Furry Friends

My roommate, Juan, has 10 hamsters. Ok, fine. A little weird, but I can get over it. Previously, he had 30, but he gave 20 of them to a pet store. Good.

A few weeks ago, I was peeking into the cage in the living room, watching the furry little things run around. Oddly, I could only find 7 hamsters. 'What could have happened to the other 3?', I wondered. 'Did they die? Did he give them to his 10 year old daughter in Marbella? Or to his 6 year old son in Burgos?' I didn't spend much time thinking about it, and continued on with my day.

Fast forward to yesterday.

I've been sick with the flu for a while, and last night I ventured out into the kitchen for some tea and ice cream. I switched on the light, but it was one of those fluorescent lights that takes forever for turn on. So, in the darkness, I heard a quiet scurrying. I paused. It couldn't be the dog, because the dog had gone somewhere with Juan. The light finally kicked in. I saw something small and light colored run across the kitchen floor. 'Oh no!', I thought, 'we have mice!' But, this particular mouse didn't have a tail. In fact, it was furry, like a hamster. In my slightly delirious state, I couldn't decide what to do. The hamster stood near the door, cleaning its paws and staring at me. I stared back. Eventually, I decided to continue with the task at hand: get some tea. The hamster made a dash for the refrigerator. I haven't seen it since.

There are 2 other missing hamsters.

Blair Waldorf

I harbor a secret fear that I will become like the people I watch on television. I have never feared that I would turn into a large mound of ice cream (you are what you eat), but I do fear that I could become like the self-centered, money-obsessed main character of Gossip Girl (you are who you watch) ..but only if I watch too much TV.

Yesterday, for the first time, I had an overwhelming feeling of joy for being here in Spain. It's not that I haven't been happy for the past two months, because I have been. More accurately, it was the first time that I was happy to be happy in Spain.

I set my alarm to wake up early with the intention of running some potentially complicated errands. As I drifted into an awakened state, I noticed the complete darkness in my room, which seemed odd for 8am. Then I remembered that I had closed the contraption (similar to a small garage door) that covers the outside of my window the night before, in an attempt to keep some heat inside. Squeakily opening the garage door, I saw a normal sunlit day outside, with puffy marshmallow clouds and bright blue sky behind. It was an average December day in Estepona (much like a late spring day in Seattle).

I breakfasted my usual fruit granola, yogurt, and honey, and ventured into town, holding back yawns. I headed for the bank. I needed to cash my paycheck. Banks can be incredibly complicated, wait times can be long, and unpredictable complications tend to arise. Accordingly, I budgeted 2 hours for a task that would have taken 20 minutes back home. To my surprise, everything went smoothly at the bank. I walked back out the door, cash in hand, 10 minutes after I had arrived! So, with a few extra hours on hand, I decided to run another errand. I went to another bank to deposit this new cash into my personal account. I thought, surely, I will have to hurry to catch my bus to work after completing this second errand (a former language assistant in Spain once gave me a piece of advice: only try to run one errand per day, it will save you stress). Breaking this rule, which I often treat as law, felt rebellious and cocky. I thought I would end up regretting it, but decided to try my luck.

Again, to my utter surprise, I walked back out of the second bank, €'s (Euros) deposited into my account, 15 minutes later. Trying not to get to excited about my seeming ascendance out of the realm of 'total foreigner' (I imagine a ladder with 'total foreigner' at the bottom and 'native' at the top), I decided to get coffee near the bus stop and try to go over my lessons for the day.

I hopped on the bus, and then off the bus 20 minutes later in Cancelada. My lessons were in order. Listening to Macaco, I walked up the hill into Cancelada village. A strong gust of wind blew my hair into my face, so I paused to fix it. I glanced up at a mountain behind the village, and I was struck by how similar it looked to a mountain outside of Wenatchee. I felt at home.

I felt nostalgia for Wenatchee and America, but at the same time I felt at home, right here in Spain.

I saw some of my students

at a discotheque last night. It was 'normal' for both parties to be there. (My oldest students are 16.) I also saw small children running around a bar at 2am. Their parents, and grandparents, were chatting in a corner, and Michael Jackson was blasting.

Icky Feet

One thing I've noticed about Spain: the feelings about feet.

- being barefoot is unacceptable. In a situation where I would generally remain shoeless (say, just after waking up), I now wear house slippers.
- objects, like purses and backpacks, are not placed upon the floor. Once, a teacher at my school went so far as to pick my bag up from the floor and set it upon a table for me. Special purse hooks are used by many women to prevent purses from sitting on the floor while at a restaurant.
- floors are mopped every few days. This is a combination of the fact that every single floor is made of the same faux-marble white tile that highlights every fleck of dirt, and (I think) the feeling that feet are unclean.

These observations could suggest that Spaniards are somehow 'cleaner' than Americans because of their awareness about the germs that might inhabit the feet/floor, but I don't think it works quite like that. While precautions are high surrounding these lower appendages, hand-washing is at a minimum. I think it all evens out.

What do I do? Well, I'm torn between adapting this particular Spanish trait, and rejecting it. Thus, my actions are inconsistent and a bit odd. I always wear some form of shoes, because that one seems most important, but I can't quite decide what to do about contact between my bag and the floor. So, sometimes it's on the floor, sometimes it's on a chair, and sometimes I switch it back and forth. (I'm only half joking about this.) And I'm completely unable to take up mopping every few days. That would be far too much work. Partial adaptation seems sufficient, for now.

Full adaptation may be further in the future.

AMERICA FOR CHRISTMAS!

I didn't even realize I wanted to come to America for Christmas until the chance was offered to me (by a very generous sister), but YAYAYAYAY my excitement is growing. It's not that I'm especially homesick, or that I dislike living in Spain. It's quite the opposite.

Traveling is fun, speaking Spanish is always interesting, and I like being here in Spain, but there's a different aura to home. I think I'm more excited to go 'home' than I am to go to Barcelona (Dec 3-7) or London (March 11-14), even though I really love traveling. Home is different. I know what to expect from it, and I know that I like it.

So, home, I'll see you on December 18.

This is, by far, the hardest thing I've ever done. I've moved to a foreign country where I know absolutely no one, and I'm trying to do a job that I have no idea how to do. I'm on the most extreme emotional roller coaster that I've ever experienced. Small things, both good and bad, seem amplified. I meet someone cool, and I'm high as a kite, my heart is pounding, and I feel like everything will be alright. Or, my students are talkative and won't pay attention to me, and I'm down in the gutter, nearly crying in the classroom.

It's challenging in nearly every way. Constant translation is tiring, but it's a requirement for daily life. To meet new people and make friends, which I so dearly want to have, means that I must be outgoing and confident, which I usually am not. To teach my students English, which is the job I am paid to do, I need to entertain and motivate large groups of early teens who are required to take the class I'm teaching (thus, many are not interested in what I have to say).

It's intense, but it's getting easier. There are fewer frustrating situations, because I'm learning how to avoid making the same mistakes, and there are more uplifting situations -- whether I like it or not, I have to be outgoing sometimes, and I really have met some great people. Sometimes it's rough, but that would happen anywhere in the world. Any anyway, it makes the sweet times all the more enjoyable.

Fright Night

Halloween exists in Spain. Transferred from Ireland to the United States during the 1800s, it has jumped back over the pond, invading Spain about 10 years ago. I was invited to a costume party on Thursday, but assuming I would throw some clothes together out of my closet and find some cheap accessories at a Halloween store, I didn't think anything of it. I forgot to take one thing into account: while people in Spain celebrate 'Halloween', it is not necessarily like Halloween in the States. Indeed, Halloween in Spain is slightly different. And while the difference is slight, it is a very important detail.

Halloween costumes in Spain must be scary. No question. None of that 'princess' or 'doctor' stuff like in the States. You must be creepy. Spooky. Evil.

I had never even been anything scary for Halloween (me, the American!). What was I to do? After a purchase of vampire teeth and an effort to soften them up in boiling water, which ended in failure and destroyed vampire teeth, I was at a loss. Luckily, Savannah came to the rescue. The solution? Makeup! She dressed us up as 'dead' (aka: dark eye makeup and fake blood to create a zombie-like appearance). We were pretty creepy looking, don't you think?

(Josh, in the middle, has some vampire teeth in his pocket, thus making his outfit 'scary'.)

Foreigner

Walking into the bus station in Almería, I was dead tired and incredibly hungry. I had woken up just after 6 am, after drifting off to sleep with earplugs in place around 1 am. There was no food to be found in Gus's Garrucha apartment that morning, because we forgot that nearly every store would be closed on Sunday in such a small town. Gus invited Stephen, Emily, and I to visit his apartment in Almería province for the weekend, and we were all friends from the International Studies major at UW. We spent the weekend lounging on the beach and comparing stories of our lives teaching English here in Spain, but it was time to trek home on Monday morning. Stephen, Emily and I hoofed it to the street-side bus stop on the other end of town and caught the 7 am bus to Madrid. I planned to hop off this bus at the next stop, in Vera, and did not purchase a ticket beforehand in hopes of paying the driver directly. The bus driver was not pleased about this assumption, but told me to 'sube, sube' onto the bus anyway. Once in Vera, a mere 15 minutes later, I bid my farewell to Stephen and Emily, and they continued on to Madrid.

The Vera bus station was deserted, and, still dark during the 7 o'clock hour, it seemed a bit sketchy. The ticket booth should have been open, but I had forgotten about the holiday. Monday October 12, the day Columbus landed on North America, is a national holiday in Spain. Many stores and services do not open on national holidays here, and this ticket booth would not open until much later in the day. So, I resorted to waiting at the nearly deserted bus stop. The sun began to rise, and more travelers arrived at the stop. I spoke to a well-dressed lady who was also waiting for a bus to Almería, and we chatted for a bit. I am always labeled as either French or British by Spaniards (French before I speak, British after they hear my accent when speaking Spanish), and this woman was no exception. 'No, soy de Estados Unidos, de Seattle.' 'Vale. Seetle?' 'Si.' She continued to tell me that her brother had been to New York. Very far from Seattle, so I explained the geographical location of Seattle. Yes, she had seen the city on a map. I didn't bother to tell her that I've never been to New York, because that fact is usually far too shocking to non-Americans.

The anointed bus arrived, after many others which were not Almería-bound. This bus driver was even less pleased about my lack of a ticket, but 'I didn't know the station would be closed!' Prior to this trip, I didn't consider that the drivers would be unwilling to accept my money, but this must be a security measure. I promised to pay in Almería, and he let me aboard. I think the intense fear displayed on my face when the driver first refused me elicited some pity. Thus, I arrived in Almería 1.5 hours later.

I thought the most difficult portion of my journey was over, because I had returned to familiar territory. For the most part, I was right. But, I was still incredibly hungry, and likely donning a rather ragged appearance, so I headed to the food court. Patrons were crowded around an extensive counter, so I waited behind and eventually reached the front. I stood patiently at the counter, deciding between a packaged donut, a cheese sandwich, and a coffee. Everything else consisted of mainly meat. I decided to order all of my options, and continued to wait patiently. None of the workers on the other side of the counter paid me any attention, but it seemed that they had some arrangement for the order in which they helped patrons.

I was wrong. Patience is not a virtue. Not at the Almería bus station food court, at least. They were helping everyone except me! I was completely ignored. Was it because I looked like a ragged backpacker? Because they could tell I was foreign? Or because I wasn't flicking my fingers at the employees? I wasn't giving up. Like I said, I was really hungry, and this would be my last chance to get food before a five hour bus ride to Málaga. There seemed to be some code between the patrons and food court workers, but it remains a mystery to me. I tried talking to a lady behind the counter even though she hadn't asked for my order, and she told me to wait. She went on to take orders from two other patrons. A Spanish woman appeared next to me at the counter, was helped almost immediately, and ordered two coffees and my donut (by this time, I had given up ordering the coffee and the sandwich, because my bus was about to leave). There was only one plain donut in sight, and I wanted it. I piped up, the woman understood, and they let me have the plain donut. The worker extracted another plain donut from a hidden cupboard under the counter, and gave it to the woman. I paid the €0.80 for the donut and stalked off to the bus.

I made it home alive, after seven more hours on two buses, and I was able to obtain more food from a pleasant little shop at a bus pit stop with very nice employees. I also got to visit a Corte Inglés department store during my layover in Málaga. It's one of the most massive stores I've ever seen, with products ranging from cell phones to musical instruments to weaponry, as well as a large clothing section that reminds me of Nordstrom. It's similar to Sears, but with many more levels and products (this Corte Inglés had at least 4 floors, but probably more; I didn't have time to check them all out). I found lip balm, a difficult product to track down in Spain, in the cosmetics section. The store felt a bit like home, and it was comforting to wander around the shiny aisles after my hectic day.

I'm leaning toward the conclusion that the Almería food court employees were unwilling to help me because it would have required extra effort on their part. They would have had to listen through my accent and speak slowly to me. Indeed, I would have had to wait a very long time to get a sandwich and coffee.

Lessons learned:
1. buy bus tickets before trying to get on the bus
2. carry food while traveling

A Home, Finally

I live in Estepona, a town in Málaga province, in the autonomous region Andalucía, in the south of Spain. I even have a real, physical address! (Email me if you're interested in specifics.) I live in a room of a shared apartment, which I found through something similar to craigslist. My roommate is Juán. He's 29 years old, is a native of Estepona, and the price is right. I've only lived there for a day, and I already find him annoying. I realize this doesn't bode well for the future, but I think he's just trying to be the protective older brother for this little foreign girl. But, when I say I don't need help with my massive suitcase, it means I don't need help with my massive suitcase (and I don't care that it weighs 55lbs). He means well, really. I found this on the refrigerator this morning:


Thanks for the hand-drawn rose, Juán, but I really didn't mind when you didn't respond to my text. (PS. I can't figure out why part of this photo keeps getting chopped off when I post this.)

Clearly, I'll have to work out some issues with female independence, which may be somewhat different here in Spain. And, he'll learn to back off a bit and not tell me when I need to close my curtains. I'm sure it will be fine. Or, I'll move out.

Anyway, housing and roommates aside, Estepona is great. I really like it. It's small enough to walk everywhere, but big enough that I'm still regularly confused when exploring the streets. It's reeeaaallly hot today. Like 85 degrees. Also, it's humid, so I'm often dripping with sweat, literally. But it's pretty and sunny, and the houses are all white with red tile roofs. It is very Mediterranean. I can't believe I'm wearing a sundress on the 2nd of October.


1) The view from my American friends' terrace
2) I walk through this street on the way to my favorite café (one of the only ones with wifi, yes, I am still a Seattlite).

Estepona would be a very nice place to retire. In fact, quite a few northern Europeans have retired here. But, for my part, I hope there are jóvenes (young people), too. We haven't found them yet, but Friday nights are a good time to look.

MADRID

I'm currently on the balcony of my hostel room, overlooking a cobblestone street in Málaga, Andalucía. The pedestrians walking by below are so distracting that I might have to go inside. But, my hostel-mate is sleeping, so I can't really do that. Here I will stay.

Madrid is picturesque and alive, and everything you've heard. But to me, it was intimidating. Every time I left my hostel, I got lost. The streets are curved, and they all look exactly the same.


I also refused to take out my map in an effort to look less like a tourist, which I'm sure was a contributing factor to my persistent state of confusion. I was also trying to change dollars into euros (not a fun conversion, by the way, it's about 1.5 dollars to 1 euro), and the first four banks I visited told me they wouldn't change my money because I didn't have an account with them. But, I finally found a bank that would, so that ordeal is over. Anyway, it wasn't all bad. In fact, most of it was great. I just got an overload at the beginning of all those 'issues' that foreigners have: getting lost while carrying all my luggage, waiting in a really long line that turns out to be the wrong line, going the wrong way on the metro, etc.

BUT:
I had some BOMB churros & chocolate.


I found the Museo Nacional Centro de Arta Reina Sofía, and Picasso's Guernica, and DALÍ (esp. this one, called The Great Masturbator).


The museum was massive and incredible, and I found a botanical garden with tons of adorable stray cats to wander around in for the rest of the day.


So, Madrid was fun. I would love to go back. I'm certain I will go back.. but hopefully I'll be a little less foreign the next time around. I'm not quite as worldly as I would like to think.

And the fear finally sets in.

I leave Tuesday, Sept 22.

As the day of my departure looms closer, my attachment to material things increases. I find it harder and harder to let go of objects: scarves, pencil holders, calendars. Perhaps this is because my attached and stable life will soon disappear into oblivion. No worry, though (I think), because life is based on relationships more than things. Or, I hope mine is, but it seems as though I have far too many articles of clothing for that to be entirely true.

i like to wear aviator sunglasses. i will continue to wear them while i am in andalucía (and very often, because there will be 300+ days of sunlight in the micro-climate that is the 'costa del sol'). thus, the name of my blog: aviators in andalucia.