell and Webb Look and you can look at a couple examples of their sense of humor here and here.)

Bonus: Ok, not really comedy, but while we’re on the subject of British television another show that is worth a look (especially for my female readers) is Secret Diary of  A Call Girl.  It’s about a high-class escort named Belle and is actually somewhat based on a memoir by this woman. It mixes Belle’s experiences with clients with her more normal personal life, and is full of sex and romance (and an amazingly attractive male lead).  Also, the narration is done by the protagonist in a sort of detached, ironic, self-reflexive style that seems loosely inspired by Sex and the City. A fun, entertaining, and sexy series.

So how about you guys… Do you love Monty Python? Have you seen any of these shows? Ever become addicted to a foreign television series while living abroad?

Bound Experiences

There’s something about binding a paper that makes it seem much more official. This morning, my thesis was just a collection of words on my computer; now, held together by plastic rings and embellished with a cheap transparent cover, it looks like a real dissertation. Carrying this thick little bundle, my hard work suddenly seems  significant. As I see my efforts transformed into physical object, I feel like I’ve actually accomplished something.

I admit it: in this moment I feel proud.

I’m basking in a prolonged sigh of relief – the aftermath of an exhausting, stressful year and a sunless summer over which I completely submerged myself in an alternative universe of writing and research. Did I really manage to do this? Is it really over?

Almost immediately after printing and binding my dissertation, I stopped caring about what’s on the inside. My copy sitting on the shelf feels more like a diploma or a souvenir of this year’s experience instead of something I’ve been slaving over for months. 

It was a little over 11 months ago that I came to London with two suitcases and an optimistic outlook. Full of hopes and expectations, I was sure that this year would finally clarify for me what direction I wanted my life to take.  If this little bundle is the culmination of my experience, I’m not sure if it’s given me any of the answers I had been waiting for.

So the search continues. 

In 8 days I’m off again with the same 2 suitcases and a familiar feeling of excitement.  Another journey is about to start and, even though there won’t be any bound pages to assert the value of this next experience, I’m sure I’ll end up with something even more substantial. 

"Embracing arms never meet"

I have less than two weeks left in London and am starting to get a little sad. I feel like this year has been full steam ahead between studying, working 20 hours a week, and planning for Spain (applications, visas, apartment-hunting, etc.). There’s always been a deadline I’m working towards, something in the near future that either has me too excited or stressed out to live in the present. And no matter how much yoga I’ve done, I haven’t managed to be very mindful of the present and I haven’t stopped to savor this experience.  Now that I’m about to leave, I’m worried that I haven’t taken advantage of the city as much as I could have. There’s so much left to do and see, but time is ticking away.

Samuel Johnson’s famous quote “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford,” is overused, but it’s also very true. I could probably live my whole life in London without feeling I had appropriately taken advantage of it or gotten to know it. So, I can’t expect to fully acquaint myself in just one year.

Still, even if I haven’t visited every neighborhood or gone to every museum, I’ve gotten a sense of what a magical place this is and started to form a deep relationship with it.  It’s a landscape of incredible contrasts that are all muddled into something strange and beautiful. It still seems uncanny to me that one moment you can be in the opulent western luxury of Mayfair boutiques and then, after going underground for a 20 minute tube ride, reemerge in the curry-scented streets of Bethnal Green and Brick Lane where English is suddenly a minority language. Not just in the so-called “ethnic areas”, though, but in the entire city the mix of languages going on at all times makes you feel constantly aware of and connected to a larger world. There are also provocative contrasts in style and time period; in a 10-minute walk you can easily traverse several centuries. Skyscrapers and Roman ruins share space in the City; Georgian and Victorian houses seamlessly transition between one another.  (One example of this odd juxtaposition that I particularly love is that the commemorative blue plaques marking where Handel and Hendrix lived are literally next door to each other).

 

The city is so saturated in history, especially literary history, that I often feel like an intruder from the present on terrain of the “real” early 20^th century London that belongs to the characters of Virginia Woolf, Henry James, Elizabeth Bowen, Patrick Hamilton, and so many other authors who have defined the cityscape in my mind. But no matter how well I think I know it through literature or from my personal explorations, London is constantly full of surprises. There is always some street, some medieval alley, some secluded square that I haven’t seen before and that will enchant me at some random moment when I accidentally stumble upon it.

                                                  

       I often take London for-granted and don’t stop to savor or appreciate it. But I know that as soon as it’s not on my doorstep, not available every day I leave my house, I’m going to feel like I’m missing something. Especially my little part of West London. My little flat situated in the midst of elegant squares, white Victorian homes and private gardens; bordered on the south by Hyde Park, on the north by the floral canals of Little Venice, on the east by middle eastern shops and the smell of shisha, and on the west by Notting Hill (the weekend market of tourists and the weekday mix of posh shops, alternative people, and little cafés). No matter how much I love Salamanca, I am really going to miss being in the center of all of this.

London doesn’t have that uniform elegance of other urban centers like Paris, that beautiful façade that strikes you at first sight. It is instead a city that requires you to invest yourself in it. Living there day-in and day-out you begin to form a deep relationship with it. The more you explore it in hours of walking and through learning about its history and culture, the more it opens up to you and lets you in. I take comfort in the inevitably complex relationship that a person must have with London.  

Maybe I haven’t done so bad this year; the fact that I am leaving London with so much undone is only natural in a city this big, complex, and culturally rich. It just means that our relationship is far from finished. 

"One has not the alternative of speaking of London as a whole, for the simple reason that there is no such thing as the whole of it. It is immeasurable—embracing arms never meet. Rather it is a collection of many wholes, and of which of them is it most important to speak?"

-Henry James (English Hours, 1905)